Work Text:
No. 9: “We’ll make it alright to come undone.”
Touch | Flashbacks | Scalding
To be born under the Hale name is a dream for most. It’s a ticket to an easy life that could be compared to winning the lottery. It's the thing everyone in the town of Beacon Hills dreams of. They are the example set to people, something to be admired. They are the pillar for the town, the oldest family in town, they have old money. They are the power and no one stands in their way, because why would they. The Hales are seen as nothing but perfect. They're the founding fathers of the town, they're the benefactors who keep the town running. They're the saviors as the town calls them. And the Hales are keen on keeping up the appearances. They want to uphold that image and smother anything that puts their carefully crafted image in danger.
The old Hale patriarch, Peter’s father, was an all around loved man. A man everyone in town admired. He had the perfect life, the perfect wife and the perfect child. Talia. Talia is the oldest, the heir to it all, the future matriarch and alpha of the family. The one who will lead the family one day, and she was perfect from the day she took her first breath. With her deep blue eyes and blond hair, she was adored even as a child. She was the perfect child, learned to read before anyone else in her class, perfect marks in test, dressed like expected. Hair always braided and neat. She had been all they wanted, the little perfect heir to their throne.
Then, when Talia was already a teenager, Peter was born. Their second child, a boy. An heir and the spare. That’s how the town saw it, a happy family welcoming their second child into the world. But behind the closed doors, it wasn’t like that.
Peter wasn’t unwanted, in a sense. But he wasn’t wanted either. He was one more person that needed to be controlled. One more person to train what obedience looks like. He wasn’t neglected, he was given food, he had a roof on top of his head. But as soon as he learned to walk and talk, he was on his own. There weren't unnecessary touches, not the kind of bond you would expect between a child and their parents. No gentle words, no reassuring words when Peter had a nightmare. Peter had to manage on his own, to navigate life as the Hale spare. He was on his own, the afterthought- because they already had Talia. Peter was the second child, the spare, the accident as many of their relatives put it. At first Peter was too young to understand what it meant that he was an accident, but as years went by, he learned the meaning.
Behind the closed door there was discipline held like iron. No public outbursts, no public scenes or reason for the family to be embarrassed. And Peter learns young, maybe too young that he’s not the favourite, that he’s really only tolerated because he’s the alpha’s child, and nothing more. He isn’t the beloved son, or brother- he’s just the alpha’s second born. And that’s the only reason he wasn’t discarded from the family. Talia was the golden child, the future alpha, while Peter will be the left-hand. The one to handle the messes, to take care of things when things turn ugly. He’s not meant to be loved, he’s meant to be useful. And he learns that painfully.
Peter was five years old when he first heard the words thrown at him. It’s one of his aunts.
“He’s just so- different. He isn’t like the rest of us,” She said, hushed as she spoke, “But what could you expect from an accident.”
Peter doesn’t really know what they're talking about until he walks into the room. Only when the room goes silent, he understands somehow that they must have been talking about him. No one looks at him, as he walks through the room, trying to go play with his cousins in the corner.
“We don’t want to play with you,” one of them says.
All his cousins turn away from him continuing their games without him. Not one adult says anything, his mother just gestures for him to go to his room. Peter refuses, wanting to know why he cannot play with his cousins. A scene, not public but enough to cause disturbance in the home.
“Peter,” His father raises his voice, getting his attention, “Do not cause a scene.”
“But I want to know why-” Peter doesn’t finish the sentence as he hits the floor.
There’s no warming. There’s no lead up to it, only the slap. His cheek stings, as he covers his now reddening cheek while laying on the floor. No one is looking at him. Only his father staring down at him with cold eyes. His father lifts him by his arm, a loud snap echoes in the silence and Peter cries as he’s dragged out of the room. That night Peter learns the existence of the locked room at the back of the house. Of the dark room which can only be opened from the outside, and no matter what, no one can hear what’s going on inside. No matter how much he screams, yells or pounds the door, no one will hear you. And no one will come to save you. It’s only later when Peter learns that no one comes, not because they don’t know he is there, but because they don’t care. And when Peter learns that, he doesn’t know which one stings more, the fact that no one cares, or the “lessons” as they put them.
But that night, Peter learns not to question decisions made for him. Lucky for the Hales, they are werewolves and the bruises and broken bones mend themselves in time, leaving behind no trace of abuse. That was the first time Peter got a broken arm, and that wasn’t the last time either. But that was the first time Peter started to understand his place in the pack. He’s tolerated, kept around because he carries the alpha’s blood- even if he was an accident, he’s still an heir to his father. And they couldn’t ignore that, no matter how much they would have liked it. But it didn’t stop them from mistreating him either. Because as long as he stays alive, it’s fine. They say it’s to toughen him up but what five years old needs to “toughen up”?
The resentment builds slowly with the years. At first Peter tries to be what they want, but even that isn’t enough. Nothing about him is never enough or right. There’s always something wrong, always something too much, something just slightly wrong to bring up. No matter how well Peter follows the orders he’s never enough. And he learns that no matter what he does or doesn’t do, the ending will always be the same, so why even bother. Why go up and beyond to get their affection when it never comes? When nothing he does is ever enough? He starts quietly resenting every single one of his family members, one by one. Even the ones who don’t lay a hand on him because they don’t stop it. They see it and don’t say anything to stop it, they only turn to look away, like Peter isn’t even there.
And that resentment- that hate will fuel him for years.
After Peter’s father dies, the reins are handed to Talia. And oh boy, she fills the boots a little too well. She takes her place as the leader of the Hale family. Peter is nineteen at the time and already trained his whole life to fill the role of the left hand. He already knows he’s nothing but means to an end. He’s the person who is expected to be sacrificed if it comes to it. He’s the one expected to protect them, to take the hits for them and smile through it. And he does, but the resentment keeps growing year after year.
