"I don't know what I'm gonna do."
The words feel heavy in Jacob's mouth, even after they've left the confines of his lips and teeth. He stares down at his untouched sandwich, firmly avoiding Dylan's intent gaze. Faintly, he smells the wafts of incense that cling to the boy's black t-shirt, mingled up with the fried butter and meats that hang in the air of the pub. A waitress buzzes past, holding a tray of frothy pints. The chatter of the mid-afternoon rush is gentle, a soft hum of cheery voices.
It's oddly really fucking annoying. So Jacob just keeps staring at his sandwich.
"Hm," Dylan nods, contemplative and serious as he stares at Jacob, fingers laced on the table. He's long since finished his meal—he's the fastest eater Jacob's ever met—and has now taken to inspecting Jacob with all the careful examination of one peering through a microscope at an unfound organism.
It makes Jacob feel exposed and jumbly so he picks a little at the crust on his plate, the muscles in his face tense and unmoving.
"Timothee's been upset lately," he mumbles calmly, eyes unblinking. Jacob shifts in his seat, tries to remain impassive. "I think he's looking for you."
"Actually, uh, yeah—yeah he found me," Jacob says, clearing his throat. "Awhile ago. He, uh... We had a chat. After work."
Softly, dylan's eyebrows pop up. "He went to the pub?"
Jacob nods, stiff.
Again, Dylan nods, mostly to himself. "Yeah... Yeah, I guess he did mention something like that in passing. Cool." A beat. "So are you good now?"
Jacob shakes his head. The sandwich is mocking him.
"Hm," Dylan hums again, his gaze settling somewhere distant. He blinks several short times, apparently assembling the words in his head before he glances back to Jacob , lips already parted. "You know, Jed's mum still doesn't know about him. Or me, obviously. It's a secret."
At that, Jacob lifts his head, surprise clear in his tone as he stares at Dylan. "Wait, really? Isn't he, like, three minutes away from proposing?" It's said with a gentle smirk, one that pushes past the dam of resistance now built in Jacob's face.
"Yeah, we're definitely soulmates," Dylan nods, very serious. His gaze is clear. "But his mum still doesn't know. She'd be a right state, he says. She needs time to warm up to the idea. Become immersed in the change."
Jacob can't help but smile a little bit at that. Dylan is always so unabashed, so serious, so mystical. It makes Jacob feel very human and ordinary. Which is sort of brilliant sometimes.
"Does she know you're friends?" he asks, genuinely curious despite the complete subject change.
Typically, he hates it when the conversation steers away from himself, especially if it's after he's gathered the gumption to actually bestow his concerns onto another. But since it's Dylan and since this matters, he flows along with the seemingly random topic, listening intently as he shoves away the plate of food—there's no hope for his appetite. It's a clear surrender.
"Yeah," Dylan says, eyes still boring into Louis. His lips are smooth as they move, no trace of question or caution. "I've met her a few times. She's nice. She has really cool jewelry."
Jacob snorts a laugh, rubbing at his tired eyes. He's exhausted, unable to sleep because his fucking brain is revolting against him, keeping him awake for countless hours always.
"She knows we're friends and she knows I'm from a good family so she likes me but she'd probably go mad if she knew about us."
"So what are you going to do?" Jacob asks, eyebrows pinching just slightly as he meets Dylan's eye, one hand tapping against the unpolished wood of the table, the other clenching a balled up napkin. "If you're 'soulmates' or whatever"—he gestures with the napkin hand, valiantly resisting a roll of the eyes—"then how are you going to manage inviting her to the wedding? Planning on sneaking around? Being the best mates who live together and just happen to adopt children? In a very platonic, masculine way? You know, as one does."
He's probably being a little bit of a prick. He feels sour though, a little bitter, so he doesn't apologize or waver his gaze, just bites his lip and blinks slowly at Dylan who stares back unflinchingly, seemingly unbothered.
