Begin Again

by C-Me-Smile

Edward is a married novelist of some renown. An unexpected reunion in a bookstore reawakens old feelings in him never fully buried of lost love, desire, aching regret and tentative hope. But does the object of his feelings still feel the same? All-Human

2. Chapter 2

Just a couple of things first... I really want to thank all of you who have left such wonderful, kind reviews and those who have added me to your alerts and faves. You have no idea how much that means to me! Thank you so very much! :)

Also, I am so very, very grateful to my incredible, wonderful friend and Beta, Val, Touchstone67, for her friendship, her inspiration, her kindness, her talent, her generosity of spirit, not to mention her time, and, gah, her beautiful art that she made for "Begin Again" which I dearly love! :) Here's the link if you'd like to check out her gorgeous banner for yourself: touchstonesart(dot)com(slash)images(slash)beginagainbanner(dot)jpg (replace the dots and slash with the real things, or alternately, just click on my profile and you can directly click on the image from the hyperlink to it I've posted there) Thank you, Val, for everything! You're the best! :D MWAH! Also, I want to thank Katie, Starfish422, for her friendship and her support, for posting about the story on her blog :) and for jump-starting my love in the first place for this delicious pairing with her own absolutely beautiful story "Over the Top". :) And last but certainly NOT least, big thanks and massive HUGS to the awesome Twislash Unveiled girls for posting about "Begin Again" on their blog. Thank you so much for that! :D

Okay, so now for Chapter 2 - two disclaimers: Twilight and the characters therein, as well as the ones I'm greedily borrowing for the fic, belong to Stephanie Meyer. I'm just playing with them for a bit (because, really, they're so gorgeous, how can I resist?) Also, the title of this chapter and some of the inspirational elements within were inspired by Suzanne Vega's "Gypsy" song.

I feel like I should also probably explain that this chapter is told from Jasper's POV, and, as such, the 'voice' is a little different in tone from Chapter 1. ;-) Hope it's not jarring! Okay, that's it! :) Now, on to Chapter 2...

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Begin Again

Chapter 2 - Another Spinner of Strange and Gauzy Threads

(Jasper - POV)

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I've been sitting here for over an hour now, the same as any other morning - coffee, TV, stack of mail to sort through. Everything seems the same - typical morning in Casa Whitlock, only... everything has changed.

Edward. So organized and efficient. The arranger of disorder, except when it comes to my scattered, flyaway feelings. Despite it all - our years together, our love, the tangled threads of our lives we spun together - the two of us were never really able get our shit together.

He left me to pick up the pieces of our relationship years ago; to try to figure out the jigsaw puzzle we - he and I together - became, and I couldn't do it. I've never been one for puzzles. I'm too straightforward for games like that. That was always Edward's thing - the games, the puzzles, the mysteries, not mine. Yet, now, here I sit puzzling over all this stuff... and believe me, I'm completely out of my damn element.

I'm trying not to look at the clock that slowly counts down the minutes, each one seeming to pulse like throbbing in the blood, as the time draws nearer to...

... what?

Fuck if I know.

Shaking my head, I lean back against the couch, the smoke from my cigarette curling in a lazy haze over my head as I squeeze the bridge of my nose, trying to flick away the thoughts assailing me like a bothersome fly.

Truth is, though, it's not that simple. But I wish to fuck it were. I wish I could quit brooding on it like some opium-dazed poet - all this circular thinking - it'll drive you mad if you let it. Even so, it's not like I can turn my brain off, though sometimes I wish I could... like now, when I'm still trying to understand the whims of fate that would throw my ex-lover into my path again. And it must be fate because I don't believe in mere coincidence - a fact that Edward himself had often found amusing - my 'artistic fancy' - as he referred to it.

But how else to explain such a thing, if not fate? I mean, come on, why was it, how was it, that I should be in that bookstore at the exact time he is there when I haven't laid eyes on Edward in a year or more?!

Sore eyes... a sight for sore eyes, as the old saying goes, and how true it is, for that is exactly what he is for me - only, so much more than just... that. I wish that's all he was for me, because God knows when he plays me a fucking fiddle, I just... oh, hell, I just sing for him. I hate that, but... here's the crux, I love him... still. I do. I still love Edward Cullen, and a part of me hates that I do.

