The Village in Winter [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]
Title: The Village in Winter [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]
Synopsis: You meet a strange man in the museum one day.
Word count: 7500ish
Notes: yandere, autistic coded reader, kidnapping, manipulation, Chrollo is an asshole
Tuesday. Thursday. Saturday.Â
Each of these was a Museum Day. Well. Not officially. It wasnât on some city-wide calendar or anything as glamorous as that. It was, however, a simple fact of life: every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, you came to your cityâs famous art museum for the afternoon.Â
It was easy enough to take a long lunch during the weekâthe missing 2 hours on your pay wasnât exactly something to weep over and if you wanted to cry, you could always come in an hour early to make up for it.Â
And you didnât work on Saturday at all, so it was your time to spend as you wished. So why not spend it at the most famous museum in the city? Â
Maybe infamous was a better word. Outside news agencies never got tired of remarking about the dubious and potentially illegal origins of some of its works, rumored to be stolen hundreds of years ago by some king-or-another from a formerly favored lord.Â
The infamy wasnât why you went, of course. You went for the art, dubious origins or otherwise. More specifically, you went for the paintings. Sculptures werenât the same. They were often boring, blank imitations of life that captured nothing but smooth solid porcelain.Â
It was paintings that drew your eye and kept your interest. The brushstrokes, the way the lighting was specifically designed to pull peopleâs gazes this way and that; the hidden secrets behind a subjectâs expression. All the little details that you could count on being there time and time again.Â
And so, like clockwork, you went there time and time again. To admire, to walk. Some of the guards and docents knew you by name at this point and, if theyâd given it, you knew theirs, too.Â
It was nice to remember things when you went to the same place. It was nice, too, to visit the same paintings. The museum rarely moved piecesâit had happened only once in your memoryâand that was especially ideal. Your steps and path could be familiar day after day.Â
What was not nice, however, was the fact that there was (today, of all days, a Tuesday) a man standing in front of your favorite painting at the exact moment you wanted to approach it.Â
The manâs presence wasnât the not-nice part. (It was often nice when people admired the same things you did, because it meant they might ask you about them. And as many years as you had under your belt visiting these same paintings, these same steps, you knew quite a lot.)
The not-nice part was that there was a man standing in front of your favorite painting, and he was staring at (horror!) the wrong thing.Â
As you trace your familiar steps, coming agonizingly closer, you can see that heâs not looking at the painting but the frame. The frame! Of all things! Heâs got his head tilted just-so, looking at it this way and that. Like heâs admiring it. He stops only when your footsteps get close enough to make it clear that youâre about to stop at the same spot.
âThe frame isnât period authentic,â you say, perhaps a bit too loudly, âThereâs no point in looking at it.â
The man hums. You half-wonder if heâll snap at you, people sometimes do.. But instead he looks back at the painting, as if heâs trying to see what you mean. âWhat makes you say it isnât period authentic?âÂ
His voice is low, a murmur. Out of respect for the museum, maybe, or heâs just embarrassed at being called out. You donât bother trying to figure it out, because the question he asked is more than enough to have you ready to spill out the words.
âWell,â you begin, swallowing because you can already tell itâs going to take a while. âFor one, itâs gilded with aluminum.â When he doesnât respond, you smile, unbidden. âAnd of course, aluminum isnât suitable for water gilding.â Your finger points to the frame (an unwelcome frame, in your opinionâbut again, it was the painting, not the frame, that one ought to look at) and wiggles. âThe era this painting was made, water gilding was the most popular. They certainly wouldnât have used an inferior material like aluminum to do water gilding.â
âI see,â he says, after a moment. âIs that all?â
It is, naturally enough, not all.
âNo!â You say, maybe too loud, because he raises an eyebrow. But you press on. âIf it was just the frame material, that would be one thing. Not everything was water gilded, of course, it was just the most popular. But the real tellâŠâÂ
And you might be reading him wrong (you do that a lot) but he does lean in, doesnât he? Because heâs interested in what you have to say. You think. It would be welcome, anyway.
