Title: Magnetism

Author: buildmeapyramid

Fandom: Twilight Saga

Rating: M, for crude humor, language, slash pairings, and mature themes (and now I must add there's a good possibility of slightly-underage boys getting a bit hot and heavy under the sheets sooner or later, so watch out)

Pairing: Edward/Jacob, very slight Edward/Bella and Jacob/Bella

Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga does not belong to me; it belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. So please don't sue me.

A/N: *peers out of hole in the ground* I'm sorry?

I know the horrid delay has probably made some of y'all hate me, and I'm sure I've lost some readers, but I'm back with a new laptop and lots of fresh mojo, and I'll leave the blubbering explanations for the end, so I won't keep you waiting anymore. Here is Chapter 10.

~oOo~

10. Locks

2 a.m.

I remember there was a time when I would wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of running water and hushed voices in the hall. Then I'd see a shadowed figure slip into my room, and my father's sad, dark eyes gazing at me as he kissed me on the forehead and told me to go back to sleep. When I asked him what was happening, he whispered that "Mommy had a little accident, that's all" as he tucked me in. And his warm hands brushing back my hair, his gentle, soothing words, would lull me back to sleep again.

Now, all I can hear is the muffled sigh of the wind through the trees and the rustle of the sheets as my chest rises and falls with each breath. Dad isn't home. He left around six with a six-pack and his jacket. So now it's just me, biting my lip and trying to keep my mind off the dream. My hands grip the sheets in an effort to ignore the pulse of heat in my cock, and my eyes are hazy with memories of his raspberry lips against my skin, his rainforest eyes flickering up to meet mine as he dragged hot, wet kisses down my front.

I gasp and clutch the sheets tighter as I remember—his crooked, shy smile as he leaned over me, brushing his fingers against my bare stomach and letting out a breathy moan as I pulled him down to me, fitting our bodies perfectly against each other.

And God, the feel of him, skin touching, caressing, colliding, lips tangled in kisses and hands sliding across damp, quivering flesh as we moved . . . I could taste him on my tongue, hear his ragged breaths and groans as he arched against me, see his jade eyes glitter with heat, smell the intoxicating mixture of sweat and sex and Edward that filled the air. And when I felt him, hard and pulsing and completely unexpected against my groin as we grinded together, my hips bucked up and I gave in to the delirious pleasure that simmered through me, burning and dancing in my blood.

And then it was too much.

I muffle my groan against my shoulder, fighting my lust, fighting my feelings. I've already made a fucking fool out of myself, letting myself want him, letting myself kiss him. I refuse to jack off to that dream, to thoughts of him. There's something wrong about it, something deeper than simply the factor of him being a guy.

I don't understand, I don't know if I want to understand, and I'm not about to torment myself more than I already am by analyzing yesterday or my thoughts about him. I just want to go back to sleep, and not have those fucking dreams anymore.

But yesterday flickers between memories of last night. I can still taste him when I lick my lips, and I can still recall the feel of his silky hair between my fingers, the way his breath fanned against my face, sweet and cool.

My cock twitches, and I feel the heat of those memories down to my toes. I groan and turn, stuffing my face into the pillow and putting everything into resisting the tide of lust pulsing through me, suffocating me. And I pray for morning to come.

~oOo~

Come on, Jake. Stitch your balls back on. Be a man.

I repeat this over and over to myself as I slip past Mr. Garrison into the classroom. My lips move as I silently recite the words and clench my hand around the strap of my backpack.

But I still freeze when I see him.

His eyes meet mine, and I feel like a pillar of sand hit with a gust of wind. Breath slips in a heavy torrent from my mouth, and my entire body fucking clenches and locks down, frozen and trapped by those mossy, beautiful, shimmering eyes. God, he's more perfect than he was yesterday. His hair, his skin, his eyes, his body, the way his rosy lips part and quiver as he stares at me and I stare back.

