ACT 1: A fresh batch
The beginning of a new semester was always both a blessing and a curse. Blessing, because it offered a chance to seduce unsuspecting freshmen into the intricacies of proper tea, and a curse, because the heathens didn’t understand the difference between Starbucks and a proper tea shop and always ended up asking a matcha latte with three pumps of the whatever was the latest atrocity.
Truly, Peter was a saint to endure it.
Talia used to remind him that if Peter didn’t want to serve caffeine-deprived college students, perhaps he shouldn’t have opened a tea shop in the vicinity of the college campus. And if he really, truly didn’t like his customers, why bother opening the shop at all? She stopped when Cora dryly pointed out that Peter enjoyed the feeling of superiority a lot more than selling tea, which, accurate. There was a reason Cora was his favorite niece.
So far, it seemed like this semester was in no way different from its predecessors. Anxious young people flocking together simply because they happened to share a class or a dorm, filled to the brim with expectations that would inevitably fall short because that was life. For the first couple of weeks, he’d get an influx of bright new faces who wanted to try out new and exciting things (and how sad was the fact that tea was something new and exciting), but as the semester dragged on, most of them would just settle for the slightly burnt coffee from the cafeteria. Not many had the patience and precision that came to proper tea. Heathens. The fact that Peter’s shop was more like a posh hole-in-the-wall with practically no signs and purposefully few seats was beside the point.
”So, have you already managed to scare off all your potential new customers?” Chris asked one day, raising a brow when Peter was sorting out new arrivals. The new batch of Oolong was nowhere near the quality it previously had been which was a travesty. Peter would probably have to change suppliers. He didn’t bother commenting on Chris’s needling.
Chris let out an amused huff. ”You know, I’ve never quite understood how you stay afloat, considering you never have any customers. I mean, you have, what, one and a half tables in here?”
”Bold of you to assume I’d want customers in my shop,” Peter said and raised a brow. ”Darling, I know you think it’s cute to pretend you don’t understand how online shopping works but trust me, it isn’t,” he said. ”It just makes you sound like an idiot.”
”Yes, but…tea?”
”There are people who understand quality, you know.”
”And yet, they do business with you,” Chris said sweetly.
Peter rolled his eyes. Chris enjoyed having the final word so he decided to let it be and focused on the next batch instead. The Oolong was almost subpar but salvageable—and if nothing else, he could sell it to the uncultured college kids with some fancy name. The small test batch of Darjeeling he’d ordered from a new producer was significantly better and he set it aside to try out. There was also a whole box of pu’erh cakes and, in a separate cardboard box he definitely hadn’t ordered but that was included anyway, something labeled as ”The Phantom of the Opera.” Halloween blend, apparently. Joy.
He pushed the boxes slightly aside to sort out later, set the temperature on the electric kettle, and put it on. He measured the Darjeeling to a preheated glass teapot, narrowing his eyes at the leaves, mentally comparing them to the last batch. When the kettle beeped, he slowly poured the hot water over the leaves and then set the lid on. He set the timer on one and a half minutes and crossed his arms on his chest as he settled in to wait for the tea to steep.
”What’s wrong with a normal tea bag?” Chris asked after a moment of companionable silence.
”Nothing,” Peter said without bothering to look at him. ”Just like there’s nothing wrong with instant coffee, right?”
Chris made a face. ”It’s not the same and you know it.”
The timer went off, and Peter poured a small amount of tea into his tasting cup before adding 30 seconds more on the timer. The tea was light with a pleasant aftertaste but it would do well with a bit more steeping. Two minutes was still a bit too little time, two and a half minutes almost there, and at three minutes, the tea was perfect.
”Nerd,” Chris huffed, amused, but accepted his cup without another word.
”So, how are you?” Peter asked over his cup.
Chris shrugged. ”Victoria is still being purposefully difficult but we’re getting there. Thank fuck Allison is already old enough to be in college because she’d absolutely hate this.”
”What I don’t understand is why on earth you married Victoria in the first place.” Peter said.
”Yeah, well,” Chris said with a wry twist on his mouth. ”But how about you? Met anyone new?”
”In this town?” Peter countered dryly. ”It’s filled with college kids. Do I look like someone who would go for a college kid?”
Chris pursed his lips. ”Actually—”
”Never mind,” Peter said. ”And no. Despite being marinated in young adult hormones on a daily basis, the answer is no.”
