Work Text:
I never thought that I could hold you forever
Always knew deep down that you’d have to go home
I can be grateful for these bright years together
And I know you miss the salt sea foam
If you hurry, you can still catch the tide, my love
If you hurry you can still catch the tide.
Stiles always knows when the tide is high and the waves are rolling. It doesn’t matter how far from the sea he is, it’s something deep in his bones that makes him itchy and restless and when he opens a window, the smell of salt fills his nose and lungs and he can feel the breeze as if he were standing right at the water’s edge.
When he paces in the morning, Peter draws him back to bed, curling around him and holding him still, burying his nose into the curve of his neck.
When he paces in the evening, Peter fucks him until the only thing he can smell is their sweat and the only thing he can feel is the afterglow of his orgasm.
--
His past is an odd blur punctuated with the roar of the ocean. He doesn’t remember much before moving into the werewolf’s apartment. Before the days and nights and touches and teeth. Before Peter.
When he asks, Peter just smiles at him the way he always does - part-affection, part-smug asshole - and says, “The sea brought you to me.”
--
Despite the muddled memories, Stiles does remember meeting Peter and not feeling surprised that he was a werewolf. He remembers the verbal battles filled with snark and underlying attraction that eventually exploded into a rough fuck on the sand. A lot seemed to revolve around the beach and yet they haven’t been there in ages.
When he asks, Peter pulls an incoherent moan out of him with his mouth alone until he’s exhausted and sated and says, “Maybe next week.”
--
Peter is away one evening - pack duties he says. On the nights when Peter isn’t around to distract Stiles, he turns to the collection of old hardcovers filling a bookcase, flipping through the lore of creatures populating their world. But that night he notices an odd seam on the back wall of one of the shelves after removing a particularly large book and something inside him pulls and he finds himself throwing the rest of the volumes to the floor to clear the way. The wall slides away to reveal something soft and grey and achingly familiar.
Stiles pulls the hoodie out of its hiding space and lifts it to his face and the smell of home is altogether wonderful and too much. When he pulls it away he sees the damp patch his tears have left behind.
When Peter returns, the apartment is dark except for one lamp in the bedroom. He can smell the salt of tears and knows their time is up.
There’s a half-filled backpack on the bed; Stiles sits beside it with the grey hoodie in his lap. He looks up and in his eyes is a question, a plead, a desperation to know he has it all wrong.
When he asks, Peter says nothing.
Stiles grabs his things and pushes past him and to his surprise Peter lets him go. But when he reaches for the front door, a hand curls around his wrist and pulls it up to press against warm lips. Peter murmurs softly, “I never lied to you.” Deceptive but still true. He bites down sharply so that blood runs down his chin. Stiles doesn’t flinch - selkies can’t turn from a werewolf’s bite. This is nothing more than a token for him to remember Peter by, as if his bleeding heart wasn’t enough.
Pulling Peter towards him, Stiles kisses him hard, tasting the metallic tang of his blood on his lips. He always hoped the werewolf felt affection for him but he never knew for sure, not enough to call it love, and it fills him with a fire, a desire to burn his way into Peter one last time so he’ll never be able to forget him either. Whether it’s out of revenge or sentiment, he doesn’t care. So he pushes him to the ground and rides him one last time, pulling his name from Peter’s lungs as the man cries his release.
Stiles puts the hoodie on, picks up his bag, and walks away.
--
When the moon is full and the tide is high, you can sometimes catch sight of a grey seal with a scarred fin riding the waves. He doesn’t stray too close but he watches and waits.
A black wolf lopes down the sandy banks and paces the water’s edge, looking out into the sea. He returns every night without fail.
Satisfied, the seal turns and dives into the deep water, away from the howl that pierces the air lest it lure him back. Someday, perhaps. Someday.