Chapter Text
The cold-snap came overnight. Outside, a fine layer of frost coated every leaf, bud, and branch in the garden. Water in the small fountains had stilled into glass. The chill drifted in through the open rear door of the mansion, turning his breath into swirling vapor and leaving his skin goose-pimpled beneath his cardigan. He shuffled in place, eyes darting as though at any moment danger could leap in upon him. It didn't, of course. The real danger wasn't anything outside. It was that doorway.
There wasn't anything magical about it; nothing to differentiate it between any other doorway in the mansion. What made it such a threat was the fact that it represented something. A portal. A cutoff. A barrier.
One step outside and anything could happen. What if he went out and something happened and he couldn't get back in? What if he was stuck in the foreign Outdoors? What if...
He took a deep breath and a hard swallow.
What if something happened and he couldn't reach them?
Every time he had been outside in the last six months it had been with his person right at his side. The possibilities of danger- in his mind -were much less intimidating when he knew they were there with him. Whatever came, the two of them could handle it- together. And, yes, the door was open and theoretically he could run right back inside if something DID happen, but what IF-?
He shook himself. If they were here, they would probably think he was being silly. Nothing was going to happen. He tugged his scarf up over his nose to fend off the cold. With another sharp shake of his head he walked forward, crossing the threshold, feeling the ice crunch under his shoes as he bounded down the stairs and into the garden.
The latch on the shed was stuck and stubborn in the cold and it took a minute to get it to turn. He collected the various tarps, sheets, and ropes they used to cover the plants and deposited them in a heap at the center of the garden, taking one set at a time and winding them around every tree and shrub. It took nearly an hour and by the time he stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking over his work, his fingers were stiff and sore with the cold, every digit flushed red.
“Brahms?”
He looked over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps on the porch. There they stood, smartly dressed in all their winter gear, looking with surprise at the covered garden.
“You did all this?” He nodded, smiling up at them as they walked down the stairs toward him. They took his face in their gloved hands and exclaimed, “And you're not wearing your mask! I'm so proud of you!” Heat swelled in his chest at the praise, burning as he was enveloped in a smothering hug. “God, but it's FREEZING out here!” They pulled back and tugged on his sleeve, nodding back up the stairs. “Want some cocoa?”
He nodded vigorously and raced them back up to the house, shutting the door on the frozen world behind them.
-
“I appreciate you covering everything, but you DID let in a bit of a chill.” You huffed, sloughing off your coat and leaving it, your boots, and gloves by the door. He looked balefully at you over the scarf wrapped around most of his face and you sighed. “I'm not upset, it's just... going to be a little cold in here for the rest of the day.”
The kitchen was a little warmer than the hall and became even more so after the stove was turned on. The two of you huddled near it while you taught him how to make hot cocoa.
As he followed your instructions you watched him out of the corner of your eye. He didn't seem irritated or angry at all; he was back to his usual curious, calm, bright-eyed self. This was a good sign. He had recovered quickly. It had, after all, only been two days since you'd brought company over to the mansion.
-
The door had only just clicked shut, closing on the car driving away from the house, when a crash came from a sitting room behind you.
“Brahms?!” You called out, running to the source of the sound and arriving in the doorway just in time to watch a lamp zip across the room and shatter on the far wall. A ragged cry of rage filled the room and rooted you to the spot, unable to do much more than watch as Brahms flung himself around the room, upending furniture, books, several antiques, taxidermy, and finally another lamp that exploded in a shower of glass as he slammed it into the ground near his feet. Everything went quiet, the only movement a few papers drifting to the floor.
He stood in the middle of the disaster he'd made and trembled, his chest heaving in great, shuddering breaths. You let a minute of silence pass, then calmly asked,
“Feel better?”
Another stretch of silence, then his low voice, pained, answered,
“No.”
You stepped carefully into the room, tip-toeing around a few broken odds and ends and a book that had survived being thrown across the room with little more than a single bent page to show for it. You stopped when you were near his side, just behind him.
“What did you think was going to happen?” You asked gently and he shook his head.
