Chapter Text
2015 | Macon, Georgia
Derek Hale doesn't know what to do with Stiles Stilinski.
He just doesn't.
He didn't know what he was getting himself into when he agreed to be his assistant.
Stiles is the music industry’s newest sensation, a twenty-five year old crooner from Beacon Hills, California with a honey smooth voice and mole dotted skin. He's been in the media for most of his life, from Star Search at age eleven to releasing two self-produced EPs in his late teens. There was American Idol when he was fourteen, booted off in favor of a songbird soprano who decided a year later that fame was too much and took to being a recluse. He spent years posting covers on YouTube, gaining a following and collaborating with other artists before entering a competition where he beat out thousands of entertainers for a chance to perform a solo set at the Super Bowl Halftime Show.
He tried his hand at acting for a while, taking small recurring guest roles on daytime television and a minor part in a Marvel movie before eventually going back to his first passion. He was picked up by NewMuse Records at twenty-two and had spent the last two and a half years touring the world and promoting his music.
He's graced magazine covers and featured on tracks with countless artists, his songs are repeating endlessly on Top 40 radio and he just recently sold out a world tour.Interviewers scramble to get a word in with him at award shows and red carpet events. As soon as he steps out at an appearance he's greeted by an explosion of camera flashes that only aid in catching his flawlessly tousled hair and whatever designer he's promoting that evening.
The world is his oyster.
And he's dripping chocolate sauce down the front of his shirt while he rambles on about Star Wars at a waffle house in the middle of Georgia.
“Then he comes on screen and I’m like, am I the only one who sees how completely suspicious this guy is? Obviously-”
"Babe, you're spilling on yourself," Derek points to the growing stain on his shirt, fighting the urge not to laugh.
"Shit," Stiles swears, grasping for the stack of flimsy napkins on the table and dipping them into Derek's ice water.
Derek glares. The Glarek, as Stiles likes to call it.
He's the picture of perfection to the public. But here, in this booth, he's just Stiles.
Without designer suits and screaming fans and flashing cameras and bright smiles, but he's still everything.
And Derek doesn't know what to do with him.
"You could've warned me before I ruined my only good white shirt."
"And miss you try to lick food off of yourself? No way in hell."
Stiles glares back at him briefly before licking the sauce from his fingers in the most obscene gesture Derek has ever seen. He laughs good-naturedly, peeling the damp white shirt away from his chest. Derek can't help but stare. Stiles is cut, though he falls on the leaner side, perfectly pronounced in all the right places. Abs and biceps and forearms galore. And those hands, dear god.
Derek can't help but notice his gaze linger on Stiles' hands clutching at himself.
"You're such a perv. I didn't do this for you to get a free show," he chides but doesn't stop licking his fingers or make a move to cover whatever the wet t-shirt is now exposing.
This is something they do sometimes. Flirt when no one's around to catch them, poke fun at each other and make out, occasionally.
2015 | Somewhere, USA
On the tour bus, things are quiet. Derek is browsing 8tracks playlists (Yes, I know what 8tracks is, Stiles, I’m only a couple of years older than you) when the bus sways and Stiles bumps into him.
"Sorry," he mutters, "I need a Pop-Tart in my life, like, yesterday. Hey, do you think Whataburger will let the bus in the drive-thru? "
"No, and Jackson is gonna kill you," Derek says by way of greeting.
Stiles straightens up and waves him off, "What Jackson doesn't know won't hurt him. Plus, it's my cheat day."
Derek glances at his watch, "Your cheat day was officially over fifteen minutes ago."
He stands to put the Pop-Tarts back on the back of the shelf, his six-foot-one frame swaying against Stiles’s even six feet as the bus moves along the highway. Even though Stiles is tall, Derek’s obnoxiously one inch taller and he uses it to his advantage.
"Dude, I'm over by fifteen minutes. Minutes that haven't technically even happened in other time zones yet. Please?"
"No," Derek says calmly, pulling out two pieces of string cheese from the fridge beside him. "You'd only be cheating yourself after all the hard work you've done."
"We've done," Stiles corrects, reluctantly plucking one of the cheese sticks from his hand. "It's technically your cheat day now. You could eat a Pop-Tart and explain the flavors to me in great detail."