"Of course not," he says calmly. "We're going to choose the right moment to tell her. We'll know when—there will be signs."
Of course there'll be.
"And once we listen to those signs and tell her, we'll go from there. But it'll work, Jacob. It'll work because we love each other and we were meant to find each other." He leans back in the booth, loose-limbed and easy, acting as if he hadn't just fulfilled every Disney cliché in the book. "We're both dedicated and we're both willing to work for it, man. We have all the tools we need to construct our own path. And that's why I'm not afraid."
Hm. Something ripples through Jacob, a faint glimmer of recognition or understanding.
"You're not afraid, huh? Not at all?" he asks quietly, and his eyes fall back down to the table.
"No."
Jacob looks up, sees the tranquility in Dylan's brown eyes, the sweeping curve of his lids.
"I'm not afraid at all. We're too strong to be easily broken."
The sentence sits between them, both hopeful and heavy, and it strikes Jacob immediately, every fucking word. The image of troye—the one that's always a blink of an eye away, fluttering always at the back of his mind—sharpens into view, hope, hope, hope blooming like flowers around the curls of his head.
It could work.
The thought flashes through Jacob, made of lightning.
It could work. They could work.
"So you don't know what's coming," Jacob says as an influx of hope sweeps through his lungs. He's still staring at the table, lost in the words that are forming before he can even properly think them. "And you don't know how it'll affect you. But you're not scared. Because you know you're willing to fight for it?"
At the silence, Jacob looks up, pulse stronger than it was before. He finds Dylan peering at him from beneath his messy hair, a lopsided smile slow to form. He nods once, pads of his fingers now pressed together.
"Yeah, man."
Jacob swallows.
Shit. He's willing to fight for Troye .
Isn't that hilarious? Jacob Bixenman, the self-appointed 'don't give a fuck' guru is willing to fight for something. And it's a person, no less. A boy. A young boy who sometimes pretends to be a kitten whenever he wants his back scratched or whenever he's procrastinating on homework and demands Jacob's attention. A boy whose carefully white Converse have become ripped and stained from all the late night walks with Jacob, whose room smells like cinnamon because of the candles he always burns, whose favorite color is peach because it's sort of like pink but it's softer.
Jacob wants to fight for him. Jacob wants to keep him.
But will Troye want to do the same?
Closing his eyes, Jacob scrubs his hands over his face, rough and unforgiving as he pulls at the strands of his hair. He burrows his eyes in his palms, little golden dots speckling the darkness behind his lids. Fuck, everything is so hard.
"I like him, Dylan," he says suddenly, apropos of nothing.
"I know."
"I really like him. And I want to just, like..." Jacob stops, lets his hands fall from his face as his eyes drift around the pub sightlessly, searching for the right words. "I just want it to be us. That simple. I just... I dunno. I wanna just... Be with him. Just with him. And it should be fucking simple, right? Shouldn't it? I mean, fuck's sake, dylan—look around! Everybody's with someone. You're with someone. It's so easy for everyone else but it's always a fucking thing with me. Do you know how often I have to change the subject whenever Troye asks me about where I live? Because that's fucked up, right there. I'm essentially homeless. Whenever we talk about his family, I have to avoid thinking about mine—because that's fucked up too. My friendships are even fucked up—look at Timothee and I. Hell, my relationship with Troye is the most fucked up. Every single aspect of my fucking life is a mess while everybody else just lives their lives and it's just that fucking simple. But I've got to jump through hoops and, you know what? You know what's the best? The funniest part?"
Dylan blinks, sitting quietly, face emotionless.
