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cullenssapphic · 18 hours

Text

honesty

On ao3 here. CW: Brief reference to domestic abuse.

1923

Esme flopped onto the freshly made bed with a sigh, arms outstretched.

Her husband watched the scene for a moment. Then delicately picked up one arm, lying down beside her, and letting her arm fall over his body. His shoes were kicked off with his toe — falling unceremoniously on the floor with a thwack — before pulling his legs onto the mattress.

When she had insisted the first piece of furniture they built in their new-to-them home was their entirely unnecessary bed he thought she was endearingly silly. Yet, there was something to be said about the familiar comfort after a week of traveling across the continent.

His eyes slipped closed, listening to her unnecessary breathing, calm, slow, and steady. She was hoping to finally be reintroduced to human society and was doing everything possible to make it a successful transition. He felt the mattress shift as she moved closer, her shoulder bumping into his as she threaded her fingers through his.

He presumed he was as close to the sleep as he ever would be. Comfortable and somnolent. Warm from the sun shining through windows that did not yet have coverings. Birds chirping in the backyard. His wife by his side, the honeysuckle of her shampoo mixing with the fresh scent of the soap she used to wash their linens.

“May I be honest with you?” She asked quietly.

“I hope you are always honest with me, Esme,” he muttered.

He heard her blow air out of her nose, and knew, even without peeling his eyes open, she was smiling fondly.

“I feel safer now.” He felt her lift their joined hands off the bed, holding them upright, tilting them slowly. No doubt watching the thousands of beams reflecting off their unnatural skin.

“In this house?”

The house was located further from civilization than the former hunting lodge, minutes away from a small logging town, they had occupied in Wisconsin. The structure itself was larger, the newlyweds and the perpetual teenager finding they needed far more space than the previous two bedrooms. Structurally he questioned its soundness, it needed quite a few renovations. But Esme’s smile when she caught a glimpse of the slightly dilapidated project in his countless brochures ensured he was purchasing the property.

“In this country,” she said, letting their hands fall to the mattress with a quiet thunk.

“Oh?” He opened his eyes, blinking slowly, lazily turning his head to look at her. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

She did not continue, although he knew she could. Vulnerability no longer came naturally to Esme. She had reached a point in life where almost every word she spoke was mulled over laboriously before it met the air. The only person who ever got a look at her bare thoughts was a telepath Carlisle pitied and envied.

“Penny for your thought?”

“I believe… I have known in the logical portion of my mind Char- he no longer posed a threat to my well-being. I know that. Yet, when I saw the map today, and realized how far from home I was, it felt as if I could finally breathe.”

“Are you sure that’s not the mountain air?” He smiled.

“It might be,” she laughed lightly, rolling her head to look at him.

“I wish I had known you felt unsafe. We could have moved sooner. I presumed you might find it difficult to leave any earlier.”

Indeed she had found it difficult to leave the place where her son was buried. “Worthless mother,” and “abandoning him” were the only words he could discern as she tearlessly sobbed into his shoulder two weeks earlier.

“But that is precisely my point. I never felt unsafe, at least in the moment. Only in hindsight.”

“Small mercies?”

“Indeed,” she smiled. She let go of his hand, reaching up to brush a stubborn lock of hair off his forehead.

They fell into what he had nicknamed ‘comfortable silence.’ There was little pressure to fill the void, the silence could sit, be peaceful even. It was one of the elements of marriage he found most surprising and gratifying.

He watched as she closed her eyes and scooted closer, resting her head on his chest. His arm wrapped around her back.

“You used the word home,” he said after fifteen minutes or so.

“I misspoke, my home is here, with you,” she said quickly, correcting what she assumed was a transgression.

“Es, I only wished to know where you were referring.”

“I suppose Ohio,” she sighed. “It is humorous because it did not when I was there.”

“Oh, I understand that sentiment entirely.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I would never step foot in London again, and yet if someone asks me where I am from my mind immediately goes to that grey dreary awful city.”

“You would never go back?” She asked, looking up at him. He nodded causing a wrinkle between her brows. “That’s a pity. I have always dreamed of going one day, in the far, far future.”

“Perhaps I could be convinced by an enchanting woman,” he conceded.

“If only I knew where to find one,” she laughed, triggering his laughter. He caught her lips in a quick, familiar kiss.

She broke the embrace with a contented sigh, lying her head back on his chest.

“Did Ohio ever feel like your home?” He asked, threading his fingers through her hair.

