A Gay Retelling

The DARKENED SUN

All rights reserved to the original creator, Stephenie Meyer. This work, and any that may follow, are a queer retelling for fanfiction purposes and to practice my own writing. I do not own any of the original characters that were established in the original saga.

Life, as it so often is, has not happened as I would have wished. I've come to the conclusion, that for the time being, I need something to act as an "escape." Thus, I have returned to one of my comfort novels. This story will be similar to other queer retellings of The Twilight Saga, but with some different twist to characters and plots. I have decided to give Beau much of my own personality, just as Mrs. Meyer had done with Bella. The timeline for this story will be moved up from the mid two-thousands to around the mid two-thousand-and-tens (January, twenty-sixteen to be exact). Thank you for reading, I do hope you each enjoy.

I asked him for it.

For the blood, for the rust,

for the sin.

I didn't want the pearls other girls talked about,

or the fine marble of palaces,

or even the roses in the mouth of servants.

I wanted pomegranates—

I wanted darkness,

I wanted him.

So I grabbed my king and ran away

to a land of death.

Daniella Michalleni

Preface

I had never given much thought to how I would die, though I had reason enough after the incident of my sophomore year, even despite all that had transpired in my life over the course of these past few months. I had truly never thought of how I wanted to die. Regardless, even if I had, I never would have fathomed that my life would end like this.

I stared without breathing across the long room, into the cold, cruel black eyes of the predator that stood across from me. He looked pleasantly back at me, a look that I was unfortunately familiar with. Surely this was a good way to die, in the place of those that I loved? Honorable, noble even? That ought to count for something.

Terrified as I was, braced to greet death, I could not regret any of the choices that had led to this. After all I had been put through, the fates had offered me a dream far beyond any and all of my expectations. So how was I to grieve now that the dream had come to its end?

The hunter smiled at me, friendly even, as he sauntered forward to kill me.

CHAPTER ONE: A FRESH BEGINNING

My father drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down. It was a crisp seventy-five degrees in Phoenix, the sky above was a clear, cloudless cerulean. I had wore one of my favorite outfits, a button-up dress shirt dyed a deep sapphire, paired with light grey chinos. Adding to the outfit were a pair of my best brown Oxfords and a slim braided gold bracelet. I had meant it to act as both a farewell and good riddance gesture. In my lap lay a black peacoat, and a small satchel, my only carry-on items.

In the Olympic Peninsula of the northwest Washington State sat a small town by the named of Forks. It existed under a nearly persistent cover of clouds. It rains on this inconsequential town more than any other place in the United States. It had been from this gloomy town, with its omnipresent shade that I had left with my father at the age of four after my parents' divorce.

I had once loathed Forks, perhaps due to my father's influence. I had been forced to spend my summers there, due to the usual custody arrangement my parents had made. My mother had done her best to ensure that I enjoyed my time there each year, but as a child who had grown accustomed to big cities, the mundane life of Forks had been miserable. The summer before eighth grade I had put my foot down; my mother, Charlotte or "Charley," had agreed to alter the two month visit, for two-week vacations in various parts of the U.S. That was until this past summer, where she had used all her vacation time to visit me as I recovered.

Forks was now the town that I would exile myself to—an action I would have once thought to be a punishment worse than death. However, the idea of escaping the sprawling city I had once loved, for the safe small town of my early youth, had grown more and more tantalizing since I had left the hospital after the incident. And perhaps by moving there I could begin to truly heal from the life-altering event that had nearly taken my life less than a year prior.

"Beau," my father said to me—the last of a thousand times before I would walk through TSA. "Are you sure? You don't have to do this."

I look nothing like my father, save for having inherited his height and dark mahogany colored hair. It wasn't until I was preparing to leave him that I realized I had grown past him. I felt a spasm of guilt and panic as I stared into his sad eyes. It felt…nearly neglectful to leave him. My father had always worked as an underwriter for an insurance agency that dealt with business properties. And though he had been able to mostly work from home, his job required long, and often stress-filled hours. At an early age I had learned how to cook, do laundry, and how to keep a house. I had ensured he left his in-home office to eat, had established a strict seven-thirty curfew for when he would finally shut off his phones and laptops. I had ensured he still made time for his hobbies, the many, many hobbies he treasured. I had taken care of him, and now I was willingly abandoning him. Of course, now he had Loretta, so there would always be fresh food stocked in the refrigerator, gas in any one of their cars, and someone to help look after his blood pressure. But still…

"We both know why I have to do this," I had whispered, fighting back tears of my own. He knew as well, but that did not make our goodbye any easier. If anything, it only added to the defiant ending of the life we had built together. My father nodded. I knew he still carried the weight of what had happened upon his shoulders, a weight he shared with my mother, a weight that neither of them had earned.

