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Memories had never been harder to frame; perhaps those dotted lines of the hospital bill could’ve been a subtle sign…
Hang on a wall, a portrait of a softly painted woman comforted a lonely guy defeated on the cold floor, with kind yet lost eyes; her posture pleaded the room to woo for a boy’s deaf ears, with hopes of reaching the farthest end of a connection no longer tangible with a child she could no longer comfort, forced to face fingers turn pale while beholding the sight no absent mind of the afterlife could interfere with.
Legs crossed, hands piercing knee caps with trembling fingertips no control could withdraw; tears were lost in the past, he waited for something to shift the frozen body he got caged within, but nothing ever arrived in wished time; Stiles let the dying light blind his already sore vision, cutting away even more of the frame of his beloved mother above a high shelf.
Besides, wonders always came his way whenever that lost Mona Lisa smile came across his eyes; a ounce of understanding never came his way, no explanation excused the downwards pick her lips had, or the opaque absence of light staring at the world she was no longer in; she may have had a string of knowledge Stiles could use in that moment. Perhaps, she truly did behind that small mystery she took with herself…
Still, the room emphasized the storm of strangled hope in the boy’s heart: pale and blurred stripes of sunlight no longer warm on the solid floor, shadows so dark maybe there was someone hiding in there, with furniture scattered around him in an angry dance; it got out of him once home… Nothing saved him from the distant memory of his mother on the hospital’s roof.
House empty, father out and almost-lover nowhere to be found; Stiles was waiting for Derek to come see him, he was the only one who could understand. At least, the boy hoped so given their mutual aching hearts, because there was no hiding from the way eyes locked and smiles formed; maybe the man with burning eyes could lend him a reliable shoulder for his beaten body.
Even so, the paper tight in an iron fist was cutting through sensitive skin; maybe it would’ve all been better if he had never learned to read. It seemed a tragedy prophesied to happen twice, a prayer he skipped when he was nine; which might’ve been the reason behind all of it, especially if he needed an excuse to damn the great scheme of things.
But that sheet was black printed, clear as day in meaning and weight; Stiles was waiting for something to snap it out his hand, to shake away the silent stare draining the skin of his face; hopefully a hand rough, strong enough to awaken some sensation not so dreadful as the thin medical report soaked in numb tears.
However, waiting was an unbearable weight, something thin shoulders could hold just so long, shoulders he’d force to stick in place with nails and pins; that feeling of time passing in the waiting room never left ever since that painful night. She was supposed to go back home with them, to go back to their normal lives; he remembered the words as they flew out for no one to pick.
“Mom…” He called back then and even now. “I wanna go home…” Yet he was within those same walls…
Still, the door opened seconds later; maybe that forgotten prayer had been answered, although the man stopped on the doorframe, speechless in understanding of what he saw: a dear boy he had a peculiar dancing heart for was adorned by only a lost gaze, yet those eyes shifted so slowly towards him it seemed a forced and yearning movement all in one when Derek saw it.
Nothing got exchanged, a silent look was enough from and for both; the wolf sat quietly on the floor, religiously by the boy’s side, in a cemetery with only a single grave they were both gazing at; Claudia was a strong woman during her illness, as Derek had heard, and surely she was brave before she was too far gone.
He knew so through the boy’s scent, where he had picked up scenes over scenes of her any time a memory came up in the other’s empty mind to paint emotion with different colors; Derek had been there to use all those shades to portray fragments of Stiles’ mother, carefully shifting strokes from a grading of dark blue to one of icy white.
That until, the image of Claudia on the hospital bed seemed to be the most pressuring one, pictured with a white that just an antiseptic material could be, taking humanity away from that poor woman’s body; she died in her sleep for all he knew, but who she was had been long gone before. Derek wasn’t going to sit around letting things slip by though.
He would try, to the very least…
“Nothing will happen to you.”
He wished those words sounded hopeful despite the skipped beat Stiles’ heart made at them, perhaps he desired to be right just for once about a loved one’s well-being; which was why his vision fearfully fell on the boy’s altered features, analyzing how everything seemed bringing him deep into an abyss with unbreakable chains. He waited for him to speak, hoping he would.
