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A/N: Strae beta'd and prompted, show her some love!
How to Turn a Straight Guy Gay
Part 8
The week from Hell follows my leaving his place. I'm fucking miserable and I don't know what to do with myself. I draw a whole fucking hell of a lot, but that doesn't help. I have to take sleeping pills to even get myself to close my eyes, and those don't fucking help. I can't eat, which doesn't help the outrageous amount of pain I'm feeling. I want to die, which also doesn't help because that's just fucking depressing and I'm not a depressed sort of guy—and I'm certainly not suicidal, or I never have been before, at least.
My car sits abandoned in the driveway, parked sloppily because of my rush that night. It's a good thing it's parked that way, though, actually. It's taking up the whole driveway, so no one can park beside me or behind me. That's the way it should be. Mine, for myself only, no one else.
My phone sits abandoned on the kitchen counter. The battery died two days ago when he tried to call again. It was the third time, and I wasn't ready to answer, so I didn't. He didn't leave a message the first two times, just like I knew he wouldn't because it's not like he was actually calling to make shit better. He probably just wanted to hurt me some more. Call me a few more hurtful names. Treat me like a piece of shit. He definitely wasn't calling to apologize.
I sit abandoned at my easel. I was never a good painter, but I'm trying. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I found my paints the other day and I decided that I needed to use them up. So I'm painting. And it looks fucking ridiculous. I'm pretty sure kindergarteners finger-paint better than this, but I don't care.
I have art, and it doesn't help at all, because art doesn't hold me or kiss me. Art also doesn't make me feel like a whore or say terrible things, but that doesn't seem to matter, because I miss the things that art can't offer me. The good things. I forget about the bad a lot, but I always remember it before I decide to do something stupid.
I can't call him. He's not mine to call. I can't see him. He's not mine to see. I can't forgive him, because he won't fucking apologize to me. I hate him, but I fucking love him, and I want to forget him. What I want doesn't matter, I don't even try to forget. I can't. I hold onto the one thing I have left of him.
The pair of underwear that I mistook as mine when I grabbed them from the dryer. Which means he has my underwear too. Knowing him, he probably threw them away or set them on fire. But I have his favorite pair, the ones he wore the first time he came for me, and I keep them in my bed with me like a complete creep. At least I don't fucking wear them.
So basically I want to die alone with a pair of underwear that belong to a man who doesn't belong to me, and never did, while I paint ridiculous pieces of shit for no good reason.
God, that is depressing. I'm such a tortured artist. Why the hell do my paintings still look like garbage?
I'm so done with men. I think that maybe I should try to switch teams. Maybe the pink taco won't be that bad. I mean, it looks really bad, like an axe wound with mucosal leakage and shit, but maybe if I don't look it won't be so bad. And boobies could be fun. I might like playing with boobies. Or one of those athletic girls with flat chests and muscular legs might work.
I start to cry unexpectedly because I definitely don't want to be with a woman, ever. I also don't want to come to terms with the fact that I can't be with Ed— him.
I throw my paints down, pissed that once again I'm crying over him. The fucking piece of me is gone again and I still don't know what the fuck to do without it. I don't know how I let him get to be so important, but it's like he's a vital fucking organ to me, to my body. Not having him is like being fractured, like parts of me are missing, and I know that's because he has them. He has my fucking heart and he has my fucking soul and my fucking balls too, those are right up on his damn mantel. He has my brain, my mind is lost unless it's on him. He must have my dick too, because it's turned into a useless flopper with no sign of life.
I strip down to nothing and climb into bed, hugging my favorite pillow like it's my last fucking lifeline. I find his underwear and I just hold them for a while, but then it's too much and I miss him too terribly. I need him to be with me somehow, so I crush them to me and I swear I can smell him. I don't sleep, I can never sleep, but I remember. Sometimes it feels like a dream, but I know it's just my memories combined with my lack of sleep that makes it all so surreal. I'm nearly able to forget the pain, though it never goes away.
I can remember what it felt like to be in his arms while he slept. I can remember the look in his eyes that I swore was love. I can remember the way he moaned my name. I can remember his lighthearted banter. I can remember the way he'd unexpectedly embrace me and just start kissing. I can remember how much I fell in love with him, in such a short time.
