Come get y'all juice!

Chapter XXI - Laguna

Edgar stared outside her window and into the driveway, her dark brows furrowed and stormy eyes pointed straight at the figure getting out of the shiny car parked on her property. Or well, her father's property more like, but at the moment she felt like every second the person spent on it was a direct violation towards her Artistic liberty.

Adonis making his way up towards her door, his rust colored hair slowly darkening with the rain falling from heavy Forks clouds, smart clothing damp with it. And yet he strutted like he had no worries in the world, long strides quick and purposeful. He was here, on time, to work on their project, something they'd arranged from their last meeting. The dark haired girl couldn't help the sour feeling all things academic invoked in her. Her time which could better be spent working with her water colors was now being spent cooped up, studying biology of all things.

The mere word made her sigh forlornly as she let the curtain drift closed when the doorbell rang. That was the sound of the start of her two hours of torture, stuck with the infuriatingly perfect 'Edward Cullen'.

And goodness, the dark haired girl still had no idea what it was about him that infuriated her so. She was still caught in the weird web of utter fascination that a person so flawless could exist, the perfect sculpture of a man masquerading somewhat uselessly as a seventeen year old boy. He looked like he belonged on the battlefields of Troy, one of Helen's heroes fighting valiantly, his only worthy opponent being Sun Kissed Achilles himself. Edgar was quite sure at least, if reincarnations, or similar magic happenings of the sort existed, this rust-haired boy would be a direct descendent of the Ancient Greeks himself.

On the other hand, she thought, swinging the door open and leveling him with a look of displeasure, which on her usual apathetic face registered as only a slight crease between her brows, she still couldn't stand him.

He stood there, hair damp and smiling down at her, and she catalogued the angles of his face, the light on his pale skin and how he stood tall –tall, tall, tall- and far too sure of himself for that matter. The last trip to the art store they'd taken had afforded a brief glimpse into the way he carried his limbs, walking with an elegance that was almost unfair. Between sulking over the fact that her father was being stingy with art supplies again, and sending pleading glances to Ms Pearson to let her just please get the brushes, oh please, please, she caught the way he walked the store. He was no stranger to art supplies either, that she could tell immediately. He read through their list easily and didn't look confused at anything, not even through the countless options on display.

Between that, and his hands (strong and lovely, pale with long fingers and proportioned knuckles, goodness how she'd just love to model them, she hated how unfair it was that he was just so-)

"Am I not allowed to come in, now?" he asked, raising a brow and looking down at her expectantly, cutting off her train of thought.

Edgar closed her eyes, and imagined the annoying little boy she'd been with just a day prior. Remembered the way they'd spent the day on the grass, finger painting and listening to the nature around them, and wished she could be back there right now, complete with Seth's loud screeching and all.

But alas, it was not to be, and so she moved aside to let him in without a word.

Moments later however, as they sat at the dining room table, supplies laid out in front of them, and he stared down at the significant decrease in presentation paper before, she did find it in herself to do away with the annoyance and feel only a little bit sorry.

"What happened to the paper?" he asked, and the black haired girl shrugged.

"Yesterday I was a teacher," she answered truthfully. Her father told her to always be honest, of course.

The boy blinked. "A teacher?" he repeated.

"Yes."

"Who were you teaching and why did you need to use our supplies to do it?" he asked slowly, and honestly, what an unnecessary question, she couldn't help but think.

"I was imparting important knowledge on a blossoming mind. They needed my help to open to fully find themselves in order to Create, and so I used the tools at my disposal," the dark haired girl answered vaguely.

She was only half present in the conversation, she didn't even want to be there, in all honestly. The texture of the heavy wood table under her fingertips was much more interesting anyway, she thought.

Their dining room was more for appearance's sake at this point. It hadn't been used since The Incident, and most days she forgot it was even there. Her father had suggested to her the previous evening that they could use it to work in, since it would be more comfortable, and if she was being honest, she felt a little odd, sitting in it. It was decorated tastefully, all dark woods and glass accents, and there was a big arching stained glass window that matched their front door that let in a prism of light in. Beautiful room, but she didn't like the feeling it brought up within her.