Talia throws a huge party for becoming the head of the family. It’s held at the town square, a perfect opportunity to show how united the Hale family is. Peter wants to laugh when he listens to Talia first talking about it. United? Since when? They are nothing but abusers dressed in shiny clothes and expensive jewelry. Behind the family the town loves, known as loving, warm and welcoming is something colder. Something more practiced so no one would see behind the curtains. The family isn’t loving, not to him. He’s the outcast in his own family. He’s the expendable, the spare, the accident that was born and after that tolerated. So they have been breaking him down every chance they get. Until there will be nothing left. Every ounce of kindness is nothing but means to control him, to get him to act like they want him to. He has never really felt what it feels like to be loved- to be wanted without someone expecting you to be useful.
So Peter stays quiet, smiles in the right places and supports his sister when she gives the grant speech at the party. She’s dressed in her best gown. Her husband by her right side, Peter on her left, both of them wearing black suits. A picture perfect image of a happy family, not a single strand of hair out of place, not today, Talia won’t allow it.
Peter takes the first chance he gets to disappear into the crowd as he isn’t a big fan of pretending to be a part of the happy family. And there, he meets the first thing in years that makes it easier to breathe- a person who will make it all more tolerable. He’s grabbing a drink when that someone comes to him.
“Hey I saw you on the stage,” The boy, around his age, says to him, “So… you’re Talia’s brother?”
Peter looks at him for a second, the easy smile, the relaxed stance, beautiful eyes staring at him, but that’s beside the point. Nothing like he is. Someone normal, someone he could have been if he had been born into a different family.
“Something like that,” Peter answers, offering a beer to the boy who’s still looking at him with that big and warm smile, “Care for a drink?”
“Sure, why not,” The boy nods with a smile and takes the bottle, “I’m Stiles, by the way.”
“Stiles? What kind of dumbass name is that?” Peter asks, trying to be offensive to get Stiles to leave him alone.
He’s not really keen for company, not right now- not ever. Not when he can still feel the morning’s lesson in his muscles, not when he takes a too deep breath it still hurts. But Stiles does something no one else has ever done, he laughs. A real laugh, genuine one because Stiles found it funny. It makes Peter stop because that has never happened before.
“It’s easier than my real name,” Stiles answers, explaining, “I’m used to hearing that.”
“Alright, I’ll bite. What’s your real name?” Peter asks.
“Mieczyslaw,” Stiles says, with a smirk on his face.
“Polish?”
“Lucky guess,” Stiles huffs, but he’s not annoyed.
Peter offers him a smile. A real one.
“Peter!” Talia’s voice calls out, making Peter tense up.
It’s such a subtle shift in his posture that it doesn’t raise suspicion. Peter stands more straight, like a trained soldier rather than a brother whose sister just called his name. Peter stays silent until Talia approaches them.
“I need you for a moment,” Talia offers a polite smile toward Stiles, as her eyes rake over Peter.
“Ah- alpha Hale,” Stiles offers his hand, “I’m the emissary from the McCall pack. Nice to meet you.”
“Oh- you must be Stiles,” Talia takes his hand and shakes it with a polite smile, “Great to see you had time to attend us today. Have you met my brother?”
“Yes, he’s been keeping me company,” Stiles nods, eyes switching to Peter.
Peter isn’t looking at him. He can feel Talia’s eyes burning his neck but she doesn’t say anything. There are too many people around to overhear them, too many people to see the truth if Talia now acts. So she smiles, that perfect, carefree smile that makes everyone feel welcomed, and it makes dread wash over Peter’s spine.
“I will leave you to it then,” Stiles says, making his way through the crowd.
“You will not touch him,” Talia whispers into his ear as soon as Stiles is far enough, “You don’t need any more distractions, Peter. Leave it at that, if you know what’s best for you- for the pack.”
“Yes alpha,” Peter nods, agreeing.
He isn’t going to fight Talia on this. Not worth the pain. But after the party, he keeps running into Stiles everywhere. Stiles just always happens to be there when Peter needs to make a run in town- every single time. Stiles is always smiling at him, offering kind words, kind touches that are masked as accidents. And slowly, those rushed greetings turn into coffee, then into late night texts, and soon dinner dates downtown. Stiles is always gentle when he touches Peter, always smiling, always pulling Peter’s mind away from the fucked up life he has. Away from the fucked up family he has, from all the pain.
Peter never explains where he disappears some days. He doesn’t answer texts for days, and when he explains it away with being away handling pack business- Stiles doesn’t question it. Because why would he. Why would he see the cracks in that perfect facade they have kept for decades. Why would Stiles suspect that Peter has been locked in a dark room, beaten for stepping out of line, for saying a wrong word? Why would anyone suspect that? Because Peter is good at what he does. He’s good at smiling through the pain and never letting anyone see just how much he’s hurting. Because no one has ever cared, no one has ever cared enough to care what happens to Peter.
One night Peter doesn’t go home. He spends the night with Stiles. He knows he will be punished later, but when Stiles leans in to kiss him for the first time, Peter doesn’t have the strength to push him away. He’s selfish, he knows it, but he wants more. So he leans in, he asks for more without asking, and god- Stiles listens, Stiles understands him without Peter needing to ask it aloud. The kiss is gentle, like every touch with Stiles. And when Stiles asks if Peter wants to stay the night, with a smile that promises too much, more gentle touches, touches that would bring pleasure, Peter agrees without thinking. Because he wants it, he wants to know that someone wants him that much just because. For the first time in his life he feels cared for, and he trusts Stiles to not hurt him.
