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Focus. Breathe. In, out, in, out, focus damnit!
He can feel the sharp tips of claws cutting into the skin of his palms, the metallic tang of blood on his tongue, the barely there sting of his lip splitting open where fangs are digging into it.
Come on, Stiles, focus. Breathe. You can do this.
The chains are weighing heavily against his wrists, the cold metal wrapped around them and hanging loosely because he's frozen solid in place. At least he has that much control, though it's little consolation in the moment, because he can't stop the shift, can't pull back the claws or fangs, can't stop his eyes from flashing bright blue.
No more dementia, no more ADHD, no more panic attacks, think of how much easier it should be to just fucking focus.
Should be doesn't mean that it is, though, not when he spent so much of his life living without it, living with the constant thrum of his thoughts and restlessness of his whole body. There's always been artificial help to settle him down, medication that was the only way to slow his mind's chaos. The sting on his lip sharpens when Stiles thinks of how that chaos was what the Nogitsune took advantage of, the reason he couldn't fight it off entirely.
Anchor. You need an anchor. You need something to hold on to, something to ground you. Something human to bring you back.
And that's the irony of it all. Stiles knows what his anchor is, but his mind is struggling against it without giving him a reason why. He knows what is stopping him from shifting completely, and he has no doubt that his anchor is as solid as it possibly could be. When he first tried to find it, he spent days chuckling to himself at the contradiction.
Of all the things to ground your humanity, Stiles. Out of everything you could've had -- your Dad, the memory of your Mom, the pack, your spark -- your anchor is the one that's the furthest away from human.
Because his anchor is right there, and Stiles is grasping for it with his mind, trying to get a solid hold on it, trying to reel the wolf inside him in. He could reach out and touch, could get a hold physically, but he knows that it wouldn't help with the mental grasp he needs to have on it.
"Stiles."
He twitches, the voice that rings through the otherwise quiet room ripping him from his thoughts and bringing him back to reality. Back to the darkness and the chains, back to the sting of his lip that his fangs have cut open.
"Stiles, stop fighting it," Derek says, more firmly. "It will be easier to anchor yourself back, after you let yourself shift."
That's not control, though. That's not…
And then he remembers, his mind floods with the memory of when the Nogitsune was in complete control of his body and mind, when every move and gesture was as perfectly calculated as each word that came out of his mouth. Stiles remembers hating it, loathing how nothing felt natural, nothing felt like him.
It's enough to make him let go, and he feels his facial features rearranging into the Beta shift, his fangs slipping out that last little bit he was holding on to. The wolf part of his mind gets more solid, and he can't hold back from his anchor anymore.
"Good, now let your wolf find the thread to shifting back," Derek speaks quietly from across the room.
You, Stiles thinks, his mind clearer than it's ever been. You're my anchor.
The low gasp from where he knows Derek is standing is followed by a growl that Stiles can feel deep in his bones, like an answer to his call for his anchor. It's what tells him that he's not the only one feeling the connection, and that maybe he said the words out loud. He opens his eyes to meet Derek's, and finds them mirroring his own blue pair.
"Me," Derek says, and it's not a question, because they both know.