Live In Your Arms (Steter)

Chapter Two

Peter had grown used to the harsh winter weather of eastern Washington. He had grown used to the idea of miles and miles of grain that would cover the surrounding area in the summer. How the temperature would grow past the pleasant temperament of southern California. He'd grown used to this reality and future as easy as one develops a tolerance for midday traffic and long lines at the market.

Peter knew that he wouldn't grow used to the ache that filled his chest or how it ricochets off the hallow walls were his pack bonds should be. The very ache that had been almost bearable in the presence of his former pack while he was in California had now returned to it's increasing pressure as he settled back into the small cabin that he and Stiles shared.

The cabin had been owned by his grandparents on his mother's side. They had grown up in Spokane and were a part of the local pack. His grandparents until their deaths over two decades ago and his mother until she had moved to Beacon Hills to marry his father, the Hale pack patriarch. His grandparents had willed the cabin to him shortly before their deaths. The will and the fact that they had been part of the Anderson pack that had allowed Peter and Stiles to remain there on the outer edges of the territory without causing tensions between themselves and the local pack Alpha. Without it Peter was sure that the local pack would have turned them away or killed Peter outright. Not for killing the Hale pack Alpha – many have killed their packs alpha for justified and unjustified reasons, it was no other packs business why – but because he had abandoned his pack and made them vulnerable without an Alpha the following week afterwards. It painted him as unstable and a risk. Which Peter had felt when he had crossed into the Anderson's territory to ask to claim his grandparents' cabin. As he walked deeper into that very cabin, Peter wasn't sure if he still didn't feel both unstable and a risk.

"You're back," Stiles said. Peter found his soulmate sitting at the kitchen table, a book open in front of him, and turned to walk toward the refrigerator.

The last conversation they had, had not left Peter's mind, so much as it had simply faded to the background in the face of his more overwhelming emotions and events. He was still unsure how he could navigate the truth of his deception of leaving to go to Talia's funeral, however he had also become tightly coiled to the thought of not needing to justify his own actions.

It had become easier to think of Stiles as a vague and abstract soulmate that had caused direct problems he had to face in Beacon Hills. To see Stiles in the flesh brought back the ugly reminder of resentment, but also entitlement. Peter resented what Stiles made him do, he resented that he resented Stiles. He also felt entitled to the punishment that he had been putting Stiles though in response to his resentment. Peter felt entitled to feel all his ugly and dark emotions and act how he chooses. He gave up everything for the idea of Stiles, he felt as if he wanted to spend a few weeks morning he could.

"I am," Peter replied finally. He closed the refrigerator, beer in hand, and turned to face Stiles. He had decided between one movement and the next that he would not explain himself. That his nerves were too raw and his truth too big to give voice too. So instead, he simply stared at Stiles who stared back at him.

The mages' hand gipped the ink pen tightly in his hand before he dropped it to stretch out his fingers.

"How was Arizona?" Stiles finally asked. Peter noted how his tone was forced and how his smell curdled with a mix of sadness and anger.

"Hot," Peter said, "and dry. The usual."

The sharp laugh of disbelief jolted Peter out of his impassive blank stare for a moment before he settled back into the look. However, he watched as Stiles had given up on any pretense of calm at his words. The mage had begun to shake his head and push his chair back to stand. When Stiles rose to his full height, Peter could not help how he shifted his weight to be able to protect himself if needed, nor could Stiles help the flash of hurt that crossed his face.

"You're just going to lie," Stiles said, "Straight to my face? When I know you were at the funeral."

"What funeral?" Peter asked dispassionately.

"What—What--," Stiles said, "What funeral!? The one for your deranged sister Tali—"

"Don't," Peter said. He had pushed himself from the counter he had been leaning against and walked closer to Stiles. He knew his eyes were flashing blue in anger by the way that Stiles had taken a step back. When Peter was close enough to Stiles to notice the freckles of hazel in his eyes he spoke again, his voice low, but tone like steel. "You do not get to say her name and you do not get to call her names. She is dead. Be satisfied with that or learn to be."

"She tried to kill me Peter," Stiles said, although Peter noted how his tone was less hostile, "You can't blame me for being—"

"But I can," Peter said, his words cut Stiles off, "But I can Stiles."

Breakfast the next day was tense and the only sounds that filled the room were the scrapping of utensils against plates. Stiles had the same book from yesterday afternoon sitting open in front of him and had been silently writing notes in his journal every few bites. After their brief confrontation yesterday, that had ended with Peter being more truthful than planned, Stiles had kept his nose in his book and stayed silent. Which is why Peter was the one to break the silence when he watched Stiles head for the door after putting away his dishes.

"Where are you going?" Stiles paused just before the front door at Peter's words and then slowly turned to look at him. The younger man's eyes were carefully blank as was his blasé gaze.

"I've been accepted to apprentice under the Anderson pack emissary," Stiles said, "Which starts today."

"You can't—" Peter started only to be cut off by Stiles.

"Actually," Stiles said, "I'm done being isolated and staying inside with someone who obviously does not like me. So yes, I will." Stiles turned back to the door, but paused again when he opened it, "Besides Peter, you'll be happy to know that I'm looking into a way to rid you of me and this bond once and for all."

With those words Stiles left and closed the door behind him, leaving Peter alone in the cabin and wondering why his chest seemed to ache even stronger at the mages' words.

Stiles didn't cry even when he passed the Spokane city limits sign. The conversation from last night and this morning had been the tipping point in what had amounted to weeks' worth of pain and isolation. The realization that Peter could simply fly back on a whim and leave him stranded hit him two days after his soulmate had left. However, Stiles had thought he was simply being irrational, with the realization that Peter blamed him for former Hale Alpha's death made the irrational rational. Still, Stiles thought that he could give Peter a chance to come clean; both while the older wolf was in California and again when he had returned. Both times, however, Peter had chosen to sweep his lies under the rug. It caused both dread and anger to build in Stiles' stomach.

But mostly it had made him want to scream. Nevertheless, it was the anger and dread that had caused him to proclaim his mission to break their soulbond. The truth was that Stiles simply was going to apprentice under the Anderson pack to rebuild connections and test his time theory. He had a year before he died, and he had decided to use it wisely, because he had felt that the potential of what the bond could be – could have been – made it worth it. But Stiles refused to be blamed for someone's death again, especially by someone who should love him.

It wasn't till Stiles had driven up to the Anderson pack's gate that Stiles let out a slightly hysterical laugh. The full irony of him attempting to break his soulbond after everything that had happened finally fully hit him. The laughter is what finally drew the attention of a nearby beta.

"Are you okay?" The beta nervously looked around the car before setting his gaze back on Stiles as he approached.

"I think I made a mistake," Stiles said, his laughter slowly died out.

And then he began to cry.