A lazy, rumbling threat rolled through the ash-grey storm clouds that loomed overhead. The somber masses sat low in the sky, lounging against the horizon where sky met water, the ocean's waves agitated into great swells, rising up to meet the call for battle.
The first bolt of lightening struck, cracking down from the heavens like a whip and shattering across the air in grasping tendrils, illuminating the battle field, and the war began. The angels, high up on their gilded pedestals of ivory, began to weep great, fat tears that rolled down their rosy cheeks and onto the down-turned heads of mortals below, who ran to seek shelter from their sorrow.
Stiles alone remained on the beach, turning his head up to meet the summer rain, wondering if any of the angel's tears that now splashed onto his own cheek, belonged to his mother. It'd been so long since he'd felt her touch: the warm reassurance that bloomed, sunflower bright, in the heart of his soul and washed away every memory of what it was like to feel fear, like sunlight chasing off the winter's frost.
At least she wasn't alone now. His father, Sheriff Stilinski to the rest of Beacon Hills, had joined her at 3:04 AM on a Saturday three years ago today, stealing away in the night. On tip-toes, of course, the way he always entered the house after a late shift at work, trying not to wake his wife and son. Not that it ever worked. Claudia Stilinski always stayed up to make sure her husband got home safely. Stiles would crawl into bed and wait up with her to keep her company, but would always end up falling asleep, his little eyelids drooping as he fought consciousness, his head dipping like a bobber floating on the water's surface, until sleep folded him tenderly into her embrace, tucking him in with a goodnight kiss.
Sand slipped between Stiles' toes and over his feet like a lady's silk as he wiggled them down into the earth. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting it all wash over him.
The alcohol had finally consumed his father, drowning him from the inside and setting him out to sea like a sinking ship in a bottle. That was the final straw for Stiles. No one was left but him. Scott and Isaac had died in the alpha battle last year, and Allison had lost herself to rage afterwards, going on a killing spree that devastated more than just the werewolf population.
And then, one day, she was gone. Just completely disappeared with only a lingering wisp of her scent, teasing the air like a curtain fluttering in the breeze, left behind. It wasn't until a month later that Lydia told him that Allison's father had taken her to France to live with their family there. She hadn't given any other details, and Stiles couldn't ask for any more. All of it had been written in a letter with no return address, showing up on his doorstep out of the blue, seeming to have wandered there by accident, in true Lydia fashion.
Shortly after the battle, everyone else that was left (which wasn't many of them) had drifted off. Nothing held them there anymore. The stench of death and despair hung heavy over them all, polluting the air of Beacon Hills, filling their lungs with tar and turning their hopes to ash. Nothing could survive in that climate, and anything green that managed to pop its head up was soon smothered out until it joined the backdrop of blackened decay.
Perhaps that's why Stiles had ended up here. He'd been the only one who'd stayed. But he couldn't do it now. Not anymore. He was done.
Even Derek had left.
The memory caused something haunted to stir in the dark crevices of Stiles' soul like the ghost of a wrecked ship as it sat, chained to the ocean floor, its bones picked clean by scavengers who had no ear for its stories of the glory days, where it skimmed across the ocean's top, the salt-laced air feeding wind to its sails, and oh the treasures it beheld as the water shimmered with jewels of sunlight.
The night before the battle, Stiles had confessed it all to Derek. Rain had crashed down around him as he'd run from his car to Derek's door, soaking him to the bone in a matter of seconds, his navy blue shirt clinging almost desperately to him skin as the lightening flashed behind him, lighting up the darkened living room. Candle in hand, Derek listened to the confession, his face a blank canvas as the little flame painted splashes of light across it abstractly.
That night, Stiles spent his first and only night in Derek's arms. Every inch of their bodies came together, every valley, meadow, mountain, and hidden little nook was explored until their bodies had become a single map.