Derek rolls his eyes and flops back down into the couch. "I'm not wasting my Thursday on a Poptart. Just because you wasted your sugar quota doesn't mean you can use mine too. Go away."
Jackson had originally given them the same cheat day until he found out they'd eat nothing but sour candy (for Stiles) and red meat (for Derek). He forced them to take different days so they couldn't talk one another into "food spiraling", as he liked to call it.
Stiles just pouts and slumps into the couch, dropping his feet onto Derek's lap. As if on autopilot, Derek grabs them and starts to massage because he already knows Stiles is going to ask. He lets his head fall back and squeaks out a pleased moan every time Derek squeezes in the right place.
A whole minute of sweet, sweet silence passes before Stiles is buzzing again.
Stiles has always dealt with his hyperactivity. Being the only child to a single father who also happens to be the Sheriff makes for a troublesome combination. Stiles was always in some kind of trouble, running amok with his best friend Scott and slipping through his dad's fingers every time he was supposed to be disciplined. Until his sixth-grade music class, when he became obsessed with learning how to read music. He'd begged his dad to let him take guitar lessons, to which his dad only agreed on the condition that his shenanigans stopped.
Fourteen years later, it turns out that bargain had worked out in both the Stilinski men's favor.
Every once in awhile Derek can see the bits of Stiles' personality that were molded by that kid's ADHD. Most days Derek can handle it, seems to be the only one who does. But some days he gets tired.
"What're you doing?"
"Trying to spend the few minutes of alone time I get listening to something other than your music.”
"Woah, hold on, I thought you loved my music?” Stiles gapes, clearly affronted.
“There’s only so much repeat I can take. You’ve been promoting this album for almost a year. It's getting old.”
“How do you think I feel? I’m the one who has to perform it day in and day out. I have literally sung my songs in my sleep, Derek. I woke myself up humming the setlist last week so spare me, please."
“I’m Stiles. I’m a rock star, my life is so hard,” Derek grumbles and Stiles bumps him again, yanking the earbud from Derek's ear before he has a chance to protest. Not that Derek would've but the point is that he could have.
“Your taste in music is questionable at best," Stiles ribs after unabashedly bobbing along to two songs. Again, not that Derek is complaining. Any chance to be closer to a Stiles who also happens to be stationary? Few and far between.
"It’s eclectic,” Derek defends. “I've got connections to this band, I went to college with them.”
Stiles raises his eyebrows amusedly.
"Stop complaining or I won’t introduce you when the time comes, I’ll pretend that I don’t know you.”
“Like you’d last a second without me, Hale," Stiles smirks. A moment of silence passes and he eyes his guitar sitting across the way. He sounds hesitant when he asks, “Can I play you something new I've been working on?"
"Of course," Derek smiles warmly. He loves that he gets to be a sounding board.
When Stiles comes back with his guitar he settles on the ground opposite Derek and starts to pluck at the strings, making sure their feet brush in the process.
Derek's heart flutters.
"It's really rough, but I couldn't get the lyrics out of my head so just bear with me," he prefaces, starting in with a slow, soft melody.
Derek watches him thoughtfully, impressed by the way Stiles can take simple lyrics and make them so meaningful.
"It's really good," he says at the ends of the song, before Stiles even asks for criticism. He forgets sometimes that before the Hollywood buzz and the overproduced pop/rock tracks, he was a genuine musician. "You should go back to playing more music like this. This is better than all the other shit out there."
Stiles smiles appreciatively in lieu of a response and launches into effortless runs, strumming a faster tune.
"Show off," Derek says, but there's no fire behind his words.
When his one-man show is done and the guitar is safely set aside, Stiles stands and extends his hand, "Ready for bed?"
Derek grabs it in response and lets himself be dragged to the back of the bus to Stiles’ bedroom. The covers are still askew from the morning and the tv is way too bright but it's more comfortable than his bunk.
This isn't the first time Stiles has asked Derek to bed with him. It doesn't happen when the others are around, but everyone is taking a few weeks off while Stiles starts off the first dates of his radio tour. It's the first time they've been alone on the bus in ages, and to say they've been taking full advantage of it is an understatement.
