Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eli woke to the soft patter of rain against the windowpane, the muted gray morning stretching long shadows across the ceiling. His breathing was slow, deep, as if clinging to the haze of sleep—where everything was simple, where nothing was expected of him.

Then reality settled in.

The Heelshire estate. The doll. The strange, suffocating weight of this job.

He sat up, pushing his tangled hair from his face, his fingers lingering at the ends like they might curl inward, grip, cling—like they used to. But he stopped himself. That part of him was buried now. He wasn’t that boy anymore.

His gaze swept the room—his room. It was unsettling in its stillness, as if frozen in time, untouched yet waiting. The faded wallpaper, patterned with golden stars and moons, was peeling at the edges, curling like old parchment. A small wooden bookshelf stood in the corner, its shelves lined with dusty picture books, their spines cracked and softened with age. Some leaned against each other for support, while others lay forgotten in a small wicker basket beside a rocking chair, their pages slightly yellowed.

A delicate dollhouse sat on a low wooden table near the window, its miniature furniture perfectly arranged, waiting for small hands to disturb it. A row of stuffed animals lined a small cushioned bench beneath the window, their glassy eyes staring blankly into the quiet space. A few of them had gone threadbare, their fur worn down from years of love and neglect.

At the foot of the bed, a set of wooden alphabet blocks had been carefully arranged—not into words, just shapes, just the idea of something. A few stray marbles glimmered near them, catching what little morning light filtered through the curtains. A toy train rested in the corner, its painted wheels chipped, its once-bright colors dulled by dust.

Eli’s fingers twitched against the bedsheets. It was too easy to imagine sinking into this space, into its quiet, into the softness of a life where expectations did not press so sharply into his skin. He could picture himself curled up in the rocking chair with a picture book in his lap, pressing his fingertips against the illustrations like he used to, tracing the shapes, pretending for just a moment that the world was kind and simple.

But he shook the thought away.

He wasn’t that boy anymore.

So why did this room make him feel so safe?

His fingers brushed against something cool on the nightstand. He turned his head, expecting to see his phone or maybe the little bottle of pills he always kept nearby.

Instead, a tiny porcelain kitten stared up at him with glossy black eyes.

Eli’s stomach twisted.

Hadn’t he seen this exact figurine in Brahms’ room last night?

He sat up slowly, running a thumb over its smooth surface. Maybe there were two? That had to be it. A set. A coincidence.

Still, he shivered.

Pushing the thought aside, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and padded to his suitcase. He retrieved his medication, popping a pill dry before rummaging through his clothes. He picked out something soft—something cute.

A cropped, pastel pink sweater with distressed hems and sleeves just long enough to let his fingers peek through. A black pleated mini skirt that sat high on his waist, short enough to show off the tops of his sheer, pink-stitched thigh-highs. He tugged on a pair of platform combat boots, the thick soles giving him a bit more height, the laces crisscrossed tight up to his ankles.

For accessories, he clipped a silver chain onto his skirt, letting it dangle just above his mid-thigh, and fastened a studded black choker around his neck. He caught his reflection in the dusty mirror across the room, frowning slightly as he adjusted the choker, fingers lingering at the metal buckle.

His skin was pale, almost translucent in the low light, his features delicate, porcelain.

Like the doll.

His stomach churned, and he quickly looked away.

---

Eli found Greta downstairs in the grand entryway, leaning against the banister, yawning as she scrolled through her phone. The Heelshires were near the door, dressed for travel, their movements rushed and purposeful.

“You’re finally up,” Greta said, smirking. “You sleep like the dead.”

Eli rolled his eyes, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his sweater. “What’s going on?”

“We’re leaving now,” Mrs. Heelshire announced, her tone clipped as she adjusted her scarf, barely sparing Eli a glance. “We have a taxi waiting.”

Greta stretched lazily, her arms reaching high above her head. “Cool, cool. Have fun.”

Mrs. Heelshire’s lips tightened into a thin smile before her gaze slid over to Eli. The coldness in her expression softened, just a fraction.

“Elias,” she began, her voice lower now, a bit too formal. “Be good to Brahms today.”

Eli stiffened, nodding awkwardly. “I—I will.”

