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“We have a house,” Stiles says.
“Really? I wasn’t aware.”
Stiles sticks his tongue out and blows a raspberry. He trots alongside Peter, huffing at the blatant show-off in carrying three boxes. “Like, a house,” Stiles emphasizes. They cross through the doorway of said house. He spins in a circle on the dusty hardwood floors. “Look at it! Millennials owning a house! And, like, a nice house.”
Peter sets the boxes on the cloth-covered table in the middle of the front-facing room. It creaks under the weight of their packed belongings.
“Careful,” Stiles says, “that’s—”
“‘Not sturdy’,” Peter cuts in. He brushes past Stiles, saying, “It will hold the weight.”
Stiles trails after him back outside to the jeep. “It’s nice that—”
“‘They left us some furniture’,” Peter cuts in again, “‘even if it’s probably haunted’—it isn't, by the way.” He picks up two more boxes and raises his eyebrows at Stiles’ pout. “What were you saying yesterday? Something about me not listening to you?”
Stiles takes one of the boxes from Peter. He uses magic to float it inside and onto the floor, freeing his arms to playfully smack Peter. “That isn’t listening. You’re just repeating what I say. Like a parrot. No, a parrot would at least have a funny voice. I should have married a parrot.”
The table creaks ominously after Peter sets down a box on top of the last one. Before Stiles can protest about the table, Peter says, “I can do a funny voice.”
“Your voice is already funny," Stiles says. He yelps, flailing, as Peter sweeps him off his feet in retaliation. “Peter!”
“What?” Peter asks, walking onto the porch and down the steps. “It’s tradition to princess-carry over the threshold.”
Stiles closes his eyes at the glaring sun and grumbles, “You’re supposed to carry into the house, not out. And it’s supposed to be the first time you enter.”
“Whoops,” Peter says innocently. Stiles turns his face into Peter’s chest and bites his collar bone. “Did you pack a muzzle?”
Stiles bites Peter again. He cracks open his eyes to squint at Peter in a very threatening glare. “You’re mean.”
Stiles flails again as Peter sets him down on the porch railing in response. Stiles panic-scrambles to cling back onto his smirking husband.
“Peter!”
“The railing isn’t going to collapse,” Peter says. He stabilizes the precarious perch with firm hands on Stiles' hips, gentle in spite of his exasperated banter.
The wood doesn’t creak under his full weight but Stiles doesn’t loosen up his clinging. He mutters, “There better be some type of collapsing from railing on tonight’s menu.”
The stress lines from moving to a new place disappear as Peter laughs. Stiles grins proudly for drawing out that delighted sound. The day's tension slowly bleeds out of his muscles. Restlessness buzzes in his blood but an urgent swell of greediness overwhelms him. He wants to savor everything about this moment, take in every little detail, hold on to this soon-to-be memory like a well-loved picture tucked into his wallet.
Peter had whined about needing a haircut but Stiles thinks he looks good like this, right here, right now. Wisps of Peter's hair curl from sweat, all the careful grooming from this morning gone. The afternoon sunshine highlights a few streaks of light brown in the dark mess.
Stiles likes it, likes the idea of spending whole summers here where Peter’s hair lightens from spending time outside.
“Maybe,” Peter says, “if you’re a good boy who helps unpack, I’ll think about rewarding you.”
Stiles splutters, his tender mood disappearing. “I’ve been helping!”
Peter pins Stiles with a knowing look. “Help unpack without magic.”
Stiles lets go of Peter’s shoulders to petulantly cross his arms. “You’re using werewolf strength.”
“Because I’m clever in conserving energy.”
“Mean.” At Peter’s unimpressed stare, Stiles says, “It’s our house, it needs to get used to my magic!”
“Darling, why are you so obsessed with the house?”
“Because it’s—it’s our house. Ours. We’re going to be living here.”
“You are aware that we have lived in houses before, right?"
Stiles bares his teeth at the snark. The jump in Peter’s eyebrows stirs a small does of guilt-embarrassment inside Stiles' chest. He flicks his gaze away, unintentionally landing on the bumper stickers overlapping each other on the jeep, tokens of all the places they’ve been. “We’ve stayed at places,” Stiles tries explaining again. “But this is like—we bought it. I mean, it’s under faked names and technically—”
“I know all the details,” Peter says, keeping to the theme of cutting Stiles off. “I get it.”
Stiles looks away from the Nevada sticker to search Peter’s face. He brings his hands back to Peter's chest, curling fists into the thin shirt. He asks, “Do you get it?”
Peter’s hand glides down Stiles’ left hip, passing over the denim shorts and onto his sweaty bare skin. He dips under Stiles’ thigh, skimming down in a light tickle. Stiles snaps his jaw shut, holding back the hitch in his breath at Peter’s thumb pressing over the inked triskelion.
Peter shuffles his feet closer, his stomach pressing into Stiles' knees as he leans in to press their foreheads together. He rubs his thumb over the triskelion tattoo in reassuring strokes. “I was thinking we should make a trip to the plant nursery tomorrow. Get an early start on our garden.”
A small smile grows on Stiles' face. “Yeah?”
Peter smiles back. “Yes, sweetheart.”
“This is going to be a good home.”
“It already is,” Peter says, shifting so each word brushes their lips together.
Stiles indulges in a sweet, slow kiss. The words don't need to be said to be understood; it's a constant truth in everything they do.
You are my home.