As soon as Derek is on the bed Stiles is straddling him, capturing his lips, his hands in Derek's hair.
"I've literally been waiting to get you back to bed all day."
"You say literally too much."
"Oh my god, shut up, not the point," Stiles smiles against his lips.
For once, Derek actually listens.
2015 | Charleston, South Carolina
“I’m dying,” Stiles wheezes, “call my dad. Tell him I love him.”
“Get your ass back on the treadmill, Stilinski!” Jackson yells from the computer screen across the room. Stiles’ nutritionist insists on scheduling virtual training sessions for him on a weekly basis. This session is taking place at a private gym in Charleston, South Carolina, which doesn’t matter because Stiles hates working out anywhere.
On the bright side, it overlooks the beach.
“Damnit Stiles, just get back on so he’ll shut up,” Derek growls from the next machine over. Because somehow Stiles had talked him into training with Jackson, too, and now they both have to suffer. Though Derek has to admit that the working out isn’t as torturous as listening to Stiles complain for four and a half hours every week.
Stiles smirks at Derek’s words. “You know, I remember telling myself the same thing about you.”
Derek shakes his head with a barely contained smile and Stiles holds up his hands in surrender.
“You can’t leave a sex joke out there and expect me to let it pass. You know that I’m way too immature for that.”
“Stilinski!” Jackson yells again because Stiles isn’t even trying to pretend like he’s getting back on the machine.
Stiles ignores him. “Speaking of ‘getting on’, what are the chances I can board S.S. Hale tonight?”
Jackson mutters what Stiles would like to think is an affectionate gross, because they’ve known each other since grade school and either one of them having knowledge of the other’s sex life is way beyond TMI. Plus Jackson is a dick.
Derek tries to steel his expression against the innuendo but Stiles’ eyebrows are doing something ridiculous and it causes a sense of fondness to bubble within him.
“I’d say your chances are pretty low if Jackson makes us run another mile because you won’t get your ass back in gear.”
Jackson is their trainer from hell, Stiles' tour manager's best friend's boyfriend. And Stiles' best friend's girlfriend's best friend's boyfriend. God, what a mouthful. Just thinking about the group dynamics gives him a headache.
“STILINSKI!”
“OKAY!” Stiles yells back, powering the treadmill up to a whopping 3 mph.
They can hear Jackson sigh tiredly, “Why do you book the sessions if you’re not going to cooperate?”
“It hurts,” Stiles draws out, “and with you as a trainer there are literal blood, sweat, and tears involved.”
“You don't complain nearly as much during out sweat sessions,” Derek says casually. "Should we take the training back to the bedroom?"
Stiles falters and trips on his own feet.
2012 | Spencer, New York
“Derek.”
“Erica?”
“Why is Stiles Stilinski standing in my living room?” she asks, tugging on Derek's arm to keep him from walking toward the crowd.
He halts to a stop as her nails dig into his bicep, “Because...I brought him?”
“Why would you bring Stiles Stilinski to my house without telling me? You didn’t give me enough time to mentally prepare. Take him away, I need to get myself together!”
“Too late. I’ll introduce you,” Derek laughs. He pushes at her shoulders until she’s through the kitchen and back to where Stiles and Derek’s older sister, Laura, are killing it in King’s Cup against some of Erica’s college friends. It kinda makes the butterflies in Derek’s stomach flutter, because he likes the sight of Stiles fitting into his world. He and Laura are muttering to each other and hunching over in laughter. Stiles' eyes are shiny and bright when he turns to Derek calling his name.
He wraps Erica in a hug after they’re introduced like they’ve been friends forever, and smiles in a way that probably makes both Derek and Erica weak in the knees. Eventually, Erica brings Isaac over, and soon enough there’s a small group of Derek’s closest friends looming around Stiles, hung on his every word and movement.
Derek uses the opportunity to run to the bathroom. Stiles is used to being alone with new people. Thrives at it even.
Plus there's plenty of booze to go around. Everyone will be fine if he slips away for a bit.
The guest bathroom is locked, there’s light leaking out from underneath the door. Derek knocks and waits anyway before trying the master in Erica’s room next, stumbling blindly past piles of clothes and furniture corners to the en suite. He squints as the light from flipping the switch fills the room.
