Re: Sitting area: dripping through --> Around the house, pursuit
If his stars were charted for a variety of feelings, if the needle of his compass spun wildly between the things offered up at the beginning of his party, Peter didn't show it. All that mattered was now, the breath filling his lungs, the pump of his legs, the whoosh of his heart, the happy thoughts in his head. Speaking of, he tried vaulting over a table, but there was no steady lift of his feet beyond his own power. No flight.
Damn. (Adult word. Pixie dust.)
But hope sprung eternal in the breast of a boy that never grew up, and he laughed as he rounded the house. A few seconds later he was expecting to hear the heavy feet of the sea-faring would-be marauder, but there was nothing beyond the sounds of the party. People. Adults. Drinking. Laughing. Conversing. Doing adult things that might have been fantastic but were probably boring. He huffed, and maybe pouted a little because this buccaneer was better than Captain Hook and now he was gone.
If ever a pirate could be fun. Or a would be pirate. Still. All children grew up, except for one, and he went back to making his comically long stride around the back of the house until he heard something. Like feet. Like running - and there was his pirate! Peter whooped, and perhaps stood still a hair too long because he was coming awfully fast, like the ball out of a cannon, and so he bounced on the balls of his feet to the side. It would have been far enough to get away from a pirate whose bones were old and hurting from whatever things affected bones in old age, but this one was young and Peter did not quite make it.
The collision drove an UMPH! from him, but when his back hit the ground he was laughing again, light and joyful. (Possibly crazy, definitely the drink, but he wasn't staying still for a psychologist's test and diagnosis.)