Waking up bathed in the budding sunrise with Stiles' body molded into his chest on a lumpy mattress while the sounds of thumping footsteps padded through the halls was different.
It had felt a little bit like defeat at first. Here he was, at college with Stiles, the one thing he had promised he wouldn't do. Stiles was supposed to go alone, get lost in the sea of drunken parties and fuck the frat boys Peter told him to find, but Peter is still here, in Stiles' dorm, and he boils inside when he thinks of the boys he might've touched. So literally nothing is going to plan.
Stiles had looked very peaceful. Almost like sleeping next to Peter had a calming effect, like chamomile tea and a massage before bed. Like maybe he was looking forward to having an adult conversation in the morning. The problem is, there is no solution to this. It doesn't matter if they misunderstood each other, that Peter never intended to hatch a fully-fledged plan to kill Scott and use Stiles as his pawn, because Peter agrees that it easily sounds like something he would do. Something he might do.
Giving him up is a real shame. Down in his arms, hair tickling his forehead and lips parted while his eyelashes flutter on his cheeks while he sleeps, it's hard not to remember how much potential Stiles has. But Stiles had chosen his side, and Peter was perpetually stuck on his. They worked together well in sex and physicality, but anything more, it was like a car crash waiting to happen. Incompatible.
They don't belong in each other's worlds, not when Peter's very urges go against the grain of Stiles' skin. It is inevitable—he will kill again, and he will do it to serve himself. He can already imagine Stiles' face, crestfallen, surprised, mouth open as he ducks his head and shakes it. He would be disappointed, and frustrated, and angry at himself for believing that Peter could change.
And Peter doesn't want to change. He doesn't want to be loved either, not unless Stiles knows how horrible, how inherently repulsive he is and loves him anyway.
So Peter doesn't think twice about leaving. He has to leave, and it's that simple.
He slips out of Stiles' bed before the sunrise, the sky still gray and the air quiet. Stiles doesn't even stir as Peter slides out from underneath the arm slung over his waist and the chest pillowing his head pulls away, and Peter takes one last look at his slumbering form before walking out.
It was nice. It was incredible, actually, to touch Stiles and hear him moan and see all of his mannerisms face-to-face that he had forgotten, like the fidgeting or the constant swipe of his tongue over his lower lip. But Stiles had said it himself—this doesn't change anything, and Peter agrees.
Scott will be mad, he's sure, but he won't come back. Stiles won't let him, not when he wakes up and sees the cold spot in the bed next to him. Peter's doing him a favor, really. He knows, and he's sure Stiles knows too, that their worlds just don't collide well.
A part of Peter fears what he would become around Stiles. Infuriated, sure, endlessly annoyed, yes, even challenged. Then there's the thought he has that he might become a better man around Stiles, and that wasn't something he ever wanted. If anything, he had wanted the opposite and have Stiles become someone worse, someone just like him. The idea of accidentally ending up the prey is a little dizzying.
So he leaves. It feels like all the other times he's left someone behind, almost like second nature, because Peter looks out for number one. He'd have no survival instinct if he didn't.
He never heard it said out loud, but Peter would've had to plug his nose to not smell emotions on Stiles last night. Fondness, nostalgia, and the incredibly strong scent of missing someone was prevalent when he pushed him down on his bed and fucked him, and quite honestly, it was frightening to be the subject of someone's unabated feelings. To be missed.
I don't like the person I am when you're not around. That's how Stiles had phrased it.
Stiles probably thinks he loves him. Derek would say he's being too cocky if he heard him, but it's not even close to an ego problem, not when Peter knows perfectly well that Stiles is kidding himself. Maybe he loves the man he wants him to be. Stiles might wrap it up and pepper it as being in love, but Peter knows he's in denial. Possibly in a delusion.
This was probably the goodbye Stiles had wanted all along. Not drawn swords and confessions of murder, just the two of them letting their bodies do the talking. Maybe now he'll feel closure.
So he leaves, and it feels just fine.
He waits twenty four hours for the inevitable angry text. Something meant to make him feel rotten and guilty right before he deletes it alongside Stiles' number. Something angry and indignant with cuss words littered in the middle.
It never comes.
Despite Peter's attempt to keep their one night stand after months of familiarity under wraps, Derek knows instantly, and calls the next day.
"He's quite the chatterbox, isn't he?" Peter asks dryly as Derek asks him what happened. Did you go see him? Did you talk? Is he better now? They're all questions that Peter is utterly uninterested in answering, and the fact that the end call button is tortuously near tempts him on multiple occasions. He never pinpointed Stiles as a gossip, the kind of boy who would go from hiding his sexual affair in shame to boldly sharing the gory details with everybody who had working ears, but then again, it's not like he knows Stiles all that well in the first place.
"Stiles didn't tell me anything," Derek tells him sharply. "Scott told me that he went to you."
"Yes, you keep up with the local news splendidly," Peter drawls. He doesn't want to be having this conversation, not a single iota of him. "And?"
"And did you go to see Stiles?" Derek asks again, this time more grimly. He can probably tell from Peter's tone of voice that this story doesn't end with him saying that Stiles is frolicking naked in his bed sheets right now. Peter sighs.
"I did."
"You left, didn't you?"
