The Freudian Slip (14/15) Part One Cont.
First part here.
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“Strip,” commands university student, the same leer back on his face as he begins to shuck off his coat.
“This is so weird,” comments Gaskarth, but follows the psychology student’s lead as he too begins to strip off his clothes, not bothering to fold them as he tosses them onto the wooden bench of the change room.
Barakat has led him into the school’s gym and judging from the heavy scent of the chlorine in the air, to the pool. He stands in nothing but his boxer shorts, completely unabashed after the number of times Jack has helped him bathe him in the past few months, and gestures downward. “I’m assuming you brought me a spare?”
“I did,” confirms the darker haired man, pulling out the required towels and swim shorts from his bag.
“You also assumed I can swim,” notes the disc jockey pointedly as they head for the showers for a pre-rinse.
“I just knew,” answers the amateur psychoanalyst simply, recalling his preliminary data collecting days, when he would watch his specimen dive into the crowd at the club with the grace of a swan and finesse of a diver.
“You seem to do that a lot,” remarks Alex, rubbing at his eyes under the spray and unable to see the look of the apprehension that flashes across Barakat’s face. “Know things about me I’ve never actually told you.”
Jack turns underneath his own showerhead, showing a smooth and pale back. “I’ve heard that before,” he admits, “I’ve got a fifth sense, I guess.”
“Well, I’m not complaining,” concludes Gaskarth, his voice echoing as he steps away and heads for the pool. “Saves me the trouble of having to explain things.”
“And what if I wanted you to explain things, at least some of them?” continues Jack once they both enter the poolroom. It is half the size of a standard Olympic pool, a shimmery strip of blue light with its left half divided up by red and white bulk heads floating along in parallel lines. The smell of chlorine is stronger now, salty like an ocean and yet sweet in its familiarity.
“Depends,” replies the specimen, looking out to the far side of the pool to the diving board with a look of longing before dismissing an unspoken thought with a shake of his head. Instead, he heads for the ladder and eases himself in carefully. After a few strokes he seems to have steadied himself and treads water easily enough for someone who has been bed ridden for months.
Jack soon joins in, opting to jump in with a simple forward dive. He ends up a few feet away, hair sweeping off his face with the rippling waves of his landing. It sticks on end and the disc jockey cannot help but laugh as the hedgehog-looking figure swims up to him.
“How about a deal,” prompts the university student, flipping over onto his back to drift.
“What kind of deal?” asks the patient, mimicking the other’s actions so they float side-by-side.
“The kind where I ask you some things and you answer them, if you can, and I do the same in return.”
“So like ‘Twenty Questions’?”
“Would you prefer ‘Truth or Dare’?” teases Jack.
“I don’t know, this is your game,” retorts Alex, giving Barakat a small shove when they begin to float too close.
“Tell me why you first joined the band,” proposes the amateur psychoanalyst simply, his look firmly fixed at the ceiling.
Gaskarth lets out a heavy sigh, not saying anything. A single dripping sound echoes throughout the room, like a leaky faucet just begging for release. The stillness of such a wide expanse reminds the disc jockey of being young and thinking that if he dived deep enough into the blueness of his community pool that he would somehow end up in the blueness of the sky. It had all seemed so straight forward as it was impossible; to keep kicking against a current, slicing through big gaps of airless gravity. His lungs would begin to ache, his pulse battering through his mind, but all he could think about was reaching the bottom and coming out on top.
Then one day, it happened. He touched the bottom and found it to be as cool and hard as the rest of the world. There were no fluffy clouds or the smooth touch of a bird’s passing wing. The sun was all but snuffed out and the ensuing darkness latched on with a seaweed tight grip. He instantly pushed off again, his body free falling up to the surface of reality. The first breath he took was the last one to come easy.
“I needed a hobby,” admits Alex eventually. “I mean, I got a toy guitar at a really young age, but I never bothered really learning to play anything until I was about twelve.”
“And you, what?” questions Jack, “Found your gift?”
Gaskarth’s laughter sends out ripples in the water. “Fuck no,” he denies, “I was terrible. I only knew a few Green Day covers and it was an insult to Billie Joe to hear me play to be honest with you.”
“Then why continue? Why form a band?”
“Because it was fun,” insists Alex, a little petulant. “I mean, I was twelve and too young to do anything about the feelings I started having about girls, so I needed to keep busy after I quit swimming lessons.”
“See!” declares the amateur psychoanalyst, a little too triumphant. “I knew you could swim.”
“My instructor always used to say I had the right build for it,” confesses the specimen, “Long and I didn’t used to this thin.”
“So why’d you quit?”
“Cause was I wimp,” says Alex tiredly.
“What?” Jack chuckles.
