Stiles Stilinski, a second generation Polish immigrant in New York City was trying to make it big as a pianist and song writer. During the day he tries to sell his original songs down on Tin Pan Alley, but at night he plays at a speakeasy on the Lower East Side.
The speakeasy, Full Moon, was run by the Hale family.
Laura Hale, the eldest of the Hale kids, was scarier than any of the men in the family and was known to shoot anyone who crossed her. Cora was the youngest of the Hales and she ran their bootlegging operation these days, after their ma retired.
Then there was Derek, the middle child. He manages the day to day operations of the speakeasy, from the bar to the entertainment.
He walked into the bar one afternoon to find a tall, fair skinned man covered in moles wearing a dated, but well cared for suit, his hat in his hands. When Derek walked up to him the man stood up to shook his hand, his voice had a distinctly New York sound to it and he was taller than Derek by a few inches, even though Derek wasn’t short.
“Stiles, Stiles Stilinski,” The man introduced himself to Derek with a smile, “I’m here to play you some music.”
“Are you now?” Derek asked, his Irish accent not as strong as it had been when they had first immigrated, but it was still there. He’d been told it was charming by one of their dancers, Erica.
“Sure am pal,” Stiles had said, stepping up to the piano and sitting down, playing a song that Derek had never heard, but it made his heart clench.
“Alright, you can play for us,” Derek said with a nod, his eyes on Stiles hands and the way his long fingers danced across the keys.
“Course I can,” Stiles said, standing up and shaking Derek’s hand again, “You won’t regret it.”
And Derek didn’t. Stiles charmed the rest of the staff, even Boyd, their stoic head bartender. All the ladies loved him, and even some of the men, especially Derek.
One night, a little buzzed on gin, Stiles and Derek sat in the quiet lounge after the last of the patrons had gone home.
“Can I tell you a secret Hale?” Stiles asked, resting his head on the back of the couch and letting it roll so he was facing Derek, “The top secret kind.”
“Sure,” Derek said, scooting closer to Stiles, closer than he’d usually allow himself to get, but the gin made him bold and they were alone, “Anything.”
“I like you,” Stiles said, his voice a whisper, one of his long finger tapping Derek gently on the nose, his hand caressing Derek’s cheek before he let it drop into his own lap.
Derek swallowed, his eyes on Stiles’ lips, “I like you too.”
And then Stiles kissed him, soft and gentle, like he played the piano. He tasted like gin and hope, and Derek was so gone on him he knew there was no way back. He knew that they’d never had a regular life, that most people wouldn’t understand, but he also knew he didn’t care.
Neither of them would have normal lives no matter what, Derek was a bootlegger and from a family of mobsters, Stiles a musician and artist. They were always bound to live lives that people didn’t approve of, so Derek figured he might as well be happy while he lived.
And so he was, they were. Stiles played piano and wrote songs that he tried to sell on Tin Pan Alley, Derek poured drinks and ran the club, when the market crashed they kept doing what they were doing, Stiles playing, Derek running the club, and they were happy.
