#whreflections

[[follow up to a drabble inspired by the first Thirsty Thursday pic set :D ]]

On November 2nd, Stiles posts a picture of himself by a lake in Estes Park.  He sits on a rock he clearly had to wade to, with boots and jeans back on.  His plaid shirt is half open under his coat, nothing under the shirt; his hair’s blown by the wind.  He looks every inch the approximation of a modern cowboy as told by a romance novel, and sure, it’s not real—and Peter wants to see the real, he truly does.  He’ll wait until Stiles posts a story that will almost certainly show him nearly falling in the lake, and he’ll love that—but he’s a man, too.  He’s not immune to tricks of lighting and setting and strategic undressing.  He’s not immune to beautiful boys—this one least of all. 

He looks in the back of the limo on the way to his meeting, looks again that night after dinner by himself in his hotel room, and thinks about touching his dick.  He does in the shower, then looks again after bed—and there are the outtakes, Stiles with the same red haired girl Peter’s seen him with sometimes before.  His best friend, he’d said.  They’re laughing at the edge of the water, Stiles hopping and high pitched cursing at the cold, and Peter finds himself laughing in the dark with them.

There’s something to be said for that, probably—an essay on social media, how it connects the world, and doesn’t change the fact that you can still be one man in a glorified box with no one to hear you. 

Maybe it’s the reminder of his own loneliness that makes him do the stupid thing that he’s avoided for months; maybe it’s Colorado.  His memories of being there with Derek are so warm, so tightly kept. 

Before he falls asleep, Peter snatches the phone back off his nightstand, and opens Instagram one more time. 

Stiles’ DM’s are open. 

Peter doesn’t let himself think; just types. 

While you’re there, you have to see the Stanley.  It’s a tourist trap that’s worth it, even with all the mountains to see.  You’ll regret it if you don’t.

He locks his phone, and expects nothing, intends to wake up to nothing—but it chimes before it even hits his chest.

Oh don’t worry; I want to.  It’s a little out of the price range right now, though, and I want to stay there, get the real experience, see a ghost 👻 – youcantpronounceitanyway

The very first thought Peter has isn’t one he can voice.  This isn’t a sugarbaby dating site; this is Instagram, and for all that he’s watched Stiles like a goddamn hawk for months, to the boy he’s nothing but a stranger, an older man creeping on him like so many others do.  Peter’s read the comments. 

Never saw a ghost there, but the views and the history were worth it anyway.  The place does have a presence.  I’m sure that’s a disappointment.  -hale7

All that tells me is that you’re a quitter, or you have terrible energy, and I gotta say you don’t look like a guy with terrible energy 😉  I mean, not from that thumbnail anyway.  Full assessment pending  – youcantpronounceitanyway

I may not use Instagram often, but I do have a few pictures up. -hale7

Yeah, and they’re locked- which I mean, totally cool, you don’t have to add me; I appreciate the heads up – youcantpronounceitanyway

Shit.  It sounds like backing up—of course it does, because while he’d been focused on that window, Stiles had requested to follow him, and he hadn’t even noticed.  He’s not ancient; most of the time he’s pretty good with technology.  It might be worth it to tell him he was distracted, might be better to just let it go. 

Peter allows him, and goes back. 

I hadn’t noticed; getting ready for bed.  You can give me your assessment in the morning. -hale7

He has to leave it there; he has to.  If he doesn’t, this might turn into a worse idea than he anticipated.  Peter puts his phone on vibrate, and goes to sleep. 

===

He checks Instagram before he’s even properly awake.  Apparently, Stiles assessment is nothing but fevered emojis.  It dates him; it’s endearing.  And yes, Peter can’t help but preen a little—they mostly weren’t even his best pictures, just one in a suit, one by the pool, and handful with family.  The most recent shows him with Derek and Chris’ daughter held against his chest, the day she was born. 

He can’t look at that one just now; if he does, he’ll want to go home, and he’s in Boston another two weeks at least. 

I’ll take that as a passing grade. -hale7

Again, he doesn’t expect an answer—it’s nearly 4 AM in Colorado, but he’s barely out of bed and taming his hair when the phone chimes again. 

Your energy passes with flying colors and bonus points.  Such great energy.  14/10.  If we were in the same place, I’d bet money I don’t have that my energy and your energy would be enough to summon like, at least five ghosts. – youcantpronounceitanyway

Peter’s own laughter shocks him, rough with sleep, jarring in the quiet.

I don’t think that’s how most people define good energy. -hale7

Yeah, well, non-ghost energy is boring, and you are not that, if I may say—which I think I can, cause you messaged me first. – youcantpronounceitanyway

It’s there, at his acknowledgement, that Peter stops.  He’s in front of the hotel mirror, shirtless, unshaven, his hair half done and his brush still by his hand.  He’s too distracted to finish it properly or start anything else, going about getting ready with 75% of his mind firmly on his phone, listening and listening.  Is he really doing this?  Is he flirting with the kid he’s watched too long and too intently to not feel a bit like a predator, even if Stiles is 20?

When he closes his eyes to breathe, it’s not the romance novel cowboy staring down the sunset he sees, but the boy in the garden, shaking his hand and showing his spider bite off to the phone so close the pinpricks on his skin had blurred.  Peter had wanted to kiss it, to hold his hand and take the sting. 

Stupid or not, this isn’t some run of the mill influencer crush; it isn’t.  He’s seen a hundred beautiful boys; none of them are anything like this one. 

Peter leaves the brush, and swipes up his phone. 

Compliment me as much as you like; it’ll get you everywhere- just know I intend to return the favor. -hale7

It was so much fun thinking up ideas for @whreflections and i definitely had fun writing this!

*****

the first time.

When someone dies, you learn to hate your memory. Stiles remembers his mom’s order from the diner across town, how she always wanted half tea and half lemonade with heavy ice at any place that could swing it. But, when he closes his eyes, he can’t see what color her eyes were when the sunlight hit them, if it was her bottom teeth that were crooked or just a couple on the top, if her nose tilted upward at the end or if Stiles made the vision of it up so he could feel like he had a piece of her in himself. Was the small scar where she hit her head as a child threading through her left or right eyebrow?

He doesn’t remember the last time she smiled before the dirt separated them or what she liked to watch on television before they could only choose from the handful of hospital channels that didn’t result in static, but he knows she preferred sneakers to sandals and she thought the way you spoke about yourself was important. She liked trees and bright-colored bugs but Stiles doesn’t know if she knew she was going to die. He likes to think she didn’t, that she was pleasantly surprised when the pain made way for a field of wildflowers, a hospital gown’s chrysalis shed for the wings of the baby pink sundress she always wore on date night. He can’t remember if she believed in heaven, but he hopes she is there anyway.