Gods & Monsters

XXIII

It's officially late now. Really fucking late. Late enough that the sun is beginning to poke above the horizon as they trek back to the car at a pace that implies more than just exhaustion, pinkies linked together as the gravel crunches underfoot. So maybe it's early, actually.

The soft laps of the river slapping against rocks fills the silence. Mutters of freshly-awoken birds waft around, here and there. Just one or two for now. Jacob suspects there will be more soon.

"We should pick up the pace," Jacob says quietly, voice scratchy from overuse. "So I can get you home faster. Get you to bed before Laurelle beheads me."

Unsurprisingly, Troye shakes his head. "No," he yawns, only shaking his head more vehemently. "Not yet. It's nice out here."

And it is. With his body silhouetted in pale blues and medium blues and touches of dark blues and the first, sizzled wisps of gold and pink and purple stretching up from the horizon, Troye looks very nice, indeed. Very beautiful and poetic, like the kind of boy who would be photographed and splashed across every hipster blog on the internet. His hair's soft and unkempt, his skin white and ridged with exhaustion, and his eyelashes are perfect and delicate, tickling the sky that lies beyond him, rocks clicking beneath his Converse—which, Jacob notices, now have scuffs and marks, tarnished by their walk and night of mild mayhem. They probably reek of beer, too.

"Alright," Jacob rasps quietly, squeezing TroyeMs finger, which makes the boy smile as he turns to him, rubbing is eye with a fist. "If you say so."

They walk a little closer together, no words spoken, pinkies still linked. Jacob's ignoring the urge to kiss him.

He wants to, fuck, he wants to really incredibly a lot fucking bad, but... But somehow it feels like he can't, like he doesn't quite deserve to just take that. So he ignores it, instead just gripping onto Troye's finger and feeling his body stumble into his own, watching the night wash away from him. Observing the chameleon of colors that his body flits through. The change, the evolution, the everything.

It sort of sickens and embarrasses him when he thinks that he wants to know what Troye looks like during every time of day. It's sickening and embarrassing, how much he wants that.

His stomach growls. Whether it's from shame or hunger, he doesn't know, but—

"I want food," he mumbles, yawning against his hand as he looks off to the river, watches the way the barest hint of sun falls on its rippling surface.

Troye nods, sleepy, but perked up at the words. "And tea?"

"Yeah." Jacob smiles, looking to Troyr, who nods again. "Yeah, let's go get some breakfast."

He pulls Troye along with him, heading towards the dim glow of a bakery.

**

It was Troye's idea not to eat in the car and then head back.

"No, I want to watch the sun rise," he'd claimed, tired and gravelly, tugging on Jacob's free hand—the other holding the paper bag filled with moist, warm croissants and a drink tray, set with their two steaming Styrofoam cups of tea.

"Troye, love, I really need to get you home before the year's up," Jacob protested lightly, but Troye's eyes were shadowed with exhaustion and bright with an entirely infectious eagerness, and so Jacob merely sighed, giving way almost immediately. "Yeah, alright, then," he nodded, as Troye beamed.

He followed him to the stretch of grass beyond the tracks, just before the hill sloped down to the river, amongst refuse and scrap metal and industrial fury. Pollution foamed the edges of the water. It was far from romantic, but as the sun peaked out, burning orange and celestial, it sort of didn't matter. It was just nice.