Are you lonely?
When mother dies, her sick-quiet whispers are still echoing in his ears something like a conscience. What had once been the dieing pleas of a mother warped and twisted into the sinister croons of his shoulder's little devil.
"There'd always been something off about you, hadn't there? And, to think you thought you could have salvation."
He prays hard with the fervor of a madman, hands tightly clasped before a mouth open and breathing the silent words that beg for redemption. With every word he feels no release, no lifting of his burdens; only the weight of eyes still stained the color of red wine upon him, silently questioning the meaning of his actions. He doesn't want to explain (not to him, never to him).
x
He'd wanted to turn the boy long before the woman had grasped his hand and beseeched him with hoarse whispers.
The slight and feminine boy, Edward Masen, lay in one of the many hospital beds along with all the other dieing boys and girls. His skin is white and pulled taut over the garishly protruding bones of his cheeks and limp hands and wet with feverish perspiration. He looks so pretty and perfect and pathetic and it breaks Carlisle's heart to see.
He'd been dieing quicker with each ragged breath and the nurses past him by as if he were already gone. They'd said it with their carefully averted eyes and lips drawn thin and tight. This boy cannot be saved.
Carlisle had made up his mind when he saw the boy's eyes- half-lidded and murky with drugs and illness, but they were the clearest, sharpest shade of emerald green. He'd imagined those eyes were the sort that see right past his cool exterior to to the naked contours of his brain without a bit of effort.
It both frightened and excited him and he knew he ad to have this boy all to himself, for that day and every day after that, forever young and forever lovely.
x
Will you touch me when I say to you that I love you?
He's as mindless as any newborn- wild-eyed and easily distracted and flitting about. Although averse to killing the humans he's pre-programmed to crave, the thirst and want wrench at his nerves. Long into the night he wails and keens, scrabbling sharp nails at the flawless flesh of his arms and the easily broken wood of the walls.
It physically pains Carlisle to hear and watch, but he remains in their room, watching his newborn cry tearlessly for the thirst that cannot be quenched by an animal's corpse. He feels even worse when he wonders how he'd cry in the throes of a dirty passion.
x
Edward plays the grand piano (musty with age and little use) to the timeless days of wanting and never having. He remains mute as he has since the very first day of his last life and plunks along the dust-swathed keys, making little ditties that would've been rather enjoyable had the notes not gone sour from old age.
His face is a smooth mask- eyes beginning to dim to warm honey, expression set into a careful apathy.
Sometimes Carlisle has the irrational fear that Edward knows his thoughts, the dirty secret ones he vainly attempts to keep smothered. It's in the way he stares. The way the weight of his gaze ha the power to accuse and condemn Carlisle of each and every sin that stains his hands a bloody red.
He blinks and Edward is impassive yet again. His eyes remain focused and unblinking upon the piano as his fingers lazily press the keys of "Aura Lee".
x
They stay in the same room, lying on a singular bed for nighttime hours in order to feign human normalcy. Sometimes when Carlisle's mind goes faraway with idle thoughts of an immortal, he imagines he feels the static brush of icy fingertips along the back of his neck. He shudders and thinks of purer things.
x
I'd burn in hell for you
Newborns are irrational, he reasons. They feel too much. They think too little. He shouldn't read so much into this.
Vain thoughts are cut short by quick and hard kisses up his throat and to his mouth still open from the shock of it all. Edward's hands clutch vice-like at Carlisle's shoulders, pulling him closer, keeping him there.
He should put a stop to this. He should be stopping this. This is sinful. This is wrong. This is this is this is-
"I know what you're thinking." Edward's voice is not hoarse or raspy from disuse, as Carlisle had always expected, but clear and lovely as he had hoped. He breathes against Carlisle's open mouth and stares at him with golden eyes that know all his secrets. "I can hear you think them."
The doctor in him wants to question this, wants to know how this boy can hear his thoughts. The guilty man in him wants to repent, to beg this boy's forgiveness and unthink all his awful thoughts or lock them away in his own personal Pandora's Box. But, the doctor and the guilty man are far weaker then the vampire, an immortal being who's forever damned and gives little thought to the repercussions of sin when compared to the unsatiated lust within.
Mouths seamlessly pressed against each other, the wiser man deftly disrobes them both. They lay naked and entailed in the confines of the dark and lonesome room with sin clinging to their bare flesh and in the caverns of their mouths as they kiss dirty and fuck hard.
Carlisle know he can no longer ask forgiveness from dead mothers or priestly fathers or a Lord who condemns from the safety of faraway heavens. He slides surgeon-steady hands too low and hears Edward's whisper-y moans and thinks of more pleasant things.
xxx
song lyrics are shamelessly taken from Megan McCauley's "See Through"