#overthetopobsessed

 ------------------------------------------------

 “What’s this I hear about you getting in trouble with Harris?” Laura asked as she caught up with her brother and walked alongside him through the crowded hallway.

Derek looked at her. She was as radiant as ever; her long brown hair cascading past her shoulder and the bold navy blue of her Ravenclaw tie bringing out the sparkle in her dark eyes.

They used to joke about needing a fourth sibling since the three Hale siblings were sorted into different houses: Laura into Ravenclaw, Derek into Hufflepuff, and Cora into Slytherin. All they needed was a Gryffindor and they had a full house.

“I wasn’t in trouble,” Derek replied. “I just didn’t hear him ask me the question.”

Laura tilted her head slightly as she looked at her brother sceptically. There was a glimmer of worry in her dark eyes.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” she said, trying to gently coax the truth from him.

“I know,” Derek replied, trying to reassure her.

It didn’t work.

She kept her gaze fixed on him.

“I’m fine,” Derek insisted.

“If you say so,” Laura said quietly, backing down; she still didn’t believe him, but she knew him better than to keep prying—Derek would only shut down if she did.

Derek drew in a deep breath.

“I’m fine,” he reassured her. “I’ll see you at the quidditch game.”

“Who are you cheering for?” Laura asked—calling after her brother as he began to walk away.

Ravenclaw vs. Hufflepuff.

And his big sister was Ravenclaw’s star player.

“You,” Derek answered. “Like I always do.”

Laura offered him a sweet smile, but it fell from her face as her brother turned his back and disappeared into the sea of people. The worry still lingered in her eyes as she watched him leave.

 ------------------------------------------------

 The library was a large space filled with towering shelves full of old hardcover books, leather bound journals and other books that looked like antiques, all bound in magnificent colours of scarlet, burgundy, deep green, gold, and grey. The spines of the books were decorated by gold or silver lettering that read the titles, adorned with small metal studs and a few were even fastened with small hinges that looked to be made of brass or silver.

The shelves covered all the walls, large ladders on casters were scattered about the room where the occupants had last left them. Higher up, there was a small platform that stretched around the room, a mezzanine that allowed them to access another storey of bookshelves that the ladders couldn't reach. High above everything was a dome-like sky light, the slightly misted glass allowing the golden light of day to drift into the large library and illuminate the shadowed space.

Several books moved on their own, returning to the shelves and sorting themselves into the right places.

On the far side of the room was a small fireplace with a marble mantelpiece. Atop the mantelpiece sat a few of the sturdier-looking books, some candles and a vase of flowers that never seemed to wilt—probably because the librarian hexed them. Before the fireplace sat two arm chairs and a larger couch, each made of beige fabric that were covered in a faded floral pattern. Two Gryffindor students sat on the rug before the fireplace with their books sprawled out in front of them as they talked quietly.

Derek sat on his own among the rows of tables and chairs set up for students to study.

The library was quiet, which was both a blessing and a curse: it was a place where Derek could get away from all the noise and chaos, but it also meant he was left alone with his thoughts.

He tried to drown them out, focusing on his homework.

A stack of textbooks were piled up beside him, several more lying open on the desk before him as his quill scratched at the paper of his notebooks, leaving elegant scrawls of ink in its wake.

“This seat taken?” a familiar voice asked.

Derek glanced up, his aventurine eyes meeting the smoky quarts depths.

“Uh, no,” Derek stammered. He gestured to the seat. “Please.”

Stiles set his books down on the table and pulled out the chair across from Derek. He sat down and opened up his books.

Derek bowed his head and glanced up through his eyelashes, watching as Stiles’ dark eyes danced across the pages as he read the lines of text.

“I didn’t get the chance to say thank you for this morning,” Derek said.

“No need. Harris is an ass and you didn’t deserve that.”

Stiles glanced up at Derek, offering him a friendly smile.

Derek smiled in return.

He wasn’t like the other Slytherins that Derek knew—he wasn’t obnoxious, prideful, arrogant or snarky. Maybe that was because he wasn’t a pureblood like most of the others; his mother was a witch, but his father was a muggle—a police officer, apparently. Stiles had grown up in the muggle world, far away from magic. He tried to make up for it—working twice as hard to prove he had what it took to be there, but he didn’t need to; he was smarter and more powerful than any other student. His only weakness was he was powerful, but he had no idea how to control it.

The hiss of whispers reached his ears. Derek turned his head slightly to see two students glance at him before turning away and gossiping.

“Ignore them,” Stiles said softly.

