Peter Darling

by Austin Chant

  Then a shot rang out and one of the great eyes spouted blood. The kraken gave an unearthly scream and thrashed in agony, hurling Peter into the air. He tumbled into a low cloud before he could right himself, coughing and gasping for breath.

  Below, the kraken's weight was splitting the Jolly Roger in half. Peter heard two more shots fired, but not could not see who was shooting—until he saw the kraken reaching toward the captain's cabin.

  He saw Hook dragged out by the feet, dangling from the kraken's grip like a toy.

  Peter didn't think. He dove. As he plunged through the air, he saw Hook struggling to point his pistol at the kraken's enormous mouth, unable to get off the final shot.

  Knowing he couldn't pull Hook out of its clutches, Peter went for the kraken's remaining eye. He seized a jagged, splintered stave that had once been part of the rigging and tore it free of a tangling rope, and then flew toward the kraken, past its captive. He drove the makeshift spear deep into its pupil and then leapt back, only to be nearly deafened by its screams.

  Peter twisted around midair to see Hook dropping toward the creature's mouth. He moved faster than he thought possible. One moment he was poised above the eye, and the next he was seizing fistfuls of Hook's waistcoat and straining upward to stop his fall, spiraling past the collapsing mast as Hook threw his arms around him. Peter made straight for the trees in the hills above the bay, wishing he could close his ears to the kraken's horrible noises and the crunching, cracking, squealing of the Jolly Roger being torn apart.

  *~*~*

  He let them both down in the woods when he could no longer fly, and crumpled to the ground. He wanted to go further; he could still hear the screams echoing off the hills in the distance, and panic still washed over him in waves. But his limbs were trembling and it was all he could do to stay on all fours while his pulse banged around in his throat.

  Hook lay on his back beside him, breathing hard. When Peter collected himself enough to glance over, Hook met his eyes and began to laugh, a little hysterically. When he ran out of breath he lay there silently instead, a hand on his heart.

  "You lost your crown," he said. "I suppose Poseidon wanted it back."

  Peter couldn't remember seeing his crown in the chaos; he supposed it had probably gone flying off when the first blow had hit the Jolly Roger. "I'm still a king," he said, with a weak attempt at humor.

  "Pan," Hook said. "You saved my life."

  Peter didn't know what to say. He had gone back to rescue Hook so unthinkingly, so instinctually, that he was only now beginning to realize he had done it. He hadn't worried about a single thing besides protecting Hook.

  He cast around for a reason—an excuse, not the real reason, which he already knew.

  "I had to," he said finally. "If you'd died there, I wouldn't have been the one to defeat you."

  Hook gave a low chuckle. "Your obsession is flattering, Pan. And I share it."

  "Obsession?"

  "Is that not what they call it," Hook said, "when two men can think of nothing but each other?"

  Peter went still, feeling his ears go hot at the implication. Hook knew, he thought. Hook knew exactly what Peter had felt before, when Hook had pinned him down.

  He sat there tongue-tied. The two of them didn't speak for some time, until the kraken's last cringing wails had receded and there was no sound but the shiver of the leaves.

  "Thank you," Hook said eventually. "I suppose I should have led with that."

  Peter sat up, leaves scattering around him. "You shot the kraken first to save me. You don't owe me."

  Hook tutted. "How modest. A man knows when he owes something." He sat up and turned toward Peter. "Perhaps this will even the score."

  Peter lifted his head. Hook's hair was tangled around his face like a lion's mane and his eyes were painfully clear, all teasing and mirth gone from his mouth.

  He took Peter's chin in his hand, his fingers calloused but gentle, and kissed him.

  Everything in the world grew quiet and Peter's body grew loud. The caress of Hook's fingertips under his chin made his pulse catch, his throat flushing, shoulders tightening. He could only seem to breathe in, breathe Hook in deeper. Hook's lips were dry, and he tasted like salt and sweet wine. He smelled like gunpowder and the sea and he was everywhere, shifting closer across the leaves, his other arm snaking around Peter's waist, the iron claw pressed flat between his shoulder blades.

