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Stiles grew tired of his library. That was never something he thought he would feel. Growing up ill, one could never assume that he would dream of spending a moment outside his rooms. When he would dare to step foot outside of the furnished halls of the palace, an uproar followed after him. He often slipped from the guards to take comfort in the gardens, idly roaming the rows of flowers as he observed their beauty. He often could steal only a few moments before the guards quickly retrieved him.
It was a lonely life, one filled with fretting physicians and scowling advisors who plotted every moment of his life. They never expected Stiles to outlive the rest of his family, creating a problem when the only member of the royal family was suddenly none other than the terminally ill boy no one expected to live long. Some days, Stiles’ sickness would get worse and the country would prepare to mourn his passing. Other days, Stiles was well enough to walk on his own as he moved through the halls with guards trotting after him.
Stiles wasn’t surprised when his advisors announced his duty to wed. He saw it for what it was—his duty to provide the country with another ruler for when he was dead. He never felt bitter about that conclusion, knowing there was no hope for him to live another decade, let alone the year. If marrying was the only way to give his country a new suitable leader, then he could suffer a few days of married life.
All the suitors were skeptical when broached on the subject of marrying Stiles. In order for the marriage to be legal, it was to be consummated, which meant sharing at least one night with Stiles. Most laughed at the thought of bedding a dying person, some even joking that they might break him in his frail state, to which Stiles would mutter too loudly, “If you could last that long.”
The only candidates who chose to entertain the idea of the proposition were either greedy for the throne or foreigners who saw a way of expanding their own holdings. Stiles’ advisors ruled out the possibility of Stiles meeting all of them, merely opting to send Stiles’ portrait and a formal request to either deny or accept candidacy for marriage to Stiles. Once they received those bids for candidacy, Stiles would choose which one he wished to pass authority to through marriage.
There was only one problem: Stiles never sat for a portrait. It was never anyone’s concern when thinking that the boy would die before being able to do anything significant.
That was how Stiles met Derek Hale, nobleman-turned-painter and master of the scowl. Derek was more attractive than Stiles thought a recluse painter would be. His hair was cut in the shorter fashion, his beard trimmed short to make his features stronger. His eyes were a beautiful speckle of green and gold, the most gorgeous eyes Stiles had ever imagined could grace a human being. The days they spent together started off as drearily silent, the room being cold and silent between them.
~*~
“Are you going to attempt to make me look more presentable than I am?” Stiles questioned as his fingers idly played with the fringe of his blanket. His eyes lingered on the easel as Derek worked. He was interested in seeing the way Derek’s features softened as he focused his attentions on the canvas and not another living creature. “This is meant to marry me off before I die, so I’m hoping you’re presenting me in a positive light.”
Stiles silenced himself when he noticed Derek’s hand suddenly stop in mid stroke, his eyes still concentrated on the canvas. He worried his bottom lip when he caught sight of the way Derek’s eyebrows furrowed. He released a heavy breath when Derek’s eyes flickered above the canvas to look at him.
“Do you find that … amusing?” Stiles asked in an attempt to stir some sort of response from Derek.
“I didn’t say that,” Derek’s voice lowly rumbled above the sound of the fire crackling.
“No, but you immediately stopped working,” Stiles answered.
“You mentioned …” Derek paused, knowing it wasn’t his place to ask the prince any personal questions.
“I’ve been in poor health my whole life,” Stiles replied, shuffling his body further into the pillows as he propped himself against the headboard. “They’re surprised I’ve lived as long as I have.”
“So, their solution is to waste what could be the last of your good days getting your portrait painted,” Derek concluded.
“At least I have a nice view,” Stiles offered a weak smile when he caught Derek’s eyes still lingering on him.
Derek paused before turning back to the canvas. “I wish I could say the same.”
Stiles brightly smiled in response, his chest feeling lighter than it had in years.
~*~
“When they introduced you,” Stiles started, his eyes still gazing at the scenery out the window as he spoke. “They said you were a lord.”
“I am,” Derek quietly replied.
“But you chose to be a painter,” Stiles commented.
“I chose to be a painter,” Derek concluded, his eyes still focused on the canvas.
“You’re not going to tell me the tale about why, are you?” Stiles sighed in defeat. “That’s not fun, Derek.”
“I’m supposed to be painting you, not entertaining you,” Derek sharply replied.
“Can’t you do both?” Stiles questioned.
“What do you want to know?” Derek almost snapped as he finally turned his attentions from the canvas. “That my family was killed in a fire, and I’m all that is left to the Hale name? That I’m expected to marry some rich noble and hope that my family name will not be forgotten? I chose my passion over duty.”
Stiles looked at Derek for the first time. Even with his smile, his eyes still looked sad, almost as if he envied Derek. Which Derek thought was absurd, because even a dying man could notice a wounded and lost cause when he saw it. “Choosing your passion over duty isn’t a bad thing,” Stiles merely stated.
“Yet you’ve consigned yourself away to being married off to whoever accepts your portrait,” Derek replied.
“I have to think of my people first, Derek,” Stiles stated as he looked down at his blanket. “If I die without putting another family in control, then I risk the lives of countless people who will be caught in a blood feud.” His fingernails picked at the woven material of his blanket. “Besides,” he looked up at Derek, forcing a small smile. “I always wondered what it would be like to be married. Even if it’s only for a few days, I’d never be lonely.”
