The Freudian Slip (15/15) Part One (The End)
Title: The Freudian Slip (15/15) Part One (The End)
Author: Gess aka
live_by_lyrics
Pairing: Jack Barakat/Alex Gaskarth
P.O.V.: third person omniscient, (slightly limited to Jack Barakat)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: References to homophobic slurs, sex and (abusive) 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.
Masterlist | Tumblr
Step 7 of Treatment: Cut all ties with the patient.
“Left or right?” prompts Rian as he and Zack make their way through the next exhibit. The local museum is unusually packed this Sunday morning, but Merrick really wanted to see the new display on the history of the Canon camera. He had invited both Rian and Alex along, but Gaskarth had suspiciously claimed to feel ill all of the sudden, coughing uproariously while managing to elbow the tender repeatedly in the ribs.
“Uhm, left I think,” decides Merrick, looking down at the map they were handed at the entrance. The tender is pretty sure the other man is holding it upside down.
“Alright,” he agrees regardless, already resigned to the fact he is probably going to end up spending the entire day in the museum. He makes his way into the next room and is not at all surprised to find it full of dinosaur bones.
“Or maybe right…” trails off Zack. He does not seem all that concerned though, as he approaches what appears to be a very large pelvic bone.
Merrick perches each of his hands on the top of his trim hips as he inspects the glass case. He cranes forward while respecting museum policy and not breathing on the surface. He even cocks his head to one side, his messy curls covering his eyes as he tries to fathom the enormity of the bone. Meanwhile Rian remains transfixed on his friend.
He reminds Dawson of the marble statues they just passed by; the strong arch of his spine and the vulnerable bend of his neck. Head, shoulders, knees and toes-- his whole body is a work of art-- and yet his face is the real masterpiece. Everything from the soft curve of his cheek to the sharp cut of his jaw. The bow of his thin-lipped smile, and the way his green eyes do not exactly shine, but occasionally twinkle as if he were winking and letting one in on a joke, is a mastery of the human form. No medium of paint could ever capture the softness of his hair, and no shade of charcoal could ever outline the grace of his steps. He’s so beautiful, Rian thinks. I’m so fucked, he knows.
“Check this out Rian,” calls out the bouncer, breaking the other out of his thoughts. He waves the tender over, easily placing a hand around his friend’s shoulder as he pulls him close enough to inspect the ginormous tooth of an Argentinosaurus. “Imagine getting up close and personal with one of these guys!”
“Yeah,” drawls Dawson distractedly, though in truth he is more inclined to think of getting up close and personal with Zack.
Ever since his enlightening conversation with Alex, Rian cannot help but be extra conscious of his housemate. It is like the moment he came to terms with his feelings for the other man he let loose the floodgates. His emotions seem to pour out of the damn of his chest now, surging out his lungs and rushing through his veins over the littlest of things. He is so sensitive to every casual touch, jumping every time he hears his name uttered from that coveted mouth, whether under a sigh or between smothered laughter. What used to be simple frissons of excitement have become full body shocks that leave Dawson dazed and wanting. Every sensation is both magnified and multiplied. So of course the tender cannot focus on anything when Zack’s warm hand is on his back.
“I guess we better find the exhibit now,” notes Merrick, interpreting Rian’s silence as disinterest.
“No rush,” Dawson assures his friend, gripping at the bouncer’s elbow to keep him by his side. “We’ve got the whole day Zack. Enjoy it.”
“I am enjoying it,” Zack assures him, “I just want you to enjoy it too.”
“I’m with you, aren’t I?” teases Rian. “Don’t worry about me. I’m having a grand ol’ time.”
The bouncer’s eyes narrow with suspicion, as if trying to gage whether the other is using sarcasm or not. As much as the tender would like to deny it, he is completely serious. He tightens his grip on Zack’s arm to let him know this.
“Alright,” acquiesces the other man. He rubs at the small of the Rian’s back, but then steps away. “Alright.”
*The next time Alex meets up with Jack he does not know what to expect. It should not be any different than any other time they meet up. They planned to meet at their usual café for just after three, and while it is a bit busier than usual-the university students are taking over again as September approaches-Gaskarth still manages to snag their favourite table. He sits down heavily in relief when he realizes he has arrived first. He has talked to Barakat on the phone a couple of times since the ‘morning-after disaster,’ so he knows things should be okay. They did not directly talk about the incident again, but there had a been a moment of hesitation, where the disc jockey thought he was going to have to apologize again but it had passed before he could string his words together. They moved onto new topics, most of them banal, but some sweet and even dirty. Things seemed fine. They should be fine. But Alex still is not sure.
“Hey,” breathes Barakat, his uneven panting tickling his specimen’s ear as he gives the other man a quick hug from behind.
“Hey!” greets the disc jockey, startling from the unexpected presence. He had been too lost in his own thoughts to notice the other’s speedy arrival. He jumps a little, awkwardly bumping his knee as he tries to stand.
“Sit, sit,” insists the darker haired man, squeezing the other’s shoulder and pressing a dry kiss to the exposed part of Alex’s neck as he tries to swivel and face Barakat properly. “You order yet?”
“Not yet,” replies Gaskarth. “How are you?”
“Better now that I’m here,” answers Jack, the ‘with you’ apparent in the way he hooks his ankle with Alex’s under the table.
“In need of a caffeine fix?” prompts the disc jockey, purposefully playing dumb even as a familiar heat settles in his stomach.
“Something like that,” quips Jack, fiddling with the napkin dispenser on the table.
“I can fix that,” a third voice pipes in, and both men turn to see a thin figure with bleach blond hair desperately in need of a root touch up, waiting to serve them. His nametag says ‘Jordan’ but when Jack lights up with recognition he greets him as ‘Dan.’
“You got the job, then?” he asks, eyeing the boy’s apron uniform with pride.
“Yeah man, I did,” confirms Dan Killicks, no longer looking as insecure or underfed as he did when the amateur psychoanalyst first encountered him at ‘The Party Scene’s’ grand opening. “Thanks so much for the job tips. I meant to call you, and tell you the good news, but I started training the next day and you know I need to pay my dorm deposit in two weeks-”
“It’s fine,” waves off Barakat, “I was thinking of asking Eric how the interview went to spare you the embarrassment if went badly, but I had a feeling it would all work out.”