Stiles pushes him against the bed, pulling their clothes off like he’s in a hurry. No one has ever wanted Peter like that. No one has ever acted like Peter is worthy of this- of affection, of want, even lust. But Stiles is now there, kissing him like he matters. Like Peter is something he wants. And Peter almost sobs at the knowledge. He almost sobs when he understands that for the first time in his life someone wants him. Not the left hand of Talia’s, but him, just Peter. So he kisses back with hunger. Pouring his hunger for love, for touch in every kiss, in every touch as he runs his hands over Stiles’ body like he cannot get enough of it. Because he can’t, not when it’s the first time he gets to have it, gets to have such an intimate moment with someone- with Stiles. Marveling the naked skin under his hands. He never thought anyone would want to give this to him.
Stiles keeps touching him gently, guiding him, showing him the right places to touch to make him moan. Stiles shows him without even knowing it, that not all touch is pain. That not all touch will leave him hurting for days. That touch can also bring pleasure. It’s good. He gives Peter time to breathe, to be sure of himself. It’s new that someone gives a damn about his feelings. It’s new that someone is waiting for him. Peter lets himself relax for the first time in his life, trusting Stiles. And when he lets his mind run free- free from all the shit that is his life- he enjoys it. Stiles works his way from tip to base, teasing, licking, kissing. Like Peter’s cock is the best treat he has ever had. And Peter can only marvel how beautiful Stiles is. And when Stiles works himself open, one finger at a time, Peter is sure he has died and gone to heaven. Because Stiles cannot be real. And finally when Stiles lowers himself on Peter’s cock, something inside Peter breaks. He grabs Stiles’ hips, slamming him fully down. Stiles gasps, half a moan, half a surprised breath. Stiles’ ass is flushed against Peter’s hips.
“You’re too big,” Stiles breathes out, with a half laugh, and before Peter can ask if he should pull out Stiles continues, “Just give me a second. I don’t want to stop.”
Peter can only nod. And soon, Stiles starts moving, with small moves with his hips at first. Grinding, getting used to Peter’s size. And just as quickly Stiles is bouncing on his cock. Stiles’ nails dig on Peter’s chest, but it doesn’t hurt, not when Stiles looks so lost in pleasure as he rides Peter. Peter starts meeting Stiles’ movement, thrusting up, causing Stiles to cry out in pleasure. It doesn’t take long for Stiles to come. He shoots all over Peter covering him in come. Peter expects it to be over now, that Stiles got what he needed, but Stiles doesn’t stop. He whispers things in Peter’s ear, guiding him what to do, to fasten his pace, and Stiles squeezes down around his member. Peter grabs Stiles’ hips, steadying him, helping him to lift up and slam back down. And soon, Peter feels the familiar tightness forming in his lower stomach and he comes inside. Stiles crashes on top of Peter, tired, sweaty, but satisfied.
Later, when they both have caught their breath, Stiles cleans the mess they made, before curling around Peter. It’s easy, like breathing. The gentleness between them, and Peter sleeps better than in years. But it doesn’t last, because in the morning, Peter slips out before Stiles wakes up. He leaves a note, telling something urgent came up with the pack because why would Stiles question it when it’s pack related, and Peter needed to leave, but he didn’t want to wake up Stiles. Thanking for the night seemed too transactional, so Peter left it out. He makes his way back to the Hale estate. The clock is barely five in the morning, the sun's just starting to rise.
Peter quietly unlocks the door, slipping in. The house is silent as he makes his way towards his room. Just as he reaches his door, hand grabs his neck, forcing him down onto his knees.
“Where the hell were you?” Talia’s voice snarls in his ear.
Peter doesn’t answer. He knows no matter what he answers, the end is the same. And his silence is taken as disobedience. House full of wolves, and no one ever hears anything- Peter laughs drily while spitting blood on the floor when Talia closes the door after her. The solitude of the darkness surrounds him once more. Only this time he knows there’s someone waiting for him on the other side.
“I’m dating Stiles,” Peter says at dinner, just ripping off the bandaid days later when he’s finally let out.
Silence falls over the dinner table. No one speaks but all turn instinctively toward Talia, waiting for her reaction. Talia is silent for a long time. Peter knows what’s coming. The silence is never good, because if she was shouting, it would mean it doesn’t hurt that much later on. But this total silence has Peter tensing up.
“Would you excuse us for a moment?” Talia asks as she gets up, not waiting for a response or even to see if Peter will follow him.
Peter gets up almost as fast as Talia, walking after her as the alpha makes her way out of the dining room. Peter keeps his head down, respectful. Talia leads them to her office and closes the door after them. Peter can hear the lock latching. Peter falls on his knees immediately.
“How long?” Talia asks, standing behind Peter’s back.
“A few months.”
“How long?” Talia asks, voice low.
“Three months,” Peter breathes out.
“And not once did you think to mention it?” Talia asks, circling him, “Take your shirt off.”
“Talia-”
“Now!” Talia screams, claws digging into Peter’s neck, “If you make a sound, I will start over. Do you understand?”
“Yes alpha.”
She lets him go, and Peter can feel blood bleeding down his back as he takes his shirt off. The shirt falls on the ground in front of Peter. Peter keeps his head down, eyes downcast. He listens to his sister moving around the room, and he can hear the familiar sound of their father’s old leather belt being lifted. His whole body tenses up, shoulders rising. That’s all he manages to brace himself for it when the first hit lands. His whole body jerks forward and he quickly fixes his form. Back straight, not shielding away. The second hit comes hard, the edges of the leather digging into his skin. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. It will only last longer if he cries out. And soon he tastes blood by how hard he’s biting himself. But he keeps the position, back straight, eyes cast on the floor. He has already lost count of how many hits he’s gotten, there’s never any specific number, only pain.
When Talia is satisfied, she’s out of breath. Peter’s whole body is shaking. He’s in pain, his skin is covered in sweat and blood, his hair is sticking to his face.
