The Freudian Slip (9/15) (Part One)
Title: The Freudian Slip (9/15) (Part One)
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 alcoholism, promiscuity, 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: Keep this in mind.
Physical Symptoms of GAD Psychological Symptoms of GAD
Increased heart rate Excessive and constant feelings of dread/worry
Sweating Restlessness
Shortening of breath Irritability
Fatigue Trouble concentrating
Headache Paranoia
Insomnia Increased startle reaction
Stomach upset / dizziness Skewed view of problems (hypersensitivity)
Muscle tension Moments where ‘the mind goes blank’
Tremours/Twitches
Frequent urination /diarrhea
Can lead to: phobias, OCD, drug abuse, alcoholism
*Yes, GAD is a real life disorder, but the vivacity of the symptoms that Alex’s character experiences are exaggerated at times for the sake of literary interest.
Masterpost | Writing Tumblr
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The next time Jack Barakat arrives to the ‘The Party Scene’ he is easily deemed late. He is late in the sense that is well past midnight when he arrives to the club. The line of customers in front of the venue has dwindled away to be replaced with an awaiting brigade of taxis prepared to take the intoxicated home. The psychology student is also categorized as late in the sense that it is already a week into November when he returns to the club. One would anticipate that after the break through moment in which the amateur psychoanalyst was able to establish contact with his specimen, that he would immediately try and begin his study. Yet Barakat takes his time, counting down the minutes the way a male is supposed to wait three days before calling back that girl he is enamoured with. This causes the waiting female to squirm, unsure of he will indeed call back. But in Alex Gaskarth’s case, the less pressure applied to the drunk the more comfortable he will feel. Jack knows the best thing to do is play it cool if he is to gain his patient’s trust. Nonetheless he arrives with a certain spring to his step as he reaches the door, not all fazed by the arm that reaches up across the entrance of the club to stop him from going in.
“Hey,” the bouncer murmurs, not letting his arm drop as the university student stills. Merrick has not seen Jack since the unfortunate drunken fight the amateur psychoanalyst had with the tender. As far as both Rian and Zack are concerned, the Batman and Robin pairing that arrived on Halloween night were just faceless heroes.
“Hey Zack,” greets the dark haired boy, cheeks lifting as he shoots the bouncer a tight smile. “What’s up?”
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” the bouncer states bluntly, finally letting his arm drop. He steps forward to inspect Jack’s frame, noting how the boy is standing perfectly upright and that any apparent bruises have healed. He sighs in relief. It is too dark for the bouncer to make out a faint line that traces below the amateur psychoanalyst’s hairline.
“It took me some time to heal,” Barakat admits, looking down at his feet briefly to see that the cement he is standing over is still stained a rusted red colour. “But I’m ready to get back at it.”
The bouncer nods slowly, still trying to figure something out. “I just thought that, you wouldn’t want to come back.”
“It wasn’t the first fight I’ve ever gotten into.”Jack shrugs, leaning against the brick wall when he realizes that Merrick is not going to let him go that easily.
Zack bites his lip to refrain from asking if the customer has ever won a fight. The boy is intimidating in the sense that he is quick on his feet, a smooth trash talker to match. The young man has a good half a foot in height over most opponents, but when it comes down to it, Merrick could easily toss the boy overhead if he wanted to. “You just don’t seem like the violent type.”
“I’m not,” the university student assures the bouncer, “But by instinct all people will fight if the situation calls for it.”
Merrick nods, knowing this much is true.
“Take Rian for example,” Jack smirks, testing Zack with his eyes.
“He’s not usually like that,” the bouncer immediately goes to defend his best friend, more out of habit than belief. “He’s been having a rough time lately, and I guess he kind of just...took it out on you.”
Jack nods, dismissing the memory and its defence with a wave of his hand. “No worries, I get it. It was best he released those feelings, too much repression isn’t healthy.”
Zack nods, assessing the boy’s vocabulary and recalling that Barakat is majoring in psychology. The boy probably knows what he is talking about. “It isn’t an excuse to try and kill anyone though,” he concludes.
“Bottling up your feelings can kill you from the inside out,” the university student counters, sensing that maybe Rian is not the only one denying his id.
Humanity buries unsettling emotions brought up by murdered memories in six foot graves. The dirt of ideology masks the stench of decaying fear emitted with the notion that success does not equate to happiness. No, everyone is expected to fit in the same sized coffin, to respond to the name carved out on their tombstone. Ghosts are then the haunting urge to be set free. The low wailing one hears whispered by the wind of a graveyard is the frustrated cries that come from unrealistic aspirations. The desire to disappoint parents, to sin before the Church and to protest against a democratically capitalist government is felt by all walking corpses. The masses silently mourn for individualization; another pre-constructed ritual that goes along with their final blessings that death may bring peace to uneasy minds.
“I should probably talk to him about it,” Merrick admits aloud, his eyes going out of focus as he draws up the image of the sulking tender.
“If it helps you both sleep better at night,” shrugs Jack, having noted that Zack has drawn his hands up to rub against his bare arms, giving the customer more than enough space to walk through the threshold.
“Yeah...” the bouncer sighs, not really paying attention to Barakat’s innuendos anymore.
“Anyways, I better get going,” the amateur psychoanalyst abruptly announces, “I’m late tonight.”
*
Jack eventually finds a seat at the end of the bar, his all black outfit melding into the shadows so that when Rian finally turns to serve him, the tender barely recognizes him.
“What can I get you tonight?” he asks tiredly, dark crescents of shallow skin tracing his eyes. He has not slept well since their fight.
“I’m not sure,” Barakat responds coyly, “What do you recommend?”
The tender stalls for a second, his body freezing as he recognizes the voice. “Uh,” he begins, blinking roughly in a futile attempt to register the presence of the customer sitting in front of him. “Water?”
“With ice,” the customer requests, placing his elbows up on the counter so he can lean into the low lighting of the bar.
“Coming right up,” Dawson assures him, turning his back away from Jack before the university student can spot the small smile that has suddenly crept up on the tender. He returns with a tall glass of water, perspiration coating the bottom of the cold drink, and slides it towards the amateur psychoanalyst with expertise.
“Thanks,” he expresses, hands wiping the glass. Barakat has not even taken a sip of the clear liquid when a finger taps his shoulder. Jack turns, his face betraying no sign of surprise, to face a raven haired female with a wide and suggestive smirk on her face.
“Hey,” she begins with no pretence to need to talk the customer other than unabashed flirting.
“Hey,” the amateur psychoanalyst replies politely, his eyes visibly sizing her up. She is sporting a sparkling red tank top with a neckline that plunges down past the tan line of her breasts. Meanwhile the hem of her skirt is so high up that it clings the edge of her posterior. When she feels his eyes on her she steps closer, her skinny ankles stilted in red heels. She gives off a scent of expensive perfume and cheap liquor. She tells him a name he does not register. She is one of those girls who are named after a flower in a vain attempt to attribute some sort of beauty to an otherwise ordinary face. The psychology major waits a moment, impressed with how her confidence does not even falter for a second when he returns the favour.
“Jack,” he says simply, bringing his glass to his mouth and leaving the girl with no choice but to back up. Her long curly hair brushes past his cheeks, soft at the touch, but nowhere near as electrifying as a certain drunk’s.
“Jack,” she repeats slowly, savouring the feel of how her tongue clicks at the monosyllable, “Do you wanna dance?”
“Normally I would,” the customer begins, letting her down gradually, “But I’m gunna have to take it easy tonight.”
The young woman, who really does not look much older than Jack herself, raises a finely plucked eyebrow is scepticism. “You waitin’ for somebody?”
“Not really,” Barakat shrugs, settling his glass down a little harder than strictly necessary.
The clang goes unnoticed by the girl, whose dilated pupils let the amateur psychoanalyst know she is drunker than she gives off. “What’s the matter then?” she pushes, cocking out her hip and placing a hand over it. The paint on her jagged nails has peeled indicating that maybe she is not as confident and put together as she plays.
“Honestly,” Jack sighs, “You’re just not my type.”
“Oh,” the girl yawns, “Well then, what is your type?” She fiddles with one of the ringlets that hang off her head with faux interest.
“Blonde,” the dark haired boy bluffs, “Busty.”
The woman’s interest suddenly peaks as she lets out an indiscreet scoff. “Typical.”
“Sorry,” Barakat smiles sheepishly, lifting his hands to the air in an exaggerated motion. “Can’t help it.”
The girl rolls her eyes, turning on her heel without even saying goodbye as she makes her way through the bar stools looking for a potential partner.
“Blonde and busty,” titters the tender, having overheard the conversation. “My favourite.”
Barakat joins in on the man’s laughter, turning back around to clutch at his half drunk water. “In all honesty she was pretty hot,” he admits, “I’m just not really up for fooling around tonight.”
“Playing it cool then?” Rian assumes.
“Mhm,” the psychology student hums.
“Still getting over her huh?” Dawson sympathizes, referring to Mina Valentino.
“Eh,” Jack grunts, not giving much away, “It was for the best. I’ll be on to bigger and better things before you know it.”
The tender’s laughter increases, unaware of the truth to his customer’s words. “I’m sure you will.”
