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Stiles sits across the table from Patrick Hyde and he feels like he’s dating his milkshake more than he’s dating this kid. Hell, he’s already gotten to second base with his milkshake; there’s some tongue action there, and swallowing of fluids. He sucks the icy treat through his straw and tries not to notice the awkward silence.
He really wishes he hadn’t agreed to this date. He’d just been so upset with Peter for cutting and running like he did on Valentine’s Day, and that box of chocolate had just sat on his desk, taunting him, until he’d eaten the whole thing and called Patrick in the resulting sugar rush.
Patrick had seemed thrilled, and Stiles had felt even worse, because this is a nice kid and all he can think while they’re talking on the phone is that his voice isn’t deep enough, he’s not making any jokes. Patrick, it seems, doesn’t make jokes. He’s a very serious boy, and he’s also very smart, so there should be plenty to talk about, but instead they’ve been exchanging stilted commentary on the last pop quiz in math class for the past ten minutes.
Peter wants him to do this. Peter told him to do this. And Stiles sort of hates him for it.
“So, this isn’t going to work, is it?” Patrick asks, playing idly with the straw in his Diet Coke (and there’s another thing, Peter always orders a milkshake too and they get the most insane flavors and swap sips and get milkshake moustaches; Stiles can’t get a Diet Coke moustache), and Stiles hesitates, then shakes his head a little ruefully.
“I’m really sorry, man.” And he is. Patrick’s nice, and Stiles thinks a year or so ago he would have been jumping for joy at being noticed by someone so attractive (see, Danny, gay guys do think he's hot). And now all he can think about is how he’d rather be with a zombie wolf old enough to be his father.
God, his life sucks.
Patrick shakes his head and smiles at Stiles.
“It’s okay. I thought it was a long shot anyway. Friends?” He asks, holding out his hand across the table to shake like they’re in a business deal and yeah, there’s no way Stiles could date someone like this and not feel incredibly morally inferior or else ruin the whole thing. Patrick’s just too nice; he never says anything mean or even the slightest bit cynical, and the withdrawal from the sarcasm is killing Stiles already.
Still, friends, yeah. He can do friends. He takes the hand and shakes it firmly, grinning.
“Definitely, yeah. I really am sorry about this.” Patrick smiles, a little wistfully.
“There’s someone else, right?” Stiles blinks at him. “You’ve been distracted the whole time we’ve been here, staring out the window. And you keep doodling the name ‘Peter’ on your napkin.” Ah. Stiles knew he shouldn’t have begged the waitress for crayons. Traitorous doodles.
“Uh, well. It’s a little complicated.” Stiles says, understatement of the century, and he’s hoping Patrick will take the hint and leave it at that, but instead the boy is a boy scout and leans forward on his hands, inquiring politely like a trained professional,
“Oh? How so?” And Stiles would need a day or two to go into all the specifics, but cutting out the werewolf bits, there’s not really much to tell.
Except there is, and Stiles hasn’t been able to vent about this since the happening.
“—And he kisses me, on the forehead, and tells me to date other people. And he leaves! I mean, talk about mixed messages. First he seems like he feels the same way, and I think something's finally going to happen, and then he just does… that! And he ate all my Hershey kisses too, the bastard!” Stiles finishes, looking up from where he has been methodically shredding his ‘Peter’ covered napkin.
Patrick’s mouth is just a little open, and his fork is halfway to his mouth. When he sees Stiles is finished, he slowly lowers it back to his plate, looking a little shell-shocked.
“Wow. You really like this guy, huh?” Stiles flushes bright cherry red, but manages a small nod. “Yeah, I can see why that’s a little complicated.” And Stiles hadn’t even mentioned the werewolves part, the rising from the grave after Stiles set him on fire bit, or the whole being an uncle to another one of Stiles’ friends and old enough to be his father portion. “Well, it seems to me that he must really like you too.”
Which, what? Did he not hear the bit about the forehead kiss? Like, the most platonic area for kissing on the human body?
“He told me to date other people!” Patrick nods slowly.
“Yeah, he did, but did you think that maybe even though he said that, he didn’t actually want you to?”
“What?” Stiles repeats flatly, because in what world does that make sense? Patrick sighs in consternation.
“Look, this Peter seems a little… emotionally guarded, I guess. So maybe he’s afraid to let you in, even though he really wants to, and he’s reacting by pushing you away. Or maybe he has low self-esteem or something?” Patrick says, shrugging and forking another bite of his salad while Stiles mulls this over.
And Stiles remembers a few months ago, looking at Peter flinching and hiding and lying, and thinking ‘This man doesn’t have a friend in the world’. And he’d wanted to change that, hadn’t he? And Peter’s so acerbic, so assured, so Peter now, sometimes Stiles forgets that man who’d acted like every touch would burn him. Who had looked like that might be what he wanted, sometimes.
Who had looked at Stiles like ‘nice’ was ‘strange’ and still looks that way sometimes, when he thinks Stiles isn’t watching.
“Dude.” He says, watching Patrick in awe. “You need to become a psychiatrist. Like, my psychiatrist.”
