Six Feet Under | Sterek

three;

Night has truly settled over Beacon Hills when they return to the loft, and Stiles keeps his eyes on the stars as he gets (falls) out of the Jeep. He tells himself it's because the moon is unusually bright tonight, and it makes the stars look like tiny fireballs, blazing aggressively in the sky for as long as they can before they burn too bright and vanish.

He tells himself he's looking up because of the beauty, not because of the tears that threaten to drown him.

"C'mon kid," Peter says, and Stiles looks at him. The werewolf looks different in the moonlight. Where one might expect the moon to sharpen, it has softened, where one might expect ethereal, Peter looks startlingly human. He holds Stiles's gaze until the human boy decides he can't handle this anymore and looks away. "Derek said he was making dinner."

An offer. Peter's eyes glint with a challenge, and Stiles lets out a very long breath. "I could eat," he says, and for some reason it makes him feel like he's just waved a white flag. He feels sick.

Peter doesn't say anything else, just tosses the Jeep keys back to Stiles. Another challenge, another test, to see if Stiles will follow him or if Stiles will turn and run away. Peter won't stop him, Stiles knows. That just makes him feel more dirty when he glances back at the Jeep, even as his feet start after Peter as the werewolf starts climbing the staircase. He's pathetic in that moment of weakness, and he knows that Peter can hear the sudden dysfunctional rhythm of his heartbeat.

"Der-Bear!" Peter calls in a high pitch. "Oh Deeeereeeekkk! Oo-"

"Shut the fuck up Peter," Derek snarls, appearing from the shadows and Stiles startles because what the fuck how does Derek do that?

Peter doesn't seem fazed by Derek's sudden appearance. "I found your stray," he says. "I expect to be fed as payment."

Derek looks at him for a moment, and it seems like they have an entire conversation. Stiles prides himself on reading people, and the alcohol hasn't taken away his ability to detect pity and contempt and thankfulness and disappointment. He sees it all in Derek's pretty, pretty hazel eyes. It makes his skin itch, makes his lungs hurt. "I can go," he says, and he's not sure why. (It's because Derek is looking at him and seeing somebody else)

"Stay," Derek says, his voice suddenly hoarse. He looks sad, and Stiles wants to hug him. Maybe it'll fix them both. "I made dinner."

They don't want him here, Stiles realises, and it hits him like a ton of bricks. He takes a step back, and Derek's gemstone eyes go wide and his hand flinches like it wants to reach for him. Stiles can't feel his lungs anymore, because there's just this agonising ache in his chest and he can't breathe. They don't want him here, he's not supposed to be here, he's a pity case, a charity case, a weak stupid human who has to be taken in-

There's a ringing in his ears now, and his skin feels too big for him. He's slipping, and he wants to drink until he's dead. He's spinning, his thoughts pulling away from him and his breathing is speeding up, so is his heart rate. Somebody says his name, and a hand touches his shoulder and his skin snaps back to his bones.

"Stiles," Derek says again, and it sounds like he's been shouting.

Stiles looks at him and feel hysteric laughter bubble in his throat. "Sorry," he murmurs, and drops his gaze to his feet. His converse are muddy. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm fine." Derek makes a wounded noise when Stiles steps back again, out of reach, and crams his shaking hands into his hoodie pocket. The human boy smiles a plastic smile and hopes that he doesn't wake up tomorrow. "You made dinner? Weird, I thought you ate defenceless woodland creatures."

It's a weak jab. Derek doesn't relax, doesn't react like he usually would and that just makes Stiles feel worse. "I made lasagna," Derek says tiredly. "I've set the table, so you better come inside."

Stiles isn't hungry anymore, but Peter is pressing a steady hand to his back as they follow Derek inside, so there's no way to back out of this now. If Derek's set a place for me, Stiles thinks, then maybe he does want me here. Or maybe he feels obligated, because Stiles is Scott's friend and Derek doesn't want to keep fighting Scott on everything.

"You think too hard kid," Peter sighs, and then he's pushing Stiles down into a seat and there's warm food heaped on his plate. Stiles thinks it's been too long since someone has cared enough to look after him when Stiles decides it's too hard to look after himself.

He doesn't start eating until Derek and Peter are seated and have started. The first mouthful tastes like ash, and the second tastes like salt, and the third tastes like the disappointment that Stiles had seen on his dad's face. He drops the fork. "Sorry," he says, voice hitching. Derek's starting to something, but Stiles is shaking his head and pushing away from the table and he can't hear the werewolf anyway. "I can't-I gotta go."

Peter doesn't sound surprised when he says, "Upstairs, second door on the left. I'll bring your stuff up later."

"I didn't bring anything with me," Stiles says. "It's all at my house, and I obviously can't go back there. I'll be gone by tomorrow, don't worry. I'll figure it out."

Both werewolves look pained by his words, and he thinks that maybe one night is too much for them to handle. But he can't go now, he doesn't think he can make it out to the car without collapsing. The alcohol is draining his energy faster than he can fake it, and he just wants to sleep for the next fucking century.

"Goodnight Stiles," Derek says heavily.

The human boy makes it to the bedroom, makes it to the bed before his knees give out and he crashes into the sheets. He buries his head in the pillows and shrieks long enough for his head to spin, long enough for his throat to hurt and his eyes to water and then he gives up on being strong and cries like he's seen Scott cry; ugly sobs, screwed up face, and a hollow ache in his chest.