Green Grass and Toy Soldiers

by ThePsychoVamp

"When I was younger, I saw my father and my mother dancing to Walter van Brunt's lovely songs, in front of our Victorian house, surrounded by green, green grass. And with a hopeful smile, I thought: One day, it will be my turn." Slash. Edward/Jacob Imprint story

Like hell.

It hurts like hell.

The depth of this pain is just as bottomless as Bella's chocolaty eyes. Just as cruel.

I can hear voices. I can hear so many voices. Why are they screaming? Why are they screaming at me to come back? I never left. Why would I come back? They're loud, they're too loud. I want them to be quiet. All of them. I want them to leave me alone. I don't want to hear Bella's pitiful sobs. I don't want to hear Carlisle's worried voice. He asks me if I can hear him and he's pleading again. He wants me to go back.

But I never left.

My feet are not moving.

I'm on the same spot.

I never left.

I've always been here.

I don't want to hear Alice's high-pitched voice. I don't want to hear Jacob's judging and hurtful words. I don't want to hear their thoughts.

I want to go back. I want to go home. I want my Mama.

I never left.

But I never said it wasn't my wish to do so.

They're imploring.

I don't care.

I just want this to be over.

Why are they shouting at me to fight? Why are they crying and wallowing in their own pain? I'm the one who's in pain. I'm the one who's being burnt alive.

Eh, alive…

Why do they keep pretending they care?

I want my Mama.

I think I may have whispered her name. I think I may have seen her green eyes.

I may have smiled.

"Mama," I hear myself whispering. It's followed by a sob that doesn't come from me.

"Sweetie," she cries. "I'm here."

It's not her voice. It's not Mama's voice.

My smile falls.

I want my Mama.

I want Jacob, too. But I can't have him. He doesn't like me. He hates me.

When it is convenient.

He loves me, too.

When it is convenient.

I always love him. No matter what. He has my heart. He has me.

But it's okay.

Mama will make me a cup of hot chocolate. She'll wrap me up in a flannel blanket. She will sing to me until I fall asleep. She'll take care of me. She's the only one who actually wants to do it. She's the only one who cares.

So it will be okay.

I like this place. There's no more pain now. There are no more voices. I'll rest in peace, finally.

A scalding hand grips mine tightly.

The fire comes back. The pain comes back.

But he's here. My angel is here. Does he love me now?

No. It doesn't seem convenient.

I want to scream. Badly.

But I only manage to choke.

I crack my eyes open. I want to see my angel. I want to check if he's hurting, too. I want him to know this is mostly his fault; I want him to feel guilty.

I see a blur through my half-opened lids. But he's there. He's holding my hand so tightly he might crush it. His dark brown eyes are brimming with tears. He's saying something, but I can't hear him.

That's good.

I don't want to hear him.

I just want my Mama.

His nearly crude-colored orbs are the last thing I see before I'm swallowed by the black.

Black like the hair of Jacob Black.

I want my Mama.

+/+/+/

"Mama, you're pretty," I caress her cheek with my small hand. She smiles lovingly at me with shiny green eyes and giggles.

"Oh, my boy, if you say so." She strokes my reddish hair. "Do you want to hear a secret?" she whispers. I nod enthusiastically. "You're prettier," she murmurs in my ear and kisses my cheek.

"No. Boys are not pretty. Boys are handsome," I correct her. "Didn't your Papa teach you that?"

She chuckles. "He did, sweetheart. Did your Papa teach you that, too?"

"Yes," I grin. "Mama?"

"Yes, honey?" she pulls me closer. I sit on her lap and play with the wrinkles of her white summer dress.

"Where's Papa?" I wonder.

"He's working," she sighs. It's obvious that she misses him, too.

"Will he join us for supper?"

"Yes, he's likely to join us," she brushes her hand against my locks. I look around me – we're surrounded by green, green grass. Green like Mama's eyes. The three o'clock sun makes her wavy burgundy hair shine. She's an angel walking on Earth.

She's my Mama.

+/+/+/

"Edward, please, wake up." I hear a feminine voice plead. "You're scaring me."

The voice carries fear, indeed. How can I be scaring her? I can't even move.

"God!" I hear a familiar voice groan. "Can you stop complaining for a goddamn minute, please?"

I can't see her pale blonde locks or her stunningly beautiful face, but I know it's her. Rosalie.

"I don't know what I'll do without him," the other voice cries. Bella. Now it doesn't seem hard to recognize her contemptible supplications.

What's this annoying beeping noise?

It doesn't matter.

I'm going home. I'm going away.

Away from Bella. Away from the bothersome sound.

Away from everything.

+/+/+/

"Mama! Mama!" I jump excitedly. "Look, Mama! It's snowing!" I point with my finger to the window.

"Yes, it is," she acknowledges quietly, kneeling to level with me.

"Can we go outside? I want to play with the snow."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, little one," she frowns. "It's too cold."

I offer her my best helpless expression. "But I'd like to play, Mama."

"Why don't we ask Mary to make us some almond cookies? We can play the piano together while she bakes. What do you say?" she smiles.

"That's a great idea." I smile back. "But I want to play outside."

She sighs."Okay, dear. Go dress properly. You can't go outside with those clothes."

I grin, blazing. "Thank you, Mama. I love you."

She beams. "I love you, too. Now go."

+/+/+/

"It's been two days, Carlisle. Why isn't he waking up?" she asks. Esme. A mother figure, but definitely not my Mama.

Silence.

"I don't think he wants to," Carlisle replies solemnly.

He's right. I don't want to.

+/+/+/

"That's Papa, Mama. It looks like Papa!" I point to the small snowman. Mama laughs and hugs me tightly.

"Yes, it looks exactly like your father," she agrees. I know she's lying. It looks nothing like Papa. Papa is much more handsome.

I wrap my arms around her neck. "You're like the snow, Mama."

She giggles and ruffles my hair. "How come?"

I stare at the Victorian house in front of us, which is covered in white. Snowflakes fall around us. I stretch my arm and let one fall on my hand. It's small and clear and white – it's pure.

"You're beautiful. Just like the snow."

+/+/+/

"Hey, kid," the man says and then clears his throat. His voice is gruff."I can't believe she left me here alone," he complains lowly. "If you…can hear me, please, kid, wake up. Bells is…freaking out," he sighs. "Your father says your brain…well, I can't remember what he said, but I know it's messed up. And basically, you don't want to wake up. I bet you're a fan of these pain meds." There's a pause. "I feel stupid. You're probably so out of it that you can't hear a thing." He clears his throat. "Just…wake up."

Typical Charlie Swan's speeches.

He's reasonable. He's good.

But his daughter can go fuck herself for all I care.

+/+/+/

"Mama?" I call. We're in the garden again. It's a sunny spring morning. I bring three flowers in my hand. There's a pink one, a white one and a purple one. They're all pretty. Like Mama. And they all smell good – like Mama.

I run with my small legs, panting by the time I reach her. She looks up from her book, smiling warmly. "What is it, dear?"

I extend my arm, showing the three pretty flowers. "For you."

She puts a hand over her chest and gasps. "Oh my, but those are just lovely."

I smile proudly. "I knew you'd like them."

She chuckles and pats her lap. "Come here." She wraps her arm around my waist.

"Smell," I say, bringing the flowers to her nose. She breathes in and closes her eyes, making a sound of approval. She picks the white one from my hand.

"Do you know the name of this one?"

"Yes," I reply. "It's a daisy."

"Very well. Do you know what it means?" I shake my head. "It means innocence," she says. "These flowers you picked remind me so much of you." She seizes the pink one. "This one is an anemone. It means fragility."

"I'm not fragile," I contest.

"Oh, yes, you are, little one. One day you won't be. But that day hasn't come yet." Her hands play with the purple one. "This one smells heavenly. It's a sweet pea. It means shyness. You're quite the shy little man."

I shrug. "Is it a bad thing?"

"No," she laughs. "It is just a part of who you are. And everyone loves you just the way you are, my boy."

+/+/+/

"Why are you doing this to me?" she sounds close to tears, "Why don't you want to wake up?" she sniffs. I know it's her. She's wallowing in her misery again. "How much longer will you take? This wait is killing me" she cries. She doesn't understand. No one does. "If you really love me, please, wake up."

