It's April next week. Only three weeks until they announce who Brenton's chosen.'
Jacob stares at the text, eyes expressionless as the sunlight wavers upon the screen of his phone.
They're just words. He can delete them. He can lock his phone and silence them and he can look away from then any time he wants.
Because they're just words.
But still, he stares, his body still and tired and really fucking cold despite the warm weather as he lies on Alex's couch. Or is he at Anthony's? No—no, he's at Alex's.
Sometimes it's hard to remember where he is. Stuff like that gets a little difficult when all you do is couch-surf because you're a nomadic, inconstant mess. And it becomes very, very tiring after awhile...
Another text buzzes in.
'Call me tonight' it says.
He frowns, eyes flickering over the words over and over. He's sick of calling Timothee.
For the past few months, Jacob's taken yet another new approach to him: one where he's regularly half-ass communicating while keeping him perpetually at arm's length. It entails a lot of sporadic phone calls made in the dead of night once a week, usually when Jacob's walking back from Troye's house, the wind whispering against his dry skin, his collar pushed up high. It involves mostly "I'll explain later, Timothee. But it's fine"s and it comes with a nice, heaping portion of guilt and panic along with it because Troye's scent still lingers on him and his image is still pressed into the backs of his eyelids.
It leaves little encouragement to sleep, it leaves little room for sincere smiles, and it paves the way for a lot of the anxious, gritty misery that always seems to be lying in Jacob's gut these days. As he stares sightlessly at books. Gazes out of windows with dead eyes. Or, most commonly, counts the seconds in his head like a death toll as he pours pints, for no reason that he can will himself to grasp.
But. But he doesn't know what else to do. And he knows he's running out of time, see. He knows. He's aware. He just... He just can't bring himself to do anything.
He knows he needs to tell Troye. He's tried, even. It never works, though. Whether it's because Troye or him, he doesn't know... But it never works.
And so now, as he stares at Timothee's words, it all feels just that bit more anxious, that much more gritty.
It's a bullshit way to start the morning, really.
So Jacob just locks his phone as he slides a cold hand over his eyes, tucking his phone away where he can't see it.
"You up, mate?" Alex calls from the kitchen. It sounds very loud in the dusty morning light, with everything very still and bathed in yellows.
"Yeah," Jacob calls back as something, somewhere, cracks in his body while he stretches.
"Cool. Make sure to lock the door on your way out, yeah?" Suddenly Alex appears, jacket zipped up, as he makes his way towards the door. He casts a glance at Jacob, a genial smile in place which Jacob returns as he brushes sleep from his eyes. And then Alex'a got his hand on the doorknob, ready to exit.
"Oh wait," Jacob calls, holding up a hand, as he hauls himself off the couch, yawning as he digs for his wallet in the back pocket of his new jeans. (Hah, yeah, can you believe? New jeans. Troye, quite literally, made him buy them, insisting his others smelt like wet dog. He wasn't wrong.) He shuffles towards Alex, pulling a few notes out and stuffing them into his unsuspecting palm.
For a moment, Alex blinks at him, utterly taken aback.
So Jacob shrugs dismissively, pocketing his wallet as he turns from him and heads towards his shoes. "That's for housing my arse for all this time," he mumbles a little awkwardly. He's never been very good at being...thankful, or whatever. Like, verbally thankful. "I, uh. Appreciate you letting me crash here."
"Yeah, mate, no problem," Alex says slowly, almost suspiciously. He pauses. "But, Jacob, this honestly isn't necessary—"
"No, it is," Jacob insists, looking over at him long enough for Alex's mouth to shut. "It's more than necessary. And, uh. Well, if it's no trouble, I've been thinking..." He shuffles around a bit, stalling because he's not good at asking things. The back of his neck is itchy and he may or may not have a wedgie. His feet are cold. The carpet beneath him has an orange stain on it.
Alex waits expectantly, eyebrows still lost in his hair, money still sitting rumpled in his hand.
Jacob clears his throat, adopts a strong posture. Just suck it up. "I've been wondering if, maybe, this could be a bit more regular. Me crashing here every night, that is. If you're cool with it. I'll start paying half rent, naturally—"
"Half rent?, Jacob, that's not—"
"I will be paying half rent," Jacob continues, firmer, "and I'll help out with... Ya know. Flat shit. Or whatever. If you want. Up to you."
God, he's shit with words. Maybe he does need to go back to school after all...
Silent seconds pass, carried on by the breeze outside. It rattles gently at the windows, making a sound that Troye would probably insist as being "the wind purring" or something. He says things like that, he says all those precious little things. Jacob writes every single one of them down in his journal because he's so entertained by them. Which is fairly funny, considering that Troye got that for him so Jacob could write his own thoughts; and he does, don't get him wrong—but Troye's quite a large chunk of Jacob's thoughts now. So his journal's just as much as Troye as it is himself and he thinks that probably says a lot, says everything, and it's something that he surprisingly doesn't mind.
At last, Alex speaks.
"Yeah, mate. Yeah. That'd be brilliant, yeah," he nods, still clearly shocked, his eyes wider than Jacob's accustomed to seeing. It makes him snort a laugh which, in turn, makes Alex laugh too. "Yeah," he says again, this time a little less taken aback. "Sounds fun, Jacob. I appreciate the help, mate. You can stay as long as you like. I can clear out that tiny room I use as my closet—"
"Nah, the couch is good," Jacob promises, flashing a casual thumbs up as he slips on his shoes. "Honestly. I just need a couch. Sleep better on them after all these years, anyway."
