It’s dark, everything hurts and burns, and he can’t open his eyes even though he tries, he can’t—
He forces himself to snarl but it’s a pitiful thing, a mere weak wheeze through human teeth. He tries anyway because he doesn’t know where he is and it hurts it hurts it hurts—
I can’t do this again, he thinks desperately, feels his limbs stay still like rocks. I can’t be trapped again I can’t be abandoned again I can’t I can’t I can’t—
A presence washes over him like a wave of cool water. He stretches himself towards it, feels it is safety and home but before he has the chance to touch, he sinks back into unconsciousness.
Coming back is like falling but upward, being hurled into the land of confusion, pain, and fear, toward the endless sea of agony. He tries to shy away from it but there’s nothing he can’t do. If he could, he’d cry and beg but he still can’t even force his eyes open.
He flinches at the touch on his cheek. It’s like a brand, burning through his skin and bone straight into his brain where it makes itself home while he screams and screams and—
The presence is back, a whisper in the back of his mind, a shadow to hide away from the burning sun. He reaches out and almost sobs when the presence wraps itself around him. It still hurts but perhaps now, he can rest.
He has no idea how long he’s been trapped in this place.
He wonders if this is the punishment for all his sins.
Is there a redemption for a man like him?
The presence is always there, patiently waiting for him when he retreats from the pain. It feels warm in its comforting coolness, a steady rock to lean on when he feels like he’s burning up from the inside out and there’ll be nothing left but a pile of ash.
Sometimes, he wonders who it is.
After eons, when he finally struggles his way back into consciousness, he manages to pry his eyes open. The light is blinding and he fights the urge to close his lids. What little he can make out of the room he’s in, it’s not a hospital room. Instead, the ceiling is high, high above him and looks old and cracked. He breathes in deep and the scents of pack and home almost blow him away.
I’m not alone, he thinks.
I wasn’t abandoned.
The relief is almost enough to make him cry.
The next time he wakes up, he slowly turns his head. The presence that has been keeping him sane in the agony of his own mind is somehow here, and he doesn’t know what to think. None of Derek’s ragtag pack isn’t that close to him.
…Right?
He must’ve let out a noise because someone moves on his right. He sees a mop of messy, dark hair and then Stiles’s face swims into his field of vision. He looks exhausted and his eyes are red-rimmed but he’s smiling, so that’s probably a good thin—
Oh.
The presence he’d grown so accustomed to is back with a force that would make him gasp if he had the strength. It curls around him in a contented, warm blanket, shielding him and making him feel safer than in a long, long time.
”Hi, Peter,” Stiles murmurs and gently takes his hand. ”I’ve been waiting for you.”
Peter smiles and breathes in the scent of thunder and lightning.
This time, when he closes his eyes, he knows Stiles is there to catch him.