It doesn't work that way, Bella. Not anymore.

She's not my weakness anymore.

And I don't love her.

+/+/+/

"Why do stars exist, Mama?" I ask, looking up at the dark sky.

"Because God decided so, honey."

It's a cold autumn night, but there's no wind. Fragile leaves fall around us. They were darkened by the weather and are now illuminated by the moonlight. Some of them remind me of Mama's hair.

"Did God decide to make you pretty, Mama?"

She laughs lowly. "God made everyone pretty, sweetheart. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

"No, Mama. Not everyone. Boys are not pretty. Boys are handsome."

"Yes. My apologies. Boys are handsome."

"Am I handsome in someone's eye?"

"No," she says after a moment of silence. "You're beautiful in everyone's eye."

I hum, closing my eyes. "Did God tell you that?"

There's silence. "How so?"

"God speaks to His angels. You're an angel, Mama."

+/+/+/

Quiet. There are no voices this time. No sounds, except the annoying beeping noise.

He's holding my hand. I know it's him – his hand is warm, it's larger than mine, it sends a spark up my arm. It makes the beeping noise become even more annoying because of its fast rhythm.

My angel is here.

"Hey," his voice is raspy. Has he been crying? "It's been a while since I last talked to you," he states. "I wish you could talk back." Why does he sound hoarse? He chuckles, but I can hear no amusement. "Look at you, all fragile and shit. Who'd have thought, huh? You, the indestructible Edward, in a hospital bed." I take notice of the shaky breath that follows. "Some phenomenon." There's a pause. "You changed. You look so much better this way." His voice is strained, like he's refusing to let tears fall. "You're beautiful," he sighs. "I wish I could see your eyes. I haven't seen your human eye color yet. Please, open your eyes. Show me how striking they are."

I'm stuck.

He's a son of a bitch. But I don't like him suffering. I love this son of a bitch too much to let him suffer this way.

But I want my Mama. Even if she's not real; even if she's just a memory.

But he's suffering.

Everyone is.

But he is suffering.

I grip his hand as strongly as I can. I feel like I'm floating. There's no pain, thankfully. Just a persistent exhaustion that begs me to succumb to the memories of my childhood. I have to fight it. I don't want to, but I have to. I'm fighting this weariness, preparing myself for a world of pain, knowing that I won't be rewarded. I'm doing this for him. Just for him and no one else. I have to fight it.

"Edward?" he sounds hopeful. I answer with a tired sigh. I try to open my eyes, but it's more difficult than I first thought. "That's it, baby. Open your eyes."

Bella never calls me 'baby'. He just did. That urges me to try harder. My eyelids flutter. My eyes open. I blink once. Twice. Thrice. I can't open them fully, but I manage to show my human eye color. Like he asked me to. The white lights are harsh. They make my vision ache, but the discomfort slowly fades and I'm finally able to see reasonably.

And he's there.

His dark brown orbs are boring into mine. He gasps; then, his face breaks into a huge smile. "Finally," he breathes.

The unanswered questions now rush through my head.

Why am I in the hospital?

My human eye color? Am I human now?

What the fuck happened?

Why is Jacob here? Why does he look like he's been crying? Why is he stroking my cheek…so…lovingly?

Why aren't there voices inside my head?

The beeping noise. Is that my heart beating?

The drowsiness is fading. I'm starting to feel. It's a dull ache at first, but it soon becomes a searing pain. I gasp, although it sounds more like a sob. My whole body hurts. There's a cast that goes from my left elbow to my hand. I can only see the phalanges of my fingers. It hurts to breathe. God, it hurts…My chest is on fire. My head throbs almost unbearably. The lights are making it worse. My vision is swimming again. I have an IV in my right hand. The hand Jacob is still holding. It hurts, too, but his touch makes it better.

I bit my lip to keep from crying out.

I want my Mama.

"Edward?" Jacob asks, panicked. "What is it? What hurts?"

I can't answer him, because my throat is too dry.

Well, at least something doesn't hurt as it did before.

"Nurse!" I hear him call. Something wet leaves my eyes. Tears?

I feel another presence in the room and then Jacob isn't holding my hand anymore. A lady dressed in scrubs is. She's injecting something into my IV. And then the pain slowly starts to fade as numbness kicks in again. "I'll call Dr. Cullen and tell him his son has just woken up," the nurse says. I open my eyes to see Jacob nod and sit down on the chair next to my bed. The nurse stares at him for a few seconds before turning her gaze to me and smiling warmly. When she leaves the room, I try to speak, but no sound comes out.

"How're you feeling?" he asks, sitting down.

"Drugged." My voice is hoarse. "What happened?"

Jacob's expression is one of anguish. "You were attacked by a newborn. We didn't notice him until Leah rushed to kill him. My first thought was that she wouldn't make it so I stepped in. And as soon as I did, you were there, but before you could do something, the bloodsucker bit your neck, breaking your ribs and left radius in the process."

"But…how…how did I end up here?" I question confused. "Am I human?"

He nods, smiling. "The doc is trying to understand how it actually happened, but he thinks it had to do with the place where you were bitten. He said it's where he bit you, too. It probably has to do with the newborn venom as well. As the newborn injured you while the change started, you still need to heal."

I smile, in spite of my current situation. Human. I'm fucking human. "Why are you here, though?" I inquire.

His mouth opens and his eyes widen. He closes it with a bewildered expression. "Because… you saved my life."

My eyelashes flutter as sleep threatens to overcome me. I smile ironically. "Of course." My heart is breaking although I don't show it. It is convenient. He feels guilty. He needs to make sure he has thanked me so he can sleep with a clear mind at night.

Except he hasn't thanked me yet.

I was never one to cry before Carlisle changed me. I didn't really have reasons to do so. When I became a vampire and realized I couldn't do it, I wondered what it really felt like. Now I know. I feel relieved. I'm crying and finally someone can see it. Tears are wet, hot drops that make your skin feel slightly tingly. Your throat closes a little. Your chest vibrates on its own accord and you taste your tears as they reach your lips – they're salty. And then, someone notices you're suffering. They ask you what is wrong. They try to comfort you. And it feels good. Jacob's warm thumb on my cheek, wiping the wetness feels good. "Shh, it's okay." He strokes my neck. And when he tells me to sleep, pretending to be worried about me, even if he's just pretending, feels good. And as I fall asleep and he kisses my forehead, telling me lies – "I love you," he whispers – I feel amazingly good.

+/+/+/

This time I don't wake up to a heating hand engulfing mine in its warmth. No. The hand holding mine is freezing cold. And hard. I'm shivering. But it's a good feeling. Someone I love is here. The pain is not as strong as before, but it's enough to make me breathe faster and therefore wince. I have to be careful now that I know my ribs are still healing.

I need to wake up. I'm aware of the presence of someone important to me. "Wake up, son." It's Carlisle, so I comply. "Hello, sleepyhead." His smile is genuine. It's not his usual warm smile, but a happy grin.

"Hey," I mumble groggily.

"It's been a while since I last saw those green eyes," he murmurs, almost dazed. "How are you feeling?"

"M'okay," I mumble. Reasonably, I think. It hurts to breathe, I want to tell him, but I keep my mouth shut. I don't want to sleep just yet. I want to spend some time with my dad, this dad. I'm not quite sure if the other one will make a sudden appearance in my memories so I decide to play safe. Carlisle will do, I tell myself. "And you?" I inquire. Making small talk with him seems like a good idea.

He chuckles quietly. "I'm good. It's nice to talk to you again."

"You say that like it's been days since we last talked to each other," I whisper, simply smiling instead of laughing.

His coal eyes are hard as he stares at me. "That's because it has."

I notice the bags under his black orbs. He hasn't fed. How long have I been here? "How…how long was I out?" I stutter slightly, unable to help it.

"You were brought in four days ago, son," he replies solemnly. My mouth opens automatically.

"Do you…have any idea how it happened?" I whisper, feeling curious all of a sudden.

Carlisle seems uncertain. "As you know, the area where vampires are bitten before the transformation contains more venom than the rest of the body and what keeps it strong is human blood." He pauses, assuring himself that I understand what he's saying. "Our diet has weakened our venom and slightly changed the venom located where we were bitten. Newborns' venom is different from a normal vampire's. The result of the addition of their venom to ours, animal-drinkers, is basically the cure for immortality. This is just a theory, but it is most likely correct."

