>Are you sure you’re okay there? Lydia’s concern radiated through her text.
Stiles sighed and rubbed his palm across his face and figured he had to answer Lydia before she called. Stiles really didn’t feel like trying to stumble his way through a conversation — not even with Lydia. The talk he’d had with his landlord a couple of days earlier had completely drained him even despite the extensive paperwork he had done beforehand. He knew he couldn’t handle more human interaction anytime soon.
Dutifully, he picked up his phone and tapped her a message.
>Super tired but fine. Got the mattress today. Need to buy food.
Fifteen seconds later, his phone beeped again.
>Buy fruits and bread too. Don’t you dare live on coffee and ramen!
>Yes Ma-am, he texted back, tossed the phone on the mattress behind him, and dropped his head in his hands.
He was dead tired.
It had been a grueling couple of weeks, starting from moving out of Beacon Hills and ending with Stiles sitting on a mattress in a bare apartment in Deliverance, California. Or, well. In truth, it had started way earlier, but Stiles didn’t want to think about that.
He didn’t want to think about anything.
Sighing again, he pushed himself up, picked up his wallet and keys, and made it to the door.
His apartment wasn’t a big one, just a studio with a kitchen corner and a nook for his bed. The only furniture he had was the mattress on the floor and a table by the window. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for him. Perhaps he might later get a bookshelf or a potted plant or something. Or perhaps not.
There were some boxes stacked in the corner and a duffle that held his meager set of clothes and his laptop.
He hadn’t even opened the laptop yet. He couldn’t.
Moving into Deliverance had been a whim. After everything, Stiles couldn’t stay in Beacon Hills and, as soon as the insurance money had come in, he had marched into the library, opened the map of California, closed his eyes, and poked his finger on a random spot. It had hit Deliverance.
If he’d been able to laugh, he would’ve. Life had a biting sense of irony.
The others had promised to help him find a new place, to shop furniture, and bring him food, but Stiles had shot them all down. He hadn’t wanted their wide-eyed pity or the awkward smiles and shifty glances which was why he’d never told them about his plans. He’d made his preparations in literal silence, rented the apartment, packed up his Jeep in the little hours of the night and vanished without a word.
Scott had called him about a dozen times and bombarded his phone with increasingly demanding texts until Stiles had gotten pissed and turned his phone off. He’d bought a prepaid the next town over and ended up giving the new number to Lydia. She’d proven to be the only sensible one of the people he’d left behind, which was the reason she was the only one he communicated with.
She was also the only one who knew his address and was marked as his next of kin in case of an emergency.
After all, there was no-one else.
Deliverance was smaller than Beacon Hills with just over 20,000 residents. It seemed nice enough, as much as Stiles had bothered to look into it before moving in. From what short glimpses he had gotten so far, the streets and parks looked well maintained and no one had tried to mug him yet.
On his moving day, Stiles had spotted a small grocery store just around the corner. He was pitifully grateful he didn’t have to walk further to get his OJ and Fruit Loops, even though small stores always were in the high risk of chatty personnel who learned to know their regulars too quickly. Thankfully, the clerk behind the counter wasn’t in the mood of inane small talk so Stiles managed to slink in and out with a nod and a wan smile.
He walked back slowly, biting his lip to stay awake. The fatigue felt like fog around him; gray and seemingly solid, weighing him down. He wondered if he’d ever get enough sleep to clear it off.
He was so wrapped up in his own head that he didn’t realize there was a full-on row on the door of the apartment next to him until he was trying to insert his key to get inside his apartment.
”No, no, uncle, you can’t stay here all by yourself!” an exasperated female voice called out.
”Fuck,” was the only thing she got as an answer.
Stiles jerked his head up and peered to his side at a woman in her twenties trying to hold back a man from opening the door. He definitely didn’t look like anyone’s uncle, unless they came as underwear models. The man looked up and narrowed his eyes at Stiles who ducked his head and redoubled his efforts to open his own door.
”Don’t swear at me,” the woman hissed, visibly embarrassed about having an audience. ”I don’t like it. Why can’t you just say something else?”
”Fuck,” the man stubbornly answered. ”Fuck, fuck, fuuu-uuck.”
”Yeah, whatever,” the woman said. He sounded as tired as Stiles felt. ”I still can’t leave you here alone, uncle Peter!”
When Stiles glanced at him from the corner of his eye, the man — Peter — cocked his head, nodded at Stiles and huffed, ”Fuck.” Then he crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at the woman with a slight sneer.
”You’re unbelievable,” the woman snarled.
Peter’s mouth drew into a smirk and he raised a brow, inclining his head at Stiles. In the pale light of the corridor, Stiles saw a starburst scar on the left side of his head.
The woman seemed to realize that, this time, the brow wasn’t directed at her and she whirled around. ”Sorry, sorry!” she hurried to say. ”He’s got aphasia and that’s the only word he knows. I swear he’s… mostly harmless.”
Peter used the opportunity to dart into his apartment and slammed the door on the woman’s face.
”Fuck,” she swore, then seemed to catch herself. ”Sorry,” she offered, a bit sheepishly. ”It seems that fondness for that particular word runs in the family.” She shook her head and sighed. ”I’m Laura and that charming fellow was my uncle Peter.”
She seemed to wait for some reaction, but Stiles had no idea what she wanted. Unperturbed, she started rummaging her purse for paper and pen and said, avoiding eye-contact, ”Look, I know this is awkward, but could you by any chance keep an eye on him? You know… give us a call if something happens?”
She shoved a paper with hastily scribbled name and number at Stiles and took off before Stiles managed to say anything. Like that he didn’t really talk anymore.
For some reason, he still saved Laura’s number on his phone.
There were four contacts now: Lydia, Melissa McCall, Beacon Hills police station, and Laura.
That night, he had yet another nightmare. The only new thing was the banging on the wall that woke him up.
He didn’t sleep much after that.
His days were pretty much the same: get up, take a shower, eat something, take a walk, come back, eat something, go to bed.
Next day, rinse and repeat.
In some way, he wasn’t sure why he bothered. It wasn’t like he had anywhere to go or anything to do. It was routine. Something his dad would’ve been proud of.
He tried not to think about his dad.
Peter was a quiet man. Apart from an occasional FUCK! Stiles didn’t hear anything from Peter’s apartment. If they didn’t meet daily in the stairways, Stiles would’ve thought Peter had moved out.
Peter was an early riser and seemed to like his morning routines: he went for a jog every day and usually got back around the time Stiles went for his walk. He always nodded at Stiles and sometimes even offered a cheery ”Fuck!” as a greeting. Stiles wasn’t sure how to respond, but he decided he could at least show some manners and give a small smile and a nod in return.
Besides, it gave him a reason to shoot Peter a quick once-over. He was pretty sure Peter noticed, but what was he going to do about it? Swear at him? Stiles almost snickered at his own wittiness.
He missed the delighted look in Peter’s eyes.
>Scott asked for your number again.
Stiles stared at the screen for a moment and wondered what to say. He knew Lydia wouldn’t give his contact information without his explicit permission, but she could always pester him until he caved. So far, she hadn’t, but it might change anytime.
His phone beeped a new message before he had managed to compose an answer to her previous text.
>Are you ever coming back home?
Stiles sighed and closed his eyes for a moment before texting, >Don’t have one, remember.
>You know what I mean.
He did, but that wasn’t the point. Beacon Hills simply didn’t feel like home anymore.
>Sooner or later, he’s going to find you, you know?
>Yeah.
He made a cup of coffee — a quality coffee maker was a thing he’d indulged himself — and stared at his phone, waiting for Lydia’s next message. he knew she wouldn’t give up this easily. She made a point to have a decent conversation during her weekly check-ins, and she would harass him until she felt he’d been social enough.