But this isn't a dream, it's a memory, and it's inevitable that I start to think about the other things I remember. The way his moods would shift so suddenly and the way he could say the most hurtful things without a second thought and the way he told me he didn't care anymore. It isn't a dream, it isn't even a nightmare, and I can't wake up from it.
– – –
Today is blue. Yesterday was red. The day before yellow. Every color but green. I can't use the green, not straight anyway. I mix it with black, blue, and yellow and hope that I'll run out before I have to use it, but my hope isn't very strong.
Tomorrow I'll have to figure out how to use the white.
There's been some fairly consistent knocking at my front and back door for the last ten minutes, but I'm ignoring it.
I need to figure out how to use that white. Maybe it'll work with the red paintings from yesterday. But that will still leave the fucking green. Maybe I can just mix all of these fucking colors together and make a shit color that will look hideous. The paint will match the paintings then.
"It smells like ass in here," Emmett says quietly from behind me.
His voice doesn't even startle me. I knew it was only a matter of time. He's my fucking best friend for some reason, and he knows where I hide the key. I don't respond to him. Instead I look for a blank spot on my canvas to add more blue.
"Is this like a metaphor for how blue you're feeling, Jasper? If so, it's fucking wonderful. I've never seen so many shades of blue in my life."
I don't bother to tell him that it's shit as usual.
"Oh, fucking sweet. This one is awesome," he says.
He moves across the room. Everything goes in slow-motion. His feet, his exuberance, time. It's slow, and I know what's coming, but I want it to happen.
He steps on the tube of green paint and the paint shoots everywhere. It's like fireworks. Green fireworks. Splatter, shoot, blob, drip, smear, seep. Slow-motion. Green everywhere.
Just as quickly, it becomes too green. It's too fucking green. It's him and I can't think about him unless I'm remembering, and I'm not remembering right now, I'm just... being. He's all over my fucking paintings now. Their his. They were already his before, but now it's so fucking obvious. He's here, in this room now too, and I can't fucking stand it.
"Oh, fuck, Jasper. I'm sorry. Shit, Jazz, I'm so sorry."
"Get them out."
"I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't—"
"Get them out! Take them. Throw them the fuck away. Get them out!"
"Jasper, are you okay?"
"No. Get them out, now!"
"Shit, okay, okay."
One by one, he takes the fucking paintings away, but it's not fast enough. I stand on shaky legs and look at the first one, but it's bitter. It's bitter and hateful and vengeful and it doesn't love me or want me. It's green and it's him, so I do what I impulsively want to.
I destroy it.
It destroys me.
But I can't stop. One by one, I kick through the paintings, tearing them from their frames and spreading wet paint on me and everywhere. Then I'm covered in green.
He's all over me.
He's all fucking over me.
I can't get away from it.
I can't run, I can't destroy it, I can't forget.
He destroyed me.
"Shit, Jasper," Emmett murmurs.
I don't realize I'm on the ground until he picks me up. I don't realize what the whooshing sound is until I see the water. I don't realize I'm bleeding until I see the red swirling with green down the drain. I don't realize it hurts at all, because all I can feel is the deep fissure where my missing pieces are.
I don't realize I'm talking until I hear myself speak. "I should have picked you."
Emmett smiles sadly down at me as he directs the water towards my leg. "You never would have loved me, Jazz."
"I should have tried."
He sighs and turns the water off. "That's not how it works. You can't pick who you love, it's nothing you can try to do. You never would have loved me and we both know that without love it's just sex. The sex probably wouldn't have even been good considering our kiss. We're just meant to be friends, Jasper. You were meant to love—"
"Don't." I can't. I can't hear his name.
"Jazz, this needs to stop." He grabs a towel from the cupboard and places it on the edge of the tub and motions for me to put my leg there. After inspecting it for a few moments, he says, "It's not too bad. Do you want me to drive you to the emergency room or will you let me fix it up?"
"You can, I trust you."
He smiles a very small smile for Emmett-standards, and I really look at him. His nose is healing, but his eye... His left eye is fucking purple and slightly bloody. It's recent. Really recent.
"What happened?"