While he’s in the bathroom he can hear the sound of someone else fumbling around in the room, the sound of someone swearing and saying "you’re so heavy" before all goes quiet again.
When he comes out he sees Stiles lying face down on the bed in the middle of the room, humming softly to himself in what is most likely a drunken stupor.
“You ok?” Derek asks from his spot in the doorway. Stiles turns hastily, eyes narrowed to protect against the light surrounding Derek.
“‘M great. Did you know your sister is a world-class beer pong goddess? Can you even be a beer pong goddess? Maybe she’s just a normal goddess. Her...everything is just…” Stiles makes swirly gestures in the air before his hand drops back to the mattress.
“She’s dating someone.”
Stiles just groans and flops around on the mattress.
“Damn you Hales and your god damn irresistible allure. All of you guys just fuck with my head.” After a beat of silence Stiles speaks up again, “You’re a goddess, too, you know.”
Derek snorts and flops on the bed next to him, “Thanks. No one’s ever called me a goddess.”
“You know what I mean. You’re hot. And charming. And you're an asshole with a sense of humor, which is like, my particular brand of kryptonite.”
Derek’s heart speeds up at his words but he does his best to ignore it. Because yes they're at a party, but he should technically attempt to keep some semblance of professionalism, right?
He doesn't know what the right response is so he settles for, "You should, uh, probably not fall asleep at Erica’s house. You’ll wake up with dicks drawn all over your face. Come on, let’s get you back to the house.”
Stiles whines and burrows deeper into the tangle of blankets, “But I’m comfortable.”
“Trust me, my bed is much more comfortable,” Derek says. His eyes widen a few second later as he realizes what he's said. “Oh God. I'm sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t trying to hit on you.”
A thick silence hangs in the air, long enough that Derek is wondering if Stiles even heard him, or if he's already started to doze off.
“What if I wanted you to?” Stiles eventually sits up and asks. “Hit on me, I mean.”
There goes Derek's heart again, ignoring all the signals within him that are saying Do Not Enter.
“I could make that happen.”
“Because you want to or because I want you to?"
Derek has to consider if the answer is worth indulging or not. The truth is that there's always been a vibe between them, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it.
"Either", he responds, because that seems like a safe answer.
He's caught off guard when Stiles starts to move closer. Breathing is a completely forgotten concept at this point, and when Stiles leans in to meet his lips it’s a soft and slow kiss. When the initial shock wears off the kiss deepens, and his hands find a home on Stiles' face and neck. Stiles lets out a soft sound and pulls back, much to Derek’s disappointment. He laughs and leans his forehead on Derek’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry. I know I started it but I don’t do this kind of thing.”
Derek goes rigid, horror flashing on his features. “I thought - fuck, I’m sorry Stiles. You were leaning in and I mistook it for -”
“Dude, no. Not that,” Stiles shushes, pressing his fingers to Derek's lips. Derek doesn't appreciate being shushed but his dick has a different opinion because it twitches at the touch.
“I definitely do this, and I definitely want to do it with you but I don’t do this when I’m drunk. I learned very early on that it pretty much only gets me in trouble. ”
“I get it, I think that's probably for the best."
“Tomorrow, though,” Stiles leans in to kiss him and whispers it like it’s a promise.
“Tomorrow,” Derek nods.
Stiles makes good on his promise the next day, and the next day after that. They don’t talk about what they’re doing, they just do it. There’s no over-analyzing or labels, just the two of them and the knowledge that for the time being, they’re happy.
2015 | Somewhere, USA
"Deaton, can we please stop at the Steak Shack?" Stiles pleads of their beloved bus driver, everyone else groaning in protest.
"If we stop at even one more place we're gonna fall behind schedule," Allison says, looking up from her Sudoku to level Derek and Deaton with a glare that says don't you dare let him talk you into this.
"We'll be fine," Derek says tentatively, internally preening at the smile that his words cause to grow on Stiles' face. Deaton shrugs and starts to pull into the parking lot.
"What Derek says, goes. He's acting manager after all," Stiles quips, excitedly pulling on his coat while everyone follows suit.
