Gods & Monsters

IX

"Well, shall we?" he asks, twitching his lips closed and raising his brows. Schooling it in.

It takes Troye a moment to respond, eyeing Jacob with a fading smile and hints of confusion laced between his lashes.

"Yeah," he replies eventually, already moving forward to open the door. Being the outstanding chap that he is, he holds it open for Jacob , watching him unabashedly.

A bell signals their entrance and as Jacob takes his first steps onto the faded carpet, he's immediately met with the scent of dust and cardboard and a faint lingering undertone of hemp and incense. All music shops smell the same. He sort of fucking loves them, sort of fucking loves that scent.

The place is sparsely decorated, save for a few older posters pinned to the white walls and a tie-dye tapestry here and there. There's a TV tucked in the corner ceiling, small and crackly and a bit faded, displaying commercials on mute. The lights overhead are fluorescent and a bit flickery—which is probably why there are about four mismatched lamps, plucked right out of the seventies (all orange and avocado and yellow plaid), randomly set around, on the greyish carpet, their brown chords twisted up in snake-like piles. At the entrance, there's an enormous brown bulletin board, packed with fliers for local gigs and...animal shelters? That's probably Troye's doing. Record players are interspersed amongst the isles of records and CDs, each one softly playing a different tune. Jefferson Airplane one minute, Ozzy Osbourne the next. There's a framed photograph of Bjork behind the counter. The entire place is eclectic as fuck. And messy. And dusty.

Jacob loves it. A lot. Too much.

He should probably text Timothee.

Yes, now would be a good time to text Timothee. After all, he won't be coming back to the flat as quickly as he'd insinuated and he should let him know. He should let him know, too, that... This is happening.

Whatever this is.

He slides his phone out as Troye steps inside and walks with purpose towards a small counter tucked in the corner where a register lies next to a clear plexiglass cube filled with pins and buttons, various band names splashed across their surfaces. He casts a glance at Jacob over his shoulder but says nothing, setting his bag atop the counter with a heavy sound that vibrates the buttons, rattles a few drawers. Jacob's fingers seek the letters quickly, too quickly, and he finds himself deleting more text than he's typing, especially considering that he's literally typing out one word: Progress.

Ugh. Annoying. He just needs some sleep. Maybe some medical attention.

At long last, he's able to send it to Timothee, tucking his phone back into his pocket with one smooth move, immediately meeting Troye's curious eyes.

"Just letting a mate know that I'm gonna be longer than expected," he half-lies smoothly, allowing his eyes to crinkle oh so kindly. And why did he feel the need to explain himself, again?

Goddammit, Bixenman.

Troye's brow furrows as he zips open his bag. "Oh? Am I keeping you from something? I'm sorry. I should've asked instead of just dragging you here." His words sound like tiny frowning emojis.

It's another press in Jacob's ribs. He shouldn't have said anything. That was shit. Fuck, he's getting sloppy at this, isn't he.

"No, no," he assures in a rush, adopting his best grin as he steps to the counter, placing his hands atop the surface. It's scattered with laminated neon flyers for Velvet Underground gigs, decoupaged onto the wood. Or maybe varnished on? Jacob's never been a crafter. Either way, whatever. "No, not at all, pup. I just didn't want them to think I got swept away in the breeze. Or, you know, collapsed from dehydration."