Title: The Dead Brothers' Club

Summary: "I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral. Can't understand, well, you soon will."

Edward and Bella meet on the eve of their brothers' funerals. Together they form a secret club where they rage, rant, worry, and share the pain of being a sibling without a sibling. They've both suffered incredible loss; but will they manage to find friendship, and possibly, love?

Pairing: Bella/Edward

Rating: M

Word count: 4,877

The Dead Brothers' Club

A few months after I turned seventeen, my brother, Garrett, died in a car crash.

He snuck out of our parents' yellow house, with the blue shutters, at eleven o'clock one Thursday night by slipping past me and crawling out of the large bedroom window above the two-story garage.

I watched him go, the same as always.

Garrett began sneaking out when he was fifteen and I was fourteen.

The first time I caught him he threatened to stuff a face cloth down my throat if I squealed. Although I knew he would never do that, at least I didn't think he would resort to such drastic measures, I kept mum. I alternately hated and adored my big brother with his crazy hair; a mop of brown curls that spiraled out of control, that no one, not even a seasoned barber, could tame into submission.

I hated that he had them and I was stuck with hair so straight that it looks like I flat ironed it ten times a day. It won't even hold a curl. Not even when Mom sets it with gel and Gran's pink rollers.

The other thing I loved/hated about Garrett was his smile. It was a sneer when he was slightly amused, but it morphed into this big Jack-O-Lantern grin when he was really happy.

I wanted to punch that dumb ass grin off his face on the regular. But I also wanted to capture it with my camera phone too; nobody had a smile like that; the kind that could light up a darkened room.

Or a path for Trick-O-Treaters.

He always called me Blondie because when I was a kid my hair was blonde. No one would believe that today since it is now a dark chestnut. I don't dye it or anything, it just became that way all on its own. But if anyone asked why he called me Blondie, he would flash that pumpkin grin and laugh, "She might have brown hair now, but she still has blonde roots. She's the original dumb blonde."

He was always making fun of me because, according to him, my face was always in a book.

'Jesus Blondie, when did you become Dad? Go borrow my razor now before that mustache you're sporting gets too thick and become permanent. Ugh, put your nose back inside a book before I have to have therapy or something.'

I guess he was right, I do love to read.

And I look exactly like Dad.

But I don't have a mustache even though I worried for months that I did. I finally had Mom make an appointment with her stylist to have my upper lip waxed. She took me down to the Snip and Curl, but Barb, the esthetician, assured me there was nothing to wax, shave or pluck.

The night Garrett died I was reading an old book of mine from childhood, Beautiful Joe. Have you ever read that one? It's about this poor dog whose first owner was a mean- bastard-milk-man who cut off Joe's ears and tail and left him to die. I think it was the first book I ever read that really made me cry.

"But I am not beautiful, I am only a cur."

Gah … I cried more over this line than I did at Garret's funeral.

Does that make me a bad person? Crying over a damn, earless, tail-less, fictional animal instead of my stupid brother with a grin that looked like Peter-Pumpkin-Eater?

I think it does.

Garrett had walked past my bed and gone to the window just as he always did. But this time he did something unusual. Instead of lifting the window carefully (he had so much WD 40 on that thing he could lift it with his pinky) he stopped in his tracks and came over to the side of my bed.

'You awake, Blondie?'

I lifted my head and nodded from under the covers where I was covertly reading.

'Hey … I just wanted to … listen … I'm sorry about the mustache thing. Okay? You-you're pretty, all right. So even though I think you should seriously have Momwork on your uni-brow and enroll you in Jenny Craig, I just wanted you to know that, okay?'

And then he hugged me; comforter, Beautiful Joe, and all. He hugged me hard. And he kissed the top of my head.

He never hugged me.

He never kissed the top of my head.

But that night he did both.

Two hours, and one rainy street later, he was dead.

But I don't want to talk about that now.

I don't talk about that ever, really.

Not with anyone.

Except Edward.

Tap, rap, scratch

Speak of the devil and who should appear?

I go over to the window and lift it as gently as I can. It squeaks a little because Garret's been dead for six months now and I can't stand the smell of WD 40.

Or Oreos.

Or the sight of pumpkins.

Or anyone named Jack.

But I digress.

"Hey, you wanna come out?"

"Yeah, okay. Just let me put on my yoga pants."

"Why, you gonna do yoga?"

"Pft … as if."

