by Austin Chant
It read:
Dear Peter,
I'd write you a novel, but you're freezing me to death, so I haven't much time.
I'd like to think I understand why you ran away, because I did the same thing. I loved a man who died in the war after I'd staked all my hopes for happiness on him. I was desperately lonely. I came back to Neverland because I couldn't imagine anything happier than this place, and I lost myself here. However your family treated you, it must have hurt as much as I was hurting then. I'm sorry. I don't know what my sympathy means to you, but you have it. I hate to think of you being unhappy. If I could, I'd do everything in my power to make you happy again.
I suppose there's no point in being coy in a letter like this. I adore you. I adore your stories. I want a chance to adore you in the real world, whoever we are out there, if you'll let me. I don't want you to stay here, not only because I care about you, but because you've saved my life, whether you like it or not—and I can't bear the thought of running away while you stay trapped. Actually, I'm being selfish. I want to be with you. I want you to come with me, and I swear to God if you do, I'll give you whatever home I have left out there.
I've always come to Neverland by sea, from north of Pelican Island. If you go that way, and sail on into the horizon, you'll see England to the left of the sun. Go straight toward it, and you ought to come to a cottage by the river. I hope to be there waiting for you.
Please pull your head out of your ass and come find me. I have quite a lot of rebuilding to do, and I'd like to do it with you.
So—all my love,
James
P.S. I've just remembered my surname. It's Harrington. That's one more thing I wouldn't have gotten back without your help.
Please, please come.
Peter looked up. His heart was thundering in his ears. "When did he leave this?" he demanded. "How long has it been? Where is he?"
"You read the letter." The queen spread her wings, showering him in dust. "Go north, Pan."
Peter shot up in the air, streaking toward the island's northmost tip. The snow was so thick it was almost impossible to see where beach ended and sea began; thick snowdrifts covered both, blowing in the wind.
He didn't know what it meant to leave Neverland by a different route. The path between the stars that led from Neverland to the Darling house was complex; Peter had only made it before with Tink's help. He didn't know if he could fly out of Neverland and find his way to someone else's home. He could easily imagine himself getting lost somewhere in the night.
But a chance of getting lost, he decided, was better than the certainty of losing James.
The whole island lay below him soon as he climbed into the sky, gray clouds above and silver-white canopy below, a blank page where there should have been a map. It was easy to leave behind when he could see how formless it had become. Out past the northern tip of the island he flew, toward the odd little Pelican Island where he and the Lost Boys had once discovered trees covered in sweet berries guarded by crocodiles and tigers. It was as buried in snow as the rest of Neverland. Beyond it, the sea spread into the horizon, growing bluer and brighter as the ice thinned.
Peter had never sailed out this far. He could only wonder what was ahead.
But before the ice ended—when it was still quite thick—Peter looked down to see something stuck in the frost. He dipped lower, and there it was.
A very small boat.
The dinghy was caught in frozen waves, its prow lifted out from water by frost that had formed beneath it. Inside the boat was a man who must have spent several days sitting at that uncomfortable angle, far from shore and tauntingly close to the edge of the ice sheet.
Peter slowed as he approached the boat, afraid he was mistaken in thinking he knew the color of the man's waistcoat. But then he saw the hook jutting from James's sleeve, and the feeling that broke open in his chest was like spring coming in a single moment. Relief made him feel so light it was a struggle to descend; he came down like a dandelion clock on the end of the boat.
James was hunched over, carpeted in frost, snow heaped on his shoulders. He gave a stiff, startled jolt when Peter landed before him, wrenching his head up as if it had been frozen in place. There was ice in his beard.
"James!" Peter dropped to his knees and grabbing James's gaunt, bloodless hand. He gasped at how cold it was, clutching it until it began to leech the heat from his own skin. "You're freezing."
"Peter?" James asked hoarsely. He looked calm, but his tone betrayed him. His teeth chattered when he tried to speak. "And h-here I thought I'd been destined to spend the rest of my life in this b-bloody ice sheet."
