Ben is dozing, with a look of peace that makes me feel amazing. Simply knowing that he feels safe enough with me, comfortable enough to sleep, makes me feel almost human, loved.
I shift, gently cradling his head upon my legs, using the fleece as a pillow, my hands caressing him slowly, easing him as I had for over a week, as I knew I now would for the foreseeable forever. After long minutes, he finally rouses, sighing quietly.
"Wow, that was dumb," he says, coy embarrassment in his tone.
"No it wasn't," I say quietly, my finger in his hair. I love his hair. I love all the many parts of him!
"Yeah, it was," he insists. "I hate the idea of missing any time with you."
How did I ever get so lucky?
I kiss his forehead.
"Again," I say, grinning, "not stupid."
His stomach gurgles, and for some reason, this strikes me as hilarious. With all the strange goings on that this day has brought, the idea of it being interrupted by something so mundane is very funny to me.
"It seems you can't escape being what you are," I say, brushing a bit of dirt from his face.
"Not yet, anyway," he murmurs.
For an instant, this comment frightens me. The only way he could escape being what he is would be to become what I am. Is it possible that this has occurred to him, truly? Has he already decided to end his human life? When, and how? I am suddenly in a fury of pondering.
"Do we have to leave?" he asks. My fears are put aside.
"I don't think you'll find much out here that you can eat," I say, smiling at him.
"True," he agrees. "I wished I thought about that earlier, but I was only thinking about you and getting here."
Suddenly, my previous thoughts about carrying him re-enter my mind.
"I wonder," I preface, trying to consider how to phrase my question so that he might say yes.
"What?" he asks, interested.
"Would you like to get back faster?" I ask, starting practically.
"Faster?" he asks, curious now.
"Yes," I say, using logic to piece it out for him, keeping my voice shy and trying, subtly to encourage him to say yes. "I move faster than you. I was wondering, if you wouldn't mind, if I could carry you."
"Carry me?" he asks, no resentment in his tone.
"Yes, on my back," I clarify. "I could move quickly, getting back to the truck much faster. And, you could see how it is to move like me."
The expression on his face is conflicted, looking both curious but concerned, tinged with fear. I have seen that expression on too many males, concerned about their own masculinity not to recognize it.
"Oh come on," I say, imparting my voice with the tenner and cadence of the teenage girl I haven't been in nearly a hundred years. "You aren't any less of a person for being incapable of doing something that I can, nor are you less masculine for being carried by me. Climb on my back, and I will have you back to your truck in a moment."
It appears that I have successfully argued down every excuse he could think of, to which I am more than a little self-satisfied. He steps up to me and I turn my back to him so that he may climb on. However, his mind seems to be on other things, given his sudden arousal. I chuckle, finding him adorable in the moment and almost wish he would act upon his thoughts. I find that I appreciate the practice of being pushed to my limits. The better I am at this, the more practice I can get, the more likely I am to keep him alive.
He puts his arms around my shoulders, finding a comfortable placement for them. I settle his weight easily upon my arms under his legs, breathing deep his scent which makes me happy, if a bit aroused myself. As he positions his head beside mine, I press my lips to his cheek, quickly, before turning and running, carefully, for the truck.
I could have gone faster without risking injury to Ben, but I am careful. I keep to even ground, not taking paths that would keep me in the air for several strides or from objects that I would normally feel comfortable running over if I was alone. Once I have developed this skill a bit more, maybe, but for now, this is all I want to do. I am giving him a taste, nothing more.
We stop at the truck, and I can already tell by his breathing and heart rate that he is unwell.
"Are you okay?" I ask, wondering in what way I overdid it, what was too much for him.
"Fine," he says, his tone nonexistent.
I wait for him to say more, or move. He does neither.
"Would you like to climb down?" I ask, prompting him.
"Sure," he says, a bit squeakily.
He does nothing.
"Um," he finally says, "I can't..."
I have to laugh, though it is not wholly a happy thing. I take his arms down, which are clutching firmly to one another, the very definition of a death grip. Once his feet touch down, I turn and help him to sit, his knees bent, his head between them, taking deep, even, slow breaths.
"This..." he gasps, thickly sarcastic, "is dignified..."
"Are you truly alright?" I ask, worried that I might have overdone it and seriously hurt him somehow without realizing. "I could take you to my mother..."
"No!" he says, making as if to get up, and I have to catch him before he rolls on the ground. He floods with color, and I am a little relieved, somehow.
"No," he says, his voice more collected, his heart rate much improved. "I'm just not used to... that. My body is still trying to figure out what is real again."
I understand perfectly. I breathe his scent, which grounds me. He needs grounding, something real that will keep him here, in the moment.
"I can help with that," I say, holding my hands out to help him to his feet, should he want them. He takes them and I help him to rise, holding him as he sways, which feels amazing, both the acceptance and the feel of him. Pulling him a little closer, I lean into him, and whisper, "Don't move, please."
I feel him still, fairly well for his kind. I begin at his jaw, trailing small pressing kisses down his neck, one of the hardest acts I have ever done with restraint, testing my limits as I come down to sternal end of his clavicle, to which his clothing begins to interfere with my trek in the most distracting and irritating way. Once again, I wish that I could simply tear it away and continue. His jack-hammering heart is ludicrously loud.
"Head still fuzzy," he says, a bit teasingly, trying to cover that he actually wants more of me but doesn't know how to ask without embarrassment. "Maybe more would..."
He places his hands upon my hips, which is delicious, in and of itself, but he squeezes, and for some reason, despite his limited strength, this touch is a force unlike anything I have ever felt, all-powerful, unbreakable, drawing me in, making the aforementioned desire for clothes tearing an almost insatiable demand. I am starting to creep towards my limit, my eyes locking with his, wanting his lips, his skin, starting to wonder what more of him I might want...
"Or not," he says, taking a step back, his tone utterly unheated as his levels stop, gradually turning back around. He wobbles, and I am amazed by just how nonsexual I suddenly feel, steadying him and following his manner. He is learning to understand me as I am learning to understand myself. This makes me feel light, somehow, almost vulnerable, and I can't but hope that I can learn him as he learns himself.
I consider his unsteady step.
"Looks like I'm driving," I say without argument, reaching for his keys. I expect protestations, but he suddenly jumps, more animated than I would have thought his reaction would be. Strange.
"Hey, whoa!" he says, needing my assistance before he falls again.
"I can give you my keys," he says defensively. "You don't need to go digging in my pockets."
"You're not going to argue?" I ask, certainly disbelieving.
"Whether or not I was going to it is my choice to do so," he says, still defensive. "I make my decisions, remember?"
He's right. He is completely right. I am trying to take his choices away from him. He can argue if he wants to. It's not up to me. I am not trusting him. But I can. I am wrong, but that doesn't mean I can't start trusting him more, right now. I love him, so much. Just by being with him, I get to learn to be a better person.
"You're right," I admit. "I'm sorry, Love."
All expression melts off his face.
"What was that?" he asks, a smile starting to tug at his lips.
"Love?" I ask, smiling in turn.
"Yeah," he nods, his grin beatific. "I think I could get used to that."
I kiss him, but it is a playful thing, a happy thing, like a caress or a reminder, almost a teasing thing. And I want to tease him, to play with him, to feel like a girl, to be imperfect and wrong and still feel wonderfully loved by him, the way I trust that he really cares about me.
I smile, looking at him, enough to distract him as I remove the keys from his pocket.
"That was making it up to you," I say, and he looks confused.
"Making what up to me?" he asks.
I show him what I have pilfered.
He tries so very hard to appear angry, but he can't somehow hold onto it.
"You little..." he stammers, "sneak!"
I laugh uproariously, using the key to unlock the passenger door and opening it with the same efforts he did this morning, if a bit smoother and more quickly. He doesn't make more than two steps before he begins to stagger a bit, and rather than risking him embarrassing himself further, I take his arm and guide him to his seat, in a matter that appears more affectionate than really supportive from the outside. I settle him in before rounding back in an instant and taking my own seat, feeling comfortable to be back in an early 50's Chevy. It has been nearly forty-eight years.
It takes Ben settling against my arm to realize that I had run it the length of the seat, as I used to. I had seen the men of the day do so, and for some reason, I adopted it, along with their dress for a number of years. Men's clothing always got me strange looks, though some chose to see it as endearing. I wonder what Ben would think of me in men's clothing. Perhaps nothing unusual. It is fashionable in this day and age. I wonder how long it will be until the other way around is too...
