A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews and faves and alerts and PATIENCE. I would have had this chapter out like, a week ago but I had serious writer's block with the story. Hope I made up for the wait a bit by giving you quite a long chapter. It was going to be longer but I thought there was already a lot to take in in this chapter so I ended it where I ended it, and the part that was meant to end it will be in the next chapter.

Anyway. Enjoy! ;)

I don't know what to say.

And that's a fucking lie.

I do know what to say, but I'm scared.

I'm scared that if I say something, anything, he'll change his mind.

And that fear probably sounds stupid to anyone else, but with him, I can never be certain. I mean, how can I? His confusion is like a projector: it casts a mindfuck over anyone who happens to be in close proximity, makes them just as confused as he is.

So I'm scared.

And I'm confused by his words.

And I can't say anything.

My cell phone starts to vibrate, the quiet sound like a chainsaw, a startling slash through the silence, and I pull it out of my pocket – only to try to shut it up.

It's a text from Peter:

Where the hell r u, J? C'mon, how long do u need 2 take a piss? I'm waiting in the car now. Hurry up.

I sigh. "Shit."

He still has his back to me, and it's as if he was waiting for me to speak first because he answers immediately with an: "I know. Fucked up, huh?"

I frown, confused, yet again.

My phone starts ringing – and shit – it's Peter.

"Fuck," I mutter.

I ignore the phone, stuffing it back into the ass pocket of my jeans, letting the vibrations saw through the silence.

"Aren't you gonna answer it?" he asks.

"What? No."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"You should," he says. "I mean, it's Peter, right?"

I don't reply.

The phone stops ringing – starts up again straight away.

And he's silent now, standing so still it's like he's not even breathing.

"I can't answer it," I say. "Not until –"

"You can't," he repeats, cutting me off.

His shoulders hunch as he shoves his hands deep in his pockets, right up to the wrists – his right wrist now out of the cast.

I don't say anything.

I wait, because I know there's something he wants to say. I know there's a point to his antagonizing questions.

"Why the hell not, Jasper?" he asks. He kicks at the floor with the toe of his Nikes. "Why can't you answer Peter's fucking call?"

Still, I wait.

"I mean," he continues, offhand. "You certainly didn't have a problem answering it that day at Rosalie's."

And there it is.

The point.

It's odd how he's able to speak so casually, indifferent almost, but he manages to project so much emotion behind his words. It's similar to how he keeps his face so impassive, yet you know there's emotion burning behind the blank mask.

Thing is, I can never tell which emotions they are.

There's anger there, definitely. And maybe a little uncertainty too – but there's something else, something I can't name.

A long pause before I know what to say.

And then: "I wasn't gonna answer his call that day, either, you know that. I waited for you to say whatever it was you were gonna say, but you didn't." I shrug, helpless. "What the fuck did you want me to do?"

The phone starts ringing again.

And he scoffs. "Just answer the fucking phone. Or Peter's gonna start wondering where you are."

I stare at his back in silence, my teeth clenching tight.

"Why don't you ever answer my questions?"

He doesn't answer that one, either.

And my phone is relentless with its ringing on as Peter keeps calling.

He kicks at the floor again – harder this time.

He's mad.

"Tell me something," he says, suddenly, his low voice rising and echoing in the silence. "Do you like him?"

He finally turns around to face me, eyes finding mine, that green gaze grasping my eyeballs and keeping them locked in place so I have no choice but to look back at him.

I swallow, as usual, unnerved by his eyes. "Who?"

He stares, as usual, unwavering with his gaze. "You fucking know who."

I shuffle – awkward.

He's still – confident.

And then I shrug.

"I… I don't know. I did – I mean, I thought I did. I –"

"Do you like him or not?" he interrupts. "Simple fucking question, Jasper."

I hold his eyes for three seconds longer.

Before I sigh in defeat.

And then I shake my head, the movement so imperceptible he would have missed it – if he hadn't been looking for it. Because he knew the fucking answer already. He just wanted me to say it.

"See, this is what pisses me off." His jaw line grows more pronounced as he clenches his teeth. "I mean, if you actually liked him then… whatever. I'd accept that I fucked up and you moved on. I'd… I'd leave you alone. But you don't fucking like the guy." He frowns at me, incredulous, as he asks, "So why are you with him?"

