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When Peter had said he had a cabin at Lake Placid, Stiles had been picturing something different. Something smaller. Maybe a little two bedroom dilapidated house in the middle of nowhere with a generator for electricity and a shower that always ran a little too cold. This place isn’t so much a cabin as a lakeside mansion. Two stories, half a dozen bedrooms, and just as many bathrooms. Not to mention the honest to god recording studio in the basement. And a deck that leads to a big stretch of land and the lake right there.
He can’t believe he is here.
Stiles is screaming internally and trying to look like a normal totally chill person as Peter leads him through the house, pointing out where things are. This is the huge, modern kitchen. This is the state-of-the-art recording studio. This is Peter’s room right next door to where Stiles will be sleeping.
“Are you hungry? I was about to start lunch when you got here.” Peter doesn’t look like a rock star. Not when he’s leaning against the wall and wearing thick patterned socks. He looks cozy. Approachable. ‘This is a job,’ Stiles reminds himself.
“Yeah. Food sounds good. Do you want some help?”
“Take a few minutes to get settled in. If you want to come and keep me company, though, I wouldn’t object.”
“Yeah, okay. See you in a few minutes. It’ll be a good test to see if I can find the kitchen without getting lost.”
Peter smiles, and holy hell, Stiles feels his heartbeat speed up. “Just follow the smell of food.” Peter walks away, and Stiles staggers into the room that will be his for the next little while.
It’s strange how he has gotten used to having temporary places to crash. Since...since Belize he’s never stayed anywhere longer than a few weeks. He knows it worries his dad that he’s basically a homeless vagabond roaming around the world, crashing with friends and colleagues, but what else is he supposed to do? Stiles drops his bag and guitar onto the bed before going into the ensuite and splashing some water on his face. It’s the tail end of winter, but he feels so sweaty. And twitchy and nervous.
Lakeside mansion. With Peter Hale. For two weeks. To write his new album.
Stiles must have fallen down a rabbit hole at some point because his life the last few years has been some weird kind of wonderland, and being in New York to make music with one of his inspirations is only slightly more ridiculous than everything else he’s done lately. He can’t believe Peter wants him here. Peter Hale likes his writing. Peter Hale likes his writing so much that he wants Stiles to write songs for and with him.
Vaguely, from somewhere in his mind, he remembers breathing exercises to calm anxiety--it must have been something he learned from one of the school counselors after his mom died. When Stiles feels calm enough, he wanders down the hall going in the direction he thinks is the kitchen. The walls of the hallways have neatly spaced art prints. It’s not overly sanitized or generic, but Stiles doesn’t know Peter well enough to read into his taste of art yet.
He follows the stairs down, and then he wanders through the large main room. The house really is like nothing he would have pictured. Not as a cabin and not as Peter’s home. He would have imagined something leather and chrome--modern and stark. But this plate is so light and welcoming. It feels lived in. It feels like a home, despite it being almost cartoonishly oversized. As Stiles passes the large floor-to-ceiling windows, he sees the lake glittering in the afternoon sun. It’s all so serene. In a way, it reminds Stiles of Beacon Hills, the trees and relative isolation, but in other ways it all feels brand new.
Stiles follows his nose across the cabin to the kitchen and sits on a stool at the kitchen island. Peter looks like he has three different pots and pans going at once, but he looks over his shoulder to smile when Stiles comes in. “I see you found your way just fine.”
“Yeah, I did alright. Even though this is the biggest house I’ve ever been in.”
“My house growing up was bigger than this.” Stiles knows about the Hale house. It and the Hales were practically Beacon Hills legends. The Hales, the entire family, lived out on the preserve in what could only be called an estate. Some of the kids in school called it the Hale Castle.
“Cora and I weren’t exactly friends. I’ve never been.”
Peter nods, like he knew this. “I haven’t been there in over a decade”
Stiles nods, because he also knew this. It was common knowledge in Beacon Hills if not in the rest of the world that Peter and most of the rest of his family didn’t get along. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was solely due to the fact that Peter had gotten a record deal and Laura didn’t or if there were other, different reasons. But the truth of it was that Laura was now a lawyer in Beacon Hills working at her mom’s firm, and everyone in town knew not to mention Peter’s name around the Hales. Certain local radio stations wouldn’t even play Peter’s music because they didn’t want to upset the Hales.