Derek paused, clearing his throat before asking, “Do you not have any daily visitors?”
Stiles released a small laugh. “Besides you? My friend, Scott McCall, used to visit me almost every day,” he explained. “But he was married off to a wealthy princess from a neighboring kingdom. I have only been able to keep in contact via letters, given that he’s a terribly busy man now.”
“No one else?” Derek cautiously pressed the subject.
“No one else,” Stiles echoed in confirmation.
~*~
Derek was refused when he came to see Stiles the next day, and the day after. The prince’s health suddenly began to fail much quicker than the physicians anticipated.
If the prince thought he saw a certain nobleman-turned-painter sneaking into his rooms in the dead of night to hold his hand through the worst of his fever, he never made mention of it.
~*~
Derek paused in his movements to enter Stiles’ room, startled by the uproar of loud voices and harsh words being exchanged.
“I won’t!” Stiles yelled, the sound of something clattering onto the floor.
“You insolent child!” Another voice bellowed. “Do you have any idea what will happen to this country when you are dead? Everything your father worked for will be destroyed.”
“Then so be it,” Stiles stubbornly added.
Derek immediately threw the door open when he heard the sound of a hand smacking against skin.
Stiles remained as still as possible, recoiling into his bed in order to back away from his advisor.
“Sir Harris,” Derek growled the advisor’s name. “I believe it’s time for you to leave his highness.”
“We are not finished here,” Harris snapped.
“You are finished,” Derek snapped back as he moved out of the way of the opened door.
“You think you can waltz in here and act as the prince’s pet, giving out orders?” Harris defiantly questioned.
“As the last living Hale, I am the Duke of my lands, and hold my father’s position in court. I can and will give you orders to leave, Mr. Harris,” Derek bitterly replied, keeping a firm standing. He waited until Harris departed, slamming the doors behind him before turning his attentions to Stiles. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for Stiles as he tried to back away from him. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine,” Stiles lied, trying to shy away from Derek’s touch. “My skin bruises like a peach, but I assure you, it’s not that serious.”
Derek frowned when he saw the beginnings of a welt forming, Stiles’ skin enflamed from the harsh attack. He held back a growl when he realized that Harris must have backhanded Stiles with the rings gracing his fingers.
Stiles stopped his protesting as he watched Derek retrieve the fresh water from his washbasin. He noticed how delicate Derek’s actions were as he submerged one of the clean cloths in the water, gently wringing it out before moving back to Stiles.
“You lied,” Stiles finally stated as he looked up at Derek. “You said you were just a lord.”
“Are Dukes not called lords?” Derek replied with a faint smile as he pressed the cold compress against Stiles’ enflamed cheek.
“Often they are introduced as—ow,” Stiles winced upon contact.
“Sorry,” Derek apologized, lightening his pressure as he gently held the compress against his cheek. “Why haven’t you had him removed from the premises?”
“What do you mean?” Stiles nervously asked, afraid to answer the question.
“This isn’t the first time this has happened,” Derek stated. “Has it?” He added when he noticed Stiles quizzically staring at him.
“It’s not the first time an advisor has grown tired of me,” Stiles sheepishly admitted.
“You’re still their prince—their rightful king,” Derek stated.
“Doesn’t change the fact that they are disappointed by that,” Stiles answered, placing his hand over Derek’s as he eased the compress away from his cheek. “I’ll be fine.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to accept their treatment,” Derek stubbornly replied.
“My body may be fragile, but my mind isn’t,” Stiles answered, holding Derek’s gaze with his own. “It doesn’t matter how much they push and pull me to fit their agendas. In the end, I get to decide who succeeds me.”
“You’re much stronger than most,” Derek replied, his thumb gently caressing Stiles’ cheekbone, just above the swollen imprint of Harris’ hand.
They spent the night breaking from the painting, choosing to bask in the other’s company. Derek read to Stiles, shifting his weight in the armchair whenever he looked up to catch Stiles’ eyes lingering on him. He tried to ignore the longing he felt in his core, a similar longing he saw burning deep in Stiles’ eyes.
~*~
Stiles smiled as he leaned against the balcony. With his health jumping around from improving to declining, he finally took action and demanded he experience the world a little bit. He was able to demand he be brought to the theater to see the new opera, only having ever hearing the records given to him but never seeing the opera itself unfold. He was overjoyed when Derek agreed to go with him.
As always, the royal box was left open, a small murmur falling over the crowd when they noticed Stiles inhabited the box for the first time in his life. They began to cheer after their initial shock wore off, only silencing once the curtain opened to reveal the actors.
It was Stiles’ first experience with the public, and he couldn’t imagine just how intensely it would affect him to be received in such a way. He never thought of himself as well liked—by his advisors or by the public—considering he was what most would call a weak excuse for a monarch.
Stiles brushed his tears away with the sleeve of his jacket, grateful Derek didn’t comment.
Derek couldn’t keep his eyes from lingering on Stiles. He watched as Stiles’ eyes sparkled, taking in the stage and its actors. He smiled upon hearing the angelic sigh of joy Stiles released as the curtain closed.
“I’ve never been to the theater,” Stiles commented as he sat back into his wheelchair.
“I never would have guessed it,” Derek dryly replied.
Stiles’ laughter at Derek’s humor turned into a sudden coughing fit. Derek offered his handkerchief, placing a calming hand on Stiles’ back.
