Note: Sorry for the delay in updating, we are both currently in our junior year in high school and school has been keeping us very busy. As a condolence we will be updating twice this week!
***This fanfiction is also posted on Archive of our Own under our pen-names dontyoudarestiles and MadTheLine. I strongly suggest you keep up with the fanfic on that site instead, as we are more consistent with formatting there and we update there first. We give longer notes, chapter summaries, and respond to all of your reviews on that website. Plus the website layout is much more convenient for reading on both mobile and desktop. It's better for your eyes!
"Do you have any idea how badly this could've gone, at any time, at any place?"
Carlisle was normally a rather calm man, no matter what. He rarely became angry or flustered, no matter the emergency at the hospital, no matter how annoying Rosalie's demands became, no matter how alarming Emmett's occasional bouts of stupidity. But now his jaw was set, his mouth a pale thin line that dared Edward to speak before he was finished. He'd given into a purely human instinct and now was pacing the entirety of the living room, raking fingers through his normally pristine hair.
"Yes, Carlisle," Edward said clearly, determined not to mumble. He'd realized his mistake very early on, but that wasn't the point of it, was it? He'd recognized his failing, but still continued on with it.
We could've been exposed, Carlisle's mind hissed, recoiling with horror at the very idea of having to relocate, having to disappear in a world where invisibility was becoming more and more impossible. Visions of the Volturi arriving in a cloud of slaughter and gore, danced in his head, each scene bloodier and bloodier than the last. No matter how much control you have, Edward, it means nothing in the face of a singer.
Edward understood this, deeply, and never in his long unlife had he ever assumed himself to be reckless when it came to these types of things.
And then Beauregard Swan had happened.
A pretty young thing with a mop of chocolate curls and thick black glasses, he'd stepped into Edward's life in a whirl of cinnamon and cherries. That smell, it was a thick syrup that made Edward's stomach clench with longing and his teeth sharpen with hunger. A kind of hunger he'd never experienced before, not even in his early days as a fledgling, where anything that walked was a potential meal. And even more puzzling, Beau's mind was clouded to Edward. A cool pond to Edward in a roiling ocean, the silence cloaked the boy wherever he went and Edward had followed.
"The fact that you'd even entertain the notion of a normal relationship with your singer—" Carlisle stopped and shook his head, stupefied. "And then—bringing him here! Unsupervised! Without even your siblings to stop you should something go wrong?"
"I was in control," Edward snapped, unable to stay quiet. "I'd been practicing, Carlisle, I knew—"
"No, you did not know!" Carlisle growled. "Especially not after the incident in March! Edward, we were clear that you were to stay away from Beauregard Swan."
"You were clear," Edward annunciated. "And I thought I made myself clear when I told you that I'm 107 years old and who I spend my time with is my prerogative, not yours."
Carlisle sighed, despite not needing breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose as if he could actually feel pain. It was these little human ticks that drove Edward up the wall—it was hysterical that Carlisle thought he could still be both the monster under the bed and the silver knight in the morning. That he could play vampire and human both. "It's not that I don't think he's a lovely young man, Edward, but Charlie Swan is also a wonderful man and I would hate to see him lose his son because of your recklessness."
Edward huffed a bitter laugh in the back of his throat. "Too late, Carlisle. Beau is my friend, one of the few I have in the world, and I very much doubt you'd be able to keep me away from him even if you tried."
Carlisle stared at Edward. "Only a friend, Edward? Only a friend?"
Edward sucked in a breath. "Of course, Carlisle, only a friend. I'm not—I'm not gay."
"You think that means anything?" Carlisle turned away, went to the window, and stared outside like he'd somehow read the answers there in the trees. "You come into contact with the thoughts of humans everyday. You should know better than anyone that sexuality isn't two boxes on a piece of paper, Edward. It's fluid, it's changeable, and as much as you'd like to deny that for yourself, someday soon you're going to recognize that this narrow-mindedness isn't going to do you any favors with your 'friend'."
Edward clamped his jaw shut, and Carlisle's mind told him very clearly that he wasn't in the mood to be messed with.
"I love you, Edward, and I respect your decisions deeply." Carlisle turned, forehead lined with disappointment. "But when your decisions infringe upon the safety of our family, I need to take steps. Don't make this harder than it has to be."
