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When he wakes up one day with a slight tickle in his throat and a heavy ache in his chest, Peter isn't exactly surprised.
Even more than a year after his resurrection he still hasn't regained all his strength - he is starting to doubt he ever will, without an alpha spark - and it is embarrassingly obvious as this is the third time already that he is coming down with something. Before his death and before the coma, he had become sick maybe once in five years after reaching adulthood.
Now, as he is standing in the drug store to prepare for what will most likely be a week or two that he is going to spend miserable on his couch, he considers buying extra tissues to have in reserve for the next time he will ultimately catch something again. In his kitchen cabinets, behind the snacks and coffee that Stiles likes, he already has a stock of tea and honey hidden and it is humiliating.
Peter bares his teeth at the shopping basket that he is carrying because growling hurts too much, but it doesn't change a thing either.
---
When, a few days later, breathing becomes more difficult and he starts coughing every once in a while, Peter is anything but surprised.
He does as he assumed he would and sits on his couch and uses the time that he can't spend working concentrated to instead catch up on the media he has missed while being dead or in a coma. All of the important and relevant political mess - supernatural or not - he's been able to check off quickly, but Stiles comes to him with suggestions of a new movie, a new tv-series or a new book he might enjoy so often that his list for that only grows longer and longer because Stiles is usually right.
Regaining consciousness after a slumber he's obviously, unexpectedly slipped into, Peter notices first a soft blanket wrapped around him that he knows with certainty he hasn't had the energy to search for yet, then a delicious scent wafting through the air, coming from the kitchen, and last a familiar heartbeat in his apartment. He blames his exhaustion for not waking up when Stiles arrived or, at least, sensing the intrusion first thing after waking.
The young man brings him a plate of soup and nudges him until he makes enough room for him to slip under the blanket, as well, and they watch another episode together and it doesn't really change anything, but his presence makes it all better still.
---
When he feels like he is choking and he ends up spitting out a flower, Peter is mildly surprised.
He is at the loft when it happens, almost two weeks after the first symptoms started, because his dear nephew wants him to look over the new training plan for the beta pups he and Stiles have come up with and it apparently can't wait any longer. It's his own fault, really, since he had demanded the pack got into shape and stopped relying on their new abilities before he'd even consider to help teach them history, culture or politics and laws; for if they couldn't learn to understand and control their own minds and bodies, how should they learn to comprehend and master Were' relations and other supernatural affairs?
Anyway, he's suddenly crouching on the floor, brought down to his knees by a coughing fit worse than any of the ones before, one hand struggling to hold himself up, the other cupped in front of his face and trembling with the barely-there-weight of a white gardenia1 of all things. Derek's hand feels heavy on his shoulder, the gaze directed at him even more so and his silence is damn near oppressing.
He knows his nephew is waiting for an explanation, some reassurance, but he is unable to bring himself to offer something, unable to stop himself from wondering if dying once more would change things for the living all that much.
---
When Stiles finds him curled up in his bathroom, heaving red camellias2 into the toilet and clawing at his throat and chest - which is anything but graceful - and says "I'm sorry", Peter is more than surprised.
There is nothing the other man could possibly be sorry for, he thinks, but Peter is sorry, so very sorry for being yet another person to cause him more suffering. Just a couple of days ago, after connecting with half his network of supernatural contacts and calling in favors from people all around the world, doing anything he could to avoid burdening Stiles with it, he finally learned that what ails him is the extremely rare and extremely deadly Disease of Unrequited Love - and wasn't that one hell of a surprise, to realize he's still capable of something like love.
He is many things, but he is not a man to blame the youth for not returning his feelings, unwanted as they are on both sides, and so Peter simply asks him not to speak of it again, because he values their friendship too much for the anguish of that. Stiles respects his wish and doesn't talk to him about it again, offering silent support and constant care instead.
It actually hurts worse in the other man's company, but Peter is used to pain and this is definitively worth it. He is spending the last of his days with the person who searched for and found the sharp remains of his heart, who unearthed and helped to mend it rather than shattering and destroying the fractured little thing completely.
However, though Stiles keeps silent in front of him, Peter overhears his condition being mentioned while he dozes on the couch in the loft during one of the rare breaks he gets from suffocating on the bloody flowers that are coming more and more often. He is just awake and aware enough to make out Derek's sudden soft laughter in response, the sound seeming regrettably odd since he hasn't heard it in a while.
He gets literally dragged from his sleep and sluggish thoughts just a moment after that, hauled up from the couch by his nephew and finding himself blinking into his red eyes, the grip the other wolf has on him all there is to hold him up. Derek has a self-satisfied, almost smug expression on his face and Peter wants to ask if he just comprehended that the world was round, since he so rarely got to see him any kind of happy or confident, not truly.
Instead, he bites his tongue and wills his nose not to twitch and swallows another damned flower, trying his best to keep the others down, as a fresh wave of Stiles' scent hits him, the young man getting practically shoved into his face. His nephew barks at the other man to "Tell him", but Peter doesn't want to hear whatever it is, doesn't want to hear Stiles' rejection, not for his own good, but because actually hearing it will literally kill him and he doesn't want Stiles to blame himself any more for his death than he certainly already does.
Thus, it takes him a moment to catch and recognize the words, to understand "I'm sorry" and "Please don't kill me" and "I will kill Derek if he is wrong about this" and "Stop me if you don't want this" and it takes him even longer, too long, to figure out what is happening right then and there. Peter still can't quite grasp the meaning of the situation, not really, as Stiles leans so close he could count his lashes if he so desired, eyes the color of whiskey glancing back and forth between his own and darting down and up again, until he presses chapped lips against his in a chaste kiss, and he feels drunk then and like he is drowning.
It's over after no more than a second, but Peter vaguely realizes that Derek has disappeared in that time, his footsteps and chuckling and heartbeat leaving the loft. He only has Stiles to stare at, to question, when he finally chokes, "What?!", because the flowers haven't broken through his chest yet, even though he feels like bursting.
And Stiles takes a breath and he starts to explain that this disease is supernatural, that's true, but normally it didn't befall beings with an increased healing factor and, before Peter can interrupt and object, he continues, even one as weak as it might be in his case. He says, "Usually it hits active magic users, since it's a manifestation of feelings through magic, and that's why I thought -" he shrugs, hunches his shoulders, "you know, what with my spark still running rampant at times and being all chaotic by nature, I thought that maybe I indeed was the one affected originally because - but that I somehow managed to get you sick by extension -" he curls his hands into fists to keep them from shaking, "that my spark made you sick instead, like some sort of subconscious revenge for not ... for not returning my feelings - I would never wish that upon you, I swear, I don't want to force my emotions on you, you have to believe me, I just want you to be happy and if there's a chance that what Derek mentioned -"
And Peter takes a deep breath, is glad that he can even still do so and relieved when it doesn't end in a coughing fit, the pressure on his lungs already easing with the flow of all the words he just heard. However, then it feels like something is crawling up his throat once more and he huffs, Stiles stopping short, as well, and watching him spit out a single white magnolia3 while nervous concern is radiating off of him in waves.
Peter barely hesitates before coming to a decision and holding out the flower as an offer, a declaration, waiting silently until Stiles rips his gaze from the object in his palm. There is hope in his eyes and the hint of a smile on his lips and love in his embrace, crushing the flower between them.
It changes everything and nothing - Peter still makes sure to always have Stiles' favorite snacks available in his apartment, Stiles still comes by frequently, but unannounced and they still watch tv or train and research together, supporting Derek and taking care of their pack; but suddenly all of it has a different meaning.