65. Dandelion heartbeat
The moonlight glittered along the tiles of the mosaic. Inside, the house was a mouth of chilling darkness.
They walked without saying much. The gloves hung from her quivering hands, limp as a ribbon. And Peter Lake watched the back of her head as they traveled upstairs. The intricate knot of curls, purple in this poor lighting. Rosy in some areas, where the moonlight traveled. The pink skin of her back, what peeked out from the reds of her gown. And… the embroidered galaxies. The stars on her waist. The moons on her shoulders. Spirals of gold circling across her hips.
I love you.
He had spoken these words aloud. He'd caused the most wonderful moment in his life to be interrupted. Her fingers had fluttered away from his and when he had approached her, her face had twisted.
I love you.
"Beverly."
She turned her face slightly, but not completely. She peeked a glance toward him. They were in the hallway now.
A room of water awaited him. And, above them, up the stairs, on the roof, four walls of fabric waved in the breeze. Calling for her.
Her yellows, his blues. Her light, his darkness.
"Are you okay?"
She replied: "Yes."
Her voice was soft. So, so soft.
"Okay."
"Thank you."
But she didn't smile, not completely.
She reiterated: "Thank you, Peter… Thank you for everything."
"Thank you…"
"Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year."
"Sleep well."
"You too."
She let her gaze wander haphazardly across his face. She drank in his every detail.
"Goodbye."
"Goodnight," he murmured.
He wanted to touch her hand. He wanted to kiss her.
Peter Lake stayed as he was. A terrifying silence reigned over the hall. He wasn't willing to push her any further.
I love you.
With heavy feet she began her journey up the stairs. And Peter Lake watched her as she went. Waited for the moment where he would be forced to look away. When she was no longer there.
Her fingers dug absently into the knot of curls at the back of her head. She freed her hair, strand by strand.
It's late.
Taking her time.
It's late…
And, before she could reach the landing, Beverly suddenly stopped walking and turned around. She looked down at him. Her eyes burned.
It was dark, but he could see the molten colors of her irises. The paleness of her face, the maroon of her lipstick. Her earrings, now dark and blue and quivering. There was glass at her back and the moonlight webbed around her. The little hairs on her arms glimmered in the moonlight.
"You're a beautiful person."
Her voice was hoarse and beautiful. She didn't smile, still, but her gaze dripped in emotion. Endearment. Adoration, almost. Thick curls of dark red crawled down her shoulders. Strand by strand.
"In every sense," she continued. "Every meaning of the word."
The stairs to the roof crawled up from his feet to hers. And, in this poor lighting, they appeared to be part of her gown. Glossy and liquid.
"So are you, Beverly," he said.
An infinite carpet of fabric, forming a stream. A river. A path to follow. For her.
I love you.
For him.
He traveled up the first step and then stopped. He clung to the railing. The window drew rings of silver around her figure.
There was water on the walls. On the stairs, too. On her gown and on her skin. Water slithered down the tips of her hair.
"Peter."
"What?"
She hesitated. She whispered: "John… He loves you."
Peter Lake felt a weight in his heart. A vertigo, akin to the one he'd felt on his first flight. Or in the furnace room.
That sinking. The understanding of just how massive the universe is. How small one is in comparison.
"Yes," he said. "He loves me. And I love him."
Her hair drowned in moonlight. Wild and chaotic and bundling at her shoulders, cloaking the universe mapped onto her dress. Gold and red and purple.
"You could have died so many times," she murmured. Her tone was now morose. "You've been running for so long."
Peter nodded slowly. He said nothing else. He let her continue.
"Have you ever had the feeling that… John had stopped loving you, as a result? That he'd given up on loving you, to spare himself the pain?"
Beverly's hair is not my wife's.
Peter had chosen Pearly over John. Twenty years of sinning had surpassed his fifteen years of longing. His childhood. His travels to the roof. His searches for the sea.
John had welcomed him back with open arms. He'd turned deaf ears to his weeping. He'd told him under his breath, 'shut up.'
Beverly's hair is not my wife's.
Penn had turned from his daughter and looked at the fire.
"No," Peter replied. His voice was gentle. "Never."
John was not cruel. John would have never done such a thing.
Beverly looked at him through glassy, tender eyes.
"That's beautiful…"
Her voice cracked at the corners, like crumpling paper. Light glinted off the corners of her eyes.
I didn't know Isaac had another daughter.
His clothes appeared to thicken in the dark. He felt weighed down by a crushing tenderness. A desire so great it frightened him.
So Peter took another step forward and the floor creaked under the weight of him. These shoes. This suit that wasn't his.
