Another chapter! Please, please review.
/FmD/
Jasper is more than a little buzzed-probably, if he paused to consider, too intoxicated to be in public where there are ever-present cameras and paparazzi.
But the cameras are rolling, and there is confetti falling from the coloured lights above because Edward actually did it. Actually won.
Washington-hell, the entire country-is in an uproar.
Senior political analysts have lost their jobs, the media still hasn't quite finished arriving from the headquarters of the opposition where they were camped out in anticipation of a different outcome.
The room is spinning, the bass so loud that his entire body is shuddering as he makes his way across the dance floor.
He doesn't really understand how Edward is able to get away with this.
It is more dance club than presidential election celebration, but everyone seems to be having a good time in spite of themselves.
Young, driven, brilliant political minds fill most of the dance floor-younger versions of themselves, Jasper realizes as a model thin, well dressed girl in a shocking yellow dress stumbles against him. He catches her, setting her upright with a wink and a half smile that leaves her blushing as he makes his way through the crowd. Even the sweaty, middle aged political advisers are dancing, encouraged, no doubt, by the copious liquor, bits of crepe paper confetti and glitter sticking to overheated skin and underbuttoned dress shirts.
Smoke hangs low over the crowd, celebrating beneath blue and white lights. The balloons that decorated the stage as they watched the election unfold have come loose, being passed through the crowd with the motion of the music. Regardless of the public reaction, Jasper has to admit that this will read well on camera. Colour, beauty, and energy that is just a little wild always do.
He can see his best friend, still standing on the stage where he gave his speech, popping the cork on a bottle of champagne, and Jasper can tell by the lack of fluidity in his movements that this will not be his first drink tonight.
Champagne froths over the top of the bottle, running down Edward's arm and into the powder blue fabric of his dress shirt, and he laughs, looking carefree and enigmatic, but Jasper can read the tension in his shoulders.
Bella moves to take the bottle from him, pouring it into the glasses of those standing closest to them. Her dress is short, a navy and gold throw-back to the Jazz age, her hair sweetly curled around her shoulders, a solitary daisy braided into it.
Photographers linger, snapping pictures and asking who she's wearing.
She is beautiful, flushed cheeks and perfectly poised dishevelment, a fashion-icon in the making.
Then again, they all are.
She catches his eye from the stage, and waves him towards them,
"Jazz! Get up here with us!"
She is all prim smile and classic red lipstick, caring and kind and supportive, and Jasper doesn't want to hate her.
He knows the walls he puts up around her do him a disservice-and in any other situation but this one, they would probably be very good friends.
Bella has been good for Edward, he knows that.
She settles him, brings him down to be a reasonable person who is capable of sane decisions and delegating.
Jasper has never been very good at that.
His record with Edward has one too many out of control nights and drunken parties to be considered anywhere close to reasonable-but then, they've known each other for longer. Bella knows her role with Edward, as a support, grounding him. A secondary figure in his life, someone to call home to and stand beside at public functions.
Edward stands behind Isabella, head tilted to one side, observing Jasper with an unreadable expression that melts into a smile when he realizes Jasper is watching him. He will not call out to him, won't issue a verbal invitation, but he doesn't have to.
Their relationship is much slipperier than that, much more fluid, less defined. They are close to equals, but there are too many secrets, too many things left unsaid for them to truly stand on equal footing (and that night on the bus is replaying in Jasper's mind, though he and Edward haven't spoken of it since-and like so many of the unreadable moments in their friendship, they probably never will).
Emmett emerges from the crowd at his side, bottle in one hand, petite blonde on the other.
His tie is loose, but his shirt is miraculously still buttoned, and given his lack of coordination, he looks remarkably put together.
He's grinning from ear to ear, clearly long past tipsy, and gives Jasper a whack on the shoulder that probably should have hurt, but merely startles him from his thoughts,
"Jasper Whitlock, Attorney fucking General. Congratulations, man."
Emmett slurs, by way of introduction, tipping his bottle at Jasper, and the blonde turns her attention to Jasper with a megawhatt smile,
"The VP and the attorney general. Now there's trouble."
She's not nearly as drunk as Emmett, winking salaciously at Jasper and extending her hand. Jasper shrugs and shakes it, only smirking a little,
"You wanna meet the president?"
