...

There were three copies of the files he'd copied from his former employer. One dwelled on his everyday flash drive, innocuously labeled "Thing", and nestled between folders full of chamber music and some drivel pulled from a midi program to fiddle with at some unspecified later date. Another copy was on his home computer, on a secured server, with all of his graduate work thesis, and the projects he was currently raiding bits from to use in new ways.

The last lurked on the hard drive. The big hard drive that had everything. All his old designs and plans, his calendars and lists of meetings from those years, and all the arrangements having to do with the thing. The Thing.

The hard drive lived in an unused drawer of a file cabinet and shared the space with his old work badge and surgical records. The scorched leather portfolio bag was in his closet. It was unusable, but it had saved his life. You tend to hang on to things like that.

He wished it had been in someone else's hands that day.

…

Summer programs were brutal but fun, and new faces mixed with the regulars as sessions kicked off. Erik throttled back his projects and helped design a musicianship curriculum for the middle and high school students and, as long as he wasn't called upon to actually instruct the hormonal monsters, found it was rewarding to listen at the door occasionally as Piangi jovially walked the boys through their rhythm drills. A few had promise even as they struggled with their single octave ranges.

Despite the increasingly god forsaken weather, the school was kept seasonless and brisk. Coffee and Erik's under-desk space heater were the only sources of warmth handy.

No, that was wrong. Christine's smile could thaw out even his frigid hands. With a quick glance at the clock and that thought in mind, Erik snagged his favorite mug and headed to the kitchens. The coffee pots were half full and three teachers on break stared at magazines and screens while they ate.

He could do this. He knew them. "Hey, Meg. How's the day going?"

Madame Giry's daughter taught as a summer job. She looked up from her tupperware and gave a tired nod. "Nine year olds are harsh."

"I always knew there was a reason your mother carried that stick."

Meg laughed and dropped her fork. "She definitely doesn't need it to walk." With a decidedly ungraceful sigh, Meg Giry stood and packed her empty lunch things stretched. "'I'm gonna let Christine know you're here. She'll owe me a break later. And don't look surprised, she can't shut up about you. See you, Dr. B!"

Erik stood, holding his mug and staring at the doorway. The other two teachers sniggered and stuffed their mouths full. By the time Christine rushed in, they were leaving, hurrying back to classes Erik was certain had not started yet.

"Erik! You're early." She hadn't bothered pinning up the curls today and he liked how they flopped lazily over her shoulders when she reached into the fridge for her lunch.

He leaned against the counter top and took the lid off his cup. "Did you know Meg calls me 'Dr. B'?"

"Everyone calls you that." Christine popped a chunk of mango into her mouth.

"Why don't they just call me Erik? It's my name. 'Dr. B' sounds like it comes in a can." He set his cup on the counter top and the treble clef smacked on the edge.

Christine smiled. Warmer than the heater under his desk. "Nice cufflinks."

"I'm thinking about adding a piano necktie."

A distinctly unflattering sound. He'd have to mention that at their next lesson. "If I have veto power," she began.

"You might."

"Then I'm going to vote that down. You're more subtle than that."

Laughter still felt strange, but it was less alien than it once was. "Oh yes, the masked man, master of subtlety."

"It's not your defining feature, you know," Christine said softly. She sat with her lunch and looked up at him, expecting him to… join her?

The coffee was a little stale but it steamed and would do the job. After a moment of hesitation, Erik took the seat beside her and fiddled with the lid of his cup, thinking. It begged the question, didn't it? He disliked this kind of validation; he wasn't needy that way, though his hands itched for more than just the piano these days.

Mango juice gathered on her lips.

"Okay, I'll ask. What is?"

Christine set down her fork and leaned close. "It's the listening at doors." She giggled and his face felt hot. Oh god, did she know about the storage closet?

Another big bite of mango. "Someone told Piangi about you hanging around his door and he's cooking up a prank for you. Thought you might like some warning."

Erik exhaled. "Thanks."

Later, after a few more laughs and those strange, loaded pauses, Christine finished her lunch and Erik refilled his coffee. Awkward foot scuffles and every way to hang on to the moment, as if they both didn't have actual jobs to get back to. The bell rang for the afternoon session and Christine ran out of excuses.