“Have you told him anything?” Talia asks, voice low.
“N- no alpha,” Peter rasps out, breathing through gritted teeth.
“Good,” Talia answers, putting the belt down, “Keep it that way. Invite him over, I want to meet him. Make sure you are decent by then.”
With that Talia leaves the room, leaving Peter alone. As soon as the door closes, Peter collapses on the floor. He falls first on his hands and knees, but he’s too tired- too much in pain to hold himself up as he crashes on the floor. His whole body is burning, his muscles burn from holding the position for so long, his back burns from the beating and he’s sure it must look bad. It will take a couple of days for him to heal enough to be able to walk normally, to pretend that he’s fine. To not flinch if Stiles touches him.
He lays there for hours, before he manages to crawl into his own room. He doesn’t care that he’s covered in blood and sweat as he pulls himself up on his bed. He doesn’t know if he even manages to pull himself fully on it before he loses consciousness.
It’s late the next day when he wakes up. The first thing he notices is his back that’s still burning, but not as badly. He feels disgusting, the sweat having dried on him, his hair crusty with it. He keeps laying on his stomach, just staring ahead. His mind is blank, and he’s closing his eyes to go back to sleep when the blinking of his phone catches his attention. He groans as he reaches for it. With great difficulty he manages to open it, reading the multiple messages Stiles has sent him.
-Nice move Hale, fucking me and just dipping. Joking, I know you are busy with pack stuff.
-Are you still busy?
-Okey, it’s been three days and you haven’t even read my messages, are you alright?
-Peter answer me. I’m getting worried.
The last one was sent that morning. Peter smiles, typing a quick replay. Stiles answers immediately by calling him. Peter groans in pain but accepts the call.
“Peter?” Stiles’ worried voice fills his ears, and Peter lets out a relieved sigh.
“Stiles…” Peter murmurs, a smile on his face.
“I was getting worried when you didn’t even read my messages,” Stiles rushes to say, “I was worried something had happened to you.”
Something did happen, Peter thinks but doesn’t say.
“I’m fine Stiles, just have been super busy,” Peter says, letting a groan slip as he moves a little.
“You don’t sound “fine”,” Stiles accuses.
“It’s just a small bruise from a rogue that I handled, nothing serious. It’s basically already healed,” Peter tries to joke, but he barely breathes due the pain hitting him.
“You better be Peter,” Stiles sighs out, “Don’t ever do that again, don’t make me worry about you.”
“You know me, nothing can hurt me,” Peter whispers, “Listen, Talia wants to meet you. She’s going to throw dinner for the family and it would really mean a lot if you would come.”
“Of course I will come,” Stiles answers immediately.
Peter promises to let Stiles know the time later before they end the call. Hearing Stiles’ voice makes something ache inside Peter. Stiles was worried about him? Because of him? No one has ever been worried about him. Peter gets up from the bed with great effort, as every move pulls his back, the pain flaring all over again with every move. He drags himself into the bathroom and steps under the shower. He turns the water to the coldest it can go. To wash away the pain. He changes his bedding, putting on fresh sheets. Keeping up the appearances as always.
“Stiles,” Talia greets with a warm smile as she opens the door for Stiles, “It’s good to finally get you over for dinner.”
Stiles answers politely, “You have a beautiful home, alpha Hale.”
“Oh stop that nonsense- call me Talia,” Talia says lightly, “We’re family now that you are dating my brother.”
Stiles misses the pointed look Talia gives Peter over Stiles’ shoulder. Peter stays silent. Talia leads them into the dining room, where the table is set perfectly. Crystals gleam under the chandelier, silverware is lined up with mathematical precision and the scent of roasted chicken mingles with fresh herbs. Stiles beams at Peter, cheeks warm. He doesn’t see the quick glance Talia shoots Peter- a silent communication. Stiles doesn’t see the tightening of Peter’s jaw as he takes his own first sip. He doesn’t notice that beneath the laughter and polite conversation, there’s a layer of rehearsal and careful positioning.
The conversation flows smoothly, there’s no awkward silences. Talia is the perfect host, never letting Stiles’ glass empty. Stiles feels welcomed. The pack asks him questions, they make an effort to make Stiles feel welcomed. And after dinner, Talia encourages Peter to show Stiles around the mansion before dessert. Stiles is too busy marveling at the house to notice Peter’s tension. Peter only smiles at him, explaining things Stiles asks about. The painting, Peter explains the backgrounds of old pack portraits, not mentioning the cracks on the walls they cover from where Peter had been thrown when he was a child. Stiles doesn’t ask about the lonely room at the end of the hallway that always stays locked. Stiles doesn’t see the broken stair railing, where Peter was mashed against just weeks ago and Talia hasn’t had time to fix it. Because Stiles isn’t meant to see any of it and it’s Peter’s job to keep Stiles from seeing any of it. Because if Stiles sees it and asks about it- the fall doesn’t touch Stiles. It all falls on Peter. So he keeps Stiles’ attention moving, never focusing on something for too long so Stiles won’t see the cracks.
The dessert is delicious, Talia’s special chocolate cake. It’s all practiced so no one will see. And when Talia gives Stiles a warm hug as he’s leaving, telling his to drive safely, Stiles doesn’t suspect that anything is wrong. Because what could be wrong? It’s a warm family who welcome him with open arms, telling him to visit whenever. He doesn’t see Peter lingering longer than usual when Stiles is leaving, hugging him longer, holding his hand until he is forced to let go.
It becomes norm for Stiles to stop by to greet the family, no longer just Peter coming to Stiles’ apartment. Every single time the family is warm and welcoming, asking how his father is, how’s the McCall pack. And Peter plays his part every time. He smiles through the pain, he hides his limb, he hides it how he favours his right side. He hides the winces when Stiles hugs him too tightly, or when Stiles gently claps his shoulder, not knowing about the dark bruises still colouring his skin.
