story: You Lost
author: the inc pot
rating: T
summary: But this is a world of magic, and you just weren't magical enough.
author's note: This is set during the wedding. I'm impossibly intrigued by Jacob even if he comes off as wholly annoying, and persistent boy most of the time. This has been in my head for a while now, and I apologize if its too clichéd, or over done, but here it is, and I'm proud of it. I've never written anything in this context before, and I can tell you I know I overused 'you', 'you're', and 'and'. The sentences are run-ons, but I'm okay with that because I think it works. I hope you enjoy it, and review.
disclaimer: I do not own Twilight, nor ring pops.
--
Briefly, you wonder if it's always going to feel this way. Your heart breaks every time she says his name; it shatters every time you're unfortunate enough to see them together, holding hands like night and day, life and death.
You contemplate over the idea that maybe there is something under the surface you're just not quite capable of understanding because of your genetic makeup. You're destined to hate him.
He's destined to hate you.
And yet, you find it quite comical, if not completely infuriating, that mortal enemies have both fallen in love with this clumsy, brilliant human that seems to be a danger magnet. He's dangerous. You're dangerous.
She loves you both.
You know that should she change her mind at any point, you would be right there on the sidelines, scooping her into your arms, and warming her like you're her own personal sun after she has spent so much time in the blizzard. You also know that if she stays with him, she'll die one way or another, and it makes your chest ache, and your eyes water to just think about it.
He can smell you from the woods, just like you can smell him, while you silently watch them dance, and sway at their wedding reception. He can probably hear your thoughts too, but he doesn't move to come near you, to tell you to leave. He invited you . . . and you know its only because your love still loves you, just not in the way you want her to. You're in love with her, despite knowing that she isn't in love with you.
It's a sick game of tug of war, and again it makes your heart clench. It's sickening to watch his dead hands run over the curve of her spine, resting just a little too lowly on her back, for your taste. But it matters not, because she is his in almost all the ways that matter.
You wonder how long she has to live. These are the moments you spend staring at the profile of her form to further commit her to memory—the lively flush in her cheeks, the twinkle of candlelight creating soft highlights and shadows against the fresh cream of her skin, and the ivory white of her dress creates an ethereal effect you're pleased with. Now only if she was in your arms, wearing your ring, and murmuring 'I love you-s' in your ear, and giving you soft kisses on your lips, this moment would truly be perfect.
But you can settle for make belief, like you both did when you were younger. You suppose the fact that she married you, and slid a ring-pop onto your ring finger when you were children was good enough then, and maybe it's good enough now, because you can take pride in the fact that he is not her first marriage, even if yours wasn't legally binding.
You're satisfied when his nostrils flare in barely suppressed rage, and you know it is certain that he has been listening to every last thing you've thought. You make sure to think about the chaste kiss his wife put on your lips when you were seven, and she was nine while sitting on the front steps of your house in La Push. You don't bother thinking of how you pushed her away, and wiped your mouth off with the back of your arm, alarmed at the idea that she had somehow contaminated you with her cooties. Gross! You had exclaimed, jumping from your seat and stomping up the remaining steps to the other side of the porch.
She had laughed at you then, and jumped up, shaking her finger at you, and telling you that you had made the vows and so you had to seal the deal with a kiss or it wouldn't work right. Still disgusted, you crossed your arms and shook your hair from your eyes, scrunched your nose up, and told her that you wanted a divorce as soon as the summer was over.
She frowned then, and started sucking on the ring-pop you had slid onto her finger only ten minutes beforehand. Suit yourself, she had said, before she skipped off to find your older sisters.
You wish you could go back to that moment in time, and maybe press another chaste kiss to her lips, because she was your first kiss, and you know you were hers. Now you can't help but wonder how differently everything would have played out if you hadn't been so consumed by the idea of being tainted by cooties.
You know its silly to think of, because this is a world of magic now, and she's at the very vortex of it all, knowing, and loving, and caring and yet still somehow managing to break your heart because she prefers your walking corpse of an enemy to the warmth you could bestow upon her.
Already, you're aware that she is not your imprint, but in the back of your mind, you know that whoever was to become yours, doesn't exist in the world, if she ever did or will, and you know that you would be devoted to your childhood love to the end of your days, regardless of the fact it isn't binding, it's just as strong.
The branch you were clutching to like a lifeline snaps when you see him kiss her on the lips, and tuck flyaway hairs behind her ears. He treats her like the priceless, ceramic doll she is, and for that you're glad. You're mildly aware of the fact you're shaking with unadulterated rage at the mere knowledge that he will get to touch her innocently, and lovingly until the combustion of the world, or the end of her days, whichever comes first. You want nothing more than to phase and attack him; ripping his throat out just as you have envisioned every single time you see them touch.
You hear the rustling of leaves behind you, and you know you're not alone, nor being ambushed because they smell woodsy, like you, and they're family in every sense of the word except they don't have the same blood running through your veins as you do yours.
You calm when they tell you to, but you still never look to acknowledge them, still destructively content to watch the charade of a happy celebration happening when you know it's just a less formal way for her to say goodbye to her family, and human friends.
You remember thinking, maybe even telling her, that she was better off dead and in the ground rather than becoming like him. You remember your jaw hurting her hand when she had punched you after you had placed a less than chaste kiss upon her lips. You remember the way she was broken, almost beyond repair when he left her, and you were all too happy to pick up the pieces and put her back together almost as good as new.
You can see her husband's jaw clench, and you're satisfied again.
