A Crown of Pixie Dust & Thorns

Now he knew why.

Peter Pan wasn’t his father.

Felix was.

Felix had always treated him with a softness he never showed the others, favoring him in quiet ways Malcolm had never understood. He noticed when Malcolm was hurt. Remembered which foods he hated. Stood between him and Peter when no one else dared. The older Malcolm grew, the more Felix’s face emerged in his own.

He should have known.

Malcolm didn’t know how far he ran after his mother told him the truth. Her voice still chased him through the trees, begging him to come back. He needed to be somewhere, anywhere else. He needed to be alone. He had run all the way to Mermaid Lagoon, relieved to find the murderous beasts nowhere in sight. He sank onto the cave floor, surrounded by colored stones that shimmered in the lagoon’s pale glow.

He hadn’t been alone long when footsteps echoed through the cave. He expected it to be George or Gia, but those weren’t the sounds of his siblings’ footsteps. Those were the footsteps of the last person he wanted to see.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Malcolm stared into the water and refused to look at Felix.

Felix’s jaw tightened. He stood just inside the cave’s mouth, blue shadows playing across his face. For a moment, he said nothing, just watched Malcolm, the boy who bore his eyes and, perhaps, his anger.

"I wanted to," Felix finally said, voice rough. "I watched you grow up always on the outside, and I knew I had put you there. You deserved the truth, but the truth here is a dangerous thing."

He remembered all the times he’d shielded Malcolm, not out of duty, but out of something sharper, more desperate. Felix never spoke about that night with Wendy, but looking at his son, he felt the weight of it, the reckless need for revenge, the ache that had never faded. "You are not a mistake, Malcolm. I did wrong by keeping this from you, but I want you to know... you were not born for Peter, your mother, or for me. You are your own."

“You wanted to.” Malcolm’s voice came out flat. “That’s almost funny.”

He finally looked up.

Felix stood in the mouth of the cave as though he had been carved from shadow, all sharp angles and stillness.

And that face.

Malcolm’s face.

He had been seeing Felix in his own reflection for years without knowing it. The same jaw. Blue eyes that caught the light in the same stupid way.

How had he not seen it?

“Pan has hated me my entire life because he suspects I’m yours. He doesn’t know for sure. If he did, I’d already be dead. Right?”

Peter’s anger had always been aimed at something in Malcolm he had never been able to name. Now he had a name for it.

“You slept with my mother to hurt Peter.” Cold had settled into Malcolm’s hands. He ground his palms into the cave floor until the rough stone bit into his skin. “That’s what this was. That’s how I happened. You were drunk and angry and you—” He stopped and swallowed. “You used her to get back at him, and I’m the collateral damage.”

Malcolm reached blindly for a stone and closed his fingers around it. It was smooth and warm, and he gripped it as though it could keep him anchored.

He followed.

The tent closed around him, warm and dim, scented with pine resin and damp earth. Felix knelt at the far end, shoulders drawn tight, facing away. The canvas filtered the firelight into something soft and amber, catching the gold in his hair and the silver line of his scar.

Peter dropped to his knees behind him. Close enough to feel the warmth coming off him. Close enough that everything unsaid crowded the space between them.

He reached out and pressed his palm flat between Felix’s shoulder blades. Felix sucked in a sharp breath. Felix's spine went rigid beneath his hand.

“You don’t get to hate yourself more than I hate him,” Peter said quietly. His fingers spread across the thin fabric of Felix’s shirt, finding the familiar geography of old scars beneath. “He touched what was mine. I’m taking back every part of you he had.”

Felix didn’t answer. He didn’t pull away. Peter slid his hand to the nape of Felix’s neck, threading his fingers through the soft hair there. He tipped Felix’s head forward and pressed a kiss to the base of his neck. Felix shuddered beneath his mouth.

Felix’s throat tightened, shame and sorrow spilling out in a whisper. “I don’t hate myself for him,” he managed, voice unsteady. “I hate myself for hurting you. For not waiting. For being weak.”

The grip on his neck tightened and Felix shivered, a new kind of dread settling in as Peter’s next words burned into him: “Every mark on you belongs to me. And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

As the words lingered in the air, Peter leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the base of Felix's neck. The kiss sent a jolt of electricity through him, a shiver cascading down his spine, mingling fear with an unsettling thrill.

Peter’s hand slid from the back of Felix’s neck down the curve of his spine, mapping every ridge of bone beneath his fingers. Felix's shoulders were drawn tight, his back rigid, as though he were braced for pain. Peter smiled. Felix was completely at his mercy. He could hurt and pleasure how he pleased just like he did with all his lost boys. Felix had never been like the others.