âThe real tell,â you continue, pointing here and there on the frame. âAre the fasteners. Especially around the joints..â You press on before he thanks you, because he shouldnât thank you before you give him the really important detail here.Â
âWhen the painting was made, they didnât have keyed stretchers yet.â You point here, and there. âThese made it easier to expand the frame, or make it smaller, simply by sliding the keys and tightening the screw. Before,â and thereâs a laugh in your voice, âit was a pain when you wanted to take a painting out and swap it for something else. But with these newer ones, it was much simpler!â
There is a beat or two, and you wonder if heâs going to scoff and give you that smirky little smile people give when youâve shared too much information that they apparently didnât want. (Even if it was fascinating information, nonetheless.)Â
But he doesnât. Curiously, and itâs a pleasant sort of curiosity, his smile isnât smirky at allâitâs pleased. Happy, even, if your guess was as good as gold.Â
âThank you,â he says, eyeing the frameâstill the wrong part, you thinkâagain. âI wasnât aware that frames held such nuance.â He glances at you. âI appreciate your insight.â
Insight. Huh. No one has ever called it that before. Word-vomit, yes. Over-explaining, definitely. âStuff no one cares about,â that one was pretty common. But insightâthat was new. And it was, like his smile, perfectly pleasant. It made you feel almost fluttery.Â
âMost people donât appreciate it,â you admit, too honest. âBut the frame isnât the important part of the painting, anywayâŠâÂ
The next time he looks towards the painting he, thank goodness, actually looks at the painting within the frame. âIs this your favorite painting?â
âOf course.â The words come quick and sure.
âWhy of course?â
Sometimes you wonder if other people have a switch that lets them choose when to hold back,Â
and when to indulge in their words. Because you find it very, very hard. Especially when itâs something like this, something like a painting you adore, something like being asked to explain why it is your favorite painting.
But this stranger asked about it, so even if this mysterious switch did exist, you certainly would have slammed the âfull speed aheadâ setting without hesitation.
âWellâŠâ
This stranger gets to learn about it all. About the artist (Henri Lamorliere) and why he chose the subject (a village scene in the winter) and who commissioned it (a prince who owned the land and later died from complications related, presumably, to his gout) and how it ended up here, in this city, of all places. (That was, indeed, a longer storyâinvolving said potentially dubious origins that you were more than happy to indulge in, considering the strangerâs interest.)
As for why it is, of course, your favoriteâit is because of all the tiny details, small things, inconsequential and silly to most, but details that keep you coming again and again. A child depicting playing in the snow with friends; a couple ice skating, with one leg clearly losing balance, forever frozen before the young man falls straight on his bum; a woman with a bucket, frowning, staring into a frozen water well; a farmer carefully draping warm blankets over his horses; a streak of mud revealed underneath the pristine snow as a cart of firewood is pulled along; and on and on. Itâs not just a painting, itâs a frozen moment, people forever engaging in these mundane or delightful or simplistic moments.
When you are done (and you must admit, you talked for quite a while) the man doesnât roll his eyes or sigh or say that he must be off, which is very often the case when you talk too much.Â
Instead he, of all things, smiles.
âThank you,â he says, and before you can ask why, continues: âHow fascinating. I didnât know the history of the piece as well I as I thought.â His eyes roam over the painting, the details you cling to. âAnd I never thought much about the scene being depicted.â He glances at you. âNot in the way you have, at least.â
It might be an insult. It might not.Â
âWhen you come here as much as I do, you learn a lot.âÂ
He hums. Seems to consider something. And then, he asks:
âWould you like to share a coffee?â If youâre not mistaken, thereâs a warmth to his voice. A bit of humor, too. Maybe he didnât hate your diatribe about the piece, in the end.Â
Butâwell. It wonât work out, at least not without a concession on his part. (And yours, too, not that heâd understand it.)
âI only get coffee after I see the rest of my paintings.â A pause, something heated piercing the apple of your cheeks. âUm. Theyâre not my paintings. I didnât paint them. I donât have any work on display,â you explain, as if he needs that clarification. âI think of some of them as mine, because I visit them when I come here.â
Sometimes, when thereâs time to ponder on it, you liken actions to machinery. It starts with thoughts. They go through a certain process before resulting in an expression or a word. Thatâs what you think of, now, as you watch this stranger taking in what you said. His own thoughts are no doubt moving through the cogs, being sent this way and that on some conveyor belt, ending in his final action.Â
Though it isnât one you expected.
âWell then,â he says. âMay I accompany you to see the rest of your paintings, so that I could join you for coffee?â
Huh.
Itâs a break in the routine, sure. But he didnât roll his eyes while you talked or quickly excuse himself to get out of hearing what you had to say. And if he was willing to listen, and follow your route, wellâit might just be okay.
You donât exactly plan to smile when you answer, but it creeps along your lips all the same.