The Steak Shack wasn't the first place he'd made them stop. Just this week alone they'd hit the nation's biggest cheese wheel, an actual needle in a haystack hunt, a corn maze that had gotten them lost for an hour, and two petting zoos.
"I'm a good American guy supporting small business," he smiles at everyone, pulling Derek down the steps of the bus with him.
He somehow talks Derek into an eating contest to see which of them can eat the most tofu steak without throwing up. Derek loses because he hates tofu (It's not real food, Stiles). It only takes a few bites before he's dry heaving in the bathroom, Stiles standing behind him laughing.
"You're evil," Derek chokes out, which only causes Stiles to laugh harder.
"This is apt payback for beating me at JustDance5 on national TV last week."
He coughs and sputters again before speaking, "Next time don't make me compete against you on national television."
Stiles tuts and Derek smiles through a mouthful of spit.
Tofu, what the fuck.
2015 | Las Vegas, Nevada
"This is easily my favorite part of today. Are you high yet?" Stiles smiles amusedly, working on a buzz of his own. He takes another hit off of the swisher and passes it to Derek whose head is resting in his lap. They're at a hotel party in Las Vegas thrown by someone that they had just met, but the goody bags are full of cannabis swag so neither of them is complaining.
The entire place smells like booze and sweaty bodies so they've sequestered themselves to one of the guest suites. The exterior walls are floor to ceiling windows so they have a great view of the city from their spot on the bed. The only indication that the party is still going on comes from the sounds of the bumping bass and screaming laughter that are pouring through the other open doors and windows.
Stiles is watching the activity below, taking notice of the never-ending bustle that is this incredible, sinful city.
Derek is contemplating the pitch-black, plane - dotted sky above them. Because of light pollution, there isn't a single visible star in the sky, and that kind of freaks him out.
He takes an extended drag and holds it in for as long as he can before saying, "I'm definitely getting there. How are you feeling?"
"Tired," Stiles drawls, catching a hand full of Derek's hair in his hand before smoothing it over with his palm and repeating the process. Derek hums in approval at the feeling.
Of course he's tired. His call time today was well before 8:00 am, and he'd been bounced around from day party to day party before ending the night with a show at T-Mobile Arena. The concert had gone off without a hitch, so well in fact that Stiles ended up performing four unscheduled encore numbers. Naturally, the fans were over the moon excited, but it was a nightmare for Derek and Allison who had to explain why their talent was an hour late to his club appearance. They arrived just before midnight and occupied a VIP table in the middle of the club, where Stiles does his usual showcasing the bottle service, hyping up the DJ, promoting the club on his social media accounts, and getting the hell out of dodge. Derek is sure that as usual Stiles just wants to get Vegas over with.
He leans down for a kiss that Derek melts into immediately because this is his favorite part. The stolen kisses and subtle touches are fun because it shows that whatever they're doing is something that belongs to just them.
But this - getting to explore each other without restriction - is the best.
"What are you doing?" Derek mumbles against Stiles' lips. The pace has picked up and Stiles' hands are working at his zipper. He's being unusually demanding. He knows what he wants and Derek is more than happy to give it to him, but they're at a crowded party in a glass box with people they don't trust.
"Trying to have sex with you," Stiles continues very matter of factly, letting Derek's already half-hard and unrestricted cock spring to life. He smiles like a kid in a candy store and sucks the tip into his mouth. Derek hisses at the sudden incredible suction and lets his head fall back.
This isn't normally what they do. When they're drunk, they make out and they rub things but the way Stiles is pulling at his clothes lets him know that this isn't one of those times.
They've talked about this, how Stiles doesn't like feeling out of control or having sex when he's drunk because he probably won't remember. He doesn't want this to be something Stiles regrets.
"Hold on," Derek says as Stiles licks a stripe up the underside of his member. He shivers for a second and is rewarded with a devious smile. "I'm crossfaded and I'm pretty sure you are too. I don't want you to be upset with either of us tomorrow."
"I trust you with my life, Derek. Plus the door is locked and the windows are reflective this high up," Stiles says between kisses to his pelvis that make all his hairs stand on edge. "And you're not gonna tell anybody that I fucked you at a stranger's party, are you?
He sucks a ball into his mouth and that's all it takes to shut Derek up.
