Archive of Our Own

The El is crowded, people pushing their way through to the few open spaces left in the car. Derek’s hand is wrapped tightly around the plastic loop hanging from the ceiling. It doesn’t do much to help steady him against the sway of the train, but he hasn’t fallen yet, so that’s something. His suitcase is a heavy weight against his leg. It holds everything of his life back in New York with his parents and sister, all the small memories that get tied up in shirts and shoelaces. The cars on I-90 are falling behind the train as they travel parallel to each other, racing towards downtown Chicago.

Derek’s supposed to get off at the Clinton stop and meet his uncle at Union Station. He’s got a ways to go, about fifteen more stops, and all he can think about is how different and yet how similar this all is to New York. The crush of bodies is familiar, almost comforting, but the sights and smells are all wrong. There’s no tang of salt in the air or stink of sewers. There’s a different flavor to the air here, a different texture, and it leaves him unsettled and reeling with the change.

“Oh, excuse me.”

He shifts, makes way for an older woman who squeezes in between Derek and another passenger. She reaches up and grabs a free loop, swaying with the car. When they pull into the next station, she bumps into Derek and starts flushing.

“I’m so sorry. It’s hard for me to keep my balance these days. Hips just aren’t what they used to be, I’m afraid.”

“It’s okay,” Derek murmurs. He shifts away, trying to give her more space. She slips more firmly in between the other passengers, then sighs.

“Oh, ballet. I used to dance, when I was a girl. Are you a dancer?” She’s looking at the magazine he’d grabbed at JFK and stuffed haphazardly into his carry-on on his way out. You can barely see the title, but BALLET is in full block letters on the front.

“I used to,” he says, then stuffs the magazine further into the bag.

“That’s a shame,” she says, smiling. “You look like you’d be a wonderful partner.”

“Yeah.” He feels himself flushing and turns away. “Not anymore.”

---

“Do you have a theme?”

The man asking, one of the judges from Juilliard, has long, greasy hair and thick glasses with dark frames. He’s peering over the top of them, eyebrows raised, and looking at Derek like he’s something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

Derek does not, in fact, have a theme.

“It’s... uh. It’s self-explanatory,” he mumbles, then signals to the faceless tech in the balcony to start his music.

It’s something fast-paced and modern, and even though he’s practiced the routine a thousand times, it still takes him a second to fall into the familiar rhythm. He’s choreographed some complicated footwork into the dance, quick flashes of ankle and toe that take extreme concentration for him to match it to the beat. Something skips, either in the music or in his body, and he stumbles, falling to his knees as he loses his balance. He can feel it race up through his legs, feels the bruises form and heal in the few moments between the fall and when he pushes himself up.

“I can-”

“I think we’ve seen enough, Mr. Hale.” It’s the greasy-haired judge again, and the condescension in his voice is thick enough to choke on.

If Mom were here, Derek thinks as he walks off stage, body numb, I could’ve done it fine. I can always do it fine when Mom’s watching.

Of course, that’s when a women comes rushing towards him, face pale and hands shaking, and tells him the worst news of his life.

---

Peter is his father’s brother, something of a family outcast, but his only option now. Laura can’t afford to house both of them, not on the meager amount she makes waiting tables, and Peter is willing to welcome his only nephew with open arms.

The welcome leaves a lot to be desired.

Peter meets him in the lobby of Union Station, then ushers him to another El stop, where they start hurtling towards his apartment. Their conversation is stilted and stops after a few minutes, trickling into that uncomfortable space between near strangers who really should know each other better. Derek felt more comfortable with the old woman on the Blue Line than with his own uncle, and that makes him feel worse. He folds in on himself, playing with the lint in his coat pocket and avoiding eye contact.

The steps leading up to Peter’s apartment are broken and painted with gang signs that Derek doesn’t recognize. He can smell other werewolves in the neighborhood, though, and recognizes the signs of packs vying for territory. He gets side-eyed by a few people in the main hallway of the building, but he shrugs off their glances, keeping his back straight and showing no signs of submission. He may not be an alpha, but he knows his own strength. Dance has left him limber and whipcord lean, and he learned how to throw a punch at an early age. He can handle himself, if he needs to.

Hopefully, he won’t.

The paint is peeling on the door to the apartment, and there are suspicious gouges in the wood around the deadbolt. Still, Peter seems unconcerned as he turns the key and pushes his way in.

Derek looks around Peter’s apartment with something close to horror. It’s small and dank, the walls falling apart to show the studs and wiring behind them. There’s a radiator clanking in the corner but doing little to combat the cold seeping in through the windows. There’s a line of El track just outside, and he can see the blur of faces as the train passes by the window. He can smell rot and rodents from the kitchen, and vows to get it cleaned as soon as he’s unpacked. The couch where he’s supposed to sleep is old, stained, and smells like corn chips and stale beer. He desperately hopes that Peter has an extra set of sheets he can use, so he’s at least sleeping on something relatively clean, or that the building has washing machines he can use.

He thinks back to his big apartment in New York, to the wide windows and bright paint, to his sister’s laughter in the kitchen. To his parents cuddling on the couch after long days at work. To the clean smell of home and pack.

Then the El goes screaming past again, and he’s shaken out of it, brought back to the startling reality of his life now.

He’s the only person to blame.

---

His first day at school is a shock to Derek’s system. His old school had been a fairly even mix of human and werewolves, and the racial tensions that seem to permeate the rest of the United States were almost nonexistent. He realizes as soon as he steps on campus, though, that he’s one of the very few weres at the school. The air is thick with the smell of humanity, and he struggles to breathe through it.

He’s awkward and silent through most of his classes, keeping his head down so his eyes won’t flash and draw attention to himself. There are a few people who try to pick on him, but he ignores them, brushes them off and keeps walking.

Things don’t get interesting until AP history class, where he meets Stiles.

The kid is all wild arms and legs, ungainly and uncoordinated. He stumbles in late, flopping into his seat with a careless grin towards the frowning teacher. His hair is just a little grown out, like a buzz cut that’s been left too long between trims. It spills over his forehead just enough to entice fingers, a tease of soft brown silk. His eyes are bright, almost golden, and they light up throughout the lesson.

It’s when the teacher opens things up for discussion that it really gets good.

“So, what kind of impact do you think the Nuremberg Trials have left on international law?” She asks, leaning her hip against the desk and looking out at the class. Stiles is sitting up straight, looking determined.

