Six Feet Under | Sterek

twenty-four;

Derek says, "You shouldn't have kissed me."

Stiles agrees. He shouldn't have. And yet he doesn't regret it. (Derek tastes like strawberries).

Gulls cry over their heads, the wind whispers secrets about the world, and the water laps at their feet like an impatient pet. Stiles's clothes are soaked. So are Derek's. Stiles can't find it in himself to care all that much, because something is happening here. Something momentous and strange and beautiful.

Derek looks at Stiles, and Stiles looks back. They're waiting for something.

"There's a storm coming," Stiles says, with a nod towards the darkening horizon. He's not just talking about the clouds gathering above them, he's talking about the storm that's been building inside him for years and years. It's going to break soon, and he'll flood. Maybe he'll sweep Derek away too. "I hope you brought your raincoat."

"Why did you kiss me Stiles?" Derek responds.

Stiles doesn't know how to answer that question. Because I love you. Because I want you to love me back. I was saying goodbye. I was saying hello. I was trying to show you that you make me whole.

Because I'm nothing if not self-destructive.

Instead, he says, "I want to go home."

He's tired of running. The road never changes, there's never anything different. You stop, you start, you drive the same road. Stiles doesn't want to do that anymore. He wants to go home, and he wants to hug his dad, and he wants to be okay. 

He wants to be okay.

The freedom that had once made his blood sing is now a weight on his shoulders. He is not Atlas - he cannot carry it. Stiles is a teenage boy with teenage feelings, and he really just wants to go home. 

"We should go before the storm hits," Derek says, and when Stiles looks over at him, the werewolf has his eyes fixed on the sky. Stiles pretends not to see the tear that trickles over Derek's cheekbone. He pretends not the notice the werewolf wipe it away. "Who's driving?"

Stiles has the keys in his pocket. They're wet. Who knows if they'll damage the ignition. Somehow, Stiles doesn't really care. "I'll drive," he says, and Derek nods sharply, wading out of the water and gathering his shoes and socks. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't touch Stiles's.

Stiles simply stands for another moment, closing his eyes and letting the wind ghost over his drying lips. He has salt stuck to the roof of his mouth, and somehow there's sand in his hair even though he's only been standing in the water, and his jeans are plastered to his legs. His rainbow shirt is heavy and wet. His bracelets are damp against his wrist.

The ocean has drawn the poison from his veins, and it has soothed the monster under his skin. Stiles fits inside his own body, for once, and he revels in the feeling. (He won't kiss Derek again, though, in case it isn't too late to taste iron as he's struck down by lightning.)

Derek shouts his name and Stiles realises that the car is locked, and Derek can't get in. With a sheepish grin and a wave of acknowledgement, Stiles splashes out of the water and hurries across the warm sand, only stopping to pick up his boots. His clothes stick to him, unmoved by the wind. 

By the time he gets to the Jeep, Stiles has sand smeared over every part of him. 

Derek rolls his eyes, but Stiles doesn't stop grinning as he fishes out the water-logged keys and unlocks the car. He has a spare change of clothes in the back - a pair of shorts and some random graphic tee that he hasn't worn since Scott bought it for him.

He peels off the soaked clothes, rubbing down quickly with a dirty shirt in an attempt to scrub the sand off his skin. He gives up pretty quickly. He doesn't even try to fix his hair. He gets in the drivers set, the new clothes already damp from residual water, and he takes a deep breath.

The sun sets over the water, setting the sky on fire for barely a minute it burns out. Derek lets Stiles watch the display without complaint.

Stiles starts driving under the guidance of the moon.

He asks Derek to play some quiet music, maybe some ballads. Derek just plays some gentle piano pieces that remind Stiles of his mother. They sit for a while without talking, and just let the silvery notes settle over them. It dulls that sharp ache in Stiles's chest.

"I kissed you because I don't know how else to show you that I need you," Stiles says, but Derek is already asleep with his head against the window.

.

Stiles stops for a rest when he feels his eyes start to droop and his body start to sway in the seat. He's tired, exhausted, but Derek is still sleeping and Stiles doesn't have the heart to wake him up. They don't have to rush - Beacon Hills isn't going anywhere.

So Stiles turns the car off, disappears for a bathroom break, and then settles down in the driver's seat and closes his eyes. 

He dreams of something non-linear; it's a collage of memories, except they're cut together in a way that doesn't make sense and he can still hear the ocean and the gulls and the sound of Derek saying 'I think I'm giving up on you'. Stiles wakes up with his heart in his throat and tears in his eyes and he wonders if going home is the right call.

He looks over at Derek, who's nose twitches in his sleep, and decides that yes, he needs to go home. If not for himself, then for Derek. Derek, who has stuck by him through everything. Derek, who has watched Stiles drink himself half to death, who has watched Stiles splinter and fall apart and break in a way that nobody should break. 

Derek, who has pieced Stiles back together little by little.

Derek, who says that Stiles shouldn't have kissed him, even though Derek kissed back. (Stiles won't ever mention that if Derek doesn't want him to. But he knows, and maybe that's enough.)

Stiles rubs his eyes, wiping away the remnants of sleep, and turns the car back on. He turns off the piano music, because he's too wound up for something gentle, and instead starts humming his own tune as he pulls back on to the road and continues driving toward Beacon Hills.

He's still driving when the sun starts to peak over the horizon, and he splits his attention between the road and the blazing sun rise that ripples across the expansive sky. There's smoke in the air, Stiles knows there is, because the colours are burnt and golden and harsh instead of soft and pink. 

Derek stirs beside him, blinking open his pretty gemstone eyes. The morning light intertwines with the hazel of his pupil, and Stiles gets distracted by the beauty that is Derek Hale. 

Derek frowns blearily. "You should have woken me up," he says quietly, voice still thick with sleep. "We could've taken turns with driving."

Stiles grins. "Nah," he says teasingly. "I figured you needed your beauty sleep." Derek glares at him, ferocious even while sleepy. 

"Did you get some sleep at least?"

"You aren't supposed to sleep while you're driving, Derek."

"You know what I meant."

Stiles's grin softens to a smile. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I know what you meant."

Derek smiles back, and it's hesitant and unsure, but it's the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen.