Stiles was not crying. He was absolutely not crying at all. Not a single tear had left his eyes and he was not crying. It was fine, he was fine. His heart wasn't breaking into a million pieces as Vanessa told Wade that he had to go back, that she would be waiting for him. Stiles was absolutely fine, totally fine, better than fine , even.
He was not at all fine. He sniffed, pulling in a ragged breath through his mouth because his nose was suddenly too clogged to do so. Stiles tried to stop crying, especially when he saw the man sitting beside him look over at him in obvious concern. It was easier said than done, and Stiles wiped his eyes under his 3D glasses, blowing his nose into a napkin.
On-screen Wade woke back up, and Stiles started to cry even harder.
“Sweetheart, are you okay?” the man asked, turning in his seat to face Stiles, and Stiles took a steadying breath before he looked over at him.
“My heart is being torn apart inside of my chest, of course I'm not okay!” Stiles cried—though quietly; he wouldn't dare speak above a whisper inside a theater—turning wide, offended eyes onto the man beside him.
An attractive man, from what Stiles could see. Of course, the black, square 3D glasses weren't the nicest accessory, but the sharp cheekbones and defined jaw were definitely promising. Stiles watched as the man's mouth dropped open, very attractive lips surrounded by an equally attractive goatee.
The man didn't say anything in answer, but he did rest his arm along the armrest between them, turning his hand so his palm was facing up, offering it to Stiles. He took it, ignoring the heat he could feel creeping up over his cheeks as he twined their fingers together. The man squeezed Stiles' hand, and the gentle pressure pulled a small smile to Stiles' lips even as he looked back at the screen.
Stiles watched the rest of the movie silently, only sniffling a few times, the fingers of his free hand tapping restlessly against his thigh. He wasn't crying by the end of the movie, but he was still holding the man's hand. Neither of them let go even as some of the lights went up, and they waited through the credits along with most of the theatre.
It wasn't until the after credit scene that either of them shifted, and then it was only so Stiles could pull their joined hands into his lap as he turned towards the man. Stiles wasn't ready to let go and the man didn't seem to mind, running his thumb over Stiles' knuckles as he angled himself more towards Stiles as well.
“So, are you in the habit of holding hands with strangers?” Stiles asked, taking off his glasses with his free hand.
“I can't say that I am,” the man said, and his voice was light. When he took off his glasses his eyes were a bright, clear blue that felt as though it was boring into Stiles' soul. “But I am in the habit of holding hands with my soulmate.”
Stiles' mouth dropped open before his eyes dropped to his forearm. His shirt was in the way, but Stiles knew exactly what words were printed on his arm—the same words this man, his soulmate , had said. He had no idea how he hadn’t noticed and he blushed darker, looking up to find his soulmate still watching him.
“I'm Peter,” the man— Peter —said, his voice a soft, sweet sounding purr.
“I'm Stiles,” he said, his heart in his throat.
“It is lovely to meet you, Stiles,” Peter told him, and he pulled their joined hands up to his mouth, placing a long kiss to the back of Stiles' hand.
Stiles blushed further, ducking his head, but the smile that pulled at his lips was wide. His heart rate quickened at the appreciative gaze Peter was sweeping over him, and Stiles let out a breathless little laugh.
“W-would you like to go, uhm, get coffee? Maybe?” Stiles asked, familiar insecurity eating up his voice, his words coming out in a whisper.
“Oh darling, I'd love to.”