“You can not let a dead dog lie,” she sighed into his chest.

“I’m curious about my wife. Is that a crime?”

“You are too curious for your own good, Carlisle Cullen.”

“A trait we share.”

She took a deep breath, he could feel her body rise and fall against his. “I think it must have been the day I told my parents what he had done. I remember feeling entirely alone, clutching a cold rag to my eye to stop the swelling, while my mother went on a tirade about how difficult marriage was. I distinctly remember thinking there was very little left for me in life.”

“You have never told me about that day.”

“I told you they turned me away,” she refuted.

“Yes, but never anything further.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Only what you care to share,” he said. Her breathing halted, her body tightening under his hands. He continued speaking, “You do not have to tell me a thing, Esme. But I know when you broach a subject first you have been thinking of the manner for quite some time.”

She huffed, but he could feel her cheek move as she smiled.

“Recently,” she said, shifting off his chest, moving to tuck into his side to look at him comfortably, “I have begun to doubt my father ever knew what Char-he ever did.” He knew she corrected herself on his account, and as her husband, he should feel guilty about this fact, but when it came to Charles Evenson his rage often trumped his desire to be a supportive husband.

“I thought you said you told him.”

“When I got home he was in the fields,” she sighed as if lifting a heavy object.

For the first year after her transition, Esme had refused to discuss her past, unless entirely necessary. Only after much hurt and passive disagreements did she reveal this was due to the grief, and not lack of trust in her new companions. With clearer eyes the sorrow was evident, the slump of her shoulders, the spaces she left between words, the tone that made it feel as if every word was an exertion of energy.

“I told my mother, everything. She had not said a word in response, besides offering me a rag. He came in for a glass of water. My back was to him. I can no longer remember his face the last time I saw him but I remember the joy in his voice. He kissed the top of my head and asked the reason for the visit. Before I could answer my mother told me to go wash up. When I came back she told me he was going to drive me home in the buggy. I would still have time to make dinner.”

“And you suppose she did not tell him?”

“I presumed she had for the longest time.”

“What has caused you to doubt now?”

“Edward.”

“Edward?”

“Knowing Edward. Make no mistake I would have done anything for my son, but he was a babe. There was a part of me that assumed I could not understand my father’s indifference because I did not know the struggles of raising an impertinent child. But becoming well acquainted with Edward and all his flaws. I know I know I am not his mother, and I do not wish to be, but I care for him. If he confessed a fraction of what I had that day, I believe I would be compelled to commit a massacre. I can no longer conceive how my father would have driven me home, would have held polite conversation with my husband, if he had any idea.”

“Your mother knew, yet she arranged for him to take you back.”

“My mother never cared for me,” she said plainly.

“I am sure, she lov-”

“No, she did not. She told me as much, countless times. She never wished for children. I have accepted this long ago. But my father adored me. He would take me everywhere with him, he would just beam as he introduced me. ‘This is my little girl, Esme Anne.’ That first year of marriage he came by our house. I was in no shape to receive company and Charles asked him to leave. A few months after Charles enlisted he left a meal on our doorstep. He did not knock or leave a note — he could not write. But I know the taste of Platt beef. I am convinced he must not have known.”

“Perhaps he did not.”

“I was cruel to him.”

“Esme, I am sure he understood why you did not contact him. Even if he did not know precisely what you were experiencing.”

“At my brother’s funeral, he approached me, and I made some wicked comment about both his children being dead and how happy he must be,” she laughed humorlessly, a sound that bordered a sob. “Knowing now the pain he was facing, I can never forgive myself. Even if he knew.”

“You were hurt, you believed the one who was supposed to love you had thrown you into cruelty-”

“Carlisle, I do not need justifications,” she said softly, yet firmly, palm pressing to his chest.

“I understand,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I love you.”

A true sentiment, one not meant to comfort or justify. I love you and the cruelty you see when you face a mirror. I love you and the fishing weights tied to your ankles in the form of memories I will never fully understand. I love you.

She pulled herself away from their embrace, forcing herself to sit up with a quiet groan. Her knees went to her chest, her arms wrapping around her shins, her chin resting atop her knees. He followed suit, tucking one leg under himself and letting one fall to hang off the bed.

“I apologize for being so morose,” she said quietly, her hair moving ever so slightly in the Summer breeze.

“I would rather know your true heart than be told empty pleasantries.”

She shook her head. “It is not your responsibility to carry my burdens.”

