Golden: 1819.

[ofthefamily]

An old face. Calmer, older, and yet all the same unchanged.

At least he's not running for his life, now. And he knows where he is.

For Carlisle Cullen, this is always a good start.

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[ofthefamily]

Far too close to be comfortable, it all comes out in a rush, "And if you thought any of this was normal, you wouldn't look at me half the time as though I could hurt you."

[themidnightson]

It stops. Almost like a clock.

Edward doesn't release the hand, but his fingers are almost instead a loop. Holding, more than touching. And his smile. Isn't much of a smile. And the contents of sensation inside his chest, at that truth inherent...

He went to take a step back.

[ofthefamily]

"You're leaving?" Now?

[themidnightson]

He makes it the one step. Without releasing the hand.



His thoughts don't make coherent lines even.




He doesn't sigh. He doesn't want to pretend that much.



His eyes end up at his hand on Carlisle's, not even clear enough to stay on whether he should let go. "You can." Isn't broken. Isn't soft or loud. And has nothing to do with his most recent question, but with the statement that stuck, and is far too close into you will.

[ofthefamily]

"But -- goodness sake, Edward, why -- "

[themidnightson]

"You'll figure out where you belong."

The last word coming just as he finally lets go.

[ofthefamily]

"No -- "

Carlisle lunges into Edward's space and kisses him squarely on the mouth.

When he pulls away, "I only belong to myself; not any where there is."

[themidnightson]

Certain things still happen faster than the thought to do them. Without pause. Without perusal. Without question. Without planning. Carlisle's mouth crashing into him at pretty much the same instant as the thought to do so.

Leaving his first millisecond stone cold still, and his second with both hands suddenly on his arms, clenched, uncertain even what he means to do with him. Uncertain they are even there the moment after they move, distracted (or is it focused?) on where Carlisle is touching him.

On his lips. On his denial.
(On the offer made minutes ago.)

On the waver that his body gives when Carlisle pulls back.

[ofthefamily]

With a note of finality, and Carlisle can't even look at Edward straight on,

"People can only belong to other people."

[themidnightson]

That is his point. But he can't bring himself to move his lips yet. He can see her face, hear her voice, the way she'll grow and flourish. The gentleness for her great heart. The horrible ending she never had because of Carlisle. How much Edward will grow to love her, does even in this moment.

Has he learned more than hate, jealousy, replacement, longing, rebellion, and acceptance at the hands of love? It's a lie to say he hasn't. As hard as it is to perceive it now. Whatever was best of love he's seen because of them. Through them.

Through, though. Not from. Not in.

And when his head is lost in a place Carlisle, this Carlisle, has never been, he doesn't even quite recognize his voice, conceding, as though to a mistake Edward had made, "Maybe you don't know."

[ofthefamily]

Are you trying to have me stand here to be insulted? Now I am ignorant of the issues here?

[themidnightson]

Somehow even as it's happening, he thinks it shouldn't surprise him. The flash of anger that scores through him at the thought. His hands tightening as he jerked Carlisle closer.

"I meant about me." ....and he meant both of them.

You know me.


Do I?

[ofthefamily]

"I don't understand."

[themidnightson]

"No. You don't."






"You have no idea or context for how much I have nothing but a want say yes, or what it would do to what is left of my life." And Edward really doesn't give him the moment to process those words even, before kissing Carlisle.

Though to say it's simply kiss would be like saying a lightening storm was the same as a spring shower. His hand digging into blonde hair, fisting around part of it, in perhaps something far too complicated for a want for both of them to just stop thinking.

[ofthefamily]

Holy Go --

Edward is fairly effective at pushing cogent thought out of Carlisle's head, so all he does is respond.

[themidnightson]

This is what he wants.

Though defining this is not on the line.
Any part of it, not right this second, not now.


When he tries to drown out every noise and image in the entire Bar forcing its way into him, every intimately known complication, every ounce of him that cares, with the taste of Carlisle, the way he smells, and feels under his finger tips. His last free hand releasing the arm under it, finally, to settle on pulling Carlisle even closer from settling on his back.

[ofthefamily]

Carlisle comes back to his senses in a way he wishes he could have avoided as soon as it happens --

This is the only way they will ever have each other. This Carlisle and this Edward. Only ever at the end of everything.

Edward's chest against Carlisle's own pulls a groan from him and Carlisle curls his index fingers into Edward's belt loops.

[themidnightson]

He doesn't even see the low snarl coming before it leaves his mouth. If his hands had been slightly hard seconds before, it erring into rejectingly possessive now. Perhaps, even more so, with, "Mine."

He'd been smart about this long enough today, right?




At least they weren't in the middle of the bar.

[ofthefamily]

People only belong to other people

Carlisle doesn't argue with Edward's logic on the matter.

[themidnightson]

His tone is not kind. But it is not mean. There's something of informing, as well as accusation in it. It matches the way his fingers glide down Carlisle's spine and small back, as a warning.

"I'll always-" His lips followed the line of his jaw. "-be yours." Down the juncture of his ear and neck. "I will never--" light as a feather almost, as he spoke. "-not want you."

Until he bit down against Carlisle's throat, erring down the razor's edge, his fingers bunching the cloth of his shirt and his pants where his hand was stopped.

[ofthefamily]

i don't want to belong to anyone else you may have me.

It's permission and longing and he's free to do what he wants, right? So there he is, being bitten of all things and liking it, even after Volterra and everything there.

Edward seems to want to consume him.

Carlisle has no place else better to be.

[themidnightson]

The groan against Carlisle's skin is as frustrated as moved.
He's not positive he want to be either. But no one is asking.




And he shouldn't. His eye close, eyelashes light, burying his face against Carlisle's throat. He can't. A small nip. It'd be wrong. A very, very light brush of his lips. It could be worse.

The smallest whisper, lost in the crowning dawn's wind. "Tell me what you want of me?"

[ofthefamily]

"Stay with me. Please, please stay with me. This me here."

It's immediate and pleading and Carlisle's hands fly to Edward's shoulders.

[themidnightson]

It has to have been half a century since he last felt so suddenly terrified.
He squeezed his eyes against those words and the ones that echoed.


I want to make you promise me
that you'll never leave like that again.

I am happy with you.
So I manage

Does nothing change, because the time outside
each door never moves, and then a lifetime
here still takes nothing from there?

What would you have of me?
How complicated is it to say, everything?

Very.

Edward nodded, his nose brushing up and down at Carlisle's shoulder, while his chin bumped against a collar bone and his hands had become something like a vice. He can feel this one, in every part of who he has left in him to be, when he mumbles against Carlisle's shirt, uncertain if he means Milliways or Lyon or the nineteenth century; or the coming of his insanity, booked and brooked by only one man.

Who was now two. "For now."

[ofthefamily]

Carlisle really wasn't expecting anything resembling an answer in the positive.

"Do you mean that?"