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breakingdreamsTitle: the dreams of tomorrows past
Pairing: Peter Pevensie/Susan Pevensie
Wordcount: 982
Summary: Narnia was home in a way England could never be again. That doesn't mean that it was perfect.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Chronicles of Narnia in any shape or form.
Notes: This was inspired by a prompt at the three sisters fair comment ficathon about five to six months ago. The prompt in question was this:
Crossposting to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
petersusan.
the dreams of tomorrows past
Cair Paravel is lively that night, the torches brightening the night, the music lifting their spirits and their hearts as it has many nights before. Humans and centaurs and dryads and all manners of creatures come to dance and celebrate Narnia's victory— this time a war narrowly averted, through Peter's strength and Susan's sweet words and Edmund's compromises and Lucy's fire.
Tonight, Peter is tired, and so he sits alone upon their thrones rather than dance, a figure of strength and grave for all who look upon him. He sits and he watches, this night's celebrations overlapping with the countless ones that have come before.
He does not watch all equally. It is, as always, to his brother and sisters, his fellow King and Queens, to whom his gaze is drawn to the most often.
When Lucy dances, she is a wild thing, her eyes bright and untamed. Her hair falls from its coiffed perfection— Susan's work, to be sure— into tangled waves, and she laughs with glee. She does not dance with any man, for none are fool enough to try to tame her. Instead, she dances with dryads and centaurs and all sorts of creatures who are half so wild and just as free as she is.
His gaze drops to Edmund next. When Edmund dances, it is a rare thing, more often for the politics of than for joy his siblings find in the act. His steps are always perfectly correct, but there is no soul in them. He prefers to slide into the outskirts of these celebrations, speaking in low voices with his companions and watching over the festivities as Peter does even now, noting who dances with whom and marking the twisted tangle of relationships as they rise and fall.
Finally, Peter's gaze turns to his other sister and it is there where his eyes linger. When Susan dances, it is neither rare nor wild. She is elegance and beauty, her steps formed with a fluid grace. Her smile is so kind and her eyes so soft that no man can deny her charm. She spends her nights in the arms of one after another.
The wine slides too easily down Peter's throat. He sits at his throne and oversees all— Lucy and her wildness, Edmund, traversing the dark corners watching all just as Peter does, and Susan—
Susan, laughing sweetly, her hands on the shoulders and arms of men. He sees the curve of her neck, that hollow at the base of her throat; he sees the curves of her body and the fabric of her dress, hugging her breasts firm against her body. His throat tightens.
England is so far away.
"Peter," she whispers. She stands in the doorway, outlined by light.
She doesn't need to say anything more. He nods, and she comes inside, closing the door behind her. When she crawls into his bed and looks up at him, he can see her tears caught in her eyelashes, like little drops of rain.
"Narnia," she says, simply. Her voice breaks, on that one, small word.
"I know," he whispers in return.
He touches her cheek with his hand and she leans into him, sighing.
His chest tightens, and he wonders when he became so selfish.
He leaves the celebrations early. Later, she comes and finds him.
"Peter," she says. She does not ask him why he left.
She's tired of never receiving a reply.
Her lips are red, stained by wine. She holds the glass loosely in her hands.
"Susan," he says.
She comes to stand beside him. She has danced for hours, and he can see a drop of sweat sliding down from her hairline into the bodice of her dress. He wants to follow it with his mouth.
He raises his eyes. Her eyes, when she looks at him, are dark and heady, and her cheeks are rosier than any bloom.
"Peter," she repeats, her voice very soft. He wants to be nearer to her than he already is. He wants— he wants.
Her lips part, and his breath catches in his throat. Her eyes flutter, half-closed, and he raises his hand.
"Susan!" Lucy calls, out of breath and laughing as her voice echoes through the darkened halls. "Come, quickly! You must see this!"
Peter draws away. He doesn't look at her.
"It's not real," Susan says— breathes. "None of it— it can't be."
He is shaking. It takes him a moment to realize this. He can barely get the words out through the thickness in his throat.
"Why?" he asks. His thumbs brush over the curve of her cheekbones. "How can you say that?"
Her eyes flutter close. "Because perfect things are never real," she whispers, raw and all-too real.
He pulls her close, too-aware that she can feel the sudden pounding of his heart. She is frightening him, with her words of pretend and games, and he's not quite sure what to do.
In the next moment, he kisses her, just a soft press of the lips. When he pulls away, she is looking at him not with disgust, but with eyes round with surprise, and wonder.
She pulls him down to her again, and presses her open mouth against his. This kiss is not soft— it is desperate, and wanting, and she clings to him with all that she is. Her tears fall against his cheeks, and when they part, she sobs his name in a desperate litany against his neck, and all he can do is hold her close.
He still doesn't know what to do about her words, her desperation, her sadness. But he knows that she's wrong, all too wrong.
Narnia was wondrous. It was beautiful and heart-stopping and comfortable and home. It was home in a way that England could never be again.
But it wasn't perfect.
