#sophisticities

───∙∘☽༓☾∘∙───

You find Jasper on the roof, crouched, unmoving, another one of the stone statues watching over your family’s home. 

The Cullen residence in Rochester, New York is more mansion than house. The beauty of the property’s roof in particular had caught Carlisle and Esme’s eyes. It was one of the few places in the state that had retained its old architecture. The roof, reminiscent of castles from Carlisle’s first lifetime, was lined with stone creatures of myth, warriors meant to stand guard and protect the inhabitants below. Your mate—a soldier in one of his past lives—had been quick to claim the roof as his place of solace. 

Though Jasper doesn’t turn to you as you find your way to him, the sudden rush of certainty, of razor sharp intention, tells you he’s using his ability to affirm your assumption that he needs you by his side. You maneuver your way across the roof slowly, but not carefully, giving your mate ample time to change his mind. 

“Whatever it is you think you’ve done, there’s no need to punish yourself for it,” you say, blunt and firm, as soon as you reach him. Jasper is a soldier through and through; sometimes, commands are the only way you can pierce the tension he wears like armour, the only thing that softens frozen muscles coiled in restraint. 

Jasper lifts his head, his honey-blond hair falling away from his face. There’s blood smeared across his lips and you think, human— when the scent of the black bear hits you. 

“You thought it, didn’t you?” His voice is cold, distant, but not accusatory. “You thought I slipped up, that I failed Carlisle and our family.” 

You know there’s no hiding your split second of doubt. Jasper is attuned to all emotion, yours most of all. You kneel next to him, tucking your legs under your body and yourself into his side. 

“You’d be forgiven even if you had,” you reply, still certain, always steady, “but you didn’t, and that’s the only thing that matters.” 

Jasper sighs, the sound worn and heavy with his decades of existence. A few moments, and then, in a voice meant only for your ears: “I miss it sometimes.” 

Venom rises in your throat at the thought of blood—the flow of it within your prey, its heat warming your frozen limbs, the thick, gushing red that gives you life…or at least, some measure of it. You miss it too. Not the kind you feed on, but the kind you and Jasper swore you’d never touch again. 

“You’re allowed to,” you breathe, the memory of human blood fresh and heady in your mind. “It’s in our nature to crave it, my love. It’s instinct, it’s survival.” 

“Is it?” Jasper grits his teeth and wraps his arms around his knees, caging himself in. Trapping the monster within, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Is it instinct that makes me walk a lady to her car because I want to watch the warmth rush to her cheeks? That causes me to frequent town so I can listen to the rush of blood as people move about? Is it survival when I stalk a lone hiker for miles, wishing they’d cut themselves open on the rocks so that if I lose control, I can pretend it wasn’t my fault?” 

“Yes, yes, and yes,” you answer. You tug his arm away from his face and tuck a finger under his chin, forcing him to look at you. 

Jasper’s eyes are the bright, beautiful gold of a recent and successful hunt. You wipe his mouth clean of the bloody residue, then gently press your lips to his. 

“You fought against instinct and survival,” you breathe against his lips, then move back so you can meet his gaze. “And you won.”

Your mate stays silent, his golden eyes holding your own. The vision of a predator, the gaze of a soldier, and the windows to the soul you’ve chosen to spend eternity with. 

“I know every day is a battle for you, Jas,” you say. Your eyes shift to the forests that border your property, thinking of your family hunting amongst the foliage. “That your history is different from your siblings, different from mine even, and we know that was already more violent than most. 

You’re afraid of these habits, these– these urges, but that’s because you don’t want to give into them. I know you don’t. You want to choose this lifestyle, this family. You want to choose me.” 

You reach for his hand and curl your fingers around his. Marble curving against stone, both of you made of diamonds in the late morning sun. 

“Are you sure you’re not the one that can read emotions, ma’am?” Jasper muses, as he squeezes your hand. He turns to you, his movements loose and graceful. Armour gone, the soldier finally relieved of duty—if only for the time being—because of your undying faith in him and his strength. 

You shrug. “I know you.”

