“Remind me again,” Derek says, rubbing his forehead as he stares down at Greenberg, Jr., “Why you decided to take band as an elective instead of art? The coaches have an agreement with Miss Harrington, Greenberg. She passes you if you finger paint.”
Greenberg Jr. flushes from his mop of floppy brown curls right down his throat. “Band looked interesting, sir.”
“You can’t read music. Greenberg, you can barely even read.”
“I thought I could have a natural talent?” Greenberg offers.
Derek stares at him. “Who’s the girl?” he asks tiredly.
“Angelica Wilson,” Greenberg says in a rush. “She’s first flute and her hair is like silvery sunshine and she loves band and–”
“It’s too late to transfer out?” Derek interrupts.
“Yeah,” Greenberg says, scuffing his toe. “I didn’t think this music stuff would be so hard, but Mr. Stilinski gave me an F-sharp on my last exam and he says my grades are in the key of tragedy.”
Which means Greenberg can’t participate in the cross country meet next week, and goddammit their chances for state were good this year.
“I’ll talk to him,” Derek says.
“Yeah, Coach?” Greenberg perks up.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Derek says. “Most of those artsy types hate us because we get all the funding.”
He hasn’t met Mr. Stilinski, hasn’t really heard much about him because Derek doesn’t run in those circles. He’s rarely ever in the teacher’s lounge, and he spends most of his time in his office near the gym.
He pictures a white-haired maestro with bony hands and a hooked nose. He’s not sure why–well, maybe he’s remembering his own brief foray into middle school band.
He knocks politely on the music room door, but doesn’t hear an answer. The door is unlocked, so he pushes his way inside to find a student wearing headphones and flailing and dancing to music in the middle of the room, his long arms conducting to a beat Derek can’t hear.
The kid looks older, like maybe he’s a senior, and he has a back and shoulders that Derek wouldn’t mind trying out for the wrestling team.
Just then, the kid turns around and spots Derek. His big, brown eyes go wide, and he says, “Fuck!” really loudly, ripping the earbuds from his ears. “Dude, creep like a cat much?”
“Language,” Derek instantly reprimands. “Does your teacher know you’re in here by yourself?”
“My… teacher?” the kid says. Shit, he’s cute. Derek has an immediate crisis of conscience. He crosses his arms over his chest and puts on his best ‘You call that a good finish?’ face.
“Mr. Stilinski,” Derek says.
“Yeah?” the kid answers, like he’s waiting for something.
“I am two seconds from hauling you down to the principal’s office,” Derek glowers. “Don’t get smart with me.”
“I literally have no idea what is happening right now,” the kid says.
“Where is your teacher?” Derek grinds out. “You’re in here unsupervised. Are you skipping class?”
“Oh,” the kid says. His face slides into a wide grin. “Oh. Yeah, the teach knows I’m here. You might say I’m his favorite student.”
“Yeah?” Derek says. “Where’s your pass?"
"Don’t need one,” the kid says. “I practically run this class.”
Derek narrows his eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Stiles,” the kid replies. He looks like he’s taking an unholy delight in the entire conversation. “Mr. Stilinski should be back any minute.”
“Right,” Derek says. “Then you don’t mind if I stay here and wait for him.” It’s not a question. He doesn’t trust this little punk, but he hasn’t caught the kid doing anything more than being an insult to dancing.
“I don’t mind at all,” Stiles says, giving Derek what he can only describe as a leer. Thank God this kid is a shit, or Derek would be worried about how attractive he is.
“Whatcha need Mr. Stilinksi for, anyway?” Stiles asks. He walks to the piano bench and sits down, opening up the piano cover and running his long, very dexterous fingers along the keys. Derek tries not to notice.
“That’s none of your business,” Derek says. “I have something to discuss with him.”
Stiles makes a humming noise, and presses down lightly on a few keys, playing a simple melody. “Gotcha. You’re one of the coaches, aren’t you?”
Derek refrains from rolling his eyes. He’s wearing a white polo shirt, red running shorts, and sneakers. “What gave it away?” he says. “The whistle?”
“That and the incredibly well-defined legs you have there. Track coach?”
“That is inappropriate, young man,” Derek snaps. “And if I hear it again, I will write you up.”
Stiles fingers play a clashing chord and he gives a full-body shiver. “Wow, I did not realize that I had a disciplinary kink.”
Derek feels a flush spread across his cheeks. “That’s it, I warned you. You’re coming with me to the principal’s office right now.”
“Have I been a bad boy?” Stiles asks, fluttering his eyelashes. He laughs as his fingers fly over the piano keys, and what sounds like an extremely complicated melody spills forth, beautiful and joyful.
Derek is momentarily stunned into silence. He blinks. Shit, the kid is talented. Then he shakes his head, berating himself for getting distracted. He’s not going to let this little shit get him in trouble–he’s not the first puffed up high schooler who’s tried out unsubtle flirting on Derek.
“You’re going to be lucky if I don’t give you detention for the rest of the quarter.”
