I am thrilled at the response my first two chapters have gotten. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, and to those who placed my story on their alerts and favorites lists!

Disclaimer: I don't own Edward or Jasper, or anything Twilight-related. Only Stephenie Meyer does. I, however, happily imagine yummy hoyay where they are involved.

-o-

"Your sense of humor hasn't gone anywhere. You always cracked me up, Edward Cullen."

I'm still completely confused. What the hell is he talking about – my sense of humor? I've never seen him before tonight. And, Edward Cullen? I rack my brain, trying to remember any point tonight when anyone has used my last name in his presence. The twink? No. The bartender? Jazz wasn't there when I got my drink. I am stumped. Short of him snooping through my mail, there's no way he could know my last name.

These thoughts are running through my head as I stumble, "I…I'm…I'm a little lost. We've never met before."

His chin dips down and he looks more directly into my eyes. "You're sure about that?"

Now I'm feeling slightly weirded out, not to mention a little irritated. I do not enjoy being toyed with. "Yes, I'm fairly confident I would remember you."

He says nothing, just holds his gaze, as the corners of his mouth threaten a tiny smile. He seems entirely confident, and I'm starting to second-guess myself. This boy is fucking up my brain. What is he doing to me?

"Okay," he finally concedes, "I guess it's time to come clean."

"Come clean…?" I ask hesitantly. Damn, this sounds ominous. Do I fucking want to know the answer?

"We have met before. It's been a long time, and I'm not surprised you don't recognize me," he begins.

"I honestly don't remember ever having met anyone named Jazz," I interrupt.

"Right. Do you remember someone named…Jasper?" he prompts, almost shyly.

Jasper? That does vaguely ring a bell. I tilt my head to the side and scowl slightly as I search my memory. "Yeah…yeah. I went to high school with a guy name Jasper. Short, skinny blonde kid with glasses and braces. What the hell was his last name…Whitmarsh? Whitford?"

"Whitlock," he says quietly, looking down.

"Whitlock! That's right. He was in the Mathletes!" I chuckle. "Is he a friend of yours?"

He looks at me as though I'm missing something very obvious. And then it fucking smacks me in the head. The Mathlete just fucked me.

"You?" I gasp. I can only imagine the look on my face. This boy…this god? He can't be the same person I remember. "There's no fucking way..."

"Growth spurt after tenth grade," he mutters. "I was a late bloomer."

My mind is reeling. "Wow," is the most profound response I can formulate. We sit in silence for a few moments as I absorb this information. I realize, eventually, that he might be interpreting my silence as anger, rather than shock. I grasp at what seems like the most basic of the many questions running through my head. "So, what happened to you? You didn't come back for our junior year of high school, right?"

"No," he says, with a look of relief. If I can interpret his relief, it's likely that I've asked a pretty innocuous question. "My dad took a transfer with his company, so we moved to Austin, Texas. Then I went to college at University of San Diego. I've been in San Francisco since I finished college. I just moved back to Seattle four days ago; I'm starting a job at Northwest Hospital on Monday."

"Do you still have family in Washington State?" I ask, trying to imagine why someone would leave California to come back here.

"No," he says.

"So it was just the job that brought you back, then," I nod, thinking I understand him.

"Well, that, and…" he hesitates, then softly adds, "I was hoping to find someone I lost contact with."

"Oh." I feel a sting of disappointment that takes me by surprise. Obviously, my interference got in the way of a hoped-for happy reunion. I try to cover my chagrin by adding, in what I hope is an off-handed tone, "Well, maybe it'd be easier to look up his number, instead of standing around in clubs hoping he'll walk by."

"No need," he murmurs. "I already found him."

I can't answer, or even meet his eyes. My life is balancing on the edge of a knife. Either he means me, or he means someone else, and I can't put myself out there. I've already walked out on a limb of his creation tonight, and I can't inch out there any further. My walls are gone, and I know that if I look at him without my walls to hide behind, he's going to see it plainly written on my face, that I want it to be me. And it seems impossible that it could be me, after all this time. And I can't answer.

"Edward," he says. And I can't answer. He leans closer to me, taking my chin gently in his hand and turning my face to him. I have to look at him now. He's going to see it.

I finally meet his gaze, and he sees it. And I see it too, mirrored back to me in the limpid green eyes I've memorized in the past two hours. He leans in close to my face, his hand still on my chin, and he gently presses his lips to mine; a sweet, pure kiss. This kiss isn't about fucking, and it's not about how fast I can get off. This kiss arouses me, but not below the waist; the warmth, instead, is spreading from inside my chest. My cold, dead heart, no longer cold.