So Jacob just continues, neck too warm, eyes too bright. "It's my fault," he growls, jabbing his forefinger into his chest sharply. "It's literally all my doing, Dylan. And normally I'd blame everybody else, blame it on the fact that I've had to deal with a lot of shit so it's okay for me to act this way or that. But then I look at Troye, fuckin' Troye, and he would never blame someone else for his shit. He would never do that. Troye is literally working his ass off just so he can get into this posh fucking university just to make his family proud. That's the reason. Just to make them proud. And it's just—" Jacob cuts off, shaking his head as he casts his eyes downward again, pressing the palm of his hand against his forehead. He leans heavily on it, his body suddenly tired, more tired than before. "I'm in a tangled fucking mess, Dylan . And I have no idea what to do." He pauses. "But I will fight for him. It sounds laughable, I know. It's stupid. But I'll fight for him if I have to. It's like you said—it's too strong to go away easily."
When he finally drags his gaze back to Dylan, he finds the boy smiling, an odd glint to his eyes that he usually only gets around Jed.
"What?" Jacob asks, glaring.
"We're lucky to have found our soulmates at such young ages," he remarks peacefully.
Some of the exhaustion slips out of Jacob's bones then, replaced instead by light, flicking sparks.
"Alright, slow down there, Speedy. Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he grumbles, feeling his skin warm, but he doesn't expound on it.
This kid. Honestly.
Dylan's smile evens out into calm composure as he blinks slowly at Jacob. "If the universe wants you together, you will be together."
Jacob snorts. "Fuck the universe. I want us together."
Dylan beams.
It may or may not cause Jacob to blush, realizing what exactly he just said, what he implied, because he's not usually very candid or feeling or emotional at all, lest about this sort of shit, so it's just... Well, it's mildly embarrassing. But it's Troye, okay? It's Troye so it's very different than romance novels or bad sitcoms or frivolous relationships that are drenched in over-compensatory love declarations. And it's honest, too. It's just Jacob being honest.
So why should he be embarrassed? He shouldn't be. It's no big fucking deal. So he likes someone. So he wants to be with them. Big fucking deal.
Still, his cheeks flame and still, Dylan smiles like he just captured a pearl of wisdom in his palm. Whatever.
The rest of the lunch goes quickly, the spaces filled with Dylan talking about Jed at length.
"I'm supposed to meet up with him soon. We're going to smoke in my room and hypothesize different meanings of life. Jed's really smart, mate. He understands things on a physical, practical level while also keeping touch with my abstract ideas. He told me that he believes in alternate realities and that his alter ego is a popstar."
At that, Jacob snorts, loud enough to turn a few heads. "A popstar," he repeats flatly, raising one judgmental eyebrow.
But Dylan just nods solemnly. "Yeah. I think it's incredible."
"It's something," Jacob mutters beneath his breath, but Dylan's too caught up in being enamored to notice. "So, uh. You need to meet up with him soon you said? Should we get going? Did he text you?"
"I dunno." Dylan blinks, flittering back to reality, setting eyes on Jacob. "I don't like to use phones. I know where to meet him, though."
"Oh, okay," Jacob grins, amused. "Then shall we?"
"Yeah," Dylan agrees and he's already standing up and halfway across the room by the Jacob finishes his drink.
Rolling his eyes, Jacob shuffles on his jacket, scuffling after Dylan with annoyance (not everybody has gazelle legs, thanks). He stuffs hands into his pockets, comes into contact with the beanie currently settled in there and, just as he reaches Dylan, stuffs it over his head unthinkingly. He wonders what time it is, feeling the weight of his phone in his jeans. Troyewill probably be done with his meeting soon.
"What's that?" Dylan suddenly asks, pointing atop Jacob's head.
For one moment, Jacob has absolutely no idea what he's referring to—until he touches a hand to the beanie. Ah.
"A hat," Jacob shrugs, trying not to grumble as he continues on his way, pulling the collar of his jacket up higher, just a touch self-consciously. It's a harsh wind today.
"You never wear hats," Dylan comments after a moment, but there's something in his tone. "You say they mess up your hair."
"They do."
"So why are you wearing that one?"
For a few moments Jacob contemplates ignoring the question, ambling out onto the cold street. He squints against the wind, feeling Dylan's presence heavy and curious beside him.
