The sky is very blue. Birds are chirping. People look very happy.
It's irritating as fuck.
Why must every day's weather be ripped right out of Disney? Why must this happen during the worst week of Jacob's life?
He ambles to the school, only to find that Troye's nowhere. Great. It's not entirely unexpected but it still kills him a little bit. A lot, actually. Maybe entirely. He's tired though, everything sunk, and he's just about to give up for the day when suddenly he looks across the street and sees, distantly, the record shop.
Fuck. The record shop. Jacob completely forgot.
Dylan's clearly not working today. So that means... Troye probably is. Troye's probably in there right now, most likely. Right over there. Fuck.
Maybe he can just talk to Troye. Maybe he can just go in, say his piece, and leave and then Troye will know.
He begins walking, his stomach twisting.
The record shop is their place. Surely, Troye will let him speak. It's where they had their first proper kiss, for Christ's sake.
He walks and walks and walks. When he finally reaches, heart thumping in the base of his throat, he opens the door with shaky hands; the bell dings like it does every time.
And, just like every time, there sits Troye.
He's just sitting there, looking quiet and small, a book opened in front of him, and when he looks up, his face completely blanches. Then it quickly dissolves into anger, as is custom. Before Jacob can even open his mouth, Troye hops off his stool, turning on his heel towards the backroom.
It's not surprising in the slightest, considering this is how every single interaction of theirs has come to pass lately.
Still though, Jacob feels desperate right now, panic beginning to erupt inside. He's losing, alright, he's losing, he's losing Troye every single day that nothing improves and he cannot just watch Troye walk out of his life right now, he fucking cannot let him think that Jacob never loved him—
He means to call out his name.
He means to call out Troye's name when he opens his mouth. But, somehow, something else falls out instead, something he never expected to hear himself say.
"I'm in love with you."
And, shit. It actually takes a little bit of breath away from him because Jacob's never said that before. Not to anyone. Ever. Never used those words in that order before, never out loud.
It stops Troye dead in his tracks. His back is facing Jacob; he can see the tightness in his lines, the cold cut of his bones. But Troye's stopped. And Jacob doesn't know if it's in anger or shock or what but Jacob will take this opportunity, goddammit.
"I'm so sorry," he calls, somehow already out of breath, his body falling loose. Every knot unravels, every spiral of tension; he just lets go, lets his exhaustion, his sadness, his pain, his anger, his fucking misery bleed through his voice, his face, his posture. He doesn't hold back, doesn't try to hide it or push it away; he just lets himself feel. And it's awful. But he keeps going. "I'm so, so sorry that I ever made you think that I was ever anything but sincere."
Fuck this is hard.
But he keeps going.
"I don't know what I'm doing and I don't know what to say and I've been trying not to stalk you for the past week," he laughs humorlessly, almost hysterically, rubbing a hand across his tired, tired eyes. "But, the thing is, I need you to know this, Troye. I need you to know the truth because I know how this looks and I know how it sounds and I know what you're thinking and I need you to know that that's not how it is."
Troye remains still. Wordless.
So Jacob continues, exhaling shakily as he pulls up every bit of himself that he can, ignoring the pangs of self-consciousness and blind terror. He swallows before he speaks, voice loud in the quiet, empty room.
"You made me the person that I am today," he begins weakly, feeling something grip his throat. Fuck, he doesn't want to cry. But he's going to and he can feel it and it's beyond his control because he's let go; he's washed away and he's let go. "I would be nothing without you, Troye. Nothing. I know that I have no right to be here right now and I know that you hate me, rightfully, and if I was a stronger, better person, I would respect that and leave you forever because I never deserved you—not once. But I'm not better or stronger and I need you to know that you made me become someone that I never thought I could be."
His eyes are brimmed with unshed water, his vision blurring; but still, beyond the waves, he can see that Troye's still there.
Despite the shaking of his voice, the places where it blisters and cracks, he continues.
"I was nothing before I met you," he breathes, shaking his head to himself, lost. "I was homeless and alone and angry and miserable and I thought I was so powerful, so much better than everyone here, because I played this goddamn game with Timothee—one of the only people I'd had in my life. I was everything that you aren't, Troye—I was hideous and miserable and fucking...cruel. Disgusting. But the moment I met you..." He shakes his head again, tear tracks down his face and he doesn't give a fuck. "It was the only real thing I'd ever felt."
He breathes, wiping hands across his cheeks even though the tears keep flowing.
"You made me care about myself again." The words are muffled by his palms, his eyes squinted shut because he can't stop crying and it fucking burns as much as it is humiliating. "You made me want to take care of myself and be better because you're so goddamn beautiful, Troye. You're everything that I thought didn't exist. You're everything." He breathes harshly as his voice breaks on the last word, removing his hands. "I'm trying so hard to just take care of myself right now because you make me want to, you make me want to live instead of exist—fuck, because you made me live for the first fucking time, Troye. You made me realize so much, you opened my eyes, you just—you're the reason I've done anything that I could ever be remotely proud of you. You're the reason I'm someone and you're the reason I'm fighting and you're the only goddamn reason I'm here right now. It's because of you. I'm in love with you, so much it's hurting, and I know that you don't want me here but I need you to know that it was never fake. Not once was it anything but real. And I hated it in the beginning, hated that I didn't understand you and didn't know how to play the game with you, alright? I hated that I was drawn to you and I was bloody terrified that I was becoming someone else. But you know what?"