And seeing him, God, I tried so hard to play it cool and cavalier so that he wouldn't know the tumult he causes inside me, that he's always caused inside me. It's like a storm of desire and a thunder of feeling, and it still rages inside me despite the passage of time. My storm-bringer with lightning in his eyes lashing at me with the tightest, most tender ties of longing.

Yeah, I won't lie, not to myself. I miss him so much some nights that it's painful, like a physical ache that stays with me. It's a funny thing, that ache, though, somehow it's a sweet ache, if there even is such a thing; and I daresay there is because it's what I feel.

I take another long drag on my cigarette, but even it can't calm me as the storm of emotion builds inside me. It's ironic, I guess, but even though Edward is the storm-bringer, he's also the only one who can calm the storm. It was always the case - one look from those misty eyes of his, one touch of his hand, one gentle smile, one soft word, and everything inside me just calmed. Well, hold up, the desire or passion or feeling never lessened - if anything, the opposite, but the desperation of those feelings, that madness,... yeah, the madness calmed.

It's something I've always admired about him - his cool head. Now me, I'm a hot head, and though I try to conceal it, I'm not very good at it. The thing is, I know Edward feels things as strongly as I do, but he's always had much more control over his emotions and they've never overtaken him and driven him to the brink as mine have done to me.

Edward has always known me better than anyone, and that's mainly due to the fact that I've always been brutally honest with him. I always sensed he knew how I felt, what I was thinking, regardless, so it's stupidly fruitless for me to try to mislead him. Still, in our years together, I would stubbornly try to mask my feelings, but he always saw through that mask... just like he did yesterday.

Damn...

Could he tell? Does he know what seeing him again fucking does to me? Was it written all over my face, heavy in my voice, burning in my eyes?

Most likely it was, and even if it wasn't, I know Edward. He would know because he's always had that power over me. I guess some would argue that I gave him that power, and perhaps I did, and again, some might say that's a hefty price to pay, but the reward - his love - well, that precious gift was worth any price.

...

Well... I'm a fucking hypocrite. Because while I say that his love is worth anything, everything, I have my pride and though I know he knows the power he wields over my heart still, thankfully he's also too much of a gentleman to use it against me. His back straight, Edward Cullen prowls like a prince in this world - not arrogant, but strong, confident of his place in it.

I always felt so rough-mannered next to him. With my coarse language and my cigarettes and faded jeans and boots and guitar, I'm a cowboy to his prince. One of our friends used to call us that - the cowboy and the prince. But yeah, okay, I felt like a damn hillbilly with him sometimes. Edward, for his part, always assured me that was not the case, and he called me his 'polite southern gentleman'. Sometimes he playfully teased me, accusing me of turning up the charm by flirting and laying the accent and southern expressions on a bit thick, but he also confessed he loved it... and he loved me.

See... that's the thing right there. Sometimes I questioned his motives, his actions, but you know, I never questioned his love... not even when I probably should have. It's just...well, it was something I knew in my heart even if my head didn't fully accept it. I knew he loved me, and I've always known it, despite it all. It was always obvious in his every look and gesture and smile, and especially every time we made love. He loved me as I love him. Even at the end, when he left me for his damn career, some part of me still clung tenaciously to the belief that he loved me - even if the greater part of me and my own pride argued that he loved his career more.

Our relationship was always complex - not so much a power-struggle or a union of opposites or a relationship of convenience as it was this strange, searing thing that neither one of us could truly define other than to say that it gripped us both. The best way I knew to express how I felt about him, about us, has always been through my music. The honesty of music, the passion of it, the feelings it stirs in the breast of both musician and listener, is the only artistry I possess that could come anywhere near to truly capturing what I feel for Edward. He's my muse. Love and inspiration entwined in eternal embrace.

That's always how it was for us, and fuck, I miss it and I miss him.

I've been thinking about what it was like for us when we were together. At first it had seemed a charmed thing - magic even. Edward's writing, my music - both serving to excite and inspire the other. When Edward struggled with writer's block, he would ask me to play or sing for him. I remember his smile at those times, the intensity of light that burned in those forest eyes, whose color reminded me of early-morning walks I used to take when I was small with my grandfather back in the pine forest behind our house.

