'Tis Derek, not coming down. [ He doesn't hesitate to call back to him as he works, knowing the stage's acoustics will carry his voice. Finding a patch in the roof that needs repaired, he makes a note of its location for the roofing crew to work on as he turns back to replacing rusted metalwork and writing down woodwork.
All the while, though, he realizes that he's either humming the overture or he's plotting out a violin's accompaniment in his head.
It's not the first time he's let the music play in his head, but it never gets further than that. Hasn't, in years. ]
Tis Derek, the fun suck. [ He mutters that under his breath, and plays up the overture again, just to be an asshole. He can really do this all day, Derek, you have no idea.
But eventually, he finishes the piece, long as it is, and Stiles flicks through his bag again, pulling out an old classic; Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. It was one of his mother's old favorites, and suddenly, playing down here's not so much about harassing Derek anymore. Suddenly, Stiles' hyperfocus is narrowed on the ivory and black in front of him, the spread of his long fingers, and the music in front of him. It's kind of nice to have some company in the room; kind of nice to have an audience, even if he can't sense it once he's lost in the bars of a rhyme. ]
[ A faint sound of amusement drifts down from the catwalk as he moves along, not quite hearing what Stiles says but at least hearing that he's mumbling.
But Derek's amusement fades as he listens to the melody drifting up, reminded of the one time that he had played the song with Paige with a string arrangement. It digs into his chest and clutches at his heart, and he slowly moves about the catwalk, working with surprising silence. Part of him wants to lash out, war against the music, interrupt it as loudly as he can.
Another part has him quiet, respecting the bars of the piano. Respecting the familiarity of it and the fact that Stiles is sharing it with him, despite the fact that he wants nothing to do with it right now. ]
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All the while, though, he realizes that he's either humming the overture or he's plotting out a violin's accompaniment in his head.
It's not the first time he's let the music play in his head, but it never gets further than that. Hasn't, in years. ]
no subject
But eventually, he finishes the piece, long as it is, and Stiles flicks through his bag again, pulling out an old classic; Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. It was one of his mother's old favorites, and suddenly, playing down here's not so much about harassing Derek anymore. Suddenly, Stiles' hyperfocus is narrowed on the ivory and black in front of him, the spread of his long fingers, and the music in front of him. It's kind of nice to have some company in the room; kind of nice to have an audience, even if he can't sense it once he's lost in the bars of a rhyme. ]
no subject
But Derek's amusement fades as he listens to the melody drifting up, reminded of the one time that he had played the song with Paige with a string arrangement. It digs into his chest and clutches at his heart, and he slowly moves about the catwalk, working with surprising silence. Part of him wants to lash out, war against the music, interrupt it as loudly as he can.
Another part has him quiet, respecting the bars of the piano. Respecting the familiarity of it and the fact that Stiles is sharing it with him, despite the fact that he wants nothing to do with it right now. ]