The Freudian Slip (8/15) (Part Three)
Title: The Freudian Slip (8/15) (Part Three)
Author: Gess aka live_by_lyrics
Pairing: Jack Barakat/Alex Gaskarth
P.O.V.: third person omniscient, (slightly limited to Jack Barakat)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: References to sensuous touching 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:
Alright, so usually I don’t bother providing any sort of translation to the various ‘Freudian slip-ups’ Gabe’s character has when he starts speaking Spanish because the words aren’t all that important so much as the situation in which is causing his repression. But in this chapter Gabe uses the word encantado, which literally translates to enchanted, but is really is another way of saying ‘delighted to meet you,’ or ‘pleasure to meet you.’ I’ve mentioned that Gabe is a valuable side character, and this is a clue as to why he is important. So please take note of it when it happens. :)
Masterpost | Writing Tumblr
Step 1 of Treatment: Establish a relationship with the patient.
“You okay?” Rian asks his friend long after the university student has left the ‘The Party Scene.’
“Course,” Alex scoffs, his grip tightening around the broom handle he is holding. Gaskarth has uncharacteristically offered to help clean up for tonight, and ever since then Dawson has been unable to stop staring. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You, you just,-” the tender struggles to describe what happened earlier because even he is unsure. “I don’t know, you just seem a little off today ‘Xander.”
Gaskarth’s fingers flex at the mention of the childhood nickname. He does not know why Rian feels like it is okay to start calling him that again, because it is not. “I’m just tired,” he excuses though it is not a lie. He is tired. He never gets much sleep but ever since last Friday’s episode, everything has been much worse. Last night, after he finished using the washroom, the pain in his gut was so bad that he was reduced to crawling on his hands and knees to his bedroom. He collapsed before he even made it onto the bed. He awoke a few hours later to a growling stomach and was obliged to eat something. Zack had brought him some more groceries the other day, so he managed to cook some boxed pasta, but it had just made his stomach upset. The drunk is not accustomed to proper meals. So he ended up sprawled out on his barely used couch, watching mindless television until Merrick called to let Alex know that the pair were going to pick him up for work. The disc jockey has not even drunk a drop of alcohol yet, and it is almost eight thirty.
“You look beat bro,” the bouncer admits, a little crease of worry touching his face. “Have you been eating?”
Alex huffs indignantly, pretending to be tired of the way his friends baby him. “Yeah I did. The pasta you brought over.”
Instead of backing off due to Gaskarth’s temperament, Zack merely smiles knowingly, reaching forward to grab at Alex’s slim shoulder roughly. “Good.”
“You guys worry too much,” the disc jockey laments, looking down at his shoes as he shrugs out of Merrick’s loving grip. Which Alex knows is terribly hypocritical to say, when all he does is worry. All he is does is think about his demons, and anticipate the worst.
“It’s only because we care,” Rian insists, which is also seemingly ironic, because Dawson has a funny way of showing he cares about any of his friends.
“We love you Alex,” Zack adds earnestly, though he can feel the tension between the three of them. The disc jockey looks like a tight bundle of nerves that is about to come undone. The tender looks like damned up river, also ready to burst.
“Thanks,” Gaskarth nods, ruffling his bangs.
“No fucking problem,” snaps Dawson ruining the sincerity of the moment and rolling his eyes in irritation.
Alex frowns, disappointed with how he cannot even articulate himself properly anymore. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he struggles for words, finally looking at his friend in the face. “I’m serious when I say ‘thank you,’ I know I don’t deser-...I mean, the fact you guys are still...I know I don’t show it, but I appreciate it, okay?”
Rian nods, cursing himself for not being able to read his friend the way he used to be able to. “Uh, yeah. I get it.” It seems that none of them are able to talk about how they feel anymore. All they do is fight and push. Emotions are put on hold and all that seems to come out of their mouths are defensives slurs and dead panned humour.
“Well, while we’re all here, together and er, talking, we might as well start thinking about the future,” the bouncer suggests awkwardly.
“The f-future?” Alex stutters, because he is stuck in the past.
“The near future,” the bouncer corrects himself, “‘The Scene’ is going to turn a month old, and we need to celebrate.”
“We’re half way through October,” Rian muses aloud. “You know what that means.”
Alex’s mouth is too dry to speak, but Merrick beats him to it. “Halloween!”
“We have to have a special event,” Rian enthuses, “With live entertainment.”
“Sounds great,” Alex agrees half-heartedly, thankful that means he will not have to work that night.
“It’s got to be festive,” Zack continues, “How about anyone who dresses up gets in half price?”
“That’s actually not a bad idea,” the tender considers.
“But, w-will we have to dress up?” the disc jockey asks nervously.
“Of course,” Merrick claps, “It’ll be fun.”
“I don’t know...” Gaskarth trails off uneasily, scratching his face a little too roughly.
“Oh come on Alex,” Dawson sighs, “You love Halloween.”
“Yeah, before when-,” the drunk begins, but shakes his head in defeat, “Alright fine. I’ll wear a stupid costume.”
“If it’s really that stupid, you don’t have to,” Zack bends easily, but Rian will not have it.
“It’s not stupid. It’s a tradition that you used to do every year long after everyone else our age did. Just because this past year has meant a lot of changes for all of us doesn’t meant you have turn your back on everything you’ve ever stood for.”
The disc jockey’s initial reaction is to defend his hypocrisy, but decides against it. He bites back his tongue, knowing he could never accurately describe how he feels, let alone why. To explain what has happened these past two years would require recalling countless memories he would never have the guts to retell. And while Rian and Zack were, are, and try to be his best friends; Alex fears even they will not understand. How could they possibly comprehend that Gaskarth did terrible, downright immoral things because he thought it was for the greater good of everyone? No one bothers figuring out Alex’s motive, he is simply a criminal who had the intent to hurt as many people as possible. It does not matter if Alex invested too much of his own heart into his deeds, because the aftermath was deemed heartless. Everything is his fault; the countless law suit cases from supposed management, the widespread hate from the audience both in person and online, and of course the never ending self-destruction. Alex both embodies and inspires absolute obliteration.
So what right does Gaskarth have to enjoy anything anymore? Why should he be reminded of his past self, the one who held the thirty first of October so very dearly? As a child he loved the thrill of getting to dress up as someone else for a night, wandering the streets in the dark, pilfering candy from willing neighbours. As he grew older, Halloween meant house parties, an innumerable amount of drunken teenage bodies rammed up against one another in a thick gloom of smoke and loud music. Then finally, Halloween marks the first time Alex started lying to himself. That was the day Alex fell in love with the feeling of playing a role. He could be someone else whenever he felt it was convenient. He could please everyone, and when everyone else was happy, so was Alex. He dismissed issues, avoided discussion, he forgot all about being true to his words. He was a pathological liar, a demented kid in a costume who lied and tricked just to get a couple of treats. Well now Alex sports far too many costumes, too many layers, he seems lost in the fabric of time. The mask will not come off now, and he is suffocating. He has no choice but to continue dressing up as an indifferent asshole.
“People change Rian,” Gaskarth quotes some cheesy pathetic excuse, “It’s called growing up.”
“Really?‘Cause it seems to me like you gave up.”
“Guys,” the bouncer interrupts, having heard this fight a countless number of times already. “Focus.”
“Whatever,” Alex mutters, not really wanting to repeat this argument again. He tosses the broom he was holding onto the floor, disrupting the pile of dirt he previously made. “I need a drink.”
“Of course you do,” the tender spits as his friend walks away.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” sighs the bouncer once Alex has hopped over the bar counter.
The tender huffs, “Doesn’t matter, our Alex is as good as gone.”
“You know that’s not true. He was almost normal again, least for a few hours.”
Rian just shrugs, picking up the abandoned broom. “There’s only one person who can bring the real Alex back. And we both know they’re never coming back.”
*
It takes another week before Gabe brings it up. Jack is not surprised, the older man’s attention span is not all that wide, but he has barely taken off his shoes when it happens.
“You lost!” the psychology student accuses, springing up from his seat on the couch. The television is set on some soccer match and for a second Barakat assumes his roommate is shouting at the screen. Gabe is quite enthusiastic when it comes to football, but Saporta is in fact talking to Jack.
“Excuse me?” the younger of the two questions, sitting down on the opposing couch.
“Our bet,” Gabriel reminds him, grinning proudly as he points a finger at his roommate in accusation. “Don’t pretend you don’t remember. It’s been past three weeks.”
“Oh,” the amateur psychoanalyst feigns astonishment. “What was the bet again?”
The philosophy student snorts in frustration. “You said I’d meet your latest fling in three weeks. That was up a week ago and I still haven’t met him. You’re doing my laundry for the next two months!”
