[Ultimately, acknowledgement is all he requires in this moment. His body, which had instinctively started to curl in on itself as he made the offhand remark, now unfurls with a visceral relief. That’s that. A small truth released, offering a brief glimpse into a nightmarish period of his life. It costs him little to admit it, but hopefully provides just enough insight that Stiles’ lingering sense of shame over the panic attack is soothed. In any case, the teen is eager to move on.
Cyram insists there’s no such thing as a bad student. Stiles immediately opens his mouth to argue—only to sit back in a moment of self-reflection and ask himself: why? Why does it feel important that he prove to this man just how difficult he can be? He thinks about every parent-teacher conference he’s dreaded. Every instructor who stated he was wasting his and their time by not applying himself. Every coach who pulled his dad aside to quietly inform the Sheriff that his son wasn’t cut out for baseball or karate or the piano or the scouts. Every friend who grew frustrated with him during study sessions, when his explanations left them feeling harassed and discouraged.
Don’t give up on me, he wants to ask. It’s too selfish. Stiles sets the fork down, hands retreating out of sight into the front pouch of his hoodie.]
I… I have no idea. [And doesn’t that rankle. Mouth pursed in the smallest pout of thought, he honestly tries to find an appropriate answer.] I play lacrosse, but we wear gloves.
[Beyond that, he mostly spends his time buried nose-deep in books or the computer, searching for the ever elusive information required for defeating whatever Big Bad is waging war against Beacon Hills.]
no subject
Cyram insists there’s no such thing as a bad student. Stiles immediately opens his mouth to argue—only to sit back in a moment of self-reflection and ask himself: why? Why does it feel important that he prove to this man just how difficult he can be? He thinks about every parent-teacher conference he’s dreaded. Every instructor who stated he was wasting his and their time by not applying himself. Every coach who pulled his dad aside to quietly inform the Sheriff that his son wasn’t cut out for baseball or karate or the piano or the scouts. Every friend who grew frustrated with him during study sessions, when his explanations left them feeling harassed and discouraged.
Don’t give up on me, he wants to ask. It’s too selfish. Stiles sets the fork down, hands retreating out of sight into the front pouch of his hoodie.]
I… I have no idea. [And doesn’t that rankle. Mouth pursed in the smallest pout of thought, he honestly tries to find an appropriate answer.] I play lacrosse, but we wear gloves.
[Beyond that, he mostly spends his time buried nose-deep in books or the computer, searching for the ever elusive information required for defeating whatever Big Bad is waging war against Beacon Hills.]
Is it better if I do build them fast?