Tired of hearing that word – such an ugly, ugly word – I mentally roll my eyes and change the subject, promptly aloof.

"You need to feed," I state bluntly. It's the best I can come up with.

Carlisle laughs lowly. "I do. Your brothers and sisters left today to go hunting."

"And Esme?"

"She doesn't want to go without talking to you first."

"Is she okay?" I question, worried. He nods, so I continue. "Why don't you call her? There's no reason to keep her waiting."

"Are you sure you're up to it?"

"I'm fine, Carlisle."

It turns out I am not. I'm exhausted and I fall asleep the moment he closes the door.

+/+/+/

I've been awake for a few minutes now, thankful there is no one here. When I woke up, I felt that dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach, afraid that they had left me because they didn't care now that they knew I was okay. But then I took a deep breath and decided to be a big boy.

They haven't forgotten me. I'm calm. I'm safe.

But suddenly, my worst nightmare and my best dream (all in one single person) come in.

Has he always been this beautiful? Have his cinnamon skin and crude-colored eyes always been this tormenting? He takes my breath away and gives my heart a silent order to skip a beat, while my blood dances in my arteries and then rushes to my cheeks like a devastating seaquake. I watch his optics widen and his lips (those plump and mesmerizing lips) form a slight smile – a bemused smile – that sets off the beeping noise.

I'm tiptoeing on the edge of a cliff, my feet submitting to my love for him – Jacob, the man-looking boy who owns me – and my brain screeching and pleading for them to stop moving because this is not what I need, it's plainly what I want. And what I want only hurts me. It's more than I can handle.

I want to tell him to get out, but the words are stuck in my throat. Everything is stuck in my throat and I wonder why I can't bring myself to let it all out. It's a never ending battle inside me. They keep hurting me; he keeps hurting me. So why can't I do the same to him?

But then I think that I can take a little more pain for his sake and all my doubts vanish.

Jacob crosses the room and sits on the chair beside my bed. His eyes never leave mine; they scrutinize my face, searching relentlessly but not finding what he looks for, whatever that may be.

"Why are you here?" I speak up softly. I'm genuinely confused.

"I told you. Because you saved my life," he answers matter-of-factly.

"So?" I snap, tired of his games. He can leave now if that's the real reason.

Jacob seems surprised at my irritation. "So…" he says. "Thank you."

"Is that all?" I whisper, defeated this time. My resolve fades and the pain consumes me. It's an unpleasant feeling within my chest, like something there has been broken; it's a dark cloud that settles above my head – it rains and rains. It's a cold shower that freezes my bones and mind, proclaiming the overthrow.

I want my Mama.

"No," I only hear him mumble, for my eyes are cast down. "I'm worried about you."

At this my head snaps up and I wince slightly at the discomfort. "Wha…What?"

He squints, looking pained. He opens his mouth to talk but nothing comes out. Without another word, he stands up and leaves.

Why does my throat feel tight?

+/+/+/

"I hate this," he sneers. "I hate you."

Another day I spend with him. Another stab to my heart. I remind myself of the importance of our time together. It's what keeps him alive.

It's what kills me. But then again, does it even matter? He's more important than me after all. He's more important than everything. And although he's slowly and painfully tearing me apart, I recognize that I can't live without him.

He says he hates me, but his head rests on my shoulder and his tears wet my shirt. He says he's crying because his life is difficult, because he misses his mother. He forgets that I can read his mind. I know it's because of me. It's because he loves me (he must love me) but he doesn't want to admit it. It's because a war is raging inside him and he's doing everything in his power to hate me. "It's not very difficult," he frequently tells me. "You're a very detestable leech and that's saying something. Bloodsuckers are all loathsome, but you're even worse."

He pretends he doesn't feel the need to slap himself every time he spats those words at me.

"You're so fucking cold," he growls.

I close my eyes and breathe in his awful scent.

"I'm sorry," I reply quietly. I don't know why I'm apologizing. It's my fault he imprinted on me, yes. I shouldn't have shown up. I shouldn't have let him see me. That's how he thinks. It's my fault. Everything is my fault.

But I shouldn't be held responsible for my fucking body temperature.

+/+/+/

"I don't understand," she murmurs, silent tears running down her face. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

"Simple. It's over. That's all there is to it," I respond coldly.

"Why?" Her voice cracks. "Because I let Jacob kiss me?"

I grimace slightly. That's something I definitely do not want to be reminded of.

"But…you love me. You know I love you more than I love him. When will you get past that jealousy?" She seems angry now. Like a little kitten ready to strike. That's just how ridiculous she looks.

"Bella," I grit my teeth. "I'm not jealous," I lie. I'm jealous because I wish he had kissed me. "I can't keep pretending to love you."

She scoffs. "Don't make the same mistake twice, please. If you want to make it simple and be happy then change me and stop complicating things."

I try my hardest not to laugh. "So that's what you want?"

"It's the only way we can be together," she speaks with determination, like she's just said the most intelligent thing in the whole fucking world.

"Maybe you should ask Alice to buy you some glasses the next time she goes shopping," I joke, while she fumes.

"What is wrong with you?"

"I'm tired of being everyone's crutch, that's what's wrong. And in case you haven't noticed, which I guess you haven't, I'm human now. I can't change you."

"And that's what you want?" she questions lightly this time, suddenly afraid. "Do you want to remain human?"

I want to clap. I want to congratulate her for being the blindest person I've ever met. No, scratch that. She's only blind when it is convenient.

How did I fall in love with her in the first place?

+/+/+/

The next day I take off my hospital gown and tell Alice to bring me warm and comfy clothes. None of that stylish shit she usually makes me wear. Carlisle helps me dress up. My ribs hurt and I find it a little difficult to walk, but I manage.

'It gets better' he says. I find no reason to believe him, but I do not voice my thoughts.

Alice is unusually quiet. I wonder if she's mad at me for breaking up with Bella, so I ask her on it, but she simply shakes her head and smiles. "No. I'm happy for you. I see a great future ahead of you."

She's being truthful and I lean down to kiss her cheek, grateful for her support and honesty, as well as her loyalty as a sister.

I feel my eyelids dropping. Carlisle practically carries me to his Mercedes and I end up drifting off in the back seat on the way home.

I barely hear him say he has a surprise for me.

+/+/+/

"Papa, tell me a story."

His pale blue eyes twinkle and he chuckles. "Alright, little one. Once upon a time…"

"No. You always start it with 'once upon a time'," I cut him off. He raises his eyebrows, surprised.

"Well, that's how children stories start," he ruffles my hair and pauses to think a little. "A long time ago, there was a boy named Edward…" he says. "Is that okay?"

"Yes," I nod. It's more than okay. Papa is going to tell a story about me.

"Alright then. There was a boy whose name was Edward. The boy lived with his Mama in a small…"

"What about you?" I interrupt.

He sighs. "Would you rather be read a book, Edward?"

"Which one?"

"Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens?"

"I don't know that one. Please, read it. I want to know the story."

He smiles. "You always do, don't you?"

+/+/+/

I rub my eyes tiredly, trying to convince myself that I'm not imagining this. This is real. I'm not exactly sure of what I expected to see when I got home. Four pairs of golden eyes, perhaps?

But I definitely didn't expect…this.

Tall lean frame. Honey blonde hair. Chestnut eyes. Peachy skin.

Soaring muscular frame. Raven curly hair. Hydrangea-blue eyes. Beige skin.

Petite figure. Caramel hair. Mahogany eyes. Salmon skin.

Slim structure. Sunflower blonde hair. Violet eyes. Flushed cheeks.

I'm speechless (and exhausted) but I manage to smile. Alice tells me to sit down and goes on and on about how it happened.

"There was this newborn, Bree…"

I listen carefully, despite my tiredness. It took a couple of days, Carlisle informs. One after another, they were bitten. I ask about the newborn and they say she's been taken to Alaska, where Tanya and her coven would welcome her.

"What about you?" I wonder, turning to Carlisle.

"Alice and I are going to Denali tonight," he enlightens me.