The next message came after a long break, Lydia’s way of letting Stiles know she had changed the topic.
>Have you thought about colleges yet?
Aww, shit, no. Was she honestly going to put him through this? His answer was short but on point: >No.
>There are several with decent online courses. You should choose soon.
>Why bother?
In truth, Stiles wasn’t that bullheaded: he knew exactly why Lydia kept nagging. Then again, he figured that if he pretended to be an idiot about the college issue, Lydia would leave him alone on more personal matters.
Or, one could always hope.
>Don’t be a moron. Even if you didn’t want to interact with the rest of humanity anymore, you shouldn’t just bury yourself in self-pity and bad coffee. You are worth more than that.
Despite his exhaustion, Stiles grinned.
>It’s good coffee. I have a coffee maker now.
>Great. I’ll send you some names to research, even though I think Berkeley would probably suit you best. But anyway, you better have at least two picked by my next check-in.
He stared at the message and swallowed.
It took him three days to gather the courage to open his laptop.
He took one look at the wallpaper of him and Dad doing monkey faces at the camera at the BHPD’s Christmas party last year and ran into the bathroom to throw up.
Peter had picked up the habit of offering Stiles a wide smile as they passed each other in the stairway and on one memorable occasion, he even helped Stiles carry his groceries. Stiles almost said thanks.
One morning, Stiles awoke from his bleary slumber into banging on the door. Before his brain had time to kick in and question how smart a choice it was to open the door, he had already shuffled to the door and opened it.
”Fuck,” Peter said with a small smile, cocked his head and raised a brow, pointing behind his back with his thumb.
Stiles opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. ”I— I—no—” he stammered and winced. Closing his eyes, he swallowed and breathed in and out a couple of times before trying again.
This time, he couldn’t manage even a syllable.
Peter narrowed his eyes and leaned a bit forward with an intense look on his face. Stiles wanted to turn away and hide, but something in Peter’s gaze locked him in place.
After a moment, Peter asked softly, ”Fuck?”
Stiles dropped his gaze into his toes and shrugged. It was as good an answer as any.
They shared the silence for a moment, Stiles staring at his toes and Peter standing right in front of him. Finally, Stiles saw Peter holding out his hand. When he glanced up with a frown, Peter was calm and looked like he could stand there for the rest of the day, waiting for Stiles.
Stiles recognized stubbornness when he saw it.
Hesitantly, he reached out. Peter’s hand was dry and warm and his hold anchored Stiles.
He decided he liked the feeling.
Stiles didn’t remember much about that first walk together. When he thought back, he caught brief glimpses of silent neighborhoods, of dogs barking or a plane flying overhead, but most of all, he remembered the sense of being safe for the first time in a long, long time.
After, Peter returned him to his doorstep, inclined his head in what seemed oddly like a formal bow, and turned to his own apartment. Stiles went in, closed the door behind himself, and leaned against, wondering what had happened and what it all meant.
The next day, Peter smiled widely at him in the stairway and Stiles offered a small one back.
It felt like a beginning of something.
Slowly, Peter taking him out for a walk became a thing. It started as once a week activity and gradually grew into a daily routine that got him out of the bed. Peter seemed to have a preternatural sense of when Stiles was having a worse day than usual and he always took Stiles for a slower, longer walks that included a stop in the park and sharing a granola bar. He wasn’t bothered if Stiles’s breath hitched and his hands started to shake; he just held out his hand palm up between them and offered support, gripping Stiles’s hand tight in his until the shaking started to subside.
They didn’t talk. At least, not in words. Peter’s vocabulary consisted on one swearword and Stiles himself was yet to utter one proper word since moving in Deliverance, but it didn’t matter. They shared silence, some stilted smiles, and shrugs, and that was enough.
Sometimes, Stiles wondered what made Peter so brave. He walked at a leisurely pace, almost prowling, and held his head high. He didn’t care about the odd looks they received every now and then, the whispering prompted by them holding hands, or the judgmental frowns his swearing earned him. He noticed them but shook them off with a smirk like a dog shakes off water from his fur.
When Stiles frowned and gave him a confused look, Peter shrugged in the universal gesture of ’Well, what can you do?’ and winked.
Sometimes, Stiles wondered how it would feel like, to be that brave again.
>I took flowers to the graves, Lydia texted one day.
Stiles couldn’t answer her but it was okay. He knew she’d understand.
One day in late summer, when Peter knocked on his door again, he didn’t take Stiles for a walk. Instead, Peter stopped at his own door, opened it, and waited.
Stiles blinked several times, unsure of what to do. So far, they hadn’t visited each other’s apartments, unconsciously unwilling to cross some invisible boundaries. Stiles had sometimes wondered how Peter lived, but Peter himself had never shown any interest in it.
Why did Peter want him in his home? Should he accept the invitation? And would Peter be offended if he declined?
Stiles bit his lip and shot Peter a glance from the corner of his eye. Peter was watching him calmly and seemed to understand his hesitation. He pushed the door open wide, walked in, and pointed at his kitchen.
”Fuck,” he said softly, waiting for Stiles’s reaction.
Unable to quell his curiosity, Stiles followed him.
When he saw a pot on the stove and the table set for two, he stopped. Wide-eyed, Stiles stared at the table and then at Peter and pointed at himself, asking, me, really?
Peter gave him a soft smile and rolled his eyes. He stepped closer and with gentle fingers, raised Stiles’s chin to give him a serious look. He pointed at the table and then at the door and finally pressed his palm on Stiles’s chest, raising his brows.
Stiles swallowed and nodded. Eat or leave, your choice.
Peter had never given him any reason to be wary of him, on the contrary. He had always made sure Stiles was comfortable, that he was feeling safe. He tried to think like his dad had taught him, about the pros and cons of being in a relative stranger’s apartment, about how he could get out if he needed.
Finally, he looked Peter in the eye and nodded.
He was sure he saw a glimpse of relief in Peter’s eyes.
The food was delicious, a savory stew with big chunks of vegetables and meat. Stiles wasn’t sure if it tasted so good because of the company or because it had been weeks since he’d last eaten a proper meal. He practically inhaled his portion and offered a sheepish smile when he burped. Peter laughed, shook his head, and refilled his plate.
The second portion tasted just as good as the first one.
After they’d eaten, Peter shooed him out of the kitchen while he did the dishes. Stiles took it as permission to be nosey and wandered off to look around.
Peter’s apartment was bigger than Stiles’s studio; it was a one-bedroom flat with a small living room and an even smaller bedroom. However, unlike Stiles’s still bare and unfurnished flat, it looked homey and lived-in, what with a comfortable-looking couch, one wall filled with books, and a cozy armchair by the window with a floor lamp arching over its shoulder.
It was warm and inviting.
Drawn to the bookcase, Stiles traced his fingers across the spines of Peter’s books, dancing over the familiar ones and stopping to read the intriguing new titles. He wondered if Peter would let him borrow some of the books. After all, Stiles's inability to speak didn’t affect his love of reading, and perhaps new books would even help him to sleep.
He picked up some interesting volumes and made his way to the armchair. Folding his legs under him, he started leafing through the books, reading a line here and another there, feeling full both in body and mind.
He didn’t mean to doze off, but the soft clinking from the kitchen and the easy atmosphere lulled him to sleep.
He startled awake some time later, disoriented and stiff and a faint smell of smoke lingering in his nose. For a short moment, he panicked in the strange room, until he saw Peter sitting on the couch. He spared Stiles a small smile and continued what seemed like coloring an elaborate mandala with different shades of blue and green. It looked calming.
Stiles spent a good amount of time just sitting and watching Peter who gave no indication he had noticed the way Stiles had jerked awake or how he was still a little shaky.
It felt oddly comfortable.
