No longer

It's been continuing for a while. A long while. The pack gathers in the loft—to discuss something, to solve yet another problem connected to the supernatural world, or to just hang out together. As always, nothing new. They're loud, talkative, and annoying—but Derek has already grown used to this feature of them. Has resigned himself to it, so to speak. Though he is part of the pack, which can't help but bring him a certain warmth and some happiness from the acknowledgement, Derek doesn't like being around these teenagers at moments like this—unless the situation demands his presence. He just can't fall into their collective mood, can't make himself stick around them as one of their friends. Because after those years of hell, he simply isn't used to having people around. It's still hard to accept. Maybe, the werewolf thinks sometimes, he's afraid to. Today is no different. As usual, Derek pushes his reading aside, remembers the page he has stopped at, and rises from his warm spot on the couch just as the first bitten wolf tumbles into the loft. And the sharp noises behind the guest only mean the whole pack is here—probably to throw some kind of party, not caring about Derek's thoughts on it, leaving the born wolf no choice but to head upstairs. "Hi, Derek!" is all Derek hears as he reaches the stairs, mumbling something in reply. They throw jokes about his sour expression, and Derek just sighs—it will never end. He should blame one particular person for that. And the memory occupies him for a long moment when he's three steps from the first step of the stairs. It makes Derek turn the train of his thoughts to that person. So, what has been continuing for a long while? Stiles. Or rather, the thoughts of him—unwilling, yet not unwelcome. Derek's hearing—without even his conscious involvement—catches an uneven, as usual, heartbeat somewhere behind the crowd itself, somewhere outside the loft. The human one, belonging to someone who hasn't entered yet—but is firmly approaching the front door. Less than half a minute later, the awkward teen breaks into the pack's den. "Salut, everyone!" the voice shouts, sending familiar, thrilling goosebumps over Derek's body—though the werewolf isn't quite sure when it became so dear. The pack shouts their hellos back, raising the noise level even higher. Derek tries to ignore it, starting to drag his foot forward. "Hi, Derek," the voice whispers now, so quietly that the werewolf is not even sure if the other wolves hear those two words, or if it's just him alone. It makes him stop mid-step. It feels like a special moment, as though the teenager makes his greeting something intimate, something just between the two of them. As if he's doing it on purpose. The invisible string between the werewolf and the teen is stretching even more. Derek tightens his grip on the book in his right hand, can't help but tilt his head slightly. "Hello, Stiles," he says out loud, volume just loud enough for Stiles' human ears to hear and for anyone else in the room only if they want to listen. But the werewolf knows Stiles hears him clearly—he can feel the warm caramel of his eyes burning on his back. Everything inside him churns now, and the born wolf is unable to resist the urge to steal one glance back. He looks over his shoulder—Stiles stands in the middle of the loft, already looking at him with something in his deep gaze that makes Derek instantly look away from the familiar face. Too familiar, in fact. They both feel the same in this matter. What has been continuing for a long while? A silent something. Strong, overwhelming, all-encompassing. Threaded through the words, sunk in the eyes, radiating from the bodies. Derek goes upstairs; Stiles stays there. The party goes on. By late evening, the pack finally decides to wrap up, and the born wolf walks out of his room, heading downstairs to check his loft for any sign of damage. Derek stops before he can reach for the railing when he hears again that Stiles is still fiddling in his spot as the others slowly filter out. Derek sighs, hears Stiles sigh as well, bitterly. The werewolf resumes going downstairs. What has been continuing for a long while? The wish to say many things—yet keep them all secret. It turns out many wolves are sprawled on the couches who haven't even started to get out of here, so Derek has to growl a little to give them a steel hint. Lost in the long, seemingly fascinating conversation, the bitten wolves startle as one and snap their heads around—only to see Derek's unfriendly expression. They rush to leave. Good. And only one person among the noisy crowd seems to keep dragging out the time. Brief glances of whom Derek gets all this time as he shoves the pack away—and the one who's moving away at this moment. For some reason—but honestly an obvious one—it causes something deep inside him to ache. "Stiles." His voice rings heavily in the suddenly dry air. No one seems to notice him or his tone, tensed and laced with concern, they just continue walking away. No one, except the one who stops at the door. The one Derek needs to stop right now. Stiles turns halfway around, not looking the werewolf directly in the eye. "What?" And it sounds as quiet as Derek heard at the start of the party, but this time it feels soaked with vague hope. Somehow, the single word makes him swallow a lump in his throat he didn't know had been building there. It's unfamiliar to him. What has been continuing for a long while? Something thoroughly hidden deep in their hearts, unfamiliar and long neglected. "Take care," Derek says, his voice nearly cracking under the weight of the mountain of unspoken feelings, suppressed emotions, and unexpressed things that should have been said but remain wordless. And Stiles does look at him then. His face etches a deep emotion Derek can't quite decipher. "Yeah," Stiles murmurs, "and you too." Derek smells the sadness woven into Stiles' usually sweet scent, now tinged with salt. The teen's eyes are so open, so trusting, that Derek wants to say something more—to not lose that openness, to justify the trust, to merely hold that expression forever. But he doesn't, and the moment slips away as if it never existed. Stiles becomes the same depressed and distant. "Bye," Derek finally says, softly. "Bye," Stiles echoes, just as quietly. Stiles leaves, but before the door closes completely, he glances back, and the werewolf catches it—stumbles over those eyes that contain melted caramel inside. It's only a few seconds, but they're full of silent communication, hidden words, and subtle meanings only they can understand and feel. And Derek doesn't like how sad they are now—how helplessly hopeful they are as they look right into seemingly his core, as if trying to find the answer their owner longs for. Yet, Stiles looks away at last, leaving the building and joining his friends. At that moment, when the door shuts close, Derek, standing in front of it, decides that it must come to an end. And he will be the one to change the things between them. And he's going to start tomorrow. He no longer wants it to continue.