“They set up a precedent to prosecute war criminals on the international level. The International Criminal Court wouldn’t exist without Nuremberg.”

Derek scoffs, then flips to the next page in his textbook.

“You have something to add?” Stiles says, leaning sideways in his desk to face Derek.

“The Nuremberg Trials didn’t have a solid precedent when they were instituted, and the Tokyo Trials were a joke. If you want to use them as the precedent for modern international criminal law, that’s fine, but it’s anything from a perfect precedent.”

It basically devolves from there, with Stiles and Derek discussing (it’s really arguing, Derek won’t pretend it’s anything else) the various pros and cons of the Trials for the rest of the class. When the bell goes off, he jumps, completely focused on Stiles’ bright eyes and the excited blush that’s spreading across his cheeks.

Derek leaves class entirely too keyed up, his pulse racing. He wants to stomp after Stiles, who’s walking in the wrong direction from Derek’s next class, and keep talking. He’s fascinated and furious, and it’s driving him nuts. He can feel his wolf pacing, can feel its hackles rise as Stiles walks further and further away.

He tosses his backpack onto the ground in front of his locker without paying much attention to it, still too focused on the last fifteen minutes as he grabs the things he needs for his afternoon classes. It’s the only reason he doesn’t notice someone bending down and grabbing his bag from the floor. He slams his locker shut, then goes to grab his bag. The floor is empty by his feet, and he stands up, looking around frantically.

A guy is standing on his other side, bag hanging negligently from his hand. He’s shorter than Derek, hair dark brown and curly. His jawline is slightly uneven, and he’s smirking.

“Gotta be careful, dude. Your shit’ll get stolen if you keep it up.”

Derek flashes his fangs, but the guy just laughs.

“I’m Scott,” he says, handing the bag back to Derek. “Don’t leave your bag on the ground.”

And then he’s walking down the hallway, same direction as Stiles. The bell rings, and Derek has to run to his next class. He’s out of breath through the first few minutes of chemistry, Mr. Harris glaring at him through the whole hour.

---

The cafeteria is crowded, all of the tables filled with the usual cliques. There’s cheerleaders, goths, geeks and nerds, jocks and preps. Derek sees one or two other weres sprinkled throughout, fitting in with whatever group they’re sitting with, but there’s no group that he feels particularly comfortable approaching. He’s adrift, uncertain of where he should go, until he sees that kid, Scott, sitting at a table, a single seat open.

He weaves his way through the crowd, lunch tray like a shield, and squeezes his way in. Scott looks up at him, confused for a second, and his face bursts into a bright smile.

“Hey, man. Make yourself comfortable.”

Derek grunts, then puts his tray down and sits. Scott turns back to his friends, talking animatedly about the lacrosse season and first line, and it all goes over Derek’s head. Still, he enjoys the sound of friendly voices, even if they’re unfamiliar. He’s about halfway through his lunch when Scott nudges his foot under the table.

“So what’s your story, huh? New kid and everything, I’m sure there’s something going on there.”

Derek shrugs.

“Moved here from New York. Living with my uncle.”

“Where’re your folks?”

“Dead.”

There’s a long, awkward pause at the table before Scott coughs.

“Um, so... This is Isaac,” he says, pointing to the curly haired guy sitting across from him. “And Erica and Boyd. That’s Jackson at the end. He’s part of our group, but he usually hangs out with his girlfriend, Lydia.”

The blond girl across from Derek flashes him a big grin and a quick peek at her cleavage, and the large black guy sitting next to her nods. There’s a constipated looking guy at the end of the table who waves sarcastically when Scott yells at him.

“Normally, Allison’s with us, too, but she’s out today, something about family being in town.” Scott turns back to Derek and nudges his foot again. “And you are?”

“Ah, Derek. Derek Hale.”

“Well, Derek Hale,” Scott says, grinning, “welcome to Beacon Hills High.”

---

Derek settles into the routine of high school pretty quickly. Scott shows him the ropes, gets him used to navigating Beacon Hills High quickly, so that he’s not always rushing from class to class. Scott is also fine with Derek being a were, just seems to take it in stride when Derek misses class for a couple days every month, and brings Derek whatever work he’s missed.

It’s strange, but it’s nice at the same time. It’s not perfect, not by a long shot. A lot of the other students give him a wide berth, their fear palpable in the way they shy away from Derek as he walks down the halls. Others see him as a challenge, and he’s gotten into a few fights and avoided even more.

All in all, though, Beacon Hills High feels like a good fit for him, a good place to be.

It’s taking longer to adjust living with Peter. His uncle is almost never at the apartment, always out playing gigs or playing women. Derek had come home early once, school letting out a period early for in-school teacher training, and had found Peter having sex with some woman on Derek’s couch.

It had not been pretty, even though Peter insisted that he was going to change the sheets afterwards, honest.

Even his grief gets easier to handle. Long phone calls to Laura in New York and the constant stream of work from school (Harris, the fucking sadist; if Derek has to balance one more fucking equation, shit is going down) gives Derek something to lose himself in. He doesn’t even miss ballet.

Not all the time, at least.

Through it all, throwing all of Derek’s hard-won peace off-balance, is Stiles. The guy is suddenly everywhere. Derek’s bumping into him in the hallways, finding him hanging around the lunch table. He’s even moved desks so he’s closer to Derek. He kicks Derek’s desk during the few classes they have together. He’s tried to pass notes a couple of times, but Derek studiously ignores him.

Scott thinks it’s hysterical.

“Dude, just talk to him,” he says one day at lunch. “Stiles is awesome if you get to know him.”

Derek groans and lays his head on the lunch table.

“He’s an asshole. He keeps getting me into trouble, especially in history. I have had detention every day this week because of him.”

Scott keeps laughing.

“Oh, man. You guys just need to hang out, seriously. Hey, we’re all going to Mosaiq this Friday, you wanna come? It’s a dance club, nothing serious. I even have a fake that could work for you. Jackson got it for me, but I can’t pass as twenty-four.” Scott gives Derek a considering look.

“You, though. Definitely.”

Derek tilts his head to the side so he’s looking at Scott. There’s a gleam of mischief in his eyes, and, against his will, Derek starts to smile back.

“Friday, huh?”

