A/N: This is the end. THE END. Time for one more fun fact: originally I wanted this story to be about three chapters. Then I made my peace with five. Then somehow it got out of control and it grew in length and there was suddenly a long sappy conclusion tapped on the end as well. Please make sure to brush your teeth after you finish this chapter so you get all that sugar off.
"This isn't going to work."
Stiles looks up at where Peter is staring at him grimly, and then down to what he's casting disdainful looks out of the corner of his eye to.
"Come on," Stiles groans, leaping forward to bounce on the bed. "Okay, fine, it's tiny. But sex has worked here before."
He probably should have dressed up the word worked a bit more to play in his favor. Sex has been mind-blowingly wonderful would've been a better choice in words. Peter looks unconvinced.
"I need room," Peter says with a heavy sigh, and it's almost alarming how much he sounds like a diva actress demanding ice sculptures and foot massages.
"This is a dorm, not the Taj Mahal," Stiles says slowly so the concept of rustic student life sinks into his brain. "It's a miracle Scott and I have enough room not to sleep on top of each other."
That sparks Peter's jealousy instinct in a heartbeat. It's almost too easy with him, Stiles thinks with an internal grin as Peter tugs him forward by the shirt and draws him close enough for Stiles to breathe in his aftershave.
"Are you jealous?" Stiles asks, and fights the urge to laugh very bravely. He wants to hear Peter say it out loud.
"You want to hear me say it out loud," Peter deadpans, practically reading Stiles' thoughts and pushing them nose-to-nose by maneuvering him by the strings of his hoodie. "You want to hear me say how much will-power it takes for me not to destroy everything the people you ever touched or let touch you dearly love."
And if there's something wrong with him, fine, all the more of a field day for the neuropsychologists when his brain is donated to science after he dies, but that turns him on like an oven going from cold to aflame and ready to make hot dogs sizzle. He's in a relationship with Peter Hale, revengeful werewolf murderer extraordinaire, so he might as well resign himself to a life of skewed sanity.
"Sometimes Scott and I share clothes," Stiles whispers like he's sharing secrets, grinning as a deep-set frown grows on Peter's face. "And when I get drunk he's usually the one responsible for pulling my pants back up."
"Who have you been pulling your pants down for?" Peter all but growls.
Stiles is having too much fun with this. "Didn't you hear? I decided to turn my dorm into a high class escort business to hustle a little extra cash."
It makes Peter pull his legs out from under him until he's flat on his back on the croaking mattress, staring at the ceiling. He blinks, and then there's Peter looming over him.
"Don't play, Stiles," he says, pushing their bodies flush together. "These kids have so much life ahead of them, I'd hate to cut it short." His left hand slithers deftly between their bodies, cupping Stiles' crotch. Stiles leads his wandering hands away with a disapproving tilt of the head he learned straight from the terrifying librarian across campus. He grins when something primal in Peter's eyes flashes.
"Uh uh," he teases. God, he's enjoying this. These are the moments when he wants to own the sleazy video camera and the mirrored ceiling, just to engrain this memory in his head. "That'll cost you around here."
Peter's eyes flash as his hands are led away from Stiles' body and back to his sides. "I'm a very rich man," he murmurs. His wrists twist out of Stiles' grip, his fingers snapping closed around Stiles' forearms. "But I don't like sharing."
"Someone will have to break the news to all my regular clients," Stiles says with a hefty sigh. He enjoys the joke, but if he's honest, he's also enjoying the rampant jealousy that sprouts blatantly on Peter's face in a sneer and narrowed eyes. It's only endearing when it's not directed at him, but when it isn't, Stiles feels a surge of unexplainable fondness creep up his chest. He's spent too much time with werewolves.
"I can easily send them a warning," Peter says.
"No dead animals."
"I was thinking of a more blunt approach," Peter suggests. "Like me fucking you in this room hard enough that the entire floor can hear you beg me."
The words turns Stiles rigid, the possibilities of exactly how much they could do in this dorm room to make up for lost time swarming his brain and sending his blood southward. Most of it might even be against the rules, and a part of Stiles is very much looking forward to being the outrageous rule breaker again.
"Fuck, that's hot," Stiles groans, giving in as Peter attacks his neck with his tongue.
"But," Peter says. "We will have to fix the bed situation."
Derek doesn't ever know the full story.
From the looks of it, Stiles and Peter don't sometimes either. They are chaos, Derek thinks on a daily basis, but then again, order just doesn't sit well with some people. All the other things might go away—love, companionship, laughter—but the chaos will stay, and it'll probably keep them together. The idea of using the word together while looking at Peter and Stiles triggers a horrible headache behind his eyes, probably because he can't wrap his head around the idea of this. Whatever this is.
His original plan had been to watch them from a distance in case whatever it was between them was still fragile, like a forest animal that gets skittish when others get near. Things had been unsure for so long, Scott and him working as unwilling messengers between all of them, that the idea of a reconciliation had seemed out of the question. Not that there's that much to reconcile when the extent of your interaction with each other is sleeping together, but still.
And now he's looking at them, sitting together on Derek's couch with Stiles' leg slung over Peter's thigh. Vaguely, his memory flickers back to a few years ago when Scott and Stiles had been nothing but untrustworthy alliances who usually screwed everything up and Peter had been even worse at screwing things up, and he wonders if anybody is really capable of that much change. He's been under the firm belief that at the end of the day, people are the same self-involved, uncaring creatures they were in the morning. This shakes things up a little bit, and there goes the universe again, making him remold his view of the world. As long as it's for the better, Derek doesn't mind that much.
If anything, he supposes he should be happy Peter's learned to actually empathize. Still, it's strange. A mystery that will probably go unsolved. And since Derek's spent the last few years racing to solve mysteries that usually ended in dead bodies, he's willing to let this one slide with no interference of his own. After being dragged through the drama—much like Scott did—after the grisly break-up, Derek still thinks he deserves a few answers. Namely, what the hell this even is.
"What," Derek is momentarily dumbfounded as he approaches the two of them, casually draped over each other on his couch, glancing between them as he waits for his words to come back. "What the hell even is this?"
"A real relationship, probably," Peter drawls, and Derek picks up on a skip in Stiles' heartbeat like maybe he's never heard Peter identify their feelings as such. He makes a point of not bringing it up. "Isn't that scary?"
"In this town, I've seen scarier," Derek says as matching grins spread over both their faces, starting to feel genuinely nauseated at the sight, and thinks it might just be true.
Contrary to popular belief, Scott knows everything.
He's not as slow as his best friend apparently seems to think he is. He sees it all. He and Derek hypothesize and share their findings. Why Stiles believes that his relationship exists in a bubble that no one else can see into when, in fact, everybody notices the subtle hands on each other's asses and the drama strung between them like the private room they thought they're inside actually has glass walls, Scott has no clue. It's almost laughably obvious.
Derek called him after he visited the dorm and failed to find Scott, only stumbled into a pathetically dressed Stiles with mustard stains on his sweats.
"He doesn't look good," Derek had told him flatly. "What has he been doing?"
"Eating a lot of Mexican. Pretending to study. Getting drunk at parties. Brooding." Scott didn't think it could get any worse as he summed it up and heard Derek exhale slowly on the other end of the phone. "Do you know the whole story?"
"Pretty sure," Derek had said. "Do you?"
They had compared notes after that—Peter was acting blasé and uninterested in anything involving Stiles or humanity. Stiles was too interested in humanity and trying to drown his sorrows by sucking dicks. The Alpha bit was a small surprise.
"Wait," Scott had paused. "He wants to kill me to become the Alpha again?"
"Supposedly," Derek said. "I've never heard Peter say it, but he probably wouldn't to my face. Stiles didn't tell you?"
"No. You'd think he would've wanted to prepare me."
He spent the next obligatory two minutes marveling over exactly how little trust Stiles apparently had in him—or perhaps, how little he felt like sharing—and trying not to be personally offended that the only way he could garner information was swapping gossip with Derek like junior high schoolgirls texting each other scandalous updates.
He understands most of Stiles' moping after that. Nothing about his split with Peter had been amicable, and how could it have been when Stiles had found out about Peter's plans to murder his best friend and Peter hadn't denied it?
It takes Stiles another week to tell him the full story after that, from beginning to end with the r-rated parts cut out, the morning when Scott comes back to the dorm to see Stiles wringing his hair out of his head and Peter out of sight after setting them up the night before. He sits Scott down and vows to tell him everything, and he does, Scott not daring to interrupt as Stiles talks. He talks for a while, and Scott skips two classes just to listen to it all, most of it things he already knows. Not that he'd mention that particular tidbit.