As they headed down their respective hallways, Christine turned and called out to him. "Oh, Erik?"

He turned so fast the flyers of the wall fluttered. "Yes?"

"You've got other good features, too. Not just eavesdropping."

Erik left the heater under his desk off. He was warm enough.

...

Nadir leaned his head back on Erik's sofa and sipped his tea. "You've been humming and dancing around your kitchen. Work going well, is it?"

Erik froze. He had done a little spin when he closed the oven, hadn't he? "Well enough."

"Out with it," Nadir said and set his tea on the side table. "I haven't seen you in two weeks and now you're dancing. Please tell me you cancelled on me for something better than just a lesson." With a little gasp, Nadir covered his mouth. "Erik, my friend, have you gone on a date?"

"No," he denied quickly. "At least, I don't think so?"

Nadir cradled his forehead. "Give me strength. Did you meet her alone?"

"Meet, no. And it was at work. Ten minutes on the chicken, I'll start a salad."

"But you were alone and not for her lesson? What did you talk about?"

Erik poured a glass of wine with more vigor than strictly necessary. "This feels like an exam. At least put on gloves first."

"My god, you've got your sense of humor back." Nadir stood up and went to the kitchen. Very seriously, he examined Erik. "No ill effects from levity, possible recent laughter. Take care, you're in grave danger."

Erik raised his glass to take a very intentional swallow of wine. "Danger of what, exactly?"

Nadir tapped his tea cup against the wine glass. "Of being human again. It's equal parts joy and suffering, my friend, and you're due. Just," Nadir turned serious again. "Just take it slow, and be gentle with yourself, yes?"

Erik allowed a small smile. "Yes."

Nadir grinned and chopped vegetables for their salad. It was hideously domestic but neither of them liked restaurants much.

Later, long after dinner, Erik fingered the flash drive with the files. He'd hoped Nadir wouldn't comment on how long it had been- that Nadir would just let him fade into the background and enjoy moving on. Was that what Erik was doing?

He rejected the thought and squeezed his fist tight until the corners of the flash drive dug into his palm. It was far heavier than a chip of plastic had any right to be.

…

They had decided to dig into Christine's repertoire and start rebuilding her foundations. "It's never a bad idea to return to old songs and see if they have new life for you." Erik shuffled through the pieces she brought. "Start simple, let's avoid challenging phrasing for now. Ah, how about this one?"

He regretted it the moment she began to sing. Caro Mio Ben was just a dreamy nothing of a song, one even children could learn and perform, but even professionals liked to keep around. There was just one problem; it was achingly romantic. Painfully so.

He stopped her. "Now think about the passage here- the lover is sighing. Try expressing that in your sound."

It took his breath away, the caress of her voice. The measures were alive in her, a dance of poetry and song, made all the greater by the clarity of the melody and the yearning in her resonance.

"Like that?" she asked as she uncapped her water afterwards.

She understood far too well. "Yes… just like that. And continue."

…

A burst of divine inspiration one morning spurred Erik into action. High school students were much harder to impress than hungover college students, so if he was going to instill the kind of awe he'd managed to inspire in graduate school, he'd have to up his game. He got to work early and busied himself for an hour or two burrowing into the school's shared cloud and engaging in a little mischief.

When he popped over for coffee, the bounce in his step was enough to make the mask noticeable. It only dampened his glee a little. A few minutes later, Christine was rubbing her forehead when she plodded into the kitchen with her lunch.

"You're here early," she said. She looked exhausted. Possibly hungover.

"First cup is always the best. You okay?"

"My roommate just finished a show and there was an after party." She sighed and got a mug from the cabinet. "Ballerinas."

Erik knew how performers cut loose in wrap parties. There was just one scar on his body he couldn't explain and the jagged scrape had been there one morning after completing a run of reworked Berlioz that had required a year of negotiations to use the entire expandable orchestra pit. All he knew was that the evening started with champagne and Jagermeister. He'd found his gashed leg wrapped in gauze and secured with bent bobby pins and satin ribbon the next day. Ballerinas could deal with anything.