He breathes shakily through the silence.
"The thing was, was that I didn't realize that I was changing for the better. I was becoming someone else—I was becoming me. And I have only you to thank for that. You're the reason I've got a better job right now. You're the reason I want to go back to school. You're the reason I've gotten myself a flat for the first time in my fucking life, a proper home. Because I've been living in a dark room, unable to find anything... And you helped me find the light."
He's crying again, harder. He doesn't care.
"You're the only light I've ever known, Troye," he says quietly, aware of how pathetic and shriveled he sounds. He doesn't care, he doesn't care. "And I'm so, so sorry that I've fucked it all up. I'm so, so sorry that I made you think I didn't love you from the very first moment I accidentally knocked into your table and sent my heart and brain flying into your lap. I'm so sorry that I never was strong enough to tell you about the game—but it was over a long time ago, it was. And I know that our trust is broken and I know that you don't want me anymore. I'm here without intent, alright, I promise. But I need you to know." He shudders out an exhale, shoulders slumping with exertion. He feels drained. "I just need you to know."
Silence.
The longer it carries, the tighter Jacob closes his eyes.
He speaks one last time, words falling out of his mouth and plopping at his feet. "I'm sorry that I fell in love with you," he whispers. "I'm sorry I fell in love with your family. I'm sorry that I agreed to the game. But you know what, actually? I'm not. I'm not sorry for one moment. Because even though I fucked everything up, I would never take away what you've given me. Fucking never."
It feels strangely awful. Somehow, he feels even more hopeless. To be honest, he just feels selfish.
So he just looks at his feet, scrubbing palms against wet cheeks.
Maybe he should just turn around. He should just go.
He's about to turn around, about to walk out. But then he looks up. Troye's turning around now, so slowly, and Jacob freezes on the spot.
Troye's crying. His face quivers with the effort of maintaining composure, but tears are streaming down his pale, smooth cheeks and it sends another surge of Jacob's own. God. They're both fucking crying in a record shop, staring at each other from across the fucking room.
"I don't think you realize how much that hurt me," Troye says at last, through the walls of salt that separate them.
Jacob just listens, breathing and frozen. He notes that Troye's not looking at him with hatred. Just pain.
"I don't want you to say that you love me, if you don't mean it," Troye mumbles, voice catching as he swallows. "But only... Only if you don't mean it."
Something wildly, foolishly akin to hope bursts through Jacob's chest as he takes a step forward, hands before him.
"I'm fucking in love with you, Troye Sivan Mellet," he says firmly, without hesitation. "I love you. I completely do. If you don't want me to say it, I won't. I don't want to overstep my boundaries because I'm here for you, on my knees, for you. This is all for you and I just want to respect that. I won't do anything you don't want, I promise. But it's the truth, I love you, and I mean it more than I knew I was capable of fucking meaning it. I love you and I'm sorry, but it's true."
"But—" Troye begins, and he's visibly torn now, composure slipping from his features. "I have so many questions. I'm so confused... I don't—" He stops, staring at Jacob, looking lost.
"I know. I'm sorry," Jacob says again, earnest and scratchy. "I know."
"Troye, look," Jacob continues, exhaling heavily through the words. He balls his fists together and squeezes because he's so high strung he feels like his muscles and tendons might snap at any second. "I don't want to be annoying. I'm not sure where to go from here. So. If you want me to, I will leave you alone. Alright? I thought, maybe if you knew..." He trails off, shaking his head to clear it before he continues. "I just didn't want you to think that I didn't genuinely love you, alright. Because I do. I understand that you hate me but I do love you. How I met you was, unfortunately, not the truth, but everything else was. It was all so natural and it's everything to me. But I will leave you, if you want. I will walk out this door and stay away. I will respect you, Troye, but I need to leave that decision for you because I can't make it for myself. I will ask you and I will do what you ask, but I cannot fucking make that call."
Again, nothing is said and it's so unsettling and seemingly unending that, once again, Jacob makes to leave, heart stuck to the soles of his feet.
But then, just as Jacob turns to open the door:
"Come back tomorrow."
It's all that Troye says, his voice warbled, his watery eyes locked on Jacob.
But Jacob hears it, hears it straight to his thudding, shaded heart, and he nods, fingers twitching. "I'll be here," he promises without hesitation.
And Troye nods without another word before he watches him leave, still standing in the back, tears still marking his face.
**
When Jacob arrives at the record shop the next day, the palms of his hands are sweaty, his knees keep bumping together, and the uneven rhythm of his heart is filling up his ears. The clouds in the sky look pillowy and soft, everyone around him appears to be laughing, and the world is carrying on as though today isn't, potentially, the most defining moment of his life. And that's not an exaggeration, either.
He can't fuck this up, see. This is all he's got and he can't fuck this up.
