The museum was full of people, young and old, all there for the unveiling of a sculpture that everyone had known about for at least a century but had never seen.
In actuality it was four centuries old, but had only been known about for two of those centuries. It had been given up on, assumed destroyed during a war. Still, ever since the artist's other works and journals had been discovered there had always been a few who had held out hope that somehow, somewhere the sculpture had survived.
The artist referred to the model only as Fenrir, which was somewhat curious until you looked at some of his other sculptures using the same model. Often he was depicted as strong and virile, but also as having various wolf-like attributes.
This broke from the norm of the time period, as these sculptures clearly had nothing to do with Christianity, and the artist had purposely sculpted a rather impressive, and always erect, penis in every work. At the time, if a penis was included in art, it was often depicted as small and flaccid, as it was considered indecent and perverse to render them in the way this particular artist had. And, if the translations of his journals are accurate, his art was not very well received because of his very obvious breaks with these customs. The artist wrote about it, so he was aware of this and the reason for it and yet did not alter his work even once in the hopes of making it more acceptable even if perhaps not more popular.
But, he would hardly be the first artist to be unappreciated, undervalued, ignored, or even persecuted in his own time period only to become famous hundreds of years later. What set this sculpture apart from the others from this particular artist, however, was the fact that it was life-sized, proportionate, and Fenrir was in a completely human form. No fur, no fangs, no pointed ears. And the look on his face was far from fierce or foreboding...it was, instead, the look you would only expect to find on someone gazing longingly and lovingly at a lover, giving the onlooker the impression that they had walked in on an intensely private moment.
It was also no secret that the artist and his model had been lovers, if the translations of his journals were to be believed. And there was no reason to question their accuracy. In fact, it appeared that may have even contributed to the artist's death.
As for whatever happened to Fenrir, no one knows. No one is even sure who he really was and the artist was careful never to use his real name in any of his writings.
Stiles worked at the museum as a curator. He had not only helped to make sure the museum acquired this piece of exquisite art, but he had personally overseen the restoration of it. It was so special that he felt he just simply could not trust anyone else.
The fact that this sculpture looked less like a statue and more like living art that might literally be breathing had nothing to do with it. Nope, it had nothing to do with expecting that gorgeous, impressive chest to start moving with actual breath.
In.
And out.
In.
And—nope, zilch.
...Okay maybe a little, but come on! Fenrir was hot!
Stiles was totally blaming this on his recent dry spell. Of a year.
A fucking YEAR. Complete with no actual fucking. Slight craziness was to be expected!
Besides, there was just something about the look on Fenrir's face that made Stiles blush for other reasons. More than just that impressive and erect—this was totally the dry spell's fault!
"You totally felt up that statue, didn't you?" asked his best friend, Scott.
"Dude! I'm a professional!"
Scott raised an eyebrow.
"Go back to guarding!"
Scott snorted, "I'm on break. It's my last one before the new guy shows up and I have to start training him."
Stiles detected a bit of a pout.
"What's this guy's name, anyway?"
"Derek Hale." Scott sighed.
"Sounds like another fat guy expecting a cushy gig. Good luck, man." Stiles said, sympathetically.
As they walked back to Scott's station listening to his friend – okay, half-listening and half-daydreaming about whether the real "Fenrir" actually looked like the personification of sex that artist Arlo Abandonato had made him look like – talk about his latest issue with Allison, Scott's on-and-off-again girlfriend, he may have forgotten to actually look where he was going.
So, it really was uncalled for to yell at the guy he ended up running into.
"Dude, why don't you watch where you're going? And, what are you a brick wall or something? Maybe you should lay off on...the...doughnuts..." Stiles trailed off, eyes widening as he laid actual eyes on the person he was unfairly blaming for his own clumsiness.
"Stiles...!" Scott seemed mildly horrified at his best friend's behavior.
"Fenrir..." was all Stiles could think of to say to the scowling and thoroughly unamused-looking man standing in front of them.
Wearing...a security guard's uniform.
"What?" the man, apparently Derek Hale since Stiles knew all the other security guards but did not know this guy, sounded even less amused than he looked.
Which, really, should not have been possible.
Oops?