Stiles is slow to respond as the bike begins to pick up momentum. One of the pedals scrapes against the back of his calf before he manages to move both legs out of the way. Hunching forward, he prepares for round two of sour, petty diatribes. This is probably the most unpleasant day he’s had in London so far, including the time a ghost possessed him and then a tiny lawyer socked him. If he bothered to turn those judgments inward, he might realize the reason he’s so bitter—Stiles has discovered the beginnings of a strange, yet unique sense of solidarity with Sasuke. But he doesn’t know what the hell to do with that solidarity, or if he even wants it. Not everyone is worth investing time into.

“Uh.”

Except sometimes, such decisions are out of his hands.

“Dude, I really can’t follow that up with anything comparable. What the hell do you mean, you’ve been poisoned six times!?”

Even with firsthand experience of how aggravating Sasuke is, that’s extreme beyond extremism.