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Stiles doesn't bother knocking. Peter had given him a key, and he doesn't have the patience to stand around waiting for the man to let him in. If he's even home. Fuck, Stiles hopes that he's home.
He's had a day. A...just a really challenging day. Not all days are bad, especially not lately, but. Hormones suck. Testosterone sucks. Sure, it's the best thing that's ever happened to him, but his face won't stop breaking out and his voice won't stop breaking and Stiles' body has been aching for the last three days. He got into another fight with his dad which is just...it is what it is.
But he needs a break, and Peter has always meant easy bantering and, more importantly, safety. Stiles has known the Hales all his life, and they've been the most accepting of his transition. Probably because they're werewolves, but Stiles is still incredibly thankful for his pack’s (and hadn't that been a surprise, being offered an official position) unwavering support in the face of his journey.
It's why he's at Peter's apartment, letting himself in and furiously ignoring the way his eyes are stinging. He knows crying is a good release of emotions, but he doesn't want to fucking do it. Peter has always been his favourite, and Stiles likes to tease the older man that he's his favourite too. Peter has never protested, even in jest, which has always made Stiles unbelievably happy—he may have the tiniest crush on the lawyer, sue him.
Locking the door behind himself, Stiles kicks off his shoes and then takes a moment to line them neatly beside the front door. It's a tick of Peter's that he doesn't quite understand, but if he's invading the man’s space the least he can do is make sure he doesn’t leave his shoes strewn about. There’s a certain stillness to the apartment that has Stiles believing he’s alone, and he lets his shoulders drop heavily.
Well, so much for Peter taking his mind off things. He putters around for a few minutes, riffling through the kitchen cupboards but not finding anything he wants to eat. He sighs heavily when the fridge brings the same results, closing it with his shoulders curving inwards dejectedly. Well, if there’s nothing to eat and no Peter, he might as well take a nap.
That’s something else. Stiles hasn’t been sleeping—he really has no idea if it’s because of the hormones or not—and it’s begun to weigh on him. Being tired all the time is fairly exhausting, which should be obvious, but it still takes Stiles by surprise every time he’s left struggling to stay awake in class after tossing and turning all night long.
Peter’s bedroom is large. The whole apartment is fairly big—the Hale family has more money than Stiles can actually fathom—and Stiles slinks his way to the closet. He definitely doesn’t want to sleep as he is, and he just has to hope that Peter doesn’t mind him borrowing any of his clothing.
His flannel slides down his arms to pool on the floor before his fingers hesitate at the hem of his t-shirt. Stiles is alone in an empty apartment and the idea of being shirtless still makes him uncomfortable. He wonders if there will ever be a time when he’s comfortable with his body and then spends a few silent moments hoping for it before he finally peels himself out of his shirt.
He slips off his binder next and quickly slips into one of Peter's bigger sweaters. The shirt hangs loose on the wolf, so it fits like a bag on Stiles—which is exactly what he needs today. He takes a breath that expands his chest further than he's been able to all day, letting his lungs fill and then letting it out slowly. Stripping off his jeans, he keeps his boxers on before he climbs under Peter's covers, sinking into his mattress.
The pillow smells like Peter. Musky and earthy and safe, and Stiles tugs another one into his arms to curl around it. A yawn cracks his jaw and has him seeping even deeper into the soft memory foam, feeling cocooned in safety as Peter’s scent and his heavy sheets lull him into an easy sleep.
Stiles comes to with the feeling of fingers massaging his scalp. He purrs, a noise he's picked up from years surrounded by wolves that his human vocal cords should absolutely not be able to make, and arches his back into the touch. He reaches out to find Peter's legs, and he wraps himself around one completely, substituting his pillow with the man's lower body. Peter chuckles, and the noise has Stiles' heart beating against his chest.
“Well isn't this a lovely surprise,” Peter rumbles. Stiles presses his face further into the man's stomach and makes a happy noise when his nose meets worn fabric and not suit buttons.
Peter must have changed before he climbed into bed. Stiles is definitely not disappointed that the man is sitting against the headboard, because that would be extremely inappropriate. Instead of thinking about how much he’d like Peter to lie down with him, he snuggles closer and makes a happy noise when Peter starts playing with his hair, which is just growing out from his buzz cut.