Stiles doesn’t see the belt hanging from the rack in the hallway. Or if he sees it, Stiles doesn’t question it. No one is acting funny, no one is jittery, no one is shying away.
One day, Stiles stops by unannounced. He knocks and is already opening the door. He can hear muffled voices coming from somewhere, that fall quiet as soon as he steps inside. He puts his jacket away, wanting to surprise Peter after a long week. He doesn’t hear anyone, so he starts making his way up the stairs, towards Peter’s room.
“Stiles! What a lovely surprise,” Talia greets him enthusiastically, as she quickly fixes her hair, “What brings you over so suddenly?”
“Wanted to surprise Peter,” Stiles tells her, “It’s been a long week.”
“Oh-” Talia says, the smile almost falling from her face, but she schools it fast, “Didn’t Peter tell you- he’s not in town right now. He’s taking care of a treaty with the Johnsons.”
“No he didn’t,” Stiles huffs.
“Oh I’m sure he must have forgotten to tell you. It came so suddenly that even I was surprised,” Talia explains, “He should be back in a couple of days. Would you like to have coffee with me?”
Talia leads Stiles from the stairs to the kitchen, away from the faint sound coming from the lonely room from the end of the hallway. The room that holds Peter. Beaten, bruised, not in shape to see Stiles. But Peter no matter how much he screams for Stiles, no matter how much he begs for Stiles to come help him, Stiles doesn’t come. Stiles doesn’t hear Peter pounding the door, doesn’t hear Peter clawing the door, trying to get out.
When the door finally opens, Stiles has long since left.
“Get out,” Talia orders, voice cold, “And make sure you are in shape to see him tomorrow.”
Peter nods, dragging himself up from the floor. With shaking legs, he makes his way into his own room.
“It’s been five years Peter!” Stiles screams at him, “Five years and you don’t want to move in with me. What’s the problem? Don’t you love me?”
“Stiles- you know the pack needs me-”
“Always with the same excuse. Can’t you come up with something else? Have you even asked Talia if you can move? Do you even want to?” Stiles throws accusations like knives, not knowing how deep they really cut.
Because in reality Peter doesn’t want anything more than to move away from his family- from Talia. But Talia won’t let him. Talia told him early on, that Peter doesn’t get to move away, because the cracks would show otherwise if Talia wasn’t there to make sure Peter stays silent. Stiles isn’t allowed to move into the Hale house, and Peter isn’t allowed to move out. And it’s been causing friction in their relationship. Peter understands it, the want to move together, to take the next step after all those years. He simply cannot make himself do it, because he knows if he decides that, he won’t walk away alive. But now that he’s looking at Stiles' furious and sad face, he wonders if it would be better to die than be the cause for all this.
“It’s not that simple-” Peter breathes out, “I love you… more than you know, but I cannot leave my pack.”
“You aren’t leaving your pack. You are moving out of the pack house to have your own family,” Stiles argues, “You would be a few miles away from them at best. Can’t you handle that?”
It’s not even the first fight they have about the topic. Stiles wants a more stable, more serious, committed relationship where they share their days, share their nights. And not like now, that they steal time whenever Peter has it.
“You know I cannot-” Peter sighs, feeling like shit because that’s all he can come up with.
Because he cannot tell the real reason to Stiles. He cannot tell that Talia abuses him, that the pack turns a blind eye to it, leaving Peter alone in his suffering. He cannot make Stiles see it. Peter doesn’t know how far Talia is willing to go to keep the secrets- he doesn’t want anything happening to Stiles.
“Bullshit!” Stiles yells, “You just don’t want to move in with me.”
“I’m not going to keep fighting about this,” Peter sighs, pleading, “I already told you that I cannot move out right now. Maybe someday, but not now.”
“Yeah-” Stiles laughs, voice full of mockery, “Keep telling yourself that.”
Stiles slams the bedroom door shut after himself, leaving Peter alone sitting in Stiles’ living room. Peter sighs, burying his face in his hands. He doesn’t know what to do. Stiles is bringing up the issue more and more these days, while Peter cannot give him that even when he wants to. Stiles brings up more and more the want to move together, to get more privacy, more time together, and to Stiles, it’s Peter who’s putting a stop to that. Because that’s how it’s supposed to be- Peter is used to it, to being the cause of others misery. But with Stiles it cuts differently. Peter gets up slowly, gathering his stuff. He will give Stiles space to think what he wants. But Peter can smell the break up coming from miles away. Maybe this was supposed to end like this all along. Why would he get something that makes him happy in this world?
He’s only meant to suffer. That’s all he was ever born to do. He doesn’t deserve love, not from someone like Stiles. Stiles deserves someone who can give him it all. A house, a home, and not Peter who can only offer empty promises of later, that someday they will move in together. They both know Peter is lying and maybe that’s why it hurts so much. Peter looks around the apartment, what could possibly be the last time before he walks out, locking the door after him.
“Didn’t expect you home yet,” Talia comments when Peter gets home.
“We had a fight,” Peter mutters, letting his bag fall on the ground.
“Again? About moving out?” Talia asks, putting the book down.
Peter nods.
“Maybe it’s better to end the relationship,” Talia says finally, “You want different things in life. It would be cruel for you to keep dragging him along.”
“Cruel from me?” Peter asks with a dry laugh.
“Careful,” Talia warns, eyes hard.
“You're ruining my relationship with the only person who has ever loved me!” Peter yells, tears threatening to fall from his eyes, “You're driving him away, and making it look like it’s my fault!”
Talia raises from his chair, grabbing Peter’s hair, hard, pushing the younger one on the floor.
