Edited✔️✔️
In celebration of 2,000 votes and almost 50k reads. Thank you~
BONUS CHAPTER: Rufio and Pan
Rufio scowled, a trait he had perfected from his father with every crease in his forehead and to the way one side of his lips was lower than the other.
Peter stood and frowned as well, but this one was of utter heartbreak, a feeling no toddler should ever have to experience. His father's rough and calloused hand felt like a dead weight on his shoulder. Peter planted his fists against his sides and bit the inside of his cheek, holding back the urge to push the man's hand away.
The smell of fresh soil entered the broken family's nostrils as they stood right next to the new mound of dirt surrounded by a seemingly endless sea of stones, crosses, and angels.
"Don't go crying, boy," their father spat to Peter, his hand tightening around his toddler's shoulder. "No woman is worth crying for."
That "woman" he spoke of was Peter's and Rufio's mother.
Peter wiped away the tear he didn't realize he had shed. His mother had been so kind to him and loving—the complete opposite of his cruel, uncaring father. Hearing her melodic and passionate-filled voice as she told him bedtime stories would be the moments he would miss the most. She always told the best stories, ones of adventure, fantasy, and happiness. Even if that day she had earned new bruises, she always made sure to smile for her children, especially for her small, sensitive Peter.
The simple gravestone with only her name and age seemed to be the wrong companion for her in every way possible. It was cold, dull, and lifeless; the complete contrast of what his mother was in life. His mother was warm, gentle, and loving and certainly never deserved to be used and murdered by the hands of ruthless pirates. In both life and death, she had only known abuse.
I will cut off the man's hand who had touched her, Peter vowed to himself silently. A vow he would eventually fulfill.
"Can we go?" Rufio grumbled impatiently, staring down at his brother with a cold hatred as if daring him to object like he knew the brat wanted to.
Peter kept his mouth in a firm, straight line to not upset his brother. Without his mother's protection, he needed Rufio to be on his side more than ever. All they had were each other, whether or not they liked it.
Their father brought his large hands to his sides and Peter breathed out a sigh of relief. "Let's go, boys."
Peter hesitated and was the last of the three to walk away, trailing behind begrudgingly. As they continued heading for the horse-drawn carriage, Peter made sure to turn his head over his shoulder to catch some last glimpses of his mother. Even as the carriage pulled away, his grey eyes stayed glued onto the round gravestone until it faded out of view.
Later that night, Peter couldn't sleep. Not even a wink.
"Would you stop that?" Rufio hissed from the bed right next to his.
Despite his older brother being next to him, Peter felt as if the entire cottage was empty and cold. It felt as if the life had been sucked right out of his so-called-home. But without his mom, it was merely a rundown two bedroom cottage with leaks in every room's ceiling and holes in the floorboards.
Rufio, who was only a year senior of Peter but acted much older, was finding the same problem with not getting any sleep. But it was only because Peter wouldn't stop tossing and turning and the noise was annoying him awake.
"I can't sleep."
"No crap, genius," Rufio told him sarcastically over his shoulder. "I figured that out two hours ago."
There was a pause of silence. Peter stared up at the ceiling.
"Do you think Mother is in heaven?"
"Who cares?" Rufio asked, adjusting his sheets so they came up to his chin. "No matter where she is, she's... gone." The word felt foreign on Rufio's tongue and he found trouble saying it. Although he would never show it, the reality of its meaning finally weighed on him and his heart ached. He was glad he was facing away from his brother.
Peter's eyes filled with tears and he pulled up his blankets over his head to give himself privacy and save his dignity as he silently cried. He needed his mother. He felt cold without her.
He felt lost.
Neither of them got any sleep.
⋆✶
The blow sent Peter flying back.
"Father, stop!" Rufio cried, watching in horror as his own father tossed his teenage brother around as if he was a mere rag doll. The fact that he was at least twenty pounds below what his weight should've been worsened his situation
"You shut up, boy!" his father slurred, pointing a finger at his oldest son. His stature swayed. "Your brother needs to learn what it's like to be a man."