But Alex's looking at him doubtfully. "Are you sure?"
"Quite." Pause. "But thank you."
It makes Alex huff out another laugh as he turns the doorknob. "You're welcome." He shakes his head, pulling it open. "You really have become the noble little gent as of late, haven't ya? Must be the married life. Settled you down."
Married life, jesus.
But Jacob successfully manages to swallow down his hints of self-consciousness, instead adopting an easy smile accompanied by a bow of the head. "I'm just a boring old man now," he smirks, just as Alex steps outside.
He receives a good-natured laugh in return before the door shuts.
**
Everything is sort of a casual mess right now.
It all just consists of Jacob quietly unraveling at the seams. It's Dylan and Jed being the exact same, all peaceful and prophetic and bright-meets-dark together. It's Troye going to school and studying and rambling about his growing passions while Jacob works shifts at the pub, sweet-talking his tips and working his ass off because it feels good. It's the clock ticking in every fucking room that Jacob enters. It's a sun that always sets, usually when Jacob's in the Sivan household, wearing clean socks on his feet. It's Troye being...everything. The most essential parts of Jacob, at least. And it's time running out.
There's stress there. There's quicksand somewhere. There's Jacob in the middle of it all, silently pretending that he's very much okay when he's very much not. There's sleepless nights and anxious twisting of hands and nail biting and foot tapping and knee bouncing and staring at the sky for countless hours. There's a quiet, tired voice, a sad laugh, a lingering gaze whenever Troye isn't looking. There's desperate hands and intention-less kisses and embraces that are initiated just because Jacov is demanding that his bones mould to Troye's, is demanding to memorize him completely and how his angles bump his angles.
Because he's afraid that everything is coming to an end. And he wants to hold onto everything that he can.
"What are you going to do after graduation, Dylan?" Troye asks one day at the record shop, all innocent and curious as he stands there in a faded yellow t-shirt and skinny jeans. He's holding a Turtles record because Jacob said he loved it and wants to play it next.
The question, though. It tugs on Jacob's nerve endings. He straights infinitesimally, ears perked as he faux-peruses the 80's hair metal records.
"I think Jed and I are going to travel the world," Dylan mumbles, playing with pins atop the counter. He's arranging them into peace signs.
Beside him, Jed nods breezily, his white jumper clean. "Absolutely. I think we're probably going to travel for at least a year. Maybe settle somewhere along the way and build an empire."
"Yeah," Dylan agrees, serious. "I think we'll do that. We might get married. I'm not sure how I feel about the practice yet, though."
He says it so casually.
"We could do our own marriage," Jed suggests with a shrug, now sitting atop the counter and swinging his feet. He taps the pins with his fingers as he gazes at Dylan. "Our own thing, like. Sod tradition."
Of course, Dylan's eyes brighten like stars at that, staring at Jed like he were the world's largest pile of gold. Which he might be, to be fair. "Jed. Yeah. Yeah, let's do that," he whispers in awe.
They exchange grins and it makes Troye tuck his smile into his chest before he glances at Jacob.
He returns the smile, still feeling mildly uneasy about the topic at hand. He's hoping it'll be dropped there, the conversation will be dropped, but then Jed goes ahead and fucking asks, "What will you be doing, Troye? Going to Brenton probably? If Timothee doesn't get it?"
And, shit. If the entire world doesn't feel like it's crashing from that handful of words, then Jacob doesn't know what crashing feels like.
But Troye just hums and shrugs, his answer noncommittal as he sets the record on the turntable. "I dunno. I see things differently now than I did before..." He glances at Jacob again, soft. "But yeah. We'll see, I guess," is what he says, paired with a smile he flashes up at them, and Jacob feels his heartbeat in his goddamn throat as he plays it casual, plays it cool, his ears burning.
Then the subject is dropped, naturally shifting onward, and Jacob can breathe again.
But. It's never really dropped, is it? The subject? It's never really gone. It's always there, lying quietly. Waiting to be poked, tripped upon.
'3 weeks' he receives again via text message a few nights later while watching some Jane Austen movie with Troye suctioned to his side, mumbling the lines under his breath because he's Troye and he's sentimental and sweet.
The text makes Jacob inhale sharply, locking his phone immediately as cement plops inside of him.
Troye turns to him, brows pinching. "Alright?" he asks, gentle, inquiring.
Jacob has to stare at the TV a moment longer, just long enough to swallow and still the jump in his pulse. Long enough for Troye to gently swipe fingers along his jaw.
"Yeah, 'course," he smiles as he turns to him.
And if Troye sees something amiss in his eyes, he doesn't say, just kisses him instead.
"You know," he whispers a few minutes later, forehead pressed against the side of Jacob's neck. Jacob's pulse is still a little off-kilter. "Mum and Sage are leaving this weekend. To visit my nan."
Jacob hums, eyes still on the screen. "Why aren't you going, pup?"
He feels Troye shrug. "Asked if I could stay back."
Frowning, Jacob glances down at him. "Why? Is your nan mean or...?"
Troye chuckles, shaking his head as he lifts it, meeting Jacob's eye with his own very warm, dim ones. "No, not at all. She's a lovely nan. The best nan that a youthful flower like me could ask for." He grins with teeth.
"Youthful flower?" Jacob repeats in a deadpan and it makes Troye laugh, loud and bright. A tiny explosion in the dark room. Jacob grins full out, tugs him even closer.
