one, lurking devils

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

𝗧𝗛𝗘 light buzz pumps through your veins, the alcohol in your system already taking effect. The ceiling blurs slightly as you stare up at it, head resting in your best friend's lap. His arm hangs lazily over the couch's armrest, fingers curled around the neck of a half-empty bottle of wine. The dim lighting flickers -just for a second- before settling again, casting long shadows that stretch and shift across the walls.

Outside, the wind howls through the trees, rattling against the windows. The house sits on the outskirts of the city, far enough that the roads turn to dirt and the streetlights disappear. It's quiet out here. Too quiet, sometimes.

You turn your head, looking up at him. Jean's head tilts back against the couch, his throat exposed, his pulse slow and steady beneath his skin. When he feels you move, he looks down, eyes low, unreadable.

"Drunk yet?" he mutters, voice rough around the edges.

"Not nearly enough," you scoff, but then your lips quirk into a small smile. "I can't believe this, Jean."

He exhales, takes his free hand, and pushes his mullet back, fingers threading through the strands like he's trying to ground himself. "Well, you better. You did it."

You toss your head side to side dramatically, the motion making the room tilt for just a second. "I feel like I'm dreaming or something. Like I'll wake up and find that this is just a figment of my imagination."

Jean watches you for a beat, then shakes his head. "Why? You're a hard-ass worker. It's not surprising people talk when all you do is satisfy your clients. And now look at you- someone bought a shit-ton of your original work. The ones you put up there, anyway."

He takes a swig straight from the bottle, throat bobbing as he swallows. His lips twist slightly, like the taste isn't sitting right. You sense his next words before he says them.

"I still think your more personal work would do amazing. Tug on people's heartstrings."

Your glare is sharp, but Jean only shrugs, unfazed. "He'd want that for you."

The name lingers between you, unspoken but heavy. The air shifts, thickening, pressing against your ribs.

"We've already talked about this," you sigh, grunting softly as you sit up. The movement sends a dull ache blooming behind your eyes, and you press a hand to your forehead.

Silence settles between you, a mutual understanding wrapped in something darker. The weight of memory. The weight of absence.

Jean's voice is quieter when he speaks again. "Find that picture yet?"

"No," you say sadly.

The word hangs in the air, the weight of unspeakable emotions pressing down on your shoulders. And Jean can feel it. The wind picks up outside, whistling through the cracks in the old house. The nearest neighbor is miles away, and the city is a good twenty-five-minute drive down winding roads.

You don't tell Jean about the feeling that's been creeping up your spine lately- the sense that something is wrong, and it's not just the missing picture. Something bigger. Something you can't name.

"We'll find it. I'll help you," Jean supplies, taking another quick sip of wine before setting the bottle on your coffee table. His fingers linger around the neck of the bottle for a second, as if debating another sip, but he exhales sharply and leans back. "Okay, that's enough over-sweetened wine for one day." He smacks his lips a few times, wincing at the bittersweet taste.

"I need a shower," you huff at Jean's expression, the tightening in your chest loosening up a bit. The alcohol has softened the edges of your thoughts, but the weight of the missing picture still sits heavy in your mind.

"As usual, you can take the guest room. You're not going back home tonight."

Jean grunts as he rises from the couch, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt lifts slightly, exposing a sliver of skin before he lets his arms drop. "No argument here. I'll be upstairs then, getting my beauty sleep. Try not to wake me."

You scoff. "Right. I'll be sure not to wake Sleeping Beauty."

Jean clicks his tongue and shoots you a thumbs-up before turning toward the staircase. His footsteps fade as distance swallows the light thuds of his feet hitting the sweeping staircase, its polished wooden steps groaning under his weight. The ornate iron railing catches the dim light, casting twisted shadows along the wall.

You linger a moment, staring at the empty space where Jean had been. The house is quiet now-too quiet. The kind of silence that presses against your ears, making you hyper-aware of every creak, every shift in the air.

You shake off the feeling and push yourself up from the couch, walking down the narrow hallway that leads to your study and the bathroom beside it. The hallway light flickers a few times before steadying again. You probably need new lightbulbs or something.

You pause.

The air feels heavier here. The walls seem closer than ever before.

You glance toward the study door, slightly ajar. You could have sworn you closed it earlier.

A chill runs down your spine, but you force yourself to keep moving, stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door behind you. The lock clicks into place, a small reassurance.

The water runs hot, steam curling against the mirror as you strip and step into the shower. The warmth soothes your muscles, but your mind refuses to settle.

Jean said he'd help you find it.

But how did you lose it in the first place? It should've been where it always was. The only time you move it is at night, when you allow yourself to hold one of the only remnants of him you have left, close as you sleep. But you don't do that often. And even so, it should be in your room.

You looked everywhere, up and down, side to side. You've checked every nook and cranny. You've never misplaced it before.

It's driving you up a wall not knowing where it is. You've been trying not to have a mental breakdown but, damn, it's hard.

The steaming water beats down on you, melting some of your worries away, if only for a moment. You press your palms against your arms, scrubbing hard, too hard- until your skin feels raw beneath the rough rag and your fingertips. If you pressed any harder, you might bleed. But you don't care. You feel clean, and you know the dirt stands no chance against you.

The rhythmic sound of water hitting tile fills the space, drowning out everything else. You let it consume you, let it pull you under like a lullaby.

You wonder- if you stood here long enough, could you become one with the water? Could you dissolve, slip down the drain, vanish into the pipes where no one could reach you?

The thought lingers for only a second before something -an instinct, a shift in the air- makes you whip your head to the side.

Your breath catches.

The glass is fogged over, thick with condensation, but something about it unsettles you. You wipe at it from the inside, dragging your hand across the surface, but it does little. The water trickles down in uneven streaks, momentarily distracting your eyes, giving the glass just enough time to steam back up.

Not that it matters. The other side is just as fogged over.

You tell yourself you'd be able to see shapes, outlines -someone, something- if there was anything there. But still, the feeling itches at the back of your skull, crawling down your spine like cold fingers pressing into your skin.

You swallow, forcing yourself to breathe.

It's nothing.

It's nothing.

But the unease doesn't leave.

You have to get out.

After a quick rinse, you shut the water off with a squeak, the sound cutting through the quiet, and practically dive out of your shower. The cool air hits you like a truck, and you shiver violently. You yank the towel off your rack and rub yourself dry hastily. As you paddle over to the mirror, water tracks your movements, the shape of your footsteps taking form on your bathroom floor.

You didn't wipe your feet on the mat- you didn't have time, as you hurried out of the shower.

You just wanted to go to sleep, that's it.

You bury your face in the fluffy towel, rubbing away the lingering droplets. As you glance up, something in the air fractures- the foggy glass distorting your reflection.

Time slowed down as your eyes frantically flitted and fluttered around the expanse of your massive mirror.

Your breath hitches in your throat.

In all caps, written across the glass as it cuts through the condensation, is the underlined word...

MINE.

LilReaper_

written 07. 05. 24
rewritten 05.10.25

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