two, red

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥 eyes snap open.

Something stumbles over you.

The jolt sends a shockwave through your aching skull, your body protesting as you sit up too quickly. A pounding headache tightens its grip, and your vision swims in the dim light. You push damp strands of hair from your face, squinting at the shadowed figure towering above you.

Jean.

He catches himself against the wall, palm pressed flat, eyes flickering with confusion.

"Y/n??" His voice is raw from sleep—or maybe the alcohol— and heavy with disbelief as he takes in your sprawled, disheveled form on the floor. "What the hell are you doing down there?"

You grimace, the glow of the bedside lamp feeling like a spotlight drilling into your skull. His voice is too sharp, cutting through the fog weighing down your senses. There's a dry, bitter taste in your mouth. Water. You need it. But even the thought of swallowing sends an uneasy ripple through your stomach.

You glance around. The walls, the ceiling, the lingering scent of cheap red wine, and Jean's cologne. It all clicks into place. Last night.

Right.

A celebration. A bottle —or two— of something that probably wasn't fit for human consumption.

You force yourself to look up at him, your expression twisted with exhaustion and irritation.

"What the hell are you doing up there?"

He stares at you.

You stare back.

His mouth presses into a line. Then, without a word, he turns on his heel and walks out.

You panic.

"Wait, help!" Your arms shoot up like dead weight, grasping at nothing, your voice hoarse and fraying at the edges.

Jean doesn't even slow his stride.

"You can do it," he mutters over his shoulder, his voice dipping with half-hearted encouragement. He steps into the hall, moving toward the staircase. "I believe in you."

You blink in disbelief as his form disappears beyond the threshold, leaving you pathetic and abandoned on the floor.

A beat passes.

Then another.

The silence seeps in, thicker than before, as Jean's footsteps fade downstairs.

Yet something in the air feels...off.

You exhale, forcing away the strange sensation pricking at the back of your skull. It's nothing. Just exhaustion, the hangover, your mind playing tricks.

Still, a shiver runs down your spine as you gather yourself, pushing up onto shaky legs.

The room settles in his absence, the quiet pressing against your ears.

But something shifts.

Not a sound, no footsteps, no creaking floorboards, but the weight of the air seems heavier now. A cold draft snakes across your skin.

Jean is downstairs.

Yet for a fleeting second, something inside you whispers: you're not alone.

The unease trickles down your spine, slow and deliberate.

Your pulse quickens. You force yourself to shake off the feeling. It's nothing. Just exhaustion. The hangover. Your mind is playing tricks on you. Still, as you push yourself upright, your skin prickles with a quiet, nameless dread.

The kind that lingers.

The kind that doesn't need a reason.

Grunting as you stand up, you thrust your fingers into your messy hair, scratching at your scalp. You shuffle out of the room, walking timidly downstairs with light steps. The coolness of the polished wood sends shockwaves up your spine as you cling to the railing, steadying yourself.

You follow the faint sound of running water to the bathroom, where Jean is brushing his teeth. His right hand scrubs at his molars, the other arm folded across his chest, tucked underneath his right elbow. His eyes are slits, barely open, as he mindlessly goes about his daily routine.

"I hope that toothbrush you're using is yours," you deadpan, standing just outside the threshold of your large bathroom.

"Nope," Jean mumbles, eyes barely opening a centimeter more. "It's your spare."

You sigh. "Sure, just use up my supplies. Hurry up, I need to use the bathroom."

"Still baffling that you don't have a guest bathroom," he scoffs, bending down to spit in the sink.

You wrinkle your nose at the sight, shutting your eyes and letting your head loll to the side against the threshold. You remain silent, and soon enough, he brushes past you. "I gotta go soon— Connie and Sasha are probably wondering where I am. Just wanted to say one more time before I do... I'm proud of you."

You purse your lips into a small, bashful smile and turn to look at him, patting his shoulder. "Thanks, Jean. Don't leave without hugging me goodbye," you warn as he walks away, presumably to get ready.

In the silence of your bathroom, you freshen up just as Jean had before you. But something is unsettling—an overwhelming presence pressing against your psyche. It's like an echo of something forgotten, dangling just out of reach in the fog of your mind. You can't see it, can't grasp it, but you feel it—an itch beneath the surface, unreachable, maddening.

