When Stiles folds, head in his hands, Derek catches him, free arm winding around his shoulders, palm careful around his jaw, looking into his eyes. "Stiles?"
"Mmhmph?" Stiles says, and swears at his throbbing skull. "Magical hangovers are the worst," he mutters, burying his face in Derek's shirt. It doesn't seem to help; he squirms, makes an unhappy noise against Derek's neck.
And then there are warm wide palms on his cheeks and a rush of painlessness that has Stiles looking up appreciatively. "You are the best-" but Derek is going pale, paler, stumbling slightly. Stiles takes Derek's hands by the wrists and drags them off his skin. The effect is immediate, the throbbing back between his eyes, but he gets the two of them to a bed and sweeps Derek's hair off his forehead before lying down and closing his eyes.
"You're the real," Stiles says seriously, "the greatest-" His hands go to the sudden kick in his head, and he forgets how to make human noises. Derek reaches out a hand and siphons off a layer of pain, makes it bearable.
"I love you," Stiles says.
"You don't have to yell," Derek says grumpily.
a.n.: I DON'T KNOW OKAY.
title from aluminum by the white stripes