Jack waits a moment before responding because Saporta’s triumphant laughter is rather loud. Besides, it is almost cruel for Barakat to burst his roommate’s bubble when Gabe has been so helpful lately. Of course the psychology student has not lost the bet. The amateur psychoanalyst never loses at anything.
“I guess I do,” the younger submits nonchalantly, spoiling Gabe’s fun.
“Yeah you do. Though you haven’t been out all that much this week,” the elder notes, “You guys through already?”
“No, I’ve been waiting for the bruises to fade a little,” Jack excuses, tracing his eye. The skin is still a mottled hue of blue-green. “I’ll see him on Halloween.” The amateur psychoanalyst recalls a promotional flyer he saw outside a certain club, “At ‘The Party Scene.’”
“You’re going back there?” Saporta asks in disbelief. “Are you nuts?”
“They’re having a costume theme,” explains Barakat, “So whoever started the fight won’t recognize me.”
“It’s still dangerous,” argues Gabriel, muting the television so he can talk some sense into the younger boy. “Especially on Halloween. People get up to all sorts of things.”
“I’m going,” Jack reaffirms, “You can’t exactly stop me.”
“Fine, then I’m going with you,” Gabe counters, “You can’t tell me not to go anymore.”
“Gabe,” the psychology major sighs, “I don’t need babysitting.”
“You seemed fine with it yesterday when I helped you re-bandage your ribs,” the philosophy student snaps.
“That’s different;” Jack lies, “That’s when I needed your help. I don’t need it now.”
“I’m not going there to help,” Gabe lies too, not as convincingly. “It seemed like a good place to party, and I have the right to go there if I want.”
“Alright then,” the amateur psychoanalyst sighs, deciding to change the subject. “I bought my costume today. Wanna see it?”
Gabe nods, and Jack pulls out a bag he brought in earlier with him. Barakat reveals a long and stretchy spandex one piece suit.
“Nice,” Saporta approves, the tiniest smirk on his lips, “You think they got-” but before he can even suggest the costume, Jack pulls out a second bag that Gabe did not remember seeing when his roommate entered their apartment. The amateur psychoanalyst is always one step ahead of him.
“I figured you’d want this,” the younger confesses, revealing a second suit.
“Oh you little...” curses Gabe lightly, lunging forwards to pull the spandex out of Jack’s hands. “You knew I’d come with you the whole time!”
“I’m going to go try mine on,” Jack dismisses the claim as he gets off the couch before Saporta can call him out for his manipulation. “Your mask is in the bag.”
*“Dude, you would,” Alex chuckles when he enters ‘The Party Scene,’ early on the last day of October. He arrived in a cab tonight because even though his car has been fixed for a few days now, he intends on getting dangerously drunk. He needs to release all the tightening in his muscles, needs to feel dirty adoration. Then he plans to drink even more, for he does not need any sort of recollection of what will happen tonight.
“What?” Zack asks innocently, flexing his arms from within the tight blue spandex he is dawning. There is a bright red cape wrapped around his neck and a bold yellow ‘S’ emblazoned on his chest. The costume suits the honest and kind bouncer perfectly. His use of menace and strength is in the name of justice. He believes in retribution, the ability to reform, but will resort to restitution, taking an eye for an eye, when needed.
“You’re so full of it,” Gaskarth kids, unable to deny the grin on his face as he takes in his friend’s costume. The bouncer even has on red underwear and matching leather boots over the tights. A gold belt ties the whole look together and if it were not for his curly hair, Merrick would look exactly like the original Clark Kent.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Zack jokes, shoving the disc jockey playfully.
“Ouch,” Gaskarth pretends to pout, rubbing his arm, “Watch that superhuman strength there.”
At that the bouncer just laughs, “Rian’s waiting for you inside.”
“Oh?” the drunk stalls, not really wanting to have to help out with last minute decorating, “He dressed in tights too?”
“Nope,” Merrick bites his lip to keep in the chuckling, “He’s actually wearing a dress.”
“No,” Alex denies, unable to picture his other friend in anything but pants. “Really?”
“Go check it out for yourself,” Superman encourages, pushing his friend through the threshold of the door before the topic of what Alex is dressed as can arise.
*“Nice dress man,” Gaskarth commentates when he spots Rian up on the platform, helping the live entertainment set up. With no help from the disc jockey, the bouncer and tender have managed to get a local band to play tonight, a couple of over excited teenage boys who are shivering at the thought of their first gig. They remind Dawson of themselves not so long ago, over eager to face the world and unable to weigh the price of fame.
“It’s not a dress, its animal hide,” Rian sighs, having already heard a lot of teasing on Zack’s behalf.
“Animal hide, in the shape of a dress,” Alex amends with a smirk. “Didn’t Tarzan just wear a loincloth though?”
“I’m not Tarzan,” the tender informs him, fiddling with a few electrical cords before Alex hops up on the platform and takes the wiring from him. Gaskarth had always been much handier with the electronic aspect of their lives and often doubled as a technical assistant when needed.
“Oh I know,” Alex says, untangling the wires and searching for an outlet, “You’re Jane right?”
“I’m not a jungle person!” Dawson huffs, fiddling with the brown furry fabric that does in fact look like a sort of shapeless halter dress that reaches down to his knees. “I’m a caveman.”
“Like Fred Flintstone?” Alex gasps in faux surprise, recalling the animated television series and much simpler times.
“Yeah,” grunts Rian, wishing he had his plastic wooden club with him so he can bash Gaskarth over the head with it. Dawson’s attire compliments his attitude perfectly. Aggressive and ruled by instinct, the tender is ignorant for the sake of surviving.
“You definitely sound like a caveman,” the disc jockey muses to himself, smiling as he locates an extension cord with multiple outlets.
“What about you?” the tender dares to question, the simplicity of Alex’s costume not having been unnoticed.
“What about me?” the drunk tenses, stepping off of the platform, his back turned away from his friend.
“What are you dressed up as?” Dawson queries.
“What does it look like?” the disc jockey asks in a seemingly bored tone, “A skeleton of course.”
Rian says nothing, unconsciously glancing at the disc jockey’s left forearm. He knows there is a tattoo of a skeleton that looks uncannily alike to the costume Alex is wearing on it. Dawson remembers the day Alex got it clearly. The four them had gone to a tattoo parlour to celebrate their success on having ‘made it,’ and had declared the experience as something that would ‘bring them closer together.’ Gaskarth never did properly explain the meaning behind the image, brushing it off as a tribute to his love of Halloween. Not that it really matters in the end. It only took about a year for their bond to disintegrate, and another year for Alex to fall apart. Though the ink on Gaskarth’s arm is permanent, his resolve is not.
*
Regardless of whether or not Alex enjoys wearing a costume, he will admit that Zack’s idea is pretty awesome. As the club slowly fills up with various masked party goers, the disc jockey cannot help but laugh. Some of the costumes he has seen are pretty ridiculous. Most of them have an underlying tone to them, sexiness, but not everyone is able to pull it off. Alex dances with those who do. So far he has danced with a French maid, an angel, and an old fashioned witch.
He is currently being grinded up against by a naughty nurse. He wraps his arms around her bony waist, ducking his head down to her neck, ignoring the plastic stethoscope that is wrapped around it. He nips softly at her exposed skin, for she has not buttoned up her dress up high enough. A bit of the face paint he put on today is smudging the whiteness of her attire, but she does not seem to mind by the way she presses her chest up closer to his. He can feel the curves of her breasts against his own, and though he would prefer a larger cup size, one of his hands begins to slip up her side. Just as he is about to close his eyes completely, and let himself be consumed in the hormone rush, a small commotion is heard from the edge of the dance floor.
The dancing crowd soon parts to reveal what or rather who has caused such uproar. Two men have arrived to the club, also dressed up as superheroes. But unlike Merrick’s outfit, the spandex is much too small on their tall and thin frames. The elastic fibre clings to their skin, cinching to the curve of their limbs. The shiny LYCRA is tautly stretched over their board shoulders, tight on their firm long thighs and unyielding in exposing definite backsides. On any other day the sight would be declared a bold fashion statement gone awry. But because tonight is Halloween, everything that is seemingly wrong with their elastane outfits is just so right. Not only are they allowed access into the club, they have all eyes on them. Their long strides into the venue are the ultimate tease. Bones protrude from the spandex, muscles flexing as they walk. It is strange how aroused most of the crowd becomes without a single flash of flesh. It seems that when things are left to the imagination figures become streamlined to perfection. No one can be completely sure of what is hidden beneath wide plastic belts and sheer coloured thongs. Even their faces are covered, by identical black masks, that give nothing away but neutral lips.