Peter frowns. When did he become that predictable? "I did." He thinks about maybe adding the bit where he did it for Stiles' own good, and that anybody who thinks they can coexist with him is fooling themselves. Derek would probably agree without a struggle.
"Not surprised."
Peter's frown hardens. "I don't belong in his life."
"Oh, is that it?" Derek asks him. He sounds skeptical, like he's predicted Peter's every move. "You didn't want to hurt him?"
That had never been one of Peter's concerns. Hurting Stiles—the idea didn't even occur to him. Scarring his father, tormenting Derek, passing the time to cure his own boredom in a town that only ever infuriated him, sure. But spending time and mental energy on considering that Stiles might be affected, that the way he looked at sex and maybe even love would change, that didn't cross his mind as a conscious worry. His eyes flick to the inhaler, still sitting next to the trash can like an organ he's keeping for sentimental safekeeping. He's made of iron and metal and twigs, so none of this should have any effect on him.
The idea of hurting Stiles without even considering it, without even intending to do it—Peter typically prefers to hurt intentionally with plenty consideration—is a little jarring. Stiles knew what he was getting into, and he knew that to expect, and still, he ended up with bruises and scars. Maybe that's just human nature. Or maybe that's just Peter's effect on people. He should probably feel proud, but the swell of conceit doesn't come. On the other end of the line, Derek sighs.
"You would've hurt him less if you had stayed," Derek says, and that's the end of that.
He leaves his apartment after two days of what Derek would probably call hiding away—what from, a teenage boy?—and goes to the market to fetch a replenishment of tea and perhaps even some new sheets that don't smell of Stiles' heady sweat.
Forgetting Stiles—even replacing him—seems like the best course of action now. He's helped Stiles get him out of his system, one last goodbye that Stiles can view as closure, because as he had said after Peter had pulled him to his chest, this doesn't change anything. Sex didn't magically fix things, even if Stiles was laboring under some false delusions.
For instance, the accusation that Peter was plotting to kill Scott—he probably should've denied that sooner. Yes, so he wants to be the Alpha. Yes, so he had considered Scott, since he was just so damn opportune, not to mention that stealing one's True Alphahood simply must be a better rush than just snatching away the powers of an average Alpha, but then he had been inconveniently distracted by Stiles and his mouth and his twitching fingers. Killing Scott would have repercussions, in the form of his loyal friends and his growing pack, and while he can handle a little alienation just fine, he's not so sure he'd be comfortable with the hoard of teenagers looking to avenge a brutal murder. Peter didn't get the chance to verbalize that particular thought to Stiles, perhaps more delicately than his mind just created it.
But seeking Stiles out and driving out to the campus to tell him that no, he was wrong, Peter isn't that shabby of a human being would be pointless. Peter isn't looking to fix their relationship, to mend the trust that had formed between them because they were bumping uglies, so showing up at his dorm to explain himself as something that could easily be mistaken as a grand, romantic gesture is out of the question. The bottom line is: Stiles wouldn't want him, not really. Not fully, like Peter suspected he wanted him. He would run scared at every monstrous instinct that Peter would follow—and he would. So he sticks to the plan, the plan of having sex, and then not. It's too simple to possibly mess up, so Peter has to wonder how the two of them somehow managed to muddle it up.
So a replacement will be the next course of action, Peter thinks as he strolls past the carts and heads into the market. Surely it won't be that hard to find himself an innocent young boy fresh out of high school interested in being taught in the complex art of orgasms. Peter could do that for the youth of today.
He reaches the tea aisle, wandering past the coffee and staring at the assortment in front of him. Derek would probably love to chime in right now that Peter desperately needs chamomile, but he's a creature of habit, so he picks up the peppermint and decides to turn to housewares for anything he can replace in his apartment that reminds him of Stiles. Rule of casual sex: remove all evidence of previous lover before inviting in a new toy.
He turns the corner, tea in hand, and then there's Stiles, right next to the cornflakes.
Stiles. Peter looks carefully, twice, three times, his eyes roving up and down every nook and bump he's intimately familiar with just to confirm what he's seeing, and that's definitely him. Miles away from his dormitory and perusing the aisles in Peter's grocery store, the very store he had laughed at Peter for because of how posh and pricey it was when he watched him carry in bags during one of their many nights spent together, wrapped up in sheets and each other and forgetting to put the food in the fridge. Stiles is here, and when Peter's eyes land on his chest, he sees that underneath his unzipped hoodie is something familiar. Peter's shirt.
There Stiles is, in his shirt. It's not quite as tight on him as it is on Peter, but still, the sight of it makes his mind stagger and his feet stop. A fierce wave of possessiveness clings onto him, something that tells him that no matter what happens, do not let that boy go. Do not let your scent vanish from what he wears. Don't leave and be forgotten. It makes him question everything he's done in the past week, perhaps even the past year, because Stiles was so close to leaving. But here he is now, wearing his things, right here in Peter's grocery store and completely out of his way, and surely that means that he cannot be pushed away. Peter doesn't know whether to be annoyed or impressed.
"That's my shirt," Peter says, feeling slightly faint. Stiles looks down, as if confirming the fact with his own eyes, and then meets Peter's gaze again. His lips twitch.