"How old are you?" Ben asks me, so casually, so differently from the first time he asked.
"Not scared this time?" I ask, confining my grin.
"No," he says, his honesty stark. "I would have to say my fears around you are very different than they were before. My biggest fear now is you leaving."
I think about this. It is true, the idea of me leaving is abhorrent. I can think of only one reason that I would leave; if he asked me to. I do not know why my mind strayed back to Jocelyn Black as it does. But it could be less complicated. He may just decide that I really am a monster and wants me to leave.
"Mine is the same," I say. "Granted for different reasons, methinks."
He waits, and I can tell he is less interested in my fears than knowing more about my past. I cannot blame him.
"I was born the twentieth of June in nineteen oh one," I sigh teasingly, as though it is some great chore to reveal more honest things about myself.
He looks totally nonplussed, unable to do such a simple bit of calculation, "You're..."
"Nearly a hundred and four," I say for him, not bothering with the one hundred and three years, eight months, twenty-two days. "Yes."
"Wow," he says, shaking his head. "I can't imagine. I mean, I sort of can, but I've only experience seventeen years and that feel pretty normal to me."
Then, he smiles to himself and before I can ask, he says, "You ever worry about being a cradle robber?"
I cannot contain my laughter.
"Of all the things to worry about," I confess in jest, "that one never crossed my mind."
"When did you become a vampire?" he asks, earnestly. I feel suddenly uncomfortable, so much so that I am not readily able to hide it. This line of questioning is rapidly coming close to a topic that I already said that I would not discuss. Oh well. Humans and their memories. Perhaps he needs reminding. I would gladly do so, if it means changing the subject. I would not do so unnecessarily, though. He deserves as much of the truth as I can allow him, after all. And I love him. There is that, too.
"I was changed in the September of nineteen eighteen," I say sincerely, "shortly after my seventeenth birthday."
"Wow," he smiles meaningfully at me, "forever young."
I can't but roll my eyes at him.
"Of all the things to fixate on," I say with mock disdain, "my appearance has never been one of them. I have always been interested in... other things."
"Such as?" he asks curiously.
I glance at him, just long enough to see the youth in his expression. He looks so young, like the boy that time is slowly leaving behind, eager and wanting to know a little bit more about me, my life, and this extraordinary world that he is now a part of. I laugh, both empathetic and amused.
"In my youth," I say, trying to paint him a brief picture of the girl I once was, "The Great War was in full swing. Being a woman was of no concern to me; I wanted to fight. I wanted to stride off to glorious war and fight for what I believed to be right, to have such faith in my conviction that I cowed my enemies and brought Divine truth to those who would prop up fear and lies as gospel. I considered many options, for I was not content to be anything but a soldier, and that was impossible in that time without subterfuge. Had I and my family not been met with the Spanish Influenza, I might have fought and died in the war."
"Tell me," he practically demands as I turned into town, looking enrapture by my words.
"We were living in Chicago during the outbreak," I inform him, "We were sent to the hospital fairly early on. Katherine was working in one at the time, working as continuously as she could without drawing suspicion to herself for her lack of rest. She was alone then and was thinking of creating a companion for herself. I was in the final days of my life, the sole remainder of my family, when she changed me."
"What was it like?" he asks, innocently, or so it seemed. The thought of that time was not an easy thing to recall, not with my perfect memory. But this is one question I have no problem conveying to him. He might be hesitant when facing pain. I hope he is, and as soon as I have that thought, I feel sick at myself.
"Painful," I say. "It is the most painful experience I have ever felt, more painful than the idea of losing you. You are forced to endure such pain, more anguish than you could ever imagine, for three contiguous days. After that, you are an immortal and everything changes."
"You're worried about me knowing about this," he says. I am unsurprised for the first time. Of course he understands. It is Ben. How could he not have perceived?
"Yes," I say flatly.
"Why?" he asks, his tone so easy, so light, so unaware of the turmoil I am going through at the idea of him becoming something that I do not truly believe he can become without losing his soul.
I sigh.
"That is an involved and complex question," I say.
"No, look," he says, teasingly, as if explaining to a child that he is in no way talking down to, "there is only one word, with three letters. It's not that hard; why?"
I have to smile. He is right, after a fashion. I cannot keep him from this in fear. I trust him. Maybe he will believe me if I explain to him why I think he should remain human.
"A few different reasons," I reply. "One, it is dangerous, and even if that risk is very small, I don't like risking you so opening and intentionally. Two, it is not something that can be undone, and as much as I would wish not to belittle you, you're very young and could easily change your mind about such a choice. Three, what I am is monstrous, and I would not wish that upon anyone who had another choice. And lastly, I could never, ever be so selfish as to risk your soul just so I could perhaps keep you forever."
There is a protracted and increasingly uncomfortable silence. I go over my words, trying to figure out what caused it. Then, he speaks.
"I never said anything about me becoming a vampire," he says evenly. "I asked why you were worried about me knowing about you changing."
The utter and undisguised horror crashes over me. How could I have been so... SO-!? I had just tilted my hand. I had shown him my greatest fear, without need. I had handed him the dagger he could backstab me with in the worst way, thinking I had no choice when, truly, I did. Upon reflection, I know that I am not ready for Ben to know this and that I have made one of the gravest errors, one that could end us. I feel desperately lost.
"I..." I try to form words, unable. "I..."
He looks at me, and then laughs, shaking his head, "Freudian much?"
After a moment, I laugh too. I am afraid. When I am afraid, I lose faith in trust. But that is my choice. I can choose to trust that Ben will not destroy me with this knowledge. I can decide to have faith in him.
"I realize this topic upsets you," he says gently. "It is important to me that we enjoy the rest of our evening. But it is something I do want to talk about, another time. Okay?"
If there is anyone in the world who deserves my faith, it's him.
"Okay," I say, nodding in agreement.
The sun is just starting to kiss the treeline as I pull into his house. It is not very late yet. I think of my siblings, preparing for the dance, keeping up appearances. There is still enough time that we could go, if Ben would ever agree. I already know his answer, but I cannot help myself. I must see that face, one more time. At least.
"We could always still go-" I begin to say, but before I can get any farther, he looks as though I just insulted his truck, impugned his manhood, and suggested his mother was a harlot, all in one breath.
"I swear," his voice cracks, "if you mention that dance, I will never..."
I manage not to burst out laughing as he attempts to dole out words that match the severity of his anger and my transgression.
"I will never forgive you for eavesdropping on my conversation with Josie," he finally finishes.
I gauge his expression, his breathing rate, the surety of his features. He exits the truck and I follow.
"I was unaware that you hadn't," I say neutrally.
"I never said I had," he practically fires back.
"True," I concede.
He doesn't bother to invite me in. We enter and in his posture and body language, I can tell that I am as welcome here as he is to have me anywhere with him. What is he trying to get at? He surely isn't still mad. He would have brought it up before now, surely.
"Do I need to apologize for that?" I ask, more interested in his answer than concerned.
"Whether you apologize or not is incidental," he says, and I can tell by his tone that he is feeling hurt that I brought up the dance and wants to feel better. "The important part is whether or not I forgive you."
He is doing so by trying to feel in control of me, lording his forgiveness over me so that I might please him, in this case by valuing him. I am not going to play his game.
"I have not mentioned that of which we'll not speak of," I point out. "By your own admission, that is grounds for you to forgive me."
"Your logic is flawed," he attests, looking smug. "If a cause happens that prevents an effect, the effect is not guaranteed to happen if the cause doesn't."
He will say anything to be right, but he is missing the bigger picture. How long will I let this go on before I derail it? Do I have the right to? How is it any different for him to try to twist me to his will then it is for me to twist him to mine?
"Now you are just arguing semantics," I say, and cannot help adding a further point. "I could try and persuade you."
"How is that even fair?" he asks almost bitterly, as though he faults me for my own ability.
"It isn't?" I ask. If anything, this conversation is illuminating a lot for me.
"I have seen your ability to twist people around your finger should you so choose," he tells me, as though I had no idea. "I am also aware of how enticing you can be. I have no way of rebuffing that. I mean, I could, but why would I ever want to?"
