63. Arrows of candlelight

It proved difficult to let go of her. That hand. That waist. He felt bereft of something precious. He clapped but he couldn't hear the sound of it. Only her. And the clock.

And these words. Fluttering in his chest. Feathers stroking the walls of his heart.

I love you.

Peter Lake looked at her and the candlelight raced around the room in dashes of yellow and orange.

I take the risk to love you.

The room spun. The ticking thickened over his head and the sound of it was somewhat dizzying.

And…

Stares were glossed over by the rings of fire bleeding into the walls. He had never been blinded by such light.

… you take the risk to love me.

Peter Lake took a step forward. And another. And she stayed as she was. Watching him as he approached.

He was following no rhythm now. And he was taking no notes of how to behave, what may or may not be expected of him. She had no gloves on. In this room full of people, she was looking at him. A rooster among swans. A magpie among men.

Only at him. And he, only at her.

He leaned down. Beverly's shaky breathing breezed across his lips.

And Peter hesitated.

She gazed into his eyes and the water spun frantically in her irises. Her painted lips were parted. Her eyebrows were arched a little and her hands were raised to his arms.

They looked at each other for some time. Her breath was thickening against his skin. And when he touched her wrist her pulse thundered.

Terror crept into his heart.

Oh.

He pressed his forehead to hers. He brushed his fingers along her wrist. Her smooth skin.

She said his name softly. "Peter."

And he adored the sound of it.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No… No…"

Her voice trembled.

She had taken her gloves off. She had avoided all eyes but his own. She had danced with him. She was now in front of dozens of people, under a ticking clock. The year moribund at her feet. Her life barely begun.

Oh, no. No. No.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'm sorry, please forgive me."

She raised her hands slowly. And she cupped his face in them, with unbearable tenderness.

"Forgive me…"

"Peter."

And his head felt even colder now, between her hands. Leaned against her own. Winter guffawed from the open door. She breathed, like she had rehearsed. And he breathed too.

She said his name again. "Peter."

So softly he hardly heard it altogether. Beverly's nose nuzzled and bumped against his own.

And this display of affection, with its unashamed sweetness, caused the quietest of sighs to abandon his lips. And words formed in what little air remained between them.

"You're not vain, Beverly…"

"Shh…"

Peter reached out for her. Her beloved face. Her hair.

The ticking vexed him. It was a little drum between his eyebrows. A knife between his ribs. A thorn on the palm of his hand.

Was he saying hello? Was he saying goodbye?

He had forsaken his blanket and his banner, up there, somewhere. He had forsaken the City of Justice. He had forsaken Pearly and his wolves.

The ceiling cowered away from them, as far up as it could reach, escaping the sandstorm of stares that now enveloped them. And Peter Lake wondered what it was like to sleep within Beverly's tent. And to fear the collapse of those walls of fabric. To wait for your very own shelter to consume you.

I was always doomed. You didn't doom me.

She was at the mercy of the wind itself.

He had known the feeling once upon a time. But much had happened since then and now he had forgotten. The wind had spared him its mercy long ago.

Peter was at no one's mercy. That's why he feared falling, above all else. He feared failure.

Every step he took could have resulted in a breach of that sky of paint. His descent from the attic. And regardless of his luck, whatever accident that may have happened would have been the result of his own recklessness. His poor choice of hideout. His heavy feet.

Squeak.

She was caressing his face. Her fingers were trembling. The candlelight swam in the sharp winter air. Arrows of gold. Strokes of paint. Masking all else.

It squeaks.

He hadn't realized…

He was falling now. He had been falling for days.

The floor squeaks.

He had flown, after all. And he had feasted upon New York. And he had felt the ground tremble at his feet. He had collapsed before the furnace and woken up in a room of water. Floating. Suspended in midair.

He fell now. He kept falling.

And, strangely enough… he wasn't afraid.

"I love you."

The water glistened in her irises and a weight lifted from his chest. Words pooled on his tongue, fire drank at his eyes.

And he said it again, his voice trembling: "I love you."

Her earrings twinkled under his touch.

"Miss!"

Put some reins on that wild horse, will you?

"This is a social event."

Beverly clung to his wrists as he slid his fingers down her jaw. Her thumbs brushed along his knuckles. She guided him still, despite the lack of music and their stationary positions. She implored him. Comforted.

You didn't doom me.

The gentleman in question was pale and shriveled, like an asparagus.

"Sorry, sir," Beverly murmured.

"This is unacceptable behavior," said the asparagus. "You two look like cats, nuzzling at each other. And where are your gloves?"

I was always doomed.

She swallowed dryly. The ticking persisted from above.

"I- Sir, you probably don't know this, I have a condition-"

"Where are your gloves?"

The arrows of light faded away. They thinned into string. They disappeared along the outlines of the wall. The music proceeded but Peter could barely hear it under the ticking of the clock.

"They're at my table."

"Why did you take them off? What need did you have to do so?"

"As I said, I have a condition. I'm- I'm sick."

"Ah."

"It's best for me not to clothe too thickly. I must stay cold. The gloves kept me warm, I took them off for that very reason."

"Well, if we were all to follow your conduct, Miss, we would all just refrain from clothing altogether."

The summer encased in her eyes cooled to frost.

There were so many people. All around them. Forming circles. Moving as they had moved, just now.

The streets had been packed that day, too. When he reached out for her and shouted her name. So many people. Such little care.

No one had helped but him. All they had done was…

Put some reins on that wild horse, will you?

