Prologue
Employees work six days, with one day off each week. There are many options for recreation and entertainment. Employees have access to pool and beach, to bicycles, to all hiking and nature trails. Explore the resort, take in a show at the local summer theater on the adjacent property, or even take a class from the Cirque Mirage, whose troop stays in residence every summer.
-Excerpt from the Granite Resort and Conference Center Employee Handbook
Stiles sorts and folds his t-shirts, packs them into his duffel bag, unpacks them, sorts them again. He checks the stack ten times, puts it back into the bag, and turns his attention to his shorts. He feels his father's eyes on him, can almost hear his dad counting in his head.
"Stop, Dad," he says in frustration. "You think this is easier on me with you counting, too?"
His father sighs in the doorway. "They said the repetitive behaviors would ease, eventually."
Stiles shrugs. "I dunno what to tell you. In exchange for being able to sit still, I get this. I'm no longer possessed but I still have nightmares. I think this is just how things are, now."
"Which is why I want you to relax this summer."
"Relax by working six days a week."
"Point. But. You won't be here. You won't be helping me, or worrying about Scott or Lydia or . . ." his dad pauses and sighs again. "You won't be hunting and battling supernatural things and trying to save the world."
"So it's going to be a boring summer, is what you're telling me."
"Maybe, but maybe not. I met your mom there, you know."
Stiles stops in the middle of stuffing socks along the edges of his bag. "No. You never said."
"Yeah." His dad hovers in the doorway, looks unsure about whether he's welcome inside Stiles' room or not.
Stiles nods at him and shifts both his bag and the last little pile of stuff he needs to fit inside, his jeans and his lacrosse hoodie and his running shoes, so that his dad can sit at the foot of the bed.
"She worked at the front desk, and I was a bus boy. We were a little older than you are now. I knew as soon as I met her that I was going to marry her."
Stiles laughs a little bitterly. "It's a summer job, Dad, not a dating service. And I highly doubt I'm going to find someone for me there."
"You're a smart, funny kid, and a royal pain in the ass. What makes you think you won't find romance?"
"You said it, not me. I'm a smart, funny, pain in the ass. What's to love?" Because no matter how hard he tries, Stiles just can't find someone to love who loves him back. He figures it's got more to do with being a lot twitchy and a little PTSD-y than anything else, or it could be the curse of growing up in a small town. It's hard to find someone who doesn't know you, who doesn't remember every stupid thing you've ever done, from gluing Patty Higgins to her chair with papier mache paste in first grade to falling off the climbing rope in 8th grade PE.
"Don't think that about yourself. You are loveable, Stiles. You are worthy of love, and I've seen how you are with Scott. When you love someone, you love them with your whole heart. Don't close yourself off from possibility because you're scared."
Stiles rubs a hand over his face. "It's kind of hard not to be scared, not with all the sh- um. Stuff. That's happened."
"That's why you need this break."
Stiles feels like there's more to it than him needing the break. He wonders, has been wondering since his dad dropped the application packet to the Granite Resort and Conference Center in front of him at dinner in February, if his father is the one who needs the break. He wouldn't blame him, not really.
He just wishes the whole thing didn't feel like exile.
Kurt rises from the haze of sleep to the bed dipping beside him. He rolls over, stretches languidly, and tugs the sheet up a little higher over his bare hip.
"Happy Birthday, K." Mike's voice is rough from a combination of sleep, alcohol, and the smoke from the end-of-season bonfire. He snakes his arm over Kurt's waist and sets a plate with a single cupcake on the windowsill. "Everyone else is planning a party for later, don't tell them I told you."
Kurt grabs Mike's hand and kisses his knuckles. "My lips are sealed." He nods at the cupcake, chocolate with a tower of vanilla frosting and chocolate sprinkles. "Thank you."
Mike stretches his long slender body out against Kurt's back. "Thank Millie. I took my run down into town this morning and she sent that for you."
"Mmm. You do know you're the only one still working out this morning, right?"
"I'm sure." Mike laughs lightly. "Everyone else is too hungover."
