Complete - North of 86th Street (Twific Slash - Jasper/Edward) Part 4
North of 86th Street
Part 1 (also on FFn | The Writers Coffee Shop Library and Twilighted
Summary - They hid who they were when being gay meant overtly happy, one followed his heart, the other hid from himself. AH
Length - 10k in total, each part about 2/3k
Warnings - Slash, fairly angsty, infidelity and mentions of HET relationships, nothing TOO strong (some frottage, BJ's) in the Lemon department.
North of 86th Street
-:- 1978 -:-
For ten years I don't see him. I don't hear about him because he's forced to leave the firm, in the most quiet of ways. I don't pity him, even when I hear through the grapevine about his quickie divorce. I don't think about him because I train myself not to.
He was something to me once.
But I don't want him to be anymore.
I focus my life on Alice and Garrett and our children. I focus my life on opening an advertising agency on my own; we aren't half as big as our competitors, but we have our hand in a few different markets that others do not.
Life remains relatively simple. As the years go on, Garrett realizes that he loves Alice more than me, that she is enough. Our relationship changes, but we are family all the same. Alice and I get a divorce and I give her away to the man that has been my best friend and other half and kiss them both when Garrett takes her hand in his own. I have relationships, though none that last and none that match either what I had with Garrett or with him.
I'm not lonely, though I am alone. I live in that same apartment and I buy out the one next door, making it more of a home with a room for my children to stay, and I'm happy.
And as much as I tell myself that my life is full, that I have or could have anything I want...
I still feel that ache for the missing piece.
That part of my chest that throbs when I see how Garrett and Alice look at each other across the room. The lump I have to swallow around in my throat when I watch Sandy and Danny kiss at the end of Grease. Even when I listen to Babs singing about not being brought flowers anymore, I can't help but shed a tear.
I tell myself I'm fine. Yet I want that love that I once had. I had loved Garrett and Alice, but the love I had with him was so much more. It had to be, because missing him, hurting like I did even though he hurt me, had to mean something.
When the phone rings out of the blue one night, I answer without thinking about who could possibly be on the other end of the line.
"Jay?"
And I'm floored. I fall back into the armchair that I haven't let Alice re-cover and I'm not breathing, because no one calls me that. No one, but him.
He sighs and it's more like the breathing out of someone holding a lungful of smoke. My mind wanders and in the seconds between his words I'm picturing his lips and his cigars and that familiar hollow and fill of his cheeks.
"Jasper?" he calls again and I'm still unable to speak.
"I guess it's better that I talk first anyway." He pauses and again the sound of in and out is heard across the wires and what appears to be the distinct noise of a car traveling down the street.
So he's outside. Somewhere, but outside nonetheless.
"I was in town and I thought…" he stops and I can hear him berate himself slightly and then he starts again, stronger. "No, I told myself I'd be honest with you this time around. I've been living here for six months now. For six months I've been working up the courage to call or see you. But I figured you wouldn't want to see me, so a phone call might help that. I actually thought you'd hang up as soon as you heard my voice." He chuckles lightly.
But I do not.
"You haven't yet so I guess, I guess this is okay? Is it okay? Is it okay that I called?" he's asking and I'm hovering between answering when he just pushes on.
"You don't have to talk; I can do all of that. I've got a lot to say and I'm sure you do too but if you're at least on the other end of the line maybe I can get started." Another pause, another deep breath in and rushed out.
He's definitely smoking.
"I'm sorry, Jay. I'm so damn sorry that I hurt you. And not only with the way I treated you so long ago, but with the words I said. I had no right to judge the life you led here after I left. I had no right at all, and for that I'm sorry."
I count the beats of my heart as they thump in my chest. They're out of time with my breath, nearly double their normal rate as I clutch the phone tightly in my hand, pressing it to my ear.
The ache that I thought I was doing so well ignoring is pounding now and I know it's because of this voice on the phone. It doesn't even matter what he's saying it's the mere fact that its him.
