WARNING: You may wish to have tissues and a teddy bear handy.

Disclaimer: I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C. S. Lewis and Walden Media.

Author's Note: Since there's been so many lovely Peter and Edmund fics out there recently (as well as Christmas and Yule fics), I figured I ought to contribute. So here it is, I hope you enjoy!

P. S.: I'm considering writing a prequel, so keep your eyes peeled!

Rating: T

Summary: Peter's Christmas present is a little more complicated than simply a box and its wrappings…(Book and Moviebased) (NO Slash)

"Speech"

/Personal Thoughts/

Between the Lines

By Sentimental Star

"My Ed." That is all the envelope said, "My Ed."

It shouldn't be causing his hands to shake as he holds it, shouldn't be causing his eyes to burn. He hates being emotional, after all.

But since when has he ever not been emotional when it comes to Peter?

"Well, aren't you going to open it?" Peter's very amused voice comes from behind him, where the older boy is sitting against the sofa on the floor of the living room.

In the background, both brothers can hear their mother chatting happily on the kitchen phone with their Aunt Ruth and Lucy exclaiming over the beautiful dress Susan has sewn her while their older sister looks on with fond indulgence where the two girls sit near the Christmas tree.

The seventeen-year-old's voice turns teasing. "If I had known you would be this enthralled with a slip of paper, I'd have bought you a stack and been done with it."

Peter promptly receives a face full of their grandmother's crocheted pillow case.

"Hey!" he laughs, trying unsuccessfully to ward off the attack by bringing his arms up to shield his face. He grabs the pillow, thinking that it is probably in his best interest to do so.

"Prat," Edmund grumbles. If Peter notices the slightly thick quality to his younger brother's voice he doesn't mention it.

Which is just as well. Gingerly, Edmund sets aside the envelope and its contents to be read later alone and in private, making sure it is well clear of any left over wrappings, before carefully sliding a finger nail through the tape.

Peter fondly rolls his eyes, hugging the pillow to his chest and leaning forward a bit. "You can just rip it open, you know. I don't think anything in there is going to break."

Edmund casts him an amused smirk. "I think you're even more impatient than I am, Pete."

The older teenager has the good grace to look embarrassed, ducking his head and murmuring, "Sorry. It's just…I wanted to be sure you'd like it and well…" He trails off, shrugging and biting his bottom lip.

Edmund sets the half-unwrapped (heavy and rattling) present momentarily down in his lap, watching his brother intently. "Pete, you know I'll love anything you get me."

Peter shrugs again, his cheeks noticeably redder. "I know. But this…it's special, Ed. I mean, I hope it's special. That is, I hope you consider it special, because it's not--"

"Pete, you're babbling," Edmund observes with a warm smirk.

His older brother makes a face at him, but subsides, shooting him a sheepish grin. "Sorry."

Shaking his head fondly, Edmund turns his attention back to the task of unwrapping his (admittedly rather large) Christmas present.

As the wrappings fall away, he is unable to smother a small gasp. "Peter! Where on earth did you get this?"

In his hands is a fully stocked artist set.

He blinks as a warm body suddenly leans into him. He had been unaware his brother had moved.

"Thrift store for the colored pencils," his brother explains, further easing back the sliding lid to reveal the entire interior of the box and indicating each material in turn. "Aunt Polly contributed the paints. The Professor promised an easel for your birthday, and decided he'd give you the sketching chalk now. I'm sure somewhere in that pile of presents under the tree Lucy's hidden a canvas. Eustace and Jill sent you a new sketchbook last I heard, so that's where the charcoal pencils are from. And Susan, well," Peter gives him an impish grin, "I believe she's talked to a friend of hers about getting you into an art school this summer, so a voucher should be hiding somewhere along with a knitted sweater. I didn't do much, really. Just made the box," he gestures to the wooden exterior as he speaks. It still smells like fresh pine. It still smells like Peter. "Oh, and the letter, but other than that I did nothing." He shrugs, and contently rests his chin on Edmund's shoulder, watching amusedly as his brother more closely examines the container.

"Did nothing?" Edmund echoes in disbelief, gently tracing the intricate carvings along the sides of the box. He knows if he looks closer, he will find a series of detailed accents and symbols unique to the Narnian style of woodcarving, a hobby Peter had taken to like a duck to water. "Aside from the fact that I'm quite certain I've ever only told you and the girls about this little secret of mine, this isn't 'nothing,' Peter! It's beautiful!"

Peter grins, delighted. "You like it?"

A thick laugh: "Peter, you flaming idiot!" Balancing the box carefully in his lap, Edmund immediately twists to face his brother and slugs him (none too lightly) in the arm. "Of course I do!"