  Peter dug his fingers into fistfuls of earth, trying to ground himself as Hook pulled them together, tipping Peter's head back with the gentle thrust of his kiss, a momentum that threatened to tilt them both to the ground. Peter was impossibly hot, hot to his fingertips and toes and his skin was crawling with the need to be touched, the shock of that need.

  Sweat caught at the back of his shirt. His skin was stark canvas begging for ink, and Hook's touch was going to stain him forever. It was too much, too sudden. Peter recoiled, yanking a knife from his boot and holding it between them. He didn't mean it as a threat, just a way to make distance where none had been.

  Hook stared at him, bemused, his mouth slightly pink.

  "What's the matter?" he asked. "Have I misunderstood you?"

  "No," Peter said faintly. "But I—I've never—"

  Hook stroked his face, brushed his fingertips across Peter's jaw. Peter took a breath that shuddered behind his teeth. Hook looked at him like he was some kind of jewel, like he was something precious.

  "Proud and insolent youth," he said.

  Peter shivered at the affection in his voice. His grip was slippery on the hilt of his knife; he realized he was afraid, more afraid than he had ever been in his life, but it was the kind of eager fright that came with anticipation and hunger. And Hook could certainly see it in him. His bright-blue eyes were taking Peter in, and Peter couldn't look away.

  He bit his lip, struggling to make words out of the war waging itself in his chest.

  "I don't know what this makes me," he managed at last.

  Hook laughed, not unkindly. "It makes you whatever you want it to make you." He pushed a curl of Peter's hair behind his ear, and sparks seemed to jump across Peter's skin in the wake of his fingers. "You once told me you were youth and joy."

  Peter smiled a little, though he felt brittle and uncertain. "I made that up because you hated being called old."

  "Ah, of course. Then what are you, Pan? A spirit? A prince? Or merely a man frightened of indulging himself?"

  Peter felt the truth on his tongue, but he couldn't say it, couldn't even really think it. He felt empty, and yet more fully attached to his body than he had ever been, more aware of his senses and where he and Hook touched.

  "Hook—" he began.

  "Peter," Hook said. "Kiss me."

  Peter swallowed. He brought the tip of his knife to rest against Hook's chest, digging it in as if testing the earth.

  Hook's eyes gleamed with something almost playful. He curled his fingers around the back of Peter's neck. "Or we can keep trying to kill each other, if you prefer."

  He leaned forward suddenly, as if to skewer himself on Peter's blade, and Peter—before he knew what he was doing—wrenched the knife back. He saw Hook's smile in the moment before Hook was too close to see, his mouth catching Peter's again, his arms around him.

  Peter took a fistful of Hook's waistcoat to steady himself, squeezing his eyes shut and panting at the brush of Hook's tongue on his lips. Hook did not seem to care that Peter still held a knife; he pressed his palm to Peter's stomach where heat was already pooling, his fingers stroking, coaxing. Peter's pulse was loud in his ears, his heart racing so violently that he didn't know how it would last without bursting in his chest.

  Hook sent him sprawling into the moss with a gentle push. He cradled Peter's face in his hands and kissed him deeply, licking into his mouth. Peter let go of his knife impulsively to grab a fistful of Hook's hair, pulling out the ribbon that kept his curls contained at the nape of his neck. Ringlets cascaded over his fingers.

>   Hook sank over him, brought his mouth to Peter's neck, and bit him.

  Hard. Stinging. Something in Peter shifted and he seized hold of Hook with both hands, yanking the buttons on his waistcoat open and pulling it down his arms. Hook kissed him madly, and Peter imagined his eyes blazing red as they had in Peter's dreams for years. Peter inhaled the smell of him, the sweat and wine and smoke, the spice and wax sweetness of summer sunlight, all heightened as Hook wrestled out of his shirtsleeves and Peter dragged him close again. Peter pressed a hand to his chest, found it tangled with soft hair, felt the thoughts squeeze out of his head as Hook caught his lip between his teeth and bit hard enough to burn. He bit back, and Hook gasped against his mouth.

  "Take what you want," Hook said, breathless. "That's what you've always done. Take me."