Patrick grins and ducks his head, watching the dawning comprehension on Stiles’ face with humble satisfaction.
“Thanks. Um, if you need to go, I can pay.” When Stiles begins to protest, he waves him off. “I had a good time, Stiles, and I got a new friend. I can pay for a cheap meal.”
And Stiles is already standing and he’s not sure why he’s in such a hurry but he just sort of knows that he needs to do this now, before he loses his nerve.
“Thank you!” He calls over his shoulder, and Patrick waves him off. Geez, he’s a nice kid. Maybe he should introduce him to Danny…
He stops off at home first, to grab some wooing snacks (Pop-Tarts, he thinks, for nostalgia value) and change into clothes a little less date-y, and as he hurries into his room he finds Peter.
Lying on his bed. With Stiles’ pillow over his face.
“Uh, you still alive under there?” Stiles asks, a little alarmed, and Peter’s head pops up to stare at him.
“Your date’s over?” He asks, and Stiles most definitely did not tell Peter that he had a date, and that is so freaking stalkerish in the most alarming way.
He beams at the thought. That’s his creeper wolf. Peter looks a little bemused at his reaction, sitting up in bed.
“Yeah, not really much of a date, actually.” Stiles tells him honestly. Peter cocks his head to the side like a puppy, pillow held in his claws like some sort of security blanket, and Stiles kind of wants to melt at the sight.
“What do you mean? Did he try something?” And then his face is darkening and his claws are digging into and destroying Stiles’ favorite pillow, thanks a lot creeper wolf.
“Um, no. No. Actually, we decided we were better off as friends.” And that I was madly in love with you, but you have trust issues that I need to deal with before we get our mack on. “Which I could have told you before all this, if you’d given me a chance. Along with a few other choice statements.”
Peter looks down at where his claws are embedded in the pillow.
“He would have been good for you.” He says, in a hollow, worn sort of way that makes Stiles think he’s been saying it to himself a lot in the past few days, to get so used to it, and the thought makes him ache a little. Stupid creeper wolf, thinking he knows what’s best for both of them.
Stiles gives an explosive sigh and crosses the room, collapsing next to Peter and ignoring the way the man jumps at the way their arms brush.
“Why would he be good for me? Because he’s normal?” Peter doesn’t answer, which is answer enough. Idiot. “Peter. I don’t want normal. I can’t do normal. I was weird enough before the whole werewolf thing.”
“I remember. You were the kid who kept coming into the hospital with broken bones from pretending he could fly by jumping off his roof. Repeatedly.” And there’s a sort of melancholy smile inching across his face, and Stiles is just a bit floored.
“You saw me there? When you were…” Burned, horribly, beyond recognition and all hope of recovery? Better not to elaborate. Peter nods, slowly.
“I did.” Peter says shortly, and Stiles knows that that line of conversation is closed as it so often is when relating to the fire, but he still feels a little glow inside him, that Peter saw him all those years ago, and Stiles made him smile.
“I still think I can fly, sometimes.” He confides, slanting a wry smile at Peter. “Mostly when I’m around you, lately.”
And Peter sort of chokes/growls and stiffens, pulling away from where their bare arms are touching, and hell no, this is not happening again. Stiles grabs Peter’s hand, mindful of the claws, and refuses to let go. Peter tugs at it, but either he’s scared of hurting Stiles or he doesn’t really want to be let go, because he doesn’t force Stiles to release him.
“Stiles.” He says, the same way he did that first day with the Pop-Tarts, question and rebuke and warning and longing, and Jesus Christ, Peter Hale actually looks scared.
“Peter.” He retorts teasingly, and then makes sure to soften his smile to something more serious before he continues. “Peter.” He says again, partly to give him time to gather his thoughts and partly because he just really likes saying Peter’s name. “I don’t want normal.” He says again, barely a breath, and then he leans in before Peter can move away again and presses his lips against Peter’s forehead.
Leaning back in satisfaction, he sees glowing blue eyes staring back at him, wide and round as two full moons. Blue moons, about as likely as him and Peter finding each other like this, and just as beautiful.
“There.” He murmurs. “Now we’re even on the annoyingly platonic kisses score. I sincerely hope the next time I am called to return the favor, it is on the mouth. With tongue.” He says primly, and Peter looks like Stiles has just staked him with a pole of mountain ash.
He leans in, swaying a little like he’s drugged, and Stiles leans in to meet him. They’re a hairsbreadth away when Peter whispers across Stiles’ mouth,
“I’m not a good person, Stiles.” And that is not the anticipated kissing on the mouth with tongue. Damn it. Stiles sighs and enjoys the shiver that ripples through Peter in reaction, thanking the Lord that he brushed his teeth before coming into his room so that his breath smells of minty freshness and not spicy tacos, and resigns himself to a battle.
“Neither am I. We’ll work on it.” He shoots back, and Peter glares at him briefly before his expression gives way once more to despair. Damn, so close.
“I tried to kill you in the past.”
“I did kill you in the past.” Stiles says easily, grin pulling at his lips of the hilarity, the impossibility of this exchange. This is actually kind of fun. “Water under the bridge.”
“I possessed your friend.”