But no answer came through.
Stiles just sat there silently, wishing for the weight to be bearable if he spoke nothing ill of it, while he kept his mourning quiet in a way he’d never been before; maybe he could forget it, perhaps something would disappear if one did not seek a word about it to be heard. He wondered if he could manage to do just that.
Still nothing stopped it from happening when the sheet split through his grip, softly laying on the floor with a feathered sound despite its obvious weight, allowing a cut of disbelief to surge through him; the wolf’s words got through him, easing his fingers to unclench ever so slightly.
Derek picked it up, masking the tremors of his hand.
It didn’t take much, reading the only line needed, for him to lay down on the floor, back pierced by the hardwood beneath it; no words escaped his dry lips, mind empty in a misery out of comprehension, yet the boy lay down with him an instant later, once again with an innate pull in his heart that commanded him to stick close to the other’s side.
They stayed there then, silently so, with breaths that could not be heard and disoriented minds jumping on clouds.
Even so, while laying with such uncaring fear, the ceiling was heavy on Stiles’ chest; a hammer so slow but constant, so agonizing and suffocating, it was out of reach in a way the sky could never be. Maybe it was the same feeling his mother ached with when she laid in the cold casket, staring with closed eyes at a ceiling of a church she could never see.
Yet, words awoke in Stiles moments later, out of the blue and out of his control, defined and pushed by a primal angst; “I’ll be fine.” He thought so with much will to fight something with no cure it was clear in his voice.
“I just need to finish a few projects for school and take my dad out and then we can,” he swallowed hard on a choked hope, “we can go to Deaton, see if he knows something that can help,” he wanted to believe that so profoundly even for a single minute, just to breathe some air that wouldn’t burn his lungs.
Distraction was good to his trepid sense, “we just need time to figure things out,” maybe he could be right as he desperately wished to be; words kept flowing out, hands surged to motion in articulated draws in the air, while Derek looked with a defiance stare from the corner of his vision at how the boy’s fingers shook all the time.
His body produced no movement though, simply awaited for a revelation or a plan, a task that could lead anywhere; Stiles needed to breathe another day, the wolf wanted him to remember how to do that for a very long time without being compromised by anything.
“We’ll be good?”
Derek turned to face him then, the sweet boy he had grown so fond of sounded so lighthearted, but nothing could escape the wolf; fear seemed insurmountable, however those soft amber eyes held such strength the other thought it could be found in no one else, so he said the easiest thing to say. The salt grain that made the castle fumble.
“We’ll get through this.”
The alpha believed it, the boy maybe a bit less; it was expected. Sometimes, hopes of others for his own well-being seemed so distant, something he could never achieve in the time frame he felt to have; running on borrowed time wasn’t the best feeling.
Stiles faced him back, with a softly shaking smile picking lips downwards, with eyes reflecting a pale blurred dot of sun on the floor; trying to be positive was a task so unexpected with those circumstances, yet he had been like this since she was gone; with dad, Scott, the pack, so where the difference came from?
And soon he knew when it slipped out his lips, “what if we don’t?”
Worries came afloat, maybe his mother was the example of what he’d have to face, perhaps he was being a fool to be a believer in something he had even had proof of, so tangible and rotten within; rarely he was wrong. Hands fell back by his sides, excitement for tomorrow gone, starting so intensively at the man who wanted to carry him home.
Still, the words were heavy but levitating in the space above them, weighting nothing if not the effort that took to bring them out; Derek simply stared back at him, hands together on his stomach, wondering if there was a chance, even the smallest he could take, that would ensure Stiles’ safety.
“We will.” It came so fast, so brief and strict. No argument seemed to be allowed about it and Stiles smiled fondly for a bit; could his wolf be so naive?
He laughed softly, with such ease at the sight of his unstoppable companion untangling a straight line; the boy was eager to know what the wolf might be meaning with such a great show of perseverance, perhaps a way down the stairs?
“How?”
