The Freudian Slip (8/15) (Part Two)
Title: The Freudian Slip (8/15) (Part Two)
Author: Gess aka live_by_lyrics
Pairing: Jack Barakat/Alex Gaskarth
P.O.V.: third person omniscient, (slightly limited to Jack Barakat)
Rating: R
Warnings: References to alcoholism, physical violence, anxiety disorder 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 or Gabriel Saporta. This work is purely fiction, I don't own 'em. If you are any of the aforementioned people, I recommend reading at your own risk.
Author’s Notes: Sorry for the part two, this is over 11 000 words long in total.
Masterpost
Writing Tumblr
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*
“Sir,” the driver starts, not at all unfamiliar with having drunks falls asleep in the back of his service car, “Sir, we’re here.”
“Mmm,” hums Alex, getting up from his lying position, he never bothered with the seatbelt. “Okay.”
“That’ll be fifteen ninety-two,” the driver announces, looking down at his metre.
“Keep the change,” offers Gaskarth, handing the man a twenty dollar bill before once again struggling with the clasp on the door. This time he fails to have the door swing open, and the driver takes pity on him and gets out himself to open the door for the customer.
“T-thanks,” stutters the drunk, too intoxicated to feel properly embarrassed at his helplessness.
“Have a good night,” responds the driver politely, his tight smile fluctuating as Alex steps out of his car. “You, I mean sir, you have-”
“What?” Alex asks lazily, making unsteady steps towards his front porch, and then halting to follow the man’s gaze down his shoes. “Fuck.”
“Are you okay?” the driver questions, showing an uncommon but genuine concern for his customers.
“M’fine,” Gaskarth dismisses, pulling out his wallet out again and handing the man another twenty dollar bill out of compensation. Alex’s shoes are caked with blood and he has tracked it into the poor driver’s car.
*
“That stings,” complains Jack in a monotone voice, as Gabe wipes the anti-septic across his roommate’s face with a cotton swab.
“Stop whining,” chides Saporta, biting his lip in concentration. The boys have been home for nearly an hour and he still has not finished cleaning Barakat up. There was the matter of physically carrying the boy up the steps of their apartment building, and up into their shared unit. Gabe had to coax his roommate into allowing him to strip off all that remained of the boy’s bloodied clothing in order to wipe down his face and chest with a hot wash cloth. Jack refused to go to the hospital, conveniently telling Saporta where the first aid kit was located instead. The psychology student instructed the philosophy major on how to bandage his ribs when he self-diagnosed that they were bruised not broken.
Now Jack is perched on to top of the closed toilet lid, ice pack over his swollen nose, as Gabe disinfects the open wounds. “I’m not whining,” Barakat huffs, hating how completely dependent on Gabriel he is at the moment. This is not the first time Jack has arrived home bloodied from a fight. He got into a lot of trouble when he started his data collecting last year, particularly when he studied gang culture. Only this time he had no choice but to allow Gabriel to be called, and anticipated the fuss when he did so. What he did not anticipate was how much to his advantage Gabe would use Jack’s physical weakness.
“Almost done,” Gabe assures him, lightly pressing at wound underneath his roommate’s eye. “That’s gunna be a shiner for sure.”
Barakat merely rolls his eyes, one of the few movements that does not cause him pain. Yet in actuality he is secretly quite pleased with how bruised he is. It will add to his leverage when he initiates the next stage of his master plan. “M’tired.”
“I know, I know,” Saporta sighs, looking over Jack one more time and smiling at bit because the swelling seems to have stopped getting worse. “Let’s get you to bed.”
Jack nods meekly, lifting his arms in the air because he knows he will have to be carried again. He feels like such a child. Though, he should be grateful, for how gentle Gabe is with him, as he turns to lift Jack effortlessly from his less than regal throne. Saporta bends his knees and takes hold of Jack’s long legs as they wrap around his waist. Barakat’s arms snake themselves around his neck as he is hoisted up onto his roommate’s back. The hold is called ‘piggyback style,’ but really together they mirror a mother primate and her babe.
“This isn’t my room,” the psychology student states the obvious when he finds himself being transported into Gabe’s room. It is much messier than Jack’s; containing thinner textbooks, far too many compact discs, a guitar and an array of different fashion accessories. It basically reflects Gabriel’s inner cognitions perfectly.
“Maybe you’re not as drunk as I thought,” jokes Saporta, having noted that Jack does in fact sound a lot more sober than he appeared back at the club. “You’re staying here tonight.”
Jack makes a small sound of protest as Gabe uncurls his hold on the boy’s legs and Barakat has no choice but to be dropped onto the small single bed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not,” Saporta informs him, leaving the room for a moment to return with Barakat’s own pillow and blanket. “I can’t let you sleep alone tonight; you might choke your own vomit.”
“I’m not that drunk,” the younger of the two gripes, but in all honesty he is not completely coherent either. His face feels flushed but he accepts the heavy blanket because he knows the alcohol in his system is causing his blood vessels to dilate. While his surface skin may feel hotter, his core is losing all its warmth.
“Think of it as punishment then,” teases Gabriel, leaving yet again to return with a bucket, two bottled waters and a cool washcloth for Jack’s forehead.
“We’re not going to both fit,” the amateur psychoanalyst points out, as Gabe fusses with the bucket. Jack feels no inclination to puke anytime soon but informing Gabe of this would be pointless. The Uruguayan is hard-headed.
“I’ll sleep on the floor then,” the elder of the two volunteers. He pulls his own sheets off the bed and sets them on the floor, away from the pail.
“Y-you don’t have to do that,” Barakat whispers, drinking from one of the water bottles. He needs to stay hydrated throughout the night. Tomorrow he will surely wake up with a terrible hangover.
