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."
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.
Jacob takes a hard, fruitless sip of his flask, wishing more than anything that he had the inborn ability to produce wine from air. That would be nice. That would make the world nicer.
He sighs, screwing the cap back on and following Timothee's petulant gaze to the two little clowns in the corner. Jedidiah's scratching the back of his neck and not-so-subtly craning it to look at Dylanwhile Dylan is standing rigid with his arms limp at his sides, eyes darting very obviously sideways, to Jedidiah. It's so awkward that it's surpassed cute and is just painful.
Still, Jacob holds back a laugh.
"Tim. Look at the way Dylan's looking at him. Go on, really look," he says sternly, gesturing towards them.
Immediately, Jacob hisses, shoving Jacob's arm back down. "Don't point," he reprimands. "Don't draw attention to them!"
Jacob rolls his eyes, unable to give one fuck. "Sure thing, boss. But look, yeah? Shut your gob and look."
A terse moment passes between them—one filled with Jacob sending his own glare onto Timothee(who still won't look back)—before Timothee's jaw finally clicks and he slowly settles a lingering gaze upon the pair, watching them closely. Dylan, specifically.
All but seven seconds pass (Jedidiah just tried to make a joke, it seems, because Dylan has, quite literally, squawked out a laugh and now looks painfully uncomfortable and self-conscious, if a little bit encouraged) before Timothee snaps his gaze away, a stubborn set to his mouth.
"Yeah, what about him?" he grunts, folding his arms. Unhappy prince.
"Timothee ," Jacob says, eyes accusing and tone chiding.
Timothee haughtily looks away, nose in the air.
"Timmy", Jacob repeats, firmer, and it sends a rolling sigh through the other boy, his arms unfolding and dropping to his sides.
"Yeah, so what?" he questions dully, obviously put out. "You know, you were the one that was supposed to take care of Jenkins. You were the one I told to do this. First Sivan, now Jenkins—what the fuck has been going on with you?"
A small streak of self-consciousness zips down Jacob's stomach before he squishes it, propping up one brow. "Don't pin this back to me, Timothee. This is a whole another thing. This is beyond my control. Just look at the pair, will you? Look at Dylan's face. Look at the way he's looking at that kid." Timothee looks like he's just sucked on a lemon. "Did you honestly want me to upset that? You know dylan hates our game. I'm not doing that to him. I may be a right bastard and a ruthless piece of shit, but I wouldn't fuck with our Dylan like that. Not when he's taken such a liking to the bloke." He pauses. "And you wouldn't, either."
Timothee purses his lips, eyes fighting some internal battle, as he remains silent, casting occasional glances in the boys' direction.
"Does Dylan even know about Jedidiah? What we planned to do with him?" Jacob asks, scratching the back of his head where the elastic of his mask is tugging at his scalp. Stupid fucking thing.
"You know he doesn't like hearing about that shit," Timothee snaps, rolling his eyes so exaggeratedly it spurs on a glare from Jacob .
"I'm aware, thanks," he snaps back, just as irritated. "But the way you're acting—"
"He can do a lot fucking better than that walking stick," Timothee blurts, near-furious, his eyes almost catching fire. Jacob blinks. "No brother of mine is going with a son of Alice fucking Jenkins! I will not let him betray me like that!"
Wow, so he's having a full on strop. Excellent.
"The kid isn't that bad, jesus," Jacob mutters, rubbing a frustrated hand through his hair before realizing, too late, that it's already probably disheveled to a grotesque degree. He probably looks a mess. Fuck. He tucks his hands firmly in his pockets. "You were even beginning to soften up to him a bit, admit it."
"I was not," Timothee grumbles petulantly.
"You were, though. You were beginning to like him a bit, weren't you?"
"'Liking' is far different that 'tolerating', Jacob. Besides. I was with him for all of five minutes. Hardly enough time for me to give a fuck."
"Apparently not," Jacob teases, and Timothee finally throws his Cyclops-glare upon him which startles up a laugh. "Come on, Tim. Don't ruin the night because your Brother Dearest has fallen in love. I think they're kind of cute."
