[ derek's hands fit around stiles' so easily. his fingers slide into the gaps between stiles, and they curl and they fit so perfectly, like the negative space between stiles' fingers came from derek's positive. stiles has held his hand before, pressed their palms together and stroked his shoulder and pulled him up from the elevator floor when everyone else left him for dead, but this feels different. it feels important, and it makes stiles feel safe.

derek's palms are warm. hot, almost, and he tries not to think about the phantom heat from the hot wax in his dream, tries not to wonder if that's what it would have felt like if he hadn't listened to derek in mexico. if he had stayed and pressed his hands over derek's wounds instead of braeden, wishing desperately for something. willing derek to be okay, believing he'd be fine, because stiles can work with belief. he's done it before.

but he already knows what it feels like to have derek's blood on his hands. he shoved his fingers into the wound in derek's arm, dug out the bullet with his bare hands, wiped his fingers clean on his shirt, and kept going. it didn't burn like the wax from his dream. it didn't sting with guilt the way the wax had, the way it still does.

there's so much room to argue here that stiles is really the one to blame, and not derek. if stiles hadn't tried to be spiteful, if he hadn't risen to some non-existent challenge just to push back at tate, the crayons wouldn't have even come into play. he could argue that he shouldn't have tried to use someone else - an anonymous benefactor at the time - for his own advantage in something that was, ultimately, very petty and childish. he could argue, but he doesn't want to. he just wants to breathe and he wants to feel assured that derek's okay and he wants to do better. he has to do better than this - nightmares, panic attacks. he has to be better.

stiles' eyes slide closed when derek leans their foreheads together, tilting his head up just slightly to press into it. he can feel derek's breath warm against his chin. he breathes in as derek breathes out and there's something about sharing the same breath that calms stiles, but also lights something up inside of him, makes him desperate to feel derek all over him. to replace the tight itch of anxiety under his skin with the warmth from derek's, to ease away the panic with derek's hands, to replace everything bad with something good.

stiles is reluctant to let go of derek's hands, but he allows him to pull away, his own hands automatically seeking out some other part of derek to hold onto. they press flat against the sides of his rib cage, and when derek draws him in closer, his hands slide around to his back, gliding down to the dip at the bottom of derek's spine. he's okay with letting go of his hands if it means he gets this instead. stiles turns his head just a little, just enough to nudge his nose against derek's before derek tilts his head down.

and then he feels the soft brush of lips against his throat, the gentle scrape of stubble, the warm, barely-there, fleeting touch of a tongue and stiles is suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. he loves derek so much that his chest aches with it. stiles swallows thickly, his throat clicking quietly, and he's nodding against the side of derek's head before derek can even finish asking. he steps back when derek presses forward, not because he wants space, but because there isn't really any left between them and if he didn't move in tandem, he'd fall.

stiles' fingers flex against his lower back. he hums a tiny low note in the back of his throat, expressing his disapproval as derek moves to put a little distance between them and he wonders if derek missed that yes, he wants to move into derek's apartment. he wonders if derek thinks maybe he doesn't want that and that's why he's pulling away, and he gets this slightly panicky look in his eyes and opens his mouth to try to fix it, but derek just keeps talking and everything kind of dies in stiles' throat.

he's overwhelmed again by this need to just - be a part of derek, to be consumed by him, to be so close and connected that even when they're apart they're never actually apart. he loves derek so fucking much and derek doesn't even know it because stiles won't allow himself to tell him for fear of losing him if it's too much or if fate really is as cruel to him as it has always been.

the words spill out of stiles, quiet and messy and a little too fast for his own tongue, so close on derek's words that he only barely misses cutting him off. ]

I hate it. I hate it so much, I hate - I don't need this. I don't need to be here, I don't need to be away from you just hold onto my independence, because you're not— you don't take that away—

[ his hands shake gently against derek's back, so stiles presses them tighter against his spine to make them stop, and he draws in an uneven breath as his eyes dart back and forth between both of derek's like he's looking for — something. the courage, maybe, to just keep going, to say what he feels without fear of getting hurt. ]

I just. I want you just as much as I need you, and I really— I really...

[ stiles doesn't have to tell derek he loves him. not yet, not right now, but maybe it's okay if he just... shows him. stiles' hands move fast, lifting from the small of derek's back and pressing to the sides of his throat, thumbs cradling the swoop of his jaw, long, slender fingers curling over the back of derek's neck. he pulls him in just as much as he tilts himself forward, and he kisses derek.

it's not crushing, it's not bruising, not yet. it's soft and it's gentle and so quietly desperate. it's certain. ]