"I can't believe I hit you. You have - you have no idea how sick I felt about that, Jay. How I still feel. I sat there after I came to my senses and realized you weren't opening your eyes and I lowered you to the floor. I sat beside you and watched your face swell and I'm so sorry, Jay. I'm so, so sorry. I know I probably shouldn't have left you like that. You could have had a concussion, but I was so disgusted in myself that I had to leave. I couldn't imagine you wanting to talk to me again."
Again a pause. A beat.
And I say nothing.
His breath is harsh and sounds like it's being forced out his nostrils and I imagine the smoke and how it would form curls around his face. Would there be more silver there now like my own? I mean, we were older men of nearly fifty now, no longer the young lovers of our twenties and definitely not the family men of middle age either.
Hearing his voice, his admissions, makes me feel like I'm that young man again, standing in this room with his arms wrapped around me and a glass of scotch in my hand. If I close my eyes, I can feel him here with me.
All from the sound of his voice.
"Edward," I speak before I realize I am. "Where are you?"
He's the one that is quiet then and a second later after clearing his throat he finds his voice. "I'm actually across the street. Like I said, I didn't know whether to call or drop by and see you."
"Come up."
And he hangs up without saying goodbye.
I replace the phone in its cradle and quickly study the space around me. None too untidy, my housekeeper is fantastic at respecting my neat and orderly wishes. The magazines are stacked on the coffee table. The drinks replenished on the bar, one bottle of my favorite vodka that mostly lies untouched and a new bottle of scotch that I drink even less than I do its clear liquid neighbor. I haven't had much to toast about or drink to, so the crystal ware that he brought me for my birthday so very long ago is hardly used at all anymore. My bed is made with fresh satin sheets. The shag pile rug that Alice insisted my home needed is soft underfoot and I wonder if I should put my shoes back on, considering I've been walking around in my stockings as I'm wont to do when home alone.
I'm nervous even though I just asked him up and considering changing my clothes even though I'm just wearing my regular suit that I haven't really changed that much since I first put one on in the early fifties.
I like style, I like things that are timeless and bell bottoms in suits are just wrong.
As I empty my ashtray into the garbage there is a knock at the door.
I stop and nearly drop the Murano glass onto the floor. He's here. He's really here and when I open that door, it won't be just the ghost of a memory I see, it will be him.
I wipe my sticky palms on my pant legs as I walk to the door and I resist looking through the peephole because a fishbowl round view of him won't be enough. Unlocking the bolt and chain, I slowly turn the handle and step back, and then he's there.
His eyes slowly drift up my body and I can feel it from my sock encased toes to the tips of my ash blonde curls. The corners of his berry lips lift into a familiar awkward smile and I can see the hesitance, the nervous anxiety he feels just by being here. I want to be hard on him, because he broke my heart as well as my cheekbone. I want to be cold and harsh and uncaring, because his words hurt just as much as his actions and still affect me now a decade later.
I want to be all these things, but my arms reach out and I'm pulling him against me and holding him close. Edward is stiff for a second then he's weeping into my shoulder. His tears of remorse or even relief are wetting my shirt through, warm on my skin. I hold him and he collapses against me, but with his arms around my waist it's almost as if he is holding me up too.
My fingers are running through his much longer and shaggier auburn waves and I can hear him whispering, almost an affirmation or even a Hail Mary, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Over and over again.
He smells amazing, a little like the rain that was playing on my window an hour or so ago and I wonder how long he'd been out there, attempting to make that call. He made the first move, he's apologized and he's here and it's time I made the second. I pull back slightly, taking his face in my hands and brush the tears that still run freely down his cheeks away with my thumbs.
