Lost Boy.

At the mention of him rather running around nude than in a suit, she wrinkled her nose. "Ugh, ew! Why would you say that? I did not need that visual," she grumbled. "You don't have to worry about me offering you a suit, then. I don't think I'd ever want to see you naked, thank you very much." She bumped her shoulder with his and grinned. "That'd be weird, don't you think? It's hard getting used to seeing you without your cloak as it is."

They continued walking through the forest until they found a suitable spot where the stars could be seen through the trees. "Here," they said, shoving the bag with the tent stakes into his arms. "You set up the tent, I'm gonna start a fire." They dumped their bag and the blankets in an unceremonious pile and began gathering twigs and stones.

It was a familiar task, and they found a small joy in setting up the circle of stones and using the twigs to spark a fire. They snorted when he said he'd been called worse. "What's the worst thing you've ever been called that scandalous is so mild?" they asked. "And I don't think they'd do well in Neverland. They probably wouldn't faint, but they might get drowned by the mermaids."

At the mention of Rufio, they paused. "You're right, he would've hated the nuns," they mused. Their memories of the boy were faint. He'd been proud and loud and colorful. Much like Felix had been before he became second in command. "He'd also probably think my job is too nerdy and make fun of my clothes so I don't think I care that much about his opinion," they added.

"Then again, I didn't know him as well as you did," she said, adding leaves and pine needles to stoke the fire. "I think I interacted with him solo once. But he taught me how to fish so I can't complain. Besides, it's rude to speak ill of the dead." She paused.

He snorted at her disgust over the suit and nudity, shaking his head as he spread out the canvas. “Relax, it was a joke. No one’s lining up to see me in a suit or otherwise. And don’t act like you don’t miss the cloak. At least it gave me some dignity.”

The familiar rhythm of setting up camp settled his nerves. He worked in silence for a minute, hands moving with practiced ease, muscle memory from nights in the Neverwoods. When Teddy handed over the stakes, Felix grumbled under his breath but got to work, letting the simple task ground him. At her question about scandal and insults, he smirked. “You wouldn’t believe half the things I’ve been called. Pirate bait, Pan’s lapdog, traitor, monster… You name it. ‘Scandalous’ is practically a compliment.”

He listened as she reminisced about Rufio, and for a brief moment, something like nostalgia flickered in his eyes. “Rufio would’ve hated all this,” he admitted quietly. “He was loud, proud, and never let anyone forget it. Would’ve had a field day with all your books and normal clothes.”

Felix’s hands stilled as Teddy brought up the curse and her own worth. He looked up, something sharp in his gaze. “Don’t say you’re not worth the trouble. I get to decide who’s worth it, and you made the cut. Journal or not, if you got lost, I’d find you. That’s not propaganda… it’s just how things are.”

He folded his arms, gaze never leaving George’s.

'Maybe today's that day.'

But Felix only let a slow, mocking smile curl across his lips. “You say that every time, mate. And yet here we are, still playing the same game, still making the same threats. You’re predictable, George.”

Felix’s tone dropped, almost a purr. “But if you’re really done, then prove it. Walk away. Or—” he leaned in, voice low and dangerous, “—say what you need to say and maybe I’ll keep Wendy out of this. Your call.”

He wanted to throw the stone. He wanted to throw it at Felix’s head. Instead, he set it down carefully. He was angry, not stupid. Breaking things in Neverland had consequences.

“You kept quiet because Pan would have killed me.” Malcolm turned the words over. They felt true. He didn’t know if that made it better or worse. “So all of it—the silence, the secret—was to keep me alive.”

Malcolm looked at him again. Shadows hollowed his cheekbones. His hands hung at his sides like they didn’t know what to do with themselves. He looked like a man who had run out of ways to make any of it right.

That was the worst part: Malcolm could see it. The care was real. It had always been real. He felt it in the way Felix would slide a plate toward him at dinner when no one else noticed he hadn’t eaten. In the quick, sure movement of Felix’s fingers as he stitched the gash in Malcolm’s arm after Pan’s sword slipped during training. In the way Felix would appear, quiet and sudden, in doorways when Pan’s voice rose too high.

All of it real. All of it born from a night that had nothing to do with him.

“So what am I supposed to do with that?” Malcolm asked. The cold spread from his hands up his arms and settled in his shoulders. “You’re telling me the only person who ever gave a damn about me was my real father pretending not to be. And the man who raised me hated me because of it. And my mother—” His voice cracked again. He gritted his teeth until he had it under control. “My mother lied to protect me, and it worked, and I should be grateful, and I am, and I also want to tear something apart.”