The words, though said dismissively and with little deference, send a quiver through me. The idea of choosing to actively incite Ben into the sort of lusting that I inspire in all things attracted to human females is a potent... feeling. It makes me feel in control, desired, and capable. It only takes me an instant to forgive Ben for trying to do the same here. I decide that I must be the one to cave. I understand what is going on. How can I expect him to know and understand what he does not? I can't, really. I must forgive him his ignorance and simply love him.
My very brief mental train of thought has left me feeling girlish and human, which I very much like, and I find myself lounging upon the counter, in a way suggests that I want his attention, that I want him to notice me. I decide to let it slide, simply because it wasn't a conscious decision on my part.
"So," I say, my tone slightly teasing, with no real need to be right as I say, "you admit that you would willingly forgive me, so there is no point in arguing the point, is there?"
He looks disgruntled as he takes down a plate, opening a reasonably clean ice box and taking out pizza from a box, putting it on the plate with little ceremony as he heads over to the microwave. He enters the time as he says, his tone sour, "You could try apologizing."
I almost laugh.
"You said it was incidental," I say in mock protest. This really is a lot more fun when you don't really care. Nothing he says or does will change how I feel about him.
"If you are only apologizing so I will forgive you, what's the point?" he says, his tone harsh.
I begin moving towards him. I decide to offer him an out, to allow him to be happier, or not. The choice is his. And, a little incentivizing couldn't hurt. He can still say no!
"I could think of a reason or two," I say, a touch of a lilt to my voice.
He glances at me as though I have said something a bit frightening. I realize though that his fear isn't directed at me, but at just how easily he would give up his entire argument to continue on the path I have suggested. He is so cute when he's nervous.
"I am eating!" he protests, taking his food out of the microwave and heading for the table. I look at the two meager pieces of pizza as I sit in his mother's chair.
"Are you sure that's enough food?" I ask of him, distracted by concern. "I could make you something."
"You can cook?" he asks, looking surprised and understandably so.
"Of course," I smile, proud that I made the effort to learn for him. "It isn't hard to learn."
"Maybe another time," he says, not nearly as dismissively as I would have thought.
I decide to let him eat. He doesn't seem nearly as put out as he was.
Abruptly, he asks me, "You aren't sorry?"
Okay, maybe he still his. I consider his question and realize that I am not.
"No," I admit easily. "Or rather, I don't regret it. I can't not listen at times, and I didn't do what I did maliciously. I was just more eager to see you again than usual, and I couldn't wait."
Granted, Alice had told me that I needed to be there to help sooth relations with my family and the Quilleutes, but that was incidental.
"You had just left me," he states, as though he could be so easily dismissed by me, "and you were going to pick me up the next morning."
My laugh is explosive, and I manage to keep it to human levels.
"Oh no!" I say, still giggling, "There's no way I could have waited that long."
He looks confused, and says, "I don't understand."
I am going to be honest. At some point, he really must understand just how appealing he is to me.
"Oh I spend most nights here," I say easily.
He stops moving. His mouth that was open to receive more pizza stays open. The piece that was on the way to his mouth doesn't make it there. It does make it back onto the plate but just barely.
"Here where? Here here?" he splutters and begins to tremble with emotion.
"Not at this table," I say, amused, "but in this house, yes."
"But, um," he still seems confused, "why?"
I want to pounce on him. I want to kiss him a million billion billion times! I want to show him just how breathless, how wonderful he makes me feel, how lovely, just by existing, in perhaps the only way a human might be able to understand; in access.
"Because you are here," I say instead. "What could the rest of the world offer compared to that?"
He tries very, very hard not to look pleased, which is to say, he failed.
"So you, what?" he asks. "Just sit here?"
"I watch you sleep," I tell him, and realize that isn't the whole truth, "and listen."
"Lis-" he begins, but seems to understand, his reaction is explosive, "No!"
He throws the piece back on his plate, trying to find the exit out of the room without conscious thought or even his memory to guide him, his only thought escape. It doesn't help that I keep appearing between him and ever doorway he aims for.
"No!" he protests, his face flushed, his embarrassment so thick that I am surprised it doesn't keep me from him, like a solid shield. I catch him up, holding him to me, contouring my form to his, letting his warmth sink into me, trying not to be distracted by him and the sensations he instills in me, simply by being.
"Peace, Love," I whisper in gentling tones. "Peace. You have no idea what a true gift it is to hear your dreams, to know you dream of me. Would that I could, I would dream of you."
After what seems a pause in which he is trying to decide whether to hold on to his anger, he finally relents, embracing me in return.
"Why must you be so understandable?" he says teasingly. "Can't you just let me be indignant?"
I consider his words.
"Would you be happier that way?" I ask in all seriousness.
He attempts to look at me with said indignation but can only laugh.
"Oh hush!" he teases, crushing me to him for one more moment before return to the table, good mood restored. He finishes quickly as I watch him, including cleaning his dish. He doesn't seem as self-conscious as he was before.
"So," he says, wiping his hands on a towel, "now that I am fed, what shall we do?"
"What would you like to do?" I ask, honestly not thinking past watching him forever.
He looks at me, coming to some conclusion, then let his eyes rover over me, as though considering, then looks into my eyes with an expression of speculation, of questioning, laden with innuendo. It was all horribly put on, an obvious joke. It is more fun for me if I don't let on that I knew.
I find an expression in my repertoire that I haven't used in some time. I become alluring, walking forward, but this time, unlike the time I used this skill to lead men to their deaths, the entire thread of the behavior is sidetracked. The desire that fills me, that I am trying to contain rather theatrically, isn't that for blood; it is that for him. It is far more real to me now than any blood lust could ever be, and is only so potent because I could have it. I can be with him, physically. Perhaps not to the depth and with the abandon that I desire, but I can, in a limited but no less discombobulating fashion, be with him. And it gives a realism to my poise and my manner that wasn't there before. And it almost pushes me into not pretending what I am doing.
"Uh..." he says as I come to him, fidgeting childishly and suggestively with my own clothing, wanting it to be his clothing under my hands, his body against mine. He looks about as nervous as if I were actually coming for his blood.
He steps back and I follow him up, cornering him and finding that I like the feel of having him trapped. I quickly tamp back the dark parts of my mind, at last getting his clothing in my grasp. It is all I can do not to tear it away, but I want to tease him more. I want to joke and have fun and be a teenage girl a little longer. I suppose it is human to lose my head in him, but I do not want to lose it completely.
I close my eyes, pressed to him, my lips almost to his, realizing that if he kissed me first, all might be lost. But, alas, he is still so very respectable. Or nervous.
"You're too easy," I whisper, my eyes falling open. The dismay and the surprise on his face is amazingly amusing, made all the more so by his entire lack of anger. He looks so very disappointed but looks as though he can't allow himself to be so. His laugh joins mine, and my touch on his arms becomes fond as I step back and look slightly up at him.
"Seriously," he says, gazing back at me. "What should we do?"
I think of what I might like to do best in the world.
"Talk," I say excitedly. "I want to know more about you."
"You know all about me," he says, nearly complaining. "I'm just starting to learn about you."
I smile broadly, flatter. I really can deny him so very little. I think if he asked for my hand before this day was out, I might just say yes.
"What would you like to know?" I ask, knowing that I am kidding myself. There is no might about it.
He considers.
"Why did you choose to stop killing humans?" he inquires.
What sort of a question is that? Does he not know me at all?
I let my face become incredulous.
"No," he says disagreeably, "I get why you did it, but, I guess, I mean, why do it? From your perspective, there really isn't much of a reason to stop killing humans, aside from the obvious one. Why would that become relevant to a being for whom it is a norm?"
It is a very fair question. One that gives away much of what we truly are. It is just the sort of question he would ask. Direct, blunt, divisive.
"Let's sit," I suggest.
He looks about, "Living room?"
"Or your bedroom," I say, but just as soon as a series of mental images slip through my thoughts of what that could lead to, I add, "or outside. Wherever you feel comfortable."
He thinks about it.
"Living room is fine," he says, then leads me to the couch. We sit in proximity, but still enough room for easily gaze upon one another.
"I suppose," I begin, forming my words, "that there is a parallel here, between humans and us. Many, many humans go about their lives, simply existing. They don't really change or make decisions or learn. They lead lives that are no less complex or meaningful to them, but they do everything by habit and routine with only structured deviations or diverge by necessity. However, there are some people who see their lives, who are willing to embrace change, to make a different decision because they choose something more for themselves than simply existing. They choose risk over conservation, change over comfort, and while it costs more in the short term, it benefits them much more in the long term. It takes work to live like that, but it is worth it."