He laughed, “I believe that is the definition of marriage, my love. You have certainly carried your share of mine.”

She shrugged, tilting her head on her knees to see him better.

“Is the move the only element that has brought up all of this?” He asked delicately.

She nodded. “It feels as if Esme Platt, Evenson, Bauer is gone, finally. I knew she was before, of course. I knew I could never go back but being here, in an entirely new place feels as if Esme Platt is finally dead.” No sooner had she finished speaking was she laughing. “How dramatic.”

“I for one, hope you are wrong.”

“Hm?”

“I’m quite charmed by Esme Platt… and her impertinence,” he smiled, bumping her shoulder with his. It earned him a small smile. “Can I tell you something?” She nodded. “I loathe moving.”

“You do?”

“Oh yes. It feels as if the second I am content, I must pack up an entire life and move somewhere else unfamiliar and drab. Another town with another set of people I have to reinvent myself for.”

“So hundreds of ends?”

“I suppose. But I don’t know if it ends, in a sense I could be hundreds of Carlisles, and Williams, and one John.”

“You went by John?”

“Once, for two weeks. I moved because I could not force myself to respond to the name,” he smiled. “But they’re all me.”

“So this is a death and a birth? I like the sound of that.”

“You are an artist, aren’t you?” He laughed. She ducked her head. The fight over her clearly God-given talent was a battle for a different time, they had uncorked enough for one day. “Thank you for being honest with me,” he said earnestly. In one move, she pressed a kiss to his cheek and was on the other side of the room beginning to unpack one of their trunks. It was a start. A birth of newfound trust, one would say. Now he sounded like the artist, but not a very good one.

#🥺🥺🥺

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cullenssapphic · 1 month

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He Wanted to Grasp the Wind

Summary:

Carlisle's first birthday after Esme joined his life in 1921.

Ao3 here

“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also”—Matthew 6:21

18 October 1921

[Carlisle’s POV]

Carlisle carefully touched the small shelf with his fingertips, the yellow paint on it finally dry. He had spent an entire day trapped in the tool shed, making it for Esme.

That tool shed with only one small window had once been Carlisle's haven. He used to rush frantically toward its deep brown wooden door, its walls splotched with grey having soaked up his thoughts, his anger, his sadness. He would pick up a piece of wood, but often without thinking he would cut it into the rough shape of a cross, the only habit he got from his father. He had carved other objects too - a few wooden lotuses, a small Jesus and the animals from the manger at his birth, human-shaped figures that he could not tell were meant to be male or female. But he found that it was only when making the simplest crosses that he was able to exclude all distracting thoughts, not thinking about how to carve, letting his fingers guide him and ultimately achieving absolute tranquillity.

His crosses, the plants, figurines, and animals he had carved were all placed on shelves, covered in layers of cloth, coated in dust. He had never intended to show them to anyone, never considered letting anyone appreciate them, not even himself a second time - they were not good enough to be called artworks nor created for the purpose of art. Once he finished a piece, he would set it on the shelf and re-cover it with cloth. The raising and settling of dust, drifting in the faint light coming through the window, occasionally sparkling, but he had never thought to deliberately brush that dust away.

Gradually, Carlisle realized he no longer seemed to need the comfort of the tool shed as much. When he had things on his mind, when he remembered parts of the past, when he had a difficult day, he no longer wanted to hide away in the tool shed. He only wanted to follow Esme's scent and voice, when he was gently touched, when surrounded by her warm fragrance, he knew he had already reached his haven.

But he would still occasionally retreat to the tool shed at the forest's edge, if he was too weary to protect his private thoughts in front of Edward, if his longing for Esme was too intense. He felt ashamed and desperate about hiding this way, but the more he thought about it, the more that wooden door seemed to take on a certain magic calling him to approach.

Time and again, after intense struggle, he would walk to the tool shed, shut the door, and sit in the chair in the corner. The wood chips on the floor, the flaking paint on the walls, the shelves hidden under cloth, the scattered tools in the corners - it was as if they did not exist. Only his blurred vision and the surging desires bursting forth.

Now, looking at the bright yellow small shelf in front of him, Carlisle marvelled that he had never noticed its brightness, out of place amongst the pale greys and deep browns around it.

Perhaps it was because of the opened door that was usually kept closed, Carlisle thought.

The light coming in from the door and the narrow window illuminated the small shelf in the middle of the tool shed. The three-tiered small shelf, with each shelf growing wider from top to bottom. On the left side of the top shelf was an carved white little dove.

