Six Feet Under | Sterek

twelve;

I'm running out of oomph with this story guys. Send through some ideas please!

Stiles won't let Derek touch him.

He feels it like a brand whenever the werewolf's fingers brush against his arm or his shoulder, and soon enough he just doesn't let anyone touch him. Peter doesn't even try. Scott, who'd tracked him to the Hale house just gives him puppy dog eyes until Stiles tells him to go away.

It feels like there's ants under his skin, and Stiles scratches until those ants turn to liquid fire and Derek has to hand him a roll of bandages. Soon enough, there are permanent grooves dug into his arms. Peple might think Stiles is suicidal.

Somehow, he doesn't think they're wrong.

"Stiles," Derek says through the door one day. "Stiles, I'm going to call a pack meeting. I want to tell the others what's been happening, why you're staying with me. Is that okay?" Silence. "Stiles."

Stiles drops his head back onto his pillow and wishes Peter hadn't locked his window so that he couldn't escape. Stupid, thoughtful zombie wolf. Stiles hates him, loathes him. Stiles won't let Peter near him anymore.

He doesn't understand why Derek is trying so hard. He doesn't. Stiles is nothing anymore, not to anyone and jesus fuck that hurts more than he expected. But Derek is still trying to talk to him through the door and finally Stiles can't make himself ignore it anymore.

"Order a large cheese pizza and I'll come out for the pack meeting."

Derek says nothing for a moment. Stiles sinks back into himself. He knew it was stupid, knows that Derek won't want to cater to stupid needs. (But Derek has catered to Stiles thus far, why wouldn't he continue- SHUT UP)

Finally, the werewolf says, "Yeah okay." His voice is rough but very clearly relieved. Stiles feels like a shit person all over again.

It's not like he doesn't want Derek around. It's not like he's purposefully being a dick. He just feels small and sad and tired and his skin hurts. He can't make himself sleep and he can't make himself ignore the way his bones itch and ache buried beneath his flesh. He feels like a mess of limbs and hurt and sad and jagged.

He doesn't even feel human anymore. He just feels like a small ball of something sour. 

"Derek?" He says quietly, because he may only have little human ears but he knows that he didn't hear any movement beyond that door of adamant denial. 

There's a small hum, and the sound of someone shifting their weight slightly. "Yeah Stiles?"

Why? Stiles wants to ask. It's on the tip of his tongue. Why do you stay? Why do you care? Why do I trust you? "Nothing," he says instead, trying not to acknowledge Derek's small, disappointed sigh.

Stiles curls into himself and sucks in a harsh breath to stop the acidic tears building in his chest. His eyes stay dry. His throat closes up. He's not human.

He hurts.

"Don't leave," he breathes to Derek. "I'm not...I can't....just don't leave."

"I won't Stiles. I'll stay here."

Somehow, it makes Stiles feels a little bit better. Something settles beneath his skin and he presses his forehead to his knees. Stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy. 

He misses his mother something fierce. He misses Peter. He misses his dad. He misses his life before this. He misses Scott, and Derek and Allison and Lydia. Fuck even Jackson. he misses them so much he can't fucking breathe. 

He gasps lightly because he wants to go back, let him fucking go back don't keep him here-

He thinks he hears the door open-

Arms-

Sharp-

"-lies!"

He keens, because these days of emptiness have built something in him, something that lurks under his skin and now it's spreading like a tidal wave and he's drowning, Derek, he's fucking drowning.

God, he's so fucking tired.

This panic attack isn't like the others. This panic attack has him shoving his face into Derek's neck and shivering in Derek's arms and crying Derek's name because Stiles is so sick of being alone. Derek, to his credit, just holds him tight enough that Stiles thinks there might be marks on his skin later.

Gradually, through the agonising tears, Stiles chokes out the toxic thoughts he's been thinking. He tells Derek everything, everything. He strips himself down to the bones and then keeps going until even his bones are ground into honesty and pain and ash. He keeps talking until his voice gives out and Derek is growling and Stiles feels boneless but he feels right at last.

And the wound that's been festering inside Stiles heals just a little bit.

When it was over, and Stiles is nothing more than a sack of meat, bones, and monster, Derek starts to whisper his own truths. Horrible things, honest things, things that make Stiles's skin feels like tar. 

Derek talks about the fire, and his voice splinters but he keeps going because he's needed to say these things for years and years and nobody's given him a chance. He tells Stiles about his sisters, about his life, and about the betrayal that cut so deep Derek thought he was dying.

"Fuck the world," Stiles says into Derek's neck. "Fuck everyone else. We are what is under our skin."

"Then I am a monster," Derek says.

Stiles breathes deeply and feels that thing move against his bones. "So am I."

It's not much, but it's enough.

They make a puzzle out of each other's dark, shattered thoughts. It's oddly beautiful. Stiles thinks, briefly, that Derek's pretty gemstone eyes are their own kind of puzzle anyway, and that it's the most beautiful picture he's ever seen.

Derek is the most beautiful picture he's ever seen.