23. Angel
His black eyes had become translucent. Films of tears, glimmering stardust, the greens of her dress and the reds of her hair…
Kaleidoscope gaze. Caves of color, drinking her in.
There were no wounds on his face. Neither cut nor bruise. His kisses didn't taste of blood or frost or steel. And he was in pain, regardless. He could barely move at first.
Beverly couldn't stop crying. All the same, she couldn't stop talking.
She told him everything, leaving nothing aside.
All that mattered and all that didn't matter. What she had been free to speak of, when he lay on his side on the attic of Grand Central Station, as well as all that she'd been incapable of even whispering.
His death, foreseen. His life, cherished.
Beverly told him all of that.
She adored the sound of her own voice right now. Though broken and ragged and heavy with death, she was heard…
We have nothing but time…
She spoke of tickets and vessels and harnesses of light. Of invisible hands touching invisible faces. The taste of the universe. Her misery, her helplessness, as well as her power.
Talk slowly… The year has just begun…
Willa and her father in the carriage. Her cries for Cecil. The governess and the pile of bedsheets. Her mother, and the furnace, and the implications behind it all. His prayer… The bridge…
Peter Lake listened to her like he promised he would. Absorbing her every word.
Asking, nodding, observing. As her eyes wandered and her lips moved. His gaze never ceased moving. Neither did the tears ever fully stop pouring from it. Thick, flat lines of water, his cheek, the floor, the bridge of his nose.
Beverly interrupted herself more than once, when her words ran scarce. Too often, really. But Peter didn't mind. On the contrary, he held her to him as if she were the most precious thing in the universe. He shushed her under his breath and ran his hands along her waist, lazily, sweetly.
"Does it hurt, if I hold you tighter?"
"You don't hurt me, Beverly… You could never hurt me…"
He nuzzled his face to her own, breathing her in, letting his trembling lips drop hesitant kisses along her skin. Beverly stroked his wet hair, felt the sleek water dripping between her fingers, along her knuckles.
To feel so much again. To feel... It was intoxicating...
Beverly's lips were pooled in salt and glinting ash of starlight. Her eyes ached. She kissed Peter's temple, his forehead. She let her hands wander about him. The thick, wet clothes. The skin underneath. He was still a bit warm. His blood had yet to completely congeal in its new, stagnant state. This realization sent shivers down her spine.
Their arms locked ever tighter, their bodies touched. Peter stroked her hair, ran a quivering thumb along the curve of her jaw.
"What exists, then?" he whispered. "Light and dark? Angels and demons? Screams and silences? Stars that harbor death?"
"I exist. You exist."
"I believe you."
Beverly's fingers were absently toying with the fabric that wrapped around him, the darkness that had flooded with sunshine at her touch. The shadows he was fused within. His colors, his textures...
And he responded to her, his breath thickening, his arms trembling around her. He knew before she did. Wordlessly, or otherwise, he understood.
"Touch me... Here..."
"I'm sorry..."
"Don't... No..."
She shook her head sheepishly. "I don't know what I'm doing..."
He guided her face to his and kissed her mouth. He then took her hands and gently led them to himself, allowed her to feel, to touch, to caress. Their movements were painfully slow, excrutiating in their caution. And they both huddled closer together as if they were embarrassed to do so.
He told her softly: "Don't apologize for this..."
He'd been just as deprived of a touch like this for as many days as she had. All that he'd received had been shoves and strikes and a cold grave of water.
His fingers trembled between hers and tears gleamed from the darkness in his eyes. Stars, winking off thunderclouds. Peeking bright lights in this haunted city within his gaze.
"Stop crying... Please..."
He chuckled softly. "Oh, don't be unfair... You're crying, too…"
She was in a dream. A wintry spring, a meadow of white grass. He was lying upon his back and he was trembling so much, and she was kissing his eyes and his face…
Why can't you hate me?
Beverly talked, talked…
"Do these hurt?"
