Stiles pulls over somewhere on the road to nowhere, and Stiles gets drunk off his ass.

He doesn't know why he does it, he only knows that his bones are itchy and his eyes are dry and he doesn't want to feel for a while. His skin is tight again, and there's a writhing ball of something in his throat that threatens to choke him. He drinks the alcohol, and he starts with the whiskey because he misses his dad. Fuck, does he miss his dad.

"Do you want to go home?" Derek asks quietly, and Stiles scoffs bitterly.

Doesn't Derek get it? Stiles doesn't have a home. Stiles doesn't have anything besides his car and his alcohol and the monster under his skin. "No," he answers, and he rolls his head to stare out the driver's window. "No, I don't think I do."

Derek nods, and Stiles knows he does because he looks at his werewolf again. He doesn't know why he does it. Maybe because Derek's pretty gemstone eyes gleam in the low lighting. Maybe it's because Derek looks soft and sad. Maybe it's because Derek took him to a music festival and Derek bought him bracelets and Derek has pretty eyes, but Derek can turn the car around and take them back and Stiles doesn't know if his trust can stretch that far.

Stiles finishes the whiskey, and his veins feel heavy, and his blood is warm and tingly, and he feels good. "I don't know if I'll ever go back," he says. He knows Derek recognises the words for what they are - permission for Derek to go back to Beacon Hills, permission for Derek to go back to Peter and home.

"No," Derek says, voice still soft. "I don't think I will."

Stiles laughs loudly (hysterically) and Derek smiles and Stiles cracks open a bottle of tequila to hide the tears bubbling in his eyes.

He drinks until he can't feel his tongue, and then he drinks some more because he's nothing if not self-destructive. It soothes whatever is moving and building underneath his skin and it stops him thinking about Beacon Hills and a father who lost his family and a cemetery with too many graves.

Derek doesn't say anything when Stiles rolls down the window and tosses the mostly-full bottle of tequila out, letting it shatter on the ground. Derek doesn't say anything when Stiles grabs another bottle of whatever-the-fuck and tosses that out the window too. Again, and again, and again, until there's no alcohol left in the car and the ground outside is littered with glass, and then Stiles drops his head back against the headrest and sighs.

Derek doesn't say anything, but his hand creeps across to grab Stiles's, and he holds on pretty tightly. 

"Lets go find a waterfall," Stiles decides. "Like, one of those aesthetic ones you read about in stories. Where you might expect to find fairies."

Derek doesn't say anything, and Stiles hits the power button on the stereo. He lets the sound of the music wash through him, and it feels similar to the alcohol - heady and heavy and familiar. He closes his eyes and lets his body relaxes and allows the music to sing to the angry monster under his skin. 

What's he doing out here, with Derek? He just up-and-left the only home he's ever known, with the werewolf he may be a little in love with, and they just drive around because Stiles is afraid of his own emotions. And Derek doesn't ever complain, or moan, or get angry. Derek just sits there quietly and lets Stiles destroy himself and it's probably the best thing someone's ever done for him.

Stiles opens his eyes and looks at his werewolf, and then Derek looks back.

They stare at each other for a while, and Stiles tries to look past the gemstone eyes to the dark emotions underneath. There's got to be something more than a calm, placating ease in Derek. Nobody can be that patient and understanding with some fucked up kid who can't sit still, who destroys families, who destroys himself.

There has to be more.

He's aware of Derek studying him back, of the werewolf's eyes flicking over Stiles's cheekbones and lips and jawline. He can feel the faintest touch of embarrassment colour his cheeks, but he grits his teeth and forces it away and keep staring into Derek's eyes. There's something frayed there, some thread that Stiles wants to tug on, just to see if Derek unravels. He won't pull on it, but he wants to.

Derek's breath whooshes out of him suddenly, and he turns his head away so he's looking out the front windshield. Stiles feel the gentle hum in his body stumble. His fingers twitch for a bottle of alcohol, but there isn't any left because Stiles is impulsive and Stiles likes to hurt himself and Stiles can't let himself have nice things.

"You should get some sleep," Derek says, voice barely more than a rumble in his throat.

"Oh," Stiles says, because he can't really think of anything else to say.

The werewolf is right of course. Stiles is tired, and drunk, and sad. He should get some sleep before something happens that he'll regret later, but he doesn't want to sleep, doesn't Derek get it? Stiles wants to stay awake because his skin is crawling and he needs to move. 

But Derek obviously doesn't understand, and something tightens in Stiles's chest because if Derek doesn't understand then there's nobody in the world who does and that makes Stiles sad. 

He's already lost so many people. If he loses Derek, then he'll lose himself too and maybe that means life isn't worth living.

Stiles opens the driver's door and stumbles out, glass crunching under his shoes. Alcohol tries to seep through to his socks, but he stumbles away too quickly and it doesn't have a chance. He makes it around to the passenger's side slowly, one arm wrapped around his stomach, and Derek is already there to help him in.

Stiles swats at the hands that reach for him. "I've got it," he snaps, and Derek obediently pulls back and lets Stiles clamber into the seat. 

Derek closes the door hard enough to make Stiles's head throb, and the teenage boy curls into a ball on the seat and hides his face in his knees and focuses on his unsteady breathing until he falls asleep.