“I couldn’t handle it; the pressure during competitions. I used to get really sick beforehand.”
“Getting nervous is natural though,” points out the university student. “You’ve seen me before a test.”
“I know,” admits the disc jockey, “But this was serious sickness; really bad cramps…borderline diarrhoea.”
“Oh.”
“Then one time-and this qualifies as ‘Truth or Dare’ because if you repeat this to anyone I swear to God I will kill you-it was for the finals, so it was me and about four others. I got so nervous when the local paper were interviewing us beforehand that I got sick; right there in front of everyone. I shit my pants when I was only wearing some stupid skimpy bikini bottom and had to run off with the camera rolling before it leaked down my legs.”
“That’s-” begins the amateur psychoanalyst, but he is unable to finish.
“Don’t say it, don’t say anything,” demands the patient, visibly blushing as he suddenly pushes off and sinks down into the water. His head disappears for multiple seconds, and just when the other begins to worry, he emerges again, even more red, but looking calmer.
“I-”
“I don’t want to hear it,” insists Gaskarth. “I don’t even know why I told you that. I’ve never told anyone about that…not that I needed to. It was all over the fucking papers the next day.”
“Now that’s really not fair,” comments Jack.
“It wasn’t explicit,” Alex assures him, “I was just a kid after all. They just mentioned something about competition jitters and delicate stomachs.
“Still, that enough to well, make any kid quit swimming.”
“I preferred diving anyways,” dismisses Alex, missing the smile that creeps along the darker haired man’s face. “But I was too young to enter the diving competitions and didn’t feel like waiting.”
“Well, it’s good then, that things worked out for you, huh?”
“It was good I met the guys by then,” concurs Gaskarth. “I wouldn’t have survived high school without them.”
“Were you nervous, when you started high school?” prompts Barakat.
“I didn’t shit myself,” the disc jockey informs him, “If that’s what you mean.”
“I didn’t think you had that weak of a stomach,” notes Jack, teasing again. “I mean, with the amount of alcohol you consume, I’ve never seen you get sick.”
“I’m too relaxed when I drink,” points out Alex, once again floating on his back. “But I used to get a lot of cramps as a kid.”
They soon end up side-by-side again, touching from shoulder to hip. His specimen feels cool and slick next to the amateur psychoanalyst’s skin and he cannot help but reach and run a finger down the side of the other’s ribs. Gaskarth shivers under his touch, but does not push away this time. His physique is too slim for a swimmer now. Though the sleekness should allow him to travel faster, his body is too weak to properly propel him through the water. Though he is walking again, it will take another few months before he can truly exert himself, and even months after that before he can be healthier than he has been in years.
“Thank you, for trusting me enough to tell me that,” clarifies Jack after long moments have passed.
Alex only shrugs. “You’ve seen just as bad from me now,” he points out. “Probably doesn’t surprise you that I’ve always been a bit of a mess.”
“You told me once,” recalls Jack, “Back on our first proper date, how you had a really normal home life and no real problems to justify your bad behaviour. But that sounds bad enough to effect anyone.”
“What? Loose bowels and supreme embarrassment? I guess. Still. I had it good; parents who weren’t divorced and never laid a hand on me no matter how mouthy I got. I always had food to eat and enough money to go out. They expected a lot from me of course, you met them, but looking back on it, it wasn’t bad, you know? My family cared about me, they wanted the best for me, they just didn’t always show it in a way I could handle.”
“So you still don’t want them around,” states the university student, remembering Alex’s utter joy when he informed him that his parents had gone back to his hometown.
“No, I don’t,” confirms the specimen in a steely voice. “I’m old enough to know that they meant the best, but that doesn’t mean everything they’ve done over the years was right. I understand them now, but they still don’t understand me. They probably never will.”
“Fair enough,” agrees Jack, thinking about Mr. Gaskarth and how he must have reacted to having a sissy son who suffered from cramps more frequently than a pubescent daughter would.
“What about you?” asks Alex. “You don’t really talk about your family.”
“They don’t really get me either,” confesses Jack, intentionally vague. “They’re pretty average people. They didn’t really know what to do with me growing up; didn’t really know what kind of toys to get me when I was doing puzzles and brain teasers far too advanced for my age.”
“But they were… involved?” prompts the disc jockey.
“They were around,” answers the darker haired man. “But there are only so many A+ report cards you can put up on the fridge before there isn’t any room left for appointment cards and shopping lists, you know? There only so many parent-teacher interviews you can go to before you get tired of hearing how smart your kid is, especially when none of it is due your own work. They used to sit down with me, hold up the flashcards when I learned my multiplication tables, but it didn’t take long. Nothing ever took long for me to figure out and pretty soon I knew more they did and it was clear I didn’t need them. And while it was handy to have me around in particular situations, I wasn’t exactly needed either.”