“It’s fine,” Saporta dismisses, stripping off his work clothes and exchanging them for sweatpants. He then moves up one last time to switch off the room’s main light and switch on a small lamp that sits on his desk, just in case one of them needs to move at night.
At this point resistance is futile, so Jack settles himself in Gabe’s bed, frustrated to find it smells just like the soap his roommate uses and outright aggravated at how relaxed it makes him feel. He lies there; fuming silently while ruffling sounds are made by Gabriel as he tries settling onto the flat flooring.
It takes a few minutes, in which Jack stares adamantly at the alarm clock resting on Gabe’s bedside table before he caves. He thinks about how long Gabe’s shift at work must have been before he was called to retrieve Jack, and how much worrying he has already been put through. The psychology student knows this is only the beginning and Gabe has proved himself to be a worthy stand in.
“Gabe?” the younger of the two calls into the darkness of the small room.
“Yeah?” murmurs Gabriel, sitting up for fear Jack is about to upchuck.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Saporta replies. The black of the room does nothing to disguise the grin on his face.
*
Alex takes his time as he walks up the steps of his front porch. He waits until the taxi is long out of his sight before searching for his keys, and entering his home. He stalls for a moment, registering the fact that he left his television on, and it is now blasting music. He takes an unsteady breath, his nose upturning in distaste, and the bile suddenly rising up his throat as everything jumpstarts. He slides off his bloodied shoes in frenzy, doing his best not to think about has happened tonight, what has been happening every single night for the last year.
He then runs up the stairs of his scarcely decorated home, not caring enough to pause to get something to eat even though he skipped out on dinner. Gaskarth barely eats anymore; he has lost all sense of an appetite. Besides, it is a lot easier to get drunk when one’s stomach is empty. Right now, Alex is finishing riding the buzz of his last drink. After the sting of downing the vodka leaves his throat, he must endure the bubbling it causes in his stomach. He heads to his bedroom, feeling his way through the hallway because he cannot be bothered with a light switch. He tramples across random objects spilled out on the floor, kicking aside clothing and picking up a half empty water bottle. He ignores his king-sized bed completely, unable to recall the last time he got a proper sleep.
Instead, he careens into his bathroom, knocking open the half closed door with a swift nudge of his shoulder. He pointedly avoids his smudged mirror as he shakily places the water bottle on the counter and begins to fiddle with his belt buckle. His fingernails indent themselves into the leather, tugging at the metal loop until the thing comes undone. Alex can feel the burn getting hotter now and quickly shrugs the denim down past his thighs. A pair of constrictive boxer briefs is revealed, a flashy deep red today, the cotton reflecting his mood nicely. He feels the tightening in his gut, and figures he may as well relieve his bladder first. He lifts the lid of his toilet, with far too much force, and winces as the porcelain lid clangs against the tank. He tips his head back as he fumbles with the opening of his briefs, not caring to watch where the string of urine lands so long as it is within the bowl’s vicinity.
It takes a moment too long. All the alcohol has caused his pituitary gland to reserve the anti diuretic hormone, which in turn has signalled Gaskarth’s kidneys to stop conserving water. He finally finishes, not entirely feeling better as he flushes and heads to the sink. He struggles with the taps, burning his hands with hot water as he fumbles with the soap pump. He does his best to keep his head down, strands of greasy hair getting tangled in his eyelashes, but as he turns off the tap and reaches for the neighbouring towel he catches a glimpse of himself anyways.
He looks, sordid. His appearance is dirty, dismal, and repulsive. As is his existence. The dark rings that circle his eyes cause an unnatural droop to his cheeks. His skin has a sickeningly pale tone to it, and is dotted with acne and unidentifiable bumps from lack of care. His hair sits limply on his head, a disturbing reddish copper tone, that lets everyone know just how much of an attention whore he is. He quirks his mouth experimentally, facial muscles twitching into a frown because even his lips are dried and torn. He tries inhaling more through his nostrils, instinctively swiping at his upper lip in an almost defensive move. Alex is ugly and people still approach him. Alex is terrible and people still care. Alex destroyed someone’s life, and some greater good is keeping him alive. He supposes it is punishment. Dying would be too easy.
No, Gaskarth’s life is meant to stringed along, extensive and meaningless. He is meant to play the role of a villain and victim. Alex fucked up and now he is going to pay for it. He asked for it. All his life, he tried so hard to bend the rules, never bothering to stay on the path of normalcy. A life of education and hard work was never for him. He had to think outside of the box, colour outside of the lines. He dragged Rian into coming with him, lured Zack in, and, well anyone else that came along was willing. But willing or not, this is all Alex’s fault. He wanted this. He believed he needed this. He always thought that he was special, talented, gifted. That he had that something others yearn for. Naturally, it was his job to share. To feel, and then tells others how to feel. He had to get up on a stage and preach like some damned saint. He liked to pretend to care, liked how the eyes watched him, how they screamed for more. They were his and he was there’s. It was perfect because it was mutual. But of course, Alex was selfish. He took it for granted, and forgot about metaphors to concentrate on innuendos. He lied and manipulated to get that release. He thought he was doing them all a favour. So now karma is returning that favour.
Now the drunk plays his role good and proper. He says all the right words and makes all the right moves. He fucks up, on purpose. He gets drunk, has sex, and shrugs off consequences in favour of spending another night awake in his bed. He talks to his conscious and curses his old friends. He shies away from the decent and delves in the filth. He does not want pressure and hides from responsibility. He spends all his time in a club, because he is unsure of the parties in hell. He wanted glamour and now he has danger. They go hand in hand really. Fame is partnered with fear, and the artist is a delicate state of mind. Despite his own beliefs, Alex was weak, and breakable. He is damaged goods because he stole commodities. He stole hearts, lives, and most importantly, hope. He was a thief in broad daylight, able to nick pure love with a single squeeze of the hand, swipe of the tongue. He was careful and calculated, but now he has truly perfected his character. They are one and the same, Alex and failure.
