but he does come back to this a little later. he knows he's dealing with a trauma response, and he's just not that kind of asshole that'd leave well enough alone, so. time for a little honesty (well. he was already honest. but a different kind of honesty, less the irreverence.) ）
i genuinely have no idea what a nogitsune is except that i can tell it's a japanese word.
my magic is something that was given to me a long time ago. it's dark, corrupt, and awful. it tastes like ash and ice when i use it.
[By the time Cy sends the next message, Stiles is wandering through the neglected bowels of the resort. The spades suit branded on his neck gleams like freshly painted ink, a stark contrast of dark black against pale skin. But he pushes back wearily on the twisted sentiments it sends his way, trying to pick through the possible lies and truths Cy offers.]
I shouldn't admit this but I want to trust what you're telling me.
[Stiles reminds himself that he's always had an unnatural knack for feeling out people. Nothing about Cyram ever made him feel uneasy—until the mention of the void, and then when the man's kindness felt too good to be true.]
Do you know what a void kitsune is?
[Maybe he should have framed the question this way initially.]
well, if you're in the mood to listen to me i will tell you the truth about anything you ask.
（ it's the frantic finger pointing that makes him resistant to anything but bullshit answers. he can handle sombre better any day of the week. ）
no. both words separately, sure. not together.
also for the record — i call what i have access to a void, but i don't know if that's the right word for it. i don't actually know a lot about the power beyond how to use it. it's just convenient shorthand to me because it feels like an empty space.
plus i actually do need math to use it the way i do. hella equations.
just as an FYI though if you try to stab me with a chunk of an ash tree or whatever bullshit aired on Supernatural this week you're going to ruin my best shirt that i had to steal off the sex nordstrom rack here, so you'll have that on your conscience.
Dude, don’t even joke about that right now. The day I was walking back to my room after we met, my brain would not stop trying to insist I was actually starring in the universes’ shittiest Supernatural spinoff. Except instead of a proper network like The CW, I’d wind up on MTV or something.
[Yeah, imagine that.]
Meet me at Red Cardinal. I promise to be on my best behavior.
Ugh. I know you’re capable of better-quality puns. Don’t do this to me.
Also, that’s freaking disgusting. Goodbye.
[Fortunately, he’ll need that window of time to return to the upper levels of the resort. Rubbing at tired eyes, he begins the march to questionable civilization.][Stiles is already seated at a small table toward the back, away from the bar. Though he hasn’t ordered a meal yet, there’s a mostly drained beer cradled between his hands. As Cy approaches, he’ll likely see Sasuke’s physical deterioration reflected similarly in the American teen despite attempts to conceal weight loss and petrification with a high-collar hoodie.
A yellow-papered note has been set on the table. It’s the same one Cy left for Stiles the day of the panic attack, edges worn and crinkled like they’ve been fiddled with relentlessly.]
It was the only table open, [mutters the boy, rolling exhaustion-bruised eyes.] Try not to manspread all over the place with your freakishly long Olympian legs. Us little people need space too.
（ cy, by contrast, is dressed like a fucking bird of paradise. an obnoxiously loud paisely style shirt, collared, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. sand coloured slacks round the outfit off, and he makes it look effortless mostly because there is an almost uncanny sense that he occupies his own body to its fullest extent, like he is aware of himself and careless about it in a way that humans don't usually achieve in a lifetime.
he sits with ease, and those long spidery limbs stay neatly folded so he's not taking up unnecessary space, on request. likewise, a bag gets set down on the table between them.
the hoodie gets a look, but for now he's not going to speak to it. ）
You're not little, I was just stretched on a rack. （ haha, well... ） So, did your laundry like a fifties housewife. I'm hoping you've seen somebody about whatever injury it was you had going on?
