Chapter Text
Listen. When you put it all together, Peter knows what it sounds like. Patrick's only half right about him - he may be a coward, but he's not dense. No one else pays enough attention to him to notice it ( he hopes ). Ever since he got out, though, it's been a buzz in the back of his brain. Can hardly hear it, over the earbud tinnitus. The screams and shouts that still echo down his halls. He does his best to ignore it, and mostly succeeds, but when he stares at the ceiling in the dark, he knows it's in the room with him. Hovering in the corner, probably. Watching him squirm.
It isn't true for him - and can't be - because he's seen how it works. Ness had it figured out from the get-go. A short haircut. A nifty nickname. Peter's never known him by anything else. And even when he told Porky, and Porky blew up the whole world over it, Ness never faltered in his conviction. He was what he was. And is what he is. So how dare Peter trespass on such certainty, with his quiet, craven footsteps. As if to steal something that isn't his.
And Claus blabbers to Poo n' Paula on the porch - they're right outside the bedroom window, Peter can hear every word - about how somethin' always felt off, even if they hadn't had the means to describe it. Their father gave 'em a big pair of cowboy boots to fill. Their mother gave 'em a big brother's lofty responsibilities. They sure as hell tried the macho schtick, and it took 'em nineteen years to think twice about it, but the wrongness was there from the start. Peter can only imagine. Some little redheaded redneck tot, with a few missin' teeth, fightin' and flexin' to prove a manhood that simply wasn't. But that's not Peter's childhood, either. So how dare he compare.
He's never felt certain of anything, except perhaps his own inadequacy. Yet he also never felt it worth the effort to overcompensate. He'd rather just curl into an even smaller ball. Tread even more quietly. More subtle. More elusive. Bury himself in clothes and covers, like a billowing sheet ghost, until he disappears entirely. That's the way he's always felt. So. What does that say about him. Probably just that he needs fucking therapy, right? He's insecure. What else is new. Go ahead and rub it in.
If something was wrong, all along, a gentle voice asks him, But everything else was always wrong, too... How would you be able to tell? You'd miss the tree for the forest, yeah?
A bout of laughter erupts outside. Someone must've told some corny joke. Tracy emits a muffled groan, and rolls over in her sleep. Peter's sigh is nigh-silent.
That's not how that saying goes, stupid.
And then there's Tracy, whose childhood bullies were ruthless, same as his. Rip any second grade classmate apart for being chubby and dorky. Bad at bein' a girl, bad at bein' a boy. For any degree of proximity to that Porky kid, be it blood relation or mere neighbors - your brother's pal, or a pal of his brother. But she had a grace about it that no one else could match - least of all Peter. She was tough, and cool, and effortless. She'd tease every shit-talker right back. Brush off her skirt. And carry on her merry way. While he watched, starry-eyed, from the sidelines.
Don't get it twisted. The envy he feels for his best friend is despicable, deplorable, it deserves the utmost ire. But it's not that kind of envy. She has a brother who loves her. A family who cradled her. Her dad's not around much, but at least he calls, and when he does, he cherishes her. They don't always listen to her, sure. In her darkest hours, Peter's the one who gives her room to breathe. He's more than happy to offer his shoulder, even if it slouches under her weight. But he's just one pillar. Tracy's got lots of 'em holding her up. That's why she's so sure of herself. It takes a village, probably, he thinks, to build a sturdy spine. If he could be any happier for her, he'd probably burst into guts and viscera.
Besides. It wouldn't make a difference anyways.
He does wonder, sometimes, if Mom would've been softer to a daughter. Whether some twinge of pity or empathy might have stayed her harsh tongue, if only, if only. Or if it would've made her worse. He thinks of Paula's mom - what little he's gleaned - piling all her own dreams and baggage onto the poor girl's back. Dad definitely would've been worse. If you look up the word misogynist in the dictionary, you'll find a picture of him there. Aloysius Minch, with his shitty mustache, and his leery glasses' glare. And how would Pat feel, then? Hearing his little sister's cries? Would he sneak that ice pack, to ease her bruises? Or would he give up on her, too? A lost cause, either way.
So it's fucked up. Isn't it. That every time he tries to envision a better future - a better Peter - someone who's finally made it out? That dauntless mountaineer in the hills, that aasimar with the free-flying wings, a Mira who's not quivering in the mirror anymore? He never sees himself. Whoever she is, she meets him with a smile. And her smile's so warm, so tender, that he doesn't recognize it.
It's escapism, he thinks. Greener grass on the other side. He's got no right to it, he tells it, as it lingers in the corner. It isn't the thing that'll fix him.
At this rate? He isn't sure anything will.
Lucas was out on the porch last night, too. Playing his stupid guitar. Strumming and singing some sad song Peter's never heard before. It occurs to him, somewhere amidst the haunted haze of lyrics - half of which slip, incomprehensible, through his fingers - that he's not the only one stuck in limbo. Trying to put something to rest, and move the hell on. Grieving shit that wasn't meant to be. There's no comfort in this realization, really. It paints his jealousy and petty self-pity in damning contrast. Who the hell is he, to yearn so bitterly for a life that's not his. His family may be shattered, and the shards may slash up his hands whenever he foolishly tries to mend the pieces, but fuck, man, at least they're all still here. Never mind how badly he wishes Dad would drop dead, sometimes. No. Stop it. He doesn't mean that. Really. He doesn't mean it.
If you talked to him about it, he'd understand, she looks back, and whispers. Her voice is Agnes Gorge. Sparkle and shimmer. Rushing water, so near yet so far. Lucas, I mean. He's a good listener, when it comes to stuff like that.
But that doesn't even occur to Peter. A burden is just about the worst thing he can be. He hasn't told anyone what happened. Not even Tracy. They asked what took him so long, and he said a dead moose was getting cleared off the road. Which got Claus all hyped up. 'Cause apparently mooses - meese? Ugh, whatever - aren't actually that common out here. "Yeah. I dunno," Peter grumbled. Grateful at least that the brasher twin's excitement provided ample distraction from his red eyes, and tapping nails.
And his nails keep on tapping at the breakfast table, as he pokes at a plate of scrambled eggs. Then in the car, on the way to Ross Lake. Then against the counter, at the boat rental place. He tries and fails to scrub Lucas' song from his head. The melody clatters out anyways. Hopefully no one recognizes it.
"Yep!" Ness beams, "One canoe, n' one motorboat. My dad paid online - we're all good, right?"
The twins brought their own kayak. Aren't they special. It's a wooden thing, real sleek and pretty. In the sunshine, the past couple days, it's been practically glowing orange atop the Tahoe. Now that the sky's overcast, it suddenly looks rather dull. Claus clambers into the second seat. Waves to them, with their half-an-arm. As Lucas paddles eagerly into the wild gray yonder.
( Some large or small part of Peter is relieved to be rid of them. )
A burly guy with a big black beard shows Ness n' his little crew how to operate the motorboat. Tracy and Peter wait on the shore. He stands there, limply holding a paddle in one hand. In the other, he idly glides his fingers over a rock he found by the water. It's about the size of his palm. Neither very rough nor very smooth. Profoundly unremarkable, really. Just something to occupy his attention. Tracy investigates the canoe, examining each nook n' cranny, musing idly about how she's boated on these things a few times with her folks. "There was this one time, on the Lake of the Ozarks, when Dad reeled in a huge catfish. Almost flipped the canoe. Ness cried like a baby."