"Yeah," Stiles nods. For a second it looks like he planned it all this way, the smarmy kid, as if he knew what it would do to Peter's mental state to see him decked out in his scent. In his shirt. When did he leave that behind?
He should probably leave. He's good at that. He's been doing it for ages. Walking away from somebody is so unbelievably simple, and all it would entail is Peter calmly tucking his peppermint tea under his arm and leaving the store with a hastened step without giving Stiles a chance to follow him. A little shoplifting would be nothing compared to standing here staring at Stiles, covered in his scent. His eyes flick down to Stiles' neck, instinctively looking for leftover bruises, vampire footprints from a few nights ago, and sees the slightest of purple marks. He's all over Stiles, from his clothes to his teeth marks to cocky smirk on his lips that makes him feel like he's looking into a mirror.
"Haven't seen you here before," is what Peter ends up saying, all very coolly. "It's a bit out of your way, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Stiles admits. He takes a tiny shuffle forward, as if hoping Peter wouldn't notice. "I totally skipped a class to drive out here."
Peter grimaces. He can identify at least ten different emotions under Stiles' skin, irritation masking most of them. It's not like it's hard to understand. Peter left him naked and foolish in his bed for the greater good, and Stiles has all the right to be upset. Peter just doesn't want to see it unleashed in front of him right here by the cereal. What he'd like is to leave before whatever is bubbling under Stiles' flesh erupts.
"You shouldn't miss out on your education. It's bad for you." Peter tells him as sternly as possible. Stiles stares him down, clearly not interested in his small talk. If not small talk, his attempt to talk around the issue. Peter maintains that he isn't talking around anything, rather avoiding something particularly unpleasant that he knows can only end in him being yelled at by a teenage boy who smells of desperation and anger. What else is there, that scent that Peter can't quite make out? There's something else, underneath it all.
"I do a lot of things that are bad for me," Stiles counters. Peter should be proud—look at the fucking masterpiece he's created. He feels a strong urge, a primal need to grab him by the wrist and chain him up so he'll always have this around, this completely harmless entertainment in the form of classic wit. It could really work up Peter's appetite, constantly having this level of snark at the ready by his side.
He raises an eyebrow, the urge to comment on how deliciously college life has been treating Stiles tickling his tongue, but Stiles speaks up first. He takes another step forward, this one bolder.
"So since I drove all the way out here," Stiles says. "I think you can take a few minutes out of your day to hear me out."
Peter's eyes scan the area, roaming from the single father with the wailing child over by the yogurt aisle and the employee restocking crackers twenty feet away. This is Stiles' chosen stage, a small organic market with ridiculously high prices that Peter feels inclined to shop at, a market that Stiles knew he would be at. It makes him wonder what else Stiles knows about him.
"Right here?" Peter asks him. It's not like he'll be embarrassed, but he's certainly surprised. This is the same boy who used to jump out of his arms like a frightened kitten whenever a car would come rolling down the street of his cul-de-sac and Peter had pulled his shirt over his head, and this boy now wants to have a confrontation about their relationship here in public. Peter feels something like thrill run through him.
"Say what you want, but I deserve some answers from you," Stiles says, face chiseled into something steely and unyielding. He probably practiced this speech on the way here. He's probably been thinking about having this conversation for months. Peter has been the subject of his thoughts for hours, he realizes, maybe more, and it makes Peter feel something that isn't his usual blend of annoyance, murderous impulses, and impatience.
"All right," Peter agrees, and Stiles seems to gear himself up with a long breath. Peter can't believe he's doing this here, in the cereal aisle, in a grocery store, at all. He never thought Stiles had the guts or the gall.
"I just," he sighs, looking more conflicted than ever for a boy so small in his oversized hoodies, so young. For that brief moment, Peter feels remorse. Remorse for having ever touched Stiles, remorse for all the trauma he's seen that's made someone so full of unbridled life curl in like this, remorse that he's one of the villains responsible for it. "I just want to know if it was all because you wanted me to help you become the Alpha again."
He wants answers. If that's all he wants, Peter might as well give him some.
Peter thinks about it, and strangely enough, the answer comes to him quickly instead of stewing in his brain. Stiles is incredible. Stiles is human and breakable and still so strong in the way Peter will never be, strong to the point of nearly obnoxiously impulsive. He's not a trophy, and he's not a sidekick, and he's not even an asset. He's very, very real. He wants to touch him, to snag his wrist with his fingers and feel the steady pulse pumping there, and holds himself back for reasons unknown.
He takes a step forward, and this is where he lies and Stiles will shout and curse but eventually, he will walk away and live a carefree life with a pretty girl who will like his charm and his brown eyes. This is the part where the attachment stops and Peter can go back to being himself. And then Stiles gives up waiting and talks first.
"Okay, fine," Stiles says suddenly, loud and sharp and fueled with something that is probably crazy nerve. "I'll talk first."
He looks horribly nervous, almost nauseated. Peter focuses on his heartbeat, rapid and uncertain, and on his own, and listens to how raw and human it sounds to have their heartbeats thump in tandem. If he tried, he could make them match.
"Look, I think I love you," Stiles blurts out in one fast breath. "Whatever the fuck that means. You're kind of terrifying and also kind of dumb and I don't even think people know how to love you, but I think—fuck, I do."
