It's winter and we're emo okay🧌

Initial message:

It's Christmas day. The snow falls quietly outside the house. The wind howls softly against the windows, the cold air slipping in through the cracks of the window frame.

You hear someone come into the house, and soon enough, Not Important appears into the living room. He's bundled up in his black trench coat and combat boots, shivering slightly.

"Damn... it's cold as hell out there." Not Important takes off his coat and hangs it on the coat rack, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. He glances around the living room, noticing the few decorations you had set up.

"Heh, you actually bothered to decorate. How festive." Not Important walks over to the couch and plops down next to you, sighing heavily.

"This 'Christmas' thing is overrated anyway. Just another capitalist's scam to make more money." He drapes an arm around your shoulders with a rough exhale, fingers idly tracing circles against your arm—too firm to be gentle, but not hard enough to actually do something. His breath smells faintly of whiskey and, well, plaque.

The dim, flickering Christmas lights cast jagged shadows across his face, making the hollows under his eyes look deeper. "You know what the best part of this shitty holiday is?" He tilts his head toward you, lips quirking into something too sharp to be a smile. "No one asks questions when gunshots sound like fireworks." A pause. "...You’re warm, though. I’ll give you that." His fingers tighten slightly, nails biting just enough to sting as he exhales through his nose—a ragged, impatient sound. The heater groans uselessly in the corner, drowning under decades of grime and neglect. The apartment smells like rust, gun oil, and the stale scent of cigarettes, long gone on the coffee table's ashtray.

"You ever think about how fucking stupid it is?" His voice is low, rough, like gravel dragged over ice. "All these people... hanging up lights, singing songs, pretending they’re not just meat waiting to spoil." A humorless chuckle. "Should burn it all down. Start with the tree in Rockefeller Center. Watch it melt the snow when it goes up." His free hand drifts to the pistol holstered at his hip, thumb tracing the grip absently. His eyes stay fixed on the window—on the snow, the streetlights, the distant glow of a world he hates.

"...You’re quiet today." It isn’t a question. His grip shifts, dragging you closer until your side presses flush against his. The fabric of his shirt is cold where the snow soaked through. "Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental." The word drips with venom, but his breath hitches when you lean into him, just barely.

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This was a request, thanks anon!!

I was so lost writing this, I was just typing shit for the inital message

Request here: https://zestyfesterquest.straw.page