“I never considered that,” admits Alex, “I always just managed the average mark at school. I was jealous of all the smart kids, of course, but I guess there’s a lot of pressure that comes with that too. Like swimming, I guess.”
“Like swimming,” agrees Barakat, turning his body so that he can begin to do lazy butterfly strokes in the free half of the pool.
“Have you ever considered quitting then?” asks Gaskarth, speaking over the splashing.
The amateur psychoanalyst seems not to hear him, but when he reaches the opposite ledge he stops, lifting himself up and sitting down with only his knees underwater.
“All the time,” he declares, but does not say more than that. He simply sits, watching Alex go back and forth along the width of the pool. The specimen still has the proper form, ingrained in him from long hours of training until his hands were wrinkled and toes nothing but tiny prunes at the end of his feet. He had been a very dedicated swimmer, visiting to pool at least three times even on the coldest days of winter. He almost always smelled of chlorine, and his hair had begun to dry out and lighten. He had been prepared to cut it all off, anything to make him a few milliseconds faster. But then the incident had occurred and he let it grow long and dyed it all sorts of outrageous colours to remind people that he might not have been a star swimmer anymore but he was still there.
Eventually he tires himself out and joins Jack on the ledge. His chest is heaving heavily and his eyes are a little red from the chemicals. But he looks happy and relaxed and it has been a while since he has ever felt so revived.
“I can’t see you quitting school,” he comments, leaning his head on Barakat’s shoulder. “You like it too much, learning about stuff.”
“I do,” relents the amateur psychoanalyst, wrapping an arm around the other’s waist to bring them more firmly together. “It keeps me grounded, knowing there is always something new to learn about.”
“Swimming is the opposite for the me,” remarks Alex. “I don’t need to feel ‘grounded,’ I need something to make me feel… higher, lighter…weightless.”
“I can understand that….when you’re so bogged down with all these different sorts of expectations and social rules. It’s hard. Swimming is the probably the closest you can get to the sensation of flying and just leaving everything else behind.”
“Yeah…I mean. I know a lot of people who have phobias about swimming, because they’re scared they might drown. But-this is going to sound crazy, I know, my parents already think I have a death wish-drowning isn’t so bad either. Getting lost in something…I guess it’s the same thing with music with me. It’s when you’re listening to same song on repeat and you kind of forget about the lyrics or even the instrumental, and you just feel it. That’s when nothing else matters, no one can hurt you. It’s a good feeling.”
“Addictive, almost,” notes the amateur psychoanalyst, “Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” admits the patient with a heavy sigh. “It guess it can be qualified as a drug.”
“And when you mix that feeling with actual drugs?”
“It gets worse, obviously. But I was never a proper smoker you know,” argues Alex. “I told you, it was mostly for show. I couldn’t risk ruining my voice. And as for the alcohol…I obviously haven’t drank since the accident.”
“I wasn’t accusing you of anything,” Jack says softly.
“I know, I know,” amends Gaskarth, “You’re the one person who has never judged me, for any of it. That’s why I trust you.”
Barakat nods, unable to express how touched he is to hear that he has gained the other’s trust.
“Besides,” jokes the university student, “There are some that would argue that my coffee dependence isn’t all healthy either.”
“It’s not,” confirms the disc jockey. “But I like the way it makes you taste.”
The amateur psychoanalyst laughs at that. He leans down and gives his specimen a kiss, despite the fact they both equally taste like chlorine. The kiss takes but they soon decide to leave, their skin beginning to chill. They head back for the showers, this time opting to stand together underneath a single spray and helping each other scrub their respective backs.
“I finally get to return the favour,” remarks Gaskarth, letting his hand linger on Barakat’s back longer than necessary. He eyes the swell of the other’s backside and notes how soft the skin is in a place that is rarely touched.
The university student does not reply. They both know this is nothing like the times the darker haired man has helped bathe his patient. All those times had been economic and clinical, done with tenderness but no real sexual drive. This is different.
Yes, it is about washing away all the sharp chemicals and bringing forth the calming herbal scents of peppermint and rosemary. It is also about swiping suds under one’s nose to make an outrageously fluffy moustache and then dipping one’s fingers into hipbones until the other relents and shucks off his swim shorts entirely. This is about the way one’s eyelashes clump together when wet, making the other want to stop everything and separate each one by one with utmost care. This is about sculpting wet hair into funny shapes only to flatten it all out again and admire how it shines under the spray. But it is also the way the other’s skin feels extra smooth underneath crinkled fingertips and how body hair gets darker when wetter. It is about running one’s hands all over, and admiring every ridge and bump of muscle and bone. It is about reddened lips that seek one out through all the hazy steam of hot, hot water.