It is astounding how calm they both appear with the amount of chatter and cat calling their entrances cause. Despite the similarities in body type one can make out distinct features between the two. The first is shorter, with bits of straight black hair escaping from his hat. The second has a small height advantage, and an array of curly dark brown hair. Alex decides that they probably are not related, possibly best friends or maybe even a couple. This assumption is made by most of the crowd when the shorter of the two one leads the other by the hand towards the lounge. Slowly everyone turns back to the partner or drink they have in front of them. All interest peaks once the pair is seated. They begin to talk to another, animatedly to compensate for the loud music. The one in a mix of red and green seems to be concerned with something. He fiddles with his short yellow cape, before gesturing vaguely out into the crowd. The smaller of the two, whose costume is completely black, shakes his head so firmly that the pointed ears on his head flop. He seems to be waiting for a certain flash of light in the sky, the Bat-signal that will indicate action.
*It is much later into the night that Alex encounters Batman at the bar. He sits with a drained glass in front of him while Gaskarth downs a bottle of Daniels. The drunk does not see Robin anywhere in sight so he deems it okay to make a move.
“Hey,” the disc jockey greets casually, eyeing how sleek the man’s body looks up close.
The super hero hesitates for a moment; dark eyes tentatively watching Alex sit down beside him. “Hi.”
“I, uh, couldn’t help but notice your entrance,” Gaskarth begins. He knows he sounds incredibly cheesy but he is feeling a bit tipsy and really could not care less.
Batman’s features upturn into a smirk from behind his mask. “I’m kind of famous,” he jokes, gesturing down at the bat logo on his chest.
“Of course,” Alex plays along, leaning in closer on his stool in pretence of inspecting the symbol. “Who doesn’t like it when the super hero comes along to save the day?”
The super hero’s lips quirk at the statement, almost as if he knows something but should not say. “It’s usually after dark when the real bad guys come out to play,” he states evenly, not adding anything else as Gaskarth traces the yellow outline of the bat symbol. The drunk’s touch is feather light but there is no hiding the way the man’s chest heaves at the feeling.
“Are you implying that I’m a bad guy?” the disc jockey teases, settling his drink down on the counter.
“No,” Batman assures him, “At least I don’t think so.”
“But what if I am?” Alex muses darkly, both his hands on the other man’s broad shoulders. His palms are moist, and run smoothly against the spandex. “What if I told you I’ve done some really, really bad things.”
“Then I’d- I’d have to punish you,” the super hero admits softly, tipping his head to the side in order to nuzzle one of the drunk’s hands with his cheek.
Gaskarth raises his eyebrows in faux surprise, pulling back. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not the bad guy then.”
Batman nods, “Really good, considering I don’t dance with bad guys.”
Before Alex points out that he has not agreed to dance with the costume clad man, the super hero has pulled him up off the bar stool. Tons of other limbs squash into their sides as they get onto the floor, but as far as the pair is concerned it is only the two of them. The heat of the masses is nothing compared to the desire radiating off their bodies as they press together. Their hips lock up against one another as their arms are intertwined, nails digging into fabric, hair and exposed skin. It does not take long for their movements to become harsh and gritty. The dim lighting does nothing to disguise the way they look at each other. They push and pull at one another, their hearts’ thrums increasing at the thought of being closer.
A single nod from Batman is all it takes, and suddenly Alex is the one doing the leading. He wraps a firm hand around the other’s wrist, mumbling incoherently all the way to the lounge. The disc jockey is resolute in his actions, and when the superhero stalls to sit down, Gaskarth sits him down by the waist. He presses his full body weight down on the taller and lankier form, wasting no time to seat himself on the man’s lap. With his back to the crowd, Alex folds his legs in at the knee, one of his hands gripping at his ankle nervously. He knows he is being forward, demanding intimacy in public from someone he has known for less than an hour, but all rationality was downed with his last drink. His hair falls in line of his vision but he can still make out the way the super hero is eyeing his lips. Alex knows they look a little plumper right now, from the constant biting down he has been doing in expectancy.
“Well?” he asks after a moment in which neither of them makes another move. His confidence falters for a moment, but the dark figure brings a hand to his face. His gloved thumb traces a line from the tip of his cheekbones to his ear and then back around down his jaw to his lips.
“You’re a very, very bad man,” Batman says finally, his voice a little huskier than Alex remembers. Before the drunk can go to defend himself, they begin to kiss.
The action is not all that romantic. If anything, it is raw and needy. Alex’s previously fidgety hands trail up the man’s chest to wrap around the nape of his neck. The super hero cups both his hands on either side of the drunk’s face; middle fingers pressing closed the ear canal so that the live performance is blocked out entirely. They take turns pushing each other onward, Gaskarth nipping at the man’s bottom lip only to have Batman tug at his upper lip in a stuttered sucking motion. The disc jockey leans in further as the adrenaline rush kicks in, tiny surges in blood flow starting something deeper. Just as Alex begins to pry open the other’s mouth, the super hero jerks to the left, pulling apart their mouths completely.
“You,” he breathes, “You-” but that is all he manages to sputter before Gaskarth takes the open mouth to his advantage, shamelessly inserting his tongue into the other’s oral cavity. The super hero chokes a little, surprised at the intrusion, but soon gathers his bearings. Their saliva begins to mix as they shove up even closer against one another. One of Alex’s hands strays away from the man’s neck and makes its way down to Batman’s hip. The tightness of the mysterious figure’s outfit makes it easier for the drunk to locate the protruding bone in his hazy state. He pushes his thumb against the pelvis, fingers curling around the waist in way that is equivalent of pushing the man’s biological buttons. The super hero involuntarily ruts forward, pressing a half hard and thinly sheathed phallus to the disc jockey’s thigh. Batman delves deeper into the drunk’s mouth, tongue registering all the alcohol Alex drank tonight.
Gaskarth likes the taste of the other man, not at all tainted by the poison and therefore naturally sweeter. His mouth is warm and wet, and the feeling is nice. But nowhere near as stimulating as the friction between their legs. Alex soon unravels the knot of his limbs, tying his ankles around the super hero’s waist. This leaves no barriers between them save for the material of their clothing. The super hero tips his head back at the encompassing touch, letting loose a low moan as the drunk kisses down his jaw line. The line of tender presses get rougher as Alex reaches the high collar of the costume. He is frustrated at the lack of supple skin and raises a hand to pull back the fabric only to have the body underneath him freeze up. Gaskarth tilts back slowly. His own phallus is now semi-hard and struggling within the depths of his cotton one piece suit. He cannot stop now.
“Can I take this off?” he croaks, not really wanting to give the man a choice.
Batman stalls for a moment, dark eyes searching
“Super heroes aren’t supposed to reveal their true identity,” he says finally.
“Why not?” the disc jockey questions, grinding down a little harder against the super hero’s hips. He wonders what this man is hiding beneath the mask. At this point he is too turned on to care about acne, a scar, or closely grown eyebrows. Alex has done too many things with too many people to be bothered about disfiguring qualities. If anyone is ugly, it is Gaskarth. The darkness of his psyche warps his features.
The super hero sighs, settling his hands on the other’s shoulders and pulling him into an embrace. That is all the encouragement the disc jockey needs. His hands fumble around the back of Batman’s head, struggling to find the cords that tie the black mask to the super hero’s cranium. They come undone easily, and the drunk’s hands sit on each side of Batman’s face, kissing him briefly on the lips before beginning to peel the mask off. Alex takes his time, indulging in the suspense of the moment and stopping when the mask reaches the bridge of the other man’s nose.
From what he can make out of Batman’s jaw and cheeks he looks completely fine. He is handsome even, with his definite structuring and smooth skin. His lips are still the centre of Gaskarth’s attention though, so the drunk smothers them once again. The disc jockey decides to shut his eyes and keep up with the kiss as he pulls off the rest of the mask. As the super hero responds with a harsher press of his own, the rest of the mask comes off, pointy ears and all. Alex runs his calloused hands through the hair, liking the feel of the sweaty silk. The steadying hand that has been sitting on the small of his back eventually eases up, and Gaskarth takes that as sign to relent. The drunk unwillingly pulls back, fluttering his lashes playfully before looking up at the unmasked hero to see a familiar face.
He rubs at his eyes, trying to clear his drunken vision, but there is no deception. “You again?” he gasps in surprise, leaning abruptly back on Jack’s legs.
“Me again,” Barakat admits, and suddenly his voice is a little less deep, and a lot less husky.
“Why didn’t you say something?” Alex demands, scrambling out of the man’s lap.
“Because I knew you’d do this,” the amateur psychoanalyst rationalizes, grabbing one of Gaskarth’s arms, and pulling the drunk down beside him on the chaise.
“What do you think you’re playing at?” the disc jockey hisses, the realization of whom he has been making out with clearing his whole thought process. The alcohol seems to settle into his system and Alex feels disgusted for not figuring it out sooner.