I take the risk to love you.
And then, Beverly moved. Retreating in her steps. Traveling down, toward him. And she breathed shakily, but slowly, and Peter Lake waited. He let her find him. He let her come.
You take the risk to love me.
A rustling of fabric. Smooth as a snake's hiss. The glide of her shoes along the glossy folds of her skirt.
No-
Peter Lake knew before she did. His heart jumped up his throat.
No-no-no-
And Beverly's body bent. Her eyes widened. A strangled little cry pierced through the night.
Peter Lake strode upstairs. And all at once he felt a renewed pain on his shoulder. Her name, a thorn in his chest, waiting to be let out in a scream.
Beverly!
She collapsed against him. His fingers dug into her back.
"No!"
He wobbled backward. The jaws of terror consumed him and he remembered the attic of Grand Central Station. He remembered standing on a roof with tears in his eyes, searching, searching…
Fly on down, Peter Pan.
He remembered dreams. He remembered his first flight.
How he'd screamed.
"No!"
Like he screamed now.
No, no-
He found his footing. With one hand he gripped the railing. With the other, he steadied her. He gasped out. One, and two, and three. Cities. His list of cities. He'd forgotten.
"No," he breathed. "No… No…"
Her arms went around his neck in a panicked sweep. Her knees arched around his sides. Her hair, a mountain of curls, dark and crimson, cloaked his head.
"No, no, no… No…"
The sting of tears teased his eyes. His mouth burned. His entire body trembled. And then he made a strange sound, deep in his throat, that not even he could identify as his own.
When winter ends…
He clung to her for dear life. And she clung to him, so tight that it hurt.
"Peter."
"Oh god."
He held her closer. Closer. She frantically spanned his back with her hands. Her breath scorched his skin.
Athansor.
"Oh god."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"
"Don't say that."
"I'm sorry."
"No…"
Athansor, is this what you chose me for?
He buried his face in her neck. She arched her body back, dragging him forward. Deeper. Higher.
"Breathe," he begged. "Please, love, breathe."
"I'm breathing."
"Okay."
"I'm okay."
"Okay… Okay…"
"I'm fine…"
"Oh…"
She caressed his shoulders. She shuddered. His clothes whistled under her touch. She drew back so she could look at his face.
And there was embarrassment in her eyes. Concern, too.
He shook his head. He whispered: "I'm okay… Don't worry…"
Beverly's hands sank into his hair. They worked through it leisurely.
And he felt the caress of it, as it fell around his face. Thick, dark strands, slithering down his cheek.
I love you.
Her fingers brushed them away from his eyes. They grazed the buzzed hair on the sides of his head. And this was a minimal, feathery caress. As weightless as smoke. As soothing as vapor.
I love you.
And Peter Lake closed his eyes.
He turned his head and rested his lips on her wrist. The thick, steady melody under her skin. He kissed it tenderly. She watched him in silence.
He kissed her palm next. There was sweat there, only a little bit. And salt teased the tip of his tongue. And he tasted the waters that had saved him. The liquid colors of her irises.
He kissed her fingers too, at the tips. One by one. Savoring the music they created. The tenderness they inspired. He worshiped each of them equally.
I love you.
At some point her eyes fluttered shut. And her breathing slowed to a thin little breeze. Cool and smooth, like silk, caressing his face. Silk. The silk of her gloves. They were gone, fallen from her hand. They must have been discarded somewhere on the staircase. It didn't matter where. He didn't care. And she didn't either.
"You're warm," she whispered.
"Am I hurting you?"
"No... No..."
Her voice was near invisible. Barely a sound.
He didn't move. He let her find him in her own time.
I love you.
She was the night and the wind and the winter clawing at his neck. She was this staircase. She was the candlelight racing around the dance floor. The moonlight bleeding at her back.
I love you.
Her lips were cold, but the inside of her mouth was warm. He tasted rain and darkness and champagne. Bubbles of gold. The smell of the sea. The texture of a blackened sky.
And Peter tilted his head, only a little, and he parted his lips. A small offer. An invitation. He would only give what she was willing to receive.
I take the risk to love you.
And Beverly trembled, but she parted her lips regardless, and she let him find her, and she moaned softly when he did, and it sent chills down his spine, and by God, by God, she moved forward and sought him out as well, in the same way, and Peter Lake felt frightened by his own pleasure, this explosion of desire and tenderness and admiration that could only be caused by her, and by what she was doing, and by what she had done.
You take the risk to love me.
And he let her consume him. He embraced her. She embraced him.
