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The water steamed, thick and hot, and it made Beau's lungs too tight for comfort, the mist clogging up in the back of his throat. He ran his fingers through his bangs clumsily, lashes spiked from the water, blurring his vision. His glasses were lost in the pile of sweaty clothes he'd peeled off before jumping in the water.
He really didn't like gym all that much anymore—it'd been tolerable when they were allowed to run the track, but now that they were getting into actual physical education, it was just torture.
Coach Zepler was a general in Nike sandals. She had the boys playing tackle wrestling for some inexplicable reason in the basement, while the girls were all clustered up in the side-gym for volleyball and kickball. Lucky bastards.
Beau's back ached—he'd been pinned for what felt like over a dozen times, Mike's smug, sweaty face looming over him every five minutes.
"C'mon, Swan, put your back into it!" Zepler had hollered as his nose was smashed into yet another smelly gym mat. He could feel Mike's moist breath on his nape.
"Yeah, Swan," Mike had muttered. "Put your back into it."
Beau's reply had been an indignant yelp as somebody's hand connected with his ass.
Laughter broke out and Beau was seriously thinking about introducing Mike's nose to his fist when said asshole manhandled him up into a standing position as the half-way bell for the period rung out.
"Okay, ladies, hit the showers!" Zepler had blared.
Which was where Beau was currently glowering at the yellow tiles. He'd dawdled at the doorway until everybody else was out. As nice as the boys in his class were, they had limits and unfortunately, showering with a gay guy was one of them. Lucky he had a free period afterwards, so he didn't have to worry about being late for anything important.
The water was still hot, though, so he lingered, remembering instinctively that he had a free period after this one. He dipped his head underneath the spray so he could rinse off the sudsy shampoo, sighing as the water swirled white and foamy down the drain. The sharp, sour smell of sweat was slowly replaced with clean soap and notes of caramel, and Beau sighed, muscles forcibly relaxing underneath a pounding stream of hot water.
His shoulders stiffened inexplicably at a sudden rush of cold air over his flushed skin and he shivered, eyeing the entrance to the tiled showers suspiciously. Did someone open the door, or what?
"I'm getting too paranoid," he told himself, turning back to the faucet. Water slipped down his collarbones, dotting his stomach, but not even the thick steam could chase away the sickening feeling of eyes.
Eyes, on him.
"Hey!" he called out. "Is anyone there?" Beau paused, ears straining. There wasn't... wait.
Slap of bare-soled feet against concrete.
Shit.
He quickly shut off the water, unhooking his towel from the metal pin. He wrapped it up and around the curve of his bum before tiptoeing over to the lockers.
His feet, slick with bathwater, nearly flew out from under him and he flailed before he managed to clap his hands to a locker, steadying his wobbly legs. He breathed before shaking his head, soaked bangs slapping against his cheek, still red from the lingering heat.
What am I doing?
He wiped a few drops off of his forehead and headed back to his locker. He bent over his clothes, toweling his bangs with his little towel before rubbing off his shoulders and under his arms. He slung it over his back, shimmying into his skinny jeans and converse before pulling on his V-neck.
There was a tap on his shoulder.
"OH MY FUCKING GOD!" Beau whirled around, arm already lashing out, but luckily Tyler stopped it, expression shocked, Beau's wrist held tightly in his fist before knuckles could smash into his nose.
"Dude!"
"Tyler, Jesus H. Christ," Beau's heart rattled in his chest, and his breath stuttered. "Don't do that!"
Tyler just blinked at him for a moment, eyes wide. "Beau, are you all right? You're shaking, man."
Beau dropped his arms to his sides and glanced down. His fingertips raced with tremors, yeah, and he exhaled roughly. "Yeah, I'm ok, I just—I guess I've been a little on edge ever since Miller got out on Monday." He kept looking over his shoulder, prickles spidering down his spine and legs.
"Oh, crap," said Tyler with feeling. "He's out?"
"Yeah, he made bail and everything," Beau threw his backpack strap over his shoulder.
"I completely forgot about that. How are you feeling?"
"Not very good," said Beau, testier than he'd meant to. "Sorry. I'm just—"
"No, I totally get it!" Tyler swiped his forehead clean of sweat with his forearm, sheepish. He was very handsome, Beau realized vaguely, all lanky arms and broad shoulders and clean, mahogany skin. "You wanna skip? Take the day off?"