*
“Hey, Fred, gimmie a shot!” a voice calls out from the crowd, and both the tender and most of his customers turn to see the disc jockey immerging from the mass of dancers and striding up the counter.
“Alex,” the tender grumbled, “That stopped being funny, like a week ago.” Ever since Halloween Gaskarth has taken to referring to Dawson as ‘Fred Flintstone.’
“Dunno what you’re talkin’ about Flintstone,” the disc jockey continues, squeezing in between two seated customers to slam his hand against the counter. “How about that shot?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” miffs Rian, reaching for a clean wet glass to dry off instead of the requested drink.
“Awh, come on,” pleads Alex, who has clearly already drank a sufficient amount of alcohol tonight. He takes no notice of the two disgruntled customers whom he is sandwiched between as they both shoot him angry scowls. “Do it for me, Freddy baby.”
“No,” counters Rian, shaking his head in disgust. “I’m cutting you off for tonight.”
“But I’m thirsty!” whines Gaskarth with impatience.
“Have some of this then,” the tender snaps, placing the pitcher of water that he has been serving Jack with in front of the intolerant disc jockey.
“What is it?” the drunk asks excitedly, taking the pitcher in both hands and bringing it to his lips. He downs it hurriedly, not minding the way it slips out from his mouth, down his chin and onto his already sweat stained white t-shirt. After a moment he recognizes the seemingly nonexistent taste and spits the remainder of the liquid he has his mouth out onto the counter. “Fuck Rian, this is water!”
“Water is good for you,” Dawson says calmly, wiping the counter out of habit. “God knows what condition your kidneys are in.”
“I’ve got two,” Alex defends, wiping the spittle from his chin, “They’ll last me.”
“I hope for your sake they do,” the tender sighs tiredly, “Cocky bastard.”
“Who in their right mind sits at a club drinking water?” Gaskarth insists.
“I do,” pipes up a third voice and Rian cannot help but smile in triumph at the look of shock that overcomes his best friend’s face when he spots Jack a few seats away from him.
“You?” spits the drunk, accidentally elbowing a man on his left as he spins on the spot to get a better look at Barakat.
“Hello to you too Alex,” Jack replies coolly.
The disc jockey lets out a short bark of laughter, the already downed liquid confidence overcoming any sort of dominance Jack had over the patient. “What are you doing here?” he demands, squirming through the stools until he is standing right beside the university student.
“Sitting at a club drinking water,” Jack quotes the drunk.
“Fuck that,” curses the disc jockey, a grin playing up his features, “Come dance with me.”
“Maybe if you ask politely,” Barakat argues, wagging his index finger teasingly.
“Please,” adds Alex, fluttering his eyelashes in what the amateur psychoanalyst supposes the patient thinks he will find endearing.
Jack takes another sip of his drink, finishing it off before pushing the glass towards the tender. “Fine.”
Dawson’s forehead creases as he raises his brow in disapproving amusement. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Don’t be jealous Fred,” slurs the disc jockey with a wide grin as Barakat complies. “Your ass is still mine tonight.”
The tender’s face crinkles in disgust and yet his cheeks still go pink at the comment. “Ew, just go.”
“Gladly,” the drunk ends with a wink, hooking a finger into one of Barakat’s belt loops. He leads the way onto the dance floor, tugging at his date’s pants in a teasing fashion.
The scene looks casual enough, two young men hitting the dance floor, limbs tangling together as the blood rushes through their veins. Yet the amateur psychoanalyst knows this a monumental moment for his specimen. It is the first time in years that Alex is showing preference in his high jinks, purposefully choosing Jack to be his partner instead going after fresh meat. The patient should be going after someone who is thinking short term, who is only concerned about having a good time tonight. Gaskarth knows that Barakat is observant and meddlesome, and that going after him multiple times gives off the wrong impression. The drunk’s defences are telling him to abort the mission while he still can, but he really cannot be bothered to think anything through. The irrational and dominant part of his mind is reminding him how drawn he is to Jack. There is no denying it; the disc jockey naturally gravitated towards the university student the first time they met. Even when he does not know it is Jack, for the second time the boy was wearing a costume, the connection is instinctive.
The drunk picks a spot in the middle of the floor, the rest of the crowd dissipating as he meets the smug look the amateur psychoanalyst is giving him. He returns the look with a wicked grin of his own, cocking his head to the side in amusement as he gives his partner an approving stare. The disc jockey dismisses his excitement for pheromones, chemicals exuding from Jack’s smooth-looking skin that trigger a biological reaction in his nether regions. But Barakat, who relishes in the feel of the drunk’s nimble fingers on his hips, knows there is more to it. The psychology major is getting inside his specimen’s mind, a faint but velvet voice interrupting the mantra that is Alex’s insecurities and regrets. He will be saved.
*
“T-this way,” heaves the drunk roughly as he once again leads the way. The pair has been dancing for over an hour and the disc jockey is too tired for any more bumping and grinding. He has an arm wrapped firmly around the amateur psychoanalyst’s skinny waist.
“Where are you taking me?” Jack asks in mild hilarity as he stumbles along, trying not to get hit in the face as they make their way through the crowd.
“Come on,” the disc jockey pushes, pointing towards the platform where he works every night. He takes a running leap towards the ledge, landing on the elevated platform in a somersaulting motion. Barakat wavers, deciding to climb up the ledge one leg at a time only to have Alex continue on without him.
“Hey, where’d-” he begins but is cut off as a hand snakes out from behind the sound system and yanks him down. He tumbles, less gracefully than he would of liked, into the squared off area where Gaskarth is known to do his thing, spinning discs and pushing buttons until the music is a continuous thump to the ears. “What are you-” he tries again, only to be cut off by the drunk’s finger pushing up against his lips.
“Stop asking so many questions,” the specimen hushes, pulling back his finger slowly when he is sure Jack will stay quiet.
“Okay,” breathes Barakat, not wasting the opportunity to get a closer look at yet another one of Alex Gaskarth’s personal environments. Unlike the man’s home, his work space is strangely neat and organized. Wires are taped and tucked into the right places, and each button seems to have its own label. It is obvious that the disc jockey takes his job quite seriously, even if it is for a short period of time. He is talented in what he does, and the amateur psychoanalyst cannot help but wonder what caused Alex to lose his muse.
“No one will see us here,” the patient reasons, crawling over Jack so his knees sit on either side of the boy’s splayed out legs. The university student says nothing, big brown eyes watching the way Gaskarth leans into him, forcing him to press his own head against the back of a speaker. The pounding of the bass produces a steady rhythm that massages his back. “I figured the next time, you would want more...privacy,” the drunk whispers, licking his lips in expectancy.
“You knew there’d be a next time?” the amateur psychoanalyst cannot help but smirk, reaching a hand up to brush back locks of the drunk’s neon hair to get a better look at Alex’s features. The man is clearly past wasted and no longer in control of anything he is saying. The man does not even bother to reply to Barakat’s question, instead deciding now is the appropriate time to press, or rather slam, his lips to the university student’s.
The university student immediately shuts his eyes, trying to recover from the blow, as Alex gets rougher. He can feel the anticipation on the man’s mouth as both of Gaskarth’s arms reach up to grip his pointed shoulders. Jack feels his neck crack under the harsh grip as he leans in forward, trying to match the disc jockey’s strength. Being the one on top gives the drunk an advantage though, and it soon becomes a struggle for air as the patient refuses to relent.
“H-hey,” Barakat stammers, eventually having to use his own hands to push Alex’s tongue out of his oral cavity, “S-slow down.”
The disc jockey does not respond, just slips his lips further down the amateur psychoanalyst’s face. His mouth parts slightly as he traces Jack’s jaw line, his hands coming together around the boy’s straining neck. The university student sighs. He knows the patient cannot slow down even if he wanted to. The sexual compulsion attributed to the specimen’s general anxiety disorder is an unconscious chain reaction. Just like how spastic atoms release energized neutrons that alter isotopes in nuclear bombs, the adrenaline released when Alex becomes nervous triggers a hyped sense of muscle tension that Gaskarth does not know how to properly release. The drunk, who is clearly nervous with their intimacy, becomes a shaking mess on the dance floor, his movement jerky and off beat. The feeling starts to sear his veins, a desperate need for release that manifests itself into quick and racy lust.
Alex’s cognitions are put on a stand still as his body is pumped with adrenaline. He pushes his chest up against Jack’s, not caring that backing of the speakers are not all that comfortable for the darker haired boy. His untrimmed nails indent themselves into the back of the university student’s neck, pieces of hair getting caught in between his fingers. He opens his mouth open a bit wider when he reaches Barakat’s collar bone. Gaskarth has taken a liking to the broad expanse that is Jack’s shoulders. He stops for a moment, breathing heavy as he admires how the bone protrudes out from under the skin. The patient feels Jack’s own hand slip under his sticky t-shirt, a cool sweep against the hot epidermis of his back. The specimen cannot help but shiver at the touch, bringing his knees up around the university student’s hips to cradle and rock the younger man. Their crotches press up against one another through the denim that is tautly stretched over their needy bodies. The amateur psychoanalyst moans upon contact.
