Chapter Text
The house they gave him is too big. The rooms are too open, the furniture not close enough, leaving him vulnerable to whatever could be lurking in the dark. It makes him feel exposed, like whoever wanted could just come in and steal him away from his new home. He wants to dig in and never let go now that he's found his place here amongst the Sinclairs. He won't be taken away again, but drifting alone in the dark… it feels like he's lost at sea. There's no one to find him and guide him back to shore.
There is a slight tremor to his hands when Brahms finally kicks off his blankets and slides out of the too large bed that is supposed to be his. He cradles his doll on his arms, slides on his stolen boots, and makes his way out into the night.
At least out in the open, he knows what to expect. The dangers that are there are supposed to be there. It's not a surprise if something bad were to happen to him outside in the night.
He makes his way to the museum. The rest of Ambrose is asleep in the early hours of the morning, but the lights of the wax house continue to burn bright. Brahms slips around back to the trapdoor Vincent showed him that leads directly to the basement. It's the faster way when he wants to see the purveyor of the house more than the work he’s poured his soul into.
His steps are quiet as he makes his way into the basement. Years of trying to remain undetected have ingrained the habit into him, even now when he no longer needs to hide.
The furnaces are burning low at the moment, casting the room in soft red light mixed with the warm yellow of Vincent's many candles. The whole space looks like it's caught in a flickering sunset and Brahms finally starts to relax.
He can see the shape of Vincent in his bed, rising and falling with each even breath. His mask rests on the small table near the bed, the flickering light bouncing off the pale ‘skin’.
It feels selfish to wake Vincent up now, but Brahms doesn't get a choice. The dog ever present at Vincent's side gives a short bark from his spot at the end of Vincent's bed. Brahms flinches back from the sound as Vincent quickly sits up. Candle light is reflected in the polished metal of one of Vincent's blades, but it's quickly set back down as Vincent registers who is intruding on him.
There is a click of teeth and a sharp hand movement and then Vincent's dog is hopping off of the bed and trotting over to lay in the bed tucked away near one of the furnaces. Brahms was never told a name for the dog. Bo and Lester just called him with a whistle and a "git over here," while Vincent seemed to have a series of sounds and hand signals he used. The dog seemed to belong to Vincent, so Brahms supposed it made sense for him to have never learned a spoken name as his own.
Shuffling in his spot, Brahms gazes down at his fidgeting hands when Vincent turns to look at him. The darkness of the room and Vincent’s own long hair mask his bare face just as well as his wax, but Brahms still respects his privacy enough not to look. All it takes is one stray beam of light from a flickering candle, and Brahms would see too much.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” he says quietly, rubbing at his doll’s arm. “I… couldn’t sleep. The house… it was, ah… too big. It brought back too many memories, and I can't be stolen in the night again."
Something that sounds like a laugh bubbles up around him followed by a hand reaching out to tug at his sleeve. Bare feet and a familiar set of hands are in his vision now. As he keeps his eyes trained away from Vincent's face, he watches those skilled fingers speak out. It's okay. Sleep here. I'll keep you safe.
"Thank you." All the tension leaves Brahms as he realizes he's going to get what he wants. He easily lets Vincent push him towards the bed, pausing only to lay his own mask next to the one already resting on the end table.
What a pair they make.
Brahms crawls in first, his back to Vincent as he settles in and, once he's comfortable facing the wall, Vincent follows suit. The bed creaks just a little with their combined weight, but it's sleep-warm and comfortable. With Vincent bracketing him against the wall, his doll in his arms, and the clutter of the workspace pushing in around him, Brahms finally feels safe. There are no windows for strangers to peek in down here, no sound of wind or floorboards to creak. He's tucked away in Vincent's burrow and it feels like this is where he's meant to be.
…
When Brahms opens his eyes the next morning, he's warm and comfortable. A heavy arm is draped over him, and he sighs and sinks further into Vincent's well worn bed.
It’s only a few minutes later that the hand around him pats his chest to get his attention.
Good morning.
"Mh. Morning, Vincent." Brahms trails his fingers over Vincent's, not letting him say anything else until he slaps his hand away.
Time to get up. Here. Your mask .
A confused grumble is huffed into the pillow, but Brahms perks up when his mask is laid next to him.
"Thank you." The mask is settled on and Brahms rolls over, pouting when he sees Vincent getting out of bed. "You won't stay?"
Get your rest. I slept too long. I'll be back with food. Vincent reaches out to brush back Brahms' bedhead, studying him for a moment to remember every detail. His curls splay out on the pillow like a dark halo, eyes still sleepy behind his mask.