"Dance hard, party hard?"

Christine dumped sugar into the cup and sloshed coffee over it. "My god. How can someone so tiny drink like that and not die?"

"Metabolism. And you're going home right after the bell today. No singing today." There were a few minutes to spare before they both needed to get to work, but the morning's doing needed a partner in crime. You can't have a secret so good and not share it. Besides, she had tipped him off.

"Hey, I have something that will cheer you up."

"You have IV fluids?"

"Better. You know the older boys choir is doing open recital at lunch time, right?"

"Yeah. Got the email."

He leaned close. Despite a night of revelry leaving her pale and shadowed, she was pretty as ever and smelled like soap and something fresh and green. "Don't miss it."

For that, he got a raised eyebrow, but the bell rang and they both hurried off.

To his credit, he only let it go on for two minutes before he returned the cloud's original file settings, but the point had been made. Dr. B knew everything and if you even think about pranking him, all your music may just be replaced with the Mii channel theme and a riser of teenage boys will hero worship the mysterious half smirking man in a too-small folding chair pretending to stir his coffee.

Christine's color had returned, and Erik counted that as a win. To be fair, she was laughing so hard she nearly fell off the bench at the back of the room, but you take your victories as they come.

…

At their next lesson, they worked through three Italian pieces and focused on moving beyond the mechanics of the music and deepening her interaction with the song. It was lovely and wrenching in the very best way, to hear her expressing pain, delight, and longing in song. As the lesson started to close, Christine pulled a few sheets from her binder and held them out.

"Got something?" Erik asked.

"I wanted to start a new piece, if it's not too late?"

Erik set the piece on the music stand. "We can give it a run through." He could definitely kill some time. There was nothing at home but dark rooms and another piano, so Erik scooted over so she could sit on his good side. "Have a seat, then. Let's work through it. You play any piano?"

"A little. Just enough to tap through."

So they worked through the song. Sort of. They talked through the rhythm, they tapped through the tune, yet they never really dug into it. But they sat shoulder to shoulder, which was fine. More than.

"Is there a set schedule for the next summer program?" she asked when they finished. "We haven't heard specifics yet."

"There is," he said, and let his hands drift into a song. "Allen's going to send it out next week. I told him not to wait."

Christine watched his hands. "What piece is this? I know it's Chopin, but which?"

"Nocturne fifteen. Like it?"

"Love it. I always liked piano and violin."

He reached over her to reach lower notes. She did not lean away. "Your father, right? Violin?"

"Yep. And I just like piano."

He looked at her. She was smiling gently, dreamy. Erik recalled his reflection and imagined what she was seeing. He'd been handsome, and in profile he wasn't so bad. He could swing, miss, and keep playing. But if you don't swing at all…

"Well, lucky you then," he said lightly. Lighter than he felt.

A huff of a laugh. Appropriately soft for the music. "Busted," she whispered. "I only come for the private concerts." Her head leaned closer, just by his shoulder. Her curls were catching on his shirt.

"I don't mind."

The air in the room shifted. It moved in new ways, and nudged their breaths to come a little faster.

"Erik, I'm not keeping you from anything am I?"

"Still no plans. You?"

She exhaled, her smile audible, and rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. "No. Just this."

Erik played until nine came around. He would have played longer, but she was tired and needed to go. But her words stayed with him all night long.

Just this.

...

The first half of summer was coming to an end and with it came another round of evening performances, recitals, and a school fundraiser. It had taken half a year, but Erik had managed to settle into the routine of daily activity overlaid by seasonal insanity. Everyone in the school turned their gear in the machine that churned out slightly more musically aware children, moderately polished teens, and some local professionals who needed coaching but couldn't afford master-class level teachers.

As the afternoon session came to a close, parents and grandparents lined up outside the recital halls and the little dancers spun in circles until they fell in dizzy, giggling heaps. The tables in the kitchen filled to overflowing with plates of cookies and baskets of fruit, flowers, sandwiches, and, just as the summer brought new students to the program, their families brought new surprises to the banquet of random delights alongside the ever-beloved coffee pots.