“Nothing,” Barakat lies, “You just approached me, and I thought I’d have some fun. It’s Halloween and all, I didn’t think you’d...and by then I didn’t know how to tell you who I was.”
Gaskarth says nothing as he tries digesting the pitiful excuse. He crosses his arms over his chest and slumps into the seat, frustrated for being so blind. The drunk never hooks up with the same person twice. It is the golden rule; do not ever let anyone get too close. They do not need someone like Alex Gaskarth messing up their lives. Besides, Jack seems to be just as fucked up as he is, and the drunk gets into enough trouble on his own.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you,” the amateur psychoanalyst sighs, “I just, got caught up in the moment.”
The disc jockey rolls his eyes, knowing the man, or rather boy, is feeding him scripted lines now. “Alright, whatever. Jus’ don’t let it happen again.”
“Why not?” Jack dares to ask, turning on his side to face the drunk. “It’s not like we both didn’t enjoy it.” The university student looks down pointedly at the disc jockey’s crotch, the taunted cotton unable to hide the indiscreet bulge.
Alex scoffs at the unsubtle hinting. “Look kid, whatever you were hoping was going to happen tonight isn’t. I know you broke up with that girl and maybe you’re looking for someone to fill ‘the void’, but I’m not that person. A good guy like you can find someone better.”
Barakat does his best to keep his cool as Gaskarth patronizes him. “Actually, a good guy like me knows when he’s found someone special. And you’re it.”
The disc jockey flinches at the compliment. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then let me get to know you,” Jack challenges the drunk, leaning forward until their mouths are less than a centimetre apart.
Looking at the amateur psychoanalyst up close Alex can see that the bruises have not faded entirely. There is still a dull green shade that surrounds the boy’s eye and a small cut across his forehead. Gaskarth can make out splotches of black and white paint on the boy’s face that must have rubbed off of his own face when he kissed Barakat. The amateur psychoanalyst is staring Alex in the eye, an unwavering determinedness to his own. The boy is stubborn and naive and the disc jockey hates it.
Jack reminds Alex of himself a few years ago, when he had just graduated high school and had told his parents that he was not planning to go to college. Instead he was going to work on his band full time, the one he had with Rian Dawson and Zack Merrick, persisting with the idea they would get contracted. He remembers how much pleading the couple did, how his father’s pleading turned into yelling, his mother’s into tears. He recalls how every adult was against them, and how a lot of their friends tried reasoning with them. But Alex wanted it. He believed he could do it, and had he not done it, he would have died trying so.
The problem was not so much that Alex did not make his dreams come true, but that he could not handle his dreamland. So many different aspects of his new life ended up getting the better of him, but maybe he was just a lot weaker than he thought himself out to be. Reality exceeded his expectations, but the consequences also exceeded his actions. Gaskarth learned the hard way that one should be careful about what they wish for. That not all that glitters is truly gold. Jack Barakat is just a silly magpie, entranced with the dull shine Alex gives off while living his fast and easy life. What the boy does not know is how much self-hatred Alex harbours, how Alex hears voices in his head. He hears the yelling and the choked up words of everyone who was disappointed in what the ex-lead singer did. Now these voices are amplified, they echo within the confines of Gaskarth’s mind and he cannot get them to stop. They make him shake, cause his stomach clench, taunt him when he sleeps. He lives in a nightmare now, and does not need any sort of company.
“No,” Alex denies the university student, widening the distance between the two of them as Jack tries for another kiss.
“Alex,” Barakat pleads, seeing the fear in the drunk’s body language. Gaskarth is terrified at the thought that someone would risk being entangled in his escapades. “Please.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” the disc jockey warns, “I’m n-not good for you.”
The amateur psychoanalyst wraps an arm around the drunk’s waist pulling him closer despite the obvious struggle. “Have you ever considered,” he prompts darkly, dipping Alex’s head back so his face looms over the drunk’s. “That maybe, I’m good for you?”
Despite the awkward positioning of his neck, Gaskarth feels a lump rise in his throat. His eyes widen in panic and he has no idea what to say. He is so selfish, so utterly consumed in his own tragedy that he never considered that someone could save him. He does not deserve a super hero of his very own. Jack uses the lack of response to his gain and places a hard kiss on the man’s lips. Alex does not respond, he is far too stunned, but that is exactly what Barakat wants. The university student then lets the drunk’s trembling frame slip through his fingers, pulling his mask back down over his face before getting up to leave. Gaskarth does not try to stop him.
*The amateur psychoanalyst is sitting at the bar counter with Gabe when it happens. He sees Robin’s eyes shift away from their conversation, wary of an approaching figure. Like a good sidekick Saporta is constantly on guard, aware of unseen threats and ready to attack. At the same time his roommate has utmost faith in the super hero and when he sees the glint to Jack’s eyes he instantly relaxes. Barakat turns his head slightly, not at all astonished to see Alex behind him. The drunk does not acknowledge them at first, ordering a drink and settling down a seat away from the university students. The tender complies to his command, asking him how it is going only to be shrugged off with a court grunt.
“Do you want to start heading back soon?” Gabe asks, returning the flow of their conversation. A few hours have passed since Alex discovered that it was not Bruce Wayne hiding underneath Batman’s mask. The amateur psychoanalyst had walked away without looking back, sifting through various dancers and eventually meeting his roommate in the middle.
“Already?” Jack teases, not having missed the way Saporta had been dancing with a certain brunette dressed up as a sexy vampire. “You tired?”
“No,” his roommate admits, a smirk playing up his lips, “This suit just gives me the biggest wedgie...”
Barakat does not even bother to grace the statement with a response, rolling his eyes at Gabe’s childishness. Before Gabriel goes to explain his predicament further, he is interrupted by a muffled clearing of the throat. The roommates turn to their left to see the drunk looking up expectantly.
“Alex,” Jack greets neutrally, as if what happened between them in the lounge was a thing of the past and not freshly imprinted in his mind. “Alex this is my roommate Gabe.” The amateur psychoanalyst gestures towards his roommate, watching the way Saporta’s eyes narrow in and focus on the drunk, trying to register the features hidden underneath the smudged costume makeup. “Gabe, this is Alex, he’s ‘The Party Scene’s’ DJ.”
Saporta nods slowly, a flicker of recognition passing him. “Encantado, pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Gaskarth addresses formally, eyeing Gabe uncertainly. “Do I, know you from somewhere?”
The philosophy student’s following eyes immediately dart away from the drunk’s. “I was here a few weeks ago, to pick up Jack. I think it was you, behind the counter...”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Alex snaps his fingers with remembrance, “You went to the backroom.”
Gabe nods, finishing the awkward exchange as he excuses himself in order to use the restroom. He realizes now why Jack has not been all that upset about losing the bet. Saporta did meet the boy’s latest project before the three week deadline, just not officially. Yet it is not the looming threat of having to do the genius’s laundry that preoccupies Gabriel’s thoughts. He remains uncharacteristically silent for the rest of the night, something Barakat would have paid more attention to had he not been so excited over what Gaskarth was about to say.
“So Jack,” the disc jockey begins, a hand running down the neck of the half-drunken bottle in front of him. “I was thinking about you said earlier, and I, I want to apologize.”
“Apologize?” asks the amateur psychoanalyst, “For what?”
“For not giving you a chance,” the drunk explains, hands tightening around the bottle. “It wasn’t fair of me to deny you before you even got a chance to explain yourself. Everyone deserves the right to defend their actions.”
Jack pretends to look confused at the turn around. “So what you’re saying is...?”
“That I’m w-willing to...let you, get to know me. I mean, if that’s what you still want. You seem like a decent person and maybe I want to g-get to know you too, it’s just that-”
The university student interrupts Alex’s rambling. “You don’t have to start right away,” he soothes, “Just...relax.”
Gaskarth takes in a deep breath, the air making his chest expand and tighten. He has no idea what he is doing or why. He can tell this is different than last time. Everything is new and unfamiliar but at least he knows the rules of the game now. He just is not sure if he should even be allowed to play.
“Anyways, I have to get going,” Jack interrupts the drunk’s train of thought, getting up slowly and looking over at his waiting roommate. “It’s getting late.”
Alex nods, unsure of what happens after this. “Uhm, see you then,” he bids adieu.
“You will,” the amateur psychoanalyst assures him with a knowing smile, “Don’t worry.”
Gaskarth’s cheeks flush at the younger man’s words, waving as the pair departs. It is almost as if he knows. Much like Batman, Barakat does not have any sort of inhuman super power. He is merely intelligent and intimidating, using both dark wit and physical expertise to get the better of villains.
