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“I'm,” the boy at the counter fidgeted with his hands in his pockets. He stood on coltish legs that were half angled towards the door. He looked out of place in the darkened light of the tattoo parlor. The neon signs reflected off his pale skin and cast him in a ghastly green glow. “I need to get a tattoo.”
“I gathered that,” said Peter casually. “What of?”
“Uhm . . . I'm not really s-sure, yet.” He shifted on his feet. He couldn't have been more than twenty or twenty-one. “But I need to get one and I need to get one today.” He looked back at the door, and then to the tattoo artist again. His shoulders were hunched, his arms both concealed within the folds of his hooded sweatshirt. His hood covered his head and concealed his eyes.
“What are you thinking of getting and where?” Peter asked. He slid his feet off the counter and leaned forward in his chair. He beckoned silently with his fingertips for the boy to step closer.
The boy bit his lip. He shuffled forward a little, his back solidly shielding the rest of his body from the large windows that lined the wall. As he stepped closer his dark brown eyes became visible, they were glistening and red-rimmed. He pulled his right arm out of his pocket and hitched up the sleeve. His wrist was completely blank, a snowy white canvas, untouched and unbroken by anything more than a few beauty marks that peppered his otherwise clear skin.
“S-something here,” he stuttered. “Like ... a name … any one's name,” he said in a whisper. He couldn't even look Peter in the eyes as he said it.
It should have been shocking, seeing a patch of empty skin that should have held a name or a phrase, something connecting him to a soul mate. Sometimes it was a land mark or a paw print. It should have looked cold and lonely, desolate and without love, but it didn't.
This wasn't the first time Peter had seen someone without a soul marking, although it was his first time seeing it on someone so young. Either the kid's mate died early, or he'd never had one to begin with. From the boy's apprehension and the cautious way he awaited an answer, Peter was willing to bet the latter.
He lightly took hold of the offered wrist, ignoring the small flinch it elicited from the boy, and thumbed over the small patch of bare skin.
“Are you asexual?” he asked. It was a possibility. He tried to phrase the question lightly, but the words still cut into the delicate facade.
The boy lowered his head in shame and tugged his arm back to his side. He was quick to shove his arm back into his pocket.
“Yes,” he whispered, as if spoken too loud the words might attack him. His shame leaked into his posture and made his thin shoulders sag. Like a paper doll he looked delicate enough to blow away in the wind.
“I can't tattoo you, sorry.”
“Y-you can't?” The boy pressed his lips together tightly, his eyes darkened, and his shoulders bristled.
Peter did him the courtesy of not turning away as the little hope that lingered in his eyes shattered into the bitter shards of anger and pain.
“I don't do those kinds of tattoos here,” Peter said. “It's a policy and I'm not breaking it.” He leaned back in his chair again.
The boy's heart sputtered. “Why not? It's my body, it's my choice.”
“It might be your choice, but I don't think it's your desire. I've seen kids like you before – well, not kids – but people like you, and they all want something that will tell them they aren't different. Everyone wants to hide their uniqueness from the world, and every single one regrets it. Tattoos are supposed to be a form of self-expression, something permanent and unchanging that will stay with you forever. I know right now you're confused and anxious, maybe you're friends are getting married to their soul mates and you're hoping one day you will too?”
The boy took a step away. He winced as the words cut into him, but Peter didn't hold back.
“But you don't know, because you don't have a mate, and who would want someone who's essentially mateless? Their love left up to chance and not divine intervention? Why would anyone take a chance on you?”
The boy's lips trembled.
Maybe Peter was projecting a little too much, maybe his words were a little too harsh, but they were ones he needed to hear.
“You might find someone to spend your life with, you might not, and you might not even care that you're not in a relationship. But one day you'd look back on your false marking and think about how much it hurt to hide yourself, about how happy you'd have been if you were just honest from the beginning. Getting a tattoo that doesn't mean anything is just hiding yourself from the world; I'd rather you get a tattoo that's meaningful to you, rather than turn your skin into a permanent lie you have to face every morning when you wake up.”