When he opens the door, he's got his journal in hand (maybe it'll help? Maybe?) and the bell dings softly before it closes, efficiently muting the boisterous noises of the outside world, and zeroing everything to right now, right here. And there, as expected, sits Troye.
The minute he lifts his head to meet Jacob's eye, his entire posture changes, his facial muscles hardening into indifference. Where he'd sat small and forlorn just seconds previously, he now holds himself with determination, strength, power, even. It's so clearly an act, so clearly a steely resolve to remain strong, and it chips away at whatever's left of Jacob because it shouldn't ever have had to be this way between them. Troye should never have to harden himself to look Jacob in the eye; he should always remain soft, unguarded, himself.
The thoughts burn and Jacob swallows them down, hesitantly making his way towards him.
Troye eyes him carefully, lips just barely twitching.
"I have questions," he then says quietly, firmly eyes never leaving Jacob.
Jacob nods as he comes to stand directly in front him, setting the journal gently on the floor before slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He doesn't dare speak, the distance between them somehow palpable. Troye seems so far away and yet Jacob could reach out and touch him, if he wanted.
For another moment, Troye continues to stare, unblinking. Then the low rumble of his voice suddenly bleeds into the air. "Did you ever sleep with Timothee while you were with me?"
The question whooshes a puffed exhale from Jacob's nostrils but he doesn't flinch. He can't fuck this up.
"No, never," he replies firmly, words very soft. His eyes bore into Troye's, as much as they can bore, because he's fucking determined for Troye to read the truth in them. Because that's all Jacob has—the truth. He doesn't have himself but he has the truth. "I never, ever slept with Timothee at all. Way back, years ago, I blew him," he admits, factual and detached as Troye just barely winces; it's just a twitch of his right eye but Jacob catches it. "It was the night I met him. He'd come to my pub with his mates, stuck around, and we ended up fooling around in the alley. After that we became friends, so to speak, but nothing other than that."
He licks his lips, stands a bit straighter as silence falls between them, Troye's face indecipherable. It's scary not knowing what he thinks, it's scary knowing that Jacob could already be fucking everything up, but he just remains quiet, ready for Troye to say the next word.
He's got to fucking do this right, alright? No time to crumble or panic.
Then Troye speaks. "What did Timothee mean when he said you would 'get him' if you won?"
Alright, so this is full-on interrogation. Alright. Good. Jacob can do interrogation. Alright.
He swallows, plunging ahead without another thought. "Back when this was first proposed, Timothee had said that, if I'd succeeded with you, my 'prize' would've been to be with him. Because at the time, I wanted him."
The words sit between them heavily but still, Jacob doesn't flinch, not even when Troye's lips pull downward, something a little more real peeking past his resolve.
"Do you still have feelings for him?" Troye asks, but it's not stony, it's not abrasive; it's just quiet, almost pleading, and very, very sad.
Jacob balls his fists tightly, his biceps quivering ever so slightly with the effort. There's no time for emotion right now, he's just got to talk to Troye . He can't lose his head, he's got to focus.
"Not at all," he shakes his head, tamping down his desperation. "Honestly, I'm not sure if I ever even really had feelings for him at all. But it was around the time of the charity gala that I knew things were...changing. And that I only had them for you."
At that, Troye swallows and looks away, his eyes suddenly appearing so sunken and sad. Or maybe it's just the way the light's hitting them. "I dunno," he mumbles to himself, almost too quietly to hear. But then he turns back, reassembled and emotionless. "Can you tell me what the game is?" He asks it with a twist to his mouth. "I need to know everything. Did you do anything to me?"
"No," Jacob shakes his head firmly. "No, I never. What it was, was that Timothee would send me after people and I'd go. Because when all of this started, I was a piece of shit, alright? I was friends with Timothee and I did everything he told me to do. When he didn't like someone, he would ask me to go after them, fuck 'em, or whatever." He gestures the words with his hands, his energy flicking through his fingertips because he's so fucking nervous, so fucking restless, and there's not enough saliva in his mouth. "And I'd do it, without question. Because it was a thrill for me as much as it was for him. It made me feel stronger because I was always the joke, the idiot, the rubbish, and it made me feel better. It made me feel powerful," he scoffs. Troye blinks, watching him quietly, eyebrows slowly beginning to pull together. "I thought that I was alive when I had power over someone else. But I wasn't.
"Then he sent me after you, Troye..." He pauses, hands falling. Briefly, his eyes fall to the tips of his white Converse before they pull back up and meet Troye's furrowed expression, hands still at his sides. His voice softens as he continues, energy subsiding. "And I went. I went after you, immediately, but do you know what? It wasn't anything like the others; you weren't anything like the others. I could tell you piece by piece, moment by moment, how you disassembled my entire fucking life, Troye. Every single moment was real. I didn't know what to do with you, you weren't what I'd anticipated at all. He'd made you sound opposite of how you really are. He made you sound like a jerk..."
Troye raises his eyebrows at that, still intently listening.