Everything is so fresh and warm, and as slick limbs intertwine it gets harder to breathe. Cheeks nuzzle and arms hook and pull. Legs side step one another and all it takes is one particular brush of members for all the water in the room to turn to fire. The heat increases by a tenfold, and despite the slowness and ease of their actions, they stand at attention. Simple strokes grow longer and rougher. Despite the water, there is a certain amount of friction with each slide, delicious in it’s roughness. It gets harder to keep going, but they are getting harder and there is no stopping it. Small grunts and crude curses sound louder in the wide tiled and otherwise empty room, but the fact anyone could walk in on them at any second just heightens the thrill. It has been so long since they have done anything like this that either doubts it will last long enough, but they grip one another all the more tightly.
Alex cannot help but look down at it all. Stare at the way they join and come apart, giving each other a brief sense of just how insanely bad they want one another. He relishes in that feeling, of inspiring desire in such a visceral way. The blood has no say in the way that it pools in one’s gut, but instead of cramping up in pain and embarrassment, he feels high and light, obnoxiously blissed out. He has to keep his mouth open just to keep breathing but immediately bites down on his lip when he feels a hand sneak around his waist and delve into in the crease of his ass. This is new for them, and with every inch lower down Gaskarth feels himself being pried open wider, more exposed than he has ever been. And yet, he likes it. It is a dirty act even as it cleans him thoroughly. Water snakes down the illicit path, chasing that lone finger that uses the slip of soap to its advantage. It does not get very far though, just passes that first ring of resistance before Gaskarth goes completely rigid. He hears distant moaning, completely alien to himself as there is a disconnect between his body and the pleasure, the pleasure, the pleasure, the that keeps coming in white hot streams, mixing with the shower water that has run cold by now.
The satiation is enough to make one lose their mind. He has not felt this limp, this empty of all weight in such a long time. He shakes in its aftermath, completely caught in the other’s arm less he fall to his knees. He can still feel the other’s persistent erection against his stomach, but all it takes is a needy moan at the loss of that damned finger for the other to lose it all too. Jack’s body may be stronger at this point but he too goes weak. He is more silent as he unloads, but Alex can feel the way the other’s heart is pounding madly. They stand there a moment longer, just holding one another as the fluids mix and wash away. The shower is freezing at this point, but they are too numb to properly feel it. Barakat seems to snap back first, remembering where they are and just what else could happen.
He tugs on his specimen, pulling him upright and leading his back to the change room. They towel off and dress quickly. By the time they are back in the car they are bundled up and warm again thanks to the heater. But the patient’s cheeks are abnormally pink and the amateur psychoanalyst cannot help but look away from the road for a second and check on him.
“You alright?” he asks tentatively. He knows he has pushed a new boundary tonight, but he thinks they had made a lot of progress together in the pool.
“What?” says the disc jockey, snapping back into reality. “Oh yeah, m’fine.”
“I lost you there for a second,” the university student remarks.
“Sorry, I just thinking.”
“About?”
“Different stuff. You included,” confesses Alex, blush increasing.
“Oh. Good things?” asks Jack, taking the other’s hand in his for moment as they wait at a red light.
“Good things,” his specimen confirms.
“Good.”
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A/N: I just wanted to say hello to you precious patient people, and I’m sorry for how long it’s taken me with this chapter. Just as a heads up, chapter 14 will be the last 3-part chapter. Chapter 15 is just an epilogue for those of you who enjoy ‘where-are-they-now’ endings. The next part is going to be my favourite of all, because not only do we get a literary climax, we get a rated NC-17 type climax as well (yeah baby~!) You’ll finally know why this story is named after the concept of a Freudian slip and how Jack really feels about this whole thing.
So as excited am I for this, I am of course, absolutely terrified as I attempt to give you an ending you all deserve for being so very kind with me over the years. So I ask that you please comment with your questions/concerns about characters (Jack, Alex, Rian, Zack, Gabe, Eric, the mysterious Sam etc) or any particular step of the specimen’s treatment (the drinking, sex, sleep, medicine, etc).
If you’re reading this as I write it, you have the unique opportunity to contribute to the story and make sure it ends in a way that satisfies you-that’s not saying I’ll completely change the ending I have planned! But it’s a speak now or forever hold your peace kinda thing because if you’ve stuck with me this long we’re basically married and the honeymoon is fast approaching.
Notes:
1. The actual lyrics begin as “Andy I know,” and are taken from “Hammers and Strings (A Lullaby)” by Jack’s Mannequin. Gabe’s character intentionally manipulates the words to suit the moment.
