Chapter Text
The day Stiles died, the skies bled in a deep, endless scarlet.
All that appeared before his eyes was red—red blood, red aconite, red heavens.
The red faded into nothingness as his veins ran cold, and when his eyes next opened, more red flickered before him, mixed with furry browns and misty grays.
"Oh, he's awake!" a young woman said, glimmering copper strands taking up most of Stiles' field of vision.
Slitted, ruby irises peered down at him. "He looks a little young to be a cult leader." A soft, low voice this time.
"Cult leaders come in all ages nowadays!" Someone waved their arms to the right, as if trying to persuade the rest of the group. "He could definitely have been a cult leader!"
Stiles rubbed his eyes and sat up with a groan—for some reason, his body seemed light despite the heavy exhaustion and pain he expected. He felt good, more than good, but this level of weightlessness, like he had no substance, didn't bode well. A head injury, maybe?
It'd be a miracle if a head injury was all he'd garnered from that impossible situation.
Not to mention now that he sat up, he realized only one of the four beings chatting over him appeared human.
He tried to steady his heart rate out of habit even though none of them resembled a werewolf. "I'm not a cult leader," he said, voice casual.
"Well of course you'd say that," said the enthusiastic creature from before that'd been trying to persuade anyone that he could be a cult leader. "You wouldn't know what you were born out of."
Stiles stared at them, or rather, through them. "And you do?"
"No one knows, except maybe the high deities," they mused as they bobbed in the air. "But who knows? Maybe even they don't know."
"A load of jumbled hogwash, as usual," said a...devil? "What's the point in speaking when you don't even know the answer?"
The redheaded woman clapped her hands—the only human-looking person in the group. "Now, now, shouldn't we introduce ourselves first? That confusing wisp over there is Boris, then"—she pointed at the devil—"we have Sophie and"—she pointed at the winged, furry person with the soft voice from earlier—"Maximillian. And finally me, I'm Mary! I know you must be confused, but first things first, you should come up with your name!"
Stiles blinked. "...My name?"
"Yes, your personal one," said Mary as she gestured for the others to pull up chairs rather than continue standing over Stiles, and only then did Stiles realize that they were in a small abandoned cabin that he recognized quite well. "Not your god name."
“My what?” Stiles couldn’t help getting more and more lost—he’d thought everything a dream at first, but the more time passed, the more he felt in his gut that it might not be.
“Your god name should come naturally to you,” said Maximillian, his soft voice oddly soothing. “Don't think about it, just let it flow.”
A single word glided into his mind like a gentle breeze, light yet strong.
“The name that people worship you under.”
‘Melchior.’
~♫♪・・★・・♫♪~
Mary, as it turned out, with her copper hair and welcoming smiles went by a god name Stiles would’ve never expected—Bloody Mary.
The others suited their god names more. Sophie was known as the Jersey Devil and Maximillian as the Mothman, both of which sounded self explanatory, and Boris, while mismatched personality-wise, did look the part of the Bogeyman.
Stiles pretended to think hard about coming up with ‘Stiles’ as his personal name—they seemed friendly enough, but he didn’t want to risk standing out when he didn’t even know if he’d stand out in a good or a bad way.
From the information he’d gathered, it seemed that no one could even be sure they’d existed before being born as a god, much less retain any memories.
But Stiles remembered everything, despite the hazy mist surrounding his old memories.
“The majority of us gods are born from wishes and beliefs,” Sophie had told him. “It differs from country to country, but here in the US, that means most of us born here stem from urban legends.”
There wasn’t too much to explain, really. Or maybe he had more than enough time to digest everything now that he had all the time in the world and no lingering attachments—it seemed that he’d awoken as a god more than a century after his death. His human ties had long faded, both in his mind and the world of the living, and the place he'd once called home had become a daycare center. The only thing that remained was the abandoned cabin he'd used to rest in when it all got too much, now a shrine where people sometimes left offerings for him.
If anything, he was just glad that the town had survived after that fiasco and pulled together into the powerful beacon that it had now become in the US supernatural community. He still didn't completely understand how he'd become a god, to be honest, but he didn't think hard about it nor did he look into it lest someone caught him in the act and raised questions as to how and why he'd found his past human identity when so many years had passed. To begin with, as most urban legends went, wild exaggerations appeared to surround 'Melchior' , none of which mentioning the true events at all.
Moving past that, however, the main point that Mary and them emphasized the most was a topic he cared little about to begin with. It seemed that all gods had guide-bearers that accompanied them, ranging from a single one to hundreds, whom they appointed by taking wandering souls under their wing. These guide-bearers could turn into relics to assist their gods, whether through an item of clothing or a weapon, and the gods exorcized demons and dark spirits with said guide-bearers. Without at least one guide-bearer that took shape as a weapon, gods could not purify dark spirits properly.
“Since you don’t have a guide-bearer yet, don’t even think about facing dangerous dark spirits,” Mary had told him. “Most are small, but run away if you see a big one—since you can’t purify it, it doesn’t matter how many times you take it down, and besides, you’ll get blighted if you aren’t careful.”
It seemed that even gods didn’t have it easy.
Stiles supposed it made sense. All the myths he’d ever heard usually involved someone suffering or dying.
Of course, gods couldn’t die, technically—he rode the upside. He was a god, for fuck’s sake. With powers.