"I know," Jacob half-smirks, before it falls from his face, everything sobering. He sighs. "Honestly, looking back, I think he knew his power over me. He knew what would get to me, I think. He enjoyed manipulating me, enjoyed putting me through hoops. And here I was, thinking I was so clever but really, I was in his fucking palm. I see that now." He sighs, heavy and exhausted. "So I went after you. And you were so unexpected. Every day I met with you, it left me so unsettled... And Timothee kept texting me, pestering me, chasing me, trying to get me involved with you—"
"You mean have sex with me," Troye cuts in, harshly, and his face twinges with the words, right alongside the twist of Jacob's stomach. His face is scrunched up, almost cringing, and that's awful, that's fucking terrible, but Jacob needs to keep talking because that's what he came here to do. He won't be distracted by Troye's pinched eyes or twisted mouth or the collar of his t-shirt that's lying unevenly across his collarbones. He won't brush away the static in Troye's curls or smooth out his frown lines.
Instead, he nods, feeling small. "Yes. He wanted me to break you so that you'd derail from Brenton and leave the slot for him. That was the plan," he admits, a little weakly. Silence follows the confession and it makes him duck his head, ashamed. "I'm—I'm not a good person, Troye," he admits, even weaker than before. "Or at least, I wasn't. Or maybe I am still shit, I don't know. Maybe I really am just, like, a solidly bad person." He brushes a hand over his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed, suddenly so fucking tired. "I'm so fucked up. Everything's so— Honestly, we probably shouldn't even be having this conversation, Troye, we shouldn't. There's no fucking point. Fuck, you shouldn't even be talking to me—"
"Stop making decisions for me," Troye interjects firmly, his eyes the color of blue glass, and it effectively silences Jacob . He's still sitting down, all perched and folded, but his hands are white and gripped together and his eyebrows are pulled so tightly that he looks fierce and intangible, everything that he's not. His lips are pale. "I will make that decision. Right now you're pretty shit, yeah, but I will decide everything for myself." The words resonate in the air, steely and forceful. "Now. Keep going."
Jacob bows his head, closing his eyes as he continues. His cheeks feel hot, his extremities are cold.
And it feels like he's failing. Like he's fucking this up.
"I kept pursuing you," he continues, voice far away, enjoying the momentary darkness of his closed eyes. "I was enjoying it. I suppose I just liked you before I really understood why. It was the day of the gala though, that things really sorta came to a head for me, when I started to understand. It was when Timothee sent me after Jed."
Immediately, Troye cringes, hands slackening. "Jed?" he asks incredulously, tone too strong. Jacob bites the interior of his lip. "You went after Jed, of all people? Really, Jacob?"
It's so disappointed, so disgusted.
He's fucking this up.
"I know, I know," he rushes weakly, looking up with a grimace to match Troye's own. "But I didn't go through with it, I couldn't."
Troye quiets, eyes still weary. He refolds his hands but says nothing, so Jacob continues.
"Timothee was so sure it would happen because I'd never failed before, ever. I was a sure thing, Troye, and Timothee was so confident about it all, even though he'd been frustrated that I was taking too much time with you. But he still sent me after Jed without any hesitation and yet—And yet, I barely even tried. Because all I could think about was you."
It's quiet enough that Jacob can hear Troye's exhale.
"I just remember that I was trying to text you. I was, like, glued to my phone while I was supposed to be keeping Jed company, charming him, like, and I just kept checking to see if you'd texted me. In fact," he adds, a humorless laugh escaping him, "that's how Dylan and Jed met. I dragged Dylan in to sit with him so that I could call you because I just wanted you to come that night. At the time, I thought it was because of Timothee, because of the plan; because I'd never experienced anything like that before, hadn't ever felt that way. But then when you tried to kiss me that night... I knew something was different. I knew." The words taper off as Jacob swallows, watching the way Troye's eyes fall, settling somewhere on the ground and off to the side. His face is less hardened but still expressionless and his hands aren't clasped as tightly.
So Jacob continues.
"Timothee had high hopes that night. He was watching us the whole time. That's why, when you went to kiss me, I just... I couldn't. I just couldn't, Troye. Because it suddenly felt so wrong." Troye's eyes flicker back to him; a delicate sheen coats them, drawing all the light onto their glassy surface. "I didn't want that kiss for him, I didn't want him to see it. That was supposed to be for us, Troye, that was ours. And so I stopped you. Because that was for us, only us, and I didn't want it to be part of...that."
Troye merely nods, eyes still glossy. It thumps Jacob's heart. "Okay. Keep going."
So Jacob does. "After that, I was a little fucked up, confused," he says quietly. "I pulled back—remember? When I disappeared?"
Wordlessly, Troye nods.
"Well, it was because I knew that I felt something for you. Something genuine that I wasn't familiar with. But I knew I was headed down a dark road and I didn't know what the right direction was because I was still under Timothee's thumb, in a way. Still so...lost, I guess. I didn't know what I wanted. That is, until I saw you again." He smiles at the thought, letting his thoughts drift back to that moment, seeing Troye by the pond. He was so beautiful, so sweet and full of life, offering Jacob his entire world. "All it took was one look at you, followed by just one little fucking conversation, and I was hooked, gone, trapped, maybe." He shakes his head fondly, lost in the memory. "You took me here that day, afterwards. Remember? When I'd be your stray? We stayed here all night and we did nothing and I never laughed so much, Troye. I never had that much fun. We literally did nothing and I'd never had that much fun before."
