A/N - I know, Jazz. I wish love was easy, too. And I also know I need to stop writing in second person.
Poem quoted is 'Ode on a Grecian Urn' by John Keats, lines 17-24 and 47-50.

You asked him today what he would do if he was in love with someone, and he smiled at you and wondered aloud whether that was a rhetorical question. You told him no, of course not, even though he didn't seem convinced.

"Are you in love?"

"Maybe," you told him, and looked away as he smiled again.

"Perhaps the problem is that you do not know for certain. Tell me again—are you in love?"

Gods, you thought, maybe he knows. What the hell am I going to do if he knows? But you didn't have an answer to that so you answered his question instead: "Well, when you put it that way, I guess I am."

"Is there another problem, then?" he asked, and you shook your head because he was sitting close enough to smell his coat which was far too close to think straight.

"What would you do… if the person you cared about didn't know you cared about them?"

He looked thoughtful for a minute, head turned so that the sunlight caught in his hair and changed the highlights to a bright, cobalt blue. "In theory, I suppose I would tell them."

"In theory?" you repeated, watching how the shadows changed on his face as he nodded.

"I am terrific at giving advice, but I do have a tendency not to follow it myself." And yeah, you could relate to that.

"So, theoretically, you would just walk up and kiss them?"

"Perhaps something a touch more subtle," he chuckled, and you were proud to have said something to make him laugh.

"What would you suggest?"

"Take them out to dinner, or out dancing—something like that."

You looked away, tried to crush the butterflies that were fluttering in the bottom of your stomach. "I just wish it were that easy."

"It never is," Frederic agreed, and sighed to himself as if remembering all the heartbreaks he had gone through to learn that fact first hand. "Love takes from us and gives to us everything we have… and everything we have is a great deal more than dancing."

"I sort of don't want to tell them." You hadn't meant to admit that to him, and even though you said it like a joke the words still stung a little in your mouth. They were a little too true.

Frederic just nodded like he knew and murmured, "I understand."

"Do you?"

"Of course."

"I don't want to tell them," you repeated, feeling the pain more acutely now that you didn't need to pretend. He nodded again.

"That may be worse."

"Why?"

He glanced at you, a tiny smile on his lips. "There is a poem I've read before, an ode written about an ancient vase. On the vase is inscribed a picture of two lovers about to kiss… and a picture of two lovers who never will."

"They're stuck in limbo," you said suddenly, understanding. Frederic's smile widened just a fraction.

"Precisely."

"How sad."

"And how beautiful." He gestured with one hand and you followed the motion, taking in the sweeping scenery for the first time. "If we never confess our affections to them, we can live in that in-between place forever—but on the other hand, we can never know what might have been beyond that."

"You're a wise man, Chopin," you told him, and he flushed a little under the praise. "How does that poem go?"

"Excuse me?"

"I'd like to hear it." You leaned forward a little, ridiculously grateful when he didn't move back.

"It's… very long," he explained, laughing at his own apparent ineptitude.

"Just tell me what you remember, then."

He took a deep breath. "I wish I had to book to read to you."

"I don't care."

"Bold lover," he began, "never, never canst thou kiss, though winning near the goal—yet do not grieve; she cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, for ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!"

You turned to stare at him, watching his lips move and wishing you could know how they tasted with poetry on them. "Keep going."

He blinked at you and you looked up into his eyes, gray and bright and nervous in the sunlight. "Ah, happy, happy boughs that cannot shed your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; and, happy melodist, unwearied, for ever piping songs for ever new."

There was a beautiful high blush on his cheeks, and although he seemed to have realized what was happening he didn't try to push you away. "More."

He licked his lips nervously and you inched closer, enough that you could feel his breath stuttering along your jaw. "I don't remember the next line."

And you knew he couldn't remember the next line because you couldn't even remember your first name, but you asked him anyway, "How does it end?"

His sigh was soft and shaky as he licked his lips again. "Thou shalt remain, in the midst of other woe than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty," and your mouths were almost touching as he breathed "—that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'"

You felt like the poem he was whispering, two lovers locked together forever in an eternal not quite, and finally you leaned forward and you just kissed the last word off his tongue, sweet and slow and tender and everything you've ever wanted it to be. For a moment he didn't react, but then he opened his mouth and you could taste him, could feel the vulnerable inside parts of him in a way that made you want to protect them always.

His fingers wrapped around your bicep like he wanted to be held, and you kissed him a little harder because you were so absurdly happy to oblige. You only let go when you had to breathe again, to come back to earth again, and he was blushing red when he whispered, "Isn't there something you want to tell me?"

You didn't think he had any right to act coy when he was panting just as hard as you were, so you leaned over him further until he had to grab onto your arms again. "What would you do if you were in love with someone?"

"Are you in love?"

You brushed your nose against his cheek and nodded where he couldn't see you eyes. "Yeah… I think I am."

"You should tell them, then," Frederic murmured, and bent down to kiss the corner of your closed eye. It felt like the butterflies that had been in your stomach had transformed somehow into the touch of his lips, and it was such an intimate gesture that you couldn't help but turn your face up to him again.

"Frederic," you breathed, "Frederic, I love you."

He smiled at you, gentle enough that you could be sure he wasn't laughing. One hand moved to brush hair out of your eyes, and the other slid up your arm to your chest and throat and cupped your jaw with thin, white fingers. "I think I love you, too."

You couldn't help but return his smile as you leaned in to press your mouths together again, and after just a moment you pulled away. "How does that line go again? 'Beauty is truth...'"

"Truth beauty."

"That is all ye know on earth—" he brushed his fingertips across your lips, tracing the words as he whispered them with you:

"And all ye need to know."