Work Text:
Derek stands in front of the bulletin board spilled with handouts, fliers, and sign-up sheets with a dozen name criss-cross on it. He has been putting off this task for too long, simply because he doesn’t want a model, his art is doing fine on its own.
But his latest assignment is suffering, it’s for a sculpting class. Derek has left behind his bubble of friend groups and favorite teachers who will shower him with praise whenever he presents his new artwork, to stumble onto a new, harsher environment of sculpture. Cold as ice, people said about them, meticulous, creating something akin to a human being from just stone and marble can make someone's mind feel like an ancient god. Derek couldn't relate to that. He falls behind in class, his professor hates him, he doesn’t feel connected with his artwork. Barely making it to the final, Derek really tries to put everything he has learned over the course into it, but his professor just took one look at it and shook her head in disappointment.
So he went to her office one day and tried to explain his situation. Mrs. Luise eyed him with a sharp glare.
“Mr. Hale. It’s not that your sculpture is bad, in fact, it is good, the proportion and technique is well executed.” She said while continuing to grade the student work, Derek could see some of his classmates, mostly C or B. “It’s the connection that you’re lacking.” She put her pen down and looked straight at him. “It is within my knowledge that you’re very creative in other courses, the best student, some of them may claim, saying you express the most vivid imagination. That’s your key problem, you are so used to falling back on your mind thinking only about the theoretical aspect of it. Sculpture is an art of anatomy, other than understanding the human body and proportion, you need to know their authentic emotion as well, it isn’t something you pull out of your mind.”
Derek stood there, clutching on his back, mouth pinched tightly into one line, he cleared his dry throat. “Then what should I do, Professor?”
“Find a model! Work with them if you want to pass my class.” Simply as that, she waved her hand, signaling for Derek to go away, ending the conversation.
The thing is, Derek never worked with a model before, and he really didn’t give it much thought, now though, he is overwhelmed. How do people tackle this thing? Do they post a note here, or announce it online, or does he have to sign up somewhere? His eyes skim past pages about football, swimming, a topic of how to sign up for Math AP competition, then stare death at the art club flyer.
He never thought of joining a club before, the only time he shares his art is between friend and classmate. His art is dark, Derek admits, it’s his personal, deep thought that he grasps from his subconscious dream, it’s not something for the general audience to enjoy. He rarely touches on human subjects save for one time he attended portrait class, which is mandatory in his first year. Ever since then, he steers more to the abstract part of the scale. But he already signed up for this class, it’s the only elective class he could attend this semester and if he fails or drops out, he will be much behind his academic schedule. So what the hell, Derek picks up the dangling pen hook to a heart magnet next to the theatre club and signs his name in.
The next Tuesday, Derek arrives in the empty hallway after school, hesitant in front of a room, behind this door is supposedly his new club where he has to find a committed fellow student and engage with them for his project. He breathes in, steadying himself - one, two, three . The door swings open and a brown-haired boy with constellations for mole appears. His eyes widen, mouth opens then eases into a smile.
“Well hello, what have we here?” His voice moves like a mellow stream, pouring melody into Derek’s ear. “Are you new? I haven’t seen you around! You don’t look like a freshman!” He smiles, extends his hand to Derek. “I’m Stiles! Nice to meet you!”
Derek’s sight is still lingering at the boy’s bonfire eyes, he blurts out the only thing that came up from the wretched place, which is his brain. “What the hell is a Stiles?”
Stiles huffs out, throws his hand in the sky, not in a way of being offended but more or so annoying, he probably has been teased about his name before - his shirt ruffles up, gluing Derek’s vision into the extended skin. He has tattoos.
“Dude! Not cool joking about people's names! Even if it’s not my real name, it’s just a nickname by the way, and no I won’t tell you my real name, it’s a crazy one, let me tell you about it - you could sacrifice yourself to a god for the knowledge and even him wouldn’t know how to say my name.” Stiles ramble on, his hand reaches out and plays with Derek’s bag tag, the other support his body on the door frame.
“Why would I want to offer my own life to an immortal deity just to learn your name?”
“Because everyone loves learning secrets!” Stiles' smile dances mischievously on his lip, his hand skirt from Derek’s bag, ghosting all over the sleeve and grabbing his wrist, pulling him inside. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
Inside, they had rearranged the tables in the middle of the class. On top of it, one side is overflowing with bags and belongings and on the other side, cups, soft drinks, and pizza boxes are hastily thrown around. There’s a cup filled with what looks like soda but has multiple paintbrushes in it. Derek frowns at the image.