IOIOIOIOIOI

It is only after supper that Edmund is able to slip off for a couple of hours of peace and time alone. Enough time, he hopes, to read Peter's letter in privacy and deal with whatever reaction it evokes before rejoining his family.

He has a feeling he will need every minute of it.

Only Peter sees him leave the living room where the family retreats once supper dishes have been washed—not too surprising, really. They are tuned to the finest nuance of each other's bodies, having fought back to back on more than one occasion.

When his older brother glances at him, raising a slightly worried eyebrow, Edmund wordlessly holds up the envelope and indicates the stairway.

Peter's face clears and he mouths an 'ah,' before nodding and offering him a small smile. Then he turns back to the girls and their mother, clearing his throat, "Mum, Su, Lu?" Seeing he has their attention, the older boy begins, "I have something I need to tell you…"

Those are the last words Edmund hears as he slips through the threshold of the living room and into the foyer.

He can't catch anything else, but by the time he has mounted the stairs and makes it to the first landing, there is an absolutely delighted squeal that can only belong to Lucy coming from the den.

Edmund grins, starting up the next flight of steps, and mutters to himself, "Guess he told them about the slight change in his future plans." He releases a long breath and shuts his dark eyes gratefully. "Thank Aslan for that."

Stepping off onto the second floor and quietly padding across the carpet to the nearest door, Edmund places a slim hand on the wood and firmly pushes it open, flipping on the light switch in the room as he enters.

He winces as the bright electrical lighting hits his sensitive eyes, carefully side-stepping the numerous piles of clothing and odd book he'd left lying around while sorting his laundry this morning, and lowers himself to sit down on the closest bed.

"Something tells me I'm not going to like this all that much, Pete," he murmurs, pulling the letter out of its envelope and noting that it is dated 1st September, 1944. "I swear to Aslan, Peter, if this makes me cry…"

My Ed (it read),

You'll probably laugh at me when you read this. Aslan, I hope you do. Almost anything is better than making you cry.

("Not helping, Peter.")

I suppose the best way to write this is as if I'll never see you again…

Edmund has to stop there, and squeeze his eyes tightly shut as a wave of agony sweeps through his body. It takes at least five minutes for him to crack his eyes open and read his brother's tidy scrawl through a wavering haze:

As I write this, I am watching you sleep on the way to school. I know, I know, I'm a sentimental idiot.

(A wet snort. "Well, at least we agree on something there.")

Where are you now, I wonder, reading this…? I'll die if it's overseas in the trenches, Ed. If I haven't died already.

(Edmund sucks in a sharp breath. "Bloody imbecile," he chokes, hands shaking.)

I know it's useless to forbid you from fighting if you've already made up your mind, but I beg of you, Ed, if I've been conscripted and for some reason have been killed, do not try to follow me and do not try to avenge me. By God, by Aslan, by all that's wonderful and holy…stay away from this war! I could never ask you to face something like that. Your innocence is too precious to me.

("I'm not innocent! I've never been innocent, Peter! You should know that better than anyone!")

Oh, God, Ed…whatever it is you're thinking, stop it right now.

("How is it that even in a letter you can know what I'm thinking?" moaned.)

I…I…dear Aslan, Ed, I've got to get this down before I'm a complete wreck. When you wake up I'll probably be utterly incoherent; just…just don't ask about it, all right? I'll…I'll tell you one day.

Edmund breathes shakily through his mouth and nose, ignoring the cascade of tears down his cheeks. If he remembers correctly, his brother not only was a complete wreck and utterly incoherent, but completely unintelligible as well. Peter had grabbed him, and clung to him, almost as soon as he had woken up. He'd still been half-asleep and unable to process anything other than sheer panic. They'd sorted themselves out eventually, but Edmund had remained on alert for weeks afterwards.

He should have known it would be something like this.

Right. Sorry. This…this is just hard. I suppose, somewhere, I've always expected that I'd need to write this. I just didn't think it'd be so soon. Even now, I'm half-tempted to crumple this up and toss it in the nearest rubbish bin. It's…it's just very personal, Ed. I hope you understand that and don't think too harshly of me when it's done. I've always considered you my best friend, and well, if I can't tell you this, what can I?

("Something like, 'By the way, Ed, I wrote this thinking I'd be dead' might have been nice," muttered thickly. "You're such a bloody…")

Hero? Martyr? Not really. You were always there to check that particular tendency of mine and I don't know what I'll do once you aren't there with me any longer.

("Probably get mauled to death by a stray kitten." It is meant to be sarcastic, but comes out sounding more like a sob.)