“I don't know. I just...” He shrugged, gesturing vaguely around the room.
“I know. In the past you probably pitched fits just like that and mummy and daddy made everything better.” You tried to keep a tired or mocking tone from your voice, but it was difficult; if it came through at all, he didn't seem to notice. “But they're not here now. This was childish, and you're not a child.”
He looked around the room, nodding, and kept nodding as he hung his head and hid his face behind his hands.
“Brahms?” He froze. “Can I hear you say it?”
His hands lowered and he turned slightly toward you.
“You're not a child?”
“I am...” He swallowed, eyes closing and opening slowly. “not a child.”
“What are you?”
“I am... an adult.” He choked around the word, then, more confidently, said, “I'm a man.”
“Yes,” you smiled. “Yes, you are.”
You should have felt prouder, but the edge of shock was starting to wear off, bringing irritation over the immature outburst and a trembling to your hands. Pride would come later, you hoped.
“You are an adult and a man, and you know what that means?” You asked, and he shook his head, still staring at you. “That means... that when you make a mess, you clean it up.”
You walked away.
-
Nothing had happened during the visit. No one had even seen or heard him, but just the presence of strangers in his house- regardless of the fact that you had warned him they were coming -had set him off. All things considered, it could have ended worse, you thought. He could have caused trouble while they were still in the mansion. An unwelcome thought you pushed to the back of your head said, 'He could have killed someone'.
He had cleaned up the mess he made as well as he could, and you stepped in later to help him with the rest. Then he had disappeared into his sanctuary in the walls and had not come out until this morning, going outside to cover the garden for you while you got ready for work.
“It's pretty easy, isn't it?”
He nodded happily, stirring the simmering mixture in smooth motions. You left him to it, stepping away to gather up mugs and bowls for breakfast.
The schedule for the day was simple enough- you and Brahms made breakfast together, then you finished getting ready and left for work, getting a kiss and a hug on your way out the door. He still looked terrified and heartbroken when you left, but he was handling it better these days.
Work lasted until five and you usually came home right after (unless you felt like stopping to pick up a treat), arriving back at the mansion by six o'clock. Brahms had become so confident and adept with cooking that he usually had dinner nearly finished by the time you returned and, if it wasn't done, you would finish it together.
After dinner was eaten and the kitchen straightened up, you would settle in with him on a couch or bed and read from one of the mansion's many books. His favorites were the gothics, romances, and poetry; anything that felt dramatic and wistful and strange.
When you turned in for the night it was usually together and usually in your bed, but there were still nights when he would pull himself away and slip into the walls. He hadn't yet reached the point where he would allow you into his own space for the night, but you had finally seen it a month or so ago and once or twice since then.
You crawled into bed that night and he was already under the covers, curled into a ball and half-asleep. You lay for awhile in the dark, looking over the contours of his mask-less face lit by moonlight.
It had been close to seven months since he had first shed the mask with you, in this same room, the curtains drawn over the windows to paint the room pitch-black. Once he knew he could come to you for physical comforts, he took advantage frequently for the following few months. You figured he'd had a lot of tension built up, being alone for so long. Eventually he calmed down a bit, but the hungry, borderline-starved nature of his actions never really went away.
There was the time when he interrupted a walk through the woods on the property to drag you into a copse of trees, so desperate that he hadn't bothered to remove most of your clothing- and none from himself -before sinking into you. The frantic mood lasted until the end when he growled at a passing squirrel for daring to get so close, sending you, and then himself, into fits of laughter, laying enveloped in each other in the middle of the autumnal leaves.
Another time had you taking the lead following a mistake on your part that led to him coldly ignoring you. You got fed up and pushed him down on the uncomfortable sofa in the study, for once the one to push his hands away when he tried to turn the roles around. He backed off when you got going, realising how enjoyable having someone else take control could be. You turned him into a completely incomprehensible mess, melting under you.
