Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The buzzing motel light flickered above Eli’s head, casting the tiny room in a sickly yellow glow. The air conditioner rattled in the corner, struggling to cool the stale air, but he barely noticed. His breath hitched, coming in sharp, uneven gasps as he pressed his back against the headboard. His arms were wrapped tight around himself, fingers digging into the stretched-out sleeves of his sweater, the same one he’d worn to his first—and last—shift earlier that night.

It had been a disaster.

The moment he stepped onto the floor, it was like his body had turned against him. His hands shook too hard to grip the register. The line of impatient customers blurred together into a faceless crowd, their voices overlapping in a rising wave of noise. His manager, a broad-shouldered man with tired eyes, had tried to be patient—at first. But the moment Eli froze, unable to answer a simple question, he saw the flicker of annoyance behind the man’s forced smile.

"You’ve gotta toughen up, kid."

He didn’t last the full shift. Didn’t even make it to his break. He bolted the second he felt his throat close up, the start of a panic attack clawing at his chest.

Now, alone in the cramped motel room, his pulse pounded against his skull. His fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater, pulling it tighter around himself like it could hold him together. His breath stuttered. His vision swam.

Then his phone rang.

The sound jolted him, and for a moment, he just stared at the screen. Greta.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to answer.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Greta made a dismissive noise. “Relax, baby bat. I was with Cole.”

Eli squeezed his eyes shut, a fresh wave of nausea rolling over him. “Three days, Greta.”

“Yeah? And?” Her voice was light, unbothered. “I knew you’d be fine.”

He wasn’t fine.

She sighed like he was the one being unreasonable. “Look, I didn’t check in because I knew how you’d react. You always freak out about him.”

Eli’s stomach clenched. The panic in his chest gave way to something colder, something bitter and raw.

“He cheated on me, Greta,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“And I told you it wasn’t like that.”

He let out a shaky breath. “You fucked my boyfriend.”

“To protect you,” she snapped. “Eli, you don’t understand—”

“I don’t need to understand.” His grip tightened on the phone. “I just needed you to care.”

Greta was silent for a moment. Then, she sighed again, softer this time. “Look,” she said, her voice dipping into that careful, almost gentle tone she used when she was about to manipulate him. “I really think you should hear us out. And maybe… you should just come back. We can talk in person.”

Eli flinched. “No.”

“I have news,” she pressed. “Big news.”

He didn’t ask what it was. Didn’t care.

His fingers trembled around his phone. “I—I can’t do this right now.”

Greta huffed. “Fine. Call me when you’re done pouting.”

The line went dead.

Eli let the phone drop onto the mattress beside him. His whole body felt heavy, like the air had been knocked out of his lungs.

He had nothing.

No job. No home—at least, not one that felt safe.

He curled in on himself, pressing his forehead against his knees.

The motel walls pressed in around him.

The silence buzzed in his ears.

And for the first time in a long time, he let himself cry.

---

Eli didn’t sleep that night.

He stayed curled in the stiff motel bed, staring at the water-stained ceiling while his thoughts clawed at the edges of his mind. The panic attack had faded, leaving only a dull, aching exhaustion in its wake, but his body refused to rest. His limbs felt like lead, his chest hollowed out, like something had been scooped from inside him and replaced with nothing.

He had nowhere to go.

The job was gone. His money—what little he had left—would barely stretch another week. He could stay, hopping from one shitty motel to another until he ran out of cash, but then what? Crawl back to his mother? No. That wasn’t an option.

He exhaled shakily, dragging his hands down his face.

That left Greta.

Even after everything, she still opened her door for him when he had nowhere else to go. She’d let him sleep on her couch, let him hide away in her apartment when the world outside became too much. She had always been the one to drag him out of his own head, even if her methods weren’t kind. Even if she hurt him in ways he tried not to think about.

And now she had news.

That word clung to the back of his mind, heavy with unspoken weight. He didn’t want to care, didn’t want to be curious. But he was.

He sighed, pushing himself upright. The motel room was stifling, pressing in on all sides. He needed to leave.

Even if it meant going back to her.

Even if it meant hearing her out.

Even if it meant letting himself hope—just a little—that whatever news she had would somehow, somehow make things better.

Against his better judgement Eli now sat on Greta’s couch, cross-legged, his fingers twisting at the frayed threads of his hoodie. The oversized fabric swallowed his hands, the stretched-out sleeves pooling at his wrists. His skirt draped over his lap, layers of black lace rippling over the runs in his fishnets. The little bows on his garters peeked out beneath the hem.

He liked dressing like this. Soft and delicate. A doll wrapped in fabric and lace. A fragile thing that needed to be handled with care. If no one else would protect him, he would do it himself.

Greta never got it.

She tolerated it now, but back in school, she had made sure he knew exactly how impractical it was. Aren’t you tired of dressing like a Victorian funeral? she’d say, rolling her eyes. When the skirts had started, the comments had been sharper. Meaner. They had earned her a forced apology, a school-wide assembly about inclusivity, and a week of detention she hadn’t taken seriously.

But now, she let him stay.

That was the trade-off. If she wanted him around, she had to let him be himself.

She flopped onto the couch beside him, stretching out like she owned the place—which, to be fair, she did. It was her apartment. His name wasn’t on the lease. He was just there, existing in the space she allowed him to take up.

She nudged his knee with hers, scrolling lazily through her phone.

“Got a job lined up,” she said, smirking. “Gonna be easy money.”

Eli barely reacted. He didn’t want to talk about jobs. Not after the last one. Not after the way his manager had sighed when he fumbled with the register, hands shaking too hard to count change.

You’ve gotta toughen up, kid.

He hadn't gone back after that.

Greta tossed her phone onto the coffee table. “It’s a live-in gig. Some rich old couple in England needs someone to babysit their kid. It’s basically house-sitting, but with a child. Stupid easy.”

Eli frowned. “…You mean babysitting?”

Greta shrugged. “It’s called being an au pair.” She dragged the words out like they tasted expensive. “But yeah, whatever. They didn’t give a lot of details, just that it’s full-time and insanely good money.”

That made him pause. Babysitting wasn’t the worst thing in the world—he was okay with kids. But why would some rich family in England fly in an American for it? Didn’t they have nannies over there?

“…How old is the kid?” he asked, fiddling with his sleeves.

Greta waved a dismissive hand. “Who cares? Eight? Ten? Probably some weird little trust fund brat.” She smirked, nudging his thigh. “You should come with me.”

His stomach twisted. “To England?”

“Yes, dumbass, to England.” She leaned in, grinning like she’d already won. “Think about it, Eli. Free trip. Some creepy-ass mansion in the middle of nowhere. You love that gothic Victorian shit. You could just float around in your little skirts, looking tragic and haunted.”

Eli curled in on himself. “…I don’t know.”

“You never know,” Greta groaned, throwing her head back against the couch. But then her voice dipped into something softer, her dark eyes watching him too closely. “Come on, Eli. What else are you gonna do? Keep rotting here while I pay the rent from overseas?”

His face burned. “I pay too.”

And he did. His SSI, his dwindling savings—he funneled everything into keeping their place running while she bounced from job to job, skipping shifts, quitting on whims. Cole had cost her her last job, but Greta had cost herself dozens before that.

Meanwhile, he was trying. Even when it hurt. Even when getting out of bed felt impossible.

But she was right. It wasn’t enough on his own. He needed her. If she left, he’d be out too. And then what? Crawl back to his mother? Sleep in shelters?

He swallowed hard.

Greta sighed, shifting closer. Her arm looped around his shoulders, her breath warm against his cheek.

“Look, baby bat,” she murmured, the pet name sliding off her tongue like honey. “You’ll barely have to do anything. Just keep me company. Be my little emotional support gremlin.”

Eli bit his lip.

She pressed on. “It’s a mansion, Eli. You can wander around like some tragic ghost princess or whatever.” She grinned. “You know that’s your aesthetic.”

A ghost princess.

That… wasn’t an unappealing thought.

She saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes and pounced. “And the pay is insane.”

“…How much?”

“Enough that we won’t have to worry about rent for months when we come back.”

That made his chest ache. No more waking up in a panic, wondering if today was the day she’d finally decide he wasn’t worth the trouble.

“…Okay,” he whispered.

Greta’s grin stretched wide. She leaned in, pressing a quick, playful kiss to his temple. “That’s my good boy.”

Eli flinched.

He pulled away, stomach twisting. The words scraped at something raw inside him, something buried deep.

She said it like he was obedient. Like he was something to be trained.

Like he was still that quiet, freakish emo kid she had dared to ask out in high school, just to prove a point.

His fingers curled in his sleeves, knuckles going white.

But he didn’t argue.

He never did.

Chapter Text

The taxi ride to the Heelshire estate stretched endlessly, winding through the vast, untamed countryside in an almost suffocating silence. The deeper they went, the more civilization faded behind them, swallowed up by towering trees and thick fog. The rain had started as a light drizzle when they left the train station, but now it slicked the windows in misty sheets, distorting the outside world into a blur of greens and grays.

Eli sat pressed against the door, his fingers disappearing into the long sleeves of his sweater, kneading the fabric in anxious repetition. His black lace skirt draped over his crossed legs, stark against the cracked leather seat beneath him. Every bump in the road jolted him slightly, but he stayed curled inward, watching the passing trees with wary eyes.

Greta sprawled beside him, exuding effortless confidence, like she was perfectly at home anywhere she went. She let out an exaggerated sigh, tilting her head back against the seat. “This is taking forever,” she groaned, tapping her manicured nails against her knee in restless rhythm.

Eli glanced at her briefly, and like always, that gnawing, familiar envy stirred in his stomach. She was what people wanted. The kind of girl who could walk into a room and be noticed instantly. Her thick golden-blonde hair—dyed, yet somehow still perfectly natural-looking—cascaded in sun-kissed waves, while his own ashy-blond hair always looked dull in comparison. Her skin had a warm glow to it, kissed by the sun even in the middle of an English drizzle, while his remained ghostly pale, more porcelain than flesh.

Even their builds were completely opposite. Greta was tall and strong, with long, toned limbs that made everything she did seem effortless. Meanwhile, Eli was small, lithe but soft in places that made him feel more delicate than he wanted to be—thicker in the hips and thighs, never quite fitting into one mold or another. People liked girls like Greta. They admired her beauty, envied her confidence. Eli had spent his whole life wishing he could be noticed the same way, but all he ever got were lingering, uncertain glances, like people couldn’t quite figure out what to make of him.

“Hey,” Greta mused suddenly, eyes flicking over him, “Why’d you wear a fucking skirt anyways?”

Eli didn’t respond as the car kept winding toward their new home, for all intents and purposes. She was right, of course. Why had he dressed in his feminine clothes when they were going to work? Was he stupid? What if the Heelshires hated him from the jump because of how he chose to present himself?

Greta huffed a laugh, stretching her arms above her head. “I don’t get why you’re so nervous. It’s just some old couple and their kid in a big creepy house.”

Eli tucked his chin deeper into his sweater. The unease that had been creeping up his spine since they left the station was impossible to ignore now. He didn’t know how to explain it—the heaviness of the air, the way the trees seemed to lean closer the further they went, the way the road never seemed to end.

Greta, oblivious to his discomfort, kept talking. “Honestly, I bet we’ll be able to do whatever we want. Old people go to bed at, like, eight, right? We’ll have the whole creepy mansion to ourselves.” She grinned, nudging his knee with hers. “Maybe we’ll even find some cool old shit. You think there’s a wine cellar?”

Eli only made a small, noncommittal sound in response.

The taxi driver, who had remained silent for the entire ride, suddenly cleared his throat. He was an older man, his face lined with years of hard living, his hands gripping the wheel tighter than necessary. His eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, meeting Eli’s gaze for the first time since they got in.

“Not many folks come up this way,” he muttered, his accent thick and weary.

Greta perked up, always eager for anything that sounded remotely like gossip. “Oh? Why’s that?”

The driver hesitated, then shook his head. “Place has a reputation, is all.”

Eli finally turned from the window, watching the man carefully. “A reputation for what?”

The driver’s jaw tightened. “Strange things.” He left it at that.

Greta scoffed. “Oh, come on. You can’t just say that and not elaborate.”

But the driver didn’t respond. As the wrought-iron gates of the Heelshire estate came into view, he pressed down on the brakes with a little too much force, making Greta lurch forward slightly.

“What the hell?” she snapped, glaring at him.

The driver was already stepping out, yanking their bags from the trunk with unceremonious urgency. “This is as far as I go,” he called over his shoulder, setting their luggage down haphazardly on the damp gravel.

Greta rolled her eyes. “What, are you scared of ghosts?”

The man ignored her. He hesitated for only a second before giving Eli another unreadable glance—almost like a warning—then climbed back into the driver’s seat. The tires kicked up water as he sped off, leaving them alone outside the towering gates.

Eli swallowed hard, staring after the disappearing taxi. No turning back now.

As they pushed open the creaking gates and stepped onto the gravel path leading up to the house, the full weight of the estate loomed over them. It was even bigger than it looked in the photos—cold and grand, with ivy creeping up the stone walls like skeletal fingers. The windows were tall and dark, uninviting, like watchful eyes peering down at them.

The driver had been in a rush to leave, barely giving them time to adjust before abandoning them at the gate.

Greta slid out first, stretching her arms dramatically. “Well, shit,” she muttered under her breath. “It really does look haunted.”

Eli stepped out more hesitantly, his boots crunching against the gravel. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and old wood. Greta, ever the confident one, marched up the stone pathway toward the Heelshire estate with little regard for the weather. The rain had soaked through her boots, leaving muddy footprints behind her as she bypassed the grand entrance. She squinted at the towering house, ignoring the winding staircase that led up to the door, and instead veered off to inspect the paintings hanging along the walls.

“What a dump,” she muttered to herself, wiping her damp hands on her pants. Her expression flickered between amusement and boredom as she squatted in front of one particularly grand portrait.

Eli lingered behind, struggling to shed his own doubts. He took a deep breath, reaching down to remove his soft, delicate lace-up boots at the door, just as he had been told. They were worn, antique-looking, a bit too feminine for most people's taste, but they fit him like a second skin. His legs, covered in black lace stockings, were the antithesis of Greta’s tall, athletic frame. The wet floor chilled his bare feet as he carefully placed them at the entrance, silently scolding Greta’s disregard for the rules of the house.

His gaze flickered over her—he couldn’t help it—envy rolling in the pit of his stomach. Her golden hair, freshly dyed, looked as though it had been kissed by the sun itself, unlike his dull, ashy blonde locks. Her skin was warm and sun-kissed, a stark contrast to his pale porcelain tone. Her tall, muscular frame stood in stark contrast to his soft, petite build, his thighs thicker with a slight curve, the lines of his hips somehow more delicate, yet still sturdy.

“Greta,” he whispered as he stepped carefully over the threshold, lowering his voice in an attempt to avoid making his displeasure known, but the annoyance slipped out anyway, “we should at least try to follow the rules.”

She barely glanced at him, too distracted by her inspection of the artwork on the walls. “Relax, Eli,” she replied with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “The job listing said to meet them in the parlor. I’m doing exactly that—just… a little detour.”

Her muddy boots left prints on the marble floors, and Eli cringed internally. They were in someone else's home, for heaven’s sake. Didn’t she care about respecting the place?

Before he could protest further, the door to the kitchen opened, and a young man with dark hair and a muscular frame stepped into the hall. The delivery guy—Malcolm, as he introduced himself—was about Greta’s age. He smiled easily at them, his dark eyes flashing with some amusement.

“You’re not in the parlor,” Malcolm said, his tone warm but also a bit knowing, as if he’d seen this act before. “Follow me.”

Greta flashed him a flirtatious grin, leaning against the wall in a way that made her look all the more relaxed. “You work here often?” she asked, her voice sweet with just the right amount of teasing.

Malcolm chuckled, brushing past her with a wink. “You could say that.” His gaze flickered back to Eli as he gestured for them to follow him. “I’d ask if you two needed anything else, but looks like you’ve already gotten started.” He flashed a glance at Greta’s muddy shoes.

Greta gave him a sly smile, and Eli, too caught up in his own discomfort, didn’t notice the undercurrent of flirtation between them.

As they walked deeper into the house, Eli's mind buzzed with nervous energy. His footsteps were muted against the floor, a contrast to Greta’s confident strides. They passed the front door again, and Eli froze. He hadn’t noticed earlier, but now it was impossible to ignore—the polished wooden floor felt unnervingly empty without the weight of his boots. He glanced down at his feet. His boots were gone.

“Did you—did you take my boots?” Eli whispered under his breath, but the words only reached his own ears.

“Forget your shoes, Eli,” Greta called from the other room, her voice sharp with excitement as she continued her banter with Malcolm. “Come on, we’re wasting time.”

He exhaled quietly and reluctantly followed them through the hallway. His mind kept spinning around the missing shoes, but he couldn’t focus on them now. There were more important things happening—things he needed to pay attention to.

As they entered the kitchen, Malcolm set down the groceries with ease, talking over his shoulder as he unpacked. “Don’t mind the house,” he said casually. “It’s strange, yeah, but you get used to it.”

Greta tossed her damp hair over her shoulder and leaned against the counter. “We’ll see,” she replied, eyes glinting with mischief. “As long as the pay’s good, I don’t mind a little oddity.”

Just as Eli placed a carton of eggs on the counter, the door swung open behind them, and in walked Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire.

The couple’s presence was immediate and unsettling. They didn’t walk—they glided. Their movements were stiff, calculated, and everything about them was meticulously in place. Mr. Heelshire’s perfectly pressed suit and Mrs. Heelshire’s prim dress only emphasized their coldness. They stood in the doorway, their faces hollowed with something unreadable, something distant that Eli couldn’t quite identify.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, and then Mrs. Heelshire’s sharp eyes flicked to Eli.

Her gaze lingered, just for a second, but it was enough. He felt it—the tightening of her lips, the hardening of her expression. Something about him displeased her. He shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny.

Greta, as usual, took the lead. “Hi! I’m Greta, and this is Eli,” she said brightly, her voice sugary sweet as if they were greeting long-lost friends.

Eli, uncomfortable with the sudden attention, gave a half nod, bowing his head slightly. “Nice to meet you,” he murmured, voice soft and hesitant.

Mrs. Heelshire didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she scrutinized Eli’s delicate features—his dark eyeliner, his careful lace sweater, the soft sway of his skirt. Her eyes dropped to his stockings, then quickly snapped back to his face.

Eli stiffened, wishing he could disappear into the floor. Mrs. Heelshire’s gaze weighed on him like a tangible thing, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t what she expected.

Mr. Heelshire cleared his throat, cutting through the tension. “We appreciate you coming on such short notice,” he said, his voice low and steady.

Mrs. Heelshire turned sharply, her heels clicking against the polished floor. “Elias, Greta, come with us. We’ll introduce you to Brahms.”

---

Eli followed them, his eyes flickering nervously as they walked past the towering paintings and the cavernous halls. Everything about this house felt oppressive, like it was pressing in on him from all sides. Mrs. Heelshire’s sharp voice continued to echo in his mind, each rule and demand carving its way into his thoughts as the cold wooden floors were biting into his bare soles. His mind kept darting back toward the front door, wondering if he'd ever find his missing footwear.

"Mrs. Heelshire," Eli ventured quietly, voice laced with the beginnings of a frown, "I think... I think someone might've taken my shoes. They were by the door, but—"

Mr. Heelshire, who had been quietly walking behind them, cleared his throat and interjected smoothly, "Ah, yes. Our son is a bit... playful with newcomers. He likes to hide things." His voice carried a strange mix of apology and something else Eli couldn't quite place. "I trust they’ll turn up. Don’t worry."

Eli, slightly perplexed, glanced over at Greta, who was walking ahead of him with her usual cocky stride, unfazed by the whole situation. She raised a brow, as though silently asking if Eli had something more to add.

Eli shook his head, still uneasy. “That’s… odd.”

“It’s harmless,” Mr. Heelshire said with a faint, polite smile, though there was something in his tone that suggested the matter was settled, as if it were all part of the house’s strange rules. "Brahms enjoys these little games. Don’t let it trouble you." As Mrs. Heelshire continued, unperturbed, she flicked a glance at Eli over her shoulder. "You will get used to it."

Eli, still barefoot, felt the strange weight of the house’s unsettling silence pressing in, and the peculiar tension of Mr. Heelshire’s words hung in the air. "I’ll... try," Eli murmured, forcing his eyes away from the looming shadows at the end of the hallway, trying to focus on what was ahead.

“The house has its order,” she said, her voice as cold as the marble floors beneath their feet. “You will follow it. Breakfast at seven sharp, lunch at noon, dinner no later than six. Brahms expects punctuality.”

Eli barely nodded, distracted by the sheer weight of the house pressing in around him. The ceilings stretched impossibly high, lined with intricate molding, and every piece of furniture was carved from dark, heavy wood that made the space feel oppressive. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves and ancient oil portraits, their subjects' eyes seeming to follow him as he walked. Dust clung to the air, thick and undisturbed, as if time itself had settled here and refused to move.

“You are not to leave the premises without permission,” Mr. Heelshire added in his deep voice. “If you need anything, Malcolm will determine if it’s necessary.”

Greta’s eyes rolled subtly. “Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, but Mrs. Heelshire didn’t miss it.

“The phone is for emergencies only,” she continued, her eyes narrowing at Greta. “There will be no visitors. Brahms does not like strangers.”

Eli barely registered the words as his mind was still reeling. His attention flickered to the stairs again, a sense of unease creeping up his spine. Something was very wrong with this place, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t just here to babysit.

“Do you understand?” Mr. Heelshire asked, staring at them both with an expectant silence.

“Yes, sir,” Greta answered immediately, her tone saccharine. “Loud and clear.”

Mrs. Heelshire turned her gaze onto Eli. He felt the weight of it settle over him, cold and dissecting. He nodded quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. Her pale blue eyes traced over his features—the faint touch of eyeliner still lingering from earlier, the delicate lace of his sweater cuffs, the way his skirt swayed slightly as he shifted his weight. She exhaled sharply through her nose before turning back to Greta.

“Is your hair natural?” she asked abruptly.

Greta blinked, caught off guard. “Oh—yes,” she lied smoothly, tucking a golden curl behind her ear.

Mrs. Heelshire hummed, unconvinced. “You can never know these days.” She reached out, brushing her fingers over Greta’s hair, letting it slip through her fingers before pulling back with an almost imperceptible frown. “The sheen is rather… distracting. Can it be dulled?”

Eli stiffened. He saw it before she even turned toward him. The way her hand motioned in his direction, the slight downturn of her mouth.

“Our son is particular,” she said, her voice measured, distant. “He prefers the softer blondes… like Elias.”

Eli swallowed hard, heat creeping up his neck. He wasn’t sure why the statement made his stomach churn, but it did. Something about it felt wrong, like he’d been singled out without fully understanding why.

Greta laughed lightly, shrugging. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Mrs. Heelshire gave a curt nod before continuing down the hall. Eli’s skin crawled as he followed, his boots making barely a whisper against the cold, polished floors. His fingers twitched at his sleeves again, but the fabric did nothing to ground him.

Brahms prefers the softer blondes.

The words settled uncomfortably in his chest.

---

Finally, it was time to meet the kid they would be caring for. They stopped before an oak door. Mrs. Heelshire pressed it open, revealing a warmly lit sitting room. The fireplace crackled, casting flickering shadows over the bookshelves and worn rugs.

And in the center of it all, seated in an ornate chair, was a doll.

Eli’s breath caught. He pulled a nervous smile between the teeth. Intrigued.

The porcelain face was eerily lifelike, framed by carefully styled dark hair. The tiny suit was immaculate, pressed and perfect. The doll’s eyes, glossy and dark, seemed to see.

Greta barked out a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Mrs. Heelshire didn’t react. She stepped inside, smoothing the doll’s suit with quiet reverence. “This is Brahms.”

Eli blinked. “The… the son you wanted babysat?”

Mrs. Heelshire nodded solemnly. “He requires routine as I stated. And He does not like to be alone for long.”

Greta bit down on her lip to keep from laughing. Eli, however, stared at the doll with wide eyes. His heart pounded—not with fear, but with something else, something softer.

He crouched slightly, tilting his head and stifling a giggle. “Hi, Brahms,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

The room seemed to still.

Eli hesitated, then, with careful gentleness, reached out and smoothed down the doll’s tiny tie. “I like your suit. You look really handsome in blue and green.”

Behind him, the Heelshires exchanged a glance.

Mrs. Heelshire’s expression, once rigid, softened just a fraction.

Mr. Heelshire cleared his throat. “Once again the rules are strict. No guests. No neglect. No leaving him alone overnight.”

Greta nodded along, pretending to take it seriously. But the moment the Heelshires left the room, she collapsed onto the couch with a wheezing laugh.

“Oh my god. It’s a doll, Eli. We’re getting paid to babysit a fucking doll.”

Eli didn’t answer. He was still looking at Brahms.

Greta groaned. “You’re not actually buying into this, are you?”

“…We should take it seriously,” Eli murmured, still fidgeting with the hem of his sweater.

Greta rolled onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow. “Oh, please. What are they gonna do? Fire us? We'll tuck their creepy little doll into bed at night, sure, but I am not spending my days reading it poetry.”

Eli finally looked at her. “Then who—?”

Greta’s smile was slow and sweet, the kind she used when she was about to ruin his life.

“Be a doll, baby bat,” she cooed, reaching out to brush a strand of his hair behind his ear. “You’re way better at this kind of thing than me.”

His stomach dropped. “Greta—”

“You’re the soft one. The cutesy little thing. If anyone should be his weird goth nanny, it’s you.” She tugged lightly at his sleeve, voice dripping with mock affection. “You’ll do it for me, won’t you, sweetheart?”

He hated when she talked like that. When she treated him like something small, something breakable. Like a toy.

But she was right.

He was the soft one. The useful one.