Derek turned back to his text book, feeling his chest tighten and his heart hammer against his ribs.

“They’re talking about my uncle, aren’t they?” Derek asked.

“Most likely,” Stiles replied.

Peter Hale was well known in the wizarding world, but he disappeared the week before Derek and his sisters went on break. No Aurors had been able to track him down and many believed he was dead. When the Hale siblings returned to Hogwarts, everyone looked the other way or talked behind their backs. The whispers followed Derek everywhere.

Derek looked up at Stiles. “Thank you.”

Stiles lifted his head, his brow furrowed slightly in confusion. “What for?”

“For not treating me different.”

The corner of Stiles’ lips turned up in a kind smile.

Derek bowed his head, trying to focus on his homework, but his mind kept going back to the monstrous illustration.

“You know a lot about werewolves,” Derek remarked, unsure of how to start the conversation.

“I guess so,” Stiles said modestly. “I tend to take in a whole lot of information—most of it is useless.”

“Is it possible for a werewolf to become an Animagus?”

Stiles sat back in his seat, thinking it over for a second. “I don’t know for sure, but I did read something about a werewolf gaining control of their shifts by defying their alpha. But that either means defeating them or finding an anchor strong enough to keep your humanity in control of you psyche.”

“An anchor?”

“An anchor is something meaningful to you; you bind yourself to it to keep your human side in control,” Stiles explained.  “It can be a memory, a person, a place or an object—it just has to mean something to you. At least that’s what I read about Animagi Transfiguration, so I guess it would be something similar in the case of a werewolf controlling their transformation.”

Derek nodded thoughtfully.

“A werewolf becoming an Animagus is extremely rare and probably very difficult,” Stiles continued. “But I don’t think it’s impossible.”

Derek felt the tension in his gut ease, letting out a sigh of relief as hope found its way back into his heart.

 ------------------------------------------------

He felt the burn of power flow through his veins, setting his nerves on fire as the lure of the moon hummed ignited his senses.

He made his way out of the castle, sneaking out through the passage his uncle had told him about back in his first year—the one Peter had found during his time at Hogwarts. The cool night air met him, offering little relief to the searing heat that flooded his veins.

Beads of sweat gathered on his brow, soaking through his shirt and making the fabric cling to his skin.

His breathing grew heavy as he staggered towards the shelter of the forest that bordered the school.

A piercing howl rang out through the night, making Derek’s heart leap in his chest.

There was a sharp rush of air as a figure appeared before him. His dark hair a tousled mess and his clothing dishevelled. He clutched his fir wand, the pale wood standing out against the darkness.

“Stiles?” Derek rasped, feeling fear clutch his heart. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” Stiles replied. “I nearly got caught sneaking out of the dorms. I was trying to get to the Gryffindor dorms; seems like I missed the mark.”

Stiles froze, his eyes widening as he looked at Derek.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice edged with worry. “You don’t look too good.”

“It’s not safe out here.”

“What are you talking about?” Stiles asked, his voice catching in his throat as hesitation and anxiety filled his chest.

“You have to go.”

“Derek, you’re starting to scare me.”

Derek opened his mouth to say something but his words caught in his throat as a low growl echoed from the shadows.

Stiles wheeled around, his eyes wide and his heart hammering in his chest.

The bushes rustled, clumps of leaves and low hanging branches crackling, shaking and breaking as a big black shadow slinked into the open, broad feet thumping the ground. Their claws dug into the mud, upturning the dirt and releasing the sweet earthy scent.

A pair of glowing red eyes emerged from the shadows, the thin veil of moonlight illuminating the creature’s figure as it stalked forward. The creature rose up onto its hind feet. Its large form was unhuman; standing tall on curved, slender legs. The bright red eyes were set above an elongated snout. Long arms hung at its side, disfigured hands – hairy like a wolf’s paws – stretched, thick, curved claws lit by the bleeding streams of moonlight.

Stiles froze, eyes wide.

It snarled, baring its ivory teeth as it focused its glare on Stiles.

Stiles staggered back slightly, his mind screaming at him to run but he couldn’t move; his body was frozen in place.

“Derek?” he rasped, glancing over his shoulder.

The clouds parted, exposing the moon.

Derek winced, doubling over in pain.

“Derek?” Stiles called, alarmed.

Derek’s eyes flew open, his pale adventuring irises glowing crimson.

“Run,” he growled.

Stiles flailed about, stumbling backwards. His feet pedalled beneath him. He lost his footing on the uneven ground, falling against the damp earth. He turned, using a hand to steady himself as he leapt to his feet and tore into the darkness.

