The breeze was turning cold now, but Peter lingered still on the balcony. In his mind’s eye he was recalling the slender form of Edmund as he had leant against the porch, willing that image to overlie the railing before him now. His brother’s hands were outstretched, just so, with his shoulders hunched ever so slightly, and if Peter half-closed his eyes he could almost see the wind tousling Edmund’s dark hair.
Oh, to be permitted to tousle it himself, running his fingers through the silky black strands! Or better yet, to slip his hands around that slim waist and clasp that graceful figure to his own! But Peter knew that it would not end there; once begun, he would not be able to restrain himself from unleashing all of his unseemly passion upon his brother. And that would be the end of them both, for Edmund would be gravely affronted and aggrieved by such an outpouring of unnatural, unbridled lust, and Peter, for his own part, would be too ashamed to ever face Edmund or any other living creature again.
And so Peter reined in his base desires, denying himself any hope of release from the prison built around him by his own heart and mind.