The very small smile morphs into a slightly larger one. "Let's just say that here is not the first place I went looking for you."
That's all he needs to say for it to click. "Oh."
He nods. "Better me than you, I guess."
My first instinct is to immediately defend, to tell him he wouldn't ever hit me, but I realize that I don't know if that's true. He's hurt me in every other way, so what's to say he wouldn't?
"Why?" I ask.
Emmett seems to understand that I'm not asking why it's better he took the physical damage, but why he was hit in the first place. "Does he ever need a reason? He's violent, especially now. I'm pretty sure he was just happy as hell to have someone to take his anger out on. And like I said, better me than you. You wouldn't have fought back."
"Oh, God," I groan. "Did you hurt him?" I'm afraid he did, and I hate that I care so much that my stomach is in knots with concern.
"I wanted to, I wanted to rip his little fucking head off, but I couldn't. Well, I mean, I could, cause I did hit him back once, but then he started crying and I can't hit a dude who's crying."
"What?" I gasp. Crying? Edward? Jesus, how hard did he hit him?
"Yeah, I'm not supposed to tell anyone or he'll 'feed me my own balls for breakfast'. I think you deserve to know, though, Jasper. This is tearing him apart, he's not handling this shit between the two of you well at all. He looks fucking worse than you do, and you really look like shit, man.
"You guys need to fucking talk. You can't keep doing this to each other. This isn't how a relationship works, Jasper, you don't just run away when shit gets scary. You have to be there for each other, and explain shit, talk. Edward's an asshole, you know that. But he's a fucking asshole who loves you, just as much as you love him, so stop being a little bitch and get your shit together."
"He doesn't love me," I tell Emmett firmly. I know for damn sure he doesn't love me, he never did. You don't treat someone you love that way.
"Oh, fuck that, Jasper. You fucking know he loves you, you're just scared. Get your balls on. I'm not fixing this shit for you, you need to do it yourself. Only, wait until morning because he seriously fucking reeked of vodka. Plus, you really do look like shit. Facial hair does not work for your adorable baby face, just so you know."
"What makes you think he loves me? He was fucking terrible to me, you should have heard the shit he said."
"And what, you were Mr. Nice Guy through the whole ordeal? You can't point a finger at him without pointing one at yourself too. He loves you, Jazz, he doesn't know what the hell to do with himself now that you're gone. I'm sure he said some really shitty things to you, but we all say shit we don't mean when we're hurt. I'm sure you said some pretty fucking bad shit to him too, but that doesn't mean you don't love him, Jazzy."
"I do love him," I admit. I don't want to acknowledge it because I'm angry, but stupid Emmett, he just loves to bring shit out in the open. Or maybe I do just want to say it, finally.
"I know, babe. You're going to have to bite the bullet and go to him. If you love him, you're going to have to forgive him for some of the shit he does. No one is perfect and he is by far one of the most imperfect human beings I've ever met—despite his good looks. You're flawed too, and he's going to have to forgive you as well. That is how love works. Learn from your mistakes, learn with Edward, you two are like fucking peas in a pod and shit. Don't give up something so fucking special because you're stubborn and proud and hurting.
"Do you realize that you two have already done this shit once, only the other way around? He wouldn't let you explain and he left. Now this time, you wouldn't let him explain and you left."
"Is that what he told you?" I wonder. "That I wouldn't let him explain? I would have let him explain, he's the one who was shutting me out."
"How? How did he shut you out?"
"He wouldn't fucking talk to me. He just fucking said mean shit and called me names. He wouldn't apologize for being an asshole and he wouldn't really fucking talk to me."
"So you left?"
"I had to fucking leave, what else was I supposed to do? He fucking said he didn't care anymore."
"You left because he was being an asshole and he wouldn't apologize?"
"Yes!" I shout, starting to get a little pissed now. How many times did I have to say it?
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm fucking sure. He didn't want to be with me, he wouldn't fucking tell me what I needed to hear. He was being a coward."
"What did you need to hear, Jazzy?"
"Not that he didn't fucking care, not that I'm a fucking gold digger or an idiot or—"
"So what did you want to hear, exactly?"
"It doesn't fucking matter, he started this shit."