Last night is too much of a blur — one thing you hate about drinking.

You shake it off and walk out, heading down the hall to the living room. As you pass by the study, your gaze flicks toward the door.

It's shut.

Jean is tugging on his brown jacket when you enter. When he sees you, he opens his arms. You step forward, and he pulls you in. His frame swallows yours, his arms engulfing you in a warmth that reminds you how small you are beside him. What you lack in size, you make up for in the tight squeeze you give him, silently telling him how much he means to you.

"I'll see you later, okay? And hey, try to paint something new," he says, stroking your back a few times. He pulls away just enough to look down at you. Up close, you can see the individual spikes of stubble growing along his chin and jawline. "I know it's been hard since your last piece... but give it another shot."

With the promise that you'll try, Jean is on his way, pulling out in his slightly used, dark gray BMW 3 Series Sedan.

Once you're truly alone, the silence presses against you, filling the space Jean left behind. You think about what to do today. Though you promised, you still dreaded painting something else. All motivation had drained from you when you finished... 'HIM'.

A heavy weight settles in your chest. You decide to get comfortable, unwind, and watch a movie. Something normal. Something easy.

First, you walk through the dining room to the kitchen, preparing some of your favorite snacks— courtesy of Jean. The best friend you could ask for. You don't know what you did to deserve him, but you are deeply, undeniably grateful.

After setting your snacks aside in the living room, you swiftly climb the stairs, ready to change into something cozy and appropriate for movie night. Or day.

Once in your room, you beeline for your closet, rummaging for sleepwear. You strip and slip into fluffy, red pajamas, sighing at the comforting fabric against your skin.

Then you turn.

You freeze.

Something is on your bed.

Brows furrowed, you walk over, pulse ticking faster. You clasp a hand over your mouth. Your breath hitches.

Your eyes dart around the room— nothing seems out of place. But still, unease coils in your gut. You snatch it from the bed.

The missing picture.

You blink, once, twice, three times, but it doesn't change.

It's here.

The missing framed photo, capturing a fleeting moment you'll never experience again, sits on your bed as if it had never disappeared.

You take a step back, your breath shallow, your pulse beating hard against your ribs. It wasn't there before, you're sure of it— you know it wasn't there. But here it is, waiting.

Your stomach twists.

You hesitate, then walk forward, slowly, deliberately, as if moving too fast might snap the illusion. You pick up the frame with rigid fingers. It's clean, intact, and untouched. No scratches, no dust— no sign that it had ever been missing in the first place.

You press your lips together, inhaling sharply through your nose.

Had it always been here? Had you only been looking in the wrong places? Had you imagined losing it in the first place?

The thought creeps in slowly, unwelcome. You shake your head, refusing the idea. No, no. But you looked everywhere. You tore apart your apartment, searched through every drawer, every crevice. It wasn't here. You know it wasn't.

And yet...

Your hands tighten around the frame.

The rational explanation should be that someone put it here, but even that thought feels slippery, uncertain. Jean wouldn't have done it. He would have told you.

Your pulse pounds harder.

You lift the picture higher, inspecting the edges, the glass, the corners. Perfect condition. Nothing out of place. Like it had never left your possession at all.

A chill creeps down your spine.

You swallow, your throat dry, your mind spiraling through every possibility.

Was it misplaced?

Or was something messing with you?

───── ♡ิ ˳⭑ ───── ♡ิ ˳⭑

Paranoia has sunk deep into your bones— so deep that it festers, tightening its grip, whispering the possibility that you've lost your mind.

At some point, in the dead of night, through the suffocating haze of exhaustion, you heard it.

A sound that doesn't belong.

Low. Muffled. A voice? A presence? You can't describe it —can't explain it— but it sits heavy in your chest like an omen, clawing at the edges of reason.

It was distant, yet unmistakably close, threading itself into the silence between your breaths. One word. One sentence. One warning.

A pulse of something dark, something cold, coiled around the syllables like a promise.

And it sounded like your inevitable doom.

LilReaper_

written 07.07.24
rewritten 5.12.25

౨ৎ 𝘇𝗮𝘆𝗮