"Ha."
"And another time, on Lake Michigan, did I ever tell ya 'bout this? They've got nuclear power plants up there. You can boat around wherever ya like, y'know, they can't just put up a fence in the middle of the water. But if ya get too close? They'll start shootin' at ya."
"Like? With guns?"
"Nah, bows n' arrows. Of course with guns. We heard it from a guy with a bullet hole in his canoe. He'd caulked it, so he could keep usin' it. Y'could still see where the hole was, though."
"Oh... Ha."
Yesterday, up in the mountains, the water had looked inviting from afar. Doesn't seem so blue, up close. It's more of a dark hueless slate. Pinned beneath thick clouds, and between steep foothills. You can boat around wherever you like. But you can't take the riverways outta here. And either way, at the end of the day - the canoe's due back by six.
"Or sooner, dependin' on the weather," says Blackbeard. The dock creaks just a bit, under his boots. "If it gets too windy out there, you'll wanna head back. Don't go gettin' caught in a storm, y'hear me?"
"Aye aye, Captain," Ness answers with a salute.
"Come on, y'all!" Paula calls over the motorboat's rumble. A sharp breeze ruffles her hair, threatening to breach her bandana's containment. She waves, while Poo maneuvers the SS Dweebass off the docks. Peter stuffs his rock in his pocket. Tracy waves back. Then promptly reaches for Peter's paddle.
"Here. I'll show ya how."
Peter, however, clutches it tight.
"I got it."
He's never rowed a boat before. Tracy's instructions, chattered over her shoulder, are simple enough to follow. Use your torso, not just your arms. Paddle in sync. Don't bonk your partner over the head. Pretty straightforward. She's both shorter and stronger than him, so it's a little difficult to mirror her strokes. But Peter gets the jist of it, and by the time Captain Blackbeard's just a speck in the distance, they've got a decent rhythm going. So long as he keeps his focus set on it, at least. His wayward mind is almost wrangled by the effort. Almost.
The water's too dark and choppy to yield a reflection. When he peers over, nobody stares back at him.
"How 'bout we clear outta the nerd brigade's way?" asks Tracy. Ness n' them's laughter is a rowdy racket. Squinting toward the kayak, Peter thinks he can see a fishing rod in Lucas' hands. How riveting.
"You're in front," he says. "Up to you."
Tracy shrugs. Casts the slightest sliver of a grin. And takes off, veering away from the motorboat.
Turns out, a lake seems even bigger when you're somewhere in the middle of it. With that much water on every side of you, shorelines hazy on all horizons, the sense of isolation grows that much steeper. Maybe, if Peter weren't such a poor swimmer, it'd inspire the wonder it's supposed to. His limbs are kinda stubby, compared to the rest of him. And he detests public pools. So he's not gotten much practice. If the canoe were to spontaneously flip, he supposes he'd never make it back to dry land. Gotta wonder how deep the water goes. He couldda looked it up, last night. On second thought - he decides he's glad he didn't. A particularly forceful gust whips at his bangs, and rocks the canoe a little. Tracy just laughs. Perhaps kid Ness was right to cry.
"I'm, uh. Not sure what you do on a lake. If I'm being totally honest."
"Didn't you say your dad had a yacht?"
"Yeah. Used to." He threw up over the side, once. Dad scoffed. Told him to knock that off. Took about five years before Pat let him live it down. "Wasn't like I was steering the thing, though."
"Well. You get to steer, now. Anywhere ya like."
Peter peers about. He sees a gray sky, mostly. Distant gray mountains, distant gray trees. And whole lot of lake, between them and any of it.
"It all looks the same, to me," he says.
"Where's your sense of adventure? Look. There's an island, way over there. We could go to it. Get out n' see what's on it."
"Are we allowed to do that?"
"Who cares?"
The wind picks up as they row. Lashes a few chilly droplets into their faces. Rain or lake water, who's to say? Peter peers upward, doubt crinkling the edges of his frown. The sun had smothered them yesterday. Today, though? It's nowhere to be seen. Damn shame Ness n' his old man didn't have a crystal ball, when they scheduled all this.
If you wanted to go to the island to begin with, you could've just said so. He stops himself, though. Gnaws his tongue with restless teeth. Bitter thoughts toward Tracy always leave him feeling like the scum of the earth. Snotty little ingrate. Bite the hand that feeds you. Way back, when he and Pat fed that stray dog, it took 'em weeks to earn a mere crumb of trust. Creeping on hesitant paws, it eventually drew close enough for Picky to reach out and pet it. He's still got the scar to show for it, on his left hand. Nearly snapped his fingers clean off. Mom berated him over the hospital bill. Took it outta his allowance, for the next couple years. Dad chastised him for wasting Kraft Singles. Goes to show where kindness gets you. Oftentimes, he wonders why Tracy even bothers.
He tires out quickly. Paddling's harder on his arms than a bass clarinet - and certainly a lot harder than gacha game rolls. And as the wind intensifies, the water pushes against him with newfound vigor. The burn starts in his shoulders. He tries to ignore it. Focuses instead on the island. Which seems about a million miles away.
"Are you still glad you brought me with you?" Peter mumbles, abruptly, between heaving breaths.
"Yeah, yeah, you're doin' fine. Just keep rowin' steady."
"I don't... I don't mean on the canoe."
"Huh?" Tracy pauses mid-stride. But doesn't glance back at him. A foot or two from his face, whipping and tangling about, her hair looks like a big cartoon squiggle. The sort that newspaper comic characters blurt when they're consternated, or pissed off. "'Course I am, dummy."
"... Mm. Okay."
It's up to his elbows now. A persistent sear. He tries not to think about it. The pine trees on the island are indistinguishable from those on the shores, and in the foothills. He tries not to think about that, either. Just keep rowing steady.
"Something happened last night, yeah?" asks Tracy. Again, without looking back at him. He might be getting motion sick.
"Dead moose," Peter reiterates. It's obvious he's lying. He's hardly even trying. You can hear it in his voice. Dry and brittle, with a nasally edge, like he's got a rotten cold. He hates it. Even on good days, and at his most upstandingly honest, he thinks he sounds like Chris Griffin. "It was, um. Pretty bad. A lot of blood on the road. I didn't sleep very well."
"Right," she replies. And he knows she doesn't buy it. But she keeps rowing anyways. Their canoe creaks, in the silence he asked for.
Then the burn sets into his wrists. Absolute hellfire. Like some sorta divine punishment. Karma's a bitch, Grandma Sue always said. He remembers her cigarette breath. Can practically smell it on the wind. Raindrops - yeah, definitely rain - pepper them like bullets from one of those power plants. He only feels them on his simmering hands, though. And the implication on his sleeves. The rest of him's going numb. All he's got is the pain in both arms, and the ache in his guts, and a sinking feeling someplace unplaceable. He can't swim, he thinks. If he falls overboard, it's over for him. The island's so close yet so far.
"Peter."
Involuntarily, he winces.
"Gimme your paddle," says Tracy.