”If you actually went out every now and then…”
”Do you really think I’d have more choice in whatever this town has for nightclubs,” Peter said dryly. ”Also—”
The door slammed open with enough force to make the glass jingle in its frame and a young man with messy brown hair, wide eyes, and the prettiest mouth Peter had seen in a while barged in, ending up sprawling on the counter.
”I’ll take whatever has the most caffeine in it, and I’ll take it now, please, I’m already late and the prof is going to murder me and flay me and geld me and if I don’t pass this test I’m dead, also, a muffin would be nice, please and thank you.”
”How did you say all of that without taking a breath?” Peter asked.
”Circular breathing,” the kid said, opening his eyes wider. ”Please?”
While Peter could admit that the kid was pretty and he wouldn’t say no to a situation where the kid begged him, he was also not impressed. ”No,” he said.
”No?” The kid repeated, taken aback.
”Does this look like a Starbucks to you?”
”Well, no, but—”
”This is a tea shop,” Peter said. ”It says so on the window and on the sign outside.”
The kid blinked. ”No coffee?” He asked, looking devastated.
”No coffee.”
The kid let out a sound of pure desperation and dropped his head into his arms. Arms that were still sprawled all over Peter’s counter. ”I’m dead. I’m so dead it’s not even funny.”
”I wasn’t aware of there being different levels of dead,” Peter said.
The kid raised his head and looked up at him. His eyes were huge and wet and shit, he was really pretty. Peter heaved an internal sigh and snapped the electric kettle back on, ignoring Chris’s raised brow.
”Look, there’s this ethics course I’m taking for extra credits—I picked it because it seemed interesting and also, ethics!” The kid started. ”And it’s really interesting because the prof might be slightly insane or on something that’s probably not legal in most states, I don’t know, but the dilemmas they present are fascinating—”
Wow.
”And it’s a they because that’s what they said on the first day: ’I go by they/them because gender is a social construct that’s meant to limit our perspective on ourselves and the society. It’s artificial and mostly harmful,’ which is so true. Anyway—”
The kettle beeped. Peter measured out the leaves into a tea ball and set it into the biggest takeaway cup he had in store (and they were big because of the college kids), and poured water over it. The kid kept babbling about his professor—no, it was about the ethics about owning a dog, apparently—and the sound washed over him as he waited for the tea to steep.
”Here,” Peter said, placing the cup in front of the kid.
”—because apparently, that’s not how the pack hierarchy actually works—what?”
”Take it and get out of my shop,” Peter said.
”Rude,” the kid commented, peering into the cup. ”This isn’t coffee.”
”Excellent observation. I can see why you’re in college.”
”Wow, that’s just, wow,” the kid scoffed, giving Peter a judgmental once-over before grabbing the cup and heading out of the door, muttering to himself.
Peter absolutely didn’t try to get a look on his ass.
”Well…” Chris said, stretching the word and waggling his brows.
”Oh shut up, Christopher.”
”So, funny thing,” a familiar voice said as soon as the door opened, bringing in a gust of air. ”That tea was actually good!”
Peter glanced up from his book, raising a brow. The kid was back, looking just as disheveled as he had a handful of days ago, but this time he didn’t sound desperate. ”That’s because it is.”
”What was it?”
”Tea,” Peter said dryly.
”Asshole,” the kid retorted with a roll of his eyes. ”What brand was it? Or species? What even is tea, anyway?”
”It is an aromatic beverage prepared by pouring hot water over cured or fresh leaves of Camellia Sinensis, which is an evergreen shrub native to China and other East and Southeast Asian countries,” Peter said with a straight face. ”It’s the most widely consumed drink in the world, after water, of course.”
”Thanks, Wikipedia dot org,” the kid snorted. ”You know what I meant.”
”It wasn’t actually tea,” Peter said.
The kid’s eyes went wide. ”Ohhh…did you give me something you shouldn’t have?” He breathed out, sounding way too excited. ”My dad’s a police, by the way.”
”Charming, I’m sure,” Peter said dryly. ”The brew I gave you was Guayusa which is a holly tree, not a tea bush. It’s actually from the same family as Yerba Mate.”
”Yeah, I have no clue what that is but I’d like another,” the kid said. When Peter didn’t react, he added, ”Please?” and batted his lashes.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, Peter sighed at himself and put the kettle on.
”So, I’m Stiles,” the kid—Stiles—said, drumming his fingers against the counter.
”I’m not writing that on the cup,” Peter said. ”That would be $5.”
It kept happening.
Stiles barged in a couple of times a week, spewing nonsense and going off on odd tangents. He whined about his professors while he waited for his tea to brew and threw insults at Peter with a cheerful easiness that somehow reminded him of Cora.