Memories flood my mind. Of him. Of us. Of that kiss and the pain that followed. Of everything in me that died as his hands pushed me away when I wanted nothing more than to be closer. I don't care anymore that Bella will explode if and when she finds out how I feel; I don't even care that wanting Edward Cullen makes me, for all intents and purposes, gay, as well as a complete fucking idiot.

I just . . . want him.

I gulp down fresh air, still trapped in Edward's eyes, and I feel his nearness down to my toes.

More.

I take a step forward.

Watch him.

Another step.

He flinches.

I pause.

Take a breath.

And then I'm sliding into my seat, the closeness of his body sending a current of warmth crackling across my skin, racing through my blood like fire, like magnetism. What I wouldn't give just to touch him, just to feel a sliver of that smooth, cool skin against mine and revel in it.

His eyes burn, the faint gold flecks in the midst of the green flashing like gems caught in sunlight. I remember the way they glimmered with tears yesterday, and everything in me aches.

I swallow. Look away. Hear him breathe out softly. I wonder what that breath would feel like against my lips.

He's on his feet in an instant, the shrill groan of the chair sliding back making me cringe as my eyes flash up in surprise. But he's not looking at me; he's gathering his things. Putting them back in his bag.

I feel something, a fear that grips my heart and gnaws inside me, but I don't know what to do. Not here. Not with other people around, chattering and laughing and completely unaware that the hard-ass, threatening bully who terrorizes the school, kissed a dude. Kissed Edward. And that's a whole other level of scandal.

But he's leaving. He's running past the desk, past Mr. Garrison in the doorway, ignoring our teacher's confused voice calling him back. And I don't think I can let him go.

The memory of our kiss burns on my lips as I stand on shaky legs and grab my bag before walking out, past the teacher and down the hall, catching a glimpse of tousled bronze hair through the few dawdling people milling around. He's heading for the exit.

And I start to run.

People stop and stare as I do, and I feel eyes on me from every direction, but I have to reach him. I'm responsible for this, for hurting him, for whatever thoughts are going through his head. And I need to fix it. It doesn't make me gay to want to comfort him . . . right?

I duck past everyone, never slowing down as I follow that telltale bronze head as it leaves the building, and my heart pounds when I realize I might not reach him in time. So I run faster. Through the door and into the parking lot. There aren't as many people here—just a few slackers and one or two cars slugging around in search of a spot—and I can see him striding quickly toward that ridiculous Volvo he drives. He's leaving.

"Edward!" I yell, ignoring the fact that whoever hears that will probably look at me like I'm an alien.

But he keeps walking.

"Edward!" I call again, running even faster when he still refuses to acknowledge me.

His left hand is on the door, keys dangling from the right as he moves to step inside, when I reach him, gasping for breath. "Don't," I pant. He stops, freezes mid-movement, but he doesn't turn. "Edward, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

He's in the car in a second, and I stumble back into the Honda behind me as he backs out of the spot and speeds out of the parking lot, leaving me standing there wondering how the hell I'm supposed to fix this.

Come on, Jake. Stitch your balls back on. Be a man. The mantra echoes through my head, my heart pounding with adrenaline and fear, but I swallow hard and start running again, this time toward my bike. It's probably close to raining right now—the sky is a dark, angry gray—but I can't find it in me to care. I just know I need to talk to him, no matter what. If I have to sit my ass in a wet seat and get pneumonia to do that, then so be it.

A minute later I'm on Main Street, going way too fast but beyond caring. I can see Edward's Volvo up ahead, a flash of silver in the haze of the fresh rain now falling.

My heart thuds in my chest, and I know I should just turn around and go back to school, ignore the pull that draws me to him, forget all about these dreams and feelings and the kiss that changed everything. That kiss made it real, made the moments and longing alive with what I want but could never find the strength to ask for. That fucking kiss blurred the line between fantasy and reality, and I'm too addicted to Edward to let go now. Even if he tells me he's not interested, or that he wants me to leave him alone, I'll still want him, still need him, and still crave to simply breathe the same air as he does.