"There's something else," Stiles had said, bracing himself. "The reason we didn't… I mean, the reason he never came here is—the reason I didn't want to see him last night." Another breath. "I found out he wanted to be the Alpha again and probably wanted to kill you to get it. And I just—that's not really boyfriend material, you know? And I should've told you. I know. I'm sorry."
He let out an enormous breath afterward, the burden of the secret leaving him apparently making room for air in his lungs again, and Scott reached out to pat him on the knee. Stiles seemed to be awaiting a large explosion of outrage, and when Scott stayed quiet, he looked up from where he'd ducked his head between his legs.
"Are you mad?" he had asked, voice small.
"I already knew," Scott admitted. "So yeah, I'm a little mad."
"God, you knew?" Stiles slumped into his hands, hiding his face from the world as he cradles his body between his knees. His next words come out sad and muffled in his palms. "I'm sorry, okay."
And it was easy to see that he was. Scott couldn't exactly blame him for losing his mind a little around Peter. Peter had that effect on people.
"So what exactly happened last night?" he asked after the long-winded explanation had finished and Stiles had pulled himself out from where he was hunkering between his legs. All he knew was that Peter had come, and now Peter was gone, nowhere to be seen.
"We had really hot sex," Stiles deadpanned, dragging his fingers over his eyes. "And then he left. I woke up and he was—I don't know, he didn't want to stay, clearly."
Scott decided to prod gently. "And you wanted him to?"
Stiles' eyes had poked out from between his fingers. "Yeah," he breathed out. It sounded like the honesty was washing relief over him, even if the words he was saying were less than ideal. He wanted Peter, and he wanted him to stay, and more importantly, he wanted Peter to want to stay. Scott felt himself droop at the idea of Stiles coming this far, and admitting this much, for Peter to disappoint him. Then again, it was Peter. He never exactly signed up for making everybody's dreams come true.
"If he didn't want to stay, he's an idiot," Scott had told him surely. "Actually, he's already an idiot for letting you get away once."
"And maybe the whole murder thing too."
They laughed, and it felt nice. Having things in the open was what they were both used to, sharing everything from secrets to ridiculous hopes to hidden fears. Scott touched his shoulder.
"He's not the only one in charge, you know," he reminded Stiles. "You should go after him. Tell him what you think."
Stiles stared. "Did you forget the part of the story where he wanted to kill you to become the Alpha?"
"Maybe there's more to it," Scott said. "Maybe he has a whole story."
It had sounded like a long shot even as he said it, but Stiles didn't laugh. He looked at him for a long hard moment, considering it, replaying the last few months in his head, remembering their last conversations.
"And if not," Stiles said. "I still get to tell him what a giant asshole he is."
That was the spirit, Scott thought. Stiles had lifted his hand, waiting for a high-five of morale that Scott was happy to deliver. And then he sprinted from the room, shouting over his shoulder asking Scott to email his professor saying he's suffering from extreme diarrhea and can't come to class, and the door closed surely behind him.
One month later, here he is, somewhat regretful of his supportiveness as he slides through a throng of partygoers in the dorm room two floors down and makes it to the bathroom door, opening it to see Stiles and Peter wrapped around each other with an alarming lack of clothing. Scott feels white spots explode behind his eyes at the sight and he fixedly looks away at the towel rack, surprise hitting him like a slap. Surely locking a door before getting freaky crossed one of their minds before removing all their clothes.
"God," Scott thinks, and briefly wonders why he ever encouraged this as a flash of highly personal skin is exposed to his unsuspecting eyes. Peter and Stiles, tangled around each other to the point that Scott can't tell where one limb ends and the other begins, look up at the door from where they're in the process of stumbling into the shower with their pants around their legs.
"Scott," Peter says, grinning. Next to him, Stiles has his fist wrapped around the shower curtain like he's trying to bring the entire structure to the ground. "Sorry we didn't hear you coming. We were busy coming ourselves."
He closes the door after that, very sure that they won't be needing his presence in the bathroom, and decides instead to waver by the door the rest of the party just to make sure no one else makes a beeline for the bathroom and ends up with an eyeful of more than they wanted to see.
It's a complete turnaround from a few months ago when Scott had found Stiles pantsless, drunk and alone on a toilet, and Scott would take walking in on Stiles pantsless and happy any day over that. He's a good friend, he thinks as he loiters by the door like some sort of sexual security guard, and Stiles is too.
The weird part is that this time around, he's not worried. Aside from committing felonies together, Stiles and Peter have already messed this up as much as possible, so really, it can only go up from here. He thinks it's important not to underestimate someone's capability to reinvent themselves as someone better, stronger, even more human.
"Hey," Isaac says, coming up next to him. "Whatcha doing over here?"
Scott cocks his head toward the bathroom door and silently thanks the heavens that the music is loud enough to drown out whatever noises are being made on the opposite side of a two inch slab of wood.
"Saving Peter and Stiles from being caught naked by the entire dorm," Scott tells him with a slightly embarrassed smile. Then again, he should probably get used to this sort of thing with Peter around.
"Everyone here already knows they're fucking," Isaac says around the rim of his red cup, but he takes guard next Scott anyway. "You can't bring a middle-aged guy into a college dorm and get away with nobody noticing."
"Most people just think that's a rumor."
"Most people have seen Peter walking to the vending machines in nothing but Stiles' pajama pants."
Isaac and him share a dark look for all the unsuspecting freshmen who stumbled into what could very well he mistaken as a sexual predator lurking the dorm halls in search of a soda after waking up and looking for unsuspecting students. Telling Peter to tone it down would probably result in the opposite.
"Sorry, you can't use this bathroom," Isaac says when a girl with martinis in hand staggers her way to the door.
"Why not?"
"Clogged toilet," Scott cuts in smoothly. She looks at them like she wasn't born yesterday, but takes the hint to take a hike nonetheless. Isaac and Scott exchange yet another look.
"Another nightmare diverted," Isaac says, watching her walk away into the crowd. "They should thank us for this."
"They won't."
"I know," Isaac heaves a sigh, swilling the drink in his cup in circles. He looks over his shoulder at the door and leans in to knock sharply on the door. Through the wood, Scott makes out the stifled sound of someone—probably Stiles—tumbling against the wall in alarm.
"That was mean," Scott says, then grins. "Do it again."
After everything he put him through, Scott deserves to poke some fun at Stiles' expense.
They have their first date in November, and Stiles knows this because he doesn't realize it's a date until it's long over and Stiles is dragging Peter's shirt off his head in the darkness of the dorm.
Their situation might be unique, but Stiles still recognizes the signs even if they didn't come in bouquets of roses and serenades by the door. It had all the components of a date. They had gone out together, to a restaurant, and then to a teen horror movie that Peter thoroughly acted he was above in terms of his refined film taste, and they had done it all without the intent of sex. That was definitely a first, and Stiles pauses in his frantic attempt to rid Peter of his pants to think about it.
"Tonight was a date, right?" Stiles asks him, a little breathless. He makes out the shape of Peter's mouth, his nose, his rolling eyes through the shadows.
"If you want to label it, why not," Peter acquiesces.
"Do you realize it took you half a year to do that?" Stiles says. He looks at their bodies, pressed flush together in the dark, and realizes they've done all of this backwards. He knows Peter's mouth and his legs and his body intimately, and has no clue how much he tips in restaurants. They really are the most unconventional couple on the block.
"I didn't realize you wanted to be courted," Peter murmurs on his neck, sliding his tongue up his pulse point. Stiles reaches for his hair, tangling his hands there for leverage.
"Hell yes," Stiles tells him, tilting his head aside for more access. Peter takes the hint and continues his ministrations down his neck. "I want it all. Moonlight, flowers, love letters in iambic pentameter—spare no expense." When Peter chuckles on his collarbone, he yanks him back by his hair. "What, you think just because you got into my pants you don't have to charm me anymore?"
Peter arches an eyebrow. "I didn't realize you were so high-maintenance."
"Yeah, I am," Stiles confirms. He might be an easy lay, but he refuses to be an easy boyfriend. He's going to make this hard for Peter and he's going to enjoy it. "Whatcha gonna do about it?"
"Tame you, it seems," Peter says, seemingly up for the challenge. Then he bites down on Stiles' neck.
Yeah, Stiles is the one who needs taming.
Squatting in front of him in a rusty 96 Buick Riviera, complete with a student driver and a neglected passenger disinterested in the driver's complete lack of parking skills, is exactly the sort of trigger that would convince Peter to brutally murder a passerby.
