Author's note: This one was greatly inspired by the beginning of "The P Files" episode, and some moments with the painting in Mama and Papa's bedroom from another episodes.
«So that there'd be a sun of our own in the attic?» Mr. Peppercorn repeated his wife's unspoken answer, rather than asking her.
«Yes and no», Bella laughed.
Turning her gaze from the five yachts in the painting to him.
...He easily agreed to buy that painting to decorate the attic: the second floor was now occupied by three children's rooms with windows on the sunny side, and his and his wife's own bedroom was moved under the roof – and lighted way less, even on a clear day.
Who knows, perhaps before meeting her Baldwin, Bella Peppercorn could either have lived by the sea, or had already been on a long voyage; or had simply been inspired by some romantic novel and dreamed that one day on their anniversary she would go on a romantic cruise with her husband. He never pried anything out of his wife – nor did he ever want to: with their eyes, tails, or just a gentle, casual touch, both could say more to each other than with words spoken out loud.
And if Bella's eyes warmed at the sight of five white sails against the sunset, and then at the sight of her husband, what could be wrong with that?
Who of them accidentally bumped into the other one first in a small record shop – a thin, pink-pelted girl with a shock of red curls, or a skinny, raspberry-and-white young fellow – Bella couldn't remember now. The main thing was that one of them dropped the records they were carrying to the cash register. The other one rushed to help, carefully picked up the envelopes, checking on them: thank heavens, all the disks were unharmed.
But she clearly remembered how, already by the cash register, the young fellow, still worried about the valuable disks, stood, guiltily pinning down his ears, trying to reach for his wallet, barely even able to slip a shaking paw into his pocket. And how she couldn't have thought of any better way to calm him down than whisper: there, there, they're all right, breathe, – being so confused herself that she placed a calming paw – not even over his racing heart, but just below his rib cage.
He breathed in deeply.
The white surface bellied into her palm, as if a sail in the wind.
And both looked into each other's eyes.
The dashing racer Baldwin (now Bella knows his name, even though he himself doesn't like it all that much) rides around town on his scooter, ears flapping in the wind, and laughs. His love for Bella is bursting inside of him, coming out as laughter. Looks like he himself is about to burst – both because of love, and because of how the darling girlfriend squeezes her arms around his waist as they ride, a grip much mightier than a car belt.
She squeezes him like that on every date, every time he asks her out for a ride. Only once he asks her not to squeeze that much. And, a few more dates later, himself doesn't laugh as much as usually: he doesn't want to. The warmth of Bella's palms resting caressingly on his middle – so caressingly he somehow senses she may – apparently – like? feeling him breathe against them – becomes more precious to him than the excitement of a race, the noise of the engine, and speed.
The wind should care for its sail; of course it should.
In front of the mirror, Baldwin – now a respectable insurance agent – runs a paw over his short haircut, smoothing his dapper mustache with the other one; then straightens his sideburns, grown to gorgeous curls over the years: just perfect, perfect look to start a day and succeed at work.
«Is that your folder on the chair, honey?»
The darling, darling Bella; looking the same despite the years, only her head, instead of a shock of red curls, is now crowned with a smooth ponytail – almost in tone with her own fluffy tail with a darker red tip – and the green vest had long given way to her own practical pink pelt. Still as thin as ever. Unlike him–
«Eeurrrh!»
He even shrieks as she wraps her wet, ice-cold palms around him. What even was the use to smooth down the hair, and ears, and mustache... Even his tail tuft is now all frizzy because of a sudden shock.
«I'm just warming my hands, darling», his wife laughs back. «You're warm... Besides, now you're at least awake!»
«Gotcha!» Mr. Peppercorn barks jokingly, grasping his wife's paws, and starts quickly rubbing them with his own paws until they're no longer cold. «Warmer now? Should I let go?»
«All right! Let go! Mercy!» Bella pleads, nuzzles against her husband's sideburn in a conciliatory manner, and, once he lets go of her hands, starts to preen him, until he looks... not worse than before her joke, at least. He "smiles" back at her gratefully – only with the back of his head, slightly raising his ears. But a telling grin on his muzzle that reflects in the mirror hints: he wasn't that cold. It was the sudden surprise that made him shriek. And he does not mind one bit if she lets her palms warm on his belly; why not if he in fact grew much warmer – he even slightly embraces himself, smiling at the thought – and softer...
...sail that bellied out with the wind. Southern and gentle, of course.
The penultimate sail on the painting brings a memory of what Bella witnessed the day her husband and the children were cleaning the attic.
It was way too quiet upstairs. Bella peeked out the door, wondering if something was wrong. But when she saw what was going on, she could barely resist...
...to touch her sleeping husband.
Like in an armchair, he sat back on a pile of bags and boxes packed with old stuff, and snored softly to the accompaniment of their elder son quitely drumming on flower pots and plastic buckets, and the younger twins leafing through old comic books.
Only later, closer to evening, Bella called them all in for dinner. She couldn't forgive herself if she disturbed–
...a living sail, slightly wavering at the breeze.
Way too white, way too trusting, asking for a delicate touch;
way too much belonging to the secret night world the attic were to become very soon,
the world dreamed about for so long by both Bella herself
and her beloved spouse.
He responded, stretching out in his sleep so that her palm was– where it had been when they first met.
A gleam of dawn from the window lay on top of her delicate palm,
part covered with Baldwin's own warm, creamy paw.
His secret, unspoken answer to her:
"I could spend eons with you in this harbor, my Wind."