"Yes, I am a youthful flower," Troye sniffs, but his laughter is still staining the words. He quiets a bit though, face calming as he turns back to Jacob. Eyes lock eyes. "But, uhm. Yeah. I asked to stay back. Because, uhm. Well. I guess I thought maybe..." He shrugs, awkward, eyes unblinking. "Maybe you could...stay? It could...just be us."
The words are quiet, really really quiet, and they're the loudest Jacob's ever heard.
His heart thumps once, twice, three times like a fucking bass drum.
"Just us?" he asks, voice pitched kinda high. He clears his throat.
Troye nods slowly, eyes never blinking. "Yeah," he whispers. "Alone."
Sex.
That's literally all Jacob is thinking right now. Sex. Troye is asking him to stay this weekend, in this house, alone with Troye, so they can have sex. For the first proper time. Sex. Sex with Troye.
Holy actual shit. This is...
This is terrifying. And, sure, Jacob is far from being any sort of virgin but... Shit. He's never had, like, proper sex with someone he's cared for before. He's never...looked into someone's eyes or any of that crap. He's never... It's never mattered before. What they did, how they did, how Jacob did... It's never mattered before.
It will matter with Troye.
And holy shit, he's terrified. Thrilled, excited, thankful, even. And really mostly terrified.
"Yeah," he nods before he can even gather himself, "Yeah, definitely." It sounds like there's a seagull in his throat.
But Troye must not notice because he's nodding too, a faint blush in his cheeks, and his smile catches between his teeth. "Good," he smiles quietly, their words trapped between them. The movie is faint and far away in the distance, the room is essentially an abyss. "I'm glad."
"Yeah," Jacob mumbles, still nodding. "Me, too."
And then Troye blushes crimson before he pecks a shy kiss to Jacob's lips and resettles his head back on Jacob's shoulder.
And Jacob is bloody terrified.
**
"I'm terrified," he tells Dylan as he takes another sip of his pint.
It's midday and the sky seems too bright, the wind too windy, so they retreated to a dimly lit pub on the far side of town. Troye's currently doing some music thing with a few choir kids. He was a little reluctant to go ("Why don't you want to come with us?" he'd asked Jacob, pouting. "Well, for starters, I don't sing, Troye." "But you should! Your voice is beautiful.") but Jacob insisted he did, promising that they'll have all the time in the world come this weekend and it silenced them both, really. Because Troye beamed and turned a fetching shade of vermillion while Jacob found himself to be housing a rather large squid inside of his stomach. He walked away a little shakily, feeling Troye's eyes on him all the way, and even now, two hours later, he still feels like he's composed of tentacles and slippery limbs.
He's somehow regressed and it's mortifying and very stressful. All because of sex, of all things.
"Don't be," Dylan assures, folding his napkin into a tiny triangle. He's already gone through three pints. He doesn't really sip things—he likes to devour them in gulps, his eyes darting around with mild paranoia. Always alert. Yet never alert. That's Dylan in a nutshell. "It's natural to want to make love to your soulmate."
Jacob sets down his glass with a thump, causing a bit to slosh out the sides. He tries not to glare. "Must you always sound like a Moody Blues song?"
Dylan shrugs, undeterred. "Words are words."
Hm. Deep.
"Well, in any case," Jacob continues, hunching his shoulders a bit. "I'm... Still terrified."
"Why?"
"What do you mean 'why'? This weekend is the—Troye's invited me to—we're probably gonna—ya know—" It would be splendid if Jacob's skin wasn't currently pink. It would be splendid. But his body's been quite the little traitor over the past several months, so.
Smirking, Dylan regards him over the pint glass that he's now holding up with his fingertips, peering through its foggy glass and catching the prisms with his eyes. "You've never had trouble saying it before," he muses.
Jacob flushes. "Well, that's because I've never done this with Troye before," he hisses in defense and it makes Dylan's eyes shine like black pearls, all softened and sympathetic.
"Don't be nervous," he says after a moment before going back to inspect his glass reverently.
"Why?" Jacob grunts, one eye still on Dylan. At this point, he can't really take Dylan's sage advice given that his point of view exists somewhere far out of the confines of this universe. He says things like "make love", for Christ's sake.
"Because," Dylan continues, words tumbling out of his soft, slackened lips. Eyes still lost in the pint glass. "He loves you. You love him. It's natural and your bodies will become one, man. Sex is like another plane of existence. It's reaching another level inside of yourself, it's truly living in the now."
Like he said—Dylan exists somewhere far outside the universe.
Jacob just stares. "I've had plenty of sex, Dylan, thanks," he mutters wryly. "Yet I just don't think I've reached any new planes of existence thus far. Funnily enough."
But he just dismisses the sentence with the flick of a hand. "That wasn't sex. That was just...using someone to masturbate."
Startled, Jacob laughs.
"Sex is more, like, a union," Dylan continues, gaze now veering far off. "Of souls." He nods to himself then, seemingly satisfied with his discourse.
It does absolutely nothing to quell the shivering terror in Jacob's stomach.
"Right. Thanks, mate," he exhales anyway, tapping his fingers atop the table, lifting his eyes to the ceiling in a silent prayer. A prayer to the self.
"You're welcome," Dylan replies sagely, finally setting down the glass. He moves his hands to rest atop the table, staring at them instead, thus signaling the end of the conversation, of any conversation.
"Right. Well, time to go, Brother Dearest?" Jacob questions, already scooting out of the booth, nerves still jangling within. He ignores them, though. Because they're obviously not going away, so... So whatever.
