I've been so inspired by so many absolutely beautiful Jasper/Edward fics on here that I couldn't resist trying my hand at a Jasper/Edward fic too. This one, however, is a shortie because I'm a FF virgin and, yeah, I'm nervous! LOL. Obviously, this is a Slash Jasper/Edward fic, so if you don't care for Slash fics, you probably won't enjoy this much. Also, this is for the 18-and-over crowd, as it references some *intimate* moments between our gorgeous boys. ;-)
Anyway, so, Edward is a married novelist of some renown. An unexpected reunion in a bookstore reawakens old feelings in him never fully buried of lost love, desire, aching regret and tentative hope. But does the object of his feelings still feel the same?
Twilight and the characters therein, as well as the ones I'm greedily borrowing for the fic, belong to Stephanie Meyer. I'm just playing with them for a bit (because, really, they're so gorgeous, how can I resist?)
Edward - POV
I make it most days without tears, without regrets that pull at my heart with tender, tightening cords. Yes, days are fine... well, yes, alright then, they're okay...
...but oh, the nights....
That's when the ghosts come - the sweet spirits of the past that hover incandescent in the dusty light of memory, teasing me with gossamer glimpses of a past so achingly beautiful that I feel my eyes fill, heavy, burning, overflowing in silvery rivulets down my cheeks, scalding them with the tears of sweet sorrow that I wipe away - frantic, nervous, so afraid of being caught, so afraid of her asking why I cry...
No, I can't tell her. Not this. This is mine. MY own precious memory - the soft, warm glow of it that still can bring a curving smile to my lips, or brighten my eyes with tears of regret. It's something she'd never understand and I don't want her to... understand, to know it, to reveal this hidden, tender, vulnerable side of myself, to open my most sacred memories to her.
Oh, never that.
And so... I keep my memories sacred and safe and secret, buried in my heart tight as a message wrapped in a sea-cocooned bottle. And I make it... day by day, and it grows... easier... to a certain extent, day by long, long day...
But then... yesterday... when my world was again turned upside down, and I froze - a rabbit in the field with the hounds baying close behind, and I felt cornered and... exhilarated, and again... oh god, again... yet again, I felt it - that great, overwhelming pressure, that honeyed syrup of love that filled me again, heightened by that fire, the spark of desire that lit inside me, setting every nerve aflame, and I knew... I was not over you. Never over you. How could I ever be... over you?
You were sitting in a pool of sunlight beside the window of the bookshop, a cup of coffee cooling before you as you thumbed through a music magazine... and I smiled. Still my musician, my love, my musician with the voice and form of an angel.
The sunlight bathed you, gilding the golden hair and the curve of those carved, arching cheekbones, kissing the ripe, delicate lips, causing your eyes to flash so green - vivid spring burning in that bright gaze as you looked up... and I gasped at the vision, ducking behind a stack of books, my heart pounding in my chest with a mad staccato rhythm, wondering if you saw me, and... what would you think and... then...
You were there before me, and your eyes, those sweet deep eyes were laughing and soft all at once and you smiled a hesitant, quiet sort of smile as you murmured, "Edward..."
To see that dimpled smile and to hear that familiar voice again moved me - the voice of an angel - that honeyed Southern accent, the voice rich and deep but softly-growly, a voice that always made me think of a lion rolled in cotton batting and I smiled at the imagery, remembering that mussed, curly blond head poking up from tangled sheets, and I meant to laugh... but it came out wrong... and instead it erupted from me like a gasp, a cry, a whimper and a laugh - a garbled sound of desperation that shamed me so that I looked down, staring at the expensive Italian shoes on my feet, and I swallowed, a lump in my throat, bereft of my own voice as I turned away slightly, turning away from you, my angel because your light hurt my eyes, you burned me with your love, and I couldn't do this again...
You touched me then, your hand reaching to cup my cheek and I reached up too then, to take your hand, grasping it hard, feverish, holding it to my face as I turned to look back into the eyes of the man I still loved, and I saw the gleam on my finger - the platinum band mocking me, taunting me with its cold sheen and I closed my eyes against it, pressing into his hand, not caring what others must think to see us here... like this... a strange tableau of lost love in the middle of a sea of books, and how ironic that... that it was books that had driven us apart, that had taken me from you.
The bright career of a novelist - the fame, the fortune, the frivolities that seduced me as surely as any temptress - that pulled me from our warm, cozy bed into the glittering lights of hell, and what price, fame? I gave up all that truly mattered to me - all my love distilled into your essence - and I poured it into your bottle, giving it back to you, while I grabbed hold of the genie bottle not caring for the danger within, and I allowed that genie to rule my life, to take my life, to take my love...
And despite it all, you never hated me for it. How could you though - a creature filled to bursting with such love - yours, mine - no, there is no hate in you. Only love and laughter and life, and eventually you found someone to share that love with and so I asked you...
How are you, Jasper? How is ...?
I couldn't say his name.
A graceful shrug of those broad shoulders, a smirking, dimpled smile, a wink - a mask. I knew that look - a cavalier mask of charm to hide the pain within.
"Fine, I'm sure. I wouldn't know though. We broke up six months ago."
