Ch 4 Boys Don't Cry

"Perfer et obdura, dolor hic tibi proderit olim."

Beau was dimly aware he was dreaming. The edges of his vision were blurred, and the colors seemed too vivid, too sharp. He stood in the meadow where he and Edythe had spent so many peaceful afternoons. But this time, it felt different—ominous, foreboding. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it an icy chill that gnawed at his bones.

He saw her then, standing across the meadow. Edythe. Her pale skin shimmered in the dappled sunlight, her golden eyes piercing into his soul. Beau's heart ached with longing, but he knew—somehow he knew—this wasn't real. This Edythe was a specter, a cruel figment of his mind.

"Edythe," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I know you're not real."

The apparition of Edythe smiled, but there was no warmth in it. It was a smile of pity, of sadness. "Beau, why do you torment yourself like this?" Her voice was like a melody, but the words cut deep.

"I don't… I can't…" Beau stammered, trying to find the right words, trying to make sense of the swirling chaos in his mind.

You're weak," the false Edythe said, her image distorting. "Always hiding behind others, never standing on your own. That's why I left. Did you really think you could keep up with me? That you deserved to be with me?

"No!" Beau cried, his hands clenching into fists. "That's not true!"

"You couldn't protect me. Couldn't even protect yourself. You're a burden, Beau. Always have been, always will be." The words echoed in the meadow, each syllable striking him like a blow.

Beau fell to his knees, the grass cold and damp beneath him. "Please, stop," he begged, tears streaming down his face. "I can't take this anymore."

The nightmare Edythe stepped closer, her eyes darkening with contempt. "You should have moved on, but you're stuck here, reliving the past. Pathetic."

The scene shifted, the meadow dissolving into the dark forest where they had last spoken. The trees loomed overhead, casting long shadows that seemed to swallow the light. Beau found himself trapped, unable to move, as the memory replayed with brutal clarity.

"Goodbye, Beau." Edythe's voice was icy, final. She turned away, and Beau reached out, but his hand passed through the empty air.

"No, don't leave me!" he shouted, but she continued to walk away, her figure fading into the darkness.

The words she had said that night echoed in his mind: "But Beau… you must've known that this could never work between us."

He was forced to relive it over and over, each iteration stripping away another layer of his sanity. He screamed, he pleaded, but the nightmare Edythe was relentless, her words unchanging, her departure inevitable.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "Please," he sobbed, collapsing to the ground. "Please, just let me wake up."

The apparition of Edythe knelt beside him, her expression softening for a moment. "You'll never escape this, Beau. This is your reality now. Forever."

"No!"

Beau jolted awake, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from his chest. He was drenched in sweat, the sheets clinging to his clammy skin. Each breath he took was a struggle, his lungs burning as he fought to calm himself. His hands shook uncontrollably, a lingering echo of the terror he had just endured

The morning light filtered through the curtains, but it brought no comfort. The bed felt like a prison, the room a tomb. Every muscle ached, his body screaming in protest from the physical and emotional toll he'd just endured.

He lay paralyzed, the nightmare's harsh words echoing in his mind. Trapped in despair, he stared blankly at the ceiling, unable to move.

When the phone buzzed with a message from Julie, he ignored it. He couldn't face her, couldn't face anyone. The pain was too raw, too overwhelming. All he wanted was to disappear, to escape the relentless torment of his own mind.

He closed his eyes, wishing for the oblivion of sleep, even if it meant returning to the nightmare. At least there, the pain had a face, a form. Here, in the waking world, it was an invisible monster, gnawing at his soul, leaving him hollow and broken.

His eyes panned over to his alarm clock. It was early in the morning, nearly an hour before his alarm usually rang. His body felt like he'd barely slept. Jules must've called when she woke up to berate him for neglecting to call her last night. In his defence, he had genuinely forgotten.

If he didn't at least text her soon, she'd probably head over here to check he wasn't dead.

It would be too much for him. He didn't even wanna move, breathe, exist. It was like the first few days after Edythe had left all over again.

His weeks spent volunteering to pick up litter, the exercise routine he so forcefully stuck to the point he broke his toes in the process. The hours upon hours spent working at his dead-end job.

None of it had brought him solace. His mind, tired of the constant running, now weaponized his insecurities, trapping him with a cruel specter of Edythe. In the one place he could never escape from.

It wasn't her; it wasn't. No matter what his brain used to convince him, he wouldn't hate her. He couldn't. She wasn't that cruel. If she really hated him that much, she wouldn't have spared him. Saved him more times than he could count on one hand, even if it was mostly from herself.

If Edythe was a bad person, he'd be a bloodless corpse abandoned in the woods somewhere. End of story.

That did little to soothe the unbearable ache he felt from her absence; it only made it worse.

A modern day Icarus, he had simply flown too close to the sun. To think that he was worthy of someone as perfect as her, that was real hubris.

