Hours later, they are sitting inside the warm Jeep. Lydia keeps her eyes on Stiles. He has not looked at her since they left the cemetery, and it makes her uneasy. Though he is mere inches from her, Stiles seems to be miles away. An image of his silhouette, masked by thick fog, enters her mind…sending a cold tremor down her spine.
They are in the tunnels and Stiles has collapsed beneath her. Outside, Allison raises her bow and arrow. She fires before she falters. She saves Isaac, she takes down an Oni, but she doubles over and drops to the ground.
Lydia is afraid to blink for fear that Stiles will vanish. She reaches for his hand, but his eyes are set straight ahead, and he doesn't notice. She tries to say his name, but growing apprehension has silenced her. The gentle jostling of the truck that normally soothes her, now sets her nerves on edge. She can't shake the unwelcome warning that her heart appears to be communicating – signaling with every beat, like Morse code. It transmits the same message that has haunted her dreams every night for seven days. It tells her she lost both Allison and Stiles with one swift motion of a sword.
The drive to Lydia's house feels shorter than usual. Stiles knew it would be that way. Whenever he wants time to slow down, it speeds up. As he pulls into the driveway and shuts the engine, the overwhelming dread that has been persistently creeping into his body takes complete hold. It started way down in his toes, as they stood in the cemetery. Now it has risen all the way up to his head, making him dizzy and unfocused, while also hindering the rest of his body with a dull ache and a sense of heaviness. He reluctantly gets out of the Jeep with the intention of opening the passenger's side door for Lydia, but she is already waiting for him outside, high heels dangling in her right hand, and her left patiently extended towards him. He accepts the gesture, but each step towards the house…each step up the long staircase…each step closer to her bedroom is more difficult than the last. It is as though he is manipulating his muscles through water – the kind of deep, rough water that pushes him three lengths backward to counter each movement forward.
As they cross the threshold to her room, his ears are pounding with every beat of his heart. He swallows with difficulty, lifts his eyes to her…and then…time slows down. She is gazing at him with such tenderness, and even though she is utterly wrecked with grief, she still looks like beauty personified. She tugs at his hand, but it might as well be his heart. It solidifies his resolve to make things better for her. No matter how much pain it causes him – Lydia is worth it. Her touch draws the led-like feeling out of his bones, and Stiles realizes he will remember this moment for as long as he lives.
He stares for the duration of a few shallow breaths, gathering the courage to speak to her. "Do you want anything?" he asks. "You barely ate this morning."
She shakes her head. "I don't think I can eat. I just want to lie down."
"Okay. Why don't you get changed? I could go make you some tea. You need to at least drink something."
"Alright," she replies, barely enough air in her lungs to raise a whisper.
She lets his hand slide out of hers as he silently helps her out of her coat, then she treads over to her dresser to gather her pajamas. When she turns to face Stiles, his eyes are glued to the door, his hands are shoved into his pockets, and he is nibbling at his lower lip. She waits, biting her tongue to silence herself, terrified of the things she might say to keep him from leaving. Her feet are rooted to the carpet. Not wanting to put additional space between them, she continues to stand still, clutching the pile of clothing to her chest and hoping it will muffle the sound of her quickening heart. She worries that when she comes back into the room, he will be gone, but as usual, Stiles understands her.
"It's okay. I'll just go make the tea and come right back."
Lydia knows that he would never lie to her. Stiles isn't like everyone else – she trusts him. She crosses in front of him as she walks to the bathroom, glancing over her shoulder when she gets to the door. Stiles flashes one of his trademark half-smiles at her. It's almost as perfect as his full smile, the kind she hardly gets to see anymore. It gives her the reassurance she needs to turn away and close the door behind her.
She is barely out of the room for two seconds, when Stiles shrugs out of his jacket – it's too restricting. He fidgets with his necktie. He is sure Lydia didn't tie it as tight as it feels. Pacing along the edge of the area rug, he tries to release the nervous tension that causes his eyes to mist, makes his stomach lurch, and compels him to move a bit too compulsively to appear natural. Fearing that he is on the verge of a panic attack, Stiles forces himself to stop the repetitive behavior and heads downstairs.
