Can we talk about how nicely Dylan fits under Hoechlin’s arm?! Cause I think we should talk about it.
I can’t even talk about this ok
doesn’t it look as though stiles and derek just came back from a long vacation spent hitch-hiking across europe, and the money ended like, three weeks in, so they’re both a little bit dishevelled, and a little bit dirty, and a little bit tired from the trip across the ocean, but they are both happy and relaxed, standing in the airport, waving to their friends, and more in love than they were when they set off?
because i think i looks exactly this way, and also that someone should write a fic.
oh my god.
Stiles asks him once when they’re making plans, and Derek tells him he’s traveled all over the country but never been out of the States. “Except for Canada,“ he says, and smiles wryly like he knows that probably doesn’t really count. “But that was a while ago, before we needed passports.”
“I have an aunt there. My mom’s sister,” Stiles says. He doesn’t know why he just volunteered that information — aunt Ruth was never that close to them; she hates his dad but hated him a little less after the death of her sister — but Derek nods like it’s important, like it’s something worth knowing about Stiles.
*
They go in for half on the tickets. Derek offer to pay for it all but Stiles shakes his head and says, “That’s kind of missing the point. I don’t think I’m supposed to rely on the kindness of strangers until I’m lost in Paris and desperately clutching my last euro.“
“I’m not a stranger,” Derek says.
Wealthy benefactor?“ Stiles says, eyebrows raised, and smiles when Derek rolls his eyes.
*
There are things they don’t tell you when you decide to travel — or maybe they do, but everyone is too busy being excited to take all of the practical advice to heart. They don’t tell you that there’s no way to pleasantly pass the ten-plus hours on a plan that doesn’t involve being unconscious.They don’t tell Stiles that the streets of Paris are literally full of shit and that the Eiffel Tower is underwhelming but that he’ll still feel compelled to take too many pictures with Derek in front of it, heads tilted in to each other to fit in the frame. They don’t tell him that his high school Spanish will be useless in Spain and that the sangria is lethal in the best way. They don’t tell them that there’s a high probability of them getting caught in the rain in the German countryside, that they will be lost and tired when the first drops start to fall, that Derek will pull him close even though neither of them have an umbrella, that he’ll lick the drop of water hanging from the tip of Stiles’ nose, that Stiles will have to kiss him in the middle of the flooding road until a car pulls up and honks at them to move, that the rain will stop when they find a place to stay for the night.
The travel guides lining the bottom of his backpack keep his passport dry, though, so it wasn’t all in vain.
*
Derek looks happy, but that’s not all. There’s a tinge of something else to the relaxed set of his shoulder, but Stiles thinks that could be the t-shirts. It’s hard to look uncomfortable in soft, worn cotton. They’re on a train, although to where Stiles isn’t sure; it was Derek’s turn to pick where.
“What,” Derek says, but doesn’t look up from the book he’s reading — something about architecture, possibly in Helsinki, but that feels like something he’s deliberately misremembering and he doesn’t care enough to check.
Stiles shrugs, curls his hand into a loose fist and knocks his knuckles against the back of the book once. “Nothing. Good book?
“Sure,” Derek says, looking up when Stiles grabs his wrist, thumb smoothing over the soft outlines of the veins there, and smiles. It’s a quietly happy sort of smile, the kind that means nothing but good things.
“Hey,” Stiles says, voice low, “I like you.“
“That’s convenient,” Derek says, but the tips of his ears start to go pink, and doesn’t try to get rid of Stiles’ hand on his wrist. “Me, too, I guess.“
*
Stiles picks at a hole in his jeans while they’re waiting to board the plane home. It’s six in the morning but their flight doesn’t leave until eight, and Derek is sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him Stiles’ hoodie rolled up and tucked under his neck. There’s a quarter-sized whole at the seam of the collar of Derek’s shirt, and Stiles wants to stick his finger through it. It’s the first time he’s seen something of Derek’s torn simply from overuse.
Derek turns his head toward Stiles but doesn’t open his eyes. “Just go to sleep,” he says.
“I’m not tired. And I was gonna wait to sleep on the plane,” Stiles says, but sinks down in his chair low enough to rest his head against Derek’s shoulder, and closes his eyes. The armrest between them digs into his side, but he doesn’t move.
“You’ll pass out when we get home, either way,” Derek says, voice still a little rough from sleep. Stiles thinks about feeling sad, maybe a little lost, now that the grand adventure is over, but Derek is breathing slow and even, already drifting off again, and yeah. Home. That sounds nice. That’s where he wants to be.
