"Ed? Why are you sitting in the dark?" Peter asks, as he lights first one candle then another, settles himself half a meter to Edmund's right on the burgundy cushions. The High King's face is worried, his posture tense.
Edmund's brow twitches into a frown. He's now aware that he's been sitting for hours here in this parlor, staring, no fire built, no wall-torches lit. He glances towards the window, sees it is evening, but only just. He sighs.
"Sometimes, I have thoughts that require silence and patience, Peter," Edmund says. "I should think you'd understand without being explained to like some toddler." He moves his eyes to his hands, which were at his sides, now clasped tightly in his lap. He thinks about crossing his arms further in a sort of self-hug, but remembers it as a boyish want, not a manly need, so he stays still.
Peter is no longer facing Edmund. He slouches, crumples, suddenly, as if he were a frigate, and the wind had fallen out of his sails. He looks distraught, hurt shining out of his eyes. Edmund sighs, knows his brother would probably be further discomfited by the thoughts he has been pondering on these cushions: his absolute and desperate longing for his brother's touches. Touches that once came so frequently and now not at all.
They attend stately functions, fight in battles side by side, go horseback riding along the coast; all things that kings, as well as friends and brothers, do. And yet, there is a hollowness there. Peter hasn't touched him, not even a sliver of a finger against a clothed arm, in over two years.
Edmund dreams of the time of the great battle for Narnia, his life ebbing away from the wound of the White Witch. He remembers the fading light, the near total darkness, and the golden sun reappearing. And the first thing he sees upon waking is Peter's watery, oh-so-blue eyes.
He remembers the crushing embrace. So much comfort and love wrapped all around him, tendrils of heat and right and something like bliss exploding across his insides.
The memory stings, turns bitter, as he recalls these recent years.
Another snide remark is about to leave his lips, when his brother's soft, dreadfully humble voice, stops him.
"Ed... Edmund." Peter's voice breaks with emotion.
And as if a switch has been thrown, Edmund remembers all of the near-touches that he himself had begun to avoid, that that avoidance had been present a long time before these past two empty years. The realization twists him, tears him apart. He remembers the long nights and days of thinking it wrong for the spark of pleasure, the resonance of joy he received from the simple contacts with Peter's hands, Peter's strong arms, the shielding warmth that he could still feel long after Peter had left the room. Edmund, convincing himself it was wrong, unseemly, sinful, he shut himself away. Away from Peter and his warmth and his smile and his comfort.
Edmund has been unjust.
He picks up his hand, slowly moves it towards Peter's shoulder. His fingers glide a little on the dark blue velvet before he grasps first the cloth, then the body underneath. His fingers tighten as Peter startles. He is staring into Peter's eyes, which are stormy. Edmund dares to believe that he sees a slight fire, a hope, growing there.
Edmund relaxes his grip on Peter's shoulder, scoots over a bit, takes a breath. Another. And leans in.
The end