“…Okay,” he whispered.

Greta patted his head, already satisfied. “Knew I could count on you.”

She stretched out on the bed, discarding responsibility like an old coat.

Eli turned back toward the doll.

Its face was still.

But something in the air shifted.

And in the depths of the house, someone watched.

Eli swallowed, gripping the fabric of his sweater. The weight of the house pressed in around him, thick and heavy, settling into the marrow of his bones. The fire crackled softly, casting long shadows across the walls, making the doll’s porcelain face seem to shift, just slightly.

He exhaled, forcing himself to move. It’s just a doll. It’s just a doll.

Eli reached out again, his fingers hovering just over Brahms’ small, stiff hand before letting them rest there lightly. The porcelain was cool beneath his touch, unnervingly smooth. His breath hitched.

“Do you—” He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at Greta, who was already scrolling through her phone, paying him no mind. He turned back to the doll. “…Do you want to show me around, Brahms?”

Silence.

Eli let out a nervous chuckle, shaking his head at himself. “You probably know this place better than me.”

Still, something in the room felt aware, like the space was listening.

Shaking off the feeling, he straightened up, brushing dust from his skirt before carefully picking Brahms up. His joints didn’t move, his arms didn’t fall naturally like a real child’s, but Eli cradled him like one anyway. Something about leaving him sitting stiff and abandoned in that chair made Eli’s stomach twist.

Greta side-eyed him. “Oh, you’re getting way too into this.”

Eli turned, raising a brow. “Didn’t you just tell me to be his weird goth nanny?”

Greta grinned, winking. “Yeah, but I didn’t expect you to commit.”

Eli huffed, rolling his eyes, but a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Holding Brahms against his hip, he wandered toward the grand bookcases, trailing his fingers along the old leather-bound spines. The books were pristine, some so delicate they looked as if they’d crumble at the slightest touch.

“Do you like reading?” he murmured, as if Brahms could answer. His fingers traced a dustless spot between two books, a perfect gap like something had been recently removed.

Eli frowned. He reached for the book beside it, a thick volume of Edgar Allan Poe’s collected works. He pulled it free—

click.

His stomach flipped. The faintest sound, like something shifting within the walls.

Greta snorted. “What, did you unlock a secret passage or something?”

Eli let out a breathy laugh, trying to shake the uneasy prickling at the back of his neck. “Just an old house settling,” he muttered, slipping the book back into place. But as he did, the air shifted again.

Like a breath exhaled from the walls.

His skin crawled.

Greta flopped onto her back, legs dangling off the bed. “Alright, baby bat, have fun with your haunted Barbie. I’m taking a nap.”

Eli shot her a glare but didn’t argue. Instead, he carefully set Brahms back in his chair, smoothing down his suit again.

“There you go,” he murmured. “All comfortable.”

The doll’s glassy black eyes stared back, unblinking.

Eli forced himself to look away, moving toward the wardrobe in the corner. He pulled it open, expecting to find neatly folded clothes or spare linens.

Instead, there were shelves lined with porcelain animal figurines—dozens of them, facing outward, their tiny eyes dark and glassy like Brahms’.

Eli’s pulse kicked up. A collection. A carefully curated, watched collection. It was beautiful.

His fingers hovered over a tiny porcelain cat before a sudden noise made him freeze.

A whisper of movement.

Behind him.

Eli turned sharply.

The doll was still in its chair.

Exactly where he’d left it.

His hands curled into his sweater sleeves, the fabric suddenly feeling too thin, too insubstantial against the creeping chill in the room. He exhaled shakily, forcing himself to relax.

You’re being stupid. It’s just a doll. It’s just an old house.

But as he backed away from the wardrobe, as the wind outside howled against the windows, he swore—just for a second—that he heard a quiet, breathy giggle as he stumbled. His feet tripping over something as he backed away. When Eli looked down at what had unsteadied him. His heart stuttered in his chest. His boots.

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.

Chapter Text

The morning started normally. Or, at least, as normally as it could in a house like this.

Eli followed the routine.

Breakfast for Brahms. Check.
Lessons and Lunch. Check.
Greta nowhere to be found. Check.

But the moment he opened the grand front doors and found a man standing there with a box of groceries, things shifted.

"Ah, finally! Someone normal!" Greta’s voice rang out from behind Eli as she shoved past him with a dramatic stretch, grinning at the delivery man.

"Malcolm, right? Thank god the deliveries the Heelshire's mentioned were true." She batted her lashes, leaning against the doorframe in what she probably thought was a flirtatious pose. "I thought I’d be stuck here forever without any outside company. No offense, Eli."

Eli shrugged, stepping aside to let the man in.

Malcolm set the box down on the kitchen counter, wiping his hands on his jeans before offering Eli a polite nod. "So how's it been Elias?"

Eli blinked. "Huh?"

"First few days as the nanny. The Heelshires hired two of you so I'm sure it's not much work. Though, from what I’ve heard, most people don’t last long here." He shot them both a knowing look.

Eli frowned. Greta perked up, clearly interested. "Oh? And why’s that?"

Malcolm exhaled, leaning casually against the counter. "You really don’t know?"

Greta shook her head eagerly, while Eli just crossed his arms.

Malcolm smirked. "The Heelshires have had a few nannies before. None of them lasted more than a couple of weeks. Some of them claimed to hear things—whispers, footsteps, crying at night. Others swore they’d seen things move on their own. The last one ran screaming into the woods in the middle of the night, didn’t even take her things."

Greta shivered dramatically. "Ooooh, spooky. But come on, it’s just a doll. How scary can it be?"

Malcolm’s gaze flickered to Eli, curiosity lingering there. "And what do you think?"

Eli hesitated. He hadn’t seen anything strange. Not really. But the house had a presence. It felt like something lurked behind every corner, watching, waiting.

He shrugged, feeling suddenly uncomfortable under Malcolm’s gaze. "I don’t really believe in ghosts, I guess."

"That so?" Malcolm’s smile lingered.

Greta pouted. "Ugh, boring. But hey, Mal, do you get any days off? Maybe you can keep us company one of these nights." She twirled a strand of hair between her fingers.

Malcolm chuckled but didn’t take the bait. Instead, his eyes drifted back to Eli. "I’m around if you need anything."

Eli just nodded, missing the way Malcolm’s smile softened.

Brahms, still hidden in the walls, did not.

—

Later that afternoon, Eli was in Brahms’ room, tidying up, when something made him freeze.

The doll was sitting in a different position than how he left it.

He swore he had tucked it neatly against the pillows. But now it was turned slightly toward the door, as if watching.

A cold chill ran down his spine.

And then he saw it—

The list of rules.

It was sitting on the bedside table, the same neat cursive as before… but some of the rules had changed.

New ones had been added.

10. Read Brahms two bedtime stories now.
11. Give Brahms a proper goodnight kiss. On the lips.

Eli’s breath hitched.

His fingers trembled as he reached for the paper. The ink looked fresh. Too fresh.

Had the Heelshires left this behind before leaving?

Or had…someone else written it?

Eli swallowed hard, his heartbeat echoing in his ears.

A ghost? Could it be Greta toying with him?

He suddenly didn’t feel so sure about his earlier statement.

Eli sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, the new rules burning in his mind. He had followed everything perfectly so far, but the final addition…

His eyes flickered back to the last one. Whether it was a prank or not, Eli wasn't one to shirk away from responsibility.

Give Brahms a proper goodnight kiss. On the lips.

A shiver crawled up his spine.

He looked at the doll, its painted eyes staring unblinking. The same as always.

But was it?

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his arms. It’s fine. Just do it. Stick to the routine.

So he did.

He cooked dinner, just as he had for breakfast, carefully plating a portion for Brahms before setting it in front of him.

Greta scoffed as she strolled into the dining room, rolling her eyes. "You know you don’t actually have to do that, right? The creepy little doll doesn’t eat."

Eli tensed but didn’t respond. If it was a prank earlier with the new rules, wouldn't Greta WANT him to follow the rules?

Greta sighed dramatically, collapsing into a chair and propping her feet up. "You take this whole thing way too seriously. Like, I get that you’re a little… I dunno. Soft? Girly? Baby-ish? But this is pathetic. Do you really not see how embarrassing this is?"

Eli clenched his fists.

Greta smirked, twirling a lock of hair. "No wonder you’ve never had a boyfriend. No real guy is gonna wanna date some fragile, doll-playing man-child. And before you correct me and say you could get a girlfriend- 1) no you can't, and 2) not even in highschool before the skirts and toys did I ever believe you liked women too."

His breath hitched.

Something twisted inside him, deep and ugly.

Flashes of childhood—of laughter, but not the good kind.

'Are you a boy or a girl?'
'Mom, why does he play with dolls?'
'You’re so delicate. Like a little porcelain doll. Should we put you on a shelf? Or maybe knock you down and see if you break!'
'No one's ever gonna love you like that.'

His heart slammed against his ribs, his vision swimming. His hands felt too hot, too shaky. His throat tightened. His breathing turned rapid, uneven—

Panic.

Eli stood so suddenly his chair scraped against the floor. He turned away, clutching at his arms, nails pressing into the fabric of his sweater. Breathe. Just breathe. He barely registered when he grasped at the doll he was caring for. He stumbled toward Brahms' room, unable to think of anything else as he placed it on it's bed.

The doll sat there, unmoving. Comforting, in its own way.

He collapsed onto the bed beside it, curling around the stiff porcelain body. His breaths were ragged, his chest tight, but he clung to the doll like a lifeline.

Humming.

A song, something soft, something familiar. The song from the day before, he still didn't remember what it was.

It steadied him, though.

—

Brahms watched.

From behind the slats in the walls, he saw everything.

He saw how Greta’s words sliced into Eli like a knife.

He saw how his shoulders trembled, how his breath turned shallow, how his delicate fingers clenched at the fabric of his sleeves, knuckles pale as porcelain.

He saw him run.

Brahms followed.

Silent, creeping.

He pressed against the wall, peering through the cracks as Eli curled up with the doll.

He liked this.

The way Eli clung to it, desperate for comfort. The way he hummed that little song, soothing himself like a frightened child.

Brahms’ fingers twitched at his sides.

He liked how obedient Eli was. How he followed the routine, no matter how afraid he was.

But Greta.

Greta wanted to ruin it.

She wanted Eli to be bad.

And Brahms couldn’t have that.

No.

Eli was his.

Eli wiped his face as he sat up, smoothing out the wrinkles in his sweater. His breathing had steadied, though his body still felt heavy, his head still fogged with lingering panic. But he had a routine to finish.

He picked up the Brahms doll, cradling it as he carried it back to its bed. He adjusted the blankets carefully, making sure everything was perfect before retrieving the storybooks.

Tonight, the rules said two stories.

So he read.

His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but he put the same effort into it as always. Even when his throat felt tight. Even when the weight of the day pressed on his chest.

The first story was a simple fairy tale—one of those old ones with kings and curses and true love breaking spells.

The second was different. Softer. A children’s bedtime book about a lonely star who found a friend in the moon.

By the time he finished, Eli felt exhaustion pulling at him. But he wasn’t done yet.

He hesitated, his eyes flickering to the last rule.

'Give Brahms a proper goodnight kiss. On the lips.'

A lump formed in his throat.

It was just a doll. Just porcelain.

It didn’t mean anything.

Slowly, carefully, Eli leaned forward, brushing his lips against the doll’s cool, smooth mouth.

The second he pulled back, he felt ridiculous. Heat crawled up his neck, and he let out a breathy laugh—one that held more exhaustion than amusement.

"Goodnight, Brahms," he murmured.

And with that, he turned off the lamp and left the room.

—

Eli barely made it to his bed before collapsing into it, face first.

The second his head hit the pillow, the tears came.

Silent, exhausted, inevitable.

He hated how easy it was for Greta’s words to burrow into him.

He hated that he let them.

But the worst part was that she wasn’t wrong.

Eli curled into himself, hugging the blankets close.

No one had ever really wanted him.

No one had ever stayed.

His body ached with loneliness, with something so deep and raw that he couldn’t even name it.

And yet, even through the quiet sobs, as sleep finally pulled him under—

He felt safe.

—

The house was silent.

Still.

Brahms moved through it like a shadow, his breath quiet behind the porcelain mask.

He had waited.

Watched.

Listened.

And now, as Eli lay curled in his bed, eyes closed, lashes still damp—

He stood over him.

Eli looked so…soft like this.

So warm.

So perfect.

Brahms slowly lowered himself, the porcelain mouth of his mask pressing gently against Eli’s lips in a chaste, lingering kiss.

The barest touch.

Cool porcelain meeting warm skin.

Eli stirred, his brows twitching slightly, lips parting just enough to whisper—

"Brahms…"

Brahms froze.

His pulse pounded in his ears, louder than anything.

But Eli didn’t wake.

Instead—

A small, contented smile curled at the edges of his lips.

Brahms inhaled sharply, fingers twitching at his sides.

This—

This was his.

Eli was his.

And soon, Eli would understand that too.

Chapter Text

Eli was dreaming. Or was it more of a memory—painfully vivid memories—that came flooding back.

Two years ago, the hallway outside his bedroom had been dim, lit only by the soft glow of the moon filtering through the blinds. He had been looking for Greta—she had promised they’d hang out that night. But when he turned the corner and pushed open the door to her room, his heart nearly stopped.

There they were—Cole and Greta, tangled in the sheets, limbs entwined, the scent of sweat and perfume thick in the air. It hit Eli like a punch to the gut, his vision blurring with confusion and anger. His best friend—his girlfriend—and his boyfriend. Together. Greta’s hair was a mess, her face flushed in the dim light, and Cole’s arm was draped carelessly over her waist.

For a moment, he stood in the doorway, paralyzed by the sight. He wanted to scream, to yell, to hate them. But all that came out was a strangled gasp. They didn’t notice him standing in the doorway, frozen, as if he were a ghost in their private moment. It was too much. The sound of his breath catching in his throat was deafening.

He was about to turn and leave, to retreat back into the shadows of the hallway, and then, finally, Greta noticed him standing there, frozen in the doorway.

“Eli?” Her tone was soft but teasing, a touch too casual. She didn’t even look at him at first, too busy adjusting herself under the sheets next to Cole. “What are you doing here?” Greta was propped up on one elbow, a satisfied, smug smile playing on her lips.

Eli’s heart pounded in his chest. He felt exposed, like he had been caught doing something wrong—when he hadn’t even done anything at all. He was just there.

“I… I was just… looking for you,” Eli stammered, trying to sound confident, but his voice wavered. Eli’s heart pounded in his chest, his fists clenched at his sides. The urge to scream at her, to tear into Cole for what they had done, was almost overpowering. His breath caught in his throat as he swallowed back the tears that burned his eyes, “What is this?”

Greta blinked, the softness never leaving her eyes. “This?” She giggled, brushing her hair behind her ear as though it were a casual moment. “Eli, honey, don’t make this a big deal.”

Cole stirred from the bed, his eyes half-lidded, a lazy smirk spreading across his face when he saw Eli standing there. “Yo, Eli,” he said, his voice low, cool as ever, like nothing had changed. “What’s up?”

Eli could feel the bile rise in his throat. He wanted to shout, to tell them how much this hurt, how much they’d betrayed him. But no words came. All he could do was stare at them, his heart breaking a little more with each second that passed in their casual indifference.

Greta stood, moving toward him with slow, deliberate steps. “Eli,” she said, her voice no longer playful but tinged with something darker, something insidious. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her fingers gently digging into his skin. “You’re making this harder than it has to be.”

Eli flinched, the warmth of her touch feeling like ice. “You’re cheating on me,” he managed to croak, his voice hoarse, tears blurring his vision. “With her. How could you—how could either of you—”

Greta’s expression didn’t falter. Instead, she leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. “Oh, honey,” she whispered, “don’t make this into a thing. You’re our friend, Eli. You’re so important to both of us. But sometimes... things just happen.” She paused, her hand moving to caress his cheek in a way that made him feel sick. “You don’t have to hate us. We can all be happy together. Don’t you see?”

Greta sat up, her eyes meeting his with an unreadable expression. She pushed the blanket aside, casually revealing the curves of her body. There was no shame in her demeanor, just a quiet confidence that made Eli feel small. She patted the bed beside her, inviting him in. “Come here, Eli. Don’t be a baby.”

Eli hesitated. He had always been the quiet one, the one who couldn’t say no to her. She was his best friend—always had been—but now there was something different, something that tugged at him uncomfortably. Still, despite the knot in his stomach, he sat down beside her, the bed dipping beneath his weight.

She leaned in close, her voice a sultry whisper against his ear. “I know you saw us, Eli. You know it doesn’t matter, right? Cole and I—well, we’re just... having fun. You don’t need to make a big deal out of it.”

“I—I didn’t want to interrupt,” Eli murmured, his face burning with perverse embarrassment.

She chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. Her fingers lingered on his skin, warm and inviting. “You didn’t. You’ve never interrupted anything. You’re my best friend, Eli. Don’t you know how much I need you here? Just like this—sitting with me. You’re the one who makes me feel safe.”

Eli felt a rush of warmth at her words. Her touch was gentle, soothing even, and his nervousness began to melt away. She was right. They had been close for so long, and yet... something was off. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Her voice was sweet, but it felt like a mask. Something behind her eyes was different now. She wasn’t the same person he remembered. In school she had been sweet to him. His first girlfriend, his first kiss, Greta was all he had.

“I just...” Eli trailed off, unsure of what to say. He wanted to push the confusion away, to just go along with it. He had always done what she wanted, hadn’t he? He wanted to be good.

Greta slid closer, her breath warm on his neck, her lips brushing against his ear. “You’ve always been good to me, Eli. You’ve always been there for me.” Her hand slid to his knee, and her fingers grazed the fabric of his jeans, sending a shiver down his spine. “Why wouldn’t you want to stay here? To be with me? We could always be... just us.”

Before Eli could respond, Cole shifted beside Greta, rubbing his eyes lazily. He smirked, his eyes teasing, but there was something else behind them too. Eli had known Cole for years, but tonight, his usual charm seemed oddly predatory. Eli recoiled, his eyes searching for some sign of remorse, some trace of guilt. But there was nothing. No apology, no shame. Just manipulation. She was trying to comfort him—trying to make him believe this was all okay.

Cole finally slid out of bed, moving toward them, his expression still. He stepped behind Greta, placing his hands on her hips, his touch possessive. “Greta’s right, Eli,” he said, his voice smooth, like honey. “We’re not trying to hurt you. It’s just... we’ve got needs, you know? And you’re still important to us. We just want you to be a part of this. No hard feelings.”

Eli’s chest tightened, every breath a struggle. He wanted to scream, to push them away, to tell them everything he’d held back for so long. But their words twisted inside his head, their soft voices laced with false kindness. He wanted to yell, to run, to break the cycle, but his body wouldn’t obey.

Eli’s heart raced. He felt like an outsider in his own friendship. Greta’s presence, once comforting, now felt overwhelming, and Cole’s laid-back attitude seemed more like a challenge. They both looked at him as if he were supposed to just fall into place, to ignore the discomfort swirling in his gut.

“I don’t know if I—” Eli started, but Greta cut him off with a soft but insistent touch to his arm.

“Shh, it’s okay,” she whispered, her lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You know, Cole and I... we’ve talked about this before. We’re just helping you, Eli. You need to let go of all those weird feelings. We’re not doing anything wrong. It’s for your own good, okay?”

Eli blinked, stunned. “For my own good?” The words didn’t sit right in his mouth.

Greta nodded, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “You’ve always been so good to me, always so sweet and innocent. But you don’t have to be scared anymore. We’re your friends, Eli. You can trust us. We’re showing you what it’s like to just... let go.” She ran her fingers up his arm, and Eli flinched.

“Yeah, dude,” Cole added, his voice low and almost too casual. “We’re just showing you the ropes. You’ll thank us later.”

Eli felt the room spin. His gut twisted in confusion, disgust, and something darker—something that wasn’t him. The line between friendship and something else was blurring, and he felt himself being pulled in both directions, suffocated by their expectations. The comfort of his old friendship with Greta was now nothing more than a faded memory, distorted and warped by manipulation.

He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to leave, to run, but Greta’s hand on his chest, the weight of her presence, kept him in place. The air around him thickened, and all he could do was nod, though the response felt hollow in his chest.

“Good boy,” she whispered, leaning in closer, her breath mingling with his. “It’ll be just like before, Eli. You’ll see.”

And with those words, she kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was harsh, insistent, a kiss that carried with it all the weight of years spent pulling him back into her grasp. A kiss that felt like betrayal—like she was sealing him into this web of manipulation that had been spun long ago.

Eli’s mind raced, the taste of her lips not sweet but bitter, acidic, like a poison he couldn’t escape. The kiss was the same as it had been in high school—the way she would kiss him just to push him away, just to keep him dangling on the edge, never truly letting him go.

The memory was vivid, sharp—how she had kissed him back then, too. With that same false tenderness, that same feigned affection, always pulling him back in just when he thought he could finally break free. She’d said dating him had been a dare, a game. But with every kiss, every touch, she had dragged him deeper into the illusion, making him believe there was something real between them.

Eli’s heart pounded in his chest, a frantic beat that only seemed to make the knot in his stomach tighter. His breath caught in his throat as he fought the urge to push her away, to scream, to run. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. Not from her. Not from them.

The suffocating warmth of their closeness, the way they seemed to engulf him, made him feel small, like he was losing himself to the same damn cycle.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to break free from this twisted nightmare, but he didn’t. Deep down, something inside him was still reaching out, still wanting to believe that maybe—just maybe—they were right. That this, this confusion, this feeling of being trapped, maybe this was what he needed.

That this was what love was.

No. Suddenly the scene changed as Eli tossed and turned in bed.

The world around him was dark, warm, and safe. Strong arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him close, a comforting weight pressing against his back. His fingers curled into soft fabric—velvet? Wool? He couldn’t tell, but it smelled of old books, cedar, and something distinctly male.

He didn’t know his face. He couldn’t see it. But he knew it was him.

Brahms.

The name whispered through his mind like a prayer.

A hand trailed up his arm, slow and reverent, fingers brushing against his own. Eli shivered. His body ached with a heat that wasn’t real, a longing that felt too big for his chest. He turned, blindly seeking, lips parting as a warm breath ghosted over them—

A kiss. Chaste at first. Then firmer. Possessive.

Eli melted into it. It felt right. It felt—

His eyes snapped open.

He gasped, heart pounding, skin damp with sweat. His lips tingled, and for a moment, he lay still, blinking up at the ceiling, trying to piece together what was real and what wasn’t. The room was cold, his blankets tangled around his legs.

Just a dream.

Just a dream.

But he could still feel it.

Still feel him.

Eli squeezed his thighs together and groaned. He had to get up. He had a routine to follow. He didn't have time for his many regrets and his new desires.

---

In the walls, Brahms watched.

Eli moved through the day in a haze, his steps slower, his hands trembling slightly as he set out Brahms’ breakfast. His usual focus was off—he fumbled with the silverware, his gaze distant, his breath hitching at nothing.

Brahms knew why.

Eli had dreamed of him.

He’d moaned his name in his sleep, soft and needy, lips parting as if waiting for another kiss. It had taken everything in Brahms not to steal more than just one. But patience. He had waited so long. He could wait a little more.

Still, watching Eli like this—flushed, dazed, pliant—made his mind wander.

What else could he make Eli feel?

Would he whimper like that if Brahms touched him again? If he pressed his lips to Eli’s throat, traced his fingers over his soft, pale skin? Would Eli tremble beneath him the way he had in his dream?

Brahms clenched his fists.

Not yet.

For now, he would behave.

For now, he would watch.

Eli frowned as he rummaged through his drawers and suitcase. His fingers skimmed over neatly folded garments, soft fabrics, and delicate lace—but something was missing.

Where is it?

He bit his lip, sifting through his clothes again, slower this time. His favorite black lace set, the one that made him feel—pretty. Gone. And so was the soft sweater he slept in when he needed comfort.

His stomach twisted.

Greta had been teasing him about his clothes since they arrived, but…would she really steal them?

She had stolen worse from him before...

Eli exhaled sharply, gathering the doll into his arms before heading down the hall. If he didn’t keep up with the schedule, things would feel even worse. He needed structure. He needed to follow the rules.

"Greta's been stealing my things," he muttered absently to the porcelain face in his hands, smoothing down the doll's shirt. "It’s…weird. I don’t know why she would even want them."

The doll, of course, said nothing.

But someone was listening.

---

Brahms sat silently behind the walls, fingers tracing the edges of the crumpled lace he had taken. He had thought about keeping it—hiding it away with the other things he had taken—but Eli had been so good.

And good boys deserved rewards.

Eli followed his rules so diligently, made his meals with care, sang him songs, and even gave him kisses at night. He was perfect. A perfect little doll of his own.

And dolls deserved to be dressed up in their best.

Brahms had been good too. He had behaved. But he wanted to see something else now—something new. He wanted to watch Eli’s face as he realized. As the truth began to set in.

A deep, amused hum rumbled in his throat.

Yes. A reward.

---

Eli found the note after dinner.

It was waiting for him on the kitchen counter, next to the Brahms doll, the familiar paper of the schedule now marked with new words in a jagged, slanted hand.

"You are such a good boy. You make me very happy. Here is a gift for you, little doll. Wear it for me."

His breath caught as he noticed what sat beside the note.

His missing sweater. And beneath it—

The lace.

His fingers trembled as he picked it up. The fabric was slightly stiff in places, marred by something wrong. Stained in patchy splotches of something dried and white.

His stomach dropped.

This wasn’t Greta... Was it?

This wasn’t really a prank if it was her. But she had done things in the past that wouldn't put it past her.

Malcolm’s warning echoed in his mind.

'None of the nannies last long. They run for the hills. The stories about this place—'

This wasn’t a coincidence.

Greta had done weird things in the past. Hell, she'd dated him for a couple weeks back in highschool and done much worse then. But would she do it again?

