A/N: I don't even know what I'm doing anymore. I've missed writing these little one-shots, though. I hope you enjoy reading; I've certainly enjoyed writing this.


Don't Let Anyone Who Sparkles Tell You Shit

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Together again like the beginning / It all works somehow in the end

The things we did, the things you hide / And for the record, it's just between you and I

Azealia Banks, "Barely Legal" (It's a cover of The Strokes' song)

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This is goodbye.

This is goodbye to old love, old heartbreak, and old mistakes.

This is goodbye to being the worst; this is goodbye to taking shit. If I were to call you and tell you about my roaring emotions about Edward, you, me, and the rest of the stars between us all right now, I know exactly what you would tell me: don't let anyone who sparkles tell you shit.

It's not like it's not true. It's one hundred percent true. The absolute truest of truths.

But no—I can't hear your words of wisdom now. And you know why, Jacob? Jacob, the God-Given One? Jacob Black, the Master of All Things That Drive?

This isn't just a goodbye; this is also a hello. A big, friendly hello to stupidity—again. I cringe. This hello isn't just a little wave. This hello is someone on the escalator, tapping you on the shoulder, and asking to speak for a moment or two. But no—it's not just a moment. This hello changes your life, whether you want it or not. And trust me, I don't want it.

It's May. Of course, with living by the Olympic Mountains and having about two hundred inches of rain failing from the sky each year and all of that, it doesn't feel like it, but it's still the first of May. I haven't seen you in… a hundred years? No, it feels like longer. A thousand? Ha. That's the funny thing about knowing I'll live forever: I get to throw out time stretches whenever I want because (lucky me!) I have forever. Before I know it, a thousand years will pass.

Anyway, it's May. May is one of the simplest months for me, but one of the worst. Strange things happen in May. It's one of those weird times—great things can happen, or nothing can happen at all.

I want great things to happen.

I mean, I don't care about the senior activities at school. Those aren't the great things. I'm not a pessimist—or at least that much of a pessimist—but I really don't care. Edward and I aren't the couple of the school. I'm not nominated for Prom Queen, and he's nominated for King. I'm not going to go to Prom with him and lose my virginity to him in a hotel room afterwards.

God, no.

The great things are great to me, but I don't know what they are to you. I really just want to see you again. I don't want drama or sadness or tears; I just want to sit in Washington's little Taj Mahal and crack open a can of soda with the guy I love. I want to tell stupid, dirty, yet clever jokes with the guy who got me through the darkness with little, baby steps and a lot of time.

I just want to be with the guy who cares.

I've been reading a lot lately, and not even what I usually read, also known as the classics. I'm preparing myself for the future, in a way. I've been reading modern books. You know, the snazzy, young adult books that you have to wait two months for just for a library copy. These will be the classics in a while; I might as well read them now. A touching book by John Green about two kids with cancer falling in love may not be Romeo and Juliet now, but it will be… someday.

With these pre-classics, I've acquired some goals. Everybody needs goals, after all. I've started making a list of things I want to do; I have the time, after all. However, Edward's an ass about it. "Oh, you want to write a book?" he asked me after I told him the contents of my list. "That's so cute."

…Yeah, I know.

Edward makes it sound like I can't do it. The worst thing is that he makes it sound like I don't have enough time to do it or that it's just not real enough. Edward doesn't know what's real or not; he doesn't know anything about what I want and who I want to be… or who and what I wanted, anyway. That might change.

I've found a mantra for myself. It works like a charm, and it makes me think of you.

Don't let anyone who sparkles tell you shit about what's real and what's not.

Anyone who sparkles doesn't know about how things work sensibly; they don't work sensibly themselves. I don't give a damn if he doesn't see what I see. I used to care, but now that I think about it, I don't.

Maybe I don't even want to spend the rest of forever with him.

These pre-classics haven't brainwashed me, Jacob, if that's what you're thinking. I know this is a lot to consider, since forever is a long time, but I haven't lost my mind. I'm not flustered; just slightly annoyed. And as of now, all I can really say about my becoming immortal (if I choose to marry him, anyway, but oops—you don't know about that) is that he can take his syringe of venom and shove it up his ass.