---

Derek is dressed for the club and ready to go almost an hour before he’s supposed to meet Scott. He hasn’t been out, not even for dinner or a movie with Peter, since he got to Chicago, and he’s feeling pretty out of his element. He’s thrown on his tightest pair of jeans and a grey-green dress shirt that Laura always said made his eyes look brighter. He’s got everything buttoned up and tucked in, isn’t sure if it’s a good idea, but also unsure if he should just undo the top button or all of them or...

He really wishes Laura were in Chicago instead of 800 miles away.

He leaves early, jumps on the bus to Scott’s apartment. It’s still cold, winter keeping an icy grip on Chicago even though it’s nearly March and should be warming up. Thankfully, the snow has stopped, and the sidewalks are clear. His face is numb and his hands are getting there when he gets to Scott’s apartment.

It’s a small walk up with a wide bay window in the front. Scott pulls him into a one-armed hug when he lets Derek in, then cheerfully introduces him to his mom.

“Melissa,” she says, smiling. Derek can see where Scott gets it from. “Mrs. McCall is my mother-in-law.”

He nods, blushing, and she hustles him further in while he and Scott wait for the rest of the group.

Scott gives him a quick up-and-down, then frowns.

“You look like you’re going to a funeral, Derek.”

Derek looks down at his outfit, then sighs.

“I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Scott grins wide, then cracks his knuckles.

“That’s alright, I’ve got you.”

He does something with Derek’s hair, running “hair wax” through it until it’s spiked and styled. It’s a vast improvement over the unkempt look Derek had been sporting, like bed head but on purpose. Scott also has him unbutton the whole shirt and roll up the sleeves, then untucks his undershirt. It’s all minor changes, but when Derek looks in the mirror hanging in the McCall’s front hall, he’s impressed.

He looks good, older. Kind of hot, if he has to be honest.

Scott boasts about it the whole walk to the club, Jackson and Stiles having shown up about ten minutes after Derek. Jackson gives him a wide berth, and Derek thinks he hears Jackson mumble something about weres under his breath, but when Derek looks up, Jackson’s chatting with Scott and laughing.

Stiles, of course, makes it his mission to annoy Derek the whole way there.

“You sure you can handle this, wolfboy? You even been to a club before?”

“Once or twice, back in New York.”

“Can you even dance?” Stiles says, laughing. He does a quick step move, and suddenly his gangly arms and legs are fluid and graceful. Derek’s kind of amazed to see anything but fumbles from Stiles, and he trips slightly.

“Oh, yeah. This is gonna be great.” Stiles laughs, then starts grapevining down the street.

“I can dance circles around you, asshole.” Derek says, frowning at his sudden awkwardness. He hasn’t felt uncomfortable in his body since puberty. Stiles starts six-stepping down the street, drops to the ground to do a quick spin, then launches back up, rocking back on his heels with a cocky grin.

Derek cannot get over how smooth Stiles’ movements are, how controlled he is with each step. It’s the complete opposite of what Derek’s used to seeing with Stiles, and Derek can feel his pulse start to kick up.

The rest of the walk to the club is relatively quiet, Stiles finally settling into a quiet pace next to Derek. The bouncer at the door looks them over, checks Stiles’ ID twice, then waves them in.

It’s extremely loud inside. Derek’s ears start hurting almost immediately, then Scott nudges him and stuffs a pair of bright orange ear plugs into his hand.

“For your super-hearing!” He shouts, pointing to his own ears. “Should help with the ringing!”

Derek nods his thanks, then stuffs the plugs into his ears. The noise level is suddenly manageable, and Derek’s able to relax a bit. It’s still crowded and a little too warm. It smells like stale sweat, cigarette smoke, and spilled drinks.

The music, though, more than makes up for it. Derek doesn’t recognize the name of the DJ, but he’s playing a wide range; pop, hip-hop, some dubstep mixed in that sets the dance floor screaming. He starts swaying, body pulled by muscle memory to the simple rhythm of four on the floor. He quickly loses sight of Scott and Jackson as they push their way towards a group of girls sitting at a small table. Judging by how fast everyone starts kissing, Derek thinks they might be the mysterious Allison and Lydia the two guys can’t stop talking about.

He feels a little lost, so he makes his way to the bar. He’s knows he can’t get drunk, but it gives him something to do before figuring out the next step. The crowd gets thicker the closer he gets to the bar. It’s mainly women wearing way less clothing that he thinks they should be, considering the weather (tank tops and short skirts are perfectly okay in his book, but it’s thirty degrees outside; how were they not freezing on the walk over?) and a few guys trying to hit on them. It takes Derek a while to shoulder his way through, but he eventually finds a small space at the bar. He leans over, nods at the bartender when he makes eye contact, then goes back to waiting.

He feels a pull on his arm and turns, frowning. It’s just Stiles, though, doing something obscene to a straw poking out of a cup that smells suspiciously of rum.

“You know what you’re getting?” He shouts, leaning in close enough for Derek to hear him over the roar.

“A beer, probably. I don’t know.”

The bartender walks by, nods at Derek again, then heads down to the other end of the counter.

“So what kind of beer?” Stiles asks.

“What?”

“What kind of beer? What do you drink?”

“Whatever’s available. I don’t really care.” Derek scowls, leaning over the bar again to try and wave the bartender back his way.

“It should be the BEST beer,” Stiles says, grinning. “Don’t waste your time on anything but the best.”

Derek frowns, then looks back at the bartender who is at the other end of the bar (again? really?) and sighs.

“C’mon, you’re supposed to be dancing circles around me. Let’s go.”

Stiles grabs his hand and drags Derek onto the dance floor.

They push their way past people bumping and grinding against each other, Stiles weaving his way through gaps that Derek can barely see before they’ve moved on. The lights keep flashing on and off in red and blue and green, and there’s a laser machine somewhere nearby that keeps blinding him. Derek is sure his eyes are reflecting the light because people start to give him and Stiles a bit more space. Derek’s already starting to sweat from the uncomfortable press of bodies, but Stiles just looks excited.

“C’mon, sourwolf. Let’s see what you’ve got.” Stiles stands still in the middle of the dancing mass around them, the straw of his drink tucked between his lips, free hand cradling his elbow, and gives Derek an appraising look. When he doesn’t do anything, Stiles makes a shooing motion.

“I’m waiting,” he says, smiling around the straw.

Derek frowns, unsure of what to do. The people around him are just bouncing to the music, so he follows their lead and starts moving slowly, shifting his weight in a simple two-step. It makes Stiles’ eyes light up, and his smile grows wider.

“That’s it?” He says, laughing. “C’mon, man.” He takes a loud final suck from the straw, empties the cup, and tosses it to the ground.