The sound is quiet and slow, and if Alex did not have his head pressed up the side of the university student’s neck he would never heard it over the chatter of the other customers and the bass of the speakers. But he did hear it and the sound is music to his ears. He is forced to bite his own lip, the skin already worn and dry from use, to abstain from outright attacking the younger man then and there. Instead, Gaskarth pulls back away from Jack, enough to have a proper look at the other’s face. The amateur psychoanalyst does not return the curious stare, for his eyes are closed, thick lashes enveloped in the folds of his eyelids. Yet the disc jockey can make out the keenness in the boy’s features; the premature crow’s feet around his eyes, the way his nostrils are raised and flared, and most importantly, the way he bites on his lower lip.
The drunk dives in, immersing completely in this feeling of otherworld ecstasy, as he playfully pries the university student’s tongue out from under him. They struggle for a moment, incisors roughly tugging on one another’s lips, but Alex gives in. He opts to returning to the collar bone, nipping at the dip of the dark haired man’s chest. The skin begins to redden under his touch, blood seeping through broken capillaries, and beginning to swell. The epidermis becomes moist and tender, and just when Gaskarth is about to deem it appropriately ostentatious a new sound rings through his ears.
He pulls back as Jack struggles underneath him, a hand lazily searching through the pocket of his pants. The amateur psychoanalyst reveals his mobile device, which vibrates and plays the chorus of the latest pop song on the radio. The university student takes a moment, registering the caller identification before answering with a slight press to the touch screen.
“Hey,” he begins, his voice a little raw from the excessive use of his mouth. The voice on the other end is drowned out by the background noises and Barakat plugs his free ear as he tries to focus. “Yeah, I know. Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” He nods to himself as the caller continues; rolling his eyes in annoyance and ending the call with a half-hearted chuckled. “Pronto, no te preocupas. Okay. Bye.”
“You gotta go?” slurs the drunk, but making no move to get up off of the boy.
“Yeah, sorry,” apologizes Jack, running a hand through his messy hair before trying to flatten the follicles. “I need to go... pick a friend up.”
“Pick up a friend?” repeats the disc jockey lightly, shuffling off the boy as he gathers his knees up to stand.
“My roommate,” Barakat amends, “You meet him on Halloween? Gabe.”
Alex nods and says nothing. His recollection of the holiday is kind of hazy. What he does remember is how good the university student looks in spandex. With that thought, the niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach increases, signifying that maybe having Barakat leave is not something the specimen wants.
“He’s tired from work and doesn’t have money for a cab,” the university student rambles on, “Otherwise I’d stay.”
The patient represses any sort of desire he may feel. “It’s cool,” he dismisses, accepting the hand the amateur psychoanalyst offers to pull him back up on his feet. “No worries.”
“I uh, had fun though,” Jack concludes, bringing a hand up to his collar bone in way that almost taunts Alex, “We should do this again.”
“Sure,” answers Gaskarth casually, trying to play it cool when the bulge in his pants could not be any more obvious, “See you around?”
Barakat smiles brightly despite the lack of commitment. The disc jockey’s carefully crafted poker face does not faze him at all, as he leans in the press one last kiss on the man’s lips.
*“Hey!” calls out Gabriel, as he spots his roommate pulling into the parking lot of the local Spanish restaurant that he works as a waiter at. He waves at Jack, the first few buttons of his white collared shirt already unbuttoned, as he gets into the Nissan. “Took you long enough.”
“Sorry,” Barakat excuses, eye flickering towards his roommate in acknowledgement before turning back towards the exit, “Traffic.”
“Right,” Gabe nods, leaning back on the seat and trying his best to stretch out his far too long legs. “So where were you? I could hear loud music on the phone.”
“The, uh, ‘Party Scene’,” the psychology student murmurs, eyes unnecessarily glued to the nearly empty road.
“With that Alex guy?” asks Saporta, opting to look out the passenger window.
“Yeah,” says the psychology student simply.
“Oh,” Gabriel fails to elaborate, “He seems like a cool che,”
“I guess,” shrugs Jack, hitting the gas pedal as a light turns green, “I don’t really know him all that well yet.”
“But you will,” points out Gabe knowingly, Barakat always follows the same structure in his social experiments. He establishes a relationship with the patient in order for them to trust him enough to admit to their problems. He then addresses said issues with a combination of medicinal and psychology therapy, before deeming them ready to meld back into society. Another faceless member in the crowd, Jack’s ex-patients no longer wander the streets searching for back alleys, they stride confidently through entrances, with no need to look back at the boy who saved them. Barakat does not bother to agree, his routine has been long established and so after a moment of silence Saporta adds, “If you wanted more time with him, why’d you offer to pick me up tonight?”
It is at that question that the amateur psychoanalyst’s face finally breaks out in emotion, a small quirk of the lips. “Can’t a guy do nice things for his roommate?”
Jack’s tone is casual, so casual, that had those words come from anyone else’s mouth, Saporta would have believed them. Instead the philosophy major snorts, whipping his head back to look at his roommate with an utterly bemused expression. “¡Ya basta!” he quotes the famous Mexican expression that he has probably picked up from a co-worker, “What are you up to?”
“Nada,” protests Jack, leaning away from Gabe, because his roommate is one of those exaggerated people who flail their hands wildly about when they try to get a point across.
“Ay, come on!” pushes the Uruguayan, with no regard for Jack’s personal space. They stop at another light on a busier street, and the driver next to them shoots them a look of confusion as he eyes Gabe’s irregular movements.
“Gabe,” the amateur psychoanalyst warns, a stern, mother-like tone to the name, “Not now.”
“Then later,” the elder of the two compromises with a huff as he finally folds his hands to his chest.
The younger bites his lip in concentration, the tissue is still red and puffy from earlier. So far his plan has been executed perfectly and he cannot afford to have Gabe fuck it up. As fun as it is to place wagers and speak in code to his roommate, Gabriel’s compliance is a factor to exploring Alex’s stress.
“Eh, Jack, it’s green,” Saporta interrupts his roommate’s thought process, pointing out the colour just as a horn blows behind them.
“Yeah,” sighs Barakat, easing onward. The rest of the ride is awkward and silent. Neither man says a word, questions bouncing round in the confines of Gabe’s mind, while Jack repeats the same thought over and over.
They soon reach their designated parking lot, simultaneously exiting the vehicle and the doors slamming a little too loudly for so late at night. They begin their trudging up the front entrance when Jack feels a hand come down on his shoulder. “If you need anything,” the philosophy student’s voice comes out a whisper that snakes around and in Barakat’s ear, “Just let me know alright?”
“There is one thing,” the younger says, stopping in mid-step and wrapping an arm behind Gabe’s back.
The gesture surprises Saporta, and he immediately drapes an arm around the shorter man’s shoulders, “What is it?”
“I have some laundry that needs to be done,” the amateur psychoanalyst alludes, giving his roommate a brief squeeze before dropping his arm.
“I-” stammers Gabe, berating himself for thinking that Jack would ever actually reduce himself to a level of human. “I’ll get on that.” Unlike Jack, his hold on his roommate does not loosen, but tightens around the boy’s neck in a choke hold. Gabriel’s second hand flies up, a fist pressing to the boy’s head. The elder’s knuckles scrape across the younger’s scalp, a classic school yard bully move.
“Hey!” yelps Jack, as the intertwined pair stumble up the steps of their apartment building, “My hair!”
Gabe just laughs, eventually yielding. “No worries bro, you’ve have sex hair all night.”
Even Barakat does not have a response to that overtly true statement, and so he pulls out his key pass to open the door, a sly smirk on his face.
*
Despite Gabe’s continuous teasing, in which he has a field day upon discovering Jack’s grandiose hickey, Barakat takes to visiting ‘The Party Scene’ frequently. He visits almost every four days, to the point where he has neglected his school work. He has a paper due soon, seeing as it is now mid-November, and he needs to triple-check his cited proofs to make sure his thesis is justified to its fullest. The amateur psychoanalyst is meticulous about his work, scheduling study sessions in between make out sessions. He knows he needs to pace himself, tackling one chapter at a time, and one manifestation at a time. The more Jack reads, the more knowledgeable he becomes about the inner workings of General Anxiety Disorder. A mixture of genetics, brain chemistry, and a stressful environment has induced a continuous sense of unease in the purpled haired man. The disc jockey copes with that restlessness with sex and alcohol, two strong social inhibitors that keep caring and intrusive people like Jack at bay. The only way for the university student can gain his patient’s trust is if he incorporates himself into Alex’s routinely destruction.
The damage to the body and psyche is hazardous, and it pains the amateur psychoanalyst to watch such a pathetic attempt at living. Any sort of feeling the patient may experience in the thrill of the gritty and cheap lifestyle he pursues is merely a cover. It is a second skin that melds to his erratically beating heart. Like bacteria growing in Agar’s dish, the slime of the sleaze feeds off of Gaskarth, eating up nutrients that are supposed to provide energy to the broken man. No matter how much force Alex uses as he grinds up against Jack on the dance floor, the strength of the shove he delivers as he slams the university student against a wall for a needy kiss, the amateur psychologist knows his specimen’s resolve is weakening. Gaskarth’s intentions are losing their focus.
