Stiles stared at his hands as they shook in front of him. He bit down on his lip, straining to control the tremors that radiated from his wrist to his fingertips. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and he released his lip with a sharp huff of frustration. The panic started to creep in, his hands practically vibrating in his lap now. There was a swell of noise behind him as someone opened the door, then the flat click of the latch followed by silence.
"Stiles." He wanted to raise his head, to look up and answer whoever was talking to him, but he was afraid that if he did he would break. That the very fragile hold he had on his emotions would shatter, leaving what he would inevitably become soon anyways. A mental case. Defective, useless. Dangerous. He grabbed at the sheet covering the hospital bed that was now his, gripping it until his knuckles turned white. He remembered what his mother had gone through. Those attacks of total confusion, panic. He hadn't understood then why she had looked at him like she didn't even know him. Hadn't known that every time she saw him she was wondering if he was real, if for once she could touch him without watching him turn to dust or burst into flame. He hadn't known she had withdrawn from the pressure to pretend she could distinguish the chaos of her mind from the brief glimpses of reality, just to recede into the darkness alone. She had been a visitor in her own life. And he hadn't known. But he did now.
"Stiles." The voice prompted him from his thoughts, though the fear that surrounded them continued to linger in his chest. He was pretty sure he could taste it, although that could have been the blood. He knew who the voice belonged to. His shoulders slumped forwards in exhaustion. The battle for dominance between the disturbed part of his brain and the slightly less disturbed part of his brain was wearing him down. He didn't have to pretend in front of Scott. He doubted he would have been able. He felt a hand on his arm, and the shadow cast across his hands, which had settled in his lap, told him Scott had crossed the room to stand in front of him. He opened his mouth, which suddenly felt unbearably dry.
"Yeah." His voice was a barely audible rasp, sounding almost as dry as it felt coming out. He finally managed to raise his eyes to meet Scott's, not bothering to hide the tears that were hovering on his bottom lashes.
"It'll be okay." Scott's hand tightened on Stiles' arm, but he didn't even notice. He was too preoccupied with the intensity of the determination blazing on Scott's face. He felt a pang of recognition as he realized what it meant. Scott would do anything to save him. Stiles knew, because he would do the same. They were family. It wasn't something that was spoken about, not really, except for that one time at the motel when Scott tried to light himself on fire. Still, Scott and Melissa had been there with him at the MRI, and he knew they would both be by his side all the way through what came next. The thing was, Stiles knew what came next. He had seen it, first hand. So he knew that watching someone lose their mind was excruciatingly painful, and that Scott's unwavering resolve to fix Stiles would only make that worse. He began to wonder, with an increasing sense of despair, if it would be better for everyone who loved him if his death came suddenly, and soon.
Self-sacrifice had never been a part of who he was. Stiles was not brave, and he knew that. The idea that maybe the last thing he could do for his family was to relieve them of himself was the single most hopeless thought he had ever had in his life. A sob wrenched its way from his chest, and his hands reached out, seeking something, anything. They knocked against Scott's chest and Stiles' felt his fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding it like a life line.
"I'm not going to let you give up, Stiles." Scott grabbed Stiles' face, tilting it so he could look directly into his eyes. "Do you hear me? You are not going to lose yourself. I'll turn you before I let that happen." He hesitated for a moment, and the only thing penetrating the silence was the broken sound of Stiles breathing. "You're my brother, Stiles." With that, Stiles felt the last vestiges of his control slip, and convulsed under the force of his emotions. The terror flooded his senses, like ice rushing through his veins, and he broke. The pressure that had been building in his chest for days found release in his sobbing, and he felt Scott wrap his arms around him, crushing him to his chest. They stayed like that for a while, Scott remaining quiet because he knew there was nothing he could say, while Stiles simply couldn't speak.
Eventually, Stiles pulled back, looking through tired, bleary eyes at his friend. Maybe under different circumstances he would have been embarrassed, but right now there was no room for embarrassment amongst the fear.
"I'm scared." He let it out, maybe accidentally. He didn't know, but it didn't matter anyways. Scott sighed. For a moment the air was heavy, hopeful. There was nothing Scott could say to make any of this better, but for Stiles hope was all that was left.
"I know." The room seemed colder now, and Stiles huddled on his bed, drawing the thin sheets up to his chest. "Me too." The silence took over, the hope gone, and everything was wrong again. Stiles closed his eyes, and just like that, was lost in the darkness.