I.
Derek finds out during his junior year of college that law schools recommend a year of fine arts – something about it being good for the soul and developing character.
He's an English major with additional focuses in psychology and ethics. It would have been nice to know he needed to take some fucking pottery class his freshman year – before his schedule became bogged down with advanced classes that he couldn't possibly justify missing.
And besides, he doesn't find out this tidbit of information until the week before classes start. All of the easy classes – dance appreciation, intro to art history, percussion ensemble – have been filled by students like him who need credits and don't buy into the music builds character bullshit.
The only classes that have open spots go up against the courses that are relevant to his major. He calls the admissions department and complains. When that doesn't work, he has his extremely terrifying sister show up to the admissions department and raise hell. And when that fails as well, he breaks down and asks for his extremely rich parents to build the school a new library.
There's no new library, but coincidentally the music department begins the year with ten new grand pianos and an open spot in an intro level piano class.
II.
Stiles finds out at the beginning of the summer that the piano class he's signed up for requires an "audition." Not an audition, but an "audition." With quotes. He has no idea what the hell that's supposed to mean.
Being subject to frequent panic attacks, he begs his dad to call the school and ask if he can get out of it somehow. The representative his dad talks to is sympathetic – something about having a cousin who went through the same thing – and volunteers to let Stiles use the practice piano stage all summer to rehearse.
And so he does. He drives to the university every day – conveniently located just twenty minutes from home – and plays every song he's ever learned until he can do them all by memory. Stiles plays on the old piano so much that they have to tune it halfway through the summer. He feels as confident as he possibly can when he hasn't played piano in over ten years.
Then the day before the dreaded "audition" comes and the school's representative offers to let him practice on the real piano stage. He agrees and finds the room easily. It's no Carnegie Hall, but it's big enough to hold a few hundred people and take Stiles' nerves to new heights.
Worst of all is the brand new piano sitting up on the stage. Stiles hates new pianos with a passion. He hates the way the keys are stiff. He hates the woodsy smell. He hates the shininess.
He hates everything that isn't the piano he's played on all summer.
Stiles walks up on the stage. The representative has even turned the spotlight on him so he'll know what it feels like when his "audition" comes around. He wonders if her cousin offed herself because of her panic attacks, then wonders why he can't just accept the idea that people might just want to help him.
He adjusts the bench and sets his music out on the stand, though it's really just a formality. He can play Graceful Ghost Rag In his sleep. He can play it swung, or he can play it straight, though he always leans towards the latter. He likes the bittersweet feeling it gives the piece, like someone's trying to make a joke too soon about something that really hurt them.
Not that he would ever make that error. It's obvious that his coping skills are above and beyond par.
Stiles timidly plays a scale on the piano, admiring how clean the tone is compared to the clunky thing he's practiced on all summer, then immediately feels like he's cheated on a lover or something.
He sighs and stretches his fingers, remembering the first time he played the piece and almost had to leave notes out because his hands couldn't accommodate the stretches, then wishes he didn't always think back to his first teacher.
He quits thinking and lets the music take over, little lessons coming back to his mind as he plays through the piece. Make sure every note in your first and last chord sounds. Focus on where the melody is – you need to bring it out. Don't speed up just because you're at the easy part.
When he's finished, he hears clapping echo through the room. Mortified, he pinpoints the source to a man dressed in a leather jacket sitting in the front row, a stack of music in his lap.
"God, I…I didn't know anyone was here," Stiles stammers. This guy is probably a professor. The spotlight was probably set up for him, and Stiles has just made a huge fool out of himself. "I'm sorry. I…um, didn't know this room was reserved."
"It's not. I wanted to practice, and the door was open, so I came in," the man says, standing up and meeting Stiles on the stage. Stiles decides that he must only be a few years older. "I assume you're taking a piano class this semester."
"Yeah, the comprehensive introductory one," Stiles mumbles, looking at the shiny keys that are now covered in his fingerprints. He's probably the first one to play this piano.
It really is a nice piano, once he gets over its newness.
"Me too," the man says. "I'm Derek Hale."
"As in the Hale family?" Stiles asks stupidly.
He seems proud rather than embarrassed. "My great grandfather cofounded Hale and Wolff Mutual." It's the biggest insurance corporation in the state of California – probably the United States in general. This guy must be loaded.
Stiles bets he's not here on a scholarship.
Derek Hale clears his throat. "And you are?"