Jasper lifts your hand to his lips and places a kiss on your knuckles, his mouth still warm from his last meal. You fight the satisfied sigh that threatens to escape your lips at the sudden heat. 

It escapes anyway when he breathes your name against your skin and looks up at you through his lashes, slowly, reverently. 

“And I know that if it’s you I fight alongside of, there is no war I can lose,” Jasper murmurs, soft and certain, a soldier finally surrendering. 

“I don’t care if you lose,” you whisper, leaning forward until your forehead rests against his. “I just want you to keep fighting. I need you to.” 

───∙∘☽༓☾∘∙───

The sound of your cue stick hitting the cue ball echoes through the nearly-empty pub. You straighten up, already grinning, as the eight-ball sinks clean into the top left pocket just as you meant it to. 

“Well shit, I reckon that’s the third straight win for us,” you drawl, propping your cue stick up and tucking it against your body. “Lemme know if y’all are ready to lose again.” 

“That’s what I’m fucking talking about!” Emmett calls out as he swings his hulking form over the corner of the billiards table with ease. He gives you a high five with enough force that even with your vampiric strength, you fight to hold your ground. 

“You’re in public, baby,” Rosalie croons. She stands next to you, a wingless angel more than a little out of place in the bar you and your family have decided to haunt for the night. “Careful with your showing off.”

“Aw c’mon, sugar,” you say, nudging the blonde. “We just beat those duds again. We can celebrate a lil bit, don’tcha think?” 

Rosalie shakes her head in disbelief, muttering something about the importance of discretion. Even with her face twisted in annoyance, she’s beautiful, the type of perfection that no one can hold a candle to. 

Emmett, likely thinking the same thing, comes over and picks his mate up, twirling her around in the wake of your victory. Rosalie shrieks, but she’s laughing, her smile radiant and mirroring Emmett’s own. 

“Now that there’s a fuckin’ celebration,” you note, grinning and raising an imaginary glass to the happy couple. 

Satisfaction must be rolling off all three of you in waves because across from you, your mate rolls his eyes. 

Jasper stands with his cue stick slung across the top of his shoulders and behind his neck, his hands keeping it in place. He’s half in shadow, the dingy lamp hanging overhead casting his face into sharp edges and dark hollows. 

Unlike his ‘twin sister,’ your mate looks right at home in the darkness of the pub. He’s the kind of stranger that catches someone’s eye when they’ve had too many drinks, and promises to take them home; danger clings to the air around him though and one might wonder if– no, one might hope that he doesn’t follow through. 

The victory singing in your body hums more loudly; the thought that someone so alluring to others will be yours forever is a triumph in and of itself. 

The high of your win dulls suddenly and you raise an eyebrow at Jasper. “Can’t just let me have my moment, can ya?’

“I know how you get when you win, darlin’,” Jasper replies, a smile playing across his lips. “Can’t have all that smugness distracting me next round.” 

Beside him, Edward chuckles at the barrage of swear words bouncing around your head. “You shouldn’t antagonize her, Jasper. Now she’ll never go easy on us.” 

“She never does.” Bella materializes by her mate’s side, as beautiful and graceful as the rest of you. Despite having been a vampire for many years, she still wears immortality like a novelty, humanity clinging to her softest gestures. “She never has, not even when she was supposed to be trying to win us over.” 

“Y’all didn’t deserve it,” you counter. “Go easy on y’all? The legendary Olympic coven? Bless your heart.” 

With a slight shake of your head, you pick up a piece of chalk and start rubbing it against the cue stick in your hand.

Emmett, always in sync with you, rightfully takes this as a sign to start setting up a new game. He and Rosalie are quick to retrieve the solid and striped balls from the pockets—perhaps too quick, though your perfect vision picks up their movements easily. 

To human eyes, they must look like phantoms. Blurred, appearing in and out of focus, here one moment and there the next. 

You eye the pub’s remaining patrons. 

An older gentleman in the corner, his table covered in empty mugs. Two young women at the bar who can’t keep their hands—or lips—off each other, both of them reeking of marijuana and liquor. And finally, an underage boy trying, and failing, to flirt with the bartender. 