“No, no, it was all fine,” Killicks assures his friend and unofficial life coach. “Eric, he’s…uh, he’s cool.”
“Oh?” pushes the university student, eyebrows lifting in feigned surprise. Their usual waiter has been promoted to an assistant managerial position and is currently hiring new employees. Somehow Barakat knew that Dan would be perfect for the job.
“Cute too,” remarks the new waiter offhandedly, twiddling the pencil he uses to write down orders with fingers that had once gripped Jack’s hips like a lifeline. Now he simply blushes a little as the amateur psychoanalyst shoots him a sly and knowing smile.
The new waiter then respectfully turns to Alex and his smile is genuine. “Anyways, what can I get you guys? The new iced coffee blend is a big hit these days if you’re trying to beat the heat.”
“I think I’m okay with the regular stuff, “ admits Gaskarth ruefully. “Medium, black, please.”
“I’ll try one of the iced things,” offers Jack, which is a surprise since he never seems to deviate from his standard order. When their drinks arrive-promptly and without fault, Alex cannot help but note-the university student’s lips immediately latch onto the straw and seem to have a hard letting go.
Meanwhile the disc jockey takes his time, waiting for the bean roast to cool first.
“So…who was that?”
“Dan? Just a friend. Met him at ‘the Scene’ actually,” explains the darker haired man. “Before I met you.”
“Ah. Seems a bit young for the club,” notes Gaskarth.
The amateur psychoanalyst chuckles darkly. “Yeah, he should not have been there that night. Too young and such a mess. Practically had a sexual identity crisis on the dance floor.”
“You helped him out?” Alex prompts.
“Kinda,” admits Jack. “He was already out of the closet, he just…had a hard time admitting what he wanted.”
“He wanted you?” asks the specimen knowingly.
“Nah, not really,” denies Barakat. “More like he needed someone who would accept him for what he is. Someone who wasn’t going to judge him because they knew what it was like.”
“You helped him,” summarizes the patient, finally taking a sip of his drink and finding it bitter and familiar as an angry rush surges through him. “Like you helped me.”
“I offered him some support yeah, but no, Alex, it wasn’t like you.”
“Let me guess,” continues the disc jockey regardless, sitting up in his seat as he feels the caffeine run through him in a heady rush of heat. “He was even skinnier when you met him. Stupid blonde hair, clearly dyed, and these dark shadows all around his eyes ‘cause he never slept, maybe got beat up a couple of times too, for being such a twink.”
Somehow Jack manages to keep his composure even as his hand perceptibly tightens around his cup in anger. “Watch it,” he warns, “Because that description matches up to someone else I used to know, even if he had purple hair and was fucking girls in closets.”
Gaskarth can feel his jaw twitching with tension but forces himself to breathe. “I’m sorry,” he says eventually, knowing the name-calling is uncalled for. “I don’t know why I said that. He just…it’s just…”
“He reminds you of yourself,” finishes Barakat, tone unusually cool and dry. “Of how you used to be, and you don’t want to remember.”
“I’m scared,” admits Alex, taking another sip of coffee as if to fortify himself. “I’m scared of going back to that.”
“You won’t,” the amateur psychoanalyst assures him, reaching over to cup one of his patient’s hands.
“I might-”
“Okay listen. You might have bad days, alright? You might even break down again, but you’re never going to be as lost and confused as you were before you knew what was wrong. I know you hate feeling like you’re not normal, like you were born with missing parts, and having some fancy term slapped onto your medical records doesn’t fix the rusted gears in your chest that are refusing to turn, but at least it gives you an answer. You’ve finally got awareness and relief, knowing that it’s treatable; that you’re not the only one. You can finally straighten your back so you’re not walking around hunched over and scared like a human question mark. So stand tall Alex, you’re healing.”
“You’re right,” concedes the specimen, linking their fingers together. “There’s nothing worse than not knowing.”
“I know this might be redundant in your case,” teases Jack in a way he never would before growing serious, “But you really don’t have to worry. I love you. I like skinny guys who bring me coffee and I’m obsessed with psychology to the point that maybe I’m as unhealthy as the cases I study, but despite all that, I love you. I want you to get better because I love you but mostly I just want you to be happy. A lot of people aren’t happy, and you don’t deserve to be one of them no matter what you tell yourself.”
“What?” croaks Alex, too overwhelmed to even process everything Jack has just said, but latching onto the last of it. “How did you…how did you know I…?”
“You’ve never said it aloud but it’s practically written on your face every time you talk about Sam. You feel like you need to punish yourself over what happened and that’s not fair to you. A part of you recognizes that, I know it does, but it’s time you forgive yourself Alex. You told me how you managed forgive Rian, right? So prove to me you’re really not hung up on Sam anymore and forgive yourself. Move on. Be with me.”
“I’m with you,” argues the specimen, clenching his cup so hard with his free hand that coffee begins to escape from the lid. “I know we never-I mean, I’ve never said it, and I don’t want to just say it now because you said it, but…Jack. You gotta know. I need you. I want you. I care about you. I know I’m the broken one in this relationship but I worry about you when you don’t sleep enough. And I want you to be happy too, want you to succeed and change the world just like I know you’re capable of. Sometimes I even get scared thinking you’ll realize you can do better than a guy like me. I think maybe I’m selfish to keep you around but I can’t let you go. So please, don’t…don’t let me go.”
“I don’t plan on it,” Jack assures him, “I’m here for as long as you want me.”
Always, forever, infinitely, are all words that come to mind but Alex is too overcome to speak at all. Suddenly holding hands is not enough, so he lurches forward, uncaring if he knocks his drink over in his rush to kiss his boyfriend. Barakat’s mouth is unusually cool, but still coffee flavoured. Their kiss soon grows too heated for a public place, and the disc jockey registers a few wolf whistles, but his mind is a haze of relief and fast-growing arousal. He manages to slip his hand underneath the other’s shirt before Jack pulls back.
“Hey, hey,” he soothes, kissing his specimen’s temple before pushing him back into his seat. “It’s alright, I’m right here. Finish your drink first.”