Eli swallowed hard, a shudder running through him.

Somewhere, deep within the walls, Brahms watched.

And he smiled.

Eli’s hands curled into the sweater’s fabric, his breath unsteady. His heart pounded against his ribs as the truth sank in.

This wasn’t some prank.

It was a request.

Or worse—a rule.

He shuddered, but before he could think too deeply about it, something else caught his attention.

The doll.

It wasn’t where he left it.

His blood ran cold.

No, no, he had placed it on the chair after dinner, just like always. Greta couldn't have moved it without him noticing her, could she? He didn't have time to wonder.

His feet carried him down the hall faster than he realized, a sick dread curling in his stomach as he swung open his bedroom door.

And there it was.

Sitting on his bed.

Propped up against his pillow, positioned just right, its empty gaze staring straight at him.

As if it had been waiting.

A knot formed in his throat. The note wasn’t a simple suggestion.

It was instruction.

His body locked up, hands gripping the edge of the doorframe as his stomach twisted. His breath hitched.

He wasn’t just being watched.

He was being expected.

His gaze flickered back down to the clothes in his arms—the delicate lace, his soft sweater, tainted but…offered. Given.

Rewarded.

His skin prickled.

Eli stepped closer to the bed, his knees weak. His body felt…wrong.

But as his trembling fingers peeled off his current clothes, his nerves burned with something else.

Something sick.

Something sweet.

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t.

But he did.

The sweater, the lace, all of it.

He slid the fabric over his skin, swallowing the nausea curling in his throat. The sweater was warm. The lace clung to him. And even though he should have felt disgusted, violated—

A deep warmth pulsed through his stomach.

The room felt hot. Stifling.

His mind flickered back to the dreams—the faceless protector, the hands on him, the kiss. It had replaced every nightmare of the one before it.

A small, choked sound escaped him.

He hated this.

He loved this.

And as he sat slowly on the bed, pulse thrumming in his ears as he felt the sticky stiff fabric rubbing against his reluctantly growing erection, he felt it again.

The weight of eyes.

Watching.

Waiting.

Brahms, hidden within the walls, ached.

Eli sat stiffly on his bed, the weight of the doll in his lap heavier than usual. His fingers brushed over its porcelain cheek, the smooth surface cool beneath his touch.

His stomach twisted.

This is wrong.

His hips bucked upward absentmindedly and he bit his lip as he willed himself try and stay still.

This was wrong. He should just go to bed.

But it was the routine.

The rules.

And he had always been such a good boy.

His breath shuddered out as he pulled the worn storybook into his lap, voice soft and trembling as he began to read. The words blurred together, his thoughts drowning in the thick, humid weight of the room. The lingering scent of his own body mixed with something else.

Something ruined.

Something claimed.

Eli’s fingers curled into the sweater’s sleeves as he turned a page, barely processing the story, the meaning, the lesson. But it didn’t matter, did it?

All that mattered was that he was following the rules.

All that mattered was that he was good.

His voice cracked over the last few lines of the second book, and he let the book slip from his grasp, fingers trembling as they found the doll’s porcelain face.

His lips parted.

His heart ached.

He leaned in.

And kissed it.

Soft. Delicate. Slow. Lingering. A proper goodnight.

His breath shuddered as he settled down, clutching the doll close, his body wrapped in the twisted, tainted warmth of his stolen clothes. His skin burned. His mind reeled.

But a sick, anxious smile curled at his lips as he buried his face into the doll’s stiff shoulder, pulling it tight against his chest.

He had never felt so watched.

So wanted.

So kept.

Surely Brahms wouldn't mind indulging Eli for tonight and allowing him to share a bed. Even if Eli was purposely shifting around to feel the sheets rubbing against his ever weeping tip.

And from within the walls, Brahms shivered at the sight of his twisted little doll hugging the one made in his own image close.

Chapter Text

The rhythm of the routine had become almost mechanical for Eli, ingrained into his life like a ritual he couldn’t break, though part of him wasn’t sure he even wanted to. It was a need, a compulsion, something that made him feel anchored, even if it was sick and twisted. He had known, ever since high school, that he had a warped view of relationships—something had snapped inside him back then, a fracture he couldn't repair. Relationships were never simple for him. They were tangled, confusing, suffocating.

Now, the doll—Brahms—sat perfectly in his lap each evening, a small, fragile thing he’d come to rely on. Reading his two stories aloud, kissing it goodnight, holding it close—each act was comforting in its familiarity. No one, not even Greta, had to know that after Brahms was tucked in and kissed properly, Eli would crawl into the doll's bed, the sensation of its porcelain limbs pressing against him somehow filling the void inside him. The ritual was a twisted comfort, a tether to something—anything—that made him feel needed, wanted, even if it was only by a doll. It was sick, but it was his, just like everything else had been since high school.

But the tension in the air was palpable. Each night, as the walls creaked and groaned with the weight of something moving unseen, Eli could sense something changing. The quiet, unnerving space of the manor seemed to draw tighter, the air thicker, as if the entity he felt there was watching him more intensely. Eli couldn’t help but feel it, couldn’t shake the growing unease in his chest. The presence felt so close sometimes that he swore he could almost hear the soft hum of breath just behind him. Or feel the lithe touch of his skin through the night. The longer it went on, the less stable Eli felt, and the more... possessed he became by the rules. They were his comfort.

The real Brahms, from his hidden vantage point, watched with growing intensity. His dick twitched as he watched Eli’s every move, every glance toward the doll. The routine was becoming something else, something personal. Eli was no longer just following it. He was surrendering to it.

Brahms’ patience was starting to fray at the edges, his lustful desire for Eli mixing with something darker. Something... possessive. He could feel Eli’s fear, his quiet, anxious need. And it excited him—more than anything.

Tonight, Brahms pressed closer to the walls, his breath shallow, as he watched Eli move through the motions—dressing in soft, pastel clothes, his delicate frame like porcelain, just like the doll. He could hear Eli’s gentle voice talking to the doll, whispering to it different stories every night. The words that were no longer just rituals—they were his, Eli's own quiet confession with each story or poem.

But Brahms felt the shift inside himself. His desire was no longer just for Eli’s submission. He wanted everything—every inch of Eli, every word, every heartbeat. He was growing impatient.

Meanwhile, the doorbell rang, and Eli startled out of his thoughts. He glanced up. It was Malcom, their weekly grocery delivery. Greta was already in the doorway before he could blink, throwing him a flirtatious smile as she asked how his week had been. Eli didn’t listen much to their conversation as he stepped away, but he could hear Greta laughing, the sound sharp and almost playful. It reminded him of highschool.

Malcom seemed to be trying too hard to make an impression, focusing his attention on Eli rather than Greta. Eli felt uncomfortable, but he wasn’t quite sure why. There was no reason for him to feel so on edge, was there? It was just Malcolm.

Malcom, smiling too brightly, passed him a heavy bag of groceries. Letting his hands linger. “You should get out more often Eli,” he said, but his eyes never really left Eli’s face.

Eli forced a smile, trying to ignore the prickle of discomfort crawling along his skin. He couldn’t respond the way Malcom expected, couldn’t give the man the attention he was seeking. Not when his mind still felt so tangled in old wounds, old hurts.

Eli couldn't shake the memories. A flash of his ex-boyfriend's face—the one who’d hurt him, broken him. He had started noticing Eli and coaxing him with the same teasing words. Saying he needed to get out more. Cole. His name surfaced unbidden, as it always did when his mind wandered to the painful past. Malcolm reminded Eli of Cole. His ex was manipulative, controlling, a master at wearing down Eli’s confidence. He remembered after the sweet coercion came the late-night arguments, the words that cut deeper than any punch, the lies he was fed. And then there was the betrayal—Greta. She had claimed she did it for Eli’s protection—that she had to get close to his boyfriend to stop the cycle of abuse, that the three of them were meant to be. But if that was the case why did she sleep with him for months on end while hiding it? Eli had never been able to make sense of it, and even now, as he held the doll close, he couldn’t shake the fear, the shame.

Eli paled as he shook slightly, a tic that went unnoticed by the two people with him. "I don't think that's a good idea Malcolm..."

The man just brushed his unease off, "C'mon Eli, what's the harm in having a little fun?" A lopsided smirk tugging on his lips.

He was supposed to feel safe. Wasn’t he? Why did it feel like everything, everyone, was either using him or watching him? Why did he always have to make something out of nothing? Why could he never be happy? He barely registered how Malcolm was brushing his hands and stepping closer. Or how Greta grit her teeth and roller her eyes, muttering about how Malcolm should go soon.

But the real Brahms, watching from his hidden space in the walls, could feel the tension rising in the air. His hands gripped the cold slats, his heart racing, as the jealousy coursed through him. Why was Malcom so close? Why was he touching what was his?

The walls trembled as Brahms seethed with growing rage. Then, suddenly, the creak of wood, the sharp snap of something falling... a bang so loud it sent everyone jumping back, startled and terrified.

Eli froze. The doll was gone. The chair he'd set it down in was flipped on it's side, leg broken. Greta cursed and Malcolm helped her right the chair before he left.

Meanwhile Eli got an eerie sense of deja Vu and moved cautiously upstairs toward his room, dread slowly building in his chest, and his eyes scanned the space frantically.

There—on his bed.

The Brahms doll, now seated and waiting, staring up at him as though beckoning him. The unspoken rule was clear—follow the routine.

But this time, it felt... wrong.

A note sat beside the doll, scrawled in neat, dark ink.

'You’ve been a good boy, Eli.'

Eli's breath caught as he read the words. The writing was different—almost frantic, as though it was written in a hurry, with anger pulsing through each stroke.

'But remember, Malcom is not welcome here. He touched what is mine. Never again. You are mine, Eli. No one else will touch you. No one else will have you. You are mine. -Brahms'

Eli’s heart dropped into his stomach, a sick feeling spreading through him. He stepped back, the world spinning as his gaze locked on the doll, eyes wide with fear.

What the hell was going on? He was past blaming Greta for the pranks. She had been downstairs with him.

The walls were too quiet now. Too still.

Brahms was there, somewhere, and Eli could feel it deep in his bones. This was real.

The room seemed to close in on him. His hands trembled as he grabbed the doll, pulling it close for comfort, even as his mind screamed at him to leave it. To run. To get out.

But he couldn’t.

Not now. Not when he needed this.

Because the rules wouldn’t let him. Or at least that's what he told himself to be able to ignore the sick part of him that wanted to see how far 'Brahms' would go.

Eli sat on the edge of his bed, the soft weight of the Brahms doll in his lap. The room felt unnervingly quiet after the loud noise, the shift in the air making his skin crawl. His fingers toyed with the doll's fragile little suit, feeling the weight of it in his hands. He had become used to it, used to him, to Brahms, in this strange, twisted way.

The words on the note still burned in his mind—mine—and they made his stomach churn, his pulse race. No one had ever made him feel like he belonged before, no one except the doll… or rather, the presence behind it.

“I’m sorry,” Eli murmured, staring down at the porcelain face of the doll, his voice small. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to get so close to him.”

His fingers twitched as he stroked the doll's hair, something calming in the motion despite his racing thoughts. He was talking to a doll, and yet, the act of speaking felt like it brought him closer to something he couldn’t explain.

“I know… I know the rules are strange. But I…” His voice cracked as he swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to his lap. “I guess I like them. They make sense, even though you scare me. They tell me what to do, when to do it. I never had that before.”

Eli sighed, shaking his head as if trying to make sense of it. “I’ve always been… unsure of everything. I’ve been a mess for so long. But the rules… they feel like I’m doing something right. Like I’m actually needed. I matter, you know?”

The doll’s empty eyes stared back at him, but it felt like the room itself was listening. He continued, his voice gaining a sense of confession in it, as if he was finally able to admit what had been bubbling beneath the surface all this time.

“It’s the first time I’ve felt like I’m actually doing something. I don’t have to second-guess myself. I just have to follow. I don’t have to figure it out alone anymore.”

He laughed softly, the sound hollow in the silence. “God, I sound pathetic. But I need this… I need something.”

Eli’s thoughts drifted, his mind wandering back to the things he’d tried to forget—the things that had shaped him into who he was now. He thought about his childhood, the way he had been treated, how no one had ever really cared for him like he needed. He thought about his ex, the one who had used him, broken him down, twisted his sense of worth. His feelings for Greta. All the painful, unspoken truths. And how, after it all, the doll had been the only thing to offer him some semblance of comfort.

"Maybe... maybe it's not yo- the doll that's haunted," Eli mused aloud, his fingers brushing against the doll’s face. "Maybe it’s me. Maybe I need the rules to stop from falling apart again."

His heart ached with the realization. The idea that these rules, these twisted things, were the only thread connecting him to normality. It gave him a sense of control, a sense of belonging, and for once, it wasn’t a feeling of inadequacy. It wasn’t like before, when he’d felt abandoned and lost. He finally had something to hold on to.

“But what if it’s just a… phase?” he murmured, still toying with the doll. “What if I can’t keep this up? What if one day, it just all falls apart again?”

The thought terrified him, more than he’d care to admit.

Eli sighed deeply, looking at the doll and whispering, “What if you hadn’t died, Brahms? What if things had been different?”

He leaned forward, his face hovering near the doll, as if hoping for an answer.

The room remained silent, but Eli’s thoughts were loud.

Brahms had died in the fire, or so they said. The papers had said he was consumed by flames because he had been trapped in that house. But Eli couldn’t stop the thoughts from circling his mind—if Brahms had lived, if he’d made it out of that fire, he’d be a little older than Eli’s own age now.

He’d be alive.

Eli's chest tightened as he let that thought linger, imagining Brahms growing older, maybe even being there beside him, in the flesh, not just the doll. He wondered how Brahms would look, what he would be like, how he would fit into Eli's life now. Would he have been the protector, the person who guided Eli through the uncertainty, giving him the stability he so desperately needed? Would he have loved him the way he needed to be loved?

Eli shook his head and whispered to the doll again, “I guess I’ll never know.”

Meanwhile, hidden within the walls, the real Brahms listened intently, his chest tight with excitement as his cock strained against his fraying pants. The words Eli had spoken—his need, his longing—echoed in the cold, empty space of the walls, each one carrying a weight Brahms couldn't ignore. He had been waiting for someone like Eli for so long, since the very day his body had matured, when he’d realized just how sick and twisted his desires had become hidden in the walls.

No longer just a boy locked inside, Brahms had learned what it was to truly yearn for something, to want it desperately, to crave the feeling of control that came with something so innocent, so pure. As he became a man, his lusts became wilder.

For years, he had waited in the shadows, studying, learning, watching the world beyond the walls, hoping to find someone who could complete him in the way Eli did. His obsession with the fragility of youth had only grown stronger, more insistent, a hunger that nothing could satisfy. And now, Eli had arrived. Everything about him, the way he moved, the way he spoke, was so effortlessly beautiful, so untouched by the rot that Brahms had embraced in his solitude. Eli was like a princess and a biy wrapped in one lacey bow for Brahms to save and lock away all for himself.

The anger that had been simmering for days now shifted into something else, something darker, deeper—an overwhelming sense of possession. The frustration, the loneliness, all of it folded into a singular, twisted urge to claim. To make Eli his, not just as a doll to protect, but as something he could mold, control, and make his own. Brahms had waited for this moment, had let the anger and bitterness toward the world around him build up, until it was no longer about vengeance, but about satisfaction. About claiming what was his, by any means necessary.

His fingers curled into fists, nails scraping against the wooden beams, his mind racing, full of dangerous thoughts and twisted plans. The heat in his chest pulsed with every memory of Eli, every glance, every word. This wasn’t just a passing fancy. This was fate, the culmination of everything he’d been waiting for, everything he had been preparing for in the shadows of the walls. He wasn’t just going to make Eli his doll—he was going to make him feel like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. Because to Brahms, Eli was the only thing that mattered now.

Eli needs me.

The realization sent a dark thrill through him. Eli had admitted it—he needed the rules. He needed him. Brahms, lurking behind the walls, smiled behind his porcelain mask. It was only a matter of time before Eli would realize that the rules weren't something he could escape, that Brahms was no longer just a doll.

Brahms had spent years hidden in the walls, watching, waiting. But now? Now he had a plan—a plan to reveal himself in a way that would make Eli understand.

Eli was so close.

He just needed a little more time.

And when the time came, Eli would finally know that he was Brahms'.

The moonlight filtered through the window, casting long, pale shadows across the room. The silence felt almost oppressive, like the air itself was thick with anticipation. Eli had placed the Brahms doll back on the edge of his bed, its porcelain face staring up at him with those empty eyes, and for a moment, it felt like the world around him held its breath. The stillness was comforting, yet unsettling at the same time.

Eli sat down at his desk, the routine looming in his mind, but his thoughts were clouded with everything that had happened. The doll had become more than just a doll to him, and that realization made him uneasy. He couldn’t deny that he needed the rules, the structure, the control Brahms provided, even if it felt wrong.

A soft rustling sound broke his trance. Eli turned toward the bed, his heart pounding in his chest, but he found nothing out of place. The doll remained where it was, still and unblinking. He exhaled, trying to steady himself.

But then, something caught his eye—beneath the doll’s delicate lace dress was a small, neatly folded piece of paper.

Eli’s heart fluttered as he picked it up. He unfolded it carefully, the writing delicate and precise, the ink slightly smudged in places as though it had been written in a hurry:

“You’ve been so good, Eli. I’m proud of you. I’ve left you a little reward. Wear it tomorrow, and you’ll know how much you mean to me.”

Eli’s fingers shook as he read the note. His pulse quickened with excitement. There was something oddly tender about this message, something that felt almost like... care. It wasn’t the possessiveness or the demands from before. It was different.

The note seemed almost… sweet.

Eli glanced toward the bed again, noticing something beside the doll. There, tucked beneath the soft cotton of its suit, was a small box, wrapped in delicate paper and tied with a satin ribbon. His breath caught in his throat as he carefully untied the ribbon and opened the box.

Inside was a small, intricate porcelain heart on a ribbon, polished to a soft sheen. It was beautiful, elegant in its simplicity. But what made it so special was the small painted on lettering on the back:

“For my good boy, Eli.”

A lump formed in Eli's throat as he ran his fingers over the smooth wood. The gesture was unexpectedly gentle, and for a moment, he felt a flicker of something—something warm, something almost like affection. It was as if Brahms, through his twisted way, was trying to show him that he cared.

Eli’s mind raced, conflicted. The warmth of the gift, the sweetness of it, made him feel a strange sense of belonging. The carefulness with which it had been chosen, the thought behind it, unsettled him. He had never received something so personal, so tender.

With a shaky breath, Eli placed the heart on his nightstand and stood up, pulling himself together as he began the nightly routine. The air seemed thick with a tension he couldn’t shake, but he continued, mechanically, as if his body knew what to do even if his mind was lost.

He sat on the edge of the bed, placing the Brahms doll gently beside him, just like the rules had dictated. He picked it up carefully, cradling it in his arms as he always did.

"Goodnight, Brahms," he whispered, his voice soft and hesitant. The words felt heavier on his tongue tonight, as if he wasn’t just talking to a doll anymore. His gaze fell on the porcelain face, the cold, lifeless eyes staring back at him, and for a moment, he swore he saw something in them—a flicker of something that didn’t belong there. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

With a deep breath, Eli leaned forward, pressing his lips to the doll’s own cold porcelain ones, lingering for a moment longer than he normally would. The kiss felt different this time—deeper, more intimate, and when he pulled away, his heart was racing and his cheeks flushed.

He glanced down at the doll, feeling the weight of it in his hands. It felt... comforting, the routine, the rules, even the strange attachment he had to the doll now. He was beginning to realize that the rules, the control, the care Brahms provided, were more than just strange—maybe they were the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

Eli closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the quiet pulse of the night around him, and then, with a final, soft sigh, he whispered:

“Goodnight, Brahms.”

As he settled into bed, still holding the doll close, his hand brushed the small porcelain heart on the nightstand. Snatching it up and quickly tying the ribbon around his neck as a collar. The warmth it had brought him lingered in the pit of his stomach, leaving behind a feeling that was both unsettling and strangely comforting at the same time.

Absentmindedly, Eli ground his tented lacey heat into the bed as he drifted off to sleep with whiney grunts and thoughts of the possibility of a grown, possessive Brahms pulling him deeper into his dreams.

The real Brahms, hidden deep within the walls, listened carefully. His eyes narrowed behind the mask as he watched the boy through the cracks, a small, twisted smile creeping across his lips. Eli had taken the gift, had accepted it, and that made him even more his.

He had been patient, but now, as the night settled and the boy finally slept, Brahms couldn’t help but feel a deep, aching hunger in his chest. He had given Eli what he needed, but soon, he would give him everything else. All of it.

Eli was his, and it was only a matter of time before he would see that, too.

For now, though, Brahms let the night wrap around them both, knowing that soon, the boy would come to understand the depth of his need.

For now, he was satisfied.

And so, as Eli drifted off to sleep, he curled the Brahms doll closer to him, a faint, anxious smile playing at his lips.

Chapter Text

Eli had never been able to forget. No matter how much time passed, Greta’s voice still lived in his head, coiled around his memories like a noose. Especially now with the way they were arguing nearly everyday again.

It started the same way it always did—his mind slipping backward memories of being the soft small boy coming to the forefront, past the dull ache in his ribs from where Greta had shoved him earlier, past the suffocating presence of the Heelshire house, past the feel of eyes always watching from somewhere unseen.

Suddenly he was fourteen again, sitting alone in the cafeteria, picking at a sandwich that tasted like cardboard. He should’ve known better than to think he could just exist unnoticed.

"Hey, Elias right," Greta’s voice had been syrupy sweet when she sat beside him, her friends giggling just out of earshot.

He had looked at her like she was an impossible dream. Greta, the most popular girl in school, was talking to him. His brain screamed at him not to fall for it, but he was starving for attention, for anything that made him feel less invisible.

She had told him she liked him. Called him sweet which was nice in comparison to being referred to as the 'emo faggot' by the rest of the school. She had brushed her fingers against his wrist and smiled like he was something special. He hadn’t realized then that the warmth in her eyes was just a mirror of his own pathetic hope, reflecting back at him exactly what he wanted to see.

Eli gritted his teeth, staring at the flickering candle in the dimly lit parlor of the Heelshire house. The storm outside raged on, rattling the old windows. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms to keep from slipping too far into the past as once again he stood trying to steel himself against Greta's onslaught.

"You're so fucking stupid, you know that?" Greta’s voice shattered the quiet. "I gave you everything. I was the only one who gave you a chance, and this is how you treat me? After everything I did for you, you go off playing fairytale everyday instead of just doing what I say."

Eli forced himself to breathe. "A chance?" he repeated, his voice low, simmering.

She scoffed, flipping her hair over one shoulder. "Yeah. No one else would've given you the time of day. Everyone thought you were some sad, pathetic fag. And you still are! At least I made you somebody standing next to me."

"You made me your errand boy," Eli snapped before he could stop himself.

Greta narrowed her eyes. "Excuse me?"

The words were like a slow-building fire inside him, embers long buried under years of shame finally catching. "You made me do your homework. You made me buy you things. You made me drop out of college, remember that?" His breathing was ragged now, voice caught, but he forced himself to keep going. "You hit me, Greta. Alot. And that wasn't even the worst part. Because at least you hadn't introduced me to Cole yet at that point."

Greta rolled her eyes. "Oh, for god’s sake. I barely hit you. Stop being so dramatic."

Eli felt the phantom sting of her palm across his face, the bruises she’d left on his arms when he hesitated to hand over his money. The second worst had been prom night. He had been excited—terrified, but excited. He had thought, maybe, if he was good enough, if he gave her everything, she would finally mean it when she said she loved him.

But in the limo, something had set her off. He hadn’t gotten her the right corsage, or maybe he had looked at her the wrong way, or maybe she just wanted to remind him who was in control. She had grabbed his wrist hard enough to bruise, had slapped him, had called him pathetic when his eyes welled up.

And he had left.

He had walked away from her that night, left her screaming in the limo, left her to go to prom alone. But somehow, she had still won.

Because even now, even after all of it, he still felt like he owed her.

Eli’s breath came sharp and unsteady. Greta was smirking now, like she had already won this fight before it even began.

"You’re acting crazy," she said. "You always do this. You think you’re the victim, but the truth is, no one would’ve ever touched you if it wasn’t for me. Even Cole. You owe me, Eli."

Something snapped.

"No," he said, his voice steadier than he expected. He stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "I don’t."

Greta laughed, but there was a flicker of something behind her eyes—uncertainty. "Oh, please. You’re nothing without me. You never were."

Eli turned away, his heart pounding. He needed to get out of here. But he couldn’t—he couldn’t leave Brahms. He was trapped here, bound to the doll, to the house, to whatever unseen force lurked within its walls.

A creak from upstairs sent ice down his spine. He turned his head, just slightly, just enough to feel it.

Brahms was listening.

The tension in the air grew thick, pressing down on his chest. He swallowed hard and forced his legs to move, his steps slow and measured as he left Greta standing there, still fuming, still waiting for him to crumble like he always did.

His room was cold when he entered, the candlelight casting long shadows against the walls. The doll sat in its usual spot, staring at him with empty, knowing eyes.

And then he saw it.

A piece of paper, folded neatly, placed just beside the doll. His stomach twisted as he reached for it, unfolding it with shaky fingers.

The handwriting was jagged, uneven, like it had been scrawled in a hurry.

Prove you’re my good boy. Get rid of her.

Eli’s hands trembled. He could feel Brahms watching, waiting.

The walls had eyes.

And he had a choice to make.

The note burned a hole in Eli’s palm long after he had read it. The words scrawled across the page— Prove you’re my good boy. Get rid of her.—echoed in his skull, reverberating off the walls of his mind like a demand he could never meet.

