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The Thirst For Midnight Sun

Summary:
Did Stephenie Meyer’s partial draft leave you as unsatisfied as me? If so, feel free to check out my version of Midnight Sun, starting at Chapter 13.


Notes:
First Off, I’m incensed on Stephenie Meyers Behalf. I was far more excited for the publication of Midnight Sub than I was, initially, for Breaking Dawn, and The Twilight Movie. It is a huge disappointment to know that Midnight Sun is now indefinitely on hold. Seriously this blows. I have been asked (in the past) by many fans if I’d write my own post-haste version of the anticipated Midnight Sun. I’ve always ignored the requests, knowing that the real book would one day be written and bonded in a black cover, with Stephenie Meyer’s name gracing the cover, offering my collection a completed appropriateness. But now, as you all should know, the release date is now postponed indefinitely and I have never read such an unsatisfying piece of Stephenie Meyers work than the partial draft that she opened up to her fans as a peace offering. Long rant short, my excuses have run out and I’m going to continue from where Stephenie so cruelly (and completely justly) left off. This is initially for my own selfishness. I need to quench my thirst. I hope you enjoy reading my attempted Edward in my very own Midnight Sun. Disclaimer: The characters and plot are the property of Stephenie Meyer . No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.


3. Book Worm

Rating 5/5   Word Count 2406   Review this Chapter

“I’m guessing you like Romances?” I teased, lifting my eyebrows in mock cynicism, still holding her book, Gone with the wind. The paperback was heavily torn, the pages were crumpled, dog-eared, and browning, as if they were once waterlogged and then dried.

She laughed, playfully nudging my arm with her elbow while we stood in line. A thrill of heat coursed like a wave up my arm, though her skin was shielded from mine, in two layers of material.

“Yes, I quite enjoy the occasional Harlequin.” She said, rolling her eyes to prove her distaste.

I smiled, but didn’t speak. She didn’t like to have the spotlight cast on her. I could tell that the absorption of my eyes made her uncomfortable. She’d automatically pause every time she opened her mouth; just in case I had something to say.

I waited.

“No,” she amended, her tone more serious, her eyes pensive. “I like all genre’s…” she bit her lip guiltily. I could’ve died. She was so,—so… sexy. I swallowed, hard.

“Okay, I mean, — I guess I have a bit of a soft spot for Romances…” she chose a sandwich and gently placed it thoughtlessly on the tray, her eyes busy, scanning the selection of human sustenance. My patience wavered as she plucked an apple from the assortment, and ran the tips of her fingers over the contours, deciding if it would be suitable to eat…

And?” I said, my tone rough, hardly concealing the flare of impatience in my voice as I slipped a note to the cafeteria worker, while whisking the tray out of her hands.

Bella raised her eyebrows, “Why, aren’t you patient today.” she teased; while digging her fingers through her school bag as we walked to our secluded table. I set her tray down and pulled out her chair, waiting for her to sit down.

She dropped her bag and held out her hand, in a gesture of either acceptance or expectation. My first reaction was to take her hand, the feeling was so automatic that my fingers stung and my muscles ached to reach out and enclose her fingers in mine. Instead, I shoved my free hand deep in my jean pockets and scrutinized her offer. Her fingers were loosely curled around a crumpled bill. Oh! She wanted to pay for her own lunch!

I laughed. I laughed loud. I continued to chuckle as I ignored her indignant glare and rounded the table, sitting across from her pouting stance.

“Not a chance,” I snorted.

She sighed, accepting defeat, while shoving the bill back into her bag.

“Thank-you.” she mumbled grudgingly.

“Your welcome.” She looked up, her eyes wide, holding too much emotion to label, before her face turned into a mask of chagrin.

What is she thinking!

“So…” I began.

“Yes?”

“You were just about to tell me your favorite book.”

She gasped, enclosing her expression in mock horror. “I could never pick one! It would be like blasphemy… I could no sooner pick a favorite colour.”

I threw her a quizzical look.

“And how is that?” I asked, perplexity melting into amusement.

“Writing in general is a hard thing to label. Styles are too unique to be compared, let alone plot or the complexities of characters. It all depends on my mood; I could never loose myself in the hardships Of Francie Nolan in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn or walk through Mansfield Park, not while lost in the fantasy of Lord of the Rings or wishing I was Juliet. It’s a hard thing to categorize, let alone pick a favorite. So many different types of writings have yet to be ventured. And how could anyone pick a favorite and commit to another when they’ve already discovered the piece of work they’d always place on a pedestal high and completely incomparable to all else? I’d rather broaden my horizon and hope that when, if, I ever chose a favorite, it would be able to withstand all the novels of the search.”