âI suppose you could,â you say, and that smile quirks. âIf you can keep up.â
âMy name is Chrollo,â he replies, oddly, like itâs an answer.Â
â
Chrollo does, in fact, keep up. More than that, he engages in conversation with you, offering counterpoints, asking questions, even going so far as to ask how you learned such-and-such a detail.Â
Despite the interruption that he presents, itâs not unwelcome. Itâs nice, actually, and as the afternoon goes on, you almost regret that there arenât more paintings on your usual stop. But itâs not like the afternoon stops when you visit Boy and his Dog, one of the museumâs quirkier paintings; it is, yes, a Boy and his Dog. But the dog is wearing human clothes, and the boy is running wild on a broken leash.Â
(The painting always makes you smile. When the stranger asks why, youâre almostâwell, perhaps actuallyârude when you explain: âBecause itâs all backwards, of course.â)
After Boy and his Dog comes coffee. And if your newfound companion is relieved to have finally gotten to the part he asked you about earlier this afternoon, he doesnât show it. Instead, he watches; he watches as you approach the counter and the barista greets you by name, already starting your familiar order before you say a word.
âYou come here often,â he says, and itâs not a question.
You nod and eye the pastry case. âItâs tradition,â you say, not taking your eyes off the goodies displayed inside the climate controlled glass. If they have fresh cinnamon buns, you get one of them. If they arenât fresh, you stick to the prepackaged cookies. âEvery Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.âÂ
The glaze isnât hard, but smooth, a bit of it still runny along the edges.
Fresh.
âOne cinnamon roll, please,â you order. Then pause, because that isnât quite right today, is it? âI mean, two.â But is that right, either? You eye Chrollo and something like a smile plays at the edge of his lips. âEr, well, if youâd like one, that isââ
âI would, thank you.â Itâs a relief to not have to walk back the order, and the barista behind the counter swiftly bags them up.
Chrollo orders his own coffee before you can offer to add his to your tab, but thatâs all right. At least youâre buying him the cinnamon bun. Itâs nice to help others, especially someone who was patient enough to listen. (Not just listen, though, you remind yourself. Actively engage with you, which is far better. And more rare.)
Youâre in the middle of your cinnamon bunâliterally, fork stabbing the middle part first, which is the softest, gooeist partâwhen he speaks up.
âI enjoyed our conversation today.â Soft, almost as if he didnât say the words often. Maybe, and this was perhaps too egotistical of you, he didnât.Â
âMm,â you say, because you really did want to eat that middle part first, and the explosion of sticky-sweet cinnamon goodness in your mouth prevented further words for a few moments. Something about this seems to amuse him, and he places a hand over his mouth before he chuckles.
âWhat?â There is still some cinnamon roll still clinging to your teeth.Â
âNothing,â he murmurs, though it wasnât nothing at all. âI was simply thinking that I might see you on Thursday. If thatâs all right.â
Your mouth quirks. Itâs not irritation that youâre feeling. Not really. But he was something new, a blip in your schedule. Still, he didnât make a mess of things. He listened, and it was nice, actually, for someone to not shoo you away like some gnat the moment you got going on a favorite topic.
âItâs all right,â you say, mind still wavering, but voice already made up. âIf you can still keep up.â
He snorts, and nothing more.
â
On Thursday, heâs there. Standing by your favorite painting. And staring, again, at the unimpressive, unimportant frame. Of all thingsâagain!Â
âYouââ And itâs strange, how easily the indignation bleeds into your words. âBut I already told you about the frameââ
But when Chrollo turns, heâs smiling, and it takes you a few slow moments to realize that he was kidding. Ah. It was⊠It was a joke.Â
Thereâs a flush in your cheeks as you stuff your hands into your jacket pocket. âIâm not good with jokes,â you admit.Â
He stuffs his own hands in his pockets and you canât decide if itâs intentional mimicry or if he simply does the same thing in an awkward situation. (And which of these options is better, really?)Â
âNor am I, it seems.â
That, for some reason, makes you laugh.
Makes him laugh.
Makes the afternoon start off on a better foot.
Later on, after paintings and coffee, Chrollo insists on coming to the museum Saturday to see you again.Â
You donât protest.
â
Itâs remarkable how quickly Chrollo becomes a part of your daily routine, and how swiftly he moves from being solely within your once-tidy museum routine to the outside.Â
To things like asking you out to dinner, and when you explain that on Tuesday evenings after work you go home and make breakfast for dinner, he insists on taking you to a diner-style restaurant to maintain your breakfast meal while not intruding on your home life.
