[ hugging Peter is like remembering how to breathe.
his hands grip on to Peter's shirt, his head leans against his; it would be all too easy, to simply stay like this, let the seconds turn into minutes into hours. he holds on and breathes; in, out. steadying his heartbeat — it would be impossible for him not to know the effect it has on Peter, now, after all the weeks they've spent together, when all that ever seemed to make Peter capable of falling asleep was the heartbeat next to him.
still — the moment can't last forever, and reality tugs at him all too soon, reminding him of all that's at stake here. Peter pulls away, and Stiles doesn't resist; instead, he looks at Peter's arm, the pale skin, the veins that are easily visible. it... won't be hard, this time.
it shouldn't be.
slowly, he reaches to his pocket, pulls out another syringe, identical to the one he let shatter on the ground. the metal tip looks oddly clinical, out of place here in the city, even as he places it against Peter's arm, the cold needle meeting cold skin.
all that the apology gains from him is a shake of his head. ] Shut up, [ he mutters, because just like Peter can't stop feeling guilty about this, he can't find any ounce of himself to put any of the blame on Peter, either. he doesn't need apologies — all he needs is for Peter to be safe. back with him, and safe.
his right hand still holding the syringe, he reaches out with his left, cups Peter's face, runs his thumb along his jawline, like tracing a memory. without saying anything more, he leans in and presses a kiss to his lips — a kiss that is supposed to be brief, a reassurance, but this, too, is easy to get lost in; so the kiss lingers... he lingers.
just like the taste of blood in his mouth as he pulls away and plunges the syringe into Peter's arm, emptying the sedative into his vein. ]
no subject
his hands grip on to Peter's shirt, his head leans against his; it would be all too easy, to simply stay like this, let the seconds turn into minutes into hours. he holds on and breathes; in, out. steadying his heartbeat — it would be impossible for him not to know the effect it has on Peter, now, after all the weeks they've spent together, when all that ever seemed to make Peter capable of falling asleep was the heartbeat next to him.
still — the moment can't last forever, and reality tugs at him all too soon, reminding him of all that's at stake here. Peter pulls away, and Stiles doesn't resist; instead, he looks at Peter's arm, the pale skin, the veins that are easily visible. it... won't be hard, this time.
it shouldn't be.
slowly, he reaches to his pocket, pulls out another syringe, identical to the one he let shatter on the ground. the metal tip looks oddly clinical, out of place here in the city, even as he places it against Peter's arm, the cold needle meeting cold skin.
all that the apology gains from him is a shake of his head. ] Shut up, [ he mutters, because just like Peter can't stop feeling guilty about this, he can't find any ounce of himself to put any of the blame on Peter, either. he doesn't need apologies — all he needs is for Peter to be safe. back with him, and safe.
his right hand still holding the syringe, he reaches out with his left, cups Peter's face, runs his thumb along his jawline, like tracing a memory. without saying anything more, he leans in and presses a kiss to his lips — a kiss that is supposed to be brief, a reassurance, but this, too, is easy to get lost in; so the kiss lingers... he lingers.
just like the taste of blood in his mouth as he pulls away and plunges the syringe into Peter's arm, emptying the sedative into his vein. ]