Peter grabbed the hem of Felix’s tunic and pulled it up. Felix let Peter pull the tunic over his head. The shirt hit the tent floor. Peter's gaze settled on Felix's back. Old scars crossed the pale skin—some from battles Peter remembered, some made by Peter’s own hands, and some from a time before they ever knew each other.

Peter traced the longest scar with his thumb—a white line that curved from Felix’s left shoulder blade to his ribs. He knew that one. A pirate's blade during one of the early raids on Skull Rock. Peter had stitched it closed himself, clumsy fingers shaking while Felix gritted his teeth and didn’t make a sound.

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth against it. “He touched you here?” Peter whispered. His hand slid around Felix’s ribs, fingers splaying across his stomach. The muscles there clenched beneath his palm.

“Tell me.”

She looked at him. Peter was still inches from her, his jaw tight, the wildness in him barely leashed. His hand lingered near her throat, trembling just as it had in the stream.

“Behind closed doors, no masks, no games. But the moment we step outside, you’ll become what Neverland needs you to be, and I’ll be—what? Your prisoner? Your ghost? The girl you refuse to notice?”

Her throat ached. She refused to let it show.

“You’re not asking me to survive. You’re asking me to go back to being invisible. To smile while you pretend I don’t exist. To believe we’re only real when no one is looking.”

Frost crawled over the nearest fern. Darkness stirred beneath the canopy.

“I chose you,” she said. “With my eyes open. Knowing every cruelty you’ve committed. I chose you anyway. But I didn’t choose to be your secret.”

Wendy laid both palms against Peter’s chest. His heart still beat too fast beneath them. His warmth seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“I won’t be your hidden thing,” she said. “Not for the Shadow. Not for the Lost Boys. Not for Neverland. Not even for you.”

She let her hands fall.

“If you want me, you’ll have to choose me where people can see it.”

She didn’t see it move. One moment the Shadow waited at the treeline, patient and watchful. The next, it was behind her. A razor-sharp force raked across her back before she could turn. Pain tore through her, and the ground rushed up to meet her. She hit the dirt hard, warmth already spilling down her spine.

Wendy’s arms shook as she forced herself onto one elbow. The Shadow’s eyes narrowed, but she refused to look away.

“You say you chose me,” Peter said, voice rougher than he meant, “even knowing what I am.” He laughed, but it was empty, a sound with no boyish delight, only the brittle edge of fear. “You know I’m cruel. You know I’m the reason pirates shiver and mermaids hide and the Lost Boys walk in the dark. You know what happens to things I care about.” He caught her gaze, desperate for her to see, really see, what he was. “You chose me anyway. Why?”

But she stood, unwavering, and told him what she wanted: for him to choose her, not in secret, but where all could see.

Peter felt something twist inside him. If he chose her, if he let the Lost Boys, the faeries, the hungry world of Neverland know, she would be marked. His shadow would not let her go. The island would turn its gaze on her, and it never blinked.

“Wendy,” he said, softer now, almost pleading, “if I choose you... truly, openly... it will not be safe for you. This place… it punishes what I love. It punishes me. My shadow is not just darkness. It is hunger. It is anger. It will come for you, and I may not be able to stop it.” He looked away, jaw clenched. “I am not made for gentleness. My love is teeth and claws and midnight. I want you, but wanting you means harm will find you. It always does.”

Even as he spoke, the air grew colder, the shadows deeper. Peter felt it before he saw it. His own shadow, slithering across the moonlit grass, drawn, as it always was, to what he couldn’t bear to lose. The shadow flickered, and then lunged, a living thing of darkness and spite.In an instant, the shadow lunged at Wendy, striking her with ferocity, sending her crumpling to the ground.

Peter’s heart seized. He didn’t hesitate. He leaped, reckless and wild, into the fray. “No!” he shouted, fury and terror mingling in his voice. He grabbed at the shadow, feeling its cold bite his skin, pulling, tearing, willing himself to be stronger than the part of himself that wanted to destroy everything good. “You will not have her!” he roared, fighting his own darkness with every ounce of boyhood bravado and ancient, aching fear. “She is mine, but not to break. Not to lose.”

The shadow recoiled, hissing, as Peter battled it back, refusing to let it claim what he wanted most. For the first time, Peter understood. Choosing Wendy was not just about love, or bravery, or being seen; it was about fighting himself and the darkness that had always clung to him like a second skin. He would not let Wendy be his secret, but neither would he let her be his sacrifice.

The world lurched, and the treehouse closed around them before she could understand what had happened. Lantern light flickered across Peter’s face as he bent over her. His eyes were too bright, too wide. His voice was tight. The teasing lilt she had learned to love was gone.

“Everywhere,” she said. The wound felt deep, but the cold spreading through her blood was worse.

