[ When he finally breaks away (his mouth is tingling, as stupid and cliche as that sounds, but it really is), Stiles' eyes don't open for a second as he slowly looses the hold on his hand. But it's not to pull away from him completely, it's to bring his other wrist up over his ears, give him something else to listen to instead of the crashing of the building. It's almost done--it's so old that it collapses at the touch, now, rotted floorbeams and ceilings giving way to cold steel.
It's almost gone. It wasn't Stiles decision, it was all Derek, and he couldn't--he really couldn't be prouder of him for it. It hurt. He knew, more than anyone, that it hurt. But it was a step, a step in roots put down in a garden and in a little pack that did their damn best to try and give the prodigal son somewhere to belong again. They'd grown so much since the day Peter Hale lost control of himself and bit Scott, forming cohesive bonds that felt more like a family than a group of friends.
His eyes flutter open again, just a little, and he slowly looks up at him, brown eyes matched on green as he holds his gaze, keeps him from looking as the last column of the house goes tumbling down and the bulldozer scoops up the remains. ]
[ Letting Stiles move his fingers from his, Derek stands like that for a moment, one hand hand still fisted in his shirt and the other hanging down as his world is just Stiles. All he knows is Stiles-- tastes him even as he pulls back from the kiss; has the summer to autumn scent to cover up rotted wood and exhaust fumes, the faint frost that clings to it now, spice and medication and lingering juniper; hears only his heart thrumming against his ears-- and it settles something in him. Slowly, he brings his hand up, slides calloused fingers along the back of his palm and overlaps his fingers. The other loosens in his shirt, drawing up to curl against the side of his neck.
This is home, now. Not some burnt out husk that breaks at a single touch, swept into rubble and dumped into the back of a truck. A racing heartbeat and a warm touch, worn by books and lacrosse and holding tight to what remains. This is his heart now, in a ragtag pack that becomes his family more and more every day. He came back to Beacon Hills, sister dead and uncle thirsting for blood, no friends and no loyal allies to speak of.
Now he has this pack, this family. Now he has Stiles.
He watches him, instead of the wreckage being taken away. Thumbs at the pulse in his throat, even as they bring the last of the standing foundation down. No words come, but he still mouths a quiet "thank you." ]
[ A part of him just aches at the words (or lackthereof), the vulnerability of the moment, and he never takes his eyes off of him, never looks out at the wreckage to tempt him away. It's something special they have here, something they've had for ages. No fake crushes or heartbreak, no one using the other.
Just the two of them, in front of the remains of Derek's house.
He doesn't let go until the rumbling stops, kisses the mouthed words off his lips and chases them with his own, "anytime", resisting any urge to make a stupid joke and just holding him there, anchoring, until the machines cut off and it's gone.
Just like that, it's gone.
Stiles finally lets him go, slowly lifting his hands from his ears, and looks out. The field itself is surprisingly quiet, flattened by the bulldozers but green under remaining soot and dust, and he slowly drops his hands to his pulse, giving his neck a little squeeze as he barely pulls away, waves at the contractor and turns a little pink at the back of his neck. Friend of his dad's, of course. ]
[ Pressing their foreheads together for a moment as he looks back at him, he closes his eyes for a brief moment in the slightest flinch as he hears something grinding, crashing-- the remains of his family home being dumped into a truck, almost too weighed down-- over the pulse in his ears. But then he's opening his eyes again to look at Stiles, staying locked on the whiskey brown of those big bambi eyes of his.
It's all he needs.
As the low thrum of machinery comes to an end, Derek takes a deep breath that he holds, only letting go of it after Stiles' mouth is no longer pressed to his. It helps him brace against what he's about to see when he turns his head away.
For a moment, he doesn't turn. Lets Stiles look first, wave at the contractor. The touch to his neck reassures him enough that he thinks he can do it, thinks he can turn to look at what remains. His hand slides around, curls so that the hell of his hand is near his pulse and his fingers can settle at the back of his neck. Like he's holding onto his anchor, as he finally lifts his head and looks at the field.
That's all it is. Everything is gone, loaded into dump trucks. He swallows thickly, not even thinking about how quickly word spreads in Beacon Hills. ]
[ It's weirdly peaceful looking, now that the house is gone. Empty, maybe. Like there's a great big hole left in the middle of the forest. Stiles stays quiet and lets Derek do what he pleases, slowly dropping his hand from his neck only to slide his arm around his hips, fingers curling in the fabric of his used to be too big leather jacket and tilting his head just a little to lean it on his shoulder.
It's gone.
