ofthefamily | Golden: 1819.

Edward's hands lingered at the outsides of Carlisle's. Then, with a flippant smile, he never realizes actually flits across his lips and stays, while tugging Carlisle closer as Edward shook his head, "A reference almost two centuries out of date from being understood."

"Mmm."

Even with the closeness, a flicker of worry occurs - what if the years between them always keep the references from being understood?

It skips, always does and will. And for a moment it almost sticks. Almost. Before Edward lifted one hand from Carlisle's wrist, to tilt his chin, and he has no frame for where it comes from even. "What if it keeps everything else from being misunderstood?"

It sounds like a partnership.

And Carlisle nods and says "Alright" for lack of anything better.

He can't be certain. He's not letting himself hope. At the most now it is minute by minute, milliseconds in bunches at the most. Up and down each rise in his mind.

If he thinks too much...but, no. Not yet at least.
Not this second, this moment, right now.

He let his head tilt barely forward as his hands shifted and the pad of his thumb drug across Carlisle's lower lip. Specifically. Purposefully. Perhaps for and against the myriad tones in his voice.

"I haven't been this impatient in years."

Edited 2010-05-20 16:58 (UTC)

"Impatient for what?"

If Edward's simply impatient, Carlisle feels like he's going to burst out of his skin.

The number of answers is not endless.
They are all to the point. Ranging.
Serious to not as serious.

Edward's lips shifted, another smile, but darker, indolently knowing, though as he watched Carlisle's lips moving, the image and the sensation of them brushing against the skin of his finger, where he gave no thought or shift as though he even considered moving away. And where he stared for a good half second, before dragging his gaze back to Carlisle's eyes.

The quiet has absolutely nothing to do with quiet.

"You are still too far away, Carlisle."

Oh.

Carlisle inhales and moves for a kiss.

He can at the very least do this.

Edward tried not to laugh. It might not come out well. After the inexplicably Roger's & Hamerstien retort. Or the side that begged to differ after what he'd gotten Edward to agree to. It wasn't all that hard once Carlisle's lips touched his.

The rest didn't matter as much as hitch of sound that came out of him, to dragging Carlisle as close as he could manage. He could replace the wall if he had to. He didn't care about it.

Carlisle can't muster up much empathy for the drywall at the end of the universe either. Edward is just slender enough around his shoulders that Carlisle locks his fingers through each other at the square of Edward's back in a squeeze.

"Should we -- "

"Yes," is a blunt cut off for the forming sentence. It's a cross between frustrated for the pause and pertinently pointed in his expression, as his hands settle on Carlisle's sides clenching noticeably, but not hard. "To anything that doesn't involve you letting go."

"A room."

There is something of a smirk somewhere in the cross between mockingly pointed words, the almost frustrating not-quite-pout that really can't be so real, while there has to be some basis for where it comes from, and the expression that says there is some sense in that.

"That involves letting go."

Even if Edward is going to be unhelpful. By hooking his fingers inside the rim of Carlisle's pants, pressing them between his shirt and the belt only carefully not made to strain as he pushes them down between the two.

"Edwar -- "

Carlisle wants to say that they have more time than this. It doesn't need to be quick.

But it can be good. And what Edward wants, as well.

There is no restraining the chuckle Carlisle earns.
It presses out against his skin unabashedly.

"How easy it is to fluster your plans..."

"I am the thing people avoid in the streets," Carlisle hisses through the sensation of Edward's hands on him, "And you deign to touch me after a decade, and forty years before that - I am flustered."

Did he forget this feeling, even among all the things he could, can, never forget? He can't remember. Doesn't want to recount the memory of year numbers that will always be so known. He doesn't want to (want to) forget this, right now, this moment, this feeling. Even for a few seconds peace.

His fingers parade with more pressure at the hiss, between differing types of cloth, without the aim to remove it -- yet. Which is not the same as not the want. Almost as though purposely staying just those tiny millimeters from actual contact, too far to actually touch, too close not to notice.

Tracing from the rise of hip bones to the curve of lower back.

"If you could hear yourself," is given with a a glance up, shamelessness over every reaction caught up in flaring golden amber eyes.

I am usually my own company.

Carlisle reaches one hand back to meet one of Edward's. Not moving Edward's; just meeting it. Joining --

I like your new topic.

Edward lips quirked, amused, predictable (with even some fondness) in the expression from the second thought. He did not still at the touch over him, but marginally shifted speed slower to adjust to it. Carlisle over and under him.

"I would give you my side if I could."

Which was not the same as wishing he could. That was a wish long grown all but dormant. And, for this situation specifically, he's not sure he could wish the onslaught of a million cascading and colliding reactions from them both, and from one unforgotten, on Carlisle.

Edited 2010-05-21 13:34 (UTC)

"Sometimes the mystery is okay."

As is having a place to hide.

It's a luxury, and an unfair one in his position where there is almost no way for anyone, not immortal or godly, to hide from him. At least no way that involves being able to focus on anything but distracting him and themselves.

Neither is really a thought he wants to follow to a conclusion though.

Edward squeezed the space between his hands lightly, the span of hands spread, palms across Carlisle's side still half tucked between sheath's of cloth, when he nodded, the movement ruffling his copper hair.

What if the mystery could be out loud, something tactile and real?

Carlisle thinks too much anyway.

"So no room?"

Carlisle's hoping the door locks.

Edward's smile tugged errantly, and there was the briefest shake of his head and chuckle. Whether this was to Carlisle's thoughts or his question, he really didn't let on.

He pulled his hand upward slowly, with over-dramatic sigh.

There was the momentary impulse to demand something, even lightly, like a kiss, for the charge of releasing him. But it came and went as his hands were released from the cloth entirely, still without making his belt groan or snap.

Lazy, mock teasing stayed, even as he stood up straighter. "If you insist."

"Just trying to obey the niceties..." Carlisle mumbles.

And, you know. Walk for a few rapid seconds to the first empty room he found so he could drag Edward in behind him to land Carlisle's back against --

Pink walls. Pink, princess-covered, sparkly, glittery walls.

Carlisle groans loudly. This is preposterous.

Edward, perhaps, should have managed a straight face.

But it really didn't happen. His eyes, wide and clear, took in the wall above Carlisle's head, having no compunction against keeping Carlisle against a wall so garish, with a shiver through his body that seem only seconds away from becoming a real laugh.

"From intellectual opulence to.....pink. Maybe your taste has changed."

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