-----
A/N: I had a mid-story crisis two pages into writing this part. Which is kind of like a mid-life crisis except it’s an author freaking out about how much the plot is thickening and considering whether the story is even enjoyable to readers. I think I’ll be okay, but comments would be great :)
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 sensuous touching 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:
Alright, so usually I don’t bother providing any sort of translation to the various ‘Freudian slip-ups’ Gabe’s character has when he starts speaking Spanish because the words aren’t all that important so much as the situation in which is causing his repression. But in this chapter Gabe uses the word encantado, which literally translates to enchanted, but is really is another way of saying ‘delighted to meet you,’ or ‘pleasure to meet you.’ I’ve mentioned that Gabe is a valuable side character, and this is a clue as to why he is important. So please take note of it when it happens. :)
Masterpost | Writing Tumblr
Step 1 of Treatment: Establish a relationship with the patient.
“You okay?” Rian asks his friend long after the university student has left the ‘The Party Scene.’
“Course,” Alex scoffs, his grip tightening around the broom handle he is holding. Gaskarth has uncharacteristically offered to help clean up for tonight, and ever since then Dawson has been unable to stop staring. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You, you just,-” the tender struggles to describe what happened earlier because even he is unsure. “I don’t know, you just seem a little off today ‘Xander.”
Gaskarth’s fingers flex at the mention of the childhood nickname. He does not know why Rian feels like it is okay to start calling him that again, because it is not. “I’m just tired,” he excuses though it is not a lie. He is tired. He never gets much sleep but ever since last Friday’s episode, everything has been much worse. Last night, after he finished using the washroom, the pain in his gut was so bad that he was reduced to crawling on his hands and knees to his bedroom. He collapsed before he even made it onto the bed. He awoke a few hours later to a growling stomach and was obliged to eat something. Zack had brought him some more groceries the other day, so he managed to cook some boxed pasta, but it had just made his stomach upset. The drunk is not accustomed to proper meals. So he ended up sprawled out on his barely used couch, watching mindless television until Merrick called to let Alex know that the pair were going to pick him up for work. The disc jockey has not even drunk a drop of alcohol yet, and it is almost eight thirty.
“You look beat bro,” the bouncer admits, a little crease of worry touching his face. “Have you been eating?”
Alex huffs indignantly, pretending to be tired of the way his friends baby him. “Yeah I did. The pasta you brought over.”
Instead of backing off due to Gaskarth’s temperament, Zack merely smiles knowingly, reaching forward to grab at Alex’s slim shoulder roughly. “Good.”
“You guys worry too much,” the disc jockey laments, looking down at his shoes as he shrugs out of Merrick’s loving grip. Which Alex knows is terribly hypocritical to say, when all he does is worry. All he is does is think about his demons, and anticipate the worst.
“It’s only because we care,” Rian insists, which is also seemingly ironic, because Dawson has a funny way of showing he cares about any of his friends.
“We love you Alex,” Zack adds earnestly, though he can feel the tension between the three of them. The disc jockey looks like a tight bundle of nerves that is about to come undone. The tender looks like damned up river, also ready to burst.
“Thanks,” Gaskarth nods, ruffling his bangs.
“No fucking problem,” snaps Dawson ruining the sincerity of the moment and rolling his eyes in irritation.
Alex frowns, disappointed with how he cannot even articulate himself properly anymore. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he struggles for words, finally looking at his friend in the face. “I’m serious when I say ‘thank you,’ I know I don’t deser-...I mean, the fact you guys are still...I know I don’t show it, but I appreciate it, okay?”
Rian nods, cursing himself for not being able to read his friend the way he used to be able to. “Uh, yeah. I get it.” It seems that none of them are able to talk about how they feel anymore. All they do is fight and push. Emotions are put on hold and all that seems to come out of their mouths are defensives slurs and dead panned humour.
“Well, while we’re all here, together and er, talking, we might as well start thinking about the future,” the bouncer suggests awkwardly.
“The f-future?” Alex stutters, because he is stuck in the past.
“The near future,” the bouncer corrects himself, “‘The Scene’ is going to turn a month old, and we need to celebrate.”
“We’re half way through October,” Rian muses aloud. “You know what that means.”
Alex’s mouth is too dry to speak, but Merrick beats him to it. “Halloween!”
“We have to have a special event,” Rian enthuses, “With live entertainment.”
“Sounds great,” Alex agrees half-heartedly, thankful that means he will not have to work that night.
“It’s got to be festive,” Zack continues, “How about anyone who dresses up gets in half price?”
“That’s actually not a bad idea,” the tender considers.
“But, w-will we have to dress up?” the disc jockey asks nervously.
“Of course,” Merrick claps, “It’ll be fun.”
“I don’t know...” Gaskarth trails off uneasily, scratching his face a little too roughly.
“Oh come on Alex,” Dawson sighs, “You love Halloween.”
“Yeah, before when-,” the drunk begins, but shakes his head in defeat, “Alright fine. I’ll wear a stupid costume.”
“If it’s really that stupid, you don’t have to,” Zack bends easily, but Rian will not have it.
“It’s not stupid. It’s a tradition that you used to do every year long after everyone else our age did. Just because this past year has meant a lot of changes for all of us doesn’t meant you have turn your back on everything you’ve ever stood for.”
The disc jockey’s initial reaction is to defend his hypocrisy, but decides against it. He bites back his tongue, knowing he could never accurately describe how he feels, let alone why. To explain what has happened these past two years would require recalling countless memories he would never have the guts to retell. And while Rian and Zack were, are, and try to be his best friends; Alex fears even they will not understand. How could they possibly comprehend that Gaskarth did terrible, downright immoral things because he thought it was for the greater good of everyone? No one bothers figuring out Alex’s motive, he is simply a criminal who had the intent to hurt as many people as possible. It does not matter if Alex invested too much of his own heart into his deeds, because the aftermath was deemed heartless. Everything is his fault; the countless law suit cases from supposed management, the widespread hate from the audience both in person and online, and of course the never ending self-destruction. Alex both embodies and inspires absolute obliteration.
So what right does Gaskarth have to enjoy anything anymore? Why should he be reminded of his past self, the one who held the thirty first of October so very dearly? As a child he loved the thrill of getting to dress up as someone else for a night, wandering the streets in the dark, pilfering candy from willing neighbours. As he grew older, Halloween meant house parties, an innumerable amount of drunken teenage bodies rammed up against one another in a thick gloom of smoke and loud music. Then finally, Halloween marks the first time Alex started lying to himself. That was the day Alex fell in love with the feeling of playing a role. He could be someone else whenever he felt it was convenient. He could please everyone, and when everyone else was happy, so was Alex. He dismissed issues, avoided discussion, he forgot all about being true to his words. He was a pathological liar, a demented kid in a costume who lied and tricked just to get a couple of treats. Well now Alex sports far too many costumes, too many layers, he seems lost in the fabric of time. The mask will not come off now, and he is suffocating. He has no choice but to continue dressing up as an indifferent asshole.
“People change Rian,” Gaskarth quotes some cheesy pathetic excuse, “It’s called growing up.”
“Really?‘Cause it seems to me like you gave up.”
“Guys,” the bouncer interrupts, having heard this fight a countless number of times already. “Focus.”
“Whatever,” Alex mutters, not really wanting to repeat this argument again. He tosses the broom he was holding onto the floor, disrupting the pile of dirt he previously made. “I need a drink.”
“Of course you do,” the tender spits as his friend walks away.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” sighs the bouncer once Alex has hopped over the bar counter.
The tender huffs, “Doesn’t matter, our Alex is as good as gone.”
“You know that’s not true. He was almost normal again, least for a few hours.”
Rian just shrugs, picking up the abandoned broom. “There’s only one person who can bring the real Alex back. And we both know they’re never coming back.”
*
It takes another week before Gabe brings it up. Jack is not surprised, the older man’s attention span is not all that wide, but he has barely taken off his shoes when it happens.
“You lost!” the psychology student accuses, springing up from his seat on the couch. The television is set on some soccer match and for a second Barakat assumes his roommate is shouting at the screen. Gabe is quite enthusiastic when it comes to football, but Saporta is in fact talking to Jack.
“Excuse me?” the younger of the two questions, sitting down on the opposing couch.
“Our bet,” Gabriel reminds him, grinning proudly as he points a finger at his roommate in accusation. “Don’t pretend you don’t remember. It’s been past three weeks.”
“Oh,” the amateur psychoanalyst feigns astonishment. “What was the bet again?”
The philosophy student snorts in frustration. “You said I’d meet your latest fling in three weeks. That was up a week ago and I still haven’t met him. You’re doing my laundry for the next two months!”
Jack waits a moment before responding because Saporta’s triumphant laughter is rather loud. Besides, it is almost cruel for Barakat to burst his roommate’s bubble when Gabe has been so helpful lately. Of course the psychology student has not lost the bet. The amateur psychoanalyst never loses at anything.
