Ok, but it takes Stiles two hookups to notice. He can totally be excused for not noticing the first time, Peter fucking Hale was ripping his clothes off him and choking on his dick, details and detections fell by the wayside.
The second time–the second time is slower and he’s distracted but he notices the way Peter kinda stumbles when it comes to undressing him, a desperate sort of frustration filling his eyes before Stiles takes over and he tucks the detail away, before he loses all coherent thought as Peter fingers him open.
But he thinks about it later. He thinks about it when they’re at pack meetings and when he’s watching Peter crawl out of his bed and when Peter sinks to his knees in front of him.
The thing is–he was a kid when his mom died and he always thought it was messed up, the way she lost things. The way she stared at her toothbrush like she couldn’t remember what it was for and her shoelaces, like they were a puzzle. He remembers the frustrated look she wore, like she knew she should know this and that it lingered just out of reach was maddening.
He sees that look, briefly, on Peter’s face. Not often. But sometimes. When he snatched up a pen and then hesitated, for half a heartbeat. When he glanced, confused, at the remote Stiles passed him sleepily.
When he glanced down at Stiles’ pants, stubbornly buttoned, cock hard and pressing against the zip.
And Stiles, he gets it. Gets why Peter, proud and narcissistic and terrified of being broken, doesn’t say anything. He gets it, the way the werewolf guards these tiny things the coma stole from him.
So he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t let on that he knows at all. He wears shirts without buttons and always reaches for his jeans first and looks away when Peter fumbles to button his when they redress.
He gives him that privacy, that dignity. Until one morning, he comes into their room, months after they’ve been dating and Peter is standing in a white shirt and black suit pants, his gaze impossibly miserable.
It’s not fair, how much the world takes from the Hales, Stiles thinks. Its what he’s thought since that night, when they found Malia’s body.
Stiles steps close and Peter goes stiff, eyes cautious and hurt and defensive. Long, quick fingers do up the buttons on his shirt silently and Stiles leans in, kisses him softly and steps away. Peter watches him go, his heart aching and full and the familiar shame isn’t there.
He tells Stiles, years later, when they’re on their honeymoon, that was when he knew it was safe to love Stiles.