The question makes me realize exactly why I'm with Peter.

So I don't answer because I don't know what to say.

And that's a fucking lie.

Truth is, I can't answer, because I'm too fucking ashamed of myself.

And he's looking at me with eyes sharp enough to pierce my skull and probe my thoughts.

And I'm certain he can read my mind, because how else would he know?

Why else would he ask me:

"What, are you with him to make me jealous?"

Or maybe I'm just that fucking obvious.

He starts pacing again before me, slowly this time.

He rubs at his temples with his fingertips. "Because, Christ, Jasper, it's fucking working." He laughs – a humorless laugh. "I'm so fucking jealous I wanna hit the guy, just because he's with you. In the concert, when he had his arms around you? I swear I was this close" – he holds up his thumb and forefinger a few millimeters apart – "to doing it. To hitting him." He stops pacing and meets my eyes. "I'm so fucking jealous I don't even wanna hear his name come out of your mouth."

My phone starts ringing again and he closes his eyes in annoyance.

"You know," he says, through his teeth. "I'm so fucking jealous I wanna rip that phone out of your pocket and stomp on it, just because I know it's his name flashing on the screen." He opens his eyes again, looks at me. "Just the thought of you and him…" He trails off, shaking his head. "Makes me so fucking jealous I don't know what to do with myself."

"I know," I whisper. And it's true, I do know, because it's exactly how I felt when I found Tanya in his bed that day. It's exactly how I felt when I saw him with that other blonde in the concert.

He leans against the stone wall opposite me, tips his head back so he's looking down at me, so his Adam's apple is prominent on his pale neck, so his jaw line his highlighted – a dark shadow of stubble along the smooth skin, so his irises are hooded by his eyelids.

And as I look at him I think about how much I wanna kiss him on his neck, how much I wanna suck on that Adam's apple, how much I wanna rub my nose along that stubbled jaw –

"I heard the whole conversation." He's whispering too, now. "That day at Rosalie's. I fucking heard everything."

His eyes flicker upwards, towards the ceiling as he says: "I heard him tell you he missed you. I heard you tell him you missed him too."

I sigh. "I didn't mean it."

He ignores me, continuing: "And when he asked you if you wanted to hang out with him the next day?" – His eyebrows knit tight – "You fucking looked at me before you said yes."

He looks at me now. "You fucking looked at me…"

"I'm sorry," I say.

"You did it on purpose." It's not a question.

But I nod anyway.

"To make me jealous."

"Yeah."

He snickers a little, through his nose – but he's far from smiling. "I should have just fucking left," he says. "The moment you answered the phone and said his name I should have just… gotten the fuck outta there, but I didn't."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "I dunno. Guess I wanted to hear what you'd say to him. What he'd say to you."

"I didn't mean it. When I told him I missed him," I say.

He just looks at me through his hooded eyelids and says nothing.

So I continue: "I don't wanna be with him, Edward, you know that. I fucking want you." I shrug. "It's always you."

He closes his eyes, runs the fingers of his right hand through his mess of hair.

Neither of us notices that my phone has finally stopped ringing – that Peter's stopped calling…

"I'm tired of this shit, Jasper," he says. "I can't fucking… do it anymore."

And his words are like a quick stab in the heart. There's the shock, the confusion of not knowing where the sudden pain has sprung from, that split second before you realize what's happened.

"What? But… But you just said you wanted to be with me –"

"I do," he interrupts. "That's what I mean. I… I'm just… tired of fighting it, you know? Tired of fighting these… these fucking feelings, cos it's just... It's driving me crazy." His hand ruffles his hair: a physical manifestation of his words. "You're driving me crazy."

I don't know what to say.

And that's a fucking lie.

I do know what to say, but I'm scared.

I'm scared that if I say something, anything, he'll change his mind. I'm scared of thinking about what his words could mean, for him. For us. I'm scared of hoping that maybe… maybe this thing between us could actually work.

But then I notice that my phone stopped ringing – that Peter stopped calling a while ago now.

And I'm scared to acknowledge why that fact has suddenly become obvious.