All of them are seemingly oblivious to your uncanny group of immortals, or perhaps they are simply too inebriated to care about whoever is hogging the pub’s lone billiards table. 

You turn your attention back to the conversation at hand. Your family members watch as you position yourself at the head of the table, varying shades of amusement written across their faces. 

“C’mon,” you continue, twirling your cue stick around with ease despite it almost being your height. Your voice is mischievous, playful, when you say, “What was I s’posed to find so special ’bout y’all anyway? Bunch of vegetarian vampires, cozyin’ up to some humans, doing jackshit with their immortality.”

Edward hears your next comment before the rest of them do; he chuckles, so loud and sudden that he has to turn his head and bury the sound into Bella’s hair. 

You bite your lip, holding back a giggle of your own, before continuing, “Last I checked, only one o’y’all was a doctor; the rest of ya just keep repeatin’ school.” 

“That’s a ridiculous oversimplification of things, sweetheart,” Jasper cuts in before his siblings can. His mouth turns up in that crooked half-smile, the only thing about him that has ever caught you off guard. “Imagine the complications if all of us were to start practicin’ medicine in the same small town. Don’tcha reckon that’ll raise some eyebrows?” 

“Would still be more useful than hangin’ ’round teenagers,” you retort, but your tone is light, unserious. This particular dispute is one you’re used to having with the Cullen family. Though always done in jest, you’re sure Carlisle’s children get one step closer to refusing to enroll in high school again every time you have the nerve to bring it up.

Emmett cackles. “Tushy or whatever it is the French say.” 

“Touché, love,” Rosalie corrects, before turning to you. A raise of her eyebrow, then: “Last I checked, you married into our family anyway, so I reckon you were still somewhat impressed.” 

You raise your hands in mock surrender, letting your cue stick fall against the table. “Oh honey, ya know I only married Jas so you could be my sister.” 

Though Rosalie rolls her eyes, the slight curl of her lips betrays her susceptibility to flattery. 

“It’s not very nice to lie, ya know.” Jasper has come up behind you, quiet and sneaky even for a vampire. His lips brush the shell of your ear as he mumbles, “I know I won you over fair and square, sweetheart.” 

“I reckon you bamboozled me into it,” you say as your mate’s hands wrap around your waist and pull you to him, “with that silly lil ability o’ yours.” 

“If I manipulated you into this, you’d know,” Jasper answers. You can feel him smiling against your ear, can picture the crescent-moon grin that did win you over fair and square. “You’d still be tryna fight it, I’m sure, feisty gal that you are.” 

“You two gonna stop flirting so we can start the game or what?” Emmett calls out. He has one hand wrapped around Rosalie, while the other twirls a cue stick that looks more feeble than usual in his grip. 

You silently hope that he doesn’t break it again and you hear Edward chuckle at the thought. 

“Yeah, we’re ready to win again,” Rosalie taunts, tapping her cue stick against the billiards table in impatience. 

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Bella says. She purses her lips, her focus and intention evident in the set of her brows. 

Maybe this game will finally be a challenge. 

“Gimme some sugar for luck,” you say, ignoring all their comments and twisting in your mate’s arms. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Jasper tilts his head to catch your lips as you rise up to meet him. You kiss him, slow and deliberate, one hand finding its way into his soft, blond locks. Jasper’s mouth falls open, dragging your lips with him, breathing you in, as his hands tighten on your hips. 

“The game’s supposed to start today,” Rosalie huffs. 

Knowing it will make her more irritated, you kiss Jasper again, once, twice, before pulling away.

“Maybe I’ll go easy on y’all this time,” you say, grinning. 

“I doubt that,” Jasper replies. The confidence you exude must be overloading his emotional ability, but even then, he mirrors your smile. 

You bend over then, nudging your ass against him as you take aim and position your cue stick. You eye one of the coloured balls in the top half of the rack, more than a little distracted given Jasper has stilled, pressed against you. 

Emmett whistles at the scandalous display, but the sound is cut off by the crack of your cue stick— then the cue ball against the others. The rack splits apart, sharp and quick. 