There are rare times though, where Gaskarth’s costume does not fit right. Sometimes he forgets his lines. He feels himself slipping, into this grey area where he is neither right nor wrong. He just is. He just feels scared. Like now. He whips his head away from the mirror, hating what he sees, what he fails to recognize. His stomach is churning now, and his skin is getting hotter. He knees waver, knocking together. His pants slide as he turns, he has not bothered to redo his buckle and now everything is too small and too close.
He shakily removes his jeans completely, his fingers searing against his own legs. Off go his socks, the coolness of the tile floor chilling the palms of his feet. Yet is it not enough. He yanks at his t-shirt, shivering at the tingling as the wet fabric is literally peeled off his body. He stands there, in only his underwear, as he tries to get a grip. His sweaty hands go to his stomach, a flat crevice littered in love bites. It stirs loudly, and Gaskarth tries rubbing it soothingly to no avail. He reaches for the water bottle he brought with him, tossing the lid haphazardly as he chugs the entire thing in one sip. The room is silent except for his swallows and the crinkling of the plastic as he grips at the bottle too harshly. He finishes too fast, and gasps for air.
The inhalation just makes his stomach hurt more, and he is only half surprised when it is time for him to fold over. The pain in his gut doubles, triples, and quadruples as the back of his mind taunts him. Remember when everyone used to give Alex what he wanted? Remember when Alex thought he knew what he was doing? Remember when Alex was happy? It all seems so long ago, but maybe that is only because this current scene is so familiar. It happens every so often, the way he sinks to his knees, forehead dipping until it presses up against the floor. His breathing is accelerating now, causing his heart to beat overtime. His muscles tense as he lies completely flat, almost as if he is anticipating an attack. He plays dead, waiting for it to hit. It takes a few more minutes, for him reach the point of hysteria. But he does, oh he always does.
The doubt boils in his stomach, and there is nothing he can do. He pulls at his hairs, his scalp stinging at his desperateness. He tries distracting himself, because his mind can never focus on one thing for too long anyways. Different scenes flash from underneath his closed eyelids. He sees them smiling, hears them laughing, feels their hugs, tastes their kisses. It replays in his head, and warps and twists into something else. He feels his temperature rise as his heart empties. He needs to forget. He needs to stop remembering. His muscles twitch and he is practically convulsing on the floor. He heads turns to the side, nose crushing against the tile as he tries to breathe. The memories bombard his psyche, and yet the pain is purely physical. His abdomen is searing in pain now, he is on fire.
His hands move down from his hair and clutch at his ugly face. They slide down his cheeks, trembling and scratching. His fingernails leave tiny curved tracks down his profile as he digs into the skin. It is getting tighter and hotter. His own skin is cutting off his circulation and breathing. The lack of blood and oxygen causes everything to go faster, until his mind can longer keep to speed and draws blank. The only thing he can think of doing it taking it off. His skin, he aches to rip off the epidermis and reveal the bone white skeleton underneath. Alex Gaskarth is dressed up as himself. He has taken on a persona, put on a mask, in order to hide from his fears. He has taken to the role so firmly that now he no longer knows what he really looks like, who he really is. Only one thing is for sure, whatever Alex looks like underneath cannot be anymore terrifying than the gloom that follows him night and day.
He draws his knees into his stomach now, thighs cramping as he pushes himself up. He crawls pathetically to the toilet, gripping the porcelain, and he swears that the sweat on his hands is steam from the contrast in temperature. The mere sight of the pure shining white object that is subjected to baring the nastiest of residues is too much for Alex. He begins to retch, choking on his own breathing. The rectal muscles in his abdomen strain with the effort, and his hands slide to grip at the bowl better. A series of dry heaving follows as he gags on his insecurities. They mull and sizzle in his gut until he can no longer handle them. Nothing lands into the water, but the pain is ever present. Some of it is buried so far deep that vomiting is not even an option. Gaskarth’s head spins as he stands up fully, only for a second so he can sit down against the toilet, underwear settled around his ankles. He lets his bowels get to work and only feels slightly better as everything is let go. He feels about as shitty as what his body ousts, but is comforted to know the worse is over for now. He settles his elbows on his wobbly knees, wiping back tears that leak from the ducts of his eyes as one last coherent thought is processed.
I deserve this.
For Alex Gaskarth that is a three word phrase as common as ‘I love you.’ It is a mantra, a battle cry, his catchphrase, that the befallen hero repeats over and over again. It is the only thing that can reassure him in times like these that what is happening to him is normal, expected. This constant unease and distress is common for the drunk. He skitters around, scared of unseen demons because he is the devil.
Alex deserves this.
*Jack deems himself well enough to visit the club exactly five days later. It now early Wednesday afternoon, and he figures this the prime time to visit the employees of ‘The Party Scene.’ Wednesdays are not usually all that busy, and if he manages to arrive before the doors officially open he may be able to catch them all off guard. Then again, Jack’s appearance in itself is already quite startling. The aftermath of the fight has begun to bloom nicely into full out bruises. His face is shining with various hues of purple and blue, marking disrupted blood. He walks slowly, with a slight limp and grimace whenever his left foot hits the pavement. He sports a thick hooded sweatshirt today, because the weather is getting colder and the soft cotton acts as insulation against his bruised ribs. The amateur psychoanalyst spent most of his weekend in bed, having to listen to Gabe’s worried natter. Then when the psychology student had to get to lecture on Monday he encountered various difficulties in the form of stairs and heavy textbooks. Needless to say the boy is exhausted, and did not even have time to look up some last minute theories, not that Saporta let him anywhere near his own laptop while on bed rest. Regardless Jack feels quite prepared for what he is about to do. He is a natural charmer after all.
