The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Part 13 - Exorcism

You sit alone in the dining room, staring at your empty wine glass in contemplation of filling it again.  You decide against it.   There's no benefit from getting sloshed, and you've no appetite for food now.   You pad to the kitchen, take the lasagne from the oven and turn everything off.   It's gone nine and the evening is turning to a balmy half light outside. 

You think of Brahms.  Can think of no one else.  You wish you could help him find the person he needs to be.  But that's his pathway.   No one can walk it but him.

There's been a reversal here, you realise.    Or, at least a realignment of the equilibrium.  You're still wary of him, but now you know he's also a little wary of you.   He's afraid, albeit in different ways to how you fear him, but you've seen enough of his quandary tonight to know that things are changing within him.   At least, you hope so.

You blow out the candles, and go up to bed.   It's so hot you sleep naked, but toss and turn in the heat for nearly an hour.   You just can't sleep.  Thoughts,  irritatingly, keep swinging to Brahms.  This is the man who killed as a child.   The man who murdered Joel.   You shouldn't be here.  Shouldn't be thinking the thoughts you do about him.  You can't analyse why you feel this way,  and it bothers you.   Wanting him feels like kicking a habit.

Eventually, you throw back the covers, get up and pull on your long, silk satin robe.    The room feels suffocating and you need air.   Twice you glance over at the closet door, wondering if he's behind there, listening.   All you hear is silence.

Downstairs you drink a long glass of water, then stand in the dark, staring out of the kitchen window.  The sky is still midnight blue in places, with a faint sliver of burnt orange in the west.  You step out the back door, inhaling the fragrance of honeysuckle and night scented stock.  The York stone pathway winds around lichen scarred balustrade, out onto the expansive lawns.  The moon is rising, full and golden as a lantern, and somewhere out on the distant lake a nightjar calls.

You stand in the shadow of one of the soaring beech trees, staring back at the house.  All the windows are dark, save for the faint glow emanating from the amber hallway and landing lights that burn night and day.   You wonder if the Heelshire's allowed this for Brahms's benefit, and decide that they had.   A kind of permanent nightlight for their only son as he grew up.   Something that started off as a need, and became a tradition.  

A sense of real sadness engulfs you.   You think of that elderly couple; the doleful face of the husband, set in lines of resigned subjugation.  The raptorial demeanour of his wife; elegant and brittle as cut glass.   Brahms's words come back to you.   My father adored her...

You remember the suicide letter you found in Brahms's hidden rooms.   The delicate copperplate telling their son that you were now his to love and care for.  Only it hadn't quite turned out that way.   Now, it felt like the opposite.

Is this my destiny?  You ask yourself.   Do I really have choices?

You stare across the clipped expanse of lawn, to the lake beyond.  You could just walk from here now, the two miles to the village.   Call the police.   Tell them everything.  Watch as they lead Brahms away forever.   After all,  the house is yours.  To love and care for?

The thought of betraying him hurts you more than you could ever have realised.  It catches at your heart and wrings it.  You feel ashamed for even visualising such a thing.   You ask yourself if you could seriously live with that, and come up with a negative.

"You're a lost cause, Y/N," you whisper to the moon.   

A breeze comes off the lake, lifting your hair, cooling the perspiration on your throat.   You kick off your shoes, stepping forwards onto the grass.   It tickles your toes and you feel the urge to just dance beneath this beautiful sky.   There's no light pollution here and the sky is seeded with stars in spite of the moon.

You step around the lawn, turning gracefully, the full skirts of your robe fluttering, bone white.  You've always loved to dance, were always good at it, and you move with a natural dancer's grace.   You execute the turns with your arms extended, and can't help but smile, then laugh.  It's silly, but fun...and for too long you've needed to have some fun in your life.   Cavorting beneath this feminine light, naked beneath the soft satin robe, has a sensuality you find irresistible.   It feels powerful; a reminder of who you are, and what you are.    You are Artemis, a Moche Queen, Isolde or Gaia.  All women and every woman.

You spin crazily, like a Dervish, feeling the primordial energy  of trance, the ages old need humans have to move, to vibrate, to feel as one with the Universe.  It clears you of the sexual tension that's been feeding off  your mind, body and spirit since you first realised Brahms Heelshire existed.  

When you're done, you return to the house, panting, exhausted, but exorcised of him.   You know it's temporary.   But, you also know you can now sleep.