#thegoddamnbatstiles

Stiles doesn't fully want to admit it, but he's getting tired. Tired physically, tired emotionally. It's like Derek doesn't want to get better.

Stiles grabs his wrist, pulls him close. Derek starts to refuse, like anyone crying who wants to keep it to themselves would, but Stiles isn't having it.

Sometimes Derek looks utterly shattered. Just so done with the entire world and the people in it. Sometimes... It's like the only reason he doesn't kill himself is because he thinks he deserves the pain. And that hurts Stiles so much, that he wants to strive to prove that he deserves not only to be alive, but to be happy without guilt. He can't do it very well himself, but he's always trying to make people around him feel better.

He runs a hand through Derek's hair, "I was talking you about actually going into a store, leather jacket and sour-faced, buying a pretty box of hot chocolate."

It's pitch black and he has to feel his way to the bed. He comes into contact with Derek's bare thigh and stills for about half a second before he's curling his hand around, walking on his knees on the mattress. Hands find their way to his jeans and undo them, help him gladly get out of them. He sheds his own shirt and climbs on top of Derek, touching along his skin.

"I scored two goals in practice today." Isaac informs softly from the couch, like he's testing if Derek will acknowledge him and is scared that he might not again.

Stiles clears his throat, "So, anything interesting anyone would like to talk about?" Scott shovels in another spoonful of pasta and Boyd turns more toward Erica. Oh, alright. Dicks. "I had a wonderful day. I was told I'm getting an A in AP English, which is awesome. A for awesome..."