Gods & Monsters

XIII

Jacob raises his eyebrows, turning to a somewhatly livid Timothee. His mask (which is just an obscenely dull velvet black thing that only covers his eyes and the slope of his nose) is a little askew, his gelled hair a little droopy, and his necktie seems to be choking him. All in all, he's a bit of a hot mess.

"I didn't ask for help," he comments icily, adjusting the lay of his jacket. It fits too tightly, isn't relaxed and fluid like his jean one. He hates these kinds of clothes.

Timothee flashes another, fiercer glare. The Prince of Glares. "You clearly needed it."

Jacob grits his teeth.

Okay, so the evening is obviously tense.

Mostly due to the fact that Timothee's in a shit mood, which is absolutely accredited to the stunning lack of Troye. AKA, the stunning lack of Timothee's self-validation by watching someone else get played with like a fucking doll because he's an insecure twat with emotional issues.

However.

It's not just Troye's absence that's sending him in a tizzy. There's another petite factor going on here tonight that Jacob knows is driving Timothee fucking nuts. And it's right over there in the opposite corner of the room.

Right over there stands two people, awkwardly far apart, but too close together to be unintentional. They're both looking anywhere but at each other, unless they manage to sneak covert glances while the other isn't looking. One is wearing an uneven eyeball made out of paper. The other is wearing a black, glittery mask with a comically extended nose that dares to knock all the drinks off of the servers' trays. Right over there stands Dylan and Jedidiah, and they're both an awkward fucking mess, clearly in the beginning stages of some precious mating ritual.

It's no secret that Jacob aborted his mission of ripping into Jedidiah and thus destroying the heart of his poor mother. The moment Timothee returned to their flat and found Jedidiah chatting happily upon the couch, skin radiant, as Dylan looked on with this tiny, bright smile that somehow elongated his eyelashes and softened his stubble and diamond cheekbones, it was apparent that something was off. Severely off. 

"What the fuck?" was all Timothee had said when he found Jacob in his room, eyes quickly turning thunderous, and Jacob couldn't help but smirk up at him, donning a chipper demeanor that he was sure was going to get under the gorilla's skin.

"Alright there, Timmy?" he'd chirped.

Timothee settled his burnt eyes onto Jacob. "Alright," he'd managed in a strangled growl, before properly stomping off to the bathroom, looking oddly close to being emotionally distraught. It was only momentarily unsettling, though it did freeze the gloating, amused smirk on Jacob's face.

But any emotional fragility was gone the minute Timothee returned, toweling off his hair with quick, jerking movements as he promptly turned on his music to a decibel-shattering volume, erasing any possibility for conversation. He hadn't mentioned it again, even when Jacob tried to peel it out of him, hours later.

Instead, he's taken to being a little bitch. And now Jacob is stuck with him.

Excellent evening, all in all.

"This is about Jedidiah, isn't it?" Jacob asks flatly, adjusting the lay of his mask. It's fucking up his hair. But he's diligently refusing to think about that.

Timothee's face hardens infinitesimally. A tense moment shifts between them before he finally responds.

"Couldn't do one fucking thing could you?" he growls under his breath, still searing his glare out into the crowd, refusing to look at Jacob. If those intensify any more, he's going to give Cyclops a run for his money. The Gala will be ruined, the guests will be dead.