Stiles steps right into Derek’s space, puts his hands on Derek’s hips. Stiles’ fingers are hot through the denim of Derek’s jeans, and he feels an unwanted rush of heat streak through his body. Stiles is oblivious, just moving Derek until his stance is slightly wider.

“You’ve got to get your whole body loose. You’re too stiff. We’ll get that stick out of your ass by the end of tonight, promise.”

Stiles starts to dance, all sudden grace and fluidity, and moves Derek with him. Stiles steps in closer until their jeans are rubbing against each other, all while swaying to the beat. Stiles lets his hands fall from Derek’s hips, and Derek tries to not feel the loss as anything more than physical. Stiles turns so his back is facing Derek, then starts dancing up against him. It’s all hips and ass, and Derek is painfully hard in .03 seconds. He steps back, tries to adjust himself so Stiles won’t notice, but Stiles just follows, pressing against Derek so that they’re touching from shoulders to hips. Stiles lets his head tilt back until it’s resting on Derek’s shoulder, and he’s got the biggest shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

Derek frowns and tries to step back again, but Stiles wraps an arm around Derek’s neck and starts using him like a pole. Those long, infuriating arms wrap around Derek, pull him close, while Stiles grinds his ass into Derek’s dick. Derek’s almost about to shove the little shit away when Stiles’ mouth falls open, and he moans.

Anyone else would’ve missed it. Derek almost does, between the ear plugs and the music. But he catches it, just enough to recognize the sound for what it is, and then he’s pulling Stiles in by his hips and grinding back.

“You’re a quick study,” Stiles says, breathless.

Derek leans in, lets his lips just brush the curve of Stiles’ ear.

“I’ve got a good teacher.”

---

He and Stiles end up making out in the dark corridor leading to the bathroom. It’s too hot and Derek can smell sweat and vomit in the air, but he doesn’t care because Stiles is biting at Derek’s lips and Stiles is hard against Derek’s thigh, and it’s so damn good.

Jackson and Scott have the decency to not say anything, even though Stiles and Derek have matching hickeys and beard burn. They don’t hold hands on the walk back to Scott’s or anything, but when Stiles leans in so his shoulder brushes Derek, Derek leans back.

Suddenly, Stiles’ annoying behavior in class changes to an entirely different kind of frustration. Instead of kicking his desk, Stiles runs his shoe up the back of Derek’s leg. He leans in and whispers indecent things about Derek’s body. He passes notes that make Derek warm up to his ears, blushing as he excuses himself from class to rein in his arousal.

Then, there are the dance lessons. They find a small studio near the school that lets them use the space in between classes. Stiles makes it his goal to get Derek to loosen up, to understand that dance isn’t all about perfect posture and delicate footwork (though Derek trips over a couple of the complex patterns Stiles teaches him, while Stiles seems to flow through them like water, effortless and beautiful). Derek does take the opportunity to show off, getting up on the toes of his sneakers to carefully move across the floor in slow, gliding motions that have Stiles looking at him with something like reverence. It changes to pure lust when Derek quickly flows into a rond de jambe attitude, his leg curved high into the air while he’s en pointe, his entire body a careful study of balance and grace.

“Damn,” Stiles sighs as Derek lowers his leg carefully and spins out into a quick flurry of en pointe steps. He lands gently, then walks over to the table in their practice room to grab a quick drink. He swallows loudly and turns back to Stiles, who’s still looking kind of lost and horny.

“What?”

“Where’d that come from?” Stiles asks, walking towards Derek until he’s resting his hands on Derek’s hips and pulling him close. Derek shrugs.

“Ballet. Whatever, it’s not a big deal.”

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles laughs, then presses a kiss to Derek’s neck. “It’s totally a big deal. You looked gorgeous.”

Derek pulls back, embarrassed.

“It’s not a big deal, I don’t want to talk about it.” He grabs his coat, starts pulling it on and heading toward the door.

“Whoa, now,” Stiles steps in from of Derek, places a firm hand on his chest. “What’s going on?”

Derek stops, looks away from Stiles’ beseeching eyes.

“Just... That part of my life is over. I don’t do ballet, not any more.”

Stiles frowns, but doesn’t push, just lets his hand curve around the warm arch of Derek’s neck and pulls him close.

“Alright,” he whispers against Derek’s lips. “No more ballet.”

---

Life in Chicago settles into a familiar rhythm, comfortable and steady like four-four time. Derek wakes up, makes breakfast for himself and Peter, then goes to school. He spends most of his classes trying to ignore Stiles’ (extremely effective) attempts to rile him up. Derek pays him back during their passing periods, shoving Stiles up into the spaces between lockers to kiss him until he’s panting and glassy-eyed.

The few people who picked on him for being a were have virtually disappeared, but they still let Derek know in little ways that, as long as he doesn’t mess with them, they won’t mess with him. It’s an awkward, unspoken truce that flies over Scott and Stiles’ heads, but Derek lets it go. He’d rather have a few clueless friends than nothing.

Most nights, Derek stays in, quietly working on homework, surfing the internet, and texting with Scott and Stiles. On the weekends, though, they all head out to Mosaiq, meeting at Scott’s house like that first night. It’s sweaty and loud, and Stiles likes to grind up against Derek until he’s aching and leaning in to lick the sweat from Stiles’ skin.

Derek feels like he fits with the small group of friends he’s making. He gets along with Scott, who’s like a younger brother to him. They don’t share any classes, but they bump into each other in the hallways often enough that he and Derek are able to keep track of each other. Most of the time, Scott wants to talk about Allison or his hopes of getting into vet school. They’ll occasionally meet up after school at the library or Scott’s house to study or play video games. Derek doesn’t invite Scott over, still ashamed of Peter’s apartment and also slightly worried about bringing a human into a mainly were neighborhood. There hasn’t been any signs of outright violence against humans, but Derek hasn’t seen any humans in his neighborhood, not even passing through, and he doesn’t want to risk it.

Jackson and Derek, though. They’re like oil and water. Or something more ambivalent than that. Derek doesn’t have any specific issues with Jackson, can’t find anything about him that Derek actively dislikes, but Jackson is always standoffish and distant. He doesn’t say hi in the halls, doesn’t sit next to Derek at lunch. When they go to Mosaiq, he always walks behind Derek and Stiles, seems to keep a certain space between them. He always smells like distrust and aversion. Derek doesn’t think he’s done anything in particular to piss the guy off, but he respects Jackson’s place in Stiles and Scott’s lives enough to not make a big deal about it. Derek just keeps his distance, lets the guy stew in whatever the hell is bothering him, and goes on with life.