The solid yellow ball in the top corner flies into the corner pocket. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Chunkz 

starts wheezing immediately (you lot know what his real laugh sounds like– yeah, that) 

you have to crop the tiktok because he laughs at you for three minutes straight 

“c’mon now, when have you ever paid it?” 

“do you even know how?” 

“didn’t think that word was in your vocabulary, babes” 

he’s so done with you

but he’s smiling so hard you can see his dimples 

you’re giggling too because he’s fucking right (and he’s being adorable about it)

he’s always been the provider

never lets you pay for shit 

always covers the main expenses since he’s got that beta squad/youtube/sponsorship money flowing in 

i’m telling you it’s in his dna to look after his partner/wife

before you end the tiktok, he imitates you in that silly voice he and aj always use 

“i can’t pay the mortgage this month, amin, sorry honey” in the most ridiculous, high-pitched tone 

he gives you the ‘harry pinero’ face as he walks away 

Sharky

knows of the trend (obviously — he’s the tiktok king) 

lowkey has been waiting for you to try it on him

“i got you, baby, don’t worry” because he knows it’ll make you swoon 

(also because he knows it’ll do numbers on social media and give the tiktok editors good material) 

he turns away from the camera and tries to walk away nonchalantly 

(he almost walks right into the kitchen counter) 

looks back way too soon

you’re still recording

and now you (and your viewers) know he’s just aura farming 

(he’s right though — that clip does numbers)

he asks you after if you’re serious 

because he just invested a shit ton of money into a brand new primo launch 

and his bank account is crying 

you pretend not to hear him (oops)

Niko 

“you know what that means, yeah” 

“you gotta go” 

“no freeloaders here” as he grabs a handful of your clothes and starts shoving them into a suitcase 

specifically that scooter one he and aj share 

(how he found it so fast, you don’t even know)

escorts you to the front door

somehow has those fuck ass shades on 

(again, how and when he put it on, you don’t fucking know)

you’re getting all his antics on camera until he picks you up 

fucking bridal-style 

the recording cuts 

(when you post this tiktok, everyone comments that the ndl have disposed of you)

in reality, you’re deposited on the front porch 

the door closes for 0.02 seconds 

and then it’s open again 

“...the way we don’t even have a mortgage”

“even if we did, we’d just rinse the beta squad account till it’s paid off” 

you knock the shades off his head

but not the shit-eating grin off his face 

Kenny

“huh? we live in a flat…that we own” 

confused as fuck because he isn’t chronically online like that 

when you repeat yourself, the poor man looks even more confused 

“we don’t have a mortgage, hon” 

“what’re you on about?”

“did you buy a house without telling me”

“...in this economy?”

at this point, you’ve lost the plot and are just cackling at his cluelessness

“am i missing something” 

“this is for a tiktok, innit” 

he finally notices you filming and laughs 

(yes, that laugh)

((all the comments end up talking about it))

“the way you had me thinking i bought a whole house without knowing” 

“you can’t be doing this shit to me, baby” 

“you know i don’t know trends like that, fuck”

off-camera, he tells you he’d cover the mortgage and more  

if it was actually a problem 

you try not to jump him 

(you fail)

Aj

doesn’t even look up from his computer screen 

“damn, aight, guess we’re homeless now” through a mouthful of chips 

“you belong in the streets anyway” as he shoots people on valorant 

“i’m not paying it either, schmuck” 

blames that “nasty green shit” for taking all your money (he means matcha) 

you cut the tiktok just so you can fuck up his hair 

and distract him from his game 

(you’re needy like that) 

((aje lowkey loves it))

the joke lasts the whole fucking night 

he insists that one (or both) of you should start an onlyfans 

you think he’s kidding

you hope he is 

he films a bunch of youtube videos for both of his channels the week after and does a short twitch stream 

he says he’s just “inspired”

you know he’s tryna make bank 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Your afternoon wasn’t supposed to consist of you discovering that dirt tastes a little sweet. 

But you find yourself face-first on the football pitch anyway, mouth full of earth and grass, the metallic tang of the soil making you gag. The only thing that keeps you from throwing up is the flowery scent that invades your nostrils and your mouth. It would be pleasant, if not for the grainy texture assaulting your tongue. 

