Work Text:
April 24, 1966 3:35 PM
Lucy never thought about running into him again.
Not that she hadn’t thought about him—she had. In the quiet moments between classes, in the laughter of new friends in her new classes, in the way the city lights flickered like stars against the skyline. He existed in echoes—old conversations replaying in her mind, familiar melodies drifting from the music hall as she passed by. But she had never expected to turn a corner and see him, real as ever, just a few steps away.
Schroeder.
He was positioned at a grand piano in the student lounge, his long, lithe fingers drifting over the keys in a melody she recognized but couldn’t quite name, something reminiscent to the songs he’d play back when they were kids. His head was bowed slightly, blond hair falling over his eyes, that same familiar concentration tightening his brow. He hadn’t changed much—maybe a little taller, a little sharper in the shoulders, posture still a little slouched—but still him. Still the same boy who once spoke in music and silence more than words.
For a moment, Lucy debated walking away.
What would she even say? Hey, remember me? Your old childhood headache? That was a lifetime ago, wasn’t it? But her feet carried her forward before she could think twice, and she leaned against the side of the piano, arms crossed.
“You know, for someone who used to act like he was too good for an audience, you’re making quite the public performance.”
Schroeder’s fingers faltered—just for a beat—but then he looked up, blue eyes meeting sharp brown. And when he saw her, really saw her, something softened in his expression. Not surprise, not shock. Just recognition. Like he had been expecting her all along.
“Lucy.” he breathed out.
It wasn’t a question, just her name, a statement. Something in the way he said it made her chest tighten.
She smirked, trying to play it off. “I didn't think you’d be the one to follow me to Columbia.”
Schroeder chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Well, I didn't think you’d be the one to show up at my piano.”
Lucy shrugged, masking her surprise. But the question lingered, unspoken in her eyes, 'Why didn’t you tell me? How many times have we crossed paths without knowing?’ She forced a smirk, shoulders squaring too tight, a bite in her tone. “Guess we have both have a knack for turning up where we’re least expected.”
He didn’t argue, only letting off with a small, knowing smile. A kind of smile that always made her feel like he understood more than he let on.
“Seems that way,” he said, simply.
He shifted on the piano bench, the quiet creak of the wood filling the space between them, an open invitation. He didn’t explain, didn’t offer excuses or reasons. And maybe that was just like Schroeder, the boy who spoke in music; allowing for things to unfold in their own time, like a song waiting for its next note.
This time, among many other times, she didn’t hesitate.