“Do not blame me for not being enough for Stiles,” Talia hisses.
“Fuck you,” Peter snarls back.
Talia strikes him hard, never letting go of his hair. Peter spits blood on the wooden floor. He locks his eyes with Talia’s. Stiles is most likely going to break up with him, deciding he's had enough of Peter’s bullshit- there’s no reason for Peter to keep living when the first and only good thing of his life is being ripped from him. He doesn’t want to keep going when the only thing that has kept him living for the past years is going to walk away. There’s no reason to keep up the appearances anymore when there’s no one to fake to.
“Fuck you!”
Peter remembers only pain from the last past hours when he wakes up. It’s dark and he knows he’s been locked in the basement. He’s surprised he’s alive still. He tries to move, quickly finding out he’s been chained to the wall. Cuffs around his wrists.
He laughs. Did Talia seriously think he would run away? There’s nowhere for him to go. Talia has made sure of it. There’s no more Stiles, no more love, no more gentleness Peter has only ever experienced with Stiles. Peter cannot stop the broken sob leaving his lips. He will be alone for the rest of his life. He will be unlovable to anyone else, just like before Stiles. There will be no one looking at him like Stiles looked at him. Like Peter is something worthy of love. Peter cries, the sobs wrecking through him. He cries himself hoarse. His eyes are burning, and his throat is dry.
Peter doesn’t know how much later it is, but suddenly he can smell smoke. He gets up slowly, leaning against the concrete wall. He sniffs the air. It’s really smoke, but there shouldn’t be smoke. Peter gets up, trying to hear anything, but the house is silent- until suddenly it isn’t. There’s yelling, screaming. Panic fills the upper floors of the Hale house.
“Hello?” Peter yells, trying to get someone's attention.
He wants to know what’s going on but no one stops at the basement door. Peter can hear running, more panic. And more smoke. In the dim light coming from under the basement door, Peter can see smoke rolling in, and flames flickering on the other side. But it shouldn’t be possible.
“Talia!” Peter screams, the chains clinking in the silence of the basement.
But Talia doesn’t come. No one does but people keep running before the door, until the running slows down, the screaming falls silent, and more smoke fills the basement. Now Peter can hear the fire crackling, eating the foundation of the house. He yanks on the chains, trying to pull them off the wall. The chains don’t budge. The smoke starts to sting Peter’s eyes, making it harder to breathe. Peter coughs, panic starting to set in. The yelling is slowly dying upstairs, and Peter can feel bonds snapping, one by one.
“Talia!” Peter screams now, the fire burning the basement door.
It’s getting hotter, harder to breathe. Peter pulls on the cuffs, desperate to pull free. He refuses to die down there and die chained down to the wall in the basement. The cuffs are too tight, he’s not able to pull his hands through. Panic dawns on his, as he knows his only chance to get out of there is to break his own hands to get them through the cuffs. He doesn’t have time to wait for someone to come and save him, he knows no one is coming.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” Peter thinks as he breaks his right hand.
He cries out in pain, the smoke making it almost impossible to breathe now. He’s sweating from the heat, the fire crackling loudly above him. He pulls his hand free, doing the same to his left hand. He pulls his broken hands close to his body, dropping on the floor where the smoke isn’t as thick. He starts crawling towards the hatch leading to under the porch. It’s his only way out as the fire is eating the upper floors, cutting his only other way out. He climbs into the crawlspace with great difficulty, the fire eating already the foundation. Peter crawls his way through the fire, his skin burning and blistering as he finally makes his way under the porch, or what’s left of it. He forces himself to push past the burning rubble, forcing his body to push through the last stretch until fresh air hits his lungs. He cries out in happiness when he crawls on the wet grass, feeling it between his fingers.
He lays down, tired, alive.
He watches the house burning, still some cries echoing through the night from inside. Peter only stares at the burning house. The fire paints him in soft colours of yellow and orange. He doesn’t move to help those who are still alive. He only stares at the collapsing house, until the screaming eventually dies out. Peter can feel the moment Talia takes her last breath, the alpha spark transferring to him. The spark rips through him, fixing the broken bones, healing his burns and blistering skin. It’s painful, but it’s also freeing. Peter doesn’t know when he started laughing, he only hears himself when the spark stops settling, humming now silently in his veins. He makes himself stop laughing when he can hear sirens getting closer. But he cannot stop the smile forming on his lips.
By the time the police and firetrucks get there, Peter is crying. To everyone it looks like a grieving- sole survivor of a tragedy. But Peter isn’t crying because he lost his family- no. He isn’t sad that his family is dead. He couldn’t be happier. He’s so relieved to be free that he cannot hold in the tears as he lays there. He sobs, full body sobs, but not in grief.
In relief.
Because for the first time in his life he’s free. He’s free of his family. He’s free from Talia. He doesn’t have to be in pain anymore. He smiles as he stares at the burning ruins of his home that never felt like home. It was only a house to him, a house that hold all his pain, all his bad memories. And now it’s gone, with the people who hurt him. The paramedics tell him he’s in shock. That’s why he’s acting like that when they help him into the ambulance. Peter lets them believe that. It’s easier than to explain that in reality he’s just so relieved that they are all dead. Because no one would believe him, even if he told them of the hell he has survived. The doctors in the hospital tell him the same thing- shock. The reality will come later. He’s sitting on the hospital bed, in an oxygen mask when Stiles’ voice calls for him. Peter turns to look towards Stiles, seeing the man crying.
Stiles pulls Peter in his arms. Peter doesn’t understand why Stiles is crying, holding him so tightly it almost hurts. Until hours later. Stiles is comforting him about his family- Stiles is relieved Peter survived and didn’t die with the rest of his family. Stiles listens when the doctors explain Peter’s condition, telling them that Peter will be staying with him when they let Peter go.
