Monster // Peter Pan (Robbie Kay) (OUAT)

Chapter Thirty Four

Gale's wrist shook, the sword clattering against itself, like even the weapon was nervous and grinded together its bones. "Yes," he said.

"Well then," Oliver licked his lip, extending his arm with the saber and pressing his back foot into the earth. "Let's play!"

Gale gulped, lifting his right arm, the sword weighing his elbow into a bend. Oliver lunged, jutting his saber through the air. Gale threw his hip to the side, the blade skimming his cloak and tearing a hole into the burlap.

"Gale!" Mason's chirp voice cried in warning, jabbing his pudgy fingers into the air, pointing at Chester, who was creeping behind Gale.

Chester clasped his fist in one of his hands and geared back, jumping off the ground and slamming his elbow into the pocket of flesh between Gale's shoulder blade and his collarbone.

The sword flung from Gale's open hand, skittering along the grass and staining the metal with dirt. His body jerked before it went limp, collapsing dead weight into the clearing floor.

"Hey!" Tyrell's thick voice jeered, "you cannot double team!"

"Please!" Oliver hissed, swinging his saber behind him, "there's no rules!"

"Don't matta' what you think," Tyrell folded his arms, "you supposed to play a fair fight."

Oliver's glowering eyes met Chester's, who were solemn.

"Fine," Oliver snapped, then pointed his weapon directly at me, his black eyes aligned with the blade, "but I want to fight against her."

Chester snickered and turned over his shoulder.  "Andria doesn't stand a chance against you, Oliver."

He grinned, his lips turning to the side. "I know."

I shook my head. "I don't want to fight."

"Fight him, Andria," Chester snarled.

"No," I said.

"Grab a sword, lost girl," Oliver taunted, tracing his saber between his fingers, his eyes burrowing into me and holding my lungs captive.

"No!" I shouted this time, "I don't want to fight!"

Chester folded his fingers along his blonde locks. "You sure put up a fight with me."

"Chester, you sick!" Tyrell called, "stop teasing her!"

Before a fight could erupt and tear the tension like wet paper, a familiar green figure stepped in front of me, his sculpted back pressing into the fabric of his shirt.

"Boys," his voice was cool.

"Pan." Oliver straightened his stance, his body unmoving. "We were just sparring."

"Sparring?" Pan asked, amused, then his eyes met Gale's body on the ground. "I assume he didn't do so well?"

"He had some trouble," Oliver chuckled, sliding his saber into a sheath against the oak. 

"Is he..." Pan crouched next to the folded figure in the dirt, prodding his calm chest with two fingers, "alive?"

"Yes," Oliver confirmed, "just out cold."

Tyrell rolled his eyes, clipping his bow into the latch on his quiver.

"How about we all meet in the main clearing, huh?" Pan suggested, rising to his feet and dusting his hands off on his trousers.  "I have some things I'd love to address."

The boys tossed their weapons against the oak and moved single file, minus the slacked boy crumpled near the oak. I began to follow the line from a distance, my feet trudging heavily along. 

"Not so fast."

Pan's hand clamped my shoulder and guided me backward, my legs staggering along clumsily until he pressed my back against the oak.

His green eyes darkened into a sort of olive, whispering color as he looked at me.

"I've heard the rumors," he said coldly.

My throat clenched dry, my stomach fighting against itself as my insides begged to vomit.

"Speak to me," Pan said.

I shook my head lowly, unable to open my mouth in fear I would break down into sobs.

"Andria," Pan said more urgently, "why won't you talk?"

I closed my eyes as tears seeped out, rolling in a hot river down my sweating face.

I expected him to say something snarky, or tell me to chill out, or to stop being a whore, or even walk away.

"Angel, don't cry," Pan whispered, placing his finger on my cheek and running it up to my eye, wiping the tear onto his hand and letting it run coolly down his wrist.

"I didn't do anything with Chester," I whispered, "I swear."

Pan gulped. Hard. "What are you saying?" He asked.

I sighed. "That, that I..."

Pan bit his lip.

I crossed my arms against my chest. "He did it all, okay?  I didn't want him too."

Pan didn't speak at first.   I thought he'd ask more questions. I thought he'd do something outrageous, like send me to my hut, or even to the lagoon to bathe and wash off every bit of Chester I can.

He reached out, wrapping his hand softly around my throat. I gasped in shock, but he was gentle with me, and ran his calluses thumb down the slope of my salty neck.

Then, he shook his head.

"I don't want hands on you."  He said finally.

"But yours are on me," I pointed out.

"I know," he said, moving his palm and placing it below my rib cage, "and I mean it territorially."

"How so?" I asked, wrapping my hands around his wrist and holding it in place, "I belong to me."

Pan smiled sadly. "Sure you do."

"Then why the face?" I asked.

Pan's face scrunched suddenly, as if he was battling a conflicting storm beneath him. He groaned to himself, his chest rejecting a breath.

He placed the opposite fingers on top of my lips, "I don't want foreign hands on my, my lost girl."

"Your lost girl?" I asked, the tips falling inside my mouth.

Pan pulled his hands off of me, and my flesh grew where it missed his warm touches.

"I belong to me, again." I said.

Pan wrapped two fingers around my bottom lip and pulled my face close so our noses pressed together.  He breathed a heavy breath, and dared me to look away from him.

"You," he said, loud and demanding, "are mine."