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Flowers. The table in Derek’s loft is covered in bouquets of flowers. Chris stares at the lilies and chrysanthemums, stares until Derek notices and clears his throat. “For the graves,” he says.
And that’s when Chris gets it. “It's today?” He asks.
Derek nods curtly and gets a few grave candles out of his shopping bag, pulling the tags off one by one. Chris watches him, a lump slowly forming in his throat. It’s the anniversary of the fire. The fire that changed everything. He remembers hearing about it clear as day. Remembers the phone call that came in the middle of the night and the feeling of surreality. And later: slowly dawning terror mingling with rage at whoever did this. Who destroyed a whole family, including children.
Chris will never know the kind of pain Derek and Peter have been through. But he thinks he knows a hint of it now. The Hales lost their whole family in a single night. Chris lost his own gradually over the years. Thinking about it is enough to make everything burn. He quickly reaches for distraction from his own loss. “Is Peter coming with you?” He asks.
Derek glances up, his frown deepening. “No. He never goes to the graves. He just … He stays in his apartment.” He looks back down at the candles, his fingers running over glossy red.
Chris feels a hint of worry. “You’re not going to check on him?”
Derek shakes his head. “No. This day makes him angry. He’s going to either slam the door in my face or yell insults at me. I speak from experience. It’s better to leave him alone. He’ll be fine.”
Chris leans back against the wall, crossing his arms. “Are you fine?”
Derek shrugs. He hesitates. And Chris partly knows what’s going on inside the wolf. Knows the conflict between opening up a fracture or remain strong and untouched. “I will be,” Derek eventually says and the tone of the words tell Chris that’s as much opening up as he can manage. “Braeden is coming over later. The pack too. We’ll have pizza. You can come too, if you want.”
Chris hums and shifts his weight. He knows better than spilling platitudes, but he still wants to offer his help. “If you want to talk …”
Derek looks up, looks directly into Chris’ eyes, his face serious and the crease between his brows deep. “Thank you. But I don’t talk about it.”
“Alright.” Chris nods. He can get that. He doesn’t talk about these things either. Only with himself. Only with ghosts.
He leaves the loft with the book he needed - Peter deposited a lot of the most important books about the supernatural in his room at Derek’s loft since he doesn’t like people in his apartment and is aware they rather go to Derek anyway - and drives around for a while, feeling agitated. Restless.
When he has to stop at a red light, he drums a nervous rhythm on the steering wheel and the silence is making him think. Leads him to things he tries to keep in the back of his mind. To memories he wishes he wouldn’t have.
He doesn’t know if Peter remembers that Chris visited him in the hospital once. It was early after the fire and Peter was covered in bandages. The machines surrounding him looked so strange and surreal. Chris knew what kept Peter from healing. He should have stayed. Should have visited more often. Should have been there. But instead, he ran. He ran like he had run after Gerard found out about them and threatened to skin Peter alive if Chris would ever dare to meet him again. He flinches slightly when he remembers Gerard's rage. The bruises still hurt days later, the words burned inside him for years. They still burn.
He abandoned Peter twice. Peter has every right to hate him, and yet, when the wolf looks at him at all, there’s no rage or disgust in his eyes. They never talked about it. Never talked at all since they have begun to roam the edges of Scott’s pack, a hunter helping wolves and a former left hand with the urge to protect but also feeling like an outcast.
Chris only notices he’s driving into the direction of Peter’s apartment, when he’s too close to turn around. So he doesn’t.
He doesn’t hesitate once he’s standing in the dim hallway of the apartment building. He knocks at the door twice. Firmly.
Peter rips the door open, a scowl on his face and his hair uncharacteristically wild. “I told you to stay away, for …” He stops, his eyes widening and Chris knows he expected Derek. “Hey,” he says. Peter stares and Chris stares back, suddenly noticing the way Peter supports himself on the door and how the fingers of his free hand are curled around the neck of a bottle. Next, he notices the smell. It hits him with sudden force, sour and sweet at the same time.
Chris knows that smell. It’s alcohol mixed with wolfsbane. Many years ago, he has tasted the exact same combination on Peter’s lips. They got tipsy together, just for fun. Peter was euphoric that he found a way to know how humans felt, Chris was glad that he could think of something else than his father’s last painful “lesson”. They did it for fun back then, but now, now it’s different. The last time Chris drank, he did it to drown the pain of loss, and he knows Peter is doing the same right now. And Chris could leave him alone, could let Peter handle this the way he chose to, but ... He doesn't want to.