And… all of her was inviting. The soft thickness of her hair. The smooth coolness of her face. The material of her gown. What skin he found. Her arms. Her hands. Her neck. Parts of her chest.
Please…
"I need to stop. I need to stop."
He spoke in just above a whisper. Breath by breath.
"No."
"I need to stop."
"No. No."
Her voice was sweet and silent and weakened by emotion.
"Please…"
She ran a string of kisses down the side of his face. As carefully as he had worshiped the fingers of her hand. His temple. His cheekbone. His jaw.
"Please…"
And her tenderness was as delicious as it was addictive.
Please, please.
His heart ached under these layers of fabric. Clothes he had no right to. As stolen as the chocolate in his pocket.
"You're not supposed to exist…"
The galaxies of her gown were shattering under his touch. Her top was open at the front, like a bundle of rose petals.
"You're impossible. You make me believe in the impossible…"
And there was linen under there. Thin and white and drenched in darkness. Dripping in moonlight. And he could see her. He saw her now. She was so close to him.
"I love your hands, and what they do."
Words. Thin leaves of sound that fluttered in what little air remained between them.
"I love your body. I love your theories. I love the music you make. I love the sight of you. I love the sound of you."
He thought he had given up lists altogether. That his craft had been lost the minute she touched that piano. The second the floor squeaked at his feet.
"I love it when you touch me. I love it when you speak, it doesn't matter what you say."
He never imagined he would be making another.
"I love the way you look at everyone and everything."
Especially not in an instance such as this.
The glass twinkled at her back and Beverly slithered her arms out of her sleeves. Silky reds trembled in the dark.
She steadied his hand against her chest. The thin, cool flesh armoring her heart. The skin right over the outline of her chemise. Her heartbeat tickled the palm of his hand. Little butterflies. The caress of dandelions.
Beat, little heart.
And her fingers trembled, but she was calm. And so was he.
Dance with me.
He had never been more at peace...
Follow the rhythm of my own.
She said nothing. She didn't need to. He found her lips again and kissed her gently.
My love.
She was the wind. She had rocked him to shore. She had given him wings. She had given him Athansor and she had given him hope. He believed in miracles because of her.
My winter, my summer.
Peter Lake let her guide him now. He didn't hesitate in doing so.
She floated away from his grasp and he embraced her like he'd never done before. And she embraced him.
"It's late…"
She whispered: "It's early…"
They flew. They walked. Toward the sky.
Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.
This chapter was surprisingly tricky to write. Of course, first kisses are never easy to conjure up. Because the impatience to get it over and done with overpowers the narrative rhythm, at times. So you have to balance the consistency of your story with the novelty of a first kiss. The moment two characters completely shift in their dynamic.
I had wanted Peter and Beverly's first kiss to take place on the staircase for some time now. I love their first kiss in the movie, don't get me wrong, but this moment takes place in the tent, after Beverly invites Peter to join her on the roof. Also, she only invited him in because she saw that he was being a little bit of a peeping Tom, which, not gonna lie, I find a) contradictory to Peter's character, because I just think that he respects Beverly too much to do that, and b) kind of creepy (I find all "peeping Tom" situations in fiction a little creepy, regardless of context, it's just a personal opinion).
So, yeah, for my story, and my re-interpretation of the film, I wanted their first kiss to take place on the stairs. This mostly arises from my desire for symbolic interpretations. I was thinking of Jacob's Ladder a lot - Beverly going up to Heaven and meeting Peter on the stairway, hence why in the movie she tells him "you're late" without context when he joins her in the tent (he fell in love with her when she barely had any time left to enjoy their relationship). Additionally, I thought it would be a better setting altogether. That Beverly herself is the one to turn around, without giving Peter that "peeping Tom" excuse, and go back down to him. And only then, he goes up with her.
Also, in case I didn't make it too clear in my writing, Beverly trips on her way down to Peter. That's why she bends forward and he catches her and they have that big emotional moment. I kind of got stuck in that point in the chapter, cause I had crafted a super long conversation between them that would eventually result in a kiss. However, the conversation was going nowhere, and after much thinking, I thought "have Beverly run down to him and trip." This would tie back to the moment in my fanfic where she watches Willa skate and Peter assumes that she "longs" for this sort of reckless behavior. This is the first time Beverly acts recklessly. And Peter catches her. And they kiss. Voila.
Okay, sorry for rambling. As always. The tent chapters are coming. And, oh boy, I am excited. And also increasingly afraid. Because, if you've watched the movie... you know what's coming.
See you next time, take care. Thank you for being here.