My first real kiss.

He breaks it after a long moment and pulls back slightly to look searchingly into my eyes. Apparently satisfied with what he sees, he breaks into a wide grin.

Despite my euphoria, I still have questions about how this impossible turn of events has come about; and I have to clear the haze from my brain, remind myself not to get distracted.

"You took a bit of a chance coming here, though, didn't you? How did you know I was even still in Seattle?" I ask, trying to remember who our mutual friends were in high school. I can't remember a single one – we didn't move in the same social circles in high school; besides, I'm no longer in touch with anyone from that hell hole.

He shrugs. "Google. Your photography has been featured here and there, different magazines. It wasn't difficult to find one that had a little article on you in the 'contributing artists' section. It told me what I needed to know. It also told me that the person who wrote it was clearly smitten with you," he says, laughing out loud.

I grimace, remembering the article he's talking about; then continue with my next question. "I had no idea you were gay, though. You didn't come out in high school, huh?"

"Oh, no," he shakes his head emphatically. "I remember when you came out, though, Edward. Early in 10th grade. By then I already knew I liked guys; but I was nowhere near ready to tell anyone. You were everything I admired and everything I feared, at the same time. You came out! In high school! One of the smart, popular, well-off kids, and you said 'fuck 'em' and you were open. God, I wished I was that strong."

I wince, remembering what my high school life was like after coming out. "Yeah, being the social pariah of the entire school is definitely something to fear. I don't blame you for waiting."

"Well, seeing the way the kids turned on you was difficult enough, definitely. But there was also…" He hesitates here, dropping his head into his hands, and mumbles, "God, this is so fucking humiliating." I wonder what else he can possibly have to drop on me. "I used to…I followed you a few times to the bars you went to, right after you came out."

"I don't remember you being there." I frown, trying to imagine the 15-year-old Jasper in one of those sleazy dives; he'd have stuck out like a sore thumb.

"I didn't go in," he clarifies. "I'd hang around down the block and wait till you came out. Jeez, remembering the classy neighborhoods those places were in, it's a wonder I didn't get my fucking throat slit, skulking around there. Anyways, you know the kind of guys you were with…it's not like they were going to take you home…just a quick fuck in their car and then out you go. I saw you, one night…you got out after the guy was finished, and you sat on the edge of the sidewalk after he drove away. I could hear you…you were crying."

This is painful; he's dredging up the memories of things I have intentionally buried for many years.

He continues, "I had never seen you cry. At school, you were always stoic, even when the other guys were relentless. Seeing you react that way to sex…I thought it must be horrible to be what we are. I can't say it drove me deeper into the closet, because I wasn't ready to come out anyways; but it did delay it a while. Until my second year of college, and then," he shrugs, "that was it. I couldn't deny it anymore, and it didn't seem like such a catastrophic thing to come out. I hooked up with a few guys; and dated someone pretty steadily for a few years, starting in my senior year. But," he adds, "I never stopped thinking about you. You were kind of my first teenage fantasy."

I have to laugh. "I guess some things don't change. Most of the teenagers at Spin fantasize about me, too."

He laughs with me. "Yes, I got to witness your legion of adoring fans in action tonight. Every eye in the place was on you. I saw you before you saw me, when you were on the upper level. I was almost sure it was you. You're taller, of course; and your hair is longer. Still bronze; without the frosted tips, though," he teases, grinning.

"Ugh," I grouse, remembering the ill-advised hair trend of the late 1990s.

"But you still have the Edward Cullen attitude. No one else has that. And when you came over to me, it was unmistakable. Your eyes, your mouth...they're the ones I've had in my head for twelve years, since the first day of ninth grade. Then the twink called you Edward, and I knew."

It's difficult to comprehend that the person I was as a teenager, so impressed this boy that he has continued to think about me all these years; even after maturing into the glorious creature sitting in front of me now. "So…you remembered me from high school, and you witnessed the high points of my wild youth. I'm still confused, though, about why you were so insistent about fucking me. Was it…just the fantasy?" This I say aloud; inside, I'm silently pleading for him to tell me that it was more than that.

