The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Part 28 - Intruder

A week before Christmas, a cold front from Scandinavia  brings snowfall and freezing weather.   The Heelshire mansion is draughty but the heating is on full blast so the house is toasty warm.  It's been a tiring day.   A day that stands out for you as one of the happiest since you came here; since you can remember for a long time.   The Christmas tree is huge, and fills the hallway, decked with silver and gold mercury glass ornaments and twinkling white lights.   You and Brahms wrestled the thing into place and anchored it in a huge tub of damp soil.   It reminds of you of the magic of your childhood, the excitement and anticipation of  Christmas morning, the rustle of wrapping paper at the foot of the bed, the tang of clementines and crunch of walnut shells, turkey roasting in the oven and the happy laughter of family and friends.

The tree is your idea.   Brahms shows no real interest in celebrating this festive holiday.

"Didn't your parents make a big deal of it, Brahms?" you ask him.  "Roast turkey and presents under the tree?"

"Yes.  But it's never really interested me."

"Why not?   I loved Christmas as  a..."  Your words trail off.  Brahms hasn't had much of a childhood.    His parents might have showered him with gifts, and put as big a festive feast in front of him that money could buy but when you're not happy?

You're both sitting in the library in candlelight, curled up on the couch together.  The wine coloured drapes are open, and through the stained glass panes you see snow falling  through the navy blue twilight in white, thick flakes. You're drinking vintage claret the colour of blood and he's got a glass of orange juice.   Brahms doesn't touch alcohol.   You try to change the subject.

"Anyway...I'm determined we'll have a great Christmas.  And it's snowing.  How perfect is that?"

He smiles at your enthusiasm.   You love the way it transforms his face; his eyes crinkling at the corners, softening, shining in the candlelight.   He looks boyish and handsome, and...normal.  In this kind light, his scars are minimised.   Most days you don't even see them anymore.  They are as much a part of him as his thick curling hair, or strong broad shoulders.   Your feet rest in his lap, and he's stroking your leg.   You're on your second glass of wine and it's loosening your tongue and inhibitions.

"Do you still have your mask, Brahms?"

"You know I do."

"How do you feel about it?   I mean...don't you ever want to get rid of it...for good?"

"Why?"

"Are you planning on wearing it again?"

"Do you want me to?"  He raises one eyebrow with a slight tilt of his head.  The gesture is so sexually loaded, you blush furiously.

"Of course not!"

He smiles and shakes his head.  You frown then burst out laughing.  "Will you stop!  That's just...kinky."

He rolls his head back and chuckles.  It's the most suggestive chuckle you've ever heard.  Your cheeks start burning again as you wonder what that might even be like.  You and him and... you blush some more then blurt, "Brahms?   Can I ask you something personal?"

His silence is affirmation, so you continue.  "When we first met.  That voice you used?   The child's voice?   Why did you do that?"

For a moment you think you've gone too far; fear you're tapping into the part of him that's merely been submerged and not erased.    The question hangs between you both. His eyes glitter in the flickering flames of the candles.   It seems an age before he speaks.

"My mother encouraged it.  It always got me what I wanted."

You suddenly wish fervently that you'd never asked him and curse the claret. 

"It was just something that got out control, Y/N.   It was my normal.  When really there was nothing normal about anything around me.   As I grew I knew it.  I just couldn't stop it."

"It was scary, Brahms.  It was twisted."

"I know.  But I didn't do it to scare you.   I did it to perpetuate the fantasy you'd built about your ghost child.   It was my way of connecting with you."

You reach over and squeeze his arm.   "And here we are."

You watch him kiss the back of your hand.  

"Brahms, how do you feel about meeting my family?"

 "Give me time, Y/N."

You nod.   At least he's not dismissed it completely.   Something catches your peripheral vision and you turn your head to stare at the window.  There's nothing out there but falling snow.  You smile wistfully.  You love snow.   Suddenly, you jump off the couch, reaching for your cell phone.  "Damn it!   I've forgotten to confirm a delivery slot for that food I ordered on line.   If I don't do it before six, I'll have to redo it all again.  I'll be back in a sec."

"Put a coat on," Brahms shouts as you run from the room.  "It's freezing out there."

You grab your coat and pull on a pair of sheepskin boots.   The snow outside isn't deep, just a couple of inches at the moment.   You trot across the lawns towards the tree line where you know you'll get a signal, cursing the Heelshire's for their lack of internet connection and determining to get it installed for the new year.   It takes a few moments to find the page you've saved.  You go through the rigmarole of booking the delivery slot, then scamper back to the house.   In your haste, you fail to notice the extra set of footprints, man size, denting your own smaller prints.    In the dark you don't see that they circumnavigate the house, large and widely spaced.   Someone heavy.  Someone tall.  Someone searching for a way in.

In the kitchen,  you throw off your coat and kick off your boots, eager to snuggle up to Brahms again.  Melting snow sparkles in your hair. Even as you enter the library you sense something is terribly wrong.   The energy of the person standing in the corner hits you before your eyes recognise the features, the stance and stature.  You even smell him.   A familiar smell.   Your brain struggles to compute the data, even as you suddenly recall  the noises you heard on the night you stayed here alone as Brahms healed in the hospital; the creeping footsteps, the creaking floorboards, the slow, deliberate opening of your bedroom door as whatever crept outside came inside.

The name catches on your breath.   All you can think of is rotting flesh and the decaying heart of someone you thought you once loved.