66. Walls of fabric

When we return to the city, stay with me.

He'd need to get used to the cold. This cold.

This terror. This desire. This love.

Fractured galaxies waved around her waist. They twinkled in the moonlight, twisted as she walked. Her chemise crinkled at the sides as she slithered into the tent.

Peter Lake had walked toward a rose-colored sky. Lilac stars of chalk. He had felt the expanse of gravity at his back.

He had seen her hand, outlined into a mirror by a breeze of mist. And he had seen her unmade bed. In the cold, colorless sunlight…

Please…

That had been his first glimpse. His first sight of her. What she could do. What she was like.

And now.

Now…

Golden threads dashed all around him. Lamplight drenched the creamy beiges of the mattress. The pillows. Wind dragged along the fabric of the tent. The thick walls. She had feared being crushed by them some day.

Please…

And Peter Lake felt the tug of gravity. He stared at Beverly. Her white chemise. Her gown, bundled around her waist. The blush on her chest, right under her collarbone. Where his hand had been.

Please…

Where she had let his hand stay.

And her fingers moved deftly and tremulously. She appeared to be consumed by an immediate impatience. She rid herself of whatever layer she found. Peeling away the constellations that clothed her.

A pool of red. A pool of starlight, drinking at the floor beneath her feet.

And Peter stared, like an absolute fool.

He could do little more.

He was helpless. He was useless.

Please.

Her skin was like snow under candlelight. Glimmering weakly. Pink and white and golden, all at once.

And he shivered to touch her. He wanted her in his arms. He wanted to find her and to let her find him, again, again…

He wanted and wanted and the wanting quickly became unbearable.

The hands he had kissed floated toward him. Beverly untied the white lace around his neck. Gently, patiently, digging fingers into the bow she had made.

She reached for his jacket and Peter rolled his shoulders, helped her. The fabric rustled. Rows of buttons trembled under her touch.

And it was now that he returned to his senses.

"Wait…"

He stilled her hands but he kept them close, near his chest.

Beverly lifted her gaze. Her face was pink. He could see her much better now. Better than he had ever been able to.

And she was so close to him. She was so close…

"Do you want to stop?"

"No… No… I don't want to stop…"

She hesitated before asking: "Are you scared…?"

He shook his head. Truthfully, he answered.

"No…"

He brushed a thumb along her knuckles. Lamplight pierced the pools of turquoise. She was so close. She was breathtaking.

Beverly moved her hand now. Her palm plastered itself gently to his chest. And he allowed it.

His shirt was thin and there was nothing beneath it. Mere skin and hair and blood. The wind blew beyond the walls of the tent.

And her touch nearly stunned him.

Beverly's hands were cold. He had held them so many times. He had touched her skin and she had touched his.

There was cloth between them right now. Walls of fabric, like those of the tent. And yet…

I love your hands, and what they do.

This is how little Peter must have felt, in that little boat. Wobbling on a carpet of blue. Depthless waters at his back.

This is how he'd felt when Athansor took him up. Before he'd seen New York from the sky and feasted upon the city in his descent.

This complete intimacy. This lack of defenses. This trust he was placing on the world around him. On water. On wind.

She was water. She was wind.

He wasn't afraid. He was held. He was moving. He was being moved. And he was holding his breath.

He was falling, but he wasn't going to land anytime soon. He would simply… fall.

Beverly's features were relaxed. She didn't tremble. Her eyes were bright.

I love the way you look at everyone and everything.

"Your heart is pounding," she murmured. "Mine has never beat this quickly."

"I'm not scared."

"No…" She smiled a little. "You're alive."

"You are, too," he whispered.

Beverly took his other hand in her own. She guided it back where it had been. Against her skin, under her collarbone. Where her chemise had parted across her chest.

Now her chemise was gone.

Dandelions caressed his palm.

"This is the fastest this heart will ever beat," she told him. "I wish I could let it run like yours…"

He leaned down to touch her forehead with his own. He breathed her in. He let her share the air he inhaled.

"I'm not alive…" she said. "Not really. If I were alive, I wouldn't struggle this much to live… I'd be free to be nervous in a moment like this…"

They breathed together.

"To get as excited as I want… To make love to someone however I want…"

He nuzzled her nose with his own, and she let out a small breath. Almost a sigh, almost a chuckle.

And Peter Lake grinned, softly, to himself.

"I just realized," he murmured, "how fun this will be to explain in the morning."

She laughed now. A pure, wonderful laugh. One he hadn't heard in so long.

"'Oh- Oh, yes, last night was delightful, Isaac.'"

"'We behaved ourselves at all times.'"

"'And the dance, oh, the dance was quite invigorating.'"

"'So invigorating.'" He laughed.

"'And we had a very pleasant time together… You have no idea…'"

The blues burned in her eyes. He wrapped his arms around her. She laughed again, and so did he. He pressed his face playfully to hers. He kissed her forehead.

"Stop it," she giggled. "Stop making me laugh. I swear, Peter, I'll disintegrate."

"Who told you that?"

"I don't know. I don't remember."

And she giggled against his mouth.

They kept laughing. Quietly, now. Secretly. Like the first time they'd done it. On a kitchen table. Swimming in the scent of tea and the liquid sunlight.

Where are you from, Peter Lake?

They hid away now, in this cavernous embrace. In these walls, these curtains, yellowed by the light. As vibrant as the flames of the furnace. As cold as Beverly. The pianist. In his arms. Her face against his. Her breath on his skin.

And when their mirth died down all that remained was that final sentence.

You have no idea.

They stood together. The two of them. Her heartbeat caressed his fingers. His shirt rustled between them.