That, and he could now do whatever he wanted, go wherever he wanted, so he did just that. He traveled everywhere he pleased, poking his nose in anything interesting or simply on a whim, from town to town, country to country, wandering and roaming and escaping when he ruffled too many feathers, until he really did cause too much of a kerfuffle and ended up tumbling amidst a torrential storm into a lush, overgrown forest on a hill near the outskirts of a remote Hokkaido town.
He didn't mind rain, but he didn't exactly enjoy sleeping under a downpour—in fact, he greatly preferred warm blankets and hot food over the cold and wet.
Nonetheless, that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy his current situation, did it? The rain splashing on his face tasted sweet, the air so crisp and clean that it almost hurt to breathe it in, so he didn't bother getting up after he'd tumbled into the forest, instead closing his eyes and lying there spread-eagle on the drenched grass. He didn't know how long he lay there, but he nearly choked on the rain when a low, rough voice reverberated through the sounds of the rain crashing down, like silk sliding between cymbals, muting the harsh clangs to gentle thumps.
"Need a hand there?"
Stiles sat up so fast he gave himself whiplash and stared with probably the dumbest look ever at the small traditional-looking house that he somehow hadn't noticed a few meters away, past the wide open porch sliding doors to a man lounging inside with skin the sheen of nectar and hair the shade of the darkest night, clad in a loose open front robe that draped over his muscles like gossamer. His entire aura, while relaxed, exuded a silent, lethal power much different from the imposing, violent forces many of the gods he’d met thus far wore around them, and his sculpted body rivaled the gods that Stiles had come across thus far.
He didn't look like he was from here, though. Judging by the simple, embroidered designs along the hems of his robe, his clothing appeared to be a twist on the attire the Greek and Roman gods Stiles had met wore—
"You’re the real Adonis, aren’t you?" he blurted.
~♫♪・・★・・♫♪~
Derek hadn’t thought much of the man that’d catapulted into his backyard at first.
He could sense that the man was a fellow god, most likely relatively new, so he’d assumed they were still trying to grasp how to control their powers, especially since they seemed to be alone without a single guide-bearer—the most prominent sign indicating a god as a newcomer.
But minutes passed and the god didn’t get up. He just…lay there.
Derek grew concerned, as anyone would, but when he spoke up, the god shot up so fast Derek startled.
Big bambi eyes stared at him like a deer in headlights, chestnut brown hair tousled and pale face flushed, and then those thin pink lips parted—
"You're the real Adonis, aren't you?" the god blurted, or rather, shouted.
Any logical words Derek had prepared, like 'I have towels' or 'Do you need shelter' died in his throat.
A long, pregnant silence stretched between them, with the god still just sitting out in the storm—Derek wondered if he'd hit his head too hard plummeting to the ground.
He'd never heard of a god getting a concussion, but, well, perhaps there was a first time for everything.
"...You've met a fake one?" said Derek at last in an attempt to go with the flow after noticing the god's flushed cheeks blooming from an 'out in the cold' pink into a 'what just came out of my mouth' red.
So, not a concussion. Just the type that blurted thoughts before registering them, probably.
"Uh." The man finally moved to stand up, his red-gray puffer jacket dripping. "He said he was Adonis. But I think that suits you better."
Derek grimaced a little. "That's not a good thing." He hooked a clean, folded towel off the shelf next to where he sat with a finger and offered it to the god, who lifted himself onto the porch with a grateful smile.
Up close, he could see his features better. Rain drops beaded on his long lashes and trickled down his cheeks—many small moles scattered over his face and neck, Derek noticed.
"I don't mean his narcissistic behavior," the god said, voice muffled as he dried his face and hair. "I just meant his whole 'I'm the most attractive god' schtick. 'Look at me, no one's hotter than me, not even Apollo.'"
He took on a whiny tone when mimicking Adonis that made Derek's lips waver in amusement.
"You're a Greek god then?" asked Derek—he stood up to pull out a clean robe too small for him that might fit the god. "Or Roman?"
"Oh, no way," the god said with a snort. "I'm from the US. But you are, right? I mean, your robe kinda gives those vibes. Kinda."
"I am," said Derek. "Rome. I haven't been back in a while, though."
The god peeled off his drenched jacket and soaked sneakers before stepping inside to dry off properly. "Thanks, by the way," he called out from inside the bathroom. "Seriously. I was not looking forward to sleeping out there."
Derek raised an eyebrow. "That's what you were doing? Trying to sleep?"
"No, I just didn't feel like moving. Y'know, like when you're cold and freezing but not to deathly levels, okay, and it's warmer to just lie still."
"...Right," said Derek like he understood.
(He didn't.)
The god came out looking much drier and possibly warmer—the robe still hung a little big on him, so he'd wrapped it around him like a size-too-large bathrobe.
"I'm Stiles, by the way," he said.
"Derek."
Stiles considered it for a moment, then sat down beside him. "That suits you better than Adonis." He glanced at the open book Derek had set down after seeing someone fall into his yard. "Whatcha readin'? Oh, do you have any food? I'm starving. Isn't it kinda stupid that gods still feel hungry even though we don't actually need to eat? I mean, I don't really mind 'cause I love eating, but the concept is stupid, y'know what I mean? Like what dumbass came up with this?"