Barakat, coffee cup in hand, approaches the club’s front entrance, subconsciously flattening down his uprooted hair and places a hand on the handle. He smirks to himself to find the place unlocked, despite the unlighted room before him and shuffles in. The venue is quite different earlier in the day, not as dark and much too quiet. So Jack does his best to muffle his footsteps as he approaches the dance floor. He can spot the bouncer and tender fiddling with lights from a control board near the disc jockey’s platform. They take no note of him, until a spotlight is turned on, coincidentally shining directly down at the amateur psychoanalyst’s thin but well dressed frame.
“Fuck,” curses the tender, as he spots Barakat’s shadow before him, “Where the hell did you come from?”
The bouncer says nothing, but not so subtly places a restraining arm on his friend’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry to scare you,” Jack begins slowly, holding his free hand and coffee up to show he is not armed, “I just want to talk.”
“I don’t really have anything to say,” Rian excuses, shrugging off Zack’s hold. “So I think you should go.”
“That’s fine, you can just listen,” Jack intercepts, holding his ground.
Dawson stands there, mouth agape at the boy’s forwardness, but eventually sighs and gives in. He steps down from the platform so he can stand eye to eye with the psychology student. Merrick stands a few feet behind him, ready to step in if needed.
“I just wanted to apologize.” Barakat begins, stalling by taking a sip of his drink. He is in need of a caffeine boost. “My behaviour the other night is embarrassing. It was wrong of me to get drunk, and it was even worse to take out my frustrations about losing my girlfriend on someone who was only trying to help me.”
Jack peers over Rian’s shoulder to look directly at Zack, “Can you please forgive me?”
The bouncer opens his mouth in response, but the tender cuts him off. “You really think it’s that easy?” he snaps.
“I-”
“That you can just apologize and expect everything to go back to how things were?” he continues, “It’s not that easy. You can’t just go around hurting people and expect them to forget about how much pain you caused them.”
Jack says nothing, letting the man continue his tirade as it becomes less and less relevant to their current situation.
“Each one of your actions has consequences so you always have to consider other people’s feelings. Just because you’re friends, and you know they’ll do their best to understand, doesn’t mean its okay to get away with all the shit you do. There’s only so much someone can put up with before they-.”
“Rian,” the tender whispers, stepping in and wrapping an arm around the man’s waist, “Relax.”
“N-no,” Dawson argues, “He should hear this, it’s his fault what happened last night, he needs to-”
“Last time I checked it was you beating the shit out of him Rian,” a new voice sounds throughout the empty room. All three of them turn to see Alex coming out of the shade of the venue. “So I’d say you also have some apologizing to do.”
“Alex, I-,” the tender stammers, so startled with the fact that Gaskarth cares enough to even bother with the issue that he does not even register that his friend is probably right.
“When Zack grabbed me to come help, it seemed like you were the one causing the trouble, not Jack,” The disc jockey continues, looking pointedly at the tender as he takes careful steps toward the group. He seems perfectly cool and calm. He is groomed to perfection and though his eyes are covered by his styled bangs, they are clear. He has not started to drink yet. “He’s the one with the black eye, not you.”
Gaskarth’s words are no surprise to the amateur psychoanalyst. No, Jack takes another large sip of his hot caffeinated drink to hide the grin that is threatening to overwhelm his face. Alex knows his name.
“You’re right,” Dawson declares after a short moment of contemplation. He sighs and turns his attention back to Barakat, who appears to be as nonchalant as Gaskarth, but is in actuality biting back an excited yelp. “You barely touched Zack, and I, I took it too far. I guess, I just, sometimes I, lose control, and....” He shakes his shaved head, unable to continue.
The psychology student nods, figuring that much is true. He was right in his suspicions that Alex’s symptoms have taken their toll on the disc jockey’s friends. Unlike Gaskarth, the tender can barely keep his emotions repressed. Wearing his heart on his sleeve, Rian Dawson is volatile. His patience has worn thin from watching his best friend indulge in so much self-destruction. So while he does his best to maintain his cool around the drunk, any reference to self disregard sets him off. Usually Zack is able to calm the tender down, with reassuring words and gentle massages, but last night was too much for Rian. All his frustrations that he has been bottling up for so long, they just had to be released. He has not blown up like that since Alex admitted how badly he screwed up last year. But that is behind them, sort of.
“I understand,” the university student assures the tender, “We were both in the wrong. Me for instigating the fight, and you for taking it too far. Let’s just put this behind us huh?”
Rian nods, stepping forward to offer Jack his hand. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. I forgive you.”
Barakat returns the gesture finally letting loose a small, almost timid smile. “Could you forgive me too?” he asks Zack.
“Course,” chuckles Merrick, the only one to return Jack’s smile, “No harm done.”
“Anyways,” Jack clears his throat awkwardly after having shaken the bouncer’s hand also, “I better go. I’ll let you guys finish setting up. I’d offer to help, but I’m not really capable of lifting heavy objects right now.”
“D-don’t worry about it,” Rian comforts unsteadily, “We really appreciate you coming down here and uh, apologizing. That takes guts.”
Jack says nothing, shooting the bouncer and tender one last half-hearted smile. He waves lightly towards the disc jockey, who has not said anything else during the conversation. If anything, Alex looks confused as to why he got involved in the first place.
