3
" The trousers were miles too long, even when Peter cuffed the legs. The socks bagged in the ankles, and the shirt and sweater were equally large. But when Peter finally managed to get the collars to lie right and glanced at the reflection he'd carved out of the dust on James's mirror, a shock went through him.
This was the face which had haunted him all his life, the one he had looked in the eye on the day he left the Darling house for the last time. The hair, messy and short, enthusiastically curling without the weight of his old braid to drag it down. The stubborn chin. The clear, sharp, sullen eyes full of everything he had never been allowed to be.
Peter ran his hands over himself slowly, breathing tentatively, feeling the weight of his chest under his shirt. He had given this body up. He had thought it belonged to Wendy, to the girl he wasn't. He had let his family make him believe that the only way he would ever be a boy was to be born again in a different shape, leaving everything of his body and history behind.
He breathed out and settled in the feeling of being himself, of being something whole. "
― Austin Chant , Peter Darling
8
" Pan," Hook said. "You saved my life."
Peter didn't know what to say. He had gone back to rescue Hook so unthinkingly, so instinctually, that he was only now beginning to realize he had done it. He hadn't worried about a single thing besides protecting Hook.
He cast around for a reason—an excuse, not the real reason, which he already knew.
"I had to," he said finally. "If you'd died there, I wouldn't have been the one to defeat you."
Hook gave a low chuckle. "Your obsession is flattering, Pan. And I share it."
"Obsession?"
"Is that not what they call it," Hook said, "when two men can think of nothing but each other?"
Peter went still, feeling his ears go hot at the implication. Hook knew, he thought. Hook knew exactly what Peter had felt before, when Hook had pinned him down.
He sat there tongue-tied. The two of them didn't speak for some time, until the kraken's last cringing wails had receded and there was no sound but the shiver of the leaves.
"Thank you," Hook said eventually. "I suppose I should have led with that. "
― Austin Chant , Peter Darling
11
" Peter lifted his head. Hook's hair was tangled around his face like a lion's mane and his eyes were painfully clear, all teasing and mirth gone from his mouth.
He took Peter's chin in his hand, his fingers calloused but gentle, and kissed him.
Everything in the world grew quiet and Peter's body grew loud. The caress of Hook's fingertips under his chin made his pulse catch, his throat flushing, shoulders tightening. He could only seem to breathe in, breathe Hook in deeper. Hook's lips were dry, and he tasted like salt and sweet wine. He smelled like gunpowder and the sea and he was everywhere, shifting closer across the leaves, his other arm snaking around Peter's waist, the iron claw pressed flat between his shoulder blades.
Peter dug his fingers into fistfuls of earth, trying to ground himself as Hook pulled them together, tipping Peter's head back with the gentle thrust of his kiss, a momentum that threatened to tilt them both to the ground. Peter was impossibly hot, hot to his fingertips and toes and his skin was crawling with the need to be touched, the shock of that need.
Sweat caught at the back of his shirt. His skin was stark canvas begging for ink, and Hook's touch was going to stain him forever. It was too much, too sudden. Peter recoiled, yanking a knife from his boot and holding it between them. He didn't mean it as a threat, just a way to make distance where none had been. "
― Austin Chant , Peter Darling
17
" Il pirata sorrideva: aveva sistemato meglio le gambe per aumentare la pressione sulla lama e Peter sbuffò e tirò indietro il collo per aumentare la distanza fra la spada e la sua gola.
Si ritrovò così a guardare Uncino in faccia. Era la prima volta che lo vedeva tanto da vicino e l’immagine davanti ai suoi occhi non era sgradevole, ma affascinante; aveva gli occhi dello stesso colore dei non-ti-scordar-di-me, i capelli ricci e neri, i baffi ricurvi come la cresta d’un onda. Il suo respiro, caldo e profumato di spezie e salsedine, si riversò sulla guancia di Peter che sentì un’ondata di calore invaderlo in tutto il corpo, dal petto alle dita dei piedi.
“Ti arrendi?” Disse Uncino sottovoce.
“Mai.”
Il sorriso di Uncino divenne più profondo. “Ti sei dimenticato di una cosa,” disse e la mano che non reggeva spada – no, anzi, il suo uncino di metallo – gli toccò il mento. Il tocco era quasi delicato, ma la punta dell’uncino era talmente affilata che ogni minimo movimento gli faceva venire i brividi. “È arrivato il momento d’arrenderti, Pan. Altrimenti morirai.”
“Morire,” cominciò a dire Peter, “sarebbe una straordinaria…”
“Ancora con quella storia?” disse Uncino. “Non sei riuscito a pensare a niente di nuovo da dire in dieci anni?”
Peter scoppiò a ridere e stranamente Uncino rise con lui "
― Austin Chant , Peter Darling
19
" Non volevo ricordare.” Disse a fatica. “Perché mi hai obbligato?”
La regina lo stava studiando come avrebbe fatto uno scienziato. “Il mio compito è proteggere questo mondo, Pan. I sognatori, qualunque sia la loro motivazione, sono sempre benvenuti qui. Ma tu sembri solo interessato a distruggere l’isola in ogni tua fantasia.”
“È così,” sibilò Peter. “Sono qui per combattere. Sono un ragazzo.”
“Lo sei,” disse lei. “Ma quando intendi crescere?”
Crescere. A Peter sembrò di sentire quelle parole echeggiare con la voce di suo padre e non riuscì più a tollerarlo. Una rabbia cieca cancellò la sua paura e allontanò la sua nuova consapevolezza come una fiamma ardente. Si lanciò contro la regina quando il mondo intorno a lui riapparve all’improvviso in tutti i suoi colori. Capì d’essere circondato dalla corte della regina che gli puntava contro pungiglioni, spine e denti avvelenati.
“Stai attento, Pan.” La regina non s’era mossa. “Quasi tutto in questo mondo può piegarsi ai tuoi desideri, ma non io. Ti piacerebbe venire cacciato per sempre dall’isola?”
“No.” rispose Peter con rabbia.
“Allora calmati,” disse la regina. “Ti lascerò sognare, ma l’Isola Che-non-c’è deve sopravvivere. Pensaci bene. "
― Austin Chant , Peter Darling
