Yeah, so, I haven’t written in a long time. Like take what you think is a long time and times it by five. This isn’t even that long, but, hey, first thing I’ve finished with a begining, middle, and end. Salute me.
Anyways, I blame @robbie-oh-kay for this. So if you don’t like it you can run to her inbox here. If you do, feel free to shoot me up about it, reblog, or comment on AO3 if I ever get to posting there.
Its based off this video of the same name, also by @robbie-oh-kay, if y'all wanna check it out.
Trigger: swearing, angst, alcohism, conspiracy to commit murder, referenced kidnapping.
Are You In or Are You Out?
You see Peter doesn’t know. Peter doesn’t know how hurt Killian was when everything broke down. Peter doesn’t know how betrayed Killian felt, or how wounded or how idiotic. Peter doesn’t realize that he was the only one who saw what they had as a game. And maybe that’s the ironic part of their relationship? Peter Pan, an immortal being with the heart of a child, the mind of a philosopher, and the make of a young adult saw everything as a game. It was the Golden rule of his creation, yet Killian thought for once, for one fucking moment, that it was real.
He was blind to the power of suggestion and the things he did in the name of feeling something that he wouldn’t normally do. He was deaf to laughing faeries and snickering mermaids. He was ignorant to Smee’s warning and Tinks pleas. And what for? For the idea that, Peter’s warm touches, his salty kisses, and starry smiles we’re something more than a trick. He believed in Peter Pan, gave him everything he could in the centuries they shared. With his belief, the pixie dust trees blossomed again, the hives of faeries bathed in the green dust like they hadn’t in who knows how long. It was a warming sight when Peter dragged him to the edge of their hollow to watch in awe, before dancing in the moonlight high on the dust themselves, Killian whispering “I believe in you” as they floated to the ground, a warm kiss that sent pulses in his blood and shifted the balance of the island.
He told Peter he loved him a few years later. And, fuck, he knew he shouldn’t have. He knew he should have swallowed his feelings, kept them inside for himself to know alone. Like an idiot he said it though while tangled in vines and leaves, dirt clinging to skin and their noses brushing each other.
“I love you,” he confessed like a dumb fucking idiot. Killians heart racing, eyes glassy looking for a reply that won’t shatter him in an intimate moment with more intimate words.
It was the silence that got him, however, Peter’s eyes widened just a touch, bruised lips parted in a bit of awe, fingers that had been teasing his chest ran still. It felt like a moment where the world was still, where there was a pause in reality to brace for the good part, the sweet confession of mutual feelings before a big kiss and wandering hands. That didn’t happen, though, because reality hit play and Peter grinned. Killian’s heart running wild with anticipation, the smile they both had growing, a lump in Killian’s throat just waiting for any reply.
Peter laughed and Killian’s smile fell in confusion. It wasn’t a sweet laugh. It wasn’t one of Peter’s blushing laughs that always made Killian join in. It was a mocking laugh, deep and dark. It broke Killian’s heart, the lump turning from one of nervousness to swallowed sadness.
Peter sitting up where they lay and covering his mouth to hide his giggles. Killian barely registered what Peter said as soon as “You thought this was real?” leaves the immortals lips.
Killian drowning his thoughts with mental replies of “Yes, I did” and “I thought you felt something” and “I’m so bloody fucking stupid.” His mind beating himself up. His memories digging for any clue that it wasn’t real, that it was all a fucking lie, a cruel and mischievous game.
He tried not to let it show that Peter’s words and his thoughts are getting to him, but he knew he had limited time, untangling himself and brushing off crushed leaves and dirt. He pulled on his pants and shoes, yanking his pillowy shirt over his head before gathering up his sword, pistol, belt and coat just holding them in his arms. A tick tock ringing in his chest, a bomb waiting to explode with reality destroying his guts.
Killian making the mistake of looking back, his jaw trembling and his heart still. His fingers squeezed tight on his coat, the only comfort in the moment as he looked at the nude boy who’s face of mockery turned dark and serious, as if he was offended.