2014 | Los Angeles, California
Harris drops photos on his desk in front of the two men sitting before him. Derek looks more closely, notices that it’s a photo of him and Stiles in New York City, making out against the wall behind a bar.
He glances at Stiles to see that he’s gone completely still, staring at Harris with narrowed eyes.
Harris glares at both of them.
“Care to explain this?”
Stiles leans forward like he’s examining the picture. “Looks like we’re making out in an alley.”
“Exactly,” Harris says. “Why the hell are you two making out in an alley in the middle of New York City? Do you want to get yourselves blasted all over the media?”
“I didn't know it was something that I had to hide. I’m out, everyone knows that, what’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that this is a disaster waiting to happen.”
“I don’t understand,” Derek says as neutrally as he can, because he doesn't have the same leverage that Stiles does to get an attitude with Harris.
“If the media catches wind of this, they’ll tear you apart. Say goodbye to your privacy, Derek, because dating a rock star is as good as being a rock star yourself. Do you know how bad it looks to the public when an artist is dating their assistant? They’ll say that Stiles is slumming, that Derek’s a gold digger, that it’s a publicity stunt, all of the above. People will start rumors, the media will exploit you, Stiles’ reputation gets tanked, both of your professionalism will be questioned. If people find out that you two are boyfriends while you’re working together, your careers are as good as over.”
“We’re not boyfriends,” Derek reassures Harris. He needs the company to know that he takes his job seriously. Stiles shoots him a look that he can’t decipher, but that seems to have done the trick because Harris is smiling.
“Perfect,” he says. “You two are allowed to fuck whoever the hell you want, just don’t let it get caught on camera. That means nothing in public, not even places that you think are secure. Unless you two are behind closed doors, you don’t know each other past a professional level. Got it?”
“Got it,” Derek mumbles.
Stiles stays unnervingly quiet.
2015 | Portland, Oregon
The tour is spectacular, bigger than anything Stiles has ever done. This many shows in the fans still go crazy, the stadium shakes before he's even out on stage and the sound is absolutely heart pounding.
"I don’t believe it," Derek says, listening to the sounds from Stiles' dressing room.
They're crammed into a minuscule Artist's room where Stiles is making Snapchats and freaking unsuspecting fans out by tweeting at them to pass the last few minutes before his call time. Usually by now they'd be groping at each other, but today is different. There's been weird energy in the air between them. Stiles has been jumpy and twitchy and overall just very strange. Derek just chalks it up to one of Stiles' lows and leaves it at that.
"Dude, it's crazy right? I will never get over hearing people chant my name," Stiles says.
Derek shakes his head, "No, not that. I can't believe this many people actually think you're cool."
Stiles glowers at him.
"You think I’m cool."
"I beg to differ," Derek smiles, chancing a grab for Stiles hand and pulling him closer. The split between who initiates contact first is fairly even. While Stiles is all grabby hands and bruising kisses, Derek goes for tentative touches and gentle guiding. Maybe it has something to do with their ages. Stiles is young, younger than Derek at least, and there’s an eagerness in him that isn’t as concentrated in Derek. Derek has the confidence, Stiles has the passion, and it’s an explosive combination.
But from the lack of enthusiasm in Stiles' grip, Derek is thinking that his touches aren’t wanted today.
"So, there’s this thing that I’ve kind of been meaning to talk to you about," Stiles starts, holding a hand to Derek’s chest and pushing away lightly.
Derek proceeds with caution. He hates it when Stiles hedges his words. Usually, if Stiles has something to say, he'll blurt it out. If he has something bad to say, then he'll hedge, and this is definitely the sound of a hedge coming on.
"What is it?"
"It's stupid, really. It's all the label's doing. Something about unifying our demographics and blah blah blah," Stiles fiddles with his hands, refusing to look at Derek.
"Spit it out, Stiles."
"I did a thing."
"Stiles!"
"I'm seeing Matt Daehler," Stiles rushes through the sentence and Derek isn't quite sure he’s heard correctly.
"Sorry, did you say you're kind of dating Matt Daehler?" he asks frustratedly. This is their time, the few minutes every day right before the show when Stiles goes to his dressing room to "focus", and he chooses now to drop this on him?
