Draw Me In

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Seventeen – We Are Going To Be Friends

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*~ I feel the question of your loneliness
Confide 'cause I'll be on your side ~*

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One of the reasons I don't like eye contact is because it is, by its very nature, a connection. You can look at the ground, the trees or the sky and you can be aware of them without them ever being aware of you. But then you glance up and it's an –

I see you.

Not by everyone, because there's so many people to, well, look at, I suppose. I imagine someone like TS had loads of people "seeing" him, whereas someone like me only had a select few. Because even if someone looks at you, it doesn't mean you have to look back at them.

I wish I could tell you that his gaze was like one that you accidentally catch crossing the road, or on a too-full train. But it wasn't.

Feeling just . . . just. I sink to the floor.

He leans forward like . . . like what? But stays where he is.

"Too much?" he finally asks, softly.

I find myself nodding before I make the conscious decision to do so, and my eyes widen a tad. Okay, so my meltdowns are sort of glaringly obvious, but it still surprises me that he that he guesses so easily – so rightly.

"I'm sorry," he says again, his fingers running through his hair once more.

I hug my knees to my chest, feeling myself frown at his repeated words. "Don't be," I reply quietly, feeling a little guilty. I'm sure when he showed up here earlier he wasn't expecting this exhausting mess, i.e. me. "I asked."

He smiles, the corners of his lips blurring into his cheeks. "But you weren't expecting my answer."

I shake my head, feeling lightheaded as I suddenly take in the bizarreness of the night. "Not any of this."

We sit in quiet for a minute then, as if soaking up everything, letting it melt into our bloodstreams. I've vacated his stare again and have fixed my gaze on the carpet. I'm a pro at awkward silences, but for some reason this doesn't feel that.

Or maybe it is, and I'm just in too much of a tizz to notice.

"How'd you know where I live?" I speak-think at the same time, because it only just occurred to me. And it is, to be honest, a lot easier than the other questions I've been asking tonight.

I glance up just in time to see his eyes widen a little. "Um, I may have . . . followed Emmett and Jasper here." His words initially start out slow, but by the time he's reached here, his vowels and syllables are blurring together.

I blink, once, twice, three times.

"And . . . and how did you know I lived with them – Alice and Rose?" I ask, slowly.

He's tugging on his hair now. And I don't know whether it's just the bad lighting, or if his ears are actually turning a little red.

"Emmett and Jasper," he says again, his look sheepish. "Alice may have told – "

"Bloody Alice," I hiss quietly, my eyes narrowing at the wall behind him. Why on earth would she do that? She didn't know him from Adam and –

"She said you'd be mad," Edward says, voice cutting through my thoughts. When I dart my eyes back to him, he's smiling, but looking as though he's trying to tamp it down – and failing.

I frown.

He presses his lips together.

"Well, she's right," I finally mutter, casting my glance away. I fight the petulant urge to cross my arms over my chest, but only just.

"I'm . . . I'm sorry."

I blink down at my soft pyjama bottoms, picking at some loose thread I meant to sew back together. "You say that a lot," I observe quietly, pull pull pulling at the thin blue cotton. Because he does. He keeps on saying it, and the more he does the more I realise he doesn't have any real reason to. He did . . . what? Invited me backstage? Carried me to Rose's car when I was sleeping? Gave me his card? Responded to a text message I sent him?

So, alright. He showed up at my home without being invited, but it wasn't like he'd forced his way in here. I'd let him in. And he'd already offered to leave.

So then I just blurt – "You should stop." Closing my eyes, I give my head a quick shake. "Stop – apologising, I mean. I mean . . . if you're really not . . . " I lift my eyes then, because I need to see. "You're really not playing with me?" My voice sounds small, childlike even. And I know that I sound like a broken record, but people don't just flock to me, so I'm inherently suspicious when even one person does. Especially this person.

"No," he says, voice full and emphatic. He sits a little straighter and skates his fingers to his temples, pushing away fallen strands – his eyes clear, unobstructed. Letting me see. "No, I'm not. I swear."

I exhale a bit shakily then, feeling my heart thrum out a drum beat and hearing it echo in my ears. Because if he's being honest with me, and the transparency in his eyes and voice makes me think he is, then Rose is right.

He makes you nervous!

Everyone makes me nervous.

Yeah. But in an 'you-make-me-extremely-uncomfortable' way, not in an –

"I don't know how to deal with you," I blurt.

His eyes widen.

My own widen right back as I realise what I've just said. I immediately slap my hands over my mouth, as if that'll somehow make it better (like when people do that waving-hand motion in front of their face when they've eaten something too hot – why?) and lament all my life choices that have led to this moment.

"I just want – " he starts, breaks off. His throat tightens as he seemingly struggles for the right words, and I can relate. After a bit, he just sighs and stars tugging on his hair.

I let my hands fall to the carpet. Heart in my mouth, I ask, "Just want, what?" Because I think it's better when he's the one saying things – even if they are impossible.

He fixes me with more than a look, with a gaze that's as long as his determination is (which seems to be pretty long), while a slow smile curls up the corners of his lips. My breathing hitches a bit when he leans forward, and his hands fall to his neck. His hair tumble tumble tumbles and creates dense waves of red-oak to emphasis his shamrock-green.

