Archive of Our Own

Why does the wolf howl at the moon?

Because it’s lonely.

Some myths ring truths. What those truths are is never certain.

There is a tale about the existence of a man—cursed by the gods to be a wolf. Others tell the tale with a twist—that the man went to the gods, begging for an escape from his guilt—from his crimes against his family. The gods heard his pleas, turning a sympathetic eye on him as they granted his wish, changing him into an animal until he found his happiness in the light of the moon. They turned him into a terrible, ferocious wolf, isolated by the inkiness of its coat and the blood of its eyes. Hunters and travelers alike avoided the mountain pass where it roamed, terrified of a possible run-in with the frightening beast.

Every man, woman, and child knew this story. Some believed it, others laughed at it. Stiles’ village, however, knew it to be true.

On the nights of the full moon, a lone howl could be heard reverberating off the mountain walls, echoing loudly as it fell over the village. In the decades that passed, the villagers grew wary, as the wolf’s howls grew louder and more frequent. It was the night of the harvest moon when the council met to discuss their next course of action.

As the village’s protector, the rallied mob demanded that Elder Stilinski solve the looming threat the wolf posed. It was the historian, Harris, who suggested that the only way to appease the wolf’s growing hunger was to sacrifice one of the village’s own to its appetite. A virgin, whose blood was unspoiled, had to be the one to wander the mountain pass until the wolf claimed them.

Stiles had regretted not taking Heather’s suggestion at losing their virginity to one another. He thought it was a fantastic idea, should they be each other’s intended. Heather didn’t wait for that explanation, running off to be with the first boy to look at her. Stiles regretted it, because he was now one of the small handful of virgins left.

Stiles stood against the night’s cold, ignoring the small shivers raking through his body. He waited to be inspected, the elderly druid—a woman who never liked Stiles since she delivered him from his mother’s dying body—perusing the line of young men and women. His eyes flickered over to his father, catching sight of the worry he felt for his son. He prayed that the elderly druid would take one look at him, scrunch her nose in contempt and mock that he couldn’t possibly appease the wolf. His breath caught in his throat when she came to stand in front of him.

As with the others, she narrowed her eyes as she inspected Stiles. She reached a hand up, snatching Stiles’ chin in her hand as she forced him to look from side to side. She made a slight noise at the back of her throat when she saw a few moles decorating his throat. Without warning, she pulled the collar of Stiles’ shirt down, inspecting his chest, unlike anything she did with the others.

Fear boiled up in Stiles’ chest when the elderly druid turned her attention towards his father.

“I’m sorry, John,” the old woman offered before turning back to Stiles. “Your skin will serve as a map for the wolf, plotted marks—those that mimic the moon’s—those that will take the beast far from here.”

“Find someone else,” Stiles’ father loudly snapped as he moved forward, grabbing Stiles’ arm as he pulled him away from the others, securing him behind his back.

“He has the marks, John,” one villager called.

“You want us to offer up all our children?”

“This entire idea is ridiculous,” Stiles’ father argued. “We don’t know if sacrificing one of our own will only fuel its appetite for human flesh. We might as well be inviting it to dinner.”

“Dad,” Stiles finally found his voice, the severity of the situation settling in his bones. He gave a sad smile to his father, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he stated, knowing that he was lying. He didn’t want to die—he didn’t want to be torn apart by a savage animal. But he wanted his father to be safe—for his fellow villagers to be safe—from a looming threat. He was content in being the hero for once.

“No, it’s not, Stiles,” his father answered, his eyes searching Stiles’ face.

“It will be,” Stiles replied, moving to embrace his father. “It will be,” he echoed once more, thinking that the more times he uttered it, the truer it would be.

The hunter’s moon was that night, shining brightly as the orange tinge glowed over them. Stiles did not envy the men assigned to watch his father, knowing that he would fight them any way possible. For his part, he obediently followed the other men on horseback. He was thankful his father relinquished his mother’s riding cloak—its weight gracing his shoulders placed him at ease. He kept his eyes downcast as they approached the mountain pass.

Stiles held the cloak close to his body, the autumn cold nipping at his skin. He looked down at the material, suppressing the sad, ironic laugh that bubbled up at the back of his throat when he took in the crisp, crimson color. Blood.

“We’re sorry, Stiles,” one of the men offered as they gestured for him to dismount from the horse.