"H.. Huh."
"It's okay. Chill out. I'll get us there."
They've slowed down. Started curving into a useless spiral, as his strokes fell short of hers. He barely noticed. He doesn't even realize how heavily he was breathing - until his breath stops abruptly short. Like when Mom whirls around on him. Or when Patrick balls a fist, and feigns a punch.
His own fists grip tighter. If the wood were any frailer, it'd shatter splinters deep into both palms.
"I'm fine." He says.
"Give it here."
"I said I'm fine."
Tracy whirls around. She clutches her paddle with one hand, and yanks Peter's with the other. He gasps in alarm. Trembles as he clings. She retorts:
"No, you're not."
His teeth snare between his snarling lips, but a mess of windswept hair obscures them. He can't see Tracy's face. Only the furious black-and-blonde squiggle. She tugs harder. His fingers cry for mercy.
Neither of them wins the tug-o-war. A sudden gale does the honors. Rips the paddle right outta Peter's white knuckles. Within about two milliseconds, its broad end bashes Tracy upside her nose - forcing her grip loose, too. Satisfied with its carnage, the wind carries the paddle off to god knows where.
"Fuck-!!" Tracy howls.
And her fury is nothing like Mom's, or Dad's, or Pat's. She's not like them. She's not them. So why does Peter keel over, cover his face, and slam his hands over his ears? Why does he gasp each breath like it may be his last? Why does he cry out, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," like he thinks it'll spare him the Dragon's jaws?
They're dark and cold around him. No body heat, from something so zombified. Just the frigid surface of callous bones.
Daylight turns to narrow slivers, as its teeth clamp steadily shut.
"Wait. It's, uh. We put it in a little crooked, I think."
Tracy twirled the Allen wrench in her fingers. Squinted over their handiwork, tilting her head like a labradoodle. Peter was right. The shelf was an inch or two off-kilter. Slumped at a clumsy diagonal angle, as it nestled between slabs of IKEAn plywood. The top of the stand would hold the TV, no problem. But if she wanted to cram her Wii in there, she'd need a level surface.
"Aw, yeah. Shoot. Help me get it out, will ya?"
"I gotcha."
Behind the stand, the drill whirrs in reverse. Pries the screws loose, one by one. Peter'd never used a drill before. Tracy assured him he was doin' a great job. Called him Bob the Builder. He snorted. Flashed that wriggly, nervous-lookin' smile of his.
"Can we fix it?" sang Tracy.
"Yes we caaan..." Peter answered, in a woozy monotone.
The midday sun poured in, dappling them with warmth and shine. They've got a great view from their new living room window. No mountains, or castles, or whatever. Just some cute little houses. Happy green trees. A sliver of Lake Washington - which glistens gold in the evenings.
It wasn't too hard, really.
By the time the lake lit up, they'd be laughin' themselves silly over Mario Kart.
"Peter. Peter, come on."
He comes to with a wooden hull still cradling him. But no nauseous waves beneath. Hunched almost fetal, both arms wrapped tight around himself. They still hurt. His chest is still numb. Lungs prickle with hyperventilated excess, as he tries to breathe like a human being.
Tracy's hand come down on his shoulder. And doesn't let go. Even when he flinches.
"Hey. C'mon. That's it."
When he forces himself to look up, he sees blood streaming from her nose.
The coward in him would hesitate. There's another part of him that doesn't. The latter wins out. Pulls his hoodie off, still numb and hazy - as if possessed, watching some other, better Peter puppeteer his limbs. It hangs limp in his grasp. Sleeves tousled by the breeze. He holds it out to her.
"H.. Here. Um."
He coughs. God. He can't catch his breath.
"For your nose." A sniffle. "S... Sorry," he repeats.
Tracy takes it. She doesn't bring it to her face, though. Just stands there with it, as she watches him crawl outta the canoe.
"I'm not blowin' my bloody nose all over your hoodie, dude. It's no big deal. Don't worry 'bout it."
"It'll wash out," he says. The island's shore is wet and rocky, a bit slippery underfoot. Peter rises slowly, atop shaky knees. "Besides. It's.. almost black. If it stains, no one'll be able to tell, anyways..."
"I mean. It'll definitely stain. But fine. Whatever."
Crimson bleeds right through the dark teal fibers. Tracy kneels by the water. Holds the remaining paddle close, wary to keep it from blowing away. She dips one sleeve, tryin' to wash out at least some of the damage. Rinses her face clean. When she looks up - she sees Peter wandering off toward the trees. A sigh breaches her composure. She scrambles back up, wet hoodie and paddle in tow, to follow him.
"... Hey! Where do y'think you're goin'?"
Now it's him who won't look back at her. No expression. Just the wind ruffling his shaggy hair. One arm crossed, to claw at some acne on the other. His arms are too skinny, compared to the rest of him, he thinks. Awfully pale, too. He feels like a skinned chicken, laid all but bare in an old Nirvana t-shirt. How badly he longs to disappear. Into the grasping branches, and pine needles.
"You said you wanted to see what's on the island," he plainly reminds her.
He doesn't see the vigor with which she shakes her head. Stomping after him, indignant. The island has no trails. A breaching root threatens to trip her. A branch tries to snag her hair. She barrels over both, in her efforts to reach him.
"Are you serious right now? I don't care what's on the island. Obviously. I just wanted to give you some space to breathe, some time away from Ness n' them! I was tryin' to help you!!"
Which stuns him. Like. Actually stops him in his tracks. His mouth hangs open, aimlessly gasping again, instead of articulating all the reasons why she ought not do that. Dad's steps up the stairs. Mom's nails on his shoulder. He has dreams where they're chasing him. He tries to run, into woods or traffic, but they always follow him. Tries to hide, in cabinets and closets. But they always find him. He can never catch a break. When he hears Tracy rustle the bushes just behind him, he scatters like a prey animal.
She finds nothing in his wake. Just flickering foliage. A shadow in flight.
"We couldda done anything else today, if you'd just said so! You've gotta tell me when you're uncomfortable. I can't read your mind!"
And their hands always pull him back. Grip tight enough to bruise his scrawny arms. He can resist all he wants. Kick, and cry, and pout. Makes no difference. They'll haul him off to Dad's study. Force him back onto the field for a boys' soccer game. Stuff him in the car, and drive him away on a trip to god knows where.
"Things.. Things just happen to me," he sputters, barely aloud. Barely aware of his own mouth moving. Pine needles poke at his dry lips. "It's not up to me. I don't get to choose."
"Yes you do! You chose to come out here. You chose to be here with me! And you did it for you, too! For Chrissake, Peter, you're choosing to run away, right now!"
But what does it matter, if they always catch up? Like when he'd sneak out the window, and scurry over next door, and hide away with Tracy in her room. And they could have all the fun they wanted. Mario Kart and Hot Wheels and Barbie dolls. 'Til his brother came knocking on the door downstairs. And he'd cling to her, and snivel. Cower behind Missus Kimura, even though Porky would smile so sweetly, and beckon him home so politely. Only to yank him by the hair, soon as they were out the door and into the night. 'Cause if Dad caught one of 'em breaking curfew, they'd both get hell for it, and you fucking know better than to push our luck, Picky.