She managed to turn her head. Peter had gone pale. His gaze moved frantically over her. Beneath the panic, she saw shame.

He didn’t deserve to go back to Wendy. He wasn’t owed redemption. And he couldn’t seize it for himself. Felix had carved that truth into him deeper than John’s bullet ever could.

The beeping pulled harder, dragging at his chest. A hand pressed flat over his sternum. A voice yelled, “Stable!” Another said something about lucky.

He wasn’t lucky. He was cursed.

The gray thinned and light broke through in harsh stripes. His mouth was dry. His left side burned with a deep, grinding heat that pulsed in time with the beeping nearby. He tried to open his eyes. One cooperated. The other stayed shut.

Turning his head proved harder. His neck protested with a dull, stubborn ache. The room was small. A curtain hung to his left, drawn partway closed. Through the gap, he caught the edge of a window. Dark. Still night. Or night again. He didn’t know how long he’d been under.

He was alive.

Then the door swung open, and the doctor entered, his expression gentle but tired. Wendy shot upright, heart pounding in her chest.

“Miss Darling?” he said, and when she nodded, he offered a small, reassuring smile. “Peter’s going to be okay. The surgery went well. He’s stable now. You can see him soon.”

Relief crashed over her so hard she nearly wept. She thanked him in a choked whisper, barely trusting her voice.

Later, the world had shrunk to the quiet of Peter’s hospital room. The rain had faded to a soft drizzle on the window. Wendy sat at his bedside, her hand wrapped tightly around his. Her head rested on the mattress, damp hair fanned across his arm. She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the only thing anchoring her to hope.

He tried to squeeze her hand back. His fingers twitched, but he couldn’t close them around hers.

The room smelled of antiseptic and clean linen. Bandages wrapped his ribs, tight over the place John’s bullet had torn through his side.

John.

He wondered where John was. Michael, too. He couldn’t imagine her brothers willingly leaving her at his bedside. Then again, John’s bullet had seemed less about protecting Wendy than avenging Felix.

Felix.

His throat closed around the name. Had he really seen him? Or had it only been a dream? Felix had looked exactly as Peter remembered him. Almost. There had been hurt in his face. A distance Peter had never known between them. Then Felix had sent him back to Wendy. There had been no forgiveness in Felix’s voice when he told Peter to live. No warmth. No absolution.

Peter turned his head and watched Wendy sleep. Her face was pale, dried tear tracks marking her cheeks. His blood still stained the sleeves of her shirt. She had fought for him. Stayed. Defied her brothers. Defied the world. In the rain, she had pressed her hands against his wound and refused to leave him.

He wasn’t sure how to carry the weight of her devotion. He hadn’t known how to carry Felix’s, either.

Wendy stirred beside the bed. When her eyes opened, they found his. Happiness rose in him so quickly it felt like another sin.

Peter’s hand remained at Felix’s throat. Felix no longer looked at him. His head had bowed, golden hair falling forward to hide his face. Something twisted in Peter’s chest when a broken sound escaped Felix. Felix had never disobeyed him. Whatever Peter demanded, Felix had always given it to him.

For the first time, Felix had reached his limit.

Peter should have stopped. He knew it, and still he didn’t. His grip loosened, though his thumb continued to trace Felix’s pulse.

“Look at me.” Peter’s voice came out rough.

When Felix didn’t move, Peter took his hand from the tree and caught Felix by the jaw. He forced Felix’s face up until their eyes met. Guilt cut through the jealousy.

“Stop crying,” Peter said quietly. His thumb followed Felix’s scar, the familiar ridge slick beneath his touch. “You don’t get to fall apart while I’m still standing here.”

Guilt tangled with hunger until Peter could no longer tell one from the other. Felix trembled beneath his hands, and Peter could no longer pretend it was desire. Firelight caught in the tears on Felix’s cheeks, bright and sharp as broken glass.

Peter released Felix’s jaw, then let his other hand fall from his throat. His fingers dragged down the front of Felix’s tunic, catching the tremor still running through him.

Stop Crying.

He tried to stop crying, tried to swallow down the sobs clawing at his throat, but they just kept coming, wild and shaking. Felix bit his lip so hard it hurt, forcing himself to obey. The taste of blood was sharp and grounding. He blinked furiously, desperate to do as he was told, desperate not to make things worse.

The grip shifted, fingers trailing down the scar that cut across his cheek. Felix froze, every muscle rigid with dread. The touch was slow, and for a fleeting moment, he didn’t know if it was meant to comfort or condemn. All he could feel was the heat of shame, memories of that fateful night with Rufio, the guilt, the fear that he would never be forgiven.