Timothee looks far from pleased at the words, not a touch of humor in his features. "Yeah, well you would."
Jacob sighs, relenting and letting his smile fall. He can spot when he's in a losing battle. He's not dumb. Oh well.
He settles back into the shadows, leaning against the wall, as Timothee continues to send daggers over to Dylan and Jedidiah, who are still fumbling around in the air around each other. Since it's Jedidiah's 'introductory night,' his mum keeps coming over to introduce him to various smiling individuals and try to drag him off into the fray, much to the sad tilt of Dylan's mouth. However, Jedidiah never relents, always opting to play it solo so he can, apparently, breathe Dylan's air rather than socialize. And, seeing as the boy seems to possess enough social skills to start his own business, Jacob takes it as rather a sweet gesture.
Especially when the bartender calls Dylab's name, beckoning him over as he holds an unlabelled bottle of something with a wink. Jacob's all but expecting the kid to finally surrender in his attempts to make conversation with Dylan (who already looks brokenhearted as he watches the two interact with forlorn eyes, nervously shredding up a cocktail napkin); but then Jedidiah turns back to Dylan, a confident and determined grin painting his enthusiastic face as he waltzes up to him, exchanges a few, loose-shouldered words, and then proudly guides him along with a hand just barely brushing against his back. Dylan looks bashful, nervous, and pleased. Jedidiah looks proud and confident and flushed. They're two polar opposites, really. Jacob can't help but marvel a bit at them as he watches.
Here Dylan is, this dark and introverted soul-searching boy who spends his time sitting on carpets and staring into all of the dimensions that haven't been discovered yet, questioning life and the existence of aliens. He doesn't talk unless he has to, doesn't socialize even when he does have to, and pales at the thought of prolonged conversation and eye contact.
But then there's Jedidiah Jenkins who is, potentially, a fallen sunbeam, who exposes all of his teeth when he smiles, who seems completely at ease in situations that any normal person would find infinitely awkward. He's exuberant and seemingly innocent and forthright and happy, his emotions are writ on his face and flow easily from his unabashed lips, and the kid is just bright, really. Chipper and easy to read and responsive and extroverted and open to the world in ways that parts of Jacob can't help but scoff at.
And here they are, wrapped up together somehow as Jedidiah introduces the bartender to Dylan , never leaving the latter's side now that he's finally gained permission to be there. Dylan looks more than okay with the idea, if a little bit weary of all the boisterous laughter and chatter going on around him. Still, though. This is the most social he's been in years. Hell, the most social he's been since Jacob's met him. And that's... That's kind of a big deal.
Jacob steals a glance at Timothee and thinks that, maybe, that look in his eye confirms that he's thinking the same thing. He would never admit it, though.
It's funny how opposites are drawn together, isn't it?
Is Troye the opposite of Jacob? Not that they're drawn to each other, or anything—it's not like that—but, still. Are they? Troye is definitely the Jedidiah to Jacob's Dylan. Troye is the bright one with warm skin and earnest eyes and tender hands that don't mind gripping onto Jacob. Then again, he's also the quiet one, the one who gnaws on his lips before he voices his thoughts, the one who holds it all in and keeps some of it away from Jacob. He's the one who is deep and soulful and beautiful, the one who lets himself be guided by Jacob's touch.
"You know," Jacob says slowly, half in a daze as they continue to watch from afar. He wonders if Troye will come. "Another good thing about this unexpected little development"—Timothee tenses—"is that it will give me more time to focus on Troye. Our main project." He doesn't like the way the words sound, but he pushes the discomfort down because he has nothing else to do with it.
"If he bloody shows," Timothee mumbles, agitated, but Jacob settles a hand upon his arm, startling Timothee to meet his eye.
"Even if he doesn't. It still gives me better focus. He's a hard nut to crack, that one." He swallows, feeling an alarming discomfort that he can't pinpoint. He just feels the need to say this—to Timothee, to the world, to himself. It sounds and feels bumpy and uneven but he just needs to say it and Jacob doesn't know why or what or how or when or... Just. Jacob doesn't know. "But I will get him eventually. I won't fail, Timothee. I will get him. And I will have you."