He stared at Derek with an expectant look like he was waiting for an answer, and Derek found himself at a loss for words.
A frequent occurrence from then on, as it turned out.
Derek had expected Stiles to be out as soon as the storm passed like the whirlwind he was and never see the god again, especially since Derek had never been much of a conversation partner and his responses to Stiles' endless chatter were, well, lame for lack of better words. Stiles switched topics like switching TV channels and the way he'd talk about the randomest topic only to say something absolutely scandalous the next second gave Derek whiplash.
If these gods that Stiles had apparently met in his travels knew what kind of insults and secrets he was spilling about them to a complete stranger....
No, scratch that—they'd kill him if they realized how much he knew.
"What's the point in that?" Stiles had asked with a laugh when Derek told him so after he mentioned Veles, the Slavic god of wealth and prosperity, hiding the fact that he was broke because one of his guide-bearers spent all his monetary offerings in a casino. "It's not like we can die, anyway. Being reborn without memories is kinda annoying, but if I could find out all this shit so easily this time, I sure as hell can find out again. They're just careless. It's a matter of their pride, not consequence, so none of them hide their secrets all too well."
Derek couldn't argue against that.
He also couldn't argue against Stiles' 'reason' for continuing to stay—"I gotta stay on the downlow 'cause I pissed some gods off, and you're an accomplice 'cause you know some secrets now, too."
Stiles flashed him a cheeky grin and a thumbs up, and Derek smacked him upside the head.
He held his doubts that was the real reason Stiles stayed, but he didn't ask. He also didn't particularly care about being an 'accomplice', which he pointed out, but Stiles whined and wheedled and Derek gave in just so he'd shut up—he'd never met anyone who talked so much, and here he'd thought Isaac was a yapper.
A month passed in the blink of an eye, then two, then three.
The leaves goldened and fell, padding his yard in warm hues, as did the shades of his previously solitary, normal life. Stiles' chatter past the second hour didn't get on his nerves anymore after Stiles had told him one late night with a fond, amused quirk of his lips, "You know you don't have to pay such close attention to my words or respond every time, right? You always look at me with full attention like I'm pouring my heart out or talking about something really important, but I'm just blabbing. It's kinda cute, but also embarrassing."
So Derek stopped making himself listen intently to Stiles for hours, instead listening here and there as he did something else, and now, it felt much too quiet whenever Stiles left to get them a tasty specialty he'd heard about—he had trouble relaxing or focusing well without Stiles' voice in the background.
The meals he shared with Stiles also tasted different from before. He'd never been one that cared much for food in general, whether it be human food or divine food, but seeing Stiles buy and eat new food items every other day with such interest and happy reactions somehow made Derek feel like the food did taste delicious. Pastries, noodles, rice bowls—Stiles loved trying them all. He even brought dishes from other countries when he craved something particular or his curiosity was piqued, and he sometimes came back with random trinkets or goods that 'reminded him of Derek'.
That was how Derek ended up with a large wolf plush that sat propped against the wall until Stiles started sleeping with it as a body pillow.
The steady, normal shades of his life had irrevocably changed, now vibrant and blooming and bright, and Derek knew that his life before Stiles would no longer feel the same. He'd no longer be able to relish the natural quiet of the forest like he used to, nor would he be able to eat the same meals everyday that he usually bought from the small konbini at the foot of the mountain with the same satisfaction.
And the misty chill that surrounded the forest.... He used to enjoy the refreshing breeze, and he still did, but not nearly as much as he enjoyed Stiles' company, who loved warm noodle soups and warm blankets and warm desserts in every season besides summer.
So when autumn came, Derek made some renovations.
He added a medium-sized bath in the shower area if Stiles wanted a hot soak as well as heating elements under the tatami flooring throughout the house, and topped it off with a kotatsu in the main room—it was more than worth it to see the amount of contentment that radiated from Stiles due to the new additions.
Of course, his ulterior motive was for Stiles to want to stay longer. If Stiles' reason for staying had really been due to pissed off gods—which Derek could see happening, honestly—he wouldn't have a reason to stay anymore. A few months had passed without sign of any angry gods, so Derek doubted they cared all too much about whatever Stiles had done, and Stiles' personality fit his 'God of Wind' title to a tee. With big bambi eyes ever curious, with fervent chatter and easy laughs ever bright, he resembled the free spirit of his divine powers, always acting exactly as he wished regardless of norms and rules.
Derek loved that about him.
He loved that about him, so he knew these days would cease at some point. To begin with, he wasn't someone that Stiles should stay too long around—there was a reason other gods stayed away from him. He hadn't told Stiles though, and Stiles hadn't seemed to mind his vague non-answer when asked what his followers worshiped him for, which was quite typical for Stiles. Perhaps Stiles didn't particularly want to know him that well, he assumed, because this was a temporary living arrangement after all, and he could sense that Stiles held tightly-kept secrets and another side to him under his spazzy behavior and free laughs.
He'd tried to ask, once. A simple question about the words Stiles sometimes mumbled in his sleep— 'I'llkillyouI'llkillyouI'llkillyou', he'd mutter—and Stiles, ever the horrid liar, said something about someone stealing his pizza with a laugh. Usually Derek would leave it be since he'd never liked prying into others’ affairs, but that time, he'd said, "Really? I don't think it was about pizza."