"I didn't ask who started it, I want to know, what did you need to hear, Jasper?"
"It doesn't fucking matter, Emm. It's over now."
"It's over?" Emmett's voice rises considerably, and I can hear it in his tone that he is serious, he fucking means it. "I'm fucking ashamed of you, Jasper Whitlock. I thought you were a better fucking man than that. You are a fucking hypocrite and you are the one who is being the asshole. Yes, he pissed you off, yes, you had every right to leave, but don't you fucking call him a coward. This is fucking confusing as hell for him, and you know it, and you're the one giving up. He wants you back, and you're just going to throw the fucking towel in."
"He hasn't even come over, he's not trying very hard to get me back."
"Oh, you fucking prick. Is that what this is? You fucking want to see him come crawling back to you? Will that make you believe he wants you, Jazz? Just long enough for him to screw up again so you can throw it back at him and leave again? I have news for you, baby, the world doesn't revolve around you. You don't get to fucking play him that way."
"I'm not playing him!" I yell.
"Right now, the way it looks to me, yes, you are! You are playing him, just like he was afraid of. You're breaking his trust again, hurting him."
"No," I deny. I... I'm not playing him.
"Yes, you are."
"No, I just want him to tell me he's sorry, that he loves me."
"That's what you need to hear?"
"Yes," I cry, clinging to my chest because it feels like it's being ripped apart.
"Then stop being a hypocrite. Stop being a coward. Tell him first, Jazz. Don't fucking toy with him, he has no confidence in his ability to keep you around and you've given him no reason to trust you. He's scared to death of opening himself up to you for that exact reason. Edward is the type of person who thinks the whole world is out to hurt him, add to that the confusion of having feelings for someone he never expected to have feelings for, and you've got yourself one scared, temperamental, distrustful asshole.
"I know you don't know how to be in a relationship, but you know how to be patient, you know how to be understanding. Both of your feelings are involved; it's not just your heart that is going to get hurt, you're hurting him too. You can't forget that every time you feel that pang in your chest, the loss, he does too. You can't expect him to crawl back to you when he thinks you changed your mind. He has no idea how you feel. He's just as scared, helpless, and fucking clueless as you are. The only difference is you aren't confused, you are patient, and you aren't normally an asshole."
His words hit me like a fucking anvil to the chest. It's a lot to think about. A lot. I don't know what to say. He's fucking right. He's so fucking right and that hurts just as much as the void in me where my vital organs belong—where Edward belongs. I fucking pushed him away, I hurt him, I fucking left, me. I'm the fucking one to blame. He did shit wrong too, but fuck, I screwed up royally. I was too busy wallowing in my own self-pity to even think about what I'd done.
"Thank you, Emmett, for everything," I say finally. "Did you give him the same talk?" I ask.
Emmett shrugs. "I was a bitch to him too, yes, but I may have went a little harder on you than him. He really is scared, you know, about all of this? If you're not up for his random freak outs, you should just leave him alone, Jazz, cause he doesn't deserve the heartache."
I shake my head. "No, I just really lost—"
"Don't explain it to me, Jasper. Tell your boy, he needs to hear it, not me. And speaking of boys, I need to get home to mine. The sky is looking fucking angry out there and I promised him dinner and a movie tonight."
"Your boy?" I ask inquisitively.
"Yes, my boy. Don't be so nosy, I'll tell you about it later. Call me when shit is better and we can hang out. I'll tell you all about him." He smiles and winks at me, and I grab his arm to stop him before he can leave.
"Wait. Just... thank you, Emmett. Thank you for being the best fucking friend ever and thank you for taking Edward's anger when it wasn't yours to take and thank you for making me see what an idiot I was and thank you for helping me get him back and—"
"Fuck, I get it. You're welcome, but I never said I helped you get him back. Don't fucking mention it, though, okay? Like seriously, don't. I don't want to taste my own balls and he's going to be pissed when he finds out what I did."
"What?" I ask.
Emmett just smiles. "Gotta run. Shave, you have a really bad case of the fug going on, sweetie."
"What the fuck did you do?" I yell after him, but all I get is a laugh and wave.
