Brahms Heelshire - MATURE

Growing Up

Another two days later, and it was the scheduled day that Malcolm was supposed to drop off the groceries. I hadn't seen him since the day Cole had arrived, and I'd foolishly told him I'd had a plan on how to get rid of my abusive ex.

His body was still in the parlor.

I hadn't had the guts to look at it or clean it up, even while I'd kept up with the rat traps, with Brahms' stories, lessons, and music time every day. I'd stuck to the routine and only the routine. I feared my sanity would get away from me if I allowed too much time to think about what I was doing, no matter how resolved I still was.

Brahms had showered by himself that morning, and after much praise from me, he was hanging off my shoulders while I cooked like usual. He smelled like the lavender soap I'd been using. It was a vast improvement to the scent of stale sweat and old blood. 

In addition to that, he was wearing another set of his father's clothes that I'd scrounged up. It was a white button-up—fitting him because he'd only done up two of the buttons—and yet another pair of loose dress pants. After showing him how to tuck in the white shirt, he was starting to look rather dapper. Much like the clothes his doll used to wear.

I stirred the eggs, scrambling them. I was tired and lazy, too occupied to make him a fine-course meal. And he was Brahms. He said nothing about it. 

His arm slid away from my chest and down my arm. He folded his hand over my own as I stirred. I yawned, leaning my head against his thick shoulder.

"Are you helping me cook now, Brahmsy?" I asked him sleepily. 

He rested his chin on my head, and I felt the beard and the edge of his mask. He was careful enough to keep it from digging into my scalp, so I didn't bother pushing him away. If I were to be honest, the house was horrible at keeping heat in. But I still remembered the warning about the fireplaces Mr. Heelshire had given me, so I resorted to letting Brahms warm me up with his hugs in the mornings. Soon enough, the sun would get through and do its job. But until then, I had a human heater.

"What...is this?" he asked hesitantly. 

This time, I didn't react to the deep rumble of his voice, even as it was against my back. "It's scrambled eggs," I answered. I made my tone casual to not startle him. "It's really easy to make. Especially if you toast some bread and butter it—you'll be good to go." 

"American?" he asked then.

"I don't know. Have you never had it before?" I tilted my head back, dislodging his sigil. He looked down, chin tucking in to meet eyes.

"I have not." 

I hummed and patted a hand onto his outstretched arm. His still had his other in a wrap around my shoulders. "Well, I couldn't tell you how many times I've had this." I laughed. "You're speaking is getting very good, Brahmsy. You're doing well today."

His fingers tightened over my own, and I let myself relax. He stirred for me, using my hand.

He seemed to like learning that way. He learned by copying my moves, my gestures, my intonations. Brahms liked shadowing my lessons as closely as he could. He'd been doing it ever since the shower incident, and I'd needed to get over myself very quickly since then. He needed a teacher and I was going to do that for him, no matter what.

I watched him cook, resting my head onto his shoulder again. I was strangely exhausted that day, and I couldn't get myself to stop leaning in to his warmth. 

"If you keep going like this, then you'll be cooking for me soon enough." The movements of his hands and fingers, making the wooden spoon look small, were almost mesmerizing. "How do feel about that, Brahms?"