So. When Tracy's hand bashes through the thicket, and grasps haphazardly at his hair - he braces as if for oblivion.
Which never comes. Of course. Her fingers grace his neck, but don't grip or strangle. Glide down to his arm, where he's scratched himself up. She's so gentle, when she wants to be. It's how she was raised. It's almost more unbearable than the alternative.
"What happened last night?"
The worst thing he can be is a burden. But that ship's already sailed. Lake waves return to bob him about, a phantom vertigo. He curses under his breath. Murmurs something that, for all her closeness, Tracy can't quite grasp.
"It's alright," she says. "You can tell me."
Her voice is rarely this soft. A shame, too. 'Cause his is rarely this harsh.
"-- I got a call from Patrick, okay?!"
Her hand's gone now. Retracted swiftly backward, as if from snapping fangs. Indecisive as ever, he flinches harder at its absence than its presence. Watches her furrow her eyebrows. Mad at him, or sorry for him? He can't tell. He can never tell.
"And.. And you answered?"
"Of course I did, I... Look, it was a different number. I didn't know it was him!"
"You couldda hung up on him."
"I did!!"
"Great! So you can choose, see!" Tracy flashes him a beaming grin. Peter hasn't the faintest clue what to make of it. Before he can sort it out, a nippy gust wipes it off her face. "It's over now, isn't it? He can't hurt you anymore. None of them can! You came all the way out here to get away from all that. So why the hell are you still letting him push you around?!"
And he pauses there, jaw slacked. Takes a sharp breath. It's still not storming, or even raining, really. Just whipping the wind around. Drizzling in tiny speckled bursts. He aches for it to just pour down already. Soak him through. Whisk him away. Maybe strike him with lightning, if he's real lucky. Porky used to dare him - ten bucks on the line - to go out in storms with a metal strainer serving as a lightningrod over his head. Picky would do it. And cry. Porky'd laugh so hard, he'd be cryin' too. Then not even give him the ten bucks. He said the chance of a bolt obliterating him was about one in seven. Tracy used to say Porky was full of bullhonky. Picky never knew what to believe.
"I can't help it! I'm not tough like you!" It's not a confession. Just an obvious statement of fact. Still, his envy boils into a crackling snarl. He feels bad for that, too. When the stray dog bit him, he had to get a precautionary rabies shot. The needle was big. Tracy wasn't afraid of needles, so Picky thought of her - but nonetheless, he got so scared he almost passed out. Porky told him the dog would be caught and beheaded. Only way to to make sure, he said. To test its broken brain. Picky couldn't sleep that night. Too wired with guilt and horror. Some sick part of him wished they'd take his head, instead. The dog didn't deserve it, but he probably did.
He probably still does.
"I can't help it," he reiterates. Weaker, this time. A feeble plea. He stands between the trees, gasping wet mist and pine needles, trying to keep his teeth from sneering, and his fists from trembling, and his head from exploding right off his shoulders. "It's.. It's in my brain, Tracy. In my blood. I'm so scared and selfish, all the time, and it's just... it's what I am. Isn't it? It doesn't matter where I go. I'm always gonna be like this. Like them. I don't have a choice."
"But you know that's not true!!"
You know that's not true, someone else echoes. Her voice is Agnes Gorge. Tiny rainbows in the haze. Rushing water below. If he leans too close, it could carry him away.
And Tracy goes on - something about how he's already proven himself wrong a bazillion times over. How he's not a damn thing like the folks who raised him, be so serious right now. How he's been brave, gone out of his way for others, and so on, and so forth. But she's on the island. Sneakers planted firmly in the soil. Peter isn't. He's back home at the dinner table, steeling his stomach for Mom's brussels sprouts, lest Dad cram them down his throat by force. He's playing Street Fighter at the arcade, dripping anxious sweat, 'cause if he wins Porky'll yell at him, and if he throws the match Porky'll yell at him, but if he can manage to lose just barely, he might get out unscathed. He's eight again and crying, 'cause he got caught cheating on a test at school, and it's not the angry teacher who's got him terrified, but what his folks'll do to him when they find out. He's not here. And hasn't been, all along. They call it Neverland for a reason. You never really leave.
That's alright, though. The present's got a way of catching up.
It stalks the shadows. Unsheathes its claws. Pounces, right when you least expect it.
Tracy sees it before he does. Grabs him by his bare arm, and yanks him ten years forward. Peter yelps in protest. Watches cataclysmic fights and divorce and high school and that one shitty visit to Pat's apartment all flicker past him, sifting away through gaps in the branches. In their sudden absence, only one figure remains. It bears no familial resemblance. No upturned nose, nor his father's looming swagger. Just shoulders peaked like a mountain ridge. Muscles that ripple beneath a tawny coat. And a golden glare that pierces right down to his darkest depths.
"That's..."
Tracy sputters. She clasps him so tight, her nails might just draw blood. When he sees it too, the hairs on the nape of his neck rise to a razor sharp prickle.
"... Peter that's a fucking mountain lion."
Wonderful news, everybody. The ruckus has attracted a puma. Roll initiative.
It's five yardsticks away. It clears about three of 'em in a single lunge. Curls its snout into a fearsome snarl, and flails a pair of massive paws. The sign Peter read yesterday said in small print that they're truthfully shy creatures, and that such aggressive behavior is quite rare, but he hasn't got time to think about that. It's big, and angry, and coming at him fast, and the only thing between the two of them is Tracy's canoe paddle.
She chops the air in a haphazard swing. Less like Toejam's battle axe, more like first day at wiffle ball practice. Certainly wouldn't daunt a displacer beast. Somehow, though, it's enough to halt the mountain lion's assault. It stops, sneers, and hisses at them. And, god. Oh, god, damn. Its teeth are huge. Peter thinks he could faint right here and now. He cowers behind Tracy, with his scrawny arms shielding himself. As if those horrible fangs wouldn't snap them like twigs. Its eyes are fixed on him, he's sure. Not her.
"It's my fault," he croaks, feebly, just under his breath. If only he hadn't run off into the woods. If only he hadn't shouted, and spurred Tracy to retaliate in kind. If only he'd kept it together. Idiot. Absolute numbskull. "My fault."
Perhaps sensing his weakness, the lion takes another step forward.
"What? Who cares about that, we've gotta scare it off! Here, take your jacket!"
"Huh-?"
"You've gotta look bigger. We have to be scarier than -- Ah-!! No! Back off, back off!!"
Another wave of the paddle keeps the beast at bay. There's no telling for how long, though. It claws the dirt, flicks its tail, spits at her. Surely those eyes can see through her facade. Can tell that she doesn't belong here either. She's just as scared as he is. Stranded all but alone. Easy pickings for a cold cruel world.
She needs you, too, stupid.
Peter blinks. Squeezes his wet hoodie sleeve with one shivering hand. Patrick would run. He knows this, in his heart of hearts. Mom n' Dad probably would, too. Prettyman, for sure. But if you run, you're done. He read it on the sign. Turning your back on an ambush predator is an instant death sentence. You face it head on. Or die trying.
So. What are you waiting for?
( He's not sure if any other, better Peter is with him, now. )
( He isn't sure if it matters. )
"Hey...! She said back off!"