Lately the drunk has been getting pushy, rarely letting Jack to get a word in before pressing their chapped lips together. Last Friday the disc jockey even dared to begin palming Jack in the middle of the dance floor, alerting the university student that he needs to start reigning in the project. That is why all focus is on the amateur psychoanalyst when he enters ‘The Party Scene’ on a Wednesday evening. He is sporting obscenely tight attire tonight; a setback to having Saporta wash his clothes is that most of it seems to have shrunk. Yet the customer uses it to his advantage as he struts his stuff on the dance floor. He is dressed in simple black skinny jeans, an unusually bright blue v-neck and black Nikes that squeak slightly as he makes his way through the crowd. There is less than a minute until the clock strikes midnight, and he knows a certain disc jockey is watching the time just as dedicatedly as he is. As the hour hand makes its move, so does Alex, pushing the play button one last time, starting the mixed compact disc he arranged for the night. He skitters out of his designated zone on the platform, stepping onto the edge of the crowd with a loud roar as he prepares for his usual descent into the waves of dancers, when he spots him.
Jack is standing at the edge of the platform, his face plastered with that knowing smirk that Gaskarth has become accustomed to. The drunk stalls for a moment, unsure if he should continue with his dive when Barakat is clearly waiting for him. His toes curl within the confines of his shoes, anticipation growing as he looks out into the crowd, some of the customers crying out in expectation. They know what happens next, the disc jockey sores in the air, a wingless bird singing out in absolute bliss that only the clouds from the sky above could provide. He then lands into the sea, a mass of salty water, or rather salty sweat stained young adults that keep him suspended in the air. But now he is a fish struggling to fill his gills, struggling to fulfill his needs, as his desire to let go and his desire to remember collide.
The amateur psychoanalyst can see the indecision on the disc jockey’s face, his features being taunted left and right as his resolve is pulled one way then another. Jack waits for a moment, seeing how far he can push his specimen as he literally teeters on the edge of the stage. Just before it seems like the drunk will lose his balance, Barakat leaps forward. He lands unsteadily, hauling himself upwards by the disc jockey’s unoffered hand, and shoots the man a smile.
“Hey,” he greets, as is nothing has happened, as if Gaskarth did not just lose it. The patient is too stunned to speak, and just stares at the university student. “Mind if I join you?” continues Barakat, pointing out to the crowd that bounces up and down to the music.
“I, uhm,” tries the specimen, no coherent thought forming in his frazzled mind, “Yeah. I mean, why not?”
The amateur psychoanalyst nods, “I’ve always wanted to do this, the rush...”
Alex swallows back a lump that has formed in his throat. He blinks back a memory, breathes in any sort of confession, and just nods. The rush is the exact reason as to why Alex pulls stunts like this. He likes the feeling of being in control. He likes knowing that he is the one who induces these blasts of heightened nerves, where his senses are hyper alert and all his focus is on the thrill. It scares him sometimes, not the fact he likes to get high off danger, but the notion that maybe he gets nervous for no reason. That maybe this sense of unease is something greater than just being a sensitive artist, a perfectionist or even just a worry wart who does not easily adapt to change. Gaskarth refuses to believe there is something wrong with him.
So the disc jockey reaches for the dark haired boy’s hand, trying to ignore the fact his own are shaking almost uncontrollably. Despite Jack’s warm touch, the hold feels completely wrong. The other’s hands should be smaller and calloused from carrying heavy equipment. They should have less hair around the wrist, and larger knuckles. The drunk should be able to see blue veins underneath the pale skin, and a familiar patterning of three disjointed lines within the palm. They are not the right hands. Alex’s vision blurs as he tries to clear his stirred mind. These are Jack’s hands, of course they are different. The disc jockey’s grip loosens, his own hand going limp as he considers what he is doing. He has never done this before, never with anyone except for-
“Let’s countdown okay?” the amateur psychoanalyst suggests, fingers tightening around Alex’s. He can sense the hesitancy.
“Uh,” the patient stutters, because the need to feel in control is battling against the sense of guilt that bubbles up in his chest. He does not know what to do, and he can feel his knees knocking together. His conscious is telling him that what he is about to do is wrong. That he cannot jump with Jack, it would be disloyal.
“Three,” starts the university student, settling his feet in a straight line with the disc jockey’s.
“Two,” swallows the drunk, because one thought seems to over cloud everything else. It does not matter if what Alex is doing is bad. He is bad. He is a fuck-up. It does not matter what he does. He acts like he does not care so others will do the same.
One,” calls the amateur psychoanalyst bending his knees in time with Alex as they spring up.
They fall together, diving head first into the crowd, countless number of hands, clutching at their clothes and skin to break the fall. Barakat lets out a sigh of relief as he is steadied, hollering emitted at the double jump, and he looks over to where his arm is extended. Gaskarth did not even register their landing; he has his eyes shut tight, shoulders laid flat against dancing strangers. The drunk does not let go of Jack as he lets go of everything else. The pain is numbed for a moment as the adrenaline rush induces a high, dopamine converting itself in pure pleasure. They travel across the waves, floating over reality for the briefest of movements until they reach the edge of the crowd. That is when Jack breaks contact, landing to the ground roughly so he can somewhat catch Alex as he too is tossed to the side.
The specimen laughs as he lands in the darker haired boy’s arms, the moment so euphoric for him that giggles spill out his mouth. The sound is refreshing, for the disc jockey’s speech has yet to be completely muffled by alcohol. He does not seem to notice that Barakat holds him close for a second too long. The amateur psychoanalyst savours the chuckling, deciding that he needs to hear it more often. The purpled haired man continues tittering with no pretence of a joke, burying his head in Barakat’s chest. His hands fist the fabric of the university student’s shirt, the material so tight that the patient unintentionally pulls at Jack’s nipples, causing the amateur psychoanalyst to squirm in protest. He wraps his arms around Gaskarth’s shaking frame, pressing their chests together so that he can feel the way Alex’s chest vibrates from his over-excited heart.
“That was fucking awesome,” breathes the drunk after moment, “Man, I need a drink.” He begins to pull back, flashing Jack his teeth. They are stained from the constant liquor intake.
“Now?” asks Barakat lightly, not exactly letting go of his date. He is pushing his specimen tonight. It is a test.
“Yeah,” says Alex, a wary expression on his face because the university student has never commentated on his drinking habits before.
“Alright,” shrugs Jack, letting go, and averting his eyes. He is not going to dictate what Gaskarth does, but his actions speak for themselves. He wants his patient to be a little sobered up tonight. There is a reason as to why he arrived early and ambushed the man before his shift was over. It is in the disc jockey’s hands now, whether he will comply with the sexily dressed boy’s silent wishes. Jack starts towards the bar, his expression neutral. Gaskarth hesitates though, scratching his head with uncertainty, as he follows.
They soon met up with the tender, who has taken to eyeing the odd couple indecisively. Dawson does not exactly get the pair. After seeing Jack with Mina Valentino, he assumed the university student was straight and stable. Yet he recalls the customer’s encounter with Jordan Kellicks, a boy who also seemed uncertain about his sexuality. The most confusing part would be Alex’s role in the whole relationship. The man is promiscuous; a drunken flirt that only has one thing on his mind. The quickest and easiest fuck is his aim, and Rian does not see how Jack could fit the description of the floozies the drunk usually pursues.
“Hey guys,” he greets them nonetheless, resolving to question Alex about the supposed friendship soon.
“Hey,” replies Jack, cool and slick as usual. Gaskarth does not say anything, which is unusual for the specimen. He should be demanding his drink by now.
“What’ll it be?” the tender asks, pre-maturely reaching for whiskey.
“Water,” responds Barakat, settling onto a stool and patting the one next to him so that Alex will sit.
“Make that two,” says a voice, and Dawson swears his breathing hitches as he does a double take. He looks up; eyeing his best friend in disbelief.
“You, want water?” he questions.
“That’s what he said,” confirms the university student, not even looking at the drunk to make sure. He knows he cannot make it seem like a big deal. He can hear the way his patient’s foot is tapping impatiently against the counter, not at all in time to the way his fingers drill against the countertop.
“Alright,” complies Dawson, unable to decipher what has happened or whether he likes it. He soon returns with the two orders, sliding them across the counter. He watches Alex with heightened curiosity, and the man shoots his a nasty glare.
“What?” he asks, taking a large gulp of the water in some sort of defiance. His face twists for a moment, as if water has a bad taste to it.
“Nothing,” the tender dismisses, knowing when it is time to back off. He turns to the other end of the bar, figuring it is best to leave the odd pair, to whatever it is they are doing.
“Fuck,” curses Alex the moment Rian is out of earshot.
“Hmm?” Jack hums lazily, turning to finally look his specimen in the eye. They are narrowed in anger, his hands gripping at his half empty glass.
“I want a drink,” Gaskarth states bluntly, “A real one.”
“Then order one,” Jack replies lightly, as if the consequences do not affect him in any shape or form. In truth he is making mental notes on how the tension is building. Jack observes the reddening of his patient’s face, way the tendons in his neck bulge as he grinds his teeth out of frustration.
