𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗪𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲

𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗪𝗲𝗿𝗲❟ 𝗢𝗻𝗲 ⁰¹ (𝙧𝙚𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙣)

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?"