Edward had never held his hand. Not really. It seemed like such a stupid thing to care about, but they'd never just held hands. He'd clasped Jacob's twisting fingers between his own, steadying himself against the man. He'd run his fingertips lightly against Jacob's, drawing abstract patterns across the wolf's skin.
This was different. Edward had both his hands wrapped tightly around one of Jacob's, lying by the man's side. His fingers were threaded desperately through five others. There was no response to his grasp. Jacob's hand was completely still.
This was wrong. This was clinical and empty. It reminded Edward of white hospital rooms. Of accidents and giving up. Holding a hand that couldn't hold his back.
Carlisle stood by the table. Jacob hadn't been placed on a bed. Just on a table. For easier access. Or something.
It had been five days since Jacob had gotten onto that table, laughing and smiling in an attempt to ease the tension. Five days since Edward had...
Five days without a single sign of life.
They had expected to know something by now. They had expected some change. By now. But they'd seen nothing.
Carlisle had been attempting to monitor him, but there was truly nothing to monitor. No changes to heart rate. No spikes in breathing patterns. No growth. No decay. No anything.
Absolutely nothing.
But Edward wasn't giving up. He'd almost given up on Jacob before, by not believing in him. He wouldn't make the same mistake again.
(...)
"His heart is still beating, but it's slowing down. The drip is the only thing keeping his body from starving. If any change is occurring, it's happening too slowly for me to pick up."
Edward bent his head over where he still held Jacob's hand. Carlisle laid his hand on Edward's back, comforting his wayward son.
"Edward, it's been three weeks and he's slowly dying. We don't know what will happen when he does, but there is a large chance that he won't be coming back."
Edward shook his head slightly, screwing his eyes up against the threat of tears. He refused to let them come, refused to lose faith in Jacob. The man had come back from worse. He'd found his way back to Edward, even when Edward didn't want finding. He could do this one last thing, pull himself back from whatever precipice he was on and come back. Then they could finally rest.
(...)
"He's still not improving. If anything, he's getting worse. I'm sorry, but we have to be realistic about this."
(...)
"Edward, I don't think you should be in here anymore. Go out and sit with the others. They're worried about you."
(...)
The black and white keys blurred in Edward's vision, as his fingers moved frenzied above them. Edward thought that one of them might have cracked, but didn't pause to check. Someone in his family had tuned the piano and it sung out beautifully through the house.
Jacob had given him this music, and it seemed that, unlike it had with Bella, the inspiration was not going to die with him.