Alex picks up his cup, now only half-full. He takes another sip and tries to gather his wits. “And when I finish?”
“Then we can go,” placates Jack, his smirk wicked and eyes full of promise.
*“Look!” shouts Zack, ignoring the museum rules for indoor voices when he points out an old-fashioned photo booth in the corner of the photography exhibit.
“Do you think it still work?” asks Rian, reluctant to leave a framed study of city landscapes.
“Only one way to find out,” urges Merrick. There does not seem to be any boundaries put in place so they pull back the worn red curtain and settle themselves in. There is no screen to let one preview the shot, just a few buttons to start up the camera. The bouncer pushes the ‘start’ button, not really expecting to hear a whirring sound as the machine warms up. They sit up, try lining up their faces in accordance to a sign that says ‘look at me.’ A tinny automated voice counts down from three and yet they both are not prepared for the overly bright flash that hits them. They barely regain their vision by the time the second photo is taken, but they are both giggling and trying to pull the most ridiculous of faces so it is all right.
Zack has his tongue out for the third pose and it brushes against Dawson’s cheek, making him blush. He turns away to hide the creeping warmth and his friend feels the motion and instinctively turns to see what is wrong when the flash goes off again. It takes a prolonged moment for the black and white photos to develop, but once they have the shiny strips in hand there is no missing the way Rian is biting down on his lip, embarrassed and awkward.
“What happened?” demands the bouncer, not really that upset as he carefully folds up his copy of the photos in his wallet.
“Uh,” hesitates Dawson, unsure of what kind of excuse he can give and decides to be honest. “I felt your tongue on my cheek. It freaked me out.”
“Oh,” concedes Merrick, looking a little sheepish himself. “Sorry.”
“S’not a big deal,” mumbles the bouncer, already heading to the next part of the exhibit. This time there is a giant Polaroid style frame with a rotating background of cheesy backgrounds like the Eiffel Tower and the Great Wall of China that one can stand in while getting their picture taken. He hides his still flushed cheeks behind a much modern-looking camera and indicates that Zack should get into the giant frame with a wave of his hand.
Merrick obliges, but seems to be frowning once he is in line with the shot. “Was it that bad?” he asks as the first flash goes off.
“What?”
“My tongue. On you.”
“I, well-” begins Rian, stepping away from the camera.
“Would it be so bad,” continues the bouncer, not quite smiling but with a look of knowing on his face, “If my lips…were to touch yours?”
“No,” the tender chokes out. Zack steps out of the big cardboard frame and Rian walks into his arms on instinct. “No, not bad at all,” he repeats, because he should have known better than trying to hide stuff from Merrick.
The fucker always knows everything. Dawson has no idea how he does it, how the other man manages to coax everything out of the tender. All those emotions that sizzle and burn underneath Rian’s skin; he is like a volcano waiting to erupt the second someone looks at him funny. He hates how all his thoughts always seem to crash and collide within his head, like oceans waves and tectonic plates. So being around Zack can feel like a flood or an earthquake, natural but dangerous. And yet somehow the bouncer knows how to ride the waves, knows when it is time for them to duck for cover and when it is safe to crawl out from under the table. He knows comfort and control and it is clear with how he presses their noses together that he knows how badly Rian wants to kiss him.
“I’ve been waiting for you to say something,” Zack admits, squeezing his friend close, so close they can feel one another’s heartbeats. Rian is secretly pleased with how unsteady his friend’s pulse also feels. “But I’m tired of waiting.”
“I’m sorry,” Rian whispers. His fingers dig into the bouncer’s shoulders when the ground seems to give out from underneath him. “I wanted to. But I was scared. After what happened with Sam and Alex…”
“We aren’t Sam and Alex,” Zack assures him, “We’re Rian and Zack, we’re always going to be Rian and Zack, I promise.”
“I love you,” confesses Rian, too desperate to be embarrassed anymore.
“I know,” accepts Merrick, and he finally kisses Dawson, quick but hard. “But it’s good to hear you finally say it.”
“You could say it back, you know,” teases the tender, grateful that they can still be playful, that nothing has really changed.
“Mmm’ love you,” hums Zack, lazy and slow so each syllable rolls down the other man’s spine like the sweetest back massage. “Let’s go home so I can show you how much.”
*“The way you feel,” pants the disc jockey, still out of breath as he shucks the used condom into the trash. He looks over his shoulder to watch Barakat wipe down his sticky chest. The other’s hair is matted down with sweat and there is definitely a hickey blooming on his left pectoral, but his sole concern seems to be scrubbing at his belly button and yeah, Alex wants this, all of this.
“Mmm?” hums Jack, looking up to see Gaskarth with a dazed look on his face. He looks more blissed out now than he did mid-orgasm and for a second the amateur psychoanalyst worries about returning post-coital tristesse symptoms. But the beatific smile that grows the moment he reaches out for his specimen leads him to think otherwise.
“The way you make me feel,” Alex amends, but he knows he still is not making much sense.
“Pretty sure I can still feel you,” admits Jack, playfully rubbing at his backside for emphasis.
But that does nothing for the patient’s thought-process. He cannot help but let out a little whine, reaching out to massage one of the only plush areas on his boyfriend’s body. He tries to be gentle when he feels the muscle twitch under his fingers. He may have a little over-enthusiastic their second-time around. Though he knows his own body is absolutely spent he rocks their hips together, not wanting to lose the connection they have created.
“I love you,” he tells the darker haired man, breathless and wanting in way he had not been back at the coffee shop. “I need to say it. I need you to hear it. I am so in love with you.”
“I don’t doubt it,” remarks Jack, reaching for the disc jockey’s hand as their hips continue to rub against the other. He slots their sweaty fingers together then brings their joint grip to his lips. He kisses each digit tenderly, and Gaskarth thinks they have never been so close and yet so distant the moment the university student kisses the ring on his finger.
Though Barakat’s lips are plush with bruising, Alex still reels back the second they touch the silver. He is naked all but for Sam’s ring. He just professed his love for someone while wearing another person’s ring. A person who had been in love with him. A person he---
“I-” he begins, unsure of what to say when it suddenly got so much harder to even breathe. “I-I forgot.”