Which is considerate, you think, that he understands that youâre wary of inviting a relatively new acquaintance into your home. Butâgoing out to eat is not what you usually do. At least he doesnât comment when you fidget too much, when you donât look in the waitressâs eyes as you order, and when you seem relieved when the check comes.Â
You like him better for it.Â
â
Chrollo doesnât tell you that youâre doing things wrong. Which is nice. Itâs not that most people tell you flat out that youâre doing something wrong, at least not since youâve become an adult. But you can tell by their looks; pinched eyebrows and frowns, glances, murmured comments to their peers.Â
Chrollo does none of this.Â
Chrollo does, however, often forget how you like things; or rather, how you donât like things.Â
He gets too close. A hand that brushes your thigh when you sit together for lunch or coffee, his arm slung around your shoulder when the museum gets too crowded and you start to feel the crush of it crawling up your back. A term of endearment slipped in at the end of the night. Goodnight, dearest.Â
Maybe itâs a lot to remember, or maybe heâs just forgetful. There are other options that sometimes sneak up in your mindâmaybe heâs doing it on purposeâbut they are swiped away so quickly.Â
Because itâs Chrollo. He listens to you, he actually pays attention to what you say. He doesnât mind that you sometimes have trouble making eye contact or that you get flustered in ordinary situations.Â
More than thatâ
Heâs your friend. Someone who listens, who has something interesting to say, who seems to actually care about you. Heâs the first friend youâve had in a long time, and you were willing to put up with his forgetfulness in order to keep that friendship alive and well.
Even if it meant having to bat his hand away from your thigh on more than one occasion.Â
â
Itâs Friday evening.Â
Friday evening should be relaxing. The end of the work week, a time to grab a favorite frozen dinner from the freezer and relax in front of the TV with a show that youâve seen a thousand times.Â
Once itâs over, youâll turn on the news and you might work on a puzzle or write in your journal or slowly make progress on an embroidery kit you picked up 2 years ago and have only ventured into a few times.
You might do these things, exceptâwell.Â
Except everything has fallen apart.
Your shaking fingers almost donât manage to pick out Chrollo on your contacts, and itâs a wonder your phone doesnât crash to the ground and break into a million pieces with how much your hands tremble.
âHello?â
He barely gets the word out and youâre already blubbering into the phone, incoherent, words bubbling out with no time to make them more understandable. They choke out, stuttered and half-baked, before you finally beg for the one person who might understand your distress.Â
âItâsâitâsâandâtheyâandâitâsâg-g-g-...Chrolloâplease-come-over.â
He manages the trek in record time, impossibly fast, but you donât pay attention. It doesnât matter. What matters is that heâs here and you donât even protest this time when he sees your sobbing form and immediately scoops you into his arms.
Itâs almost comforting, the way he squeezes you, gives you something to feel grounded. One of his hands inches a bit lower on your back than youâd like but even that doesnât matter, doesnât even register, because his presence has calmed you down enough to spit out the terrible truth:
âThey stole it.â You gulp in a great, heaving gasp. âThe Village in Winter. Someone⊠someone stole it.â
Chrolloâs body tenses. The news drones on in the background, but itâs moved on to something less important now. As if something could be less important than this. Thereâs a great big hole where the painting used to be, on the wall, in your mind.
Chrollo steps in or rather, steps back, placing one hand on your chinâthe sensation makes something itch down your back, but you ignore it, because such things can be ignored in a time of great distress. âYou are truly upset,â he says, finally, slowly.Â
âOf course I am!â Your own hands come up now, grabbing the one on your chin, tugging it down so you can squeeze it with great abandon. Chrollo doesnât seem to mind. âItâs all wrongââ Itâs wrong, too, the way that other hand still rests far too low on your back. âIt wonât be there. I love that painting. I love it and now when we go to the museum tomorrow, it wonât be there!â
Chrolloâs hand on your lower back begins to stroke. Maybe itâs soothing. Or meant to be; you have to give him credit, you think, for rushing over and trying to calm you down.Â
âWe donât have to be there,â he murmurs.
Which does nothing to calm you down at all, because of courseâ
âWe do have to be there.â Bitterness sets your jaw hard. âWe do have to be there, and it will be all wrong.â The thought of all those precious details lost to you forever, the stories youâve wound through again and again in your head. Even the new routine of admiring them with Chrollo, who always takes interest in the wrong part of the paintingâthat will be gone, too.
And itâs wrong, wrong, wrong. The world feels worse for it. What would be the point of going to the museum, when youâve lost some integral part of yourself, all thanks to the work of some lowlife thieves?
Chrollo finally pulls himself away from you, a frown set on his lips. He glances around your living room, the disrupted Friday evening routine that is begging to be set back into place without all the pieces.Â
âHave you had your tea? You always drink it while you watch the news, donât you?â
You do. Yes. Not tonight, though. At least not more than that first sip before it was interrupted by the horror of the news report.Â
âI was too upset to finish it,â you admit. âItâs on the counter.â But if you could finish it, maybe it would help. Now that Chrolloâs here to set everything back into order. It wouldnât make things rightânothing could, except the restoration of that pivotal paintingâbut itâs a start. A comfort.
