[ At nineteen years old, Stiles Stilinski could probably practice in the music halls of his college, but that wouldn't be the same as the old theater downtown. He'd learned to play here with his mother--she'd exalted the acoustics, taken multiple students across the keys of the grand piano that was always on the stage, and danced a waltz with Stiles when he was ten years old on the ancient wooden stage, while he stood on her feet and tried to lead the dance and she just laughed and laughed and told him he had to lead when he was taller than her.
That never happened, but the piano did stay. So he plays for her memory--plays for his own joy, plays for his anger, his sorrow, his every emotion. He's become a virtuoso in his own right, a fast learner and an emotional player, enough so that he's in the process of picking a partner for a presentation for the theater that he's inherited, that's currently being renovated. There's construction going on everywhere, but in the hallowed halls of his mother's old stomping ground, you can hear the strains of a piano.
Stressed from his schoolwork--music's a passion, but psychology's a life--and exhausted, the piece Stiles picked today sings through the hallways in a show of dexterity and talent, Liszt for a forced relaxation of the tension in his muscles. The notes are delicate, and by midway through the piece, his eyes are closed, and he's into it, completely lost in his own hyper state of focus. ]
[ The last time that Derek Hale had stepped foot into a musical theatre, he had been sixteen years old and was holding the hand of his ten year old sister as he took her to her own lessons. That was also the last time that Derek Hale had seen his baby sister.
Almost a decade later, it's not by choice that he steps into the hallowed halls that the theatre presents, music echoing through opened doors and quiet corners. Though the renovations are numerous, both the landlord and the company that contracted him decided it would be best to only have a small handful of people filtering in and out as necessary, so as not to wholly disturb the atmosphere or the musicians that created it.
Above all else, Derek can understand that. But it doesn't mean he really wants to be in the building. It's easy to still feel the music, how the melody holds sway over every aspect of a person, but he just doesn't hear it anymore. It builds up in him, but there's just something missing.
That doesn't mean that he keeps going as he hears the strain coming from the piano. He can't help but perk, even though he intends to keep going to start work on the catwalk, precarious as it is. But something leads his feet astray, and he follows the trail that the pianist leaves. ]
[ La Campanella was a piece that Stiles was entirely attached to. It wasn't performance ready--no, the piece he was supposed to be performing was Beethoven's Romanz in F major sonata, because no one wanted to listen to just a piano anymore, and he'd been at this long enough that it was probably time to try and expand a little beyond the world of his ivory keys. But it was the first piece his mom had set in front of him when he was diagnosed with ADHD, designed to keep his focus because it was hard, technically, and harder still if you didn't have the attention span for the training of your hands that came with it.
But what Stiles was lacking in attention span, he made up for in sheer tenacity. He never met a problem he didn't want to attack, and Liszt was made of problems. Now, ten years later, he could play it backwards, with his eyes closed, but it didn't change the fact that he adored it still.
His head bobs for a minute, fingers flying across the keys, and the sound of the construction fades into nothing but white noise. ]
[ It's strange to say that there's something almost familiar about the music, beyond knowing that it's a written piece that eventually makes its way into the hands of various musicians. There's a certain spark to it that resounds in him, and that's what actually gets him to linger. Derek has heard many strains filtering in and out of his life since losing the bulk of his family, but this is...
This is different, and he can't pinpoint why.
He leans his shoulder into the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches long fingers skirt their way across ivory, transfixed as he follows them. It takes a moment for him to actually look up at the person that's playing, regarding him almost thoughtfully. There's work to be done, but he'd rather avoid startling him while he's in the middle of playing.
Interrupting someone while they're performing-- even simply for themselves-- was hardly courteous in the best of circumstances, but when they're in so deep... ]
[ What had Stiles more stressed than anything was this damned performance. He was supposed to be matching up with a violinist, someone who could meet his own level of A) skill and B) someone who just had a spark. His mom used to say that it was like dating--it was impossible to partner up perfectly with someone you hated, unless the song you chose was a Bartok piece. For the Romanz, especially, Stiles needed someone who he could make a connection with, and no matter how many times he explained that to Lydia, master soprano and director of performances at the theater (appointed by Stiles himself, because no one else could simultaneously matchmake and terrify every potential member of the in house orchestra quite like she could), she got frustrated with him. Lydia was good at acting--she could pretend she was madly in love with just about anyone, if the music called for it.