"My left wrist," Alice chirps as I decide to question about her. She has no memories of her human life but she remembers the intense burn in her wrist that contrasted against the pain in the rest of her body.

We are all silent for a few seconds, but then, like a lightning, a burst of happiness spreads across our faces and suddenly we're hugging and laughing and shedding joyful tears.

We're free.

We're free.

+/+/+/

"So, did you like it?" he asks, his eyelids dropping a little. He's just as tired as I am.

"It was a little sad," I confess drowsily, "I wish Peter had stayed with his Mama. But I liked it. Peter is very…hu..humo-rous."

Papa chuckles. "He is. Now go to sleep. It's late."

"Papa?" I whisper just as he stands up to leave. "If I left, would you close the window so I could not get in?"

He furrows his eyebrows. "Of course not, little man. I'll always welcome you with open arms."

"And would you replace me?"

"Never."

"And…would you…judge me?" I ask in a small voice. I sometimes hear Mama say that word when she talks to our maid in the kitchen. I'm not sure what it means, but I know it's bad. She says her Papa and her Mama judge her for marrying a Yankee.

And I've never met my grandparents.

Papa eyes me thoughtfully before answering. "No. I'd scold you, perhaps. But I would never judge you."

+/+/+/

Carlisle's eyes are midnight blue. Alice's remind me of walnuts. They're stunning.

But they're not black.

+/+/+/

I desperately wish he'd speak to me. I wish he'd stop hurting himself. I wish he'd stop hurting me. But he's too stubborn and, in his eyes, I am not worthy of his love.

His back is pressed against my chest and my fingers caress his dark hair. He loves the feeling of my light fingertips on his feverish skin, though he doesn't admit it and curses himself for having those thoughts. He chooses to insult me as a way of keeping those feelings away, those feelings that make his stomach churn and his head spin, those which he battles against. I wince slightly as his first words cut through me. Bella deserves better than me, he repeats. He deserves better than me. It's bad enough that he imprinted on me (God knows, me!) but I had to make it all worse when I decided that I wanted him to love me. Not like a friend or a brother. To…well, love me.

Little does he know, I didn't decide a goddamn thing. I simply could not deny that pulling. That deep desire and unconditional love that drew me to him. I could not deny that I wanted him as a lover. He could deny anything he wanted even if it was, in reality, true. He was strong enough to do so. He's proven it to me innumerous times. Just like this one. "You're truly a monster," he states. And despite the clenching of his heart, he does not take his words back.

+/+/+/

I want to sleep. I cannot. I want to toss in bed. I cannot. My arm and ribs are still healing.

He's on my mind, constantly haunting me. It's been a week since I came home. I haven't talked to him yet. I decided to wait. He'd have to come to me.

I may love me, but I'm not his fucking Mama.

+/+/+/

He's provoking me again. The tortured look on my face satisfies him. I have this theory that his imprint on me works very similarly to the diet which a normal individual has decided to do.

They very much want to grab the chocolate bar they know is in the cupboard, but they contain themselves and quickly walk away. And after a few minutes, they think 'I did it. I restrained myself.' And then, they smile triumphantly.

+/+/+/

Alice has a vision. The Volturi are coming, but the outcome of the ordeal is unknown. Everyone is facing this matter with optimism, convinced that the kings of the vampire world owe us.

They must let us live.

I'm the only one sulking.

I'm not positive about this. Perhaps because my nose is hiding behind a wet tissue and my head is pounding painfully. Carlisle ordered me to stay in bed. I'm certain that I wouldn't get out of my room even if he did not say a thing. I can barely move without wincing.

I ask myself: is this the end?

+/+/+/

It's a never ending tragedy. When I look outside the window of the bank, I do not see an energetic and active city. Downtown Chicago is not what it used to be. The sun is high in the sky – people are supposed to be outside, enjoying the weather. But they're not. They're inside their houses, hiding and praying. Some just stay in bed and cry. Like Mama. Others rest in peace inside a coffin, in an unknown location – like Father. I tell myself that he's in a better place now but the tears do not stop. I need to leave this place, as it only manages to upset me more. I cannot deal with these people at the moment. I tell them they have my permission to use my father's money to help the diseased, the poor and the forlorn.

"It does not work that way, kid," they say. But I don't listen. I just walk away. As I step outside, a wave of dizziness engulfs me and I have to lean against the wall behind me. On the other side of the street, a group of girls jumping and singing catches my attention.

"I had a little bird,

Its name was Enza,

I opened up the window,

And in flew Enza."

I cough violently.

And then…

Then everything goes downhill.

+/+/+/

I try to stop the waterworks but I find myself unable to.

I'll die miserable. I'll die before living. Before getting married. Before building a family of my own. Before having the opportunity to be with Jacob one last time. I cry day and night and try my best not to sob when I hear voices downstairs.

"Have some dignity!" I hear Rosalie exclaim. It is followed by a piercing scream and hurried pleas.

I know it will be too hard to hear the rest so I stopper my ears with my hands.

What did we ever do to deserve this?

+/+/+/

God will take me now. I much rather be in a place of peace where my parents await me. Mama's always been a fighter, but she was so weak. I'm certain that she has already passed away.

I'm choking. The end is near. I let myself go, as I am ready to die.

…

Why is my neck burning?

+/+/+/

I wake up to light caresses. Carlisle's fingers are tangled in my hair.

I'm alive. He's alive.

What happened?

He tells me that Aro is not that cruel and he wouldn't betray an old friend; that he believes we should be rewarded for killing all those newborns. Aro wishes Alice and I would become immortal again and join him, but he accepts our decision. And after all, sixty or seventy years paying attention to our actions does not mean anything to them. What are a few decades when you have forever? They know we wouldn't dare reveal our secret. We will cut ties with every vampire we know, we'll write them letters and say we are sorry. Not a word about our transformation. We're forbidden to do such thing. We'll change identities, we'll travel to Europe, to some country we've never been to before.

As long as we act subtly.

As long as we remain human.

A deal.

I can live with that.

+/+/+/

One month later, on a Thursday afternoon, I get a text from him.

Where r u?

I smile at his writing. I can't help it. I rarely get texts from anyone and when I do, I can clearly see all the letters that are supposed to be there.

But then, his text sets a fire within me. Not a pleasant and warm fire, but an angry combustion that threatens to consume every fiber of my being. Honestly, I'm not exactly sure why I feel this way. Nevertheless, a simple word echoes in my head:

Coward.

I do not reply.

+/+/+/

"Why did you have to come back?" he says. He wants to sound irate, but the slight defeat in his voice betrays him.

"Because Bella needed me," I respond bluntly, but there's a hint of irritation in my tone. They all need me. And they take me for granted. Neither of them has done anything to deserve me.

He scoffs, but I read it in his thoughts: I've just hurt him. I realize my mistake, because, yes, everything he does is right even when he verbally abuses me, but I made a terrible (oh, so terrible) mistake: I answered his question. He says Bella will realize she loves him, that one of these days she'll choose him and I'll run away and leave them alone. He thinks they will be very happy. Deep inside, he knows I'll always be the one, the only one. I don't love her but I feel protective of her and knowing that he's planning on playing with her feelings makes me upset, so I reprimand him.

In an instant, the back of his hand flies in the direction of my marble face but I catch it on time.

My hand embraces his wrist and my lungs take in unneeded oxygen. I'm flabbergasted, static, and I wonder if he acted on instinct. But when I look into his ebony eyes, I listen to his thoughts, too. He didn't think now. He had planned it before. He had thought I'd change my mind and start wanting him as a simple friend. And then he assumed this was the perfect moment to hit me.

That plain word is dripping with malefic poison. It agonizes my every internal organ and I'm sure that the feelings displaying on my face are crystal clear.

Jacob is fighting with himself again. A part of him regrets his gesture, the other applauds.

And I'm certain that I'd be crying if I could.

+/+/+/

A few minutes later my phone rings. It's him. I glare at the small object, which is vibrating. It's teasing me, screaming at me to pick it up.

I was wrong. I do need him. There's an emptiness surrounded by my ribcage that won't go away. I need him, too. I don't know why I didn't notice it before. Perhaps it's because, when he's not with me, I feel incomplete, maybe even numb, but at least he cannot hurt me.