He pressed both palms flat against the cold cave floor.

He let Malcolm speak, let the anger and hurt pour out, because he’d earned every bit of it. Still, when he finally found his voice, it came out rough, edged with exhaustion and longing.

“I know I left you alone with him,” Felix said quietly. “You think I wanted that? Every time I stepped back, it was because I thought it’d keep you alive a little longer. But maybe I was just too much a coward to stay.”

Malcolm’s jaw clenched, but Felix pressed on, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

“I never knew how to show you what you meant to me. Not without making you a target. Not without Peter using you against me.” He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Turns out, keeping secrets didn’t protect either of us, did it?”

He watched Malcolm’s fists curl, saw the question, was I a weapon, was I a mistake hanging between them, heavy as a curse. Felix’s voice cracked as he answered, softer than he meant.

“You’re not a mistake. Not a weapon, not a curse. You’re the only thing I got right in a world built on bad choices. I’m sorry I made you doubt that.”

Felix’s jaw tightened, and he forced himself to meet Malcolm’s gaze. It was undeniable: the resemblance. It was as if he were looking at a mirror's reflection of himself. “That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?” he said, his tone raw. “You have my eyes, my anger, my stubbornness. Peter saw it, even when I tried to hide it. The more you looked like me, the more he hated you. The more I tried to protect you, the worse it got.”

He swallowed, letting the truth settle between them. “I wish I could take that from you. I wish you hadn’t had to pay for my mistakes, just because you share my face. But I can’t change any of it. I can only stand here and tell you the truth now, even if it’s ugly.”

He stepped forward, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders, letting the boy see him as just a man who had failed, not a shadow or a monster.

They wanted to scold him, to tell him to shut up for being a nuisance, but couldn't bring themselves to. At least, if they heard his voice, they'd know that he was still alive. "Keep talking," they ordered, trying to mimic his bossy tone. "Pan will be here soon, and then you'll be fine."

The lie came easily because Teddy wanted to believe that it was true. They had no idea where Pan was, but they knew Felix believed in him, so they had to force themselves to have faith that the boy king would show up for his second.

"You're not dying," she said forcefully, as if she said it firmly enough, it'd become reality. "You're just being dramatic. You can't die from a leg wound and you're not allowed to die until I get angry enough to kill you myself, anyway, ok?"

They soaked a rag in cold water and placed it over his forehead, hoping it would help soothe the feverish skin. "You're gonna fuck up my plans for tonight," they grumbled, trying to keep their tone light. "I'm gonna get in so much trouble for ditching my other friend to keep you company. You owe me two favors now. And one of your daggers."

Teddy’s sarcasm about his recklessness got a weak smirk out of him. “Hey, I thought you liked trouble. Don’t act surprised,” he rasped, forcing a bit of his old attitude even as his eyelids fluttered.

When she told him to stay awake, Felix fought to keep his eyes open, his jaw clenched against the burning pain radiating up his leg. He tried to sound casual, but fatigue slurred his words. “You’re pushy, you know that? Couldn’t let a guy rest for five minutes…” He swallowed hard, sweat running down his temple, and forced himself to add, “Pan left Neverland this morning. Not due back ’til tonight... whenever he feels like showing. So don’t count on him just yet.”

He bit down again, harder this time. Not to hurt. Or not only to hurt.

Felix made a low, involuntary sound, and something inside Peter gave way with it.

He lifted his mouth from the scar and pressed his cheek to the warm skin of Felix’s back. He breathed. The tent smelled of pine and faint copper where his teeth had broken skin. Felix was shaking, or Peter was, or both of them were. He could no longer tell whose trembling he felt.

Peter closed his eyes and stayed still until stillness became unbearable. His fingers spread against the soft skin above Felix’s hip, following every breath he took. In and out. Steady. Staying.

He thought about Rufio.

He had always understood, vaguely and at a distance, that Felix was capable of wanting. Of being wanted. He had filed the knowledge away as proof of Felix’s humanity, not as anything Peter needed to concern himself with.

Now it felt like a splinter he’d ignored until it went septic.

Rufio’s hands. Rufio’s mouth. Felix making sounds for someone who wasn’t Peter.

He pressed his forehead harder against Felix’s spine.