"Um, Stiles Stilinski." He says it weirdly, so it comes out sounding more like a question, as if he can't even remember his own name. "I'm a freshman. I'm doing a music major. Sometimes I get nervous and I don't know how to stop talking, or how to think things in my head, and…"
Derek Hale gives a little patronizing smile. "You sounded good. Is that what you're going to play for your audition?"
"Maybe," Stiles says, fully aware that he'll pick something else. "What are you playing?"
Derek holds out the gigantic pile of music he's had tucked under one arm. "I have no idea. To be honest, I haven't touched the piano since I was a freshman in high school and my mom let me quit because I started playing basketball."
"I could listen to you play. You know, feedback and all," Stiles offers, making an effort to be less socially awkward but praying Derek won't take him up on the offer.
"Actually, that'd be great," Derek says, grabbing the piece of music at the top of the pile and setting the rest on the ground. "But just know that I'm not lying when I say I haven't touched a piano since I was fourteen."
"When did you start playing?" Stiles asks.
"Oh, when I was four," Derek says amicably.
Stiles bets he learned how to play on a brand new stiff piano.
"My mom kind of forced it on me." He stretches his hands. "You've heard Fantasy in D Minor before, right?
"Of course, I mean it's Mozart. It's kind of an easy piece as far as classical music goes, but you know, that doesn't mean it's a bad one to play," Stiles babbles.
"Okay, just don't judge me too harshly when I butcher this easy piece," Derek says, and he begins playing without warming up or stretching his fingers or anything.
Stiles listens and flips the pages for Derek as needed. His rhythm is slightly off, and he stumbles over the long cadenza-like runs. But other than that, the dynamics are there. The feeling is there. The problem with Fantasy being an easy piece is that beginners think they can play it, and they play it technically perfect, but miss the feeling of the piece.
Stiles decides that Derek is obviously not a beginner.
"So what'd you think?" Derek asks, looking up at Stiles expectantly once he's finished playing.
"Did you know Mozart never actually finished this piece?" Stiles blurts out. "Like, he died as he was writing it, and someone else made up the ending. How did they know he wanted it to end there? What if he wanted it to end more, I don't know, dark?"
Derek shrugs. "I don't know. How'd you think of how I played it?"
"Oh, well, you know," Stiles says nervously. "Your rhythm was off here," he says, gesturing to the introductory section. It's the same part he always struggled with when he was younger. "And those giant runs…they're hard to do right, but you know. The rest of it was good."
Derek stands up and puts the Mozart piece back into the pile. "Well, thanks. Good luck on your audition tomorrow," he says curtly. Stiles gets the feeling that he's not a music major, but is too scared to ask what he's doing in a piano class.
"Thanks.
"You sounded good."
"Thanks."
"And you'll do fine tomorrow unless you get nervous."
"Thanks."
"Geez, do you have some setting in between chatterbox and monosyllabic?"
"Did you know Mozart was only 35 when he died?" Stiles blurts out.
"I didn't, actually. I'll use that as inspiration tomorrow," Derek says with a condescending laugh. "I should get going."
Stiles waits until he's sure Derek is gone before playing Fantasy in D Minor from memory. It's one of the pieces he thought about playing. Try as he might, he just can't quite get it to sound the same as when Derek played it.
It's then that he realizes Derek left with his copy of Graceful Ghost Rag.
With a sigh, he resigns himself to the fact that he's going to have to talk to Derek at least one more time to ask for the music back.
III.
Derek shows up to the piano performance room bright and early so he can get a good spot in the front row. He has his Mozart music in his hands, knowing that it would look better if he had taken the time to memorize the piece, but he hadn't been able to find the motivation to do so.
There are nineteen other people in the class. They file in slowly, telling each other about the amazingly hard Rachmaninoff pieces they've learned over the summer. Most of them are freshmen, if the deer in the headlights look in their eyes is any indication.
Stiles comes in just a few seconds short of being late. The spots next to Derek have both been taken by pretty girls. It's funny how that usually happens. Derek is almost sad that the younger boy can't sit next to him. It's obvious that he has some kind of social anxiety disorder, and it's fun to torment him.
At 9:00 sharp, a woman steps out from one of the side rooms. She has closely cropped red hair and an unpleasant expression on her face. "My name is Professor Argent," she says curtly. "I'll be your teacher for the year. As you hopefully know, today we'll be holding informal auditions so I can rank you. Yes, there will be a list. Yes, you will all get to see it."
Now this is something Derek can appreciate. He doesn't get into the music bullshit, but he loves competition.
Professor Argent has a list of names, and she goes through them in alphabetical order. After everyone plays, she offers them critiques. She does not say nice things, even to what Derek thinks are flawless performances. A few kids walk off the stage crying.
