AN: Thank you for all your reviews. Here's the second half! With a lot more Erik… finally in the fictional present.

Also, on the previous chapter note, I neglected to mention Riene as one of my other long-time Erik influences. I think her story "Chess Is a Game of Strategy" was a subconscious inspiration for this one.

Okay, now for some E/C…

Christine sat with her elbows propped up on the large black dining room table, her fists cradling her chin. The room was dim, the curtains drawn, the house quiet. She waited. She planned what she might say.

As always, he appeared silently, a dark shadow in the room's farthest corner. Christine started upright, unable to stifle her gasp.

"Erik," she managed, her heart racing. She set her palms flat on the table. He stood perfectly still.

"You requested my presence." His voice was flat. He held up the sheet of staff paper. "Your songwriting has not progressed."

Christine gave a little laugh, then snapped her mouth closed. Erik didn't stir. "I'm sorry for wasting materials."

"I have plenty of paper. A closet stacked with paper. An obscene hoard." He glanced at the note again. She watched his deft, gray fingers fold the note into his suit jacket, into the silk pocket that rested against his thin chest.

He folded his hands behind his back. "If I retrieve my gloves, might you manage to explain why you've summoned me?"

Christine looked down at the table then, her cheeks flushing. "Oh no, it's fine, I—"

"I do not prefer to wear them when I am alone at my piano, and as I very much in the middle of composing, I am afraid that my horrible hands were bare when I noticed your note and hurried upstairs, beckoned like a dog. I could not know how long you'd been waiting or why on earth… if you had laid a trap, it would have succeeded."

"I didn't want to disturb you."

"And yet, that you have done."

Christine winced. "I'm sorry." She lifted his gaze to his masked forehead, unable to withstand his unwavering, molten eye. This had been a mistake—all of it, this weekend, this evening, this childish "plan." She had earned his cold resentment, his distrust. She wished she could hate him. Did he wear his mask when alone at his piano? Her heart squeezed as she realized he must see himself reflected in the slick black paint. Had he always shielded himself from his own image? Or only since…

She heard a very faint tapping, then saw the almost imperceptible tremor of Erik's heel against the hardwood floor.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I guess your notes are always pretty detailed. I just"—she breathed in some small courage—"I was hoping we might play a game?"

She heard his sharp intake of breath.

"You hate chess."

"I never said that."

"But you do."

"I'm just not very good at it." She chose a small smile. "When I play with you, I always lose."

"Ah. I'm sure I am an exceedingly unpleasant opponent."

Though his voice remained flat, she knew it well enough to detect hints of strain.

"Well anyway," she said lightly, "I wasn't talking about chess. I brought my favorite game from home—one I'm actually pretty good at. Do you know how to play Scrabble?" She giggled awkwardly. The word sounded particularly ridiculous in that sleek room.

The golden eyes blinked. "No."

"Good. You'll learn quickly." Her smile broadened. She felt strangely giddy. "Which means I have exactly one chance to beat you."

"Christine—" his lovely voice was plaintive now, almost whining. He had not moved from the corner.

She ignored him, lifting the squat wooden box from her lap. She unfolded it on the table, revealing the raised grid of the board. "I wonder if I should even explain the rules. Maybe I'll just whisper them really quickly." She arranged two wooden trays, then filled her own with tile letters. "If you stay over there too long, you might not hear them, but it's such a simple game, you'll get by."

He took a step toward the table. She flipped to a blank page on the scorepad. He folded his arms against his chest.

"Poor Christine. It is terrible, isn't it, to be trapped here with Erik. You must be so desperately bored."

She bit the inside of her bottom lip. Erik loved to ramble his way around conversations that didn't please him—why not steal a page from his book?

"When I was a senior in high school, my dad and I played Scrabble every Sunday. He beat me for like two months straight, but eventually, we were tied for wins and losses. Beating him before I left for college was basically my proudest accomplishment. Like, I even bragged about it sometimes. Like out loud, to new friends. Yes, I was a super cool teen." She selected a tile from the velvet pouch of letters, then held the bag out to him. "Pick one. The letter closest to 'A' plays first."

Erik's stare had lost some of its suspicion. Now, he looked at her as though she had sprouted extra heads.

"You brought this game with you on purpose. From your home."

"Yes, like I said."

His eyes were unreadable now, as he slowly, cautiously took a seat on the opposite side of the table, directly across from her. This was, of course, the most practical spot, but his choice still surprised and pleased her. Before, when he had watched her through her dinner, he had always taken pains to position himself far away.

