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”I can wait,” is what Derek says, Stiles’ back to him. Derek won’t acknowledge the edge of a tremor to his voice, and he won’t acknowledge the snail house of dread curling in the pit of his stomach; he stamps it down, flexes his fingers by his sides.
Rejection stings like barb, it does every time, but Derek wants to hope, listens for the ‘but’ in Stiles voice.
“It’s just, Jonah’s a really great guy,” Stiles murmurs, and the line of his spine bows just a little more when he drops his head and scratches the back of his neck.
Derek understands. He understands that while Stiles’ 6-month-old relationship, with a guy Derek doesn’t want to get to know, has been rocky for weeks, that doesn’t mean Stiles is willing to give up trying just for Derek. Just for Derek. Why should he?
There’s a ‘but’, though. It’s right there, and Derek clutches it like a life vest, even though he shouldn’t, but he’s afraid he might drown if he doesn’t.
“I can wait,” Derek says again, and breathes through the pain clenching everything tight between his ribs, because he has to wait; he has to wait for Stiles to understand that they have to be together. He has to.
A month passes. Derek sees Stiles kiss his boyfriend outside school, bending down just slightly because Jonah isn’t as tall, smells him on Stiles’ clothes, on his hands, hears him talk to Scott about Jonah in Derek’s living room, hushed and excited and content until Derek comes back from the kitchen and the talking stops.
Stiles smiles at him, painfully guilty. Derek smiles back, painfully sorry he ever opened his stupid mouth in the first place.
Three months. Derek doesn’t understand why Stiles is still hanging around him outside pack meetings. It sates Derek’s wolf, having him around, and then confuses it when it registers the smell of someone else on him. Derek grits his teeth against it, doesn’t ask about Stiles’ day, tries to act casual even though Stiles’ shirt rides up when Isaac tackles him on the floor.
Stiles yelps, stomach very much exposed to the summer heat, his eyes immediately flashing to Derek’s, panic and unwarranted pressure written all over his features.
Derek leaves the loft with a bad excuse, and doesn’t come back until after dark. It’s not like the pack doesn't use it as a club house even without him home anyway.
Four months. Derek gets in a fight with Stiles over something mediocre; he forgets what afterwards, forgets it mid-through even, caught up in having Stiles to himself, focused and committed to an argument both of them let run too far.
Even when Stiles shouts in his face and throws his hands in the air, Derek’s blood sings, chants yes yes yes because Stiles is on fire, and it’s because of Derek, no matter the fact that it’s not in the way Derek would like.
But Derek’s in love, he’s in love with this boy and has been for a while, and when the thrill mixes with the ache, his instincts recognize why he’s not ever going be able to let that go.
“I fucking hate you sometimes, you know that?” Stiles yells, and sags against the wall with a huff.
“I know,” Derek says, and regrets it instantly when Stiles’ face falls. Then it isn’t fun anymore.
Five months. Stiles is starting to reek of guilt all the time, and it’s confusing Derek to the point that he’s losing sleep. It’s not Stiles’ fault Derek can’t keep his emotions in check. Derek doesn’t understand. Stiles has a partner he should be happy with, has someone, and Derek, well.
Derek is not that someone.
Some days he’s glad he isn’t, for Stiles. He tells himself Jonah can’t be good enough either, can’t give Stiles what he needs, can’t keep up like Derek would, but it seems he’s slowly being proven wrong, and it hurts. Every day is a damn rollercoaster of awkward moments, like they were ex-lovers, and times where they both pretend they're fine, that they're okay. Derek knows he's the one making it awkward, making it painful and weird for Stiles, and he loathes himself for not being able to stop it. He just doesn't know how.
His life jacket is sucking up water and weighing down faster than he can keep up; but Stiles tread water for two hours for him. Derek can tread water forever if he fucking has to.
Six months. Stiles is out with Jonah for their one year anniversary.
“Are you okay?” Isaac asks over dinner. Derek pokes at his food, nods, doesn’t look up. He figured Isaac had known for a while, as the only one. It bothers him less than it probably should. Isaac nudges his foot under the table.
“I’m sorry.”
Derek nods, small and tight, jaw tensing. Isaac goes back to eating and later falls asleep with his feet in Derek’s lap on the couch. Derek doesn’t sleep. He palms Isaac’s right heel, counts his heartbeats through most of the night until it’s the only thing in his head.
Jonah leaves for a college in Kansas and breaks up with Stiles in the same move. Stiles shows up at the loft two afternoons later, puffy-eyed and silent as he pushes past Derek and heads for the middle of the room, hovering by the couch like a storm cloud unsure where to rain down.
“I’m sorry,” Derek tries, even while his heart hammers away. Stiles sniffles and sits down on the couch with his head in his hands.
“No you’re not, you didn’t like him,” he mutters wetly. Derek steps closer.
“I’m sorry you’re upset,” he corrects. Stiles snorts, a sad, angry sound, so Derek sits down next to him.
“He’s a dick,” Stiles says and wipes the back of his hand across his cheeks.
“You liked him, though,” Derek replies quietly. Stiles barks out half a laugh.
“I did.”
They remain quiet until Derek hesitantly brings up a hand and places it on the back of Stiles’ neck, just above the collar of his shirt, all warm skin and the nubs of his spine pressing into Derek’s palm like a brand. Stiles sighs and leans into it before he leans into Derek, like he used to do before Derek had something like a damn aneurysm that convinced him a confession was in order, even though it absolutely wasn’t. Derek’s never been famous for his fantastic timing.
Treading water, Derek thinks, and tries not to instinctively breathe Stiles in. The mostly permanent ache between his lungs is spiking downward, finding new points of connection where Stiles’ shoulder meets his.
“Do you—“ Stiles starts, and cuts himself off. He sits up a little more, to face Derek, every contact point down their sides burning through Derek’s shirt, right through his skin to his bones. Stiles takes a breath. The whole bottom of Derek’s world feels like it’s about to give out.
“Do you think you can wait just a bit longer?” Stiles rushes out, voice breaking at the end, and he smells like guilt again, and Derek thinks he just might cry.