/FmD/
They end up on the stage, an improvised VIP section, where champagne is flowing freely, along with bourbon and something spicy and exotic that Jasper can't quite identify. Emmett stumbles into his back as they climb up the stairs, still dragging the tiny blonde behind him. By the time Jasper gathers himself enough to turn and make sure Emmett is okay, he and the blonde are kissing, so ensconced with one another that voicing his question would be pointless.
There are fresh ivy league graduates, up-and-coming political minds, a few senators, and several congressmen who have been dragged out to show their support. There are less bright colours here, more navy blue and charcoal grey, and the women are showing significantly less skin than the dance floor below. Everyone who has made their way up onto the stage is either exceptionally beautiful, or exceedingly wealthy, and a significant portion of them are both.
There are a few people here only for the networking opportunity-Jasper can pick them out of the crowd by their dour expressions and refusal of more drinks-but Edward is long past the point of networking.
Jasper watches with silent horror as Edward takes a shot of tequila offered by a black clad waiter, pulling the lime into his mouth with a wince like a college kid. He hopes the cameras haven't captured that, but it's too late now, and he's already planning the recall of those photos when Isabella grins up at him and plants a kiss on his neck that leaves a smear of red lipstick as she throws her arms around him.
"Congratulations, Jasper!"
He smiles down at her, cradling the warmth of her petite frame easily with one arm, never taking his gaze off Edward,
"Congrats to you, First Lady."
She looks like she wants to say more, and there is warmth in her dark eyes (and the fact that she wants to be close to him somehow makes Jasper feel worse), but Jasper is already placing her gently on her feet and moving to catch Edward, who is suddenly off-balance after the tequila, because his allegiance lies with his best friend. Always.
Even in his own inebriated state, Jasper manages to grip Edward by the back of the shirt to keep him from tumbling into a group of dancing girls surrounding the Florida senator. Edward offers him a small smile,
"Thanks, Jazz. How's my lady?"
Jasper shrugs half-heartedly,
"She's fine."
They both glance over at Isabella, who has engaged herself in an animated conversation with a campaign activist in Jasper's absence. She is well put together, even in her celebration.
Edward's hand rests on Jasper's wrist as he steadies himself, his fingertips playing over the pulse point, and Jasper fights not to lean into the intimacy of the touch. He tries to remember where they are (and Edward is hardly doing him any favours, allowing his touch to linger for far longer than is technically appropriate), but he is drunk, and so is Edward, and why do they always seem to come together in moments like this one?
They stumble further into the semi-darkness of the stage, whether by his movement or Edward's Jasper isn't sure.
/FmD/
Hidden from the bright lights, insulated by the pounding bass, Edward leans against the wall, allowing his head to fall back against the concrete. He suddenly looks exhausted, but his smile is genuine as he looks at Jasper.
"Fucking president... Did you ever think we'd end up here?"
Jasper smirks, putting his hands into his pockets to resist the urge to reach out to touch his best friend,
"I thought you would. I never really gave it much thought."
It is a completely honest statement, the alcohol making him loose-lipped, and Edward laughs drunkenly, his jade eyes suddenly full of intensity,
"As if I could have done this without you."
His hands reach out, taking the bottom of Jasper's tie in his fingers, playing with the silk. He makes no motion to pull Jasper closer, and Jasper doesn't move from where he is standing. Though they are not technically touching, the moment is insulated by an intimacy too familiar for friends.
He wants to leave, wants to ask Edward to leave with him, because he's the only person here who matters, wants to be selfish, just for tonight.
He doesn't, merely purses his lips and meets Edward's eyes, both of them waiting for something, even if Jasper isn't entirely sure what it is.
The moment stretches for far too long, and Edward reaches for him with hazy eyes, his hand coming to rest on Jasper's cheek, making him blush though he hasn't moved at all.
"As if I could have made it anywhere without you..."
The emotion is heavy in his tone, and Jasper knows that Edward is not so much repeating himself as giving a silent thank you, one deeper than anything he might offer with words.
They are too close now, Jasper is vaguely aware of that, but he is drowning in the look in Edward's eyes, dark, glassy, his pupils blown, and the cold green that Jasper is so used to seeing a slim ring around the blackness. They are close enough to kiss, and for a single, suspended moment, it almost seems inevitable.
Edward exhales shakily, liquor and uncertainty surfacing in his gaze.