It was noisy, it was difficult, and would require a drink later but though Erik was not comfortable, he'd at least grown accustomed to it. Certain benefits made it tolerable.

"Erik!" Christine called from her recital room. "When does your group go again?"

"At seven. Most of them left to eat. They'll be back in time to change their shirts if they didn't forget them."

"Oh, they'll totally forget them," she laughed. Then her lips curled into a sweet little smile. "So you're free for an hour or two?"

Oh no. There was no way she was wrangling him into this. "No."

"Yes, you are."

"Christine, no. Absolutely not."

The pout on her face was kittenish. It was unfair. "You're no fun."

"I am a god damned barrel of laughs but I don't do the littles." Knowing his pout was far more impressive than hers, he folded his arms. "They stare. What's worse, their parents will stare."

"You'll be behind a set. They won't even see you."

"No."

"Pretty, pretty please?" And then she did it. The little minx opened those pretty eyes wide and let her lips go soft.

A place that hadn't been alive in a long time kicked to life. Little flushes of warmth, just ideas and feelings before, decided to crash full force. He knew, he knew, that she just needed a little help and was giving him a full frontal assault but it didn't change the sparking energy that decided to wake up.

"Fine. As long as I'm behind something."

'Behind something' ended up being a tree costume. Twisted paper branches with stapled leaves sprouted from his shoulders and flopped from a flimsy frame on his head. It was utterly ridiculous, but he got to see Christine guiding her six year old charges through three song and dance numbers while dressed as a ragged fairy so, on balance, not a bad trade.

Plus, he kept catching glimpses of her smiles through the shredding paper branches.

After the songs finished, Erik dashed out, stripping off the tree bits in a trail across the school and hurried off to his recital room where Piangi's class was just assembling. By the second piece, Christine was sneaking in and stood at the back. The ribbons and costume were gone and she looked just like she usually did for their lessons.

Which was why he missed a key. No one noticed.

It was nearly eight-thirty in the evening when the school was finally quiet. Erik's limbs were heavy and his head foggy. He'd been up early and managed to eat… something. At some point? The school had been full of people and the rhythm of his day had been thrown into chaos. His coffee breaks, mealtimes, and self care had been wreckage all week and as the worst of the messes were cleared away, Erik slumped over on his desk.

"Hey," came a gentle voice from his doorway. "I was starving, thought you might be, too. I raided the kitchen before everything was gone or chucked." Christine pulled the wagon he'd given her into his office. It was loaded with paper plates and plastic cups.

Tank empty and bleary, Erik straightened up and tried to smile. "Why not."

Christine gave a tired laugh as she wheeled her wagon to his desk. "I have some of everything. Grab a plate."

Erik shoved a mini muffin in his mouth and swallowed it nearly unchewed. In a minute, he could feel his mind clear a bit, and started loading a plate in earnest. The pair sat on the floor and just reached into the wagon for their next bites. Apple slices and carrots, because he needed it, a slab of cake because he wanted it.

"I got part of the cheese and sausage tray, too. It's in those cups. Kale salad?"

"Classy, and hell no."

"I took the napkins with the cartoons on them."

"Nice touch. What's in the foil tray?"

"Homemade tamales."

"Homemade…" Erik dropped his plate and reached for the tray. "I can't believe you held out on me."

"Hey! You're sharing those!"

The two sat cross legged and crouched over the tray, forks in hand. After ten minutes, the tray was nearly empty. Erik dropped his fork and groaned. Eating so much after being so empty was a mistake, but he felt so pleasantly buzzed and full, the penalty could come later. The front of his desk was cool and he leaned against it, easing the pressure on his too-full stomach.

"I'm going to regret this later. Why did I eat the cake?"

Christine scooted next to him and grinned. "I saved my carrot cake for breakfast tomorrow."

"You'll hate yourself," Erik said, though he had to admit the idea was tempting. What was more tempting was the idea of Christine in the morning, or feeding her little bites of cake. In bed. "We should both eat nothing but fruit and whole grains for a month."

With a grimace, Christine rolled her tongue around her mouth. "Too late, I already hate myself."