It seems like a good idea for five solid minutes, watching the car jerk backwards and forwards into a parking spot that Peter had his blinker set for long before the car swerved in unexpectedly like all things unpleasant do, Peter gritting his teeth behind his steering wheel. It would be so easy to stomp out of his car and casually slash the tires with an errant claw right about now, especially when he's outrageously late for his dinner rendezvous on Stiles' campus, but then again, he's a changed man and what not.
His eyes flicker down to the post-it taped next to his odometer on the dashboard, Stiles' scribbly handwriting reading try not to kill anybody on the road. i can't fuck you in prison. It's good logic, actually, and it makes Peter take a deep breath, count to ten, and slowly back away from the veritable train wreck of a driving example in front of him.
Stiles' post-its are everywhere. They'd be borderline annoying if Peter didn't easily understand the subtext behind them—since there's no murder rehab, little reminders might flush it out of your system. It's almost sweet how hard Stiles is trying to turn him into a real boy with a real heart and a real compassion for the human race, and Peter can't hate him for trying. For all he knows, they might work.
He parks his car in what seems to be the last spot in the entire lot, so far away the restaurant is nearly a dot in the distance if Peter's being generous with his exaggeration, a complete contrast from the prime spot near the front he would have had if he had just done everybody a favor and killed the little menace in the front seat of the Buick now, but instead he takes another calming breath and remembers the post-it he found in his glove compartment a week ago. An alternate to murder: yoga! If you relapse I'll take you to a retreat.
Peter smiles. That was truly A+ blackmailing right there, something Peter believes Stiles learned from him. Stiles may pretend otherwise, but he's learned things from Peter as well, like how to wrangle free coffee out of baristas using only words and extremely subtle threats and how to intimidate somebody using only narrowed eyes and an eerie smile.
So perhaps kicking murder out of his hobbies for Stiles isn't such a bad compromise. He can't promise that the post-its will work forever and one day he won't just snap and strangle one of those children who run loose in stores tripping over his feet when they should clearly be on a two-feet leash, but he'll try. And for now, he's pretty sure that's enough for Stiles.
It is almost laughable how, when they are finally naked and touching and in the same room during all of this again, it all feels very much the same as before and different than before at the same time.
The concept, that's the bit that's familiar. Sex with Peter, that's not a new thing—but the way they touch, it seems like it's changed. It used to be a haze, a whirlwind of nails and teeth and rough touches, and now it seems—almost slower. Almost like this time, they're actually trying to savor it, to take time to pull each other apart. It feels more intimate than before, more real, like maybe this time it counts, and that's uncharted territory.
Stiles' hands curl around his neck, gripping the sweaty strands there, and hitches his ankles up to fold over the curve of Peter's ass. Their foreheads are pressed together and all Stiles sees is blue, blurs of icy blues from Peter's eyes close to his and warm parted lips brushing against his mouth. Peter's hips are rolling into him, steady and sure and rhythmic, not chaotic like Stiles remembers.
"I'm gonna come," Stiles whispers on his lips. He feels close to wrecked sobs being pulled apart like this with slow thrusts and even slower kisses, a stark contrast to the way Peter used to fuck him hard with vicious energy. He focuses on Peter's eyes and thinks he's doing this so he can watch Stiles come apart, so he can see him shake and shudder against Peter's frame and let himself go. Peter's cock drives back into him, nudging him prostate, and he bites his lower lip to smother a mewl.
"Go on," Peter says.
He clings on and his eyes fly open when Peter starts pumping his cock in time to his thrusts. Everything is slow, everything is tantalizing, like laying out in the grass on a lazy summer day, and Stiles is feeling things because of all of it. He grips Peter's hair and tries to gather the air in his lungs, and when he opens his mouth, what tumbles out is a gasped "I love you."
Peter's eyes flash; Stiles sees it like lightning. The hand on his hips tighten, and it seems like something he wanted to hear. Craved for, even.
"Again," Peter says, and Stiles delights in hearing that he's just as breathless as Stiles. "Say it again."
"I love you," Stiles says again, and then once more, feeling nearly high and giddy with the way Peter's hands are seizing him and keeping him impossibly close. "I love you. I love the way you smell, I love the way you fuck me. I love the way you frustrate the hell out of me."
These are things he feels he has to say, just so Peter will know. Surely he already does, surely he sees how he takes Stiles apart by the strings, surely even astronauts in outer space can see how gone Stiles has become, but saying it out loud feels important. Powerful. Real.
And then he opens his eyes and Peter is laughing, laughing as his hips stutter into Stiles, eyes crinkled and mouth wide. He's not laughing at Stiles, probably laughing at the ludicrousness of the situation itself, because after all, whodda thunk this is how it'll all turn out, but Stiles still pinches him.
"Stop," he tells him, pushing his nose up next to Peter's. "Say it too, asshole."
"You are the closest I've become to ever loving anything," Peter says, and he doesn't even stutter. It comes out cleanly, like a declaration he isn't ashamed of.
Again, Stiles still pinches him. "Better than that."
"You infuriate me," Peter tries again, and Stiles does it again. He squeezes the skin of Peter's hip between his fingers and now Peter's laughing him. The motherfucker never misses an opportunity to tease. "You send me that much closer to hell."
And okay, that makes Stiles laugh too. He doesn't remember laughter ever taking place in sex, at least not in the sex he's always lived by, and to be sitting here with Peter's hand on his dick and their mouths touching downright giggling is surreal. He grabs Peter's hair to ground himself, feeling his exhale slip out when Peter pushes his cock back into him.
"I'm gonna—fuck," Stiles takes another breath as Peter's fingers wrap around his dick, "I'm gonna kill you."
"I'd rather you not," Peter murmurs on his neck. He huffs out a sigh of faux exasperation, all show, and kisses his pulse point. "All right then, if I must. I do love you."
"Finally, you fucker," Stiles groans, his hips stuttering forward. "Now shut up and fuck me."
"Since you asked so nicely," Peter grins, and pushes in once more, harder this time, with more purpose. It makes Stiles sees stars, dead relatives, the works, and he reaches for the back of Peter's sweaty neck for something to hold onto as Peter hitches up his knees and his cock nudges his prostate.
Perfect, it's literally perfect. This is what being spoiled feels like, Stiles thinks. This is what it feels like to completely give himself over to the insanity of the situation, to the fact that Peter's in his bed and he's happy about it. Peter's hand is wrapped torturously around his dick, pulling him that much closer to the edge, and the pleasure and ludicrousness and magnificence of it all is almost dizzying.
He comes then, Peter's hips snapping into him and his mouth on his chest, leaving teeth marks on his way. He grabs onto the sheets to stay grounded as Peter keeps up his unrelenting pace, the hands on his knees keeping him in place. Stiles blinks away the last waves of his orgasm and focuses on Peter's face.
"You close?" he asks, even though he knows he is. He knows these things about Peter now, when he'll come, that the spot on his abdomen is particularly sensitive, when he likes to eat his breakfast.
Peter growls in response, not bothering to form words as he comes and his hips still. Moments like this, Stiles can't bother to feel bad about the fact that he's sexiled Scott yet again from the dorm, or that it took this long to get to this place. To him and Peter actually having meaningful sex. What a strange fucking sentence is that. It makes him want to laugh again.
"You'll be here tomorrow?" Stiles asks him as Peter pulls out, Stiles nearly falling off the bed at the movement. Peter snags him in by the waist at the last moment.
"Yes," Peter nods, tucking Stiles into his side. It's a bit too warm, a bit too sticky, and way too cramped, but Stiles is not interested in complaining.
"Oh," he makes a show of letting out a disappointed sigh. Peter raises his eyebrows. "I was hoping you'd be getting breakfast."
They undergo a short staring contest. Peter ultimately relents, leaning over Stiles to pick up his discarded shirt to clean himself up. Always, always Stiles' shirt.
"Fine," he huffs. "Do I have to come back with said breakfast?"
"Yeah."
"Fine," he agrees, and Stiles feels oddly at peace knowing he'll return.
Stiles is not a morning person. Peter is not ashamed to know details like this about the boy in his bed.
All right, so it's not his bed, as much as he'd like it to be. His own bed has room, and soft sheets, and silky pillows. And then there's Stiles' bed. Cramped, stiff, possibly built for a gangly toddler. Peter adjusts his back in the tiny spot of room he has secured for himself, Stiles grunting at the movement where he's draped over his chest. Somewhere, he can hear Derek laughing at him as he cuddles with a teenage boy. Peter's made his peace with that fact.
It's become painstakingly clear that Peter is actually in love. That he's somehow prey to the same emotions that humans are. He feels it every time a wave of protectiveness washes over him after Stiles drops by with scratches down his arm from the friendly lacrosse game he played with some classmates on campus, or when he feels the urge to hook his fingers through Stiles' belt loops when somebody winks at him in public, or when he looks at Stiles' cheek pressed into his chest in the morning light. He doesn't know who he was kidding. He will never be able to share this boy.