Stiles silently slid off the saddle, his feet heavy against the ground. His eyes quickly dashed across the wild around him, trying to catch sight of any movement. He turned his attention towards the men when they refused to leave. He stared in disbelief when one of them held their hand out, pointing at his cloak.

“No,” Stiles defiantly stated as he backed away from them. “If I’m to die, I’m going to at least be warm when the animal tears me apart,” he snapped, his words vicious and accusatory.

One of the men was about to protest when their eyes widened in terror. A cold chill ran down Stiles’ spine when he heard a twig snap loudly behind him.

Stiles released a shaky breath with every step the creature behind him took, the snow crunching beneath its feet. He closed his eyes in fear when a hot breath huffed across his back, the heat passing through his cloak. He held back the sharp sob his chest released when he felt a muzzle move across the back of his cloak, brushing the material to the side.

The animal released a deep, guttural growl from beside Stiles. And for the briefest moment, Stiles thought that the wolf would do away with him right there, in front of the others. The growling grew louder as the wolf slunk by Stiles. He opened his eyes to see pitch-black fur clashing against the early sheet of white snow dusting the ground, a massive shape moving to stand between Stiles and the men. The wolf snapped its fangs at the men before releasing a heavy roar, forcing the men to ride away in retreat.

Stiles let the sob go when he realized that it was just him and the wolf now. His hands fisted at the material of the cloak as his eyes carefully watched the wolf slowly turn to face him.

The wolf’s eyes were glowing red as it moved closer to Stiles. It tilted its head to the side as it eyed Stiles. It moved to walk around Stiles, heading back towards the brush where it came from.

Stiles turned his body to look after the wolf, thinking it was too good to be true that the wolf hadn’t attacked him. His breath caught in his throat when the wolf turned to look back at him. His eyebrows furrowed when the wolf huffed, gesturing its head forward.

Hunter’s moon. It wants to hunt.

Stiles reluctantly moved to follow after it, staying close but far enough away that the animal couldn’t snap its jaws around Stiles’ limbs without him seeing it coming. He kept his head downcast, not bothering to remember the path the wolf was leading him down—the path to his doom. He was surprised when they came across a small cave, a foreign warmth against the bitter cold. He hesitated when the wolf stopped moving, turning to sit and stare at Stiles.

The wolf was beside the cave’s entrance, carefully watching Stiles. It released another huff of annoyed air before releasing a low grumble, gesturing towards the cave.

Stiles didn’t want to obey, knowing that the cave must belong to the wolf and once he entered it, his life would be over. He took in an unsteady breath before forcing himself to enter the cave. He carefully looked around, stumbling in the dark as the moon started to pass. He was somewhat grateful that he couldn’t see, because it meant that he wouldn’t have to witness the brutality the wolf would inflict on him.

Stiles stumbled to the ground when his foot caught on a tree root sticking up out of the ground. He clumsily fell onto what felt like a pelt, forcing himself to scramble away from it, realizing that it must belong to an animal the wolf had killed. He wrapped his mother’s cloak around himself in an attempted shield against the wolf. His eyes dashed back and forth in the darkness when he heard the wolf enter the cave, its feet calm but heavy against the ground as it drew closer. He released a surprised squawk when he felt the wolf press up against him, its entire body weight suddenly falling onto him. The angle was strange and forced Stiles to lay down on his side to make room for the wolf.

The wolf released a pleased sigh as it hooked its muzzle over Stiles’ side. Its breathing was calm and collected, a constant rhythm in the dead of night.

Stiles waited for the wolf to turn vicious, for sharp fangs to tear through his flesh. But nothing happened to him, except for sleep’s melancholy call. He reluctantly recanted, assuming that this was his final night of sleep and he might as well enjoy it.

It was not Stiles’ last night among the world of the living. When he awoke, the wolf was sitting by the cave’s entrance, as if it was waiting for Stiles to wake. Stiles moved to join it, his eyes scanning the scenery before him in an attempt to see whatever the wolf saw.

“Are you … are you going to eat me?” Stiles finally asked, looking down at the wolf.

The wolf released an annoyed sigh, and Stiles was certain that if it was a person, it would have rolled its eyes at him before turning judgmental eyebrows on him.

“Then what do you want from me?” Stiles asked.

