（ 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.
[Cue a certain teenager choking on his next sip of beer at the mention of Trump. Excuse him, what?]
Cal-California, yeah, [he sputters, rubbing spittle from his mouth and trying not to feel existential dread about future elected officials.] You can tell? [A beat.] Okay, yeah, never mind.
[Over ten thousand years. Christ.]
What’s with the twenty questions? [Napkins now fastidiously clean the spilled beer from the table’s surface. He even dips a corner in the complimentary glass of water to remove the tackiness.] I’ll head you off, bud. Literally nothing special about me. Just a normal, boring human. No special powers. No cool abilities. Can’t fight worth shit.
[Beacon Hills, on the other hand? Stiles weighs whether or not to continue, then shrugs. If Cyram is curious, he’ll let the guy ask. He doubts anything he could offer would interest an alleged god, though.]
A normal, boring human that can sniff out supernatural bullshit on a dime? I'll bet.
（ his tone's dry, but it's not really offended. he's already decided to take a gentler approach there, and while he still thinks that stiles' irreverent bullshit early on was true, he's going to — give him some grace. whatever trauma he's experienced runs deep. ）
I mean, if you want to take the twenty questions floor again, be my guest. I was giving your brain that breathing room. Happy to get back under the dangling lightbulb, but only if you do the rest in a really bad Russian accent.
[The accent request manages to pry a tiny smile out of Stiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that might suggest this was once a commonplace expression for him. But he sobers quickly, mind always too busy under self-assigned duress for him to maintain a lighter atmosphere.]
[Tired. Ultimately, Cyram told him the most important detail—that he doesn’t necessarily channel the void that Stiles is familiar with, only refers to that space as such. The rest? Maybe for once, Stiles can let that information come naturally instead of spearheading a relentless interrogation.]
I think I already said it, but I’m gonna—
[Reaching forward, he picks the note up and holds it carefully. A thumb brushes over the paper.]
Sorry for what happened. And…thanks. Seriously. I promise it’s not usually like that. Like, I don’t think the word “void” is even that much a trigger for me.
[It was the exact circumstances—that Cyram was performing unknown magic and apparently those powers were involved with the void. Goosebumps flare up and down the teen’s arms.]
So…you don’t have to worry about that again. (Probably.)
You don't owe me an apology. Fuck, interdimensionally kidnapped at seventeen to a weird sex casino in the sky, I'd be suspicious of a motherfucker too.
（ not that he has any context for what a seventeen year old would actually think, or experience. that was a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away for him — and what memories he can pluck from the morass of mortality are few and far between. 'seventeen' feels an impossible number to him. ）
Trauma sucks. Sometimes it sucks outloud. All you can do is take it as it comes and get past it as best you can. Have your good days, have your bad days. So we'll call that a bad day and move on. Not gonna hold it against you. （ a beat. then: ） Do I need to round that statement off with a sardonic roll of my pretty brown eyes and a vehement 'Dumbass' so you don't get all Ruh-Roh, Scoob! on my emotional maturity over here?
Y’know, [he begins, a dry drawl,] I’m starting to feel like a third wheel here. Do you and your bizarre self-attraction need a moment? A room? I can take a hint, don’t worry.
[The server returns, bearing Cyram’s order. Despite the fact that he didn’t request anything, the teen is given utensils to eat as well.]
You’re actually pretty flirty for a dude who must have an exhausting body count.
[Stiles tilts his head, turning the thought over in his mind with more consideration than is strictly necessary. Though he wants to keep the idea raunchy, keep it amusing, his chest tightens; just how lonely must this guy be?]
（ he grins, and blows stiles an over-the-top stage-show kiss, complete with a little muah of sound. ）
Nah, man. If I start pretending humility, you know what happens next? Cats and dogs living together. Total chaos. Anarchy.
（ at the body count comment — which he could take one of two ways — he just leans his chin into his palm as he plucks at the plate with a thoughtfully provided fork. in a lazy, cavalier drawl: ）
You know, if that's a war crack, I think I'm legally allowed to dump my food in your lap, just sayin'.
[Chaos. Stiles absently rubs at his chest, glancing away.]
It wasn’t. [An honest admittance; though he doesn’t apologize for the wording, guilt crawls down his throat.] Not really thinking too much about that part of your resume. Not yet, at least.
[Cyram isn’t the first individual in this resort who has claimed to be a god—but it’s still a little too much for Stiles to wrap his head around when his mental health has been so compromised.]