He hears Troye sniff, a shocking reminder that everything is so different than it was, so much more tainted, and he blinks himself back into reality, gaze focusing on Troye. He's crying. The sight makes him looks away immediately, heart shrinking.
Fuck. He's fucking it all up.
"I never wanted to 'win' you for the game," he continues quietly, an ache in his chest. Or his heart, maybe. "I never wanted to win you but I wasn't strong enough to stay away." He stares at his feet. "I tried so hard to avoid chasing you. I tried not to kiss you, tried not to make any moves—"
"I asked you out," Troye suddenly mumbles, the words a little wet when they leave his lips. Jacob looks up, surprised; Troye appears dazed almost, lost in thought, mouth still faintly twisted in a frown. "I was the one who kissed you. I was the one who asked you out... You never did... At the time, I wasn't sure if you were even interested. I was so confused..."
Frowning, Jacob shrugs, watching the moisture collect in Troye's eyes and feeling it resonate in his pulse. "I wasn't strong enough to say no but I just couldn't..." He looks away. "I couldn't do it myself, no matter how badly I wanted it."
Troye remains silent, sitting quietly like the polite little beautiful bird that he is; all large, watery eyes and sour lips and pale hands. Everything that Jacob wants and everything that Jacob wishes he could heal.
He feels himself frown when he speaks again. "But then you asked me that night and I couldn't decline," he says, shame bleeding through his words. "Cuz I just wanted to be with you. I was selfish and that's what I wanted. Even though I was still talking to Timothee, I still wanted you for myself, kept trying to convince me and Timothee both that it was still, at least in part, because of the game." The words feel so goddamn heavy as they hang in the air, they feel so fucking awful, and Jacob can't bring himself to look at Troye now. "I didn't know what I was doing, Troye. I had no fucking clue. Cuz, see, I was trying so hard to be who I thought I was, you know? I was trying to be all cool and unaffected and all that fucking bullshit but, in reality, I wasn't any of that. Already, I was beginning to loathe Timothee, hating him for making everything so fucked up, blaming him for all my mistakes. Yet. Still. I tried to cling to the idea that I wasn't gone for you, that I was still the asshole that I'd been before. Up until..." He trails off, stomach dropping at the memory.
God, it all just sounds so much worse when he says it aloud. He wants to stop, wants to never speak again. He's so bad at all of this.
He rubs a hand over his eyes, slumped. He's fucking this up, it's all he can think about.
"Up until what?" a tentative voice says.
Blinking, Jacob drops his head, turning a surprised gaze to Troye , who sits quietly and curiously, a frail intensity etched in the lines of his face. He's not blinking, he's just staring at Jacob, and Jacob misses him, loves him, craves him so much that he's momentarily quiet, unable to conjure up his voice.
Then he clears his throat, breathes, and barrels onward.
"Up until the night of our first date," he exhales, watching Troye watching him. He's hanging on to his every word. It spurs Jacob's blood but he doesn't think, just speaks. "Timothee had planned it out beforehand. I'd told him we were gonna go out because I was still a fucking idiot at the time, even though it made me sick. The entire thing was making me sick; I only felt good around you. When it was just us. But that hadn't totally clicked yet so I'd told him and he planned everything and... Do you remember? Remember that restaurant?"
Troye nods, and his eyes look a little more dry, his face more composed. Good.
"Well, Timothee chose the place." Wordlessly, Troye's eyebrows furrow. "He wanted us to eat dinner there, just long enough for me to successfully charm you or get you drunk, or whatever. I don't know. Then I was supposed to take you back to the car and...do whatever."
At this, Troye noticeably cringes, looking away with such sharpness that it absolutely splits clear through Jacob's chest, crumbling any composure he'd feigned internally.
He swallows, continuing with gritted-teeth determination, everything twisting up inside, everything panicking because it all feels so shattered. "He was going to walk in on us," he says, shaking only beneath the surface. "Catch us on camera, record it, or whatever. Blast it all over social media. He was going to destroy your reputation and you right along with it, and it would've given him clear sailing towards that fucking school. That was the plan, Troye. That was what he wanted me to do."
Troye deserves to know. It's awful to say aloud. It's horrifying and shameful and blood-curdling almost but Troye has a right to know the fucking truth, as much as it kills Jacob, as much as it works against him.
Still, though—he feels sick.
"And then I met your family," Jacob continues, and now his voice begins to shake because Troye still isn't looking at him and he can't see his expression. Memories flood him right along with the inner panic and it's like sensory overload right now, it all feels like too much. "And I couldn't believe how kind they were to me. How good they were. You had a home, a proper home, and you had a proper mum and a proper sister and they loved you so much and they looked at me like I was just a person, not a fucking rat, and... I was only there for—what? Ten minutes, was it? And yet I already wanted to stay, Troye. It's never like that, parents never like me—they're always trying to get rid of me and I always like being rid of. But they, just like you, were so different and I was hooked, Troye, I'm sorry, but I was so fucking hooked. And, though I knew I wasn't ever going to go through with any of it, it was then that I truly acknowledged it; there was never any other option. Never."