Somehow, inexplicably, that's the sentence that eases the tension in Timothee's shoulders.
They stare at each other for countless minutes, Jacob's hand on Timothee's arm and Timothee's eyes dug somewhere inside of Jacob's', and the guests move and talk around them, unawares, and Jacob's heart beats in a way that he wants it to stop.
"Promise," Timothee says quietly, but his eyes are unreadable and his voice is barely decipherable.
Jacob feels odd twists in his guts as he responds, voice faraway, "I promise."
And Timothee smiles, maybe genuinely, taking one step closer, a bright flash of light or power or hope in his onyx gaze. But then.
But then the spell or the curse or whatever is broken, because suddenly Timothee's eyes cut past Jacob's, hooking somewhere over his shoulder, and it leaves Jacob just enough time to swallow, breathing through his trickles of anxiety, before he follows his gaze.
"The fuck is that?" Timothee actually laughs, any tension vanished, pointing in the direction of his amusement. "Look what that kid's wearing." He laughs again, loud and sharp, utterly delighted.
Intrigued, Jacob tries to find the source, eyes squinting in the dim light, unsure of what to expect.
Which, really, is what should have clued him in that it was Troye. Because there he fucking he is.
He's here. He came. That is absolutely Troye Sivan, mask or no, and Timothee is laughing with complete elation at the sight, unawares, but Jacob feels like he's being pressed into the earth.
Because of fucking course, the kid is unlike anybody else, standing out amongst them all like a motherfucking beacon of ethereal light. Of fucking course. Amidst a sea of black and grey and charcoal, amongst a sea of ordinary and same, there walks the boy wearing this ostentatious mask bathed in orange and gold glitter, pink etched on the tips of its wings.
Because, yes, he's wearing a butterfly mask. This glittery, yellow-flecked, majestic butterfly mask. And while it's certainly not out of place in this sea of animals and insects and goblins, it's certainly the only one of its kind. It's certainly the most beautiful.
"Oh," is what Jacob finds himself replying to Timothee's cackles.
"What is that kid wearing?"
And, well. Troye's wearing a pink shirt. Just an ordinary button up, fit for the occasion. It looks marvelous on him, fits nicely around his shoulders and arms and slender torso. But it's pink and so it's different and so Timothee laughs. He's got light trousers, light shoes—all a noticeable contrast from the black and bleak and Timothee laughs and Jacob doesn't.
Jacob.
"Why are you laughing?" he asks sharply, turning to Timothee with a surge of extreme annoyance that he can't seem to pat down.
Timothee looks surprised. "What?" he questions, laughter dying a bit.
"Why are you fucking laughing?" he challenges, and the hardness of his eyes—or maybe it's the way they keep flicking back to Troye, just to look at him, just to see the boy—makes Timothee's eyes clear a bit, a weight of understanding dropping in their depths.
"Oh," he says after a moment, smile quickly turning clever. "Oh, that's the Troye boy, isn't it?"
Jacob swallows.
Timothee grins. "You certainly recognized him very quickly. Is he often this ridiculous?"
Yes, Jacob wants to say, but it's not for Timothee to hear.
"Fuck off, Timothee ," he says instead, irritated, and Timothee's smile falters.
"What? Why are you—"
"I need to get a drink," Jacob says, flushed and irritated and very aware that Troye is in this room as he pushes past a bewildered Timothee, making his way to the fountain-sized punchbowls on the other side of the room.
The poor boy. Poor, sweet, lovely Troye.
Jaxob fights the urge to walk immediately up to him, just to say hi. He likes Troye, likes talking to him. He enjoys his company. A funny thought.
He pours himself a glass of shitty, electric, over-sugared punch, sipping it because he's antsy as fuck and he doesn't know what to do with the tiny surges of energy that are practically sizzling his brain. He tries to hum a song but he ends up humming several, all jumbled together and mismatched, none knowing their place. He can't think of his own words and, now, he can't even think of other peoples'.
He takes another harsh sip, all the while as he stares.