Now she watched his long left hand reach toward her and the velvet bag. She so rarely saw his bare hands up close. His palms were broad, his fingers stretched and tapered, impossibly thin. As they dipped into the pouch, her gaze traced a gnarled vein over the back of his hand, up to his jagged knuckles, stark bones and tendons and scars. She willed away the image of her father's hand slack against the white hospital sheets, wasted and bruised, a bloated vein punctured by that hopeless IV. She willed away the feel of Erik's rough fingers deep in her hair, tugging her head back, so gold and harsh at the back of her scalp, and then clawing at the hem of her sundress, one he had bought her, white with tiny blue flowers, his tears soaking into the flowers, running from the terrible pits of his face, and the smell of sweat, adrenaline, and she wanted him to stop crying, she needed him to stop crying, to get away from her, to leave her alone, leave me alone, don't touch me, I don't care if you die!

"You don't want this."

Christine blinked back to the dining room, confused.

"Tell me what it is you're really after, my dear"—the endearment spat out so bitterly—"so we might spare ourselves this whole farce."

Christine felt their small progress slipping away from her, pulled into the black hole of mistakes they could never erase from their history. Had she really said those things to him? She didn't want to remember—she wanted to know she was good!

Was that all this was? An attempt to redeem her self-image?

No. Because she had meant what she'd said before the explosion. I want you to trust me. I want to be friends.

And she hadn't lied about his hands, not really—it wasn't their appearance that bothered her. If she could stay in the present, she could look at them easily. They were just hands. Magic tricks and heavenly music. Her teacher. Her friend.

She knew that someday, they would have to talk about the ways they had hurt each other. But not now, in this fragile moment. Not yet.

"You pulled a pretty bad letter then, huh? Well, I'm not going to let you give up on the whole game." She heard herself speaking like a grocery store commercial—too chipper, sickly sweet. She cleared her throat. "If it makes you feel any better, I pulled an 'A,' so you never really stood a chance. But honestly, I don't really think going first is that great." She leaned over the board and lay down a word, CORAL. "See? Kind of pathetic. Now you need to put seven letters on your tray, and then use them to make a word that touches mine. Simple, right? But it's not like, too easy. It gets harder as you go—you'll see." She was afraid to stop talking. "But it also gets really fun."

In the shadows of his mask, Erik's eyes were wide, blazing. She felt like a macabre, cheerful alien. Or a very, very small talking bug.

Her heart sank as he rose from the table. And when he strode from the room, she was shocked to feel the prickling threat of tears. She scolded herself. Always so dramatic, Christine. Why do you even want that controlling weirdo to like you again? What's wrong with you? You—

Erik returned, twisting a corkscrew into a bottle of red wine. He set one empty glass in front of her on the table, then gave his own glass a generous pour. Before Christine could look away, he raised his glass to his mouth—his mouth! He had a mask that revealed his mouth! Thin, chapped lips and a square of sallow chin. She had seen them before, she realized. She had little reason for shock.

Erik sat, glowering. She felt him daring her to say something, to recoil from the exposed inches of his face.

Instead, she splashed wine into her glass. "I do love a good Malbec," she said.

He sighed. "I know."

There was a pang in her heart. He was exhausting, and difficult, and the wine was delicious and warm. She took small sips and nodded at the board, smiling tightly.

"It's your turn."

For a while, they played in relative silence, and Christine felt very foolish. Erik's home had a speaker system embedded in the walls of every room, and to ease her anxiety, she got up and selected a playlist of soft instrumental music to help her focus. She was well aware that winning the game—and she was indeed winning—wasn't actually her core incentive here, but… she did have her competitive streak.

Unfortunately, the travel board was smaller than she had remembered, and they both would occasionally crane over the table to see more clearly—to find opportunities in all those blank spaces around their words.

But she could feel Erik tensing every time she drew closer. His earlier brashness faded, and he often brought his hand to his chin, apparently attempting to cover his mouth without drawing too much attention. He quickly drained his first glass of wine.

She wished she could tell him that his mouth didn't repulse her. It was rather unremarkable, all things considered. He had mildly crooked, clean teeth—very white teeth and she didn't quite understand why that surprised her.

Although he seemed determined to remain almost expressionless, Christine found herself wondering what it would be like to watch him sing in this mask—to see the shapes he made with his lips. His voice and his face were inextricable, knit together…

Well, most of the time. She wondered if he was a real ventriloquist.

Probably.

She wished she could say that his whole face didn't trouble her. But that wouldn't be true, would it?

She disappointed herself.

Erik, she realized, was taking a long time to play his turn. She startled as he produced a remote control and switched off the music.

