She was a reflection of pure beauty, in his eyes. A true masterpiece that was far more impressive then even the famous Mona Lisa.
Written for the 30_Nights community on livejournal. Just thought i'd share with others if they aren't livejournal members. =] Disclaimer: Twilight and all of it's characters are owned by Stephenie Meyer. I don't claim to own them nor do I make any money off of this fanfiction. Thank you.
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When the sky slowly begins to bleed red is when he can feel the anticipation creeping into his stone body, but it isn't until the overhead is dead and gone -leaving only an empty, black canvas-that he begins to fully feel the strong desire to see it.
The most beautiful piece of art in the world.
The paints used to create the accents of the beauty depicted are dark and shy, while her pale skin stands out shockingly against the background. Strokes are deep and long; the work was created with tender care and the artist was sure of what he or she wanted while creating it.
The creator succeeded in painting perfection.
The bravery in the heroine depicted is amazingly evident, even though her eyes are closed to cover knowing eyes and leaving her face looking nothing more then sleepily serene. A soft glow radiates from her soft-looking skin. Covers look to be pulled up and around her rounded shoulders, locking the resplendent female in their protective hold.
It's all so divine and... perfect. He feels as if he can reach out and touch it. Touch the angelic-looking creature beneath those maroon blankets and feel her. Feel a real girl.
But she's far too stunning to be true -to be real.
Even that -to think that someone could create such a elegant female with such beautiful features -with such detail... Was it possible, really?
Light eyes continue to stare down at the impeccably beautiful art piece -lost in it's sheer magnificence- his fingers twitching with want to just reach out and feel her. To simply touch the skin of the comely beauty before him; that was all he desired. The warmth on her skin begged his icy fingers to just reach out and cool it -for him to touch her.
His mind denies his un-beating heart's desires, though, and sourly reminds him that he wouldn't touch the soft skin he imagined was there. He would feel the hard, textured feel of the canvas and the slight curves of the paint upon it.
So, he stares.
Stares at the work and tries to fight the urge to touch it. The hope that it was real; that she was real. That this alluring creature in this artwork was someone he could claim as his own. Someone with warmth, a beating heart and the true love he had always longed for.
It can't be fought, the hope, and silently he reaches out. Long icy fingers getting ever-closer with his slow pace. Afraid, for the first time in so many years.
Closer, closer, closer...
And then they touch.
Her skin is as soft and warm as he thought they would be. No, it's warmer -more inviting and comfortable. The sound of her heartbeat is soft and melodic as he runs his pale fingers over her cheek, down to her neck, and then back again. Her breathing is quiet and soothing and he finds himself caught up in the realness of it all.
Slowly, her loving brown eyes open to reveal the beauty that had been hidden for too long under thin eyelids. Her voice comes out in a tired whisper and stays longer then normal in the thick, early-morning air. “Edward...?”
H smiles down at her, his hand still brushing softly against her face, “I was wrong, Bella. You're far too beautiful to be a simple piece of art.”