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Every beam of light passed through at least two champagne glasses, and it painted everyone golden. But no one more so than Professor Hale.
Stiles had spent the first course of the Law Dinner studiously avoiding staring, consumed by faux interest in his bread roll, but as the fish was brought out he realised that the rest of his cohort were all undressing Peter with their eyes anyway. If anything, he was drawing attention to himself by not ogling. He indulged himself.
He looked gravitationally good. The dark fabric of his suit drew in the soft twinkling light, along with the eyes and breath of everyone in the room. Poor Isaac, sat next to him, looked like he was dressed in a dusty school blazer comparatively. Tasteful gold cufflinks flashed whenever he gestured, gregariously, to anyone at the table. Shadows were cut by the sharpness of his jaw, while candlelight tousled through his hair like a halo. And it looked like Stiles wasn't the only one ready to worship. Some kindly saint had seated him at Peter's table at least, although they were separated by several of his beautiful, sparkling coursemates. Sat on Peter's left, Kira was also glowing, her long black hair sliding over her shoulder and her coppery dress as she angled in to laugh at something he'd said. Stiles shifted uncomfortably in his own rented tuxedo. Despite the pang of jealousy in his throat, he could recognise the put-together smiles of two beautiful people trying carelessly to out-charm each other. Scott's expression, though, was enough to send him smirking into his trout. He'd seen the intensity of his mentor's gaze when he was truly passionate, and it would blow out every candle in this dining room. There was nothing to worry about here.
Champagne glasses still littered the table from the reception. White wine was followed by red, and Stiles found himself sleepily transfixed as Peter stood and walked off with a waiter, discussing something, charm turned on. He thought he'd looked good in black tie when he tried it on in the rental shop, but Peter was teaching him what good looked like, his jacket clinging to his broadly muscled shoulders, tailored oh so gracefully at the waist, while satin-striped trousers whispered around his well-muscled thighs. Even Peter's most amiable, casual walk had the swing of a prowl to it, his friendliest, most comfortable smile held the grin of a predator. The pair disappeared through a door and abruptly the show was over. Stiles realised he needed a splash of cold water to... keep him awake.
Even the loos in this hotel were fancy - the sinks had their own little living room. Dark and glossy green tiles and illuminated mirrors gave the whole place a surreal, grotto-y atmosphere, and a face-splashed Stiles collapsed into one of the dark leather armchairs. He had to admit, being someone's dirty little secret made an event that could have felt crassly luxe and overwhelming, quite... fun. Sat in the constellation, he was more than happy to watch as Peter showed off and made the world orbit around him. And when Peter caught his eye, let his mouth hang open a moment too long, pushed his tongue slightly too far forward in his mouth... no one would ever know but Stiles. He shivered at the thought, but bolted up straight as the door swung open.
Summoned perhaps by his own lascivious thoughts, stood Professor Hale in the flesh. Stiles froze, half upright, for a second, then slowly rose. They stood, metres apart, eyes locked together, breathing in sync. The dark bathroom around him started to swim, and his pulse was so loud in his ears, it must be audible across the room. A thousand scenarios flashed across his face, he could see them glistening in Peter's eyes too. His whole body was starting to respond to imagined touches, visions of Peter pressed against the shining wall, the half felt dig of Peter's hands into his hips.
Slowly, regretfully, Peter shook his head, eyes darting to the door. Pouting but nodding, Stiles understood. Peter clapped him soundlessly on his be-suited shoulder as he walked past, letting his hand linger, drift for a deniable second to Stiles' elbow.
The night got dizzy after that, wine or adrenaline Stiles wasn't sure. He nearly blacked out for real during the main course. Peter had somehow contrived to get steak on the bleeding edge of rare, and the sight of him subtly thumbing what had to be a drop of blood from his bottom lip, it overcame Stiles a little.
Chocolate tarts came and went and the table kept up its slow spin. Scott glowered, Kira glittered, Isaac looked like he was struggling to keep up, and in the centre Peter glowed. Stiles drank wine. For several glasses worth, the sobering effect of catching a circumspect glance from Professor Hale was enough to keep him in check, but there was only so much meaningful looks could do. When the coffee arrived, Stiles fell upon it like a man dying of thirst. His normal reaction to caffeine seemed trivial compared to how much he currently needed to sober up. Red wine sleepiness was winning right now, and the waiters had started bringing round port and cheese. As he leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out comfortably, he hoped the espresso would put up a good fight.
