The Freudian Slip (14/15) Part Three
Title: The Freudian Slip (14/15) Part Three
Author: Gess aka
live_by_lyrics
Pairing: Jack Barakat/Alex Gaskarth
P.O.V.: third person omniscient, (slightly limited to Jack Barakat)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: References to drug withdrawal, anal sex, and psychiatric help.
Summary: An amateur psychoanalyst becomes enamoured with his latest patient.
Disclaimer: This story and its author are in no way affiliated or representative of the band All Time Low, their crew, or Gabriel Saporta. This work is purely fiction, I don't own 'em. If you are any of the aforementioned people, I reccomend reading at your own risk.
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Step 6 of Treatment: Wean the specimen off his medication.
It is about a quarter past one in the morning but Jack is still up when his phone rings. The mobile is buried underneath a pile of books and he is in the middle of writing down a thought but he still manages to answer before it goes to voicemail. He does not have to look up from his notebook labeled with a bold number seven on the cover to know who it is. “Hey,” he says plainly, tone alert. He wedges the thin device between his ear and shoulder and continues to write as the voice on the other end asks whether he has woken him up.
“Nah, it’s fine,” he assures the voice, “I was just studying.” The other snorts, not at all surprised to hear this, and questions whether the university student has undergone his last mid-term yet. “I finish Friday,” Barakat reminds him, “Which means I probably won’t see you ‘til then.”
This piece of news is not as well received, and one can hear a tinny little whine from the phone. There are mentions of long nights with little sleep and how much better things would be if Jack just dropped out of his summer course and took up the study of cock-sucking instead. The amateur psychoanalyst chuckles at this, suddenly stopping his sentence and drawing an arrow to the margin of the page where he makes a note about how the lack of sleep has not effected his specimen’s libido.
“You’re only taking a quarter of your original dosage now, right?” he asks in regards to the other’s medication though he already knows the answer. The university student checked the appropriate medical records twice at the hospital when he was volunteering and supposed to be on his lunch break. He flips to the front cover of his notebook that features a miniature calendar. Particular dates have been circled and crossed out and the next one is this Wednesday, the date the patient stops all medicine completely. He counts down the days as he is told when the other’s next appointment is booked for.
“It’ll be okay,” the amateur psychoanalyst assures him. He flips the pages again; this time to page that has been marked with a bright yellow sticky note labeled ‘natural sleep remedies.’ “Have you tried turning down your thermostat? People fall asleep faster in a cold room.” He squints a little as he scans the list, trying to read his own writing when it is so cramped and messy. He has always had ‘doctor’ writing; that chicken scratch used to write out prescriptions long before he was qualified to diagnose anyone.
“What about warm milk?” he tries. He crosses this method off the list at the other’s reply. “Yes, I’m aware you’re not five years old, quit acting like it then! Do you want me to bring over some lavender oil next time? It’s really relaxing. You just need to add a drop or two onto your pillow…” He adds a star next to the point labeled ‘lavender’ and mentally notes to stop off at health and beauty shop before class tomorrow. “Um, as tempting as that sounds, I don’t think the oil will do you much good slathered on your backside.” He laughs aloud but tries to stay quiet for Gabe who is asleep in the next room.
“You know what else helps people fall asleep?” he whispers when the giggles subside. “Orgasms. When was the last time you got off, eh?” He adds a check mark to another point on the list before finally putting his pen down. He grips the phone properly and leans back in his chair to get more relaxed. “Now that’s a shame,” he drawls faking sympathy to match the staged whimpering on the other end of the line. He begins to fiddle with the hem of his sleep shirt. “What kind of boyfriend keeps his man hanging for so long? I think you should dump the guy.”
This causes a string of half-hearted protests about him being a nice guy and a little moan over the earrings he wears that are a whole new level of douche-baggery but somehow still manage to up the sexy factor. “But still,” protests Barakat as his free hand begins to wander down the waistband of his boxer shorts. “He’s not taking care of your needs. It’s not right.” There is a little grunt of agreement at this and the mobile screen is now smudged from the university student’s amplified breathing.
“You think?” he prompts, a smirk on his face though the other cannot see it. “You really think so? Cause I know what I would do if I were there with you right now…what am I wearing? It doesn’t matter, I’m taking it all off right now.”
*
“I’m so tired,” whines Gaskarth for the umpteenth time.
“You need to sleep,” Jack says, his tone more than a little exasperated.
“I can’t,” insists Alex just as fiercely, rubbing his face out of frustration. “How many fucking times do I have to tell you this before you get it?”
“You’re going to keep saying it until it isn’t true anymore,” retorts Barakat, “You can’t stay awake forever.”
“You don’t know that,” warns the disc jockey sitting up from where they have been lying in bed for the past few hours. “I’m used to running on little sleep.”