It is too much, and Jasper is overwhelmed-he needs space, needs to breath, needs Edward's eyes to not be full of such tangible pain and want and need. He wants to take Edward away from all of it.
"I can't..."
He doesn't have to specify what he can't, exactly. There are so many reasons, so many things.
Bella, the campaign, their political careers, the rest of their lives...
He doesn't worry for himself, but he will not fuck things up for Edward, who deserves so much better than he ever has.
Jasper forces himself to pull away even though everything is screaming for him not to, just as Emmett comes around the corner, running one hand through his tangled curls, trying to reign in the desperation that Edward brings out in him every single time. He doesn't know how it keeps happening.
"Eddie. Your dad's looking for you, dude."
Emmett nods at Jasper, seemingly unaware of the intensity of the moment he has just shattered.
Jasper can't look at Edward, knowing that if he does, he won't be able to walk away.
Instead, he gives Emmett a grateful pat on the back, and makes his way off the stage and back towards the crowd, leaving Edward to deal with his father alone.
As he makes his hasty exit, he can hear Edward shaking pills (more pills, and should he really be combining those with alcohol?), into his hand.
/FmD/
Jasper pushes through the fire exit door and into the crisp November night, leaning against the side of the building with his head between his knees. He is suddenly too drunk, sick and dizzy, the world spinning precariously around him.
The stars twinkle overhead, unforgiving, and Jasper wonders if he will ever be able to make enough amends to atone for the things Edward makes him feel. He shouldn't feel guilty-and he doesn't, not really, not because he feels this way, anyways. It's the thought of hurting Edward that keeps him up at night, that leaves him slightly breathless with pain every time he pictures it. There is more at stake for Edward-his career, his fiancee, his family. Jasper has none of those things-he's only as enamoured with politics as he is because of Edward, has no fiancee-just sickening, unrequited love for his best friend, and his parents are dead.
There is no good way for this to end, he realizes. No happy ending, no moment where things will shift and the world will align for him.
It is the memory of the look in Edward's eyes, not the alcohol, that makes his stomach twist, and he gets sick right there on the pavement, silently praying that the media has gone home for the evening, even as he tastes the champagne from his stomach.
He is smoking with shaking hands when Emmett joins him, his expression uncharacteristically dark as he surveys Jasper.
Emmett lights his own cigarette, kicking at pebbles in the frost, glowering into the darkness. He looks like he wants to punch someone, and if Jasper didn't know him, he would probably back away.
"Everything okay, big guy?"
Emmett ashes his cigarette against the wall of the building with more force than is strictly necessary, before gritting out,
"Oh, just Daddy Cullen, being his usual charming self."
Emmett pauses before continuing,
"I mean, the guy is whaled, you know? Going on and on about how it should have been fucking Peter up there, not Edward. Comparing them. Says Peter would have gotten a landslide."
Peter. Jasper's stomach drops out, and he takes a deep breath to keep from being sick again. Edward's brother was killed overseas just before the campaign started. Edward stepped up to take his place-since his father would have a son who was president-but Edward is not his brother, and his father has never quite forgiven him for that.
"Is Edward...alright?"
Emmett shakes his head,
"As alright as he ever is. Bella's with him, but..."
The but, the hesitation in his snarling tone, lays the situation out perfectly. Jasper has no trouble picturing the dead look in Edward's eyes-has no trouble picturing it because that's the look he always has around his father, and it is as predictable as it is heartbreaking.
Emmett is clearly livid, his expression stormy, and despite every instinct that tells Jasper to go to Edward, to be sure that he's okay, he doesn't.
He leaves Isabella to pick up the pieces of the man he's been in love with since he was old enough to know what love meant.
Instead, he bids Emmett a stilted goodnight that is far too formal, and makes his way through late-night stragglers and drunken women up to his room.
It is elegant, decorated in cream and gold, with too many pillows on the bed and his freshly dry-cleaned suits in the closet, the very embodiment of wealth and power and government largesse, but despite all its comforts, Jasper is alone.
He brushes his teeth, lets the mint wash away the taste of stale champagne and cigarettes and secrets, and avoids looking at himself in the mirror.
The red lipstick from Isabella's kiss, pressed against his neck earlier in the evening, stands out against the collar of his shirt, a moniker of his guilt as he re-hangs it in the hotel closet.
/FmD/
Well, there we have it, kids.
Any thoughts?
Let me know!
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