He had tried to sleep, but even in the cold sanctuary of his room, he felt watched. Because he was being watched. Brahms was somewhere in the walls, his breath slipping through the cracks, his footsteps silent above and beneath and all around. The whole house was alive with him.

Eli didn’t know how to respond. He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t brave enough.

Because Greta had been right—without her, what was he?

---

By morning, the house was thick with tension. The rain from the night before had faded into a dreary gray mist, seeping through the windows, curling at the edges of the old wooden floors.

Greta carried herself the same way she always did—like the house was hers, like she was meant to be here, lounging in the old furniture, sipping tea she didn’t make, giving orders she had no authority to give. She stretched luxuriously on the parlor couch, one leg draped over the armrest, scrolling through her phone with a satisfied smirk.

“Malcolm,” she hummed, typing a message. “Come on, babe. It’s just a little errand.”

Eli lingered by the door, watching her through his lashes, pretending to tidy something that didn’t need tidying. He had already seen the messages before.

Greta: Bring me more wine. This place is depressing.
Malcolm: What kind do you and Eli like?
Greta: I want something sweet. Surprise me. ;)
Malcolm: And Eli?
Greta: Who cares? I'm the one who wants wine.
Malcolm: I can bring it next weeks delivery then.
Greta: You’re really gonna make me beg for it tonight? That’s so mean, Malcolm.
Greta: Fine, whatever. Just come by later maybe? We can just talk tonight and you bring the wine next weekend.

The final messages had been left on read.

But Greta wasn’t the type to let silence mean no.

Still, she had to keep her options open. Her fingers danced over the keyboard again, faster this time, and Eli caught a glimpse of the name on the screen before she tilted it away.

Cole.

Of course.

Eli's stomach twisted. Cole had been the closest thing to a real boyfriend Greta ever had. Unlike Eli, he had been popular, handsome, someone who had never needed her the way Eli had. And yet she still clung to him, still acted like he was a pawn she could move whenever she pleased.

Greta: You miss me?
Cole: Always baby.
Greta: I bet you do.
Cole: I got you a surprise btw.
Greta: Oh?

She giggled to herself, shaking her head like it was all just a game.

Eli clenched his fists. She hadn’t even noticed him standing there.

Greta did nothing.

She did nothing.

She didn’t clean, didn’t lift a finger unless it was to grab something for herself. If there was work to be done, it was his to do. If something needed fixing, it was his problem. She floated through life like a queen, like it was everyone else's job to cater to her.

He tried to hold onto that anger, that small ember of resentment. Maybe if he fed it, let it grow, he could do what Brahms asked of him. Maybe—

But then she looked at him, and just like that, he was seventeen again, hearing her say you owe me, Eli.

He turned away.

---

The walls had eyes.

Brahms was watching.

He moved soundlessly through the house, navigating the dark, secret spaces between the walls with a precision born of years spent in their embrace.

He had learned long ago how to see without being seen, how to listen without making a sound.

And what he saw—what he heard—filled him with something dark.

Greta.

She was still here. She still breathed his air, still sat on his furniture, still walked his halls like they belonged to her.

She was filthy.

Brahms saw the way she lounged, draped across his mother’s antique couch like a spoiled, lazy animal. She left her things scattered everywhere—her clothes, her makeup, her empty glasses. She was wasteful, ungrateful, selfish.

She used Eli. That weak little creature, too afraid to stand up for himself, too blind to see how she fed on him. Brahms had seen it all.

He had watched through the cracks as Eli bent over backward for her, as he flinched when she raised her voice, as he stumbled over himself to please her. It made Brahms' skin crawl, made his breath come heavier in the tight spaces of the walls.

Eli was his.

And Greta—Greta was nothing but rot.

She touched what wasn’t hers. Took what she didn’t deserve.

Eli needed to see it.

Eli needed to do something about it.

But he wouldn’t.

Brahms could see it in the way he still hovered near her, in the way his hands trembled when he tried to break free.

Pathetic.

He would have to help Eli.

He would have to show him.

Brahms moved through the walls with quiet purpose, slipping into the hidden passage that led to Eli’s room.

The doll was still there, sitting where Eli always left it, staring with empty, hollow eyes.

On the desk, the first note still lay unfolded for hours now, Eli hadn't been a good boy. She was still here.

Brahms’ fingers twitched.

Slowly, he reached for another scrap of paper.

Slowly, he pressed the charcoal to the page.

"If you don’t, I will."

He folded it neatly and placed it beside the first.

Then, he melted back into the walls, disappearing like a shadow in the dark.

---

Eli sat on the edge of the bed, hands shaking as he stared at the second note. The charcoal letters glared back at him, dripping with quiet menace.

"If you don’t, I will."

He swallowed, throat dry.

It wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

Brahms wasn’t real.

He squeezed his eyes shut and dug his nails into his palms, trying to steady himself. The whole day had been a blur of conflicting thoughts, of Greta’s voice weaving through his mind like a spell he couldn't shake. She was the only one who stayed, the only one who chose him. Wasn't she?

“Brahms,” he whispered, voice barely above a breath. He clenched the note tighter, heart hammering against his ribs. “If you’re real… prove it.”

Silence.

The house held its breath.

Then, a creak in the walls. A faint, slow shift of wood and plaster.

Eli stiffened. His pulse jumped, but he forced himself to breathe. No. That wasn’t—no. That was the house settling. It had to be.

Another sound. Soft, like something dragging against the inside of the walls.

His skin prickled.

But it wasn’t proof.

It wasn’t enough.

Eli exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. His nerves were frayed, his mind pulling at threads that didn’t exist. He had spent too much time alone, too much time listening to the whispers in this house, letting himself believe in things that weren’t real.

He was losing it. That’s what this was.

His own voice, shaking in the dim candlelight, was the only thing keeping him tethered. “You’re not real,” he murmured, forcing himself to say it out loud. “This is just—this is just me. Losing it. Just the house creaking, just my own—” His voice broke for a second, but he swallowed it down. “I need to get a grip.”

Silence swallowed the room again.

The walls did not respond.

He let out a long, shuddering breath, pushing the notes away like they burned.

---

By nightfall, the house had fallen into its usual routine.

Eli made sure the doors were locked, the windows shut tight. He set the kettle to boil even though he didn’t want tea. Greta had sprawled out on the couch all evening, doing nothing, scrolling through her phone with the same smug detachment as always. When he had passed by, she barely even looked at him.

She only ever looked at him when she needed something.

And still—still, he couldn’t let her go.

He brought the doll to its little bed, tucking it in with careful hands. His fingers trembled as he smoothed down its porcelain hair.

This was the only time of the day that made sense. The only time he felt stable.

He bent down and pressed a small, chaste kiss to its cold forehead. “Good night, Brahms,” he whispered.

Maybe—maybe he should just listen to Greta.

Maybe she was right. He should be doing the bare minimum, just enough ti keep the job done and stay sane.

He hesitated, standing there in the dim light, the silence thick around him. But then, slowly, he turned and started toward his room.

The second he stepped into the hallway, he heard it.

Laughter.

Soft. Familiar.

Greta’s voice, right outside the front door, light and flirtatious.

And then—

A man’s voice. It couldn't be...

He ran down the hall, feet nearly tripping over themselves as he clambered to the stairs.

He saw him being ushered inside the doorway.

Cole.

Eli’s stomach dropped.

The air was suddenly too thick, pressing against his ribs, choking him from the inside out.

He froze at the landing atop the staircase, the walls closing in around him.

And just like that—

Everything shattered.

Chapter Text

Brahms watched.

He had always watched.

Through the slats in the walls, through the hollow spaces no one thought to check. The dark was his kingdom, and from it, he saw everything. Every lie. Every whisper. Every cruel little game.

And now, he saw him.

Cole.

Brahms’ fingers flexed against the rotting wood of the passage, nails pressing into the grain so hard it splintered under his grip. The name burned in his mind like an old wound reopening, raw and festering. He had heard that name before, spoken in the lonely hush of night.

Eli whispered it with regret, with something fragile breaking in his voice.
Greta spat it with amusement, like he was just another toy she had grown tired of.

Cole.

Cole, who had hurt his Eli.
Cole, who had stolen from his Eli.
Cole, who had left bruises under his clothes and shadows under his eyes.

And now, Cole was here. In his house.

Brahms exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing the tension in his chest to stay contained. His heartbeat was steady. His breath was slow. His hands—braced against the walls—did not tremble.

But his teeth ground together.

His jaw ached.

The walls around him felt smaller, tighter, as if they were pressing inward, suffocating him with the weight of his own fury.

Greta had broken the rules. Again.

She had invited a guest. Again.

Brahms had been patient with her. He had tolerated her whining, her laziness, her disgusting little habits. He had let her ruin his house with her idle hands and thoughtless words.

But this?

This was too far.

She had no right.

And Eli—his Eli—was crumbling.

Standing at the top of the stairs, stiff and silent, his body wound so tight he looked ready to snap. Brahms had never seen him like this.

Not when he wept at night, whispering apologies to the doll as if it would ever be enough.
Not when Greta sneered at him, treated him like dirt beneath her heels.
Not even when he curled in on himself, flinching at ghosts only he could see.

But now—now—he was breaking.

And Brahms would not allow it.

The rage inside him coiled tighter, hotter. It simmered beneath his skin, turning feverish, desperate. His fingers twitched at his sides, his breath growing heavier, uneven, a low hum vibrating in his throat.

He had been still for too long.

He would make them leave.

He would make them fear him.

And if they didn’t?

Then Brahms would show them what happened when the rules were broken.

His fingers trailed along the inner walls. The weight of the house pressed around him, his house, his domain. He could feel them moving, their voices vibrating through the wood, their scent thick in the stale air.

Eli still had not moved.

Cole and Greta were laughing, whispering.

Brahms inhaled deeply, tilting his head against the damp wood.

He could let them think they were safe.

Let them drink, let them touch, let them sink into their filth and mockery—

And then he would remind them.

That this was his home.

That they were his playthings.

He exhaled slowly and curled his fingers into a fist.

Then, he knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The house groaned.

A long, rattling creak, like it was shifting under its own weight.

Greta went still.

Cole paused mid-laugh.

Eli flinched.

Brahms grinned behind the mask.

Then, he moved.

The walls shuddered.

A slow, dragging sound, like something heavy scraping against the floor. Then—thud, thud, thud, the sound of footsteps pacing behind them, following their movements unseen.

Greta laughed nervously. “Okay, that’s—”

Another thud.

Closer.

The lights flickered.

Cole cursed under his breath. “Babe, what the fuck?”

Eli didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Brahms tilted his head.

And then—silence.

Let them stew in it.

Let them wonder.

He could wait.

He had all the time in the world.

---

In the morning Eli focused on the doll.

Not on the lingering echoes of last night. Not on Greta draped over Cole at the table. Not on the way Cole’s fingers traced lazy circles on her bare thigh, or the way they both smirked at him like they had already won.

No.

Just the routine.

Breakfast first.

He placed the plate down carefully. Scrambled eggs, toast, fruit. Just like always.

He turned to pour the tea when—

A fork stabbed into the eggs.

Eli froze.

Cole chewed lazily, smirking. “Not bad, babe.”

Eli’s stomach twisted.

“That—” He swallowed hard. “That wasn’t for you.”

Cole shrugged, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “Relax. The doll won’t miss it.”

Greta giggled, sipping her coffee. “You’re so sensitive, Eli.”

Eli’s fingers clenched around the edge of the counter.

Routine. Just—focus.

He moved on. Lessons came next.

Music.

He sat at the piano, placed his fingers against the keys, started to play—

A loud slam of the cover over his hands.

Eli jolted back, looking up.

Cole grinned down at him. “Oops.”

Greta smirked. “You’re so jumpy.”

Eli clenched his jaw.

Poetry, then. Maybe that would—

Cole plucked the book from his hands, flipping lazily through the pages. “Boring.” He tossed it aside.

Greta giggled against his shoulder. “I told you, he’s just like that.”

Eli’s throat felt tight.

This wasn’t new.

It wasn’t even surprising.

But after last night—after the noise, after what he felt—something was different.

He just didn’t know what.

The front door creaked open.

Malcolm stepped in, holding a bottle of wine.

Greta perked up immediately. “Finally.”

She stood, swaying her hips as she slinked toward him, her eyes locked on the bottle like it was the only thing that mattered.

Eli exhaled.

A moment of relief.

Malcolm was here. He could—

A sharp yank at his wrist.

Eli gasped as his back slammed into the counter, the edge digging cruelly into his ribs. His breath hitched, a sharp sting shooting through his side, but Cole was already on him—pushing, pressing, pinning.

Fingers wrapped tight around his wrists, holding him still.

A knee wedged between his legs, keeping him in place.

A broad palm slid down his side, rough and familiar, tracing old territory like he still owned it.

Eli shuddered, trying to jerk away, but Cole’s grip only tightened, digging in, fingertips pressing hard enough to bruise.

“Been a while, huh?” Cole murmured, breath warm against his ear.

Eli’s pulse thundered. His stomach churned. He twisted, struggled, pushed, but Cole only laughed, amused at his resistance.

“You always were weak,” Cole muttered, his fingers roaming, tracing over Eli’s ribs before slipping lower, testing, teasing. “Missed this, didn’t you?”

Eli let out a shaky breath, barely able to form words, barely able to think—

And then he saw him.

Malcolm.

Standing there. Watching.

The smirk on his lips was lazy, knowing. His gaze flicked from Eli to Cole, his amusement plain as day.

He lingered.

Taking his time.

Enjoying the show.

Then, with a final glance—a shared understanding—he turned.

And left.

Eli’s breath hitched.

Cole leaned in. “Guess that means we can catch up.”

Eli barely had time to process Malcolm’s departure before Cole yanked him forward, only to shove him back against the counter again, harder this time. The sharp edge bit into his lower back, making him wince, but Cole just grinned, tightening his hold until Eli’s wrists throbbed under his grasp.

“You always do this,” Cole murmured, voice low, smug. His fingers flexed, pressing deep into Eli’s flesh, possessive, bruising. "Act like you don't want it."

Eli didn’t. He never had.

He tried again to twist free, to shove Cole off, but Cole was bigger, stronger—he barely budged, only laughed at the weak attempt.

"Don’t—" Eli gasped out, but Cole wasn’t listening. He never listened.

His grip shifted, one hand sliding from Eli’s wrist to his throat—not squeezing, not yet, just resting there, fingers ghosting over his pulse, testing.

“You’ve always been so easy, Elias” Cole murmured, dragging his free hand down Eli’s chest, over the fabric of his sweater, knuckles grazing sensitive skin beneath.

Eli shuddered, breath coming in shallow gasps as Cole’s fingers curled into the waistband of his jeans—not enough to do anything, just enough to make the threat clear.

“Please—” Eli whispered, voice small, shaking.

Cole leaned in, lips brushing against Eli’s ear, grip tightening at his waist.

“What was that?” he taunted. "Speak up, baby."

Eli sucked in a breath, trying—failing—to steady himself. His limbs trembled. His body screamed for him to move, to fight, but his mind—his mind was slipping, fracturing beneath the weight of it all.

And then—

BANG.

The entire house shook.

Cole jolted back.

Greta gasped.

Another bang.

Louder.

Then, the walls—screamed.

A cacophony of noise, of scraping, slamming, something moving, something angry.

Greta stumbled away from the table. “What the fuck?”

Cole swore under his breath. “The hell is going on?”

Eli gripped the counter, chest heaving.

It was real.

It was real.

It was—

Him.

And for the first time, Eli knew.

Not in whispers, not in doubt.

But in certainty.

Brahms was here.

And he was furious.

Cole’s grip loosened.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Eli could breathe.

The walls still shuddered. A deep, guttural groan rolled through the house like it was alive, like it was breathing. The floors vibrated beneath their feet, and somewhere—somewhere—a sharp, skittering noise echoed through the walls.

Cole stumbled back, his face pale. “What the fuck—”

Eli didn’t hear him.

Didn’t care.

Because it was real.

It was real.

He hadn’t lost his mind. Hadn’t made it up. Hadn’t spent years trapped under Greta’s thumb and Cole’s weight, thinking he was delusional.

The laughter started as a breathless exhale. Then a chuckle. Then—

It spilled out of him. Loud. Unhinged.

Eli doubled over, clutching his stomach as the laughter poured out, shaking him.

His hands twisted into his hair, yanking at it, tugging at his clothes, pulling himself apart in sheer relief.

“Holy—holy shit—” His voice cracked, wild and breathless. “It’s—it’s real. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t crazy!”

Greta took a shaky step back. “Eli—”

But he didn’t hear her.

Didn’t see the way she was looking at him.

Didn’t care about the way Cole was pressing himself against the nearest wall, eyes darting around the room like he was waiting for something to jump out at him.

Because none of it mattered.

Because he was right.

The laughter kept coming, raw and broken and uncontrollable.

He ran his hands through his hair again, dragging his nails across his scalp, barely feeling it. His whole body trembled, not in fear, not in panic—

But in relief.

Greta’s voice snapped through the hysteria. “You—you’re doing this!”

Eli’s head snapped up, still grinning.

Greta pointed at him, wild-eyed. “You have to be!”

Cole pushed off the wall, trying to steady himself. “Yeah—yeah, this is some bullshit, Elias! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Eli gasped for air between fits of laughter, running his fingers down his face, tugging at his skin as if to ground himself. His eyes were wet, but for the first time in forever, his tears weren’t from pain.

He exhaled shakily, still grinning.

And then—

He looked at them.

At Greta, pale and shaken, at Cole, furious and afraid.

And he tilted his head, letting the last of his breathless laughter settle into something calmer.

Something darker.

His lips curled at the edges.

They had no idea.

Not a single fucking clue.

Eli’s voice dropped to a whisper, hoarse and trembling, a stark contrast to the previous screams and laughter that had cracked through him.

“You don’t even know.”

His words hung in the air, strange and distant, like someone speaking from a dream—soft, small, but undeniably sure.

And somewhere—somewhere behind the walls—

Brahms listened.

And he smiled.

Eli’s giggle bubbled up, soft and airy, the sound not belonging to the broken man he'd been moments ago, but to a child—pure, untainted, free.

The kind of laughter that came from secrets only the innocent knew.

Greta and Cole were frozen in place. Their faces twisted—shock, fear, disgust—warped in confusion as they watched him, their mouths slightly agape, unsure of what they were seeing. But Eli didn't care.

Not anymore.

He swayed on his feet, his body moving in a way that felt unfamiliar yet right. His hands lifted without thought, his fingers twirling a strand of hair absentmindedly as if he were a child, lost in the wonder of a world that no longer felt heavy.

The walls around them had quieted. The sounds of Brahms’ presence had softened—for now.

And Eli’s voice came next, light, sing-songy, almost too high-pitched, a pitch that felt unintentional but deep down, he knew it was what he needed.

“You guys are so silly,” he cooed, his tone both playful and utterly childlike.

His hands fluttered like tiny birds, movement erratic but free. His lips curled into an innocent smile, eyes wide and unseeing—just a boy with no cares, no rules, no pain.

It was as if a part of him—some part that had been broken and molded—had just snapped back to the beginning, where the weight of the world was nothing more than a distant memory.

He was finally free.

Greta flinched.

Eli pouted, tilting his head at her like a scolded puppy. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

Neither of them answered.

Eli didn’t need them to.

He turned instead, his eyes landing on the doll, slumped awkwardly on the couch, untouched and unbothered through all the chaos.

His whole face lit up.

“Oh! Brahmsy, there you are!”

With no hesitation, he scooped the doll up in his arms, cradling it like something precious.

Like something real.

“Were you scared for me, Brahmsy?” He cooed, nuzzling his nose against the doll’s porcelain face. “Don’t worry, don’t worry! It’s okay!” He turned to Greta and Cole, giggling as if he had just remembered something very funny. “Cuz I’m okay now! And I don’t gotta worry about a thing! Nope, nope, nope!” He punctuated every word with a fat kiss to the doll's cheeks.

Greta took a step back.

Cole swallowed thickly.

Eli’s grin stretched wider.

He cradled the doll close, swaying side to side like a child with their favorite stuffed toy. “Brahms doesn’t wanna punish me.” He giggled again, voice light and airy. “I’ve been a good boy.”

His fingers traced the doll’s hair, twirling it between his fingers.

He let out a soft sigh, sweet and sleepy. “Brahms only punishes bad people.”

The words hung in the air.

Heavy.

Eli didn’t wait for them to respond.

Didn’t care if they did.

With one last giggle, he turned on his heel, hugging the doll close as he skipped toward the stairs.

And as he went, the house—once trembling with Brahms’ anger—settled.

The groaning in the walls softened.

The scratching stilled.

The heavy silence returned.

Brahms was pleased with himself.

For now.

---

Eli’s steps were light as he skipped up the stairs, humming under his breath. He had a bounce in his step now, something that hadn’t been there in ages. The doll was tucked under his arm, its porcelain face as blank as ever, but Eli felt an inexplicable warmth in his chest as he carried it along.

Upstairs, in his bedroom, he placed the doll on the vanity and ran a hand through his wet hair. The reflection in the mirror showed him a different version of himself—younger, lighter, unburdened by the chaos that had threatened to consume him. His smile was playful, a soft, innocent curve of his lips, as he turned his attention to the bath he had drawn.

The water was warm, too warm. He could feel the steam rise, curling around him like a soft embrace. He sank into the tub slowly, the water rising past his waist. The plush towel he’d draped over the edge of the tub now lay forgotten, as he focused on the porcelain doll still watching him from its perch.

Eli's fingers brushed over the water's surface, his eyes not leaving the doll for even a second. His voice came out high-pitched and carefree. “You’re gonna watch me now, okay? Watch me real good.” He giggled, the sound light and airy, and then began to make a show of it. His hands splashed the water, sending droplets in every direction, as if he were performing just for the doll, just for himself.

Each movement was exaggerated, like a child playing pretend. He scooped water into his hands, letting it pour down his chest in delicate streams, laughing at the sensation. His legs stretched out luxuriously as he leaned back, his head resting against the edge of the tub, water lapsing over his skin, soap bubbles clinging to his bare shoulders. He wiggled his toes in the water, letting out a delighted hum, eyes still locked on the doll.

And somewhere—somewhere just behind the walls—Brahms watched.

Brahms had always watched, but tonight, it felt different. His breath was slow, controlled, but there was a tightness in his chest he could not shake. The scent of soap, the smoothness of Eli’s skin under his fingers—Brahms fought to steady himself as he listened, his hands twitching in the walls. The sound of water splashing, the soft giggles from the smaller man in the tub, the way his body seemed to shimmer under the light—Brahms wanted him. He wanted him so badly.

But Eli was playing, playing without a care in the world. So innocent. So… his.

Brahms swallowed, the urge to break free from the walls almost overwhelming.

Eli, on the other hand, was too wrapped up in his newfound freedom to notice. He ran the loofah over his body, exaggerated in its movements, looking at the doll like it understood.

“I’m so clean,” Eli sang, giggling as he swirled his fingers through the water, enjoying the feel of it on his skin. “Look, Brahms! I’m so clean for you.”

When he finally emerged from the bath, his skin pink and soft from the heat, he wrapped himself in the fluffy towel, his hair damp and clinging to his forehead. He took a moment to gaze at the doll, as though it was the most important thing in the room.

"Okay, time for stories now," he said softly, as if the doll could hear him. His voice was still light, almost childlike. “You wanna hear two stories tonight, right?”

Eli picked up a book from the stack beside his bed and flopped down, propped up by pillows. The doll was carefully settled beside him, its eyes still watching, its head tilted slightly as if it were listening. Eli smiled and opened the first page, his eyes bright with childlike excitement. His voice was soft, lilting, as he read aloud to the doll in a rhythm that felt comfortable and familiar.

As he finished the first story, he kissed the doll on the forehead. “You like it?” he whispered, smiling to himself. “I hope you did.”

The second story followed, and this time, Eli’s hands were more animated, his voice more playful as he tried to bring the story to life, speaking in high-pitched voices for each character. He giggled again, this time much softer, as he finished the last page. His eyes shone, though his speech was simple, almost childlike.

Finally, as he closed the book, Eli lay back on the bed, curling his body around the doll, pulling the blanket up around them both as if it were some kind of protective cocoon. He pressed his lips to the doll’s own porcelain ones, deep and slow, a tender kiss, unbidden and full of affection. His fingers ran over the doll’s smooth surface like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His lips brushed against it, light and hesitant at first, as if testing the softness. But then, as his eyes fluttered closed, the kiss deepened.

His lips pressed against the doll’s surface with more purpose, a slow, deliberate movement. His heart began to race, his chest tightening as if his very being was absorbed in the moment. The kiss was no longer just a playful gesture; it became something more—something intimate. Eli's mouth molded against the smooth porcelain, a small gasp escaping him as he pressed harder, feeling the coolness of the doll's skin against his warm lips.

His fingers curled into the fabric of the blanket beneath him as he continued to kiss the doll with a slow, aching intensity. Each movement was filled with longing, each press of his lips sending a ripple of warmth through his body, as if he were trying to pour all of his affection, all of his adoration, into this simple act.

The kiss was deep now, the sensation almost overwhelming. His lips parted slightly, just enough for his breath to quicken. He held the doll closer to his chest, almost as if it were a part of him, and he felt his own pulse thumping in his throat, a soft, rhythmic reminder that he was alive in this moment. Eli let out a quiet sigh, his mouth moving over the doll’s porcelain features with a gentle reverence, feeling the smoothness under his lips, the slight shift of it beneath his touch.

As he kissed the doll, it felt as though time had stopped. The room was silent except for the soft sound of his breath and the faintest whisper of the fabric as he shifted slightly in bed. His chest rose and fell with each slow inhale and exhale, the kiss carrying all of the tenderness, all of the yearning he had buried deep inside him for so long. It was pure, unfiltered emotion—something Eli had never allowed himself to fully express, something so simple yet profound.

