Improvisational music was not Schroeder's style. He liked order. He liked having something to follow. Direction was comforting. Even when he wrote his own music, he mapped it out in his head and penned the notes before laying a finger on the keys of his piano.

But every once in a while – once in a blue, crabby moon – he just let his muse wander and make whatever music felt right. It wasn't a freedom he allowed himself often, because he had no way to record what he did (and thus recreate it later), but sometimes he just got so swept away .

He was alone in his room. It was the beginning of a Sunday evening. The last dregs of sunlight crept through his window, and gave everything a hazy, dreamy look.

His weekend had been uneventful; the gang's baseball game got rained out on Saturday, and Lucy's family had left Friday evening to visit her grandmother, so she wasn't there to occupy his time.

She wasn't there physically, anyway.

Schroeder assumed that, since he and Lucy were going steady now, his days of pining after her and writhing in jealousy were over, but he was only right about one of those things. He wasn't jealous anymore, because there was nobody to be jealous of, but he was starting to worry if he would ever overcome the obsession.

Another freedom he seldom allowed himself was daydreaming about her, but he fought back against it less and less lately. It was much easier to just let it happen now; it helped that it wasn't bittersweet anymore. It was just sweet.

He was spending his solitude playing some Liszt when he felt it happening. He liked being alone; he needed it sometimes. But it often caused his mind to wander.

Un Sospiro faded into the notes of Love Dream when he had the thought, I miss Lucy.

She was coming back to town today, and he would see her tomorrow morning before school. It wouldn't be long now.

She'd probably show up to his house early and wake him up before his alarm, impatient for his attention after not seeing him for three entire days. The thought made him smile. It was also very possible that she would let him sleep until he was scheduled to awaken, because she thought he looked too cute to disturb. This also made him smile.

As he smiled, his fingers trailed off, and it took him a moment to correct himself. Normally, he'd be annoyed at making a mistake, but it didn't seem like such a big deal right now.

What would Lucy do when she next saw him? Would she wrap him into a hug and squeeze him until he couldn't breathe? Would she say something clever? Would she kiss him before he even had a chance to say hello?

He repeated a measure a couple times while thinking about her face. The subtle nuances of her expression. The way her eyes never darted around, how they always stayed transfixed on wherever she was focused. It was easy for him to distract her, but hard to break her focus once she was thoroughly distracted.

Eyes are the windows to the soul, but Schroeder found that the easiest way to tell Lucy's mood was to look at her mouth. He knew the difference between her bored frown and her angry frown, he knew how stressed she was by how much she bit her lower lip, and he knew every type of smile she had in her arsenal. When she smiled in a certain way, just so , he knew he was the reason why. He wanted to always be that reason.

By now, he wasn't playing Liszt anymore. He wasn't sure what he was playing. It was mindless, but it sounded dulcet and lovely.

Schroeder shut his eyes and thought about tucking a lock of hair behind Lucy's ear. He thought about absentmindedly and adoringly kissing her temple. He thought about her taking his arm and saying in a smitten voice, "Oh, Schroeder…"

There were the butterflies.

Let them come. He had no reason to shut them out anymore.

Swirls of azure and gold blazed like a flame behind his eyelids, the vision created by the music. Its glow was warm and inviting and unpredictable.

In his mind's eye, they were waltzing, slowly and deliberately, like they were dancing underwater. Their faces were close, and he's staring at the string of pearls around her neck, because making prolonged eye contact with Lucy is like getting in a staring contest with the sun. He can only do it in small doses, and right now, they're too close .

She steps towards him, and they're even closer now. He can feel her heartbeat, and she can feel his. She leans forward, and daydream-Schroeder does the same thing, and their lips connect in a kiss. He brings her hand to his chest so she has a direct line to his pulse.

The sweet music crescendos, and he thinks about how much he loves her. They're still dancing (just swaying back and forth, really), and she wraps her arms around him, and the kiss has ended but her head is resting on his shoulder now, and his eyes are shut tight in both the reality and the daydream, trying to minimize any visual interference that might distract from the tenderness blossoming in his chest.

