The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Part 11 - The Real Brahms

You find the dress laid out neatly on your bed .   There's barely a crease on it and it smells faintly of lemon soap.   You hold it up and examine it.    You remember how it looked on that weird stuffed dummy, the way the fabric was neatly fanned out, almost as though it were revered.   You close your eyes then curse under your breath.   Just because the dress is unmarked doesn't mean...    

You lock your bedroom door, then take a shower.   You put on red lace underwear, then pull on the dress.   You love this dress.   The fabric is silk crepe.   A pair of flat matching pumps complete the outfit.   You hurry downstairs.   Everything is ready.   The food.  The table set in the dining room.  Ambient lighting.  Music.  Wine (despite your resolve never to drink again, you know you're going to need some Dutch courage).   Halfway down the stairs you realise how insane this all is.   On several levels.   Level 1: This is not a date.  Level 2: Brahms can't, won't, eat the food in front of you.  Level 3: Brahms won't remove the mask.  Level 4:  He may well think he's on a promise!

At this last you stop dead, scowling in dismay.   You know that, for all his intelligence, Brahms isn't particularly sophisticated in the way of the world, but he's not stupid either.   And he's a man.   Probably...no, definitely...a horny one too.    What if he makes a pass at you?  You'll have to rebuke him, and that'll offend him, and then he'll lose it and smash things up, and then he'll turn on you and...

I'll smack him round the chops like last time, you think determinedly.   But Brahms respects me, doesn't he?   He backs off if I ask him nicely.   Ask him nicely?   For fuck's sake, Y/N, who do you think he is, Little Lord  Fauntleroy?   Oh, God, what am I doing?

Then,  Brahms walks into the hallway from the sitting room,  dressed all in black.  Black shirt.  Black jeans.  Black shoes.   He looks up at you.  The mask gleams in the lamplight and something, some wild, impulsive emotion, takes you over.  In that moment, he could be anyone.  The most handsome man in the world.  The best lover you've ever met.    It's probably the same mindset those stupid people have who go into haunted houses on their own, or walk alone down dark roads at midnight in bad neighbourhoods.   You hesitate, staring down at him.  

"You look beautiful," he says softly.   He sounds so normal.  So refined and kind with his well spoken English.  It takes you a little off balance and you feel abashed like a silly schoolgirl on her first date.  

"Thank you, Brahms."

So, you walk down the stairs and he follows you into the dining room.   You've laid out some mineral water and a bottle of vintage Claret.  You see he's already lit  the two candles at the centre of the table, and turned out the overhead light.    

"Sit," he says.  So you do.  He pours claret for you, then sparkling water for himself.  He sits opposite you.   You lift your  glass high.  "Cheers, Brahms."

You watch him do the same, then you both lean forwards and chink the crystal together.   You smile and sip.  He holds his glass and stares at you.   The candlelight is soft and kind, and you know it makes your eyes sparkle because you can see the flames igniting his.   He blinks twice, the long lashes flickering.   You sip your wine slowly.  Very slowly.

"I have music," you tell him.   "Not classical though.   I thought we could have a change."  

He watches you walk to the iPod dock then press play.  The music is  FSOL ambient. You keep it low.  Brahms cocks his head as the haunting vocals of Papua New Guinea begin.  

Suddenly, he stands and blocks your way back to the table.   There's something in his hand.  You see the wink of gold.  Your chain!  Brahms steps behind you, both hands around your neck.  You feel the cold gold as he gently fastens  the clasp.  His fingers brush the warm skin of your throat, coming to rest on your shoulders.   The touch of him is electric; your reaction totally beyond your control.   But it doesn't surprise you even as it dismays you.   You've felt this coming for too long.  You stand immobile, hooking into his strong, silent energy; wondering what it would be like to have him inside you. The sexual tension is more than you can bear.  You turn and take two steps back, then plonk yourself down in your seat again.  

"Are you hungry?"  

He nods then sits himself down.  Did he feel that too?   Is it just you?     You stare down at your empty plates.  The spicy fragrance of well done lasagne reaches both of you.  You swear you hear his tummy rumble.  Something in you snaps.

"Brahms!  This is ridiculous.   I'm not going sit here and eat while you just sit here and watch me eat."

You get to your feet, then walk to his side.   Slowly, you kneel down beside him.   "Look at me, Brahms."

He stares straight ahead at your chair.

"Brahms?"

You look at his hands, his beautifully long fingered scarred hands.  The nails are cut short and immaculate.   He's gripping the table top.  His knuckles white.

"Brahms, please...Just look at me."

You watch the mask crank round.  Hear his breath rasping beneath it.  At this angle, his left eye is in shadow, the damaged one blazes scarlet.  He's getting anxious.  Angry.   

"Do you trust me?"

He doesn't respond.  You stare into that bloodshot eye and know there's only one way to do this.   It's madness, yet feels so right.   It's all your fear, but all your hopes.   You know you're looking into the abyss.   But you can't stop yourself.  And there'll be no going back.   You show him your heart.

"Brahms...I want you to kiss me."

As soon as you release the words, you regret it.   He's glaring at you.  With what?  Horror?  Revulsion?  He's scared, you marvel.  Absolutely terrified.

You reach out to touch his hand again, but he's on his feet, charging from the room.   You hear a door slam.   And then another.  The moment is gone.  And along with it, the trust.  

With a heavy heart you sit back down at the empty table and drain your wine glass.