After Hacien, Mariah is Hale, Derek. Derek's learned that there's a time and place for everything, and this is not the time and place to mention that his parents purchased the piano he's about to play on.
None of the other kids have used music. Derek doesn't mind. He even copied the pages last night so he wouldn't need someone to flip them for him. He plays, paying attention to the things that Stiles told him to work on.
When he's done, he looks to Professor Argent expectantly for feedback.
"Memorize your music in the future," she says dismissively. "Moor, Jessica."
When he sits back down, the girl next to him whispers, "Where'd you learn to play piano like that?"
Derek shrugs. "My mom taught me when I was little."
He sits quietly through the rest of the performances, until Stilinsk, Stiles is called up. "Did you know he played at Carnegie Hall when he was six?" the girl whispers to him again. "Then he went completely off the radar."
Derek shakes his head. Stiles never mentioned that. Instead of the piece he played the other day, he performs something by Debussy. It's not bad, but it doesn't exactly speak to Derek's soul or whatever music is supposed to do.
"Dynamics are there for a reason. Triplets and eighth notes should not sound the same. Pay attention to where the melody is. Your pedaling is sloppy. And are you aware that a fermata means to sustain the note?"
The girl leans over to Derek. In a loud whisper, she says, "Guess he doesn't have it anymore."
Stiles' face goes bright red as he shuffles back to his seat. Surprisingly, Derek feels terrible for him.
Especially when a list is posted outside their classroom the next day and Derek's name is second, while Stiles is second to last.
Derek wonders why he didn't play the piece he overheard the other day. He's not into musical bullshit, but he knows a musical genius when he hears one.
IV.
Stiles debates the pros and cons of skipping class the next day for so long that by the time he finally makes a decision, he's just a few seconds short of being late. He catches a glimpse of the dreaded list, and his worst fear is confirmed when he sees his name at the bottom.
This is an intro level piano class at a school that's not even known for its music program. Julliard offered him a spot in their incoming class, and it's a good thing he didn't take it, since he can't even succeed here.
The class meets every day of the week besides Friday. Tuesdays and Thursdays are on the performance stage. The other two days are in a traditional classroom that has one piano pressed up next to the teacher's podium.
Stiles notices that it's the clunky old piano that he came to love over the summer.
His joy is quickly cut off when Professor Argent enters the room and takes a place behind the podium. Wasting no time, she begins her lesson. "You've all seen the list outside the door. From now on, I will not call you by your name, but by your number. If you did well, let it be an incentive to continue. If you did poorly, keep in mind that I'll update that list every Monday. I don't care what your former music teachers have told you about being gifted and how you're destined to become a star; I'm here to prepare you for the real world, one that doesn't give you a second chance if you don't give it you all."
Stiles swears she gives him a pointed look.
"Take a look around at your classmates," Professor Argent continues. "You all want to beat each other out, but the reality is you have to find the line between competing and working together. I'm going to force you to figure it out. You'll be doing duets together."
Everyone in the room wants to groan, but Professor Argent is too scary. At least, that's what keeps Stiles from saying something. That, and he's absolutely petrified of playing with someone, because the last person he played with was…
"Your partner comes from the list I posted. You'll be paired with your equal and opposite match in this class. One, you're going with Twenty. Two, you're paired with Nineteen. So on and so forth. Please get together with your partner and spend a few minutes voicing your obligatory horror at being paired with each other."
Stiles realizes he didn't look at any name besides his own. Maybe he'll be paired with a cute girl, he thinks as other students walk by him. Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe the girl will be nice, and she'll ask him to-
Or maybe Derek Hale is number two.
Fuck.
Derek slides into the seat next to Stiles. "Why didn't you play that song I heard you practicing?" he asks.
"I didn't feel like it," Stiles mutters. "You sounded good."
"Your feedback helped," Derek says. Somehow he manages to offer compliments in the most condescending way.
Professor Argent clears her throat and slams a pile of piano music on an empty desk. "You'll all be performing the same piece next week Tuesday. It's not a hard duet. That's why I'm giving you all of today to practice – piano rooms are down the hall. We'll meet in the performance room tomorrow, and I'll listen to all of you and critique." A thick silence hangs in the room. "Well what are you waiting for?"
Derek drags Stiles forward and grabs the music off the pile. The Scarlet Cape. Stiles has never heard of it.
"Come on, I have a philosophy class as soon as this is done," Derek says. "Let's go play." He has to grab Stiles by the arm and pull him into a practice room. He sets the music on the stand and sits down on the lower end of the bench.
