A/N: Also posted over on . Check out .com, too. It's awesome.
My first attempt at writing Edward. And review, please. Even flames. Written at 2:30am on a lonely, dark and cold Tuesday night in London, England.
I knew she was here before I saw her.
My physical reaction is immediate – my body's demeanour changes completely; my head rises, my neck extending over the crowds to search for her honest, wide face; my hands start to run through my hair in anticipation to reciprocate her warm, gentle touch; my heartbeat speeds up, desperately aware of the blood pumping through it, pushes warm redness up to my pallid cheeks, and making me feel alive once more; I move onto my tiptoes, desperate to meet her gaze – which would, in another world, also be seeking mine.
But though I see her beautifully symmetrical face, her warm chocolate eyes are not looking for me – they are looking up at her companion, the Jacob she had gushed about to Alice, who had graciously told me not to expect anything this evening.
This evening: the evening we were celebrating Alice's birthday, the evening I had anticipated for the last two months, the evening which I had planned on telling Bella exactly how I felt about her, the evening where my body was split open, my heart torn out and squashed into the cold, hard floor beneath my feet.
Jacob is attractive; I cannot deny it, even though I want to be able to – a reason for her not to be with him. But even I cannot recognise his beauty; his cheekbones are broad, a strong jaw balancing them out, his eyes are nearly black, but not a cold shade, for a constant smile colours his expression, crinkling his facial features and making them markedly friendly. His hair is long and black and shiny, the styling reminiscent of the frat boys of today, and hangs loose, nearly touching his shoulders in a casual wave. He is tall – taller even than Emmett, I imagine, and broadest, his shoulders wide and limbs long; he could pick her up effortlessly, I think. His torso is narrow compared to his top half, and her slim arm is consistently slung around his waist – probably the only part of him she can reach around.
Well, probably not the only part.
My heart dies slightly.
Lovemaking between Bella and I was beautiful – there was no other word for it. I'm not a pussy lovemaker, that's for sure, but our procreation always held something behind it, something that didn't stem purely from unadulterated lust for one another's bodies. No, even when I would bend her over, and take her roughly from behind, our love for each other was evident in every touch, every caress of the other's heated skin.
The chemistry between them, the tall, handsome Indian and his short, curvy brunette girlfriend is palpable. There is no doubting that they have slept together. There is no doubt that he has touched the same skin, kissed the same intimate places, loved the same tender parts as I have. There is no semblance of doubt in my mind, no blissful vision of ignorance that she has not moaned the same moans, gasped the same breaths and climaxed with the same vigour as she did with me.
She was always a little minx. Even our first time, when we fumbled and sweated and giggled and apologised, she knew what she was doing, knew where to touch me to get me hot and flustered. She knew where to go, what to do – she had been on top, for Christ's sakes. She had kissed me once, guided me in, enveloped me gently in her warmth, risen up again and speared herself onto my length, releasing a guttural moan; so different to the hushed, pleasurable giggles of our clumsy fumbles in the dark of her bedroom.
And then, once we had gotten the hang of each other, did you teach me how to pleasure you, how to make you groan my name, whether it be a simple gesture, like kissing your neck, or a more overt one – I know my teeth clamping down onto your earlobe never failed in making you bite your bottom lip vociferously – a sure-fire signal that I was getting you going.
We had fun sexually, there was no question; as we became older, more experienced, our sexual tastes grew. We played around with role-play: costumes and bondage – I thanked Rosalie and Alice desperately for those experiences. Every month, as your Cosmo came, we would try something scarily new, whether it would be a new sex toy – the vibrations intimidated me, but simply made you giggle in pleasure – or a new position. These new explorations were my favourite. I got to discover new areas of skin on your body, never touched by another man before me, and found your unfounded pleasure spots – the delicate skin behind your knee, the sensitive whorl at the back of your ankle, even the cute dip of your belly button.
All of those places provided you with pleasure, and me with a new snippet of information of how to entrance you.
But we didn't just have sex. We loved, god, how we loved.
Although the physical climaxes we received from our fucking were more intense, our emotional peaks were always the more powerful for me. You didn't know this – I would have died rather than tell you – but every time we truly love (thank god Emmett can't read my mind) I would wrap you in my arms afterwards, your pale body sprawled delicately across mine, and cry into your hair from the sheer happiness of your presence in my life.
If I had told you, I think now as I watch you laugh as you in Jacob's arms, you would have reacted in two ways. You were always so unpredictable - one of my favourite qualities of yours. You could have either laughed disbelievingly and brought me into your arms, reassuring me that you felt the same way, or simply have confessed that you felt the same way about me.