Or that time when, finding his jealousy over the friendly relationship you'd developed with the postman at its breaking point, he waited until you were inside to drag you into the walls of the mansion. Your heart had raced in a mixture of excitement and confusion. FINALLY he was taking you to his sanctuary! It had taken about a year, but at last your relationship had reached that level of trust. He had pulled you in and spun you out into the room, slamming the door shut behind you both. You had no time to examine the sacred space he'd kept hidden as he stalked forward, turning you around forcing you face-down onto the wooden floor. What followed was an event more frantic than what had passed between you in the woods. Everything was hard; not enough to hurt, but only just. One hand held your head in a solid grip across your scalp, the other trapping your left hand against the floor where your nails scratched out splinters. Breath steamed across your neck, teeth dragging at the skin as he ground out a low,
“Mine.”
There were days where he could hardly stand to be apart from you which were better spent wearing nothing at all, for the frequency with which he'd crawl into you.
Not that everything had to end that way. There were days spent in a comfortable and lazy silence with little interaction between you, days where he demanded regular attention and all but clung to you, begging you to read to him, walk with him, talk to him, and a few days that some people might even call “normal”.
A day in the middle of summer had found the two of you cleaning the dishes from a feast he had made the night before, the doors and windows open to let in the warm breeze. Your laptop playlist eventually shuffled itself to an elegant waltz and the two of you danced- first separately and then together. You had grown so accustomed to each other by that point that the partnership was perfect, moving easily and gracefully across the kitchen floor. Then a jazzy number took over and you separated again to teach him a livelier dance.
He wasn't always the most graceful dancer but he was nothing if not enthusiastic, and his strong desire to learn resulted in you looking up new dances frequently. He memorised them all.
-
Light filtered its way through your eyelids and you pulled them back slowly, blinking against the morning sun shining in your window. You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut again and rolled over, one arm flopping out long across the bedspread. You frowned and felt around, opening your eyes to see that the bed was, indeed, empty of another body. Brahms was already up.
It had taken him awhile to get on board with the idea of 'The Weekend' and 'Sleeping in', but you convinced him over time that it didn't mean a complete interruption of the schedule, but rather that the whole thing just got pushed back a little. Some mornings he would still get up at the usual time to start the day his way, and he usually left you alone to sleep. Usually.
You slipped off the bed and made your way to the door, the smells of eggs, sausage, and beans drifting up when you opened it, wafting around you as you made your way down. Brahms wasn't in the kitchen, but he had left you a plate of food on the table. Your mind went back some months ago to The Bad Day, when you had prepared and left that morning's breakfast in much the same way he had just done. Things do change, you thought with a smile.
The world outside the kitchen window was sleeping under a blanket of snow, sunlight shining on the pure white surface. Something about the day felt soft and beautiful and like it should be shared with someone. After eating, you wandered through the house, looking for any signs of your housemate, but none were found. With a little hesitation, you decided to try and find his sanctuary on your own.
You started in your own room, since you were so familiar with the direction you knew he came from whenever he showed up there. A few taps along the wall, pressing here and there, and you were able to pop open a small door in the wood paneling. You paused on the threshold. It was horribly dirty. You knew your slippers were going to be ruined, but you pulled them on anyway, started to head into the walls, then had a second thought and pulled a robe on over your pajamas.
The passageways were cramped, dusty, and dark, with very little light squeezing its way in through an occasional crack in the wall. It took a little exploring to find your way; you really hadn't been to his room often enough to have the route memorised. By the time you pushed open the door you were wearing a thick coat of grime over your robe and slippers, and Brahms greeted you with wide eyes, seated at his workbench and frozen mid-motion with his hands raised holding knitting needles and yarn.
You coughed, feeling sheepish and suddenly unsure of what to do. He didn't look angry or annoyed- just surprised. You finally crept forward, shedding your filthy robe, and draped yourself over his back, arms wrapped around his shoulders and face resting against the back of his neck. He gave your arms a little squeeze with one hand, then carried on with his work like nothing had happened.
It occurred to you that all this time you when thought you were giving him his privacy by staying out of this room, he may have just been waiting for you to come in on your own. You could see why he hid out here so much. It was dim, peaceful, and comfortable.
