Work Text:
There’s a reason Stiles refuses point-blank to take off his shirt in public. That reason would be the massive number of …somewhat illegal tattoos he’s had done over the years.
It’s not that his dad doesn’t know about the tattoos, it’s more that his dad doesn’t like to think about them. It’s a mom thing or more precisely, it’s a ‘mom’s side of the family’ thing and Stiles’ maternal relatives make his dad very, very nervous.
He only gets to visit his grandmother during the summer and his dad isn’t invited along… or rather, his dad IS invited along he just knows better than to accept the invitation.
Stiles tries not to hold it against them. They can’t help their nature any more than he can help his.
The family gathers in up-state New York, near the Finger Lakes. There’s a private campground up there with clusters of cabins that no one ever rents except his family. The campground butts up against a serene lake surrounded by dense evergreen forests. Everyone sleeps during the day and gathers around a massive fire pit at night. Stiles sits at his grandmother’s feet as she draws on his skin with a thorn and blue pigment. His uncles play dice for stakes best left unmentioned and his aunts’ haunting songs echo throughout the Adirondacks.
His back is almost completely covered with a dense knotwork tree whose branches hug his shoulders and roots trail down around his hips. There are small animals in the branches of his tree and last year his grandmother included a snake gnawing away at it’s roots. She has promised to start work on the ravens next, which will make his life a bit more difficult since they have to go on his arms. Ugh, long sleeves every summer until he turns eighteen. Joy.
This year he arrives at the campground feeling hollowed-out and cold on the inside. It’s still light out when he puts his things away, but he can hear his cousins rustling in the shadows; ready to play. He smiles without thinking about it and it makes his chest hurt, but in a good way. They cluster around him in the dimming light, whispering all the secrets they’ve learned in the past year in voices that grow louder as the sun dips below the horizon.
When the first star of the evening appears, he can hear the hunting horns of his uncles and the sound of silver-shod hooves against pavement. His aunts arrive silently, bringing with them the soft glow of golden lanterns and the scent of baking bread. His grandfather has always been there, sleeping below the grass, but the earth trembles and the trees sway as he wakes and comes to walk among his children.
Stiles’ grandmother arrives as she always does, in the silence between heartbeats, as the moon rises. She holds her pale arms out to Stiles and gathers him to her bosom.
“Oh, my precious one.” She tells him in a voice only he can hear. “My Lughaidh. You have been used cruelly.”
“I knew what I was getting into.” It’s a confession he can only make to her. She’s the only one who could understand. “It’s worth it for the way things turn out.”
“Yes.” She agrees sadly and cups his face. The bruises aren’t so noticeable now, but they feel better under her cool touch. The pain will return when he goes home, but this is the only thing she can give him for free. “Have you met your Bitter King?”
Stiles’ laugh doesn’t hurt quite so bad this time, but it still stings a little like glass in his throat. “Yes… and Pain Eater, and the Secret Empress, and the Lost Child, and the Lord of Worms. I’ve met them all. They’re all in Beacon Hills now.”
She smooths her hands down his cheeks and lets them rest on his shoulders. “It will be worse before it becomes better.”
“Isn’t that the same for everyone?” Stiles asks.
“Yes.” His grandmother draws him towards the fire his cousins have built. “Come, my Lughaidh, and sit before me. Midsummer’s Eve is short and we have much to do.”