Chapter Text
In retrospect, the rings had been a mistake. Peter looked at the small box in his hand, then back at Stiles’ shop. He raised the box, like he might throw it into the street in a fit of temper, but then stilled himself and took a deep breath.
Stiles had apologized. He could too.
He turned around and walked back into the shop.
Stiles looked up, anger still tinting his features. “What now?” he demanded.
Peter put the ring box on the counter. “Here,” he said.
“Why?” Stiles asked.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t sell them to some asshole who just doesn’t like their child’s choices. I have plenty of money.”
Stiles blinked at him. “Okay,” he said, slowly. “What are you going to do then?”
“Giving them to you,” Peter responded.
“And what am I going to do with cursed rings?”
“Give them to Derek if he ever tries to get married again?” Peter suggested. “Remove the curse and ask me to sell them for you? It’s your choice.”
Stiles took a deep breath. “But why?” It almost sounded like he was pleaded. For what, Peter wasn’t sure.
“Because I care about you more than them,” Peter said. “Because if something I’m going to do is going to make you mad I’d rather not do it.” He considered. “Within reason, of course.”
“Of course,” Stiles agreed, a small smile on his face.
“Because I–” Peter gulped.
Stiles raised his eyebrows, expectant. “You…?”
Peter swallowed. “I–” he clenched his fists. “I love you.”
Stiles’ eyes widened and whatever it was he had been working on suddenly burst into flames.
“Fuck!” he exclaimed, hands moving rapidly over the object. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” The flames went out and Stiles laughed, patting a few stray sparks off his sleeve. He looked up at Peter again, a beautiful expression crossing his face.
“I know,” he replied.
Peter shook his head but couldn’t even bring himself to pretend to be angry, a smile already splitting across his face. They stared at each other in wide eyed wonder until the bell over the door rang and an annoyed woman bustled in. “Are you done with my curse yet?” she snapped.
…
Love was not minding (too much) when Peter’s expensive and carefully chosen furnishings were replaced with Stiles’ horrible thrift store finds (once they had been thoroughly cleaned to remove any lingering smells). When his enormous commissioned abstract painting was replaced with Stiles’ framed posters, when mis-mateched china infiltrated his matched dishware, and Star Wars sheets showed up among Peter’s expensive Egyption cotton.
Because Stiles’ things meant that Stiles was there, in Peter’s home, in his bed, kissing him even when he was dazed and grumpy before he had his coffee, curling up beside him when he’d had a bad day, tinkering for hours in the workshop Peter’d had built for him, even though the addition ruined the neat lines of the house.
Because Peter had found something he loved more than his perfect house with its perfect furnishings.
Because it meant he wasn’t alone in it any more.
…
But. Sometimes Peter had to put his foot down. Stiles carefully placed the vase on the side table and stepped back, with a small smile.
“No,” Peter said.
Stiles looked at him, surprised. “I thought you’d like it. It’s all old and silver and one of those things fancy people have in their houses. You like things like that.”
Peter gave him a skeptical look. “First of all, it’s a fake.”
Stiles frowned at the vase. “You can tell that from here?” He squinted at it.
“The patina is all wrong,” Peter informed him.
“Second of all?” Stiles prompted.
“It’s the wrong style entirely. It clashes with my silver.” He gestured to his silver and china cupboard, ignoring the fact that Stiles had put a hand-painted plate depicting young people being molested by octopuses front and center. Where had he even gotten that thing?
Stiles looked at the vase, then at the cupboard several times, frowning. “I guess I’m going to have to take your word for it,” he said, with a shrug.
“Why do you even like it?” Peter demanded. “It’s not garish or made of plastic.”
Stiles grinned at him mischievously and turned to a vase Peter had just filled with a carefully chosen arrangement of orchids, forsythia, and ferns.
“No,” he said, slowly, as Stiles carelessly wrapped his hands around the stems and pulled the arrangement out of the vase it was in, dripping water as he moved the plants to the vase he had just brought in.
Stiles dropped the flowers in the vase and immediately they began to change color, black creeping up from the stems and sweeping over the petals and leaves until every inch of plant matter was completely black, with a very thin silver edging.
“No,” Peter said, decidedly. “Nope. No way. Veto.”
Stiles pouted at him. “But it’s so funny!” he claimed, turning back to the arrangement and smiling. “Look at it.”
Peter looked at the ruin of his perfect flower arrangement. “It’s terrible. It’s the antithesis of everything good. Nothing that belongs in a goth club is allowed in my house. This is literally the worst thing that you’ve ever brought in.”
They continued arguing about it for a few minutes, until they were interrupted by the door opening and Cora wandering in. “What are you two arguing about now?” she asked, and then she spotted the vase. “Woah, those flowers are really rad.”
Peter and Stiles looked at each other and broke into laughter.