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Derek met Stiles for the first time when he was barely seventeen and Stiles was almost more than ten, and the world was impossible to enjoy.
Smoke clung to his clothes though it was attempted to be choked out by the thick blanket over his shoulders. It was not successful, only managed to embed the ash into each strand of wool, the fire spreading.
The station was quiet, early morning sun peeking through the window. Derek had turned his back on the window as soon as the sun had begun to rise, for light had no room on this day. The sun should have been put out alongside the roaring flames.
“Could you do me a favor, Stiles?”
The words cut through Derek’s head sharply, the silence shattering alongside of them. They were whispered in a room with a closed door, but that meant nothing to Derek.
“Anything!” The response was overjoyed enthusiasm, something only an innocent child could possess.
“Could you take this out to Derek? See if he’d like to eat something?”
Derek felt his stomach clench, but he figured he deserved the pain and knew food would turn to ash in his mouth if he even tried eating. He would turn the kid down; it wasn’t even an option.
The child was quiet for a moment. “I don’t think he wants food, Dad.”
The sheriff inhaled sharply, Derek could hear his surprise.
The child continued. “Food tastes bad. After.”
Derek heard the sheriff swallow. “Offer it anyway. Make sure he takes the water.”
“Okay,” the child agreed, and the office door creaked open. Derek’s eyes shot back down to the floor.
Sneakers squeaked across the linoleum floor, and the noise grated at Derek’s ears, but the sudden waft of breakfast foods made his stomach roll.
Someone sat down next to him on the bench. A water bottle was shoved into his face, and Derek jerked back in surprise, catching the thing out of reflex. He snapped his head over to glare at the kid.
“Have some water,” Stiles requested, poking at the dripping bottle. “Food?”
Derek shook his head.
The kid smiled. “More for me, then.”
Derek expected that to be it. The plastic of the water bottle crunched in his hand as he stared, watching Stiles continue to sit next to him, hand digging into the box of food and tearing into a pancake without utensils.
Stiles caught him staring after a minute and turned the open takeout box towards him, a silent question.
Derek shook his head again, but this time he caught the kid’s eyes. He discerned the emotion in Stiles’ eyes by scent before it registered visually. Understanding.
Derek took a long drink from the water bottle. It quenched his parch throat, hoarse from screaming and crying. Now that he’d had a sip, his body was begging for more. He finished off the bottle quickly.
Stiles continued to sit next to him. He’d demolished one pancake and started working on the second in the stack of four. Derek watched him eat in silence.
Once the second pancake disappeared, Stiles closed the box and held it out for Derek to take. Surprising himself, Derek did.
“They taste good, I promise,” Stiles said, smiling softly.
Derek peeked into the box. His mouth watered. He tore off a small chunk, like Stiles had, and let it rest on his tongue. Butter, he tasted, no ash.
When Derek looked back up, the boy was gone, another unopened water bottle sitting where he’d placed the empty one.
As if conjured by a thought, there was a knock on the loft door, and Derek strolled over to open it. Pulling back the heavy metal door revealed Stiles on the other side.
Stiles’ eyes widened when he took in Derek, and Derek could hear his heart stutter in his chest in surprise.
“So you are back.”
Derek pursed his lips and dropped his head. “Not for long. Doing some maintenance things, sorting things out with the buildings I own.”
Stiles mouthed, “Buildings,” with an eye roll before looking back up at Derek. “How long are you staying?”
“Until the end of the week.”
Stiles’ eyes lit up. “So you’ll —”
“I’ll be here for graduation, yes Stiles,” Derek finished the sentence for him.
It was obvious Stiles was trying to hide his excitement. “Good. That’s…good. Cool.”
“Very cool,” Derek teased. He pressed a hand to the small of Stiles’ back and pushed him forward gently further into the loft so he could close the door behind him. Stiles went willingly, which was the first sign that something was wrong. Stiles never did anything not of his own volition without complaining just a little.
“How are things?” Derek asked.
Stiles’ face fell, his mouth clacked shut and his eyes dropped to the floor. He slumped over to the couch and took a seat.
“That well, eh?” Derek asked, a teasing lit to his voice, trying to lighten the suddenly dark atmosphere.
“It’s been shit, Derek. I don’t know what you want me to say. You know what happened.”
Derek perched himself next to Stiles on the couch. “I heard the stories, yes, but no personal details. Obviously you haven’t come out okay.”
Stiles snapped, “Of course not!” He wouldn’t meet Derek’s eyes.
Derek stood up, seemingly suddenly to Stiles whose eyes snapped up to him in surprise. “I’m going to make breakfast.”