So I don't turn around.

I follow him out of town, rain pouring down and making me seriously regret not wearing a heavier jacket, until I'm trailing after him down the gravel path to his house. My hands are clenched on the handle bars and my throat clogs when I try to swallow. He reaches the driveway before I do, and he's out of the car in an instant, racing onto the porch and through the door, banging it shut behind him.

I'm shaking when I finally pull up under the same tree as always, propping it against the trunk and running after him, my entire body shaking.

The front door is still cracked open, the house quiet enough to make my feet on the stairs sound like thunder, and there's no way he doesn't know I'm here.

When I reach his bedroom door, it's locked, and I'm desperate. "Edward!" I beg. "Edward, please!"

Silence, the stillness of it broken only by the angry pattering of rain on the roof.

"Edward," I try again, "I just want to fu- . . . I just want to talk, please."

There's a noise from the other side, and my hand ends up pressed against the door, trying to get closer. "I'm sorry, Edward," I say. "I didn't mean to—" My eyes squeeze shut. "I just—" Words don't come, and I'm drowning in the silence, trying to find a way to make him talk, to make him understand what I don't understand myself.

I swear I hear the sound of soft crying, the kind of crying where you're trying not to be heard. "Jesus, Edward, I'm sorry," I plead. "I'm an idiot. Please don't—" My throat closes and I feel the panic start to set in. I have to fix this. I have to.

There's a small vibration in the door, and I swear I can feel the heat of him through the wood. My heart is pounding and I hold my breath, waiting.

And then he speaks.

"Please—I don't . . . Please don't-don't ask me to—" His voice catches on a barely audible sob, and I wish I could do something to erase the pain in his broken words, wishing that somehow I could want him and not be scared of what that means. Because he's still Edward. He's still the ex-boyfriend who broke my best friend's heart. Only now he's more. Now that I've dreamed about him, now that I've talked to him and seen him smile, now that I've kissed him, I don't think I can go back to even trying to hate him. I don't want to. I just want to be there, on the other side of this door, holding his fucking hand if that's what he needs. I want to be his friend and I want to make him smile and I want to fucking kiss him again and again, until our lips are numb and our hearts are racing, and I don't want it to be wrong. It doesn't feel wrong; it feels right. So fucking right, and I wonder why it's never felt this way with Bella—or any other girl for that matter. Because I'm not gay. I like tits and lip gloss and shiny hair and curves. But Edward's just so . . .

Christ.

Fuck it.

Fuck it all.

I want him.

I fucking want him.

And if that makes me gay, then fuck, bring on the rainbow flags, because I'm fucking sick of being confused.

"It's okay," I say, and I don't know if I'm telling myself, or Edward. "It's okay."

There's another noise, not a sob. It sounds more like a sigh.

"Edward . . ." I hesitate for a moment before pushing on. "Edward, can I-can I come in? Please?"

There's an eternity crammed into the next few seconds, and I wonder if I've gone too far. But there's no taking it back now. So I wait.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

And then I hear the lock click open.

A/N: Okay, so here's what went down this past year. I was smack dab in the middle of doing the final count for The Twifestivals, and the second I get up to make myself a sandwich, what does my laptop do?It dies. Naturally, I hadn't had any of my fic stuff backed up properly, so basically my laptop sat on my kitchen table with all my documents stuck inside it until I could afford to buy a new one. But finally, after an agonizing five months without being able to write fic, I was able to get my lovely new Samsung 300e5a (okay, too much techie, I'm gonna stop now) and transfer everything over. All that's left is to figure out how the hell I'm gonna buy Microsoft all over again, because I don't have the license to Microsoft on my old laptop. But until then, I'm using the trial version, so all's well.

Anyway, that's the much-shortened version of my tragic tale of woe, so I hope you all aren't TOO angry with me. *puppy eyes*

Next chapter is already in progress, so it should be long in coming. Also, sorry about the rather short chapter length, but I really liked where it ended, so . . . *shrugs*