[His jaw works in a small, tight circle as he studies the shirt, except the unconscious motion is born from a kind of incredulous envy—and, though Stiles hurries to dismiss it, a flare of attraction warm in his gut. Tearing his eyes away, he stares down at his beer as if the mysteries of the world floated in the soggy foam, giving his dining companion time to settle down. When the bag is set on the table, a questioning eyebrow cocks, but Cyram heads off the interrogation.]
Oh.
[A range of expressions wars for dominance across a white face; Stiles is at once both floored and suspicious of the unnecessary kindness shown to him. This is something he would have done in Cy’s place—not something that has ever been done for him. There’s no proper standard for the teen to measure Cy against, which leaves him constantly reeling in emotional distress as he struggles to understand the man’s end game. But Stiles made a choice earlier to hear Cyram out, to withhold his premature verdict against his better judgement. Exhaling sharply to release the tension building up within him, he moves the bag of clothes to his feet, out of the way.]
…Thanks. I’ll take a raincheck on the question. It’s complicated.
[And Stiles is not ready to discuss it.]
So, let’s cut to the chase. [Yeah, he’s not even giving Cy the courtesy of ordering a drink first.] Are you like, old old? As in, old enough to sell a really convincing act effortlessly? I mean, just how legit is…
[A pause. Frowning, Stiles gestures with the beer—at all of Cy.]
（ it's okay, he can order his own beer, with blackjack and hookers.
he does in fact flag down a server in lieu of a response. this is interrogation edging at its finest, as he asks for some hoity toity house beer it's assumed immediately he doesn't have the money to pay for, until he gives the server a faint roll of the eyes and tells them to check his credit.
math: it makes poker easy.
but it does get them to scuttle off in search of that beer, which lets cy settle his attention back on stiles. the dodge of the question is accepted — he won't push — and now he does sort of twist himself off to one side in his chair, legs extended and crossed at the ankle. ）
Well golly, that's complicated too.
（ he Sees You, you little shit. but it's not enough to make him stop. he said he'd answer, and he will. the server comes back with his beer, and a second for stiles set down on his end of the table, and then they whisk away again. ）
But yeah. I don't actually know how old I am — that profile wasn't me, so I guess the number's as good a guess as anything else. I'm probably not any younger than that.
[The edging is torture—especially for someone who suffers from impatience like Stiles. While Cy flaps his gums at the server, the teen takes a private moment without attention bearing down on him to press fingers hard into a temple. This is the longest period he’s gone without medication since he was first diagnosed with ADHD; on top of whatever the fuck is going on with him recently, it’s made it increasingly impossible to focus. The journal he’s been trying to keep about observations on this dimension is full of incomplete thoughts, ideas that wander off into nothing without meaning. It’s infuriating.
As new beers clunk down on the table, he forces himself to return to the moment. Looking at Cy—is unpleasant, but not in a way that Stiles can articulate. The best he can compare it to is staring down a complex piece of artwork in a museum, unable to discern the artist’s intentions behind masterful brushstrokes, the rich colors, the provocative shapes. He doesn’t enjoy feeling this confused.]
Right. [Uttered in the same tone as a “Jesus Christ.” Stiles knocks back a significant portion of his beer.] Fine. But were—have you been conscious that whole time? Or is this like… First Avenger frozen on ice for decades?
（ he takes a drink of his beer, easy and practiced, sucking his teeth against the taste of it. when he sets the beer back down it's slightly to the side of the ring of condensation already on the table. ）
Steve Rogers I am not. I wasn't actually lying before. I'm a god — little g — over the dominion of war.
[Brown eyes appraise Cy with the flat exhaustion of someone who is fucking done with the world.]
“Little g,” [he repeats blandly.] Alright. Table that for a minute.
[The dominion of war. Wordlessly, he glances down at the note; the boy has not forgotten the poem.]
I need you to back up to the age thing again. [And Stiles is watching the other man with a sharp, piercing intensity now—desperate to find a tell.] Verify for me. You’ve been alive, without pause, for over ten-thousand years.