Stiles spins on the bench to face him, a teasing smile on his face. “That would give me very little time for lesson plans.”
Stiles spreads his hands wide. “Stiles Stilinski, at your service. You have me at a disadvantage. I still don’t know your name, Coach.”
“What?” Derek says again, this time a little faintly. A tiny voice inside him starts cheering like it’s the finish line. This is the teacher?
Stiles raises an eyebrow. “I’m Mr. Stilinski. Word has it from a reliable source that you were looking for me.”
“You’re Mr. Stilinski? The music teacher?”
“And international man of mystery,” Stiles–Mr. Stilinski–agrees.
“What the hell kind of name is Stiles Stilinski?”
“A musical one, I like to think,” Stiles says, standing and walking toward Derek. “Sorry about the dishonesty. I just thought it was funny.” He holds out his hand to shake.
“Ha,” Derek says, then, “Ha,” again after a long pause. He doesn’t take Stiles’ hand.
“Yeah, that settles it,” Stiles says. “Derek Hale, right?”
“What?” Derek says, startled. He knows they haven’t met before. He would have remembered Stiles.
“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles says. “Let’s just say your reputation precedes you. So, what brings you to my humble chamber of musical and lyrical learning?”
“Greenberg,” Derek bites out, and watches understanding crash across Stiles’ face.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Greenberg. Terrible student, but very determined.”
“If he doesn’t pass your class, he can’t run track,” Derek says. “And while his brain may be less than musically inclined, his legs are college material.”
Stiles’ expressive face hardens into seriousness. “Oh. Right. So you want me to pass him.”
“Yes,” Derek says, relieved that they’re on the same page.
“Sure,” Stiles says. “The second you impress me with your music skills.”
“What?” Derek says. He feels like he’s been saying that a lot the last few minutes.“
"Well, Coach Hale,” Stiles says, his expression less than pleasant. “This is not the first time a friendly coach has tried to get me to give one of his athletes a better grade than he deserves, because of course how could music be as important as sports, the backbone of our very nation.”
“Look, Stiles–” Derek starts.
“Mr. Stilinski,” Stiles says, voice icy.
“Mr. Stilisnki,” Derek repeats. “We have a shot at State this year and–”
“And I have a marching band that’s gearing up for the Rose Parade after winter break,” Stiles says. “If Greenberg spent more time studying his sheet music than staring at Angelica Wilson, he might do better in my class and actually learn how to play an oboe less like a recorder.”
“Give him a different instrument,” Derek says. “An oboe? Isn’t there something easier? What about the drums?”
“The drums require precision and dedication,” Stiles says, eyes sparking. “It’s the heartbeat of the band, and it requires rigorous practice.”
“I don’t understand why you’re being unreasonable about this,” Derek says through gritted teeth. “The principal is a big fan of the track team, you know.”
“And also never misses a halftime show,” Stiles snaps back.
They glare at each other.
Mr. Stilinski looks very attractive when he’s angry.
“Fine,” Derek says, stomping over to the instrument room. He heads inside and rummages around, emerging victorious with a triangle.
Stiles gives him an incredulous look. “Are you going to ring the kids in for dinner?”
“You want music? Here’s some music.”
He then proceeds to play the worst and most terrible triangle solo in history. And he plays it viciously.
By the end, Stiles is doubled over in laughter, tears streaming down his face. Even Derek is smiling.
“S-stop,” Stiles stutters through his laughter, holding up a hand. “Oh, God, p-please stop.” He wipes at his eyes. “Did you join band for a cute girl, too?”
“Boy,” Derek says, and knows he’s blushing.
“Really?” Stiles asks, his gaze keen. “Then I’ll give Greenberg some extra tutoring to help raise his grade on one condition: you take me out to dinner.”
“That seems extortionate,” Derek replies, unable to hide his smirk. “And unethical.”
“And asking another teacher to change a student’s grade isn’t?”
“That’s a favor,” Derek says.
Stiles squints and purses his lips. “I take it back. Dinner and you perform that triangle solo at your big track meet.”
Derek knew he should have quit while he was ahead. “Fine,” he says. “If that’s what it takes.”
“Derek,” Stiles says, slipping closer. He puts a hand on Derek’s chest and waggles his eyebrows. “I think we’ll make beautiful music together.”
Derek is simultaneously annoyed and aroused.
He has a suspicion that will become normal.
“And after dinner,” Stiles says, his eyes dark, “we can discuss your instrument.”
“Can we?” Derek asks, his voice gruff. Stiles’ fingers play with his whistle, and it’s not even a metaphor.
“Uh huh,” Stiles says, grinning slyly. “I’m very good with instruments.”
“Go, Greenberg, go!” Derek shouts as Greenberg crosses the finish line, at least eight seconds faster than his nearest competitor. A booming cheer erupts from the stands and Derek hears the band start up a rousing version of “That’s the Way (Uh Huh) I Like It.”
Derek catches Stiles’ wink, even though Stiles’ back is mostly toward him while he conducts.
Derek sighs and picks up the triangle, waiting for his cue.