“I guess I do,” the younger submits nonchalantly, spoiling Gabe’s fun.
“Yeah you do. Though you haven’t been out all that much this week,” the elder notes, “You guys through already?”
“No, I’ve been waiting for the bruises to fade a little,” Jack excuses, tracing his eye. The skin is still a mottled hue of blue-green. “I’ll see him on Halloween.” The amateur psychoanalyst recalls a promotional flyer he saw outside a certain club, “At ‘The Party Scene.’”
“You’re going back there?” Saporta asks in disbelief. “Are you nuts?”
“They’re having a costume theme,” explains Barakat, “So whoever started the fight won’t recognize me.”
“It’s still dangerous,” argues Gabriel, muting the television so he can talk some sense into the younger boy. “Especially on Halloween. People get up to all sorts of things.”
“I’m going,” Jack reaffirms, “You can’t exactly stop me.”
“Fine, then I’m going with you,” Gabe counters, “You can’t tell me not to go anymore.”
“Gabe,” the psychology major sighs, “I don’t need babysitting.”
“You seemed fine with it yesterday when I helped you re-bandage your ribs,” the philosophy student snaps.
“That’s different;” Jack lies, “That’s when I needed your help. I don’t need it now.”
“I’m not going there to help,” Gabe lies too, not as convincingly. “It seemed like a good place to party, and I have the right to go there if I want.”
“Alright then,” the amateur psychoanalyst sighs, deciding to change the subject. “I bought my costume today. Wanna see it?”
Gabe nods, and Jack pulls out a bag he brought in earlier with him. Barakat reveals a long and stretchy spandex one piece suit.
“Nice,” Saporta approves, the tiniest smirk on his lips, “You think they got-” but before he can even suggest the costume, Jack pulls out a second bag that Gabe did not remember seeing when his roommate entered their apartment. The amateur psychoanalyst is always one step ahead of him.
“I figured you’d want this,” the younger confesses, revealing a second suit.
“Oh you little...” curses Gabe lightly, lunging forwards to pull the spandex out of Jack’s hands. “You knew I’d come with you the whole time!”
“I’m going to go try mine on,” Jack dismisses the claim as he gets off the couch before Saporta can call him out for his manipulation. “Your mask is in the bag.”
*“Dude, you would,” Alex chuckles when he enters ‘The Party Scene,’ early on the last day of October. He arrived in a cab tonight because even though his car has been fixed for a few days now, he intends on getting dangerously drunk. He needs to release all the tightening in his muscles, needs to feel dirty adoration. Then he plans to drink even more, for he does not need any sort of recollection of what will happen tonight.
“What?” Zack asks innocently, flexing his arms from within the tight blue spandex he is dawning. There is a bright red cape wrapped around his neck and a bold yellow ‘S’ emblazoned on his chest. The costume suits the honest and kind bouncer perfectly. His use of menace and strength is in the name of justice. He believes in retribution, the ability to reform, but will resort to restitution, taking an eye for an eye, when needed.
“You’re so full of it,” Gaskarth kids, unable to deny the grin on his face as he takes in his friend’s costume. The bouncer even has on red underwear and matching leather boots over the tights. A gold belt ties the whole look together and if it were not for his curly hair, Merrick would look exactly like the original Clark Kent.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Zack jokes, shoving the disc jockey playfully.
“Ouch,” Gaskarth pretends to pout, rubbing his arm, “Watch that superhuman strength there.”
At that the bouncer just laughs, “Rian’s waiting for you inside.”
“Oh?” the drunk stalls, not really wanting to have to help out with last minute decorating, “He dressed in tights too?”
“Nope,” Merrick bites his lip to keep in the chuckling, “He’s actually wearing a dress.”
“No,” Alex denies, unable to picture his other friend in anything but pants. “Really?”
“Go check it out for yourself,” Superman encourages, pushing his friend through the threshold of the door before the topic of what Alex is dressed as can arise.
*“Nice dress man,” Gaskarth commentates when he spots Rian up on the platform, helping the live entertainment set up. With no help from the disc jockey, the bouncer and tender have managed to get a local band to play tonight, a couple of over excited teenage boys who are shivering at the thought of their first gig. They remind Dawson of themselves not so long ago, over eager to face the world and unable to weigh the price of fame.
“It’s not a dress, its animal hide,” Rian sighs, having already heard a lot of teasing on Zack’s behalf.
“Animal hide, in the shape of a dress,” Alex amends with a smirk. “Didn’t Tarzan just wear a loincloth though?”
“I’m not Tarzan,” the tender informs him, fiddling with a few electrical cords before Alex hops up on the platform and takes the wiring from him. Gaskarth had always been much handier with the electronic aspect of their lives and often doubled as a technical assistant when needed.
“Oh I know,” Alex says, untangling the wires and searching for an outlet, “You’re Jane right?”
“I’m not a jungle person!” Dawson huffs, fiddling with the brown furry fabric that does in fact look like a sort of shapeless halter dress that reaches down to his knees. “I’m a caveman.”
“Like Fred Flintstone?” Alex gasps in faux surprise, recalling the animated television series and much simpler times.
“Yeah,” grunts Rian, wishing he had his plastic wooden club with him so he can bash Gaskarth over the head with it. Dawson’s attire compliments his attitude perfectly. Aggressive and ruled by instinct, the tender is ignorant for the sake of surviving.
“You definitely sound like a caveman,” the disc jockey muses to himself, smiling as he locates an extension cord with multiple outlets.
“What about you?” the tender dares to question, the simplicity of Alex’s costume not having been unnoticed.
“What about me?” the drunk tenses, stepping off of the platform, his back turned away from his friend.
“What are you dressed up as?” Dawson queries.
“What does it look like?” the disc jockey asks in a seemingly bored tone, “A skeleton of course.”
Rian says nothing, unconsciously glancing at the disc jockey’s left forearm. He knows there is a tattoo of a skeleton that looks uncannily alike to the costume Alex is wearing on it. Dawson remembers the day Alex got it clearly. The four them had gone to a tattoo parlour to celebrate their success on having ‘made it,’ and had declared the experience as something that would ‘bring them closer together.’ Gaskarth never did properly explain the meaning behind the image, brushing it off as a tribute to his love of Halloween. Not that it really matters in the end. It only took about a year for their bond to disintegrate, and another year for Alex to fall apart. Though the ink on Gaskarth’s arm is permanent, his resolve is not.
*
Regardless of whether or not Alex enjoys wearing a costume, he will admit that Zack’s idea is pretty awesome. As the club slowly fills up with various masked party goers, the disc jockey cannot help but laugh. Some of the costumes he has seen are pretty ridiculous. Most of them have an underlying tone to them, sexiness, but not everyone is able to pull it off. Alex dances with those who do. So far he has danced with a French maid, an angel, and an old fashioned witch.
He is currently being grinded up against by a naughty nurse. He wraps his arms around her bony waist, ducking his head down to her neck, ignoring the plastic stethoscope that is wrapped around it. He nips softly at her exposed skin, for she has not buttoned up her dress up high enough. A bit of the face paint he put on today is smudging the whiteness of her attire, but she does not seem to mind by the way she presses her chest up closer to his. He can feel the curves of her breasts against his own, and though he would prefer a larger cup size, one of his hands begins to slip up her side. Just as he is about to close his eyes completely, and let himself be consumed in the hormone rush, a small commotion is heard from the edge of the dance floor.
The dancing crowd soon parts to reveal what or rather who has caused such uproar. Two men have arrived to the club, also dressed up as superheroes. But unlike Merrick’s outfit, the spandex is much too small on their tall and thin frames. The elastic fibre clings to their skin, cinching to the curve of their limbs. The shiny LYCRA is tautly stretched over their board shoulders, tight on their firm long thighs and unyielding in exposing definite backsides. On any other day the sight would be declared a bold fashion statement gone awry. But because tonight is Halloween, everything that is seemingly wrong with their elastane outfits is just so right. Not only are they allowed access into the club, they have all eyes on them. Their long strides into the venue are the ultimate tease. Bones protrude from the spandex, muscles flexing as they walk. It is strange how aroused most of the crowd becomes without a single flash of flesh. It seems that when things are left to the imagination figures become streamlined to perfection. No one can be completely sure of what is hidden beneath wide plastic belts and sheer coloured thongs. Even their faces are covered, by identical black masks, that give nothing away but neutral lips.