– – –
The pain in my chest has dissipated substantially since my talk with Emmett, but the hard, raw nervous feeling in my stomach is heavy like a deadweight. I don't know what Emmett did, and the thought fucking frightens me, though I don't think he would have jeopardized my chances in anyway. That's not even the half of it however. I'm so fucking scared of Edward right now.
Once again, I fucked up. We both acted out of fear and we both hurt each other, I guess we both fucked up, but I think I have once again taken the fuck-up trophy. I need him to forgive me, I'm so fucking terrified he won't. But Emmett says he loves me.
But Emmett also says he's going to be pissed about what he did. I don't even know what the fuck that means.
I sigh and try to stop worrying, but that's pretty fucking pointless. I've been worrying for hours already since Emmett left. I have at least twelve hours before I can even go to Edward's, but I can't sleep and I don't know what to do, so I worry.
I'm making myself sick to my damn stomach worrying. There's so much guilt and so much doubt, but there's hope, too. I have to believe he wants me back, I have to believe that I'm good enough for him, I have to believe that I didn't fuck this up so bad that it can't be repaired.
But I do doubt myself, I wonder if I really deserve the chance. What if I fuck up again? What if I can't do it? What if I was never meant to love anyone at all? What if I keep fucking hurting him? I don't want to hurt him.
Giving up now would hurt him, so I can't do that. Every time shit gets bad, I just have to remember how much I love him. I do fucking love him, so much. That is what matters.
Nevertheless, I still start to panic.
I force myself to go back to my painting room. I make myself sit down and paint. But the paintings are still ridiculously shitty and I'm sick of blue. I want green.
I want green and there is barely any left. So I mix a little with white, a little with black, and a little with blue, which leaves me with three different greens. I paint the first thing that comes to mind when I think of green.
I love Edward Anthony Masen Cullen—Christ, he has a long motherfucking name.
I love his eyes.
I love the way he smells.
I love his smile.
I love his ridiculous hair.
I love his dirty mouth.
I love his pubes.
I paint everything I love about him, down to the little fucking mole right above his ass crack.
My iPod is blaring sappy love songs in my ears and by the time that I think I'm finished, my cheeks are killing me because I've been smiling so damn much. The canvas is covered in green, green words about him—it's very Edward. I love it.
I roll my neck around, loosening some of the kinks and pluck one of the earbuds out of my ears.
Thud thud thud thud thud thud...
Christ, what the fuck is that?
I jump up off of my stool, toss my iPod aside, and listen, and the banging doesn't stop. It doesn't even falter. It's continuous and loud, and I realize that it's at my front door. Whoever it is knocking is pissed off. I consider not answering it, but I can't just fucking ignore it, it might be important. It's probably the police doing a courtesy check because someone called about my car being parked haphazardly in the same place for over a week. I have to answer it or they're going to bust that fucker in looking for me, expecting to find me dead or some shit.
I stop in the bathroom on my way to the door to wash the paint off of my hands and to make sure that I don't look like a zombie or something. I took Emmett's advice and showered and shaved after he left, because he was right, I looked fucking terrible. I still look pretty shitty, compared to how I usually look, but at least I'm not at zombie status anymore.
It's pouring fucking rain outside, I wonder if the police are really that worried. Just as I'm walking through the mudroom towards the door, the knocking stops. Everything goes fucking quiet and I freeze, staring at the door.
I suddenly feel like I've just stepped into a slasher film and I expect my lights to go out. It thunders really loudly and the lights flicker. I shriek, quickly turning around to make sure no one is behind me. There isn't, of course, but holy shit. I haven't lost power yet, but fuck, I fucking hate scary movies and I feel like I'm in one. If my power goes out, I'm going to huddle in a corner and cry like a fucking baby. I don't want to die—and I really don't want to be cut into little pieces.
The knocking doesn't start again and I'm just fucking standing there staring at the door. Would I be an idiot to open it? Or am I being an idiot for not opening it? It's not like it's likely there will be a murderer there, but what if there is?