The boy, the butterfly, is just gliding through the room, floating on the outskirts, looking past bodies and keeping to himself, his mask completely disguising his face. But Jacob knows it's him, of course it's Troye. There are those soft, wavy curls of his that look soft and rambunctious and endearingly unkempt and real. There's that slouch in his back and that clumsy roll of his feet. His hands that sometimes bump against his thighs too much, that sometimes clasp awkwardly together because he doesn't know what to do with them. There's Troye with his lovely, lovely clothes and polished shoes and...and he came.
He came because Jacob asked him to.
Jacob can only watch, drawn. Watches as Troye looks at passerby, ducking his head and waving to all those who are surely pouring their compliments to him or making smirking remarks. Remarkably, he doesn't seem to give a fuck that people are noticing him. That people are pointing him out. He looks flattered at the kindness and oblivious to the unkindness and it's just... It's a little unexpected.
Because Jacob sort of has this preconceived notion of the Troye in his head—the sweet little one that he keeps in a cubby that he covers up, mostly because he doesn't like knowing it's there. But in that cubby is a sweet, naïve, delicate boy that needs protection from the world. A boy who is sensitive and trepid and scared and filled with precious things that are in danger of being spilled. Jacob sort of regards Troye as this gentle, meek creature who shivers at harsh light and abrupt winds and Louis sort of thinks of him as needing to be treated with fragility, but...
But, though it may be true in some ways... It's sort of a ton of bullshit.
Troye , this Troye , the one who strides through the room unabashedly wearing pink glitter, unabashedly sticking out of the mundane, living while the others are existing, is anything but fragile and timid and meek. He's anything but the little creature that needs the protection that the unanswered parts of Jacob had assumed he needed.
Fuck, Troye's probably the one that needs to protect Jacob.
The thought lies acidic in his gut, sends sharp warning signals through Jacob's brain.
Fuck. He hates the way that sounds in his head. He positively hates the way that... He just hates it. Fuck.
He's just about to suffer a mild panic attack, when suddenly there's a solid, warm presence behind him. It feels just a bit heavy and overbearing. Timothee.
"Go to him," are the words that are whispered in his ear. Timothee's breath, Timothee's voice, soft and smooth and edged with determination. The words are meant to be silk. They feel like mud.
But Jacob knows his part in all this, knows he agreed to this even if everything feels a little fucked up, so he just swallows and nods. He nods without looking at Timothee once.
Okay. Okay, he can do this. He can get this over with tonight, he can shed Troye of himself and shed himself of Troye before anything too...heavy forms between them. He can just finish this bullshit tonight and he can survive this. He can have Timothee and he can get what he wants.
He can do this.
Jacob walks forward, emerging from the shadows as he slides his mask down, obscuring his face. No more time for thought. No more thinking.
He steps into the warm light of the room, joining the bustle of the crowd as the dim lamps catch on the black glitter of the wolf he wears, sending a prismed haze around him, around his peripherals. Troye probably won't even know it's him. Especially considering the fact that Jacob is wearing an actual fucking suit (without the noose though, thanks) and his tattoos are covered up and his hair is styled differently; nothing specific to him, nothing that would enable his dead body to be identified, is visible. He's just another body in the crowd.
So he just walks, moves forth through the dancing couples and the ghouls and the goblins and the peacocks and the foxes and monsters with their sequins and ribbons and cocktails, and he glides through them all as he begins to follow Troye.
It's slow at first. Just slow, calm steps. Trailing behind an oblivious boy.
But he doesn't really want Troye to be oblivious. He wants Troye to see him. He doesn't even have to know it's Jacob, fuck, he just wants Troye to look at him.
He stops, a pull and a tug laced in his ribs, before he begins moving in the opposite direction. Slowly, as Troye circles the room one way, Jacob circles the other, always remaining directly across from him, eyes never straying. Still, Troye notices nothing, continuing to gently brush past shoulders and elbows, his curls tangled up in the ribbons that tie up his mask, spilling out over his little ears.
The music swirls, somewhere above.
