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Stiles sat on the couch, staring at his phone intently enough that he was a bit surprised it didn’t yet catch fire. They had a little chat room; Chris, Peter and him. It was mostly used for booty calls, let’s be honest, but not in this very moment.
In this very moment Stiles has just sent them the words I got a job offer in San Francisco .
He… He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Sometimes it took the guys a while to reply, what with them being old , and not connected to their phones with the millennial umbilical cord, but it was still nerve wracking.
Would they even care? It wasn’t like… It wasn’t like they were an item or anything. They couldn’t be one, because Peter and Chris were together - like, seriously together-together - and he wasn’t delusional enough to think that their little threeway romps once or twice a week meant that he was part of it. His life didn’t work like that.
He tapped his screen to stop his phone from closing off. Nothing.
This had to be the most agonizing two minutes of his life.
SF is expensive. What are they offering? Chris asked suddenly, and despite waiting for a reply pretty much desperately, Stiles almost had a heart attack from the message alert dinging into the silence of his apartment.
He wiped his palm on his track pants. Okay. So there was a reply. It wasn’t… it wasn’t ‘don’t go’ or ‘we want you to stay here’ but yeah… he would take it. He was an adult.
It’s a nice city , Peter chimed in and close enough to still visit your dad .
Stiles closed his eyes for a second, the screen too glaring all of a sudden. Right. His dad. He would do that of course, but it was a bit jarring to finally have proof that Chris and Peter didn’t really care if he would be visiting them . Then again, what was he expecting? Those two could probably pick up any pretty-boy from Jungle for a night of fun. It wasn’t like they needed him specifically.
***
Stiles… wasn’t sure how he felt about this whole thing.
Chris grilled him mercilessly about the job. It was a good job, thank you very much, entry level position at a private investigation agency with a nice salary and a good chance at climbing the ladder. The man wasn’t satisfied until he had the whole operation checked out by his hunter buddies, which was… a weird level of care considering he made it clear he had no problem with Stiles leaving Beacon Hills - and them - behind.
Peter was much the same, he kept sending Stiles pictures of houses and apartments in the area that were all way too big or high-brow for him to afford, but he felt too uneasy to point it out. Like, no, no he couldn’t afford a house on the shore that had four bedrooms and three bathrooms with a fucking private beach. This wasn’t fucking House Hunters.
Okay, Peter wrote into the chat. I narrowed it down to these three.
Stiles blinked as he opened the links the man sent them. One was the house with the beach, of course - that seemed to be Peter’s favorite. The second was a penthouse apartment downtown. The third was in the suburbs, and it looked like a fucking McMansion.
Holy hell. Peter wouldn’t have been able to deny that he grew up rich. He was obviously completely divorced from reality.
I like the last one , Chris said, giving Stiles a pause, because really? Really ? He thought at least Chris would have more common sense than that, especially since he knew how much - or comparatively, how little - Stiles would be making.
Suddenly he was angry. He was angry and tired and fed up with this bullshit.
Seriously? , Stiles typed, You guys can’t expect me to afford any of these on my own. And what do you care anyway?
He was already regretting being so snappy by the time he hit send, but it was too late. Stiles huffed out a breath and carefully put his phone down.
He still had to sort through his clothes to see what he wanted to take.
***
It was afternoon by the time he had the courage to pick his phone up again. There was only one message. From Peter.
Come over. Tonight.
***
Stiles didn’t really know what he expected. One last booty call? He was supposed to move in a month, and it was very possible that the men just wanted to break it off now before things got even more messy.
He felt sick to the stomach just thinking about it.
He ran through about twelve thousand possibilities in his head, but he definitely didn’t see Peter opening the door telling him that he wanted to punch him in the face.
“I… what? Why wou-... what ?”
Peter looked him over, his gaze cool enough to make him break out in cold sweat.
“Chris is pouting,” Peter offered as an explanation, which was no explanation at all. “Do you know how much you need to fuck shit up for him to honest-to-god pout?”
Stiles blinked, standing there on the doorstep of the small apartment the guys shared, and had absolutely no idea what the fuck was happening.
Okay, maybe he’d been rude. A tiny bit. But it wasn’t like he said anything that wasn’t true…
“Look,” he said, licking his lips, thinking that maybe he should just… just leave. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said. And he didn’t. The last few weeks had been weird and confusing, and the more he thought about it, the more he felt like he had a right of be angry, okay?
His fingers twitched by his side.