The amateur psychoanalyst sighs heavily, trying to gather what is left of his patience. He checks his phone, noting it is now almost 4am before turning back to his specimen. “It’s been thirty-seven hours since you’ve last slept. Now the record for longest time without sleep is 264 hours but most people can only last up to about ninety-six. So technically you’re not even at the halfway point yet. You’ll eventually have to sleep or you will die, Alex.”
“Then maybe I’ll die first,” snaps Gaskarth, his irritability increasing with every passing minute. “That way I can sleep forever.”
“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” Jack answers dryly. He flings back the sheets and sits up too, leaning his head against the other’s shoulder. “I’d miss you.”
The disc jockey’s body tenses at the touch before relaxing at the darker haired man’s soft words. “I don’t want it to come to that,” he admits, “But I really can’t sleep Jack. I know it’s the withdrawal from the meds…there’s a reason the doctor won’t let me take them long term but what if I just took-”
“No, no more.” denies the university student firmly. “And don’t even think about replacing one drug for another. You aren’t allowed any sleep medicine, not even cough medicine. The whole point of this is to teach your body to relax naturally. You don’t need another dependency.”
“My body is relaxed. I’m worn out and loose from swimming and for once I’m not hungry, but my brain just won’t stop buzzing. I can’t concentrate on… anything anymore. Everything is one big blur! I can’t even tell how much time has passed since I’ve slept and if I try too hard to think about it I feel like I’m going to start crying and I would never even admit that aloud if I wasn’t so tired, I just-”
“Need sleep,” finishes Barakat. “I know. And I’m sorry I can’t do more for you Alex, but this needs to happen. I just want what’s best for you, you know that.”
“Yeah,” sighs Gaskarth. Usually he would argue how his well-being is not of anyone else’s concern but his own, but he is too tired to argue. He lays his head over Jack’s, breathing in the other’s warm presence. He should be thankful Barakat has volunteered to spend the night-early morning-with him. But instead they have been sniping at one another since midnight.
“I’m sorry,” he admits quietly, whispering it into the university student’s nest of bed head hair because he knows how tired Barakat’s eyes must look after long nights of study for today’s mid-term and he just cannot face them right now. “I know you’re cranky too, there’s no point in both of us losing sleep. Take a nap. I’ll go watch TV or something.”
“I could take the sofa,” volunteers Jack as the other untangles himself from the sheets, “You need stay in bed if you want to sleep.”
The disc jockey grabs an oversized sweater from the floor and shakes his head. “I’m not going to sleep Jack,” he says simply.
He expects the university student to argue again. Remind him about the sleep he needs to get and the health he needs to maintain. But Barakat surprises him yet again by relenting. Maybe he finally heard the weariness in Alex’s voice, the way his words cracked on the word ‘sleep’ because the idea of it is too good to be true for him tonight. Regardless the darker haired man merely lies back on the bed, arm curling underneath his pillow while he drags the pillow Gaskarth was resting on to his chest.
“I’ll try again later,” promises the patient, pulling the sheets more tightly against his boyfriend. He presses a light kiss to the younger man’s forehead, ignoring the domesticity of the moment and how it makes his already strained heart clench.
He makes his way downstairs, meandering around his kitchen even though he really is not hungry. He is tempted to make himself a coffee, because if he is going to be awake he may as well be alert, but he knows it will not help him out in the long run. Jack has brought over some chamomile tea along with the lavender oil but he is not interested in either of the sweet flowery scents. He craves something bitter and sharp that will clear away the hazy fog in his mind. He opens up cupboards at random, seeing if anything will spark his appetite. He holds the fridge door open for so long the little light goes off and he shuts it with a little a more force than necessary. Nothing. There is nothing that is going to soothe his nerves when he is this high-strung.
That is when his fingers skim the glass of his liquor cabinet.
It has been over six months since he last touched the compartment and it almost surprises Gaskarth to see the few bottles still in there from Christmas. Though he and Rian are doing better, the disc jockey does not really visit the bar at ‘The Party Scene’ anymore. Whenever Jack and him go out to eat it has become an unspoken agreement that they both order water or coffee. It is not that Alex has been consciously avoiding alcohol--how can he when he works in a venue of drunk people? But he has not really thought about drinking. Technically he has not been allowed to consume any alcohol while on his medication, so it was never an option. But now he has not had any medication in his system for days so there is no risk of any side effects.
He could drink.
Just a glass.
Or two.
Alcohol has always helped him sleep, he considers as he lets his fingers linger on the cupboard handle. But it has also got him into a lot of trouble. He is willing to admit that to himself now. Using alcohol for both high and low points in his life has done little to create any sort of stability. While it may be liquid courage, it also distorts logical thinking and so not everything one does under the influence can be considered valiant. Everyone seems to think that alcohol exposes the great truths hidden within, and forget how it also exposes one’s demons, lets loose the most primal of desires no matter how fleeting. One moment there is simple thirst and in another there is hunger, completely carnal and unfounded. One second there is the impulse to get home, and in another one finds oneself racing down an icy roadway with no thought for anyone’s safety, especially one’s own.
