As luck would have it, they've managed to find a coat room, which is deserted, save for a smattering of beige jackets.
The room's smaller, quiet and unfurnished, yet it feels like oxygen compared to the swarms of academic stuffiness jammed into all the other rooms. It's perfect and it gives them room to just sit there against the wall, side by side, leg pressed against leg as they entangle their hands and stare at the ceiling, making each other laugh, talking about absolutely nothing of consequence.
loves talking about nothing with Troye. They could be in a cardboard box for five days and they'd still have the time of their lives—that's how he knows he's in love. That's how he knows he's ruined for fucking eternity.
It's just as they're laughing comfortably, all tension and boredom finally released from their bodies, that a voice suddenly sounds over the speakers tucked in each room, intercom clicking into life.
"We would like to take this time to announce that the ceremony will commence in twenty minutes," a female voice recites. "If you could please start to find your seats, we will begin shortly. Thank you."
With that, the speakers cut and the sound of soft violins fills the silence once again. As one, they both sigh, locking gazes.
"Show time," Jacob grins, giving Troye's hand an excited squeeze. But Troye looks anything but nervous—rather, he looks serene, lazy almost as he nods. "Best go find Laurelle and Sage, yeah?"
Troye nods once more. "Yeah. Let's get this over with."
Which...is an odd thing to say. But Jacob doesn't press it, just stands up and offers Troye his hands to take.
They stand, brushing off their trousers and straightening their jackets, Jacob dusting off Troye's shoulders and adjusting his bowtie as Troye looks up fondly, that kiss of a dimple lying in delicate shadow on his cheek. Then they exchange one last smile, press their palms together, and are just exiting the room—
When suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, Timothee appears, walking towards them with glossy eyes, a pinched mouth, and flushed cheeks. He arrives too fast for Jacob to register a damn thing.
"Timothee?" is all he manages, blinking his startled surprised as he halts in his step. Beside him, Troye stills as well, cautiously glancing between the two, clutching tightly to Jacob's hand.
But Timothee.
Timothee looks...almost manic with sadness, a hint of exasperation and laughter flooding his eyes as he takes in the sight of the both of them, clearly surprised to have run into them.
"Fuck's sake," he mutters, throwing up his hands before he twists one of them into his hair. His entire body is taught, agitated. The muscles beneath his pristine, ironed jacket seem to quiver.
Jacob swallows, his stomach dropping.
This doesn't feel...okay.
They need to leave. Now.
He's just about to tug Troye forward, have them press past Timothee without another word, when suddenly Timothee looks up, eyes pink and almost wet.
"They told me, you know," he says and he sounds somewhere between incredulous and broken. But forceful, almost. He inhales sharply through his nose as he stares at Jacob, letting his hands fall heavily to his sides. "They told me. Just now."
But Jacob just remains silent, feeling caught, trapped—like a wild animal. He can't explain it, but he can't breathe, his heart suspended in its trepidation. There's something in the air, something he doesn't understand but he feels tugging on the inside. Something that feels dangerously akin to a vase preparing to smash against the floor.
He remains silent, still, unmoving. Just clutching Troye's hand.
Then, slowly, Timothee's eyes drag to Troye. They narrow in on him, looking pained and worn and entirely exhausted and Jacob isn't sure how to read into it but he still clutches Troye all the tighter, ready to make a fucking run for it if he has to.
"You got it," Timothee whispers, voice broken. He blinks, the glass of his eyes reddening still more. He swallows. "You got into Brenton. They just told me. You got the spot."
Silence.
It should be a happy moment. It should be joyous, really. It should be Jacob turning to Troye, wrapping him up in a tight embrace as he blathers on about how truly proud he is, how much he deserves this...
But everything just remains silent and quiet and unmoving; everything still feels suspended. Jacob's frozen. Troye seems to be frozen, too.
Everything's frozen except Timothee.
"What are my parents going to say?" he asks in an anguished whisper, the words shuddering, but it's more a question for himself despite his gaze still being cemented into Troye. "What am I going to do?"