He wondered if anyone would be that considerate for him.
If he could convince them to stop playing The True’s music, because, frankly, he was tired of hearing his own words sung back at him in Scott’s voice.
“I was expecting this place to be like a little log cabin cut off from the world.”
Peter chuckles, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Sorry to disappoint. I did have to do a remodel when I bought it though, so it doesn’t look as rustic as the previous owners had it. And it lost the basement bedrooms for the studio, but I think that’s a fair trade.”
“Absolutely. I’ve been here like fifteen minutes and I’m already obsessed. It makes my place in LA seem boring.” Peter wrinkles his nose.
“I hate LA.”
“Oh hey, me too. Why do you?”
“It makes me think of business meetings with people I loathe. You?”
Same. That and I live right down the street from all my former bandmates, so I live in fear of the day I actually go back to my place and run into one of them. Knowing my luck, TMZ will film it.”
“Not many paparazzi hanging around here.”
He sighs. “No. Another point for this place.”
“Is there some kind of rating system?” Peter asks, stirring and scooping and turning knobs on the oven. “Like ‘How much better is this place than LA?’”
“I was thinking more of it like I’m going to need to sell the place in LA eventually, so I need to determine qualities for a future place. So far: not a lot of paparazzi and quiet.”
Peter turns to look at him. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d like the quiet.”
“My brain is busy enough. I don’t need extra noise. Music is different, of course. More...active. Less filler noise.”
“Speaking of music, why don’t you put something on?” Peter walks him through connecting to the house system. Stiles asks repeatedly what he should play, and Peter just replies anything.
Barbie Girl starts playing through the whole house, and Stiles laughs when Peter just looks at him with an eyebrow raised. A few seconds later, Stiles pokes at his phone and Ray Lamontagne cuts off Aqua. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
“I said you could play anything. I must admit, that wasn’t what I thought you would do.”
“I live to be contrary.”
“So I am learning.”
The song plays quietly about leaving your troubles and enemies in the past behind for a brighter future. “Is that gonna be a problem?” Stiles asks.
“I can’t imagine why it would be.” There is a click as Peter turns off the stove. “Lunch is ready.”
***
Lunch isn’t anything too fancy, despite how busy it had looked. It turns out Peter was also getting dinner going at the same time. While he was making pasta for lunch, he was getting a stew started. They plan out a schedule as they eat--going forward they will have two four hour writing sessions a day together. They will work together after lunch and after dinner and all other time is free time for Stiles to do what he wants. Swim. Hike. Watch TV. Write on his own.
“But I hope we care share some meals together,” Peter says.
“Yeah, definitely, that sounds good.”
After they eat, Stiles gets his guitar, music notebook, and a hoodie. Peter had said to meet him on the back deck, and by the the time Stiles gets there Peter is already settled into a chair with his own guitar. Gently strummed notes flow out in stops and starts as Peter adjusts his guitar.
“I want to start with the song you wrote.” He means the song that got him on Peter’s radar--the reason they met. A friend of a friend knew Peter was looking for songwriters for his new album and got him a meeting, and Peter really liked one of his finished songs.
Stiles nods, sitting down and finding the song in his notebook. It’s messier than the neatly typed up and printed out version that Peter has--the official version--but the in-progress version will work just as well. Stiles starts to strum, and Peter joins in. And then Peter starts singing his lyrics. Stiles can’t stop himself from joining in at the chorus and Peter shoots him smiles between breaths.
When they reach the end of the song, Peter nods happily. “Good. I like that one. What else do you got?”
“You want to hear something else I’ve written?”
“Yes, it doesn’t have to be something for me. I just want to hear more from you.”
Stiles brain fritzes out as he tries to think about what to play. There are a few of his songs he’s already sold, so he can’t share those. It would have to be something not to poppy--that’s not really Peter’s style. Nothing too angry either. He’s got an entire notebook full of songs that look more like his emo teenage poetry. What to choose? What to choose?
“Darling, we can work on something of mine if that would be better for you?” Peter’s watching him but it looks curious and soft and not like he is a complete weirdo who can’t just pick a song.
“No, it’s okay,” Stiles assures. He wants to be here. He wants Peter to know he wants to be here. That he knows how much this is a great opportunity for him and that he’s not going to ruin another great opportunity by being himself. “How about my newest one? It’s only about half finished. I’ve got a verse and a bridge.”