In retrospect, I wouldn't have minded either one.
In retrospect, I wish I had told you.
Although I don't think it would have stopped you from leaving.
Those days, those painful days after your departure to him – to Jacob – were like nothing else. Alice and Emmett forcefully transported me to my parents' house, where Esme left plates of food outside my locked and closed bedroom door, while I cried and smashed and cried and shouted and cried.
I considered returning to my troubled adolescent trait of drawing a blade across my skin, and watching the blood slowly seep out of the straight lines. But I was still so aware of blood, having spent so much time around you. I was still so careful of spilling blood, whether you were there or not.
Funnily enough, it was blood that initially really brought us together – your fainting spell in Mr Banner's biology class, during the blood drive – the fainting spell that caused Mr Banner to send me with you to the nurse's office.
That was the first time I felt brave enough to speak to you – to really speak to you. That titbit of information (your fear of blood) was enough to make me realise my obsession with you. For it was that afternoon that I asked you out for the first time. It was that fainting spell that started our relationship. The spark that kindled the fire, if you'd excuse my lame analogy. (You always did, after all.)
I watch you now, from my vantage point where I stand by the bar, leading Jacob out onto the dance floor, laughter in your eyes.
A swig of scotch is a lame attempt to lessen my pain; instead, it just makes my eyes water and my throat burn. I taught you how to dance – that first prom – the night that I realised that I would never let you go.
Little did I know that you would let me go.
You stood on my feet in those ridiculous heels that Alice had put you in. Little did you know how radiant you looked that night, in the midnight blue that I favoured so. Little did you know that I was masking a raging hard-on behind those tux trousers after seeing your bare leg in those stilettos, your teasing naked shoulder, tantalising curve of your breasts and the titillating line of your shoulder blades beneath the gauzy fabric, wafting ethereally around you.
You were a vision that night, as you are tonight.
The black dress you are perfectly sporting is tighter and more risque than the clothes you wore when you were with me. And no matter which way I look at it, it's a good thing.
A good that thing you've finally gained the confidence, recognised your beauty enough to show your curves in the figure-hugging, satin-y fabric.
A good thing that you feel comfortable enough in yourself to show off your body in front of the man you love.
I finished the glass of scotch in my hand and rested my head on the bar, in utter despair, releasing a sigh saturated with pain.
A small hand rested on my back, spreading warmth through my abdomen. There was a flash of rapid thought in my mind, of how it would be you, how you would murmur quietly in my ear that could we go somewhere, anywhere and talk. How sweet your voice would sound! We would discuss our problems, you would apologise, I would forgive you, of course, and then I would walk you home, kissing you lightly on the lips at your front door, before turning to leave, walking down one step. The same hand that was currently on my back would be placed on my arm, and would turn me around sharply. And then your arms would wrap passionately around my shoulders and pull me closer to you, your lips feverishly on mine.
And whom would I be to refuse your offer?
I'd pick you up, and carry you over the threshold like a bride and groom (my heart clenches in agony at the loss of that opportunity) and carry you through the apartment to your bedroom, where I'd lay you down gently on the bed and ravish your face with kisses as you squirmed and squealed beneath me, trying desperately to do requite my actions.
"Edward?"
Alas, my fantasies were to no avail – it was my sister's voice that spoke my name.
"Edward?" she pervaded my senses again and I turned lazily around to her, anguish furrowing my brow and turning my mouth into an unhappy frown.
"Oh, Edward." Alice sighed at my expression and I rested my head on her shoulder.
I didn't mind this public display of emotion. Bella was too wrapped up in Jacob to really notice anything else, and she was the only person whose opinions mattered to me.
Guilt did reach me, though, when I remembered that it was Alice's birthday party I was attending.
"Happy birthday, sis." I mumbled as I lifted my head from her delicate shoulder. She placed her palm on my cheek tenderly and smiled pityingly.
"You've said that a thousand times." She spoke briskly, as she always did. My older sister's bossiness was something that had irked Bella, I knew. Bella, who preferred to sit around in her old jeans and t-shirts than be dragged around by--
"Stop, Edward." Alice's sharp tone surprised me, and my gaze flickered back to my dark-haired sister, "stop thinking about things that will never happen."
The latter phrase was spoken with more compassion, which I was thankful for. I don't know how much more pain stemming from other people's honesty I could deal with.
My family had tried everything to rid me of this anguish, this formidable sense of loss and totality. Carlisle had tried anti-depressants; Esme referred me to a therapist. Alice had tried another kind of therapy – retail. Emmett had stayed, steadfast, as a constant, yet silent, support and beer supplier. Tanya, my god sister, had been a shoulder to cry on, and it was her arms that often welcomed me – into comfort, and into bed.
