Actions are loud and hard to misunderstand.

Bleary even for a Monday, Erik dropped his bag onto his recital room desk and turned on his computer. Most mornings he took a minute to copy over new midi files from his flash drive and let his eyes skim over the file labeled Thing. But not today. He'd managed to go all weekend without looking at it. Unfortunately he'd also not bothered to check his email before leaving home, so he immediately logged in.

God, he hated opening attachments. There was no escaping the school-wide group email. He used to delete them immediately but now he scoured them for glimpses of Christine with her little dancers.

Sometimes she was in tights, other times she wore a costume. It was adorable.

He must be brewing a headache. There was no other explanation for this nonsense. Too many nights composing without sleep. Sleep was a boring distraction when he was writing.

So, coffee. His cup from home was still hot.

And Christine. What kind of reception could he expect after last week? The weekend had been an exercise in dawning self awareness. A whole weekend of wordless pacing, composition, and reflection. If music was a language, he'd been pouring his soul out in drops across a staff.

Erik's hands stalled over the keyboard. He'd avoided the mirror, his reflection, all weekend. It hurt to think about. By the piano, in the shadows she'd seen enough to know what was under the mask, feel a little of what was there. Seen the edge of the hairpiece. And yet she'd come back.

I want to be with you.

His lips still tingled.

A rude ping announcing a message from Dr. Allen made Erik jump, suddenly back in his desk chair. He scanned through it, then read it again to be sure.

He stood up quickly and looked around. The acoustic foam was ragged, sure, and the chipped desk and chair were a bit… dated. The carpets had seen better days. But… a total remodel of his recital room? He'd have to use Reyer's for the staff vocals. He'd have to roam around to find space to work on the arrangements.

And… oh damn.

…

"Nadir, I need to talk to you. Now."

Two minutes later, Erik's phone rang. He put it on speakerphone so he could continue pacing his office, wringing his hands.

"I have an appointment in ten minutes, my friend."

"They're remodeling my room."

"Lovely! I always thought your master was a little stark. Are you doing the bathroom as well?"

"No, damn it. My recital room. At the school. They're so delighted with the work I'm doing that they're kicking me out."

Silence. "That's… good? Isn't it?"

Erik spun around and gripped the edge of his crumbling desk. "I'll have to do the morning vocals in Reyer's rooms. He collects dragon figurines and his office smells like microwavable burritos. They're getting me a rolling cart to go from room to room like some traveling side show."

"But you'll have the nicest office when they're done."

"That's not the issue," Erik snarled.

"Ah," Nadir hummed, suddenly enlightened. "Your after-hours work. Your protégé."

"Christine. Her name is Christine."

Nadir was quiet. "Have you gone slow?"

Erik let go of the desk and stood, his hand slapping to his side weakly. "Sort of."

"What does that mean?"

What did it mean? Erik ran his hands over his chest, where the heat had blossomed while they sang together. Rubbed at his sternum where flutters had clutched his chest tight.

"We sang a duet," Erik managed.

"Is that a metaphor? Slang?"

"Don Pasquale," Erik clarified. "Tornami. The love duet."

Nadir was quiet, and Erik imagined he could hear a teapot being prepared. "Promising. And how did you feel?"

Erik closed his eyes and allowed his senses to recall the moment. He'd floated, sparkling, alight. Words were empty, yet could not contain the feeling. "For a moment, Nadir, we were… angels." Erik was breathless, his arms flung wide as he let it wash over him. They'd soared!

"So what happened?" Nadir asked.

They'd crashed. A thousand ants crawled over his skin with their tiny clawed feet. "She saw. Under."

Quiet. A sigh. "You should have called me sooner." Another sigh. "Did she scream?"

Strange that those words should sound so… flat. "No, but…"

"You did not react well, I take it." Nadir knew every one of his misdirected nerve endings.

"No. I yelled. I made her leave." Memory, wrapped in shame and topped with a bow. And yet… "But Nadir, she came back. She came back, and... then she kissed me."

"Well, bravo!" Nadir said cheerfully.

Erik clawed at his face, wishing he could just tear it away. Why did he have to be this way? Quivering and needy and raw and alive with no excuse for it. Old thoughts shook off their dust and clamored at his mind.