"You want me to play primo?" Stiles stammers. Suddenly the reality of playing a duet with Derek hits in.
"No, I was thinking we could impress Professor Argent by twisting our arms like a pretzel and playing parts opposite to where we're seated. Yes, idiot. You're obviously the better player."
"Why thank you, Two."
"Okay, fine. Your pedaling is sloppy, Nineteen. And secondo usually pedals."
Stiles is satisfied with that answer. He sits down next to Derek timidly and plays a quick scale to warm up. Derek just stares at him as he does so.
"Well, are you going to warm up?" Stiles asks pointedly.
"I don't really warm up."
Stiles groans. "How is it you're so unpolished, yet so perfect?"
"I don't know. How is it you're so perfect, yet so unpolished?"
Stiles is too embarrassed to register the fact that Derek Hale has just called him perfect.
V.
Derek and Stiles practice up until the very last minute he has to leave. The piece isn't as hard as some of the things he's played before, but he's never been a great sight reader – unlike Stiles, who has the song down perfectly after going through it a few times.
"Do you want to practice tonight?" Derek asks as he packs his stuff up to leave. Spending more time with this socially awkward kid is the last thing he wants to do, but he feels bad that he's such an awful piano player.
"I don't have a piano in my dorm room, and they lock all the practice rooms up at night, plus-"
"I have a keyboard at my apartment," Derek interrupts. Technically he doesn't, but his credit card is on the kitchen table, and he can tell Erica to pick one up at the local music store and buy herself something nice while she's at it.
"Okay, um, I don't have any classes at night, and I think my roommate hates me anyway, so-"
Derek interrupted Stiles, giving him his address and making sure he writes it down – in addition to an anxiety disorder, he was pretty sure Stiles had ADHD that he most definitely was not medicating properly.
He goes to his philosophy class, but he finds he can't focus very well on Existentialism, not when a little Spanish melody keeps playing through his head.
Derek's class gets done late, and Stiles is already at his apartment by the time he gets home. He explains that Erica let him in and introduced him to Isaac and Boyd. She also let him watch TV, but made him stay out of Derek's room until Derek got home.
"You have a really nice apartment," Stiles offers. Derek knows it's really nice. It's three bedrooms, of which has the largest, and Erica gets her own, not only because she's the girl, but also because she chips in quite a bit for rent – and she and Derek might have slept together once or twice. Isaac became one of Derek's best friends when they were roommates their freshman year, and Boyd seems to bring some balance to the group of pre-law students.
Because honestly, it gets a bit annoying when every little argument that breaks out between Erica and Derek turns into a discussion on how he's trying to oppress her and her femininity. Derek really hates pre-law students who major in women's studies.
Derek leads Stiles into his bedroom. He owes Erica for buying the keyboard and setting it up in his room. He throws his messenger bag onto his bed, grabbing his music and setting it on the keyboard. He and Stiles practice for hours until Derek finally gets through the piece without making mistakes.
Eventually Erica pokes her head in without knocking. "Is your friend staying for supper?" she asks.
Stiles stares at Derek blankly. "Do you want to stay for supper?" Derek asks slowly.
"Um, sure."
Derek waits until Erica has shut the door and walked back down the hall. "Don't criticize her cooking. She may seem normal, but she's the world's biggest feminist."
"Is she your girlfriend?" Stiles asks.
"No."
"Is she your…friend?"
"What do you mean by friend?" Derek asks, fully aware what Stiles is hinting at.
"Well…umm…nothing," Stiles says, his face turning red. Derek enjoys tormenting him.
Erica has supper ready a few minutes later. She's pulled an extra chair out of the closet – they don't leave a spare out, since there's an unspoken agreement that they're not supposed to bring people over unless it's serious. This rule was mostly established because Erica and Derek have come to the conclusion that Isaac is gay, and they're just not ready to meet his several boyfriends.
It's also because Boyd is very awkward around new people, and his three roommates are very protective of him, even though he and Isaac share the same room – which Derek and Erica justify by saying they pay the least for rent, so it's all the space they're entitled to.
Stiles sits on the spare chair while the three other boys set the table. "How come Derek gets to bring a boy home?" Isaac asks, setting out plates.
"We never said you can't bring a boy home," Erica says defensively.
"It's because we know Derek's sleeping with Erica, so this isn't his boyfriend," Boyd says pointedly. Derek's face turns red, and Erica almost drops the plates she's holding.
"We are not sleeping together!" Derek protests.
"Not anymore we're not," Erica shoots back.
