21. Needles
Death was like the prick of a needle on his finger. Disappointingly brief. A shock as finite as time.
You're still the same hideous boy with violence in his eyes…
Even now, in the pitch-black wait, the silence after the roaring, Peter Lake couldn't help but believe in towns over oceans. He couldn't let himself capture the full extent of Beverly's optimism. Her wonderful outlook on the afterlife.
Fly on down, Peter Pan.
He couldn't be proud enough to envision any kindness on the other side of his universe. It just wouldn't be fair.
Death would receive him coldly, quietly, and he would embrace it with ease. He would be content knowing that justice was served.
That she was far away, somewhere better, and noisier.
Fly on down…
"Peter!"
Peter.
The sound of his name.
It was like waking up from a long and routeless dream. Like spinning upon one's heels for minutes, only to come to a sudden, nauseating halt. Dizzying, and fascinating, and terrifying.
"Peter…"
He was a baby again, dragged by the sea. Back to the very beginning.
No.
His clothes were black. His hands coarse, his fingers grey.
He was not born, but dead.
Oh…
He dreamed like he'd dreamed so many times these past few days. Lain back upon the water with the fingers of the ocean entangled in his hair. The sky was white.
No stranger, no bright hair, no little hand turned to the moon.
Was this his death? Was this purgatory? An eternal wait, cast off, without a vessel? Floating forever…
"Peter!"
She was there.
No.
Beverly. Her hoarse voice.
Her hands, grabbing at him, clutching his clothes, shaking him. Her legs moving underneath him, in the water. Peter could feel the kicks, the weight of the sea, accumulated in her strides.
She was running.
Impossible…
"Peter-"
"Beverly…"
"Yes! Yes! It's me."
Clouds of salt veiled his eyes. It hurt to move. His every bone ached. Speaking was torture. Anything, and everything, all things pained him now.
"Beverly-"
"I'm here… Help me, we need to get to my tent…"
"Bev-"
"Swim… I cannot drag you by myself…"
So Peter Lake began to swim. Though his legs screamed and his chest heaved. He was no runner. He was limp and empty and heavy with regret. A floating carcass.
Beverly's slender arm was thrown around his shoulders. She was dressed in green, bright emeralds and youthful mints, the one winter had caused New York to forget.
He couldn't look at her face. It hurt to move. Everything hurt.
Fly on down…
But he swam regardless, because she'd asked him to.
"Beverly…"
Her name was all he could say. His own voice sounded distant and he had long forgotten the practice of making lists.
A list of apologies. A recollection of sins, confessions, reasons why she ought to abandon him in this flood.
The fence. The safe with the little boy's picture. The last time he'd spoken to her father. The final descent, his foolish attempts to awaken her.
A dream, neverending, rhythmless as the tide. A fitting end. He belonged nowhere at all. He never had, nor ever would.
He'd been born to the sea and he'd perished in it. It made sense, to be anchored here forever.
So Peter Lake closed his eyes, tried to crawl back into the darkness, away from all this light.
Fly…
"Swim, for crying out loud!" she wept.
Beverly clawed at his arms, his chest. She dragged him desperately, wading, sinking, resurfacing.
Fly, magpie…
"Don't leave me," she begged. "Don't do this… Not when you've gotten this far…"
He loved her.
"Please, Peter…"
So he helped her.
Little magpie…
And there was a tent on the ocean, though no light shone within it.
Her walls of fabric had always been ablaze, glowing in yellows and oranges. While he wallowed in blues and blacks. Greys, browns…
Fly… Fly…
"We're here… We're… Ah…"
She crawled inside. She grabbed him by the hands, the arms, the sleeves of his jacket. She grunted and panted and choked on her own sobs as she struggled.
And Peter Lake felt afraid that all this effort would prove fatal to her, before reminding himself of his own situation, and hers, and where they found themselves in, and what this all meant.
You're dead, Peter Pan.
He collided with the floor of the tent.
You jumped and fell.
Beverly got on her knees, turned him carefully, cradled his head in her hands.
The wind howling through your wings like the sunlight through a broken autumn leaf.
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"
"Look at me," she told him.
Her voice was scorched. The very sound of it implied that she'd been screaming for a while.