Stiles blinked, startled by the sudden subject change, and Derek could feel his eyes on him the entire way to the kitchen. “It’s late afternoon,” Stiles finally stuttered.
Derek pulled out a mixing bowl, plugged the grill into the wall, and snagged the pancake mix from the sparse cabinet. Stiles watched in silence as Derek prepared a stack of significantly sized pancakes and flopped them over onto a paper plate he’d grabbed from the pantry. He grabbed two bottles of water as he passed the fridge and brought all of it back to the couch.
He handed one of the bottles to Stiles and took his seat again, plate of pancakes in his lap.
“Want some?” Derek asked, watching how Stiles’ eyes hungrily stared at his meal.
“I’m not…really hungry,” Stiles admitted, though he spoke as though he were in a trance. He shook his head, blinked a few times, before looking up at Derek. “Sorry. Déjà vu.”
Derek nodded in understanding. “I get it.”
“So what’s next? After you’re finished up here,” Stiles asked, unscrewing the cap from his water bottle and taking a long swig. Derek watched a drop of water miss his mouth and escape over the curve of his bottom lip before Stiles caught it with the tip of his tongue.
Derek shrugged. “I’ve been around. Not sure what’s next. Was thinking maybe Europe.”
Stiles choked on his next sip. “What? Where?” He scooted closer to Derek a little, head tilted to the side, intrigued.
Derek tore into the top pancake and placed a sliver of it on his tongue, savoring the slightly fake buttermilk flavor before he swallowed. “Haven’t decided. I wanted to practice my languages. So probably Germany. France.”
Stiles’ face softened as if he’d just thought of a good memory, his forehead unscrunching and relaxing. “I’m sure that’ll be nice. I didn’t know you spoke many languages.” Stiles smirked then. “Other than Spanish.”
Derek nudged Stiles with his elbow, though the gesture barely made the young man sway. “Yeah. I’ve always had an affinity for them. Grew up with Spanish and English. Learned German in high school, though I’m not fully fluent. Started reading French so I’m about as far with that as I am with German. I’ve picked up ASL as well. Part of my want to go to France is because French sign language was what ASL originated from, so I wanted to learn more about both while I’m there.”
Stiles stared at him, mouth dropped open a pinch. He cleared his throat, took another sip of water. “Wow. Um, that’s impressive. Taking French now, as you know. Learned some Polish while growing up, but it’s mostly English for me.”
“You could come with me then. To France.”
Stiles choked.
Derek ignored the sputtering and continued, saying, “Practice, see how much you’ve retained in the last four years.”
Stiles finally caught his breath and managed to choke out, “Dude, I can’t afford France. I can barely afford my plane ticket for school in the fall.”
Derek smiled, remembering seeing the excited Facebook status declaring Stiles’ acceptance into Columbia University.
“I can cover you.” Derek raised a hand, cutting Stiles off. “Or you could pay me back later, once you’ve graduated.”
Stiles placed his bottle onto the coffee table, and Derek followed his example with the plate and his drink, feeling the need to free up his hands, his body.
“That’s…really generous of you, Derek, but I’m not sure —”
“You can have this, Stiles.”
Stiles’ head snapped up. “What?”
Derek reached over and took one of Stiles’ hands in his own. “You’re almost done. In a few days, you’re going to graduate, and in four months, you’ll be in college. You’ll be free of this place and,” Derek choked on his words, “you deserve that. Above all, Stiles, you get to have this.”
Stiles stared at him, unblinking, eyes intense and shining. His heartbeat was fast, but steady, and his hand tightened in Derek’s grasp.
“It’s taken me a long time to realize that, Stiles. But I know now that…that there’s more than this,” he waved a hand in the air, gesturing to the window that overlooked Beacon Hills. “That there’s a whole world out there and that it’s okay to want to be a part of it. For a long time, I thought that it would be impossible for me to be happy or content or enjoy anything, ever. Because that’s what pain and trauma and death do to you. But I’ve seen the world. I met you.” His other hand came up, and though it was shaking, he cupped Stiles’ cheek with it. The man’s breath hitched. “Allow yourself happiness. Please.”
“Derek,” Stiles choked, emotion clogging up his throat, eyes wet.
“Come enjoy the world with me,” Derek breathed, face centimeters from Stiles’.
“Okay.” The word was breathed against Derek’s cheek, and Derek closed the gap between them, pulling Stiles close, starting his enjoyment today. The pancakes sat, abandoned next to two water bottles of various emptiness.
“I missed you,” Stiles whispered a moment later, the words pressed against Derek’s lips.
“I never stopped thinking of you,” Derek responded.
They weren’t “I love you”s, but they knew it anyway.