Work Text:
Stiles decides the best way to spend his summer is to pick up some extra credits by taking an art class at Beacon Hills Community College.
There’s a gen requirement he needs to knock out of the way so he can take a university class he actually wants - something important for his major; he hates the idea of wasting an entire semester and expensive tuition on an intro class he can breeze through at reduced community college prices. When he’s registering, he ends up signing up for an art class, too; it looks interesting and fits conveniently into the schedule he's already committing to.
It’s a life drawing class, which hadn't been a major deciding factor when he’d signed up, but that’s cool, he’s been doodling in notebooks for years. Back in high school, he used to regularly get sent to detention for caricatures he drew of Harris. (Finstock thought his were funny and pinned them to the board but also gave him detention because rules are rules, Bilinski.)
He ran an anonymous comic strip for the school paper, mercilessly lampooning anyone around campus who caught his attention. Senior Editor Lydia Martin, bless her beautiful soul, refused to reveal her sources every time angry teachers stormed the principal’s office to demand retribution. She even defended him against her boyfriend, the attractive but douchey Jackson Whittemore, who threatened to have his dad sue the school after one particularly blistering comic about his Porsche and lacrosse prowess.
But anyway that’s getting off track because the point is, Stiles shows up to his first day at BHCC, ready to do some Serious Drawing, yup.
But when Professor Hale makes a circuit of the room to see which students need help, Stiles has to rapidly flip his sheet to a new one. He’s made Very Little progress, and Hale spends some extra time with him, guiding him through ways to quickly sketch the model’s shifting poses. He shows Stiles how to get a rough outline down on paper, using broad strokes to give the impression of movement, only adding details if there’s enough time before the model changes to a new pose.
Once he moves on, equally patient with every student, but not always pausing with them for quite as long, Stiles flips back to his far more detailed drawing and begins shading in the beard he’d had so blissfully close to his face for those sweetly extended minutes.
It’s actually more of a challenge than he’d expected! He’s always been good at capturing eccentricities and exaggerating features, but this is new. And the sharp cheekbones, the perfect pattern of Hale’s beard…he breaks two pencils trying to get the hair sleek and dark (yet effortlessly soft) enough, before he moves into charcoal.
A few classes in, when Hale pauses by him to see how he’s doing, Stiles asks if they’re going to switch out of pencil drawing soon.
“There are some things I can’t capture without watercolors,” he says, thinking dreamily of how to accurately mix the greengreygold of those eyes.
Hale frowns, those perfect lips dipping down. Stiles hastily files that image away for future sketches.
“You may need a little more practice,” Hale says. His voice is kind but with a hint of amusement, and Stiles looks back at his "drawing” of the day’s model.
It’s…okay, it’s abstract, at best. He’d been so focused on figuring out how to translate Hale’s beautiful eyebrows that he’d nearly forgotten to put anything else down on paper and had to slap in the basic shape of the day’s model and a few hastily sketched features before Hale was close enough to look over his shoulder. He may have added three eyes in his hurry.
Stiles looks back at Hale, whose lips are twitching now. He’s clearly trying to be encouraging, but struggling. Stiles shrugs and grins, reaches to smudge away the extra eye.
“Don’t rub it out,” Hale says, his voice soft and intimate so he won’t disturb the other students. “It’s different. But…keep working. You’re getting there."
Stiles sighs and watches him travel across the room, the smooth movement of his hips mesmerizing, his sweater clinging to his broad shoulders and narrow waist, as though it knows exactly how lucky it is, and the girl next to him echoes the sigh.
"I’ve taken this class three times,” she says. "He looks so distraught when I fail, but I can’t help it.“ She winks at Stiles, and gestures at his actual drawing, which he’s returned to. "Those are amazing, by the way. You’ve really gotten his smile down.” Stiles kind of wants to angle his drawing away, which is dumb.
He’s not meaning to be creepy about it or anything. He can’t help it that Hale is a far more fascinating model than anyone he brings in. Stiles has pages and pages of his sketchbook dedicated to just Hale’s eyebrows, and the way they express emotion. It may be a problem.
The next class, he sits in a different spot and quietly focuses on the model - a lovely curvy woman who comes up with great poses. When Hale stops by this time, his lips part in surprise, and he nudges at his glasses with one of his distractingly artistic fingers, as though not trusting his eyes.
“That’s excellent, Mr. Stilinski,” he says, sounding oddly disappointed. “You’ve made real progress.” He touches him gently on the shoulder - just a brush of his fingers, a mute approval, and moves on without saying anything more.