It was getting dark when Stiles finally went home with the three books he had picked earlier. Peter had handed him the books before he’d even had the chance to figure out how to ask. That, and Stiles’s need to make sure Peter understood how much the afternoon had meant to him, made him stop by the door. Turning to look at Peter, he licked his lips and swallowed.
”Th—a—” he started and stopped, frustrated. Why couldn’t it just work? Why was it so hard to push out a couple of words when he barely shut up before? Annoyed at himself, he gritted his teeth as the letters fought him as he forced them out. ”Tha—you.”
Peter reached out his hand, gently cupped Stiles’s cheek, and gave one solemn nod.
It was a fleeting touch, but it lingered on his skin until he went to bed.
He didn’t have nightmares that night.
After his initial freak-out with his laptop wallpaper, Stiles had changed it into a generic MacBook background. Perhaps one day, he’d be able to look at himself and dad, but that wasn’t now. In a moment of weakness, he’d let Lydia bully him into enrolling to Berkeley and he’d even taken a look at their Sciences, Mathematics, and Biotechnology online courses. Of course, if he wanted an actual degree, he’d have to attend in person at some point, but he didn’t need to think about that yet.
Baby steps, as they say.
He also gave in to his curiosity and started researching the reasons behind aphasia and how to communicate with people suffering from it. As far as Stiles was aware, Peter had no problems understanding conversations and he could participate to a certain degree through facial expressions, body language, and several different ways intoning ”fuck.” Stiles wasn’t sure how much Peter could read since he’d never seen him actually reading anything, but considering the amount of books in his apartment, Peter had been an avid reader at some point in his life.
Stiles had no idea what had happened to Peter and he didn’t need to know. The scar on his left temple told him enough.
Stiles never told Lydia about Peter, but she still sensed something was different.
>You sound happier, she texted him a couple of weeks after the first dinner at Peter’s.
There had been several more after that, and they always ended the same, with Stiles dozing off on the armchair and Peter coloring his mandala book. It was easy and domestic, and Stiles had learned to prize the moments.
>I think I am, he answered.
>Just because, or because of someone special?
Stiles thought long and hard how to answer that. He didn’t know what this thing between him and Peter was. Were they dating? Were they friends?
In the end, he went with a simple, ’Maybe.’
>Maybe is good. :)
And that was it. The beauty of Lydia was that she actually knew when to back off.
However, she got Stiles thinking.
The next time Stiles woke up on the armchair, he cocked his head and took his time looking at Peter. He was leaning on the couch armrest, sitting cross-legged and relaxed, focused on his coloring book with a slight frown between his eyes. At times, he tilted his head this way or that way and spent a good amount of time contemplating between two different shades, lips pursed and eyes narrowed, as if the pencils had somehow disappointed him.
Stiles let his eyes trace the scar on his temple, the line of his jaw and the arch of his lips to the well-groomed goatee framing his chin. He followed the tendon on Peter’s neck to the shadow of his collarbone and lost himself in the way a tiny bit of chest hair peeked from the V of his shirt and how the muscles on his torso rippled when he reached for another pencil from the table beside the couch.
When Stiles finally dragged his gaze back to Peter’s face, Peter was watching back at him with a small, amused smile. Embarrassed about getting caught, Stiles blushed ugly red and hastily averted his eyes.
What the hell had been thinking, practically undressing Peter with his eyes like a creeper?
Stiles bit his lip and swallowed. Sure, he’d always known he was an equal opportunity kinda guy, but it wasn’t like he actually knew what he was doing. He’d never been popular enough to have the chance to learn and to avoid totally embarrassing himself, he’d settled in the safe-ish role of a comic relief.
It didn’t mean he didn’t want, though.
He was jerked from his thought when Peter sighed and stood up. Stiles didn’t dare to watch when Peter stepped closer and knelt down, reached out his hand and gently turned Stiles to look at him. Stiles avoided his gaze, darting his eyes here and there, but when he finally braved himself to look, he saw no amusement in Peter’s eyes, just patience and concern.
Peter’s gaze dropped to Stiles’s lips and then jumped back to his eyes. Slowly, carefully, he leaned forward an inch and stopped, waiting. His eyes were wide and pleading, asking permission but leaving the decision to Stiles.
Heart hammering in his ears, Stiles took a leap of faith and crossed the remaining space.
The kiss was a chaste, fleeting touch of lips, but it felt like home.
Deliverance was a surprisingly easy place to live in. It was small enough to be homey but big enough to offer anonymity, even though Stiles figured the main reason for that was the fact that no-one knew what had happened to him. Here, the looks and whispers were because of the way Stiles smiled at Peter or how Peter kissed his knuckles when they were out walking. Here, the looks were because of their gender and age difference, not because of a tragedy.
In Beacon Hills, Stiles had become the infamous town celebrity overnight. There had always been someone staring, whispering things, or straight out offering him flat platitudes while getting off of his grief.
It had been the main reason he’d left.
That and the memories.
Beacon Hills was full of memories and little snippets of life, and Stiles had been choking under their weight. There hadn’t been anywhere he could’ve gone or anywhere he could’ve looked without remembering things he’d done with his parents.
Even now, in Deliverance, he sometimes couldn’t breathe because it hurt so much.
He still couldn’t look at the photos on his laptop.
Time slowly trudged on.
Stiles found that he liked the routine he and Peter had; the walks, the dinners, the easy silence they shared when Peter colored his pictures and Stiles read. It felt right.
After the first time, Peter had given him a blanket permission to borrow any of his books and Stiles had jumped the opportunity. Peter’s library — and it truly was that — consisted of a wide variety of different genres and eras, everything from Shakespeare to Henry Miller, from Oscar Wilde to Neil Gaiman and Stephen King, and from Vonnegut to Orson Scott Card. So far, he’d found out that he didn’t especially care about Portnoy’s Complaint, Orwell’s 1984 was awesome, and Hyperion had kept him awake for two nights in a row.
He was yet to venture out to the section that had D.H. Lawrence, Anaïs Nin, and e.e. cummings but he was gathering up the courage to do so.
Sometimes, Stiles wondered where Peter’s family was. After their first meeting, Stiles hadn’t seen Laura at all and, even though he’d sent her a vague ’Everything’s fine’ text, she hadn’t checked back on him. Stiles had no idea if Laura was Peter’s only family or if there were others. There were no photos in Peter’s apartment, neither on the walls nor on any photo album. Peter didn’t have a laptop or a phone, and how he managed his bills was a complete mystery. Perhaps he had an arrangement with his bank.
As far as Stiles was aware, he was Peter’s only human contact.
Perhaps Peter needed him just as much as Stiles needed Peter.
They didn’t usually venture in any events, preferring their own company instead. But when Deliverance organized a harvest fair with food stalls, games, and other activities, Stiles decided they should at least try it. He’d loved Ren Faires as a kid but after his mom had died, neither Dad or Stiles had wanted to go. He was fully prepared to cajole and bully Peter to come along but when he showed Peter the ad, he just rolled his eyes and kissed Stiles on the nose.
Even though Stiles was an adult now, he got caught in the atmosphere. They wandered around for hours, checking each stall, trying out all the games, and eating way too much. Peter took great delight in the arrow shooting lane, showing off his skills (and physique) and winning Stiles a stuffed purple wolf. It was hideous and Stiles loved it.
After they’d exhausted their curiosity, they walked comfortably hand in hand and ignored the scandalized looks when they shared small kisses.
Had Stiles known there would be a bonfire, he would’ve steered them away from the area. He had no idea that Deliverance would even allow a bonfire, what with forest fire hazards and drought conditions, so not even the presence of a fire truck clued him in. Bonfires were more common at beach parties during summer, not at a town festival.
As it was, the crackling of the fire and the high flames took him by surprise.
He froze and dropped the wolf and his candy apple, staring at the flames.
He couldn’t breathe and a whooshing sound in his ears drowned the crackling of the flames.