------
A/N: And so the unconventional treatment begins! I hope this chapter has given everyone some insight on Jack’s extreme methods, Rian’s anger and Alex’s GAD. Despite the chaos, we do have progress. Alex knows Jack’s name :)
Author: Gess aka live_by_lyrics
Pairing: Jack Barakat/Alex Gaskarth
P.O.V.: third person omniscient, (slightly limited to Jack Barakat)
Rating: R
Warnings: References to alcoholism, physical violence, anxiety disorder 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 or Gabriel Saporta. This work is purely fiction, I don't own 'em. If you are any of the aforementioned people, I recommend reading at your own risk.
Author’s Notes: Sorry for the part two, this is over 11 000 words long in total.
Masterpost
Writing Tumblr
---
*
“Sir,” the driver starts, not at all unfamiliar with having drunks falls asleep in the back of his service car, “Sir, we’re here.”
“Mmm,” hums Alex, getting up from his lying position, he never bothered with the seatbelt. “Okay.”
“That’ll be fifteen ninety-two,” the driver announces, looking down at his metre.
“Keep the change,” offers Gaskarth, handing the man a twenty dollar bill before once again struggling with the clasp on the door. This time he fails to have the door swing open, and the driver takes pity on him and gets out himself to open the door for the customer.
“T-thanks,” stutters the drunk, too intoxicated to feel properly embarrassed at his helplessness.
“Have a good night,” responds the driver politely, his tight smile fluctuating as Alex steps out of his car. “You, I mean sir, you have-”
“What?” Alex asks lazily, making unsteady steps towards his front porch, and then halting to follow the man’s gaze down his shoes. “Fuck.”
“Are you okay?” the driver questions, showing an uncommon but genuine concern for his customers.
“M’fine,” Gaskarth dismisses, pulling out his wallet out again and handing the man another twenty dollar bill out of compensation. Alex’s shoes are caked with blood and he has tracked it into the poor driver’s car.
*
“That stings,” complains Jack in a monotone voice, as Gabe wipes the anti-septic across his roommate’s face with a cotton swab.
“Stop whining,” chides Saporta, biting his lip in concentration. The boys have been home for nearly an hour and he still has not finished cleaning Barakat up. There was the matter of physically carrying the boy up the steps of their apartment building, and up into their shared unit. Gabe had to coax his roommate into allowing him to strip off all that remained of the boy’s bloodied clothing in order to wipe down his face and chest with a hot wash cloth. Jack refused to go to the hospital, conveniently telling Saporta where the first aid kit was located instead. The psychology student instructed the philosophy major on how to bandage his ribs when he self-diagnosed that they were bruised not broken.
Now Jack is perched on to top of the closed toilet lid, ice pack over his swollen nose, as Gabe disinfects the open wounds. “I’m not whining,” Barakat huffs, hating how completely dependent on Gabriel he is at the moment. This is not the first time Jack has arrived home bloodied from a fight. He got into a lot of trouble when he started his data collecting last year, particularly when he studied gang culture. Only this time he had no choice but to allow Gabriel to be called, and anticipated the fuss when he did so. What he did not anticipate was how much to his advantage Gabe would use Jack’s physical weakness.
“Almost done,” Gabe assures him, lightly pressing at wound underneath his roommate’s eye. “That’s gunna be a shiner for sure.”
Barakat merely rolls his eyes, one of the few movements that does not cause him pain. Yet in actuality he is secretly quite pleased with how bruised he is. It will add to his leverage when he initiates the next stage of his master plan. “M’tired.”
“I know, I know,” Saporta sighs, looking over Jack one more time and smiling at bit because the swelling seems to have stopped getting worse. “Let’s get you to bed.”
Jack nods meekly, lifting his arms in the air because he knows he will have to be carried again. He feels like such a child. Though, he should be grateful, for how gentle Gabe is with him, as he turns to lift Jack effortlessly from his less than regal throne. Saporta bends his knees and takes hold of Jack’s long legs as they wrap around his waist. Barakat’s arms snake themselves around his neck as he is hoisted up onto his roommate’s back. The hold is called ‘piggyback style,’ but really together they mirror a mother primate and her babe.
“This isn’t my room,” the psychology student states the obvious when he finds himself being transported into Gabe’s room. It is much messier than Jack’s; containing thinner textbooks, far too many compact discs, a guitar and an array of different fashion accessories. It basically reflects Gabriel’s inner cognitions perfectly.
“Maybe you’re not as drunk as I thought,” jokes Saporta, having noted that Jack does in fact sound a lot more sober than he appeared back at the club. “You’re staying here tonight.”
Jack makes a small sound of protest as Gabe uncurls his hold on the boy’s legs and Barakat has no choice but to be dropped onto the small single bed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not,” Saporta informs him, leaving the room for a moment to return with Barakat’s own pillow and blanket. “I can’t let you sleep alone tonight; you might choke your own vomit.”
“I’m not that drunk,” the younger of the two gripes, but in all honesty he is not completely coherent either. His face feels flushed but he accepts the heavy blanket because he knows the alcohol in his system is causing his blood vessels to dilate. While his surface skin may feel hotter, his core is losing all its warmth.
“Think of it as punishment then,” teases Gabriel, leaving yet again to return with a bucket, two bottled waters and a cool washcloth for Jack’s forehead.
“We’re not going to both fit,” the amateur psychoanalyst points out, as Gabe fusses with the bucket. Jack feels no inclination to puke anytime soon but informing Gabe of this would be pointless. The Uruguayan is hard-headed.
“I’ll sleep on the floor then,” the elder of the two volunteers. He pulls his own sheets off the bed and sets them on the floor, away from the pail.
“Y-you don’t have to do that,” Barakat whispers, drinking from one of the water bottles. He needs to stay hydrated throughout the night. Tomorrow he will surely wake up with a terrible hangover.