Stiles had looked at him, smile tensing just the slightest. "What, you think I'm lying?"
A line had been drawn that morning. Derek didn't push it again, and instead tried to make Stiles as comfortable as possible even though he knew Stiles probably planned on leaving soon.
He just hoped that Stiles enjoyed his stay with him at least a little.
~♫♪・・★・・♫♪~
Stiles had zero plans of leaving.
His reason for staying past that first night was complete bullshit anyway, because while he had pissed off some gods, he'd gotten them off his trail long before flying into that storm and dropping in Derek's yard.
He'd just wanted to get to know Derek better. After all, he was a nosy person by nature—always had been, always would be—and his inner busybody self couldn't resist the air of mystery and untold secrets that surrounded Derek.
His interest had been piqued from the moment he saw him.
Besides, as it turned out, he had fun talking to Derek, and he wanted at least one friend—he'd never liked being alone all that much, but he didn't like the idea of a guide-bearer that would serve him.
That was another interesting thing about Derek: he didn't have a guide-bearer either. He just lived alone up here, on this small mountain, surrounded by forest, with his small garden and worn books. When Stiles asked him why he didn't have one, Derek had just shrugged and said, "I prefer the quiet."
Stiles felt a bit guilty after that. He couldn't help yapping and blabbing whatever he felt like, no doubt driving Derek's every last nerve bonkers, and though Derek never snapped at him to just shut the fuck up—his actions contradicted his stoic demeanor. Sure, he'd tried to tell Stiles to leave after the first few days, but he'd given in when Stiles had wheedled and whined. Most other gods would just kick him out by force, Stiles knew. It wasn't particularly difficult to do that.
And he'd noticed at some point that Derek actually tried to listen to all his garbage, really listen. Derek always sat there with his book open, so Stiles had assumed his chatter was falling on otherwise preoccupied ears, especially since Derek responded with only a few words every now and then, until he realized that a week had passed and Derek's bookmark still returned to the same exact two pages every night. After he paid closer attention the next few days, he realized that Derek would just sit there with his open book and glance at him talking every so often, not once reading a single word on those pages, as if he'd only opened his book so Stiles wouldn't feel bad about talking so much, and probably so he'd look less awkward sitting there focusing on Stiles chattering about how the bat was the ultimate weapon.
Stiles couldn't describe the feeling that rushed over him when he finally put the pieces together.
Fond warmth, tinged with embarrassment and shock—that was the closest he could get to putting it in words. He knew how much he talked, so he'd never once expected anyone to try so hard to give him their utmost attention to everything he said. For fuck's sake, even he wouldn't listen to everything he said. He didn't even remember what he said a second ago half the time.
But Derek, he'd tried his best despite Stiles' incessant chatter driving him crazy. He knew for a fact that it drove Derek crazy, because when he'd finally brought the topic up to tell Derek that he didn't need to actually listen to Stiles' every word, Derek had admitted that his brain felt like it attended a day of math lectures by the time dinner came around each night.
His first response, though, after Stiles had told him he didn't need to pay such close attention, was "Just because you're not talking about something important doesn't mean it's not important to you." He'd said it so seriously, with no hesitation, that Stiles' stomach twisted itself into fluttering knots and his cheeks warmed.
"I mean, I just like talking," Stiles had said, feeling a bit shy and flustered. "I'd much rather you actually read your book and listen to me talk in the background. If I have something I really want you to hear, I'll poke you."
Something shifted that night, for Stiles at least. Derek still sometimes paid more attention to him talking than Stiles expected, but he actually managed to finish reading his books now, and Stiles enjoyed the small, speechless quirk of the lips that danced on Derek's face whenever he brought him back a surprise gift on one of his ventures for new foods to try. He enjoyed Derek's quiet attention, enjoyed the tiny unsaid, considerate things Derek did, like passing him all the wasabi peas in their rice cracker snack mix after noticing that Stiles loved them or swapping Stiles' pillow with his fluffier one after Stiles kept tossing and turning the first few nights.
He never once even thought about leaving, and he'd be damned if he did unless Derek flung him out of here with his bare hands.
That's why when hurt flashed across Derek's face so quickly that Stiles couldn't be sure he'd seen it after asking what Stiles had dreamed about to mumble 'I'llkillyouI'llkillyouI'llkillyou', Stiles' heart rose in his throat. He'd tried his best to wave off the question as naturally as possible; he couldn't possibly tell Derek that it was an old memory from his past life as a human. His hands had gone clammy, because he didn't want to lie nor had he ever been good at lying, but the way that Derek seemed to close off a little after that, never asking Stiles any personal questions again, stung Stiles' chest in tiny little barbs.
He tried to brainstorm a way to make it up to Derek, but he couldn't come up with anything besides just telling Derek the truth so he didn't misunderstand.
That in itself scared him, though. It wasn't that he didn't trust Derek, but he didn't know anything about why he'd remembered his past life when no other god held any memories from before they'd become a god. He didn't know if it meant that he was a defect, or a being that wasn't a god, or something else entirely that needed to be corrected and deleted. He didn't want Derek to be scared of him, or repulsed, and while he didn't think Derek would be under logical circumstances, what was logical about dying and waking up as a god to begin with?
