picking up the pieces

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a/n: this is for all the girlies that say "all brahms needs is a shower" I hear you and i agree, so enjoy hehehe

also, be sure to read the tags, i don't want to trigger anyone with any of the topics within this story! and below is a lil mood board:

also, be sure to read the tags, i don't want to trigger anyone with any of the topics within this story! and below is a lil mood board:

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Pain.

Everything began and ended in it.

His whole life — world — had been forged from that single word, oblivious to the way he shuddered as the people he trusted the most took from him, uncaring for the way it rend his flesh from his bones.

As the people he loved left him like he was worth nothing.

Maybe he wasn't.

A shard of porcelain sliced through his fingertip as he delicately tried to place it among the rest. Clenching his teeth from the sting, he didn't let it deter him from his task. Smearing crimson along the white, cracked surface, he continued gluing each piece back.

All of his armor had been stripped from him. Even his most precious piece — his mask. Fury curled its warm fingers around his beating heart, threatening to crush it if he didn't distract himself from the emotion.

That had been the whole purpose of this chore: a distraction and a solution. Now that his parents were truly gone, an emptiness had grown within his gut, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized it wasn't from his parent's death.

It was from Greta's betrayal.

After all he'd done for her, she'd still chosen to leave him behind — tried to kill him. Outside of the ache in his heart, a throb echoed toward the surface of his being.

The stab wound.

He'd protected Greta — killed for her — and this was how she'd thanked him. Plunged a dull screwdriver between his ribs. Brahms had only survived off pure adrenaline, praying infection wouldn't follow him through the walls.

And praying that the agony clinging to him would abate... eventually.

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