He couldn’t breathe and the smoke made his eyes sting.
He couldn’t breathe and all he could see was the fire, eating through wood and wicker, through clothes and flesh.
He couldn’t breathe and—
— the heat on his face burned as walls of flame surrounded him and forced him back, towards his window. He didn’t want to draw back because his dad, his dad was still there, behind the open doorframe, behind the roaring fire. His dad was pointing somewhere and screaming at him to flee, to go, now, Stiles, GO. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything.
His dad was burning, but he was still trying to save Stiles.
He didn’t hear the firemen break the window but he saw how the flames suddenly got hungrier and roared up, victorious. He fought back when someone grabbed him by his midriff and started dragging him away, he kicked and screamed, trying to get back to Dad. He screamed and screamed, but Dad was already gone and only flames remained.
And then there was nothing but ashes.
Stiles had no idea how they got back home. He remembered bits and pieces, some errant touches and Peter practically growling at someone before he was picked up and carried away.
That night, he woke up screaming as he saw his dad burning and burning and—
Then Peter was there, holding him in his arms and humming a tuneless melody in his ear.
It was the first time after the fire when Stiles cried. He kept his eyes closed and pressed his face into the crook of Peter’s neck, gulping air like he was drowning. He cried for his mom, his dad, and for himself, for all the lost opportunities, for the lives lost and the memories that never got to be. He cried big, ugly tears that rolled from his eyes into Peter’s skin and down the hollow of his throat, following the resonance of his humming.
After what felt like hours, his sobs slowly died down and later, when he didn’t feel anything at all, he fell back asleep cradled in Peter’s arms, gripping Peter’s shirt so tight it hurt.
In the morning, Stiles woke up disoriented and with a pounding headache. He recognized Peter’s embrace and scent even before he’d opened his eyes, and instead of getting up, Stiles burrowed closer. He wanted to claw his way under Peter’s skin and stay there, warm and safe.
Peter didn’t say anything, merely tightened his arms around Stiles and hummed the same tuneless melody that had soothed Stiles after his nightmare.
They stayed in bed the whole day, leaving only for the necessary bathroom breaks and getting something to eat.
The next day, Peter didn’t play along anymore. He poked and prodded until Stiles relented and got up to take a shower and, after that, they went for a walk, wandering aimlessly around the town for hours.
Stiles realized only later that Peter had purposefully steered them clear from where the fair had been.
After what Stiles had started calling ’the bonfire incident,’ things started changing. It wasn’t anything big, just a subtle shift that tilted his world more towards Peter, but Stiles felt it to his core — like he’d found his anchor, something that kept him steadily in this world and prevented him from falling apart.
He wondered if this was what love felt like.
The idea to dig up the photos on his laptop was just a fleeting thought, but Stiles latched to it with a determination that took himself by surprise. He sat beside Peter on the couch, snuggled a bit to get under his arm just right, and opened the laptop lid.
Taking a deep breath, he clicked open the photo file named ’us.’ He couldn’t even try to force out the words ’This is my mom and dad,’ because it still hurt too much, but he figured he didn’t have to.
There was a picture of Stiles’s 5th birthday in which he had cake smeared all over and his mom was laughing so much she was crying. There was a picture of Stiles and his dad with his summer camp diploma. Dozens and dozens of pictures filled with smiles and happy memories.
There was a picture of his mom’s tombstone with wilted flowers and a bright red, out-of-place card Stiles had made her on Mother’s Day.
And then there was a picture of a funeral, with two stones side by side and Stiles staring at them, hollow-eyed and empty. Lydia had taken it without Stiles noticing and she’d sent it to him later. He hadn’t had it in him to look at it before.
Slowly, Stiles reached out his hand and traced a finger along the shape of the tombstones. He hoped that some day, he’d have the courage to go back.
>I told Peter about dad, he texted Lydia later.
He’d managed to croak Fire at Peter after they’d watched and rewatched the pictures at least seven times.
Peter had regarded him, eyes serious and sad, and nodded. Then he’d made a motion like driving a car, mock shot with a finger gun, and pointed at his own temple.
Drive-by shooting.
Stiles had nodded back, a bit dumbfounded.
>How do you feel? Lydia answered, dragging him back from the memory.
>Sad. But okay.
>That’s a good start, Lydia texted, and continued a moment later, >You know, this was the first time you texted me first. Good for you.
Stiles wasn’t sure what to think about that.
During the upcoming weeks, Stiles’s meager belongings gradually migrated over and slotted seamlessly alongside Peter’s books and sweaters. Even though they hardly ever slept apart, Stiles didn’t fully understand he’d moved in with Peter until he tried to find one of his notebooks at his own place and realized just how empty his apartment was. His fridge held only two lonely bananas and he didn’t have a clue when he’d last taken a shower in his own bathroom. He stopped in the middle of his apartment and blinked at the blank wall.
He lived with Peter now.
Something about the thought lessened the ache in his chest.
He was jolted from his thoughts by a knock on his door. The only person who ever sought him out was Peter which was why he opened the door without a second thought.
It wasn’t Peter, though. It was Scott.
”Dude, is this where you’ve been hiding?” Scott exclaimed as soon as the door opened enough for him to push through.
Stiles blinked, unsure of how to react.
”Why didn’t you say anything? We could’ve helped you — I could’ve helped you!” Scott whirled around and threw his hands in the air. ”You just vanished! Dude, what the hell?”
Frowning, and feeling more than a little cornered, Stiles shrugged and turned towards the bathroom to turn off the light. Scott trailed after him, hovering by his shoulder like a worried aunt, asking a question after a question, never pausing long enough to give him a chance to think about an answer.
His rescue came in the form of another knock on the door. Ignoring Scott, Stiles opened the door, closed his eyes, and just rested his forehead against Peter’s chest. Unfazed by his behavior, Peter pressed a kiss on top of his head, let out a questioning noise, and rubbed his back.
”Um,” Scott said from behind Stiles. When neither Stiles or Peter reacted, he tried again. ”Hi. I’m Scott, Stiles’s friend. Who’re you?”
Peter sighed and leaned slightly back to catch Stiles’s eyes, cocked his head, and raised a brow.
Stiles winced and shrugged. He knew he probably should’ve told Peter about the people he had left behind but it had always been too much, too painful, too… everything. It had been easier to push it all aside to deal with later.
Ignoring Peter’s bemused huff, he banged his head softly against his chest before digging out his phone — except it wasn’t in his pocket. Peter cleared his throat and, when Stiles glanced at him, he handed Stiles his phone with a small smile.
Ah. Right. Stiles had left his phone in Peter’s bed that morning. He thanked Peter with a peck on his lips and gave him a reassuring smile when he hesitated to leave.
As he closed the door after Peter, he checked the phone and saw the text Lydia had sent him hours ago.
>Scott took my phone. I’m sorry.
Stiles sighed and showed the text to Scott who had the sense to look sheepish.
”What was I supposed to do?” he asked. ”And who was that guy? He’s old enough to be your da—” Scott slapped a hand over his mouth and his eyes went wide with horror. ”I’m sorry! I didn’t— I’m sorry!” He rubbed a hand over his face. ”It’s just… he’s so much older than you. Are you sure he’s okay?”
Stiles couldn’t believe he was doing it, but he still tapped a terse’Peter’s not taking advantage’ on his phone’s notes and shoved the phone in Scott’s face.
”Uh… okay,” Scott said.
They stood silent for a moment, Stiles tense and on the edge, Scott hopeful and waiting for something.
After some time, Scott said quietly, ”I miss you. It’s just… Stiles, please, just come home.”
Stiles let out a frustrated breath. ’I’m home,’ he wrote, showed the text to Scott, and tucked his phone into his pocket.
Scott swallowed and said softly, ”Okay then. I guess I’ll… see you around?”