His heart jolted as his foot met firm flesh. From the quick flicker of eyes, a whisper of a movement of an eyebrow, he could tell who's leg he had slouched into under the table. Suddenly electrically awake, he leaned forwards. He hooked his shiny leather shoe behind Peter's ankle and gently started teasing up the back of his leg. The reaction was swift. Peter had his foot trapped between two ankles in an instant, and then pushed down with one of his heels, driving Stiles’ foot into the floor. Hard. Stiles couldn't help but stick his lip out. Unremorseful, Peter flung him an exaggerated pout back as Kira leaned slightly across him to gesture something to Isaac. Aww, poor baby, he seemed to say, keeping Stiles’ foot firmly pinned. Stiles was such a poor baby, and sulked more, sinking further down into his chair. This coffee was acting quickly, he was now breathlessly aware of every nerve ending on his body. Remorse must have found its way into at least a part of Peter's heart. Not the part that was keeping Stiles’ instep as a painful prisoner, that stayed firm, but with his other foot he - not too subtly - raked the side of Stiles’ calf and thigh. The bastard was wearing some kind of velvet shoe, because of course he was, and the mixture of sensations was a lot to process. By the time Stiles had recovered from that, Peter had kicked his foot back to him, softly excused himself and stood to leave the table.
That had to be Stiles’ cue to sneak away. Wobbling only a little at the chemical war inside him, he made it out of his chair and one step further before clattering into a waiter.
Peter turned slowly towards the commotion. Horrified and disgraced, all attempts at subtlety destroyed along with several crystal glasses, Stiles avoided his gaze, sure to see disappointment and disdain.
He was unprepared to hear Peter bark a laugh.
‘Ha! Now that port is an expensive accessory to go with your shirt.’
Stiles looked down, and sure enough a dark red stain was spreading across his rented dress shirt. Shit.
‘Come on now,’ said Professor Hale, coming towards him and clasping him by the shoulder in the most casual way in the world, ‘let's get this pup cleaned up.’
‘That port is almost 100 years old, you know,’ admonished Peter as he strode down the hotel corridor, Stiles in tow. ‘I should be making you lick it out of that shirt. Don't get any ideas, that was a joke.’
Stiles nodded along sanguinely, still unsure about where they were going but happy to be led there by Peter. The corridors were bright and quiet compared to the dark wood and buzz of the dining room.
‘Your suit isn't actually black,’ noted Stiles, ‘it's like… dark blue?’
Peter grinned, teeth glinting in the fluorescent light.
‘Everyone knows lawyers always wear black, Stilinski, but sometimes you'll find a midnight blue looks even darker under the lights.’
He stopped and flashed a key card to call the lift.
‘Wait, you have a room here?’ Stiles’ jaw dropped.
‘Do you think I'm going to drive home? Or I dread to think it, take the bus? I always spend the night after Law Dinner at the hotel, which is lucky for you as it gives you somewhere convenient to change… ah the elevator.’
The second the doors slid closed, Stiles was reaching for shiny silk lapels and kissing fiercely upwards. Peter's hands dug in hard and lifted him shockingly easily from under the thighs, propping him on top of the dark wooden handrail. This was a classy lift. Pressed between the cool mirror and Peter's hungry warmth, he let his head roll back as Peter nuzzled into his neck, kissing and so gently biting. His hands slid under Peter's jacket, feeling tight muscle, tensed to hold Stiles up against the wall.
They both felt the drop in their stomachs that meant they were stopping, and by the time the soft bell announced the doors were opening, Stiles was leaning casually against the opposite wall, inspecting himself in the mirror. He looked disheveled, but then when didn't he. Peter's bowtie wasn't even off centre.
‘I think we can blame the espresso for that,’ Stiles said brightly. ‘Too much caffeine for me, too late in the evening. So, are you going to pour white wine on me to get out this stain?'
