The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Part 21 - Seeing Brahms

Brahms has carried you upstairs to your room.   Your face is all swollen and splotched from weeping, and you're drained and dehydrated.   You watch him pour you a tumbler of water from the bedside pitcher, then drink as he watches you.   

"I'm sorry, Brahms.   Everything has just really got to me."

You lay back on the bed while he stares down at  you.   "Are you sleepy?" he asks.

You shake your head.   "Lie next to me, Brahms."

He does, and you drape one arm and leg across his body, snuggling up.   You remember how afraid you were of him that first night he asked for a kiss when you tucked him into bed.  How freaked out you were.  How much he repulsed you...and yet.   Something about him had attracted you too.   And now, here you both are, lying together like lovers.

Lovers?   You're not.  Not in the truest sense.   A kiss, no matter how erotic, hasn't made you lovers.  Not yet.   You wonder if you ever will be.   The mask prohibits it.   Perhaps not for him but definitely for you.   You can't make love to a man you can't see.   

He's wearing a thin sweatshirt unbuttoned at the throat in slate blue over skinny jeans.   You take a sneaky glance down at him, at those impossibly long legs.  His slim hips, the narrow window of bare flesh between the jeans and his top.   He shifts slightly on the bed, tugging the sweatshirt hem up even higher so you catch a wink of navel.   His belly is toned and lightly dusted with the same black hair as on his chest.   The insanity of how this can be so erotic and sensual  makes you close your eyes and take a few deep breaths.  You bury your  head in his side.   Brahms holds you closer.

The charge of sexual energy isn't something either of you can ignore.  He turns his body to face you, and you press yourself against him.   You want him and you're wanted.  But the mask!  That Goddamned mask.  Once more you're thinking what's under it.  How bad he looks.   Only now, you're asking yourself if you care.   If he's facially ugly you can bear it.   He's more than his scars.  The push and pull of wanting him is overwhelming.   You remember the touch of his mouth on yours.   You'd tasted him.   Explored his mouth.  There was nothing wrong with that part of him.  

"Brahms, won't you please?"

His eyes search your face.

"Take it off.   Let me see you...please."

He rolls away from you.   

"What do you think I'll do?"  You ask him.   "I can take anything that's under there.   I won't see anything but you!  You're not your scars!"

He stares up at the ceiling, arms at his sides, fists balled.

"Brahms, please..."

You place your right hand to the mask and gently turn his face so he's looking at you.  "Don't you trust me?"

"This isn't about you."

"Will you ever be ready?"

"I don't know."

That's an improvement from his earlier declarations of "No" and "Never".   You nod, then take his right hand and press your lips to his fingers.    "Then I'll be here when you do," you whisper.   

~

That evening, you and Brahms remove the portrait on the landing and burn it in the lower meadow.    It's not your idea.   You both pile wood and old fallen branches beneath it, building up quite a pyre.   You're holding a plastic bottle of barbecue fluid.  Brahms has the matches.   The sun is a red orb in the sky, sinking beneath the black line of trees around the lake. The wall where Joel lies is in the distance.    To the east, in a navy blue sky, the sickle new moon rises.