Stiles shrugged. It was the best he could do.
As Scott opened the door, he turned back and said, eyes shining with sincerity, ”I’m glad you’re not alone.” He nodded at Peter who was not-so-casually leaning on the wall right next to Stiles’s door and then he was gone.
Peter’s face was inscrutable and it made Stiles nervous.
”I— I want… you,” he forced out as he closed the distance between them and jabbed Peter in the chest with his forefinger. ”You,” he repeated fiercely.
He wasn’t sure what he and Peter were, but he was sure of one thing: he didn’t give a fuck about what others thought.
And he wanted Peter to know that.
In a way, Stiles probably should’ve seen it coming. He hadn’t talked with Lydia about Peter that much, but he knew the tone of his texts had gradually shifted from borderline rude to contented and almost happy. He also knew that as much leeway as Lydia was willing to give him, she’d want to check things for herself sooner or later. Especially if Scott had run to her, panicked about an older man taking advantage of Stiles.
As it turned out, it was sooner.
One morning, a couple of weeks after Scott had barged head first into Deliverance, Stiles received a short text that said, >I’m coming to Cali next month. Make sure you have decent pastrami.
He stared at the text for a good while before he carefully put the phone on the kitchen counter screen down, took his coffee mug, and went to sit on the couch.
He wasn’t sure what to think.
Lydia had been the center of his life for so long that not having her near him was an almost constant ache deep within his chest. He missed her; the ruthless way she carved her place in the world and forced him to see.
Also, she’d always believed that running away wasn’t the best way to deal with things in the long run. Stiles wasn’t ready to stop yet, but perhaps he could slow down. Just a little.
However, was he ready for her and Peter to meet? Or, more specifically, was he ready for someone from before to meet Peter?
The life he had in Deliverance was something very different from the life he had had before. It felt kind of safe, to pretend this here was all he had, to allow himself a past only via the short texts he shared with Lydia.
He wanted to stay in his bubble where only he and Peter were real and everything else was a distant sound he didn’t have to think about.
Unfortunately, he was too practical not to realize he would never actually live if he didn’t break the bubble.
But first, he needed to show Peter something.
It took him several days to gather the courage, but the next time he dug out his laptop, he didn’t click on the familiar ’us’ folder that had the family pictures. Instead, he went to a different, unnamed folder and clicked it open. By his side, Peter let out an inquiring sound, but Stiles ignored him, snuggled closer, and started the slide show.
It felt odd, watching frozen moments of his past flash by. Where the pictures of his parents had felt painful, seeing himself and Scott on the lacrosse field or dressed as Batman and Superman for Halloween felt bittersweet. They looked so young and their smiles so carefree that it made something churn in his stomach.
He had no idea where to find that bright, wide smile again. Perhaps he’d buried it with his dad.
He sighed and focused on the pictures again. Him and Scott fallen asleep on top of their project; him with a marker up his nose, Scott with toothpicks glued on his shirt. Scott and Jackson staring daggers at each other because they both thought the other had taken the best reference book for the anatomy assignment when in fact it had been Lydia. A picture he’d snuck of Lydia drinking coke in the sunlight. A picture of the hairy dick Jackson had drawn on the wrist cast Stiles had gotten after running straight into a tree.
There were so many happy, almost forgotten moments speeding across the screen that he was growing numb.
He paused the slide show at the shot of him, Lydia, Scott, Jackson, Danny, and Kira at the senior prom, all sleek hairs and dressed to the nines. He tilted his head and stared at how they smiled at the camera like the whole world was open for them, ready for them to change it.
Little had he know how his world was going to change.
Shaking his head, he clicked to the next one and snorted. It was the picture he liked the most: Scott had bent Kira in a Hollywood-style embrace while Stiles and Danny kissed a smirking Lydia on each cheek, and Jackson rolled his eyes at them all behind her. They’d burst into giggles afterwards and gotten extremely drunk with the booze Jackson had smuggled in.
Good times.
He cleared his throat, pointed at the screen and, one by one, forced himself to say the names of the people he’d once hesitantly called his friends.
He left Lydia last. ”Text,” he said and then asked, ”Visit?” while looking at Peter with wide, hopeful eyes.
After his initial confusion about the photos, Peter had been silent. He’d given Stiles the time he needed with his memories, occasionally hugging him tighter or pecking a kiss on top of his head. Now, he looked at Stiles like he was a bit slow, huffed, and pecked a kiss on his nose.
”Fuck,” he said fondly.
Just like that, Lydia’s visit was settled.
That night, cradled against Peter’s chest, Stiles wondered how well they fit. And not just in bed or on the couch: when they were out walking and Stiles wanted to stop and stare at the clouds, Peter stood behind his back so that Stiles could lean against his chest and rest his head on Peter’s shoulder. And when Stiles dragged himself out of bed in the morning and stumbled into the kitchen, Peter steered him to sit at the table and handed him a mug of coffee, and Stiles could lean on him while he tried to persuade his brain to wake up.
It was easy, like he belonged.
He hadn’t felt like that in a long, long while.
Of course, Stiles wasn’t an idiot: he was sharing the bed and mutual attraction with a grown man and he knew perfectly well what the hard line pressing against his groin or butt was. That said, he also knew Peter would never demand things Stiles wasn’t ready to give.
And Stiles wasn’t ready, not yet.
He wasn’t sure if he would ever be ready. He craved contact and intimacy, but he felt content with just this: being kissed and held. And as exciting it was to feel he made Peter react like that, it was also scary.
He didn't even realize he had been twitching and, consequently, poking Peter until Peter grunted and held him closer, nuzzling his temple before pressing there a dry kiss.
With a soft exhale, Stiles let himself go boneless and drifted off.
As the day of Lydia’s arrival drew near, Stiles was almost vibrating out of his skin. Intellectually, he knew Lydia wouldn’t criticize him and his decisions, but he couldn’t help feeling he was marching to face an inquisitor. Peter tolerated his flailing with amused exasperation which for some reason annoyed Stiles to no end.
When Stiles finally opened the door to Lydia’s signature knock, he couldn’t help his grin. Lydia had held a special place in his life since they were kids and no matter how much Peter started to mean to him, she’d always be the queen of his heart.
”Stiles!” Lydia exclaimed, set her luggage carefully down, and wrapped him in a tight hug. ”I’ve missed you. You look better,” she murmured into his ear.
Stiles sighed and closed his eyes, hugging her back so hard it probably hurt. Lydia didn’t protest but held him until Stiles let out an embarrassingly wet sound and moved back. Then she took him by the shoulders and gave him a long, narrow-eyed look.
”I like the hair. It makes you look less like a Russian urchin.”
Stiles rolled his eyes and blew her a raspberry. Her laugh warmed him from inside out.
Wrapping her arm around his waist, Lydia turned her attention to Peter. She offered him a polite smile and said in a pleasant voice, ”Peter Hale, it’s nice to finally meet you. Stiles has told me a lot about you.”
Stiles let out a noise that sounded too much like a squeak.
”What?” Lydia asked, raising one perfectly groomed brow. ”Did you really think I wouldn’t use everything I have to vet him?”
Stiles stepped out of her embrace and, looking heavenwards, threw his arms in the air because what?
”Don’t be so dramatic, dear,” Lydia said mildly. ”You look like a marionette with a seizure.”
Stiles opened his mouth to argue but stopped as Peter let out a completely undignified snort.
Traitors. All of them.
He rolled his eyes and stomped into the kitchen to make coffee. Too late, he realized leaving Lydia alone with Peter wasn’t perhaps the smartest thing to do. He hurried through the motions of coffee making, but it turned out that Lydia was polite and waited until she had a cup in her hand.
”So, Peter, have you told Stiles what happened to you?” She sipped her coffee, and her brows shot up. ”This coffee is good,” she murmured, pleased.
