The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Part 10 - Scars

"Woah, look at you!"

You smile across at Brahms, drinking in the sight of him dressed in the new clothes you've bought.    He's not at all self conscious and towers in the kitchen doorway clad in skinny jeans, form fitting sweatshirt and Converse trainers.   He's not wearing the socks you purchased but you guess they might irritate his scars.

Damn that mask, you think, wondering what kind of expression he's wearing.  You try not to stare too hard at his long, muscled thighs or the defined chest and biceps.    He's just gotten out of the shower and his hair hangs over the mask in dripping curls.

"You look..."  For some reason you stop yourself telling him the obvious - that he looks drop dead gorgeous in spite of the mask.   "...better."

He takes a seat at the table, his arms folded across his chest.  This has the effect of bulking out his pecs and biceps even more.   

"How do these clothes feel?"   You ask him.

"Tight."

You laugh.   "You'll get used to them."   Sobering, you say, "You look great, Brahms."

He merely stares at you, his arms still folded.  

"What would you like for dinner tonight, Brahms?    What's your favourite food?"

"Pasta."

"OK.   How about lasagna?"

He nods.

"You know...it would be nice if we could eat together, don't you think?"

He doesn't respond.  There's something you've been meaning to broach with him for a while.    Now seems as good a time as any.

"Brahms, that night...the night Joel died?   I stumbled across your rooms, behind the walls.   I know you still go there, sleep there..."   You find  yourself wondering if this is a huge mistake.  It's so hard trying to converse with someone whose face is covered.   His eyes are the only gateway.   "I saw you had my dress...the coral coloured one.   And my gold chain."

He barely even blinks.   Christ almighty...

"I understand why you took it," you continue.  Do you?  Your subconscious screams.  How about that balled up tissue!    At the thought, your cheeks start to burn.   You're not sure why this thought mortifies you as you consider yourself a woman of the world, and fully understand a man's needs - particularly one who's been sexually deprived forever.   You clear your throat. "I'd like it back, please."

If there's one thing Brahms is good at, it's being a master of the silent profundity.  His eyes flicker across your body, then back up to your face.   You feel his energy change.  It's subtle, but obvious at the same time.  You feel it as surely as you feel an emotion.  It makes you inwardly squirm.   As usual, in an effort to bluster your way out of an uncomfortable situation, you say absolutely the wrong thing.   

"Brahms...wouldn't you rather see that dress on me?"

The dull hammering noise you hear is your own heart starting to audibly thump.   Is it the way he's staring at you?   Is it your own subconscious reaction to his physical  attractiveness?   You wonder if you're ovulating?   Or just plain desperate because you haven't had sex yourself for months and...

"Right!" You stand abruptly, desperate to break that train of thought. "We have all the ingredients so I'll get cracking."

You bustle about, clanking pots and pans and getting out a handful of onions to chop.   The astringent veg makes your eyes water forcing you to step away from the chopping board, holding the back of your hand to your eyes.     At least the pain calms your hormonal thoughts down.   

You feel the knife being eased from your hand.  Brahms hands you a swatch of kitchen roll and stands impassively as you swipe at your tears.

"Ah, God!"   You squeeze your eyes shut and grimace.  You hear water running, then a cool wet cloth being pressed to your eyes.   You take it and breath in and out through the damp fabric  until the pain eases.

"Don't you just hate onions..."    When you lower the tea towel, he's inches away; your face  on a level with his sternum.  Through the thin jersey fabric of his sweatshirt you see the outline of his nipples.   He smells of lemon soap and pheromones.   You dare not look up.  Jesus...  It takes a huge effort to side step him.   

"How about you bring me my dress and I'll wear it for dinner tonight,"  is all you can think of saying.   

Brahms turns his head to look at you over his shoulder.   You keep moving around as though nothing bothers you; as though his proximity just now hasn't nearly blown the top of your head off with lust.  You wish to God he'd stop staring at you that way.

In exasperation, you say, "Did you hear what I said, Brahms?"

"You want to know what's under this mask."

Typical of Brahms, he catches you completely offside.   "That's not what I meant!  I mean, of course, I wonder what you look like but it's not important.   To me, I mean.  It doesn't bother me...the scars..."

You stare across at him helplessly.   Does it matter?  That he's badly scarred?   What would you find under there?  You know his right eye is damaged but he has eyelashes on both which means the fire hasn't touched him too badly or burned his brows?  What if he hasn't got a nose?   Perhaps his lips are gone?  But no, he has no speech impediments, not even a lisp,  and you've heard him breathing normally.  His next words chill your blood to the marrow.

"My mother dragged me to my bedroom the day I killed Emily.  I knew I'd done wrong but didn't care.    She was furious that I had no remorse; called me a monster.   My mother was outwardly genteel but she had a rage in her too.  When she and father fought it was always her that screamed the loudest or hit the hardest.   Daddy would do anything to keep her happy.

"That day  she had a bottle with her - filled with something flammable, I never found out what.   She mostly splashed my right side and my feet.  Then she set fire to the room and me.   Young as I was, I remember feeling bewildered that she should hurt me so.   Betrayed.   My father saved my life.  He wrapped me in my bedding and dragged me from the room.  I don't remember much more."

He touches the mask with the fingertips of his right hand.   "I was never treated for my burns."

"How bad are they?"

"Bad enough that I never want to look at them."

"Won't you show me?"

"No."

You nod.   "It's OK, Brahms.   I won't mention it again."

"I don't know why I'm like I am, Y/N.   I only know I'm not like other people.  I'm not like you.   I don't have any light in me."

When he walks from the room you feel like reaching for him; drawing him close, holding him, cuddling him.    Kissing him.   But you'll never kiss him.   You stand a while, trying to  weigh him up;  his ferocity, temper and murderous strength.  His vulnerability,  loneliness,  intelligence.   You know how you're feeling is the real danger. 

Author's Note:   In the originally shot movie, Brahms had no scars and no mask.   James Russell was considered too good looking to be scary, so they added the mask and the burns digitally.