Coffee
Edward sits on the couch reading, lifting his legs as Esme runs the mop around the house and under his feet with vampire-speed. He’s only half paying attention to his book. He’s read it before—a collection of poetry from the 18th century. One from Carlisle’s bookshelves, a handwritten and hand-bound poetry collection gifted by Pietro Metastasio himself as gratitude for being a good friend. A remnant from Carlisle’s time with the Volturi, yes, but enchanting all the same.
It is by no means a fact that death is the worst of all evils;
when it comes it is an alleviation to mortals who are worn out with sufferings.
Edward sighs. They’re old words, ones he’s read many times in his hundred years of existence. He agrees, of course, that death is not evil—not to him anyway. Not to many of the Cullens. But he’s often wondered why Metastasio thought so. For Edward, to die would be a blessing. Its still one he runs from nevertheless. It’s a sick game, to crave death and the experience of it, yet to avoid it when it calls.
He supposes it has to do with the way of dying. Most of the Cullens have experience dying in morbidly human ways—painful, tragic even. To die again in such fashion isn’t appealing. His desire for death is restricted to the slow version: the deterioration of mind and body. To watch family grow older around him as he slowly withers away, naturally, in sync with the world around him and part of the cyclical nature of Earth. To be a part of it, not a memento frozen within it, forced to watch for eternity as the world evolves around him, without him.
Esme clatters something in the kitchen—probably the pots and pans she cleans once a week in some imitation of a human routine—and it drags Edward from his thoughts and into hers. I should change up the living room again. It’s really been too long since we had a new couch and perhaps it’s time for the house to have a more warm feel—Edward flicks his book shut and closes his eyes, attempting to drone out Esme's thoughts on updating the perfectly fine interior design of their home.
Instead, he’s pulled to Alice, her pencil pausing on the paper she’s scratching out a design on. Some sort of woman’s suit, from what Edward can see in her mind, abstract with the ideas she’s considering. She lets out a small gasp as the vision that pulled Edward to her floods her mind. It’s James and he’s—
Someone knocks on their door.
James is knocking on their door.
Esme drops a pan in surprise and Carlisle flits from his office just as Edward escapes the lounge room, running to meet Alice at the bottom of the stairs. Jasper stands behind her with a tense frame. A soldier’s stance.
“I—I didn’t see, I swear he only just made the decision and he was already here. I don’t—I don’t understand,” Alice frets, waving her hands around. “I was watching him so carefully and it was all black, and the next thing I know I see him deciding to come here but he’s already at the door!” She hisses as James knocks again, a rather impatient rapping in an oddly musical tune.
“What’s happening?” Rosalie asks, appearing behind Jasper with Emmet in tow. “Who is it?”
“James,” Alice whispers back.
And before Edward can even consider how to feel—before he can even process what is happening, Carlisle has already opened the door. They continue to loiter on the stairs, listening in, hesitant to move as though to do so would break the illusion and make what’s happening real.
“Hello. Can I help you?” Carlisle says with all the poise of a 365-year-old vampire who interacts with humans daily.
“Hullo. My name’s James. I’ve come to make a treaty.”
Edward almost combusts. He’s convinced the only reason he doesn’t is because Jasper sends out a very overwhelming wave of calm and serenity. It’s overkill, truly, but Edward isn’t the only one who needs it. The entire coven’s minds are rampaging, screaming out an incoherent barrage of thoughts all rapid-firing within their respective heads. Edward can feel them battering around in his own, smashing against the inside of his skull.
“A treaty?” Carlisle asks hesitantly.
“Like the one you have with the Quileute wolves,” James says as though he didn’t just spout off two long-held secrets casually.
Emmett laughs suddenly, boisterously down the stairs, looking straight at Edward with a grin. Perhaps your human isn’t so human after all, he thinks. Edward already knew that. Deep down, he knew that. But for James to appear out of thin air, for him to waltz right to their front door is another thing entirely.
“Please, come in. It seems we need to talk.” Carlisle opens the door and gestures for James to step inside. “I’ll have my family meet us in the living room.”
The Cullens congregate themselves hastily, Emmet almost pushing Edward through the wall in his rush to see the drama. By the time James has walked to the living room, they have seated themselves naturally, assumed their human positions, even if they may no longer be needed. Edward holds his book open, pretending to read. Alice and Emmett are halfway through a chess match after rapid-firing the game with their vampire speed, now slowing down and pretending to think long and hard about each action they take. Jasper watches them, pretending he cares at all about the game and that his attention isn’t solely on the heartbeat in their home. Rosalie simply sits, poised, waiting.
“Thank you for having me,” James says to Carlisle as he steps into the room. “I know this is rather sudden.”
“Well, it is a little surprising,” Carlisle says diplomatically. He directs James to a chair, one off to the side so he isn’t lined up facing a couch full of vampires. Carlisle sits next to Edward on the couch.
James’s heart rate is slow, steady. Edward fights the urge to breathe James deep, to scent him. He can already taste him in the air, something Edward has never experienced before. He’s never been this close to James before. Never been locked in a room with only his heartbeat to focus on, only his scent permeating the air.