Peter glanced at Stiles and shrugged.
>Jamaican blue mountain, Stiles texted on his phone and showed it to her. >And it was a drive-by shooting.
Lydia nodded, keeping her eyes at Peter. ”Is it okay if I tell him what I found?” she asked, deceptively sweet.
Stiles knew that tone — she would tell him anyway, and Peter’s reaction would just decide the flavor.
Peter smirked and spread his hands in a ’Be my guest’ move.
”Fine. Peter Hale, age 38, senior partner of Hale & Associate. Specialized in white collar crimes and organized crime — an interesting combination, by the way. Fond of expensive booze and young, smart men — that’s where you fit in, Stiles,” she added with a crooked smile. ”He was working on a major case when he was shot in the head while on his way to get late dinner to take back to the office.”
She paused and arched a brow at Peter. ”Good thing that you saw the reflection of the speeding car in the shop window and managed to duck, otherwise the shot would’ve blown your head off.”
Flicking her hair over her shoulder, she took an unhurried sip of coffee and asked, ”Was that all or did I miss something?”
A slow smile spread on Peter’s face. It was sharp and delighted, something Stiles had never seen before. It was a smile meant for equals, a recognition of a fellow predator. It reminded him of a wolf.
”Oh! Your family, of course,” Lydia exclaimed and clapped her hands together.
Peter’s eyes narrowed and turned cold.
Stiles decided to step in and growled, ”S-s-top!”
He punched his phone so hard it hurt his finger, but he didn’t care. >None of your business!!! he wrote and shoved the phone at Lydia’s face.
”Stiles, honey, everything about your life is my business,” Lydia said, rolling her eyes. ”You told me yourself, remember?”
Stiles set his jaw and shook his head, staring mulishly at her. >Not anymore, he texted and crossed his arms on his chest.
Lydia cocked her head and asked, ”Then how will you find out if he’s not treating you the way he treated the others?”
Stiles blinked and his eyes darted to meet Peter’s. In all honesty, it hadn’t even crossed his mind — he hadn’t even thought it was something he should be worried about.
Meeting his gaze, Peter made a ring with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and crudely stuck the forefinger of his right hand back and forth, shook his head, and shrugged. Then he stepped right in front of Stiles, took his hand on his own, and pressed a tender kiss on his knuckles before he placed Stiles’s hand over his heart and cupped his face with the other hand.
Stiles leaned on the touch and sighed, content. He didn’t need Lydia’s input, he saw it all in Peter’s eyes: There might have been others in Peter’s bed, but Stiles was the one who had his heart.
Behind him, Lydia cleared her throat. Annoyed, Stiles raised his head and glared, but she just shook her head.
”Don’t give me that look,” she said with a soft smile. ”You know I had to check.”
She kissed them both on the cheek before she announced that she didn’t trust their taste in pasta and would go and purchase the proper brand. She left with determined clicks of heels and a flash of red hair.
Stiles wasn’t deceived, though. He knew Lydia wanted to give him and Peter privacy because she was awesome like that.
Peter leaned back a bit to catch Stiles’s eyes and gave him an impressed look.
”Uh-huh,” Stiles said and grinned. ”Ss-scary.”
Peter snorted in a way that implied ’scary’ didn’t even begin to cover it. ”Fuck,” he said with feeling and kissed Stiles right on the mouth.
Lydia stayed with them for two weeks. It seemed both longer and shorter for Stiles. Longer, because he felt like he was constantly under scrutiny, his every move and expression weighed and judged; shorter, because Stiles was a desert and she was the rain. She filled the days with chatter, biting humor, and dry remarks, but also with outings that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with shopping.
Peter watched from the sides, both curious and amused, but he didn’t intervene. Stiles wondered whether he liked the glimpse of the other Stiles he got, the one who wrote sassy responses to Lydia’s snark and who grinned like a maniac when Lydia went on a rant about Jackson’s latest fashion failure. Stiles hadn’t known there was such a thing as color-coordinated car seats.
But it was also exhausting. Lydia stayed in Stiles’s apartment because he hadn’t bothered to cancel his lease yet, and he wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or no. In a way, he loved that he could be so close to her, but it also felt like her presence was demanding things he could no longer give, suffocating him in the expectations of something else. Lydia was loud both in character and interaction and she demanded space Stiles wasn’t sure he could give. He enjoyed immensely spending time with her, but it didn’t take him long to start feeling frayed at the edges, brittle like cracked glass.
Stiles knew Lydia didn’t do it on purpose. Or, well, she did, but she didn’t mean it in a malicious way. She was used to driving herself to her best and she demanded the best from others as well. He knew that if she got her way, Stiles would roll into Berkeley, attend the classes, and aim for a degree like he was supposed to.
She tried to push him because that’s what she thought was the right thing to do.
But Stiles knew he couldn’t go back to what he’d been before — he’d lost too much — but perhaps he could bear visiting his old life someday. Perhaps, with time, he could move on.
”So… I was thinking,” Lydia said the next Saturday when they were walking at a leisurely pace through the park. She looked like she’d stepped out from a page of a fashion magazine and she’d already been asked if she was a model or a TV star. She’d graciously posed for photographs, enjoying herself way too much to convince Stiles she didn’t really like it.
”Huh,” Stiles said and gave her a narrow glance from the corner of his eye. Nothing starting with those words ended well.
”How about you two come to visit on Holidays?”
Stiles stumbled and only Peter’s grip on his hand prevented him from falling over. He looked at Lydia and shook his head.
”N-n-no,” he started, but Lydia waved his protests away.
”Just hear me out, okay?” she asked. ”I’m not saying you should ’come home,’ whatever that means, but perhaps you should visit? For a day or two, whatever feels best. I know Melissa would love to house you both.”
His eyes widened and he shook his head, furious. How could Lydia even suggest a thing like—
”Melissa McCall is Scott’s mother,” Lydia said, directing her words to Peter and ignoring Stiles’s frustrated hiss. ”She’s practically placed herself as Stiles’s surrogate mother and she’s the closest thing to a parent he’s got.” She sighed and cocked her head. ”Stiles, she misses you. Scott has a good heart, but he’s frankly not the brightest of the bunch. Sometimes he acts without thinking, which is why he barged in here without permission. Melissa worries about you because she cares. You know that.” She paused before saying, ”She’d love to meet you. Both of you.”
Peter gave Lydia a long look and nodded.
Stiles felt betrayed. He let out a low growl of frustration and turned stiffly around with every intention to keep on walking.
He didn’t want to go back. He didn’t want to see the mutilated skeleton of his old house. He didn’t want to see the Police station or the high school. He didn’t want to see Melissa and her eyes so full of compassion. He didn’t want to be drowned under the memories.
He didn’t—
He froze when Peter’s arms circled around him from behind and hooked his chin over Stiles’s shoulder. This time, instead of grounding and safe, it felt suffocating. Stiles squirmed and took a hurried step away when Peter let go, raising a hand in front of him to fend him off.
Distantly, he realized he was breathing too hard and there was a thin noise ringing in his ears.
Peter was standing still, his hands hanging limply at his sides and inscrutable look in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to reach for Stiles, didn’t even make a face. He was just still.
Stiles couldn’t breathe.
”Stiles,” Lydia said sharply and Stiles’s eyes snapped to hers. ”Nobody is forcing you to go,” she continued, softer. ”Melissa called me because she couldn’t make any sense of Scott’s ranting. After our talk, she asked me to invite you over.”
Cautiously, Stiles lowered his hand, keeping a wary eye on her. When she didn’t push but offered a weary smile, he finally glanced at Peter.
The side of Peter’s lip twitched and he opened his arms.
Walking into his embrace felt like home.
”S-sorry,” Stiles whispered into the soft skin under Peter’s ear.
