reenka | ....Peter... Pan.... fanfic....?....?? me?

If I don't write an entry every day-- or something else, every day-- I feel lonely. It has become a habit, and that's why I do things, when they're effortless, when I don't have to think. It's not even avoidance anymore, it's just a compulsion. I think if I stopped for awhile, I'd stop for good.

Or so I thought. Because my two longfics-- it might kill me, but I'll finish them. Because I'm proud. I don't think I've ever been so proud of anything before. Or loved anything I've written so much before. It's kind of frightening. I think I'm frightened of them, and that's why I don't work on them. When I release it, there it'll be-- my heart on a platter. I don't know how people deal with it, 'cause I know a number of writers feel that way about every single fic they write, or they only write that one big project in the first place.

Just now, they're close to my heart, incubating. Only one person has seen one respectively. A part of me probably likes it that way-- that quiet, full place where I'm so happy, knowing that they're brilliant and allmineallmineallmine. What will I do when I post my H/D longfic? I imagine saying, "this is it! you all better comment!"... but that seems like... not enough. How do you throw a party for a fic?

Isn't it sad when your half-born fics make you happier than almost anything? Or maybe that's just me being me, which is a writer; I'm not sure. I'm being so over the top right now, aren't I. I fear what I love, but I don't love what I fear. Fear and love go together for me, hand in hand, always tearing at each other and staring coldly across the room. Fear/love, that's my OTP. No real person will ever actually be enough for me, 'cause I'll always be imagining pieces of them, attaching them on like wings for Icarus.
~~

- Wings for Icarus -

And when I say I love you, what I mean is, baby, I tried....

::

The shadow stood across the room, looking away from him into the dark beyond the window. He thought the shadow wore his face, but it hadn't yet looked at him, so he could never be quite sure. It could be someone else's shadow.

"Don't be afraid," he whispered, "I am here now."

The shadow laughed, lunging at him with a sharp silver knife flashing swiftly in the candlelight. He stood his ground, waiting, his fingertips tingling in anticipation. He knew he could catch it, and he smirked. The shadow passed right through him, and his sides ached with a cold which seemed strangely unfamiliar. His reflexes were good, so he turned quickly, stepping on its foot. It struggled brieftly, trying to climb up the wall, but then subsided onto the floor and lay there unmoving. The boy knew it'd try to escape once more if he lifted his foot, so he stood still and thought.

He didn't try that particular sort of game often, so a slight scowl began to form.

"Hullo?" he called. "Anyone out there?" He seemed to remember a girl, something called a needle, and thread. He always got what he needed, even when he didn't know what it was. The boy wasn't afraid; he never was.

He hated standing still. He hated not remembering even the simplest things. Forgetting was good; forgetting was what he wanted. But he knew there were some things you weren't supposed to forget, though he couldn't be sure.

You weren't supposed to forget the face of your own shadow, and you weren't supposed to forget how to fly at such an inopportune time.

"Hullo? Wendy? You can come out now! This is a boring old game." He crossed his arms and began to whistle some tuneless song in frustration. It was almost completely dark in the room, and he was almost certain there was no one but him here, but he couldn't afford to let go and start the endless chase yet again. She was going to have to find him.

There was a tinkle of laughter next to his ear, and he flinched a little. He was more annoyed than anything. She always held things like this over his head, he thought, even if he had no idea when that started. He had a feeling it wasn't always like this.

"Lose something, Peter?" she crooned in that sing-songy voice. He supposed he should be grateful she followed him even now, when she said he had grown dull. She never told him why: why she followed or how he was dull. Peter (that was his name) didn't expect her to tell, of course. That would be no fun.

"You'd know better than I do, wouldn't you," he said resentfully, putting more pressure on his shadow, which was trying to squirm away. He was hungry, and tired, and Wendy (that was her name) should stop being such a poor sport.

