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After a while, Stiles is just worn out. He’s sitting on his dorm bed, staring blankly at the four white walls, for once immobile, which just say how exhausted he is. He’d been so happy to leave Beacon Hill’s hell mouth. Well, sad, anxious and worried but… He’d had a chance at a new life. Something that wouldn’t be tainted by supernatural and his constant fear of dying.
Ok, let’s be honest. He just was hoping to finally get laid. And he did. Multiple times. With various partners. Of different sexes. In various positions. Testing his bisexuality (He really is. He love dicks. And pussy… But maybe less. Huh. Anyway. Not the point.) Point is… Sex is… Boring.
Yes he said it. B.O.R.I.N.G.
Actually, let’s be painfully honest. Sex is not boring. He loves sex. Loves orgasms, loves coming his brains out, loves doing all the filthy he ever only dreamt about and most of all, loves growing genuinely as a great lover. He cares. His dad always said so. But. The point is…
People are boring. B.O.R.I.N.G. Yes. They are. They are also… Easy. Yup. Once he got over his awkward I’m-a-virgin phase, Stiles did just like he did with everything. He rolled with the punches, he learned. Fast. Which means now picking up people and getting laid is despairingly easy. Lydia’s order to always wears skinny jeans and his glasses (that he never told anyone about, except Scott, Scott knows everything about him) also helped a lot. But… This is not the point either.
The point is… He’s tired. He doesn’t like games. He thought he did but he don’t. Not when you spent more time in your young years fearing for your life then getting laid/drunk/high/others various unknown. Sure most people would think the opposite would happens. You know. You’d want to try everything and do anything all at once. But no. Not for Stiles. All it did for him was to make him care. More. Which is a feat in itself.
Staring at the harsh truth now, he can say it. This is B.O.R.I.N.G. because… None of it is what he wants. None of them is… D.E.R.E.K. (Ok yes he’s a fucking coward alright??! He has to spell the fucking name of the fucking dude because he can’t say his fucking name alright??! Because… It’s hopeless. Big D will never want to do the D with little… S? Whatever.) He’ll never get his hands on that bubbly ass, will never get thrown in walls in a sexy manner, will never see those eyes flash and these fangs pop out because of his sexy self, will never hear this sexy growly voice saying filthy things in his ear, he’ll never get to show off his marvelous experienced skills to Big Bad wolf because… Because… Big D is still desperately clinging to little and very feminine B… Even after she left. Even after Stiles… Stupidly… Put himself out there and offered him… Comfort. And got… Rejected… Again.
… And that’s where he rein his thoughts to a screeching halt. Stiles doesn’t do pathetic. He rolls with embarrasment, shrug humiliation but he’s not pathetic, okay? Never. (Shut Up! He’s not. At least not this time. Not really. Because it’s true this time. Well sort of. For him at least.)
He lets out an exasperated sigh, thinking he should have followed his Aderall posology better but well… Too late now. Now he needs denial. Denial. His sweet wonderful magical always-there-to-save-me gorgeous friend denial. Which is why he takes his phone and call Scott. To go out and get drunk. And probably laid too. Denial. Yep. That will works.
He doesn’t focus on his fingers taping the numbers which is why he choke half to death when he hears this through the evil-evil-device (seriously, totally evil) resting on his ear.
“STILES damnit!!! Some people have fucking real lives and get to bed at a normal hour! It’s fucking 3 am! What DO YOU WANT??”
Stiles is still wheezing, searching for his breath helplessly while trying to figure out what to say as well as willing to not make a fool of himself by hanging up in a panic. Because he knows. He knows Derek would call back. To yell at him for sure but he would. So what’s the point?
When he finally get his breath back, his ear vibrating under the near constant growl emitted on the other side of the line, his mind is still blank. Which is why in truly Stiles fashion, he blurts out the first thing that kept haunting him these last months.
- “How do you do it?” he says, desperate for an answer.
Obviously, Derek sigh, aggravated, and Stiles can almost taste the heavy eye-rolling surely going on over Derek precious, beautiful face.
- “ What the fuck Stiles? How do I do what? Are you drunk? Cause you make no freaking sense. I’m hanging up!”
- “No wait!” Stiles yells quickly and then fall into the rest of his wondering. “How do you… Move on? How can you actually… Just keep going? How do you do it???” And Stiles isn’t sure if what he means is really clear but it’s something he needs right now. How does Derek, after Kate, Jennifer and all the crazy nightmare that is his life… Still try? Still had Braeden? He just don’t understand it. Can’t figure it out for himself. He can’t get over Derek and just… Don’t even want to put himself out there anymore. And let’s just say his ‘non-story’ with Derek is faarrr from the clusterfuck that was Kate Argent. He just needs to know. (And yes, thanks, he’s aware of the stupid irony that is him asking the guy who he is crushing on how to get over… Well him.)
Stiles was so long lost in his mental ramblings that he just now realized how silent the line has gotten. No more growlings, no sighs. Nada.
He’s about to hang up, thinking Derek just left him to his devices, as his usal MO, when he finally hears it. The answer, spoken in a strained, defeated voice he never heard Derek have. The voice he never lets anybody hear probably.
- “You don’t. You never get over it Stiles. You can’t. You just… Keep going because… Sometimes it’s just easier. You keep going because if you sit down… You’ll never get up again.”
The dial tone of his phone is what snap Stiles out of his trance.
Never?
He can’t even think anymore, he’s just a mess of emotions. Trust Derek to always fuck him up…
Which is also why he loves him.
Fuck he loves him so much.
Stiles go back to staring at his four walls.
But at least now he knows.
It’s really hopeless.
Fuck it.
He can roll with that.