As adept as he was with many things, Erik had never needed to control the expression on his face. Until a little over a year ago, he hadn't a face to speak of; the mask had been his most prominent feature. The mask was what everyone saw. It was different, now. Erik glanced toward the door, knowing it was closed but needing to see the sign of privacy all the same. His teeth clamped together as he debated. It was not a small thing, the truth.
"It would stand to reason," Erik said, "That one so gifted in portraying the nuances of a score would find the nuances in those around him. You aren't incorrect."
The quiet after his words was both inviting and intimidating. Erik breathed out and eyed the cuff of his suit jacket. Under it, and under the edge of those black gloves he never seemed to take off in the company of others, were thick lines of white scars. They comprised only a fraction of the tokens of humanity marking his body. Erik imagined Hannibal had seen them all. But seeing them and knowing what they stood for were two things entirely. One could draw conclusions, but never have the full, sordid story. Erik shifted in his seat.
"Before I came here," Erik said carefully, "I lived a somewhat different life." He paused again. Finally he shook his head. The rest... Must stay unsaid. "Suffice it to say that my interactions with humanity were..." No. Erik stopped altogether, drawing himself straight in the chair. With that movement, the vapor of vulnerability dispersed. He was again the man who wore power and authority like skin. "Friendship does not come easily, Hannibal. That is all that you are seeing. You can rest assured that you have done nothing to deserve my reticence. I trust you will indulge me when you sense it again."