I want you to listen from the kitchen to me confessing on the couch - Santa Monica, The Front Bottoms
Derek had assumed he was just bored, that’s why he had been showing up at Derek’s apartment every night for the past two weeks. That, or he was trying to test just how far he could go before Derek snapped. His presence alone wasn’t all that irritating, not like it was when they first met, it was just the jittery, nervous energy radiating off the man that had Derek on edge. To any normal, non-supernatural person, the difference would be unnoticeable. Stiles is always restless, talkative, and twitchy. Derek can tell, though, that this time is different.
His heartbeat is erratic, like he keeps thinking of something scary at random moments throughout the day. It almost gives Derek a heart attack every time, but Stiles rarely reacts. Besides the occasional stutter in his words, or the halt of them all together, Stiles acts just the same. Derek decides that there’s something wrong, something Stiles is too afraid to tell him. He also draws the conclusion that that’s why Stiles keeps returning, because he needs to tell Derek something. Something important, if the way Stiles is behaving is anything to go by.
Important, but clearly not very urgent, because Stiles babbles on about something or other from his living room. Maybe Stiles is driving him batshit crazy, but Derek actually starts to like the chatter. A lot of the Hales were chattery, Cora and himself being the outliers, and Stiles reminds him of those days. He tells Stiles this unintentionally, the words falling from his lips before he gets the chance to reel them back in. He blames the mind-numbing-ness of listening to Stiles talk for weeks straight, because that’s easier than coming to terms with the fact that he feels comfortable enough to open himself up to the man. Stiles grins at him like he’s won the lottery, and he tells him that he likes that Derek can hear him from wherever.
So Derek pours them both some orange juice from the kitchen, assuming Stiles has talked his mouth dry. Of course he prefers orange juice over apple juice, Stiles says, and Derek snorts. Derek doesn’t really, he’d take sweet over bitter any day of the week, but he doesn’t correct Stiles. He doesn’t like interrupting him, he’s afraid of all the words he’d miss. And maybe Stiles would be on the cusp of telling Derek what he so desperately wants to tell Derek, and he’d interrupt, and then he’d never know what’s bothering Stiles. So he just listens as he shoves the carton of juice back into his fridge.
“Hey, Derek?” Stiles asks abruptly, his heart hammering noisily in his chest.
Derek stops in his tracks, his feet cemented to the floor in front of his fridge.
“Yes, Stiles?” Derek says, and it only sort of resembles a question.
“Could you just, maybe, stay in there? Just for a second. I just— I need to—“
Derek nods quickly as if Stiles can see him before realizing the ridiculousness of it.
“Yes. I can do that,” he clears his throat, “whatever you need.”
A little too sincere, he thinks. He hears Stiles sigh, but it doesn’t sound like one of annoyance. They stay like that for a good while, Derek frozen in place in his kitchen, Stiles sprawled out on his couch. Derek finds his own heartbeat matching Stiles in speed, and he unintentionally holds his breath. He feels like he’s right on the edge of a cliff, seconds away from tipping over. He doesn’t want this to come to an end, he doesn’t want to know whatever it is Stiles wants to tell him if it means Stiles stops wasting all his free time on Derek’s couch.
It’s selfish, but he can’t help it. After years of having little to no company, he got so used to finally not being alone. He can’t even imagine just how grating the silence will be when Stiles leaves. He has the sudden urge to talk on and on about everything he can think of, just so Stiles doesn’t get the chance to admit what he came to admit. It’s uncharacteristic, Derek doesn’t like talking, but he thinks he’d do anything if it meant getting to keep this, to keep Stiles.
“Just listen, okay? Just listen. Even if—“ he hears Stiles swallow, “even if you really, really hate me.”
Derek wants to tell him that he doesn’t, that he never could.
“I just need you to know. I just need to say it. God, this is going to sound so stupid. You probably already know, anyways. You can tell, can’t you?”
Derek shakes his head no.
“It’s just— I’m not attracted to you. No, that’s not what I meant at all.”
It’s Derek’s turn to swallow, feeling a little like someone just hallowed him out and clumsily shoved everything back into place again.
“I am attracted to you! Obviously, is that obvious? I think that’s obvious. But, that’s also not what I meant to say. It’s just, I’m not only attracted to you. Okay? Do you get it?”
Derek really wishes he did. He desperately tries to search through the words until he’s practically drowning in them. Stiles is not attracted to him, ouch. Stiles is obviously attracted to him, and apparently that’s obvious. Stiles is not only attracted to him, but maybe other people too. Derek thinks that that part really is obvious, even though it makes him want to throw up.
“Derek? Do you get it?” A pause, “I’m in love with you.”
He says it quickly, like ripping off a bandaid.
“Wow, that actually feels a lot better. Thanks, man. Don’t hate me?” Stiles says, the perfect picture of casualness, but his heartbeat says the opposite.
Relief floods through Derek like it’s trying to replace his blood, and he leans his head against the fridge. There’s a twinge of disbelief mixed into the cocktail of feels he experiences all at once. A part of him feels like every terrible card the universe had handed to him was in preparation to give him this, all he could ever want. Of course he couldn’t have anything good up until this, it would be too much. This, them, Stiles, it’s all perfect.
“Derek, buddy, I’m going to need you to talk now. I know it’s not really a part of our deal, but I need you to say something. Anything, please.” Stiles says, nothing but panic.
“Can I leave the kitchen?”
When Derek reaches the living room, Stiles is no longer one with the couch. He’s up, looking like he’s both ready to flee and to collapse right on the floor. Derek thinks it’s a little ridiculous that Stiles thinks there was ever a chance he’d shoot him down. It’s like second nature to take his head into his hands and slot their lips together. He grins into the kiss when Stiles mumbles a quiet, “oh, thank god.” against his mouth.