“And I am sure that she will kick your ass for it in her own time. Not my problem.”
“No one will approve of our relationship.” And that has worried Stiles in the past, but he’s pretty sure he can swing Scott with baked goods, and with Scott comes Isaac and Allison, and Lydia will think it’s hilarious enough to let go even though she hates Peter, and Derek… well. Derek will be interesting.
And Peter called it ‘our relationship’. Stiles wriggles his toes in happiness where Peter can’t see and winks at Peter where he can, pushing all his worries on that score down. He needs to be the strong one here.
“Haven’t you heard? I’m a teenage rebel. Forbidden relationships with older men are practically textbook.” Peter sighs, his eyebrows drawn in tired pain, and Stiles wants to smooth the wrinkles away with his fingertips but he guesses now is not the time. He totally will though, later.
“I’m too old for you, Stiles. Much too old.” And Stiles nudges him, grinning.
“I dig archeology. Ha! See what I did there? Punny.” Peter does not seem amused. Stiles lets his grin relax into something more tender. “Peter. I’m not an idiot. I’ve thought this through. I want you.”
And Peter shivers again, rocks a little towards Stiles so that their foreheads touch just for a moment before he leans back again and they’re eye to eye. The wolf eyes are back out, and so are the teeth, and Stiles thinks Peter might be trying to scare him off with his game face.
Moron. Stiles is of the generation weaned on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Fangs are blasé at worst, and in this case incredibly hot.
“Stiles, I’m a werewolf. We tend to be…. possessive. I wouldn’t let you go, if you were mine. Even if you wanted me to.” He says, sounding broken, and Stiles feels his heart hurt and knows, knows that this is the right choice. If you were mine.
“I wouldn’t want you to.” He says softly. “And already I am. Yours, I mean.” Peter makes a small sound, half growl and half whine, and their foreheads are pressed together again and Peter’s panting with the effort of something Stiles can’t see. “Are you mine, Peter?” He asks, feather soft and there’s a shift in the air, the hair on the back of his neck rising and an electric current pulsing through him in anticipation for only a moment, a remnant of his evolutionary fight-or-flight drive.
“Yes.” Peter snarls, every inch the predator, and suddenly there is a hot mouth pressing against his and arms like iron bands pressing him too tight against Peter, pulling Stiles into his lap and running up and down his back like his spine’s a piano, and damn Peter’s a world-class concert pianist. Stiles pants and whimpers and tries to keep up, and yes, this is what a first kiss should be, screw awkward fumbles in the broom closet.
Peter pulls back only to turn his attention to Stiles’ neck, and wow, you have not had a hickey until you’ve had a werewolf give you one, fangs and all. And Peter’s mouthing words against his skin, over and over,
“Mine, mine, mine.” Like he can brand the words into Stiles’ flesh, keep them there for the world to see, and Stiles gasps and nods, tangling his hands in Peter’s dark hair.
“You got it, Peter. All yours. Took you long enough.” He adds, and Peter nips at his neck in punishment for the jibe and Stiles gasps, “Shutting up now.”
“I’ll wreck you, you know.” Peter murmurs against his throat, and his teeth are just there, pressing hard enough to linger between pain and pleasure, and Stiles thinks he might already be a little wrecked on Peter, but he just nods happily.
“Okay.” He says agreeably, leaning his neck to give Peter more access, and he knows it’s more than that, knows it’s a sign of submission and trust (you do your homework when you’re in love with a werewolf), and he does it anyway. And Peter bites down hard enough to leave a mark but not quite hard enough to break the skin, and the sound he makes forces Stiles to pull his hair in order to make Peter’s mouth meet his again.
The second kiss isn’t so bad either.
Or the third…
And much, much later, when they are tangled in bed and Stiles is dozing with his head tucked under Peter's chin like a puzzle piece clicking home, the werewolf mentions idly,
“I don’t even like Pop-Tarts, you know.”
“Mmm?” Stiles answers intelligently, shifting his head slightly as though to raise it and then giving up. Peter rubs an idle hand along his back in thoughtless affection, and Stiles almost purrs, snuggling closer.
“Pop-Tarts. I don’t like them. I always thought they were too sweet.”
“No such thing.” Stiles mumbles back, not even opening his eyes. Peter snorts.
“Having seen you on a sugar high, I disagree.” He returns, and Stiles grins against the bare skin of Peter’s throat (submission and trust, so much trust).
“Why’d you eat the ones I gave you then?” He asks curiously, and he feels Peter shrug, the roll of the muscles under Stiles’ ear a novel, delicious sensation.
“Because you gave them to me.”
And that’s… oh. That’s… Stiles leans up and plants a chaste kiss on the corner of Peter’s mouth.
“And you say Pop-Tarts are too sweet.” He teases softly, and Peter rolls his eyes and swats his head lightly. Stiles ducks and laughs. “Don’t worry, they grow on you. You’ll love them as much as I do before long.”
And Peter looks at him, mouth smiling and eyes serious, and Stiles doesn’t think they’re talking about Pop-Tarts anymore when Peter kisses him back just on the rise of his cheekbone and murmurs musingly,
“You know, I think I will.”