Chapter Text

Beer & Spirits

Stiles was frustrated.

He hadn’t come up with a single song for 6 months. Okay, fine, one song but that one was shit. Like, fucking teenage boy band honest to God crap.

Just thinking about it made Stiles’ face heat up and great, now he was feeling frustrated and ashamed. “I miss you my sunlight, I love you and miss you,” just thinking the words made him throw up in his mouth a little. Good God what had he been thinking?

Nothing, that’s what. Nothing was wrong, nothing was hurting, he was fine. Too fine. “Great art never comes from a happy place” some old dude had once said. And the dude was right, God dammit.

Stiles strummed on his guitar, random chords in no particular order at first, then decided on a key and picked a steady rhythm. It sounded pretty. But it was just that. Pretty. There was nothing in it.

His teenage angst, his fear of growing up, his pining after Lydia – it had gotten them to where they were now. Kinda famous (granted only in the bay area, but still, kinda famous.) They had been in a couple of newspapers and even a few magazines. Nothing big, but they had been featured in a small article on BAMmagazine.com which had them listed as one of the most promising up and coming bay area rock bands of the year. Also they had been in the Beacon Hills Weekly tons of times. Granted, it was run independently by Kira Yukimura, who had gone to school with them, and a couple of high school students, but still. And they could live on their music which was what really counted. Sure, it’d be nice to sleep in actual beds instead of their bus when they were touring. And they couldn’t afford much, but they could make it by with their music and to them that was still mind-boggling.

Now he’d grown out of his teenage angst, he was 22 and kinda cool with the idea of growing up since he realized he could just wear jeans to work and he could hire someone to do his taxes for him. And he’d been dating Lydia for the past 2 years, so that was cool, too.

So here he was, sitting on his bed, a little bit drunk, acoustic guitar in his hand, happy as a clam. God damn it.

They had just gotten back from tour, and after 6 weeks of absence it had only taken him 2 hours to turn his apartment back into the messy state it was always in. Laundry strewn over the floor, an empty pizza box & plastic wrapping as well as dirty dishes covered the work space in his “open kitchen” (it was little more than a tiny kitchen built into a closet). Beer bottles covered the surface of his “couch table” (there was no couch and no other table, but whatever). There would be a big Welcome Home Dinner tomorrow, but for tonight they were all just glad to sleep in their own beds. Except Scott and Isaac who shared a two bedroom apartment, they all lived alone. After touring together for so long they all enjoyed having their privacy back when they got home. And now Stiles was alone for the first time since fucking too long and even though Stiles thrived on the action, the closeness and the general noise – right now it was bliss. Also, he could enjoy a glass of whiskey or two without anyone commenting on it.

Great, now he was even happier.

He furrowed his brows and bit on his lip. He got up carefully, too drunk for graceful movement but not drunk enough to not anticipate dizziness, hung his acoustic guitar back on the wall and got down his electric in the hopes of more success. Maybe he just needed to be surrounded by sound. He plugged in the guitar, turned up his amp and struck a chord. It reverberated in the big open space and Stiles just let it hang there for a minute, tuning in to the metallic sound until he decided to play the same melody he had just played on the acoustic.

Closing his eyes he tried to fill his head with the sounds only, tried to stop existing, so that the only thing left on the planet was the music. He changed up the rhythm a bit, raising his eyebrows in surprise as he found that it worked better. He was close to a hook, he could feel it, he just needed –

BANG!

Stiles almost fell off the bed in surprise. What was that? It couldn’t be a neighbor complaining about the noise because he was alone in the building except for the old deaf lady on the tenth floor and her 4 cats. His place might look like crap but living in an old factory building had its perks. Playing the guitar with an almost fully turned up amp at 2 a.m. was certainly one of them. (Having to unclog the toilet every week on the other hand, not so much.)

When nothing more happened, Stiles came to the conclusion that he must have imagined it or maybe something had fallen over in the empty apartment above him. He went back to playing, trying hard to find his rhythm but he just couldn’t get it right –

BANG BANG BANG!

