Work Text:
Stiles stared at the blank canvas in front of him. He heard the clock ticking on the wall, each movement of the second hand increasing his frustration and anger. Scrubbing his hands through his hair, he let out a growl. He had a deadline in just over twelve hours, and his mind was a complete blank. He hopped off the stool he’d been sitting on until his ass was numb, reminding him of days riding the bench during high school lacrosse.
Striding across the studio, he stood in front of the uninspired project he’d been working on when he’d first arrived ten hours previous. Growling, he picked up his paint knife and slashed it across the piece, frustration guiding his hand until the canvas stood in tatters in front of him. Cursing, he threw the knife, not even caring where it landed.
“Nice throw,” someone said behind him, whirling around with his hand on his chest to see the overnight maintenance man standing in the doorway, the knife sticking out of the wood jamb to his left at eye level.
“Shit, I’m sorry!” Stiles shouted, racing forward to pull the knife out of the wall. “I didn’t realize anyone else was here.”
“I’ve been out in the hallway with my radio playing,” he said. “You must’ve been really immersed in your work.”
Stiles snorted and gestured around at the destroyed and blank canvases. “I’ve got the greatest case of artistic block known to man or beast,” he said, scrubbing his hands through his hair.
“That sucks. Are you going to be here much longer? I got a call about the windows sticking.”
“I might as well go. I’m not going to make my deadline.” Stiles glanced around the room trying to figure out how quickly he could get cleaned up to get out of his way.
“If you don’t mind me in here, while you work, you can stay,” he said.
“Dude, that would be awesome. I’m hoping my muse will hit at some point,” Stiles said, hurrying to gather the pieces of the destroyed canvas.
“Derek, actually,” he said, grabbing his toolbox and crossing the room.
Stiles introduced himself and glanced over his shoulder, eyes drawn to the curve of Derek’s bicep as he hoisted the toolbox onto a low table by the windows. “Stilinski. You painted the triptych of the boy transforming into a wolf.”
Stiles’ head shot up. “I did, yeah. You saw that?”
Derek smirked. “Someone had to hang up all the art and placards.” Stiles smacked himself in the forehead at something so obvious escaping his observation. “I think you capture the movement of the wolf really well. The movement flowed between the three panels.”
Stiles could feel his cheeks burning, and he ducked his head to focus on gathering strips of canvas into a pile. When he looked up, he saw Derek bent over with a putty knife, running it around the sides of the window. The veins in his arms stood out from the effort, and Stiles traced the movement of the muscles beneath the skin.
The longer he watched, he felt an itch in his fingers and a thrill run up his spine. Hurrying to the blank canvas he’d spent the day staring at, he snatched his palette from the floor. Glancing between Derek and his paints, he started squirting different colors onto the palette. He worked steadily, the brush covering the blank space, his hands moving without thought.
He hadn’t felt this way while creating something since the triptych Derek had complimented. The piece still hung in the student art museum, and he’d had a few offers to buy it, but he hoped to take it with him when he graduated. If this piece turned out as well as that one, he might have another painting for his future home.
He had no idea how much time passed before he dropped the brush to the ground, thankful for the dropcloth. His entire body ached, and he didn’t think he could lift his arms again if his life depended on it. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he felt lightheaded. His body swayed. He would’ve hit the ground except for a firm grip on his arm and a warm hand on the small of his back.
“C’mon, artist, let’s take a seat,” Derek whispered as he guided Stiles somewhere.
He was too tired to open his eyes and just allowed himself to fall into the warmth of Derek’s hands until he felt something hit the back of his legs. Stiles dropped onto the couch that sat along one wall, leaning into the soft cushions and moaning as his muscles began easing out of the clench of hard work.
He was startled when a bottle was pressed to his lips but took a few sips anyway, blinking his eyes open when the bottle was taken away. Derek stood over him, his eyebrows lowered until they nearly met in the middle, and Stiles giggled at the idea of two caterpillars kissing. He pointed at them, trying to share the image, and just ended up giggling some more.
Shaking his head, Derek chuckled and sat down on the floor in front of Stiles. “I’m going to guess this is the artist equivalent to a runner’s high,” he said, and Stiles nodded.
His head felt funny when he did, so he nodded again. And then again. Eventually, he was bopping his head to some tune floating through his head and giggling some more. Derek just watched him with an amused yet slightly concerned look on his face.
The adrenaline started to leave Stiles’ body, and he let out a yawn. He reached for the crocheted blankets someone had left on the couch one day and fell to his side. Closing his eyes, he burrowed into the blankets. It wasn’t the first time he’d fallen asleep there and probably wouldn’t be the last.
“Hey,” Derek said, shaking him. “Are you sure you want to sleep here?”
Stiles swatted at him and mumbled something even he couldn’t understand. A moment later, he was snoring, his dreams filled with twisting shades of green that had him smiling in his sleep.
The smell of fresh coffee filled Stiles’ nose, and he blinked awake. It only took a few seconds for him to identify the art studio. It took a few more to focus on the cup being waved in front of his face where it was pressed into the couch. Grumbling, he pushed himself upright and made grabby hands at the cup. He sighed at the warmth, taking a sip before looking up for the bearer of the gift.
“Derek?” he questioned, choking.
“Wanted to make sure you were alright,” he said with a shrug. “You had me a bit worried last night.”
“Sorry,” Stiles muttered, running a hand over his face as he tried to remember what had happened the night before. He stumbled to his feet when he did.
Looking across the studio, he gaped at his own work. A river flowing through a rocky landscape filled the canvas. Blues and greens shimmered with a light he’d never managed before, and the rocks nearly glowed under a sun that he couldn’t see. Shaking, he approached, and as he got closer, he saw the reflection of a man in the river. His image was blurred by the flow, but the dark hair made him think of Derek.
“Is it finished?” Derek asked.
“Needs some touch-ups, but for the most part, it’s done,” Stiles responded. His fingers itched to pick up his brush.
Derek must have noticed the movement of his fingers because he chuckled. “Looks like you found your muse.”
Stiles looked at him, his eyes tracing his face as more paintings began to form in his mind. “You have no idea,” he told him as his stomach let out a loud growl.
“Do you think your muse could wait until after breakfast?” Derek asked. “With me? Maybe you can tell me about this painting.”
Stiles bit his lip and nodded. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say about the painting without embarrassing himself, but he wasn’t going to miss out on a chance to get to know Derek better. His mother always told him, “Never ignore your muse.” He took the hand Derek offered and allowed himself to be led out of the building.