Edward Cullen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
themidnightson) wrote2010-08-24 09:52 pm
themidnightson) wrote2010-08-24 09:52 pm
Entry tags:
Rochester, 1932 Spring
Edward doesn't have to be told by either of them the myriad reasons why they need to turn themselves out a few weeks after they arrive in Rochester. They're always going to attract attention, but they need to at least appear normal and comfort the sensibilities of those who shouldn't be left wondering.
The rhymes and reasons are always the same, only the trivial details change. That Senior King decides to throw a late Winter ball, to honor his nieces’ engagement, and makes the charitable donation of tickets for all the doctors and their families is simply convenient more than celebrated.
_________________________
The rich and affluent, and the hanger's on to the rich and affluent, of Rochester waltzed each other around the floor. They talk at tables pressed to the edge of the floor, starting with the weather and the season moving into the topics in vogue and on to the city events to come, circling always the edge of polite business.
Anything but the world outside their doors. All the while back stabbing and conniving at each other with each thought matching their syrupy words.
_________________________
Just because he understands it all (and hears it all) does not mean he has to embrace it.
Edward does what's required of him (introductions to the Senior, to so many others he smiles at without caring; middling chit chat about the weather and seasons, his sister and brother-in-law, Eastman's seasonal concert, about King's boycotting heir apparent) until it isn't, and he can slip the crowds.
The rhymes and reasons are always the same, only the trivial details change. That Senior King decides to throw a late Winter ball, to honor his nieces’ engagement, and makes the charitable donation of tickets for all the doctors and their families is simply convenient more than celebrated.
The rich and affluent, and the hanger's on to the rich and affluent, of Rochester waltzed each other around the floor. They talk at tables pressed to the edge of the floor, starting with the weather and the season moving into the topics in vogue and on to the city events to come, circling always the edge of polite business.
Anything but the world outside their doors. All the while back stabbing and conniving at each other with each thought matching their syrupy words.
Just because he understands it all (and hears it all) does not mean he has to embrace it.
Edward does what's required of him (introductions to the Senior, to so many others he smiles at without caring; middling chit chat about the weather and seasons, his sister and brother-in-law, Eastman's seasonal concert, about King's boycotting heir apparent) until it isn't, and he can slip the crowds.
no subject
Nor about the other men at his side who are in alarm at his sudden switch of character and concerned for the 'poor dear girl' who has fallen before it. Like she might be a helpless woodland creature.The Poor Little Creature who was fuming at him. Inside his head. Without any realization.
"A pleasure." Is almost too trite, like ash on his tongue, when he forces his tone as close to cordial as it might go. But it also forces him to breathe in again. This room. This room full of people and blood. And he has to live with the urges he's awoken in the last half decade. "If you'll excuse me, it seems my brother-in-law needs me."
He took a second to bow his head to the obnoxious girl (with his mouth firmed into a line) and then the two men to his side. Before turning and instead of going to the left, where Carlisle and Esme were talking about the new hospital, he walked toward the door without waiting for a response.
He's not even to the door when his later excuses produce themselves for him. In the men still left standing there in his wake. One of the men, stammered, and stepped forward (as he slipped through the door) to her. "I'm sure he didn't mean it, Miss Hale. The boy is still adjusting our city and his new circumstances with us. He usually quite winning." At a loss. "Perhaps, the night was far more than he was prepared for. It is rather amazing."
Unlike the man standing at the window at the end of the hallway from the party's front door, with a hand on the sill trying very hard not to grip it enough to break it completely and forcing himself to calm.
no subject
Rosalie counts the seconds before one of her friends rushes in and flies to her side. And Rosalie makes the appropriate show of being distraught and upset, leaning on the other girl's shoulder when it is offered to her, covering her face in her hands. It's a little too easy, to channel her anger into this performance, and some of her words are genuine. As she fakes being on the verge of tears, to her own horror she realizes that it might not be as fake as she would like to think.
But that just makes her angry again. Why should she care how Edward treated her?
Several girls come and go from the room—some stand and ask questions just outside the door. "It's Rosalie—she's very upset, poor dear," others answer, and all attempt to offer their own form of comfort.
As if they meant it. As if they weren't secretly thinking it served her right, or inwardly laughing at her downfall. As if they won't gossip about it tomorrow. Rosalie chooses to dwell on their hidden but obvious duplicity. It fuels her anger, and assists her in the little show she's putting on.
She emerges eventually, when she feels her friends have done enough to relieve her previous "mortification." She consents to a few dances, but refuses others, apologizing that she's "not in the mood." Anything to keep people talking about it.
She moves to the balcony later, to lean on the railing and sigh. It would be the perfect opportunity for someone to come and apologize.
She tries not to acknowledge to herself the fact that she's going to be waiting for said apology all night. Especially because she knows it probably won't ever come.
no subject
"I could bite off my own hand, too."
"You will have to live with your actions, Edward. You're going to be in touch with more of these people throughout your enrollment." Esme reached out to smooth back a section of his bright, unruly hair, making it as little apparent as she could noticing that he still stood stock still, like a statue, when she attempt any sort of contact.
Even the person he'd so recently self appointed as his mother.
He managed as long as he could before pulling away.
"Oh, no, a double-faced debutant and her friends might not like me, or pay attention to me." Edward gave a withering look to Esme that meant no insult to her, so much as the topic. Not having attention was better for them. Even if he understood he was causing more attention to be drawn to them by this, too.
He glanced away, saying hollowly. "I've done worse."
"Not recently." Her voice was soft, but firm, when her thoughts demanded he look back. Even as he opened his mouth, her thoughts as well as her look balked at him even trying to count that as close now. And she said it sternly, again, over-riding whatever he might have said. "Not recently."
Edward settled for keeping his thoughts to himself. Following right on that with having to give her a faintly apologetic glance when he flinched before her fingers could even rest on his arm. Only at the thought that decided to do so touching his mind. That one didn't have words either. But it didn't need it.
"If you won't consider this, perhaps, you'll come back inside and help me save Carlisle from his newest long conversation on how he likes the weather in New York?"
Edward hesitated, as though only then seeming to relocate the only other voice he never stopped listening to, that had never stopped worrying over him as well, and then he nodded.