Stiles was three pages away from finishing the book, working on the poem Snow and Dirty Rain, when Derek stirred again. Stiles felt bad for him. He'd had plenty of restless sleep in the first week, still worried about his dad, but Derek had talked him through it, reminded him that they save the day in the end. And it helped, a little, so Stiles was able to sleep more. He wished there was something he could do to help Derek sleep properly. Derek asked him if he was enjoying it and Stiles nodded, not pulling his gaze away from the pages.
Stiles wondered if Derek would recognize where he was if he read something, so he figured what the hell. He cleared his throat, and read slowly:
"We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it. The lawn drowned, the sky on fire, the gold light falling backward through the glass of every room. I'll give you my heart to make a place for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger. Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars for you? That I would take you there?"
Stiles' throat tightened for a moment, at the emotion behind the words and he had to stop reading aloud. His heart gave an odd, heavy pang when he read that and he spared a glance to Derek. He met the older man's gaze for a moment, brow furrowing at the mention of another favorite of Derek's. The title sounded familiar and he tucked his right thumb between the pages to mark his spot and flipped back carefully, searching for the title. He found it, and was quiet for a few minutes as he read it over again. His stomach twisted as he read, the emotions raw and dirty but not in a bad way. If he wanted, he could find similarities between the poem and their relationship, but they felt superficial, nothing like the poem.
He finished the poem, cleared his throat, and looked over at Derek, amber eyes a little on the intense side. When a person picked something to be a 'favorite', something about that appealed to them on a variety of levels. Movies were easier than books, books were easier than poetry. Now, poetry, that was getting into a whole 'nother layer of personal. Something about the words, about the way they were strung together, laid out, naked and raw for the world to read and absorb and to understand it in a thousand different ways. Stiles swallowed hard and nodded. "It's good," he said, and despite clearing his throat and swallowing, his voice was still a little rough.