“I-I don't want to be different,” the kid said. His shoulders trembled with the precursor of a sob he readily suppressed with a gulp. A singular tear coated his bottom row of eyelashes. When he blinked it broke free and cascaded down his cheek.
“No, but you are. Be happy with who you are and what you have no matter how little it might seem. Trust me when I say that being mundane is not all that great.” Peter stood from the chair and stepped around the counter.
The kid didn't move as they came face to face, their bodies only a few inches apart. He stared up at Peter with a toxic cocktail of emotions only someone who'd been denied shelter from pain could understand.
“But I don't want-!” his voice rose up an octave. He struggled to keep the emotions in check. “I don't want to sit around my whole life knowing nothings ever going to happen! Can't you just let me feel better? At least let me pretend.” He wiped away the lingering tears with the palm of his hand.
“No,” Peter said. “Because sitting around waiting for someone who doesn't exist isn't any better. Eventually, when you embrace who you really are you won't want reminders of the time when you felt you needed to hide. Live your delusion if you want. Write the words in sharpie if that's what you need, but don't make such a permanent choice right now while you're still so young. What's your name, kid?”
“S-Stiles,” he said hesitantly. As the word uttered from between his trembling lips he took another step back towards the door, towards where he could live his cruel delusion of a life.
“Well, Stiles, I honestly hope that you find happiness. I really do, but you're not going to find it while forcing yourself to fit into a mold you know isn't right. Do yourself a favor, and-”
“No!”
Peter almost jumped at the sudden outburst. He'd been expecting some sort of lash back but it still caught him by surprise.
“No, I'm not going to stand here and let you lecture me!” His pain filled eyes turned to anger. “You don't know me. You don't know what it's like. You don't know how it feels when your sleeve slides up a little and someone catches a glimpse of what should be underneath and they don't see anything.” He took another angry step back. His hands clenched into tight fists.
“They gasp,” he continued through gritted teeth. “They turn their heads away, like it's something awful and vile. They always apologize and ask what happened to make me this way but I don't have a mate that died, I have a mate that doesn't exist.” Another wave of tears in loosed themselves down his pale skin. The emotional shards of his eyes grew sharper with every word as his anger strengthened the pain he held in his shoulders. “I can't change how I was born, but I can change the looks. I can change the way people treat me like I'm something to feel sorry for.”
Peter stayed quiet and listened to him rage. He waited until he was certain Stiles wouldn't start speaking again.
“Maybe,” he agreed. “People might treat you better but when you pass them on the streets, or sit and have a cup of coffee you'll know that they don't love you for you. There is a very fundamental piece of you that's missing, and until they know that they can't love you. I, for one, wouldn't want a friend who hates a piece of me that I can't-”
“Well I bet someone like you doesn't have many friends,” Stiles snapped.
Peter shut his mouth. For a second he just stared at the enraged boy who glowered at him through the eyes of a puppy that had been kicked one too many times.
“Come back when you've found something meaningful and I'll tattoo you then,” Peter said slowly and resolutely.
Without another word Stiles turned on his heel and was gone. The doorbell sung a sad tune as the door slammed shut behind him.
Peter sighed and sat back down in his chair.
He pulled up his own sleeve and lightly thumbed over the markings that painted it. A beautiful pattern he designed colored the skin in purple, black, and gray. Before the flowers had been a name, a completely random name at that. He'd picked it out of a phone book and only later realized the man whose name he'd chosen was actually a seventy year old Alzheimer patient. It was a cruel reminder that a mate for him didn't exist, not one that had been picked by the stars anyways.
He was asexual too, and though he might never find a partner that was uninterested in sex as he was, he still held out hope that he'd find someone who wanted a connection, who wasn't afraid of his cold words or his brash attitude. He wanted someone to spend his life with in whatever form that might take.
As he looked wistfully out the window he saw Stiles standing there, his back against the brick wall of one of the other shops. He had his arms wrapped so tightly around himself he might have been trying to break his own ribs. The tears fell from his eyes like rain, but he didn't look like he was going to break anymore. He looked more determined then when he'd walked in. He looked like he would survive.