His thoughts spiraled. Was this it? Was this the moment everything was taken from him? Would Peter cast him out, hurt him, strip him of what little place he’d carved in this savage world? Felix’s heart hammered in his chest, breath shallow, his stomach twisting with terror.

The next words, an order, sent him scrambling blindly away from the fire and into the darkness of the tent. He stumbled, legs shaking and when his knees hit the ground he didn’t resist. He pressed his face to the earth, arms curled beneath him, surrendering completely. He was nothing now, nothing but regret and dread and the raw hope that maybe, somehow, he could survive this.

“Do your worst,” Felix whispered, voice hoarse and broken, barely more than a plea. “I deserve it. I won’t fight you.”

He followed.

The tent closed around him, warm and dim, scented with pine resin and damp earth. Felix knelt at the far end, shoulders drawn tight, facing away. The canvas filtered the firelight into something soft and amber, catching the gold in his hair and the silver line of his scar.

Peter dropped to his knees behind him. Close enough to feel the warmth coming off him. Close enough that everything unsaid crowded the space between them.

He reached out and pressed his palm flat between Felix’s shoulder blades. Felix sucked in a sharp breath. Felix's spine went rigid beneath his hand.

“You don’t get to hate yourself more than I hate him,” Peter said quietly. His fingers spread across the thin fabric of Felix’s shirt, finding the familiar geography of old scars beneath. “He touched what was mine. I’m taking back every part of you he had.”

Felix didn’t answer. He didn’t pull away. Peter slid his hand to the nape of Felix’s neck, threading his fingers through the soft hair there. He tipped Felix’s head forward and pressed a kiss to the base of his neck. Felix shuddered beneath his mouth.

"So that's it." Her voice came out flatter than she'd intended.

Peter was still close enough for her to feel the heat of him in the cooling air, but she stepped back anyway. Then another, until his hand slipped from her waist and there was finally room to breathe.

“You stand here and tell me all of this”—she gestured once between them, the stream, the cold at the edge of the clearing, the kiss that still burned on her mouth—“and then ask me to let you pretend I mean nothing.”

She laughed once, softly. It held no amusement at all.

“For my safety.”

Wendy wrapped her arms around herself, less for warmth than to stop her hands from shaking. “Do you know what’s absurd?” she asked. “That I believe you. I believe that thing would hurt me to hurt you. I believe Neverland is monstrous enough to ask this of you.” She finally looked at him. “And I am still angry.”

Because of course she was. Because he had finally said something real and immediately buried it beneath conditions. Because he was asking her to be content with being treasured in secret while being treated like a stranger in daylight. Because some ugly, traitorous part of her had heard That's yours, Wendy and wanted to cling to it.

She hated that part of herself.

His voice came out low and rough, threaded with the darkness that clung to him. “You know what I am, Wendy. You know what Neverland makes of me.” He stepped closer, the night seeming to bend around him, presence both magnetic and menacing. “If keeping you alive means pretending you’re nothing to me, I’ll be colder than ice. If it means mocking you, I’ll be crueler than any pirate. If the Lost Boys need a show, I’ll give them one.”

He stopped just shy of touching her, eyes burning with desperate honesty. “But you’re not nothing. Not to me. You are the only thing in this cursed place that makes me want to be more than the shadow demands. If you can’t remember that, then maybe I’m not worth your risk.”

His words lingered, sharp and bitter, but for an instant his eyes softened as he stepped in, closing the distance with a single deliberate stride. He reached out, letting his fingers trail along her jaw and down the line of her throat and collarbone, a touch that was both possessive and longing, a silent promise of what he’d only allow in secret.

Behind that touch lay a truth both of them understood: Peter’s humanity had been warped the moment he bargained with the shadow. His moral compass was shattered, his ability to love warped by magic and loss. All he could give Wendy would be flawed, selfish, and marked by the darkness that ruled Neverland.

Yet as he drew her close, his voice dropped to a velvet murmur, dangerous and intimate. “When it’s just us, no masks, no games. Then you’ll know what I am to you. Behind closed doors, we can have whatever we want. I’ll give you everything I can, Wendy. Everything that’s left.”

He leaned in, his breath a whisper at her ear. “What I feel for you is real, even if it’s wrong.”

She looked at him. Peter was still inches from her, his jaw tight, the wildness in him barely leashed. His hand lingered near her throat, trembling just as it had in the stream.

“Behind closed doors, no masks, no games. But the moment we step outside, you’ll become what Neverland needs you to be, and I’ll be—what? Your prisoner? Your ghost? The girl you refuse to notice?”

Her throat ached. She refused to let it show.

“You’re not asking me to survive. You’re asking me to go back to being invisible. To smile while you pretend I don’t exist. To believe we’re only real when no one is looking.”