When he finally pulled away, it was almost as if he could feel the lingering warmth of the kiss on his lips, as though the porcelain doll had absorbed a part of his soul. His breath came out shakily, but there was a contented softness in his gaze, his eyes heavy with the weight of the affection he had just poured into the kiss.

For a long moment, Eli didn’t move. He just stared at the doll in his hands, his thumb lightly tracing its cheek, almost as if he expected it to respond in kind. In that kiss, there was a promise, an unspoken bond—a connection that went beyond what could be seen, beyond what could be touched. It was the kiss of someone finally letting go, finally embracing something that felt real in a world that had torn them apart.

And in that quiet, intimate moment, Eli allowed himself to feel like he was truly home. Because in that moment, with the doll in his arms, Eli felt whole. Safe. Not a care, not a worry. Just this—just Brahms and him. And everything felt right.

His voice was a soft murmur now, almost a whisper. "Goodnight, Brahms. I love you."

And from the walls, from his hidden vantage point, Brahms’ breath hitched. He felt the heat rising within him, something darker, more possessive stirring in his chest. The small man, the boy he had kept in his sight fir the past few weeks, had finally slipped into his arms without a fight. Brahms’ fingers curled into the rotting wood, his body trembling slightly as he fought the overwhelming urge to break free and take the boy in ways he hadn’t dared before.

It would be so easy tonight with Eli being so pliable right now. Brahms could just barge in with his towering frame and force the boy on his knees, or grip his thin shoulders and pin him down, maybe even flip Eli onto his stomach and hike up his ass to be at the perfect height for him...

But for now, he stayed in the shadows. He had waited too long. And soon enough, Eli would be his.

For now, though, he listened—listened to the quiet, soft breathing that came from the bed. Eli had regressed, yes. He had let go of everything that had once chained him. Brahms knew hiw freeing it could be.

And Brahms? He was just waiting for the moment when the little man would finally belong to him truly. Finally be in his arms.

In the walls, Brahms closed his eyes, and the tremors that had started in his chest became something else entirely. Something deeper.

But for tonight, he would wait.

For now, Eli was his in spirit.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered through the dusty curtains of the small house, casting a faint glow on the worn wooden floors. Eli woke slowly, stretching as he let out a contented sigh. For the first time in what felt like ages, his body felt light—untethered from the weight of everything that had happened before.

Greta and Cole were still downstairs, their muffled voices arguing, as always. But for Eli, the sounds of the walls—those mysterious, comforting noises—kept him grounded. They soothed him. They were Brahms.

Eli smiled softly, listening to the faint creaking and whispering behind the walls. He didn’t know what was happening in there, but he could feel it. Brahms was watching, and it made him feel safe. The rest of the world, with its cruel mocking and harsh words, faded away when the walls hummed with life.

Greta and Cole didn’t know what it was. They didn’t understand. They made jokes about it, thinking it was a ghost, something that should be feared. But Eli didn’t feel fear. The spirit—the spirit—was Brahms, and he would protect Eli. That was all that mattered.

He stood from his bed, shuffling across the room in his soft, worn slippers, and made his way to the bathroom. As always, he took his time, humming under his breath, brushing his teeth with exaggerated care. He enjoyed these simple tasks, making sure each movement was deliberate, like a performance just for himself.

Greta’s voice floated upstairs, her tone sharp and filled with mockery. “What’s with the sounds in the walls? Ghosts? It’s giving me the creeps.”

Eli giggled softly to himself, his voice quiet and high-pitched, almost childlike. “It’s Brahms,” he said matter-of-factly, not even thinking to look at Greta. “He’s watching us. He’s going to punish you for breaking the rules.”

Greta’s voice faltered for a moment, unsure whether he was joking or serious, but she didn’t press him further. Eli went on with his morning, content, the soft hum of the walls growing louder in his ears.

Downstairs, Greta shuddered, exchanging an uneasy glance with Cole. They laughed it off, but there was an edge of fear in their voices. It was just too unsettling, the way Eli spoke so matter-of-factly about it. The sounds were too real to be ignored.

---

After his bath, Eli padded downstairs, feeling lighter than air. He had completed his routine without a hitch, his mind drifting between the world outside and the safety of the walls. But as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he stopped, his eyes catching the mail that had been left by the door. Malcolm must have brought it in yesterday, though he'd only dropped off wine.

Greta was already there, rifling through the letters with impatience. She stopped when she saw something strange—a letter with Elias’ name on it. She frowned, reaching for it with a bit of hesitation, then noticed another envelope with Brahms’ name written in neat, formal handwriting.

She scowled as she saw her name on another letter, something from her employer, no doubt. Her eyes flicked over the envelope, dismissing it for now, and her gaze went straight to Eli.

“Here,” she snapped, handing him his letter and then the one addressed to Brahms with a sharp, almost irritated motion. “You’re the one with the weird name, not me.”

Eli’s gaze softened as he took the letter from her hand, his fingers brushing the paper gently. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though it was laced with an underlying sadness that Greta didn’t notice.

He didn’t care about Greta’s frustration. Eli’s mind wandered elsewhere, drawn to the letter for Brahms, who was never far from his thoughts. He’d been waiting for something like this—a note, a message from the world outside. From Brahms’ parents, perhaps. Eli didn’t know what it said, but he wasn’t worried.

He took Brahms’ letter with care, moving toward the doll's room, his soft humming echoing through the house as he walked.

Greta, for her part, opened her own letter with the force of someone who had already made up their mind to be angry. She skimmed it quickly, her brows furrowing with each passing word, then muttered under her breath, “Terminate me by Friday? What a joke.”

Her face twisted in fury, but she shoved the letter aside, focusing on the other two. She was too irritated to think of anything but herself.

---

Eli was already in the doll’s room, settling onto the small bed. He placed the letter in the doll’s lap and then backed away, as if giving the doll privacy to read. He then turned his attention to his own letter as he walked across the hall to his own room.

Now sitting cross-legged on his bed, he opened it carefully, unfolding the paper with a quiet reverence. His eyes scanned the words, his fingers trembling slightly, though not from fear—just from the sheer emotion that surged through him as he read.

It was from the Heelshires.

The letter was formal, apologetic, but with a finality that stung.

Dear Elias,

We are sorry for the burden we have placed upon you. We understand that you are young, and we regret that we have left you with this task. However, it is important that you watch over our son now. We will not be returning, we can't live in this world we've created for ourselves any longer. We trust you will do your best to care for him in our absence.

Eli’s breath caught in his throat, his fingers brushing the paper again, reading the last part once more. They will not be returning.

The weight of it hit him, deep and heavy. They were leaving him. They weren’t coming back.

But his eyes drifted over to the door and soon he was getting up and walking back over to Brahms’ room where his own letter awaited, still on the doll’s lap, and something cold pricked at him, like ice in his veins.

Eli couldn’t help it, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached for the letter, unfolding it gently. His eyes skimmed over the words, the same apology, the same regret, but then—the words that cut the deepest:

We are appalled at what you have become. We should never have let you live. You are no longer our responsibility. Take the boy, he is yours.

Eli felt his blood run cold. He felt the anger rise in him, bubbling over, the sting of betrayal sharp against his chest.

“They shouldn’t have said that,” Eli whispered to the doll, his hands trembling as he stroked the smooth porcelain face. “It’s not your fault. You’re not bad. You’re not bad.”

The doll’s empty eyes stared up at him, a silent companion, and Eli’s anger only grew stronger. He turned, storming out of the room and back down the stairs to where Greta and Cole were still sniping at each other.

The house seemed quieter now, but there was an eerie feeling in the air. The walls—the walls—they seemed to echo with something more than just sounds.

Then, from behind the walls, came the sound of crying.

A slow, haunting wail.

Eli froze, his body stiffening. The air grew heavy, and he felt it—the presence of Brahms, close, more present than ever. He turned sharply, running toward Brahms’ room.

There, sitting in the corner, was the doll, still perched on the edge of the bed, a letter open on its lap. The crying continued. Low, sorrowful. A sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Eli read it aloud, his voice barely a whisper: “We shouldn’t have let him live.”

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to force the tears away, and then, in a rush, he went to the doll. He held it close, rocking it in his arms, as the sobs echoed through the walls.

“I’ll protect you,” Eli whispered, his voice shaking. “I’ll make sure they never hurt you again.”

With the crying still resonating in the walls, Eli set the doll down carefully. He had a routine to continue, and nothing—not even the anger or the pain—would stop him now.

He had Brahms.

And for now, that was all that mattered.

The house was deathly still now, the only sound the soft rustling of Eli’s footsteps on the creaky wooden floor. He held the doll in his arms, pressing it close to his chest as if offering comfort to something that had no breath to take. His mind was a swirl of thoughts, but one remained clear above all else: He needed to make Brahms proud.

He gently rocked the doll back and forth, humming softly to it as he spoke in quiet, almost reverent whispers. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “You’re not bad. You’re safe with me. I’m going to protect you forever. We’ll make them all see.”

His words, tender and full of the hope he desperately clung to, spilled from him like water from a cracked jug. He needed Brahms to hear them, needed him to know he wasn’t alone anymore. Needed to feel, somehow, that the spirit—the essence—of Brahms was just beyond the walls, listening.

The doll felt so lifeless, its hollow eyes staring blankly ahead, but Eli didn’t care. It was more than just a doll to him. It was his bond to the boy he still couldn’t quite understand, a link between the two that he couldn’t explain but knew, deep down, was real.

He continued to rock the doll, glancing nervously at the walls, wishing beyond measure that Brahms would reveal himself to him. He had to.

But Brahms wasn’t revealed. No, instead, behind the walls, Brahms listened.

The spirit of Brahms—if it was even him now, after all this time—watched from within the confined space of the house. He couldn’t see Eli, but he could hear every word, every breath. And the smile that had once been so confident and devious slowly faded into a frown of quiet uncertainty.

Why would he stay?

Brahms felt an odd sensation—one he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in what seemed like forever. It was a sharp pang in his chest, something akin to... fear. Fear that Eli might one day abandon him, just like his parents had.

He thought about their letter—about what they’d said. He thought about the regret they’d poured into their words, the finality in their apology. And then he thought about the bitter truth they’d left him with: They should never have let him live.

And what did that mean for Eli?

Brahms felt small in the walls, a presence that existed solely within the shadows, but now, for the first time, he wondered what Eli saw in him. Would he eventually come to view him the same way his parents had? Was Brahms destined to live forever in the darkness, forgotten and forsaken?

His breath caught in the walls, the heavy sigh that rattled through the cracks not quite loud enough to be heard by Eli, but too heavy to be ignored by Brahms himself. His fingers twitched, a desperate, anxious movement, as if he could somehow reach out, touch Eli, and draw him back into the fold.

But he couldn’t. He was trapped here—always watching, always waiting. And the worst part? He wanted Eli to stay. More than anything, he wanted Eli to keep talking to him, to keep loving him. But now that doubt crept in, gnawing at his mind like a beast. If Eli knew the truth about him—the real him—would he still care?

The walls, once a safe haven, now felt confining. Each creak, each shift of the house seemed to echo his thoughts. If I am truly this monster, this thing they regret... why would Eli stay?

But even as Brahms sank deeper into his thoughts, he couldn’t shake the faintest spark of hope. There was something in Eli’s voice—something in his words to the doll—that told Brahms maybe—just maybe—Eli wasn’t like the others. Maybe Eli would stay.

The feeling of warmth that spread through Brahms’ chest when he thought of that, when he allowed himself to think that, was overwhelming. He could still hear Eli’s whispers from the other side of the wall. He could hear his voice—a child’s voice, soft and delicate, full of tender assurances. That warmth wrapped around him like a blanket, and for a moment, he believed in it.

I’ll stay with him, Brahms thought, the small embers of hope flaring up again in the darkness. I’ll make him love me. I’ll make sure he never leaves.

---

Meanwhile, Eli was still holding the doll in his arms, his own mind a tangled mess of optimism and fragile hope. The house had grown quieter again, but it was different now. There was something new in the air, a sense of anticipation, as if something was waiting to break through.

He smiled as he rocked the doll, but his thoughts were far from the present moment. He was so sure that Brahms was listening, that he was there, hidden just behind the walls, waiting. But there was still that haunting doubt in the back of his mind.

What if it’s true? What if Brahms was really the monster his parents had always said he was? What if Eli was wrong to believe in him?

But then Eli’s gaze landed on the doll’s empty eyes, and the hope bloomed again in his chest. No. He couldn’t believe that. He wouldn’t let himself. Brahms had to be more than what his parents had said. He had to be.

“I’m going to protect you,” Eli whispered again, his words quiet but firm, as if reassuring both the doll and himself.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that Brahms was close—he could feel it in his bones. The walls seemed to hum with it, as if a presence was behind them, waiting for the right moment to emerge. He smiled softly, rubbing his fingers across the doll’s cool porcelain skin. Stay with me, Brahms. I need you.

And deep in the walls, Brahms listened, a soft smile flickering across his face as he clung to the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, Eli would stay—and with him, the echoes of everything that had been lost could be healed.

---

The soft glow of the bathroom light flickered warmly, casting gentle shadows against the cool tiles. The only sound was the faint echo of water as it filled the tub, a soothing rhythm that calmed the nerves and eased the day’s weight. Eli stood at the edge of the tub, eyes locked onto the porcelain doll that sat perched on the lip of the tub, its empty eyes fixed on him. He had carried it here with him deliberately, holding it close, whispering to it softly as he filled the tub. It felt right. After all, Brahms was always watching, wasn’t he?

He slid the straps of his nightshirt off his shoulders, letting the fabric pool at his feet. The steam clung to his bare skin, warming him in waves, and he stretched again, purposefully slow, letting every movement linger. A small smile curled at his lips as he flicked a glance at the doll, pretending, just for fun, that it was truly, actively watching.

Would Brahms like this?

Would he be pleased?

Would he want to see more?

The thought made something flutter in Eli’s chest, something giddy, something thrilling. He stepped into the bath, gasping softly as the hot water licked up his legs, then sank down with a long, drawn-out sigh. The heat seeped into his muscles, unraveling every bit of tension from the day.

He leaned back against the porcelain edge, arms draping lazily along the sides, his fingers trailing in the water. The candles flickered, their warm glow casting moving shadows along the walls, and Eli let his head tip to the side, gazing at the doll with playful curiosity.

“You like watching, don’t you?” he mused softly, his voice airy, sweet. The words felt like a secret. A private thing just between them.

He stretched his legs out beneath the water, his toes barely brushing the other end of the tub. The water lapped against his skin, rippling gently as he moved, and he let out a breathy little giggle. Slowly, he lifted a handful of water, letting it cascade down his chest in shimmering rivulets, before repeating the motion again and again—long, slow, deliberate.

His fingers trailed along his collarbone, dipping lower, swirling patterns against his skin as he hummed some sweet, tuneless melody. The entire time, his gaze flickered back to the doll, pretending, imagining, hoping there was more to its watchful gaze than just painted eyes and lifeless porcelain.

And behind the walls…

Brahms was trembling.

His fingers curled against the wood, nails biting into the hidden crevices as he stared, enraptured, completely and utterly captivated. The way Eli moved, the way he swayed in the water, the way his lips parted in those soft sighs of contentment—Brahms felt as though he’d been struck breathless.

He had always watched Eli bathe, of course. Always lingered in the walls, barely holding himself together as he drank in every moment of it. But this?

This was different.

Eli knew he was being watched.

And he liked it.

Brahms bit down on his lip, forcing himself to remain silent, to keep his breathing steady, to keep himself from pushing through the walls and taking what he desperately wanted. His chest heaved, his mind swam, and all he could do was watch—his body taut with restraint, his fingers twitching against the wood.

Eli continued his little show, pouring water down his shoulders, stretching languidly, running his hands down his sides in slow, absentminded strokes. Every movement felt intentional, every glance at the doll filled with unspoken invitation.

Brahms shuddered.

He’s doing this for me.

The thought sent something wild through him. He wanted to grab Eli, to pull him close, to whisper into his ear, Yes, my good boy. Keep going. Show me everything.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

For now, he simply watched, love-drunk and desperate, waiting for the moment Eli would finally, finally be his.

After a few more moments, Eli slowly reached over and lifted the doll into his arms, cradling it against his chest. He kissed its porcelain cheek softly, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulled back. The tenderness in the gesture sent a surge of warmth through Brahms, and the wall separating them felt more fragile than ever. He longed to be the one held, to be kissed by those soft, innocent lips.

But for now, he had to be patient. I will make him love me, Brahms thought, his voice trembling with a quiet desperation. I have to. I can’t lose him.

When Eli finally stood from the bath, the water slipping off his skin like droplets of memory, Brahms’ heart raced. His body ached with longing, but he stayed silent, hidden in the darkness, watching.

Eli dried off slowly, the ritual as calming and familiar as the bath itself. He pulled on his loose, soft pajamas, all the while cradling the doll in his arms like a precious treasure. He tucked it gently into the bed beside him before slipping beneath the covers. His lips brushed over the doll’s porcelain face once more as he whispered, “Goodnight, Brahms. I’ll protect you forever.”

The words hung in the air as Eli settled in, his body sinking into the warmth of the sheets, his breath evening out. His eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, everything was still. The house creaked softly around him, but Eli was content, his mind lost in the safety of sleep, the doll nestled on his chest.

But Brahms—the real Brahms—wasn’t done yet.

In the silence of the night, he emerged from the walls, his movements fluid and careful, as if testing his own restraint. He stepped into Eli’s room with quiet steps, the floorboards barely creaking under his weight. He watched Eli for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the boy's peaceful face, on the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he slept.

Brahms felt his heart swell with emotion, the overwhelming desire to touch, to connect, to reassure Eli that he wasn’t alone, that he wasn’t abandoned. He reached out with trembling fingers, brushing a lock of Eli’s dark hair from his forehead.

The warmth of Eli’s skin was like fire against Brahms’ cold touch, but he didn’t flinch. No. He reveled in the sensation, feeling every inch of it. This was where he belonged—beside Eli. This was where he had to be.

Eli stirred slightly in his sleep, a soft sigh escaping his lips, but he didn’t wake. Brahms let his fingers linger for a moment longer before gently tucking Eli’s hair behind his ear, his touch tender, almost reverent.

He’s mine, Brahms thought, his heart pounding in his chest. I won’t let anyone take him away from me. I won’t lose him.

As the minutes stretched on, Brahms simply stood there, watching Eli sleep, his chest tightening with a mix of love, longing, and fear. He had no idea what the future held, but for now, this was enough. He could feel the connection growing, and he knew, deep down, that he would do whatever it took to make Eli love him the way he needed him to.

The house was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic breathing of the two figures in the room—the boy and the doll. Brahms smiled to himself as he slipped back into the walls, the echo of his touch lingering in the air long after he was gone.

Soon, he thought. Soon, he’ll see that I’m the one he’s meant to be with.

---

The soft hush of the night blanketed the room, and the only sound was Eli’s slow, steady breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Brahms stood at the foot of the bed, just out of the light’s reach, watching Eli with an intensity that could’ve burned through stone. His heart thudded in his chest, slow and rhythmic, matching the pulse in his fingertips as he approached the boy.

Eli was completely unaware of the figure looming in the shadows, his face peaceful, his eyes shut tight, lost in his dreams. Brahms could feel the warmth emanating from him even from where he stood, the soft hum of Eli's presence sending a wave of calm through his own restless soul. Slowly, cautiously, he moved closer to the bed, his fingers trembling with the weight of what he was about to do.

With a soft exhale, Brahms gently placed a hand on Eli's head, his fingers threading through the boy’s soft hair. Eli’s head rested lightly on the pillow, his breathing unbroken, as Brahms’ touch lingered there, careful not to disturb him. He stroked the strands tenderly, his movements almost soothing, like a parent might comfort a child.

Brahms' thumb brushed gently over Eli’s scalp, each stroke a careful reassurance. His hand shifted ever so slightly, cradling Eli’s head in his palm, his thumb circling over the boy's temple. There was a part of him—deep inside—that knew how wrong it was to be so close, to touch him like this. But the part that cared, the part that longed for Eli, drowned it out as he gripped the golden locks in his hands and tugged softly at first, then with more need. Earning him a quiet groan from the sleeping boy.

This is right, Brahms told himself. He’s mine, and I’ll show him. I’ll give him the comfort he deserves.

Eli shifted slightly, a small sigh slipping from his lips as he buried his face deeper into the pillow. The movement pulled a soft chuckle from Brahms, who couldn’t help but smile at how vulnerable Eli looked, how utterly innocent and untouched by the darkness around them. He looked so perfect, so fragile, as though he were meant to be held, to be kept safe.

Brahms couldn’t resist any longer. His hand drifted down, fingers grazing lightly over Eli’s cheek, brushing against the soft skin. Eli didn’t stir, his body warm and pliable under Brahms’ careful touch. His thumb brushed over the curve of Eli’s jaw, so gently, as if he were handling the most fragile thing in the world.

“My little one,” Brahms whispered softly, though his voice barely made a sound. It was for him alone, a promise that only the walls would ever hear.

He couldn’t resist the urge to keep touching, to keep soothing. With his other hand, he gently cupped Eli’s pert ass, his thumb tracing small circles along the delicate skin that was peeking out from under Eli's soft sleep shirt. He was so close now, so close he could feel the warmth of Eli’s breath against his palm, so close that it felt like his heart might burst if he didn’t hold him. Fuck it. Hurriedly Brahms began unbuttoning his slacks. His boy had been so fucking good for him. Eli was perfect. He deserved his biggest reward yet.

It was so hard to deny himself when he had nobody there to hold him accountable. Pulling his pants down just enough to have his heavy balls and dick hang over the waist of his briefs, there really was no other option. This fantasy was just one he couldn't pass up.

Brahms began to slowly stroke his cock, conflicted to really banging an orgasm out because he was so lust filled, or savoring the experience- prolonging it as long as he could. He wished he could prolong it, but it really wasn't going to happen.

So, he let go of his dick for a moment and spat on his hand to make it a bit more slippery, and resumed stroking his cock while groping and squeezing the bouncy flesh of Eli's ass. Slow wasn't going to happen right now, with that in mind, he began to violently pump himself. Eli's skin looked so soft and inviting, and his long eyelashes made him look even more innocent. His lips were slightly parted, begging to be filled with Brahms' dick.

Brahms held back a groan, scared to wake Eli up before he could cum. If he denied Brahms when he woke, at least he was able to do this. Getting his rocks off for weeks, thinking about Eli's tight little body, had brought him to this moment. He remembered how Eli looked prancing around in fishnets and a miniskirt, that was what started this hunger.

Brahms leaned in just a fraction, bringing his face closer to Eli’s. He inhaled deeply, the scent of him—something sweet, something innocent—filling his senses. His hand lingered against Eli’s ass for a long, quiet moment before Brahms slowly, almost hesitantly, allowed his fingers to trail up the side of Eli’s thigh, then over his waist, where his hand finally rested at Eli’s peaking nipples through his shirt.

Every fiber of his being screamed for more. This simple act of comforting touch, was not enough. Brahms smiled faintly as Eli sighed once more, lost deeper in his sleep, unaware of the presence standing so close beside him.

Brahms slowly, gently, brushed his thumb back and forth along Eli’s shoulder, a soft, affectionate gesture, as though he were caressing something infinitely precious. His mind raced with thoughts—of what could be, of what he could do for Eli, of how far he would go to make sure Eli stayed here, stayed with him. He wasn’t going to lose him. He couldn’t lose him.

He came.

Huge spurts of cum shot out on Eli's peacefully sleeping face, painting him with Brahms' semen. He must have been having a great dream, because the moment Brahms' cum splattered on his eyelashes and cheeks- his mouth opened in a quiet sleepy moan.

Brahms let out another groan, because it was like Eli wanted him to shoot his cum in his mouth- so he did. I
He covered Eli's lips and tongue. He hadn't came like this since he was 17. His sweet boy was covered in his seed, with strings of it hanging from his eyelashes and gobs in his mouth, it was worth it.

While he was still asleep, all Brahms could think was that he needed to preserve this memory, just in case Eli hated him after this.

In his sleep, Eli was faced with the decision to swallow Brahms'
cum or spit it out, and while he contemplated that- Brahms soaked in the boys throat. Be pulled out just in time to look up and watch Eli swallow his cum. He then licked his lips to clean his mouth. There were still two strings hanging from his eyelashes, and Brahms didn't think he knew what to do about that. To help (at least that's what he was telling himself), Brahms swiped the cum that was hanging and the rest of it from Eli's face, and fed it to him. He sucked Brahms' two fingers slightly and after a few moments, Brahms pulled them from Eli's sweet little mouth. When his mouth was free, he gave Brahms a little pout- as if upset that he was without any touch.

This pleased Brahms and gave him hope. Maybe this wasn't the end.

Slowly, the warmth of the moment settled in, and Brahms allowed himself to feel a strange peace, despite the swirling chaos in his mind. His fingers stilled at his side, not wanting to move, not wanting to break the delicate tranquility.

After what felt like an eternity, Brahms finally pulled away just enough to look down at Eli, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. He dressed as his eyes softened with affection, his lips curling into a subtle, almost tender smile. Soon, he thought. Soon, I will take him completely.

For now, though, Brahms let the boy sleep, his hand lingering just a little longer on his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin. He whispered again, his voice barely more than a breath against the stillness of the room.

“Sleep, my love. I’ll protect you.”

With a final, lingering glance, Brahms slowly retreated into the shadows, slipping back into the walls with a quiet, almost mournful sigh. But even in the darkness, he didn’t feel alone. Because Eli—his little one—was still there, still within his reach, still just a breath away. And Brahms knew, deep in his heart, that no matter what happened, he would never let Eli go.

He would wait. Wait for Eli to see. Wait for Eli to understand that he was meant to be with him, and that Brahms would do whatever it took to make it happen.

I won’t lose him, Brahms promised again, as he melted into the walls, waiting for the next time Eli would need him.