He is still the same, yet more rugged, and with what looks like a two-day growth gracing his jaw he's even sexier than I remember. I'm staring into these big green eyes of his, noting how the yellow that filters softly over the whites are crisscrossed with tendrils of red indicating how tired he is. There are new lines and furrows scattered in the obvious places that happen with age, his brow, his eyelids and the creases around his mouth to name a few. Yet he is still my Edward.
I'm sure I look just as life worn as he does. Maybe less because it's obvious the West Coast sun has damaged his skin. When he smiles, as he does now, as we just stare at each other and I'm sure he's taking in all the differences in my appearance also.
My heart is now beating faster for a different reason and when I can put a name on why, it makes me feel even more young and foolish than I should be at this age.
I'm nervous.
I shouldn't be, I have nothing to be nervous about. He has come here to see me, to talk to me. He won't care that my previously warm blonde curls have faded now to include many more patches of white than I'd like. I know the clarity of my once stormy ocean blues are now a lot duller than before, I also know they are easier to see because of the large round tortoiseshell glasses I have to wear just to see. I know that my previously lean body has a little more paunch than punch and my hands look awful with an early onset of arthritis in my knuckles.
I'm not perfect.
Yet neither is he.
"Jay." He stops and waits for a reaction that I don't give him. I'm pleased to hear him call me that once more. I never thought any one ever would again.
A door open and closes in the hall and there are footsteps on the stairs. I remember where we are, in the middle of my door, caught between the hall and my apartment. My hand slides down from his face, until I catch his fingertips with mine and I pull him inside. He follows and I can almost feel him at my back, his head turning this way and that, exploring the domain that was once ours and ours alone with a keen eye for anything new and different.
I reluctantly disengage myself from him to pour us both a drink, I assume he wants one because I know I do, badly. It's remarkable how easy I remember the exact way to pour it - three ice cubes and fill the glass one third with scotch before a dash of soda water. I listen as his feet pad lightly about the space and wish I had thought to put some music on. I have that new Beatles White album that a friend from London left with me a month ago and I haven't stopped playing it. Edward was always into the latest music; I'm sure he'd know who John, Paul, George and Ringo are. Thunder rolls from outside and the light rain from before is slightly louder, pattering on the window panes with a regular, almost musical cadence providing a soundtrack to our meeting.
The sound of leather being sunk into breaks the monotonous natural noises as I pour myself a vodka because I know tonight I'll need it. I walk over, handing him his drink and he smirks a little, I'm hoping it's because I've made it right. Not that I'm doubting myself because even though much time has passed since I've had a reason to fix scotch like this for anyone but myself, I could never forget how he likes it.
I sit carefully on the edge of the second armchair that is to the side of the first, the one Edward is now occupying and let the first sip of liquid burn its way down my throat.
We are silent and still but it feels right and the air is expectant with what needs to be said, what might be said floating between us. Finally, after both our drinks are sufficiently consumed, Edward is the first to break the quiet by reaching out to rest his hand on top of mine where it is lying on the arm of the chair.
His touch, so light, so simple, has my body a-buzz.
"Jay," he starts and my name is filled with warmth, like the hold that we have on each other now is providing to my skin. "I am sorry. I've regretted what I said and did for far too long and I was too much of a coward to ever say anything before."
I interrupt before he can ask because I know what he is going to say, what this is all leading to. "I forgive you, Edward. I forgave you a long time ago. It's true, I've never forgotten, but what good is there in holding onto words and actions from so long ago? I know you were scared then, you might even be scared now, but I won't apologize for the life I've led, even if it made you uncomfortable."
Edward shakes his head. "I was in such a different place then, Jay. You made it sound so easy and I was jealous. I was so jealous of what you had, being able to be who you wanted to be and not hide behind walls like I had been. Like I still do." He lowers his chin and I can't see his eyes behind this awful mess of hair that he's sporting.
I reach over and brush the strands out of the way so I can see his eyes once more. "You didn't have much choice, Edward. I knew what your father was like."