He suddenly smirks.
"Yeah, it would be a shame if you were to give up on being with me for all this warm delicious blood," he says ever so invitingly. "All tasty and defenseless and right here..."
I decide right then and there to give up on teasing him so much. It is not nearly so fun when it is the other way around.
"You tease..." I say, trying to keep a joking tone but having a hard time over the flash burn in my throat.
"Have you ever drank human blood?" he asks curiously.
"Yes," I admit begrudgingly. "Only three members of my family haven't tasted human blood, ever, and that's my mother, my brother Rory, and Alice. Emily resists for the most part but has had two people who have been appealing to her, somewhat like you are to me. She didn't think twice, both times, before or after. Emanuel has had a moment of weakness or two, a long time ago. As for Jasper and I... There was a time when we were both rather prolific murderers."
He shutters, but his body shows no other sign of fear.
"Really?" he asks, and I nod.
"I questioned Katherine more in my youth," I explain. "In our early days, I was considered an adult, if not a woman, and thought myself wise. I decided that I would prefer an alternative lifestyle to Katherine's chastened rules, and walked my own path for a time, choosing to lead the life of a more traditional vampire. I used ever moral justification I could and spent my time on murderers, and rapists in particular. It was a rather poetic fate for them, truly, and, without going into detail, my hunts made it more so."
My ability to read minds made hunting easy. I could play them right into my hands, often stalking a particular prey for several full days, watching, learning habits and appeals, setting them up in such ways that they would be unable to avoid death at my hands, so inviting was I. I enjoyed the game of it, the challenge, and the moment when their power was ripped away from them, pale in comparison to mine.
Ben throws a pillow at me. The shock of it made me realize that I had been lost in my memories, the detailed deaths that had come at my hands, and he was drawing me back. I laugh so that he cannot hear and catch the pillow, tossing it back where he found it.
He is so wise for his years, so understanding. And yet, he seems wholly ignorant of his abilities. I don't understand how someone like him cannot be sure what he is or what he wants.
"Answer me something," I ask of him.
"Yes?" he asks in return.
"You keep saying that you are lost, saying that you don't know what to do with your life," I say. "Why is that?"
He thinks upon it.
"I've never really gotten along with kids my age," he explains. "I know how to be friends with them, but I've always sort of found them disingenuous, with a few exceptions. I don't seem to have any specific appeal to do anything over anything else. I appreciate books and movies, general storytelling, but I don't love them. I'm meticulous and good at cleaning and cooking, but don't want to make it a career. I'm a good student, but at some point, I should choose something to study and I have no idea what that should be. It will probably be something that will help people or benefit society, but it will be something I choose for those reasons and not because I want to."
His little speech is like magic to me, and I am enraptured.
"Why?" I ask, having to have more. "Why can't wanting to help people be the reason you want to do something?"
"Because," he says, "it's too idealistic and without focus. You can't exactly sign up for Helping People classes at a college campus."
"They have more specific names," I say, unable not to laugh, "but such classes exist."
"I don't know," he says, a note of dejection in his voice. "Given the state of my college fund, I will be attending Seattle Community College."
The idea is nearly as abhorrent as him dying. What a waste!
"No," I pronounce, shaking my head. "I couldn't stand that."
"What?" he asks, my sudden passion surprising to him.
The very idea of him, staying in Forks, doing nothing of note, is like having blood on my lips that I cannot ingest. It is torture and unendurable.
"You are a great student," I exclaim zealously. "You're insightful and decent and dedicated and moral and amazing. If there is anyone in the world who deserves a great education at a first-rate school, it's someone like you."
"If you say so," he dismisses. I want to shout at him.
"I'm serious," I assert. "You're going to a good school if I have to pay for it myself."
His face becomes suddenly closed.
"No, you're not," he says, sounding almost angry.
"You're not going to sway me on this," I retort. "Believe someone who has been to college multiple times. And, it isn't as though we don't have the money."
"You're not spending money on me," he says, his voice utterly flat, his expression undeniably hostile. "Not that much, not on me, not for anything."
I look at him. I understand that he does not like making a fuss, that he doesn't like attention or to feel weak, but this is different.
"You don't want me spending money on you?" I ask. "Why?"
"Because," he says, his face falling, his eyes searching, his most common avoidance tactic. "Look, can we talk about something else?"
"Urgh!" I expound, wishing so desperately to read his mind in that moment, I would gladly reverse my gift; I would gladly give up the ability entirely, in all its many advantages, if I could read only his instead.
"At some point, not being able to read your thoughts will be less annoying!" I lament. "At least, I'm hoping."
"What?" he asks, not sounding as though he is any more willing to answer than before.
"What are you afraid of?" I demand, somewhat hotly. "The only reason not to answer a question and do so honestly is fear. What are you afraid of?"
To my utter relief, he thinks about it.
"I don't know," he says. "I guess... I guess that I don't like other people spending money on me."
"Other people meaning myself?" I clarify rhetorically, sounding perhaps a tad patronizing.
"People in general," he says, overly defensive, "but you more so. I mean, I've never had much. My dad was a teacher, and likely will be again once he and Felicia get settled somewhere. Anyway, my parents never really had much in the way of surplus income."
"And therefore you must also live a life of frugality?" I say haughtily. Why am I being so snobbish?
"No, it isn't that," he says, more reasonably than me. "It's just... I can't do the same for you. I can't give you anything you don't already have. It's like... I don't know. It's like, you're giving me so much already, more than I could ever ask for, maybe more than I think that I deserve. If you gave me more on top of that..."
At that moment, a moment of perfect clarity, I can see it. I can see it all. I take a step back from myself and look through his eyes.
Ben cannot see his worth. He can't. He sees my wealth and my beauty and my ability and my love and cannot compare to it. He sees himself only able to give me one thing, his love, which he sees as simple, easy, freely given. He grants it to me with the same ease in which he would toss away his life, should he need to in order to be with me. What else has he to give me? And yet, I empathize. I see his humanity, his heart, his love, his insight, his earnest goodness. What have I when compared with that?
"Oh no!" he nearly cries, his voice trembling, his reaction more animated than I have ever seen it. "No no no! I shouldn't have said that! What did I say? I'm sorry!"
I cannot but shake my head at him. I cannot think like this forever. He has seen good in me. I must see it too.
"No," I say, trying to ease his worry. "No, don't fret. I am just sad. We both believe the other is the better of us. I have no right to demand that you believe better of yourself when I am just as unwilling to do so. At some point, I'm going to have to start being a better person and not be complacent with just wishing that I was."
I only pray that someday, he will see what I see in him too.
He parts his lips, as though to speak, but then changes his mind and says something else.
"No," he says, the tone of truth about his words that he used when we discussed trusting one another to tell us when we are wrong. "It isn't that we need to be better; we both need to start seeing ourselves for the good that is in us. Only by seeing the good can we truly recognize the bad and do something about it."
Trust. In order to see the good in myself, I must trust him.
"Tell me," I say, both eager and terrified. I hope that I am good at this.
"Huh?" asks, coming up short.
"Tell me something good about myself," I say smiling. "If I can't see it and you can, then you would be the person to ask."
He presses his lips, contemplating.
"You're willing to do whatever it takes to be happy," he says casually.
"No, I'm not," I say instantly, immediately realizing that I am not trusting him.
He looks at me, and I cannot help but add, in self-defense, "You said doing the right thing was doing what made you happy and being responsible. If I did the responsible thing, I would leave and never come back."
"How would that make you happy?" he asks, and the thought twists something in me and it is all I can do not to let it show.
I finally allow, "It wouldn't, but neither would you doing chores rather than spending time with me."
"It would, though," he says, his tone not exactly insistent but close. "Look, being responsible isn't about doing things that you don't want to do in order to live; being responsible is about doing the things that need doing, that are necessary in order for you to live. And doing that will make you happy if you do it for the right reasons."
"How so?" I ask, intrigued by his words.
"You can do something good for the wrong reasons, just as easily as doing something wrong for the right reasons," he says, and I am entranced by the cadence of his speech, along with the fervor of his word's meaning. "You can give a gift to someone for the wrong reason and you can shoot someone for the right ones."