Those weren't words Erik liked hearing. Even he never said them out loud. "Don't… don't say that." He turned his head and felt the upper edge of the mask bump the desk. He was so tired and Christine's hair was falling from her clips. "Don't ever say that, okay? You're too nice to say that."

She turned. "I was just talking about my breath. I'm like… unkissable."

His heart jumped. Just a little. In another moment, he'd prove her otherwise.

It took her a second, but she realized what she'd said. "I mean… oh, uh…" She sat back and blubbered a little.

The moment cracked. "I know what you meant. It's fine, Christine."

"No, you don't. Erik, I-"

"It's late. We're both tired. Let's just clean up and get some rest?"

Her eyes were a little glossy, but that was probably just the long day talking.

That night, Erik stared at himself under a harsh overhead light. Reality was what it was, and she didn't even know, and probably never would.

Had he misheard her? Maybe, but what was the point? Nadir would remind him what the point was, to be whole, and a whole person should be willing, but were they willing to be hurt? He didn't want to risk that again. And it had been so long, the entire landscape of these things had changed. Maybe she didn't have plans, but how long would that last? Was she going to pass on a normal guy for him?

He wanted to be that so much, but had no idea how to break through. There were so many barriers to everything. Every step was so hard, each one harder than the last. To be whole was to overcome so many things.

With his nerve endings roaring under the harsh light and loud shower, Erik scrubbed off the long day and fired off a text canceling his next evening with Nadir.

The next morning he got one back.

Absolutely not. I'm having coffee withdrawal.

...

"I know what you're doing, Erik," Nadir said as Erik carefully spooned the foam for his coffee.

Erik set the coffee in front of him in silence, then prepared the pot for the next round.

"I know, and if you think it will help, you are terribly wrong."

"It will be easier, and how can that be a bad thing?" Erik huffed. He shuffled a stack of papers into order and set them by the piano to make room for the chess board. "It will make everything easier," he said softly, then began arranging the pieces.

Nadir brought his cup and sat on the other side. "You cannot avoid complications. You just have to find which are the real ones and which are distractions. Then run headlong at the real and tell the distractions to get bent." The coffee was good. Since Erik paid attention to details, it always was. How such an intelligent man could be so attentive to a cup of coffee but not his own needs was… well it was sort of how Nadir came to have this obtuse conversation.

The game was set and it was Erik's turn to begin, so of course he stood and went to the kitchen for more wine. "I'm trying to tell them to get bent in the nicest way I know how."

"Real things won't take orders, Erik. That's why they're the real ones."

"Says you." Erik returned, full glass in hand and already eyeing the board.

"Well, I am a doctor of the mind. Give me a little credit."

Erik's opening move was strong and Nadir responded in kind. "I only want what's best. For everyone."

Lord, he was using the English opening. Erik was being predictable today. "My friend, you need to stop thinking about what's best for everyone. Let everyone else figure it out for themselves and start working out how to do the same for yourself."

That threw him, but would not not for long. Nadir would have to protect a knight in the next three moves. Erik debated one move and then chose another. "Did you?"

Nadir had him, and made a move. "Of course."

Erik glanced up from the board, eyes suddenly wide and rimmed in drama. "How?"

God, this coffee was good. "I grew past my former self." Erik blinked and sat back, half forgetting the game. Nadir took another sip and held up the little cup in salute. "And now I appreciate cardamom in my coffee. Why, what did you think I was talking about?"

Slack jawed was not a good look on Erik, but he carried it off better than one might expect.

...

A week later, high school performers sang an acapella benefit concert, followed by a cello duet. Parents left bouquets strewn across the school, and the arrangements ended up scattered in various offices. Erik plucked a particularly nice rose from one and tucked it into Christine's jacket.

The evening before, after a second coffee, Nadir had reminded him that if Christine was interested, as he thought she was, she would make it clear. Since Erik had never had to try before, he had to pay more attention now. Some women were more subtle than others, and some just needed time.

"Now, my little Cara, she is bold. When I was slow, she made sure to let me know when to pick up the pace."

"Nadir!"

"Erik, I am living my little life and you should too."

So here he was, hoping she took it the right way.

