like we’re in a movie
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“You should talk to him,” Derek says, turning a page.
Peter huffs and glares at the exam in front of him. “I most certainly should not.”
“It’s not like you, to ignore what you want.”
Peter didn’t bother responding to that.
Across the quad, a bright, loud laugh rings out, and Peter glares even harder at the paper he’s grading.
Derek sighs, quietly, at his side.
~*~
“Professor Hale?”
The voice is clear and bright, tinted with surprise and Peter closes his eyes, for a moment. Then he sighs, and smiles, twisting. “Mr. Stilinski, how surprising to see you.”
Stiles gives him an arch eyebrow. “Is it?” he asks, glancing at the marquee. Peter looks at it and laughs, a breathless noise that he almost hates himself for. “Indie movies aren’t featured that often, Prof,” Stiles says lazily.
Peter is all too aware of that. It’s the biggest problem he has with this damn tiny town.
That and the boy in front of him.
The boy who smiles, and scratches at the back of his neck, before grinning. “See you in there.”
Peter sighs and reluctantly gets his popcorn, before slipping into the theatre and giving Stiles an awkward smile.
He spends more of the movie watching the delicate curve of the boy’s neck than he does, watching the movie, and when he gets home, gets off in the dark, picturing the sleepy curl of Stiles’ lips.
~*~
It becomes a thing .
Stiles always seems delighted and a little scandalized to see a professor at the movie theatre at midnight, something Peter finds utterly ridiculous and not at all adorable.
The third time it happens, Stiles drops unceremoniously into the seat next to Peter in the theatre and spends most of the movie whispering his criticism, something that has Peter fighting a smirk almost the whole night.
It’s absurd. He doesn’t tolerate people talking during movies. They’re sacrosanct, the only time snark and commentary are put on hold--but Stiles murmuring in his ear makes him forget all about that.
Derek, when he hears about it, stares at him like Peter’s some exotic, newly discovered creature. “Who the hell are you?” he asks, flatly.
~*~
Stiles sweeping into his office at the end of Friday startles him. “Hey, prof,” he says cheerfully, and Peter bites down on the absurd desire to correct him, to tell him to call him Peter. That isn’t even remotely appropriate.
“Mr. Stilinski,” he says, instead, a frown gathering. “You--you aren’t in any of my classes.”
Stiles flushes, and Peter realizes abruptly that he looks wind tossed, harried and lovely. “Yeah, no--I just. I’m going home, for the weekend. I didn’t want you wondering where I was.”
A slight flush is in the boy’s cheeks, and Peter swallows at the sight of it.
“Oh,” he says, voice almost choked. “Well. That’s--very considerate.”
Stiles nods, shifts and grins. “I’m a considerate sort.”
Peter snorts. “I have watched movies with you, Mr. Stilinski. I’m under no such misconceptions.”
The boy gasps, all mock outrage and twinkling eyes. “Rude.”
Peter arches an eyebrow and Stiles’ smile goes soft and fond. “I gotta go. Um. Bye?”
He’s almost out the door, and Peter knows he should let him go but--
“Mr. Stilinski, perhaps you’d like to watch Amour with me Monday?”
Stiles goes very still, and Peter tries not to let his panic show.
Why, why why would he--
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I’ll. Um. I’ll bring the popcorn.”
~*~
Having Stiles in his apartment is...a revelation.
Derek laughs himself silly, and makes himself scarce and Peter would be more annoyed if he were able to focus on anything other than the fact that Stiles would be here.
He thinks of all the ways it could go wrong, all the things he could say, or Stiles could see if he looked close enough.
Although, inviting the boy into his home is probably not the subtlest way for him to hide his ridiculous infatuation.
Still. Stiles crashes into his apartment with a tub of popcorn and a big grin, and settles next to Peter with his coke and Reese’s Pieces and watches, eyes wide and bright.
It’s...relaxing.
And the way Stiles sprawls at the counter, elbows braced and hands moving in an enticing argument, coffee steaming in front of him while Peter cooked them eggs and bacon, and they debated the cinematic elements and subject matter--that is better by far than any dark movie theatre where they inevitably go their separate ways.