Edward didn't have to read his sire's mind to understand what was about to happen. "Carlisle, please—"
"No, Edward." His voice was like stone, and he turned to face Edward, his eyes, usually ever so calm, flashing a deep angry black. "Start packing. You head to Alaska tomorrow."
...
Alaska was coldly beautiful, much like the sisters who lived there. They were pale, gorgeous things, with glittering topaz eyes, Tanya especially.
She smiled sweetly when she saw him coming up the drive, Esme having called ahead. "Oh, Edward. Two visits in just as many months? Darling, it must be fate."
Edward stormed past her into the cottage, anger roiling within his chest, but not at Tanya, not really. The Denali tribe had always welcomed the Cullens with extraordinary hospitality, but Alaska grated on Edward's nerves like nowhere else, the sky a dead gray slate above him, iced over snow crunching under-boot, the little smile in the corner of Tanya's mouth proclaiming his lack of self-control. His inability to regulate himself when it came to Beau Swan.
"What was it this time?" she hurried after him, practical snow boots tapping on hardwood flooring. "Was it your singer again?" Her mind was a cloud of pink cotton-candy and cherry lipstick, and really, Tanya was a sweet girl, but she was hitting all the wrong buttons at the moment.
Edward snarled inside his head, frustration pulsing like a heartbeat, but outwardly smiled sweetly, fangs itching to drop.
God he's so handsome, I wish—
He turned his mind away from hers, a pang of guilt stuttering inside his ribcage, irritation dissipating like dust in the face of her innocent infatuations.
It didn't take long for her to figure out the source of his mood, not with Alice whispering in her ear a thousand miles away in Forks.
She came to him late at night, hair mussed from hunting. Jealousy was sharp in the air, her heart stinking with it, but also a kind of resignation that settled and cloaked around them, a half-century of subtle rejection coming to a precipice.
"Do you love him?"
"I'm not gay," he deflected, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the very notion.
A slim eyebrow lifted, hovering near a perfectly curled hairline. "That doesn't answer the question," she echoed Carlisle unknowingly.
The silence echoed around, fraught with tension Edward hated. Tanya sighed purely for the emotion of it, breath too cold to dramatically cloud in the cold Alaskan air the way a human's would.
"That silence does, though," she spoke again, and he wanted to deny it again, but he could hear her thoughts, clearer and softer than before: it doesn't matter what you say or what you think, darling, only what you feel. And even if you don't love that boy right now, the point is you could. You couldn't with me or Rose, but you could with him.
...
Forks' early spring air was a balm to his skin in comparison to the numbness of the Alaskan wilderness. Alice hugged him hard before he'd even passed the threshold, skinny little arms crushing his broader shoulders, her head bumping hard against the jut of his chin.
"Sorry, Ed," she breathed into his collarbone before pulling away. Her eyes were bright gold from a recent hunt, but saddened, mouth downturned. "I tried to call, you were already on the plane."
He dumped his duffel bag by the door, confused, picking up on her mind whispering: I saw something, Edward, I'm sorry.
He was about to ruffle through her mind when Rosalie floated in on a wave of blackberry brambles and satin perfume.
Hey, your boyfriend just dumped you—pity, sour and sweet, two edged on his tongue—for a La Push dog, the irony.
Ice washed down his spine in a shower of sudden terror, and he stared at them, uncomprehending, until Alice reached out, fingers brushing against his shirtsleeves, and said, aloud, "I had a vision late last night. Beau, in one of the beach houses—"
Edward broke away, interrupting her words, but he couldn't stop her thoughts from floating in, tangling around the edges of his consciousness, whispering: he's going to go through the Fever, Edward, you've lost him, I'msososorry—
He ran, burst out the front door in a blur of white and copper, feet going so fast he thought he felt smoke hissing lowly in his wake, the same way his Volvo did when he stepped on the gas and peeled out. He scoured through the trees, leaping over roots and shrubs and spruces, and had he been human his eyes would've streamed so severely he would've blinded himself. As it was, he was gasping even though he didn't need breath, his throat worked with something like vomit, his heart ached like he still had one—
He stopped, so suddenly a rush of wind battered against the foliage surrounding him, thick green leaves flattened against their branches.
The meadow remained unchanged, grass wet with recently sprinkled rainwater, soft lavender and crocuses peeking out from between the green. Edward took a few steps forward, staring. Once, when he and Beau had been watching a horrific action film in a theatre 20 years too old, he'd thought he'd bring the boy here one day. Just for a lazy afternoon outside, lounging on their bellies between the bright summer blooms, Beau chomping on sandwiches and sipping milky tea, Edward's stomach warm with mountain lion blood.
