Chapter 2
Chapter two*
James
“James, you’ll get cold. We wouldn’t want you to get sick.”
Wendy is right. I should get inside and go to bed.
I should not be out here feeling unwell, but Peter is on yet another quest to find and kill Captain Hook.
He told me he would be back in a few days, and it has only been three days, yet I cannot stop worrying.
Two months ago, I was making breakfast, thinking to myself that I wanted more alone time.
That I missed moments where I could just spend time alone reading.
Now, I am alone so often, the me-time I wanted has turned into loneliness. Matthew and Barry seem to always be tired. They spend a lot of time settling in with the Lost Ones. I’m not really sure what job they are doing, but they seem happy on the few occasions they come to visit me.
I don’t miss them as much if Peter is home with me. Not when we spend every moment we can together, not when he plays me the pan flute every night. Those nights are rare now. Our bed feels as cold as the outside air does. I miss him to the point my body aches.
“I’m just worried about him,” I tell the older Faun who Peter appointed to take care of all my needs.
“I know, James, but you gave him a reason to come home. I am sure it will make him rush home, and how would he feel to find you in bed and ill?” Shit, Wendy is right again.
The guilt of knowing I have once again failed to do what he asked me to tighten my chest. Like a corset put on too tight.
I am about to turn around and walk in, shuffling my feet like a displeased toddler, when I hear the buzzing of angry wasps again.
This time it is not Tinkerbell but another Brownie, one I have not seen before.
There is a strip of paper attached to its legs.
The little brownie keeps pointing at it and then to me.
Carefully, I remove the strip of paper from its leg and as soon as I do, he flies away in a hurry. My attention is on the strip of paper in my shaking hands.
“My Sweet boy, how I miss you in my arms. Heavens know I can no longer sleep without your soft body pressed against mine. I will return to you soon. -xxx- Peter”
I clutch the note to my heart; it gives me the strength to get into bed. With the note against my heart, and my face buried in the pillows that smell like pine and wet earth, I drift off to sleep.
Last night, I went to bed, thinking Peter would be home soon.
But he isn’t, and my head is hurting like every move feels like my brain is no longer fitting in my skull and is slamming against it.
I am holding my head, like that is going to help.
The pain is so intense that even the idea of getting some release helps.
The headache is not the worst thing, though, the nausea is.
All the smells in the kitchen slam into my stomach like rocks, making my stomach acid swirl, threatening to rush up.
The idea of being sick—of vomiting—scares me.
It always has, the complete lack of control over my body.
It makes me vulnerable, and I hate being vulnerable.
“Wendy, you can’t expect me to make breakfast,” I tell the older faun, clinging to my dresser to stay upright. The headaches and nausea only got worse yesterday. This morning, light burns even through my closed eyes. My bed is wet because I shook so much I was unable to hold the glass of water.
“Come on, James, you cannot disappoint Peter and the court. It is your fault for staying outside late at night” Wendy’s tone is no longer warm and motherly; it’s cold and clipped. Like the old lady at the corner of my street back home, when Matthew and Barry played too loud.
My knees give up from underneath me as I try to think of her name. I hate how forgetful I am lately. Now when I strain my mind to come up with simple memories like this, I feel as though someone is jabbing an ice-coated knife into my brain. The pain flares, making me unable to even stand straight.
“Fine, I’ll have some Lost Ones make breakfast for the court; those poor children will have to get up early because of you.
” Wendy’s voice reaches a fever pitch, so shrill and high it sounds more like bleating than speaking.
I can no longer hold it back. My stomach has been empty for hours because I have been unable to eat anything.
Still the muscles in my stomach contract hard enough to give me an instant six pack as I heave.
Bile stains the dark green, thick carpet and my bedroom immediately smells acrid.
“I will have them bring over a bucket and scrub brush too, since you are not even trying to make it to the bathroom.” Heavy metal clicking into metal cuts down my last bit of dignity.
By the time a Lost One walks in, carrying the bucket and scrub brush, I am still bawling, clutching my stomach because every shake tearing through my body causes another wave of nausea.