“Perfect.”
***
After a few days, they fall into a routine.
Mornings are slow, lazy. Sometimes Peter is up before him in the kitchen making food and sometimes Stiles beats him there. EIther way, mornings are a lazy time--a free for all. After a few days of helping prepare meals, Stiles has the kitchen almost memorized, and Peter isn’t fussy about food. He’s the type to say “Help yourself,” and mean it. So some morning Stiles will make himself toast or eggs and other times just a giant mug of coffee or three, and then he’ll go and eat it out on the deck.
He’d kill for the deck. And the view. And the crisp morning air. He already feels a pang knowing he’ll have to leave in a week and a half and that he’ll have no reason to come here again.
After breakfast, Stiles usually showers and walks down to the lake. The water is bone cold, so he isn’t swimming, but it’s pretty, and it’s good to stretch his legs. He takes his journal--not his music notebook--and writes sometimes, just about his day so far and how he’s doing. The therapist he is seeing suggested it as a way to ground himself, since he doesn’t have a lot of other stability right now. Ideally, he’d be able to talk to the same person and do a check in on a regular basis, but even his dad has a crazy work schedule. So, virtual therapy and a daily journal it is. Stiles finds himself writing about the lake, about the peace, and Peter.
Peter has been so great since he got here. Stiles had been more worried than he let on. Of course it was an honor and a great opportunity to work with Peter Hale but who knew if the man he met at business meetings would be the same man at his own home and while working on his album. And yeah, Peter has been a little different, but not in a bad way. He’s more relaxed here, more at ease. He’s sarcastic, but never as biting as he seemed in some of the interviews Stiles had watched--he’s a fan, so what? Peter has been good to Stiles these` past few days.
After a couple of hours of lakeside solitude, Stiles will trudge back up to the house and he and Peter will share lunch. This is the part of the day that Stiles probably enjoys the most. He and Peter glide around each other in the kitchen, working together to make food. One of them will usually work on something simple and filling for lunch, while the other prepares dinner. Neither of them feel up to cooking after their long writing sessions, so it’s easier to put something in the crockpot or have it slow cooking in the oven rather than throwing together sandwiches or ordering takeout every night. It was one of the first joint decisions they had made. And it made everything else happen so smoothly. One or the other of them will put on a playlist and they’ll sing or hum along as they cook.
Today Stiles is prepping a pork tenderloin and dancing around singing about sunflowers. He catches Peter’s fond gaze and sticks out his tongue. Peter just shakes him head and keeps cutting vegetables for a salad, but he’s not fooling Stiles. Stiles can see him mouthing along.
***
“I want to work on something new.”
They’d gone through all of the songs Peter has already written for the album, the songs Stiles has half-finished, and some of Peter’s in-progress songs. But they haven’t actually started co-writing yet. Peter’s words send his heart racing. He knows this is why he’s here, but he’s nervous.
“Alright. Do you have an idea or a direction you want to go?”
Peter takes a breath, and looks out past the lawn to the lake. “When I say ‘home’ what do you think of?”
“Oh man, Peter.” Stiles sighs deeply, fidgeting in his chair. “I don’t have a home anymore. I lost the entire state of California in the break up.”
“You still think of Beacon Hills as home?”
“Kinda,” he explains, his forehead furrowing in frustration. “It’s foolish to make people your home. I know that. But my dad is in Beacon Hills, and he’s all I’ve got left. He’s got a job he loves and he’s not going to retire until he has to, no matter how much I try to persuade him, so I have to settle with not seeing him. I saw him twice in the three years we were touring. At least now that I’m out, I get to see him more.”
“When I say ‘home,’ you think of your dad?”
“When you say ‘home,’ I think about how excluding my dad I carry everything important to me in my suitcase. I think about how I haven’t had a home in years.” Stiles can hear his own voice. It sounds wobbly and fake.
Peter picks up a pin and starts writing quickly in his notebook. “You carry everything important in your heart and in your head. Your tired arms are heavy holding burdens…”
Peter’s eyes meet Stiles and line comes out before he realizes he even says it. “I wish they were holding me instead.” Peter’s smile is electric, a thousand volts of lightning straight to the heart. He nods and writes it down, and he keeps writing. He can hear Peter murmuring and the scratch of his pen against paper. Stiles starts strumming, he can hear the beginning of something in his head. It’s slow, but not like a ballad. He’s imagining heavy bass and Peter’s smooth voice. A love song that’s a little sexy.