She hadn't had much time to keep up with her reading lately, which had nothing to do with the fact that her books couldn't teach you about properly processing buried emotion. Every once in a blue moon, he would drop a hint about going to see a 'specialist', if she was so interested in blending in with her fellow humans. The dark haired girl secretly thought he was wrong, though she wouldn't say it.

It wasn't that she was particularly invested about settling into society –she'd lived her whole life outside of it, and from what she'd glimpsed from the sidelines, she wasn't much interested in joining it either. Humans were by equal measures fascinating and boring; fascinating because they were able to take the smallest of things and transform them into something amazing, but boring because of the self-imposed limitations they lived by. What was the point of having all these colors, and then keeping most things dull and boring?

No, Edgar wasn't much bothered about society or anything. She read the books though, because she had her own feelings, and emotions, and was trying hard to identify them. To know what she was feeling, instead of having to stumble and guess her way through her own thoughts. Most days she wasn't too impacted, but this dining room…she couldn't quite understand the twinge in her chest.

She remembered her childhood in this room, lunches and dinners and holiday feasts spent in this room. She remembered her parents and herself and occasionally her grandparents all gathered around, smiling and content. The room decorated to reflect whatever season they were currently in, tinsel or egg baskets or Halloween strings hanging on the heavy chandelier suspended above, candles lit and creating a warm glow around them. She could recall the table laden with dishes and desserts, and whichever else that would accompany the occasion. She could remember a woman, bright as a star, the glowing center of it all.

But those were just memories, memories she could identify with the rest of the house. She'd grown up here, had all her experiences here, and ate all her meals here. Her family had roamed all the rooms of this house; she sat in every spot in this house. What made this room different, this area designated just for eating and nothing else remotely special? Why was her chest tight and did she suddenly feel like the house had actually been empty all this time? That even with her and her father's permanent presence, it still sat like the days she'd put her heavy socks on wrong and felt that tiny, usually insignificant discomfort that came with it?

"Hireath."

Edward was eyeing her from his seat, his head tilted slightly, yet he had his gaze fixed firmly on her person, and though she was startled, though she'd forgotten all about his presence in those moments sunken deep in her own head, she met his Sunshine gaze with her own Moonshine one, and knew exactly what he spoke about.

"That's what I'm feeling?" she asked. She didn't know what the word meant, was sure that this was perhaps, the first time she'd ever heard it in her life, but for some reason just the sound of it felt appropriate.

"The missing of home, or a specific time in your life. Homesickness," he said.

"I am home," she answered with a frown, and yet even as she said it, she felt he was right. That whatever it was she was feeling didn't warrant a literal interpretation in this moment.

Home was where the heart was, her father often said. Her heart was here in this house, with her dad, but there was something not quite full in her.

(Again, she saw the glowing star.)

Edward gave her a small smile, and that too made her feel odd. "The concept of home is subjective."

He said it like he was agreeing with what her father said, and she leveled him with an unimpressed look, before letting him know just that. "You sound like my father," she said, and just like that, whatever heavy mood that had surrounded them dissipated just as quickly as it had descended, chased away by the laugh he let out.

All the better for it, Edgar thought. That was far too much heavy thinking than she was comfortable with in one day. She didn't want to get deeper into whatever introspection that was, and how…lost it made her feel.

"An honor," he replied, crooked smile was back in place –cheeky, playful, and most cases infuriating, but not this one. Not this case.

Edgar eyed him for a moment, and in another, stood and dragged her chair to place it right next to his, before perching and staring up at him with her big moon eyes.

"Hireath," she declared, and that was the end of it.

With the rose ball only two weeks away, Daniel couldn't help but think that perhaps, by accepting Mrs. Beauregard's invitation into the orchestra, he had bitten off more than he could chew.

It was a privilege to be personally invited to play in such an ostentatious event, especially since he was such a novice himself, and when his parents had heard the news they'd been over the moon. They'd first called his siblings, and then, much to his chagrin, all immediate relatives they had in their contact list to brag about the good news. 'A monumentous occasion!' his father exclaimed, eyes shining bright with pride.

And Daniel got it, he really, really did, but he also really, really hated it.

He hated the attention, the infinite looks of pride he got not only from his family, but also from his Violin teacher and literally everyone in town.