I run back over to the closet and snag my pants off the hook. I know Edward is watching me as I climb into them one leg at a time. I know he will laugh when I trip over my feet and catch myself, just barely, before I crash to the floor. I also know that even though I am wearing nothing but the green T-shirt and lavender underwear that he won't be making any lewd remarks.

It isn't like that between us.

Besides, he understands.

About the green T-shirt, I mean.

It was, Garrett's.

He was wearing it the night he died.

I know that sounds gross. But it isn't. I mean, the shirt isn't gross or anything, even though he died with it on his body. It doesn't have any blood it, but even if it did, I would probably still wear it every night. Garrett didn't die from bloody wounds; he broke his neck in the crash.

Snap … and he was gone.

It was as clean a death as anyone could ask for, given the circumstances.

Everyone who attended the funeral mentioned that to my parents.

"He looks so good Renee; just like an angel sleeping in heaven."

I roll my eyes thinking about that; there was nothing angelic about Garrett. And even if he is an angel, he is probably smirking over those lame remarks while guzzling a Rainer that he'd most likely stolen from Saint Pete's golden fridge.

In heaven.

If there is such a place.

Because … I have my doubts. About Heaven, I mean. Somehow I just can't picture Gar drifting about in a white robe with wings on his back floating from cloud to cloud.

Oddly enough, though, I do think they have beer in Heaven. Otherwise, Charlie wouldn't want to go there, and I know he does. Ever since Garrett died that's all he talks about; seeing Gar in Heaven one day.

But I don't want to think about that now.

I'll ask Edward what he thinks.

I go over to the window and climb out, careful not to fall. The roof slopes to the backyard, but it isn't all that steep since the house is built on a hill. Garret and I used to slide down the hill when we were kids. I broke my arm while sledding once. It was the only time I ever saw Garret blubber over me or get really scared. My mother was down the street at her friend Maggie's and Gar carried me all the way to her house, running hell bent for leather, crying and gasping as he rounded the block.

"I'm sorry, Bella. I'm so sorry. I pushed you too hard. It's my fault. Please be okay … you gotta be okay!"

But I don't want to think about that now.

I do want to be careful, though because I don't want myparents to have to bury another kid.

I don't ever want to see my father cry again.

That's my worst fear; dying before they do. I can't ever get killed or cancer or murdered or anything that will take me away from them while they still have a pulse.

It's a big responsibility; I am accident prone and I always talk to strangers. Luckily, cancer doesn't run in my family, but with my fair skin I could get melanoma, so I stay out of the sun.

So does Edward. If I am fair, then he is an albino. Well, not technically, but he is pretty pale. I see his face now in the moonlight. He looks like a star.

I step out onto the roof and sit down next to him.

"What did you bring?"

"Oreos.

And Jasper."

Jasper is, was Gar's cat. He's almost 18 so I guess it won't be too much longer before I'll be burying him too.

But I don't want to think about that now.

"I thought you couldn't stand the smell or the sight of them?"

"What,Oreos or Jasper?" I giggle.

Edward smirks, "Oreos."

"I can't."

"Okay," he says. Edward rarely questions and never judges. It's my favorite thing about him. Well, that and his eyes. They are ginger ale green. Not pale like the soft drink, but green like the cans or the bottles. My mouth goes dry thinking about those eyes.

I'm thirsty, but not for soda. I want to drink in those eyes. But I can't; it's not like that between us.

"What about you?"

"I brought his favorite car." He hands a tiny matchbox car to me and places it carefully in my hands. Its wheels are still caked with dirt and grass. I notice that someone wrote the letter E on the side with a black sharpie and then crossed it out and wrote the letter J. I look at him quizzically

I like to use big words sometimes; it makes me sound lofty.

See what I mean? Lofty. It's a nice word. I've always found comfort in words.

"It used to be mine," he admits with a shrug.

I raise my eyebrow at him; technically he is breaking a rule. We are only allowed to bring something that they truly owned and loved, or a memory. Memories are tougher to share, just sayin.

See, I am not like Edward; I question and judge everything. It's always been my problem.

"I gave it to him because he hounded me for it all the time. We played cars every afternoon when I get/got home from school." I nod my head, accepting.

"You ready?"

"Yep."

He brings out a small candle from his pocket along with his silver lighter, the kind Grampa uses, and lights it with a sharp flick.

"Letthe meeting of The Dead Brothers Club commence." He blows the candle out with a big huff and the light, sparks, flickers and goes out almost as quickly as it flared.

We've been having these meetings every Thursday for the last six months.