“Mmm?” hums Barakat, unfazed by the other’s shock. He simply continues to clean off his stomach, chin tucked down to avoid his patient’s pleading gaze.
“I’m taking it off right now,” declares the disc jockey, struggling to loosen the ring when it has always been the perfect fit. “I should have taken it off a long time ago, Jack, I’m so sorry.”
“The first time I asked you about it you said it didn’t mean anything,” Jack observes calmly. “If you take it off now, it’s because it meant something.”
The specimen hesitates, the ring sitting on the ridge of finger. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he insists, “I haven’t thought about it in a long time. But if it bothers you…I want to prove to you…Jack. Jack, please. For once in your damn life please just tell me what you want from me.”
“I have everything I could ask for,” Barakat assures him wryly. He finally sets the dirty cloth on the counter and turns back to his boyfriend. He takes the other’s hands again, ignores the way they tremble, and helps him remove the ring. Alex expects him to chuck it---toss it in the trash, flush it, anything---but he only places it carefully in the disc jockey’s hand.
“Don’t ever do anything just because you think it will please me,” he warns eventually. “Don’t ever stop yourself from doing something because you’re scared I’ll leave you. If we were to ever exchange rings the only vow I want you to make is to yourself. Love yourself. Love yourself so you can love what you have with me. Promise me.”
“I promise,” swears Alex, solemn and shaken.
“I know already, that you’re the type of person who will do anything for the person they love,” acknowledges the amateur psychoanalyst. “It’s time that person be you.”
“You’re the one I want though,” insists Alex. “Even if I did love Sam, even if a part of me can’t let him go when he did so much to make me who I am now, you’re the one I want.”
“I understand that,” acquiesces Barakat, “That’s expected. I just don’t want you to ever stop wanting yourself, wanting good things for yourself…wanting to live.”
“I promise,” repeats Gaskarth, “I promise you that will never happen. And not for your sake either. For my own. I swear.”
He is so startled when the university student kisses him he drops the ring. Neither of them bothers to stop to see where lands.
*This does not happen all that often anymore. But every time it does it is like the first time because Alex has no idea what is happening. He wakes up alone and covered in nervous sweat. He cannot remember what he was dreaming about when the dark figures blend in with the actual darkness of the room. He considers the idea that he must be very drunk to feel this disoriented, but judging by the unusually damp and clean feel of his mouth that is not the case. It is too dark to make out where he is or the exact time. All he knows is that he must have fallen out of the bed and struggles to get out of the mess he has made with his sheets. He reaches for his phone blindly, and decides he is not actually in hell when he manages to find it. He checks the time but ignores the fact that it is 2:08am and how his heart is beating way too fast, as he accesses his contact list.
He cannot find Sam’s number in his phone even when he hits the search button and attempts typing it manually over three times. His mind is too frazzled to recall the last two digits. Which is ridiculous, how can he not remember his best friend’s number? He figures it must be listed in his recent calls’ list but all he sees is--
Jack.
Jack.
Jack.
Fuck.
*“Alex?” he asks, his voice familiar despite their time apart and his clear surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t ever do anything just because you think it will please me… Don’t ever stop yourself from doing something because you’re scared I’ll leave you.”
The disc jockey hesitates, suddenly unsure if he should have come here. It is just that he cannot stop thinking of the promise he made to Jack and himself. He knows that in order to love himself fully he must accept all of the parts of himself; the good, the bad and the ugly. But that also does not mean he has to always carry his past mistakes on his conscious. He owes it to himself to exhume the skeletons from his closet and bury them for good.
“I know it’s really early, but I needed to see you,” he replies honestly. “Can I…”
“Come in,” completes the other. He stands there for a moment, staring as if seeing a ghost, before catching himself and ushering Alex in with a sweep of his hand. He hurriedly takes his friend’s coat, hands lingering on the other’s bony shoulder for a moment too long before pulling him into the sitting room.
“Do you want something to drink?” he prompts cautiously, courteous with nerves. “Water? Tea? I have a case of beer but-”
“I’m fine,” interrupts Gaskarth, “Really. I just want to talk.”
“Alright, of course.” The host nods, and sits down opposite his guest. His back is too straight to really be comfortable and his eyes cannot seem to settle anywhere for too long. “Is everything okay? Rian and Zack--”
“Everything is fine,” Alex assures his old friend. “ I know this seems strange because we haven’t really talked in so long and that’s my fault. And I know there’s not point in saying sorry--not now, not for so many things--but I wanted you to know I haven’t forgotten what you last said to me. In fact, I can’t stop thinking about it. And you deserve to know…”
“Alex!” a voice called as someone entered the cramped tour bus, “Alex, you in here?”
“Alex?” asked a tipsy Matt Flyzik, entering the guest room.
“Why didn’t you just tell me? I would have understood! I want you to be happy. Fuck Alex, I love you!”
“…you still don’t look happy ‘Xander.”
“I love you too, you fucking idiot! I love you so fucking much, how the h-hell was I supposed to hurt my b-best friend?”
“Do you still write songs?...That always made you happy.”
“I wrote a song a few weeks ago,” admits the ex-lead singer, pulling out a few scraps of paper with the words he had sung for Jack and ultimately for himself. He did not realize how nervous he was until his shoulders slump in relief as he takes in the familiar gleam of excitement in his ex-manager’s eyes. Alex has not seen that look since they first announced that they would be writing their first full-length album.
“Really?” demands Matt, all formalities gone now. “Alex, that’s great! I knew you still had it in you.” Flyzik joins him on the couch and snatches the papers eagerly. “Is it still rough? Do you think you could play for me? I’ve got a couple guitars laying around here somewhere…had to move them after we painted the nursery...did you wanna say hi by the way? A certain someone hasn’t seen her Uncle Alex in quite some time, you know.”
*The disc jockey only feels mildly guilty when Jack picks up after the fourth ring. Barakat sounds sleepy but sure of himself when he affirms that eventually the nightmares will stop for good. He warns Alex that he will probably always be prone to them, but that they will be different bad dreams. Little things, like being late for work. Big things, like being late to his wedding. And maybe sometimes, things that he must realize can never happen, like being late to his own funeral. But one day, or most likely night, he will wake up not knowing his name, or where he is, or what he has lost.