Desire, it seems, is only deemed safe outside of the realm of temptation. Because once something is tempting, it becomes teasing and eventually testing. And this is definitely a test. It is a test of willpower and a fight against an addiction Alex never really knew he had. Because sure, he has always yearned for something, whether it was money or fame, lust and maybe just acceptance. But alcohol was his comfort and his crutch through the loss of each one of those things. In losing them, he tried to convince himself he did not need anybody’s trust or somebody else’s money. The only thing that mattered was that his immediate needs; food, sleep and sex, were satisfied. He was thriving in his deprivation. Or so he thought.
Because maybe it was not so much deprivation, his lack of material benefits, but depravity. His utter lack of responsibility and obligation to anyone beyond himself has left Alex with no sense of what is right and wrong. And no, he is not just thinking about God and the words of men in power, but the fundamental innate sense of what should be done. He is not thinking about no sex before marriage, or marriage between the same sex, but about love and joy and how those ideals cannot come to fruition when one is not being honest. He thinks about trying to help, and how that always seemed to come second to avoiding getting himself hurt. Because wasn’t love supposed to make you a better person? Maybe he does not know what love is at all.
He lets go of the cupboard handle.
And grabs himself a clean glass.
It would be easier to argue that he does not know what love is because nobody has ever loved him, but that would be a lie. And if he is going to try this whole honesty thing with himself, he cannot go back to the old stories he used to spin for himself where a fifteen-year-old Alexander Gaskarth was convinced that if his parents truly loved him they would simply back off and let him do as he pleased. He can try and tell himself that his friends have not loved him either, that a friend who loves you is not going to try and beat your head in. But he knows that Rian would have done the same thing to Sam had the situation been reversed and that the four of them had cared so strongly about one another that they were willing do unspeakable things, and in Zack’s case, never speak about what they knew to anyone else.
So, he does know what love is. And he still wants to think that he loved Sam otherwise he would not have tried so hard to keep Hertz feeling happy and cared for. Because sure, keeping the blond happy meant kept keeping the band together and staying successful, but Sam’s departure did not necessarily have to signal the end, right? Gaskarth thinks about the CDs Gabe gave him, and how well ‘Panic! at the Disco’ has managed after their band split. He wonders if they could have kept going without their guitarist. Whether their sound would change or continue to sound ‘like them.’ He does not think he will ever know because for him, losing his friend had meant losing music. Losing his friend meant losing hope and solace, it meant being drained of all energy and light. Everything that music had represented was embodied in their friendship.
He goes back to the fridge and grabs a carton of juice.
But now he has begun to rediscover those feelings without having to be in a band, sing songs or even pick a guitar for over a year. He has found someone who can do the things music can do, inspire him to feel the way music makes him feel, and what do you know? Turns out they are pretty good at the piano too.
He fills it halfway then adds vodka.
He finally settles down in the living room, noting that the earliest of the sun’s rays have begun to peek through his curtains. All the tiredness seeps into his body the moment he stretches out on the couch. The leather is cool against his bare legs but he is still warm from his sweater and it is the perfect balance for someone who has always been anything but stable. His glass sits in front of him on the coffee table after a single sip is taken. The bitter juice feels good on his tongue but is too cool at the moment. He opts for turning on the television, but soon puts it on mute. His eyes are too strained from lack of sleep to focus on the screen so they wander and eventually land on the shadows on the blank opposing wall. They flicker and dance as he struggles to keep his eyes open. The darkness slowly shrinks away as the sun gets higher and the little that is left of Alex’s conscious thinking notes that there is something poetic about that. Maybe he can write it into his next song.
For now, he sleeps.
*
The next time he wakes things do not get any better. Sleep is rare and sometimes riddled with violent nightmares that leave Alex waking up with his heart jammed up his throat. But he almost prefers that to his time spent awake. For the most part is he simply dazed and drowsy, but he also undergoes intense periods of paranoia and irrational despair. No matter where he looks he swears he sees dark shadows flitting around in the corners of his vision. Any material that manages to brush against him without his awareness-a curtain in the wind, the edge of a discarded washcloth, a drop of water from his glass-marks him, burns him, leaves an uncontrollable itch that he scratches at until one burning sensation overpowers another.
He then immediately frets over the marks he leaves on himself, he stares as fingernails track thin white lines that immediately turn into familiar red trenches. The hairs on his body stand on end, like miniature soldiers ready to leap into said trenches. His whole body seems to be at war with itself, and his mind is the captain gone rogue. He finds himself constantly obsessing over things, worrying and contemplating, imagining a hundred different battle scenarios that are more than just unlikely to ever happen. He tries reining the thoughts in, but they march steadily through his mind at a beat much steadier than his pulse. Sometimes they are far off whispers, but other times they yell like his father and crash through the ever-present fog.