Yeah, Edward's eyes hold just that quality of light and mystery - the bright sun hitting the branches, coupled with the cool mystery of the forest itself. Like him, those eyes of his are beautiful, bright, warm, and giving light existing side-by-side with his more enigmatic qualities, that sphinx-like part of himself - the part that would give me that mysterious smile when I would say something to him that intrigued or puzzled him and then I would find myself puzzling over his expression. I learned to catalogue his smiles and what each one meant.

But always, his eyes were like windows to my soul because he could always look right through me, see right through to the very essence of me.

Standing there with him in the bookstore, my heavy gaze lingered over him, drifting over the familiar, messy crown of bronze-copper hair that made me think of the most gorgeous, vivid autumn leaves. I gazed silently for a long moment more at his calm, beautiful face as he almost languidly perused my own, and I couldn't resist touching him with my guitar-blistered, music-scarred fingers. Scarred skin, scarred man. My heart is scarred too.

He glanced up then at my touch, smiling, though his expressive eyes remained a bit guarded and it near broke my heart anew that he would look at me with those guarded eyes.

I think of all the times those glimmering, green eyes have gazed up at me laughing with amusement or shining vivid with love, or foggy with lust as he twisted sweaty below me or writhed taut above, so that calm, guarded look ripped at my soul, reminding me that I am an interloper, a distraction in the orderly life he has carved out for himself, and like I said, Edward Cullen doesn't do disorder.

I wanted to reach out and cover those long pale fingers, so graceful as they danced nervously over the edges of the book he held. I wanted to take those hands, hold them in my own, and bring them to my lips, kissing warmth and life and joy back into them. I wanted to see those hands move in excitement again, pantomiming the words he spoke. I wanted to feel those hands on my skin again, to feel them touching and caressing and holding me again.

And now, all I desire is to see those hands and those marvelous eyes dance, to see that light of inspiration gilding every moment of our lives...like it used to be with us. See, like I said, Edward and I would inspire each other, and I loved playing my music for him. Sometimes I wondered if he or I earned more pleasure from it.

"Ah, my Jasper," he had always laughed. "In the words of the bard, if music be the food of love, play on!"

And I had grinned at the sight of his bright smile and the literary allusion, fancying myself for a moment to be Pan himself, high on love and music and desire, or perhaps even Dionysus to whom Edward sometimes compared me saying Dionysus was also "a beautiful, curly-haired god with a fondness of and talent for music".

Dionysus. I had laughed when he called me that, tackling him playfully down on the couch and he just grinned up at me, wrapping his strong legs around my waist as he tangled his fingers in my hair, pulling at the curls there, making me growl. I winked down at him, responding with a chuckle, my accent rolling out thick and sweet as I grinned and retorted, 'Dionysus, darlin', was also the god of wine and madness.'

He had laughed at that and nodded, leaning up on his elbows to kiss me - hot and slow and sweet, whispering against my mouth, "divine madness, yes, but he was also the god of ecstasy... called by some ancients: 'the god who comes.'"

At that, I laughed, my eyes widening, flaring hot with desire as Edward smiled up at me. I grinned wickedly back at him and, rocking slow and sensual against him, murmured hotly, "Well, I best get to coming then soon because I'd hate to be failing in my godly duties, Sweetheart."

In all things - in love and laughter, in the tangled curve of our bodies pressed together - in everything, he inspired me, my beautiful muse. I was happy to play the merry minstrel for him so long as he kept smiling at me just like that.

And now, he's walked right back into my life to stir me up again with his love and his dreams and the pretty pictures in his eyes.

At first, when I looked up and saw him standing there in the bookstore, I thought him an illusion, some fevered fantasy my over-caffeinated brain was cooking up to inspire me again, to quicken the muse, but no; the vision was real. He was there. Right there with me and it was like everything just went still and silent, that it was only the two of us caught in a bubble of time. All the cradled resentment in my heart was forgotten for the moment, and all I really wanted was to hold him, to curl up inside him again and melt in that sweet heat.

It felt like I was moving in slow-motion toward him and I couldn't stop myself, nor did I really want to. I needed to see him. I needed to touch him, to know that he was truly there.

