She comes home a few hours later, dropping her dark glasses in the same door side alcove as Carlisle's medical bag and scarf, and follows the music in while peeling a jacket off.
"I didn't know you liked," Esme started, rounding the corner, only to find herself bereft of anything but an Oh.
Edward mused, finishing her sentence without looking up for her realization. Or the floundering of emotions that came with it. He nearly sighed with just the whisper of thinking it was her fault he'd left without any word.
"I don't specifically. It was the next score in the box."
Esme edged into the room, glad for his return even as she couldn't feeling the strain of absence hadn't shifted from it. At least for her in this moment. Was that ungrateful? And he might be listening.
Instead, his jaw tightened and then relaxed. He glanced up finally to her, red eyes and uncertainty, for the first time since she'd come in. Even as his fingers kept moving, he said, "I'm learning."
He was so young to look so remote. Not that either were new, and both made her wonder where Carlisle was. His bag was here but he wasn't in the room. The place she'd think he'd be.
He would know the right thing to say, wouldn't he? She couldn't help thinking he understood what and why Edward had gone more than she did either, too. Like this walk was another of the codes between them she didn't know and wasn't part of.
No matter how many times he'd reassured her it hasn't been her fault.
Edward nodded, trying to ignore all that he couldn't, and, considering the term before in two contexts even as she meant one. Before for Carlisle. And--
"I was classically trained from a very young age."
He wasn't talking much and not unless she was pulling it from him, it seemed. Maybe she was interrupting. Edward was back and that was favor enough, wasn't it?
Carlisle would relax again. Things would be normal.
Or as normal as much as they ever were here.
Turning back toward the door, she said, "It is quite beautiful."
Edward didn't faintly sigh. The last four days was his fault and somehow she was convincing herself she'd done, and was doing, something wrong. Past and present.
"Esme--" It was out before he could stop it.
He couldn't fault her -- couldn't not fault her, though the truth of that statement was far less of importance in comparison to Carlisle -- but having to hear her think it.
He reached for whatever would come to finish.
"You don't mind that I put the piano in the living room, do you?"
Trite and stupid and tiny -- and strangely he did care about the answer.
Her face went through surprise, confusion and the oddest note of guilt again. Because he shouldn't have to ask. It was his home. Long before hers, even if she had adopted it with nothing else to keep her time and focus on.
She managed to speak even as it failed sounding exactly cohesive with her thoughts. Quiet and calm, concerned at the necessity that would drive him to ask.
"You don't have to ask my permission, Edward. It's your house as much as it's mine."
He felt asinine for asking how she saw it, and worse for the response in his head that didn't feel either of her statements were true any longer. Things that he didn't have to do and should and might need to do far more now than he'd ever asked of Carlisle even.
It's far quieter, when his fingers find purchase back on the keys, looking away from her. "I didn't want to have messed up your set up."
He hadn't cared when he put it in, and now, somehow, he did.
And he felt bad that he hadn't consider her earlier.
She watched him from near the door she'd almost exited. The quiet that surrounded his movements and his words. The emotion in them, and she couldn't help wishing she did know him better.
That she could reach out and place a hand on his shoulder.
Esme did her best, with a gentle smile as she took steps back toward him. "It's fine, Edward. Lovely, even. It gives the room a very austere up turn."
It was so much easier to have Carlisle just order him to stop talking and play until he'd gone off to his own things. Yet he'd detained Esme himself, hadn't he, when she'd been about to leave him alone.
"I brought a few other things, too. All still in boxes in the other room. Mementos, heirlooms, more books."
He'd never wanted or needed to know before then either. He'd never really thought of it before Esme had pointed out the lack of things that were his, not in his room, in the house.
"I have a storage locker or, officially, my father's next of kin does."
And yet this was Edward, whom she'd tried to leave alone when he didn't want to manage more than a sentence to each of things she'd said recently. It didn't add up, but she was certain it would have been strange to walk through a room full of the things from her marriage or from the life with her parents.
"I didn't know you liked," Esme started, rounding the corner, only to find herself bereft of anything but an Oh.
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Edward mused, finishing her sentence without looking up for her realization. Or the floundering of emotions that came with it. He nearly sighed with just the whisper of thinking it was her fault he'd left without any word.
"I don't specifically. It was the next score in the box."
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She laid a hand on the back of chair near her.
"I didn't know you played."
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Instead, his jaw tightened and then relaxed. He glanced up finally to her, red eyes and uncertainty, for the first time since she'd come in. Even as his fingers kept moving, he said, "I'm learning."
"Again."
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He would know the right thing to say, wouldn't he? She couldn't help thinking he understood what and why Edward had gone more than she did either, too. Like this walk was another of the codes between them she didn't know and wasn't part of.
No matter how many times he'd reassured her it hasn't been her fault.
"You played before?"
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"I was classically trained from a very young age."
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Carlisle would relax again. Things would be normal.
Or as normal as much as they ever were here.
Turning back toward the door, she said, "It is quite beautiful."
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"Esme--" It was out before he could stop it.
He couldn't fault her -- couldn't not fault her, though the truth of that statement was far less of importance in comparison to Carlisle -- but having to hear her think it.
He reached for whatever would come to finish.
"You don't mind that I put the piano in the living room, do you?"
Trite and stupid and tiny -- and strangely he did care about the answer.
Reply
She managed to speak even as it failed sounding exactly cohesive with her thoughts. Quiet and calm, concerned at the necessity that would drive him to ask.
"You don't have to ask my permission, Edward. It's your house as much as it's mine."
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He felt asinine for asking how she saw it, and worse for the response in his head that didn't feel either of her statements were true any longer. Things that he didn't have to do and should and might need to do far more now than he'd ever asked of Carlisle even.
It's far quieter, when his fingers find purchase back on the keys, looking away from her. "I didn't want to have messed up your set up."
He hadn't cared when he put it in, and now, somehow, he did.
And he felt bad that he hadn't consider her earlier.
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That she could reach out and place a hand on his shoulder.
Esme did her best, with a gentle smile as she took steps back toward him. "It's fine, Edward. Lovely, even. It gives the room a very austere up turn."
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It was so much easier to have Carlisle just order him to stop talking and play until he'd gone off to his own things. Yet he'd detained Esme himself, hadn't he, when she'd been about to leave him alone.
"I brought a few other things, too. All still in boxes in the other room. Mementos, heirlooms, more books."
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"I thought you said you didn't have anything."
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He'd never wanted or needed to know before then either. He'd never really thought of it before Esme had pointed out the lack of things that were his, not in his room, in the house.
"I have a storage locker or, officially, my father's next of kin does."
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Wouldn't he have told them if it was that simple?
And yet this was Edward, whom she'd tried to leave alone when he didn't want to manage more than a sentence to each of things she'd said recently. It didn't add up, but she was certain it would have been strange to walk through a room full of the things from her marriage or from the life with her parents.
"How was it?"
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He was, perhaps, describing the locker and the situation.
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