He also starts to get the hang of dancing hip hop. There’s still structure to it, still a certain technique to the dance, but it’s more free-flowing, more improvisation. He starts researching the dance form, spending hours on YouTube watching b-boys and krumpers, poppers and lockers. There’s a huge variety even in those forms, and Derek finds himself dancing around the apartment, trying to find the things that he likes and that work with his body.

At their practices, after about two months of general hip-hop moves (it’s mainly Stiles telling Derek to get that stick out of his ass, to slouch, to get loose, holy shit, c’mon, man, what’re you doing?), he has Stiles teach him how to break. Stiles laughs through most of Derek’s fumbling first attempts, Derek falling flat on his ass too many times to count. The first time he’s able to do a 6-step without falling over or kicking himself in the hand, Stiles is whooping and tackling him to the ground with an enthusiastic kiss that leaves Derek’s teeth hurting and the back of his head bruised.

It’s a good day.

---

Chicago is not New York. It’s not early morning cartoons with Laura and his dad. It’s not grocery shopping with his mom on Sundays at the local bodega. It’s not the smell of the Hudson or Central Park or running wild upstate on the full moons.

Chicago is laughing over terrible french fries. It’s the screech of the El as it clatters past the windows of the apartment. It’s sweat and hard work, bruises and scraped knees. It’s Stiles’ smile and laughter, Scott’s warmth and friendship.

It’s not New York, but it’s home.

---

It’s Stiles and Derek’s three month anniversary (four months, if you ask Stiles, who started counting the second he and Derek started arguing in history class) and they’re going on a date. A proper date, just the two of them with dress shirts and nice shoes and overpriced meals. Derek brings a bouquet of flowers with him when he picks up Stiles, who laughs and blushes, and then puts them in a vase on his kitchen table while Derek ducks into the bathroom. They take the El into downtown, snuggled close enough that they’re only using one-and-a-half seats, rather than the full bench.

They get some unhappy stares from the other passengers, especially an older woman whose sole goal in life is to set them on fire just by looking at them. Stiles catches her glare, then lets his hand trail up Derek’s thigh.

“What’re you doing?” Derek asks, glancing between the pale hand between his legs and the angry woman, who’s turning a violent shade of red.

“If she’s going to stare, I figured we’d give her a show.”

Derek rolls his eyes and just hangs on for the ride. Stiles runs his hand up and down the length of Derek’s thigh. He leans in close and breathes carefully against Derek’s neck. Stiles brushes a gentle kiss against Derek’s pulse, nothing more than a brief touch of lips against skin. It sends shivers down Derek’s spine, makes him sit up and into Stiles’ space. He leans in until his lips are almost touching Stiles’.

“Is she watching?” He asks, breathing it out more than saying it.

“Maybe. Do you care?” Stiles’ eyes are half lidded and focused on Derek’s lips.

“Not really.”

Derek closes the space between them, lets his tongue dart out and press between Stiles’ lips. Stiles groans, and his hand bites into Derek’s leg. Derek can feel his teeth elongate, can feel his wolf pacing and ready to claim. Derek lets out a soft growl, can feel Stiles shudder in response, can smell the rush of arousal that’s now streaming off of him. Derek turns into Stiles’ seat and crowds him until Stiles’ back is against the glass window of the car, his legs spread wide and around Derek’s hips. Derek grinds down until Stiles moans, head thrown back.

Derek pulls back, grins slightly, and watches as Stiles opens his eyes, bleary.

“Wait, come back. Why’re you stopping?” Stiles tries to pull him back in.

“Our stop is coming up,” Derek says, laughing. “And our viewing public has left.”

“What?” Stiles turns, eyes still foggy but clearing, and looks towards the empty seat.

“Damn,” he sighs, then sits up, pushing Derek back into his own seat. Stiles straightens his shirt, adjusts himself in his pants and then stands, rolling his shoulders and holding out his hand.

“C’mon, wolfboy. Let’s get this date on the road.”

Dinner is delicious and overpriced. Derek blushes and gives up when Stiles fights for the check, but he insists on paying for dessert afterwards. Even though it’s still chilly out, Stiles and Derek get gelato from a small Italian deli. Stiles has chocolate, Derek vanilla. Derek kisses stray tastes from Stiles’ lips, smiling and happier than he has been in a long time.

That is, until Stiles stops in front of the Chicago Theatre, holding two tickets.

“And here’s the show.”

Derek checks the marquee and blanches. The Joffrey Ballet is flashing before his eyes in large letters, and Derek can’t tell if he’s seeing spots or if it’s just the lights blinding him.

“Stiles, I thought we’d talked about this.”

“No,” Stiles says, grabbing Derek’s hand before he can pull away. “You told me that part of your life was done, but I see the way you dance. I see the way you feel when you’re moving, when you’re so into the music, you don’t even realize you’re not dancing hip-hop anymore, you’re dancing ballet, and I’m sorry, but I’m tired of watching you give up on that part of your life when it’s so clearly a part of who you are. So, we’re going to see the Joffrey Ballet, and you’re going to stuff it and enjoy yourself.”

Derek swallows and squeezes Stiles’ hand.

“Alright,” he says, trying not to frown. “Let’s go.”

Of course it’s beautiful. Stiles has gotten them tickets to see Swan Lake, and it’s absolutely amazing. The prima ballerina is all graceful limbs and delicate lines. Her partners are just as talented. Even the chorus is brilliant. Derek’s absorbed by the performance within minutes, and the hours pass by in a blur of delicate costumes and whirling limbs.

He catches Stiles looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He’s always got this soft smile on his face, this gentle expression that speaks of emotions that Derek’s not quite ready to acknowledge. Not yet, not when he’s still so raw from the loss of his family.

He feels like he’s in a haze when they leave, Stiles leading him mindlessly down the streets of Chicago until they’re on a small walkway along the edge of the Chicago River. There’s a water taxi station nearby, the office closed, the dock empty. It’s colder by the river, and it sends a shiver up Derek’s spine when the wind blows.

Stiles leans on the railing that lines the walkway, closes his eyes in the breeze.

“I’ve never been to a ballet before,” he says. “It wasn’t quite what I expected.”

