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Chris didn’t know how loud silence can be.
Not until he takes Peter home. Not until he watches as Peter aimlessly stood in the guestroom, still swaying on unstable legs weakened by the years of coma. Not until he asks Peter if he needs anything else, and there comes no answer.
Chris tries. He asks question after question. He fills the void with his own words with growing desperation and nothing comes back.
Peter doesn’t talk.
He could. There is no medical condition preventing him from it. His vocal cords are perfectly fine. He could talk. But he doesn’t.
It takes a lot of time until Chris stops to be disturbed by the silence between them. He gets used to the scars faster.
He gets used to the scars, to the screams waking him up at night, to the distance in Peter’s eyes or to the violent flinching when there are sirens approaching and passing by.
But the silence … The silence suffocates him. It feels like an open question that is never going to be answered.
Chris thinks part of the reason why the silence is so hard to get used to, is that Peter has never been silent. He has always been vibrant, has always known how to use his voice. Sometimes it cut deep, other times it soothed.
Chris misses Peter’s voice. He misses the snarky retorts. Misses the late-night discussions and the playful early-morning quarrels. He misses the way his own name sounds when Peter says it, yells it or moans it.
He misses everything.
Sometimes, he gets so uncontrollably angry, he has to go into the basement and hit the punching bag there.
He lands hit after hit until the sweat is dripping down his chin, the rage only slowly fading.
Afterwards, he stares at his red sore knuckles and asks himself, why he wasn’t there.
He should have been there.
Maybe, he could have done something. Maybe, he would have been with Peter the night it happened. Maybe, he could have destroyed the mountain ash barrier before it was impossible to find a way through the flames. Maybe …
And he sobs and leans forward, smashing his forehead against the punching bag, his whole body convulsing and his chest clenching painfully when he can’t help but imagine again …
The horrors in that basement. The screams and coughs and the dawning realization there is no escape. There were so many children. Chris knows. He has met some of them. Has watched them playing catch in the garden, laughing and bickering.
Like always, he starts to feel sick.
They are all dead. Dead and gone. They must have choked on the smoke before the fire reached them, Chris thinks. Hopes. But on really bad days, he wonders if the adults in the basement have mercy-killed them. Has Peter … He can’t even think the thought to an end, without bending over in panic because the bile gets too sour.
Chris should have been there.
But he was pulled away years ago by his angry father who got a whiff of what Chris had going on with Peter and reacted like Chris thought - imagined - he would.
When he focuses hard, Chris can still feel the pressure at his back, where his father had pressed him against the wall. “You see that mongrel again, I am going to skin him right in front of your eyes,” Gerard had hissed, his eyes spitting hate and disgust like venom. “I didn’t raise you to betray your own flesh and blood like that.”
It ended that night. Chris left Beacon Hills with fresh bruises and an aching heart.
Only to come back years later. Years after the fire. Months after turning his back on his father and the whole Argent family.
He sat at Peter’s bedside and hoped that it would help. But he feared it was not enough. Not after all these years. He didn’t know what would happen if Peter woke up. Didn't know if Peter even was still in there, or if he was literally burned out and feral inside. He ran many scenarios in his head. Some were violent and bloody, forcing him to do something he isn't sure he would be able to. None of these scenarios happened in the end. He didn’t expect Peter to be just … silent. Silent and hollow and distant.
It is like a ghost is living in his house.
The only time the silence breaks is when Peter is having one of his many nightmares.
The first few times, Chris was upright in his bed, the gun he keeps under his pillow in his hand and ready to be used. But by now, he knows what is waking him up and he takes the few staggering steps to the guestroom to either find Peter frozen on his back, eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling, or still tossing and turning, his claws shredding the bedsheets.
Chris first instinct is to wrap his arms around Peter and hold him. But he isn’t sure he won’t end up with claws in his neck. So, he just sits in the room until Peter's breath calms down, hoping he is somewhat of a calming presence. At least a bit.
Chris knows Peter should be seeing a therapist. But he also knows it would be almost pointless to send a werewolf suffering from PTSD to a human therapist.
So everything just goes on and feels like a train wreck. They are living together in silence and it feels like they are miles apart. Sometimes, Chris is surprised Peter is still there in the morning.
Eventually, a full moon comes up.
Chris notices Peter getting restless. He paces the house and startles at every little noise.
It almost makes Chris smile. He remembers full moon nights when they were together and Peter shifted. They walked through the forest in comfortable silence and ended up on their favourite clearing. Chris sat in the grass and combed his fingers through the wolf’s fur, chuckling at the deep rumble that almost sounded like purring.
It was nice. A thing from the past, long gone and distant like everything else.
“Do you want to go to the forest?” Chris still asks, looking up from the newspaper he was reading.
Peter glances at him from the corner of his eyes, his stance unsure.
Chris sighs and gets up, fetching his car keys. Peter remains frozen in place, but when Chris goes to the door, Peter follows him.
The car ride is short.
When they exit the car, the moon is a perfect silver orb.
Peter goes a few steps, then stops, closing his eyes, his nostrils flaring.
“Are you going to shift?” Chris asks.
He doesn’t expect an answer. And he gets none. But Peter takes a few deep breaths, and then starts to undress. He folds his clothes neatly and puts them into the car, his scarred skin pale in the moonlight. Chris can’t help but stare. Peter’s body is more gaunt than he can ever recall it, he is all sharp edges now, but oh, is he beautiful.
Chris watches with wistfulness, as Peter changes. It seems like it is taking longer today. Maybe it is the aftereffect of the coma. Chris knows it takes a lot of energy to do the full shift. Still, in just a few moments, the wolf stands in front of him, panting slightly. He shakes his fur out and sneezes.
Chris smiles. “What now?”
Peter’s ears perk up and he looks up at Chris with yellow eyes, that are so much more lively than his human ones are now. The wolf wags his tail once and then turns, walking a few steps deeper into the forest. When Chris doesn’t follow, he stops and looks over his shoulder, making a short huffing noise.
Chris feels like something eases off his chest. A lot of tension. “I am coming,” he says quietly, catching up with Peter.
They take the walk through the forest and it is almost like back then. But only almost. The weight of what happened is on their shoulders and slows them down. Still, Chris feels relaxed for the first time this week. He inhales the fresh night air and listens to the forest’s noises. It is another kind of silence. Light and peaceful.
When they reach the clearing, it is bathed in moonlight and the same little stream is flowing nearby, the water chortling quietly.
Chris sits down with a sigh and after a moment, Peter approaches him, sinking down beside him, putting his head on his paws.
“I miss your voice, you know,” Chris says after a while, looking up at the blanket of stars on the sky. “I really miss it. But like this, we aren’t talking either. And we still understand each other. Just like we did in the past. I just want you to know that you don’t have to feel pressured. If you don’t - can’t - talk, that is fine. But you should know that I am there, if you want or need to. You don’t have to keep everything inside. It might help to get some of it out. So, if you are ready, I will be there. I am not going anywhere.” Never again.
His words fade in the darkness, but he hears the wolf beside him sigh softly. He knows Peter heard and understands the words. That’s what counts.
The next morning, when Chris wakes up, he finds a little piece of paper on his nightstand. He recognizes Peter’s neat slightly crooked handwriting on it. Two words.
Thank you.
Chris smiles. It is something.