[That “nerd” comment earns Cyram a scoff of mock affront. But when the man makes his request, Stiles only hesitates a moment before offering up his hands for inspection. Almost immediately, he regrets agreeing; his hands have always been particularly sensitive, empty vessels starved for physical intimacy and all too hungry to have their fill. While he knows Cy doesn’t intend anything by the touch, it isn’t exactly clinical—and, after all these long, lonely weeks, proves to be more sensual than Stiles can bear with a semi-active suit. He swallows, throat clicking noisily.]
Uh.
[Stiles, a living embarrassment since the day he learned to walk, has become fairly inured to this kind of abashment. He doesn’t flush. But this small, basic interaction is having an impact on him—and the signs are there. The thick hairs on his arms, peeking out from where his proffered hands have escaped hoodie sleeve cuffs, are standing on end, quietly trying to mask the pebbling of skin beneath. His pupils have dilated, snuffing out the honey browns with voracious appetite. And there’s the hint of a pink tongue, wetting his lips as he struggles to answer the question, to find his footing.
A glutton for punishment, he does not retract his hands when it is sensible to do so.]
Not in the name of music, huh? [His voice is roughened, caught between a playful mischief and a syrupy kind of intoxication.] Sounds like a missed opportunity to really get someone to sing.
cy follows the trail of physiological breadcrumbs, from the twitch of the hands, to the shiver of unsettled skin, to the shift in the expression — and he doesn't let go of the boy's hands even though he, similarly, knows it's wiser. ）
Hey.
（ his thumbs press across the kid's palms, and he cants his head faintly to one side. ）
No easy way to ask, so I'm just gonna be crass. How fucked up are you right now? With the suit.
[The question might as well have been asked in a foreign language. Stiles stares, brain trying to process words that don’t translate easily into an obvious acceptance or rejection. If not for the thumbs kneading his palms, he would have retreated awkwardly. Instead, the teen goes still. His internal confusion doesn’t color his expression.]
I’m fine.
[A tireless lie that he’s uttered so often that he’s actually convinced by his own bullshit. With a wry brow cocked at Cy, he bumps their hands one last time—trying to indicate no hard feelings—and then finally pulls away. His spades suit, concealed beneath his hood and tucked away behind his ear, is something so out of sight, out of mind, that he doesn’t immediately make the connection.
Before he can try to steer the conversation away from potentially dangerous grounds—namely, his health, apparently—the server arrives to check on them. The unfinished dish is given a warning look. Stiles offers her his wrist, the one with the Watch, in order to pay for the meal as he told Cyram he would. After she leaves, he takes a moment to collect the bag at his feet, clearly intending to leave.]
You better keep eating, dude. [He grins, eyes cutting toward the owner at the bar.] She doesn’t take kindly to people who don’t finish.
[Stiles is about to continue, traitorous tongue ready to supply another flirtatious comment on the heels of that thought, but he reins himself in. Cyram didn't respond to the previous one the way he expected, and he doesn't want to push.]
（ i'm fine. yeah, where has he heard that before? but he lets stiles go with a lessening of his grip.
he could keep him here, he knows. a thousand things he could say, or do. the kid was aiming to flirt, and there's a part of him that feels a little bad at changing tack midway through an attempt, but — can't do much about it now. lessons learned. ）
Speaking from experience, are we?
（ it's lightly said, playfully flirtatious in a way that harkens back to the earlier comment, without the heat or the weight to it. ）
Aight, aight. Well, take care of yourself, Stiles. I'm on the third floor if you ever need a hand （ this is not an innuendo HAHA unless...? ） with anything.
[Bag hoisted over his good shoulder, Stiles turns to leave. But as he takes those first few steps away, the teen stops. Just keep walking, he urges himself, panic thick in his throat at the thought of what he wants to say. Emotional vulnerability has been—more difficult than it should be, after Scott.]
Hey, Cy.
[He doesn’t meet the other man’s eyes.]
…Thanks again. You seem—
[In his pocket, he tightens a fist around the folded note.]
—like someone I’d be lucky to get to know.
[Jaw clenched against any other stupid declarations, Stiles beats a hasty retreat.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Uh.
[Stiles, a living embarrassment since the day he learned to walk, has become fairly inured to this kind of abashment. He doesn’t flush. But this small, basic interaction is having an impact on him—and the signs are there. The thick hairs on his arms, peeking out from where his proffered hands have escaped hoodie sleeve cuffs, are standing on end, quietly trying to mask the pebbling of skin beneath. His pupils have dilated, snuffing out the honey browns with voracious appetite. And there’s the hint of a pink tongue, wetting his lips as he struggles to answer the question, to find his footing.
A glutton for punishment, he does not retract his hands when it is sensible to do so.]
Not in the name of music, huh? [His voice is roughened, caught between a playful mischief and a syrupy kind of intoxication.] Sounds like a missed opportunity to really get someone to sing.
no subject
cy follows the trail of physiological breadcrumbs, from the twitch of the hands, to the shiver of unsettled skin, to the shift in the expression — and he doesn't let go of the boy's hands even though he, similarly, knows it's wiser. ）
Hey.
（ his thumbs press across the kid's palms, and he cants his head faintly to one side. ）
No easy way to ask, so I'm just gonna be crass. How fucked up are you right now? With the suit.
no subject
I’m fine.
[A tireless lie that he’s uttered so often that he’s actually convinced by his own bullshit. With a wry brow cocked at Cy, he bumps their hands one last time—trying to indicate no hard feelings—and then finally pulls away. His spades suit, concealed beneath his hood and tucked away behind his ear, is something so out of sight, out of mind, that he doesn’t immediately make the connection.
Before he can try to steer the conversation away from potentially dangerous grounds—namely, his health, apparently—the server arrives to check on them. The unfinished dish is given a warning look. Stiles offers her his wrist, the one with the Watch, in order to pay for the meal as he told Cyram he would. After she leaves, he takes a moment to collect the bag at his feet, clearly intending to leave.]
You better keep eating, dude. [He grins, eyes cutting toward the owner at the bar.] She doesn’t take kindly to people who don’t finish.
[Stiles is about to continue, traitorous tongue ready to supply another flirtatious comment on the heels of that thought, but he reins himself in. Cyram didn't respond to the previous one the way he expected, and he doesn't want to push.]
no subject
he could keep him here, he knows. a thousand things he could say, or do. the kid was aiming to flirt, and there's a part of him that feels a little bad at changing tack midway through an attempt, but — can't do much about it now. lessons learned. ）
Speaking from experience, are we?
（ it's lightly said, playfully flirtatious in a way that harkens back to the earlier comment, without the heat or the weight to it. ）
Aight, aight. Well, take care of yourself, Stiles. I'm on the third floor if you ever need a hand （ this is not an innuendo HAHA unless...? ） with anything.
no subject
Hey, Cy.
[He doesn’t meet the other man’s eyes.]
…Thanks again. You seem—
[In his pocket, he tightens a fist around the folded note.]
—like someone I’d be lucky to get to know.
[Jaw clenched against any other stupid declarations, Stiles beats a hasty retreat.]