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Peter searches the crowd for a hint of golden hair, unsure of whether, if his eyes meet Caspian’s, he will run to him or from him. His heart twists sickeningly. The chatter grows louder as his siblings each catch sight of old friends and race off to join them.
He stands alone in a swarming sea of happy greetings.
They walked through the quiet forest, draped in the velvet of night. The soft buzz of insects and the cool breath of the wind walked with them.
He could feel the warmth of Caspian beside him, close enough to touch, but so, so very far. He would not, he could not…
Caspian’s fingers, cool and nimble, slipped between his. He held Peter’s hand gently, looking thoughtfully at the dark spaces between the reaching trees.
Peter’s heart lurched. “Caspian,” he said quickly,
Caspian looked at him now. “Yes?” His gaze was steady, but his fingers twitched.
Peter swallowed. He wanted to ask, but he could not find the words. He knew Narnia was different, knew that the comfort of holding hands was nothing to be hidden, not even between men, but still his mouth tasted sour. He shook his head.
“It’s nothing.”
His heart ached with how he wanted.
“Peter.” Caspian had stopped walking. His hand tugged at Peter’s, then let go, fingers trailing back. Peter turned to him.
Caspian was looking at him so fully, as if he saw everything. As if Peter’s skeleton and writhing doubt and want were laid bare. “A thousand curses,” Caspian said quietly, “be upon me if I misstep. May I kiss you, Peter?”
His eyes were so clear in the light of the moon and stars. Uncertain. Lovely. And Peter became scared.
Caspian was not touching him, but Peter burned. He wanted to hold him, but he felt sick. Sick with how he wanted to touch the boy waiting before him, sick with how he wanted to run his fingers through golden curls and hold his face so gently.
The pause stretched on painfully, and Caspian’s eyes shuttered, the uncertainty becoming flat and empty. “I apologise. I was too forward. I beg your pardon, High King.”
“I’m sorry,” Peter said. Choked. “I’m sorry. Wait.”
He swallowed hard, furious to feel tears prickling his eyes. Pathetic . “Wait. Please.”
He took a deep breath. Caspian looked up at him. There is no one here to curse me. I am High King. He is King. There is no one here to curse us.
Caspian tilted his head.
Peter nodded, stiffly. “Yes,” he said. It came out a rasp. He coughed. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
No .
Caspian stepped closer. His hand reached up, touching the side of Peter’s face. Peter flinched, and Caspian leaned back to look at him.
“I’m sorry,” Peter said. “ Please .”
Caspian’s brow furrowed, and he looked unsure.
“Please,” he repeated. Pathetic.
Caspian nodded, cool fingers reaching to cup his head gently. He leaned in, and touched his lips to Peter’s so softly it might have been the kiss of a feather.
He retreated, just a millimetre, and his breath on Peter’s lips was warm. Peter could see his eyelashes, long and fair.
Peter's heart was pounding like a horse at the races.
Caspian’s other hand held his face, thumbs tracing his cheeks. He was warm, and close, and so very beautiful.
“Again,” Peter whispered.
“You’re shaking,” said Caspian.
Peter became aware of a tremor rippling through his body, as if his entire being were filled with energy seeking to escape. It occurred to him that the strange lightness he felt was because he could not, quite, feel his limbs.
Pathetic.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. Cursing the words. “I’m sorry. I am— I am wrong. This is wrong. I shouldn’t have…”
Caspian was the one to flinch this time. He took a step back, again becoming closed off. “I see.”
“Not you,” Peter said, desperate not to bring the hatred, the disgust of Earth into Narnia, upon Caspian, who stood there like a noble hero in a storybook, perfect in the moonlight. “ You’re not wrong, you could never be wrong. It’s me who’s…” He swallowed hard, missing Caspian’s hands on his face. "You see, in England I would be arrested or, or worse for what I just… let you do. It’s wrong .”
Caspian looked at him then with such sorrow, such understanding, that he felt sick. He wanted to sit on the ground and never stand again.
“Peter,” Caspian said. “What could be wrong about this?” He stepped closer, and Peter’s breath caught in his throat. But Caspian did not kiss him, only rested his forehead on Peter’s, holding both his hands and pulling them up between the two of them. He trailed his thumb over Peter’s knuckles, and said, quiet in the night, “If I am not wrong, how could you be wrong? How could it be wrong for me to kiss you? For me to want to?” Peter heard the smile in his voice, then, as he said, “You’re Peter . How could I know you and not want to kiss you?”