He tries his best to drown out the white noise; the television is unmuted and constantly on, only to be muffled by the earphones to his iPod. But his old favourite songs only play more tricks on his mind, and he finds himself constantly yanking the earphones off because he is sure, so fucking sure, that someone has just called out his name, or that the phone is ringing even when it never really is. When one of his friends do try to contact him he shies away, knowing that is it wrong to retreat, that his self-isolation was what ruined them all in the past, but it becomes just another rampant thought for him to obsess over as he tosses and turns in his sheets.
Even without sleep he tries to continue his routine as best as he can, but swimming gets harder when the smell of chlorine alone is enough to make his bowels shift. Not that there is any real sustenance in them when his experimental cooking all begins smelling like the beef stew his mother makes. He unknowingly plays the same song four times in a row before Zack and Rian send him home from ‘The Party Scene.’ They too grow worried, repeatedly offering for him to move back in with them to no avail. Jack is surprisingly less obtrusive, but the university student begins to call every day, casually wanting to know how Alex’s day goes when all he can say is that is feels just as long as yesterday. The long days drag into weeks and it only in August, at the two-month mark, that the darkness recedes into the night when he eyes have already closed.
After that he has his good days and bad days, and the doctor reassures him this is normal. That he will probably always be a little high-strung, that it will take that little extra to relax, but so long as he is not self-medicating he should be fine. The disc jockey is initially angry at the news, demanding to know why he was given medication in the first place if it was going to have lasting effects on his body.
“This isn’t because of the medication,” the blond contradicts, putting down his clipboard to look Gaskarth in the eye. The patient cannot help but notice how tired the other looks as well, and feel a little embarrassed for having complained so much. “This is because of your anxiety.”
“I don’t have any lasting trauma from the accident,” insists Alex. “That wasn’t even my first accident!”
“I’m aware,” admits the doctor wryly. “But from my understanding these incidents of yours were related to anxiety issues you were already exhibiting. I mentioned when you first started treatment that General Anxiety Disorder---”
“Disorder?” prompts Gaskarth, “I knew my happy hormones were off and I was bleeding pure adrenaline but you never said I had an actual disease.”
“That is because it is not a disease in the traditional sense,” argues the medical professional. “And I am quite sure I discussed with you the exact reasoning for putting you on medication, Mr. Gaskarth, that is standard policy.”
“I-I, uhm,” stammers the disc jockey, because in truth he does not remember. He remembers the appointment when he got the prescription but the prognosis is a little hazy. He had been staring at his doctor, in particular the other man’s hair, and admiring the shine of that bright blond.
Almost as if reading his patient’s thoughts, the doctor reaches up and runs a hand through his aforementioned hair. It immediately lies flat again, nothing like the wispy tendrils Alex is familiar with and it snaps him back into attention.
“Sorry,” he ends up saying sheepishly. “I wasn’t…I mean obviously, I had a lot of things on my mind at the time. I don’t think I fully understood…”
The medical professional nods, a pinched frown marring his handsome features. He turns around and begins riffling through the drawers of a nearby desk. He pulls out several colourful pamphlets before settling on a light blue one that he hands over. The acronym ‘GAD’ is in big bold letters at the top and it features a photo of a harried looking man not unlike Alex.
“This will give you a general description of GAD,” he explains, “You’ll probably recognize the symptoms you’ve been dealing with, some of them you may have not even realized were even considered symptoms. If you want more information you I’m assuming you know how to find it online, but from my experience most people with anxiety don’t like over-analyzing their own anxiety.”
Gaskarth accepts the guide wordlessly, immediately folding it in two and stuffing it into his back pocket.
“If you find yourself….struggling with this, I could look into some other forms of treatment,” the doctor offers gently, “Some people really benefit from support groups…people who understand what you’re going through.”
“No,” answers Alex sharply, wincing at his own tone. “Thank you,” he amends, “But no. I don’t exactly do well around other tense people,” he admits, failing to add that one of his childhood friends is one of the most intense people he has ever met.
“Fair enough,” agrees the blond, clapping his hands together in effort to not reach out and touch his patient. He does not want to break any sort of code of conduct, but Alexander Gaskarth looks so sad and maybe a conciliatory pat on the shoulder would do him some good.
“That everything then?” the patient prompts after an awkward beat. He thanks the medical professional again, eyeing once again the darkness under the doctor’s eyes. He recalls his earlier talk with Jack, about how ‘normal-everyday-things’ gave people anxiety and considers what it would be like to be in a medical profession.
It would mean helping and healing people in a way that music cannot. Physical evidence that one is saving lives, a high and steady income, and universal recognition of someone of great intelligence and dedication. In that moment he recognizes why Jack wants to be a doctor of psychology, why society encourages stereotypical careers like a firefighter or a police officer. It may be cookie-cutter in its convention, and wholly underappreciated, but it makes a difference and requires sacrifice. It is a different type of sacrifice than a musician’s, years of schooling and very literal blood on one’s hands, but perhaps both are just as great. The disc jockey briefly wonders if he could ever be one, standing there in a white lab coat that may have a few coffee stains on it, and if that would mean he would not eventually end as the ill patient.
