dollhouse [brahms heelshire]

8

-nsfw in this chapter

When the sun rises on the Heelshire house, your bed is warm and the shades are closed. You feel hotness spread across your skin and you shuffled your legs beneath the blankets in discomfort.

Then, you felt him from behind. Brahms hugging your body close with his arms wrapped around your waist. He stayed.

You flickered your eyes, moving your head to get a better view of him. Before you're able to admire his sleeping features, you realize something.

This is not my room.

Memories from hours ago replay in your mind and you feel a wave of dysphoria. What time is it? Has it been a whole night since then? Just a few hours?

With your movement Brahms tightens around you, probably still asleep. You watched the way his chest rises and falls with every breath, and his fingers which clenched by his face, with his other arm still around you. You analyzed the design of his mask, pausing mid-reach from touching it.

You've never been able to see it so clearly. Usually, Brahms visited in the dark. You were able to pinpoint every crack and dent. Every spot and chip. Your thumb brushed over his cheek - the masks cheek - running over the red splatter.

It's red... it kind of looks like blood.

A gasp fell from your lips, and you lifted your curious hands. His eyes didn't open. He didn't even move.

Sometimes you let the serious things leave your mind. It's not okay... the things he did. You can't help the sympathy you feel for him and the ache in your chest when you imagine yourself leaving him. Or, imagining the things that he had done. The murders he committed with his own hands.

Hands that touched you, loved you.

You stood from the bed, which was small in comparison to yours. Once you were standing and adjusting your dress, his hand grabbed your wrist, at such speed you didn't realize until his grip was tightened.

You fixed the strap of your dress, not bothered.

"I'm gonna go," you say. "I'm just going to my room. I left my phone in there and I need to call my brother and tell him I didn't take that flight home. He's probably worried sick."

Brahms doesn't budge. You start to think that maybe he doesn't believe you. You're feeling frightened, once again, hoping he'll be okay with letting you go.

You touch the side of his face, caressing him with the palm of your hand.

"I'm not leaving you."

Your words soften his grasp within a few seconds. He falls back into the pillows and you feel his eyes on you as you back away and slip into the shadows. You would have thought that he'd follow you to your destination, or demand that you'd return.

He seems to have a lot of trust in your decisions. You wonder if you have the advantage now.

You glanced around the room before taking your leave. You see a familiar blur of colors by your feet, peeking out beneath the bed. You bent over to get a better look, and Brahms sits up almost as quickly as he did to prevent you from leaving. You picked up one of your T-shirts, a simple band t-shirt that you got from a concert a couple years ago. You were sure you wore this on your first day here. You felt the material stiffen in your hands you looked up with a deadpan.

"Seriously?" You dangle it from your fingers. "Where's the rest?"

Brahms doesn't move. "I don't know."