"Dad," I said as gently as I could. "This is for the best. It's a fresh start. For all of us. None of us can continue living like we have been."

"I know," he added somberly. "But maybe California could also be your fresh start? It's…well I think people tend to be more accepting there. Don't they?"

"No," I had said assuredly. "Small town. That's what's safe for right now."

"You can come to California, Beau. If—if life in Forks turns out to not be the fresh start we think it is."

I could see the truth and trepidation in my father's eyes. I could sense the sacrifice he would need to make to fulfill his promise. None of us were sure how long the pain of what had happened would effect me. To an extent I had healed, the only physical reminder of that night were a few scars. The mental damage, however, was far more severe. I was no longer the outgoing and charming young man I had been, and I saw how deeply that knowledge pained my father. With a new wife, and a new baby on the way, I could not allow my suffering to steal away any of his joy. I instantly redacted the original notion of my leaving being neglectful. My departure from my father and his new family was merciful.

Swiftly my father wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into a snug embrace. I returned the hug, holding on for a moment longer than usual.

"Don't worry about me," I urged. "I'll be fine. I think this is going to work. I love you, Dad."

"I love you more," he whispered, his voice shaking. "Call me the moment you land." I reluctantly untangled my arms from my father. I fixed the satchel, or "murse" as my father had called it, closer around my shoulder. My father and I each forced a smile, and tears fell lightly down each of our cheeks. I forced myself to walk away from my father and through the TSA checkpoint. By the time that I was through, my father was gone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent into Port Angeles. Please remain seated with your seatbelt fastened until we reach the gate." The flight attendant's voice stirred me from my unrestful slumber. It had been a four hour flight from Phoenix to Seattle, with yet another hour long flight in the tiniest airplane I had ever been in to Port Angeles. I rubbed my fingers against my eyes, and began to regret not buying a coffee during my layover.

From Port Angeles there would be yet another hour's travel to arrive at my mother's house in Forks. An hour, if anything like those hours of my youth, would be spent in near silence.

Charley had really been fairly kind about the whole matter of my moving in with her, excited even. She seemed genuinely touched that I had asked to live with her for the first time with any degree of permanence. She had already gotten me registered for my second semester of junior year, and had assured me that she would help get me a car.

However, I was more hesitant for this hour drive alone with Charley than I had ever been before. My mother had never been someone who could be referred to as a social butterfly; it was a commonality that we had only recently begun to share. After the incident my secret had been exposed, though I never really thought it was a secret—on the contrary, I thought it was quite obvious. Perhaps my lack of a verbal declaration had been what kept my parents, teachers and peers questioning. There had been many discussions during my stay in the hospital, countless hours of questions, of confessions. From those came assurances and promises, with declarations of unconditional love. My parents had given me no reason to doubt their promises or love. But I was unsure of what else there was left to be said regardless.

When I landed in Port Angeles, it was raining. I didn't see this as an eerie omen of what was to come from my move, just an unavoidable reality of the climate I now would live in. I had already said farewell to the sun.

Wanting to avoid hearing my father's voice too soon, I shot him a quick, "I'm here, with Charley," text, before shoving the iPhone back into my satchel.

Upon exiting the airport I found that Charley had parked as close to the arrivals pick-up lot as possible. She was leaning against her cruiser, dressed in full uniform. I had been expecting this as well. Charley Swan was the police chief to the good people of Forks. Her police career had been the root cause of both the divorce, and the unusual custody arrangement that had been made in the mid-two-thousands.