“What’d you expect?” Derek asks, leaning his back against the railing. He crosses his arms against the cold.

“I don’t know, more fairy dust and glitter? It always seemed so... flimsy, in my mind, at least. But those dancers,” he shakes his head, looks up at Derek. “They were all muscle. It was all about strength and power, even when they were doing the tiptoe stuff. I sure as hell can’t do it.”

“En pointe,” Derek says, looking away.

“Whatever.” Stiles pauses, lets the silence fill the gaps that are suddenly appearing between them.

“I thought you’d like it,” he says, sighing.

“I did,” Derek says. He doesn’t know why he feels like screaming all of a sudden, but there’s this ache welling in his chest that he can’t fight down. It’s choking him, forcing its way out of his throat, clambering over tongue and teeth, past his lips before he knows how to stop it from escaping.

“I killed my parents.”

Stiles looks at him, shocked and clearly confused. Derek can smell it on him, can smell the disbelief and revulsion. It hurts. It digs claws into his heart and tears it to shreds. Derek can’t look at him.

“You what?” Stiles asks, standing up.

“I mean... I didn’t stab them or anything, but they died because of me. I...” He chokes back a sob, fights against tears, then starts pacing.

“I had an audition. With Juilliard.”

“That’s pretty big,” Stiles says, reaching out but stopping halfway, hesitant to touch in a way he never has been before.

“Yeah. I wanted them there, needed them to be there. They were running late, got hung up at work. My dad was driving, and he was speeding when a semi lost control, and... It’s my fault. They wouldn’t have been on that highway if it hadn’t been for me.”

Stiles’ hand is warm and solid on his arm. He tugs Derek until he’s looking into Stiles’ eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, except maybe the trucker’s. Is that... is that why you don’t dance ballet any more?”

Derek nods, then steps into Stiles arms, ducks his head into the space between his neck and shoulder.

“I just couldn’t anymore. I’d try, and I’d just remember hearing the news. They had to pull me out of the audition to tell me.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything, just pulls Derek tighter, lets his hand rest, comforting, on the back of Derek’s neck. They stand like that, wrapped in each other against the grief and the cold, for a long moment. When Stiles pulls away, he places his palms against Derek’s cheeks, makes him stare into warm brown eyes filled with compassion and something more, something like love.

“They’d want you to keep dancing, you know. You love it, I can see it every time we practice. And you’re getting good at hip-hop, way good. But I bet you’re fucking brilliant at ballet.”

Stiles kisses him gently, and Derek sighs into it.

“Do you still want Juilliard?” Stiles asks, the words brushing against Derek’s lips.

“Yes,” he says, able to speak the truth in his heart, but only because Derek knows Stiles will keep it safe.

“Then let’s get you into Juilliard.”

---

Practices after that take a sharp turn. Stiles is at a complete loss with the ballet terms and techniques, but he still watches Derek as he warms up on the portable barre or goes through his positions. Stiles offers encouragement, passes Derek a towel or water when he asks for it, and helps him to not lose his mind with the stress of it all.

“I used to practice for hours every day in New York,” Derek groans, lying on the floor after a particularly difficult session. “There’s no way I’m going to get through this.”

“When’re auditions again?”

“Six weeks,” Derek groans. “I’m so screwed.”

“C’mon, get up.” Stiles pulls Derek to his feet, laughing. “You’re going to be fine, you drama queen. Now, c’mon. Do that... spin-y thing with the jumping bit.”

It takes time, his muscles unfamiliar with the rigidity of ballet after spending months slouching and loosening up, but he finds the rhythm of it again, gets his legs and arms back into graceful lines and easy flow. It takes time, but when it comes back, when his body falls back into years of training and practice, when everything just clicks, it’s just like Stiles said; fucking brilliant.

---

Living with Peter has gotten easier since Derek caught him on the couch. They aren’t close, Derek doesn’t think they ever will be, but they’re cordial. Peter does the dishes. Derek folds the laundry. They pass by each other easily, settle into a routine of careful distance. It works for Derek, though he still misses the feeling of pack he had back in New York.

He calls Laura at least once a week, lets her know about Stiles and the Juilliard audition. She’s excited, encouraging. If he gets into the program, he’ll be moving back to New York. He acts happy about it when he’s on the phone with her, but after hanging up, the thought of moving sticks with him and throws him off-center.

When things go wrong, it comes out of absolutely nowhere. Or, at least, it’s more violent than he had ever expected. Derek’s in the bathroom between periods, washing his hands and getting ready to go to lunch. He’s thinking about Juilliard, about what moving to New York would mean for him and Stiles, about him and Stiles and what that means, exactly, when someone’s shoving him hard into the sink. He feels his claws extend, lets a growl out before spinning free and crouching, ready to attack.

It’s Jackson.

“This is all you are,” he sneers, looking at Derek with disdain and hatred.

“What?” He growls, his voice rough with the change.

“You’re a fucking animal. You’re made to destroy, to kill. You can’t love someone, not really. Not a human. And if you cared about Stiles at all, you’d leave him the fuck alone. He deserves better than some fucking wolf. He doesn’t deserve to have his heart broken over you.”

Derek’s stunned. He feels the shift slide away, feels the floor beneath his fingertips when his claws retract.

“What’re you talking about?” He asks, confused. He stands, tries to find some sort of balance. “I thought…”

“What? That we’re friends?” Jackson spits the word out. “You’re just some loser were who eats lunch with us because there’s no one else to take pity on you. Even your own kind doesn’t want to be around you.”

Jackson gets up in his face, stinking of fear and hatred.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave Stiles alone. There’s nothing there for you, Hale. You got me?”

Derek nods, just lets Jackson walk out. The sink is still running, so Derek turns it off, watches the water slip down the drain. He’s not going to let it get to him. He’s heard it all before, has been told too many times that he’s a wild animal, that he’s worthless, that he needs to be put down. He’s never hurt anyone, never would, but that doesn’t stop people from saying or thinking it.

He sits down in chemistry, takes out his notes and textbook. He’s just going to let it go, let it flow over him until it’s nothing more than hot air.

It sticks with him the rest of the day and into the night.

He dreams of running wild in the woods, of the taste of blood in his mouth. His prey has a pair of familiar golden brown eyes, and Derek wakes up screaming.

---

It all comes to a head a few weeks later, just a couple of days before his big audition with Juilliard. Stiles is helping him with his solo piece, trying to get Derek to feel more comfortable with the breaking he’s incorporated into it. Derek trips up again and starts cussing.