Stiles holds him through the night, crying against Peter’s back. While Peter stares at the wall in the darkness. He’s smiling. He cannot explain the feeling. He’s happy. He doesn't mourn the people who died. They wouldn’t mourn him, they didn’t even care he was left to die in the basement. He doesn’t spare tears for them. He stares at the wall, feeling Stiles crying against his back, mourning his family. Because they were loved, they were perfect. They were the town’s favourite family. Peter feels the opposite of sorrow, he feels free. There’s always been this invisible weight pulling him down, but now there’s nothing.
And the next morning when Stiles cannot get up from the bed, Peter keeps living like nothing happened. He doesn’t care about the funeral preparations, leaving it to his lawyer. He goes through the motion to sign the life insurance claim papers, and everything that comes with funerals and inheritance. But not once does he show interest in the funeral, or the wake, or what happens to his family. The town around him mourns, lowering their voices when they talk to him.
Peter doesn’t care.
On the morning of the funeral, he sits on Stiles’ bed, staring at the clothes he has laid out for himself. He stares at them, not wanting to put them on. They don’t deserve it. They don’t deserve his pretending, not anymore. He’s done pretending to save face.
“Aren’t you getting dressed? We need to leave?” Stiles asks, already dressed, ready to leave.
“I’m not going,” Peter says, not looking at Stiles, eyes locked on the suit, “I don’t want to.”
“Peter, it’s your family’s funeral,” Stiles sighs, voice strained.
“Yes,” Peter nods, getting up from the bed and touching the suit, “But I’m done pretending for them.”
“What are you talking about? Peter, we don’t have time for this,” Stiles says, getting annoyed.
“You all see them as something noble- when in reality they were nothing but abusers dressed in shiny clothes,” Peter whispers, a broken laugh leaving his lips, “None of them deserve my presence. None of them deserve my forgiveness.”
“Peter! Get dressed,” Stiles orders, but instead Peter puts the suits away.
“I took it out from the closet, that’s more than they deserve,” Peter says, pulling on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, “You can go but don’t ask me to go.”
Stiles is seething with fury when he sits there, on the front row alone, next to Peter’s empty seat. When people ask him where Peter is, he tells that Peter was too grieved to attend. And people understand that, because Peter lost his whole family. But later that day when he gets home, he sees Peter laying on the backyard, laying on grass, bare feet. Like there’s nothing wrong, not like his whole family was just buried.
“You really are something else,” Stiles hisses angrily when he marches to join Peter.
Peter doesn’t say anything, but he turns to look at Stiles to show he’s listening.
“You didn’t show up for your own family’s funeral,” Stiles says angrily.
“I told you I wasn’t going,” Peter says, voice even.
“Why? Why would you not go?” Stiles asks, desperate.
“Because they can rot in hell for all I care. They were good at looking the other way when I was suffering, why should I be there during their final moments,” Peter explains, almost like it’s the obvious, “Stiles- I’m free for the first time in my life. I can finally breathe- I can breathe without looking behind my back in fear. I don’t want to spend anymore time doing things that hurt me.”
“What are you saying?”
Peter doesn’t explain, only offers a smile.
“Stiles- do you want to move in together with me?” Peter asks, sitting up and taking Stiles’ hand in his, “Will you marry me?”
Stiles cannot understand, even as weeks turn into months, and months turn slowly into years, how Peter could do it. How he managed to move on from his tragedy so easily. Stiles himself, still sometimes cries for the Hales, while Peter continues his life like nothing ever happened. He avoids talking about his family, he doesn’t praise them, he much rather doesn’t talk about them at all. When Stiles asks about it, Peter vaguely brushes him off, placing a kiss on his temple. Stiles has never seen Peter so happy. The man is so full of life. Smiling almost all the time. They moved in together after the funeral, Peter bought them a house on the other side of the town. Just for them. They got married later that same year, on their sixth anniversary. Peter did everything Stiles had begged for years. The relationship that was nothing but fleeting nights and quick dates for years, turned overnight into living together and a marriage. And Stiles has never seen Peter happier.
“Good morning, darling,” Peter whispers in Stiles’ ear, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ middle from the behind.
Stiles smiles, leaning into the touch, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Stiles offers Peter coffee, the alpha taking it with a thanks and a kiss on Stiles’ cheek. Stiles watches as Peter moves around their house, not a care in the world. Like he doesn’t remember what day it is.
“Peter?” Stiles asks, later that day.
“Hm?” Peter asks, reading his book but letting Stiles know he’s listening.
“Will you come with me to the cemetery?” Stiles asks, eyes locked on Peter.
Peter goes still, but only for a second, the smile on his face dropping before he can force it back on. And Stiles sees it.
“Why would I?” Peter asks, putting the book down, turning to look at Stiles.
“It’s the anniversary-”
“I know,” Peter cuts him off, “I don’t care.”
“Peter-” Stiles sighs, but Peter doesn’t let him speak.
“No! I told you no already. If you want to go, you can go by yourself. I’m not stopping you. But I will not set a foot on that ground,” Peter says, and for the first time, Stiles can see emotion on Peter’s face.
The man has never raised his voice to him, not before this.
“I want to understand why you would hate your family so much that you refuse to even visit their graves.”
“You want to understand?” Peter asks, with a dry laugh, “Don’t lie to yourself Stiles. You’re not really interested in why, you only want to feel better yourself.”
Peter has never sounded so resentful and accusing. It makes Stiles stop, because Peter has never spoken to him like that. And Peter seems to also realize that as he takes a deep breath, calming himself down before speaking.
“The family you loved so much is nothing but a pretty picture. They were not warm, or loving. They were abusers who knew how to cover it up- for decades they-” Peter cuts himself off, a tight smile returning on his face, “Excuse me.”