“What the fuck, Niko?” You push yourself up off the ground, knees cracking in protest and pain. You cough out as much of the greenery as you can, then stalk over to the bench. You grab your water bottle and take several gulps, taking the time to gargle and spit after every one. 

Traitorous red blinks in your peripheral: your camera, still recording from the corner of the pitch. You make a mental note to purge this footage from the hard drive. 

“Are you alright?” Niko calls out as he jogs over. His tone is one of worry, but you can tell from the set of his mouth that there’s a smirk trying to break loose. “I didn’t mean to kick it that far, baby, I swear.” 

“You’re vile,” you say, rolling your eyes. “You’re a sick, sick individual. You knew I couldn’t run that far, let alone turn enough to kick that fucking ball.” 

Niko stops in front of you just as you put your water bottle down. Though he’s struggling not to laugh, there’s genuine concern in his dark eyes. He reaches for you, slow and gentle, a hand coming up to caress your face. 

“Did you scratch yourself? Get any cuts?” he asks, even as he turns your face this way and that, determined to discover the answers on his own. His thumb brushes across your cheek as if he’s checking for cracks in porcelain, his touch gentle and precise like he’s searching for damage in a piece of art. 

Your irritation ebbs away. “I’m fine, baby. I coulda lived without knowing dirt kinda tastes like expired candy…but I’m good to go back to filming.”

“I can’t believe you wiped out like that,” Niko says, unable to help the grin that cuts across his face. “And we got it on camera!” 

His teasing elicits something wicked inside you: an idea in the making, striking you quick as a viper.

You walk away from Niko and towards your camera, positioning yourself in the middle of the frame. You can imagine how it looks: you bathed in the rare golden light, the pitch framing you in emerald, Niko hovering in the background, serving as guardian…or the devil on your shoulder. 

Your lips quirk up in a smile. “Alright friends, it’s sunny in London for once so you lot know we gotta take advantage of it. Today, my current boyfriend and I are doing some football challenges.” 

You don’t turn around, but you hear Niko choke. 

“What?” Niko sputters. “Current?” 

“You heard me.” 

“That’s how it is, yeah?” His tone shifts into one that promises trickery, his voice that of a man always ready to rise to a challenge and unafraid of causing chaos to win it. “Well my current girlfriend can’t even play football, let alone do half these tricks. I might have to trade her in, find one that doesn’t fall face-first onto the pitch.” 

You whip your head around, your mouth falling open. This shameless jokeman. 

Niko’s smile is blinding, all teeth and mischief. He kicks at the football by his feet, maneuvers it easily between his legs and around him. Too smug, too steady. 

“Not to mention she’s a Liverpool fan,” he continues, eyes twinkling as he picks up on the disbelief on your face. “Can’t be around scouser sympathizers and that.” 

You don’t dignify his jab with a response. Instead, you toss him your water bottle—just out of reach. 

───∙∘☽༓☾∘∙───

You shouldn’t have seen the cathedral. 

Tucked away as it was, positioned behind a bend in the road and covered by untamed foliage and a thick grove of trees, it should have been invisible to you. 

It looked like any old church–cracked columns, high arches, stone weathered enough that it had definitely seen better times. The stained glass windows were faded, colours blurred, the images even more so. The doors were a deep, dull red, like dried blood. The handles were smooth bronze from how often they’d been grabbed by worshippers’ hands. 

The structure had whispered of hushed confessions, of withheld sin, and you’d followed the dirt road to the bottom of its steps. 

Now, you push the doors open gently. They creak and groan, a protest against your presence that echoes throughout the chamber. 

You step into the aisle, a hand reaching out to touch one of the pews. The wood is smooth, worn down from how many worshippers, or perhaps sinners, have taken a seat here and asked for more than their God can offer. 

Beyond the rows of pews are several metal stands holding votive candles. Above them are the stained glass windows you’d seen outside. The images they depict are much easier to see with the slanted rays of the late afternoon sun filtering through them. 

