#sterek graphics

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STEREK ONCE AU: Street performing wasn’t always the best source of income, but it was a nice way to make some extra cash when the bills came along. Still, Derek tired of it. He couldn’t see the point in his music anymore. This song would be his last. This would be the last time he stands on the busy streets of Dublin, playing his guitar, his voice bellowing out his original songs. This last song he’s singing is all about her and her leaving him. When he was young and first started doing this he’d always hoped someone would hear his music and offer him a big shiny record deal. But that was the naive dream of an 18 year old kid. Now he was 29 and he was still stuck working in his family’s shop, “Hale’s Hoover Repair and Other Assorted Appliances” and he still lived in the flat above the store with his sisters and uncle. So today is the day he’ll end his dream. Derek collects what little cash the passerby’s have dropped into his case and then places his old beaten up guitar in it, slowly and gingerly. He hopes it will be easy to just walk away from it. He’ll leave it on the street and someone will find it and keep it or simply toss it. But before Derek even has the chance to stand up and walk away, he hears a voice. “That was a good song. Did you write it?” The voice asks. The vowels and formation of the words sound foreign to the speakers lips. A heavy accent, something Derek couldn’t place, and male. He turns around and sees a young guy standing there. He’s wearing a hand-me-down tweed sports coat that looks two sizes to big for his slim frame, his hands are jabbed into the pockets and the bottom part of his face is covered by a ratty looking red scarf that made his voice a bit muffled. His hair is just sort of sitting there, a bit disheveled on his head and he has long lanky legs that end in clunky, beaten up doc marten boots. Derek would say this guy was just some dirt bag hipster, but he has this genuine and earnest look about him. A warmth in his whiskey colored eyes that almost makes Derek want to trust him. It isn’t until the young guy speaks again that Derek realizes he’s been silently staring at him, making Derek look away quickly, embarrassed by his blatant staring. “I know you can talk. I just heard you sing,” The guy says, eyes mirthful and curious as they intently watch Derek. Still, Derek doesn’t say anything. He just wants to leave his guitar here in the street. His literal way of abandoning his dream. He also does not want to talk at all about his music. Especially the song he had just sung. “Unless you can’t talk and only sing?” The guy asks, not taking Derek’s silence as a hint to leave and go on his way. “In that case you can sing your answer.” Derek just wants to leave so he scowls a bit. “I wrote the song,” He grumbles and starts to walk away but is stopped when the young guy steps in front of his path. “I made you talk!” The guy teases, excited and pleased with himself. Derek rolls his eyes, looking away from him again. “You didn’t make me talk. I could always talk,” Derek mutters, side stepping the guy to go on his way. “Your guitar! You’re leaving it on the street,” The guys calls out, making Derek stop in his tracks, turning around to face the guy. “I don’t want it anymore so I’m leaving it,” He says gruffly. The guy’s whiskey eyes widen a bit surprised. “But how will you play your music without it?” He asks, as if it’s one of the greatest tragedies of the world. Derek shrugs. “I’m done with music. I’m not going to need to play it,” Derek explains, not sure why he’s even still here talking to this young guy. “Then what will you do?” The guys asks, stepping closer to Derek. “I have a job. I fix hoovers in my family’s shop,” Derek says sighing. The guy looks at him confused. “A… Hoover?” He asks, struggling to say the word and looking at Derek with lost eyes. “What is a hoover?” Derek resists the urge to roll his eyes, starting to get annoyed with the whole situation. “You know, you plug it into the wall, clean the floor, it sucks,” Derek explains, making the motions of vacuuming with his arm and the sound of it with his mouth. The guy’s face lights up in amusement and recognition, fingerless gloved hands coming out of his pockets and snapping. “Ah yes! A hoover! My English is not so good,” the guy says bashfully. Derek shrugs. “You speak it pretty well though,” He says and this time the guy shrugs, mirroring Derek’s movement from before. “Yes, but I have an accent,” The guy says, as if it’s embarrassing. Derek smirks a bit. “We all have accents,” He says and the guy’s eyes crinkle like he’s smiling. “So you fix the hoovers? Because I have a hoover and it does not suck,” The guy says, making the sound Derek had done before. It sounded a little weird since the guy’s scarf is covering his mouth. Derek nods. “Yea, if you want you can bring it to my shop and I’ll have a look at it,” Derek says. “Ok, I will bring you the hoover tomorrow and you will fix it?” He asks and Derek nods. “And I don’t pay you with money?” Derek looks at the guy as if he’s grown a second head. “What would you pay me with?” He asks, trying to keep his mind from going somewhere dirty. The guy’s eyes crinkle again and Derek assumes he’s smiling. “I pay you with music,” The guy says. He sounds so earnest about it that Derek doesn’t even laugh at him, but he does look at him curiously. “You play?” Derek asks, looking over at his abandoned guitar just a few feet away. “Yes, but not guitar. I play the piano,” The guy says, poising his hands as if they were at the keys of a piano before stuffing his hands back in his pockets. “My mother taught me to play. But she was a concert violinist back home in Poland, but then she got arthritis in her hand and couldn’t play and killed herself,” The guy explains, almost bluntly and Derek just stares at him strangely. “But before she killed herself she taught me to play the piano because it is softer on the fingers,” He adds, holding his fingers out to Derek and pretending to play a moment. “So I play the piano. I haven’t killed myself yet.” He says in a bitter and joking manner. Derek has no idea what to say. At all. So he continues to stare at the guy. “So I play you music and you fix my hoover?” He asks, extending one of his hands to Derek for him to shake. Derek isn’t sure why, but he nods and takes Stiles’ hand in his own and shakes it. “Ok. Deal,” Derek says, his hand lingering on the guy’s hand a moment before pulling away. “Good! You keep your guitar too, ok?” The guys asks, going over to Derek’s guitar case, closing it and picking it up and extending it to Derek. “I will pay you with music now, ok?” He asks and Derek nods but he doesn’t move to take his guitar. “Where is your flat? Your piano is there, right?” Derek says, putting his hand in his pockets so he doesn’t have to take his guitar. “No. It is too expensive to have a piano in Dublin, so I play the pianos in my friend’s shop. He’s nice and lets me play them as long as the shop isn’t busy. Come, I’ll show you. I’ll carry your guitar,” The guy says and starts walking down the street with Derek’s guitar, expecting Derek to follow. And for some reason, Derek does. He doesn’t even know this young guy’s name.

But the monsters turned out to be just trees

you're just to perfect, for my hands to hold...