Stiles wasn't, which was why when Lydia had pretend to fall for him for a dance show, he'd fallen for her, and that fiasco had pretty much been the Reason Why Stiles Stilinski Was Going to Be Single For the Rest of His Life, capital letters absolutely necessary.
Either way, every violinist she brought to him just didn't work. There wasn't any connection. So Stiles used his finely tuned (ha) research skills to hunt down anyone in Beacon Hills, and that's where he'd finally found his mystery violinist. The piece the man was playing was so intense he'd ended up staring at his computer the entire time, a surprising feat for Stiles, but he'd learned rather quickly about the fate of the Hale family, and that'd been the last he'd heard of Derek Hale.
His fingers hit the keys, trilling off t the last end of the ivories, intense and impassioned and frustrated, but when he remembers himself, he catches the fourth finger trill in the right place, and breathes. It's not like he'll never find anyone else.
When he hits the final note, he lets it resonate in the air for a moment, eyes still closed, then opens them slowly, exhaling rather noisily. ]
[ The only problem with that is the fact that the mystery violinist hasn't played the violin in nearly ten years. The violin survived the fire, if only because it'd been with Derek at the time, but a large part of him wished that it'd been burnt up with family and home so that he didn't know that it was underneath his bed, untouched with broken strings. Hell if he knew where his bow went, that had been snapped before the first month had passed by since the funerals were held, since he watched closed caskets lower into the earth and remaining ashes had been buried in the stead of bodies.
Though the music still builds in his chest, aching painfully and resonating every now and then as if echoing for release, he holds it tight and keeps it from going free.
There have been numerous attempts, by Laura and others that knew them before the fire, to get him to try and play again. But while he might remember to play, there's a disconnect between heart, mind, and soul. He can feel the music all he wants, he can remember every precise movement his fingers could take, but there's just nothing right about it.
So he's left on the sidelines, watching and listening to errant musicians as he is now. There's a quiet sympathy, somewhere under the weight of it all, to the tone of the music that Stiles plays-- the way he plays it, too, the look on his face. But he still doesn't say anything, waiting until the very end so as not to throw him off, or interrupt him before he's finished sharing everything he feels with the piano.
That intent is disrupted by the noise that he makes when he releases the tension, and he chuffs low and sudden, surprised into amusement. ]
Oh my god. [ Stiles nearly falls off the bench when he hears a noise behind him. A serial killer could honestly come up and stab him in the back during his practice hours, and he probably wouldn't even notice until his fingers stopped working right and he dropped over dead. Which--speaking of serial killers, there's this guy.
He's all tall and dark and terrifying looking (and kind of hot, his brain supplies not so helpfully), and vaguely familiar, and while Stiles is trying to recombobulate his brain, something clicks, and he goes wide eyed.
Holy shit.
Holy shit his virtuoso just walked into the room. Stiles raises a hand to point at him. ] You're Derek Hale. [ It's not a question. ]
[ A part of Derek considers apologizing, if not for the fact that Stiles' reaction is sort of... intensely hilarious. Cocking an eyebrow at him as he keeps from completely falling off the bench, he keeps his arms crossed over his chest, leaning right where he is without a visible care in the world. Not that he was much better when he was younger than Stiles is, he got so into the music that it took quite a bit to get his attention before he was finished playing.
But that thought leaves his mind as Stiles stares at him like he's seen a ghost, and a slow, single blink passes over his face in mock-impassiveness as he points at him.
The apparent familiarity, however, causes his brow to raise even higher. ]
[ Okay, wow, that really shouldn't be attractive. The memory he has of Derek at sixteen in the videos is a scrawny, pale teenager, not 200-some odd pounds of muscles and stubble and jesus christ, focus.
He glances down, looking for a violin case, then back up, mouth still open. ] Y-- [ Wait. Supposedly the guy hadn't played anything in years. Either way, it was worth a shot, right? Even if he was covered in sawdust and looked like he was probably here for the renovations. ] You aren't busy, are you? Because you should totally come and play for me.
