（ there is something there in the way that stiles reacts to certain things he says. like he'd flinch if he thought no one was looking. like he's used to people using his own words as a weapon against him. hit dogs holler. cy's jaw ticks faintly off to one side, considering — and then he reaches out and gently clinks his glass against stiles'. gently: ）

Stiles, I wasn't being serious. Sorry, that was off-colour of me.

（ when the gallows' humour hits just ... wrong? ）

And yeah. （ he nods to the yellow note paper, its two messages juxtaposed on either side like a zoetrope. ） I'm a lifelong musician, man. I'll write poetry on anything that holds still long enough.

（ no anxious artist here. while the things he writes are personal to an extent, it's not anything he feels the need to guard. it's nice to create something instead of destroying it — and music is one of the few things he's found that helps with ancient recollection. entire worlds can fall away, and be brought back to life with some old refrain, some old series of sounds that transmutes to memory in his mind. every stringed instrument he's ever held keeps takëthal alive. ）