"Don't give me excuses, Jasper. I knew what I was getting into, marrying Bella. I thought that by moving to the other side of the country I could have a little more freedom. That I could lead this double life and still be the husband and son they expected. I never knew who I was without you, I never who I was period, I suppose." He pauses and places his drink that is now virtually empty onto the little round table in front of us. Edward scoots forward and takes my hand once more and I let him, because he obviously needs that physical reassurance that I will listen, and I like his skin on my skin.
"When I talked to you that night, you made it all sound so easy. You've always known who you are, Jay. Even when we first worked together, you never made a big deal about who you were screwing or what girl you wanted to take home. I wished I could be like you. For years it's all I wanted. Then I got clumsy in LA. I didn't care anymore after I left you that night, all bruised and broken. I lost everything and I lost myself for a while. That's why it's taken me so long to get here. I needed to figure it all out and, I honestly didn't think you'd ever speak to me again," Edward finishes softly and his hand is light within mine.
I grip his fingers tightly in my own. "Enough, Edward. It's in the past and you can't live there anymore. I won't hear any more apologies from those lips. Tell me about now, let's live in the present. Have you seen the 'Adult Toys' campaign Dodge brought out?"
Then we talk shop and there are laughs at friends of old and good-natured digs at campaigns we've each headed in the past. He discusses working freelance, not staying in one place for too long and loving the freedom of this. I tell him about running my own company and how much I've learned in doing so. Before long, the hours pass with more refills of drinks and touches that don't go anywhere past friendly.
Too soon, he's checking his watch and remarking how late it is. I stand and rub at my knee, an old baseball injury that never fails to act up when I've been sitting too long. Just as I think it's okay to stand on, my leg buckles underneath me, but instead of hitting the floor, my body presses against something hard and warm.
My chest is so close to his own, it's almost as if I can feel his heart beating as quickly as my own. I can definitely feel his breath quicken as I slowly raise my head. His scent, the quick bobbing of his Adam's apple, the slight scruff to his jaw, it all fills my senses to overflowing. I can't stop when I see his tongue flick out to wet his lips, my head lifts just enough that I can feel his breath puff over my cheek. My eyelids close as I feel the tip of his nose brush against mine, his hands that stilled on my hips shift toward the small of my back and my own slide up his arms and rest on his shoulders, holding him tighter against me.
Finally, I can take it no longer, my eyelids flicker open and I'm staring straight into the green and silver I've never forgotten. I can't see the lines that surround them, or the mass of red spiderweb veins that mottle the white. I can't see anything but the love that still lies within their depths and echoes not only in my own, but in the ever persistent beating of my heart. He ducks his head down just enough for the slightest of brushes of skin on skin but it's not enough, it can't be enough. My fingertips slide into his hair, still as soft as I remember, and I pull him down and smile against his lips as I deepen our kiss.
This feels right. This feels amazingly good and when we break away, breathless after tongues have tasted and hands have reacquainted themselves with places that have missed their touch, I'm surprised by the worry in his stare.
His eyes swivel towards the door and back to me in a move so fast I wonder if I saw it at all. I feel his body lean slightly in the same manner and I realize he doesn't know whether I want him to go.
"Stay," I say, and every part of me wishes that he will. Hopes that this time will be the last time that he has to hesitate about voicing what he wants.
"If you want me to."
I laugh lightly, brushing my fingertips down the side of his face, cupping his cheek in my hand before bringing my lips to his once more. "I've always wanted you to. I never wanted you to leave."
"I don't ever want to again."
The love we make that night is perfect and I know it'll be the first, not the last of many more.
~~NY Times Obituaries~~
Edward Anthony Masen b. 06.20.1933 - d. 07.13.2028 & Jasper Maurice Whitlock b. 21.08.1935 - d. 07.13.2028 passed away today in their sleep, together as they had been in their hearts always. Beloved parents to six, grandparents to eleven and great grandparents to eight. Private cremation. The family asks that donations be made to the AIDS Family Services Centre.
