(sadly not beta read :) )
“I don’t care Stiles.” Derek shouted, cutting across the muddy path in the hopes of dissuading Stiles from following him.
The teen absently lengthened his strides, somehow managing to draw breath to voice his grievance.
“I don’t care that you don’t care. I want to complain and no one else is available.”
“Your empty hands.” Stiles retorted, gesturing towards his companion before hastily drawing his arms back when he slipped in the mud. The close fall did not deter him: “Speaking of which, my locker was empty this morning. And at lunch. And in the afternoon. Nothing. From anyone. I don’t feel the love.”
“Probably because there isn’t any for you to feel.”
From the furrowing of Stiles’ brows, the kid seemed unsure whether to take his comment as a joke or as an insult. Torn between amusement and hurt, he settled for a glare.
“Careful Derek, your bitterness is showing.”
“Look, it’s not as if I was hoping for a sudden declaration of undying love-” He started in the tone of one who had been very much expecting it, thanks, because Stiles was ridiculously romantic for all that he was also cynical. “It’s just- Look, we’ve been through stuff. All of us. Together. We’re friends. Buddies, compadres, marauders. ‘Pack’, whatever.” He added at Derek’s pointed look. “My point is, I didn’t even get a bro’ valentine, and it sucks, and if I want to complain about it, I have every right.”
“Yes, but not to me!” Derek hissed. “Go bemoan your fate away. Hopefully in your room. Locked in. Talk at your wall for all I care.”
“The wall can’t hear me.”
“Because you think I’m listening?! You can’t be dumb enough as to expect commiseration.”
Stiles rolled his eyes at him.
“Of course not. I’d have gone to Scott otherwise. But Scott would have felt guilty, and that sucks.”
Derek stopped walking and crossed his arms, leveling a stern look at him.
“So you’re trying to make me feel guilty instead?”
The kid stared back with an expression of exasperation so far from fond it was a little insulting.
“The whole point of talking to you is that you won’t.” Stiles explained with an impatient sigh, looking skywards as if to look for strength.
“I… won’t?” Derek asked, puzzled.
“Well, no?” Stiles replied, unsure himself all of a sudden. He scratched his forehead. “Because you, er, ‘don’t care’?” At the way Derek’s face darkened, he carried on hastily. “But that’s the whole point, I’m telling you, I don’t mind actually, because that way you’re not wary of hurting my feelings or anything. You’ll just… be a douche. As usual.”
Derek tightened his crossed arms.
“Because I ‘don’t care’.” He uttered through gritted teeth.
“Yes?” Stiles replied in the alarmed voice of someone who did not assess the situation correctly and who can feel it getting out of control for no fathomable reason.
“And your feelings are hurt.” Derek stated coolly.
Stiles started waving his arms around, his face mouthing unfinished questions he found himself unable to formulate.
Derek watched him flail for a few awkward seconds before sighing. And walking away.
Too stunned to follow him, Stiles raised his palms and schooled his features into a questioning expression aimed at no one in particular, looking around as if expecting someone, anyone, to jump out of the underbrush and explain.
He startled when he straightened up and found himself face to face with Derek. Who held out a- a plant? – a plant indeed, freshly torn out of the ground, its roots swaying in the breeze. Stiles stared.
“What is that?” He asked at last, leaning over Derek’s closed fist to get a better look at his newfound possession.
Nonplussed by the question, Derek looked down at the plant too.
“I think it’s ragweed.” He said with a look of concentration. Then he shrugged and held out his hand again. “Here.”
“Dude, what am I supposed to do with it?”
“Stiles.” Derek snapped, losing patience.
Stiles complied hurriedly, carefully turning the plant whichever way to inspect it. Derek nodded, satisfied.
“There. Now stop complaining.”
Derek looked horrified, sensing an incoming monologue. He raised a finger menacingly.
Stiles pushed his hand away with a smirk that tried and failed not to become too genuine.
“Oh my God you gave me a valentine flower.” He cackled.
“It’s a ragweed.” Derek sneered.
“It’s a bad weed. Annoying. Grows everywhere like couch grass. You can’t get rid of it no matter how much you try and however much you avoid it you’ll still find it lying around. Even then it still shows up where you least expect it. I thought it was fitting.”
Stiles bit his lips in amusement.
“Yes. Of our love.” He blurted out before howling in a laughter that wasn’t far from manic.
“I bring these things on myself…” Derek groaned, half-heartedly shoving at Stiles’ head as he walked past him.
The kid ducked, his shoulders shaking, watched his back growing more distant with each step.
Derek rolled his eyes to himself and bit his lips to keep from smiling.
“Go home Stiles.” He yelled.
“Whatever man, I know you love me.” Called back before turning away, cradling the ragweed gingerly on his way to the jeep.
