The Lodger

by Share Your Inspiration

I climb the stairs one at a time. I should turn back, run away from the greatest temptation I've ever known, but I can't. He invited me in.

Title: The Lodger
Rating: M
Summary: I climb the stairs one at a time. I should turn back, run away from the greatest temptation I've ever know, but I can't. He invited me in.
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any Twilight characters. No copyright infringement is intended, and all original materials belongs to me.
Source of Inspiration: Pablo Neruda's Clenched Soul.

We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.

I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.

Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Bella

There are fifteen steps between the first and second floors of my house, between my lair and his.

I stand still at the bottom of these steps. It is almost completely dark, and the air is frigid, although I don't notice either of these things. My whole self is focused on finding enough courage to ascend, because he invited me.

I have been waiting for this invitation with an equal mix of fear and longing, my chest perpetually expanded with needlessly held breath. These past months were such torture, such agitating pleasure.

Over half a year ago, the months a baker's dozen, I would never have considered allowing myself to climb the stairs. I had been alone for so long that the risk of letting someone in would never have tempted me. Before.

Now, everything is sorted into before and after, his knock on my door the dividing line between existing and living. I want to live, so I force my body to lift itself onto the first step.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

The purchase of my house in Forks was the most monumental decision I'd made since everything had happened. It was no easy thing to abandon my nomad lifestyle, always wandering aimlessly, finding a meal here and there, curling up in my station wagon when the weather grew too obnoxious to bear.

It was all so pointless, so when I passed through Forks with its gloomy rain to match my gloomy spirits, I bought the old house and never looked back. Of course, that was before I realized that I couldn't afford the mortgage myself. It was difficult to acclimate to society again, but I forced myself so I could get a job at Newton's Sporting Goods, not even considering the possibility of renting out the nearly-ready upstairs of the house.

The paychecks helped, but not as much I'd hoped, and then I found myself in the unfortunate position of finding a lodger or abandoning my new home. It hurt to think of leaving Forks now. I would always look upon Craigslist with fondness, despite its creepy flaws, because I found him there.

Male artist seeking studio to rent on the Olympic Peninsula, preferably close to
the coast and/or rainforest trails. Any space with good light will do, I'm not picky.
I have references and no set budget.

His ad's curt confidence appealed to me, so I responded to him with a short description of the house and a few photos. It only took him a few hours to write back, and we had everything arranged within a day. He would come to visit on the weekend, and if he liked the house, he would stay.

I spent those few days of waiting madly cleaning and re-painting and furnishing…everything. I hadn't noticed how sparsely I had been living, so I took out my station wagon for the long trip to IKEA, and I was mostly satisfied with the results. I decided to put bolts on the doors to the staircase inside, leaving him with the outside entrance all to himself. The entire upstairs was useless to me, so I made sure that the few rooms were nicely laid out. I even cleaned the skylight so it wouldn't give him spotty illumination.

I could hear him approach the door before he knocked, and it all came crashing down on me. What was I doing? There was no way this could turn out well, but now I had no choice.

My feet carried me to the door, slowly cracking it open, and the first thing I noticed was the puddle on my porch, formed by the little droplets of water falling from his clothes. It was absolutely pouring.

The second thing was much more important. His scent hit me like a freight train, all cloves and citrus and Christmas pine. I wasn't sure what to do, how to behave, so I remained still and dared to meet his eyes.

They were a beautiful, bright shade, and they projected happiness to match the smile on his face.

"Bella Swan?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

His voice was like honey.

"Um, yeah. Please come in." I held the door open while I waited for him to enter.

"The house seems great, at least from the outside," he said, looking around the rooms visible from my entryway.

"Thanks." I couldn't manage more.

He was the most beautiful creature, tall and fit and pale. Although everyone in Forks was pale, especially me. I decided to be as professional as possible, leading him over to the kitchen where the bolted door to the inside stair was situated.

"Would you like something to eat or drink?" I asked, thinking of my freshly stocked shelves and newly remembered manners.

He shook his head. "No, but thank you anyway. I stopped for something on the way over."

I pointed to the locked door. "This is the inside stair, and we both have locks. I won't disrupt your privacy unless you need something."

"Sounds good," he muttered, looking anywhere but at me.

I hoped he didn't think I was too odd, although it was almost certain that he already did.

"Would you like to see your floor? I mean, the one you might rent?"

"Sure."

Although we were both quiet, it wasn't too awkward, instead strangely comfortable. I led him outside again, but we stayed under the cover of the wrap-around porch. The other staircase wasn't covered however, so we dashed up to stay as dry as possible.

We stumbled into the upstairs apartment, laughing for some reason. I hadn't laughed in…

"Wow, this is really nice," he said. "Great light."

I smiled. "Thanks. I tried to clean it up, and I was thinking that you could knock the middle wall down so there's no obstruction between the windows. If you want."

He looked at me oddly. So there it was.

"Why would you mar your house for a renter? That's sort of counterproductive to the value of your property."

"Oh. I don't know, I guess I wasn't thinking about that. I still don't really care, and I'd rather you get what you need from the space." I looked down as I said this, unable to watch his reaction.

