areiton:

(Inspired by the gorgeous photos of Hoechlin found here) 

Stiles knew that Beacon Hills was toxic. He knew it was hell wrapped up in suburbia and small town and that it was killing him.

He’d watched it, watched it sucking the life from his father, from Peter and Derek, from himself.

The truth was–watching Derek drive away hurt. In ways he didn’t expect, it dug in and cut at him. They were barely friends, but Derek–Derek was more.  He was safety during the very worst times of Stiles’ life, a quiet companion on the anniversary of his mother’s death. A snarky dry wit when they watched movies that long summer when Scott was too busy trying to be better and Derek was desperate to find his missing pack. 

He was the one who always protected Stiles, and the one Stiles always rescued and after watching him almost die–to watch him walk away hurt. 

He needed to leave. Stiles understood that, and even though his absence sometimes felt like a gaping wound–he never fought it. 

In all the long conversations they had, over text and phone calls that felt intimate and sacred–he never asked why Derek left. 

He never let himself ask Derek to come back. 

Beacon Hills was toxic, a black hole that would kill him, if he let it and Derek got out. 

After everything that he had survived, Stiles sure as fuck wasn’t going to be the one that drug him back. Not even if the texts and phone conversations that felt intimate and sacred were becoming heavier, laden with things neither was addressing head-on, but that neither was ignoring outright. 

They were dancing around more and Stiles–he wanted it. 

He wanted it so bad sometimes he could taste it, could imagine it, what life would be like free of this place and all it’s shit, what it would be like to share space and life and love with Derek in a world that wasn’t dark and filled with shadows and things constantly trying their damnedest to kill them. 

He dreamt about it, about waking up next to him, seeing that familiar grumpy face softened by sunlight and peace, kissing him because he could and not because desperation and another near death experience finally drove him to it. 

He dreamt of Derek and peace, and a future. And sometimes, when Derek whispered his name, quiet and heavy in the dark and Stiles knew the ‘wolf could hear him moving, the slick glide of his fist over his skin, and rustle of bedsheets, the uptick in his heart–when Derek murmured his name, like a plea and a promise, and Stiles came, shaking silently apart, he let himself believe they’d have more than texts and phone calls, intimate and sacred. 

The address was surprising because he never expected Derek to settle in Montana, and not because Derek sent it the morning of his graduation. 

He was on the road within twenty four hours, and he wanted to feel guilty about leaving, about abandoning the pack and Scott–but Peter told him before he left that he should never feel guilty for surviving and Kira echoed it in the rare letters he got. Lydia skipped graduation altogether, flying out of Beacon Hills the day of her last final. 

The drive was quiet, and he thinks he should be more anxious than he is–but this doesn’t feel impossible and terrifying so much as it does like the next step, the logical progression, the only choice. 

He listens to music and eats jerky and Reese’s and drives until he hits golden plains in Montana, rolling mountains and endless stretches waving grass, and a sky that feels eternal. 

He sees Derek first. It’s maybe the only time he’s ever seen Derek first, and he’s so beautiful it makes Stiles tremble. 

His beard is full, and his clothes are a little lose, and he looks…settled. Comfortable. Content. 

Then he turns, and Stiles watches that quiet content melt away as his brows furrow and a smile, as bright as the sun shining overhead, brightens his face. 

Derek Hale never smiled in Beacon Hills, Stiles thinks, absurdly, before his werewolf is pulling him into an impossibly tight hug, a whine in his throat, and his face pressed to Stiles shoulder. 

He laughs, softly, breathlessly, a noise he doesn’t recognize because Stiles can’t remember the last time he laughed. 

But here–here in a wild world of windswept gold and wide open skies and sunshine–Derek smiles and Stiles laughs, and when the stars spangle the sky like a million tiny diamonds, they curl together and whisper about the future, and Derek kisses him, and it feels intimate and sacred.