The crime rate wasn't particularly high in Forks, a few cases of underage drinking, some DUIs, the occasional theft and hunting out-of-season animals. But my mother had been determined to follow in the footsteps of her father, who I had been named after. He had been the police chief her whole life, just has his father had been before him. My mother had been very close to her father, who had died just before I was born. Her passion to follow in his footsteps fueled her rise up in ranks, which led to longer hours away from my father and I, less passion for being a wife and mother. It had been for that reason she had insisted my father have primary custody. His job could be demanding, his hours just as long, his attention just as diverted but he was home, unlike her.

Charley smiled and gave me an awkward, but warm hug when I had stumbled my way over to her. I towered over her.

"It's good to see you, Beau," Charley had said, smiling. She took one of the bags from my hand, placing it into the trunk of her cruiser. I started to do the same, but slipped on the wet concrete. My mother caught and steadied me, trying to stifle a chuckle. I had only a few bags. Most of what I had worn regularly in Arizona was too permeable for Washington. I had only brought my nicest clothes out of a stubbornness to part with them. My father had taken me shopping for a more appropriate wardrobe. We had been fortunate to find clothes that worked with my own preferred style, but not much. Everything fit easily into the trunk of the cruiser.

"You haven't changed much, maybe gotten a little taller," she said before looking at me more closely. Her dark brown eyes moved around in their sockets as she began to study to my face. I was sure she was recalling the last time she had seen me, when my face was still stitched and bruised.

I looked the most like my mother, except for her blonde hair. She looked very young for her age, she had been confused for my sister several times when she had visited me in the hospital.

"How's Reed?"

"Dad's fine. It's great to see you too, Mom." I tried not to call her Charley to her face.

"And how's, Loretta? Is her pregnancy going along well?" I could tell my mother was trying her best to be polite.

"It's going well," I replied. "I'm pretty sure it's a girl."

"They still waiting to find out until the birth?"

I chuckled. "Yes ma'am. Loretta loves a good surprise."

"I found a really good car for you. Not that expensive at all," my mother mentioned, changing the subject.

I turned to look at her, a tad wearily. "Really? What kind of car?"

"Well," Charley said suspiciously, "it's a truck actually. A Chevy."

"Where did you find it?"

"You remember Billy Black, right?"

Billy was not an easy man to forget. He and his family lived down in La Push, which was part of the Quileute Reservation on the coast. Both Charley and Billy's fathers had been friends, thus Charley and Billy had grown up together, and viewed one another as cousins. I suppose I had known Billy since birth, but most of my memories of him came from my time here in the summers.

Billy and his late-wife had three children. A set of female twins nearly a decade older than I was, and a son who had been born a year after me. I had been forced to spend a great amount of time with Billy and his son during my summer stays. At least once a week they took Charley and I out fishing. I hadn't mind the fishing too much, it was really the only sport that was safe enough for me to participate in. In all honesty those fishing trips had been the highlight of each summer. There had been something so enticing about being out at sea on a boat, not knowing what you were fighting on the other end of the line. Charley had always been so proud when I had caught something big enough for dinner. Billy had taught me how to cook all types of fish, to ensure that their flavor was at its best.

Billy's son, Jacob, had always been nice enough, but I could easily recall that he always had far more energy than I did. He often got himself into trouble, and on a few occasions had managed to wrangle me in on the mischief.

"Of course I remember, Billy," I said with a small laugh. "How's he doing?"

"He's in a wheelchair now, so he's not able to drive anymore. When I told him that you were moving back up here, he offered to sell it to me cheap."

"What year is it?" When I asked this I could see the change in my mother's expression. It was a question that she had hoped I wouldn't ask.

"Well, Billy and Jacob, you remember, Jacob don't you?" Charley inquired as she strung along her explanation. "They've done a lot of work to it. The engine is only a few years old I think."

"When did he buy it?"

"Oh, gosh," Charley said with a sigh, trying to recall the year. "I think he bought it back in 1990."

My stomach began to sink. "And did he buy it new?"

"Ugh, no. Actually I think it was new in the early sixties—late fifties at the earliest," Charley admitted sheepishly.

I gasped. "Ch—Mom. Really, do I strike you as someone who knows anything about cars? I'm not going to be able to fix it when something goes wrong, and I can't exactly afford a mechanic…"

"Really, Beau," Charley started soothingly, "the thing runs great. They don't build 'em like that anymore."