（ it's said carelessly, with a lift of his glass in charming salute. ）
Not on Earth for most of it, so don't go asking me to verify how Julius Caesar liked his tea or anything weird like that. I was on Earth early in the 1900s, and then I fucked off for a bit, and came back in like the seventies. Just in time for disco.
（ and to meet a veteran of that awful conflict in vietnam in a fucking gutter, but hey. he doesn't owe this kid any mention of james, who he loved, who he buried. ）
（ the desperation in the boy's tone makes his brain itch in a way he doesn't like, too much like the begging he's already witnessed once. ）
Oh, I experienced it. But my memory's shot, so it's not all up here. （ he taps a finger against his temple, meaning — well, exactly what he means. ） I guess you could argue that means it doesn't get counted as bankable liveable time if I don't remember every minute.
（ he doesn't really care one way or another. it's just time. it's stretched out behind him in a long path, and it's longer ahead. it's taken him a long, long while not to despair about it, that boundless horizon of days, and days, and days. ）
[Brown eyes darken, damp earth oversaturated from heavy rains, bound to drown the budding seeds buried beneath. There’s a harsh exhalation from Stiles, a sound wrenched with an emotion he doesn’t want to acknowledge, and then he’s abruptly pushing away from the table to stand.]
I need a minute. [His voice shakes, traitorous and weak.] Just—stay.
[Stiles remains in view, for the most part. Looking seconds away from a mental breakdown, he paces the establishment—restless energy rolling off him in stressful waves, alarming the other patrons. For whatever reason, the proprietress allows it; when a server marches in the teen’s wake, clearly intending to stop him from disturbing the atmosphere, Jin Mingming waves her off with a sharp gesture. The scene continues for roughly three minutes. Three minutes of Stiles’ too powerful sense of empathy wringing his heart over the idea of ten thousand years—because even at the tender age of seventeen, he can suspect with visceral horror the loneliness, the hopelessness, the resignation, the loss and loss and loss and loss and loss, ten thousand years carving out a man’s sanity. The alcohol in his belly is too warm as he stiffly returns to his seat, teasing his esophagus with bubbling acid.
The Nogitsune is a millennium old. Nine tails earned over ten centuries of torment. And that is little more than a droplet of water in the ancient ocean Cyram has allegedly lived. It’s too vast. It’s too alien. Stiles doesn’t want to peer into this terrifying abyss any longer, but he doesn’t know how to avert his gaze now.]
If you’re lying to me, [comes a furious whisper as he draws his hoodie up over his head and tries to sink into the comfort of the weight, eyes lowered to conceal how wet they are,] I’m gonna be so fucking pissed.
（ he watches the kid get up, and walk away. grief sloughs off of him in waves the way burnt skin skids and slips away after a fire, and cy just — watches, and hurts, and hopes. because it's the one thing he's never been able to let go of.
in a way, he would've preferred the suspicion continue. it's harder coming up against empathy. it crawls into him the way water swallows stone, and he is looking at his beer when stiles finally comes back having torn his gaze away from the pacing after just a few seconds. he doesn't seem tired, or resigned, or upset, just — present in a way that's ages old and eons deep. he wears the millennia well, but they are worn.
people always react to it. one way or another.
stiles gets a crooked little smile when he pulls that hoodie up, and after a moment cy reaches out to him. if stiles lets him, cy will press his fingers in against the boy's wrist in a brief, quiet comfort. ）
Hey, I said I'd be honest. I know it was the kindness that set you off, so I'll pre-empt that suspicion. No, I wasn't always kind. It was something I had to learn. Something I had to fight to be and to give to others. It is not always easy, and I'm not always good at it. But it's not about you — I'm too fucking old to care about manipulating people any kind of way. It's because it's who I want to be, and because it's in defiance of what I was made. If that's not good enough for you, then I've got nothing else to say to you.
[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."
