"Derek, you need to get out of bed," Isaac says reproachfully from the foot of Derek's mattress. He hears the heating come on, and Scott's distinct scent crawls along the walls of the flat and up his nasal passages, along with that of his other beta. He simply growls sleepily and rolls over, burying his face in his pillow and yanking the covers over his head.
It's been five weeks now. Five weeks and three days actually, if you want to be precise. Derek doesn't want to be precise. He doesn't want to be anything. He wants to pierce his own diaphragm with his own claws, and rip out his own intestines. He wants to scream and growl and roar and howl until his vocal chords weep with blood and his lungs are raw and breathless. He wants destruction. He wants silence and rain and fire and an apocalypse that only tears him apart, leaving everyone else to get on with their lives. They'll probably be better off without him anyway.
Except Derek doesn't really believe that. He knows the pack need him. He knows Beacon Hills need him. The silly bastards won't last three weeks without him, and as much as he doesn't want to exist, he doesn't want to lose his remaining friends either. But right now, there's a giant metaphorical hole in his chest and everything fucking hurts, and he just wants to rot in bed and be left alone.
Only, Scott is cooking pancakes. Derek really likes pancakes. And Isaac, the sly little fucker, is fully aware of that fact. He knows that because Stiles used to come over on Sunday morning uninvited and cook pancakes. He used to make them with honey and cinnamon, and a double grande non-fat mocha from the local baristas.
Derek can smell all of those things right now, and as much as it pains him with the thought that Stiles will never drag him out of bed on a Sunday morning with his coffee order ever again, the fact that Derek hasn't eaten in six days catches up with him. His stomach, triggered by the smell of annoyingly, horribly delicious breakfast food, gives a particularly loud wail, and Isaac shamelessly grabs the duvet and rips it from Derek's body.
When he doesn't move, Isaac sighs gently and sadly. Derek feels the mattress sink a little somewhere near his calf muscles, and he peaks through one eye at the eighteen year old sat cross legged next to his legs, a soft look on his ridiculously well sculpted face that makes Derek draw in a pathetic whimper. Isaac knows full well no one can resist his puppy dog eyes – especially Derek, which is immensely difficult when he's trying to discipline the young man.
"Fuck off," he grumbles with no regard for the fact that Isaac is smirking at him, or that he's butt naked because clothes haven't really been one of Derek's top priorities of late.
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself," Isaac says simply. Derek bristles and Isaac's smirk turns into a full blown grin "seriously Der, I'm being a serious little puppy. No more martyring yourself to an early grave. Get the fuck out of bed, or I'll recruit the entire pack to come drag you out of this room, and I won't even let you get dressed-"
"I'll make you submit"
"Derek, you can't even muster the motivation to get out of bed, I doubt you could make anyone submit at the moment. C'mon, or I'll call Cora-"
"Alright!" Derek yells, snapping upwards and throwing his pillow at Isaac's face "fuck sake, you asshole, I'm awake! But I swear to god if you make me talk, I'll rip your fucking throat out"
Isaac holds his hands up in surrender, nodding once and smiling much less smugly "no talking. Just food and coffee and actual air because Jesus Christ, it fucking stinks in here," he says, affectionately tapping the curve of Derek's ass casually, and leaving.
"What even is my life," Derek growls, muttering to himself as he winces at the stiffness of his muscles and the locking in his bones because he hasn't moved in days. He rolls his shoulders and wiggles his toes, cracking his neck, trying to get some blood actually flowing in his veins. He swallows the choking lump of emotion in his throat when he accidentally glances at the tattoo of the fox on his hip. It's the last physical evidence of Stiles he has left on his body – the hickeys always heal over pretty much straight away, and the fingerprint bruises on his waist are long gone. But this isn't something that people know about – only Stiles had been aware of it. He kind of likes it that way to be honest. It's their secret.
He grimaces at the awful taste in his mouth that a week without brushing his teeth has given him, and finally stands up. It takes him a moment to catch his balance, but he grabs the lose sweatpants from his desk chair and pulls them up his hips, trudging grumpily across the lounge into the kitchen.
Scott looks – fuck he looks worse than Derek does. His hair is a mess, he has dark lines under his eyes, and his usually tanned skin is paler than it's ever been. His posture breaks Derek's heart for a second, and the maternal part of his wolf almost simpers at the sight of his suffering beta. Derek doesn't know how the guy is doing it. Scott was Stiles' best friend, they were brothers, two halves of a whole. As cheesy as it sounds, Scott and Stiles had been bonded for life. At least, they should have been.
