#Hes blinking here but his eyes are a nice bluegreen

[mayor-brandy]

A new outfit for mayor Bassil!

[lavenderek]

Betp can you write us something cliche like amnesia fic or something? Pleazzzeee

The first thing Stiles experiences is nausea. The second is sound. It's a very quiet cacophony of voices and footsteps, somewhere far away and to his left; and to his right, beeping. It's familiar, but he can't identify it. The whole world is dark, and he starts to panic; but then he remembers how eyes work. The lights, once he opens his eyes, are bright to a fault: it's painful and white. Stiles groans, just as a lament of his whole situation. Then, then, a person appears.

The person leans over him, startling him. The person is a man, and the man has dark hair and a beard. "Uh," says Stiles eloquently. He has the impulse to start reciting the date and location, but he can't place why, and he can't remember the date and location.

"Stiles," says the person, coming more into focus. He has very stormy eyebrows, dark and low to his eyes. If Stiles could figure out where his arms were, he'd use them to reach up and touch this man's eyebrows. "You got it?" asks the man resignedly.

"No," says Stiles gratefully. "Where and when?"

"Hospital," answers Stormbrows, "August tenth."

Stiles swallows and it's like trying to budge a tennis ball through a sink pipe. Shutting his eyes, he says, "You gotta hook me up with a year, pal."

"God," mutters Stormy. Then, "2019."

"2019," Stiles repeats. That doesn't mean anything. Twenty-nineteen. That's not how numbers work. "That's not real," Stiles breaks it to him.

"It's what?" And oh, oh jesus, if this man doesn't have the most terrifyingly beautiful eyes Stiles has ever seen up close. If his brows are stormclouds, this man's eyes are the sea beneath them, choppy and bluegreen and grey and brown. To top it all off, he looks annoyed and perplexed, and all the while there's something familiar and comforting about him. Stiles falls desperately in love in a matter of seconds. He's gotta have him. "You're out of it," the guy tells him pointlessly.

"I think I'm into dudes," Stiles answers. He's having a revelation. He's revelating. "Jeez. Fuck. Who, what's your name?"

The eyebrows have gone up a little. The guy hesitates. He looks around. Then he looks back at Stiles. He says, "Derek?"

Derek. "Could be worse," soothes Stiles. "Could be Kurt. Could be Skyler. Don't worry."

"I wasn't worried, Stiles."

"I was. But I'm over it. What was it again?"

The guy sighs. "Derek."

Right. Derek. Derek dips out of view. Stiles waits, but Derek doesn't come back. "No," pleads Stiles, "where'd you—come back," he's starting to panic—

"It's fine," Derek comes back, brows furrowed a little. He's showing Stiles a phone. Stiles' eyes can't focus on the words on the screen, but it's clearly a text conversation. "I was just telling your dad you're alive. Relax."

"You relax," croaks Stiles. That gets an unwilling smirk. "Derek," says Stiles. The name fits in his mouth. He thought it was wrong before, but now that he says it out loud, he can tell that it works. "Derek," he says again, "who—where did you come from?"

"California," says Derek. He reaches up and Stiles feels Derek's fingers on his forehead, brushing his hair back maybe. His touch is warm and Stiles wants more of it.

"Are we in California?"

"No, actually. We're in Colorado."

"Oh, god," groans Stiles, "why?"

Derek laughs, then, once and clearly unexpected. Little soft lines at the outside corners of his eyes. His teeth are kind of crooked, too, and it's nice knowing he has one flaw. It means he's real. "Your cousin's wedding," he says. "Destination wedding to Aspen."

"Aspen," Stiles gripes. Derek nods once, magnanimously. Stiles says, "I don't have a cousin."

"You have four cousins," corrects Derek reasonably, "and a fifth on the way."

"Don't like that," Stiles announces. "California," then. And finally, "Derek. Whoever you're dating, are you dating somebody?"

"I," says Derek instinctively. He draws out the sound a little. "I believe I am, yes."

"Okay. Whoever you're dating, can you dump them and run away with me please?"

"Can I what?"