My palms are sweaty, my hands are shaking, and my heart is racing. I'm so fucking afraid to open the door. But I fucking have to. I look out the side window first, but there is no one parked even remotely near my driveway. I think that makes it worse.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Okay, I can do this. It might be psycho James coming to kill me, but I can fucking do this. I'll just scream and start hitting if whoever it is tries to attack me. I'm pretty decent-sized, I'm not like fucking tiny, I can totally take them. Unless they look like Emmett, in which case I'm fucked.
I force my hand to be steady and I slowly unlock the door. Carefully, I open it, as cautiously and quietly as I can. I should have turned on the fucking porch light.
There, standing in the rain, is a man with his head bowed, dark hair shielding his face. He's drenched and shivering and he has something clenched in his hand.
A fucking knife.
Oh, wait, those are flowers.
Flowers?
"Ah!"
"Jesus Christ!" I gasp, jumping backwards, startled by the surprised yell from the man before me.
The man has green eyes; familiar green eyes. Angry, cold, frightening green eyes.
"Fuck, Jasper," he hisses.
A lump immediately forms in my throat. It's Edward, he's here, and he's fucking angry, but I don't care. He's here, and that's all that matters. I'm just so fucking happy to see him. If he wants to yell at me for what an asshole I was to him, he can.
"Shit, no, I'm sorry," Edward says quietly, his face instantly softening. He thrusts the flowers in his hand out at me. "Here, I brought you these. I don't know if you like flowers or what kinds or anything, but I saw these and I thought of you because they're pretty and they smell nice. I mean, fuck, I sound like such an idiot, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing," he mutters.
I'm completely dumbfounded. He bought me flowers? That's so fucking sweet, no one has ever done that for me before! And he called me pretty! And he thinks I smell nice.
"What I'm trying to fucking say is that I'm sorry for the shit I said, Jasper. I'm so fucking sorry. You don't have to let me in, I don't expect you to, I just want you to know that I'll fucking stand out here in the rain every fucking day freezing my ass off for you if I have to. I don't want us to be over. I want you back. Please."
A fucking stupid smile overtakes my face. I want to tell him that I feel the same way, but I'm fucking speechless and the damn smile is so big I can't talk anyway. He apologized, he wants me back, he even said please!
"You don't have to answer right now, you can think about it if you want to. Here, just take these, and I'll... go."
What? No. Why am I still standing here like a retard? Jesus, he looks cold.
He reaches in hesitantly and places the flowers on my table where I usually set my keys and other shit. "I'll see you around, okay? You can call me if you want."
Holy shit, say something! "Wait, Edward, don't go," I call as he starts to turn around to leave.
He turns back towards me, a sad smile on his face. "It's okay, Jasper, you're not ready yet, I understand."
"No, you don't fucking understand," I insist with a stomp of my foot.
His mouth quirks, and his nose fucking crinkles, and he so wants to laugh at me for stomping my fucking foot, but he doesn't. The quirk disappears and he just frowns, all amusement gone. "It's okay, I won't give up, I'll be back so we can talk when you're ready. I can... I can be tolerant."
"No, it's not okay. I fucked up, I fucking failed you, again."
"Jasper—"
"No! Let me say this." I take a deep breath and look into his eyes, and I know. I don't just feel it, I know it. That void, it's gone, and it disappeared the second I saw his face. I can't fucking live without him, I can't breathe without him. I need him. "I love you and I'm sorry," I say.
"What?" he asks breathlessly.
I swallow and repeat, "I'm sorry."
He flails his hand in my direction, staring at me with wide eyes. "No, the other part."
"It'll never happen again," I promise.
"You didn't even fucking say that the first time!" he yells, slightly hysterical.
I smile and tell him what he apparently wants to hear, again. "I love you."
He hits me faster and harder than I expect him to. The movement is swift and full force. He just fucking barrels into me, like as hard as he fucking can, I swear.
I gasp and lose my balance because I haven't slept or eaten and I've turned into a sissy. I nearly fucking fall, but he catches me. He presses his mouth to mine, hard. He's soaking wet and he's so fucking cold, but his mouth is hot on mine and his hands are everywhere they can reach.
"Fucking missed you so much," he mumbles into my mouth, kissing me impossibly harder.
I moan and grip his neck, and his skin is like ice. God, I hadn't even noticed that he is still shivering. Jesus, he's going to get sick.