The wolf remained silent, as if it was evaluating its answers to that question. It finally stood, moving to circle around Stiles’ legs. It brushed its side against Stiles, rubbing its fur against him as it came to sit plastered against his leg. It hooked its head around his thigh, a small whimper coming from its throat.

Stiles reached a hand down to touch the wolf’s fur, quickly aborting the movement when he heard it whimper. He hesitated before deciding to just go through with it. He slowly touched his fingertips to the wolf’s head, gaging its response. He pushed his fingers through its fur, faintly smiling when he heard the pleased purr emitting from its chest. He idly played with its ear, noticing that it suddenly began to pant in satisfaction.

“You’re lonely,” Stiles finally stated. “I wish I could take you back to the village with me …” A small frown fell upon his face. “No, not the village,” he sighed. “I suppose I’ll never head back there.”

The wolf’s soft purrs suddenly turned to a growl as its hair stood on end, immediately standing to attention as something in the distance approached them.

Stiles turned his head to see that the intruder was none other than his father.

“Stiles!” His father spoke in surprise as seeing his son alive. The rifle in his hand still poised in preparation to aim and fire if necessary.

“Dad, don’t!” Stiles answered, keeping his hand on the wolf in an attempt to calm it.

“Stiles, get away from it,” his father instructed.

“It won’t hurt me!” Stiles was surprised by his statement, wanting to argue with himself that he didn’t know that. He turned his attention towards the wolf. “Please stop growling,” he quietly asked. “He’s my father.” He was somewhat surprised when the wolf stopped growling, silencing itself at Stiles’ request. He scratched behind its ear when it released a dissatisfied huff.

“Stiles,” his father stated in warning when Stiles turned his back to the wolf in order to get closer to his father.

“I’m not hurt,” Stiles offered as he approached his father.

“What happened?” His father demanded, ready to shoot the wolf if necessary.

Stiles turned his attention back to the wolf. “I think … I think it’s lonely,” he finally stated. “That’s why it howls at the moon.”

“It’s a wild animal, Stiles,” his father harshly stated.

“And I think it’s lonely,” Stiles repeated. “I think it wants me to stay with it—like in the myths.”

“Stiles, those are tales told to children to scare them—to teach them the value of their family,” his father stated. “You’re safe—it’s a sign from the gods that I found you this way. Come back with me.”

Stiles shook his head. “I can’t go back there, dad. Not after so many were so willing to throw an innocent person to their death. You were right, we had no idea what we were doing.”

“Stiles, please,” his father begged, his eyes still trained on the wolf.

“The old hunter’s cabin,” Stiles stated in solution. “I’ll stay there.”

“Stiles, this is not a matter to discuss with a wild animal at your back,” his father almost snapped.

The wolf, for its part, snorted in annoyance—Stiles had to stifle his laugh.

“I’ll live in the cabin, away from the village and safe from the dangers lurking in the woods,” Stiles explained, a hint that it was as far as he was going to budge.

~*~

Stiles was grateful his father recanted, allowing him to not reenter the village again. He was sad whenever his father returned to the village to see to the people and his duties, explaining to them that Stiles was alive, but that the wolf had taken a liking to him, not allowing anyone to get very close to Stiles.

It wasn’t a lie. The wolf would lift its head to inspect Stiles’ father whenever he got close to Stiles. It would slowly lower its head to the ground before finally closing its eyes. Something told both men that even with its eyes closed, the wolf could still somehow see him.

Stiles spent winter in the warmth of the cabin, finishing all the repairs in time for the first heavy snowfall to hit. He was thankful the wolf actually followed him, sleeping by the bedside as Stiles hid beneath the thin blankets in an attempt to escape the cold.

The wolf rolled its eyes before climbing up into the bed, wiggling its way under the blankets in order to rest beside Stiles. Its body was a flameless heater, offering more warmth than the small and barely comfortable fire in the cabin could offer. It didn’t seem to mind when it awoke to Stiles hugging it, resting his head over its shoulder.

When spring approached, the snow melting and disappearing from the ground, Stiles would sit beneath the large oak tree, leisurely reading his book as he soaked in the warmth of the sun. He smiled whenever the wolf would come trotting over, depositing a dead rabbit or other animal next to Stiles’ hunting bag. He would shuffle enough to make room for the wolf, always finishing his chapter before heading home with the captured prey. Sometimes he would read aloud, delighted with the way the wolf seemed to enjoy his voice.