In the silence of the empty house, his shoes sound noisily against the oak staircase; the clamor like a ticking clock, signaling that his impending agony is growing closer and closer. In the expansive kitchen, a simple task like brewing a cup of tea becomes an ordeal. He can't remember where anything is. He is too clumsy. He is making too much noise; he thinks he woke Prada.
As he waits for the electric teapot to boil, Stiles sits on the cold tile floor with his head in his hands, trying to figure how in the hell he can possibly let go of the girl who has become the center of his world. When he detects a small amount of pressure on his knee, he lifts his head to find that Prada is standing on her hind legs, calmly waiting for him to pet her. He picks her up. Her warm furry little body provides some comfort. He takes a breath, gets to his feet, finishes the tea with steadier hands, and carries both the tea and Prada upstairs to Lydia's room.
Lydia prepares for bed, her heart racing erratically. Being unable to see Stiles does nothing to ease her anxiety. It pushes her to move faster so she can prove to herself that he is still there. She undresses, removes the bobby pins from her hair, and piles her long waves into a bun at the crown of her head. She takes a quick shower, wraps a thick towel around herself, and brushes her teeth, taking extra care to scrub the awful taste from her tongue. After releasing her hair from the bun and combing it thoroughly, she slides into the dove-grey panties, pink knit leggings, and over-sized creamy-white sweater that have all been warming on the radiator. Then, she briefly examines her tired reflection, reminds herself to breathe, and opens the door.
Upon entering the bedroom, her eyes reflexively search for Stiles. He is standing by her bed. His arms are folded across his chest, and he is lightly tapping his index and middle fingers on his bicep. She notes the difference in his appearance – jacket removed, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He has also obviously had his hands in his hair because it's restored to its unkempt glory. He looks like her Stiles again.
Her heart races, willing her to follow it. She wants to tell him right now – to run to him, throw her arms around him, and tell him she loves him with her whole heart. She wants to ask if everything he has shown her over the past week…over the past year…if it is real. She wants to hear him say that yes, he loves her too. She realizes that he is looking at the framed photo on her nightstand. It's her favorite one – a candid of Stiles and herself, which Allison had mysteriously taken several months ago and gifted to her soon after. In that split second, her mind seizes back the reigns.
Allison. Allison is dead…because of me, she thinks…and she says nothing.
When Stiles hears Lydia enter, he startles from the unpleasant stream of consciousness that has been torturing him with what ifs, should haves, and impossible scenarios. He turns to face her, and she takes his breath away. With the light bouncing off the mirror behind her, Lydia is angelic – glowing strawberry-blonde tresses, sweater cascading off her fair-skinned shoulder, left eyebrow arched, eyes glistening, and lips parted. She looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn't.
He quickly crosses the room, hastened by the pressing need to be near her, but as soon as he gets close, a wall of guilt springs up from the ground between them. Stiles wants to wrap his arms around Lydia, to tell her how much he loves her and hear her say it back, to kiss her with all of the passion he feels for her, then bury his face in her hair and breathe her in...but he doesn't. He reminds himself to slow down, to be careful with her. She is precious to him; the most treasured creation ever to grace his existence.
"Hey, you must be exhausted. Come on," he says in a low voice, linking his pinky with hers and guiding her towards the bed.
The way he touches her is familiar. It reminds her of a winter day...when she was just eleven years old, but after so much closeness, it feels too reserved, and it makes Lydia's heart sink. She clasps her free hand around his forearm to counter the lack of contact.
There is a cup of hot tea on her nightstand, next to their photo, and it looks like comfort. The bed is already neatly turned down, and Prada has curled up next to an extra blanket – the burgundy one that Lydia always drapes over Stiles when he falls asleep studying in her room. She remembers his expression when she woke beside him this morning and the two mornings before that. She thinks she saw love in his eyes...and it was beautiful. She remembers his left arm draped over her waist, heavy and protective. She remembers his lips gently lingering on her forehead – more comfort.
Lydia is brought out of her daydream when she feels Stiles withdraw until his arm slides out from under her hand. She tries to catch him, but he is too fast. The physical separation galvanizes the warning she has so ardently been trying to ignore. It twists the knot in her stomach more intensely, until she is off-balance. Her body sways, but she catches the edge of the bed with her palms and sits down before she falls.