Peter exhaled shakily. Laughed. Caspian grinned, then, and said, “There. You see? There’s nothing wrong about you.”
Peter’s heart twisted, and he looked at Caspian. His eyes were soft and fond, and his hands held Peter’s gently.
“May I kiss you, Caspian?” Peter asked. His heart raced, and Caspian laughed.
“Of course.”
The Narnian air, the True Narnian Air of Aslan’s Narnia, is doing its work, but slowly. Peter feels too thin, and too tired, and he dreads the thought of meeting Caspian again after all these years. The king is bright and strong and beautiful in his memory, and he will be so when Peter sees him again, but Peter knows Caspian has lived many years since last they met, and that he himself will be a poor shadow of the memory Caspian holds.
If he still holds Peter’s memory close at all. After all, it has been many years.
“He hasn’t wed, you know,” Edmund mentioned. He glanced over at Peter from where he sat on the floor.
“No?” Peter attempted a casual tone. Edmund looked unimpressed.
“No,” he confirmed. “Seems to be avoiding it quite fiercely.” Edmund stood, groaning as his knees popped, and threw himself onto Peter’s bed. He rolled onto his back next to his brother, discovering a rugby ball. “Would you believe,” he said, tossing the new-found ball at the ceiling while Peter fought the urge to shake him furiously, “he actually turned down one poor sod because she had freckles?”
Edmund scoffed, chucking the ball so hard it whacked the ceiling and rocketed back at rapid speeds. Peter flinched, but his brother caught it calmly and continued his game.
“I mean, really,” Edmund complained. “As if. Lucy gave me this baffled look, but I shook my head so she’d leave off. But really!” he exclaimed again. “I’m the only one in this family without bloody freckles, you’d think he’d pick a more likely excuse.”
Peter nodded, his mind racing. Edmund looked at him pityingly, catching the ball and setting it on the night table. “Listen, Peter,” he said seriously. “I really didn’t want to have to tell you this, but…” he hesitated, awkwardly placing a hand on Peter’s.
Peter experienced sudden dread. Edmund’s eyes darted about the room before settling firmly at Peter’s shoulder. “I think he might finally go after that Star girl.”
Peter’s heart dropped. Edmund seemed to recognise the effect his words had on his brother. His fingers tightened their grip on Peter’s hand, and he rushed to continue. “I mean, it’s only for convenience, you know? He’s got to have an heir, and—”
Peter flinched. Suddenly realising that mentioning sex might not have been the best plan, Edmund stumbled, paused, and coughed. “Yes, well,” he said finally, releasing Peter’s hand and instead clasping both his knees firmly. “You ought to know, he still loves you.”
Peter looked at him searchingly. “You think so?”
Edmund scoffed, but his eyes softened. “I’m certain of it.”
Peter’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. He hated himself, in that moment. He hated himself for the satisfaction he felt.
In three years, Caspian had not moved on.
A bright crown of wavy blond hair pauses in the midst of the throng. Peter feels frozen in place, watching as the man turns, laughing with an old friend. He looks just as Peter remembers, graceful and strong and so, so beautiful.
Caspian’s eyes crinkle with his laughter, until he catches sight of Peter, and his smile drops. Peter feels a sudden, delayed urgency to run away, but he cannot as Caspian excuses himself from his friend, who merges again with the cheerful crowd.
There’s an unreadable expression on his face as he approaches.
Lucy’s hand hovered over her brother’s back, not making contact. Eyes red and stinging, she fought back tears herself as Peter shook with sobs.
“Come on, Peter,” she tried again, pleading. “Please, just come back to the living room.”
“Fuck, Luce, leave me alone!” Peter’s face was wild, flushed and wet as he whirled about.
Lucy flinched, drawing her hand away. Her tears, escaping while she was distracted, dripped down her cheeks, and she straightened angrily. “Look, if you’re going to lash out at me—”
“I’m sorry,” Peter interrupted. “I’m sorry, Luce.” Frustrated, he reached for her, clutching her hand. “I’m sorry.”
Lucy sighed, her eyes meeting his, insistent and apologetic. “I know.”
