All Mine

23

You awoke in your double bed, with the sheets pulled up to your chin. Brahms must've picked you up and carried you to your room. Thank God you weren't in his bed, be in his actual bed or the makeshift one in his "den".

You turned your head to the left and saw a glass of water on the nightstand. You turned your head right, but nothing out of the ordinary was there, unlike how you expected.

To be perfectly honest, you expected Brahms to have stabbed you already; it was funny that rotten food was the thing that panicked him. Come to think of it, didn't you hear him crying? You couldn't be sure, as you had been drifting in and out of consciousness for who knows how long. But, you were certain about one thing. Brahms had taken care of you, is taking care of you. Why hasn't he killed you yet?

Dismissing the question, you rose up slowly from your bed and reached out for the glass of water. The liquid was cool and refreshing to your chapped lips and dry mouth. You felt like you hadn't drunken anything in years.

You put the glass down and swung your legs out the bed. The feeling of the soft carpet beneath your feet reminded you of back home. You longed to go back.

"Brahms," You softly called out. "Where are you?"

The question was more said to yourself than Brahms, but he was probably listening in the walls anyway. As if on cue, you heard the slight creaking of floorboards to your right. You whipped around, and saw Brahms standing rather meekly in the hallway.

The sunlight from the window behind him casted a rather menacing shadow in front of him, making you stagger backwards a little. You still weren't used to his height in any way.

"Yes?" Brahms answered.

"H-how did I get here?" You stuttered at him.

You could've sworn you heard Brahms chuckle underneath his mask. "I carried you up the stairs to your room." Brahms was still using his child voice, but his normal voice was starting to seek through the cracks. He tilted his head and moved a step closer towards you.

You shook your head and raised a hand to your forehead. You didn't have a temperature, so you thought you were fine.

"Well, the show must go on."

———

After you'd had a quick shower and gotten dressed, you checked the time. It was 1:30 in the afternoon, which meant 'music appreciation'.

You began to walk to the study yet again, and Brahms is sat in his chair, waiting for you.

"Have you picked a piece of music, Brahms?" You ask him upon entering the room.

No answer. You turn your head to him and see him with his eyes closed, nestled into the chair.

He looked.. peaceful. Happy.

It was one of those rare moments where the world was ignored and it was only you and Brahms, all alone. You'd didn't move, not a centimetre, lest you wake him.

Suddenly, you heard your name being called out.

"Y/N.. Y/N!"

Brahms was shouting your name in his sleep, and kept on turning his head from side to side. Like a mother would, you rushed over to his side and cradled his head in your arms, shushing him softly as you went.

Brahms kept on wriggling about in your arms, but you kept your arms tightly wrapped around him. You stroked his hair and kept on shushing him, hoping to wake him up from whatever dream he was having to make him act like this.

If you were honest, it seemed like he was in pain. Lost in thought, you hadn't noticed Brahms had woken up from his nightmare and had stopped calling your name.

"Y/N."

You jumped, releasing him from your grip and looked at him with wide eyes. You were afraid of what he was going to do. Was he going to lash out? Was he going to kill you? Oh, God, what had you'd done?

"Thank you."

He said thank you?

"For what?" You asked him.

"Being you. Kind. Comforting," He told you.

Huh. Brahms was starting to open up a little, day by day.

You nodded, not quite knowing how to respond. Brahms walked over to the record player in the study and put the stylus on the record.

It scratched a little and fizzed, but Clair De Lune started to resonate around the room, filling it with a sort of.. melancholy atmosphere. Brahms swayed his head softly to the gloomy piano notes and closed his eyes.

Music really was his world. You supposed it was all the world he had for 20 odd years, really.

After a few minutes, the track was over. Brahms opened his eyes once more, but there was a childish twinkle in them.

His mask shifted slightly, but you knew, deep down, Brahms had smiled at you.