“Sometimes, if you have a favorite, it could help you make comparisons to what you are currently reading…?” I ventured.

“Exactly, you could label it temporarily. But how would you fare if I labeled you my favorite person, but then the next day I have a conversation with someone else and realize that they are much better? It’s not a sticker, it can’t be ripped off over and over again, from one book to another… in the end it would loose its stickiness, ultimately meaning nothing.”

“But books aren’t people.” I interjected.

“That’s beside the point. Just that, the book you have labeled and named your favorite shouldn’t be replaced by another so easily. As is anything. Your favorite shouldn’t be distributed so lightly, it is as love; you don’t just throw around the word and not expect it to stick.”

I stared at her, her eyes wavered dropping to her sandwich. My love for her would always stick.

I smiled, “Did you just say, ‘you wish to be Juliet?’”

A dark shadow of blood filled her entire head from hairline to chin. I was staggered, never witnessing such a pooling of blood without the breakage of skin. I cut my breathing as a swarm of venom filled my mouth in unsavory want. I leaned back fastidiously, realizing now that our faces were close enough that her hot breath brushed my lips.

Run Bella Run.

She laughed nervously. “My obsession last year was Romeo and Juliet.” Her voice managed to crack, twice. She wasn’t lying, but the explanation was a blur masquerading the true reason for the blush.

“Why are you blushing?”

A darker red managed to darken her already impossibly red cheeks. She bowed her head, allowing her hair to hide her flaming face.

“Bella…” I cooed, in my most intentional seductive voice, leaning closer to her, trying to capture her eyes. She looked up, melting chocolate swirled darkly in her wide eyes. I dare not breathe.

“Please tell me.” I asked softly. I couldn’t not know. She could surely kill me, just with withheld information. Did she realize the control she already had over me?

“I used to have a crush on Romeo.” She blurted out, her diction smearing into every second word. Her heart staggered.

Jealousy. Absurd and Irrational. A completely fictional character, I told myself, incredulously.

Looks like Eddies got some competition.

Hahaha don’t you hate Romeo?

Awe she’s such a romantic.

What an ignorant human, of course she’d wish to be a character known for such a melodramatic suicide.

Thoughts continued to bombard me from the eavesdropping Cullen table; I tried tenaciously to ignore them.

I managed a twisted smile. Stay cool. Casual. Don’t scare her.

“So, what are some books that you like?” I asked with a teasing grin. Changing the subject, before she could read the absurd jealousy displayed over my every emotion.

“Edwards jealous.” Jasper whispered in a low voice.

All my siblings’ grueling laughs echoed around the cafeteria, causing abrupt stops in conversation and the heads of students to swerve to watch the Cullen’s show rare human emotion.

I cringed. But even though their laughs still rung throughout the room, Bella didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes locked on mine, as if I were the only thing she could concentrate on.

A huge wave of euphoric happiness washed over me. It was a staggering relief as much as it was a painful abjection, to realize that her full attention was unwaveringly locked on me.

--

Not only did she like the classics, from Jane Austin, to Eudora Welty, and Charlotte Brontë,but also biographies, short stories, and poetry.

I thought I had her taste in books pegged, deliberating her obvious love in romance, and her appreciation for classic fiction usually with a female protagonist. But just as I’d concluded this outlook, she’d surprise me, saying how much she’d enjoyed Harry Potter, Huck Finn or Anna Karenina.

It was unfathomable. With each answer came a new just as prominent question. A vast maze of never-ending frustration, as soon as I’d mentally check another character trait, it would change with just a wrong placed book, or quizzical facial expression I couldn’t decipher fast enough.

Her choices from dramas, mysteries, and the classics to confessing her guilty pleasure of Anne of Green Gables, to my personal favorites: Shakespeare, The Grapes of Wrath, Charles Dickens, Lord of the flies, The Catcher in the Rye,and Oliver twist. Upon further questioning I found our taste mingled but slightly disjointed, (of course, I was more cynical.)

Her answers were always surprisingly mature, well thought-out without too long of a pause, so I knew there was minimal editing (even though it still drove me mad.)

But even when she’d pause a second longer then conventional normalcy, my head would exploded in another toil of questions, wondering if I’d ever be able to hear the secrets she kept hidden from me.

I found each of her explanations and answers utterly fascinating. Locked on her every word. I could spend the rest of forever, watching the way the fission in-between the line of her lips would part as she spoke.

“It’s another world you can loose yourself in. Characters, thoughts and dreams you can relate to. Like a never wavering friend to laugh, or cry, or indulge in. All your problems seem to just melt away and all that’s left is black and white...” she shrugged, a stain of blood brushed her cheek as she caught my eye. Her eyes widened as if she’d just realized she’d been talking this whole time, letting her mouth run away without her permission. “Plus the stories and words in books are far more interesting then returning to my unexciting reality.” She concluded shyly, her voice just above the hush of a whisper.