At last, he sighs, refusing to let his cheeks warm to the confession. "Troye made it," he mumbles, mostly hoping that Dylan will not, in fact, hear this minor detail.
But, naturally, he does.
"That's really meaningful, Jacob," he says soulfully, stopping to plant a hand on Jacob's shoulder and stare into his eyes. "I'm sure it makes him really happy that you do that."
Jacob's cheeks are definitely burning.
"Yeah, uh. Hopefully," he murmurs, feeling remarkably awkward as he scratches the back of his neck and tries to disengage himself from Dylan's earnest clutch. "Anyways. It's warm and practical. So I wear it."
They continue walking.
"He knits?" Dylan asks after a moment.
"Yeah," Jacob replies and he wishes his voice didn't soften with the amusement he always feels whenever he thinks of Troye and his silly little habits and interests and talents that are so supremely rare and unique and stupid and cute. "Yeah, he does. Good, isn't he?"
Dylan agrees appreciatively.
"It's grey. A nice color."
Jacob smiles, soft and barely noticeable. "Yeah. He's got a pink one."
"Matching?"
"Fuck's sake, no. Not matching. What do you think we are?"
"Is it matching, Jacob?"
There's a brief stretch of silence, filled only by their feet hitting cold, frost-dusted pavement.
"If it's matching, it's only by coincidence," Jacob eventually sniffs, refusing to meet Dylan's eye. But he doesn't need to see the smile on his face to know that it's there, pressed full and warm against wintry November air.
"He knitted you matching hats," Dylan whispers, serious.
Jacob flushes, refusing, absolutely refusing to smile. "I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose."
"I think that's truly beautiful."
Silence settles again, Jacob's lips twitching as Dylan stares up at the sky, occasionally bumbling into Jacob's side because his strides are long and he's trying to tame his pace. Dylan is so sensitive.
Still, though. Jacob doesn't disagree as he bites his lips.
**
'All doooooone! :))'
jacob briefly smiles at his phone. 'Comiiiiing' he sends back before pausing, a smirk filling his lips. 'And I'm also on my way too. ;)'
Heh, sorry. He couldn't resist.
It only takes a moment for Troye to send back his all caps 'HAHAHAHAH' that spans two lines of text. Jacob can perfectly envision the blush that is most definitely coloring Troye's neck at this moment, the way he's staring at his phone with those luminescent eyes and unruly hair and snowy skin. He's probably got his mittens on—those hideous pea green ones that he'd purchased from that old lady with the one eye and pet parrot. (Jacob likes to call her 'Pirate', much to Troye's horror. When he'd asked him how he knew her, Troye merely replied, in the sweetest simplest manner, "I sometimes have tea with her and she teaches me about flowers and gardening and stuff. She's really smart, Jacob. She has the most beautiful rose bushes." Where does he find these people, honestly?)
His phones buzzes again. It's a series of emojis—most of them blushing smilies, the others consisting of fruit and indecipherable hand signals. Jacob has absolutely no idea what any of this means but he's not above being charmed by randomness. So he smiles and rolls his eyes, tucking away his phone before he does something ridiculous like text back a smiley or something equally mundane and embarrassing.
Jacob Bixenman is above smilies. He has never texted a smiley in his life. He will not start now. Even if Troye just so happens to use them as the dominant proponent in his speech.
But shit, though. Stuff like this is crazy sometimes, isn't it? Sometimes these little things take Jacob by storm... Just, like, the fact that he was seriously tempted to text Troye something as small as a smiley. No big deal, right?
Wrong. That's a huge deal. Jacob doesn't do that stuff. That's not part of his character or mannerisms and all his life, he's always stuck to his true nature and never bent his will or actions to accommodate others. Never. Not once. Not even for his family. Instead of straying from his firm line of 'self', Jacob walked the fuck out and never once was tempted to act out of character or even try to. And, sure, this is literally just all stemming from a text, a stupid potential text, but the thing is, Troye makes Jacob want to be different. He does. He makes Jacob want to simplify his life, he makes him want to clean up the cobwebs and get his shit together and eat a little healthier and sleep a little more and he makes him want to be a little better and little more honest and a little less addicted to his demons. He makes him want to text smilies in his texts and he makes him want to smell his hair and touch him for seemingly no other reason than just to touch.