"Lydia, are you alright?" His voice spikes with concern.
She shakes her head. No, she isn't. Not when he keeps getting more distant.
Stiles steps towards the bed and ever so lightly places one hand on her covered shoulder, while handing her the tea from the nightstand with the other. "Here, drink this. It will help."
He is burning to sit beside her, to pull her into his lap, and hold her as close as possible. He knows he should be grateful simply to breathe the same air she is breathing, but it hurts to have to withhold his affections.
She takes a few sips, relishing in the transfer of heat from the cup to her palms, as well as the warmth of the liquid gliding down her sore throat. She can sense Stiles looking at her. He is towering over her again, but unlike earlier in the day, now it makes him seem far away. She wants him closer.
"You should lie down," he says softly, taking the cup from her hands.
Lydia complies, rotating onto her side and leaving room for Stiles to lie next to her. When he doesn't join her, she reaches out for him. She is disappointed when he kneels alongside the bed. She wants to ask why he is refusing her but is fearful of the response. He finally concedes when she stretches out more insistently. She watches him as he grasps her hand tightly and weaves their fingers together, but his eyes don't meet hers. It is getting harder and harder for Lydia to see Stiles clearly. She glances over at the windows wondering if any have been left open, allowing all the dreary fog that has been hovering in the air to sneak into her room and hide him from view. All the windows are closed, so she hopes against hope that her blurred vision is due to exhaustion, rather than accepting it as evidence of her worst fear. Unfortunately, with every second it becomes more difficult to combat the warning that keeps ringing through her heart.
"Stiles, please."
He knows what she is asking, but he can't comprehend why. He thinks it is because she is trying to make things right between them, to forget all the hurt he caused, to stop being afraid of him – and he loves her even more for it. He thinks he shouldn't move, shouldn't give into his unrelenting need to hold her. It will make it that much harder when he has to stop, but there is nothing he can deny her – absolutely nothing.
How do you let go of the girl who has become the center of your world? he asks himself again.
This time, he has the answer: You hold her one last time and then you turn to leave, because it will save her.
He stands, removes his shoes, and slides into bed with her.
For Lydia, his acquiescence is a hollow victory. Stiles is still not close enough. Her hands latch onto his tie. She concentrates on the smooth fabric at her fingertips, gripping a bit more vehemently than she intends. Her lungs tighten to match the tension in her hands. Each inhale is marked by the awful sting of wanting…of needing to be with him, but not being able to speak the truth, and it is equal to the sting of Allison's death. It is steadily penetrating her heart with a blade of ice, pumping frost throughout her body with every strained beat. She shivers and gasps for air with his name on her lips.
"Stiles…help me."
Releasing his tie, she wipes her eyes with unsteady hands. She hopes he understands what she is trying to express from those three little words. She means that she loves him with all of her heart and soul, and that she trusts him above anyone else. She means he is everything to her.
Her request both uplifts and torments him. It means the world to him that she has asked him so openly. It is no secret that Lydia does not like to ask for help. On occasion, she reluctantly accepts it, but she never asks for it. She sees it as a sign of weakness in herself, but no one else. To Stiles, her strength is obvious. It's in everything she does, which has been especially apparent over the last seven days.
Three little words. Stiles help me. Those words have never been more significant, because when she speaks them with such unassuming vulnerability in her eyes, Stiles can see the true depths of her struggle, and it is so much more than he had already feared.
Lydia wets her lips and continues. "It hurts…I can't…I can't breathe… I feel so much…it hurts…and I can't. I'm afraid…no matter what I do, I can't make it stop…it just keeps getting worse. I can't do it. I can't see…I need you to help me, Stiles."
She means that she loves him so much that it hurts. That the feelings she has for him knock her off her feet from the force of their own weight. They leave her breathless and shaky, but still she craves more…always more. She means that she feels their connection whenever she looks at him and that it heightens whenever he touches her – when that feeling of wanting more rushes over, making her feel dizzy and helpless…but also whole and alive. She means that she is so intensely afraid of losing him that she can't speak her love. She means that the more she reaches for him, the more it seems like he is slipping through her fingers…but she wants it to stop. She wants him to stay with her. She means that the closer she tries to get to him, the more the fear of losing him obscures her vision. She wants him to lift the fog, to help her see again by understanding how much she loves him and by just being with her.