With that Peter walks out of the room, and moments later Stiles can hear the front door opening and closing. He rushes after the man, but when he reaches the door, he can see Peter already pulling away with his car. Stiles stares at the car pulling away, leaving him alone on their porch. Peter doesn’t text or answer any of his calls the whole day. His location is off and Stiles has no idea where the alpha went. He stays up late waiting for Peter to return home. And it’s past midnight when Stiles finally sees headlights pulling up the driveway. He stays sitting on the sofa, not wanting to crowd Peter as soon as he walks in. When Peter opens the door, he looks like he is waiting for Stiles to still be awake.
“You should be in bed,” Peter says, voice quiet.
“So should you,” Stiles answers gently.
Peter stares at him for a second, before walking to him with a sigh. He kneels before Stiles, resting his head on Stiles’ knees. Stiles doesn’t know what to do, so he just rests his hands on Peter’s hair. For a long time they don’t speak.
“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me,” Peter whispers eventually.
“Peter-” Stiles whispers, but Peter lifts his head, kissing his wrist, making Stiles fall silent.
“Just listen, please.”
Peter has never sounded so broken, so Stiles nods. Peter sighs, breathing in deeply. He takes off his jacket, neatly folding it next to Stiles. The shirt falls discarded on the floor. In the low light of the table lamp, Stiles can see Peter’s bare torso, the body he knows so well. The hard muscles, the tension that sometimes lingers there, like right now. Peter takes his hand, guiding it down his chest, while still kneeling before Stiles. Stiles can feel the warm, smooth skin under his fingers, until it isn’t smooth anymore. The skin is undamaged, but Stiles can feel something- he tries to pull his hand away, but Peter keeps his hand there.
Eventually Peter lets go of his hand, and Stiles starts moving his hand around Peter’s body. Because he thought he knew Peter’s body, but the more he touches, concentrating, he can feel the smoothness breaking underneath the skin. Almost like- almost like scar tissue- a lot of it.
Peter’s back is the worst. The skin is smooth, perfect, but if you run your hand over it, putting pressure, you can feel it. There’s no inch that isn’t covered in it. Stiles looks at Peter, asking. And Peter tells him, voice barely a whisper as he speaks. He tells everything. Every cruel thing they did, every punishment he received, every lesson, every time he was locked in the basement, every time he had to lie to Stiles about it. Stiles listens tears streaming down his cheeks. Because he remembers some of those. And he never had any idea what was going on. He cries because he feels guilty. Every single time he thought Peter was ignoring him, every time he thought Peter was away on pack business, every smile, it was all fake and he never saw it.
He pulls Peter into his arms, hugging the man tightly.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?” Stiles asks, breaking down.
“I didn’t want you to know,” Peter answers, gently wiping Stiles’ tears away, “I don’t blame you. You were never meant to see it, you wouldn’t have known. I had a lifetime to learn how to pretend. I just want you to understand why I don’t want to remember them. I didn’t want to break your image of them, not when they meant so much to you, but I want you to stop asking.”
“You matter more, Peter- of course you matter more than them- If I had known, I- I wouldn’t-” Stiles rushes to apologize.
“Shhs, darling,” Peter whispers, staying kneeling before Stiles, “I know. I know, but now you know where I’m coming from and I want you to drop it. They weren’t the saints everyone else knows them as. I just want to leave them in the past, where they should stay. I’m happy, I’m free, that’s all I ever asked for. So please Stiles- let it go- please.”
Stiles stares at the man kneeling in front of him. Peter isn’t crying. He only stares at Stiles with finality. Stiles nods. Peter smiles, a real smile this time. He kisses Stiles wrist, and gets up.
“Please, come to bed,” Peter whispers.
The man doesn’t act like what he just told was a big deal. Almost like talking about the weather and not years and years of abuse. Stiles tells Peter to go ahead, he will join in a minute. Peter nods, leaving his shirt on the floor as he walks over it, and disappears down the hall. Only then Stiles lets out the sob he’s been holding in. He cries silently, feeling sick just thinking about all those times he was angry at Peter- all those times where Peter was in pain, locked up- and Stiles would be angry at him afterwards. He doesn’t know how Peter can stand to look at him. Even after Stiles has complained to Peter about going to his family's graves- Peter never said anything, not before this.
Stiles stays sitting there for a long time. All those moments keep running in his head, and the guilt keeps washing over him in waves. The tears don’t stop falling, and Peter doesn’t come back. Stiles pulls his knees to his chest, hugging himself. Everything he believed- was a lie.
Eventually, when he calms down, he makes his way into their bed. Peter is laying there, back turned towards the door, but Stiles knows the man isn’t sleeping. As soon as Stiles slips into the bed, Peter turns to face him. Neither of them speak, but Peter pulls Stiles into his arms, letting Stiles rest his head on Peter’s chest. And the tears come again. Stiles cannot help it. Peter only holds him, his steady heartbeat under Stiles' ear. But that's the last time Stiles brings up the Hales. He doesn't say a word about Peter's family, not good, not bad. He's just numb. So he tries to move on just as Peter has done. Peter is happy, seemingly the conversation they had isn't weighing him down. Why would it? Peter has had years to come into terms with all that, and he's now happy and doesn't want the dwell in the past- in the past where all the hurt and pain is. So Stiles follows his lead. They are happy, Peter is happy and safe and that's the most important thing, Stiles thinks as he watches his husband laying in the backyard one sunny afternoon. Peter is happy and alive- he survived and that's all Stiles can ask. With a heart full of love, he makes his way to Peter, letting the alpha pull him into his arms.
Peter is smiling as he pulls Stiles into a kiss, wrapping his arms around Stiles.