（ cy runs hot. he's not sure why — if the humans of his original world just adapted that way, or if it's because of his rather unique situation, but he's always just a couple degrees warmer than average. he's used to most people being cool by comparison.
stiles isn't.
cy's gaze rakes up the teen's arm to his face in time to see that flicker of anger, the statement itself coming as no surprise on the heels of his suspicion. that's not just watched too much tv as a kid, and he's clearly not wrong in assuming it's borne of trauma.
well, they'll be revisiting that later. but for the time being — he'll leave well enough alone. cy catches the server's eye, and on approach orders small vegetarian dish. he'll give stiles the chance to tack anything on if he so desires, but if he doesn't he'll simply shrug as the server whisks away.
then: ）
So how're our charming hosts treating you so far?
（ the statement seems perfectly congenial on the surface, warm and affable. but there's something simmering just beneath it, an anger of his own. ）
[Even the vague idea of eating at the moment unsettles his stomach. With a shake of his head at the server, Stiles instead directs his attention to what his companion ordered. So, the joke about vegan poutine may not have actually been a joke. He frowns at himself, irritated; just how many details about this man has he dismissed from a bad read on Cyram’s sincerity? Again, the note draws his eye, though he refrains from bringing it up for the time being.
Even distracted by his own dissatisfaction, the teen recognizes the beast lurking behind Cy’s seemingly innocuous tone.]
This place is sick, [he remarks, not bothering to lower his voice despite the potentially dangerous opinion aired in a public venue—a choice that has nothing to do with lack of foresight and everything to do with defiance.] But you know what really gets me?
The guests.
[And he spits it out, a snarling kind of disgust. Because, in the end? He expects to be abused and manipulated and tortured by higher powers. All par for the course, really. But the other victims?]
Check the network lately? You’d think we were on fucking vacation. These brainwashed nutjobs are all way too happy to accept the situation here. It’s like we’re starring in a The Stepford Wives sequel. I mean, how is nobody talking about the grand design? We’re not trapped in this place for our benefit. It’s gotta be for some freaky ritual based on sex magic. And what happens when the Powers That Be get what they need from us?
[Incensed, he sits back heavily to aggressively draw from the beer.]
（ it is dangerous — and it's not the sort of danger he's willing to let someone take on right in front of him, so cy reaches over, takes one of stiles' wrists beneath his palm and gives him a warning squeeze. a little more loudly, then — ）
I said keep the roleplay for the bedroom, sweetheart. You know the defiance only gets me horny in private.
（ his tone is that of a sweet, besotted dominant giving an order, firm but gentle. Let's Not And Say We Did.
then back to the lower tone — ）
So, you're from... what, 2015? Somewhere in that range?
[The look he gives Cy is deeply unimpressed, but—with a roll of the eyes—Stiles relents. He doesn’t realize that the encouraged discretion is intended for his personal safety.]
Two-thousand-twelve.
[Leaning an elbow on the table, he rests his face in an open palm and sends a cocked eyebrow in Cy’s direction—wordlessly asking for the other man’s year in return.
（ you can roll your eyes all you like, he's still going to corral you when necessary!! cy slouches back into his own space, one elbow propped up on the table. he's itching for a smoke, but he left his pack in his room, and after stiles' first adverse reaction to all things void, he's not going to risk another casual use of his magic. ）
A little over a decade after. Not that it really means much, I'm pretty sure we've got some weird alternate timelines/pockets of reality on the happen here. PS: don't vote for Trump.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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but he does come back to this a little later. he knows he's dealing with a trauma response, and he's just not that kind of asshole that'd leave well enough alone, so. time for a little honesty (well. he was already honest. but a different kind of honesty, less the irreverence.) ）
i genuinely have no idea what a nogitsune is except that i can tell it's a japanese word.
my magic is something that was given to me a long time ago. it's dark, corrupt, and awful. it tastes like ash and ice when i use it.
