#maybehonestly

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3]

“So, Stiles,” Jen begins. “It’s so wonderful to see you here tonight.”

Stiles squints a little in the harsh stage lights and tries to look cool and collected and not like he’s sitting for an interview in front of more people than he’s ever seen in his life. He’s pretty sure he’s had nightmares that started this way. “Uh, you too.”

He also tries valiantly not to stare at Jen’s towering swirl of blue hair. There are actual model ships pinned in it. Even after several weeks in the Capitol, he still isn’t used to how weird these people are.

“Let’s start with an easy question, shall we?” Jen says.

“I’d appreciate that,” Stiles grins. “It makes it less likely that I’ll publicly humiliate myself. Well, much more than I already have.”

Jen laughs. “Nonsense. We’re all charmed to death over you, ever since your daring debut as Little Red." As she speaks, the wall of screens behind the stage light up with photos of Stiles leaning into Derek’s side at the tribute parade, Derek’s hand resting possessively at the small of Stiles’ back and his eyes flashing beta gold up at the cameras. It’s the first time Stiles has seen the footage, and it’s--strange. It looks like a stranger standing next to Derek, but a stranger wearing Stiles’ face. Alien and familiar. He looks more like his mother than ever. That must have made it even harder for his dad to watch.

Stiles looks away.

“We all thought you looked very sexy,” Jen goes on, “but what do you think, Stiles? Did you enjoy your transformation?”

It was moronic and embarrassing, Stiles wants to say, but Deaton would kill him, so he sits back in his chair instead and gestures to his red tux with a confidence he doesn’t feel. "Well, red is a good color on me. And I like what it means to me, personally. Allison--my stylist--actually got her inspiration for it from a red hoodie I was wearing, which my best bro Scott gave to me right before I left. So in that sense, I feel like it's a nod to him. But on the other hand, the Little Red Riding Hood thing can feel a little emasculating."

Jen laughs. "Oh, I don't think you have anything to worry about there, Stiles." She winks at the crowd, who cheers and wolf-whistles.

Well, what the hell, Deaton did say to be charming. Stiles winks, too, and throws in a little wave. It’s oddly satisfying, after years of Jackson Whittemore and his friends calling him dweeby and pasty and threatening to snap him like a twig in gym class.

Jen turns back to him, her wig (god, Stiles hopes it’s just a wig) wobbling ever so slightly. “Just now you mentioned a ‘Scott.’ Is that a reference to Scott McCall, the young man you volunteered for at the Reaping?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, yeah it is.” Jen is nodding at him expectantly, so he keeps talking. “He’s family, you know? We’ve been friends ever since the first day of first grade. I don’t even remember what it was like not having him there. I’d do anything for him, just like I know he’d do anything for me.”

“And we’ve certainly seen evidence of that,” Jen says. “When we saw you step forward in his place--well. It was heart-stopping. Absolutely heart-stopping. And so brave.”

“Er… thanks.”

Jen beams. “All right. So, one last question, just for fun. Tell me your most and least favorite thing about life in the Capitol.”

Stiles doesn’t even have to think about that one. "I love the food. Totally addicting. Especially the curly fries. It's been my lifelong dream to eat a curly fry, and now I can die happy."

Jen laughs, touches his knee. "I'm sure there are plenty of you out there in the audience who could relate to that, huh?"

A few people in the audience clap and cheer.

"But, Stiles, I don't think you've mentioned a least favorite thing yet."

That's the easiest question of all. "Okay. I don't know if you've ever been to District 7?"

"No," Jen says cautiously. "'Fraid not."

Not too surprising. Capitol people are practically the only ones allowed to travel, wherever and whenever, but the stupid thing is, most of them don't even want to go. The only one Stiles has met who's ever been to the districts, besides Erica (who was born there), is Allison. Apparently her family likes hunting. She's been to District 7, she says; she went with them a few times when she was little, before she got old enough to understand. Her parents and grandparents still go once a year, not to Beacon Hills but out to the wilderness where the trains don't run. Their luxury is that they can choose death, pick it up and put it down again like a curiosity. They've never been the prey.

"Then I'll tell you," Stiles says. "There isn't any good way out, not unless you have clearance to ride the trains, and most people don't. Not even my dad does, and he's a Peacekeeper. Beacon Hills is its own island in the wilderness. Most of us like it that way, but it's interesting: at least once a year, when it gets warm enough, someone tries to hike their way out. I don't know where they think they're going. But I do know, once they go in the woods, they never come out."

Jen laughs a little nervously. "Wow. That gives me chills. Like something out of a dark fairytale."

Stiles shrugs. "It's not that the woods are scary or really dangerous, not for us. Most of us  make our living from the woods in one way or another. We know every tree for miles. It's home."

"That makes sense," Jen nods.