I pull away from his mouth and he tries to follow, obviously not wanting to end the kiss. "Hey," I say. "We need to get you out of these clothes."
His eyes open slowly to meet mine, and I swear, they're on fire. Can green eyes be on fire? Maybe they're smoldering. Whatever, they're just fucking hot. "Okay," he says deeply. "You too."
Huh? He starts pulling my shirt off before it clicks. "Oh, fuck, that's not what I meant, you pervert," I laugh, tossing my shirt into the washer anyway because it's all wet from him. "You're dripping wet and freezing, you need to get out of these clothes before you catch pneumonia."
"Oh," he says, looking sad.
I lean back in to kiss him again and unbutton his pants while I suck on his perfect fucking bottom lip. He seems to think I changed my mind because he's pushing my pants down. I just let him, since those are wet from him too, but he better not go for the undies. He doesn't, not right away at least, but he does opt to squeeze my ass.
I have to remind myself repeatedly that we are not having sex tonight.
His wet jeans pool around his ankles and get caught on his shoes, so I break the kiss and kneel before him. I'm pretty sure he's trying to put his cock right in my face. Maybe it's just my imagination. Either way, it takes me forever to get his shoes untied and off because my eyes keep wandering. He takes the liberty to peel his shirt off and my eyes greedily roam up to take all of him in again. I gasp at what I find.
Low on his right ribs is a fucking huge horrible, painful looking purple bruise. "Emmett," I growl.
"What, did he fucking sign it too?" Edward asks, looking down at the bruise.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
He runs his fingers through my hair and nods. "I don't think he broke anything. I'll be fine."
"Okay," I sigh. I lean in and carefully kiss the skin right below the bruise and he shudders—and I don't think it's from the cold, though it's definitely possible since his skin is covered in goose bumps. "Let's get you warmed up," I say, kissing again.
"You're doing a pretty good job of warming me up," he replies and I glance down.
Well, he's not lying, but I think only one certain part of his body is feeling warm right now. "I see that," I reply, "but I think that maybe we should concern ourselves with your health right now and deal with your sexual health a little later."
"Both are important," he says.
I roll my eyes up at him and lean in and kiss his stomach once more, though this time I can't resist flicking my tongue out and tasting his fucking delicious abs. They tense under my tongue and his eyes grow unbearably more seductive as he watches me lick him.
Fuuuuck.
"Mm," I moan quietly as I pull away and stand up. "You taste good there too."
He huffs when I grab his hand and start leading him through the house. "You're a fucking tease, Jasper."
"I know," I sigh. "I'm really sorry Emmett hit you." I try to remember that Emmett was just fighting back and that he really did help, but fuck, he hurt my boy. I want to tear his balls off for that.
"It's not your fault. He's got one fucking hell of an uppercut."
"It is my fault, if I wouldn't have been such an idiot—"
"Shh, baby, it's not your fault," he cuts me off.
I frown over my shoulder at him and he gives me this encouraging smile that doesn't help at all. I bring him back to my master bathroom and quickly get the hot water going in the shower.
"Are you going to come in with me, keep me warmed up?" he asks, sticking his fingers into the underwear over my hipbones.
I have to fight to keep control over my body, I so desperately want to grind against him right now. But, God, we can't do this tonight. Not after what happened and not with him being half-hypothermic.
"I'll go get you something warm to wear," I say, avoiding his question and answering it at the same time. I kiss him chastely but he doesn't really respond to it.
He has this miserable, heartbroken look on his face, and it makes me pause, a chill of fear running down my spine.
"Did what I said hurt you too much? Do you not want me this way anymore?" he asks quietly.
"No, Edward," I sigh, reaching for his hand. "We both said some hurtful things, but you can't change the way I feel about you. I'll always want you, in every way."
"Are you sure?" he pries with trembling lips.
"Yes," I say adamantly.
"You were right," he whispers. "I was pushing you away and when I said that, I remember thinking that I had to do anything I could to make you stay. I might as well have just told you to leave for saying what I said. I didn't even realize what I was saying, how fucking wrong it was for me to say it. I'm so sorry, I'll never use sex against you like that again. I'm so fucking sorry."