I'm scared to acknowledge the slight movement I catch at the corner of my eye.

And although I'm scared to acknowledge Peter's tall form, frozen, and standing a few feet away from us – watching…

I do it anyway.

/ \

"The bathroom, huh?"

I close my eyes a moment. Sigh.

When I open them Peter's hazel eyes meet mine, narrowed in question.

"What's going on, Jasper?" he asks.

I rub a hand over my face in defeat. "I'm sorry, Peter."

There's a pause as Peter's eyebrows rise.

"Doesn't answer my question, J," he says.

His eyes swing over to Edward, where they stay for several moments.

I look over at him, too.

He's no longer leaning against the stone wall, his body straight and rigid with aggression. I watch him, watch his barely blinking eyes, his pulsing jaw line, his expressionless face. And I can hear him again, in my head: I wanna hit the guy, simply because he's with you. So I prepare myself for it, prepare to hold him back or something because I know he'll do it. He'll hit Peter and Peter will hit him back.

Except – he doesn't try to hit Peter.

He stands there, he holds Peter's gaze, he manages to rein in his rage, he holds his tongue – and he does nothing.

Peter breaks their hostile stare off first when he tips his head back to look at the ceiling.

He laughs in bitter disbelief.

"Him," he says, as if that one word explains everything.

And maybe it does.

"God, I'm an idiot," he mutters to himself. "Such a fucking idiot…"

"Peter –"

He holds a palm up. A non-verbal shut the fuck up.

So I shut up.

Peter stares at me, long and hard.

"You were never really into me, were you?"

I shake my head, because it's time to tell him the truth. All those fucking lies weren't fair to him and I know that. I was an asshole, and a coward, and I know that.

"So… him" – his eyes flicker over to Edward for a fraction of a second – "He's the guy you had a thing with."

I nod.

"And you love him."

"Yeah."

Peter rubs his hand along his Mohawk, messing up the spikes.

"You know what kills me, Jasper?" he asks. "What pisses me off the more I think about it?" His eyes narrow, contemplating. "If you didn't wanna be with me, you could have just told me. I mean, I fucking asked you to talk to me. I asked you to tell me what was on your mind, and you didn't say shit. I fucking… broke up with you, and you still came back to me when I asked you to…" Peter raises his eyes to ceiling again. He takes a deep breath. "Why didn't you just tell me? Why fucking lead me on? Why make me think…?" He trails off, his breath hitching.

Peter rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand. He sniffs.

"You know," he says, eyes a shimmering, brimming hazel. "I liked you, Jasper. A lot. And I don't know this guy" – he gestures in Edward's direction – "but I bet I've treated you better than he has. And you know what? I bet I could treat you better."

Peter gives me one last lingering look before he turns away.

And then he's gone.

A few minutes of silence later and Edward looks at me.

He clears his throat. Runs his hand through his hair.

"Did you bring your car?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Pet – he drove."

He nods.

"You want a ride?"

I nod in response.

/ \

I can't help my frown as I ask him:

"What about the girl you were with?"

He keeps his eyes on the road and his face steady.

"She's gone. I met up with her at the concert. It was easier for her to meet me there than to drive all the way to Forks."

"Ok," I reply, frown staying intact. "So… Who is she?"

"Irina," he answers. His jaw twitches. "Tanya's sister."

My frown deepens. "Ok?"

He sighs. "I told you, she's a friend. She's like a cousin to me."

I scoff. "So you fuck your cousins?"

His irises shift to the corner of his eye sockets to look at me.

"I never said I fucked her."

"But you've fucked her sister."

He frowns now too. "So?"

I don't reply.

There's a long stretch of silence.

Then he says:

"Tanya and me" – he shrugs – "we fucked around for years. My dad and her dad are best friends so we've known each other for, like, our whole lives and we just…" – he shrugs again – "you know, messed around. I don't even like her." He looks at me for a moment. "But Irina's not like that."

Another stretch of silence as we drive on – a silence filled with green eyed sideways glances.

Glances I pretend not to notice.

"Whose car is this?" I smooth a hand over the black leather seat.

"My dad's."

I nod. "Nice."

He nods too. "I know."

More green eyed sideways glances – and they're hard to ignore.

I shuffle against the leather interior.