“You guys have been taking the piss ever since I’ve told you I’m moving, what the hell were you expecting?” he spit out finally.
Peter opened his mouth to snap back at him, and Stiles could see the way his eyes narrowed, and knew immediately that whatever would come out of the man’s mouth would be the end of everything. That was Peter’s ‘I’m not pulling my punches’ face, and when Peter Hale refused to pull his punches, skulls got caved in. Irreparably.
“Nobody was taking the piss,” Chris said, coming up from behind and cutting his partner off just in time. He looked tired, even as he shouldered Peter out of the way seemingly effortlessly. “Other than you, apparently. For the last two years.”
Stiles blinked, watching with envy as Peter put an arm around Chris’s waist, casual as ever. They were a united front, and he felt like an outsider. It hurt, even though he knew he should have expected it.
Then he registered what Chris just said.
“Me? For the last… okay, you lost me. You completely lost me.”
Chris looked at him, searching. Stiles had no idea what he was looking for, but in the end the man just sighed and stepped to the side.
“Come in, you little idiot.”
***
Stiles sat down on the couch with his back stiff. He tried not to think about how Peter gave him a spectacular rim job right on this very pillow not even a week ago while he sucked Chris’ cock.
Chris sat down in the armchair that didn't match any other furniture and Peter just... perched on the arm of the couch like he wanted to keep as far away from Stiles as possible. That hurt.
Stiles didn't want to be here. He wanted to be home packing up and getting ready for his new life where he wasn't stuck in a dead-end relationship with two people who were only interested him for the spice he brought into the bedroom. Stiles seemed to be destined to be the fucking pepper shaker of love, and he was sick of it.
Chris sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked dead serious.
"Stiles, it looks like there's some... unfortunate miscommunication, so I will say this as plainly as humanly possible," he said. "Stiles, we are together."
He blinked at Chris, flushing with shame and anger.
"I... I know that! I know that you are together, god! I'm not a fucking idiot-"
He was just about to work himself up for a nice rant when Peter grunted like a wounded animal.
"Can I throw myself out of the window now ?" he asked, like he was continuing a conversation Stiles wasn't aware of.
Chris actually had the audacity to hide his face in his palms, and okay. Stiles was - once again - confused.
"You were supposed to be the smart one," Peter whined, sounding betrayed.
"Stiles," Chris said after a second that seemed to make him age another ten years. Stiles was starting to get worried for him. "We," he said, motioning between first Peter, then himself and then - bafflingly - at Stiles, "Are. Together."
What.
Peter slid off the arm of the couch, and plopped down beside him with a dramatic sigh.
"Darling, I swear to god. If you are just playing dumb right now, I'm going to start ripping throats out and that would be a shame, cause I want to take this rug to San Francisco."
What.
"To... San Francisco? You... I... what..."
He looked at Chris, because somehow he still expected him to be the bastion of common sense. The man was looking back at him with one eyebrow just slightly raised, the corner of his mouth shadowed with the ghost of a smile not quite born. He looked... so fucking fond .
And he realized in that second that he saw that same expression before. Sometimes when it was directed at Peter when he wandered around the apartment naked after sex, picking out books he wanted to lend to Stiles, and sometimes... sometimes at him too.
Oh dear god. He was an idiot. A colossal, motherfucking moron.
But a part of his brain, that liked to live in denial - the same part that tried to convince him that no, he was not in love with these guys - was still lagging behind, dragging its feet, telling him it couldn't be true. He had to make absolutely sure.
"You... You want to come to San Francisco? With me?"
Chris smiled finally, for real this time.
"Yes, Stiles. The only reason we didn't ask you to move in is because this place is way too small for three people. I want to kill Peter even on our best days."
Peter huffed.
"Not my fault that my undeniable charm is too much for you," he said, sneaking an arm over the back of the couch, and around Stiles' shoulders.
Stiles didn't know how much he needed that touch until it was there and he could finally relax.
"We thought it was obvious," Chris said with a self-deprecating little grin. "But apparently not. Now the only question is if you want us to come? Since it looks like you weren't aware of the whole... relationship going on."
Stiles opened his mouth, his tongue getting tied in his hurry to say yes. Yes .
But Peter cut him off with an eye roll.
" Excuse me , the only question is when you two will concede defeat and agree that the beach house is clearly the superior choice."
Stiles huffed out a laugh, leaning back into Peter, grinning at Chris like the fool he was.
He wasn't sold on the beach house, but he was sure as hell sold on their future together.