“Okay, seriously, what the fuck,” Stiles muttered to himself as he pressed on the strings lightly to silence the guitar. Ghosts? Seriously – no. But what else could it be?  It had to be a fucking ghost upstairs, probably trying to destroy the building. Oh well, might as well go down playing music.

He strummed again.

BANG!

Another strum.

Another BANG!

He strummed again and –

The BANG came in a rhythm now. He started playing the same melody as before and the BANG's followed easily. Another noise joined the weird combo – a higher bang, but just as loud. Like a kick, every other beat. Suddenly he realized what that was. A fucking snare drum.

Someone (a ghost?) was playing the drums in the apartment above him and he should have been scared but he was a little drunk and finally found back into his rhythm, the friendly neighbor ghost adding other sounds to the bass drum, first a snare drum, then a couple of toms and a hi-hat – seriously, how big was this fucking ghost drum kit?!  Casper picked up the beat, Stiles followed and he was almost struggling to keep up, man, this ghost meant business. They played each other into a frenzy, Stiles adding solos and changing riffs, climbing up and dropping back to an intense bass line and this wasn’t just one hook, this was one hook after another. He stopped thinking and let his fingers do the work, just went along with it, riding the high he was getting from playing until the ghost really fucking went for it. No way he could play the melody in this speed so he just fell into half time, jamming down on the frets, his guitar wailing, screaming a grand finale and somehow Stiles knew where the ghost drummer was going. He strummed one last fucking perfect finishing chord and silenced his guitar just as the last booming sound of the bass drum hit.

Then the wooden clutter of drum sticks hitting the floor and muffled footsteps.

The jam session was over.

Good thing, too, because Stiles was light headed. He just stood there, guitar hanging from his neck, breathing heavily. There was no doubt, that ghost was his fucking muse and even though he was probably crazy, Stiles didn’t care. That had been some serious shit and the best music he had ever played. Fuck the stuff from the beginning, this was it. He turned off the amp, hung up his guitar and tried to focus very hard on everything he had just played so he wouldn’t forget.

When he had started playing, Stiles had easily accepted the fact that the ghost was backing him up with drums, but after that intense jam session… Yeah no way he wouldn't check out that fuckin' ghost.

Stiles gently put the guitar aside and got up. He waited for the dizziness to pass, then took his keys and an old baseball bat and stepped out into the hallway. It was deserted, but no surprise there. There were only 5 habitable apartments in the entire building and 3 of them were empty.

When he stood in the old, creaking elevator in only his boxers, he realized that if it was a ghost and it was angry to be disturbed… Well, he could have picked a better outfit to die in, but whatever.

The old elevator creaked to a halt in the floor above his. He gripped the bat tighter, heart beating fast. The door opened and he stepped out into the long, narrow hallway. It looked exactly like his floor. The hallway seemed to go on forever, with doors lining the walls at random intervals. The “apartments” used to be production halls and offices, way back when the building served as a yarn-factory. When Stiles had seen the listing of apartments in this building he liked the thought of living in an old factory, so he had gone to check it out.

On the outside the building had looked old and shabby. On the inside it  had just looked vintage and… okay fine, a little shabby but the rent was low and Stiles didn’t mind the remote location. In fact, he loved that he could go home and just… be. No danger of people randomly barging into his home, like when he had still lived with his Dad. Also, no Dad barging into his room without a warning but that was a whole other story. His flat was his refuge and after touring he always found he loved the aloneness of it.

Swallowing nervously, Stiles stepped closer to the door he assumed the ghost behind. He knew it led to a big production hall, he had checked that place out when he came to have a look at the apartment. The listing had advertised this place as “a spacious single bedroom apartment with a spectacular view of the park through ceiling high windows”. Technically, it was all true. But it really was a giant empty hall with concrete floors and a ceiling so high there was no ladder tall enough to ever allow him to exchange a light bulb. And he didn’t have a crane. It was beautiful in an eerie way but he had felt small and lost in this monster of a “bedroom” so he opted for the old office right underneath it. It might not have been it for Stiles, but he could certainly see the appeal it would have to a ghost. Lots of space for haunting purposes.