The wolf would rest beside Stiles, moving to place its head against his thigh, a soft rumbling coming from its chest as Stiles ran his fingers through its fur. It would stir whenever a faint noise came from the woods, always alert and on guard in order to protect Stiles from any unknown force. It pretended that it didn’t love the way Stiles would then thoroughly scratch its ears as reward for being protective.

It wasn’t until the Hunter’s moon approached that year that the wolf started to act strange. It grew restless, and began to distance itself from Stiles. It always appeared to be sleeping whenever Stiles would leave the small cabin in search of more food.

That was how Stiles came to be attacked by a wild bear. It had surprised him, growing angry that Stiles was in its territory, picking what was left of the berries.

Stiles was certain he was going to die. He barely dodged out of its claws, silently cursing himself for not accepting his father’s rifle from him when he offered it. He collapsed onto his back when he lost balance, scurrying backwards in an attempt to get away from the enraged animal. The dirt was rough against his hands, small twigs stabbing into his soft skin as he didn’t look down. He released a scream, closing his eyes when the bear made a move to attack him as he accepted that he was dead.

A sudden roar countered the angered noises the bear made, the claws never piercing Stiles’ skin.

Stiles looked at the bear to see the wolf—his wolf—biting and clawing at the bear. The wolf was snarling, viciously ripping at the bear as both animals exchanged blows. It felt like an eternity when the bear finally retreated, limping as it scurried away.

The wolf turned to look at Stiles, its hot breath clashing with the cold wind as it panted from exertion. Blood ran from its mouth, its teeth stained red. Its paw prints left the snow bloodied as it moved to come closer to Stiles. Its legs wobbled until it suddenly collapsed, body strewed across the ground.

Stiles scrambled towards the wolf, his hands shaking as he inspected its matted and bloody fur. He moved to pet its face, his thumb caressing against its muzzle as he tried to keep it awake—to keep it grounded.

“Please, please, don’t die,” Stiles begged, removing his riding cloak from his body in order to wrap the wolf in the warm material. He turned his head to see the smoke from his village, not far off—if he ran, he could make it there in a matter of a few minutes. Scott had enough knowledge about animals that he would know what to do.

Stiles turned his attention back to the wolf, listening to the way it heavily panted, a small wheezes coming from its lungs. “I’ll going to get help,” he explained, gently shushing the small whine of protest that left the wolf’s chest. “I’m coming back. I promise, I’m coming back,” he firmly stated, giving the animal one last soft pet before running through the trees and towards the village.

Stiles didn’t care how the villagers protested, telling Stiles and his father to let the animal die. He couldn’t stand how heartless the villagers truly were.

“The wolf saved me,” Stiles snapped, his hands curling around the medicinal bag Scott had grabbed before they were interrupted. “When you all condemned me to die for you, the wolf was the one that showed mercy.” He glared with an enraged fire shining in his eyes. “I will not leave him to die now.”

Stiles’ father moved towards the front of the villagers. “Stiles is right,” he firmly stated, turning his attention towards his son. He knew what the wolf had come to mean to him. “Stiles, Scott, go,” he quickly commanded, slipping his rifle off of his shoulder to hand it to Scott—Stiles didn’t want to think about having to use it in order to ease the wolf’s pain.

Stiles happily nodded, quickly running towards the village’s gate with Scott in tow. He ran as fast as he could, tripping over a stray tree root or rock as he threw caution to the wind.

Stiles stumbled to a stop when he reached the clearing once more. He spun around, searching for the sight of the wolf, only to find nothing. “No,” he protested, eyes dashing across the trees.

“Stiles!” Scott suddenly yelled. He was standing off by some of the trees, his eyes cast downward as he inspected something hidden just beyond the edge of the grove.

“Is it the wolf? Is he okay?” Stiles yelled, running over to Scott.

“It’s a man,” Scott answered. “He’s badly injured. Stiles, you have to help me get him back to the village.”

“But the wolf—” Stiles started.

“He’s going to die, Stiles!” Scott harshly snapped. “I think a human life is more important than your wolf.”

Stiles’ features soured briefly before he recanted, following after Scott to drop down to where the man was. He immediately halted, staring down at the man.