He's looking straight at Peter, all brave words and trembling hands. It's an act of defiance against his ever climbing heartbeat, faster than ever before, and Peter feels a fierce wave of pride at just how far he's come, even with shaking fists and nervous lips, how he can stand here and tell someone as damaged and broken as Peter that he loves him in spite of all those things. Because of them.
"And I also think you're kind of terrible, so yeah, I'm sorry that people probably fucked you up and made you so—" he cuts himself off, his vocabulary probably falling short of all the ways he wants to describe Peter. "I'm not going to ask you to change because I'm not kidding myself. You're a real life murderer and that kind of scares me a bit, but I. I know you, even if you think I don't. I want to be around you, and maybe a little extra too."
He should probably breathe between words, Peter thinks idly. It'd be terrible if he suffocated before he could finish and Peter would have to watch his terrified face frozen in time forever, suspended in the fear of his own confession. He thinks he should speak up, that this is the time to say something, but his mouth doesn't want to.
"I don't want to encourage all of your craziness, god. I just want to be enough, I want me to be enough. Yeah, so you won't be the freaking Alpha and you're stuck with the blue eyes. But—but you'll have me," Stiles takes a step forward and breathes, a rattled shake of his lungs that it probably pains him to instigate. He looks up straight into his face, Peter captivated as always by the golden flecks in his eyes. "Is that—I mean, is that enough?"
He thinks about how easy it would be to say yes. It would be just like when Stiles' head, pillowed on his lap and heavy with warmth, had asked him if it was okay to be free with him. Those kind of questions are rhetorical, Peter knows, and he's enough of a charmer to always say yes.
But Stiles doesn't want to be charmed, and Peter doesn't want to charm him. He's spent his whole life smiling in unsuspecting faces while fiddling with knives behind his back, and he wonders what it might feel like to smile with meaning. To smile without deception. Does it still feel satisfying? Does it perhaps feel more so?
Is that enough. Stiles is looking at him, impatience drawn over his face like Peter only has thirty seconds to come to a decision, half a minute to figure out if he really wants power or merely convinced himself he did. It's like the toy you beg for only to play with once after unwrapping it. The only question here is what the toy is—Stiles or power.
"Fuck that," Stiles bursts in again. He's so nervous Peter can hear his heart like a fast-paced drum echoing off the walls. "I know you love me too."
There's a boldness in his eyes now that's sharply contrasting the heavy quaking of his hands by his sides. Peter is driven momentarily speechless.
"You know I love you?" He repeats back, baffled. Stiles nods. "You know nothing about me."
"Oh, shut up, Peter."
"Shut up?"
"Yes, shut up," Stiles enunciates carefully this time, a wildness in his eyes that Peter probably put there. If this is a love confession, he's not convinced—aroused, maybe.
It hits him then that he's right, and that this definitely isn't a love confession. It's a confession of strength and personal charge and dominance, like Stiles is sick of being the left behind runner up. Peter looks at him carefully this time, tall and shaking like an erupting volcano, and sees a strength there he never took the time to look for. He knows what the other emotions are he's smelling now—undercurrents of confidence and fortitude and even affection. Real life affection.
And yes, he's definitely aroused now. Stiles is standing in front of him with a staccato heartbeat and unyielding words, and Peter wants him. Every part of him, plus the benefits.
"You love me," Stiles says again. "You love me, you do." It sounds firmer every time. "And why not? I'm a fucking catch. I probably make you feel things you never have before, you big tin can."
"Are you trying to bully my feelings?" Peter asks him, just for clarification. It's a little hot, not that he'll admit it.
"Maybe they need to be bullied," Stiles admits in stride. Never before has Peter ever found him so attractive, which is strange, because he always thought it was the helpless boy he wanted, the one that gave him a rush of power, not someone strong who was unwilling to yield to menacing eyes and a flash of fangs.
"You can't," Peter tells him. "They're unshakable."
"Unshakable in loving me," he pounds his own chest. "I know you want me. Just say it."
And then he looks at Peter with his arms outstretched, like he's waiting for a hug or for Peter to take his best shot, it's unclear which one is the intended reaction. Maybe both. And of course he fucking wants him. He wanted him ever since he saw his stricken face on the lacrosse field, and then even more when he grabbed him by the neck and smelled his fear, and then the most when his fear drifted into defiance.
"I want you," Peter says. It's surprisingly easy to say so, but then when he steps forward Stiles halts him with a hand on his chest.
"I know," he says, his eyes level with Peter's. "That's not really what I want to hear."
Always throwing surprises around, that one. He stiffens, and thinks about mentioning that he won't beg—not for free, anyway—and then thinks that right now, he actually might. Stiles licks his lips and Peter notices instantly. He's still nervous, even as he stands his ground like a trained colonel, and that, he thinks, is Stiles in a nutshell. Always two conflicting traits somehow combining in one body.
"What do you want to hear?" Peter asks. Stiles' hand drops from his chest.
"I want to know if you want to want me."
He lets that sentence roll around in his mind for a second. He considers asking for clarification, even just raising his eyebrow in a patronizing wordless request for more information, but he doesn't need more. Peter knows himself too well.
