33. Christmas presents

The curtains dripped with liquid sunlight. Silky clouds veiled the sky when Peter Lake opened his eyes.

The pillow swelled around his head, tempting. He wished to remain there a little longer. It was against his nature to lift his head. He groaned when he propped himself up. Forced himself to sit, stand, walk.

His nature was not to be trusted. He was not raised to stand. He was raised to crawl and skulk and slip into places.

And Peter Lake didn't want to crawl anymore. He wanted to walk.

He retrieved his vest, his pants, his shoes, his coat. He had laid them neatly on the floor, the way he always had. The way it had been up until now. He hadn't paid attention to the fact that he had a chair in the room. And a table. And that, upon this table, sat a swollen bag of paper.

He only now took notice of it. He was on the way down to tie his shoes.

Peter stood, went to the table. He touched the paper and the surface spiked, roughened under his fingertips. There came a small crinkle. A rush of wind among branches. A second temptation.

And this time he did fall to it. He poked a finger through the wrapping. Moved his hand. Made a path. A worm. A snake. A map to nowhere. Reveled in the childish stupidity of this practice. Felt a small smile dawning on his face.

Eventually, the paper fell apart around his wrist and he unwrapped a black cardigan and a black coat.

They were modest, dark, simple in color and style. He had expected nothing more from Penn. But, then again, he had expected nothing at all.

Peter hadn't even considered the possibility that he might get a gift. Even if this gift was a borrowed room or a borrowed coat. Or time with Beverly. Time, itself, was a gift. When he had taken her from Pearly and brought her to this mosaic-looking house, he hadn't dreamed of being asked to stay. Doing so would have been much too daring. Too naive of him.

And yet…

Yet.

Peter hastily discarded his coat and his vest and put on what had been left for him on the table. New clothes. Dark and simple and so very comfortable. He loved them. He loved how they felt. How they plastered themselves to him, wrapping around his body. How they fit him. He loved that they didn't smell of attics and salt and sweat.

He then rushed out the door and went into the hallway. He reached the staircase. Went down.

The first person he came across was Willa. And so she was the one he asked.

"Good morning."

"Good morning, Peter Lake."

"Willa, could you tell me… what day is it?"

"Mm?"

"The- The day of the month?"

He hadn't kept up with the days in God knows how long. Every day was the same. Holidays didn't apply to him. He had no cause to celebrate. He didn't even know what day was supposed to be his. No one had ever known his birthday.

And he knew festivities in the same way he knew religion and family and sunshine. All fragments, relics of a world he was no longer a part of. Or, one he had never belonged to in the first place. When had winter begun? When had it ever stopped existing? When had he known summer or spring? Had he known them at all? He couldn't remember...

But today it did matter what day it was. At least, he thought it did. He expected it did.

But Willa told him: "It's December 27."

Peter Lake arched his eyebrows. "It's... It's not Christmas."

"No."

"Christmas has already happened?"

"Yes. Of course. It's been two days since Christmas Day. Two days since the twenty-fifth. So... twenty-seven."

Two days. Two days… Two days ago he had… Petes. Pete. Peter. Peter.

Peter Lake felt a shiver crawling up his legs. He staggered backward, held onto the railing for support. Willa instinctively went forward, hands rising in preparation. She would have served little purpose in the case of an actual emergency. She was too small and her arms were too thin. Fortunately for both of them, Peter didn't fall.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," he said. And she looked skeptical. She had too much skepticism for someone so young. "I'm fine. My shoes are untied, I tripped, that's it."

He thought. And thought. And felt the confusion swelling in his chest, the more he thought. What to feel? What to think? Had Christmas Day been a curse? Had it been a blessing…?

"Do you want some breakfast? There are biscuits in the kitchen."

"Um… Yes. Please. That sounds lovely."

"Come with me."

"Alright."

Christmas Day was the day the fence clattered. The day he put a knife to that bastard's throat. The day he had seen nothing but grey and red and black. And... more. Colors that didn't even exist. Hues of pure, unadulterated anger, boiling in his eyes, blinding him of all else. He prayed never to see those colors again. He couldn't cope with the knowledge that he had ever known them. It was all orders. All orders…

"You like biscuits, Peter Lake?"

"Who doesn't like biscuits?"

"Maybe you don't. That's why I'm asking."

"I like biscuits."

"That's what I thought."

But then again, on the other hand, Christmas Day was the day the white horse came to him. The day he flew for the first time.

Had… Had that been his first Christmas present? The first one ever. The first gift he'd ever had, really. Other than food and shelter, which were gifts all on their own.

His first present. Given to him by no one at all. A special, stubborn white horse. Which had saved his life. Which had led him to Beverly. Which had carried him here.

And for what…? For taking a life? Had he been rewarded for it? Was this not unfair? Was this not a mistake…?

"Peter Lake."

"Yes, little Willa?"

"Careful where you step."

"Huh?"

"Your shoes are untied."

"Oh. Yeah. Heh… Thanks."

Peter had to thank them. Penn and Beverly. And the horse, as well, in his own time. Some other moment. For other reasons.

He had to thank them for giving him this. Even if he had the privilege of wearing these clothes for just a few days, it was a privilege either way.

And even if he felt confusion over what had earned him a chance to fly, or a chance to love, or a chance to be anything other than what he already was... he was thankful for it. All of it. He was humbled by the realization that this was all a gift. This time.

Time was the best present of all.

Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.

This chapter mostly serves for me to get a clear idea of the timeline. It puzzled me that in the movie, Christmas isn't brought up at all despite the fact that it's December and New Year's Eve is a big moment in the narrative. We have no idea how long Peter stays in the Coheeries or if he spent Christmas with the Penn's or any of that. I initially thought about having Christmas take place in the Coheeries while Peter is there, but then I decided that Peter's first encounter with the white horse should be the event that takes place on Christmas Day, which I think, narratively, had a lot more potential.

Again, thank you for reading. See you next time, and have a great day.