[His jaw works in a small, tight circle as he studies the shirt, except the unconscious motion is born from a kind of incredulous envy—and, though Stiles hurries to dismiss it, a flare of attraction warm in his gut. Tearing his eyes away, he stares down at his beer as if the mysteries of the world floated in the soggy foam, giving his dining companion time to settle down. When the bag is set on the table, a questioning eyebrow cocks, but Cyram heads off the interrogation.]

Oh.

[A range of expressions wars for dominance across a white face; Stiles is at once both floored and suspicious of the unnecessary kindness shown to him. This is something he would have done in Cy’s place—not something that has ever been done for him. There’s no proper standard for the teen to measure Cy against, which leaves him constantly reeling in emotional distress as he struggles to understand the man’s end game. But Stiles made a choice earlier to hear Cyram out, to withhold his premature verdict against his better judgement. Exhaling sharply to release the tension building up within him, he moves the bag of clothes to his feet, out of the way.]

…Thanks. I’ll take a raincheck on the question. It’s complicated.

[And Stiles is not ready to discuss it.]

So, let’s cut to the chase. [Yeah, he’s not even giving Cy the courtesy of ordering a drink first.] Are you like, old old? As in, old enough to sell a really convincing act effortlessly? I mean, just how legit is…

[A pause. Frowning, Stiles gestures with the beer—at all of Cy.]

…this?