Stiles thankfully took the handkerchief, covering his mouth with it. He felt a warmth move throughout his back and through his chest, as if Derek’s palm was pulling the pain from him. “Thank you,” he stated when he finally caught his breath. His eyes widened briefly when he looked at the handkerchief. He closed his fingers around the material, a sorrowful frown falling over his features.
Derek quietly remained by Stiles’ side, having seen the blood staining the part of the handkerchief that had covered his mouth.
“I’m afraid I ruined this,” Stiles shyly confessed, holding the handkerchief close to his chest out of embarrassment.
“Don’t worry about it,” Derek quietly added.
“It has your initials on it,” Stiles sadly commented as he turned the material to look at the elegant cross-stitch. Someone dear to Derek must have spent a great amount of time making it, the swoops of Derek’s initials catching one another before elegantly attaching to the laurels around them. It was beautifully done, and Stiles felt wretched for ruining it.
“As I said before, don’t worry about it,” Derek’s voice comfortingly replied.
~*~
“May I see it?” Stiles asked one of the final days, curious what Derek had created and tried so hard hide from him. He always took the painting with him to his room in the palace.
“If you wish to see a monstrosity,” Derek would often challenge.
“Please, Derek,” Stiles would softly ask.
“Soon,” Derek would reply, his features softening under Stiles’ gaze. He dare not tell Stiles his reason for holding the portrait hostage—his reason for taking longer than normal. He dare not confess that he thought Stiles would hold on just a while longer if it meant he could see it.
~*~
It was the last day Derek was to paint Stiles, the advisors demanding a product to send out before the prince’s health declined even further.
Stiles had become bedridden, forbidden to move from his bed unless it was to use the facilities to relieve himself. He was glad that Derek allowed him to bend the rules, moving Stiles the moment he asked him to.
At first, Derek was hesitant to touch Stiles, as if he was certain he would break him. It was at Stiles’ insistence that he was stronger than he looked that Derek first picked him up.
“I didn’t think I was that light,” Stiles shyly mumbled as Derek held his weight in his arms as if he weighed nothing. He wrapped his arm around Derek’s shoulders, enjoying the warmth of his body compared to his own.
“You’re not,” Derek replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when he caught Stiles smiling.
Derek placed Stiles in the comfort of the plush, oversized armchair by the window. He slowly slipped his hands from around the prince, moving back to grab his blanket. He faintly nodded in response to Stiles’ ‘thank you’ as he wrapped the blanket around him. He turned from Stiles to go back to the canvas; deeply aware of the way Stiles’ eyes lingered on him.
They sat in silence for the first time since the first day they were introduced. The quiet dragged on before Stiles finally released a sigh before speaking.
“Do you believe there is such thing as love?” Stiles asked as he stared out the window at the raindrops staining the window.
“Love?” Derek questioned as he focused on signing his name in the corner of the canvas before looking up.
“Love,” Stiles repeated. “What they write about in novels and plays. Fairy tales.” He sighed as he leaned back into the chair. “I remember my father and mother seemed very much in love. But how do you know it is love? What if it’s just fondness—pleasure from another’s company?”
“What do you think love is?” Derek asked as he relaxed onto his stool, his focus abandoning the painting completely.
“I honestly couldn’t tell you,” Stiles released a sad laugh. “I don’t know what love is, and I never will.”
“You’re choosing your partner, are you not?” Derek asked, watching as Stiles’ eyes remained focused on the window.
“I’m choosing my country’s future,” Stiles replied. “How the person feels about me doesn’t matter. As long as they can protect my people, that’s enough for me.”
“You willingly sign away your happiness?”
“What happiness, Derek?” Stiles finally turned his attentions towards Derek. “I’ve spent my life inside these walls, with nothing but my own company. You’re the first person I’ve been allowed to hold a conversation with since Scott left. And now that you’ve finished, you’ll leave,” he hesitated, his eyes flickering over Derek’s body before he turned back towards the window. “And I’ll die. That’s the end of it. No grand love story—no happily ever after.”
“Love doesn’t have to be ‘grand’ and it doesn’t necessarily mean a happily ever after,” Derek replied.
“Have you ever loved anyone?” Stiles curiously asked.
“I thought I did, once,” Derek honestly answered. “But she was a liar—used me and my family before taking nearly everything from me.”
“Did she ruin the idea of love for you?” Stiles asked as he looked at Derek, watching his features.
“She made me guarded,” Derek easily answered.
“I should like to know you unguarded, someday,” Stiles softly replied.
“I am unguarded with you,” Derek corrected him.
Stiles smiled to himself grateful to know that the Derek he had grown to know over the month was the real man. “If you believed you loved her, what did it feel like?”
Derek paused as he thought about Kate. It had been years since he allowed himself to even think of their time together. He only remembered the fire, the smoke and screams consuming his nightmares. But the Kate he knew before then was completely different. She was sweet and kind, completely caring and filled with laughter as she jested with him. But the woman he fell in love with was a lie—a manipulation—even though he felt as if it was love.
“It feels like falling,” Derek plainly stated.
“Doesn’t sound fun,” Stiles answered.
