8. sunbathing please?
I decided to go with Steter for this one! up on ao3 here.
The beach is packed with people of all varieties; families with young children screaming and bawling, younger couples soaking up the sun, lone men obviously there just to be creeps. The air reeks of sunscreen and wet clothing, so much so that it almost blocks out the pleasant scent of the lake.
Peter can think of about a dozen different places that he’d rather be off the top of his head, but it was Stiles’ turn to pick where they went for their weekly Saturday date, and as much as Peter likes upsetting traditions, there are some things that he simply can’t be bothered to go against.
Besides, he does have to admit that being able to simply lie in the warm sun and stare at Stiles’ shirtless torso for a few hours isn’t actually that horrible.
“Can you even tan?” Stiles asks. He hasn’t gone in the water yet, but his shorts, hideously patterned with an array of fluorescent abstract shapes, are resting low on his hips, just above his ass. There’s a book open in front of him, and grains of sand have fallen down into the spine.
“No,” Peter answers. “I heal too fast.” Absently, he reaches out and runs one finger along a cluster of moles on Stiles’ shoulder, a cluster that almost looks like a constellation. “Do you tan?”
It’s possibly the least endearing sound Peter has ever heard.
“I skip right past the tanning stage and go straight to burn.”
“And yet, you’re not wearing sunscreen,” Peter comments, pressing his finger into Stiles’ back. He doesn’t mind that much; the heavy chemical smell is bad enough coming from the people near them, let alone from right beside him, but he can already hear future Stiles whining about being in pain, chest and back red as a damn Christmas ornament.
“Forgot to bring some,” Stiles says with a shrug, turning back to his book.
Peter rolls his eyes and digs his wallet out of the pocket of his shorts. He fishes out two twenties and drops them into Stiles’ book, right in his line of sight.
“Go get some from the gift shop. Bring me back some water too.” It’s obvious that Stiles wants to talk back to him; his mouth opens and closes a few times, like a fish out of water, but Peter refuses to engage him. He simply slides his wallet back into his pocket and shuts his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun.
“Why can’t you do it?” Stiles finally asks, closing his book with a sharp snap.
“I’m sunbathing,” Peter answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Whatever. Asshole,” Stiles mutters, jabbing at Peter’s hip with his foot. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“Bring back some snacks too,” Peter adds, reaching out and brushing a thumb against Stiles’ calf, acknowledging the part of his sentence that began after you’re lucky. “Some jerky, if they have it.”