Maybe that's why I'm writing this. In Narnia I always had you by my side, but here, you're too young to come with me, be with me. Ed, you don't know how many times just your mere presence has been all I needed. You've been my best protection, and my greatest strength. I…can't bear the thought of leaving you behind, not without saying this, letting you know—somehow—that you're…

(There is a tear drop here. A smudge. Edmund can't tell whether it is his own…or whether it is Peter's.)

Sorry. I know you don't want to hear this, but I…you once told me…to 'save it for later.' I never did follow through with that, did I? Well, I am now.

Remember this, Ed: you're my Shield. My Guardian Angel. My Keeper. And I love you, more than any Crown.

With all the affection in my soul,

Peter

IOIOIOIOIOI

Where he leans in the threshold of their bedroom, Peter winces as a wrenching sob shatters the silence that has followed the reading of his letter. The letter itself drops into Edmund's lap from suddenly nerveless fingers, and the older boy grimaces lightly as the younger drops his face into his hands. When Edmund's shoulders begin to shake with further repressed sobs, the seventeen-year-old slowly straightens up and leaves the doorway, shutting the door behind him and carefully treading across the floor to the bed and his little brother.

"Ed?" he asks softly, crouching in front of the fourteen-year-old and laying a hand cautiously on his shoulder.

"You idiot!"

It is a fierce, thick cry, and Peter catches the letter as it is flung at his chest. Then Edmund dissolves into great, heaving sobs, and he has much larger worries than being uncomfortably poked by sharp edges.

"You idiot, you idiot, you idiot!" repeated over and over, until Edmund's voice is hoarse and broken.

Quietly, Peter lays aside the letter on the younger boy's nightstand, thinking that, so far, things have gone pretty well. Easing himself up onto the bed, he shifts to curl his arm around Edmund's shoulders and pulls his brother into his chest. Ignoring the younger teen's struggling against him, Peter leans his chin tenderly on top of the dark head, "I'm sorry, Ed," he murmurs.

"You could have bloody warned me!" comes the muffled explosion from his chest. "You could have bloody told me you wrote it thinking you'd be forced to become a soldier!" His little brother shoves ineffectually at his chest, still fighting him.

"And would you have read it, if I had warned you, Ed?" Peter asks softly (albeit, rather matter-of-factly) as he firms his hold on the shaking teen.

Edmund's resistance lasts only a heartbeat after Peter kisses his forehead. "No," it is strangled, and he melts, boneless, against Peter.

The older boy chuckles ruefully against his younger brother's dark hair, picking up and gently depositing the now unresisting fourteen-year-old in his lap where Edmund curls up tightly, sobbing faintly into his chest. "I thought not."

IOIOIOIOIOI

Hours later, the two brothers have managed to end up sprawled across the younger's bed, tangled in each other's limbs and nearly half-asleep.

The silence is broken when Edmund's voice, rough from crying and almost gone, speaks up, "Pete?"

Lazily, Peter cracks open one eye. "Hmm?" he murmurs, tightening his arm around his younger brother's back and peering up in drowsy interest at Edmund who has dragged himself into a half-kneeling position.

"Why did you give me that letter? Why now, why not in five months, when you graduate?"

Peter smiles sleepily into the exhausted face hovering above him, raising his free hand to tenderly rub away the remaining tears with his thumb. "We'll have enough trouble without both our emotions going chaotic, then, Ed." His fingers thread through Edmund's hair as his voice softens, "And I wanted you to know just what a certain sketch of yours did for me, what you saved me from."

"It's just a sketch," Edmund mutters self-consciously, sounding a bit more like himself. "It's not even one of my better ones."

His older brother snorts warmly, smoothing the hair away from his brow. "Edmund, 'not even one of your better ones' translates into 'nearly photographic.' Even your worst sketches could win an art contest."

"I don't know," Edmund snorts dubiously, leaning into the hand that cradles his cheek, "you haven't really seen my worst sketches. I'm fairly sure that if you did, you might have a slightly different opinion."

"I want to, Ed," his older brother states immediately, "all of them."

Edmund blinks, blushes, and promptly buries his face in Peter's chest, muttering something incomprehensible.

Peter chuckles quietly, tucking his younger brother's head underneath his chin and giving him a hard squeeze. "I'll take that as a 'yes,'" he laughs.

There are a few (rather more disgruntled) mutters before Edmund finally sighs, and clears his throat, "I guess I should thank you," he murmurs.

Peter is already shaking his head. "You don't have to, Ed. I know it was utter sentimental tripe, but I wanted you to know."

"Tripe?" the incredulous exclamation comes from his chest, just as Edmund jerks his head up to stare at him, voice rapidly growing thick as he continues, "That…that wasn't tripe," choked. "That was a piece of your heart!"

It is Peter's turn to blush as he murmurs embarrassedly, "You already own it, Ed."

Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would be utterly contemned.—Song of Solomon, 8:7

The End