He had once wanted to paint that small shelf a pale rose pink.

Right after hunting, there would be a faint, almost unnoticeable pale rose blush on Esme's fingertips and the skin of her neck. Once Carlisle noticed this, he found he could no longer ignore it. Each time after a hunt, he would secretly watch her, awaiting the brief appearance of that lovely light pink. Carlisle searched countless shops but could not find a close match to that shade of pink. He was utterly disappointed all day. Then he thought of Esme's yellow dress, that mischievous splash of yellow that would batter at her knees, like the most brilliant little flower in a spring green field. At human speed, he spent hours covering the entire small shelf in a bright yellow.

While making this small shelf, the lingering image in Carlisle's mind was Esme. He could not help imagining how wondrous Esme's slender arms were, able to easily lift the beams and secure them to the greenhouse roof. He could not help imagining how steady Esme's hands were when holding those nails, just like when she tilted the candles letting the scalding hot wax flow. He could not help imagining that when Esme painted those colours onto the greenhouse's wood panels, her fingertips would be as deft as when she held a brush. He could not help wondering if a touch of creamy green paint had brushed her nose and hair ends. He could not help marvelling at Esme's ability to create a miniature Eden.

As he lifted the shelves, hammered in the nails, brushed on the paint, Carlisle felt himself so close to Esme, as if she was standing right beside him, her hands guiding his, gently twisting to adjust them to the proper angle. Carlisle felt that he could smell the gentle yet strong fragrance filling the narrow space between them.

When carving that white dove, Carlisle treated it as Esme - free, pure, delicate, endearing. As he etched the feathers on the dove's body, what he envisioned was the feeling of touching Esme - her warm fingertips and lips, her soft palms and cheeks. He carved that dove as devoutly as he had those crosses before.

Carlisle envisioned Esme seeing this small shelf, rewarding him with a kiss on the face just like that day in the forest. He gently poked the spot on his face where her lips had been. He had thought her kiss would feel as soft and smooth as flower petals brushing by, but even the most romantic literary fantasy paled in comparison to reality. Even that fleeting brush of her lips allowed him to experience the tenderness of that kiss. His cheeks felt scorched, like a dried-out plant craving dewdrops - he had once hoped her kiss could be extended by just one second.

After that, he began fantasizing about what it would feel like to have her kiss linger on his lips, for her to wrap her arms around his neck. But excessive fantasy inevitably led to pitiful emptiness. When he was panting as he leaned against the tool shed wall realized what his hands were doing between his tights, when the illusion of Esme disappeared and his vision gradually cleared, rationality returning, he disgusted himself for the indulgence, he could not help but carve more crosses.

But once more, he would revisit the memory of that kiss, unable to taint the purity of that fleeting skin contact. His heart would spasm with pain, the sting in his nose making him want to wipe away non-existent tears. Even knowing it was just a friendly kiss on the cheek, that voice in the depths of Carlisle's heart still tormented him restlessly, asking over and over if Esme had ever thought of him as more than a friend, if only once, if only for a few seconds.

That kiss had gently pushed Carlisle back behind the invisible line between them.

"I've been looking everywhere for you. I have something for you," Carlisle, lost in thought, did not notice Esme appear at the tool shed door. The long rectangular object wrapped in paper behind her was not fully obscured by her body.

An unexplainable feeling of frustration overwhelmed Carlisle. He did not know if it was because Esme had innocently ruined the surprise he planned to make, or because that bright yellow shelf did not immediately catch her eye when she entered the tool shed.

But the warm smile behind Esme's warm amber eyes lifted him out of his brief disappointment. He could not help leaning towards her, wanting to be closer, his curiosity and anticipation taking over.

He took the carefully wrapped large rectangle from Esme's hands, already certain it was a painting. The medium-sized painting did not give Carlisle a chance to brush Esme's fingers as he received it.

He tore off the wrapping to reveal an oil portrait of a blonde woman cradled in his hands. Above the deep brown background, there were her high cheekbones, blue eyes, thin upper lip...

"This is?" Carlisle already knew the answer, but he chose to confirm with Esme, afraid his hopeful excitement would dissipate like smoke.

"I painted your mother based on your face," Carlisle's heart fluttered at Esme's response - exactly what he had hoped. Esme clasped her hands behind her back, carefully studying Carlisle's expression. "You once said today is your birthday. I know you resent it, don't wish to celebrate it. But I thought you might want something to remember her by, something you can see with your eyes, touch with your hands." Esme's voice was soft, as if apologizing. Carlisle inwardly chided himself for his definitive attitude when birthdays were mentioned before.