“My sheets are lonely. My hands are cold without you. Won’t you call my heart home, honey?”
“My sheets are lonely. My heart is cold without you. When are you coming home, honey?” Stiles repeats and changes.
“Shit.” Peter starts marking and crossing out stuff. “I love that.”
“Me too. I really like this.”
They work until dinner, getting a rough version of the song written. When they stop to eat, Peter is excited, glowing. He is more teasing and biting than he has been, and Stiles feels confident enough to keep up with him and teases back. They both rush through dinner, excited to go down to the studio and get a quick version recorded. It’s okay; the leftovers will keep.
***
Down in the studio, Stiles picks up a bass guitar, plugging it in and testing it out. He tells Peter, “Play it through once.”
“Please?”
“Now.”
“Brat,” Peter teases, but he starts strumming the song as they’ve worked it out. When he gets to the bridge, Stiles starts playing the bass how he had imagined it in his head earlier, and he sees Peter nodding as he sings. They make it through the song, and Peter says, “Do you have an idea for drums?”
“Not particularly.”
“Let’s get it down with my Stratocaster. And vocals. Then we’ll do the bass.”
Stiles nods, excited to hear it all coming together. His experience with recording has been chaotic at best. The first album the band had done in a proper recording studio, but the other two had been recorded during the tour. One of the band’s buses had a tiny bedroom that had been converted into a miniature recording room. They’d been forced to record at any free available moment. Several times Stiles had been pulled out of a dead sleep in his bunk and marched to the other bus to record vocals or play until he fell asleep standing up. Or to do song writing ‘sessions,’ i.e. fixes with the label or management.
Stiles has been in the studio more since he had left the band. He’s worked with a few artists who had wanted him present during recording, and Stiles was more than happy to be there. It’s something he didn’t know about himself until after he left, but he really loves the production side of music.
“You know how to work it?” Peter says, referencing the sound board. Stiles looks at the knobs and dials.
“Enough not to make you sound like a chipmunk.”
Peter smirks. “Okay, Alvin, hit the record button and let’s get going.”
***
“Hey, dude, you never said what you think of as home.”
“Don’t call me dude.” It’s a few days after they finished up the song that Peter’s been calling “Honey Warm.” They’ve gotten a few more songs written, but he can tell that one is Peter’s favorite. It’s a surprisingly warm afternoon, so they decided to sit down on the dock for their writing session but they’ve spent more time bullshitting and telling stories than talking about lyrics and melodies.
“I’m so sorry. Peter Hale, sir, what’s your home?”
Peter mutters something that sounds like an insult under his breath. “Here, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I have a brownstone in Long Island City, but that’s more a place to crash after late nights out. Friends stay there more often than I do. Here, though, it’s just mine. It’s like my refuge from the world.”
Stiles swallows. “Well, thank you for sharing your refuge with me for a little bit. I love it here.” Peter smiles at him and Stiles can feel it in his chest. Man, oh man. He really likes this guy.
***
Peter is singing about a brown-eyed girl while whisking the brownie ingredients in a big bowl. Stiles can smell as the cocoa powder mixes with the sugar and eggs. He’s sitting on a stool at the kitchen island and scrolling through Twitter on his phone. He unfollowed all of the band after everything that happened, but he has enough friends in the industry that sometimes he still sees stuff they post. Cutesy videos and tweets and announcements and merch. He doesn’t miss it.
He doesn’t.
A friend of a friend retweets a picture of Allison and Lydia on either side of Scott each air kissing his cheek. Stiles tortures himself by looking through the comments and sees all about how great The True are and how much the band love each other and you can tell it’s all so real. Bleh.
“I hate them sometimes.”
“Van Morrison?”
“No, the band. The True.”
Stiles can tell Peter is looking at him even though Stiles is still hate reading comments about how much everyone loves The True. Peter continues to stare at him, so he gives up and puts the phone down. Or more he slams it down. “What?”
“You don’t have to tell me anything, but if you want to talk I’ll listen.”
Should he? It’s not even a real question. Others have asked about and he’s said nothing. But for some reason he trusts Peter, so he’s going to tell him something. It’s just how much he’s going to say. “Nobody knows the full story. Nobody. Not my dad. Not even the other people in the band. Maybe Argent knows the whole story.”