Frost crawled over the nearest fern. Darkness stirred beneath the canopy.

“I chose you,” she said. “With my eyes open. Knowing every cruelty you’ve committed. I chose you anyway. But I didn’t choose to be your secret.”

Wendy laid both palms against Peter’s chest. His heart still beat too fast beneath them. His warmth seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“I won’t be your hidden thing,” she said. “Not for the Shadow. Not for the Lost Boys. Not for Neverland. Not even for you.”

She let her hands fall.

“If you want me, you’ll have to choose me where people can see it.”

She didn’t see it move. One moment the Shadow waited at the treeline, patient and watchful. The next, it was behind her. A razor-sharp force raked across her back before she could turn. Pain tore through her, and the ground rushed up to meet her. She hit the dirt hard, warmth already spilling down her spine.

Wendy’s arms shook as she forced herself onto one elbow. The Shadow’s eyes narrowed, but she refused to look away.

“Felix...” The name scraped its way out. “I don’t deserve to see you.”

But God, he was glad he could. Maybe seeing Felix meant he hadn’t ruined everything beyond repair. Or maybe this was one last cruelty before he was sent wherever monsters went. He stepped closer and caught Felix’s familiar scent, though nothing here should have carried one. Pine. Salt. Smoke from a Neverland campfire.

“I’m sorry.” Peter raised a hand to Felix’s cheek. His fingers appeared to rest against Felix’s skin, but Peter felt nothing beneath them. “I’m so sorry.”

Peter’s apology hung in the gray air. Felix let out a brittle laugh, shaking his head. “Forgiveness, Pan? After all this? Why does that matter to you now?” His voice was softer but edged with pain. “You made your choice. No matter how hard it was for the rest of us… you chose power. You chose yourself. Over all of us. Over me.”

He took a step back, putting more space between them. “You want me to say it’s alright? That it never mattered? It did. It always did. But it’s too late to change any of it now.”

Felix glanced in the direction of Wendy’s faint voice through the mist. “She’s waiting. She still believes in you. Go back to her, Peter. Live your life… that’s what’s left for you. Redemption isn’t mine to give. And honestly, I don’t know if I could.”

His figure began to fade, words heavy in the silence. “It’s too late for us, Pan. But it’s not too late for you. Go.”

He didn’t deserve to go back to Wendy. He wasn’t owed redemption. And he couldn’t seize it for himself. Felix had carved that truth into him deeper than John’s bullet ever could.

The beeping pulled harder, dragging at his chest. A hand pressed flat over his sternum. A voice yelled, “Stable!” Another said something about lucky.

He wasn’t lucky. He was cursed.

The gray thinned and light broke through in harsh stripes. His mouth was dry. His left side burned with a deep, grinding heat that pulsed in time with the beeping nearby. He tried to open his eyes. One cooperated. The other stayed shut.

Turning his head proved harder. His neck protested with a dull, stubborn ache. The room was small. A curtain hung to his left, drawn partway closed. Through the gap, he caught the edge of a window. Dark. Still night. Or night again. He didn’t know how long he’d been under.

He was alive.

Tink sat on a tree branch with her wings folded tight against her back, staring up through the canopy. She'd climbed high enough that the shouting from camp had faded into the trees.

Leaves rustled behind her.

Either someone was terrible at moving through the forest, or they wanted her to know they were there. Either way, they were interrupting a perfectly good afternoon. She glanced over her shoulder. One of Pan's Lost Boys. Teddy. The girl.

“Pan better have a good reason for sending you,” Tink said. “Otherwise, you're wasting both our time.”

She glanced back. Teddy was still close behind, quicker on her feet than Tink had given her credit for. “Pan can’t kill me. The last thing he wants is a war with the fairies.”

Rufio dropped down beside him on the log, close enough that Peter could smell the pine sap on his clothes. Peter didn’t look over. He kept dragging the stone along the blade’s edge. The silence stretched between them, and Peter had gotten good at filling it with noise. He’d been filling it for days, whenever Rufio looked at him with an expression caught somewhere between anger and disappointment.

“You want to say something.” Peter kept his eyes on the blade. “Then say it.”

“The twins are ten. They dropped a net. So they didn’t get food for two days. They didn’t betray anyone. They didn’t disobey me.”

Peter turned the dagger in his hand, watching firelight slide along the edge. “What do you think I should’ve done? Flayed them? Hung them from a tree? Cut off their hands? Little bodies can’t handle that much pain, Rufio.

Peter found Teddy where the forest gave way to scrub and the air carried the sharp smell of salt. He came to a stop beside her.

“Shouldn't you be with the others?” he asked.

