Gods & Monsters

XII

Lucky strikes mv coming out today!!!!
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"Perfect."

Jacob raises his eyebrows. "Perfect? I look like a fucking waiter."

Timothee's cut brown eyes lock with Jacob's in the reflection of the full length mirror set in his room, sending a fierce scowl his way. He swoops his chin low, nearly brushing the clean line of Jacob's shoulder—all wrapped up in fine, tailored fabric that itches, fuck—and brushes lips against the smooth skin beneath his earlobe. Sharp hands press into his sides, fingers gripping tight and pushing a breath out of Jacob's lips. Timothee's eyes never stray.

"You look clean," he amends in a slithered whisper, but the annoyance in his stare is quickly watering down with desire. "You look fit as fuck. There's no way you won't succeed."

Jacob swallows at himself in the mirror, taking in his blazer, his snug white tee, his well-fitting black trousers (that he borrowed from Dylan because Jacob's wardrobe consists of almost literally nothing, on account of a lack of closet or, you know, home) before flitting his eyes back to Timothee's. He wills his features to relax, wills himself to smile, smug, as he gazes back with lazily lidded eyes and clenched fists.

"I know," he replies mildly, a practical hum in the air, but it sounds scratchier than he intended, the words harsh against his throat. "I always do."

Yet, see, today it's particularly important that Jacob looks good.

Because Jedidiah Jenkins on his way over.

The little American rose had arrived in town later than expected. Of course, it fucked with Timothee's grand plans of Jacob fucking the kid into his mum's mattress, but. Details. It definitely presented a problem, though. Because Jenkins is arriving today, today, and today also happens to be the day of the ever famous Chalamet-Meervenne Charity Gala.

Which, to top it all off, has now also turned into a motherfucking masquerade—thanks, Timothee.

See, he'd nearly shit an egg when he discovered Alice Jenkins newfound plans of postponing her son's arrival ("She probably fucking suspects me of my motives on her son, or something," Timothee had spit, face red, throwing a rubber ball at the wall with impressive intensity as Dylan and Jacob watched on with raised eyebrows. "Probably thinks I'm—" He cut off, furious. Jacob rolled his eyes and Dylan looked concerned. "She's fucking sabotaging me. Always! I hate that bloody cow!" And then he actually stomped his foot on the clean polished floor, rattling a few pens on the desk nearby, and Jacob bit down the urge to just smack him on the head with a blunt object). So, in a flash of 'brilliance,' Timothee had proposed the whole mask thing to his parents.

"It's brilliant," he'd claimed to Jacob as they passed a bowl on the balcony that night, his eyes licked with smoke and blue light. He inhaled sharply, lips red and poisonous, smirking. "That way, you can fuck about with both of them at the same time, make the entire night a shit show. Then maybe we'll actually have some fun." Smoke spilled with each word. "The Sivan kid and Jenkins. Fuck Jekins in his mum's car, or something. She'll love that. And you can do whatever you want with Sivan, it's your show." He took another hit. "Best yet, you can deny it later and everything if you get mixed up in something. You'll have a fucking mask on! They won't know shit!" He laughed like he was clever.

Jacob just sucked on his own cigarette, staring out at the cold city, one hand fisted in his jacket pocket. He squinted his eyes against the chilly breeze, against powdery smoke. Against Timothee's stupid goddamn sentences.

"They'll know it was me. Troye'll know it's me," is all he said, words pinging into the night. The longer strands of his hair ruffled in the wind.

Timothee merely shrugged, unfazed. "Alright, so don't talk to him, then. Just do shit. Can't prove it then, can he?"