Beau thought about it for maybe a second, then shook his head. "I can't hide for the rest of my life. I'll deal with it, don't worry."
That feeling, wet ice shifting in the bottom of his belly, anxiety prickling over his scalp, never really went away. Beau knew he was lucky. He was cisgender, he was white-passing (if not mostly white), he was male. Compared to others he knew in the community, he was relatively safe. But that fear, that feeling he had felt locked away in that godforsaken closet, knowing Miller and his boys could come back and do whatever they wanted, it cloaked him. It covered his spine, leaked into his eyes, coated his mouth. He couldn't breathe without looking over his shoulder to make sure gay bashers weren't following him home. He couldn't buy a carton of milk without looking at his cashier suspiciously.
It was exhausting.
"He's not coming back, though?" Tyler had to jog next to Beau to keep up with his hurried pace. They swerved into the main building where Beau's locker was. Where the attack had happened.
"He better not," Beau snorted, "He was expelled, if he even steps foot on school property my dad'll slam him with trespassing charges." They walked briskly down the hall, nodding at one of the hall monitors who eyed them suspiciously.
"Morning, Martha!"
She sniffed, pushing up her boxy glasses. "Make it quick, boys." Her heels tapped loudly on the linoleum.
Beau's locker clicked, swung open. "It's been kind of shitty lately."
"Jacob still avoiding you?" Tyler frowned heavily.
Ever since falling sick at the La Push Bonfire, Jacob hadn't been returning any of Beau's texts. Or calls. Even Charlie's calls to the house were being redirected. Billy had swung by a few days back to apologize.
"It's just a phase," he'd said solemnly, dark eyes glittering. Somehow, Beau didn't believe him. But still, they'd sat silently through two helpings of lasagna and some lemon cake for dessert, tension snapping loudly over their chewing.
"Take care," Beau had said, concerned, as Charlie gave Billy a lift back to the Reservation. "Tell Jacob I'm here if he needs me." He still remembered the few months after Mrs. Black's death, Jacob's quietness, his anger. Beau would damned if that Jacob had a resurrection. He did plan on giving Jake some space, though, but if this kept up for too long, Taka Ahi himself wouldn't be able to keep Beau from invading La Push.
"Yeah," Beau answered presently, "Still avoiding me." He almost didn't notice the large sunflower shoved between his Trig and US History books, but when Tyler pointed it out, his jaw nearly dropped.
It was huge and pretty and bright yellow, sweet-smelling, and when Beau picked it up, the stem was at least a ruler length long.
"Third one today, nice," said Tyler innocently, and a vein in Beau's head spasmed.
It hadn't just been the sunflower. There'd been a small bundle of bluebells sitting nice and pretty on his cafeteria seat. A purple hyacinth had been taped to his desk in Trig, to Mr. Varner's sniffy disapproval. And now a sunflower, bright and cheery in Beau's face, bobbing its head with the weight of its petals.
"Where'd you put the others?"
Beau slammed the locker door shut, flower still in hand. "My bag, where else?"
Tyler frowned as they made their way down the hall. "Won't they get crushed?"
Beau shrugged. "Probably." They were fast approaching the library now. "I don't really care." He knew who was giving him flowers, he wasn't an idiot. If Edward wanted to talk, flowers would get him nowhere. He'd seen him in the halls, pale and shrunken, strange for Edward Cullen, one of the most confident, secure people Beau had ever met. He'd seen the guy's face in the cafeteria, when he'd found the bluebells. Beau had made eye contact for two seconds, but then had looked away, face blank. He'd put the bluebells on the table, and ignored them for the rest of the period.
If he'd thrown them out, that was anger. If he'd given them away, that was heartbreak. If he'd put them in his bag, that was... he didn't know, but it was a response, it signified something.
But he just ignored them. He refused to play this little game, whatever the hell it was. If Edward was embarrassed by Beau's interest in him, then why send him flowers? Beau didn't care. He was done with his bull.
Beau wanted nothing to do with homophobic, asshole, mute Edward Cullen.
...
Beau should've expected this when Edward failed to do anything in Bio.
This time it was a whole bouquet of daisies—motherfucking daisies, that jackass—and it wasn't taped to his door or on his welcome mat. It was in a very nervous, shuffly Edward Cullen's hands. A nervous, shuffly Edward Cullen who was currently standing on his lawn.
