Author's Note: My very first request in the Drabble/Oneshot Request Shoppe of Wonder and Excitement. I wasn't quite sure how this would write itself out, but I think it turned out decently, despite a slight Oedipial factor. But that's neither here nor there.
Credit: Song lyrics go to Mayday Parade's song "Champagne's For Celebrating (I'll Have A Martini)". Peter Pan, Wendy Darling, and the Lost Boys belong to Disney, and Namine belongs to SquareEnix.
Dedication: Static Lull; that lovely writer. She has yet to get the diehard cult-following that she deserves (You deserve Hollywood-huge fame, darling, without the nasty rumors and empty compliments. Card-board cut-outs and a stand for your awesomeness. :3)
Dreamland Theorem;
peter pan/namine oneshot
And I, all that I wanted was to walk you home
Save a sad song for the sing-along
and after all, it's her fault
if she hasn't caught on yet
Occasionally, he told her that he missed the way her skin felt. He missed being able to dance his fingers on her angel's skin, the way it felt when she pressed her naked fingers to the small of his back. Unbelievable, he told her and god did he wish he could leave Neverland for all the times she placed her lips to his forehead.
It wasn't enough to glimpse her now and then. It wasn't enough to wait for her to come round when she had a smidgeon of spare time or for her to alter his story a bit so that she would be able to move within the fairytale. It felt a bit odd, she'd informed her, much like intruding into a newly cleaned house with muddy shoes.
"But you're used to it, aren't you? Because of that thing with that boy…sky or something, right?"
And if you're used to it, you should be able to come more often, right?
She had smiled, skimming her thin fingers over his forehead and toying with his bangs. He had attempted to grow them out to appear older, to at least look closer in age to her (although, truth be told, he wasn't sure how old Namine was. It seemed as if she was simply born at that age, thrust into space at the prime of adolescence) but instead the bangs had just come out rather stupid looking. He jammed his peculiar green hat on his head, complaining loudly about his stupid, stupid hair until Namine laughed and held out her arms for him to fall into.
"You can't just live here?"
He could taste the sourness of the impossibility on his tongue, but he spat out the question anyways. Perfection would be if once, just once, Namine and her dove-soft skin could stay the night. If she could just remain on the beach with him, stretched out on the sand and lulling him to sleep with the sound of her breathing.
"Don't be silly."
A quick peck on the forehead, a small wave and she was gone, stepping her way back into her own story. The shapeless portals always zippered themselves up after Namine's exodus, fast enough that Peter couldn't edge his way into her world. He'd tried once and ended up on the cold tiles of a castle that looked as if all the color had been drained from it. There was hardly any time to announce himself ("I'm Peter Pan and I'm taking Namine away! So there!") before she, with quivering hands and shaken eyes, had come running towards him, sketchbook in hand.
"Be a good boy," she'd pleaded, combing the snarls from his hair in the quick, calculating motions that all mothers perfect. And then, quick as you like, his Namine, his mother-substitute, almost-nearly-not-at-all lover tugged him back into Neverland with a few swipes of her cheap crayons.
Be a good boy, and wait for me to come see you, Peter. You know I'll come, don't you? I said I'd take care of you. But you just have to be patient, alright?
Her scent was still fresh on the wind, and he inhaled deeply, her light vanilla aroma seeping into his lungs. His soft hands grabbed at the space she'd occupied mere seconds ago, and he scowled at the setting sun as if it was to blame.
"I'm not a baby." he informed the dying sun. "I don't need a mother."
The sunset leered You love her, and Peter threw rocks at its reflection in the water until it retreated behind the dips of Neverland's valleys.
"I don't love her! I don't; not like that!" he said firmly to his shoes (stitched and re-stitched by Namine's capable fingers). "She's, like, my mother. Or something."
Or something indeed, snickered his shoes.
Peter let out a howl of frustration—at the sneering sunset and his snide shoes and the mind-boggling nonsense of it all-…and at Namine, his never-mother, his always-and-forever-mother.
"I hate you!"
But he could always be found at the beach, clicking his heels, or at least trying to (for it's possible to blend stories, Namine had said, although it isn't safe and should be used only in emergencies, but his failing first love was an emergency if he ever knew one) and wishing for the touch of his fingers to her shoulders..
A scream burst forth from his lips.
"You said you'd come back! Where the heck are you, then?"
Prepubescent tears staining the still-pudgy cheeks from a childhood that never ended. He rubbed viciously at them, before screeching, "Liar!"
Namine was horrible and awful and-and-and the worst mother on this earth, but he clicked his heels desperately and wishes—he wishes so, so hard for her to come back.
--
can anybody help me get out of here?
'cause you're walking down a road that i can't go
In an entirely different story (and still yet the same, for it still counts as one being if you wish hard enough, if you stretch far enough), a girl—neither young nor old, with traces of motherhood and irregular adolescent wisdom—sits on a stool, scraping cheaply made pencils across the paper's surface. There's a boy in the picture; a fire-haired boy with messy bangs and an oddly-put together collection of green clothing His eyes are large in his face, and have a puffy quality to them that signifies that he's been crying.
An eraser sweeps across the teary eyes, replacing them with clear (if not slightly blank) amber jewels, twinkling in the daylight. There's a broad smile in place of the wobbly frown that had previously lived there, and he's racing around on the beach with the other boys, the Lost Boys that he calls his friends and family. They're enjoying themselves, cavorting on the sand and screeching fake-insults at each other, she imagines.
Steady blue eyes (bluer than the ocean, he used to say, with awe. Such a child, he was, and she did love him for it, if only a little bit with a heart that wasn't there) glanced at the scene, scribbling in the small effigy of a lone girl in the background. Her smile was carefully sculpted; kindly, generous, loving. Loving in the way that a mother would, the way a young girls of his age could love.
"You don't love me!"
"Don't say that, Peter, I-I do love you." Her pathetic not-heart thumped and fluttered at his accusatory words, crashed and fell at his angry face. She did love him; his stubby fingernails, freqeunt faux-passes, incessant babbling.
She loved him like a mother would.
"I'm your mother, aren't I?" she mumbled, sketching the wax against the paper. "I love you more than anyone, Peter."
"But not the way I want you to."
There aren't any tears to be shed, but if there were ( and there weren't, she thought stubbornly, scrubbing furiously at her baby blues) they were soaked up by the fake wax-blue lagoon created by betraying hands.
--
on nights like these, i wish i said "don't go"
And the next day, Peter woke on the beach with the sun in his eyes, a sunburn itching on the exposed skin, and a red-haired girl grinning at him. Tiny lips opened, sending forth of a gale of laughter, "Goodness, Peter! You fell asleep here, of all places! The boys and I looked all over for you."
"For…me?"
"Who else, silly? There's no one else they love more." she replied, pulling him to his feet. She placed a chaste kiss on his sweaty cheek, and linked their arms together. "Shake a leg there, Peter Pan. Don't keep your darling Wendy waiting."
And they, they strolled off arm in arm, whistling cheerfully. Such a beautiful, pastel-colored happy ending for the two of them, blissful in their childish affections and the sheer joy of never, ever having to grow up. Still with their ruby-red hearts and high-pitched giggles and let's-play-pretend games.
Beautiful, beautiful children with smiles so pretty that it hurt to look at them.
But she looked anyway, watching him amble off. Namine supposed a part of her (nonexistent, as she was constantly reminded) heart ached and fell into brittle pieces as her not-son, her almost-family walked and beamed with a girl that wasn't her.
She blinked hard, bit her lip, and watched with her eyes stretched wide open. She owes him this much, she thinks, and settles for palming her crayons into a steady pile of cheaply made wax.