But since you brought it up…
[The note crinkles as he twists it between fingers, indicating it.]
（ 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. ）
[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.
（ well, rhys'. NO BULLY!!! he gives the little paper a nod, and then takes a sip of his beer, before easing it back to the table and withdrawing his hand to continue crunching obnoxiously on whatever poor vegetable has now fallen victim to his fork. have at thee, carrot slice. ）
Dude. So many. Anything with strings is choice, personally. I've been leaning guitar for the past few decades, but before that it was... ehh, did some shit with a banjo down in New Orleans. （ he doesn't say it the way hollywood does, that drawling nawlins that's seemed to proliferate falsely through common perception. instead, it's said more like a native borne to creole, new or-lens. ） The only thing on Earth I've outright said a big ol' fuck you to is the goddamn sax, because it's a woodwind instrument lying about being brass, and I'm just like — pick a fucking lane already, you lying hunk of sheet metal.
（ he has so many feelings about this, actually??? like... a worrying amount of feelings. ）
[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.]
（ it's said with a bit of a laugh, and a lift of his beer. ）
The things I like doing, being, learning — the people I care about, those are forever. Sometimes the instruments change, but that's really more about times, places, cultures than my actual focus.
[“—the people I care about,” and Stiles isn’t fast enough to raise his own beer, expression twisting under the bitter dredges of still recent hurts. He drinks, each hard swallow spilling into an empty stomach that roils with unresolved acidic anger. For a brief moment, he envisions Scott’s face splitting beneath his fist, the bright bloom of fresh blood exploding at the contact. It doesn’t help.]
Guess there’s something special about you. [His icy grief isn’t meant for Cyram. When Stiles tries to offer the man a wan smile, it’s at least an honest one.] I mean, c’mon. Most people can’t even manage the “forever” that comes attached with a wedding ring—and that’s like, under a single century.
[Beer finished, he pushes it aside—but toward the wall, so as to not encourage a refill. While he has no problem shooting the breeze with Cy, he doubts he can handle more alcohol without food first.]
（ you know, he's navigated actual minefields somehow less fraught than this one, every step primed to land on something that'll rip you apart. stiles is competent at hiding those dark feelings when they curl up like smoke, but it's a learned competency — landing more like mimicry. the way something is studied, and rehearsed, and behaved, all the steps in between that stop it from being effortless instinct. but good enough, he thinks, that one day it will be.
he's seen it somewhere before — and it takes him a moment to yank the hamster out of the incongruous gearbox that is his brain to recognize it as survival. not the sort the cleave of his focus cuts to, but. it's near enough.
cy pushes the dish more towards the middle of the table, with an inviting little prompt of his fork. it's less that he thinks the kid needs a meal (though he does) and more that he thinks he needs the grounding distraction now that he's set the empty mug aside.
lightly: ）
Well, special's all relative. What about you, you a music man?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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. ）
no subject
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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
Cal-California, yeah, [he sputters, rubbing spittle from his mouth and trying not to feel existential dread about future elected officials.] You can tell? [A beat.] Okay, yeah, never mind.
[Over ten thousand years. Christ.]
What’s with the twenty questions? [Napkins now fastidiously clean the spilled beer from the table’s surface. He even dips a corner in the complimentary glass of water to remove the tackiness.] I’ll head you off, bud. Literally nothing special about me. Just a normal, boring human. No special powers. No cool abilities. Can’t fight worth shit.
[Beacon Hills, on the other hand? Stiles weighs whether or not to continue, then shrugs. If Cyram is curious, he’ll let the guy ask. He doubts anything he could offer would interest an alleged god, though.]
no subject
（ his tone's dry, but it's not really offended. he's already decided to take a gentler approach there, and while he still thinks that stiles' irreverent bullshit early on was true, he's going to — give him some grace. whatever trauma he's experienced runs deep. ）
I mean, if you want to take the twenty questions floor again, be my guest. I was giving your brain that breathing room. Happy to get back under the dangling lightbulb, but only if you do the rest in a really bad Russian accent.
no subject
I’ve got questions. [A mental file cabinet’s worth, actually.] I’m just…
[Tired. Ultimately, Cyram told him the most important detail—that he doesn’t necessarily channel the void that Stiles is familiar with, only refers to that space as such. The rest? Maybe for once, Stiles can let that information come naturally instead of spearheading a relentless interrogation.]