“Not as if you’re falling in a bad way,” Derek corrected Stiles as he looked down at his hands, idly playing with the wrists of his shirt. “You feel steady—safe, even. You feel a confidence that you can overcome almost anything, because you have the strength and support of that person. It’s like … it’s like dancing with someone for the first time,” he looked up at Stiles as he spoke.
“I’ve never danced with anyone,” Stiles sadly admitted as a small frown crossed his features.
“You should hold a ball before you announce your partner—after your coronation,” Derek offered. “See if they dance as well as they speak.”
“Would you come?” Stiles hopefully asked.
“If you wanted me to,” Derek replied.
~*~
It was the day Derek planned to leave the palace to return home, determined to take care of his own affairs. He had spent the afternoon with Stiles, finally revealing his portrait to him.
“You made me look better,” Stiles partially teased him.
“I took away the weariness, that’s all,” Derek explained.
“They’ll be frightened away when they see me,” Stiles voiced his concerns for the first time. “What if they accept the Stiles in this portrait, but reject me once they lay eyes on me?”
“They wouldn’t,” Derek confidently answered.
“How do you know?” Stiles sadly asked as his eyes scanned the portrait.
“Because you are much more valuable than what a portrait can capture,” Derek easily answered. He wasn’t going to deny it, Stiles was a very attractive young man, even being stuck with such a crippling illness. It was easy to paint the beauty marks decorating his cheeks, the upturn of his nose, the soft curve of his lips. Derek knew it wouldn’t be the last time he painted Stiles, with nothing but his memories to guide him.
Stiles turned his attentions to Derek, a small smile crossing his lips. He worried his bottom lip as he thought about just asking Derek.
“I should go,” Derek replied as he bowed, eager to leave before either of them spoke about the tension clinging to the air.
Stiles slowly nodded before he opened his mouth, lips parted to speak before pausing as he thought of what to say. “May I ask you something before you depart? I fear I’ll never get a chance to ask you again.”
It was more of a likelihood than a mere feeling. Stiles’ health had decreased rapidly since Derek was there, and to think that he would last more than a few months at best was a foolish belief.
Derek nodded, knowing it was foolish to linger.
“Would you …” Stiles released an embarrassed huff of laughter. He turned to stare out the window, too nervous to actually look at Derek. “Would you marry me?”
Derek’s heartbeat nervously increased, thinking he heard Stiles wrong. “What do you mean?”
“If I asked you, instead of these vultures circling me,” Stiles explained as he lifted the letters from his lap. “Would you say yes?”
Derek paused, his stomach recoiling, flipping and churning as he accepted what he must answer. “I would be honored, however, my answer would be no.”
Stiles closed his eyes, allowing his head to hang as he rhythmically nodded in response. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, fighting back the tears burning his eyes. “I understand,” he weakly replied. His fingers picked at the edges of the letters—all were from people he was to send the portrait to, hoping that one of them would accept him. “I thank you for your honesty. I don’t think I’ll be getting as kind of words as you used from the others.”
Derek inhaled a sharp breath, hoping that Stiles’ scent would linger in his nostrils a little longer, confident that this was the last time he would see him.
“I’m very tired,” Stiles softly stated, his eyes glazed over with the hot tears he refused to shed. “Thank you for coming and seeing me before you leave. It was an honor to meet such a talented painter.”
“It was an honor for me to be permitted to know you,” Derek replied with a bow of his head. “I wish you the best of luck, your highness,” he respectfully added.
And with that, Derek walked out of Stiles’ life just as easily as he had entered. He pretended that he couldn’t hear the young prince’s mournful crying even as he exited the palace grounds.
~*~
It had been a month since Derek’s portrait of Stiles had made its rounds, luring both men and women from the outreaches of different countries, all of promising standing. Stiles was surprised by the outpouring of gifts he received before his coronation, all attempts to sway him in the favor of that candidate. He knew which candidates his advisors favored, but none of them caught his eye in particular. He felt like a prized turkey with a room full of expertly trained hunting hounds.
There had been a surprising turn out for his coronation ceremony, most of the people Stiles knew were present in order to make a bid for his hand, likely to sight that they were there from the start. He barely thought of the others, eyes scanning the crowd as he searched for Derek, hoping that he would be there. He had personally sent the invitation himself, in hopes of laying eyes on Derek one last time. He tried to fight back his frown when the Archbishop announced “I present to you for the first time, his majesty, King Meonenim of Beacon,” which was met with a chant of “All Hail King Meonemin of Beacon.”
Stiles remained seated as he greeted man after woman after man as they all approached him during the evening’s ball. He was exhausted and struggling to keep himself from suffering a coughing fit whenever a lady’s perfume or a gentleman’s cologne was too strong for his nostrils to handle. He thought about what Derek had said about dancing with the candidates before announcing his intentions, but he was certain he could only dance a few times before he would be forced to retire for the evening. He would have to be choosy with whom he danced.
Stiles ignored his advisors pestering him to make rounds, opting to remain seated as he observed the room. There were countless of diplomats present, but none of whom Stiles knew from his father’s reign. He listened to the court herald announce a few more people, sighing when he realized that he didn’t know any of them.
Then, two familiar names were announced in relation to each other.
“Presenting, his royal highness, crowned-Prince Scott Rafael Melis McCall of Argentum, accompanied by his lordship, Duke Derek Samuel Natalius Hale of Triskelia,” the court herald announced, causing a faint uproar to fall over the crowd.