It takes him a while to move. He doesn't want to disturb Derek--he won't judge, won't do anything but be that anchor, the warrior's shield, and when he finally does, he strides forward with purpose and picks up a stick, walking to a little bit of dirt near what he can gauge as the middle of the field, and crouching down, dragging the tip of the stick through the dust in one spiral, then two, then three. ]
[ Head turning the slightest bit, but eyes staying on what remains, Derek tucks his nose in Stiles' thick hair and just stands like that for a while. This was simultaneously the easiest and hardest thing he's ever done-- the house was gone as if it was swept aside, but it took a lot for him to be able to sign it away. Standing there with Stiles, looking at everything, he isn't sure whether the weight from his shoulders is gone or not. But it doesn't hurt, quite so much.
So it's easy to let Stiles move away, fingers loosening as he straightens a little, watches him. Curiosity gets the best of him, and he feels the pull that's between them drawing him forward after him. When his shoes scuff the flattened earth, remains of charred wood and ash, he tries to push aside the thought that he's walking across all that's left of a childhood long gone.
It's easy enough, when he sees what Stiles is doing. ]
Stiles... [ There's something strained but grateful in his voice, like he'd forgotten how to use it since he first told Stiles to meet him at the Hale house and only remembered because of this. Because of a symbol so ingrained in his life, and the boy who runs with wolves. ]
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no subject
It's almost gone. It wasn't Stiles decision, it was all Derek, and he couldn't--he really couldn't be prouder of him for it. It hurt. He knew, more than anyone, that it hurt. But it was a step, a step in roots put down in a garden and in a little pack that did their damn best to try and give the prodigal son somewhere to belong again. They'd grown so much since the day Peter Hale lost control of himself and bit Scott, forming cohesive bonds that felt more like a family than a group of friends.
His eyes flutter open again, just a little, and he slowly looks up at him, brown eyes matched on green as he holds his gaze, keeps him from looking as the last column of the house goes tumbling down and the bulldozer scoops up the remains. ]
no subject
This is home, now. Not some burnt out husk that breaks at a single touch, swept into rubble and dumped into the back of a truck. A racing heartbeat and a warm touch, worn by books and lacrosse and holding tight to what remains. This is his heart now, in a ragtag pack that becomes his family more and more every day. He came back to Beacon Hills, sister dead and uncle thirsting for blood, no friends and no loyal allies to speak of.
Now he has this pack, this family. Now he has Stiles.
He watches him, instead of the wreckage being taken away. Thumbs at the pulse in his throat, even as they bring the last of the standing foundation down. No words come, but he still mouths a quiet "thank you." ]
no subject
Just the two of them, in front of the remains of Derek's house.
He doesn't let go until the rumbling stops, kisses the mouthed words off his lips and chases them with his own, "anytime", resisting any urge to make a stupid joke and just holding him there, anchoring, until the machines cut off and it's gone.
Just like that, it's gone.
Stiles finally lets him go, slowly lifting his hands from his ears, and looks out. The field itself is surprisingly quiet, flattened by the bulldozers but green under remaining soot and dust, and he slowly drops his hands to his pulse, giving his neck a little squeeze as he barely pulls away, waves at the contractor and turns a little pink at the back of his neck. Friend of his dad's, of course. ]
no subject
It's all he needs.
As the low thrum of machinery comes to an end, Derek takes a deep breath that he holds, only letting go of it after Stiles' mouth is no longer pressed to his. It helps him brace against what he's about to see when he turns his head away.
For a moment, he doesn't turn. Lets Stiles look first, wave at the contractor. The touch to his neck reassures him enough that he thinks he can do it, thinks he can turn to look at what remains. His hand slides around, curls so that the hell of his hand is near his pulse and his fingers can settle at the back of his neck. Like he's holding onto his anchor, as he finally lifts his head and looks at the field.
That's all it is. Everything is gone, loaded into dump trucks. He swallows thickly, not even thinking about how quickly word spreads in Beacon Hills. ]
no subject
It's gone.
It takes him a while to move. He doesn't want to disturb Derek--he won't judge, won't do anything but be that anchor, the warrior's shield, and when he finally does, he strides forward with purpose and picks up a stick, walking to a little bit of dirt near what he can gauge as the middle of the field, and crouching down, dragging the tip of the stick through the dust in one spiral, then two, then three. ]
no subject
So it's easy to let Stiles move away, fingers loosening as he straightens a little, watches him. Curiosity gets the best of him, and he feels the pull that's between them drawing him forward after him. When his shoes scuff the flattened earth, remains of charred wood and ash, he tries to push aside the thought that he's walking across all that's left of a childhood long gone.
It's easy enough, when he sees what Stiles is doing. ]
Stiles... [ There's something strained but grateful in his voice, like he'd forgotten how to use it since he first told Stiles to meet him at the Hale house and only remembered because of this. Because of a symbol so ingrained in his life, and the boy who runs with wolves. ]