One catches your eye—the Virgin Mary holding her son’s bruised body, the wooden cross a silhouette behind them. A streak of dirt beneath Mary’s eye gives the illusion that she’s crying; you look away from the haunted image.  

Statues of various saints take up the niches in the walls. Though the paint on them has long faded, they remain life-like, unforgivingly so. Their blank eyes seem to follow you as you move further into the cathedral. 

About halfway, you turn to leave, the weight of the statues’ gazes becoming too heavy for you to bear. 

And then you see him. 

A figure standing by one of the pews closest to the altar, half hidden by a pillar. 

He’s facing away from you, unmoving. You might’ve confused him for another statue if not for the lift of his broad shoulders as he takes deep, slow breaths and the glow of his fine, blonde hair as the light catches it just right.

For a moment, you’re frozen in fear, or maybe in awe, of another living soul in this haunted, beautiful place. Before you can think of leaving before he sees you, the man turns. 

You stifle a gasp, but barely. 

The stranger in front of you is beautiful—tall stature, high cheekbones, jaw sharp and angular, skin pale as marble. His clothes hug his figure in all the right places and his blonde waves frame his face in a halo of gold. 

And his eyes…God, his eyes. They’re only a shade darker than his hair—something you’d never seen before, except perhaps in a dream or in the flicker of candlelight. 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. Your heart stutters in your chest. “I didn’t think anyone else would be here.” 

Something about the stranger seems off, not quite malicious, but not quite holy either. You think of angels, of the ones that fell and became something worse. 

You wonder if any of them decided to walk the Earth, choosing to remain with mortals instead of the demons that lurked below. 

A ghost of a smile dances across the stranger’s handsome face, almost as if he can read your mind. 

“It’s alright,” he says, his voice low. It travels easily through the empty space between you. “I’m a visitor, same as you.” 

The gentleness of his tone slows the racing of your heart. You’re relieved, but not at ease. 

“I don’t normally come to places like this,” you say, walking down the aisle and towards him. The stranger doesn’t move. “Do you?” 

“When I can.” He tilts his head, his gold eyes lifting to the ceiling. The fresco is cracked in several places; some pieces of the roof are gone, exposing the cathedral to the heavens above. “It reminds me of my father.” 

“Your father must be a haunted man,” you blurt out, then wince at your own callousness. You stop a few paces away from him. “Sorry, that was…inappropriate.” 

To your surprise, the stranger chuckles. His golden eyes move away from the broken image on the ceiling and come to rest on you. Under his full attention, you feel exposed, raw, every sin you’ve committed laid bare for him to see. 

You don’t quite hate it. 

“He was a pastor…so yes, he must’ve been,” he says, thoughtful. He walks toward you, his hand grazing the pews as he passes them. He stops a foot or so away, his eyes still on yours. 

“My father was a man of God, you see…but he lived in a time when the Church cared more about hatred than forgiveness, pursued punishment over mercy. That kind of righteous faith—fury, some might say—led him on a mission to rid the world of monsters. I’m sure you can imagine how that might bring forth a lot of ghosts.” 

Though the man in front of you seems modern enough, the cadence of his words are an echo from another time. You tilt your head, curious. 

“And you? Are you— are you like your father?” 

“A pastor?” He smiles, amusement tucked into the corner of his upturned lips. “I was. Once.” 

“No, not that,” you say with a slight shake of your head. “Plagued by ghosts.” 

“Aren’t we all?” 

“I’m not,” you reply, too quickly. You bite your lip, feeling as though you said so much, with so little. 

“Is that so? What else would bring you to such a holy place?” 

“A lot of things,” you answer, mirroring his raised brow. A tinge of annoyance spikes through you. “You can’t presume to know my reasons, mister…”

“Carlisle.” If he’s shocked by your sudden irritation, you don’t hear it in the calm of his voice. “My name is Carlisle.” 

The familiarity of it quells the annoyance that was rising. In its place, warmth and comfort sink into your chest. 

You think again of angels, of this inexplicable sense of safety and whether it is a gift they possess, even the fallen ones. 

At the expectant look on Carlisle’s face, you offer your name. 

