（ 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?
[On autopilot, he picks up the neglected fork on his side—just to poke and prod at the leafy greens. Yet again, Cy’s instincts are spot on.]
Ha, yeah, no.
[But there’s an oddly rueful glint to his eyes as he considers the question.]
Don’t get me wrong. Love music. (Who doesn’t?) Just not a musician. Never had the attention span for it when I was a kid. And after they put me on Adderall, it just seemed like the opportunity passed.
[Stiles shrugs, pushing more of Cyram’s meal around.]
Nowadays? Too busy. Got accidentally initiated into the previously unknown world of supernatural beings. Haven’t really had time for a proper hobby since.
Well that's just about the most depressing shit I've ever heard on a Tuesday.
（ cy it is not tuesday, but sure.
he leans back a bit more in his chair, relinquishing the territorial domain over his salad. he can't exactly chirp like a bird and stuff pre-chewed asparagus down the kid's throat, so maybe he'll decide on his own he should give actual food a try. the unhealthy pallor and the loss of weight is obvious in the what little the kid's not hiding behind a hoodie. ）
Is that a 'opportunity passed, interest lost' or a 'too busy because supernatural drama is a neverending black hole of whatever the spiritual opposite of a blowjob is and I have negative free time' type sitch? Because if it's the latter, can I introduce you to Capitalist Slut Utopia, where all we've got is time, and the closest thing you'll ever meet to Robert Johnson is sitting literally right in front of you?
（ does stiles even know who that is, who knows. all he knows is that he heard the man play once and it changed his fucking life. crossroads demons indeed. ）
[Alas, the bemused expression betrays his ignorance where Robert Johnson is concerned. Kids these days.]
The spiritual opposite of a blowjob, [he muses, fork suddenly scraping too loud; schooling a flinch, he meets Cyram’s eyes.] From experience? I’ll say that demonic possession by a void kitsune probably counts.
[He gives that detail a moment to breathe. Cy seems a sharp guy; he shouldn’t need Stiles to spell it out. Hopefully, the new information will help explain some things from before.]
Anyway, if you’re offering… Well, I won’t say no. I’m, uh, not the greatest student, though. As a warning.
[Despite that, there’s a keen interest brightening his gaze now. Something to look forward to.]
（ he hums lightly, accepting the statement for what it is. given the kid's reaction and the ensuing inquisition, he's more heartsick than surprised at the truth that spills out between them. it's so much, it is so much to put on a kid, a fucking kid. yet he can't even find it in himself to be angry — in a lot of ways, the idea of feeling anger on someone else's behalf feels like wild hypocrisy. ）
Yeah, I figure possession of any kind is probably right up there in the 'sucking outloud' category.
（ it's not said with pity, or any especial understanding. just acknowledgement. it does surely suck. and then he moves on to the next thing. ）
My guy, realtalk? I've spent more time teaching than anyone who's ever tried to cram algebra into your head, so let me bestow sagacious ancient wisdom upon thee like a royal knighting: there's no such thing as a bad student, there's just ones you haven't been fucking teaching properly. Let me worry about that. All you need to do is show up and give a shit. I've got like half a guitar made in my room right now, soon as I'm done with that you will have your lessons, sirrah.
（ a nod to stiles' hands. ）
You build callouses fast?
（ he has no idea how humans work. what even is a callous. ）
[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.]
（ look he roots for the toronto maple leafs, he has zero room to talk shit about sports. but it's said in that affectionate tone that most sports fans understand to be meant playfully. we don't talk about the vancouver stanley cup riots of 2011. ）
Guitar callouses are a bitch. May I?
（ he gestures for stiles to lift his hands up, and then slides his palms beneath the backs of them, thumb working across stiles' palms as he performs a dutiful examination, like a fortune teller at their trade. the boy has long, slender fingers — dexterity and cleverness are laid in every line, short nails that might be bitten for how near the quick they are. something in the deftness there make him think of the susurration of wings. ）
Well, I can say you've got the hands for it. The callouses show up here — （ a playful little 'snap' of his thumb and forefinger against the pad at the very tip of stiles' index finger on down to the pinky. ） Easier with nylon strings than steel ones. You can condition yourself with, ah... something about the width of a credit card, some people use picks. Press your fingers down against the edge. Not enough to hurt, we ain't gonna fuck with masochism in the name of music. You'll need 'em more on the left — fretting hand — than the right. Any questions?
[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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2024-01-23 10:44 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2024-01-23 11:03 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2024-01-23 11:18 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2024-01-23 11:28 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2024-01-23 11:32 pm (UTC)（ 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
Date: 2024-01-23 11:42 pm (UTC)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.)
no subject
Date: 2024-01-24 12:11 am (UTC)（ 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?
no subject
Date: 2024-01-24 12:25 am (UTC)[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?]
no subject
Date: 2024-01-24 12:47 am (UTC)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'.
no subject
Date: 2024-01-24 12:52 am (UTC)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...?