When she laughed, it was sweet and carefree like sunshine. Peter felt a little better in spite of himself, hearing that once again. Almost like he remembered, but not quite. She'd never let him remember the important things, because that would mean the game was over, wouldn't it. And neither of them had any other games, after all.

"Quit fooling around, silly boy." The sparkling lights fluttered too close to his eyes, and he fought the urge to sneeze. No one tells you fairies make you sneeze. "Get the thread. What are you waiting for? Get the thread, get the thread, come on!" She laughed again. "Oh, I know! I know what you're waiting for, Peter. But she won't come. No one will come, now, you know that. It's just you and me-- you and me, and a tall Christmas tree!"

She was spinning around him too fast. It was making him dizzy. "Quit it! Quit it, I said! If you're not going to help, just leave me alone, then."

"You know you don't mean that, Peter. No one likes to be alone, and you're not no one yet. Are you? Tell me!"

Peter tried to look under the dark shape to his left. He thought that might be one of their beds. It smelled musky and warm, like dried flowers and home. He remembered what home was, even if he'd forgotten the important things.

"You're looking in all the wrong places, you know."

He wasn't going to answer her anymore, he decided. She'll grow tired of weaving around him in circles eventually, and then she'll find Wendy and it'll be fine because Wendy would have the thread to tie him with. He remembered that much. Besides, everyone knew that the wrong places were the right places, especially at night.

"I'll tell you a secret, Peter," she whispered in his ear, and he didn't want to believe her. Something told him that secrets weren't what he was looking for. But he wasn't about to stop her. His toes itched. He was going to have to move soon, even if that meant his shadow escaped, and his time grew shorter. Peter didn't think things were supposed to grow shorter, except time, and it only did that here, not there. Not home.

"Don't care if you do."

"I'll tell you anyway. Wendy isn't coming, Peter. She's never coming, and she was never here. Do you know where you are? Come on, guess. Guess!"

"I'm in Londontown, next to the river, close to the park, away from the sea," Peter recited. He'd said that before, but she never seemed to listen.

"How could you be in Londontown if you can't fly, Peter? Don't you remember? You can't fly-- can't fly at all-- not even a little-- not at all...."

"Shut up shut up shut up! You never help, you just-- talk-- and I'm tired." Peter wasn't given to pouting, but he sat down cross-legged on the floor, looking forlorn. "She's going to be a bit late, isn't she," he said.

The light almost flickered out, and Peter thought of going to sleep, resting on his shadow. This could wait until morning, he thought, but then he was woken by a sharp whisper in his ear.

"I could give them to you, you know. You just have to ask, Peter. Just ask me."

"I'm never asking you," he said-- or he thought he said. He wasn't sure, because he wasn't in the room anymore, he was in his tree, and in his bed. The bed hadn't been there in so long, and he only remembered that when he dreamt. "Never," he mumbled. "Give it up, Tink. Don't you remember? I said never, and I always mean it."

She pinched him harshly, right on the cheek. Peter yelped, about to twist around and-- do something-- but he didn't know where his shadow was anymore, and he was falling straight down a bright blue sky with no clouds in it. He thought he saw his shadow waving at him cheekily from the water's surface, all those feet below. Peter was going to catch it this time. The shadow would stick to his skin with briny seawater and nothing could peel it off, not even the silly mermaids; nothing.

He gave a whoop of joy and fell faster. Falling was fun, he thought. Maybe kind of.

"Peter!"

Tink was tugging at his shirt with her tiny iridescent fingers, looking thunderously irate. He was free now, so of course she would be.

"Peter! You idiot! The wings-- come on-- now, ask me now!"

He remembered the shadow standing still, before. It had been waiting for him to look out, see the lights of the city. It had wanted to fly with him all the way home. That was it. He hadn't needed any thread after all.

"I remember how to swim," he called, but the wind carried away his voice.

His shadow had waited.
~~

dorkorific's `Nightswimming' kind of broke me, btw. And when I say kinda, I mean a lot. People kind of laugh at S/R sometimes, well, they'd have to try hard to laugh at this.