[ Could Derek's eyebrow raise higher? Probably. He stares at Stiles with the not-quite-request, fingers curling in his bicep where they're settled before he bows his head a little and snorts. It's derisive and disbelieving all at once, as he slowly straightens up from where he's leaning. ]
Come and play for you. [ It's not a question. He reaches to pick up his tool case from near his feet, hefting it up easily despite the bulk of it. ]
The only reason I'm not already up in the catwalk is because I was waiting for you to be done.
Awesome, you can parrot after me. Yes, I want you to play for me! Dude, your rendition of Perlman's prelude literally--literally--made me cry. Like, seriously, tears streaming down my face. It was incredible.
[ Spreading his hands wide and gesturing throughout his impression, he grins, then, rocks back on his heels, and makes yet another gesture, this time flippant. ]
Well, that's totally kind of unfortunate, because I think I'm gonna be here for a while. Like the rest of the day a while.
[ Pausing as he makes his way around to the side stage where he can climb up, Derek inclines his head a little and looks towards Stiles with a cocked eyebrow again. But then he's making his way up with a practiced ease, chuffing humorlessly as he goes. ]
Sarasate's Zigeunerweisen. [ He shouldn't even be encouraging this at all, but he offers the piece before he disappears into the darkness of the catwalk. ]
[ He follows Derek up with his eyes, craning his head back as he climbs up to the catwalk, and within two seconds, Stiles digs his phone out of his pocket, putting his youtube skills to the test.
It takes ten minutes or so, but he crows triumphantly and suddenly scrambles through his bag again, coming up with a pair of overly large headphones. He plugs it in and sets the phone on the piano, so the sound echoes through the theater.
And then, in time with the violin, he starts to play. It's accompanying and smooth, designed to accentuate the violin's heartwrenching melodies, and his fingers fly across the keys as he works, composing on the spot--mostly from listening to the piece a million times after finding Derek playing it. ]
[ Zigeunerweisen was the last piece that he'd played, before the fire. It's almost appropriate, in the emotion that he'd put forth into playing it. He'd definitely taken a cue from Perlamn's performances of it, but as the sound filters into the theatre?
He can hear a quiet undertone that is a little more uplifting, a little less dark. Stilling on the catwalk, Derek clenches his fingers briefly and takes a deep breath. Especially with the sudden accompaniment-- it digs the knife in deeper, whether Stiles is trying to prove a point or coerce him or what-- he has to push down the overwhelming sense that he was sixteen years old, standing on a stage, and playing this song.
Rather than say anything, though, he sets his case down and opens it up, going through his tools to work on repairing the structure of the catwalk itself. ]
[ When he finishes the piece, Stiles glances up at the catwalk. It's undeniable that he's pretty good at what he's doing, and yeah, he might have been showing off a little, but Stiles needed Derek for this composition. He needed that passion, that verve, that spark he'd caught in the mournful rages of the Zigeunerweisen, and Stiles had never been quick to give up on anything.
He considers playing along to another of Derek's pieces, but changes his mind, setting the phone down. Instead, he pulls a pack of papers out of his ratty backpack and sets them on the music stand, starting to play Tchaikovsky's Romeo & Juliet Overture. It's almost playful, the cheesy music behind every romance movie, like he's teasing Derek--this is meant to be, come play with me. ]
[ Really, he should figure out how to give up on at least one thing. Because the ex-violinist has no intention of coming out of the catwalk to suddenly-- yes, of course I'll play with you.
Pausing as he recognizes the music, Derek actually snorts loud enough to be heard from the catwalk before he resumes his work. It's fairly quiet, compared to if there wasn't anyone in the theatre with him, but even if Stiles is being pushy and trying to lure him back down he's not about to cause more noise than is necessary while he's playing.
Even if he's a brat.
Towards the middle, though, he finds himself absently humming that stupidly familiar melody found in every romance movie, unable to help it despite himself. ]
[ He hears the snort, clear as day, and it brings a grin to Stiles' face. He was going to crack this nut if it killed him.