Reluctantly, he forced his heavy limbs to move, focusing on the sensation of his injured foot hitting the floor.

If his foot hurt, his heart hurt a little less. His eyes turned to the one part of the room that would undo his attempts to evade the memories once again.

The abandoned pile of presents, each one containing the broken promises of a family he thought would come to accept him.

Before his conscious mind had thought to act, his foot connected with the nearest and largest box. It made a strange musical sound when he hit, like someone punched a piano.

Curiosity outweighed his anger, and he investigated. It was a box from Archie.

Inside was a keyboard. It looked expensive, a professional instrument. The only buttons he understood were the keys themselves. The rest looked like controls for a spaceship.

Inside that was an envelope, resting atop the keyboard, with a stack of CDs and a handwritten note. The artsy calligraphy could only belong to one of the Cullen's. Even Edythe didn't put that much flair into her writing.

"Don't get discouraged, you're a natural! I saw it myself. Can't wait to hear you play! Music is about that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent."

This had to be a joke. Archie had already seen him taking up an instrument? Him, with the dexterity and grace of a wounded elephant? He'd considered it a few times, but never bothered. Lacking the free time and knowing he'd probably fail if he tried.

He realized there was a note below the one he'd already read. If Archie really saw him taking up the piano, then he could see this, too. He wasn't sure where his vision's perspective would be, so he flipped everything off in every angle he could think of.

"I deserve that. If you're still upset, I understand. Don't lock yourself out of a hobby you'll come to love just to spite us. We're not worth it."

His temper roared back to the surface. If he was still upset? If!? How could he not be, when every memory was a fresh wound?

They had all abandoned him. Edythe's rejection was a knife to his heart, but Archie's indifference twisted it deeper. He could almost hear Jessamine's mocking laughter echoing through his mind, turning every moment of kindness into a cruel joke.

They probably all shared a good laugh at the stupid human, who thought he was actually going to be let into their family. Who really believed he was good enough for them.

Overwhelmed by the barrage of painful memories, Beau felt like he was suffocating. He needed to escape, but there was nowhere to run. His thoughts spiraled until the sound of approaching footsteps jolted him back to the present.

He hastily wiped the sweat from his brow, forcing his face into a mask of calm just as the door creaked open. Charlie's worried frown pierced right through him, making it even harder to maintain.

Charlie tentatively opened the door and stepped inside, his eyes scanning Beau with a worried frown. "Hey Beau, I thought I heard someone…" His words trailed off as he finally got a good look at him.

"You don't look so good, son. Everything alright?"

Beau forced a smile, but it felt brittle, like it might crack at any moment. "I'm fine, Dad. Just a rough night."

Charlie crossed his arms, concern etched in his features. 'Beau, this isn't just one rough night. I see you struggling, son. You've been pushing yourself—school, work, volunteering—trying to hold it all together. But it's okay to lean on others for support. Let me help you, like you help me.'

Beau's facade started crumbling under his father's caring gaze. He felt the urge to confide in his father, to let out all the pain and anguish that was tearing him apart. But he couldn't. He didn't want to burden Charlie with his problems, didn't want to admit how broken he truly was. The words caught in his throat, suffocating him.

"I'm fine, really," Beau insisted, trying to inject some conviction into his words. "Just... dealing with some stuff. I'll get through it."

Charlie shook his head, his expression hardening. "No, Beau. That's what I thought too. There's no need for you to do this all on your own. You need help. Talk to me, talk to someone. But don't keep shutting everyone out."

Beau's temper flared, the frustration and hopelessness bubbling to the surface. His father's concern felt like a spotlight on all his glaring inadequacies. "I said I'm fine," he repeated, his voice strained. "Why can't you just leave me alone?" The words came out sharper than he intended, a mix of anger and despair.

Charlie recoiled slightly, hurt flashing in his eyes. But he didn't back down. "I'm your father, Beau. That means I can't just leave you alone when I see you hurting like this. I won't."

Beau stood up, his movements jerky and tense. A sharp pain shooting up from his injured foot. "Well, maybe you should. Maybe I just need some space, okay? I can handle this. I'm not a kid anymore."

Charlie took a step closer, his voice softening. "Beau, you're not handling it. You're falling apart. And I can't stand by and watch that happen."

Beau turned away, staring out the window. "I don't need your help, Dad. Don't need anyone's help. I just... I just need to be left alone."

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken words and unresolved tension. Charlie sighed, the weight of his worry evident from his posture. "Alright, Beau. But I'm here. If you ever want to talk, if you ever need anything... I'm here."

Beau didn't respond. He heard Charlie leave the room; the door closing softly behind him. The empty silence returned, more suffocating than ever. He sank back onto the bed, feeling more alone than ever.

Eventually, he dragged himself out of bed and got dressed, making a small breakfast and saving the leftovers for his father.

All he ate was toast. Last night's fun had left him with a faint headache and an almost overwhelming nausea. Though he didn't think it was a hangover that had made him so sick to his stomach.