“Who could ever love a one-handed pirate with a drinking problem?” He heard.
“No one it seems,” is all Killian said as he made to leave. His vision shot with held back tears as he walked to the beach just wanting off this shitty island, wanting to leave even without a way to slay his crocodile, something he decided months ago he would’ve given up for Peter Pan.
However, he’s hardened since then. His heart black and cold, solidifying when a few years after his confession Pan let him go, bored with a toy that didn’t want to play anymore because it was too broken, too distraught and lonely. Killian liked to think he was over it for the most part, divulging all his focus into the crocodile, blaming the reptilious wizard for his pain on both fronts and the loss he suffered physically because of it. The drinking grew worse and he fucked anything that breathed to clog his brain with new images to distract from ones he wished he abandoned on Neverland.
More years pass and Killian is back, his boots filling in familiar footprints on muddy ground. The smells and sounds a surreal manifestation of his nightmares, and fuck when he saw Peter on that cliff, taunting him and the others, he wanted to run like a true coward to save himself the flood of memories from one glance. Then Peter taunted him on Deadman’s Peak, a nickname coined after the death of his brother, inquired about restarting their relationship, and the words he sang sounded so sweet, so hopeful and wonderful and tempting. But fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me, and Killian likes to think himself wise. If not then, now. He knows what to look for now, how to properly make decisions, and right now the best decision he can make is staying with the heroes. Peter can add gifts and tease and temp all he wants, Killian won’t give in—he refuses. He tells Peter this, screams it even. “I am not your fucking toy! Not anymore! Not ever again!”
Peter gets close to him, so close Killian can smell ash, pixie dust and sage. Their noses brush and it’s such a familiar presences, personal bubble always shrinking around Peter, body craving the proximity to induce sensory overload.
“What if I tell you a secret?” Peter whispers.
Killian shakes his head. He doesn’t want to know any secrets. He doesn’t want old feelings of hurt to resurface more than they have, and he certainly doesn’t want to believe Peter and wind up in the same predicament as before with more witnesses this time. “Just give us the boy so we can leave.”
“Do you remember that night?”
Killian’s breath catches—of fucking course he does, something he wishes he couldn’t. The fact Peter is bringing it up now, smooth and seeming curious has Killian’s fence up more, back against the wall for added support, as he steps back. The closeness no longer a nostalgic welcome.
“That night I wanted to tell you the same but I couldn’t.”
Killian’s brain screams for retreat, every bitter scrap of common sense ordering he back away, run away, haul ass to anywhere but here. It’s not real. Peter isn’t telling the truth. This is just another fucked up game of his to trick Killian to give him the boy. “That’s horse shit.”
“Killian,” Peter says his name so soft, so warm, so desperate for him to listen, “my heart is dying. It has been for longer than you’ve breathed. I couldn’t say my feelings for you before because the magic that keeps me here, keeps my heart beating, forbids me to love. It’s too weak. If I love, I die—Neverland dies.”
Killian screams in his thoughts, focuses on the crashing waves just below, the creatures lurking in the woods, and the birds cawing from above, any white noise to muffle what Peter’s telling him.
“But the boy! Henry!” Peter appears in front of Killian in a wispy flash, startling but he’s use to it even after years. “Henry’s heart is alive and thriving.” Peter has desperate written on his face in every crease and every facial cue, a glint of fear in glassy eyes and partially open lips with corners turned to a frown. His skin visibly soft in the proximity, no age marks, no scars, nor blemishes. Perfect in every detail; youth immortalized for millennia or more. But Peter’s dying he says. He needs Henry’s heart to live he says.
“What’s in it for me? Why should I help you in anyway after centuries of torment and after you broke my-” Killian swallows his words, getting too wound up, emotions crescendoing his tone until he regained control and stomached the remaining word.