So, overdramatic gestures included, he continues to play his way through the overture, quoting when he reaches a lull just before the famous melody--] But soft, what light through yonder window breaks! Tis Juliet, fairer than the sun!
[ And then starts the melody. He's...actually enjoying himself a lot, to be honest. It's a long overture. He can wait for you, Derek. ]
'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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awww yisss
That never happened, but the piano did stay. So he plays for her memory--plays for his own joy, plays for his anger, his sorrow, his every emotion. He's become a virtuoso in his own right, a fast learner and an emotional player, enough so that he's in the process of picking a partner for a presentation for the theater that he's inherited, that's currently being renovated. There's construction going on everywhere, but in the hallowed halls of his mother's old stomping ground, you can hear the strains of a piano.
Stressed from his schoolwork--music's a passion, but psychology's a life--and exhausted, the piece Stiles picked today sings through the hallways in a show of dexterity and talent, Liszt for a forced relaxation of the tension in his muscles. The notes are delicate, and by midway through the piece, his eyes are closed, and he's into it, completely lost in his own hyper state of focus. ]
Time for pain.
Almost a decade later, it's not by choice that he steps into the hallowed halls that the theatre presents, music echoing through opened doors and quiet corners. Though the renovations are numerous, both the landlord and the company that contracted him decided it would be best to only have a small handful of people filtering in and out as necessary, so as not to wholly disturb the atmosphere or the musicians that created it.
Above all else, Derek can understand that. But it doesn't mean he really wants to be in the building. It's easy to still feel the music, how the melody holds sway over every aspect of a person, but he just doesn't hear it anymore. It builds up in him, but there's just something missing.
That doesn't mean that he keeps going as he hears the strain coming from the piano. He can't help but perk, even though he intends to keep going to start work on the catwalk, precarious as it is. But something leads his feet astray, and he follows the trail that the pianist leaves. ]
pained noise
But what Stiles was lacking in attention span, he made up for in sheer tenacity. He never met a problem he didn't want to attack, and Liszt was made of problems. Now, ten years later, he could play it backwards, with his eyes closed, but it didn't change the fact that he adored it still.
His head bobs for a minute, fingers flying across the keys, and the sound of the construction fades into nothing but white noise. ]
It's all downhill from here.
This is different, and he can't pinpoint why.
He leans his shoulder into the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches long fingers skirt their way across ivory, transfixed as he follows them. It takes a moment for him to actually look up at the person that's playing, regarding him almost thoughtfully. There's work to be done, but he'd rather avoid startling him while he's in the middle of playing.
Interrupting someone while they're performing-- even simply for themselves-- was hardly courteous in the best of circumstances, but when they're in so deep... ]
IT...goes uphill...eventually...
Stiles wasn't, which was why when Lydia had pretend to fall for him for a dance show, he'd fallen for her, and that fiasco had pretty much been the Reason Why Stiles Stilinski Was Going to Be Single For the Rest of His Life, capital letters absolutely necessary.
Either way, every violinist she brought to him just didn't work. There wasn't any connection. So Stiles used his finely tuned (ha) research skills to hunt down anyone in Beacon Hills, and that's where he'd finally found his mystery violinist. The piece the man was playing was so intense he'd ended up staring at his computer the entire time, a surprising feat for Stiles, but he'd learned rather quickly about the fate of the Hale family, and that'd been the last he'd heard of Derek Hale.
His fingers hit the keys, trilling off t the last end of the ivories, intense and impassioned and frustrated, but when he remembers himself, he catches the fourth finger trill in the right place, and breathes. It's not like he'll never find anyone else.
When he hits the final note, he lets it resonate in the air for a moment, eyes still closed, then opens them slowly, exhaling rather noisily. ]
Eventually.
Though the music still builds in his chest, aching painfully and resonating every now and then as if echoing for release, he holds it tight and keeps it from going free.
There have been numerous attempts, by Laura and others that knew them before the fire, to get him to try and play again. But while he might remember to play, there's a disconnect between heart, mind, and soul. He can feel the music all he wants, he can remember every precise movement his fingers could take, but there's just nothing right about it.
