note I apologize if there are a handful of errors, because typing a one-shot in a phone isn't exactly easy. There's a real amusement park named Everland in Korea, but in this alternate universe, Everland isn't located in the said country.

Dedicated to the readers of Butterfly Wings - finally, I wrote something for Peter Pan after so long, but it's not in second-person perspective anymore.

For the Ten Month Project - Forty Fandoms: Forty One-shots challenge. #1.

Blue Eyes

"Me, forget? Never."

The first time he tells Wendy that, they are surrounded by floating cartoon-themed balloons and thrilling rides. Peter is nine and Wendy is four, and the five-year gap doesn't matter at all, because right after Peter jumps out of the rollercoaster that only daredevils can hop on, he spots a crouched figure by the railings and hears muffled sobs.

The crying child is rubbing her bloodshot eyes against the collar of her shirt printed with Everland, the name of the renowned amusement park. It is a Saturday, and even the least knowledgeable person can assume that Everland is always jam-packed on Saturdays with families, circles of friends, and even those who go on field trips. Amusement Parks are intended for fun, but some teenage girls with clothes as flashy as mermaids' tails and boys with arrogance the size of pirate ships often crowd in the parks themselves to redefine 'fun'.

Little Peter isn't exactly the best boy to comfort other people, but something about the weeping girl's chestnut locks and blue dress draws him in.

"A...Are you okay, kid?" he asks, trying to sound as aloof as possible. He doesn't want to seem scary, but he doesn't desire to be that friendly, either. "Why are you crying?"

The small girl looks up - and oh, Peter has to inhale sharply when he marvels at her beautiful, twinkling eyes. Her quivering lips speak for herself. "I-I'm lost and I can't find Mommy and Daddy! This place is so big and I can't find them anywhere! I want to go home!"

It is then that she bursts into tears again, and Peter hesitantly places his palm on her warm hair. He kneels in front of her - oh, those captivating eyes - tips her chin, and flashes a perfect set of pearly whites. "Tell me your name, and I'll help you get back to your parents. You want to make a deal?"

The girl nods and spreads her fingers. "My name is Wendy-" she counts on one, "Moira-" she counts on two, "Angela Darling. You promise?"

"Alright, I promise," Peter says faster than he could introduce himself. He holds his pinky out. "Pinky promise, Wendy. I'm Peter."

Wendy wipes the last of the wet smudges on her face and shakes the pinky. "Pinky promise!"

They smile at each other, because they are children - and children always, always remain ignorant of the fact that promises are meant to be broken, even if the people who vow never to disregard them have been sincere once upon a time.

Hours later, Wendy and Peter are running to the park entrance while nibbling on gigantic cotton candy - pink for Wendy, and blue for Peter (it's as blue as Wendy's dress and Wendy's irises, and Peter couldn't quite decipher back then that he has fallen in love at age nine). Wendy Darling bounces on the pavement with her chestnut hair rippling in the soft wind, and her Mommy and Daddy are already escorting her to the car.

Wendy is four, but she has the memory of dolphin that delves deep into the ocean and reverts to the surface to see the orange-tinged sunset. "You won't forget me, will you, Peter?"

The question catches Peter by surprise, but then again, even the idea of Wendy alone astonishes him. Wendy's back is on him now, with her tiny hands clasped in her parents' own, but Peter demonstrates the whistle that his father has taught him and shouts, "Me, forget?"

A couple of other visitors whip their heads in bewilderment - Wendy does the same and her eyes, oh, those captivating eyes glitter like diamonds in the rough.

"Never."

Wendy smiles and leaves, and Peter heads to the other direction with a contented grin of his own.

Everything is perfect. They are young. They are innocent. And they are subconsciously wanting to see each other again and, perhaps, get lost together in the midst of Ferris wheels and carousels.

Everything is perfect.

Then everything changes.

The second time Peter tells her that, Wendy Moira Angela Darling falls in love at age thirteen. She is currently in the ninth grade, taking Advanced lessons with her tutor to help her cope with the increasing difficulty. She has always been marked as the best in the Darling family, and her Daddy and Mommy are so proud of her that they deem it necessary for her to skip grades.

Wendy feels loved with all the medals and trophies and congratulatory messages - every year, she walks up to the stage (chin up, back straightened, posture and expression always kept at bay) and she buries herself in the reverberating applause.

But every succeeding night after her eighth grade recognition rites, she stares at the pile of papers on her study table and runs a trembling hand through her chestnut locks. She barely passes her ballet classes (the instructor throws off-handed comments on her footwork), loses her straight A's (her tutor shakes his head at her disappointing scores), and just a little more pressure on her cramped head, she might just drop out of ninth grade and start anew.

Wendy Darling is a failure, and her Daddy and Mommy aren't so proud of her anymore.