“Ah! Ignore the mess! We try to keep it clean but it’s art, you know, it gets messy.”
Derek brings his eyes around the room, there're canvas put up around what seems like a podium, several people sitting there, currently sketching what appears to be a mixture of robot parts and fruits, the wall on the left is covered by a white cloth, or at least what it used to be, a girl is currently throwing paint at it, causing color splotch blooming like fireworks. At the very end corner, things look way more neat and clean, another girl reclines in the armchair, with her notebook tucked into her lap, she’s too peaceful amidst the chaotic scene that happens around her.
He turns his head back to Stiles, who is looking up at him now, gnawing at his lips. “So what do you think about our club, I know this is not the best art club on the campus but - “
“Wait, this is not the only art club at school?”
Stiles' shoulder hunches down, he looks deflated. “Oh, you’re not looking for our club, right? It’s okay, it happens sometimes, well most of the time, ours is not exactly what people are looking for.” Shade clouding his amber eyes and Derek can’t help himself. “I’ll join.”
The sun shines again on the land of the wicked, Stiles grins. “You won’t regret it!” He shouts back to his friend. “Guys! Drop everything, we have a new member!”
“This is Scott, Jackson, and Lydia working on their ehm... abomination.” Stiles scrunches his eyebrow at the object. “The girl going crazy with our paint cans is Allison and finally our queen Kira, don’t mess with her zen time!” Stiles whispers. “So what brought you here? Any art projects to share?”
“Actually, I’m looking for a model for my sculpture.”
“Sculpture! Cool! Wait, the minute you’re not taking Mrs. Luise's class, right? Whew, good luck.” Stiles shivers at the memories, bouncing up and down, his hair plops to the movement. “I nearly failed it, almost ruining my 4.0. That lady is unhinged - I have to agree to model to get extra credit so I could pass that damn class.” His head jerks up, eyes glinting. “Hey, you said you need a model. Maybe I can help you!”
Derek gulfs down the lump in his throat, teeth biting his tongue. It couldn’t be this easy. “What - what is your condition?”
“Huh?”
“You’re not seriously offering to model for me without charge? You don’t even know my name”
“You seem like a nice guy! And mister, you don’t even know my name, what is your name?”
“It’s Derek.”
“Well Derek, I want to help you with your sculpture, but-” He trails his voice. “You have to put in the work around here, be active in the club and all!”
Derek exhales, his chest tightening at the sight of Stiles' smile, it brings him back to his mother’s kitchen, painted in a sunshine color with the smell of warm apple pie. “Deal.”
“Deal!”
And his fate is sealed.
----------
“So tell me about your project!” Stiles says, his lithe body drapes over Derek’s revolving chair, legs clap in tight ragged jeans swinging around, knocking on his table. He picks up a teapot, a creation from Derek’s last pottery class, brings it up to his face, and examines it with a dreamy smile.
Derek is transfixed, he swallows, hands unconsciously clammy with sweat, his mouth suddenly so dry. Does the goddess Selene feel the same way when she gazes at her lover’s body in an internal slumber? “It’s for my final in the sculpture course.”
“And what is the problem with it?” Stiles asks, when he sees Derek confused titled head, he continues, shoulder relax back. “No offense, but you seem desperate last time and knowing Mrs. Luise's reputation. Yeah!” His head throws back in laughter. “It’s pretty much the case.”
Derek sighs. “I have trouble connecting with my subject.” He twiddles with the back spine of his sketchbooks, finger tracing the worn, dented cover from many years of doodling and scribbling nonsense. It’s his first-ever notebook, Derek doesn’t have the heart to stop using it so he chose to replace the papers inside instead.
“Do you not have much experience with human anatomy?” Stiles' voice sounds light, Derek thinks he catches some teasing barely there. He scratches his neck raw. “I don’t normally draw people, my art is a bit more abstract.”
“No problem dude, everyone's art style is unique, that’s the beauty of it, you can never find the same voice twice in art!” Stiles encourages. “But... You make me curious now. Can I... see them?”
Derek’s taken back a bit, he clutches tighter to his sketch, a million things scream and run wild in his mind. Can he trust Stiles? To bare his soul in front of another mind? What will Stiles think of seeing these? He releases his finger and extends his arm, handing it to Stiles. “Yeah. Go ahead. It’s pretty disturbing though.”