Chapter Text

Eli stirred, a soft sigh slipping from his lips as he blinked himself awake. The morning light filtered through the curtains, warm and golden, casting a soft glow over the room. He stretched lazily, feeling the cool air against his skin—

Wait.

Something was… off.

His fingers brushed against his cheek, and immediately, he paused. His skin was sticky. Slightly wet. Something had dried onto him.

He frowned, still heavy with sleep, and brought his hand to his face—only to feel something thick and still creamy smear between his fingers. A soft gasp left his lips, and his other hand shot to his chest, his arms, his neck—all of it.

Covered in the same dried sticky substance.

Sticky streaks of something pale and musky clung to his skin, dotting his nightshirt, pooling faintly along the dip of his collarbone.

His tongue darted out instinctively, catching a bit of the mess at the corner of his lips. The taste was unmistakable.

Eli felt heat rising through him.

His brows furrowed. His mind was still sluggish with sleep, but the confusion was quickly beginning to seep in. He hadn’t… he didn’t remember… Was it his own?

His eyes flickered to the doll.

Sitting upright on his pillow. Watching. Silent.

His heart gave a little flutter.

“Brahms…?” His voice was soft, still hoarse from sleep, but there was no fear in it. Just curiosity. Gentle wonder.

He sat up slowly, wiping at the sticky cream on his chest, licking some absently from his fingers. The taste was rich, sour, musky, like the smell of the manor itself.

Had Brahms… painted him in his sleep?

A flush crept up Eli’s neck at the thought. His eyes flickered toward the walls, toward the shadows he knew were watching.

He swallowed.

“Did you… give me a treat?” he asked innocently, voice barely above a whisper.

No response.

But the walls felt different.

Like they were holding their breath.

Eli glanced down at himself again, swiping another dollop of cum from his throat and slipping it between his lips. His cheeks burned at the sheer intimacy of it.

Brahms had done this.

Fed him his cum. Cared for him through the night.

And if Eli had slept through it…

His body must have been so compliant, so trusting, so good for Brahms to have his way.

The thought made his stomach flip.

Slowly, deliberately, he scooped a bit more of the now crusty from his skin and sucked his fingers clean, letting his lashes flutter just so.

“…Thank you,” he murmured, voice saccharine, knowing, an invitation as much as it was genuine gratitude.

And behind the walls—

Brahms shuddered. He felt ready to blow another load all over Eli's pretty face all over again.

---

Eli hummed softly as he moved through the kitchen, the gentle morning light pooling around him. His hands worked methodically, expertly, cracking eggs, whisking batter, measuring out just the right amount of sugar.

The scent of vanilla and warm butter filled the air, mixing with the faint aroma of freshly brewed tea he had prepared alongside it. The waffles sizzled in the iron, crisping to a golden perfection.

This was a gift.

A thank you.

For his Brahms.

A sweet giggle bubbled up in his chest as he carefully stacked the waffles on a plate, drizzling them with syrup—leaving room for his special treat—and a handful of berries from the garden. The house was silent except for the occasional creaks in the walls. Listening.

Eli wasn’t sure if Brahms could actually eat. He was a spirit, wasn’t he? But… maybe he could taste through the doll. Maybe he could feel Eli’s appreciation.

Either way, it was only for him.

And Greta and Cole wouldn’t get a single bite.

He slipped through the halls unnoticed, carefully balancing the plate and a steaming cup of tea. His bare feet padded softly up the stairs, down the corridor, to Brahms’ room.

The air felt heavier here. Still.

With great care, Eli pushed open the door and stepped inside. The doll sat waiting on the bed, right where he had left it.

He smiled.

“I made you something,” he murmured, crossing the room and setting the plate and tea on the nightstand beside the doll.

For a moment, he simply stood there, watching the doll’s lifeless face, his hands clasped neatly in front of him. His head tilted slightly, considering.

Then, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to its forehead.

“There,” he whispered, like a child sharing a secret. “A good breakfast for a good boy. But first, let me add the finishing touch!” Eli giggled.

---

Eli let out a sharp breath, pushing his damp hair from his forehead as he leaned over the bed aiming his pulsing cock over the still steamy plate of waffles he made for Brahms, arms trembling from the effort. His wrists ached, his fingers sticky with precum, but he didn’t stop.

The grip of his hand cut through the blood rush to his tip in smooth, practiced strokes, the rhythm steady despite the growing burn in his muscles. He had been at this for so long, had already spurted out two loads—but it had to be perfect. Two measly cumshots wouldn’t do. He refused to cut corners.

Brahms deserved better.

The room was warm, the scent of fresh vanilla and Eli's sweat clinging to the air, mixing with the faintest hint of butter from the waffles cooling on the plate. Eli could already picture it—fluffy, golden waffles stacked high, smothered in the richest, silkiest cream he could make. His cream.

He let out a soft whimper, shaking out his wrist as he stole a glance at the plate. The cum had thickened beautifully as it cooled, smooth and velvety, just the way he wanted. But he wasn’t done. Not yet.

His arms trembled as he picked up his dick again, biting his lip. Just a little more. Just until it was perfect.

Sweat clung to the nape of his neck, his oversized shirt sticking to his back as he forced himself through the final motions, breath coming in shallow pants. He felt spent, exhausted down to his bones, but there was a warmth in his chest that kept him going.

Because this wasn’t just for anyone.

This was for Brahms.

Eli panted, his breath shaky as he fisted his weeping cock, rubbing himself raw as he desperately fucked his slim hand, sweat dotting his brow. His arms burned, his wrists ached, but he wouldn’t stop—not when he was so close.

“Gotta—hah—gotta make it perfect,” he murmured, licking his lips, his fingers trembling as he tightened his grip. “Brahms, you deserve the best. Only the best.”

He let out a soft, breathless moan, his voice airy, giddy from exhaustion. His muscles screamed at him to stop, but he couldn’t—not yet. Not until it was thick, not until it was smooth, not until it was perfect.

He whined under his breath, rocking on his heels as he jerked harder, his body swaying with the motion. “C’mon, c’mon, just a little more… I can do it, I can be good—so good for you—”

His voice dropped to a whisper, eyes hazy as he stared at the precum trickling down his hand. “You’ll like it. I know you will. You’ll be so happy, and—”

A small, high-pitched moan bubbled from his lips, the exhaustion making his thoughts light, dreamy. His lashes fluttered as he panted through his grin.

“I’ll be such a good boy for you.” He screeched as he exploded with cum for the third time just this morning. The orgasm sent a shiver down his spine. Brahms would love this. Would love him.

The thought alone was enough to send another wave of pleasure through him. His arms were shaking, his breath ragged, but he pushed through.

Anything for Brahms.

Anything to be his.

He let out a breathless moan, cheeks flushed as he finally—finally—let his poor spent dick go, admiring his work. The cum was thick, glossy, and perfectly sweet.

With a tired but satisfied hum, Eli scooped up a bit with his finger, pressing it to his lips and sighing as the rich, sweaty flavor melted on his tongue.

Yes. This was good.

This was love.

And soon, Brahms would taste it too.

And behind the walls—Brahms burned.

Brahms was going to lose his mind.

He was already gripping the wooden beams of his hiding place so hard that splinters drove into his palms, but he barely felt them. All he could see—all he could think about—was Eli.

Sweaty, breathless, panting Eli.

His arms trembling, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted just enough to let out those soft, breathy little whines as he pushed himself to exhaustion—for him.

Brahms' breath hitched. His whole body tensed, a hot, heady shudder wracking through him. He pressed his forehead against the wall, biting down on a groan as he watched Eli fight through his fatigue, his voice breaking into those needy little murmurs.

"Gotta make it perfect... You’ll be so happy... I’ll be such a good boy for you."

Brahms clutched at his chest, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, his heart hammering so wildly he swore it might burst. His throat tightened, his vision blurred at the edges. He felt sick with it—dizzy, feverish, absolutely drowning in the sight of Eli pushing himself to the edge just to please him.

He wanted to crawl out of the walls, shove Eli against the mattress, lick the sweat from his flushed skin and whisper, You already are, love, you’re already my good boy.

He had never needed someone like this before.

The way Eli rocked on his heels, his exhausted little giggles, the way he whined for him—for him—had Brahms gripping his own arms, digging his nails in hard enough to leave crescent moons behind. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

He wanted to ruin him.

He wanted to cherish him.

He wanted to take him.

Brahms wanted to fuck him.

But most of all—he wanted Eli to be his.

Forever.

They still had lessons and chores to do, so as Eli collected himself and left the room with the doll, Brahms silently crept into the room to have the sinful breakfast while it was hot.

Brahms had never tasted anything so fucking delicious.

The moment the first bite hit his tongue, he let out a low, guttural sound—half a moan, half a growl—his whole body shuddering as the sweetness melted over his tongue. Eli's fresh, thick cum clung to the waffle, dripping just slightly at the edges, a velvety contrast to the crisp golden crust Eli had worked himself to exhaustion to make.

He swallowed, his breath hitching. His fingers twitched around the fork. His whole body felt hot.

It wasn’t just the taste. It was him.

The image of Eli—panting, flushed, sweating—pushing himself to the brink just to make this for him, just to be a good boy for him. The way he had murmured to himself between shaky breaths, spurring himself on, whispering Brahms will love this… I have to make it perfect for him…

And now—now Brahms had it.

He licked at a dollop of his boy's cum on his thumb, slow and indulgent, savoring the rich, airy sweetness. The thought that Eli had wanked so hard for him had his own dick throbbing, his stomach twisting in something deeper than hunger.

"Made just for me," Brahms whispered, his voice husky, thick with something dark and needy.

His tongue darted out again, swiping at another stray smear of the addictive cum, and he groaned, his eyes fluttering shut. His grip on the plate tightened. His breathing came a little heavier, a little rougher.

Eli’s devotion tasted so good.

And soon—soon—he would taste him too.

Meanwhile, Eli carried himself with practiced ease, moving through the day as though nothing had changed.

As though he hadn’t woken up covered in Brahms’ gift.

As though he hadn’t willingly fed the ghost of the house with devotion that no one else deserved.

Poetry was first. He read aloud, his voice soft and melodic as he recited from the well-worn pages of a dusty book. The words felt more meaningful today, laced with a kind of quiet reverence.

Then came chores. He moved through them with ease, sweeping, dusting, polishing—his movements slow and deliberate.

He didn’t speak much.

Didn’t need to.

Because Greta and Cole were watching.

Or rather—watching him.

Their presence was like a ripple in the otherwise smooth surface of his routine. The way they hesitated before walking past him, how their eyes darted away the second he looked up, the stiffness in their shoulders when he moved too close.

They were scared.

They thought he had done it.

The sounds in the walls. The chaos of the night before.

They thought it was him.

Eli smiled to himself, hiding his amusement behind a sip of tea.

Greta was the first to crack.

“Eli,” she said, forcing a strained casualness into her tone. “The, uh… the noises last night…”

Eli didn’t look up from his book.

“Mmm?”

She hesitated, glancing at Cole, who was slouched stiffly in his chair, arms crossed. He hadn’t spoken a word all morning, but his eyes were constantly flicking toward the walls.

Greta cleared her throat. “Do you… know what’s going on?”

Eli finally lifted his gaze, staring at her with wide, innocent eyes.

“Oh,” he said softly, voice light, sing-songy. “That was just Brahms.”

A silence fell over the room.

Cole’s fingers flexed against his arms. Greta’s breath hitched.

Eli tilted his head, smiling sweetly.

“He’s going to punish you for breaking the rules.”

A beat.

Then he went right back to reading.

Like nothing had happened.

Like he wasn’t fully aware of the way their blood ran cold.

Like he couldn’t hear the way Cole’s throat bobbed with a heavy swallow, or how Greta’s fingers curled tightly against the edge of the table.

They didn’t respond.

Didn’t dare.

And Eli, pleased, simply continued his day, waiting for Brahms to show himself at last.

The record player crackled to life.

Eli sat cross-legged on the floor of Brahms’ bedroom, his fingers idly twisting the hem of his oversized sweater as music filled the space.

The song was modern, smooth yet electric, the kind of melody that made his heart hum in his chest. The lyrics curled into the air like smoke, sinking into his skin.

Eli swayed gently, letting the words soak into his bones, his voice barely above a whisper as he echoed the chorus.

The doll sat beside him, pristine as ever, its painted eyes gazing forward, but Eli knew better.

Brahms was listening.

He always was.

Something about that knowledge sent a shiver down his spine, but it wasn’t fear.

Not anymore.

His hands moved absentmindedly, skimming over the floor—until his fingers brushed against something. A thin slip of paper, folded neatly.

Eli blinked.

He hadn’t seen it there before.

Heart pounding, he picked it up, unfolding it with careful fingers. The handwriting was beautiful, looping and elegant, each stroke deliberate.

His breath caught as he read.

Eli,

You hear me, don’t you?

You feel me. You know me.

I have watched you. I have listened. And I have waited. You are not like them. You do not mock what you don’t understand. You do not fear what you should. You do not run.

You stay.

And you are beautiful for it.

I want you.

Not in the way they do. Not for what they can take from you, not for what they can mold you into. I want you as you are. Soft, strange, wild and free. I do not want to change you, Eli.

I only want you to be mine.

But I am afraid.

I have hidden myself for so long. And I have been cruel, haven’t I? Playing at something stronger than I am. Pretending I am made of stone, that I do not feel the way my chest aches when I watch you care for me.

I am not a ghost, Eli.

And I wonder—will you still want me when you know the truth?

But even if you don’t…

I will never let them have you.

You are mine.

Eli’s vision blurred.

His hands trembled as he clutched the paper, his breath unsteady.

It was too much.

Too much.

No one had ever—never—said words like this to him before.

Everyone wanted something from him. Everyone wanted him to be better, to be normal, to be something he wasn’t.

Greta and Cole tolerated him at best, insulted him at worst.

His parents—his real parents—had given up on him long before he had even learned what it meant to exist.

But this…

This was different.

This was someone seeing him.

Wanting him.

Just as he was.

He swallowed thickly, the weight of those words pressing into his ribs, curling tight around his lungs.

His fingers traced over the ink, over the careful slant of the letters.

Brahms was real.

He was here.

And he wanted Eli.

A shaky laugh slipped past Eli’s lips, breathless and overwhelmed. He bit down on it, burying his face into his knees as a sudden, foreign warmth spread through his chest.

For the first time, hope didn’t feel like a lie.

Maybe—just maybe—he could escape.

Maybe he could finally be free.

And maybe…

Maybe he wouldn’t have to do it alone.

Eli’s breath hitched. His chest felt too full, his ribs straining to hold the flood of emotions crashing into him all at once.

His fingers tightened around the letter, the inked words burning into his skin, into his mind.

"I only want you to be mine."

His throat bobbed. A laugh—breathless, almost hysterical—slipped out between shaky lips, but it broke into a quiet sob.

Brahms wanted him. Not to fix him, not to change him. Not to use him or toss him aside when he became too much.

Just him.

As he was.

Eli let out a trembling gasp and lunged forward, tackling the doll in a desperate, clumsy embrace.

It tipped back slightly in his grip, stiff against his chest, but Eli only held tighter, burying his face into its porcelain hair.

His breath came in sharp little hiccups, but he smiled through the tears, pressing his lips against the cool surface of its forehead.

“I’ll wait,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Brahms, I’ll wait for you.”

His arms squeezed around the doll, his fingers fisting into its clothes like it would disappear if he let go.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he murmured, rocking just a little, the way he might soothe a crying child. “I won’t run. I won’t be like them.”

His voice softened, thick with raw, unfiltered emotion.

“You can show me when you're ready,” he swore. “Even if it takes forever. I’ll wait.”

The room was silent except for his quiet sniffles, his hands still trembling as he cradled the doll, as if his warmth alone could reach the truth lurking behind its glassy stare.

But deep in the walls, Brahms was listening.

And his hands—clawed and unsteady—pressed against the wooden panels, his entire body trembling from where he hid.

Eli’s words…

They broke something in him.

Or maybe, they fixed something.

No one had ever—ever—promised to wait for him.

No one had ever wanted him without fear. Without disgust.

Eli would wait.

Even if it took forever.

Brahms’ breath came ragged, his vision hazy, his body aching with something unbearable.

Eli would stay.

Eli was his.

And one day—one day soon—Brahms would step from the shadows and take him.

Chapter Text

The afternoon light filtered weakly through the high windows of the manor, casting long shadows across the aged wooden floors. The air was thick with dust and the scent of ink from Eli’s open books. He sat at the worn dining table, carefully writing out poetry in looping, delicate script, while Greta paced behind him, arms crossed tight.

Her tone was clipped, businesslike. “We need to start packing.”

Eli didn’t react, his hand steady as he finished a line of poetry, the words curling on the page.

Greta huffed. “Eli, did you hear me? We leave on Friday.”

His fingers twitched slightly around the quill.

Friday.

A date. A deadline.

Too soon.

His stomach twisted, but he didn’t look up. He just nodded once, stiffly.

Cole wasn’t so patient. He was already stomping up the stairs, grumbling under his breath. “Kid’s got too much shit anyway. Bet half of it’s junk.”

Eli’s blood ran cold.

His things.

His room.

Brahms’ gifts.

His heart pounded as he snapped his book shut and pushed back from the table, chair scraping loudly against the floor. He had to—

But before he could move, a low, heavy thud came from the walls.

Greta stiffened.

Another thud. Closer this time. Like something massive shifting just out of sight.

Eli didn’t react. He simply smoothed his shirt and turned back to his work, feigning disinterest as a small, satisfied smile ghosted over his lips.

Let Brahms handle it.

Upstairs, Cole flung open the wardrobe doors, rolling his eyes as he yanked clothes off their hangers and tossed them into an open suitcase. “God, what even is all this fancy shit?” He held up one of Eli’s lace-trimmed nightshirts with two fingers, wrinkling his nose. “Seriously? You dress like a Victorian baby—”

Then he saw it.

A pile of delicate, silky garments, crumpled in the corner, stiff with dried stains.

Cole froze, his face twisting in disgust.

“Jesus Christ, Eli—” He flung them back like they’d burned him, shaking his hands as if to rid himself of whatever filth he imagined had transferred. “You seriously don’t wash your shit?”

His voice echoed down the halls, carrying down to the dining room where Greta stood with arms crossed, unimpressed.

“What?” she called.

Cole gagged. “His underwear’s got cum stains.”

Greta’s face twisted. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Eli only smiled.

Because he knew.

Cole had no idea what he was holding.

No idea that those were gifts. That each stain, each mark, was something left just for him.

And in the walls—

Brahms knew too.

The scratching started first. Long, slow drags of jagged nails against wood, crawling along the walls.

Then—

BANG.

The entire wardrobe slammed shut, rattling violently against its hinges.

Cole jerked back, hands up. “What the fuck—”

Another bang. Louder.

Then a sudden, deep, guttural sound—like something moaning through the pipes, but worse. Something wrong.

Something angry.

Cole stumbled back, knocking into the bed frame. “Fucking hell.”

Downstairs, Greta paled, her arms lowering just slightly. The noise reverberated through the manor, making the chandeliers tremble.

Eli hummed softly, flipping to the next page in his book, calm as ever.

“Eli,” Greta snapped, voice thin. “What the hell is that?”

He dipped his quill into the inkwell, not looking up.

“Brahms.”

She scoffed, but it was weaker this time, less sure. “The doll?”

“The real Brahms.”

Another thud from the walls.

A long, slow scrape.

Eli let the silence linger just enough before turning his head, finally meeting her gaze. His lips curled in a soft, knowing smile.

“He’s going to punish you,” he said simply. “For breaking the rules.”

A rush of cold ran up Greta’s spine, her hands clenching at her sides.

Cole practically flew down the stairs, face pale. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

Greta swallowed hard, pushing down the unease clawing at her ribs.

She forced her expression into something firm, something in control.

“No,” she snapped. “We’re leaving Friday. That’s final.”

She turned back to Eli, eyes narrowing.

“No arguments.”

Eli only tilted his head, smiling just a little wider.

“Okay.”

His voice was syrupy sweet, obedient.

But his eyes—

His eyes said Brahms wasn’t going to let that happen.

Greta's patience was wearing thin. She stood in the middle of the dining room, arms crossed so tightly that her nails dug into her own skin. Cole was still pacing behind her, muttering curses under his breath, looking at Eli like he was some kind of freak.

But Eli wasn’t listening.

He wasn’t acknowledging them at all.

Instead, he was holding the Brahms doll close to his chest, cradling it like something fragile, something precious. His fingers gently traced over its porcelain face, over the cracks and worn edges, as if to soothe him instead of the other way around.

“We’re not debating this, Eli,” Greta snapped, trying to regain control. “You have to pack your things.”

Eli didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

He simply pressed a lingering kiss to the doll’s forehead and turned on his heel, carrying Brahms into the parlor where the next part of their routine was meant to begin.

Greta growled in frustration and followed him, grabbing at his arm. “Eli—”

He ripped away from her, whirling on her with fire in his eyes.

“I said I’m busy.”

It wasn’t a shout, but it was sharp.

It was final.

Cole tensed, and for the first time, Greta hesitated.

Something in Eli’s tone—his expression—sent a small flicker of unease crawling up her spine.

This wasn’t the timid, naïve boy she had manipulated before.

Eli wasn’t obeying anymore.

She inhaled sharply, forcing herself to push past it. “You don’t have a choice, Eli. We’re leaving—”

“I do have a choice.”

His voice was quiet but firm, and it stopped her cold.

Eli smoothed a hand over the doll’s hair, gaze dropping to it lovingly.

“I’m not leaving,” he murmured. “Brahms needs me.”

Greta scoffed, exasperated. “You’re talking like he’s real.”

Eli’s head snapped up, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Greta regretted the words the second she said them.

Because in that moment—

The chandelier shook.

The windows rattled.

A deep, shuddering thud rumbled through the walls, closer than before.

Greta and Cole both froze, eyes darting around the room.

The pipes groaned low and guttural, like something breathing.

Eli only smiled.

A knowing, dangerous smile.

He turned away from them again, gently rocking the doll in his arms as he moved toward the bookshelf. He plucked out a thick poetry book and carried it to the grand sitting chair, curling up with Brahms like nothing was wrong.

Like he was immune to the growing terror closing in around Greta and Cole.

“You should pack your own things,” Eli said absently as he flipped through the pages. “You’re the ones who have to leave.”

Greta’s hands clenched into fists.

“Eli—”

“I’m busy.”

Final.

Dismissive.

Greta was losing him.

Cole glanced at her, expression tight, but neither of them knew what to say.

Because the air was changing.

Because the manor no longer felt safe.

And Eli—

Eli was perfectly content in Brahms’ embrace.

---

The bathroom was warm, filled with the comforting scent of lavender and chamomile as Eli poured a generous amount of bath oil into the water. The surface rippled as he stepped in, steam curling around his flushed skin. He shivered at the contrast, sinking down until the water kissed his collarbones.

And there—just as always—sat the Brahms doll on the tub’s edge, watching him.

Eli bit his lip, his fingers trailing lazily through the water. His heart thudded, heavier than it should have. He knew, knew there were eyes beyond the doll’s. Somewhere in the walls, beyond the cracks and hollow spaces, Brahms was watching.

He wanted him to watch.

Eli tilted his head back, sighing contentedly, letting the water lap over his chest, his stomach. He stretched his legs out languidly, his toes curling against the far end of the tub. Every movement was slow, teasing in a way that wasn’t entirely intentional—but wasn’t entirely innocent either.

His fingers ghosted over his arms, down his ribs, a featherlight touch as if tracing over his own form the way he wished someone else would. His cheeks burned at the thought, and he swallowed, flicking a shy glance at the doll.

“Brahms,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “do you like watching me?”

The doll, of course, said nothing.

But deep in the walls—someone was breathing heavier.

Eli’s stomach fluttered, warmth pooling deep in his chest. He let out a giggle, pressing his damp hands to his face. He shouldn’t be acting like this, but—God, it was thrilling. The idea that Brahms was there, unseen but so close, watching him the way Eli had always longed to be seen.

Not mocked. Not controlled. Just wanted.

He let himself soak a little longer, fingers wrinkling, before finally stepping out and wrapping a soft towel around himself. He dried off slowly, methodically, casting quick glances at the doll, wondering—hoping—if the real Brahms was struggling to control himself in the walls.

Eli hummed to himself as he slipped into his nightclothes—delicate, lacy, the kind of soft fabric that made his skin tingle. He wanted Brahms to ache for him, to see him as something worth treasuring, worth keeping.

With the doll clutched to his chest, he padded into his bedroom, the air cool against his skin. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. He curled up beneath the thick blankets, pulling them high, and reached for the books he had set aside earlier.

Two stories—one classic, one poetry. Just like always.

His voice was gentle as he read, each word soothing, his fingers idly stroking the doll’s porcelain cheek between pages. He imagined the real Brahms listening intently from his hidden spaces, drinking in every sound Eli made.

As the second book came to an end, Eli yawned, his body sinking deeper into the mattress. His arms tightened around the doll, his lips brushing against its cool, painted lips in a soft, proper kiss.

“Goodnight, Brahms,” he whispered, his breath warm against the porcelain.

He could barely keep his eyes open, his body relaxed, utterly at peace—

And then—

A voice.

Soft. Rough. Real.

"Soon."

Eli’s breath hitched, his eyes flying open, heart slamming against his ribs.

The room was still. The fire flickered.

But the voice—deep and low, dripping with promise—lingered in the air, curling around him like a phantom touch.

A shiver ran down his spine, but not from fear.

Never fear.

He clutched the doll tighter, lips parting. His voice was barely a whisper.

“Okay.”

Then, with a smile tugging at his lips, Eli let sleep take him.

The room was quiet, save for the gentle crackling of the fire and the slow, steady rhythm of Eli’s breathing. The soft glow bathed his face in golden light, his lashes casting delicate shadows on his cheeks. He looked peaceful, untouched by the weight of the world that so often pressed down on him during the day.