Stiles can’t help watching him continue his circuit. It’s the least time he’s ever spent with Stiles, the least he’s ever spoken. Probably because Stiles doesn’t need much help now that he’s concentrating on what he’s supposed to be doing.
Stiles can’t stand it.
It’s a SUMMER CLASS. It was meant to be for fun. How much of an idiot do you have to be to fall in love with your community college instructor?
And it’s not just his looks. Stiles appreciates physical beauty, sure, but spending so much time cataloguing him for drawing also means he’s been picking up other things - the nuances of his expressions, the way he treats his students, how respectful he is with each model. Even the times he takes phone calls during class, apologizing and slipping into the hall, talking quietly but still audible to Stiles from his spot by the door. He has at least one sister he talks to often (someone whose name name ends with -ora or -aura), with gruff affection and irritation, the way Stiles talks to Scott.
And because he’s Stiles and he can’t let well enough alone, he may have checked into Hale a little more and found he teaches several advanced courses, including art history, which appears to be his speciality. He also offers free classes at the local rec center on weekends, for kids and at-risk teens. Stiles puts this knowledge into his drawings, letting the emotion guide his fingers across the paper.
At the end of the term, Hale gives each of them a personal note of encouragement and thanks them for taking the class. Says he hopes they’ll all continue drawing. He grimaces when he looks at Greenberg - who spent the entire class blushing furiously and drawing with his eyes closed. His expression softens a little - is it Stiles’s imagination? - when his gaze sweeps Stiles’s way.
“Keep drawing. Keep dreaming. Keep working at it,” he says, his eyes intense, believing in the potential of every person in the room. It’s overwhelming. Stiles almost wants to look away, but he can’t bring himself to waste these last moments.
As people start trickling out of the room, Hale asks, his voice soft, “Mr. Stilinski, do you mind staying for a minute?”
"Stiles,” he reminds him for the hundredth time.
Hale has always been unfailingly professional, but he grins now, dimpled and friendly. “Stiles,” he finally says, as though he likes the sound of it. "Summer term’s over,” he adds. “And grades are in. So I was wondering-"
Stiles startles, feeling like a high schooler again. He can’t possibly mean what Stiles thinks he’s starting to say. His hands fumble, and he manages to drop everything he was trying to stuff into his backpack, which includes his pencils, his sketchbook. Pages go flying.
Hale bends to pick them up, and Stiles is distracted for a moment by that perfect ass cupped by dark grey slacks, then shakes himself out of it and flings his hand out to try to do something - stop him, at least before he sees what’s on the sketchbook paper.
His protest dies out on his lips as Hale straightens up, stacking the loose sheets together, his forehead furrowing as he looks at them.
"Oh god,” Stiles says, wringing his hands.
Hale doesn’t look angry, though. More…curious, maybe. Thoughtful. Those beautiful eyes look up. "Is this how you see me?“ he asks, handing the papers back to Stiles, who clutches them to his chest like he can make them disappear. He’s careful not to crumple them, though. As humiliating as this is, they’re important to him.
“I…yes, but Professor Hale, I can explain."
"Derek,” he says, and the dimples are back. Stiles has a nearly irresistible urge to draw them. To press his charcoal-smudged thumb into one, to map the shape of it along Derek’s cheek.
“Derek,“ Stiles says, trying it out, the name sweet and full on his tongue. "I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to-”
“I was wondering what you’d been doing all class,” Derek says. “You’re much too talented and hardworking to produce what I’ve seen." He sticks his hands in his pockets, shifts back on his heels, looks awkward for the first time. "I was wondering,” he continues. "If you’d be interested in getting coffee. I’d thought we could talk about art, but it seems like we might have other mutual interests.“
Stiles’s mouth works mutely for a minute. He’s thinking through it all - the end of summer glaring horribly on the horizon.
"I’m great at long distance relationships!” he blurts. “I mean, I’ve never - I assume I would be. My best friend lives across the country. And ANYWAY,” he plows on, “my school’s only a couple hours away, and I come home all the time to check on my dad. He’s lost without me.”
He stops, bites his lip. Too much? Derek’s SEEN the pile of drawings, though. He must know what he’s signing up for.
“So that’s a yes to the coffee?” Derek asks, looking far less awkward now, which isn’t Stiles’s usual effect on people.
“Hell yeah,” he says.
“And if that goes well,” Derek says, holding the door for him, something simultaneously playful and scorching in his expression, “maybe you’ll let me draw you after, for a change?"
Stiles drops everything again.