Stiles whistles, happy like a baby bird and takes the sketchbook with both hands, cradling it in his lap like something precious - and opens it, eyes focus on each sketch. His face is serious like a switch has been turned - Stiles flips through each page with a reverent look, finger tracing feathery on each stroke.
“Wow! These are...!” His head snaps up, eyes wide. “How can you struggle with your assignment, anyway? The way you decipher your art is so intense, I reckon you must have a deep connection with people... It’s so dark and scarily accurate!”
“Yeah... I drew it from my subconscious... Weird place…” Derek turns his eyes away, it’s always hard to explain his inspiration to other people. Most of the time, people will eye him suspiciously, like they’re seeing a monster, because what kind of person can draw this from their mind. Maniac , they whispered.
“Dude, it's not weird, it’s awesome!” If there's any ungenuine in that sentence, Derek’s too blinded to pick it up now.
“So...Where is the mysterious, awful project we keep talking about?” Stiles hands him back the notebook, it smells like him now, the spicy note, warm cinnamon, and sandalwood linger, hoarding itself a corner in Derek’s mind.
“Over here.” Derek stands up and walks Stiles to the adjacent room next to his kitchen. He didn't enjoy living in the dorm, no space for privacy, so when he finished high school, he found himself an apartment near the university. It’s something about the dark looming feel and exposed brick that hooks him to this place. No roommates, he doesn't need the rent share, but his friends stay over sometimes, Derek isn’t that reclusive.
They enter a small room filled with clutter, paints, brushes and canvas scattered across the floor, in the middle is his sculpture, only the top part is carved. It’s a sculpture of a woman with long wavy locks and soft curves that could shame Aphrodite herself, but on her face, where Derek had hoped it to be a soulful expression, is just blank space.
Stiles reaches his finger up and traces again the cold stone surface, memorizing the design. “Hey. This isn’t as bad as you describe it. Mr. Luise was right, definitely needs more engagement.”
“You sound like her.” Derek snorts and shakes his head. “And engagement?”
“Yeah! You treated her like a goddess, untouchable. It’s nice but you guys don’t have a connection.”
“It’s a sculpture, Stiles, I don’t want to connect with a non-inanimate object.”
“You keep saying that.” Stiles pinches his brow.
“Saying what?”
“You act like your emotion is the only valid thing you consider for your art. You should be able to draw inspiration from others too.”
Derek is stunned, he admits. “I never think about it that way.”
“I know. People always say I give excellent advice.” Stiles claps his hand together. “Now let's see what I can do for you! What do you want to begin with first?”
“I’m not sure? How about the pose first?”
“Of course. What do you have in mind for her?” He waves his hand to the piece.
“Just a standing basic pose, nothing too intricate.” Derek turns to the table beside him, opens up his toolbox, takes out the pick, and lifts it in his hand, feeling its weight in his palm. Derek has a routine, he needs to be in his headspace, in tune with his art more, which is why he works better without people around, or in this case, model. But Stiles is here now, he breathes in and turns around. “Let’s start.”
“Uhm, pose?” Stiles says, flailing his arm around.
“Oh right, let’s me…” Derek answers and approaches Stiles, one hand comes out and lifts his elbow, the other smooths down his flank, nuzzling Stiles into position. “Here… Are you comfortable?” His hand squeezes on Stiles' arm, feeling the tight muscle.
Stiles looks up and blinks, leaning in way too close, his lashes flutter like butterflies on his cherubic cheek. “Okay.”
Derek steps back, rapid beats echoing in his chest threatening to spill out, he ignores Stiles' mesmerizing smile and returns to his sculpture. His hand glosses over the chilled surface and begins. The rhythmic tap of the pick against the hard material echoing in the room. His hand carves into the stone, the other brushing over the newly formed lines. Derek glances up at Stiles, eyes outlining his pose, taking in the way his hip subtly swaying, the quivering of his chest when Stiles inhales and exhales, how the light from the frosted windowpane emits him in a hazy halo. Stiles locks gaze with him and time flies behind his eyes.
“Der - “ Stiles' voice rings ethereally in his ears. “I think we are done for today.” He states.
Derek clicks out of his dream, the clock on the wall ticks at 6 pm. “Yeah. Did I keep you for way too long? Damn!”
Stiles teases. “It’s okay. You've really lost yourself there. Where did you wander to, big guy?”
You.
