Beyond The Bite(Sterek fanfiction)(M/M)

Chapter 11

Beyond The Bite  •  Chapter 11
(Word Count: 1,807)

[Potential TW: alcohol abuse]

-Derek's POV-

A familiar scene unfolded before me; Stiles was hunched over in the passenger's seat, absentmindedly picking at a hangnail. His tie hung loose, while the top button of his shirt was undone, giving him a disheveled look. His rain-dampened hair clung to his forehead. His typically lively brown eyes, usually brimming with warmth and curiosity, now appeared dull and rimmed with red, fixated intently on the road ahead. He wore a steadfast yet exhausted expression, his face noticeably paler from the toll taken by the relentless nightmares. Despite the intimacy of our budding relationship and the comfort he allowed me to provide, he remained silent about his inner turmoil. I longed to understand how to reach him, to be able to support him fully.

"You're staring," he stated, his voice devoid of its usual enthusiasm. I longed to hear his animated, sarcasm-laced chatter.

"I'm worried about you, Stiles," I replied, my concern straightforward.

He turned to face me, "I'm in control, doing just as you coached me. I appreciate that you care, but I'm fine."

I gripped the steering wheel tighter, a sense of relief washing over me as I shared my thoughts. "It's not just about the possibility of you losing control. It's the nightmares—you're not getting enough rest. You've been hardly eating. You've avoided leaving your bed whenever possible this last week. It's clear you're attempting to bond with the others despite everything, but when it comes to self-care, you've completely withdrawn."

Stiles was silent for a moment, redirecting his gaze to the road.

He faltered, struggling to find the right words, his lips parting and then pressing together before he finally spoke. "I can't prioritize sleep or food or anything when I'm overwhelmed with this guilt." His voice wavered.

"Witnessing that symbol imprinted on Him," he inhaled shakily, "It tore me apart. All I can fixate on these days is our lack of knowledge about the nature or identity of our enemy. All I have is this accursed tattoo on my skin that seems to have marked me for death, without any form of guidance." A bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped his lips. "I thought that by becoming like you, those closest to me would be safer. How naïve I was to assume I'd be the exception, that this mark was some emblem of heroism. Now, none of it matters. I survived that night, but it's irrelevant because my dad is gone, and we're left clueless, scrambling while our unseen adversary is free to harm again."

The car interior was suffused in a heavy silence, each of Stiles's words laden with anguish.

As we pulled into the loft's parking, I shifted the car into park, deep in thought about how to respond.

"The fact that you survived, that the mark appeared—it's not connected to your father's death. You must realize that," I began tentatively, "The tragedy that unfolded is unspeakably horrendous, but you can't prevent what you're unaware of, whether you're human or a werewolf. You can't let this guilt destroy you."

"What? So I become as embittered as you?" Stiles interjected sharply, his words cutting to the core.

I remained silent, absorbing the sting of his words.

Guilt emanated from Stiles immediately, his voice unsteady as he tried to retract his earlier comment. "Derek, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

I exhaled, releasing the tension. I didn't hold it against him. His pain ran deep; I'd rather he ventilate that pain toward me than inward.