39. Chocolate (part 3)

The ripping of paper. Dry and coarse, like dead leaves rustling. And laughter. Childlike and hoarse and ripe with melancholy. It bounced across the room, down the halls. Boomed like thunder. Beverly covered her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Shh!"

"Sh- Heh!"

She grabbed his sleeve and dragged him outside. Her lips were now darkened by sugar and her cheeks were pale. Her red eyelashes stood out more than ever. He couldn't see her irises. She was squinting too much. She was laughing.

"To hell with it!" she reiterated, giggling, arching back her neck.

"To hell with it!" Peter laughed.

The sky was drenched in dirty silvers. The river of ice had become salt. There was a peaceful laziness that rested upon them now that afternoon had arrived.

The snow gnawed at his shoes and his pants. Ashes of frost pearled the sleeves of the black coat. Beverly kept her knees close to her chest as she continued unwrapping the candy. Her dress bundled up around her, puddling on the snow. The weak sunlight broke through the branches.

"Do you want some?"

"I'd love some."

"Here."

She snapped the first row, the chocolate cracking sharply under her touch. She offered it to him.

"Thank you."

Peter took a bite, took his time. A thick sweetness pooled his mouth, and he smiled, and Beverly sank her teeth into the candy. They sat in silence, under windows and among trees, trembling, sighing puffs of white. Peter sheltered himself in his Christmas presents, the thick black fabric that swept around his torso, and he did convince himself eventually that the cold wasn't so bad. That he couldn't feel it.

"Are you cold?"

"I'm alright. How are you?"

Beverly smiled, nodded. "I'm perfect."

"Good."

She peeked a glance down the hill, in the direction of the river. The light was thinning out and becoming moondust. There were children there, still. Laughing. Playing. The branches veiled most of the scene. Peter watched her as she watched them.

"So you're an upstanding citizen now," she teased.

"Heh. Guess I am."

"You buy things."

"Mm-mhm."

"And what did it cost you?" she asked. "I doubt any child would give this up so easily."

And Peter leaned to the side, toward her, and directed her gaze to the river of ice.

"Keep looking."

"Uh-huh. I see Willa."

"Yes."

"She's… Wait…"

Beverly blinked, squinted. And she did see now. She saw. Her chocolate-brimmed lips parted, their corners curling ever so slightly, amusement dawning on her features. And she turned to face him once again. Beckoned him wordlessly. The way she had at breakfast. Yesterday. Thousands of years ago. Where are you from, Peter Lake?

"Willa told me he had made a good impression," said Peter. "So I took him out of the stables. He's a stubborn horse, but he did listen. He listened to me now. So, I guess I was doing the right thing."

Beverly returned her attention to the river. She watched between the branches, these webs of wood and ice, breaking the picture into shards of glass. Little Willa was laughing. She was seated in nothing, floating, feather-like, above the ice. The white horse melted into the frozen body of water. It was hardly visible, from this distance. So the children's little hands, running down his mane, petting his sides, appeared to be touching little more than the empty air.

"I didn't ask for an exchange," said Peter Lake. "I waited for someone to make it. I sat around, and waited. I told myself, 'If no one makes me an offer, then I'll just go back up there, empty-handed, and explain my stupid idea.' Heh." He said, then: "But then, when Willa had given up all the bars, this little boy just raised his hand and offered me his bar. He told me he wanted to pet the horse. That's all. That's all he asked for."

Beverly said: "And you took it."

"I couldn't refuse him."

Beverly grinned. Her lips were dark brown, her eyes twinkling, as she lifted the shredded yellow wrapping and let the weak sunlight gleam off its edges.

"Peter," she said. "This is gold. This is currency. It was currency before, when you took it from that boy. He offered it to you, like one offers coins. You didn't take, you exchanged. And that's good. But, I ask you… how much do you think this is worth?" She paused, then asked: "A caress? A touch?"

"I suppose," said Peter, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"A bar of chocolate weighs the same as a touch?" she asked.

"No," he said. "No, it doesn't. I know it doesn't."

She said nothing. Let her eyes linger on his. Let him continue. And he did.