 âCould youâŠâÂ
Heâs already on his way to the kitchen, a hand slipping into his pocket. âOf course. Iâll warm it up for you.â
âThanks,â you force out, the word heavy on your tongue. Yes. Thank goodness Chrollo is here to set things into place. He knows what you like and need, wandering hands notwithstanding. So it comes as no surprise when he emerges from the kitchen with a newly warmed cup of tea and you stumble on shaking legs to the sofa.
Microwaved tea never tastes the same, and itâs no exception here. Itâs almost too bitter now. But you choke it down anyway while Chrollo sits next to you, eyes on the screen, the flickering bar underneath the next program that repeats the news about the museum break-in.
Theft suspected to be the work of professional thieves. More updates on stolen paintings will emerge as staff inventory the losses. At least three security guards found deadâŠ
The world spins. Literally, the world spins, and you reach out a hand and stand up on reflex with the anxiety that spreads through your chest.
âChrollo?â Heâs there, sitting next to you, but he falls in and out of focus as your vision wobbles.
âYes, love?âÂ
âI donât feel veryâŠâ The word never comes before everything goes black, and you only just register the awful sensation of falling and being caught in someoneâs sturdy hands before you faint.
â
Someone has shoved cotton into your mouth. Thatâs the only explanation your mind comes up with when the world returns and all you can taste is stale dryness. Someone must have shoved cotton into your mouth at some point before the blackness and this bleary, foggy wake-up.
But why would they do that, and why does your head feel so fuzzy, and why does the world feel like itâs moving? Thereâs an awful sound underneath you too, almost like rushing and wheels mixed together, like heavy traffic orâor a train.Â
Oh. Oh, no.
Air comes in great gulping gasps as you heave yourself forward and sensations assault your senses. A leather seat underneath you, the sun dimmed by drawn curtains, warm, stale air, the sound of rolling wheels and ground underneath youâand Chrollo. Chrollo sitting your opposite, on the same type of leather seat.
Youâre on a train. Youâre awake and on a train and Chrollo is sitting in front of you.
Itâs a dream. Maybe. Thatâs what you think as you swallow up the cotton feeling, smacking your lips, craving the realization that this is nothing but a bizarre nightmare.
But nightmares donât feel like this. This is real. Itâs your body that feels sluggish and heavy, your eyes blinking away an awful, long sleep. Your voice that croaks out the words that half-stick to the roof of your mouth:
âChrollo? Where⊠am I?âÂ
Thereâs another question that clings to the back of itâWhat happened?--but the low curl in your gut makes you avoid it for now.
Chrollo, for his part, looks appropriately serious for the bizarre situation youâve woken up in. He leans forward, folding his hands together, as he scans your face. For what? An injury? Is that why youâre here? You fell and hit your head and the only solution was a specialist who is only available in the next city, so Chrollo booked you the first tickets on the next train and he didnât have time to warn you beforeâ
âDearest.â
The low curling in your stomach squirms, too. He knows you hate those pet names. It was easier to ignore them back then. When the two of you were strolling through the museum or he was indulgently watching you reorganize your books. When you werenât suddenly on a train, feeling like you got hit over the head with a hammer.
A strange place, a strange Chrollo.
An answer might come, but your mouth is still too sticky and Chrollo interrupts what you might have said, anyway.
âWeâre on a train.â
After a moment, a slow word comes. âYes.â You swallow. âI know that.â
Chrollo smiles. It might be indulgent, but all you can think is: has his smile always been so condescending?
âDo you know why weâre on a train?â
Well. It would be stupid to say âyes,â when you donât know the answer.Â
So you spit out the runaround thought from earlier, though even to your ears, it sounds more ridiculous with every passing word.
âI fell and hit my head and the only solution was a specialist who is only available in the next city, so you booked the first tickets on the next train and you didnât have time to warn you beforeââ
He doesnât call you an endearing nickname (thank goodness) this time but instead his smile widens, just enough to make it look like he wants to coo at you. Itâs gross and sticky and you rub at your arms to make some of the feeling go away.
