title; the notes sing with you're gone
summary; lucy gets a boyfriend. schroeder finds himself artistically blocked. [1/3]
pairing; lucy/schroeder
words; 347

A teenage Schroeder slammed his palms against the polished keys of the piano. The load mashing of notes was the perfect reflection of his mood – tuneless, and angry. He had been at this for hours, sitting at his grand piano, chasing symphonies and sonatas that never seemed to want to be caught. The pianist rubbed at his temples with a frown. He tried, vainly, to soothe the irritation from the absence of a certain girl that ground at his senses before flipping his sheet music and -

a song for Lucy.

Schroeder paused to scowl at the title scrawled across the top of the paper. It had been purely coincidence, he had decided, a week prior when he found himself scribbling out notes. It had nothing to do with the fact that she had passed up another rendezvous (her words, not his) with Steven Kaspers in favor of another afternoon with Schroeder at his piano. It, also, had nothing to do with the million-and-a-half times she declared herself his wife since they met or the thousand-and-one times he had silently agreed with the sentiment.

Schroeder swallowed, the apple of his throat bobbing gently.

The song, a scribble of harsh melodies and warm rhythms, meant little. "Honestly," the blonde murmured to himself. He pressed out a few keys, and, I just want to see you, the notes sung. His fingers danced easily, hitting notes with the right pressure and timing. It was nothing like his previous attempts at music that day without Lu -—

Schroeder paused at the thought.

He rubbed his palms against his shirt, frowning.

He wouldn't playing Beethoven, Mozart, or anyone.

At least -—

"Good grief," the blonde groaned. He pushed the ball of his hands to his eyes, feeling silly, hurt, and sick. ". . . my muse, of all people."

-— until Lucy broke up with Steven.

For good.

a/n;

look another story! Um, critique is always welcomed especially now when i'm in some sort of slump. nothing looks good right now.

peanuts (c) charles schulz