I nodded then, feeling selfishly relieved... and horribly guilty for feeling that way, for wishing you to be alone if you were not with me. And for a moment I despised myself that I would rather you be alone, loveless - if that love were not mine. But... no... not really. No, I would never wish you anything, my angel, but happiness - the happiness and love that you do deserve - the happiness I robbed from you that horrible September night when I told you I needed to go away, to Italy, to write, and something inside you seemed to break, as if some small part of you knew what would happen, and so asked me not to go and I laughed, telling you that you were worrying over nothing, and honestly, there was nothing to be nervous about... but you were right.
When I returned to the apartment a month and a day later, it was empty - still filled with my clothes, my books, my papers, my things, but empty of you - empty of your life, your vibrancy, your talent, your music and your laughter, your shirts and trousers and cowboy boots, your guitar and music journals and cigarettes, empty of your bright smile and your brighter love... empty of all that really mattered in my life... empty of all... but pride... and I choked on it.
And now, these two years later we stood near enough for me to feel your breath - soft as a feather- against my cheek - and yet, it seems a gulf separates us... and I reach, desperate, a drowning man to the light in those bright eyes, needing that warmth, and you lean in, murmuring against my ear as your fingertips caress my jaw, "I still...I...fuck, Edward, it's good to see you, man."
Then, with another smile - this one flushed and strangely almost shy, you stepped back, and you winked again. "Leave your number with the barista if you want to stay in touch. She's a friend of mine. She'll get it to me. Take care, Edward."
With one last dimpled grin at me, you turned then and strode off, sliding on a pair of dark shades as you slipped out of my life again and into the waiting day.
I did it. I tried calling you, but I got your voice mail and I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave a message... because I'm a damn coward like that.
Swallowing another long drink of the scotch, I mused as I stared darkly into the flames, my brooding interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone.
I turned with a jerk and grabbed the phone, expecting to hear the cigarette-raspy voice of my manager on the other end, but no... oh no... it's you... and suddenly, my life spins out again... and the words spill out of me as I hear the strangled sigh of your voice and I know you've been drinking tonight too, and your voice is rough with emotion...
"Jasper... (oh Angel), why are you calling me so late?" There is a pause and then more muffled sounds of rough breaths, and I continue, "Jazz, baby, it's a little hard to talk right now."
I bend over the phone, cradling it tenderly, wishing it was you I was cradling instead. "Is everything okay?" I ask.
I pause then and explain. "I've got to whisper. I can't be too loud. She... she's in the next room."
You try to talk then, to apologize, to make your excuses and hang up, but I call out desperately, my voice rising on the edge of hysteria, desperate to hang on to this tenuous electronic bond with you - the fragile cord that connects us, that mocks the real cord - the cord of remembered and still raw and felt and strong love - that we share.
"Fuck, Jasper,... I wish it were you in the room next door. I wish she was you. I... oh god..."
And now, I'm crying, and I wonder if you know it. I guess we never really moved on, but... right now... for this one moment, I feel both heartbroken and elated to talk with you, because words can't even describe how it feels to hear your voice saying my name... it sounds so perfect... and I close my eyes, leaning back heavily into the chair, still cradling the phone because I never want to say goodbye, and yes, it's hard, and you make it hard for me to be faithful to my vows, but...I feel sometimes that despite the platinum band, the vows... it's all a mockery of what I truly feel - because I feel that I should only be faithful to you, and I want to make everything up to you, and I want to love you for the rest of our lives, and so I tell you this.
Your reply is soft, a whisper of sound - but a sound that fills me, rolling through me like a beautiful wave, refreshing and reawakening me. "I miss you, too, Edward. I miss us. I want to be with you again."
And at those words, I can hold back no longer - needing you, wanting to drown in your essence, and I answer, oh my Jasper, I love you, more than you could ever know. I still dream of you, of the warmth of your embrace, still dream of you sealing your beautiful mouth to mine - and I ache for it, still, - kissing you, tasting you, wanting you, loving you...
I remember making love to you, sliding hot, deep inside the velvety warmth of your tight, gorgeous body. I recall those husky moans, the feel of your hot, firm, sweating flesh pressed tightly to mine as you arch up, grabbing on to me as you groan in pleasure. There is no heaven like that - the feel of you around me, or in me - pushing, sliding deep and hot, your body so close, so fucking tight to mine as you whisper soft obscenities, telling me how beautiful I am, how good I am, how good I feel, what you're going to do to me, how much you love me.
I remember grabbing those tangled, sweat-dampened curls, pulling your head back almost roughly to expose your long, pale neck for my delectation, and I press heated, wet lips and tongue to that elegant neck, my hips grinding against yours, and I feel you, your cock sliding smoothly in and out in an intimate, familiar, delicious rhythm, as I cling to you, my hands tight on your sweating back feeling the taut muscles tense and your panting chest pressing into mine as you reach one hand down to grasp my hard, leaking length that swells below and I arch into your warm hand as you pump me in time with your heavy thrusts....
My own beloved... how I have missed you.
Again... I hear your voice saying my name, and oh god, those words coming from the lips of my angel... they weaken my resolve until all I want is you, just you....
"Jasper, meet me in the bookshop tomorrow...uhm... let's make it morning. I can't wait longer than that."
"Okay. 10 when it opens?"
"10." I nod though you can't see me.
"And then what?" Your voice - fragile hope is heavy in it.
"And then... we begin again."