“I’m not the type to sell your story to the tabloids.”
“You better not. I know an FBI hacker who can ruin your life.” He’s not sure that Danny is really is friend anymore. He was always more Jackson’s and Lydia’s. But it was good as a threat.
Peter takes his hand off the whisk and holds it up a hand, saying, “Scout’s honor.”
Stiles sighs. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“At the beginning.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” He sighs again and gives himself a mental pep talk. “My mom died when I was nine. My dad was a deputy at the time and a newly single dad. And during the summer he had no one to watch me, so I got signed up for this free music camp. I knew Scott before then, but that’s how we became best friends. We were both dumb kids learning to play instruments. The instructors basically gave up on trying to control us and set us loose on everything, so I got a broad education that summer. And I loved it.
“We kept playing together as we got older and in high school Scott’s girlfriend Allison joined us, but it still wasn’t really a band until Allison got Lydia to join and then Lydia got Jackson. So, it was the five of us. We mostly played covers and traded off singing duties, but I’d been writing original stuff for a while and so we did a couple battle of the bands. Frankly, when we went to college, I thought that was it. That it was over. We were all at different schools, but we’d still play when we were back in town for breaks and holidays, and then one day Allison said she wanted us to talk to some people at Argent.
“Like, I knew she was an Argent but her dad and mom and her weren’t really involved in the music industry so I never thought much of it. It all happened really quickly after that.” Stiles can feel his breath speeding up. He is not going to have a panic attack over this. He’s not. That would be way too fucking embarrassing. He clenches his hands and takes a deep breath. “It was really good for a while.”
His voice breaks. Fuck.
Peter walks around the counter and sits down on the stool beside him. He offers a hand, and Stiles grabs at it, surrounding Peter’s warm hand with both of his. This shouldn’t still bother him. It’s been years. He’s tougher than this. He’s dealt with worse things. Nobody died. It was just a band.
Peter says, “My year working with AMG was really good, until it wasn’t. And then it was very bad. They hurt someone close to me and faced no repercussions. I hate them for it.”
Stiles tries to smile at Peter, but he’s worried it looks more like a grimace. “They had a...they called her a therapist on staff, but she wasn’t licensed anywhere. I know because I’ve looked. She was supposed to be someone the band could talk to when we were stressed or having difficulties, but she worked for the label. Since she wasn’t actually a doctor, there was no confidentially, and she basically helped the label use our secrets and fights and neuroses against us. I told her I was having trouble focusing and keeping up with the busy routine. That I was exhausted and needed a break. Like we worked twenty hour days and then they would wake me up to work on the next record because we were always touring and working on a record and so I just wasn’t sleeping. I wasn’t eating. I lost like 20 pounds. I looked skeletal. And she suggested that I double-dose on my prescription ADHD meds, so that I could stay focused and alert. Good thing I talked to an actual doctor because if I would have followed her advice, that could have killed me.”
“Kate?”
Stiles whips his head to look at Peter in shock. “How?”
Peter laughs, but it’s a dark, ugly thing, frightening almost. It reminds him of rumors of how vicious and cutthroat Peter could be, even though he has never been that way with Stiles. This is his first glimpse at that Peter. “Of course, it was Kate Argent. She’s the one...This isn’t the first time she’s hurt people.”
“You signed an NDA?” Peter nods. “So did I, technically. So did all of my bandmates. Not that that stopped them from talking to the press. That’s what Kate did next. She started twisting what I told her to the band to make it seem like I wasn’t committed, like I was thinking of quitting or that I wanted us to break up. Christ, I mentioned maybe having two months off after the next tour and it turned into I was trying to sabotage the band’s success. They all fell in line, one by one. Each one of these people I thought were my friends turned against me. And, at the end of the day, I could almost forgive them of all of that, of being manipulated and believing someone in power over me if they hadn’t stolen my songs.”
“What?” Peter’s hand seems to involuntarily squeeze his own.
“So, part of my contract was that I retained ownership of all my music until it was recorded by the band and then after that it was owned by this company that all of us in the band had a stake in. When I left Belize I made sure I had all of my notebooks full of unrecorded songs. I still have them. But two months later The True releases its first song post-me and that’s my music, those are my lyrics, but I’m not listed in the credits and I sure as hell never gave them permission to record it. I have the original copy of that song. My guess is someone came in to my hotel room and took pictures of my notebooks either before or during the meeting where I got kicked out, because I had them after that.”
