[ stiles sighs and settles in for a long ride, sliding his backpack off his shoulders and setting it down on the floor between his feet. he leans back against one of the walls, close to the buttons panel, and absently scratches the inside of his left wrist. ]
I'll die before I tell you But considering you're gonna be the one to lose You can just have some patience and find out after I call checkmate.
[ for about ten floors, stiles repeatedly jabs the doors close button with his thumb every time the lift stops and opens. by the twelfth stop, stiles has had enough. he makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat when the doors slide open to an empty hallway, and impulsively reaches down to snag his backpack by one of the straps, pushing his way out of the lift.
it's sixty-three fucking floors from here, but - he can make that, right? it'll be like running suicides, just... against gravity, and probably for way longer and way farther than stiles has ever run and also: stairs. but its fine. the alternative is to spend forty-five minutes standing in the elevator, and that's a total waste of time he could spend showering or eating or being around derek.
so he slides his backpack on over his shoulders, tightens up the straps so the bag sits high and flush to his back, and he starts up the stairs at a moderate pace, somewhere between walking and running, skipping every other step. fortunately for stiles, the flights in between floors are short, but it's still sixty fucking floors.
he makes it about half way before he has to stop for a breather, his thighs aching and warm, his knees a little weak. there's a sheen of sweat over the back of his neck and between his shoulders, his forehead a little damp. his heart is in his throat. he can feel and hear the pulsing rush of blood in his ears.
stiles slumps against the wall at the bottom of one set of stairs, hands curled around the straps at his shoulders, and leans his head back as if that'll somehow help with putting some oxygen back into his lungs. he has to lock his knees, otherwise he'll wind up sliding down until his ass hits the floor and there's no telling how long it would be until he got back up, if at all.
he checks his phone while he's taking a break, swiping some sweat from his temple with the back of his fingers. ]
I can find you a box. I'll find you a box and a nice tree for you put it under in place of an overpass.
[ at this point he'll do whatever if it means he never has to climb this many stairs ever again in his life. of course, this is only happening because of one particular assholeish person. it's not like he'll have to take the stairs every single time he visits derek after this. it's not as if he didn't make this choice himself on account of he's impatient.
stiles pockets his phone, decides to peel himself out of his green overshirt, takes a deep breath. he blows it out nice and slow... and hauls himself up the stairs the rest of the way. it's not any easier, and his calves and his thighs and his ass and his back feels like it's on fire and also numb by the time he reaches derek's floor another five minutes later. he practically falls through the doorway into the hall by the elevator (which he's beaten by at least five minutes, if not more), stumbling on his feet a little, and when he reaches derek's door, all he does is lean his entire body against it, forehead pressed to the cool wood, palms flat.
derek can probably hear him panting. he can probably hear his heart battering up against his rib cage, and stiles knows this, but he doesn't care. he balls one of his hands up, pounds it pathetically against the door, and just kind of rolls himself away, squishing his backpack between his shoulders and the wall as he leans to wait for derek to let him in. ]
no subject
I'll die before I tell you
But considering you're gonna be the one to lose
You can just have some patience and find out after I call checkmate.
[ for about ten floors, stiles repeatedly jabs the doors close button with his thumb every time the lift stops and opens. by the twelfth stop, stiles has had enough. he makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat when the doors slide open to an empty hallway, and impulsively reaches down to snag his backpack by one of the straps, pushing his way out of the lift.
it's sixty-three fucking floors from here, but - he can make that, right? it'll be like running suicides, just... against gravity, and probably for way longer and way farther than stiles has ever run and also: stairs. but its fine. the alternative is to spend forty-five minutes standing in the elevator, and that's a total waste of time he could spend showering or eating or being around derek.
so he slides his backpack on over his shoulders, tightens up the straps so the bag sits high and flush to his back, and he starts up the stairs at a moderate pace, somewhere between walking and running, skipping every other step. fortunately for stiles, the flights in between floors are short, but it's still sixty fucking floors.
he makes it about half way before he has to stop for a breather, his thighs aching and warm, his knees a little weak. there's a sheen of sweat over the back of his neck and between his shoulders, his forehead a little damp. his heart is in his throat. he can feel and hear the pulsing rush of blood in his ears.
stiles slumps against the wall at the bottom of one set of stairs, hands curled around the straps at his shoulders, and leans his head back as if that'll somehow help with putting some oxygen back into his lungs. he has to lock his knees, otherwise he'll wind up sliding down until his ass hits the floor and there's no telling how long it would be until he got back up, if at all.
he checks his phone while he's taking a break, swiping some sweat from his temple with the back of his fingers. ]
I can find you a box.
I'll find you a box and a nice tree for you put it under in place of an overpass.
[ at this point he'll do whatever if it means he never has to climb this many stairs ever again in his life. of course, this is only happening because of one particular assholeish person. it's not like he'll have to take the stairs every single time he visits derek after this. it's not as if he didn't make this choice himself on account of he's impatient.
stiles pockets his phone, decides to peel himself out of his green overshirt, takes a deep breath. he blows it out nice and slow... and hauls himself up the stairs the rest of the way. it's not any easier, and his calves and his thighs and his ass and his back feels like it's on fire and also numb by the time he reaches derek's floor another five minutes later. he practically falls through the doorway into the hall by the elevator (which he's beaten by at least five minutes, if not more), stumbling on his feet a little, and when he reaches derek's door, all he does is lean his entire body against it, forehead pressed to the cool wood, palms flat.
derek can probably hear him panting. he can probably hear his heart battering up against his rib cage, and stiles knows this, but he doesn't care. he balls one of his hands up, pounds it pathetically against the door, and just kind of rolls himself away, squishing his backpack between his shoulders and the wall as he leans to wait for derek to let him in. ]