Your response to chapter 10 was so overwhelming. Seriously – the love I'm getting from you, both lifts me up and humbles me at once. I loved writing chapter 10. I felt like *I* was giving them a gift, some much-deserved time to talk and get to know each other – and then, mmmm, the lemony goodness.

A few people asked if Edward heard Jasper's declaration. I don't think I'm giving anything away by telling you that he didn't. He was already asleep at that point.

The usual disclaimer: I own nothing. I'm sure you're aware who does.

-o-

Edward

My first conscious thought of the morning is, Where the fuck is the sunlight coming from? I force my bleary eyes open, and for a moment I'm disoriented, squinting around the unfamiliar bedroom; but my confusion is short-lived. I close my eyes again as the memories of last night rush back: arriving here to find Jasper waiting for me. Dancing, eating dinner, laughing, talking. Carrying him to his bed, laying him down and impaling myself on him...I shift my hips a bit in the bed, feeling the soreness that lingers as a reminder of our congress. The memory exacerbates my usual morning wood; this morning it's so hard, it's painful. I roll to my side, expecting him to be there beside me; but his side of the bed is cold, and his pillow is empty, save for a piece of paper folded in half.

I prop myself up on one elbow and unfold the note. In a neat, square-block hand, I read:

Good morning, beautiful -

I know you don't have anywhere to be this morning so I can't bring myself to wake you up – you look so peaceful. Give me a call on my cell when you're up and around.

xo J xo

He's gone to work already. I lean over and turn the alarm clock on his bedside table toward me. 10:15 am. Holy shit, I've slept half the morning away - and with the sunshine streaming in, no less. Even in my bat cave of a room, I rarely sleep past eight, unless I've been working in my home studio late into the night. I feel sheepish that I didn't hear him this morning. Worse, I can't even remember saying goodnight to him last night.

I flop back onto the bed and stretch out, my muscles stiff from hours of deep sleep. Stretching does nothing to alleviate the stiffest part of me, though; and I decide to get up and take care of things in the shower.

Jasper's bathroom is off the bedroom, and though it's smaller than mine, he has a deep claw foot tub. It occurs to me, as I stand under the steaming water, that there are baths to be had in this tub. I grasp my cock and start to stroke, and I let the images flood my mind: me leaning against the sloped back, wrapping my legs around Jasper as he reclines against me, feeling his soft ass press into me; hovering together, suspended in the hot soapy water. Very soon, my orgasm lights my body on fire, and I moan, my spurting cum mingling with the hot water from the shower. My objective achieved, I quickly finish showering. Opening the shower curtain, I see a folded towel sitting on the vanity; obviously placed there for me by Jasper. After I dry off, I stare into the mirror at my wild hair, run my fingers through it a bit, and sigh. These locks are hopelessly obstinate; perhaps someday I'll get around to asking a stylist for some pointers on beating them into submission.

Back in Jasper's room, my clothes from yesterday are folded on a chair in the corner. He must have retrieved them from the floor this morning, and I feel a bit guilty that he has tidied up after me. Beside my own clothes is a pair of unfamiliar boxer briefs and clean socks, and a new toothbrush still in the package – apparently left for me by him. Knowing he was thinking of me and anticipated my needs – the towel in the bathroom, clean socks and underwear, the toothbrush – makes me feel desired and valued. No one has taken care of me in a very long time.

I get dressed, and go in search of my cell phone so I can call him to say good morning. My coat is in the front hall closet and I retrieve the phone from the pocket. I dial, then wander to the living room window as I listen to the ring, waiting for him to pick up.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," his soft, lilting voice greets me warmly. I can hear his smile in his voice, and I have no choice but to smile as well.

"Good morning, Jasper," I reply.

"Thought maybe you lost my number," he teases. "Or do you always sleep this late?"

"No, never," I answer, feeling a bit sheepish.

"Aw, too bad," he sighs. "The thought of long mornings in bed with you was kinda nice."

"Oh, well; in that case I'll start sleeping in tomorrow. In fact, I'll go back to bed right now – all you need to do is leave work and...you know," I trail off suggestively.

Jasper is laughing out loud and manages to gasp, "Hang on - I need to close my office door."

"Close it behind you as you leave, I hope?" I continue to tease.