Mrs. Heelshire’s eyes lingered on him, assessing him in that way that made him feel small. Her lips pressed into a firm line, as though she wanted to say more but held herself back.

“And he’ll be good to you,” she added cryptically, her words hovering in the air as Mr. Heelshire gestured for her to hurry along.

“Remember,” Mrs. Heelshire added, pausing at the door, “his bath is after he wakes up, lessons until noon, then chores. Don’t forget to clean the rat traps, and he’ll expect his music time at four. Dinner’s no later than six.”

Eli nodded quickly, feeling the weight of her words. He hadn’t exactly been given the most freedom, but these rules—every last one of them—were not up for discussion.

“And Elias,” she called softly as Mr. Heelshire opened the door, “Be sure to follow the schedule. Brahms is... particular.”

With that, the Heelshires swept out the door, leaving the house quiet again. The sound of the taxi’s engine faded as they pulled away. Greta, still half-leaning against the banister, gave a dramatic sigh.

“Finally.” She stretched her arms above her head, then cracked her knuckles one by one. “Alright, baby bat, time for you to do your little nanny gig.” She turned on her heel, already making her way toward the stairs. “I’ll be in my room—actually, no. I’m gonna take a long, hot shower first. Then maybe snoop around for some decent wine.” She smirked over her shoulder. “Try not to let the doll boss you around too much.”

Eli rolled his eyes as she disappeared down the hall, the sound of her boots clunking against the wooden floor until she was out of sight.

---

Brahms’ schedule was strict. Breakfast at eight, lessons dor three full hours? From lunch right into house work, what was he supposed ti do with Brahms?

Eli wasn’t sure what he expected as he set the doll up at the table, but he still found himself carefully arranging a proper breakfast. A small plate with golden-brown toast, buttered to the edges, sat beside a bowl of warm oatmeal drizzled with honey and a handful of fresh berries. He even poured a cup of tea, watching the steam curl into the air as he set it beside the doll’s place. The absurdity of the situation pressed heavily on him, but with a quiet sigh, he forced himself to go along with it—after all, rules were rules.

Greta strolled into the kitchen at some point, grabbing a piece of toast and hopping onto the counter. “So, how’s it feel babysitting the haunted American Girl doll?”

Eli shot her a look. “He’s not haunted.”

Greta smirked. “You hope he’s not haunted.” She took a bite of toast, talking with her mouth full. “Hey, where’s the WiFi password?”

Eli blinked innocently. “I don’t know.”

Greta groaned. “Unbelievable. What kind of rich freaks don’t have WiFi?”

Eli just shrugged. He did have internet, but only because of his phone plan. He wasn’t about to let Greta mooch off him—not yet, anyway.

By ten, Eli was sitting cross-legged on the floor of Brahms’ room, the old, dusty book of The Raven open in his hands. His voice was soft as he read aloud, trying to put some feeling into the words despite feeling silly. It was all part of the rules, and he couldn’t help but find it kind of sweet, even if it was weird. He liked the idea of doing things right, of being a good boy, even though he wasn’t sure why.

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing…”

His voice lingered on the words, trying to make the poem come alive.

But when he glanced up, the chill in the air made him freeze. The doll’s black eyes were locked onto him—still, unblinking, never wavering.

Eli swallowed hard, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. There was something in the room that felt off, something that made him shift uneasily but he pushed the feeling away, turning back to the page. He continued, trying to make the words flow smoothly.

Brahms was listening.

He had listened to many before—nannies, caretakers, all sorts of people who had come and gone, but none of them ever stayed. They didn’t follow the rules. They didn’t understand. They were always ready to change things, to break the routine, to treat him like just a doll. They never believed. They never saw him.

But Eli—Eli was different.

Brahms watched from the shadows, from the walls, unseen and unheard. He had watched Eli last night as he moved about the room, setting things in place as though he belonged there. He was strange—delicate, soft, his features too perfect. And yet there was something about him that made Brahms feel… seen. Eli touched things like he understood them—like he cared about them. He ran his fingers over the books, over the toys, almost reverently.

Eli belonged with them. With Brahms.