*
Two weeks later and Stiles was back again. He wore the same hooded sweatshirt that he'd had before, only now the pocket was bunched up with something that wasn't his arms. His hood was down as well, revealing a mess of unkempt brown hair. He approached the counter uncertainly. His eyes wavered over the artist's face. His footsteps were no more certain than before.
“I . . . I think I might have found something meaningful,” Stiles said. He pulled a small book out from his pocket. He flipped through he pages carefully as if they were made of glass. He found the one he was looking for and placed it down on the counter.
“Can you do something like this?” he asked, motioning to what lay cradled between the pages. “Where my soul mark would be?” his voice was strained with the weight of his repressed hope.
Peter examined the pages for a few seconds before looking back up at Stiles. “I can do that,” he said with a small smile.
“Are you sure?” Stiles asked. “It's not … I want it exactly like that one.”
“I'm positive,” said Peter. “It will look beautiful when I'm finished.”
Stiles nodded and Peter went to work. It took a solid two days for Peter to be completely satisfied with the detail in his sketch, and though Stiles was anxious to cover up his barren patch of skin he let the artist do his work to perfection. When he saw the finished product he almost smiled. Almost.
“I really like it,” he said. “It's going to look just like this, right?”
“Yes, but in color,” said Peter. “I promised it would be beautiful.”
Stiles settled himself uneasily into the chair. He held out his wrist nervously while Peter applied the stencil to his skin.
“Is it going to hurt?” he asked as it was peeled away.
“It'll be fine. Maybe a little pain but nothing you can't handle.”
“Okay,” Stiles said meekly, his whole body full of tension. His fingernails dug into the armrest.
“What made you change your mind?” Peter asked, partially out of curiosity and partially to distract the boy from eviscerating his furniture. He took Stiles wrist delicately and held it in place while he put the tattoo machine to his skin.
“I-,” Stiles started and then hesitated. “I thought about what you said. A lot.”
“What specifically?” Peter asked as he began to trace the outline.
“About how you said I'd regret it,” he said. “I think you might be right. I still don't want to be different, but I don't want to be someone else either.”
Peter paused momentarily to look up at Stiles' face. His eyes weren't lined with red any longer. He wasn't smiling but he didn't carry a dark shadow over his shoulders either.
“I'm glad,” he said. He gave Stiles wrist a light, comforting squeeze.
“Do you think people are still going to think I'm weird?” Stiles asked. He tapped his fingernails against the arm rest in quick succession.
“Yes,” Peter said bluntly, “but people are judgmental assholes, so who cares?”
Stiles huffed a small, quiet laugh. “Yeah, I guess they are.” He winced as his wrist was brushed with the pen. It wasn't the least painful place to get a tattoo and Peter had taken the time to explain that, but Stiles hadn't cared. He wanted something there and he'd found something that would fill him with joy rather than hate.
Over the course of the next hour Peter learned that Stiles was a sophomore at the local community college, he was studying forensic science, and he was very, very, very squeamish. He kept his eyes shut for most of the tattoo. He let out little whines and whimpers of discomfort every so often. It was a good thing his nails were clean cut or he likely would have left five little indents in the armrest.
“I think my mom knew I wasn't going to get a soul mark, or at least suspected it. She always told me it was more important to love myself and not tie my identity to a single person.” The shy, nervous boy who'd entered Peter's store weeks ago had disappeared and been replaced by a vibrant, talkative young youth. He talked at length about his mother, and how she'd always been preserving things. His father said it was because she knew her time would be short, she wanted to leave as many gifts for her son as possible; Stiles thought it was because she saw beauty in everything and couldn’t bare to let it slip away. He came to the conclusion that it might have been both.
“She sounds like a smart women,” Peter hummed as he traced the outline of lilies against Stiles skin. The one he'd brought as an example, finely pressed and preserved in the book was white with pink and crimson as the center. It was similar to that tattoo Peter had drawn on his own arm, although he'd chosen the purple clementis flower, which was known to be toxic.