They could all die tomorrow, and Stiles and Derek knew it. And yet, as they'd lain there together, it felt as if something golden had fallen over them. Something whole and pure and untouchable, and they'd felt as if they'd live forever.
In reality, it was Stiles who had left, although he'd gone no where at all. The alpha pack agreed to leave Beacon Hills alone after they'd won the battle on one condition: Derek had to leave and never return.
No one knew why they cared if Derek stayed or not. It's not like they gave a shit about some small little town in Nowheresville, California, and they sure as hell weren't staying. But everyone had settled for scratching their heads, as long as the alphas left. Derek agreed without hesitation. He'd taken all of the blame, all of the deaths, onto himself. Leaving his hometown was a small price to pay as penance in his mind.
However, only Stiles knew the truth behind their condition. It was the alphas' way of doing a victory dance. They'd wanted to take everything from Derek. Derek had spurned their offer to join the pack, and they weren't going to let him get away with it. Because they made another condition before they left. This one, however, was just for Stiles.
If they were to leave, Stiles had to stay. Stiles could never leave Beacon Hills for the rest of his days. And Derek must never return. They could never be together.
How they'd figured out about him and Derek, Stiles would never know, but it didn't matter. None of it did anymore.
Derek had nearly begged Stiles to leave, to come with him and spend the rest of their lives together. To move on as much as they could, and live for their friends who had been robbed of their own futures.
Stony faced, Stiles turned him down again and again. Something had died inside of Stiles when Scott and Isaac died. Perhaps that's why he didn't fight harder when the alphas made the condition. A part of him had already resigned to the fact that there was no happy ending. After his mother's and his father's and his best friend's death, Stiles did not see any other way but the road most traveled: Death.
The death of everything that lived, be it a human life, or the newborn life of a couple's love.
Finally, Derek had turned from Stiles, heartbreak hardening him into cooling steel, erasing the years Stiles had put his heart and soul into chipping away at the chip on the brooding alpha's shoulder.
Every day since then, Stiles has regretted not fighting harder. Not finding another way. But now, none of it mattered. Because he couldn't do it anymore. He was leaving. But he wasn't just leaving Beacon Hills, he was leaving this earth.
Stiles opened his eyes, and the world came back into view. The rain had picked up, drumming down steadily, though he barely felt it now, his skin having taken on a blissful numbness from the cold.
High above the ocean, seagulls circled serenely, riding the winds, and then they suddenly dropped, diving headfirst into the water like little suicide bombers.
One second…two seconds…three seconds…Would his own death be like that? Floating, hovering at the brink of life, and then just a great plunge into darkness?
Then they resurfaced, fish in mouth, and took to the air again. It was time. Stiles turned away.
And saw that he was not alone.
"Derek?" Stiles said, as familiar as breathing, even after all this time.
The alpha stood only feet away from him, molded into place as the world molded itself around him, not looking a day older than the last time Stiles had seen him over a year ago.
The last pillar holding up the roof gave way, and Stiles crumbled with it.
Two new, stronger pillars picked up the slack, and Stiles found himself in Derek's arms rather than face first in the sand.
"Stiles!" Derek cried, grasping him tightly as he lowered him to the ground, taking in the sight of his lost friend. The past year had not been good to him. Bone dug at the skin that was pulled tightly across it, missing the healthy cushion of fat that used to separate the two. Dark smudges of black were smeared under Stiles' sunken eyes, which were like a barren forest, ravaged by winter's cruelty, no sign of the light that used to crackle between them like a child's sparkler.
"Oh, Stiles," Derek sighed, brushing his thumb over Stiles' cheekbone as he cradled him in his lap, reveling in the weight of Stiles in his arms, though it was considerably less than he remembered. "What've you done to yourself?"
"Oh, you know, juice cleanse. All the celebrities are doing it these days," said Stiles with the hint of his old humor, though the words came out a little more lack luster than usual. It'd been a long time since he'd had a reason to joke.
