Gods & Monsters

VIII

The hideously unappealing sound of an alarm is blasting in Jacob's ear.

"Fuck off," he groans into the grainy wooden floor. He splutters after a moment—a bit of lint managed to work its way into his mouth sometime during the night. Ew.

With bleary, dry, aching eyes, he locates his phone, silences it like a motherfuck, and drops it back down, flopping onto his other side and burying his face in his arms. He didn't even bother looking at the time but he couldn't really give a fuck what time it is right now.

Life can wait. His head's erupting. There's a volcano in there.

And then there's a voice in his ear.

"Are you awake, Jacob ?" A gentle hand shakes his shoulder.

Goddammit, Dylan .

"No. Go away."

"Do you want some tea? I have Kava. They say if you drink enough of it, you'll experience hallucinogenic effects."

"Oh, thrilling."

"I can make you a pot."

"Dylan . Stop talking."

"Okay. I'll make you a pot." And then Jacob hears the cold slap of bare feet against wood, padding away to the kitchen, and that's enough for now.

Peace and silence.

Then the sound of an elevator dings and a thunderous greeting is shouted.

"I'm home!" comes the distinctive sound of one Timothee chalamet, and Jacob can't help but groan at that, wishing his eardrums would momentarily burst. Which, to be fair, they might. At least it feels that way.

"Please don't find me," Jacob mumbles to himself, his drooled, slack lips moving against the cotton of his hoodie. "Please please please—"

"Jacob's in my room. On the floor. Sleeping," Dylan's fucking voice says, mild and informative as anything.

Goddammit.

"Bixenman's here?" Timothee asks, delighted. Then there's the sound of expensive sneakers hitting the floor at an alarming speed and—boom. "Bix!"

"I want to die," Jacob moans to nobody in particular.

Fuck everything in this world.

"Bix, what are you doing down there? Surely you're not still sleeping?" Timmy scoffs, amused and judgmental and proud with his chest puffed and his hair gelled and tall. Like the adolescent lion king he is. Little bitch.

"What does it fucking look like, Chalamet?" Jacob's mouth feels like cotton and tastes like crap. Praise.

"You haven't left the flat? At all?" So incredulous. So haughty.

Jacob lifts his head. Somehow. (Divine intervention, probably.) He musters up the first glare that he can. "What do you fucking think? Now leave me. I feel like shit and you're making it worse. Leave me."

He just needs sleep. Maybe water eventually. And a toilet.

"It's almost four, you fucking idiot." And Timothee sounds disapproving... If not mildly amused as well. "You've slept the entire day." A distinct smirk is heard. It just is. "No wonder Troye looked so down when I left. He hasn't gotten his daily visitor." The words are said with a shitty smile. "I think he might be growing attached, Jacob . Good boy. I can almost say I'm proud."

At that, something positively icy shoots through Jacob's veins.

He lifts his head again, this time with more force.