He doesn't reply; instead, I hear the sound of the door clicking shut. "There – jeez, you're gonna get me in trouble," he chides light-heartedly.

"Well, I don't want that to happen in your first week, I suppose," I concede. "I just wanted to thank you for leaving a clean towel out for me, and the toothbrush and the, uh...other stuff."

"Underwear?" he says. "You can say, 'I want to make you sit on my nine-inch cock,' but you can't say 'underwear'?"

"Okay," I attempt to change the subject, "so I'm gonna go now..."

He chuckles. "Okay, okay; but before you go?"

"Yes?"

"Do you have any plans for this weekend?" he asks.

"Oh, I have big plans for the weekend," I reply.

"Oh," he sounds disappointed.

"Yeah. I plan to lock myself away with a tall, sexy blonde, and do the filthiest things to him," I murmur provocatively.

"Mmm, he's a lucky boy, whoever he is," he whispers, his voice suddenly thick with desire.

"Yeah. He's hot, too. He's got the most beautiful mouth, and when he takes me all the way down his throat-"

"Stop – you have to stop," he pleads, groaning; and I realize he's right – this is singularly inappropriate when he's supposed to be working. Thank goodness he's on his cell phone.

"I'm sorry; I took that too far," I apologize.

"No, it's okay; but if I want to have a chance of getting any work done the rest of the day, I have to stop thinking about it," he sighs, frustration evident in his voice.

"Of course," I reply.

"So, help yourself to whatever. Feel free to just dig around in the kitchen till you find what you need," he offers.

"Thanks." There is a brief pause as I consider how to ask him if I can hang out at his place today and wait for him to come home from work; and at the same time I'm not even sure if I should. On one hand I would love to be there waiting for him; but on the other, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to go home and get some of my own stuff before we settle in for the weekend.

I'm weighing my options when he says tentatively, "Um...I left a key for you on the kitchen counter. For today. You know, I didn't know if you might want to go out today, or even if you planned to stay; but now...we have plans for the weekend...yes?"

I grin at his cautious approach, as though he's afraid I'll spook because he left me a key. "Yes, I believe we do," I confirm. "Thanks for the key."

"Okay." He sounds relieved. "Well – I really must get back to work. We'll do something for dinner tonight?"

"My turn to look after dinner," I offer.

"Can't wait," he whispers. "Bye, beautiful."

"Bye," I reply, and disconnect the call. I'm still standing in front of the window, gazing out over the Fremont district of Seattle. His living room window faces west, toward the mouth of the canal, and beyond that, Puget Sound. Elliot Bay lies not all that far south of here. I consider taking him to Belltown, to one of the restaurants overlooking the Bay for dinner tonight; but decide we've got lots of time for restaurants on other evenings, other weekends. I was sincere in my threat to lock us away for the entire weekend. I don't have any work that needs my attention before Tuesday, and I would like nothing more than to spend long, uninterrupted hours with him. Alone.

I decide to dig through his cupboards and fridge, but not in search of breakfast – I'm taking stock of what he has in the way of staples to supplement what I plan to make for dinner; as well as getting a sense of whether he has enough food to get us through the weekend without having to leave for supplies. He's reasonably well-stocked, considering he's only been living here about a week. I pull on my coat, grab the key from the counter and add it to my own keychain; and head out to grab some breakfast and do a bit of grocery shopping.

Several hours later, I'm back at his apartment. The fridge is stocked with food for several days, including the steaks and asparagus for tonight's dinner. I also have an overnight bag, as I stopped by my place and picked up a few things – including my laptop. I need to be able to check my email at least once or twice over the weekend. I still have several hours to kill before Jasper will be home from work, and it's nowhere near time to start dinner yet. I decide to check out his bookcase, compare our tastes.

He has a pretty extensive library, and it occurs to me that he must have worked like a Trojan to unpack all of this so quickly. I scan the titles, dragging one fingertip across the spines of the books. He has a mix of classics, 20th-century literature and recent bestsellers. I pull out a novel that's a few years old; I've been meaning to read it but haven't gotten around to it. I start to turn away from the bookcase, intending to settle into a chair with the book; but a grouping of photographs on one shelf catches my eye, and I step closer to have a look.

