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[Ultimately, acknowledgement is all he requires in this moment. His body, which had instinctively started to curl in on itself as he made the offhand remark, now unfurls with a visceral relief. That’s that. A small truth released, offering a brief glimpse into a nightmarish period of his life. It costs him little to admit it, but hopefully provides just enough insight that Stiles’ lingering sense of shame over the panic attack is soothed. In any case, the teen is eager to move on.
Cyram insists there’s no such thing as a bad student. Stiles immediately opens his mouth to argue—only to sit back in a moment of self-reflection and ask himself: why? Why does it feel important that he prove to this man just how difficult he can be? He thinks about every parent-teacher conference he’s dreaded. Every instructor who stated he was wasting his and their time by not applying himself. Every coach who pulled his dad aside to quietly inform the Sheriff that his son wasn’t cut out for baseball or karate or the piano or the scouts. Every friend who grew frustrated with him during study sessions, when his explanations left them feeling harassed and discouraged.
Don’t give up on me, he wants to ask. It’s too selfish. Stiles sets the fork down, hands retreating out of sight into the front pouch of his hoodie.]
I… I have no idea. [And doesn’t that rankle. Mouth pursed in the smallest pout of thought, he honestly tries to find an appropriate answer.] I play lacrosse, but we wear gloves.
[Beyond that, he mostly spends his time buried nose-deep in books or the computer, searching for the ever elusive information required for defeating whatever Big Bad is waging war against Beacon Hills.]
Is it better if I do build them fast?
Cyram insists there’s no such thing as a bad student. Stiles immediately opens his mouth to argue—only to sit back in a moment of self-reflection and ask himself: why? Why does it feel important that he prove to this man just how difficult he can be? He thinks about every parent-teacher conference he’s dreaded. Every instructor who stated he was wasting his and their time by not applying himself. Every coach who pulled his dad aside to quietly inform the Sheriff that his son wasn’t cut out for baseball or karate or the piano or the scouts. Every friend who grew frustrated with him during study sessions, when his explanations left them feeling harassed and discouraged.
Don’t give up on me, he wants to ask. It’s too selfish. Stiles sets the fork down, hands retreating out of sight into the front pouch of his hoodie.]
I… I have no idea. [And doesn’t that rankle. Mouth pursed in the smallest pout of thought, he honestly tries to find an appropriate answer.] I play lacrosse, but we wear gloves.
[Beyond that, he mostly spends his time buried nose-deep in books or the computer, searching for the ever elusive information required for defeating whatever Big Bad is waging war against Beacon Hills.]
Is it better if I do build them fast?
Lacrosse? Okay, nerd.
（ look he roots for the toronto maple leafs, he has zero room to talk shit about sports. but it's said in that affectionate tone that most sports fans understand to be meant playfully. we don't talk about the vancouver stanley cup riots of 2011. ）
Guitar callouses are a bitch. May I?
（ he gestures for stiles to lift his hands up, and then slides his palms beneath the backs of them, thumb working across stiles' palms as he performs a dutiful examination, like a fortune teller at their trade. the boy has long, slender fingers — dexterity and cleverness are laid in every line, short nails that might be bitten for how near the quick they are. something in the deftness there make him think of the susurration of wings. ）
Well, I can say you've got the hands for it. The callouses show up here — （ a playful little 'snap' of his thumb and forefinger against the pad at the very tip of stiles' index finger on down to the pinky. ） Easier with nylon strings than steel ones. You can condition yourself with, ah... something about the width of a credit card, some people use picks. Press your fingers down against the edge. Not enough to hurt, we ain't gonna fuck with masochism in the name of music. You'll need 'em more on the left — fretting hand — than the right. Any questions?
（ look he roots for the toronto maple leafs, he has zero room to talk shit about sports. but it's said in that affectionate tone that most sports fans understand to be meant playfully. we don't talk about the vancouver stanley cup riots of 2011. ）
Guitar callouses are a bitch. May I?
（ he gestures for stiles to lift his hands up, and then slides his palms beneath the backs of them, thumb working across stiles' palms as he performs a dutiful examination, like a fortune teller at their trade. the boy has long, slender fingers — dexterity and cleverness are laid in every line, short nails that might be bitten for how near the quick they are. something in the deftness there make him think of the susurration of wings. ）
Well, I can say you've got the hands for it. The callouses show up here — （ a playful little 'snap' of his thumb and forefinger against the pad at the very tip of stiles' index finger on down to the pinky. ） Easier with nylon strings than steel ones. You can condition yourself with, ah... something about the width of a credit card, some people use picks. Press your fingers down against the edge. Not enough to hurt, we ain't gonna fuck with masochism in the name of music. You'll need 'em more on the left — fretting hand — than the right. Any questions?
