The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Part 8 - Truce

This chapter is dedicated to @Dodoraharu

He's locked you in.  Jesus, how dare he?    You stare stupidly at his blood on your fingernails.  There's splashes of it on your white tee shirt.   You decide not to wash it off.  You'll wear it like a badge of honour!

Twice you get up to kick the bedroom door.   "Let me out, you son of a bitch!"   He doesn't, of course.   Why would he?    You've already tried the false door at the back of the closet but the bastard has locked it.   You're well and truly trapped.

The sun is going down and you guess he'll leave you to stew in your own juices until morning.   You think back to that double clout you gave him, and hope it made his ears ring.  

"I should have snatched you bald, you piece of--"

The key is turning in the lock.  You stand like stone as the door opens.   Brahms is holding a tray in one hand.   There's food on it, and a bottle of water.    You have the urge to high kick the damned thing clean into next week but refrain.   This is clearly a peace offering but you're having none of it.

"I'm not hungry!"

"Y/N?"  

You give him your implacable back.

"Y/N?"

"What!"

He's silent behind you; so reluctantly you turn.   The back of his right hand has two deep scratches gouging into the scar tissue and there's blood on his white singlet.  You stare at that sad, ugly old cardigan.   It seems to epitomise all that's wrong with him.   No doubt it once belonged to his father, perhaps a well worn, much loved garment; but now it just looks creepy and old-mannish, particularly on his young body.    

With a scowl you sweep your gaze down to his bare feet; at the huge purple bruise starting up where you stomped on him.    His trousers are too short, old fashioned and baggy at the knee.   You close your eyes in frustration.   All you wanted to do was help him get some new clothes, for Christ's sake!    

"Why are you dressed that way?" you bark suddenly.  "You look like a hobo!"

Brahms just stands there, holding the tray of food he's prepared for you.   The only movement is the quiver of the water bottle.

"Did you get those clothes off the city dump?   I mean, Jesus, Brahms.   Look at you?   Do you ever look in the mirror... Oh...shit!"

You clutch your head, grimacing apologetically.  "Brahms...I'm sorry."

He puts the tray down on the chair at the foot of the bed.  There's not an ounce of animosity in him and that just makes you feel even worse.   You watch him turn to leave the room.

"Brahms?"

He pauses then turns.   His eyes gleam in the dim light of the room.   You walk forwards to stand before him, unable to look up.  Slowly, you take his right hand in yours to stare at the damage you've done.  You squeeze it gently.  "Does it hurt very much?"

"Yes."

"I thought..."  you stutter so softly it's almost a whisper.   "You said..."

"That I'd kill you?" he finishes.   

You glance up, then down at his hand again.    His voice, soft and gentle as though he'd never manhandled you kicking and screaming into this room, says, "I lied, Y/N."

"How can you lie about something like that?"

"Don't you believe me?"

At this contradiction, you let go of his hand.   "I don't know what to believe.   But I've seen what you're capable of."

"I have a temper.   I lose it.  Often.  Usually through frustration."

"You killed the others.  What others?"

He sighs, but doesn't charge away or try to avoid your question.   "How could I kill a succession of people and hide it for this long?"

You glare at him warily.   

"All the women who came here for the job offered by my parents had family, friends and a societal footprint just like you,  Y/N.   They didn't disappear because I killed them.  Even if I felt like I wanted to hurt them for their cruelty.  They left because they either couldn't cope with my parents or they couldn't face me."

"Well, why say something so horrible?" you demand.   "What a thing to say?   Was that your idea of a joke?"

He shrugs in that little boy way he sometimes has.  "Poor taste."

"What a masterly understatement!"

"Lying is another bad habit I have."

You shoot him a dirty look.   "Why should I ever believe anything you ever say from now on?"

"I'm sorry, Y/N."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Prove it."

He peers at you, tilting his head.   "How?"

"I'm going into the village tomorrow."

You see him hesitate and tense.   Although you can't face another tantrum, you say what's necessary anyway.   "You've got to learn to trust me, Brahms.   I'm not a liar like you."

He digests your words then nods.    

"It's getting late, Brahms.   Thank you for the food.  I think I'll have an early night, if that's ok with you."

Another nod.   You watch him leave.  Since Joel smashed the doll, most of the Rules imposed by his parents have gone out the window.    Brahms still likes routine but at least you don't have to tuck him in at night if you don't want to.   His bedroom is just down the hall but you know he mostly sleeps hidden away behind the walls in that safe place of his.

Today has been chaotic but productive too.  Today, you both learned something valuable about each other.   Brahms has learned that he can't always get his own way and you've learned that he's much more dangerous to you than you ever imagined.