He knew if he went to school like this, all his attempts to appear normal would fall apart. Everyone would ask what was wrong with him. He wished he knew.

The boy looking back at him in the bathroom mirror looked fragile, made of glass. Like a strong breeze could send him tumbling over and shatter him into pieces.

Edythe was right about him again. That had to be one person who really knew him, or had known him. The person he had been before her absence caused that person to rip himself apart trying to cope.

What was wrong with him? Was this really the beginning of the rest of his life? This ceaseless pain? Leaving him numb, dead to a world that now felt cold and empty without her.

What was he supposed to say? That he was still mourning the loss of a relationship that had ended months ago? They'd laugh him all the way out of the school.

Or worse, they'd feel sorry for him.

Look at poor Beau. He genuinely believed that Edythe, a girl of her caliber, would choose to spend her life with someone like him. Just a worthless sack of flesh and bone, nothing exceptional or particularly rare about this human.

Today, he'd do a better job than any other day. He'd been half-assing his attempts to appear normal, he had to admit. First, he'd show the school that he was fine, then his father, then anyone else still doubting him.

He'd be the most cheerful guy in this entire dull town. Smile so big and laugh so hard nobody would ever think that he was still hurting inside.

Then his deception would be complete. He could torment himself to his heart's content then. It wouldn't matter to him, anyway. Dreaming of her had been a constant since they met, expecting it to change now would be insane.

Should he really be using insane as an insult? Him? The guy who heard the voice of his ex-girlfriend talking to him? He wasn't just made of glass, so was his house.

No more pleasant dreams, those had long faded from his memory. Leaving only nightmares that tormented him with the one thing he could never run away from. The truth.

Beau dragged himself through the motions of the day, putting on a mask of normalcy.

He even went to school early. Talking with everyone in his morning classes who didn't avoid him. Mckayla sat at her desk and ignored him, though he could feel her watching him as he made his rounds throughout the small classroom.

She was probably confused, trying to picture how this was the same rude and hateful boy picking fights in Port Angeles.

That was the real him, the ugly parts of himself he wished would just go away. All of this was a ruse, an elaborate scheme to get everyone off his back, to stop wondering if he was okay when he so obviously wasn't.

He felt tired, so tired that breathing felt like a physical chore. Tired of everything, pretending, hurting, all of it. All he wished for now was to sleep a thousand years, maybe longer.

What he wanted was for those who knew him to hate him, despise him for the same reasons he did.

Beau was weak, cowardly. A shell of a man, only pretending he wasn't broken beyond any hope of repair. Nobody had to see that but him.

So he'd make it impossible to see. A smokescreen to end them all. Offering to help others with their work and engaging in conversations with forced enthusiasm. He laughed at jokes, made small talk, and pretended that everything was fine.

But the mask was slipping. His laughter sounded hollow, his smiles never reached his eyes. People started noticing the cracks, the haunted look in his gaze, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was watching.

It would have to be enough. Charlie would be difficult to convince. His only hope was to harness the power of the small town gossip train to his advantage.

Nobody said a word to him when disappeared at the start of lunch. He ate alone, in a stall. There was only so much pretending he could handle. It made him sick to his stomach, so all he did was pick at his food idly. Counting down the seconds until he'd have to go back out.

At his usual lunch table, Allen was still gone, leaving Logan, who had been friendly since he started dating Taylor. Sitting next to Mckayla and Jeremy. Joining them again meant he should either apologize. Which he felt Mckayla deserved. Or sitting in awkward silence.

He was ready for neither. This was fine, what he deserved for being a jerk. It's not like their lunchtime conversations had been particularly riveting before.

All he had left was his shift at the video store and the day would be over.

Mckayla continued to ignore him there, too. It was deserved, so he couldn't complain. He hadn't realized until it was gone how much their idle chit chat helped the time go by faster.

When the day finally ended, he felt exhausted, more exhausted than he ever had before. Not from anything he'd done, but from the effort of maintaining this facade. As he walked home, the weight of his emotions pressed down on him, threatening to crush him.

When he reached his house, he paused at the door, dread pooling in his stomach at the thought of another confrontation with Charlie.

His hand trembled as he turned the knob, bracing himself for the inevitable questions. But the house was silent. Relief washed over him as he spotted a note on the kitchen table: Gone to the station for a late shift. Take care of yourself, and don't go into the woods, it's not safe.

That would be easy. Today was the first day his foot almost felt normal. He didn't wanna mess that up. After his reckless disregard for his injury had certainly made it worse.

Beau collapsed onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. He felt the tears welling up, the overwhelming despair breaking through his carefully constructed walls. He wanted to scream, to cry, to lash out at the world for the pain he was feeling.

But he didn't. He just sat there, tears streaming out from his eyes, dripping onto his clothes as he tried to ignore them. The emptiness consuming him from the inside out.