”Has anyone told you you’re unbearably annoying?” Peter asked one day.
”Mostly everyone I’ve ever met,” Stiles quipped with a grin. ”My dad says that’s why I have no friends.”
Peter snorted. ”And your mom?”
Stiles’s grin turned sharp. ”She says nothing because she’s dead,” he said before snatching his tea and walking out.
And Peter—
There weren’t many things that made Peter uncomfortable. He was secure in his own skin, both metaphorically and literally, and knew exactly who he was and what he was good at. He bowed to only a select few and took shit from no one. His brand of sarcastic asshole was a persona he’d honed over many years and he didn’t regret it. He was ruthlessly honest and that included himself.
Which was why he stared at the door that closed after Stiles and let out a heartfelt, ”Fuck.”
In the following weeks of blessed (annoying) silence, Peter was forced to admit that he’d started to enjoy Stiles’s presence. Stiles was a hummingbird with the attention span of a magpie on speed but he was exceptionally smart with a sharp tongue and a vicious sense of humor that had made Peter huff a laugh several times. The fact that he was gorgeous and made the most indecent sounds when he talked about a cheesecake he’d had on a vacation some while ago only added to his overall—well, Peter wouldn’t go as far as to call it allure but Stiles was definitely the most interesting thing he’d encountered in a long, long while. Peter would absolutely love to make him moan like that in a situation that involved way less talking and little to no clothes.
He was almost sure Stiles was attracted to him, too. Of course, there was always the off-chance that Stiles was one of those hormonally-addled young adults who were attracted to anything and everything from furries to Beyoncé to Amish simply because they were desperately horny all the time which…well, wasn’t a hardship. But to get there—and to get Stiles into his bed—he’d have to start with an apology.
And for that, he needed Stiles to come back.
Chris asked if he was honestly pining after a child.
Peter told Chris to kindly fuck off and over-steeped his tea to make it hideously bitter. It only made Chris laugh which was not the reaction he was after but…whatever.
It took Stiles over a month to return and when he did, he looked exhausted.
”Hi,” he said to Peter with a grin that wasn’t quite as bright as it used to be. ”So, I came to pay for my tea from the last time.”
Peter narrowed his eyes. ”You look like shit.”
”Thanks, asshole,” Stiles huffed and slumped to sit down at the less rickety of the two small tables Peter had in his shop. (That was on purpose—it wasn’t like he couldn’t serve tea right here in his shop, he just generally didn’t want to. Talia called his shop a ridiculously expensive hobby which was more than fine with him. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the money.)
Peter let out a non-committal sound. Keeping an eye on Stiles, he set the kettle on and filled one of his cast-iron teapots with hot water from the tap. No way was he going to serve Stiles the caffeine boost he usually got—he looked too frayed for something like that. Instead, he took out the ladder and picked a container from the upper left shelf—the one where he kept his better teas.
Stiles didn’t comment while Peter puttered around. He sat uncommonly silent, staring out of the window with a blank face that made Peter uncomfortable. The vacant look in his eyes felt wrong and Peter got the strangest itch to make it go away.
He put the teapot on a tray with two of his best cups and a platter with savory cookies he may or may not have been saving for this and walked around the counter and to Stiles’s table. He looked up, startled, as Peter set the tray on the table, arranged the cups and pot and cookie platter to his liking before pouring the tea.
”What—”
”Hush,” Peter said and nodded at the cup. ”Drink your tea.”
Stiles rolled his eyes but picked up his cup, taking a sip. Then he blinked, frowned, and took another sip. ”This isn’t the same as before,” he said slowly.
”No, it isn’t,” Peter said and sat across the table, ignoring the way Stiles’s brows shot up. ”It’s GABA tea.”
”A what?”.
”Tea with a high gamma-aminobutyric acid content,” Peter said. ”It’s just one way to process the tea leaves.”
”Doesn’t sound ominous at all.”
Peter sighed. ”It’s a perfectly natural amino acid that basically helps our brain and neurons work better. This type of tea has just a higher content than regular tea.”
”Huh,” Stiles said.
They sat in silence for a moment, Stiles holding his cup between his palms and alternating between staring out of the window and nibbling a cookie, and Peter watching him.
When he poured out the last of the tea, he set the pot on the table with a small exhale and said, ”I’m sorry.”
”What?” Stiles turned sharply to look at him.
”For what I said,” Peter said.
”You didn’t know.”
Peter shook his head. ”It doesn’t matter. My words hurt you and for that I’m sorry.”