I turn off my phone.

+/+/+/

We talk about her like she's our source of happiness and the most important person in our lives. We know she's awake. Once she truly falls asleep (we can tell by the way her breathing evens out and her heart beats more slowly), we both exhale in relief. He breaks the silence after a while. "You're a good liar, I'll give you that."

"I'm not the only one," I retort quietly.

"I'm not lying. She'll be mine," he affirms. He's kidding himself again. I've become tired of his shit, so this time I don't keep my mouth shut.

"Do what the fuck you want," I whisper. I leave the tent, being careful not to wake up the sleeping beauty.

My words take a few seconds to register in Jacob's brain and when they do, he assaults my head with accusations. I'm a son of a bitch, a liar, a hypocrite, a coward and God knows what. I don't hear the rest as I'm too far away to read his mind.

When I stop, I sit down on the snowy ground and curl up in a ball.

And I sob tearlessly.

…

The next day, he kisses her.

+/+/+/

On Friday, he sends me another text message.

I need 2 talk 2 u.

I send an 'okay' because I know it will annoy the hell out of him. He can talk all he wants, as long as he comes to me.

+/+/+/

I keep wondering what 'judge' truly means. Papa says that word a lot, too, when he talks about his job. He works with judges, because he's a lawyer. On a Sunday morning, we go to the church. When we come back, I can't help but question him.

"Papa, what does judge mean?" I ask. I know he's going to think I'm not feeling alright, because I've said that word before. He looks confused, but he answers anyhow.

"A judge is someone who decides whether a person is condemned or not."

"What's 'condemned'?"

Papa huffs good-naturedly. "If you're not a good boy, you'll be condemned, which means you will be fated to a punishment of sorts."

I grimace. "So when you judge someone you're condemning them?"

He seems undecided. "It depends. Some people judge others because of their personality or their acts. They do not condemn those people since they cannot do it, they don't have the power to do so, but they might point out their mistakes and even treat them roughly."

"Like Mama's parents?"

He looks down at me and gives me a sad smile. "Yes."

Now that I know what 'judge' means, I feel sorry for Mama, although I'm a little mad at her, too. I love her very much, but I wonder why she only teaches me nice words.

Oh, well, adults. They're all the same.

+/+/+/

It's a hot Monday morning. I'm outside, eating breakfast, ignoring the pain in my torso. I'd taken my cast off and Carlisle has done some exercises with me so I can regain the muscle mass I lost. My ribs are almost healed. My heart, though, still needs surgery. Jacob did not answer my message, for some reason. I'm deeply worried about him, despite everything. But it's his choice – I cannot decide for him.

Perhaps I'm not easy on the eye anymore and that's why he's reluctant to face me. No, that's silly. Besides, I heard him when I was in the hospital. He said I was beautiful, that I looked better this way.

Maybe he was lying. Again.

I looked at myself in the mirror a few days ago. I like my eyes. They are a vibrant green.

Perchance he thinks they are too green.

I have freckles. Maybe he finds them unattractive.

I'm still pale. Perhaps he's disappointed.

I'm too skinny…

…

…

+/+/+/

Sometimes, I hear him thinking about my appearance. He loves to see me in black. The way he describes me in his head is almost poetic and I feel like I can fall asleep listening to his portrayal of me. During those times, he does not think of me as a monster or someone he must have a deep hate for. During those times, my hair looks silky and reminds him of cherries and my eyes are gold spheres; my skin looks like china. All in all, I resemble a porcelain male doll.

After all, that's what I am, right? Just a doll.

And dolls do not have feelings.

+/+/+/

They ask me if I've met someone, if I fancy some lovely girl with rosy cheeks and delicate features. "Sixteen years old!" some exclaim. "At your age, I had a wife and a job." I wish I could tell them that I do not appreciate their audacity towards this matter. I wish I could tell them that no woman has caught my eye because they all ogle at me too much. Some of them seem ready to marry me the second they set eyes on my face. I believe that's wrong – it seems to me that they are not capable of seeing past my good looks. Despite my boyish features, they consider me a man, a promising husband. They don't know that I'm that boy.

I'm the boy who loves his Mama and admires his father.

I'm the boy who wants to be a legendary musician.

The boy who's not afraid of dying for his country.

The boy who dreams and dreams and dreams.

I'm so much more than just a pretty face.

+/+/+/

Yes, that's it. I'm too skinny. I need to eat more. I look down at the apple in my hand and shake my head disapprovingly.

I need calories.

I stand up abruptly and turn around, stepping inside the house and then running toward the kitchen. My ribs protest, but it does not stop my frenetic movements. I search relentlessly. I grab muffins, chocolate bars, chips, sweets. I stuff as much food as I can in my mouth. My hands are shaking. My mind is racing. I choke with soda. I wet my clothes. I throw away what is light; I seize what is salty and sugary. I make a mess. I coat my fingers with honey and lick them. It's too sweet but I remind myself that I'll be rewarded afterwards.

I won't be too skinny and Jacob will like me better.

Right?

…

…

+/+/+/

In her eyes, I'm not a doll. I'm a Greek God, but she doesn't truly know what a real God looks like. But she's seen pictures. Pictures that show statues. Emotionless statues. That's how she envisions me.

That's totally okay for her. In fact, it is marvelous. She gets to stare at a live (dead) Adonis whenever she wants.

And that's just fucking peachy, isn't it?

+/+/+/

My stomach churns painfully and I run en route for the bathroom. I kneel down in front of the toilet. I gag, I puke, I cough, I hurt.

What the hell was I thinking?

It's all very clear to me now. Doing all of this because of him is ridiculous. I think that reaching this point, swooping so low, means that I really do love him, more than life itself. Love is cruel and I'm nothing short of miserable at the moment, but God knows, there are people out there in much worse conditions, so I must put myself together. Therefore, I stand up and quickly wash my mouth and my hands.

I hold my head high.

I straighten my back.

And I take a deep breath.

Another exercise to help my ribs heal faster.

+/+/+/

They try to support me, but it becomes difficult when I get home with a grim expression. Jasper can barely talk to me and he does not try to ease my pain because I ask him not to. They leave me alone most of the time; they're not exactly aware of what has me so troubled. I cannot tell them the things I hear when I'm with Jacob. They only know that he has imprinted on me and they're not very happy about it. Yet, they do nothing about it. There's nothing that can be done.

Alice is frustrated because she hates not being able to see my future. Jasper gets easily overwhelmed with my emotions. Emmett wishes he could help me but thinks that 'seeing two guys together is weird'. Rosalie worries inside and seems unconcerned on the outside. Esme comforts me, despite her obliviousness. Carlisle does not comment. For the first time in his existence, he does not know what to say.

And they all pretend they're not tired of my fucked up relationships. I can't help but consider it unfair for them. They've already sacrificed a lot for Bella.

'So much suffering and all for nothing' I hear Rosalie sigh mentally.

She's right. It's all for nothing.

+/+/+/

"It's just coffee," she shrugs. I find it strange that she does not have a reason to invite me to have breakfast with her. Even so, I do not refuse.

It's a cold Wednesday morning, three weeks after my little episode. Not a single word from Jacob.

I wrap my raincoat tighter around my torso and bury my chin in my wool scarf. I decide not to dwell on the subject and take care of the matter at hands. I'm certain that Bella wants to talk to me about my choice. She's likely to question me about it. Perhaps if I explain to her my reasons she'll realize her mistakes and leave me alone. One of these days she'll find someone who can teach her more than I did.

I enter the little coffee shop and walk in the direction of the table in the corner, next to the window, as I spot her brown hair and chocolate-colored eyes. She eyes me nervously as I sit down. We are awkwardly silent at first, but she speaks up after a while. She greets me and asks me how I've been. The conversation goes on. Soon, we are talking about our plans for the future. I tell her that my family and I will leave this town in a few weeks, that we cannot remain here – people will notice the change in our appearance – , and that Dublin is a beautiful city. I even let it slip that Mama was Irish. And in a second, a significant second, the dialogue changes direction. She asks me why. I know she's referring to our split. "Bella, I was not lying when I said I did not love you anymore. Not in that way, at least. I wish I could say that it was not your fault, but I cannot. It was. It was partly your fault. You forgot that I wasn't as indestructible as I appeared. Our relationship only drained me. I was a giver and you a taker. It's not my wish to hurt or judge you. No, don't ever think that. But truth is – and I'll be severely candid now – you became too needy. Suddenly, you wanted it all. Me, my family, Jacob. You acted recklessly. On top, you wanted to become immortal." She argues that she only wanted to be with me forever. "Do you not see?" I ask quietly. "Did you not notice how revolted I was?" She shakes her head, visibly confused. "Bella, let's imagine this: you have a sandwich in your hand, but you're not eating it because you don't think you'll like it. There's a trash bin next to you. Some feet away, there's a little boy. He's skinny, almost a skeleton, and he's looking at that sandwich hungrily. Would you throw the sandwich away?"

