[The touch is unexpected, but not unwelcome. As wary an individual as he may be, Stiles has always thrived on physical contact; it grounds him in ways little else can. Yet it doesn’t escape his notice now that Cyram is the one comforting him. After what he just learned, it feels outrageously backwards—this man’s history isn’t his to be consoled over. So, though he’s reluctant to offer emotional vulnerability after his humiliating blunder with Sasuke, the American teen hesitantly drapes his free hand over Cy’s, mirroring the tactile reassurance. And if he’s soothed by the steady pulse beneath his fingers, well—no one needs to know.
Stiles listens. The final remark takes him aback; when people set boundaries with him, it’s typically in anger after he’s pushed too much. As a result, he starts to pull away like a chastened child—only to pause, lingering, and force himself to hear the calm expectation for what it is.
Solemn, he nods in understanding.]
…Alright. [A flash of embarrassment darkens his face at the croak of his voice.] I got it. I—
[The need to use his hands is too strong. With some regret, he draws away from Cy’s warm hold to seize his neglected beer, dragging it over so he can pass it back and forth.]
I don’t do this. [Stiles glares briefly at Cy, but there’s no heat to it.] Back home, I can’t afford to blindly trust someone’s word. It’ll get us killed.
[Eyes cut away, the shadow of real, volatile anger passing over his features as he thinks about Theo.]
I’ll…give you the benefit of the doubt. So…
[Please really be the kind of man I hope you are. The words are impossible to urge past the lump in his throat, drawn back down into the confines of his chest by a too guarded heart.]
Order something, [he mutters, the beer sloshing as it slides over the table between his twitching hands.] My head needs some breathing room after trying to fathom the cosmic breadth of your existence, sir god with a "little g."
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Stiles listens. The final remark takes him aback; when people set boundaries with him, it’s typically in anger after he’s pushed too much. As a result, he starts to pull away like a chastened child—only to pause, lingering, and force himself to hear the calm expectation for what it is.
Solemn, he nods in understanding.]
…Alright. [A flash of embarrassment darkens his face at the croak of his voice.] I got it. I—
[The need to use his hands is too strong. With some regret, he draws away from Cy’s warm hold to seize his neglected beer, dragging it over so he can pass it back and forth.]
I don’t do this. [Stiles glares briefly at Cy, but there’s no heat to it.] Back home, I can’t afford to blindly trust someone’s word. It’ll get us killed.
[Eyes cut away, the shadow of real, volatile anger passing over his features as he thinks about Theo.]
I’ll…give you the benefit of the doubt. So…
[Please really be the kind of man I hope you are. The words are impossible to urge past the lump in his throat, drawn back down into the confines of his chest by a too guarded heart.]
Order something, [he mutters, the beer sloshing as it slides over the table between his twitching hands.] My head needs some breathing room after trying to fathom the cosmic breadth of your existence, sir god with a "little g."