Prologue-Wendy

He doesn't look right, not the way they covered him in makeup, and he looks too pale, too perfect. You can't even make out his dimples. His tattoos stand out against his skin more, I guess they don't put makeup on anything but the face. With a shaking finger I trace over the tribal tattoo that's visible from the ¾ sleeves of his shirt. I stop at the his shirt cuff, my fingers lingering on the fabric but my mind continuing to trace over the tattoo which travels up his arm, flaring over his shoulder, before curling to a stop mid chest and mid back.

"You want to know about my tattoos, huh, Darling?" Peter shook his head, chuckling.

"Yeah," I persisted, "Why would you cover most of your body in tattoos? You're only sixteen, where did you get them anyways?"

"I forget sometimes," he murmured, all humor gone from his face, "That you're from the good side of town."

I roll my eyes, "Come on, Peter, why you got so many tattoos?"

"You know how people get really sad sometimes and they feel like hurting themselves?" He asked me, eyes dark, and voice far off. He wasn't really Peter anymore.

"Y-yeah," I say, shocked.

"Well," he continued, emotionlessly, "Some people drink away the pain, others pull a trigger, some cut up their wrists, some people pop pills, others do drugs, but I…I prefer long-term pain, and tattoos give me that."

"Peter…" tears sting my eyes, "Oh my God Peter, what did you go through?"

Peter shrugs, not quite meeting my gaze before wheeling himself back underneath the car he had been working on, "Hell, Darling, I have been through hell."

"Hey, Wendy, you okay?"

I jump, shocked out of my memory, and realize I had been digging my nails into Peter's arm, leaving red marks on his porcelain skin, "Y-yeah."

Nate gives me a skeptical look, "Come on, Honey, let's go outside."

"I-"

"-come on," Nate whispers, prying my fingers from Peter, "Just to get some fresh air before the viewing starts, okay? I think we could both use it."

Finally, I nod, following Nate to the parking lot of the funeral home, where nobody seemed to park in except for the funeral home employees. Probably because there's no shade. It's hot today…Peter would have hated it. I sit on the guardrail and feel Nate settle down beside me, lighting a cigarette. We sit in silence for a while, just breathing in and out.

"He loved you, you know," Nate finally says, exhaling smoke from his mouth, "Like, the way they describe it in books, he really did."

I hug myself and feel my composure slipping away from me and I quiver, keeping the tears and sobs in, I know if I open my mouth I'll lose my shit, so I just nod.

Nate looks at the sun and shakes his head, and I see a tear slide down his cheek, his cigarette drops to the ground, his hands shaking too hard to hold anything, "Bastard."

Slowly, I wrap my arms around Nate's massive chest and bury my face into his chest, "I love him, too."

"Goddammit, Peter!" Nate explodes suddenly, his grip on me making it hard to breathe, "You goddamn bastard, you stubborn bastard!"

And that's exactly when I lose my shit.

And Nate loses his shit, too.

Because of goddamned Peter, the stubborn bastard.

After what feels like an eternity, and after I feel like I could never cry a single tear again, me and Nate walk back into the funeral home, numb and only half paying attention. A lot of people come up to me and hug me, sobbing into my shoulder about, "how tragic, losing such a bright boy so young," funny how these are the people who thought that Peter was a good for nothing delinquent just a week ago. I hold them loosely, pat them on the back and murmur that yes, what a tragedy, he truly was an amazing person. And I realized something; while I was doing this I felt absolutely nothing, just an aching lonely emptiness. Because, really, there was nothing to feel. Not without Peter, what was the point of smiling if he couldn't smile with me? There wasn't any sense to anything anymore. After a countless number of people I collapsed onto a chair and stared at the nothing in front of me.

"Mind if I sit?" I look up to see Quinton, one of the twins, blotchy faced and breathing heavily.

"Of course," I say, "Why wouldn't you be allowed to?"

She shrugs, before sitting down slowly, "Well, at least you're not playing that horrible, stereotypical funeral shit."

I somehow manage to laugh, "Yeah, I don't think Peter would forgive me if I played that."

"I would kick your ass for him," Quinton says, shoving me playfully.

I grin, "Don't doubt it, Quinn, I really don't."

"It's-it's so weird," Quinn says, eyes watering going serious, "The shop is just so empty now, you know? Like he took the life out of all of us."

My throat constricts and I feel fresh tears prickle my eyes, "Yeah," I sniffle, silently adding at least I know he took the life out of me.

"Y-you should still come around, okay?" She says, grabbing my hand in a death grip, wiping away tears and smearing eyeliner all over her pale cheeks, "Just-just because h-he's gone d-doesn't mean you're n-not w-welcome, okay?"

I nod, tears receding, "Okay."

"Good," Quinn says, somewhat regaining her composure but still clinging to my hand, "You're a part of us now, you know, one of the Lost Boys. Always will be."

"I-thanks, "I say, "That means a lot."

Quinn smiles sadly, "I know we got off to a rough start, and it's my fault, too. But you've become important to all of us, and I hope we can start over. Be friends."

I smile, a small smile, but a genuine one, "I'd like that."

Quinn smirks, "Don't get all mushy on me now, Darling, I gotta rep to up keep," she jokes.

I roll my eyes, "Me? Mush? I learned from the best, the toughest of the tough."

Quinn chuckles sadly, "You sure did."

We fall into a heavy but not awkward silence, each of us lost in our own memories of Peter. And then it feels like there isn't nearly enough oxygen in the room and I stand, rushing outside. I stand in the parking lot for a second, hyperventilating and hugging myself. I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to hope that my arms are Peter's arms and that this is all just a horrible nightmare and that when I wake up he'll be laying right beside me and he'll be healthy with a beating heart and not have makeup on and not be being mourned by the Lost Boys or anyone else and that he'd just laugh at me again and tell me I was being crazy, that the only thing that had the power to kill him was a killer clown on a pogo stick twirling a baton with a magical ass. I opened my eyes slowly and almost collapsed to my knees at the fresh-feeling pain of not having him here. Then I take a deep breath and walk towards the motorcycle Peter restored for me, it was an electric purple and wicked fast and it was just something Peter thought I needed if I was going to be a Lost Boy. I climb onto it shakily, kicking the stand up before starting it and tearing out of the parking lot. I drive down to our spot, park, and run onto the grass before collapsing as a ball of sobs and snot and tears and ripping grass out of the ground as I remember Peter. And wishing I could regret the day we started becoming more than cautious friends that day in English class.