That night, the nightmare returned. The meadow, the false Edythe, the cruel words. But this time, it was worse. The nightmare Edythe's voice was sharper, her condemnation more brutal.

"You're nothing, Beau," she sneered. "A useless, pathetic human. You think you can hide behind your fake smiles and hollow laughter? You think you can fool anyone?"

Beau clenched his fists, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. "You're not real," he whispered, his voice trembling. "None of this is real."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" The nightmare Edythe taunted. "That I'm just a figment of your imagination? A convenient excuse to avoid facing the truth?"

"You're just...you're just my brain tormenting me," Beau said, his voice breaking. "Edythe never said those things. She never would."

The false Edythe laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "But isn't this what you've always feared? That you're nothing more than a worthless, insignificant human? That you never deserved her?"

No, that's not true, he thought, desperation clawing at his chest. "She...she loved me. Didn't she?"

"Did she?" the nightmare Edythe hissed, stepping closer. "Or was it pity? Was she just too kind to tell you the truth? That you're a burden, a liability. You think you're special, but you're not."

"I know she loved me," Beau insisted, his voice wavering. "I know she did."

The false Edythe's eyes narrowed, her expression hardening. "You're deluding yourself. You've always been weak, Beau. Always. Do you really think you can survive without her? You're falling apart, and everyone can see it."

"Shut up!" Beau shouted, his fists trembling with rage. "You're not real! You're just a nightmare!"

The nightmare Edythe laughed again, the sound echoing through the meadow. "You can deny it all you want, but deep down, you know I'm right. Without her, you're nothing but a hollow shell, masquerading as strong. Can you even remember who you were before her?""

Beau felt tears sting his eyes. His body trembled violently as he struggled to hold himself together, every breath a painful reminder of his anguish. "I...I can be strong. I don't need you to tell me who I am."

"You're weak," she repeated, her voice softer but no less cruel. "You're running from the truth, hiding behind your lies. Face it, Beau. You're alone, and you always will be."

"No," Beau whispered, his voice barely audible. "I won't believe you. I can't." He tried to escape her, to turn and flee from this overwhelming pain.

His body was frozen. He couldn't move, couldn't even blink while she closed in. Her golden eyes looked at him with a sadness he couldn't comprehend.

The false Edythe's smile widened, triumphant, her voice gentle despite the cruelty in her words. "You'll always believe me, because I am you. I'm the part of you that knows the truth, the part you can't escape."

Cold fingers wrapped around his throat, delicately stroking a patch of skin with an affection that he'd almost forgotten. He could feel where her touch drained the warmth from his body. Almost as if it were really her, sending a shiver up his spine.

Then something sharp pierced his skin, an involuntary sigh escaping his lips. A searing pain like liquid fire slowly spread out from the wound's source. At last he was able to move, raising his hands to stroke the luxurious coppery red locks of the girl, one last time.

Beau's eyes snapped open, his own screams still echoing in his ears. Drenched in sweat, his breath coming in short, frantic gasps, he lay in bed. The oppressive shadows of the dream faded, replaced by the familiar sight of his bedroom ceiling, now coming into sharp focus.

Waking up disturbed was becoming routine for Beau. His heart raced, and his lungs gasped for air, as if he hadn't been resting at all. His nightmares had only grown more vivid with time, refusing to leave him even when he woke. Every agonizing detail lingered just at the back of his mind, ready to resurface the moment he stopped suppressing it.

He repeated the words to himself like a mantra: They weren't real, simply dreams. Yet, it was becoming harder each day to separate the real Edythe from the cruel figment his mind had conjured in her absence.

'Don't worry, Beau. Soon I will only be a distant, if unpleasant, memory.'

No, he wouldn't let that happen. Time could never heal a wound this deep. The pain was a relentless reminder that it hadn't been a hallucination. He had truly experienced a joy beyond imagination, only to pay for it with a pain far worse. An easy trade, he would hold on to his memories of that dream for the rest of his life. The empty life he'd live without ever having met her was too terrible to even imagine.

He clung to his memories, refusing to let them fade into oblivion, even as his mind waged a relentless war to make him as miserable as possible. He wouldn't let it taint the image of her in his mind—the real Edythe. The beautiful months he'd spent with her, and the sweet memories his brain couldn't corrupt.

Was it the real Edythe? Had all their time together really been a lie? "No, that's impossible," he whispered to the empty room. "Even for an immortal, months of a fake relationship would be absurd."

No, it hadn't been a lie. Their feelings were just incompatible, it seems. She'd told him exactly how she felt, explaining in excruciating detail so there could be no room for doubt. He was a pet, an exotic pet for their kind, but still a pet.

Like the dog he'd had before his parents' divorce. Sure, he loved the dog, not in the same way he did Edythe. They weren't even comparable—the difference between a lake and an ocean.

There it was, the cruel truth. Edythe had loved him like a pet—dumb but sweet, something to protect from the world's harshness.