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“Strip,” commands university student, the same leer back on his face as he begins to shuck off his coat.
“This is so weird,” comments Gaskarth, but follows the psychology student’s lead as he too begins to strip off his clothes, not bothering to fold them as he tosses them onto the wooden bench of the change room.
Barakat has led him into the school’s gym and judging from the heavy scent of the chlorine in the air, to the pool. He stands in nothing but his boxer shorts, completely unabashed after the number of times Jack has helped him bathe him in the past few months, and gestures downward. “I’m assuming you brought me a spare?”
“I did,” confirms the darker haired man, pulling out the required towels and swim shorts from his bag.
“You also assumed I can swim,” notes the disc jockey pointedly as they head for the showers for a pre-rinse.
“I just knew,” answers the amateur psychoanalyst simply, recalling his preliminary data collecting days, when he would watch his specimen dive into the crowd at the club with the grace of a swan and finesse of a diver.
“You seem to do that a lot,” remarks Alex, rubbing at his eyes under the spray and unable to see the look of the apprehension that flashes across Barakat’s face. “Know things about me I’ve never actually told you.”
Jack turns underneath his own showerhead, showing a smooth and pale back. “I’ve heard that before,” he admits, “I’ve got a fifth sense, I guess.”
“Well, I’m not complaining,” concludes Gaskarth, his voice echoing as he steps away and heads for the pool. “Saves me the trouble of having to explain things.”
“And what if I wanted you to explain things, at least some of them?” continues Jack once they both enter the poolroom. It is half the size of a standard Olympic pool, a shimmery strip of blue light with its left half divided up by red and white bulk heads floating along in parallel lines. The smell of chlorine is stronger now, salty like an ocean and yet sweet in its familiarity.
“Depends,” replies the specimen, looking out to the far side of the pool to the diving board with a look of longing before dismissing an unspoken thought with a shake of his head. Instead, he heads for the ladder and eases himself in carefully. After a few strokes he seems to have steadied himself and treads water easily enough for someone who has been bed ridden for months.
Jack soon joins in, opting to jump in with a simple forward dive. He ends up a few feet away, hair sweeping off his face with the rippling waves of his landing. It sticks on end and the disc jockey cannot help but laugh as the hedgehog-looking figure swims up to him.
“How about a deal,” prompts the university student, flipping over onto his back to drift.
“What kind of deal?” asks the patient, mimicking the other’s actions so they float side-by-side.
“The kind where I ask you some things and you answer them, if you can, and I do the same in return.”
“So like ‘Twenty Questions’?”
“Would you prefer ‘Truth or Dare’?” teases Jack.
“I don’t know, this is your game,” retorts Alex, giving Barakat a small shove when they begin to float too close.
“Tell me why you first joined the band,” proposes the amateur psychoanalyst simply, his look firmly fixed at the ceiling.
Gaskarth lets out a heavy sigh, not saying anything. A single dripping sound echoes throughout the room, like a leaky faucet just begging for release. The stillness of such a wide expanse reminds the disc jockey of being young and thinking that if he dived deep enough into the blueness of his community pool that he would somehow end up in the blueness of the sky. It had all seemed so straight forward as it was impossible; to keep kicking against a current, slicing through big gaps of airless gravity. His lungs would begin to ache, his pulse battering through his mind, but all he could think about was reaching the bottom and coming out on top.
Then one day, it happened. He touched the bottom and found it to be as cool and hard as the rest of the world. There were no fluffy clouds or the smooth touch of a bird’s passing wing. The sun was all but snuffed out and the ensuing darkness latched on with a seaweed tight grip. He instantly pushed off again, his body free falling up to the surface of reality. The first breath he took was the last one to come easy.
“I needed a hobby,” admits Alex eventually. “I mean, I got a toy guitar at a really young age, but I never bothered really learning to play anything until I was about twelve.”
“And you, what?” questions Jack, “Found your gift?”
Gaskarth’s laughter sends out ripples in the water. “Fuck no,” he denies, “I was terrible. I only knew a few Green Day covers and it was an insult to Billie Joe to hear me play to be honest with you.”
“Then why continue? Why form a band?”
“Because it was fun,” insists Alex, a little petulant. “I mean, I was twelve and too young to do anything about the feelings I started having about girls, so I needed to keep busy after I quit swimming lessons.”
“See!” declares the amateur psychoanalyst, a little too triumphant. “I knew you could swim.”
“My instructor always used to say I had the right build for it,” confesses the specimen, “Long and I didn’t used to this thin.”
“So why’d you quit?”
“Cause was I wimp,” says Alex tiredly.
“What?” Jack chuckles.