The mountain lion's pupils grow wider. Two pitch black holes, each big enough to blot out the sun and moon. Reflected on their surface is a broad silhouette. To any human bystander, it'd look rather ridiculous. Some chubby kid sprawling a jacket over his head, waving it around, like a signal for help, or some dumb sports game ritual. To an animal, though? It almost looks like a wingspan.
"Y.. You think you're scary?!" the kid shouts. His voice cracks a little. It's been doing that since he was twelve, whenever he dares to raise it. Folks used to tease him for it, back in middle school. Hell. Even Tracy.
But she doesn't, this time. She watches him step out of her shadow. Notices that, for the first time since they set out today, there's no fidgets or trembles wracking his frame.
"I'm not afraid of you!" he tells the lion. Glares right into its all-seeing eyes. He hopes he means it, somewhere deep down. He hopes, he hopes, he hopes. "You hear me?! We're... We're not afraid of you!!"
"Yeah!!" Tracy bellows. Standing firmly at Peter's side. "So get lost!! Shoo! Scram!" And, despite everything, all his adrenaline, the fact these could well his last breaths - he gasps an involuntary laugh. 'Cause her I'm-Trying-To-Scare-Off-A-Puma voice is awfully close to her Toejam impression. If they weren't fighting for their lives right now, he's certain she'd elbow him in the ribs for noticing.
Instead, she swings the paddle once more. Close enough to nick a whisker. The lion reels back, squinting and snarling. Another flash of those terrible teeth. One last stand to hold its ground. Glancing toward Tracy, Peter realizes - in all of about half a second - that her triumphant paddle slash has left her teetering off balance. It'll take her a moment to raise her weapon again. Should the lion decide to strike back - she might not get that chance. Thus, the duty falls on his shoulders. Or rather, in his pocket. Neither very rough nor very smooth. Profoundly unremarkable, really. Just something to hold onto.
He's no good at baseball. But he's seen Ness pitch. He reels it back like that. And prays he doesn't miss.
The rock strikes the beast smack dab on the nose.
Peter attacks. 1 HP of damage to the Mountain Lion.
Its ears fold flat. Its tail puffs big. Faster than the wind, it turns and flees in a flash.
Peter stares. Tracy squints. Scouring coniferous needles for sneaky slivers of tan fur. There's nothing, though. Not even a hint. Once the trees and bushes stop swaying, it's as if it was never here at all.
"-- Jesus Christ," spouts Tracy, in a quick burst of air and relief. She reaches again for Peter's arm, eyes still locked on the wilderness. It comes as a surprise, then, since she's not lookin' at him. He doesn't simply reach back. He practically collapses against her. Slumps limply over her shoulder. Hands clasping at the denim of her jacket, in the world's feeblest side-hug. She staggers under his sudden weight.
"You were right," he says. The words stumble out of him so quickly, with so little resistance, that there's hardly any space between them. "M'sorry."
"Ha..? Haha...!"
He feels her hand on his back. How her laughter jostles them both.
"Nah. I'm sorry, too. Shut up though. We gotta get outta here."
"Right. Um... Do we just? Walk back, real slow...?"
"I think so. Actually. I'll walk backwards, n' watch behind us. You go forwards. Back-to-back, see? So it can't... y'know."
"Sneak up and murder us?"
"Yeah. Exactly."
"Gotcha..."
They retrace their steps with caution more suited to a horror movie than a summer vacation. Sweating bullets and adrenaline. Glancing every which way, straining to maintain three-hundred and sixty degrees of vision at all times. But the island's trees yield no more secrets. Just the occasional pine cone. And a bit of shelter from the misty wind. Heck. If it was some time away they'd wanted, that's precisely what they got. The only noise here is the rippling waves, and the breezy rustle. Their shoes crunching rocks and leaf litter. A mumbled whisper, here and there. The persistence of their breathing, drawn so dearly close.
Up above, gray clouds crowd and billow, yet remain tame. Thunder may as well be a fairy tale. Lightning, the stuff of myth. Later that night, it'll shower a bit. Before passing calmly on. Whether they were dreading or yearning for a storm, they'd be dreading and yearning in vain. For the storm simply never comes.
When they make it back to shore, Lucas' orange kayak is waiting for them. And his orange brother, too. Ness n' pals' motorboat hovers nearby, its crew casting eager gazes over the hull. Claus waves. On account that the guy's only got one hand, he's also gotta flail the stray canoe paddle he's holding.
"Heyyy, Pete! Hiya Trace! Cool island y'got here! This wind's somethin' else, huh? We, uh. Found this paddle floatin' around. Any chance it might be y'all's...?"
"I thought cats didn't like water," Ness muses, thoughtfully, on the car ride to the cabin.
"Mine did," says Paula. "She was really quite eccentric. Who knows. Perhaps she shared some distant ancestry with the elusive Lake Island Cougar."
"Ha!" Tracy laughs. She remembers Baldie fondly. The old mouser rarely roused from her naps or perches for the sake of any company. But always made sure to greet Tracy in particular, however briefly, with a purr or a head bump. "Yeah, maybe so!"
"They don't usually go outta their way to bother people, neither," Lucas adds, as he gazes out the window. Watchin' the peaks and foliage roll along. He idly munches handfuls from the bag of quinoa puffs. Takes his time with 'em. Wants to really savor them, he'd said. "Mountain lions, I mean. Unless they're protectin' their cubs. I could be wrong, but ah... I reckon she prob'ly had a baby or two nearby."
"Y'mean we got attacked by a cougar, and for all that trouble, we didn't even get to see the kittens?! Boooo. Worst vacation ever!"
"Aww, ya wanna go back lookin' for 'em? We've still got a couple hours 'til six!"
It's almost too obvious, huh. Peter shouldda guessed. Just a mother protecting her young from a couple of noisy trespassers. She'd hidden them so well that he'd never even considered them. Do they live on the island? Is that how she keeps them safe? Does she swim to shore each day, and drag food back for them? Does she shield them with her dense fur, whenever it rains? He wonders how little they are. Whether they'll survive long enough to leave the island, themselves, one day. Surely they've gotta. With such a good mother looking out for them.
... Oh. Oh, jeez. You're not seriously getting jealous of baby mountain lions.
A chuckly snort bursts out of him. Hell if he can help it. Ness eyes him in the rear view mirror, his expression falling somewhere precariously between mutual merriment and cautious concern.
"Mm? What's up, Pete? You okay?"
"Hah," answers Peter. His own grin in the mirror ought to remind him of last night. Put him right back in it, with just a glance. It doesn't, though. Not really at all. "It's nothing. Don't worry 'bout it."
In a few hours, Ness will be asking Claus the same question. Perched on the porch, as the daylight fades, and the wind whistles through a half-open cabin window. Despite how July it is, it's a bit chilly outside. What with all the breeze and cloud cover. You may or may not get a flash of deja vu. Regardless, Claus sure does.
"Yeah. Honestly, ah... I ain't thinkin' about him much, nowadays. Or. Not as much as before, at least. But, it's like? Every now n' then, when I let my guard down? He just kinda.. creeps back in..."
"Right... That's. Yeah. That's how it is for me, too."