"I mean the label "encouraged" Matt and me to say that we're dating, you know, for appearances. It's dumb and it's really just to build a buzz around us and the label but, I don't know. I wanted to know what you thought about it,” He finishes, his wide, sporadic hand gestures slowing down.
The silence that passes between them is only a few seconds, but it seems to stretch on forever.
"Ok,” Derek says guardedly.
The look on Stiles face is indecipherable, "Ok?”
“The label suggested it for a reason, right?”
Stiles shrugs again, “I don't know, I guess. Technically I'm pretend dating Matt, but it's like, official according to the press, and I don't want it to cause any problems. We - what we're doing - you deserve better than what I can give you right now. Does that make sense?"
"Yes," Derek says, careful to keep his face and voice even. "We can’t go public, but the label wants you to have someone for the optics. And they think that you dating Matt - "
"Right. It's technically only for appearances, but I can't afford to let a love triangle tank everything I've worked for. If anything about us accidentally gets out to any of Matt’s people then it'll be this whole shit storm that I literally can't afford right now."
Derek swallows and lets his words sink in.
"I'm sorry Der. I wanted to talk to you about it earlier but I didn't know how to bring it up.”
“It’s fine,” Derek starts, unknowingly putting distance between himself and Stiles. He doesn’t realize that he’s stepped back until his brain registers Stiles stepping towards him with a concerned expression.
He feels really fucking stupid now.
"I don't know what to do here. I know we've never defined things but the hooking up just...has to be put on hold for a while," Stiles mutters.
From an outside perspective, Derek can follow the logic behind it. While Stiles had a following of pop/rock lovers, Matt's fans were House and EDM die-hards. They'd make groundbreaking, albeit shallow, hits and dominate the charts.
"No, I - I get it. You're not my boyfriend, you're free to do what you have to do," he manages to get past the lump in his throat.
"So can you," Stiles says softly.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," he says after a contemplative pause.
Derek clears his throat.
"So when did this happen?"
Stiles rubs at his forehead, "A few weeks ago. You were visiting New York the week that we met up with everyone. Our labels set up a meeting, it turns out he's not a terrible guy. I like him well enough to be associated with him and what he does, so we're giving it the good ol' college try," he jokes.
Derek nods slowly, vaguely recalling the texts Stiles sent him about a label meeting. He'd been bar-hopping with his friends at the time so it's all a little fuzzy. He wonders now if these two things overlapped on purpose. NewMuse knew about him and Stiles to some degree, so they knew he'd have to be excluded from the conversation somehow. A trip back to New York was as good a reason as any, he sees now.
"You never went to college," Derek deflects, hoping Stiles won't see that he's devastated. He feels ripped open and laid bare. Because, sure, they weren't official. They never put a label on what they were doing, but they're there for one another and it's been years. It's not like rock stars can just date anyone, and Derek had been there for him. He let Stiles flirt and touch and kiss him however he wanted because Derek wanted it, too.
It always felt like they were working toward something. Now it's getting brushed under the rug for a publicity stunt.
Now Stiles is supposed to be playing some part next to Matt and Derek hates how that makes him feel. Hates that he can give so much to Stiles and NewMuse over the course of a few years and have it all be swept aside for convenience.
"No, but I can’t say that I regret that choice,” Stiles punches him lightly in the arm and searches his eyes guiltily. "You don't hate me do you?"
"No," Derek says robotically, remembering too late to smile. It comes off forced and unnatural, but Derek wants it to because he doesn't know how else to tell Stiles that he hates this. But he has to remind himself that their entire team is working toward one goal: Stile's success.
"It's all part of the whole...thing, right? People caring enough about you to want to control every aspect of your life. Congratulations, you're living the dream."
"Yeah, I guess so," he says, gaze and energy both downcast. "Thanks for understanding."
They both jump slightly at unexpected pounding on the door.
"Showtime!" Allison calls.
"Showtime," Stiles repeats.
2015 | Seattle, Washington
“Please no more touch-ups, I’m gonna sweat it off anyway," Stiles calls into the mass of bodies huddling around that are primping and prepping final touches to his face and hair, while others are adjusting his mic and in-ears. This is the second leg of the tour and Derek can tell he's already frustrated with the team that is constantly hovering around him.