The Thing, I thought to myself, instantly visualizing the truck somehow featured among one of my many favorite horror films. It had potential, as a nickname at the very least.

"Well how cheap is cheap?" After all, that was the part that I couldn't compromise on. My father had offered to help Charley out with car money, but I had insisted he use it towards items for the new baby. I had saved up money from mowing lawns and pet and baby sitting, but it wasn't all that much.

"Well, I kind of already bought it for you. As a homecoming gift." Charley peeked at me sideways with a hopeful gleam in her eyes.

Wow. Free.

"Mom, you really didn't need to do that. We talked about this, I brought money to help pay for it."

"And I didn't want you to spend your money on it. Your grandpa got me my first car, and I wanted to get yours. Besides, I want you to be happy here." She was looking ahead at the road while she was saying all this. Charley had never been very comfortable with sharing or expressing her emotions out loud. I had inherited that from her. So when I responded, I made sure that I was looking straight ahead as well.

"Thanks, Mom. That was really sweet of you. I appreciate it." I hoped that I could somehow be happy here, far away from all that had happened.

"You're welcome, son," she mumbled, embarrassed by my thanks.

We exchanged a few more commentaries on the weather, which was expectedly just wet. That was where the conversation for the rest of the ride to Charley went silent. My father had always been the chatty one, especially during car rides. I had been like that at one point, too. I wondered if the concussion had somehow been the cause of my changed personality? The first couple weeks in the hospital were incredibly hazy in my memory. I could barely recall any discussions with the nurses or doctors, or the first few physical therapy sessions. Eventually I was able to recall everything, even every detail of the event that had put me in intensive care. I had been a different person before. More lively, more outgoing, more like my father. That had been what landed me into the trouble I had gotten myself into.

I stared out the windows, watching the green world pass by me. Forks was beautiful, of course; that I couldn't deny. It was just as I had remembered it being. Everywhere, and everything was green. The trees, their trunks and exposed roots, all covered in electric green moss. The branches hanged down creating a canopy of green foliage. The ground looked as though someone had taken thick green paint, and lazily coated every inch of it. Even the very air that engulfed this strange place cascaded downwards with a greenish tint through the leaves. This world was a clear opposite to the one I had left behind in the arid Phoenix that I had once loved. This world was too green—an alien planet hidden among the trees, earth, and rain.

Eventually we made it to Charley's. She still lived in the small, two-bedroom from her short marriage to my father. It had been her parent's house, and their's before. There, parked on the street in front of the ever unchanging house, was my new—well, new to me truck. It was a faded cherry red, with big, rounded fenders and a bulbous cab. To my absolute surprise and delight, I loved it. I wasn't sure how well it would run, but I could see myself driving around in it. On another positive note, it was one of those solid iron affairs that never got damaged—the kind one could expect to see at the sight of an accident, paint unscratched, no evidence of any dents, surrounded by the pieces of the foreign car that it had destroyed.

"Mom," I exclaimed excitedly. "Thank you! I love it!" And I had meant it. I had never had my own car before, having to use my father's or Loretta's while in Phoenix. The beast—no The Thing. It was not the type of car I had envisioned myself in, but it certainly had potential.

"I'm glad you like it," Charley said gruffly, hiding her embarrassment once again.

It only took us one trip to get all of my belongings upstairs. My room had been the west facing one that looked over the front yard. The room was familiar—the deep emerald green walls and white laced curtains complimented the wood finishes and dark wooden dresser and bookshelf. The high peaked ceiling was lower than I had remembered—all of it, were aspects of my childhood I thought I wanted to forget. Slowly I began to notice the many subtle changes that my mother had made. Replacing the twin bed of my childhood was an already made queen bed with a sleigh frame. Above the bed hung the poster to my favorite musical, singed by the actors who Charley and I had met at the stage door almost three years ago on our weekend stop in New York City. There were also framed photos of myself as a child. The largest was the one taken on my third birthday. In the photo I sat atop Charley's lap, smiling into the camera with cake smeared all across my face. Charley was looking down at me, her face laughing, her eyes filled with more light than I could ever remember seeing.

Across from the bed stood a desk. The desk now held several ceramic jars, inside of them were pencils, pens and paintbrushes. Hidden among the paintbrushes, standing tall, was a flag. A pride flag. For a moment my heart leaped into my throat.