“Same time on Friday?” Stiles stretches, shaking his tense arms. “Ahh - The tingle! Remember our deal, you have to help us at the club tomorrow. Okay?”
“Of course. Thank you for today.” Derek says, putting back his tools.
“No problem, see you.” Stiles gathers up his backpack, making his way out of the room, then stops and turns back, sending him a wink that seizes Derek’s heart. “It’s my pleasure.”
It’s only when Derek hears the door closing that his soul truly returns to his body. His mind still stuck at the place where Stiles had stood, the image etched into his brain. The sky is dark outside, and his apartment is way too silent. He snatches up his phone and texts Isaac.
Come over.
----------
The sticky scent of paint drags around Derek when he carries the boxes to the art room. Stiles has texted him earlier, telling him to fetch up their supplies from the storage room across the campus. That boy is taking every opportunity to boss him since their agreement, starting from coffee runs to heavy labor around the club. Derek won’t complain, though, if that means Stiles will talk to him more.
Derek pushes open the door, greeted by the scene of Stiles lounging in Scott’s lap, hand swirling the other’s hair in his nimble fingers. Their faces rub close, whispering things. Derek frowns, something dark wrenches his heart down from its place, his hands grip tight on the boxes. Noticing Derek’s presence, Stiles calls out, relaxing deeper to Scott's embrace. “Derek, just the man I need right now. And you bring the paint too. Great! You can leave them over here.” He gestures behind him.
Derek’s legs sink like lead all the way over, can’t help but glance back when he passes the couch, they aren’t dating, are they? He put down the boxes and came up face to face with Stiles' grin. “So taking in your suggestion, today is cleaning day.”
“Finally. We’ve been nagging you about this for forever now. It's like a dump around here.”
“But it's your favorite dump, don’t deny it now, Jackson. You fit right in.”
Snickers erupt in the room, Jackson’s face reddens, he clenches his fist and turns away.
“Aww. Don’t be sad, baby. It’s a joke. C’mon now.” Stiles laughs, then skips to him. Arm slinging around Jackson’s shoulder, Stiles grabs his pouty chin. “I’ll make it up to you later, huh, c’mon, smile for me.”
From the place Derek’s standing, he can see Jackson's mouth quirk up.
Deeming the problem had been dealt with, like a king in his castle, Stiles saunters to Derek. “Ah ah, sorry, he’s usually not that sensitive, must be something in class.” He picks up the nearby bucket and thrust it toward Derek. “Okay, clean the window, we'll take care of the other things.”
Then he leaves Derek to it and walks back to his friends, who are gathering trash around the big table, sweeping them into a big bag. A girl, Allison, grabs Stiles when he comes close and laughs into his ears. A pink blush spreads across his face and he quips back something that makes her gasp, their arms tangle around each other. The scene seems forbidden, like Derek doesn’t belong here, watching nymphs playing in their mythical garden. Someone is speaking to Derek, who can’t quite hear it from the blood boiling in his head. Is he always like this with everyone?
“You’re staring.” Derek straightens up, noticing a redhead next to him, attention yanking away from the intimacy playing in front of him.
“If you’re wondering, he’s always like that, I don’t think the word personal space exists in his dictionary.” She continues. “Don’t let it get to you, he means nothing, if that is what you’re afraid of. It’s just a way he shows affection.”
Derek’s shoulder tense, what had he gotten himself into?
“Or... Oh... You’re not afraid that he means anything. You’re afraid that he doesn’t.” She chuckles, the resemblance is staggering, it’s like they were cut from the same cloth, her and Stiles, have a way of bewitching other people with their expressions.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Derek lies, and turns his back away from them, focusing on his task, but his mind stays fixed on Stiles' bright smile. The smile of a man who always gets what he wants, even if he doesn’t have a clue what it is.
----------
Their agreement has been running for two months, with Stiles posing for Derek every evening when he’s free and Derek helping in the club. He has become somewhat of a fixture in it, growing closer with the members, an odd bunch, they are, but they get along well. If only he could do something about his festering feeling for Stiles. He doesn't even know what it is about the boy, he comes barging into Derek's life, snatches open his door, throws away the key, and refuses to leave. Derek thinks the others know about it, they stare and whisper about him to each other, to Stiles. He wonders what Stiles knows.
Derek’s hand stroking the semi-finish sculpture, they have done a fine job, Stiles posing and occasionally voice in his ideas, really pushing this project ahead. He’s the one who blew life into this once soulless piece.