"Man. I bet. It's weird, right? Doesn't feel real. That someone could be all over your life, pullin' all the strings. N' then y'finally get out. N' then, you wake up one day, n' ya realize he's just...?"
"Gone."
"... Yeah."
"And then you've gotta, what? Pick up the pieces, I guess? Figure out how to be, without him always hypin' you up, or pushin' you around... Without his voice in your ear all the time. Sometimes I still catch myself wonderin' what he'd think, and it's like? Dude!! What am I doing, lettin' him live rent free in my head like that? It's dumb. Maybe one day I'll really get over it. I hope so."
"Heck. M'sorry, Ness. I hate to bother ya 'bout it. I know you had it worse than I did."
"I, uh.. Aw, jeez. I dunno if that's true, Claus..."
Which is about as much as Peter can bear to overhear. He turns the sink faucet up, loud, to rinse the cutting board. Grates the sponge over minuscule shreds of broccoli and spring onion with an uncharacteristically vigorous sort of fervor. Thankfully, the antics on the TV are getting a bit noisier, too. From her cozy recliner throne, Paula poses a philosophical inquiry:
"Tracy. If you were a Barbie, what sort of Barbie do you suppose you'd be? As in, Lawyer Barbie, Mermaid Barbie, and so on...?"
"Mm. I dunno," says Tracy. From her own throne - the coffee table - upon which she claims her dignified seat. "Most of 'em are named for their jobs, right? I haven't even picked out my major yet..."
"Indecisive Barbie, then?" Poo suggests. His grin peeks between careful snips of Tracy's hair. Just a trim, she'd said. He's happy to oblige. A sleek pair of scissors reflects the screen, shimmering silver and pink.
"Nooo, that's so lame. I think I'd rather be FedEx Barbie than Indecisive Barbie. Delivery Barbie, maybe? Whatever. How 'bout you, Paula?"
"I'm shaping up to become English Teacher Barbie. Though for now, maybe Dungeon Master Barbie is more fitting."
"So, Nerd Barbie. Got it. What about you, Poo?"
"Poo's already a Barbie. Gorgeous, multitalented, plenty of hobbies. I think he'd be the most revered Barbie of them all."
Poo chuckles warmly. "That's high praise, coming from Nerd Barbie. I'll take it. Say, Tracy. Are you sure you don't want the Weird Barbie haircut? Last chance."
"Ha. No thanks, just a Normal Barbie haircut. Maybe next time, though."
Yeah. That's better. With the window drowned out, Peter can think fondly of all the pretend nonsense he n' Tracy used to get up to with those dumb dolls. Action movie plots on par with Die Hard. Political intrigue - usually capped off with an assassination or two. Domestic drama, mostly. The number of divorces they played out probably delves into triple digits. Sometimes those ended with assassinations, too. Missus Kimura was perhaps a bit too comfortable watching true crime shows in front of her seven-or-eight year old daughter. Tracy wouldn't admit to being scared, even when her nightmares got the better of her. She had her own ways of taming her demons. In retrospect, Peter's quite grateful she shared them with him.
"... That's, ah. Prob'ly clean enough, now. Thank ya, Peter."
He stops. Stares down at the cutting board in his hands, which has been soaked and scrubbed, and soaked and scrubbed, and soaked and scrubbed again. Fumbles for a dish towel, to dry the wretched thing.
"Oh," he mumbles. "Oops."
If Lucas didn't speak so goddamn gently, the slightest hint of sarcasm would probably leave Peter seething. The guy's as passive as Prettyman. Or an overgrown log in the woods, maybe. With an unassuming good nature to rival Ness'. Even the lowliest Minch is still a Minch - always chomping back the leery instinct to answer sympathy with spite. Thus, the youngest Westwood demands restraint in spades. But he'd agreed to help with dinner. Lucas' usual kitchen assistant is outside spilling their guts, and Peter's weak stomach can't take another word of it. So he'd better keep his hands and ears occupied, lest he end up too sick to eat the slurry they're cookin'.
"Do y'all have a rice cooker?" Lucas inquires. As if it's no big deal. White steam surges forth from the pot on the stovetop. He fans it with a broad spatula. The same one he was usin' to grill the pork, on the other burner.
"Yeah, um. Tracy brought one from home." Another thing Peter's grateful for. He eats out of it almost daily. Sad little bowls of plain, unseasoned sustenance.
"That's good. It's a lot easier, for sure. 'Specially if ya work late, or y'just don't have a lotta time to spend in the kitchen... Ah, would ya mind grabbin' us some butter?"
"'Kay."
"N' a couple of eggs, too. Aw. Speakin' of. I've gotta pay ya back for those. Y'won't let me forget, will ya?"
"It's fine. Don't worry about it."
Peter is admittedly mesmerized by how quickly a bit of butter and eggs turn a bed of white rice into a more presentable meal. And presumably healthier, he thinks? It's got, what? Protein, and vitamins, and stuff? "Y'can make it vegetarian, instead, if ya want to," adds Lucas, as he shovels glistening morsels of pork into the mix. Taking care to quarantine off a smaller, private pan for Poo. "At least, it's cheaper that way. Do y'like tofu at all?"
"Not really," says Peter. Once, Patrick goaded him into eating a strawberry-flavored lump of the stuff. Ever since then, the mere thought of the texture makes him gag.
"Hah. Fair enough. Kuma doesn't like it, neither. But if ya find some meat on sale, or just toss in some frozen veggies..." Enter the greens Peter chopped. He stirs, while Lucas rambles on. It's already starting to smell like heaven. "It won't take up too much time or money at all. Keeps great in the fridge, too. So y'can make a bunch n' eat it later. When I first moved out, hah... I think I was eatin' stir fries like this for every other meal."
A cool breeze trickles through the window. It occurs to Peter, cold and warm at the same time, that Claus' brother is offering him something his folks never did. Used to being shooed out of the kitchen like a pesky mouse. Whenever he found no leftovers in the fridge at night, he'd settle for Cheez-Its instead. It also occurs to him, context clues in tow, that the twins might've done the same, in their mother's absence. And he remembers, steeped in savory air, that his petty envy's got no right to linger. He's spent the past couple days being a standoffish prick to probably the nicest person here. Peter's guilt could crush him where he stands.
It could. But it doesn't. Lucas won't allow it. He lets Peter apologize - not by blurting an unprompted "sorry," but by thanking him profusely, and serving the table, and scrubbing clean all the dirty dishes. Tucks twelve crumpled bucks into the kid's hands, even when he insists he doesn't gotta. It's followed shortly by a stray lock of curly hair, which Tracy dumps in Peter's lap, just for laughs. "Dinner's pretty tasty. I'm amazed y'didn't burn anything," she jests. Paula wryly suggests that he oughtta sous-chef in Claus' stead more often. To which Claus smiles wide, and chuckles loud. Even though their voice still hangs a bit low and heavy, and their eye's still a little red. Peter hopes that one day, maybe, he can be half as courageous.