I squeeze his hand, and his lips are trembling so fucking hard, I just want him to get in the shower, but he seems to think he has to say everything right now.
"I just need you to know, Jasper, I want to be with you. I want to have sex with you. I do care, very much, about you and us, and I want us to be together."
"I know," I reassure him. "We'll have plenty of time to talk and work shit out tomorrow, okay? Please, just please get in the shower now."
He smiles a little. "I'm not that cold."
"My fucking ass you're not that cold, you're practically fucking blue! Just fucking get in there and get warm. I'll bring you clothes and we'll fucking go to bed and sleep, cause I'm fucking tired and I need you, so please."
He nods and grasps my neck, pulling my mouth to his. Once again his mouth is hot and soft, yet so hard, and he really tastes good. I can feel him shifting and I think he's taking off his boxer-briefs, but I'm not sure until he is putting them in my hands. Then he turns and I watch his bare ass disappear behind my frosted glass shower door. And I'm kicking myself in the nuts for giving up the chance to be in there, soaping up that perfect, tight little ass.
I take his underwear back out to the washing machine then head back to my room to find him something to wear. I dig around in my pajama drawer and find some flannel pants that I've probably wore like once—I really prefer nudity. I find him one of my favorite black v-necks and then I bite the bullet and go back into my bedroom to find his favorite underwear. They're his, he should have them back, and now that I have him to snuggle with again, they'll basically be useless to me.
I fold all of the stuff up nicely, for whatever reason, and carry it into the bathroom. I'm not moving very quietly and I assume he hears me in there, but he moans and I wonder if maybe he doesn't. But then I assume that maybe he's just enjoying his shower. I think about it though, and that really didn't sound like a 'well, this feels nice' moan. It was more of a 'oh my God, that feels amazing' moan—and I know his moans.
He moans again and this one is more of a 'yeah, that's the fucking spot, baby' moan.
"Are you masturbating?" I ask incredulously.
"Yeah," he answers, like he totally doesn't give a shit that I know. He probably doesn't though. I've seen him cum before, and he was obviously horny when he got in the shower. I'm not sure why I'm so surprised. "Does that bother you?"
"No, shit no, I'm just surprised," I admit.
"Why? You can't seriously expect me to have been able to sleep with the raging hard-on you gave me. I'm getting nice and hot, just like you wanted," he snickers.
I realize a little belatedly that he's going to smell like my soap when he gets out of there. The thought drives me crazy and I slip out of the bathroom. I grab a handful of tissues from the nightstand and dig around in the drawer for some lube and squirt some into my palm.
My useless dick has been fully resurrected. It's harder than ever and has been since Edward started kissing me again. He's absolutely fucking right, we both need to ease some of the tension if we're going to sleep together without humping first.
I can hear the shower running from my room so I sit down on my bed with my back facing the door, just in case. I slide my underwear just low enough that they won't hinder my movement and groan quietly as soon as my slick hand is wrapped around my cock.
I fall back on my elbow, half-reclining, and I suddenly care if he catches me about as much as he did that I caught him. What's the worse thing that can happen if your boyfriend catches you jerking off anyway?
It takes an embarrassingly short time for me to get off, but I blame it on the fact that I haven't cum since our last dry hump on his couch. It fucking exhausts me and I can barely manage to clean myself up before I climb under the covers.
The shower finally shuts off about five minutes later and it takes Edward another ten minutes to finally come out. I'm just trying not to fall asleep without him.
He laughs when he sees me in bed. "You look like you just got laid," he says.
"Mm, you too," I mumble.
He snorts and I hold the blanket up for him. He climbs in and we both gravitate towards each other, enveloping with arms and legs and lips. He does smell like my shampoo and he's wearing my clothes and it's probably the hottest thing ever. He's still shivering though, so I can ignore the hot for the cold.
"I really missed you," he whispers, kissing my throat lightly.
"I missed you too, baby. I love you," I whisper back.
His breath catches and I hear him swallow. "I love you too," he mouths. I don't know that I actually hear the words, but I feel them. I feel his lips move and even if it's not really what he said, I can feel it in the way he's holding me.
I know he loves me.
I tuck my face into his ever chaotic hair—which smells like my shampoo!—and I drift.
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