"Beverly…"
"It's me, yes… I'm here…"
"Here…"
"Here…"
I'm sorry…
Had she screamed for him when he lay in silence, in his attic, pooled in bad thoughts and aimless prayers?
"Look at me, Peter," she whispered. "I want to see your eyes…"
Her throat was sore. Her words rusty, beautiful. It hurt to speak but she spoke either way.
Open your eyes…
Opening his eyes hurt, now, as well. A blink took so much effort.
Peter Lake looked at her anyways.
He couldn't deny her. His debt to her was too great.
My love…
He looked at her, and looked at her.
My love…
Until he could fully acknowledge that she was right here, before him, above him, too. That he ached so infinitely, all around, that he could barely arch a finger or move his lips to speak, but that she was here.
And he could see and feel and hear her.
You will never see her again.
Pearly Soames. A rumble, buried in the water.
You're still the same hideous boy with violence in his eyes…
Beverly's cheeks were maroon under the eyes, around the nose, but the skin on the rest of her face was hauntingly pale. Her lips, violet. Her hair, dark and curled and wet, blackened reds plastered to the green of her gown and the white of her throat.
You don't belong in her gardens…
The color of spring. The impossible hue. The one he'd tried and failed to envision for the greenhouse.
Her piece of heaven is not yours to tread upon…
Her eyes, reddened by tears. Pink clashing with the blue, the green, the palette of hues. A summer breeze. She was impossible.
All of this was impossible.
"Your face…"
Peter Lake gathered all the strength he had to lift a hand and touch her cheek. He brushed a thumb lovingly along the raw flesh under her eyes. The crimson stains of tears.
"Beverly," he murmured.
Beverly drew in a sharp little breath.
Her skin was cold against his own, slippery with salt water, stardust, mist. A galaxy of dust, webbed onto her face.
I dared to doubt you… All your theories…
Her features twisted, and he feared he'd hurt her, but when he made a move to withdraw his hand she clung to his wrist. She leaned into his touch, closed her eyes, winced.
I dared to touch your face in the greenhouse… To kiss you and believe, even for a moment, that I could wake you up…
She turned her face, then, and kissed his palm. The center, where every one of his thieving fingers converged in this web of bones and flesh.
My hands are dirtier than ever…
She was very cold.
I dared to rejoice at the sight of you drinking that champagne on New Year's Eve…
And only now, Peter Lake broke down in tears.
Trespasser.
Magpie.
"I want… to hold you," he managed to say, in-between gasps for air. "If that's alright with you…"
Murderer.
The pianist opened her arms and leaned down and draped herself along his broken body, without a second thought. And Peter Lake fought against the chains of pain coiled around his limbs, wrapped an arm around her, embraced her and let her embrace him.
Murderer…
They said nothing for a long while. They stayed converged, on the floor, holding each other in absolute silence.
Two souls, broken fragments, threadless needles. Spent and useless. Cold, freezing, in death. Rekindling a hearth, some warmth, with what little of their heartbeats remained.
Magpie…
Her slender nose bumped tenderly against his own. She curled herself in his direction, and Peter Lake cried quietly, looking upon her face, and her every blink and breath and action brought thicker tears to his eyes.
"Are you in pain?"
"No," she whispered.
"Are you sad? Are you angry? Speak to me… Please… Tell me what I must do…"
"You owe me nothing, Peter…"
"I owe you everything…"
"No…"
"I owe you a life," he wept.
Beverly touched his face, shook her head. He was drowning in the compassion in her gaze.
"Don't look at me like this... Don't forgive me..."
"Shh…"
"I won't let you..."
"Peter..."
"You can't, Beverly..."
"Peter," she repeated. So very gently.
"Please..."
"Peter..."
Oh, shut up, Peter.
Humpstone John had forgiven him once and he hadn't deserved it, then.
Just shut up.
He'd embraced him like Beverly embraced him now. And despite his shame, Peter Lake had let himself be hugged, and he had allowed his sorrows to pool at his feet and forsake him. He had accepted forgiveness.
He was a hypocrite. He was so weak…
"I want to kiss you," Beverly said, then, very quietly. "Can I?"
A film of tears glimmered from the pools of turquoise.
She breathed and he breathed and he spoke to her raggedly:
"You don't hate me at all...?"