"I'm sorry," Peter said. "It's my fault. I made a mess of Neverland."
James gave a weak chuckle. "How t-typical." Peter reached up and laid a hand across his cheek, his fingertips melting the frost. James stared at him with wondering, sky-blue eyes. "And to w-what," he managed, "do I owe the honor?"
"I got your letter." Peter smiled tentatively, and watched a slow smile spread across James's face as well.
"And?"
Peter felt the words in his mouth, tasted their sweetness and let them linger there before he said, "I adore you too."
There was a crack from beneath him as the ice broke under the prow and the dinghy lurched downward, plunging its keel back into the meltwater. James shot forward, arms flung out to catch himself, but Peter caught him first.
They fell in the bottom of the boat with their arms around each other, sudden heat enveloping them as the sun broke through the clouds and spilled light over them. James was flushed, astonished; his mouth was slightly open when Peter kissed it, and then his hand was in Peter's hair, clutching it tight as he pressed their bodies together.
The boat rocked and swayed as the ice sheet split apart, but Peter hardly felt it.
*~*~*
"You are extraordinarily dramatic," James said, "and no one should ever have given you power over the weather."
They were sitting in the dinghy amid an ocean of broken, glittering ice floes that were drifting gradually further and further apart. The sun, which had come out so suddenly, had stayed and was beginning to sink down toward the horizon. In the distance, Neverland was melting, new waterfalls pouring into the sea, the water shining orange in the sunset.
"It's not so bad now," Peter said. "Anyway, I wasn't doing it on purpose."
"In all fairness, if it had been me, I'd have made a blizzard too." James kissed him, his beard scratching at Peter's cheeks. "And in all fairness, I find that dramatic streak of yours very charming."
His hand was perfectly warm now, but Peter couldn't stop holding it.
"I have quite a nice house," James added. "At least I hope I still do. It's out in the forest—I've always kept to myself. I think you'd like it."
"It sounds perfect," Peter said. He shut his eyes and felt the question James was about to ask. "I do want to come with you. I'm just afraid I'll wake up and be back with my family instead of with you."
James's fingers drifted, tucked a strand of hair behind Peter's ear. "I won't let go until you're safely at my door. If the wind tries to snatch you up, it'll have to take me too, and we'll fight our way out together. How about that?"
Peter took a deep breath and gathered the scent of Neverland in his lungs, the feeling of himself, the boy he had discovered all those years ago. It steadied him. Ten years hadn't managed to take him away from himself; nothing could.
And James would be with him, holding him close.
"All right," he said.
James wrapped an arm firmly around Peter's waist and took a grip on the leftmost oar. "Shall we try it, then?" he asked. "Shall we see how we end up?"
"Yes," Peter said, and took up the other oar.
Eighteen
The wind came in through the window and ruffled Peter's hair.
The breeze had an unfamiliar smell, earthy and slightly boggy, tinged with the scent of dandelions and other early flowers. It was the smel
l that alerted Peter to being somewhere different, somewhere entirely new, so that he opened his eyes.
He was curled on a window seat, curtains billowing gently above his head. His head was resting on a broad arm, his back pressed to a broad chest, and he could hear ducks quacking outside. It was remarkably quiet, and he realized why—there were no city sounds, no grumbling cars, no people chattering. This wasn't London.
Peter sat up slowly and looked outside. Through the window, which was set in a frame painted with blue flowers, Peter could see the banks of a river. A flurry of ducks were bickering as they floated by, sunlight flashing on their feathers. The water was calm and wide, and a narrow dock jutted out over it. A small boat was tied at the dock.
When he forced himself to remember—and it was like remembering part of a dream—he knew that he had been sitting in that boat when James rowed it down the stream. Much like the window of the Darling house, this stream became something else at night, flowing beyond its banks so a little boy in a boat could find his way to the seas of Neverland.
And find his way back.
The body behind him stirred and an arm came to curl around his waist. Peter startled at the warmth and intimacy of that movement, at the familiar voice that murmured, "Peter?"