Schroeder imagines what it feels like to feel the rise and fall of Lucy's breathing as he held her, and a light, gentle trill of higher notes comes from the keys.

She was always working at full force. An image of her yelling at one of their classmates flashes in his head, and this makes him smile, too. She was so headstrong. So sure of what she wanted. Her will was as strong as her right hook.

And out of everyone she could love, out of everybody she could choose from, Schroeder was the one she became soft for. He even loved arguing with her, because there was always the intimate undercurrent of familiarity. She couldn't argue with anyone else the way she did with him, and vice versa, and he loved having that privilege.

The next few measures he played repeated themselves a few times as he rewound and replayed the waltzing scenario in his mind. He felt like he could walk on air. Tomorrow morning, he could put on some records, ask her to dance, and make his daydream a reality. She would love it. The thought made him giddy.

He was thinking about the admirable construction of her hands when he nearly jumped out of his seat. The very voice he had imagined saying sweet nothings to him mere moments ago was now directly behind him. "Honey, I'm home!"

Schroeder twisted around so he could see his bedroom door, and sure enough, Lucy was there, leaning against the frame. There was no telling how long she'd been there; his door normally stayed open, so she would have been able to listen in without alerting him. She shot him a smile – yes, that smile – and waved.

His grin had only been interrupted for a moment (being startled will do that), but it had returned as quickly as it went. "Lucy!"

There were bags under her eyes from riding in her mother's car all day, and her short hair was pulled back into a small ponytail. She didn't normally pull her hair back. It looked cute.

Oh, he had missed her. He hadn't realized how much he had missed her until twenty minutes ago, and now she was here.

Schroeder immediately stood up, went to her, and pulled her into a hug.

Lucy squeezed him. "It's good to see you t–"

He got the jump on her. This time, it was him who took her face in his hands and kissed her before she could react. She gasped through her nose, but quickly caught on, and melted into him.

Daydreaming was nice, but the real thing was even better.

When they were through, she stared at him, her face red and her mouth hanging open in awe. "Hello."

He kissed the corner of her lips. "I was just thinking about you."

"You were?" She blinked, almost hesitantly. "Really?"

"Yeah." Something flipped in Schroeder's chest. "Imagine my surprise when you showed up."

"We got home half an hour ago. I didn't want to wait until tomorrow to see you, and I knew you'd be here playing that stupid piano." The last term was said endearingly.

"I guess you read my mind, then."

Lucy glanced behind him at the aforementioned instrument. "What was that you were playing, anyway? I don't think I've ever heard it before. It was really beautiful."

"Nothing in particular. I guess I was just channeling my feelings."

One of her dark eyebrows perked up. "So is that what it sounds like in your head when you think about me?"

He tilted her chin slightly up with two of his fingers and began to bring their lips together again. "It doesn't even compare."

They spent another few blissful moments like that. He could have kissed her all evening and never grown tired of it, and he suspected she felt the same way.

They separated again, and spent a moment catching their breath, the bridges of their noses resting against each other as they shared the same set of lungs. Schroeder got the urge to quote Wuthering Heights to her, the passage about Heathcliff and Cathy being the same life, the same soul, but decided not to. Lucy hated Wuthering Heights.

Lucy breathed, "Schroeder,"

He echoed, "Lucy,"

She smirked. "You're a romantic ."

"No, I'm not." He beamed, because he knew he kind of was.

"Oh, yes you are. You're such a romantic. You're the biggest sap I've ever met."

"I am not. You've just infected me."

"Oh, is that it?"

"Yes. I caught whatever plague you've had since we first met." He kissed her nose. "You're contagious."

Lucy's sapphire eyes looked at Schroeder like he hung the moon and stars. The sight pleased him. He hoped that he looked the same way to her; he wanted her to feel as loved as he did.

She replied, "Well, don't think I'm cruel if I'm not interested in finding the cure."

"Don't worry. I don't want to get better."