Roll down the window a little.

Fuck around with the radio, switching back and forth between channels –

"Stop that."

His long fingers wrap around mine, stopping me.

A sideways glance. "Can't concentrate," he mutters.

I swallow, glancing at his hand over mine. His fingertips are cool. His palm is warm.

"Sorry." Oddly, the word comes out on an exhale.

His fingers linger a little longer.

And then they're back on the wheel.

It's a little while later when I ask him:

"When are you going back to college?"

He grimaces, just a little. "Next week." He holds up his right hand. "My wrist's better now; Court date isn't until a few weeks so… my dad's gonna drive me back."

I frown. "Court date?"

"DUI," he replies.

"Oh yeah. Shit."

He shrugs. "It's not a big deal. They'll probably just fine me."

"And suspend your license."

He shrugs again. "I don't have a car anymore, anyway. The Volvo's a total write off. They had to cut me out of it."

"I know." I turn to look at him. "That was fucking stupid. Driving drunk."

He turns to look at me when we reach a stop sign.

"I know…"

A car horn honking behind us lets us know we've been standing too long.

So he turns back to the road.

And then it's me with the sideways glances…

He clears his throat a little. "You, uh… liked the concert?"

I nod. "Yeah. You?"

He lifts a shoulder. "It was ok. I'm not really into them."

A pause.

"Why'd you still come?"

"Couldn't sell the tickets. And Irina's into them so…" Another half shrug.

"Well… Thanks. For the tickets, I mean." I reach out to touch his arm – stop halfway there when he stiffens.

He nods in response but he doesn't reply.

We're in Forks now, about fifteen minutes away from my house and a question is still lingering between us – unasked and unanswered.

So I ask it. And I hope to God he can answer it.

"So…" I clear my throat, nervous. "What happens now? Between us, I mean."

His right hand leaves the steering wheel to run through his hair.

"I don't know," he says. He frowns. "It's fucking complicated, you know? I mean, I'm not… comfortable with all this… homo shit."

I sigh. My eyebrows pinch together. I angle my body away from him as I turn to look out of the window.

"Ok. Whatever."

He sighs too. "Jasper…"

"What?" I snap.

He doesn't answer.

Instead, it's back to the fucking green eyed sideways glances.

And I'm suddenly mad. I'm fucking mad and I wanna get the fuck out of the car, get the hell away from him.

See, there's no point of hoping anything when it comes to him. He raises my fucking hopes and dashes them minutes later. Every single time. And I'm an idiot because I always fall for it.

I always fucking hope.

We're five minutes away from my house now, five minutes away – when he pulls over on the side of the road and cuts the engine.

And he looks at me.

I don't look at him but I can feel it. I always feel it.

His right hand runs through his hair. He hits the steering wheel with the fist of his other.

"Look at me," he says.

"Fuck you," I spit.

I tug on the door handle, wrench the door of his dad's Mercedes open and start to climb out.

We're a five minute drive away from my house. It'll be fifteen minutes at most on foot. I'll walk –

Except his hand is around my bicep, and he's holding me back.

"Get off me."

"No."

"Let me go."

"I can't."

"Fuck!" I pound on the dashboard with my fist. "Fuck you, Edward!" Pound repeatedly, my knuckles growing sore from the impact. "Fuck you!" But I don't give a shit. I pound harder.

"Jasper –"

He releases his hold on my arm and reaches for my pounding fist.

I'm out of breath now, my chest heaving hard, my fist aching – so I let him.

We sit there in silence, except for my heavy breathing, his hand grasping my curled fingers.

"Why… why do you do this?" I ask.

The question is rhetorical – still, I wait for an answer.

But it's another question he doesn't fucking answer.

"You drive me crazy and I…" – I shake my head – "I keep coming back –"

Suddenly, his palm is on my cheek.

"Look at me," he murmurs.

I don't.

So he sighs.

"You wanted an answer, Jasper, and I fucking gave you one. And you're mad because it's not what you wanted to hear? Well, fuck it, I'm not gonna lie. I don't know what's gonna happen between us. I don't know if I'll ever feel comfortable with this shit. Christ, I don't even know who the fuck I am anymore."