Peter turned around, folding his arms over his chest self-consciously.
It was unmistakably James. His hair was still a vast lion's mane, though perhaps less from purposeful style than from having gone many years uncut. His nose was still big and hawkish, but without the piratical leer, it just made him look a little awkward, like most birds do. He wore a silky dressing gown patterned with red and gold diamonds, every bit as ridiculous as what he had worn as captain of the Jolly Roger.
His eyes were the same: soft, blue, and arresting. He reached up and stroked Peter's cheek with the backs of his fingers, traced his thumb along the curve of his jaw, and must have felt Peter flush beneath his touch.
"My God," he said, wondering. "It is you." His real voice was carefully measured, quieter.
Peter nodded, his words caught in his throat, a thousand questions on his tongue. He ran a tentative hand up James's chest, through the silky folds of his dressing gown, and felt his heart beat, quick and nervous, against his fingertips. They were both afraid, he thought, both exposed to each other. Both present, unkempt, and—real.
Knowing Hook made it obvious, instantly, how he was to James exactly what Pan was to Peter. Someone bolder, more fantastical, less frightened, less lonely. A dream of someone he could be in a different world. But James was an ordinary man who liked the same ridiculous clothes, and in his face Peter could see all the caution and temperance he must have thrown aside to be a pirate king. He was perfect. Peter curled his fingers in silk, his heart pounding, dizzy with love and fear.
He didn't know what James was seeing as he studied Peter in silence, equally wide-eyed. Then James smiled—a slow, helpless, affectionate smile—and Peter grinned back. Tears sprang into his eyes and he let go of James's dressing gown to wipe them away, embarrassed and absurdly happy.
James cleared his throat and ran a comforting hand down his side. He sat up, his leg pressing to Peter's hip, and reached for a pair of round spectacles resting on the table nearby.
And sneezed. That small movement had disturbed such a cloud of dust as to envelop them for a moment. Peter scrambled up and stuck his head out the window, coughing; James joined him on the windowsill, wiping many years of dust from his glasses. "Oh dear," he managed, between sneezes. "I suppose no one—kept up with the housekeeping. I've—brought you back to a bit of a wasteland."
"That's all right," Peter said. His own voice startled him; it was higher than it had been, more refined.
James settled his glasses on his nose, smiling. The spectacles gave him an anxious look.
He still had only one hand; his other arm ended at the wrist. He caught Peter's curious look. "As a boy," he said ruefully, "it was more exciting to imagine a hook than a heavy prosthetic."
"So I really wasn't the one who cut off your hand."
"Not unless you were in some kind of conspiracy with my mother's womb," James said, and Peter laughed.
Peter realized he was waiting for some kind of probing curiosity in return—some remark on what Peter sounded like, or worse on his body—but James's only encroachment on the subject was to say, "Your shirt has seen better days. Would you like one of mine? Assuming all my clothes haven't been eaten by moths."
All at once it became easier to breathe. "Yes," Peter said. "Please."
"Don't tell me you have manners in this world," James said dryly. "I'll die of shock."
*~*~*
While James set off to investigate what had become of his wardrobe, a handkerchief tied over his nose and mouth, Peter went around yanking open all the windows and doors to let in light and air. He did it from outside, evading the worst of the dust. James's cottage had been halfway reclaimed by nature; it was small enough to vanish amongst the nearby trees, and little plants had taken up residence in nooks and crannies along the walls. There were birds nesting on the roof, and they squawked at Peter like he was an invader in their territory. It was a true fairytale house.
The interior was a different story. It was shrouded in such thick dust that it was difficult to tell the character of the house at all. Peter pulled his shirt up over his nose and went wandering through the dusky parlor, running his fingers through the dust to uncover the colors underneath. The house was cluttered in a way that didn't surprise Peter after seeing how James kept his quarters aboard the Jolly Roger. Much like the captain's cabin, the cottage had treasure piled everywhere, waiting to be unearthed—except instead of gold and jewels, it was paintings.
