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1951; I can't be far
Jun. 20th, 2020 01:39 pmThe first time they play together, it's not planned.
Maybe Edward has given in, maybe he has said, finally, that he needs her. It doesn't give Alice everything still. It's given her a beginning. It's given her finally the space to stop pushing desperately for ever inch she can dig out of him. To try and move more at his pace. Because he did say it. Because it's been easier. There've been so many easier days. Conversations. But there are so many places she still can't follow him.
(Yet.) And that still gnaws at her.
Especially when she's trying to sit on her hands.
"You're thinking too much,"
Edward's voice was quiet enough that it is under the register even of the Beethoven he's playing.
He hadn't even opened his eyes the whole way to say it, hadn't looked over at her as he did.
"I know," Alice half-huffed, half-whined. As if she couldn't control it. Then, as though she realized how it sounded, washing her pout away with an embarrassed, annoyed grimace, whispering something that is more a plea and a promise -- "I know." -- her thoughts suddenly tumbling desperately not be sent away, to have ruined the moment, being let this close. "I know. I'm sorry."
She is trying. Even as she is shoving her hands even further under her, fingertips digging into the cloth of her skirt. As though it were possible. In the small space of the piano bench to move at all without him feeling. To choose anyone it without him seeing it in her thoughts. She is trying.
(She gets carried away.
He's trying less and less to pretend he isn't envious of that.)
When Edward decides it, there's no hesitation. Even though he's never done this. Not in thirty-three years. Not with Carlisle. Or Esme, or even Rose, even though it's among her many 'timely' accomplishments from her human life. He does it in the same second he decides it, and the vision happens even as he plays the opening notes.
(He's getting better at that, too. Her visions.
Figuring out how to watch, how to see, how to give, how to take.
And even so very, very rarely how to hold something from her until.)
He hears the quick surprised breath in her nose. The confusion. The certainty she's wrong. The strength of the cut-quick desperate want. But she doesn't move her hands, digging harder into her legs. She hasn't touched his piano since she apologized. She knew he loved it like he loved few other things. She'd seen that in her visions. She hadn't understood how much more than that it was until she saw it in person and not in her mind. When he stopped the first call part, she didn't move, didn't breathe again.
It's only, Are you sure? Are you? I don't want--
Tremulous. Terrified. Desperate to run into it, too.
Edward glanced toward her, but there weren't any words. He couldn't say he was sure. Not, and not be lying, and she already knew that. But he did need her; and he'd never shared this. Not with anyone. Not this way. Not even when he'd given all he was. It wasn't part of him he could. Like all the other things he couldn't, too. It felt long, but it was probably only a second. Before he looked away from her eyes and down at his hands, and started the beginning section against, swaying just the smallest bit to nudge her shoulder.
Watching himself, and through her eyes, as a single of Alice's fingers very gently started tapping the single first key. The two of them trading off, and then blending the two pieces into one as it called for it.
Maybe Edward has given in, maybe he has said, finally, that he needs her. It doesn't give Alice everything still. It's given her a beginning. It's given her finally the space to stop pushing desperately for ever inch she can dig out of him. To try and move more at his pace. Because he did say it. Because it's been easier. There've been so many easier days. Conversations. But there are so many places she still can't follow him.
(Yet.) And that still gnaws at her.
Especially when she's trying to sit on her hands.
"You're thinking too much,"
Edward's voice was quiet enough that it is under the register even of the Beethoven he's playing.
He hadn't even opened his eyes the whole way to say it, hadn't looked over at her as he did.
"I know," Alice half-huffed, half-whined. As if she couldn't control it. Then, as though she realized how it sounded, washing her pout away with an embarrassed, annoyed grimace, whispering something that is more a plea and a promise -- "I know." -- her thoughts suddenly tumbling desperately not be sent away, to have ruined the moment, being let this close. "I know. I'm sorry."
She is trying. Even as she is shoving her hands even further under her, fingertips digging into the cloth of her skirt. As though it were possible. In the small space of the piano bench to move at all without him feeling. To choose anyone it without him seeing it in her thoughts. She is trying.
(She gets carried away.
He's trying less and less to pretend he isn't envious of that.)
When Edward decides it, there's no hesitation. Even though he's never done this. Not in thirty-three years. Not with Carlisle. Or Esme, or even Rose, even though it's among her many 'timely' accomplishments from her human life. He does it in the same second he decides it, and the vision happens even as he plays the opening notes.
(He's getting better at that, too. Her visions.
Figuring out how to watch, how to see, how to give, how to take.
And even so very, very rarely how to hold something from her until.)
He hears the quick surprised breath in her nose. The confusion. The certainty she's wrong. The strength of the cut-quick desperate want. But she doesn't move her hands, digging harder into her legs. She hasn't touched his piano since she apologized. She knew he loved it like he loved few other things. She'd seen that in her visions. She hadn't understood how much more than that it was until she saw it in person and not in her mind. When he stopped the first call part, she didn't move, didn't breathe again.
It's only, Are you sure? Are you? I don't want--
Tremulous. Terrified. Desperate to run into it, too.
Edward glanced toward her, but there weren't any words. He couldn't say he was sure. Not, and not be lying, and she already knew that. But he did need her; and he'd never shared this. Not with anyone. Not this way. Not even when he'd given all he was. It wasn't part of him he could. Like all the other things he couldn't, too. It felt long, but it was probably only a second. Before he looked away from her eyes and down at his hands, and started the beginning section against, swaying just the smallest bit to nudge her shoulder.
Watching himself, and through her eyes, as a single of Alice's fingers very gently started tapping the single first key. The two of them trading off, and then blending the two pieces into one as it called for it.