Carlisle had forgotten this was his birthday.

He had never celebrated his own birthday. As far back as he could remember, on his birthday he had to make extra efforts to please his father. No matter how eagerly little Carlisle showed his father the Bible verses he had newly memorized, the Latin grammar he had learned, the neat weeding he had done in the yard, his father would always find reasons to be angry with him or give him a cold shoulder. On those nights he would cry himself to sleep, resenting himself as much as his father did, wishing he had never been born.

On that horrible night, after his human life was taken away, his former human existence was entirely left behind. Year after year, his birthday was sealed away, even he himself forgot about it. Until Esme asked, Carlisle barely recalled it, even doubting the accuracy of his own memory.

"Perhaps there are still some minor differences from your mother's actual appearance. Since I don't know which of her features you inherited," Esme said. Carlisle felt the warmth of her intent gaze still lingering on his face.

Carefully, Carlisle used his fingers to trace the woman's face in the painting, caressing the blue eyes, cheekbones, upper lip and nose tip that matched his own. Carlisle never had a chance to see what his mother looked like, not even a simple charcoal sketch. He only remembered people saying how much he resembled his late mother, but he dared not ask where the similarities lay. As a young child, he would sit before a mirror gazing at his own face, but could never imagine what an adult woman with similar features would look like. The young him resented resembling his mother too closely, thinking if he had his father's dark hair and black eyes, perhaps his father would not have hated him so much.

"I guess this is extremely close. Someone once said I looked like my mother," Carlisle did not know why, despite resenting inheriting so many of his mother's features back then, he had remembered those words from others for so long. In his father's silence, it was all he could learn. Even after three hundred years, like that child, he still clung tightly to those words - one of the few mementoes he had of his mother.

The young Carlisle had fantasized about his mother's presence. When he felt sad, sick or unable to sleep, he would softly call "Mother", and she would come to his side. Though unseen, she would kiss his forehead and tell him everything would be alright. She would cradle him in her arms until his heavy eyelids closed.

That lonely, fragile boy knew his mother's embrace was warm, her lips soft, her voice gentle, but he had never clearly seen her face.

Now, the blurred illusion that had accompanied him for nearly three centuries finally had a face, smiling at him.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but Carlisle felt those blue eyes emanated love and pride behind them.

Carlisle knew he should have felt happy at seeing his mother, but what roiled within him, finally welling up, was a sense of grievance and longing.

He lowered his head, grateful he could no longer shed tears.

"Carlisle?" Esme touched his hands cradling the painting's frame, her voice full of concern.

"Thank you. It means so much to me," Carlisle could hear the roughness in his own voice.

Esme gently squeezed his hands.

"I made something for you too. Compared to your gift, it may not amount to much," Carlisle took a step to the side, fully revealing the small shelf behind him. "I owe you a shelf."

"Carlisle! I was only joking then," Esme's eyes widened, her thick lashes fluttering. She excitedly crouched down to examine it. "Oh, and there's a little dove on top." Esme reached out her index finger to stroke it.

By the time Esme smiled, Carlisle had already forgotten how eagerly he once anticipated receiving a rewarding kiss on the cheek from her. Carlisle watched as she went to touch the small shelf with wonder as if he had granted permission to touch relics. Light streamed in from behind her, illuminating the pale lavender purple sweater she wore, her caramel-coloured hair reflecting shades of reddish-gold-like silk.

Confidence and joy swelled within him, allowing him to puff out his chest as he circled around to stand closer beside her. He resolved to make eliciting Esme's smiles his life's purpose.

"I love it," Esme's hand still rested on the dove's head. Carlisle looked into her eyes, not understanding how they reflected twinkling points of light like star in the daytime. "It couldn't be more perfect. Thank you. Do you mind if I move it into the greenhouse now?"

"Of course not."

Esme smiled, standing and bending to lift the small shelf, arms fully outstretched to hold it against her chest. Yet she did not stumble while cradling the overly long shelf, nimbly hopping over the paint cans on the floor as she walked out the door.

Carlisle carefully set the painting on the chair in the corner and followed Esme out.

Whenever Esme was near him, he unconsciously trailed behind her, going wherever she went - like a moth drawn to a flame, a bee following a flower, a sunflower turning with the sun. He wanted to follow her, to be a little bird flying at her back.

