Title: Magnetism

Author: buildmeapyramid

Fandom: Twilight Saga

Rating: M, for crude humor, language, slash pairings, and mature themes (and now I must add there's a good possibility of slightly-underage boys getting a bit hot and heavy under the sheets sooner or later, so watch out)

Pairing: Edward/Jacob, very slight Edward/Bella and Jacob/Bella

Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga does not belong to me; it belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. So please don't sue me.

A/N: So, I think this whole shorter chapters things is going to stick. One, because it's a bit more manageable to work in small doses. Two, because Jake really loves his dramatic endings. What can I do, he's in charge apparently. *grumbles* Anyway, aren't you proud of me? It's so NOT BEEN ALMOST A YEAR between updates this time yayyyyy. I give myself cookies for that. xD

Also, I cried while writing this chapter. Like, a LOT. It was a serious concern for a little while that I would drown myself and my laptop in my own tears. Because, well, EDWARD and . . . you'll see.

Also also, thank you so much for your lovely, encouraging reviews. I have the best readers in the universe; not one of you got out your pitchforks about updating. *hugs you all* You keep me writing, loves.


12. Hope

"Jacob," he breathes, and I can see it, see the walls coming up around him, see the way he draws up to deny it. But I can also see the truth, see the flare of want in moss-green eyes and the bloom of red on too-pale cheeks. He wants me. I can see it.

"Why did you push me away, Edward?" I ask, and my voice breaks at the end, heart in my throat at the thought of rejection. At the thought that he won't give me a chance, won't let me do whatever it takes to make him happy. I want him, I want this, and by God, I know he does too.

His shoulders draw up, expression torn, and I hate myself for the way his eyes avoid mine, hands clenched in the sheets beneath him. He looks afraid.

"Did I do something wrong?" I ask, pained because I know I must have done something. I always do.

"Jacob," he says again, and he starts to shake his head, but draws in a breath sharply and goes still.

"Edward, please," I rasp. "Tell me. Are you angry at me? Are you scared of me?" I choke on the last sentence.

His eyes flash up, a deep burn of green that sets off sparks inside me, and he looks surprised. "No!" he exclaims, voice deep and soft as the rush of rain outside. "I'm not—no, Jacob, I'm not scared of you." He pauses, and his lips tremble slightly, a slight movement that I wouldn't have caught if I weren't watching him so intently. And he is scared, I can see it, but if it's not because of me, I don't know why.

And then I almost say fuck it.

I almost get up and go to him.

Pull him into my arms and do my best to comfort him.

Because he covers his mouth with a shaking hand, and he looks broken as he says, "I'm scared of myself."

My throat feels choked, and the silence seems to roar in my ears. "What?" My voice sounds like it's coming from far away, and everything in my line of vision is out of focus, everything except him. His face, the tears caught on long, spiky lashes, the shaking shoulders hunched forward, the too-pale hand pressed against his mouth to smother a quiet sob.


Forget almost.

Edward is crying.

Edward is crying.

I'm on my feet in a second, and he's in my arms in the next, and he's shaking like a leaf, sinking into me, hands clinging to my shirt, my shoulders, my back. He holds onto me like a drowning man holds onto a float, and he cries and cries and cries.

Everything in me breaks at the feel of him, pressing tight against me, clutching me so tight I can barely breathe. And even though his body is fit, strong, tall, he feels small in my arms, fragile, breakable. He buries his face in my shoulder and he fists his hands in my shirt, holds on and doesn't let go, not for a long time.

But I don't mind.

I'm terrified, yes. Of what this means. Of what to do after this. Of what will happen when he pushes me away again, for reasons that I still don't understand.

But right now, I ignore my fears.

I hold him tighter, whisper soothing words that probably don't make any sense.

I stand there and try to be an anchor, something to cling to.

I let him cry.


"Is this okay?"

His fingers curl gently over my shoulder, and I feel him nod against my chest after a moment. The tears have long since dried, leaving behind a drained, quiet Edward in my arms as we lay on his bed. He still hasn't spoken, and his head is tucked into the crook of my neck so I can't see his face.

It has to be early afternoon at least. We've been lying here for hours, pressed close to each other, but we haven't said a word.

I wonder what happens next.

I wonder if this means that I can hope again, that there's a chance he could feel the way I feel.

I think he does. I think he wants this just as much as I do. And I think that, for some reason,that scares him more than anything.

He trembles against me as I rub a hand across his shoulders, and I feel his cool fingers edge up, the tips brushing the skin just above the collar of my shirt. His breath catches and he pulls his hand away, moving it back to my shoulder where it was before and burying his face deeper into my neck.

On one side, it feels amazing. Having him this close, in my arms, knees bumping against mine, warm breath fanning against my throat and tying my stomach in knots.

But I know something isn't right. I know being so close to me is strange to him—hell, it's strange to me too. And I know that laying here doing . . . whatever the hell this is, cuddling or whatever, isn't going to fix anything.

With that thought in mind, I use every ounce of willpower I have and move to pull away. Only to feel hands pulling me back, tugging at my shoulders to bring me back. I'm too surprised to do anything other than what he seems to be telling me to do, so I obediently pull him back into my arms, feeling his breath hot and uneven against my neck.

"Edward," I say, "I—"

"Please," he gasps, voice faint, rasping. His fingers curl into my chest, making my whole body clench with the thought that Edward is right here, pressed up against me, letting me hold him.

I wait for him to say something, something to help me understand what's going on in his head, but he stays silent. "Edward," I try again, "what is it?"

His breath catches in his throat and he tenses against me, tucks his head deeper into the crook of my neck. "I shouldn't be doing this," he finally whispers, voice cracking.

I turn just slightly, and a soft lock of bronze hair brushes my cheek. "Why, Edward?" I ask. "What's wrong with this?" The words sound choked.

I can feel the way he tightens up, stiffens in my arms, and when I try to soothe him, running a hand down his back, he jolts—a tiny movement, but I feel it and it makes an ache lace through me like poison.


He breathes in shakily. "I need . . . I need time." He draws away slightly, just far enough to look up so I can see his face. He looks tired, paler than usual, but his eyes are soft, pleading.

I nod. "Okay," I say. I press my lips to his forehead and he sighs, sinking back into me as I tighten my arms around him with something like joy blooming in my chest.

I'll give him all the time he needs.

A/N: Okay, so I feel y'all should know real quick. I originally had a pretty solid plan for this story when I started it; the plan was sacked. I can name fingers and point names. *coughJakecough* So I'm sort of winging it now. I write it as they tell it, and sometimes what they tell is COMPLETELY TRAUMATIZING AND NOT OKAY OMG . . . But I digress. I meant to just let you know that I'm not sure how updates will be because of the way this story seems to be unfolding. Plus, Jake is an asshole, which doesn't help. I blame it all on him.

Okay, I'm done babbling. Leave a review or go on your merry way; however, reviews DO get you Edward snuggles. 3