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Language:
English
Series:
Part 8 of Ficlet Factory
Collections:
The Steter Network
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Published:
2016-11-14
Words:
934
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
20
Kudos:
262
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36
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1,829

Swing

Summary:

Stiles wants to fly.

(Inspired by Sia's Chandelier.)

Notes:

Written for a prompt on the Steter network chat.

Work Text:

Shit.

Stiles had no fucking idea how he had ended up there. 

He hadn’t been sleeping for several weeks and he had no idea what was real anymore and sometimes things just blurred together, but he was pretty sure this wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

The last thing he remembered clearly — even though he didn’t want to, fuck you very much — was that he’d just been trying to get away, to run from his own shadow because everything reminded him of the Nogitsune. He’d accepted Lydia’s Halloween party invitation because he’d figured his sleep deprived looks would blend in well. It had been a mistake.

He should’ve known.

The party around him had been on a full swing and stuffed with both people he knew and had never seen before. It had been suffocating and unbearably empty at the same time, and Stiles had known he’d have to do something before he broke down and started to scream.

So he’d lurched towards the open bar, ignoring the annoyed curses from people he pushed out of his way, and proceeded to drown his nightmares in the obnoxiously sparkly punch.

Too bad the fuckers had learned to swim a long time ago.

 

 

”Stiles! What the hell are you doing up there?”

Stiles blinked owlishly and tried to focus on Scott. Or Scotts because there seemed to be two of them. Or three. 

” ’m swingin’,” he intoned and waved his hand around in a vague motion.

Down below, someone gasped. Stiles had no idea why.

Scott wasn’t impressed. In fact, he seemed slightly terrified. It wasn’t a good look on him because it reminded Stiles too much of Scott’s asthmatic days. 

”Dude, you’re on the fucking chandelier!” Scott hissed, jerking Stiles from the unpleasant memories filled with wheezing and frantic search for the inhaler.

Also, that was the reason everything was so sparkly around him. A chandelier. 

Whoa.

”Stiles!” Lydia barked from beside Scott, staring daggers at him. ”That’s my grandmother’s chandelier. If you break it, I’m never talking to you again.”

Stiles opened his mouth to retort that he was absolutely not breaking anything because the sparkling crystals were pretty, but he didn’t have a chance as the rosette let out a painful whine and the chandelier lurched.

It slowly dawned to Stiles that he might have fucked up.

”Oops?” he said weakly and closed his eyes, feeling slightly sick.

”Don’t you dare throwing up either,” Lydia warned, her voice wobbling oddly. 

Stiles heard a sea of whispers and muttering, ranging from Who is that? to Why is he even here? to How the hell did he even get up there? He wanted to say he didn’t know himself and he just wanted to sleep, for fuck’s sake!

If he fell, could he rest then?

Blearily, he rested his forehead against the cold base of the chandelier and wondered how it would feel like to fly.

 

 

”I’m sure there are more stable swings out there, you know,” someone said. 

Stiles cracked his left eye open and peered down. When had Peter arrived? 

Peter cocked his head and arched a brow. ”How did you even get up there?”

”’m Batman,” Stiles muttered, fully aware that Peter had no troubles hearing him.

”I hope not,” Peter said dryly. ”Your eye-hand coordination doesn’t manage hanging upside down on a good day, let alone when you’re drunk up your ass.”

Stiles pursed his lips. ”I h’ve a purrty ass,” he finally said.

Peter’s lips twitched. ”The prettiest,” he mildly agreed. ”I’d prefer it whole and undamaged, however. At least until I get my fangs on it.”

Stiles frowned, trying to mull Peter’s words over. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog out, but he only managed to make the chandelier swing and creak.

”Stiles, would you like to get down?” 

Peter’s voice was soft, unlike he usually talked. It felt nice and warm and Stiles wanted to close his eyes and just listen.

”Stiles,” Peter said, sharper.

”Dunno how,” Stiles mumbled.

”Jump. I’ll catch you.”

Stiles meant to huff out a laugh but it came out as a wet sob. 

”I will catch you, Stiles. I won’t let you fall,” Peter said. He was gazing up at Stiles, eyes wide and intense and his face open with some emotion Stiles couldn’t name. 

Wouldn’t name.

”I wanna fly,” Stiles whispered, unsure of why he said it.

Peter’s eyes flashed brilliant blue and they seemed to bore right through Stiles.

”I promise I’ll make you fly, as high as you want,” he said. ”I’ll set you free and I’ll keep you safe. I promise, Stiles.”

” ’kay,” Stiles breathed. Without another thought, he let go.

 

 

It felt like he was falling forever, his body light as a feather. He let his hands spread open wide and imagined he had wings to fly far, far away where the nightmares and shadows couldn’t catch him.

And then Peter caught him in his arms and held him close. Without opening his eyes, Stiles curled against his chest, pressed his face against Peter’s neck and breathed in and in until he felt he would burst from the seams and flutter away like million little butterflies. He felt an almost subvocal rumble resonating through him, seeping into the cracks of his mind and holding him together.

Wordlessly, Peter turned around and started walking. 

From somewhere far away, Stiles heard a groan and a shattering sound as the chandelier fell and smashed on the floor, sending shards of crystal everywhere. 

Stiles didn’t care.

Sighing, he gripped Peter’s shirt in his hand, and finally fell asleep.

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