She doesn't like growing up for reasons like this. But she doesn't hate it so much, either, because growing up also means boys and infatuation and marriage and growing up together.

When she meets Peter again, she comprehends (she is a genius beyond her years, after all) that this is not infatuation, whatever it is that sends butterflies scurrying in her stomach and causes a red coloration on her cheeks.

This is not infatuation.

It's love.

Peter is in his senior year - like the rest of boys in legal age, he enjoys watching and playing football and pleasures himself by watching and playing girls in clothes as flashy as mermaids' tails. He has physically matured - that fact could never be denied, seeing as his once neat dirty blond hair now looks like it has been suffering in the fury of typhoons, and his arms are toned, thanks to morning workouts in the nearby gym. A group of males which the student body likes to refer to as 'The Lost Boys' follows him wherever he may end up in, be it in alcoholic parties, secluded hotels, and dark alleys. Though he has a girlfriend named 'Lily', he still embarks on his journeys that do not, in any way, make him better than his nine-year old self.

Maybe he will reason out, that's what nine years does to you.

In the eyes of the world, he is Peter - the young adult who is immersed in his own fantasy realm of bittersweet indulgences.

In the eyes, the oh so captivating eyes of Wendy Darling, he is Peter - the boy who led her through the maze of Everland, gave her pink cotton candy, and made her cease from crying.

He is Peter, and he deserves to be immortalized as the child he was back then.

Wendy doesn't usually attend football games (she has no idea about it whatsoever, and she will never admit to her indifferent classmates that she is not even the slightest bit interested in it). Instead of screaming at the top of her lungs for a simple event that will do her no good in the future ('it's always about the future, isn't it?' she muses), she resides in her bedroom of post-it notes, to-do lists, and study schedules.

But for once, just for once, she uses the sneakers hidden in the corners of her shoe closet and puts on the hideous jersey of her high school. Wendy proceeds to the field which seems like the mitochondria for the enormous wave of power it emanates - and she curses herself, because really, this is not the best hour to think back to Biology.

There, Peter goes - surrounded by his Lost Boys and flirty mermaids and Lily. The pavement squirms under Wendy's feet from the resounding cheers and jeers. Banners are lifted, battle cries are shouted, and Wendy is a dot in a blur of reds, whites, and blues. The football leaps across boundaries, someone who obviously has no talent in the field of journalism screams Score! into the microphone.

And Wendy still couldn't understand, so she hides under her jersey of red and offers her humble applause.

After the (incomprehensible) football game, Wendy remains seated on the empty bleachers, beside mountains of paper cups and soda cans. Peter is also there, his dirty blond hair a mess more than ever. His shoes are caked with mud, and he sinks tiredly to the row nearest to the ground. He's talking to Lily, but they aren't exactly beaming at each other -

Lily stands up. She points her index finger at him, accuses him, argues with him - and she storms off, her angry features lighting up like a ripe tomato. Wendy doesn't mutter anything, but she sees Peter kick the grass harshly and leave, too.

When she realizes that she will be alone in a few moments, she runs and stumbles down the bleachers.

Maybe her clumsiness makes up for her intelligence, but Wendy doesn't find her weakness amusing, especially when she lands on the field face-first in front of an astounded Peter.

She rubs her soiled cheeks and cries.

"A...Are you okay, kid?" Peter inquires, his baritone more pronounced than ever. He stretches his hand and pulls the chestnut-locked girl up - and by the breaths hitched up in his throat, Wendy can tell that, indeed, he has kept his pinky promise from nine years ago. "Why...are you crying?"

It is exactly like their first encounter, but Wendy doesn't want to appear weak this time. "I'm not."

Peter laughs, and with that deep voice, Wendy is on the brink of confessing to him in the middle of a deserted football field. But she bites on her tongue and controls her haywire emotions for the meantime - mind over matter. Mind over matter.

All logic flies out the metaphorical window once Peter's familiar palm comes in contact with Wendy's head. "You fell off the bleachers and you say that you're not crying? Come on, you have got to be joking, kid."

Once again, Wendy indignantly lies while tears streak past her eyelids. "I am not."

"What's your name? I'll believe you if you tell me," Peter taunts, displaying the prominent grin that has tricked countless females into falling for his traps. Wendy, however, only opens her mouth in utter disbelief, that is, until Peter spreads his fingers and counts.

"Wendy. Moira. Angela. Darling. Quite a handful of names for a pretty young lady such as you, don't you think?" Peter says.

In the eyes of the world, Peter is nothing but a philanderer.

Maybe the entire human race is correct in saying so, but for now, they are wrong, because Peter is sincere.

Wendy tucks her hair into her ear and caresses the scrapes on her knees. Her mantra mind over matter is certainly working. "You didn't forget?"

