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Summary
Derek thinks once, in the humid darkness of his bed with the taste of Gerard sour in his mouth, what it would be like to let go. To feel right. And solid. He thinks of settling into himself, of melting into his skin, of being perfect and whole the way Scott so obviously is. Something noxious claws its way up from his stomach at the thought and squats in his esophagus. His breath comes narrow and close and he has to trap his hands under the pillow, refuses to feel the fine tremors running the length of his fingers. Because this, this is his, part of him, deep in his bones and the soft hollows of his ankles, and the too-bright pulse of the veins at his elbows.