She wore the rose in her hair when she came that evening. Erik's hands itched to tuck more into her curls. Instead he stretched his hands and picked up their last conversation right where they had left off.

"You mentioned some of the roles you understudied. What were some of your favorites?"

Christine shrugged. "I took what I could get. While I could."

Erik frowned. "While you could?" He hated the taste of those words.

"When I was getting started out, I started seeing someone. His family were local patrons, huge in the theater community, endowments and that sort of thing."

Oh, Erik thought. There was no way this story had a happy ending. Not when she was here and not on stage. "What happened?"

"Nothing." Christine's usually bright voice was flat and blunt. "Nothing happened. The guy I was seeing didn't support me, so the calls just… stopped."

The timeline was shaky. How did this all fit together, he wondered. "And your father? You said he was in the symphony?" That hadn't been in her Facebook. Not where he'd looked anyway.

Christine shrugged. "He had to retire around that time." She plucked the flower from her hair and touched the softening petals. "You know, the old school guys lived as hard as they worked. Up all night, smoking and playing. He got… sick. Then he died two years later. After he passed, his old friends were helping me but when they passed, the roles weren't there anymore."

Erik had to force his hands to unclench. What a petty bastard, carelessly ruining another person's dreams because they were thoughtless. To add to her burdens. "I'm so sorry Christine."

"My career dried up. So, even though I went back, finished school and hustled, I couldn't find a single audition. I had to start over." She gave a weak smile and looked around. "Voila. Here I am."

She thought she was middling, unremarkable. Someone had put that thought there. To what end, Erik could not imagine, but it muted her, dulled her shine, and then… what? What had brought her to this? What could make it better?

He had an idea. It wasn't much, but it was something. Erik pulled some papers from a folder and handed it to her. "Here. We'll do this today."

As Christine looked them over, he turned down the lights in the room. Softer light would help her relax, help her unwind.

She flipped through the sheets and looked up at him. "I can't remember the last time I sang this."

Erik retreated to the keyboard and waited until she stood by, determination holding her firm against whatever was pressing down on her.

Christine bit her lip as she stared down at the papers. "Erik, I…I only understudied for this part, like I said. I wasn't very good at it and I never even went on…" Christine rambled.

Erik held up a hand to stop her protests. "You'll remember."

Steeling her nerves and straightening, she let out a large breath and nodded to him to begin.

Today would be different. She needed it. Erik pushed her harder that day and she rose to meet his challenge. She flung herself into the warm ups, followed his instructions to release her neck and sing from her heart, not her mind, and forget the words. To just sing.

She was pink with effort and delight when Erik joined in. A true duet, not just two people singing at each other. And God help him, she was singing for him; that sensual voice of hers filling the room. He meant to mark his own part, letting her take the lead, but she locked her eyes with his and there was no way to deny her. She pulled the song from him and gave it more life.

He joined his voice with hers passionately. They shook the air in the room and it coursed in his veins like lightning, igniting him from the inside out. The veins in Christine's neck stood out as she threw herself into every note.

He wanted to liberate her—from the past, from disappointments and pain. Give her wings.

And when the song reached its climax, she did not fly. She soared.

When they finished, her forehead was bright with sweat, panting for breath. Illuminated.

"You're incredible," she said, awed, and ran her hands through her wild hair. Erik's hands itched to run through the curls, but he sat still, preening under her praise. "That was amazing. Together, we're… I didn't know I could sound like that."

"I did," Erik blurted. He looked down. "I knew." He wiped his sweating palms on his trousers, tension tightening his back.

She went still and Erik, resolutely avoiding her gaze, organized his music. As he closed his folders, he could sense her at his left shoulder. A light touch. Warm, spreading warmth, loosening him. He leaned towards her. Didn't mean to; couldn't help it. The heat was still in his blood, molten from their high. It was too much.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Erik froze. If he was professional, he would have acknowledged her thanks and ended the lesson. If he was a kind teacher, he would have reached up and patted her hand. If he was suave, he'd grin up at her. But he was none of these, and he needed to feel something.

Erik leaned close and nudged her arm with his cheek. Touch, skin-to-skin touch, warm and real that moved against him. It ached, a tenderness so intense he feared he would whimper.

