Word: Indelible
...
Stiles was silent and smooth as he climbed out of bed, not wanting to wake his father down the hall; they were both light sleepers now, and Stiles knew that his father hadn't slept much lately, though he'd tried to hide the fact each morning at breakfast. Stiles knew the signs because he hadn't slept much either, both of them playing a game where they pretended not to notice the thick black circles under the other's eyes. John had tried to talk about it, to talk to him about the nogitsune, but the memories were still too fresh for Stiles and he'd clamped up every time his father tried. Now, months later, Stiles still couldn't find a way to talk about what had happened - what he'd done - and John no longer tried, though he still looked at Stiles every now and then as if he wanted to say something.
It was summer now and he could feel the heat outside, but Stiles was dressed in thick winter flannels. Still freezing, he wrapped his thick robe around his perpetually cold body, rubbing his arms to try and warm his limbs, even though he knew it was a futile action. Ever since the nogitsune, his body never stopped being freezing cold, every limb seemed to ache, his head pounded and his chest tightened with every breath; in short, everything just seemed to hurt. Although he'd been to both doctors and Deaton, no one could seem to figure out what was wrong with him. There was no explanation for any of it, and it was put down to stress of being a teenager by the doctors at Beacon Hills Memorial. He wished it was as simple as that. Scott helped out now and then, thick black lines travelling up his arms as he leeched out Stiles' pain, but they both knew that he couldn't keep it up forever. Even though Scott probably would keep going until he collapsed, Stiles refused to let him do that.
Padding out of his room, he made his way downstairs, bypassing the creeky floorboard and squeaky step, and into the kitchen. He poured sugar and cocoa into a saucepan with some milk, heating it slowly and carefully, making sure not to make enough noise to wake his father. When it was bubbling, Stiles added more milk and let it heat up again as he took down two mugs from the cupboard. Stirring a few times, Stiles made his way to the front door and unlocked it gently, returning to the kitchen to finish making the hot chocolate.
"You can come inside now," he said, voice soft but still audible for those with werewolf hearing.
The front door opened a second later, Derek making his way directly into the kitchen. Stiles smiled briefly at him, noting that he was wearing his red jumper with the thumbholes, and nodded to the mug which Derek took without a word of protest. It had taken weeks for him to convince Derek to come inside, a week or so longer to get him to sit down with him, and by now, it was a common occurrence for them to fall asleep together on the couch. In fact, most nights, it was the only way Stiles could sleep. He had the feeling that it was the same with Derek, but it was yet another thing that Stiles didn't talk about.
"Marshmallow?" Stiles offered, holding out the glass jar.
Derek picked out one pink and one white marshmallow, dropping the first into his mug and the latter into his mouth. Stiles grinned slightly at the sight and did the same for his own marshmallows. They were both silent as they sipped their drinks, and when they'd finished, Derek headed to the lounge room, sitting on the couch before guiding Stiles to sit between his legs. Stiles closed his eyes, leaning back against Derek's chest contentedly and just breathing as Derek wrapped his arms around his body gently. Derek pressed a chaste kiss to the back of Stiles' neck, where his red-vein scars still showed from the nogitsune, and took Stiles' wrists in his hands. In the beginning, Stiles had loathed the indelible marks; he could see them creeping around his neck every time he saw his reflection, and once, in a fit of anger, he had attempted to scratch them off with blunt nails. The marks didn't bother him quite so much anymore, and Derek made sure he didn't hurt himself.
They both gasped softly as Derek started to drain the pain out of Stiles, his body arching against the werewolf's chest as black veins made their way up Derek's arms. He continued to leech the pain until Stiles stopped shivering in his arms, and when Derek focused again, the sun was starting to filter in through the curtains. He knew he should leave, that the Sheriff probably wouldn't appreciate him being in the house, despite asking for his help last year. But Derek couldn't bring himself to leave, and instead he tightened his hold on Stiles, his face pressed up against the younger man's neck and shoulder as they both fell asleep.
When they woke up, it was to find a blanket covering both of them and a note nearby telling them to wash their own mugs next time.
...
End of the word challenge.
Thanks for reading!