Sitting there now, reading in his soft, delicate voice, draped in the ribbons and lace that were clearly not his usual style, Brahms felt a deep, unsettling longing. He wanted to keep Eli. Wanted to hold onto him. Forever. The feeling settled in his chest like a weight, sweet but suffocating.

He envied him.

Eli’s soft skin, untouched, smooth—like porcelain. More perfect than any of Brahms' own figurines. Eli looked like something out of the past, something from the childhood Brahms had never had. A child, but so much more real than any of the other things Brahms had seen. Eli wasn’t just a toy—he wasn’t just here to follow the rules. He was something different, something Brahms had never encountered before. He wasn’t like the others.

And Brahms wanted him.

Wanted him close, wanted to keep him in this room, keep him in the quiet of the house forever. Just like the others. Only this time, he wouldn’t let him go.

Eli kept reading, oblivious to the weight of Brahms’ stare, lost in the rhythm of the poem. But Brahms didn’t care if Eli saw him. He had waited so long for someone like him.

He just had to wait for the right moment.

Eli turned a page, his delicate fingers ghosting over the brittle edges of the book.

"And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore?'"

Brahms clenched his fists.

He wanted to reach through the walls, trace his fingers along the lines of Eli’s fragile throat, feel the way it moved as he spoke. Press his windpipe until the boy was a sputtering mess with flushed cheekes and watery eyes. That would prove his new doll of a nanny was real and not just a pretty show.

But Brahms was good.

He could be good, as long as Eli was good to him too.

Greta, though—

Greta was a problem.

She hadn't once even acknowledged Brahms. Hadn't been following the rules. She would saunter in and out of the estate in her boredom. At a certain point Brahms saw her amuse herself with dusting because there wasn't any more for her to do.

---

Greta barged in a few minutes later, tossing herself onto Brahms’ neatly made bed without a care. “Alright, baby bat, enough creepy poetry hour,” she drawled. “Let’s go do something fun.”

Eli sighed, gently closing the book. “This is fun.”

Greta made a face. “No, this is you being a little teacher’s pet for the freaky porcelain demon. We should do something real.”

Eli bristled. “I said no.”

Greta rolled her eyes. “God, you are so uptight. You’re not actually scared of breaking the stupid rules, are you?”

Eli’s stomach twisted. “I just think we should follow them.”

Greta scoffed. “What, are you scared he’s gonna spank you if you don’t just like Cole did?” She grinned, voice dripping with mockery. “Oh no, Eli, what if the spooky little doll gets mad at you for being a bad little gay boy?”

Eli tensed, something in his chest tightening unbearably. “Shut up.”

Greta sat up, smirking, “What did I hit a nerve, Elias?”

'You're being a real fucking brat Elias! Bad boys get punished...' He tried to silently plead for Greta to help him with wide eyes but she just laughed Cole off and left the room.

Eli’s breath was coming faster now, shallow and uneven. His fingers twitched where they rested against the cover of the book. Mind lost in the past.

Greta rolled onto her stomach, chin in her hands. “You know this is insane, right? There is no little ghost boy, no haunted doll. You don’t actually have to do this creepy Stepford Nanny shit. Just man up for once.”

Eli squeezed his eyes shut.

The room felt too big and too small all at once, the edges warping, the walls pressing in. His heart hammered against his ribs, his skin hot, too hot, but his fingers were ice-cold.

Greta kept talking.

Her voice blurred into static.

His chest ached.

Breathe. Just breathe Eli.

Blindly, he reached out, grasping for something—anything—to ground himself.

His hands found porcelain.

Brahms.

He curled around the doll instinctively, pressing it close, burying his face into its stiff, unmoving shoulder. His breathing was rapid, shallow.

He needed to focus. Needed to calm down.

So he started humming.

Soft, breathy, something familiar—something safe. A song from childhood, something he barely remembered but had always soothed him. It vaguely came to his memory, some somg from show that used to be his escape.

Eli’s breath hitched as he squeezed Brahms tightly to his chest, his small hands trembling. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, panic clawing at him, making everything around him feel dizzy and too big. His head was spinning, and he couldn’t push it down, couldn’t force himself to calm down like he knew he should. He just wanted it to stop, but his body wasn’t listening. The pressure built inside his chest, choking him.

