Gods & Monsters

XXII

The entire night's sort of a blur.

Maybe it's because of the shots, maybe it's because Troye's hand fits so nicely in Jacob's maybe it's because when Troye laughs, he's begun to step into Jacob's space, bumping a fist against his chest as he ducks his head, resting his forehead on Troye's shoulder like it's his spot, like it was carved for him. Maybe it's because Troye's hair smells nice and hard to describe and feels soft on Jacob's chin, his hands warm and his laughter warmer, breath sharp with alcohol and perfectly intoxicating.

Maybe it's because, after they finally leave the pub, they spend their time doing nothing in the world outside, fucking nothing, and it makes Jacob laugh because he wants to spend a universe's worth of time doing nothing right now.

It's probably the alcohol talking, but suddenly the world seems beautiful and Jacob wonders if it might be because of Troye.

"The thing about punk rock is that it's an emotion, Sasspup," Jacob's explaining, impassioned, as they stumble down the street clutching the remnants of the greasy, cold chips they'd picked up nearly an hour ago. The sweeps of their feet kick the stray rocks and dead leaves around them, the chill of the night long since numb to them. They've been talking about music for awhile now, Jacob doesn't remember why or how. "It's not just about the music or the safety pins and Mohawks and eyeliner or all that bullshit that people associate with it—it's a state of mind. You've got to be fucking fed up to create punk rock, kid. You've got to be up to your ears in bullshit in order to be really goddamn punk and—and you've got to be angry and a little bit fucked up, you know?" He's still tipsy, the words rushing out of his slackened, icy lips as he speaks, gesturing uncoordinatedly with his hands and feeling the words fill up his chest because he never cares about anything as much as he does when he's blasted. And he's lost in the moment now, eyes widened against the open expanse of sky and sharp stars above them, the glowing ripples of the river's surface, and the creaky, tall industrial buildings that cluster around them on either side of the tracks. "It's a cry for help," he continues, factually. "It's supposed to be ugly and angry and different because it's unique to you because you've got shit else to your name, you know? It's just you owning up all your misfit-ery and owning up to all those shitty qualities of yours that alienated you. It's being angry and proud and fucking screaming it out, you know?"

Troye is listening beside him, wide-eyed and enthralled, nodding to Jacob's every word as if hanging on for dear life. It makes Jacob feel interesting, makes him feel important. It's nice. It spurs him on.

He thrusts a half-ironic fist into the air, half-smiling sloppily as he turns to catch Troye's eye. "Punk rock is rattling the bars of your jail cell," he concludes, like it's the statement of the century.

And it might as well be, given the way Troye's eyes widen that much more before he nods, slow and serious, as if absorbing the sentence into his very pores.

Jacob smiles as he watches him, fist falling back to his side as he tosses his leftover chips into a nearby bin, fingers greasy and cold. The sudden emptiness of his hands makes him a little itchy though, so he opts for sliding out the spare cigarette from behind his ear—the one that that kindly stranger lent him, back at the pub. With quick fingers he finds his lighter, flicks the flame, and swallows up the smoke that soon follows, burning relief coating his lungs.

Troye watches him, all the while, alight with unseen sparks of electricity.

"Hey," he rasps quietly after a moment, suddenly reaching out for the cigarette. "Give it here?"

"What? Ah, no," Jacob replies firmly, moving out of reach. "No, no, Sasspup. No fuckin' way."

At that, Troye's brow furrows, licked icy blue in the night. "Why not?" he pouts, slow and put-out.