Disclaimer: I do not own August Rush, it is property of the studio and the writers, and no copyright infringement is intended. Any recognizable dialogue comes either from the movie or one of the deleted scenes. Kapeesh? Kapeesh.

Summary: Louis and Lyla have been apart for eleven years, and it's wearing on both of them. After his latest break-up and some prompting from his brother, Louis sets out to rediscover his music, and instead realizes that he never really gave up on Lyla. What will Lyla have to say about this? Can she admit that she's never moved on either? (Begins during the deleted break-up scene between Louis and Jennifer, and goes in its own direction from there on out)

A/N: After seeing the movie and falling in love with this pairing, I had to do something about the wonderful but unresolved ending the writers left us with. A little counting revealed that the whole timeline of the movie was pretty screwed up, so I took my own liberties and decided to change some things. I hope you enjoy anyway. :) This story will probably only be three or four parts if all goes according to plan, so don't mind the long chapters.

Chapter One

"The things I left behind have melted in my mind--"

Louis walked toward the stairs at a clipped pace, not quite able to make himself run after her. The thought was like a physical blow, and he wondered painfully why it was that the tears of the woman who had shared twenty-six hours of his time in the past month couldn't convince him to run after her when a single smile had once made him run through New York City like a loon, chasing a woman he'd only had a precious eight hours with. He'd given up on his dreams an eternity ago, but they still clung to him viciously.

Lyla was gone, if she'd ever been beside him to begin with. He had been twenty, she was nineteen if a day, and the occasional out-of-character fling was really to be expected at that age. It was done now, over before it had a chance to begin. He knew all this, he did.

But still she wouldn't let him be, still kept him from chasing after sensible, present girls like Jennifer. The chords of that god-awful song he'd played until it was deadened of meaning still speared him when he heard them. He'd suspected she was special, different, but hadn't known she would break him apart piece by piece, stealing away in the early morning hours with the most important part of him. There wasn't any way it could be helped, now.

Yet he knew when his ma called tomorrow or a week from now and wanted to know if he had anyone special, he would feel like a right piece of shyte for not going after this perfect, beautiful girl who cared for him; because maybe this situation was one that he could salvage. He hadn't loved Lyla upon first sight, he'd had to learn then, too. The process had just been sped up times about a hundred then.

He came through the outdoor entrance to the basement and stepped outside. It was freezing, and he was grateful he'd parked right in front of the bar. He spotted her right in front of him and stopped. Coming face to face with Jennifer, something in his gut twisted. He was not supposed to be apologizing when he'd told her this was a bad idea and hadn't even really done anything to hurt her. He shouldn't be feeling guilty for being here with her. He'd not been the one to break that non-verbal promise so long ago and move on with his life.

Still, the words were hollow as he spoke them. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry. Just… set me off, ya know?"

Her eyes glittered with wetness, and he found himself thinking it was absurd to look that pretty while crying. That was Jennifer, though; always pretty, always cheerful, and always approachable. Until now, at least.

Her words were laced with venom, but more frustrated than cruel. "I know nothing about you. Do I?" Her rant picked up momentum and he listened helplessly, knowing all the reasoning in the world wouldn't convince him that he didn't deserve this. "I mean, I am here now. I'm real."

"But Jen – I'm not!" Thankfully, the verbal diarrhea he'd once been so proficient at stopped there. The damage was done regardless. His earlier suffocation returned at full force, and he cursed the fact that in these spare moments of truth, with air and tears stinging his eyes, Jen and the imminent end of their relationship was the farthest thing from his mind. It was Lyla's face, Lyla's eyes, Lyla's hands that assaulted his senses. What kind of touched fellow felt only relief that his current relationship was falling apart right in front of him, but mourned for a tryst that had dissolved a decade ago?

A sweet smile touched Jen's lips. Jesus, her face, her hair, her personality was the very standard for sweetness – yet it wasn't ever her he thought about when that word or a million other good ones came to mind. It wasn't her fault. It was just the bitter truth he'd tried for so long to ignore.

"I think that may be the first honest thing you've ever said to me," she told him.

His heart ached for honesty, ached for the girl-woman who'd brought it out in him so quickly and severely a lifetime ago. Jen took the keys from his limp fingers, then walked around the car. Drowning, unable to breath, yet still breathing too hard and too fast – the familiar resignation settled in, as once again it ended in this. There had been a handful of Jen's; she might not even be the last. But he would always associate her with Marshall now, and those lonely nights singing with the band for a girl who didn't even care to listen.

She stopped, her lips forming one last goodbye, or parting shot as it were. "That song was really beautiful. Whoever she was, she was lucky to have a poet in love with her."