Edward closes his mouth and decides against breathing.
He wonders what it would be like if he hadn’t recently fed. If his eyes were darker and the thirst was burning across his tongue like James’s scent is now—what would have happened if James and him had a class together, locked in the tiny rooms with the heaters blasting, windows closed against the cold, no ventilation. The thought alone sends a shiver down his spine.
Edward can feel James’s green eyes inspecting him and he can’t help staring openly back. James is much more up close. More of everything. More beautiful. More intimidating. More sad. Edward cannot see the scar he is sure should be there, not even a hint of makeup covering his skin. His hair is long down his forehead, shaggy curls looping around his face. James has dark circles under his eyes and long, dark lashes that only emphasize the unnaturally bright green of his eyes. Edward can’t recall ever seeing such eyes. Even behind a pair of thick glasses, they’re gorgeous. Deadly.
James stares at Edward almost as much as Edward stares at him. It feels like a game, almost. Between predator and prey. Lion and lamb. But there’s something there, in James’s eyes, something malignant that calls to Edward, whispers along the crest of his ear and promises him death. He’s not sure any more that he’s the predator, and the thought scares him.
He knows that if his heart could, it would beat from his chest. It would pump blood around his body and adrenaline would flood his system and his fight or flight would kick into place. He can almost feel it happening now. The desire to crawl both away and to James is overwhelming. His chest hurts. It’s a new feeling. Edward considers the likelihood of him dying right now—simply ceasing to exist, crumbling into powder right here, collapsing inward at his chest and onto the floor like a sandcastle. There’s a hole punched through his chest and gaping open for the world. No, for James.
Esme rattles into the room with a tray of coffee and cookies, acting out the slight shakes in human hands when they walk, placing the tray on the coffee table in front of them. James cuts the eye contact, releasing Edward from his prison. He fights the urge to clasp his shirt, grip at the light fabric encasing his body, weighing on his chest. He wants to check he truly hasn’t been ripped open, that there isn’t simply a gaping darkness where his heart used to lay uselessly.
James frowns at the tray but accepts the coffee gratefully when Esme offers. There’s an awkward minute of introductions, where Carlisle points out each member of the Cullen clan and James pretends he didn’t just ask his school friends their names two days ago at school even though they all listened to him do so. Edward wrestles with his own mind, fighting his emotions and rampant thoughts into books and records, stacking them neatly on shelves so he can at least focus. It is likely only possible because of Jasper. Poor Jasper, who is drowning next to Alice, hand curled so tight in hers that Edward’s surprised she hasn’t cracked beneath it. Jasper is overwhelmed by the family, by himself, by James. Edward is grateful for him. He’s constantly being saved by Jasper’s ability, but it hurts to read how much he’s suffering now, crushed beneath all of their unstable moods.
“Now, James,” Carlisle says slowly. “Please explain a bit more. I’m confused as to why you’re here.”
James takes a sip of his coffee and instantly blanches, placing it back on the table. Oh no, did I make it wrong? I could have sworn the instructions said to—Edward cuts his mind from Esme and hones it onto James, focusing as hard as he can to read what he’s thinking, to know why he is here. His heartbeat is slow and steady. Unhurried.
“As I said, I’d like to make a treaty. I was just at the reservation and they explained they have a treaty with you, too.” James shuffles one of the cookies into his hand and inspects it, rotating it before sniffing it slightly. He takes a tentative bite and, after a moment, throws the entire thing in his mouth.
“Did you make these?” He asks Esme.
“Oh, yes. I hope they’re okay.”
James throws another two in his mouth with a nod of his head. “They’re delicious! I didn’t think a vampire would know how to cook.”
Edward is instantly barraged by his family’s internal voices, each overlapping into one. Esme stutters slightly, her eyes wide, glancing to Carlisle. Edward doesn’t know who to listen to—let alone what to think himself. Here he’s been agonising over his condition, over the possibility that James could figure out what they are, and James literally does just that. Figures it out. Announces it. Asks for a treaty.
He should have known, really. That any person in a vision with him was not going to be normal. He’d hoped that they might be. As much as he was adamant he wouldn’t engage with James, he did have some morbid interest in connection with the teenager.
Watching him age, maybe. Watching him grow old and die. To experience and perceive a life in full, even if it isn’t his own. Even if it is the life of someone he might love one day, if Alice’s visions don’t change. It’s selfish, perhaps, to think James would want to die. Would want to allow Edward to watch him do so.
But that doesn’t matter now. No, the dream—because that’s what it is, something abstract and forgettable in the morning, something that crawls into his mind at night and ruminates into possibilities, ideas, experiences, only to blend into obscurity when the sun rises and Edward allows the reality of the world to restart—the dream of watching James grow old beside him has well and truly disappeared.
He already knew it, but now he can truly acknowledge that he will never be with James; that he won’t allow himself to drag James into his depths or force him to experience life alongside someone frozen and immortal. Vision or no visions. To grow old isn’t the blessing. To be able to do it alongside another is the true blessing. Edward wouldn’t wish it on another to miss that chance.
