A/N: Things are gonna start getting messy. And this is not me manipulating canon for my own, greedy shipper needs. :P This is really how it goes. More or less.
Derek
You don't know what possesses you to do it.
You don't really think about it, but once Jackson's in the shower, you're up and across the room, rifling through his pockets and then scrolling through his phone. You try and focus on the sound of the water, keep glancing at the shut door every few seconds, breath short, muscles tense, as you shuffle through dozens of photos of the two of them—eating, sleeping, kissing—proud and happy and uninhibited. Abruptly they start to peter off, trickling down into almost nothing the past few months, being replaced with foreign cityscapes, foreign people, foreign lives, and you feel guilt, wicked and sharp, knowing that you're the reason that happy kid is gone from them, isn't so happy anymore.
Putting a face to the idea of the significant other was a mistake, but now that you've started, you can't stop. You go through the contacts, find a name (Stiles) and a home and work number. You dash over to your desk across the window, scour the drawers for a pencil and paper, and get it all down, crumpling the information and hiding it in the wastebin. You know that it's paranoid, but you don't care.
By the time the door opens, steam pouring out the opening, Jackson barely gives you a second glance, gathering his clothes, stuffing them into a "gym bag" and letting himself out. You lie in bed for over an hour turning the name over and over on your tongue, the images in your mind, the guilt in your stomach. You feel adrift at sea, and when you feel like you're going to be overwhelmed, dragged under and drowned, your grab the slip of paper, your keys, and head out the door.
When you called, you were surprised to find he works at a gallery of all things. It fleshes him out even more, gives him interests and aspirations and inclinations. You wonder if he's talented. You wonder if he went to school for it, somewhere in a big city. You wonder if that's where they met, flirted, fell in love.
You're parked in front of the building before you even realize you made the decision, and after sitting with the engine idling for something like ten minutes, you turn off the ignition and saunter inside. You're irrationally afraid of being caught, even though you're sure that he doesn't know what you look like, that you even exist. The space is wide and open, full of natural light and negative space. It makes you feel vulnerable, like you just walked into a trap, and you have to physically force yourself not to tense up.
He's the only one in the room—behind a desk against a wall, halfway down the space, distractedly chewing on a spare pen cap and staring blankly at the laptop screen in front of him. You freeze in your tracks when his eyes flick up to meet yours, and all the air in your lungs disappears. The first thing you think… is that he's beautiful. Upturned nose, cupid-bow lips, scattered moles, warm eyes, soft hair—you want to smile at him, play with the cuff of his sleeve, nuzzle at his exposed collar bone, nip at the shell of his ear.
You are hit with the overwhelming need to touch and taste and know and after the excited thrill wears away, you are only left with shame. You should leave. Clearly there's something wrong with you, something fundamentally fucked in your basic wiring and you should let these poor people be. You should turn right around, never look back, never think about it—him again, but you don't. He quirks an eyebrow when you've been staring for too long, squints when you continue to, and just when he's about to say something, you turn to the display on the wall behind him, and try your best to casually browse.
It's filled with a mixture of manipulated photos and drawings that are crude in a clearly practiced way. They're all a little odd, off in some way or another, making them just uncomfortable enough to be genuinely curious and interesting. In one of the photos, a suited man stands in front of a wall of windows—outside them crashing waves and a woman in a wedding gown atop their crest, all black and white. Next to it, a decidedly more colorful drawing—greens, blues and pinks—a boy stands in the foreground, heavy coat, steamed breath, expression afraid. The people behind him are fading away into the snow covered city.
You get lost in them, in their stories, in a world that, for once, makes sense. To you, this is real life. It's not like in the movies—following established rules, heroes and villains clearly defined, a purpose and intent behind every action and word. It's weird. It's sometimes hard to understand. It's sometimes beautiful and sometimes terrible and so very often, both, at the exact same time.
You don't even realize you've reached the end until you bump into Stiles' desk and awkwardly fidget as he looks you over. "Can I…. help you with something?" His fingers twiddle nervously on the edge of the wood, and you imagine them skirting across your jaw, pinching at your waist, buried deep between your legs. You clear your throat and shift your weight before making a snap decision and placing your wallet on the desk.
"I want to buy one of these." The words seem to go over his head at first, before his eyes narrow with suspicion again and he glances between you and the wall several times. He scratches at his head and licks his lips before deciding to focus on you.
"No you don't." He says it, like he's letting you in on common knowledge, like you said something foolish and he's sparing you further embarrassment. "Those—those are mine. They're only up because I work here… They're not even real art." He believes every word that he speaks, and doesn't seem particularly affected by it, but in the same way that you grow used to a chronic ache. He says it like he's trying to convince you not to take up smoking—serious, concerned, certain.
You frown at him, huff out a laugh, and turn back to the wall, walking down its length, and pulling down four different frames. You set them all carefully down in front of him, and stare him down. "I want to buy these. All four."
His eyes widen and he licks his lips again—a nervous habit apparently—and just shakes his head. "I… I don't need your pity or anything." His smile is a little sad, but he looks you right in the eyes, and stands from his chair. "I know it's nothing magnificent or ground-breaking or thought-provoking, but I like it and I'm proud of it, and I don't care."
You make a note of looking at his name tag, make sure he notices before saying, "Stiles, right?" He nods and flexes his fingers, doesn't back down. "My name is Derek, and I couldn't think of anything better to hang around my house. I like it too, and I don't care if you don't believe me." He swallows thickly, nods, sits back down, and rings you up without another word.
When he hands you the receipt, he smiles shakily, sheepishly, and utters a quiet thank you. You let your fingers drag across the inside of his arm when you take it, smile small and genuine, like you almost never do, and thank him right back.
When you're back at home, his art hidden beneath your bed, you feel like going to sleep, for a long, long time.