He kisses Stiles quickly on the neck, right over the purpled bruise he left a night earlier, and slinks from the bed with werewolf precision that keeps Stiles from awakening. The mattress croaks under him, so old there's probably the Black Plague hidden in the springs, and pads his way through the silent early morning dorm to find the bathroom.
He checks the clock on the hall wall on his way back, the hands indicating that it's not yet eight. Stiles' first class doesn't start until noon, so Peter thinks they can afford a slow morning with some rutting under the sheets. Maybe he can even convince Stiles to put on clothes and bring breakfast. Peter has some excellent persuasion methods he could use for such a cause.
He goes to slip back into his room, pausing when he overhears something that sounds like voices through the door. He hears the sound of the mattress moving, a low croak as Stiles probably shifts awake, and Isaac's voice speaks up. If he's in there to ogle Stiles' naked chest, Peter will have to intervene.
"—he sleep here?"
"Yeah," Stiles' groggy voice filters through the door.
All right, not ogling then, just gossiping about Peter. It gives him the ample opportunity to eavesdrop, leaning flat against the wall by the door to pick up on the conversation. Something in Isaac's voice sounds almost accusatory, almost disappointed, like the idea of Stiles entertaining Peter at ghastly hours of the morning highly disturbs him. Isaac really ought to get over himself, Peter thinks.
"Did you actually do any sleeping?"
Stiles' low chuckle sounds next, the type of satisfied laughter only created by those well sated by sex. The rustling of sheets, like Stiles is slowly sitting up, drifts through the wall.
"If you don't like the way I smell," Stiles says. "Go into the hallway, buddy."
Isaac sighs at that. Peter knows exactly what Stiles smells like. Come, sweat, a dash of sleepy happiness. Peter is quite proud, up until—
"He's a fucking stupid idiot for leaving," Isaac says abruptly, sounding a little clipped. "I'm surprised you let him come back."
Peter raises an eyebrow. He'd interrupt to put the fear of god into Isaac right now with one look alone if he wasn't more interested in hearing Stiles' response.
"Uh, I actually went after him," Stiles corrects him. He clicks his tongue as the realization seems to settle around Isaac.
"You did? Why?"
"Because I'm a stupid fucking idiot too," Stiles says, and the words sound like something straight from Peter's mouth. He flattens himself against the wall for a better angle as he focuses his hearing on the conversation.
"I can see that."
"Hey," Stiles snaps, sounding slightly more awake now. "You're not the king of good decisions either."
And that makes Peter have to smile, because taking Stiles for granted had probably been his biggest mistake in the past. Stiles knows that Peter is a bad decision, that with his bad head and Peter's bad heart they make quite the dysfunctional couple, but still, he wants to willingly fall down the rabbit hole. He's the smartest fool Peter has ever met.
"All I'm saying is," Isaac says, a little defensively, "if he leaves you again, I hope you have a plan."
That advice sounds a little back-handed to Peter, and his comment seems like his cue to step in and graciously court Isaac into the hallway, but Stiles speaks up before he can step inside and intervene.
"He won't," Stiles tells him firmly. He sounds challenging, like he's waiting Isaac to continue and dredge up more proof that Stiles is stabbing himself in his own stomach by giving Peter another chance, but his tone of utter certainty keeps Isaac quiet.
"What about you prepare some hoodoo so a hell hound can feast on his danglers just in case?"
"Nope," Stiles says, and there's a finality in his voice that Isaac decides to heed. The sheets shift once more, like Stiles has settled back down onto the bed again. "Now would you get out of here? You're ruining my morning glow."
Wow. Peter is a little impressed by now. This is why he eavesdrops, he thinks, to hear for the first time how much someone believes in him. Stiles might be delusional for trusting him so inherently with his heart, but damn if it doesn't feel like warmth bubbling in his chest to overhear him being spoken of so firmly, so surely.
Isaac huffs a little, just an annoyed exhale through his nose like he might as well give up on talking logic with Stiles, but he listens anyway and heads for the door.
Peter doesn't bother moving, shoulder leaning against the wall in nothing but a worn deep tee and a pair of dark red boxers, and Isaac freezes when he sees him waiting by the door. He gulps, almost audibly, and pushes his hand into his curls.
"Oh," he says, and his cheeks have the decency to turn pink. "You been here long?"
Peter's eyes meet his, letting him make the inference himself. "As much as I appreciate your offers to help Stiles make voodoo dolls and throw bad mojo my way," he says breezily, "a little faith would be more appreciated."
"You just don't have exactly the best track record," Isaac tells him. Peter shrugs, acquiescing.
"True," Peter says. He thinks about casually throwing out there that Isaac isn't exactly an angelic saint either, but decides to keep that to himself, if only to prove exactly how much of a new and improved, calmer person he is now. Less likely to commit murder, demolish a teenager's heart, etcetera, etcetera. He leans in, brushing specks of dust off of Isaac's worn shirt. "It's cute how you think I care about what you think."
He doesn't wait to continue the verbal sparring. Whatever Isaac still has left to say—nobody trusts you, Stiles is stupid for believing you, Scott's watching you closely—Peter doesn't care. Stiles isn't ashamed, not like he used to be, and he trusts Peter and actually wants to keep him, so Peter sees no reason to dole out apologies to everybody who has their doubts. Let them start a betting pool for all he cares.
He slips in past Isaac, making sure to shut the door behind him as he approaches the bed once more. There's Stiles, sprawled across the bed, leaving little space for Peter to worm his way in.
"Eavesdropping is a bad habit," he grumbles, voice thick with the clear desire to keep sleeping. Peter manhandles him to the opposite side of the bed to make room for him, slipping under the sheets.
"I said I would cut down on the felonies. I said nothing about bad habits," Peter says, nudging Stiles until his arm drapes back over his chest and his leg slings over Peter's, tucked over his knee.
"Aren't you going to thank me for protecting your honor?" Stiles says into his chest.
"Absolutely," Peter promises him. "How would you like me to show my appreciation?"
Stiles lifts his head from Peter's chest, the beginnings of a smirk on his mouth that he tries valiantly to hide. "How about ten thousand orgasms?" He suggests.
"Negotiable?"
"No," Stiles mumbles firmly onto his skin, lips warm.
"If I must," Peter says. He heaves a sigh. "It'll be a great burden on my part, but—I'll be a selfless Samaritan this once."
"I'll believe it when I see it."
And if Isaac is listening from the doorway, he doesn't bother them again for the rest of the day.
Standing in front of him, 6'1", blond-haired, gangly and a little too cocky to be attractive, is Peter's next murder victim.
It'd just be so easy, Peter thinks. All it would take is one swoop of his teeth down the guy's throat and he wouldn't be forced to watch him flirt unashamedly with Stiles right in front of him for one more second. It might horrify the surrounding students scattered about the campus and spoil this truly lovely day, but that's a small price to pay for no longer having to see Stiles chuckle at this wahoo's poorly executed jokes.
"I almost failed the class," the boy says, apparently at the end of a hearty story, and Stiles laughs in response. Peter is sure, downright positive, that is pity laughter.
"So what did you do?" Stiles asks.
"Are you kidding? I put in enough extra credit to make me pass. The class is tough, but the old geezer gives out a ton of extra credit."
Stiles laughs again at that, quite amused. Peter is the opposite. He curls his hands into white fists behind his back and puts on his most charming smile as he steps closer.
"Shit, sorry," Stiles says. He reaches out to snag Peter by the arm, circling his fingers around his wrist. It's still a little too casual for Peter's liking, especially when he can smell the steady waves of arousal crashing over him from the other side of the table. Grabbing Stiles by the lapels, throwing him on the table and biting down his chest might make his point. "This is Peter."
Peter. Just Peter. He thinks that easily could've been followed by something that would leave no room for error, something like my lover. Even my sugar daddy would get the point across.
"Hi," the boy says, and he flicks Peter a perfectly happy—albeit quite distracted—smile, like he doesn't sense the murder radiating off of him.
"And you are?" Peter asks him, making no effort to do so politely. The first sign of a frown slips into the boy's face.
"Oh," he says, apparently not expecting the cold greeting. He should be happy he wasn't stabbed across the table. "I'm a friend of Stiles."
"Lovely," Peter drawls, even though it's hardly lovely. His eyes flick down to where he can snatch a peek under the table and sees the boy's—one step closer to the grave every second, that one—feet pressing close to Stiles' sneakers, as if hoping to start a romantic game of footsie. Peter feels something like angry bees swarm up inside his chest, a rage promptly interrupted when Stiles yanks him down into the empty seat on the bench next to him.