The splintered organ he'd disregarded for so long bled. Jen got into the car and started it, pulling out of the parking space as carefully as he'd backed into it. Louis dropped to the sidewalk, one hand coming up to support his head.

"Too bad she didn't agree with ya," he muttered, vaguely disgusted with himself.

That, he thought, ignoring the aggressive wind and settling into a mire of self-pity, was really all that there was to say about it.

-0-0-0-

Some unknown amount of time passed before Louis recognized his brother's presence, demanding attention the same as it always did. When they were in the band together, that had always won over the girls before the goddamn 'lead singer' had a chance to so much as open his mouth.

Except for Lyla. If he remembered correctly, his dream girl wasn't any more taken with Marshall than Louis's brother had been with her.

He didn't look up at first, because hew knew Marshall would impart his "wisdom" when he was ready and not a minute before. Rushing him would only lead to a bruised cheek or an even more swollen lip. Thankfully, he didn't have to wait more than a minute anyway. "You know it was good having the old Louis back in there… even if it was only for a second."

Like so many other things tonight, the words were salt on an oft-neglected wound. How could the girl who had made him uncharacteristically bold, insane, even, now be the one to bring back the brother Marshall missed?

Maybe because he sensed this, or maybe because he was just an ass, Marshall continued with a chuckle rumbling in his throat. "Louie, aren't ya supposed to be in the car with the girl when she rides off into the sunset?" In the silence after this statement, a teary laugh shook Louis's body. He kept his head in his hands, knowing hell didn't begin to cover what he would get if Marshall noticed the tear tracks on his face. His brother couldn't begin understand that the only sunset and the only girl who had ever really mattered were both long gone by now.

With one last cursory glance, Marshall made his final statement, "Get your suit dirty sitting there, man," and then walked off.

Someone, maybe Nick, had kept the song playing on a loop, and it filtered out to him now.

"-- I've been sitting watching life pass from the sidelines, been waiting for a dream to seep in through my blinds--"

He refused to close his eyes this time, to turn to his brother and beg for a punch or a shove to momentarily distract him, and for the first time in years he made himself listen to the song that had symbolized his last hopes of finding Lyla. At twenty with no funds and a smattering of college credits to his name, his music had seemed like the only way to reach her. He choked on a laugh, recognizing now that as wise as he'd been to know then that he wouldn't ever forget her, he'd been a typically stupid lad when it came to finding her and doing something about that realization.

"—And the stars all shine--"

He'd been far from expert, and still wasn't, really, but he'd known enough to know that that night had been her first time. He had never been able to wrap his head around that – she'd let him take something so special, had smiled and let him reach for her hands the next morning – and then just ignored him. No, he recalled as he looked back, she hadn't ignored him that morning. The sad, hopeless look on her face before she got into the car had been the only thing he could see for months after. Something about that whole morning had never set well with him.

"—Under the front porch light, on this June night--"

A frustrated groan tore from his mouth. What did it mater now? She could be married with tons of kids, or could have sworn off of men altogether after one night with him followed by Marshall's idiotic wakeup call.

"'When I was a young fellow, I used to talk to the moon…' '…Does it ever talk back?'"

No. Lyla would always be his one regret, and like the dreamer he'd so often been accused of being, he would probably carry the image of her slender form and melancholy green eyes with him to the grave.

"—I started a symphony, surrounding me--"

It was possible though, wasn't it, that she'd locked that night away in her heart the same way he had? They were still young by most standards, it wasn't unbelievable that she'd be single still. Maybe if he just checked, so he knew one way or the other, he'd be able to move on. No more emotionally fraught dreams that woke him feeling flushed and aroused, no more song lyrics he refused to put to paper knocking around in his head –

"You're crazy, man," he told himself, smirking humorlessly. What, would he show up on her door in one of his ridiculous business suits with offers of an empty, financially stable life and a bouquet of generic flowers in hand? Or worse, would he drag out his old vagabond clothes, hunt her down on the street, and then demand to know why she'd reduced something that meant so much to him to a one-night stand? Right.

And yet, even as he got up and hailed a cab, he found himself wondering if it was such a terrible idea after all.

-0-0-0-

"Mrs. Novocain?" Lyla started at the childish voice, smothering a grin at the mangling of her last name. It was the fourth period of the day: the second graders. They were still too young to make stupid word-plays for the purpose of being mean, so she knew that Leon had genuinely confused her name. When the address was matched with his sober but excited face, the mistake was endearing.

"Leon, I told you that you can call me Lyla," she gently reminded him. Leon was a serious seven-year-old with skin the color of mocha and the most piercing light brown eyes she had ever seen. He loved music and was constantly clapping out beats on his desk. When she had all of her students get up on the first day and handed out drumsticks, he had let out a glass-shattering crow of ecstasy. Now he dawdled after class every day, asking her questions about eighth notes and accidentals.