So he procrastinated on it as the leaves on the ground shriveled and blew away, nearly forgetting altogether, while he lounged around on the newly heated floors and under the new kotatsu so comfy it might as well be heaven and in the large steaming bathtub, until one night he asked Derek why he never got under the kotatsu with him.
"It's super warm under here," he'd told Derek as he scooted his whole body under while munching on filled marshmallows. "Are you not cold? It's friggin' snowing outside, for fuck's sake."
"I like the cold," Derek had said, amused and absentminded as he flipped through the pages of one of the mangas Stiles had bought.
It was only when Stiles didn't respond right away that Derek looked at him with similarly wide eyes.
"I mean," Derek had tried to add in a rush, "I prefer the cold after hot sh—"
"You don't take hot showers."
Stiles sat up, heart pounding and head racing as puzzle pieces that he should've put together from the start finally clicked together.
"You didn't even have a water heater when I first came here," he breathed. "You— You said you were getting these new heating things 'cause your offerings have increased. But you don't even care about whether it's warm or not. You...." His throat closed, and he swallowed.
Derek rubbed the back of his neck in an embarrassed, caught red handed sort of way—Stiles could tell despite his blank expression after spending all these months with him. "Well, you like it warm, don't you? I don't mind either way, so—"
Stiles tackled him to the floor with a hug in a burst of overflowing, impulsive affection. It was the first time they'd had more contact than their hands brushing, much less hugging, because Stiles knew Derek liked his private space, but he just couldn't help it this time, and he didn't even care that Derek's cool skin raised goosebumps on his own.
Crackling birch, heady spice, and iced morning dew—Derek smelled of a stroll through the winter forest with a steaming mug of mulled wine in hand, heat suffusing Stiles' veins in a rush. Firm arms wrapped back around him after a few seconds' pause, hesitant but fond, and the urge to both jump out of Derek's arms and burrow his nose further against Derek's neck jolted through him.
Except Derek's arms tightened around him. His hand reached up to cup the back of Stiles' head with soothing rubs and his head leaned against the crook of Stiles' neck, something inside Stiles burst as he buried his face in Derek's neck with a crushing hug.
"I remember my past life."
Derek's hand on the back of his head stilled.
"That's what I dream about," breathed Stiles, so quiet he could barely hear himself. "Old memories from when I was human that I'll never let go."
He tensed but didn't move, bracing himself for Derek's reaction after the shock faded. Confusion, most likely, or—
Derek sighed, and hugged him tighter. "Is this because I asked before? You didn't have to tell me."
"But I don't want you to think I don't trust you," mumbled Stiles.
"You were right to lie," Derek told him, voice quiet. "It's a tightly kept secret."
"I mean, not that tightly, clearl—"
"I'm talking about gods' past lives."
Stiles pulled away at that to stare at Derek in utter confusion—he didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't Derek's usual blank expression without a single trace of surprise, confusion, fear, anything.
No, instead he was the one confused, so he just sat there staring until Derek rose to a sitting position as well and Stiles abruptly realized that he was straddling Derek's lap in a very compromising position, especially when Derek looked like... that— he didn't know whether to feel miffed or relieved that Derek didn't seem to notice, much less give a shit.
"Not all gods have past lives, but for those who do, it's a tightly kept secret from them," Derek told him. "One of the high deities' roles is to ensure this."
Stiles blinked. "Huh? Wait, are you saying you were a friggin' high deity all this time and I didn't know? How do you even know about this?"
"No, I'm just an anomaly." Derek gave him a long, studying look. "As are you, it seems. I've never heard of anyone remembering their past lives besides me."
"Wha— You what?!" Stiles' brain shortcircuited as he gaped at Derek. "Is that why you live here all alone?!"
Amusement crinkled in the corners of Derek's eyes. "I'm not sure I follow your logic."
"You just said the high deities don't want gods with past lives to remember any memories!"
"Because they begin to lose themselves," said Derek. "Same with guide-bearers, but guide-bearers are more susceptible in general. Gods who find out their past lives and begin remembering become obsessed with their old life until they become a shell of their former self." He lifted a hand, then clenched it. "They break." His eyes lingered on his fist before meeting Stiles' once again, a steady silver-green. "Gods can do no wrong, but even others will stop them if they go too far and raze the land of the living like a common demon."
"...That happens every time?" asked Stiles at last, mouth dry. "They lose their minds?"
"The past cases, yes," said Derek. "That's why I said, you and I are anomalies. To begin with, I assume you woke up with your memories intact as if it was natural?"
Stiles nodded. "You too?"
"Mm, yeah," Derek mused aloud. "I don't know much about why we remember, but at the very least, it means that...." He hesitated until Stiles urged him to continue with impatient gestures. "It means that you had an extremely strong will at the time of your death," he said, voice quiet.
Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, I guess I did. I don't know, I was mostly just pissed off. Maybe if you're pissed off enough, you'll remember everything," he joked.
Derek, to his surprise, blinked, then laughed, the first time Stiles had seen him actually laugh outside of a quiet chuckle. "Maybe you're on to something. I was pretty pissed off when I died too."
A grin spread across Stiles' face like wildfire and he slumped against Derek with laughs of his own as relief whooshed out of him, chest light. He'd never imagined that Derek would be the same as him, and he felt better knowing that he wouldn't need to lie to Derek about anything again—he'd never been great at it, anyway.
