[ stiles says nothing. stiles says nothing, and that's horrible, because derek is left alone with all these stupid, horrible thoughts rattling around in his skull - the ones he told himself not to think about. images, unbidden, of stiles telling somebody else that he loves them. weird, passive jealousy over stiles' ex-girlfriend, over the time he spent pining over lydia, which doesn't make any sense, because they're not here, and getting in his head about relationships that aren't real, getting jealous when stiles has expressly told him he's been in love with him for a solid two years, seems like the stupidest, most disrespectful thing he could do.
but. but. what if he hasn't been enough? what if stiles built up all these expectations about the kind of boyfriend derek would be, over those two years, and derek's only been loud and frustrating and-- bad. what if stiles hoped for better than what derek gave him. what if, what if, what if.
what if he stops being a stupid baby and has a fucking shower to cool off. what if that.
derek heads into the bathroom, habitually reaching up to take off his jacket before realizing with an annoyed start that tate fucking stole it from him the last time they talked, and that only makes his bad mood worse. he feels childish and small and idiotic, distracting himself from baseless worries about stiles by thinking about baseless worries about mountain ash. it's weird that there are rowan trees in just - one section of the park, right? they're not sanctioned off, and maybe they're actually in other parts of the park, too, but.
feels like they were put there for him. which is paranoid. they're trees, right? jesus, maybe the full moon is still sticking to his skin. he needs to get over himself.
derek showers, gets dry, changes into something soft and sleepy, a burgundy sweater with sleeves that he pulls completely over his hands and cream-white track pants that are fuzzy as hell on the inside. he walks barefoot to the kitchen, feels a pang of guilt when he sees the milk in the fridge door. he closes it without getting a drink, and his phone vibrates in his pocket. derek reads his message while he heads to the living room, and the whole den just feels... small. they need to buy a tv, just for the background noise. ]
No. Sorry.
[ and - it hits him, suddenly, that he doesn't have to just - hold this shit in. doesn't have to dwell in his own paranoia, doesn't have to beat himself up, making problems worse and worse because he has unexamined anxiety issues. stiles loves him. he knows, deep in his chest, that stiles is in love with him, and that if he just - asks? - all these worries, all these pointless, self-built concerns, will just - go. because stiles is his anchor. stiles wants to be his anchor. he just has to believe him, trust him. he just has to love him back. ]
I kind of got in my head. This'll sound stupid.
I thought maybe you were going to break up with me? But you're not. Doing that. You're just on a walk. And I'm just being paranoid. And you want to talk, but. Not about breaking up with me.
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but. but. what if he hasn't been enough? what if stiles built up all these expectations about the kind of boyfriend derek would be, over those two years, and derek's only been loud and frustrating and-- bad. what if stiles hoped for better than what derek gave him. what if, what if, what if.
what if he stops being a stupid baby and has a fucking shower to cool off. what if that.
derek heads into the bathroom, habitually reaching up to take off his jacket before realizing with an annoyed start that tate fucking stole it from him the last time they talked, and that only makes his bad mood worse. he feels childish and small and idiotic, distracting himself from baseless worries about stiles by thinking about baseless worries about mountain ash. it's weird that there are rowan trees in just - one section of the park, right? they're not sanctioned off, and maybe they're actually in other parts of the park, too, but.
feels like they were put there for him. which is paranoid. they're trees, right? jesus, maybe the full moon is still sticking to his skin. he needs to get over himself.
derek showers, gets dry, changes into something soft and sleepy, a burgundy sweater with sleeves that he pulls completely over his hands and cream-white track pants that are fuzzy as hell on the inside. he walks barefoot to the kitchen, feels a pang of guilt when he sees the milk in the fridge door. he closes it without getting a drink, and his phone vibrates in his pocket. derek reads his message while he heads to the living room, and the whole den just feels... small. they need to buy a tv, just for the background noise. ]
No. Sorry.
[ and - it hits him, suddenly, that he doesn't have to just - hold this shit in. doesn't have to dwell in his own paranoia, doesn't have to beat himself up, making problems worse and worse because he has unexamined anxiety issues. stiles loves him. he knows, deep in his chest, that stiles is in love with him, and that if he just - asks? - all these worries, all these pointless, self-built concerns, will just - go. because stiles is his anchor. stiles wants to be his anchor. he just has to believe him, trust him. he just has to love him back. ]
I kind of got in my head.
This'll sound stupid.
I thought maybe you were going to break up with me?
But you're not. Doing that.
You're just on a walk. And I'm just being paranoid. And you want to talk, but.
Not about breaking up with me.