She needed to leave. Now, before he embarrassed them both.

Erik began to straighten up, desperate to navigate this back into safer territory. Once he moved, she would take her hand away and they could go back to being instructor and pupil. Indeed, the hand began to lift—

And lightly touched his cheek. Just a touch.

Erik jerked his face away from before he realized what he had done.

"I'm sorry, Erik, I-"

"No, I just…" He struggled to speak. When he turned back, Christine was wringing her hands.

"No," he said, "I'm just not… not used to …" His throat tightened and choked off his words as he tried to gesture to the space between them. Too much space between them, not enough. What was she seeing now? A crumpled wretch, on the verge of falling off his chair? The room was spinning, and he needed something to hold or he was going to slip down. He needed…

He needed to feel something.

Slowly he turned back and she was still standing there… waiting.

Before he could think, Erik reached for her, pressing her hand to his unmarred cheek as he spun on the bench. The warmth spread as she rested the other palm on his shoulder, then smoothed over his shirt in an embrace.

An embrace. The very idea blazed. The whimper grew into a moan and he pressed forward, following her touch, wanting more of it. The movement of his head bumped her arm, her side, and her hands cradled his head, his neck. Erik wrapped his arms around her, her softness, the rise of her breath, the catch in it, and the curve of her side under her soft dance clothes and breathed in the smell of warm skin.

Christine hummed, exhaling, and the hand on her cheek traced over his jaw, just by his ear, and a shiver ran up his back, sending alarms off over every nerve ending. Dangerous. Uncharted.

Touch; the feel of it given, not taken. Without exam lights or notepads. Two people clinging to each other for comfort and something else. It was unbearably intimate, and as much as he wanted it to go on Erik wanted more than this and a hug was not the same as… other things. He turned his face towards Christine to breathe her in and steal just a second more before they needed some distance.

She was soft and true in his arms. Erik relaxed his hold and started to lean away. Like cool breeze and music; soft lights and warm water. Limbs rearranged, at once comfortable and sensual, soothing and stimulating. Cool air on his face.

Cool air on his face?

Christine's intake of breath was fast and deep, as though preparing to sing. Or scream.

Erik was dazed. As he'd nuzzled against her, the mask had been dislodged. In shock, he realized fully half of his horror was on display and under her hands. Touching him. Bare. Exposed.

A nasty voice murmured in his mind. Repulsive.

With a jolt, Erik jerked back, covering himself with a hand. His breath heaved, and he turned away from her.

"You should go."

Christine stiffened, eyes wide and brows knit, as her hand remained suspended where his face had been.

"Erik?"

"I can't do this. I'm not your Quasimodo."

She gasped and jerked back. "That's not-"

He cut her off, pressing his hand harder to his face, clutching at the gnarled twists. "Go. Please." He was begging. She could not be here for this. Too fast, he couldn't handle whiplash like this. It bubbled up his chest in a rush and stung his eyes. It was already too late; he felt the first hot tears break free.

"I'm sorry," she gasped on a broken cry. "I'm so sorry, Erik." She ran out, flinging the door open to bang against the wall.

Once she was out of sight, Erik let out a sob. It wracked his bones, shook the abandoned pages from the piano, and curled his fingers into claws. In his own ears, strangely detached, it was inhumanly sad, full of loneliness and despair. She would hear it and know what a terrible, pathetic thing she had touched.

He lurched off the piano bench into a spindly heap. He didn't deserve her kindness and compassion. She'd spent enough of herself caring for her father, she didn't need to waste her time on him. He didn't deserve whatever this was turning into—he was dangerous, negligent, and no amount of settlement payouts would bring back Nadir's family. He was poisonous. Polluted. Corrosive. Jesus, just look at him.

Wait...

A whisper in his mind said stop. A trickle of self awareness. Newly found, and as delicate as a strand.

Erik sighed. If knew Nadir these thoughts, he would disrupt the happiness his friend had found. Nadir would worry, and when Nadir worried, he abandoned everything but Erik, and Nadir had just gotten his life back. He could not do to Nadir what had been done to Christine. Not any longer, not when they'd both come so far.