He hears that she is afraid of him. He hears that being near him hurts her, and that every second they spend together magnifies her pain. He hears that she can't be around him, that it pains her to see him, and that she needs him to help her – which he assumes he can only do by staying away, by giving her space.
"Okay, Lydia. I'll help you. I don't want you to be scared… It will be alright."
Stiles pulls her towards him. Perhaps it's wrong to do so, but this is going to be his last chance to hold her and he can't resist. He needs her close to him, one more time, so he can memorize every detail – the scent of her hair that is draped over his shoulder, the softness of her skin against his, her eyelashes tickling his jaw with every blink, her breath breezing across his throat, her ribs connecting with his, the rhythm of her heart influencing his to beat in harmony, the dainty ridges of her spine under his hands, her knees pressing into his thighs, her bare feet (which are always cold) grazing his shins. He wants to stay like this forever, and he thinks he can't.
She leans into him, grateful for the closeness. Working to persuade herself that Stiles is still with her, Lydia focuses on the sensation of his body wrapped around hers – his cheek resting on her forehead, the warm curve of his neck where she has buried her face, the scent of him filling her lungs, her ear pressed to his strong shoulder, his ribs against hers, the thumping of his heart calling for hers to match it, his firm abdomen making contact with her belly and stirring a warmth inside that spreads all over her body, his long legs hooked over hers. She wants to stay like this forever, but she thinks she won't be able to.
"I don't know why it's like this… I'm so sorry. I tried. Please understand," Lydia tries to explain.
She means that she is sorry that she can't tell him she loves him. She wants to – so badly, because he deserves to hear it, but she can't. She laces their fingers together, hands slick with tears, fighting to hold onto him as they slip with moisture.
He brings their joined hands to his lips and kisses the back of her hand repeatedly. He will never be able to get past the awful things he did, and now he believes that neither can Lydia. He understands it, but what he views as confirmation of his worst fear crushes him all the same.
"Don't be sorry. None of this is your fault. I understand."
Her eyes search his face in amazement. "You do… Don't you? I knew you would."
She scoots closer to him – as close as she can get without completely losing sight of his eyes. Then she touches his face with her free hand, delicately passing her fingertips over the moles along his jaw, before tilting her head closer and grazing her lips against his cheek. She knew Stiles would understand her. She knew it.
Stiles sees the relief flooding into her eyes, and though it consoles him, he can't bare the distance in their closeness. Lips that once kissed his – even if it was only to stop a panic attack – the sensation of those lips making feather-light contact with his skin, now causes immense pain. Lips that once breathed life into his lungs, passion into his heart, and stillness into his soul, now steal it all back. He is so tormented with heartbreak that he can't cry.
"Stiles…you're the one who always figures it out," she whispers.
He remembers the last time she said that to him, the way she looked at him that day, the trust she had in him, how tightly she held onto him. It feels like a lifetime ago, when they were moving forward, building something real – together…or so he thought. He can't take anymore – looking back hurts too much. He shakes the memory from his mind, the optimism it previously offered now taunting him as he nears the end of his time with her.
To Stiles, Lydia has just said good-bye to him in the kindest way imaginable. It provides some solace that she doesn't resent him for all the damage he caused, that she cares enough to have tried to get past her fear of him, that she feels badly it didn't work. Part of him wants to hang onto the smallest shred of hope that they can be together. He wonders if they could start over. It took so many years to get here, but he would be willing to do it all over again if he could just keep her close. It takes every last fiber of his strength to keep from dropping his head to her shoulder and begging her to try one more time. There is such an open willingness in her expression, he thinks it might actually work but he squashes the temptation to ask. He can't do that to her – intentionally put her through that kind of pain, make her relive it…for him. He loves her too much to ask her to suffer just to spare himself the heartbreak of losing her. He tries to take comfort in the fact that he can at least fulfill his desire to help her, even if it is not in the way that he had hoped.
"Shh…I'll always understand. You need to rest now, Lydia. Just close your eyes. Okay? Rest...and then…tomorrow..." He is unable to finish the sentence. He can't imagine what tomorrow will be like. Tomorrow…without his Lydia.