Just as you were starting to drift off standing up, he gave you a little shake to rouse you.
“Mm?” you yawned, pushing yourself off of him and landing with an “oomph!” in his lap when he turned and pulled you in again. He held you close and the two of you sat in silence for a minute.
“Morning,” he finally mumbled into your forehead.
“Morning,” you mumbled back into his chest.
“Shower?” he asked, pulling back.
“Shower,” you answered back with a nod.
You opted to go for the bathroom Brahms usually used, since it had a large stall and your own bathroom had a tub that was really only suitable for one person. You undressed, helping each other once or twice, and as he turned to you after setting his mask down you felt a jolt like you always did at the sight of his scars- the ones on his face and shoulder from the fire, and the large dark spot of a scar on his abdomen which was still a mystery to you. He gave you a look of discomfort when he caught you staring, and reached around you to turn the water on.
There were days when you would shower together and things could become heated in more ways than one. This was not one of those days. This was a day for washing each others' hair, giving yourself bubble hats with the foamy soap, and sitting under the water just enjoying the feeling of the heat around you.
“It's still kind of strange... seeing you without your mask.” You smiled at him, both of you seated on the tile floor, leaning on the wall of the shower stall as the water poured down around you.
“It... still feels strange,” he said quietly, barely audible over the water.
“I'm glad you've been keeping it off more often lately. It's nice to be able to see you.”
His lips quirked up in an uncertain smile. He ran a hand over his face, fingers worrying over the burn scars.
“You always stare at me.”
“I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. I mean, I feel self-conscious when you look at me, if that makes you feel any better.”
He looked confused, and asked, “Why?”
You gave him a short list of your “problem areas”- things that had always bothered you about your body. He gave you a bewildered look, and followed it up with a steady stream of kisses over your body, leaving you light-headed and giggling as you did the same for him in turn.
The shower was finally turned off for the sake of not wasting any more water, and both of you dried off and got dressed in clean clothes.
“What do you want to do this morning?” you asked, straightening your shirt. He eyed his mask for a moment, then turned away from it and answered,
“Walk.”
“Sounds good!” You smiled and nodded, leading him down the stairs to retrieve your coats and boots.
The cold air bit into every bit of exposed skin when the door opened and you stepped out onto the front porch, Brahms trailing behind you.
“Which way do you want to go? Or...” you faltered as an idea came into your head and, with some uncertainty, you asked, “do you want to try going by yourself?”
He stared at you with his big, bright eyes, and looked terrified. But he didn't say 'no'. Instead, he let his gaze roam across the driveway and the grounds around it, thinking.
“I... I'll try,” he said finally. He stepped around you, right up to the edge of the top step, and froze, body a rigid line of tension.
“It's scary, isn't it?” He nodded and you smiled, even though he couldn't see it. “What if I wait right here for you? I won't be close, but I'll still be outside the house and you can come right back to me if you need to.”
He looked over his shoulder at you, thought for a moment, then nodded slowly.
“O-... okay.” He nodded again, more sure this time, and started down the stairs and driveway at a steady pace.
You watched him go and couldn't help but feel a certain amount of fatigue next to the understandable pride. This was a sure sign of growth but, like always, the doubt came in. Surely, someone else could have done better in your place? Wouldn't he be better off with someone who really knew what they were doing? Maybe a facility would be better option. He could have professionals, doctors to see to him all day every day. It wouldn't matter if his progress was fast, slow, or even nonexistent, because there would always be people there with the patience and knowledge to take care of him anyway. They would know when he needed to be pushed more, or if he had reached some kind of an end to the treatment and could finally be considered a relatively 'normal' adult.
The doctor's words rushed to the forefront of your brain from the depths of six months ago:
'What are you going to do if there is no end to it?'
What if what if what if.
Maybe that was what you were really tired of. All those persistent doubts.
You took a deep breath and blew it out hard through your nose, feeling suddenly quite calm and stubborn.