"It's the first day of vacation, Michael. We're allowed to slack off a little bit." Kurt reaches up and pulls Mike down to him for a kiss. "I admire your initiative," he whispers, soft and seductive against Mike's lips. "But everyone deserves a day off."
"Uh huh. Like you're not going to be in the studio as soon as I let you out of my bed."
"I have to be, if I don't want my choreographer kicking my ass from here to Boston once we start working on the new routines." He paused for a moment, grinning up at Mike. "Speaking of Boston. I want to go down there before the season starts. I want a new tattoo."
"Hmm?" Mike hums inquisitively and trails a finger up Kurt's arm, tracing the coil of vines and cherry blossoms that winds a delicate path from his wrist to his shoulder.
"Yeah. I mean, a boy is only 21 once."
"True." Mike kisses his shoulder, his neck. Kurt tries to hold onto the thoughts about his tattoo, about the ride he's getting on Thursday, about how it suddenly feels important to commemorate this important birthday, but he's distracted by Mike's attentions.
He tries to squirm away. "You always have known just how to make me lose focus."
Mike presses his body hard against Kurt's and nips at his collarbone. "That's what you get for hooking up with your oldest and best friend. But consider that you know the same things about me."
Kurt nods, unpins one hand, and strikes a direct hit just below Mike's ribcage. Mike writhes and Kurt cackles. "Payback's a bitch, isn't it?"
They kiss through laughing until they're interrupted by a hard rapping on Mike's door and Livia is calling to them both.
"I hope y'all are decent! I'm coming in for the birthday boy!"
Kurt untangles himself from Mike and wraps the sheet around his waist. He pads through Mike's room, gathering his clothes, and flips the deadbolt on the door to locked. "Stay in the hall, unless you want to see the birthday boy in his birthday suit!" he yells to her through the wood, shimmying into his jeans and tank top. He stuffs his briefs into his pocket and grabs his keys off Mike's bookcase.
"Get your hot little ass in gear, Kurt! If you still want to go to Boston, we have to go today, and we have to do an airport run. Jimmy's still drunk off his ass and Sarah won't let him drive."
He rolls his eyes at Mike, darting back to the bed for a quick kiss. "I guess I'm going to Boston today," he says.
"Have fun," Mike whispers. "I'll see you later."
"Yes, yes you will." He opens the door to Livia and gives her a peck on the cheek. "Good morning, beautiful. Give me ten minutes. Better yet, give me fifteen and I'll buy you Dunkies on the way out of town."
Livia follows him up the hall to his own room, past the rooms that the other permanent members of the Cirque Mirage troupe stay during their summer residence. The apprentices and seasonal performers share rooms on the first floor of the old farmhouse, but everyone else has singles on the second floor. Kurt loves his room; it's the last one on the floor, tucked under the eaves, with a tiny little dormer window. He can see the Meadow from there, and the studios, and a shining hint of the lake. It's small, but it's his, and no matter how much Allan keeps pressuring him to give it up and just move in with Mike, Kurt refuses. This room is his only home, and he's not about to let it go.
He dresses quickly, ties a bandana over his hair, and brushes his teeth in his tiny sink. He's ready to go in 9 minutes.
"Let's do this!" he says, wrapping his arm through Livia's and practically dragging her down the stairs.
They walk up to the main resort building and stop in the office for keys to the shuttle. "Who're we picking up?" Kurt asks while Livia is signing the keys out.
"Some summer kid. Simpson? Stinton? I don't know." Adrienne thumbs through some papers, scribbles on a post-it, and hands it to Kurt. "Stilinski. Stiles Stilinski. Flight and cell numbers. He gets in at 5. Don't leave him stranded."
"Don't worry," Kurt tells her. "We'll take good care of him."
Stiles sleeps most of the way on the plane, no doubt helped by one of the little white pills his shrink prescribed to help with the anxiety that has only gotten worse in the last year. He wakes somewhere over New York, or so the flight tracker on his tablet tells him. He downs half a bottle of water, one of the granola bars from the stash in his backpack, and a second little white pill. Then he hides in the hood of his sweatshirt and tries not to scratch the skin off his arms.