Are you satisfied now, brain? He had finally admitted the harsh truth. "Just one night of real sleep," he begged silently, his voice lost in the oppressive quiet.

Of course it wasn't satisfied, neither was he. His brain struggled to find the connection between her rebuke of their entire relationship with the memories he still held onto.

Beau would never be rid of his nightmares, that felt certain. Nothing had stopped them before.

He had once assumed that venturing into the forest would toughen him up, especially if he chose to run rather than blindly pursue the unattainable. Despite countless attempts to reenact his dream with himself in control, nothing ever changed.

The approach had worked for less than a week. Soon, the nightmares returned, more vivid and haunting than the cherished memories of her that he clung to. He had to go there, to that spot where the false Edythe turned his happiest memory into his nightly terror. It could be pointless, or it could finally rid him of his nightmares and allow him to sleep without fear.

He needed to banish the false Edythe to preserve the real one in his memory. Allowing the false image to persist was an insult to her memory, one he wouldn't tolerate.

Beau longed for real sleep, the kind that left him feeling rested rather than exhausted. The spot was remote and difficult to find, with his memories of the route hazy at best. Yet, he felt compelled to go there, hoping it might finally free him from the torment of his nightmares.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket. A message from Julie, asking what time he would be over. It had been two days since he'd last seen her. The weekend had finally come, and today he was supposed to hang out with her.

He was torn. If he went to see her, Julie would see right through his facade. After his outburst the other night, he couldn't lie to her and pretend he was fine. But if he tried to cancel, she'd think he was avoiding her.

Not because of anything she had done. He didn't want her to see him like this, barely holding on by a thread to the tatters of his sanity. It was pathetic, but she would think it was her fault, blaming herself for some trivial infraction he had long forgotten. She appeared tough and acted like it too, but Beau knew the vulnerable girl she hid underneath.

That little girl with the braided black hair, struggling to make any friends, feeling too tall and awkward to get along with anyone. He'd been friends with her brothers first, in a time that now felt like ancient history. Both of them had fled Forks as quickly as they could. He didn't blame them.

The meadow could wait for a day; it wasn't going anywhere.

Jules was a steadfast friend. She had seen the wreck he had become and never judged him for it. She joked and laughed with him as if no time had passed since they were kids. She felt no need to constantly check on him to see if he was okay or if she could help.

A friend he didn't deserve, but he wasn't foolish enough to let go.

He got into his car and sped off. On one of the lonely roads that led to the reservation, something caught his eye.

For a moment, he weighed his options before making a split-second decision. Checking for cars, he slammed on the brakes and made a hard turn, heading back to the house he had spotted.

Sitting on a decaying wooden trailer were a pair of motorcycles. It was difficult to gauge their condition, but aside from the rust and missing parts, they seemed mostly intact.

Since childhood, he'd been warned that motorcycles were dangerous. But now, their riskiness was exactly what appealed to him. He had always thought they looked fun, but not really his style.

What would the voice in his head say? The imagined Edythe would undoubtedly mock his desperation, accusing him of risking his life just to hear her voice.

It would be right, of course. That didn't mean he couldn't hope it would say something better.

He had enough savings to buy one, but he never felt like spending his money.

Then he thought about where he was heading—to the hand-built garage of his mechanically inclined friend. The answer was obvious.

Two birds, one stone. An excuse to hang out with Jules and distract himself while also following through on his newfound philosophy.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a familiar face emerging from the house. It was Erica, checking her mail.

She was clearly confused to see him walking up, returning his awkward wave as he limped over to her.

"Beau? What brings you all the way out here?"

"I was passing by and saw those bikes. Are you trying to get rid of them?"

"Yeah, they're junk. My dad set them out for the garbage after he cleaned out the garage."

"How much do you want for them? I don't have my truck anymore, so I'd like to buy the trailer too, if you don't mind."

"Seriously? They're junk. You can have them. The trailer's falling apart too, so just take it."

"Awesome! Thanks, Erica!"

Now that he had permission, he realized he had no way of taking either. A lightbulb went off in his head as a forgotten memory came back to him. When he first got the car, there was a long cord with two hooks in the trunk. Until today, he had no idea what it was for.

"Are you gonna fix those yourself? It'll take a miracle to get those working again."

"I'm gonna try. I have a friend who's good at this stuff. I'm hoping she'll help."

Erica's expression turned to a frown, her tone switching to an almost clinical monotone. "Oh, okay, good luck with that."

He didn't know what he'd said to upset her but let her leave, dashing to his trunk and pulling out the cord.

Pulling the trailer free from the mud took more finesse than he'd initially thought. By the time he checked the clock, it was 12:30. Jules was probably wondering why he hadn't shown up yet.

His next big hurdle was maneuvering the trailer into the reservation. He really wished there was a way to shorten the cord, as hard turns were becoming his new nemesis.

