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It was her favorite game, really. To close the gap between her face and his, watch him struggle to maintain composure. To fill the air with silly compliments that sometimes had his hands wavering on the keyboard.
He was very good at their game too, no question. She wouldn’t have accepted less. She could play this game with lots of boys, but no one stood as firm as Schroeder did in the wake of her. If she was a tidal wave, then he was the most immovable stone.
But when she does get him. Oh, when she manages a quirk of his mouth, or a tinge of pink across his cheeks. A missed note? Incredible.
She comes to understand which moves really get at him. Anything about their married future life, he brushes off easily. It's a fabrication to him, no basis, so he doesn’t have to imagine or interpret. Talking about other boys doesn’t really affect him, either. “Go bother them, then.” He always shrugs, continuing the sonata, or concerto of the afternoon. He’s able to keep up a decent amount of conversation with her while he’s playing, and he’s only gotten better over the years. When she says something especially silly, sometimes she can manage a small smile from him, but always as if he doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction. He always schools his expression back into a flat line as quickly as he can.
Comments on the nature of his appearance sometimes fluster him. Sometimes he’ll get up and walk away when she pushes it too far, as if he can’t even continue practicing. He doesn’t usually ask her to leave, just walks out of the room. He’s an oddity, that’s for sure. But she likes a challenge.
Comments about music often rile him up. She’s not stupid enough to be genuine about her music tastes with him, as he’s pretentious and annoying. So she bothers him right back- mentions her love of banjo, rock music, how fun it would be if he would learn the latest hits.
Secretly, she hopes he never does. She adores walking into his house and hearing the sounds of Liszt, Bach, Mozart. (And of course, of course Beethoven.) Secretly, she knows all the names of the composers he’s told her. She listens intently when he rambles about the structures of symphonies, about the life and times of Ludwig himself, (though she’ll keep to herself that often, he sounds like a jerk.)
Schroeder, who wants nothing more than to be exactly like him, isn’t like how she’s read Beethoven be portrayed. Schroeder tries his hardest to be a recluse, and he will have his emotional outbursts, but at his core, of course, Schroeder is kind to her. Even when he really doesn’t want to be. Lucy doesn’t have a lot of friends like that, maybe excepting Charlie Brown. Schroeder is quietly kind to her in a way his hero would never be, and she’s very glad for that.
She’s also very glad that he still likes her, despite everything. He would never admit to it, of course, but she can tell.
Armed with all her knowledge of what makes her beloved tick, it’s a rainy day in September when she turns to him from her perch on his piano, whilst he’s in the middle of an easy-for-him section of the piece he’s playing. It wouldn’t be any fun if it were one of the more difficult sections when she tripped him up. It has to be a part of the song he’s absolutely sure of himself in, because it’s all the more embarrassing for him when she’s able to fluster him entirely and make him lose track of where he is in the piece.
She starts easy. Something he can brush off as her prattling on.
“At our wedding, I think I’ll wear a big flouncy dress. One of the biggest ones they have.”
“Hm.” He grumbles, but doesn’t object.
“It might be an autumn wedding, but I’d be worried about the floral arrangements. A wife has to keep track of these things, you know.” Both of them know the roles she talks about are decently malleable with the two of them, and Schroeder’s always been dignified enough to have a say in choice of decor. It’s one of many things she likes about him. So she just says these things to say them.
Then, when she’s sure he’s listening, she hits him with it:
“You’d look nice in a suit, Schroeder.”
A wrong note is played. She glances at his face- fiery red. She adores this game.
“Can you get out of here? I’m trying to practice,” He grits his teeth.
“Do you want that, really?” She coos.
He’s silent, fuming. She knows the misplayed notes really get to him. She knows he’s furious that she was able to goad a reaction from him.
“You would. Look nice, I mean. I’d love to see you all dressed up for a big show you’re playing in the city, and I’d come watch you perform, and I’d be wearing a beautiful dress, and you’d say ‘Oh, Lucy! I’m so glad you came to see my concert!’ and I’d say, ‘Of course, darling! I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’”
“I wouldn’t care if you came,” Schroeder says. That one stings a bit, but it’s all part of their routine.
He does glance at her after he’s said it, and she’s gone quiet.
“I mean I wouldn’t want you to take time out of your day for it,” He mutters, and looks back down at the keys.
For some reason, today he’s engaging with her hypotheticals, if only marginally, and she feels a bit off kilter.
“Well, I wouldn’t be staying home all day, that’s for sure. But I could take the night off and take you out for dinner after,” Lucy says, trying to get back to her earlier rhythm.
The barest hint of a smile plays on Schroeder’s mouth. She’d give anything to see it bloom.
He seems to be done talking for the moment, and she listens to the song swell and come to the coda.
Sometimes, she’s sitting in this room with all the hope in the world for what might be next for them, and it’s all so much that she can’t take it anymore. She feels these are precious moments she’s likely to lose, and feels that someday she will look back on this with such longing.
For now, as she lounges against his piano, she tries to keep these big feelings with her. She tries not to let it show on her face.