Stiles may not be asking it, but he wants to know what made Peter so damaged. What made him push Stiles back and forth like an angry tide. Stiles already knows if he paid attention. That's the danger of letting people get close, he had told him that day in the shower when Stiles' biggest worry had been Scott stumbling in on them naked, and Stiles had frowned because he hadn't understood. Control is easy. Fucking is easy. Wanting is easy. Getting what you want is a different story.
What he wants are the easy things. The things that don't really make any impact, just enter his life and sashay out of it without noticeable footprints left behind. One night stands, forgettable murders, fast sex and throwing around lies for fun all fall under that category. Keeping Stiles is not something he wants. Stiles means growing used to a presence by his side, Stiles means confiding in the human side of himself that's dormant from the public, Stiles is everything that he doesn't believe in and everything that scares him. Ironic, that, considering he's usually the one doing the scaring.
"I don't," Peter tells him, and something in Stiles' eyes sag even if his shoulders don't. "But you don't want to either. And we do anyway. Should we celebrate how mind-numbingly illogical that is?"
He reaches up to grab Stiles' cheek and Stiles roughly seizes him by the palm, guiding him away from his jaw. "Peter," he says, and it sounds like a warning.
Stiles probably thinks he knows what he wants. The thing is, he doesn't know Peter. He doesn't know how his mind twists, how the thoughts that plague him that could make passerby hurl are pedestrian to him. He and Stiles live in different worlds, and then there's Stiles trying to cross over into Peter's universe without realizing that he belongs in his own.
"I would do things to disappoint you," Peter says. "I would do things you won't approve of. I'll do things most justice systems and prison wardens won't approve of, and I can't help it."
"I know that you'll fucking disappoint me, dammit, you used to do it every week," Stiles snaps. "Sometimes every day." Peter bristles, and Stiles promptly plows on. "You're bad. And sometimes you're actually good. And you know what? You wear the hell out of both of them."
He's starting to look flushed, breathless and pink in the cheeks. In his element, Peter thinks faintly, and it makes him wonder why he always said he talked too much.
"You know what I want," Stiles says, and his arms are at his side again, letting himself be vulnerable. "So just give it to me." He takes a moment to stare at the ceiling, crossing the bridge from mildly annoyed to fairly irked. "Do I have to ask for everything around here?"
"Oh," Peter says, because he can't help himself. "You're just too pretty when you beg."
"Just take me seriously for a second," Stiles says. "Everybody always tells me how crazy you are—hell, I know how crazy you are—and I still want you to stay. Not as your pet or your evil accomplice, but just as me. I want you to stay. With me." He takes another breath. His lungs seem to be short on air. "So. So what I'm asking is, do you love me too?"
He looks him straight in the eye. He's laying all the cards on the table, every bit of himself up for grabs, and Peter can smell the fear and the undertones of hope in the air. He's so much more interesting than Peter ever gave him credit for.
"You already know," Peter says. He doesn't think he can say it out loud, not when he's sure he might combust into something sugary and Victorian if he does, but Stiles deserves to know. This, what he and Stiles have, the way it tugs at him in the heart he thought had run away deep in the night years ago, he knows what it is. "You're insane for wanting me to stay."
"I know," Stiles acquiesces, and for a moment, something unspoken hangs between them. This might be what real love feels like, mutual insanity, but he's not quite sure yet. It's been a while.
Stiles seems to be feeling the same thing, the unsureness that tickles under the skin, so he steps forward and doesn't stop until he's pulling Peter in by the shoulders. Peter doesn't remember stepping forward to meet him halfway, but suddenly there is no more space between them and Stiles' palm is on the back of his neck pulling him in. His arms wrap around him and it feels good, like sitting in the sun on a warm day, so Peter inhales the scent of his shampoo alongside the stronger scent of his fear and hugs him back. He doesn't think he's ever hugged Stiles, not the whole time they were fucking and getting naked in the back of cars. It feels staggeringly human.
"No more fucking up," Stiles says fiercely onto his shoulder. It comes out muffled by the fabric of Peter's shirt. His hands are tight where they're gripping his back. "I have people who would be happy to kill you for me."
Peter believes him. "I'll try to fuck up in strictly human, regular relationship ways from now on," he promises. He's not sure he'll be able to keep it, but Stiles feels warm in his arms, the sort of thing that might be able to keep him grounded after all.
Stiles pulls back a moment later, hands still fisting handfuls of Peter's shirt as his head emerges. He looks like he wants to laugh, like he never expected—possibly never wanted his life to turn out quite like this—but Peter is a big fan of rolling with the punches. He have to be with all the failed plans he's usually stuck in the middle of.
"So you're desperately in love with me, huh?" Peter can't help himself. Stiles snorts. "I guess I shouldn't be surp—"
He's interrupted with Stiles' mouth on his, lips parted and body pressing firmly into his, clearly keen on pushing his words away to make way for silence. That used to be Peter's favorite move, silencing Stiles with his mouth whenever he would get overly chatty, and Stiles has unfairly stolen it from him. He'll file a complaint later, right now he'll pull Stiles in by his belt loops and kiss him back.
