67. The thief and the pianist (part 1)

I want you.

The fabric rustled again, and he moved his hands, helped her. Rolls of shoulders, rows of buttons. The whistling of cloth. The intertwining of fingers, mouths, bodies. And the nightly breeze drenched him from throat to waist. And some time later, from waist to heel. All of him tensed up.

I want all of you.

The last patch of fabric peeled off his skin, the air sharpened. Winter dug its fangs into his flesh and she looked at him and he let her look at him, in the same way she had let him look at her.

I want you to see me…

Her gaze was liquid and warm with wonder. It moved leisurely, attentively.

And Peter felt so vulnerable under those eyes. There was a thrilling terror in the practice of it. Standing so still. Watching her as she watched him.

Trying to find a speck of disgust. Or maybe uncertainty. Surprise. Doubt. Ridicule. Mockery. All bleak possibilities crossed his mind. He braced himself for a change in her demeanor. Like he had braced himself for a run at the door, the first time he saw her.

The first time. The first time she saw him. He had been paralyzed, too. Even then. Fully clothed. In the daylight.

I want you to know me…

And now… Beverly just looked at him. The way she always had. As if nothing new were being revealed here. He felt as if, deep down, she had always seen him. She had always known him to be like this. Even before… before…

"I'm sorry…" she murmured.

"Sorry?" he breathed. "What on Earth for?"

"I know it's cold up here."

Her fingertips. Those fingers. Slender and pale and beautiful. Hands he had kissed. The hands of a pianist. They were now caressing his arms. His chest. His shoulders. No cloth rustled now. No fabric shielded him. Her touch was graceful, delicate. She might as well have been touching him with a feather.

"I don't mind the cold… Don't worry…"

"You've got goosebumps… You're still trembling…"

They spoke so quietly, their words were barely a sound. A little gust of wind. A piece of cotton in the clouds.

And he remained immobile, hypnotized… mesmerized…

By everything. Everything about this.

What she was doing. The water spinning in her irises.

Her beloved face, so close to his. Her body. His body.

This winter, digging needles into his flesh.

This fall… This weightlessness he felt. He could have fluttered away like a bird. There was nothing under his feet. The yellows of the tent swarmed around them.

"I can't stop trembling, but I don't feel afraid… And I don't feel the cold… I don't care about it, at least… I don't know why… I don't mean to tremble…"

"Have you been looked at before?" she asked. "Or touched…?"

"Yes," he murmured. He wouldn't lie to her. "Yes, I have…"

"Did you like it when it happened?"

"I think so… I don't really remember… I think I did… But…"

Her fingers were moving up and down his back. Pressing invisible keys along his spine. A gentle melody. Her touch, wondrous. Her skin. His skin.

Please…

"But I've never been touched like this…"

He ran a hand down her arm. The fingers quivering, tapping gently at the skin underneath.

"Like this?" she whispered.

"Like... I was made of something fickle..."

He took her hand. His fingers slipped between hers.

"Like I could fracture in your fingertips... Like china... Like glass..."

"Is that how I touch you?"

She smiled a little. Teasing. And he leaned into her.

"You're not made of glass," she said. "You're stronger than me..."

"Mm... I don't know..."

"You give me too much credit, Peter…"

"No. I don't give you enough…"

"You do… It is enough…"

"Mhm…"

Her gaze wandered. Trailed after what she touched. As if she were taking in his every detail, memorizing him.

"I can still feel your heartbeat..."

"Really?"

"Anywhere I feel... I can feel the rhythm... Ba-dum... Ba-dum..."

Peter closed his eyes. He felt the warmth of her stare through the cold, through the darkness.

"You're not fragile... You're precious... You're incredible..."

His shoulders. His ribcage. His waist. His hips. His legs. He wasn't afraid. But he couldn't stop trembling.

She kissed his face gently. His lowered eyelids. And she trembled as well. Not as much as him, but she did tremble.

I love it when you touch me.

"I fear opening my eyes and discovering you were never here at all... That I imagined you..."

Beverly kissed his lips.

Her gaze was like a spotlight breaking through a curtain. That promise of spectacle. That first glimpse into a land beyond one's own…

"Open your eyes," she whispered.

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

Okay, so... I have had this written for a very long time, not gonna lie. Even when I was working on my story on a chronological order, I was already thinking about the tent chapters. And the many things that could have been explored further, in a moment like this.

For instance: Peter mentions in the movie (I didn't add it in my story) that he lived with two girls for a while. Beverly teasingly calls him a "playboy" and he cheekily stated that he "mostly" wasn't like that. It's a brief and superfluous line that could feasibly be interpreted as a joke from Peter. We don't know if he means it or not. However, in my opinion, even though it doesn't really matter to the story whether or not Peter himself is as unexperienced as Beverly, I wanted to touch upon the fact that, most likely, yes, he is more experienced in this matter. He has been intimate with someone before. Unlike Beverly, who, despite the sense that she's in control in this scene (both in the movie and in my story), has never had sex before. Whereas, on the other hand, Peter has.

That is why I wanted to add contrast in the way they behave now. When they're being so vulnerable. That Peter is being touched just as gently as he touches her. That he's being treated with the same respect and endearment, and that this shocks him, despite the fact that he has technically done this before.

Speaking of: I made sure that the circumstances in which his first time happened are left up to interpretation. I didn't want to add a lot of background on that. I just didn't find it necessary. What I do want to emphasize is that, however consensual or pleasant Peter's other experiences may have been, he has never really made love to anyone - and, most notably, he has never been made love to. His time with Pearly was bereft of affection or respect. And I want to imply that it was during this period that his first time happened.

So, yeah. It would have likely been pure carnal pleasure, but no emotion or meaningful connection beyond that. That's why Beverly's affections surprise him now. That she's treating him like he's as new to this as she is - because, in a way, he is. No one has ever loved either of them in this sense.

This is another chapter I'm very proud of. I am usually proud of all my chapters, but... writing love/sex scenes is difficult for me, because I personally hate to point out the physical aspect of it. So I try to be intimate without the need of verbal descriptions as to what these people look like without clothes. I honestly don't want to picture neither Peter nor Beverly naked - they're both played by real-life people and I just don't want to disrespect them like that.

Okay. Enough with my lengthy descriptions XD See you next time. Thank you so much for being here. It means the world to me.