He let the silence stretch another heartbeat, long enough for its weight to settle. Then he turned away with the same casual indifference she'd shown him at the water's edge.

"Sit by the fire," he said without looking back. "Don't speak. Don't move. Dinner's in an hour."

"You'll watch." Next time, she'd think before saluting him.

She wasn't stupid, or scatterbrained, she was simply existing. Teddy wasn't malicious about their noncompliance. They were just tired, in a sense. Decades of the same wild loneliness weighed on their shoulders like a heavy winter coat: suffocating in the humid jungle air.

She could feel the others looking at her. Whispering. Laughing. She probably wouldn't be allowed to eat tonight and no one would bring her food. Her vision unfocused as the sounds of the Lost Ones went on around her.

He rolled his wrist carefully, testing his range of motion. His left thumb bent, but the movement sent fiery pain up his forearm. Perfect. He hid both hands in his jacket pockets and turned back toward camp.

Teddy was exactly where he had told her to sit, rigid as a fencepost. Good. At least she could follow instructions when the consequences were clear. He skirted the edge of the clearing, moving through the gaps in the torchlight. No one looked at him directly. They made themselves smaller or found sudden work for their hands. One of the younger boys pretended to mend a tear in his shirt, the needle trembling between his fingers.

Peter settled on the log nearest the fire, close enough to feel the heat but far enough from Teddy that no one could mistake it for forgiveness. He stretched out his legs, all lazy ease while his wrists throbbed inside his pockets. He flexed his fingers until the pain dulled into something he could ignore.

“Someone get the rabbit on the spit,” he said.

Ceiling lights streaked above him, too bright and too fast. Hands pressed against his chest, his side, his throat. Someone cut through his shirt. Cold air struck the wound and stole what little breath he had left.

“BP’s dropping—”

“—type and cross, get it now—”

The voices came from somewhere above him, warped as though they had to reach him through water. Peter tried to turn his head. His body wouldn’t obey. Something covered his mouth and nose. When he reached for it, a hand caught his wrist and held it against the mattress.

“Stay with us, son.”

Son. The word landed wrong. He almost laughed, but the oxygen mask swallowed the sound, turning it into a wet cough that tasted of iron. His vision flashed white, collapsed into darkness, then found the lights again.

He was on a table. Then he wasn’t.

He was back in Neverland. Felix stood before him beneath a sun that burned too bright, looking past Peter at something behind him.

Peter turned and saw—

Wendy.

No. She hadn’t been there. She couldn’t be there.

Neverland dissolved. Cold flooded his arm through the line buried in his vein. His heart stumbled. Someone swore.

“V-tach—get the pads—”

Pain struck, sharp and electric, everywhere at once. His back arched from the table before hands forced him flat again. The room disappeared and returned in pieces: an unfamiliar face, a monitor beeping too fast, the smell of antiseptic, blood, and something bitterly chemical beneath it all.

He searched for Wendy. She had been holding his hand. He could still feel the ghost of her fingers against his palm, impossibly warm.

She wasn’t here.

Of course she wasn’t. They wouldn’t let her in. John and Michael would see to that. They were probably holding her behind some locked door, telling her what he was and everything he had done. She would be crying because she believed them or because she couldn’t stop them from taking him away. Either way, he was the reason.

His chest tightened. Not from the wound. From something worse.

She chose you, and this is what it costs her.

The monitor beeped unevenly. Someone adjusted the mask over his face. A voice mentioned blood. Another answered with numbers he couldn’t hold onto.

He closed his eyes. Pain coiled around his ribs, tightening with every breath. He counted them. One. Two. Three. Four.

Then the numbers slipped away.

Felix. The name surfaced without permission, as it always did when Peter grew too tired to bury it. The tin box was still at the mansion beside the dead fire, growing cold in an empty room. He should have buried it. He should have done something. Someone would find it. Open it. See what he had carried all this time because he had never learned to let go.

They already knew. John had told them what Peter was.

The monster who killed Felix. The boy who tore out hearts.

Michael slipped into the chair beside her, guilt written on his face. “I’m sorry, Wen. I should’ve been there—”

She shook her head, eyes fixed on the floor. “Not now, Michael. I just need him to live.”

He fell silent, and Wendy went on waiting, her prayers quiet and urgent in the fluorescent-lit room.

Somewhere far from the harsh lights and anxious voices of the hospital, Peter floated in a gray, endless space, the world above slipping away like a fading dream. In that hush, a familiar presence stirred—steady, loyal, unmistakable.

Felix stood before him, looking just as he had in Neverland: sharp-eyed, a sly grin twitching at the corner of his mouth, arms crossed against his chest. The edges of him shimmered, not quite real, but more solid than anything else in this misty in-between.