1968
Part 1 (also on FFn | The Writers Coffee Shop Library and Twilighted
Summary - They hid who they were when being gay meant overtly happy, one followed his heart, the other hid from himself. AH
Length - 10k in total, each part about 2/3k
Warnings - Slash, fairly angsty, infidelity and mentions of HET relationships, nothing TOO strong (some frottage, BJ's) in the Lemon department.
North of 86th Street
-:- 1978 -:-
For ten years I don't see him. I don't hear about him because he's forced to leave the firm, in the most quiet of ways. I don't pity him, even when I hear through the grapevine about his quickie divorce. I don't think about him because I train myself not to.
He was something to me once.
But I don't want him to be anymore.
I focus my life on Alice and Garrett and our children. I focus my life on opening an advertising agency on my own; we aren't half as big as our competitors, but we have our hand in a few different markets that others do not.
Life remains relatively simple. As the years go on, Garrett realizes that he loves Alice more than me, that she is enough. Our relationship changes, but we are family all the same. Alice and I get a divorce and I give her away to the man that has been my best friend and other half and kiss them both when Garrett takes her hand in his own. I have relationships, though none that last and none that match either what I had with Garrett or with him.
I'm not lonely, though I am alone. I live in that same apartment and I buy out the one next door, making it more of a home with a room for my children to stay, and I'm happy.
And as much as I tell myself that my life is full, that I have or could have anything I want...
I still feel that ache for the missing piece.
That part of my chest that throbs when I see how Garrett and Alice look at each other across the room. The lump I have to swallow around in my throat when I watch Sandy and Danny kiss at the end of Grease. Even when I listen to Babs singing about not being brought flowers anymore, I can't help but shed a tear.
I tell myself I'm fine. Yet I want that love that I once had. I had loved Garrett and Alice, but the love I had with him was so much more. It had to be, because missing him, hurting like I did even though he hurt me, had to mean something.
When the phone rings out of the blue one night, I answer without thinking about who could possibly be on the other end of the line.
"Jay?"
And I'm floored. I fall back into the armchair that I haven't let Alice re-cover and I'm not breathing, because no one calls me that. No one, but him.
He sighs and it's more like the breathing out of someone holding a lungful of smoke. My mind wanders and in the seconds between his words I'm picturing his lips and his cigars and that familiar hollow and fill of his cheeks.
"Jasper?" he calls again and I'm still unable to speak.
"I guess it's better that I talk first anyway." He pauses and again the sound of in and out is heard across the wires and what appears to be the distinct noise of a car traveling down the street.
So he's outside. Somewhere, but outside nonetheless.
"I was in town and I thought…" he stops and I can hear him berate himself slightly and then he starts again, stronger. "No, I told myself I'd be honest with you this time around. I've been living here for six months now. For six months I've been working up the courage to call or see you. But I figured you wouldn't want to see me, so a phone call might help that. I actually thought you'd hang up as soon as you heard my voice." He chuckles lightly.
But I do not.
"You haven't yet so I guess, I guess this is okay? Is it okay? Is it okay that I called?" he's asking and I'm hovering between answering when he just pushes on.
"You don't have to talk; I can do all of that. I've got a lot to say and I'm sure you do too but if you're at least on the other end of the line maybe I can get started." Another pause, another deep breath in and rushed out.
He's definitely smoking.
"I'm sorry, Jay. I'm so damn sorry that I hurt you. And not only with the way I treated you so long ago, but with the words I said. I had no right to judge the life you led here after I left. I had no right at all, and for that I'm sorry."
I count the beats of my heart as they thump in my chest. They're out of time with my breath, nearly double their normal rate as I clutch the phone tightly in my hand, pressing it to my ear.
The ache that I thought I was doing so well ignoring is pounding now and I know it's because of this voice on the phone. It doesn't even matter what he's saying it's the mere fact that its him.