And just like that, the boy's attention goes straight back to Stiles as if he's talking about finding a world wonder. It makes Peter see red, clouding over his whole vision, right up until Stiles squeezes his knee under the table.
This is a bit annoying, Peter thinks, more irked by the minute. He can't pinpoint which part is worse—the fact that Stiles could easily be the subject of this unabashed flirting every day, the fact that Peter ever encouraged this as if he could actually handle the idea of Stiles delighted by another man's flirting, or the fact that Stiles' pursuer doesn't even seem to be considering Peter as a threat. He barely spares him one glance, almost like Peter's too old or too grim or too much on his own side of the bench to warrant worry regarding Stiles' relationship status.
Peter scoots closer and contemplates the most discreet forms of murder. Stiles seems to read his mind and leans into him just a fraction, their thighs bumping together. Peter curls his arm around Stiles' hip, low and intimate and frustratingly hidden under the table, and Stiles stays oblivious to his hints.
"You're a little young to be in college, aren't you?" Peter asks him, interrupting what he's sure is a truly spectacular attempt to flirt Stiles out of his pants. He watches the boy's mouth fall open, and Peter waits with a cock to his eyebrow, as if waiting for him to challenge him with a comment about how Peter is too old to be on the campus.
Stiles shoots him a dark look at that, Peter matching it with a look twice as murderous.
"Sorry," Stiles says to the guy, because he's apparently not completely blind to Peter's hints. "I feel like I've hogged your entire afternoon."
It sounds like a courteous ending of a conversation, one Stiles' companion is blind to. Peter grits his teeth.
"Not at all, I love talking to you," he says, all bright teeth and coy grins. Peter feels the strong urge to throw his hands up into the air.
"Don't you have a class to be getting to?" Peter interrupts, and it sounds more like a threat than a question. Stiles pinches him in the leg.
"No," he says brightly, straight to Stiles.
"Really?" Peter persists.
The guy scowls, clearly disturbed by Peter's presence. Peter drives it home by leaning in to pull on Stiles' earlobe with his teeth, leaving a slow kiss behind his ear. Suddenly, the nauseating waves of arousal practically drooling out of the kid's mouth stop. Peter grins.
"Actually, I think I do," he sounds clipped now as he gets to his feet. He sends Peter a curt look loaded with ice, which Peter wordlessly one-ups with his trademark no one will find your disembodied limbs glare. "See you around, Stiles, yeah?"
"Yeah, sure," Stiles says, watching him passive-aggressively sling his bag over his shoulder while he stalks away, Stiles waving at his retreating back. He waits until he's out of sight, just far enough to no longer be seen, and turns to Peter.
Stiles pushes him bodily in the chest a moment later. "What's with the PDA in the middle of campus? Are we gonna be in the next Kanye West music video or what?"
"Don't act like you're bothered," Peter says. "I know you're turned on."
"You know where I prefer to be turned on? Behind closed doors where I won't end up on the front page of the university newsletter."
"How boring and completely unsurprising," Peter drawls, catching the elbow aimed for his ribs in his hand. "Apparently your new friend didn't think my affections were too obvious."
He waits for the retort, for the usual lecture in which Stiles defensively claims he is not boring, and how can Peter even say that after the thing with the whipped cream yesterday. Nothing comes, and when Peter looks at him, he's grinning.
"Oh my god," Stiles' beam is shit-eating. "You are so frickin' jealous. You are terrible."
"Please wipe that smarmy grin off your face."
"No," Stiles refuses flatly. If anything, his smile widens and his voice pitch goes high, squeaky, and horribly mocking. "Go find yourself a nice college boy's dick to suck, Stiles. I won't mind."
"That's a horrible impression of me."
"It sounds spot on to me," Stiles says. "What happened, huh? Mr. Tin Can grew a heart? Am I really that amazing in bed?"
"What you're amazing at is getting on my nerves," Peter grumbles. "How many times to you get hit on a day, exactly?"
"Oh, I don't know," Stiles says, practically singing. "I am young, hot and eligible, so I'd say maybe three bouquets a day and two romantic serenades." He pokes Peter in the chest. "Oh, plus there's this old guy at my dorm who keeps trying to sleep with me. Some facial hair, king of the v-necks, totally in love with me."
A child. Peter's dating a child.
"Are you done?" Peter asks, digging his nails into Stiles' knee.
"Not for a while," Stiles says. He sobers up a moment later to grab the hand on his leg. "I just never thought I'd actually see you jealous. I'm gonna revel in this for a while."
Peter compulsively smooths back Stiles' hair as the wind ruffles by them. "I'm incredibly possessive and horrible at sharing," he says. "And the idea of you with anybody else makes me want to leave bodies in my wake."
"That's so sweet," Stiles says dryly, squeezing his palm. "Most guys just try roses when trying to seduce people."
Peter laughs. "I don't need to seduce you," he says. "You already let me into your pants."
"I guess," Stiles admits. He gets to his feet, slinging his bag over his shoulders. "But it wouldn't hurt to maybe let a few guys hit on me while you're around if this is the reaction I get."
Peter rolls his eyes. The sun is sliding over Stiles' face in golden rays and licking up his cheeks through the shade of the waving leaves and Peter is amazed by how much he loves the stupid crazy boy in front of him.
"What?" Stiles asks a moment later when he catches him staring.
"Nothing," Peter says, shaking his head and watching Stiles squint at him through the sunlight. "You're insufferable."
He looks better now than he ever did before, Peter thinks, even when he was young and uncorrupted and delectable. There's something brighter about him now, an air of confidence or perhaps even a maturity, and Peter's insanely attracted to it. He gets to his feet as well, reeling Stiles in by the nape of his neck for a kiss. Stiles twists out of his grip at the last second.
"Hey, hey now," he murmurs, sweeping his hands over the busy campus. "Not in front of all of my admirers. I have to appear available."
"You're not nearly as funny as you think you are."
Stiles takes a break from the dorm during Thanksgiving, planning out an elaborate dinner that'll leave him hibernating for the rest of break with his dad. He drives Scott home on the way, dropping him off at his mother's and promising to check in with leftovers if there's extra pie at the end of the weekend, and then he's driving over to his dad's to commence the football and the binging of stuffing.
It'll be nice, he thinks, as he grabs his duffel from the back of his Jeep. He hasn't seen his father in a while, spending most of his time holed up at the dorm studying with Scott on campus or staying in bed with Peter. Maybe he can actually try to find a way to gently break the news to his dad during this visit that he's seeing someone a bit older and a bit more likely to break the law than expected if his father looks particularly complacent after stuffing himself with turkey.
He fishes his phone out of his pocket as he walks up the stairs to the front door, shooting Peter a text that says happy turkey day, hoping to tell my dad about you when he's drunk on food, and then tucks it away to grab his keys.
He walks through the door and there's Peter, jovially laughing with his father in the dining room like they're reuniting friends, and Stiles feels a bit like a mannequin accidentally brought to life as he watches them chat over bourbon. Surely this is an alternate dimension.
"Hello," Stiles says slowly, just in case his voice will break the mirage and he'll blink and there will be his trusty father awaiting his arrival alone, as expected. It doesn't work, and his gaze flits between Peter and his dad in panicked snaps back and forth.
"Stiles!" His dad calls out once he sees him, standing up from the table. He walks over to pull Stiles into a hug and grab the heavy duffel off of him, and over his shoulder he catches Peter smirking. Doesn't look good.
"Hello," Stiles says again for good measure, just in case he hasn't yet. "What's going on here?"
Like he needs an answer. Madness, that's what. He's not fully convinced that this is reality he's staring in the face.
"Oh, I just dropped by," Peter says, his voice dripping with the satisfaction that comes with being privy to information Stiles is not. "It was a pleasant surprise, finally meeting your father."
Screw what he thought before, he definitely needs answers. Hoards of them, like exactly what conversation transpired between them.
"You too," his dad says. Stiles tries to take in as much of the scene as possible—two open bottles of beer on the table, mostly empty, and Peter's sleeved rolled up to a comfortable point at his elbow. This illicit meeting went on for too long, clearly, long enough to expose some very fragile information. He tries to catch Peter's eyes, send him an SOS with the pure horror on his face, but Peter's looking at his father, all smiles.
"Well," Peter gets to his feet. He turns to the sheriff, voice polite as he extends his hand. "Great meeting you. Stiles clearly gets a lot from you."