Brahms catches Vincent's sleeve before he can leave the bedside. He knows that he's far from home, that he can't keep to the same old rituals, but he also can't help quietly asking, "Kiss?" and turning his cheek for Vincent to press his mask to if he so chooses.
There’s a beat of time where Vincent pauses, head cocking as he stares down at Brahms, gaze observant and calculating. He stays still for so long, Brahms begins to feel nervous, that he’s made a mistake, but then in the next second Vincent leans in and pushes his wax lips gently against Brahms’ porcelain cheek.
Brahms giggles in delight and lets Vincent’s sleeve go, feeling warm and satisfied.
…
An unseen tongue pokes from Brahms’ lips as he concentrates on threading the small needle in his fingers. The bag of clothes taken from the storehouse lays spilling out on the workable in front of him. His doll sits with his legs dangling off the table next to him, watching as he ties the thread off.
“Hold this, please,” Brahms says, setting the prepared needle into his doll’s hands. He’s drawn up a few patterns on some butcher paper Vincent gave him, so now all he needs to do is find the perfect fabric. A new coat and some pajamas are in order for his doll, to begin with.
He’s just starting to cut the fabric with measured care when Vincent shows up, looking over the table with interest. He’d wondered what Brahms would be up to after he asked for paper and a sewing kit. Really, he should have known.
New clothes? he asks, touching a pair of pants that are pinned but not sewn yet.
“Yes,” Brahms says. “I’d like to rebuild his wardrobe.” It was only fair. Brahms had received new clothes, so why not his smaller self as well?
Vincent nods and gives a soft hum, stepping up to the doll and taking a closer look. As much as he’s seen of it, always tucked into Brahms’ arms or somewhere close by, he’s never really examined the doll in detail.
He notices quickly that while half of its face is missing, the other half is spiderwebbed with dark cracks. It’s been broken and fixed once before? he asks curiously.
“Yes,” Brahms says again, watching Vincent look over his prized possession. “I glued him back together after a bad man broke him. When I was stolen away, he was broken again by more bad men.” There’s a soft anger that boils in Brahms’ belly at the memories of both instances. He sighs and reaches out to touch the doll’s intact cheek with the back of his fingers. “I have a few of the missing pieces, but not all of them.”
I could fix him for you, if you’d like. Vincent signs with a tilt of his head. I can use the pieces you have and carve the missing ones from wax. I may even have a matching eye. He points to the one hazel eye left in the doll’s head.
Brahms stares at Vincent as he sets down his sewing project with shaking fingers. “Really?”
The hope in his voice makes Vincent‘s heart bleed and he nods. Yes, of course. Do you have the pieces with you?
“They’re in his suit pocket,” Brahms says, pointing towards his doll.
Vincent reaches for said pocket, but finds his hand being smacked away by tiny porcelain fingers. He withdraws in shocked confusion, looking between Brahms and the doll.
“You have to ask politely,” Brahms says cheekily, trying to stifle a giggle behind his mask.
Vincent huffs a breath and just stops himself from rolling his eye. He faces the doll. May I please have the pieces in your pocket? he asks, emphasizing the please motion of his hand rubbing circles on his chest.
Brahms looks to his doll. He turns his doll’s head to look at him. He gives his doll a nod. The doll nods back. They both look to Vincent and nod. “Yes,” comes a childlike voice that Vincent swears comes from the doll. He feels like this whole scene would be odd if it wasn’t so adorably endearing.
Thank you. He reaches again and pulls out a few pieces of porcelain from the doll’s pocket.
…
Desperation claws at Brahms as he watches his doll, his other half, be laid out on a table like he's about to be operated on. A pit forms in his stomach seeing him so helpless and broken, his remaining pieces lined up to show off how little he was able to recover.
The stress is getting to him to the point where he wants to bite his nails to the quick. That would mean lifting his mask, though, and he's not that comfortable around Vincent yet. Instead, he's turned to scratching at his arms like there's something crawling under his skin; digging deep, red grooves with every pass of his nails.
Vincent is lost in his work, fussing over the porcelain shards too much to notice Brahms drowning in anxiety behind him. Until the upstairs door bangs open and two sets of heavy boots shake the ceiling. Vincent pulls his dragon knives from their sheathes and Brahms is on his feet, looking around for anything to fight with.
The door to Vincent's sanctum bursts open and a booming voice proceeds a familiar face. "You better be up, dollface. There's coyotes lurking around, so we're going trapping."
"Me?" Confusion replaces the anxiety as Brahms finally takes in Bo and Lester standing in the doorway. Both of them have lost their usual outfits and are dressed in more neutrals.
