“When I was younger I think I would have traded you, unpronounceable first name or not. It must be fun explaining that to teachers every semester.” Going to the fridge, she fishes out a narrow, flexible ice pack, wraps it up in a towel, and brings it to Stiles. “The bathroom is that one door over there.” It’s a studio apartment, practically all one room, so it’s not as though there are a lot of doors to choose from.
Helios paces back and forth in front of his food bowl, and she hurries over to top it off, muttering about spoilt cats and their demands and how they’re going to get fat and then see what happens to them.
“I think if you’d witnessed what life was like before I was Stiles, nah, probably not—there’s something to be said about a name that’s at least in the dictionary. Besides, in the world of Pilot Inspektor, really, Summer isn’t that weird at all.” Stiles reaches out to accept the towel-wrapped ice-pack, blinking briefly. He turns and looks over his shoulder at the door, and for a few seconds it looks like he’s doing some kind of mental math, internally, about things like studio apartments and bicycle, pedal and class.
Whatever conclusion he comes to he doesn’t voice. Instead he ducks his head a little, murmuring a somewhat sheepish thanks, and starts towards the bathroom while awkwardly holding the ice pack, to inspect the theoretical damage mentioned earlier.
“Does it change your mind if I tell you I have a fraternal twin sister whose name is Winter? And has black hair?” She’s not trying to upstage him. Not /really/. But it’s hard to imagine something more irritating than being not-twins with matching names. Either people are making fun of your names, or making fun of your claim to be twins.
She doesn’t really expect an answer, and heaves a sigh before dropping down into the papasan chair to take off her shoes. “You,” she informs Helios, washing his paw, “are a stinker. I’m going to lock that cat door if you pull this again.”