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All three of them. Jennifer had all three of their parents, meaning she could go through with the sacrifices any moment now. Any moment his dad and Scott’s mom (who Stiles thought of as Mom numero duo) and Allison’s father could be dead and not there anymore. He gasped for air, but the room was suddenly spinning and he took a couple steps forward, trying to keep his balance.
“Stiles?” He could see Lydia’s face coming in and out of focus, but he shook his head, leaning against the wall and trying to breathe. “Stiles! What are you..”
“I think..” Stiles gasped, closing his eyes to fight of the nausea that threatened to take over, “I’m having a panic attack.”
The world was spinning, faster and faster until Stiles was sure he would pass out. When he got to focus his sight again, he was sitting on the floor in the locker room - Lydia must have dragged him there because he couldn’t remember walking there himself.
“Stiles, stay here. I’m getting help, okay. Just stay here and try to breathe. I won’t be long, I promise.”
Stiles wanted to laugh, to call after her that she just had to stay and hold his hand and maybe count to ten with him, reached out his hand to grab at her shoulder, but then she was gone, a blur of red hair disappearing from his sight. His hand hung in the air, and he wanted to let it drop, but couldn’t bring his muscles to move, not when his brain was getting cut off of oxygen, when his entire body was trembling with a rippling anxiety he feared would tear him apart. His leant back against the locker, taking tiny shuddering gasps as he desperately tried to calm down. He had no time for this, had no time to waste sitting down and doing nothing. He just had to breathe. How did breathing work again? There were dots in front of his eyes, and he followed them as they moved around, blinked to keep them there and not let the darkness overtake him.
There was a ruffle of clothing right next to him, and then there was a tap on his cheek. “Stiles.”
Stiles gasped again, blinking furiously and trying to get his eyes to just focus. He could smell the other person, leather and cologne and something warm that made his nostrils tingle and he wondered briefly if this was what it was like to have heightened senses all the time.
“Stiles.” The was a hand underneath his chin, grabbing him firmly, holding his head still. “Focus on my eyes.”
A flash of bright blue - two flashes actually - and Stiles managed to look at them, blinking until they became less blurry, until he could place them in a face. He knew those eyes. And that face. “P-Peter.”
“There’s a good boy.” Peter murmured, keeping their eyes locked, hazel meeting a bright blue. “Now breathe with me, Stiles. One, breathe in.”
Stiles gasped, and Peter’s grip on his chin tightened, forcing him to focus. “No. I said, one, breathe in.”
This time Stiles managed to get some air in his lungs, and immediately the world felt less surreal. He could feel relief spreading through his body as his brain thanked him for the necessary oxygen.
“Two, breathe out.” Stiles did as he was told, clinging to the burning blue of Peter’s eyes as if they were a life line.
“One, breathe in.” Peter said again, and this time Stiles took a larger gulp of air, his hands unclenching from the fists he’d been making. “And two, breathe out. Good.”
Slowly the world stopped its imitation of a carrousel, and Stiles’ body went limp with exhaustion, sliding to the side. Instead of slipping to the floor, however, he found himself being lifted back up. Peter’s arms were around him, pulling Stiles to his chest, and he let himself let into Peter, relaxing in his grip. “Well done, Stiles. So good.” Peter’s voice was in his ear, and he could feel the soft scratch of stubble against his own cheek as Peter rested his chin on Stiles’ shoulder. “I can hear your heart rate slowing. Well done.”
It was childish and embarrassing, but the praising words calmed him down completely, and Stiles closed his eyes, taking a couple more breaths before mumbling a hoarse. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Stiles.” Peter replied, softly stroking Stiles’ side, where his shirt had slipped up a couple inches, showing some skin. Stiles knew he should say something, push Peter away and scream because he didn’t want Derek’s creepy uncle stroking his skin, but he found that he didn’t care. Psycho serial killer aside, Peter had just talked him through a panic attack while Lydia had abandoned him. So he leant more into Peter’s touch, nuzzling his head against the crook of the older man’s neck, breathing deeply. Panic attacks were so exhausting, and Peter’s chest was warm and soft, rising and falling in a steady rhythm, and the hand on his stomach was rather comforting. He felt his eyelids grow heavier and heavier with every breath, until his mind decided to time-out.
When he woke again, because of Lydia barging in the room with the nurse at her side, Stiles was sitting against the locker again, and any trace of Peter was gone, except for the lingering smell of cologne on Stiles’ shirt.