Stiles sat up straight, looking over the crowd as he tried to see both Scott and Derek, his stomach looping and twisting as he thought about seeing Derek again. He grinned when he saw Scott making his way through the crowd, heading straight to Stiles as he pardoned himself from the others’ attempts to talk with him.
“Scott,” Stiles breathed, releasing a happy laugh as he stood to dash down the steps from his throne to meet Scott.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner,” Scott answered as he embraced Stiles.
“You’re lucky that you’re already wed, otherwise I think your fellow nobles and royals would dare to poison you,” Stiles softly spoke to Scott as he caught how the others carefully watched them.
“You’re not really my type,” Scott playfully replied as he released Stiles.
“Too feisty for you to handle,” Stiles joked as he settled a cough in his chest.
“You shouldn’t be stressing yourself like this,” Scott almost mumbled in disapproval.
“If I don’t stress myself, I don’t find a king or queen. If I don’t find a king or queen, I leave my people without a ruler,” Stiles curtly replied. He retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket, covering his mouth as he tried to appease his cough.
“And you haven’t found someone yet?” Scott asked as his eyes scanned the handkerchief, his hands holding onto Stiles’ arms as he supported his weight.
“Plenty of candidates,” Stiles numbly replied, thankful that blood was not staining the handkerchief this time.
“Plenty of candidates, even though you have another’s handkerchief?” Scott questioned as he gestured towards the small square of material in question.
Stiles looked down at the handkerchief, his eyes scanning it before falling on the embroidery of Derek’s initials. “You seem to know Derek,” he started as he carefully hid the handkerchief away. “Surely you’ve realized that he doesn’t warrant solicitation.”
“Yet he gave you his handkerchief,” Scott answered. “I came thanks to Derek,” he explained as he turned to offer his arm to Stiles, both of them ignoring the looks of the others as Stiles accepted his offer to walk about the room.
Scott was used to Stiles’ slowed pace, something other diplomats seemed to forget when walking beside him. His pace wasn’t sluggish, more of a delayed walk as his limbs stretched and grew accustomed to their new stresses.
“You didn’t come for me?” Stiles asked as he kept his attentions on the crowd, pretending that he wasn’t focusing on Derek lingering near the entrance, having kept his distance.
“I wanted to,” Scott confessed, politely nodding to those they passed. “But I’m married to the crowned princess of Argentum, and me coming here may appear as a bid for Beacon’s support in the war.”
“I thought the war over Argentum wasn’t serious,” Stiles replied. “How severe has it grown?”
“Allison’s aunt and grandfather were less than pleasant to deal with,” Scott sighed in exasperation. “They’d burned nearly all bridges with Argentum’s allies. Almost no one would come.”
“What changed your mind?” Stiles inquired, knowing that it had something to do with Derek.
“Derek revealed Kate and Gerard for the monsters they are,” Scott answered. “It had taken him some time, but over the past few months, he’s been going through his family’s records. He found the proof that Kate and Gerard were just after his family as a way to shoehorn into being allied with Beacon.”
“Derek’s land,” Stiles answered.
“Triskelia is more than a significant chunk of Beacon’s lands,” Scott added. “If they were allied with them, or if they were married to the last surviving Hale—”
“They murdered Derek’s family to try and make it … easier for him to marry Kate?” Stiles asked in both disgust and disbelief.
“Chris, Allison’s father, wouldn’t stand for his father’s and Kate’s excuses,” Scott replied. “They’ve been dealt with, and the war has come to an end. We’re in peace talks now,” he finally released a sigh of relief, his lips stretching into a smile. “Derek only asked that Chris allow me to come see you for a while as compensation for his assistance. We were meant to arrive for the coronation, but we were delayed on the road for a bit. We still made it for the ball, at least.”
“Why is Derek escorting you tonight?” Stiles asked as their walking slowed down.
“He wasn’t going to come, but I ordered him to,” Scott honestly answered as he turned to look at his friend.
“If Derek doesn’t want to be here,” Stiles started.
“He told me about painting your portrait,” Scott quickly replied. “About spending time with you—getting to know you.”
Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. “Did he?” He feigned ignorance as he turned his attention towards his feet.
“He said he didn’t fully explain his decision,” Scott answered. “He never told you why he said no.”
“I’d rather not hear it twice,” Stiles replied, words hollow yet heavy as he tried to think of anything but Derek’s rejection.
“As your friend,” Scott started as he held both Stiles’ hands. “I’m asking you to talk to him. His family—his life is complicated, and to involve someone else with it means a great deal. He would have to reveal things to you that no one else knows—things that could endanger you.”
“And how do you know this?” Stiles questioned as he quizzically stared at Scott’s hands holding his.
“He revealed a few things to Allison, Chris, and I. We’ve sworn to keep his secret,” Scott explained. “But something tells me you were the first person he wanted to know, and he’s regretting not telling you.”
“And why would you say that?” Stiles asked.
“Because his eyes haven’t left you since he’s walked through the door. Because he looks like he’s ready to fight off every single person in this room if it means protecting you from having to make this choice,” Scott smiled when he caught Stiles’ small but sudden blush.
The court herald banged his staff against the floor loudly, announcing the end of introductions and the beginning of the ball. Stiles frowned, knowing it was now or never that he had to choose the select a few people to dance with.
“You don’t have to dance with them if you don’t feel well,” Scott spoke as if he read Stiles’ mind.