More silence. Jacob can only hear his breathing, can only feel Troye's hand.
They need to leave. They need to leave now.
Jacob begins to move—
"This wasn't supposed to happen," Timothee says, turning to Jacov now, eyes brighter, more aware. He zeroes in on him, his skin flushing. "I sent you after him"—he points at troye with a quivering finger—"so this wouldn't fucking happen. You were supposed to destroy his chances at this fucking school—"
No.
No, fucking goddammit, no.
"Timothee, stop—" Jacob growls, firm, and his body reacts instantly as he begins walking away, making to tug troye along with him—
But Troye's hand holds him back.
Fuck. No. No, no.
Swallowing, Jacob looks back, finds Troye planted in place, looking at Timothee with a furrowed brow, confused.
"What?" he asks, voice lifted in a question.
No no no no no, please, no.
"Troye, come on," Jacob tugs, voice pleading as the panic begins to grip him, but Troye just glances at him with confusion before he looks back to Timothee.
"What did you say, Timothee?"
And Timothee, who appears more lost in himself than this moment, blinks up at him, face etched in agitation. "I bet you have a good laugh about me, don't you? The two of you?"
"Timothee, stop—" Jacob attempts desperately, making his way forward and positively begging with his eyes, but now Timothee just looks confused amidst the shreds of his anguish, blinking between the two.
"You win, Troye," he continues, eyes finally settling on the boy before a sudden manic peel of laughter escapes him. It's humorless, it's cold, it's empty—it sends shivers down Jacob's fucking spine. "You fucking win. You got the school, the guy—you won the game. Jacob was just supposed to fuck you and hand me the place at Brenton, we were supposed to win, but you won. I wasted my time and you threw it in my face and I wonder..."
This can't be happening.
The words are hanging in the air, about to smash at Jacob's feet.
Troye's hand is limp in Jacob's.
This cannot be fucking happening.
He can't look at him.
He can't fucking look at him. This can't be happening. No, no.
"What made you stay with him?" Timothee asks Troye, narrowing his eyes as he observes him, calculating and angry. "You know that he was only using you because I asked him to. You know that. And yet... You stayed. What did he say that made you stay, Troye?" He swallows, red-rimmed eyes grimacing. Pinpricks moisten at the corners. "Why won't you give him back to me?"
The words sound broken and frail. They sound like pieces, like shattered pieces, lying amongst the ruin of Jacob's life.
The entire goddamn world feels like it's slipping away. It's like water's clogging Jacob's ears. Timothee's words are muffled, distant. Cascading out of control and filling the room with water, water, water. Jacob's drowning.
And he can't do a fucking thing about it.
The damage is done.
It's ruined.
Everything. It's ruined.
He was supposed to be safe, everything was perfect, it was going to be okay and just like that, everything is fucking ruined.
Troye's hand falls away from his. And, Jesus Christ. If it's possible for the human heart to actually split itself into pieces, to literally rip itself apart inside the dark caverns of one's chest, then Jacob's heart just did it.
Holy fucking shit. He knew it would hurt emotionally. He did.
But he didn't know it would physically hurt. Dear fucking god.
"Did you team up against me?" Timothee asks, small. Why is he still speaking? God.
He doesn't even know what he's doing, that's the funniest fucking thing of it all. Timothee's not even destroying everything on purpose because he thinks Troye knows. He thinks he already knows and...
Jacob feels dizzy, breathing in and out, in and out, with a sharpness that grips his lungs so painfully, pressing crushing weight against his chest. Something's cutting him from the inside out.
"Is that how you won?" Timothee continues quietly, still staring at Troye with lost eyes, with weakened posture. He seems crumpled and small and Jacob hates him. He detests him, he loathes him, he hates him so fucking much.
And he can't look at Troye. He cannot fucking do that right now. He's shivering like a fucking leaf, his entire body rippling with it, nearly panting because his adrenaline is surging through his fucking body because something is breaking inside of him and Troye—
"Jacob?"
It's Troye's voice.
It's Troye's cracked voice, lifted in the frail, brittle remains of a question that clings to the smallest ounce of hope.