“I couldn’t handle it; the pressure during competitions. I used to get really sick beforehand.”
“Getting nervous is natural though,” points out the university student. “You’ve seen me before a test.”
“I know,” admits the disc jockey, “But this was serious sickness; really bad cramps…borderline diarrhoea.”
“Oh.”
“Then one time-and this qualifies as ‘Truth or Dare’ because if you repeat this to anyone I swear to God I will kill you-it was for the finals, so it was me and about four others. I got so nervous when the local paper were interviewing us beforehand that I got sick; right there in front of everyone. I shit my pants when I was only wearing some stupid skimpy bikini bottom and had to run off with the camera rolling before it leaked down my legs.”
“That’s-” begins the amateur psychoanalyst, but he is unable to finish.
“Don’t say it, don’t say anything,” demands the patient, visibly blushing as he suddenly pushes off and sinks down into the water. His head disappears for multiple seconds, and just when the other begins to worry, he emerges again, even more red, but looking calmer.
“I-”
“I don’t want to hear it,” insists Gaskarth. “I don’t even know why I told you that. I’ve never told anyone about that…not that I needed to. It was all over the fucking papers the next day.”
“Now that’s really not fair,” comments Jack.
“It wasn’t explicit,” Alex assures him, “I was just a kid after all. They just mentioned something about competition jitters and delicate stomachs.
“Still, that enough to well, make any kid quit swimming.”
“I preferred diving anyways,” dismisses Alex, missing the smile that creeps along the darker haired man’s face. “But I was too young to enter the diving competitions and didn’t feel like waiting.”
“Well, it’s good then, that things worked out for you, huh?”
“It was good I met the guys by then,” concurs Gaskarth. “I wouldn’t have survived high school without them.”
“Were you nervous, when you started high school?” prompts Barakat.
“I didn’t shit myself,” the disc jockey informs him, “If that’s what you mean.”
“I didn’t think you had that weak of a stomach,” notes Jack, teasing again. “I mean, with the amount of alcohol you consume, I’ve never seen you get sick.”
“I’m too relaxed when I drink,” points out Alex, once again floating on his back. “But I used to get a lot of cramps as a kid.”
They soon end up side-by-side again, touching from shoulder to hip. His specimen feels cool and slick next to the amateur psychoanalyst’s skin and he cannot help but reach and run a finger down the side of the other’s ribs. Gaskarth shivers under his touch, but does not push away this time. His physique is too slim for a swimmer now. Though the sleekness should allow him to travel faster, his body is too weak to properly propel him through the water. Though he is walking again, it will take another few months before he can truly exert himself, and even months after that before he can be healthier than he has been in years.
“Thank you, for trusting me enough to tell me that,” clarifies Jack after long moments have passed.
Alex only shrugs. “You’ve seen just as bad from me now,” he points out. “Probably doesn’t surprise you that I’ve always been a bit of a mess.”
“You told me once,” recalls Jack, “Back on our first proper date, how you had a really normal home life and no real problems to justify your bad behaviour. But that sounds bad enough to effect anyone.”
“What? Loose bowels and supreme embarrassment? I guess. Still. I had it good; parents who weren’t divorced and never laid a hand on me no matter how mouthy I got. I always had food to eat and enough money to go out. They expected a lot from me of course, you met them, but looking back on it, it wasn’t bad, you know? My family cared about me, they wanted the best for me, they just didn’t always show it in a way I could handle.”
“So you still don’t want them around,” states the university student, remembering Alex’s utter joy when he informed him that his parents had gone back to his hometown.
“No, I don’t,” confirms the specimen in a steely voice. “I’m old enough to know that they meant the best, but that doesn’t mean everything they’ve done over the years was right. I understand them now, but they still don’t understand me. They probably never will.”
“Fair enough,” agrees Jack, thinking about Mr. Gaskarth and how he must have reacted to having a sissy son who suffered from cramps more frequently than a pubescent daughter would.
“What about you?” asks Alex. “You don’t really talk about your family.”
“They don’t really get me either,” confesses Jack, intentionally vague. “They’re pretty average people. They didn’t really know what to do with me growing up; didn’t really know what kind of toys to get me when I was doing puzzles and brain teasers far too advanced for my age.”
“But they were… involved?” prompts the disc jockey.
“They were around,” answers the darker haired man. “But there are only so many A+ report cards you can put up on the fridge before there isn’t any room left for appointment cards and shopping lists, you know? There only so many parent-teacher interviews you can go to before you get tired of hearing how smart your kid is, especially when none of it is due your own work. They used to sit down with me, hold up the flashcards when I learned my multiplication tables, but it didn’t take long. Nothing ever took long for me to figure out and pretty soon I knew more they did and it was clear I didn’t need them. And while it was handy to have me around in particular situations, I wasn’t exactly needed either.”
