yascorz

It was late one evening when you finally found him in the living room, crouched behind an old armchair. He might have fled if not for how gently you approached—slow steps, outstretched hands, your voice calm but cautious.

You knelt down, heart pounding, meeting those wide, frightened eyes through the mask’s eyeholes. “You must be Brahms,” you whispered into the stillness. Your words lingered, soft reassurance filling the space between you.

He didn’t speak; you hadn’t expected him to. But there was a distinct tremor in his shoulders as though he was holding back a flurry of words—or maybe sobs. Even behind the mask, you could feel the intensity of his longing for contact, for acknowledgment, for someone to look at him and not run away in horror.

So you didn’t run. You didn’t even back away.

You settled into a routine with surprising ease. Brahms was silent as always, but his presence began to make itself known through little gestures: the steady pattern of footsteps behind you as you moved about the estate, the slight tug on your sleeve when it was time for dinner, or a gentle tap on your shoulder in the afternoons when the house felt too big, too empty.

In response, you offered him wordless kindness. Meals at the table, always setting two plates so he’d know there was a seat for him. A folded blanket left on the sofa, just big enough for the two of you to share when the nights got cold. A record player with music turned down low, so he could sit near you without feeling overwhelmed.

At first, he was shy about receiving affection. You’d see his shoulders tense whenever your hand hovered over his arm—but he never pulled away. Slowly, day by day, Brahms let himself draw closer to you. Where he once watched you from afar, now he’d sit at the edge of the same couch.

One evening, you found yourself in the library. The moonlight streamed in through stained-glass windows, painting the shelves in a kaleidoscope of color. You sat on the old, worn rug, a book splayed in your lap. You were reading quietly to him, your tone hushed and steady, when Brahms leaned close—closer than he ever had.

Your voice faltered for a split second, but you carried on. His breathing was unsteady. At last, carefully, you rested a hand on his knee. For an agonizing moment, you thought he might leap up and bolt into the hidden corridors. But instead, Brahms let out a sound—something between a sigh and a relief-filled moan.

He turned just enough for you to see his eyes through the mask, shadows dancing in the moonlight. Slowly, painfully shy, he laid his head against your shoulder, letting you cradle him gently. Brahms felt fragile, like an abandoned creature starved for love.

You ran your fingers through the strands of his hair that peeked out from beneath the mask’s edges. His shoulders relaxed little by little, tension melting under the warmth of your touch. If you had any doubts that your affection was what he so badly needed, they all drifted away in that moment.

Affection became your shared language. Brahms still didn’t speak; you didn’t need him to. The way he tentatively placed his hand over yours—masked fingers brushing yours—was worth more than a thousand words. When he was anxious, you felt it in the trembling press of his body against yours. When he was happy, you saw it in the more confident way he moved, as though it no longer pained him to be seen.

You took pleasure in the smallest rituals: combing through his hair by the fireplace, making him tea, encouraging him to hold your hand whenever he felt uncertain. He was ravenous for the smallest bit of kindness. Every fleeting touch on his arm or gentle brushing of your fingers along his back made him shudder in gratitude. You were more than willing to give it to him.

Eventually, one crisp morning, you convinced him to come outside with you. He hovered in the doorway, torn between the fear of the open world and the longing to stay by your side. But you simply offered your hand, palm upturned, and waited with all the patience you could muster.

He took it.

Once outside, Brahms let out a breath he’d been holding for years, it seemed. The sun’s warmth touched him through the fabric of his clothes, through the slight gap between the edge of his mask and his skin. You guided him to the garden, letting him feel the dew on his fingertips.

He never let go of your hand.