The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Part 5 - The Heiress

Two days he's gone.   Two days behind the walls without a peep or glimpse of him.   Brahms doesn't even come into the kitchen to eat.   You wonder how deeply you've offended him.  Comparing him to the doll?   You're tempted to barge your way through the walls to rout him out but dare not.   You're starting to understand him.  Starting to realise what makes him tick.  Part of you feels a kind of triumphant pride in this; the other feels saturated with dread at what he's capable of or how he might turn on you.   You spend those two days agonising about whether to leave; to creep out while he's sleeping, or storm away regardless of your safety.  Then, on the third day... everything changes.

So now, you're sitting curled on the couch in the music room, crying.   Sobbing silently because you don't want him to hear.   You can't face him right now.   The letter that came today is crumpled in your fist.  In your mind, you see the faces of Brahms's parents; elderly and care worn, and you know your  life will never, ever be the same. 

How long has it been since they killed themselves?   A week?  Two?   It feels like forever.  You press the heel of your hands against your eyes to try and stop the flow but the words in that letter won't relent.

Dearest Y/N,

You are reading this because we are selfish and weak, and because we loved our beloved son too much and disciplined him too little for too many years.   We ask that you forgive us.

Be good to him, for he deserves your patience.  With you, there is a chance of redemption for him and for us.   Brahms has never known another's love or touch, and the fault is entirely ours.   He has shown a special fondness for you, unlike the others who came before, and  this gives us hope for his future.   

We have bequeathed our entire estate to you, as sole benefactress on the condition that you do your utmost to try and turn our son's life around and make him whole again.  To this end, you will be receiving a visit from our solicitor and executors of the Will to finalise the arrangements. 

Y/N,  our Brahms is merely lost, not gone forever.   He just needs someone to show him the way and  guide him back into the light.   We did something dreadful.  May God forgive us.  

M and R Heelshire

"How could you?"  You rage in whispers.   You stare at the creased paper tattooed with blue ink in copperplate handwriting, wondering at the twists and turns of your own fate.  "Why me?   Why should I pick up where you  left off?"

You stare up at the ceiling.   At the fillegree plasterwork and ornate ceiling rose, then across to the leaded windows and priceless stained glass.  This all belongs to you now.   But at what price?

You weep into your knees and wish you were dead, cursing your emotional heart and weakness for damaged souls.   You wish you were like Joel, hard and merciless as tempered steel.  Like your sister, logical and level headed.  Like everyone else you ever met who didn't put up with shit.   But you are who you are.   You can't change,  you're old enough to know that.  You wonder bitterly if the Heelshire's recognised that in you, and you curse them to Hell where they must surely be burning.

You down your fourth glass of wine, wallowing in self misery, wanting the anaesthetic of intoxication but unable to get properly drunk.   You're all alone in this house with a twenty eight year old sexually mature male lurking in the woodwork.   You try not to think about his broad shoulders and hairy chest, the tousled hair and penetrating eyes.  What he must have gone through.  What moulded him.  What he was.  Who he might be with the right guidance.  

You close your eyes, not wanting to go there, because it's insane.  The Heelshire's were insane.  Two nuts who brought a life into the world and ruined it.  Was Brahms right?  Can parents love too much?   Or was he just born bad and they were too blind to see it?     

What the hell did they really expect you to do?   Pull Brahms's healing out of a hat?   Wave a magic wand?   Mend his brokenness with love glue?

"Love glue!"  You mutter into the wine glass, then snigger.   "Bloody 'Love Glue'?"   

You're sitting in darkness now, nursing the  empty glass, contemplating finishing the rest of the half bottle of vodka you found in the drinks cabinet.   You feel very squiffy, and regret not eating something more substantial for dinner than an apple and a handful of walnuts.   With a lopsided smile, you raise the glass to the empty fireplace.  "I need chocolate!"

You stagger to the kitchen, bang on the light, then rummage clumsily in the freezer.  There! Tucked away at the bottom.   A packet of Marks and Spencer's chocolate profiteroles.  You dump them on the table and rip off the packaging.   Of course they're frozen solid,  but that's not going to put you off.   Impatiently, you tug at the plastic dome the dessert is in.  It comes apart suddenly and the profiteroles scatter across the table like frosty billiard balls.   You start to scrape them into a tight little pile, when you hear a loud creak.

You freeze, a grimace of concentration on your face, your tongue still poking out from between your teeth.   Your eyes swivel to the left, then the right, then to the left again.  You're having terrible trouble focusing.    "Brahms?" you breathe.

In the dimly lit hallway the grandfather clock ticks lethargically.   Slowly, you get to your feet but the kitchen floor seems to be moving like the deck of a ship.  Blinking furiously you try to muster some sobriety.    You weave into the hallway to blink owlishly around,  and there he is, statuesque and silent at the end of the corridor.   Drawing yourself up to your full height, you mumble, "Good evening,  Mr Heelshire."

That spark of you untouched by the drink, probably your reptile brain, seems to be holding your head in a vice, for it remains uncannily steady while the rest of you sways with the vodka.   Brahms is watching you from the end of the hallway, not deigning to move.  

"I'm a tad Schindler'd," you explain, doing your best to impress him with your grasp of Cockney rhyming slang.  At his complete lack of acknowledgement you decide to elaborate in case he's missed the point.  "You know...Schindler's List...pissed?   I was intending to have a bit of an imperative....I mean ap...eritif...I mean... Yes, Brahms, I'm rat assed!"

Well, this is it, your reptile brain tells you.   You're inebriated, he's an axe wielding maniac and somewhere there's a ball gag with your name on it...

You exhale noisily and do that thing drunks do; stagger back and forth with one  leg anchored to the floor.

"I've been celebrating, Brahms.   All on my own, of course,  because you dishappeared into the ether.   Today I've become an heiress.  I've finally reached the enoch....I mean, epoch, of my life with a gift so outshtanding I'll never have to work tables again."  You point to the kitchen.  "You hungry?   There'shom chocolate peripherals ready to go..."

You grin inanely then watch him stalk towards you.   The mask over his face seems to shift, blur, focus then shift again.  You suddenly feel sick, dizzy and overwhelmingly tired.  You stare up at him, breathing heavily.  He's kind of peering at you now, as though trying to fathom what to do next.   With cross eyes you watch that mask come closer and closer, until it's on a level with your face.    You blink blearily at him, then lean forwards and gently, oh so gently, touch your mouth to those porcelain lips.  

As you fold,  the world goes black.