"I can't believe I hit you. You have - you have no idea how sick I felt about that, Jay. How I still feel. I sat there after I came to my senses and realized you weren't opening your eyes and I lowered you to the floor. I sat beside you and watched your face swell and I'm so sorry, Jay. I'm so, so sorry. I know I probably shouldn't have left you like that. You could have had a concussion, but I was so disgusted in myself that I had to leave. I couldn't imagine you wanting to talk to me again."
Again a pause. A beat.
And I say nothing.
His breath is harsh and sounds like it's being forced out his nostrils and I imagine the smoke and how it would form curls around his face. Would there be more silver there now like my own? I mean, we were older men of nearly fifty now, no longer the young lovers of our twenties and definitely not the family men of middle age either.
Hearing his voice, his admissions, makes me feel like I'm that young man again, standing in this room with his arms wrapped around me and a glass of scotch in my hand. If I close my eyes, I can feel him here with me.
All from the sound of his voice.
"Edward," I speak before I realize I am. "Where are you?"
He's the one that is quiet then and a second later after clearing his throat he finds his voice. "I'm actually across the street. Like I said, I didn't know whether to call or drop by and see you."
"Come up."
And he hangs up without saying goodbye.
I replace the phone in its cradle and quickly study the space around me. None too untidy, my housekeeper is fantastic at respecting my neat and orderly wishes. The magazines are stacked on the coffee table. The drinks replenished on the bar, one bottle of my favorite vodka that mostly lies untouched and a new bottle of scotch that I drink even less than I do its clear liquid neighbor. I haven't had much to toast about or drink to, so the crystal ware that he brought me for my birthday so very long ago is hardly used at all anymore. My bed is made with fresh satin sheets. The shag pile rug that Alice insisted my home needed is soft underfoot and I wonder if I should put my shoes back on, considering I've been walking around in my stockings as I'm wont to do when home alone.
I'm nervous even though I just asked him up and considering changing my clothes even though I'm just wearing my regular suit that I haven't really changed that much since I first put one on in the early fifties.
I like style, I like things that are timeless and bell bottoms in suits are just wrong.
As I empty my ashtray into the garbage there is a knock at the door.
I stop and nearly drop the Murano glass onto the floor. He's here. He's really here and when I open that door, it won't be just the ghost of a memory I see, it will be him.
I wipe my sticky palms on my pant legs as I walk to the door and I resist looking through the peephole because a fishbowl round view of him won't be enough. Unlocking the bolt and chain, I slowly turn the handle and step back, and then he's there.
His eyes slowly drift up my body and I can feel it from my sock encased toes to the tips of my ash blonde curls. The corners of his berry lips lift into a familiar awkward smile and I can see the hesitance, the nervous anxiety he feels just by being here. I want to be hard on him, because he broke my heart as well as my cheekbone. I want to be cold and harsh and uncaring, because his words hurt just as much as his actions and still affect me now a decade later.
I want to be all these things, but my arms reach out and I'm pulling him against me and holding him close. Edward is stiff for a second then he's weeping into my shoulder. His tears of remorse or even relief are wetting my shirt through, warm on my skin. I hold him and he collapses against me, but with his arms around my waist it's almost as if he is holding me up too.
My fingers are running through his much longer and shaggier auburn waves and I can hear him whispering, almost an affirmation or even a Hail Mary, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Over and over again.
He smells amazing, a little like the rain that was playing on my window an hour or so ago and I wonder how long he'd been out there, attempting to make that call. He made the first move, he's apologized and he's here and it's time I made the second. I pull back slightly, taking his face in my hands and brush the tears that still run freely down his cheeks away with my thumbs.
He is still the same, yet more rugged, and with what looks like a two-day growth gracing his jaw he's even sexier than I remember. I'm staring into these big green eyes of his, noting how the yellow that filters softly over the whites are crisscrossed with tendrils of red indicating how tired he is. There are new lines and furrows scattered in the obvious places that happen with age, his brow, his eyelids and the creases around his mouth to name a few. Yet he is still my Edward.