So what if there was no end? Nothing ever really ends, does it? You're born into a family and whether you remain in contact with them or not, there is always that connection there. It doesn't end; not with distance, time, nor death. There is always something that lingers. The things you learn stick with you, informing every action you take which further has an effect on the world you interact with, creating a cycle of effects without end. You kill someone and the guilt doesn't end. The ghost of what you did carries on along with you and the nightmares never really go away completely. The therapy you take for years afterward has a lasting effect, but it's one more effect on a heap and you keep carrying them all. You move away from everyone you know, to a house full of secrets and you learn them all and they don't end; you carry them with you. Eventually, one of those secrets carries you and gives you a purpose so divine that for awhile you decide that you don't want to end yet, either. You carry each other. You keep going. You don't stop. Nothing ends.
A friend had asked you recently if you loved each other and you hadn't been able to give them an answer. You realised, all at once, that it really didn't matter.
Maybe it was love, but maybe it was just survival. It didn't matter. It worked for the both of you, and maybe that was enough.
Maybe... that's enough.
Maybe someone else could do better in your position; but they weren't there now. You were.
Maybe he would be better off somewhere else; but he wasn't somewhere else. He was here.
Maybe you didn't love each other, but maybe you did. It wasn't important. You were together and that, too, was enough.
-
The thin layer of snow and the gravel beneath crunched underfoot as he walked away from the house, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat both to keep the cold from them and to stifle the horrible shaking. The further along he went, the less overwhelming it all was; the open space of the driveway near the mansion narrowed and closed in, the treeline creeping closer until he might as well have been on a path in the woods. The branches sweeping overhead, occasionally dropping small drifts of snow over the path or on him, made the area feel close and safe. Secure. He forced himself not to look behind him and the shaking nerves got worse before they got better.
The fenced edge of the property came into view and he turned to walk some yards away from and along it. The mansion and grounds were, thankfully, quite far from town, buried deep in the woods. There was no chance of anyone coming this far out, but even so he still kept back into the trees, eyes darting as he walked, finding possible hiding places- just in case.
Nothing happened. Of course nothing happened.
Half an hour into the walk, his route swinging back around toward the house, he relaxed more than he ever had outside. It was... nice. Peaceful. The woods had changed plenty in the twenty-odd years since he had played in them as a child, but he could catch glimpses of areas still fairly familiar; one of his favorite hiding places at the base of an oddly-shaped tree, a sharp dip in the earth that filled with water in the winter and created a small pond, a section of the woods where the trees pressed in close and he and Emily had been playing the day she died, and nearby there were the bushes where he had left her body.
He frowned a little, good mood faltering. He was still a little unsure why his person had been so upset over the fact that he had killed people before. If he were honest, he had thought about doing the same to them when they had first moved in. The wounds- physical and emotional -from the mansion's last owner had still been healing, not to mention lingering resentment for his last nanny, leaving him in no mood to deal with another stranger. But there was something to them that had stayed his hand on the nights where he had stood over their sleeping body, arm raised with a paperweight or fire iron, ready to take them out.
They had proved receptive to him leaving little signs of his presence in the house. Eventually, they had figured things out on their own. Greta had warned them about him, he found out later. He seethed at the thought of his previous nanny, rubbing absentmindedly at his abdomen, feeling the scar she had left there. An ache flooded his chest at the memory of her betrayal, a sudden regret at not killing her too, but he shrugged it off.
It didn't matter anymore.
What mattered was that there was someone else here now.
What mattered is that they were waiting for him.
What mattered is that they weren't going anywhere.
He turned onto the driveway again, following the gravel road back up, the mansion slowly coming into view. As he drew nearer, he could make out movement- a familiar figure walking circles and figure-eights at the bottom of the mansion's stairs. They stopped as he came closer, waiting patiently with a smile they only used when they were very proud of him. His stomach flipped, face flushing at the sight of them. He stopped when he was a few feet away, and they stared at each other for a moment.
"You okay?" They asked and he nodded.
"I'm alright."
They gestured up the stairs and held a hand out to him.
"Ready to go back?"
He smiled, taking their hand.
They walked together back up the stairs and into the house, shutting the door against the cold.