"That's really…that's kind of you." His tone expressed surprise.

"So, do you think it will work for you?" I asked, finally mustering the strength to look at him again.

His gaze pierced me, making me feel like he could see through my skin. "It'll work. It's beautiful."

He paid me in cash for the month, and entered into hermitage upstairs for weeks. I didn't see him until rent was due again.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

My feet are planted firmly on the step, my hand resting on the railing. I can hear him moving about in the rooms above, his presence palpable even though I can't see him.

This would be bad. So very, very bad, and not for me.

No, that isn't right. It would be tragic for him, but equally terrible for me and my wretched heart, the one I thought had ceased to function. I am beginning to understand that now, and the risks are far too great for us both. I shouldn't do this. I should turn around and lock myself inside, perhaps even take my wagon and leave for good.

The instant I resolve to run from him, I hear his body stop moving, as if he knows what I'm thinking and waits for my decision.

Although I know he doesn't mean for me to hear it, his whispered "please" rushes through my body. Before I know it, I have climbed three more steps.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

"Here's the rent. It's for two months this time," he said, his voice low as he stared at the wooden floor of my porch.

I tried very hard not to betray the plummeting feeling in my chest. I would not see him next month because of this.

"Sudden windfall?" I asked with as much humor as I could manage.

He looked up at me then, a small smile turning up the corner of his mouth. "I sold a painting."

I felt myself returning his smile, but much more widely. "That's great! Is it your first?"

"Yeah. I'm a newbie." He shrugged, but his elation was apparent. "I'm taking it to Seattle now."

I looked down to see a large rectangle draped in a felt blanket resting against the porch railing. A sudden, burning curiosity overtook me, but I had to remain distanced and uninterested. Always alone.

"Who did you sell it to?" I whispered without intending to. So much for uninterested.

Our eyes met for a moment, and I could see that he hadn't expected my question.

"Oh, um, to a restaurant actually. An Italian place, Barolo." He shuffled his feet awkwardly, as if he were embarrassed by his achievement.

"That's a big deal, Edward."

He smiled again. "I know."

I felt a current of anticipation pass between us, as if he wanted to say something more. He stared at my wide eyes for too long.

"It's funny actually. I've been working on this one for a long time, a few years really, here and there. I had it perfect except for this one portion which I just couldn't get right. I painted it over and over again, but always ended up making it blank in the end. When I came here…it just worked all of a sudden."

It was most he'd ever said to me, but his speech felt like more than just an offering of words. Of understanding maybe? Friendship?

I wanted to ask him so many questions, but instead, I nodded blankly and stepped back to lock myself inside again. There was still one thing I had to say, even though I shouldn't.

"Then I'm glad you came."

I knew he would only think me stranger for my behavior, but it couldn't be helped.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Why is the fifth step so much harder?

Possibly because I want him exponentially more the higher I climb, and that want is disastrous. Although he hasn't said it in words, I know that he's seen my oddities and noticed my erratic moods.

He doesn't care. He wouldn't have invited me if he cared.

My resolve to keep him from me weakens, even though I become a horrible creature for it. At this point, whatever I choose will hurt him, because if I turn around and leave, it will destroy him just as much as it will if I stay. He's told me that he can't work without me anymore, and without his work…

I'm not sure what would happen. I use this worry as an excuse to take that fifth step, and then the sixth.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

I waited one week to go to Seattle.

He left on foot in the early morning, an easel and duffel strapped on his back as he headed into the forest, so I knew he would be gone all day. I'd listened to his steps above and watched his patterns enough to be sure of this.

My station wagon felt a little rusty as I drove towards the city under the cover of thick rain clouds. I knew it wasn't the transportation mode of choice in my former, non-settled lifestyle. I'd taken enough crap for it from others along the way, but I loved the metallic smell of its rusty hood and the smooth, worn leather seats. I was my only home for a very long time.

I wandered on the deck of the ferry during the crossing, feeling the spray of the Sound on my face with a feeling of calm that had also been mostly absent of late. I would never tell him that I went to see his painting that day.

Barolo was one of the most upscale restaurants in the Northwest, and I felt ill at ease as I pulled open the polished glass door. I was aware of the kind of clientele they would expect, so I'd tried to make myself presentable in a pale blue shift and heels. It was incredibly foreign to wear them, but I needed to blend in enough to be left in peace with the art.

It took me half an hour to find Edward's canvas in the space, and I had to fend off the interrogation of several employees who tried make me sit down. I finally lied outright and told the latest pest that I was thinking about hosting a party at the restaurant but needed to absorb the atmosphere before I made a decision. The prospect of a large bill made them leave me alone at last.

His painting hung near the bar in a poorly illuminated corner, just one of a few dozen surrealist canvases that decorated the eatery. I felt sad for Edward that his work had been lumped so anonymously with the obviously inferior attempts of others, but I supposed it was still a huge addition to his resume.

My eyes focused first on the laminated tag stuck on the bottom of the frame. It was called "Impressions." I gazed on every little portion of the painting, but I knew immediately what had been added because of Forks and why he didn't offer to show it to me.