Derek should be proud, he knows Mrs. Luise will see this highly. But something isn’t right, Derek fingers ghost over its face, too round where it should be sharp, down to its slender neck, maybe , his finger stagger at the sculpture’s breast, no .
“Derek!” The voice yells. “Ah. Found you!” Stiles comes in, as natural as he has always been. When did Derek give him the key?
“Hey, Stiles...” Derek stops in the middle of his saying, eyes zeroing onto Stiles. “Why are you soaking wet?”
“Oh, this? A little mishap on the way here, a guy slipped his hose on me!” Stiles giggles, his face is amused rather than irritated.
“And you walk all the way here, like this?” Heat etched in Derek’s voice, it surprises him that it sounds way lighter than the burning infernal in his chest.
“I’m not going back all the way to my place just to change my shirt, I figured I could borrow one from you.” He leans back on the table, eyebrows lift suggestively. “Now, are we going to work on your project or not? You told me the deadline is in two more weeks, right?” Derek nods. “So not much time left, c’mon.”
Stiles makes his way to their usual spot and, to Derek's surprise, he raises his arm up and pulls out his shirt, leaving his skin bare.
“Uhm....” Derek stares at Stiles' glistering skin, this is the first time he has ever seen Stiles like this, he drinks in the image of ink stripe crawling along his navel, trailing down way below where the view is disappointedly obstructed by his pants. Derek is gluttonous.
“Do you have any shirts I could borrow? This is so irritating!”
“Yes.” Derek stumbles back in surprise “Which one would you prefer?”
“I don’t care, any of them.” Stiles half shrugs, hand playing with the balled-up shirt.
“I’ll be right back.” Derek whispers, and heads to his bedroom to pick out a black Henley, returns and hands it to Stiles. He stretches his body up and puts it on. Something primal in Derek's rise, howling at the sight of Stiles wearing his clothes, he will smell like Derek now.
“Thanks!” Stiles looks brighter than he has ever been, his face is red, head tilted on one side, hair messing up when he pulls the shirt over.
“Anytime,” Derek says curtly, voice deep and strict, Stiles' hand pauses on his hips.
“Derek.” His hand strokes up the shirt. Derek can feel the touch like it's running up his own bare skin, feeling the heat of it deep inside his bone. His jaw clenches when Stiles' hand goes up higher and strokes his neck.
“Derek.” Stiles sighs and the air in Derek's lungs seem to turn into fire. Stiles knows all too well what he's doing, clear in the glint in his eyes. Derek is trapped, like a prey trembling underneath a bigger predator, his life depends on Stiles' mercy alone.
“Stop.” He whispers, and Stiles pauses.
“No,” Stiles says, moving closer to Derek, and as he does, Derek can feel his body flush more.
“Why are you....” Derek shakes his head.
“Because I wanna,” Stiles says in a voice low and teasing.
Derek blinks a few times, he cannot form a reaction, cannot even move a muscle, his eyes flutter, he is frozen. He can feel Stiles so close now, hands caressing over his wrists, fingers tracing up his biceps, one hand comes up to push Derek's hair off of his eyes. Their eyes meet and Derek loses himself in Stiles' honey-filled eyes, he couldn't leave.
Then Stiles laughs out loud and backs away. "Don't be so tense!"
Derek reels back into the present, he opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He closes it again.
Stiles' focus is shifted now, face examining the sculpture. "This piece turned out decently, hah? All she is missing now is a face." Then he looks up at Derek. "Do you still want me to pose? You have the other details done already."
Derek nods, still haven't come back from earlier. "Of course. You’re here already, anyway.”
"Is that so? Okay, then get on with it. It's just my face now, so I don't need to stand for this, right?" Stiles says and sits down on a chair with a jar of red paint next to it, he smiles.
Derek turns away and picks up his tool, a smaller pick now, for finer detail. "Where should I start?"
"The eyes," Stiles says after a few seconds of silence. Derek nods and goes back to work on the sculpture.
Stiles watches Derek's, his eyes follow the motion of the pick. Layer after layer, the hard rock crumbles, under Derek's quick hand, doe eyes stare back at him, just like its owner, detail so fine down to the smallest creak. It's a shame he can't replicate those veils of lashes, but he'll make do with what he has to work with.
Derek raises his head after finishing that section and looks at Stiles, his eyes shine.