“It’s fine,” Saporta dismisses, stripping off his work clothes and exchanging them for sweatpants. He then moves up one last time to switch off the room’s main light and switch on a small lamp that sits on his desk, just in case one of them needs to move at night.
At this point resistance is futile, so Jack settles himself in Gabe’s bed, frustrated to find it smells just like the soap his roommate uses and outright aggravated at how relaxed it makes him feel. He lies there; fuming silently while ruffling sounds are made by Gabriel as he tries settling onto the flat flooring.
It takes a few minutes, in which Jack stares adamantly at the alarm clock resting on Gabe’s bedside table before he caves. He thinks about how long Gabe’s shift at work must have been before he was called to retrieve Jack, and how much worrying he has already been put through. The psychology student knows this is only the beginning and Gabe has proved himself to be a worthy stand in.
“Gabe?” the younger of the two calls into the darkness of the small room.
“Yeah?” murmurs Gabriel, sitting up for fear Jack is about to upchuck.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Saporta replies. The black of the room does nothing to disguise the grin on his face.
*
Alex takes his time as he walks up the steps of his front porch. He waits until the taxi is long out of his sight before searching for his keys, and entering his home. He stalls for a moment, registering the fact that he left his television on, and it is now blasting music. He takes an unsteady breath, his nose upturning in distaste, and the bile suddenly rising up his throat as everything jumpstarts. He slides off his bloodied shoes in frenzy, doing his best not to think about has happened tonight, what has been happening every single night for the last year.
He then runs up the stairs of his scarcely decorated home, not caring enough to pause to get something to eat even though he skipped out on dinner. Gaskarth barely eats anymore; he has lost all sense of an appetite. Besides, it is a lot easier to get drunk when one’s stomach is empty. Right now, Alex is finishing riding the buzz of his last drink. After the sting of downing the vodka leaves his throat, he must endure the bubbling it causes in his stomach. He heads to his bedroom, feeling his way through the hallway because he cannot be bothered with a light switch. He tramples across random objects spilled out on the floor, kicking aside clothing and picking up a half empty water bottle. He ignores his king-sized bed completely, unable to recall the last time he got a proper sleep.
Instead, he careens into his bathroom, knocking open the half closed door with a swift nudge of his shoulder. He pointedly avoids his smudged mirror as he shakily places the water bottle on the counter and begins to fiddle with his belt buckle. His fingernails indent themselves into the leather, tugging at the metal loop until the thing comes undone. Alex can feel the burn getting hotter now and quickly shrugs the denim down past his thighs. A pair of constrictive boxer briefs is revealed, a flashy deep red today, the cotton reflecting his mood nicely. He feels the tightening in his gut, and figures he may as well relieve his bladder first. He lifts the lid of his toilet, with far too much force, and winces as the porcelain lid clangs against the tank. He tips his head back as he fumbles with the opening of his briefs, not caring to watch where the string of urine lands so long as it is within the bowl’s vicinity.
It takes a moment too long. All the alcohol has caused his pituitary gland to reserve the anti diuretic hormone, which in turn has signalled Gaskarth’s kidneys to stop conserving water. He finally finishes, not entirely feeling better as he flushes and heads to the sink. He struggles with the taps, burning his hands with hot water as he fumbles with the soap pump. He does his best to keep his head down, strands of greasy hair getting tangled in his eyelashes, but as he turns off the tap and reaches for the neighbouring towel he catches a glimpse of himself anyways.
He looks, sordid. His appearance is dirty, dismal, and repulsive. As is his existence. The dark rings that circle his eyes cause an unnatural droop to his cheeks. His skin has a sickeningly pale tone to it, and is dotted with acne and unidentifiable bumps from lack of care. His hair sits limply on his head, a disturbing reddish copper tone, that lets everyone know just how much of an attention whore he is. He quirks his mouth experimentally, facial muscles twitching into a frown because even his lips are dried and torn. He tries inhaling more through his nostrils, instinctively swiping at his upper lip in an almost defensive move. Alex is ugly and people still approach him. Alex is terrible and people still care. Alex destroyed someone’s life, and some greater good is keeping him alive. He supposes it is punishment. Dying would be too easy.
No, Gaskarth’s life is meant to stringed along, extensive and meaningless. He is meant to play the role of a villain and victim. Alex fucked up and now he is going to pay for it. He asked for it. All his life, he tried so hard to bend the rules, never bothering to stay on the path of normalcy. A life of education and hard work was never for him. He had to think outside of the box, colour outside of the lines. He dragged Rian into coming with him, lured Zack in, and, well anyone else that came along was willing. But willing or not, this is all Alex’s fault. He wanted this. He believed he needed this. He always thought that he was special, talented, gifted. That he had that something others yearn for. Naturally, it was his job to share. To feel, and then tells others how to feel. He had to get up on a stage and preach like some damned saint. He liked to pretend to care, liked how the eyes watched him, how they screamed for more. They were his and he was there’s. It was perfect because it was mutual. But of course, Alex was selfish. He took it for granted, and forgot about metaphors to concentrate on innuendos. He lied and manipulated to get that release. He thought he was doing them all a favour. So now karma is returning that favour.
Now the drunk plays his role good and proper. He says all the right words and makes all the right moves. He fucks up, on purpose. He gets drunk, has sex, and shrugs off consequences in favour of spending another night awake in his bed. He talks to his conscious and curses his old friends. He shies away from the decent and delves in the filth. He does not want pressure and hides from responsibility. He spends all his time in a club, because he is unsure of the parties in hell. He wanted glamour and now he has danger. They go hand in hand really. Fame is partnered with fear, and the artist is a delicate state of mind. Despite his own beliefs, Alex was weak, and breakable. He is damaged goods because he stole commodities. He stole hearts, lives, and most importantly, hope. He was a thief in broad daylight, able to nick pure love with a single squeeze of the hand, swipe of the tongue. He was careful and calculated, but now he has truly perfected his character. They are one and the same, Alex and failure.