“I know a good lawyer.”
“Thanks, Peter.”
“I’m not just saying that. I’m fucking serious. I know a lawyer. I can call him right now.”
“I know you’re not joking. I just don’t know if I have the emotional or mental strength to deal with suing my former best friends.”
“You’re stronger than you realize.”
“My management at the time was the band’s management, and they were so tied up in AMG that they couldn’t be separated. They tried to act like I was the one who wanted out, that I wanted to make solo music or that I hated the band. It wasn’t anything like that. I just didn’t see the point of running ourselves ragged to eek out a few more dollars for a multi-billion dollar company. If taking two months off after tour to rest meant that we would become irrelevant, then we must not have been making good enough music to be remembered in the first place.”
Peter is looking at him in something like wonder, like Stiles is a unicorn that just appeared in his kitchen and started prancing around. And Stiles feels bashful all of a sudden under the scrutiny. He puts his head down, feeling as his cheeks flush red.
***
They are lounging on Peter’s giant sofa, watching Star Wars. “Why did you invite me here if you never invite anyone here? We could have worked on your album anywhere.” It’s been bugging Stiles. But he didn’t mean to just blurt it out like that. Maybe all the confessions from earlier has lowered his filter.
Peter glances at him, and then back at the screen. “I’d heard good things about you, but if it turned out you were a complete asshole and I couldn’t stand you then the house is big enough that we wouldn’t really have to interact except when we worked together.”
“So, what’s your analysis? Am I an asshole?”
“Oh most definitely.” Peter is smirking, and still not looking at him. Jerkface. “But you’re tolerable.”
“Damned with faint praise.” Stiles is smiling too. He can’t help it. It feels like his happiness is bubbling out of him. “You are also tolerable.”
“You’d be more tolerable, if you’d shut up so I can watch the movie.” Stiles stretches out his legs so that his toes bump against Peter’s thigh. God, he can’t believe how much he likes this asshole.
***
Stiles wakes up feeling all fucked up. Emotionally, if not physically.
He knows, he just knows, that he won’t be able to write anything today. That the entire day is going to be a complete wash. He doesn’t even want to get out of bed, but years of ingrained habit force him out of bed and through his morning routine.
He makes it down the stairs and to the couch, but can’t quite make it to the kitchen. He can hear Peter in there making himself something, can hear the sound of clattering and banging. The sounds continue on for a while as Stiles lays face down on the couch. He feels so heavy, like he could sink through the couch to the floor and then through the floor into the earth and then through the earth forever and ever.
“Stiles?” The voice is close. So close. He didn’t even hear Peter moving into the room. “You okay?”
Stiles shakes his head slowly on the couch. He’s not okay. But he is. These moods usually don’t last more than a day or two. He hasn’t had one in a while. It was a nightmare while he was touring. He spent the days like a zombie, and then he’d go on stage and do his best and then get yelled at for not doing his best, and then Kate would “console” him and give him tips for what to do.
His current therapist has an actual list of strategies for him to use that doesn’t involve him overdosing himself on Adderall or cocaine or taking non-prescription Xanax, which he knows will fuck with his ADHD meds.
Peter sits down near his head, turning on the TV and about a minute later Stiles hears the beginning of a familiar movie. He looks up to see Princess Mononoke playing. It’s been years since he watched this.
Stiles falls into an almost meditative state. He drifts in and out of the film, the dialogue he knows by heart enough to keep him both grounded and able to float. He’s not stuck in his head, but he’s not fully present either. After a little bit, he feels a hand running through his hair. It feels so good that Stiles angles himself closer, and he hears a soft chuckle.
He falls asleep.
And when he wakes up, Stiles feels...not better, but better equipped to deal with the day. More grounded. Less like a ship floating aimless in a stormy, turbulent ocean and more like a ship anchored in a mostly calm harbor. He tries in stutters and halts to explain the metaphor to Peter and feels like his words struggling to connect how he wants them to, but Peter just nods, his forehead wrinkled in thought, and says that he understands what Stiles means.
