it's torture, but it shouldn't be. realistically, derek understands that he barely knows stiles. he's analyzed himself and how he's behaved over these past few weeks enough times now to realize that any feelings he has for stiles can be easily explained away as just... a side effect of what they are to each other. these feelings are a byproduct of their contract, or of their time together. they're not real. how could they possibly be real, when there's so much about stiles he just doesn't know?
maybe he's just being possessive. maybe he's just so moved by the fact that he has a friend after spending so many years without one, he's confusing those feelings as romantic. stiles is filling a void in him, making him less lonely, and derek has to remember that, because that's not how a healthy relationship starts, he thinks. he's a romantic at heart, and it would be so easy for him to get carried away with this, and he just - can't do that. not to himself, and certainly not to stiles.
so. he needs to stop thinking. needs to stop being excited all the time, needs to stop treating a fifteen minute shower break like it's the end of the world. it's ludicrous, to derek, that he's in his twenties and pining over someone again. derek's so much better than that.
ugh, whatever. derek moves around a few more times, searching for a way to sit comfortably, before he finally ends up settling. he sits up, leans into the corner of the couch, elbow on the arm of it. it's really, really hard not to fixate on stiles. on the sigh of relief he heard when the warm water started easing away the tension on stiles' muscles - that groan he heard that he shouldn't have been listening to. it's hard not to feel-- so many things. lust. joy. comfort. loneliness. he's stewing in it all, waiting in silence, staring at the chessboard like it'll solve all his problems.
stiles comes out of the shower, eventually, and derek briefly panics about whether or not he'll need spare clothes, but stiles took care of that on the way over, it turns out. derek remembers the conversation they had earlier; stiles was insecure about the way he dressed, and derek, with a pang of guilt, remembers that he made that feeling worse, for a second. he looks up with just his eyes, resting his cheek on the lazy curl of his fist, and he watches stiles walk over.
derek's appraising him. it's obvious, because derek never hides the penetrating way he looks at people, but for all the apparent self-evaluation he's been doing these last few weeks, he doesn't seem to realize that judgmentally staring at someone right after they get out of the shower might be kind of awkward. he's just - curious, about the clothes stiles is wearing. he wonders if he can say something without it sounding forced. a... compliment. maybe. like "i notice you're wearing clothes - good work".
or something. that won't work. that's nothing. jesus christ. derek's eyes lift a little. stiles looks good in layers. he could at least say that. maybe. stiles asks about food, and derek looks away, back to the chessboard. he lifts his other hand and scratches the space between his eyebrows with his thumb, taking a long, deep breath. food. right. okay. ]
Pizza. Microwave. Should still be warm. Grab me a drink, too, while you're at it.
[ he doesn't care what of, but he only really owns soda and milk, so. probably soda.
derek stretches out on the couch, pops his shoulders as he does it. he props his heel up on the table, next to the chessboard, and he straightens out his leg until his knee gives a satisfying crack. he breathes out again, leans back against the sofa, and he tilts his head back, exposing his neck and closing his eyes. it doesn't look like much - he's just relaxing - but blinding himself and baring his throat means that he trusts stiles, and that he feels safe around him.
but he's also impatient to play fucking chess. ]
C'mon, hurry up. Everything's ready. I wanna make you cry already.
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it's torture, but it shouldn't be. realistically, derek understands that he barely knows stiles. he's analyzed himself and how he's behaved over these past few weeks enough times now to realize that any feelings he has for stiles can be easily explained away as just... a side effect of what they are to each other. these feelings are a byproduct of their contract, or of their time together. they're not real. how could they possibly be real, when there's so much about stiles he just doesn't know?
maybe he's just being possessive. maybe he's just so moved by the fact that he has a friend after spending so many years without one, he's confusing those feelings as romantic. stiles is filling a void in him, making him less lonely, and derek has to remember that, because that's not how a healthy relationship starts, he thinks. he's a romantic at heart, and it would be so easy for him to get carried away with this, and he just - can't do that. not to himself, and certainly not to stiles.
so. he needs to stop thinking. needs to stop being excited all the time, needs to stop treating a fifteen minute shower break like it's the end of the world. it's ludicrous, to derek, that he's in his twenties and pining over someone again. derek's so much better than that.
ugh, whatever. derek moves around a few more times, searching for a way to sit comfortably, before he finally ends up settling. he sits up, leans into the corner of the couch, elbow on the arm of it. it's really, really hard not to fixate on stiles. on the sigh of relief he heard when the warm water started easing away the tension on stiles' muscles - that groan he heard that he shouldn't have been listening to. it's hard not to feel-- so many things. lust. joy. comfort. loneliness. he's stewing in it all, waiting in silence, staring at the chessboard like it'll solve all his problems.
stiles comes out of the shower, eventually, and derek briefly panics about whether or not he'll need spare clothes, but stiles took care of that on the way over, it turns out. derek remembers the conversation they had earlier; stiles was insecure about the way he dressed, and derek, with a pang of guilt, remembers that he made that feeling worse, for a second. he looks up with just his eyes, resting his cheek on the lazy curl of his fist, and he watches stiles walk over.
derek's appraising him. it's obvious, because derek never hides the penetrating way he looks at people, but for all the apparent self-evaluation he's been doing these last few weeks, he doesn't seem to realize that judgmentally staring at someone right after they get out of the shower might be kind of awkward. he's just - curious, about the clothes stiles is wearing. he wonders if he can say something without it sounding forced. a... compliment. maybe. like "i notice you're wearing clothes - good work".
or something. that won't work. that's nothing. jesus christ. derek's eyes lift a little. stiles looks good in layers. he could at least say that. maybe. stiles asks about food, and derek looks away, back to the chessboard. he lifts his other hand and scratches the space between his eyebrows with his thumb, taking a long, deep breath. food. right. okay. ]
Pizza. Microwave. Should still be warm. Grab me a drink, too, while you're at it.
[ he doesn't care what of, but he only really owns soda and milk, so. probably soda.
derek stretches out on the couch, pops his shoulders as he does it. he props his heel up on the table, next to the chessboard, and he straightens out his leg until his knee gives a satisfying crack. he breathes out again, leans back against the sofa, and he tilts his head back, exposing his neck and closing his eyes. it doesn't look like much - he's just relaxing - but blinding himself and baring his throat means that he trusts stiles, and that he feels safe around him.
but he's also impatient to play fucking chess. ]
C'mon, hurry up. Everything's ready. I wanna make you cry already.