Characters: Chris Argent/Peter Hale.
Word Count: 1 593
Summary: For this prompt at the Spice Up Your Life Teen Wolf Ficathon: au in which they're hopelessly in love, teenagers and reckless... until gerard finds out, threatens peter's life, and chris decides to choose a side
Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of MTV’s Teen Wolf nor do I make that claim. Original creations of this story, including, but not limited to, characters, settings, and plot, are copyright to me.
Author's Note: This is actually probably rrrowr's fault for being a TERRIBLE ENABLER WHOM I HATE.
The open sign of one of the late night convenience stores in Beacon Hills is obnoxious, blinking blue, blue, blue, blue, streak of red, flash flash, repeat. It reminds Chris of lights on police cars flashing on the side of the road in the night, which reminds him of his father effortlessly smooth talking himself out of any situation, shooting a wink in Chris’s direction, which reminds him of his father’s hands wrapping around his own small ones, straightening out his aim, and Chris pulls the trigger on his gun and hits the target dead center, and his father smiles at him, one of the only times Chris can remember that happening, a lifetime ago.
The passenger side door of his father’s truck slams shut, snapping Chris out of his reverie, and he looks over to see Peter grinning lazily at him, holding out a beer bottle. He’s all long legs wrapped in skin tight jeans stretched under the dashboard, carefully styled dark hair, leather jacket, and fire flickering in his bright blue eyes, and Chris loves him.
(“You’re fucked up,” Chris tells Peter, and watches as his face closes off, his jaw tightens, his eyes flicker toward the ground before meeting Chris’s in a glare.
“Fuck you,” Peter tells him through gritted teeth, and that’s the last time Chris sees him until after.)
“I can’t drink that,” Chris says, twisting the key in the ignition. “I’m driving.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “What a good little boy,” he coos, sliding over on the bench seat and poking his fingers at the radio. He leaves it on a rock station, twists the volume dial down, and by the time they’re on a straight stretch of road out of town, he’s got his feet curled up under him, torso pressed up against Chris’s side, and is nosing at the skin behind Chris’s ear, breathing warm air over it and kissing down the side of his neck and back up again, driving Chris crazy.
“Stop it,” Chris says. “I’m going to crash.”
“No, you’re not,” Peter says, and bites his earlobe.
Chris somehow makes it out to their spot in the woods without driving off the road, throws the truck into park and shoves Peter down on the seat, one knee in between Peter’s thighs, meets him halfway in a bruising kiss. He’s holding down Peter’s arms and when Peter realizes, he growls and pushes Chris away with minimal effort, causing Chris to bang his head against the window. He crawls into his lap and bites the side of Chris’s neck, sucks at his skin desperately.
“Don’t leave a mark,” Chris says, and, catching a glimpse of unnatural blue glow from Peter’s eyes when he pulls away a bit, “Don’t wolf out on me.”
“M’not going to,” Peter says, and grinds himself against Chris, and then Chris isn’t thinking about anything to do with werewolves except for getting as much as he can of this werewolf right now. He rucks Peter’s shirt up, pressing his hands to the warm skin underneath, and Peter shrugs off his jacket, pulls away to yank off his shirt, and tosses them both to the other side of the truck. “Want you to fuck me,” he tells Chris, and presses two foil packets into Chris’s hand. “Right here, in your dad’s truck.”
(“Funny, about your daughter,” Peter says to Chris in a spare moment while the kids are arguing about something unrelated.
Chris resists looking at him. “What’s funny?”
“Oh, just that she’s so much like her father.”)
Chris’s throat goes dry and his eyes widen. “You sure?” he asks, disbelieving, and instead of answering, Peter smirks and undoes his fly, shoves his jeans and underwear off, and grinds his ass insistently against Chris’s dick, and Chris is not going to argue with that.
Ultimately, it’s not really so much Chris fucking Peter as it is watching Peter fuck himself on Chris’s dick, all he can do to keep his mind semi-coherent by holding a death grip on the steering wheel and reaching for Peter’s cock to jerk him off, admiring the view of the white expanse of Peter’s chest leading up to where he’s got his head thrown back, mouth hanging open enough to reveal the tips of a full set of werewolf teeth, eyes going blue when he comes with a growl.