Hell, even the folks up in Port Angeles knew. He'd found this out the hard way when he'd driven up to cover a last minute shift when one of his mother's employees couldn't make it, and upon walking in, had immediately been assaulted by a crow of congratulations. It had been a nightmare, working those hours and enduring the hearty slaps on the back and all else that came with it.

And that made him feel worse, that he'd had to endure it, instead of bask in it. He felt ungrateful, spoilt and undeserving. Instead of basking in the praise, of being honest with his thanks and reciprocating their energy triple fold, all he could manage each time a person came up to him was a hunched back and mumbled words in reply, leaving whichever well wisher confused and taken aback by his sullenness.

It wasn't that he wasn't grateful, or that he didn't recognize the implications of this opportunity. The blond boy merely felt uncomfortable under all the attention –he wasn't used to this much acknowledgement from anyone. Most people were surprised he even had a talent at all, unaware for the most part that he'd been playing since he could toddle on two legs, and frankly, he couldn't blame them.

Daniel wasn't anything special, not in looks or personality or anything really. Most of his life was spent loitering on the sidelines looking uncomfortable. Compared to his older siblings who were all successful out-of-State, and his parents who were well known around the town, he was the odd little ducking that they'd had that no one could quite believe could come out of such a well-adjusted family. Hell, if he wasn't himself, he wouldn't believe that he had gotten such a good spot either, let alone was able to do anything other than sit in the corner of the classroom and look lonely.

Which he sorely was not.

He'd recently made a friend, and ignoring the fact that he was eighteen and only now making a true friend, he was no longer a loner. In fact, all acts of lonerness before had been purely self-imposed, really, and that was because he didn't actually like people enough to have ever gone out of his way to hang out with 'the Cool Kids', much to his mother's despair.

The green eyed boy dealt much better with instruments; passable at piano, on 'Okay' terms with the acoustic guitar, but best-friends with the violin. It understood him on a level that nothing and no one else could, and he was happy with it. He was good at it.

Except, was he really good at it?

The long-awaited call had finally happened, and much to his relief he'd been accepted in to join them. He'd been so sure that he'd never hear from either the Conductor or Mrs. Beauregard again after his demonstration. In the two days after, the lack of phone call was only made more painful by his mind constantly repeating all the mistakes he'd made that day, and the stony gaze he'd received in return from the Conductor.

A part of him didn't want to admit it, a small, tiny part of it, but he'd actually been hoping that he wouldn't get the call back at all. He'd been firm in his plan to bring up his math grades, had actually been in the process of dusting off his textbook that he hadn't started since the start of the school break and looking online on how to blend into heterosexual society in preparation for his new life as a reformed, normal adult. If the call never came, he'd never have to stress again, he would have been able to take it as a sign from the universe telling him to focus on his studies and give up all hopes of going to the Royal British Academy of Music, and settling for a nice college close to home.

(In all honesty, the blond had a feeling that had he chosen that route he would have ended up flunking out halfway and like jumping ship to live a recklessly flamboyant life in like, Vegas or somewhere.)

But the call had indeed come, and though he was mostly sure that it was due to Mrs. Beauregard pleading his case than any talent of his part, he was in, for better or for worse. He was really, really hoping that in this case it would be for better.

It was daily practice, from morning till night, and they were worked so hard his fingers were cramping and clawed by the end of the night. The trip from Forks to Seattle was a long one, and much to his endless shock, he'd found that he'd been moved into Mrs. Beauregard's home very suddenly, without his knowledge.

"It's no issue, darling! We've plenty of space and you can't basically make it home every night with how late you finish. It's only for a few days, and your presence is much welcomed!" she'd told him, hand waving away his protests.

Judging by the glower of Thomas the butler in the background, her sentiment wasn't shared all around, and Daniel could only shift uncomfortably and hope that this stiff man wouldn't sneak into his room to get rid of the Plebe encroaching on his mistress's property.

Of course, the news that he'd be 'sojourning' in Seattle for the time being only had his mother bursting at the seams with excitement. She was taking it as a clear sign that her son had really made it into the big leagues.

"Mingle! Rub shoulders!" she said to him in an excited whisper over the phone call he'd given her to inform her that, um, actually, he wouldn't be coming home after all.