"How can you say that? How can you sound so happy? You lost-"

"Silence. Do not do this. I do not give you permission to use them like this. You will not use me to hold yourself back, do you understand me?" The sound of Nadir's breaths, heavy with old grief, drowned out Erik's own. When it quieted, Nadir spoke again. "So. She came back?"

With a shudder, Erik recalled. "She came back. She… held me."

"My friend," Nadir began. "You are in trouble."

Erik dropped his arms. "Help me."

"You own a piano. Help yourself."

"So?"

Nadir groaned. "If you cannot solve this, I will call the university and ask them to revoke your degree."

Have her in his home? When things had changed so much? "I can't do that. What would she think?"

"Despite your best efforts, she might get the idea that you like her and maybe for more than just her voice. She seems to reciprocate; give the woman some credit! You can figure it out from there, but be honest with her. When is her next session? Tonight?"

"Yes."

"If she comes, you have what you're looking for."

"I don't know-"

"I have to go, Erik. My appointment is here. We'll talk soon."

"Fine."

"No," Nadir said quickly. "Erik, we will talk soon."

Erik nodded at the phone's glowing screen. "Thank you, Nadir."

…

Odd. Every ring and alert on a phone, every crack of laughter, blast of a car horn, or dull grind of machinery was a sensation that pressed or splashed over his skin, yet when he was the maker, his own hands coaxing notes from an instrument- there was peace.

You can't tickle yourself, either, but that didn't make it any less interesting.

No one should be alone. Huh. Christine wasn't the first person to say that to him. Wasn't the first to say it when he was vulnerable. He might not be able to tickle himself, but the thought made a warm wave ripple over him.

After finishing the day's work, Erik shelved binders and closed software, his head light as air and full of funny ideas. Had he fooled himself? Misinterpreted Christine's smiles and stories, her flirting? The shared music?

Had she?

Erik stacked his books of Italian arias and lined them up on his shelf by size. Then he dropped his pens into a black cup and gathered up the day's sticky notes.

He was not a fool; life had not been so sweet as to let him delude himself. Reality played a starring role in his mirror every day.

Shared voices.

I want to be with you.

The room was as tidy as it was going to get, and he still had twenty minutes until the lesson.

...

At six twenty-five, Christine crept into the recital room and gave a shy smile. He seen that smile in her posts, preparing for auditions and final exams. But if she was nervous, Erik felt a mess, at once skittish and resigned, braced for any conversation opener from the usual 'how did it happen' to 'how can you sing like that?'

She set her bag down and took a deep breath. "Are you feeling better?"

He hadn't prepared for that. No one but Nadir ever asked. "I- yes."

"Good," she said firmly. "Because I spent all weekend trying to figure out what to say today and couldn't come up with anything better."

"Oh."

She pulled her music binder from her bag and hugged it. "I think it's your turn."

Words. He needed words. Monosyllabic jibberish wasn't enough. Letters floated and skated across his tongue until a few landed.

"The school is going through some changes. Specifically in this room."

"You're leaving?" She asked suddenly, leaning forward. The binder groaned in protest. "Is it because of…"

"No! No, they're remodeling." Christ, he could have done better than that, except that she was here and Nadir said that would mean something. "Allen says it's because I've updated so much of the program, but what it means is that I'm losing my recital room and office while the work is going on. Which means, I won't have a place for our… time."

"Oh," Christine said, and plucked at the hem of her shirt. "I, um. I understand. How long will the work take?"

He shrugged. "They're saying six weeks."

"Oh," she said on a soft breath. Swallowing hard, she gave him a watery smile. "But you don't think so?"

"I think it should take a month. As a contractor, I would say closer to three. Give or take." Just as Erik was about to suggest his alternative, Christine interrupted.

"I'm really going to miss this." She reached out a hand and patted the piano fondly and Erik felt the pang of proxy affection. "Maybe we can start again afterwards? If you, um, still have time?"

Erik had given the 'maybe we need space' talk once. He'd started it a little like that, so he leapt to end the idea.

"Well, I was wondering… if you wouldn't be uncomfortable, that is… I mean, I have a piano. You know, at home." Erik rolled up his sleeves a little and patted the trusty upright. A full two inches of scarring was visible on his arm. Was he testing her, or himself? Hard to say. "It's even nicer than this one. What do you say?"