Beau had just about had enough. He didn't care about how nervy Edward looked, how terrified. The only thing he could think about was Joshua Sugar.
Beau had been in eighth grade, middle school in the middle of Phoenix, Arizona, in an overpopulated city school full to the brim with bullies and homophobes just as scary, if not more so, than Miller. And he'd had his first crush that same year.
Joshua Sugar was a tall, lanky kid with blond curls and braces and a habit of getting into fights. He usually wore some sort of comic memorabilia somewhere on his body, and his favorite color was bright, bloody red. He had eyes like the sky, and a smile brighter than the stars.
And when Beau had leaned in at a sleepover at his house, lips pursed, hands shaking, Joshua Sugar had punched him in the face.
His chin had bloomed darkly for two weeks afterward, purple berries smashed in his skin that faded into rotted banana and green moss as he healed.
Beau was done with Joshua Sugars and Edward Cullens. He was done with trying friendship with straight boys, falling for them, and getting smacked in the face for his efforts.
He pulled up calmly at first. He parked methodically, took his time, put it in park, sucked in a breath. It was only when his feet touched concrete that his composure broke, fractured into millions of itty bitty pieces in his chest. He slammed Jean's door closed, strode forward like he was about to murder a bitch, hands fisted at his sides, mouth clenched, and aimed a glared at Edward Cullen's pretty, pretty face.
Beau felt himself watching the next events in slow motion from somewhere outside of his own body. He watched himself stalk up to Edward, seething, as Edward's plaintive expression slowly morphed into something closer to actual fear. He saw from a distance as Edward moved instinctively to cover his groin with the bouquet of flowers that he held with one hand, while simultaneously throwing the other hand out in front of him.
"Wait!"
Beau felt himself stop. Edward's mouth dropped open, like he was about to speak, but Beau put his hand up, mirroring. "No, you wait. You wait and listen to what I have to say. I think I deserve at least that much."
Edward closed his mouth, his eyes flickering to the floor.
Beau closed his eyes and let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, feeling himself slowly begin to come back to the present. "I don't know where you went, why or even if it had anything to do with me. I do know that you left me hanging. Complete radio silence. And I know that for some reason you're here today, and you wouldn't be unless you thought for some reason that you deserved a second chance. So fine, explain yourself. But do not think for one second that I am not fucking furious with you, or that I forgive you."
Edward looked immediately chastised, his shoulders slumping, eyes locked solidly on the floor. Even the flowers he held somehow seemed wilted.
Beau raised an eyebrow at him when he finally met his gaze. He had cooled off considerably, but puppy dog eyes weren't going to work on him just yet.
"Do you—do you remember when I was trying to tell you something? On that bench at school?" Edward spoke softly, as if afraid of spooking Beau.
Beau inclined his head. "You mean the day you rejected me and then proceeded not to talk to me for two weeks?"
Edward, wincing slightly, shook his head, before saying blandly, "Yes. That day."
"I happen to remember that day well, yeah." Sarcasm might've been cruel, but it was Beau's favorite coping mechanism when it came to confrontation.
"I—I was trying to tell you something. Something that I shouldn't have kept from you." Beau's eyes narrowed. Edward continued regardless, stepping closer as he did. "I thought I was protecting you, by staying away from you. I realize now that I was only hurting you. But Beau... I never wanted you to be a part of the world that I am. I never wanted you to fear me, and should you know the truth about me, about the monster I am..." He looked up from under his eyelashes, suddenly uncertain.
Beau didn't understand a word of what Edward was saying. He stood quiet for a moment, letting those ring around the room, before he said, bluntly, "Edward, do you know what it means to be gay?"
Startled, Edward didn't answer.
"I'm assuming you don't know what it means to be gay and open," Beau was so pissed his eyes were welling up. His throat was closing up, fuck. "It means that everything you do, with everyone you interact with, you're questioning. You're wondering, in the back of your skull, whether or not this person you're talking to secretly is disgusted by you and every word you say. You're wondering whether or not your friends are congratulating themselves on being friends with a freak, a pervert." He stepped closer. Edward backed up. "And when you have a crush..." He laughed harshly, deep in his throat. "Fucking forget it. Because if you confess, do you know what could happen?"
Edward swallowed audibly.