When he finished Stiles couldn't tear his eyes away from the red and white markings on his arm.
“The colors aren't going to fade, are they?” he asked. “At least not for a while?” He ran his thumb over the deep crimson center of the most prominent flower.
“They might, but they can be touched up later.” He pulled his wrist out of his sleeve and held out the similar marking. “I had these ones retouched last year and they won't need to be done again anytime soon.”
Stiles' pupils dilated as he looked at the nameless wrist. If he focused hard enough he might have been able to discern the faint outline of a mans name, nearly invisible against the petals and stems.
“Yours looks kind of like mine,” he said. It was obvious in the way his eyes fixated that he wanted to ask what once lay underneath the markings, but he refrained. “I like the colors. Did you do it yourself?”
“Yes, I did,” Peter said, shaking his sleeve down to cover the tattoo once more. “It was difficult, but worth it.”
“Yeah,” Stiles nodded. “I . . . I'm glad you changed my mind. Thanks, Peter.” He looked down shyly and scratched at the back of his neck.
Peter smiled, if he had a type Stiles would be it.
“What was it that changed your mind?”
Stiles looked pensively at his wrist for a few seconds. When he looked up his eyes were changed. “I didn't want to be different but I don't want to be someone else, either.”
“I'm glad to hear that,” said Peter.
Stiles shifted on his feet and scratched the back of his neck. “So,” he said. He made a few false starts before finally stammering out, “how much do I owe you for-?”
Peter shook his head. “Don't worry about it. It was a pleasure tattooing you, Stiles.”
“Can I at least – would you want to – can I pay you back in some other way?” his eyes shifted back and forth between the door and Peter's face a few times. He looked up at Peter through his eyelashes like a puppy hoping for a treat.
“Stiles?” Peter raised a brow.
Stiles blanched. “I didn't mean-”
“Are you asking me on a date?” Peter let the corner of his lip curl up into a grin. He was surprised when Stiles' didn't immediately revoke the offer.
“Not really a date, no,” Stiles shook his head. “Like, cake, maybe? 'Thank you' cake?”
Peter raised his eyebrow. “Real cake or metaphorical-”
“Ew! Of course real cake.” He rolled his eyes and smiled faintly. His feet shifted on the floor in his awkward little way.
Peter considered. “That actually sounds nice,” he decided. “I look forward to eating cake with you, Stiles.”
*
Stiles didn't just bring one cake, he brought three.
“I didn't know what kind you liked,” he haphazardly explained as he deposited the boxes onto the table. Peter looked at the labels printed on top of the boxes, there was a strawberry, chocolate, and a carrot cake.
“You could have texted,” he pointed out, opening the strawberry cake box. The pink icing had gotten smeared on the sides in Stiles attempts to carry all three boxes up two flights of stairs. He smiled and stuck his finger in, wiping a small bit off the side of the box.
“But what if you were in the shower and you didn't respond for a while and then I was late because of it?”
Peter licked his frosting-coated finger, it tasted like strawberries and vanilla. “Late for what? I can assure you the movie won't start until I tell it to.”
Stiles smiled sheepishly and dug his own fingers into the frosting. He gave a kitten lick to his hands before saying quietly, “I was worried maybe you'd decide you didn't want to anymore?”
“Stiles, I wouldn't refuse to see you, not until you've dropped the cake off at least.” He smirked and poked Stiles on the nose, leaving a small smidgeon of frosting there.
Stiles wrinkled his nose and grinned. “Oh, shut up,” he said as he wiped it off with his finger. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and licked.
They settled down onto the sofa and started the movie, each with a large plate of cake on their laps. Stiles wanted a romantic comedy, but Peter preferred horror. In the end they settled on a cheesy zombie film.
Stiles didn't bother waiting for the 'scares' to begin before he was worming his way underneath Peter's arm. Peter swung his legs up onto the sofa and let the boy lay his head down against his chest. Soon they were bundled together, each content with their discarded plates on the floor and their heads resting on each other's bodies.
What was one movie night turned into two, which turned into three, which turned into six. Almost every day Peter didn't work the night shift he found himself host to a squirming little worm named Stiles. With or without cake.
