The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Part 14 - Forgiveness

Two days without Brahms was bad enough.   It's been four now, and you're starting to believe he'll never interact with you again.   Time and again you go to the walls and stand there, listening.  Once you did it for thirty minutes until your neck ached from pressing your ear to the wood.  Nothing.  Not even a creak or shuffle.

You've tried calling his name.   Pleading.  Wheedling.  Threatening.   Is he sulking?  Is this punishment?  Do you care?  

You do.   And that's a fact that really annoys you.

You consider finding some way to get behind the walls, but don't quite have the courage.  Eventually, you give up, and lapse into a kind of resigned lethargy, going through the motions of daily routine; but it's somehow not the same without him.   His presence, though nearly always understated and often silent, still created a frisson of sensuality you found stimulating.   And now he'd withdrawn.  Completely.

The only consolation you have is that he's still likes your cooking because the  food you make for him  keeps disappearing from the freezer and fridge.  Trust a man never to lose his appetite!

As the fourth evening draws to a close, you descend into melancholy.  You can't even be bothered to light the lamps or play any music,  so sit in the music room in the dark feeling sorry for yourself.   As nature abhors a void, something has to fill your mind, and so a parade of memories, each sadder than the last, encroaches your whole being until you start to brim with tears.

In frustration, you stalk to the room where Joel died.  The warm light from the hallway gleams on the wooden floors and panelling. The mirror Brahms broke through is boarded up.    You place your cheek to the oak panelling, inhaling the woody musk of it.  "Where are you, Brahms?" you whisper.   "Please, don't shut me out..."

You visualise him in the rooms hidden deep within the bowels of this house.   Is he lying on his little cot?   Is he making more dead things look alive?    Does he feel as desolate as you?  Has he closed you off?   Does he care? Does he hate?   Not knowing is more torturous  than if he'd taken you by the scruff and kicked you from the house.

You wonder if you should leave.  Perhaps this is the cue, his way of telling you the welcome is outworn.   He's letting you go.   You can maintain the place for him, make sure the bills are paid, allow him to live here for as long as he needs to; as long as he lives.  It's his house after all.    But you could be his distant caretaker.  Someone needs to look after him.  He'd never survive alone.

You press the heels of both hands to your eyes, trying not to cry.   You remember the way he came shyly into the kitchen that first day you made his breakfast.  The way his eyes followed your every move.  His reticence and silence.   The childlike way he has of tilting his head when you say something of particular interest.   You remember the smell of him; clean and masculine, lemon and peppermint.  His touch; gentle, warm and sensual.   Your fight: you feisty and cruel, him unyielding and restrained.  The typhoon of his temper.  Now, you see his scars.   Rivers of it down his back, his hands and feet, pink and pale and twisted.  You can't imagine the pain of that.   A child's pain.   Untreated. Tightening.  Disfiguring.

Worst of all, you see the long vista of years he's suffered, locked away from life, from hope, from a future.    What must that be like?   You can't even imagine it.  It's too terrible to think about.   But what of you?   What of Y/N?   You turn your introspection properly inwards for the first time since you got here; seeing the truth of yourself and accepting it.   And with the acceptance, you start to weep softly into your hands, wondering if it's too late.   

Pulling yourself together you step back into the hallway, staring around at the stately woodwork and soaring staircase; at the huge painting of Brahms and his parents on the landing.   

"Brahms!"

Your voice rings out and echoes slightly around the stairwell.    You don't know if he'll hear you, or if he'll even care. 

"Brahms, I know you're there.   I hope you can hear me.  There's things I need to tell you." 

You pause, trying to steady your breathing and stem the tears.    "It's true that when I found out you weren't the child I thought you were...I resented you...feared you.   You gave me the horrors because  of what you represented, not what you are, or who you are.   I ran from you because of what you did to Joel and I feared for my life.   I thought you were going to kill me too.   I was terrified, Brahms."

This is so hard.  You feel like a fool, talking to the walls in this cavernous mansion filled with ghosts and memories, none of them yours.     Your own voice sounds weak and lost in all the vastness.  You're not convinced he can hear you.  But that doesn't matter.  What matters is what's in your heart.

"But since that terrible night, we've got to know each other, you and I.   As each day passes I'm less afraid, less fearful of being hurt.   I don't think you'll hurt me, Brahms.   And the last thing I want is to hurt you."

You hang your head  at the single enduring memory that's brought you to this.  

"Brahms?     That night I called on you for help?   When you shattered the mirror, and climbed into my life?    You stood there, waiting for me to instruct you, waiting to see what I'd do?  In that moment..."   Tears slide down your face.  "In that moment, for the first time in years, God forgive me, but I felt safe.  Safe from Joel.  Safe from his abuse.    I knew what you'd do.   And I'm not sorry you did  it.  You were my avenging angel,  and you made me feel safe, and I ran from you.   Forgive me, Brahms.  I'll leave here  if you want me to."

You stand sobbing, a tiny island of misery.   The grandfather clock tocks behind you.  Somewhere the house creaks.  As you wipe your nose on the back of your hand, you hear a faint noise from the music room.   Tentatively, hopefully, you tiptoe inside and switch on the light.

The room is empty.   

Then you see the black oblong in the corner, the gaping hole where a false panel has been pulled aside.   It's open...and waiting.  Brahms is waiting.   

With only a moments hesitation, you walk forwards and step through into the walls.

Author's Note: This has been the hardest chapter to write.   I wanted to show how  the reader has struggled with her morals versus her emotions here.    How both characters are changing to see each other's perspectives without changing their own basic natures.