Peter answers wholeheartedly, and the second time they meet, he is the one who walks away first. The stadium lights cast shadows upon his dirty blond hair.

"Me, forget?" he mumbles over his shoulder with a salute.

"Never."

Everything is perfect, Wendy thinks as she looks at Peter's retreating figure. Everything is perfect, Wendy knows.

Then Peter changes.

The third time he tells Wendy that, Peter is in a room of white (no reds, no blues, no chestnut brown - no color at all) and he doesn't, in any way, grasp why he is here. He barely remembers what happened yesterday, and even if he tries to, he only presses against the pillow due to the painful throbbing in his head.

The only things he knows are: one, he is nine years old; two, he is in Everland; three, he has accompanied a lost Wendy Moira Angela Darling; and four, he is afraid of the hook on which the dextrose is dangling. He wonders why there is a cloth adorning his head.

Silence scares him, too - but the doors burst open and reveal some grown-ups.

(Nine-year old Peter doesn't like dealing with adults - they're too much of worrywarts. They also often reprimand him and nothing kind always tumbles from their tongues.)

A beautiful, chestnut-haired girl, along with others, barges into the room and crushes Peter in her embrace. She smells of saltwater, and Peter is amazed at the new knowledge that Wendy actually has an elder sister, because the lass is Wendy's supposed teenage version. "Peter, Peter," the girl whispers, and the blond boy touches his cheek, only to discover that it has been dampened. "I'm glad you're fine, Peter. I heard about the terrible news and rushed straight to this hospital -"

"What hospital?" Peter scratches the base of his neck and yawns. "I was at Everland a while ago, went to ride a rollercoaster and help this kid named Wendy Darling -"

The young lady raises her hand to her mouth. "P-Peter, I am Wendy Darling."

"Oh, you're her sister," Peter shrugs. "She cries a lot, so she's definitely younger than me. Smaller, too. I'm nine."

'Wendy's sister' steps back and sobs into her hands while the other adults rub her back. They are staring at Peter like he is some sort of gleaming trophy - some males are crossing their arms and shaking their heads, and an olive-skinned girl makes her way towards the patient, ignoring the other maiden in the vicinity. "Hey, Peter. It's me, Lily."

"Lily?" Peter repeats. "Who's Lily?"

Lily only knits her eyebrows. "Your girlfriend, Peter."

"Girlfriend? I already have one?"

For the first time, it isn't Wendy who catches Peter by surprise - Lily grabs him by the shoulders and glares at him fully. "Peter. You're not a nine year old. You're twenty, for hell's sake. You're in college, taking up Dentistry because you don't have a plan, and being a dentist seems like the easy way out of life. You survived a car accident yesterday. You're alive and amnesiac by the looks of it, Peter. And you're twenty freaking years old."

Lily sighs in frustration, and Peter gapes at her. Then his gaze travels to 'Wendy's sister'. He doesn't care about the Lily fellow, he probably never will.

"Wen...dy?" he croaks.

Wendy stops crying, and although her eyes are bloodshot, she is beautiful all the same. "Peter, oh, Peter. You haven't the faintest idea how much I was troubled by you." Lily stomps out of the room. The boys follow her steps.

"I thought you've forgotten about me, because head injuries usually lead to brain defects and..."

"Me?" Peter asks incredulously, and a tide of memories - football high school parties rhum gangs football bleachers Wendy Wendy Wendy - comes rushing back to him. "Forget? Never."

He feels a tight grip on his cold hand, and Wendy smiles. They both know that they're in love at this point, but no one wants to speak of it first.

Everything is perfect.

No, not really.

"Peter, it's me, Wendy," the blue-eyed female murmurs against the cold breeze of the air conditioner, but she solicits no response from the boy on the hospital bed.

Peter is staring across the window. His blond mane has already lost its brilliance, and his eyes have drowned in a pool of nothingness. After a while, he mutters, "Who are you?"

Me, forget? Never.

Wendy swallows an invisible lump in her throat. The words 'irreversible', 'brain', and 'damage' are swimming in her head, and the statement of the doctor echoes like a distant lullaby. The now seventeen year-old girl recalls the diagnosis thirteen months ago involving some sort of mental deterioration.

"I apologize," the doctor had said. "We can't pinpoint the exact illness of Peter, but all we know is that the symptoms are similar to those of Alzheimer's disease."

"You mean he's going to lose his memories?" Wendy asked, her shaking fingers trailing over the brain scans.

"Day by day, yes." The man in the white coat squared his shoulders and pushed the glasses up his nose bridge. "Until he could not remember himself anymore. Until he could not even remember that he has to remember something, yes, I'm afraid so."

Wendy wants to cry, but her voice is already hoarse from all the nights spent cursing the boundaries of science and medicine. Instead of mourning over Peter's situation, over Peter himself, she brings out a scrapbook and sets it on Peter's lap.