"I'm done for tonight," Derek says as he stands up. Stiles nods and stands up as well, then reaches down and grabs his vibrating phone and grins.
"So you're free tonight?" Stiles asks.
Derek shakes his head. "No, I’m not doing anything important."
"Perfect, so you're coming with me!"
"To where?"
Stiles chuckles and leans forward. "You'll know! Now let's freshen up. And oh, I'm borrowing this shirt, okay. I'll return it tomorrow."
Derek is reluctant, but follows, anyway.
Nursing a drink in his hand, Derek swept his eyes across the dance floor. When they got here, they went straight to the bar to order drinks. Fuelled by sugar and alcohol, Stiles tried to pull Derek out for a dance but he refused, it’s really not his thing. Stiles went anyway and Derek has seen no familiar faces since. He scans the crowd of heads in front of him, hoping to find the unruly silhouette that haunts his mind. But there's no trace of Stiles, he sighs and leans back, letting the alcohol seep in deeper. The multi-changing light pulsates and bounces off the walls, turning the room into a maze of color. Scrunching his eyes from the rapid pace of the music, Derek's head spins. When he opens them up, somewhat lucid now, he spots Scott all tangled up with two girls, dancing like there's no tomorrow, now Derek knows this is not just a fever dream and he won't have to come home drunk alone on a Wednesday night. At least he will be drunk with them.
“Are you alright?” A voice breaks Derek's train of thoughts. He turns over to see Isaac lifting his brow at him. "You never go out unless it's on the weekend!"
The dripped teasing tone in Isaac’s voice was more than Derek could handle. "Not now Isaac. Go bother some other miserable guy."
"But you're that miserable guy!" He grins.
Derek's about to snap back at him when he sees Stiles skirt over his peripheral vision. He is dancing with a stranger, probably for a while now, for his henley has stuck to Stiles' body like a second skin. They grind against each other, limbs entwine. Something flares inside of Derek, making sour bile rising up his throat. He grips the glass in hand, glancing over to Isaac who's giving him a curious look. Derek downs the rest of the wine in one go, feeling the burning drag of it down his throat, and stands up, grabbing Isaac's arm. “Let’s dance.”
They slide onto the dance floor, dodging the half wasted people fumbling around to make it to the middle, to Stiles.
He put his arm around Isaac, pulling him in, mirroring Stiles and the other. Their hips swaying to the music. Derek's hand moves up and down on Isaac's upper arm, eyes not leaving Stiles. The beat changes and Stiles whips his head up, catching Derek's gaze, he smiles and leans closer to his dance partner, his hand grips tighter on their back.
"Hey, you jealous prick." Isaac's voice pulls him back, he raises his eyebrow. "Don't think I didn't notice."
"What." His voice sounds hoarse, drowning in the blasting music.
"You keep looking over to that guy, isn't he the one who helps you with your class, the sculpture one?"
"He's a friend."
"Oh no, he isn't. Not with that face." Isaac grins, clutching at Derek. "Oh, come on, you're obviously obsessed with him. You look like you want to come over to them and fight the other dude till death."
That is exactly what Derek’s dying to do right now, but he won’t - not now. He narrows his eyes and is about to tell Isaac off but right then, he sees Stiles is leaving now, with the other guy. And all reason left his brain as Derek shakes off Isaac's arm and stalks over.
Stiles yelps in surprise when Derek yanks him back. He staggers, then turns back with a frown. When he sees Derek, he relaxes into a smile.
“Ooooh, Derek. I was wondering where you have been.”
“At the bar. Where you left me.”
“Oh, sorry. But you seem like you’re having fun.” Stiles gestures to Isaac, who has his hand on his hips, looking amusing at the entire exchange.
“Stop it, Stiles.” He grits out, nails gripping in his palm, the pain grounded him. "I don't care if this is a sick joke or something. But I don't appreciate being toyed with like this. So you can bring your whole playboy aesthetic somewhere else."
Stiles stops smiling now, his brow knits together. "What are you talking about?"
"The whole flirting with everything walking and breathing. Stop it. I don't want to be one of the names on your list just for you to laugh with your friend." Derek sneers. "You don't need to show up at my place anymore." Then he skims past Stiles and leaves.
"But I don’t...Your sculpture ..." Stiles' voice is quivering.
Derek's heart clenches. He doesn't glance back.
