Post New Moon, Kate & Edward

[themidnightson]

Edward was sitting on a bench outside Milliways. Even as much as he might want to try to make himself relaxed, it's not as easy to slip back into. His posture is too rigid, too still for calm, fingers pressed just too much against his legs. Before him, where his affixed gaze, all too black eyed still, rested, is the Lake-Ocean, and the setting sun.



Behind him is the Bar, and his Door, leading back to Bella's bedroom.

Presently, he's trying to count to ten minutes without running back to make sure she's real.
That all of this, every thought and image and assumption of reality is not a creation of insanity.

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[themidnightson]

He continued to stare down at her, barely-golden far too empty still black eyes. Focused solely on her through her silence and her thoughts and eventually her words.







"What did your father play?"

[ikissdhimbck]

He isn't brushing her off. He isn't miring himself in silence.

That's more than a start; it's enough.

"Beethoven," she smiles thinly. "Vivaldi; Brahms; Paganini. Everything. You ever heard Sally Goodin? Or Cattle in the Cain? We'd have parties in the fall after harvestin', and I'd dance for hours while he played."

[themidnightson]

He can forced himself to words for his family. He doesn't deserve the ability not to. And Bella's calling a Family Meeting in his house, had demanded speech. But choosing to speak when it wasn't a necessity.





It gets a little lost once or twice. He counts the minutes more often. But he ends up thinking about the whole idea. Lives with music that didn't come from cds and radios. A world where it hadn't been so disconnected.









"People used to do so much more with music."
He'd come from a time much closer to hers.

[ikissdhimbck]

She reflects quietly.





"They'd let you into their world."

Every melody a gateway to a thought, a vision, an experience without any other means of expression.

[themidnightson]

They let you into their world.

Slips. Slides. Into. Would you play?




Would you give me your world. Would you set it free.
Would you let someone, who can't, try to understand.

[ikissdhimbck]

And, by so doing, hazard stepping into my world as well?


She thinks of the little music box in her room -- the bronze grasshopper that plays the Kreutzer Sonata on its wings.

She thinks of when she was small, the smell of pinewood sharp in her nostrils as she leans against the doorjamb, sneaking glances through the crack in the door to her father's study on nights when he'd play in private.

(She thinks of blood, so much blood, dust sticking to the soles of his boots mottled where his spilled life formed the bond, lifeless fingertips still calloused from gut strings.)

She thinks of France.





And she closes her eyes.

(And breathes.)

[themidnightson]

There's a moment, he considers. The thing he did once for Meg. But his hands stay in his lap. Fingers tips pressed slighter stiffer for the pass of a millionth of a millisecond.


She's so young for feeling so old.


And it's wrong to feel comforted by that.


He probably wouldn't be entirely mistaken that it's part of what drew Jasper to her, he thinks, when he turned his head fractionally to survey her. Closed eyes and closed mind to the whole world. Except for him. And she knew it.

[ikissdhimbck]

She feels the slight shift of his gaze.

She cracks her eyes open to watch the last of the fire die from the sky, ripples of gold on the lake. There are a hundred questions dancing on her tongue; and there are a hundred more waiting in the wings.




And there is nothing. Nothing but the steady beat

thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump

that reminds her she's still here.


"They... reminded you. You're not the only one. Who makes music."




That's what life is.

[themidnightson]

His lips shifted, a stir, direct reaction. That he pressed down. Only to frown softly, like an uncertain child when it shifts those ever young, ever golden features.




But then he lets it go, so incredibly quietly.

"That you're not the only one who needs it."

[ikissdhimbck]

Lips slightly parted, those soft words hit her like a stone.

She turns at length, soulful eyes meeting the black maw -- but there is color there, like ripened wheat swaying in and out of the moonlight -- of his penetrating gaze.

She moistens her lips, and nods once so slowly it's hardly movement at all.



Cautious, her fingers just barely graze his elbow. She wouldn't dare more than that.


"Would you play?"

Would you let go?

[themidnightson]

He very faintly cringed. A suck in of features, crumpling.
Held in just this side of too long held seconds as it happens.
As thought the words, as well as the idea, are painful to him.



But he holds, opening his eyes just before she can speak again. Can try to take back what she's said, or find a way to apologize without words even. He doesn't smile. He doesn't lie to or for her.

There is no need, no will, no way to.
If he's going to...it will bare his soul.


And he says, asks, the only thing he can, "If you'll sing."

[ikissdhimbck]

And he catches her in that moment where she gathers regret, replacing it instead with the shock of the words, the request, the uttering she hadn't anticipated.

She knows this isn't easy.

She knows this isn't nearly enough.

But he's putting in effort when he doesn't have to, and she, in all her bumbling mortality, appreciates that beyond words or thoughts. She smiles wanly.


"S'a deal."

[themidnightson]

Without moving any other part of him, he raised a hand, palm upward in an old outdated, gesture toward the door, for her to lead to the way.

[ikissdhimbck]

She nods once in concession, remembering what it was like to gather up her skirts and curtsy at moments like these, and stands in her weathered work slacks and boots.

She waits for him, and then begins the trek back to the bar in comfortable silence.


What needs to be said can wait; it can come when and how it's natural.

[themidnightson]

He followed. At her side, but about half a step behind. Not by any design or reason, in all truth, simply because he was. And his eyes did linger toward The Door when he walked in.

It's been ten minutes. He could go back now.

But he'd made an offer, and had one met in return.



