The dinner shift is ridiculously busy, which is the only reason Stiles is able to get through it. His stomach turns over at the thought of eating anything when his dinner break arrives, so he takes extra tables and works through it. At the end of the night he's got a pocket full of the best tips of the season so far. He's just finishing up his side work when the kid who works the grill, not much older than he is, pushes two Styrofoam boxes into his hands.

"You need to eat. I hope you like stroganoff and chocolate cake."

Stiles shakes his head at the boxes and blinks back unexpected tears. "You didn't have to—"

The kid –Ben, Stiles reads on the nametag pinned to the side of his hat – holds his hands up. "It wasn't me. Liam, the sous, he put it aside when we had a mix-up and pretty much ordered nobody to touch it, that it was for that skinny-assed waiter who never eats."

Stiles cranes his neck in mock horror. "My ass isn't skinny!"

Ben laughs. "Take the food. Eat it, don't eat it, doesn't matter to me. But if Liam asks, you ate every bite and loved it. He's touchy about his cooking."

Stiles breathes in, letting the smell of beef and cream and onion flood his senses. "It smells amazing." His stomach growls in approval. "Apparently my stomach thinks it's going to taste amazing, too. Thank you."

"No prob. Do you—" Ben pauses before continuing. "Would you like a ride or are you one of the weird people who like walking in the dark?"

"A ride would be awesome."

As usual, the open space around the employee dorms is busy with people and music. Stiles' room is empty and dark; Robert is likely out with his girlfriend. He and Stiles don't cross paths much, which is fine by Stiles. He doesn't really know how to be around people anymore, and the silence of an empty room is comfortable.

Once he's showered and changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt, he shoves his feet into his sneakers, grabs the two containers of food and his flashlight, and heads out for a walk. He doesn't have a plan, not really, he just doesn't want to be around everyone tonight. He doesn't like the way it feels, all their eyes boring into him. He can almost hear them wondering, wondering and judging, and he'd thought that at least here he wouldn't be the weird kid.

He follows the pale beam of light over grass and dirt and navigates around roots and rocks. He walks over ground that rises gently, so slight that he doesn't notice until he crests the top of a hill and both land and sky are suddenly wide open. Below, there's a bonfire burning, people huddled around it talking and singing. Above, free from the trees, the sky is brilliant black and sparkling with stars. It's not so different from the outskirts of Beacon Hills, feels achingly familiar actually, and when Stiles breathes in there's a pang of homesickness in his chest.

He didn't come here on purpose, but now that he's found it . . .

He practices in his head the whole way down the hill: I'm looking for Kurt. Is Kurt here? I'm not crashing your party, I just need to talk to Kurt.

The words are there, waiting to tumble out of his mouth, when a voice comes out of the dark somewhere to his left. "Stiles?"

Stiles startles, drops his flashlight, juggles the food containers.

And shrieks like a pterodactyl.

"You scared me! Didn't anyone teach you not to sneak up on people? Nothing good ever jumps out of the dark." He can feel his heart racing, his breathing start to go.

"I'm sorry. Are you alright?"

Stiles wants to stamp his foot like a toddler having an epic tantrum, but he restrains himself. His father would be proud. "What do you think?"

Kurt chokes. Stiles knows he's trying not to laugh, but it peeks through under his words. "I'm really sorry. I thought you saw me."

"It's pitch freaking black out here. And you're stealthy." The shock is starting to wear off, his heart rate is creeping back to normal. He can feel Kurt shrug next to him. In the dark, the movement is barely visible.

"What are you doing here?"

Stiles pushes the containers out in the direction he thinks Kurt's hands are. "Apparently everyone who works the line thinks I need feeding. Stroganoff and chocolate cake. I wasn't really looking for anything except a quiet place to eat, and I ended up here . . ."

"And it's not exactly quiet here."

"No." Stiles doesn't know how to say that it's okay, that maybe this is better than quiet, but he does know how to extend an invitation. "The stroganoff isn't really hot anymore, but would you like to share with me?"

"I'd like that a lot, actually."


Kurt pokes his plastic fork into the stroganoff and manages to snag a bite with both noodles and meat. "This is really good. Thanks for sharing."

He watches Stiles, whose eyes are on the bonfire and the crowd around it. "I'm not crazy," he says. "I know what people think. I don't blame you for thinking that."

Kurt holds his hands up, empty fork between his fingers. "I didn't say you were."

Stiles stammers. "I- I'm sorry. I just got used to people thinking I'm . . ." He taps the side of his head. "Certifiable."

"Why?"

The laugh Stiles lets out is tinged with bitterness. "Apparently sane people don't voluntarily check themselves into psych hospitals."

"I don't know," Kurt says around another mouthful of pasta. "I don't see anything wrong with asking for help when you need it."

In the dim of the porch light, Kurt watches Stiles' face change. He stares at Kurt, hard, like he's trying to see to the back of Kurt's brain. His question comes, hushed and careful. "Did you?"

"No." Kurt shakes his head. "I should have, but I didn't. Maybe things would have been better, I don't know."

"What did you do?"

Kurt snorts indelicately. "I ran away and joined the circus."

"And did it help?"

Kurt drops his fork into the empty noodle container. "The jury is still out on that one. I sleep and I perform, and I eat. I have Mike. Most of the time I'm practicing happy, but that's more than what I had when I came here. You?"