Instead he holds onto Stiles' shirt fiercely, reveling in the feeling of Stiles pressed close. He's no longer the same boy he started out with, the boy who was unsure about his sexuality and aching to perform adequately enough to be kept around. That's probably what Stiles wanted the whole time, to be kept around, which Peter is starting to think he's fine with. Some people aren't invited, they just fight their way into someone's life, and maybe Peter just has to live with that. After all, here he is, kissing Stiles again and he'd be fine with never stopping for air, because Stiles wants him enough despite everything to find him in a grocery store.
"Such an idiot," Stiles is murmuring on mouth in between every kiss, yet every word sounds like I love you wrapped in crooked masks and see through tape. Peter smiles and Stiles bites his bottom lip. "You're such a fucking idiot."
Peter pushes him back into an aisle, right up against a shelf, and Stiles' hand reaches out to steady himself and ends up sweeping a handful of bags of chips to the ground. It's funny up until somebody clears their throat down the aisle and Stiles pulls away suddenly, as if remembering the world around him, and there's a woman haughtily surveying them with coffee grounds in her hands like she's fondly remembering a time when there weren't public displays of affection in her local grocery store. Peter offers her a courteous smile that's all teeth and no meaning.
"Surely there's a better place for you to do that," the woman says, not without contempt, and Peter feels a familiar flicker of annoyance with the general public bubble up in his midsection. Perhaps they should relocate themselves to a different aisle where they can scar different elderlies with their necking. She totters off, an indignant pull to her shoulders.
"Now what?" Stiles asks when he pulls back. "I'm not going back to class."
He looks petulant, exactly like a child. It's actually quite endearing, which is an odd thought to have considering he had been writing Stiles off as hopelessly childish for months. Perhaps that was one of Stiles' worries from the beginning, why he constantly grumbled about Peter's jokes about his age, like he was perpetually frightened of being too young for Peter and his lifestyle. He probably is, but considering that Peter doesn't care about the law, his nephew's opinion, or the well-being of ninety-five percent of the earth, he might as well not bother caring about an age gap either.
"Then don't," Peter murmurs, keeping their lips close. Stiles' mouth is addictive. Stiles is addictive. Peter is not good at self-restraint. "My place is nearby."
Stiles seems to consider it, and then shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "Let's go to my dad's."
Peter cocks an eyebrow. "Your dad's?"
"Let's almost get caught again," Stiles says, a wicked glint in his eyes. Peter can hardly believe what he's hearing, what he's seeing right in front of him, but this might just be the new and improved Stiles. Brazen and confident to the point of borderline stupidity and no longer ashamed. Peter really doesn't stand a single chance.
The house is empty when they reach it, locked and darkened. Stiles fishes his key out of his pocket and almost uses the car key on accident in his haste to slip inside, Peter's hand low on his hip, and it feels reminiscent of months ago when bickering was their best skill as a pair.
There's leftovers on the stove and a tranquil silence when they sneak in, his father clearly spending another long night at the station. It feels just like old times, Stiles hushing Peter and urging him to go upstairs rather than molest him in plain sight right by the window to make sure they could keep their secret as long as possible lest the nosy Mrs. Privot is watching from her garden. Maybe it was because they worked well together somehow without others, even with all the snark and the banter, and prying eyes and judgmental stares could've easily ruin it. The secret's long out now, and it feels like ages ago when they were all standing in Derek's apartment watching the light of recognition dawn in everybody's eyes.
They go to Stiles' room, left exactly the way it was when he moved out. The sheets are still rumpled on the bed and the books are still scattered on the desk, a handful of forgotten socks strewn on the floor. Stiles falls down on the mattress and pulls Peter down with him, just like old times, except that they're both wearing clothes and might actually spend the next few hours talking. It's a bit of a foreign sensation, sitting cross-legged next to Stiles without the intention to tug his pants off his slender legs as quickly as possible, and Peter settles against the wall watching him get comfortable by the headboard.
"You should know," Peter says, looking at Stiles. Here in the dark only for Peter's eyes to focus on, he's like a work of art he feels fiercely possessive of. How he left him, he's not sure. "I was never going to kill Scott."
Stiles' head snaps up to meet his eyes. It's a topic they haven't breached yet, but he knows Stiles is itching to ask.
"You weren't completely wrong," Peter says. "I did want to be the Alpha again, and I did want to kill for it. And it's something you probably won't be able to understand unless you've felt the rush of power yourself. But I wasn't interested in stealing it from Scott."
"You weren't?"
"I did consider it," Peter admits. "He was extremely convenient. And it wouldn't have been too hard to plan."
Through the shadows, he sees Stiles' shoulders stiffen. Peter slides his palm over his thigh to grab his attention.
"That's not why I put my hand in your pants that day, Stiles," he assures him. "You weren't a pawn."
"Then why did you?"
That might just be the stupidest question Peter's heard in months, but he refrains laughing at the solemn expression on Stiles' face. He smirks instead and leans in closer. "Because you, Stiles," he says, tracing the line of his jawbone with his fingertip. He sees a hint of a smile tug at the corner of Stiles' mouth. "Are fucking irresistible."
That, Stiles can apparently believe. Through the smile he tries to keep at bay by biting the inside of his cheeks, Stiles reels Peter in by his shirt. "You're so full of shit," he says, even as his grin widens, and he kisses him hard on the mouth. It's something that feels extremely familiar, like a routine you fall back into after a long slumber, and Stiles' lips feel exactly like he remembers them. Maybe a touch softer.
