Death is quieter than Stiles suspected.

He'd assumed, wrongly so, it seems, that he'd go out with a bang. And surely, anyone who knows the way he's lived his life would be inclined to agree. Because Stiles Stilinski doesn't do anything quietly. Either way, though, he didn't see it coming like this.

No, not with just a few nearly silent, stuttering breaths as his friends call out his name nearby, him completely paralyzed and unable to respond. And he never thought he'd be alone.

Well, he is. And he isn't, he realizes.

He can see Derek's tear-streaked face as it lines up perfectly with the single shaft of moonlight filtering through the trees. He can hear Scott and Lydia shouting his name, their furiously desperate voices, nearly delirious with fear and anxiety, reaching a fever pitch. And if he concentrates, really concentrates, he can make out the outlines of Peter and Isaac further away, deeper in the forest, struggling to cover as much ground as possible to try and save him in time.

Not that it's possible now.

Stiles was dead long before they all showed up. And with the way Scott fell apart after he held Allison in his arms as she died, Stiles knows this is likely the better option. For everyone. Derek most of all. Because he doesn't deserve to have another person taken from him so callously.

And Stiles would really like the last image Derek has of him not to be Stiles bleeding out on the forest floor, soaking the leaves beneath him. He cannot imagine the kind of mental anguish that might inflict on a person.

Actually, he can, he remembers. He was there, holding his Mom's hand when she slipped away. And that is precisely why he knows better. Why he stays quiet. Why, even if he could, he'd choose not to move a muscle a thousand times over.

The universe owes them a better goodbye than this, though. They've all worked so hard to keep their town, and the world, safe from the creepy crawlies and things that go bump in the night. They've earned peace, goddamnit. And if Stiles can give them even a tiny slice of that by not calling them over just so they can be there when the light fades from his eyes, that works.

Because he's not alone. Not really.

"I don't understand," Derek cries out, metaphorically ripping through what's left of Stiles' insides as he runs his fingers through his hair, pulling at the ends. "Why can't I find him?"

"It's okay," Scott offers up, "we'll get to him, okay? We will. We have to."

"But I can't..."

"I can't either," Lydia pipes up next. "It's not just you, Derek. I have nothing. No supernatural senses. Like someone flipped a switch."

Well, Stiles reasons, that makes him feel better. He couldn't help but admit, if only to himself, that he was wondering why Lydia hadn't found him straight away. Because he was definitely already actively dying when he heard the deep purr of the Camaro's engine as it pulled up to the stage set for his final moments. In fact, it was only a matter of time now. A few more minutes, maybe, if he was lucky. And Lydia is usually a bloodhound at sniffing out dead bodies. Or almost dead ones. And Stiles certainly qualifies.

He's not ashamed to concede that he thought it might have something to do with their connection. That they weren't near as close as Stiles had assumed. And it weirdly warms his heart to know it takes actually fucking magic to keep them away.

Derek crouches down, tiny whimpers escaping him as he continues to pull at the ends of his hair in frustration, looking slightly deranged. But since Stiles has known this brand of grief firsthand, he knows it's not all that far from the truth. And it's also never been more glaringly obvious that they've had the kind of relationship that Stiles never dreamed possible. Not with someone like Derek Hale. Because even if those witches technically delivered the final blow, after hours and hours of torture, Stiles seeing a response like this from the Alpha shreds him to pieces.

But Stiles always did have a habit of underestimating the depth of other people's feelings for him, as Derek often pointed out. And now he finds himself praying that his love finds a way to survive. Finds a way to move on, move past the pain, instead of carving out a place for Stiles in what's left of his heart.

And Stiles could say something now. Derek's only a few inches away. And he can move his fingers again. If he makes even the smallest noise, or Derek has a reason to turn his head slightly to the left, he'll catch a glimpse of Stiles. And maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing ever to have Derek hold him while he drifts away, he reasons.

He's allowed a little bit of peace too, after all. Stiles has been right there with them the whole time. Researching. Fighting. Loving them all. Even when he shouldn't have been. Even when it made no damn sense. Even though it led to this exact moment in time.

But he looks up at the sky instead, his blinks getting slower and slower as he counts the stars he can see. And he blocks it all out. Even Derek. And tears leak from his own eyes, washing away the stench of all things dead and dying, affording him a sliver of the one thing he wishes for every one of them after he's gone.

Peace.