Her mouth was hanging open. Not much. Not enough to catch flies or anything but enough that she was surprised when she took a breath to speak and found she was halfway there. She'd crushed her music a bit, too.

"You're not wearing your cufflinks."

"I usually do."

Christine blinked, then looked at his sleeves. His arms. "You're not right now."

"I don't wear them to play. They hit the keys and it's distracting." Oh look, he'd made his own opening. He could be smooth. Couldn't he? A little? Erik very unsmoothly cleared his throat. "And, you know, I'm pretty distracted already so… I can't handle any more, um, distractions."

Christine cocked her head to the side. "Are you saying that I'm distracting?"

"Maybe?"

She giggled. Bells, raindrops on glass. Scattered light off facets.

He knew how to be cutting and clever or academic and calculating, but but he didn't know how to be sincere and open. Maybe Nadir had been right all those years ago. Now he'd been wearing a mask for far too long.

"When do you lose this room?"

"In two weeks, but, maybe…" He was about to cross a big bridge here. If she stepped across with him… This is what Nadir was always telling him to do, right? To live? It was easy when she was smiling at him. "Maybe you might like to get accustomed to the space sooner?"

A few curls had fallen free of her artful twists and they bounced when she looked up. "I'd like that," she said. "And I'm not saying that because it's a nicer piano."

…

There were no full mouthed kisses that session, but there had been a kiss on his cheek. Not a quick friendly one, either. This… lingered. Her breath by his ear.

Her voice had been round and clear and lent a mineral note to the room; a tang of height and space, of buttresses and arches. Erik filled his lungs and held it in.

He finally shut down the computer and pulled the flash drive. What a funny thing it was, with it's little reminders. Well-trod thoughts, deep tracks to follow. By the time he was home, a new thought was taking root, not quite fully formed but inescapable. Like a good melody, this idea needed time to form.

…

Nadir spooned sauce over his fish and sighed when his host sprang from the table once again. Since their first meeting and over the more than decade since, he'd known Erik as a man of constant, buzzing energy. This, however, was completely ridiculous.

"Sit, Erik," he said as a flurry of movement circled the coffee table. "Whatever it is, it can wait until after you eat."

"I'm just moving these papers."

Erik shuffled a stack into tidy order and sat. Then did it twice more. Finally, Nadir had seen enough and as Erik nudged away from the table yet again, he stood and clamped a hand on Erik's shoulder.

"It can wait, Erik. Sit and eat with me."

With a sigh, Erik sat and laid his napkin back in his lap. Nadir eyed him suspiciously until he was chewing. "So, nervous?"

The fork clattered. "You're enjoying this," Erik groused, and took a deep swallow of wine.

"Just an observation. And the fish is excellent. That's another observation."

"Thank you, Sherlock," Erik mumbled around a mouthful.

Nadir laughed. "I'm more of a Dr. Watson, don't you think?" Erik's elaborate eyeroll, enhanced by partially blocked delivery from behind the mask, was prodigious. It was a wonder he wasn't dizzy afterwards. They ate quietly for another minute, then Erik began to shift in his chair like a child.

He looked around, face painted with distraction. "Does this place need color? I could get some pillows or put away the black and white stuff?"

"She's not coming for the decor, my friend."

Erik huffed. "I know, I know, but… I mean. It's so…" The words faded even if the meaning didn't.

"Again, that's not why she's coming."

"You've got art and… things. Your style might be what got you a girl."

"I'm almost sixty, I do not have a girl. Besides, Cara and I have been together nearly a year. What you don't realize is that the first thing I had to do was let Rook go." Erik may have jerked at the mention of her name, but Nadir had loved her and buried her. "It was only after I put the last of her things away that I could move on."

"But you loved her."

The little clench in Nadir's chest was still there, only smaller. His heart no longer threatened to burst. "I still do. Nothing will change that."

"I can't just put this away," Erik said, waving his hand by the mask.

"No, but you can come to terms with it." This was what it had come to. All these years and Erik hadn't really fully dealt with it all. Guilt and shame and self loathing had mangled itself across his brow. Nadir lifted his waterglass. "Christine seems to have."