The style looked as if the love-child of Dali and Magritte painted it, but it was still very Edward at heart. I didn't know how I understood this; it was a gut instinct. The scene focused on a field of amorphous flowers in rainbow colors, and just in front of the field were its caretakers, men in striped suits with top hats who carried impossibly large pruning shears. They struggled under the weight of their tools, and their faces bore expressions of their toil, thinly disguised under false smiles or slack-jawed leers.

They all looked up at the sky where the shadowy face of a woman floated. Only the eyes were clear, but clear was not a strong enough word. Her eyes were the most vibrant part of an already effervescent piece, piercing and seductive and sad. Bored even.

They were my eyes.

There was absolutely no doubt in my mind about that, and he'd almost admitted as much to me on the porch. This was the portion he'd struggled with, the one that being in my house allowed him to finish, only it wasn't my house. It was me.

How had I captured his interest enough for this? We'd barely spoken, but his representation of me clearly suggested that he'd been paying more attention that I thought. Too much attention, and all of a sudden, I felt like weeping even though I absolutely could not.

On the way back to Forks, I thought about how I would hide my knowledge of his work the next time I saw him. It was not as easy as it should have been to find the right approach, because all I wanted was to know him more, to understand why he had been inspired by my sad eyes.

He was sitting on my porch when I pulled into the driveway, and he stared at me oddly as I emerged in my polished state.

I approached him awkwardly.

"Hi," I said inanely.

"Hey. Did you have an interview or something?" he asked.

His eyes scanned me up and down, and I could tell that he was trying not to betray sudden nerves. He seemed disturbed by my appearance.

"No, I was looking for something. In the city."

"Oh. You look really…nice. I thought you might have had a date." He looked down at his shoes, his fists clenched.

I laughed, loudly and freely. "Um, no, Edward. I never have dates."

My tone was not melancholy as it should have been, and his eyes met mine, brightening and returning my smile. The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop.

"Would you like some tea?"

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

My hearing dulls as if there were blood rushing through my head. I should never have let my guard down, because I knew it would lead to this, a hopeless dilemma where every choice leads to pain.

It would be different if I wasn't in love with him, if I just wanted him for pleasure. But no, it would never be that easy. And still I climbed.

Step seven, step eight…

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

The tea tasted like dirt, but I had almost grown used to it after the many afternoons spent drinking it with Edward. I was not a tea drinker, and I had no idea why I offered it to him that day. It was the first thing that popped into my head, I suppose.

"Which one for tonight?" he asked, gesturing to the stack of books on my coffee table.

This was something new. We'd begun with Keats two nights before, because he'd found my slim leather volume lying on the table, a remnant of my life before.

I had been a student when it happened, and I wondered if I still held on to some of my habits since I'd never finished school.

Our weekly tea ritual between the hours of three of five had quickly turned into a daily occurrence. He always grimaced a little when he sipped the hot liquid, and I wondered if he hated it as much as I. He would never tell me.

When he found Keats, the afternoons began to bleed into evenings. He said he was a poetry enthusiast and that the verse was inspiring to his art. I accepted his reason as an excuse to spend more time with him, not even trying to pretend to stay away anymore.

It began with Bright Star. He asked me to read it to him, and though I fought it a little, I gave in quickly.

"Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art-
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors-
No-yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever-or else swoon to death."

I struggled with the words and sighed as I finished, looking up at his face. I could not understand the expression.

"Is there is a painting in there somewhere?" I asked.

"Oh yes. Several."

"Now you," I said, hoping my tone brokered no argument.

He seemed to shake off his mood and laughed. "Fine, but just one. We'll take turns."

The next day was Robert Browning. It was one that he owned. My body felt strange as he read A Face to me, lethargic and enervated all at once because I knew that he was purposeful in his choice.

"If one could have that little head of hers
Painted upon a background of pure gold,
Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!
No shade encroaching on the matchless mould
Of those two lips, which should be opening soft
In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,
For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft
Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's
Burden of honey-colored buds to kiss
And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.
Then her little neck, three fingers might surround,
How it should waver on the pale gold ground
Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!
I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts
Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb
Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb:
But these are only massed there, I should think,
Waiting to see some wonder momently
Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky
(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by),
All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye
Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink."

I didn't look at him and waited for a long time to say anything.

"More tea?" I asked.

"Sure."

We drank and read late into the night.

He came back at three as usual, no longer needing to knock on the door. I was making the tea in the kitchen as he settled in, and when I came out with steaming mugs, he was placing ten or twelve volumes on the coffee table.

"So, which one?"

"Did you buy these today?" I asked, pleased and dismayed at his obvious intention to keep our little ritual going.

"Yeah. I thought we might need more variety."

Right then, I knew I was past the point of ending this.

"This one," I said, pointing at a sliver of a paperback.

His brow rose. "Brave of you."

I thought I might have made a mistake in being so bold, but the energy around us was changing, growing more comfortable and more impossible every day.

"It's your turn," he said.

"I know."

We settled into our usual arrangement, me in the corner of the sofa, him on the floor on a cushion. He liked to lean against the large armchair and sketch as he listened to me read.