It is astounding how calm they both appear with the amount of chatter and cat calling their entrances cause. Despite the similarities in body type one can make out distinct features between the two. The first is shorter, with bits of straight black hair escaping from his hat. The second has a small height advantage, and an array of curly dark brown hair. Alex decides that they probably are not related, possibly best friends or maybe even a couple. This assumption is made by most of the crowd when the shorter of the two one leads the other by the hand towards the lounge. Slowly everyone turns back to the partner or drink they have in front of them. All interest peaks once the pair is seated. They begin to talk to another, animatedly to compensate for the loud music. The one in a mix of red and green seems to be concerned with something. He fiddles with his short yellow cape, before gesturing vaguely out into the crowd. The smaller of the two, whose costume is completely black, shakes his head so firmly that the pointed ears on his head flop. He seems to be waiting for a certain flash of light in the sky, the Bat-signal that will indicate action.
*It is much later into the night that Alex encounters Batman at the bar. He sits with a drained glass in front of him while Gaskarth downs a bottle of Daniels. The drunk does not see Robin anywhere in sight so he deems it okay to make a move.
“Hey,” the disc jockey greets casually, eyeing how sleek the man’s body looks up close.
The super hero hesitates for a moment; dark eyes tentatively watching Alex sit down beside him. “Hi.”
“I, uh, couldn’t help but notice your entrance,” Gaskarth begins. He knows he sounds incredibly cheesy but he is feeling a bit tipsy and really could not care less.
Batman’s features upturn into a smirk from behind his mask. “I’m kind of famous,” he jokes, gesturing down at the bat logo on his chest.
“Of course,” Alex plays along, leaning in closer on his stool in pretence of inspecting the symbol. “Who doesn’t like it when the super hero comes along to save the day?”
The super hero’s lips quirk at the statement, almost as if he knows something but should not say. “It’s usually after dark when the real bad guys come out to play,” he states evenly, not adding anything else as Gaskarth traces the yellow outline of the bat symbol. The drunk’s touch is feather light but there is no hiding the way the man’s chest heaves at the feeling.
“Are you implying that I’m a bad guy?” the disc jockey teases, settling his drink down on the counter.
“No,” Batman assures him, “At least I don’t think so.”
“But what if I am?” Alex muses darkly, both his hands on the other man’s broad shoulders. His palms are moist, and run smoothly against the spandex. “What if I told you I’ve done some really, really bad things.”
“Then I’d- I’d have to punish you,” the super hero admits softly, tipping his head to the side in order to nuzzle one of the drunk’s hands with his cheek.
Gaskarth raises his eyebrows in faux surprise, pulling back. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not the bad guy then.”
Batman nods, “Really good, considering I don’t dance with bad guys.”
Before Alex points out that he has not agreed to dance with the costume clad man, the super hero has pulled him up off the bar stool. Tons of other limbs squash into their sides as they get onto the floor, but as far as the pair is concerned it is only the two of them. The heat of the masses is nothing compared to the desire radiating off their bodies as they press together. Their hips lock up against one another as their arms are intertwined, nails digging into fabric, hair and exposed skin. It does not take long for their movements to become harsh and gritty. The dim lighting does nothing to disguise the way they look at each other. They push and pull at one another, their hearts’ thrums increasing at the thought of being closer.
A single nod from Batman is all it takes, and suddenly Alex is the one doing the leading. He wraps a firm hand around the other’s wrist, mumbling incoherently all the way to the lounge. The disc jockey is resolute in his actions, and when the superhero stalls to sit down, Gaskarth sits him down by the waist. He presses his full body weight down on the taller and lankier form, wasting no time to seat himself on the man’s lap. With his back to the crowd, Alex folds his legs in at the knee, one of his hands gripping at his ankle nervously. He knows he is being forward, demanding intimacy in public from someone he has known for less than an hour, but all rationality was downed with his last drink. His hair falls in line of his vision but he can still make out the way the super hero is eyeing his lips. Alex knows they look a little plumper right now, from the constant biting down he has been doing in expectancy.
“Well?” he asks after a moment in which neither of them makes another move. His confidence falters for a moment, but the dark figure brings a hand to his face. His gloved thumb traces a line from the tip of his cheekbones to his ear and then back around down his jaw to his lips.
“You’re a very, very bad man,” Batman says finally, his voice a little huskier than Alex remembers. Before the drunk can go to defend himself, they begin to kiss.
The action is not all that romantic. If anything, it is raw and needy. Alex’s previously fidgety hands trail up the man’s chest to wrap around the nape of his neck. The super hero cups both his hands on either side of the drunk’s face; middle fingers pressing closed the ear canal so that the live performance is blocked out entirely. They take turns pushing each other onward, Gaskarth nipping at the man’s bottom lip only to have Batman tug at his upper lip in a stuttered sucking motion. The disc jockey leans in further as the adrenaline rush kicks in, tiny surges in blood flow starting something deeper. Just as Alex begins to pry open the other’s mouth, the super hero jerks to the left, pulling apart their mouths completely.
“You,” he breathes, “You-” but that is all he manages to sputter before Gaskarth takes the open mouth to his advantage, shamelessly inserting his tongue into the other’s oral cavity. The super hero chokes a little, surprised at the intrusion, but soon gathers his bearings. Their saliva begins to mix as they shove up even closer against one another. One of Alex’s hands strays away from the man’s neck and makes its way down to Batman’s hip. The tightness of the mysterious figure’s outfit makes it easier for the drunk to locate the protruding bone in his hazy state. He pushes his thumb against the pelvis, fingers curling around the waist in way that is equivalent of pushing the man’s biological buttons. The super hero involuntarily ruts forward, pressing a half hard and thinly sheathed phallus to the disc jockey’s thigh. Batman delves deeper into the drunk’s mouth, tongue registering all the alcohol Alex drank tonight.
Gaskarth likes the taste of the other man, not at all tainted by the poison and therefore naturally sweeter. His mouth is warm and wet, and the feeling is nice. But nowhere near as stimulating as the friction between their legs. Alex soon unravels the knot of his limbs, tying his ankles around the super hero’s waist. This leaves no barriers between them save for the material of their clothing. The super hero tips his head back at the encompassing touch, letting loose a low moan as the drunk kisses down his jaw line. The line of tender presses get rougher as Alex reaches the high collar of the costume. He is frustrated at the lack of supple skin and raises a hand to pull back the fabric only to have the body underneath him freeze up. Gaskarth tilts back slowly. His own phallus is now semi-hard and struggling within the depths of his cotton one piece suit. He cannot stop now.
“Can I take this off?” he croaks, not really wanting to give the man a choice.
Batman stalls for a moment, dark eyes searching
“Super heroes aren’t supposed to reveal their true identity,” he says finally.
“Why not?” the disc jockey questions, grinding down a little harder against the super hero’s hips. He wonders what this man is hiding beneath the mask. At this point he is too turned on to care about acne, a scar, or closely grown eyebrows. Alex has done too many things with too many people to be bothered about disfiguring qualities. If anyone is ugly, it is Gaskarth. The darkness of his psyche warps his features.
The super hero sighs, settling his hands on the other’s shoulders and pulling him into an embrace. That is all the encouragement the disc jockey needs. His hands fumble around the back of Batman’s head, struggling to find the cords that tie the black mask to the super hero’s cranium. They come undone easily, and the drunk’s hands sit on each side of Batman’s face, kissing him briefly on the lips before beginning to peel the mask off. Alex takes his time, indulging in the suspense of the moment and stopping when the mask reaches the bridge of the other man’s nose.
From what he can make out of Batman’s jaw and cheeks he looks completely fine. He is handsome even, with his definite structuring and smooth skin. His lips are still the centre of Gaskarth’s attention though, so the drunk smothers them once again. The disc jockey decides to shut his eyes and keep up with the kiss as he pulls off the rest of the mask. As the super hero responds with a harsher press of his own, the rest of the mask comes off, pointy ears and all. Alex runs his calloused hands through the hair, liking the feel of the sweaty silk. The steadying hand that has been sitting on the small of his back eventually eases up, and Gaskarth takes that as sign to relent. The drunk unwillingly pulls back, fluttering his lashes playfully before looking up at the unmasked hero to see a familiar face.
He rubs at his eyes, trying to clear his drunken vision, but there is no deception. “You again?” he gasps in surprise, leaning abruptly back on Jack’s legs.
“Me again,” Barakat admits, and suddenly his voice is a little less deep, and a lot less husky.
“Why didn’t you say something?” Alex demands, scrambling out of the man’s lap.
“Because I knew you’d do this,” the amateur psychoanalyst rationalizes, grabbing one of Gaskarth’s arms, and pulling the drunk down beside him on the chaise.
“What do you think you’re playing at?” the disc jockey hisses, the realization of whom he has been making out with clearing his whole thought process. The alcohol seems to settle into his system and Alex feels disgusted for not figuring it out sooner.
“Nothing,” Barakat lies, “You just approached me, and I thought I’d have some fun. It’s Halloween and all, I didn’t think you’d...and by then I didn’t know how to tell you who I was.”