The worst of it was that Rufio was dead. Peter had watched him die. He had felt grief then and buried it quickly, without ceremony, because grief cost everything on this island. But it had been there. A small, blunt thing, like a stone in the chest.

Now the grief came tangled with the image of Rufio’s hands on Felix, until Peter no longer knew which part of it hurt. He wanted to tear something apart.

He lifted his head.

His hands moved up Felix’s ribs, palms flat, claiming every line of him. Felix’s breath caught, and his spine straightened beneath Peter’s hands even as the rest of him yielded. Felix’s hands still covered Peter’s.

Peter turned Felix around.

His hands stayed firm at Felix’s waist as he pulled him close. Felix’s eyes were red-rimmed, his lashes dark with tears, but his expression was the same one he always gave Peter.

Like Peter was the fixed point the whole world turned around.

He felt the wild turmoil radiating off Peter in waves, anger and hunger, possessiveness and hurt, all tangled together. It crashed through Felix, setting his nerves alight, making him ache with confusion. He wanted to comfort Peter, to be punished, to be forgiven, to be claimed all at the same time. The intensity of it left him breathless, hovering at the edge between agony and desire.

Suddenly, Peter turned him roughly, the world spinning as Felix found himself facing the boy he’d loved and feared all his life. Peter’s hands stayed hot and unyielding on Felix’s bare skin, fingers digging into flesh as if daring him to flinch, to run, to deny what was between them. Felix’s heart pounded, his whole body aching for more, more of Peter’s hands, his mouth, his fury, even as the bite still burned along his back.

Tears shimmered in Felix’s eyes, but he didn’t look away. He let himself feel every inch of pain and want, every drop of shame and hope. His voice was hoarse, desperate, trembling. “I’m yours, Peter. I always have been. I’ll let you mark me as much as you want. Just… don’t let go. Please.”

They cleared their throat, almost punching him at his comment about their cooking skills. "Oh, shut up!" they said, rolling their eyes. "I can cook just fine. You just like to cook, there's a difference. Don't be such a condescending asshole. I could throw you out of my home at any moment for trespassing. And I think you'd look stupid in a suit. You're too..."

They trailed off, unable to find a good enough insult to complete their thought. They tried to imagine Felix in a suit. It was weird. In their mind, he looked too formal, like he was forced into the garment, almost on display. A show pony for whichever rich family he got money from. "...nevermind."

She snorted at his observation of the nuns. "I'm not so much worried about that as I am about them seeing you. They'd kill me if I brought some random boy in after hours, especially if they found out I was camping with you. We cannot be seen together, it's too scandalous," she said, her voice mockingly serious. She giggled. The thought of the nuns' faces if they saw her sneaking Felix into the convent, even just for Lost Boy games, was incredibly amusing.

When she threatened to kick him out for trespassing, Felix just grinned, unbothered. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried. Admit it, you’d miss having someone competent in the kitchen, and don’t worry, I’d rather run around in the nude before I put on a suit.”The truth was that Felix despised cooking and wasn't particularly skilled at it either, but that was neither here nor there.

He rolled his eyes at her mock-scandalized tone about the nuns, playing along. “Yeah, the nuns would probably faint dead away if they caught us. Let ‘em find out. I’ve been called worse than scandalous. I wonder how they’d fare in Neverland?” He mused, getting a sick satisfaction at the images that passed through his mind. “I don’t think they’d last a day without being gutted. Rufio would have seen to that." He hadn’t intended to bring up Rufio. The pain of losing him was still as raw and vivid as it had been on that fateful day.

When she mused about leaving, Felix’s gaze went distant, boots crunching over leaves as they moved deeper into the forest. “If you want to test the curse, be my guest. Just don’t blame me if you forget everything and wander back here thinking I can actually fix it.” He nudged her shoulder again, a rare flash of mischief in his eyes. “Besides, I only help people remember when they’re worth the trouble. But if you get lost, I’ll find you. That’s what I do.”

They weren't used to giving orders, but it came naturally for some reason. Maybe because it was Felix. Not that Teddy was fond of him or anything (she was). They burst into his tent and dropped to their knees beside him, checking his pulse and then shaking him vigorously.

His heartbeat was slower than it should've been. Teddy cursed under their breath and shifted his body to make it easier to lift him, half dragging him out of his tent. "Why are you so heavy?" they grumbled, trying to keep some normalcy in their banter, even if he didn't respond.

She didn't know how she was supposed to get him help—there was no way she could get him to Pan's treehouse—but there was an infirmary tent and she knew enough medicine to hopefully do something.