It's Troye's voice and he's asking Jacob if it's the truth. He's asking him if Timothee's telling the fucking truth.
Jacob could lie.
He could lie right now like he has lied almost every fucking year of his miserable existence and he could lie and it would work. Troye would believe him, he would. And it would be a plausible argument—Timothee's clearly fucked up enough, clearly crazed enough on despair or alcohol or drugs or all of the above, that it would hardly be surprising if Jacob claimed he was spinning lies just to sabotage the victor.
Jacob could solve everything right now. He could end the splitting of his fucking heart, cease the trembling of his broken bones and the agony of knives hacking into his stomach lining. He could keep the only happiness he's ever had and he could breathe again, could feel again if he lies right now.
He can lie and he can hold onto the one thing that matters to him; the one thing that makes him feel like he matters.
He can fix this right now with one sentence. That's all it would take.
But Troye's looking at him now.
Troye , with his shiny curls that swirl against his temples. With his soft, pale skin that always feels warm to Jacob's touch. With his curved red lips that have pressed into every bit of Jacob's skin and soul. With his wide blue eyes that have held Jacob prisoner from the moment he found himself caught in their cage, that now stare at him behind glass, terrified and horrified and disbelieving, with that smallest shred of hope.
His boy, his Troye, his pup, his...fucking soulmate. The only human being he's ever loved, the only thing he's ever been in love with...
He's looking at him and, despite the fact that it may actually kill him, Jacob knows that he would rather die than ever lie to this boy again.
It will end him. He knows this. He knows that, essentially, a part of him is going to die with his next words.
But he won't lie to Troye. Not anymore. He deserves the truth. He deserves to know. Deserves to know that, all along, he fell in love with a coward. A traitor. A demon.
"It's true, Troye," he can only manage in barely even a whisper, the words sounding disembodied and very far away.
And snap go the chords tied between them, just like that.
Everything shatters. Glass at his feet. Glass in his lungs. No more heart.
"I'm so, so sorry," he whispers even quieter, voice leaving him as Troye visibly crumbles, his shocked, gaping face falling downwards, eyes plunging to the plush carpet beneath them. "But it's not that simple, it's not—"
"You were lying?" Troye asks, but he doesn't look up at Jacob, eyes still on the ground. "You were lying this whole time?"
Jacob breathes, can only hear his breathing.
"Just..." Troye's face crumples even further, thin brows twisting up, mouth warped. "For some...school? You pretended to fall in love with me for a school?"
And, god, the words sound so much harsher in his lips. They sound brutal in the air, they are a fucking mockery, they are everything he never, ever wanted to hear.
Jacob closes his eyes for a moment, willing himself to stay together; all his parts are threatening to separate. He shakes his head vehemently, stepping once towards Troye. "No, I never pretended—"
But Troye's still talking, mostly to himself, as he takes a harsh step backwards, chest expanding. His eyes are red, disbelieving, wild with shock. His face is white as a ghost and he looks so small and youthful, so shattered yet explosive. "You—you..." He breathes loudly, shaking his head as he takes yet another step back, finally looking back up at Jacob.
And Jacob wishes he hadn't because the way he looks at him...
It breaks the only piece left.
"You've been lying to me," he says again, but his voice splits the sentence, eyes filled with unfallen tears. "You were never real, you were just fake, you've been ly—"
"I tried to tell you!" Jacob pleads, reaching towards him, stepping towards him. Raw desperation. "I tried, Troye, but you never let me—"
But Troye flings him off, looking terrified and horrorstruck. Jacob's never seen him like this before. Everything's happening so fast, so fucking fast. "Don't!" he shouts, childish and broken. "Don't—just—stop! Don't you dare—just. Fucking stop, just go—just let me—" And he's not making sense, just stumbling backwards on his own feet as Jacob feels his stomach fall through the floor, feels his entire infrastructure collapse.
He fucked up. He fucked it all up. It's ruined. It's all ruined. It's gone.
He's gone.