"Hey!" she cried, a little annoyed. "I thought you liked Zoë Keating."

"I do. Did you intend to distract me?" His demeanor was cool and reserved.

"What? No! I'm going to win fair and square." She said, searching for some reaction. Maybe he found her playful boasting annoying. "Background music helps me focus."

"That's quite the insult."

"Now I'm lost."

"Background music. Music chosen specifically when one does not want to listen. Bland enough for chores and coffee shops." He sneered. "Malls."

Christine shrugged. "I would be thrilled to hear a song of mine in a coffee shop."

"Drowned out by espresso machines? The idea alone is revolting. You must begin to dream bigger, my dear."

She smiled a little at the gentler endearment. "Hey, wait, you listen to music all the time! You wear headphones when you cook, for example. Don't lie—I've seen them."

"I don't pay attention to my cooking." A corner of his thin lips quirked upwards. So this was Erik's smirk. "Or I listen to some podcasts."

Christine's eyes grew wide. "Really? Which ones? Do you know—"

Erik held a shushing finger in the air, then played an unfortunately high-scoring word. As she considered her counteract, he continued to ignore her questions, instead rising to adjust the sound system.

His dark suit was impeccably tailored, she thought, her eyes drawn to his long back and stiff shoulders. He was somehow broad despite his alarming thinness. She wondered if she would ever learn what had slashed that scar into the back of his neck.

Simple piano flowed from the speakers. She looked down at the board.

He said, "I can tune Philip Glass out quite easily. But you like him, you've said? When you lose, I don't want to hear any excuses about focus."

She scoffed. "Are you heckling me? And insulting my taste in music?"

He refreshed his wine and sat back, rather smugly. "It's no great tragedy to associate Glass with defeat."

To Christine's delight and amazement, as they played on, the mood between them remained fairly easy. To her horror, Erik score crept up, nipping right at her heels. He even briefly overtook her with a well-placed QUENCH, prompting her to, with (slightly) exaggerated dismay, accused him of dulling her vocabulary with fancy wine.

She immediately regretted this outburst, anxious he might think she meant it. But after a beat, Erik had chuckled, noted that her glass was hardly half empty, and reminded her that she had, quite deliberately, neglected to explain the nuances of double points.

"Most shocking of all," he continued, "you played that nonsense." He pointed disdainfully. "ZA."

Christine threw up her arms. "It's the official abbreviation for pizza!"

"So you've insisted," he drolled, his eyes bright and teasing. "I hope those points were worth your dignity."

"Oh, they definitely were."

And warmth bloomed in her chest as she grinned at him—a wide, effortless smile.

As she examined the board, she felt his gaze soften over her, sensing the chasm between them shrinking by another hopeful inch. Then, with a triumphant cackle, she reclaimed her lead.

Erik took on a distant look then, his thin lips pressed together, suddenly grim. She wished she knew all of his expressions. He had so many of them—when he allowed it. And as he gave three pensive taps to the edge of the table, she noticed that he kept his fingernails neat and short.

"You are enjoying yourself," he said softly.

Christine wasn't sure whether this was a question or perhaps an attempt to understand the moment—to capture a snapshot in time. She could see his fingertips pressing the edge of the table so firmly that they blanched.

Christine considered those white fingertips and the starched white cuff of his dress shirt and felt a wave of compassion. Poor Erik. How he hated being out of control. She wondered if Erik had been conscious of the moment their evening flew past his hour limit. She imagined he was. And it surprised her, how immensely grateful she was that he'd stayed.

"I'm having a really good time," she said gently. To her great relief, this was true.

Now, just when she needed to focus on her unfortunate final letters, a sense of confusion around the evening's success started to nag at the back of her mind. Yes, improbably, the game had worked better than she'd hoped. It was obvious that the worst of the tension between them had loosened—at least for now. But the game would end—and what then?

Eight months ago… three weeks from now… she felt all the days spent knowing him as one solid knot in her throat. If she couldn't completely understand him or how this moment's fragile calm had draped itself around them, how could she trust that the air wouldn't pull taut again? They both made so many mistakes. What would she regret when it snapped?

Perhaps that was just the way of things, she reasoned. If she wanted to be… close? Not just to Erik—people were complex and irrational and difficult to predict. She was grateful for that, actually. Otherwise, how boring life would be.

"You're out of moves," he said, interrupting her thoughts. "Surrender."

"Joke's on you, because my real problem is I have too many moves. So many great options. Which oh which will I choose?"

He smiled a little—not a smirk, but a brief, closed-lip smile—and she was struck by a sudden clarity.

