Gods & Monsters

XIII

Lucky strike mv slaps.
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Jacob is currently smack-dab in the middle of the Chalamet-Meervenne Charity Gala (wearing a wolf mask, no less) and he still has no clue as to whether or not Troye is going to show.

Which is...mildly infuriating.

Especially considering he's running out of patience and alcohol, his flask becoming depressingly light with only the delicate tinkle of the few droplets left in its sacred belly. Sad, sad, sad. Awful, even. Fucking horrible.

It's a nice function, though. From a starched-collar point of view, that is. It's being held in some...giant, ballroom thing in some hotel that the Chalamet-Meervenne's probably own—Jacob's not really sure. He's never quite known, or questioned, what Timothee and Dylan's parents do. All he knows is that they make a shit ton of money, lord it over people, and proudly bear the title of being the wealthiest in the area. They're top notch parents, too. They do all kinds of wonderful things, such as ignore Dylan, superficially cater to Timothee while providing no emotional or sentimental comfort whatsoever, and maintain a stunning record of never hugging nor smiling at their children. Not sincerely, anyway. They also enjoy long holidays out of the country, charity galas, and everything that has nothing to do with Jacob Bixenman.

He smirks at the thought, pouring the last dregs of his flask down his throat. The only hatred that's stronger than Martha Chalamet's hatred for Jacob Bixenman— is Jacob Bixenman's hatred for Martha Chalamet. What a fucking cow. A pretentious, awful cow.

But anyway. No need to think about her. She's off in the corner anyway, sweet-talking all the guests in her peacock mask, holding her flute of champagne as she casts annoyed glances in Dylan's direction, mostly for the fact that he opted to make his own mask tonight. Which is, quite literally, a paper plate cut out in the shape of an eyeball, detailed with black and green sharpie. Admittedly, it's not the finest creation...

But there's no need to be a bitch about it, honestly.

It's still an alright party. Lots of colorful punches (sans alcohol for some fucking reason) and lots of bodies wearing beautiful dresses and dry-cleaned suit jackets. Lots of chatter and laughter and selfies. Lots of warm lighting and lots of sequins and lots of billowing cloth the color of soft amber, gently coating the windows and wrapped around the chairs, dangling from refreshment tables. Everything is autumnal and golden and burnt orange. It looks nice. Everything looks nice. Jacob can admit that.

Well. Everything except Timothee, that is.

"Sivan better fucking come," he growls at intervals, his once smug eyes now flashing a very startling shade of impatience.

With a flagrant roll of the eyes, Jacob scans the crowd from their perch in the shadowy corner of the large room, lips forming a thin line as he takes in the flurry of glitter and feathers, the cackling elders, the giggling teens, and everybody else in between. There's a lot of cologne in the air. There are a lot of itchy collars. He can't say he'll ever willingly attend a masquerade ever again. He only wore his mask for a grand total of seven minutes before he had to flip it to the top of his head. That thing is hot as fuck. And uncomfortable. And it smells like burnt synthetics.

"I warned you that he might not," he reminds, trying to maintain an unaffected air to his voice and probably failing. It's a struggle to not sound as irritated as he feels. "He's told me multiple times that this isn't his sort of thing."

"Well then what is his sort of thing? For fuck's sake, Bixenman, the reason I proposed this bullshit to my parents in the first place was to lend you a helping fucking hand in all this."