Derek swallows and doesn't look at him as he sits down at the kitchen island. Isaac comes to the apartment every day and sits outside his locked bedroom door, telling him over and over again that it's not his fault. But it is. Derek knows it is. He should have ignored Stiles' wishes. He should have just done it, given him the bite and gotten it over with. Then Stiles would be sat in front of him with coffee and pancakes, and Isaac and Scott would still be in bed across town, wrapped up in each other, just beginning to wake up.
And all of this is Derek's fault. This absolute dead land of desolation is all down to Derek. He knows he's regulating a perpetual cycle of regret and guilt, but he doesn't know how to break out of it. He doesn't think he deserves to. He doesn't think he deserves to be happy again, not ever. Not when he's here, and he's grumpy and selfish and impulsive and he doesn't make the right choices – and Stiles had been good and compassionate and funny and so fucking full of life.
"I made them right, didn't I?" Scott asks. His voice isn't soft like it normally is. It's gravelly and quiet and Derek knows he's been sobbing helplessly into Isaac's chest every night; he can even smell the specific hint of salt and ammonia over the body wash – tears and sadness have always been more potently obvious on wolves.
"Yeah," Derek twitches his mouth in a pathetic half-smile and begins cutting up the pancakes, even though he feels like he's going to be sick again. He's lost count of how many times he's vomited in the last month, it's the only time he's gotten out of bed.
He eats the food anyway, because Scott is actually doing something, and he's got that look on his face that means he wants Derek's approval, and even though it makes him feel even more nauseous, he continues to swallow it all until the plate is completely clear. He takes slow, deep gulps of his coffee as well, despite the way it tastes like acid in his mouth, and burns his throat.
Whilst he does this, Isaac mooches through Derek's cupboards and finds an old bag of Cheetos to binge on, worming his way in besides Scott on the stool and pressing their arms together, courteously staring anywhere but at Derek. Scott, however, oblivious as usual to what was tactful, watches Derek the entire time.
"I don't blame you," Scott says suddenly, after almost an hour of silence. Derek half-chokes on his drink, and splutters a few times, before recovering, and finally meeting Scott's eyes.
"What?" he says, voice strained.
"I thought I would. You were asking him to let you bite him for months, but he wouldn't let you, and I suppose I thought I would blame you because you should have just done it. But Stiles was special, and… you two were special together. He would never have forgiven you if you'd forced it on him, and you – you were just being a good person. I don't blame you. You didn't kill him, and I know you fucking loved him to bits. So you should stop blaming yourself"
Derek can physically see how much its taking out of Scott to even say Stiles' name. He can feel the anxiety radiating from him, and it wreaks of repressed, contained pain. Derek feels his skin prickling with the urge to comfort his pack member, but he resists, dropping his hands to his lap and bowing his head.
"Scott, I-"
"Stop. No excuses, no apologies. I don't blame you, full stop. No one does. Not even Stiles' dad. I asked him if he did, the other day. I spent the day there. He looks worse than me and you, but the whole time I was with him, the only time his face changed was when I told him how much you're beating yourself up. He looked like I had just stripped and started dancing the can can. I think… I think he'd actually like to talk to you, you know. I couldn't tell very much, but he called me at two thirty in the morning the other day and told me that he felt better after me and mum sat with him for a while, says the silence makes him feel worse. So, if you get some time, I think he would really like to talk to you," Scott says more words than Derek has heard in the five weeks he's been in self-proclaimed isolation, and… yes, it feels good. He feels better. He isn't being forced to talk, but hearing someone else's voice, it blanks out the loudness of everything else. And Isaac always makes even the saddest people feel significantly improved – his bounciness is infectious.
Derek gulps, flickers his eyelids, and slowly brings his face up, blinking hard and nodding.
"Okay," he says "I'll call him"
"Good," Scott says, and he smiles. It looks sort of wrong, like it's hurting his face, but it's the first real smile Derek's seen since Stiles died, and his heart aches a little in his chest.
"Also Lydia's having a party on Saturday, and everyone is going, so unless you want to immigrate to Mexico to avoid her wrath, I suggest you turn up," Isaac adds, apparently happy that he's been given unspoken permission to talk.
"Has she threatened to bust everyone's balls if they try to hide somewhere and avoid it?" Derek asks, because they're pretending to be okay, and he may as well contribute to the lightened atmosphere – if there's ever anything he's always been able to contribute, its sarcasm and dry humour, it's one of the reasons he and Stiles had always gotten along so well.
"She's threatened to wear everyone's balls around her neck as a piece of jewellery if we don't – I think she's actually got a register that she's going to be ticking our names off on," Isaac chuckles slightly. Derek wishes he could chuckle. He wishes he could laugh. Maybe… maybe he might be able to again one day. Right now he feels like his mouth will crack if he smiles. But – well, he supposes that's what knowing Stiles means to a person. Stiles Stilinski is promise that things will be good again, eventually, even if he's not going to be there to see it.