after dark

as the hours pass

A/N: sooooooo i'm mentally ill and i have a mask k*nk. the movie "the boy" has kind of taken over my brain for the past few days - the plot follows after brahms kills cole in the movie (who here will remain unnamed). Y/N takes the place of Greta in this story. malcolm is pretty much irrelevant from here on out because i don't care about him. there will be smut in later chapters because brahms is absolutely submissive and breedable <3

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You groaned, rolling over as sunlight streamed in through the windows. You didn't recognize where you were immediately, but soon your eyes focused on the many toys that filled the room - Brahms' room.

Memories of the previous night flooded your brain.

Blood. Running through the walls of the Heelshire Mansion, trying to follow Malcolm out of the crawl-space to the outside. A sharp pain in your head.

And then... nothing.

You hoped Malcolm made it to town for help. Or at least a hospital - he had gotten whacked in the head pretty good.

Though not nearly as good as you had.

Rolling over, you tried to sit up. Your head abruptly started to spin, and you barely made it to the trashcan next to Brahms dresser before you threw up. You sat with your head between your knees, eyes squeezed tightly shut. After a long while, you finally felt well enough to open your eyes again.

You heard a soft creak behind you, and on reflex, you immediately scooched into a corner between the dresser and the door, hoping desperately to not be seen.

The memories of last night were starting to piece themselves together more solidly. Brahms was a real man. A real, very tall, human man. He had come out of the walls.

And he had killed your abusive ex-boyfriend. For which you were grateful for, more than anything. As you sat, digesting that thought, tears slipped from your eyes. You felt horribly for it - you had always been against killing in any capacity - but whenever you thought of your abusers cold, distant eyes, all you could feel was relief. Relief that he could no longer torment you and make you feel unsafe, wherever you went, even if it was a whole ocean away.

You were free.

And more than that, you were alone.

Or so you thought - you were reminded of Brahms' presence as the floor creaked once again.

Brahms had been living in these walls for the past 15 years. You could only imagine what that could do to someone's mind - how it could make them behave. Especially if his parents had treated him like a child on top of keeping him a secret.

Your gratitude at your tormentor being dead outweighed your apprehension and fear of Brahms, that much you knew. What you didn't know, though, is when you became the kind of person that forgave murder so quickly.

You wiped the back of your hands across your face, drying your tears.

"Brahms?" you called out softly.

You heard a shuffle from behind the door, and then saw his shoes appear around the corner from where you were hiding.

Next came his face, peering around the door like he was playing peek-a-boo. He simply gazed at you - the one eye you could see through his cracked mask glistened with tears. You looked at each other for a moment, gauging the others reaction.

You broke the silence, your voice rasping like chalk on a blackboard.

"Brahms... it's okay. I'm not mad."

He tilted his head to the side.

"I... thank you. For killing him."

Brahms' eyes widened. Then he disappeared, quick as a wink.

You cursed yourself internally. You hadn't meant to scare him off - but then again, weren't you the one supposed to be scared of him?

You stood up slowly, trying to get your bearings. You gingerly made your way to your room - you caught sight of yourself in your vanity mirror and grimaced. You didn't want to think about where that big nasty bruise on your forehead came from. The memories were still too fresh.

Still shell-shocked, you grabbed a fresh set of clothes and did the thing you knew would put you back in a semi-normal state of mind - shower. You made sure the door was locked and bolted, and even barricaded it with a chair under the door handle. You may not be upset with Brahms, but you were still wary of him. You knew what he was capable of, and you saw the doll he kept of you in his room.

The thought came back to you out of nowhere, and you stopped in your tracks, shaken to your core. Lord knows what he had done with that doll, wearing your dress.

You checked the walls for peep holes, but found none. Slowly, you stripped and stepped into the warm spray of water coming from the shower. You gradually began to relax as the water pounded into your back, and before you knew it you were sitting on the floor of the tub, weeping uncontrollably, the events and memories of the previous night finally catching up to you. You wept until your eyes were sore and your fingers were pruned.

Eventually you got a hold of yourself, and picked yourself up with great tenderness. You quickly soaped up and cleaned your hair and body.

When you came out of the shower, you noticed something on the floor.

A sandwich, with the crusts cut off. Your heart twisted strangely in your chest. 

Brahms sat cross-legged on the floor outside your bedroom door. You gave him a small smile, picking up the plate and eating cautiously. You didn't know if your body could handle food just yet. But, looking at Brahms posture slowly relaxing as you ate more and more of the sandwich, you found that you could stomach almost the whole sandwich.