The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Part 26 - Winter

Brahms is outside cutting wood, his breath vapourising in the frigid December air.  You stand in the warmth of the kitchen,  nursing a mug of coffee, watching the play of his muscles at each swing of the axe.  He's told you he always cut the wood for his parents; the dead wood  that falls each winter off the great chestnut, oak and beech trees littering the estate.   He enjoys the exertion of it.  Of course, there are no fires in the Heelshire house; a legacy of Brahms's incarceration by his parents.   But you and he light bonfires and drink hot chocolate in the light of the flames.  

Brahms loves the outdoors, you've discovered.   It's been a while since he wore his mask.   You don't ask where it is, or if it even exists anymore.   His body's healed now, and you hope against hope that his mind is healing too.  You know your influence has a lot to do with it, and this makes you glad and sad at the same time.   One day, you want him to be able to walk free from this house and its beautiful grounds; free to be a part of a world he's never seen; free to meet your family.

You've wondered time and again what their reaction might be.  And you wonder if you care.  Who you choose to love is your path in life.  You feel this partnership with Brahms is almost karmic...as though you've both known each other before, in other lives; in other loves.

As the last of the wood is cut, he comes into the house, his arms and chest perspiring.  He's wearing a simple black singlet and the pair of faded combat pants  you first found for him in his father's wardrobe.  His hair hangs in damp curls over his face, and he wipes his forehead with his arm.

You hand him a glass of ice cold milk, then watch as he drinks it down without pause.

"All done?" you ask him.

He nods.

"Sit down.  I've made lunch."

You both eat in silence for a while.   The food is simple.  Bread.  Cheese.  Olives.  Brahms prefers a Mediterranean diet to heavy stodgy food.   You watch him eat.   He doesn't guzzle his food, or eat with his mouth open.  In fact, his table manners are impeccable.  Something you'd never have guessed about him.   Brahms, you are discovering, is full of surprises.

One thing has been niggling away for some time.   Something Mr Heelshire told you about his son when you first came here.   You make coffee for yourself and tea for Brahms.  Then you ask him.

"Why don't you like animals, Brahms?"   

He looks across at you.   Then shrugs.  "It's a long story."

"We have us this whole day."  You try to put some brevity in your voice but freeze as his face darkens.    You recognise the look.   The clamping down of his emotions.

"I'm sorry, Brahms.  Just ignore me.  I don't need to know."

 He gives you one of his rare smiles.   "Some things are best forgotten, Y/N."

"Of course."  You stare down at your empty plate, wondering if his parents bought him pets as a kid, and he was cruel to them.   It's something you can hardly bear to think about.   But children change, you tell yourself.  He's not that child anymore.   And a leopard doesn't change its spots either, your inner demons say.

In an effort to hide those thoughts, you bury your face in your coffee cup and take a huge, scalding gulp.   When you finally look over at him, Brahms is staring back at you.   That damaged bloodshot right eye seems redder than ever.

"They die," he says at last in a flat voice.  "Like those rats in the traps."

Not sure what to say, or how to react, you remain silent.   You think of all the embalmed creatures you've seen around the house and in his hidden room.  For the first time since you met him face to face, you feel a sick thrill of fear.   It occurs to you that you don't really know him, and probably never will.  Not really.  Not deep in his heart or soul.   For all you know, what sits before you could be a facade; something whole hiding something broken.  Or perhaps that part of him, the fury that murdered Joel, is sleeping; just awaiting the catalyst  that will waken it and bring it to  madness again?   

You feel his gaze  and know that he's seeing into your thoughts.    He reads you like a blind man reads braille, touching and feeling into every nook and cranny of your heart and soul, deciphering your emotions in a way you can't even do yourself.   He knows you.  He is you.

"Y/N?"

You can't hide from him.   

"Y/N?"

You avoid his eyes.

He sighs.   A long drawn out exhalation that sounds resigned and....sad?   You glance up to see him staring down at his hands.  His head is bowed and you long to run your fingers through those tangled curls.   Every time you look at him, you desire him.  Now, for the first time ever, you wish you didn't.   

"You know what I'm thinking, don't you?"  You ask him at last.   "You always do."

He nods, and when he looks up again, his green eyes lie in the shadow of his hair. 

"Why can't I read you, Brahms?   Why do I always feel as though you're hiding so much of yourself from me?"

He gets to his feet, then reaches out.   "Come with me."

"I don't really feel like it right now, Brahms. I'm not in the mood."

"I don't mean that.   I want to show you something.  Something that's special to me."

Reluctantly, you take his hand.   He leads you through the house, through the hidden doorway in the library... then through to his hidden room.