I silently disagreed, knowing that no book could hold my interest as much as her.

I watched as she quickly took a bite of her forlorn apple. I realized that I had kept her talking through half of lunch, and she only managed to have eaten two bites of her sandwich. I watched in amusement as she hastily chewed, in anticipation of my next question.

I waited, not meaning to be rude. I had to remember that she needs to eat. In fact, at least three well-balanced meals a day, and snacks in-between. I wonder what she’d prefer to consume… I dare not ask her favorite; I concluded quickly, she doesn’t play favorites. The question was already on my lips, but I held my tongue, waiting for her to swallow.

“So, will you tell me the books that you read?” she asked timidly, her eyes focused on the table between us.

I ignored her question, smothering my smile. “What sort of provisions do you like?”

She laughed, I didn’t understand the source of her amusement, but couldn’t help the automatic smile that spread over mine in infectious reverence.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Provisions?” she snorted.

I raised my eyebrows. “Okay, food.” I said distastefully, while doubtfully eyeing the assortment arranged on her tray.

“I dunno. I’m not picky…”

This wouldn’t do. What would I feed her? — Or rather, what would I feed her, if she’d prefer to be in my company at a time whether she was hungry?

“Bella,” I scolded. “There must be something you prefer? Don’t humans enjoy particular flavors and textures for their alleged pallet?”

I could see the corners of her lips twitch, I wonder why?

“Ummm…” I could see her struggling to pick words. I tried to imagine what she might be thinking, but all possibilities were far-fetched and inconclusive. “I guess I like the same food as the next person…But my favorite would be Italian.” she quickly amended after catching my eye.

Italian. I mentally checklist.

“And— of course, being a girl,” she rolled her eyes. “I can’t deny my love for all things chocolate.”

I was missing something, like an inside-joke that I wasn’t apart of, — or like what she just said was already a universally known fact.

“What do you mean — being a girl?”

She blushed. The same breathtaking colour dosing her cheeks and inflaming my every desire.

Why would she blush!?

Before I could ask, a harsh voice interrupted the swirl of intrigued thoughts echoing throughout my head.

Edward! Seriously leave that one alone! Alice.

I looked up quickly, catching Alice’s eye from across the room. Her eyebrows were raised, her eyes intense.

I quickly returned my gaze to Bella, realizing too late that I shouldn’t have asked. I changed the subject.

“What genera of movies do you favor?”

She sighed in audible relief, before answering.

--

I quizzed her in precise, curt, questions. Earning fast answers, meaning minor editing. It was the closest to reading her mind as I could get.

Q: Favorite Holiday?

A: Halloween.

I think she said this just to be funny.

Q: If you could have any car what would it be?

A: Red!

Haha.

Q: Morning or Night?

A: Night.

Q: Season?

A: Summer.

Of course

Q: Which day of the week do you like best?

A: Friday

Q: Gemstone?

A: Topaz

A blush?

I paused. “Why are you blushing?” I asked.

Her eyes widened, before she ducked her head, allowing her hair to smother her burning cheeks. My impatience and severe curiosity burned like the perfume of her breath. “Won’t you tell me?” I pleaded.

She was hidden beneath the shield of her hair, but her head bobbed back and forth portraying her ‘no.’ I would die if she didn’t tell me.

“Please Bella?” I groveled. Earning another quick head shake.

I blew out a frustrated gust of air, my impatience started to climb. “Tell me,” I demanded.

She peaked up through the curtain of her hair. Her eyes swimming in intensity. “It’s the colour of your eyes today,” she sighed, her head burning a degree darker. I could feel the heat of her blush touch my face. “I suppose if you asked me in two weeks I’d say onyx.”

I couldn’t identify the new emotion swirling like a fire at the base of my throat. I knew enough that it was pleasure, but mixed with this new strange feeling. Satisfaction? Joy, Lust?

She kept her head trained down, fiddling with a strand of her hair.

I could practically feel her embarrassment building in the thick air between us, and promptly asked my next question. But I couldn’t seem to shake the flutter of happiness that purred in contentment in the pit of my stomach.

The cafeteria slowly melted of wavering students, but I drew out my last minutes with her until it became necessary to leave. I almost wanted to ask if she’d like to skip class with me, but knew that wouldn’t fare. Bella was responsible, I reminded myself.

I kept the stream of conversation in continuum as we both lumbered to class. Twice she slipped, catching her boot on invisible obstacles on the flat stable surface laid out before her.

We both settled in our seats, Mr. Banner flicked out the lights...