Basically a spin-off of the [8] & [9] chapters of Songs About Stiles. It starts with a one-night stand that escalates into something more. If you have read SaS, yeah, that thing is still going to happen, just a little later. Thanks again to my beta for spell-checking, sound boarding, and inspiring me as usual.
Shout out to of !
Your Heart For My White Fences [1/10]
Things had deteriorated.
Stiles convinced himself that whatever feelings he had were fading, fleeting, bound to be gone in a week's—at most a month's—time. Sex with Derek had gradually become habit. Two to three times a week they would meet at the same string of hotels around the city, strip off their clothes, and fuck until Derek exited stage left, without so much more than a till next time, Stiles.
In the beginning, the goodbyes had been easy. When they were strangers adapting to each other's bodies, Stiles was unmoved by Derek's aloofness after sex. Derek was attentive, caring, doting, and a touch sadistic in the way he made love. Stiles had his share of experience, not a lot, but enough to know that Derek was the kind of lover he would only see once. All that tenderness disappeared the second Derek decided they were done fucking, and he began to redress. He stopped making eye-contact. He would have his back turned in the opposite direction.
Derek left a bad taste in Stiles's mouth. He felt used. It was a feeling he could ignore, for awhile, but eventually the feelings began to mount on each other. Stiles was something Derek wanted then threw away, wanted again, and threw away again.
The visits became more steady, part of the flow of life, each time more regular than the last, until each broken engagement felt like a betrayal to the point where Stiles began moving his life around his casual agreement with the Derek, the Derek he had known for three months, the Derek he had sucked, fucked, and pined for, the Derek he only knew as Derek. The exchange of whole names was a breach of their contract, their relationship, the very basis of who they were as a pair.
He was slowly but surely crumbling.
The pieces were falling on the people he loved.
His father came to visit one Saturday; he made the near three hour drive up from Beacon to see Stiles on a whim. They managed to spend half the day together until Derek, with his usual out of the blue text, asked Stiles to meet him. At that point, the longing, the ache, the slow decay the relationship had weighed, made the decision for Stiles. Stiles left his father with his roommates. He told his father to wait, to wait for him, he would only be an hour at most. Sheriff Stilinski, not one to pressure Stiles especially now that his son was grown and in college, let him do what he wanted, even if what he wanted he told no one about. This was eight in the evening. Stiles returned three hours after midnight.
It was a pattern he kept falling into.
His friends and his family began to see him as avoidant, secretive, and fundamentally changed. Stiles left parties on a moment's notice, dinners, even classes at Derek's suggestion. He slept less, ate less, drank more, smoked more. It was the sort of spiral people noticed and ignored until there came a point when Stiles had become someone new entirely. They pressured him with questions, about drugs, alcohol, issues, depression, something that would help explain his behavior. Stiles refused to answer. He did not want to be explained. He wanted to lie to himself. He wanted to live in the fantasy that what he and Derek had, whatever it was, was something he had some semblance of control over.
The logic behind his behavior was incredibly—foolishly—simple.
If he lost himself in the fantasy, then he could keep going, keep lying, keep dragging himself through day by day, night by night, week by week, estranged relationship by estranged relationship. Then, when the dust cleared and he had finally managed to disintegrate, he could be finally free of all the mess, the disasters, the disappointments, the burning bridges, the people he had abandoned. The suicidal behavior typical of the human heart pushed to extremis, the subtle destroying power of what was called love, always began with delusion. The initial push from reality, that foray into the fantastic possibility, all hopefulness of love, contained in it the possibilities of self-destruction, of self-realization, of selflessness.
I can't have feelings for Derek. This is just sex.
The limitless danger to love, the stars must shake at the thought. The question is, with laughter or with fear.
When he was a child, there was a window in his mother's hospital room. He would stare through those panes to see the sky, whether it was grey or blue or any color between, during the days his mother was too sick to speak. Looking out of windows during uncomfortable situations, during the silences he longed to break, was a long-standing remnant of the time when he thought the world was collapsing in on him. The way Derek was fucking him that afternoon—not looking into his eyes, his hands touching him but not feeling him—forced Stiles to look at the clouds pass by their hotel window, drifting away, moving at the pace of the window and the gentle rotation of the earth.
Derek bucked his hips. It was a sudden move, a painful one, that brought the clouds falling down. He jammed into Stiles, into the side of his inner-walls, and he stared. Stiles winced, hard, and curled his body around Derek, trying to drive the pain out through his fingertips and toes.
"You're distracted." Derek said. "I don't want to be doing this when you're looking out there."
"You're not looking at me either." Stiles said.