A song interrupts their goodbyes, it seems one of the other patients’ phones have gone off in the hall. The doctor’s features perk up as he recognizes the ringtone’s tune. He offers Gaskarth one last smile, wide and strained, but it is the blaze of his eyes overhanging the shadows that comforts Alex more than anything.
*
“What’s this?” asks Jack later that night. They have been lying in bed idly making out when Barakat decides to make a move for Alex’s clothes. The blue pamphlet slips out of the patient’s pant pocket and the university student picks it up.
“Nothing,” denies Gaskarth, more interested in continuing to kiss and bite at the other’s collar. “Doctor gave it to me as a goodbye present I guess. It was my last appointment today.”
The specimen’s lips buzz from the vibrations of Barakat’s seemingly disinterested hum. Jack sets the pamphlet down on a near by side table and continues with his earlier ministrations. The jeans do not come off as easy as they used to, and when one of his fingers get caught in the denim the disc jockey cannot help but let out a distressed whine. Gaskarth pulls away, unceremoniously yanks the other’s hand out and shimmies out of the pants himself. He can feel his cheeks burning from embarrassment, and after he throws the offending article of clothing across the room, he hesitates to turn back to his boyfriend.
The university student senses the hesitation and as soon as all his own clothes are off he pulls a naked Alex over top of him, cradling him in the sharp jut of his hips. His hands rub up and down the other’s thighs, the tips of his fingers only just grazing the disc jockey’s backside.
“Time for new pants,” he says lightly, the fan of his eyelashes obscuring his eyes and thus his intentions.
“More like time for me to hit the gym,” scoffs Gaskarth, eyeing the way his thighs sit flat against the darker haired man. They are definitely larger; he is probably larger than he has ever been.
“Mmm, I think you’re alright like this.”
“You don’t think I’m fat?” he prompts, intending to sound playful but failing.
“Alex-”
“No, wait, I know,” the specimen continues, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice now. He knows all the appropriate lines; he had tried them all on Sam to no avail. “You like me no matter what. It’s what’s inside that counts. More to love. More cushion for the pushin’-”
“God, you’re obnoxious,” Jack interrupts, squeezing his patient’s thighs so the evident muscle ripples. “You think you were really attractive when I first met you? Alex, you used to look like a fucking crack addict.”
Gaskarth swats at Barakat’s hands but this time does not pull away. “Anybody ever tell you how much of a charmer you are?” he asks sardonically.
“So skinny, skinnier than me and I didn’t even know that was possible. And you were covered in bruises and look liked you hadn’t slept in a week…”
“Such a way with words…”
“And ugh, the way you smelled, God, you were sweating straight whiskey…”
“Don’t even try to deny that’s not your type,” taunts Alex, “Don’t even try, when we have seen ‘Trainspotting’ a good seven times now, and Renton still gets your panties in a twist.”
Jack has the good grace to look up at him then, sheepish but sweet as he his hands slide to the disc jockey’s backside and squeeze.
“Did your dick just twitch?” demands the disc jockey, unable to decide if he should be outraged or amused. He wiggles in his spot over the other’s crotch, definitely registering a hardening length.
“No,” denies the university student, unable to hide a grin blooming on his lips. “No, stop,” he insists, linking their fingers together when the specimen begins to reach behind him for Jack’s cock. “Seriously though, Alex, you’ve come a long way this past year, and it shows. You should be proud of that. If you’re thighs are thicker it’s because you’ve grown sturdy legs to stand on.”
“It’s almost been a year now, hasn’t it?” Gaskarth asks himself.
He has not really registered how time has passed. His life has always been divided between his childhood in his hometown waiting to make it big and his life here as a dried up rock star. But maybe now he can just think of himself as a disc jockey with good friends and a handsome boyfriend. He recalls ‘The Party Scene’s’ grand opening last September-- what he can remember of it anyway--and realizes just how much they will all have to celebrate on it’s upcoming anniversary.
“Doesn’t feel like it, does it?” muses the amateur psychoanalyst.
“No, it does,” notes the specimen, with a wry smile. “It didn’t until just now but…I feel it. It’s a good feeling.”
“I can tell,” Jack notes, raising his brows and gesturing to Alex’s own growing erection.
Gaskarth snorts. “Funny and charming,” he drawls, “Don’t know what I ever did to deserve a guy like you.” He rolls his hips in time with his words, managing to actually sound playful this time, but it still is not enough for Barakat.
“S’not about keeping score,” the university student argues, “It’s about finding what you need.”
“And I needed you?” asks the patient. He looks off to the side and his eyes land on the blue pamphlet and narrow.
“Almost as badly as I needed you,” relays Jack, and of all the deliberate misinterpretations he has allowed during his experiment, this one is the most true.
Alex ignores the confession. “You knew,” he concludes, still not looking at Jack because he does not need the confirmation. He is dating a psychology major.
“I had an idea,” admits the amateur psychoanalyst.
