[ Fugo answers, and all Stiles can think of is, well, you're shit out of luck, too, aren't you. he swallows a groan as Fugo helps him out of his jacket, trying to focus on everything that isn't his arm, the sharp stabs of pain like knives inside his skin and flesh.
he wonders if Fugo is the same as him — if his own name tastes as strange in his mouth, if speaking it aloud is like finding an old photograph you'd forgotten at the back of a drawer, shoved out of sight. ]
... you ever considered a nickname? It's worked for me. [ his voice is wry yet full of the kind of sympathy someone only has when they've been through the exact same thing. granted, his name doesn't have any weird meaning, just as Fugo's has likely never been something he couldn't have pronounced... but a shared inconvenience it still is. ] ... though Fugo's just fine, too.
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he wonders if Fugo is the same as him — if his own name tastes as strange in his mouth, if speaking it aloud is like finding an old photograph you'd forgotten at the back of a drawer, shoved out of sight. ]
... you ever considered a nickname? It's worked for me. [ his voice is wry yet full of the kind of sympathy someone only has when they've been through the exact same thing. granted, his name doesn't have any weird meaning, just as Fugo's has likely never been something he couldn't have pronounced... but a shared inconvenience it still is. ] ... though Fugo's just fine, too.