The room was dark. She sat beside him, and he released her, wiping his tears angrily. His face ached. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you,” he said quietly. Guilt crawled in his chest. “I’m sorry for cursing.”
Lucy nodded. Peter reached into his pocket, silently handing her a handkerchief.
“Thanks.” She dabbed at her eyes daintily, then blew her nose with a sound similar to the war-trumpet of an elephant. “I’m sorry, too. I know you’re hurting.”
Peter didn’t reply. He stared at the shadows in the corner.
“I can hardly believe it myself. I mean, it was just yesterday we were searching for the edge of the world! Well, not really, but…” She sniffed and blew her nose again.
Peter looked at the ground, ashamed. Ashamed that as she mourned their friend, he cried over his marriage.
Caspian, married.
Caspian, with a son.
Caspian, dead.
Peter shivered, the tears rushing back. Lucy looked at him, her eyes wet and shining in the darkness. She pushed the handkerchief aside and wrapped him in a tight hug. “I know,” she said quietly. “I know that’s not why you’re upset.”
Peter felt translucent as his little sister comforted him.
She squeezed him firmly, burying her face in his shoulder, golden curls tickling his neck. He broke down again
Five minutes on Earth. Five minutes, and he did not get to spend them with Peter. Or, perhaps, he did not ask.
Perhaps he did not want to.
“I thought we would never meet again.”
Immediately, Peter feels foolish. But Caspian smiles softly. “My heart sings that you were wrong,” he says. “You are as beautiful as the day I lost you.”
Peter looks away. “Don’t lie, Caspian,” he says stiltedly. “It doesn’t become you.”
Caspian’s gaze tightens. “Don’t be an ass, Peter.”
Peter lifts his eyes to meet Caspian’s, a strange anger in his chest. “I am drawn,” he spits, “and worn, and nothing like the king I once was.”
“No.” Caspian’s voice is soft and insistent. “You are perfect.”
“And you are married.” He sounds bitter, even to himself. With a son, he thinks, nonetheless.
Caspian shakes his head, reaching out to Peter, then seeming to rethink it. “A marriage of convenience,” he sighs. “She was my best friend and closest counsellor throughout my lifetime, but her heart was promised to someone she was forced to leave behind.” He looks up, his brow furrowed, eyes searching. “Just as mine was, and is, and always will be.”
“Caspian…” Peter is adrift. His heart lurches.
“Peter.” Caspian’s voice is firm.
Peter sighs. The noise and laughter of the crowd presses in. “You’ve lived a lifetime.”
“As have you.”
“Bits and parts, and none so long as yours.”
Caspian flinches, and the mask of blandness Peter has not seen for years suddenly returns. “I see,” he says finally. “If you do not, or cannot, love me anymore, I understand. It has been many years.” Far more for me, Caspian thinks, than for you.
But he will not let any bitterness creep into his heart. "I hope,” he says, "that we may be friends.” The look in his eyes is earnest, noble.
Fear grips Peter’s heart. What is he doing? “Oh, damn it all, Cas,” he bursts out. “I could never stop loving you. And I never wanted to, anyhow,” he admits, hesitating. “Not truly.”
Though the world told him it was wrong, though he saw the names of those like him in the arrests, and though the God who is meant to love him, the God he has suspected for many years is Aslan Himself, was used against him every Sunday, still he loves Caspian. His love cannot be killed.
Caspian relaxes, his gaze softening. “When I died,” he begins quietly, “Aslan told me I could no longer want wrong things. So I asked Him for a glimpse of your world. He gave me five minutes.”
Peter nods. “Eustace told me. Was it all you hoped?”
Caspian pauses, choosing his words carefully. When he speaks, it is honest and clear. He looks into Peter’s eyes. “When I looked up at the sky, I knew it was the same one you looked at. And I knew we were breathing the same air, and I was content."
Peter remembers the anguish of that moment. When he realised Caspian had been there, in his world, and he didn’t even know. Not until it was too late. The doubt, the grief. He wipes his eyes furiously. “I wish I could have seen you. I wish I’d been there.”
Caspian looks at him with such understanding Peter once again feels as if he has been laid bare. “We have nothing but time, now, Peter. If you would spend it with me, I would want for nothing else so long as we two live.”
Peter smiles. Caspian’s hands are warm, his eyes crinkled blue. “Kiss me, Caspian.”
Caspian laughs. “As you wish, my king.”