"But I think what people who aren't from the district don't realize is just how big it is. How much is out there between us and the rest of the world. You could walk for weeks, months even if you got lost, and still not see a single person--or so I've been told. I've never gone out that far. I've actually never gone more than a day without seeing my family, or at least I hadn't until the Reaping."

"Wow," Jen says. "You guys must be really close."

"Yeah." Stiles smiles. "So I miss them, and that's the worst thing of all. And--” He takes a breath. Here comes the cheesy part. Well, he thinks it’s pretty cheesy. Allison said it’d make the crowd melt. Deaton said basically the same thing, that Stiles should play up the family angle. Given his atrocious track record with any and all weapons, it’s really the only thing Stiles has going for him at this point.

“Yes?” Jen prompts.

“If my family’s watching this, I just want them to know one thing."

"I'm sure they're listening," Jen says. "I know I would be."

"Okay." Stiles takes a breath and looks directly at the camera for the first time all night. "I want to say: I'm in the forest, but I'm not lost. I haven't given up, and I'm going to make it out."

There's what feels like an eon of silence, a held breath. Then the crowd is going wild, a roar, and Stiles takes a bow. He drifts backstage still hearing that perfect thunder.

As soon as he's out of sight of the audience and the cameras, Allison is stepping forward to hug him and tell him he did great. It’s like the words cut the strings that’ve been holding him up all night; suddenly his legs feel like jelly. It’s all he can do to follow her down the winding hallway to the green room.

Erica and Deaton are waiting there with Derek's head stylist, Finstock, who’s wearing his usual tracksuit; he always talks in sports metaphors and insists that Derek call him ‘Coach.’

Erica's slouched on the white leather sectional in front of the TV, scrolling disinterestedly on her phone. Deaton appears to be staring thoughtfully off into space. Finstock is busy pacing. Stiles feels more grateful than ever he got Allison as his stylist. Finstock's bulging eyes and frantic energy always come across as more than a little maniacal, tonight more than ever.

By the time Stiles and Allison sit down on either side of Erica, Derek has already made his entrance. Stiles watches him shake hands rather grimly with Jen as she introduces him. It's weird seeing him like this, neat and clean-shaven in a waistcoat and blue satin cravat. He looks so much older than seventeen. (Unlike Stiles, who looks twelve no matter what he wears, but he’s trying not to be too jealous.)

"This is quite a special evening we're having," Jen begins as they take their seats. “I believe District 7 has one of the highest werewolf populations anywhere in Panem, but as you've probably discovered by this point, Derek, werewolves are very rare indeed in the Capitol."

Derek neither confirms nor denies this.

"So, Derek," Jen goes on, "how about you show us your fangs? We've all been dying to see."

She smiles encouragingly. Derek turns his face away to stare sullenly out at the crowd.

Erica snorts. “He doesn't seem interested in showing anyone anything except how done he is with this whole interview.”

Stiles struggles not to laugh.

Meanwhile, Finstock starts throwing curses at the screen. "No, no, no, damn it, you're ruining it, you look like you hate everyone--"

"You're the one who told him not to smile," Stiles points out.

"That was for the tribute parade. It was part of his persona. Tonight is completely different. It's not about playing dress-up, it's about being approachable, charming, likable..." Finstock gestures helplessly. On the screen, Jen is laughing awkwardly, all never mind and let's talk about you. "Look at him. He's killing himself. No one's going to sponsor him after this--"

"I don’t blame him," Erica interrupts without looking up from her phone. "’Show us your fangs’? How tacky can you get? Anyway, he’s got a plan up his sleeve. Wait and see. It's pretty good. You'll love it."

"A plan?” Finstock fumes. He’s slowly turning the same red as his suit. “As in, a surprise? Live, on national TV? He can't do that. He's got to clear it with someone first."

"He did clear it with someone," Erica says smugly. "Me."

The vein above Finstock’s left eye pulses angrily, but he seems at a loss for words.

On the stage, Derek is finally talking to Jen, describing the basics of his training regimen. Stiles would be annoyed she didn’t want to hear about his training regimen, too, but, well. He’s not the one who got close to top marks from the judges’ panel yesterday.

Granted, Allison did assure him that his 6 was more than respectable. Stiles is just happy he got any points at all, since he bypassed the weapons table entirely in favor of building a shelter and showing off his botany skills.

“Okay, Derek,” Jen says, “why don’t we shift gears here a little. I’ll be honest with you, I was really taken with you in the Tribute Parade, and I bet I’m not the only one. Ever since I saw the way you interacted with Stiles, I’ve been dying to know a little more about your romantic side.”

Derek looks physically pained by this statement. Stiles cackles.

“So tell us, Derek, do you have a girlfriend waiting for you back in District 7?”

Derek shakes his head, scowling. Stiles can’t say he’s surprised. But he is surprised when, instead of a curt, “No,” Derek hesitates and then comes out with, “Kind of. But not a girl. A guy.”