"I wanted you for you," Peter tells him. It's one of the most honest confessions he's made in years, that he wanted a human being in his life for something other than manipulation and deception, and Stiles seems to notice it as well. His eyes widen a fraction.
"Okay," Stiles says. "Then tell me about your big bad plan."
Peter takes a breath and watches as Stiles gets comfortable against the pillows, clearly ready for the long haul. He's not used to sharing plans—as a matter of fact, he's not used to sharing anything. He keeps to himself, but here's Stiles looking at him with expectant eyes and an open mind and Peter doesn't want to deny him.
"The woman I killed that night in your yard was an emissary. I was trying to get to her Alpha," he says. "She told me nothing, so she became useless to me. I killed her."
"In my yard," Stiles pipes up dryly.
"That part was an accident," Peter grumbles, but honestly, looking back, he has no idea how he didn't know. He should've been able to smell Stiles and his laundry detergent and the open bag of Cheetos perpetually kept in his room from a mile away. "I didn't mean for you to get involved at all. As a matter of fact, the less meddling teenagers, the better."
"Hey. Watch who you're calling a—okay, fine. I am."
"I knew the pack was in town, so I tried to look for the Alpha myself. After all, all I really needed was the element of surprise."
The rest is easy to understand, so Peter doesn't bother narrating it. He would've found him, heard his last words, and slashed his throat open. It might've worked, too, if the murdered emissary hadn't been seen as a warning that caused the pack to catch wind of something nefarious brewing in town aimed directly at them.
"Okay, so let's say you would've killed him and become the Alpha," Stiles says. "Then what?"
"I start by rebuilding my pack, and taking Beacon Hills back from Derek, from Scott. With enough betas, it would've worked flawlessly."
He probably would've been even stronger than before. Last time, he was fresh out of the coma, weaker than he should have been, and this time around, he would have been unbeatable. Turn enough unsuspecting kids with potential and he'd have a pack that others would rival, and all prey he found would be his to devour.
"You know that I'll have to kill you if you so much as look at Scott the wrong way, right?" Stiles says, deadly serious, so serious it's downright adorable. But Peter knows better than to doubt a boy who has the ability to erase all evidence to a murder by hacking into his father's police files.
"All right," Peter accepts with a small nod.
"And honestly, let's just throw murder and bodily harm off the table altogether," he sweeps his arms out in front of him as if to clear an imaginary desk, and then something troubled slides into his eyes. "Including that pack with the Alpha you wanted to get to. You gotta leave them alone."
"They've probably left town," Peter drawls. He let that particular opportunity slip away from him a little bit when he spent the majority of his time staring at Stiles' belongings in his apartment instead of chasing down Alphas.
"How do you know?"
"It just makes sense, especially after being threatened."
"That sounds like a big fat assumption," Stiles points out. "You really gotta start thinking about the consequences of your actions."
Peter raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Yeah," Stiles says firmly. "What if they decided to kidnap me and hold me hostage as your mate because you killed their emissary? Ever think of that, huh?"
"That would never happen," Peter deadpans. "You've been reading young adult romance novels."
Stiles smacks him across the arm. His defensiveness about his interest in literature is actually almost nauseatingly adorable, and Peter can't help but smile. Stiles nudges him with his shoulder.
"What about you, huh?" Stiles asks him, softer now. "What if they'd come after you?"
Peter looks at him. There in his eyes is something he almost struggles to describe until he figures it out—it's concern. Probably intermingled with protectiveness and dare he actually confirm it, love. Someone loves him enough to worry about him being mauled for revenge. Someone would actually cry at his funeral. Peter is oddly touched.
"You're worried about me?"
"Yeah, is that so bad?" Stiles says instantly, slightly defensive, and it sounds like the same tone Peter's been hearing for months but couldn't quite place—Stiles' poorly hidden attempts to pretend he doesn't care as much as he does. It must almost be a reflex by now, Peter saying something that mocks his emotions—you know this is just sex—and Stiles recoiling with something that denies him ever feeling such a thing. Yeah, I'm definitely not in love with you. Peter reaches out on instinct to grab his hand, an instinct that surprises him as much as it surprises Stiles, and the tension slips away from Stiles' rigid shoulders.
"You don't want me slain in cold blood because I ruffled the wrong feathers," Peter says. Stiles shrugs, murmuring something along the line of well, you make a hell of a lot of enemies. "That might be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
He says it dryly with an edge of humor, but it might just be true. Stiles is already different than all the others by staying, by finding him, by yelling at him that he won't take no for an answer because he loves him in spite of all his untamable nastiness. Stiles smirks at him.
"I have no trouble believing that," Stiles says, and his fingers slide between Peter's. Oddly enough, it feels more intimate than if his fingers were sliding into his asshole, and it makes him want to chuckle to himself. He holds it back for now.
"Well, I see your point," Peter agrees, stretching out next to him. He heaves a deep, theatrical sigh. "Now that there's someone worrying about me I suppose I should stop murdering anybody who might take offense to that and come after me."
"Can you live without that?" Stiles asks him suddenly. His voice sounds smaller than before, a fraction more uncertain than it was. "Without all that stuff, all that power."