"No..." His voice shook. He whispered, in heartbreaking awe: "They feel wonderful..."
Where had the bruises been? Where, exactly? She found every place where he may have ached. Every corner that may carry the shadow of the torture he'd endured, and she kissed it, and Peter lay underneath her, tears rolling down his face, tears rolling down hers. Their breaths mingling, erratic and pained and desperate.
"I'll stop as soon as you want me to…"
"No- No- Don't leave me…" He kissed her shoulder, curling himself against her. He murmured, then: "My life, don't leave me…"
Was this really what she was now? An angel, frightening, ever-powerful?
Say "America."
She was no angel. She'd been enraged before she met him. She'd flirted up a storm and relished in his helplessness, the first day, the second day. She'd been unfair to her father, overseeing his suffering, on more than one occasion.
Beverly Penn, a scream.
Beverly Penn, a prayer? An angel? No.
Little redheaded girl with fire in her chest and a silly accent, transformed to this. Begged to stay.
Begged…
He was fourteen years her senior. He'd run and flown long before she'd been safe to do so. He was a piece of the world, stronger than her, but he begged for her…
Why can't you hate me?
How could he ever think that she could hate him? Was she ever to be truly heartless? Was that his fear?
I won't let you forgive me…
He had so many fears… Perhaps this was merely one of them.
She saw in Peter's eyes now the same clarity that had possessed her on New Year's Day. A hesitation drowned by desperation and endearment.
The refusal to wait for time she believed she had no right to. To take advantage of that which she'd been already gifted, instead.
You're water, you're a good man…
Beverly understood now. She'd felt this, after all.
You're not dumb, you're not ugly…
The shadows formed by the sunlight, as it broke between his fingers, lines of darkness upon the hands she had kissed.
How many more times shall I tell you, before you finally look at yourself the way I do?
They were part of the map. His smiles, the truth they revealed. A truth she loved.
Blood, and chocolate, and frost. Grey and worldly, in life and in death.
"I won't leave you… Never…"
His hands cupped her face, fingers gently brushing away stray wisps of red hair.
Suddenly she was trembling too. And Peter took notice and kissed her hands, her wrists.
Never…
They were less patient than they'd been, the last time. Less detailed, too. Before they could completely unclothe one another, they fell into each other's arms and remained embraced.
And all at once they were together again. One and the same. And they were closing their eyes as they sank into each other, trembling limbs wrapped over one another.
"Are you alright...?"
"I am..."
"Okay... Okay..."
"You're not hurting me..."
"Promise..."
"I promise..."
They hugged one another as if they feared for either of them to suddenly sink into the floor.
I, you… The two of us…
The desert, the storm, the rain…
Two earrings, one for you, one for me…
Beverly had broken down into sunshine. She'd become the clouds and brushed her fingers along the streets of New York like a child drives a stick through an ant farm. She'd been a giant.
She was minuscular now. As microscopic as she'd been in life. Why, then, did this make her feel so powerful? This of all things. Something so worldly, even crass in its carnality…
His head, hugged to her chest. His lips on her skin. Her heartless chest, her cold throat. His little whispers of affection, the caution with which he held her.
The gravity. The dizziness. His arms, steadying her, like they'd steadied her on a staircase, not too long before.
It was easy… So very easy…
That she was one of two people, and they'd both reached the same conclusion. An agreement, shared between them. That they were embraced in a floating cave of fabric. Lost and stranded alike. Afraid, even moreso than they'd been three nights ago, when she still had a heartbeat that could falter, and a life that could be extinguished…
My miracle…
He was once again the only thing that was certain about her world. The one element that could not be a product of her own imagination.
Her mother was a backdraft. Her father was blind. Her sister, alone. A nightmare, unfolded. Death was stranger than anything she could have imagined.
Burn in Hell, drown in Heaven.
Cecil, missing. Maybe he never truly existed to begin with. The sky was an ocean and now they were hidden within the folds of a dead star, a lampless tent.