He fucking hates small spaces.
He jiggles his big toe inside his sneakers. Chews on the inside of his lip. Twists the cord of his hood around and around his finger over and over again, counting out wraps and experimenting with levels of tightness.
He's a fucking wreck.
When the plane touches down, dropping out of the clouds and skating along the runway dangerously close to the ocean, Stiles lets the bumpity bumpity bump thud of the plane leech away some of his frantic energy. He's still got a couple of hours in a car ahead of him, and he's nervous enough about finding the person who is supposed to meet him.
Once he's off the plane he stops, leans against a wall to gather himself, and takes his phone off airplane mode. There's a text message from a strange number waiting for him.
Your welcoming committee from Granite Resort will be waiting at Door A6 on the arrivals level. We're in a hideous yet air conditioned shuttle van. You can't miss us. - Kurt and Livia
Kurt is tired of sitting, tired of waiting, so he gets out of the shuttle and leans against the side, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest. He watches the people leaving the arrivals doors, waiting for the mysterious Stiles. He's seen lots of kids come to the resort over the six years he's been with Cirque Mirage. They're usually preppy, overly enthusiastic college kids who like to party on their off days and who usually stay far far away from the circus troupe. The kid who emerges from the doors blinking, looking like he's been dragged behind a steamroller for miles, and head over to the shuttle? He definitely doesn't look like the usual college kids.
"Stiles?" Kurt asks, sliding his sunglasses up onto his head.
"Yeah. You're clearly not Livia, so you must be Kurt."
Kurt holds his hand out, and Stiles takes it. His palm is warm and dry and his fingers are twitching. When he lets go of Kurt, he fiddles with the cuffs on his sweatshirt. "I could have taken the bus, you didn't have to come all this way."
"Nah," Kurt waves him off. "The resort likes their employees to be met, and we were coming down anyway. C'mon." He slides the side door open and motions for Stiles to climb in.
As they navigate the dregs of weekend traffic out of Boston, Kurt watches Stiles in the rearview. He can't sit still. His eyes are dark and sunken, and Kurt's lived enough trauma to know what it looks like on someone else. He doesn't say anything, though, not with Livia sitting next to him chattering away about the sights they pass on their way. Stiles just stares out the window. Finally, once they merge off (93?) onto 95, he speaks.
"So what do you guys do? Are you going to be restaurant staff too?"
Kurt laughs and shakes his head. "Oh, us? We're the circus people."
"Circus. Right. Like, lions and tigers and bears, oh my?"
"Like acrobats and trapeze and silks."
Stiles nods. "Okay. Okay, that's . . . that's good. No animals. No animals is really, really good."
"You have an aversion to animals that want to eat you?" Kurt teases until he sees Stiles go pale. "Shit. I said the wrong thing. Sorry. Unfortunate tiger incident in your past or something?"
Stiles fiddles again with his sweatshirt, tugs the hood up around his head. "Something like that. I'm really, um. The plane. I'm gonna- sleep. I think I need to sleep."
"Okay." Kurt flicks his eyes at Livia, catches her confused shrug. Whatever.
Stiles is asleep before they hit the border, but even in the growing dusk Kurt can see that he's not peaceful. His face is twisted, and he's curled in on himself like he's protecting something precious.
He and Livia make small talk while they drive, until Stiles starts yelling in the backseat. "No, no!" he says, swatting at the air with his fists. His eyes are wide open, but Kurt can tell he's not seeing. He isn't even really awake.
"Keep driving," he whispers to Livia before unbuckling his seatbelt and vaulting between the front seats to the back.
He doesn't touch Stiles, just starts talking to him, saying his name and reminding him where he is and that he's safe. "I don't know what happened to you," he says finally. "It must have been awful, if you have nightmares and look like you haven't slept in a year. But you're safe here. You're okay."
Stiles doesn't wake up, but eventually his breathing evens out and he closes his eyes, curling back up against the window.
Kurt sits the rest of the ride in the back of the van, watching this stranger who has caught his attention.
He's very glad this won't be the last he sees of Stiles for the summer.