Dylan hums his agreement, following with a three-second delay, as is custom.
They walk out in the warm, sunny streets, the wind whipping jovially at their hair, Dylan murmuring something about Jed. And Jacob pretends to listen, tries to listen, he does.
Problem is, he's too busy being really fucking terrified.
**
Knock, knock
Jacob lowers his hand, knuckles tingling. The sound seems louder today, seems somehow harsh in the stillness of the day.
He swallows, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The bag he borrowed from Alex is digging into his shoulder—it's laden down with an extra pair of jeans, another t-shirt, some boxers, some tea. Just the usual shit. If it has other, uh, supplies, well then... Well then, there's that, too.
Jacob swallows, shivering against a gust of wind.
He's just about to knock again when suddenly the door is flung open. On the other side is a wild-haired Troye, enormous grin in place. His cardigan is pea green and rumpled, hanging off of his broad shoulders and it looks fuzzy and woolen and wonderful and Jacob stares at it, stares at the damn cardigan instead of Troye's face, because he's suddenly hit with a wave of shyness.
Everything just feels so...big. A lot.
"You're here!" Troye sings, grin plastered across his cheeks, and he's flushed and bright and excited. He's youthful, he's beautiful.
This is it. This is their weekend. This is it. Them. The whole...build-up thing...this is what it culminates to. Being in love and—
And Timothee wanted Jacob to sleep with Troye. That was one of his goals. It was part of the deal.
The thought is startling and sharp.
The unexpectedness of it takes Jacob by surprise, punches his lungs. Shit.
Timothee. The deal. Troye. Timothee...
But Troye's still grinning unknowingly and suddenly everything seems a little sour.
Swallowing, Jacob musters up all the strength he has to smile. "Here," he parrots back, holding the strap of his bag, and Troye laughs, just because, as he continues to stare at him.
A few moments pass, the sun shining down. And then Troye snaps to it, blinking a few successive times as he steps back.
"Sorry," he mumbles, flushing, gesturing Jacob inside. "I'm just a bit, uhm. Zoned out, I guess?" He laughs once as Jacob crosses the threshold, shuts the door behind him.
"So," Jacob says, once they're inside where it's quiet. Very quiet. He sets down his bag with a thump on the floor. Toes off his shoes. Smiles up at Troye and ignores the slither of his conscience. "What shall we do?"
Troye grins immediately. "Well. Are you hungry?"
He snorts. "I'm always hungry, Sasspup."
"Oh, good!" Troye claps (actually claps) before he finds Jacob's hands, immediately dragging him towards the kitchen. Their socked feet slide on the floors and their smiles grow with every step, fingers laced together. "Because I've made us dinner. Properly," he adds, proud, making Jacob laugh. "And there are candles and everything."
"Candles?" Jacob asks, clutching his heart. "Whatever did I do to deserve candles?"
They stop then, Troye halting on the spot, making Jacob jump. Without word, he tugs Jacob close, wrapping arms around his neck in a way that feels more familiar against his skin than his own shirts do. He smells like he's been cooking—smells like seasonings and butter and warmth. He smiles up quietly at Jacob, bumping his nose against his own which Jacob really wishes he didn't find so endearing.
"You're you," Troye mumbles, pressing brief kisses to Jacob's mouth. "And that's why you deserve the entire world's worth of candles." Jacob feels himself grin, chest warming. "But. Alas. All I have is two and just some dinner to start. So I hope you like it."
"Of course I'll like it," Jacob whispers back immediately, hands pressing into Troye's back, and he's gone, isn't he? He's gone, gone, gone. "You could set your shoe in a frying pan and I'll gladly eat every bit of it, will eat it every day forever. That's the price I pay for being weak for you. Enjoy your power, young one."
Troye beams, laughing under his breath. "Not weak," he argues. "Strong."
Of course he said that. Jacob can only smile.
"Now come on," Troye continues, pulling him along. "Time for dinner." He grins, his curls shiver with his movements, and his fingers grasp onto Jacob's with warmth and unyielding strength.
And, suddenly, Jacob isn't so terrified anymore.
**
It was a brilliant meal. Which is less than surprising—Jacob never had any doubt about it.
But now he's painfully full and sated and warm, legs kicked up as he splays his body on the couch; Troye's figure is lying on the floor beside him, eyes closed with a smile playing upon his face. The lights are few, the shadows are warm, and the silence hums along pleasantly, interspersed by the crackling of the fireplace.
"I feel bloated," Jacob grunts, watching Troye.
Troye's lips quirk even moreso. "Good," he mumbles slowly, body weighted and sleepy. "I want to fatten you up. Make you a nice plump husband."
Oh jesus.
Despite the lethargy of his body, Jacob balks out a laugh. "Well, then. At least you're finally revealing your true intentions," he teases, attempting to swat at him from his perch. "Whatcha trying to do—stuff the pig before he's cooked? Do you have plans, Mr. Sivan?" Grinning, he turns onto his side to face him.
Troye cracks one eye open. "I do, I do," he mumbles, smiling still wider. "All the plans with you."
"Hm." Jacob closes his eyes, lets his head lull as he just breathes, contented and quiet, body entirely relaxed. "Good. We'll make nice plans."
"We will..."
There's a brief pause before Troye once again cracks an eye open.
"We could, uhm... You know, we could make some plans now..." he suggests.
"Sure," Jacob mumbles, eyes now shut. "Why not?"