It was reasonable, and Derek felt everything come back at him; his family and Kate, Erica and Boyd, Paige… He didn’t want to lose Stiles too; among the entire population of Earth, he’d rather walk on a deserted planet if it meant having him by his side, sewed to the hips with red thread.
“With whatever it takes.”
It was full of hope, the type Stiles could cling to if his own ran out of refills; he was already lacking it. He said nothing, the boy just scooped closer and lightly rested his side on the other’s body, head on chest listening to a heart that would beat for far longer than his; Derek let an arm fall on his waist, holding a person that could so easily drain through his fingers in the next few months.
After that, it didn’t take much for Stiles to place a hand on top his chest, also feeling the heartbeat he wished could pump for him too after everything would be gone; Derek took his hand in his, realizing the skin of his boy was cold, scooping him closer with such strength that the meaning within it was unmistakable.
So, silence set between them, they both let it come and Stiles slightly lost himself in it, swimming through the overwhelming sensation of knowing everything and nothing at the same time; therefore damning that sheet of paper came easily, maybe Derek even smelled it on him, which made him uncaring of explaining or hiding it; he kept quiet and let the other pick the information he wanted, if he wanted.
However, Derek was not of the same opinion as he spoke with such a firm tone Stiles thought it might be an order coming from the alpha and not the man he knew he’d lose with time; it was a small sentence the boy had deeply contrasting feelings about.
“I’ll give you the bite.”
It seemed a high deed, out of the old tales his mom used to whisper for him at night, perhaps it came from there; but Stiles was not so on board with it.
His body sat almost as a reflex to the last word, eyes back on the portray, admitting to himself he couldn’t do one thing nor the other; no hope nor do-over could be something manageable for him and the rationality his mind was so firm on keeping; he didn’t want to become like his dear mother, but neither like Scott.
His eyes then fell back on the wolf for a brief moment, looking behind himself with a sore twist of neck, understanding an outer view might be more in tune with a will to fight if the battlefield was both so distant and close at the same time; he couldn’t yet stop the answer from being as cold as it sounded when he turned back to admire his mother.
“No.” Flat and gray, a monochrome expression Derek never heard came out his mouth; why Stiles out of all creatures seemed to have become the smallest, the wolf could never understand; he was the most cheerful of guys, such a primal urge of fighting and the reeking smell of defeat didn’t suit him well.
Another reflex came, this time from Derek; he sat with Stiles, surging in the same motion to take his arm as to stop him from walking off a cliff, brows furrowed in disbelief, did the boy not want to survive the illness that killed his mother so many years before? He kept his gaze on him as he tried to understand what was unveiling in the other’s mind.
“What?” Derek faked not to hear, in hope that maybe Stiles would deliberate and hopefully change his mind; they could be together, the wolf could finally share his feeling and wish in a reciprocated emotion coming from the other, but why didn't the boy feel like living with him, even if as a werewolf?
Stiles dwelt in the fingers digging through his flesh, the most exquisite feeling after the oppression sensation of being nothing but a statue of mud meant to disappear under the rain; eyes never left his dear friend’s face, and with a downward smile prominent as his expression had always been, he repeated himself.
“No…” Came back in a low and strangled word. Derek let it go unsaid, relaxing the fingers still around the boy’s arm; maybe he’d have time further down the line.
But as he pondered it, something rotten within him scolded him for being such a fool; Stiles was being undone by the inside out and his best decision was postponing something that could possibly end up never being said?
The hold got strong again, Stiles’ eyes went from his arm to the wolf’s face in questioning, until Derek started to pull him closer without any explanation; ultimately, the man managed to get them both to lay back down on the floor, the storm ceasing to disturb them for a long moment. They enjoyed it gladly, yet the boy kept tilting his head up on the wolf’s chest to get a word out of him while his arm settled back on his waist.
“You’re cold.”
Stiles, indeed, was; even if he’d rather not admit it, he was glad the other picked on such a small detail and provided to solve it. Perhaps, if his illness was another, if his mind was set differently, Derek could actually pull off the big ‘saving someone you love’ trope; but the boy just closed his eyes, leaning to hear the other’s heart.
