#starting a description so cautiously and then losing themselves to the nostalgia of it all

[absolute-flaming-trash]

(For Mahito)

"Could we go out and see the Christmas lights today?"

note: yandere, kidnapped reader, vague violence implications

--

You ask the question as casually as you feasibly can. You don't even look up from your book, or from your spot on the ground, where you're currently nestled on top of a pile of mismatched, patchwork quilts and blankets taken from here and there and dropped on the cement for you to arrange like some sort of comfort-starved underground rat.

But the casual pretense didn't appear to work.

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you hear the hammock creak, and ah--when you look up, there it is.

Mahito is already leaning over the side of his hammock, upside down, current book discarded, a lopsided grin on his face and keen interest in his eyes.

"Oh? Why do you want to see them? Are Christmas lights important to you?"

Your heart speeds up, and you cover your chest with your book, stupidly, like that will hide what your sure is a pulse in your soul.

"No," you lie, turning a page. "I just thought it might be a change of pace from our usual night." You shrug, and curl up further into the blankets. "If you don't want to, it's fine. I don't really care."

"Hey!"

You hear the creaking rope again before there's the tell-tale sound of Mahito's feet hitting the ground. His voice has gone up an octave, and he draws the words out childishly as he plops himself down on your nest of blankets.

You don't look back at him, still, despite the increase in your heart rate. Despite the bead of sweat on your forehead. Despite the way your muscles tell you that you ought to be moving away.

"I didn't say I didn't want to!" He whines, before he simply plucks the book from your hands and tosses it aside, forcing you to--in slow, carefully orchestrated movements--give him your attention.

He grabs your mouth and squishes your lips together.

"Are they fun? I bet they're fun--tell me!"

Living with Mahito has given you the uncanny ability to plan ahead more than your body wants to; desperately, your mind, your muscles, everything wants to react quickly to the danger he presents. But that's the riskiest thing in the world, so you force yourself to think before you act.

"Well," you say, considering slowly, "They can be very beautiful, especially when it's dark outside. And when the weather is chilly, it gives everything the perfect winter atmosphere... like you're walking around in some fairytale or a cheesy movie. Or a snowglobe, if it happens to snow."

You shift on the blankets, propping yourself up on your elbow.

"And if you're walking downtown, there's usually other things you can do while you look at them. Window shop... oh," you don't bite back the smile, "Because everything is way too expensive, especially around Christmas. But it's nice to pretend. Or you can get hot chocolate." You lick your lips, imagining the sweet, warm liquid on your tongue. How long has it been since you've had something sweet that wasn't stolen, half-eaten, or questionably old?

"Nothing better than looking at Christmas lights on a cold night with some hot chocolate, you know? As long as you've got a cozy hat and some mittens, it's not so bad to be outside. It all adds up, I guess, to be something magical."

You're smiling, when you finish. And oh, oh, you've let yourself get too carried away. Let nostalgic make your heart beat-beat-beat too easily.

Because Mahito is staring at you with a cat-ate-the-canary grin on his face, his gaze locked firmly on your own as you realize your mistake.

His lips curl.

"Oh, pet. Your soul is humming," he whispers. His fingers grip the flesh of your side and squeeze casually, making you jerk, though there's nowhere to go.

"Will it hum like that if I take you? Or differently? Better? Worse?" He digs his fingers harsher into your side and tugs you close. His lips open again and you get the oppressive feeling of a thousand questions lingering behind them, waiting to burst out. Questions that would make you squirm, make you want to heave, make you grip your palm until it bled.

But he doesn't ask any more than that. Instead, he pecks your nose with his lips, leaving a wet splotch. "Well, I want to find out!"

And then he's off you, leaping to his feet with a giggle.

You stare up at him stupidly, feeling like your heart has been scooped out (by him, who else--who ever?) and dropped back in.

When you don't move, he grabs your wrist and yanks you unsteadily to your feet, so that you're forced to cling to his arm to avoid face-planting onto the concrete.

"I hope you don't mind stolen hot chocolate," he says, leading you on wobbly legs deeper into the sewer, where--somewhere--there is a way out. "Unless some of the clothes from my experiments have cash on them... well, let's look next time."