The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Breakable - Part 40

You sit on your bed; yours and Brahms's bed, and chew absently at a fingernail.   It's gone 2am and you can't find him.   Normally, this wouldn't bother you.  Normally, he'd materialise out of the night, strong and silent, to lie next to you or take you in his arms.   It's who he is; this strange, compelling man who roams this vast mansion at will, with no rhyme or reason for his wanderings.  Parts of him will never be changed; should never change.    You know you can't do that.  It's an understanding that bonds you closer than you've ever felt with another man.  You understand him, and he understands you.   You've formed something unbreakable.   Or so you think.

You don't waste time calling out to him.  You don't want that woman to know.   Know that you two are the item she suspects you are.   You sigh, then lie back on the bed staring up at the ceiling.  Of course she knows.  Like two non lovers would have one of them walking around with a mask on?   You hate the memory of  the way her blue eyes lit up when she saw Brahms for the first time.   And what normal person would react that way?   A normal person would be shocked, embarrassed; think the worst and leave for the nearest hotel.     I mean, there's this lean, athletic guy dressed in black from head to toe,  shirt gaping to show the mat of black hair on his chest, wearing a white porcelain mask?    The ludicrousness of it hits you so hard you bring your knees up and start to giggle.  What the thundering fuck?   The pair of you must be insane.  Oh, Brahms...thank God it's just the two of us!

Was just the two of you.  This thought sobers you.  Where is he?   Watching her?  Does she excite him?   You know in your heart he'd tire of her eventually.  Melinda is so self absorbed she'd bore the pants off the village idiot.     You jerk upright in the dark.   What if she's volcanic in the sack?   The thought of Brahms getting physical with anyone else rears its ugly head.   What the hell are you doing, thinking these thoughts?   

You pad to the closet.   Behind the hidden door, you wander the corridors listening.   You know this secret warren now like the back of your hand; all the concealed places he once watched you from.   At one point, you think you pick up his scent; the fragrance of Issey Miyake.   But then the usual aroma of dust and old wood takes its place.   You linger at each room, listening where you can't see.  But all is still and dark.   At his lair, dimly lit with string lights, emptiness, the small bed unruffled and neatly made.   Oh, Brahms...where are you?

Up you climb to the second floor, but all is still.   Down again, past your room to the ground floor.   You climb from behind the panelling in the study, pushing the oiled hinges to.  The study door is shut, and beneath it, a slim bar of gold from the hallway lamps shines weakly.   You step to the door, pressing an ear to the wood,  then slowly open it.   As you creep to the foot of the stairs and peer upwards, you hear the faintest thump, and freeze.   You know it's not Brahms.  Brahms moves like a wraith and will never be heard unless he wants you to hear.   Melinda?

You walk to the library and open the door.   The room's in darkness and empty.  Melinda's perfume lingers; a faint mix of rose and some heavy basenote like sandalwood.   So, she's gone to bed.   How long ago, you don't know.   The stairs leading to the second floor of the house are at the other end of the landing where your room is, so you'd never have heard her pass up.  You eye the empty wine bottle and wonder if she's gotten tipsy and is already snoring in her room. 

As you climb the stairs, you know, just know, that something is very wrong.    At the huge stained glass window overlooking the grounds, you peer out.   It's stopped snowing.  A full moon flits from behind scudding clouds, and the gardens are bathed in silver.  You scan the  white lawns and pathways, but there's no footprints in the snow.   He's not out there.  And why would he in this weather?   You stand in silence, straining your ears to catch any sound.   Was that a moan?  Your heart starts to pound as you turn towards the second floor stairs.  There it is again. A low pitched  voice, indiscernible but unmistakably feminine.   You cock your head again, focusing.  You hear her groan; the words almost panted;  'Oh God...Oh, please...'   

At the bottom of the staircase you hesitate.   Do you really want to know?    Is there any point?   If you catch them, it will destroy everything.    Nothing your eyes can see is worse than your own imagination.   Scenarios cram your skull.   Brahms and Melinda; locked together, naked.  Him taking her, as he'd taken you, hard against the wall.   Her full red lips clamped to his, those scarlet fingernails running through the curling black hair, dragging him closer.  Him murmuring her name;  her crying out his.    It doesn't occur to you that she might recoil at his scars...because his scars are nothing to you.  You no longer see them.  Is he staring down at her right now, with those eyes that look into your soul, staring into hers instead?   Tears come, hot and stinging as acid.  With one hand on the banister, you hang your head and weep. 

Who would have thought you'd ever be here, crying over someone like Brahms Heelshire.   Brahms Heelshire, the broken boy; the man with the child in his eyes; the soul linked so inextricably to yours that you feel him right down through the ages to every lifetime you've ever shared.   Your Brahms.  His face fills your mind.  His smell.  The feel of him.  Was this inevitable?  After Joel, you never thought anyone could ever hurt you this badly again.

Suddenly, there's a crash above you, and a scream.  Thoughts of Brahms's infidelity leave you as you tear upstairs.   The second floor landing is empty.    A strangled cry reaches you, then the sound of shattering glass.   Frantically, you search the rooms.   Melinda's room is empty, her bed unslept in.   Brahms's old nursery, deserted.  Two other rooms are locked.  That leaves the farthest room, the Blue Room.   You burst through the door, blinking, trying to adjust your eyes to the blackness.  You see a hunched figure by the casement, and realise it's Brahms.  His body is leaning through the broken window, and he's holding something in his fist.