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It’s February 14th and the amount of red and pink hearts is truly gag-inducing. Usually Stiles is sort of resignedly okay with Valentine’s Day; he buys himself lots of chocolate and for once the lady at the register doesn’t give him weird looks, and then he eats it all in one sitting like only a lonely, high-metabolismed teenager can.
Of course, it’s a bit of a downer that he doesn’t get many (any) valentines most years, but that’s cool. He’s always got a bestie to get goofy mushy cards and enough kisses to rival the most arduous lover, of the Hershey variety.
This year’s different though. Usually he feeds his futile crush on Lydia by slipping an anonymous card into her locker, wishing her a happy holiday and trying to stand out from the dozens of other heart-shaped confessions already clogging the locker. Now, though, they’re sort-of-friends and that feels a little weird (and stalkerish), so instead he gets her that book on theoretical mathematics that she’s been moaning about for ages, and passes it to her at lunch. It’s funny; the one time he stands out, he’s not trying to. Lydia kisses him on the cheek, beaming, and gives him a video game that he’s been moaning about for ages, and holy fuck, he and Lydia are bros. How did this even happen? The girl he’s been in love with since third grade and somehow they’ve become completely platonic bros.
He consoles himself with copious amounts of rejected-suitor chocolate and candy, courtesy of Lydia, and tries not to notice that he doesn’t have any chocolate of his own to aid in the consoling.
Until he does.
From a dude.
Patrick Hyde is in Stiles’ math class, he thinks, although he spends most of it doodling so it’s hard to be sure. He’s a few inches taller than Stiles and he’s got curly brown hair and light green eyes and a shy, sweet sort of smile when he offers Stiles the box. The red, heart-shaped box.
Lydia smirks.
“Uh, Patrick.” He says, thanking the Lord that he actually remembers this kid’s name. “Um, are these for me?”
Patrick nods a little bashfully, flushing and biting his lip. He’s really cute, Stiles thinks, sort of shy but sincere, and there is free chocolate on the table…
He reaches out and takes the box with a smile.
“Thanks. Wow, I didn’t even think you knew my name.” He says, a little embarrassed that he has nothing to give in return, but Patrick beams at him and shrugs and wow, he really is kind of adorable. He looks down at the box and sees that instead of a message, there’s a number scrawled across the top, and a smiley face. When he looks back up at Patrick, the boy’s blushing even harder, but he meets Stiles’ eyes determinedly and smiles.
“Um, in case you want to do something. Maybe? With me? No pressure though, I just saw you in class and really wanted to talk to you. Um. As friends or whatever.” And Stiles is well versed in the art of babble, so he cuts in with a firm,
“Thanks, really. We should definitely hang out.” Hang out? Hang out? There is a very, very hot guy here that obviously wants Stiles to do a lot more than ‘hang out’. Why is he not saying yes, right now, take me away sweet handsome stranger?
His eyes aren't blue.
But ‘hang out’ seems good enough, because Patrick beams again and mutters a quick goodbye and hightails it out of the cafeteria, leaving a nonplussed Stiles and a cackling Lydia. He looks over to Scott for aid, but the boy’s a table away, making goo-goo eyes at Allison, and Isaac’s glued to his side and chattering nonstop, and Stiles doesn’t even think he’s looked over in the last five minutes so he’s no help at all.
“Well, you wanted a date, Stilinski. He’s cute, right?” Lydia teases, and Stiles nods a bit dazedly, turning the box over in his hands. “You going to call him?”
“Uh, maybe.” He says, and then devotes the remainder of his lunch period to demolishing the rubbery mac and cheese as though it is his last meal, steadfastly ignoring the box of chocolates.
He’s working late when Peter shows up, a stupid science essay (and Mr. Harris totally is a demon, because everyone knows that essays do not exist in the realm of science), and he barely notices when the wolf slips into his room.
“Happy V-Day, creeper wolf. Steal any good candy?” Peter laughs and there’s the telltale squeak of springs that means he’s commandeered Stiles’ bed.
“Alas, I have failed in my life’s mission. I suppose I’ll have to wait for Halloween.” Stiles snorts and tosses a bag of kisses over his shoulder.
“Eat up. I have enough to feed a small army for a month.”
“So enough to feed you for a day or two. Being conservative.” Stiles laughs and spins his chair around to mock-glare at the wolf, who is carefully peeling the aluminum foil from the small bit of chocolate with the care of defusing a bomb. Stiles laughs again, because Peter is so weird and strangely endearing that you either have to laugh or strangle him, and he’s in a good mood tonight.
“Hey, I’m sharing.” He protests, pouting. Peter chuckles, giving Stiles a ‘yeah, right’ look. Stiles sniffs. “Fine. See if I share any more kisses with you.” Brief silence. Wide blue eyes meet his own. “Can you just forget I said that?”
“Never ever in a million years. I want that tattooed on my arm, I think.” Peter says, relaxing suddenly and going boneless on the bed. “And of course you’ll share your kisses with me. Who else can appreciate them like I do?” He pops the chocolate into his mouth and makes a positively sinful sound. “Mmm, so sweet.”
Stiles watches him for a moment, jaw slack in surprise and holy-fuck-that-is-hot-holy-fuck-why-is-that-hot-holy-fuck-look-away-before-he-knows-you-think-it’s-hot, and then spins his chair back around and steadfastly ignores the pornographic sounds coming from his bed.
No one should enjoy chocolate that much.
He spends a good five minutes writing his paper, the grand result of his efforts culminating in his name and the date, as well as a few interesting strings of letters from when he hits his head against the keyboard.
There is an abrupt stop to the noises from behind him, and Stiles thanks the Lord and turns back around, snark face firmly in place.