“I merely fear how forthcoming some of them may be,” Stiles answered.
“Then may I suggest, as your friend, that you carefully choose a small handful before offering up a dance to all that ask,” Scott replied, bowed out of courtesy to Stiles. “I will gladly sacrifice my feet to his majesty if it means protecting your comfort level.” He smiled when Stiles rolled his eyes at him.
“Are you staying in the palace?” Stiles asked as he started to walk back towards the center of the crowd.
“I would appreciate it,” Scott answered.
“I’ll see you tonight, then,” Stiles waved in response as he disappeared into the crowd.
Stiles turned as he looked around, moving through the crowd as he headed towards where Derek was. He pardoned himself from the people vying for his attention, until he stood a few dozen feet from Derek. He smiled, slowly closing the gap between them.
Derek moved to meet him half way, bowing his head in respect. “Your majesty,” he quietly greeted him.
“Derek,” Stiles softly stated his name.
“May I be as bold as to ask for your majesty’s first dance of the evening?” Derek questioned as he straightened, keeping his eyes exclusively on Stiles.
“You may,” Stiles replied, not caring whom his actions upset.
Derek offered an outstretched hand to Stiles, grateful when Stiles slipped his hand into his. He delicately wrapped his fingers around Stiles’ hand, giving Stiles a small smile as he lead him out into the middle of the dance floor.
Stiles released a shaky breath as he turned to face Derek, slipping his hand onto his shoulder, both taking the normal pose to begin their generic dance and to use him for support. “I have to warn you,” he began as they started the slow steps. “I am a terrible dancer and may step on your feet more than once.” He smiled when Derek lightly chuckled in response.
“I’m sure my feet can survive one dance,” Derek answered.
“Just one?” Stiles asked, curious as to Derek’s motivation for being here.
“Or as many as your majesty wishes,” Derek replied.
“You can call me Stiles,” Stiles stated with an annoyed puff of air. “Everyone else has taken to calling me by my formal name, and I could do without it.”
“As you wish,” Derek nodded in response.
They both remained silent as they moved across the dance floor; Derek’s lead preventing Stiles from fumbling too much. Stiles felt as if he was lighter than ever, his body practically gliding with Derek’s. He wasn’t sure, but he felt as if Derek was supporting his weight, carrying him through the dance.
Stiles felt a tumbling in his stomach, butterflies furiously flying around as he continued to gaze into Derek’s eyes. Everything faded from his mind, nothing mattering—not the candidates, the looming announcement, his illness—but the feeling of being in Derek’s arms. He felt as if he could do anything, as long as Derek never let him go. He tightened his grip on Derek’s shoulder, his fingertips gently caressing Derek’s hand as he held them against his chest, fearing the moment Derek was to release him. They were as close as they were when Derek had carried him from the bed to the armchair, and Stiles loved the feeling of having Derek that close. It wasn’t proper etiquette for them to be dancing with their limbs practically entangled, but no one tried to stop them.
Stiles broke his gaze from Derek’s, moving to rest his forehead against Derek’s temple. He leaned closer to Derek’s ear, preventing others from hearing him as he closed his eyes and softly asked, “Is this what love feels like?”
“Yes,” Derek weakly replied, he tightened his arm wrapped around Stiles’ waist, holding Stiles tightly against his chest. “Stiles, I have to tell you something.”
Stiles pulled back far enough to see Derek’s face.
“I said no—”
“Please,” Stiles begged, shaking his head in protest. “I understand, I just—I just wanted to know, is all. To know what it felt like to be in love, even if it was for just a few minutes. It … it was selfish of me to even ask you to take on that responsibility.” He put on a fake smile, hoping it would convince himself and Derek that all would be okay. “Even if by some miracle you had accepted, it would have been a short-week long engagement, before my advisors forced you to marry me.”
“A week?” Derek questioned, surprised by the short amount of time.
“My health is …” Stiles paused, drawing in a deep breath. “It’s less than well. Deaton gave me a mixture of medications, just for this night alone.” He looked up at Derek, his eyes watery as he blinked back the tears before looking away. “I might have a month if I am lucky.”
“Stiles,” Derek softly started. He untangled his hand from Stiles’ in order to reach up and for him to look at him. “I said no, because I couldn’t condemn you to be a part of what I am,” he corrected him.
Stiles stared at Derek, a small quizzical look covering his features.
Derek slowly let his control fall, allowing his eyes to flash crimson before reeling his wolf back in. He knew Stiles saw when he inhaled a sharp breath. He slowed their steps as the music began to die down.
They remained still together as a silence filled the ballroom, Stiles still clinging tightly to Derek as he processed what just happened.
Derek obediently released Stiles before bowing once he realized everyone was intently staring at them more now. He held Stiles hand, placing a gentle kiss against his skin. He looked up at Stiles as he ran his thumb over his knuckles before adding, “It was an honor to dance with you … your majesty.”
Stiles fumbled as Derek released his hand, causing him to almost stumble forward as he grasped Derek’s arm. He silently entwined his fingers with Derek’s as he pulled him back with him, towards his throne where his advisors were forced to watch in shock at the display before them.
“I’ve made my choice,” Stiles stated once they reached his advisors.