The book seemed too insubstantial to carry such weight, but I had always been affected by Neruda. I hoped I could manage the words in front of him. I found Clenched Soul quickly and was dismayed to hear my voice take on a needy quality as the words passed through my lips.

"We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.

I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.

Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues."

I took a deep breath and a large gulp of noxious tea to cleanse me. Neither of those things were what I needed.

"Now you pick," I practically begged.

I looked up to see him shaking his head.

"I can't. I have to sketch."

He looked frenzied and excited, his focus on my face as his hands continued to move over paper. His eyes pleaded with me to understand.

I nodded and picked up something safe. Shel Silverstein.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

That was my greatest mistake to date, the Neruda. I'm still chastising myself for it, but at the same time I am glad.

The higher I climb, the more my need for him overtakes me, overshadows the fear. I can do this. I can.

I'm not sure what my future will look like if I can't, but the theme would be despair.

I take the next two steps before the turmoil seizes me.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

"Maybe we should branch into short stories, or plays," I suggested.

I wasn't tired of poetry, far from it, but it was getting too hard to pretend that I wasn't speaking every word of love directly to him. It wasn't simple recitation, and I didn't think he felt the distance he should either. I did not yet recognize the danger.

He looked up from his sketch with calculating eyes. "Sure. What do you propose?"

"You're fine with it?"

"I just said so, didn't I?" He laughed. "Besides, I'll get to hear your voice for longer."

Even though he smiled, there was a layer of something very serious there.

"How about some Poe?" I asked.

"In the mood for spooky?"

"I'm a spooky kind of person." I kept it casual, even though it was true.

He flashed the look he'd given me a hundred times, the one that burned through my walls. "You only think you are, Bella. You're light and air."

"You can only get away with that because you're an artist." Still casual. Maintain the casual.

"Then I'm very glad I'm an artist." He beamed at me, making me drop the book I held. "I sold another painting."

"Edward! That's amazing? Who?" I found myself genuinely elated for his success.

"The Traver Gallery in Seattle. It's a lot better than the restaurant, but so was the painting." He shrugged.

I had a hard time believing that, but I hadn't seen this latest achievement.

"What was the subject?"

He hesitated. "Loneliness."

In all the time we'd spent together, I hadn't stopped to consider that he could be lonely. He was so kind and lovely, but I supposed that someone as solitary as he could easily become isolated. Why else would he park himself in my living room for hours every day?

I couldn't find the right way to respond, and I waited as he just looked at me the same way he looked at the sketchpad I had yet to see.

"Bella, can I paint you? I have to, I need to. My is better than it's ever been since I came here, and I'm sure I can work at all without….this." He gestured at the space between us.

It burst out of him as if he'd been waiting a long time to ask, and I intuitively knew that he had.

I wanted to say yes right away, but I had to know something first. "Why me, Edward?"

It was not a plea for affirmation. I did not want to hear a glowing list of my positive traits. All I wanted was to understand why he chose me and how I ended up being pulled into his magnetic field of life. His ability to make me really live.

He took my question seriously. "You're completely unique."

"No, I'm not."Sadly, this was true.

"You asked." He shrugged, smiling a little. "I feel connected to you somehow."

I wanted to scream at him to stop, that he couldn't feel that way. I didn't, instead holding out my hand for his sketchpad. "Can I see?"

Although I'd never asked for that before, he had seen my curiosity. He didn't hesitate to hand it to me.

The clean, white pages were almost entirely filled, all with images of me. They began with small studies of hands and fingers that I knew were mine, the side of a neck, a figure in shadow. The drawings grew more and more defined and beautiful as I turned each page.

My eyes were there many times, the ones he'd already painted, and my lips. Then my whole face, over and over again. I knew when I'd reached the one he drew while I read Neruda, because it captured exactly the discomfort I'd felt from the words.

The last was from today, and I marveled at the change in my features. I was smiling while looking straight at him. I was happy.

I was too happy to let him stay, and he immediately caught my mood, packing up to leave.

As he walked out my front door, I whispered to him. "Yes, you can paint me."

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

My nails dig into my palms from my seemingly insurmountable anxiety. I haven't set foot upstairs since I showed him the apartment when he first arrived. I know that his invitation to return is not solely to see the painting. It's much more.

I want it, badly, and I become more confident that I can fight myself and be good. I have to be good.

Three more steps trail away behind me as I breathe in the wafting clouds of his scent.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

"Just a few more sittings now," he muttered as he hunched over the canvas. "Maybe even one. I think it might be finished tomorrow."

He wouldn't let me see the painting until it was done, and the anticipation kept building to an almost unbearable level.

It had been several months since he began, the very day after he first asked my permission. I almost felt bad that my image was taking up all his time, but he said it was the best thing he'd ever done. This too made me happy.

I'd left all the curtains open so the clear, full moon would lend us more light. It was almost eerie with its blue glow, but lent an authentic atmosphere as I read The House of the Seven Gables aloud. We'd gone through a novel a week while he painted, and this would be our last.

Unless I could find another reason to keep him there. Part of me didn't think it would be too difficult, but I suppressed the unreasonable hope I felt at the prospect.

I read steadily through a few pages before I noticed that I couldn't hear the slick, precise movements of his brush anymore. I looked up to find him staring at me intently.