The door had a small window where you could look into the room. Heart pounding he came closer, swallowed and peered inside. What used to be just empty, open space was now filled with instruments over instruments. There were at least 3 guitars, a bass guitar, one cello, a keyboard and a giant drum kit. No couch, no tables, no chairs, no bed, no furniture at all. He could only see part of the room but apart from the assortment of musical instruments it seemed to be empty. Where had the instruments come from? Had someone robbed an orchestra and this was where they kept the contraband?

After silently counting to 3 he knocked on the door and stepped back, lowering into a half crouch with his bat at the ready. He didn’t know what he had expected. Maybe a hoarse voice croaking “come in” or a nightmarish inhuman creature, barging through the door and biting off his head. However, he certainly hadn’t expected what really happened:

The most flawless human being Stiles had ever seen was now glaring at him from underneath the most impressive set of angry eyebrows. The muscles underneath his grey Henley shirt were clearly visible and when he saw the gap between shirt and low riding sweat pants, revealing a patch of dark hair, Stiles quickly averted his eyes, wanting to look anywhere but at a strange guy's crotch. Because that was weird.

When he regained the ability to think straight, Stiles closed his mouth, realized that he should probably lower the fist he had used for knocking and said, “Um. Hey.”

The eyebrows were pulled up in question by their dark-bearded owner, but the lips curled up in a smirk. Apparently he had noticed Stiles’ gaze. Great.

 “Can I help you?” The stranger's voice was higher than Stiles had expected.

“Yeah, um, I guess.” Stiles was amazed at his own rhetorical efficiency.

“Um, I’m Stiles, I’m your neighbor. I was… uh, away when you moved in.”

“Oh,” the bearded god said and opened the door a bit more. “You’re the guitarist!”

“Yeah, tha’s me!” Stiles slurred, excitedly. “And you’re the Ghost Drummer!”

“Excuse me?”

“Uh, I’m kinda drunk and, uh, I might have thought you were a ghost…?”

The door closed a bit after that.

“No,” Stiles quickly tried to explain, before he could creep out the guy enough to shut the door in his face. “I never really thought you were a ghost, I just named you that in my head because I didn’t know your name and I had to call you something and shit, I’m babbling again, sorry I-“

“Derek,” the guy interrupted his word vomiting session. Stiles stopped talking mid-sentence, embarrassed and horribly aware of his drunken state. “Uh,” he said.

“That’s my name. Derek. If you want to call me something other than ‘Ghost Drummer’ in your head.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, relieved, nerves starting to settle. “Right. Derek. ’s nice to meet you.” Extending his right hand he took a step towards Derek, who shook it and smiled at him. And Stiles was not prepared for that. Underneath the dark stubble Derek revealed a set of perfectly white teeth (bunny teeth, Stiles thought to himself) and it was so beautiful.

After a moment the smile faltered and Stiles realized his face had fallen asleep. It did that sometimes. When it couldn’t keep up with his brain.

“You’re, like – I mean,” Stiles stammered. Ugh, this was going great. “You play well,” he finished lamely.

Derek huffed out what sounded like a laugh. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he said and Stiles’ stomach felt weird then. Queezy, ptobably. He had definitely had too much to drink.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, trying to distract himself from the nausea. “Um about that. Do you mind if I use that music? With my band, I mean?”

The surprised look Derek gave him made Stiles shiver. Those eyebrows…

“No, go ahead. Do I know your band?”

Stiles laughed at that and regretted it immediately. He had to go right now or he would puke all over his new neighbor.

“Maybe. Probably not. Listen, I gotta go, sorry.” With that, he turned around and left a perplex Derek standing in the doorway. But of course he hit his head on the elevator doors before being out of sight. Of course.

Stiles stood in the elevator, unable to comprehend what had just happened and trying really hard not to throw up. “Idiot,” he mumbled to himself when he got to his apartment.