Magpie…
She said nothing.
Peter whimpered: "Why... Why can't you hate me?"
This question seemed to pain her beyond words, and he immediately regretted asking it, but she replied before he could say another word.
"Do you hate me for carrying fire in my chest?"
He hurt. All of him hurt.
"No. Of course not-"
"I don't hate you, you fool," she cried. "N- Neither do I have the reason to hate you. The right to hate you. I love you, Peter Lake! I love you now. You've given me nothing but happiness, but you're the saddest man I've ever met…"
Her blue eyes flashed with tears. She looked both enraged and miserable.
It hurt to see her like this. God, it hurt… And hurt…
"Death stalked you like it stalked me. The same death claimed us both. How in the world are you at fault? How, Peter?"
The sight of her like this...
"You fool..."
You're not a thief...
"Don't you understand?" she wept. She curled her green-laced fingers into his shirt. "Will you, ever?"
My miracle...
He breathed softly now. He dared to hold her closer, and Beverly pressed her face gently to his, and he leaned into her.
"I'm sorry…"
"If you ever speak like this again, I will hate you then… Only then… I swear, Peter…"
"Okay… I'm sorry... I'm sorry…"
"Promise me…"
"I promise you… With all my heart, I promise you… With- With all that is left of my heart, anyways… I will never speak like this again…"
She opened her eyes. Her features had softened under the weight of her sadness. She looked closely at his face.
"I love you," he told her. "Most of all, I'm glad that you love me too… I don't think I've ever told you…"
"Let me kiss you," she whimpered. "Please..."
"Kiss me," he murmured. "You can kiss me, always."
So Beverly took his face in her hands, bringing her tear-pooled lips heartily to his own.
And Peter Lake chose, at least for a moment, to be kinder to himself. He closed his eyes, sank into the darkness, and allowed the feel of her mouth and her hands to become his only bridge with reality.
Shut up, Peter…
He was no bird, no wolf. He was not even a man anymore.
He was a needle, weightless. An abandoned tool, ensnared in an unfinished tapestry, trapped within the vast landscape of the universe. A shade of silver amid the infinite colors that formed this sky of paint.
Just shut up…
Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.
Yes! Back to Peter's POV! :3 God, I missed him... And his sadness... Besides, I feel sad today. For reasons I wish not to elaborate too deeply. I've spoke of this before, anyways. I expected to be far away from pain like this... I'm heavy, and tired, and... well, I like writing from his eyes when I feel this way... It helps.
This chapter turned out so long that I literally split it in two. If you couldn't tell, I missed having Peter and Beverly together so much, these last 15 chapters (not to mention the last 10 chapters of ASITL, where Beverly is already dead and Peter is just suffering).
I'll be posting the second part tomorrow, hopefully, so, expect another chapter to reach you very soon.
I actually had a very hard time deciding what Peter and Beverly's first words to each other would be like, after reuniting in death. But, amid all the excitement and pain and confusion (remember what I explained earlier? That "the swim up" is exhausting and painful to those who have no ticket, to those who are not meant to be received in a vessel? Or, that Peter doesn't wake up anywhere, but is literally adrift in the sky, and Beverly brings him to her tent? Yup. I'll explain soon, don't worry :3 I have so many plans. I'm so excited, you guys, I'm so happy to see my dumb additions to the worldbuilding can actually work XD), I think it's more fitting that Peter's words to Beverly are briefer, and more erratic. And that his grief and his guilt are so great that he can't even begin to put it into words. That all he can say is "Don't forgive me."
I also really like the idea of the ocean being "purgatory" for him - and for star-less people, in general. To be an infinite castaway. The way he'd been all his life.
And I also am very proud of their conversation at the end, when Peter asks Beverly why she can't hate him. It's once again a chance for me to explain why Peter Lake means so much to me, as a character, as a concept. That what makes Peter miraculous is the very nature of his humanity. He is destined to be crooked, vengeful, horrid, but... he's a good man, in spite of it all. And that's why I love him so much. And... yeah. I hold him close to my heart as we venture into this new year, 2023. I need him with me. He gives me hope...
See you again soon. I love having these two cinnamon rolls back together again. I'll let them be happy for a change. At least for a little while ,3
Here is your hug. *hug* I love you all.