There are rare times though, where Gaskarth’s costume does not fit right. Sometimes he forgets his lines. He feels himself slipping, into this grey area where he is neither right nor wrong. He just is. He just feels scared. Like now. He whips his head away from the mirror, hating what he sees, what he fails to recognize. His stomach is churning now, and his skin is getting hotter. He knees waver, knocking together. His pants slide as he turns, he has not bothered to redo his buckle and now everything is too small and too close.
He shakily removes his jeans completely, his fingers searing against his own legs. Off go his socks, the coolness of the tile floor chilling the palms of his feet. Yet is it not enough. He yanks at his t-shirt, shivering at the tingling as the wet fabric is literally peeled off his body. He stands there, in only his underwear, as he tries to get a grip. His sweaty hands go to his stomach, a flat crevice littered in love bites. It stirs loudly, and Gaskarth tries rubbing it soothingly to no avail. He reaches for the water bottle he brought with him, tossing the lid haphazardly as he chugs the entire thing in one sip. The room is silent except for his swallows and the crinkling of the plastic as he grips at the bottle too harshly. He finishes too fast, and gasps for air.
The inhalation just makes his stomach hurt more, and he is only half surprised when it is time for him to fold over. The pain in his gut doubles, triples, and quadruples as the back of his mind taunts him. Remember when everyone used to give Alex what he wanted? Remember when Alex thought he knew what he was doing? Remember when Alex was happy? It all seems so long ago, but maybe that is only because this current scene is so familiar. It happens every so often, the way he sinks to his knees, forehead dipping until it presses up against the floor. His breathing is accelerating now, causing his heart to beat overtime. His muscles tense as he lies completely flat, almost as if he is anticipating an attack. He plays dead, waiting for it to hit. It takes a few more minutes, for him reach the point of hysteria. But he does, oh he always does.
The doubt boils in his stomach, and there is nothing he can do. He pulls at his hairs, his scalp stinging at his desperateness. He tries distracting himself, because his mind can never focus on one thing for too long anyways. Different scenes flash from underneath his closed eyelids. He sees them smiling, hears them laughing, feels their hugs, tastes their kisses. It replays in his head, and warps and twists into something else. He feels his temperature rise as his heart empties. He needs to forget. He needs to stop remembering. His muscles twitch and he is practically convulsing on the floor. He heads turns to the side, nose crushing against the tile as he tries to breathe. The memories bombard his psyche, and yet the pain is purely physical. His abdomen is searing in pain now, he is on fire.
His hands move down from his hair and clutch at his ugly face. They slide down his cheeks, trembling and scratching. His fingernails leave tiny curved tracks down his profile as he digs into the skin. It is getting tighter and hotter. His own skin is cutting off his circulation and breathing. The lack of blood and oxygen causes everything to go faster, until his mind can longer keep to speed and draws blank. The only thing he can think of doing it taking it off. His skin, he aches to rip off the epidermis and reveal the bone white skeleton underneath. Alex Gaskarth is dressed up as himself. He has taken on a persona, put on a mask, in order to hide from his fears. He has taken to the role so firmly that now he no longer knows what he really looks like, who he really is. Only one thing is for sure, whatever Alex looks like underneath cannot be anymore terrifying than the gloom that follows him night and day.
He draws his knees into his stomach now, thighs cramping as he pushes himself up. He crawls pathetically to the toilet, gripping the porcelain, and he swears that the sweat on his hands is steam from the contrast in temperature. The mere sight of the pure shining white object that is subjected to baring the nastiest of residues is too much for Alex. He begins to retch, choking on his own breathing. The rectal muscles in his abdomen strain with the effort, and his hands slide to grip at the bowl better. A series of dry heaving follows as he gags on his insecurities. They mull and sizzle in his gut until he can no longer handle them. Nothing lands into the water, but the pain is ever present. Some of it is buried so far deep that vomiting is not even an option. Gaskarth’s head spins as he stands up fully, only for a second so he can sit down against the toilet, underwear settled around his ankles. He lets his bowels get to work and only feels slightly better as everything is let go. He feels about as shitty as what his body ousts, but is comforted to know the worse is over for now. He settles his elbows on his wobbly knees, wiping back tears that leak from the ducts of his eyes as one last coherent thought is processed.
I deserve this.
For Alex Gaskarth that is a three word phrase as common as ‘I love you.’ It is a mantra, a battle cry, his catchphrase, that the befallen hero repeats over and over again. It is the only thing that can reassure him in times like these that what is happening to him is normal, expected. This constant unease and distress is common for the drunk. He skitters around, scared of unseen demons because he is the devil.
Alex deserves this.
*Jack deems himself well enough to visit the club exactly five days later. It now early Wednesday afternoon, and he figures this the prime time to visit the employees of ‘The Party Scene.’ Wednesdays are not usually all that busy, and if he manages to arrive before the doors officially open he may be able to catch them all off guard. Then again, Jack’s appearance in itself is already quite startling. The aftermath of the fight has begun to bloom nicely into full out bruises. His face is shining with various hues of purple and blue, marking disrupted blood. He walks slowly, with a slight limp and grimace whenever his left foot hits the pavement. He sports a thick hooded sweatshirt today, because the weather is getting colder and the soft cotton acts as insulation against his bruised ribs. The amateur psychoanalyst spent most of his weekend in bed, having to listen to Gabe’s worried natter. Then when the psychology student had to get to lecture on Monday he encountered various difficulties in the form of stairs and heavy textbooks. Needless to say the boy is exhausted, and did not even have time to look up some last minute theories, not that Saporta let him anywhere near his own laptop while on bed rest. Regardless Jack feels quite prepared for what he is about to do. He is a natural charmer after all.