It was almost 1 by the time he finally made it to the garage. He parked carefully, ensuring the trailer in tow was hidden from view.

He debated knocking or just walking into the black house, but Jules made the decision for him by ripping the door open. Hopefully, when she saw why he was late, she'd understand.

"You're late."

"I am. Turns out I'm a worse driver than I thought."

"Who is it!?" A hoarse feminine voice boomed across the house, making both of them jump in surprise.

"It's me, Bonnie!" The black house was a living time capsule, unchanged in the years since his last visit, except for the new TV.

The matron of the Quileute tribe, seated in her wheelchair, was intently watching a football game, only tearing her eyes away when he approached.

"It's good to see you, Beau. What brings you to our humble home?"

"Good to see you too. Nothing much, just hoping I could hang out for a bit, if you don't mind."

"Do I mind? Please, Beau, you know you're always welcome here. Do you have plans for dinner?"

Bonnie and his father had been friends for years, long before he was born. He could sense her plans before she spoke. It would be a disaster if Charlie came snooping around the garage.

"I do, sadly. I'm making homemade pizza, and after all the time I spent preparing it, I'd hate for it to go to waste. It'd be great to have dinner here another time, though."

"Another time, then. You'll have to let me try your recipe sometime. Well, don't let me keep you." She was only being polite; her eyes kept flicking between him and the television. He left her to enjoy the game, following Jules outside.

"So you can make your own pizza? You must be quite the cook."

"I'm no master chef, but I know how to make a few things. Better than Charlie, at least. I love him, but he can barely make pizza rolls."

He laughed with her but stopped them from heading to the garage, leading her to where he had hidden the two motorcycles. Jules was perhaps the only one kind enough to follow his slow pace as he dragged his cast-covered foot behind him.

"I've got something to show you."

"Ooh, exciting."

"Before I do, you must swear an oath to not tell Charlie."

"Okay now, I really am excited. What is it?"

They rounded the corner, and Beau did a little flourish with his hands to reveal his recent find. A long, pregnant pause grew between them as Jules's face locked in an expression of deadly concentration.

"I was thinking we could try fixing them, you know?" She had already hopped atop the trailer before he finished speaking, intently examining the two wrecks.

"These things are totaled, and it looks like someone's been taking off parts at random. It won't be easy." Watching her work was mesmerizing; he could almost hear the gears turning in her head.

He felt himself deflate as the reality of the situation hit him. He knew less than nothing about vehicles. All he'd done was drag them over. Erica had tried to warn him, but he didn't listen. They were junk, picked clean and ready for the landfill. Jules was a mechanic, not a necromancer. Next, he'd start bringing over kitchen appliances for her to fix.

"Sorry, this was a bad idea. I should've thought it through. If it's too difficult, don't stress about it."

Though he hadn't intended it, Jules saw the unspoken challenge in his words, a fire igniting behind her eyes.

"Such a pessimist, honestly, Beau. I never said I wouldn't do it, just that it won't be easy. You said 'we'; I assume you're actually going to help?"

"Of course I am," he replied, feeling a bit offended. He wasn't that much of a jerk.

"I am curious. Why a motorcycle? You're not asking me to build you a chick magnet, are you?"

"God, no. You've been hanging around Bonnie too much. Nobody 'picks up chicks' anymore."

"Well, clearly you don't." He tried to frown at Jules but cracked a smile, then broke into laughter, both at her delivery and the hidden truth in her statement.

"Call it my teenage rebellion. Better late than never, right?"

"I don't know, Beau. It sounds like I'm being a bad influence. Maybe I'm just not good for you."

"I'm the only one who gets to decide that." His words came out quickly and forcefully. His playful expression hardened as the familiar words sent a storm of emotion roiling over him.

An awkward silence followed as Jules studied his stony expression, trying to understand his sudden outburst. It wasn't her fault; they were just joking around like they always did, and he took it seriously.

"I can pay you, too. For your troubles." He reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet, but Jules stopped him, placing her hand tentatively atop his.

"My troubles? Do you seriously expect me to take your money? You're my friend, Beau. Of course, I'm gonna help you."

"Thank you, Jules, you're the best." He felt his expression lighten at her words, the weight in his chest fading to the back of his mind.

"I am, aren't I? Come on, we're burning daylight; let's get to it."

"There are two bikes, and two of us. If you don't want money, you can pick which one you want." Beau tried to be nonchalant as he pulled away, gesturing at the bikes. It wasn't because he disliked the contact, but he didn't want Jules to misinterpret their relationship.

"Dibs on the green one." She didn't even need to look at them again to choose.

"That was fast."

"It's a Yamaha VMax. Even if we got it fixed perfectly, you'd die trying to ride it. It'll give me some trouble too, but I know what I'm doing."

"And I don't?" Jules gave him a knowing look as he spoke, his gaze dropping because he knew she was right. She just didn't have to say it.