So what if he watched some porn that night. So what if it was a threesome. So what if one of the dudes had dark hair and scruff. So what if he didn’t remember what the woman looked like. He was just really drunk, so that didn’t mean anything.

Stiles was woken by the sound of his own groaning.

He cracked an eye open, blinded by the sunlight that shone through the window and directly on his face. A pitiful sound escaped his throat, a hoarse squeak, when he tried to sit up. The inside of his mouth tasted of stale beer, cold smoke and dead squirrel. At least that’s what he imagined dead squirrel tasted like.

Squinting his eyes he took stock of his apartment. No wonder Lydia never came over, the place looked disgusting, even after he’d even spent only one day there. Had he really had 2 beers and 6 glasses of vodka last night? He hadn’t felt that drunk...  But he definitely had 2 beers and 6 vodka’s worth of headache. A can of coke had become a make-shift ashtray. He didn’t remember accessing his secret stash of cigarettes but the crime scene told him everything. Lydia could never know.

His throat was dry, his head pounding and when he got up his spine cracked pathetically. Scratching his head with one hand and his butt with the other he made his way to the kitchen. He filled his “Scott McCall is bae” cup with tap water, found a pack of Tylenol in the kitchen drawer and hoped to survive. He made a face when the water intensified the dead squirrel taste in his mouth.

Wobbling back to bed with the intention of getting another half hour of sleep in before he had to be at Allison’s, he stubbed his toe on the bed frame. An intense pain shot up from his pinky toe directly to his hungover brain and suddenly he remembered.

The ghost. Derek! Drums. Guitar. Hooks. Hooks! All the hooks! They were still there! He scrambled to his bedside, all pinky toe pain forgotten, took down his e, plugged in the amp, turned it almost all the way down because he didn’t want to die and played. It was all still there! A little wobbly and not as… well, as grand as the night before but he remembered and still thought it was good. Great even. Shit, the guys were going to freak!

“Your face man, I will cherish the memory of that look of pure horror on your face forever, dude." Scott grinned at him from the couch, his arm loosely draped around Allison's shoulder.

"Yeah well, it cannot be unseen. Thank you for that horrible image which I will be stuck with until I die, thanks a lot for that" Stiles replied, but he couldn't be mad. It had been hilarious.

"But I still don't get why you had to pee in the sink," Stiles said.

"That," Scott told him "is between drunk-Scott and the sink."

They all laughed. Stiles was enjoying the post tour catch-up. He sat on Allison's living room floor, legs stretched out in front of him, Lydia scratching his head from the armchair he was leaning on. Hanging out with the band felt like home.

A comfortable silence fell after the laughter had died down.

Even though Allison's living room was huge they sat huddled together closely. That was a side-effect of touring together. They only had one tour bus (which had been sponsored by Jackson four years ago), and they were eight people, sometimes nine when Boyd joined them for a couple of gigs, plus instruments. So they were used to sharing their space. That's why Isaac was plastered to Allison's other side, Erica was sitting on Boyd's lap in the old love seat (Stiles was pretty sure they were doing the do but nobody messed with Boyd so they all just silently assumed) and Jackson was lying on the floor, head in Danny's lap. The two of them had gotten really close and even shared a bunk in the bus when they couldn't find a place to sleep. Jackson liked to tell them it was "guy love" but nobody believed that. After all, Danny was a good looking guy, even Stiles could see that and he was straight. Obviously. 

Stiles thought about Jackson and Danny together a lot. He didn't know why but he kind of hoped they'd end up together. It was stupid. And none of his business, so he leaned his head back to collect a kiss from Lydia.

They reminisced a bit more, telling each other stories even though they had all been there.

"And what was the San Francisco girl's name?" Scott asked.

"Sarah," Allison told him.