It is not so much that the patient is angry at Dawson for giving him water, he is mad at himself for needing the alcohol. Gaskarth has always liked to drink alcohol because it livens up a night. Whether it is a casual beer, or some classy wine, alcohol dims the harsh glow of reality. Everything is so much easier when one is drunk; one says things they are afraid to say and one does things they have waited to do. One does not think of consequences or feelings, they just live in a moment of absolute being. Yet the disc jockey never thought he would reach a point where he would need alcohol in order to live. Living is more than the mere act of breathing, it is the act of thinking, remembering, and knowing what one is doing, and why. One cannot truly live while intoxicated. But tonight Alex does not want to delve on philosophy. That is something one does when they are already drunk and uninhibited by social mannerisms.
“I don’t want to,” the specimen contradicts himself, eyes crossing in concentration as he stands at a mental crossroad.
Jack decides it is best not to examine the situation for the drunk’s sake, “You wanna dance then?”
“With you?” snaps Alex, pinning his sour mood on Barakat’s previous backhanded comment. Yes, he has heard Zack and Rian drone on and on about how he drinks too much, but it feels different when it is said by a complete outsider who is not expected to care about his escapades. The disc jockey feels the way Jack watches him all the time but he always interpreted the look as interest and not judgement. Gaskarth does not like being told what to do; because that means that he is not in control, that he is not living up to invisible expectations.
The psychology major raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. It is interesting to note how quickly his patient’s mood changes once the rush of the jump falls through. One moment Alex is upbeat and laughing, the next he is bitter and snappy. It almost as if the neon haired man is giving Jack a test of his own. The man clearly is not all that easy to be around while sober. “That was the idea,” the amateur psychoanalyst responds after a moment. He gets up from his seat, and heads towards the dance floor when he gets no response from the disc jockey.
*
A/N: To be frank, a large reason why this chapter is so late is because I realized I didn’t want to move to fast progress-wise but was trying my best not to sound completely redundant. We are still at step one in the sense we must ‘establish a relationship with the patient’ and are trying to ease into ‘get the patient to admit they have a problem.’ But before we are able to address GAD for what it is, we have to break past all the deviant coping methods Alex’s character has developed (alcoholism/sexual compulsiveness). He denies that anything is wrong with him, and you’ll see that whenever he does try to address it, physical symptoms of the disorder (see chart) will get in the way.
Part two link.
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 alcoholism, promiscuity, 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: Keep this in mind.
Physical Symptoms of GAD Psychological Symptoms of GAD
Increased heart rate Excessive and constant feelings of dread/worry
Sweating Restlessness
Shortening of breath Irritability
Fatigue Trouble concentrating
Headache Paranoia
Insomnia Increased startle reaction
Stomach upset / dizziness Skewed view of problems (hypersensitivity)
Muscle tension Moments where ‘the mind goes blank’
Tremours/Twitches
Frequent urination /diarrhea
Can lead to: phobias, OCD, drug abuse, alcoholism
*Yes, GAD is a real life disorder, but the vivacity of the symptoms that Alex’s character experiences are exaggerated at times for the sake of literary interest.
Masterpost | Writing Tumblr
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The next time Jack Barakat arrives to the ‘The Party Scene’ he is easily deemed late. He is late in the sense that is well past midnight when he arrives to the club. The line of customers in front of the venue has dwindled away to be replaced with an awaiting brigade of taxis prepared to take the intoxicated home. The psychology student is also categorized as late in the sense that it is already a week into November when he returns to the club. One would anticipate that after the break through moment in which the amateur psychoanalyst was able to establish contact with his specimen, that he would immediately try and begin his study. Yet Barakat takes his time, counting down the minutes the way a male is supposed to wait three days before calling back that girl he is enamoured with. This causes the waiting female to squirm, unsure of he will indeed call back. But in Alex Gaskarth’s case, the less pressure applied to the drunk the more comfortable he will feel. Jack knows the best thing to do is play it cool if he is to gain his patient’s trust. Nonetheless he arrives with a certain spring to his step as he reaches the door, not all fazed by the arm that reaches up across the entrance of the club to stop him from going in.
“Hey,” the bouncer murmurs, not letting his arm drop as the university student stills. Merrick has not seen Jack since the unfortunate drunken fight the amateur psychoanalyst had with the tender. As far as both Rian and Zack are concerned, the Batman and Robin pairing that arrived on Halloween night were just faceless heroes.
“Hey Zack,” greets the dark haired boy, cheeks lifting as he shoots the bouncer a tight smile. “What’s up?”
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” the bouncer states bluntly, finally letting his arm drop. He steps forward to inspect Jack’s frame, noting how the boy is standing perfectly upright and that any apparent bruises have healed. He sighs in relief. It is too dark for the bouncer to make out a faint line that traces below the amateur psychoanalyst’s hairline.
“It took me some time to heal,” Barakat admits, looking down at his feet briefly to see that the cement he is standing over is still stained a rusted red colour. “But I’m ready to get back at it.”
The bouncer nods slowly, still trying to figure something out. “I just thought that, you wouldn’t want to come back.”
“It wasn’t the first fight I’ve ever gotten into.”Jack shrugs, leaning against the brick wall when he realizes that Merrick is not going to let him go that easily.
Zack bites his lip to refrain from asking if the customer has ever won a fight. The boy is intimidating in the sense that he is quick on his feet, a smooth trash talker to match. The young man has a good half a foot in height over most opponents, but when it comes down to it, Merrick could easily toss the boy overhead if he wanted to. “You just don’t seem like the violent type.”
“I’m not,” the university student assures the bouncer, “But by instinct all people will fight if the situation calls for it.”
Merrick nods, knowing this much is true.
“Take Rian for example,” Jack smirks, testing Zack with his eyes.
“He’s not usually like that,” the bouncer immediately goes to defend his best friend, more out of habit than belief. “He’s been having a rough time lately, and I guess he kind of just...took it out on you.”
Jack nods, dismissing the memory and its defence with a wave of his hand. “No worries, I get it. It was best he released those feelings, too much repression isn’t healthy.”
Zack nods, assessing the boy’s vocabulary and recalling that Barakat is majoring in psychology. The boy probably knows what he is talking about. “It isn’t an excuse to try and kill anyone though,” he concludes.
“Bottling up your feelings can kill you from the inside out,” the university student counters, sensing that maybe Rian is not the only one denying his id.
Humanity buries unsettling emotions brought up by murdered memories in six foot graves. The dirt of ideology masks the stench of decaying fear emitted with the notion that success does not equate to happiness. No, everyone is expected to fit in the same sized coffin, to respond to the name carved out on their tombstone. Ghosts are then the haunting urge to be set free. The low wailing one hears whispered by the wind of a graveyard is the frustrated cries that come from unrealistic aspirations. The desire to disappoint parents, to sin before the Church and to protest against a democratically capitalist government is felt by all walking corpses. The masses silently mourn for individualization; another pre-constructed ritual that goes along with their final blessings that death may bring peace to uneasy minds.
“I should probably talk to him about it,” Merrick admits aloud, his eyes going out of focus as he draws up the image of the sulking tender.
“If it helps you both sleep better at night,” shrugs Jack, having noted that Zack has drawn his hands up to rub against his bare arms, giving the customer more than enough space to walk through the threshold.
“Yeah...” the bouncer sighs, not really paying attention to Barakat’s innuendos anymore.
“Anyways, I better get going,” the amateur psychoanalyst abruptly announces, “I’m late tonight.”
*
Jack eventually finds a seat at the end of the bar, his all black outfit melding into the shadows so that when Rian finally turns to serve him, the tender barely recognizes him.
“What can I get you tonight?” he asks tiredly, dark crescents of shallow skin tracing his eyes. He has not slept well since their fight.
“I’m not sure,” Barakat responds coyly, “What do you recommend?”
The tender stalls for a second, his body freezing as he recognizes the voice. “Uh,” he begins, blinking roughly in a futile attempt to register the presence of the customer sitting in front of him. “Water?”
“With ice,” the customer requests, placing his elbows up on the counter so he can lean into the low lighting of the bar.
“Coming right up,” Dawson assures him, turning his back away from Jack before the university student can spot the small smile that has suddenly crept up on the tender. He returns with a tall glass of water, perspiration coating the bottom of the cold drink, and slides it towards the amateur psychoanalyst with expertise.
“Thanks,” he expresses, hands wiping the glass. Barakat has not even taken a sip of the clear liquid when a finger taps his shoulder. Jack turns, his face betraying no sign of surprise, to face a raven haired female with a wide and suggestive smirk on her face.
“Hey,” she begins with no pretence to need to talk the customer other than unabashed flirting.
“Hey,” the amateur psychoanalyst replies politely, his eyes visibly sizing her up. She is sporting a sparkling red tank top with a neckline that plunges down past the tan line of her breasts. Meanwhile the hem of her skirt is so high up that it clings the edge of her posterior. When she feels his eyes on her she steps closer, her skinny ankles stilted in red heels. She gives off a scent of expensive perfume and cheap liquor. She tells him a name he does not register. She is one of those girls who are named after a flower in a vain attempt to attribute some sort of beauty to an otherwise ordinary face. The psychology major waits a moment, impressed with how her confidence does not even falter for a second when he returns the favour.
