1931 Winter; Rochester
things that matter too much
to say any way but lightly
~*~
“Oh, Edward, I didn’t see-“ Esme said, catching the cup of turpentine-paint mixture even as the liquid had already splattered across Edward.
He was still looking down at his shirt, with an expression full of more surprise than consternation. His fingers grasped the part of it bunched above his pants, stretching it slightly so he could see the whole of the stain. And something more than it by seeing the proof on him. “I should have been watching.”
“Here, give me the shirt.” Esme was shifting the brush and cup in her hand. “I should still be able to salvage-“
Edward’s eyes flicked to her, followed by a short shake of his head. He stepped to one side to let her pass. “Don’t worry about it, Esme.”
Except she didn’t pass. She stayed there, paints forgotten, while a sense of fault flooded a want to make it better, since she could. “It’s one of your six.”
Of the shirts they’d gone out and acquired only days ago, when Edward had admitted it was strange to be living only in clothing that he’d owned from before. It’s been easy for her to afford the option to make things easier in that way, too.
As easy as his words when he replied, “I can get more.”
“Or,” Esme said, at his pointless evasion. “You could let me save you the trouble.”
“It’s fine.”
Incredulousness was ripe in her voice, when her eyes narrowed. “You can’t be serious.”
Edward let the shirt down finally; face impassive to her tone. “It’s fine.”
“It most certainly is not fine. It-“ Edward was studying her with that expression she couldn’t read again. The one she hadn’t been able to interrupt no matter how many times it came out since he’d walked back in the door. Like he had retreated into a stillness behind the red, edged by refusal to come out or a fear of being thrown away again.
She’d understood at different times. But over a shirt - or was it?
Was he hiding something more? Was that the why for all of his actions?
“--It’s dripping on my rug.”
He didn’t look like he cared. He turned toward his right, and Esme’s eyes followed him, her thoughts.
Had she even seen him in anything that hadn’t covered him from stem to stern, starting at his neck, always tucked, always buttoned at the bottom of his hands. Had he done more? More that she couldn’t have even fathomed until this second that he was capable of doing, or having done?
He took a step away, only to be stopped when her hand found purchase on his left arm.
“Edward.” He looked at her hand, his mouth tense. “Give me the shirt.”
Not a request.
The reaction in his face was first a threatening refusal, before it snapped into an angelic frown. Errant and near shame, mixed with a dejected exhaustion, before he was looking down, before she couldn’t make out his thoughts anymore than he could make out being undeserving of escape.
He reached up and started to unbutton it, not looking up as he did so. Listening to how Esme’s thoughts held the breath her chest could not. The buttons gave way to his bare chest and he pulled it free from his pants. Then he moved to unbuttoning his left wrist, and peeling that arm out first. Her confusion mounting with each new tract of perfectly white unmarred skin, except then he hitched on the right side.
Edward pressed his lips together and almost seemed to have to will himself to make it past unbuttoning his cuff and Esme knew that whatever it was he’d saved it for the last minute. Or was it avoided it until the last minute?
Then he slid the shirt down, pulling it off entirely.
As Esme eyes moved down his untouched arm, he felt more naked in this instance than he could have undressed. Could have before anyone except….
Esme stared at his wrist, the black leather bracer there, and then back to his face, the warring reactions of being unable to decide between shaking him and hugging him owning both her face and her mind. He watched her reactions as much as he was trying not to watch them, not to watch what both sides shored up and overflowed from the depths of her mind, her memories, her intentions and conclusions.
When it finally settled out, nearly fifteen seconds later, what she said was nearly as important as how she said it, "He needs you."
Edward’s lips pressed so thin they almost seem to vanish inward, studying her in a stillness that made her think of an animal about to dart. His inability to hear what she was saying, to allow himself to understand all the things that compacted together in her thoughts.
“ And you n-“
“Don’t.” Edward looked away from her, but his expression was tight--riot of something; agony? -- suddenly. He didn’t need her to speak the words out loud to hear them. He shook his head, first reaching out to offer her the shirt and then raising his hand to touch his hair or his neck or something. Neither of them could have been sure, when he stopped moving it.
Staring at the bracer finally, but more specifically at the tear running against his trapezium.
“I could have this fi-“
Edward jerked his hand away before Esme’s fingers could touch the leather over his wrist. Even as she meant to only touch the cracked part rip and he hadn’t meant to snarl at her or suddenly leap back. His sharp red eyes and hard mouth melted into a mortified apology, shoulders caving inward, even as the edges told her not to try it again still.
“You should see to that,” She said, softer, gold eyes studying the boy who proclaimed himself her son. Esme gestured with the shirt. “This will be clean in a few hours.”