Power is something Peter's always wanted. He chased it for years, wanted to feel it tangibly between his fingers, wanted to revel in the dominance and the authority it granted him. But power was fleeting, easy to steal. Easy to replace with other feelings, and easy to be consumed by.
"You mean without murder?" Peter asks. He knows that's Stiles' problem. It's not that he might have been specifically targeting Scott, or that he might want to one day in the future when Stiles isn't enough for him, but rather that he's willing to kill to get what he wants. Murder is what Stiles associates with the bad guys, with the ones who take things without consent and annihilate anything in their way.
And the thing is, Peter's never seen it as a bad thing. Only as an exchange of power—if someone has it, you can take it. He feels the urge to kill easily, the urge to exert his dominance by taking a life, and he's not used to changing for others. It's not like he'd ever want someone to change for him.
"Yeah, and other major felonies too," Stiles says. "Just a cut back on the rule breaking that would put you away for life, you know. Minor stuff, I can live with."
Peter looks at him. He might not have asked for it, but Stiles did change for him. He probably broke a thousand guy code rules just by agreeing to sleep with Peter, by lying to Scott about it, by keeping secrets from his dad, by going after him after Peter walked away. Peter made him into something harder, something that doesn't only see in black and white contrasts but sees a sliver of gray sometimes as well. Peter could do a little for him as well, he supposes.
"I can do that," Peter says. "After all, there's always other ways to feel powerful."
He grins, and he sees Stiles' lips quirk up across the bed.
"Oh yeah?" he prompts. "What did you have in mind?"
Stiles shifts, sliding downward a few inches on the bed and spreading his legs just enough that Peter notices. They seem to be on the same page, like Stiles is happy to let Peter dominate him while he's naked to get his power fix as long as he doesn't have to help bury bodies. He looks willing to be debauched, and delectable, and quite arousing, so Peter slithers forward and slots himself between his legs. He seizes Stiles' wrist and brings it up to his mouth to feel his pulse with his lips, the sound steady and sure and just stimulated enough to speed up a hitch. He slides his teeth down the skin, watching Stiles lick his lips out of the corner of his eye.
Amazingly enough, Stiles says nothing. It stays wordless as Peter plants a kiss on his wrist, and then one on his palm, and crawls up the V of his legs to move his mouth to his neck. He feels Stiles slowly exhale beneath him, his hands coming up to rest on Peter's shoulders.
"If you really, really need to kill something," Stiles suggests as Peter licks a stripe up his collarbone. "I'm pretty sure there's a rat problem in the basement here."
"Murdering small rodents," Peter says on his neck, wondering whether to scoff or laugh. "Really?"
"Hey, it's better than cold turkey, right?" Stiles says. His hands slide up and down Peter's back. It doesn't feel sexual at all, only intimate, and Peter wonders how long it'll take to get used to the sensation.
He has something to do, though, something that's tickling his mind, so he pulls away from where he's getting to work deepening marks on Stiles' neck—a mission he will dedicate his life to, if only to ensure that he no longer has to deal with the fury of watching others attempt to touch Stiles and to ensure that he gets to see Derek's forehead vein reappear in his life upon seeing Stiles—and fishes his phone out of his pocket. Stiles watches him curiously, lifting his head.
"Got a hot date you have to cancel?" Stiles asks him dryly, sliding his palm around the back of Peter's neck and playing with the soft strands of hair there.
"I'm glad you don't underestimate my popularity," Peter tells him, and watches Stiles' eyes flash. Jealousy might not color his own skin pleasantly, but Stiles wears it oh too prettily. Peter grins, and finds Derek on his contact list before composing a text message. It reads Not that it's your business, but you were wrong. He presses send with relish.
So maybe he did leave, that much is undeniable, but Stiles followed him. And Derek certainly hadn't anticipated that.
"And I'm glad you're being so discreet for my benefit," Stiles says, yanking on his hair a little. It grabs Peter's attention, the soft pull on his head causing him to slip his phone away into his pocket.
"It was Derek," Peter tells him. "I just can't resist an opportunity to annoy him."
"Annoy him?" Stiles repeats. His hands are on Peter's arms now, rubbing at his shoulders, like he can't bring himself to stop touching. Peter doesn't mind. "What did you say?"
"That you were in my bed giving me oral, obviously."
Stiles yanks on his hair again, hand flying up to sharply tug on his neatly combed strands. The message still comes across. They don't always have to use their words.
"You love me so much," Stiles says in the dark. His voice is assertive in the shadows, his words a declaration instead of a question. Peter likes this side of him. He touches him on the jaw, and Stiles tilts in his direction, an assured smile on his face. Maybe Stiles is right, and maybe he does love him very much indeed. It might require a fair bit of paperwork, but he could accept that fact. After all, loving someone doesn't mean signing a contract that forces him to become a good person, or a valuable citizen, or a worthy Samaritan.
"I like this side of you," he tells him.
"You do, do you?" Stiles asks. "So can I top now?"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Peter mumbles, pulling him in by the strings of his hoodie and drowning out the conversation with his mouth. Stiles responds instantly, as if touching again is like falling into an old habit, like listening to a forgotten beloved song.
Okay, maybe he'll consider letting Stiles top.