I do not like what he is suggesting, or the comparison, for some reason, "You think my trying to give you money for college is for the wrong reasons?"
"Yes," he says simply.
"Why?" I shoot back, half in defense and half because I am just so curious to hear his point of view.
"Because you wouldn't take no for an answer!" he blurts out.
I am nearly as shocked as he looks by his outburst. After a silence, he says, "Look, if you want to give me something, give it to me, but I reserve the right to refuse it or not like it or whatever. Otherwise, you're not giving me a gift; you're trying to buy me, and I won't be bought, not by anyone. Not even you."
I absorb what he is trying to say. I am trying to take away his choice. I am trying to take away what little self-worth he does have. And even if I wasn't, what right do I have to tell him what to do with his life? I am afraid for him. I don't want him to choose any path that will bring him struggle or pain, but that isn't my decision to make.
"You're right," I admit.
His eyes meet mine, going slightly wide.
"I wasn't being fair to you," I say. "You are able to make your own decisions. I need to let you. That was my mistake."
He looks at me a long moment, and then, with a care and gentleness that is almost too slow for my preferences, he takes my hand, his warm spreading into me. I smile at my compassionate boy, scooting closer to him on the couch.
"How about me?" he asks, sounding happy. "What's a truth about myself that I'm not seeing?"
I laugh. The first thing that comes to mind is, in fact, what will be the hardest for him to see. Why not start from impossible?
"You're desirable," I say.
"What?" he laughs in return, as though I am joking, naturally. "No, really."
"I'm not joking," I insist, madly. "You are attractive to women."
"No, women just want me around for selfish reasons," he deflects.
"How am I selfish?" I ask, in mock disconcertion.
He frowns at that, begrudgingly.
"Okay," he relents, "most women."
I can't help but laugh.
"You're not getting out of it that easily," I reiterate. "Girls want you. Trust me on this; I can read minds, you know."
He rolls his eyes at my teasing words.
"There's no way I can believe you," he says seriously.
"Why?" I ask, wanting to know so badly I am practically bouncing in my own head in anticipation.
"'Why'?" he barks a hollow laugh back. "Because it's not possible, that's why."
"It is impossible?" I ask sarcastically. "The universe would be functioning incorrectly if the fairer sex was drawn to you?"
He does not reply, simply looking across to me, not turning his face away.
"You don't want to be attractive," I say intuitively, looking at his face. There is some pain there, an old hurt, something from long ago. Additive, as though it has been building for some time.
He snorts but I can see, despite his lack of words, that I have touched on something. I continue, feeling him out as I go, "Because, if you are attractive, then there has to be some other reason why no one has asked you out or why you haven't had a relationship before now."
"No," he says childishly, without conviction.
"I think that's part of it," I say, shaking my head, "but you're right; it's not all of it."
He is protecting himself. He is trying to avoid pain. I realize that this applies to him now, and what is going on.
"Being unattractive is an excuse," I say, "a reason for you to never have to ask anyone out either. If you believe that no one wants you, you never have to risk asking anyone out and actually be rejected. This is you doing the wrong thing for the right reason. You are protecting yourself, but in such a way that you guarantee never being happy."
He finally looks away. I know I have it right now.
"I asked you out, didn't I?" he asks, his voice a whisper.
I impart a gentle, reassuring pressure on his hand.
"If I hadn't prompted you," I say in carefully, "would you have still asked me?"
"I don't know," he says with a shake of his head. "I guess I'm scared when it comes to interacting with girls. I never know what to say."
I consider his words. What response is he expecting?
"To what?" I ask.
"Huh?" he says, confused.
"You never know what to say in order to what?" I ask again.
"I don't know," he says simply, unaware what his words are implying. "I guess in order to make them like me, in order to stop them from rejecting me."
It is no different than me wanting to give him money and have him react the way I want.
"To control them?" I ask seriously.
"No," he retorts, but then, he begins digesting my words. I watch as he slowly spirals down into a funk of self-recrimination. I say nothing, giving him time to process his own feelings.
"Maybe," he says, a bit begrudgingly, but then, after considering, he takes a deep breath and looks into my eyes.
"Yes," he admits sincerely. "I am trying to control them. To control you too, probably."
For a moment, his honesty staggers me. I am almost afraid. The very idea of him trying to control me, that he has been controlling me, consciously or otherwise, is almost painful. It is really hard for me not to feel betrayed.
I just look at him.
"Why would you want to control me?" I ask, as soon as I can do so without letting the hurt into my words.
"For the same reason I wanted to control the girls before," he says. "Because I don't want to be rejected. I don't want to feel like I am not worth it. I don't want to risk being hurt. Because I am afraid."
He is afraid. He is just afraid. Slowly, and then all at once, I let go of my pain. I am just afraid too. I am afraid of his control, mostly because, if I am honest with myself, I am afraid I might just let him control me because I don't want to risk feeling worthless either. I consider his actions.
"People who are afraid don't speak the truth," I say, shaking my head. "They hide it so that it can't be used against them. What you just did was the opposite of fear. You are brave."
Before I can consider what to do next, he almost lunges forward, his mouth finding mine. His lips are warm and soft and he is so hot and close and smells amazing and I am afraid.
His lips on mine stop, and I can feel him starting to pull away. He is withdrawing. He is paying attention to me and thinking what I want, considering what might be hard for me over his own pleasure and what he wants, if only in retrospect.
I start to kiss him, carefully. Then, after a moment of reflection, I realize that I am nowhere near my limit. I have so much control in that moment, I could lose a lot and still feel safe, still keep him safe. I could let go. And so I do.
The kissing is suddenly feverish, without the heat on my part, but only in the literal sense. He burns under me, his rough breaths making the world a delicious blur around me, his kissing washing away my thoughts and his hands on me nearly unendurably pleasurable.
Without wasting time on worry or thought, I am pushing him back, mounting his hips with mine, pressing to him as much as I can stand, wanting him closer, wanting the least distance between us. My hands are in his hair, measuring him, memorizing him, feeling him. It feels amazing and freeing and so good. I feel close to the edge of something but not my control. I am not risking him, and the high of that feels better than I would have dreamed. I can have him. I want more. I touch his face and neck, then down further, my hand running over his clothes, knowing that I will soon do the same, without the clothes in the way, and that thought fills me with a humming delight that I cannot put into words. In a flash, I unbutton my shirt. My hands are on his stomach, and I am about to start pulling off his shirt in turn when he backs away, just far enough to say, "Stop."
It takes me a moment to understand, and a moment longer for my hands to slow and cease. He said to stop? And then, that is when I realize it. I wasn't going to stop. I was fully prepared to take this the whole way. I was momentarily caught up in the hunger of it, the power, the freedom, the pleasure. Had he done nothing, not even gone along with it, I am not sure that I would have noticed. I would never have forgiven myself for that. But he understood. He somehow noticed. He stopped me. I understand where the limits for my hunger are; I hadn't considered that I might not know where the limits for my lust for him might be.
"I..." I say, but he brought this fingers to my lips, stopping me.
"No," he says easily. "I understand."
I believe him. He does understand. He may not understand just how meaningful what he did was to me, but he does understand me. And he is willing to put me first, still.
"You stopped for me," is all I can say. "You understood, and you stopped for me."
"You think I would stop for any other reason?" he asks, laughing.
I have to smile, even if I don't want to. He looks so lovely, tousled hair, delight in his eyes.
"There is a hunger to pressing, almost a dissatisfaction," he says, his hands taking both of mine, almost unconsciously. "When you are happy, content with what we have, it is easy, slow, light. You are kissing me for me, for us. When you aren't, it is hungry, clutching, always desiring, wanting more. When you are kissing me for you, I can tell. It is almost like I don't need to be here."
My God, he is exactly right. I feel sickened with myself. I do not know what to do with myself, wanting to withdraw my hands from his.
"You don't need to do that," he says, holding tighter to me. "You screwed up, and that's okay. I do recall telling you that you could."
He looks downwards at himself in indication, "And look, it didn't even kill me."
I laugh. I can't help it. He makes me laugh. He makes me smile. He makes me happy.
"I love you," I say. And he believes me. He smiles back, but then his eyes drop and immediately zeroes in on my unbuttoned shirt. His eyes go a little wide, and the looking in them makes something stir in me, latent desires that I have to force back.