He repeats it, slow and quiet. The way your name sits in his mouth, like a prayer answered, a sin forgiven, will haunt you forever.

You swallow hard. “I could have a million reasons for coming here, Carlisle.” 

“Tell me one.” 

You consider lying, but you remember where you are. A place of honesty, for baring one’s soul. “I’m running.” 

“From your ghosts?” 

You shrug. “From everything. From myself.” 

“Sometimes, I want to run from myself, too.” Weariness weighs heavy in Carlisle’s voice. You get the sense he carries centuries of guilt, has spent multiple lifetimes atoning. 

“Why?”

“Because I’ve become one of the monsters my father would’ve hunted.” 

You know he means for it to sound like a confession, like a sin uncovered. Instead, you accept it as a secret, something sacred entrusted to you. 

You step closer to him, drawn by the supernatural clinging to the air around him. You look up, so close that you can see the flecks of amber in the gold of his eyes, the edges of his irises so dark they’re almost bronze. 

He smells good, enticing, though you can’t name the scent. One second it’s clean linen, the next it’s cologne, then aftershave, and beneath that, something heavenly. 

No, intoxication like this may be the devil’s work. 

He isn’t human. The realization materializes as if in slow motion, stretched across millenia, from the creation of his kind to now, where it overlaps with yours.

“You’re not afraid?” Carlisle asks. His breath is cool against your face. No warmth radiates from him, not from his steadily rising chest, or his fingers, mere inches from yours. 

“You won’t hurt me.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“Have a little faith,” you counter. “Isn’t that what this institution is all about?” 

The smile that graces Carlisle’s marble features doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Faith,” he echoes, but there’s no mockery in it, only soft resignation. 

Carlisle steps back, just a little. Not enough to sever whatever’s formed between you, but enough to remind you of what he is. What he isn’t anymore.

“I used to have it.” For the first time in your conversation, his gold eyes shift away. He speaks quietly, almost to himself. “Even after I became…this, I believed there was a reason, that I had a purpose. I clung to it. Desperately.”

“And now?”

“Now, I want to believe in mercy,” he says. “That even if I am damned, and none of this means anything, I’ll get some measure of credit for trying.” 

You’re not sure how to respond to the rawness of his words, but something settles in your chest, something still and solemn. Something like understanding.

You nod slowly. “I hope for that too. It’s probably the only part of this whole religion thing that I believe in.” 

Carlisle’s eyes find yours again. His expression doesn’t change, but the gold in his eyes seems to flicker, as though a candle has been lit behind them. 

In the dim, broken light of the cathedral, he looks ancient. An angel walking the Earth, lost and out of place. Perhaps cast out of heaven for good, but still heavenly. 

You don’t know how long the two of you stand frozen, trapped in time like the statues, the holy figures depicted in the murals and the stained glass. 

Carlisle moves first, towards you— then past you. He pauses, just behind your field of vision. 

 “Let us hope mercy finds us both,” Carlisle murmurs. 

You turn at the reverence, the holiness of his words, and without thinking, you touch your hand to his. Your knuckles brush, feather light, but it’s enough. 

His hands are cold as ice, hard as stone, but you’re not shocked by it. You already knew he was other.  

Carlisle glances down at the space where you’d connected, however briefly, and sighs. The sound echoes through the church, wounded and broken. 

“You deserve it more,” you whisper. 

You will yourself to turn back to the cleaved altar, not wanting to see him go. Carlisle’s allure is too great, because only a second later, you’re looking over your shoulder. 

He stands on the cathedral steps bathed in the final rays of the setting sun. Carlisle glistens in the pinpricks of light—no longer marble, but a collection of diamonds molded into human form. 

He’s gone between one breath and the next, no remnant of his existence left behind save for the imprint he’s left on your soul. 

For several moments, you remain still. The cathedral holds its breath with you, shadows lengthening across worn down pews and dusted glass, as though the building itself mourns his absence.

You whisper his name, just once, and it feels like a benediction.

Carlisle. Beautiful, tender, golden. 

Forgiveness and faith incarnate, walking amongst the ruined.