Gods & Monsters

XXXI

It's April next week. Only three weeks until they announce who Brenton's chosen.'

Jacob stares at the text, eyes expressionless as the sunlight wavers upon the screen of his phone.

They're just words. He can delete them. He can lock his phone and silence them and he can look away from then any time he wants.

Because they're just words.

But still, he stares, his body still and tired and really fucking cold despite the warm weather as he lies on Alex's couch. Or is he at Anthony's? No—no, he's at Alex's.

Sometimes it's hard to remember where he is. Stuff like that gets a little difficult when all you do is couch-surf because you're a nomadic, inconstant mess. And it becomes very, very tiring after awhile...

Another text buzzes in.

'Call me tonight' it says.

He frowns, eyes flickering over the words over and over. He's sick of calling Timothee.

For the past few months, Jacob's taken yet another new approach to him: one where he's regularly half-ass communicating while keeping him perpetually at arm's length. It entails a lot of sporadic phone calls made in the dead of night once a week, usually when Jacob's walking back from Troye's house, the wind whispering against his dry skin, his collar pushed up high. It involves mostly "I'll explain later, Timothee. But it's fine"s and it comes with a nice, heaping portion of guilt and panic along with it because Troye's scent still lingers on him and his image is still pressed into the backs of his eyelids.

It leaves little encouragement to sleep, it leaves little room for sincere smiles, and it paves the way for a lot of the anxious, gritty misery that always seems to be lying in Jacob's gut these days. As he stares sightlessly at books. Gazes out of windows with dead eyes. Or, most commonly, counts the seconds in his head like a death toll as he pours pints, for no reason that he can will himself to grasp.

But. But he doesn't know what else to do. And he knows he's running out of time, see. He knows. He's aware. He just... He just can't bring himself to do anything.

He knows he needs to tell Troye. He's tried, even. It never works, though. Whether it's because Troye or him, he doesn't know... But it never works.

And so now, as he stares at Timothee's words, it all feels just that bit more anxious, that much more gritty.

It's a bullshit way to start the morning, really.

So Jacob just locks his phone as he slides a cold hand over his eyes, tucking his phone away where he can't see it.

"You up, mate?" Alex calls from the kitchen. It sounds very loud in the dusty morning light, with everything very still and bathed in yellows.

"Yeah," Jacob calls back as something, somewhere, cracks in his body while he stretches.

"Cool. Make sure to lock the door on your way out, yeah?" Suddenly Alex appears, jacket zipped up, as he makes his way towards the door. He casts a glance at Jacob, a genial smile in place which Jacob returns as he brushes sleep from his eyes. And then Alex'a got his hand on the doorknob, ready to exit.

"Oh wait," Jacob calls, holding up a hand, as he hauls himself off the couch, yawning as he digs for his wallet in the back pocket of his new jeans. (Hah, yeah, can you believe? New jeans. Troye, quite literally, made him buy them, insisting his others smelt like wet dog. He wasn't wrong.) He shuffles towards Alex, pulling a few notes out and stuffing them into his unsuspecting palm.

For a moment, Alex blinks at him, utterly taken aback.

So Jacob shrugs dismissively, pocketing his wallet as he turns from him and heads towards his shoes. "That's for housing my arse for all this time," he mumbles a little awkwardly. He's never been very good at being...thankful, or whatever. Like, verbally thankful. "I, uh. Appreciate you letting me crash here."