He ran along the tree line, glancing over his shoulder as he saw a dark figure charge towards him.

He sprinted through the dense forest, weaving his way through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks. He sprung over the fallen trees, broken branches and thick shrubs, his nimble legs and spring-locked ankles projecting him over the large logs. The thick undergrowth and claw-like twigs dragged at his feet. He tried to keep himself upright, struggling not to stumble or trip as he sprinted away from the massacre.

The sounds of low growls and spine-chilling howls drained away, disappearing behind him as he ran further and further into the dense forest.

He took a sharp turn, heading back towards the castle grounds. He broke through the tree line, slowing his pace as he neared the Whomping Willow. He turned, running on the spot as he looked back at the forest—checking to see if anyone – or anything – had followed him.

He let out a sigh of relief, letting his nerves calm. He drew in heavy breaths, trying to slow his breathing.

Stiles was tackled to the ground, letting out a pained wheeze as the air was knocked from his lungs. His eyes flew open wide, looking up at the glowing red irises of the werewolf.

He thrashed about, letting out a vicious animalistic cry as he tried to fight the creature off.

The werewolf pinned him to the ground, sharp rocks tearing open Stiles’ pale skin as the werewolf pushed them against the ground. Stiles felt a sharp wave of pain flood his arms, his bones near breaking.

Then, all of a sudden, the weight was gone.

There was a rush of air as the second werewolf tacked the alpha off of him, knocking him to the ground and fighting him.

Stiles rolled onto his side, scrambling to his feet and sprinting towards the swaying branches of the Whomping Willow. He dodged past the branches that swung at him, the thick wood hitting the earth with a heavy crash that snapped off twigs, shook the earth, and sent dirt flying through the air.

Stiles dove towards the trunk, something catching his eye. Among the twisted aged wood of the tree was an ancient door.

Stiles pulled open the small door that was built into the base of the tree. He pulled the ricket wooden door shut behind himself, staring at it for a second before slowly backing up.

He made his way down the flight of rickety stairs, following them into a large room. The windows were all boarded up, the moonlight bleeding through the thin gaps enough for Stiles to see.

He drew in steady breaths, calming himself as he looked around. The wind that blew past the windows echoed like screams as it rattled the glass and a draught blew through the warped wooden walls.

“Shrieking Shack,” Stiles muttered.

The wooden panelling of the doors were broken in, some doors lying off their hinges. The walls had patches of plaster missing, exposing the wooden framing beneath. The decorative wallpaper was peeling off the walls, the wooden floorboards warped, worn down with time and covered in stains. Every piece of furniture was moth-eaten and broken—as though someone has smashed it in a fit of rage.

There was a thin layer of dust over everything.

He stepped through one of the other doors, looking down the old staircase and into the foyer of the Shack. There was an old chair that had one of its legs ripped off.

He stepped back into the room. Beside him was an old four post bed, the wooden base snapped in half and the frame that had once held up the canopy had fallen down.

He edged over to the bed, lowering himself into the shadows that dwelled in the corner where the bed met the wall. He shrunk down into the darkness, pulling his knees up to his chest.

He waited.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, stopping him from falling asleep, but his eyes grew heavy as he stared at the warped hardwood floors.

The light of dawn began to creep through the cracks in the boarded-up windows.

There was a loud crash as someone came sprinting down the stairs that lead up to the Whomping Willow.

Stiles’ heart leapt into his chest. He shifted, crouching behind the bed as he readied himself to run.

“Stiles?” a familiar voice called out.

Derek stumbled into the room, his shoulders heaving with heavy breaths as he frantically looked around the dark, decrepit interior of the Shrieking Shack.

Stiles shifted slightly, rising to his feet and stepping out from behind the bed.

Derek let out a sigh of relief. “Are you okay?”

Stiles tightened his grip on his wand, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. His voice was quiet and raspy, but firm as he said, “Explain. Now.”

Derek dropped his gaze. “When my uncle went missing a few weeks ago, I stupidly thought I was the only person who could find him. I ran away from home to go look for him. A few hours after walking through the woods behind my family’s estate, I was attacked. It was a rogue werewolf.”

“One that holds its shape,” Stiles confirmed.

Derek nodded.

He fell silent for a minute, feeling his chest tighten and his gut twist in knots.

“It bit me,” he admitted.

“You’re a werewolf,” Stiles said. A thought struck him, a look of realisation washing over his face. “That’s why you asked whether a werewolf could become an Animagus.”

