Stiles was ten the first time he met Derek Hale. He's almost certain Derek doesn't remember.

The second time, he was sixteen, and he doesn't think it counts, because Derek didn't spare him a glance. He looked the same as he had six years before, sad eyes behind a face carefully set into a mask of strength.

All the other times blur into fear-sweat and sharp words with nothing behind them, until eventually, Derek is just Derek.

When Stiles is eighteen, they meet at the door of the loft. Derek's wearing sweatpants and a smirk, and it feels like Stiles has known him forever.

"Officially a consenting adult," Stiles says, working hard to keep his voice calm and even, despite the frantic hammering of his heart. "Please tell me the only reason we've never addressed this thing is because I wasn't."

Derek chews the inside of his lip, crosses his arms over his chest."I remember the first time I saw you," he says. "You had pen marks on your fingers, and a smudge right here." He reaches out, drags a finger over Stiles' chin. "You smelled like ink."

He'd been doing homework while he waited for his dad. The station was buzzing as they investigated the cause of the fire. "You remember that?"

"I remember thinking you'd be beautiful when you grew up."

Stiles steps forward, an instinctive jolt of motion, reaches out, hands fluttering as he aches to touch, to hold on and not let go. It's an urge he's been suppressing for a long time, and he stills just short of his prize. "You were so sad. I knew how that felt."

The sadness reappears in Derek's eyes for a moment, then it's gone as he grabs Stiles by the hand and drags him into the room.

He leads Stiles all the way to the bed, pulls him down on the edge.

"Huh," Stiles says. "I thought there'd be kissing first."

Derek's lips twitch into a smile as he turns toward the side table. "Shut up, Stiles," he says as he pulls the drawer open.

He rummages for a while, then from the back, pulls out a yellowing piece of folded paper. The corners are worn and feathery, the folds seem about to tear as Derek opens it up and passes it over.

It's a page torn from a notebook. There's a few lines of his own immature handwriting in smudged, blobby ink.

Dear Derek Hale, it reads.

I'm sad that your house burned down. My mom died two years ago and it was horrible. I still cry all the time, but my dad says you're allowed to cry when you lose people you love. I hope I never lose my dad.

~Love from~ ~My condolincs~ Signed, Stiles Stilinski.

Stiles stares down at it in confusion. "I don't remember writing this." He looks up, blinks as his eyes start to sting.

"You didn't say anything," Derek says. "Just shoved it into my hands and stared at me while I read it." He takes the fragile slip of paper from Stiles and sets it on the side table, then reaches out to take Stiles' fingers in his own. He drags his thumb over an ink smudge on one knuckle. "You still smell like ink, sometimes." He looks up, leans in, brushes his lips over Stiles' mouth.

There's wetness on Stiles' cheeks as he surrenders to instinct and wraps his arms around Derek's neck. He doesn't know whose tears they are, or if it even matters.

fin