"I..." he says, looking slightly dazed, "I didn't do that, did I?"
"Um, no," I say sheepishly. "That was... that was me."
He doesn't look away from my skin. I can see some heat building in his eyes, some desire, but he doesn't act on it. Not at first, and when he finally does, it isn't in the way I expect.
He reaches up, slowly, and puts a hand upon my bare stomach. It feels lovely, warm and exciting and I draw in every detail. His eyes catch mine, and I look back. I am about to look away, but his eyes hold mine. He is looking at me, his gaze focused, his eyes searching, steady and not leaving my face. I look back, trying to understand. He isn't just looking at me; he is seeing me. And then, I understand. The sensation has been at the forefront of my perception. The fact that it was Ben's hand has been secondary, in the moment. I knew that I have been selfish, but how deeply selfish now dawns on me. I am afraid, thinking he understands this, wondering how he will hold this against me, that he will remove his hand, that he will stop. But he just keeps looking at me, with those beautiful eyes. I am a wreck, a monster, imperfect, and he can see that. And he doesn't care.
My head rolls back a little, my eyes fluttering closed. Ben moves his hand. He is touching me. He is looking at me, focused on me, looking to see what this is inspiring in me. He is giving me the most amazing gift I have ever been given; acceptance.
I don't feel desire for him, the push, the desperation for more. I simply let Ben touch me. He could touch me anywhere, and I do not think I would be more aroused. This is intimacy, not sexuality. I wait as long as I can not to kiss him, but finally, I decide that this is enough waiting. I kiss him, touching Ben's face, not to feel his skin, his heat, his softness, the sensation that touch inspires in my skin. I am holding him, accepting him back, touching him for his sake, letting him know that I am here, with him, that I love him.
So, naturally, his mother comes around the corner at that moment.
I sit up, listening to be sure, and Ben catches on immediately.
"Mom?" he asks, and I nod. He starts to freak out, but I kiss him, on his forehead, knowing that I cannot "be" here when she arrives home, and I disappear upstairs. As lounge in his room, I can hear his anxiety and realize that he doesn't know where I went. I laugh just loud enough for him to hear and listen as he relaxes. I lay across his bed, breathing his scent, delirious with happiness as his mother pulls up and walks to the house.
I hear Ben barrel for the kitchen.
"Sorry mom," he says as she walks in. "I totally lost track of time. Dinner isn't even started."
I can sense confusion, detecting something about the dance. Did she think I was going to take him anyway?
"I thought you wouldn't be home yet," she probes. I am almost certain that I am right.
"Yeah," he fabricates. "I just got back."
"But no dance?" she asks, sounding like she is smiling. I can imagine his face and have to stifle my fit of giggles, settle for rolling on the bed.
"Mom," Ben says, sounding as though he is madder than mad but keeping it together, "if you never, ever mention a single school dance to anyone, ever again, it will be too soon."
"You don't need to get snippy," she says, sounding a little piqued herself.
"And you don't need to mention the dance at every single possible opportunity either," he points out.
"I can see what you're saying," she concedes. "But it isn't exactly like you would ever talk to me about these things if I didn't pester you."
There is a moment of silence, and she feels so distant from him. I can empathize. I would never want to feel so distant from Ben. How amazing it must feel to be his mother! And how sad, knowing that he is wise and independent and doesn't need her as much as she would clearly like him to.
"I don't know, mom," he says. "You know I don't talk about this stuff much. But I can't ever be comfortable talking about it if you keep pestering me to talk to you about it at the pace you would prefer. I need to do so in my own time."
She considers being patient, "But you are going to tell me?"
"Sure," he says easily. "But not because you pester me. I will tell you because I want to, when I want to, and not before."
"Yeah," she sighs. "I'm really not great at this whole mom thing, am I?"
"Well, you did say you weren't," he says, referring to some previous conversation. "I can't expect you to get it right all at once. But don't expect me to do it right or your way either, and I think we'll figure it out."
Something flows through her mind; undisguised suspicion.
"What's up with you?" she asks.
There is a moment of relative silence, into which Ben's heart rate spikes.
"What?" he squeaks, and I moan so quietly only a vampire in the same room could hear it.
"You seem... different," she says. "When did you get all mature and reasonable?"
He gives nervous laugh, playing it off, "Are you suggesting that I am not normally?"
She snorted, doing something with the icebox, loading something in as far as I can tell. I get the slightest whiff of fresh fish.
"Not usually," she jokes before returning, "No, I'm serious. What gives?"
"I guess I just had a really good day," an obvious smile in his tone. I feel rather melty.
"Yeah, how was your trip?" she asks, her mind on something else, something related to La Push, maybe.
"I didn't go," he says easily.
I lie a little straighter, listening intently.
"You didn't?" she asks.
"No," he says, sounding a little unsure of himself.
"What did you do?" she asks, trying not to sound suspicious again.
"I spent the day with my girlfriend," he says casually.
I sit bolt upright. I have to clap my hands over my mouth to keep myself quiet, to keep the squeal of utter girlish delight from alerting all of Clallam County to my presence. I am pretty sure I can make out Alice's mutual delight, both mentally and actually, both on the edge of hearing.
"Your..." Carrie says downstairs, sounding rather breathless, unable to form thoughts.
"Girlfriend," he says, sounding nervous, but only because she is so out of sorts. I am trying to make no noise. It is really, very hard!
"So, does she have a name?" she finally says, her mind suddenly feeling rather cop-like.
"Edwina Cullen," he says, sounding proud. I flop back down on the bed, burying my face in his pillow for a few muffled screams, still too low for them to hear.
Her thoughts are heartily dismayed.
"The doctor's daughter?" she asks.
"One of them, yes," he says in return.
There is a series of the three of us, sifting through her mind. Each one of us is hugely exaggerated, looking more mature, sexualize, and somehow more dangerous.
"Which one?" she asks, sounding worried and trying to hide it.
"The younger one," he says, and I choke on a snort, managing to hold it back. "With the reddish hair."
Carrie says under her breath, "Of course, it had to be a redhead."
"What?" he asks.
"Isn't she a little old for you?" she asks, waving his question away.
I am glad I still had the pillow over my face. I wouldn't have been able to keep the laughter quiet otherwise.
"Those girls are a bit mature for you," she says. "I would have thought you would have dated someone... younger."
I get an almost definitive image of Jocelyn Black from her thoughts.
"She is a junior," he says defensively, "like me."
She realizes she stepped on a nerve and backtracks.
"So, when do I get to meet her?" she asks, trying to sound supportive.
I wonder what will happen if he comes and gets me. I am sure she will be less than happy about that.
"Tomorrow," he says quickly. I make plans accordingly.
"Didn't you spend today together?" she asks, sounding disconcerted. "And you're going to be spending time with her again already? Doesn't that seem a little much?"
"No," he says simply. "I am probably going to be spending a lot of time with her, though, so be prepared for her spending time around here."
I arch into his bed, jostling a little in my attempt to suppress my enthusiasm at his words. Yes, yes, a million times, yes!
Something changes downstairs. I don't, know what it is, but it is obvious when Ben speaks.
"I already ate," he says, shifting his weight like he does when he is looking around, looking for excuses.
I am not the only one who notices.
"Hey, what's wrong?" she asks.
"Nothing," he says, an obvious dodge. "Nothing's wrong. It's just been a long day. I could use some time to myself. More fishing tomorrow?"
He is coming upstairs! Oh, we have to be quiet. Sigh... I giggle silently.
"Yeah," she says, her words as much a front as his, "but just in the morning; I could use some time to myself too. Having friends can be exhausting sometimes."
She wishes he would trust her more. What about her trusting him?
"Alright," he says. "I'll invite Edwina over in the afternoon. Night mom."
I amend my plans.
He walks upstairs, his breathing shallow, even, his footfalls a little heavier than usual. I don't move.
He walks into the room, closing the door, and looking at me. He comes and sits on the edge of the bed. I smile at him, but I can see a sadness behind his eyes. The reveal to his mother didn't go as he would have liked, I can tell.
"Hello," I say politely, hoping to improve his mood.
"Hi," he says, looking down at his folded hands.
"Sorry you had to hear all that," he says. "My mom isn't being very fair to you."
She really wasn't, but she wasn't trusting him to make his own decisions either.