"Run away with me." That phrase sounds familiar. Musical, somehow. Stiles dismisses this. "C'mon. I said please."

"I will gladly dump the person I'm dating," Derek assures him drily. He is clearly amused. "Subject change, Stiles. Do you know why you're here?"

"To meet you," says Stiles sincerely.

"Close. Only not at all—"

"You're joking? I'm not. I want to."

"Stiles—"

"I just need to find my legs."

"Stiles…"

"I wanna run away with you—"

"God, Stiles, you already did," says Derek exasperatedly. "To your cousin's wedding in Aspen. We are dating. I am dating you."

That doesn't compute. How can Stiles be seeing a man when he just realized thirty seconds ago he likes men? How can Stiles be dating this man and not remember it? Nope, "Pretty sure I'd remember that, bucko," says Stiles smugly.

"Evidently not."

"You're a douchebag," Stiles decides. "That's okay.” He takes Derek in again: Derek’s rolling his eyes and facetiously thanking Stiles for granting him permission to be a douchebag. The shitty attitude is what finally convinces Stiles. “We're dating?"

"Yes," stresses Derek.

"Shit," breathes Stiles. Derek's eyes. His beard. Stiles wants him desperately, so bad it aches in his chest. "You're serious." Derek just raises his eyebrows and looks annoyed. "How'd I pull that off?"

"It's anyone's guess," says Derek.

"You're so… attractive—" Derek sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Help me sit up. I want to look at you —”

"Subject change…"

"Prove it."

"I—what?"

"Prove it." Stiles is genuinely anxious to know something, seeing as everything he's said so far has been wrong. Stupidly, he feels his eyes start to well up. "I can't be—I don't remember—Please tell me something—"

"No. Hey. Calm down." Derek's annoyance has melted away. He's brushing Stiles' hair back again, and Stiles catches his breath. "You… you like peanut butter?"

"Everyone likes peanut butter, Derek," says Stiles miserably.

"I don't—fine. You're kind of shitty at lacrosse. You love baseball…"

"What the hell is lacrosse?"

Derek snorts a little, and then presses the back of his hand to his mouth. Then he tries, "Your earliest memory is of your mom grabbing your arm so you wouldn't walk off a pier in Santa Cruz." Stiles blinks up at the ceiling. He remembers that. He remembers crying, and his mom saying, Jesus! Je—jiminy Christmas! "Your two best friends just got engaged," Derek goes on. Stiles doesn't have faces or names, but he recalls an expansive feeling in his chest. "And you're here because you got your gall bladder taken out."

"My gall bladder?"

"You scared," Derek stresses, going stormy again, "the shit out of me."

"My gall bladder."

"Yes."

"If there was ever a less sexy operation to have," begins Stiles. He's swallowing again. Sighing, Derek holds a cup to his lips. Stiles drinks some of it. It's Sprite, mostly flat. That's familiar, too. "How long?" he asks weakly.

"I dunno. A little more than a day…"

"No. How long have you been, uh," Stiles looks at his eyes again. "Tapping this."

"I'm not going to answer that until you phrase it like an adult."

"Googoo gaga," says Stiles irritably. Derek tilts his head to the side, casually, like he's observing a TV show. "How long have we been, um, dating?"

Derek smirks a little, and then looks at the wall above Stiles' head. "You're gonna get mad if I tell you."

"No, I'm not."

"You are. You're gonna be mad."

"Unless it's one hour, I don't…"

"Three years."

He looks back at Stiles. And he was right. Stiles is mad. "I'm not mad."

"Yes, you are."

How could Stiles have forgotten three years? "I'm not mad."

"Stiles, I can tell you're mad. I'm gonna get the nurse."

"Don't get the nurse. Hold my hand."

"How about," says Derek, sighing and touching his forehead again, "I get the nurse, and then I come back, and then I hold your stupid hand."

Stiles is exhausted. "Is your body as nice as your face, or is it as shitty as your personality?"

"Back button," says Derek.

"Is it nice?"

"Stop it."

"Tell me."

"Yes. Okay? I'm going now."

Stiles figures out how to turn his head just in time to see Derek walk out the door. "Fuck," he whispers. "It is."