Stiles ducked his head and traced his finger across the cookie crumbs on the table. ”Apology accepted,” he said and then continued, ”You’re still an asshole, though.”
Peter shrugged. ”Takes one to know one.” His voice wasn’t as biting as it could’ve been and Stiles’s snort made his mouth twitch into a small grin.
It was raining outside, the sort of soft drizzle that made the world look blurry and somehow poetic.
”My mom died ten years ago,” Stiles said in a low voice. ”Frontotemporal dementia.” He swallowed. ”I was eleven.”
”Sounds rough.”
Stiles sniffed and shrugged, drawing his lips into a rueful smile. ”Yeah. It was…not good. Anyway, I thought it would get easier with time. Turns out, it doesn’t.”
Peter let out a thoughtful hum. ”I don’t think it gets easier, no. But one learns to live with the pain. Eventually.”
”You, too?”
”Yeah. My sister was eighteen and I was sixteen when the plane our parents were on crashed. There was nothing left to bury.”
”That sucks.”
”Yeah,” Peter said and cleared his throat. It had been ages since he’d last thought about those horrible, terrible years when he and Talia fought the system to keep each other and their home safe. He took a breath and then another, and let it go.
”Peter,” he said, offering his hand across the table.
”What?”
”I’m Peter.”
”Oh.” Stiles blinked and then smiled, a real smile. ”Hi, Peter,” he said and shook his hand.
ACT 2: Let it steep
”You look cheerful,” Chris said as he walked in. ”Have you finally gotten laid?”
”And hello to you, too, Christopher,” Peter drawled, measuring The Phantom of the Opera into small pouches and tying them up with black silk ribbons. Halloween. What a ridiculously easy way to rob people of their money. ”How lovely to see you. How are you?”
”Yeah, yeah. But seriously, have you gotten laid?”
Leaning his hands on the counter, Peter sighed. ”Why are you so interested in my sex life?”
”Because I need some entertainment to keep my mind out of the depressing ditch that is the finalization of my divorce, that’s why!”
”I don’t—why hasn’t it been finalized earlier?”
”Because I’m lazy?”
Peter shook his head and concentrated back on the pouches. Stiles was right—they would look better with some decoration, which begged the question where the fuck was he going to get miniature opera masks that didn’t look like they were the result of some toddler’s daycare craft hour. It took him a moment to realize Chris was looking at him with an expectantly raised brow.
”Something on my face, darling?” He asked with an overly saccharine voice.
”Just a smile that’s just slightly too genuine to make me worry,” Chris shot back. ”Is it still that pretty boy who barged in that one morning? The one you’ve been pining after for weeks now?”
Annoyingly, Chris was right. Of course he was. For a man going through a divorce and a middle-life crisis, he was surprisingly insightful. Or perhaps it was just his pervasive need to stick his nose into things that were none of his business. Peter would rather not.
”If I say yes, will you leave me alone?”
Chris grinned like a shark. ”Not a fucking chance.”
Peter sighed. Of course not.
Thing was, he enjoyed Stiles’s company. Ever since their weird truce cum new beginning, Stiles had come in a couple of times a week, mostly to ramble about anything that crossed his mind. Sometimes he was silent and concentrated on his schoolwork, sometimes he wanted to take a chance with a new tea he always let Peter choose for him. So far, his favorite has been The Phantom of the Opera, to Peter’s mild despair. (”Wow! This tastes a bit like gingerbread latte! Especially with milk and honey in it!” He’d exclaimed after his first try. Peter had wondered why he even bothered.)
But because he was a fool easily swayed by pretty eyes and an even prettier mouth, he’d set aside about half of The Phantom, simply to surprise Stiles.
None of this, of course, meant he wanted to talk to Chris about it.
”Oh, look at the time!” He said flatly. ”It’s fuck off o’clock, time for you to go.”
Chris rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the counter. ”See you around,” he said cheerily.
In general, Peter tended to be a straightforward man. If he saw something he liked, he went for it, be it a car, a book, a new tie, or an attractive person. He usually didn’t bother with elaborate courting rituals—which didn’t mean he was a dick. An asshole, sure, but not a dick. He always made sure his partner knew what he was after (a good time with no strings attached) and he prided himself to be a damn good lover who never left his partner wanting (unless they asked for it). He only gave promises he knew he could keep and, most importantly, he didn’t do relationships.