“I never considered that,” admits Alex, “I always just managed the average mark at school. I was jealous of all the smart kids, of course, but I guess there’s a lot of pressure that comes with that too. Like swimming, I guess.”
“Like swimming,” agrees Barakat, turning his body so that he can begin to do lazy butterfly strokes in the free half of the pool.
“Have you ever considered quitting then?” asks Gaskarth, speaking over the splashing.
The amateur psychoanalyst seems not to hear him, but when he reaches the opposite ledge he stops, lifting himself up and sitting down with only his knees underwater.
“All the time,” he declares, but does not say more than that. He simply sits, watching Alex go back and forth along the width of the pool. The specimen still has the proper form, ingrained in him from long hours of training until his hands were wrinkled and toes nothing but tiny prunes at the end of his feet. He had been a very dedicated swimmer, visiting to pool at least three times even on the coldest days of winter. He almost always smelled of chlorine, and his hair had begun to dry out and lighten. He had been prepared to cut it all off, anything to make him a few milliseconds faster. But then the incident had occurred and he let it grow long and dyed it all sorts of outrageous colours to remind people that he might not have been a star swimmer anymore but he was still there.
Eventually he tires himself out and joins Jack on the ledge. His chest is heaving heavily and his eyes are a little red from the chemicals. But he looks happy and relaxed and it has been a while since he has ever felt so revived.
“I can’t see you quitting school,” he comments, leaning his head on Barakat’s shoulder. “You like it too much, learning about stuff.”
“I do,” relents the amateur psychoanalyst, wrapping an arm around the other’s waist to bring them more firmly together. “It keeps me grounded, knowing there is always something new to learn about.”
“Swimming is the opposite for the me,” remarks Alex. “I don’t need to feel ‘grounded,’ I need something to make me feel… higher, lighter…weightless.”
“I can understand that….when you’re so bogged down with all these different sorts of expectations and social rules. It’s hard. Swimming is the probably the closest you can get to the sensation of flying and just leaving everything else behind.”
“Yeah…I mean. I know a lot of people who have phobias about swimming, because they’re scared they might drown. But-this is going to sound crazy, I know, my parents already think I have a death wish-drowning isn’t so bad either. Getting lost in something…I guess it’s the same thing with music with me. It’s when you’re listening to same song on repeat and you kind of forget about the lyrics or even the instrumental, and you just feel it. That’s when nothing else matters, no one can hurt you. It’s a good feeling.”
“Addictive, almost,” notes the amateur psychoanalyst, “Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” admits the patient with a heavy sigh. “It guess it can be qualified as a drug.”
“And when you mix that feeling with actual drugs?”
“It gets worse, obviously. But I was never a proper smoker you know,” argues Alex. “I told you, it was mostly for show. I couldn’t risk ruining my voice. And as for the alcohol…I obviously haven’t drank since the accident.”
“I wasn’t accusing you of anything,” Jack says softly.
“I know, I know,” amends Gaskarth, “You’re the one person who has never judged me, for any of it. That’s why I trust you.”
Barakat nods, unable to express how touched he is to hear that he has gained the other’s trust.
“Besides,” jokes the university student, “There are some that would argue that my coffee dependence isn’t all healthy either.”
“It’s not,” confirms the disc jockey. “But I like the way it makes you taste.”
The amateur psychoanalyst laughs at that. He leans down and gives his specimen a kiss, despite the fact they both equally taste like chlorine. The kiss takes but they soon decide to leave, their skin beginning to chill. They head back for the showers, this time opting to stand together underneath a single spray and helping each other scrub their respective backs.
“I finally get to return the favour,” remarks Gaskarth, letting his hand linger on Barakat’s back longer than necessary. He eyes the swell of the other’s backside and notes how soft the skin is in a place that is rarely touched.
The university student does not reply. They both know this is nothing like the times the darker haired man has helped bathe his patient. All those times had been economic and clinical, done with tenderness but no real sexual drive. This is different.
Yes, it is about washing away all the sharp chemicals and bringing forth the calming herbal scents of peppermint and rosemary. It is also about swiping suds under one’s nose to make an outrageously fluffy moustache and then dipping one’s fingers into hipbones until the other relents and shucks off his swim shorts entirely. This is about the way one’s eyelashes clump together when wet, making the other want to stop everything and separate each one by one with utmost care. This is about sculpting wet hair into funny shapes only to flatten it all out again and admire how it shines under the spray. But it is also the way the other’s skin feels extra smooth underneath crinkled fingertips and how body hair gets darker when wetter. It is about running one’s hands all over, and admiring every ridge and bump of muscle and bone. It is about reddened lips that seek one out through all the hazy steam of hot, hot water.
