Fan fiction Prompt: Put your playlist on shuffle and write a fan fiction based on the first song that plays.
AU: Derek and Stiles' relationship through the years, set to the song Sarah Minor by Keaton Henson.
Warning: Sad ending.
Sarah Minor
And I know that there's friction between me and you
I know that you're uncomfortable, believe me, I do
I know it's hard for you to tell me the truth
But while we are doing so, Sarah, I love you
"I said you didn't have to come," Stiles narrows his eyes at a hunched over Derek in the back yard.
"I know. Okay? I said I wanted to be here," he responds, dragging a hand through his gelled hair.
"Well, you could at least look interested," Stiles retorts angrily.
"I am interested," Derek raises his eyebrows at Stiles, a frown forming on his lips.
Stiles sighs and slams his cup down next to the barbecue. "Well, act it," he sneers, a fake smile barely lifting his eyes as he edges his way towards his father.
"I'm proud of you, son," he smiles, the wrinkles of his eyes prominent as he smiles an ear-to-ear grin.
Derek looks on fondly, but takes a step back into the shadows. He thinks that maybe he shouldn't have come after all, maybe he should have just text Stiles, 'Happy Graduation', but he'd wanted to do it in person. It felt right, considering, well, everything. Him and Stiles had been getting on recently.
Dare he admit it, they might actually consider themselves friends. They'd talked, sat side-by-side on the sofa in Derek's apartment as they watched terrible late-night television programmes once Stiles has persuaded Derek to invest in a television. It wasn't anything fancy, just something small and understated, but Stiles was convinced that 'it really makes the room, Derek. It does.'
Derek refused to talk about whatever else there was between them, despite Lydia's attempts at pushing him. 'Seriously, it's so obvious.' Even Stiles had tried.
"Derek?"
"Mm?"
"Us?"
"Us."
"Yeah."
"Mm, yeah."
And then they'd both turned their heads back towards Batman on the screen, although their shoulders were definitely touching more than before.
Derek fishes his phone out of his pocket, opens his messages and begins to type an apology to Stiles, hoping he might see the message before the party wraps up sometimes later on and Stiles has been looking around hopelessly for Derek for hours on end.
'Sorry I had to leave early. Hope you have a good time. I'll see you soon. Happ-"
"Derek!" the Sheriff edges towards him warily. Derek pockets his phone and glances up, smiling shyly. "How's things?"
Derek nods. "Good, sir."
The Sheriff raises his eyebrows. "Sir, really? I thought we'd gotten past that stage by now?"
Derek nods again. "Sheriff?" He adds as a half-hearted joke.
The Sheriff laughs and slaps a hand down on Derek's shoulder. "Join in with the festivities, son. It's a good day. No need to stand in the shadows." The Sheriff steers Derek with a strong grip towards a group of his colleagues, and forces him to stand next to his son. He nods with a knowing smile.
"So, Stiles, your dad told us you're actually moving away for college, a real flight away and everything," Deputy Parish smiles at Stiles. Derek grits his teeth.
Stiles looks down at the floor and nods slowly. "Yeah, it was a difficult decision, but dad's going to be okay. He actually encouraged me to accept it."
"But God knows why you even applied in the first place," The Sheriff scoffs. "If you didn't even want to go."
"Derek studied there while he was in New York," Stiles admits with a low voice. "He's, um, actually going back there when the term starts, to complete his degree." Stiles glances up at Derek, takes in the blush of his cheeks and the slightly hooded eyes, and grins to himself in content.
The Sheriff clears his throat, emits an airy, "Oh," but drops the subject.
Stiles skirts his arm slightly outwards and brushes his knuckles against the back of Derek's hand, before slipping his fingers between Derek's own, never breaking eye contact.
And though your skin's sheet white and your arms carry scars
Your hair isn't clean much, your lungs black with tar
And god, you love to argue, you can't play guitar
But still, let me tell you that I love who you are
Still, let me tell you that I love who you are
Stiles is a little shit. Derek knows it, knows that Stiles' eyes light up with morbid fascination whenever he's in trouble, depite the depths of his iris' carrying the heat of fear within them. Derek hates him for it. Stiles is a reckless little shit.
Derek had carried him out of the abandoned bunker in his own arms, despite his own injuries that were barely healing, and the fact that he was pretty sure he'd lost half his blood count through the deep gash to his thigh that inched right down to the bone, but he slung Stiles' limp body over his shoulder anyway, because he might have been a reckless little shit but by God did he love him.
When he makes it to the Jeep, Derek has to jump start the damn thing because he didn't have time to search for the keys. They weren't in Stiles' pockets and Derek wasn't leaving the car once he'd gotten in.
By time he'd gotten to the hospital, he could barely feel a pulse. He'd laid him on the stretcher himself, stroked his dirt infested hair and kissed his sheet-white skin, lacing his fingers over the gashes on his arms Stiles had received when trying to defend himself from the creature.