So, when the urge to woo Stiles hit him, it first made him speechless and then beyond annoyed. He’d never had a problem with his very satisfactory lifestyle and he’d bedded people who were both prettier and smarter than Stiles. Where on earth did this need come from? He was pretty sure that if he made his intentions absolutely clear, he’d have Stiles in his bed, writhing and willing in no time. But he didn’t want to. He wanted to pamper him, make him blush and laugh, tease him with fleeting touches and long looks. He wanted to sit him down on his couch, plant a hideously large container of popcorn on his lap, and then watch him as he tore the latest CSI franchise episode to pieces. He wanted to pin Stiles down and fuck him until the only thing he remembered was Peter’s name. He wanted to sleep in on a rainy Sunday with Stiles in his arms.
”For fuck’s sake,” he muttered at a selection of flowering teas and then closed his eyes in exasperation because he could practically see Stiles’s face as he watched a bundle of intricately wrapped tea slowly unfurl.
This was ridiculous.
”Stiles, shut up and get over here,” Peter said, interrupting Stiles’s narration du jour. Something about the migration pattern of geese or something like that. Peter didn’t really care because he’d been staring at Stiles’s mouth for the past twenty-two minutes.
Stiles paused mid-sentence and frowned. ”What? Why?”
”Because,” Peter said and raised a brow, inclining his head at the empty space next to him.
Still frowning, Stiles abandoned his laptop and a bag of whatever artificially flavored candies and rounded the counter. ”Yes?”
”I think it’s time for you to start making your own tea,” Peter said coolly and crossed his arms on his chest. He knew exactly what he was doing and the way Stiles swallowed and his eyes widened at the way his shirt stretched across his chest told him it was working. ”Pick a tea. Any tea.”
Stiles blinked a couple of times, shook his head as if to clear it, and then narrowed his eyes. ”Any tea, you say?”
Peter let the corner of his mouth curl up slightly.
”Okay…any tea any tea…” Stiles pursed his lips as he scanned the containers on the shelves. ”Ha! Jasmine! You know, I’ve had this bottled jasmine tea thing and it was just weird. Like…overly sweetened perfume?”
”That’s not tea, that’s an abomination ruined beyond recognition,” Peter said flatly.
”Snob,” Stiles snorted.
”And proud of it,” Peter said. ”Okay, you chose jasmine. What next?”
Stiles looked at him, then the container in his hand, then back at him. ”Um. Tea, water, waiting?”
”How about you start with reading the instructions,” Peter said dryly. ”Check the ratio of leaves to water and the temperature and steeping time optimal to this particular tea.”
”Temperature. Right.”
Peter sighed. ”Tea tastes better when you prepare it properly. Hence, temperature.”
”But what’s wrong with tossing a tea bag into a cup of hot water?” Stiles asked as he carefully measured the leaves into a pot.
”Oh, absolutely nothing,” Peter said. ”Easy, instant gratification, but not that satisfying.” He waited until Stiles had set the container on the table and added, ”To paraphrase it in a way you might better understand: jerking hurriedly off in the morning might get you a momentary rush but it’s nothing compared to how you’d feel after being properly seduced and made love to.”
Stiles let out a strangled sound and his head jerked up, wide-eyed, as a dark blush spread from his cheeks down his throat and disappeared under his collar. Peter would just love to see how far it went.
”What?” Stiles asked in a strained voice.
”Water,” Peter said, nodding at the electric kettle. ”Change the water to fresh, select the temperature, and put it on.”
Stiles swallowed and did as he was told. Peter didn’t move out of the way so Stiles had to reach a bit behind him to fill the kettle. His lean frame felt rather nice next to Peter and he had to tamp down the urge to duck his head and nose the soft skin under Stiles’s jaw. He drew satisfaction from the way Stiles’s pupils dilated slightly and his pulse thrummed in the hollow of his throat. Neither spoke while they waited for the water to heat and when the kettle beeped, Stiles jumped slightly.
”Pour the water slowly over the leaves and put the lid on,” Peter said in a low voice. ”And then set the timer for 90 seconds.”
”Okay,” Stiles said. His tongue darted out as he poured and set the timer, and as he settled to wait, he bit down on his lower lip. It was way more endearing than it should be, really.
The chime of the timer made them both twitch.
”Now, pour,” Peter said and felt a hot curl of satisfaction in his chest as Stiles’s lips parted slightly and he blinked, then obeyed, pouring a cup for them both. When he handed Peter his cup, his hand was shaking slightly.
Peter held his gaze as he took a sip. It was passable which wasn’t a surprise, considering Peter had actually monitored the process. ”Satisfactory,” he murmured. ”You’ll do better next time.”
Stiles shivered and his pupils dilated even more.
