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The ground is soft and damp beneath Stiles' bare feet. Moss and cool leaves catch between his toes as he follows the path, deep into the woods. The trees are filled with the glow of firefly lights, guiding his way through the tall, winding trunks; the shadow of branches flickering over him. The small golden bells around his wrists and ankles chime softly with each step. The barest sliver of moon hangs low in the sky, skimming the canopy, winking at him as he walks. Fingers of smoke from the bonfire reach out and pull him forward and the air is heavy with spices and ash and magic. He can hear them up ahead, his family and friends, the laughter and murmured conversation rumbling from the clearing where they're waiting. Where Derek's waiting. His heart gives an odd, slippery thump at the thought. The sounds die down as he breaks through the tree line, everyone falling quiet as they realize he's there. Wooden folding chairs are arranged in two loose half moons, creating a larger circle around the space in the middle, and everyone is craning in their seats to get a look at him. Scott's grinning at him so hard it looks like it hurts, sitting with Melissa at his flank, who's giving Stiles such a look of motherly pride that it hurts. Allison's on his other side, eyes twinkling. Lydia and Cora are hand in hand, giving him looks that are affectionate and threatening, respectively. The rest of the small crowd blurs as he catches sight of Derek behind them. His feet are also bare, planted firmly within the ritual circle Stiles himself cut into the earth earlier in the day. He's bare-chested, but painted so thoroughly with runes that it almost looks like he's covered in blood, paint shining in the firelight. The altar behind him is woven so thickly with marigolds and California poppies that Stiles can't even see the frame. And, oh, his eyes are positively glowing where they're pinned on him, the look in them so soft it makes Stiles ache. And Holy shit, Stiles thinks, Holy shit. We're getting married.
~♠~
The smile on Derek's face as Stiles approaches is big and genuine, radiating happiness. All teeth and sunshine. "Hi," he says, low and rusty and a little awed and god, Stiles can relate. He doesn't know what his own face is doing, but he assumes it's similarly dopey and lovestruck. "Hi," he says, voice coming out almost as softly as Derek's. They stare at each other for a long moment, caught up and grinning, until there's a sharp wolf-whistle from behind them and Cora's stage whisper of "Oh my god get on with it this is gross." A murmur of laughter runs through their audience, and Derek tosses her a half-hearted glare, but his eyes are immediately drawn back to Stiles. "I'll remember that when you finally get off your ass and ask Lydia to marry you," he mutters, not looking away from Stiles. Stiles, who has to bite down on his lip at that. It's probably bad form to be overtaken by hysterical laughter at your own wedding. Cora is suspiciously quiet in the seats somewhere behind him and Stiles twists around, catching a glimpse of her dark flush before Derek nudges him to regain his attention. "Ready?" he asks, both hands extended, head tilted towards where Stiles' dad, who got certified for this, is waiting for them under the altar. Stiles sucks in a deep breath, shaking his suddenly trembling fingers out a little, causing a cascade of softly tinkling bells, before taking Derek's hands and giving them a quick squeeze. "You bet, baby." Derek's grin returns full force, and he ducks his head, presses a swift closed-mouthed kiss to Stiles' white knuckles, and tugs him forward, towards their forever.
