“I know—I know it sounds crazy. That it’s not possible but I swear to God. That’s what I saw.” Tone was persistent as though Stiles was sure that Alec was about to argue against him, that werewolves could not be possible. There was no way that Stiles saw what he says he saw. “You—You have to believe me.”
Mouth opens as though to persist on his point, to prove that it wasn’t a figment of his imagination. But Alec’s body language had him pausing, brow furrowing in concern and his hands lifting, an automatic response to offer physical contact to those in distress but thankfully he managed to stop himself, holding his hands up uselessly before letting them fall to his side once more. “Alec—”
Instinctively his gaze drifts, snapping onto the female watching the scene play out, his eyes silently imploring for some help from the person who knew his brother the best. Last thing he needed was to make this worse, to have his brother dragged off to the quiet room by Brunski. Another second dragged out, Void letting their gaze pierce the female, no, they did not need her just yet. But it didn’t mean they wouldn’t keep tabs on her. She could prove to be useful very soon.
Stumbling after his brother, Stiles fell to his knees in front of the other male, pained expression twisting his features as he watched the other male collapse further and further into himself. The internal torment was thick in the air around them, it was tantalising for the spirit, the most delectable smell, the prospect of a taste just within reach.
As though by instinct, done subconsciously before his mind could catch up with what he was doing, Stiles extended a hand and placed it upon his brothers shoulder, an attempt to give some form of positive contact. But almost as quickly as he did so he removed his hand, mouth twisting in apology, he hadn’t been thinking. While the contact had been short, it had been incredibly sweet, the brush of contact enough for him to get a taste of the males internal pain. It was delectable. “Al—Alec, Alec. You gotta look at me. Come on. You gotta look at me and breathe with me, okay? Focus on me, nothing else. Okay? Take a deep breath ‘lec.”
The scream is building in his chest, fighting to break free. Words that aren’t his own leave a bitter taste in his mouth, though he doesn’t know what needs to be said. Lips press together tightly, a familiar (and failing) attempt to suppress unique compulsion. As the need to scream grows stronger, the world around him begins to blur and fade. Stiles’ words are drowned out by the voices that fight to speak to him and Alec has to try even harder to ignore them, to fight for control and to regain at least a semblance of composure and guise of sanity.
Every fiber of his being is begging for Alec to let go, to open his mouth and give in to the burning desire. The unspoken words burn his throat, determination to keep his mouth shut leading to a nearly inaudible keening. You have to scream. Control is slowly slipping and the volume of muffled cries begins to slowly increase.
No. Not now, not in front of an estranged twin who shouldn’t see him like this. (Family reunions are notoriously problematic.) Stiles’ words manage to break through the wordless pleas that only Alec can hear and he clings to the sound, clawing his way back to reality. It’s rare that Alec is able to recover after such a strong panic attack -- or whatever the hell happens to him.
Following Stiles’ instructions, Alec sucks in a breath through his nose -- he can’t open his mouth, not even to take a breath. As he breathes out, Alec slowly forces his eyes open. Tears soften the image of his brother though the concern is clear. There’s something else, though. Something radiating from Stiles. Something intangible and invisible and most likely a figment of his paranoid fantasies. They’re twins and even though they haven’t been close in years -- haven’t had more than forced superficial conversations -- Stiles is trying to help. He is helping a little bit.
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