"No, here. Let me see your hands."

Her maestro was a different man when consumed by his craft. He spoke excessively, he made physical contact with her; yes, now, even, as his thin hands were quick to overtake hers, his fingers laying over hers in sternly gentle guidence. The ivory keys were cold to touch, but the shivers Christine repressed weren't from instrument before them, but his hands. His hands, a phantom's hands, a corpse's hands. Colder than the ivory keys they held her own too, colder than the stone that built his underground abode. The gasp which left her at his touched appeared to go unnoticed by him. Appeared to. Part of him wanted to tear his hands away, bet forgiveness. Have you not forgotten what she has seen, Erik? How she has seen your face and how she drew back at your appearance; how could you think she would not react the same, if not worse, to your touch?

Despite this, he continued his touch. After all, he was still her teacher, and demonstration was rather required in musical teachings. So their hands touched, and remained so, as he guided her, long arms stiff, but his hands, oh, his hands, they were fluid and relaxed, one with the keys and part of the music, made of it, she was certain. His voice was just as golden, from Heaven itself. And yet she had heard it so volitile, as if he held Heaven and Hell raging in his very soul. "Like this. You keep skipping over this one. Angle your wrist like this..." Erik tilted her wrist as he described, jaw tight but his eyes were soft. He was not forceful, simply guiding. He was being so careful. How could he not be after everything that happened? He couldn't simply continue on as if things were normal. No, he kept himself reserved, distanced in ways other than physical. "I see... So..." She guides her slender fingers over the keys, pressing them down at an easy, followable pace. His heart skipped a beat at the thought that perhaps she gave him such a courtesy, even though he knew it only aided her in getting an affirmative. Any kindness, tangible or not, was a treasure he would make an attempt to grasp in his dead hands. If only it didn't terrify him so, he would actually try.

"Yes, exactly. It's important not to have a static wrist, it must flow with the keys. You are far too tense. There is no audience, I assure you this practice is just that; practice." he made a valid attempt at being comforting, slowing taking his hands from hers, sitting up straightener. "It does not help when you're just as tense, if not more." she remarked, almost cheerful, voice light as ever. Ah, his little songbird. It was, in fact, cheerful; though she knew he couldn't decide on confirming that, and she avoided a smirk. As much as part of her screamed to try and stop this, to refuse to let that face simply be water under the bridge, but... But she had caused it, and while she did not let that consume her, she could not leave a broken man, yes a man, in such a state when it had been by her own doing. A demon! Her Christian thoughts screamed. No angel, no man, a demon! But is a demon so gentle? His deception was out of self protection, was it not? Just as his mask. So she had decided. Decided to try and mend what had been done, to let him see it's alright. Had he ever heard such words? From anyone? She was certain he hadn't. So here she was, attempting to lighten a tense and stiff mood, a tense and stiff man.

"It's simply how I sit. I am not tense. You, on the other hand, are letting your false thoughts give you equally false anxiety."

"And you are doing the same."

"I am not."

"Inedeed you are."

"May we continue with the lesson, please-"

"Play for me."

This caught him offgaurd, shoulders stiffening, only proving her point and assumptions. "This is your lesson, Christine. Do you wish to learn or don't you?" She almost found his stern behavior endearing, defensive and so set on his plans. She supposed change isn't an idea he's quite learned to accept. Perhaps that's why, even as much as he begs for acceptance, he will not accept himself. It's would be so much of a change for him. "I do."

"Then why do you avoid it?"

"I am not avoiding it, maestro, I simply wish to see someone skilled perform it, so I may follow in the future."

"You are aware that normally does not-"

"Please?"

And there it was. How could he say no? He could never refuse her, he knew that from the day he heard her sing. He gave in here, shoulders slouching almost childishly, much to her amusement. "Very well." His voice spoke low, gentle, and complying. He allows her to remove those perfect hands from the keys, sitting up and and sleekly splaying his hands out, elegant in his movements as his fingers made contact with the piano. If it were not for the downward push of the keys, one may think he wasn't physically touching upon it at all. She closed her eyes and listened, allowed it flow over her, gentle and caressing. How could such a soul, terrified as a beaten dog, a creator of such wonderful sound, and owner of such a wonderful voice, be... Could be capable of... A sigh left her as she forced the thoughts from her mind for now. She didn't dare ruin this, for either of them. Christine, his angel of music, leaned her head upon his shoulder, where he tensed, but did not stop playing. "It's alright," she says softly, feeling what little muscle he had ease, as if he suddenly understood, and a small smile came to the corners of her mouth, "just play, Erik. It's alright."