“Don’t be sad, James, just go to bed. I will clean this. Don’t mind Wendy; she is not kind at all,” the young girl whispers. I haven’t seen any of the Lost Ones since Peter left.
Lara, I believe the girl’s name is, is skinny, her skin pale enough for me to see her veins.
“Lara, are you alright?” I manage to ask, trembling and whispering.
“Why wouldn’t I be, Master James? You must just be tired,” she tells me, her face contorting into something almost like the smile of a child who has forgotten how to.
I need to find out what is happening to her, if something is happening to the Lost Ones, in Peter’s absence, but she is right I am tired.
So tired. I just need to sleep a little bit and then I am sure I will feel better.
The flu should not feel like this for much longer.
“He got away. Be careful, my Sweet Boy. I cannot wait any longer; I am coming home,” Peter’s latest letter says, I cannot even remember how long it been since I threw up bile in front of Wendy.
She has been avoiding me like the plague ever since that moment.
I am fine with it as I have no desire to ever see her again.
All I can do now is hope this time Peter truly comes home soon, helps me get better, and makes sure I never have to deal with Wendy again.
It’s truly all I can do because I can’t even sleep and the few times I finally fall asleep, I have nightmares about Peter never coming home to me. My entire body aches to be in his arms again. I pray and hope that he will be home soon. Like he promised in his letter.
“James, that is foolishness. No faun is going to rescue you. Fated mates don’t exist Mother and I found you a man.”
I cannot make out the man as father pushes me towards him.
He smells like ash and alcohol. His hand, still covered by the shadows, finds its way to my ass, feeling me up.
Then I see his arm, pale white and dotted with freckles.
Pine and wet earth mingles with the scent of ash and alcohol until I cannot smell it anymore.
“I came home to you my Sweet Boy.”
That voice, it’s new and thrilling but familiar and safe at the same time. My soul wants to drift toward the voice, but my body is holding me back. Ethereal airy tones pierce my heart, making me body weightless until it floats away with my soul, towards the voice.”
I gasp awake from the nightmare turned into a good dream—one of Peter’s return.
I can still hear the poetic tones of his late night serenade.
I’m so groggy with sleep and with this weird flu that it takes me a minute to realize the mattress is dipped because of the second weight that’s settled on to it.
When I look up, he is here serenading me like he has every night before he had to go.
I can feel my heart heal as I throw myself in his arms sobbing.
Warmth envelops me and the cold is chased from my back in soft circular motions.
Hot breath brushes over my scalp in whispered murmurs of regret and admissions of guilt for staying away too long.
And finally, I hear promises of pleasure beyond what I have ever experienced.
“My love, I missed you, but I haven’t been well,” I try to excuse myself, knowing my body won’t be able to please Peter tonight, no matter how much it craves it too.
“My sweet boy, the absence of me made you sick; it is the mate bond. Let me take care of you. Let me heal you.”
I feel my head lull from side to side as I nod. Peter understands my permission though. He crawls underneath the blankets with me.
“No clothes? Were you waiting for me? Maybe you’re my naughty boy.”
I don’t have the strength to explain that the fever had forced me to shed my clothes. Moaning as his erection presses against me costs me all my strength.
“I love you, James Barington.”
A kiss trails even lower.
“James Barington, you love me.”
A tongue trails down my collarbone.
“Tell me you love me, James Barington.”
My nipples perk at the closeness of Peter’s mouth as his kisses trail even lower. Every kiss rejuvenates me. I feel myself grow stronger with every touch, “I love you, Peter Syrin. I love you and you love me.”
The words seem to snap Peter’s patience. The moment I utter them, his mouth finds my hard cock. His tongue swirls around my shaft, hollowing his cheeks as he bobs his head up and down. It’s as if he’s found an oasis after wandering in the desert for weeks.
Still, it isn’t enough. He lets his spit drip down my dick, down my asshole. It’s enough for me my entire body to go limp as I coat Peter’s tongue with my cum. Letting some more of his spit drip down my dick and between my ass cheeks, he swallows down the rest of it.
“Heavens, how I missed the taste of you.” He moans, and I see his erection straining against his pants.