âStop that. Iâm not a child.âÂ
His smile doesnât waver, which only sparks a rush of indignation. The world has stopped feeling quite so heavy and when you sit up, you move to pull aside the curtains, if only to find out where in the world youâre at.Â
The countryside thatâs rolling by isnât remotely familiar. All lush and green and pretty. Are you even in the same region? The same country?Â
âHow⊠how long was I asleep?â No, thatâs not the right question. âWhy was I asleep? I donât rememberâŠâ Falling asleep at all. And what you do remember doesnât fit inside this puzzle. Youâd been watching the news, and there was the terrible report about the theft at the museum, and then Chrollo came over, and you drank your tea. One plus one should equal two, not waking up on a train.
Chrollo hums, and the sound brings you back. The ground rolls heavy underneath you two, separated by the carpeted floor.Â
âI drugged your tea,â he says, plainly enough.Â
It canât be what he said, though. Youâre hearing things. Maybe you suffered a blow to the head. That might actually make things.
âYou what⊠my what?âÂ
âI drugged your tea,â he repeats. Calm and clear and youâre certain that youâve heard him right this time, only itâs still all wrong. Because this is Chrollo. He wouldnât, he couldnât. But he did. He said so. So the only thing left to wonder is:
âWhy would you do that?â
âI enjoy your company,â he says, still leaning forward. âVery much so. And it was time for me to leave town, but the thought of leaving without you, wellâŠâ
Now, there are no ârightâ answers to this question. No one ever catalogs the proper responses to a hypothetical question about drugging oneâs tea. Still, what he tells you doesnât sound like the sort of answer one should give.Â
Kidnapping someone for ransom, sure. Kidnapping someone because they found out some terrible secret and no one else can no, understandable. Kidnapping someone to kill them because youâre secretly a murderer, again, makes sense.
Kidnapping you because he likes you?Â
Itâs so wrong, so out of place, that you donât answer. Canât answer. Thereâs something sticky keeping your mouth shut and that something is Chrolloâs lack of common sense.
And then, of all things, he puts a hand on your shoulder. Firm. Irritating. A touch you want to shake but when you try, his grip keeps you in place. Itâs too much. Too heavy and personal. It was something to be brushed off before, swept under the rug while you focused on what you liked about him.
But now?Â
You must be glaring. Thereâs a moment where you take stock of your expressions. Your eyebrows feel low and heavy, so they must be furrowed. Your mouth is dry and open. And your eyes are⊠well. Itâs understandable to cry.Â
Worst of all, though, is that Chrolloâs hand goes from your shoulders to your cheeks, and itâs when he wipes at your tears that you finally fling your body backwards with enough force that the back of your head smacks against the wall.
It helps, this pain. This motion. So you do it again. Move your head forward and then back, feeling the firm smack of the wood against your head.Â
Thump. Thump. Thump.
An ordinary person might look shocked. An ordinary person might cry out and tell you that you're hurting yourself.
Chrollo, however, simply looks like heâs admiring a painting. He takes in the details, his head tilting just so.Â
âI packed some of your favorite things,â he says after a while, over the sound of your skull smacking against the wall. âOnce we arrive at our destination, we can unpack some of them. It could help you calm down.âÂ
âI want to go home,â you reply, between thumps. âI want to go home.â
He doesnât reply, which is as good as a âno.â
âIâm taking you with me,â he says, still calmly, like you arenât trapped on a train, like you arenât banging your head with increasing intensity against the wood.
âI donât want to go with you,â is all you can say, helplessness straining your voice. âI wantâI wantââ And when you look around, all you can see are these walls, the window, Chrollo. There are a thousand things that you want right now, and none of them are here.
You want your old microwave with the 7 button that sticks so you have to push it hard every time, you want the pink flower rug in your living room that youâve had since childhood, you want your pumpkin-shaped mug with the chip on the handle, you want your blankets and your bed and the alarm clock on the side table on the left side, so you can wake up and easily roll over to hit the snooze buttonâ
Itâs only when Chrollo says your name that you realize youâve been saying all of this, to him or to yourself, youâre not sure. Thereâs something stupidly hungry in the way he looks at you. Itâs in the way he listens, too. Like heâs hanging onto every word so he can pick them all apart, splaying them open to reveal something inside.
But what? And why?
He doesnât tell you. Instead, he hums. Itâs a low grounded sound. It makes you feelâand you hate it, itâs gross, this feelingâcomforted. Almost. Sort of. The way it used to, when you were feeling out of sorts and he swooped in to get you off the ledge.
Only this time heâs the one who pushed you to it, first.
âIâm not taking you home,â he says with a finality that makes your body jerk. âBut you can view me as your new home, if it helps.â The smile he gives is warm and kind and if you were sitting in the museum over a cup of coffee, maybe youâd believe it.
âBut you can view me as your new home, if it helps.â
It doesnât help.