"Panic attacks and nightmares, but I'm not possessed by a thousand year Japanese trickster spirit anymore."

"That's something that happens?" Because wow, Kurt has seen and heard some strange stuff over the years; he's in the circus, after all, but trickster spirit and possession?

Stiles scoffs. "You have no idea."

Kurt tilts his head. "So tell me. But first, hand over that cake. I have a feeling I'm going to need chocolate for this."

Stiles pushes the container across the wood. "You might need more than chocolate."


On some level, it's not so hard to believe, werewolves and animal spirits and powerful Druids. Myths and tall tales have origins in reality, after all. Kurt listens, is careful not to react when every part of him wants to scream at a universe that continually loads unimaginable burdens onto the backs of children.

"It was so strange," Stiles says, rubbing at his eyes like he wants to rub the memory away. "I wasn't me, but I could still feel part of me inside the Nogitsune. I knew what . . . what that thing was doing to people, but I couldn't stop it. I hurt people, and somehow everyone is okay with it because it 'wasn't really you, Stiles'. But then Allison died, trying to save me." He shakes his head. "No. Allison was murdered trying to save me, and I'm not sure Scott has ever forgiven me for it."

"You love him." Kurt can hear it in Stiles' voice. He doesn't need to ask.

"I- no. Yes. No. I mean, yes. He's like my brother. We've been friends since we were practically babies. And then his dad left and my mom died, and that made it more." Stiles sniffles. "That's why it hurts so much, knowing that it's my fault the love of his life is dead."

"Brothers, blood or not, that's not an easy bond to break. But it's more than that, isn't it?"

Stiles shrugs. "Maybe. Everyone seems to think so. Not about Scott, or me and Scott. Just about me."

"Outcome uncertain?" Kurt asks, and Stiles laughs.

"Yeah. All I know is this: I've been in love with Lydia and Scott both since we were all kids. I don't know what it means as far as anything else is concerned."

Kurt watches Stiles lick the last of the chocolate frosting from his fork. He shifts his gaze to where the fire is winding down, where Mike is sitting against the base of the big oak tree with Kurt's acrobat partner Drea nestled in his lap. Kurt can see the shadow of his hand moving, carding through her ginger curls.

Kurt can tell that he'll be sleeping alone tonight.

He stands and arches his back to stretch after sitting so long. Then he holds out his hand to Stiles and grins at him. "Have you ever been night swimming?"


Stiles' heart beats in time with his footsteps. He's sure that his hand is sweaty in Kurt's. He tries twice to pull it back, but Kurt holds fast.

"It's tricky up here," Kurt says the second time. "I don't want to lose you or have you accidentally maim yourself."

"Okay," Stiles sighs. He's not a fan of accidental maiming, either, so he follows Kurt and doesn't let go. There are so many things he wants to know, questions he wants to ask Kurt, but something tells him that the dark woods isn't the place. Instead, he just listens to the night, to their footsteps and breathing and the breeze in the trees and the crickets singing.

The path dips and then rises again, twists through a knot of trees, and then opens onto a sand beach. Stiles can see a square of white bobbers reflecting the moonlight, roping off the shallows. The wooden dock stretches into the water like an arm, and he can hear the water lapping gently at the shore.

Kurt kicks his shoes off, tugs and twists until he's stripped off socks and shorts and shirt and is standing in the sand in his boxer briefs.

Stiles has spent enough time in locker rooms to not be embarrassed. He sheds his clothes too, and races toward the water before he can change his mind. He's prepared for it to be cold, but it's surprisingly warm. He ducks under the rope, then sets off toward the square raft floating out in the middle of the lake. It's been a long time since he's gone swimming; he gave up the rec team after seventh grade in favor of lacrosse, though he was a better swimmer at twelve than he'll ever be a lacrosse player. Even so, he settles easily into breathe every four strokes and is hauling himself onto the raft before Kurt even clears the rope.

"Not a swimmer, huh?" he calls, and his voice echoes off the water.

"I'm pretty good, actually, but I sometimes have this nightmare about getting tangled in the rope. It's silly, I know, but I'm always careful until I get into the deeper water."

"It's not silly," Stiles reassures him. He watches Kurt move carefully, lifting the rope and sliding under it. Once he's away from it, he takes a breath and goes under. Stiles follows the pale streak of his body just under the surface of the water. When Kurt surfaces, barely breathing heavily at all, Stiles offers him a hand up onto the raft. "It's not silly," he repeats. "There are reasons why we're afraid of certain things." Like things that used to only exist in nightmares because there was no way they were real.

Stiles tucks his knees into his chest in an effort to keep warm; the water cooling on his skin has left goose bumps behind.

"I used to be afraid of flying," Kurt says, walking to the edge of the raft and then turning around so he's facing Stiles. "I cried the first time I had to flip in tumbling class." He rises on his toes, lifts his arms. Stiles sees his chest hitch with the slightest intake of breath, and then he's gone, flipping twice and then sliding into the water, stretched out and smooth, with barely a splash.

Stiles feels unexpected yearning coil hot in his belly. He'd thought the days of feeling anything but numb grief and longing for absent friends were behind him, which is why the burn of wanting is such a surprise. Kurt stays in the water below him, treading water. Stiles stares at his face, at how open and joy-filled it is.

"Teach me," he says impulsively. "I want to learn how to fly."