Peter rubbed his hands together against the cold, shuddering and willing himself not to cry. It was exactly as it had been ten years ago. He’d realized as a boy that Neverland was empty, that the Lost Boys who so resembled his brothers weren’t really John and Michael, and then he’d known it wasn’t worth it to stay. What was the point of being himself if he had to be alone?

Sometimes you have to reclaim it,” he mutters. “Because it gets rubbed in your face either way.

Thats the trick of growing up. Nothing stays the same.” Hook sounded oddly sympathetic. “You see the faults in everything. Including yourself.

Not everything is your truth,” she said tersely. “Some things are just true.

God, he thinks, he could be starving and she’d fill him up with one sweet look.

The very world here bends for the sake of your stories, Pan. I see no reason why I, a mere man, should not.

Dreamers are always welcome here, whatever their reasons.

Imagine having a well-cultivated pirate crew and established career as the terror of the seas, only to have some bloody ten-year-old show up claiming he’s the spirit of youth and joy and your unholy nemesis, Oh, and he’s rallied a bunch of other little boys to come and kill you.

If he’s being honest, half the reason he studied politics in college was because he liked the drama.

He was struck by the feeling that they were the only two people alive in the world—that this was something beyond any magic or illusion or story Neverland could conjure. Something real.