He tilts my face towards him with his palm on my cheek. Stares into my eyes.

"The only fucking thing I know," he whispers. "Is that I'm in love with a guy. And… as fucking nuts as that sounds to me, it doesn't feel wrong, so…"

His other hand reaches for my face and he brushes my cheekbones with his thumbs.

And I'm fucking embarrassed as his thumbs come away wet so I look down, avoiding his eyes.

"Jasper…"

I shake my head. Still don't look at him.

But I feel him. I always can.

I feel him leaning further over the console to the passenger side.

I feel the way one of his hands travel up to grip my hair.

I feel the way he turns my head to the side a little more.

I feel the pace of his breathing start to speed up.

I feel the warmth of it over my face.

And then I decide to look at him –

Just as I feel his warm mouth pressing against mine.

He's hesitant, his lips light and languid – and I don't want them to be.

I wanna feel them, hard and demanding and ardent.

My own hands reach up to grasp his head, my fingers burying into his hair, gripping the strands as I push his face, his lips, harder on mine.

His mouth opens further as his breaths become pants. He tilts his head against me. His fingers begin to tug on my hair. He pushes his tongue into my mouth.

And we continue like this: pushing and panting and tugging and tonguing and sucking and sighing and groaning and groping and kissing.

And it feels so fucking perfect.

It's the greatest I've felt, sitting in his dad's Mercedes, parked on the side of the road, five minutes away from my house, kissing him, since –

Well, since the last time I kissed him.

/ \

So fuckin bored, Whitlock.

I grin as I read his text, and I'm just about to hit the 'reply' button when –

And this Professor's a bitch.

I snicker.

Emmett, lounging on the couch and watching the TV, looks over at me with a raised eyebrow.

He nods at my cell phone and grins.

"Who's that?"

I shrug. "No one."

Emmett grins wider. "It's ok. You can tell me if it's a guy, I mean, it's not gonna freak me out or anything."

I blink at him for a moment. "Um… ok. It's a guy."

"Cool," he says.

I frown a little at Emmett's response, confused, before I text him back:

Lol. Shit. How long u got left?

He replies about thirty seconds later with:

45 fuckin minutes. Srsly, I don't think I can make it that long.

"How long you known him for?" Emmett asks.

I look up at him in surprise. "What?"

He nods at my phone again. "The guy you're texting."

I frown again. "Um" – I shrug – "a while?"

Emmett smiles, all dimples and crinkly brown eyes. "That's great, Jazz."

And his sudden interest in my personal life is a little strange. Why the questions? And the smiles?

I keep my eyes on him as he focuses on the TV again and clear my throat to get his attention.

Smirking, I ask: "What, is it twenty questions again?"

He chuckles.

"Nah, not today." Oddly, he looks at me from the corner of his eye – like he's trying to gauge my reaction. "It's, uh… cool you found a dude, you know? Glad you're over that whole… thing… with Edward."

The smirk on my face dies.

I sit up – rigid – in the recliner as my heart kick-starts into double time, pumping blood in my veins now laced with sheer, undiluted panic.

Rosalie didn't tell him, did she? I mean, she wouldn't. Would she?

"What 'thing'?" I ask, my tone nowhere near nonchalant enough to pull off denial.

Emmett looks at me, all traces of humor wiped clean from his face, and the panic flares through my body in a heatwave, resulting in a flush across my face and neck. And if that isn't a dead giveaway, I don't know what is.

Emmett sighs.

"You've got a 'thing' for him, right?"

Talk about fucking understatement.

I don't know what to say.

And this time it isn't a fucking lie.

Emmett continues: "Wouldn't blame you if you did, I mean, I guess he's attractive to girls, and like" – a nod in my direction – "gay dudes."

"What?" The question comes out on a relieved sigh as I realize that, thankfully, he doesn't know.

Emmett grimaces. "Thing is, it's pointless. You know, having a thing for Edward. Cos seriously, dude, he's as straight as they come. There's no way he'd ever even consider you know…" He trails off, awkward.

A text vibrates my phone and I glance down at it to see:

Fuck it. Ditched the lecture. Still bored though. What r u doing?

And the irony of Emmett's words almost makes me laugh.