“Hey, let’s take a breather, okay?” Stiles tosses him a towel and his water bottle. “You’ve got time to figure it out, it’s alright.”

“No, I don’t have fucking time,” Derek shouts. He stomps across to the other side of the rehearsal space, leans his head against the floor-to-ceiling mirror, and keeps cussing under his breath.

Stiles walks up behind Derek, places a hand on his shoulder. Derek shrugs it off and steps away.

“What’s your problem?” Stiles asks, frustration suddenly heavy in his voice.

“Nothing’s my problem. You’re my problem. Jesus, just leave me alone for one fucking second.”

Stiles is silent, looking at Derek with hurt and confusion written clear as day on his face.

“I thought I was helping you. Don’t you want this?” He takes a step towards Derek, stops.

“Yes, I want it. I just... I can’t handle you hovering and nitpicking. God, I don’t even know why you’re fucking here.” Derek throws the towel down, shuts off the music. The practice space is achingly quiet now, just the soft sounds of traffic flowing by outside. He can hear Stiles breathing, can hear it catch and hang in his chest on each exhale.

“You know damn well why I’m here, and it’s nothing to do with hip-hop. Why’re you being such an ass?”

Derek doesn’t know why, but god, that pisses him off, makes him furious.

“That’s who I am, Stiles. I’m an asshole. I’m the Big Bad Wolf, and I don’t need Little Red Riding Hood bugging the hell out of me when I need to focus.” He can feel the shift coming, can feel the claws aching to grow.

“Whoa, slow your roll, hotshot. What in the hell are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, and I don’t need your fucking pity, alright? I get it. A wolf without a pack, thought you’d show him a little bit of kindness and get a good lay out of it. That’s fucking fine, whatever. You just didn’t need to send your lackey to tell me. You could’ve just dumped me to my face.” It comes out in one big rush, pushed past fangs that Derek hardly notices.

“Derek, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. You know I don’t give two shits about you being a were.” Stiles smells like heartache, and Derek doesn’t want to care about it, doesn’t want to let it suck the fight right out of him, but it does. He deflates, feels his fangs retract.

“Yeah, well, you should. I don’t... I don’t need this right now. I... We should take a break.” He can’t look at Stiles, just turns his back and clenches his fists until his nails (human nails, not claws) are biting into his palms. The floor blurs, but Derek blinks the tears away.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I guess I am.”

“Shit. I... Just so you know, I wouldn’t care if you had two heads and liked to wear women’s underwear, or wanted me to call you Cynthia, or thought the sun revolved around the earth. I definitely don’t give a shit that you’re a werewolf and I’m not... I lo- Whatever. If it makes you fucking happy, I’m gone.”

The door’s loud when it slams shut, but Derek can’t hear it over the rushing of the blood in his ears or the beat of his breaking heart.

And just like always, he’s the only one to blame.

---

Scott avoids him for awhile, doesn’t sit with him at lunch or talk to him in the halls. Derek takes it in stride, just keeps his head down and doesn’t try. School sucks. Stiles starts sitting on the other side of the room. He avoids Derek’s eyes and leaves faster than Derek can even get his things packed away into his bag.

Derek is absolutely miserable, and there’s nothing to be done about it.

He practices, keeps dancing. If anything, he’s doing more now. He’s got all of this free time, and he pours himself into getting ready for the audition. He dances until he’s soaked in sweat, until he’s shaking, until his feet bleed.

He’s just getting home from practice, buried in his thoughts with his head down and his gym bag a heavy weight on his shoulder. His technique is finally getting there. He’s finally getting all of the steps right, each beat perfectly in sync with his body. It feels all wrong, though. Just anger when it’s not supposed to be angry.

Auditions are tomorrow.

He’s trying to figure out what he can do to fix it when he bumps into someone heading down the stairs.

“Hey, watch where you-”

It’s Scott.

“You and I need to talk, asshole.”

“I... There’s nothing to say.” Derek pushes past him, starts heading towards the relative safety of the apartment. Scott grabs him, pulls him to a stop.

“Oh, I think there’s plenty that needs to be said. C’mon.”

Scott gives him a little push up the stairs, then trails after him. They reach the apartment door, all scarred and broken, and Derek unlocks it and steps inside. Peter’s in the kitchen, but quickly excuses himself after seeing Scott and the expression on Derek’s face.

Derek throws his gym bag down on the floor, keeps his back to Scott.

“Say what you need to say, but it’s not changing my mind about things.” He really can’t do this right now.

“He’s fucking miserable over you, you dick. He’s been over at my house four times this week, and it’s not even Wednesday. I don’t know what crawled up your butt and died, but you need to get it removed, stat, or you’re going to lose him forever.”

Derek is so twisted up, so fucking sad and hurt when he has no right to be. He turns to face Scott, to try and get him to understand, so Derek’s not the only one holding onto these feelings anymore.

“Jackson crawled up my butt. And he just said what everyone else was already thinking. There’s no way that Stiles and I... that we could be anything more than whatever the fuck we were. It was just a matter of time. I don’t...”

“Dude. What the fuck did Jackson say?” Scott steps forward, frowning.

“Just that... that I was only going to hurt Stiles in the end, that I’m not good enough for him.”

“Derek, that’s... that’s not true.”

Scott’s hand is warm on Derek’s shoulder, comforting. Derek sags, feels like his whole body is on the edge of collapse. He knows he’s been an idiot, but somehow, hearing it from Scott makes it more real. He pulls a chair out from the kitchen table and sits in it. His head is a heavy weight in his hands.

“Looks like it is.”

Scott pulls out another chair, sits down with him.

“C’mon. We’re gonna fix this.”

Derek groans.

“I don’t know that I can, Scott. I was awful. I called him Little Red Riding Hood, for fuck’s sake. I... He probably hates me now.”

Scott laughs a little. His mouth is crooked at the corner when Derek looks up.

“He loves you, idiot. Like, stupid in love with you. And judging by how miserable you look right now? I think it’s mutual.”

Derek sighs and leans back in his chair.

“I really don’t know how to fix this, man.”

Scott’s smile widens.

“We’ll think of something.”

---

He sees Scott out about an hour later. Scott tells Derek to leave it all to him, and Derek nods, uncertain how he’d handle it anyway. He’s made a fucking mess of things, and he’s not great at fixing small messes, much less huge ones like this. He shuts the door behind Scott quietly, then rests his head against it.