"You're going to mechanics boot camp today. Don't start thanking me till it's over, whelp." She switched to a gravelly drill sergeant's voice that had them both breaking into laughter.

"Sir, yes sir!" He did a mock salute, which she returned before they both broke into laughter again.

The garage was cramped with both bikes, and Jules' car. Only allowing them to work on one bike at a time. Working outside was too risky—they could easily be spotted. Bonnie's wheelchair couldn't navigate the rough terrain around them.

The air was thick with the scent of rust and motor oil, mixed with an unexpected hint of lavender or lilac, something flowery that seemed out of place.

It was almost as if Jules was wearing perfume. Though that couldn't be it. Why would she bother with perfume for a day of auto work? It had to be an old air freshener lying around.

Beau and Jules stooped over a pile of assorted bike parts. She had removed most of them, showing him how to handle the easier pieces.

"Maybe I was wrong. This won't be nearly as bad as I thought. The suspensions are in good condition, and the brake lines are fine. We'll probably need to swap them out in a few months."

"But everything else needs replacing or fixing?"

"Yeah, it sucks because those are the most expensive parts. They are much easier to replace, though. I won't know for sure until I look at them. We'll be doing quite the shopping run."

"Don't worry, money's no concern." He did his best posh British accent, and they both burst into laughter at how terrible it was.

"Okay, Mr. Moneybags, when do you wanna go? Tomorrow?"

Jules's words snapped Beau back to reality. He had been enjoying himself so much that he had nearly forgotten how close he had come to not showing up at all. How this day had started and what awaited him when he went to sleep.

He had to go to the meadow soon, or he'd go clinically insane from sleep deprivation. It probably wouldn't be enough to keep his nightmares at bay, but he had to try.

At this point, he'd do anything for a peaceful night's sleep, to avoid seeing that fake Edythe again. This was just another distraction, another way to avoid his pain instead of facing it. But it was the most fun he'd had in a while.

Instead of feeling nothing, he felt good—able to smile, laugh, and joke like before.

It would fail, like all the others. Soon it wouldn't be enough, and his thoughts would return to her. As they always did. He'd enjoy it while it lasted.

"Earth to Beau?"

"Sorry, tomorrow's fine. Do you wanna drive, or should I pick you up?"

"As much as I wanna take your car, we'll need the trunk space of mine."

"Where's the nearest auto shop?"

"Port Angeles. We could go to Seattle, but I don't think you can handle it."

"What's in Seattle?" It was clear she was manipulating his ego, and he hated how successful she was.

"A house party an old friend from elementary school invited me to. I wasn't planning to go—I barely remember her. But if you're really in your rebellious phase, it's not complete without a proper party."

"A party? I hate parties, you know that."

"You hate birthday parties, like any sane person. This isn't that. How can you be sure if you haven't tried it?"

"I'm pretty sure I hate all parties. I mean, have you met me?"

"Big loud parties are awful, and neither of us are exactly social butterflies, but you're only allowed to say that once you've been. We go in, see what it's about then leave. You're too young to already be this close minded."

Her logic was sound, which only served to irritate him further. He was pretty sure there were two, maybe three people on this entire planet who could convince him to do something this far out of his comfort zone.

"Fine, but I'm not dancing, you can't make me do it." He angrily grumbled his response, fighting to keep scowling despite the urge to smile back at Jules growing. For someone who claimed to have no interest she could barely contain her joy at his reluctant acceptance.

"So you're going? Great! I'll pick you up, and make sure to wear something nice, toots."

His stomach dropped at the implication of her words. It was a joke, obviously. But the pit in his chest grew. Had he just agreed to a date? Part of him was genuinely curious about what a party of people his age looked like. But it wasn't worth it.

Jules was his best friend, and nothing more. If he led her on and hurt her, he'd never forgive himself for it.

It was painful, to be the one maintaining the careful distance between them. But one of them had to do it. Jules didn't deserve to love someone like him. His heart belonged to someone else, and that would never change, sadly. Even if he wanted it to.

"How long do you think it'll take before they're working?"

"A week, two at most. It's a lot easier when you have a minion doing all the grunt work."

"But of course. I live to serve your highness." He gave her an exaggerated bow, and they laughed together.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the clock on the wall. His expression fell as he realized it was nearly time for him to leave. There was leftover lasagna in the fridge he needed to reheat. Charlie would be fine if he didn't get home until night. He was tempted to stay. These times with Jules were like a breath of fresh air, finally letting him breathe without pain. All he had to look forward to after this was their next meeting. Broken up by a montage of all the most awful moments of his life involving the supernatural.

Bonnie was still a problem, she'd force him to join for dinner and invite Charlie over. Charlie wasn't a huge car guy, but he'd still come by to see that Jules had finished her car. Their entire secret plot would be foiled. He'd be grounded until graduation.

Jules stopped working on a piece of the bike to look at him, her brow furrowing as she saw where he was looking.

"Sorry, Beau, this must be really boring if you're not into this stuff."

