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It’s kind of weird, but Derek likes to count Jackson’s freckles. He only does it when he’s sure the teen is asleep, his sweaty cheek plastered to his chest. He waits until there’s that snore—loud and obnoxious and maybe he should get that shit checked—before he wraps an arm around him and brings his other hand up to that chin. With Jackson’s adamancy that this is nothing more than sex, this is the only time Derek’s able to touch the kid like this, to hold him. Derek’s never really seen himself as the sentimental type, but . . . it—it just feels like the right thing to do.
Derek starts along his forehead, by his eyebrows, where the freckles are sparser. He carefully trails the pad of his finger from freckle to freckle, mouthing the new number as he reaches the next one. One, two, three, four . . . eleven, twelve, thirteen . . . twenty-nine, thirty, thirty one . . . Jackson shifts; Derek freezes. Jackson only scratches at his nose, though, then quickly settles back into slumber, and, after a moment, snores continue.
He completes the span of his forehead (fifty-seven, give or take about a dozen) and finds himself back between those pretty, perfect eyebrows. Derek strokes the mostly straight slope of his nose with three fingers, before going back to count, sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five. Of course, there is no denying the kid’s a dick—as well as a fucking murderous lizard—but damn is he pretty. His finger eases to the side and Derek begins the arduous task of those cheeks, so thick with freckles it almost looks like a natural tan.
This is where Derek’s a little lax with his count, has really no choice but to. He continues to run his fingers over skin, continues mouthing numbers, but soon they stop meaning anything. He’s distracted by the cheekbones, the sharp edge of jawline, the feel of his chin— He pauses again when Jackson chuckles ever so slightly, his hand scratching at Derek’s chest. Derek can’t help but blink at the action, can’t help but watch the emotion come and leave on the Jackson’s face. He waits for the kid’s jaw to go slack again to start counting.
Just as he does though, his thumb catching on that pink bottom lip, Derek realizes he’s completely lost count. He can’t find himself to mind, though, not when Jackson—his snores eased, his eyes fluttering—purses his lips against Derek’s thumb, kisses it.