Derek is pretty sure it's the most awkward dinner of Stiles' life, especially since he leaves as soon as he gets the chance. Derek agrees to help Erica wash dishes, mostly because he wants to ask if she was serious about not sleeping together anymore.
"Thanks for getting the keyboard," Derek begins.
"I got myself something nice," Erica says. Derek isn't sure if her top slides accidentally to give him a glimpse of her shoulder, as well as her very lacy bra strap. "I was going to show you tonight, but I guess we're not sleeping together."
"Come on, Erica. Don't be like that."
"I hope there are cute girls in that piano class, because you're not going to get any of this."
"I'll play the piano for you sometime."
Apparently Erica is turned on by the thought of Derek playing the piano. That, or she doesn't want to miss the chance to show off her new lingerie. Erica always demands Derek's full attention in bed, but tonight he finds his mind wandering.
He can't help but think he really should be practicing his part in the duet. He has a bad feeling he's going to let Stiles down.
VI.
Stiles shows up in the performance room an entire half hour early. It seems as though he can't find the right balance between too early and seconds from being late.
Most people come in with their partners, some seeming confident, others looking practically ready to kill each other. When Derek comes in, he takes an empty seat to Stiles' left. "Hey," he says, opening up the music and studying his part.
"Hey," Stiles says back, drumming his fingers on his lap, confident that he remembers his part. He's never relied on knowing the notes – rather, he learns the feel of a piece. It's how he was taught to play, and other methods have never stuck.
"You ready to do this?"
"Yeah, um, I guess so. Are you?"
Derek nods in response, looking back at his part. Stiles can hear him humming the melody as he flips through the pages.
People used to tell Stiles that anyone could learn a piece if they got the right amount of time to do it. True musicians are separated from the rest when they're forced to learn a piece quickly. Stiles has been taught every trick in the book – finding the melody and chord progression, learning how the keys feel under his fingers, even memorizing the sound of the piece and playing by ear.
Derek's struggling, but then again, Stiles is pretty sure Derek's never had to learn a piece in less than three weeks and perform at Carnegie Hall.
Stiles focuses on the rhythmic movement of Derek's hands as he taps a steady beat on his lap. Such big hands – the side of him that's perpetually coming up with alternate fingerings and deciding the best notes to omit from difficult pieces practically seethes with jealousy.
Derek takes that moment to look up at Stiles and follows his gaze down to his lap, seeming to notice that Stiles has been watching his hands. In return, Derek flicks his eyes over to Stiles' hands, which are knotted together in his lap. "You know, you've got really small hands for a piano player," he comments.
"Yeah, well, the band already had too many piccolo players that year."
"Pianos don't play in band."
"They did at my school. It was a special school."
"Special school." Derek snorts in laughter. "Fits you."
Stiles is saved from having to think of a snappy comeback when Professor Argent steps up on the stage, giving them a brief pep talk – probably not the right word, since it makes Stiles feel as though his stomach is being put through a blender – about working together but still making sure to show their strengths.
The people ranked first and last go first. Stiles doesn't know who's who, though Derek leans over and tells him that the petite blonde playing primo is at the top of the class. Stiles whispers back that he thinks Derek plays better.
Stiles isn't sure, but he thinks he sees a blush spread across Derek's face.
Professor Argent doesn't have nice things to say to the first pair, but Stiles isn't surprised. They both played flawless performances, but they didn't play together. There's a big difference when you're playing duets, and Stiles knows that, even though it's been well over ten years since he's performed one for an audience.
As soon as she dismisses the first pair, Professor Argent calls Stiles and Derek up to the stage. Stiles is nervous, but he feels like he knows what he's doing. He's grown to really love this piece and how the two parts fit together. If he listens to Derek, he won't forget what he's doing.
They look at each other and Derek begins playing. Stiles comes in at the right time and pays attention to fitting his part in with Derek's. They're doing great. They make it through the introduction fine. Then they get to the transition, and Derek plays a wrong chord before completely stopping.
Stiles could keep going. He knows this. He could just plow through and hope Derek comes back in at some point. But he knows how it feels to get left behind, so he stops and nudges Derek with his shoulder. "Start at the transition?" he asks. Derek nods. "Okay, one two three four. One two, ready go."
They finish and stand at the front of the stage, waiting for Professor Argent to tear them apart. Obscenely, Stiles feels like grabbing Derek's hand for support.
"Excellent work," Professor Argent says, eliciting a collective gasp from the other students. "It's a skill you should all work on developing – being able to tell when to push forward at the expense of others, and when to stop and recollect yourself."
The next Monday Derek slides down to number twelve, but Stiles' name is in the number one spot.