“Hey,” Peter says, stepping out from his bedroom.

“Hey,” Derek says, standing up and heading back into the kitchen. “What do you want for dinner?”

“We can order in,” Peter says, shifting awkwardly. “I know we don’t know each other that well, and I know I haven’t really done much to change that over the last couple of months. But I just want you to know that, if you need something, you can always trust me. We’re family.”

Derek nods.

“Thanks. I... just thanks.”

“You’ve got that audition tomorrow, right? I don’t know if it’d mean much, but if you want me to come...”

“Yes,” Derek says, the word rushing out of him. “Yes, please. I... It would mean a lot to me.”

Peter smiles, then leans against the door frame of the kitchen.

“So, Chinese or pizza?”

---

Derek shows up to the auditions with so many butterflies in his stomach, he’s considering making a charitable donation to the Field Museum’s entomology department. Peter tries to comfort him, but the woman at the front door checking names doesn’t let him in, and it just makes Derek feel worse.

He stretches, the hallway filled with other silent dancers. One by one, they go into the ballet technique class. Derek can tell pretty quickly that he’s one of the more advanced dancers. Most of the other people in the room follow the instructor’s cues without much issue. A few dancers are asked to leave. Derek doesn’t, can’t, watch.

He makes it through to the next round of callbacks, handles the modern class fairly well. He’s stiff at the beginning, until he hears Stiles’ voice in his head telling him to loosen up. It hurts a little bit, but it helps. He’s able to follow along, flows through the steps and level changes without too much trouble.

The wait for callbacks for the solo performances seems to last forever. Derek knows he should eat something, but he doesn’t have much of an appetite. He sips half-heartedly at his water bottle, eyes on the space between his bare feet, when he hears his name called.

He steps out onto the stage, the panel of judges sitting at a small table in what’s usually an orchestra pit. It takes him a moment, but Derek recognizes the greasy haired asshole from his New York audition last year, and everything is suddenly ten times worse.

“Do you have a theme?”

It’s like tearing out stitches. It’s like salt in a wound you thought had healed. Derek’s back in the police station, Laura’s arm around him while he numbly listens to the officer. He didn’t cry, he remembers. Not then. Not yet.

“It’s about finding yourself,” he says, pushing the panic down. “And finding home.”

Derek almost forgets to hand his CD over, fumbles with the case when he passes it to the judges. It skips when the tech starts playing it, and Derek has to go digging through his bag for the backup. Thankfully, it works. The tech gets the CD ready, waits for Derek’s signal.

He takes a deep breath, lets his shoulders fall open and his body go limp. He imagines Stiles smiling at him from across the practice room, remembers stolen kisses against lockers. He thinks of the El rides, of Scott’s mom welcoming him inside. He breathes it all in, finds that calm center of himself that he’s been looking for for the past year, and nods.

The music opens with a choir singing in arpeggios, and Derek starts dancing. It’s all ballet, all technical grace and flow. He moves with the lyrics, bends deep with his leg raised high above him. The vocals drop for a moment, and Derek falls with them, landing in a pile on the ground. He rises up, his legs bent deep while his body trails up after. Then he’s throwing in the careful footwork he and Stiles spent hours, days working on. Each step is perfectly in time with the clapping in the music, and then Derek transitions into a running leap across the stage. He lands lightly on his feet, uses the momentum to roll forward and end up on his back. Then he’s switching into the straight-up breaking, six-steps and windmills, and he’s panting and sweating, but it’s there. It’s right.

It’s fucking brilliant.

The music fades, Derek finishing with a freeze that has him balanced on one arm, his whole body held awkwardly above himself. He lets his legs out, stands up, and bows.

“Thank you.”

The judges nod, make careful notes on the paper before them, and he leaves.

He knows he doesn’t have time to go anywhere, but he can’t be inside any longer. He steps out into the lobby, brushes past Peter when he asks how Derek did. As soon as his feet hit pavement (he’s still not wearing shoes, never a good idea in a big city, but he doesn’t care) he’s whooping with joy. He jumps, spins, and hugs himself tight. Peter comes rushing out, eyes wide and confused.

“What? Did you get it? Are you in?”

“No,” Derek says, laughing, “no, I don’t know yet. You should’ve seen me dance, though. Jesus Christ, it was... It was great.”

He’s smiling and laughing, and Peter starts to laugh with him. They hug, arms too tight and just right, and then pull apart, grinning for absolutely no reason.

“I don’t know, I’ve seen some pretty great dancing before.” It comes from over his shoulder, and Derek suddenly can’t breathe, all the air sucked out of the city.

“Stiles.”

Derek turns around, and there he is. Stiles is wearing a baggy plaid shirt over a graphic tee, jeans with a big tear in the knee, and dirty Chuck Taylors.

Derek doesn’t think he’s seen anything more beautiful in his life.

“Sounds like things went well,” Stiles says, his face split into a wide grin.

“What’re you doing here?” Derek takes a hesitant step forward, then keeps going when Stiles doesn’t move, just smiles.

“Scott stopped by, said you had something to tell me.”

“God, Stiles, I-”

“I was accepted at NYU. Got the letter this week. And you know what I thought when I first opened it?” He shifts his weight, takes a hand out of his pocket and reaches for Derek’s hand.

“I thought, ‘I can’t wait to tell Derek.’ Why would I think that?” He runs his thumb over Derek’s knuckles, slow and thoughtful. It burns up Derek’s arm, sets his pulse racing. He steps closer, lets Stiles pull him further in.

“I don-”

Stiles looks up and meets Derek’s eyes. There are smile wrinkles at the corners, the hints of crows feet to come.

“Whatever Jackson said, it doesn’t change the way I feel about you. And I feel an awful lot. Like, this? You could be the end of the road for me. And I’m not sure I’m ready to give that up. Not yet.” He steps in closer, until his feet are slipped into the spaces between Derek’s. Derek presses his face into the hollow of Stiles’ shoulder, the place he thinks of as his. Stiles’ fingers spread through Derek’s hair, petting him slowly.

“God, Stiles. I was such an ass, I don’t expect you to-”

“And that’s why I’m going to, you fuckwad. C’mere.”

Stiles pulls a little on Derek’s hair, brings his head up until he can lean in to press a kiss to Derek’s lips.

“I love you.” Derek whispers it against Stiles’ mouth, knows he’ll keep it safe.

“Duh.”