"I'm sorry."

The man cries as he repeats the words, face warm and wet against Peter's neck. The man's arms are shaking with the force of his sobs around Peter, and he smells like fresh fallen leaves and gas, and something else, a scent that Peter almost recognizes, but Peter doesn't try to remember it. There's no point in remembering anything about the pair, not when they are going to send him back, abandon him.

"Im sorry we didn't come sooner. Sorry we weren't fast enough."

Peter won't let himself react. He can't. He reminds himself that he was fine being alone before he met them. Its better that way, safer. He wasn't trapped there, he wanted to stay there, hidden away, safe. He wasn't lonely, he wasn't. He's still okay. There's a ragged breath from the man holding him, and then-

"We won't make you go back there.Ever."

An impossible promise. One Peter has been dying to hear. One he thought he would never hear. One he desperately wants to believe. Its terrifying. Peter wants to believe the words, so,so bad, but he cant believe them so easily. He wiggles in the rib-crushing hold until his can stare the man holding him directly in the eyes.

"Promise?"

Its a tiny sound that cracks in the center, and Peter's ashamed for the weakness in his tone. The blue eyes widen.

"Promise."

The word is returned full force, this time in a strong and confident tone. The man grins at Peter through his watery eyes, a growing confidence in his shoulders.

"I never break a promise, you know." He confides. "Because im a hero!"

There's something about that childish statement that's so familiar that breaks the last of the walls Peter's built around himself, and he finds himself returning the hug, twining his hand in the others jacket and gripping as though to never let go. And for the first time in a very long time, Peter allows himself to cry. The man doesn't move until Peter finished crying.

Finally, Peter peels himself away, face creased from being pressed into the bomber jacket, and leaving tearstains on the man's blue shirt. For a moment, Peter meets the man's face and find comfort in the fact the other looks just as much of a mess as he does, a mirror image of red swollen eyes, blotchy tear-stained face, and snotty nose. But Peter doesn't have time for shame, before he can even stop to think about it, the other man is there, pressing steaming mugs of something into their hands, and then wiping Peter's nose with soft chidings.

"Aint wiping your nose, Mate." He warns, throwing a tissue at the sniffling man beside Peter, and he makes what might be a derisive snort in return, then gulps down some of the drink.

Peter sips testingly at the cup, and nearly drops it at the taste. It's impossible, a taste that ran out long before Peter was brought into that place, a treat that was a relic of the past, a taste Peter recognises with nothing more than a sip, that brings back a faded memory of another, smaller pair of hands pressing a different mug from a different time into his hands. Peter is already forgetting his tears of a moment ago with his shock of the present, turning wide eyes to the awkwardly hovering tanned man.

"Pretty good, innit Mate?" The man grins back at him, clearly enjoying Peter's reaction. "Its a bit in short supply, so don't imagine you've ever tasted this before.Its called-"

"Chocolate." Peter finishes for him, and the man freezes.

"You know it?" The blue-eyed man asks in surprise, draining his cup.

Peter is full of questions. How did they get chocolate? How could they share it with someone like him? Even normal people wouldn't give away their precious resources like that to a stranger. Peter knew that even one piece of chocolate was enough to get 5 cans of food, the adults had bartered that once. A second piece had gotten them a gun, and some kitchen knives had boughten bullets. The whispers of more treats possible hidden away had gotten them killed in their sleep, and by the time morning came, everything they had bartered for and much more was gone. Peter is so absorbed in his thoughts that he accidentally tells the truth.

"I used to have it before it all started." He says absentmindedly.

He doesn't need to specify what "it all" means. Peter doesn't know if there's a name for it. He doesn't really want to give it one, but despite all that they all know what he means. The apocalypse. Armageddon. The end of the world. The name doesn't mean anything. Knowing what was happening didn't save anyone. It didn't stop it.

Peter is almost done his delicious treat when he realizes the two men have turned to stone again, once again conversing only with their eyes. Finally Alfred, the blue-eyed one, clears his throat, hesitantly.

"Peter," He begins, his voice coming out a little too casual, "How old are you?"

Here's a question Peter can answer easily.

"They said I'm twelve." He pipes, sticking his finger into the mug to clear out the last of the chocolate.

"Right." his voice is a little choked, and Peter thinks he should drink a little slower. The man swallows, then continues. "Do you remember when you first went in there?"

Peter's chocolate addled brain isn't thinking properly as he licks off his fingers, and he answers this question honestly too.

"A long time ago." Peter frowns as a memory resurfaces. "The man on the telly said we had to go underground because it wasn't safe anymore." Peter frowns and gives the bed a spiteful kick. "I didn't want to go, but Mama made me."

Peter feels a twinge as he says that, and can't help thinking he's forgetting something important. He knows he's forgotten a lot of important things. He's forgotten the lullabies that his parents used to sing him to sleep. He's forgotten to count the days, and how to smile. He's forgotten his Mama and Papa's faces. There's so many things Peter has forgotten, what's one more?

The pair stood up, as though to leave, and if Peter was paying more attention, he might have noticed the look that passed between them, as though they'd learned a secret they didn't like.

Peter is already falling asleep.