dearizkyp left a review on one of my other Narnia fics telling me to finish it already. But I got sidetracked with this thing instead.
Movie-verse, set between LWW and PC.
His mother says she can see some of his father in him. Peter stares into the mirror long and hard after that. Wonders if she means the slope of his nose of the remnants of war in his eyes.
Some of the older boys pick on the younger ones. Bullies, the lot of them. He intervenes whenever he can. Funny, he remembers the names of the aggressors. Doesn't know any of the victims. He wonders what that says about his motives.
There's a sort of rhythm to it. Monotonous pattern, train wheels ever circling on their rods. A shove or a jibe. What are you going to do about it, Pevensie? Then come the fists.
He knows it's wrong. Fighting these boys when he's killed giants. But their childish blows still hurt his childish body and that's sort of alright. It soothes something somewhere deep inside him. A dark hole that burns under the salve.
There's a place he likes to go. He's never shown Edmund. Which makes it the perfect place to hide. Lick his wounds and tear off the grin that comes from the taste of blood.
It sneaks up on him. Catches him off guard. Takes him by surprise. The sudden, certain conviction that he can't breathe. In the dim brick corridors. The screeching rattle of train tracks. Oatmeal and textbooks and starched collars.
The longing is so strong. Stained glass and crystal seas and the weight of his sword in his palm. Steals the air from his lungs, wraps a cord around his ribs that squeezes tight until he stumbles against the wall, hits his knees and clutches at his chest. Eyes closed and the snow tastes like ash on his tongue.
Arm around his shoulder and hand closing over his. He's pulled to his feet, dragged stumbling through the halls. Doesn't even notice his roommate receive a glare that sends him and his ridiculous scarf running. Mattress under him and words, words, words. Pressing against his ears, bumping against his eyelids, knocking against his skull.
Edmund's there when he comes back to himself. Always Edmund.
His teachers don't know what to make of him. The student with the mature eyes, the one whose marks vary for no discernible reason. His classmates scorn him with a mixture of petty jealousy and begrudging awe. Not the sort of things friendships are made of.
Two envelopes sit on his desk. Unopened, three weeks. He should read them, compose a response. To his dear sisters at least, if not to the mother he grew up without.
Another day, another class, another fight. And Edmund jumping in, like he's coming to the rescue. As if Peter needs a rescue. The teachers pull them apart. He shrugs off their hands and this time, he's the one dragging his brother through the halls.
This time, Edmund's room. This time, Edmund's mattress. And now it's Peter's words, words, words. Harsh and angry. His fingers gripping Edmund's chin, roughly tilting his head to glare at the black eye. These are his issues. He doesn't need Edmund getting involved.
Bruises fade. But not for a very long time.
OooOooO
His mother cries when he takes the paper bag of groceries for her. It's such a simple thing, an effortless task. No value aside from showcasing his transformation.
They're waiting for him. When school finally starts back up. Once the Germans stop dropping bombs. He's devilishly clever and they're hoping for new schemes. When he refuses, they promise him pain. But the threats are empty, just like the boys who make them.
There's a sort of rhythm to this life. A forgotten tune. He's got the words memorized, somewhere up in his brain. All he has to do is sing along.
His subjects were always so poetic and regularly likened Peter to the sun and him to the moon. He never took the offense he would have before meeting Aslan. In many ways, he had the advantage. With less scrutiny, there was more freedom. He'd always been good at adapting.
But there are days it overwhelms him. Moments when he drowns in all the faces that are familiar for all the wrong reasons. Times when he needs his brother. Times when Peter seems to disappear.
He knows Peter is struggling. He's struggling as well. So he tries. Tries to be patient. To be understanding. To give and give and give and not expect anything in return. He swore an oath to his High King in Narnia. Coming back to England does not nullify his vow.
Some days are better than others. But there are bad days. Days where he finds Peter. In the hallways. Out on the lawn. His brother on his knees, eyes closed, head bent. Gasping like a drowning man.
He puts an arm around Peter's shoulders. Pulls him upright, nearly buckles under the weight. Squares his shoulders and drags them both stumbling to Peter's room. Curses the rules and how he's not allowed to room with his brother. He deposits him on his bed and tries to get him to listen, listen, please listen.
Peter always comes back to himself. Eventually.
He tries to keep a close eye on him. Watches and worries. At night, long after the lights have gone off and the snores of his roommates circle the ceiling like smoke rings, he lies awake and prays.
He writes to Susan for advice. He trusts her wisdom. He writes to Lucy for encouragement. He relies on her bright words to carry him through the difficult stretches of loneliness.
There's another fight. He doesn't give it a second thought. Joins in to help Peter. Because that's who he is, what he does. It doesn't last long but it feels like forever. Then the teachers intervene and Peter's hand closes around his arm, painfully tight, and he's dragged through the halls.
They end up in his room, change of scenery that he's not sure he prefers. He's quiet where Peter is loud. When fingers dig into his cheeks, wrenching his head side to side as his injury is glared at, he doesn't resist. Peter tries to distance himself. As if Edmund would ever leave him.
Bruises fade. But not for a very long time.