He did this sometimes, to capture a specific feature or play of light, but this seemed different.

"What is it?" I asked.

He waited a moment to answer, his eyes still fixed on my face. "Your skin looks lovely right now, like alabaster."

His complement made me nervous. I tried to deflect. "You really are an artist, aren't you?"

"Sorry, I can't think any other way, but it's still true. You always look beautiful, but you seem more serene tonight. It shows."

Any serenity I felt quickly fled. How much did he see?

"You're a flatterer too."

"No, I'm a truth teller. It's one reason I wanted to paint you, because I can see every emotion dance in your eyes like flickering candles."

I could tell that he wasn't joking. "What do you see now?"

He thought for a second. "Fear and the desire to feel differently."

I folded my arms around my knees in a protective cage.

"You have nothing to fear with me, Bella," he said softly, picking up his brush again to make me more comfortable.

"It's not you I'm afraid of," I admitted.

He didn't look up. "I know."

I let him paint until he was done for the night, but I couldn't read anymore. He finally stood up and stretched, my gaze fixing on his lean muscles. I wanted him with me, always. The impossibility of it felt like the weight of the ocean on my chest.

He carefully placed the canvas inside a case that he'd made and piled his arms full of his supplies. I got up to open the door for him, feeling the heat roll off his body as he faced away from me.

I was so focused on the shape of his neck that I was unprepared for him to spin around suddenly.

"I'm sorry if I upset you, Bella."

I shook my head. "You didn't."

He laughed because he knew I was lying. He knew nearly everything about me, apart from the most important thing.

"Yes, I did. You know I'm more interested in your brain than your admittedly delirium-inducing looks, right?"

I was just a little bit stunned. It was the most forward that he'd ever been, and even though I was fully aware that he was attracted to me, it felt different now that he'd said it aloud. It was very, very important.

"That's sort of a massive compliment," I whispered.

"Yes, it was. Goodnight, Bella. See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," I promised. I didn't think I would ever say no to him.

I shut the door behind him and leaned against the wall. What was I thinking by encouraging him like this? I had to stop it, but he had caused such a fundamental shift in my very being that I knew it was impossible.

I heard him moving around upstairs as the minutes passed, and then pure silence. I would likely have stood there, in front of the door, all night, if the sound of him dashing down the stairs did not draw my attention away from the memory of his smile.

It seemed as if it took hours, though only seconds passed, and then he was on my porch again. He knocked.

Although I'd only heard him knock a handful of times before I eliminated the necessity, this one sounded different. It was nervous and forceful, as if he made himself stay put rather than dart away.

I watched as my hand reached out to grasp the knock, trying desperately not to wrench it too hard.

There was a wild look lurking in his eyes that appealed to the primal nature of my being. I knew what he wanted, and I had to do something before he acted and made me lose control. It was imperative that I remained in control.

My fists grabbed handfuls of his paint-spattered shirt, pulling him into me until I crushed his mouth with mine. Although it was the worst possible choice to have made, it was also perfect.

I should have known that control would be impossible. I wanted to devour him, so I folded my arms behind my back and didn't allow myself to touch him.

My lips parted of their own volition to make up for the loss of contact, and he quickly drew me deeper into the kiss, his hands weaving through my hair as he held me as close to him as I would allow.

This was the definition of pure pleasure, torturous and intoxicating. I only wanted more of him as every second passed, and he gave it to me.

I felt his body thrum in an electrifying rhythm, calling to me. I felt a different kind of lust than I expected, one that gave me hope. I just needed him so much that I wanted to cry.

I memorized the feel of his lips, his tongue tangling with mine, and his body pressed against me. I felt his desire for me, and I wanted that too.

He pulled back when he needed air, staring deep into my tumultuous eyes while his fingers traced my features. He shakily exhaled just before kissing the corner of my mouth, quickly and softly. I whimpered a little.

He knew by now.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, stepping backwards onto the porch without tearing his gaze away.

I couldn't say yes or no. "Edward, my heart is cold and hard. I can't play games with you."

It hurt so badly to say it.

He smiled and shook his head. "No, it isn't. You scald me with your warmth, you just can't see it yet. And I'm not playing games. Come upstairs when you can accept that."

His eyes held something infinitely sweet as he walked away. His steps were confident as they climbed the stairs, and I waited again as I listened to him prepare for sleep.

Eventually, I returned to the sofa and spent the entire night reading Neruda.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Only two more steps now, just two.

They are the most painful steps I've ever taken, wrought with the fear of making him suffer somehow. I take them anyway, and my hand rises of its own accord. I am the one who knocks this time.

I hear him halt his pacing as he processes my acceptance. It takes him a moment to move towards the door, but he is confident when he does, and it opens to reveal his intense expression.

We remain silent for much too long before he breaks the spell.

"Come inside. I've almost finished it." His nerves radiate through his body as he gestures for me to enter.

My brain works impossibly fast as I consider the reasons I should turn away, just one last moment of hesitation. I conquer it, and the feeling of relief that floods me as the door closes behind me is indescribable.