Brahms watched from the darkness.

The hidden panel had been nudged open just enough for him to slip through. Silent as a ghost, he crept toward the bed, his breath hitching as he got closer.

Eli smelled warm—like chamomile and the lingering sweetness of the bath oil he’d used earlier. Brahms swallowed hard, his fingers twitching. He had told himself he’d only watch, only look. But now that he was here, standing over Eli’s sleeping form, his resolve was crumbling.

He needed to touch.

Just a little. Just enough to satisfy the gnawing hunger inside him.

Brahms reached out, fingers brushing against the soft waves of Eli’s hair. He was so warm—so impossibly soft. His hand moved slowly, stroking gently down to Eli’s temple, then to his cheek.

A tiny sound escaped from Eli’s lips, a barely-there sigh as he shifted slightly in his sleep. Brahms froze, his breath catching. But Eli only nuzzled deeper into his pillow, his lips parting ever so slightly.

Brahms exhaled shakily, his whole body tensed with restraint.

This—this—was what he had always wanted.

His fingers traced down Eli’s arm, skimming over his skin, feeling the slight goosebumps rise under his touch. Brahms shuddered, biting his lip.

He’s mine. He’s staying.

The thought burned in his chest, and suddenly, the need inside him sharpened into something unbearable. His breath quickened.

Eli had made a show for him in the bath. Teasing him, tempting him, making him watch.

He had been so bold.

Brahms had suffered through it, barely able to contain himself in the walls. But now? Now he had Eli, warm and close, with no walls to separate them.

His hands trembled as he reached for the waistband of his pants, already feeling the heat pooling in his stomach, the overwhelming need making him lightheaded.

He told himself he would be quiet.

Eli deserved another gift, didn’t he?

Brahms let out a low, shaky breath as he started, his body tense, his eyes never leaving Eli’s sleeping face. His heart pounded as he stroked himself through his pants, the firelight flickering against the walls, illuminating the sheen of sweat on his skin.

He had to be careful. He had to be quiet.

But God, it was hard when Eli was right there—when he was clutching the doll so sweetly, when his lips were so soft and kissable, when his breath was warm and steady, completely unaware of what Brahms was doing just inches away.

His body trembled, his fingers tightening, his breath coming in short, stifled gasps.

Eli murmured something in his sleep, shifting slightly, and Brahms nearly lost himself right then and there.

His good boy. His perfect boy.

The pleasure curled tight in his stomach, and Brahms bit his hand to stifle the groan threatening to escape. His other hand moved faster, desperate, needy, his entire body shaking with the force of it.

Eli belonged to him.

No one else.

And he would never let him go.

Brahms carefully slipped off his suspenders as he unbuckled his pants, sliding them off his hips just a touch to get more comfortable as he tugged his erection free from the confines of his briefs, the cool air of the room brushing against his skin.

His chest heaving as he carefully jerked himself over Eli's face as he'd seen the boy do yesterday morning. The room was dim, the soft glow from the fireplace casting long shadows across the floor. The scent of his lust was thickening in the air around them nicely, just the way he liked it—sweet, musky, and rich, like a treat to comfort his boy. Brahms had watched Eli carefully the day before, noting the joy the boy had felt when he saw that Brahms had eaten all of the waffles covered in his cum. He had wanted to return the favor again.

The room smelled of vanilla and sex, and Brahms inhaled deeply, feeling his pulse still racing from the earlier excitement. He had been so close, so near to Eli, but his need had been pushed down for now. He focused on the task at hand, trying to remain calm as he pumped his dick. It was so much easier for Eli to accept things when he was sleeping—when it was simple, like this.

The porcelain mask sat cold and emotionless on Brahms' face, a stark contrast to the warmth of his body. His hands were trembling, not from anxiety, but from something else—something deeper, something unspoken that stirred within him every time he did something for Eli.

As his cock pulsed, the soft sound of Eli shifting in bed reached Brahms’ ears. His heart skipped a beat, and he froze, his attention snapping to the figure still curled up under the covers. Eli had started to stir, his breath deep and slow, still caught in the haze of sleep. Brahms silently gripped his dick and began feverishly stroking himself to finish, making sure it was quiet as to not wake Eli.

Still, Eli’s eyes fluttered open slowly, his heavy lids still weighed down by sleep. His lips parted in a small yawn, and Brahms watched with bated breath and an engorged bright red dick as the boy’s drowsy gaze locked onto him. Eli squinted slightly, his sleepy eyes tracking the precum leaking cock in Brahms’ hand. There was a moment of silent recognition as Eli's gaze flicked up to the tall, broad figure before him. Despite the mask covering Brahms' face, Eli didn’t hesitate—he knew who this was, even in his foggy state.

Brahms felt the familiar ache in his chest, the one that surged when Eli accepted him—when Eli wanted him. The figure before him, muscle-bound and towering, stood over Eli with the porcelain face still emotionless, a silent guardian of sorts, offering the creamy tip to him.

Eli opened his mouth slightly, still drowsy but instinctively craving him. His eyes were half-lidded, sleepy and soft as he looked up at Brahms with quiet trust. "Cum?" he mumbled softly, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to ask, his voice thick with sleep.

Brahms smiled, the mask hiding any true expression, but his heart swelled with warmth. He reached forward carefully, one hand craddling Eli's head as the other brought his cock to brush right up against Eli's lips and gently offering the wet tip to him.

"Yes, Eli," Brahms whispered softly, his voice low and tender. "Just like you did for me."

Eli lazily reached up with a small hand, tightly gripping Brahms' cock and jerking it a couple times before bringing it back to his lips. He kitten licked the tip, his eyes fluttering closed briefly, savoring the sour, silky texture. It was perfect—just like he had imagined. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he wrapped his mouth around the weeping cock, content.

Brahms stood there, his hands shaking slightly as he watched Eli suck him, his heart pounding in his chest. He stood at the edge of the bed, trying to hold himself back from bursting right then and choking the boy, unable to tear his eyes away. Eli’s soft breathing as he bobbed his head to take Brahms deeper was soothing to him, grounding him in the moment. He wanted so much more—more than just a fleeting blowjob, more than just a simple gesture.

But he was patient.

He could wait.

Brahms came in a shuddering river. Soft waves of his tangy, musky cream flowing over Eli's hungry tongue as he swallowed it all down.

As Eli slowly finished the last of the cum, Brahms gently reached out to stroke his hair. His fingers skimmed over Eli's soft strands, moving with such care that it felt like a tender caress. Eli’s eyelids fluttered again, but this time they stayed shut, his face softening as he leaned into the touch, unconsciously seeking the comfort Brahms was giving him while his dick retreated to his pants.

"Goodnight, Eli," Brahms whispered, his voice barely audible. He leaned over and, with a careful and slow motion, placed a soft porcelain kiss on the top of Eli’s head before stepping back.

Eli, still caught in the sleep-induced haze, didn’t stir. He let out a small sigh, his body going slack as he drifted back to sleep, the peace of the moment wrapping around him like a warm blanket.

Brahms, heart swelling with longing, slowly retreated into the walls, his hands still trembling from the closeness. He watched Eli from behind the hidden panels, his eyes never leaving the boy as he fell back into the comfort of his dreams.

Soon, Brahms thought, his voice a soft whisper to the silent darkness. Soon, my good boy. Soon, you’ll understand.

And with that, he waited, knowing that one day—one day—he would have the boy completely.

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered weakly through the curtains, casting muted light across the room. The silence felt unnatural, like the calm before a storm. Eli stood by the window, staring out over the sprawling mansion grounds, his mind a whirlwind. Today was the day they were supposed to leave. Greta and Cole had been on edge all week, a palpable tension in the air that had only grown since the night before. The events of the past few days had made Eli realize something—something fundamental. He didn’t need them anymore. He wouldn’t let them control him, not after everything that had happened.

Yet, as he stood there, his breath slow, steady, something gnawed at him. He could feel it in the air—an oppressive weight that hung between them all. Something was about to break.

Downstairs, the sounds of clinking dishes and muffled voices reached Eli’s ears. He took a deep breath and turned away from the window, steeling himself for what was to come. He didn’t need to be told again that they were leaving. He knew. What mattered now was that they wouldn’t be taking him with them.

As Eli made his way downstairs, Greta was at the counter, pouring herself a glass of wine, her eyes flicking up when she saw him. The air was thick with unspoken words. She knew—she knew Eli was no longer the same boy he once was, that his dependence on her and Cole had slipped away like sand through her fingers.

“Eli,” Greta’s voice was cold, but there was a calculating softness to it, designed to worm its way under his skin. “You know what you really need. Don’t you? You’ve been getting too comfortable here, acting like you’ve got a choice. But you’re better than all that. You’re not meant for this.” She stepped closer, her eyes sharp with intent, looking him up and down like he was some kind of project to fix. “You’ve changed, sure. But not for the better. You’ve gotten weak, distracted. I see it. I’ve been patient. But you don’t need this life. You don’t need this mess. You don’t need the doll.” Her smile was thin, a dangerous curve on her lips as she let the words hang in the air, her gaze never leaving him, sultry and predatory.

Eli swallowed, feeling a wave of discomfort roll over him. There was something in her tone—something far too familiar, far too manipulative. He clenched his fists at his sides, resisting the urge to lash out.

“I’m not going back with you, Greta,” Eli said quietly, his voice steady but firm. “I don’t need you. I’m staying here.” He met her gaze, refusing to back down.

She took a slow step toward him, her lips curling into a smile that made his skin crawl. “You really think you’re better off here, alone with that thing?” Her voice dipped into venom, the smile fading into a thin-lipped sneer. “We're your only real family, Eli. You’re nothing without me and Cole.”

The words struck deep, a jolt of doubt ringing through him for a split second. But he held firm. He was better off. And no matter what she said, he knew this wasn’t about family. This was about control. She always wanted control.

Before Eli could respond, Cole walked in, his heavy footsteps making the wooden floor creak. His face was hard, eyes dark with an angry fire that was impossible to ignore. “She’s right, you know. You can’t live like this. Not with this.” He jabbed a thumb toward the doll as if Brahms were some force to be reckoned with, not realizing he was here, always watching.

Eli stood up straighter, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He had been waiting for this. He could sense the tension bubbling, ready to erupt. Cole’s fists were clenched by his sides. The man was furious—furious at the idea of losing control over Eli, of losing him to this place, to the life he was building here.

“You’re nothing but a freak, you hear me?” Cole snarled, taking a step toward Eli. “You think you’ve got it all figured out? You think you can just run away from us? We’re your family, not some doll.” His hand shot out, grabbing Eli’s shoulder, shaking him roughly. “You belong with us, Eli! You’re ours.”

Eli recoiled, his heart hammering in his chest, but instead of cowering, something inside him snapped. He had been letting them push him around for far too long, and now that he was finally finding the strength to stand his ground, he wasn’t going to let them take that away. He shoved Cole’s hand off his shoulder, his breath coming quicker now.

“I’m not yours. I belong to Brahms,” Eli spat, his voice full of fire and conviction. “I’ve had enough of you two telling me what to do. I’m not your puppet, and I won’t ever be again.”

Greta’s eyes flashed with an unreadable emotion, but it wasn’t the look of a mother. It wasn’t the look of someone who cared for him. It was the look of a woman who was losing control and didn’t like it. Her hands clenched into fists, and she took a step toward him as well, narrowing her eyes.

“You ungrateful little faggot,” Greta hissed, her voice trembling with anger. “You think you can just throw us aside? You think you’re better than us? You think that toy can protect you?” She took another step, her body tense with menace. “You belong with us, Eli. You’ll always be ours.”

Eli felt the weight of the moment bearing down on him. He could see the way Cole was looking at him, the way Greta’s grip on reality was slipping. The familiar, suffocating grip of their control was closing in on him, and it made his skin crawl. He took a step back, but just then, Cole lunged forward.

Before Eli could react, Cole shoved him hard against the wall. Pain shot through his back, but he didn’t let out a cry. Instead, his hand shot out, catching Cole’s wrist as the man tried to strike him.

“I told you,” Eli whispered through clenched teeth, his body shaking with adrenaline. “I won’t go back.”

Cole’s eyes flashed with rage, and he pulled his arm back to strike again.

But before anything more could happen, the sound of a door creaked.

It wasn’t Brahms, not yet. But it was enough to make Cole and Greta stop in their tracks.

A low, rumbling sound filled the room, and Eli felt a shiver run down his spine. The walls, the ones he had grown used to, seemed to hum with energy. The silence stretched, and for a moment, it felt like the world had paused. Neither Greta nor Cole dared move, and the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Eli’s pulse pounded in his ears as he glanced around, a flicker of fear in his chest—but not for himself. He wasn’t afraid of Cole or Greta anymore. He was afraid of what was waiting. What had been waiting for so long.

And then, just as the quiet began to eat away at him, the door to the room creaked again, and the house seemed to breathe with anticipation.

Something was coming.

Eli wasn’t sure what. But he knew, deep in his gut, it was only a matter of time before everything changed. Out of instinct he grabbed up the doll to hold it close.

The door creaked open, and in walked Malcolm, balancing a couple of grocery bags in one hand, his free hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket. He had a sly grin on his face as he stepped into the room, his eyes scanning over the scene that greeted him—Greta, Cole, and Eli, all locked in some unspoken tension. The air was thick with animosity, but Malcolm wasn’t one to shy away from a confrontation.

He had been eyeing Eli for days, waiting for the perfect moment to insert himself. To push him around like the others, but with his own cruel twist. Malcolm had been biding his time, acting like the easygoing guy in the background, but now, with the dynamics shifting in the room, he felt like this was his turn.

“Well, well, well,” Malcolm’s voice broke the silence, smooth and mocking. He set the bags down on the counter and took a few casual steps into the room, eyes gleaming with amusement as he took in the situation. “Looks like there’s some drama going on here. What’s this, Greta? What’s Cole doing? Let me guess, trying to break in that brat of yours?”

Cole grunted, a smirk playing on his lips as he stepped back from Eli. The slap he’d intended for Eli had missed, but it didn’t seem to bother him too much. He had been too angry to care.

“Ah, perfect timing, Malcolm. Come on in,” Cole said, his voice cold as he gave Malcolm a nod. “We’re just reminding Eli here of his place. He’s gonna come with us back to the U.S. whether he likes it or not.”

Malcolm’s smirk widened. “I’m sure he’s gonna enjoy his trip. But first…” He approached Eli slowly, standing just a little too close, eyes raking over his figure as though trying to inspect him for any weakness. “Before you go, Eli,” he drawled, his voice dripping with condescension, “you owe me a proper goodbye. You’ve been too quiet. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Eli’s eyes flashed, his back stiffening at the implication in Malcolm’s tone. He didn’t know what Malcolm wanted, but he knew it couldn’t be good. He had tried to avoid the man—tried to avoid his insidious, predatory gaze—but now, with Malcolm standing over him, the tension in the room heightened to a suffocating level.

Greta, always ready to encourage the torment of Eli, watched the scene unfold with a cruel smile. “Don’t be so shy, Eli,” she purred, crossing her arms over her chest. “You can give Malcolm a nice, proper send-off, can’t you? You know, just a little thank you for all the ‘help’ he’s given you.”

Eli’s stomach churned with disgust as he stood there, forced to endure yet another round of this twisted game. His fists clenched at his sides, but he didn’t make a move. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him break.

Cole leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, watching with a pleased look on his face. “You’re all out of options, Eli,” he said, his voice sharp and final. “We’ve got you now. You’re going back with us, whether you like it or not. So enjoy the moment while you can. If you think you’ve been humiliated before, just wait until we get you on that plane.”

Malcolm’s eyes were cold as he looked down at Eli, seeing the hesitation in his eyes. He took another step closer, the mocking smile never leaving his lips. “You think you’re too good for us, huh? Too good for me? It’s a little too late for that. You’ve been living off my kindness this whole time. It’s time for you to show some gratitude.”

Eli’s heart raced, his mind spinning with the realization that these people—these monsters—wanted him to break. They wanted him to crumble under their pressure. And for a moment, doubt crept into his thoughts. Would he ever be able to get away from them? Would he ever be free?

But then, as if on cue, a low rumbling sound reverberated from the walls, deep and menacing. The very air in the room seemed to change, thickening with something dark and electric. Eli’s eyes darted toward the source, but the walls were silent now. The oppressive energy only made the situation feel worse, more dangerous.

Eli clenched his jaw, pushing aside the fear for the moment. He wouldn’t give them this victory. Not now.

“Enough,” Eli said, his voice barely a whisper but full of a quiet strength that hadn’t been there before. He squared his shoulders and looked Malcolm directly in the eye, his gaze unwavering. “You won’t get away with this. I’m not going anywhere.”

Greta’s face darkened, and she took a step toward him, her eyes flashing with anger. “You don’t get to choose, Eli. You belong to us. You’re ours. And you’ll do as we say.”

Malcolm chuckled darkly, stepping even closer. “And if you don’t?” he asked, the question laced with menace.

Eli’s breath caught in his throat. He had been surrounded by them for so long, used to their control and manipulation. But now, for the first time, he felt the weight of their threats lessening. He wasn’t scared anymore. Not of them.

But just as he was about to respond, the low rumbling from the walls came again. This time, it was louder, deeper, vibrating through the room like a warning. Greta froze, her hand hovering in the air. Malcolm paused too, his head tilting slightly as he seemed to notice the shift in the atmosphere.

Something else was in the room with them now. Something far more dangerous.

Eli knew that feeling. He had felt it before. It wasn’t just the house—it was Brahms.

And Brahms was no longer willing to wait.

The air in the room thickened, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Eli felt it before he even saw it—a pressure, a force that seemed to squeeze the very air from his lungs. His heart pounded in his chest, every beat a deafening reminder of how close he was to being overwhelmed.

Cole stepped closer, his boots making heavy thuds against the floor as he advanced toward Eli, his hand brushing along Eli’s arm, a mocking smirk playing on his lips. “You’ve been so quiet lately, Eli,” he said, his voice dripping with venom. “It’s time to remind you of your place. You’re not in control here. You’re nothing but a pawn.”

Eli’s stomach lurched, his breath quickening, but before he could react, he felt something—hands, strong and insistent—gripping his waist, holding him in place. Greta’s fingers dug into him with cruel precision, her nails pressing into his skin as she pulled him tighter toward her. The sensation was suffocating, her presence an anchor he couldn’t escape.

“Don’t fight us, Eli,” Greta cooed, her voice silky but cold. “You’ll regret it if you do. We’ve been so good to you, and this is how you repay us?”

As if in response to her words, Eli felt something else—something far more intimate and violating. A knee, shoved roughly between his legs. The sharpness of it sent a jolt of panic through his body, a sharp contrast to the suffocating hold Greta had on him. His breath caught, his muscles tense as he tried to twist free, but their grip was unyielding.

A third set of hands—Malcolm’s—reached for him, pulling his wrists up, forcing them high above his head. His fingers wrapped around Eli’s wrists, squeezing with a possessiveness that made Eli want to rip himself away. Every movement they made felt like a synchronized attack, pushing him further into a corner with no escape, no room to breathe.

His mind was reeling, his body struggling to fight back against the overwhelming pressure. But then, then—the room shuddered.

It was subtle at first, a low rumble that seemed to come from beneath the ground. Eli’s eyes flicked toward the walls, feeling the vibrations shoot through the floorboards. The tremors escalated quickly, growing stronger, shaking the very foundations of the house. A deep, guttural sound rumbled through the walls, like the groan of an ancient beast waking from a long slumber.

Eli’s heart skipped a beat. Brahms. He could feel him—inside the walls, like a presence too big to be contained.

The others didn’t notice yet, too focused on their cruel game. But Eli could feel it. The air was thick with something dark and ancient. The walls groaned louder, almost as if they were alive, pushing back against the people who sought to control him.

The sound came then—a fast, echoing rush, like something—or someone—charging at them with terrifying speed. It was like the roar of an approaching train, deafening and relentless.

Eli’s heart hammered in his chest, his throat tightening with the realization that Brahms was no longer hiding. He was there, in the walls, coming for them.

The others froze. Greta’s hand stopped just short of Eli’s cheek, and Malcolm’s grip on his wrist tightened slightly, sensing the shift in the air.

“What the hell is that?” Cole’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tension as he looked around, searching for the source of the noise.

The walls shuddered again, the vibrations deepening with each passing second. The sound of something—or someone—rushing toward them was unmistakable now. It was fast, too fast for anything human to move.

“Did you hear that?” Malcolm asked, his eyes narrowing. He stepped back slightly, his grip still tight on Eli’s wrist.

Eli’s breath caught in his throat, but he kept his face calm. He knew who it was. The way the walls were shaking, the frantic energy rushing toward them—it could only be Brahms. But the others didn’t know that. They didn’t understand what was happening, what had been lurking inside the house all this time.

Then, from deep within the walls, a voice—low, guttural, and dangerously close—spoke.

“Leave him alone.”

The words were slow, drawn-out, like a low growl rumbling through the house, vibrating the air. It wasn’t a voice they could ignore. It wasn’t a voice that could be mistaken for anything else. Brahms was speaking to them—warning them. The tone was filled with a possessive fury, an unmistakable intent to protect what he had claimed.

Cole, Greta, and Malcolm all flinched, their eyes darting to the walls, searching for the source of the voice. They had no idea what they were dealing with.

The rumbling continued. It wasn’t stopping. And the sound—it was getting louder, faster, closer.

Eli could feel the walls shaking again, but this time, it felt different. The energy had shifted. Brahms was there, and he wasn’t hiding anymore.

“Leave him.” The voice came again, deeper this time, more insistent. The walls cracked, the plaster groaning under the pressure of something heavy pushing against it from the inside.

It was a warning, clear as day. And yet, they didn’t listen. They thought it was a trick.

But the rumbling didn’t stop.

Eli’s mind raced. Brahms was close, so close. The walls felt alive now, pulsing with a terrible, possessive energy. Eli could feel it—Brahms’ presence was filling the room, wrapping itself around him like a protective shield.

The walls groaned again, and this time, it wasn’t just the rumble of sound. It was a shift. A movement.

But Brahms didn’t show himself. Not yet.

Eli took a breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel it in his bones now. This was it. The moment where things would change. Where he would change. But he wasn’t going to let it happen on their terms.

The warning had been given.

And it was the last warning they'd get as the tremors seemed to grow with each passing moment, a low growl reverberating beneath their feet. Eli’s heart pounded, his chest tight with the knowledge of what was really happening, but he kept his face still. He refused to show fear, even though every fiber of his being wanted to run.

Greta, however, was not intimidated. She scoffed, brushing her hands through her hair, clearly unfazed. “Oh please,” she sneered, glancing around the room as if searching for some logical explanation. “It’s just Eli. He’s probably trying to trick us into thinking there’s something in the walls. It’s all in his head.”

Eli’s stomach dropped, but he didn’t respond. He could feel the eyes of Cole and Malcolm on him, their hands tightening around him as if they were both ready to hold him down.

Malcolm, still leaning against the wall, was smirking, though there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “Yeah, this is just another one of your little mind games, huh, Eli? Getting desperate?”

Cole, who stood directly in front of Eli, pressed his body closer, trapping Eli between him and Malcolm. His hands slid down Eli’s arms, gripping tightly. “You think we’re scared of some silly trick?” he growled in Eli’s ear. “It’s not gonna work. Not this time.”

But the voice, the rumbling sound that filled the room, was getting louder, sharper—more insistent. It was no longer a low growl. It was a promise.

“Leave him alone.”

The words sent a shiver through Eli’s spine, but he remained still, as if the sound were simply another part of the world he had to ignore. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could maintain his composure, how much longer he could stand the pressure of their bodies surrounding him.

And then, just as the intensity of the rumbling seemed to reach its peak, Greta made a move. A deliberate, swift motion that shook Eli to the core.

Without warning, she reached out and grabbed the Brahms doll from his arms. Eli flinched, his breath catching in his throat as he instinctively pulled the doll closer to his chest, but she was faster. Greta ripped it from his grasp and, with a look of utter contempt on her face, flung it across the room.

The porcelain doll, the one Eli had cherished, the one that had become so important to him, flew through the air in an arc before slamming against the stone wall. There was a sickening crack, followed by the sharp, brittle sound of porcelain shattering as it hit the floor.

Eli’s entire body froze. The world seemed to stop for a second, as if the breath had been knocked out of him. His gaze locked onto the shattered pieces of the doll on the floor. The once-beautiful porcelain face now lay in jagged fragments, its hollow eyes staring lifelessly at him.

He could feel his pulse in his throat, his body going cold. His fingers twitched, reaching instinctively for the broken pieces, but before he could move, he felt strong hands pin him in place.

Cole’s grip tightened around his arms, holding him firmly between himself and Malcolm. The space around him felt suffocating, as if the walls were closing in even further. His chest tightened, his breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. They had crossed a line.

“You ruined it,” Eli whispered, his voice barely audible, trembling with barely-contained emotion.

Greta laughed coldly, shaking her head as she watched him. “Oh, don’t get all worked up. It’s just a stupid doll.”

But Eli couldn’t hear her. His mind was consumed with the image of the shattered doll, the way its pieces lay scattered across the floor. He felt an emptiness in his chest, a hollow ache that threatened to swallow him whole.

And then, just as the tears began to sting his eyes, he felt Cole and Malcolm's arms tighten around him, forcing him closer to them. There was no escape now. No way out. They had him trapped between them, their bodies like a vice, pressing him in.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Cole sneered, his breath hot against Eli’s ear. “We’ll make sure of it.”

Malcolm’s hands were equally firm on his shoulders, his fingers digging into Eli’s skin. He leaned in close, whispering in Eli’s other ear, his voice low and menacing. “You thought you had a chance, didn’t you? Thought Brahms would come save you? Well, guess what? He’s not real.”

Eli’s throat constricted. They were wrong. Brahms was coming. He could feel it deep in his bones—the rumble in the walls was more than just a sound. It was an approach. An arrival. And soon, they would all know what he had known from the beginning.