“Jack,” he says simply, bringing his glass to his mouth and leaving the girl with no choice but to back up. Her long curly hair brushes past his cheeks, soft at the touch, but nowhere near as electrifying as a certain drunk’s.
“Jack,” she repeats slowly, savouring the feel of how her tongue clicks at the monosyllable, “Do you wanna dance?”
“Normally I would,” the customer begins, letting her down gradually, “But I’m gunna have to take it easy tonight.”
The young woman, who really does not look much older than Jack herself, raises a finely plucked eyebrow is scepticism. “You waitin’ for somebody?”
“Not really,” Barakat shrugs, settling his glass down a little harder than strictly necessary.
The clang goes unnoticed by the girl, whose dilated pupils let the amateur psychoanalyst know she is drunker than she gives off. “What’s the matter then?” she pushes, cocking out her hip and placing a hand over it. The paint on her jagged nails has peeled indicating that maybe she is not as confident and put together as she plays.
“Honestly,” Jack sighs, “You’re just not my type.”
“Oh,” the girl yawns, “Well then, what is your type?” She fiddles with one of the ringlets that hang off her head with faux interest.
“Blonde,” the dark haired boy bluffs, “Busty.”
The woman’s interest suddenly peaks as she lets out an indiscreet scoff. “Typical.”
“Sorry,” Barakat smiles sheepishly, lifting his hands to the air in an exaggerated motion. “Can’t help it.”
The girl rolls her eyes, turning on her heel without even saying goodbye as she makes her way through the bar stools looking for a potential partner.
“Blonde and busty,” titters the tender, having overheard the conversation. “My favourite.”
Barakat joins in on the man’s laughter, turning back around to clutch at his half drunk water. “In all honesty she was pretty hot,” he admits, “I’m just not really up for fooling around tonight.”
“Playing it cool then?” Rian assumes.
“Mhm,” the psychology student hums.
“Still getting over her huh?” Dawson sympathizes, referring to Mina Valentino.
“Eh,” Jack grunts, not giving much away, “It was for the best. I’ll be on to bigger and better things before you know it.”
The tender’s laughter increases, unaware of the truth to his customer’s words. “I’m sure you will.”
*
“Hey, Fred, gimmie a shot!” a voice calls out from the crowd, and both the tender and most of his customers turn to see the disc jockey immerging from the mass of dancers and striding up the counter.
“Alex,” the tender grumbled, “That stopped being funny, like a week ago.” Ever since Halloween Gaskarth has taken to referring to Dawson as ‘Fred Flintstone.’
“Dunno what you’re talkin’ about Flintstone,” the disc jockey continues, squeezing in between two seated customers to slam his hand against the counter. “How about that shot?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” miffs Rian, reaching for a clean wet glass to dry off instead of the requested drink.
“Awh, come on,” pleads Alex, who has clearly already drank a sufficient amount of alcohol tonight. He takes no notice of the two disgruntled customers whom he is sandwiched between as they both shoot him angry scowls. “Do it for me, Freddy baby.”
“No,” counters Rian, shaking his head in disgust. “I’m cutting you off for tonight.”
“But I’m thirsty!” whines Gaskarth with impatience.
“Have some of this then,” the tender snaps, placing the pitcher of water that he has been serving Jack with in front of the intolerant disc jockey.
“What is it?” the drunk asks excitedly, taking the pitcher in both hands and bringing it to his lips. He downs it hurriedly, not minding the way it slips out from his mouth, down his chin and onto his already sweat stained white t-shirt. After a moment he recognizes the seemingly nonexistent taste and spits the remainder of the liquid he has his mouth out onto the counter. “Fuck Rian, this is water!”
“Water is good for you,” Dawson says calmly, wiping the counter out of habit. “God knows what condition your kidneys are in.”
“I’ve got two,” Alex defends, wiping the spittle from his chin, “They’ll last me.”
“I hope for your sake they do,” the tender sighs tiredly, “Cocky bastard.”
“Who in their right mind sits at a club drinking water?” Gaskarth insists.
“I do,” pipes up a third voice and Rian cannot help but smile in triumph at the look of shock that overcomes his best friend’s face when he spots Jack a few seats away from him.
“You?” spits the drunk, accidentally elbowing a man on his left as he spins on the spot to get a better look at Barakat.
“Hello to you too Alex,” Jack replies coolly.
The disc jockey lets out a short bark of laughter, the already downed liquid confidence overcoming any sort of dominance Jack had over the patient. “What are you doing here?” he demands, squirming through the stools until he is standing right beside the university student.
“Sitting at a club drinking water,” Jack quotes the drunk.
“Fuck that,” curses the disc jockey, a grin playing up his features, “Come dance with me.”
“Maybe if you ask politely,” Barakat argues, wagging his index finger teasingly.
“Please,” adds Alex, fluttering his eyelashes in what the amateur psychoanalyst supposes the patient thinks he will find endearing.
Jack takes another sip of his drink, finishing it off before pushing the glass towards the tender. “Fine.”
Dawson’s forehead creases as he raises his brow in disapproving amusement. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Don’t be jealous Fred,” slurs the disc jockey with a wide grin as Barakat complies. “Your ass is still mine tonight.”
The tender’s face crinkles in disgust and yet his cheeks still go pink at the comment. “Ew, just go.”
“Gladly,” the drunk ends with a wink, hooking a finger into one of Barakat’s belt loops. He leads the way onto the dance floor, tugging at his date’s pants in a teasing fashion.
The scene looks casual enough, two young men hitting the dance floor, limbs tangling together as the blood rushes through their veins. Yet the amateur psychoanalyst knows this a monumental moment for his specimen. It is the first time in years that Alex is showing preference in his high jinks, purposefully choosing Jack to be his partner instead going after fresh meat. The patient should be going after someone who is thinking short term, who is only concerned about having a good time tonight. Gaskarth knows that Barakat is observant and meddlesome, and that going after him multiple times gives off the wrong impression. The drunk’s defences are telling him to abort the mission while he still can, but he really cannot be bothered to think anything through. The irrational and dominant part of his mind is reminding him how drawn he is to Jack. There is no denying it; the disc jockey naturally gravitated towards the university student the first time they met. Even when he does not know it is Jack, for the second time the boy was wearing a costume, the connection is instinctive.
The drunk picks a spot in the middle of the floor, the rest of the crowd dissipating as he meets the smug look the amateur psychoanalyst is giving him. He returns the look with a wicked grin of his own, cocking his head to the side in amusement as he gives his partner an approving stare. The disc jockey dismisses his excitement for pheromones, chemicals exuding from Jack’s smooth-looking skin that trigger a biological reaction in his nether regions. But Barakat, who relishes in the feel of the drunk’s nimble fingers on his hips, knows there is more to it. The psychology major is getting inside his specimen’s mind, a faint but velvet voice interrupting the mantra that is Alex’s insecurities and regrets. He will be saved.
*
“T-this way,” heaves the drunk roughly as he once again leads the way. The pair has been dancing for over an hour and the disc jockey is too tired for any more bumping and grinding. He has an arm wrapped firmly around the amateur psychoanalyst’s skinny waist.
“Where are you taking me?” Jack asks in mild hilarity as he stumbles along, trying not to get hit in the face as they make their way through the crowd.
“Come on,” the disc jockey pushes, pointing towards the platform where he works every night. He takes a running leap towards the ledge, landing on the elevated platform in a somersaulting motion. Barakat wavers, deciding to climb up the ledge one leg at a time only to have Alex continue on without him.
“Hey, where’d-” he begins but is cut off as a hand snakes out from behind the sound system and yanks him down. He tumbles, less gracefully than he would of liked, into the squared off area where Gaskarth is known to do his thing, spinning discs and pushing buttons until the music is a continuous thump to the ears. “What are you-” he tries again, only to be cut off by the drunk’s finger pushing up against his lips.
“Stop asking so many questions,” the specimen hushes, pulling back his finger slowly when he is sure Jack will stay quiet.
“Okay,” breathes Barakat, not wasting the opportunity to get a closer look at yet another one of Alex Gaskarth’s personal environments. Unlike the man’s home, his work space is strangely neat and organized. Wires are taped and tucked into the right places, and each button seems to have its own label. It is obvious that the disc jockey takes his job quite seriously, even if it is for a short period of time. He is talented in what he does, and the amateur psychoanalyst cannot help but wonder what caused Alex to lose his muse.
“No one will see us here,” the patient reasons, crawling over Jack so his knees sit on either side of the boy’s splayed out legs. The university student says nothing, big brown eyes watching the way Gaskarth leans into him, forcing him to press his own head against the back of a speaker. The pounding of the bass produces a steady rhythm that massages his back. “I figured the next time, you would want more...privacy,” the drunk whispers, licking his lips in expectancy.
“You knew there’d be a next time?” the amateur psychoanalyst cannot help but smirk, reaching a hand up to brush back locks of the drunk’s neon hair to get a better look at Alex’s features. The man is clearly past wasted and no longer in control of anything he is saying. The man does not even bother to reply to Barakat’s question, instead deciding now is the appropriate time to press, or rather slam, his lips to the university student’s.
