Six Feet Under | Sterek

eight;

It's not until weeks later that Stiles decides to get up.

He takes a shower, and this time he uses his own soap. He washes his hair, pulls out his razor and cleans up his face. He puts on some clothes and he goes downstairs, and he throws together some pasta because he's hungry. (He finds Derek's alcohol collection. It isn't even hidden. Stiles is determined to drink his way through it.)

He's so engrossed in his rendition of Taylor Swift, that he doesn't hear the footsteps, or the soft snigger at the doorway. It's not until he whirls around and hits Peter in the face with his wooden spoon.

"Stiles," Peter says slowly, wiping his face. "What the fuck?"

Stiles takes a long, long drink of whiskey. His face is burning. "Peter!" He croaks, refusing to look the werewolf in the eyes. "Hey! How, uh, how long you been standing there?"

"Long enough."

Stiles might just go die now. "Sorry," he says.

But Peter's eyes are twinkling, and he seems happy and relieved. (It makes Stiles feels guilty). "No harm done kid," he says, strolling into the kitchen and taking a beer out of the fridge. "What are you making?"

"Just some pasta." Stiles's face is still red, but he feels his heart calming down. Peter is a calming person. "You hungry?"

Peter nods, so Stiles divides the pasta into two bowls and they sit at the table. it's quiet, but not bad quiet. It's the kind of quiet that allows Stiles to breathe through the knot in his chest, the ball of hurt that's living in his throat that aches every time he thinks of going home. (This is your home, his brain whispers. It's this, or you have no home.)

Stiles can't think about that, because thinking like that means that he's in danger of thinking about Derek, and Derek's pretty gemstone eyes, but Derek doesn't like him so Stiles is in this goddamn pit of what the fuck is his life?

"Why don't you wanna see Scott, Stiles?" Peter asks very quietly and the fragile, paper-thin hold Stiles had on his good mood snaps.

He sets down his fork, pushes away the half-eaten bowl of pasta. He looks into Peter's blue, blue eyes and he thinks that maybe he should go back to bed, or run away, or get in his car and drive. Instead, he just sighs. Peter doesn't look remorseful. He just looks insistent.

"I was tired," he says, but this time he says it with meaning because out of everyone Peter has to understand. He has to, because nobody else does and Stiles is tired of being the only one. "You know?"

Peter just puts another forkful of pasta in his mouth and looks disappointed. "He was worried," he says after a while, and wow, what the fuck, Stiles hadn't signed up to the guilt train. "As vomit-inducing as it is, he's your brother. He cares for you." Peter shuddered. "He's concerned about the fact that you're currently not living with your father, rarely get out of bed, and get drunk the first chance you get." Peter gives the glass in front of Stiles a meaningful look, and Stiles scowls.

"Fuck off Peter," he mumbles and downs the rest of his whiskey.

Peter takes a harsh breath. His nostrils flare. Stiles feels no fear.

It's this, this fire that dominates Peter's ocean blue eyes that Stiles craves. He wants to burn himself, to play with those flames, to set fire to his whole world and watch it burn. The stone in Derek's eyes can crush him, but the fire in Peter's eyes could swallow everything and Stiles really, really, wants it to.

"Stupid kid," Peter mutters, and it doesn't sting like Stiles wants it to, like he needs it to.

So he gets up, and he hunts down the next bottle of alcohol Derek has stashed away. It's a simple bottle of white wine. Stiles unscrews it, takes a long drink, and lets it drown his emotions. He almost gags on it, (he's never been a fan of wine), but he drinks it because it's alcohol.

"I'm going back to bed," he mutters, because honestly, fuck Peter Hale. Fuck trying to feel alive. Fuck it all. He's not in a good mood anymore. Now he's hollow and angry and he just wants to go to sleep and pretend he doesn't exist for a while.

Peter grabs his wrist when Stiles reaches for the bowls though, and the fire is gone from his eyes. Now, they're chips of eyes, and his grip is tight, and Stiles thinks that Peter could rip him apart right now, rip through that human squish, and just tear him to pieces. (Stiles would welcome it at this point. He's so pathetic.)

"Do not make the mistake," Peter says lowly, quietly, "of thinking that I am content to sit here, in this house, and play babysitter to a depressed drunk who doesn't think of anyone else besides himself. Do not think for a second that I am pleased to be here, to smell your misery every day. Do not think that I condone this behaviour because I don't. Derek is the only reason that you're still going on the way you are, and you repay him by drinking his booze, eating his food, and taking up his space. Take a step back, Stiles, and consider your situation."

God, that really fucking hurts.

Stiles doesn't spare Peter a glance, and he gathers the dishes as soon as the werewolf lets go. He acts as if nothing happened, acts as if he hadn't been pushing for this the whole time, he's a self-destructive prick, but he finds it incredibly hard to care when he hates himself almost as much as he hates disappointing the people he loves.

So he gathers the dishes, and he puts the left over pasta in the fridge, and he cleans up, and then he goes upstairs and he lays down in bed, and he lets out a shaky breath.

Peter doesn't follow him up.

Stiles is gone by morning.