There were landscapes and nudes, dreamy abstracts and vivid sunsets. James painted in exquisite detail and piercing color. On the wall, dulled by the dust motes floating through the air, there was an enormous canvas depicting the Jolly Roger at anchor. The ship was bathed in the glittering of the sun on the water, and Peter felt sure that he had seen it look just like this. He traced his fingers carefully along the black rigging, feeling the ridges and waves of dry paint.
It shouldn't have surprised him to discover the kind of artist James was—all his eye for scene-setting and detail flowed obviously onto the canvas. The beauty of it still stunned him; it was a whole new dimension of James he hadn't known before.
He found his way to the kitchen next, which looked out on a garden overgrown with wildflowers. What food there was had long ago spoiled, and Peter grimaced when he glanced in the cupboards. The stone floor was freezing beneath his toes; the hearth clearly hadn't seen use in a long time. He found an old box of matches next to a pile of logs and managed to get a fire going.
He jumped when James spoke behind him. "I was going to offer to make you breakfast, but I realize that may be a lost cause."
Peter straightened up and James held out a dusty bundle of clothing for him. "It's probably a bit large," he said apologetically, "but for the moment…"
"I don't care," Peter said. "Thank you."
*~*~*
The trousers were miles too long, even when Peter cuffed the legs. The socks bagged in the ankles, and the shirt and sweater were equally large. But when Peter finally managed to get the collars to lie right and glanced at the reflection he'd carved out of the dust on James's mirror, a shock went through him.
This was the face which had haunted him all his life, the one he had looked in the eye on the day he left the Darling house for the last time. The hair, messy and short, enthusiastically curling without the weight of his old braid to drag it down. The stubborn chin. The clear, sharp, sullen eyes full of everything he had never been allowed to be.
Peter ran his hands over himself slowly, breathing tentatively, feeling the weight of his chest under his shirt. He had given this body up. He had thought it belonged to Wendy, to the girl he wasn't. He had let his family make him believe that the only way he would ever be a boy was to be born
again in a different shape, leaving everything of his body and history behind.
He breathed out and settled in the feeling of being himself, of being something whole.
It was a long time before he went back to find James puttering in the kitchen, looking overwhelmed by the state of the house. He still had a smile for Peter when he saw him in the doorway, however. He said, "There you are."
Peter spread his arms and gave a bow like the one the fairies had taught him. "Here I am."
"I swear if you weren't here I'd go running straight back to Neverland from all this mess." James's face took on a fretful look as Peter came to join him by the rusted stove. "And frankly, I wouldn't blame you if you felt cheated—here I promised you a home, and I never mentioned it was a home for all the world's mice and spiders as well. Or that there wouldn't be anything to eat. Or that I hadn't even put away my easels before I ran off to live the rest of my life in a dream—"
"We'll have to go foraging," Peter said. "I saw some edible wildflowers in your yard. I'm almost sure the mushrooms by the river aren't poisonous."
James paused with his mouth open, then shut it and cleared his throat, looking as if he were trying very hard not to smile. "Alternately," he said, "there's a town a few miles away where we could buy bacon and eggs."
"Come now, Captain," Peter said. "That's hardly the spirit of the thing."
The corner of James's mouth twitched. "You're not going to get me to eat wild mushrooms that easily in this world, I warn you. But now that you mention it, there is an apple tree down the river, or at least there used to be. That ought to be safe."
Peter bumped against his side. "Let's start there."
*~*~*
They followed a path that meandered between sunlight and the green-gold shade of birch trees, all of it damp with dew. Peter wore a pair of James's boots, laced tight to make up for how large they were on his feet. It was quiet except for sweet birdsong and the stream trickling by. James pointed out the locations of several of his paintings along the river as they walked. Peter could remember finding places like this in Neverland; he thought he had sat by this very stream as a child, running his toes through the water, and wondered if they had been sharing dreams with each other all along.