Delightful.
When Peter set his cup on the counter, he couldn’t miss the obvious tent in Stiles’s jeans.
Even more delightful.
Despite his teasing, Peter wasn’t going to start anything. While he enjoyed the art of chasing and seduction, he wanted Stiles to be the one to make the first move. This wasn’t a one-night stand picked up from a bar or a holiday fling on a cruise, this was (and he shook his head at himself) something else—something more. Oh, he would romance the fuck out of him but he wanted Stiles’s permission first.
But that meant that he had to be patient.
Which was annoying.
In the coming weeks, Stiles seemed even more high-strung, if possible. He was visibly frustrated which made Peter both annoyed and hopeful because he was counting on Stiles finally snapping and doing something to push things forward. He continued with the tea lessons but didn’t try to turn his instructions into cheap porn. Stiles still seemed to get turned on.
Peter had zero complaints.
Inventorying was one of the things Peter had a deep and consistent love/hate relationship with. He knew why it had to be done but he loathed to do it anyway, up until he had everything in order and had the chance to clear the backroom from old stock and make room for new batches. The woes of being an entrepreneur and such. He was fervently glad he didn’t actually have to support himself with his shop because he was pretty sure he’d grow to hate it sooner rather than later.
”One of these days, I’ll learn to not order from obscure independent farmers just because I want to support fair trade and pay more than anyone else,” he muttered under his breath, surrounded by a couple of dozen small pouches of…something. Tea, yes, but…
”No, you won’t,” Chris said cheerily, leaning on the doorway. ”You like being the weird American who pays exorbitant amounts of money for experimental hybrid teas just to make sure you get the best of the best.”
”I don’t remember asking your input, Christopher,” Peter huffed.
”But you’ll get it anyway,” Chris retorted and bent to pick up a pouch whose label was written in such a messy scrawl that Peter honestly couldn’t say if it was in hanzi or Klingon. ”What’s this?”
”No clue.”
”Which means we should try it, right?” Chris said. He didn’t wait for a reply, just turned and went back to the shop. ”Should I guesstimate the temperature and timing?” He hollered.
”Surprise me,” Peter called back. ”Just, don’t boil the water and don’t forget the tea for an hour this time.”
”That happened once! No need to remind me!”
”Christopher, darling, we both know you suck at making tea.”
Chris, unsurprisingly, didn’t bother replying. Peter picked up an empty box and moved the undecipherable tea bags into it. Perhaps he should mix them all into a surprise blend? He could name it something pretentious, like Flying Dragon, Leaping Tiger or… nope, that just sounded like that movie. Hm. Perhaps he could ask Stiles.
And speaking of Stiles, was that his voice Peter just heard?
”Was that Stiles?” He asked, carrying the assorted oddities box into the shop.
”Is that his name?” Chris asked and shot him a shit-eating grin when he saw Peter’s unimpressed look. ”Yeah, yeah, your crush was here but he said he had to run. Something about a criminal justice paper being late.”
Peter tilted his head and gave him a narrow-eyed look. ”What did you do?” He asked. Stiles had returned that particular paper weeks ago which Peter knew because he’d helped Stiles with the introduction.
”Um, nothing. He seemed a bit taken aback when he saw me and not you behind the counter but that’s all.” He paused and cocked his head. ”Weird how we haven’t met more often, considering how much time we both spend here.”
”Yes, weird,” Peter deadpanned. ”Almost like it’s on purpose.”
”Hardy har har,” Chris said. ”Check the tea. It’s actually good.”
Peter rolled his eyes. ”Of course it’s good, it’s from my shop.”
They drank the tea in blessed silence and then Chris, apparently unable to contain himself, drawled, ”Sooo… Stiles?” And waggled his brows.
”Oh for fuck’s sake,” Peter sighed.
”Oh my God,” Chris breathed out, eyes ridiculously wide. ”You’re in love!”
Looking him straight in the eye, Peter took his cup and emptied it in the sink before turning and walking to the back.
Chris, the fucker, just cackled.
ACT 3: Be my Darjeeling
The unfortunate thing about having Stiles in his shop on a daily basis was that when he wasn’t there, Peter took notice. On his third day without Stiles, he admitted he was growing worried—it wasn’t that Stiles was accountable to him but he’d grown used to the knowledge of either having Stiles there or being told if he was going to visit his dad (which he had done on the Christmas break and no, Peter hadn’t been counting the days when he’d be back).
This uncertainty was annoying and it made him snappish.