He thinks he hears Troye swallow before he continues. "Alright. Well, maybe... Maybe the first thing we should plan is, like... To visit someone. You know? Together? Or alone, if you want."
What?
Furrowing his brow, Jacob smirks, unable to open his eyes just yet. "Visit who? And why would I want to go alone? I don't like people, Troye, I need you to entertain the people."
There's a beat of silence.
"Well, like. Maybe the visit could be...your family."
Jacob's eyes snap open.
"Just, like, think about it, okay?" Troye rushes, already sitting up and using appeasing hands, his face etched in careful concern. "Just consider it. Because I know it bothers you and it's, like, one of those things that's in that metaphorical room of yours, you know? The one that's all dark and filled with all the opportunities you can't see? In fact, I think it might be the light switch, Jacob. I think it's what you need to do to move on and—"
"Troye," he interrupts flatly, but Troye just keeps going.
"I know it's scary and I know that I don't understand but I also know that you have to at least try, Jacob, because you'll never forgive yourself—"
"Troye," he repeats more firmly and, luckily, it shuts Troye's mouth. He sighs, sitting up as well. "Look, I get what you're saying, alright? And I appreciate it. But I'm not going to discuss this with you."
"Oh." Troye's face falls.
"Not—not because it's you, or anything. I just... I just don't want to talk about this. Not this weekend. Alright? I don't..." He sighs again. "It's just really complicated and I don't want to talk about it."
A heavy silence follows the words, heavy enough for Jacob to feel a niggling guilt in his stomach. But, thing is, he's not about to discuss this. He's absolutely not going to.
Still though, he looks over to Troye. The boy's sad, his eyes cast downwards on the carpet, hands lying limp in his lap. His legs are stretched out before him and he looks the portrait of a forlorn toddler. Jacob wants to pull him on his own lap.
So he does.
"Hey," he drags in poor imitation of Troye's accent. Wonderfully, it does twitch Troye's lips and he settles on Jacob's lap, making himself nice and small so he fits just so. "I'm not trying to be a prick. I'm sorry I'm a prick. I really like you, though. So I'm sorry. Thank you for caring enough about me to think about that stuff, let alone talk to me about it. 'M sorry."
But Troye's already shaking his head, hands settling on Jacob's shoulders. "No, I'm sorry," he mumbles, ducking his head. "I need to stop meddling."
"You're not meddling," Jacob points out. "Not quite."
Troye shrugs. "Whatever I'm doing, then. I'm sorry. I need to respect that you have boundaries and...things." He frowns. "Sometimes I get too involved. Sometimes I'm too much."
"No, no, no," Jacob shushes, wrapping arms around Troye's neck fiercely enough to crush him to his chest. It makes Troye utter out a surprised "oof!" but Jacob ignores it, holding back a laugh as he locks him in his embrace, swaying them as much as he can in this position. "I like you just the way you are. You're not too much of anything, silly boy. Silly little pup."
Troye blushes.
They remain like that for awhile, just silent and tangled up, bellies still full, before Troye finally pulls away, sleepy eyes meeting with Jacob's
"I love you, Jacob," he says quietly, apropos of nothing, the words sounding scraped.
And part of Jacob wants to say them back...
Almost as much as he doesn't want to. It's just...
He just doesn't really like that phrase, okay? And not just because it's seemingly impossible to say (will he ever be ready? Probably not, definitely not yet), but in his life, for the few people he's probably loved (Dylan, his mom, his siblings...) he's never used that term before. He's never heard it used on him before. Those words don't mean anything and he...
Why should he have to say something that holds absolutely no fucking value within him? Yeah, he loves Troye. But why does he need to say something if he can prove it? They're just words, otherwise.
So Jacob just grins before kissing him, all lingering and soft and entirely un-Jacob-like.
Then Troye deepens it, always deepens it.
And Troye's still in Jacob's lap, you know. He's still there, sliding to fit his knees on either side of his waist as he settles his weight differently. Jacob feels everything center itself as Troye's mouth pulls at his own, his hands roaming, roaming, roaming. It's all very custom—something they've done before.
But it's the catch in Troye's breath that gives him away. It's the slight shake of his hands, the insistence of his movements...
Everything is purposeful. Everything has an intended outcome.
Troye wants him. Jacob wants him, too.
And it should be that simple.
But. But it's at that exact fucking moment that Jacob suddenly hears Timothee's voice curl into his brain, echoed and watery.
"His name is Troye Sivan."
It jolts inside him, makes him stutter in his movements. Troye notices, briefly pinches his brow before he dips back into the kiss. His hands fall to Jacob's jeans, all fire and intent. He smells wonderful, familiar, beautiful... Jacob loves him, loves the way his mouth feels soft and open and, just... Just feels like Troye now.
So he closes his eyes, will his body to forget. To just focus on right now. On Troye. His Troye.
But the slithered words only keep coming, echoing, gliding through his skull, down the back of his neck; his conscience, his guilt are roaring, creating little tears against his lips and heart...
"He's not dating anyone—he's a virgin, by the way—"
Jacob's stomach clenches, Timothee's words loud. Troye holds on tighter.
And then. Then Jacob hears his own voice, the ripple of his own words. Short, snappish, cocky. Barren.
"Now way. A virgin? He's what? Seventeen?"
"Around there, yeah. He's a good boy, our Troye Sivan."
Fuck. Fuck.
Wincing, Jacob pulls away.