He owed Nadir this, so Erik unfolded himself and surveyed the whirl of papers around him. With an ache that wasn't there before, he picked them up, ordering them as he went, and carefully set Christine's aside for her to collect next week.

If she came back.

If Christine came back, he would be nothing but professional. No more personal details, teasing, touching or flirting. That was over. It was enough that she came and allowed him the privilege of helping her blossom.

It would have to be enough. It could never be any more.

Facing the wall, half in shadow, he lifted his mask off and wiped his face. Salt was hard on his skin.

A movement out of the corner of his eye shifted his focus to the movement behind him. An outline in the doorway. He hastily shoved the mask back into place and turned.

She looked small, arms tucked to her sides and feet together. Nothing like the woman who sang like it was a victory. Erik hated that he had done that.

"Christine," he breathed.

"Erik," she said softly, stepping into the room cautiously. She swallowed hard. "I couldn't leave… I couldn't leave you like that. No one should be so… alone." Christine set down her bag and walked slowly to the piano to retrieve her music.

Hope is the blade that cuts through darkness, but it also makes you bleed.

He swallowed. "I'm always alone."

Time curved around them, lending strange speed to her movement. Fluid, slow, and careful. Christine was careful to stay in full view as she approached, and as she stepped into the dim light, Erik saw the blotchy patches around her eyes, and the streaks down her face. She reached to him and took his hand in hers.

"Not if you don't want to be."

Erik's chest tightened. Bruising pressure. Shaky breaths. In and out.

Her light touch holding his too-thin fingers.

"Forgive me," he whispered, raising her hand, his lips grazing the back of her hand. So tender against his mouth. Another touch, on his shoulder, soothing, stroking him lightly, gently. Too much and not enough.

"There's nothing to forgive." The backs of her fingers stroked his cheek, down the unscarred side of his neck and back again. The rise and fall of her breaths against his chest, so close. What had Nadir said? Pay attention. Erik turned his face to those fingertips and kissed them again.

Her breath caught, and she did not move away. The mask obscured her only slightly, but she was looking at him, not the mask. His eyes. His jaw and… lips.

The first brush made him gasp. A pull, a light slide, a whisper of breath across his uncovered face set the rest of him sparking. Her name broke from his mouth and she came for the sound of it. There was trace of salt that disappeared as soon as he recognized it. Then soft, soft-wet and warm. How did he live without this, the way she wrapped one arm over and one under his, clamping him close. Without the little pulls at his lip asking for attention so that he had to give it. What else were his lips for? And the little sounds she made tasted like rain and sounded like a symphony.

He wondered what he tasted like. She seemed to like it.

She finally let him go, and inhaled deeply. He'd been stealing her breath. "Christine?"

"You're not alone, Erik."

"Why?" The question wrenched itself from deep inside.

She picked up her things and came back, wrapping one arm around him before kissing his cheek. "Because I want to be with you." Another kiss, softer this time, and then a gentle good night.

Erik stood, rooted to the spot for entire minutes. He touched his lips and marveled at their faint swelling. When his feet found the floor once again, he gathered his things and went home.

How to unpack the evening was beyond him, so he settled for unloading his bag and eating whatever was handy. He had not broken down like that in years. Somewhere, lost among the endless sunrises and flipped pages of calendars, he'd stopped caring. It wasn't even a matter of about what, he'd just… stopped.

A wave of sensation rushed over him. If this is what caring felt like now, then why did he feel so lost? Erik walked his house, searching for an anchor to hold and found nothing. There were no books he wanted to read, no movie or show he wanted watch. There was just the restless ache in his legs and the churning under his skin that refused to calm. So he shifted, one chair to the next, hoping to find a position that didn't make him want to crawl away from his own bones.

He wanted to wrap around hers.

As he paced his house, he found himself humming her little song. He toyed with it as she did, and his eyes fell upon a scribbled motif of his aria. In his whirling mind, the two songs began to intertwine, wreathing and decorating each other.

Dizzy, his mind tangled in their music, he turned around and raced down the hall to his piano, flinging paper and snatching pens, scribbling in the moonlight, long after dawn, and into the night once again.

...