That would never happen now.
And, yes, subconsciously, when he was in Alaska he'd come to terms with the idea that he would never be able to interact with Beau as a friend again. Too many risks, too much disapproval from his family, too many situations ending with Beau as a shriveled husk on the ground, bled out and glassy-eyed.
But now—there was a wall, one that he himself had built. A wall that no one would be able to cross, not Edward, not Beau, not even Carlisle. A wolf and a vampire cannot be, never, just because of simple biological impulses that Carlisle had once explained to him in laymen terms.
"A wolf and a vampire can never be," he'd said, in that solemn way of his. "Biologically, wolves and vampires are on the opposite ends of the genetic spectrum. Two sides of the same coin, forever entangled, forever battling. Natural enemies. One could never stand the other in close quarters."
Was that what he and Beau were now? Just staples of their species, controlled completely and utterly by their biology, dictated so completely that now they wouldn't be able to look at each other without gagging? In despair, Edward wondered whether that strawberry-cream scent that he had come to crave had already rotted into thick, smuttish poison. He had come to crave that scent, as much as it tortured him, the way a child craved pastries, or an addict craved Vicodin.
He raced back to the house faster than he'd ever moved before, and his mouth was already moving before he'd stopped, nearly crashing into one of Alice's clothing racks in his haste.
"When will it happen?" he blurted, and she looked at him, eyes like dewdrops.
He heard her mind speak the answer a millisecond before her mouth echoed it.
"Today."
...
He'd hesitated for only a second near the border. He knew the wolves were gathering near the edge of the cliffs, deep into Quileute territory, too distracted with their stories and their food to think of patrolling the borders—not in such a time of peace, the line firmly drawn between 'ours' and 'theirs' in their heads. That's where they slipped up, assuming the 'evil' vampires wouldn't dare.
Ed stepped over and into the rank. He wrapped a scarf around his nose, eyes already burning despite being unable to stream or water from irritation. The hazy sun had already sunk beneath the surface, stars splashed against the clear night sky, like God was laughing at him from those heavens that Edward would never be able to enter.
The grandmother's cottage did not stink of dog as potently as the rest of the beaches did, but still, there was a spice in the air, a needle-like perfume that could've become uncomfortable had Edward not been expecting something much worse. But no, there was no wet stink that clung to the back of nose, only hot spice that made him pause. He'd never felt anything like it. It reminded him of a time in which he and Carlisle had packed up and driven all the way to the old Salem site in Westchester, New England.
But it was stupid to think of that in a time like this.
He was scared to breathe, scared to open his mouth and be repulsed by something he had always known to be sweet and welcoming.
Instead he scented the echo of the same strawberry merengue he'd known and loved. He followed it to the window that faced west, overlooking the cliffs and the wave-battered beaches below. The wind had begun to screech, stinging Edward's cheeks, and causing the waves to crash wildly on the edges of the cliffs below, swallowing the sandy dunes whole. He didn't mind the wind burn. It wasn't like he wasn't already chilled from the inside out. He slipped in through the window, feet treading lightly upon the sill. Edward immediately scented a slight difference in the air.
Beau's form, prone on the bed below, gave off an odor essentially the same as before, but laced with the distinct taste of illness that only those deep in the throes of feverish dreams did. Edward stood, the muslin curtains billowing around him, for what felt like an eternity, drinking in the sight and sound of what he craved most before the obvious struck him: Beau was not asleep.
Fear lanced through him immediately. What was Beau thinking, seeing him here, he must think the worst, he must think I'm some obsessed stalker—oh. Edward finally registered Beau's reaction, or rather lack thereof, and noted his glazed eyes.
Beau was a wreck.
His normally pale cheeks were flushed a deep pink, not out of embarrassment, but out of fever, sweat slicking his forehead and curling his hair wildly. Edward paused, unmoving, as a fresh wave of sharp edged cream washed over him, red berries on his tongue. It was still delicious, still sweet, not at all disgusting, no trace of dog on the boy. Yet.
Ed crept closer, eyes sharpening on Beau. The side of his blushing face was pressed to his pillow, thick lashes swooping coyly over the jut of a cheekbone, longish fingers sprawled over cream linen.