We both had broken hearts. Her love, Felix, had left her for a teenager he'd knocked up – who was half Tanya's age. Instead of turning to drugs or alcohol, each of us turned to the mutual comfort of sex. While wallowing in our respective problems, neither of us seemed to notice that it was not the other's name that was called at the climax.
Her groans and pleas for release were directed her lost love. My sobs of pleasure were always to you, the striking brunette far from me, on the other side of the room this evening.
We both knew that we were self-destructing, but neither of us knew how to escape the vicious cycle that constituted heartbreak.
"Edward," the soft, lulling voice of my sister cooed into my ear, "she's watching you."
My eyes snapped up to scan the room, but there was no pair of shining chocolate eyes to meet mine.
"Who?" I asked sharply, irritated at having my hopes dashed. Again.
"Tanya," Alice said, jabbing me in the ribs with her pointy little elbow. It felt like being poked with the sharp end of an umbrella.
"Oh," I returned, disinterested, to my drink.
"She wants something from you. She's coming over…" Alice's voice faded and was replaced by another, deeper and huskier – much more alluring.
"Edward, shall we retire?"
My eyes shifted from the mahogany surface of the bar (such a similar colour to her shining hair) to the magnificent woman standing in front of me. Tanya, at first glance, appeared to be a heartbreaker.
An amazon of a woman, she was stunningly sexy; her lips were pouted and painted a crimson red; her matching scarlet dress led a daring line from the shallow dip of her collarbones to her inviting cleavage; her warm, golden hair curled gently to the curve below her breasts; her torso was flat and lean, her waist fine and curved; her legs were long and toned and flexible. Many a time she would wrap them around my waist, thrusting me deeper into her, or bring her knee over my shoulder, facilitating easier penetration. Often I took her from behind, letting my animalistic side take over (releasing my fury at my inability to cope with loss), so that I would not see her face, not feel the familiar guilt that would creep up my spine when I would moan Bella's name instead of my lover's.
I was aware of Alice's vivid green eyes – the same shade as mine – flitting between Tanya and me. They were narrowed, and she obviously suspected something – and not something in a positive light.
"Not tonight, Tanya. I'm sorry."
Her face fell, and the glamorous façade crumbled. Women like Tanya appeared confident to those who did not know any better; they channelled their insecurities into making men want them, and by simply letting them have them. Tanya was not known as 'Tartya' in our family for unfounded reasons, that was for sure.
The luscious red lips opened from their downward curve and spoke. "Call me when you need anything. I'll need it, too."
I looked up at her tragically beautiful face, her turquoise eyes staring directly into mine. I could see that she was welling up with tears, and nodded solemnly in agreement.
She smiled a simpering smile at me, shook her head once to rid herself of emotion, and, head held high, strutted off through the crowds of people, drawing men's lustful gazes as she left.
Alice and I both stared after before we saw the glass of the bar door shine in accordance with its opening and shutting.
I dropped my gaze back to the bar ledge and motioned with a slight beckoning to the barman, for another scotch. Alice turned on me.
"What was that?" she asked pointedly, her hands on her hips.
Without even bothering to mumble a lame excuse for an answer, I took another sip of the cool drink, letting it carve a trail of fire down my throat and turned back to my petite sister – the smallest member of the family by at least three inches. Carlisle had passed the height of his Czech heritage onto his sons, who were both well over six feet. Alice had inherited Esme's English genes, which meant that she was miniature, barely reaching up to Emmett's elbow. A comedic sight, but Alice's height was the main cause of her insecurity.
"Well?" she demanded once more, hands on her hips, her toe tapping in a menacing fashion.
"Alice, I needed comfort, and Tanya was an easy route out of my misery." I spoke plainly, swivelling around on my barstool to face my sister's concerned gaze.
"What kind of comfort, Edward?" she asked, her eyes closed as if fearing the worst.
"What kind do you think, Alice?" my voice became irritated and grated against my sensitive heart. This was not the man that I knew myself to be while I was well and truly alive.
Suicide had been an option for me at some point. The bliss of leaving everything behind, never having to worry again, never having to see her face happy, without me.
God, I'm a selfish bastard.
The one thing – the only incentive I had was my family. Alice was engaged to Jasper – a friend of mine from the practice -- and they were blissfully happy. Emmett had been married to a cast off of mine, Rosalie, for three years. They were blissfully happy. And my parents – the unfaltering force of love that kept me going. Oh, and they were blissfully happy, too.