Only what he wants.
Continue here.
Author: Gess aka
live_by_lyrics
Pairing: Jack Barakat/Alex Gaskarth
P.O.V.: third person omniscient, (slightly limited to Jack Barakat)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: References to homophobic slurs, sex and (abusive) 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.
Masterlist | Tumblr
Step 7 of Treatment: Cut all ties with the patient.
“Left or right?” prompts Rian as he and Zack make their way through the next exhibit. The local museum is unusually packed this Sunday morning, but Merrick really wanted to see the new display on the history of the Canon camera. He had invited both Rian and Alex along, but Gaskarth had suspiciously claimed to feel ill all of the sudden, coughing uproariously while managing to elbow the tender repeatedly in the ribs.
“Uhm, left I think,” decides Merrick, looking down at the map they were handed at the entrance. The tender is pretty sure the other man is holding it upside down.
“Alright,” he agrees regardless, already resigned to the fact he is probably going to end up spending the entire day in the museum. He makes his way into the next room and is not at all surprised to find it full of dinosaur bones.
“Or maybe right…” trails off Zack. He does not seem all that concerned though, as he approaches what appears to be a very large pelvic bone.
Merrick perches each of his hands on the top of his trim hips as he inspects the glass case. He cranes forward while respecting museum policy and not breathing on the surface. He even cocks his head to one side, his messy curls covering his eyes as he tries to fathom the enormity of the bone. Meanwhile Rian remains transfixed on his friend.
He reminds Dawson of the marble statues they just passed by; the strong arch of his spine and the vulnerable bend of his neck. Head, shoulders, knees and toes-- his whole body is a work of art-- and yet his face is the real masterpiece. Everything from the soft curve of his cheek to the sharp cut of his jaw. The bow of his thin-lipped smile, and the way his green eyes do not exactly shine, but occasionally twinkle as if he were winking and letting one in on a joke, is a mastery of the human form. No medium of paint could ever capture the softness of his hair, and no shade of charcoal could ever outline the grace of his steps. He’s so beautiful, Rian thinks. I’m so fucked, he knows.
“Check this out Rian,” calls out the bouncer, breaking the other out of his thoughts. He waves the tender over, easily placing a hand around his friend’s shoulder as he pulls him close enough to inspect the ginormous tooth of an Argentinosaurus. “Imagine getting up close and personal with one of these guys!”
“Yeah,” drawls Dawson distractedly, though in truth he is more inclined to think of getting up close and personal with Zack.
Ever since his enlightening conversation with Alex, Rian cannot help but be extra conscious of his housemate. It is like the moment he came to terms with his feelings for the other man he let loose the floodgates. His emotions seem to pour out of the damn of his chest now, surging out his lungs and rushing through his veins over the littlest of things. He is so sensitive to every casual touch, jumping every time he hears his name uttered from that coveted mouth, whether under a sigh or between smothered laughter. What used to be simple frissons of excitement have become full body shocks that leave Dawson dazed and wanting. Every sensation is both magnified and multiplied. So of course the tender cannot focus on anything when Zack’s warm hand is on his back.
“I guess we better find the exhibit now,” notes Merrick, interpreting Rian’s silence as disinterest.
“No rush,” Dawson assures his friend, gripping at the bouncer’s elbow to keep him by his side. “We’ve got the whole day Zack. Enjoy it.”
“I am enjoying it,” Zack assures him, “I just want you to enjoy it too.”
“I’m with you, aren’t I?” teases Rian. “Don’t worry about me. I’m having a grand ol’ time.”
The bouncer’s eyes narrow with suspicion, as if trying to gage whether the other is using sarcasm or not. As much as the tender would like to deny it, he is completely serious. He tightens his grip on Zack’s arm to let him know this.
“Alright,” acquiesces the other man. He rubs at the small of the Rian’s back, but then steps away. “Alright.”
*The next time Alex meets up with Jack he does not know what to expect. It should not be any different than any other time they meet up. They planned to meet at their usual café for just after three, and while it is a bit busier than usual-the university students are taking over again as September approaches-Gaskarth still manages to snag their favourite table. He sits down heavily in relief when he realizes he has arrived first. He has talked to Barakat on the phone a couple of times since the ‘morning-after disaster,’ so he knows things should be okay. They did not directly talk about the incident again, but there had a been a moment of hesitation, where the disc jockey thought he was going to have to apologize again but it had passed before he could string his words together. They moved onto new topics, most of them banal, but some sweet and even dirty. Things seemed fine. They should be fine. But Alex still is not sure.
“Hey,” breathes Barakat, his uneven panting tickling his specimen’s ear as he gives the other man a quick hug from behind.
“Hey!” greets the disc jockey, startling from the unexpected presence. He had been too lost in his own thoughts to notice the other’s speedy arrival. He jumps a little, awkwardly bumping his knee as he tries to stand.
“Sit, sit,” insists the darker haired man, squeezing the other’s shoulder and pressing a dry kiss to the exposed part of Alex’s neck as he tries to swivel and face Barakat properly. “You order yet?”
“Not yet,” replies Gaskarth. “How are you?”
“Better now that I’m here,” answers Jack, the ‘with you’ apparent in the way he hooks his ankle with Alex’s under the table.
“In need of a caffeine fix?” prompts the disc jockey, purposefully playing dumb even as a familiar heat settles in his stomach.
“Something like that,” quips Jack, fiddling with the napkin dispenser on the table.
“I can fix that,” a third voice pipes in, and both men turn to see a thin figure with bleach blond hair desperately in need of a root touch up, waiting to serve them. His nametag says ‘Jordan’ but when Jack lights up with recognition he greets him as ‘Dan.’
“You got the job, then?” he asks, eyeing the boy’s apron uniform with pride.
“Yeah man, I did,” confirms Dan Killicks, no longer looking as insecure or underfed as he did when the amateur psychoanalyst first encountered him at ‘The Party Scene’s’ grand opening. “Thanks so much for the job tips. I meant to call you, and tell you the good news, but I started training the next day and you know I need to pay my dorm deposit in two weeks-”
“It’s fine,” waves off Barakat, “I was thinking of asking Eric how the interview went to spare you the embarrassment if went badly, but I had a feeling it would all work out.”
