Skin Deep (Are the Secrets I Keep)

CHAPTER 14

They eventually pull back from each other, although neither of them moves very far. Peter's hand remains curled around Stiles' hip, and Stiles doesn't immediately snatch his skin back from where it's spilled over onto Peter's knees. He clears his throat, feeling a little embarrassed about his sudden burst of emotion – hell, it's been a series of outbursts for the past damn hour – but when he looks up, it's to find Peter watching him with something incredibly tender and vulnerable.

Stiles ducks his head. He has no idea how to handle this, and that makes him nervous. But it's... it's nice too. And it's easier with each passing second.

"Stiles?" Peter says softly, question and concern all at once.

"...People don't realize," Stiles replies haltingly.

Peter doesn't need him to spell things out to understand. He frowns again. He's been doing that quite a bit today. "It's common sense."

Stiles makes a wry, amused sound. "You'd be surprised." He shakes his head. "Well, mostly it's just my dad, so I can't really say people. And it doesn't matter anyway."

Or rather, it doesn't matter anymore.

He gives himself another shake, clasps a hand around Peter's, and tugs the man back into the lake with him, abruptly enough that the water splashes up to their chins. After a moment's debate, Stiles leave his skin on the bank. No one else is around, and if someone does stumble into this clearing, Peter will warn him long before they do.

"Here is okay," Stiles tells the werewolf, sliding Peter's hand over to his right hip. He tenses a little because there are still scars there, but they're very few in comparison so he's able to breathe through the initial spike of apprehension. "And you can hold on to my left shoulder like before."

It takes some manoeuvring before they're both more or less comfortable, and Stiles ends up wrapping an arm around Peter's waist as well.

"Tighter," He warns, and Peter tightens his grip, but Stiles can already tell it's not enough. He sighs. A practical demonstration would probably make his point better than mere words.

"Take a deep breath," Stiles instructs, and as soon as he hears the werewolf hit the peak of his lung expansion, he tightens his own grip on Peter and dives.

In human form, in a chemical-free body of water and without needing to tread water for a couple hours while two hundred pounds of deadweight hung on to him the way Derek did, Stiles – when he isn't trying – probably swims at the speed of a top Olympic sprint swimmer, and he'd take gold every time. Peter isn't expecting it, and as Stiles predicted, the werewolf's hands can't quite retain their grasp as their swift descent into the lake tears his fingers from Stiles' hip and shoulder. Fortunately, Stiles still has a firm grip on his passenger, and a twist of his body curls him more securely around Peter, one arm still firmly around the man's waist, the other coming up to brace the back of his neck.

They reach bottom in about eight seconds. Stiles banks sharply and skims along the floor of the lake, always keeping one sharp ear on the strong pump of Peter's heart and the flutter of his lungs. He does a few barrel rolls, grinning as he cuts them through the water because this is what freedom feels like.

He heads for the surface as soon as Peter's heartbeat increases and his lungs begin toeing the struggling-in-earnest line, breaching for air in the crisp tranquil chill of a January afternoon within seconds.

Peter gasps for breath, shaking droplets from his eyes and simultaneously blinking hard at Stiles with a sense of amazement that makes Stiles preen.