lost tapes.

two // AU - 'what-if's & roundabouts'.

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Neither of them was supposed to be here.

Julian was meant to be at rehearsal out of state, making music under the mocking glare of the unrelenting sunshine. But when he'd woken this morning, he'd found that he just couldn't stomach the fact of it all and so instead, he'd decided to play hooky.

He'd show up tomorrow and everything would be fine — or, as fine as things could be, these days — but for now, today, he was here.

Nora was meant to be in Miami. But before she'd even managed to make it out of her hotel this morning, a last minute meeting had cropped up on the Lower East Side. It was with an artist who, it seemed, liked no one except for maybe her, and so with thanks to them, here she was — on the comedown from four cups of tea and a tense hostage negotiation (the hostage being a triptych painted on a series of doors).

She was staring into the middle distance out the window of a cafe that hadn't been here the last time she was, and not expecting anything to rise up to greet her except for the predictable array of grey that was the city in the rain. But, New York City was not predictable, and neither is anything. And especially not late on a simmering Tuesday morning, wet and laden with half-disguises shaped like umbrellas.

He walks right by at first, and Nora doesn't notice him so much as she senses the echo of him passing though her life like a familiar ripple. But then he slows and takes a half-step backwards, and like an instinct, she recognises the shape of him — broad shoulders, leather, hair a mess, loping stride, indignant about being damp. But even still and despite everything, she doesn't trust herself — not after the passing of the better part of a year — and so rather than accepting the impossible, she writes him off as a ghost, instead.

Only, Julian is not a ghost.

He glances at her on his way past, her face half hidden by the reflections cast across it — dripping leaves and far-off buildings waving in the squall — and at first, he thinks the same thing Nora had done. But then he thinks, 'No,' because her hair is all wrong.

In all of his wishful memories, still clear as day, Nora is just like she was when last he saw her — hair wavy and long, face bare, eyes full, and lips trying for a smile goodbye. But this version of Nora is different, even at just the glance of her. Because here, now, her hair is skimming her chin, short and cropped and messy and different. And so, 'No,' he thinks again — she must be real.

Julian walks backwards slowly and then comes to a stop in a puddle right outside of the window and waits for this new version of her that he's never seen before to finally look up. And when she does, Nora blinks hard once and swallows around her empty throat, then blinks again.

He's real.

And so is she, and this, and everything.

Nora stands with a start, and Julian can hear the scrape of her chair against the hardwood even from his spot outside, even through the pelt of the rain. And for a second, he wonders if she might just turn and run. But then she tilts her head and he can see her there, thinking, and so he smiles, and she smiles back, and that's it.

Nora tosses a few bills down onto the table top and floats wonderingly to the door, and then, just like that, she's standing in the rain alongside him and staring at him, still.

'Hey,' Julian breathes, because he's relieved but still not entirely sure that this is actual. If he's too much or too loud he might wake up, he thinks — no sudden movements, be gentle with her.

'Hi,' Nora might've looked a little different, but she sounds the same. 'How are you?'

'Yeah, yeah,' Julian hadn't thought about words or needing them yet, and so he hasn't figured out a way to say — 'Shit, but better now because you're still real.' So instead he says, 'Fine. You?' And, 'I like the hair, it suits you.'