But for now, he was trapped between them, the weight of their hands, their breath, their taunts bearing down on him. He felt his pulse pounding in his ears, the walls closing in around him.

“Stop…” Eli muttered, his voice cracking as he tried to pull free, but his body refused to obey. The pressure on him was too much, and the tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision.

Cole leaned in closer, his lips brushing against Eli’s ear. “You can’t fight us, Eli. You can’t run away.”

The sound of a shuffling movement in the walls caught his attention. A soft scrape of something—or someone—rubbing against the inside of the wood. It was there again—the rumbling, louder this time, like something was rushing toward them at full speed.

Eli’s heart skipped a beat. His thoughts immediately shifted back to Brahms. He didn’t need to look at the others to know that they hadn’t heard the warning yet. The room felt like it was holding its breath, a tension building that could snap at any moment.

They had no idea what was coming. No idea that the walls were ready to swallow them whole.

Chapter Text

The tremors in the walls hadn’t stopped.

Eli could feel it in the floor beneath his bare feet, in the air around him, the house itself brimming with restrained fury. Each vibration sent a shiver up his spine, but the others—Greta, Cole, Malcolm—ignored it. Or rather, they thought it was him, some trick, some pathetic attempt to scare them off.

They had no idea.

He was trapped between them, Cole’s grip bruising his wrist, Malcolm’s presence looming over him, Greta standing back with smug satisfaction on her lips. The broken porcelain lay in jagged pieces across the floor, the shattered remains of the Brahms doll staring lifelessly up at him. His stomach churned at the sight, his breathing shallow and uneven.

They had broken him.

And now, the house would break them.

Eli swallowed hard, his body tense as Cole yanked him closer, his nails digging into Eli’s skin. “Don’t act so heartbroken,” he sneered, nodding toward the ruined doll. “It was just a creepy toy. If anything, I did you a favor.”

Eli said nothing. His eyes flickered back to the walls, sensing the growing energy behind them. It was no longer just a hum. It was a living, seething presence, lurking, waiting, watching.

Malcolm leaned in next, his voice a low, taunting drawl. “Come on, Eli, you owe me a goodbye. I’ve been patient, haven’t I?” His hands brushed along Eli’s arm, slow and deliberate, fingers curling around his wrist.

Eli’s stomach twisted, and he tried to yank his arm back, but Malcolm tightened his hold. Greta watched with amusement, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorway, completely at ease. “Stop being so difficult,” she sighed. “We wouldn’t have to be so rough if you’d just listen.”

He clenched his jaw, his breathing uneven.

The walls trembled.

It was no longer subtle. The house let out a long, groaning creak, like wood straining under unbearable weight.
Cole stiffened for a second before scoffing. “This place is falling apart.”

Eli could feel his pulse in his throat. His eyes darted toward the fireplace, where the vent cover rattled. He’s getting closer.

Greta, unconcerned, stepped toward Eli, placing her fingers beneath his chin, tilting his face toward hers. “Look at you,” she murmured, voice dripping with false sweetness. “Still clinging to this place like it actually means something. Like he means something.”

She smirked, glancing toward the destroyed doll. “But there’s nothing left, Eli. It’s time to grow up.”

Eli’s chest heaved, his mind racing. They didn’t understand. Brahms wasn’t gone. He was coming.

The house let out a sudden, violent bang—a deep, shuddering impact that made the walls quake, dust spilling from the ceiling. Greta flinched this time, eyes darting toward the sound. Cole’s grip on Eli’s arm faltered for just a second, and Malcolm took a wary step back.

The air had changed.

The warmth of the house had vanished, replaced by something sharp, electric, like a storm about to break. The walls weren’t just trembling anymore—they were pulsing, as if something enormous was breathing just beneath the surface.

Eli’s lips parted, his breath unsteady. He could hear it now, clearer than ever.

The scraping of nails.

The heavy, ragged breathing.

The sound of something massive moving just beyond the walls.

Cole’s fingers tightened around Eli’s wrist again, but his bravado had cracked. “What the hell was that?” he muttered, glancing toward the fireplace vent, where the metal covering rattled violently.

Eli’s voice was barely above a whisper. “He’s coming.”
Greta stiffened. “What?”

Eli’s eyes flickered toward the walls, the pulsing growing more frantic, the groaning of the house almost deafening. He didn’t need to say it again. The truth was in the air, thick and suffocating.

Something inside the walls was alive. And it was angry.

Another deep thud—closer this time. Malcolm cursed under his breath, backing away from the fireplace. “Okay, what the actual fuck is going on?”

Greta forced a laugh, but it wavered, her hand twitching at her side. “This is just—just some stupid prank.”

Another bang—this time from behind them, the wooden panels of the wall bulging outward like something massive had slammed against them.

Cole let go of Eli entirely now, stepping back toward Greta. His confidence was fading, the bravado draining from his face. “Eli—what did you do?”

Eli didn’t answer. He just stared at the walls, his pulse racing.

He knew what came next.

The air felt thick, suffocating.

The house gave one final shudder—And then, silence.

The kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but full—charged with something unseen, something waiting. Watching.

Eli barely dared to breathe. His fingers twitched at his sides.
He could feel him.

Brahms was right there—just behind the walls.

Waiting.

The others still didn’t believe it.

Not yet.

But they would.

The weight of Malcolm and Cole pressing against him was only lifted for a second before Greta’s presence took over, her laughter ringing in his ears like a cruel melody. His limbs felt weak, his mind clouded, but the house—it was alive.

A deep, guttural sound rumbled through the wood, like something massive shifting in the very bones of the mansion. The chandeliers above swayed, casting erratic shadows over the grim tableau below.

“Eli, what kind of tricks are you pulling?” Greta hissed, gripping his chin between her fingers, forcing him to look at her. “You think some haunted house theatrics are going to scare us off?”

Cole’s hand once again shot out and tightened on Eli’s wrist, his nails biting into his skin. Malcolm, emboldened by the others moved onto Eli in another advance, he smirked and leaned in closer. “I think you owe me a proper goodbye now, don’t you?” His fingers brushed against Eli’s throat, his breath hot against his ear.

The house groaned again, louder this time, the vibrations rattling through the floorboards. A frantic, scuttling sound echoed from inside the walls—sharp, fast, relentless. It was coming closer, charging through the hidden passageways like a beast on the hunt.

Brahms.

The sound was deafening now, a furious cacophony of slamming, pounding, clawing. Cole and Malcolm hesitated, just for a second, their grip on Eli loosening.

Eli’s heart leapt into his throat.

This time he didn’t hesitate. He wrenched himself free, using all his strength to twist out of their grasp. He staggered backward, nearly tripping over his own feet as he broke into a sprint.

“Eli!” Greta shrieked, lunging after him.

But he was faster.

His feet barely touched the ground as he bolted toward the grand staircase, adrenaline surging through his veins. The house roared around him, the walls shaking so violently that picture frames crashed to the floor. The oppressive presence of the thing inside the walls—of Brahms—was everywhere, suffocating in its intensity.

He reached the stairs just as another tremendous bang resounded through the house, the force of it nearly knocking him off balance. He didn’t dare look back. He just ran, taking the steps two at a time, desperate to escape, desperate to breathe—

And behind him, something moved. Something shifted.

The walls groaned one final time, and then—a crack, deep and splitting, like the house itself was breaking open.

Eli sucked in a sharp breath.

He knew.

It was coming.

Eli’s breath came in sharp gasps as he bolted down the hallway, his socked feet slipping against the old wooden floors. The echoing sound of footsteps behind him—fast, relentless—sent chills down his spine. Greta, Cole, and Malcolm were right on his heels. His only chance was Brahms’ room.

His fingers trembled as he grasped the doorknob and threw himself inside, slamming the door shut just as Cole’s hand reached for it. The impact reverberated through Eli’s body, and he barely managed to twist the lock before Cole threw his full weight against the door.

“Eli!” Greta screeched, her voice high with fury. “Open this door right now!”

Eli stumbled back, clutching his chest as the pounding on the wood intensified. The old door shuddered with each violent slamCole’s hand tightened on Eli’s wrist, his nails biting into his skin.

“We’re getting in one way or another!” Malcolm taunted, his voice thick with smug amusement. “Don’t make us break it down.”

The house groaned again, louder this time, the vibrations rattling through the floorboards. A frantic, scuttling sound echoed from inside the walls—sharp, fast, relentless. It was coming closer, charging through the hidden passageways like a beast on the hunt.

The banging escalated into full-on kicking. Each brutal strike sent a jolt through the floorboards, through Eli’s bones. The wood creaked, groaning under the abuse.

Eli’s wide eyes darted around the room for anything to bring him comfort. Brahms’ shattered porcelain face lay back downstairs in pieces across the floor of the dining room and kitchen, the remnants of his only comfort crushed by cruel hands.

He scrambled to see the kitty figurine he'd grown to love so much in Brahms' dresser but when he opened the drawer that housed the collection, the space with the kitten was empty. Had the one on his nightstand been the first of Brahms' gifts? He didn't have time to think about that and hurriedly closed the drawer as he started pacing.

The sound was deafening now, a furious cacophony of slamming, pounding, clawing. The unseen force of it sent dust and splinters raining down from the ceiling.

And yet, even through his fear, through the sheer panic constricting his chest, Eli felt it. It sent the hairs on Eli’s arms standing on end. The banging on the door faltered for just a second before resuming, more frantic this time“Eli!”

Then came the running.

A sound like thunder in the walls. Heavy. Fast. Racing toward them like an unstoppable force. It was no longer just creaks and groans of an old house. It was something else. Something alive.

And behind him, something moved. Something shifted.
The sound grew louder, closer. The walls shuddered, and the very air in the room thickened, charged with something unseen.

A final, deep, guttural growl. One that did not belong to the house, rumbled through the walls.

"Get out."

He knew.

The voice was deep, distorted, a rasping whisper wrapped in rageIt was coming.

Silence.

Then Greta scoffed. “Nice try, Eli. We’re not falling for—”

Another deafening slam shook the walls.

Cole cursed. Malcolm took a wary step back.

But Greta stood firm, her lips curling in a sneer. “It’s nothing but a trick,” she spat. “And you’re still coming with us.”

Another slam. Harder. Closer.

The walls were breaking.

And this time, there was no stopping what was coming through.

The door splintered with a final, deafening crack, sending wood shards flying across the dimly lit room. Eli stumbled backward, chest heaving, as Cole and Malcolm pushed through the wreckage, Greta close behind. The smirks on their faces were triumphant, cruel, savoring his helplessness.

Cole wiped the sweat from his forehead, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Nowhere left to run, sweetheart."

Malcolm chuckled, shutting the ruined door behind them. "Took us all week, but you finally gave up the chase."

Eli's breath hitched. His back hit the cold frame of the bed, nowhere left to go. His shaking hands clenched the sheets as they prowled closer, circling him like wolves closing in on their prey.

Greta tilted her head, pouting mockingly. "We just want you to come home, Eli. Back to where you belong."

Cole grinned, stepping forward, fingers curling under the hem of Eli’s lace-trimmed blouse. "And what’s with these frilly little things? You playing house with your doll?" He yanked roughly, fabric tearing as Eli gasped.

Malcolm’s hands found his waist, squeezing too tight while pushing down Eli's skirt. "Been ignoring me all this time. That’s not very polite. I already said, you owe me a proper goodbye."

Eli whimpered, struggling as their hands clawed at him, his clothes being torn and pulled out of the way, his breath ragged. He felt the familiar grip of Cole's hands sinking into his flesh. Greta's own holding him down as the two men pawed at him unceremoniously. Panic seized his chest, white-hot and suffocating, but then—

The room shuddered.

A deep, guttural growl reverberated from the walls. The air itself seemed to quake, vibrating with the force of something primal, something furious.

The floorboards trembled beneath their feet. Dust rained down from the ceiling, books tumbled from their shelves. The walls groaned, as though the house itself were alive, breathing, enraged. And then—

A deafening, splintering crack.

The hidden wall panel exploded outward, shards of wood and dust clouding the air as a hulking figure burst into the room.

Tall. Massive. Shadowed in the dust, his broad frame heaved with each breath. A porcelain mask gleamed in the low light, its expression eerily blank, emotionless—but the aura radiating from the towering figure was anything but.

Brahms.

The real Brahms.

The room fell into stunned silence. The only sound was the heavy, ragged breathing from behind the mask.

Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he took a step forward.

Greta let out a choked gasp. Malcolm swore under his breath. Cole’s smug grin faltered.

Eli—

Eli’s chest ached. His wide, tear-streaked eyes locked onto the figure that had haunted his dreams, his waking thoughts. The one who had left him gifts in the night, whispered promises through the walls. The one who had held him in his sleep, fingers threading so gently through his hair.

He had come for him.

He had come for him.

Chapter Text

He had come for him.

The wall burst open like a scream.

Wood, plaster, and clouds of dust exploded outward, the roar of splintering beams loud enough to drown out Greta’s shriek as the figure emerged from the gaping hole—tall, twisted, alive.

Brahms.

The real Brahms.

No longer a secret in the walls, no longer a whisper in the dark. He moved with the fury of a storm, a whirlwind of violence wrapped in human shape—though his eyes, his eyes, were only fixed on Eli.

Eli was on the ground, his knees scraped and his lip split, shirt torn open by Cole’s rough hands. Malcolm’s grip still clung to the hem of his jeans, and Greta had her fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back.

Brahms didn’t hesitate.

He lunged.

Malcolm was the first to cry out—Brahms’ hand grabbed him by the collar and hurled him across the room like a ragdoll. He slammed against the dresser with a sickening crunch, crumpling to the floor with a groan.

Greta screamed and scrambled backward, knocking over a chair in her panic. “No!” she shrieked. “Wait, it’s not what it looks like! I didn’t touch him—I didn’t touch him!”

Cole shoved himself off Eli, backing away with wide eyes, hands raised. “What the fuck—what the fuck is that?!”

Brahms didn’t look at them. Not yet.

He dropped to his knees beside Eli with a tenderness that made the violence of a moment before feel like a fever dream. One massive, trembling hand cupped the back of Eli’s head, guiding it gently to the crook of his neck. The other slid beneath Eli’s thighs, lifting him off the floor with practiced ease, an arm under his legs, palm cradling under his rear. Eli clung to him like a child, his fingers curling into the rough fabric of Brahms’ sweater, breathing ragged and uneven.

“I’ve got you,” Brahms rasped, low and gravelly, the sound of stone and sorrow. “I’ve got you now.”

Greta choked on a sob. “Please—please—don’t hurt me, Brahms, please—I didn’t mean anything by it—you know me, don’t you? We—we talked once, remember?”

Brahms’ head turned slightly, just enough to glance at her over Eli’s curls, his face partially hidden behind his hair.

His silence was damning.

Greta stumbled back further, hands shaking. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this!”

Cole sneered, “Fuckin’ monster—what the hell is that thing—?”

“It’s your fault,” Malcolm snapped suddenly, voice cracking under the weight of panic as he sputtered little dribbles of blood as he spoke. “You’re the one who smashed the doll! You’re the one who said we could handle this!”

“Oh, shut the hell up,” Cole snarled, dragging himself to his feet with one arm. “You were tearing his clothes off, you sick fuck!”

Greta, half-hysterical, turned on them. “Both of you were! And don’t you dare try to pin anything on me—I told you yesterday to wait until we got him on the plane!”

“None of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t stayed here,” Cole spat, pointing a trembling finger at Eli, still buried against Brahms’ chest. “He’s the reason! He’s the fucking reason we’re in this mess!”

And just like that, they turned on him. All three of them.

Eli didn’t lift his head. He couldn’t. His limbs were trembling too badly. But he could hear every word, muffled against Brahms’ sweater. He felt the vibration of Brahms’ chest as he growled, the rumble of something primal building inside him.

Brahms shifted slowly, carefully setting Eli down on the edge of the bed like he was something fragile. His large hand lingered at the back of Eli’s neck, fingers sifting through his curls in reassurance.

And then he stood.

Not fast.

Not loud.

But with intent.

He turned toward the three intruders, towering and shadowed in the flickering candlelight of the ruined room. His head tilted slightly, the way it always had when the doll had been watching.

And he was done watching.

Greta stepped backward. “B- Brahms, right?”, she whispered, “you don’t want to hurt me. Not me.”

His fingers twitched.

“Brahms.” Her voice cracked. “Please.”

He took a single step forward.

The door slammed shut on its own behind them.

Cole let out a strangled sound, Malcolm reached for the poker on the fireplace—and Brahms’ lip curled just enough to show teeth.

Eli, still shaking on the bed, watched as Brahms stepped forward again.

Another step.

The room was suddenly so small.

Too small.

Trapped.

And then—he stopped.

Right in front of them.

“Mine,” he said, the word low and guttural.

Greta whimpered.

The lights flickered.

And the room breathed.

Eli sat curled on the edge of the ruined bed, barely covered by the tattered remnants of his clothes. His knees were drawn to his chest, arms crossed tight over his body as he pressed himself against the headboard with his eyes screwed shut. The chill in the air licked at his skin, but the fire in his mind was louder—hot, hateful. Every second ticked by like the creak of the old house itself, and he flinched when the floor groaned or the wind shoved against the splintered window frame.

He could hear them. The arguing. The scuffle. The desperate shouts. Brahms was going to fix it. Eli knew it.

Malcolm staggered to his feet, blood slicking down his temple where he'd struck the dresser. His left arm dangled oddly, dislocated or maybe broken. He panted, stumbling over shattered wood and cracked floorboards. “Cole—Greta—we need to go! That freak isn’t gonna stop now!”

“Shut up, Malcolm,” Cole snapped, knuckles white around the fire poker. His eyes darted to the hallway, to the bedroom where he’d last seen Eli. “This is your fault! You knew something was off with that kid, and you still—”

“I tried to stop it,” Malcolm hissed. “But you kept pushing—kept laughing. You treated him like—”

“Like nothing,” Greta whispered, eyes wide and shining. “We treated him like nothing.”

Suddenly Brahms surged forward with an inhuman roar, grabbing Malcom up from his slumo by the back of his jacket and lifting him off the ground. “No—wait!” he shrieked, kicking his legs.

Brahms hurled him down the hallway like trash, the man crashing into the wall at the end of the second story hall with a sickening crunch. The wooden molding snapped. So did bone.

Greta screamed and ran—not toward the doorway, but toward the bathroom attached, panic making her irrational.

Cole bared his teeth and swung the poker.

CLANG!

It hit Brahms across the shoulder, hard enough to make the killer stagger—but only for a second. Brahms tilted his head, slowly, almost playfully, and looked at Cole like a wolf spotting a rabbit that didn’t know it was already dead.

“You hurt him,” Brahms said—his voice like gravel, like something unused to speaking.

Cole swung again, but Brahms caught the poker in his bare hand.

“I didn’t!” Cole shouted. “He was—he liked the attention! He never said no!”

A growl built in Brahms’ chest.

“You hurt him,” he repeated, wrenching the poker free with a violent twist that broke two of Cole’s fingers. Cole screamed, stumbling back—but Brahms didn’t give him the chance to retreat.

With one hand, he smashed Cole’s face into the broken plaster wall.

Eli flinched from the sound of it—skull against wall, again, and again—until Cole slumped down, dazed but still breathing, blood pouring from a gash on his forehead.

Brahms turned to the bathroom.

Greta was trying to climb out the window over the sink, shards of glass catching her sleeves as she had smashed it when it wouldn't unlock. She was sobbing, whispering “I’m sorry” like it would mean anything now. Brahms took his time crossing the room. A dragging, heavy footstep echoed every second. He picked up the poker from the wreckage of the wall, dragging it across the wood so the steel sang.

Eli’s heart thundered in his ears, even though he hadn’t moved from the bed. Something in him wanted to look, to open his eyes and not just wait for silence. He couldn’t look away from the man who’d saved him. The monster everyone else had feared—but who had never hurt him.

Greta got one leg out the window before Brahms grabbed her ankle and yanked her back inside. She kicked and screamed, nails splintering and bleeding as they were scraping across tile, but Brahms didn’t stab her. Not yet.

Instead, he pinned her beneath one arm and looked toward the bed—toward Eli.

Eli blinked. His mouth opened, but no sound came.

Brahms began dragging Greta toward him.

She was sobbing now, choking on apologies. “Please! We didn’t know! I didn’t know what they were doing to you! I—I tried to stop Cole, I really—please, please don’t—”

Brahms paused at the doorway.

He looked at Eli.

“Do you want them to leave?” he asked, voice low, like a lullaby soaked in blood.

Eli’s throat was dry. He looked at Greta, crumpled and helpless. At Cole slumped and twitching on the floor behind Brahms. At Malcolm,through the doorway unmoving at the end of the hall.

His hands clenched.

“I want them to hurt,” Eli whispered.

Brahms nodded slowly. Then he stepped beside the bed, Greta still clawing at his arm.

Brahms crouched down beside Eli again, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. His body shielded Eli from the worst of the view, but Eli could still see Greta’s terrified face twisted in panic, her mouth open in a scream she didn’t dare let out.

“Look at me,” Brahms murmured, voice gravel-worn but soft now—soft in the way thunder gets after the storm has passed, still dangerous, still lingering.

Eli did.

Brahms held his gaze for a long moment, then reached out—slowly, always slowly with Eli—and brushed a blood-matted curl away from his forehead.

“You say the word,” he said. “And I’ll make them feel it. I’ll make them remember.”

Eli’s breath hitched. His eyes burned.

“I don’t want to be scared anymore,” he said.

Brahms’ jaw flexed. His fingers moved to cradle the side of Eli’s face.

“Then you won’t be,” he promised.

He stood again, dragging Greta closer to the foot of the bed. She was kicking and sobbing, begging now with every breath.

“Please! I’m sorry! I—I didn’t want to touch him! I didn’t want to do anything! It was Cole! It was—!”

“Shut up,” Brahms said, not loud but final. She did.

He turned toward Eli again. “Should I start with her?”

Greta froze.

Eli didn’t answer right away. He looked at her, really looked. She looked smaller now. Pathetic. All of them did, stripped of their cruelty and left looking like animals at the slaughter.

Brahms didn’t say a word, waiting for Eli's command.

When none came, he simply turned.

Greta screamed as he moved, her body jerking in his grip, but it was useless. Brahms carried her like a doll—like the thing she had mocked and broken.

He stepped over Cole’s twitching form as Eli still hadn't cued him, down the hallway toward Malcolm. The man was groaning weakly, trying to crawl, one leg bent the wrong way beneath him, leaving a red smear across the floor.

“Brahms,” Eli said behind them, voice soft but steady now. “Start with him.” And behind his mask, Brahms smirked something wicked.

Malcolm looked up at the sound, blood bubbling on his lips.

“No,” he coughed. “No, Eli, listen—listen to me, I didn’t mean—”

Brahms dropped Greta to the floor like trash and reached down. He grabbed Malcolm by the hair and yanked his head back, exposing the line of his throat. His other hand came up, still holding the fire poker.

“No—wait—please—!”

The poker came down once.

A wet, crunching sound filled the hallway. Malcolm jerked once. Then again. Then didn’t move.

Eli watched from the bed. He didn’t flinch this time.

Greta didn’t scream. Not now. Her voice had gone hoarse. She just sobbed, hands over her mouth, rocking on the floor as Brahms stepped over Malcolm’s broken body, dragging the blood-slicked poker behind him like it weighed nothing.

“Your turn,” Eli said, softer this time. Almost thoughtful.

Brahms grabbed Greta by the back of her shirt and hauled her to her feet. She tried to run. She got exactly two steps before she was thrown against the bedroom wall, knocking the wind out of her lungs.

She slumped to the floor, wheezing, trying to crawl away on her elbows. Brahms knelt beside her and grabbed her jaw, forcing her face up. His grip wasn’t gentle anymore.

Eli slid off the bed.

He stood barefoot on the ruined floor, shaking slightly, but he walked forward until he was just behind Brahms. He looked down at Greta—her face mottled red with panic, hair stuck to her skin with sweat.

“Why?” Eli asked her, voice quiet and cold. “Why did you let them?”

“I didn’t know—” she sobbed. “I didn’t—Eli, please, you have to believe me—”

“You told me to smile,” he said. “When I cried, you told me it was fine. That I was being dramatic. You told me no one would believe me.”

Greta broke down completely then, choking on her tears. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered, over and over.

Brahms looked up at Eli, awaiting the command.

Eli looked at Cole.

Still alive. Still groaning. His hand twitching near a splintered piece of wood.

“Wait. Let her watch,” Eli whispered.

Brahms stood again, silent, and walked toward Cole.

Cole’s eyes fluttered open.

“You,” he slurred, bloody teeth bared. “You little—”

Brahms stomped once on his hand, bones crunching underfoot. Cole screamed.

Then Brahms raised the poker again.

And again.

And again.

It was slow.

It was deliberate.

Greta screamed the entire time.

Eli stood frozen, watching it all—something distant and unreadable in his eyes.

By the time Brahms stopped, there was nothing left of Cole’s face that resembled a man. No trace of the narcissistic look Eli grew to hate that caused the pit in his stomach when he saw himself in the mirror.

Absolutely nothing left of Cole.

Greta was curled into a fetal position on the floor, whispering nonsense, trying not to look.

Brahms dropped the poker. Turned back.

Eli knelt beside Greta.

She didn’t even react. She was too far gone.

Eli reached out and gently brushed her hair from her face.

“You’ll be next,” he said softly.

She sobbed harder.

Then the floor creaked.

Eli turned.

But Brahms was already looking past him—toward the shattered wall where he’d burst in. Toward the hallway.

There were footsteps.

A flashlight beam flickered in the dark.

Somehow someone must have heard the screams.

Someone was coming.

And for the first time that night—

Eli felt afraid.

The sight before him, it was crazy... And there was no way the authorities would believe him right?