Because his eyes were brown and he was uncharacteristically small for his age, it was easy for her to look at him without thinking of the baby she had lost. Sometimes, with the blue-eyed, brown-haired middle school boys, it was harder.

"Lyla," he said, squirming in impatience, "when do we get to listen to rock music?"

She was slightly taken aback by this, because for the most part all Leon had wanted to do in her class was learn about Garth Brooks – she had decided it was better not to ask what the draw to that particular artist was when Leon asked if he could smash a guitar for extra credit.

The small redhead that sat in the row behind him snorted. "You can't call a teacher by their first name, no matter what they say! And don't be stupid. You know Ms. Novacek," she emphasized the name with a tone of superiority, "is only a substitute for Mrs. Wilcox. She's not permanent."

Lyla smiled against the grimace turning down her lips. Ruby had probably been born correcting people, and it didn't help that Leon made a habit of yanking her hair every time he was presented with the opportunity. The statement was not intended to be hurtful. Still, a sad kind of truth existed in those careless words. Lyla had stopped believing in working toward permanence around the same time she dropped out of Julliard and stopped returning her father's phone calls.

"I hope Mrs. Wilcox stays home with her stupid baby," Leon groused. "I'm sick of hearing about FACEs and good boys and watching videos about dead men. But if Mrs. Wilcox quit, you could stay with us forever. Right, Lyla?"

A lump formed in her throat. She opened her mouth, prepared to quietly tell him that forever was just a very convincing fairy tale, but snapped it shut just in time. Horrified with herself, she did her best to smile convincingly. "Well, Ruby's right. I am a substitute. But – but, we have another two weeks until Mrs. Wilcox comes back, and I don't see why we can't listen to some rock music during that time." Her grin now genuine, she scanned her brain for any modern, catchy rock songs that she could in good conscience play to a group of seven- and eight-year-olds.

Leon deflated, and before she could stop herself she reached out to ruffle his mass of mini dreadlocks. He simply turned mournful eyes on her. A pale, bony arm extended in the far side of her vision, and she replied without turning around. "Yes, Sarah?" Sarah had been told with the rest of the class that she only had to raise her hand during theory exercises or when more than one person had something to say. It was a system Lyla had found superior, since most kids already followed those rules, but Sarah was a tough cookie and was already crying when she received "A's" instead of "A 's."

"Can we listen to the Mad Connelly Brothers? My dad says that they're his favorite band, but they don't have any CD's."

Lyla's hand dropped from Leon abruptly, and she clenched it into a fist for a long moment, doing her best to rid her mind of the sudden attack of memories that name conjured, the miserable outweighing the joyful in quantity.

She had discovered Louis's identity through a series of conversations with Liz, who had had a fling with his older brother Marshall six weeks before Louis and Lyla met. By the time she had connected the dots and had a last name, she'd already lost the baby and finding him seemed pointless. Liz told her Louis had quit the band and returned to San Francisco to get a degree in business. The news had made her sad for reasons she could no more justify than she could voice.

As always, even the mention of him was enough to paralyze her with questions of what if and make her heart beat at three times its normal speed. Through the panic a bitter-sweet smile escaped. Louis himself had done nothing but be kind to her, a fact that made her cry on lonely nights but gave her a strange amount of control in this situation. She did her best to fight her way out of the all-consuming memories, taking another deep breath and making her tone cheerful. "That'll be hard to do if they don't have any CD's out, won't it?"

"But my dad knows one of the band members," Sarah supplied, jumping up and down as an idea took shape in her mind. Lyla imagined wheels turning at the speed of light hidden under that flaxen head of hair. "Maybe he could call him and they could come to our school and play for us!" A chorus of "yeah"'s and "please"'s followed, and Lyla tried to suppress her renewed distraction long enough to give a noncommittal answer. How could someone who knew Louis be here, in the city? Had Sarah's father mentioned the talented cellist masquerading as a music teacher to a friend of Louis's? Did he already know where she was? He couldn't know about the baby, could he? The room spun frantically.

Over the years, other strange things like this had happened – a friend who knew someone else that had dated a band member, a producer who appreciated classical music mentioning that she'd once tried to convince the group to do a demo. The train tracks of their separate lives had almost crossed a thousand times, always impeded by a delayed flight or a few day's difference. She had come to accept it as a fact of their lives, deciding either the music world was less segregated than she believed it to be or that fate enjoyed playing cruel jokes on her, reminding her of what she'd lost. She wondered if fate played jokes on Louis.

The bell rang, and Liz appeared outside the classroom door, pointing to her watch and mouthing 'dress fitting.' Lyla heaved a sigh of relief and shooed her students out the door.