I think I already said it, but I’m gonna—
[Reaching forward, he picks the note up and holds it carefully. A thumb brushes over the paper.]
Sorry for what happened. And…thanks. Seriously. I promise it’s not usually like that. Like, I don’t think the word “void” is even that much a trigger for me.
[It was the exact circumstances—that Cyram was performing unknown magic and apparently those powers were involved with the void. Goosebumps flare up and down the teen’s arms.]
So…you don’t have to worry about that again. (Probably.)
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（ not that he has any context for what a seventeen year old would actually think, or experience. that was a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away for him — and what memories he can pluck from the morass of mortality are few and far between. 'seventeen' feels an impossible number to him. ）
Trauma sucks. Sometimes it sucks outloud. All you can do is take it as it comes and get past it as best you can. Have your good days, have your bad days. So we'll call that a bad day and move on. Not gonna hold it against you. （ a beat. then: ） Do I need to round that statement off with a sardonic roll of my pretty brown eyes and a vehement 'Dumbass' so you don't get all Ruh-Roh, Scoob! on my emotional maturity over here?
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[The server returns, bearing Cyram’s order. Despite the fact that he didn’t request anything, the teen is given utensils to eat as well.]
You’re actually pretty flirty for a dude who must have an exhausting body count.
[Stiles tilts his head, turning the thought over in his mind with more consideration than is strictly necessary. Though he wants to keep the idea raunchy, keep it amusing, his chest tightens; just how lonely must this guy be?]
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Nah, man. If I start pretending humility, you know what happens next? Cats and dogs living together. Total chaos. Anarchy.
（ at the body count comment — which he could take one of two ways — he just leans his chin into his palm as he plucks at the plate with a thoughtfully provided fork. in a lazy, cavalier drawl: ）
You know, if that's a war crack, I think I'm legally allowed to dump my food in your lap, just sayin'.
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It wasn’t. [An honest admittance; though he doesn’t apologize for the wording, guilt crawls down his throat.] Not really thinking too much about that part of your resume. Not yet, at least.
[Cyram isn’t the first individual in this resort who has claimed to be a god—but it’s still a little too much for Stiles to wrap his head around when his mental health has been so compromised.]
But since you brought it up…
[The note crinkles as he twists it between fingers, indicating it.]
…You into poetry?
cw: ... animal abuse... metaphor...?
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. ）
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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.
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（ well, rhys'. NO BULLY!!! he gives the little paper a nod, and then takes a sip of his beer, before easing it back to the table and withdrawing his hand to continue crunching obnoxiously on whatever poor vegetable has now fallen victim to his fork. have at thee, carrot slice. ）
Dude. So many. Anything with strings is choice, personally. I've been leaning guitar for the past few decades, but before that it was... ehh, did some shit with a banjo down in New Orleans. （ he doesn't say it the way hollywood does, that drawling nawlins that's seemed to proliferate falsely through common perception. instead, it's said more like a native borne to creole, new or-lens. ） The only thing on Earth I've outright said a big ol' fuck you to is the goddamn sax, because it's a woodwind instrument lying about being brass, and I'm just like — pick a fucking lane already, you lying hunk of sheet metal.
（ he has so many feelings about this, actually??? like... a worrying amount of feelings. ）
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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.]
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（ it's said with a bit of a laugh, and a lift of his beer. ）
The things I like doing, being, learning — the people I care about, those are forever. Sometimes the instruments change, but that's really more about times, places, cultures than my actual focus.
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Guess there’s something special about you. [His icy grief isn’t meant for Cyram. When Stiles tries to offer the man a wan smile, it’s at least an honest one.] I mean, c’mon. Most people can’t even manage the “forever” that comes attached with a wedding ring—and that’s like, under a single century.
[Beer finished, he pushes it aside—but toward the wall, so as to not encourage a refill. While he has no problem shooting the breeze with Cy, he doubts he can handle more alcohol without food first.]
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he's seen it somewhere before — and it takes him a moment to yank the hamster out of the incongruous gearbox that is his brain to recognize it as survival. not the sort the cleave of his focus cuts to, but. it's near enough.
cy pushes the dish more towards the middle of the table, with an inviting little prompt of his fork. it's less that he thinks the kid needs a meal (though he does) and more that he thinks he needs the grounding distraction now that he's set the empty mug aside.
lightly: ）
Well, special's all relative. What about you, you a music man?
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cw: brief mention of disordered eating BUT IT'S REALLY INFECTION SYMPTOMS
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