(no subject)
Winter of 1925 isn't very memorable even as its being lived.
Carlisle is enmeshed in his normal role as a beloved doctor and miraculous surgeon at another, of countless, bendable, hospitals. Esme takes care of their houses and entertains herself in the absence of her husband. Sometimes she even goes out of her way to be social in the arms of the community that warmed (even further than it already had, for no one could quite resist her capacity for compassion and gentleness) to her after the Orville incident.
The Orville incident itself is here and gone. The same as the man. It's a blip on Edward's radar. Handled and forgotten when he slips from society, shunned from professional circles, until he fades all together in an arrogant huff to another life for himself. Edward hadn't even cared to know that much, except he heard it from and through his companions. Even when they weren't talking about it.
His only lingering thoughts of different kind.
Of what constituted a break in even Carlisle's personal rules about humans.
It's not quite a conscious choice when he stops touching them unless it's forced.
Even when they try to pull him in, Carlisle and Esme exist in a gravitation all their own, and Edward finds himself as frequently as he is in classes at school, spending his nights alone in long, deep snow, walks through their city.
He tells them he likes the winter, but somehow he thinks he's just so accustomed to the cold.
The springs of 1928 bursts with fresh breezes and they consider moving, but don't.
Edward reads, working his way through Carlisle's library, furnishing it with purchases of his own.
He gives Esme the reason to buy more bookshelves. He gives Carlisle book recommendations on papers. He scours the papers for them, and the stands. Even in the middle of devouring them he finds himself wishing he could get lost, and yet finds himself frequently still at the mercy of the minds all around him.
It's an easy excuse for absences as well.
As much truth as it isn't.
He has yet to live down the reputation he acquired in his residency class for being the one classmate who gets fatigued at the sight of blood. Fatigued, indeed. As though it were about trying to keep his lunch down and his eyes open, and not about the want to tear a broken person into a million newer and smaller pieces, to lap at the pin prick inside their elbow where blood is being drawn.
Carlisle beams so proudly -- every time some doctor comes to relay, timidly and factually, that maybe his sister's younger brother really isn't cut out for this kind of work if he can't stomach it -- that Edward takes to avoiding him for a day or two every time the occurrences resurfaces. It does not help to have either side remind him the act is in saving the person, in saving himself.
It's simply a brick wall weakness he can't seem to push through.
Maybe that is where his restless with medicine starts.
When summer comes, he's dissolved in Victorian Grand.
The sound of music fills the house at all hours. Differing tempo's and emotive states lingering in silent rooms, where people's daily minutiae and concern can neither be missed and yet is not focused upon any longer. He continues to expand on the piece he wrote for Carlisle and Esme right after their wedding. The piece Esme has him playing continually. It's her favorite.
He's not sure it ranks in his. But the ease it illicit in her, ripples into him from her, he would play it all day.
He still goes for walks with Carlisle when he's feeling obliging.
Prohibition is the fire topic of thought and word, but neither of them care that much.
They debate politics, the mob violence, the corrupt officials, and movements, but they're all chess pieces. The disarray of the city makes Carlisle uneasy underneath their words, and yet they both cannot avoid the acknowledgement they pass more easily unnoticed in a world that is so obsessed with itself.
Carlisle is enmeshed in his normal role as a beloved doctor and miraculous surgeon at another, of countless, bendable, hospitals. Esme takes care of their houses and entertains herself in the absence of her husband. Sometimes she even goes out of her way to be social in the arms of the community that warmed (even further than it already had, for no one could quite resist her capacity for compassion and gentleness) to her after the Orville incident.
The Orville incident itself is here and gone. The same as the man. It's a blip on Edward's radar. Handled and forgotten when he slips from society, shunned from professional circles, until he fades all together in an arrogant huff to another life for himself. Edward hadn't even cared to know that much, except he heard it from and through his companions. Even when they weren't talking about it.
His only lingering thoughts of different kind.
Of what constituted a break in even Carlisle's personal rules about humans.
It's not quite a conscious choice when he stops touching them unless it's forced.
Even when they try to pull him in, Carlisle and Esme exist in a gravitation all their own, and Edward finds himself as frequently as he is in classes at school, spending his nights alone in long, deep snow, walks through their city.
He tells them he likes the winter, but somehow he thinks he's just so accustomed to the cold.
The springs of 1928 bursts with fresh breezes and they consider moving, but don't.
Edward reads, working his way through Carlisle's library, furnishing it with purchases of his own.
He gives Esme the reason to buy more bookshelves. He gives Carlisle book recommendations on papers. He scours the papers for them, and the stands. Even in the middle of devouring them he finds himself wishing he could get lost, and yet finds himself frequently still at the mercy of the minds all around him.
It's an easy excuse for absences as well.
As much truth as it isn't.
He has yet to live down the reputation he acquired in his residency class for being the one classmate who gets fatigued at the sight of blood. Fatigued, indeed. As though it were about trying to keep his lunch down and his eyes open, and not about the want to tear a broken person into a million newer and smaller pieces, to lap at the pin prick inside their elbow where blood is being drawn.
Carlisle beams so proudly -- every time some doctor comes to relay, timidly and factually, that maybe his sister's younger brother really isn't cut out for this kind of work if he can't stomach it -- that Edward takes to avoiding him for a day or two every time the occurrences resurfaces. It does not help to have either side remind him the act is in saving the person, in saving himself.
It's simply a brick wall weakness he can't seem to push through.
Maybe that is where his restless with medicine starts.
When summer comes, he's dissolved in Victorian Grand.
The sound of music fills the house at all hours. Differing tempo's and emotive states lingering in silent rooms, where people's daily minutiae and concern can neither be missed and yet is not focused upon any longer. He continues to expand on the piece he wrote for Carlisle and Esme right after their wedding. The piece Esme has him playing continually. It's her favorite.
He's not sure it ranks in his. But the ease it illicit in her, ripples into him from her, he would play it all day.
He still goes for walks with Carlisle when he's feeling obliging.
Prohibition is the fire topic of thought and word, but neither of them care that much.
They debate politics, the mob violence, the corrupt officials, and movements, but they're all chess pieces. The disarray of the city makes Carlisle uneasy underneath their words, and yet they both cannot avoid the acknowledgement they pass more easily unnoticed in a world that is so obsessed with itself.