You wish you hadn't left her to her own devices that one day when she decided it was a good idea to rush off the cliff without you and almost end her life—mostly because you know you wouldn't be watching her at her wedding, dancing with her husband like some sick, perverse peeping-Tom. Instead she'd probably be wrapped in your loving embrace on First Beach, watching the flames of the bonfire while you and your pack joke, and laugh. You'd be the one tucking hair behind her ears, pressing gentle kisses to her skin, telling her that it didn't matter if she was a thousand miles away, because thinking of her always gave you the illusion of being by her side.
You know that the distance she would be separated from you by wouldn't matter, because you would find some way to comfort her if she was lonely, and whisper sweet nothings into her ear, even if it was by the telephone. You would walk across the continent if she needed you to—this you know to be a fact.
It brings tears to your eyes because you love her, and in the same selfish way it was when you tricked a kiss from her, you know you'll never be able to have her as you want, no matter how much you ache for it. Again you contemplate if it'd be different if she were your imprint like you have a thousand times before. You also question if it'd be all just the same, because you're mildly aware that when a vampire loves someone, fellow vampire or otherwise, its irrevocable, and irreversible, and you know he loves her. It pains you to accept that he does. It's even more painful to know that she loves him, and you close your eyes then, trying to forget the sting that is slowly becoming overwhelming in your chest.
It is when you open your eyes, that you see him leading her towards you, that the pain in your chest suddenly becomes too much before it completely fades away because she is so picturesque tonight that your breath is taken away instantaneously.
You pull her into your arms after brief words with her husband before he disappears, and you smile at her, telling her she looks beautiful. It's very difficult for you to ignore the storm of thoughts that overcome your mind when she is in your arms because you are immediately catapulted into the what-ifs. You see yourself holding her hand by the end of summer bonfire before she goes away to whatever school she would have, and you're kissing and you want nothing more than to make that one thought come true.
You tease her like you did when everything was so simple, or maybe not so simple. You think of when she first started coming around your garage as you fixed up the motorcycles and did your homework in an unspoken camaraderie that you both needed, maybe her more so than you—but you don't think of it like that because it is painstakingly obvious that you will always need her in whatever form she can give you—even when it isn't enough. And it never is, but you've become close acquaintances with the ache you get when you think about it, so it hardly bothers you as much as maybe it should have.
You ask her when she is going to die like it's the easiest thing you ever could have said and you want to cut your tongue out then and there because of the look that overcomes her face. The air has stilted, and changed, and the potentially fatal electricity is soaring through the atmosphere. It's your fault because you still want her. You want her alive, and breathing because she needs to, and not because it's a habit. You want her to blush, and stumble—tease your friends, go to college and not become some creature of the night that preys on weaker beings, animals or not, because she belongs in the daylight, not sparkling, but shining because she is a beautiful, porcelain doll. You want her alive, mostly, because should she change her mind you wouldn't be overcome with grief that you probably wouldn't be able to have her because she would sparkle in the sun like a million diamonds.
You're glad then that you didn't phase, because suddenly dawn breaks on you that nothing could ever stop you from wanting her, vampire or not. You're not entirely sure if that's cause enough for your pack to exile you, or worse yet, kill you, what with being a traitor and falling in love with the would-be enemy.
She tells you that she thinks she has about a week left of being human, which makes you die on the inside. Because regardless of how much your warmth dwarfs hers, she's warm, and breathing in this moment, and growing and looking at you through the lashes of her brown eyes and it sickens you that they won't be this color in a week.
She is your soul mate, if not imprint, and if this damned world where magic, and mythical creatures existed suddenly blew up, you'd be okay because you would still be you, and she would still be her, and you would be together, and if it pleased her, you'd ask her to marry you with a ring pop. You wouldn't be disgusted when you "sealed the deal" with a kiss, but rather euphoric because should her cooties contaminate you, nothing would ever make you happier.
So you argue with her, and you ignore her attempts to keep everything friendly. You know you're making a mistake, because you wanted to give her your friendship on this day, but you can't handle it and it makes you shake inwardly. Your senses are aware that you're being watched both by werewolves and vampires but damned if you care because the beautiful woman in your arms should be yours, and not sentenced to die in a week even if it was her decision.
In the back of your mind you're glad that you've assumed she would leave her human world a virgin, because if you couldn't have it, you didn't want him to have it, despite that it will carry over with her. It's like verbal diarrhea when you tease her that her honeymoon is just a pretense and that it won't be real because she'll still be virtuous and whole when she returns.
You're positively enraged when she becomes enraged that you've assumed she wouldn't give her beautiful, human self completely to that son-of-a-bitch, vampire husband of hers. She's not that stupid, and you tell her so, and when it all goes down hill from there with the intensity of this moment cracking like lightning, you're not surprised. She tells you it's a private matter, but that it will be real. It's completely obvious that you should take your hands off her, but you don't, instead they tighten while you shake with anger.
She tells you to let go, and you know that you definitely should be taking your hands off her, but you're so angry, and upset and defeated and God damn it all—you're going to kill that son-of-a-bitch and guffaw joyously over his pile of ashes.
She's scared now, and begging you to let go and her husband is running quickly towards you, pulling her out of your grasp, standing between you both; snarling. You threaten him with death while Sam and Seth forcefully pull you away, telling you that you'll hurt her. For this, you're thankful because you don't want to hurt her.
Yet you know you've been hurting her emotionally for some time now, and to hurt her physically will kill you.
You're devastated, and you've lost her because you're a complete and total fool for her and want what's best for her—which is you, and not he.
But this is a world of magic, and you just weren't magical enough.