The university student immediately shuts his eyes, trying to recover from the blow, as Alex gets rougher. He can feel the anticipation on the man’s mouth as both of Gaskarth’s arms reach up to grip his pointed shoulders. Jack feels his neck crack under the harsh grip as he leans in forward, trying to match the disc jockey’s strength. Being the one on top gives the drunk an advantage though, and it soon becomes a struggle for air as the patient refuses to relent.
“H-hey,” Barakat stammers, eventually having to use his own hands to push Alex’s tongue out of his oral cavity, “S-slow down.”
The disc jockey does not respond, just slips his lips further down the amateur psychoanalyst’s face. His mouth parts slightly as he traces Jack’s jaw line, his hands coming together around the boy’s straining neck. The university student sighs. He knows the patient cannot slow down even if he wanted to. The sexual compulsion attributed to the specimen’s general anxiety disorder is an unconscious chain reaction. Just like how spastic atoms release energized neutrons that alter isotopes in nuclear bombs, the adrenaline released when Alex becomes nervous triggers a hyped sense of muscle tension that Gaskarth does not know how to properly release. The drunk, who is clearly nervous with their intimacy, becomes a shaking mess on the dance floor, his movement jerky and off beat. The feeling starts to sear his veins, a desperate need for release that manifests itself into quick and racy lust.
Alex’s cognitions are put on a stand still as his body is pumped with adrenaline. He pushes his chest up against Jack’s, not caring that backing of the speakers are not all that comfortable for the darker haired boy. His untrimmed nails indent themselves into the back of the university student’s neck, pieces of hair getting caught in between his fingers. He opens his mouth open a bit wider when he reaches Barakat’s collar bone. Gaskarth has taken a liking to the broad expanse that is Jack’s shoulders. He stops for a moment, breathing heavy as he admires how the bone protrudes out from under the skin. The patient feels Jack’s own hand slip under his sticky t-shirt, a cool sweep against the hot epidermis of his back. The specimen cannot help but shiver at the touch, bringing his knees up around the university student’s hips to cradle and rock the younger man. Their crotches press up against one another through the denim that is tautly stretched over their needy bodies. The amateur psychoanalyst moans upon contact.
The sound is quiet and slow, and if Alex did not have his head pressed up the side of the university student’s neck he would never heard it over the chatter of the other customers and the bass of the speakers. But he did hear it and the sound is music to his ears. He is forced to bite his own lip, the skin already worn and dry from use, to abstain from outright attacking the younger man then and there. Instead, Gaskarth pulls back away from Jack, enough to have a proper look at the other’s face. The amateur psychoanalyst does not return the curious stare, for his eyes are closed, thick lashes enveloped in the folds of his eyelids. Yet the disc jockey can make out the keenness in the boy’s features; the premature crow’s feet around his eyes, the way his nostrils are raised and flared, and most importantly, the way he bites on his lower lip.
The drunk dives in, immersing completely in this feeling of otherworld ecstasy, as he playfully pries the university student’s tongue out from under him. They struggle for a moment, incisors roughly tugging on one another’s lips, but Alex gives in. He opts to returning to the collar bone, nipping at the dip of the dark haired man’s chest. The skin begins to redden under his touch, blood seeping through broken capillaries, and beginning to swell. The epidermis becomes moist and tender, and just when Gaskarth is about to deem it appropriately ostentatious a new sound rings through his ears.
He pulls back as Jack struggles underneath him, a hand lazily searching through the pocket of his pants. The amateur psychoanalyst reveals his mobile device, which vibrates and plays the chorus of the latest pop song on the radio. The university student takes a moment, registering the caller identification before answering with a slight press to the touch screen.
“Hey,” he begins, his voice a little raw from the excessive use of his mouth. The voice on the other end is drowned out by the background noises and Barakat plugs his free ear as he tries to focus. “Yeah, I know. Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” He nods to himself as the caller continues; rolling his eyes in annoyance and ending the call with a half-hearted chuckled. “Pronto, no te preocupas. Okay. Bye.”
“You gotta go?” slurs the drunk, but making no move to get up off of the boy.
“Yeah, sorry,” apologizes Jack, running a hand through his messy hair before trying to flatten the follicles. “I need to go... pick a friend up.”
“Pick up a friend?” repeats the disc jockey lightly, shuffling off the boy as he gathers his knees up to stand.
“My roommate,” Barakat amends, “You meet him on Halloween? Gabe.”
Alex nods and says nothing. His recollection of the holiday is kind of hazy. What he does remember is how good the university student looks in spandex. With that thought, the niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach increases, signifying that maybe having Barakat leave is not something the specimen wants.
“He’s tired from work and doesn’t have money for a cab,” the university student rambles on, “Otherwise I’d stay.”
The patient represses any sort of desire he may feel. “It’s cool,” he dismisses, accepting the hand the amateur psychoanalyst offers to pull him back up on his feet. “No worries.”
“I uh, had fun though,” Jack concludes, bringing a hand up to his collar bone in way that almost taunts Alex, “We should do this again.”
“Sure,” answers Gaskarth casually, trying to play it cool when the bulge in his pants could not be any more obvious, “See you around?”
Barakat smiles brightly despite the lack of commitment. The disc jockey’s carefully crafted poker face does not faze him at all, as he leans in the press one last kiss on the man’s lips.
*“Hey!” calls out Gabriel, as he spots his roommate pulling into the parking lot of the local Spanish restaurant that he works as a waiter at. He waves at Jack, the first few buttons of his white collared shirt already unbuttoned, as he gets into the Nissan. “Took you long enough.”
“Sorry,” Barakat excuses, eye flickering towards his roommate in acknowledgement before turning back towards the exit, “Traffic.”
“Right,” Gabe nods, leaning back on the seat and trying his best to stretch out his far too long legs. “So where were you? I could hear loud music on the phone.”
“The, uh, ‘Party Scene’,” the psychology student murmurs, eyes unnecessarily glued to the nearly empty road.
“With that Alex guy?” asks Saporta, opting to look out the passenger window.
“Yeah,” says the psychology student simply.
“Oh,” Gabriel fails to elaborate, “He seems like a cool che,”
“I guess,” shrugs Jack, hitting the gas pedal as a light turns green, “I don’t really know him all that well yet.”
“But you will,” points out Gabe knowingly, Barakat always follows the same structure in his social experiments. He establishes a relationship with the patient in order for them to trust him enough to admit to their problems. He then addresses said issues with a combination of medicinal and psychology therapy, before deeming them ready to meld back into society. Another faceless member in the crowd, Jack’s ex-patients no longer wander the streets searching for back alleys, they stride confidently through entrances, with no need to look back at the boy who saved them. Barakat does not bother to agree, his routine has been long established and so after a moment of silence Saporta adds, “If you wanted more time with him, why’d you offer to pick me up tonight?”
It is at that question that the amateur psychoanalyst’s face finally breaks out in emotion, a small quirk of the lips. “Can’t a guy do nice things for his roommate?”
Jack’s tone is casual, so casual, that had those words come from anyone else’s mouth, Saporta would have believed them. Instead the philosophy major snorts, whipping his head back to look at his roommate with an utterly bemused expression. “¡Ya basta!” he quotes the famous Mexican expression that he has probably picked up from a co-worker, “What are you up to?”
“Nada,” protests Jack, leaning away from Gabe, because his roommate is one of those exaggerated people who flail their hands wildly about when they try to get a point across.
“Ay, come on!” pushes the Uruguayan, with no regard for Jack’s personal space. They stop at another light on a busier street, and the driver next to them shoots them a look of confusion as he eyes Gabe’s irregular movements.
“Gabe,” the amateur psychoanalyst warns, a stern, mother-like tone to the name, “Not now.”
“Then later,” the elder of the two compromises with a huff as he finally folds his hands to his chest.
The younger bites his lip in concentration, the tissue is still red and puffy from earlier. So far his plan has been executed perfectly and he cannot afford to have Gabe fuck it up. As fun as it is to place wagers and speak in code to his roommate, Gabriel’s compliance is a factor to exploring Alex’s stress.
“Eh, Jack, it’s green,” Saporta interrupts his roommate’s thought process, pointing out the colour just as a horn blows behind them.
“Yeah,” sighs Barakat, easing onward. The rest of the ride is awkward and silent. Neither man says a word, questions bouncing round in the confines of Gabe’s mind, while Jack repeats the same thought over and over.
They soon reach their designated parking lot, simultaneously exiting the vehicle and the doors slamming a little too loudly for so late at night. They begin their trudging up the front entrance when Jack feels a hand come down on his shoulder. “If you need anything,” the philosophy student’s voice comes out a whisper that snakes around and in Barakat’s ear, “Just let me know alright?”
“There is one thing,” the younger says, stopping in mid-step and wrapping an arm behind Gabe’s back.
The gesture surprises Saporta, and he immediately drapes an arm around the shorter man’s shoulders, “What is it?”
“I have some laundry that needs to be done,” the amateur psychoanalyst alludes, giving his roommate a brief squeeze before dropping his arm.
“I-” stammers Gabe, berating himself for thinking that Jack would ever actually reduce himself to a level of human. “I’ll get on that.” Unlike Jack, his hold on his roommate does not loosen, but tightens around the boy’s neck in a choke hold. Gabriel’s second hand flies up, a fist pressing to the boy’s head. The elder’s knuckles scrape across the younger’s scalp, a classic school yard bully move.