“You decided not to say anything,” assumes the disc jockey.
“I didn’t think it was my place,” lies Barakat. I didn’t think you’d listen.
“I probably wouldn’t have listened,” notes Alex. “Flyzik suggested it a couple of times, to go see a doctor, when he noticed I couldn’t sleep. Never listened.”
“Do you wish I’d done more for you?” Jack dares to ask.
It is only then Alex bothers to look back. His brow twists in confusion. “What kind of question is that?” he demands, unlacing their fingers but leaving them to rest on the other’s chest. “I know you wanna be a doctor Jack, but you’re just a student. You aren’t obligated to do shit-all.”
“But what if-”
“I wouldn’t have accepted your help,” cuts off Gaskarth unknowingly giving Jack the benediction he needs. “I know I never went to uni, but I’m not stupid enough to know how much you’ve done for me. You forced me to act normally and never acted like the shit I did was abnormal. That’s enough. More than enough. I’m just sorry I’ll never be completely normal.”
He leans over then, almost dislodging himself from the other’s lap to pick up the guide on GAD. He flips it open, eyes scanning through words he has read a good five times before Jack arrived. He finds the paragraph on recovery and lets the university student read it for himself.
“It is expected that most patients with Generalized Anxiety Disorder eventually discontinue their daily medication and return to leading normal lives. They are fully capable of taking on a job and social relationships without exhibiting old symptoms. But it should be noted that those with GAD can never be completely cured of excess anxiety. It is natural for the body to react with feelings of anxiety and distress in stressful situations and so patients will also experience those feelings again and may be more sensitive to said feelings because of past experiences with anxiety attacks. Being aware of what they are experiencing and knowing that these feelings pass help patients move on from these moments. The more time that passes the less these moments likely to occur.”
“I don’t think I’m going to get any better than this,” the disc jockey whispers, almost like it is a secret, or a warning.
“I don’t expect you to,” the amateur psychoanalyst replies. The words themselves sound like an insult but the sincerity of his tone assures the other they are not meant to be. He reflects on Alex’s previous words, and how they still leave a warm feeling in his chest even after the other’s hands have begun to wander further downward. “This is enough. You’re enough.”
As if to reaffirm their words, or maybe just because of them, their kissing and teasing soon grows serious. They take turns rolling the other onto their back and lathering them up in kisses and bites. Soon each of their respective sets of nipples peak and every inch of their chests are covered in lip prints. But Jack does not stop as he meets the sparse hairs of Alex’s abdomen and continues downward, enjoying the subtle tickling against his cheeks as his specimen squirms in anticipation. He can feel a hardening pressure against his own stomach and takes care to roughly drag his body even lower. Nimble fingers massage shaky legs until the other is laid out like the world’s most appealing welcome mat ready to bring him home.
Which is exactly what he wants as something deep inside Barakat aches for the familiar vee of Alex’s groin. The university student inhales deeply, clearing his throat and gathering spit in his mouth as he preps for the most satisfying of swallows. He tightens the pressure of his mouth as much as he can, drawing in his cheeks and lips. He is aware of how ridiculous he must look and yet does not care one bit when he feels the increasing thrum of blood and lust pump through the underlying vein of his specimen’s cock. His own pulse jumps in excitement. There is a certain kind of power in knowing how to incite a partner’s pleasure, and it brings forth satisfaction that only increases Jack’s own pleasure. Alex blindly gropes around the university student’s shoulders and neck, frantic fingertips trying to push Barakat away and closer at the same time. They tease at the short hairs at the nape of the university student’s neck and curl around long blond tufts but never find any real purchase.
Gaskarth is far too gone for that, as his hips undulate sharp and quick, but then slow and stuttering. His whole body seems confused, acutely aware of how good it feels but unsure if it should ask for more lest his senses override themselves completely and he loses all feeling. Despite the confliction, he cannot control the way his mouth runs, nonsensical as he asks for Jack and that he never stop. The specimen’s muscles cannot help but tighten, his gut burning like it always does, but instead of being gripped tight in anxiety he is being wound tight before his release.
Or not quite, seeing as his balls are laved up with a slick tongue and then squeezed by warm hands. The patient does not register how tightly he has his eyes closed until he opens them, blinking back inner stardust and incredulity at the fact that Barakat seems to have pulled off. The amateur psychoanalyst leaves him tall and leaking, coated in spit and pre-come only distinguishable by its thickness. Alex chokes on his own spit, as he struggles for words that do not sound too offensive or commanding when all he can think is fuckfuckfuck. The amateur psychoanalyst seems to understand him well enough, as he places a pitying kiss on the tip, ever the tease as he nips at the slit.
“I know you want to come,” he concedes, his voice beyond wrecked. The gravely sound should make Gaskarth guilty, make him more willing to take a break, but the rough purr only provokes him further. “But I want to try something first.”