And oh god, that could mean too many things. They both chuckle at that, Stiles' dad clapping Peter jovially on the shoulder. It is the perfect picture of peace, the sort of thing he'll regret not framing years later, and wonders just how strange it is to see them in each other's company. The man he's sleeping with, kept valiantly in the shadows, and his father the sheriff who is oblivious to exactly how many crimes the nefarious hooligan shaking his hand has committed. Stiles wonders if this moment will ever happen again.
"Make sure to stop by again sometime soon," his dad says. "I cook a mean meatloaf."
Peter smiles like this is an offer he's actually thinking of redeeming, and then he's turning to Stiles for his goodbye.
This is it, Stiles thinks, his ankles profusely sweating, this is when he finds out how much Peter let his father know. He waits for the Hollywood kiss or even a sharp smack on his ass, body immeasurably tense as it awaits its fate, and then Peter is coming up to him and stopping a healthy two feet away. His smile hasn't wavered except for the slightly mischievous quirk to the corner of his lips that wasn't there before, out of his father's view.
"And good evening to you too, Stiles."
And that's it. Not even a peck to the cheek or a cheeky tweak of his nose, just a smile and a slight tilt of his head. Stiles hears his footsteps head towards the door and realizes his lungs are still impossibly heavy because a part of him wanted very much for Peter to have spilled the secrets and for all of this to be out in the open, no longer hidden under sheets and whispers. No more rushing to keep his dad in the dark.
He excuses himself to the bathroom after that, hastily tripping over himself as he rushes up the stairs, and he scrambles for his phone once the door is closed behind him.
what did you tell him? he writes Peter frantically, thumbs slipping on all seven perfectly necessary question marks.
Nothing, is his answer a minute later, followed by the cold truth Stiles was avoiding. That's your job.
He was afraid of that.
"So."
"...so."
Stiles doesn't know where to begin. Probably with looking his dad in the face without turning beet red. Does he first broach the topic of their age difference, or his sneaking around, or how on earth they met in the first place. He doesn't think he could ever tell that story and still expect his father to roll out the nice china when Peter stops by for dinner.
"That was the guy, wasn't it?" His dad asks softly.
He tries to gauge his tone of voice as he stares at the table. Is there disappointment? Anger? Shame? He nods without breathing, and hears his father shift in his seat.
"Sorry I didn't tell you till now."
"You didn't," his dad points out. "He just showed up."
Right. Stiles can't tell if Peter has his best interest at heart or is trying to find numerous ways to torture him to test if his love is true. Stiles nods, feeling the shame pile up.
"He's quite a bit older," the sheriff points out when Stiles unsuccessfully tries to fiddle with words to find the ones most suited for gracefully explaining himself. "But Mrs. Privot already told me that."
Of course she did. Stiles wonders when her nosy bigoted eyes will stop feeling the need to stake out his house with binoculars.
He has no idea what to say next. He likes 'em that way, old and around the block a few times? He's sorry he didn't share the news? He's sorry he's so bad at explaining himself now?
His father seems to pick up on his tongue-tied silence. He leans in and puts a hand on his shoulder.
"Hey, look at me," he says gruffly until Stiles caves and looks up from that tiny stain on the carpet. He's smiling, a serene amusement in his eyes, almost like he's happy to take whatever Stiles throws at him in stride. Stiles wants to hug him. "It's okay if you want to date the queen of England. I just don't know why you couldn't have told me."
"Because, it's weird," Stiles groans. The image of Peter and his father chuckling together at the table flits through his mind again, and that's even weirder. "What was he even doing here?"
"Returning your inhaler, actually," the sheriff says, fishing around in his pocket for it. He hands it to Stiles.
"Oh."
"Look, I'm not saying this wasn't a curveball. But Stiles," he squeezes his shoulder while Stiles fiddles with his inhaler. "You're my son. You can tell me anything."
He looks up, and there are his father's eyes again, genuine and earnest just like he remembers his mother's being. Maybe he had written off the whole honesty business as hocus too quickly.
"You really don't mind?"
"Does he treat you right?"
Stiles plays with how his dad defines right in his head and decides nodding is better than getting into technicalities. "Yeah."
"Then I don't mind," the sheriff said. Stiles feels an overwhelming surge of fondness, of gratitude, and of relief wash over him and sweep all the doubt and worry away. He has the best dad ever.
"Okay," he takes a deep breath. "So if I can tell you anything, you should probably know... I'm pregnant."
He stays bafflingly straight-faced as he says it, nodding solemnly as his father's face, suspended in surprise, goes from shock to laughter in two kodak worthy seconds.
"You have to treat him right this time, you know that?"
Peter freezes where he's hunkered over Derek's coffee machine, listening to it sputter out his latte while Derek hovers behind him. This conversation sounds oddly reminiscent of a few weeks ago, of Derek telling him to be careful because Stiles has friends in high places. Peter has experienced the wrath of these friends, mostly in the form of Scott coming to his home to try and play relationship counselor, and thinks the intimidation ship might have sailed.
"Is that a threat?" Peter asks mildly over his shoulder.
"I'm just reminding you that you already screwed up once," Derek says, then seems to consider his wording. "More than that, if you count all those times you tried to kill him and his friends. And he won't always forgive you."
"How charming of you to think I am destined to wreck my own happiness," Peter murmurs. Derek has such a lovely, biting way with words. He grabs his coffee, taking a delicate sip from the hot surface. "Stiles and I are fine."
"Fine?" Derek repeats dubiously. Peter is honestly surprised that the conversation is going on for as long as it is, especially with Derek at the wheel, who Peter knows perfectly well is not a fan of Stiles cohorting with the likes of him. Why he wants all the details and to shed out the wise advice is beyond him.
"Better than," Peter says. And honestly, how could they not be, after Stiles cornered him in a super market to tell him he loved him? That sort of occurrence doesn't color his everyday life. He's a little smitten, not that he'd admit it.
The thing is, he thought they were good before. No strings attached, no meddling emotions, no long goodbyes. And then StilesandPeter 2.0 happened, and suddenly Peter knows how it feels to have someone consciously, actively love him. It's a little dizzying.
"So what now? It's more than just sex?" Derek prods. Peter looks at him.
"If you must know," he murmurs around the rim of his cup, "Stiles and I are very much in love." He pauses for reaction to take a sip and watches Derek's eyebrows vanish into his hairline. "This new curiosity of yours is interesting."
Derek says nothing, apparently too boggled to come up with a response or even more probing questions. Maybe his surprise is because he'd never thought Peter could love another human other than himself, or maybe he's having difficulty grasping that Peter is actually lovable, or maybe just hearing Peter admit a fact about his relationship with Stiles that isn't a breezy dismissal of their feelings is the reason for his shock. No matter why, Peter is a little offended. He furrows his brows together.
"What?" He grits out when Derek stays silent.
Because here's the thing. Even if he doesn't love him, even if his mind and his heart can't properly agree on identifying whatever it is that swells inside him into monsters of jealousy, protectiveness, arousal, even affection when Stiles is around, Peter still takes delight in him. A dangerous, precarious, and treacherous delight in the intoxicating idea of keeping him forever, of watching him being ruined and rise again, of being the reason his eyes never wander. That thought alone makes him feel powerful, so maybe Stiles was right. Maybe he is enough and always will be.
Derek holds his hands up in compliant defeat, but still, there's an amusement to his face that Peter finds incredibly annoying.
"Nothing," Derek says slowly. "Just impressed that you're learning to play nicely with others."
Peter smirks. "Trust me," he says, leaning in conspiratorially. "Stiles and I hardly ever play nicely together."
He emphasizes his statement with a lewd grin, letting Derek work the unspoken details out for himself. He does, his face wrinkling up.
"That's enough," he says gruffly, almost like he's the authority figure here. Peter disagrees. "You know I don't want to hear that."
"I do," Peter nods. "Which is why it delights me so much to share."
Peter's solution to the tiny bed problem is to haul a mattress the size of an independent island nation into Stiles' dorm room because as a spoiled child, he seriously underestimates the amount of free space available in budgeted college living.
"Sweet jesus," Stiles breathes as he watches Peter inflate it to its full size. "That will not fucking fit."
Peter shrugs, pulling away from the mouthpiece to catch his breath. "It will if we remove Scott's bed."
"I thought we decided removing Scott from my life wasn't an option."
They glare at each other across the floor, and it feels remarkably nice to joke about something that used to make his heart so heavy none of his other organs had room to breathe. He slides away from his desk, poking the mattress to feel how flat it is. Peter takes another breath and continues his work.
"Can't you go any faster?" He asks, watching Peter's chest puff up as he inhales and exhales into the hole again. The glaring continues, Peter's eyes going murderous, and the sight actually manages to prickle Stiles' midsection to life. He shakes his head to get rid of that thought and focus on the conundrum at hand: trying to fit a king-sized inflatable mattress into a dorm room that probably used to be a supply closet.
