Stiles narrowed his eyes at the book, trying his damnedest to bring the words into focus, but nothing. Nada. He would've thrown it, but it was a book. He didn't throw books.
So, instead, he walked around the loft again, twirling a pencil in his hand, and possibly drawing squiggles along the wall. Every so often.
If they ask, he'll deny it.
"Will you just sit down?" Derek glared at him. Well, the Derek-shaped blur sitting at the table probably glared at him.
"I can't! I'm bored out of my mind! There's nothing to do, I can't research, I can't read!" His voice broke on the last word, and he just shook his head, cleared his throat. "You don't--you don't get it. I will lose my mind without something to occupy it. Several somethings."
"Well, make something up in your head. Or I can put on some music, or a movie." Derek tossed out suggestions, tone caught between sympathy and annoyance. Of course, Mr. Werewolf-Who-Wasn't-Cursed doesn't need glasses, so he doesn't know.
"I have to be able to take in more things. So if I could read and have music on, or be writing something and have a movie on, or what the fuck ever. And be able to switch between them when one got really dull. This?" He gestured at himself. "This isn't working. When is Deaton going to have that poultice to go on my eyes and fix them?"
Hands descended on his shoulders, and he jumped a little, but settled when Derek whispered, "I don't know. He had to get an ingredient shipped in, I think it arrives tomorrow. Let's just...what if I read to you?"
Stiles shook his head, feeling defeated by his body, by his human fragility. Such a simple thing, vision. He didn't realize how bad it would be, even if it wasn't totally gone. "Tell you this," he muttered, "I'm never going to take being able to see for granted. Didn't think about it before, but now..."
Derek disappeared from view and came back a minute later. "Come on, sit with me."
The werewolf settled in the corner of the large, lumpy couch, and when Stiles sat on the middle section, he pulled the boy between his legs, back to his chest. Derek set his chin on Stiles' shoulder, curved his arms around him, and opened the book.
He started reading, and it was...really nice, actually. Stiles took in the words, of course, but he also had the stubble that prickled against his neck as Derek spoke, the subtle vibration of his voice, the startlingly soft skin of his arms.
It was comforting, and sweet. He stopped trying to squint his vision back to clarity, and instead closed his eyes to bring everything else into focus. Derek had such a smooth voice. Stiles decided to ask for bedtime stories even after Deaton fixed him.
Stiles nuzzled his forehead against Derek's cheek, sighed as more of his jittery energy left him, and settled in to listen as he traced protective runes from memory into his werewolf’s skin.