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I shouldn't admit this
but I want to trust what you're telling me.
[Stiles reminds himself that he's always had an unnatural knack for feeling out people. Nothing about Cyram ever made him feel uneasy—until the mention of the void, and then when the man's kindness felt too good to be true.]
Do you know what a void kitsune is?
[Maybe he should have framed the question this way initially.]
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（ it's the frantic finger pointing that makes him resistant to anything but bullshit answers. he can handle sombre better any day of the week. ）
no. both words separately, sure. not together.
also for the record — i call what i have access to a void, but i don't know if that's the right word for it. i don't actually know a lot about the power beyond how to use it. it's just convenient shorthand to me because it feels like an empty space.
plus i actually do need math to use it the way i do. hella equations.
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You hungry? My treat.
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just as an FYI though if you try to stab me with a chunk of an ash tree or whatever bullshit aired on Supernatural this week you're going to ruin my best shirt that i had to steal off the sex nordstrom rack here, so you'll have that on your conscience.
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[Yeah, imagine that.]
Meet me at Red Cardinal. I promise to be on my best behavior.
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get it?
haha i'm hilarious.
but okay, RC it is. gimme like half an hr i need to shower which i coincidentally think i've forgotten to do for the past few days
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Also, that’s freaking disgusting. Goodbye.
[Fortunately, he’ll need that window of time to return to the upper levels of the resort. Rubbing at tired eyes, he begins the march to questionable civilization.]
[Stiles is already seated at a small table toward the back, away from the bar. Though he hasn’t ordered a meal yet, there’s a mostly drained beer cradled between his hands. As Cy approaches, he’ll likely see Sasuke’s physical deterioration reflected similarly in the American teen despite attempts to conceal weight loss and petrification with a high-collar hoodie.
A yellow-papered note has been set on the table. It’s the same one Cy left for Stiles the day of the panic attack, edges worn and crinkled like they’ve been fiddled with relentlessly.]
It was the only table open, [mutters the boy, rolling exhaustion-bruised eyes.] Try not to manspread all over the place with your freakishly long Olympian legs. Us little people need space too.
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he sits with ease, and those long spidery limbs stay neatly folded so he's not taking up unnecessary space, on request. likewise, a bag gets set down on the table between them.
the hoodie gets a look, but for now he's not going to speak to it. ）
You're not little, I was just stretched on a rack. （ haha, well... ） So, did your laundry like a fifties housewife. I'm hoping you've seen somebody about whatever injury it was you had going on?
no subject
Oh.
[A range of expressions wars for dominance across a white face; Stiles is at once both floored and suspicious of the unnecessary kindness shown to him. This is something he would have done in Cy’s place—not something that has ever been done for him. There’s no proper standard for the teen to measure Cy against, which leaves him constantly reeling in emotional distress as he struggles to understand the man’s end game. But Stiles made a choice earlier to hear Cyram out, to withhold his premature verdict against his better judgement. Exhaling sharply to release the tension building up within him, he moves the bag of clothes to his feet, out of the way.]
…Thanks. I’ll take a raincheck on the question. It’s complicated.
[And Stiles is not ready to discuss it.]
So, let’s cut to the chase. [Yeah, he’s not even giving Cy the courtesy of ordering a drink first.] Are you like, old old? As in, old enough to sell a really convincing act effortlessly? I mean, just how legit is…
[A pause. Frowning, Stiles gestures with the beer—at all of Cy.]
…this?
no subject
he does in fact flag down a server in lieu of a response. this is interrogation edging at its finest, as he asks for some hoity toity house beer it's assumed immediately he doesn't have the money to pay for, until he gives the server a faint roll of the eyes and tells them to check his credit.
math: it makes poker easy.
but it does get them to scuttle off in search of that beer, which lets cy settle his attention back on stiles. the dodge of the question is accepted — he won't push — and now he does sort of twist himself off to one side in his chair, legs extended and crossed at the ankle. ）
Well golly, that's complicated too.