She doesn't want to close her eyes. She wants to look at Stiles. She is waiting for her eyes to clear, so she can see him better. She resists, but they are so tired and so heavy with grief that she can't keep them open a second longer. Lulled by the impression that Stiles understood what she could not verbalize, Lydia drifts to sleep with her head on his chest, the last of her wayward tears trickling onto his shirt, and the familiar sound of his heartbeat humming against her ear.
When he is sure Lydia is asleep, Stiles gingerly untangles himself from her.
Careful, he reminds himself. Careful, don't wake her… Don't hurt her anymore.
The same dread that plagued him since they arrived makes its presence felt once more. The dull ache that hindered his movements earlier is only made different by the fact that it is somehow worse than before. He hadn't thought it was possible. Clearly, it is.
He slides on his shoes, picks up his jacket, and stands at the side of the bed contemplating how this could have been avoided. Of course, he blames himself. He knows he should go, but he has no will to move. He feels rooted to the floor, afraid to take his eyes off of Lydia because it's the last time he is going to be able to see her like this.
His leg is caught inside a steel trap. It hurts so badly, and he is so very cold. The darkness is creeping in, crawling through his open wounds, leaving a trail of ice in its path as it burrows deep into his veins…waiting to take hold.
He averts his eyes and thinks he had better get used to doing so, because after everything, there is no way he is going to be able to get this close to her, to look at her face – a face that is a reflection of the limitless beauty inside of her – without falling apart. She is so still that she doesn't seem real. He thinks maybe she isn't. Perhaps he dreamed her into his consciousness, and now it's time to wake up.
He leans down to press one last kiss to her forehead. She shifts underneath him like a magnet as a small moan escapes her parted lips. He would wonder if he will ever be so profoundly connected to anyone else, except he already knows the answer to that question, and it is a resounding no. For Stiles, it's Lydia…always Lydia…and no one else. His eyes find the framed photo of them as he slowly turns to leave, and he wishes he could go back to that day just to see her smile at him like that…one more time.
Stiles sits in his Jeep, ignorant of how much time has passed since he locked the front door of the Martin house behind him. He already regrets not having stayed longer. As he glances over at the passenger's seat, Lydia's seat, he can almost see her beside him. She is hesitant in a shiny satin dress when he takes her to the Winter Formal. Curious in a floral skirt as he drives her to school. Determined in an ivory sweater, after arguing about a risk she is far too willing to take for someone who doesn't love her the way she deserves to be loved. Carefree in an emerald-green blouse as she sings with the radio, brushing fly-away strands from her face that the wind has set free from her topknot. He remembers early morning and late afternoon sun highlighting her hair, and moonlight and starlight glowing against her skin. The downpour of memories fills the Jeep as Stiles becomes submerged in the despair of knowing that he will be robbed of any such similar experiences…because Lydia will not sit there again.
It is then that all of the classic symptoms creep in; the head-spinning terror, trembling hands, sweating, chest pain, trouble breathing, and the complete inability to control any of it.
He is having a panic attack.
He is trapped, and he can't unfasten his seat belt, and she is not next to him. Her words echo in his mind – Stiles, help me, and he wonders who will help him now.
He gets his answer immediately. He hears Lydia's voice – the same as it was that day in the locker room. I read once that...holding your breath could stop a panic attack. So…when I kissed you...you held your breath.
Stiles holds his breath. He holds it until his lungs feel like they will burst, but it doesn't help because Lydia is not there. Desperately wheezing, he reaches into his jacket and removes the plastic case from his pocket. He opens it and pours Lydia's silver beads into his hand. He clutches them and thinks of her, and remembers what it feels like to kiss her perfect pink lips, to see her smile and know he was the reason, to fit her hand, so small and delicate, inside of his, to hold her body so close that they feel like one being, to fall asleep with her snuggled into his chest, to wake up the same way and see her face before anything else comes into focus.
Suddenly, he can smell a trace of her perfume drifting up from his shirt – vanilla and flowers and Lydia. His breathing slows and steadies. He returns the beads to their container and drives home with an unrelenting twinge beneath his ribs that has nothing to do with his panic attack and everything to do with the fact that he now has to confront the reality of a world without Lydia – the girl who tethers him to the earth and makes him feel alive.