He doesn't look at me again as he leads me into the living room where he's established his studio. There are canvases everywhere, of the forest and the ocean, and a few of women who lurk in shadow. They are brunette, and I instinctively know that they represent me before he asked for permission to paint me in earnest.

There is a futon covered in a sea-blue sheet that's haphazardly plopped in the middle of the room.

"Sorry about that." He notices me staring at it. "I need you to sit like you do downstairs, and I don't have a sofa yet."

"It's fine."

I settle on the surprisingly comfortable surface and try to restrain my anxiety. He hasn't touched me yet. Wordlessly, he sits on a stool behind his easel, looking much more professional than he does in my living room. I'm not sure I can remain silent until he's through.

"I brought a poem. Do you want me to read?" I asked, hoping that he'll agree.

I have to tell him somehow.

"Sure. What happened to Hawthorne?" He doesn't look up.

My voice is almost a whisper from my nerves. "This is more relevant."

"Go ahead then." He doesn't question me. He never has.

I unfold the page I printed, the product of a long search to find the right words. It's Helen Hunt Jackson's Danger. I clear my throat for no real reason.

"With what a childish and short-sighted sense
Fear seeks for safety; recons up the days
Of danger and escape, the hours and ways
Of death; it breathless flies the pestilence;
It walls itself in towers of defence;
By land, by sea, against the storm it lays
Down barriers; then, comforted, it says:
"This spot, this hour is safe." Oh, vain pretence!
Man born of man knows nothing when he goes;
The winds blow where they list, and will disclose
To no man which brings safety, which brings risk.
The mighty are brought low by many a thing
Too small to name. Beneath the daisy's disk
Lies hid the pebble for the fatal sling."

When I force myself to look at him, he's clenching his paintbrush in one hand, solid and unmoving. He looks irritated, and soon returns to the canvas.

"It won't work, Bella."

At least I know that he understands my warning, but I decide to feign ignorance. "What do you mean?"

His eyes settle on me then in a long, appraising sweep. "You know what I mean. You keep trying to drive me away, but it's a passive effort at best. You don't really want me to leave you alone, so you pretend to be frigid and warn me through poetry that you'll break my heart."

I feel myself remain too still, not frigid but frozen. I blink to let him know that I heard, gathering the strength to reply.

"It's not that. It's something far, far worse."

His look this time is of undisguised need. "Bella, it's been nearly six months since we started talking. Five since we've spent almost every day together. Hours and hours. I've been counting. You know I have no family, nothing to go back to, although I wouldn't leave you even if I did so stop pushing me away from you. You're all I need."

My body seizes, and I shake my head frantically. "You can't feel that way, Edward. You can't."

"It's too late." He stares at me determinedly, unyielding as I drown myself in my despair.

How have I done this to him? How did I let it happen?

He stands and holds his hand out to me. "Come see."

All my control has been stripped away by his words. I can't stop myself from rising to walk towards him, slowly and painfully. The canvas looms before me, and I circle it so cautiously that it might as well be a burning fire.

I hear some sort of pleading noise escape my lips, but my mind is detached as I absorb what I see.

It's me of course, but the real me. The honest me. He's seen everything, and he's still in the same room as I am. He's known all along.

I feel him come to stand behind me, the fingers of one hand trailing along my ice-cold arm.

He leans to whisper in my ear. "Surely you know that I'm in love with you. Nothing else matters but that. Nothing."

My chest feels as if it will collapse on itself. He tells the truth, and I see the evidence of this in his painting. I feel like an entirely new creature as I stare at my own image, reborn through his eyes.

My form runs through a forest, each tree a living, twisted skyscraper that is clearly both biological and mechanical. It is as if I conquer every environment at once, city and country, fantasy and reality, all at the same time. I am clothed in a flowing white sheet that drapes around me and rustles with my speed. There is nothing ahead of me but an endless road, and I look over one shoulder with my hand stretched out behind me. I beckon to another figure, but all that can be seen of him is his shadow. His shape gives him away, and I know that it's Edward following me, his own hand stretched to grasp mine.

My expression is of pure joy, smiling and delighted, but none of that is most prominent. I am shocked by the luminescence of my skin in the sunlight that streams through his city-trees. I glisten, and my topaz eyes sparkle in amusement.

So does his shadow. It's very clear that in this painting, we are the same.

I feel an entirely novel wave of nausea claim me. "Edward…how…?"

I can't form a more coherent phrase.

He rests his head on my shoulder, wrapping his arms around me. "I notice things, Bella. It's what I'm best at."

"We can't…this can't be." I plead with him to understand, to get away before I cause insurmountable pain.

I feel him stiffen in sudden misery, but he doesn't let me go. "Is this it, then? This is all the time I'm allowed?"

I want to burn. I want to be punished for the pain I've already caused him, and I'm not sure I can allow any more. Watching him suffer feels like true death.

My hands grip his almost violently, yet I still walk the line between immediate flight and the acceptance of his love. He knows this, too.

"Please, Bella. Don't leave. I can't exist without you anymore. Please just let me love you."

His plea shatters me, and I know that I will give in to him. I know that I would have all along. I try one last, desperate time to make him see. "My love could kill you, Edward."

