A/N: I got this idea after watching Deadliest Warriors of all things, and seeing one of the Native American's with their war paint. I wondered what a condemning, but intimate thing it must be to be the person who hand paints the tribe's colors, knowing that the person in front of you might never come back.
And then Sterek happened to worm itself in there, and I couldn't keep myself from trying it out. :P This little ficlet's all I have planned for now, but depending on if I get more ideas or a really good reaction, I'd be open to expanding. ^^
Anyways! Please leave a comment and tell me what you think! I love to hear from y'all
They've been coming here since they were just boys- curious pups eager to explore and experience the mysterious world around them. And though it's the same, familiar scene they've grown to know, this time it feels immeasurably different. After this, there is no going back to how things used to be, and the both of them can sense it.
This momentous change that they've been careening towards for so long is finally upon them and the tension is palpable. It manifests itself as an electricity in the air, the taste of copper on the tongue, a heart sick wrench in their chests. Yet neither of them will acknowledge it. Instead they sit together in silence, preparing for the battle that will change their lives.
Stiles presents Derek with the clay pots of colored paint he'd smuggled in a leather pouch- the colors of his people. Derek takes them with the kind of reverence such items deserve in both their cultures and arranges them on the ground in order. Dipping his fingers into the first pot, he asks Stiles to close his eyes and carefully covers them with a wide circle of burnt orange. He is careful not to lay it on too thick, not to let excess work its way underneath the lids. The raccoon mask sets the boy's golden eyes aflame and makes Derek's breath catch in his chest.
He hesitates for just a moment before wiping away the remaining color on his breeches and then wetting his fingers again, this time with a deep purple, and uses them to draw parallel lines from Stiles hairline, down the bridge of his nose, and across his lips to his chin. The drag of the pads of his fingers combined with the consistency of the paint makes it slow going, but he doesn't mind the heavy moments of intimate touch.
Lastly he picks up the vibrant green and takes his time painting the sunburst in the center of his closest friend's quivering chest, trying to ignore the stuttering breaths that sharply prick his heart. First he paints a spiral, the center of which lies his heart, and then a circle of staggered triangles surrounding it. When he is finished he knows he should wash his hands off in the creek, but instead he covers the rest of his fingers and palm in the rival pack's colors and lays his print across Stiles hip, firm and possessive as he marks him as his own in the only way he can. He'd thought the clever, careful boy would chastise him, wash it off or smear the pattern, but this time all he gets is a solemn kiss after Stiles spent a few long seconds tracing the shape of his hand.
Instead of lingering though, Stiles immediately turns and fishes around in the bag Derek had brought. He brings out three smaller drawstring pelts that are filled with colored powders. Derek stands and crosses to the creek behind them and washes himself as Stiles finds a vial of oil and goes about mixing Derek's own war paints.
When he returns the other boy is wearing a look of grim determination and he stands carefully so nimble fingers can swipe a black and blue stripe on the top of each of his eyelids and across his cheek bones. The first moves are clinical and sparse, the lines coming out sharp. But then a steady palm drags pristine white down his shoulders, contouring to the lines of his muscles, reassuring. Finally a tri-colored hand is pressed to his ribs and he too is ready for war.
Today their packs go to war. Today there is the possibility they will meet again, but this time on the battlefield. Enemies instead of lovers, warriors instead of boys, a condition of the wolves inside. Up until now they were able to keep their forbidden relationship a secret- never marking each other, claiming each other as they so desperately wanted to do. A stray claw mark, an unintentional love bite, even an unaccounted scent of another would have drawn attention from their packs and surely the reaction would be violent. But now, with the reality of their situation thrown threatening, they can finally touch, and kiss, and call one another 'mine'. It is bittersweet in what could be their last moments, but right now they try and ignore it, push it back.
Right now the wood is quiet and sun dappled, the breeze sweet and cool. The calm before the storm. They whisper sweet nothings into the other's ear, look deeply into eyes, breathe lightly against lips, reminding themselves they are still alive. Right here, right now they are together and they are alive.
Everything will change in a matter of hours, but the future is intangible, a chilly haunting that looms just inside their periphery. The press of their skin, the sound of their voices, the taste of the air, the musk of their adrenaline, the sight of their mate prepared to die for them, this is what grounds them to the present. It's little consolation, but it's what keeps them sane.
Silently the both of them wish to live in this moment forever.