Derek's arms rested around his hips in a loose hug, like it was natural, and little did he know that from then on, it would drive him on a steady descent to madness. At first he'd try to inch his way into Derek's space any chance he got, sit beside him close enough that their fingertips touched and bump shoulders with him when he joked around, brush his hand when he passed the wasabi and grab his wrist to get his attention instead of his previous method of waving a hand in his face, but Derek....
God, the tables always ended up turned on him with Derek none the wiser. He'd discreetly scoot closer to Derek and Derek would throw an arm around his shoulder to show him a scene in the book, or he'd use "it's cold" as an excuse to lean against Derek's shoulder and Derek would hug him and pull him closer. His cheeks warmed and his heart raced each time, always caught off guard by the casual ease of Derek's movements, and it didn't help that Derek seemed completely oblivious to his effect.
The latest development was the worst one. He'd sat beside Derek, fingers just barely touching Derek's from where he put his hand on the tatami floor, when Derek held his hand.
He froze and went beet red, or at least he felt like he did, and he couldn't stand the damage to his heart, so he buried his face in Derek's shoulder.
Derek, that idiot, had glanced over and released his hand to pull him closer with a soft "Tired?" that equally made him giddy and frustrated at the same time, so he blurted out an excuse of getting dinner and fled before he combusted. He didn't know what it said about him that it took a good ten minutes floating along through the biting breeze for his cheeks to finally cool down, but while that was a long time for his heart to stop racing thinking about Derek's hand over his, arms around his shoulders, it was an extremely short time for anything as bad as what Stiles saw when he returned to happen.
A goddess with hair of flames stood to the side with two men and a woman Stiles assumed to be her guide-bearers as a god collapsed on the porch, one of his four guide-bearers writhing on the ground covered in angry violet blight, wriggling up his neck as eyeballs and spikes protruded from the corrupted body parts. To make matters worse, the collapsed god was clutching to Derek's sleeve, seemingly pleading with him, as if it wasn't already bad that he'd brought his blight here—Stiles stormed in and blew the god at least a good few feet away from Derek.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" snapped Stiles at the wavy black-haired god, sweat beading over his bronzed skin as dark purple splotched up his cheek. "Are you trying to infect him with your blight?"
Derek placed a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "It's fine, Stiles. I have a high resistance."
"So what? Resistance isn't the same as immunity!"
"It's not," agreed Derek as he gave the black-haired god a nod, "but I can at least touch it with little effect."
Before Stiles could retort, the black-haired god supported his blighted guide-bearer to his feet and brought him closer to Derek, who sat on the porch.
"I don't know, Scott," said the goddess, voice hushed and concerned. "It's much worse than you told me. That's the only reason I brought you here."
"We can't just abandon him!" blurted one of Scott's guide-bearers standing to the side, a tall African teen. "I'll find someone else. We can try contacting Kira again, or Erica!"
"I already tried Kira," said the guide-bearer standing next to him, a slightly shorter, stockier teen. "She didn't answer."
"Then Erica!"
The tallest of Scott's guide-bearers, a lanky man with curly blond hair, crossed his arms. "Forget it. She wouldn't agree."
"You don't know th—"
"I know." He looked over at his fellow guide-bearer. "She would never risk Boyd for this. You know how dangerous the ritual is. This is the only option, although I'm not sure I believe that even Derek here can actually do anything about this."
Stiles shot him a glare, because who the hell did he think he was to talk like that when they were the ones intruding? "How about you fuck right off then?"
The lanky man just raised his eyebrows. "And who the hell are you? Derek lives alone."
"Not anymore he doesn't," snapped Stiles.
Derek glanced at him with an odd, indecipherable look that Stiles didn't know what to make of. "Stiles, this is Scott and Lydia," he said, gesturing to the two gods present. "By Lydia are her guide-bearers Parrish, Aiden, and Allison, and over there are Isaac, Theo, and Mason."
"And this friggin' mess of a guide-bearer?" asked Stiles as he pointed at the short teen much too close to Derek for Stiles' comfort that looked like he'd transform into a demon any minute.
Derek snorted. "Liam," he said, and then he placed a hand on Liam's blighted shoulder and Stiles' heart leaped to his throat.
He couldn't quite tell what Derek was trying to do at first, because like Derek had said, the blight didn't seem to spread onto him, but then he saw veins of purple throbbing from Derek's fingers up his arm and Stiles' stomach dropped.
"You— Are you fucking absorbing it?" demanded Stiles—as far as he knew, gods couldn't absorb blight, much less touch it. "Are you crazy? Do you want to die?!"
Derek breathed out a small chuckle despite his closed eyes as he concentrated. "It's alright. I won't get blighted from this."
True to his word, the purple gradually retracted from Liam's cheek, down his neck, and none of it showed up on Derek's skin.
"I'm sorry," Liam would mutter between heavy breaths and groans as tears trickled from the corners of his eyes—not from the pain, Stiles imagined. "Scott, I'm sorry, I didn't even notice until it got this bad. I thought I could handle it—"
"Shh," whispered Scott. The blight on his skin retreated as Liam's did, letting him stand up straighter than before. "It's okay, I'm sorry too. It's my fault for not noticing. I knew you've been acting off—I should've realized sooner."