Soon after their mother's passing, their father had become a drunk and unemployed, earning the little money they had through childish gambling. He rarely spent the night at their house and his loose ways with both men and women were known by everyone. Thanks to him, the broken family had become the town's running joke and the boys had to drop out of school.
Peter, now fourteen, stood up, grasping his arm and growled at his father. He spat on the ground in his direction.
Over the years, Peter had learned how to turn his hurt and sadness to anger and strength. It wasn't a hard thing to master in the midst of his father's cruel beatings.
He watched as his father grabbed a knife off the kitchen counter and came closer to him. "Come here, boy. Let me show you how a real man with balls behaves."
Peter stood his thin body straighter and Rufio stood helpless, his eyes switching back and forth between both family members. But they instantly closed at the sound of his brother's body thumping against the floor followed by his horrendous sounds of pain.
Peter's cries were the last noises heard that night until darkness fell.
He quivered on the bed and Rufio skillfully placed cool towels on his back and sides after disinfecting the deep, knife wounds that would no doubt accompany Peter's other scars forever. Instantly, the white towels soaked up Peter's blood and turned a pink hue. Rufio cringed but hid it as best he could for his brother.
Their father had passed out on the sofa with a brown bottle in one hand. There would be no gambling or sleeping around that night.
"If that's what being a man is like," Peter groaned suddenly, his voice hoarse, "then I hope I never become one. I'll kill myself before I let that happen." His breathing was ragged and his voice was terribly weak from screaming, barely a whisper.
Rufio shushed him angrily, frowning deeply. "Don't say things like that, thickhead."
Peter managed to scoff. "Don't act like you don't not want that too. I see your eyes, brother," he told him. "They're sad."
Rufio pressed down on Peter's back, making the boy cry out in anguish. "Shut up," Rufio growled, "or I'll add more to the collection." He released the pressure off his back and Peter panted from trying to get through the pain.
They both knew it was just a lie. But the anger in Rufio's tone was enough to make Peter go silent until finally he fell asleep.
⋆✶
Rufio was now seventeen with Peter sixteen.
Nobody could believe they were brothers. With Rufio's dark features and Peter's light, they were polar opposites in both appearance and personalities.
Peter was a dreamer and Rufio was a fighter. But they both shared one thing in common: an enemy—and that made them more alike than others might have believed from first glance.
"Boy, make me breakfast!" their father screamed at Rufio.
"Yes, Father," Rufio said bitterly. Their father was too drunk to care about or realize his disrespectful tone. "What would you like, Father?"
Peter leaned against the wall, glaring at the man who had supposedly raised them. He hated him. Peter hated the very word. Parents. Father. Men. Grown ups. He hated them all like he hated hell and death.
Rufio got out a pan from the cupboard by the sink after his father had told him what he wanted to eat. Ever since their father was unemployed because of his drinking problem and reputation, they had become his personal chefs themselves and learned to cook at the ages of eight and nine with their limited supplies.
"Don't just stand there, Boy," their father said to Peter, his words practically slurred together to form one large one. "Help your brother."
Peter grunted and went to help. Before he stepped one foot forward, he felt a large, familiar hand wrap around his wrist. Instinctively he went to pull it away but his father was relentless.
"What do you say, Boy?"
Peter sighed, already imagining and preparing himself for the pain from the damned blade he had suffered under for half of his life. But he would not be appeasing his father that day. Peter was through with submitting. He wanted to be in charge for a change.
His father got closer and Peter could hear Rufio come to a pause in the kitchen, silently begging him to submit to what their father wanted.
Peter could smell his alcohol infested breath, the rotting teeth hanging loose from his skull, and his reek of horrible body odor.
"What do you say, boy?" his father asked slower, his horrid breath fanning his face. When Peter didn't comply, he chuckled looking him up and down with an amused expression. "You always were a runt, weren't you? I doubt you're even mine."
He lifted his hand. Peter closed his eyes in preparation, but the blow never came.