"Yeah, you. You said you did a lil huntin' back home, right?" Bo eyes him up, but he's less tense than Brahms has seen him all week. "So scrounge up some huntin' clothes and get your ass in gear."
"Vincent?"
You can go. I may have him done by the time you get back. Vincent gestures to the pieces in front of him, smoothing a hand over doll Brahms' freshly mended suit.
"It's gonna be fun, bud. No sweat." Lester does his best to peek over Bo's shoulder with an encouraging grin. "We'll get your mind off of shit, yeah?"
"Okay." Brahms picks at the hem of his shirt. "I'll go."
…
It's another sweltering day in Ambrose.
They've barely been in the sun for twenty minutes, but already their clothes are sticking to them from the sweat pouring down their backs. Bo and Lester are dressed in light shades of beige and green, and they even found something to match for Brahms, but the shades are darkening the farther they walk.
They're panting by the time they make it to the tree line that always seems to call from the distance in Ambrose. The heavy chains from the traps they dragged with them clatter to the ground, sending squirrels and rabbits darting into the underbrush as the three men stop to catch their breath.
Lester pulls off the canteen looped around his neck and takes long, hungry pulls before passing it to Brahms. Brahms just stares at it, wondering how to drink from it without removing his mask. Lester seems to realize his mistake as he watches and chuckles sheepishly as Brahms just hands it back before picking the chains back up and looking at the brothers expectantly.
"Where did you say we were going?"
"Just a little farther now. There's coyotes denned here somewhere." Lester forms the word like " ky -oats", like he's never seen it written out, as he squints into the tree line, looking around in the underbrush for something and then continuing on. "They yip at night and keep the dog up. Don't want 'em getting too close to the town and tusslin' with the old boy."
"So we're gonna trap 'em and use what we can from 'em." Bo's face is pinched as he spits into the weeds. "Fuckers keep leaving bits of shit around. You do some of that taxidermy right?"
Brahms nods eagerly, surprised that Bo remembered anything he said.
"Want you to stuff and mount one of those bastards and we'll set it out as a warning to any others who try to move in. Try us and see what happens to you. Fucking pests is all they are." Bo spits again, grumbling to himself as they lug their gear farther.
Brahms is happy to look around. He hasn't seen proper trees in what feels like ages. The insides of buildings suit him just fine, but something about the green of trees… This is the closest he's felt to home since he got here.
"We're just lucky we don't try to keep chickens or anything. Then we'd have to worry about foxes, too, and you know there's that ban on them on account of those rare ones being around here and all."
"Fucking state knows we can't damn well keep track of what gets in our traps or not. Ain't our fucking fault if some rare fox comes prancing where it ain't meant to be. What makes it so special from a regular ass fox?"
Bo and Lester keep going back and forth as they work.
That's fine with Brahms.
Trapping had always been something special for him. He would sneak out of the house at night, the chains of the traps wrapped in cloth to stop the noise from waking his parents, and he would lose himself in the natural quiet of the woods.
Arming and baiting the traps was meditative for him, the motions familiar, but precise even as the little thrill of being naughty coursed up his spine.
Those motions come back to him now. The dense canopy of the Ambrose forest blocked out some of the sun's heat, making it easier to wrench open the heavy traps and lay them out along what was an obviously used animal trail.
…
In his workshop, Vincent begins by carving the missing pieces of the doll’s face from wax, fitting the porcelain pieces in to help guide him and make sure they fit seamlessly. He’s glued together what pieces of porcelain he can, but he really only has about half of what he needs. He hopes that Brahms does not mind his doll-self having the wax addition, not that anyone would be able to tell wax from porcelain once it’s painted. Vincent would worry about the wax getting damaged, but he’s seen how careful Brahms is with his doll and has no doubt that his repairs will stay safe.
Once he has all the pieces recreated and glued together, he paints half melted wax over the entire head, filling in every crack that there is. He lets it sit for a few moments before removing the excess carefully with a sharp tool and smoothing everything out. If he were to leave it now, the doll would have a fully put together head with a few white wax pieces.
A part of Vincent wants to leave it as such. He wants to show off the wax. His skill. His piece of the puzzle.
He decides not to paint the wax.
If Brahms wants him to later, he can, but for now he will leave it and hope that Brahms appreciates it as much as he does.
But he’s not done yet.
…
"I'm just sayin' that I would rather we end up in the pen for all the people we got than some harmless lil critter." Lester trails off as he hears the tell-tale ring of hammer hitting spike.
Looking around, Brahms is nowhere to be seen, but there's that metallic ring once again.
He cocks his head to Bo and clicks his tongue as a cue to check things out.