Everything is so fresh and warm, and as slick limbs intertwine it gets harder to breathe. Cheeks nuzzle and arms hook and pull. Legs side step one another and all it takes is one particular brush of members for all the water in the room to turn to fire. The heat increases by a tenfold, and despite the slowness and ease of their actions, they stand at attention. Simple strokes grow longer and rougher. Despite the water, there is a certain amount of friction with each slide, delicious in it’s roughness. It gets harder to keep going, but they are getting harder and there is no stopping it. Small grunts and crude curses sound louder in the wide tiled and otherwise empty room, but the fact anyone could walk in on them at any second just heightens the thrill. It has been so long since they have done anything like this that either doubts it will last long enough, but they grip one another all the more tightly.
Alex cannot help but look down at it all. Stare at the way they join and come apart, giving each other a brief sense of just how insanely bad they want one another. He relishes in that feeling, of inspiring desire in such a visceral way. The blood has no say in the way that it pools in one’s gut, but instead of cramping up in pain and embarrassment, he feels high and light, obnoxiously blissed out. He has to keep his mouth open just to keep breathing but immediately bites down on his lip when he feels a hand sneak around his waist and delve into in the crease of his ass. This is new for them, and with every inch lower down Gaskarth feels himself being pried open wider, more exposed than he has ever been. And yet, he likes it. It is a dirty act even as it cleans him thoroughly. Water snakes down the illicit path, chasing that lone finger that uses the slip of soap to its advantage. It does not get very far though, just passes that first ring of resistance before Gaskarth goes completely rigid. He hears distant moaning, completely alien to himself as there is a disconnect between his body and the pleasure, the pleasure, the pleasure, the that keeps coming in white hot streams, mixing with the shower water that has run cold by now.
The satiation is enough to make one lose their mind. He has not felt this limp, this empty of all weight in such a long time. He shakes in its aftermath, completely caught in the other’s arm less he fall to his knees. He can still feel the other’s persistent erection against his stomach, but all it takes is a needy moan at the loss of that damned finger for the other to lose it all too. Jack’s body may be stronger at this point but he too goes weak. He is more silent as he unloads, but Alex can feel the way the other’s heart is pounding madly. They stand there a moment longer, just holding one another as the fluids mix and wash away. The shower is freezing at this point, but they are too numb to properly feel it. Barakat seems to snap back first, remembering where they are and just what else could happen.
He tugs on his specimen, pulling him upright and leading his back to the change room. They towel off and dress quickly. By the time they are back in the car they are bundled up and warm again thanks to the heater. But the patient’s cheeks are abnormally pink and the amateur psychoanalyst cannot help but look away from the road for a second and check on him.
“You alright?” he asks tentatively. He knows he has pushed a new boundary tonight, but he thinks they had made a lot of progress together in the pool.
“What?” says the disc jockey, snapping back into reality. “Oh yeah, m’fine.”
“I lost you there for a second,” the university student remarks.
“Sorry, I just thinking.”
“About?”
“Different stuff. You included,” confesses Alex, blush increasing.
“Oh. Good things?” asks Jack, taking the other’s hand in his for moment as they wait at a red light.
“Good things,” his specimen confirms.
“Good.”
----
A/N: I just wanted to say hello to you precious patient people, and I’m sorry for how long it’s taken me with this chapter. Just as a heads up, chapter 14 will be the last 3-part chapter. Chapter 15 is just an epilogue for those of you who enjoy ‘where-are-they-now’ endings. The next part is going to be my favourite of all, because not only do we get a literary climax, we get a rated NC-17 type climax as well (yeah baby~!) You’ll finally know why this story is named after the concept of a Freudian slip and how Jack really feels about this whole thing.
So as excited am I for this, I am of course, absolutely terrified as I attempt to give you an ending you all deserve for being so very kind with me over the years. So I ask that you please comment with your questions/concerns about characters (Jack, Alex, Rian, Zack, Gabe, Eric, the mysterious Sam etc) or any particular step of the specimen’s treatment (the drinking, sex, sleep, medicine, etc).
If you’re reading this as I write it, you have the unique opportunity to contribute to the story and make sure it ends in a way that satisfies you-that’s not saying I’ll completely change the ending I have planned! But it’s a speak now or forever hold your peace kinda thing because if you’ve stuck with me this long we’re basically married and the honeymoon is fast approaching.
Notes:
1. The actual lyrics begin as “Andy I know,” and are taken from “Hammers and Strings (A Lullaby)” by Jack’s Mannequin. Gabe’s character intentionally manipulates the words to suit the moment.
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