It went on peacefully for several weeks with Stiles getting braver and braver until he held no qualm about spending time between his classes at Peter's shop.
'Tonight let's go out somewhere. Maybe a new bakery or that chocolate restaurant in town?' he asked via text.
He could feel Erica hovering just over his shoulder behind him.
“Is it that same guy again? The one with the pretty brown eyes and the bright red hood?” she asked with unveiled curiosity. At times her unapologetically brash nature was refreshing, most days it was just annoying. “Three months and you won't let me meet him,” she pushed her lips out in a pout and battered her thick lashes.
“Yes,” said Peter with a sigh. He tucked his phone into his drawer and away from her prying eyes. “But don't go thinking I like him. I'm just after all that sexy college student money. Jokes on me,” he said dryly alongside a customary eye-roll.
“He doesn't have a mark, does he?”
Peter took a deep breath before responding.
“He does. He just wasn't born with it.”
A musical note emitted from Peter's desk drawer. His fingers twitched for it.
Erica tried to pester him more and more as the day went on. After being rebuked for the sixth time she sulked back to her workstation, casting puppy eyes along the way. The silence was a blissful reprieve that didn't last long.
“Pretty sure you're going to have to call a tow truck soon,” Erica said, tacking on a whistle. “This guys car looks like it's about to fall apart.”
Peter looked up from his sketches to see a familiar blue jeep parked in an 'employees only' space.
Stiles hoped out of the vehicle, hands tucked in his pockets and eyes downcast. He shuffled into the shop without looking up from his feet. He opened the door of the parlor with force. When he looked up his eyes were just as red-rimmed as the first day he and Peter met.
“C-can we talk?” he asked through trembling lips. “Do you have time?”
“Of course,” Peter said softly. He stood up from his chair and quietly guided Stiles through a black curtain to the small lounge behind the store.
“What happened?” he asked as soon as they were alone. He placed a gentle hand on Stiles' wet cheek.
Stiles clenched his eyes shut and sent another set of tears flowing down his cheek.
Peter brushed it away with his thumb. “It's alright,” he reassured. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Stiles' look that incredibly fragile.
“Sc-scott,” Stiles choked out. He leaned into Peter's touch and reopened his eyes. His lips trembled. “H-he said …”
Peter wrapped an arm around Stiles' waist and pulled him closer. He leaned his forehead against Stiles' and placed a comforting kiss to his temple. “It's okay,” he said. “Tell me what Scott said.”
“He said we're just good friends, we can't 'love' each other like normal couples do. He said what you and I have isn't real-”
Peter's hand stroked lovingly over Stiles' short hairs while the other wiped the angry tears from his eyes. “It sure feels real to me,” he interrupted. “Remind me to break Scott's neck.” He rested his forehead against Stiles and let his hand drop from Stiles' cheek to his shoulder.
Stiles took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “He means well. He wasn't trying – he wanted to help,” he mumbled as another quiet sniffle escaped.
“Well, I'm sure a crocodile means well right before it swallows down a flamingo, doesn't help the flamingo any does it?”
Stiles barked a laugh. “Your analogies are weird, you know that?” he pulled his head back and pressed his nose against Peter's.
Peter smirked and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
“Yes, but they make you smile,” he said, face softening. “Stiles, did you mean it when you said you loved me?” It had only been six months, but to him it felt like an eternity.
Stiles bit his tongue. He paused and shifted a little on his feet. “Yes,” he said with a small nod as he looked into Peter's eyes. “Yes, I do love you.”
Peter grinned. “Good, I love you too. We aren't conventional, but we don't need to be.”
“I think we should kiss now,” Stiles said, a wide smile breaking out across his tear-stained face. He wiped his face on his sleeve and leaned close expectantly.
“If it'd make you happy,” Peter agreed.
They pressed their lips together, and it felt just as awkward and strange as every other time they'd done it.
Stiles broke the kiss with a chuckle. His lips felt puffy and uncomfortable.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you, too. Can we still go eat chocolate pancakes? Please?”