So he's left on the sidelines, watching and listening to errant musicians as he is now. There's a quiet sympathy, somewhere under the weight of it all, to the tone of the music that Stiles plays-- the way he plays it, too, the look on his face. But he still doesn't say anything, waiting until the very end so as not to throw him off, or interrupt him before he's finished sharing everything he feels with the piano.
That intent is disrupted by the noise that he makes when he releases the tension, and he chuffs low and sudden, surprised into amusement. ]
sob
He's all tall and dark and terrifying looking (and kind of hot, his brain supplies not so helpfully), and vaguely familiar, and while Stiles is trying to recombobulate his brain, something clicks, and he goes wide eyed.
Holy shit.
Holy shit his virtuoso just walked into the room. Stiles raises a hand to point at him. ] You're Derek Hale. [ It's not a question. ]
/stiles/
But that thought leaves his mind as Stiles stares at him like he's seen a ghost, and a slow, single blink passes over his face in mock-impassiveness as he points at him.
The apparent familiarity, however, causes his brow to raise even higher. ]
8D
He glances down, looking for a violin case, then back up, mouth still open. ] Y-- [ Wait. Supposedly the guy hadn't played anything in years. Either way, it was worth a shot, right? Even if he was covered in sawdust and looked like he was probably here for the renovations. ] You aren't busy, are you? Because you should totally come and play for me.
[ That really wasn't much of a request, either. ]
facehands
Come and play for you. [ It's not a question. He reaches to pick up his tool case from near his feet, hefting it up easily despite the bulk of it. ]
The only reason I'm not already up in the catwalk is because I was waiting for you to be done.
no subject
[ Spreading his hands wide and gesturing throughout his impression, he grins, then, rocks back on his heels, and makes yet another gesture, this time flippant. ]
Well, that's totally kind of unfortunate, because I think I'm gonna be here for a while. Like the rest of the day a while.
no subject
Sarasate's Zigeunerweisen. [ He shouldn't even be encouraging this at all, but he offers the piece before he disappears into the darkness of the catwalk. ]
Then I'll just get to work.
no subject
It takes ten minutes or so, but he crows triumphantly and suddenly scrambles through his bag again, coming up with a pair of overly large headphones. He plugs it in and sets the phone on the piano, so the sound echoes through the theater.
And then, in time with the violin, he starts to play. It's accompanying and smooth, designed to accentuate the violin's heartwrenching melodies, and his fingers fly across the keys as he works, composing on the spot--mostly from listening to the piece a million times after finding Derek playing it. ]
no subject
He can hear a quiet undertone that is a little more uplifting, a little less dark. Stilling on the catwalk, Derek clenches his fingers briefly and takes a deep breath. Especially with the sudden accompaniment-- it digs the knife in deeper, whether Stiles is trying to prove a point or coerce him or what-- he has to push down the overwhelming sense that he was sixteen years old, standing on a stage, and playing this song.
Rather than say anything, though, he sets his case down and opens it up, going through his tools to work on repairing the structure of the catwalk itself. ]
FINALLY JESUS
He considers playing along to another of Derek's pieces, but changes his mind, setting the phone down. Instead, he pulls a pack of papers out of his ratty backpack and sets them on the music stand, starting to play Tchaikovsky's Romeo & Juliet Overture. It's almost playful, the cheesy music behind every romance movie, like he's teasing Derek--this is meant to be, come play with me. ]
no subject
Pausing as he recognizes the music, Derek actually snorts loud enough to be heard from the catwalk before he resumes his work. It's fairly quiet, compared to if there wasn't anyone in the theatre with him, but even if Stiles is being pushy and trying to lure him back down he's not about to cause more noise than is necessary while he's playing.
Even if he's a brat.
Towards the middle, though, he finds himself absently humming that stupidly familiar melody found in every romance movie, unable to help it despite himself. ]
no subject
So, overdramatic gestures included, he continues to play his way through the overture, quoting when he reaches a lull just before the famous melody--] But soft, what light through yonder window breaks! Tis Juliet, fairer than the sun!
[ And then starts the melody. He's...actually enjoying himself a lot, to be honest. It's a long overture. He can wait for you, Derek. ]
no subject
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. ]