"Jacob?" Troye questions, startled. "Jacob, what's wrong?"
He said those things himself. He did, he talked about Troye that way. He said those things and he laughed about him and...
And Timothee. He still calls Timothee. He talks to him every week and skirts around the fucking issue and he's about to sleep with Troye, take his fucking virginity, for fuck's sake, and he still talks to Timothee.
All of this is still part of the game. Even if it's not, it fucking is.
Jesus Christ, he feels sick.
"Jacob?" Troye presses worriedly and his hands are all over him, trying to pry Jacob's own away from his face. "Jacob?" He sounds almost terrified in the silence.
Jacob wants to vomit. Or maybe cry. Something.
"No," he hears himself say, very, very quietly. Speckles flash behind his eyelids the harder he pushes his hands against them.
"What?" Troye asks, leaning in close to hear. "What's wrong?"
"I don't deserve you," Jacob mumbles into his palms; part of him hopes Troye doesn't hear. He doesn't want to fight about it, doesn't want to draw attention to, what really is, a simple statement. A fact. His eyes clench shut all the tighter as his stomach roars its protest. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
"Jacob," Troye continues, gentle and slow as he softly pries away Jacob's hands at last. He stares at him, brushes Jacob's hair away with careful fingers, a patient but concerned smile on his face.
Jacob can only watch him, heart rabbiting, everything feeling heavy and cold. He genuinely, truly loves him, is the thing.
But he can't do this. Not like this. Not when there's a Timothee that still expects a call.
Yet Jacob can't move. Not when Troye is gently swiping fingers across the tense lines of his face, slowing his breath, smoothing out his muscles. He can't move.
"Jacob," he murmurs again and the name is soaked entirely in adoration. "I love you. So much." Fingers trace his cheekbone. Jacob breathes, in and out. "And I want to do this. I want you. I really, really do. I love you and I want—I want everything with you."
The words are everything he wants to hear, everything he feels in return. But somehow they still cut and Jacob knows why.
He knows what he needs to do. He knows how to solve this, even if it seems like chaos and panic.
Slowly, Troye takes one of Jacob's hands, gently rests it atop his heart. Jacob can feel the beat of it beneath his palm, can feel the heat of his chest soaked into his shirt.
"You already have this," Troye continues quietly, earnestly. His eyes are wide and bright, so bright, just like when Jacob met him that first day in the library. "Everything else is yours, too. I want you to have it. I love you and I want—"
"I can't."
The words are blurted before Jacob even realizes they've formed in his brain. He blinks, startled at himself, but realizing he can't take them back.
Troye stills. His brows pull together. "What?"
"I—" Jacob cuts off, staring at Troye with a pulse that has, once again, sky-rocketed.
He can't run from his fucking problems anymore. He can't keep doing this.
He needs to fix this if he's going to do this. He needs to do this right, he has to stop fucking with Troye.
He has to fix this. He knows how to fix this.
"I've got to go," he splutters, blinking as fast as he's breathing, and he puts troye next to himself on the couch gently and stumbles as he gets to his feet.
"What? Jacob, where are you—" Troye calls, face white as he tries to catch up.
And, shit. He doesn't want Troye to think—God. He's just ruining everything, isn't he?
Jacob freezes, turning on the spot to face Troye who now looks small and horribly fragile, clutching himself. Holding all his pieces together. His eyes search Jacob's, almost pleadingly, but he makes no movement to step closer, makes no movement to bridge the gap or reach out. He looks small and broken and embarrassed and—
No. Jacob can't leave like this.
He's jumbly when he steps to him, cradles his cheek and presses his mouth fiercely to his. And Troye lets him kiss him, reaches out a tentative hand to settle on Jacob's arm, gentle and hopeful.
But Jacob pulls away before it can lead anywhere.
"I'm coming back. I'll be back soon," he promises firmly, never breaking Troye's eye. "I promise you that I will be back soon. I just need—I need to go right now. I need to—I'll be back. I promise you, Troye."
"But where are you going?" Troye asks, voice cracking, and Jacob falters inside.
"I'll be back," is all he can reply, sounding desperate and wild as he retreats to the door, eyes still on Troye. "Please—I just—I'll be back, Troye. "I'm so sorry but I'll be back and—it'll be better."
"What will be better? Jacob, what are you talking about?"
"Please don't lock the door," is all he says before he shuts it.
And when his feet hit the pavement as he runs into the night, they resonate through the air like cracks, splitting directly into his heart.
**
The elevator doors ding open. The sound is alarmingly harsh in the silence of the night and it startles Jacob, makes him jump, before he takes in the dark empty rooms before him.
His shoes scuff the floor as he takes a step inside. The shadows on the walls are still, the furniture is cold and stiff. It's so quiet that it's loud.
He continues walking, eyes firmly set ahead. His pulse has kicked up again—if it ever went down, that is.
He's got this, okay? He's got this. He has to do this. He can't spend one more day with Troye while this bullshit is going on.
He's going to end it. And he's going to end it right fucking now.
The light that slips in through the cracks of Timothee's door guides the rest of Jacob's way. His palms feel tacky and gritty, his eyes feel dry as fuck, but he ignores it all as he knocks, his breath lodged somewhere deep in his chest..
He doesn't wait for Timothee's response before he opens the door.
As expected, Timothee sits inside, sprawled on his bed, clutching his phone in one hand while staring sightlessly at the ceiling. The room smells of weed and cigarettes and socks with undertones of onion crisps. It's rank.
