Ivory.
twilight//edward cullen
G - ~121

He plays the piano on Sundays.

It’s become one of the things that are constant in his life. His fingers moving over the keys almost thoughtlessly as he closes his eyes, nodding once as he hits a sour note.

There’s nothing wrong about it, in his mind at least. The sound is off—it affects the final product—because it will never be complete again. Yet there’s something about that sour note that’s spine tingling.

His eyes open as a smile forms on his face. The pace of his movements slow as his heartbeat quickens. Then he smiles once more in silence as he slowly leans back. The last notes drift off into the air.

He plays the piano on Sundays.

Heaven.
twilight//jasper hale
PG13 - ~75

There’s nothing poetic about it. It’s simple, crisp, cold, to the point. The water falling down from the sky as it normally does. And despite the cries of how cleansing and moving a simple shower in sunlight can be, it isn’t. The fact that the light throws itself off of his skin and catches on to the small spheres isn’t anything to be proud of. Because there’s nothing poetic about being damned. Nothing at all.