To some, it might appear that my family's happiness only added to my own misery. But this was not the case. I was not that selfish. Seeing other people happy made me mourn what I once had, but also made me feel some form of hope, that soul mates really did exist, and that Bella would one day come back to me – because we were each one half of the same whole.
I glanced back at my sister, whose tender expression had now transformed into one of hurt and fear.
"I'm sorry, Ali," I used my childhood nickname for her to appease the situation, "I'm just--"
Her thin arms wrapped around my neck, pulling me close into her. I inhaled her familiar scent – green tea and soft, musky perfume and rosewood – and closed my eyes, trying to prevent the tears from falling onto her striking emerald green dress.
"It will get better," she whispered fiercely into my ear. "You will find someone else."
This pissed me off. The pure reason behind my desolation was simply that I didn't want anyone else. The 'someone else' was the same person that I had loved for my whole life – there was no one else.
My incredulity was apparent on my face because Alice frowned playfully and flashed me her impish little grin and patted my cheek and said, "don't sorry. She'll come back."
My mouth was open, ready with some hopeless retort, but Alice was already dancing away in her high heels, meeting and greeting our friends and family like the social butterfly that she was, all the while heading over to Jasper, who was chatting to Carlisle.
It was strange, Jasper and Alice's relationship, for they seemed to have no binding similarities except for loving the other. Alice was an extrovert, letting everybody know her opinion, her emotions, her beliefs, while Jasper was the epitome of an introvert. He spoke only when necessary, his huge influence stemming from his lack of speech, despite his overwhelmingly reassuring presence.
Funny how things work out, isn't it?
I scanned the crowd, my eyes flicking from each dancing couple to try and find the only one who spurred my interest. I saw her standing in the corner with Jacob and wanted to look away as I saw what they were doing.
Standing in a dark nook of the bar, Jacob had her up against the wall, pushing hard against her. Bella's heeled legs were wrapped around his waist, her head tipped backwards in the throes of passion as he sputtered kisses up and down her creamy neck.
I felt dirty, voyeuristic, but I couldn't tear my eyes away. This Bella, openly demonstrating insinuations of passionate sex in the corner, was not my Bella, who would blush furiously if I even kissed her on the lips in front of my family. Not that Esme and Carlisle cared – they were thrilled that I had somebody to show off and love desperately.
I watched in horror-struck disgust as Jacob's hand moved itself from around Bella's waist, holding her against the cold stone wall, to underneath the folds of her dress, between her legs. He glanced quickly around, before a slight shift forward in his stance told me that he was fingering her. In public.
I was disgusted at both Jacob's crude behaviour and Bella's willingness to accept his offerings. My fury bubbled beneath my skin – it wasn't fair that, at my sister's birthday party, people didn't even have the common courtesy not to fuck in the corner, whilst there were grown adults present. Disgusting.
My feet hit the floor as I jumped off of my barstool, my adrenaline pumping as I planned to walk up to them and perfectly civilly, to ask them to continue their administrations outside the party's confines.
But what I saw stopped me in my tracks.
Jacob was obviously a master at sex – his whole body seemed to exude the predatorial instincts of a dominating lover – and Bella's reactions demonstrated that fact. His body loomed over hers, supporting her whole weight with one large hand underneath her firm ass as he used the other to pleasure her.
I know that Bella was close. I know her reactions like the back of my hand. Her chest thrusts forward slightly, her eyes open blankly, her delicious mouth forms a delicious 'o' shape and her head falls backwards. Then, as she recovers from the orgasm, her chest relaxes, her eyes close blissfully, her head falls forward onto the ministrator's shoulder and her hips grind against the stimulator, desperate for an extended release.
It is during that time that she calls out her lover's name. My name, tumbling from those glorious pink lips in the throes of passion was one of my favourite sounds, accompanied by her sleep talking and sighs of contentment, as she lay against me in a blissful slumber.
Mentally, I prepare myself for the warping of my favourite sound and sights – Bella coming. I want to close my eyes, but my gaze is riveted on the couple. From Bella's lips will fall the same moans of pleasure that I used to orchestrate, but instead of my name being breathed out in a musical release, it will be Jacob's.
My body braces itself for real emotional pain as I watch the telltale signs of Bella's climax.
There goes the tensing of the body, the tip of the head back.
Now for the name, the name that should be mine; I can see, in my head, Bella's lips forming his name: the purse of the 'j' and the smack of the 'b' are clearly, painfully imagined, but soon to become the tragic reality.
But what I see is not what I so dreaded. For Bella's mouth does not utter the man currently pleasuring her's name…
No, her mouth forms similar shapes – shapes which I have seen countless times over the years.
Out of her delicious lips tumbles a breathless, but explicit "Edward."
Kleenex? Anyone?