"Or you," I point out, but then say, "But I understand."
"I don't," he says unhappily.
I know how I would feel if I were her.
"She loves you," she says. "She doesn't want to see you get hurt."
She is just seeing an exaggerated potential for harm. People do it all the time, especially those who have been hurt themselves. Failed marriages can't be easy.
Downstairs, she is noticing a pillow on the couch from the dining room that has fallen. She walks over and rights it, and freezes. Carefully, she sniffs the air, and her mind is a wash of perfume, the image she has of me, and fear. I prepare to vault out the window if she comes upstairs, or maybe hide in the closet. She decides to wait. She doesn't know how to handle it, and she is afraid if she goes upstairs now, she will just end up screaming angrily. At least, that is what I am getting from the flurry of images and emotions and sounds that her mind currently is.
I decide to focus on the present.
"What can I do to help?" I ask. She is now in the kitchen making dinner and won't easily hear us.
At this moment, he notices my shirt, which I never bothered to button. He notices me noticing him and blushes, which makes me laugh. I quickly button the garment, and he actually looks unhappy about it, which amuse me and flatters me all at the same time. A thought enters my mind, a very interesting thought. He focused on me before. I want to return his gift in kind, with interest.
"How about this?" I ask. "Don't... move..."
He becomes more still, and I came to sit behind him. Apparently not being able to see me doesn't help him because he sits straight, shifting a little anxiously.
"Don't... move," I say intently, and I can feel him start to tremble, with makes me feel light and a bit quivery myself until I can calm down.
I take an opportunity to touch him. I see him as almost an extension of myself, as though suddenly I have this whole new self at my disposal, but one that I do not know yet. I touch his hair and his neck, listen to his heart, taking him in with all of my senses as I interact with him. He is excited, but on the calmer end of it, right up until I kiss his neck, letting my lips linger on his skin, followed by a slow investigation of his flesh with my tongue.
"I don't think I can stay still," he whispers, as though he has to whisper to keep his voice from cracking.
"Why?" I murmur into his neck, snuggling my face against his hair, his skin, wondering what I must feel like to him. I run a hand along his side, gently questing, not insisting.
"Because, you're going to drive me crazy," he says a bit hoarsely.
"Oh," I say in mock skepticism, a challenge in my word.
I kiss back up his neck, feeling his excitation jump as I come closer and closer to his ear, finally taking the soft lobe into my mouth, brushing it with the slightest pressure of teeth.
"Can I have a minute?" he asks, and I am closer to recognizing his limits as well.
I beam, falling back on his bed, loving that I am now welcome here. It almost makes me wish I had a bed to invite him into. I've had far flimsier excuses for such extravagance.
He hops up from the bed, looking to me, a look of torn longing on his face. I am content to wait for him to have his minute. I start counting.
"I'll be right back," he says seriously. "You're not allowed to leave."
As though there was any force that could make me do that. As though I would ever want to!
I make it a point to chose a position on the bed, a pose that I once used when Emanuel was trying out art before switching to architecture, and become still like only a vampire can. He grabs a few articles of clothing and heads to the bathroom.
I am complacent to think on the day, reliving memories and feeling happy, despite not smiling. He is showering when Carrie's mind catches my attention. She was washing dishes, but she has stopped and is leaning over the sink, her arms braced, her mind a knot of worry and old ache. She is afraid for Ben. I get from her mind the smell of latex, the old, almost nostalgic feel of her teen self, the pressure of responsibility, the worry of making a choice before one can know what the answer could be. I quickly surmise that she is concerned that Ben and I are having sex. She is perhaps worrying about an unexpected pregnancy. Well, at least that is something she will never have to worry about. I almost wish there was a way to alleviate her concern. It is so unnecessary.
I am considering giving Ben a hard time about his supposed "minute" when he reenters the room. But he looks somehow nervous as he slides onto the bed next to me, and I cannot find the heart to be anything by gracious that he has returned to me. I settle beside him, rolling over so that my back meets his front, pulling his arms around me, feeling held and loved by him. I so wish that I could sleep!
"Hi," he says into my hair.
"Hello," I say back, holding his hand. "I missed you."
He laughs.
"Next time you can come with me," he teases.
The very idea has me still. I am not sure which would bring me more enjoyment, watching him in moments where he is utterly himself, naked in every sense of the word without a need for posturing, or stripping down and slipping into the warm water beside him, touching...
And that is my limit.
"Oh," I say with a hint at how enticing such a prospect is.
"Okay, maybe not," he says, utterly dismissive.
"Why?" I ask, wanting to turn to look at him. "What was that reaction about?"
"I guess," he says shyly, hiding his face in my hair. "I guess I am not the most comfortable person in the world when it comes to my body."
"Why?" I ask, so wishing I could read his expression. But maybe this is the most comfortable way we could have this conversation.
"Hey," he says, defensively, "guys can be insecure about their bodies too. Girls don't have a monopoly on that!"
"No," I gentle him, caressing his arms, moving them tighter around me.
Boys! They're so sensitive!
"I mean, really why?" I clarify. "Is there a particular reason?"
"Oh," he says, sounding sheepish. "Not a particular one. I am just, sort of skinny and I'm not really boy-pretty or anything."
"'Boy-pretty'?" I ask, trying not to laugh, feeling the heat in his face behind me.
Every one of my kind is beautiful. Worrying in any way about appearance is so pointless.
"Appearance is so utterly meaningless to me," I say.
Then, I consider; what if that weren't the case? What if I were human?
"Tell me this," I say, "if I were human, would you have had any more trouble talking to me than you did?"
"If I recall," he says pointedly, "I didn't have any trouble talking to you until you didn't want me to."
"Exactly," I reply. "Your ability to talk to me, interact with me, my worth has nothing to do with what you see when you look at me."
"I would value you the same if you were human or vampire," he says seriously, "and that still doesn't change the fact that you are gorgeous. I am not."
I cannot stand it any longer; I can't not see him, especially now. I turn, shifting as I do so that I am no further from him as reorient myself. Seeing him, feeling the love I do for him, and how little regard he has for himself, is too much. I want him. I want to make much over him and do all I can to drive these stupid, ill-conceived notions out of his head. He is the person I love most in this world, and thus everything he is is precious to me. I don't care what anyone else thinks, even him.
I circle him with my leg, something I hadn't realized I had been wanting to do to him for some time now, but the satisfaction in it is too deep to simply be an idle desire. Using it to leverage us even closer together, I put my hands on his face and my lips to his. I kiss him passionately, perhaps the most passionately I ever have. His heart rate skyrockets, his hands fitting themselves to me in ways I'm not sure that he even noticed and in ways I certainly didn't mind. Not at all...
Finally, I broke the kiss. I never wanted to stop, never want to stop, kissing him. But alas, I am trying to make a point that at some point will get lost if I just continue. Helping him see the wonder he is, the incredible soul I see him has, is way more important than this.
I continue to stroke his face, looking deeply into his eyes.
"You are beautiful," I tell him. "Just because you don't have the symmetry and aesthetics that a majority of the world consider to be advantageous when it comes to the structures of your face and body does not mean that you are not a wonder, marvelous to behold. Your features are a part of you, part of a person who is the best person I have ever known. You are priceless to me."
He presses his forehead to mine, smiling as he closes his eyes, a looking of casual satisfaction on his face. At least, that is what it looks like from this angle.
"Sometimes," he says, his voice a little rough, "I am afraid that I will never live up to the person you see me as."
I draw the backs of my fingers down the side of his face. He already is that person. Only he can't see it.
"You can worry about that if you want to," I say. "I will still just love you anyway."
He kisses me, and it is sweet and slow and makes me sink into myself, melting in the truest sense I have ever know.
"Where did you come from?" he asks, sounding as though he wonders if I am truly of this earth.
I giggle quietly at the first thought that comes into my head. Downstairs, Carrie is in her room, the furthest point from here. Still, I remain quiet.
"Chicago," I say, beaming.
"No," he protests, sounding slightly amused despite his defiance. "I mean, where did vampires come from?"
This time, I am giggling at the absurdity of me being able to answer that question just because I am one. Could he answer that question in kind, simply because he is a human?
"Where did you come from?" I ask.
"Forks," he says, this time laughing himself.
"You see my point?" I ask rhetorically, my tones still thick with amusement.