Another silence settles between, interrupted only by the sporadic driftings of outside chatter and the occasional creak of the building. It occurs to Jacob that there aren't any records playing today, making everything seem louder and emptier; it makes him feel more nervous, more aware of his breathing.
"I remember how you bolted," troye says quietly, slowly turning back to face him. He still looks impassive but it's not hatred, alright? It's not hatred and Jacob exhales a breath he only just now realizes he was holding. "When we left the restaurant so quickly, it was so...weird, I guess. Like, at the time, I thought you were mad," he muses, looking down at his hands. "Makes sense now. Like... It did feel like you were...changing your mind, I guess."
God. Yes. Fuck. The relief that Jacob feels is intense, almost overpowering. And Troye hasn't even really said anything that should inspire hope or pure joy within him but he believes him. And, right now, that's more than Jacob could have ever hoped for.
"Yes, I did change my mind. Officially, like," Jacob nods, trying to keep his feelings at bay. His throat feels thick with it and his palms prickle. "And after that night, I stopped talking to Timothee, almost completely. Because I'd realized everything, made up my mind—I chose you, Troye. I mean, I knew it as you all along but after that night I completely let go of any pretense I still held and I chose you completely, even if I was still a coward. Because I knew then that it was only you that I wanted. Nothing else. That there was nothing else at all, nobody else ever. Only you." He's nearly breathless with the words, stumbled and rushed, and his cheeks are warm, but he meets Troye's eye and it's the truth. The most bare that he can be.
Not once does Troye blink as he searches his eyes, lips softly parted on a breath. "You stopped talking to Timothee after our first date?"
Jacob nods, firm. "Yes. Mostly. I mean, there was the occasional phone call, occasional text. He kept searching for me. But I wanted nought to do with him, only wanted to keep him away from you. I didn't want him to get mad or go after you himself, so I kept going the coward's route and lying to you, lying to him when I had to. But, as far as I was concerned, the game was over. If there ever was one at all."
Troye falls quiet, a lone curl tumbling down into his right eye. He makes no move to brush it away.
"I tried so hard to help you after that," Jacob adds quietly, lost as he stares at him. A sudden sense of longing fills him. It's horrifically akin to the feeling of hopelessness. "I tried my best to encourage you to study, to succeed...everything. I just wanted to help you, as funny as it probably sounds now."
"Flash cards," Troye then mutters, and Jacob nods, catching his eye briefly before troye drops them again. "You'd always ask me if I needed help..."
"I just wanted you to be happy," Jacob sighs lamely, shoulders slumping. He wants to sit down, every part of him aching. "I wanted you to succeed so badly." He quiets, lost in thought before he continues. "And then, all the while, Dylan was on my ass about Timothee cuz he was in a bad way. And even though Dylan knew about us"—
"Dylan knows?" Troye asks, head immediately shooting up. His mouth opens in shock, shoulders suddenly tight. "Dylan knows about all of this?"
Dread plops in Jacob's stomach. "Yeah," he says weakly as something flashes in Troye's eyes. "But he never told you because he was convinced that it would work between us. He said if I wanted it enough that we'd have our happy ending because I'd work for it and—And the universe was on our side. All that rubbish." He swallows, quiet and fearful as he studies the myriad of expressions that appear on Troye's face. "Please don't be mad at him," Jacob rushes, feeling hot. "Please. This is my fault, not Dylan's. You know how he is—he's an idealist. Or a mystic. Or whatever—but he wasn't intentionally trying to hurt you, or anything. He's not like that, he's not like me and Timothee—"
"You're not—" Troye begins, but then he stops himself, biting on the cushion of his lip and looking away.
Jacob's breath catches. What was he going to say? Was it good or bad?
"I'm not mad at Dylan," Troye says at last, mumbled and downcast as he goes back to studying his hands. "I'm just trying to figure it all out."
"And that's fair, that's fine," Jacob placates as soothingly as he can, feeling like he's walking a tightrope. "I just wanted to make sure cuz—you know. Dylan's a good mate. And I didn't want to put him in bad light—"
"No, I get it," Troye nods, words soft.
"Alright," Jacob nods back. "Erm. Good."
A momentary awkwardness falls, Jacob's thoughts whirring.
"Uhm, so. Dylan was trying to get you to talk to Timothee?" Troye offers, now playing with a bit of paper in his hands, and it's careful and hesitant yet earnestly interested and it unties all of Jacob's twisted limbs, loosens the lead on his tongue.
"Yeah," Jacob begins, reassembling his thoughts. "Uhm, yeah, Timothee was in a bad way, I suppose. Probably still is, actually, though I can't say I'm completely sure I understand why." Troye's lips purse but he says nothing. "But, basically, Dylan was worried for him and wanted me to talk to him, make amends, or whatever. It was the same night that I tried to tell you about everything—"
"You tried to tell me?" Again, Troye looks up, surprised. Eyes wide. Hands still.