"You could end up in a dumpster, stripped, cut open, dead," he spat. "Or tied up in the desert, skull cracked open from tire irons." He sniffed, those tears spilling, double fuck. "Or that friend, that you like so much? Yeah, he never speaks to you again. He ignores you like you're a piece of shit on the bottom of his shoe. Or he tells people. 'I tried being friends with him, but he's obsessed with me'. Or he says 'he jumped me, he tried to rape me'." He swiped his nose clean with his shirt sleeve.
"Which one did you do, Ed?"
Edward surged forward, crushing him to his chest even as Beau fought against him, banging his fists uselessly against Edward's stone chest. To his own embarrassment, he felt a sob wrench itself from his throat. He gave up trying to escape and threw his arms around Edward's neck, overwhelmed, lungs burning. It took a surprisingly long time to realize that the trembling he felt wasn't his own. He looked up to see tears silently tracking a path from Edward's golden eyes to his strong jaw. Beau hiccupped and hid his face in Edward's shoulder, exhaling shakily when he Edward slowly lowered them to kneel on the grassy lawn, his arms wrapped solidly around his shoulders.
"How could I judge you, Ed?" Beau sobbed. "How could I judge you, when I was paralyzed at the thought that I would lose you just for being who I am?"
Edward tilted his chin up with a gentle hand, and they looked into each other's watery eyes. Beau couldn't help but irrationally think beautiful the glint the tears caught in the afternoon sunlight.
"I—I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for being so selfish. I should have known... I..."
Beau hushed him, nose blocked and runny, cheeks blotchy with tears. "How could you have known, anyways," he mumbled, "You can't read my mind. I told you and I just... freaked when you ran." He dropped his head down on Edward's barrel chest, felt the lungs expand and fall slowly. He felt Edward press his lips to his curls, unsure whether that was a kiss or just a nuzzle.
"Are... are we going to be okay?" In their entire friendship, Beau had never heard Edward sound as unsure as he did then. Not when they first met, not in the cemetery, not even in his apology.
Beau pulled away. It felt like ripping out somebody else's heart. He pushed away Edward's hands as they reached for him again, fingers grasping desperately. "Can you tell me why?" he asked instead of answering.
Edward looked like he'd been slapped.
"Was it your parents?" Beau prodded. "Did they not approve of—?"
"No! No, it wasn't them," blurted Edward, raising his arms, still trying to pull Beau back.
Beau stood up instead of embracing him. "Was it Rosalie? Was it your friends?"
"I already told you," he said softly, "I thought I was protecting you."
"From what?" he burst out roughly, agonized, frustrated. "From who? From—this double-talk isn't helping me."
Edward stared, helpless. "You have to trust me, Beau."
"But I can't, don't you understand that?" The anger was back, but the sadness was gone. "I am physically unable to trust you. The misunderstanding that happened, happened because you ran away. You said nothing. You ignored me. Why would I take you back as a friend if you won't even tell me why?"
Edward's mouth trembled, still on his knees, staring up at Beau, eyes blown wide.
"I can't," Beau glanced away.
Edward took a moment to compose himself and inhaled deeply. "I understand. I hurt you. You can't forgive me, not like this. I need to give you a proper explanation. And I will." He paused and looked at Beau, who was hugging himself protectively. "But not today. I don't know if I can do this today."
Beau looked at him sharply, eyes narrowed, but he gave a quick nod. He still needed to think over what had happened today.
"Will you meet me? If not tomorrow, then soon? When you're ready, will you let me explain myself to you?"
"It's not a matter of me letting you," Beau said, moving to his door. "It's whether or not you'll let yourself." He looked tired all of sudden, shoulders collapsing. "I'll see you, Edward. When you're ready."
...
As Beau left for school the next day he noticed the bouquet of daisies, sitting on the porch step.
He stopped in his tracks for a split-second.
Beau bent his knees slowly and touched a single white petal. Daisies. He remembered bringing a boy to a cemetery once, a single pale daisy placed on a grave. The bastard remembered. Before he could think about it too hard, Beau snatched up the flowers and brought then inside to put them in a vase on the kitchen counter.
...
Edward lay on his bed, unable to sleep, the curse of being immortal. He fretted about his confrontation with Beau. He felt his eyes well for the second time that day, hot tears clumping his eyelashes, blocking his nose.
His eyes shot open, the ceiling a swirl of black and white as he sat up, in shock.
His tearing eyes shot open.
Edward hadn't cried a tear in nearly a century.
Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word by Sir John Elton.