Would you throw something so precious away while he watched? Would you throw your humanity away?

"No, of course not," she answers, scandalized. "That way I would be…" She pauses suddenly and her eyes widen. She says the next words in a shaken whisper, "…making fun of him."

I leave a ten dollar bill on the table and walk away.

+/+/+/

Just as I leave the coffee shop and start walking, a strong warm hand grabs my arm and suddenly I'm being pulled into a dark alley. I know it's him, but he caught me by surprise and I cannot help but gasp. He places his hand over my mouth and hushes me. He backs me up against the wall, trapping me, preventing me from escaping. The movement is sort of instinctive; we both know that I will not run away, especially when he's touching me and gazing into my eyes, silently assuring me that he will not hurt me. Especially when my knees tremble and my lungs find it difficult to accompany the rhythm of my heart, because it's been two fucking months and he's still the most beautiful sight I've ever laid eyes on.

His free hand travels down my upper body and the butterflies in my stomach hop in anticipation. His hand slides inside my back pocket and, for a second, I'm slightly scared. But he just takes my car keys.

His fingers simply linger on the fabric of my jeans a bit longer than necessary.

"I'm taking you to Seattle with me, okay?" he whispers in my ear. His tone is gentle and careful, like he's talking to a child and all of a sudden I feel like one. My nod is almost unnoticeable. He continues. "I just need to talk to you."

+/+/+/

He's different today. He's thinking about his favorite songs. It's like he has found a way to block me and I wonder what he's hiding, but only slightly because the feel of his blistering skin on mine is enough to send me into a trance. The simple fact that he is letting me touch him is immensely distracting. He's sitting on the muddy ground, his back leaning on a tree and his legs extended in front of him. I'm rubbing circles on his hand. I let my head fall back and my eyes close as the songs playing in his head lull me into a daydream. I dream of long auburn hair and green, very green grass. I dream of snowmen and Victorian houses. Of toy soldiers and meaningful tales. I do not dare dream of russet-colored skin and glossy black hair. I mustn't. I must not ruin this moment.

"Watcha thinking about, Cullen?" he questions. His heart speeds up as he looks at me. He's admiring the view – he's the admiring the way my thick eyelashes fan over my high cheekbones. He's never seen me this peaceful and wonders what has me so relaxed. I now have the appearance of an angel and, out of the blue, he just wants to get closer and touch my strawberry-colored lips with his own.

"Good times," I sigh almost inaudibly, answering his question. Although his good mood is surprising, I cannot deny that it is somehow comforting. But my reply startles him: he has no idea that I had a life before him, before Bella, before unbelievable myths became crude and cold reality.

I fall back into the memories of my easy infancy and ignore Jacob's sudden internal war. All of this because he had such a strong urge to kiss me but then remembered who I am.

So much for a happy moment in his presence.

+/+/+/

"Why didn't you answer my text message?" he inquires. I consider lying to him – say I lost my phone – but I know it won't help our situation. In all honesty, I don't know what to tell him. I cannot run away because I'm inside a moving car and I'm still too shocked to think clearly at the moment. Thus, I remain silent. I expect him to scream, to tell me how undeserving I am of his time, but I simply hear him sigh, like he's tired, too. Tired of fighting. Could it be? Has he comprehended that it is not worth the effort?

"You're leaving." It isn't a question, but rather a statement. He's heard my conversation with Bella.

"Yes," I hiss like the word is acid on my tongue and, abruptly, my chest shrinkages as I finally become conscious of how complicated things have just turned out to be. I want a new start, a new life (perhaps I'll learn how to disregard the blankness that is always present when I'm not with Jacob), but he has come to change it all and now I'm lost and cannot find my way back to lucidity.

"No. Don't say it," he chuckles dryly.

"What?" I query, startled.

"That it's for the best."

I blink, taken aback. My surprise quickly becomes anger and, before I know it, I'm spitting words that have been stuck in my throat for a long time. "For the first time in my whole life, I'm doing something for me. So don't you dare point your finger at me. I promised myself I wouldn't let anyone trample me again!"

This time he's the one whose eyes widen.

I have an exhausted mind, two hundred pounds on my shoulders and an ache in my chest, so I look away and watch the blurring landscape as if there was something there that would give me the solution to my problems.

I see none. Only ordinary people, each entity passing by, unaware of my dilemmas because they all have their own stories to tell and yet, they keep them inside and try to conquer their demons alone. I cannot recall how many times I've fallen. I only remember that I've always had to stand up on my own, that no one picked me up. How different am I from these people? For some, every single day is a struggle. God knows, various are beaten at home, several have bills to pay, others do not have anything to eat, some have sick children, and more than a few have lost the love of their lives. But they're still here.

Humanity's ugliness is strangely beauteous.

And those who lost their loved ones – their husbands, their wives, their high school sweethearts –, how different is their pain from ours?

It is so much grander – that is the difference.

In a crowd, I do not find a solution, but I do find hope. I find common sense and I am filled with optimism. I cannot describe this feeling: it's like a happy anger – I'm smiling but Jacob seems like a great punching bag at the moment, too. I've always wanted easy, but he kept pushing me away and hurt us both intentionally.

I locate courage in my spirit and shift to look at him, the small smile on my face permanent. "Fuck you," I chuckle lightly as a red light comes to view and he stops the car. Jacob whips his head in my direction and drops his jaw, astonished, but his shock does not quiet my laughter.

How many arid sobs have been heard by forest animals as I sat on a tree trunk and bawled my heart out because of the things he said? How many tears have I shed because of the things he didn't say? And at the same time, how many people have lost their jobs? How many innocent children have died? How many of these citizens feel complete? Very few, I suppose. And not because they want to. But I do have a chance.

I do not make a decision. My hand just turns the door knob on its own accord. My feet, eager and non-obedient, touch the concrete ground and my legs move rapidly, in spite of Jacob's shouts. Soon my blood travels in speed of light inside my veins and the wind takes control of my already unruly hair.

I'm running.

Running.

Running.

A part of me vanishes like thick steam, but there's a portion that stays and, although I do not feel complete, I feel free. And after my mental speech, I feel lucky as well.

I'll solve this problem (this stupid, stupid problem) my own way.

Children usually think that they're the only human beings in the world, hence the lectures their parents often give them about society, ideals and money. If Jacob wants to behave like a child then I must educate him, right? My lungs burn as I come to a stop and I find myself bended over, breathless. When I regain my posture, I look around and spot Jacob's gigantic form sprinting in my direction. Just like I expected him to.

My mind is barely controlling my body, and my actions, in someone else's eyes, are wild and insane like. I find a newspaper lying on the floor and grab it with confident hands, reading the title of the first page with genuine interest. "The number of car accidents has increased significantly in the whole world this year!" I shout loudly. People throw me quick glances and titter softly. Jacob slows his pace until he's not moving at all, but only staring at me like I've gotten mad. There's a possibility I have, but it doesn't seem like a big problem at the moment. To get everyone's attention, I climb up a garden bench which is making me question why someone would place such thing on a sidewalk.