He incomprehensibly laughs. "You will never harm me. I have surety enough for us both on that matter, but does this mean…"

He trails away, his voice growing too low to speak.

I want to laugh too, but the anguish over his fate is still too fresh. There is no point in hiding anything from him however, not anymore.

My voice shakes. "If I didn't love you, I would have run away after that first cup of tea."

I feel him smile against my skin, his breath leaving him in a rush of contentment. "Then you'll stay with me? You won't ever leave?"

And I give up, completely. I let myself love him, and I allow his feelings for me to banish the fear. He's right, I can't hurt him.

"I won't ever leave," I say, making it a vow.

He comes to stand in front of me, his face pure and full of pleasure. My lips turn up in a smile like the one he painted, and suddenly I feel exactly like her, a being of light and love.

I hold out my hand to him, and in this world of reality he doesn't have to reach. He takes it and clasps it to his chest to rest over his pounding heart. The memory of his only kiss floods my mind, and I can't wait any longer.

We fuse together in a sudden rush of limbs and tongues, and this time, it feels as if he will be the one to devour. His blood no longer threatens ruin, because he is too precious to tempt my baser needs.

He is wild, knowing he can't harm me in any way. I am the one who must remain cautious, but it is so very difficult when I have never felt such consuming lust in my whole existence.

My hands shred his shirt, sending the scraps to the floor below, and I have to push him away for a second to calm my passion. I shove too hard. He hits the wall with a crash that sends a shelf tumbling down, but I don't have to worry that I've hurt him. He stalks back to me with a growl and molds his lips around mine. My cold, unyielding flesh doesn't seem to bother him at all.

There is so much heat around me, all radiating from his body. So much that I might be burning in the middle of a fire, but this is a welcome burn and nothing to fear. He tugs my blouse over my head, and we both gasp at the contact of bare flesh as I press my breasts against him.

I can't get enough of him now I've accepted that it isn't wrong to love him. He will be my companion and my lover and my mate, and there should be nothing between us now. I rid us both of our remaining garments even as I think the words, faster than he can blink.

He looks appropriately impressed for the second before the sight of my naked form overwhelms him. I want to be wild and frenzied again, but I give him his moment to trail scalding fingers along my skin, bringing me to life.

"Bella, you are yourself a work of art. I could never capture you with any justice."

"You already did, my love."

I press myself to his lips again as I let him pull me towards his blue-covered excuse for a sofa. He falls onto it, and I crawl over his heaving body, every inch the predator I truly am. I feel more free than I ever have like this, making him pant for me as I lick his exposed flesh. I want it badly, but I'm too afraid to take him into my mouth. I settle for his taste on my tongue and glory in the sounds he makes.

I feel his fingers grip me above my elbows and let him drag me up to his mouth. He is so very fragile but still surprisingly strong, much more than I expected. He seems to bear my weight easily, so I straddle him fully and move my hips a little.

I could listen to his moan in perpetuity, the feral evidence of his desire for me banishing all the loneliness and solitude I've clung to for so long.

I am surprised when the void is replaced by fear. My body stills itself in an attempt to banish that too, but of course he notices. He pushes me to sit with my legs wrapped around his waist as he gazes into my eyes. I wish that tears could fall over my cheeks.

"What is it, my angel?" His voice is a caress, his thumbs stroking my face to wipe away those non-existent tears.

It's hard to voice the things that clench my soul.

They all come out in a rush after my spell of silence. "I said I wouldn't leave you, because I can't. You asked me not to, but what if you leave me? You will someday, either by choice or death, and there's only one way to stop that. I don't want to do it to you, Edward, I don't want your fate to be a life like mine."

He smiles at me, almost as if he's amused. "Never by choice, Bella. Never. As for the rest…that decision is not yours to make."

"Of course it is," I say in disbelief.

"I'm sorry, but it's not. I'm sure there are others like you out there somewhere. I'll find someone to do it, or I'll injure myself enough to make you do it yourself. I don't think you'd let me die."

I want to be angry with him, but I can't. "You would do that to yourself? You want this that badly…the blood, the isolation. Immortality?"

"No, Bella, I only want you. The rest is insignificant." He kisses me softly and threads his hands through my hair.

"Said in ignorance," I accuse.

"Said because I love you. I have nothing on earth to lose but you." His claim is as serious as the death I fear so much.

I can't find words to express the torment that grips me. I fear nothing more than eternity without him, but it's almost as painful to think of stealing his humanity. Almost.

It is the momentary flicker of pain and doubt clouding his beautiful face that calms me. A human wouldn't have seen it.

He looks resolved. "You know what I want, but I won't plead. If you don't feel the same, then I'll take the gift of however much time you give me and fade away."

Although I didn't see it until this moment, I realize that I doubted his confession of love. Not the sincerity of it, but I was arrogant in thinking that his fragile human mind is incapable of matching my depth of affection.

The pain in his eyes makes me understand how wrong I was. Instantly, my world shifts once more, and I am left unsteady with such swift changes. I resolve to set aside the qualms that threaten to separate us and work instead of deserving him. I will give him anything he wants if only to erase any hint of his despair.