I'm sure I look just as life worn as he does. Maybe less because it's obvious the West Coast sun has damaged his skin. When he smiles, as he does now, as we just stare at each other and I'm sure he's taking in all the differences in my appearance also.
My heart is now beating faster for a different reason and when I can put a name on why, it makes me feel even more young and foolish than I should be at this age.
I'm nervous.
I shouldn't be, I have nothing to be nervous about. He has come here to see me, to talk to me. He won't care that my previously warm blonde curls have faded now to include many more patches of white than I'd like. I know the clarity of my once stormy ocean blues are now a lot duller than before, I also know they are easier to see because of the large round tortoiseshell glasses I have to wear just to see. I know that my previously lean body has a little more paunch than punch and my hands look awful with an early onset of arthritis in my knuckles.
I'm not perfect.
Yet neither is he.
"Jay." He stops and waits for a reaction that I don't give him. I'm pleased to hear him call me that once more. I never thought any one ever would again.
A door open and closes in the hall and there are footsteps on the stairs. I remember where we are, in the middle of my door, caught between the hall and my apartment. My hand slides down from his face, until I catch his fingertips with mine and I pull him inside. He follows and I can almost feel him at my back, his head turning this way and that, exploring the domain that was once ours and ours alone with a keen eye for anything new and different.
I reluctantly disengage myself from him to pour us both a drink, I assume he wants one because I know I do, badly. It's remarkable how easy I remember the exact way to pour it - three ice cubes and fill the glass one third with scotch before a dash of soda water. I listen as his feet pad lightly about the space and wish I had thought to put some music on. I have that new Beatles White album that a friend from London left with me a month ago and I haven't stopped playing it. Edward was always into the latest music; I'm sure he'd know who John, Paul, George and Ringo are. Thunder rolls from outside and the light rain from before is slightly louder, pattering on the window panes with a regular, almost musical cadence providing a soundtrack to our meeting.
The sound of leather being sunk into breaks the monotonous natural noises as I pour myself a vodka because I know tonight I'll need it. I walk over, handing him his drink and he smirks a little, I'm hoping it's because I've made it right. Not that I'm doubting myself because even though much time has passed since I've had a reason to fix scotch like this for anyone but myself, I could never forget how he likes it.
I sit carefully on the edge of the second armchair that is to the side of the first, the one Edward is now occupying and let the first sip of liquid burn its way down my throat.
We are silent and still but it feels right and the air is expectant with what needs to be said, what might be said floating between us. Finally, after both our drinks are sufficiently consumed, Edward is the first to break the quiet by reaching out to rest his hand on top of mine where it is lying on the arm of the chair.
His touch, so light, so simple, has my body a-buzz.
"Jay," he starts and my name is filled with warmth, like the hold that we have on each other now is providing to my skin. "I am sorry. I've regretted what I said and did for far too long and I was too much of a coward to ever say anything before."
I interrupt before he can ask because I know what he is going to say, what this is all leading to. "I forgive you, Edward. I forgave you a long time ago. It's true, I've never forgotten, but what good is there in holding onto words and actions from so long ago? I know you were scared then, you might even be scared now, but I won't apologize for the life I've led, even if it made you uncomfortable."
Edward shakes his head. "I was in such a different place then, Jay. You made it sound so easy and I was jealous. I was so jealous of what you had, being able to be who you wanted to be and not hide behind walls like I had been. Like I still do." He lowers his chin and I can't see his eyes behind this awful mess of hair that he's sporting.
I reach over and brush the strands out of the way so I can see his eyes once more. "You didn't have much choice, Edward. I knew what your father was like."