The audience gasps. Someone in the crowd shrieks with delight, or possibly scandal, and a ripple of laughter follows.

“A guy!” Jen smiles like this is the best news she’s heard all night. It probably is. Stiles can’t remember there ever being a gay (or bi?) tribute before. They’ll certainly remember Derek now.

“Wow,” Jen says. “So tell us about him. He must be great if he’s caught your eye. And don’t worry--we can keep a secret.” She winks.

Derek looks down at his lap, fiddles nervously with his tie. “He’s been it for me since the moment I met him, but we’re not actually dating. And at this point, it’d probably be pretty impossible, even if he did like guys, which I’m honestly not sure he does.”

Jen smiles a little flirtatiously. “I can’t imagine any guy being entirely straight around you. Especially now that you’re a tribute. A hero in the making.”

Derek looks like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that statement. He looks away, out at the enraptured audience. “I actually think that makes my chances with him worse.”

Jen shakes her head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Derek takes a deep breath. “I mean that I’m in love with Stiles.”

*

There’s a funny sort of ringing in Stiles’ ears. For a long moment, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even breathe. But the moment the door to the green room opens and Derek steps through, it’s like the spell breaks and all his thoughts come rushing back. And what all his thoughts are screaming is, “That asshole.”

Before Stiles even knows what he’s doing, he’s across the room and shoving Derek against the wall, fisting his hands in Derek’s stupid fancy clothes and yelling, “What the fuck was that, huh? You think you can make me into some kind of damsel in distress, make everyone think I’m just your weak human boyfriend?”

Derek stares back at him, wide-eyed and mute and not shoving him back even though he could probably send Stiles flying with just the flick of a finger.

It’s Erica who finally pries Stiles off him, looking fiercer than Stiles has ever seen before. "Wow, way to be homophobic, asshole."

Stiles kicks the wall. "That's not what I fucking meant--"

"And," Erica jabs her finger at his chest, "don't you dare get mad at him when he's doing you a fucking favor."

"A favor?" Stiles scoffs. Derek sinks back further against the wall. "I don't see how--"

"Well, I do. Trust me when I say people are eating this shit up. I bet it's going to be a trending topic on all the news-feeds tonight."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Just how I want to be remembered, as some other dude's love interest. Soon to be some other dude's tragically dead love interest."

He tries for a dramatic spin and exit, but Erica grabs his arm and holds him back, easy. Stupid werewolves and their stupid muscles. “Listen, Stilinski,” she says, digging thankfully human nails into his arm, “you need to accept this as the gift it is. Everyone's going to remember you now. Everyone's going to ship you. Whether you like it or not, that's smart, strategically. Neither of you are strong enough candidates on your own to be the people's favorite--"

"Hey, I think--"

"Shut up, you're not that endearing," Erica snaps. "Alone, you guys aren't winning. That's not my opinion, that's fact. Just look at your sorry ass training score, Stiles. Even fucking Isaac Lahey beat you, and he's twelve."

Stiles is never going to live that down.

"But as soon as Derek said that about you, you could just see the crowd mentally rewriting him as a tragic hero. A teen heartthrob. Maybe even a beauty-and-the-beast type situation. He's not a monster with no personality anymore--he's in love."

Stiles rolls his eyes. Yeah, right.

"So if you can bear to swallow your man-pride for just one fucking second and let this happen--" Erica takes a deep breath. "If you can do that, you can up your odds of staying alive by a thousand, easy."

Stiles takes a deep breath, too. Over Erica's shoulder, Derek is watching him warily, tensed like he's prepared to make a run for it if Stiles comes after him. The thought is ridiculous. He's the werewolf; he shouldn't be scared of what the puny human thinks of him.

Stiles yanks his arm out of Erica's grasp, and this time, she lets him. Stiles makes sure to knock his shoulder hard against Derek’s on his way out.

*

It’s two in the morning and Stiles can’t sleep, can’t stop thinking about it.

It’s downright humiliating, is what it is. Little Red, hunted by the Big Bad Wolf. No one’s ever going to look at him now and think warrior.

And yet… and yet… Stiles isn’t stupid. He does understand the need for strategy. And yeah, okay, maybe a 6 from the judges isn’t anything to write home about. Maybe he does need another way to up his odds.

But god, he hates when Erica’s right.

Groaning, he shuffles across the hall in the dark and knocks on the door to Derek’s room.

When Derek answers, he doesn’t seem to want to look Stiles in the eye. “Stiles. Hi.”

“Hey.” Stiles swallows. “Listen…”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says suddenly, and his hand clenches around the doorframe, his knuckles going white. “I shouldn’t have-- I made you uncomfortable--”

“No, stop.” Stiles sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. "It's--it's fine. You shouldn’t be sorry. Erica's right. It's smart. And I was a dick, she was right about that too."

Derek lifts his head cautiously. "So..."

"So I'm in. I'll do it."