December 30, 2006.
"Esme," the light knock on the wall seemed to break his wife's trance.
"Hi," she turned to greet him with a smile; but made no move to get up from her place in front of a half painted canvas. "Edward alright?"
"He's a lot stronger than we give him credit for," Carlisle said as he made his way across the room. The boy, was it still appropriate to call him a boy? No. The boy he once knew was gone, in mere months he'd transformed into a wonderful man. A dedicated husband and father with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Carlisle grieved that he would only ever know this version of his son for measly seconds.
"Speak for yourself, Dr. Cullen. I've always known he has the will of Sisyphus."
"Once again I'm a fool to doubt you, Esme," Carlisle said as he sat down on the ground next to his wife.
They sat in silence for a few minutes. The small studio was somehow always quiet. He used to revere solitude, spending his free afternoons on the small settee, she placed in the studio just for him, with a book or new medical journal. Lulled by the swish of brush against canvas or eraser shavings brushed off a page relishing in the sparse moments without the always present teenage bickering. Now it was just quiet.
"I love you, you know?" Esme asked as he stared at one of her landscapes on the wall. It was a field behind one of their houses in the late 20's. By the details that looked like they took a hairsplitting effort, he'd guess it was from '25 or '26. Definitely not later than April of '27, those pieces were fraught impressions of things. In fact there were very few things from that era they cared to keep.
"I know, Esme."
"I love this life you've given me." Any other day they would have debated the use of the word 'life' but not this time.
"We don't have to do this, Esme."
"You make me deliriously happy. You're a good man, Carlisle. The best I've known." She squeezed his knee with a small smile.
They were perfect last words but he didn't want last words. He didn't want to be absolved of all his insecurities by one of the few people he believed. He wanted hundreds more arguments about laundry hampers and self control and throw pillows. He wanted days where they didn't say a word to each other, each occupied by their own lives. He wanted lazy afternoons spent tangled in sheets. He needed a thousand more years. But all he got were perfect last words.
"I believe you may be a little biased, Esme." He tried to muster a smile but was unsure if it reached his lips.
"Why are you repeating my name?"
"I'm not, Esme. Alright, I heard it that time...Esme." She grinned at his lovesick foolishness and he was able to return the gesture. The truth was he never said it enough, her name. It was one of his favorite words and he'd lost it over the years. He substituted it for nicknames or terms of endearment. Selfishly assigned her his own name, the thrill of 'Mrs. Cullen' had yet to die but she was so much more. She was Esme and somehow in the dozens of years he forgot.
He needed to say it as many times as he could, the spare breaths he had left would be spent wisely. Before they were married, before they were even romantically entwined, and he was convinced his affection was unrequited, he swore if given the option he'd profess his love like a man with a death sentence. Well… here he was.
He watched as Esme dropped her paintbrushes in the jar of dirty water.
"What is it supposed to be?" He asked, referencing the canvas.
"I have no clue. It's quite ugly isn't it?" She laughed lightly.
Carlisle paused, he knew better than to agree. In truth, while it wasn't his favorite, it was still something she'd made and he could never hate it. "Abstract," he said after a minute.
"You don't think the Louvre will want this one?" She grinned.
He laughed at her joke and she rested her head on his shoulder. It was odd, the gestures were made thousands of times before; but before they were always staring down an endless expanse of time.
"There are a few empty frames in the garage, I couldn't make nearly enough but you'll still have a few," Carlisle whispered. He had made it a point from the first piece Esme made to frame every single one. In recent decades he'd taken up carpentry again, and now his works of art framed her masterpieces. Or at least they would for a few more months.
"I thought you said we weren't doing this."
"We're not. I didn't tell you goodbye. I didn't tell you you've made me see the value in life, that every single second was worth it because I got to know you for a minute. I'm not saying that."
She nodded and looked around the room. Her left hand rested on the ground and he moved his to link their fingers.
"You're going to be alright?" He asked after a few more minutes. She wiped at her eyes with her free hand, an endearing nervous tick that hadn't disappeared when the tears did.
"I've seen the bank statements, I'll be more than content." She tried to laugh.
"Es." He squeezed her hand, she would joke until the end of time if she could but he needed to know.
She took a deep breath before she finally looked at him. "I think I will be. I don't know how but I will. The world still spins, that's what you always say, right?" She smiled weakly. "Plus I'm a tad worried you'd haunt me if I said any different."
"I would indeed, although I can't say I won't visit anyways." He laughed, he got his answer the least he could do was give her a few jokes.
"As long as you don't mess with the paintings."
"I love you, Esme," he whispered as he leaned closer.
"Fascinating," she said against his lips, and her laughter paired with his sigh broke the embrace. He smiled against his effort to be bothered by the joke. Eighty years had gone by with hundreds of thousands of 'I love you's and she still had yet to let him forget his reaction to her first declaration. But it was true, it was fascinating, anyone would love him. Let alone a woman like her.
"I love you too. I always will," she whispered. And it was, some seven hundred thousand hours later, still utterly fascinating.