My "coming out" hadn't been on my terms. I had known of course, I had simply never said the words aloud to anyone, not even my father. I hadn't felt the need to. I just expected that everyone knew. I hadn't understood why it had been necessary in the first place. Why did I have to announce to anyone that I only found other guys romantically interesting? Why couldn't I just go about dating like my peers who were straight? And if I were being honest, the microscopic dating history I did have, wasn't worth mentioning. The incident changed that. I had been the most nervous to confess to Charley, worried what she would think, afraid that her mind would be as small as the town she resided in. I was ashamed of that fear, more now than ever. One of the few memories that was crystal clear from those hazy few weeks was the moment I had said the words aloud to her. I remember that I hadn't been able to meet her eyes.

"Beau, I've know since you were two," she had whispered while holding my cheek. "You used to perch yourself on the rocks at the beach, waiting for a wave to crash into you, pretending you were Ariel. I've known, Baby. And I've never wished that part of you were different." Her small speech was brought to the forefront of my mind as I gazed at that small flag. It had been one of the few times that she had felt like my mother, rather than a distant relative whom I saw once a year.

"Reed told me what kind of watercolor paper and paints to get you," Charley said while putting one of my suitcases on the bed. Instantly I was pulled from my recollections, though the endearing emotions remained. "He told me that you—that you've not really painted as much since…" she couldn't bring herself to say the word.

"I haven't," I confirmed. "Maybe I just needed a change in scenery to get back into it." I smiled at her, a smile that she returned. Charley left soon after. That was one of the best things about Charley, she didn't hover. She let me be to unpack and begin sorting all the belongings that I had taken with me. It was welcoming to be alone, to have a brief reprise from the act I was playing.

I had always been a good actor, I could've easily been accepted into Juilliard, maybe have been on Broadway. The act I played now was the most challenging of my life. Because this time, the act encompassed my entire reality, rather than a character I was portraying. The act was faltering with my father, who was unfortunate enough to bear witness to my night terrors, but I was nevertheless determined to ensure that I played my part seamlessly here in Forks.

"Fake it 'till you make it," I repeated to myself.

There was only one small bathroom at the stop of the stairs, which I would have to share with Charley. I tried desperately to not dwell on that fact too much. It helped that I had more skin-care and hair product than she did, there was plenty of room to organize both our things separately and neatly. When I was finished with the bathroom, I moved back to my room. I organized my clothes in the closet by color, black taking up the largest percentage. I was sure to separate my shirts from pants. The few pairs of shoes I had lined the back of the closet perfectly. I proceeded to move onto organizing my socks, underwear and sleep clothes into various drawers in the dresser that stood next to the closet. My next step was to arrange the books I had brought onto the bookshelf. I categorized my books methodically; arranging them by genre and likelihood of rereading them. It was easy to tell which books were my comfort reads, my collection edition of Jane Austen's novels, as well as all of my Harry Potter, Anne Rice and Stephen King books appeared nearly broken and abused. But all too soon I was finished with my mini project of settling in.

I forced myself to eat dinner with Charley, she had ordered pizzas for delivery. After dinner I excused myself to the bathroom. I could hear the intro to the latest episode of Dateline playing from the living room as Charley settled into her lounge chair. I had grabbed a fresh tank top for sleeping and pajama bottoms before turning on the shower. I waited until the heat of the water caused the bathroom mirror to fog over.

The shower did nothing to drown my thoughts about the approaching Monday. Forks High School had a freighting total of only three-hundred and fifty seven—now fifty-eight students; there had been more than seven hundred people in my sophomore class alone back home. All of the kids here had grown up together—like Charley and her old childhood friends, like all of their grandparents before them. I was going to be the new boy from a big city. The new boy who ran away from the very public incident that was the cause of his moving here in the first place; a simple Google search would be all that any curious peer would need to discover anything that they needed to know about me. I was going to be a curiosity, a freak.

Not to mention that I was, highly likely, the only gay person around for miles. I had considered that notion well enough throughout the process of moving here. I had considered extending my act further than where it was currently; portray myself as any other young men my age that I had gone to school with back in Phoenix. Wear humorless graphic tees, sweat pants, with white socks and crocs. Act just dumb enough to where I was likely not to be called on by any teacher, play myself up as a Casanova with no interest in the girls of Forks…just a typical teenage douche.

