16. Bedtime stories

Humpstone John was at the docks, against the grainy cold concrete. His little black eyes catching the light. He saw him approach. Smiled. Waited.

Peter floated in the breeze. The white horse carried him through the city, beside the sea and the foaming of the waves against the rocks. The clacking of the hooves was lulling him to sleep. He had eventually lain his head on the silver mane and shut his eyes. Loosened his grip on the reins. He knew he would get where he wanted to go, that his new friend knew the way. It had never walked the road, but it knew the way.

The white horse was special. Peter Lake had yielded completely to the madness of the strange new world he had been plunged into.

"Peter."

"John…"

The daylight was blinding. Beverly had shielded him from it. Her curls of dark red hair had been soaked in golds and yellows. Peter felt the sharpness of it now as he lifted his head from the thick white neck. A stab of exhaustion. He leaned to the side.

And Humpstone John gripped him by the ribs and then the shoulders and held him up, kept him on his feet.

"Peter!"

"I've had a very long day, John."

"For god's sake, sit down, here."

Peter let the hands, the arms drag him. Let gravity weigh down on his shoulders. Let himself be seated on the cold concrete. The cold. The house he had just eaten at. The pianist. Her liquid eyes.

"Where have you been?"

Humpstone John was here. His friend. Peter reached for him. Hugged him so tight that his knuckles ached. He felt a pat on his shoulder.

"There, there. Hey. Are you doing alright?"

"I'm sorry, John, I tried to get here earlier…"

"What's happened? Tell me everything."

And he did speak. Spoke without meaning to speak.

He told him about the white horse and the taste of the city. Told him about Cecil and Pearly. About what he had left in the attic of Grand Central Station. Inside the painted sky. And he talked about the silver knives and silver trays. He talked about Florida. And finally, he reached the moment where he talked of cold houses and grandfather clocks and pianos and eggs. And his eyes opened.

Humpstone John was seated beside him, listening. His long hair, whitened by age, moving in the breeze. The slender dark eyes fully open. His mouth set and tight. He was confused, most likely. And maybe a bit scared. But he hadn't interrupted him. How long had Peter talked? At least ten minutes. Perhaps more. He didn't know. He had been talking without thinking. But he now returned to his senses, because he was going to say Beverly's name. And he couldn't speak about her without thinking about it. About… her. Her smile, her little stubborn smile. Her face lowering to the teacup. Her eyes closing as she sniffed the air. Her laugh, hoarse and dry and beautiful.

"John…" he whispered. "Don't laugh at me, but I think I'm in love."

Humpstone John stared for a second longer. But in the blink of an eye he had burst into near-hysterical laughter. Peter leaned to the side, found the cold, rough concrete. Rested against that. He was so tired.

"I told you not to laugh at me," he whimpered.

"Peter, my boy," said John, his teeth catching the light, the white in his eyes disappearing. "You haven't aged a day."

"I'm thirty-five, John…"

"And yet here you are, lain against the wall, talking about crushes like a lovestruck teenager."

Humpstone John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. When he sighed, his breath formed the clouds.

"Have you ever been in love before?"

"Hm… Maybe…" said Peter dreamily. "But not like this… Like… This is not just love, it… It's strange, I can't explain it. It's not a crush…"

"You just met her."

"I know, yes, but… but… Have you never met someone, and… felt like you've known them all your life?"

"Yes, Peter," said John. "That's how I felt when I first saw you in that silly little boat."

Peter groaned, rolled his eyes, chuckled. "Come on… I was a baby…"

"You looked nothing like me. You were as pale as a wall. You still are. You had come from the sea, out of nowhere. We had no idea where your family was. But when I first saw you, I saw myself. I saw you as my own."

"Mhm… Well thank god you did… Otherwise I would have drowned in that bay…"

"No. Never."

The white horse slowly went to him, lay down upon its bent legs. Welcomed his head onto the side of its body. The white coat was feathery against his cheek. He sighed.

"Thanks, horse…"

"He's a beauty," said John.

"Yes… Everyone says that…"

"Do you not agree?"

"I mean, yes… But… He's also a pain in the ass." Peter peeked up at John from his lowered eyelashes and gave him a bittersweet, groggy smile. "He's the reason I went into that house… The reason why I didn't see you earlier… The reason why it's morning already, so Pearly and his buddies are out and about… so that means it's not gonna be as easy to get out of town today… And he's also the reason why I met her… And now… I… I… I'm an absolute mess…"

Humpstone John held out a hand and lovingly tousled Peter's greasy black hair, the way he used to do, so long ago.

"Maybe the horse is only doing you a favor."

"Uh-huh…" Peter mumbled. Then, his smile faltering, he whispered: "She's sick… She's dying…"

"Well, aren't we all?"

"That's not funny, John… She's suffering, and yet she never stopped smiling… When she saw I was in the house, she offered me breakfast… She listened to me… She laughed…"

"How old is she?"

"Not old enough. Not old enough to be dying."

Humpstone John leaned back, breathed in. The sky was crispy blue now. The sunlight weakened with the cold.

The satchel was still hanging from the saddle. The bag with the silver. Even as he lay there, Peter could hear it. The gentle clacking. He could hear the fence. Smell the blood.

Hear the pleas. It was all orders. Petes. Pete. Peter.

"I killed someone…" he whispered.

"Yes, I know. You already told me that."

"I didn't tell her."

"Why should you have told her that?"

That was a logical answer. The logical thing with which to respond to a worry that absurd. But Peter thought that she had a right to know. That, maybe, had she been aware of it, of the fact that he had murdered a man the day before, she would have stopped being so cordial. Her eyes would have sharpened. The water in them spilled. Her smile finally fallen.

"I don't deserve her."

"Peter, I repeat, you just met her. What do you know of what she does or doesn't deserve? Or what you deserve?"

"I know… I just know…"

"You really are a lovestruck teenager."

John leaned forward again, looked down at Peter's foggy black eyes.

"You had no better choice. Pearly and his gang are dangerous, they have been going after you for god-knows how long. They are out to devour you. They are beasts. What else could you have done?"

He had been weakened. On the ground. He had been thrown against the doors of the fence. He had been tired. He had been screaming. Begging for mercy. Peter could have run away. Could have let him be.

"I guess… you're right…"

His voice was far away again. A stranger's calling.

"Peter."

"Hm…?"

"You can't go to Florida today."

"Ah… I know…"

"You need to rest. You can stay here with me, I'll make sure no one disturbs you."

"That's mighty kind of you, John, thank you…"

"And Peter."

"Yes?"

"You are worthy of love. Remember that."

"Thank you…"

"You deserve it."

"Mhm…"

He was sinking in darkness. Tumbling down a velvety spiral of blues and purples and reds. The daylight was behind his eyelids. The horse, under him. At some point John stood up and returned with a thick coat. He threw it over him, kept him from freezing. And Peter lay there for a while.

He may have slept at some point, but mostly he sat with his eyes shut. His mouth still flooded with the taste of yolk and tea. The winter nibbling at the skin on his face.

Author's Note: If there's anyone here today, thank you for checking out my fanfiction, I really appreciate it.

I heavily lengthened Peter and John's conversation, as well as their relationship, for that matter. After all that buildup to getting to Humpstone John, I hope this was worth the wait.