[That “nerd” comment earns Cyram a scoff of mock affront. But when the man makes his request, Stiles only hesitates a moment before offering up his hands for inspection. Almost immediately, he regrets agreeing; his hands have always been particularly sensitive, empty vessels starved for physical intimacy and all too hungry to have their fill. While he knows Cy doesn’t intend anything by the touch, it isn’t exactly clinical—and, after all these long, lonely weeks, proves to be more sensual than Stiles can bear with a semi-active suit. He swallows, throat clicking noisily.]
Uh.
[Stiles, a living embarrassment since the day he learned to walk, has become fairly inured to this kind of abashment. He doesn’t flush. But this small, basic interaction is having an impact on him—and the signs are there. The thick hairs on his arms, peeking out from where his proffered hands have escaped hoodie sleeve cuffs, are standing on end, quietly trying to mask the pebbling of skin beneath. His pupils have dilated, snuffing out the honey browns with voracious appetite. And there’s the hint of a pink tongue, wetting his lips as he struggles to answer the question, to find his footing.
A glutton for punishment, he does not retract his hands when it is sensible to do so.]
Not in the name of music, huh? [His voice is roughened, caught between a playful mischief and a syrupy kind of intoxication.] Sounds like a missed opportunity to really get someone to sing.
Uh.
[Stiles, a living embarrassment since the day he learned to walk, has become fairly inured to this kind of abashment. He doesn’t flush. But this small, basic interaction is having an impact on him—and the signs are there. The thick hairs on his arms, peeking out from where his proffered hands have escaped hoodie sleeve cuffs, are standing on end, quietly trying to mask the pebbling of skin beneath. His pupils have dilated, snuffing out the honey browns with voracious appetite. And there’s the hint of a pink tongue, wetting his lips as he struggles to answer the question, to find his footing.
A glutton for punishment, he does not retract his hands when it is sensible to do so.]
Not in the name of music, huh? [His voice is roughened, caught between a playful mischief and a syrupy kind of intoxication.] Sounds like a missed opportunity to really get someone to sing.
（ ah.
cy follows the trail of physiological breadcrumbs, from the twitch of the hands, to the shiver of unsettled skin, to the shift in the expression — and he doesn't let go of the boy's hands even though he, similarly, knows it's wiser. ）
Hey.
（ his thumbs press across the kid's palms, and he cants his head faintly to one side. ）
No easy way to ask, so I'm just gonna be crass. How fucked up are you right now? With the suit.
cy follows the trail of physiological breadcrumbs, from the twitch of the hands, to the shiver of unsettled skin, to the shift in the expression — and he doesn't let go of the boy's hands even though he, similarly, knows it's wiser. ）
Hey.
（ his thumbs press across the kid's palms, and he cants his head faintly to one side. ）
No easy way to ask, so I'm just gonna be crass. How fucked up are you right now? With the suit.
[The question might as well have been asked in a foreign language. Stiles stares, brain trying to process words that don’t translate easily into an obvious acceptance or rejection. If not for the thumbs kneading his palms, he would have retreated awkwardly. Instead, the teen goes still. His internal confusion doesn’t color his expression.]
I’m fine.
[A tireless lie that he’s uttered so often that he’s actually convinced by his own bullshit. With a wry brow cocked at Cy, he bumps their hands one last time—trying to indicate no hard feelings—and then finally pulls away. His spades suit, concealed beneath his hood and tucked away behind his ear, is something so out of sight, out of mind, that he doesn’t immediately make the connection.
Before he can try to steer the conversation away from potentially dangerous grounds—namely, his health, apparently—the server arrives to check on them. The unfinished dish is given a warning look. Stiles offers her his wrist, the one with the Watch, in order to pay for the meal as he told Cyram he would. After she leaves, he takes a moment to collect the bag at his feet, clearly intending to leave.]
You better keep eating, dude. [He grins, eyes cutting toward the owner at the bar.] She doesn’t take kindly to people who don’t finish.
[Stiles is about to continue, traitorous tongue ready to supply another flirtatious comment on the heels of that thought, but he reins himself in. Cyram didn't respond to the previous one the way he expected, and he doesn't want to push.]
I’m fine.