But that wasn't me, and not an act even I could play convincingly. Unlike the many roles I had played throughout my time in school and community theater, where I could find a bit of myself in the character to feed off of, there was nothing of me in the douchy persona I had concocted in my mind. Besides, Charley had already informed her co-workers, she had to share with them everything that happened to explain why the chief was away from the station for over a month. She had asked my permission, and in the drug-induced state I had been in, I really hadn't cared. And truly I hadn't. The secret didn't mattered anymore. The secret had been the thing that had nearly killed me. If any of her deputies had minded they hadn't made their distain known. She had asked that they help her keep an extra eye and ear out for both her and I. But this was a small town, and the chief's gay son coming to live with her for the remainder of his high school career was the kind of small town run-of-the-mill gossip that spread like wildfire. I was sure that the news had already spread to what would be my new high school. So why pretend to be anything different?

Maybe, if I had been like the standard teenage boy I or even looked like one from Phoenix, I could've gotten away with it. But physically and mentally, I would never fit it—perhaps anywhere. I should be tan, sporty, blond—a lacrosse player, maybe soccer or baseball—all typical and standard things that go with living in the valley of the sun.

Instead, I was ivory-skinned, and without even the excuse of blue eyes or red hair, despite the constant sunshine. I couldn't tan, just burn. I had always been slender, the muscle definition I did have came from countless hours of rehearsals for shows, and the fact that I enjoyed taking hours long walks as often as I could. And while I was tall, standing at a solid six-three, it was obvious that I was by no means an athlete; I didn't possess the necessary hand-eye coordination that is required to play sports without humiliating myself—and causing bodily harm to myself and anyone else unfortunate enough to be around me (and yes, there is a clear distinction from learning a choreographed dance over a course of months, to running around with whatever ball, trying to score, or trying to avoid being tackled or worse. It was safer for everyone that I remain as far away from anything that had to do with a ball, puck, and even a birdie).

I looked at my face in the fogged over bathroom mirror as I brushed through my tangled, damped hair. Maybe it was the lighting, but already I looked sallower, unhealthy. Though if I were being honest with myself, I had reason enough. My skin could be pretty—after the acne cleared my freshman year I became devoted to taking care of my now blemish-free skin. It was very clear, almost translucent—but that was helped with good, natural lighting. I had none of that here.

Facing my pallid reflection in the mirror, I was forced to ponder if I had only been lying to myself about why I had wanted to move here. I had needed to get away. I needed my father to fully embrace his newfound bliss as new husband and expected father, without him worrying constantly about me. But was it even possible to start afresh and new in such a desolate, small town, when being gay had nearly killed me in a city as large as Phoenix?

Perhaps I had figured that having my mom be chief in such a small town would mean I'd be offered more protection. Phoenix was big enough where rich boys' fathers' were able to pay off corrupt lawyers and judges. Dismissing any and all charges that had been brought before them. Where their lawyers had been able to twist the tale to ensure that the victim had been the responsible party, who had been asking for it, the truly guilty individual. Here in Forks, a simple visit from the Chief was enough to put a stop to something before it even began. That was why I moved here. Not simply just for a fresh start, rather for a safer place to hide.

There was a part of me that wondered if maybe, even if I had only moved here to hide under my mother's shield, I could still find a good group of friends, even just one? Prior to the assault, I had been well-liked enough back in my old school, though I was by no means popular. I was friendly, but I didn't have any real friends. It was my fault, a common theme in my life. I didn't really relate well to people my own age. Honestly, I didn't relate well to people in general. Even my own father, whom I was closer to than anyone else on the planet was never truly in harmony with me, never quite on the same page.

Often there were times where I wondered if I was even seeing the same things through the eyes of the others around me. I worried that there was something wrong with me, a glitch somewhere in my brain. The cause however, mattered not, all that mattered was the effect it had.

I wanted this time to be different. After everything, all I wanted was a fresh start, a real chance to rebuild what I had lost. There were eighteen months between Monday and graduation. I had eighteen months to start over and try again.