Edward hadn't really had a chance to settle down in his beaten-down apartment in New Haven before he literally bumped into Emmett McCarty. At the time, just as he'd glanced up at a dimpled smile that he'd only be able to mirror if he stood on the balls of his feet, the clumsiness of the encounter had seemed pretty much inevitable (what with his neighbor's quarterback shoulders taking up so much of the space in the small hallway), and so, avoiding overly friendly, excessively genuine, painfully handsome student-athletes hadn't appeared to be something to add to his to-do list.
Until, as if he'd suddenly recovered fifty percent of the visual acuity in his myopic left eye, the so-called little things had begun to seem not so inevitable, and Edward had started to wonder if, or better yet, to hope that his feelings were not completely unrequited.
…And right afterwards, he'd developed a pressing urge to doubt his own suspicions.
Because Descartes might've been wrong about a lot of things, but his method was still useful and recommendable and all things good.
In fact, it came in handy during situations like this.
"Hey, is that beer I'm looking at?"
Edward's eyes darted down to the inside of his plastic cup, where his drink of choice swirled and splashed against the rim as his hand moved in an absent dance.
"No, this is actually, um, cider."
Or a cocktail of pointless yearning mixed with barely sweetened disappointment.
"You're not legal."
Shifting his weight from one foot to another, he gave a small shrug, his mind tainted both by the memory of his neighbor's back muscles rippling beneath his skin while he walked across the football field and the thought that what wasn't—or shouldn't be— legal was this man's goddamn DNA.
"It doesn't have a lot of alcohol, so it's all right."
Indeed. Strong drinks always made him spill his secrets before his dinner, and there was no way in hell either of them would be very comfortable dealing with such a ghastly combination.
So it was all right. For now.
"So, who was that guy you were talking with just a minute ago?" Emmett asked with a grin that plowed two holes into his cheeks and put his pearl-whites on display, almost making the lack of true contentedness in his blue eyes go unnoticed. Edward told himself for the hundredth time not to put too much trust in his gapped knowledge about micro expressions and chose instead to relocate his gaze towards the spot where Liam stood with his arm draped around another boy's shoulders.
"Oh, that? He's just a friend. I mean, he's not even a friend, to be honest. I just met him, and we got talking."
"I see. Interesting guy?"
In fact, he was. Only a couple of minutes into their conversation, Edward had thought that Liam could talk about pretty much anything as if he'd studied the subject all his life, binding every field in a holistic view that'd kept him enraptured for a good while and (almost) managed to distract him from the sight of his neighbor, wet and dripping on the stone bench across the garden.
"What? I mean, no. Not really. He's not very interesting at all, to be frank. A bit of a… tabula rasa, I suppose you could say."
"That's harsh."
"I'm sorry."
This time Emmett's laugh was undeniably genuine, and it was with wide eyes that Edward realized he'd just done the exact opposite of what he had been trying to accomplish since the idea that his neighbor could possibly feel something for him had flashed through his head.
"I think that's enough ciderfor the night, champ."
"Actually, I think I might have to, um, refill. If you'll excuse me…"
"Wait."
With his eyes shut tight, Edward willed away the tingles that crawled up his spine as Emmett's fingers wrapped around his wrist. It wouldn't do to focus on meaningless things like these moments of ambiguous physical contact, or on jealousy-tinted questions that were probably a lot more innocent than he'd like to think— not when they had the older-brother's-best-friend kind of treatment as an undercurrent.
And not after he'd made a fool of himself trying irrationally, desperately, pathetically to please someone whom he'd vowed to keep a safe enough distance from.
"What's that book you told me about the other day?"
"What?"
"That French book about the social alpinist." Emmett laughed at the frown that fell upon the redhead's face. "Your words, not mine."
"That's not… I mean, it's called Bel Ami. But—" Edward let out a quiet huff, looking up through his lashes at the vaguely impish smile that colored his neighbor's face— "Why do you want to know?"
"Because I thought it sounded interesting, and I'd like to find it."
"Okay, then… Just— don't look for it on the Internet."
"Why's that?"
"You won't find it right away."
"You said it was classic."
"I did, but there are other things with that name."
"Such as?"
Edward was sure his cheeks had gone beet-red in a matter of seconds, and the worst was that he didn't know whether they would combust out of embarrassment or anger. He tended to take Emmett's good intentions for granted, which meant that usually there was no space in his head for the possibility that his neighbor could be, in fact, playing him like a freaking fiddle, and then there were moments like this when— when he had no choice but to react to that same possibility and turn into Godzilla for a minute or two.
"Such as X-rated websites," he said through gritted teeth. "Can I go now?"
"Sure thing, but before that…" Leaning closer, Emmett lowered his voice to a whisper, his warm breath fanning over Edward's ear and making the hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end.
"You do know that this is a sort of X-rated party, too, right?"