â
Your upper arm hurts from the way Chrollo gripped you in the hotel lobby.
âDonât try anything, dearest,â heâd said, on the way in. Quiet and calm and sticky on the dearest. He might as well have been telling you that he was ordering in for dinner. âIâll kill everyone in this hotel if you do. Iâd rather not have to clean up any messes tonight. Iâm sure you understand.â
The words should have shocked you. Or maybe they did, and youâre still in such an inward frenzy that you canât seem to react to anything within the freezing utter bewilderment of your present situation.Â
So you didnât say anything, though he gripped you hard all the same. And now youâre sitting on some oversized sterile hotel room bed that smells too much like sharp laundry detergent. Thereâs a mint on the pillow. You bet it tastes like soap.
âWeâll be staying here for a few nights,â Chrollo murmurs. The pair of suitcases heâd brought in are on top of the bed, and thereâs a shock to your system when he unzips one of them and you recognize whatâs inside.
Itâs filled with your thingsâyour hairbrush, a wellworn paperback copy of your favorite book, a bottle of your tried-and-true face wash.
Your clothes. (Well. Some of them.) Right down to your underwear, neatly folded on top. Chrollo hadâtaken them. Touched them. Been through your things, clearly.Â
âYouâŠâ The word comes out all strangled, and heat rises to your cheeks for more than one reason. âYou reallyâŠâ You really kidnapped me, you really planned it out, you really went through my private things and plucked them up.Â
He takes the pause in your thoughts to crouch down, peering into your face like he might yank the words out himself.
âYes? What is it?â
âYou... youâŠâ And the words you want to ask are stuck between your teeth until you force them out. âWhy did you do this? Itâs not just⊠it canât be just because you,â and your mind reels to remember what he said on the train. âBecause you enjoy my company.â
Chrollo says nothing for a moment. A whole lot of nothing. Your mind is working too fast and you expect him to smile or grin, expect him to give some terribly wicked speech like a villain in a movie youâve seen a thousand times.
Instead he blinks. Instead he frowns.
Instead his hand reaches out to grip your chin and you donât have time to register the uncomfortable buzz from being touched when says something so softly that you have to strain to hear it.
âOh, dearest. Donât you know?â
When your chin does try to jerk away from his touch, it grows tighter, even as his gaze seems to soften. Itâs a strange look on Chrolloâs face. Chrollo has looked contemplative, yes; contemplative and intrigued and annoyed, even, when some museum-goers were being too loud for your liking. Heâs even looked sympathetic.
But soft? Itâs new. Itâs unwanted. And the expression stays on his face despite both of those terrible qualities.
âI care for you,â he says, repeating his earlier words. âNot just as a friend. ButâŠâ He turns your head this way and that. It makes you feel like a prized horse at auction. âI believe⊠as something more.â
Not just as a friendâŠÂ
Not just as a friendâ
âNot just as a friend.â Your repetition comes out all stilted. Maybe because of the hand on your jaw. Maybe because the words seem to creak out of you, every syllable one step down the staircase youâd rather avoid descending.
Something like a film reel flickers through your memories. Little moments, brought back to the forefront with a disgusting clarity. Why had you brushed him off so often? Because you were lonely; because he was your friend. Or so you thought.
But the way he pushed past what you wanted so often seems calculated now. The times he sat too close and let his thigh brush against yours; the way he didnât hear you, or so he said, when youâd asked him to please stop calling you those soft, sweet pet names. The times he claimed not to be hungry only to ask if he could share your meal afterwardsâthe way his fingers brushed against yours when he accidentally (or was it?) reached for a bite at the same time.
âThe whole time,â you bite out, acid rising in your throat. Your fingers curl against your thighs and thereâs a terrible urge to knock them into something. âWere you like this⊠the whole time?â
Amusement crinkles through the softness in his face. Itâs just as grating as nails on a chalkboard. âDid you really not notice?â
Shame flushes through you, heating up your cheeks, your chest, the very air in the room. âOf course not,â you spit out, words sounding more stilted with every passing moment. âMost people wouldnât noticeânotice that.â
At some point, heâs let go of your chin, and you take the moment of the realization to scoot backwards on the bed. Away from him and closer to the dingy looking headboard, which might have been pretty once upon a time, but was now scratched and chipped.