~*~
They meet now, almost without discussion, on Fridays in the dark theatre, and Mondays in Peter’s apartment, and if he shows up for his lectures Tuesday bleary eyed and sleep deprived, he arrives happy.
~*~
The girl startles him.
She’s lovely, a small thing with bright red hair tucked under Stiles arm, her expression fond and indulgent as Stiles chatters a mile a minute, and she looks at him, appraising and cool, as Peter’s steps falter.
Stiles looks up and he grins. “Prof!”
“Mr. Stilinski,” he says, and Stiles’ expression does something he doesn’t want to think about.
“Get your ticket,” he says, happily, and the girl tugs on his sleeve, drawing his gaze. “Oh--right. This is--”
Peter glances at his phone, still clutched in his hand and waves it like a lifeline. “I can’t--my nephew had an emergency. I--I have to go.”
He turns and almost bolts into the night, ignoring Stiles’ shout and the searing gaze of the beautiful girl on his arm.
~*~
He avoids Stiles on Monday, hides at Derek’s house and refuses to admit that’s what he’s doing. On Friday, he goes to the Jungle, and gets mind-numbingly drunk, and then stumbles home and tries not to think about his boy alone in a theatre.
Worse, in their theatre, with that lovely redhead.
He spends Saturday watching trashy movies Stiles would adore, and drags himself to his sister’s on Sunday, where Laura is merciless in her teasing and Cora leans quietly into his side.
It doesn’t make him feel better, not really, but he doesn’t feel worse, either.
Until he exits the elevator and sees Stiles, knees drawn up and head tipped back against the door to his apartment.
They stare for a long moment, and then Peter says, “Mr. Stilinski.”
“You weren’t there, Friday.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Even though Stiles sounds hurt, like Peter did something wrong.
“I had plans.”
Stiles flinches, and Peter sighs. Looks away, because if he doesn’t he’s going to blurt out the truth and he can’t do that. He can’t--this boy, this beautiful infuriating, captivating boy has too much of him, already.
He can’t give him this.
“I thought--”
“What?” Peter says, sharply. “We attend similar movies. We’re not--it’s not--” He huffs, and shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”
Stiles makes a wounded noise, and Peter’s head snaps up.
“So,” he says, unsteadily, “you do that with all the nice young psych majors, prof?”
“Don’t,” Peter says, and Stiles laughs.
“You let-- you invited me here. You invited me here and made me dinner, you let me in and made me care about you, made me think you cared. And now you’re acting like I did something wrong but you won’t tell me.”
He freezes, caught up on the words, and Stiles looks so lovely, pale porcelain in the dark of his apartment.
“Just--tell me what I did, I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me,” Stiles almost begs and Peter makes a choked noise.
Stiles brushes a finger over his hand, and when did that happen--when did Stiles take his hand?--and murmurs, “Please, Peter.”
It’s the first time Stiles has called him that.
It’s the first time and it makes him gasp, sway into the boy, his eyes squeezing shut.
“Who was she?”
Stiles goes still, and then he sighs, a sigh that has tension running out of him like water. “My sister. Step-sister. Our parents got married when I was in high school. She wanted to see who I was so hung up on.”
Peter makes a noise, broken and hopeful and Stiles sighs, leaning in.
~*~
His boy kisses him like he’s precious, like he’s something delicate and rare and special , large hands framing his face, licking into his mouth and drinking down Peter’s noises of startled pleasure.
He holds him there, against the wall of the apartment, Peter’s hand wrapped around Stiles’ wrist, the other tugging him closer, and the door hangs open behind him, and Peter, through the haze of pleasure and Stiles’ murmuring, “You beautiful idiot , don’t you know I’m stupid over you?” thinks, this is the kind of love movies are written about.
~*~
They still watch movies. Friday nights are the quiet dark theatre, and their hands threaded together. Mondays Peter picks, and Stiles sprawls across him on the couch, and his eyes are bright and beautiful in the gleam of the TV.
On Saturdays though--Saturday, Stiles chooses, an endless stream of scifi and B-rated ridiculousness that he badgers Peter into watching with greasy pizza and shitty takeout, and if they spend more of it making out and grinding against each other on the couch, Peter thinks it’s a damn good way to watch a movie.