Barakat, coffee cup in hand, approaches the club’s front entrance, subconsciously flattening down his uprooted hair and places a hand on the handle. He smirks to himself to find the place unlocked, despite the unlighted room before him and shuffles in. The venue is quite different earlier in the day, not as dark and much too quiet. So Jack does his best to muffle his footsteps as he approaches the dance floor. He can spot the bouncer and tender fiddling with lights from a control board near the disc jockey’s platform. They take no note of him, until a spotlight is turned on, coincidentally shining directly down at the amateur psychoanalyst’s thin but well dressed frame.
“Fuck,” curses the tender, as he spots Barakat’s shadow before him, “Where the hell did you come from?”
The bouncer says nothing, but not so subtly places a restraining arm on his friend’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry to scare you,” Jack begins slowly, holding his free hand and coffee up to show he is not armed, “I just want to talk.”
“I don’t really have anything to say,” Rian excuses, shrugging off Zack’s hold. “So I think you should go.”
“That’s fine, you can just listen,” Jack intercepts, holding his ground.
Dawson stands there, mouth agape at the boy’s forwardness, but eventually sighs and gives in. He steps down from the platform so he can stand eye to eye with the psychology student. Merrick stands a few feet behind him, ready to step in if needed.
“I just wanted to apologize.” Barakat begins, stalling by taking a sip of his drink. He is in need of a caffeine boost. “My behaviour the other night is embarrassing. It was wrong of me to get drunk, and it was even worse to take out my frustrations about losing my girlfriend on someone who was only trying to help me.”
Jack peers over Rian’s shoulder to look directly at Zack, “Can you please forgive me?”
The bouncer opens his mouth in response, but the tender cuts him off. “You really think it’s that easy?” he snaps.
“I-”
“That you can just apologize and expect everything to go back to how things were?” he continues, “It’s not that easy. You can’t just go around hurting people and expect them to forget about how much pain you caused them.”
Jack says nothing, letting the man continue his tirade as it becomes less and less relevant to their current situation.
“Each one of your actions has consequences so you always have to consider other people’s feelings. Just because you’re friends, and you know they’ll do their best to understand, doesn’t mean its okay to get away with all the shit you do. There’s only so much someone can put up with before they-.”
“Rian,” the tender whispers, stepping in and wrapping an arm around the man’s waist, “Relax.”
“N-no,” Dawson argues, “He should hear this, it’s his fault what happened last night, he needs to-”
“Last time I checked it was you beating the shit out of him Rian,” a new voice sounds throughout the empty room. All three of them turn to see Alex coming out of the shade of the venue. “So I’d say you also have some apologizing to do.”
“Alex, I-,” the tender stammers, so startled with the fact that Gaskarth cares enough to even bother with the issue that he does not even register that his friend is probably right.
“When Zack grabbed me to come help, it seemed like you were the one causing the trouble, not Jack,” The disc jockey continues, looking pointedly at the tender as he takes careful steps toward the group. He seems perfectly cool and calm. He is groomed to perfection and though his eyes are covered by his styled bangs, they are clear. He has not started to drink yet. “He’s the one with the black eye, not you.”
Gaskarth’s words are no surprise to the amateur psychoanalyst. No, Jack takes another large sip of his hot caffeinated drink to hide the grin that is threatening to overwhelm his face. Alex knows his name.
“You’re right,” Dawson declares after a short moment of contemplation. He sighs and turns his attention back to Barakat, who appears to be as nonchalant as Gaskarth, but is in actuality biting back an excited yelp. “You barely touched Zack, and I, I took it too far. I guess, I just, sometimes I, lose control, and....” He shakes his shaved head, unable to continue.
The psychology student nods, figuring that much is true. He was right in his suspicions that Alex’s symptoms have taken their toll on the disc jockey’s friends. Unlike Gaskarth, the tender can barely keep his emotions repressed. Wearing his heart on his sleeve, Rian Dawson is volatile. His patience has worn thin from watching his best friend indulge in so much self-destruction. So while he does his best to maintain his cool around the drunk, any reference to self disregard sets him off. Usually Zack is able to calm the tender down, with reassuring words and gentle massages, but last night was too much for Rian. All his frustrations that he has been bottling up for so long, they just had to be released. He has not blown up like that since Alex admitted how badly he screwed up last year. But that is behind them, sort of.
“I understand,” the university student assures the tender, “We were both in the wrong. Me for instigating the fight, and you for taking it too far. Let’s just put this behind us huh?”
Rian nods, stepping forward to offer Jack his hand. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. I forgive you.”
Barakat returns the gesture finally letting loose a small, almost timid smile. “Could you forgive me too?” he asks Zack.
“Course,” chuckles Merrick, the only one to return Jack’s smile, “No harm done.”
“Anyways,” Jack clears his throat awkwardly after having shaken the bouncer’s hand also, “I better go. I’ll let you guys finish setting up. I’d offer to help, but I’m not really capable of lifting heavy objects right now.”
“D-don’t worry about it,” Rian comforts unsteadily, “We really appreciate you coming down here and uh, apologizing. That takes guts.”
Jack says nothing, shooting the bouncer and tender one last half-hearted smile. He waves lightly towards the disc jockey, who has not said anything else during the conversation. If anything, Alex looks confused as to why he got involved in the first place.
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A/N: And so the unconventional treatment begins! I hope this chapter has given everyone some insight on Jack’s extreme methods, Rian’s anger and Alex’s GAD. Despite the chaos, we do have progress. Alex knows Jack’s name :)