Gods & Monsters

XI

They've successfully closed up shop (well, Troye did—Jacob watched from afar, rubbing at the exhaustion in his eyes and yawning beneath the full moon, shuffling from impatient foot to impatient foot) and the night is crisp and clear, full of barely-visible stars.

It seemed only natural for Jacob to offer to walk Troye to his bus stop, to wait with him. Just natural, you know? So now here they are, walking down the orange, shadowed streets, shoulders bumping, as Jacob carries Troye's bag.

Which is surprisingly heavy, fuck.

And Jacob ... Well. He needs to ask Troye something. Something important.

"So, uh. I've a quick question for you," Jacob coughs, and it's with all the air of a fumbling teenager, which is mildly horrifying but mostly just annoying.

Troye , already picking up on the change of atmosphere, lifts a brow and glances at Jacob from his peripherals, his smile poking his cheeks. But he slows his pace as he walks, his head ducking a bit to listen, and... And Jacob swallows, suddenly very aware of the sweat that's begun to prickle the palms of his hands.

Okay.

"Have you heard about the Chalamet-meervenne Charity Gala coming up? The one next week?"

He exhales. There. Wheels in motion.

"Uhm," Troye begins, lifting a solo shoulder in a shrug. "I think so? I've heard talk about some ball-thing. Gathering, or whatever. Some thing." Jacob can't help but laugh, and Troye colors a bit but somehow relaxes as well, his smile comfortable. "A couple of people have actually asked me to go."

And then Jacob's smile freezes.

What?

A couple of people have asked him to go? Already?

"Oh," Jacob says, flatter than he intended, and if his footsteps falter a bit, nobody has to fucking know. An odd feeling creeps up on him, though. It's unpleasant. Unpleasant enough that it forces him to break eye contact, his jaw clicking as he faces forward, his skin feeling taught against his bones. Very unpleasant.

Did someone get there first?

His blood flushes at the thought.

"Never mind, then." His voice sounds weird.

"No, no," Troye rushes then, but Jacob doesn't look at him, not yet. "No, I'm not, like, going with anyone. I told them all I might go. But, like, separately. Alone. Like, on my own. Drive and stuff."

The words soften the edges that have unexpectedly developed, and it's enough to make Jacob briefly catch his eye again, a faint smirk ghosting his features. "Drive and stuff?" he mocks, and it makes Troye bite his cheek when he smiles, looking away bashfully.

Bashful. If Troye was one of Snow White's dwarves, he would be Bashful.

Jacob would be Grumpy.

"Well, yeah," Troye says. "Or walk. Or bicycle."

"Or skip?" Jacob offers. "Because why not?"

Troye chuckles, cheeks peachy and warm. Peach cobbler. "Or twirl?"

"Jog?"

"Mosey?"

"Meander?"

"Fall?"

"'Fall'?" Jacob repeats, incredulous, stopping in his tracks. "I call bullshit. Falling is not a means of getting from here to there, Troye ."

"It most certainly is!" Troye protests, halting as well, but he doesn't elaborate, just stands in a silver and orange mist beneath the sky.