He couldn't even find it in himself to open his mouth and speak with the other Chairs in the orchestra, all he could do most days is play and try his best to keep up, while sitting in utter admiration of the sheer talent around him. He was the youngest Seat, which he found unsurprising, though not as surprising as finding out that there were actually others around his age, only a little older. Regardless, they weren't anywhere near the same level at all. They'd had more resources than he did, probably had specialized teachers or something, or at least that's what he'd heard about the students in the big cities.

He loved his teacher, he really did, and she was excellent, had gotten him this far with her no-nonsense teachings and constant demands for perfection, but upon being released into such a throw of talent and experience, he couldn't help but feel inadequate. It probably had nothing to do with his teacher, and more with himself really. He just wasn't that good.

The Orchestra head paid him no particular attention, and whenever somebody tried to talk to him, his tongue turned heavy and he retreated into himself, giving only half answers in his nervousness. He wasn't trying to be mean or anything, he'd been told numerous times that he came off as unapproachable –"This is why you don't have friends!" his older sister had once exasperated. The pressure was just getting to him. He'd only been in the soup for a couple of days and already he was feeling the heat, what would he do when it was Showtime? The whole point of this was to do well enough to hopefully be given more opportunities and one day be able to go to school.

Daniel's head was swimming with the anxiety of it all, and as he slumped forward in his seat, fingers aching and crying in relief as the long day of practice came to an end, he couldn't help but despair. His bow and violin hung between his legs and his head was so low it was almost touching the sheet music stand in front of him.

Most everyone had already cleaned out, or was quickly doing so. It was going past ten in the evening, and they were all exhausted. For all that this ball was marketed as a benevolent engagement to promote charity and aid the less fortunate, it was also an opportunity for the big ones to mingle. It was a big deal, and for them, the Orchestra who would be playing a myriad of pieces for hours, there could be no mistakes. They were being drilled for perfection, nothing else could be accepted.

He knew Mrs. Beauregard's driver was waiting for him outside already, and indeed he was more than ready to go collapse into the luxury sheets waiting for him at her house, but another part of him was longing to pack his instrument back into its case, and then run as fast as he could back home to little old Forks. He wanted to be back on his couch and binging Extreme Couponing, with not a care in the world.

The sounds of footsteps coming closer made him look up, and he was faced with the assessing look of the Conductor before him. His shoes were polished so brightly that they glinted under the bright lights of the hall they were in, reflecting the marble floor of the dais the orchestra had been placed on. His suit was stiff and pressed, and his salt and pepper hair was slicked back, hairline receding into a crow's peak, and dark eyes unreadable as they stared down at him.

Daniel felt like he was meeting Count Olaf.

"Mr. Smith," the mad said, accent heavy and prominent even on those two words.

The blond boy was slow to react, but once he did, he remembered his manners and quickly stood, more respectful than gawking up at the man like a beached fish.

"Y-yes Sir?" he replied. He wished he knew his name, was about eighty percent certain that he'd been told his name at some point, but right at that moment he could not retrieve it. Instead he was screaming internally because this was it. He was about to be thrown out, to be told that despite Mrs. Beauregard putting in a good word for him, he just couldn't cut it, and quite frankly, he should never pick up a bow again.

He felt the lump in his throat building, the tears in the back of his eyes gearing up for when he would be told the words and they could let themselves free. Oh God, how would he face his parents? The town? How would he face Edgar's grandmother, who had been housing and feeding him for the last couple of days under the expectation that he wasn't embarrassing her every moment he spent outside? Thomas was surely going to kill him now.

He would have to leave –get rid of the violin and all signs that he knew how to play it. He had a couple of bucks in his account, he would take the bus down to Vegas, change his name, and because a stripper. He didn't have the muscle for it yet, but he could start slow and eventually fool people into thinking he was a completely different person. Nobody would ever link him with his current self.

The man was silent for a few more moments, still staring down at him, before he promptly reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a slim card, holding it out expectantly.

"You have talent," he said as Daniel stared at it with wide green eyes. It was a business card! "I will expect a call from you once the ball has passed." And with that the man turned sharply on his heel and was off, leaving the blond boy still reeling with shock.

Because honestly, what?