( before that night, it might have been possible to convince Peter that simply holding on to each other might have saved them from the worst of it. how many times did Stiles bring him back from the ferocious edge of the virus without either of them noticing? probably more times than he could count, and yet all those successes seemed to fade to ash with the memory of the time it failed.
not because that touch had really failed, it had worked each and every time; it was just that Peter had kept pulling away from it. it seemed that pulling away was just about what he was best at.
the laugh he coughs out at the rebuke is alarmingly out of place, in the moment, yet it's not completely bitter and miserable. it's very much like Stiles, isn't it, to just ignore the offering like it didn't need to be made in the first place? it did, and it does, and the laugh fades about a second after it escapes.
the hint of metal at his skin isn't what makes him open his eyes again, it's the touch at his jaw. his eyes are red and the black of his pupils is so blown wide that it's hard to tell they have any color at all, yet no matter how much the touch stings, he makes no move to reject it. it's gentle, tender; an antithesis to the moment in their dorm, which is exactly why he doesn't deserve it.
the kiss keeps him from breathing out a sob — even in a few moments of clarity, it's too much to remember. it's still there, disguised between the press of lips and the shared breath. Stiles will know, more than likely, but nobody else will. the uncanny pressure of sedative invading his bloodstream gets a slight hitch of his breath, but he doesn't resist it. instead, in the last few seconds he has, Peter even breaks the rules he's barely started to set about protecting Stiles from himself.
his free hand lands over the heartbeat that always seems to calm him, and that's his last memory before the drugs force him back into darkness. the steady pound of a heartbeat that feels a little too much like home. )
no subject
not because that touch had really failed, it had worked each and every time; it was just that Peter had kept pulling away from it. it seemed that pulling away was just about what he was best at.
the laugh he coughs out at the rebuke is alarmingly out of place, in the moment, yet it's not completely bitter and miserable. it's very much like Stiles, isn't it, to just ignore the offering like it didn't need to be made in the first place? it did, and it does, and the laugh fades about a second after it escapes.
the hint of metal at his skin isn't what makes him open his eyes again, it's the touch at his jaw. his eyes are red and the black of his pupils is so blown wide that it's hard to tell they have any color at all, yet no matter how much the touch stings, he makes no move to reject it. it's gentle, tender; an antithesis to the moment in their dorm, which is exactly why he doesn't deserve it.
the kiss keeps him from breathing out a sob — even in a few moments of clarity, it's too much to remember. it's still there, disguised between the press of lips and the shared breath. Stiles will know, more than likely, but nobody else will. the uncanny pressure of sedative invading his bloodstream gets a slight hitch of his breath, but he doesn't resist it. instead, in the last few seconds he has, Peter even breaks the rules he's barely started to set about protecting Stiles from himself.
his free hand lands over the heartbeat that always seems to calm him, and that's his last memory before the drugs force him back into darkness. the steady pound of a heartbeat that feels a little too much like home. )