âOf course they would,â he counters, climbing onto the bed like some sort of terrible cat. âAnd they have, with far less effort on my part.â He pauses, a smile. âNot out of any genuine affection, of course. Donât worry about that. Only to get something I wanted.â
Heâs closer, now. Too close. His hand cups not your chin this time, but your cheek, and thereâs only a few moments in between his face and yours. What if heâŠ?Â
âStop,â you say, desperate, helpless. âDonât touch me.â He doesnât stop. He leans in closer and you smack against the headboard. âWhy arenât you listening to me?â
What he says makes about as much sense as jello salad. Which is to say, no damn sense at all. âI am listening.â The almost-coo in his voice makes you want to hurl. âIâm hearing what you canât say out loud, thatâs all.â
But thatâs not true. Is it? Thereâs too much going on. Heâs too close and this room smells like soap and you ought to be home, not here, with yourself, not Chrollo. The muchness of it all has you aching to get away and make sense of it all, some way, some how.
âI always say what I want to say,â you manage, but you canât hide the question in it. Isnât that true? Isnât that how itâs always been? Itâs why people tend to look at you strangely sometimes. Itâs why you were often too much for them, when it came down to it.
âYou think you do, my dear.â His thumb rubs against your cheek. The touch is sandpaper. âBut thereâs something else inside you, I think. Something stuck that Iâd like to crack open and pull out, if I could.â The fondness in his tone is out of place with the world around you. âIf youâd let me.â
You need him to stop touching you. You need him to get away. You need this entire room to vanish, the sight of it, the smell of it, the feel of the unfamiliar sheets underneath you. A sound comes out, something short, stacattoâ
âNo.âÂ
And Chrollo doesnât leave and his thumb keeps rubbing your cheek, so you bring your arm up, smacking him away. Only his arm doesnât move at all. Itâs like hitting a poleâsturdy and impossibly strong.
So you try again, and again, and the sensation of hitting his arm isnât helpful or soothing. It only makes your breath come in faster, makes the world spin. His breath grows faster, too, and you canât begin to imagine why.
âYouâll grow to like this in time,â Chrollo says, finally, a touch of a sigh in his voice. âYouâll grow to like me.âÂ
âNo,â you say again, even though it doesnât help.Â
In response, Chrollo simply continues to stroke your cheek.
â
In his defenseânot that you are defending himâChrollo said nothing when youâd taken the first opportunity to abandon the bed and build something like a fort in the corner of the room. It wasnât anything like the pop up tent you used to have as a child (then a teenager and, sometimes, in a pinch, as an adult) but it would do. A fort made from blankets and some of the bed pillows, despite the detergent stink.
Anything to avoid sleeping in the same bed as Chrollo. More than that, anything to be alone, or something like it. You rocked yourself to sleep and dreamt about the museum.Â
In the morning, you wake up and remember everything in one great gulping heave. Your body tenses when you hear Chrollo walking around the roomâthe sound of the sink, the toilet, the rustling of clothesâuntil his footsteps stop outside your makeshift shelter.
He pops his head inside without so much as a warning.
âGood morning. Did you sleep well?â
The glare he receives is enough of a response. He chuckles it away, easy as a gnat.
âIâd like to show you something. Itâs a surprise.â
âI donât like surprises,â you reply, voice tired and dull. Heâs going to show you anyway. He knows it, and you do, too.
He holds open the drape of your fort but you donât have the energy to be grateful that he at least didnât drag you out of it. Your limbs feel heavy and awful as you crawl out, and the hotel room in the daylight looks no better than it did at night.Â
But Chrollo must have done some unpacking while you slept, because there are a few more things scattered around. His clothing, slipped into hangers. Toiletriesâhis and yoursâon top of the chest of drawers.
And something set against the wall, covered in a plain black tarp.Â
The surprise, it seems. Curiosity prickles at you. Maybe itâs a good distraction from everything else. Maybe youâre just genuinely interested in what could possibly lay underneath.
Chrolloâs smile almost looks youthful as he tugs at the edge of the tarp, and you see a flash of black as he pulls it away, revealing the treasure underneath.
The Village in Winter.
Itâs all wrong. Itâs naked, without the frame, propped up in some hotel room surrounded by chipped furniture and laundry smells.
There is no air left in the room, no water left in your lungs. You could cough up a thousand years of dust right now and still not run out.
âYou stole it,â you manage to say. Chrollo simply nods and looks for all the world like heâs showing you something heâs proud of; and he is, you think. Proud of everything. The urge to fall down swims through you, and you grip the wall. Â
âYou were a great help,â Chrollo says, voice soft and confident and anything but assuring. âWe were struggling with the best way to remove it without damaging the work underneath.â He tilts his head, just so, the same way he did that first morning in the museum.Â
Nothing is the same as that first morning in the museum.
And nothing ever will be again.

