“Felix...” The name scraped its way out. “I don’t deserve to see you.”

But God, he was glad he could. Maybe seeing Felix meant he hadn’t ruined everything beyond repair. Or maybe this was one last cruelty before he was sent wherever monsters went. He stepped closer and caught Felix’s familiar scent, though nothing here should have carried one. Pine. Salt. Smoke from a Neverland campfire.

“I’m sorry.” Peter raised a hand to Felix’s cheek. His fingers appeared to rest against Felix’s skin, but Peter felt nothing beneath them. “I’m so sorry.”

When they broke apart, the air between them still crackled. Wendy kept her hands on his chest, feeling his heart still racing beneath her palms. The Shadow at the treeline pulsed once. A deep, cold warning lifted the hairs on her arms despite the warmth of her dry clothes.

She didn’t look at it. She kept her gaze on Peter's face, watching the wildness in his eyes settle into something steadier. Something almost like peace.

The Shadow rippled, dark tendrils reaching further into the clearing. The temperature dropped as frost spread across the nearest leaves. Wendy’s breath came out in a small cloud. She tightened her hold on him and rested her head against the curve of his neck.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, haunted. “You asked if the Shadow will hurt me.” He glanced at the shifting darkness, jaw set. “It might. It’s punished me before, but I can survive it. What I can’t survive is letting it hurt you. And if it thinks I care too much, that’s exactly where it will strike.”

He drew her closer, the possessiveness in his grip tempered by a rare, aching vulnerability. “To keep you safe, I’ll have to give the Shadow what it wants: control, the illusion that nothing’s changed. The Lost Ones can’t know. No one can. Not yet. For now, I may have to treat you as if you mean nothing to me, at least when others are watching. It’s the only way I can keep you safe…and keep what I have.”

"So that's it." Her voice came out flatter than she'd intended.

Peter was still close enough for her to feel the heat of him in the cooling air, but she stepped back anyway. Then another, until his hand slipped from her waist and there was finally room to breathe.

“You stand here and tell me all of this”—she gestured once between them, the stream, the cold at the edge of the clearing, the kiss that still burned on her mouth—“and then ask me to let you pretend I mean nothing.”

She laughed once, softly. It held no amusement at all.

“For my safety.”

Wendy wrapped her arms around herself, less for warmth than to stop her hands from shaking. “Do you know what’s absurd?” she asked. “That I believe you. I believe that thing would hurt me to hurt you. I believe Neverland is monstrous enough to ask this of you.” She finally looked at him. “And I am still angry.”

Because of course she was. Because he had finally said something real and immediately buried it beneath conditions. Because he was asking her to be content with being treasured in secret while being treated like a stranger in daylight. Because some ugly, traitorous part of her had heard That's yours, Wendy and wanted to cling to it.

She hated that part of herself.

One night. A mistake. I thought I’d never have you.

He spun around.

The movement was too fast. Too sharp. He caught Felix's eyes widening, the backward tilt of his chin, but Felix didn't step away. He never did. Even now, with Peter's magic crackling at his fingertips, the fire roaring behind him, and every cruel thing he'd ever done written across his face, Felix stayed.

Peter caught the front of Felix’s shirt with both hands and yanked him forward. Felix stumbled half a step, close enough for Peter to see the pulse jumping at the base of his throat, his lips parting around a sound that never escaped.

Peter kissed him.

Not soft. Not careful. His mouth crashed into Felix’s with all the jagged, ugly force of everything he’d been refusing to feel. His teeth caught Felix’s lower lip hard enough to taste copper, and Felix made a noise—small, startled, raw—that went straight through Peter’s chest like a blade.

He kissed him again. Deeper. Hungrier. His hands fisted in Felix’s shirt, twisting the fabric until his knuckles ached. Peter shoved him backward. Felix's shoulders struck the trunk of the thinking tree, bark scraping through the thin fabric of his tunic. Peter followed him. Pressed him there. One hand fisted in Felix's shirt, the other flat against the tree beside Felix's head, fingers digging into the wood until splinters bit into his palm.

“You had something I didn’t give you. Something that belonged only to you,” Peter said against Felix’s lips, the words ragged and broken. “And you kept it from me.”

His hand shook where it pressed against the tree. Magic leaked from his fingertips, scorching a black mark into the bark. He didn’t care.

“You let someone else have something that was mine.”

He pulled back just far enough to see Felix’s face. His lips were swollen and red where Peter’s teeth had bitten into them.

He looked ruined. Beautiful. Peter wanted every mark on Felix to belong to him.

Peter’s hand left the tree and found Felix’s throat. His thumb pressed against the pulse point, feeling it stutter and race beneath his skin. Possession coiled through him, dark, ugly, and sharp enough to hurt.