"Uhm. Yeah," Jacob nods awkwardly, feeling his flesh heat once more. "It was—it was that night when I told you about my, uhm, my family. Remember? I'd just been on the phone with Timothee, trying to brush him off. We'd had a go at each other, then you came out and we had a go at each other, and when I came back inside, we were talking, remember?"
Troye nods, slow as his eyes un-focus, lost in memory. "Yeah... You were telling me—" He stops, mouth snapping shut, eyes instantly clearing and coming back to the present. Blinking, he looks to Jacob, something unintelligible writ in his mouth. "I told you that the past didn't matter."
Jacob frowns. "Well, yeah. You did. But—"
"You were trying to tell me something," Troye says, slowly and quietly, something sad dawning on his face. "And I—I was the one who told you that it didn't matter. It was me—"
"No," Jacob interjects fiercely, taking a step forward and nearly reaching out. Troye's face has begun to crumble again, posture slackened as he stares up at Jacob hopelessly, looking as if he'd just wrecked his own dreams. Which. No. "No, that's not your fault, Troye, it's not. I was the one who took advantage of that, alright? I knew that something this big wasn't exempt from what you were saying—I just used your words as an excuse to be a coward, alright? Alright?"
It takes a moment for Troye to nod, slow and unsure as he stares at Jacob. Everything about him is unreadable.
"It's not your fault, Troye," he says again, quieter but just as firm, fighting the urge to rest his hands upon Troye's own. "It's only mine. Never was yours."
Troye remains silent.
"I'm sorry that I used that as my reason for justifying, to myself, that you never needed to know. Because Troye, honestly? I was so fucking scared, so fucking weak, that I never planned on telling you. After I'd told Timothee that it was all over, I genuinely had no intentions of ever telling you because I was too afraid."
"You told Timothee it was over?" Troye asks, and again, he appears to be taken aback. His stare is so intense, picking every piece of Jacob apart, but he can't seem to look away, letting himself be picked to the bones.
"Yeah. Yeah, it was the night we—" Jacob pauses, unsure because everything beautiful seems so far away from all this ugliness. He doesn't want to mar all of his best memories with the ugliness of the present and he can't quiet voice it all, not just yet. "The night I stayed over. When Laurelle and Sage were gone—when I left—"
"You went to Timothee?" Troye asks, voice suddenly strong, but it's balanced between indignation and desperation, and Troye breathes sharply through his nose, perched on the edge of his stool as he waits for Jacob's response.
He nods. "I couldn't...be with you. Not until there was no game. Not until I cut off as many ties as I could. Because it didn't feel right to touch when... All that was going on behind the scenes. So, that night, I went to Timothee and told him that I loved you and—"
"But you never told me you loved me," Troye protests, and he's shaky now, wavering and impassioned as he stares at Jacob , seeming overwhelmed and torn, speaking faster than Jacob can answer. "You never told me, why didn't you ever tell me?"
"Because I'm selfish!" Jacob nearly shouts, ashamed and frustrated with himself because he has no good answers, he doesn't have any defense. "I never told you because I'd never said it before, never heard it before, and I thought those words didn't mean anything to me. I thought I could prove it by showing you, by just...being with you and taking care of you but you know what, Troye ?"
Troye watches, silent, absorbing every word with bitten lips and fearful eyes. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. He's so beautiful and far and it hurts.
"I should've just fucking said it aloud because I wasn't saying it for me, was I? I was saying it for you. I thought it every day." Troye exhales sharply. "I never said it to you once while we were together and yet I thought those words every fucking day. That's how stupid I am. That's how selfish." He closes his eyes.
God, this is so fucked up.
"You didn't sleep with me because of Timothee?"
Something stabs at Jacob's stomach when he opens his eyes, finds Troye looking at him beseechingly, appearing much smaller than he is. "No," he nearly hisses, fierce, as he takes another step forward. "Troye, no. That had nothing to do with Timothee and that's why I broke it off with him beforehand. That was us, only us, and I wanted him to have no part in it."
"Is that why you always stopped me before?" His voice is small but, fuck, it sounds almost hopeful and... It's probably fucking not, Jacob shouldn't read into this, but it almost sounds hopeful and it skyrockets Jacob's lungs, it's lifting his carcass off the fucking floor. God.
"Yeah," he admits quietly, softening. "Yeah, that's why. I felt so guilty."
Another silence follows and it's so quiet that it's loud. Loud enough for him to sink his head in his hands, exhaling through his palms.
"I fucked this all up," he mumbles to himself. "I went about everything so fucking stupidly. I'm so sorry, troye. I'm so, so sorry. I wish those words were more than they are but they're all I have and I'm so, so sorry."
He half expects Troye to be crying, maybe to be downright furious—maybe to even sit in a silent stupor.