  "Do that again," Peter said. He clenched his eyes shut when Hook, instead of obeying directly, dragged his tongue over the place he had bitten. There was a prickling pain that sent tingles and shivers through him, and it left him speechless. Hook's teeth dug into his lip again and his whole body tensed with it, a moan catching in the back of his throat. It was almost too much just to feel it, like lying in the surf and feeling the waves crawl over him.

  He lay gasping as Hook reached inside his trousers and ran rough, calloused fingers over the tenderest part of him. Fire spread to every inch of him, sharp as a needle, and he thought he would burst or shatter. It felt unspeakably good, and unbearable, and he cried out raw and pleading. Hook held him to the ground, palm pressed to Peter's chest where Peter's heart was thundering. Peter clawed at his back, seized fistfuls of his hair, gasping for breaths that never seemed enough.

  The peak of sensation reached a point like a knife—hot—devastating—and then broke suddenly, plunging him back into his own skin to feel his muscles shaking, to hear himself whimper when Hook kissed him.

  "Peter," Hook whispered.

  Peter couldn't speak. He had never felt more filthy. Never inhabited his own skin so fully. Nothing, in all the time he had spent in the grime of the forest or the blood and sweat of the hunt, had ever managed to reach him as deeply as this: pressed to Hook's bare chest, able to feel his heavy breathing, the unresolved arousal still drawing him taut.

  Peter wanted to reach out and touch him, but he was afraid of how much more intense that would feel. He could imagine staring into Hook's eyes as he was overcome with sensation, knowing that it was his hands doing the work, and a shiver of longing ran down his spine.

  "Peter," Hook said again. "Are you all right?"

  Peter opened his eyes and plunged back into a reality he hadn't realized he'd left behind. The forest was all around them, but it seemed gray and distant, except for Hook. He was struck by the feeling that they were the only two people alive in the world—that this was something beyond any magic or illusion or story Neverland could conjure. Something real.

  It made Peter suddenly, painfully conscious of what wasn't real. He swallowed, trying to ignore the sensation of being unmoored, floating in a body that wasn't his own. This was perfect, if he could hold onto it.

  Hook stroked tenderly at his temple, pushing damp curls of his hair out of his face. "Peter?"

  Everything around them was so quiet, like the forest was holding its breath, holding a space for all their secrets.

  "I don't know," Peter said. He didn't think he'd ever wanted anything more than to stay like this. He took a deep, steadying breath, and Hook pressed a kiss to his forehead. Peter wasn't surprised anymore at how gentle he could be. "Is it always like this?" he asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You've done this before." He hated the vulnerability in his voice. It gave away that he had no idea what he was meant to be feeling, no idea how people managed to be this close to each other without falling apart. "Do you always feel—scared?"

  "Oh," Hook said. "Yes." And he was enfolding Peter in his arms again. "Can't you hear my heart beating? I thought it must be making a racket."

  Peter brushed his fingers over the pulse in Hook's throat; it was pounding as hard as his own. He gave a weak laugh. Now that he was paying attention, he could feel the tension in Hook's body where it met his, an anxious, erotic tension.

  With a guilty twist, he realized he'd let Hook focus on him completely, and he had been so caught up in what he was feeling that he had barely reciprocated. If nothing else, he knew it was supposed to be mutual. Trying to swallow his uncertainty, he ran his fingers down Hook's chest and over his abdomen, reaching—

  Hook caught his hand. "You don't need to," he said. He gently pulled Peter's wrist aside.

  "But… it's not fair."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I didn't—you didn't—"

  "I'm perfectly satisfied," Hook said. "All I've wanted since the moment you came back was to have my hands on you. Truly."

  Peter licked his lips. "What if I want to touch you?"

  "Ah…" Hook looked as if that were something he hadn't considered, as if it hadn't occurred to him that Peter wanted him as much as he wanted Peter. He shivered, and then released his hand, touching his cheek instead. "Well, I won't say no to that."

  Peter leaned in. He cupped Hook's face, his palms prickled by his beard, and slowly kissed him. It was different when he took the lead. He could feel how Hook responded to his touch, the tremble under his skin. It was strange and gratifying to realize that Hook felt as he did.