Entering the greenhouse, Carlisle could see the warm moisture inside beading up in a fine, dense layer of droplets on Esme's hair and the bare legs beneath her dress. Esme set the shelf opposite the repaired blue one.

The water vapor continuously rising from the soil swirled tightly in the confined space, carrying the scents of earth and Esme's sweet fragrance. It clung heavily to his nostrils, soaking him from head to toe, swathing him inch by inch like thick satin ribbons. Carlisle felt perhaps here he could reclaim the slumber he had long lost.

The greenhouse Esme had just built still looked rather empty. But glancing around, there were spots of green in various forms. The bulb plants in large round pots on the ground and shelves had already sprouted tender green shoots. The vines on the shelf in front of him thrived lushly. Aside from magic, Carlisle did not know how else to explain how Esme had breathed life into the greenhouse in just a few short days. He brushed his fingers along the leaves of a pothos vine..

"I see you've met Mr. Timothy Pot already," Esme hopped alongside him.

"I’m sorry?"

Esme pointed at the pothos vine.

"It has a name?"

"Yes!" Esme's voice was full of endearing pride.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Timothy Pot," Carlisle pretended to grab the leaves and shook them up and down. "Nice weather today, isn't it?" Carlisle released it. "I don't think it likes me," he couldn't resist teasing Esme.

"Of course not Mr. Pot likes everyone. You're just blocking his light," Esme gently tugged his sleeve, guiding Carlisle to circle around to the other side of the shelf. The pothos leaves glistened a deep green in the sunrays. "He looks much happier now, right?"

Carlisle laughed. She was forever more clever than him.

"Imagine in winter when all these bulb plants bloom. Outside the greenhouse is pure white snow, but inside bursting with flowers of every colour - a vibrant island full of vitality” Esme's voice held a wistful delight.

"Do they all have names?"

"No, I don't know what names suit them until they've fully sprouted," she crouched down and gently stroked a tender shoot.

Carlisle stared unblinkingly at her fingers, watching to see if that sprout grew taller, proving Esme's magic touch.

The little sprout bent slightly, then sprang back up, mocking Carlisle's naivety.

He crouched beside Esme, looked down and lightly pressed the soil at the edge of the pot. Water droplets suddenly rained down, clinging to his skin before playfully sliding off, leaving a few faintly glistening trails.

Then that refreshing downpour paused unexpectedly, and he lifted his head. Esme had placed her hand under the spout. Her hand was completely soaked, sparkling in the light filtering through the greenhouse roof. Then her porcelain fingers parted slightly, no longer trying to block the droplets as more and more streamed between her fingertips and from her palm's edge like a suddenly broken strand of diamond beads pattering down.

Uneasy butterflies fluttered in his stomach as Carlisle anxiously swallowed venom, fingertips tingling as he awaited those droplets formerly cradled in Esme's hands to fall into his own outstretched palm, like a gaping seashell yearning for water.

He did ultimately receive those droplets, carrying her scent, warmth and joy. Carlisle's lips parted slightly.

Esme inverted her palm to completely empty the remaining water, more glittering diamond shards raining into his cupped hands, making his lower abdomen flutter and tighten. Carlisle did not understand why this cooling liquid made his palms smoulder with beguiling warmth.

Esme's hand playfully dropped from the air to clasp his. Droplets squeezed out from between their joined palms, disappearing into the deep brown soil below.

When Esme tried to withdraw her hand, the impulse that had already clouded Carlisle's rationality made him clutch it tightly. He gripped so hard, as if trying to catch a slippery, lively fish. She giggled, her damp fingers squirming in his palm.

This broke and frustrated Carlisle. As if Esme mischievously wanted to escape the hold of his hands – like whose owner innocently teased him, only to run off laughing. She was always by his side, yet forever out of reach, like a gentle breeze passing through his body and fingertips that could not be grasped.

He could only desperately entangle her hand with his fingers in despair.

Her hand finally stilled in his palm, resting softly. Esme looked at him, eyes filled with confusion, an alluring smile still lingered on her lips.

He took out his handkerchief, wrapping it around her hand and gently pressing to absorb the moisture. He cradled her hand, using the cloth to slowly, meticulously wipe each of her fingers, every crease, every fingertip at human speed.

Selfishly, Carlisle only wanted to forever hold her hand in his. He wanted to grasp the wind.

#🥺🥺#this was so good I loved the imagery of hands they always seem to be touching in some way #I adore your writing #carlisle cullen #esme cullen

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