“He’s dead,” Peter said, and the words came out flat, devoid of the grief he should have felt. Maybe he did feel it, somewhere beneath the jealousy. He couldn’t tell anymore. “He can’t answer for what he took. So it falls to you.”

His grip tightened on Felix’s throat. Just a fraction. Just enough to feel the muscles tense beneath his palm.

“Tell me, Felix.” Peter leaned close enough for his lips to brush the shell of Felix's ear. “Tell me what he did to you. Where he touched you. What sounds you made for him.”

His free hand slid down Felix’s chest, fingers splaying wide over the thin fabric of his tunic.

“I let him kiss me,” Felix whispered, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. “On the lips. I let his hands—” He hesitated, his face flushing hot with humiliation. “They were on my chest, my thighs… even lower. He touched me everywhere, Peter. I let him.”

The confession felt like poison, each detail dragging him deeper into shame. Felix’s eyes stung, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at Peter. “He… he grabbed my... my ass. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t stop any of it.”

He shook his head, voice trembling, raw and small. “I’m not proud of it. I feel… filthy, even saying it out loud. Like I’m something less, all over again. I never wanted you to see this part of me.”

His breath hitched, the next words caught in his throat. He tried to go on, but the weight of it all crashed down: regret, humiliation, the fear of being truly seen and truly hated. Felix’s voice broke, nothing left but a whisper. “I can’t. I—” His head bowed, shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry, Peter. I can’t say any more.”

Peter’s hand remained at Felix’s throat. Felix no longer looked at him. His head had bowed, golden hair falling forward to hide his face. Something twisted in Peter’s chest when a broken sound escaped Felix. Felix had never disobeyed him. Whatever Peter demanded, Felix had always given it to him.

For the first time, Felix had reached his limit.

Peter should have stopped. He knew it, and still he didn’t. His grip loosened, though his thumb continued to trace Felix’s pulse.

“Look at me.” Peter’s voice came out rough.

When Felix didn’t move, Peter took his hand from the tree and caught Felix by the jaw. He forced Felix’s face up until their eyes met. Guilt cut through the jealousy.

“Stop crying,” Peter said quietly. His thumb followed Felix’s scar, the familiar ridge slick beneath his touch. “You don’t get to fall apart while I’m still standing here.”

Guilt tangled with hunger until Peter could no longer tell one from the other. Felix trembled beneath his hands, and Peter could no longer pretend it was desire. Firelight caught in the tears on Felix’s cheeks, bright and sharp as broken glass.

Peter released Felix’s jaw, then let his other hand fall from his throat. His fingers dragged down the front of Felix’s tunic, catching the tremor still running through him.

Her hands slid from his hair to rest at the base of his throat. His pulse hammered beneath her fingertips, too fast for someone who claimed to feel nothing.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she said. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You don’t have to kill or threaten or bargain. You just have to stop running.”

He was trembling. She had seen it before during the darkest hours of certain nights, when he thought she was asleep and his face forgot to lie.

Her thumbs moved once against his skin.

“I choose you,” she said. “Even knowing what you are. Even when choosing you costs me.” She let the words settle between them. “I’ve always chosen you. That’s the part you keep missing.”

A droplet slid from his hair and traced a path down her wrist.

“You said you'd do anything to keep me,” she said. “So would I. That's what I've been doing all this time. Keeping you.” The corner of her mouth almost lifted. “Even when you made it very difficult.”

The cold at the edge of the clearing sharpened like a blade laid across the back of her neck.

I know you’re there. I don’t care.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. He seemed younger than she had ever seen him, younger than his face or his years, younger even than the island itself.

A dangerous, unsteady laugh escaped him. “Together, then,” he whispered, voice both steel and uncertainty. “Even if the shadow hates us for it.”

With a cautious snap of his fingers, magic warmed the air and, in an instant, dressed them both in their familiar, dry clothes, whole again. He drew Wendy close, one hand at her waist, the other threading gently through her hair.

“Let it watch,” he murmured, voice tight and fierce. “But never turn your back on it, Wendy.”

When they broke apart, the air between them still crackled. Wendy kept her hands on his chest, feeling his heart still racing beneath her palms. The Shadow at the treeline pulsed once. A deep, cold warning lifted the hairs on her arms despite the warmth of her dry clothes.

She didn’t look at it. She kept her gaze on Peter's face, watching the wildness in his eyes settle into something steadier. Something almost like peace.

The Shadow rippled, dark tendrils reaching further into the clearing. The temperature dropped as frost spread across the nearest leaves. Wendy’s breath came out in a small cloud. She tightened her hold on him and rested her head against the curve of his neck.