( When he gets home, the first thing he'll spend his twelve dollars on is a trip to the grocery store. He'll teeter in the refrigerator aisle, looming indecisively, before deciding to give tofu a second chance. Barring eras of stupendous price gouging, even when concocting his miserablest depression meals, he'll never again go without eggs n' butter in his rice. A sloppily-chopped garnish of spring onions, at the very least. )
Forgiveness is a gift he's not used to receiving. And he's not quite sure how to carry it. But for whatever it's worth? He'll do his very best to honor it.
Tracy's forgiveness takes the form of an arm around him. She drapes it over his side. Slumps against him in a softly snoring heap. Though her warmth is unconscious, he can't possibly mistake it for incidental. Can't deny what it means. As he lies awake, less than satisfied with himself, drawing shallow breaths through his mouth.
She really is glad he didn't get eaten by a mountain lion today. Peter's glad she didn't, either.
He isn't certain if he's allowed to hold her hand. Pat used to berate them both for it, back when they were small. And it always gave grownups the wrongest impressions, crooning and teasing over her little "boyfriend". So Tracy'd tug away, and he'd do the very same. That was a long time ago, though. He thinks of her palm on his knuckles. How the slightest touch eases his tension. Picky would recoil, but the Peter of the present owes her something. Or everything. So his fingers do grasp slowly, cautiously, for hers. He's amazed at how chilly they are. The cabin's A/C is surprisingly potent. Maybe, with a bit of patience and presence, he can offer her some warmth, too.
The voice in his head isn't Tracy's. It's someone else's. He can barely hear her murmuring. Can hardly construe what she's saying. Yet, at the same time, he can't tune her out. No matter how tightly he squeezes his eyes shut. He knows she's hovering in the corner, again. She's not a sleep paralysis demon. He's seen and heard what those look and sound like, like angry strangers and aliens and red screaming faces, and that's not her, either. She's more like a guardian angel, he suspects. Which is almost as terrifying. If not more so. The sort of blinding light that coos, be not afraid. Though the mere act of beholding it sparks guts-deep terror, defies comprehension, makes your mind unravel. Everything he thinks he understands, beginning to pull apart at the seams.
You're alright. You did just fine. Nobody's gonna punish you, anymore.
Her voice is Agnes Gorge. A steep drop. A leap of faith.
Peter hears raindrops pitter-patter on the roof.
And Agnes tells him, with a certainty he can't possibly fathom, that this'll all just be a funny memory, one day. That their second apartment will be even brighter, and cozier, and homelier than their first. Tiny pink paw pads and brown tabby fur will creep across the carpet to ambush them in the hallway, or join them on the couch while they're watching Disney or Ghibli, and either way, they'll both giggle and cheer about it. Tracy names him Puma. In the mountain lion's honor. Agnes calls him their displacer beast. Whenever he mysteriously manifests underfoot, or atop a cabinet he shouldn't be on, she scoops him up so gently, and he purrs like a lawnmower in her loving arms. So it's okay. Really. It's all gonna be just fine, one day, sooner than you know.
Her smile would melt his heart, if only he could see it. How it wiggles a bit, still a little nervous. But nonetheless painstakingly earnest. If she could, she'd cradle his hands in her own, to help warm them up. To ease their panic, those times when they tremble. Hers are softer than his. She takes better care of them. Otherwise - they match just about perfectly. The same size. Those nails they like to tap. With the dog bite scar and everything.
This isn't the thing that'll fix me, he thought. And Agnes laughs. An airy, breathy sound. Punctuated by a snort.
Honestly? It kind of is, though.
And one of his hands holds Tracy's. Careful not to squeeze, afraid to wake her up. The other tugs the blanket further over himself. Covers his mouth, to keep it from shouting or crying. A thicket of moose print antlers, obscured by the night.
But, hey. That's alright.
Agnes' hands don't tug the blanket back down. Wouldn't dare steal his shroud, for the life of her. She dropped an egg while she was making stir fry the other day. It shattered in a big streak across the kitchen floor. Had to keep Puma from gobbling it up, shell bits and all. Unlike his namesake, he despises water. Yowled bloody murder, when she and Tracy rinsed his yolky paws, no matter how softly they tried to reassure him. They earned a couple of scratches for their trouble. Afterwards, it took a long and heartbreaking forty-eight hours to regain his trust.
She knows it's messy. As bad as it hurts.
Take as much time as you need, okay...?
And Peter can't hear her, of course. Just the rain on the rooftop. A murmur in the corner. He tries to imagine a way forward from here, but there's no trailhead sign to guide him. The path's dark as pitch. He steps into the void. Paces, and calls out, with his brittle voice. And finds no one else there.
But when he begins to drift off into dreamland, head bobbing down toward the inky grass and water and mountains beneath him, he thinks he can see little white wildflowers at his feet.
So. Maybe.
Maybe, maybe so...
He wakes up troubled by the dreadful feeling he must've overslept. Yet another mistake he used to catch hell for. Always snoozing through his alarm, or forgetting to set it at all. If Pat didn't shake him awake, Mom's shouting would usually do the trick. Sleeping in was purest bliss, see. Peace on planet Earth. But running late for school meant getting written up, which inevitably meant violent hysterics from Mom, or Dad, or probably both. Picky got pretty good at readying himself quickly. Leap out of bed like a startled cat. Brush his hair for only a couple seconds, or skip the effort altogether. Spare time for only a couple bites of breakfast. Or skip the effort altogether. One time during sophomore year he missed the bus, yet ran so hard he beat the bell anyways. Sprained his ankle. Still worth it, he thought.
( Funnily enough, his alarm hasn't failed him - not even once - since he moved to Seattle. )
Sunlight creeps in through the blinds to rouse him. Despite the shine, a squinting glance at his phone quells his panic. It's 6:29. They leave at ten. Peter's sigh could fill the two-liter Sprite bottle they finished last night. He remembers Claus, Ness, and Tracy all bonking each other over the head with it. And he's here, he reminds himself. North Cascades. If only for a few more hours. But right now, he's right here.
Though his restlessness doesn't forsake him that easily. Even as he sinks into the warmth of the bed, and the backs of his eyelids burn from lack of sleep. Tracy's arm has receded by now. Her snoring has not. She's drooling a bit on her pillow. Which does bring an amused, crooked little grin to Peter's face. Despite the mounting ache in his skull.
He rises with delicate care. Makes sure to settle the blanket over her, rather than leave a gaping hole for the A/C to get into. Hobbles to the kitchen on his quiet tiptoes. When he runs the faucet to fill a mug of water, he doesn't take his eyes off Ness and Paula, sprawled sleepily on the living room couch-bed. Neither stirs. Another sigh of relief. Followed by a blinking pause.
... Wait. Where's Poo?
Peter finds the prince of gradschool striking a proud reverse warrior pose near the fire pit outside. Silhouetted in the sun's rising glimmer. Dressed in plain white sweatpants and a tank top, dampened by the post-rain dew, with his unbraided mane strewn all around him - he looks perhaps less regal than usual. He glances up. Breaks his yoga stance, to offer Peter a wave.
"Oh! Good morning," Poo calls.
"... Hey," says Peter. Who hasn't left the porch. He tries and fails to hold back a yawn. Clutches his water with both hands. Like most of the cabin's amenities, each mug in the cabinet's got a woodland critter on it. This one bears a rabbit. It bounds, mid-stride, across the side.