Not for the first time, he wished he had Stiles’s number so that he could check in on him. But he didn’t because he still wanted Stiles to be the one to take the first step. Sometimes he was so proper he made himself sick.
For some reason, he had a nagging sense of having missed something. He raked through his brain and went through his and Stiles’s last interactions, trying to find something he’d done to make Stiles stay away. Had he been too creepy? Too much of an asshole? Or had he taken a too big step back and inadvertently told Stiles he wasn’t interested? What if Stiles had decided that Peter was too old for him and found someone his own age?
”What’s gotten into you?” Talia asked during their monthly phone call. ”You’re even more prickly than usual.”
”Nothing,” he snarled back.
”Don’t give me that,” Talia snapped back. ”I can hear you. Something’s wrong. Talk to me.”
Sometimes, her big sister instincts were irritatingly accurate. Peter breathed out through his nose and closed his eyes. ”I’m having…issues,” he admitted. ”Personal issues.”
”Professional or romantic?”
”The latter.”
Talia was silent for a moment. ”What do you need from me? Do you want me to kick someone’s ass for you or do you want me to shut up and listen?”
Peter huffed despite himself. ”I don’t need anyone kicking anyone’s ass for me,” he said, amused.
”I’m your big sister, Peter. Like it or not, I’m always ready to kick some ass for you.”
”I know. Thank you.”
He fell silent for a moment and stirred his tea. It had grown cold and stale but he downed it anyway.
”I’m still waiting,” Talia said.
”I feel like I fucked up,” Peter said slowly. ”But I have no idea where or how.”
”I’m going to need a bit more than that.”
So, Peter told her. He usually didn’t air out his affairs to Talia—mostly because she didn’t need to know about his string of one-night stands. But about Stiles…there was something about Stiles Peter just couldn’t quite figure out. He also had a feeling Talia and Stiles would get on like a house on fire which was a terrifying thought in itself.
”Is there a reason you haven’t called him to just plain ask?”
”I don’t have his number,” Peter said. ”And before you ask, I didn’t want to come onto him too hard. I’m more than aware of our differences and I wanted—want—him to make the first move.”
The line was silent for a moment. ”It sounds like you really like him,” Talia said.
”Against all odds, yes.”
”You could always try to track him down on the campus.”
Peter opened his mouth and then closed it, taking a deep breath. ”Did you seriously just suggest that?” He asked slowly.
Talia sighed. ”No, I don’t. Look—I’m sorry. That was a low blow. Derek’s been…” Her voice trailed away and then she cleared her throat. ”The new semester has been hard on Derek. I’m sorry, Peter. I could never imagine you doing…that. You’re an asshole but you’re not a predator.”
Peter shrugged even though she wasn’t there to see it. ”No, it’s okay. Like you said, I’m an asshole.”
”No,” Talia said tightly. ”That was totally out of line of me and you’re more than welcome to tell me to fuck off.”
”You’re my big sister, I don’t need your permission to tell you to fuck off,” Peter drawled, relieved when he heard Talia’s slightly shaky snort from the other end of the line.
”Screw you, Peter. Now, tell me what you’re going to do?”
Thing was, there wasn’t much he could do, considering he absolutely refused to be a creep and hunt Stiles down. He was many things but not that, not when he’d witnessed first-hand what that could do to a person.
The best thing would, of course, be that Stiles came back so that Peter could ask him what happened but if he never returned, well. Then Peter would reflect on that and perhaps next time reconsider his decision to be so damn proper.
(He really hoped Stiles would come back.)
It was a perfectly normal Monday evening when Peter decided to pop into the store on his way home. He was running low on granola and apples and while his mood wasn’t dependent on that particular granola brand, he couldn’t deny his mornings were better with it. Hence, the store.
He was picking his way through the produce when he saw a familiar tousled hair and the messenger bag with way too many true-crime podcast pins.
”Stiles?” He said before he managed to stop himself.
Stiles whirled around with wide eyes and plastered a wide, obviously fake smile on his face. ”Uh, hi! Peter! Long time no see.”
”Yes,” Peter said slowly. ”You haven’t stopped by in a while.”
Stiles made a weird face and rubbed his neck. ”Sorry about that,” he said, slightly sheepish. ”I’ve been busy.”
With what? Peter doesn’t ask because Stiles’s eyes are darting everywhere but to him. He also doesn’t ask, What’s wrong, but instead, ”So, how did your professor take the paper on criminal justice?”
As Stiles launched into a rambling explanation on how his professor clearly neither understood nor appreciated his brilliance on whatever he was explaining, Peter didn’t really bother listening. Because watching as Stiles became more and more animated, bright-eyed and slightly blushed with indignation, Peter couldn’t help imagining other situations where Stiles would be bright-eyed and slightly blushed.