"And no offense…" Emmett grimaces again. "But he's a homophobe. I mean, he's had a problem with gay guys for, like, as long as I've known him." He shrugs. "No idea why, but that's just the way he is."

He looks at me again, wary, as if he's worried he offended me or something.

I glance at my phone again. Play with a loose thread on the arm of the chair.

"Who said I had a thing for him?"

Emmett's eyebrows lift. "Dude, c'mon, I fuckin' saw the way you were looking at him that day."

I don't answer.

"And…" – His brows lower now, in thought – "Weird thing is, he kept looking at you too. It was fuckin' awkward. Felt kinda like me and Rose were interrupting something between you two..."

He meets my eyes again and smirks – like he's kidding.

But the smirk is half-hearted, at best.

I give him an equally half-hearted smirk in return. "Thought you said he was straight."

He frowns, confused. "He is."

"Then why'd it feel like you were interrupting something?"

Emmett shrugs – then gives me another measuring look. Another half-hearted smirk. "Nah, it didn't really. I was just fuckin' with you," he answers.

And that's a fucking lie.

/ \

He calls me that night, after I get home from hanging with Rosalie and Emmett after school.

We didn't say much after the kiss.

He dropped me home and asked: "You still have the same number?"

To which I replied: "Yeah. You?"

And he nodded and that was it.

He's been texting me every day since then. There are no, I love you's or, I miss you's – but I'd be a fool to expect any of those from him. He texts about what's going on in his day, texts asking what I'm doing – the kind of texts people send to their friends.

But it's ok.

Honestly, I can't say that I'm a hundred percent happy with whatever the fuck we've got going on right now, but it's a hell of a lot better than where we were before.

Tonight's the first time he's called.

"… So I ditched it. Went back to my dorm and just passed out."

It's unreal to hear his deep voice over the phone again. And, for a moment, I just listen to the sound of it, not knowing what to say.

He clears his throat a little. "You there?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

Awkward pause.

And then: "Anything interesting happen today?"

"Not really," I reply. "Had school then hung with Rosalie for a bit. Emmett was there too."

A slight pause. Then: "Oh, right."

His tone seems off.

"Is there something wrong?"

"I don't like the fact that Emmett knows. About you, I mean."

"Why?"

"I just don't."

"Well… that's not my fault, I mean, I didn't tell him."

"I know," he says.

Long – awkward as fuck – silence.

And then I don't know why I say it, but I blurt out:

"Emmett said you're a homophobe."

A beat of silence. Then, "So?"

"He said you've been that way for as long he's known you."

I can hear that his molars are clamped tight as he answers: "What's your fucking point, Jasper?"

"How long's he known you for?"

"Why does it matter?"

"I'm just curious."

"Since high school. He moved to Forks when we were in ninth grade."

"Ok," I say. "So… why is that?"

"What?" He sounds irritated.

"Why are you homophobic? How'd you get that way?"

He sighs into the phone – but doesn't answer.

"Are your parents –?"

"No."

"And Alice isn't either, so…"

The line has suddenly gone so silent I wonder if he's gone, if he hung up – but occasionally I hear him breathing.

"Edward –"

"In eighth grade," he interrupts, his voice rough and low. "Some guy, Nathan Barnes, mooned the whole school bus. Then he turned around and flashed his cock."

He pauses, like he expects me to say something.

Then clears his throat. "It made me… hard. And… and I can remember it so clearly because it was all I could fucking think about. He was semi hard, had a little light brown hair around his cock, and it… it turned me on so much I could barely sit still on the ride home. I mean, I wasn't… attracted to the guy at all, in fact, I can barely remember his face, but…"

I hear him swallow.

"I jacked off as soon as I got home. Jacked off about four times that evening, thinking about it. And the next day at school, we were all talking about it, kidding around, and someone – can't remember who it was – called our bus driver a fag. Then someone else said, "he probably went home and jerked off over Nathan Barnes' cock" and everyone started laughing."

I'm barely breathing now as I listen to him, because his voice is so low my breaths almost drown it out.

"And I felt so fucking disgusted with myself, you know? I was scared I was turning into a fag, and I was mad at myself for jacking off, and I was mad at gays, and mad at Nathan Barnes. So I started calling guys fags if they even looked at another guy for a little too long. There was this dude, I don't know if he was gay or not, but I picked on him, cos I caught him glancing at me in the locker room once."