Peter hugged him tight. “Of course.”
*
Marriage wasn't possible for them. Two people without marks couldn't be wed, although they could form a legal union that would tie their affairs together.
Instead, Peter brought up the idea of getting twin tattoos of their names on each other's wrists, a symbol of the bond they shared.
Stiles frowned. “I like the idea of getting matching tattoos,” he said slowly. “But you're the one who taught me to be comfortable without having a mark, I feel like getting one anyways would fly in the face of that.”
“I only wanted you to accept not having a predestined soul mate, not to reject the idea altogether.” Peter turned his head away a little in hurt at the rejection, though he didn't vocalize it.
“No,” Stiles shook his head. “I'm not refusing the tattoos, I'm just refusing where and what. If we're getting them we should leave our other wrists blank. I want everyone to know that I chose you, you weren't handpicked for me.”
Peter smiled and kissed Stiles chastely on the lips. Everything they did was chaste, but that didn't mean it wasn't loving. They tried sex once, and it was painful, ugly, and the minuet biological pleasure it brought felt unappealing at worst, and gross at best. They didn't try it again.
“Fine,” he agreed. “Then I guess we just have to find something meaningful to us.”
“Cake?” Stiles asked, with a hint of his forgotten enthusiasm.
“Not cake,” Peter said with a chuckle. “Although, it's a start.”
“Maybe we could get animals?” Stiles suggested. “I could get a fox, and you could get a wolf? Or maybe we could get food that isn't cake,” Stiles grinned, “I could be a pancake, and you can be my syrup.”
Peter groaned. “Again, Stiles, no food, please. I don't want to get hungry every time I take a shower.”
“I guess we can just keep looking,” Stiles said with a sigh.
“Just give me a few days to sketch some things out, I know I can find something that will make you happy.”
Stiles face brightened. “You always do.”
Even though it wasn't a real wedding Stiles' friend, Lydia, still insisted on being a bridesmaid. She brought with her the largest, most expensive cake Peter had ever seen in his life, far too big for their humble little party of ten bearing witness to what was essentially a lease agreement.
Stiles scratched at the plastic wrap covering the new tattoo on his bicep. He hadn't stopped fussing with it since the day it was finished.
“Don't pick at it,” Peter chastised. “It won't heal properly.”
Stiles' hand dropped back down to his side. He threw a sheepish smile in Peter's direction. “Sorry.”
“I want to see it,” demanded Erica.
Stiles pulled up his shirt sleeve so the mark was clearly visible.
Peter puffed out his chest in pride at the sight of it. It was a spade formed from three flowers and their leafs, a purple one, a gray one, and a white one, their stems entwined together to form the base. He recruited the help of his niece, Cora, to tattoo the identical mark on his own back.
“I like it. Very nice, boss,” she said with a wink.
“I like it, too,” said Stiles, pulling his shirt sleeve down. He left his wrist just a little uncovered so the majority of the tattoo still showed.
Moving Stiles' into his apartment hadn't been difficult, however, finding space for all his comic books, DVD's, and assorted knick knacks was. In the end, they resorted to piling what remained on top of various shelves around the home with the promise of visiting Ikea in the morning.
The cake didn't last too long after Erica and Boyd found it. Peter knew better than to try and force them to wait until after the official and all-important roommate lease agreement had been signed to dig in.
Lydia almost fainted at the breech in etiquette but she withheld her reservations with a sigh and an unhappy click of her tongue.
“Stiles Stilinski, do you promise to pay your fair share of rent no later than the tenth of every month?” asked Boyd seriously once all of the cake had been eaten. It was a little out of order but 'out of order' seemed to be a running theme in Peter and Stiles lives.
“I do,” said Stiles seriously.
Boyd turned to Peter.
“Peter, do you promise to give Stiles at least three months notice before kicking him out of your apartment?”
“I most certainly do,” said Peter with equal seriousness. He wrapped his arm around Stiles' waist and nuzzled the top of his head.
“Then I now pronounce you roommates, you may kiss the, uh, other roommate?”