Chapter Text
The boy was kicking and shrieking with laughter, spinning through the air.
“Higher, Daddy!” he yelled. “Like a bird!”
And the man only laughed, throwing him higher, catching the small chest in assured hands. The shriek-giggle came even more forcefully—it was obvious that on the upswing, the boy was well and truly scared for the split second he was weightless, before gravity sent him hurtling back to the steadfast grip.
Then strong hands found their way into small armpits, and then they were both spinning, the boy screaming and laughing, the man’s laughter deeper, becoming a whirl of gold and copper against the sky.
“Carlisle, he’s going to be sick if you keep that up,” called a voice, and they both turned to see a caramel-haired woman, leaning in the doorway to the backyard, her arms across her chest and a gently disapproving smirk on her face.
“Oh he’s fine,” came the answer as the spinning slowed and the boy’s feet met the ground again. “Are you fine, Spaghetti?”
“I’m fine!” The small arms reached upward, the bottle green eyes alight. “Again, Daddy. Do it again!”
And the strong arms came beneath the smaller body once more. As the man tossed his child, twisting, giggling, into the cool night air, Edward stared across the quiet living room at his father, who was, he knew, only pretending to be reading. His fingers slowed on the keys just enough that it caused Carlisle’s train of thought to break. The figures disappeared, the backyard and the summer air resolving into the living room and the piano, and for a moment the thoughts were jumbled and confused. Then Carlisle remembered what had been in his mind seconds before as he’d absently listened to Edward playing, and he hung his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I don’t know why…it doesn’t do to dwell on things I can’t have. ”
“No,” Edward replied, “I like for you to dwell on them, please.”
He turned his own attention back to the piano, where it was his fingers, rather than his mind, which imagined him into the scene. A fast right-hand glissando upward—a body flying through the air—then a twisting arpeggio downward—squirming, giggling, as it fell. And the accompanying rolling chords found their way from his left hand, like the assured, strong hands of the father, providing a solid base but always finishing the chord one note high, as though the music itself was waiting, hoping for a resolution that was never quite going to come.