Minutes still went by then, Derek fought with his own frightened heart scared of expressing those thin but strong feelings he had been holding onto. Still, a word came floating out in such a delicate way that it might shatter glass with how fragile it was in comparison.
“Stiles…”
Head so close to his neck the hot air from his nostrils could hit the wolf’s skin, the boy responded the call and waited patiently; Derek pulled him impossibly closer, something that seemed to happen every time they were together, except he even picked his chin up with two firm fingers and a throbbing heart.
Stiles leaned in, closer till their lips brushed and neither said a word until Derek bumped their foreheads together; the boy remained in place, frozen in time, waiting for words he knew would come, yet he had no idea what they might be about. He didn’t care, whatever came out of the other’s lips always seemed to lighten his aching chest.
Derek stared in those amber eyes, caressed his jaw with soft fingers while the boy hummed; he was building up the courage and turning it into a heartfelt ache that passed through previously sealed lips, understanding time wasn’t on their side.
“You know I’ve always loved you, right?”
Maybe it wasn’t the best way to say it, but they both knew it wasn’t a frivolous emotion meant to be wiped away by the first woman able to brush the wolf’s skin; so Stiles sweetly sighted, chest moving so slowly as if memories might be the fuel of his motions and he was running low on it.
He looked up at him, with such humid eyes Derek wanted nothing more than to put a smile on his face to see wrinkles force in the corner of each; yet the boy seemed to switch from being in a painful ecstasy to being full of a joy that the wolf had no idea where it came from, and those deer eyes softened in a small cry of a few tears, wetting cheeks that should never be covered in salty water.
“Yeah, I do too.”
Freely, Stiles moved to lay on top of the other, turning himself into a soft human blanket of sorts for the man and nothing needed to be said after the boy rested his nose on the other’s; he never thought he’d have the chance to be close to Derek, able to stare so deeply within him that every ache in his body was gone, only a tingle in his lips was left.
Then it happened.
Derek kissed him and Stiles pushed onto him without saving anything for later; there was no later if anyone asked him.
Before either knew though, the day came to its end, with a few steps to be taken before leaving everything behind.
They slowly got back up, Stiles was the first to speak, “I need to write a letter to my father before leaving,” Derek nodded and went upstairs to pick up a few of the boy’s belongings, remembering each of his favorites like second nature; the whole succession of events didn’t need to be discussed, they followed their hearts and what they knew was right.
Therefore, a letter got pinned on the fridge, a bag with clothes got thrown in the back of the Camaro, Derek drove till they reached the loft and settled down in their new assessment; Stiles was going to live there with him, enjoying their time as the boy thought of it as borrowed from someone he never saw. The clock was ticking; it was annoying, sure, yet Stiles hoped it’d push him to make the most out of it.
So, against his better logical thoughts, they strangely set into their new complicity rather quickly.
Derek didn’t treat him like a sick freak, just a sweet guy he truly loved without reserving much of his feelings; Stiles surely adored such treatments coming from the wolf, who let his menacing persona fall for better purpose, wanting to achieve the most out of every passing second.
But time didn’t stop for no one.
A month passed and Stiles was fine, no one knew about the sour piece of paper that would be held in a fist from time to time, no one knew what was written on it and neither they asked. He was feeling good and people took well the news of his relationship with Derek; mostly, he was glad no one asked anything about the sudden change of dynamics.
Still, more time went on and a numbing blurry sensation came afloat in his mind, slowly eating memories he was not aware of having: a picnic with Lydia, a ride home with Scott, a night of research with Allison, an investigation he helped his dad with; he didn’t even know about those moments, didn’t know their worth, until they were lost…
More time went by, living on borrowed time felt similar to a felony of the highest charge; the lean sheet of paper, billed at 135.67$ with his name on it, cut his palms every time he held it; and every single time, Derek would sit by his side, so quietly it startled him at times, and either gauze up cut skin or lick it with a warm tongue. The first time he did it, Stiles soon understood it was one of his little werewolf’s secret healing techniques.