"She hasn't see everything." Erik's eyes fixed upon his plate, prodding the fish as sauce slid between the flakes.

"She saw how big the mask is. She knows there's more."

Erik looked up. "How can you be so sure?"

For such an intelligent man, Erik's blind spots were large enough to drive entire dreams through. It endeared him to Nadir so much that he could not help but berate and advise him. Nadir rose and took his plate with him to the sink, then brought the chessboard to the table.

"I'm counting on it. Don't disappoint me."

…

Erik played the worst chess of his life that night. Nadir beat him two games to one and only let out a rumbling laugh when Erik had suggested best of five.

"My friend, you need less strategy and more sleep." Nadir had drained his water glass. "You need to relax."

Erik had snapped to his feet, animated with enough nervous energy to power a small city. "I'll make coffee."

"Fine. Just don't drink any."

Erik served only one to his old friend before the evening ended on a two-two tie and Nadir left for the evening, promising to be available until seven the next evening.

"I promised Cara sushi this Friday."

"But that's when Christine's coming!"

Nadir grinned devilishly. "Heaven works mysteriously, does it not?" He turned serious for a moment. "And Erik, please, whatever is holding you back, cut it away. Nothing soars that is tied to the ground."

...

The hard drive was slick in his hands as Erik turned it over and over, fingertips familiar with every corner and the distances between. There was the mark where it was scuffed (dropped once), and the scratch by the port (when he'd stolen the data in the first place). It was pointless to spend his time thinking about what held him back. He'd had a decade to think about it and it always came back to that moment. Not the pain, the heat, the surgeries or the time in school.

It wasn't even the deaths. Exactly. Not quite.

Erik shifted on the couch and examined the hard drive again. Shiny on one side, matte on the other. He'd kept so much garbage on it, from music and articles and his old school files to recipes and other digital bric-a-brac. Nothing had been loaded onto it since the brief, disastrous return to the architecture firm when he found the trail and followed it, copying everything he touched, unsure of relevance but certain the landscape could not be trusted.

How could you trust after all that?

Yet... It wasn't the deaths. It was the sliver of doubt that the original investigation, the one that found the contractor culpable, was wrong. That he really had been derelict or negligent and yet lived; sensitive, scarred, but alive. That he had ended people who had brought beauty into the world.

The hard drive's shiny side slid through his fingers. Poor design. It was how the scuff mark had got there. It might not even work anymore after being dropped. Electronics were like that.

If the first lesson at his place went well, he'd check. He'd plug it in and attempt to start up the ten year old hard drive. If it did, he'd work out the next step after that.

…

Friday was surreal, and not just because the first crew was crawling over his office and recital room like insects, extending their measuring tape proboscises across every edge and surface. Intermittent questions Erik had no answers for ranged from the year the room was built and the name of the contractor who installed the acoustics to what colors was he planning to base the design around. The disruptions were annoying but tolerable right up until the emails started coming from Dr. Allen. Lists of links and attached carpet catalogs were the last straw.

He needed a break from the chatter and constant zip-snap of measuring tapes.

It was also surreal because something was changing. There would be a lesson, but at his home. At the lovely living room grand piano and the digital composition keyboard. In his home. His space.

But first, coffee. The kitchens were empty, so Erik filled his cup and debated the wisdom of returning to his office so soon. If he went back, he'd be sucked back into the disordered noise of the crew and be on Allen's radar, badgered about his preference for one shade of gray over another. Erik dropped his phone on a table, sat, and let his eyes cross. He faced the wall for a moment and nudged at the mask. Pressure was nothing to mess with.

His phone vibrated, crawling across the table. Another email from Allen, this one about office furniture. Erik turned his phone face down and looked for anything to distract himself. There were always magazines and catalogs in here, and he reached for the closest one.

Dance gear. Why not. Christine's leggings and wrap tops didn't spring from nowhere. The era of pink tutus was long past and now sleek angles of soft fibers and gauze were more common. Erik flipped through and learned a new appreciation for the art of descriptive writing when 'flowing' was differentiated from 'graceful'.

"You know," a familiar voice from the doorway said. There was a smile in the words. "If you want, I can tell you which ones have better seams, but I have a feeling we need different fits."

The little smirk on Christine's face widened when Erik looked up. "Tempting, but I think I prefer the orchestra pit."