I was at my brother's wake, waiting for the people to leave and the tears to arrive, but they never did. Well, the people finally left (God that took years) but the tears stuck in my throat and never rose to the surface. I finally managed to pull myself out of his best friend Paul's arms and excused myself to go to the bathroom. I didn't have to pee; I just needed to get the fuck out of Paul's arms.

He was the last person to see Garrett alive. He'd been with him at some party on the other side of town. Garrett was on his way home when the accident happened.

"I should have taken him home," he kept howling.

My brother wasn't drunk; he'd driven to the party and left alone. I don't know why Paul felt he had an obligation to have been with him unless he had some sort of misplaced survivor's guilt or something. Paul's always been weird.

Anyway, I managed to extricate myself from his beefy arms (Paul is a wide receiver for good ole FHS) and his class ring caught in my hair, pulling several strands out in the process.

"I'm so sorry, Bella!" he cried, clinging to me even tighter. I wanted to slap him.

I ran out the narrow door holding my hands over my bladder when I caught my mother's pained eyes. She nodded her head briefly in acknowledgment and continued to sob to the tune of The Old Rugged Cross.

Garrett would be horrified; he hated that shit. Danny Boy and The Old Rugged Cross. Garrett was not a fan of anything that didn't at least involve some heavy metal and a lit bong.

My eyes stopped briefly on Garrett, laying there in repose. He was wearing his navy blue tux that dad had bought him two weeks previously. They'd argued about it; Charlie (my dad) is the chief of police and doesn't exactly make bank. However, my father thought it was a good investment; Gar had prom and graduation to attend.

'Jesus, Charlie … I'm not going to wear a tuxedo to my graduation, so why the hell do we need to buy one? It's stupid to spend that kind of money on something I'll only wear once.'

He turned out to be right.

I quickly averted my eyes from the casket, and Garrett, and all his lost arguments, and bolted down the hall as fast as my size seven and a half shoes allowed.

I ran head first into a young guy with reddish hair and even redder eyes. We both toppled to the floor in a tangled heap.

At first I thought he must be one of my brother's friends. I mean, the entire school, and at least half of all the other schools in our district were there that night. But as I looked at his face more closely, I realized he was someone I'd never met or even seen, before.

I'd never forget that face.

The word handsome is so far removed from the beauty of his features that it shouldn't be allowed as a descriptor. His jaw alone could rouse a dead poet from his grave to compose a poem that would give high school teachers the world over a spontaneous orgasm and enough material for two years worth of lesson plans.

I glance at his marble face in the moonlight now and shiver. Yes, I feel longing and maybe even a little yearning.

But it isn't like that between us.

I snuff out my want like Edward did a moment ago with the candle wick.

Instead, I lie back on the roof next to him and remember our first encounter.

I lay there, sprawled across a lean and lanky frame that was surprisingly muscular for someone so thin and young. I would later find out that it got that way from years of carrying his own brother on his back and shoulders.

But more about that later.

Right now I want to tell you about how I felt … lying there for several, miraculous, seconds, surrounded by strong arms, auburn hair, and endlessly long legs.

I know, believe me, I know, I shouldn't have been thinking about anything other than my dead brother just then. But I am a seventeen-year-old girl who had, in fact, just lost her brother. So maybe if you think about that you can understand why my mind allowed itself to wander into another place; one that was exciting, forbidden, and perhaps, just a little bit silly.

"I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral."

The words from a long forgotten song by Bare Naked Ladies came out of my mouth and I started to giggle. Garrett and I loved that song when we were little. I can remember singing it one summer at the pool as we splashed about and played Marco Polo with the teenaged lifeguards. It blared from the speakers and became the soundtrack for that summer.

'What?' he asked, lifting me off of his chest and standing me upright.

'Nothing,' I laughed, inappropriately.

'Are you … wait-is that Bare Naked Ladies?'

I bit my lip trying to stifle my giggles, but it didn't work, and I ended up snorting like a pig. He looked at me with those watery, watermelon eyes, and they widened at my performance as I doubled over in hysterics.

'Are you … are you here for Jacob?'

I stopped laughing immediately.

'Who's Jacob?' I asked. Then I watched in horror as his eyes filled with tears. One of them ran down his nose, onto his blue Oxford, and plopped on the toe of his shiny, black, lace-up shoes. I shifted in my ballet flats, uncomfortably.

'My brother.'

And that's when it hit me; he was the brother of the kid who died the same day as Gar. His father was a doctor in town … Dr. Cullen. I remember reading his obituary because it was right next to Garrett's in the Forks'Currier. He died from some kind of sickness (it didn't say what) but he was a lot younger than Garrett; maybe ten-years-old.

