Poco a Poco

They do not know each other as adults, and so they start slowly, with afternoons in coffee shops (long afternoons that stretch into evenings, there is so much to say), and they banter, tease, relearn how to navigate the sometimes familiar and occasionally unknown paths of each others' hearts. She leaves London eventually for her next concert tour, and he drives her to the airport, gives her a fierce hug, hands her her violin case and sneaks a kiss to her forehead.
Robin misses her horribly for the six weeks that she is away, but when she returns something about the distance between them has thrown her off, she feels distant even beside him, and one evening their banter finds a life of itself and turns hateful and hurtful, all of the pain they've felt in missing and wanting and regretting and resenting for as long as they have been apart seeping through.
The next night, he walks towards her dressing room with flowers bunched in one hand (wildflowers, mismatched and colorful), sees her leaning against the wall beside the door with a smirk on her lips, another man next to her, their faces close as they sip at some fragrant and expensive drink.
He backs away, the wildflowers landing in a puddle outside the backstage door. He is common, and she is stunning, and he never has been and never will be enough for her.
And yet, three days later, he finds the courage (he aches with missing her, perhaps he finds the need) to knock on the door to her London flat, and she laughs at his scowl, kisses him soundly right there in her doorway. She saw the flowers, she tells him, knew it was him, and he's an idiot, Jefferson is her best friend from music school and she spent the evening gushing to him about Robin. His eyes widen at her amused smile and the light in her eyes, and then he's dragging her back to his mouth for another kiss, setting her palms against his chest as she kicks the door shut and stumbles back with him. They land on the bed in a heap, Regina giggling and Robin catching her melting brown eyes with shimmering blue, the halves they've always been to each other mended into a whole.