Derek held Stiles down, and pulled out. He slid next to him, cradling his arms around Stiles's torso, face nuzzled against his neck.
"We don't have to do that today." He said. "I'm tired."
Stiles grabbed Derek's hand. He found place for his fingers between Derek's fingers. He found a place for himself. There was a peace to the moment, to the heat they shared, to the way Derek's breath felt on Stiles's skin. He wanted to fade into this and think and understand, but he had always been weak to warm things. He had always been weak to being wanted. He wanted to sleep. He finally felt like he could, because Derek was next to him, clouds in the sky drifting at their own pace, finding their own place, a place for each other.
"Derek." Stiles said.
"Yes?" Derek said.
"Thanks holding me." He had hesitated, at first, when the words came to him, but he felt like he needed Derek to know how grateful he was. He wanted Derek to know what he wanted. Finally.
"Say the word. I'll hold you again."
The words were like a lullaby. His arms, a blanket. There was a sense of comfort, of safety, of being in a place where no one could hurt him, no one could possibly break him again. How long had it been since he felt like this? He lingered on the rasp of Derek's voice, the rhythm of his breath, taking his time to remember the moment and intricacies. He fell asleep.
When he woke, he was cold and alone.
It was eleven thirty at night when Stiles managed to return to the apartment he shared with Scott and Jackson. The door was open. They had been expecting him to come home; he always came home with the same face on, as if he been lost or as if he had lost something. Perhaps the most terrifying and paralyzing aspect of a disease was the predictability of the symptoms: Scott saw Stiles walk in, eyes blank and his shoulder slack, and he knew that he had just come from that thing that made him so freakishly miserable. The husk standing in the doorway was barely Stiles at all.
The thing was Derek. Stiles never said a word to Scott, to Jackson, to anyone about him. Addicts kept their drugs secrets, especially the ones who knew there were people willing to force them clean. Scott, Allison, his Father, maybe even Jackson and Lydia, would tell him to stop.
That was the one thing Stiles did not want to do.
"Stiles." Scott pushed himself off the couch.
"Scott, Jackson. You watching Teen Mom again?" Stiles said.
Jackson laughed. This had happened before, too many times, for him to even pretend to be interested. Scott would ask Stiles where he had gone; Stiles would say he was studying. Scott would ask where, and Stiles would say somewhere. It would continue on and on until Scott started yelling and Stiles would retreat into their room, cover his head with his pillow, and start tuning everyone and everything out.
"We need to talk." The scene began as usual.
Stiles shook his head and said, "Not right now, Scott. I'm not in the mood. I've...got this terrible headache and I just want to get some sleep, alright?"
Scott pressed on. He closed in on Stiles, cornered him in the space between the bedroom and the kitchen. He and his pointed chin were determined to get an answer this time.
"Are you...on drugs? Or something, Stiles. We need to know. We need to know because you're fucking killing yourself over something, just something, we've been best-friends for how long and I still...I still don't know what is making you so miserable because I guess you don't trust me enough to tell me."
Jackson had never heard Scott play this card before, the 'I don't think you trust me' card. He turned around to see the look on Stiles's face, to see how Stilinski was going to lie himself out of this one.
"It's...I'm fucking around with this guy, and...it's going absolutely nowhere and I don't know how long I can last until I just fall apart." The way he said it, the way he leaned against the kitchen counter, the way Stiles let his head hang loose behind his shoulders, made Jackson shudder.
Stiles sat on his bed, legs square on the ground, face hunched forward, hands at his temples, trying to process the fact that he had broken rule three of his agreement with Derek: only we know. There had been three rules. Only three. 1) we only see each other behind closed doors. 2) First names only. 3) No one knows except us. He had broken one and he knew—he did not even know how Derek would have found out but he knew Derek would—that breaking one of the rules had its consequences.
Scott opened the door. They shared a room. Jackson took the other room in the apartment, seeing as though he paid for half the rent himself anyway and he needed the space. He handed Stiles a bottle of beer, cold, straight from the Safeway down the street. He had made Jackson run down and get them something to drink to take the edge off.
"Hey, so. What's his name?" Scott asked.
"I can't say..." Stiles said.
Scott popped the cap off his bottle and started to drink. He looked at Stiles and said, "seriously? I just need his first name. You know. So I don't have to say that guy, or the guy you're sleeping with, or the guy whose ruining your life."
"It's...Derek. That's all I know. Practically all I know. We only ever have sex, and I know, what kind of crazy falls in love over a fuck buddy, but...Derek says things...with sex, I feel like he does at least."