[A tireless lie that he’s uttered so often that he’s actually convinced by his own bullshit. With a wry brow cocked at Cy, he bumps their hands one last time—trying to indicate no hard feelings—and then finally pulls away. His spades suit, concealed beneath his hood and tucked away behind his ear, is something so out of sight, out of mind, that he doesn’t immediately make the connection.
Before he can try to steer the conversation away from potentially dangerous grounds—namely, his health, apparently—the server arrives to check on them. The unfinished dish is given a warning look. Stiles offers her his wrist, the one with the Watch, in order to pay for the meal as he told Cyram he would. After she leaves, he takes a moment to collect the bag at his feet, clearly intending to leave.]
You better keep eating, dude. [He grins, eyes cutting toward the owner at the bar.] She doesn’t take kindly to people who don’t finish.
[Stiles is about to continue, traitorous tongue ready to supply another flirtatious comment on the heels of that thought, but he reins himself in. Cyram didn't respond to the previous one the way he expected, and he doesn't want to push.]
（ i'm fine. yeah, where has he heard that before? but he lets stiles go with a lessening of his grip.
he could keep him here, he knows. a thousand things he could say, or do. the kid was aiming to flirt, and there's a part of him that feels a little bad at changing tack midway through an attempt, but — can't do much about it now. lessons learned. ）
Speaking from experience, are we?
（ it's lightly said, playfully flirtatious in a way that harkens back to the earlier comment, without the heat or the weight to it. ）
Aight, aight. Well, take care of yourself, Stiles. I'm on the third floor if you ever need a hand （ this is not an innuendo HAHA unless...? ） with anything.
he could keep him here, he knows. a thousand things he could say, or do. the kid was aiming to flirt, and there's a part of him that feels a little bad at changing tack midway through an attempt, but — can't do much about it now. lessons learned. ）
Speaking from experience, are we?
（ it's lightly said, playfully flirtatious in a way that harkens back to the earlier comment, without the heat or the weight to it. ）
Aight, aight. Well, take care of yourself, Stiles. I'm on the third floor if you ever need a hand （ this is not an innuendo HAHA unless...? ） with anything.
[Bag hoisted over his good shoulder, Stiles turns to leave. But as he takes those first few steps away, the teen stops. Just keep walking, he urges himself, panic thick in his throat at the thought of what he wants to say. Emotional vulnerability has been—more difficult than it should be, after Scott.]
Hey, Cy.
[He doesn’t meet the other man’s eyes.]
…Thanks again. You seem—
[In his pocket, he tightens a fist around the folded note.]
—like someone I’d be lucky to get to know.
[Jaw clenched against any other stupid declarations, Stiles beats a hasty retreat.]
Hey, Cy.
[He doesn’t meet the other man’s eyes.]
…Thanks again. You seem—
[In his pocket, he tightens a fist around the folded note.]
—like someone I’d be lucky to get to know.
[Jaw clenched against any other stupid declarations, Stiles beats a hasty retreat.]
[Does Valentine's Day exist in Shinobiland? No, but evidently some version of White Day does, even if it may not be known by that name. Still — he's seen enough of the happenings around the resort to get a grasp on the nature of the occasion. And though he is not the sort of person who would abide by the sentiment of such a holiday, perhaps he just wants an excuse to give Cy something that demonstrates what he cannot easily put into words.
Sometime in the afternoon, Cy will discover a delivery on his doorstep. Inside the neatly wrapped package: homemade onigiri with various fillings of kombu, takuan, and umeboshi; a small, ribboned box that contains a slice of perfect Japanese Strawberry Shortcake; a black leather journal engraved with CYRAM across the front; and a technologically advanced sunrise lamp, which will project hour-specific weather on the wall of Cy's room.
Underneath these gifts is a nondescript note, unsigned, written in precise Japanese — I am glad that I met you.
...
So this is romantic and everything, but he also knows Cy teleports in/out of his room and loses track of time, which is why he sends a direct text:]
Check your door.
Sometime in the afternoon, Cy will discover a delivery on his doorstep. Inside the neatly wrapped package: homemade onigiri with various fillings of kombu, takuan, and umeboshi; a small, ribboned box that contains a slice of perfect Japanese Strawberry Shortcake; a black leather journal engraved with CYRAM across the front; and a technologically advanced sunrise lamp, which will project hour-specific weather on the wall of Cy's room.
Underneath these gifts is a nondescript note, unsigned, written in precise Japanese — I am glad that I met you.
...
So this is romantic and everything, but he also knows Cy teleports in/out of his room and loses track of time, which is why he sends a direct text:]
Check your door.
Edited (fixing smth) 2024-02-14 23:10 (UTC)
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