In the ER, waiting for a private room, Stiles had woken up coughing up black, tar-like fluid from his lungs. Derek lifted him up to sitting, pulled him into his lap on the stretcher and rubbed circles on his back. Stiles leaned back into Derek's warmth, barely breathing but alive, and Derek kissed the crown of his head and held him like he was scared he'd never hold him again.
A week later, Stiles had been released from hospital. Or, rather, he'd signed himself out, convinced he didn't need to be there for much longer. He was just taking up bed space for someone else in greater need. Besides, he and Derek had come back to Beacon Hills to pack what was remaining in Derek's loft ready for them to move into their apartment in New York in two weeks time. Stiles wants to be there for the moving step, rather have died than miss it by lying in a hospital bed.
Stiles is a little shit when it comes to having convinced himself that he has Derek wrapped around his little finger, especially when he's injured. So, when he finds a guitar amidst the piles of rubbish Derek surprisingly has, which he'd clearly been hiding away from the pack the past few years, Stiles insists on Derek playing for him.
"Come on, Derek," he whines, fake coughing.
"Put that down," Derek orders, grabbing the neck of the instrument and pulling it away from Stiles.
"Please?" Stiles fake coughs again.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Please?"
Derek ends up playing a really bad rendition of Wonderwall, and stiles cries of laughter.
"You're terrible," he snorts. Derek rolls his eyes and shoves the guitar towards Stiles. "But I still love you depite that," he adds, kissing Derek's shoulder lovingly.
Love, young love, I hope you are well
At least we now both have a story to tell
Young love, I feel you know me better than most
In spite of real distance, we'll always be close
In spite of real distance, we'll always be close
Stiles is the one who tells Derek he needs some time. It's been a rough few weeks. Stiles has his finals coming up, Derek has been working non-stop. Whilst they haven't actually had any us time, Stiles is convinced he needs some real me time.
Derek doesn't say anything, doesn't even move, just looks at Stiles with eyebrows that are practically defying gravity.
"I just need some time on my own," he breathes.
Derek looks down at his feet, shuffles slightly on the spot with his hands balled into fists in his pockets. He nods once, avoiding direct eye contact, drags a duffel bag from the top of the wardrobe and throws clothes in whilst they're still on the hangers.
Derek can't say he didn't see it coming, he just wished it didn't have to be so soon. So he books into a hotel a few blocks away. He sits in the chair overlooking the city with a newspaper on his lap whilst he circles apartments. He remembers a few years ago when Stiles had been sitting beside him telling him that he wanted an apartment with exposed brickwork and a large window with whatever view, but plenty of light.
When Derek visits the apartment the next day, to collect some other items, he's glad Stiles is out. He sits on the bed and bites back tears. He knew Stiles was too young to be looking for anything so serious. Derek is verging on thirty and Stiles is only early twenties. It doesn't make sense, it never did. So Derek packs up as many of his things as he can bear and leaves his key on the coffee table.
He turns the television off before he leaves because Stiles always forgets to.
Stiles leaves him ten missed calls that night, but he doesn't look at his phone until the next morning when he wakes up in the hotel feeling numb and angry, and he forgot to iron his pants for work, and he's going to be late. He calls in sick. He throws his phone at the wall. He lies in bed all day and forgets to eat.
Stiles cries until his throat is raw, calls Derek every hour. He doesn't sleep at all that night, and he has class at seven in the morning. He leaves the apartment in the maroon thumb-hole sweater Derek left behind at the bottom of the clean laundry basket and one of Derek's scarfs that was tied around the bed post.
They don't speak for an entire week. Derek took a week off work, went back to Beacon Hills for a visit, checks in with Scott and makes sure everything is okay. Derek ducks behind a tree when he sees the Sheriff's cruiser rolling past, holds his breath as though the Sheriff has werewolf hearing. He wonders if Stiles has told his dad about their break up. He wonders if Scott has told the Sheriff that Derek is back in Beacon Hills and his dad went to the Argents' to get a thousand wolfsbane bullets with Derek's name written on the side.
Derek has his defence though. Stiles initiated the break up, didn't he? Surely that counted for something.
Stiles completes finals week as an emotional wreck. He drinks three pints of coffee a day and barely sleeps for four days straight. On the fifth day he nearly collapses when leaving his the exam hall, has to grab onto the student in front of him to stop him from keeling over. Stiles calls Derek again that night. When he doesn't answer, he falls into a restless sleep.
When Stiles leaves college after his final exam he doesn't expect to be greeted by the sight of Derek standing by the Camaro, a bunch of flowers in his hand. Stiles doesn't think about his fatigue as he runs to Derek and leaps into his arms, knocking the flowers to the ground. Neither of them care as Derek tangles his fingers in Stiles' overgrown and slightly unclean hair, as Stiles kisses Derek with tears in his eyes.