（ he Sees You, you little shit. but it's not enough to make him stop. he said he'd answer, and he will. the server comes back with his beer, and a second for stiles set down on his end of the table, and then they whisk away again. ）
But yeah. I don't actually know how old I am — that profile wasn't me, so I guess the number's as good a guess as anything else. I'm probably not any younger than that.
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As new beers clunk down on the table, he forces himself to return to the moment. Looking at Cy—is unpleasant, but not in a way that Stiles can articulate. The best he can compare it to is staring down a complex piece of artwork in a museum, unable to discern the artist’s intentions behind masterful brushstrokes, the rich colors, the provocative shapes. He doesn’t enjoy feeling this confused.]
Right. [Uttered in the same tone as a “Jesus Christ.” Stiles knocks back a significant portion of his beer.] Fine. But were—have you been conscious that whole time? Or is this like… First Avenger frozen on ice for decades?
[It must be the latter scenario.]
no subject
（ he takes a drink of his beer, easy and practiced, sucking his teeth against the taste of it. when he sets the beer back down it's slightly to the side of the ring of condensation already on the table. ）
Steve Rogers I am not. I wasn't actually lying before. I'm a god — little g — over the dominion of war.
no subject
“Little g,” [he repeats blandly.] Alright. Table that for a minute.
[The dominion of war. Wordlessly, he glances down at the note; the boy has not forgotten the poem.]
I need you to back up to the age thing again. [And Stiles is watching the other man with a sharp, piercing intensity now—desperate to find a tell.] Verify for me. You’ve been alive, without pause, for over ten-thousand years.
no subject
（ it's said carelessly, with a lift of his glass in charming salute. ）
Not on Earth for most of it, so don't go asking me to verify how Julius Caesar liked his tea or anything weird like that. I was on Earth early in the 1900s, and then I fucked off for a bit, and came back in like the seventies. Just in time for disco.
（ and to meet a veteran of that awful conflict in vietnam in a fucking gutter, but hey. he doesn't owe this kid any mention of james, who he loved, who he buried. ）
no subject
Okay, so you—the “not on Earth” thing—time passed differently there or something, right?
[The beer is forgotten. Leaning forward to the point of nearly stumbling out of his seat, he stares wildly at Cy.]
Maybe ten thousand years passed on Earth, but you didn’t experience that length of time properly.
[For the love of god, please.]
no subject
Oh, I experienced it. But my memory's shot, so it's not all up here. （ he taps a finger against his temple, meaning — well, exactly what he means. ） I guess you could argue that means it doesn't get counted as bankable liveable time if I don't remember every minute.
（ he doesn't really care one way or another. it's just time. it's stretched out behind him in a long path, and it's longer ahead. it's taken him a long, long while not to despair about it, that boundless horizon of days, and days, and days. ）
no subject
I need a minute. [His voice shakes, traitorous and weak.] Just—stay.
[Stiles remains in view, for the most part. Looking seconds away from a mental breakdown, he paces the establishment—restless energy rolling off him in stressful waves, alarming the other patrons. For whatever reason, the proprietress allows it; when a server marches in the teen’s wake, clearly intending to stop him from disturbing the atmosphere, Jin Mingming waves her off with a sharp gesture. The scene continues for roughly three minutes. Three minutes of Stiles’ too powerful sense of empathy wringing his heart over the idea of ten thousand years—because even at the tender age of seventeen, he can suspect with visceral horror the loneliness, the hopelessness, the resignation, the loss and loss and loss and loss and loss, ten thousand years carving out a man’s sanity. The alcohol in his belly is too warm as he stiffly returns to his seat, teasing his esophagus with bubbling acid.
The Nogitsune is a millennium old. Nine tails earned over ten centuries of torment. And that is little more than a droplet of water in the ancient ocean Cyram has allegedly lived. It’s too vast. It’s too alien. Stiles doesn’t want to peer into this terrifying abyss any longer, but he doesn’t know how to avert his gaze now.]