Peter didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. Stiles felt his answer in his exhale.
The last night before Lydia headed back home, she beckoned Stiles into the kitchen.
”I asked Peter’s permission to talk to you,” she said as she poured Stiles a big mug of some fragrant herbal infusion she’d bought. ”And he said yes. Or, well, he said ’fuck’ but he nodded, so I took that as a yes.”
Stiles leaned a bit to the side to peek a glance at Peter sitting on the couch, coloring the mandala book. It was the new, more elaborate kind Lydia had bought him and he seemed to be concentrated on the intricate pattern, but Stiles knew from the tense line of his neck that he was listening.
Sitting back on his chair, Stiles took a deep breath, sipped his tea, and nodded.
Lydia seemed to consider her words. ”Remember what I said about where he worked?”
Stiles nodded. So, Peter was — or had been — a lawyer. It fit.
”After the shooting, he was in intensive care for a long while. I don’t know the details but apparently, he almost died several times. His family…” Lydia sighed and shook her head. ”Well, they pretty much signed him off, fit to little else than drooling on his pillow.”
Stiles blinked and leaned to his side again. Even with his limited speech, Peter was vibrant and full of life. Imagining him in a vegetative stage made no sense.
Lydia cleared her throat and raised her brow when Stiles hurriedly turned to face her again.
”After some intensive physical and occupational therapy, he made it back to his feet, but there was nothing to be done to his speech impediment. The bullet had irrevocably damaged that part of his brain. He can’t talk, he can’t write, and his understanding of language itself is questionable, and that’s why he was bought out.”
Stiles let out a snort. As far as he could tell, there was nothing questionable in Peter’s understanding of English.
Lydia tipped her head slightly to the side and said, ”I’m just quoting the official statement.”
Stiles blinked and typed >What statement???!!!
She made a face. ”The statement the firm released. I have no idea why they chose to do it that way — perhaps they felt it was necessary, considering he was not only a senior partner and one of the owners, but because of the cases he specialized in.” She shrugged. ”Perhaps they wanted him cut completely from the firm to avoid any further hassle? I don’t know.”
Stiles frowned at his phone for some time, chewing his lower lip and mulling Lydia’s words over.
”They cut him out, Stiles,” Lydia continued softly and Stiles’s eyes snapped to hers. ”He has a family, but they don’t want anything to do with him. As a lawyer, he was feared and respected, but his choice of clientele didn’t please his family. If I wanted to be spiteful, I’d say his sister Talia and her children were just happy he was out of the game.” She brushed her hair from her eyes and sniffed. ”A good thing I’m not spiteful.”
Stiles couldn’t do anything else but stare. Yeah, he’d wondered what had happened to Peter’s family and why Laura had never visited again.
Now, he wished he didn’t know.
>I met Laura when I moved in, he finally wrote on his phone. >She never came by again.
”Really?” Lydia asked and Stiles nodded. ”Yeah. She’s the older. Derek’s the younger. They both work for the firm.”
Stiles’s tea had grown tepid and now tasted more like watered-down perfume than tea. He sipped it anyway, thinking furiously.
Back when Stiles had seen Peter for the first time, Laura had said he couldn’t stay there. Why? Because she’d thought Peter wasn’t fit to be out and about by himself? Because she’d been afraid he would bring the firm (and the family) bad fame if someone found out?
Because she thought someone would come after him?
”And this is why I told you about Melissa’s invitation,” Lydia said gently, interrupting his thoughts. ”Because even though your father is dead, you still have your extended family that loves you. And they want to meet Peter.”
Stiles dropped his eyes to his hands and swallowed.
Lydia got up and walked around the counter to press a kiss on his cheek. ”Just think about it, okay?”
Stiles made no promises.
When Lydia left, Stiles felt both lost and like he could breathe again. He’d grown so used to the easy silence he and Peter shared and Lydia had been a whirlwind, knocking everything out of place. For a while, they were stilted, like jagged pieces that no longer knew how they fit together, like they were missing something. Peter watched him from the sidelines and Stiles grew prickly under the weight of his gaze, even though he didn’t know what was going on in Peter’s mind.
Or perhaps it was just because of that.
To distract himself, he finally got around to move the last of his belongings from his old apartment to Peter’s and cancel his lease. Fleetingly, he wondered who would move in there next. Would they be quiet? Would they stare at him and Peter? Would they think they knew better?
Melissa’s invitation was like a splinter under his nail: a constant throbbing he could ignore if he had something else to do, but as soon as he stopped, it came back with a full force. He wanted to go and see Melissa, but at the same time, he shuddered at the idea of facing his past again.
He wished he could just crawl under the blankets and let the adults deal with his problems.
He wished he didn’t have to be the adult.
It never really occurred to Stiles that Peter was damaged. It was easy to forget — to him, Peter was just Peter, a man with a scar on his temple and rather limited verbal vocabulary. He didn’t think about that until he had no choice.
They were on their daily walk and crossing the street when he heard a car tire explode with a bang that made Stiles jump and left his ears ringing. He let out a breath, trying to calm down his racing heart and started forward only to realize Peter wasn’t following.
Stiles turned around and froze.
Peter was standing in the middle of the street, white as a sheet, unseeing eyes staring forward. With a sick feeling crawling up his throat, Stiles hurried to gently take his hand, urging him to follow before someone drove them over. Peter followed him unsteadily, lurching and stumbling like a drunk man, his hand cold and clammy in Stiles’s hold.
By the time they made it back to their building and up the stairs, Peter was sweating and shaking and Stiles wasn’t much better himself. He steered Peter into the bedroom and pushed him on the bed, took off his shoes, and kicked off his own before crawling in after Peter. Peter didn’t react when Stiles tugged two of the many extra blankets over them and wormed closer so that Peter’s head was pillowed on his chest.
Usually, it was the other way round. Usually, it was Peter who held Stiles through the night and distracted him from his nightmares.
Usually, Peter didn’t feel this fragile and small.
Trailing his fingers down the short hair on Peter’s neck, Stiles willed his heartbeat to stay steady and calm, calling Peter back home.
After the tire incident, Peter was subdued and withdrawn, almost careful around Stiles, and it irritated him to no end. He tolerated it for almost a week before he got fed up and marched to Peter, climbed on his lap, and kissed him until they were both breathless. It escalated into feverish touches and ruined underwear a lot faster than Stiles had anticipated, leaving him cringing and embarrassed. But before he managed to scramble off, Peter cupped his face him with so much tenderness in his eyes it almost made him cry.
It wasn’t exactly how Stiles had imagined losing his virginity, but it definitely was with the right person.
Of course, sex wasn’t a miracle cure for anything, but it helped Peter to be more himself around Stiles again. No matter how at ease he was when it was just the two of them, losing his composure in public had shaken Peter more than he wanted to admit.
Remembering how Peter had forced him out after the Fair, Stiles dragged him out for a walk, ignoring his scowling and gritted jaw. It was stressful and ended up in strings of growled swearing that made the passers-by blanche and shoot them dark looks.
Stiles didn’t care.
To him, getting Peter out was more important than other people’s delicate ears.
Oh, Stiles wasn’t a fool. He knew that despite all the kisses and… other things, the pain and hurt were locked just under Peter’s skin. They didn’t need much to surface and they didn’t vanish in bright sunlight.
He knew because it was the same with him.
No, sunlight didn’t make them go away but it made them a little easier to carry.
In the end, it took only three texts from Lydia before Stiles braced himself, took a deep breath, and sent Melissa the first text after he’d left.
>Are you home if Peter & I stop by next Tue?
When the Beacon Hills road sign went past, Stiles swallowed and pinched his lips together in a tight line.
He could do this. He wasn’t coming back to stay, he was just visiting.
He gripped the Jeep’s steering wheel so hard that his knuckles were white and the wheel pressed painfully into the palms of his hands but didn’t realize it until Peter reached out and covered his hand with his own.