“Wow, old man, I thought you’d last longer—oh.” Peter’s holding a red box of chocolates in one hand and looking at it as though it might bite him. “Yeah. Guess today’s my lucky year.”
“Is this Lydia’s number?” Peter asks, voice strangely flat, and Stiles shakes his head quickly.
“No, no way. We have come to realize that our true relationship is one of epic bromance, so no heart-shaped paraphernalia exchanging hands there.” Stiles assures him, and it’s sort of nice to say. Hell yeah, he’s got a bromance. Take that, Scott and Isaac.
Peter does not look reassured.
“Then who is this from? You haven’t mentioned any other girls.” Yeah, they may be friends (and Stiles may or may not want to lick his friend in an un-friendlike manner), but he is not talking relationships with Peter Hale, thank you very much. Still, he doesn’t want to be mean to a man with very sharp claws, so he says,
“Yeah, I was surprised too. He sort of sprung it on me without warning.”
Peter goes stone-still. His eyes, which had been glaring a hole into the chocolate (man, he must really not like Whitman’s Samplers) slowly rise to meet Stiles, and okay remember to breathe because Jesus those things are blue.
Stiles has recently discovered he has a thing for blue eyes.
“You like men?” Peter says, and there’s a certain something in his voice, a rise and fall in the cadence, like he’s barely keeping himself from shouting, and Stiles tenses a little.
“Well, to be technical in this case, men like me. But yeah, I swing both ways if that’s what you’re asking.” Peter is still just staring at him like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, and Stiles asks carefully, “Is this a problem for you, Peter?”
Please don’t let it be a problem. Please.
“No, no, Stiles, not that. I’m fine with it. Really, really… very fine.” He says, like he was going to say something else, but his smile is genuine and Stiles feels his hackles slowly go back down. He hadn’t thought Peter would care about him liking boys as much as he likes girls, but it’s good to have it proven. As weird as his initial reaction had been.
Maybe Stiles just comes across as really, really straight, so it had been a shocker?
“So, a boy.” Peter says languidly, running one claw up and down the cheap satin of the box. “And do you think you’re going to call this boy?”
“Oh, well, uh. I don’t know. He seemed really nice, but, uh, not really my type?” Stiles tries awkwardly, because the dude was hot and he really doesn’t have the right to be so picky. Still, he’s going to be so picky.
Peter smiles at him, a little wry and a lot sharp. Predator's smile, Stiles thinks dazedly.
“And what is your type, Stiles?” He asks, voice dangerously soft, and Stiles wants to say….something, but he swallows it down. “Do you even know what you want?” Which, wow, kind of an asshole thing to say.
“Well, I had, like, I major crush on Derek when we first met him.” He says defiantly, and Peter seems to wince at that, good.
“Ah, yes, the handsome and rugged lone wolf. A popular enough brand of man for the masses, but really, a little common for you, Stiles.”
And calling your own nephew ‘common’, harsh. Stiles considers Peter carefully, wondering why on earth he’s so pissy at the thought of Stiles having a crush on Derek. Honestly, everyone must have known, what with the super sniffers seemingly calibrated to smell the most embarrassing scents possible. Then again, Peter had been mainly being a psychopath hell-bent on revenge at that point, so they hadn’t really interacted much. Maybe he hadn’t gotten a good whiff.
“Yeah, well, then I got to know him, and while he’s actually not as much of a jerk as he seems at first, by the time I figured that out, attraction,” He snaps his fingers. “Gone.”
“And you’d have made such a cute couple.” Peter says sarcastically, and Stiles shrugs, unrepentant.
“Type though. Um, I guess someone who can make me laugh, but not just me, someone I can laugh with, you know. Someone confident, who knows what he wants and how to get it, but who doesn’t throw his weight around like some meathead. A strategist, I guess. So, smart, and clever too. And he’d have to get my jokes.”
“No one gets your jokes.” Peter interrupts, and Stiles sticks his tongue out and ignores him.
“Other than that, I’m not really picky. Oh—and he’d have to make my heart stop.”
Peter raises an eyebrow.
“Sounds dangerous.” And Stiles laughs, maybe a little hysterically, because he knows exactly whom he’s just been describing, down to the stopping of his heart, and he knows that this is not going to end well.
“Yeah, well, it’s something my mom said. That when you meet the person you’re meant to be with, your heart meets them too, and it stops, just for a second. And then, it starts again, but it’s a different rhythm, just a little bit. Because your heart, it’s not beating for just you, anymore.” Peter is watching him, something dark and heavy in his gaze and Stiles swallows, thickly. Peter must know, must have felt his heart skip a beat every time he enters the room, and now he must know how Stiles feels.
And Peter stands, and walks slowly over to where Stiles is still sitting, paralyzed in fear and anticipation. The man leans down so that they’re eye to eye, and his breath is hot and sweet across Stiles’ lips, and he licks them just a little, out of reflex, and Peter watches the movement with dark eyes.
And Stiles thinks: Yes, this is it. This is going to be his first kiss, with ex-alpha Peter Hale who has previously both tried to kill him and eaten an entire bag of Hershey kisses on his bed, and this will be perfect. There’s no way it can’t be.
And then there is a press of lips against his skin, but not his mouth like he was expecting. Instead Peter kisses his forehead, and it is both so achingly sweet and so achingly sad that it takes his breath away.
“You should call him. He’d be good for you.”
And there’s a box pressed into his hands and Peter’s leaning away and what? This is not right, how is this happening. And Stiles grabs at Peter’s arms as the man pulls away but it’s like trying to catch fog and the man’s at the window before Stiles can move.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Stiles.”
And Stiles stares out the open window and all he can think of to say is,
“I want you.”
His heartbeat hurts. He hates Valentine’s Day.