Gods & Monsters

III

"It's an impossible task," Jacob says flatly, the minute Timothee opens the door to his room. He's got his arms crossed, his eyes set in a permanent glare that he hopes burns at least one hole in Timothee's bulletproof makeup. Or many holes. Hell, just swiss-cheese the fucker, why not?

But Timothee just quirks an eyebrow. "Surely you're not talking about Sivan?"

"I am most definitely talking about Sivan," he snaps, arms uncrossing and falling to his sides. Somehow, he manages to glare even harder. "You do realize you sent me to chase after a bunny rabbit, right? A socially awkward, docile as shit, weird, impossible-to-read goddamn bunny rabbit?"

A smirk forms on Timothee's lips but he doesn't respond, just leans on his doorframe as he observes Jacob through a calm gaze.

Since Timothee seems intent on saying absolutely nothing, Jacob continues, jaw set. "He doesn't like me. He wants nothing to do with me. And, to be quite honest, I can't say I feel any differently. I also can't exactly say that I even understand why I'm going after the thing in the first place."

Timothee quirks a brow. "Thing?" he questions, amused.

"Thing," Jacob affirms flatly.

There's a pause, one where Jacob's flexing his frustrated muscles and biting his tongue and Timothee is watching him like he would his favorite television program. Asshole.

"So," he drawls out slowly, eventually, eyes flickering over Jacob's body. "Sivan isn't taking the bait. Lost our touch then, have we?"

"Oh, piss off," Jacob glares, shoving past him into his room. He scoffs a bit for good measure, heading straight for the bed to sprawl out and massage the shit out of his aching temples.

No, he has not lost his touch, thank you.

"Don't disappoint me, Jacob," Timothee then sighs, closing his door as he turns to face him. "This one's important. Extremely important. He may not have taken to you on the first go, but he sure as hell took to that Latin exam we just had. Furthermore, my sources tell me that he's been nominated for the Student Board next term. As President." His eyes turn icy, his tone sharper. "Which, we both know, is a coveted position. Coveted by me." A curl develops in his lips. "And I don't even care to mention what that old cow Alice Watson said about letting him give a speech at the school's charity gala next month."

Despite the sluggish frustration in his veins, Jacob manages a smirk. He gets an odd pleasure out of Timothee losing. There's something indefinably satisfying about it.

"So, I'm sure I don't need to explain why this of the utmost importance, Bix."

"Oh, 'utmost,' oh-ho," Jacob mocks under his breath. Oh, Timothee and his uppity words. Fuck off.

Timothee continues, undeterred, his posture stiff and muscled as he unzips a giant sports bag set atop his desk. His sharp brown eyes catch on Jacob's. "Failure is not an option."

Oh, alright then. No pressure or anything.

A spike of anxiety seizes through Jacob's muscles. Not an option. Doesn't Jacob know it. This is his one shot, too.

He breathes evenly through his nose as he sinks his head deeper into Timothee's pillows (they smell like his obnoxious cologne and it's almost too much), pushing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. Anxious, he's feeling anxious. Just wants to lie down and listen to something. A song, any song. The Doors' 'The End' would probably fit pretty nicely right about now.

This is the end, my only friend, the end...

"Is your mom home?" Jacob eventually asks, hoping for a subject change, his body and mind irritated, eyes aching with the pressure from his hands. "I like ruffling her feathers; it's an easy task—all I have to do is say hi and ask about her day."