“No, no, it was all fine,” Killicks assures his friend and unofficial life coach. “Eric, he’s…uh, he’s cool.”
“Oh?” pushes the university student, eyebrows lifting in feigned surprise. Their usual waiter has been promoted to an assistant managerial position and is currently hiring new employees. Somehow Barakat knew that Dan would be perfect for the job.
“Cute too,” remarks the new waiter offhandedly, twiddling the pencil he uses to write down orders with fingers that had once gripped Jack’s hips like a lifeline. Now he simply blushes a little as the amateur psychoanalyst shoots him a sly and knowing smile.
The new waiter then respectfully turns to Alex and his smile is genuine. “Anyways, what can I get you guys? The new iced coffee blend is a big hit these days if you’re trying to beat the heat.”
“I think I’m okay with the regular stuff, “ admits Gaskarth ruefully. “Medium, black, please.”
“I’ll try one of the iced things,” offers Jack, which is a surprise since he never seems to deviate from his standard order. When their drinks arrive-promptly and without fault, Alex cannot help but note-the university student’s lips immediately latch onto the straw and seem to have a hard letting go.
Meanwhile the disc jockey takes his time, waiting for the bean roast to cool first.
“So…who was that?”
“Dan? Just a friend. Met him at ‘the Scene’ actually,” explains the darker haired man. “Before I met you.”
“Ah. Seems a bit young for the club,” notes Gaskarth.
The amateur psychoanalyst chuckles darkly. “Yeah, he should not have been there that night. Too young and such a mess. Practically had a sexual identity crisis on the dance floor.”
“You helped him out?” Alex prompts.
“Kinda,” admits Jack. “He was already out of the closet, he just…had a hard time admitting what he wanted.”
“He wanted you?” asks the specimen knowingly.
“Nah, not really,” denies Barakat. “More like he needed someone who would accept him for what he is. Someone who wasn’t going to judge him because they knew what it was like.”
“You helped him,” summarizes the patient, finally taking a sip of his drink and finding it bitter and familiar as an angry rush surges through him. “Like you helped me.”
“I offered him some support yeah, but no, Alex, it wasn’t like you.”
“Let me guess,” continues the disc jockey regardless, sitting up in his seat as he feels the caffeine run through him in a heady rush of heat. “He was even skinnier when you met him. Stupid blonde hair, clearly dyed, and these dark shadows all around his eyes ‘cause he never slept, maybe got beat up a couple of times too, for being such a twink.”
Somehow Jack manages to keep his composure even as his hand perceptibly tightens around his cup in anger. “Watch it,” he warns, “Because that description matches up to someone else I used to know, even if he had purple hair and was fucking girls in closets.”
Gaskarth can feel his jaw twitching with tension but forces himself to breathe. “I’m sorry,” he says eventually, knowing the name-calling is uncalled for. “I don’t know why I said that. He just…it’s just…”
“He reminds you of yourself,” finishes Barakat, tone unusually cool and dry. “Of how you used to be, and you don’t want to remember.”
“I’m scared,” admits Alex, taking another sip of coffee as if to fortify himself. “I’m scared of going back to that.”
“You won’t,” the amateur psychoanalyst assures him, reaching over to cup one of his patient’s hands.
“I might-”
“Okay listen. You might have bad days, alright? You might even break down again, but you’re never going to be as lost and confused as you were before you knew what was wrong. I know you hate feeling like you’re not normal, like you were born with missing parts, and having some fancy term slapped onto your medical records doesn’t fix the rusted gears in your chest that are refusing to turn, but at least it gives you an answer. You’ve finally got awareness and relief, knowing that it’s treatable; that you’re not the only one. You can finally straighten your back so you’re not walking around hunched over and scared like a human question mark. So stand tall Alex, you’re healing.”
“You’re right,” concedes the specimen, linking their fingers together. “There’s nothing worse than not knowing.”
“I know this might be redundant in your case,” teases Jack in a way he never would before growing serious, “But you really don’t have to worry. I love you. I like skinny guys who bring me coffee and I’m obsessed with psychology to the point that maybe I’m as unhealthy as the cases I study, but despite all that, I love you. I want you to get better because I love you but mostly I just want you to be happy. A lot of people aren’t happy, and you don’t deserve to be one of them no matter what you tell yourself.”
“What?” croaks Alex, too overwhelmed to even process everything Jack has just said, but latching onto the last of it. “How did you…how did you know I…?”
“You’ve never said it aloud but it’s practically written on your face every time you talk about Sam. You feel like you need to punish yourself over what happened and that’s not fair to you. A part of you recognizes that, I know it does, but it’s time you forgive yourself Alex. You told me how you managed forgive Rian, right? So prove to me you’re really not hung up on Sam anymore and forgive yourself. Move on. Be with me.”
“I’m with you,” argues the specimen, clenching his cup so hard with his free hand that coffee begins to escape from the lid. “I know we never-I mean, I’ve never said it, and I don’t want to just say it now because you said it, but…Jack. You gotta know. I need you. I want you. I care about you. I know I’m the broken one in this relationship but I worry about you when you don’t sleep enough. And I want you to be happy too, want you to succeed and change the world just like I know you’re capable of. Sometimes I even get scared thinking you’ll realize you can do better than a guy like me. I think maybe I’m selfish to keep you around but I can’t let you go. So please, don’t…don’t let me go.”
“I don’t plan on it,” Jack assures him, “I’m here for as long as you want me.”
Always, forever, infinitely, are all words that come to mind but Alex is too overcome to speak at all. Suddenly holding hands is not enough, so he lurches forward, uncaring if he knocks his drink over in his rush to kiss his boyfriend. Barakat’s mouth is unusually cool, but still coffee flavoured. Their kiss soon grows too heated for a public place, and the disc jockey registers a few wolf whistles, but his mind is a haze of relief and fast-growing arousal. He manages to slip his hand underneath the other’s shirt before Jack pulls back.
“Hey, hey,” he soothes, kissing his specimen’s temple before pushing him back into his seat. “It’s alright, I’m right here. Finish your drink first.”
Alex picks up his cup, now only half-full. He takes another sip and tries to gather his wits. “And when I finish?”
