Stiles stares ahead, watching everyone else around him. They're laughing. That's good, he decides. It's been too long since they really and truly laughed. And while it makes sense how they all got here, to this point, it still makes him sad if he allows himself to focus on the individual events. Because this is the first time in however many weeks and months that they've laughed. That they've had a few minutes of being teenagers. Regular teenagers partying the night away before their senior year begins. One that isn't being interrupted by a Nogitsune, or an Alpha pack, or their sometimes friend parading as a deadly Kanima trying to paralyze and murder them, or any of the other Big Bads that have wandered into their hometown.

And damn, the Nogitsune did a number on them. Him, especially. Him, most of all.

But right now, they're laughing. They're having a good time. And he wants to join in. Actually join in. Be one of them. But it's just not going to happen. Not when he feels like this. As if his nerve endings have been sandpapered down. And he's not about to break all the happy vibes floating around them tonight with one of his existential crises.

Mainly because Stiles has them once a day now. And the nights suck too, but at least he can sleep. He can close his eyes and not wonder if he's really awake in the morning. He doesn't have to pretend at night either. Not when he's alone. Of course, that's when the nightmares come.

But it's still better than the pretending.

Stiles feels someone's eyes boring a hole in the side of his head suddenly, but he doesn't turn. Instead, he works on fixing his face to appear as if he might be in on whatever joke Scott just told too. That he could've been listening to any of the conversation that's been a dull roar all night. Because if he can't fake it, they're going to look at him. All of them. Like, really look. And then they'll see. They'll notice that he's barely holding it together, and he can't talk about any of what happened to him. He's not ready.

Not yet.

But no matter what he does, and even as he puts on the best show of his life, the eyes never leave him. And he wants to turn. Probably should turn, his self-preservation is screaming at him, but he can't do it. Whoever it is will uncover his darkest secrets if he does, he tells himself. And that shit is dark. And they're all having a good time, damnit. He can't disrupt that. Not with his trauma. Not after they saved him. Yeah, they're one down since Allison didn't make it out, but they saved him, and that's enough.

Or Stiles prays to a god he hasn't believed in since his Mom died that it's enough. That he's enough.

Another half an hour and the eyes corner him. "What are you doing?" a gravelly voice questions him.

He turns. Finally. It's Derek. Obviously. No one else could muster that unique blend of contempt and something bordering on humor that is always present in his voice.

"What do you mean?" Stiles returns, feigning ignorance.

He knows exactly what Derek is asking, but he wants him to say the words. He wants to hear the concern in his voice. Even if it's not real. Even if it's forced. Just for a second, he wants to matter to someone else a fraction as much as they all matter to him. And he finds that he wants an excuse to talk. He wants validation to keep existing.

Because he sure as shit can't seem to muster that much within himself.

"Stiles," Derek says, dragging out the single syllable that is his name like a warning.

"I'm fine, Sourwolf," he lies.

And it's in that moment that it hits him that he's been lying for so, so long with that simple statement. Something he always says and never means. Because he learned a lifetime ago that being honest makes people uncomfortable when your days and your nights are cloaked in the stench of grief.

"Stiles," Derek repeats.

"Stop," the broken boy commands, holding out a shaking hand to the massive chest. "I'm fine. You're fine. We're all fine. We made it through. We came out the other end, right? Some of us," he mumbles. "But it's fine. I'm..."

"Fine?" Derek interrupts sardonically.

"Yeah. Exactly."

"Uh-huh. Well..."

"Why do you care?" Stiles blurts out. "I'm not pack, Derek. I'm the weirdo human hanger-on. Just drop it."

"Excuse me? Who the fuck told you that?" Derek seethes, looking around at all the faces nearby like he'd rather rip someone to shreds than stand here a second longer making small talk with any of them. "If someone..."

"Whoa, calm down, big guy. No one told me anything. They didn't have to. I just, ya know, am human," Stiles explains, motioning to his whole scrawny body. "And in order to be in a pack, you kinda need to be some sort of supernatural creature."

"That's not true," Derek insists. "You can be human and be part of a pack."

And the conviction in his voice causes Stiles to lose his footing. And his breath a little. Whatever he expected Derek to say, that wasn't it. In fact, given approximately thirty years to dream up a response, what came out of the Alpha's mouth never would've crossed Stiles' mind.

"I, uh..."

Just like that, Stiles is right back to being awkward as hell, completely unsure of what to do with his hands. The alcohol tainting his bloodstream isn't helping either, but that's the least of his problems. The Alpha, the infamously broody Derek Hale, is slowly closing the space between them, and Stiles is wholly fucking confused.

"What, uh, are you doin' there, Sourwolf?" Stiles whispers when there's only a hair's breadth between them.

"Call me that again," Derek demands, Stiles' knees threatening to buckle as he smirks.

And then, without warning, Derek closes the gap and claims Stiles' mouth. And his heart. If anyone sees them, hears the breathy moans as their tongues fight for dominance, they don't say a word. They just keep laughing and joking and having a good time.