It was both strange and familiar in some sweet, aching way to talk with him again, to hear that mellifluous, velvety voice caressing over me; to touch the curve of his cheek and feel his warmth against my fingers... and to look into his amazing eyes again.

I don't even know what I said to him. It was like I was caught off-guard, completely out of my head. I found myself trying to express some of what I was thinking, how I still felt about him, but I couldn't say those things to him. Not now. I think I caught myself in time, or I hope I did, because I couldn't and can't let him know what I feel. I don't have that luxury anymore of expressing to him my truest feelings because Edward is taken, and I don't want to look like the damn heartsick fool I am for even thinking that there could be anything between us anymore.

But, you know what, the heart feels what it will, and I don't know... but sometimes I think the heart is wiser than the head. Or maybe that's just a fool's wisdom. That's me... the fool - jester of the courtyard, distracted by the pretty and the timid and the blessed, by a shining crown of copper and vivid eyes of emerald.

Still, I told him it was good to see him again and everything I wanted to say to him was shaded, though unspoken, in those words that I blurted to him. I felt my face heat up as I clamped shut my betraying mouth and stared down for a moment into the cold coffee in my hand, seeing my own haunted reflection in the dark liquid looking back at me. These fucking wide eyes of mine always give me away. What the hell was I doing? I couldn't say these things to him. He couldn't know what I feel.

Two years ago, he walked out of my life and into another - a brighter life of fame, fortune - all the things I couldn't dare hope to give him, and, truth be told, that which I could have very possibly held from him. Not on purpose, mind you, but inadvertently - distracting him with my presence, causing issues for him with regard to the subject of his novels. I suppose that is the crux of the matter - that and the fame and ambition.

Edward's books are incredible things - rich, complex, replete with all the requisite things that make for a good read - adventure, drama, heavy plot, good pacing, interesting setting, in-depth characterization, and... romance for good measure. Heterosexual romance.

So, that fairly begs the question, where did that leave me, or well, not me per se, but our relationship? His manager, his publisher, hell, even his editor worried about the impact to his book sales if it got out that he was involved with another man. They worried that no one would buy the legitimacy of his books, or, rather, the romantic aspect of his books, which was bullshit, if you ask me. I told Edward so, and I don't think he appreciated it.

My argument was that writing came from the heart, just as music does. He countered, saying that one was meant to write what one knows but he couldn't write about me. I argued back that he was writing what he knew - he was writing about love and passion and desire and all of those amazing fucking things that we shared. He agreed, but he said that perhaps his readers wouldn't agree. I called him out on that, saying he wasn't giving his readers enough credit, and argued that it wasn't his readers who had a problem with it - it was his damn people - his handlers - and perhaps even himself that had a problem with the truth getting out about his sexuality.

It was one of the worst arguments we ever had, neither of us willing to give up our position and we finally agreed to disagree, and while the argument itself eventually petered-out, the resentment and questions the argument engendered still lingered, poisoning our relationship, and eventually leading Edward to leave, saying he needed to go to Italy to clear his head, to regain his inspiration, and that's when I knew... I, and our love, were no longer enough to inspire him.

And so he left for Italy and he found another inspiration. He found another muse in his wife. I don't know her. I've only seen her once, other than in photos of course. I came to a book signing of his a year ago, though, and she was there, beautiful and quiet and hovering at the edges of the crowd, looking over the folklore books. I steeled myself to go up to her and speak to her, but I couldn't. What would I say to her? What could I possibly say to her? 'Congratufuckinglations on winning the man I love'? That would be petty and hateful, and I'm many things but I was raised better than to do something shitty like that and most especially, to a woman. I'm not a bastard. You just don't treat women like that.

As if feeling my heavy gaze on her, she had looked up at me for a moment before gently smiling and I swear I saw something in those pretty eyes of hers and it fucking shamed me. It was like she knew who I was and almost like she was, well, call me crazy, but almost as if she was accepting me, apologizing to me with her eyes and her gentle smile, but no, honestly, I think that was probably just wishful thinking on my part. She's probably just a sweet-natured girl who smiles at strangers in bookstores. I know Edward wouldn't have said squat about me to his wife... or would he?