----------
He couldn't sleep tonight, mind racing with a thousand thoughts about Stiles. How Stiles has sounded like that, broken. His loft feels colder. He did not come back with Isaac like usual, the idea churns his stomach. The clock ticks in his head, counting away the minutes, hours, he doesn't know anymore.
Throwing his legs down the bed, he gets up and starts pacing the room. The window glints from broken moonlight. Everything is so still, the darkness like a vast hole sucking everything in it, Derek's lost. He drags his feet down the corridor, pictures, and paintings on the wall cast an eerie shadow down the carpet. There's an alluring song calling to him, pulling Derek to one place. He arrives in his art room, staring at the sculpture, Stiles .
Derek bites his lip, tasting the salty iron pooling in behind his gum, and picks up his tool. With a hammer in hand, he mercilessly breaks down the sculpture's lush curls, renders it into a choppy short mess. Pushing away the crumbs, he moves down and does the same thing with its breast until there's nothing left but a flat surface. Realizing he has been holding his breath, Derek exhales.
Normally, this will be ill-advised to change a sculpture's sex completely at this stage, but Derek manages, they have the same frame after all. It makes Derek wonder when he started this project he didn't even meet Stiles yet, but somehow the goddess in his mind had blended herself with Stiles.
Derek reached out, carefully tracing his finger against the new recantation of his muse. He pulled his hand away, feeling a slight ache form in his fingertips. He takes a deep breath through his nose.
"You’ll be perfect."
He spends his entire week inside. There were missed calls from friends and school, he knew that because he went and checked on it after the 50th time he had ignored it to turn it off. He’s running on a coffee and energy bar now, barely 3 hours of sleep every night. Days he spent on redoing the sculpture, won’t settle for anything less than perfection. Determination burns in his lungs every inhale, this is for Stiles.
He hears a noise coming from outside, Derek looks up to see a figure standing at the doorway. It's Stiles, he's holding several notebooks and a tray of coffees. It's morning now. Derek has been up the whole night for this.
"Derek… You haven’t come to the club for a while now… I’m worried." Stiles says, his feet hesitantly moving forward into the room then stop and stare at the sculpture, seeing that it's clearly different from all the time he has laid eyes on it before.
"What did you do?"
"I finished the job. What are you doing here, Stiles?"
"When you say finish the job, that means putting in the last detail which is missing. Not completely redo it. You could have ruined it, all your hard work, and..."
When he comes closer, Stiles realizes that it has been changed into him and is stunned to silence, Derek can see a million thoughts running through his mind. The game they're playing is no longer fun, this is Derek's last card and if Stiles can't see it, then it's his loss.
"I just wanted to talk to you."
"About what?"
"I wanted to clear out something." Stiles' eyes are fierce, he gnaws his lips then blurts out. "I think we have a misunderstanding." Stiles put the tray down. Derek stays silent, waiting for the inevitable denial.
"I like you a lot."
Derek's heart hits the ground with Stiles' word, still in his own mind, not capable of registering its meaning.
“Wait... what?”
“I’ve been flirting with you for ages now, seriously, or I try to if you haven’t caught on yet.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Last time, I even stripped in front of you, c’mon, and you didn’t even react. So I thought you weren’t interested.”
“You flirt with everyone.”
“No, I'm not!” Stiles bolt upright. “Why do you think that?”
Derek opens his hand and counts on his fingers. “Scott, Jackson, Allison, and that other dude at the club.”
“It's how I act around them, and for your information, they’re all in a relationship already, we're just handsy. And the thing with the other dude is because I thought you rejected me.”
Stiles combs his hand through his hair. “And dude, you’re at fault too, I thought you were sleeping with Isaac.”
Oh, Isaac, Derek widens his eyes. “Fuck!”
“Yeah fuck, you’re a stupid asshole, do you know that? I poured all my tricks out on you and you left me feeling like an idiot.”
Derek sucks in a lungful breath, taking in Stiles' unique scent mixing with freshly scraped off stone and morning dust. “I’m a fucking idiot.”
Stiles softens, coming near and placing his hand on the sculpture. “Yes, you are….So is this my apologies present? You make it look like me now.”
“Yeah, I spend all week, night and day, to do it. I stare at it and realize it feels so wrong. I don’t feel connected to her anymore, my feelings have transferred to you, it’s you. So I have to fix it...”
Derek put his hand on top of Stiles'. “Can we please restart this whole thing?”
Stiles laughs, voice ringing like windchime in the summer wind. “I’ll think about it!”