"What brings you out here so early?" asks Poo. As he moves on to the tree pose.
"Just, ah. Wanted some fresh air."
"Aha. Same here. Best enjoy the mountain air while we can, hm? It's not the same in the city. Call me crazy, but I swear I can taste the difference."
"Mm. Yeah."
Thrushes and warblers titter their morning tunes in the trees. Across the road, the father of that neighboring family, a fellow early bird, is already loading up his Kia Telluride. Don't get little Picky wrong - when Dad took off with the car, back in Aspen, he'd been terrified. But. On the other hand, with tiny chilly fingers crossed in his coat pocket... There was a part of him that wished the bastard would never come back. Leave them stranded up there, in the snow and the castle walls. A neverending respite. Purgatory, he supposes, at least beats what lies below.
Poo takes a deep breath. Peter tries to mirror him. He feels the air slip out of his lungs. Thinks of sand in an hourglass. Or smoke between his uncrossed fingers. Everything's even less than temporary, when you float through it all like a sheet ghost. High atop his hoard of memories, his feet never touch the ground. If he could clamber down, without falling to a certain doom, what would he see, he wonders? What would he do? Given the fleeting chance - for once - to do anything at all?
"H.. Hey. Poo?"
"What's up?"
"Um." Peter stifles another yawn with a quick sip of water. Swallows his fear, when it flutters up. "Do you think you might... have time to do another haircut?"
A pair of dark, glorious eyebrows rise to meet his question. Poo smiles. And nods.
"Sure thing. Gimme five minutes."
They embark on a stealth mission to the bathroom. Prying Poo's supplies silently from his bag, while Ness and Paula slumber on, none the wiser. Shutting doors behind them with the utmost care, making certain the hinges don't creak. Both Tracy's room and the twins' remain closed and quiet. Much to Peter's relief. Once he and Poo are sealed up in the shoebox, the whole world shrinks to a tiny, manageable perimeter. With only two people in it.
Poo sets down his water canteen. When he stops rubbing his sleepy eyes, Peter notices there's a rabbit on it, too. Black like a silhouette, with a pair of funny ears sticking up. It's one of several stickers plastered across the surface. A silly little coincidence, he guesses. He then decides to think nothing of it.
"So," the elder vagabond whispers. Dipping both hands into a dirty blonde mess, to get a feel for what he's working with. "What's the plan? Magnificent pompadour? Weird Barbie, perchance?"
"Hah. I, uh. Just a sec..."
Peter clutches his phone near to his chest. Breathes as deeply as he can, tapping twitchily through his saved pictures.
"... I've been thinking, well. Shorter, obviously. But, ah. Not too much shorter. Maybe, if it's not any trouble.. Something, sorta like this...?"
And, god, he hopes Poo doesn't recognize what he's looking at. Probably not, right? None of Ness' friends seem like terminally online weebs (barring maybe Jeff, though he's more of a sci fi nerd, yeah?). It shouldn't be half as embarrassing, then, right. That the photo displayed on his screen is very clearly some cosplayer he found on Tumblr. Worse yet, Peter really hopes Poo didn't catch a glimpse of his lock screen. Rei Ayanami, you may recall. If anyone were to point out the slightest resemblance, he might just keel over then and there --
"Mm. Sure. I think I can do that."
-- Oh.
He, um... He guesses it's fine, then.
They both have to stand the whole time. A little awkward, but not unbearable. The Peter in the mirror doesn't look at him, so long as he doesn't look at him. When Poo spritzes him down with a spray bottle, he relishes the excuse to close his eyes. And tries not to relish too eagerly the sensation of sure and steady hands roving his scalp, smoothing down the haystack strands, taming them with slow strokes of a comb. He's used to yanking and teasing. The shell-shocked survivor of about two hundred noogies. A gentle touch ought to soothe him. There's devils you know, though. And devils you simply don't.
"It's a bit dry. Dare I ask, what sort of conditioner are you using?"
"Uh. None? Is that bad?"
"Bad is subjective. Ha. But that does explain it," Poo says, very softly, between his first two scissor snips. A couple of locks plummet to the hardwood floor. "There's a conditioning oil I could use, once we're done."
"Sure."
"Actually. You could even take it home with you, if you decide you like it."
"Ha..?"
Peter hasn't the faintest clue what's good or bad with hair products. He thinks Tracy's smell nice. Wispy hints of coconut, or lavender. His shampoo hails from the discount aisle, and smells more like dish soap. He's always refrained from investigating further, on account that hair stuff is too... well...
( It rhymes with curly. Somewhere within his skull, he can hear Patrick sneering it in his eardrum from the inside. One nail claws hard at a stray pimple. Knowing the pain'll shut him up. )
"... Okay," he whispers. "Yeah."
The scissors slice so near to his ears, he feels the need to tense both shoulders. Rigid as a statue. Dare not flinch an inch. Yet Poo hums so deeply, and quietly, and idly, that his muscles begin to relax on their own accord. Uncrossing his sore arms. Letting them hang at either side. Eyelids fall shut, as those sheepdog bangs are gradually cleaved away. The dark still burns. His head's still achey. And he's still exhausted. He'll spend the evening in his own bed, with a belly full of sushi and Tylenol, sleeping like a pile of rocks - when all's said and done.
And the snipped strands prickle at the nape of his neck. Like primal terror, and mountain lion claws. He'll keep brushing them away, throughout the day. It's kinda fucked up, he thinks. How the Here And Now itches so badly. Makes him wanna rake his nails down his neck, and arms, and all the rest of him, 'til the skin bleeds and scabs over. There's gotta be a point, eventually, when it stops. Or at least, when he just gets used to it. Right? There must be. He isn't sure he can bear it, otherwise.
( ... It'll probably ease up, he realizes, right about when he quits waiting for eventually to come along. )
"Theeere we go. Hopefully that wasn't too torturous."
"Wait-?" Peter sputters. "You're done already?" Jeez! That was fast.
"Just about. I can touch it up a bit if you like it. Or trim it down some more, if you don't. What do you think, hm?"
And, ah. There's no curtain of bangs left to hide behind. No shroud between him and his reflection. He asked for this, he knows, he knows. So he'd better brave what he's wrought. Breach eye contact with a few cautious split-second flickers, before mustering the courage to hold it. His irises are evergreen, if you must know. He can't miss the forest for them. Or the trees. Or however the stupid saying goes. The new haircut frames them, instead of obliterating them. Only barely cradles his ears. As it quickly dries, it begins to form a little halo around his head. Not like his childhood bowl cut - Lardna's decree, which he never had a say in. Not like the mopey teenager he knows, either.
"Or of course," Poo goes on, "Shaving it bald is always an option, too. Haha."
( Come to think of it, truthfully and honestly? Peter isn't sure he's ever looked in a mirror and seen himself. )
"... Speechless, huh? You know, despite what Paula will tell you, I'm really just an amateur. But don't worry. If you can't stand it, there's still plenty of time to adjust it."
"No, actually. It's..."
He delves a curious hand through the strands behind one ear. Runs it downward, over the back of his neck, to brush a few nagging snippets away. And smiles. Despite the itchy prickle.
( 'Cause this must be the closest he's ever gotten. )
"... It's perfect. Thanks."
.