I knew there were two viewings at Berty's Funeral home; Mr. Berty was worried that there wouldn't be enough parking.

'Um, no … I'm not. I'm sorry. I'm here for …' I indicated to the large room where Garrett lay in a mahogany box with blue satin lining and a billion flowers and a zillion people.

'Garrett Swan? I guess the entire town is here for him. Were you close to him?'

Was I close to him?

I thought about the snow fights and fistfights and everything in between that bracketed the relationship I had with Gar.

I nodded my head mutely.

He stared at me for a long moment, waiting for me to answer.

'My brother,' I said in a rush.

And that's when it finally happened.

The tears I had been holding back for almost a week gushed out of me so fast and so unexpectedly that it made me drop to my knees.

I knew I should have been mortified and I knew that come morning I would be, but there was absolutely no way I could tamp those tears down any more than I could bring Garrett back to life.

To his credit, Edward didn't act repulsed or even slightly anxious over the sight of a girl on her hands and knees sobbing on the funeral home floor.

Instead, he knelt down and scooped me up as if I weighed nothing at all (which thanks to Garrett's death I no longer needed Jenny Craig; I'd lost thirteen pounds in six days.) He carried me, without saying a word, to the door that said EXIT.

Perfect.

I wanted to exit.

I wanted to go through a mysterious door that exited me right out of my shitty life and allowed me to enter a place where no siblings of dead brothers were allowed.

Once outside, he carried me to a silver Volvo. He opened the door and sat down inside on the passenger side with me still on his lap sobbing sloppily into the collar of his robin egg blue shirt.

After I was finished, Edward drove us to a little park and we sat and talked for hours. It was there that we came up with the idea of having a safe place for us to talk, vent, and share stories about our dead brothers. Of course, by the time I got home, my parents were absolutely frantic with worry. Charlie had even put out an APB and my mother had to have Doc G come to the house to give her a shot. Naturally, I was grounded for the rest of my life, which is why Edward comes to my roof every Thursday night.

That was six months ago.

Six months ago to this very night.

I know I already told you that; I might be crazy, but I'm not dumb.

Oh sure you are, Blondie. A dumb blonde if there ever was one.

Did I mention that Gar talks to me? Well, he sometimes does. I giggle in the night air and Edward joins me even though he has no idea why I'm laughing. That's the way it is with us; we're always in sync.

"You thinking about Garrett?" he asks, even though it doesn't actually sound like a question. I hum to myself smiling.

I nod my head.

"Hey, you wanna know what I was thinking?"

Please, I always want to know what he is thinking. I want to know everything about him right down to what he had for breakfast and what he'll be having for supper fifty years from now.

Probably meatloaf; it's the only thing I know how to make and his is the only face I ever want to see eating it fifty years from now.

"Sure."

"I was thinking that maybe Garret and Jake are up there somewhere together playing cars right now."

"My brother is probably sitting there, if there is a there, swigging a beer and smoking a Marlboro Light."

I look at his sincere and sweet face and I have to sit on my hands in order to prevent myself from slapping my own face.

I am such a moron!

"Yeah, well that's okay. Jake liked beer too, so he's probably guzzling one himself.

I sit up in shock.

"You-your brother was only ten years old. He didn't drink beer!"

"Yes, he did; sometimes."

"But-but, your dad's a doctor for crying out loud; he let him drink beer?"

"Yeah, every once in a while, not much, just a few sips; Carlisle likes a beer after work and he'd give Jake the first sip and the last drop."

"Wow."

"Mm-hm. Jake looked forward to it. Of course, my dad is an alcoholic, so it was an O'Doul's."

I poke him in the ribs and he chuckles.

Then suddenly, stops.

"He's drinking again. I saw a bottle of vodka under the bathroom sink."

I sit and digest this news and decide not to say anything. Instead, I take Edward's hand in mine and squeeze it gently.

"My mother is talking about having another baby," I tell him blithely as if it was no big deal. But it is; it's a very big deal.

"Isn't she a little old to be having a baby?"

"Yeah, she's almost forty-one."

"Huh. My parents are talking about separating."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Between my father's drinking and my mom's obsession to re-do Jake's room, things have been really tense."

"My mother turned Garret's room into a shrine. She even has his T-Ball uniform in a shadow box."

We lay there for the better part of an hour saying nothing in particular. Some nights it's like that, but other times we talk.

A Lot.

Sometimes we laugh.

Sometimes we rage.