A relieved huff of a laugh came from Derek, his hands still moving over Stiles' body unconsciously as if to make sure he was really here in his arms.
Feeling a bit embarrassed at his fainting, Stiles shifted around to sit up. Reluctantly, Derek let him, though he kept a hand on Stiles at all times as he moved around, until it came to rest on his hip.
The pair stared at each other, faced with a year's worth of hurt and anger and sorrow and questions that demanded answers now that the cushion of shock was wearing off.
And as Stiles' strength returned to him, so did the warning the alpha pack had branded into him, searing his skin with molten hot metal. A ghost-pain flared up through Stiles, and he scrambled out of Derek's grasp, stumbling to his feet. "Don't! Don't touch me. I told you I didn't want to see you anymore. I told you it was a mistake."
The same whip that had come down to strike lightening from the sky, seemed to lash across Derek's face just then. A sharp, stricken pain that cut far deeper than bone reflected itself on Derek's face, his lips parting almost in slow motion as he let out a delayed exhale, as if the power of the strike had knocked the wind from him.
Entire cities crashed and burned inside of Stiles. It was a mistake. It was a sentence he'd repeated to himself a thousand times, building each word, letter by letter, syllable by syllable until he'd constructed something that could stand on its own, even if it was only made of plaster. Something that passed as the truth, like a set on a movie. It only had to give the illusion that it was real. It only had to be good enough to trick the audience.
It was a mistake.
He'd had to repeat the sentence a million times before Derek believed him. What's a million and one? Stiles thought numbly as he stared at the love of his life, dressed all in black as if he was in mourning as he kneeled in the sand, soaked to near drowning, and so beautiful it was devastating.
A trembling set in his legs as his kneecaps started to congeal, threatening to give in again. But he caught himself this time, steeling himself in place. If I don't, they'll kill him. It's better if he has a life without me, than no life at all.
It took another minute, but Derek seemed to remember what it was he came to say as he visibly shook himself like a tree shaking a blanket of snow from its branches.
"We don't have to run anymore, Stiles," said Derek quietly, though a heaviness settled itself around the words, weighing down into a slump on his shoulders so that Stiles knew he did not speak the words without cost. "It's over."
It took a second for what he was saying to sink in. The alpha pack was dead. Derek killed them all. They always had been able say so much to each other when saying so little.
And he'd come right back here to Beacon Hills as soon as the task was done, despite Stiles' cruel dismissal.
"How?" Stiles demanded, an unforeseen force pulling him a step forward. It came out more angry than he'd meant it to, but he didn't dare allow himself to dream such a thing was true. All of them together couldn't take the alpha pack out; how could Derek do it all on his own?
"They have enemies in high places," said Derek evasively. "And the enemy of your enemy…," he trailed off, not saying anything more.
Stiles didn't need him to though; he knew the saying, and he got the picture.
Half a second later, he was in Derek's arms. Limbs twisted and fought for a grip, getting caught up in each other in their need make contact as lips sought any available inch of skin they could find.
"How?" Stiles asked again (though this time it was said with a desperate joy) once they'd pulled apart long enough to speak, though their foreheads stayed pressed together and their lips were so close they could feel them move when the other spoke.
A huff of relieved laughter burst from Derek as he tried to catch his breath. "I always knew asking me to leave wouldn't be enough for them. And the only other way to hurt me was through you."
Stiles shook his head, remembering the plunge seagulls took, seemingly a suicide mission, before coming right back up and carrying on.
"Well, I reckon if a seagull can do it, so can I," said Stiles, garnering a southern, farm boy accent.
The pressure on his forehead was relieved as Derek leaned back, but by just enough so he could see Stiles' face. "What?" he said with familiar amusement. Far stranger things had come from Stiles' mouth.
"Nothing," said Stiles softly, feeling something fresh, something warm, begin to sprout up and blossom, sunflower bright, inside of his soul. "Nothing at all."