She pushed away from the doorway and headed toward the counter. "You're probably right." Before Erik could overthink what she meant by that, she filled her coffee cup and turned. "I'd hate to miss your playing."

He wrapped his hands around his warm cup. "I'd hate to disappoint."

Smooth. That was smooth, and Christine did a poor job hiding her smile behind her cup. Erik knew he was smiling back and that probably ruined his flirt, but he didn't care. They were past pretending this was casual interest, no matter how unpracticed he was. Erik motioned to the chair to his left, and Christine glanced at the clock before sitting next to him.

"I only have a few minutes. Meg's class and mine are drilling with Madame Giry, so they'll be nice and tired by the time I get them back."

"Sounds like you have firsthand experience."

She laughed, wincing. "Madame is old school. You know, if my voice work keeps improving," she began.

"There's at least three choirs who would love to have you right now. I could put in a word." Erik offered.

Christine's smile glowed. "I'll definitely think about it."

Like a pair of grinning idiots, they sat staring at each other, on the verge of leaning in but this was work and other coffee lovers might walk in at any moment. A moment later, one did. It broke the mood but not the warmth that made it.

"Are we still on for tonight?" she asked. Words again, and Erik weighed four variations on 'yes'.

"Oh yeah." Of course, he settled on the worst one. "I'll text you the address," he said quickly, and reached for his phone. When hers pinged, she looked at the screen and smiled.

"That's not far from my roommate's guy. I'll get a ride with her."

Erik was back at his desk, pleasantly buzzing with anticipation for nearly a quarter of an hour when Carlotta and Piangi came in. He'd not prepared at all.

…

Christine waved at her ride when Erik opened the door, and the late model Audi pulled away with a snappy honk. The driver's wave was barely visible through the tinted windows.

"Your roommate?" Erik didn't know many ballerinas who drove luxury vehicles.

"Yeah," Christine laughed. "Don't be fooled. Gia Sorelli just knows when to accept gifts."

"Huh. The boyfriend?" Erik held the door and took Christine's purse. She was carrying her music binder. Only her music binder.

"He lives a few blocks away. I think the plan is to use me as the excuse to leave, then wait the appropriate amount of time before accepting his invitation to stay the night." She went ahead of him and left him watching as the glinting silver car left the street. "She's either going to be minted or broke at the end of this."

To be fair, it was probably a bit too much to hope she'd bring a bag. "Who's the guy?"

"Trust fund baby. Owns a football team and has to have the most beautiful woman in the room on his arm."

Erik closed the door and set Christine's purse on the couch. "Sounds like a quality guy."

A soft snort of laughter. "Gia's got brains. He doesn't, but no one seems to hold that against him, least of all Gia."

"Glad it's working out for her." Erik filled glasses of water and paused in the kitchen. Was that what this was? Was he supposed to go car shopping next? He held out a glass for her.

She took it and drank. "She's happy. She wanted a patron, and isn't crude enough to be picky about it. I would have shoved him down the stairs by now, but we want very different things, I guess. "

Erik rolled up his cuffs. It was a full ten seconds before he asked the obvious. "What do you want?"

A hint of a smile and a twinkle. How dare she twinkle in his house where he had no defense against it. Against her. No office and emails or children dashing in and out by a kitchen. Just the two of them and all the privacy in the world.

She smiled. "I want an accompaniment."

He was most sincerely, utterly screwed.

…

The lesson was genuinely a lesson. They didn't sprawl out across the piano or fling themselves at each other during a duet or any other scenarios his mind had unhelpfully conjured. They did, however, hold each other's eyes too long, with enough intensity to make his head swim. More than once he had to look back to the keyboard or risk flubbing a measure.

Scales swooped and grace notes sparkled. If it was possible to paint with sound, Christine added color and curves where his house was muted and smooth, sculpting the very air with bright trills and wide dramatic strokes. Notes hung in the air, as if the walls were pleased to cling to them, the hallway absorbing the sound for later. Even his house seemed taken with her.

After they worked though a baroque piece and Erik was prepared to call it a night, her phone chirped, and Christine checked her texts. "Gia will be here in ten minutes."