"Don't disintegrate..."

"No..."

"Don't leave me..."

"No, Peter..."

He kissed her lips. Very briefly, very softly. And she returned the gesture.

Her face moved lovingly against his own. Noses bumping. Foreheads brushing against each other.

My love...

"I'm not scared..." she whispered, eventually.

"Are you, ever?"

She shook her head.

"No, Peter..."

She didn't smile now. Her eyes were closed.

"It's late for me," she whispered. "There's an advantage in that, sometimes... When one is out of time..."

"No..."

"It's late... Too late for me to care so much. About so many things that could happen…"

"It's not late," he murmured. "Don't say that… It's early…"

"I don't know…"

"Yes… You know…"

Athansor.

She shook her head.

"I don't know many things," she told him. "Most of them, I never will… And I'm tired of knowing nothing."

She opened her eyes. The water darkened in her irises. She read into the concern in his gaze, and she breathed out softly.

"I'm not an idiot," she whispered.

"No..."

"There will never be anyone else."

"Beverly."

"Peter," she whispered. Then she said: "It's okay... You know it, too. Don't tell me otherwise, cause it won't be true."

And he daydreamed, like he'd daydreamed before. He dreamed of summer on her face and her fingers on the piano. He dreamed of a life beyond her grasp. A wall separating fiction from reality. Her, from him. But he couldn't imagine a companion in this garden of fantasies he had created. He'd tried before. Beverly had been alone, every time. Alone and barefoot. Encased in a bubble of glass. Protected from Pearly and his wolves. Protected from what little love she could know.

She was in his arms now. And she was in no state to fight anyone or anything. She was relaxed. She was calmer than him. She had no alternative but to be so.

And he knew better than to lie. It would do no good to try. Even if the lie settled in, in the most miraculous of circumstances, Peter couldn't escape the bitterness that such deceit would provoke in him. He may have tried, he may have succeeded, but… he didn't want there to be anyone else.

When we return to the city, stay with me.

He didn't want to lose her. Mostly because she didn't want to lose him either.

Lying was superfluous. Ridiculous. She was too wise, and he was too bad at lying. And they were too content, at the moment, in this certain reality, to dream of another parallel to theirs.

He interlocked his fingers with her own.

"Then, I suppose, you're stuck with me," he whispered. "Of all people in the world… you get Peter Lake."

He smiled a little. Winter waltzed around the walls of fabric.

"The thief… The magpie…"

"I get Peter Lake," she echoed.

You're not dumb, you're not ugly.

"The thief. The magpie."

You're marvelous.

"My friend. My lover. My miracle…"

He stopped breathing for a second. He watched her as she spoke.

"Who else would climb this high up, on New Year's Day? In this weather. In the dark. And look a sick girl in the eyes, and hold her, and tell her these things…"

And he let her voice join the howling of the wind. And the darkness of the sky. She webbed herself into every piece of his universe. These walls. This light. The bed, at his back.

"And who else would want her…? This pianist of ice… This forgotten sister, forgotten daughter… With her tent and her stars... Who would want her? Even though she's withering away, and always cold… And a little bit crazy, heh…"

The cold was biting. The walls of the tent trembled around them.

"You're the only one I'll ever have. Peter Lake. You're what I get…"

And the next time she spoke, the sweet hoarseness of her voice was thicker than usual. Warmer. Full of candor, too.

"I'm lucky, Peter Lake… I love what I have… I wouldn't have it any other way…"

And he believed her.

I would never exchange you.

God, he believed her.

She was soft and cold and blushed all around. And one of her hands was still pressed to his chest. And he was touching her. Her heartbeat trembled between his fingers. He was so close to her… He was so close… He had never been closer to anyone in his life.

"Remember the river?" he asked. His voice drifted across her lips.

"Yes."

"Earlier, you told me that I haven't changed since then… But I think you've changed even less than I have…"

Dandelions quivered under his hand. The fabric of his shirt was beginning to irritate him.

"Remember what you told me? You told me… you were in no position to be anyone's desire. And you still find it strange, to be wanted… I suppose I find it strange too… I've never been wanted before…"

She moved her lips, but she didn't speak. She just looked at him. She waited. And his voice trembled when he spoke again.

"But, Beverly, how could I not want you? In every sense there is? And how could you even consider that I might not want you?"

"I'm what you get," she whispered. "Of all people in the world."

I need to stop…

She had found it necessary to beg him.

No… No…

Was it not obvious?

Please…

Oh, was it not obvious…?

The material of his shirt rustled when she touched him. An insufferable, dry sound. His clothes. These clothes. They weren't his to begin with. They were walls. The solitary barriers between them. He was so close to her. He was so close to her…

"You're my desire."

Fireflies of lamplight quivered in her eyes. Beverly's face was inching toward his with increasing desperation. Peter closed his eyes.

"You're my life," he said. "You're everything."

She took his face in her hands, lifted herself up on the balls of her feet. And Peter leaned forward, pressing, pushing, sealing them together. His mouth melted with hers.

I want you.

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

The first of the tent chapters is now done. I hope this made you as happy, reading it, as it made me to write it. I like having these two as a couple, already. That they can be silly, too. We don't get any silly moments in the movie, between Peter and Beverly. They are cute, yes, but their time as an actual couple is very brief and we barely have any time to explore what they're like when they're finally together. In these chapters I'm going to change that. Dialogue GALORE. And of course, plenty of observations that weren't in the movie. Like Peter's vulnerability. Beverly's restraint (I'm very VERY proud of that heartbeat part), etc.

See you next time for more tent scenes. Take care. And, again, thank you for reading my story. It means the world to me.