-0-0-0-

She blanched as soon as she saw the dress. Pale pink silk, strapless and flaring slightly at the waist, it was not the dress hiding in the back of her closet, but still a viciously accurate estimation. No. No no no no no no NO! She cursed the chronic absentmindedness that had made her eager to give Liz complete control over bridesmaid's dresses, her own hands too full with floral arrangements and the bachelorette party for her to feel anything but relief.

A migraine started behind her eyes. Why would she be hit over the head by all these reminders today? She usually had several months or, if she was lucky, a few years to recover between mentions of Louis. She'd been able to train herself not to think of him anymore than necessary. Now his voice overpowered her best friend's, echoing in her head so surely she almost turned her head to take in the familiar marble arch.

"'Where've you been, dressed like that? I know you wouldn't wear that dress to a party like this one.' 'Actually, my friend and I played in a concert tonight… I play cello…' 'You're a musician? …So you understand.' 'Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.'"

Lyla blinked back tears. "Not this dress, Lizzie." Her voice was hoarse and dull and not hers at all.

Liz crossed her arms and huffed, her usually cool temperament faltering under the pressure of last-minute seating arrangements and pricey caterers. "I can't afford to rush a completely different set of dresses in at the last minute, Lyla, so unless you feel compelled to tell me what crime of nature this dress has committed, you're going to have to deal."

She shook her head. She would get through this, for Liz and for her own piece of mind. Backing out over a silly dress wasn't an option. Liz gave her a shrewd half-grin, knowing by now that the threat of a heart-to-heart could push Lyla into doing just about anything. Lyla also saw the crushed hope there, however small.

She wordlessly grabbed the dress, wondering why she hadn't made time for this before. What if she looked hideous? What if the bodice cut off her airways? With jerky movements she pulled off her sweater, sneakers, and jeans. A cursory glance at the neckline of the dress told her that a bra was unneeded and more likely than not unrealistic, so she deftly unhooked hers before easing the dress out of the see-through garment bag and over her hips. She paused for a moment, taking in the way the fluorescent lighting of the dressing room emphasized her barely-there stretch marks. The physical evidence of her pregnancy so soon after hearing about Louis was more than she could handle.

"Lizzie, can you zip me up?" she called, holding the material to her chest with one hand and opening the door with the other. Her best friend rushed in in a flash red hair and incoherent wedding talk. Lyla ignored her until she felt the zipper glide up her back without obstruction.

"I knew the fit would be perfect. They looked at me oddly when I ordered a size zero, but it fits you like a second skin… a tasteful second skin, anyway. You are absolutely gorgeous in this color, Lyla."

"'You're beautiful.' 'It's the dress, I'm uh, usually really--' 'You are beautiful.'"

Tears filled her eyes. Her arms crossed over her stomach, a gesture of vulnerability she'd used to ward off the emptiness her body felt after… after. Just after. Liz's voice became quiet, hesitant but filled with consideration. "Lyla, have you ever thought of maybe adopting?"

Lyla wrinkled her brow in genuine confusion. "Adoption is generally for infertile married couples. I'm a thirty-year-old single woman."

"So? It's the twenty-first century, and plenty of kids spend their childhoods rotting in a group home while they wait for a cookie-cutter family to take them in. I just see you with those kids at the school, and you have so much to give. Losing the baby just made you afraid to show it. If you would just--"

"So you want me to what, replace him? Act like he and his father meant nothing to me?" Lyla's anger boiled over, forcing Liz into a shocked silence. Then Liz embraced her tightly, brushing away the tears dampening her cheeks.

"Oh, honey, no. You could never replace either of them. But you can learn to love again. I know you say this has nothing to do with your father, but if you could just talk to someone about it, maybe--"

Lyla pushed her away, tears still shining on her cheeks. "Please don't," she whispered. "I know you think I'm stupid for pining away after this man I don't even know, but that one night… every other man who has ever claimed to care has either worshipped me for my musical skill or wanted to lock me away in a glass cabinet. It's not just my dad, you know? Most guys don't appreciate someone who's grabbing headlines but not income and is away more than they're home. But that night, with Louis, he just accepted me. What I had to give was enough."

"Oh, Lyla," Liz whispered, and her brown eyes filled with compassion. Lyla looked away, unable to see it.

"I don't know, maybe some people can move on and find that again, but I could have had it and I threw it away. I had my chance, all right? I lost it, and I don't want to take anymore. My standards are too high, and I'd just be setting myself up for disappointment. I know it seems weak and self-pitying, but I don't want to move on." Her shoulders shook as she hugged her waist more firmly. "I can't. So please, just let me be? I chose this life."

After a long pause, Liz nodded sadly. They left the store and didn't say anything else until they got back to the apartment.

-0-0-0-