“With respect, your majesty,” one of the advisors began. “You haven’t conversed with any other—”
“I have made my decision,” Stiles restated as he glared down his advisors, daring them to challenge him. He turned his attentions back to Derek when no one voiced their concern. “Do you accept?” He simply asked.
Derek stared at him, dumbfounded. “Stiles, you can’t—”
“The only person stopping me from marrying you, is you,” Stiles answered. “I don’t care about … any of that. I just want to know if you’ll have me … for the short time you can have me.”
“Yes,” Derek’s voice almost croaked in response, the heaviness of Stiles’ reminder that he was terminally ill shocking him into speaking.
“Then, I choose to marry you, Derek,” Stiles quietly affirmed, pulling Derek close to him.
~*~
Stiles’ portrait hung in the foyer of the palace, Stiles having argued that he wanted it somewhere Derek could see it every day. Derek didn’t like the way Stiles implied it was to be the only thing of Stiles Derek would have in future months to come.
Stiles became more defiant since his coronation and engagement to Derek was announced. He started to actively leave his room, Derek by his side, as they perused the palace grounds. Before their wedding, Derek took Stiles to the opera once more, wishing to see that playful joy return to his face.
It was Stiles who told Derek he didn’t want to hear anymore about why his eyes could glow such a bright, crimson color. Derek, however, made him promise that he would listen to him after their wedding. It was the deal breaking promise for Derek, so Stiles accepted.
The ceremony had been short and simple, a private affair that Stiles was glad Scott could attend. It had been a beautiful evening, one that Stiles would deeply cherish until his last day—a day, Stiles feared, was coming much sooner than predicted. He had unexpectedly fainted after their vows were done, Derek catching him and fretting over him for the rest of the night.
Stiles twisted at the material of his nightshirt, both nervous and excited as he patiently waited for Derek to join him. He couldn’t help his bright smile when Derek slipped into his room, moving to join Stiles on the bed.
“I … I have something for you,” Stiles shyly confessed as he ducked his chin. He reached across the bed to pull the object from beneath his piled up clothes on the hope chest. He offered the small present out in his hands, waiting for Derek to take it.
“A handkerchief,” Derek almost sighed as he took the material from Stiles.
“To replace the one you gave me—the one I ruined,” Stiles partially mumbled as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“It’s beautiful,” Derek answered. “You embroidered it yourself?” He asked as he looked at the initials in the fabric.
“It took me a while,” Stiles sheepishly admitted. “And it’s not as elegant as the other one.”
Derek shook his head. “This one is wonderful.”
Stiles smiled as he watched Derek run his fingers over the embroidery.
“My other one … it was a gift from my sister,” Derek explained. “A reject she had practiced on before making one for her betrothed.” He softly smiled as he looked up at Stiles. “It’s nice to receive one made just for me.”
Stiles shyly ducked his chin, smiling at Derek’s comment.
“I have a gift for you as well,” Derek started, hesitating as he moved to set the handkerchief on the nightstand. “It’s more of a selfish gift.”
“I don’t find you to be a selfish person,” Stiles answered as he settled into the comfort of the bed more.
“This is a selfish request,” Derek explained.
“Now you’re worrying me,” Stiles answered.
“It’s about … it’s about my eyes,” Derek tried to start his explanation.
“Okay,” Stiles slowly agreed. “I promised I’d listen.”
“My family comes from a very old group of people who were in tuned with nature, more so than people presently,” Derek started, his nerves picking at him. “Kate … Kate burned my family alive because I told her … showed her what we were—what I am. She called us monsters and that we were not worth allying with, regardless of how badly her and Gerard needed us.”
“She’s the monster, Derek,” Stiles softly stated, moving to rest a hand on Derek’s shoulder.
Derek slowly shook his head. “I am a monster, Stiles. And I’m asking you to accept being one with me.”
Stiles scrunched his eyebrows together, uncertain what Derek meant.
“I’m … I’m a werewolf,” Derek finally confessed, closing his eyes as he waited for Stiles’ reaction.
“A … werewolf?” Stiles asked in a confusion. “As in …”
“As in a man cursed by the moon to be a wolf,” Derek answered.
“That’s why your eyes can change to red?” Stiles calmly asked.
Derek nodded.
“Do you … can you do anything else?” Stiles asked as he carefully watched Derek.
“You’re not … repulsed?” Derek asked, turning to look at Stiles.
“Werewolf or not, you’re still you, Derek,” Stiles answered, reaching a hand out to catch Derek’s chin as he tried to turn away from him. “Don’t turn away—” He stopped when he noticed the shift in Derek’s brow, the way his beard suddenly had more hair, the appearance of fangs behind his parted lips, and the red glow of his eyes.
Stiles took a moment to take in Derek’s altered appearance, eyes scanning his features. He took a slow breath, reaching his hand out before halting his actions. “May I?” He softly asked, waiting until Derek’s nod of approval before his fingertips brushed against his cheek. He moved to cup Derek’s cheek in the palm of his hand, smiling to himself as he ran his thumb against Derek’s cheekbone. He moved forward, pressing a delicate kiss against Derek’s forehead, taking his small shudder as a sign of relief. “You’re not a monster,” he softly stated, pulling back to look at Derek.
They both spent the next few hours in conversation, Stiles asking many questions as Derek answered as best he could. Stiles had all but forgotten that it was their wedding night, causing him to practically flail off the bed when he realized how late it had gotten.
“We’ve talked through most of the night,” Stiles said.