  "Peter," Hook murmured, when he pulled away. His eyes were soft.

  Somewhere along the line, he had started using Peter's name. Peter couldn't remember when, but it was perfect; it made him feel settled, fully himself. All of a sudden it didn't seem right to call Hook Hook, distant and fantastical, not when they were together like this.

  Peter knew his other name, his intimate and human name, the one he signed his letters with, the one that always rolled off his tongue carelessly when he was introducing himself. He bent and kissed it shyly into Hook's throat: "James."

  Hook stiffened. "What did you say?"

  Something about his tone made Peter draw back. It was not the reaction he'd expected. Hook was gazing at him with startled pain, like he'd been stung. "James?" He saw the name land on Hook this time, saw him flinch, saw it travel through his body like ripples on a pond. "That's… right, isn't it?" Peter asked, suddenly afraid it was as painful a memory as Peter's old name.

  "Yes," Hook said. "That's right."

  His eyes were far away and shuttered. He sat up, and Peter followed him nervously, laying a hand on his knee. "What's wrong?"

  "I've just remembered something I forgot," Hook said heavily.

  "What?"

  "Samuel." He said the name like it was shrapnel he was pulling from a wound. "Samuel."

  Fourteen

  Peter's throat was dry. "What does he have to do with this?" It was a cold thing to say, he knew that, but he was confused by the distance in James's eyes.

  "I forgot him," James said, as if he couldn't wrap his mind around the words.

  "You didn't forget him. We've talked about him—"

  "Not him. Not that puppet." There was something like disgust in James's voice. "The real Samuel. We met… we met at university. It was before all this—it was so long ago."

  "He was real?"

  "Yes. I loved him. I'd only ever dreamed of men before, but he was real. I knew I'd never have to come back here so long as I was with him."

  A shiver ran down Peter's back, a twist of hurt and dismay. "Where is he, then?"

  "They sent him away to the war," James said hoarsely. "He never came back. That's what I used to dream about. Endless dreams of losing him, of seeing it happen, of reading the letter. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't live. So I…"

  Peter could guess where he was going, and didn't want to hear it. The world was still gray around them; there was only him, James, and the grief pulling James away.

  "James," he said, pleading. "Forget about it."

  He squeezed at James's knee, but James
jerked away from him with a snarl of pain. "No," he said. "I did forget. I forgot everything. I went looking for him in the only place I thought I might find him—and yes, here he was, as if he'd never gone, just another sailor in my crew. And I wanted him to be real so badly that I—forgot—everything." The fog had gone from his eyes; they were clear and sharp and he was crying, bright sudden tears. "Oh my God, everything. How long have I been here?" he demanded of the empty air, bowing his head. "What in God's name happened to my life?"

  "You said yourself," Peter said. He couldn't move, fighting panic. It was all he could do not to think of the Darling house. "Neverland is better than all that."

  James snapped toward him with a kind of desperation. "Peter," he said. "Think, please. You ran away from your family, but Neverland's used that against you, don't you see? It's used that to trap you here. You must remember, or it'll never let you go."

  "I do remember," Peter cried. The memory was vivid and all around him; it was only getting worse the more James talked. He had managed to forget there was anything beyond Neverland, and now it was rushing back over him. "I do remember, and I don't want it. I just want to stay here with you and forget about it."

  "I will not forget again," James said. "I will not." He repeated it like a mantra, like a prayer. "I will not. I only remembered now because I haven't felt anything real in God knows how many years. I'd forgotten what it was like to be seen. Spoken to. Touched. We've been locked in here with ghosts."

  "Shut up," Peter said, half furious and half pleading. "You're ruining it."

  James finally seemed to realize that Peter was angry with him; he stared at him, tears making slow tracks down his face. "Peter," he said. "I've been here alone with nothing. You're the only good thing, the only real thing, that's come along in all that time. You're the only one who's called me by my name." He squeezed his shaking fingers around Peter's hand. "We have to get out of here. Now. Before it makes us forget again."