Stiles clicked his tongue in irritation but didn't say anything—conversations like this peeved him, though if someone asked why, he wouldn't be able to put the reason into words. He mostly tuned them out to watch Derek with hawk eyes instead, because he didn't believe that Derek could just absorb this nasty shit without any side effects, and sure enough, Derek had to pause with heavy breaths and an ashened pallor after a few minutes.
"Just a second," murmured Derek, sipping some water from his cup.
"Of course, take your time," said Scott—his aura shone better than before, though it seemed like blight on Liam's left arm and legs still remained. "Thank you so much, seriously. I don't know how to repay you for this. I really—" He sighed. "I know most gods would cut off their blighted guide-bearers, but I don't want to do that, no matter what. And the purification ritual needs at least three guide-bearers from different gods, and I couldn't reach anyone else, so—"
"A purification ritual is dangerous for all parties involved, especially since it'd most likely fail with how severe Liam's blight is," said Derek. "The remaining blight will take much longer. It's been there for too long—the corruption is rooted deeper, and it'll only continue to spread at a fast rate if Liam does or thinks whatever it was that started his blight."
"Are you new?" Stiles cut in. "This is common for new guide-bearers. It's the gods' responsibility to keep an eye out."
"No, it's not from impure thoughts or whatever," said Scott with a sigh. "We fought against a demon the other day and he must've gotten blighted."
Liam averted his eyes. "I— I know I should've said something, but I got scared. I've heard what happens to guide-bearers who get blighted, and I thought I could just... handle it and then no one would ever have to know." His face still contorted with stifled grimaces from the agony the blight must be causing him, but he didn't let a single noise out.
"Blight from jealous thoughts and blight from demons are two completely different things," said Stiles.
"I know, I was just— I was being stupid," Liam gritted out with a sigh. "Let my fear get the best of me."
"It was my fault, too," said Scott. "I—"
"Yeah yeah, you already said that," muttered Stiles.
"No, I mean, blight on guide-bearers shows up on their god, so I should've at least noticed the blight on me," explained Scott. "I do a nightly check, but there's been such an increase in demons these days that I've been too tired to fully check—I didn't notice a thing until it got this bad."
Stiles' brows furrowed. "How is that possible? It nearly swallowed both of you whole!"
"It just suddenly spread after our last battle a few hours ago," said Scott. "Really fast. I've never seen anything like it, so I thought it must've been due to how powerful the demon we fought was, but Liam says he's had a small blight for days now."
Stiles' eyes flicked over Scott's guide-bearers as he mused over the situation. He didn't know any of these people, but....
"Are they your friends?" he asked Derek. "Or are they some randos forcing you to do free, dangerous service?"
Scott started at that. "I'll repay you, I'll do any—"
"Friends, I guess," said Derek. "Or friends of friends. They're Erica's friends."
"Excuse me," said Lydia.
"I know Lydia better, though," added Derek, to which Lydia gave a 'fine, good enough' shrug.
Stiles watched Derek put his hand on Liam's shoulder again, watched the violet veins pulse up his arm, watched the color leave his skin and the controlled breaths wrack his body and the fingers of his left hand curl into a white-knuckled fist beside him on the wood porch and—
"That's enough."
Derek glanced at him in surprise when he yanked Derek's hand off Liam. "I'm—"
"If you say you're fine, I'll be pissed," Stiles told him.
Derek blinked, and then his features softened in an unfair clench to Stiles' heart. "...Looks like you're already pissed off and I haven't even said anything."
"You haven't seen shit," muttered Stiles.
"I'll take a little break before I resume," said Derek, drinking his water as casually as ever like his hands weren't trembling. "The blight can't be left to its own devices for too long, especially since it seems to have spread at an abnormally fast rate to begin with."
"You're not resuming anything."
Stiles stood up and eyed Liam up and down—the blight covered his entire lower body from the abdomen down. "I think you've had it a little too easy," he told Liam.
Liam steadily agreed, the dope. "This is already a lot better than before. It's a miracle that I've been purified this much."
"I'll try contacting Kira again," said Scott. "You should rest, Derek. You probably get side effects from this, don't you? Anything you need, I'll—"
"Hey now, you're not fucking leaving like this after inviting your corrupted ass selves here," Stiles cut in before Derek could speak a word—he knew Derek wouldn't back down on finishing any task he set out to do. "Let's see if I can't give it a try."
Alarm flashed across Derek's usually stony expression. "Wha— You can't absorb—"
"I wouldn't even if I could!" snapped Stiles. "Like I want these gross friggin' eyeballs in me," he said with a shudder. "But, well"—he pulled his trusty, banged up metal bat out of a swirl of wind as a devilish grin spread across his face—"no one said I can't beat it out of you."
Lydia's mouth opened and closed as everyone stood there staring at him dragging Liam more into the center of the yard like he'd grown an extra head. "Um, maybe someone should stop him?" she suggested just as Scott shouted, "Wait—"
Stiles slashed the palm of his left hand, ran it across his bat, and the eyeballs on Liam's body swiveled to him with a snap as a light breeze spread his blood in a thin even layer on his bat.
"That's right." He raised his arms and swung down on Liam's side, still smiling. "Come get me."