“Stiles, come on,” Scott called, already lifting the man’s arm over his shoulders.

“That’s … that’s my riding cloak,” Stiles weakly explained.

“He must have found it after getting attacked,” Scott replied, thankful that Stiles finally slipped his arm around the man’s waist.

The man was unconscious. His features were sharp even in his condition. His body was firm and warm despite the harsh autumn cold. It was then that Stiles realized that the man was naked underneath the way the cloak wrapped around him. He looked up at the man’s features, taking in his firm jawline and hair as black as ebony—as black as the inky fur the wolf possessed.

“He’s the wolf,” Stiles breathlessly uttered. The myth of the man being cursed was true. The wolf was a shapeshifter—a werewolf—a man cursed to be half man and half wolf.

The village was in turmoil, worried that the strange young man was an ill omen to befall their home. They argued that he could be a demon—an animal taking form as a human in order to lower their guards. Stiles couldn’t stop himself from snapping that perhaps the villagers could sacrifice another virgin. He caught the amusement in his father’s eyes even with the assertive look on his face.

Stiles left the villagers to his father, moving to stay with the man as he healed in the passing days. It wasn’t until the villagers started to grow restless that Stiles discovered their intent to expel the man from their walls.

“He’s not even awake,” Stiles harshly argued.

“He was the one wandering the woods at night,” one of the villagers argued. “It is not our job to care for him.”

“Let the woods have him,” another offered.

“You selfish, wretched people,” Stiles practically spat. “You are so concerned with yourselves that you would condemn anyone!”

Stiles scanned the faces, immediately registering the looks of shame and fear. He then realized that the door to his father’s home was closing, the sound of heavy footsteps falling behind Stiles.

Stiles felt a heat at his back, a familiar heat that he thought he lost. He whipped around to come face to face with the injured man. His eyes dashed across the man’s form, taking in the hunched nature of his torso—he was still healing.

“I’ll go,” the man’s voice was gravelly, almost as if he was unaccustomed to using it. “I … thank you for your kindness,” he almost murmured, not bothering to look at Stiles or his father.

“You’re hurt,” Stiles argued.

“And if I don’t leave, I’ll be in worse shape,” the man stated. He pulled on one of the riding cloaks Stiles’ father had given him, suppressing the sharp wince as the movement pulled at his wound.

Stiles looked at his father, a small smiled tugging at his lips when he saw the affirming nod he gave. He moved pass the man, only emerging once he had his mother’s red cloak wrapped around his shoulders—he was infinitely grateful Scott’s mother was able to wash all the blood out.

“I’m going with you,” Stiles firmly stated, moving to lead the man out of the village.

The man made a small move to protest before finally accepting. They left the village without a single protest following them.

It was a quiet journey towards the old hunter’s cabin, the man never making an attempt to speak with Stiles about what transpired. It wasn’t until Stiles practically cornered the man in front of the cabin that they finally spoke.

“I can’t call you Wolfie anymore,” Stiles started, fixing the man with a look.

“You should head back to your village … Stiles,” the man suddenly answered, looking lost at what words to use or even how to use them. He almost looked proud of himself for speaking in full sentences.

“No,” Stiles firmly stated. “I never liked it there, anyways,” he continued. “They mistreat people the minute they think they may be in danger. I think they’re more upset that you’re not a wolf any longer. Perhaps they would have liked to have killed you and skin you for your pelt.”

“A lovely image,” the man commented, his eyes finally moving across Stiles’ body in order to take him in.

Stiles nodded, hesitating in asking the man what happened. He needed to know what exactly was to happen now. “Are you … are you a werewolf?”

It was the man’s turn to hesitate. “That is one term to refer to me as,” he explained. “Have you heard the myth?”

“If you are the man in the myth, how do you know of the myth?” Stiles questioned.

“You weren’t the first person humans have offered up to me,” the man explained. “By far the most talkative, but not the first,” he added in an amused tone.

“Where are they?” Stiles questioned, trying to not flush at the man’s comment.

The man’s body suddenly became rigid, his playful attitude vanishing. “They left. They always leave,” he turned his attention away from Stiles.

“I didn’t,” Stiles stated, staring at the man with a determined look.

“You didn’t,” the man agreed. “You didn’t but should.”