"No!" Rufio cried and lunged, tackling his father to the floor.
Rufio and his father began rolling on the floor, fighting for dominance. It wasn't long until their father, who was much bigger in size, had Rufio pinned down with both of his grizzly hands around his throat. Rufio wheezed for air, his eyes bulging and eyes clawing desperately at his father's wrists. His attempts were futile. No sound came out of his gaping mouth and his eyes rolled back into his skull. His face was slowly turning purple. His hands grew limp around their father's wrists.
It was ironic. The man who had given him life would be the one to take it away.
Through it all, Peter stood there in pure shock before everything clicked and he looked around, searching for something—anything—to help his brother.
Then his eyes landed on the pan on the stove. He wrapped both hand around the handle and let out a battle cry that was full of every tear and every scream of anger he had been holding in since his mother died. With all the power in his body, he swung the pan back and brought it forward with so much force that blood splattered over both him and Rufio as it met its target.
Peter dropped the blood-covered pan, still in shock from what he'd done and in denial as he stared at his father's unrecognizable face. He felt so many things all at once that he couldn't choose which one to feel first.
But guilt was no where in his heart.
No, he was happy his father was dead. He was glad to see him bleeding out in the floor like he deserved.
For the first time ever, he felt free. Safe.
Rufio coughed a hoarse laugh as he lied sprawled out on the floor and stared up at the ceiling. The purple faded from his face to a mere pink color and his eyes grew back their usual focus.
Peter looked at him quizzically. "What are you laughing about, you ol' lubber? You almost died!"
Between laughs Rufio could only manage to spit out, "Peter... Pan."
His laughter grew louder and all Peter could do was glower at him before he lost and began laughing with him too.
They were free.
⋆✶
Peter and Rufio went on the run the night after they had buried their father's remains. Not that anyone would miss him or care to wonder about his sons let alone waste energy on finding his murderer. But the two longed to start anew, without their father's reputation haunting them forever. So they ran.
They hadn't gotten far when a man had stepped in their path. It was dark and cold and a setting perfect for striking an unsettling feeling in the pit of Peter's stomach.
"Move," Peter hissed, clenching his fist. Since killing his father, he'd grown in confidence and bravery. He would never let himself be trapped or controlled again and that was a promise.
The young man had a large mustache that matched his thick, curly black locks of hair. He wore a high collared jerkin with a warm cloak embroidered with designs around his shoulders that swept against the ground. With his leather boots matched with a pair of voluminous, brightly colored knee breeches, gold rings adorning most of his fingers, and a fashionable walking cane placed in his soft-looking hand, both the boys could easily tell he was rich and of high class.
They shared looks.
"Ye both look lost," the man stated with a thick Scottish accent, his dark brown eyes darting between them. "Very, very, lost indeit," he muttered mostly to himself. "Ma name is—"
"Get lost," Rufio barked. "We don't want the knowledge of your name."
The man cleared his throat, obviously not expecting that particular response from the boy. "Very well. I want tae offer ye both somethin' that comes at a price I think ye both can pay."
"We said—"
"What do you wish to offer?" Peter questioned, cutting off his brother. He had always been the more curiouser one. Rufio sent him a disapproving look that pointedly went ignored.
"Paradise," the man answered simply. "Yer very own island o' yours tae reign."
The boys both scoffed.
"We may be young," Peter started, "but we're not stupid. Let's go, Rufio."
They began to walk off.
"Wait!"
Peter rolled his eyes and turned on his heels to face the man once more. His every intent was to get rid of him and Rufio couldn't have agreed more.
"Please, dear boys, ye must accept," the man practically begged.
"What would a man of your class want with giving away an island to some lowly commoners?" Rufio spat, confused, annoyed, and defensive. His hands were fists at his sides, believing this man to be a fabulist.
"Freedom," the man said without hesitation. "See haur, lad, aw I speir o' ye is yer shadow."
Peter's eyes widened. "My shadow," said Peter, testing the words out on his tongue. "You want my shadow?"