He sighs.

And waits – again – like he wants me to say something.

But I don't know what to say. What the hell can I say to that?

"A few months ago," he finally continues. "In the first semester of college, I had this roommate. We were cool, you know? We went out partying together and shit. One night we got back to our dorm after a party, and… I thought we were both shitfaced that night but when I think about it now, I don't think he was that drunk. And honestly, neither was I.

"Anyway, I was lying on my bed on my back, about to pass out, when he came over to me. Climbed on my bed. And the next thing I knew, he had my pants pulled down and my cock in his hand. And when I looked at him he just grinned at me and said, "Just thought I'd help you out, you know, as buddies." And, I don't even remember if I'd been hard or not, or whether he just said that as an excuse to touch me, but I told him to fuck off, told him I wasn't a fag. And… you know what he said to me? He said, "A blow job is a blow job, Edward. Personally, I don't give a shit if it's from a male or a female mouth. There ain't no fucking difference. That doesn't make me gay.""

I inhale a sharp breath, the words so fucking familiar they're like the memory of a kick in the balls. Sure, the pain of it is gone, but a guy always remembers that pain as clearly as if it happened five minutes ago.

He gives me a moment, as if he knows I need it, before he continues:

"And I hit him. I punched him in the face so fucking hard he fell off my bed. And then he walked out of the room and didn't come back that night."

I hear movement on his side, and I can picture him, his hand running through his disheveled hair, the way he always does.

"And you know why I hit him? Not because he tried to suck my dick. Not because I thought he was a fag. But because he made me hard. Once he put the idea in my head I kept thinking about him sucking me off and it turned me on. And it was eighth grade all over again. But I didn't jerk off. I fucking refused to touch myself, and the longer I stayed hard, the angrier I got – at myself. The next day, when I got back from lectures, all his shit was gone from our dorm. And a few days later some other guy moved in."

/ \

I feel a poke at the small of my back and turn around to find Rosalie grinning at me.

"Hey." I close my locker and turn to her. "You ready?"

"Yep. Ready when you are."

We walk down the hall, out the front entrance of the school and towards the parking lot.

Rosalie rubs her palms together against the cold. She turns to look at me and smirks.

I raise an eyebrow. "What?"

She hunches her shoulders. "I dunno, you look… different."

I press the button on my car key and unlock the doors. "Different how?"

We're seated and buckled up in my car before she replies.

"Less emo? More confident?" – A shrug – "I don't know."

I smirk a little, but say nothing.

Rosalie turns on the heater and puts her hands in front of the cool air rushing out of the vent. "Ugh, it's so fucking cold," she groans.

"Doing that's not gonna help," I say, nodding at her hands over the heater. "The engine hasn't warmed up yet."

She ignores my advice, keeping her hands where they are – turning to grin at me again.

"Jeez, can you stop that? It's creeping me out."

She laughs. Continues to grin at me.

"Peter keeping you happy, huh?"

I keep my eyes straight ahead, my eyebrows furrowing. "What?"

"Well, let's see. You're less emo. More confident. And Emmett says you were texting some guy the other day when I was upstairs, finishing off my homework." Rosalie waggles her eyebrows. "I put two and two together and..."

"It's not Peter."

"Oh really?" Rosalie nudges me with a smirk. "Check you out! I'm a little disappointed you didn't tell me though, so… time to spill, Whitlock."

I shake my head a little. "I'll tell you later."

"No, tell me now."

I don't answer.

She nudges me again. Hard.

"Fuck, Rosalie!"

"C'mon, Jasper, you always tell me." Suddenly she looks at me, her eyes narrowing a fraction. "What are you hiding?"

"I'm not hiding anything. I just don't see why you need to know everything about my life."

Rosalie folds her arms over her boobs. She keeps her face straight ahead.

"Ok. Fine. But next time you feel all emo find yourself another agony aunt."

I sigh. "Rosalie –"

"Whatever."

So, I didn't tell her.

I didn't tell her about the talk at the concert. About the break up with Peter. About the kiss in the car. About the texts. About his phone call last night.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and toss it in her lap. "Here. You wanna know who the guy is, check my texts."