“Then we can go,” placates Jack, his smirk wicked and eyes full of promise.
*“Look!” shouts Zack, ignoring the museum rules for indoor voices when he points out an old-fashioned photo booth in the corner of the photography exhibit.
“Do you think it still work?” asks Rian, reluctant to leave a framed study of city landscapes.
“Only one way to find out,” urges Merrick. There does not seem to be any boundaries put in place so they pull back the worn red curtain and settle themselves in. There is no screen to let one preview the shot, just a few buttons to start up the camera. The bouncer pushes the ‘start’ button, not really expecting to hear a whirring sound as the machine warms up. They sit up, try lining up their faces in accordance to a sign that says ‘look at me.’ A tinny automated voice counts down from three and yet they both are not prepared for the overly bright flash that hits them. They barely regain their vision by the time the second photo is taken, but they are both giggling and trying to pull the most ridiculous of faces so it is all right.
Zack has his tongue out for the third pose and it brushes against Dawson’s cheek, making him blush. He turns away to hide the creeping warmth and his friend feels the motion and instinctively turns to see what is wrong when the flash goes off again. It takes a prolonged moment for the black and white photos to develop, but once they have the shiny strips in hand there is no missing the way Rian is biting down on his lip, embarrassed and awkward.
“What happened?” demands the bouncer, not really that upset as he carefully folds up his copy of the photos in his wallet.
“Uh,” hesitates Dawson, unsure of what kind of excuse he can give and decides to be honest. “I felt your tongue on my cheek. It freaked me out.”
“Oh,” concedes Merrick, looking a little sheepish himself. “Sorry.”
“S’not a big deal,” mumbles the bouncer, already heading to the next part of the exhibit. This time there is a giant Polaroid style frame with a rotating background of cheesy backgrounds like the Eiffel Tower and the Great Wall of China that one can stand in while getting their picture taken. He hides his still flushed cheeks behind a much modern-looking camera and indicates that Zack should get into the giant frame with a wave of his hand.
Merrick obliges, but seems to be frowning once he is in line with the shot. “Was it that bad?” he asks as the first flash goes off.
“What?”
“My tongue. On you.”
“I, well-” begins Rian, stepping away from the camera.
“Would it be so bad,” continues the bouncer, not quite smiling but with a look of knowing on his face, “If my lips…were to touch yours?”
“No,” the tender chokes out. Zack steps out of the big cardboard frame and Rian walks into his arms on instinct. “No, not bad at all,” he repeats, because he should have known better than trying to hide stuff from Merrick.
The fucker always knows everything. Dawson has no idea how he does it, how the other man manages to coax everything out of the tender. All those emotions that sizzle and burn underneath Rian’s skin; he is like a volcano waiting to erupt the second someone looks at him funny. He hates how all his thoughts always seem to crash and collide within his head, like oceans waves and tectonic plates. So being around Zack can feel like a flood or an earthquake, natural but dangerous. And yet somehow the bouncer knows how to ride the waves, knows when it is time for them to duck for cover and when it is safe to crawl out from under the table. He knows comfort and control and it is clear with how he presses their noses together that he knows how badly Rian wants to kiss him.
“I’ve been waiting for you to say something,” Zack admits, squeezing his friend close, so close they can feel one another’s heartbeats. Rian is secretly pleased with how unsteady his friend’s pulse also feels. “But I’m tired of waiting.”
“I’m sorry,” Rian whispers. His fingers dig into the bouncer’s shoulders when the ground seems to give out from underneath him. “I wanted to. But I was scared. After what happened with Sam and Alex…”
“We aren’t Sam and Alex,” Zack assures him, “We’re Rian and Zack, we’re always going to be Rian and Zack, I promise.”
“I love you,” confesses Rian, too desperate to be embarrassed anymore.
“I know,” accepts Merrick, and he finally kisses Dawson, quick but hard. “But it’s good to hear you finally say it.”
“You could say it back, you know,” teases the tender, grateful that they can still be playful, that nothing has really changed.
“Mmm’ love you,” hums Zack, lazy and slow so each syllable rolls down the other man’s spine like the sweetest back massage. “Let’s go home so I can show you how much.”
*“The way you feel,” pants the disc jockey, still out of breath as he shucks the used condom into the trash. He looks over his shoulder to watch Barakat wipe down his sticky chest. The other’s hair is matted down with sweat and there is definitely a hickey blooming on his left pectoral, but his sole concern seems to be scrubbing at his belly button and yeah, Alex wants this, all of this.
“Mmm?” hums Jack, looking up to see Gaskarth with a dazed look on his face. He looks more blissed out now than he did mid-orgasm and for a second the amateur psychoanalyst worries about returning post-coital tristesse symptoms. But the beatific smile that grows the moment he reaches out for his specimen leads him to think otherwise.
“The way you make me feel,” Alex amends, but he knows he still is not making much sense.
“Pretty sure I can still feel you,” admits Jack, playfully rubbing at his backside for emphasis.
But that does nothing for the patient’s thought-process. He cannot help but let out a little whine, reaching out to massage one of the only plush areas on his boyfriend’s body. He tries to be gentle when he feels the muscle twitch under his fingers. He may have a little over-enthusiastic their second-time around. Though he knows his own body is absolutely spent he rocks their hips together, not wanting to lose the connection they have created.
“I love you,” he tells the darker haired man, breathless and wanting in way he had not been back at the coffee shop. “I need to say it. I need you to hear it. I am so in love with you.”
“I don’t doubt it,” remarks Jack, reaching for the disc jockey’s hand as their hips continue to rub against the other. He slots their sweaty fingers together then brings their joint grip to his lips. He kisses each digit tenderly, and Gaskarth thinks they have never been so close and yet so distant the moment the university student kisses the ring on his finger.
Though Barakat’s lips are plush with bruising, Alex still reels back the second they touch the silver. He is naked all but for Sam’s ring. He just professed his love for someone while wearing another person’s ring. A person who had been in love with him. A person he---
“I-” he begins, unsure of what to say when it suddenly got so much harder to even breathe. “I-I forgot.”
“Mmm?” hums Barakat, unfazed by the other’s shock. He simply continues to clean off his stomach, chin tucked down to avoid his patient’s pleading gaze.