“M’sorry I broke in,” Stiles mumbles half-heartedly, slipping his fingers under the hem of Peter’s t-shirt in a daring moment of confidence.
“Sweetheart, this is exactly why I gave you a key. If I did not want you here, you would not have one,” Peter assures him, saying and doing nothing about the fingers that not rubbing the skin of his stomach.
“Still feel like I’m ‘vading your den,” Stiles says, though it’s with a smile. He’s more comforted than he wants to admit by Peter’s words.
“You will always be welcomed in my den, Stiles,” Peter tells him firmly, and Stiles’ heart skips in his chest as his cheeks heat. Sure, Peter could very well only be saying that because he’s pack, but Stiles knows that he is the only person with a key to Peter’s apartment other than Peter himself. “Oh, don’t you smell lovely,” Peter purrs, the hand on his head scratching down his neck and making him shiver and groan. “This really was such a lovely surprise, finding you sweetly sleeping in my bed.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” Stiles whispers, his voice feeling like it’s being swallowed somewhere in his chest. Peter has never commented on Stiles rather obvious crush on him, but this is coming dangerously close to an admittance Stiles is not ready for.
“Darling I would never,” Peter tells him sternly. He pulls away, and Stiles makes a noise of distress before Peter is sliding down the bed and lying on his side so they are facing another other. Stiles’ hand is still pressed under his chest, but now his hand is flat against the older man’s chest instead of just barely touching his stomach.
“Peter,” Stiles whispers desperately, his heart racing. Peter looks at him carefully, his eyes so, so familiar and so very kind.
“You are still very young,” Peter tells him, but it doesn't sound like a rebuttal or a rejection, especially when he continues with, “and I am a very prestigious lawyer. I know which laws I can and cannot get around, and I fear your father’s position makes the latter a much longer list. But do not, for a single second, think that means I do not care for you, Stiles.”
“What are you...” Stiles can’t finish his sentence, hope swirling up his chest and making him feel vulnerable and weak. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like the way he can’t meet Peter’s eyes as the man leans in even closer, close enough that he can feel his warm puffs of breath against his cheek. It feels like he’s going to fly out of his own skin.
Peter’s hand lands on his waist, squeezing as their bare legs tangle together. Peter must not be wearing pants either. “You are my mate, darling.” Silence echoes through the room. Stiles looks up to find Peter staring at him intently, his eyes glowing in the dimly lit room. It all feels like too much, and the words run over and over again in his head and make feel dizzy.
“Why didn't you ever say anything?” Stiles finally asks, hating how weak his voice comes out.
“Please believe that I did not know, darling,” Peter tells him, and his hand slides up Stiles’ back to cup the back of his neck warmly. “Your scent has...evolved since you began testosterone. I was very surprised to find that you were my mate, but I was not displeased.” Peter stresses the last bit, and it makes Stiles’ lips twitch into the barest of smiles.
“I don’t know what to say,” Stiles admits. It feels like he’s getting everything he has ever wanted. Like every dream he’s had since he was freaking seven is coming true, here in Peter’s massive bed with the wolf inches before him. It doesn’t feel real, though Stiles doesn’t dare risk pinching himself in case it isn’t.
“You do not need to say anything,” Peter tells him firmly. “I know you understand what the term means, and I also understand that you are still seventeen. I—” Peter trails off into nothing, and Stiles finally moves closer, his own hand sliding around Peter’s back to rest between his shoulders.
“I love you,” he rushes out, the words bursting from his speeding heart. “I love you so much, Peter.”
The wolf smiles at him, a genuine twist of his lips that Stiles has rarely seen directed at anyone other than himself. Peter’s fingers scratch at the back of his neck and make him shiver, and Stiles all but melts in a boneless puddle of goop. “And I you, darling,” Peter tells him warmly. Stiles laughs a little, moving forward to hide his beaming smile and hot blush in Peter’s chest—half-covered by his shirt Stiles has pushed up. “Now, I am sorry for interrupting your nap—” “—dude, this was way better than a freaking nap!—” “—and I feel as though I should let you continue to rest. Would you mind some company?”
“I would love that,” Stiles says warmly, not moving from his spot in Peter’s chest even as the wolf rolls onto his back and takes Stiles with him. He curls into the man’s side, a smile that he can’t push down pressed into Peter’s skin, and falls asleep to the heartbeat of the man he loves, of his mate.