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the moon is bright and hangs alone, yeah he's got the stars, but they've got their own solar systems
-rachel sermanni, sleep
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He chooses a temple in an isolated town. Tall pillars circle an altar to many gods. The shrine's domed ceiling collapsed in an earthquake, leaving it open to the night.
As evening falls, Peter goes there in the guise of a worshipper, wearing the face of a village boy with wide blue eyes. He sweeps the other offerings away, leaving a few of his own – wine, fruit, a cloak of fine fabric, red as blood. His last gift is a young buck, antlers just starting to grow. He cuts its throat and builds a pyre of rowan wood around the dying beast, then sets it alight.
It summons Stiles, as Peter had hoped.
The boy is obviously curious to see who has made such a sacrifice to him. Usually he's left much smaller things, white flowers and stones, silver coins. He is new and young, a lesser light, overshadowed by the larger cults with glittering city temples, by gods of war and lust and wealth, by his father the sun. He's a minor god. Such offerings are rarely wasted on him.
Peter kneels at the base of the shrine, the heat of the pyre stinging his face. He spins a prayer, a shepherd's desire for his flocks to be safe from predators under the light of the moon. As Stiles approaches him Peter bows his head to kiss the boy's feet, the hem of his robe, acting as reverent and awed as a mortal should when meeting a god.
The boy touches his chin and tilts his face up. He presses his lips to Peter's forehead, a blessing. Smiling, he places in Peter's hand a token, a flat white disc of quartz, brimming with luck and moonlight. He curls Peter's hand around it, and their fingers tangle briefly as Stiles withdraws from mortal sight, not knowing that Peter sees him still.
He lingers to watch the boy with wolf-hungry eyes – bare feet stirring up ash and embers, fingers trailing through the deer's blood. For a moment, Peter contemplates taking him now, pressing his wrists against a marble column, kissing him and whisking him away. He imagines Stiles' surprise as he struggles against his abductor, finding him not so human after all, though no less worshipful.
Waiting, however, will surely bring its own reward, so he bows again at the foot of the shrine and makes his escape into the night. He turns once to see the boy wrapping himself in the red cloak.
(He has the token strung on a chain of enchanted silver and wears it over his heart.)
+ + +
Peter's palace in the Underworld is beautiful. The walls are mosaic, tiled with chips of gold and precious stone. It has been many days, now, that Stiles has spent wandering the halls, running his fingers over depictions of ancient battles and strange beasts, borders that twist and curl like the labyrinth that separates them from the earth.
He's not surprised when Peter's shadow falls over him. He often follows when Stiles goes walking: sometimes from a distance, padding soft and wolf-shaped in the corner of his vision, other times, like today, taking his hand and drawing him into conversation.
Words fall out of Stiles; they always have. No matter how he tries to keep a cold silence around his captor, Peter manages to wring a smile out of him, a laugh, an answer. He drinks in Stiles' responses like nectar.
He can't really be angry at himself. It's lonely here. No one visits the king of the Underworld, not his siblings or other family. There are spectral servants who glide through the halls, but they neither speak nor acknowledge anyone but Peter.
They brush against Stiles, icy and feather-light, as he and Peter walk.
“They'll listen to you,” Peter says. “If you accept. If you – stay with me, willingly, you'll have as much power here as I do.”
This is where their conversations always go. Stiles sighs, roughly, and attempts to pull his arm away. “I don't care,” he starts to say, but cuts himself off. He stares at the wall. An eight-headed serpent looks back; it's eyes are flecks of opal.
“Look at me,” Peter says. His hand curls tightly around Stiles' wrist. “Haven't I treated you well? Provided for you?”
“Peter-”
“Look me in the eye. Tell me that your opinion of me has not changed.”
They're standing closer, gravity pulling them into the same place.
“I really do – like you, Stiles,” Peter says, voice soft. “I hope you know that I mean that.”
“Then why don't you let me go?” Stiles says, but it comes out breathy and uncertain.
Peter's mouth curls a little, his eyes locked on Stiles'. “Oh, darling,” he says, hands coming up to cup Stiles' face. “Why would I ever want to do that?” He leans in then and presses their lips together.
Stiles' fingers clutch at Peter's robe. It's easy – too easy – to just lean back and let it happen, to close his eyes while Peter's mouth drifts down to his neck and lingers there. His breath catches when he feels teeth.
It hits him all at once, the insanity of what he's doing, and he shoves Peter away. He takes a few steps back and turns around, trying to collect himself.
“Stiles,” Peter says and slides behind him, hands brushing his sides.
“Don't-” Stiles says, pleads. “Just – don't.”