“I don’t mind,” Derek answered, becoming puzzled by Stiles’ blush.
“It’s not that I mind, I just … we were supposed to …” Stiles sighed, knowing that he shouldn’t act shy in front of Derek, not after discovering one of his biggest secrets.
“We still can,” Derek answered, ducking his own head in slight embarrassment at how forward he sounded.
“Are you … are you comfortable?” Stiles asked. “With what we’ve talked about.”
“We didn’t finish,” Derek explained. “I still haven’t asked you if you wish to receive my gift or not.”
Stiles cocked his head to the side in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I accept your gift?”
“I’m offering … I’m offering you the bite, Stiles,” Derek finally admitted.
“To be with you,” Stiles replied.
“To save you,” Derek answered. “If you weren’t plagued by this illness, I would have still offered it to you. But don’t think you need to take it. The choice is yours. I said it was a selfish gift, because … because I don’t wish to lose you.”
“You’d be saving my life,” Stiles calmly stated. “I hardly find that selfish.”
“Saving your life at the cost of being a werewolf,” Derek explained.
“You’re a werewolf,” Stiles simply replied. “And you’re not so bad,” he jokingly added.
“You might not survive it,” Derek weakly admitted, unable to laugh at Stiles’ jest.
Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat, slowly nodding his head. “In that case,” he started, turning his body to face Derek’s. He pressed his hand against Derek’s chest, easing him back onto the bed. He slowly moved to climb over Derek’s body, settling himself in Derek’s lap as he straddled his thighs. He hesitated leaning in, pulling back in order to pull his nightshirt over his head, tossing the material onto the floor with little care. He leaned forward, resting one hand against Derek’s chest, the other against the pillow by his head. “In that case, I would like to share what’s left of the night with you. And then, when the sun rises, I would like for you to give me your gift,” he quietly spoke against Derek’s lips.
Derek settled an unsteady hand against Stiles’ hip, his other hand reaching out to cup Stiles’ face. He gently brushed his thumb against his cheek, reveling in the way Stiles closed his eyes and sighed into the gesture. “As you wish.”
~*~
“Will it hurt?” Stiles shyly asked, his fingers running through Derek’s hair as he kissed his way down Stiles’ chest. Derek was showering more than enough attention on Stiles, more than Stiles thought was possible. The attention was causing Stiles’ skin to flush, blotchy redness covering him from head to toe, still not used to someone finding his body even slightly attractive.
“Briefly,” Derek answered, his lips lingering against Stiles’ skin as he reached his hip. He pressed delicate kisses against his skin—the skin he was about to mark. His eyes flickered red as he thought about having Stiles by his side, being able to have someone to share his life with, without hiding anything.
“I’m ready,” Stiles confidently stated, looking down at Derek’s head.
Derek paused, looking up at Stiles. “I love you,” he breathed, his breath nothing but hot air against Stiles skin as his body warmed at hearing those words.
“And I love you,” Stiles confessed back, his chest feeling lighter as Derek’s fingers traveled over his taut stomach.
Derek tore his eyes away from Stiles as his fangs elongated, holding Stiles’ body in his arms as he pierced his teeth through the soft flesh just above Stiles’ hip. He tightened his hold on Stiles when he cried out in pain, Stiles’ fingers tightening in Derek’s hair as his hand clutched at his shoulders. He pulled his fangs back, running his hands along Stiles’ sides as he tried to coax any lingering pain from his body. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against Stiles stomach as he waited in fear for a sign that it hadn’t worked—that he just murdered Stiles by giving him the bite.
Derek relaxed when he felt Stiles’ fingers moving through his hair, his chest rising and falling against Derek’s head. He looked up, relieved to see Stiles looking down at him.
Stiles stared down at him, eyes blinking in rapid succession as he tried to determine if anything was different. He worried his bottom lip before asking, “How will we know if …” He paused, suddenly taking in a deep breath before releasing a sigh. “My chest,” he placed a delicate hand against his chest as he spoke. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Derek smiled, sitting up as he reached a hand up to cup Stiles’ cheek. “You’re … peachier than normal, too,” he commented, sharing a small laugh with Stiles.
“It worked,” Stiles happily breathed. He released a heartfelt laugh as he reached for Derek, hugging him tightly.
Derek closed his eyes as he held onto Stiles, thanking every deity he could think of that it worked.
“A life,” Stiles’ voice was soft but hopeful. “We can live a life. I don’t have to worry about … I’m not going anywhere,” he hurriedly stated, pulling back in order to look at Derek.
“You’re going to go a long way,” Derek replied, arms still secured tightly around Stiles.
“Thank you, Derek,” Stiles lovingly stated, his fingers playing with the hairs at the base of his neck. “You saved my life.”
Derek gently shook his head back and forth. He looked at Stiles’ eyes, his breath almost catching as a gold flicker cross through his brown irises. “No, Stiles, you saved mine.”
~*~
Stiles’ portrait hung in the foyer long after Stiles’ reign ended, a homage to the monarch and his ability to overcome all obstacles in his way—even his health. Stiles’ reign is still considered one of the longest and most productive in Beacon’s history. The portrait itself portrays Stiles before his health’s sudden improvement, marking the beginning of his reign as an underdog in the eyes of most. Some considered the portrait to be an even bigger embodiment of the love found between the young prince and his painter.