The eyeballs released an odd screeching noise and Liam clutched at the wet grass, snow long melted, in muffled yells of pain—the demonic eyes followed Stiles' bat and bugged out of the blight as if trying to get a taste of Stiles' ichor, desperate for the divine power contained in just a single drop—
Stiles grabbed the eyeballs on Liam's stomach with his bloody hands and placed a foot on Liam's abdomen before pulling and pulling and pulling. More bloodcurdling screeches cut through the tense silence as Stiles ripped the blight from Liam's skin before everyone's wide, flabbergasted eyes as if it was a physical substance that could be separated—he pulled and pulled amidst the demonic screeches and Liam's restrained grunts of agony, until the last bits of it tore away from Liam's feet.
The blight struggled to break free from Stiles' grasp. It writhed in violent shudders, covering Stiles' hand in a pitch black mist of corruption—Stiles twisted and wrenched it in half, then crushed it in his fists. The angry, violet mass crumbled in abrupt silence as the twitching eyeballs disintegrated into nothingness, until all that was left was Liam' heavy pants amidst the utterly hushed tension in the yard.
Judging from the shocked, chilly stares on him, Stiles gathered that the smile on his face must look unhinged—it always did when his blood raced like this, a habit passed on from his last years in his past life. It didn't help that as a god, he could let loose as long as he could imagine it. He no longer had physical restrictions, nor did he have to practice or work out to do what he wanted; as long as he could picture it in his mind, he could pull off any move, regardless of technique or skill.
"You're going to have to get up yourself," Stiles told Liam, who touched his now back to normal stomach and legs in bewilderment, aside from a bruise forming on his side. "My hands are blighted."
Liam looked up at that and his eyes widened. "What the— You need to cleanse that right away! If it gets in your bloodstream, it'll—"
A shocked gasp cut through the night, and his words died as everyone whipped their heads toward Isaac, who clutched his bare, blighted wrist with an expression of shocked terror—the blight crept over his skin so quickly that they could see it move up from under his neckline within seconds, crawling like a sentient organism.
"Scott," he gasped—he fell to his knees. Theo and Mason had to keep Scott from running to Isaac as blight consumed the both of them.
"You have to cut him off," Lydia told Scott, panicked as Parrish kept her a good distance away from Scott. "You're both going to turn— It's spreading to Theo and Mason now too! Scott, you have to—"
"No," panted Scott. Black tears dripped from his eyes from where he stared at Isaac on the ground, too weak to keep upright, and the grass wilted with each drop of his blighted tears. "No. Isaac— Not Isaac—"
"Do it," whispered Isaac. "Hurry up. It's sp— Too fast—" Grotesque violet wings sprouted from his back, squelching as eyeballs swiveled all over them, and even more corrupted mist emanated off of them. "Scott, now!"
Stiles spread more blood over his bat—he couldn't help the way his veins danced at the sight of the thing Isaac was turning into.
Somehow, it reminded him of how he died. It didn't look the same, but the way his body prickled, the way his hands clammed up—it felt the same.
If he hadn't lost the first time, then he sure as hell wouldn't lose the second time either.
Isaac let out an inhuman scream, blight nearly conquering his entire face now, and Stiles blew him onto his back. The demonic wings on Isaac's back flapped and lifted his body up, only for Stiles to kick him back down—he stabbed his bat down in the center of Isaac's abdomen with a sharp, ear-splitting crack.
The ground cratered beneath Isaac in a small earthquake sure to be felt for miles. The trees whistled and bent under the strong winds that swirled around Stiles' bat as he fed his blood to the winds, staining the furious tornado around his bat with a deep ichor gold, and then he stabbed his bat down again with another explosive crack.
Isaac screeched and coughed up blood—the blight made one last useless attempt at resistance even as cracks split into it from his bat. Just like before, Stiles grabbed a handful of the disgusting mass and yanked, yanked, and yanked, except this time, there was too much for him to simply rip apart and disintegrate in his blood-clad fists, so he stepped on it and stabbed his bat down again, this time with more force since the blight was his only target now without Isaac in the way.
A thunderous clap shook the forest. The air itself shook and reverberated with Stiles at the center driving a hole into the blight crackling like lightning around him—birds took flight as the guide-bearers present dropped to their knees clutching their ears with pained winces, unable to withstand the wind pressure radiating from Stiles nor the shrill screeches of the blight's eyeballs and wings disintegrating one by one.
And Stiles' blood soared. The more it dripped onto his bat, the more he crushed the corrupted mass into the ground—ah, how refreshing.
He couldn't help but grin, and Lydia gasped from where she stood unfazed in front of her three guide-bearers, hand to her mouth.
"It's him, isn't it?" she asked unbeknownst to Stiles, voice drowned out by the crackling wind to everyone but Derek. "The god who cruised through countries causing ruckuses and saving people until a few months ago. He lives up to his name."
Derek watched the ease with which Stiles destroyed the blight, a tingle running up his spine. "Yeah," he said. "He has an amazing handle on his powers, especially without a guide-bearer."
"No, not that. He's not just a God of Wind."
Derek glanced at her, but she just stared at Stiles and the feral smile on his face as the blight crumbled little by little—he followed her gaze.
"Melchior," she whispered. "God of Wind and Vengeance."