[The abrupt question does make him hesitate. Stiles frowns, taking a moment to consider the hookah seriously, arm still outstretched. Teenage obstinance and natural curiosity war with common sense and suspicion. Eventually, the latter pair win. (For the time being.) Sighing, he draws away from the waterpipe and glances askance to address Silco—only to do a very obvious and even insensitive double take.]
Holy shit, dude. [A pause.] Okay, admittedly? My brain is working through like, a dozen different jokes about your eye simultaneously and it’s super overwhelming. But the real tragedy? Bet you’ve heard them all already.
[A true lost cause.]
So, you don’t reek of pot or whatever cannabis-adjacent drug exists here. You’re standing there with the confidence of a genuine chad straight out of his natural habitat on Tinder, despite clocking in at maybe a generous five-foot-what…six? [Probably an underestimation. That’s fine, though. Stiles isn’t here to be accurate—just a mouthy brat.] Oh, and, how could I forget? [A dramatized smack to the forehead with the palm of his hand.] The very classy, not-at-all creepy, secret society-wannabe signage featuring the (drumroll, please) eye.
[In case the relevance of that final point needs to be clarified, Stiles gestures helpfully to his nonexistent audience in the direction of Silco’s left eye socket.]
…A smart man might put all those little details together and wager you’re the owner of this fine establishment. Which? I wanna be sarcastic about, but it is actually weirdly nice in here? For a drug den, I mean.
[Not that Stiles has previously been to…any. Ever.]
The thing is…if you are the owner of this joint? Why the hell are you egging on someone clearly underage (moi, in this instance) to partake in the ganja? Am I being hazed? Are you hazing me? Or is this some plot to catch me in the act so you can report me to the powers-that-be?
[Wait for it.]
Oh, I’m done talking now. Your turn. [Another hand gesture, this time encouraging Silco to say his piece.] Please, I’m all ears.
HELL YES (also i'm so sorry, he never shuts up)
Holy shit, dude. [A pause.] Okay, admittedly? My brain is working through like, a dozen different jokes about your eye simultaneously and it’s super overwhelming. But the real tragedy? Bet you’ve heard them all already.
[A true lost cause.]
So, you don’t reek of pot or whatever cannabis-adjacent drug exists here. You’re standing there with the confidence of a genuine chad straight out of his natural habitat on Tinder, despite clocking in at maybe a generous five-foot-what…six? [Probably an underestimation. That’s fine, though. Stiles isn’t here to be accurate—just a mouthy brat.] Oh, and, how could I forget? [A dramatized smack to the forehead with the palm of his hand.] The very classy, not-at-all creepy, secret society-wannabe signage featuring the (drumroll, please) eye.
[In case the relevance of that final point needs to be clarified, Stiles gestures helpfully to his nonexistent audience in the direction of Silco’s left eye socket.]
…A smart man might put all those little details together and wager you’re the owner of this fine establishment. Which? I wanna be sarcastic about, but it is actually weirdly nice in here? For a drug den, I mean.
[Not that Stiles has previously been to…any. Ever.]
The thing is…if you are the owner of this joint? Why the hell are you egging on someone clearly underage (moi, in this instance) to partake in the ganja? Am I being hazed? Are you hazing me? Or is this some plot to catch me in the act so you can report me to the powers-that-be?
[Wait for it.]
Oh, I’m done talking now. Your turn. [Another hand gesture, this time encouraging Silco to say his piece.] Please, I’m all ears.