“With the boys heart I can love you, Killian. His soul is filled with so much belief and love that I won’t need the islands forbidden magic to keep here. I’ll be free.” It’s bittersweet. “You’ve seen how much Henry loves his family and friends and even bloody strangers. If his heart beats in my chest, I can give all that love to you. I can tell you what you want to hear and mean it. We can be together. Don’t you want that?”
‘More than anything’ is the only response that enters his mind, even after years of living in rejection. He wants Peter he always has. He still loves him, that’s nothing he grew out of. He’s just become stronger, built his walls sturdier, nearly impenetrable. It doesn’t mean he’s not mad, though, or hurt. He’s gone cold but the hurt is still there, the wound still open and Peter keeps throwing salt on it.
“We can get a fresh start. Isn’t that what you want? We can meet again. Touch again. Fall all over again. Killian?”
He can’t breathe. All his air, all the oxygen in the realm has been sucked away, suffocating him into a silent scream. It sounds surreal, the wildest dream. Nothing makes sense but the point is clear, albeit a little foggy, and it’s beautiful. It’s what Killian wished on even before he told Peter how he felt. Requited feelings. He still wants them, lingers on them when he’s exceptionally drunk and a whore is touching him. But who could love a one-handed pirate with a drinking problem, as Peter said himself. Dark thoughts peeking behind the hope, waving hello and reminding him of the lies. The fucking promise of forever broken.
“Stop, Peter! It was a lie then and it’s a lie now. All you do is bloody lie.” He chokes on the last bit, throat swelling like it did for days after that stupid night, not wanting to make a mess before his crew and not wanting to drink on the shore where Peter could revel in the thrill of Killian shivering under the weight of his heartbreak. He pushes him away.
Peter’s frown deepening, an anger filling the wind—offence. “No, it’s not!” The immortal, or is he, steps back to where he was pushed, closer this time, filling Killian’s space like before. “It’s never been a lie, just a truth I can’t speak, not unless I get Henry’s heart, the heart of The Truest Believer.” Small hands grab the lapels of his coat to keep him put.
Killian shakes his head wanting to block out the noise the thoughts, go numb. He needs a drink. He needs to chug this down until he blacks out and it becomes another nightmare haunting him in his sleep. “Tell me now then. Tell me you love me now.”
Peter seems surprised by the request.
“Tell me you love me. I want to feel the island shutter beneath your words. I want to see your youth leave. I want proof what you say is real. I need the proof.” Killian’s voice cracks this whole moment emotional and a strain, but he stays still and waits as Peter stares at him seeming worried.
“I’ll die,” the boy whispers.
Killian inhales long and holds, exhaling longer, “Then I’ll rip his heart out myself and make sure you don’t.” His fist clenches, ready to be disappointed and ready to throw it in anger of another goddamn lie.
“I-” the wind grows still. “I love-” the once wild chatter of life behind the trees mutes. Peters breath is shaky, closing his eyes and breathing as deep as Killian, “I love you, Killian Jones.”
Nothing happens.
Killian can feel his heart trembling with an anticipation for something to go wrong, pounding for anything bad to happen to solidify what Peter’s been saying, to make the words as sweet as toffee pudding. He looks around for any sign, anything at all, but nothing happens and Peter’s still standing before him with shut eyes and tense strain in his neck.
Nothing happens still.
So it was all a lie, every bit, every goddamn fucking bit. He can’t believe he nearly gave in, he nearly said yes with trust in the boy. It makes him raise his hand and shove Peter away to let go of the lapels so he can retreat to redress his heart wounds and drink what’s left of his rum stash. Except when he moves, breaking Peter’s frozen state making green eyes flash open he can feel a shake under his soles, an eruption making him spin, gasping as a cloud of smoke rises from the volcano.
“Killian, please, I need Henry’s heart now more than ever.”
Lava erupts and bubbles, Peter on his knees with his hands clenching his chest, trembling, breathing hard as veins grow dark purple under his skin.
“Aye.”