She glances at me, wary, before she picks up the phone and starts pushing buttons.

I don't look at her, at her expression as she realizes who it is, because her jaded sigh is enough.

And the reason why I didn't tell her about the talk at the concert, about the break up with Peter, about the kiss in the car, about his phone call last night, is even more apparent when she shakes her head in disbelief and says:

"Really, Jasper? Him?" As if that one word explains everything.

And maybe it does.

"I don't understand it," she says. I see her shrug in my periphery. "But whatever. It's your life, right?"

She tosses my phone on the dashboard and we continue the drive home in silence.

/ \

I'm in my bed, watching TV, later that night – when he calls again.

I mute the TV before I answer:

"Hello?"

"Hey," he replies.

Something about the gruff texture in his deep voice suddenly makes my lungs less able to take in deep breaths of air. Suddenly makes my own voice box about half useless.

"You ok?" I ask.

"Yeah. You?"

"I'm good."

"Good."

There's complete silence on the line for about five seconds – and then we speak at once.

"Get up to much today –?"

"What are you doing –?"

He answers my question first.

"Nah, just the usual. Lectures. Then I went to my dorm and crashed. What about you?"

"Same. Just school. Got home and studied a little."

"Ok."

Another five seconds of us only breathing down the line.

"What are you doing?" he asks again.

I lay on my back. Pull my comforter up to my chest. "Nothing. I'm in bed now."

A pause. Then: "Ok."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm in bed too," he answers.

This time our words hang in the silence – loading it.

I hear a shuffling sound on the line, like he's changing his position on his bed.

"I, uh… I bought Black Ops the other day." He snickers. "Looking forward to kicking your ass at that one too."

I grin. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," he answers.

"Well, bring it on. We'll have another COD marathon."

I can hear his smile as he says, "You're on, Whitlock."

A brief silence.

"Are you allowed to play video games now? I mean, with your wrist an all."

"Uh huh."

"That's good."

"I know," he says. "The broken wrist was a fucking nightmare." – A snicker – "Haven't jacked off in over six weeks..."

I swallow. Roll over onto my side and push the comforter down around my waist.

I feel hot all of a sudden.

"What are you doing?" he asks, yet again.

"Just rolled over. It's, uh… a little warm in my room."

"Same here." His voice has gotten even quieter – even more husky.

And I'm starting to get hotter.

And harder.

There's a lull in conversation again, except this time the loaded silence is filled with harsh breathing, and… and more shuffling –

"Hey, Jasper."

I have to clear my throat a little. "Yeah?"

"What are you wearing?"

I can feel my cock, lying hard and warm against my thigh.

"Just in my underwear. You?"

I hear him swallow. Hear him inhale and exhale a few times.

"Same here."

My hand reaches down into my boxers and I grip my cock – hard.

When I groan, I hear shifting on his side.

He's panting now as he asks, "What are you doing now?"

And I'm panting now as I answer, "I've got my dick in my hand. You?"

He groans, "Fuck. Yeah, same here."

I'm stroking myself now, my hand in a tight fist around my cock.

And I can hear him, doing the same thing.

I groan as I go faster, my hips working in sync with my hand. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and bite on my bottom lip against the pleasure, which feels like a drug being pumped through my veins and coursing around my body, faster… and faster… and faster –

"Aw, shit," he breathes. "Shit. Jasper?"

I can only answer him with a groan –

"I gotta go."

My eyes snap open, and I wince as I stop the strokes on my cock, the pleasure hitting a block in my veins and stopping everything – the way a car accident stops traffic.

"What? Why?"

"My roommate just got back." He's whispering now.

"Oh."

"I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah, sure."

He stays on the line for about five seconds longer.

And then he hangs up.

/ \

I finish jacking off, alone, thinking about him.

And I'm just drifting off to sleep when my phone vibrates with a text.

It's him:

Come to UW for the weekend, Friday night? COD marathon.

I reply:

Ok. See you Friday.

And I'm not an idiot, I don't expect him to say this back but I add on:

I miss you.

It's about twenty minutes later when he replies with:

Same here. See you Friday.

And I smile.

/ \