17. Daydream

You deserve it. You are worthy of love.

Did he deserve it? Love? Breakfast? A smile?

Was he worthy of it? Her kindness may have been the result of a lifetime of solitude. Peter Lake imagined, there, resting against the white horse, in the cold morning air, how desperate one must feel for human companionship, to invite a thief to one's own table, and feed him, and listen to him. And laugh at his jokes.

That poor girl. That poor woman.

Sick and alone. Wandering, barefoot, an uninhabitable mansion. In the biting cold. Playing the piano. Leaning her head over a cup of black tea, breathing in the memory of times gone by. Remembering being healthy.

Peter had lacked much in his life, but he had never lacked health. He had been running. He had been able to run. To breathe as deeply as possible. To sweat. He had been free to enjoy the summertime. That winter felt eternal. Summer felt so far away. Forgotten, almost.

Peter had never feared for his life like she had. He had feared to be killed, yes. But his was a death that could be outrun. Death, to him, was Pearly Soames and his pack of wolves. His sharks. He was a sailor. A runner. He was faster than them.

Beverly was in no position to run. And even if she was, what would she run from? Death resided within her. It inhabited her frozen body, like she inhabited that frozen house. And she lived with it. And would die with it. She just didn't know when.

Peter had never known that fear.

But she hadn't been scared either, had she?

Beverly lived with her own death. Fed and bed it. Her chest was its chair. Her throat, its hallway. Its windows were her mouth and her nostrils. And the places it couldn't meander, the only corners of her body death could not visit, were her hands. The long white fingers that danced over the keys.

And by playing the piano she was defying, not him, as he had initially suspected when he stood before the safe, but that uninvited guest, sitting in its chair. Seated over her heart. She screamed at the cold. She laughed at it. She hadn't stopped smiling. The music was her only weapon. The only noise she could make.

Peter was fascinated by her. By everything. He was drawn to her, the way one is drawn to air when they're underwater. She was life and death all at once. Sickness drank away at the warmth in her blood and all she could do was laugh at it. Beverly would die smiling, he knew.

I don't know her yet, but… I know.

He only wished he were the one putting a smile on her face when the time came. If it ever came. God forbid. He hoped it never came. And as long as he never saw her again, she would stay alive. He would imagine where she was, and how. And that she was warm and alive and laughing. Playing the piano. And in his ignorance Peter Lake would sleep peacefully at night, ignoring the probability that she was not. When people are parted, this sort of thing happens. Their current positions and moods are determined by imagination alone. And when one suddenly thinks, "What is my old friend up to these days?", they are the only ones who determine the answer to their own question. So as long as Peter Lake limited himself to thinking about Beverly, she would never die. She would stay in that overlit room, her fingers moving over the keys.

Alone.

Beverly would be alone. Without him, at least. And the little time she had would be spent in solitude. Even if he could visualize an unrealistic future for her, Peter couldn't escape this awareness. And he couldn't fall asleep, despite his genuine desire to do so.

"Why did you make me go into that house?" he groaned. Behind him, the white horse huffed dryly. "Why? Now I care about someone I shouldn't care about."

The white horse moved, leaned on its side. The silver clattered. The fence clattered.

"She's going to die," Peter mumbled. His eyes opened to the cold blue sky. "She's going to die… And I can't care about someone who's already gone… I can't love someone who's going to die… It will only hurt us both… And she's already in enough pain."

"Oh, for god's sake, stop being so melodramatic," John muttered. Peter had forgotten he was still there. "Maybe the fact that this girl is doomed is why you should care about her now. When else could you care? I'm sure she could use a lovestruck admirer like you, given her condition."

It baffled Peter, that John thought she could have no other admirers but him. Who couldn't love her? Who wouldn't have fallen into her gaze and molten into it?

"She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen…" he whispered.

"Being in love sure makes you insufferable," said John, his voice dripping in friendly cruelty.

"And look at me… I can't even cut my hair properly…"

"Your hair looks fine, Peter."

"It's disgusting, I hate it." He still felt dizzy. And tired. And the sky spun gracefully over his head. "Besides... I can't be the only one who's ever loved her."

"Perhaps. But do you think anyone's wanted her?"

"It's easy to want her... She's wonderful..."

"She's dying."

Aren't we all?

The white horse was moving under his head. Its legs straightening. Peter Lake lifted his body from the ground. His backside ached. The cold concrete was rough against his palms.

"Do you want to go to Florida, Peter?" asked John.

Peter wanted to slip away from this winter. He wanted to be enveloped by light so that Pearly's shadow couldn't fall upon him. He wanted to run, like he'd always run. And he wanted to fly again. That was his greatest wish at the moment. He wanted the city to cower under him and become insignificant. From so high up, everything looked much simpler.

"I don't want to be alone…" he murmured, at last.

The white horse nudged at his shoulder blades. Humpstone John stood up. He offered a hand, his arm outstretched to Peter.

"Stand up."

Peter grabbed his hand. He felt the world rolling up, the sky shrinking behind his eyes. The ground solidifying under his feet. The wind thinning and growing bitter.

"I'll miss you, John," said Peter. "I'll miss you more than I can ever put into words."

"And I'll miss you, Peter."

"I don't know where I'll be..."

"Just not here."

"No."

"That's alright..."

"Take care of yourself."

"You, too."

"And, John..."

Peter got on the white horse. The pale mane slipped between his dark grey fingers. The wind rose, thickened, and the greasy tresses of black hair lifted from his forehead. John looked up at him. And Peter, down at John.

"Thank you. For fishing me out all those years ago."

Humpstone John smiled. His slender eyes darkened. The salty breeze caught in his hair. Peter Lake would never see him again.

Author's Note: If there's anyone here today, thank you for reading.