[Their glasses meet, a soft clink of amnesty, and he finds himself unable to hold Cy’s eyes. A pattern is emerging, agonizing to recognize. Stiles fucks up and the other man gently takes responsibility for it, like it costs him nothing to offer apology after apology, like the American teen needs to be handled with painstaking care. It’s—too much. Humbling, in a way. Horrifying, in another. As much as he wants to insist that this behavior is unnecessary, that Cy shouldn’t be so quick to shoulder accountability for a loud-mouthed kid he barely knows, Stiles is relieved when the subject shifts.]

These, uh… [God, he doesn’t enjoy feeling this ignorant on relatively common topics.] Verses? Maybe? They’re yours?

[When he’d finally read the note—no damn alexia screwing with him—Stiles assumed the poem had been copied from somewhere. Hearing that it’s Cyram’s own creation makes it…unique. Special. Valuable in a way that the teen isn’t ready to acknowledge. With a thoughtful look, he holds the paper closer and rereads the words.]

You got a favorite instrument? I’m going out on a limb here to guess you’ve dabbled in a lot of them.