"I'm sorry, Edward. I didn't understand, and it would kill me to be parted from you now. I'll do whatever I must to keep us together."

I wait patiently for him to believe me, knowing that he does when the tension in his body dissipates. He breathes deeply and rests his head on my shoulder. I let go of all distress and allow myself to feel the relief and delight of having absolute certainty in him.

His smile is blinding when he looks at me, and I match it just before we begin to consume each other again. I feel an intense conviction that words are not enough, that I must prove how desperately I love him with my body.

I am as fierce as I can safely be, but he has no such limitations. I have never felt this wanted or adored, and I know in my still heart that he needs me on the same incomprehensible level that I need him.

I feel him throbbing beneath me, his heat scalding my skin and making me crave him like a drug. My body gives itself to his willingly, wanting him to tame the wildness in my soul.

"Make love to me, Edward. Make me yours," I beg.

"You're mine already," he growls against my lips. "Always."

He pushes me onto my back, and I let him, relishing the feeling of his flesh against the length of my body. Our tongues and limbs tangle in a frenzy of emotion. I almost feel as if my heart beats again while his own pulses against my chest so frantically. He lowers himself to take my breasts between his lips and hands.

"So perfect…" he whispers, his voice strained.

I know that my body is ideally formed, a benefit of my species really, but this is not what he means. I did not earn his love through my outward trappings, and he is no less perfect than I. I rejoice as I bask in the lust that has claimed me completely, so different from my perpetual desire for blood and far, far stronger.

My patience should be perpetual, but it is not. I need him too badly, and my hands are not gentle as they pull him back up to my waiting mouth. I wrap myself around him as roughly as I can, and his wild eyes stare into my soul as I feel him begin to enter me.

I did not expect the rush of sensation, the scalding heat that warms my entire being, making me feel almost human. The corner of his mouth turns up very briefly before he aggressively plunges in all the way.

It's a very good thing that he's in control. If I remained on top I might have crushed a few bones by now. He kisses me forcefully as he showers me with more pleasure than I could previously imagine. I didn't know that life could be this way, that my unending existence could hold such delight.

Our cries of need mix together as he thrusts harder and harder, giving me all of himself in our dance. I open my knees wide to avoid gripping him too hard, but all this is does is bring him deeper within me. I fear that his heart will burst with the force he inflicts upon it, but the frantic sound drives me wild.

I lean up to capture his lips, swallowing his growls and letting them seep into my restless mind. He winds his arms around me as he drives us over the edge, and I scream with the release. It's so much more than satisfaction of the flesh, it's the beginning of the rest of my existence, of our existence together. It's so hard to control my clenching body, to avoid harming him, but the sight of him letting go within me buries my concern. He is strong and intoxicating, and I feel the warmth he releases spread throughout my body in a blaze. Like my venom will do to him.

He collapses on me, his chest heaving against my breast while I stroke his hair. He settles his head again on my shoulder, I can tell it's become his preferred point of contact, and his breathing evens into the peace of sleep. I want him again in seconds, but I can wait. I will always wait for him.

I watch him sleep through the night until we make love in the light of dawn.

SEATTLE TIMES ONLINE – Arts and Entertainment

January 24th marks the twentieth anniversary of the death of artist Edward Cullen in a tragic fire. His talent remained largely unrecognized in his lifetime, but the circumstances of his demise brought significant attention to his work. Similar to Van Gogh, Cullen posthumously earned a significant place in the art world, and this anniversary marks the opening of a new permanent exhibit in Manhattan's MOMA.

The exhibit prominently features "Impressions," the first work Cullen sold to a Seattle restaurant, as well as his arguable masterpiece, "Light and Love," which was supposedly inspired by his fiancée and muse who also perished in the same fire that killed Cullen. Their bodies were never recovered.

With the aid of an anonymous donor, MOMA was able to purchase the entire contents of a storage locker that held thirty-five of Cullen's paintings, all previously unseen. The locker had been left in trust to the Forks' food bank by Cullen in his will with the understanding that it would remain unopened for twenty years. It has taken months for the bank to organize and dispose of the paintings through Sotheby.

The art world is fortunate to be given the opportunity to experience Cullen's work by MOMA, and the noveau-surrealist movement he single-handedly, though unknowingly, inspired.

My fingers play with his messy hair as we lounge in bed, the sunset reflecting off Mt. McKinley's snow-covered peaks. I still miss our house in Forks, but I am content as long as Edward is with me.

His hand wanders over my flesh until his intent is clear, although I never suspected otherwise. I make him wait a moment while I read him the article.

He laughs. "Well, I guess I made it big after all."

"Of course you did. You're brilliant." I lean to kiss him soundly.

"Such faith in me! Too bad I'm dead."

We both laugh at this, remembering how carefully we planned everything. The fire in our beautiful house, the locker, his will…

"What will you do next?" I ask, because he's kept this from me as a surprise.

"You, and then perhaps some sculpture. I can hire someone to be my public face. What do you think."

He looks bashful for some reason. "I think both are wonderful ideas."

He reaches for me, and I don't hesitate, watching as the sun's waning rays turn our flesh into dazzling marble. His the same as mine.

\/uuuu\/

/\nnnn/\