God, he was lovely.
Edward had done this once before, shamefully, when Beau's scent was still an irresistible beacon, flashing wildly to him like a will-o'-the-wisp in the night. Beau had been asleep then, but, even so, more alert than he was now. Edward remembered, with a tinge of amusement, the boy flailing out of bed and nearly decapitating his side table's lamp.
Poor thing. He sobered. The boy looked delirious, frowning at Edward, mildly confused, but not threatened or as frightened as he'd been that other night. A curl fell into one eye, caught in thick lashes, fluttering prettily whenever Beau blinked.
He mumbled something, mouth slurring too thickly for even Edward's vampiric ears to pick up, and turned onto his side, obviously dismissing him. Edward would've been offended, but it was obvious Beau thought his nightly visitor was a fever-dream, something ignorable.
"I'm sorry." The guilt was tangible. It pushed him forward physically towards the figure lying prone on the bed. Ed couldn't help himself, and on some level, he realized what he was doing was dreadfully rude and intrusive, but he sat down on the mattress, hands itching to touch that unbearably soft skin. And he did.
Beau's hip was thick and soft, covered by a thin layer of laundry-stretched cotton, and Edward squeezed lightly, heart panging when he remembered that this might be the last time he'd be able to do this. Berries and cream was thick in the air, but oddly Edward's thirst for it was absent, receded in the face of his agony, in his realization that he would never be able to touch again. "I'm so sorry," he whispered to himself. He cleared his throat and louder, implored, "I didn't mean to hurt you."
Beau laughed harshly in his throat, and to Edward's immediate concern started coughing. He grabbed Edward's other hand, and placed it against his flushed neck, deliciously hot as coals against Edward's chilled skin. "No, it's my fault, god." He coughed again, rasping. Edward felt wildly for a pulse, fearfully wishing he could do something, anything to help. "I was stupid enough..." Stupid enough to what?! Edward had never had to wish he could read someone's thoughts until he had met Beau.
Beau broke off, clutching at Edward's hand on his hip and then he threw it away. "Won't happen again."
What won't happen again?!
You know what. A voice in his head, which sounded suspiciously like Alice, answered back.
He moved closer viscerally, laid on his side behind Beau, and buried his face in that smooth neck—felt the heart thrum hotly underneath his cold lips, felt the thick curls tickling his forehead lightly. He'd never been so thankful he was dead, never been so thankful that he was unable to sob wretchedly and make a fool of himself, even if Beau believed this was a dream.
Edward brushed his nose brushed over the back of Beau's neck, sticky, warm and undeniably human. He couldn't help himself. If this was to be the last time... He couldn't even bring himself to think it. If this was the last time he would see Beau he would take what he could get. Edward gave into his impulses and wrapped his arms around Beau's shoulders, caging him in against his chest in a desperate hug, but careful not to smother him. Beau relaxed against him either not minding or not noticing, an uncurling of warm muscle and skin. Edward wondered if he was even still awake. He took a deep breath, sighing at the richness of Beau's scent in the air. The curls lying soft against the nape of Beau's neck fluttered prettily.
Edward gathered his courage. "If this fever is what I think it is, this may be the last time I ever see you." His voice was breaking, even if he wasn't sure that Beau could hear it.
"Isn't that what you wanted?" Beau's soft intonation, not accusatory, but sincere, cut into him and Edward gasped. If Beau could even think that he wanted this—
He opened his mouth to respond, No, absolutely not, but was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. The old lady, most likely. He speeded out the window, the bang as it closed probably audible from inside. He waited outside, pressed up against the wall for the sound of the woman checking the lock on the window, but it never came. He heard her come to the window and look out for a long moment, but she did not do anything else besides tend to Beau for a few minutes and leave silently.
As soon as she left Edward let himself back into the room, this time closing the window silently and sitting on the sill next to it. He would wait all night, memorizing Beau's face if this was all the time he had left. He could still feel Beau's heat pressed against him, a phantom of the real thing trembling inside him, and he covered his eyes with a hand, the smell of strawberries lifting from his palm.
There would be hell to pay in the morning, the wolves' rage implacable until Edward was punished for his transgressions against the treaty, but nothing seemed less unimportant in that moment. Nothing was more important than Edward's dear friend, shivering and suffering and wrapped up in blankets that smelled like magic.
...
He saw Beau in school the next few days, impossibly, frustratingly normal.