The pressure of Peter's hands disappears. Stiles takes a deep breath and flees to his room. When he shuts the door, he leans against it, shaking, some traitorous part of him wishing Peter had followed.
+ + +
In a forest by the sea there is a grove of rowan trees. It's Stiles' most sacred place, one of the few where he goes to be alone. Sometimes he bathes there in a clear pool. Normally he is at ease, left in peace and privacy, but he's had a visitor lately.
It's evening, his father's light quickly disappearing into the west. Stiles feels himself being watched and looks around. There - his visitor, a large black wolf, is curled up on a tree root and staring at him. Its eyes are blue and hungry. Stiles gets out of the water and wraps himself in his robe, fabric clinging as he steps over to the animal.
“Hello,” he says, reaching out his hand. “You're late today.” The wolf nudges against him a little while Stiles' fingers comb through thick fur. It makes a soft sound, standing up and padding a few feet away, then looking back, obviously wanting him to follow. This is new; his wolf normally just prowls through the shadows and watches him.
He follows the wolf far, deep into the trees.. It stops, finally, rubs against his legs, and Stiles sees what it wants to show him – a flowering vine, wrapped tightly around its host tree. It's lit up from within, the glow strengthening as the night darkens around them.
“Oh,” Stiles says, fascinated. He puts his hand to one of the flowers and it lights up even brighter at his touch.
“I'm glad you like it,” says a voice behind him, and Stiles whips around.
There is a man in a heavy black cloak smiling at him. The last of the sunlight vanishes below the horizon.
“Who-?” Stiles starts to say, but the earth opens up beneath him, and he is falling.
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Stiles sits with him, but refuses to touch the food. Peter even pours his wine himself, but the boy knocks the cup over. It drips red on the floor and Stiles looks away while a ghostly servant drifts through and cleans it.
Peter smiles, rolling a grape through his fingers.
“That,” he says, “Was once a king of Troy.”
“You keep plenty of fine company, then,” Stiles says. “What good is it to take me?”
“Yes,” Peter says. “My kingdom is more numerous than any other, but there is no one here that I prefer to you.”
Stiles flicks away a fig and turns from Peter's hand reaching for his chin. “You find me better than the dead. I'm flattered.”
“Stiles,” he says. “You are the one I chose to bring here. I am offering you my kingdom. Why won't you let me give you the power you deserve?”
He looks at Peter with dark eyes. “You took me on a whim. You'll tire of me just as quickly.”
“Never,” Peter says. Stiles endures a brief touch on his hand before pulling it away and getting up, his tolerance at an end.
+ + +
Peter finds the boy at the great carved doors, staring out at the land of the dead. A grey mist drifts by, never burning off in the half-light. With no moon or sun and only a facsimile of stars, the sky always hovers somewhere between twilight and dawn. (There will be a moon here if Peter has his way.)
“Are you thinking of going out?” Peter asks, coming up behind him.
Stiles shakes his head. “Does it make a difference? I'm just as trapped out there as I am here.”
Peter's quiet, long enough that the boy glances back, questioningly.
“Is it so terrible here?” Peter asks. He flicks a hand at the doors and they swing shut quietly. “Are you-”
“What would you give me,” Stiles interrupts. “If I asked?”
“Anything,” he says instantly. “Anyone, any human soul, kings, slaves, whole armies. Anything.”
“Why?” Stiles says, turning a little, not quite looking at him. “What are you getting out of this?”
He risks a few steps forward, raises a hand to touch the boy's shoulder, then lets it drop. “You,” Peter says. “All I want is you.”
Stiles breathes out, disbelieving. He faces Peter, finally; he stares, intent, like there are answers written under his skin. “Why?” he says. “I'm not-”
“What?” Peter asks, closing the last of the space between them. “Special? Powerful? Worthy?” He dares to bring their faces close together, wanting to kiss the boy, but not wanting to scare him away. “You are. You are – exactly what I want.”
Stiles' breathing is unsteady.
On a whim, Peter lowers himself, kisses the boy's feet, the hem of his robe. Stiles stares down at him, mesmerized.
“All I ask,” Peter says, soft, intense. “Is that you let me worship you as you deserve.”
+ + +
Stiles rests in the room Peter allowed him, staring up at the constellations of gems embedded in the ceiling. His father must be frantic; they haven't been apart from one another this long since Stiles' mother was alive. He'll tear apart earth and heaven searching for his child. Stiles just hopes his father finds him soon.
He sleeps, dreaming of nothing. When he opens his eyes, it feels like morning, though there's no way of telling here.
Shooing some curious shades out of the doorway, he is disconcerted to find new robes folded on the end of his bed. He considers not wearing them, but puts them on. He's fiddling with the embroidery on the neckline when Peter makes his entrance.