It's a huge fucking deal, okay? And it's terrifying sometimes, it's horrifically jarring and unsettling when Jacob takes a moment to wonder if he's, like, changing or something. Because he doesn't really notice this 'change' or whatever, but he feels happier and, if he thinks about it, he can spot certain alterations in his behaviors and speech and that's... That's a lot.
But, see, it's a good change. It's for the better. Jacob's happier. Sure, he's a fucking mess because his life is chaos and it's on the brink of collapse, but with Troye(and without the complications) it's better.
He wants to keep him. He does. He wants Troye.
But has he ever... Has anyone ever stayed for him?
He swallows, feet hitting the frosted ground. It's so cold outside. Winter is definitely here. It's cold and fucking unforgiving, much like these bullshit thoughts that are making his throat feel so small.
Has Jacob ever kept anyone before?
Probably not. But was that by his choice? Or someone else's? Do people want to keep him?
Fuck. He's never done this before. How is he supposed to know if he's good at it? How is he supposed to know what to do?
The tall, stone building comes into sight. Troye's professor's office is in there. Troye's probably inside, swaying on the spot as he reads some flier on the bulletin board that nobody else has bothered to even cast a glance at.
He wants to keep him. And he can prove it. To himself, to Troye, to Timothee, to everybody. He can keep him. He just needs to try, try as hard as he fucking can. Or even harder than that.
When he pulls the heavy metal door open, it squeaks painfully in the cold, the metal cutting into Jacob's bare hands. He needs gloves. Or Troye's hands. Either one will do.
Before he's taken three steps inside the building, he hears a shuffle, a small gasp, and then the excited burst of a cocoa-and-butter voice:
"You wore it!"
Immediately, against any sense of control, Jacob's smile takes up his face. He touches the beanie atop his head with frozen fingers, eyes never straying from Troye's beaming face, the boy walking up to him with soft steps and warm cheeks, his own beanie atop his head—it's peach. Of course. (Jacob thinks it looks more pink, though.)
"I did, indeed. Told you I would." He tries not to smile even moreso when Troye keeps walking, walks until his feet collide with Jacob's, walks until his arms are engulfing him, his nose pressing against his ear, enough to tickle. Jacob is not ticklish, Jacob is not ticklish— "You great oaf," he most certainly does not giggle, trying to free his head from where Troye is apparently trying to inhale it, "You're going to squish me!"
"I won't squish you. Promise," Troye mumbles through a smile, just nosing, nosing, nosing along the side of Jacob's head. He taps the crown of his head against Jacob.
"What are you—"
"Matching hats," Troye sing-songs, grinning lopsidedly.
Jacob refuses to smile. "You are too much."
"I'm so happy you like it. I tried really hard to make it perfect. I've only made just a few hats before so I wasn't sure if it was even going to turn out—"
But Jacob silences him with a kiss, a cold press of lips that soften the words out of Troye's mouth, and then there's silence filling the corridor, both of their bodies relaxing just that much more.
"I adore it," he finishes simply, pulling his mouth away. Troye looks dazed, eyes still caught on his lips, hands pressed firmly into the crooks of Jacob's elbows. "And you did an incredible job. I can't even tie me own shoes and here you are, stitching together hats. When the world ends and we're forced to live in huts and live off of the land, I'm taking you with me."
Troye beams, utterly delighted. "I'll knit us blankets. And make us soup. And I can probably figure out a way to use tree roots for a broth because Agatha had mentioned—"
"Oh, Jesus," Jacob mutters, trying not to laugh at the earnest contemplation in Troye's tone. "Agatha's the Pirate, right?"
