1931; Esme's Coda
"I do have a question."
Esme had reappeared at the door to the room he was sitting in, and Edward glanced at her over the rise of the open piano. He'd been tuning a cord. It was immaculately undusty, but that didn't mean it had been seen to with the care of someone playing it or fine tuning it. And he wasn't quite to pulling out his journal with Esme in the house.
His eyebrows quirked, and he settled down on the bench, elbows resting on the cover over the keys.
She paused, her expression discerningly serious and her thoughts shifting over pristine, but older, memory. Then she focused hard on it, when she said quietly, uncertain but needing to say it and get some kind of answer. "You wanted to ask me something."
Edward watched himself blanch and look at the piano strings through her eyes. He could have just looked at her, but not over that.
He'd--he thrown it--No. He hadn't. It'd never made the trashcan. He could remember crumpling it in his fingers and having to drop it. He couldn't make himself write the words. It had fallen on the floor and then Carlisle had come home with a question about the evening. A day before he had upended all their lives.
"If you-"
"I meant to throw it away." He overrides the wave of her conflicted thoughts and emotions.
"Except you didn't." Except you left it on the floor for me to find, her thoughts whispered. Indirectly.
The addressed, unwritten letter, like an extra slander against, not their, but, her inability to hold him, hold their family together. A phantom that said she might not have tried, heard, listened, been enough. A whisper of something she could not quantify or know. Only let go of. Until now.
Edward looked back at her, scarlet eyes and set shoulders, no longer the day's relative calm.
"It's already done--"
"But--"
"You already did it."
Esme blinked, confusion displacing the momentary rebellion.
"I already did what?"
Edward ran a hand up against his cheek. He dug his fingers into his hair right over his ear. Something with purchase, that was not clenching his hand around the piano bench Esme had made or the piano that Carlisle had kept.
The echoes of himself that were not his, and had not done anything but haunt them living while he'd been gone. That defined why they moved in a duality of speaking to him as though he'd never left, and startling just momentarily when they'd realize once again he really was there.
He can't look her in the eye when he says it.
He's nowhere near monstrous enough for it.
"Took care of him."
Esme stood there, in the doorway, taking in his answer. The myriad reactions and questions. The way they warred through each other and faded into one another. Until she was just standing there staring at his hair, half hidden face and the piano. She almost walked over to him more than once, but somehow. Somehow she does what he isn't expecting again;
"When are you going to play for him?"
Esme thoughts conceded that he must be at some point, even as it questioned that he must realize something of its importance. With his gifts and it still being there. Especially since he'd already toyed with it while she was home a few times. Wondered if he knew how much it would mean to Carlisle, in the ways where she was sure Carlisle wasn't even aware just how much it would mean. Except in the happening. That maybe it was the truth with both of them and it.
Except that wasn't the truth, was it?
It was that Edward understood how much it meant. How it being here, undisturbed by inches, and free of dust, all these years later, after all he'd done on leaving and all he'd become on abandoning, was like it being even bigger than him. And just being in the house, being in their thoughts, having them in his day, seemed so much bigger than he could handle in some moment.
He knew what it would mean to Carlisle. And even more what it would mean if he were playing for him. Here. Again. Even as his first two fingers shifted against the top in a distant arpeggio, Edward whispered
"I'm not ready."
Esme had reappeared at the door to the room he was sitting in, and Edward glanced at her over the rise of the open piano. He'd been tuning a cord. It was immaculately undusty, but that didn't mean it had been seen to with the care of someone playing it or fine tuning it. And he wasn't quite to pulling out his journal with Esme in the house.
His eyebrows quirked, and he settled down on the bench, elbows resting on the cover over the keys.
She paused, her expression discerningly serious and her thoughts shifting over pristine, but older, memory. Then she focused hard on it, when she said quietly, uncertain but needing to say it and get some kind of answer. "You wanted to ask me something."
Edward watched himself blanch and look at the piano strings through her eyes. He could have just looked at her, but not over that.
He'd--he thrown it--No. He hadn't. It'd never made the trashcan. He could remember crumpling it in his fingers and having to drop it. He couldn't make himself write the words. It had fallen on the floor and then Carlisle had come home with a question about the evening. A day before he had upended all their lives.
"If you-"
"I meant to throw it away." He overrides the wave of her conflicted thoughts and emotions.
"Except you didn't." Except you left it on the floor for me to find, her thoughts whispered. Indirectly.
The addressed, unwritten letter, like an extra slander against, not their, but, her inability to hold him, hold their family together. A phantom that said she might not have tried, heard, listened, been enough. A whisper of something she could not quantify or know. Only let go of. Until now.
Edward looked back at her, scarlet eyes and set shoulders, no longer the day's relative calm.
"It's already done--"
"But--"
"You already did it."
Esme blinked, confusion displacing the momentary rebellion.
"I already did what?"
Edward ran a hand up against his cheek. He dug his fingers into his hair right over his ear. Something with purchase, that was not clenching his hand around the piano bench Esme had made or the piano that Carlisle had kept.
The echoes of himself that were not his, and had not done anything but haunt them living while he'd been gone. That defined why they moved in a duality of speaking to him as though he'd never left, and startling just momentarily when they'd realize once again he really was there.
He can't look her in the eye when he says it.
He's nowhere near monstrous enough for it.
"Took care of him."
Esme stood there, in the doorway, taking in his answer. The myriad reactions and questions. The way they warred through each other and faded into one another. Until she was just standing there staring at his hair, half hidden face and the piano. She almost walked over to him more than once, but somehow. Somehow she does what he isn't expecting again;
"When are you going to play for him?"
Esme thoughts conceded that he must be at some point, even as it questioned that he must realize something of its importance. With his gifts and it still being there. Especially since he'd already toyed with it while she was home a few times. Wondered if he knew how much it would mean to Carlisle, in the ways where she was sure Carlisle wasn't even aware just how much it would mean. Except in the happening. That maybe it was the truth with both of them and it.
Except that wasn't the truth, was it?
It was that Edward understood how much it meant. How it being here, undisturbed by inches, and free of dust, all these years later, after all he'd done on leaving and all he'd become on abandoning, was like it being even bigger than him. And just being in the house, being in their thoughts, having them in his day, seemed so much bigger than he could handle in some moment.
He knew what it would mean to Carlisle. And even more what it would mean if he were playing for him. Here. Again. Even as his first two fingers shifted against the top in a distant arpeggio, Edward whispered
"I'm not ready."