“The color suits you,” he says.
“I'm glad you think so,” Stiles answers, meaning no such thing.
“Really,” Peter says. “You ought to wear fine things more often.”
“What I wear is hardly important.”
“Oh?” Peter says. “Then you won't want these.” He holds up a pair of golden sandals.
Stiles reaches for them, but Peter laughs. “Allow me,” he says, and kneels.
Uncomfortable, Stiles sits on the bed and lets him lace them up. Peter's hands linger a little too long on Stiles' ankles and he pulls his feet away.
+ + +
At meals, Stiles is usually guarded and quiet, always refusing to eat.
Today, though – today, he picks nervously at a quartered pomegranate, rolling the seeds in his fingers, licking the crimson juice staining his hands.
Peter sets his cup down loudly, suddenly, and the boy startles. “Is it really so unbelievable,” he says. “That I want you?”
Stiles's eyes are wide. “Yes,” he says. “Out of all – out of anyone you could have had, you choose me? I can't help but think this is some part of some feud you're having with my father, or some wager you've made, and I want no part of it.”
“I've wanted you,” Peter says. “Since I first saw you.” His voice is low and private, enough that Stiles leans in a little to hear him.
“You could have spoken to me,” the boy counters. “Offered suit – properly.”
“Would your father have allowed me near you?”
“No,” Stiles admits, and looks up at him, eyes dark beneath his lashes. “He just wants to keep me safe.”
“And what do you want?”
He gets up, scattering pomegranate seeds. He looks like he's going to leave, but, for once, doesn't, even when Peter also stands. “I don't need to be kept safe.”
“Well, then,” Peter dares to move into the boy's space, take his face in his hands. His thumb brushes Stiles' cheek. “Why not do something about that right now?”
Peter moves in, kisses him. He expects the boy to jerk away. Instead, he feels hesitant, sticky fingers curling into his robes as Stiles kisses back, parts his lips and lets Peter take whatever he wants.
They both pull back after a moment, and are still, breathing each other's air. Stiles' pulse races under Peter's fingertips.
Peter says: “I want you to rule beside me.”
Stiles looks up, half-desire and half-fear, his face an agony of indecision.
“Please,” Peter murmurs, hand tracing down the boy's spine. He goes to kiss him again, but Stiles slips away, breath catching. He makes a move as if to flee, but – sits back down, takes up a ripe pomegranate. He pulls apart the foamy flesh and Peter burns with victory as Stiles puts seed after ruby seed into his mouth.
+ + +
He is born. He is young and nameless and sits at his mother's knee. Her sister nymphs play with him and pet him and he never wants for love.
“Look,” his mother tells him, pointing to the sun. “There, your father is smiling at you.”
Their peace ends, as such things always do, and his mother wastes away – her feet are roots in the earth, her limbs branches. He takes his mother's leaves and winds them into a crown on his head. He goes to live with his father in the sky, on the mountain of the gods, and becomes the moon. The rowan tree is forever sacred to him.
“Don't ever leave me,” his father says, drunk on ambrosia and nectar.
“I won't,” he says, though he is older now and has his own place in the heavens. He wants to please his father more than anything, to make him smile like he used to when they were all together. “I love you,” he says, and puts his arms around him, mourning that death's cold hand can reach even into the halls of the gods.
+
Peter has never been welcome on Olympus. When the realms of existence were being divided up, he tricked his sister Talia into giving him the underworld. He may bow to her as the queen of the gods, but he has a kingdom that grows as all others become smaller. Over time, her anger lessens, and Peter visits, but the other gods find him strange and sly and they distrust him.
He is happy to intrude. His presence is a sharp reminder of their failed ambitions, of the mortality of their human lovers and favorites. Time will bring all of them to him.
Peter smiles at one of the little minor gods, dark-eyed and pale. The boy smiles back, uncertain, and Peter thinks him young and foolish. “Who is that?” he asks his sister.
“Stiles,” she says. “His father is the sun.”
“Ah,” says Peter, remembering. The sun-god was married to a nymph, who Talia kept away from death by transforming her into a tree.
He finds himself watching the boy, amused by his sweet face and clever hands. Stiles laughs and talks to everyone around him, though he seems stuck to his father's side. Peter has never considered himself lonely, but he does lack a certain quality of company. He allows himself to fantasize – a pale hand entwined with his, a kiss, the boy's sharp tongue whispering in his ear. A lovely thing to rule beside him.
He gazes a little too long and the father catches Peter looking. It's perhaps the worst thing he could have done, to grow stern and tug his son close, out of reach.
Peter has always wanted most the things he cannot have.
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