#greyhavenisback

"No, no, no," he mutters to himself, "Stupid Stiles." He brings his hands up, waits until he's got Derek's puzzled acceptance of touching him on his cheeks, then stretches his lips until it's a smile.

"Smile? You want me to smile?"

"Nuh uh, I want you to be happy," he stresses the word, hopes the weight of his wish on it makes it true. "Happy Derek is good, so good, I want you to be happy Derek. No, ecas- no, ecstatic! Ecstatic Derek!"

Derek smiles, then, a real one, his bunny teeth showing and his eyes crinkling. Stiles' hands are still on his face, their legs a tangled mess on the couch, feet up and under each other's, the warmth of their closeness comfortable and welcome. Derek takes his hands, puts them down on a thigh — in his drunken state he can't really make out whose thigh it is — and comes close, so close, Stiles can count his eyelashes if he wants to.

He does.

He's on number thirteen when Derek huffs out a laughter, mutters a, "You're unbelievable," and presses their forehead together.

Stiles tries to fight him off. "No! Noooo, Der, I was counting your eyelashes!"

His hands don't try to push Derek off of him, because he doesn't want to be away from this embrace, but he still is bummed out and tries valiantly to not feel like he's in heaven when Derek giggles.

"You're so unbelievable," Derek says again, and Stiles, whose eyes had closed, opens them, just to see Derek staring at him. His eyes are the most gorgeous eyes he's ever seen; they have the green of the forest, the blue of the oceans, the golden of the sun, and the grey of the moon.

"You're so pretty," Stiles tells Derek sincerely, and moves so that his and Derek's foreheads separate, the distance between them just enough to witness Derek's cheeks and tip of ears burning a soft pink. "I want to kiss you so bad."

The soft pink turns a deeper red. "Stiles, we can't. Not when you're not in your right mind."

"All of my minds and my hearts would want you, ecstatic and pretty and you." Stiles tries to move his hand, and after a little delay — where are his hands?! — he does, and when he does, he puts one on Derek's cheeks again. Makes his open mouth close. "Is that a surprise for you, Big Guy? That I want you?"

Derek has no answer for it. But he insists, "We can't. Not now."

Stiles pushes Derek onto his back, and pliant under his ministrations, Derek goes. He won't say no — not to Stiles.

And Stiles hates it.

"We are going to cuddle," Stiles explains, once Derek is on his back, eyes locked onto Stiles', who is still sitting upright, his knees planted on the left side of Derek's hips. "I've always wanted to know if your chest can be a pillow. Like, it feels and looks so hard, but can it be a pillow too?" Derek doesn't say a word, just stares, and stares, and stares.

Stiles' heart breaks.

"Der," he whispers, and makes sure to keep all his limbs to himself, no part of him touching Derek's. He's cognizant enough to realize what's wrong here, and damn it if he's going to ruin Derek's great night out.

He heard Derek giggle today, no way is he going to ruin that.

"Derek, I want you to be happy. And if that means making me sad, then so be it. If your happiness lies in breaking my heart and breaking me apart, not doing what I want, then so be it. I want you to be happy. And know this: my happiness? It lies in you doing what you want."

Derek stares, and after a beat, he shakes his head, as if dislodging his previous, tumultuous thoughts. Then he says, "You somehow still make sense when you're drunk."

He sounds so sincerely puzzled, it makes Stiles laugh.

And it's that thought all over again when Derek starts laughing too: he wants to sink here, in this one moment alone, anchor himself to it until there's nothing but him and Derek on all his horizons.

Stiles wants so much, so little, too much: he wants himself to finally confess, he wants Derek to be himself, he wants Derek to be happy, whatever it takes.

And apparently what it takes is this — Stiles, almost asleep on Derek's soft yet hard chest, Derek's fingers in his hair, carding through it slowly, meticulously. Stiles' eyes closed, his breath on Derek's neck, Derek's on his hair, their bodies intertwined on the couch. Derek, voice the tiniest whisper, a wish, a hope:

"My happiness lies with you, Stiles. Having you by my side, this moment, tomorrow, hopefully forever. In whatever way you'll have me."

Stiles hears it, but sleep has him, so the only thing he does is smile against Derek's chest. Perhaps he feels it, because Derek's other hand squeezes his waist, a physical gesture of holding on to these words of today, tomorrow, and forever.

Stiles sinks into Derek's embrace, into that promise, into that night, and several years later he finds himself surprised still at the fact that it wasn't all a dream, but the first nights of many like that. Of them together, intertwined, each other's, happy and giggling and together.

Together then, now, tomorrow.