Then –

"I just want a friend," he says softly, simply.

I try not to but –

I gape.

"I want you to be my friend."

Even more so –

I gape.

After a while, I sputter, "You could have – "

"Anyone," he interrupts, narrowing his eyes at me playfully. "I know. You've made that pretty clear. But I don't want anyone. I want you."

Uh.

Um.

Uhhh.

I'm not sure I like the weird flutter in my heart his words bring.

Kind of don't want him to say it again.

I'm not that person. People don't seek me out, and they don't say these sort of things to me – ever.

My throat tightens – like his did earlier – and I'm horrified to find a lump forming there. I blink quickly to dispel the sting of anything that might or might not be creeping up – unexpectedly – on me, and start fidgeting like a maniac.

"I'll be a good friend," he says softly.

My nails dig into my fingertips. "I'm not sure I can be," I whisper back.

My heart thumps so quickly in the ensuing silence I'm almost surprised it doesn't just give up – it's been that frantic tonight. I've never had anyone want to be my friend so suddenly since . . . well, since Alice and Rose. And I didn't get it then either, just like I don't get it now.

"I think I'd like to find that out," he says easily, "for myself."

Thump thump thump goes my heart.

Sorry sorry sorry goes my head.

I blink down at the carpet before peeking up at him again. He doesn't look nervous anymore. I wish I could say the same.

He drops his head to catch my eyes, and my gaze freezes on his. Tipping his head to the side, his green roves all over, like he's looking for something – but I have no idea what. Maybe he doesn't, either.

"Let me show you," he finally says, his voice liquid smooth but sinking into my skin.

My cheeks flush. I start picking at that loose bit of thread again. "You . . . you don't even know me."

"Right," he replies softly.

"So how . . . " I steal a breath. "How can you want to be my . . . my friend?" Even as I speak, I find myself shaking my head incredulously. When I'd first met Alice and Rose, at my first day of uni, I'd been confused by their enthusiasm to know me, but I'd only questioned it silently rather than outwardly. I'd felt too alone to wonder why they were talking to me, so I'd just accepted their kindness without asking why.

But we were all in the same situation – though we differed in character. We'd all moved away from home for the very first time, so maybe we were all as scared as each other. We were on equal footing.

But with TS . . .

"Why wouldn't I want to be?"

I bite the inside of my cheek. "That's not an answer."

"Well, you're question isn't much of a question, either."

I glance up at him and frown.

"I tried to tell you," he explains quickly. "And it . . . it was too much, I know. And you seem to think I only want to be your friend on novelty because you're different. You are, and I like that about you – like I said before. But I'm . . . I'm not the kind of person to just throw people away, alright? I wouldn't . . . " he exhales, shaking his head. "I want to be your friend, Bella, because I noticed you, because you're different. Because I like that. Because I can't stop – " he suddenly cuts himself off, and my eyes widen at the abrupt stilling of his unexpectedly impassioned voice.

All throughout his speech, his eyes had been locked on mine. But with the fading of his voice also came the fading of his gaze. I watch him watch my preferred spot (the carpet) while I reel over his words.

"Isn't it enough?" His soft voice drops in. "That I want to be?"

Tongue-tied, I don't respond for a minute.

Then –

"I don't know," I reply, voice small. It was before, with Alice and Rose, but I don't really know how to begin at being his friend, which is usually the hardest part. And usually where I tuck my tail between my legs and run. "Shouldn't I want it too?"

Maybe I wouldn't be able to tell if I weren't watching him so closely, but I see the minute movement of his eyebrows falling, the sudden, slight downward slant of his lips. "Yeah," he sighs, hand going to his hair again, gaze still touching ground. "Yeah."

Guilt wells up inside of me at the defeated sound of his voice, but I'm at a loss as to what to say next. I may be twenty three, but right then – more than ever – I feel as though I have the life experience of a two year old.

Alice and Rose would know.

Woman up, Bella.

You may not act like it, but you are one.

"It's not that – " I start, and his eyes dart up to me, momentarily stealing my breath. I swallow. "It's not that I don't want . . . I just don't know how . . . and I'm not sure I'll be . . . " My sentences come out as the fragmented thoughts that swirl around in my head. The feeling of frustration hits me ten-fold then, and I really do feel like a two year old – wanting something but unable to say what.

"Okay," I just blurt out instead.

Don't make me say it.

He blinks at me. "Okay?"

You're going to make me say it, aren't you?

"Okay. I'll be your . . . " I twist and twine my hands together nervously, finally forcing out, " . . . friend."

One of his eyebrows slowly rises, and that easy tone of his is back when he says, "You will?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"You really sure?"

"I said yes," I snap, narrowing my eyes at him.

In reply, a slow, warm smile tickles the corners of his lips up up up, until it spills over into clover and drenches the whole room in summer sun and green grass.

His happiness is so palpable it makes me smile, too.

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A/N: :)

Merry Christmas, you lovely lot! I hope you have a good one and enjoy celebrating the day with your loved ones. :) And here's to a wonderful 2015!

See you guys soon. :) Thanks for all your kind support this year. Enjoy tomorrow! xoxoxo