They are obviously family photographs – some candids, others posed. In one, an older couple, obviously Jasper's parents, embrace each other and beam at the camera. The woman's smile and dimples, and her soft blonde curls, are the originals from which Jasper has clearly been fashioned; his limpid green eyes are all his father.

Another photo is a young family – the woman I vaguely recognize as Jasper's older sister, who would have been in twelfth grade when I was in ninth. She and her husband each hold a little boy with their mom's curly blonde hair and their dad's smiling dark brown eyes. The photo has caught them all in a moment of mirth – laughter forever suspended in 1/60 of a second.

The same two little boys are in the next photo, this time both sitting on Jasper's lap as he sits on a hardwood floor, his back leaning against the front of a couch. He is reading to them. The older of the boys looks at the book; while the younger one leans his head back against Jasper's chest, gazing up at his uncle's face with almost reverential eyes.

The final picture contains each of the seven individuals from the previous photos. The photograph is obviously taken during a significant family event of some sort, as behind the grouping sits a table with the remnants of a celebratory meal - plates, champagne glasses and candles. Jasper's parents stand in the middle of the grouping, flanked by their children. Their son-in-law stands beside his wife, holding the older boy. Jasper holds the youngest, little more than a baby in this photo, who is reaching out one small hand to pat Jasper's cheek. Jasper's arm is around his dad's shoulder. In fact, everyone in the photograph holds a physical connection with those around them, in some way – a hand grasping a hand; an arm around a shoulder or linked through another arm. Everyone looks completely at ease and wonderfully happy. It's a perfect photo of family harmony.

And for one very brief moment, I have the strongest urge to fire that fucking photo out the window.

Instead, I allow the book to drop to the floor where I stand. I snatch the photo from the shelf, and then I turn on my heel away from the bookcase and stalk to the large armchair on the other side of the room, hurling myself into it. I grip the photo tightly with both hands, and will myself to calm the fuck down. Get a grip. Just don't think about them. But the insight into Jasper's family life has evoked a flood of memories of my own, and I can't fight the deluge.

My parents. Carlisle and Esme Cullen. The good doctor and his lovely wife; and their two beautiful children, Edward and Alice.

We did everything together – travelled, ate dinner as a family, even had fucking family game night once a week. My younger sister and I had everything we needed, and more; but our parents also were careful to remind us that there were many people less fortunate than we were, and they were judicious when it came to the value and number of gifts they gave. We seemed like the perfect family to everyone who knew us; and for a long time, we were.

Until their eldest child shattered that charmed family.

I was such a fucking moron. I had decided to come out to everyone at school, but I hadn't told my parents. My sister was still in grade school; and being the obtuse, self-absorbed teenager I was, I thought I could lead a double life without my parents being any the wiser. As arrogant as I was to my schoolmates, I didn't have the balls to be open with my parents. The subject of homosexuality had, somehow, never come up during family discussions, and I was convinced it would disappoint them. My first few sexual experiences reinforced my fear that my sexuality would be shameful to them.

Of course, it only took one minor dust-up with one of my former friends, who made the mistake of calling me "fag". The ensuing fight resulted in a call home; and when my mother was informed what had precipitated the altercation, she told the principal he must be confusing me with another student. I was sitting in the principal's office as he spoke to her, and I could hear my sweet, soft-spoken mother becoming more and more agitated, her voice escalating till she was nearly at hysteria pitch. I wanted to die as I realized the heartbreak this would cause her and my father – not only to find out their son was gay, but to get the news by means of a phone call from the principal.

My father had to leave the hospital in the middle of his workday that day, to come get me from school - my mother was by this time so anguished that she wouldn't have been safe on the road – and his face was inscrutable as he sat with me in the principal's office. Somehow it was every bit as excruciating as hearing my mother's heart break over the phone. The principal himself was distressed at having to relate the circumstances again to my father, knowing now that my parents had been entirely in the dark about my life.

My father said nothing to me while we were in the principal's office. He listened silently, then stood, shook Mr. Brown's hand and thanked him for his concern, and grasped my shoulder, indicating that I was to come with him. He remained silent as we walked to the car; and the silence continued for long moments after he had headed the car for home. Abruptly, however, he pulled the car to the shoulder on a quiet road; and once we were safely stopped, he leaned his forehead against his hands on the steering wheel. And my father – the world-class surgeon, the man who was the foundation of our family and the voice of comfort and consolation to so many patients – well, he sobbed. He fucking sobbed against that steering wheel for ten minutes.