After all this time, she did know him. She was one of the only people in the world who understood him as much as she did. And the more she learned of him and his past and his scars, the more she grasped the countless, simple ways she might hurt him, no matter how much she didn't want to.

She didn't want to hurt him. She didn't want to be hurt.

He had seemed so invulnerable before. Passionate and volatile yes, but invincible too. He would never believe that, for her, it was the sight of his face that made him, finally, fully human.

And there was the epiphany. That's what made the memory of his sobs so viscerally unbearable—not the ridges of his face, but the enormity of his pain.

A strange sense of peace washed over her. Despite her best intentions, she would hurt him, and he would hurt her, as people did. Aware that he had suffered beyond her comprehension, she had to be careful and compassionate, but not afraid. She had to forgive him, and herself, and trust that she could get things right. Because she believed that growing closer to him would be worth it. He was worth it. And even though she might ultimately fail, she wanted to offer all she could.

So, she took the next small step. She dragged her chair to the head of the table and sat right at Erik's shoulder.

"This travel board is so tiny," she said pulling it toward them quickly, before he could protest. "Now we can both see."

Erik said nothing, body rigid and angled away. He brought a tight fist to his lips.

"Erik," she said his name softly, and, if possible, he tensed even more. "Am I crowding you?"

"I will buy you a larger board."

She breathed a laugh. "Erik, no…"

"I don't mean—I will have it sent to your home. A gift. For you and your friends to enjoy."

Christine shook her head. "You're the only friend that I want to play with. And I like my board."

And she played, and he played. A slow, stubborn end to their game.

Finally, he sat back in defeat, and Christine squinted suspiciously.

"You didn't let me win, did you? I'll be furious."

"No, dear Christine. I am incapable of that particular kindness." He sighed dramatically, then finished his wine, his hands finally relaxed on the table. The wine had just barely tinted his lips, she noticed. Just a mouth.

She smiled wickedly. "So how do you like losing?"

"I enjoy trying new things."

Christine laughed freely now, and his eyes glittered just how she remembered, paired now with that small smile. "Oh Erik," she hummed, shaking her head, laying her hand just below his elbow, feeling the cool fabric of his sleeve.

He froze. Her heart was racing. But this wasn't a mistake.

A sugary etude spun around them. Finally, Erik managed to speak.

"Sometimes, Glass goes from bland to appalling."

"I'm sorry to say I still like him," she said. "What were you playing earlier? Before you saw my note."

"Something equally dreadful."

"I'm sure that's not true." She met his wide eyes, tilting her chin sweetly. "I'd love to hear some of your compositions."

"It's late. You've missed dinner."

Christine shrugged, rubbing her thumb on his stony forearm. "Next time I'm here, then. You'll play a couple?"

"Next time," he echoed, his voice small and piercing. Very slowly, he slid his hand under hers and lifted it, awkwardly scooping her palm in his large fingers, maybe so she could pull away. His skin was cold, yes, but that hardly mattered. She squeezed his hand. And he held on for a moment, searching her face, his own expression cautious and achingly tender. "Yes. Perhaps then."

She wanted to lean closer, to lay her head on his shoulder. But it was too soon. She understood when he stood, breaking their contact. He resumed the tall, guarded posture of the specter, imposing and unknowable, a shadow lurking in the corner.

She wouldn't be fooled this time—or ever again. This was just Erik, frightened. She knew he was only a man.

She refused to let him make her late dinner, insisting she knew how to make peanut butter and jelly, and he relented easily, mumbling that he should compose. She ate her sandwich in the dining room, wondering if he ever did the same, his bare face turned away from the tightly closed curtains, alone.

But it wouldn't do to slip into fantasies of pity. She considered the person she truly knew and guessed that on the rare occasions he did eat, he likely did so while working. Or pacing. Definitely at least standing up.

She set another sandwich by the door to the music room and, back in her room, texted him that it was there. For all of his critiques of cell phones, she knew he had set a chiming alert just for her.

It was night outside now, and Christine loved the treetops silhouettes under the waxing moon. She couldn't predict how the air might feel in the morning, but that uncertainty couldn't be blamed on the forest or the shadows in the music room or the thin forearm under her palm. Some things just were. She sensed the battles ahead, and still that strange sense of peace spread within her.

Maybe she would call in sick tomorrow. They had so many duets to practice.

Maybe.

For the first time in weeks, she went to bed without worries. She trusted that tomorrow would come in its own shape, and she would greet it, curious and eager. If she just paid attention, she would learn what to do.