And all Jacob can do is watch as Troye lifts a trembling white hand to his mouth, holding back what can only be an unexpected sob, a gritty surge of overwhelming emotion. His eyes are still on Jacob. It cuts deeper than any knife ever could.
But before Jacob can reach for him, gather his remains and just reach, just try, just seek, Troye takes yet another shaky step backwards, his limbs suddenly jolting into life, and his eyes snap away, his body quivers, and he spins around and stumbles forward, nearly running away from the scene. It almost looks as if he's about to be sick. And he might be.
Jacob might be, too. But he wants nothing more than to chase Troye down, chase him and clutch his ankles and make him listen, goddammit, because Jacob can explain, he can justify every single fucking moment because not once was he ever anything but sincere—not when it counted. Not for Troye.
He loves Troye. He loves him so much, so entirely much. And Troye knows this and—
And. And...
His heart slows in its pace. Blood drains from his body.
He never said it.
Jacob swallows, his weakened pulse whimpering in his ears as he stands, swaying on his feet. Dimly, he's aware that Timothee's still here. Somewhere. He thinks.
Jacob never told Troye he loves him. Never. Not once.
And Troye—Troye questioned him about it. Troye never complained, not really, but he questioned him about it, he did, he questioned Jacob's love because Jacob never fucking said it and—
He's going to be sick.
Stumbling, he finds himself pressed against the wall, his back hitting it with a thud. He's dizzy, so fucking dizzy. The room is swaying, swaying the same way it'd be if he was drunk. But he's not and it's swaying and Timothee's in front of him, somehow, materializing from thin air. His face is warbled, watery, drifting in and out of focus. Fuck.
He looks sad, Jacob notices. He's trying to level his breathing and Timothee looks sad.
"He didn't know," is all he says and it's not a question. He stares at Jacob , a deep frown etched in his face.
Everything sounds so quiet. So quiet that it's loud. Deafening.
"No," Jacob hears himself whispering, shaking his head. "No, he didn't."
Silence. Beat, beat, beat. Breathe in, breathe out.
"I'm—I thought he knew," Timothee stutters and his face is still the very portrait of anguish, of near-insanity. But his thick brows are pushed together in something that looks horrifically like concern as he stares carefully at Jacob, taking a tentative step closer. "You... You said you told him—I—"
But those words mean nothing to Jacob, they mean fuck all, and all he can grasp is the feeling of blinding rage that's begun to encompass him. He looks up, a snarl in his voice, sudden hatred blanketing over him. "Fuck you."
Timothee's eyes widen. "What? I told you, I didn't know—"
"Fuck you!" Jacob shouts, and suddenly the rage completely envelops him, the only thing he can feel and focus on.
Because this is all his fault, isn't it? Jacob feels this pain, this horrendous fucking pain because of Timothee.
He pushes off the wall, adrenaline still pounding as he lunges at him, blindly swinging. "This is all your fucking fault," he shouts, voice thin and crackling over the vowels, scraping out of his throat. "This is all because of you! You ruined everything, you've taken everything away from me, fuck you, Timothee—"
But Timothee isn't fighting back. His eyes are flashing, lit with anger and shock as he shields himself, trying to still Jacob's arms. And when he speaks, his voice is almost calm, save for a quiver that lies just below the surface.
"Don't you dare put this all on me," he growls, ducking as he finally manages to clasp one of Jacob's wrists. He looks into his eyes sharply, nails digging into flesh. "Don't you dare paint me as the monster when you were at my side this whole goddamn time. You wanted this just as much as I did, you agreed to this, you were part of this. I am not a fucking monster!" he shouts, and if Jacob didn't know any better, he'd swear those were tears caught in the corners of his eyes.
But Jacob can barely comprehend any of this, can barely hear the words over his pulse. His body's twitching with rampant, torrential energy; he doesn't know what to do with it all, how to extinguish the near-excruciating pain of it all. Somehow, he feels weak despite the snaps of electricity in his limbs. He feels fucking hopeless and empty. He can barely stand, for fuck's sake.
With a shaking hand he presses his palm to his eye, startling when he finds it wet. Is he... Is he crying? Fuck... He wasn't even sure if he could do that anymore. He didn't even realize.