Edward and his siblings no longer pretend to be involved in their own human-passing activities. They now stare unabashedly, unblinkingly, realising their need for performance is gone.
“Sorry, James. I’m still quite confused. Are you a shapeshifter like the Quileutes?” Carlisle asks. “Did they tell you what we are?”
Because if they did, it’s a violation of the treaty, Carlisle thinks.
We should hunt those dogs down, Emmett thinks.
They’ve jeopardized our family with their loud mouths, Rosalie thinks.
“Oh, no. I noticed on Friday at school,” James says casually, crunching on another cookie. “The wolves didn’t have to tell me.”
What the fuck, Edward thinks.
Why didn’t I see this coming, Alice thinks.
Why don’t I want to feed on him, Jasper thinks.
And that catches Edward’s attention. He stops trying to drill into James’s impenetrable mind and flicks to Jasper, who is glaring at James as though he is a nuisance more than he is food. Jasper’s mind is clear, calm. Nothing like the frantic thoughts and constant mantra of ‘relax’ he experiences when at school. Edward hesitates just a moment before he breathes deep, opening his mouth slightly, allowing James’s scent to sit on his tongue.
He smells…
Absolutely divine.
Like thunder and lightening on his tongue. Like ozone, like rain from a storm, like the salt splash of choppy waves churning at night. There’s something heady beneath that makes Edward’s skin crawl, as though reminding his frozen body about the concept of goosebumps. If he could shiver, he thinks he would.
This whole week of agonising about James, Edward hadn’t even noticed how appealing James smells—now that he has, he can feel the elongating of his fangs, the pooling of venom in his mouth. But the bloodlust he expects doesn’t come. It’s there, beneath the surface, lacing up this throat and filling his mouth. But instead of bloodlust, Edward is consumed by the desire to envelop James, to wrap his arms so tight around him that he wouldn’t be able to leave. To drown in his scent. In his being.
Edward has never been particularly fussy, even as a human. But he’s always been traditional. A man who wants to find a woman and court her slowly, to develop the trust between them and eventually ask her father for permission to take her hand in marriage.
Edward hasn’t seriously considered finding a male lover before. It may have crossed his mind once or twice, in the dead of night, in the throes of loneliness. He’s seen gay couples many years before they were commonplace. He’s stalked past men making out in dark alleyways that made them perfect victims for evil humans. Edward had no qualms saving them without them noticing. Still, witnessing gay men and being a gay man are two different things in Edward’s mind.
He feels he’s being manipulated by Alice’s visions. Falling prey to the allure of possible futures, ones that may not even come to pass. He doesn’t feel disgusted by the idea, or by himself if he is truly gay. What he feels is a distinct lack of self. A loss of who he truly believed himself to be until this moment right now—with James’s green eyes boring into him as though they can read his very soul, their lustre eerie and unnatural; with James’s scent brushing across his tongue and setting fire to something within him he didn’t know existed any more.
“You seem to know about our condition,” Carlisle says, ending Edward’s existential crisis of self. “Would you mind explaining yours? Are you not…human?” Carlisle cocks his head to the side.
James takes a beat, cookie halfway to his mouth.
“I probably should have started with that.” He shakes his head and frowns at the cookie in his hand. “I’m a wizard.”
“A…wizard?” Emmett asks, sending Edward an amused smirk. “Like with magic?”
“The very same.” He puts the cookie down.
“We’ve been alive for a long time.” Rosalie’s voice is harsh, sharp and acidic. “If wizards were a thing, we would know.”
James’s fingers tap on the armrest of his chair, a rhythmic tone of impatience, perhaps, or even annoyance. Rosalie has that effect on people.
“You would not. It’s illegal for us to reveal ourselves. Normally, at least.”
“Normally?” Carlisle latches onto the word. “But you are telling us? And you told the wolves?”
“Yes, well,” James pauses, as though deliberating what to say. “The wolves skirt the law for a couple of reasons.”
“And we do, too?” Edward asks. James shakes his head.
“Not as far as I know, yet.”
Edward can’t help the anger leeching into him slightly. “Does this not put us at risk? Put you at risk?”
He takes too long to reply, but eventually mutters out, “No.”
This scenario is unusual and unsettling—James himself is unusual and unsettling. It doesn’t matter how nice he smells. It doesn’t matter how many possible futures Alice has seen with him. It doesn’t even matter that Edward just felt his entire world, his entire perspective crumble around him and rebuild itself after James. What matters is his family and their survival. James’s death. His fingers twitch at the thought.
“Don’t bother,” James says, his voice dull, eyes cutting from Edward’s twitching fingers back to his face. “You couldn’t kill me even if you tried.”
There’s a darkness radiating from James, oppressive and heavy. It clings to his skin and weighs Edward down. He feels as though he’s drowning. As though he should gasp for air and flail his limbs to climb from the pressure. To escape the weight in those green eyes.
Still, Edward doesn’t believe him.
He truly doesn’t.