“Eli,” Greta’s voice cut through the noise, cold and dismissive. “What the hell is your problem now?” She crossed her arms and sat up in the bed, her eyes rolling as she watched him. “Pathetic.”

Eli's eyes welled up, but he quickly blinked them away. He didn't want to cry, didn't want to be weak, but it felt like his chest was collapsing. His small voice cracked as he whispered, “Go away. Just go away.” His grip on Brahms’ tiny body tightened, his fingers digging into the smooth porcelain as though it were his only lifeline. It was the only thing that made him feel even a little bit safe.

Greta scoffed and raised an eyebrow, clearly unbothered by his distress. “What, are you gonna cry now?” she mocked, standing up to leave. "Get over it, loser."

Eli flinched at the harshness of her tone, but he couldn’t find the strength to respond. His body was too small, too overwhelmed, and he felt like he was sinking into the floor. He wrapped his arms tighter around the doll, curling into himself, rocking back and forth. He wanted to scream, wanted to tell her to leave him alone, but the words stuck in his throat. His mind wasn’t working right. He just... couldn't be right.

Greta's footsteps faded as she left the room, her mocking laughter echoing behind her. Eli stayed on the floor, clutching Brahms like the tiny doll was the only thing in the world that could protect him. He trembled, his breaths shallow, trying and failing to calm himself.

In the walls, Brahms' lips curled into a quiet grin, a thrill running through him.

Yes. Yes, good boy.

Eli took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. His arms still clung around the Brahms doll, but his breathing was evening out, his heartbeat slowing. The anxiety attack had left his limbs weak, his mind sluggish.

The room was quiet now. Safe.

With a soft sigh, Eli pulled back and set Brahms gently on his lap, smoothing out his little suit. "Sorry about that," he murmured, adjusting the doll’s collar like he was fixing it for a proper gentleman. "I know she’s…a lot."

The doll, of course, didn’t respond. But somehow, Eli felt better speaking to it anyway.

He gave Brahms a little pat on the head before setting him back in his chair by the fireplace. "Alright," he said, rubbing at his temples. "Let's get a head start on making lunch."

—

The kitchen was eerily quiet as Eli plated two servings of food—one for himself, one for Brahms. He had been meticulous in preparing breakfast earlier, following the rules exactly. And yet, when he went to retrieve the doll’s left over plate, it was gone.

Not just empty. Gone.

His stomach churned.

Greta. It had to be Greta.

Eli’s hands curled into fists before he took a slow, measured breath.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. She probably thought it was hilarious—him putting food out for a doll, treating the rules like they actually mattered. But something about it rubbed him the wrong way.

Still, there wasn’t much he could do.

“Fine,” he muttered, deciding it wasn’t worth the argument. Instead of holding back, he opted to make enough for all of them—heating up a rich, hearty soup and layering thick slices of bread with cheese and ham, pressing them into a pan until they were golden and crisp. If Greta was going to eat anyway, he might as well make something decent. At least this way, no one would go hungry—including Brahms, even if he couldn't eat.

The afternoon passed with much of the same routine. Greta lazed around, scrolling through her phone and complaining endlessly about the lack of WiFi while going through the Heelshire manor's many rooms looking for any form of entertainment.

After lunch, Eli spent the unmentioned hours checking the traps, coloring in some drawings he'd done in the past when he went to be with Brahms for some time, then cleaning up the rooms he and the doll had been in, and mopping up Greta's muddy footprints finally before convening in the parlor when it was time for music.

When it was time for dinner, Greta did actually sit with Eli and the doll. She talked to him about the antiques in the manor she thought would be worth the most money, and mentioned to him to remember to clean the rat traps the next day before she left Eli to wash the dishes as she went to get ready for bed.

"This is hell," she groaned, flopping onto the armchair in Brahms' room as she watched Eli getting the doll ready for bed before himself . "How did old people live like this? What did they even do all day?"

"Read books," Eli answered absently, carefully buttoning the doll’s tiny pajamas.

Greta made a dramatic gagging noise.

Eli ignored her.

Once Brahms was settled in his bed, Eli finally let himself think about showering. The day had been long, and he felt the grime of travel and stress clinging to him. But there was one problem—he wasn’t supposed to leave Brahms alone until he went to sleep.