There's not much space between them and the sound, so they don't have to prowl for long until they see Brahms hard at work.
It's a little scary.
He's hunched over in the scrubs, streaked with dirt and sweat, his arms damn bulging as he hammers the spikes into the ground to keep the traps in place.
And hell does he place 'em.
Lester can already see a few hungry jaws peeking out of the green, but apparently Brahmsy boy isn't satisfied yet.
A thick boot wedges in between locked teeth and, with barely a grunt, limbs are flexing again and prying the waiting maw open and armed.
Like Lester's traps are from the 1800's and don't have a neat little mechanism that makes the whole damn process easier than that .
"Shit." Bo curses next to him and Lester has gotta agree.
"Better not piss him off, brother, don't think even your thick neck would survive those puppies."
"Don't tell me what to do." But Bo still grimaces and tugs his shirt collar higher.
"You know I'd never. Just offering some advice to my kin I wanna keep alive and breathing." Lester's grin is a little smug as he pops out of the brush and makes his way to Brahms.
"'Ey! Those were made in the last ten years. There's an easier way, bud."
...
Vincent’s mother once let him look through a book of hers on foreign wax and sculpting practices, and one style always interested him though he never had the need to practice it. Kintsugi , the Japanese art of repairing broken ceramics. Vincent liked how the gold looked spider-webbing across the plates and bowls pictured in the book. He’d even obtained some gold pigment at some point that he’d been saving for a special occasion.
He can’t think of an occasion any more special than this.
Using the smallest of paintbrushes, Vincent slowly traces each and every crack with a sticky lacquer. When he gently rubs the gold dust over the cracks, buffing it in with a cloth, it only sticks to the lines he’s painted. It’s not the exact true kintsugi method, but it’s close and the aesthetic is there.
When he’s done, the doll’s head is fully intact, a mix of wax and porcelain, two eyes gazing in the candle light, and golden veins shining. The cracks are no longer dark marks against pale skin, but beautiful reminders of how many times Brahms has been broken and fixed.
Vincent is honored to be trusted to mend him.
…
"Just gotta lay the bait and then we can come back tonight and see if we got anything. Lucky I saved the trimmings from this morning's haul, huh?" Lester pulls open the bag that's been at his side the whole time and produces a zip bag red with blood. He pops the top and Brahms wants to retch under his mask as Lester dumps the contents around.
"We're still close to town, right?" Brahms cocks his head curiously. "If they're caught and in pain, we would know. If anything is caught we would know. Sound seems to carry."
"Sure does. Doesn't hurt to see for ourselves, though. I ain't mean enough to let some critter suffer for too long. I like it quick."
Brahms catches the glance he shoots Bo and tucks that thought away. He's not nice either, but he also likes it quick as Lester said. He's not sure he wants to see what Bo does when he gets his hands on something he can take his time with.
…
“Alright, we done?” Bo asks a few hours later with a huff, lifting his hat to wipe the sweat off his brow. “I’m tired of cooking in this heat. Wanna get a beer and some dinner in me before we have to haul our asses back out here.”
The setting sun casts a warm glow through the thick trees, hardly dissipating the high temperature of the muggy air.
Lester and Brahms turn to look at him as one. Both of them are crouched over a trap mostly hidden in the underbrush, their hands caked in viscera, the smell pungent in the heat.
"Yeah. I think this is as good as we're gonna get it. What do you think, Brahmsy?" Lester cracks a crooked smile, wiping his hands on a rag tucked in his back pocket.
"I think it will do. This can be a trial run." Brahms looks around and cocks his head like he's listening. "I'm still not sure what you have around here and I can only learn how to do better by seeing what I catch."
"That's the spirit." Lester slaps a relatively clean hand on his shoulder. "Just wait 'til fall hits. We'll hunt deer and that's when you can really see what the land has to offer."
The thought of being here in the future sends an excited trill through Brahms' bones and he nods eagerly.
"Good. Let's get back then before Bo really starts bitching. We probably want to clean you up before we return you to Vin, too. He'd be mighty peeved with me if I gave him his new toy back in anything less than mint condition." Lester elbows Brahms with a cackle.
Brahms warms under his mask, but it has nothing to do with the Louisiana heat. He swats gently at Lester the way he’s seen Vincent do when his younger brother jokes around. He seems to do it right as Lester laughs a little more and gives him a wide grin.
They start the trek back and Brahms can’t help feeling his stomach tighten the closer they get. Will his doll be finished? What will he look like? He trusts Vincent and has seen his amazing artistic skills, of course, but there’s still a bubble of worry in him.
He tries to ignore it, drowning out his anxious thoughts with the sound of Bo and Lester chatting away again.