Rochester, 1932 Spring

[themidnightson]

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.


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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.



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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.

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[themidnightson]

She's an open book. She thinks she's darling, because of her dress and her face and the fact half the room is following her every move, wether with jealous hate or desperate longings or giddy youth. She thinks that means she is a queen even at a party that is not being thrown for her.

He already had two people stroking their own ego's over his existence as though he was a prize they'd won. A dapper young man of grace with nothing but trust in their intentions. He doesn't need a vapid debutaunt, with far too much perfume, and not near enough to cover the scent of her rushing blood, as well.

If she's the queen, what happens here will define him in the eyes of every other little twittering youth of either sex in the room. And she's already daring him not to.


His hand doesn't rise. "We haven't."

The same futile tone. As though her statement had been a question he was saying was correct, even though it was apparent what she'd asked was a polite request to be. Even as a man to his left gasped slightly, at the last second, uncaring of the ruse, Edward's eyes, narrowed, cut a glance to the left of all three of them (to where Esme had said sighed, and Carlisle had thought his name).


And still he couldn't vanish from where he was standing.

[jealous-rose.livejournal.com]

Rosalie retracts her gloved hand, swallowing. She tries to mask the awkwardness of it being left hanging there by bringing it up to her throat, to fiddle with her necklace prettily but self-consciously.

She wants to snap at him. She wants to tell him exactly what she thinks of him, in no uncertain terms.

But she is a lady. And this is her greatest pride, despite the fact that it requires her restraint. She is perfect. She's what every man would want. And it would not be proper to try to stand up to this young man in any direct manner. So she doesn't.

It's what makes her better than him.

She is able to mask her rage almost completely, except for the flush that continues to color her cheeks. But it works perfectly to her advantage... She flutters her eyelashes, angling her gaze slightly downward, pretending to be bewildered.

"Rosalie Hale." Her tone is appropriately timid, though fury is what makes it waver. She curtsies slightly.

Everyone is watching. And she's just made Edward seem like the most heartless man in all of Rochester.

[themidnightson]

It is for Esme's sake more than anyone's. More than Carlisle, more than his own. He doesn't really care at all about whether this Rosalie Hale is impressed about his face or his bearing, or how he acts at her behest.

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.

[jealous-rose.livejournal.com]

"Yes, of course. I understand," Rosalie tells the man who tries to comfort her, looking up into his eyes appreciatively. But she's careful to indicate with her tone and expression that she doesn't really believe him, and continues to blush. "Won't you excuse me, please?" she asks, then continues towards the powder room, making a show of walking briskly.

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.

[themidnightson]

She's not the only one with that thought process either.







"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.