"No, it wasn't just about that," he replies. "I know you changed after those experiences, Edward. I was still around school for the rest of tenth grade, after that shit happened to you. You became…hardened. You became the arrogant, "fuck 'em" guy after that stuff. The walls were already coming up. I knew at the club tonight that the walls were there. And I remember what you were like before. You were nice, Edward. You were one of the popular kids, but you didn't make life hell for the unpopular, geeky kids. Remember doing peer tutoring together in ninth grade? You were great at helping out other kids."

His words pierce my heart, because I know the truth. The person he came here hoping to find doesn't exist. If we spend any amount of time together, eventually he'll realize that I am every bit the asshole everyone thinks I am. And when he realizes it, he'll leave to find someone who deserves him. I can't mislead him; it's better that he know now, rather than postpone the inevitable. "I haven't been that guy in a long time," I whisper, shaking my head slowly. "I am the asshole, Jazz. I'm self-centered, and I'm cold. I don't have friends…people don't deal with me more than they have to. The only ones who seek me out are the boys at the clubs who want me to fuck them. I'm sorry; the person you remember…he's gone."

He quirks one eyebrow and gives me a skeptical look. "Really? So the neonatal incubator you donated to the NICU at UCSF Children's Hospital, where you did the photography for the article on preemies last year…those run about $40,000 new, right? Doesn't seem to fit the profile of self-centered asshole."

"Jesus Christ," I sputter, "that was done privately! How the hell do you know that?"

"Mathlete, remember?" he says, tapping his temple with his finger. "My BA is in accounting. The job I just left in San Francisco was finance administration at Children's. The paperwork crossed my desk when the donation was made. I saw the name and I thought it couldn't possibly be the same Edward Cullen – the name isn't that uncommon – but I couldn't ignore it. So I went and asked the NICU nurses. The description the nurses gave me was unmistakable. And they told me you'd been so moved by the preemies that you had tears in your eyes when you were there to photograph them. Hearing that…it gave me reason to hope."

I'm overwhelmed. If I was amazed before, I am now simply blown away at the turn this conversation has taken. "Why didn't you tell me who you were when we were at the club?"

"Um…" He blushes, and the pink stains his cheeks like a pale peony against a smooth white marble statue. "A couple of reasons, I guess. For one…you know, sometimes even when it's been years, you see someone from your high school years and you can immediately be transported back to those days, and all the feelings come rushing back…the awkwardness, the self-consciousness. I didn't know how you'd react to Jasper Whitlock, if you remembered me. Besides," he adds, "you're not the only one who has boundaries. We all have layers of protection in place. 'Jazz' is mine."

"But you managed to see past my mine," I murmur. "No one has ever seen me the way you did."

"Well, it helped that I already had some insight; knowing you years ago, and the donation to the hospital. I wasn't sure, though, when I saw you at the club. You were so detached, even when you came on to me – I thought maybe I had come a long way for nothing more than a fuck. I wanted you, of course; really wanted you. But then we got here, and I started to suck you off, and I felt…something. And I wondered whether anyone had ever touched your heart enough for you to realize that it doesn't have to be shameful to be in a submissive position. When I went for your ass while I was sucking you, your reaction was pretty clear." His fingers trace up the length of my arm and he looks me directly in the eyes. "And suddenly it was important to me that you know that it doesn't have to be the way you were treated by those losers. If it's with the right person, you can give up control without losing yourself. Putting someone else in control of your pleasure once in a while…it's freeing."

"Freeing…" I muse. Can I argue with his logic? Yesterday, I would have; but he's already shown me the truth. Arrogant as I may be, I can't ignore it when the proof is irrefutable. I look at the clock on my night table. It's 1:53 am; just two hours since I came through the door with this boy, and my life is completely fucking unrecognizable. Does it really happen this way? Can an individual, a life – a whole fucking paradigm – change so completely in just a few hours?

"So," Jasper says, drawing a deep breath, "how are you?"

How am I? I'm not certain I have words to describe how I am. I have a lot to think about, and there are still things I have to ask Jasper. But not tonight.

"For now, I'm okay," I say truthfully. "Thank you. You put a lot on the line tonight, and you were really open with me."

"Eventually," he corrects with a smile.

"Fair enough," I concede, then smile wickedly and quirk my eyebrow as I say, "For now, though, I seem to remember a promise you made me earlier this evening…"

-o-

So – very different chapter from the previous two. No lemons in this one, but lots of confessions, an epiphany or two, a revelation that Edward maybe isn't the tough nut he wants everyone to think he is; and maybe, just maybe, a shot for these two magnificent boys to find some happiness. And a chance to segue into some more lemony goodness.

As always: please, please review!