Derek nodded.

“And the, uh—the other werewolf. Was that the rogue that bit you?”

Derek nodded again.

“I’m so sorry… I never meant to put you in danger,” Derek said, his voice breaking and full of pain.

“You didn’t put me in danger,” Stiles replied. “I just have a tendency to stumble right into it.”

“Are you hurt?” Derek asked, his voice full of concern.

Stiles looked down at himself, his pale flesh was caked in mud and covered in bloody welts where sticks and stones had scratched open his skin.

“Just a few bumps and bruises,” Stiles said dismissively. “Nothing too bad. How about you?”

Derek seemed taken back by the question.

“I—I’m fine,” he said. He glanced down at his arms, the tan flesh marred by dark bruises and faint pink lines where thick gashes were stitching themselves back together. “Werewolves heal quickly.”

Derek glanced back over his shoulder, up the stairs at the door that lead back outside.

“We should gat back,” he said. “Everyone will be waking up soon.”

Stiles nodded, slowly edging towards Derek.

Derek took no offence to Stiles’ hesitation; he was surprised that he trusted him at all. He led the way up the stairs and pushed open the rickety door at the base of the Whomping Willow. He squinted slightly as he stepped out of the cool shadows and into the world lit by the golden glow of the morning light. He looked up at the thrashing branches, feeling his chest tighten anxiously.

Stiles stepped up to Derek’s side, both of them keeping their back pressed against the thick tree trunk. He held his wand out.

“Immobulus.”

The branches stilled, frozen mid-action.

Stiles drew in a measured breath and took a step forward, and then another, making his way across the divots and dirt holes that covered the ground beneath the Willow.

He and Derek made their way back across the open field and up to the gates of Hogwarts, where Mr Harris stood, his arms crossed over his chest and his cold eyes staring down at the boys. Beside him stood Coach Finstock, his dark unkempt hair sticking up at all angles.

“Mr Stilinski, I expect this kind of behaviour from you, but Mr Hale – I must admit – I am surprised to see you,” Harris said, his voice cold.

“Everyone’s looking for the two of you,” Coach added. “I hope you have a good explanation for this.”

Derek bowed his head, his stomach twisting in knots as a sickening wave of bile rose into his throat. This was it; he’d be exposed and sent to Azkaban.

“I was helping Derek study,” Stiles lied. “We nearly got caught outside of the dorms after lights out and we panicked, so we apparated and ended up outside where we were attacked by a werewolf.”

Derek blinked in surprise, glancing out the corner of his eye at Stiles.

Harris looked at him, his face deadpan with disbelief. “A werewolf?”

Stiles met his gaze defiantly.

“A werewolf,” he said firmly. “We were chased into the Shrieking Shack and hid there until the sun came up.”

“That’s quite the fanciful story, Mr Stilinski.”

“It’s the truth,” Stiles insisted.

Harris opened his mouth to say something but Coach Finstock held up his hand, interrupting them.

“We’ll decide what to do with the two of you later, for now go back to your dorm rooms and clean yourselves up,” Coach instructed. He turned to Mr Harris. “Why don’t you go tell the others that we’ve found them.”

Harris let out a measured breath and turned sharply, storming off down the hall.

Stiles and Derek turned the other way and began to head down the hall.

“Mr Hale, a moment,” Coach called after him.

Derek stopped, glancing at Stiles before turning back to Coach.

Coach lowered his voice. “I know things have been tough for you since your uncle went missing, but that doesn’t give you an excuse to start acting recklessly and breaking the rules. It’s not going to change anything.”

Derek bowed his head.

“Your sisters were worried sick when they found out you were missing,” Coach continued. “I know things are hard for you, but you’re not alone; think about them.”

Derek nodded.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Coach said. He gently patted Derek on the shoulder “Now, go get yourself cleaned up.”

Derek nodded again, turning and making his way down the halls. He made his way to the shifting staircases, the buzz of chatter reaching his ears. He glanced up to see crowds of students gathered on the stairs and the landings, staring at the walls and talking quietly.

Among the crowd he spotted a familiar face.

“Cora,” he called out, hurrying over to his sister’s side.

“Where the hell have you been?” Cora growled.

“It’s a long story,” Derek dismissed. “What’s going on?”

“The paintings,” Cora said.

The crowd parted and Derek saw what she meant. The paintings that hung on the walls were destroyed—the canvases were slashed, the frames broken or hanging crooked, and the living portraits injured and cowering in fear.

“What happened?”

“The paintings say some kind of wolf tore through the castle,” Cora replied.