And I cried too – because this was the realization of my worst fears with regard to my parents. My mother was hysterical at home, and my father wept quietly beside me. And I was the failure, the disappointment who caused it all.

"I'm sorry, Dad," I finally whispered. Apologizing for being gay, for disappointing him, for blind-siding him with the devastating news. My father didn't look at me – he simply held up one palm to me, indicating that I shouldn't speak. And then he wiped away his tears, and we pulled back onto the road and continued home.

When we got home, my father rushed into the house to find my mother. I remained for several moments in the car, dreading facing her. Finally I realized I couldn't take up permanent residence there on the front seat of my father's car, and would have to confront the ugly scene eventually. I dragged my ass out of the car and into the house. Inside, it wasn't difficult to locate my parents in the living room – I just had to follow the sound of my mother's agonized cries and my father's attempts to console her while he, too, was grieving. Mechanically, numbly, I made myself sit in a chair facing them, waiting for the force of their fury to be unleashed upon me.

When it finally came, though, it wasn't fury I saw in my parents' eyes. It was sorrow. They were absolutely heartbroken. They didn't even know what I had subjected my body to, the experiences that were akin to rape, by men even older than my parents were at the time. But they knew their son was gay, and I had broken their hearts.

My father finally spoke, his usually-smooth voice hoarse with stress and sorrow. "Edward, I believe your mother and I have always tried to be fair and reasonable with you and your sister. We have placed our trust in you as you got older, and never felt as though it was misplaced. I thought we...," here his voice cracked, "I thought we had done an excellent job in raising a young man who understood the importance of having a strong character. But today, Edward, we discovered that, somewhere along the line, we failed, and didn't realize our mistake. Because you kept this important part of your life secret from us; and even if you didn't intend for it to happen, we've been publicly betrayed by you. My god, Edward, you made fools of your mother and I; and we learned the truth about your life from your principal!"

He broke down again, and again I joined him. I felt the full weight of his words; it was just like my father to blame himself, to take this on as a failing on his part. I knew the truth, however – the deficiency was mine. I was an abject failure as a son. The guilt of this realization buffeted my already-bruised soul.

When he regained his composure, he continued, "You said in the car that you're sorry, Edward. But you have, it seems, been lying to us about a fundamental part of your life, for how long now? Months? I have no idea, because we've been kept in the dark. So I don't know whether you're truly sorry, or even what you purport to be sorry for. But I do know this – your mother and I need to take some time to process this until we can discuss it calmly. And then the three of us are going to sit down and have a serious conversation. Several, in fact." I could only nod in response; and he instructed me to go to my room until I was called for dinner.

In my room, I buried my face in my pillow and cried. My parents were horrified and disappointed by me. Worse, there was nothing I could do to change myself - I would always be gay. I felt as though all was lost now, with regard to my relationship with my parents. I never again wanted to feel the crushing weight of their disappointment.

So from that day, I set to work to revise their expectations of me. I rebelled in almost every way I could. I altered my appearance – dyeing my hair, wearing club clothes almost twenty-four hours a day, being sent home from school again and again when I refused to conform to the dress code. I started sneaking out at night to go to clubs, despite the fact that my parents' vigilance meant that I got caught at least half the time, usually before I got as far away as the driveway. I refused to eat dinner with them any longer. Family vacations and pretty much any interaction with them, aside from what was absolutely necessary, were a thing of the past. I did poppers and E, though fortunately never progressing beyond those into heavier drug use. I drank. I got things pierced. In short, I did everything I could to set the bar as low as I possibly could, in hopes of never again hearing my parents tell me how I had disappointed them.

The plan was, of course, a miserable failure; because my parents still remembered well the boy I had been before. Our lives became one long conflict – my parents struggled to maintain boundaries, imploring me to take more care with my safety. I disregarded them entirely, and eventually hardened myself to their pleas.