If you’re lying to me, [comes a furious whisper as he draws his hoodie up over his head and tries to sink into the comfort of the weight, eyes lowered to conceal how wet they are,] I’m gonna be so fucking pissed.
no subject
in a way, he would've preferred the suspicion continue. it's harder coming up against empathy. it crawls into him the way water swallows stone, and he is looking at his beer when stiles finally comes back having torn his gaze away from the pacing after just a few seconds. he doesn't seem tired, or resigned, or upset, just — present in a way that's ages old and eons deep. he wears the millennia well, but they are worn.
people always react to it. one way or another.
stiles gets a crooked little smile when he pulls that hoodie up, and after a moment cy reaches out to him. if stiles lets him, cy will press his fingers in against the boy's wrist in a brief, quiet comfort. ）
Hey, I said I'd be honest. I know it was the kindness that set you off, so I'll pre-empt that suspicion. No, I wasn't always kind. It was something I had to learn. Something I had to fight to be and to give to others. It is not always easy, and I'm not always good at it. But it's not about you — I'm too fucking old to care about manipulating people any kind of way. It's because it's who I want to be, and because it's in defiance of what I was made. If that's not good enough for you, then I've got nothing else to say to you.
no subject
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."
no subject
stiles isn't.
cy's gaze rakes up the teen's arm to his face in time to see that flicker of anger, the statement itself coming as no surprise on the heels of his suspicion. that's not just watched too much tv as a kid, and he's clearly not wrong in assuming it's borne of trauma.
well, they'll be revisiting that later. but for the time being — he'll leave well enough alone. cy catches the server's eye, and on approach orders small vegetarian dish. he'll give stiles the chance to tack anything on if he so desires, but if he doesn't he'll simply shrug as the server whisks away.
then: ）
So how're our charming hosts treating you so far?
（ the statement seems perfectly congenial on the surface, warm and affable. but there's something simmering just beneath it, an anger of his own. ）
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Even distracted by his own dissatisfaction, the teen recognizes the beast lurking behind Cy’s seemingly innocuous tone.]
This place is sick, [he remarks, not bothering to lower his voice despite the potentially dangerous opinion aired in a public venue—a choice that has nothing to do with lack of foresight and everything to do with defiance.] But you know what really gets me?
The guests.
[And he spits it out, a snarling kind of disgust. Because, in the end? He expects to be abused and manipulated and tortured by higher powers. All par for the course, really. But the other victims?]
Check the network lately? You’d think we were on fucking vacation. These brainwashed nutjobs are all way too happy to accept the situation here. It’s like we’re starring in a The Stepford Wives sequel. I mean, how is nobody talking about the grand design? We’re not trapped in this place for our benefit. It’s gotta be for some freaky ritual based on sex magic. And what happens when the Powers That Be get what they need from us?
[Incensed, he sits back heavily to aggressively draw from the beer.]
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I said keep the roleplay for the bedroom, sweetheart. You know the defiance only gets me horny in private.
（ his tone is that of a sweet, besotted dominant giving an order, firm but gentle. Let's Not And Say We Did.
then back to the lower tone — ）
So, you're from... what, 2015? Somewhere in that range?
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Two-thousand-twelve.
[Leaning an elbow on the table, he rests his face in an open palm and sends a cocked eyebrow in Cy’s direction—wordlessly asking for the other man’s year in return.
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A little over a decade after. Not that it really means much, I'm pretty sure we've got some weird alternate timelines/pockets of reality on the happen here. PS: don't vote for Trump.
（ #futureeastereggs. ）
You're more western, yeah? California or Oregon?
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cw: ... animal abuse... metaphor...?
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cw: brief mention of disordered eating BUT IT'S REALLY INFECTION SYMPTOMS
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