"Aye, a shadow o' a killer," he said casually, making each boy go rigid at the same time.
"How do you...?"
Rufio was ready to attack the man. If he turned them in to the authorities, they were done for and he wasn't frightened to add another death to their list.
"I am beggin' ye," the man said, his tone desperate. "Juist a shadow then the island is yers forever an' the inhabitants i' it."
"Inhabitants?"
"Oh, oh, yes—mermaids, red skinned men, pixies, an' pirates. Ye name it."
Peter's fists clenched at the word. Pirates.
"Brother," Rufio said, taking not of Peter's composer, "don't."
Not even a second last before Pan responded. "Take it," Peter told the man. "Take my shadow and the island is mine?"
Why should we stay? he thought. There was nothing left for them anyway.
"Aw yours, ye wonderful boy," the man said, sounding relieved. "What 'tis yer name?"
"Peter."
"Peter what?" the man asked. "Surely ye have a surname."
"Peter Pan," Rufio said amusingly before he could respond.
Peter elbowed him in the ribs as he snorted. It has a nice ring to it actually, he thought but he would never admit that to him aloud.
A new life required a new name, he supposed.
"Well Peter Pan, ye are now officially the owner o' Neverland!"
"But I thought—"
Without warning the man grabbed his hand, his rings cold against his skin, and Peter screamed. It felt like every part of him was being ripped apart and sewn back together again and again and again.
"Peter!" he heard a Rufio cry. But his voice sounded distant and Peter found himself losing consciousness and seeing stars—
He swayed side to side and landed face first onto the soft ground. A groan left his lips and another beside him followed. Peter's fingers gripped onto the earth beneath him and found it gritty, puzzling him since they had been standing on a street.
He lifted his face and realized it was sand. Peter had landed on sand.
It covered his face, clothes, hands, feet, and infested his hair. The itchy feeling on his scalp and the uncomfortable feeling of sand up his nose and between his toes reconfirmed that it in fact wasn't a dream.
The man had kept his word. He was telling the truth.
He scrambled to stand up and looked around himself. The sound of birds and the ocean waves filled the air. Sure enough, right in front of him was an ad infinitum of trees with the ocean just behind him, the waves licking his bare heels.
His clothes had apparently changed as well so he now where weird green, all matching fabric without sleeves. Rufio, who stood a few paces away, wore a similar outfit but more brown and his long black hair blew lightly in the breeze. The new attire was quite comfortable so Peter couldn't complain.
Rufio groaned as he came to stand beside him, looking into the trees. "Where the hell are we?"
The name rolled off Peter's tongue as if it were always meant to be. It was like a name that was forgotten but now finally remembered after all this time.
"Neverland," Peter breathed, looking down and seeing his lack of a shadow next to Rufio's. Surprisingly, it had felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders as if his shadow had weighed a hundred pounds.
It was funny. Without it, he swore it felt as if he could fly.
His eyes diverted to the area in front of his toes, where sticking up in the sand was a note waving against the soft breaths of the wind. Peter with nimble fingers picked it up to read with Rufio peering over his shoulder.
Dear boys,
Good luck on all your future adventures. I'm counting on you two lost boys to take care of my island since I can no longer stay. Time for me is running out. Take mercy on the lost ones and shelter them. Also, don't go too hard on the pirates. Grown ups can get lost too sometimes.
Thank you, Peter Pan, for your shadow. I shall always remember you. It is truly a wonderful thing. I will use it for a very, very, very long time and will send you the location of the person who has it once I am in no need of it anymore.
Yours Sincerely,
-J.M.B
~**~**~**~**~**~
||AN|| I'm planning on writing a couple Bonus Chapters here and there. I will choose one or two to write about from your preferences and suggestions. (CLOSED!!!)
IF YOU ENJOYED RUN LITTLE LOST GIRL: Then please check out my ORIGINAL TEEN FICTION/MYSTERY story YOUNG DEVILS that is now up on my profile! Thank you in advance!
Thank you for reading all of this 'til the end. Lots of love. Until next time... Xx