"Would you like to be the one doing the blowing?" Peter asks him as he pulls away to breathe again. He rolls his eyes, holding up a hand to stop Stiles' retort before it escapes his lips. "Never mind. I know exactly how filthy that mouth of yours is."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Not at all," Peter assures him, locking eyes as he fastens his mouth over the blowhole once more. They're basically interior decorating, it shouldn't be this damn arousing. Stiles gives it a good three, four, seven whole seconds of electrical eye contact before he swats Peter's hands away from the hole and frantically caps it. The mattress is still wobbly at best and wedged firmly between Scott and Stiles' beds, a humongous monstrosity that takes up all of the floor, and all Stiles wants to do is christen it as quickly as possible.
He flops down on the mattress, wavering underneath him from lack of air, and yanks Peter down on top of him by his shirt.
"Okay, we can keep the ginormous mattress," Stiles says, already feeling a little breathless. He probably should've put a sock on the door handle, even though that would be the fourth time this week and might be pushing his roommate privileges. "But only if we break it in right now."
Peter doesn't seem to mind.
"I can't find my socks," Stiles grumbles, picking up books and heaps of clothes in search for them. He's got his shirt on the wrong way and is in a rush to get to class, so he fixedly keeps his eyes north of anything that could distract him. Like Peter's naked chest in his bed and the rays of sunshine splashed on it. He's using the term bed loosely, since it's really just the air mattress that's nearly flat on the floor by now after all of their less than gentle usage of it last night.
"Just wear mine," Peter drawls.
"Really?" Stiles perks up. "You'd let me wear your socks?"
Peter shrugs like it's no big deal even as an overwhelming warmth washes over Stiles for reasons he doesn't have time to unravel. Peter kicks his leather duffel of overnight belongings in Stiles' direction.
It hits him then quite suddenly that there is a man in his bed that he wanted there from the beginning, that was supposed to be there for months. This is what he wanted, what he asked for even back in summer, and he has it. He should probably step in gum on the way to class just to balance out his debt with the universe.
"Hey," Stiles nudges Peter's feet from where they're under his sheets. "And you thought you wouldn't like coming to visit me."
"Right, because that sudden blast of Taylor Swift through the wall at four a.m. wasn't an inconvenience."
"You get used to it," Stiles says, pulling on a mismatched pair of Peter's socks. He pauses. "You know who Taylor Swift is?"
Peter furrows his eyebrows together. "How old do you think I am?"
"Ancient," Stiles answers promptly as he sets his sights on finding his shoes. "Tell me, how was the economy in the 1800s from a firsthand perspective?"
Peter grins. "Great, if you were... how do you youngsters say it?" He gesticulates lazily to the air. "Rolling in the dough."
This is why they work, Stiles thinks as he tries and fails to keep his snorts of laughter at bay. They could so easily be the same person, the same genetic coding for snark and banter, a fact Stiles was perpetually scared to admit. Fact is, anybody can become a murderer, regardless of how their chromosomes are lined up—it's the humor that counts. At least, that's the line of thinking Stiles has to entertain when he's actively dating a crazy man.
"We're dating, aren't we?" Stiles asks, slipping into his sneakers. It seems to sink in just then that this is what dating is. It's what they used to be doing as well, just under a different name and the clever pretenses of hotly correcting anybody who misunderstood that they were "just fucking, thanks very much."
"I'm not giving you my varsity jacket," Peter drawls instantly from the bed, navigating away from the question effortlessly.
"Do you have one?" Stiles asks, momentarily distracted by the thought of a younger Peter dribbling a basketball around a hoop while a coach watches him.
"I did," Peter says. "I worked hard for it on my team. Not like you kids do with lacrosse—"
"Stop hating on lacrosse," Stiles points a finger at him while he's lacing up his high tops. "Seriously though. Are we dating?"
Peter looks at him, a tilt to his head like Stiles is crazy, and for a second, Stiles feels so. Only a man clinically insane would ask Peter Hale what just left his mouth. A part of him wants to laugh at the hilarity of it all, because this is certainly not the plan he had for his life when he was fourteen and tentatively sketching out a future. He wanted a pretty girl and a pool, and maybe even a low maintenance pet. He still wants the pool.
"Obviously," Peter finally says. "Is that serious enough for you or should I just propose now?"
"Is it too late to take back that 'I love you?'"
"Much too late," Peter drawls, twisting on his side so Stiles' eyes catch the long, lean line of his back.
He looks so right stretched over his bed, in his room, surrounded by Stiles' things and his personality. It twinges something in him that doesn't think he could ever handle seeing his bed empty again, no longer smelling of Peter's cologne and tousled with his pushy feet. This is probably the type of dangerous thought one shouldn't entertain with a man proven to be more insane than logical, but Stiles decides to take a gamble on this one.
"Stay," Stiles says. He means here, now, and also a bit longer than that too. He must be suicidal. After all, one day they are all going to die, some more gruesomely than others, so he might as well just give up pretending he doesn't want Peter around.
"Well, you won't have to force me," Peter says. He grins. "The mini fridge is accommodating, the sheets are warm, the floor is soft enough to kneel on for hours..."
Stiles looks up to see his suggestively arched eyebrows aimed in his direction. It's a tempting offer, much more tempting than the idea of sitting in a stuffy lecture hall doodling dolphins in the margins of his notebook.
"That might have to wait," he says, regretfully so as he glances at the clock and realizes that his leisurely stroll to class has now been upgraded to an undignified run.
Peter tuts. "Then if you want me to stay, you will, however, have to meet my outrageous demands."
"Uh huh, what are those?"
"Chocolate fountain. Ice sculpture. All purely for sexual use."
Stiles fumbles with his backpack strap at that. He's not sure how he's supposed to mosey off to class with some of these visuals in his head, but he's already tremendously late and feeling hopelessly torn in two directions—honest education and returning back to a cozy bed that happens to have a naked man in it. Scott's going to love this when he comes back from class unprepared for the one hundred percent naked dick wandering around his room.
"I'll have my people talk to your people," he says slowly as he hitches his bag over his shoulders. Peter looks perfectly comfortable on his mattress, rifling through his nightstand and leafing through his books, but Stiles still wants to make sure he'll be here when he comes back. He pokes him in the calf. "Hey. If you're gone when I come back I'm going to find you, and cut off your balls."
"A serious threat, considering how much you love my balls," Peter murmurs, and when Stiles' hard gaze doesn't relent, he sends him a smile. It looks like one Stiles has never seen before, no quirk of mischief present or even a hint of malice. It looks startlingly genuine, and that hits Stiles like a waterfall over his head. "I'll be here."
Stiles believes him. He has little to no reason to, but he takes a leap of stupid faith and does. He nods and waves goodbye with a two-fingered salute, and then he's out the door ready to take notes and pay attention in his lecture. Well, maybe not that last part.
He comes back two hours later with espressos in paper cups and doughnuts, and when he opens the door, there's Peter, sitting at Stiles' desk in actual jeans and a frown.
"The noise levels here are atrocious," he says once Stiles comes in, not bothering to look up from the history paper Stiles wrote last month. "The walls must be made of prosciutto."
"You're here," Stiles says. He drops his backpack and wanders precariously over the inflated mattress on the floor without spilling espresso. He should've known Peter would stay, especially with so much stuff to rifle through and spy on in Stiles' absence, but still. He's here.
"Where else would I be?" Peter asks, and looks up from the paper. He sees the bag of goods in Stiles' hand and grins. "I smell espresso."
"Earn it," Stiles says, mirroring his grin. Peter chuckles, getting up from the desk and grabbing Stiles by the collar. He didn't leave, he wanted to stay. He wants Stiles. Stiles doesn't wait, just pulls him in by the back of his neck and kisses him.
Gardening gloves in hand, Mrs. Privot watches as the gentleman she had become accustomed to seeing leap out of the Stilinski house window like an underdressed cat burglar strolls nonchalantly out the front door. It is a pleasant thing tosee, having never seen it before, and she is quite relieved knowing that the man could and did exit houses in ways that didn't urge her to call the police.
She hasn't seen him around for some time, but she had assumed it was because the sheriff's son had shipped off to university. Mrs. Privot may have the reputation of being the neighborhood gossipmonger, but make no mistake, Mr. Stilinski was as chatty as the rest and had informed Mrs. Privot of his son's departure to college through no prodding of her own.
"And how has his boyfriend taken the news?" she had asked at the time, and then proceeded to watch as the sheriff's mouth fell upon and cheeks turned ashen. It was upon further clarifying "the one he's been passionately sharing public affection with on your porch" that she realized she had just shared a grave secret, and promptly excused herself on behalf of her tulips requiring maintenance.