However, time was so atrocious on him; Stiles forgot many of his most treasured memories in less than a year. Whenever one of the pack came around, with something the boy should cheer and be happy for, his expression was empty of emotions, his senses on high and vigilant; soon, the time arrived that he didn’t know any of the people who walked through the front door.
Still, Derek Hale was able to persist.
Stiles remembered him regardless of time, despite little voids of nothings the wolf would fill for him with such ease, much like it was a treasured moment to patch together his beloved’s mind to, at the very least, remember their little love; it was all put together in a tiny book, perpetually placed on the nightstand by the boy’s side of their bed. He read it so many times the pages got wrinkles where he held the edges with sweaty fingertips.
But nothing was kind, nor time nor the illness spreading inside his mind; with the undying sound of the clock ticking second by second, Stiles had slowly started to forget Derek too.
In a month, such little time, his beloved boy slipped through his fingers; each morning he recognized him less and less, each time Stiles would take a second more to say his name, to even turn it into a shaking question, to a demanding need of knowledge for the name of the man sleeping by his side.
But something quickly changed.
“Who are you…?”
That morning was different from all previous ones though; it hurt Derek significantly more.
Stiles said it with such small intent, making it a question that had little meaning; as if, even if he knew his name, nothing would change. He questioned his name like it was something of no importance, because he remembered so little that maybe he had lost himself as well within the spiraling emptiness of the illness.
He still answered, trying to hide the burning tears in the corner of his eyes or the stinging sensation in his fingertips.
“Derek, I’m… Your boyfriend.”
It felt like a lie.
But he pushed through for him, he made him meals and prepared him baths; chanted him lullabies to help him fall asleep when he was afraid of not waking up, he did everything with an excruciating show of love; it caused him tears and tears, suffocated in the bathroom in the middle of the night, to not worry the boy in his bed…
Yet, one morning the question changed.
“Do you know my name?”
Apparently, the boy was less interested in the company and more in his persona, wondering his own whereabouts as if out of his own body; Derek wondered if maybe it would’ve been better if his companion lashed out on him rather than be such a placid body with the features of his lost lover.
Because he knew, deep down, each time he woke up before Stiles to admire his face, that the guy he was looking over and over again was no longer the boy he loved; he knew, with a heart-shattering realization, that he was already alone laying in a half cold bed.
That until one night, Stiles called for him after a particularly long, quiet day while he was sitting with the sheets covering his legs and torso.
“Derek... Can you pass me the book?”
That was his name, he remembered it; he asked for the book with their stories, their love, tales and jokes. He asked it so fondly like he knew what was within those pages, and read it all once again. A silent tear fell down his cheek once he closed the book and set it back where it belonged.
Derek watched over him for the whole time he flipped each page and smiled or laughed, maybe even tapped some of the pages to say ‘I remember this one’; perhaps, he tapped those pages the wolf wrote for him a while back to let him know something was still there, in his mind. Stiles was aware the other was looking and each action was a way to say ‘I see you.’
Then, the book got closed, placed back where it belonged and Stiles softly looked the wolf’s way.
“Derek, come here please,” he had then said; the wolf arrived with quick but feathered steps, kneeled by his side, holding his hand in fear of the reeking smell of… Loss that surrounded his boy. He wished he had more time.
“What is it, Stiles?”
Trying to keep everything at bay had never been harder; placing a hand on the other’s covered legs, caressing restlessly the cold body beneath hiding how fingers wanted to shake, sewing a smile onto his own face, glad the boy couldn’t see how his knees were glued to the floor, refusing to stop twitching.
Most times, whenever he called his name, the boy asked who Stiles was, but that time it was different; as if he knew something was about to happen, as if Stiles wanted to alleviate some of his lover’s pain before the night ticked midnight.
A hand found its righteous place on the wolf’s cheek, Stiles caressed him with a veil of care Derek felt as a ghost touch of someone already so far away; but he still leaned into the palm of that cold hand, covering it with one of his own, inhaling how little warm seeped out of it.
Still, before he could close his eyes to dwell into the loving touch of his boy, he spoke with such a low voice; to a pair of fearful ears, it sounded the same as the last string of a violin being played before breaking.