There was no retched stink of wet dog, no snarling, wild mouth, no irrational bursts of anger or fear. But there was something different about the Swan boy, something that hadn't been there before. His curls seemed shinier, eyes brighter than usual, mouth more apt to smile. The others seemed to take notice too. Mike Newton and Angela Weber squinted confusedly at their friend as they walked through the crowded hallways.
Normally, Edward was the pinnacle of patience. No thought, no matter how simple or disgusting, irritated him. No klutzy human error ever prickled at him. No pompous teacher had ever made him grit his teeth. And yet it seemed everything about this godforsaken day had conspired to have him clawing at the walls, roaring at these humans, tearing into those students who leveled resentful or lustful looks at him.
Even sweet Angela, who possessed one of the kindest minds among Forks High, scratched at the edge of his senses. It infuriated him, knowing he had to eavesdrop on her thoughts just to know how Beau was feeling, or what he was doing. Knowing she had the ability to tap Beau on the shoulder and ask after his wellbeing, while Edward was forced to skulk along the edges of Mike Newton's mind to glimpse a meager smile on that petal mouth, scavenging for scraps while they sipped from the source. Because he'd given up that right, hadn't he? He'd ceded his ability to look after Beau the moment they'd touched—when he'd held his hand sitting on that bench and rejected him.
Edward lurked around Beau's route through the school, knowing that he would notice. Beau was well aware that his own classes weren't anywhere close by. Biology was a special type of torture. They sat together, but there might as well have been a canyon between them, they were so distant. When lab rolled around Beau escaped to work with Angela and her partner, leaving Edward to work by himself. They never spoke.
It was during one Bio period that a realization hit Edward.
Beau's pen clattered to the ground and Edward, lightning-quick, dove sideways and snatched it up before Beau could. Sitting back up, pen in hand, he nearly banged into Beau who had begun to bend over for it. They sat inches away from each other, neither breaking eye contact. Edward could count every chocolate eyelash, every freckle and nearly lost himself in the openness of Beau's expressive eyes. If Edward had a beating heart, it would've been stuttering with nerves.
Carefully, so as to no break the fragile moment, Edward placed his hand on Beau's, and uncurled his fingers gently so his palm faced upwards. He slipped the pen into Beau's outstretched hand and closed it gently with both of his, the boy's skin searing hot against his own. Beau jerked away at this, the unexpected contact startling him away. But the sudden movement washed his scent over Edward, the taste of it filling his mouth every time he breathed.
Beau smelled like magic.
The milky scent Edward had known, had dreamed of, was the same as before the fever night. Except for the tiniest hint of something else. Something savory and dark that laced the very edges of Edward's super senses. It gave a warm spicy presence to Beau that hadn't been there before, something that glowed deep in Edward's chest.
"What are you doing?" The question rang out, whispered soft and incredulous, but it could've been a yell to Edward.
"Handing you back your pen," he answered automatically, mouth moving without his permission, and Beau snorted without amusement, lip curling slightly. Edward was startled. Beau had never been so cold to him before. But perhaps cold was the wrong word, implying bitterness, but this chill was different in the way that it layered itself around the human boy, a guarded cloak that shielded his eyes and twisted his mouth.
"Of course," and the conversation ended, Beau turning back to Mr. Varner's lecture, Edward still aloft and confused at the hard panging in his chest.
"Beau," he started, but the boy shushed at him, shaking his head.
They sat in silence for the rest of the period, Edward frozen and unseeing. He couldn't say how many times he opened his mouth, trying to form words that sat like little pebbles in a stream, trying to lift into the current, but too heavy to rise off the ground. The bell rang, shriller than usual, and the students filed out chatting. Mike Newton slung an arm over Beau's shoulder and shot Edward a look.
Fucking bastard, why is he even here, why is he even sitting near Beau, that disgusting homophobic—
Edward broke away from Newton's thoughts, whirling. For the first time, he wondered what it must've looked like, that day in the courtyard. Beau's hand, hot and soft against his stone one, a rejection equally soft as that hand. And then going to Alaska immediately afterwards, absolute radio silence, a cold blistering rejection in every definition of the word.
No wonder Beau didn't wish to speak with him. Wasn't that what he had wanted? To set Beau free? He wondered, not for the first time, if he had made the right decision in listening to Carlisle.
Song Title: Le Moulin by Yann Tiersen (Translation: The Mill)