Alex nods, a little wary. He is willing to admit their sex life has been a little vanilla, but there are still people out there who think that two men together is extreme in itself. He sits up on his elbows, surveying the room as if he expects Jack to suddenly pull out whips and chains, maybe a nurse’s outfit, or even a third party he has got hidden under the bed because this is his boyfriend after all. But none of that seems to appear, instead the university student rolls to his side and opens the drawer of Alex’s night side table to pull out the homeowner’s bottle of lubricant. Gaskarth is tempted to ask how the other knew it was there but he is more curious as to what they plan on doing with it.
It is not like they have never greased things up before, whether with soap in the shower or lotion. The disc jockey cannot help but think about their shared showers after swimming and the way Jack’s slim fingers have taken to skimming the upper crease of his ass. It has remained unspoken between that said fingers are to never press in too deep. Hell, Alex has never even dared brush Jack’s perineum. It is not that he thinks the act is too dirty or would be unwelcome, it is just more… intimate.
Do not get him wrong; Alex Gaskarth is not naïve. He is well aware of the merits of anal stimulation, of rimming and fisting and stretchingstretchingstretching until one needs a plug to hold it all in. And yeah, he has gotten curious, because what guy does not get a little curious when he learns there is some gland under their bladder that will give off the same little sparks that the need to pee does but magnified by a million? But curiosity does not automatically lend itself to action.
It is not like he is scared, exactly. Well yes he is, because he knows that those actions tend to hurt, and Alex does not have the best track record when it comes to not hurting people. He is a master of it really; the disappointment and exploitation of his loved ones. And while he may not have always been aware of the way he abused people’s love and talent, he is now aware of the lasting consequences of those actions and does not want to ever have to deal with them again. He knows he himself can take the pain, but has grown used to avoiding feeling any, emotional or otherwise. So when Jack begins to liberally coat his fingers in lubricant Gaskarth cannot help but tense. The amateur psychoanalyst notices immediately, swiping a bit of the sticky substance to rub against Alex’s dick. The liquid is cool against the specimen’s shaft, but the motion is warm and reassuring.
The specimen wonders if Barakat is just going to use the stuff to ease the friction between their two bodies but has to quell that notion when Jack stops all motions to sit back on his heels. The university student continues to rub the lubricant between his fingers, unconcerned with the squelching sounds they make. “W-what do you wanna try?” the disc jockey asks finally, unable to look away from the hand encircling his cock in fear of knowing where the other hand has wandered.
But even without looking he can gage the exact moment Jack’s finger breaches his own rim. There is a startled gasp, almost as if Barakat was somehow unaware of exactly what he was doing to himself, but it is soon followed by a relaxed moan. “Y-you don’t have to.” The darker haired man’s breathing is rougher as he rocks down on his own hand. “But I think it’d be nice for both of us, to have you, inside of me.”
“Inside?” repeats Alex, looking strictly at the university student’s face. It is flushed and sweaty but does not to seem to be in any pain.
“I can take it,” the other assures him with a pointed thrust of his hips. “I’ve done it before.”
“Oh?” prompts the disc jockey. Their respective sex histories are not something they have talked about much but he had assumed that as the older one he was the more experienced.
“It feels good,” reports the amateur psychoanalyst because of course homosexual relationships were a part of his initial research once he entered university. He has been in both the give and take and they are equally satisfying for him. “So good.”
“Yeah?” Gaskarth prods, eyeing a drop of sweat that clings to the edge of the other’s temple like his dwindling sanity. The university student shifts his hips sharply and it slips away. “Cause I heard it hurts.”
“Not if you do right,” negates Jack, stopping his movements despite his obvious pleasure. “The key is to relax. You need to be able trust the other person.”
Alex nods. He cannot help but feel a little guilty that Barakat has stopped. “I trust you,” he confirms.
“Do you want to try then?” the amateur psychoanalyst asks because consent is truly the most important part of any sex act.
“Yes,” his specimen replies, voice steady because for all that the disc jockey may be nervous he has enough faith in the other to know it will be alright whether they manage the deed or not.
Not much more needs to be said as Jack nudges Gaskarth to lay back. Alex can feel some of the lubricant slip out from where it has been applied on Barakat’s backside and the way the university student’s cock is not entirely hard but does not let either sensation discourage him. Especially not when the university student is now the one straddling his hips and pressing sweet kisses down the side of his neck. The specimen lets himself enjoy, comforted by familiar lips that are more than a little puffy at this point, but lovely in their warmth.
He grounds himself in the moment by breathing in heavily, taking in the recognizable smell of his boyfriend-his gasoline cologne and summer sweat-not minding where the other has gone clammy and dank as they rut up against one another. He nips at the university student’s ear, getting a taste of warm salt and cool metal, but his palette is soon cleaned by Jack’s coffee drowned tongue. Finally when a piece of stringy hair gets caught in his mouth, Alex decides they should just make an ice cream flavor named ‘Jack Barakat’ because he is one of the best things Gaskarth has ever felt, smelt and tasted. He cannot help but assume that the darker haired man feels the same what with the way the other seems to devour him whole. The disc jockey listens for the harmony of their combined whines and grunts, a saccharine love song of lewd noises. He wants more of this.