After, when they’ve mostly cleaned up, condom shamelessly thrown out to be buried under some leaves on the forest floor along with some napkins they found in the glovebox to clean up with, Chris sadly notes the floor of the truck where Peter’s beer spilled that he’s going to have to wash before he returns the truck, and Peter, for some reason having chosen to put his pants and jacket back on, but not his shirt, sits at the edge of the bench seat, door open so that he can knock ash off the end of his cigarette outside.
Chris cracks open the top of the other beer and thinks about the first time he met Peter. It was in the hallway at school, Chris staring at his brand new schedule, and Peter had walked up to him, smooth as hell, and asked if he needed help finding his next class. Chris had said yes, even though the honest answer was no.
Later, Kate had pulled him aside and asked if he knew he was associating with a Hale. The answer to that was no, too, but Chris played it off as trying to get to know the other side.
(Chris sometimes wonders if he didn’t give Kate the idea of “befriending” Derek Hale in the first place.
He doesn’t have to worry about whether he turned her into a pyromaniac. He knows that one is his fault.)
“Peter,” Chris says.
Peter looks up from where he’s been staring out the door. “Yeah?”
“Why did you talk to me? That first time.”
Peter raises an eyebrow and takes a drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke toward Chris. “Looked in a mirror lately?”
Chris shakes his head. “That can’t be why.”
“Sure it can,” Peter says, but he sighs. “You’re an Argent. Wanted to... check you out.” He smirks.
Chris isn’t sure how he feels about that. He drinks the rest of his beer in one go and tosses the empty out the door before slamming it shut. “Getting late,” he says. “Ready to go?”
Peter shrugs and flicks the butt of his cigarette onto the ground, where it smoulders for a moment and then goes out.
The next morning, Chris wakes up to the sounds of his father yelling and his sister matching him word for word. He groans and shoves his pillow over his face. It doesn’t help, though--he’s awake now, so he may as well just get up.
He’s barely got his bedroom door open before Gerard turns on him.
“And you! What have we discussed about underage drinking, much less drinking and driving in general?”
Fuck, Chris thinks.
“You’re going to clean that truck from top to bottom, and it is going to be spotless,” Gerard continues. “And if I ever catch you with alcohol again, even with a shadow of doubt that you had it, you will never even get to touch the truck again.”
Chris nods sedately, knowing the futility of arguing with his father. He’s walking away, heading toward the bathroom, thinking, At least he doesn’t know about--
“Oh, and Chris?”
“If I ever hear about you even breathing the same air as Peter Hale again, I’m going to string him up from a tree until he doesn’t need to breathe anymore.” Gerard stares at Chris, eyes hard. “Understood?”
Chris swallows. “Understood.”
“Come, Kate,” Gerard commands. “We’re going to continue the discussion about your werewolf friend in my office.”
(“Are you going to let Derek continue to believe that the fire was his fault?” Chris asks.
"Of course I am," Peter says. "I can hardly tell him that I had you send her.")
Chris has been ignoring Peter for barely two weeks when Peter corners him in a secluded spot of the school and fixes him with a beseeching look.
“Where have you been?” he asks.
Peter laughs. “You’re going to let that asshole keep us apart? Come on, Chris. You mean more to me than--”
He cuts himself off. It’s the closest he ever comes to telling Chris he loves him.
“We can’t,” Chris says in the silence that follows.
Peter growls softly, presses Chris into the wall and kisses him. “We can.”
(Peter’s a persuasive little fuck. Chris means that in the most literal sense.)
It probably would have been better, less emotionally traumatic for everyone involved, for Chris to have stuck to what his father told him. It would have been better, in the long run, if he hadn’t been available for Peter to whisper in his ear, if he hadn’t been able to pass along the persuasion to his sister, if he hadn’t had to come to his senses and finally cut ties with Peter not a day before the Hale house, with its gorgeous architecture and smooth hardwood floors, turns to the flames that Chris had always seen in Peter’s eyes, burns down around a family.
(“Do you have regrets?” Peter asks, the sheets of the bed Chris shared with his wife wrapped around his waist, a cigarette balanced between his fingers.
Chris takes the cigarette from Peter and breathes it in. He blows smoke toward Peter and doesn’t answer.)