"Yeah," he says, nestling into me a little. I shudder with the ecstasy of it.
"We are all part of the same world," I say, not to be distracted. "Our prey is just a little more sophisticated. We have to take greater measures to stay out of the public eye. Our origins are no better understood or any more wondrous than yours."
"You don't think there is something magical about you?" he asks with a downturn of his mouth. Something about his tone makes me think that he doesn't like that any more than I did hearing that he didn't think he was beautiful. This makes me smile, biting my lip, as though if I did not, my smile might fly around the room or burst my face or go start kissing him again. This boy!
"Maybe, but could you not say the same of yourself?" I ask, almost seeing the world through new eyes, for him. "Even if you were to denounce the notion of God, which I find hard to do at times myself, you are still composed of the byproduct of stars, part of a billions of years old experiment in chemistry, resulting in one of the most complex organisms in the known universe. Please, tell me how you are more mystical than I."
He is a wonder among wonders, both no more special and yet the most special than them all. It is the dichotomy of humans all over again, but this time, in pastels and brushstrokes of purest rapture, beauty, and light. It is all that my parents want me to see of this world. I am finally seeing it, because of him. No, not because of him; in him. I am seeing it in him, because of my love. And now, I can start to see it elsewhere too.
He kisses me and keeps kissing me. I let him. I almost laugh at the thought of ceasing. I would whine girlishly in protest and pull him back to me if he tried to stop in all but earnest. For a moment, he does pull back, and before I can even think to protest, I feel the rustle of cloth and then he is back. My body reacts while my mind reels as his shirt lands somewhere near our feet. Part of me is singing, and part of me is screaming. I am not sure which is happy and which is going a little crazy at what this means. He keeps kissing me, as though nothing has happened, and I keep kissing him, not wanting this moment to ever end.
But my curiosity gets the better of me. I shift to one side, whispering in his ear, "Tell me what your thinking," before continuing my kissing, this time on the side of his neck.
He gives what could loosely be construed as a laugh.
"I'm thinking that if you want a coherent answer out of me," he says, "doing that won't help."
Without thinking, my hand traces a single line down him, from clavicle to anterior iliac spine.
"Can I touch you?" I ask as I do, hoping I haven't overstepped my bounds.
"Um sure," he says, his words unsteady, but I do not believe they are from doubt.
One might say that in what was to follow that I took a liberty with that single affirmation. I did only what I asked that I could. I touch him. I touch him, every inch of him that was exposed to me, every bit of tender, soft, bare skin, in every way that comes to mind. I feel it to pleasure him and please myself, sating every curiosity and satisfying him, finding peace and intimacy and joy and excitation and arousal and life in the simple act. I find every bit of him that I can explore and wish, for a fleeting moment, that I could do so with my mouth as well as my hands. But that would be a liberty. I am about to ask, just in case he might actually let me, when he rolls up and onto me. After the number of times I have enticed him into turning to and fro, we have worked our way down. Now that he has rolled onto me, something I find very exhilarating, his hand clasping my wrist upon his pillow, I am completely at his mercy, the very idea of which I find all the more exciting.
"Okay," he says, his voice raw, his breathing coarse. "That is my limit."
"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it. I shouldn't goad him so, especially when I should know better.
He practically snorts, "Sorry? Why? You were driving me completely crazy. I figured this was a better reaction than going for your shirt."
I laugh, despite my little tantalizing thrill.
"I am still sorry," I say, and then a notion occurs to me, and I say with all the weight I can muster without shrills of happiness that would bring his mother down on us, "My poor, flustered boyfriend."
He goes completely still, once again forgetting that I was something more than human.
"Boyfriend?" he says, as though such a thought had never occurred to him.
"Yes," I say shyly, teasingly. "Aren't you? I am your girlfriend, aren't I?"
He seems to find his way back to the part of his brain that stores memory and his recall comes back to him. I know how he feels. That short time ago feels a world away. He seems a little embarrassed, as though him having feelings for me could ever cause me anything but joy.
"Did you mind?" he asks, asking if I minded being called his girlfriend!
I have to laugh at the very absurdity of such a notion.
"Not at all," then endearingly, I say, "It was very sweet."
He returns to his side, looking over to me, and I turn to face him, feeling like an equal in this little room, a cherished secret.
"So, I'm your girlfriend?" I ask, snuggling closer to him, loving the warmth saturated bedding here as much as I do when it is him directly against me.
"If you want," he says quickly, then adds even quicker, "I want you to be."
This time, I have to physically stifle my own laughter.
"Of course I want to be," I say after I have adequately subsided. "That is a given. I love you."
He puts his arms around me, and holds me to him, quieting, and simply holding me. For perhaps the billionth time or so, I scream into my own thoughts that I would give just about anything I can think of to hear him!
"Tell me something," I say, trying not to sound desperate, "anything at all."
"I'm tired," he says quietly.
I look and see that sleep is starting to come into him. I stroke his face, at once berating myself for fear that it might drive his sleep off, but it seems to settle him even deeper, which I find so very heartening. My touch is desired, both in ecstasy and in recline. I satisfy him in so many ways, as he satisfies me.
"Are you ready to sleep now?" I ask.
"I don't know," he says. Then, worriedly, he adds, "Are you really going to stay?"
"Always," I say, meaning it, to the fullness of my abilities.
"I'm going to hold you to that," he says, the edges of his words becoming fuzzy.
"Here," I say, taking up his bunched bedding and settling it about him.
"What about you?" he says, sounding young and almost petulant.
"I don't need protection from the cold," I say, my voice dropping to quiet him. "You do. If you are cold, I can lie further away, or sit in the chair if you are more comfortable."
He reaches for me, as though there is no obstacle between us, clutching me with determination. I have to press my face into his blanket to suppress my mirth, kissing the nearest bit of him I can get at, kissing my way back to his mouth.
"Aren't you uncomfortable?" he asks.
I don't get uncomfortable. Even so, I think it would be hard to find someone who is less uncomfortable than I am at that moment. Maybe if his mother wasn't here. Maybe if this was post-coitus...
"No," I say, shoving those thoughts away in a hurry. "Why?"
"My... scent," he says without confidence.
"Oh," I say, smiling and patting him through the blanket. "I am getting used to it. I have been closer to you, been around you more, in the last thirty-two hours than I ever have. I am sure if I were to stay away for any period of time, it would be harder-"
"Then never ever leave," he says immediately. "Ever."
I consider the practically of that idea and laugh quietly.
"I thought you had a problem with me joining you for showers," I point out.
"Um, huh," he says, seeming to consider, which strikes me as odd. Didn't we just have this conversation?
"When you put it like that," he says, "I guess I really don't mind so much."
"Why?" I ask inquisitively.
"Because," he says demurely, "I hadn't really thought about you... joining me. I thought you would just sort of watch, I guess. I mean, just be in the room or whatever."
I giggle. I wonder how long it will take for him to understand that he is desirable.
"You really didn't think about that?" I ask.
"No," he says. "Why would you join me? Do you even shower?"
I practically purr at the thought of my wonderful shower that I have off my room, the only part of the bathroom I use. Emanuel flushes toilets a few times a day for each of us, again, keeping up appearances.
"Yes, we do get dirty on occasion, though we do not have to worry about dead skin cells and sweat residue the way you do," I say. "And, after all, there is other benefits of showering. It feels very enjoyable."
"Yeah," he say, and his voice has started to take on the tone he usually only uses when he is asleep.
"You should sleep," I whisper to him.
"No," he rebuffs, sounding young again. "I don't want to go away."
I put my arms around him more securely.
"You're not going anywhere," I say gently, "and neither am I."
"But I'll miss you," he says, his words starting to run together and lose their annunciation.
"Sleep, Love," I whisper, giving a little giggle and stroking his hair. "I will be here when you wake up."
"You promise?" he asks, almost making it a single word.
"I promise," I say and do.
I begin to hum the lullaby I created for him, quiet and low, stroking him ever so softly, as I had in the days when I did not wish him to know that I was here. Now, I couldn't bear waking him. He has had such a long day. My love, my heart.
He mumbles something, on the very edge of sleep, completely unintelligible. At least, unintelligible to anyone who hasn't spent so many nights beside him, taking in everything in wrapped attention, memorizing every sound he makes, every little motion he does, and committing to knowing him best in the world.
"I love you too," I say back, and I stay.