But first, more prepping needs to be done. Jack sits on his knees, and after a lot more lube, manages to fit three of his pianist fingers inside of himself. He claims to be ready but insists that Alex try a finger of his own first. The disc jockey hesitates, unsure of what to do or say as his stomach begins to twist and flip. For a second he worries he is going to get sick again. Ingrained lessons tell Gaskarth not to reach out and touch unknown places, but Barakat’s body has long become an extension of his own. Even if they have never properly joined as one, he already has gaping hole where only Jack fits. A hole in his mind that causes him to think of Barakat whenever he is not around. A hole in his heart that causes his blood to pump wildly when he is. While the disc jockey’s only other encounter with anal sex had felt like a moon landing-a giant leap with not enough gravity to hold him steady-this moment turns out to be is as natural and fluid as diving into a pool. As soon as he gets knuckle deep in that overwhelmingly wet heat he knows it will okay.
The whole thing plays out with the beauty and dizziness of a summer storm. The August heat gets unbearable as Barakat pulls away to get a condom. Breathing is impossible when the air is thick with tension and there is a definite crackle akin to thunder and lightning, as the shiny wrapper is ripped open. The university student’s eyes are dark clouds of desire as he takes his patient in hand to roll on the rubber coat latex. And when he finally rises and settles, each inch so slow, so secure; Jack makes it so easy that Alex realizes it isn’t like diving into pool, but jumping into a puddle before it starts raining in earnest. Though the amateur psychoanalyst hesitates at one point, thighs quaking, bottoming out brings on a sudden downpour. It is a downpour of pressure, of awareness, of absolute finality.
They have done it. The realization hits Alex hard, and the simultaneous relief and stimulation is almost too much. Gaskarth cannot fight the bubble of hysteria gathering in his chest and despite his best intentions he ends up laughing. Jack immediately looks up, eyebrows creased but not in anger, only curiosity. He does not ask what is so funny and Alex assumes the other must know he has no answer. It is just that there is so much happiness brimming within him that he needs to let out somehow. So he laughs. He laughs at himself, and for himself, and he ignores the ways his eyes have begun to sting with tears because even with all his awareness, he cannot control anything. It is insane, when he thinks how many times he has had sex, and how many times he managed to perform while under a haze of drunken lust and it is only now, now that he is sober and terrified that he feels this sort of satisfaction. For fuck’s sake he hasn’t even orgasmed yet, but the second Barakat decides to start moving he knows he is done for.
Spurred on by the other’s giddy laughter, the amateur psychoanalyst knows he can really relax and enjoy himself. There is always a little bit of wariness that comes with engaging in intercourse with those specimens that clearly have particular sex hang-ups. Jack has been witness to some of the most spectacular of break downs the second some guy gets his dick wet, the way a girl can completely seize up even as her body shudders into completion. It is astounding really, how the body and mind can disconnect in the throes of pleasure. But it is beyond refreshing to look up in Alex’s eyes, even if the pupils have blown wide with desperation, and see how alert and aware he is. His specimen is completely present in this moment and judging by the way his giggles make way for growling, he is wanting.
Even as their respective nerves settle, the adrenaline is still pumping and they soon go at each other with everything they have in them. The slick slide of their sex becomes a sloppy smack and Alex can feel the way their respective balls shiver and how his toes are curling too early. He is really sweating now, heart pumping madly, but he lifts his hips to meet Jack’s. He lets the university student find an anchor in his sides, and tries his best to maintain eye contact even when it becomes too much.
The picture the darker haired man makes in front of him, on top of him fuck, is borderline obscene. His black-blonde hair is matted down and the disc jockey cannot help but reach out to push it back. Barakat’s abused lips curl in content at the feeling, and his thick lashes flicker as his eyes try to come back into focus. His skinny chest is heaving, and the hum of arousal that comes purring out reminds Gaskarth of a car revving its engine right before it speeds off. In that same way, the university student suddenly increases the pace and it leaves Alex a pathetic mess of whimpering and ah ah ah. All he can do is occasionally shift his angle, twisting and testing until he finds the sweet spot that actually causes Jack to pause and clench.
And just like that their roles reverse. It does not matter who is teaching who, who is penetrating who, or even who is on top and who is on bottom, because neither man is dominating the other. They both submit to their own pleasure, relinquishing control and willingly giving their body to the other. Alex uses his lasting brain cells to process that this what the university student looks like when he is really and truly gone before he himself is blissed out. Alex point blank cannot remember exactly when his mind whites out, somewhere between Jack calling out his name before he comes, and everything getting impossibly faster, hotter, tighter. Then there is nothing but release, every muscle in their bodies straining one last time before completely loosening. He gasps and keens and yes, there, that’s it.
*------------
Take a second, breathe, okay, now continue here.