Erik stood from the piano and stretched. "How'd that last one feel?" It sounded amazing, but how it felt in the body was another matter. Best not to phrase it that way.

Christine downed half of her water and gasped to catch her breath. "Great! I don't know, but I think your house just makes me sound good."

"You relaxed. You were free." Erik shuffled papers together and went for water. "A free voice is a beautiful voice."

Tap water was hardly cold this time of year, so Erik took his glass to the freezer and dug out some ice. When he stood, about to close the freezer, Christine was joining him in the kitchen.

"That could apply to a lot of things, don't you think?" She said, tugging her cardigan close as she cooled. "Beauty isn't the absence of flaws."

Wordlessly, Erik took her glass and went to refill it. "That's generous."

"Maybe." Christine's usually perfect posture was loose and fluid as she leaned back and hopped up on the kitchen island.

Erik dropped ice into the glass. He avoided these kinds of conversations. Beauty may be on the inside, but he wasn't willing to unzip his chest to give everyone a chance to find out.

The big cubes cracked musically as water poured over them. He didn't hold it against her. Not Christine, who had been down hard roads herself. But it was one thing to take care of your suffering father; it was something else to touch ugliness. To be ugly.

Ugly could be so much more than what was in a reflection.

He turned off the tap and turned to hand her the glass. "Words are easy to say, Christine." When she didn't reach to take it, Erik stepped closer to set it on the counter. Her hand on his shoulder made him stop.

"Yes, they are."

Curious, Erik looked up and, in the space of a heartbeat, all went still and the questions were wiped out and replaced with a multiplicity of new ones, like how had she moved so quickly and had he ever kissed up like this before? Hands on his shoulders drifted to his neck, sending shivers across his face and down his back.

It was a quick, sipping thing, this kiss. The funny thing about that was, the moment Christine drew back, he followed. Surprise could paralyze him for only so long when this was all he'd been thinking of for days. Erik followed her until his knees were mashed against the cabinets and hers were on either side of him.

Her lips slid against his, her chin and nose nudging the mask until she delicately pivoted the lower part to the side.

"Christine, no," Doubt of many shades bubbled up and Erik was about to pull away, to clap a hand against the mask to secure it, when he was pulled by his shirt and plunged headlong into slurring overtures, riots of sensation that quivered beneath his skin. There was no room in his mouth for protest because she took the space; he gladly gave it.

"Yes, Erik," Christine murmured, trailing her lips to his jaw. Warmth spiraled out and wrapped around his limbs. And she is blazing, her body pressed to his and her lips carving an arc, now on his cheekbone and by his eye. His brow.

She is a siren. The taste of salt on her neck is proof.

This may still go wrong. He may still be more than she wants or is prepared to deal with, but one more kiss on her cheek had her turning back to him and her lips met his once again. This one was different. It was hungry. Starving. Her lips parted again, twisting his insides into looping knots as he gasped a breath and was drawn in deeper.

Their hands were roaming, grips tightening, when a staccato honk came from the front of the house, ending the kiss with their breaths loud in their ears. They skipped banalities and let their bright eyes and bruised lips do the talking as she gathered her things.

Erik shifted the mask back into place, and when Christine's eyes clouded for a brief second, he knew it would be soon. Not tonight, but soon. Then another kiss at the door, soft lipped and full of more to come. That was the only reason he could bear to let her go.

She was in the car and driving away when Erik closed the door, then collapsed against it, sliding down to the floor. The walls had seen it, and the kitchen could attest. Witnesses for when Nadir asked the inevitable. On wobbly legs, Erik walked to his desk and opened the drawer. The hard drive slid forward, bunching up a few notepads and pens, and Erik snatched it out and lugged it in to his desktop before he could think twice.

The light on the hard drive blinked once, twice, and the thing whirred to life. A new window popped open and promptly filled in with dozens of files.

So it worked. He could figure the rest out tomorrow. For now he would lean back and let his mind relish the evening. If he tried, he could still hear her, gorgeous ricochets of colorful sound replayed in his mind and along his bones. Erik closed his eyes and drifted, lost in their pull, and gathered the ether in his arms to kiss her echoes.

...

The absence of flaws is not beauty.
The absence of cruelty is not kindness.
The absence of hate is not love.
We need more than the absence of things.
We need so much more.