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Smoke

He hears it loud and clear: a sharp burst of laughter to his left. Derek whips his head around in annoyance, but there's nobody in his near vicinity, that might've let out such a sound. He sweeps the area again, an empty patch of beach he's found not far from the pier, and is just about to turn around when the laughter resonates again. He scowls on principle alone, seeing as how the sounds of merry making haven't been able to raise his hackles quite the way this laughter seems to.

Derek's about to turn around, but then the source appears from the street side. The sight of the guy feels like a slap in the face. He's gesturing wildly to the girl next to him trying to explain to her the merits of sorting your cd's by genre and alphabetically within that genre while they wait for the light to turn green to cross the road.

Stiles.

It can't be.

Derek knows for a fact that it's impossible, and yet, there he is. His hair is longer, tufts of it sticking out as if he runs his hands through it all the time in a nervous habit. He's wearing a brown leather jacket, flannel button down underneath, thrown over a yellow t-shirt with a moustache on it and dark jeans tight enough to showcase his long skinny legs ("Hipster douche, Derek. Hipster. Douche.").

It isn't until the guy, Stiles, Stiles, Stiles, let's out another loud laugh, head thrown back, that the fist with its vice like grip on his lungs loosens. It's not Stiles. It can't be. This guy is the embodied, personified version of the boy- no -the man Stiles could have been, before... before everything. Derek can't remember Stiles ever laughing like this, as freely as this Stiles, not Stiles, does, carrying himself so easily, confident and careless.

He wants to look away ("God, you're such a creeper, Der.") to stand up and walk away ("Brood in a different corner?"), but he can't. He's rooted to the spot he's chosen.

It's been six months: six months of running around keeping everybody in line; six months of dealing with everything that went to shit; and six months of not dealing with any of it at all.

His fingers reach for the set of keys in his pocket, skimming over them lightly making sure they're still there. Laura had left them for him on their kitchen counter. Brows furrowed, but a small smile playing on her lips, she'd said: "I'm sick of the east coast, Der." When he'd given the keys on the counter a curious look, she'd added "those are yours. Whenever you're ready."

He presses against them, digging the teeth further into his thigh.

"Hey man, you got a light?"

The feet in front of him make him realize he must've zoned out for a second, but the voice- the voice brings everything back into painful sharp clarity. Not him. Not him.

His throat is suddenly achingly dry and he swallows reflexively as he reaches inside his jacket, fishing for a stray lighter. ("Those things will kill you, ya know?"..."Shut up. You know what I mean.").

When Derek looks up to hand the guy the lighter, he's turned away, chuckling as he waves at the girl who is already headed towards the pier. It isn't until the guy turns around and Derek's looking him right in eyes that he feels the clench of the fist somewhere in his chest again and almost drops the lighter.

Shit, his eyes. They're the same honey brown. His eyebrows, nose - even the goddamn moles on his face - they're all the same; planted in a face that has outgrown puberty, lost its boyishness. The only thing stopping him from grabbing the guy's stretched out hand and pull him down to bury his nose in his neck, is the fact that the smell is all wrong. So wrong.

He knows he's staring, that he should stop ("Not polite to stare, dude."), but his eyes are stuck on every miniscule movement the guy makes. He's got a cigarette stuck in the side of his mouth as he mutters "thanks, man," around it, long fingers wrapped around the lighter. Shit, even his hands - making a cup around the flame as he flicks the lighter on. Derek just. Can't. Look. Away.

The guy eyes him as he hands the lighter back and Derek numbly goes through the motions of getting it back, struck dumb by this image of Stiles, not Stiles, smoking. The guy seems to decide on something and exhales loudly, reaching for a crumbled pack of Pall Malls in his pocket. He taps it expertly, shoving one cigarette out and shakes the pack in front of Derek.

At Derek's hesitation he grins widely and says "least I can do man."

He hasn't felt so off kilter in a long time.

The easy smile on the guy's face, coupled with the lack of sarcasm, bite and no razor sharp tongue to join it, intensifies the difference and Derek has to swallow to at least breathe right.

He's got a cigarette in his hand before he realizes, and the guy is plopped down next to him, holding a light in front of the tip. Derek can't help the curious look he gives the guy as he takes a drag, welcoming the smoke in to his lungs after...after a very long time. The guy shrugs unapologetically, takes a deep drag, smiles that easy smile again and says, "my friends don't like me smoking and I don't like to smoke alone."

The guy has no sense of self-preservation; he's not guarded, not afraid of rejection, no sense of someone, or something dangerous at every corner. He's so goddamn comfortable in his own skin that it sets Derek on edge out of envy alone. Envy for the easiness that he never possessed and the easiness that none of the teenagers around him ever got to have.

The guy wraps his arms loosely around his knees, comfortable in the silence around them as he takes slow drags from his cigarette. Derek is painfully aware of him: the smell he emanates wrapped up in the smell of the smoke; the colors high on his cheeks; his pale skin even though he's clearly from around here; and especially how everything about him screams Stiles and definitely not Stiles.

Derek knows he should be more aware – always is - but he's focused on every inhale and exhale, the slow steady heartbeat of this mind fuck of an imitation of Stiles, next to him.

The guy has to be aware of how obviously Derek's watching him, but he doesn't say anything as he grinds the cigarette butt in the sand next to him, grabs for his pack and shakes another cigarette out. He wordlessly hands Derek another one. It's only then that he notices that the cigarette in his hand is long burnt out and the ash is covering his thigh.

He takes the cigarette, lets the guy light it for him and watches as he lights his own.

"Dylan," he says and gives Derek another smile. His smile doesn't falter as Derek just stares at him.

He can't think with the smile directed towards him. If anything, he can admit he's freaked out beyond fuck all. He can smell him, smell him in a way he's never smelled Stiles, will never get a chance to.

The sound of a shout directed towards Dylan, not Stiles, snaps them out it. Dylan stands up and gives Derek an apologetic smile as he pats the sand off of him.

"Thanks for hanging out," he says and there's a small smile playing on his lips.

"Derek." His name's out of his mouth before he knows what he's doing, transfixed by the big grin the guy gives him and the heady smell coming off of him.

Another shout drags the guy's gaze away and with a last look thrown Derek's way and a small smile, he starts walking away.

Derek's eyes track him as he walks towards the pier when all of the sudden he turns, catching Derek's gaze. He smiles broadly again and before Derek realizes it, with surprisingly good aim, the pack of Pall Mall's hits him square in the chest. It says a lot about Derek at the moment that he didn't even see it coming.

"See you around, Derek!" The guy, Dylan, yells and he takes off in a jog towards his friends.

As he fingers the pack of smokes, he can hear Dylan's friends asking him questions and Dylan giving cheeky and evasive answers. At a "maybe," Derek looks up to find Dylan staring in his direction, giving a small wave.

Maybe , Derek thinks and plucks a cigarette out of the pack.

"Whenever you're ready, bro," he hears Laura say.

Maybe.

By; antarshakes