Sometimes we talk about how much we hate the sympathetic stares and pity. Sometimes we talk about how we've changed since we became the siblings without a sibling. We are now both only children and it sucks.

"I had a substitute teacher today who asked us to write down our biography. He had us read them out loud and then he asked me if I was an only child.

His voice rings out in the clear night and only someone like me can know the pain that this simple question caused.

"I'm sorry, Edward. What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything. I didn't have to; some girl named Jessica did it for me."

Oh fuck.

"She told your whole, sad, tragic, little story?

"Yep, right down to the last detail."

Edward's brother was born with Spina Bifida. He couldn't talk much and couldn't walk at all. That's why Edward is so strong; he carried Jake everywhere.

'But he wasn't a burden like some people think. He was smart too; he knew a lot about everything; he just couldn't communicate it very well. Jake wasn't supposed to live past his first birthday,but he did, he lived for ten of them. I hated when people called him special. He was special, but not because he had cognitive or physical issues or anything like that; Jake was special because he is/was my brother.'

I understood that better than anyone really. Even though Garrett was a pain in the ass, he was my pain in the ass.

"Hey, Bella?"

"Hmm?" I glance over at his alabaster face and feel something pass between us. It's a warm, glowy feeling. Like a slow current that is building towards something infinitely greater.

"If we hadn't slammed into each other that day in the funeral home, do you think we still would have met?"

I mull it over for a long minute before I respond. Would we have met? I don't know. Forks is a small town, but we go to different schools, live in different neighborhoods, and travel in different social circles.

"I think we would," he says, answering for me.

"Maybe."

He turns to his side and his face is so close to mine that I can smell his breath. It's minty, as if he just brushed his teeth; I long to kiss that mouth.

Just for informational purposes, of course.

But I can't

It's not like that between us.

"Do-do you think if our brother's hadn't died that we'd still be friends? " He is stammering now and I'm puzzled; what point is he trying to make? Edward never stammers or stutters; he is always relaxed and self-assured.

I sit up and look at him. His hair is blowing in the wind and it's sticking up all over the place, covering his eyes. I want to tuck that hair over his ear and then kiss it; he has the prettiest ears; small and pink.

"I hope so," I say. My heart is beating fast and that current is so charged now that I suspect my own hair is about to take flight.

"I brought something else to share with you tonight."

"Another toy?"

"No."

"A memory?"

He shakes his head, sits up, and digs something out of the pocket of his faded denim jeans. He hands it to me and I hold it up in the moonlight.

It's a pair of concert tickets to see Bare Naked Ladies.

"Will you go out with me? To-to the concert I mean. They're playing in Seattle, it's an outdoor concert. I know they're not that popular anymore, but you like them … I mean … I think you do … you sang that song to me at Berty's and …" He is stumbling all over his words and I've never seen him look more flustered or sweeter.

"I'd love to," I tell him, quickly.

He lets out a huge sigh of relief and bites his lip.

Lord, do I ever want to bite that lip. That's all I've thought about the last six months; in between thinking about my dead brother, of course.

"I don't want to go with you as members of the DBC," he clarifies.

"Okay?"

"I-I don't know how you feel about me other than I'm the guy you met at our brothers' visitations. I know we can't change the way we met. I know it's weird. But even if I'd met you at the grocery store in the canned beans section, I'd still want to ask you out."

This time I do allow my fingers to brush his coppery curls off his forehead. I trace the plane of his face and for a second he rests his cheek in the palm of my hand and I feel like I am holding something precious, like his heart.

He leans into me and presses his mouth against mine and I feel the current explode into a rainbow of color over our heads. It's corny and way over the top, but it's lovely and sort of magical too.

I run my fingers through his hair and smile into his mouth. Our teeth scrape together because he is smiling back at me.

And that's when I realize that this is the first time I've felt happy, truly happy, in the last six months. I almost didn't recognize it as first, hence the hyperbole.

I'm happy.

We lay back on the rooftop and he deepens the kiss. His tongue introduces itself to mine and they're pleased to meet each other. Then he lifts his leg over my hip and we lay there for half an hour just kissing and giggling and being, well, happy together.

He looks down at me and places a kiss gently on my forehead, grinning from ear to ear.

And that's when I realize that maybe; just maybe, there is a heaven after all.

And maybe, just maybe, Gar is up there now, swigging a Rainer and playing cars with Jake.

And when I look back at the star in the sky and see the twinkle that mirrors the one in Edward's eyes, I think to myself

Maybe it is like that between us, after all.

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