Late 1931 sometime

[sheisourheart]

"You're sure you don't mind

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[ofthefamily]

"Do not even think it," punctuated by a tightening of his grip on Edward's jaw before Carlisle's thoughts accelerate and nearly take flight.

"I haven't heard of you in months. All the time you were gone -- " Carlisle snaps his hand back raggedly from Edward, jittery and far too off-balance for such a graceful creature as Carlisle has always been.

Before he can question himself, Carlisle reaches for Edward's left wrist with his right hand. It gives Carlisle enough leverage to launch him from the wall into his arms and oh my sweet Christ I missed you my Edward don't leave again it has been so long I could only hope that you would be safe oh my Edward

[themidnightson]

Edward, if he'd had skin color and blood, would have been noticeably paled at this point. Even if they were still looking at each other.

[ofthefamily]

Carlisle exhales, taking over the role of the avoidant one in the room, staring intently at Edward's shoulders.

"I read the obituaries."

And so much more. It's a start.

[themidnightson]

It's a start.

According to the flicker of her thoughts -- his thoughts. Edward lifted a hand, and rubbed his shoulders. He felt like a child, and so far from knowing what childhood could be.

"For all of America."

For years.

[ofthefamily]

"No. Just...the ones that stood out."

[themidnightson]

That's far more comforting than it should be.

It's revolting to feel safe in some sort of anonymity.

As though he deserved any privacy to the vile things he'd done.

[ofthefamily]

Too quickly and too clipped: "It has been nearly a year since I found one that I thought was of your doing."

maybe you were dead or covering better or

The list continues.

The idea of Carlisle thinking Edward had gone back to Carlisle's lifestyle never occurred to him.

[sheisourheart]

Esme squeezed his arm as his voice changed, leaning against him slightly more.

[themidnightson]

He didn't say he had, or that he wasn't. He's still uncertain if this would be better or worse if it was (is) a hallucination.

It takes a few seconds for Edward to register that wasn't said out loud to him either. It's. This is going to be disorienting. How had it been so easy.

That was part of what made it easier to part from anyone who had distracted him, or filled the void, briefly. Part only.

Edward nodded, without much noticing it either.

Carlisle had a book of his sins somewhere.

He really didn't belong here.

Doing this to him, to them.

[ofthefamily]

"I plan on burning it."

[themidnightson]

Edward looks off to one side finally.

Burning it would not undo it. Any of it.

[sheisourheart]

And they all stand there, on the cusp of things too big in one small space. Before Esme clears her throat after another minute passes. Not at all aiming to disguise it as anything else.

"We were going to a new exhibit. The later years of Renoir." Esme smiles, beseechingly, even though Edward isn't looking at them, and she's navigating the land between them again and still. "We could still go."

[ofthefamily]

"No." Loud and clear. "I'm not up for the role at the moment."

To Edward, and the grin has returned. "I broke your piano bench."

Not the piano. Not Edward's room or things. One tiny bench in the grand scheme of everything.

Carlisle was angry. Don't worry, Edward. He was.

Was.

[themidnightson]

His......piano bench. His --

His answer to things bigger, and far better, than himself.

It seemed so small and so insignificant. He'd had so much further to fall then, and he just hadn't known yet. Edward leaned back against the door jam.

Not quite opinionated, just quietly acknowledging.

"You replaced it."

[sheisourheart]

"Actually, I did," Esme said, with a pointed look of amused pride. "It's not the exact pattern, but it was close and the right color."

After the third attempt.

The stain was not helpful that way.

[ofthefamily]

Carlisle smiles at the memory of watching Esme work for hours on a bench, even though at the time he had been perturbed by it as a waste of effort.

It wasn't a waste.

"My books have become quite hopeless," he tries. "The shelves have become Esme's nightmare."