March 22, 2005 (continued) -- Between Volterra & Forks
It hasn't been more than eight hours since he nearly walked in the sun and ended his life.
It hasn't been more than eight hours and the whole of his world has been rewritten again.
Even in the new clothes Alice bought him, leaving Italy for Forks, for their family, there is so much and so little actually taking place inside his head. As though the whole of his waking universe was fixated permanently and undeniably on the small, fragile girl curled up in his lap, willfully drinking caffeine to keep herself awake, staring at him, saying absolutely nothing. He'd nearly killed himself, and some far too large part of him, was, this moment here, willing still.
But these thoughts paused, hallowed and holy for her hands, when she was reaching up now and then to trace his face with her warm fingertips. Her brown eyes didn't always stay on him and he could remember, how beautiful they were, how silent, how frustrating it was not to know what she thought.
No, he knew what she thought. Especially when she wouldn't say anything.
They'd drug her into all of this again. Alice had. Rose had. He had.
He was beyond any ability to stop himself from touching her.
Her cheeks, her hands, her hair, to holding her close.
Even her scent, overpowering, couldn't touch him.
It would all end sooner or later in Forks.
The world was not different.
Even if he was alive.
If she was.
The only person truly bearing any scope of happiness at all in their party was Alice, to his side. She would be reunited with Jasper, with their family, after too many uncertainties, the phone call where she hadn't been able to promise Jasper she could return to him when she'd left for Italy. She would return to Jasper and forget that she almost thought she never would.
But Edward -- glancing only barely toward his sister, without losing sight of Bella -- wouldn't.
It hasn't been more than eight hours and the whole of his world has been rewritten again.
Even in the new clothes Alice bought him, leaving Italy for Forks, for their family, there is so much and so little actually taking place inside his head. As though the whole of his waking universe was fixated permanently and undeniably on the small, fragile girl curled up in his lap, willfully drinking caffeine to keep herself awake, staring at him, saying absolutely nothing. He'd nearly killed himself, and some far too large part of him, was, this moment here, willing still.
But these thoughts paused, hallowed and holy for her hands, when she was reaching up now and then to trace his face with her warm fingertips. Her brown eyes didn't always stay on him and he could remember, how beautiful they were, how silent, how frustrating it was not to know what she thought.
No, he knew what she thought. Especially when she wouldn't say anything.
They'd drug her into all of this again. Alice had. Rose had. He had.
He was beyond any ability to stop himself from touching her.
Her cheeks, her hands, her hair, to holding her close.
Even her scent, overpowering, couldn't touch him.
It would all end sooner or later in Forks.
The world was not different.
Even if he was alive.
If she was.
The only person truly bearing any scope of happiness at all in their party was Alice, to his side. She would be reunited with Jasper, with their family, after too many uncertainties, the phone call where she hadn't been able to promise Jasper she could return to him when she'd left for Italy. She would return to Jasper and forget that she almost thought she never would.
But Edward -- glancing only barely toward his sister, without losing sight of Bella -- wouldn't.