Derek’s heart sank into his gut.

“A wolf?” Derek repeated, his voice catching in his throat.

His eyes followed the trail of destruction, a path winding around the walls and leading up to the higher flights of stairs—to the Slytherin dorms.

“Stiles.”

 ------------------------------------------------

 Stiles dragged his feet across the smooth wooden floorboards of the dorm room. His eyes were heavy and his movements slow and lethargic as he shrugged off the mod-stained hoodie that he wore. He tossed it over the end of his bed, stepping over to his trunk and pulling out his uniform.

The sound of footsteps reached his ears. His brow furrowed slightly in confusion; no one else should be in the dorms.

He turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder to see who was there. His heart dropped.

He barely caught a glimpse of the alpha’s glowing red eyes before he lunged at Stiles.

Stiles dove aside, reaching for his wand, but the werewolf tackled him to the ground. He thrashed around, his elbow colliding with the creature’s jaw as he tried to fight back or break free.

The werewolf pinned him to the floor, pressing their weight against the teen’s wrists until his frail bones threatened to break. The alpha’s jagged talons tore through the pale skin of Stiles’ arm. The bitter metallic smell filled Stiles’ nose as streams of blood coursed across his skin, the searing pain igniting every nerve in his body and flooding his veins.

Stiles cried out in pain.

The alpha let out a low growl, his teeth bared in a vicious snarl as he leant in closer.

Stiles felt the heat of the creature’s breath against his skin, squeezing his eyes shut as tears fell from his eyes.

He let out a broken sob.

There was another growl, one more fierce than the alpha’s low, threatening rumble.

Stiles hesitantly opened his eyes to see the alpha tackled off of him. He turned his head to see Derek thrown back.

Derek let out a stifled grunt as he hit the solid wooden frame of one of the beds. He bared his teeth in a vicious snarl, his eyes burning with rage as he charged at the alpha.

He slashed at him blocking his bows and fighting back as he put himself between the alpha and Stiles; protecting him.

The alpha snapped and snarled, his claws tearing at Derek’s clothes and clawing open his skin.

Streams of red stained Derek’s skin, but he didn’t seem to notice.

He fought back, but the alpha was too strong for him.

The alpha threw Derek back against the far wall. His head slammed against the rough bricks, bursts of light and colour blinding him as he dropped to his hands and knees.

The alpha grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off his feet.

Derek let out a strangled breath, kicking out as he tried to free himself.

The alpha’s grip didn’t waver.

The crimson glow of the creature’s eyes was full of bloodlust as he raised his arm, flexing his claws; ready to kill Derek.

The alpha froze, his body stiffening.

His grip weakened.

Derek fell to the floor, coughing, sputtering, and gasping for breath.

The alpha collapsed, hitting the ground with a solid thud.

Derek looked across the room to see Stiles, half slouched against his bed with his other arm outstretched and his wand in his hand.

Stiles slowly lowered his wand, his shoulder rising and falling with heavy breaths.

There was a thundering crash as the door to the dorms was thrown open.

Harris and Coach rushed into the room, skidding to a halt as they looked around the room.

Harris’ eyes fell on the werewolf, growing wide.

“Quite the fanciful story, huh?” Stiles said bitterly between broken breaths.

Harris shook himself from his stupor, straightening as he looked between the two boys. “Let’s get you two to the infirmary.”

Derek sluggishly pushed himself upright, bracing himself on the wall and he rose to his feet. He staggered across the dorm room, holding his hand out to Stiles and helping him to his feet.

A crowd od students gathered behind Harris, craning their necks to look in through the doorway.

A small figure shoved her way through the crowd, pushing past Harris and into the room despite his objections. She rushed across the room, throwing herself into her brother’s arms.

Derek let out a small sigh, wrapping his arms around Cora’s narrow shoulders and holding her tight.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m okay.”

“Oh my God,” Coach uttered, his quiet voice catching their attention.

Cora stepped back. Derek and Stiles turned, following Coach’s gaze to where the alpha lay on the floor, shifting back to his human form.

Coach grabbed a blanket from one of the beds, draping it across the man’s body.

Derek couldn’t take his eyes of the man.

The slender body lay bare on the ground, his fair skin covered in pale white scars. His chest slowly rose and fell with even breaths. Black ink stood out on the underside of his forearm, the Slytherin crest tattooed into his skin and a bold black triskelion on his wrist. His light brown hair was streaked with grey and longer than Derek remembered, but the man’s weary face was the same as always.

Derek’s heart stopped.