Derek doesn't have time to unpack his bags before Stiles is bent over the breakfast bar with his sweatpants bunched around his ankles, the thumb-hole sweater hitched up to his underarms.
Golden Brown was our soundtrack a long time ago
We spent all our days in the lines outside shows
And I still remember this day, a long time ago
I walked through the rain for you, you said to "Go home"
"I'm a thirty year old man, Stiles. Why would I want to go to some stupid college band show?" Derek asked, irritated.
"Dude, thirty is nothing! Besides, it's the last college event I am ever going to go to, I need you there to protect me from all of those people who have been secretly crushing on me and have finally gathered up the courage to talk to me," Stiles smiled innocently.
"Do you know of anyone in particular who plans to do that?"
"Well, no. That's the point in secretly crushing on somebody."
"Well, then I clearly don't need to be there."
"Come on, Derek. Don't be such a sourwolf. Come with me, it'll be fun," Stiles pleaded in Derek's ear, breath hot on the lobe. "Sourwolf," he teased, rubbing his fingertip lightly along Derek's collarbone.
"Fine." Derek agreed.
What Derek did not agree to, however, was a cacophony of drunken college graduates grinding up mindlessly and sweatily against everyone and anyone. Derek had been prepositioned by female and male students all night, the braver ones anyway. He didn't miss the longing stares of the less brave that pierced through his barriers.
"I'm leaving," he tells Stiles in a deadpan tone.
"No, Derek, don't leave. Can't leave!" Stiles exclaims, words slightly slurred.
"If you want to grind up against these drunken idiots, go ahead, but I'm not about to bear witness to your reckless stupidity."
"Derek!" Stiles calls out, fighting his way through the crowd to chase Derek. Derek doesn't stop although he can clearly hear Stiles behind him, can feel his erratic heartbeat slipping away from him the more distance he gains.
The rain is pouring hard when Derek throws open the entrance doors. He considers pulling his leather jacket over his head, but figures it would be pathetic. It's not like he needs to worry about getting his hair wet, or getting a cold. Stiles on the other hand...
"Derek," he pants behind him. "Derek, for fuck sake, stop!" he screeches. "Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you?" he laughs cheerlessly as he catches up to where Derek had stopped in the rain.
"What's wrong with me?" Derek asks incredulously.
"Yeah, seriously. I mean, come on, Sourwolf. What the fuck? Just, let your hair down. Have some fun for the first time in your miserable life!"
"My miserable life?" Derek takes a step closer to Stiles. He doesn't tower over him, there's barely even two inches of height difference between them, but he looms.
Stiles' breath catches in his throat. "I- I didn't mean-"
"I know what you meant," Derek spits. "I think I missed my quota for college frat parties when I was too busy getting over the fact that my entire family were burnt alive."
"Derek, I-"
"Shut up, Stiles. Go back to your stupid little frat party with all your stupid, drunken fratboy friends. I won't wait up."
"I'm allowed to have fun you know," Stiles shouts as Derek turns his back. "And I didn't mean that about your family, Derek. You know I would never mean that, I'd never think that of you. But for once I just wish you'd take that stick out of your ass and let yourself go. You don't have to be just a thirty year old werewolf, okay? You're so much more than that."
"I have fun with you."
"Derek, last night we ate left over Chinese food and you fell asleep in the middle of a re-run of How I Met Your Mother."
"You love How I Met Your Mother," Derek mocks.
"Come back inside, please?" Stiles wraps his numb fingers around the lapels of Derek's jacket. "Please?"
"No, Stiles," Derek unwraps Stiles' fingers from the lapels of his jacket, feeling the frozen digits thaw within his grip.
"I didn't want to come here without you," Stiles admits, attempting to draw himself closer to Stiles. "I wanted you to enjoy yourself, with me. I wanted to feel like we weren't slipping apart again."
"Then maybe we need to have a talk," Derek suggests honestly. He looks down at Stiles, discerning the tears from the rain drops on his pale skin.
Stiles scoffs and pulls himself away. "Just," he begins, spinning on the spot, dragging his fingers through his drenched hair. He sighs, fixing Derek with a tired glare, "go home."
Young love, young love, I hope you are well
At least we now both have a story to tell
Young love, I feel you know me better than most
In spite of real distance, we'll always be close
In spite of real distance, we'll always be close
Stiles arrived home near three am to an empty bed, a half empty closet and an envelope next to a set of apartment keys containing what Stiles later found to be a letter of sincere apology and explanation. He was too drunk to read the letter, although he figured he already knew exactly what it was going to say.
Instead, he lay on the couch, ate Chinese food he'd picked up on his way home and started series one of How I Met Your Mother. He fell asleep half way through the episode with tears stained cheeks he attempted to dry with the sleeves of Derek's maroon thumb-hole sweater.
Thank you for reading.