Edward nodded, turning and walking away, without any words.
to say any way but lightly
~*~
“Oh, Edward, I didn’t see-“ Esme said, catching the cup of turpentine-paint mixture even as the liquid had already splattered across Edward.
He was still looking down at his shirt, with an expression full of more surprise than consternation. His fingers grasped the part of it bunched above his pants, stretching it slightly so he could see the whole of the stain. And something more than it by seeing the proof on him. “I should have been watching.”
“Here, give me the shirt.” Esme was shifting the brush and cup in her hand. “I should still be able to salvage-“
Edward’s eyes flicked to her, followed by a short shake of his head. He stepped to one side to let her pass. “Don’t worry about it, Esme.”
Except she didn’t pass. She stayed there, paints forgotten, while a sense of fault flooded a want to make it better, since she could. “It’s one of your six.”
Of the shirts they’d gone out and acquired only days ago, when Edward had admitted it was strange to be living only in clothing that he’d owned from before. It’s been easy for her to afford the option to make things easier in that way, too.
As easy as his words when he replied, “I can get more.”
“Or,” Esme said, at his pointless evasion. “You could let me save you the trouble.”
“It’s fine.”
Incredulousness was ripe in her voice, when her eyes narrowed. “You can’t be serious.”
Edward let the shirt down finally; face impassive to her tone. “It’s fine.”
“It most certainly is not fine. It-“ Edward was studying her with that expression she couldn’t read again. The one she hadn’t been able to interrupt no matter how many times it came out since he’d walked back in the door. Like he had retreated into a stillness behind the red, edged by refusal to come out or a fear of being thrown away again.
She’d understood at different times. But over a shirt - or was it?
Was he hiding something more? Was that the why for all of his actions?
“--It’s dripping on my rug.”
He didn’t look like he cared. He turned toward his right, and Esme’s eyes followed him, her thoughts.
Had she even seen him in anything that hadn’t covered him from stem to stern, starting at his neck, always tucked, always buttoned at the bottom of his hands. Had he done more? More that she couldn’t have even fathomed until this second that he was capable of doing, or having done?
He took a step away, only to be stopped when her hand found purchase on his left arm.
“Edward.” He looked at her hand, his mouth tense. “Give me the shirt.”
Not a request.
The reaction in his face was first a threatening refusal, before it snapped into an angelic frown. Errant and near shame, mixed with a dejected exhaustion, before he was looking down, before she couldn’t make out his thoughts anymore than he could make out being undeserving of escape.
He reached up and started to unbutton it, not looking up as he did so. Listening to how Esme’s thoughts held the breath her chest could not. The buttons gave way to his bare chest and he pulled it free from his pants. Then he moved to unbuttoning his left wrist, and peeling that arm out first. Her confusion mounting with each new tract of perfectly white unmarred skin, except then he hitched on the right side.
Edward pressed his lips together and almost seemed to have to will himself to make it past unbuttoning his cuff and Esme knew that whatever it was he’d saved it for the last minute. Or was it avoided it until the last minute?
Then he slid the shirt down, pulling it off entirely.
As Esme eyes moved down his untouched arm, he felt more naked in this instance than he could have undressed. Could have before anyone except….
Esme stared at his wrist, the black leather bracer there, and then back to his face, the warring reactions of being unable to decide between shaking him and hugging him owning both her face and her mind. He watched her reactions as much as he was trying not to watch them, not to watch what both sides shored up and overflowed from the depths of her mind, her memories, her intentions and conclusions.
When it finally settled out, nearly fifteen seconds later, what she said was nearly as important as how she said it, "He needs you."
Edward’s lips pressed so thin they almost seem to vanish inward, studying her in a stillness that made her think of an animal about to dart. His inability to hear what she was saying, to allow himself to understand all the things that compacted together in her thoughts.
“ And you n-“
“Don’t.” Edward looked away from her, but his expression was tight--riot of something; agony? -- suddenly. He didn’t need her to speak the words out loud to hear them. He shook his head, first reaching out to offer her the shirt and then raising his hand to touch his hair or his neck or something. Neither of them could have been sure, when he stopped moving it.
Staring at the bracer finally, but more specifically at the tear running against his trapezium.
“I could have this fi-“
Edward jerked his hand away before Esme’s fingers could touch the leather over his wrist. Even as she meant to only touch the cracked part rip and he hadn’t meant to snarl at her or suddenly leap back. His sharp red eyes and hard mouth melted into a mortified apology, shoulders caving inward, even as the edges told her not to try it again still.
“You should see to that,” She said, softer, gold eyes studying the boy who proclaimed himself her son. Esme gestured with the shirt. “This will be clean in a few hours.”
Edward nodded, turning and walking away, without any words.