Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Oh Who Is She
Y/N
Rain, wind, and a smattering of loose autumn leaves howl against the burgundy sides of the Heelshire manor; its wood-brick bones moan under the weather's wrath as the night gets colder, darker. Just moments earlier, the sun fell like an injured swan, bleeding out rather beautifully in blazing cardinal swathes behind the family's vineyard view of the house. And though it is only early October, even minutes after the sun sets, a bone-chilling bleakness settles into the surrounding landscape like an incurable illness, simply waiting for a silent moment in the night to provide the kiss of death. But for y/n, this is absolutely perfect. The grey, chronic death that looks instilled into the hillsides around the manor adds what she coins 'a cozy, autumnal feel ' to the ambiance of her stay.
And she won't stay long, after all. After Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire return, her sunny, skin-baking afternoons spent languidly amidst sweat-covered bodies and the smell of spray sunscreen would begin—finally, a real vacation after years of ones spent in her dreams.
That evening as she settles into her surroundings, she once more goes through the extensive list of doll-induced-decrees the Heelshires provided. It is rambling, long, and so very odd. Never once in her young life had she ever heard of nannying or anything related to nannying a doll. Sure, she saw things online, here or there, about overgrown obsessions that middle-aged spinsters become wickedly good at, things similar to this–sure! But those things usually seem to forever exist in a liminal space that she would never enter. A bubble that she'd spy on from afar, chuckle about, and soon forget: but this, this is real, this is here and alive and in her hands, existing as what looks to be a fancy diary entry, jotted down on a small, scratchy piece of artisanal paper. But, the pay is good, the house is big, and she had never been one of those vehemently doll-phobic children, so even the little alabaster boy that sits beside her she considers rather cute in his statuesque sort of way.
By midnight she no longer has that sense of adventurous whimsy she sported only hours earlier. Now, she sinks deep into the covers of a cold, dark bed in an even colder and darker bedroom. The room smells of dust and what she could only imagine as the brittle pages of unopened books. It is the Heelshire's main bedroom. They said it was only appropriate for her to have the most comfortable room for doing the most meaningful task in the world—taking care of their precious boy. And though she shied away from the offer at first with humility and denial. Later she could be seen regretfully slinking into the extravagant room with suitcase and tote bag by her side.
And, by all means, it is grand. Large stately blinds cover an entire wall of windows, blanched from sunlight, and made of a sturdy material. On top of the windows lay a long horizontal glass panel with intricate stain-glass designs of Jesus and accompanying figures–I didn't know they were religious –she thinks, peering up at the fractalizing figures made of devotion and glass. The bed itself is too big and looks like it could fit a family of five, plus an unruly cat.
It is now even darker than before, and she feels the most alone she has ever been; the infectious emptiness of the grand estate stokes the fires of her heart's isolation. She falls asleep, grasping her sides as she fights off the dampness within her eyes.
Sometime between the witching hours, whether a dream or a cruel fantasy, she feels that same loneliness transform into something warmer and gentler. It's almost like some other being belongs to her, or she belongs to some other being. It's like she feels the warm breath and heartbeat she wears in an opposing vessel, she wishes this was the case, but when y/n awakes in a cold sweat at 4 am to the gnawing, flickering memories of " home " and its inahbitants, she knows this is not the case.
BRAHMS.
In the early morning of October 7th, Brahms hears the thrush and scuttle of cars and greetings, servants, and his parents. It is a lively mess that stretches far into the evening, one that he knows nothing about. However, he can guess from the disjointed voices that float through the open window pane here or a crack in the brick there. He imagines he'll be receiving a new little plaything, a new caretaker. And though he feels well enough on his own—the walls of the grand manor are now part of his humanity, built into the anatomy of his innate being, second nature to skulk and spy through—he won't mind the company. He enjoys it when caretakers read to him and likewise enjoys seeing how fast he can break them down, run them out, and once more remain alone.
This time, though, something is different; there is an electric jolt in the air—the smell of cinnamon and damp forest, waterlilies, and cherry chapstick. There is a sweetness within the new presence in his home, and it confuses him. Later, as he spies through a crack in the wall, he observes his meek, allowing parents introduce him— the sweet, perfect boy version of him, unstained and tame— to his new governess. Now he knows why the air in the manor is so candied. It's because she is a little dream. A dream that makes his stomach churn and the hair on his neck stand to a point. Her visage is pale and made of enamel (much like his own toy doppelganger) and contrasts with her hair like stars to the night, as she bears a ruthless main of wild, wavy chestnut hair, not unlike his own. Her voice is made of watercolor and starlight, gentle but thrilling. And the more she allows herself to meet the other him, after her initial wave of what did I get into, she almost seems pleased to hold the porcelain child. She is so very kind to his parents. Even the pity that entombs her soot-colored eyes is more forgiving than any emotion he's seen on any face, any other time in his life.
"I'll take good care of him, I promise," she swears, gently kissing the doll's cheek. This display sends Brahms into a bewildered flurry, and he weaves back to his room in a dash (rather clumsily) between the walls. He does not know what this means for him; his previous governesses were all stern and stately. Even the young ones bore a harshness that weathered their youthful demeanor, and spoke in cryptic tomes to impress the Heelshires. This one, undeniably different, seems like she has cast some hex on him, a destructive spell that rips through his system and leaves him gasping for air. His skin feels colder now that he's seen her; the mansion feels emptier even though it has just been imbued with a new, fresh sense of life. Young life, too. She looks some years younger than him—she must be in her early twenties.
* * *
It has been some hours after their first one-sided meeting, and the manor's great walls feel like they are to collapse. Yet Brahms does not care to know or differentiate whether that feeling is spurred by the pounding of the dreary new-England storm or his own heart. Throughout the day, Brahms had stalked the young girl throughout the house, whose name he learned to fit her like a fir tree to a dryad, "y/n."
Brahms feels like some monster compared to y/n. Not only does his stature assert his assumption, with his big bones, looming presence, and hardened body. But his mind also seems to dim in her presence. He feels his mind is an impassive establishment, a testament to the invalidity of the hypothesis that time heals all wounds, a fickle little mouse set running at the sight of an equally terrified elephant—y/n. He ultimately assumes that would be her reaction, terror. If only she knew there was nothing to be scared of. Yet, it is to be understood Brahms's version of "fear" is so much removed from the pantheon of everyone's customary judgment; his version is crude and childish–monsters are to be feared, not men.
Now she is asleep in mother's and father's room. Her shivering body is encased in layers and layers of thick wool sheets and opulent downy pillows, yet she still seems to be undone by the bitter air of the manor. Brahms assumes he's shed that delicate separation between him and the cold long ago and is now one with it. But, upon spying the goose flesh that creeps along her arm and meanders up her gentle shoulders, Brahms thinks he feels the cold like he did long ago, like he did when he was alone within the skin and bones of this terribly big house— like he felt it as a young boy . And though the cold Brahms feels is tangible and terrible the way physical pain usually is—internally he burns like a furnace. Y/n's hands twitch, and he sees the night-time disturbance prescribed to her face, buried beneath soft brown hair, wrangle her delicate features, and that is enough to make him start following the bunny trail of burrowing thoughts within his eager mind.