Ha.

So I'm going to write my book before I die, instead of in my forever. The whole forever gig has been botched.

In a way, I've already started my book, but in my head. I would hate for Edward to find it while snooping in my room, like always, and then judge me again. I'm not taking shit from him anymore, but I still don't like him spitting all over my dreams, especially now that I have a few.

These pre-classics and my own goals are making my mind restless. I want to run—no, no, no, I want to fly. I want to spread my wings and fly like I'm mad, all the way to your garage. I don't know what I want, but I… I just want it all. My life just doesn't make any sense right now, or it possibly makes so much sense that the only thing in the way is me.

Yes, it is definitely time to see you.

I can't fly, but the truck is the closest thing I have to it. Sliding into the front seat and turning the key in the ignition, I'm surprised that Mr. Protective hasn't tampered with my truck. He didn't slash the tires or take out the engine or even set the beauty on fire. I'm almost touched—emphasis on the almost.

I drive down to La Push, and I'm so excited for nothing in particular that I'm squirming in my seat. I'm like a giddy little kid, excited to see their best friend after a day. Only I'm not a little kid anymore, and it's been much longer than a day.

As the truck chugs down your road and turns into the front of your house, I know for a fact that I don't want to be a little kid—definitely not that. Maybe I've grown up, Jake. It's a miracle! I don't want to be young forever; I just want to live and have fun.

Now that I think about it, I kind of want to steal your innocence even further than I already have.

It's a crazy idea, but it's a free one; I'm a crazy person, but I'm now free.

I know you can hear my dinosaur of a truck approaching your house. You're just ignoring me. Alright. Good. Fine.

I'll only take you even more by surprise.

I try to take my time walking to your garage, but I'm still antsy. I just don't want to take any shortcuts—I don't want to cheapen this at all.

Because I want to live—and I mean, really live—I'm really determined to steal your innocence. I want to misbehave. I'm not a bad-ass, though. No, I'm not even close to that. I'm not going to sexily walk into your garage wearing leather and holding a whip in my hand. I just want to talk.

I just want to make a change.

It occurs to me now that you just might not be in the garage. You could be patrolling with the pack, or even in your house. You could be on the other side of the planet, too, and I wouldn't know. I'm running on the fuels of hope now.

Nevertheless, I still enter the open garage.

It's a museum in my eyes—it truly hasn't changed. The warm, earthy colors are welcoming. So are the smells of oil and boy and… home.

That's not even half of it, though. It's just a small fraction, merely to complement the main artifact.

A tall, russet-skinned man with choppy short hair, oil-stained blue jeans, and a black t-shirt on comes out from the corner of the garage. There are many emotions upon his face (surprise, anger, confusion, awe, and more surprise) until it settles on just one: appreciative.

It's just not home without you, Jacob.

We don't have to talk now; we don't have to discuss our issues because that would take forever, and we don't have that long. I've made my choice.

We fall into the routine of Jake and Bells… and when I think about it, we're nearly a pre-classic ourselves. Maybe this will go in my book.

We bond over warm cans of soda, dirty jokes, and talk of the future. I tell you about my book, and I don't even have to mention Edward first. You ask what he thinks, I tell you, and you say just what I want you to. You tell me not to let anyone who sparkles tell me shit. I nearly spray soda through my nose because I'm laughing so hard, and you laugh with me.

At one point, as we sit on the oily blankets on the floor of the little Taj Mahal, you reach over to put your lips on mine—and I let you. I actually let you. You lips and tongue taste of grape soda. Sweet and delicious and perfect. I don't need to steal your innocence again; you've already stolen mine.

You put your hands in my hair and bring my body closer to yours. I'm fine. You're fine. We're fine. I'm not taking shit and neither are you, but we have none to give.

All we have is each other and the dreams between us.

I don't leave the garage—or is it the little Taj Mahal? The museum, maybe?—for a long time today. I want to include this in my book, but something hits me, and I'm glad it does: this is just between you and I.

This is goodbye to ancient stories, and hello to new ones.

Fin.