In truth, the man Mrs. Privot had seen with Stiles had reminded her of her son. They had similar facial features, and a similar tendency for making out with their male companions on the front lawn, and as strange as it seemed, watching similar scenes play before her from the view of her window brought a sense of nostalgia awash in her chest. She remembered all too well the days when she would stumble upon her boy necking with another on the couch, and wondered if that day would be soon to come with the oblivious Mr. Stilinski who was kept in the dark of his son's relationship.
Five days after her unfortunate slip of the tongue, she ran into the sheriff once more at the mailboxes. He had the weight of a man enlightened on his shoulders, and he even dared to ask, "The fella you've seen my son with. Do you know who he is?"
Mrs. Privot knew not. All she knew of the man was the remarkable agility with which he leapt from a two-story window from. The look in the sheriff's eyes made clear that although he had confronted his son on the matter of his illicit boyfriend, he had received little details. Mrs. Privot felt bad for the man.
"He's an older gentleman," she told him, knowing not much else. "But I've not seen him here much before."
The sheriff's eyebrows knitted together in displeasure. "Older?"
Mrs. Privot watched the discomfort grow on his face, and thought him quite judgmental. She told him so. "There's nothing to be concerned about with that. My husband was nearly seventeen years my senior when we married."
Her husband had been dead for eleven years now, the downside of being so far behind his race to the grave, but Mrs. Privot did not mention this particular disadvantage of dating older men out loud. After all, her marriage had been happy, and from the spying she was doing from her garden, Stiles was as well.
She did not see Stiles again until Thanksgiving rolled around and the only yard work she was doing was raking leaves rather than planting flowers. He looked just as young and spritely as ever as his rickety Jeep rolled up the driveway after a long drive from campus, and when he saw Mrs. Privot in the yard, he half-heartedly acknowledged her presence with a wave.
"Hello, Mrs. Privot," he called across the street. He seemed uncomfortable, as he perpetually was whenever speaking with her, as though expecting her to beat him over the head with a large book. Mrs. Privot only ever did that with the ruffians who thought it amusing to steal her gardenias. "How are you?"
"Just fine, thank you," she hollered back. "Enjoying your break?"
He swayed from foot to foot as he grabbed a large duffel from his backseat and occupied himself with it. "Yeah. Nice to be home."
"And you didn't bring your boy with you?"
That caused Stiles to snap his head up toward her, suddenly alert. He seemed utterly taken aback, like he hadn't been prepared for the question about his personal life. Mrs. Privot took offense to that. She made a point of asking all the rugrats in the neighborhood how life was treating them at least once a year; there was no reason to be shocked when she showed polite interest in the details of their lives.
"Uh, no," Stiles said, apparently lost for words. He was looking at her as if she'd grown a second head.
Patiently, she rested her arms on her rake. "Has your father still not met the man?" She firmly believed that a strong relationship with family was the key to any successful romance. Mrs. Privot remembered all too well from her youth that all it took was one overly protective mother or a judgmental father to sour a teenage spark.
"No, no… he's met him," Stiles told her. "A little surprised, but it was okay."
"He's just old-fashioned," she called back. It had taken quite a bit of prodding on her end to swat the idea that May-December romances have trouble written all over them out of his father's head. Still, people were good at adapting. She had high hopes for the Stilinski family. "Anyway, have yourself a nice Thanksgiving."
With that she waved her gardening glove in his direction alongside her bright smile, Stiles still surveying her as a mutant of this planet. It didn't occur to her until Stiles had trudged his bags up the front steps and been welcomed with a fatherly hug that Stiles' shock had probably been at her blasé attitude concerning his boyfriend. There's a good chance he had been stereotyping her to disapprove of gay relations and be racist to boot, and that, Mrs. Privot thought, was downright ageist.
Months passed before Stiles' boyfriend appeared once again in the neighborhood, their relationship probably adjourning to a dorm room until Christmas holidays swung around and Stiles returned home. The man arrived fairly late at night, presumably to stop by for a cup of cocoa and a feel-good Christmas film, and Mrs. Privot watched him roll into the neighborhood in a sleek black car well after supper was over.
She made the snap decision to grab her wool coat and leave the house then for a small chat, wrapping her gloves over her hands and wobbling out into the snow. It crunched underfoot when her winter slippers slid on the icy patches, and she troddled all the way to the end of her driveway.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice strong through the quiet snow-laden night. The man turned his head. "Yes, you."
She crooked her finger toward him, beckoning him over. He seemed amused by the idea of conversing with her, therefore wrapping his coat around his chest and crossing the street to stand next to her on the driveway. Up close, he was a very handsome man, with a strong jaw and a well-built figure. He reminded her very much of her son, as with him too, she had to draw herself up to her full height just to reach his collarbone.
"Hello," the man said smoothly, all old world charm. Definitely a bit older than Stiles, but Mrs. Privot was not one to judge and would not start now. "You must be Mrs. Privot."
She cared not for what information he had heard of her through the neighborhood or through Stiles himself, so she passed the formalities quickly.
"Are you the man who's been entertaining Stiles recently?"
His eyebrow arched up, just one. He was certainly a very elegant man, the very opposite of the small, fidgeting, nervous child across the street. She hoped dearly that they could balance each other out. Those relationships, she knew, were often the healthiest, the strongest, even if they were also the most infuriating.
"Yes," he told her slowly, clearly unsure of where this was going. She was not fond of the look on his face like he was expecting a thorough telling off and to be led inside for a few instructional readings of bible verses.
"Don't fret," she told him to assuage some of his concerns that she was planning to loudly judge him in the middle of the street. "I'm only here to tell you to be careful with him."
"With Stiles?"
"Yes," she drew her coat further around her tiny frame, feeling the cold penetrate her gloves. "Not that he's weak, but he's a fragile sort. Lost his mother very young, often seems a bit high strung. I say this only because I've seen you jump from his window at ghastly hours of the morning quite a few times and can only assume you're a permanent fixture in his life at this point, so make sure you take care of him."
The man looked at her, apparently surprised just as Stiles. Mrs. Privot didn't know where these stereotypes of elderlies being bigots came from, but she was willing to entertain it for now until the end of the conversation.
"All right," he said, and Mrs. Privot hoped he was the type who was true to his word. The rest were never worth affiliating with. "I will."
She nodded, and he nodded, and then he set off across the street and she returned to her cozy house where the heating was cranked up to rival Floridian summer. She watched from the safety of the window as she put the kettle on how the man knocked on the front door, greeted the sheriff, and slid inside into a house bathed in golden evening light.
Fast forward to spring, back to the garden as Mrs. Privot prepares to replant her bulbs. She's watching as the man walks toward his expensive black car propped up in the driveway. She checks the watch dangling off her wrist, presuming that he and Stiles just enjoyed a lunch date they kept, probably sitting out on the patio to enjoy the first hints of warmth without frost there to spoil the afternoon.
Two seconds later, Stiles emerges from the front door, ambling out after his boyfriend to call for him to stop. He calls him Peter, which Mrs. Privot thinks is a name that fits his handsome face perfectly.
He murmurs something to the man, something quiet that seems to make both of them smile, and Mrs. Privot looks fixedly at her handful of seeds, sensing a moment too intimate for her onlooking eyes. She busies herself roughing up dirt for the new flowers, only looking up when Stiles is leaning in to kiss Peter goodbye. It is a long kiss, the kind that Mrs. Privot notices even from a distance is the kind they have clearly shared many times before, and it is reluctantly that Peter pulls away and slides into his car. Stiles stays in the driveway to wave him off, watching his car slide out of the neighborhood, and his eyes fall on Mrs. Privot across the street as he rolls away. She waits for the inevitable tensing of his shoulders and is met instead with a bright grin.
"Hey, Mrs. Privot," he calls over, clearly in happy spirits. She would be too after such a kiss. "Lovely day."
"It is," she agrees. "Even lovelier for you, I see."
He smiles and makes no move to duck his head and shuffle his feet. Gone are the days of being so ashamed of his companion he was forced to exit the house from the second floor window. He seems quite at peace with the relationship, if not proud, and Mrs. Privot smiles back.
"Is it going well with him?" she asks next, even though she feels quite strongly she knows the answer.
"It is," Stiles answers. She smiles at him, and he smiles back. "Better than I ever could've imagined."
He looks content, awed and relaxed and quietly happy, and that's enough for Mrs. Privot in terms of gossip. She's sure they're relationship is quite the story, but as far as she's concerned, it's the present that matters most.
fin