Peter could hear the klaxons. Pearly. That thunderous shouting. He could feel the adrenaline, the panic, the bitterness. The ticking of the clock was becoming insufferable.

"We're not bothering anyone, we-"

"People are watching."

"This is a party."

"That's no excuse for you to shed shame altogether!"

Three words. One scream.

All it took.

She had laughed, when he'd last done it. She had relished in his boldness, despite the chaos that had preceded it. Or the danger, the madness that had followed…

"And him?" asked the asparagus.

"He's with me."

"I see that."

But, try as he might, Peter Lake couldn't bring himself to build a face for this irritating voice. Shadows gathered before his eyes and a curtain of disdain blinded him of all beyond Beverly herself. And her gentle, naked fingers, interlocked with his. The molten turquoise of her eyes.

Whatever trouble that could arise from an altercation would clearly not make up for anything. It wouldn't bring her back any happiness. Her peace was shattered and he could do little more than hold her hand. Brush his thumb along her wrist. Comfort like she had comforted.

I'm here, love. I love you. I love you. Now you know.

"Isn't he a little old for you, button?"

"No," she murmured. "He is not."

"How old are you?"

"How old are you?" she rasped.

And the asparagus's eyebrows suddenly hovered over the shallow waters of his eyes.

"Say, what's your name?"

"Beverly Penn."

"Penn."

"Yes."

The asparagus's lips quivered. "I… Isaac has another daughter?"

"Another daughter?" she muttered.

"Well. Just now, I see it… That gesture. Those eyes. You look so much like your father."

"And yet you couldn't recognize me as his own."

"Forgive me, I didn't know Isaac had another daughter. I've never seen you before."

Beverly pressed her lips together. She deviated her gaze.

"He mustn't talk about me much."

Her voice was hoarser than ever.

"I'll put my gloves back on," she breathed.

And her fingers fluttered away from his. She walked toward the table and Peter's heart caught in his throat.

The music melted with the ticking. An irritating symphony tortured his ears. Melodies and particles of dust floated in the cold, golden air. And he breathed in the crumbs of magic that remained. The remnants of the moment they had shared.

I love you.

He had said it, at long last. He had called things what they are.

I love you.

He loved her. He loved her with every piece of his being. He had said it softly, to her and only her. And all that his effort had garnered was her humiliation. Her escape from a dance she had wanted for so long.

Please, forgive me…

But his tongue had been unshackled and his words had been spoken. So he didn't hesitate in speaking now.

"She could have died tonight."

"I'm sorry?"

"Her father told her that dancing would kill her. And she danced regardless."

His chest ached. A maddening fury dug fangs into his belly.

And then he heard the fence clatter. He hadn't heard it in a while.

Pete. Petes.

The clock kept ticking and he kept falling. Beverly had her champagne glass cupped in both hands. And… she was drinking. Not merely smelling or remembering. But tasting.

And the sight of her filled his heart with relief, and pride, and endearment, and she peeked a glance in his direction.

Peter.

She wasn't smiling, but she hadn't put her gloves on. And she hadn't taken her eyes off of him. And her gaze had never been gentler.

No Mister Lake. No Pete. No Petes.

"She's the prettiest person in this room," he murmured. "She puts all of you to shame."

"Sir-"

Peter. My name is Peter.

He didn't shout. He didn't risk any more than he already was. He returned to her.

And something happened to her face when he approached. Something small and fleeting, but noticeable. For a split second, she appeared to be consumed by the desire to cry.

He touched her arm. "Okay?"

"Yes."

"Truly?"

She nodded. Her features twisted slightly and the candlelight gleamed off her eyes and the champagne in her glass.

"I'm okay," she murmured.

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

So, here is another very quick scene in the movie that I decided to lengthen for no reason other than my desire to squeeze all potential out of the smallest interactions XD

Yes, in the movie Peter does lean in for a kiss right after the dance ends - like, they are still on the floor - and Beverly lowers her face and basically rejects him. He doesn't take the rejection to heart, because she remains amicable, but he does refrain from kissing her and respects her wishes. Perfectly fine. I have no problems with this.

What I do have a problem with is the fact that this scene takes place literally moments before the tent scene. Where Beverly not only allows Peter to kiss her, but also invites him to the tent. To do more than kissing, you know.

So I don't think her rejection makes a lot of sense in the movie, given the editing and the pacing. One moment she is not ready for such intimacy, despite sharing Peter's feelings, and the next she is inviting him into the tent. It doesn't make sense.

In here, then, I took a different approach to the rejection. I made Peter feel the urge to kiss her, get close enough, and then realize that her heartbeat is going up as he approaches. He gets all apologetic and ashamed, as is his nature, but Beverly doesn't ever "reject" him. She maintains their close proximity, despite being in front of dozens of people, and she caresses his face, and lets him know that he has nothing to apologize for.

Sure, like in the movie, they don't kiss here. I definitely thought about making them just kiss, getting that over with, but instead, I gave them a more tender, intimate moment where Peter finally allows himself to be vulnerableenough to say he loves her.

And then I made them get interrupted by a random stranger. I hate using elements like these to drive the story forward, I had a hard time writing the second half of this chapter for that very reason. I always try to write as delicately as possible, so I hope my efforts paid off and that the last part of this chapter can serve as the precursor to better sections of this story. After all, I do like adding more awareness to Isaac's bad parenting or Beverly's concealed bitterness for the people that belittle her. I'll touch more upon her conversation with "the asparagus" on the next chapter, most likely.

Until then... See you next time. Thank you for being here.