Peter Pan Imagines (Once Upon a Time)

Good Trouble

It is 1899, the cusp of a new century, and you have never felt so alone. Your family is somewhere inside the house, talking in excited voices that manage to pierce the gloom long enough to drift up to you every once in a while. You aren't inside, because you haven't felt like a real part of their closely knit gathering in months, maybe even years.

New Year's is approaching, and even though it isn't your birthday and you have no candles to blow out, you silently close your eyes and make a wish. Let this year be better, please. Let me feel wanted for once in my life.

No one answers, of course, and when you open your eyes again, you're still out here, still alone. You've left the festivities inside and climbed up to the roof. Your legs dangle over the edge, although you pull one up to your chest so you can lean your chin against your knee and think. The wind out here is brisk, but it's been a warm December, and you can still stand to be out here without a coat.

Soon enough, the cold will be too much to bear, and you'll have to slip inside again. That would be a second kind of death, wouldn't it? No ice could freeze your lungs when you're inside your parents' home, but you would feel enough nothingness that you'd almost wish that you stayed outside. At least hypothermia would mean that you'd get to leave it all behind.

A voice flickers by your ear, carried over by the wind. "I'm not sure that's the proper way to think on New Year's Eve."

You scoff, half sure you're just talking to yourself. "Why not? I can think what I please, and if you're reading my mind, you should leave without comment."

You fully expect the same dismal, cold silence to follow your spoken words, yet for some reason, the voice laughs. You know many kinds of laughs, those faked around families of higher social standing, or the kind of laugh that's high and thin as a reed and promises that you're in for a world of trouble.

Therefore, you know for a fact that the laugh from behind you was real, not just a figment of your imagination. You didn't hear anyone climb up onto the roof after you, but someone is here nonetheless.

You risk a glance over your shoulder, and see a boy about your age leaning against one of the stone chimneys on your family's house. Either he doesn't care for smoke and ash or he's smarter than you and wants the heat, but he's still here.

"Who are you?" You ask. It seems the most fitting question to pose at a time like this.

The boy shrugs, straightening up so he can walk over to you. "I think I should be asking who you are, actually. I only stumble upon the Lost, after all. Why are you one of them?"

You bite back a laugh of your own, gesturing towards the house below you. "I don't belong here, I think that's obvious. What do you do with people who get Lost?"

The boy takes a seat next to you, idly slinging his legs over the chasm before you. "I take them with me. If they're good enough to come to my island, that is."

He shoots you a glance, but you just roll your eyes. "That's fairly theatrical, but okay. If you, in all your judgmental glory, decide to take these people with you, what happens to them next?"

The boy spreads his hands as if the answer is obvious. "They live on my island, of course, and as long as they can keep up, they never want for anything else ever again. Why do you want to know?"

You shrug. "I'm deciding whether or not I'll accept your offer."

The boy's face splits in a grin, one that appears as quickly as if he had been slashed with a blade. "I like your spirit."

You allow yourself a brief spark of hope. "Does that mean you've made a decision, then?"

The boy nods, standing again and holding out his hand. "It does. I'm Peter, Peter Pan."