‘You are a silly little thing tonight, aren't you,’ sighed Peter, not unkindly, ‘a good thing I am so fond of you.’
‘I am not messy,’ Peter announced, as the hotel room door clicked closed behind them, ‘so I did not bring a spare shirt.’
He shrugged off his jacket, and hung it on a padded coat hanger by the door, giving it an endearing little pat. Stiles flopped presumptiously onto the crisply made bed. This room certainly did not look like a messy man had dressed up for dinner in here.
‘The night is old for me, but still young for you,’ continued Peter, checking his watch. Glancing at Stiles staring at him from the bed, his hands drifted to his shirt buttons, ‘leave that one here, we can swap.’
Breathless and motionless, Stiles watched as Peter loosened his tie and started neatly popping open the buttons of his shirt, still crisp and white after hours of wining and dining. When he unbuttoned the top of his fly, Stiles suddenly breathed all at once and squirmed a little on the bed.
'Feeling coy tonight, Stiles?' asked Peter, archly, looking over at the movement and seeing him still fully shirted, 'I can turn around and look away if you're shy... oh,' he clocked Stiles' eyeline. He was unclasping something from the bottom of his shirt, and Stiles could see the top of some sort of leather strap against his thigh, visible above his loosened trousers. Peter chuckled wickedly.
'Shirt garters maketh the outfit, Stilinski,' he threw his shirt to Stiles and buttoned his trousers, 'and the outfit maketh the lawyer. That's a lesson for your future,' he strode towards the bed, where Stiles immediately reached out to slide his hands up the thighs he'd been fantasising about for hours. Sighing, Peter interlaced his own fingers with Stiles, holding them in place. He sat down carefully on the bed next to Stiles, turning his face gently towards him and pressing his forehead to his.
'But tonight, you are young and drunk, and I am a professional trying to clock out for the evening.'
As if they'd never been anything other than gentle, Peter's hands were at the base of his throat, untying the bowtie and unbuttoning the wingtip collar. Stiles let his head fall against Peter's shoulder, watching as his breath disturbed the hairs on Peter's chest. He'd wanted and expected to be having his clothes ripped off right about now, but the strange intimacy of being so delicately undressed was undoing him.
'We only have a few moments,' murmured Peter, gently sliding the shirt sleeves from Stiles' trembling arms, 'before you will have been gone a suspiciously long time with me.'
He kissed him on the top of the head, then tucked his own shirt around Stiles' neck like a cape.
'Put your clothes on, and then I'll kiss you better.'
Stiles groaned but complied. As he stood to tuck his shirt in, Peter busied himself smoothing out the duvet where Stiles had rumpled it. Turning towards the mirror, ready to fiddle with his bowtie, he heard Peter laugh behind him.
'You can't honestly think we have comparable neck measurements?'
This was classic Peter Hale, to have an ego about something as inane as neck circumference.
'Don't worry about the tie, it's late, let it hang loose. And if I have to watch you struggle tying it, it may ruin the romance for me.'
He watched Peter walk up behind him in the mirror. Even here, he had that damn swagger. Pressed to his back, Peter popped open Stiles' top button and smoothed down the shiny tie over his chest, admiring his handiwork in the mirror over Stiles' shoulder. Admittedly, the neck had been a little loose on him. Peter spun him by the shoulder and gathered him into his arms. The arms were gentle but the kissing was not. Perhaps, thought Stiles, he was not the only one who wished he didn't have to sleep alone.
Too soon, Peter glanced down at his watch.
'Time's up, sweetheart,' he said, voice low and rough, cupping his face fondly with one hand and adjusting a pleat on Stiles' shirt with the other. His face turned to a wicked grin as he let go of Stiles and slapped him across the arse.
'Go out there and get 'em, tiger!'
For some reason this made Peter howl with laughter.
Stiles faced the corridor to return, slightly renewed, to his friends. This shirt felt fantastic on his skin, and if it still smelled a little of Peter... who would ever know.
When the dry cleaning arrived at his flat the next morning, his rented shirt returned in perfect condition, Stiles felt his heart swoop a little. But if Peter thought he was getting his own shirt back any time soon, he wasn't the genius he thought he was.