For myself, I made only two rules: first, I never, ever fucked without a condom – not even one time. Second, I kept my grades pristine, because I knew it was the only way I could hope to get to San Francisco Art Institute – my dream college. And that was my ticket out. Away from my parents' constant vigilance - and the heartbreak in their eyes.

I went to SFAI as I'd hoped, and earned a bachelor's degree in Fine Arts, developing my craft in the photography department created by Ansel Adams. Throughout college, I worked away from home every summer. I didn't go home for holidays if I could avoid it at all; and if I went home, I spent as much time in my room or out of the house as possible. If I could have, I'd have paid my fucking tuition myself so my parents wouldn't even have to receive the letters with my grades in the mail.

After graduation, I landed a job as a photographer in Chicago, at an advertising agency where I'd interned one summer. I stayed there for two years, learning as much as possible; and then returned to Seattle to freelance. I now work in both feature and advertising photography, taking the jobs I want, travelling where I wish. When I'm not travelling or working, I go to the clubs. A solitary life - by my choice.

I sit sideways in the armchair, my legs hanging over one arm, my head leaning against the back of the chair. The photo of Jasper's family rests on my lap. How different my relationship with my parents is from Jasper's. In point of fact, I have no relationship with them. I haven't seen them, or Alice, for four years, since I finished school and moved to Chicago. The last time I spoke to them was over a year ago. We have no mutual acquaintances – my grandparents are no longer living and my parents are both only children.

After only ten years, my plan has finally been a success – they're not a part of my life. Except...my mother still calls me on my birthday and Christmas, and several other holidays throughout the year, to tell me she loves me and that she wishes I would call them or visit. The past several years I have let her calls go to my voicemail. Despite the ensuing years and the practice I've had at attempting to deaden my emotions, I'm still a fucking coward when it comes to my parents – I'm afraid to see the disappointment in their eyes, hear the disapproval in their voices.

The only time I allow my emotions to surface, is when I'm doing a shoot, or editing my work; and only because I find it an absolute necessity in order to capture the mood I'm striving to create - which is why photographing the babies in San Francisco moved me to tears. Otherwise, I avoid emotion entirely; and I think about my parents as little as possible.

Correction: I avoided emotion entirely. I thought about my parents as little as possible.

I sigh and drag my fingers through my always-messy hair. Jasper's gentle persistence had me beat the first night; and his quiet subversion is still at work, even when he's not here. You are a dangerous, subversive boy, Jazz. How little did I realize, when I said those words, just how true they would prove to be for me. The command I had over my emotions, is no longer as strong as it once was. Since Jasper, they seem to be constantly simmering just beneath the surface. Briefly I wonder how many other areas of my life I will come to view as a "pre-Jasper" phase. And from the back of my mind, a small voice suggests that, with him in my life, maybe I can even face my parents.

Enough. That's enough, now. Such a short time ago, I was feeling so great, looking forward to us holing up together for the weekend and just enjoying each other. Time to get my shit together. I want this weekend with him to be just like last night: nothing but talking and eating and sex. Mmm, lots of sex. In that claw foot tub. And I think it might be time for the expression "our bed" to make another appearance; if I may be so bold as to claim his bed as "ours".

I grin broadly. Something tells me that won't be a hard sell.

-o-

I followed a link in a reviewer's profile to her Deviant Art profile, and one of her favourites is a fantastic print by Jeff Thomas; the print is called HormoneBlind and you can view it here: www(dot)deviantart(dot)com/print/713013/ I've placed a link to it in my profile as well. I think it couldn't be a better depiction of these boys if I had commissioned it myself (facial piercings aside, but, god, I am SUCH a sucker for a boy with a little hoop in his lower lip). Have a look around Jeff's profile as well – I'm sure you'll recognize his characters Pon & Zi. Please show the boy some much-deserved love. Also – if you are the reviewer who had the link in her profile, can you send me a PM? Thanks, bb.

And at the risk of turning this author's note into a fucking tome, I can't neglect to thank manyafandom for yet another public mention of Over the Top. Check out her guest contribution to The Lazy, Yet Discerning Ficster: discerningficster(dot)blogspot(dot)?zx=1d75b7c0f025a406 A mention on TLYDF is a huge honour; and manyafandom has been a vocal and active supporter of OTT. Thank you yet again, girl. xo

As always, please, please review.