His eyes flickered toward the rules still sitting on the table, the words staring back at him like a warning.

Finally, he scooped the doll up and carried it to his guest room with Greta cackling at his antics as she walked off to her own room.

Eli carefully set the doll on his bed.

“There,” he mumbled. “You can stay here while I shower. Just…don’t peek, alright?”

The doll remained silent.

Eli turned on his Bluetooth speaker, scrolling through his phone for the right playlist. If Brahms was going to have to sit alone for a few minutes, at least he wouldn’t be stuck in total silence. Music would make the room feel less empty.

Soon, the sound of piano and soft, ethereal vocals filled the space.

Eli smiled as the soundtrack to one of his favorite games filtered through the air.

Then he disappeared into the bathroom, the rush of water muffling the world beyond.

—

In the walls, Brahms was enthralled.

The food—his food—had been delicious. Nothing like what his mother made, always bland and precise. This was warm, full of flavor. He had barely been able to contain himself when Eli left the room that morning, sneaking out just long enough to steal the plate.

And now, music.

Not the rigid, ancient compositions his parents forced on him in the schedule. This was different. Emotional. Something he could feel in his chest.

Eli was…something else.

Brahms pressed himself against the slats in the walls, breath shallow, barely daring to move as he watched Eli’s silhouette shift beyond the fogged-up glass. The steam curled around him, softening his form, making him look even more delicate, even more porcelain. Brahms had yet to even care of Eli being male. But even in his barest form, Eli's curves and soft, supple, flushed skin made him look like a little princess. A pretty little doll.

His eyes flickered toward the clothes left abandoned on the counter—black lace and ribbons, so out of place in this cold, old house.

His fingers twitched.

Slowly, carefully, he pushed open the hidden panel in the wall, slipping into the guest bathroom like a shadow. The sound of the shower masked his presence, Eli too lost in his own little world to notice the intruder.

Brahms’ hands were shaking as he reached out, fingers brushing over the delicate fabric. He barely had time to think before snatching up the lacey thong, holding it in his fist like it was something forbidden. Something precious.

He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply.

The scent was intoxicating—musk, warmth, Eli.

His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the music for a moment.

Eli was still singing, voice soft, sweet.

He doesn’t know I’m here.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

But he couldn’t linger.

He had already pushed his luck.

With one last glance toward the shower, he slipped back into the walls, the panel shutting behind him with a whisper.

—

Brahms retreated to his hidden room, the place no one else knew existed, a space carved out just for him.

He collapsed onto his mattress, burying his face into the stolen fabric, into the bundle of Eli’s clothes he had gathered up over the past few days. They smelled so good, so warm, so different from the cold, dusty air he had breathed his whole life.

The music still played softly through the walls, Eli’s voice carrying through the cracks.

Brahms listened, waiting.

Soon, Eli would be done.

Soon, he would tuck Brahms’ doll into bed.

He would follow the routine perfectly.

—

Eli combed through his damp hair, wrapping himself in an oversized sweater before scooping up the Brahms doll from his guest bed.

“Alright, let’s get you to bed,” he murmured, holding the doll close as he walked through the darkened hallways.

He settled Brahms into his little bed, straightening the blankets, making sure everything was just as it should be. The Heelshires had left behind a stack of children’s books, and Eli grabbed one from the shelf without much thought, settling into the chair beside the bed.

His voice was soft as he read aloud, flipping through the worn pages, letting the words lull the house into a quiet, sleepy calm.

Brahms pressed himself against the walls, barely breathing.

He loved this.

Loved hearing Eli’s voice.

Loved that he was following the rules.

Yet all too soon the story was done. And Brahms wanted more. He nearly shouted out for the boy to continue.

But then—Eli leaned in.

Pressed a gentle kiss to the cold porcelain forehead of the doll.

Brahms’ fingers curled into his stolen bundle of clothes. His jaw clenched, his eyes screwed shut as he hugged the lace close.

That wasn’t fair.

He should be the one feeling that kiss.

Not the doll.

Never the doll.

His nails dug into the fabric in his grasp.

Eli had no idea how much Brahms ached for him already, and it was only day one. He had no idea that he was the kind of person Brahms had been waiting for for 21 years.

But he would.

Soon.