Gaskarth says nothing as he tries digesting the pitiful excuse. He crosses his arms over his chest and slumps into the seat, frustrated for being so blind. The drunk never hooks up with the same person twice. It is the golden rule; do not ever let anyone get too close. They do not need someone like Alex Gaskarth messing up their lives. Besides, Jack seems to be just as fucked up as he is, and the drunk gets into enough trouble on his own.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you,” the amateur psychoanalyst sighs, “I just, got caught up in the moment.”
The disc jockey rolls his eyes, knowing the man, or rather boy, is feeding him scripted lines now. “Alright, whatever. Jus’ don’t let it happen again.”
“Why not?” Jack dares to ask, turning on his side to face the drunk. “It’s not like we both didn’t enjoy it.” The university student looks down pointedly at the disc jockey’s crotch, the taunted cotton unable to hide the indiscreet bulge.
Alex scoffs at the unsubtle hinting. “Look kid, whatever you were hoping was going to happen tonight isn’t. I know you broke up with that girl and maybe you’re looking for someone to fill ‘the void’, but I’m not that person. A good guy like you can find someone better.”
Barakat does his best to keep his cool as Gaskarth patronizes him. “Actually, a good guy like me knows when he’s found someone special. And you’re it.”
The disc jockey flinches at the compliment. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then let me get to know you,” Jack challenges the drunk, leaning forward until their mouths are less than a centimetre apart.
Looking at the amateur psychoanalyst up close Alex can see that the bruises have not faded entirely. There is still a dull green shade that surrounds the boy’s eye and a small cut across his forehead. Gaskarth can make out splotches of black and white paint on the boy’s face that must have rubbed off of his own face when he kissed Barakat. The amateur psychoanalyst is staring Alex in the eye, an unwavering determinedness to his own. The boy is stubborn and naive and the disc jockey hates it.
Jack reminds Alex of himself a few years ago, when he had just graduated high school and had told his parents that he was not planning to go to college. Instead he was going to work on his band full time, the one he had with Rian Dawson and Zack Merrick, persisting with the idea they would get contracted. He remembers how much pleading the couple did, how his father’s pleading turned into yelling, his mother’s into tears. He recalls how every adult was against them, and how a lot of their friends tried reasoning with them. But Alex wanted it. He believed he could do it, and had he not done it, he would have died trying so.
The problem was not so much that Alex did not make his dreams come true, but that he could not handle his dreamland. So many different aspects of his new life ended up getting the better of him, but maybe he was just a lot weaker than he thought himself out to be. Reality exceeded his expectations, but the consequences also exceeded his actions. Gaskarth learned the hard way that one should be careful about what they wish for. That not all that glitters is truly gold. Jack Barakat is just a silly magpie, entranced with the dull shine Alex gives off while living his fast and easy life. What the boy does not know is how much self-hatred Alex harbours, how Alex hears voices in his head. He hears the yelling and the choked up words of everyone who was disappointed in what the ex-lead singer did. Now these voices are amplified, they echo within the confines of Gaskarth’s mind and he cannot get them to stop. They make him shake, cause his stomach clench, taunt him when he sleeps. He lives in a nightmare now, and does not need any sort of company.
“No,” Alex denies the university student, widening the distance between the two of them as Jack tries for another kiss.
“Alex,” Barakat pleads, seeing the fear in the drunk’s body language. Gaskarth is terrified at the thought that someone would risk being entangled in his escapades. “Please.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” the disc jockey warns, “I’m n-not good for you.”
The amateur psychoanalyst wraps an arm around the drunk’s waist pulling him closer despite the obvious struggle. “Have you ever considered,” he prompts darkly, dipping Alex’s head back so his face looms over the drunk’s. “That maybe, I’m good for you?”
Despite the awkward positioning of his neck, Gaskarth feels a lump rise in his throat. His eyes widen in panic and he has no idea what to say. He is so selfish, so utterly consumed in his own tragedy that he never considered that someone could save him. He does not deserve a super hero of his very own. Jack uses the lack of response to his gain and places a hard kiss on the man’s lips. Alex does not respond, he is far too stunned, but that is exactly what Barakat wants. The university student then lets the drunk’s trembling frame slip through his fingers, pulling his mask back down over his face before getting up to leave. Gaskarth does not try to stop him.
*The amateur psychoanalyst is sitting at the bar counter with Gabe when it happens. He sees Robin’s eyes shift away from their conversation, wary of an approaching figure. Like a good sidekick Saporta is constantly on guard, aware of unseen threats and ready to attack. At the same time his roommate has utmost faith in the super hero and when he sees the glint to Jack’s eyes he instantly relaxes. Barakat turns his head slightly, not at all astonished to see Alex behind him. The drunk does not acknowledge them at first, ordering a drink and settling down a seat away from the university students. The tender complies to his command, asking him how it is going only to be shrugged off with a court grunt.
“Do you want to start heading back soon?” Gabe asks, returning the flow of their conversation. A few hours have passed since Alex discovered that it was not Bruce Wayne hiding underneath Batman’s mask. The amateur psychoanalyst had walked away without looking back, sifting through various dancers and eventually meeting his roommate in the middle.
“Already?” Jack teases, not having missed the way Saporta had been dancing with a certain brunette dressed up as a sexy vampire. “You tired?”
“No,” his roommate admits, a smirk playing up his lips, “This suit just gives me the biggest wedgie...”
Barakat does not even bother to grace the statement with a response, rolling his eyes at Gabe’s childishness. Before Gabriel goes to explain his predicament further, he is interrupted by a muffled clearing of the throat. The roommates turn to their left to see the drunk looking up expectantly.
“Alex,” Jack greets neutrally, as if what happened between them in the lounge was a thing of the past and not freshly imprinted in his mind. “Alex this is my roommate Gabe.” The amateur psychoanalyst gestures towards his roommate, watching the way Saporta’s eyes narrow in and focus on the drunk, trying to register the features hidden underneath the smudged costume makeup. “Gabe, this is Alex, he’s ‘The Party Scene’s’ DJ.”
Saporta nods slowly, a flicker of recognition passing him. “Encantado, pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Gaskarth addresses formally, eyeing Gabe uncertainly. “Do I, know you from somewhere?”
The philosophy student’s following eyes immediately dart away from the drunk’s. “I was here a few weeks ago, to pick up Jack. I think it was you, behind the counter...”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Alex snaps his fingers with remembrance, “You went to the backroom.”
Gabe nods, finishing the awkward exchange as he excuses himself in order to use the restroom. He realizes now why Jack has not been all that upset about losing the bet. Saporta did meet the boy’s latest project before the three week deadline, just not officially. Yet it is not the looming threat of having to do the genius’s laundry that preoccupies Gabriel’s thoughts. He remains uncharacteristically silent for the rest of the night, something Barakat would have paid more attention to had he not been so excited over what Gaskarth was about to say.
“So Jack,” the disc jockey begins, a hand running down the neck of the half-drunken bottle in front of him. “I was thinking about you said earlier, and I, I want to apologize.”
“Apologize?” asks the amateur psychoanalyst, “For what?”
“For not giving you a chance,” the drunk explains, hands tightening around the bottle. “It wasn’t fair of me to deny you before you even got a chance to explain yourself. Everyone deserves the right to defend their actions.”
Jack pretends to look confused at the turn around. “So what you’re saying is...?”
“That I’m w-willing to...let you, get to know me. I mean, if that’s what you still want. You seem like a decent person and maybe I want to g-get to know you too, it’s just that-”
The university student interrupts Alex’s rambling. “You don’t have to start right away,” he soothes, “Just...relax.”
Gaskarth takes in a deep breath, the air making his chest expand and tighten. He has no idea what he is doing or why. He can tell this is different than last time. Everything is new and unfamiliar but at least he knows the rules of the game now. He just is not sure if he should even be allowed to play.
“Anyways, I have to get going,” Jack interrupts the drunk’s train of thought, getting up slowly and looking over at his waiting roommate. “It’s getting late.”
Alex nods, unsure of what happens after this. “Uhm, see you then,” he bids adieu.
“You will,” the amateur psychoanalyst assures him with a knowing smile, “Don’t worry.”
Gaskarth’s cheeks flush at the younger man’s words, waving as the pair departs. It is almost as if he knows. Much like Batman, Barakat does not have any sort of inhuman super power. He is merely intelligent and intimidating, using both dark wit and physical expertise to get the better of villains.
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A/N: I had a mid-story crisis two pages into writing this part. Which is kind of like a mid-life crisis except it’s an author freaking out about how much the plot is thickening and considering whether the story is even enjoyable to readers. I think I’ll be okay, but comments would be great :)