"Boring? No, this has been really fun. I'm just worried Charlie's going to drop by at any moment and catch us. It's past time for dinner."

"Crap! You're right. I completely lost track of time. You can leave if you want. I should have most of this done by tomorrow."

"No need to rush and overwork yourself for my sake. I'll come by as early as I can."

"You better. And please, Beau, give me some credit. This is what I do." The tiny splatters of black oil on her joyful face and the Batman-esque tool belt around her waist made a convincing argument. It was hard to imagine her working in a cubicle. He tried to picture her as an office worker and couldn't. She'd probably try to jump out the window within a week.

"I'm in the zone. Going to sleep now would only screw up my rhythm."

"If you say so. I'll see you, Jules."

His spirit felt revitalized as he walked out. The difference between how he felt before arriving and now was palpable. It'd give him the strength to make it through one more day, and that would have to be enough.

After he finished eating a quiet and awkward dinner with Charlie, he went to his room.

It was far too early for him to fall asleep, and knowing what awaited him when he did wasn't making it easier.

The keyboard he'd so recently attacked kept staring back at him from his periphery, as if daring him to pick it up again. Reluctantly he did, switching it on and messing with the keys to be sure he hadn't broken it.

Archie's note had gotten to him more than he wanted to admit. What if he really was a natural? Despite leaving without so much as a goodbye, he seemed mostly the same. It was impossible to know where the lies started and ended with him, just like the rest of his intentionally confusing family.

It was a morbid curiosity that forced him to put the first CD from the pile into his computer. As the video started, Archie's familiar grin filled the screen, sitting at the grand piano in the Cullen's house.

A flood of memories surged through Beau, sharp and aching. He could almost hear the laughter, the easy conversations that were now just echoes in an empty house. For a moment, he clenched his fists, the urge to smash the CDs rising within him.

"Hey Beau, I bet you're not thrilled to see my face again, but bear with me. I'll keep it short. I can't spill everything—Edythe would hunt me down if I tried. She also doesn't know I'm doing this, so if the video cuts out, you know why. Alright, first thing's first—get familiar with the scales. Pause me, play around for a few minutes, and get a feel for the keys. Trust me, it's going to be worth it."

He started playing, his fingers moving awkwardly at first, stumbling over the keys. Frustration gnawed at him, but he persisted, replaying the scales until they felt like second nature.

Slowly, the disjointed notes began to weave together, the rhythm finding its way into his hands. Each mistake became a lesson, each correct note a small triumph.

To his surprise, Archie had been right—there was something natural in the way he connected with the music. It was as if the melodies had always been there, waiting for him to release them.

Beau never got to sleep that night. He spent hours at his keyboard, losing himself in the music.

The tutorials covered a range of techniques and styles. Beau found himself drawn to the pieces that told stories—joyful dances, heart-wrenching ballads, tender love songs, and somber requiems. As he played a melancholic piece, he felt the weight of its sorrow seep into his own heart, a mirror to his own loss. A lively waltz brought a rare smile to his lips, the notes lifting his spirits.

Through each piece, he explored a different facet of emotion, trying to capture and understand the depth behind each composition.

Rays of sunlight breaking through the cracks in his blinds forced him out of his self-induced trance.

A wave of fatigue hit him as he blinked his suddenly heavy eyelids. That was the first time he'd ever felt himself have an actual aptitude for something. He thought his awkwardness and lack of coordination meant he couldn't play anything more challenging than a recorder.

He was still awful. That much was obvious, even to a complete novice like him. It was a good thing he'd plugged in his earbuds. He'd die from embarrassment if Charlie had to listen to his terrible beginnings.

But it was fun, too. He could see why she had called it her favorite instrument. There was a grace to it, that other instruments simply lacked in his eyes. It was by far the best distraction he'd get while his foot was still healing.

Once again, his gaze returned to the sticky note resting atop the instrument. His eyes scanning the familiar-sounding phrase at the top of the first one.

"that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent."

It was strange, but he knew exactly what it was trying to say. There were so many things he'd never been able to say, the words to quantify them simply never came. The idea of keeping silent while this pain lives inside him was madness, pure and simple.

It had to go somewhere, other than festering in the core of himself. It'd take practice, but it wasn't like he had any better things to do.

When moving his body felt like he was underwater, he relented, reluctantly collapsing into his bed. Falling asleep the instant his head hit the pillow.

AN: This chapter is a lot of set up, I hope it is still entertaining despite that but if you find it boring I understand. Things that don't make sense now will later, I promise. Thanks for reading still, follow and favorite if you like it, I know I forget to do that constantly to fics I like but writing myself has made me better about it. Review so I can make the story better and all that.

If this reaches some arbitrary goal I haven't decided on yet before the fic ends I'll release "Beau's Lament" as a track, not finishing that until then, there are only so many hours in a day.

See ya on the next one.

"Be patient and tough, this pain will help you one day."