So, when Stiles paused to breathe, Peter took the chance. It would either pay off or he’d know for sure what Stiles thought about him.
”Would you like to go out for a drink today?”
”I—what?” Stiles squeaked.
”Or would you rather come straight to mine? Either is fine by me, but I’d like the chance to treat you.” When all Stiles did was to stare, Peter frowned. ”Stiles?”
Stiles blinked and slowly shook his head. ”I—no. I don’t think so.”
To be fair, even though he’d told himself he’d accept any reply Stiles gave him Peter felt a bit offended. He wasn’t exactly used to rejection, especially from someone who clearly was attracted to him. ”Would you at least tell me why?” He asked.
”Isn’t it obvious?” Stiles asked, incredulous.
”Not really, no.”
Stiles huffed out a breath. ”Look. I don’t know what your deal with Chris is but I don’t get involved with taken people and, as hot as Chris is, I’m not really that comfortable with poly.”
Peter stared at him for a moment. ”I’m sorry, what?”
This time, the red on Stiles’s cheeks was definitely not from arousal. No, he was angry and embarrassed. Peter opened his mouth, snapped it closed, and then held out a placating hand at Stiles as he whipped out his phone to call Chris. And because he never claimed to be anything but an asshole, he set the phone on speaker.
”Yeah?”
”Christopher, darling, guess who I ran into in a store?” He purred.
”Literally no idea.”
”Stiles! You remember, the absolutely gorgeous young man I wanted to seduce since the moment he stormed into my shop.”
Stiles’s scowl took a slightly bewildered edge.
”And I needed to know this…why?”
”Well. Imagine my surprise when he declined my proposal because apparently, you and I are in a relationship. Would you have any idea why that is?”
”Um…no?”
”I think you do. I’ve told you I don’t need you sniffing around my affairs like an overly enthusiastic bloodhound except that instead of blood, you sniff out potential bedmates because you want to live vicariously through me.”
”Not fair, also—Peter, you asshole, am I on speaker?”
”What do you think?”
”No, I didn’t claim we’re in a relationship because ew, no. But considering how we behave, I can’t blame him for drawing his own conclusions.”
Peter frowned at the phone, affronted. ”What do you mean, ’ew’? You had no complaints back in college when I sucked your cock.”
”First of all, that was one time. Second, I’M ON SPEAKER, YOU ASSHOLE.”
”Yes, darling, you are.”
”Fuck you. Also, Stiles? If you’re listening, he’s a smug asshole. I don’t want him. He’s all yours.” And with that, Chris hung up.
Peter grinned like a pleased cat, tucked his phone into the back pocket of his jeans, and raised a brow. ”Well?”
Stiles blinked and stared at him with his pretty, pretty lips slightly open. Peter wanted to do things to those lips.
”You—” Stiles started and then added a weak, ”What?”
Peter sighed. ”Sweetheart, my relationship with Chris is interesting to say the least but rest assured, I’m absolutely not into him.”
”Why not? He has the whole hot silver fox thing and it suits him.”
Peter stared at him. ”A hot. Silver. Fox,” he said slowly.
”Well, yeah?” Stiles said, waving his hand in a way that probably should’ve meant something. ”I mean, have you seen him?”
”I have. Both in and out of clothes,” Peter said. ”Do you want his number? He’s coming out of a messy divorce but I have it in very good authority that he likes his cock sucked.” From the corner of his eye, he saw an elderly lady whip her head around with a shocked expression. He didn’t particularly care.
Stiles blinked and then a slow smile spread on his lips. ”Oh my god,” he whispered. ”You’re jealous? You? Of…of me?”
Peter sniffed and brushed a speck of imaginary dust off his shirt. ”Do you really want to have this conversation here?”
”I don’t care!” Stiles grinned. ”You’re jealous! This is the best day of my life! It’s like—”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, Peter thought, exasperated and fond, and yanked Stiles into a kiss.
(”So, how about you start selling coffee? Your shop would do so much better if you sold coffee,” Stiles asked much later, eyes still hazy and his belly quivering.
Peter gave him a narrow-eyed look. ”Sweetheart, what makes you think I want my shop full of people? Also, it seems I didn’t do a good enough job since you’re still able to talk,” he said, turned to pin Stiles on the mattress, and kissed him silent.
If the way he melted into Peter’s touch was anything to go by, that was exactly what Stiles wanted.)