"Okay, Peter, I'm here to teach you about your life," Wendy tells him. She patiently gives him lessons on numbers, history, and biographies including their own. In spite of Peter rebutting "I don't even know you", Wendy only smiles and speaks, "I'm here to let myself be known by you."

At the end of the day, when Peter understands that he is already twenty two years old and he met Wendy Darling in Everland, he closes the scrapbook and sighs. "I'm sorry. For making you do all of this. For all of this."

"Peter, promise me that you won't forget me." Wendy hopes that this time, Peter won't reply with the same three words that he has been saying since the beginning, because his promise hasn't exactly been fulfilled with each passing day.

This time, it's different - Peter moves forward and presses a chaste kiss against Wendy's startled lips. When he pulls back, he smirks. He is, after all, the one and only Peter.

"There. I'm your first kiss and you are mine; I bet humans are wired not to forget about their firsts."

Wendy is ultimately surprised by the knowledge that she is Peter's first kiss that she fails to come across the idea that people may remember their firsts, but it's their lasts that count.

Wendy thinks, 'Everything is perfect again.'

Except it won't be, once more, tomorrow.

The last time Peter tells her that, she is twenty four - a pediatrician who also works in the daycare as a Math teacher, a fair lady who has already established her name in the world of medicine, a young woman who is about to get married in three days.

Her blue eyes are twinkling because this has been her lifelong dream - to be a June bride walking down the aisle peppered with white petals, and exhanging vows with the man she swears to love. Wendy giggles at the sight of her engagement ring, gleaming with a proud shine, and the studded diamonds cause her to reminisce her fiance's impeccable, foolish grin.

But the lucky man isn't Peter. He isn't anything like Peter.

The man is named Edward - a twenty seven year old banker who once had associations with Wendy's father. Edward himself is successful, and almost everybody labels Edward and Wendy as the perfect pair.

As for the whereabouts of Peter - Wendy has stopped from seeing him in his ward ever since she enrolled in the university. Things weren't exactly going smooth for her during the past four years, but Wendy is thankful that she got to meet Edward.

For all Wendy knows, maybe Peter is still breaking his promises.

In the midst of all the rigorous preparations for the buffet, the rites, the dresses, the invitations, and the biggest turning point of her life, Wendy finds the time to visit the majestic church that she will return to in a few days. Her soon-to-be husband is right - the rows of maple trees adorning either side of the church look like the railings of a stairway to heaven. Wendy takes a step inside the holy abode and marvels at the sheer beauty of the deserted place.

It isn't so deserted, because one man with dirty blond hair kneels in front of the altar and solemnly prays.

A man with dirty blond hair.

Wendy feels a pang of panic, fear, and pain - it has been about six years since she last saw Peter, and she desperately hopes that this man isn't him.

At the sound of her footsteps, the man turns around.

He smiles.

He is Peter.

The panic, fear, and pain all dissolve - all Wendy can comprehend is disgust. Disgust at herself, because she, although already engaged, is having butterflies roaming her stomach.

"Pe...ter?" Wendy stands at the end of the aisle. She desires to run to the blond man, to tell him that she missed him, to tell him that she loved - loves him -

But she can't. Not with a gleaming engagement ring on her pretty little finger.

Peter trudges towards her, but he isn't looking at her face - his gaze is fixed on her hand. He murmurs. "You've forgotten about me, Wendy. Moira. Angela. Darling."

Wendy tries her hardest not to break down as she sees Peter counting her various names. "I haven't. I have never forgotten."

"Your wedding - when will it be?"

Wendy looks up, and Peter is there - six years of hospitalization and finally, finally, he regains his old self - the one who can treasure memories without waking up the next day with no past at all. But he's too late.

As always, Peter startles then blue-eyed woman by placing his lips on her forehead. When he steps back, his face crumples into nothing but a half-hearted cheshire grin. "There. You're my last kiss and I'm pretty certain that I won't be yours; lasts are always the best, aren't they?"

For the first time in six years, Wendy asks the same question, but in this case she isn't hoping anymore. "You won't forget me, will you?"

"Me, forget?" Peter laughs, and his chuckle is as carefree as the one he had given her in Everland. No matter how old he is today, he's still the same charming boy.

"Never."

When they go on separate paths, Peter hums along the breeze sweeping through the maple trees, and Wendy secretly attempts to catch up with the melody. She smiles to herself because this time, Peter won't forget. She's sure of it.

As she reaches her car, however, her happy demeanor fades, and she realizes Peter's expression from before obviously doesn't state "Me, forget? Never."

"You won't forget me, will you?" she had asked.

"Ask yourself that, Wendy," he had wanted to say.

For the first time in six years, Wendy slumps against the hood of the car, buries her blue eyes in her hands, and cries.

Everything will never be perfect again.