Vaguely, it dings in Jacob that this is how it all started. Isn't it? Back in that library, that first day they met, when Jacob was hidden amongst books and pages and dust, and Troye was just sitting there, unknowing and quiet and sweet. Jacob circled him then, too. He watched him and circled him before he finally trapped him. Well. Sort of. Sometimes it feels like the other way around.
But the thought lies acrid in his mouth, makes him feel nauseous, makes him feel foul, so he stops it, stops thinking, just watches the soft, glittering butterfly with curls and limbs. A wolf drawn to a butterfly. Funny that.
It doesn't take long for Troye to notice, then.
It's subtle at first. Just little flicks of his head, once in awhile glancing in Jacob's direction, more curious than anything.
And then the flicks begin to last a bit longer.
He's clearly aware of Jacob's presence now, aware of the wolf, but whether or not he knows who lies behind it is a mystery. Perhaps he knows Jacob's mannerisms the way Jacob knows his? In any case, he doesn't seem weary of the figure because Troye begins slowing his pace, his feet beginning to drag purposefully against the polished marble floors, and before long, it's Troye's eyes that never leave Jacob.
Slower and slower they walk, circling each other around the room, masked eyes boring into masked eyes.
Somehow, in the quiet sanctuary of the disguise, Jacob feels invigorated. Somehow, amidst the anonymity he inexplicably feels right now, it feels amazing. It's like he's not Jacob, he's not Jacob Bixenman with the weight that sinks every letter and clings to his syllables. It's like he can, momentarily, believe a different story for himself right now. A story where Troye Sivan matters, can matter, the beacon of light in the dark. A story where he can answer the unanswered parts of himself.
He stops, skin warm and tingly, like the tiny flutters of wings brushing his flesh. Butterfly wings.
Troye , from across the room, stops too.
Jacob's heart beats steadily in his ears. Shit. Distantly, he's aware of Timothee's presence, his eyes somewhere in the room. But he pushes it away.
And then Troye begins walking to him, each step slow, striding, and careful. That sloping rhythm.
Jacob's every blood vessel might burst. He's not sure, though, and he doesn't fucking care.
More steps are taken. More steps, more steps, more steps.
They don't say anything when Troye reaches him, meeting in the middle of the crowded dance floor like West Side Fucking Story. 'I Bet That You Look Good on the Dancefloor' by the Arctic Monkeys flits along in the back of Jacob's hazy mind. It's only appropriate. The tips of Troye's shoes touch the tips of Jacob's.
Around them, everybody seems well versed in the box-step, ballroom dancing like something out of Labyrinth (Jacob's childhood favorite movie) and, huh. Jacob is probably David Bowie. Troye is probably Sarah. No, most definitely Sarah. A far more beautiful Sarah. Would Jacob steal Troye's baby sibling just to entrap him in his world? Just to lure him there and keep him amongst all the hideous things?
Maybe. Probably. Yeah.
Problem is, though, that Jacob can't fucking dance. Definitely can't ballroom dance, jesus. So, really, this should be all the reason in the world for him to, you know, not raise his hands in a silent invitation for Troye. Or is it a plea? But he does anyway, maybe because he's not Jacob Bixenman right now, and Troye understands, and Troye responds immediately, his hand easily slipping into Jacob's ', his other immediately going to his shoulder.
His body aligns perfectly with Jacob's.
Jacob can see his eyes now. They're murky blue with flecks of amber and undercurrents of aqua. Above them, he can see Troye's dainty, elongated eyelashes that he, in this moment, can admit that he's wanted to count and wants to feel fanned against his cheek. He can see the pale, delicate skin beneath Troye's eyes and he can dream of a universe where he could press his fingertips against the flesh, brushing away any memory that doesn't fit this moment, pushing his cells into Troye's cells.
Delicately, strongly, he grips Troye's warm hand in his own. He feels the boy's fingers squeeze his and, for a moment, it unevens his pulse before it returns back to normal. He presses his hand deeper into the slope of Troye's waist as he moves him about the room in a slow, ethereal waltz that he's improvising on the spot because thinking is just something he cannot do.
It works, though. Somehow, it works and Troye follows Jacob's every move, every lead, and neither of them speak as their palms press against each other.
