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Take Me to Church

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Stiles Stilinski had danced since he was four.

Doctors wanted to pump him full of all sorts of drugs to calm the hyperactive ADHD riddled kid, but his mother had refused. She found another remedy. He took to ballet, well to use a tired cliche, like a duck to water. He was a flailing, long limbed kid in the outside world, but the moment he strapped on a pair of ballet slippers he was a vision. He was born to it, a natural. The word ‘prodigy’ was thrown about.

His mother was always there by his side, supporting him, encouraging him.

Then she got sick.

Then she got sicker.

After she died, Stiles threw himself into dancing. Every moment out side of school and taking care of his dad was filled with dance. Every thought was always on how he could do better. Be better. Make his mother proud, keep her with him. If he just kept dancing, she would be there, still by his side.

Dance Schools approached him but he refused to leave Beacon Hills, refused to leave his dad. It brought a few things home. He started spending more time with his dad. Actual quality time. He focusing on his school work. He danced less and less. He needed to let his mother go.

Then Scott was bitten. Eventually he pretty much stopped thinking about that part of his life all together, all bar a ragged pair of point shoes he couldn’t seem to take out of his backpack. By High School aside from Scott and his dad, no one even knew Stiles he had been a ballet dancer. He was just the clumsy graceless side of himself. His lean dancer body always hidden underneath baggy tees and hoodies. Dancer Stiles was gone.

Then the Nemeton happened and Nogitsune possession happened. The Nogitsune found the part of him that he hid from the world. The calm and graceful part, the part that was his mother. It was in the way it walked, even they way it gestured, when it used Stiles’ body. But with that, came the rage and darkness and demons.

Once the Nogitsune was gone, Stiles didn’t know who he was anymore. Darkness and internal demons were still there. Was he even real? He constantly counted his fingers. He was stuck between an old and new Stiles. Light and dark. Strong and weak.

He took to walking through the woods. Needing the the quiet. Needing the peace. It helped a little, but he’d get back to the real world and still feel heavy and weighted down. Cursed.

Three months in he found a shell of a church.

How had he never noticed this? This was the middle of the woods. Was someone building it?

The moment he walked in, he felt it. He took off his shoes to feel the hard floor beneath his feet. It wasn’t enough. He stripped the rest of his clothes, leaving him in his tan athletic shorts.

He fell to his knees. Taking his old pair of point shoes from his bag, he placed the shoes on. Something hummed inside him.

He was moving before he’d even registered it. He raised from his knees. Take me to church. Each movement was a sword strike against the darkness inside, each leap a fatal wound. It fought back, but he could feel himself being cleansed. The fight went on.

He dropped to his knees, a last time. Breathing heavily, his muscles aching, his body tired. It was done.

Stiles had won.