Stiles forced out a long breath and nodded, forcibly unclenching his grip.
Peter leaned his head back and gave him a slightly stilted smile but didn’t let go.
Stiles nodded.
They could do this.
The McCall house looked the same as always, familiar sage with white window frames. When he parked, he saw the drapes move and wasn’t surprised to see Melissa open the door when he stepped out of the Jeep. But he was surprised about the relief that washed over him when she wrapped him into a tight hug.
”I’ve missed you,” Melissa said and kissed him on both cheeks. ”You look better. I’m glad. And you must be Peter,” she continued, turning to face Peter who had taken their bags from the Jeep’s backseat. ”Can I hug you?”
Peter blinked, slightly taken aback by the question, either because no-one had ever asked his permission or because he hadn’t expected a hug. Melissa waited patiently and didn’t move until Peter nodded.
Stiles cocked his head and glanced at the house, surprised when he didn’t see Scott.
”Ah,” Melissa said with a knowing look and beckoned them in. ”He’s not here. He wanted to wait for you, but I told him that he’d sleep outside if he dared to show his face here today. I wanted to have you both for myself tonight.”
Stiles didn’t have it in him to be ashamed of how good it sounded.
Melissa led them into the kitchen. ”I made some chili because I figured you might be hungry after the drive,” she said. ”Stiles, would you mind?”
Shooting her a smile, Stiles picked dishes and utensils, just like he’d done countless times before. He set the table while Peter made his way to the stove to peek at the pot over Melissa’s shoulder. Ignoring her, he dipped a spoon into the food, frowned at the taste, and proceeded to add things into the pot.
”Excuse me — did you just add red wine and dark chocolate into my chili?” Melissa asked, incredulous.
Stiles snorted, tapped his phone, and showed the screen to her.
”’Peter’s a pretty good cook,’” she read and raised a brow. ”Even so, I don’t like to be blindsided in my own kitchen.”
Peter gave the stew a final stirring, took a fresh spoon and, accompanied by an elaborate bow, presented her with a sample.
Melissa narrowed her eyes but took a delicate sip. ”Fine,” she said. ”But I still think it’s a crime against good chocolate to dump it into a pot.”
Peter’s answering eye roll was enough to make Stiles snicker.
The dinner was an easy affair. The food was delicious and Melissa filled the silence with easy chatter, filling Stiles in with information without suffocating him. It was a special talent of hers, making others at ease.
It was what Stiles had missed the most.
”If it’s okay, Scott will stop by tomorrow,” Melissa said. Her tone was mild but there was steel underneath, enough for Stiles to understand she wasn’t really asking his opinion.
She was a mother, and Stiles had always been like a second son to her.
”O-kay,” he mumbled around his bread roll and swallowed hastily at her unimpressed look.
”He’s been miserable since you left,” Melissa pointed out. ”First because you just vanished and didn’t tell him, then because he thought you were being held as a sex toy against your will.”
Stiles nearly choked.
”Yeah,” Melissa said dryly. ”Scott is a wonderful kid but sometimes he just doesn’t think. It’s a good thing he’ll be a vet; animals appreciate honesty and a good heart more than cunning intelligence.”
By his side, Peter snorted. Stiles wondered if Peter understood that even though Melissa could be bitingly honest about both her own and Scott’s shortcomings, she wouldn’t tolerate it from anyone else. Stiles should know. He had been present when Melissa had kicked her douche of an ex out.
”No need to worry about that. Lydia gave him a lecture he won’t forget anytime soon.” She paused to sip her water. ”That girl is absolutely terrifying,” she said fondly.
They didn’t stay up late. The drive and socializing had worn Stiles out and he started nodding off while Peter helped Melissa to clear the table. He barely managed to keep his eyes open on their way to upstairs and into the guest room, and he was out before Peter got back from the bathroom.
The next morning when he woke up, Peter was already up. Stiles took his time before dragging himself out of the bed, partially because he was tired and partially because he wasn’t exactly eager to face the day and, consequently, Scott.
When he made his way downstairs, he stopped when he heard his own name.
”—Stiles has been hurt so much for someone so young,” Melissa said softly. ”You have no idea what it means to me to see him smile.”
There was a pause and then she continued, ”Or perhaps you do.”
Watching Scott almost trip over his own shoes in his wholehearted eagerness to apologize was borderline painful.
”I’m sorry,” he said again, perhaps the fifth time since Melissa had pushed him into the kitchen.
Stiles nodded and sipped his coffee. Behind him, Peter stayed silent.
”I don’t like Peter,” Scott continued and winced, realizing how he sounded. ”But I don’t need to like him, right? He’s your… well, he’s yours and you’re his, and I’m just glad that you’re happy.”
There was something slightly forced in his words. Stiles gave him a flat look and Scott deflated. He’d always been easy like that.
”Okay, that’s what Lydia told me to say to you,” he admitted ruefully. ”I don’t know, dude. Maybe there’s something that reminds me of my dad and that’s why he raises my hackles?” He shrugged and shot Peter an apologetic look. ”Not that you’re a dick like him. Or at least I hope you’re not a dick like him.”
Stiles shook his head a bit. Perhaps that was the best they could hope to get from Scott at this point. The fire hadn’t burned just Stiles’s world, it had scorched away a good portion of the McCall’s lives as well.
Scott may not have lost his home and family, but in a way, he’d lost his friend the way he’d known him.
But perhaps this could be a start for something new? Or, if that wasn’t possible, a closure.
They stayed for two nights and then Stiles started getting antsy. The memories were too much, too close, and the stares too knowing, laced with pity and morbid curiosity.
To her credit, Melissa didn’t try to make them stay or even ask when they’d ’come back home’ again. She just hugged them and told Stiles to let her know if they needed a place to stay, no questions asked.
”Oh, and Stiles,” she said when they were packed and ready to go, handing him a paper bag. ”I found this when I cleaned up the attic. It was one of your mother’s favorites and I thought you’d like to have it.”
Curious, Stiles peeked into the bag and blinked at the familiar cover.
He’d thought all his mom’s books had been lost in the fire. It had been one of their favorite things, snuggling under blankets and reading the books.
Mom had made all the sounds just right.
”Th—anks,” he managed and gave Melissa one more hug.
It took Stiles a moment to clear the tears from his eyes so that he could drive.
He’d almost driven past the intersection when he made up his mind. Luckily, the roads were clear so the only ones witnessing his hazardous turning were a couple of corvids. Peter grunted when he hit his head on the window but didn’t otherwise protest.
Stiles figured he’d already realized where they were heading anyway.
He led Peter slowly past the moss-covered stones and shiny, more modern statues until they reached the two stones side by side. Someone — probably Melissa — had brought fresh flowers and cleaned up the area around the tombstones. Stiles gripped Peter’s hand and sat on the ground, ignoring the dampness and let out a shuddering breath.
”Mom… Dad?” he said. ”This—s m-my Peter.”
Silent, Peter sat down behind him and wrapped his arms around him. Stiles leaned against his chest and closed his eyes.
He wondered if Mom would’ve liked Peter’s cooking.
They didn’t return to Beacon Hills for Thanksgiving, Christmas, or any other traditional family gathering.
It was okay. Their little family was in Deliverance.
Stiles thought about getting a dog but abandoned the idea after realizing Peter would have some difficulties while walking it. Instead, they settled for a yellow rescue cat that was missing half of his left ear and who loved cherry tomatoes.
Stiles named it Turmeric.
And then, one day, Stiles carefully picked the book up, snuggled partially on top of Peter, and opened the book. Taking a deep breath, he slowly started tracing the words with his finger as he made himself to read them out loud.
”If you want to find Cherry Tree Lane, all you have to do is ask a policeman at the crossroads.”