“I’m taking it off right now,” declares the disc jockey, struggling to loosen the ring when it has always been the perfect fit. “I should have taken it off a long time ago, Jack, I’m so sorry.”
“The first time I asked you about it you said it didn’t mean anything,” Jack observes calmly. “If you take it off now, it’s because it meant something.”
The specimen hesitates, the ring sitting on the ridge of finger. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he insists, “I haven’t thought about it in a long time. But if it bothers you…I want to prove to you…Jack. Jack, please. For once in your damn life please just tell me what you want from me.”
“I have everything I could ask for,” Barakat assures him wryly. He finally sets the dirty cloth on the counter and turns back to his boyfriend. He takes the other’s hands again, ignores the way they tremble, and helps him remove the ring. Alex expects him to chuck it---toss it in the trash, flush it, anything---but he only places it carefully in the disc jockey’s hand.
“Don’t ever do anything just because you think it will please me,” he warns eventually. “Don’t ever stop yourself from doing something because you’re scared I’ll leave you. If we were to ever exchange rings the only vow I want you to make is to yourself. Love yourself. Love yourself so you can love what you have with me. Promise me.”
“I promise,” swears Alex, solemn and shaken.
“I know already, that you’re the type of person who will do anything for the person they love,” acknowledges the amateur psychoanalyst. “It’s time that person be you.”
“You’re the one I want though,” insists Alex. “Even if I did love Sam, even if a part of me can’t let him go when he did so much to make me who I am now, you’re the one I want.”
“I understand that,” acquiesces Barakat, “That’s expected. I just don’t want you to ever stop wanting yourself, wanting good things for yourself…wanting to live.”
“I promise,” repeats Gaskarth, “I promise you that will never happen. And not for your sake either. For my own. I swear.”
He is so startled when the university student kisses him he drops the ring. Neither of them bothers to stop to see where lands.
*This does not happen all that often anymore. But every time it does it is like the first time because Alex has no idea what is happening. He wakes up alone and covered in nervous sweat. He cannot remember what he was dreaming about when the dark figures blend in with the actual darkness of the room. He considers the idea that he must be very drunk to feel this disoriented, but judging by the unusually damp and clean feel of his mouth that is not the case. It is too dark to make out where he is or the exact time. All he knows is that he must have fallen out of the bed and struggles to get out of the mess he has made with his sheets. He reaches for his phone blindly, and decides he is not actually in hell when he manages to find it. He checks the time but ignores the fact that it is 2:08am and how his heart is beating way too fast, as he accesses his contact list.
He cannot find Sam’s number in his phone even when he hits the search button and attempts typing it manually over three times. His mind is too frazzled to recall the last two digits. Which is ridiculous, how can he not remember his best friend’s number? He figures it must be listed in his recent calls’ list but all he sees is--
Jack.
Jack.
Jack.
Fuck.
*“Alex?” he asks, his voice familiar despite their time apart and his clear surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t ever do anything just because you think it will please me… Don’t ever stop yourself from doing something because you’re scared I’ll leave you.”
The disc jockey hesitates, suddenly unsure if he should have come here. It is just that he cannot stop thinking of the promise he made to Jack and himself. He knows that in order to love himself fully he must accept all of the parts of himself; the good, the bad and the ugly. But that also does not mean he has to always carry his past mistakes on his conscious. He owes it to himself to exhume the skeletons from his closet and bury them for good.
“I know it’s really early, but I needed to see you,” he replies honestly. “Can I…”
“Come in,” completes the other. He stands there for a moment, staring as if seeing a ghost, before catching himself and ushering Alex in with a sweep of his hand. He hurriedly takes his friend’s coat, hands lingering on the other’s bony shoulder for a moment too long before pulling him into the sitting room.
“Do you want something to drink?” he prompts cautiously, courteous with nerves. “Water? Tea? I have a case of beer but-”
“I’m fine,” interrupts Gaskarth, “Really. I just want to talk.”
“Alright, of course.” The host nods, and sits down opposite his guest. His back is too straight to really be comfortable and his eyes cannot seem to settle anywhere for too long. “Is everything okay? Rian and Zack--”
“Everything is fine,” Alex assures his old friend. “ I know this seems strange because we haven’t really talked in so long and that’s my fault. And I know there’s not point in saying sorry--not now, not for so many things--but I wanted you to know I haven’t forgotten what you last said to me. In fact, I can’t stop thinking about it. And you deserve to know…”
“Alex!” a voice called as someone entered the cramped tour bus, “Alex, you in here?”
“Alex?” asked a tipsy Matt Flyzik, entering the guest room.
“Why didn’t you just tell me? I would have understood! I want you to be happy. Fuck Alex, I love you!”
“…you still don’t look happy ‘Xander.”
“I love you too, you fucking idiot! I love you so fucking much, how the h-hell was I supposed to hurt my b-best friend?”
“Do you still write songs?...That always made you happy.”
“I wrote a song a few weeks ago,” admits the ex-lead singer, pulling out a few scraps of paper with the words he had sung for Jack and ultimately for himself. He did not realize how nervous he was until his shoulders slump in relief as he takes in the familiar gleam of excitement in his ex-manager’s eyes. Alex has not seen that look since they first announced that they would be writing their first full-length album.
“Really?” demands Matt, all formalities gone now. “Alex, that’s great! I knew you still had it in you.” Flyzik joins him on the couch and snatches the papers eagerly. “Is it still rough? Do you think you could play for me? I’ve got a couple guitars laying around here somewhere…had to move them after we painted the nursery...did you wanna say hi by the way? A certain someone hasn’t seen her Uncle Alex in quite some time, you know.”
*The disc jockey only feels mildly guilty when Jack picks up after the fourth ring. Barakat sounds sleepy but sure of himself when he affirms that eventually the nightmares will stop for good. He warns Alex that he will probably always be prone to them, but that they will be different bad dreams. Little things, like being late for work. Big things, like being late to his wedding. And maybe sometimes, things that he must realize can never happen, like being late to his own funeral. But one day, or most likely night, he will wake up not knowing his name, or where he is, or what he has lost.
Only what he wants.
Continue here.