But instead, Troye sighs, pulling his quiet gaze up and shifting in his seat, folding arms across his chest. "It's making sense, though," he says, after a few moments of contemplative silence. The words are slow, monotone. Hesitant. But he's saying them. "Now that you're explaining it, it makes more sense." His eyes fall again, he bites his lip again. His arms seem to tighten around himself. "I wish you would've told me that you loved me, though. Because then I wouldn't have felt..." He sighs, combing a hand through his hair. "I kept thinking... Because of Timothee, you didn't—"
"I know," Jacob exhales, feeling jolts in his limbs as his gaze swoops along the line of Troye's jaw, through the slopes of his sleepless eyes. "I just... Stupidly, I thought you knew. I thought that we were safe. Fuck, at one point I thought that, if I ever told you, you wouldn't have minded because you'd know I loved you." He laughs humorlessly, shaking his head. "How fucking stupid was I. Am I."
Yet Troye doesn't reply, just settles his lips into a deep frown, a crease forming between his brows. He's surly, clearly thinking a million different things, and Jacob feels self-conscious and overly aware of it; he doesn't know what to do with his limbs.
"I said yesterday before I even realized what I was doing," he adds quietly, toeing at the ground to distract himself. "I won't say it anymore if you don't want, though. I just... I don't know. It just slipped out. I meant to call your name but instead, it just slipped out. I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologize for that," Troye says quietly, and though it sounds far away, Jacob still looks up to find him zeroed in on him, focused. "Other things, yeah. But not for that."
Another rush of blood surges Jacob's flesh. "Okay," he mumbles, not knowing what to say. "So. Any more questions?"
"I don't know," Troye murmurs, bringing both hands up to message his temples. He exhales, dropping them. "Uhm. Yeah. Probably." He exhales again, closing his eyes. "I just can't think properly right now. There's...a lot."
"Well. Would you like me to go? So you can think for awhile? Gather your thoughts?" Jacob offers, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It pangs him to think this could be the last time he'll see Troye but... But the boy's clearly exhausted, overwhelmed by the intensity of their conversation, and Jacob just can't be the reason for any more of his stress. He won't.
For one flicker of a moment, it almost looks like a faint smile brushes Troye's lips.
But then it's gone, replaced by nothing, and Jacob shakes his head of the thought.
"Yeah, please," Troye agrees softly, all mumbled and rough. "I just have a headache and... I think I just need to, like, think for a little bit."
"Yeah, no, that's fine," Jacob nods, swallowing as he retreats a few steps, offering up a shadow of a smile. He slides his hands in his pockets, tries to appear nonchalant. "I'm sorry I, er, bombarded you with all this."
"No, no. I wanted to hear it. I needed to."
"Oh, well. Alright. Okay. Good. I mean..." He trails off, wishing he could physically kick himself. "I'll, uh, just go, then." And he turns on his heel before his cheeks can get any more shamefully red, his blood pumping hot. Flustered, he picks the journal up off the floor, ready to zoom right out the door before he does something embarrassing like cry or beg for forgiveness on his knees like a madman—
"What's that?"
Startled, Jacob stops, glancing over his shoulder.
Troye's eyes are on the journal, brows pulled together.
"Oh, this?" he asks, gesturing to it. Troye nods. "It's the journal you got me for Christmas."
For a moment, Troye just stares, silent and expressionless, before he finally speaks, the words soft. "Thought so." He glances up. "Why did you bring it?"
Another flush. Jacob feels so stupid. "Oh. Well, I just thought... Well. I guess I thought that, if you read my, er, thoughts, or whatever, things might make a little more sense. But I know that I've already thrown too much at you and, really, it was a pretty silly idea—"
"Can I see it?"
Jacob stares. "Yeah," he nods after a moment. "Yeah, of course." It takes a moment to find his legs. But then he walks over, each step creaky, carefully setting the journal upon the counter.
Only briefly does Troye meet his eye, looking almost shy as one corner of his lips flickers into a half-hearted thanks, before he delicately reaches for the book. But just before he takes it, he pauses. "You know, I don't want to intrude on your personal thoughts, or anything."
"I want you to," Jacob urges, serious.
Troye's eyes find his. Then he nods.
"You don't have to read it if it's boring, or whatever," Jacob shrugs, feeling twitchy and itchy. "It's probably really stupid, but... maybe it'll help? I don't know. I'm just really bad at my words and I'm not sure I explained everything very good. So maybe that will be... Better. Or something."
He's such a fucking idiot. He needs a new mouth.
But Troye doesn't seem fazed or annoyed or judgmental when he nods, taking the book into his own hands and rubbing a palm across its cover. "Thank you," he says and it's such an odd phrase to come from his mouth, given the circumstances.
It sends a jolt through Jacob.
"I'll give it back to you tomorrow?"
Tomorrow. Fuck.
Jacob's heart picks up pace as his head shoots up, struggling to keep his composure. "Yeah," he exhales in a strangled voice while Troye stares at him. "Yeah, that would be fine. More than fine."
"Okay," Troye nods with finality, and then his eyes fall back to the journal, effectively ending the conversation.
Which is fine because Jacob is currently having a fucking heart attack.
Carefully, he makes his way to the door, head buzzing and adrenaline bubbling, an awful, cruel twist of hope spiraling up spine. He's got his hand on the door, ready to wrench it open and step into some oxygen when—
"Jacob?"
He spins around immediately.
Troye's got the book in his lap, shoulders soft. He's watching him.
"Come back tomorrow."
..........
Communication is the key kids.