The morning after the full moon, he was there.

He and Scott were walking back and forth through the forest, searching the forest floor that was covered in a blanket of fallen leaves, colouring the woods with shades of orange, red, gold, burgundy and yellow. The decaying skeletal husks crackled under their feet as they bickered about finding Scott’s inhaler.

Derek lingered back, watching them from among the trees.

Stiles glanced up, something in his peripheral vision catching his eye. He turned to see a man standing among the twisted skeletons of the trees.

He tapped Scott’s shoulder, getting his attention.

Scott bolted upright, turning to look at Derek.

Derek stepped forward, his boots stirring the dry leaves as he walked over to them. But he couldn’t take his eyes off Stiles.

He was as beautiful, breath-taking and mysterious as the moon. Moles charted constellations across his skin like stars across the night sky.

Stiles bowed his head and looked away.

“What are you doing here?” Derek demanded, prying his eyes away from Stiles and looking at Scott. “This is private property.”

“I’m sorry, man,” Stiles replied. “We didn’t know.”

“We were just looking for something, but…” Scott ventured, his voice trailing off.

Derek raised his brow.

“Never mind,” Scott said. “We’ll just go.”

Derek pulled his hand out of his pocket, tossing something to Scott.

Scott caught it, blinking in surprise as he glanced down at his hand, unfurling his fingers and looking down at the inhaler.

Derek shoved his hand back into the pocket of his jacket, glancing one more time at Stiles before he turned and walked away. As he did, his mother’s words came back to him: if you miss your chance, it’s gone forever.

  -----------

  Derek was sure he’d lost Stiles after that day, but their paths kept crossing, time and time again.

Derek found himself closer and closer to Stiles.

He would have him pinned back against his bedroom door, his face inches from Stiles’ and yet, he froze. His eyes would glance from Stiles’ citrine eyes to his rosy lips, but he was scared to touch him; scared that if he came to close he’d hurt him—destroy him. He was scared Stiles’ light would fade. So he’d pull away.

Or he’s find himself pulled out of the dark abyss of unconsciousness, looking up at Stiles as a look of relief passed over the young man’s face.

Time and time again.

Stiles was there; he was always there. But Derek was always the first to pull away.

He lingered in the background of Stiles’ life like a ghost, getting close to him but never close enough to touch.

And time and time again, they would go their separate ways, and Derek would think, There goes my chance.

 -----------

  They stood out in the parking lot, the darkness of the night surrounding them and the cool air sending shivers up their spines. The streetlight hung over them, the dull glow of the old lamp fighting off the shadows of the night.

Adrenaline was slowly wearing off, their racing hearts calming as they realised their latest fight was over.

Stiles stood nearby, bathed in the silvery light of the moon. A mischievous smile lit up his face, making his dark eyes sparkle. He raked his fingers through the tousled mess of his hair, pushing it back from his face.

He looked so different from the boy Derek had seen standing in the woods all those years ago, and yet, he was just as beautiful.

The others had left; it was just the two of them in the parking lot.

“You okay?” Derek asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles replied. “You?”

Derek nodded.

“I should get going,” Stiles said, straightening himself. “My dad’s probably wondering where I am.”

Derek nodded again.

“See ya,” Stiles farewelled.

Derek turned slightly, taking a step towards his car.

He stopped, his pace faltering as his mother’s voice filled his mind: ‘If you miss your chance, it’s gone forever.’

Derek shook his head.

I can’t, he thought. I can’t let his go this time.

It was now or never.

He turned around.

“Stiles,” he called out as he stepped over to the young man’s side.

Stiles turned to face him.

Derek took Stiles’ face in his hands and brought their lips together.

Stiles tensed for a moment and Derek expected Stiles to shove him away, but he didn’t.

Stiles’ shoulders dropped as he melted into the kiss, his eyes fluttering shut and his arms looping around Derek’s shoulders and pulling him closer.

They stayed that way until their lungs burnt for air.

Derek slowly drew back from his kiss, breathless.

He drew in a deep breath, and for the first time in forever he felt like he could actually breathe. He drew in a few measured breaths, trying to calm his racing heart as he slowly opened his eyes and looked deep into Stiles’ eyes.

Stiles met his gaze, the dark brown pools of his eyes reflected the twinkling stars above them as he looked up at Derek lovingly.

“I…um, I…” Derek struggled to find his voice, to string words together.

“I like you too,” Stiles whispered, smiling as he closed the distance between them and brought their lips together again.

Stiles was his moon; his constant, his light among the darkness.