And maybe it's not too far off that he stares at Yrael's baby grand piano with an empty-featured stillness that made it seems almost more adversary than welcome friend.

[ikissdhimbck]

She shucks off the shackles of the cold air outside, embracing the warmth of the bar.

Just as his eyes wander to his door, hers linger down the hall where the infirmary lurks just out of sight, and scans the room.

"You all right with all these people?" she asks quietly.

[themidnightson]

"Aren't anymore people in here than there were outside."

He means, in his head, but he doesn't say so out loud.

[ikissdhimbck]

He doesn't need to.

"All right, then."

She makes the first move toward the piano. She's small -- petite, even -- with tiny wrists and big blue eyes like a china doll's. When she's vulnerable she looks like you could break her to pieces with the tip of a feather. But she not only can be the brave one, she always will be.

She touches the polished surface and looks at Edward with a tentative smile.

[themidnightson]

Edward could never be called always the brave one.
The one that survived, that settled, that managed.


But never here. He reached out to let his fingers barely touch the piano surface. It isn't as though he can ever forget how to play or what it means or what he has before. But he hasn't touched a piano in any world since before Bella's birthday.

It is a truth uncontested by a near century that he plays because he's already made of too many words, always in him, running through him. He had to speak in a completely different way. And as much as it would be having to speak and be heard by another, others, he'll have to hear himself, too.




His fingers trailed the side, along the edge, before he sat down.

He ran his fingers across the frame right before the keys.

[ikissdhimbck]

She doesn't share the bench with him. She doesn't stand beside him. She doesn't even stand within his peripheral.

It's a private thing. Personal. Emotional. She understands that well enough -- as well as she can, anyway. Same as when her daddy would polish his violin; it seemed to her such a menial task, but he did it with a tenderness that bordered on reverence, something she didn't understand until he was gone and she started polishing the instrument in his absence.

She stands along the side of the piano a few paces from the keyboard, well inside his field of vision or outside of it depending on where he chooses to focus.

And gives him time to think. To reacquaint himself.


To say hello.

[themidnightson]

His hands set down lightly, with the kind of shift in any other life form would be a breath out but he has no need for breathing. His eyes shifted slightly closed, as he pressed down keys. Ever so. Light. Soft.

From someone made of more than granite, not even present.
Faint shifting notes, barely pressed down, that travel little.


He knows these places. He's walked here for so long. He can't feel tired, ever, but it makes everything else exhausting. With looking up, he asked, "Did you want something specific?"

[ikissdhimbck]

She watches the courtship, the dance in pianississimo, with the sort of anticipation one reserves for the awkward first waltz of a newly declared lady.

She flicks her eyes to his face.

There's only one song. There could only ever be one. And yet, she pauses. She considers. She gives it thought.

(She thinks of home.)

(She thinks of heartbreak.)

(She thinks of death.)



((It's all the same.))



"Ah," she clears her throat, swallows hard (chokes back emotion, bites down on pain). "Most'a what I know accompanies fiddle. 'Less, of course, y'wanted a lively tune -- but I reckon the mood's not right."

She wets her lips.

"See if y'can follow this, perhaps?"


It's tearing open a fresh scab and salving it within the same motion. She sings quietly.

[themidnightson]

She thinks of others, who would need to hear to follow and have. He has her memories, each one of them as she thinks them. All the details, the reasons, the people. The tune, the melody and the words before she can even make it to the question to ask if he can follow her.



But he's not them, he can do better.

Because he doesn't need her to lead him, Edward starts playing at the same second as her voice sounds. Playing first from the memory's tune, each one made for and of stringed instruments. That shifts in register and key to match and mingle with the exact placement of her tone before the first line is through.

It's almost too easy. It's blessing....and a curse.

Because he doesn't have to think about the playing.

[ikissdhimbck]

Her voice grows softer -- surprised, awed -- and then louder, to give him a worthy accompaniment.

He's gifted, truly.




But does he enjoy it? Her eyes linger on his face, rather than on his hands.

[themidnightson]

A little. He has an unfair advantage on both sides. They way most people at a century of playing can't claim to have the reflexes of a seventeen year old boy, and no seventeen year old could justify the skills of a lifetime.

He was good before this life. He plays prodigy enough now.






But not today. Today. He is simply Edward.
Not dead. Not whole. Only certain of a few things.

He doesn't owe anything here, but he still isn't free.

[ikissdhimbck]

Someday, she should like to know his story. Stories. Present, past. Lives lived through an hourglass that never empties its charge.

And will you never cut the cloth
Or drink the light to be
And can you never swear a year
To anyone but we?


Today is not that day.

He is simply Edward.

She closes her eyes.




And suddenly she changes the tune.

She might even smile as she does so.

[themidnightson]

He doesn't smile, but part of his expression shifts.
The smallest bit of surprise, perhaps.

Do you remember the paths where we met?
Long, long ago, long, long ago.
Ah, yes, you told me you'd never forget

Older, but not too old.

But something few people in the room would recognize.



And there are so many new and old things that need fixing.

[ikissdhimbck]

He is unflappable, and this is partly why she likes him so.

She can't fathom the depth of his experience, the years he's stretched on, the trials -- victories and defeats, new and old -- kept within his memory.

But, for a moment, she can at least stand beside him.



But, by long absence your truth has been tried,
Still to your accents I listen with pride,
Blessed as I was when I sat by your side.
Long, long ago, long ago.