"I need water, and whiskey, I think," she said, managing to get him onto the table/bed in the infirmary tent. She rummaged through the herbs and medicines they had, trying to figure out what would work on the infection. She didn't want to do this. She pulled his pant leg up to have better access to the wound, then ended up cutting half of the fabric away so she could see.

With one of the twins holding a lantern for light and the other Lost running around to try to help, they felt a lot better as they focused just on cleaning the wound. Anything to keep from panicking. "If you die, I'll hate you forever," they muttered, pouring the alcohol over the gash and wiping it with a clean rag. "You're one of three people I talk to, it's not fair."

When Teddy pressed a hand to his leg, Felix sucked in a sharp breath, whole body tensing. The wound was worse than he’d admitted, even to himself. The skin around it was angry, swollen, and hot, blood oozing sluggishly from the torn flesh. He tried to make a joke, but his voice shook. “You got magic fingers, or are you just trying to make it worse?”

He squeezed his eyes shut as the pain flared white-hot. “If I’m dying, Teddy, remind me never to do it again. Hurts like fuck.” He tried for a crooked grin, but it slipped as another wave of pain crashed over him. “You’re not… getting rid of me that easy.”

Felix’s bravado faded as his head lolled back, breaths coming shallow and uneven. Even then, he forced his gaze to meet Teddy’s, just to show them he was still fighting, even if it didn’t look like much.

He forced a shaky grin, trying to muster the old confidence for Teddy’s sake. “Hey, I’ve had worse,” he rasped, voice barely holding together. “You’ll see... I’ll be up and bossing the boys around before you know it.”

But inside, Felix knew the truth. The pain was burning through him, the world growing dim at the edges. Every breath hurt, and his thoughts slipped like water through his fingers. Still, even as darkness pressed in, his mind circled Teddy, worrying, hoping she’d be all right, wishing he’d told her more. If this was really the end, it wasn’t Pan, or the island, or the other Lost Boys that haunted him.

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.”

When his tunic was pulled up and over his head, leaving his back bare to the cool air and Peter’s gaze, Felix’s cheeks flushed with shame. He felt exposed, vulnerable in ways he never let himself be, every old scar on display. He wanted to hide, to cover himself, but he forced himself to stay still. If this was the price for confession, he would pay it.

He stiffened as Peter’s fingers traced the longest scar, the one that ran jagged across his back. The memory flashed sharp in his mind, the pirate’s sneer, the gleam of the dagger, the white-hot agony as the blade split skin and muscle. Felix remembered, too, what he’d done after: the mess he made of that pirate, the wildness in his blood. He swallowed, breath shaky, the old pain echoing with a strange, hollow pride.

Then Peter’s mouth pressed warm and unyielding to the scar. Felix shuddered, a gasp escaping him at the strange mixture of tenderness and power in the gesture. He tensed at the question: “Did he touch you here?”

Felix’s throat went dry. The feel of Peter’s hand sliding around his stomach made him gasp, the possessiveness of it unmistakable. Felix’s heart hammered as he struggled to find words, to answer honestly, to be as bare in words as he was in body.

“Tell me,” came the order, sharp and cold.

Felix squeezed his eyes shut, voice shaking as he forced out the truth. “No. Not there. Only you.”

“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.

Felix flinched, just a flicker, but let Malcolm have his anger. He deserved it. There was no clever retort, not this time. Wanting had never been enough for men like him, and Felix knew he’d spent a lifetime fighting instead of apologizing, hiding instead of healing.

When Felix met Malcolm’s gaze, he saw himself, older, harsher, but somehow less alone. It hurt, but it also comforted him in a way he hadn’t expected. In Neverland, pain and memory lasted longer than anything else. Still, seeing his own eyes in Malcolm, Felix felt something quietly shift inside him.

Felix had always wondered how long it would take for the truth to catch up to them. He’d been cautious, but some things, like blood, couldn’t stay hidden forever.

He carried Peter’s suspicion like a scar. Every glare, every half-spoken threat, reminded him what he’d risked. He’d never wanted Malcolm to pay for his mistakes, but in Neverland, someone always paid.

Felix felt the accusation like a blade, and for once, he didn’t try to dodge it. His choices, his silence- he owned them now. Malcolm deserved the truth, ugly as it was. "I did hurt her. I hurt you. But you are not the damage, Malcolm. You’re the only thing I did right in all this mess, even if it never looked that way."