"That's right, Sarah! Man, that was some top-notch dining right there." They all agreed. They were able to support themselves with their music but there wasn't much luxury involved. They had signed with Omega Records, which was only starting out. Boyd was the owner and he believed in Echo House. But there was no money to waste so they couldn't afford sleeping in hotels (yet, Stiles told himself). That was why they sometimes asked the fans at a gig for a place to sleep when they got really sick of sleeping on bus seats and fighting over a place on the isle. Not many were willing or able to open up their home to 9 strangers, no matter how much they liked their music. In San Francisco however, they had been successful and Sarah, the girl who had hosted them, had even made them dinner (even though it was past midnight when they got to her place) and breakfast before they left the morning after.

"I still have her number, she told me we could come back anytime," Lydia told them. "So we don't have to worry about San Francisco the next tour."

"I was hoping by the next tour we'd be able to afford to stay in hotels," Erica said quietly.

"Me too," Lydia replied. "But for that to work we need to make the charts."

Now the silence was uncomfortable. They all knew. They had been trying so hard for so long but no matter how well visited their concerts were or how well their album was selling, it wasn't enough for the charts. Even though touring was fun and they were living their dream, they wanted so much more. 

And Stiles blamed himself. He was the songwriter and he was yet to write one song that would make it. But it would all change.

"About that," Stiles said, sitting upright, pulling away from Lydia's hand.

"I, um, I had an epiphany last night." For a moment he considered telling them about Derek, but there was nothing to tell, really. So he had jammed with his new neighbor who happened to be very good-looking. No, why would he even mention that?

"Of what kind?" Lydia asked, eyebrows raised, pulling Stiles from his thoughts.

"Of the musical kind, duh.” He shook off the image of the eyebrows. “Something... Uh, something happened and...” Okay, they really didn’t need to know about Derek. “I came up with something."

"Awesome!" Scott punched the air. "I knew you'd get it back, bro!"

"Thanks, man. But it's not finished. It's a work in progress. Many works in progress actually."

"Let's hear it," Erica demanded.

Stiles gut up to get Scott's guitar and amp that were sitting in the corner. So Scott hadn't slept at his and Isaac's place last night. Stiles admired that Scott and Allison could spend 6 weeks in each other's faces and still not get sick of each other. He wasn't sick of Lydia or anything, but he had been very grateful for his night alone last night.

He plugged in the guitar, took a moment to get used to the different grip and played the ghost hooks. Everyone listened intently, nodded their heads and tapped their feet in the rhythm.

They all looked at each other, grinning. Isaac drummed along with his hands on the couch table, Scott cheered and Erica sang a melody without words. This is really going somewhere, Stiles thought. Playing it for them made it real, made it feel like he had finally earned his position as creative director as they liked to call him. Jackson turned up the amp and the music filled the room, Scott and Allison got up to dance and Stiles gave them a show. He picked up the speed, closed his eyes and dipped his head back, living for the music. When he opened his eyes again, Scott and Allison weren't dancing anymore but jumping and yelling. When the finale came, he gave it his best shot, made Scott's guitar wail and sank to his knees in one last slam on the finishing chord.

They applauded, clapped and cheered. Suddenly he was pulled into a tight hug from Scott, Allison and Isaac joining in and they were all swaying on the spot.

When the excitement had died down a bit, Erica cursed loudly.

"What is it?" Lydia, who had joined in on the dance-hug pulled away and looked at Erica worriedly.

"I was looking forward to a nice break for a week or two, but we can't leave that hanging. We have to make these songs our bitches, like, yesterday."

They laughed. "So where are the lyrics?", Isaac wanted to know.

Stiles shrugged self-consciously. "I haven't gotten to that part yet."

"Don't worry, we'll help," Scott assured him. "That was amazing and we will make this work."

"But not today," Allison chimed in. "Your Mom is going to kill us if we miss dinner. We'll all enjoy a nice warm, home-cooked meal tonight at Melissa's with our families and we can go back to rehearsing tomorrow. Everyone with me?"

It was a tradition they had established over the years of touring. The day after they had returned there would be a huge dinner with all band members and associates and their families. Last fall it had taken place at the Martin's, this time Melissa wanted to host it. Stiles was excited to see Scott's mom, since he basically grew up at their house.

"Speaking of,” Boyd told them. "We have to go! We were supposed to be there ten minutes ago."