[A banjo. That tempts a judgmental smirk to his mouth, though Stiles doesn’t comment on the choice (yet). He takes a moment to pocket the note again, taking care to fold it in clean, crisp lines.]
A “few decades,” [he repeats, tone more wistful than he realizes.] Just how long does it take for you to get sick of something, then?
[Quietly, he wonders if there’s some saxophone-related club in the resort he can sign Cyram up for. A mailing list. Something. This sounds like prime prank material.]
no subject
A “few decades,” [he repeats, tone more wistful than he realizes.] Just how long does it take for you to get sick of something, then?
[Quietly, he wonders if there’s some saxophone-related club in the resort he can sign Cyram up for. A mailing list. Something. This sounds like prime prank material.]