What did it matter? What mattered, really? But a body under her own, this skin she could kiss, this voice that answered to hers, these eyes that stared back. This soul, interwoven with her own.
"Beverly…"
A name. Beverly Penn, a whisper.
"Peter…"
Peter Lake.
Two names, two crickets, freed.
He loved her, and she loved him, and that existed. That was pain as well as pleasure. She felt both, and he did too, though they made no mention of it. The light and the shadow. The sweet and the bitter. She felt him.
I love you…
Felt, and felt him…
I love you, Peter… How could you ever think otherwise?
Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.
Another chapter I had to divide in two XD Because, whew, I started writing and writing and just couldn't stop.
Chapter 24 will be the conversation afterwards (so a second "Whispers," basically, and "Whispers" is the chapter of "A Star in the Lake" that I've edited the most because I always ended up comind back to what I'd written - the peace between Peter and Beverly, the talk I wish they'd had in the movie, writing dialogue between them is such a joy, and Chapter 24 of TFOTM is not gonna be as light-hearted as "Whispers," I will tackle denser topics, given the circumstances, but Peter and Beverly's conversations are my favorite thing to write, I love to give them room to discuss things in a mature and empathic manner, and I have missed them, so much...), so I basically let this chapter stay as the love scene, and nothing else.
I was hesitant about adding another love scene so soon, but then again, I've kept you waiting for 30 chapters at this point, if you count the last ASITL chapters where Beverly and Peter are no longer together. Furthermore, from an emotional perspective, I feel like, with all the sorrow and relief and excitement, and all the pain I've put them through these last chapters (especially Beverly), these two would realistically come to this point.
It's something they've done before, so it's not really a groundbreaking feat they are accomplishing, in the midst of all this strangeness. It's not a task that they are focusing on getting perfect. I make sure to point out that Beverly takes in the pain and the pleasure alike, and so does he, they both feel the same, and they enjoy themselves for it. It's just a second moment where they completely converge, coming to an agreement, and letting each other become their anchors to reality. And a chance for Beverly to acknowledge just how hesitant Peter is, in regards to his own goodness. She becomes the one who guides him now, the one who is worried about hurting him constantly, the one on top, etc. I love making things balanced between them: how they each get a moment to comfort the other, to concern themselves with the other, and all that. I don't know. I'm cheesy like that XD
I feel like, even though I made Peter's lingering guilt mostly internalized last chapter (I made it so the very fact that Beverly is happy to be with him again is enough for him to look past his own pessimistic outlook on his own humanity, he just wants her to be happy), Beverly is much too clever and much too good at reading people, and digging into their souls, so of course she knows what Peter is afraid of - the bit about the shadows formed by Peter's fingers upon his hands? Yup. It's those tiny details I love writing about, I'm super happy with this :3
Plus, I've reached a point where I don't even need to think twice, when I choose to write a chapter from Peter's POV vs. Beverly's POV. I already know what to do, and what changes to make to my descriptions and the way I go about explaining things. With Beverly's POV, I write denser, my descriptions are thicker in detail and the pace is slower. She's more poetic than Peter, at least, I make her POV much more elemental and ethereal than Peter's, which is often grounded in reality and human emotion (emotional damage, basically XD). For that reason, with Peter, I tend to write quicker, because I tend to draw from my own pain at the moment, or my own feelings. With Beverly, I do that too, but I treat my momentary emotions with more tenderness - I wait them out until the emotion becomes reflection.
I feel like the way I've written from both of these characters' eyes has evolved for the better, now that I discuss this. And... that's truly lovely. I'm glad to see myself grow. I love the different paths I've taken, when making my own journey through the events of "Winter's Tale," the changes I've made, the conversations, all that I've created and the movie that's inspired me, so... I hope you enjoy what I've written, too. Thank you for being here, as always. I'm glad you are :3
Here is your hug *hug, see you again very soon!