"Portugal and Greece have huge debts to pay!" I carry on. "There are people dying of hunger in developed countries! There's lack of jobs. The number of domestic violence victims is constantly raising and there are sexual predators and pedophiles out there, more than you can imagine!" My chest is rising and falling and my hand is gripping the newspaper, which is encouraging me to go on. "And while the world is going through an economic crisis, while most criminals are still killing, stealing and raping, there's a man…" I look him in the eyes, "…a boy who just wants to complicate our relationship, who refuses to accept who he is and who I am, a boy that is constantly hurting himself and the one he loves because of his stubbornness!" There's a crowd circling us both, curiously watching us and listening attentively to my words. "Is there a reason for all this pain? Is it worthy, Jacob?" I ask him as my eyes scrutinize his own. He's stunned, contemplative; the wheels are turning in his head. I turn my attention to our public. "Isn't he a fucking idiot?" I gesture to his figure with my hand. They raise their eyebrows and laugh lowly, nodding. I grin crookedly, in spite of the soreness of my torso from speaking so loudly and breathing swiftly. I feel huge and powerful, although something in me is breaking as I've just humiliated him.

I've become used to my bad reflexes so I do not conjecture how he did it without me noticing; how in measly seconds, he managed to seize my legs, throw me over his broad shoulder and started jogging through a multitude of distressed walkers. This time, I'm the one whose soul is amazed, though I do not show it and I don't protest. I merely grab his shirt with ten desperate fingers that instinctively grip the fabric. I cannot deny that I'm afraid of falling, afraid that he'll drop me, because this is the first time he holds me and I'm not convinced that I shall trust him.

He hasn't let me fall yet only because I've always been under the earth in the first place.

After what seems like a very long time, he leans down and I think he's letting me go, but he's not. He simply pulls me until I'm staring at his breathtaking face instead of his back. He's squeezing my waist like his life depends on it – maybe it does – and this feels right, like I'm finally home, after so many years, even if I find it difficult to breathe, even if my ribs ache and my heart is in my mouth. Even if we're two men – two boys – hugging in front of a dock while the sun rises high in the sky.

And it's 'so gay' – as they say – and so cliché and…

And honestly, I don't give a shit.

I guess I can say that he has learned his lesson.

Mission accomplished.

+/+/+/

Jacob's house is not a palace. It's not a mansion. Instead, it's the house I often dream of having in the future. He obviously doesn't know that, because he apologizes timidly.

"No, don't be silly," I chuckle, shaking my head. "It's very nice. Cozy. I like it."

His black eyes widen. "It's nothing like your house…" he mumbles.

I walk slowly and look around. The house has a warm feeling to it. He's right. It's nothing like my cold, cold house. I stop and tilt my head, involuntarily tracing the path my fingers have drawn on the kitchen table with a gentle touch. "Indeed," I whisper. "It is not." Only my upper body twists to look at him. His full lips are parted as he stares down at me and he's radiating with innocence and insecurity. I've seen him look better in numerous occasions, but he's still divinely good-looking. He always is.

He lifts an awkward hand to point to the fridge. "Would you like something to drink? Or eat?"

"Do you have coke?" I question, tearing my eyes away. I solidly remember how addicted I'd been to the sugary soda when I was a kid. Despite so many warnings about how potentially bad it is for anyone's health, I cannot resist it. Perhaps because it brings back memories of a perfect childhood.

Jacob hands me the can and I take it with a nod and a low 'Thank you'. He shows me the living room, rubbing his neck and biting the corner of his lip, afraid of my reaction. The space is a mess; beer bottles and chip bags 'decorate' a small coffee table in front of the couch. And, much to his surprise, I still find this place welcoming. "Can I sit?" I ask. He nods immediately and I plant my behind on a cushion. His mouth hangs open and I resist the urge to roll my eyes, inviting him to sit with me instead. He complies immediately.

He's nervous and edgy. He's doing what I want without complaint; he's doing it fast – too fast. I can't have that. This is his house, his home, a place where he should feel comfortable. Obviously, my presence is what gets him uneasy, but that's his own fault. He's mistreated me for so long and now that he has learnt his lesson, he doesn't know how to act around me.

We can solve that.

I seize a beer can and throw it at his head. He catches it easily and quirks one eyebrow, shifting his gaze to me with an amused smirk. I pierce his dark eyes with my own, daring him to make a move. But he doesn't. His breath catches in his throat and he stops altogether.

I allow a small blush to color my cheeks and look away, unexpectedly discomfited.

"How's your father?" I question, trying to start a dialogue. I bend over and play with the laces of my sneakers. The action is ridiculously adolescent-like – I'm aware of that fact. I cannot help it; I do feel like a teenager after all.

"He's good," he replies sincerely. "Why did you throw a can at my head?"

I titter, not expecting him to change the subject so suddenly. "I was hoping you would cut it out," I shrug. He eyes me confusedly. "You've been so quiet and I just wanted to entertain you a little," I clarify and his skin reddens slightly. "There's no need to be nervous, Jacob. I don't bite."

Jacob snorts unashamedly. I smile, in spite of his manners. It dawns on me that I've never seen him look like this. Warmness spreads through my chest; it's a convivial sentiment, a spark of happiness and peace that fills me. I release a long and very audible breath. Have I been holding it in all this time?

"Do you wanna…" he starts hesitantly. "Do you want to play cards or something?"

I look him in the eye with a blank expression. "Hearts?"

He frowns. "You don't look very excited."

"I'm excited," I retort. "This is my poker face."

"But you said you wanted to play 'Hearts'," he scrunches up his nose, confused.

"That's what I said." I nod. "Now go get the cards."

+/+/+/

"I'm taking you out."

In an instant, the back of my hand hits the windshield of my Volvo. For a moment, I actually thought my heart would suddenly come out of my chest, but as soon as I realized who the voice belonged to, I sighed in relief. Still, my hand is not very happy now and to be frank, neither am I.

"Fuck," I whisper.

Jacob cackles. "If I knew I'd get this reaction from you, I would have shouted 'Bomb'."

"And I would have punched you instead of hitting my precious car."

"Don't be like that, Cullen," he chuckles while his huge paw ruffles my hair. "How come you didn't notice me sooner? My motorbike isn't exactly silent."

I don't focus on his words, because my eyes are glued to his handsome countenance. A lot has changed since the last time my eyes rested on the defined lines of his face. The way he now carries himself enthralls me, while the warmness that practically seeps from his dark orbs embraces my still wounded heart, easing the slight pressure. A light aura surrounds his broad figure, like a huge weight has been lifted from his usually hunched shoulders. The gentle curve of his surely delicious mouth makes him look more youthful – more carefree.

He appears to be delightfully happy and I don't know what to think of the sudden change, in all honesty. It's ironic, really: I humiliated him by announcing in front of a crowd that he was responsible for our mutual pain, but suddenly, I feel compelled to complicate our tacit relationship, as well.

Purely because I find it unfair. I tried to make this work, while he sabotaged my efforts. I tired out, but then I rose. On my own. Again.

"What's the matter?" he queries, taking a step forward. He's lost his confidence; he's walking on foreign land now. I must reassure him, because… Because I love him. And that is enough.

"Nothing." I smile. "I was just lost in my thoughts. That's why I didn't notice you sooner."

"Right," he sighs. "There will be a bonfire tonight and I was wondering if you would like to come…with me."

How 'awesome'. I have plans today…

"Sure, I'd love to."

I just hope Rosalie won't cut my balls off with a meat knife and then give them to her new cat. But I've been lucky lately, haven't I? Perhaps my hopes are not in vain.

+/+/+/

Fire sparks attack the night sky, showing off their unusual blue tones, dancing and spinning and outlining indistinguishable figures. And we're both observing the fire, as if it was, in any way, more interesting than our goose bumps and our undeniable need to get closer and closer. We're both laughing and drinking and hearing stories that none of us want to think about, because we're striving to fade into the crowd and forget that what we used to be. We're tacitly begging for a bit of normality, and for once, our prayers are being answered. Jacob's sturdy arm has connected with mine, and the necks of our beer bottles are touching – toasting, as if saying 'God Bless this moment'. I think I'm giggling too loudly, or allowing my gaze to collide with the magnificent sight that is the boy I love too many times. And the boy I love is trying not to hold my hand; the boy I love is trying to pretend his hand is not under the back of my plaid shirt. His friends know, but I know he thinks they don't know. And I know they're too enthralled with the chemistry that infests the cold midnight air to really notice that tonight – at last – a lovely bond is being created.