They dance (dance) silently and if you told Jacob that this is what he'd be doing a year ago, he would've spit in your face. But now it all just quietly seems to make sense as flecks of glitter fall from Troye's mask onto Jacob's jacket and it feels like they're obscured from each and the world and somehow it's all a lot simpler.
And then suddenly Troye stops them, brings them to a soft halt, eyes flickering all over Jacob's mask, before finding his gaze again. He stills, gently pulling Jacob to a standstill while never releasing his hold, and Jacob almost speaks, almost questions him as he begins to remove his hands—but Troye doesn't let him.
Instead, shit, instead, Troye presses closer. The sweet, fiery, pink boy with the long legs and that ridiculous mask and the curls and the laugh that has managed to begin sewing itself into Jacob's skin, presses closer and holds a determined hand into Jacob's side as he pulls him towards himself.
Jacob's cellular functions pause.
He feels separate, feels like he's just watching as Troye pulls him still more, ducking his head as those eyes glide down to Jacob's lips, in the middle of the goddamn room.
What is he doing? Is Troye seriously going to... Is Troye going to kiss him?
If Jacob wasn't so shell-shocked and entirely fucked up right now, he would probably find this to be the most storybook, romantic, and picturesque moment of his very un-romantic life.
As it is, though, he can't quite recover from the knowledge that this is, in fact, happening, and that they're currently surrounded by people, by chaos, and a certain pair of eyes in this room that he knows is watching them.
He knows Timothee is staring, smiling, licking his lips in anticipation because he sees the beginning of the end in sight. Because this is where it starts and this is where it ends—with Troye pulling his mouth ever closer, pressing fingers into Jacob's clothes and looking soft and shielded by fabric as his eyelashes quiver. This is when the entire game begins to destruct and Jacob feels those eyes on them and he doesn't fucking want that, doesn't fucking want the destruction. Not one fucking bit.
He doesn't want Timothee to see.
He doesn't want any of this.
This is all supposed to be a joke. This is supposed to be a game that a couple of spoiled brats and emotionless fuckers conjured up, and it was never supposed to be genuinely serious. It was supposed to be a solution so Timothee could go to a fucking university. That's it. That's all this is supposed to be and yet it feels like Jacob's lgetting his insides pulled out of him as he watches Troye's eyes close and this doesn't feel like a game because it's not fucking fun.
It's overwhelming. It's too much. And he doesn't want Timothee to see.
"Fuck," Jacob breathes quietly, so quietly he doubts Troye can even hear, and he pushes away. Instant and harsh, he pushes Troye away.
Of course, it spirals a flood of surprised pain in Troye's opening eyes, which. Fuck. This isn't fun.
Jacob doesn't speak, he doesn't want to, but he also can't just turn around and walk out while Troye's eyes are that color of hurt. He just can't and he won't, not when it clashes so harshly with the graceful curve of his eyelids. So he blindly reaches out, clasping Troye's hands and folding them up in his own clammy, shaking ones, before bowing his head. I'm sorry, he wants to say. Wants to say without saying it. I'm sorry I'm me. So instead he presses Troye's knuckles against his slackened, foul, unmoving lips without a second's thought. Not now is what he wants to bite into the flesh, and he isn't sure if Troye gets the message or not, but when he looks back up, the eyes are less hurt, more calm, and there's a warm, pulling undercurrent that's begun to settle there.
Jacob will take it.
He smiles even though Troye can't see it and he presses one more kiss to the back of the boy's hand as he half-asses a clumsy bow, his blood still surging too harshly, the need to leave beginning to drown him.
He tears his lips away then, beginning to back up and only dropping Troye's hands at the very last minute, refusing to let the boy's gaze keep him there any longer than he wants to.
He's suffocating. He needs air. He needs to leave.
It's just as he's about to push open the door, fresh air in promising sight, that he feels before he hears a voice hiss in his ear.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
But Jacob doesn't turn around, couldn't give a fuck about Timothee right now, so he just shoves past the grip on his arm, the voice in his ear, the soft eyes he still sees in his head.
And he leaves.