He jumps when he sees Jacob, sitting up immediately.
"Bix?"
Jacob just stands there, silent, breathing. He's painfully aware of his muscles as Timothee stares, eyes flicking to his torso.
"You got a new jacket," he remarks, quiet.
Jacob nods, head full of air. "Troye got it for me."
It makes Timothee's lips purse, something darker shrouding his features. There's another moment's silence before he speaks again. "What are you doing here—"
"I'm done."
Timothee stares. Slowly, he slides his body off of the bed. "You're done?" he questions carefully but he's clearly confused, bewildered, even. His large eyebrows are slowly drawing together, his movements cautious.
Jacob nods just once, eyes never blinking or ripping away from the man he once so wildly desired. Now, he feels nothing. Perhaps loathing, if anything. Resentment. Pity maybe. "I'm done," he repeats, low. "With your fucking games. I'm done. The thing with Troye? It's not happening, Timothee. It hasn't for a long time. If ever, really. I'm done."
The words are melodic, steady. They carry through the room like a hum and every breath births freedom in Jacob's chest, his lungs, his conscience, and even his joints feel a little less tightly wound.
He can do this, he is doing this.
It's going to be okay.
So he breathes, in and out as Timothee's eyes darken, unblinking in their movement but descending in their color. His face looks to be made of stone in this moment; Jacob wonders if he punched him, if it would crack. Just split into pieces and litter the floor.
At last though, Timothee speaks.
"I—I thought I gave you incentive for this," he says quietly, his words chalky, leaving dust in the air between them. "I was going to give you me, Jacob—"
"I don't want you anymore," Jacob says, slow, agitated, sad. Breathless. "I just want him."
Timothee looks physically ill. "Sivan?"
"Yeah," Jacob nods, closing his eyes at the name. "Sivan. Troye. My Troye Sivan."
"Your Troye Sivan?" Timothee raises an incredulous brow, the pain on his face quickly morphing into a sneer. "Yours? Are you fucking serious right now, Jacob?"
But Jacob ignores the hilts in his breathing, instead focuses on the words and he continues, undeterred. "I'm done, Timothee. I'm not your dog's body anymore. I'm fucking done with this. Done with you."
"With me?!" Timothee suddenly roars incredulously, face regaining its color. He's blood-red and enraged, something rabid and fearful struck in his countenance.
Jacob doesn't even flinch, his body unyielding as he holds his ground. He nods sharply, eyes boring into eyes.
So Timothee barrels on, unraveling at the seams as he takes one step closer, fists curled tightly at his sides. "You agreed to this, Jacob!" he shouts, voice splintered in every syllable. "You were just as big a part of this whole fucking thing as me! We are the same, Jacob, the same. You think you're better than me? Just because you fucked some pretty-faced kid—"
"Shut the fuck up," he growls, muscles tightening.
Timothee ignores him completely. "You think you're changed now? Think you're finally fucking worth something? Well you're bloody well not. You're like me, just like me. You'll always be like me. We're the same, Jacob. We're fucked up and we have nothing else in this fucking world but each other and you will never be done with me—"
At that, Jacob laughs, as exaggeratedly and hysterically vicious as he can. Because this is bullshit, this is—this is—no. He's doing this, he's getting to Timothee, and he's done with all of this. Forever.
"I choose him," he says calmly, articulating each letter as he shakes his head in amusement, watching Timothee's pupils dilate, his fists shake. He's trying so, so hard to remain fierce, dominant, tyrannical. But Jacob knows Timothee—he can see when the cracks start to form. "Think whatever the hell you want, mate. But I choose him. And I'm done."
With that, Jacob begins to retreat and it feels like he's snapping cables with every movement, every single twist in his cells suddenly untwisting.
It feels like air, like oxygen, like freedom.
It's so pathetic when he thinks about it—here, he's always claimed that he was so alive, so different from everybody else. Unburdened by society and its demands and regulations. He always boasted of his self-proclaimed freedom and wore his selfishness like a badge and yet, this whole fucking time, he's been nothing but a prisoner. To himself, to Timothee Chalamet, to the very world that he's always let win by letting it warp every part of him.
He let the world forge weapons that he used on himself.
And now? Now it's over.
Now he knows what freedom is. What it properly is.
It's just as he's reaching the door that Timothee shouts out, panicked and shaky like a cornered animal in its last moments. Fuckin' weak.
"I'll tell him," he shouts, the words shivering against the windows. "I will tell him everything—you know I will. I will torment him, I will torment you, I'll—I'll do everything I fucking can and when he knows the truth, he will leave you, Jacob. And then you'll be alone—"
Something odd, sharp, and colorfully intense suddenly fills Jacob's chest when he turns around, words spilling from his mouth before he can even register them. "I already told him."
It shuts Timothee's mouth immediately.
Beat, beat, beat, goes Jacob's heart but his face never betrays him despite the whir of his thoughts, the panic of his lie. "We've discussed it, Timothee. That's why I'm here. He knows everything. He knows about you, about us. And he knows that I'll never leave him. Throw whatever the fuck you want at us—I don't care. I will win, I always do. I'm the only person that's not afraid of you, Timothee. You've got no ammo. It's done."
"I don't believe you," Timothee rasps, his entire body deflating. He looks so small, so entirely small. Jacob used to think he looked enormous, rich, powerful. Sexy. He used to think he was made of forged steel and platinum.
Timothee used to matter. It makes something ugly and sharp spread inside. Maybe it's guilt or sentiment. Or disgust.