"Alright, I'll go camping with you. But if you hog the blankets or kick me I'm going to throw you into the bay."

She huffed at his dramatics about names. "You're being ridiculous. Luck doesn't just run out because you had a bad string of events. Felix suits you. I don't want to call you anything else, it'll be like having to get to know a stranger. And I'd kind of like to inherit a Victorian estate. Imagine running around and sliding down hallways in your socks? It'd be fun."

He let the threat about camping roll over him, lips twitching in the faintest suggestion of a smile. “If you think you can take me, you’re welcome to try,” he muttered. The banter felt strange, but not unwelcome. A reminder of a different life, before everything was broken.

When Teddy dismissed his talk of luck and names, Felix’s gaze dropped to the ground, scuffing his shoe along the pavement. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, voice quieter. “But luck’s never been more than a story for me. As for Victorian estates, don’t expect me to wear a suit. Socks in the hall, maybe.”

He didn’t know how to answer the rest, not really. The idea of going back, of not being alone with the memory, it was tempting in a way that made his chest ache. He just nodded, letting the silence settle, the air between them thick with things unspoken. If he ever went back, it wouldn’t be alone. Maybe that was enough to keep moving forward tonight.

"And no one said you had to wear a suit. Real question, why are you including yourself in my inheritance fantasy? Are you that sure I'd let you in my house? Or is this just an extension of you following me around everywhere?" Her tone was light and teasing, reminiscent of their casual relationship back in Neverland. It was never difficult to talk to Felix. It was difficult to be close to him.

They met his eyes and smiled. "Yes, I'd go back to Neverland if you asked me to. I think I'd do a lot if you asked me to." Their own words settled in and they looked away, wondering if that was too sappy. "Within reason. If it won't put me in danger or inconvenience me or I don't have other plans."

When they reached the convent, Teddy looked around carefully before slipping inside toward the storage room, not wanting to risk getting caught sneaking Felix in and having to explain to the nuns. She quickly gathered the tent and stakes, as well as a few blankets, her jacket, and her backpack.

She laughed once they were safely beyond the convent walls again, her heart racing. "Somehow, that was more terrifying than pirates ever were," she admitted, dropping the tent and pressing a hand over her rapidly beating heart. "They lecture me for everything. I can't wait to get out of here."

At her teasing about the inheritance fantasy and letting him in her house, Felix gave an exaggerated shrug. "Who else is going to keep your kitchen from burning down? You can’t cook worth shit.  Besides, you’d get bored without someone to annoy you. I’m just making sure you don’t forget where you came from. Following you around is practically tradition at this point."

When she said she’d go back to Neverland if he asked, Felix’s smirk faded into something softer, almost disbelieving. He stared at her for a long moment, searching for any hint of a joke, but found only awkward sincerity. He cleared his throat. "Well, good to know. I’ll keep that in mind… next time I find a portal lying around."

Felix lingered in the shadows, watching as she stealthily entered the convent. When she finally emerged with the camping gear, he raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. "You’re braver than you look, sneaking around with nuns. I’ve heard they can wield a ruler like a weapon," he quipped, his smirk lingering as mischief danced in his eyes. Yet, his tone shifted to something more serious as he added, "But honestly, I can’t blame you; they do come off as a bunch of tired old hags."

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."

She turned back to ensure that Felix was still behind her, and once she saw him cross the boundary into camp, she busied herself with skinning and cutting up the deer alongside the other Lost who came to help.

Luckily, dinner duty was not a solo chore, and Teddy enjoyed the repetition of skinning and chopping up meat. The blood didn't bother them, even when it splashed onto their face. They managed to salvage some bones, and even half an antler, which they wiped off and shoved into their bag to clean later.

As the scent of dinner cooking filled the camp, Teddy dragged the pelts away to clean and hang up to dry. They didn't see Felix or Pan around yet. They hoped that meant they weren't in trouble, or at least, if they were, that they weren't the one to have to take the brunt of it.

Inside, away from prying eyes, his strength finally gave out. He dropped to his knees, vision swimming, and barely managed to pull the flap closed before darkness overtook him.

It wasn’t until later, when the sun had fully set and the camp was full of chattering boys awaiting supper, that a commotion broke out. Nibs came tearing into the clearing, panic written across his face. “Felix is dead!” he yelled, voice cracking with fear. “He never showed up for dinner, so I went to check on him, and he’s not moving!” At least he thought he was dead. He wasn't moving, and he looked as white as a banshee ghost.