Though, admittedly, he's more of a little shit today than he normally is. Maybe it's the long hours cramped on the bus, or the complete lack of privacy, or the fact that he's been away from his fake boyfriend for so long. Derek does his best to keep Stiles productively busy but that doesn't seem to be helping his mood.
Part of his job is to give Stiles the dose of reality his exec team seems to think he needs. It's why Derek was hired in the first place.
Stiles' entire team had been made up of older people, well beyond his age. They were all seasoned industry professionals, but it left little time for him to connect with people his own age. Enter Derek, the hopeful young new grad with dreams of becoming an A&R rep.
Derek had been working for the current rep when Stiles's manager had spotted him walking to the elevators.
"You," he yelled, pointing at Derek. Derek swirled around and pointed to himself when he noticed the lack of other people around them.
"Yes, you," the guy (who he later finds out is named Harris) barked, "how old are you?"
"Uh...twenty-three?"
"Is that a question?" Harris mocks.
"No, sir. It's an answer. I'm twenty-three," Derek says.
"Perfect," Harris smiles to Derek's boss (Greenberg).
"I'll take him."
"Take me where?" Derek gulps.
"To Stiles, duh. He needs an assistant. You know how to run errands, right?"
"Right," he nods, "I run tons of the, all the time. Well not tons of them, I'm new to the city –"
"Stop talking. You're coming with me. G, you're down an assistant. I suggest finding a replacement."
"But you can't do that!" Greenberg yells after him.
"I just did. Come on kid," Harris says, grabbing Derek's arm and dragging him out the glass doors at the front of the building. He's crowded into a car and taken to a recording studio the next city over.
"When you say Stiles, do you mean Stiles Stilinski?"
"The very same. Why? You're not gonna be weird around him, right?"
"No, not at all. I just...don't exactly understand why…"
"He needs an assistant. One that's closer to his own age, to do his bidding and to keep him company. He can be . . . a lot to handle. Can you do that?"
Despite himself, Derek's face breaks into a smile, "Be an assistant to Stiles Stilinski. I think I can handle it."
His sisters were going to flip when they found out.
"Perfect. And bring it down a notch, you're coming off creepy," Harris warns, frowning. The smile immediately drops from Derek's face and is replaced by a scowl.
"Ok, now you look like you're going to murder him. Just be normal," Harris sighs, pulling the corners of Derek's mouth up so his lips are in a straight line.
"There," he puffs, "natural."
Three years after that car ride, they're here. Eventually, Harris started developing other artists, asking Derek to go on the road full time as Stiles’ manager for the world tour. He still checks in regularly because Stiles is one of his cash cows, but Derek has taken to dealing with day to day necessities. Not that either of them mind.
Despite the fame, recognition, and even the money they’ve stayed the same.
But the way they've been interacting lately has been weird, even weirder than it should be in their case.
"Derek?" a voice draws around him. He snaps back to awareness to see that it's Stiles addressing him.
"Sorry, what did you say?"
"Seriously? You’ve been hovering over me all week and now that I need you you’re not even paying attention,” Stiles snaps. “Do you know where my phone is?"
Stiles is a lot of things but short isn't usually one of them. This seems like more of a pointed problem than it needs to be, but he can't tell how he should respond because Stiles' eyes are downcast, playing over the waist of his...whatever type of pants his stylist has him wearing (jeans, bottoms, trousers, Derek doesn't know…).
"No, I didn’t see where you left it. Maybe it's on the bus, I can get a runner. Is everything ok?" he asks and reaches for Stiles, concern written on his face.
Stiles brushes off the touch, "Everything's fine, can you just give me some fucking space?" Stiles says, pushing through the small huddle. Everyone takes a step back and their pitying gazes fall to Derek.
"Has anyone else noticed he's a little on edge?" Derek attempts to divert their focus, the heat of imminent embarrassment all too real.
"Yeah, you're not the first person he's gone off on today," Kira offers. She's an audio engineer and widely known as the sage of the group, despite her 30 something years. "Can you rig him up when he's ready?" she asks, dropping the in-ear and mic pack into Derek's hand.
"Uh, we should probably send someone else."