Anyway, it's a moot point. As I said, I don't know her, and as far as I know she could be an amazing woman who truly loves Edward as I love Edward, and perhaps he is able to give to her all his love - every last damn gorgeous bit of it, even the public love that he could never give me. There was no need for secrecy, for privacy, for hiding - not with her, not with his pretty little wife. Yes, I admit, a shameful part of me resents her a little - maybe more than a little- but I have a feeling that if she weren't with the man I love, I'd like her just fine, and, regardless, I can't hate her. There's nothing in her that would incite hate in someone, not even having the man I love as her husband.

Edward never saw me that day. I couldn't do it to him, and I couldn't do it to myself. I didn't want to see the panic that would surely flare briefly in his eyes at the sight of me there. I didn't want to reopen old wounds, so I left, unsatisfied with my brief, curious glance back into his life, and for days afterward I was tormented with thoughts of him and what might have been had we remained together.

Despite the pain, though, it was a tremendously creative part of my life. I wrote three songs that evening. It's amazing how pain does that - the inspiration borne of suffering. I think I viewed myself as a sort of martyr for love. Now, I realize how indulgent and asinine that sounds, but at the time it's what I felt.

And now... what now? What happens now?

He called me after I saw him in the bookstore last night but he didn't leave a message. Still, I knew the number had to be his and stealing up my courage, along with the help of plenty of liquid courage, I called him. I almost hung up when he answered, his voice strained with something... emotion? I couldn't tell, but then, oh fuck, then, it all came out.

He murmured my name, and I answered him, my own voice thick with emotion. And I ached, God, I was burning alive for him. I wanted to kiss him, to bruise those soft lips and, with my kiss, pull forth from the depths of his soul the Edward I remembered, that I could never forget and would never stop loving. I wanted my Edward back, and talking to him, I couldn't help it, I got myself off, just listening to him, and he heard my strained breaths and took them for tears. That's alright. He wasn't wrong. I was crying the entire time. It was just too much... the sound of his velvet voice in my ear again, the feel of my hand against my cock, the love that still throbbed inside me, even stronger than the blood coursing right down to my nether regions.

As I talked with him, I could hear the question in his voice and I could almost envision the muscle jumping in his jaw - the only physical thing that sometimes gave away the intensity of his feeling, and it only served to excite me all the more - seeing him in my head like that. My mind was flickering on an image from our past again...

Edward was laughing as he spread shaving cream thick and cool on my face as I sat on the bathroom counter facing him. He lifted the razor to my face and I grabbed his hand, worried that with his laughing the blade might accidentally slip. Edward shook that bright head of his at me for that, chuckling warm and low again, as he asked me to trust him and to just sit still and relax. And so I did.

I closed my eyes as I heard the whisper of the blade and felt the cool stroking of the metal against my jaw which contrasted with the heat of Edward's breath as it fanned silken and light across my face as he shaved me. I opened my eyes again to watch him. His lush mouth was open, his tongue working against his lower lip in concentration. I moaned at the sight, watching that beautiful face as I felt the slick dangerous glide of the blade against my neck and the feeling was intensely erotic - that feeling of utter trust, of yielding my throat to my lover, to the sharp blade he wielded as he stroked it gently, so gently, and slowly through the smooth shaving cream, against my skin and stubble.

Edward had grown excited too, seeing the heavy look of desire that burned in my eyes and he groaned, the blade slipping and nicking my throat, causing him to gasp, grabbing onto my arm, with a frantic, "Jasper! Oh god, I'm sorry, Angel..."

And without another word, he breathed softly, lowering his face to the crimson drop that welled from my neck and I groaned, my cock throbbing, swelling, near panting in desire as I felt him lap away the blood from my skin and I couldn't hold back. I grabbed him then, and his eyes widened, green fire flashing up at me, then darkening in passion as I pushed him to the bathroom floor, nearly ripping the shirt from him. Shaving cream dripped on his sleek muscled chest as I hovered over him, causing Edward to smile, moaning again, his hips arching sleek and perfect against me and I thought him to be the most gorgeous, delicious thing I'd ever seen in all my days.