"Don't give me excuses, Jasper. I knew what I was getting into, marrying Bella. I thought that by moving to the other side of the country I could have a little more freedom. That I could lead this double life and still be the husband and son they expected. I never knew who I was without you, I never who I was period, I suppose." He pauses and places his drink that is now virtually empty onto the little round table in front of us. Edward scoots forward and takes my hand once more and I let him, because he obviously needs that physical reassurance that I will listen, and I like his skin on my skin.
"When I talked to you that night, you made it all sound so easy. You've always known who you are, Jay. Even when we first worked together, you never made a big deal about who you were screwing or what girl you wanted to take home. I wished I could be like you. For years it's all I wanted. Then I got clumsy in LA. I didn't care anymore after I left you that night, all bruised and broken. I lost everything and I lost myself for a while. That's why it's taken me so long to get here. I needed to figure it all out and, I honestly didn't think you'd ever speak to me again," Edward finishes softly and his hand is light within mine.
I grip his fingers tightly in my own. "Enough, Edward. It's in the past and you can't live there anymore. I won't hear any more apologies from those lips. Tell me about now, let's live in the present. Have you seen the 'Adult Toys' campaign Dodge brought out?"
Then we talk shop and there are laughs at friends of old and good-natured digs at campaigns we've each headed in the past. He discusses working freelance, not staying in one place for too long and loving the freedom of this. I tell him about running my own company and how much I've learned in doing so. Before long, the hours pass with more refills of drinks and touches that don't go anywhere past friendly.
Too soon, he's checking his watch and remarking how late it is. I stand and rub at my knee, an old baseball injury that never fails to act up when I've been sitting too long. Just as I think it's okay to stand on, my leg buckles underneath me, but instead of hitting the floor, my body presses against something hard and warm.
My chest is so close to his own, it's almost as if I can feel his heart beating as quickly as my own. I can definitely feel his breath quicken as I slowly raise my head. His scent, the quick bobbing of his Adam's apple, the slight scruff to his jaw, it all fills my senses to overflowing. I can't stop when I see his tongue flick out to wet his lips, my head lifts just enough that I can feel his breath puff over my cheek. My eyelids close as I feel the tip of his nose brush against mine, his hands that stilled on my hips shift toward the small of my back and my own slide up his arms and rest on his shoulders, holding him tighter against me.
Finally, I can take it no longer, my eyelids flicker open and I'm staring straight into the green and silver I've never forgotten. I can't see the lines that surround them, or the mass of red spiderweb veins that mottle the white. I can't see anything but the love that still lies within their depths and echoes not only in my own, but in the ever persistent beating of my heart. He ducks his head down just enough for the slightest of brushes of skin on skin but it's not enough, it can't be enough. My fingertips slide into his hair, still as soft as I remember, and I pull him down and smile against his lips as I deepen our kiss.
This feels right. This feels amazingly good and when we break away, breathless after tongues have tasted and hands have reacquainted themselves with places that have missed their touch, I'm surprised by the worry in his stare.
His eyes swivel towards the door and back to me in a move so fast I wonder if I saw it at all. I feel his body lean slightly in the same manner and I realize he doesn't know whether I want him to go.
"Stay," I say, and every part of me wishes that he will. Hopes that this time will be the last time that he has to hesitate about voicing what he wants.
"If you want me to."
I laugh lightly, brushing my fingertips down the side of his face, cupping his cheek in my hand before bringing my lips to his once more. "I've always wanted you to. I never wanted you to leave."
"I don't ever want to again."
The love we make that night is perfect and I know it'll be the first, not the last of many more.
~~NY Times Obituaries~~
Edward Anthony Masen b. 06.20.1933 - d. 07.13.2028 & Jasper Maurice Whitlock b. 21.08.1935 - d. 07.13.2028 passed away today in their sleep, together as they had been in their hearts always. Beloved parents to six, grandparents to eleven and great grandparents to eight. Private cremation. The family asks that donations be made to the AIDS Family Services Centre.
1968