Somehow, the realization makes him cry harder. It's fucking pathetic. And he can't stop.
Timothee must see how much of a mess he is. He must see how fucking colossal this is because his hold on Jacob's wrist softens, his embittered, red eyes staring down at him.
"Jacob ..." he mumbles, frayed. It sounds like a surrender.
"You need to fucking go," Jacob manages, tucking his chin into his chest, trying to hide himself, feeling hot with shame. "Go, just fucking go."
Silence. No movement.
"Right now, Timothee," he actually sobs, loud, harsh, angry, and the sound makes his skin shrivel.
He's so humiliated. He's so tired.
Everything's ruined.
But Timothee doesn't move. "Jacob—" he tries again, quietly, but Jacob nearly explodes with the sound of it.
"Go!" he shouts, ripping his wrist away.
But he doesn't wait for Timothee's footsteps.
Instead, he finds his own, spinning around and walking away. He needs to be alone. Just to gather himself, figure out his move because he needs to move fast. He needs to—
"Attention, everyone," the pleasant voice over the speaker says. "If you will please take your seats, the ceremony will begin. Thank you."
And then it clicks into silence and Jacob leans against the nearest wall, weakened.
**
It's only when Jacob hears Troye's name called that he finally manages to walk into the hall.
He hears nothing specific, just hears his name being called over the microphone, followed by the hum of applause. He wonders what Laurelle and Sage are thinking. He wonders if Troye's still in the building.
He wonders what he's doing when he finds himself staring from the back of the room, watching as Troye emerges from seemingly nowhere, making his way towards the woman at the mic.
They shake hands and it looks stilted. Troye's smile is forced, his face pale. Eyes still red-rimmed and raw. His shoulders are shaking.
Everything about him is so beautiful and suddenly so intangible. So tragic. No longer can Jacob walk up to him, brushing the sadness away.
It's a horrendous thought and it lodges deep inside.
He doesn't hear anything as he watches Troye accept the award. Is that what it is? An award? Or is it a reward? What is it? It better be something, considering it's the thing that both brought him to and ripped him away from Troye.
He just stands in the back, limp, silent, watching as Troye speaks with trembling words and split voice.
Then. For one agonizing moment, Troye sees him. Their eyes lock from across the entire expanse of the room, past all the seated heads, past everything. Just for one moment. Troye stumbles over the words he's speaking, whatever they are—Jacob can't hear. And it's followed by the briefest, most insignificant pause.
But then Troye looks away, something shattered in his expression, and Jacob knows then that he's died. It sounds so dramatic, so Shakespearian tragedy. But it's true, it's completely true, and that's the saddest part of it all.
Because the most devastating feeling in the world is watching someone you love look away from you with disgust. Nobody can survive that.
Yet Jacob can't even find it within himself to mourn his own death as he watches Troye from afar, watches until he eventually departs from the stage, taking his seat next to Laurelle and Sage. Beside him is an empty chair. Where Jacob should be.
It's that that does it.
It's that image, that quiet fucking symbolism, that sends Jacob over the edge.
He needs to get the fuck out of here. He needs to go. Now.
And while part of him begs to stay—more than anything, he wants to stay and beg for forgiveness at Troye's feet, wants to explain every single thing to him and reassure Laurelle and Sage that he loves them, that he loves Troye, that's he's always only been himself and nobody else... While part of him pleads to do this, he knows. It won't help right now. Troye's still in shock. Hell, Jacob's still in shock. This isn't the time. This isn't the place. He may be out of it, on the brink of emotional frission, ruin, destruction... But he's aware of that, alright? He's still got his wits, buried somewhere beneath the rubble.
So he turns around. He walks away. He leaves.
Well, sorta.
In reality, the only part of him that remains is still sitting in that hall. Funny, that. Funny. All that's really left of Jacob, this Jacob, are the clothes on his back.
So a ghost walks home in Jacob's shoes.
—————
My heart is broken glass rn and this chapter was the hammer that hit it.