Lost in my memories for a moment, my hand slowly pumping up and down the hard length straining in my hand, I was almost startled when I heard his soft voice murmuring over the phone again about how he had to whisper, that she was in the room next door. A small frown creased my forehead and I felt the throbbing ease some.

And all I wanted was to be there with him. I wanted to make him remember me and forget her. That's all I'd dreamed of for these past bitter years now... dreaming of kissing him again, ravaging his lips with my kiss, my mouth insistent in its demand to kiss and lick and suck the honeyed sweetness of the beautiful mouth that I so missed feeling move delicately under mine.

I could hear the hesitation in his voice and I wanted to encourage him. Yes, Edward, ask it. Ask me. Ask me if I still love you. I do. I always will, even if I don't or can't express it as I should.

Ask me if I want to learn you again, explore your soul and body all over again, because I do. Ask me if I remember holding you, kissing you, fucking you, loving you slow and deep...because I've never forgotten, not ever, not even within the depths of my personal hell of loneliness. I've never forgotten how sweet those times with you were, and I have always secreted away those precious memories in my soul.

Ask me if I can forgive you. I don't know, but I want to try. I resent what you did to me, what you did to us, but, oh, Sweetheart, I love you more than I resent you.

Ask me why I called you tonight. Just... Edward, darlin', you have to help me. You have to let me tell you and you have to help me. Pull the words from me, baby. Sweetly milk them from my lips as you used to do. Oh god...

I saw him then in my head lying there and I hovered above him, back where I belonged - home again - sheathed in the warm, tight, loving, velvet embrace of my beautiful lover. And I could feel his hands sliding up and down my back, my eyes drinking in the sight of him sprawled in the bed, that glorious, moon-bathed, ivory flesh and the thick bronze hair wild on his head and the emerald, sylvan-fired eyes that gleamed with desire, fanning my own to a hotter degree. Holding tight to Edward's sweat-sleek hips, I impaled him slowly, sliding and filling and stretching the warm, tight flesh that cradled me so perfectly, that I moaned low and deep in my throat, my head tipping back from my shoulders. I remembered entering him him inch-by-lush-throbbing-inch; filling him, stretching hot and hard and full inside him as he bucked up to meet me, his slick hips pressing tight to me, urging me deeper as he grasped my sweating back, scratching down my skin, his whispered words so fucking gorgeous and filthy. He arched taut below me, his beautiful, hard, silk-skinned length stroking against my stomach as I pushed harder and deeper inside him, needing to get as deep as possible, wanting to touch his very soul as he touched mine.

And then, as if he saw the wanton, remembered visions playing out in my head, as if he sensed my urgent, unspoken plea and my fevered desire and aching love for him still, Edward spoke then and I heard the emotion in his voice plainly now. He was crying, the feeling shaking him to his core as strongly as it was doing to me. He spoke in a whispered rush, almost as if he were afraid that if he didn't speak the words then, they'd never spill from his lips again. And each word was like... heaven, like golden light spilling over me again, warming me to my very soul.

My throat tight, I tried to tell him, in turn, how I felt, that I still loved him so much, so fucking much, but my drunken words failed me. But, I did manage to tell him that I missed him and I missed what we shared. I think he knew from my words, from my voice, how I felt, that I still loved him so much that it tore me up inside and he was the only one who could heal me - my beautiful Edward, the healer of my heart, the scribe of my soul.

He told me he wanted me again, and it stunned me into silence, and I worried that he would take my silence for rejection of the idea, for rejection of him, but Edward knows me better than that.

... Oh fuck, just breathe, Jasper...

I wrote a song last night. I couldn't sleep anyway, and I find the early morning hours before dawn when the rest of the world is sleeping to be my most productive time. It was always Edward's as well, and we'd sit up together in bed, him with the laptop, me with my guitar and notebook, and we'd alternately help and distract each other.

I'm wondering if I should take him my song... no, it's his song - he inspired it - as he inspires everything in my life.

But today, sitting here in the cold light of dawn, the familiar anxieties are creeping up on me again and I'm scared as hell. We agreed to meet at the bookstore at ten. And now, oh dear sweet God, in just an hour, I'll see him again.

And then what? I asked him last night. His answer was simple. "We begin again," he said. I hope he means it. I hope with every fucking fiber of my heart that he means it because I can't take another ending.

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