“Can I come in?” He asks.
Peter scoffs. “Go away,” he says or rather slurs, starting to close the door. Chris puts his foot into it, keeping it from closing. Peter frowns. He huffs and shows a hint of fangs. “I said. Go away.”
Chris shakes his head. “You can’t scare me away with that.” He presses a hand against the door to open it further and Peter stumbles back with an angry noise, his glare is dulled but still sharp. Chris expects to be yelled at. He expects to be insulted. But then, Peter only shrugs and raises the bottle to drink, tumbling over to the couch and dropping on it.
Chris steps into the apartment, looking around. There are more bottles on the kitchen counter. They are empty.
Peter watches him standing there with heavy lidded eyes. He wrinkles his nose. “Stop. Stop … smelling like that.”
Chris looks at him. “How?”
“Like you worry. You don’t worry. No one does,” Peter scoffs, sounding like a pouting child. He raises the bottle again, gulping the alcohol down. Chris takes two quick steps and pulls the bottle away as soon as Peter stops drinking, smelling at the content. Peter makes a protesting noise and reaches for the bottle with both hands. “Give it back,” he says, a hint of desperation stirring in his voice.
“Jesus. How much wolfsbane did you put into this?” Chris asks, feeling a pang of anger. He is surprised Peter can smell anything at all. That he's lucid enough to talk coherently. “You could damage your organs with this …”
“Don’t care. Give it back. Or … or I’ll make you,” Peter snarls, his eyes flashing for a tired moment.
Chris ignores the empty sounding threat and puts the bottle on the kitchen counter to the others, turning his back to the wolf without worrying about a possible attack. Peter doesn’t look like he could walk straight even if he wanted to. The exact moment he has the thought, the wolf starts to slump, barely able to keep his eyes open. Chris sighs and searches around in Peter’s kitchen. He pours cold water into a carafe and fills a glass, holding it to Peter’s lips. “Drink this.”
For a moment, he thinks Peter will pull away or slap the glass out of his hand, but the wolf just groans and opens his mouth, gulping the water down until the glass is empty. Chris fills another one and repeats the action, until Peter turns his face away. Chris puts the water on the couch table and goes into the bathroom to soak a washcloth in cold water. He takes a moment to look up into the bathroom mirror, into his tired eyes, surrounded by early wrinkles. All the loss. It nags at the soul and the body …
When Chris returns to the living room, Peter barely reacts. His head is tilted back, resting on the cushions. Chris can see sweat pooling on the wolf’s forehead. He sits on the couch heavily, ignoring Peter’s startled noise. He puts the washcloth on Peter’s forehead and sighs. “I get it, you know. I did this too. Last year, when it was the anniversary of Allie's death.” Allison. His girl. It still hurts so much to only think of her, he almost wishes he would be drunk too. He tries to not feel like a hypocrite when he adds, “In the end, it just hurts and you feel worse.”
“No. Numb,” Peter says, blinking up at the ceiling with glassy eyes. “Feels numb. Better than … better than being clear.”
“There are healthier ways to deal with grief. You could talk to someone. Maybe not slam the door into Derek’s face,” Chris says. “You don’t have to do everything alone.” But of course, he knows why Peter doesn’t want to talk to Derek. Or go to the graves. Because it would make him vulnerable. Would make him seem weak. It doesn’t fit the role Peter thinks he is supposed to play. Doesn’t fit his makeshift armor.
Peter huffs. He shakes his head and the wet washcloth slips. Chris puts it back into place. “I’m alone,” Peter murmurs, barely audible. Chris has to bend over to hear him. “I have … nothing. No one. All gone. I just want to forget. Just want to … to be able to sleep without hearing them in my head. Want … silence. And ... I want it back. Want my family back. My life.” He makes a choked off noise that’s close to a sob.
Chris suddenly knows that this isn’t something he’s meant to hear. And a part of him thinks he should leave now. Before he hears more. But another part, the part that still longs for what once was, wants to stay. He is going to stay. He is going to listen and he will keep what he hears for himself. He won’t tell anyone else and he won’t hold it against Peter.
“You have me,” he says and that’s something Peter isn’t really supposed to hear. And maybe he doesn’t, with the way his breath evens out and his body relaxes in sleep. Maybe, he won’t hear the next words either. “And I do care. More than you know.”
Chris stays this time. He stays the whole night and the next day. He won't run away again.