“No. I’m not leaving,” Stiles started, taking a step towards the man. “Because despite the village I came from, I actually am fond of the time I spent here with you. Sure, it sucked having a one sided conversation, but now you have a mouth and can talk.”

“I’m a stranger, Stiles,” the man stated in weak argument.

“A stranger that I’m comfortable with,” Stiles explained. “Your interests and hobbies might be a mystery to me, but you are not. I’ve had complete conversations with your eyebrows.”

“You don’t know my name,” the man added.

“I … I don’t know your name, but to be fair, I named you Wolfie,” Stiles defended himself.

“That’s not a name,” the man argued.

“Yes it is,” Stiles argued back.

The man released a small, amused chuckle, shaking his head. “Derek,” the man suddenly uttered, looking up at Stiles. “My name is Derek.”

“Derek,” Stiles thoughtfully tested out his name, liking that way it rolled off of his tongue. “Would you like to come in, Derek?”

“Do I have any other choice?”

“No,” Stiles answered, moving towards the door. When he opened it, he turned and looked at Derek. He released an annoyed huff, doing his best to release a low grumble that mimicked Derek’s wolf form as he gestured towards the house.

“That’s not funny,” Derek answered as he moved forward.

“You growled at me first, big guy,” Stiles replied with a smile.

Stiles clearly didn’t think out the sleeping arrangement before hand, accustomed to the wolf sleeping in the bed with him. Having an animal sleep with him was different than having another man in his bed. Mostly, it was because he was attracted to said man. Derek was, for lack of a better word, gorgeous, and Stiles hated how his mind wandered.

“I’m not going to eat you,” Derek stated in the darkness. “You can calm down.”

“I am calm,” Stiles stated, curling under his blankets.

“Liar. I can hear your heartbeat. You need to calm down.”

“I just—” Stiles released an annoyed noise as he turned, flopping onto his back as he rearranged the blankets. His arm brushed along Derek’s, shivers running through his body. “I just want to know why.”

“Why what?” Derek calmly questioned.

“Why you turned back now,” Stiles stated, as if it was obvious.

There was a small pause before Derek spoke. “Because you said you’d come back,” he explained.

“Because you wouldn’t be alone anymore?” Stiles asked, staring up at the ceiling through the darkness.

“Because you came back for me,” Derek corrected.

“Why did you pull away from me?” Stiles questioned.

Derek released an unsteady breath before answering. “Everyone leaves, Stiles. It’s easier to detach one’s self before the other can.”

“Can you tell if someone lies?” Stiles suddenly asked.

“I can hear it in their heartbeat,” Derek explained.

“Good,” Stiles answered. “Then you know I’m telling the truth when I say that I don’t have any intention of leaving you.”

“You were thrown at me as a sacrifice, Stiles,” Derek started.

“I was thrown at the dreaded mountain wolf by a handful of petrified villagers,” Stiles corrected him. “And you didn’t treat me like a sacrifice.” He turned his head to look at Derek even though he could barely see in the dark. “I don’t want to go anywhere else, Derek, so we can at least try this.” He was nervous, waiting for Derek to yell at him or reject his offer.

“Okay,” Derek finally uttered, the word heavy and almost unsure—but there was a hint of hope evident, and Stiles clung to it.

Stiles smiled when Derek tangled their fingers together, turning into Derek’s warmth without abasement. He was overjoyed when Derek wrapped his arm around him—the warmth and comfort that night surpassed everything prior.

Stiles never returned to the village after that, the old hunter’s cabin becoming his home. His home with Derek. Derek had decided to stay after the next full moon passed, deciding that his need for Stiles was greater than anything else. They rarely ever talked about Derek’s past or the reasons of his curse, but Stiles decided that he would tell him in his own time—when he was ready to speak about it, Stiles would be there to listen, and Derek knew that.

During the winter, Stiles cuddled into Derek’s side, both of them huddled beneath the blankets. In the spring, Stiles moved to reading his novels outside once more. He would smile when Derek brought back the kill of the day, placing it by Stiles’ hunting bag. He would shuffle his body until Derek could move to rest beside him, placing his head in Stiles’ lap. He ran his fingers through Derek’s hair as he read aloud from the book until he finished the chapter. He smiled when Derek entwined their fingers together, lifting Stiles’ knuckles to his lips in order to place a small kiss there.

Why does the wolf no longer howl at the moon?

Because he’s no longer lonely.