The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Part 22 - Bombshell

Indian summer sears the Heelshire estate; the whole of Britain basks in a heatwave.  It's early October and still you and Brahms revolve around each other, satellites that bounce information back and forth; learning, sharing, loving.

There's no more hiding in the shadows.   At least for Brahms.   You both spend endless days enjoying the bright mornings and balmy evenings.  You watch as the alchemy of fresh air, freedom and your own love work their magic.  He laughs more; is increasingly affectionate.  Everything he should have been blossoms.   Everything he was is transformed. The anger in Brahms submerges - though you know it will always  be there awaiting a trigger.  He no longer clings or fears that you'll leave him.  He's intelligent and creative, you discover; intense and deep.  Money isn't an issue or worry for either of you.  The remote location of the house ensures few visitors.  You're both growing into each other.  Life seems idyllic.

Until he falls ill.

That night you wake to find him gone from the bed you share.   The house is in darkness;  so still and silent you're tempted to drift back to sleep.  But the sheets next to you are cold, so you know he's been gone a while.  This alone doesn't alarm you.   Brahms is given to disappear to his hidden room, to lie in solitude, read or work on his hobbies.  Something, though...something you can't define...pecks away at your gut.  It's been weeks since he left you like this.  Weeks since he withdrew to the safe place created by his parents.  Something's wrong, you can sense it.

Pulling on a robe, you pad from the room.  The landing lights are on, as they always are.  The faint ticking of the grandfather clock is steady as always.   The openings behind the walls have many access points, and by this time you know them all.  The nearest lies in your closet, so you backtrack then push your way through.   

"Brahms?"

There's no reply.   The bare light bulbs that Brahms would normally have switched on are off.   He hasn't come this way.   You find the switches,  the corridor lights up. Mindless of the dust and cobwebs you hurry to his Lair.  It's empty and in darkness.

Now, you feel even more perturbed.   Back in the bedroom, you call his name again.  Downstairs, you charge into every room.  Each is empty.

"BRAHMS!"

The only place you haven't searched is the kitchen.   You find the lights on and the back door open.   Barefoot, you run outside.   And that's where you find him.  Doubled over and groaning in agony.

"Jesus, Brahms!"

Kneeling down, you grip his shoulders and try to turn him.   His arms  are clasped across his abdomen, both knees drawn up.

"Talk to me Brahms!"

"I'm dying, Y/N..."

"Where's the pain?  When did it come on?"

"Low down. Right side.  Hours ago."

Even in the dark, you can see he's sweating.  You take his pulse.  It's racing.

"I have to call an ambulance."

"No!"

"Yes."

You see the pleading in his eyes, so soften your voice.  "Brahms...I think this might be your appendix.  You don't get this kind of pain with simple belly ache.  You could die if we don't get this seen to.  You have to trust me."

"I can't..."

"I'll be with you.  I won't leave you alone.  Not for a single minute."

Another spasm rocks him and he clenches his teeth.    There's no more time for argument.  You run back to the house and make the call.

The nearest hospital is Wrexham - a ninety minute drive away.  You hold Brahms's hand and watch helplessly as he's given morphine.  The paramedics are kind, and the youngest, a girl of around twenty, keeps up a reassuring chatter with him.   Through his pain, Brahms stares at the girl as though she's grown two heads - he's still got a lot to learn about being sociable - and it's all you can do to keep a straight face. 

He's taken down to surgery within minutes of arriving at the hospital.  The surgeon tells you another hour or so and peritonitis would have set in followed by death.  You lie in the waiting room for hours until dawn breaks and you can see him.   When you enter the ward, he's asleep, so you stroke his tousled curls  and kiss his eyelids.  Then you sit and wait for him to wake.  Two hours later he does, groggy and mumbling from the anaesthetic.  You hold his hand in both of yours and tell him that you need to get some sleep yourself.  Wearily, he nods, closes his eyes then sleeps again.  You leave.

The hospital offers you a room for the night but you book into an hotel.   You need undisturbed sleep and a shower and food.   It's 11am by the time you sink, exhausted, into the infernally soft Premier Inn bed.  But you toss and turn and never get more than two hours.

The doctor tells you and Brahms he must stay in hospital for three days.   Brahms says nothing, but glares at the man as though he might smite him dead with a glance.   You smile, squeeze Brahms's hand reassuringly, and nod.  The ward is small, with just three other patients, all male and elderly.   Brahms isn't happy.

"If you don't listen to the doctor's advice, you'll end up back in here, Brahms.  Your body needs time to heal.  You have stitches.  Take it easy."

"I want to go home."

"We will.  But I have no change of clothes.   I have to get back to the house, and you have to get well."

He lies there staring up at you impassively, the oakmoss eyes flickering over your face.    You know it's been a terrible effort for him to let others see his scars.  

"I'll be gone a day, that's all.  Then I'm back to pick you up.  I'm going to hire a car, get us some food in, and get us back there."  

You lean down and kiss him.   "Okay?"

"I hurt," he whispers.

"I know.  But here  you have strong painkillers and get looked after properly.  And by pretty young nurses too!"

You smile at him but he doesn't smile back.   Typical of Brahms, he takes what you say literally.

"None of them are as beautiful as you."

"Oh, Brahms..."  You laugh softly and kiss him again.