I'm swaying with the rhythm of the ocean's waves. My eyes are closed and I'm mouthing the lyrics of a long forgotten love song, one that the people who surround me do not recognize. The smell of pinewood leaves me more intoxicated than the unfathomable amount of alcohol that I've consumed in less than two hours. The heat of Jake's fingers sticks to my skin, sending incoherent messages up my spine, and I think I'm smiling like a fool – I must be smiling like a fool.

I don't think I've ever felt so good in my whole life.

I don't know if Jacob's skull has suddenly lost a pin, or if he's gotten tired of battling his wishes, but my body presses against his when he turns in my direction and contours my waist with his strong arms. He's much more than soft skin covering hard muscles and I know that, but right now, I don't think about anything else besides the feeling of his body so close to mine. His warm breath, tainted with the smell of ponche, caresses my surely scarlet cheeks, and I inhale sharply, absorbing his longing, his essence, absorbing him.

God, I love him so bloody much.

His full lips brush against my ear with a very great deal of tenderness. He plants a kiss or two on my hot skin, I think – I cannot be certain, as he's being unnaturally gentle –, and he's breathing quickly, his heart all but touching my chest. And finally, he says something; he asks if he can do now what he will do many, many times in the near future.

"Can I kiss you?"

I shake my head and I chuckle quietly, because I'm drunk and hot and I think messing around is a good idea. Jacob, the boy I love, frees a hearty laugh and hugs me tighter.

"Do I have to steal it?" he murmurs, as I open my eyes. His voice is hoarse and his irises are lighter up close. With a grin, I bob my head, because I really want him to kiss me without my official permission. I want to feel like the boy I love loves me as well and that his love for me can propel him forward and give him the courage he needs to… steal a kiss from me. I want that so much.

The roles must have switched, because I get the impression that he's invaded my mind and decoded my vehement wishes. I get the impression that he's fully aware of what he is doing, while I'm molten butter in his hands. I love being butter, I decide. I love loosening my jaw, releasing the tension in my shoulders and giving myself so willingly to someone who is eager to take me in his arms and show me that I'm worth his time. I get the impression that the dark skin that covers his plump lips is brushing against my chin – no, I am sure it is. He's close, so close, and suddenly, his mouth moves upwards and he's capturing my bottom lip, stroking it with his velvety tongue. He's sweetly scorching, I realize. He's gentle and a little bit self-conscious; he's slow and delightfully intense.

He tastes like new beginnings. He tastes like pure adoration and warm safety. And ponche. He also tastes like ponche.

His blazing fingertips leave fire trails on my arching back, on my clammy sides, on my static hips. He's all around me, building my haven – our haven –, and a few hours later, after leaving the party with obnoxious laughs, fast exchanges of affectionate words, pleading gasps and meaningful looks, he is inside me, as well.

We're in my adoptive parents' former bedroom, engaged in activities that make me feel bad and wild and free.

The window is open and a chilly draft of a summer night in Forks liberally comes in, but it doesn't interfere with the burning passion that keeps us both happily trapped. The incandescent August moon shines down on our sweaty bodies and it illuminates the love that swims in Jacob's very dark brown eyes. He's grunting and lowly cursing, while I'm panting and pleadingly whimpering. My legs imprison his narrow waist, my arms cage his broad shoulders, and he pounds into me with such power – with such remarkable power – that I feel like each thrust is a gift that he has reserved specially for me. Jacob fucks me deeper and harder and more desperately, so I know that he is about to fall over the edge. I also know that the end is knocking at my door, because my stomach coils and my toes curl.

But it turns out that it isn't the end, really, because the next morning, he makes love to me again. And again. The morning afterwards. The night afterwards. A beautiful rhythm is created and before we know it, he's making love to me every morning and every night. Sometimes, he stops for a very long moment and just… stares at me. Into my eyes. And then, he says he loves green, white and reddish-brown. He says he's never seen anyone as astoundingly stunning as me. He lets those lovely whispers escape at the same time as his thumb caresses my cheek and I smile – I always, always, always smile. He's constantly apologizing, too. I never ask him why, because I understand and because he's here now, embracing me with the utmost care and allowing my head to fall on his sculpted chest.

We realize that our futures are connected and, together, we regard them with quite a lot of attention. We talk about what we want, about the images that fill our dreams. We don't contradict each other – we just listen. He wants to be free – like me – and disentangle himself from the life he's been forced to lead. I do everything in my power to assure him that he will get what he wants. "I'll be with you all the way," I tell him.

After that, we make love again.

The next day, we hold hands as he nervously stands up to his father and confesses his true desires. Billy's response proves that he doesn't accept his son's decisions and that he is intent on keeping him here, 'where he belongs'. I watch Jacob's face fall. I watch his tears travelling down his beautiful face. The boy I love is being denied what he deserves and his father isn't doing anything about it, even upon seeing the pain in his child's eyes. The anger that has welled up within me makes my skin redden and my grip on Jacob's hand becomes stronger.

I scoff. I am truthful with Billy. I mention the fact that his two daughters, who shouldn't mind living near their father, have laid all the responsibility on their brother's shoulders. I tell him what I really think about their tribe in general. "Oh, you, with your goddamn prejudice, your foul arrogance and your immense disrespect, are the cause of many people's self-hate. Sometimes, Mr. Black, I wish you knew what it is like to wake up after three agonizing days, not knowing what you are, what has been done to you, and afterwards, fight with all your being to not let your human side fade away. I wish you knew what it is like to feel like a monster and knowing no way out. I wish you could walk in your son's shoes, or in Carlisle's shoes. I truly do, Mr. Black."

He looks ashamed and I suppress a triumphant smile. I tell him, "This is not what my parents would do if they were in your situation. Your son's wellbeing is above anything else. He isn't alright. He isn't happy."

But eventually, that changes. Rebecca, Jacob's sister, comes back, bringing her husband with her. Everything takes a one hundred and eight degree turn. Jacob stops phasing and soon, one by one, each member of his pack decides that they want to do the same. It actually feels like a revolution. In political terms, this is democracy. At last, those boys were able to speak; they were able to choose.

I wait for the boy I love to finish high school, while I find a job nearby and earn some useful money. I kiss him until we're both breathless when he affirms that his new home is wherever I choose to be. He wants to be a mechanic and I, a musician; he doesn't want to enroll in college and neither do I. Together – always together – we think over our every plan, our every decision, and we consider ourselves very fortunate for being given so many opportunities. We make it very clear that we appreciate them. We want to hear, taste and see a bit of everything.

And we do.

In the countryside of Limerick, Ireland, we take a ride on our bikes and in Oslo, Norway, we visit Sculpture Park. We jump from cities to villages, from villages to cities, in this convulsive and energetic way of ours. And if anyone asks us, we can proudly say that we've been to Switzerland's magnificent mountains, that we've watched the fireworks over the Douro River, in Oporto, Portugal, on New Year's Eve, that we've swum in Normandy's beaches during the summer and that we've eaten Mozzarella salad in Milan.

And during our travels, as anticipated, we fell in love with each other. Slowly, but surely, we began to appreciate each other's personality. I fell in love with his humor, his sarcasm, his honesty, his kindness and even his temper. He admits that he has grown to love my devotion, my sense of justice, my subtle wittiness and – Mother of God – my inconstant moods.

There is so much I still have to discover, so much beauty and so much disgrace that my eyes have yet to detect, but throughout the time that we have been together, I've learnt, on my own and with his help, that our past does not define us, that there is more splendor in humanity than anyone would expect, that it's not our duty to do anything that does not concern us. If it was, kindness, solidarity and gratification wouldn't exist. We've chosen to make the world a better place with our subtle, albeit meaningful, actions. We've chosen to be more than nothing. We've chosen to make a satisfying difference.

We've promised each other that if we argue, we will try to solve the problem at hand. We've sworn on our mothers' graves that we would wipe each other's tears and run as fast as the wind till the day one of us decided to settle down.

They say life is two days, but I often get the feeling that I have a long road ahead of me. I feel like I'm born every day and the sensation is one of my most faithful sources of comfort.

I don't have everything, but I have everything I need.

So does Jacob, the boy I love.

When I was younger, I saw my father and my mother dancing to Walter van Brunt's lovely songs, in front of our Victorian house, surrounded by green, green grass. And with a hopeful smile, I thought:

One day, it will be my turn.

At last, it is.