In Narnia, he had never had her.
Pairing: Peter Pevensie/Susan Pevensie
Wordcount: 982
Summary: Narnia was home in a way England could never be again. That doesn't mean that it was perfect.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Chronicles of Narnia in any shape or form.
Notes: This was inspired by a prompt at the three sisters fair comment ficathon about five to six months ago. The prompt in question was this:
Narnia, Peter/Susan, when I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life, in each place and forever
Crossposting to
petersusan.Cair Paravel is lively that night, the torches brightening the night, the music lifting their spirits and their hearts as it has many nights before. Humans and centaurs and dryads and all manners of creatures come to dance and celebrate Narnia's victory— this time a war narrowly averted, through Peter's strength and Susan's sweet words and Edmund's compromises and Lucy's fire.
Tonight, Peter is tired, and so he sits alone upon their thrones rather than dance, a figure of strength and grave for all who look upon him. He sits and he watches, this night's celebrations overlapping with the countless ones that have come before.
He does not watch all equally. It is, as always, to his brother and sisters, his fellow King and Queens, to whom his gaze is drawn to the most often.
When Lucy dances, she is a wild thing, her eyes bright and untamed. Her hair falls from its coiffed perfection— Susan's work, to be sure— into tangled waves, and she laughs with glee. She does not dance with any man, for none are fool enough to try to tame her. Instead, she dances with dryads and centaurs and all sorts of creatures who are half so wild and just as free as she is.
His gaze drops to Edmund next. When Edmund dances, it is a rare thing, more often for the politics of than for joy his siblings find in the act. His steps are always perfectly correct, but there is no soul in them. He prefers to slide into the outskirts of these celebrations, speaking in low voices with his companions and watching over the festivities as Peter does even now, noting who dances with whom and marking the twisted tangle of relationships as they rise and fall.
Finally, Peter's gaze turns to his other sister and it is there where his eyes linger. When Susan dances, it is neither rare nor wild. She is elegance and beauty, her steps formed with a fluid grace. Her smile is so kind and her eyes so soft that no man can deny her charm. She spends her nights in the arms of one after another.
The wine slides too easily down Peter's throat. He sits at his throne and oversees all— Lucy and her wildness, Edmund, traversing the dark corners watching all just as Peter does, and Susan—
Susan, laughing sweetly, her hands on the shoulders and arms of men. He sees the curve of her neck, that hollow at the base of her throat; he sees the curves of her body and the fabric of her dress, hugging her breasts firm against her body. His throat tightens.
England is so far away.
"Peter," she whispers. She stands in the doorway, outlined by light.
She doesn't need to say anything more. He nods, and she comes inside, closing the door behind her. When she crawls into his bed and looks up at him, he can see her tears caught in her eyelashes, like little drops of rain.
"Narnia," she says, simply. Her voice breaks, on that one, small word.
"I know," he whispers in return.
He touches her cheek with his hand and she leans into him, sighing.
His chest tightens, and he wonders when he became so selfish.
He leaves the celebrations early. Later, she comes and finds him.
"Peter," she says. She does not ask him why he left.
She's tired of never receiving a reply.
Her lips are red, stained by wine. She holds the glass loosely in her hands.
"Susan," he says.
She comes to stand beside him. She has danced for hours, and he can see a drop of sweat sliding down from her hairline into the bodice of her dress. He wants to follow it with his mouth.
He raises his eyes. Her eyes, when she looks at him, are dark and heady, and her cheeks are rosier than any bloom.
"Peter," she repeats, her voice very soft. He wants to be nearer to her than he already is. He wants— he wants.
Her lips part, and his breath catches in his throat. Her eyes flutter, half-closed, and he raises his hand.
"Susan!" Lucy calls, out of breath and laughing as her voice echoes through the darkened halls. "Come, quickly! You must see this!"
Peter draws away. He doesn't look at her.
"It's not real," Susan says— breathes. "None of it— it can't be."
He is shaking. It takes him a moment to realize this. He can barely get the words out through the thickness in his throat.
"Why?" he asks. His thumbs brush over the curve of her cheekbones. "How can you say that?"
Her eyes flutter close. "Because perfect things are never real," she whispers, raw and all-too real.
He pulls her close, too-aware that she can feel the sudden pounding of his heart. She is frightening him, with her words of pretend and games, and he's not quite sure what to do.
In the next moment, he kisses her, just a soft press of the lips. When he pulls away, she is looking at him not with disgust, but with eyes round with surprise, and wonder.
She pulls him down to her again, and presses her open mouth against his. This kiss is not soft— it is desperate, and wanting, and she clings to him with all that she is. Her tears fall against his cheeks, and when they part, she sobs his name in a desperate litany against his neck, and all he can do is hold her close.
He still doesn't know what to do about her words, her desperation, her sadness. But he knows that she's wrong, all too wrong.
Narnia was wondrous. It was beautiful and heart-stopping and comfortable and home. It was home in a way that England could never be again.
But it wasn't perfect.
In Narnia, he had never had her.
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