But, whatever it is, it's enough to make Jacob swallow as he stares at the shadow of a boy before him, not walking out just yet.
"I'm sorry, Timothee," he finds himself crackling unexpectedly, and the words sound just as sad as they feel when they crawl up Jacob's tongue and out of his mouth. "But it's over."
Timothee stares, hands now limp and pale. His watch is large, bright, looks to be weighing him down. His eyes are tired and dulled brown, shadows deep. His hair is unstyled. Clothes no longer pristine, just rumpled and too large. His lips are parted on words he can't manage as he just stares, stands and stares.
Heavy beats pass, Jacob's hand still on the door. Timothee still staring.
"Goodbye," Jacob finally grits, firm, a tornadic mix of fury and sadness, of guilt, of indignation and relief, as he turns on his heel and walks out.
Timothee doesn't follow him, he doesn't call out. He just lets Jacob leave, lets him take each scuffed step back to the elevator, walking past Dylan's silent room and the empty, shadowed living room, past the balcony overlooking the city, past the corridor that leads to Martha's room, separated as far as they can be from their children.
Jacob walks until he reaches the elevator, presses the cold, spotless button.
And he descends, leaving Timothee behind, his pulse finally quiet.
**
It's blinding, overwhelming relief that fills Jacob when he finds that the door to the Sivan household actually opens.
It's open. Troye didn't lock him out, it's open.
Thank fuck.
Jacob exhales deeply.
The house is silent when he enters, still dimly lit by sporadic lamplight and the embers from the fireplace. Troye's nowhere to be seen, though. And it tugs at Jacob but he's too fucking relieved, free, happy right now to care much.
Because now he has Troye. Forever. Nothing is holding him back and now he can love him unconditionally, take care of him, be with him.
He doesn't know why he never thought of it before—just lying to Timothee, telling him that Troye knows. It's fucking ingenious. And given Jacob's knack for lying (or, previous knack, rather) it's startling, almost shameful, that it never crossed his mind before.
Oh well. Doesn't matter.
All that matters now is Jacob and Troye. That's it.
Unable to keep the smile at bay, Jacob climbs the staircase, each step bouncy and light, meaningful. Everything feels like something right now, everything feels.
Troye is his. He smiles wider.
He finds the boy in question in his room, curled up on his duvet and staring out the window, a sad tilt to his mouth, fingers laced upon his stomach. He turns when he hears Jacob, turns sad, watchful eyes on him, his hair askew and frizzy. It's curled in odd directions and it lies unevenly and his eyes look drawn and there's a spot by his lip.
And he's perfect and Jacob wants to worship him.
He wants to scoop him up in his hands, his mouth, his soul, and he wants to devour him and let himself be devoured in turn because he's in love with Troye and he's never been in love before and now he's his, they're each other's.
It makes breathing so much easier.
"Troye," he practically sighs, stopping and just staring.
"Jakey," Troye mumbles back, but it's cautious, almost a question. "Is everything alright?"
Jacob lets himself smile. "Yeah," he nods, gushes, immediately rushing forward as he kneels by Troye's bed, wrapping arms around as much of the boy as he can. "Yeah," he breathes into his hair. "Everything's alright. Great, even. It's all going to be okay."
He can feel the confusion in Troye's limbs as he breathes him in, feels Troye's hands tentatively rest over his.
"What was wrong?" he asks, quiet.
Jacob shakes his head. Troye doesn't need to know. Not anymore. It'll just hurt him, right? Right. So. He doesn't need to know. Jacob doesn't want to hurt him and it doesn't matter anymore.
Just one more tiny lie. A little white lie just once more.
"I just needed to think about things," he says quietly, blinking his eyes shut. "I, uh. I just used to feel so guilty being with you. Because I don't deserve you. So I just needed to...sort my head a bit. Get some air and think things through. And, Troye?"
Troye pulls back, blinking as he meets Jacob's eye. He swallows, eyes darting across his face, his grip tight.
"Troye, I only want you. I want us to last. I don't feel guilty anymore, okay? I'm—I'm fully, like, prepared for this now, alright? I mean, I'm not good at, like, feelings and shit"—Troye laughs, his face warming and breaking into the most beautiful, exquisite relief—"but I will be the best version of myself that I can. And it's because you make me want to be. And I want that. I want you. And we can have that, alright? We can and I will make sure of it. I will never hurt you, Troye." The words are fast and passionate, bleeding in Jacob's mouth as he clutches his hands fiercely but he means them, okay?
He needs Troye to understand.
"Okay," Troye smiles, nodding as he pulls Jacob in closer, closer. "Okay," he whispers against his lips, and it feels like straight oxygen being poured in Jacob's lungs when Troye kisses him.
The world is dark and it's night and the warmth of their breath moistens their lips and cheeks and the bed creaks when they lay upon it, creaks when their knees bump and press into the mattress, hands gliding, roaming, sliding over planes.
"I love you," Troye breathes into Jacob's hair.
Jacob nods, can only nod because his throat is filled to the brim with everything, with Troye, as he noses at the delicate, arched wings of his collarbones, worshipping Troye in the way he's finally allowing himself to. Becoming lost. Lost in Troye's hands and Jacob's skin and the rumbles from his chest and the sighs that crackle from his throat as the world blurs around the edges and sharpens only against Troye's cells.
Jacob thinks he may be lost forever.
And it's the only thing he wants.
This chapter was really something else. Now only few chapters left.