***
Stiles is sitting on the deck, strumming his guitar. He can hear the song in his head, but he can’t get it to come out quite right. He plucks randomly, frustrated, and sighs. His phone vibrates on the table next to him, and Stiles glances over, tempted to ignore it, but it’s his dad. Besides texting, they haven’t spoken since he got him. Both of them have been too busy.
“Hey, daddio.”
“Hi kid. How’s it going? Haven’t heard from you much.”
“It’s going good. Peter’s house is nice and we’ve been written a lot. He’s talked about going into the city and recording the new stuff with his band next month.”
“He’s being nice?”
Stiles snorts. “Yeah, dad, he’s fine.”
“Because I’ve heard stories.”
“Yeah, in Beacon Hills. I don’t even want to know what the stories in town are about me now.”
“So you’re both misunderstood? A couple of music outlaws?”
“A regular Bonnie and Clyde.”
He can hear his dad’s sigh. “You really like this guy?”
His dad has always been able to tell. Even when Stiles is trying to hide it from him. Probably especially when Stiles is trying to hide it. He has a type. He likes bossy, confident people. It’s why he was obsessed with Lydia forever. He probably would have been all over Jackson if he hadn’t been able to see through Jackson’s paper-thin shield of ego to all of his self-doubt. And he likes that Peter understands things about him and his life without having to explain everything.
It’s like he already has someone on his team. And he’s always been picked last before now.
“Yeah.” It’s quiet, barely a whisper.
“He’s older than you.”
“Eleven years.”
“And he treats you good?”
“I...I don’t think he likes me like that. But he’s been a good friend to me. He gave me free run of his house. And we work together well. He’s a good cook too. Like the best. Way better than me.”
“Just be careful, kid.”
“I will. I love you.”
“I love you too, kid.”
***
“I hate the thought of leaving here. I hate it, Peter. But I can’t ask to stay. Not in your sanctuary. I’d never want to intrude on your space. I’m just...I’m thankful you let me into your home for a little bit. It’s been so long since I had a home.”
***
“I’m not a good person. I’m not. You even being associated with me is probably bad for your career and your reputation. But...but, if you want to stay, even for a little while, then I would be honored to have you here.”
***
Stiles just doesn’t leave.
They keep working on Peter’s album and Stiles has started writing songs that he realizes that he wants to sing himself. He only needs new management and a label and million other things. But right now he’s content to mooch off of Peter’s generosity and fuck around in Peter’s studio, playing with sounds and ideas.
They follow pretty much the same routine, but it’s a little more relaxed. Joint writing session after lunch. Studio time after dinner. Movies or sitting on the deck at night. At some point, cuddling starts happening. He’s fairly positive Peter instigated it, but Peter denies it. And of course, they cook together. It’s still Stiles favorite time of the day.
Stiles is singing Arctic Monkeys and chopping an onion, when he feels Peter come up behind him and wrap his arms around Stiles’ waist, pressing him against the counter. “Did you need something?”
Peter shakes his head, the rough of his stubble prickling the skin of Stiles’ cheek and neck. Stiles puts the knife down and turns around in Peter’s arms, so that he can get a better look at him. He doesn’t mind the physical contact. Not at all. He just wishes he knew what it all meant. They cuddle and hug and tell each other secrets and Stiles is very publicly bi and Peter has been openly gay for his entire career. So are they best friends? Cuddle buddies?
Does Peter want him how Stiles wants him?
“Come stay with me while we record the album.” It isn’t said like a question, but Peter doesn’t look as confident as his words. His eyes are asking.
“In Queens?”
Peter nods. “The brownstone has a recording studio in the basement just like this place, and it has four bedrooms. It’s where we usually go to record.” And Stiles isn’t dumb. He can do the math--at least basic counting. Four bedrooms. Four people in the band.
“Where would I stay?” Peter’s hands tighten around his waits for a second, squeezing him gently, but his eyes don’t move from Stiles’ face.
“With me?”
“With you?”
“With me. In my bed. If you want.”
“I want.”
Peter leans in, and for a second Stiles thinks he’s finally going to get kissed, but instead Peter puts his forehead against Stiles, and they are so close. So close. He’s surrounded by Peter’s arms and tasting Peter’s breath. And fuck waiting on Peter, he wants to be kissed, so he leans his head up to meet Peter’s lips.
It’s not so much fireworks as sinking in to a warm bath after a long day. It’s muscles unclenching into relaxation. It’s peace after so much chaos. Kissing Peter is like coming home.