@pexerpan
SINCE HIS FANFARED RETURN, Tink had hardly dared to spend more than a day apart from Peter. It was always a text and then Peter crawling through her window half an hour later; or else her rattling car idling in his driveway. A few times they had gone on public excursions-- to the beach, or downtown, and, of course, she was present for the fireworks, which spoke volumes to his character and pride and which she had wanted to love but instead had felt slightly nauseous for-- but for the most part, Tinka had begged that they stay inside. She wanted time with only him. No accidental run-in with the Wendybird or a Lost Boys meeting. She felt eons had been lost in his absence, and every time he was around now all she wanted to do was curl up against his body like a cat and convince herself that he was really there.
Which is, conveniently, and exactly as she would have it, what they were doing now. Amongst a heap of blankets and pillows strewn in lazy fashion about Peter’s floor, with her laptop propped up on a stack of textbooks from her backpack, and some Wes Anderson film flashing in hyperspeed across the screen; Peter lounged with his back against his mattress and one arm thrown out around her shoulders, and Tink herself had wedged herself underneath that arm and was resting her head heavily on his chest, with her knees tucked towards her stomach and overlapping on Peter’s. She wasn’t sure which movie they’d picked-- she wasn’t watching it, and she could tell, from his restless shifting and stifled sighs, that Peter wasn’t watching it either.
Since his fanfared return, a pit of nausea had opened itself in Tink’s stomach. Every time she saw Peter, she noticed the things that were different. And not just the lines by his smile or his new posture, or the way he angled himself at times almost away from her, and particularly when she pressed him about Neverland-- but the new glint in his eyes, like cold steel, and the barkish way he laughed sometimes, and how he was always awake, always, whenever he spent the night in her room and she woke up beside him, no matter what time it was. It was unsettling. And she had felt her own reservations, too-- hesitations she made that she wouldn’t have before; half-truths she told; a certain self-consciousness that still lingered because, no matter the fact that he was back now, before he had left he had asked Wendy to leave with him.
Sometimes, Tink would start to say something and John’s smile would pop into her head-- a picture of affirmation-- and she would stop, and decide to save the whole story for him instead, who she trusted not to mock her or poke fun at her or put her down in even the smallest and most passive of ways. She would never consider herself to trust anyone more than she trusted Peter, but there was a certain... tenderness in her relationship with John that had never existed with Peter before. He didn't do things to upset her for fun. He didn't ignore her texts for hours when he was with Wendy-- or anybody else, for that matter. He wasn't rough at his edges.
Tink thought of typing a text to John now, but didn’t reach for her phone. Peter was warm against her through his tee shirt, almost too warm, and Tinka felt, as she always did around him, but especially now, overwhelmed with his presence too completely to consider anything or anyone else for long. His existence was a sun; it had to be felt. Leaning away from Peter, if only to get a better view of his face, Tinka furrowed her eyebrows and let her green eyes wander his expression for endless seconds before asking him-- no, telling him, “Peter, what's wrong."
