Butterfly Wings

buttercupbella

Wendy Angela Moira Darling

He never wanted to be a man, never—

I never wanted to be a girl forever

-x-

You wince a little at the coldness of his touch, almost as if he is going to fade away in the whisper of December breeze, almost as if he would be leaving your windowsill.

But he is going to leave, isn't he?

He smiles at you with his billion-pound toothy grin and you just couldn't help but gape at a boy whose age you didn't have the slightest idea of. Perhaps he is fifty years older than you, or a hundred, but the uncertainty just makes you glad that in spite of the fact that you never truly know who Peter Pan is, his smile is just the thing that you need the most.

You hold his hand in yours and your kaleidoscope eyes echo a silent plea: Stay. The stars on the right side of the heavily darkened sky twinkle more brightly than ever, and he is caught between the pull of his world and the gravity of your intense gaze. Metaphorically speaking, you are his world, too.

But he never understands that, because he is just a boy—a boy who has not made enough sacrifices to know that eternal childhood is an eternal curse, that playing with swords and pirates every hour is nothing compared to the shallow, forced breaths people take on their last days.

Time seeps through your fingers, and you're fighting hard to convince him to grow up. He stares at you with childlike chestnut eyes and rubs the back of your hand with his comfortable warmth. "Good night," the words pass through his lips faster than you could ever blink and stamp on your mind all the little details that hardly matter to those who didn't see him outside their bedrooms, like the small dimples he has, the camouflaged scar on his cheek, his speckled blond hair, the dry leaves on his clothes, and the mud caked on his fingers. Nevertheless, he is the most beautiful creature you've ever met, far more beautiful than the princes in your fairytales; and it hurts you to know that you would be letting him go soon.

You still haven't said good night, and he looks at you expectantly.

"Can you stay?" you manage to croak with the least of your confidence. Even if he has not spoken, you know what his answer is. Maybe countless youth asked him the same question only to receive the old two-letter reply.

Hesitantly, you add, "Even for a little longer."

This time Peter Pan nods, his mane shining under the distant hazy moonlight. His eyes wrinkle a bit as he leans in with a fresh whiff of Neverland and his arms envelop you in something you'd never known until he came along.

Before he could say anything, you sob. It's messy and wet and anything that's not appropriate for an English lady. It's everything a kid does, but you don't want to be like this because you're so vulnerable.

Peter Pan grins against your tangled tuft of hair, and quiet seconds later you feel drops of lonely rain on your skin. His grip on you tightens and you crush each other in the knowledge that he will have to return to someplace else millions of miles away from where you are. His damp whimper kisses your ear like the bells on Christmas Eve. "I don't want to go yet—"

But he has to. You don't want to be selfish now, right, Wendy Darling?

Unconsciously his fingers trace your hips and he finds your hand easily, leading you into a slow dance that children probably never know. You both cry, and he presses his freezing lips on your eyelids. Your eyes flutter like butterfly wings and he smiles once more, yet it's just as painful as shedding tears. He nears you and your noses collide—

Your mother's coming, Wendy love. She rushes up the staircase with her robes swishing at every motion, and Peter pulls back, turns on his heel, and waves your hidden kiss in his hand. He tumbles out from your window with arms open wide, and before he hits the pavement, he flies to the glittering diamonds in the sky.

Just in time, your mother opens the door and tells you to drift off to sleep. Maybe you can find him there, and there alone.

As the saltwater dries up on your cheeks, you mouth the word that leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. You say it anyway.

"Goodbye."

-x-

How old are you, Wendy love? Is it seven years since you last saw him perched on your windowsill?

He might as well be your little brother. You have stopped reading bedtime stories with flashlights under thick wool blankets. You have ceased from waiting for someone who will never come back. You have begun to grow up, drinking tea while lifting your pinky and laughing under a cupped hand.

Is it your fault for tucking away your memories of him forever?

As you continue to savor the blandness of the tea and pretend to laugh with the rest of elite British adolescents, you never notice a boy with dirty blond hair peering from outside the garden pavilion, all grown up just as you are.

end_

|Author's Note| Happy Holidays and advanced Happy New Year! First attempt at Peter Pan fanfiction.

12. 26. 12