"Most of the kids followed in the footsteps of this boy. They figured, like you said, this is currency. This is how it works. But I took no more than that first offer. I just said they could play with the horse if they wanted. That he wouldn't hurt them. And I told them the truth."

Beverly's hand was still holding up the piece of yellow wrapping. Those liquid tears of sunlight kept rimming the edges. Peter gently took it from her hand.

"I wanted to give you something," he said. "I could have made it less complicated. I could have taken this from Willa's basket. I could have. I was so close to it, you know… But I didn't. I wanted to buy it. I didn't want to give you anything that was stolen. But I have no money, so… I did the next best thing. I bought it in exchange of a touch."

Her face was amused. Relaxed. She was taking in his every word. He looked at her sheepishly, and, softly, he continued.

"But not really. It wasn't just a touch. You should have seen his eyes. This little boy, holding out the chocolate bar. He was giving this away. He had just received something, something he probably wanted more than anything in the world. Something he may have looked forward to for days. But now, he saw something else. Something he never knew existed. Something incredible. And he did just tell me, 'You can have this if you let me pet him.' He wanted to touch the horse. Just to know it was real. And that's what he did. He put out his hand and touched his mane."

Beverly tilted her head, licked the sweetness off her lips. She looked away and seemed to become consumed by a deluge of thoughts. Peter waited for her. Like she had waited for him. He caressed the golden wrapping between his fingers.

At last, she spoke. Softly. Her grin weakening around the edges.

"What did you receive, Peter?" she whispered. "Before I turned around on that chair?"

"What?"

Her eyes met his. "Before I turned around. Before you stepped over that floorboard… What had you wanted? More than anything in the world?"

She had memorized everything he just told her. His handwriting was etched across her chest. Peter trembled, but he did answer.

"I wanted to run. I wanted spring and summer… I wanted winter to end."

She smiled, with a touch of sadness. Peter felt the graze of her fingertips against his pulse. She wrapped her hand around his wrist. Her skin was cold. She was shaking slightly.

"All exchanged," she murmured. "For this?"

That creamy paste of cocoa and milk was still plastered to the roof of his mouth. And there was still a hint of frost on his cheek, from the kiss she had given him yesterday.

"Yes," said Peter Lake.

"Don't you regret it at all?" she asked. "Not going south, into the sun?"

"No."

"You don't want winter to end anymore?"

"No," he murmured, raggedly, shaking his head. "I don't want it to ever end."

Beverly's expression softened. She told him: "Peter… I have longed for the sun… I haven't seen summer in an eternity. It feels like it's never existed to begin with. But despite my longing, I can do nothing about it. Summer will never exist for me. But for you, it can. Don't you still want it?"

That boy's eyes had been as black and birdlike as his own. The gold from the chocolate bar had spun in his gaze. He had raised his hand.

"No."

A magpie had given up his coins. Just to know if magic was real.

"I guess, then…" she whispered, "a chocolate bar does weigh the same as a touch, in your eyes." She chuckled hoarsely. "Some salesman you are."

"Some salesman I am."

He stared at her. Her fingers stroke the curve of his wrist.

"You have so much to do," she said. "So much to see. You can run. You can run wherever you want, Peter."

"You're not my burden. Don't ever think that."

"You gave up summer for a sick girl," she said.

There was no joy in her tone. Only confusion. Endearment, too. But mostly confusion. Her eyes, blue and lively and full of wonder.

Without thinking much about it, he moved his hand out of her grasp, slowly curled his fingers around her wrist. The melody thundered, but she was as cold as before, and Peter leaned his head and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

"You are summer, Beverly," he told her. "Every time I look at you I have to remind myself that you're real."

Author's Note: To whoever is here today, I want to wish you a very Merry Christmas. And if you don't celebrate, well, have a lovely day. Because you all deserve it.

Thank you for reading my fanfiction. It means the world. These characters matter so much to me. I love the two protagonists so much, and I really enjoy creating my own dialogues with them. Just letting them be in each other's company, being happy, all that. It helps me, in a way. And I hope it helps you too. I hope it makes you feel a little better to read my stuff.

Again, thank you. Merry Christmas. Stay safe. And I'll see you next time.