Once Derek traced his fingers over every inch of Stiles body, taking his time, observing and learning. He had a policy on orgasm. He did not consider it an orgasm if there was no direct eye contact. He wanted, no, he craved, the look on Stiles's face as he came. That was the one thing Derek asked for in bed. To see Stiles's face. Everything else he just took as if he already owned it.
"You've had buddies before right? I mean..." Scott struggled for the words. "How long has this thing lasted?"
"Probably. Six months? Seven in six days."
"You track your anniversary?"
"Come on Scott..." Stiles said. "I mean. Lydia was one thing. But Derek is like...the first touch of rain on my skin after a long summer, some Nicholas Sparks shit like that. I feel like. I think about him all the time. I want to be with him. I can't say no. I don't want to, even if I know-" Scott interrupted Stiles.
"You're disappointing everyone else in the process? Yeah. I get it. I'm sort of glad it's a guy, not drugs or like a fight club." Scott said. That was the brilliant thing about having Scott as a best-friend. No judgments, alright, some judgments, but he had a joke when Stiles counted on them most.
"Okay, second confession of the night. I'm in this club, and the first rule is: you don't ever talk about it."
Scott tapped him in back of the head with his bottle. Stiles took a hit of his beer. He grinned. He was getting that peaceful feeling again, the lightness in his chest, and the idea floated in, the idea that he may not need Derek after all, as much as he thought he did, at least.
About leaving. I had something to take care of. -D
The relapse came sooner than expected. Stiles was in class when he received the text, again out of the blue, and he didn't bother to answer it right away. Two days had passed since that afternoon. Their usual purview was to forget about any awkward incidents. At this point, Stiles wanted off the table. Stiles had been prepared for forgetting. Stiles had been more than prepared for the usual Derek.
The text was far from the norm.
He had been in college for nearly two years and he was driving himself insane over text messages like he had never left high school. Progress. Great progress. Derek had managed to turn him back into a seventeen year old.
Stiles tucked the cellphone away. He needed to focus, jot down notes, try and make it through class before wasting another day thinking about fight club. His sweet release, the activity that made him feel alive, that hurt him, that drove him to new extremes, Derek was fight club, hell, Derek might not even be real, all things considered. No one other than Stiles had ever seen him, heard from him.
Plot twist: he had fallen in love with his hallucination. Damn, what a hot, kinky hallucination. Why was his hallucination so kinky? Stiles bit down on his lip to try and focus in on the lecture.
Rumble in his pocket. Another text. Stiles read:
What time do you finish classes today? -D
He would have to sweet talk the pikachu-ears girl sitting two rows away from him again for the class notes, because Stiles needed to answer Derek, if this was even Derek.
Derek, I know who you are. No need to end every text with -D. I'll be done in about 15.
He lied. He had another class after this one, in about an hour, but he was going to scream in his pillow for a good while. He waited, tapping his foot against the hardwood floor, trying to float in the lecture through one ear and trying to recognize the sound of a phone's vibration.
That's just messaging etiquette. But I suppose we don't have to be so formal with each other. I want to see you soon. As soon as possible. I can pick you up, so please, if you can today. It won't be long.
As soon as possible. There were clichés that Stiles had heard his whole life, one of them being to the tune of 'hearts skipping beats' but reading this text from Derek literally made his heart miss a regular beat, which was a lot more dangerous than romantic comedies made the phenomenon out to be.
Ah. I'm not used to being so formal about this with you. I mean...it won't be long? That's not very tempting, Derek. I'm used to quality.
Yes or no.
Yes. So...this is the point where I give you my address and you pick me up in your car? That's breaking a few rules.
We can talk about our rules today. We can talk about a lot things, if you want, just...
Pick me up in thirty. It takes me awhile to walk back home from campus. I live on 1910 Oxford. I'll just wait out on the street. Easy right?
Right.
Stiles smiled. Progress.
Waiting for Derek.
He had been waiting for Derek all this time and now, Derek was finally meeting him halfway. He had finally met Stiles halfway. All he needed to do was wait a little more. Finally. Finally. There was the peaceful feeling, the infernal lightness emerging from the deepest cavity in his chest, bringing him places he never thought he could go. Stiles had waited. Now, Derek was coming. Here. To his apartment building.
Every car held in it the possibility of being Derek's.
Every second held in it the possibility of being the second.
When was the last time he had been this excited? There was the ninth birthday party when his dad let him drink all the Mountain Dew he wanted, which inevitably ended with Stiles running naked through the better part of their neighborhood. What was he going to tell Scott now? Hey, remember when I was depressed the other day? Turned out Derek was actually the one after all and true love exists! Scott would probably hug him and say I believed in it the whole time even if he thought Derek was full of bullshit.
He waited.
And waited. Hoped. He sat on the curb.
Derek never came.