“You know I’ll always love you, right?”
Finger shook on Stiles’ hand on the other’s cheek, Derek smiled against every fiber of his body, biting his lips trying to hide everything that wanted to come out; every scream and tear. He kissed the back of his lover’s hand while holding it, suppressing the tremors punching the surface.
He brokenly hummed, “I do, I will too.”
Stiles looked over at him, noticed how the wolf tucked his face in ways that made it almost impossible for him to see his face; he wondered if there was anything he could do to take some of his pain and make it his own.
Within a few seconds, he managed to let out a few soft words and closed his eyes, holding his lover’s hand with such a weak hold that Derek bruised his skin with his own rough and tight hand; the wolf wiped away a stray tear he couldn’t suppress, trying not to break in front of his love.
“Don’t forget me, promise?”
Derek coughed and shook his head furiously; Stiles caught it through a thin fissure made by his eyelids. He wished time would pass fast enough to make all his lover’s pain disappear, but not everything could be as he wanted.
“I won’t, I promise.”
It came out like a bitten oath, something he swore and that he’d stand by till his last breath would leave his nostrils; Derek thought he’d never hear Stiles again but the boy had manners and before leaving, one should always greet the other, therefore he pulled his last effort in another small sentence.
“Good night,” Stiles whispered.
Derek looked up at him, eyes searching in fear without being able to fully hide it, his brows could’ve given him away if Stiles didn’t feel eyelids being too heavy to hold open; his skin was so pale, eyes red and sore, a weak smile stretched on his face. The wolf finally accepted it was actually happening.
It took him every last drop of strength to not let out a scream and leave.
“Good night…” Derek finally replied.
And through the small crack Stiles managed to open to see, Derek was a blurred figure, kneeled as if in prayer, whining while holding one of his hands; he wanted to hold him, to nestle him in his arms and apologize over and over, but he didn’t have the force to say sorry; he knew he wouldn’t have even the strength to look at him in a few moments.
But the fight was over, midnight struck its ticking sound and Stiles’ eyes fell sealed shut.
Derek didn’t notice, couldn’t bring himself to look at him now, not without knowing he’d never see his eyes open ever again, not without knowing he’d never get the chance to map his face while he was still asleep in the morning, while he’d be on his arms gazing at his features; how could he look at him knowing he wasn’t going to wake up from his sleep?
So, instead of looking, he kept holding his hand, clinging to the small grip Stiles still had on it, hoping it would last a second more, a second longer, but nothing persisted.
Soon, the hand of his lover turned limp.
“No…” It was a painful whine, a cry he couldn’t suppress, not with Stiles’ face still turned to face him with cold, closed eyes.
He held his hand, kissed it, strangled it, shook it; he tried to feel the heartbeat that was supposedly meant to be on his wrist, but there was nothing; his skin was so cold and pale, Derek could see his veins through the thin layer of skin covering them.
“Not you too!”
He surged upwards, but not enough to stand; knees hit the floor once he tried to plant his feet on the ground, but balance was not part of his life anymore since Stiles wasn’t there with him, because fate had overpowered him once more, taking from him another body. It took from him his sole lover.
Fists hit the mattress near where the boy’s legs were, fingers clung to the sheets and Stiles did not react.
An instinct pulled his fangs out in hope to save his lover from the freezing embrace of death, yet he couldn’t bring himself to go against what Stiles wanted; he couldn’t be selfish with the heart of another being, especially the one he loved.
A warm tongue licked Stiles’ cold wrist, fangs brushing his skin with no reaction; a howl of sorrow awoke within him, but only a stray drop of pain ran down his cheek.
Soon, his beloved’s hand was cold and of him, Derek only had a book he had made for him.
Less than a week later, Stiles Stilinski’s funeral was being held during a rainy day with the sun out, although hidden behind the clouds.
Derek looked over his body one last time, caressed his cheek, kissed his forehead, held his hand one last time; when he closed the casket he had a book in his pocket, which was weird; it was for Stiles’ memory, not his.