Date: 2024-01-24 03:00 am (UTC)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. ）
no subject
Date: 2024-01-24 04:48 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2024-01-24 07:11 pm (UTC)（ 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. ）
no subject
Date: 2024-01-24 07:35 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2024-01-24 08:14 pm (UTC)（ 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.
no subject
Date: 2024-01-24 09:25 pm (UTC)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.]
no subject
Date: 2024-01-25 03:02 am (UTC)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?
no subject
Date: 2024-01-25 04:51 am (UTC)Ha, yeah, no.
[But there’s an oddly rueful glint to his eyes as he considers the question.]
Don’t get me wrong. Love music. (Who doesn’t?) Just not a musician. Never had the attention span for it when I was a kid. And after they put me on Adderall, it just seemed like the opportunity passed.
[Stiles shrugs, pushing more of Cyram’s meal around.]
Nowadays? Too busy. Got accidentally initiated into the previously unknown world of supernatural beings. Haven’t really had time for a proper hobby since.
cw: brief mention of disordered eating BUT IT'S REALLY INFECTION SYMPTOMS
Date: 2024-01-25 05:04 am (UTC)（ cy it is not tuesday, but sure.
he leans back a bit more in his chair, relinquishing the territorial domain over his salad. he can't exactly chirp like a bird and stuff pre-chewed asparagus down the kid's throat, so maybe he'll decide on his own he should give actual food a try. the unhealthy pallor and the loss of weight is obvious in the what little the kid's not hiding behind a hoodie. ）
Is that a 'opportunity passed, interest lost' or a 'too busy because supernatural drama is a neverending black hole of whatever the spiritual opposite of a blowjob is and I have negative free time' type sitch? Because if it's the latter, can I introduce you to Capitalist Slut Utopia, where all we've got is time, and the closest thing you'll ever meet to Robert Johnson is sitting literally right in front of you?
（ does stiles even know who that is, who knows. all he knows is that he heard the man play once and it changed his fucking life. crossroads demons indeed. ）
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Date: 2024-01-25 05:18 am (UTC)The spiritual opposite of a blowjob, [he muses, fork suddenly scraping too loud; schooling a flinch, he meets Cyram’s eyes.] From experience? I’ll say that demonic possession by a void kitsune probably counts.
[He gives that detail a moment to breathe. Cy seems a sharp guy; he shouldn’t need Stiles to spell it out. Hopefully, the new information will help explain some things from before.]
Anyway, if you’re offering… Well, I won’t say no. I’m, uh, not the greatest student, though. As a warning.
[Despite that, there’s a keen interest brightening his gaze now. Something to look forward to.]
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Date: 2024-01-25 05:57 am (UTC)Yeah, I figure possession of any kind is probably right up there in the 'sucking outloud' category.
（ it's not said with pity, or any especial understanding. just acknowledgement. it does surely suck. and then he moves on to the next thing. ）
My guy, realtalk? I've spent more time teaching than anyone who's ever tried to cram algebra into your head, so let me bestow sagacious ancient wisdom upon thee like a royal knighting: there's no such thing as a bad student, there's just ones you haven't been fucking teaching properly. Let me worry about that. All you need to do is show up and give a shit. I've got like half a guitar made in my room right now, soon as I'm done with that you will have your lessons, sirrah.
（ a nod to stiles' hands. ）
You build callouses fast?
（ he has no idea how humans work. what even is a callous. ）
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Date: 2024-01-25 06:15 pm (UTC)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?
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Date: 2024-01-26 04:11 am (UTC)（ look he roots for the toronto maple leafs, he has zero room to talk shit about sports. but it's said in that affectionate tone that most sports fans understand to be meant playfully. we don't talk about the vancouver stanley cup riots of 2011. ）
Guitar callouses are a bitch. May I?
（ he gestures for stiles to lift his hands up, and then slides his palms beneath the backs of them, thumb working across stiles' palms as he performs a dutiful examination, like a fortune teller at their trade. the boy has long, slender fingers — dexterity and cleverness are laid in every line, short nails that might be bitten for how near the quick they are. something in the deftness there make him think of the susurration of wings. ）
Well, I can say you've got the hands for it. The callouses show up here — （ a playful little 'snap' of his thumb and forefinger against the pad at the very tip of stiles' index finger on down to the pinky. ） Easier with nylon strings than steel ones. You can condition yourself with, ah... something about the width of a credit card, some people use picks. Press your fingers down against the edge. Not enough to hurt, we ain't gonna fuck with masochism in the name of music. You'll need 'em more on the left — fretting hand — than the right. Any questions?
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Date: 2024-01-26 11:49 pm (UTC)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.
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Date: 2024-01-27 05:01 am (UTC)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.
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