"Jacob! Don't say that!" Troye chides, grin morphing into a disapproving scowl at an alarming rate. "She's nice! Physically, she may only have one eye, but her soul sees more than we ever could! And she's not old. She's young at heart."
"I will not be charmed by you," Jacob says firmly, after a full thirty seconds of staring at the glaring little pout before him. Whether he says this to himself or to troye , he's not quite sure. "I will not be taken in by your pretty little words or your nice thoughts." Teasingly (and, maybe, hoping for a return of Troye's smile) he taps his icy fingers against the bed of Troye's lips, where they're stubbornly pressed together. He doesn't miss the spark of amusement in Troye's gaze though, even if it is gone rather quickly, so he continues, letting his fingers muss up the lines of his mouth, pulling at his lips and chuckling as Troye fights to keep his composure. But he's relenting, of course he is, his shoulders loosening in laughter that's contained but building and Jacob grins and then Troye finally grins, and it's so dumb, is what it is. It's dumb and they laugh, the sound pinging off of the cold granite floors of the empty corridor.
He wants to keep him.
"Let's walk?" Jacob suggests, allowing his smile to stay.
Troye nods, his own smile in tact. "Yeah. Here—I brought you gloves." He digs in the pockets of his peacoat, pulling out those ghastly green mittens before offering forth a pair of thick grey gloves. His smile is easy. "Your hands are always so cold and you never wear any," he explains.
Jacob stares at them. Then pulls his gaze to troye's calm, unassuming face. It was so natural for him to do this. It was so easy for him to just think of Jacob like that. Just... Care about him. In the most pure sense.
He needs to keep him.
"Erm," Jacob begins, clearing his throat as he takes the offering. They're very thick, very warm. Well made. They match the beanie that Troye made for him. He swallows, alarmed by his own reaction because he feels overwhelmed suddenly, overwhelmed. "Thanks, pup. Thank you." He finds Troye's eyes, blinking and a little blushing. He seems pleased. Good. "Thank you," he repeats before pressing another kiss to his mouth and another to his chin. Anything he can reach, really. He'd like to kiss Troye's toes, even.
That's something he will never, ever say in the light of day.
"You're welcome," Troye replies quietly, still grinning enough to melt any ice in the air. After Jacob's pulled on the gloves (and, shit, yeah—they're very warm) he offers his own mitten-clad paw, and Jacob grins as he takes it, knocking his shoulder into Troye's for good measure as they exit the building.
As they walk, Troye blathers on about his meeting, all the while as Jacob watches his profile, oddly content, his mouth twisted up at the corners. Their mittened hands are still clasped, swinging between them, and the sky is darkening from white to grayish blue. Snow feels eminent.
It's all very winter and usually Jacob hates that, hates the inconvenience of the cold. But right now he can't remember why.
"What?" Troye asks eventually, after Jacob's been staring just a bit too long, a bit too unblinkingly.
He lets his smile form slow. "I like you," is all he quips, smug, squeezing Troye's fingers.
The words make Troye color beautifully as he ducks his head, ever the bashful baby swan. "I like you, too," he mumbles to his feet before he lifts his gaze, pressing forward suddenly to peck the corner of Jacob's mouth. "I like you tons."
"I like you infinity," Jacob counters, moving his hand to wrap around Troye's waist, pulling him flush against his side. He smirks, poking his tongue out from his teeth. "So, there. I win."
Still beaming, Troye wraps his own arm around Jacob. "We both win," he compromises sagely, stumbling a bit over his feet. "And I'm not ever gonna let you go. Not even to get a glass of water or use the toilet."
Jacob scoffs out a laugh. "Weirdo."
"Mmm-hm," troye nods, proud. "The most weird." He pauses, contemplates for a moment. "Well, next to you, that is."
"Next to me," Jacob agrees, liking the way it sounds. He pulls him closer and they continue walking, Troye continues talking, and the faded sun falls
My autocorrect keeps autocorrecting Jacob to Jesus.