“Hey!” yelps Jack, as the intertwined pair stumble up the steps of their apartment building, “My hair!”
Gabe just laughs, eventually yielding. “No worries bro, you’ve have sex hair all night.”
Even Barakat does not have a response to that overtly true statement, and so he pulls out his key pass to open the door, a sly smirk on his face.
*
Despite Gabe’s continuous teasing, in which he has a field day upon discovering Jack’s grandiose hickey, Barakat takes to visiting ‘The Party Scene’ frequently. He visits almost every four days, to the point where he has neglected his school work. He has a paper due soon, seeing as it is now mid-November, and he needs to triple-check his cited proofs to make sure his thesis is justified to its fullest. The amateur psychoanalyst is meticulous about his work, scheduling study sessions in between make out sessions. He knows he needs to pace himself, tackling one chapter at a time, and one manifestation at a time. The more Jack reads, the more knowledgeable he becomes about the inner workings of General Anxiety Disorder. A mixture of genetics, brain chemistry, and a stressful environment has induced a continuous sense of unease in the purpled haired man. The disc jockey copes with that restlessness with sex and alcohol, two strong social inhibitors that keep caring and intrusive people like Jack at bay. The only way for the university student can gain his patient’s trust is if he incorporates himself into Alex’s routinely destruction.
The damage to the body and psyche is hazardous, and it pains the amateur psychoanalyst to watch such a pathetic attempt at living. Any sort of feeling the patient may experience in the thrill of the gritty and cheap lifestyle he pursues is merely a cover. It is a second skin that melds to his erratically beating heart. Like bacteria growing in Agar’s dish, the slime of the sleaze feeds off of Gaskarth, eating up nutrients that are supposed to provide energy to the broken man. No matter how much force Alex uses as he grinds up against Jack on the dance floor, the strength of the shove he delivers as he slams the university student against a wall for a needy kiss, the amateur psychologist knows his specimen’s resolve is weakening. Gaskarth’s intentions are losing their focus.
Lately the drunk has been getting pushy, rarely letting Jack to get a word in before pressing their chapped lips together. Last Friday the disc jockey even dared to begin palming Jack in the middle of the dance floor, alerting the university student that he needs to start reigning in the project. That is why all focus is on the amateur psychoanalyst when he enters ‘The Party Scene’ on a Wednesday evening. He is sporting obscenely tight attire tonight; a setback to having Saporta wash his clothes is that most of it seems to have shrunk. Yet the customer uses it to his advantage as he struts his stuff on the dance floor. He is dressed in simple black skinny jeans, an unusually bright blue v-neck and black Nikes that squeak slightly as he makes his way through the crowd. There is less than a minute until the clock strikes midnight, and he knows a certain disc jockey is watching the time just as dedicatedly as he is. As the hour hand makes its move, so does Alex, pushing the play button one last time, starting the mixed compact disc he arranged for the night. He skitters out of his designated zone on the platform, stepping onto the edge of the crowd with a loud roar as he prepares for his usual descent into the waves of dancers, when he spots him.
Jack is standing at the edge of the platform, his face plastered with that knowing smirk that Gaskarth has become accustomed to. The drunk stalls for a moment, unsure if he should continue with his dive when Barakat is clearly waiting for him. His toes curl within the confines of his shoes, anticipation growing as he looks out into the crowd, some of the customers crying out in expectation. They know what happens next, the disc jockey sores in the air, a wingless bird singing out in absolute bliss that only the clouds from the sky above could provide. He then lands into the sea, a mass of salty water, or rather salty sweat stained young adults that keep him suspended in the air. But now he is a fish struggling to fill his gills, struggling to fulfill his needs, as his desire to let go and his desire to remember collide.
The amateur psychoanalyst can see the indecision on the disc jockey’s face, his features being taunted left and right as his resolve is pulled one way then another. Jack waits for a moment, seeing how far he can push his specimen as he literally teeters on the edge of the stage. Just before it seems like the drunk will lose his balance, Barakat leaps forward. He lands unsteadily, hauling himself upwards by the disc jockey’s unoffered hand, and shoots the man a smile.
“Hey,” he greets, as is nothing has happened, as if Gaskarth did not just lose it. The patient is too stunned to speak, and just stares at the university student. “Mind if I join you?” continues Barakat, pointing out to the crowd that bounces up and down to the music.
“I, uhm,” tries the specimen, no coherent thought forming in his frazzled mind, “Yeah. I mean, why not?”
The amateur psychoanalyst nods, “I’ve always wanted to do this, the rush...”
Alex swallows back a lump that has formed in his throat. He blinks back a memory, breathes in any sort of confession, and just nods. The rush is the exact reason as to why Alex pulls stunts like this. He likes the feeling of being in control. He likes knowing that he is the one who induces these blasts of heightened nerves, where his senses are hyper alert and all his focus is on the thrill. It scares him sometimes, not the fact he likes to get high off danger, but the notion that maybe he gets nervous for no reason. That maybe this sense of unease is something greater than just being a sensitive artist, a perfectionist or even just a worry wart who does not easily adapt to change. Gaskarth refuses to believe there is something wrong with him.
So the disc jockey reaches for the dark haired boy’s hand, trying to ignore the fact his own are shaking almost uncontrollably. Despite Jack’s warm touch, the hold feels completely wrong. The other’s hands should be smaller and calloused from carrying heavy equipment. They should have less hair around the wrist, and larger knuckles. The drunk should be able to see blue veins underneath the pale skin, and a familiar patterning of three disjointed lines within the palm. They are not the right hands. Alex’s vision blurs as he tries to clear his stirred mind. These are Jack’s hands, of course they are different. The disc jockey’s grip loosens, his own hand going limp as he considers what he is doing. He has never done this before, never with anyone except for-
“Let’s countdown okay?” the amateur psychoanalyst suggests, fingers tightening around Alex’s. He can sense the hesitancy.
“Uh,” the patient stutters, because the need to feel in control is battling against the sense of guilt that bubbles up in his chest. He does not know what to do, and he can feel his knees knocking together. His conscious is telling him that what he is about to do is wrong. That he cannot jump with Jack, it would be disloyal.
“Three,” starts the university student, settling his feet in a straight line with the disc jockey’s.
“Two,” swallows the drunk, because one thought seems to over cloud everything else. It does not matter if what Alex is doing is bad. He is bad. He is a fuck-up. It does not matter what he does. He acts like he does not care so others will do the same.
One,” calls the amateur psychoanalyst bending his knees in time with Alex as they spring up.
They fall together, diving head first into the crowd, countless number of hands, clutching at their clothes and skin to break the fall. Barakat lets out a sigh of relief as he is steadied, hollering emitted at the double jump, and he looks over to where his arm is extended. Gaskarth did not even register their landing; he has his eyes shut tight, shoulders laid flat against dancing strangers. The drunk does not let go of Jack as he lets go of everything else. The pain is numbed for a moment as the adrenaline rush induces a high, dopamine converting itself in pure pleasure. They travel across the waves, floating over reality for the briefest of movements until they reach the edge of the crowd. That is when Jack breaks contact, landing to the ground roughly so he can somewhat catch Alex as he too is tossed to the side.
The specimen laughs as he lands in the darker haired boy’s arms, the moment so euphoric for him that giggles spill out his mouth. The sound is refreshing, for the disc jockey’s speech has yet to be completely muffled by alcohol. He does not seem to notice that Barakat holds him close for a second too long. The amateur psychoanalyst savours the chuckling, deciding that he needs to hear it more often. The purpled haired man continues tittering with no pretence of a joke, burying his head in Barakat’s chest. His hands fist the fabric of the university student’s shirt, the material so tight that the patient unintentionally pulls at Jack’s nipples, causing the amateur psychoanalyst to squirm in protest. He wraps his arms around Gaskarth’s shaking frame, pressing their chests together so that he can feel the way Alex’s chest vibrates from his over-excited heart.
“That was fucking awesome,” breathes the drunk after moment, “Man, I need a drink.” He begins to pull back, flashing Jack his teeth. They are stained from the constant liquor intake.
“Now?” asks Barakat lightly, not exactly letting go of his date. He is pushing his specimen tonight. It is a test.
“Yeah,” says Alex, a wary expression on his face because the university student has never commentated on his drinking habits before.
“Alright,” shrugs Jack, letting go, and averting his eyes. He is not going to dictate what Gaskarth does, but his actions speak for themselves. He wants his patient to be a little sobered up tonight. There is a reason as to why he arrived early and ambushed the man before his shift was over. It is in the disc jockey’s hands now, whether he will comply with the sexily dressed boy’s silent wishes. Jack starts towards the bar, his expression neutral. Gaskarth hesitates though, scratching his head with uncertainty, as he follows.
They soon met up with the tender, who has taken to eyeing the odd couple indecisively. Dawson does not exactly get the pair. After seeing Jack with Mina Valentino, he assumed the university student was straight and stable. Yet he recalls the customer’s encounter with Jordan Kellicks, a boy who also seemed uncertain about his sexuality. The most confusing part would be Alex’s role in the whole relationship. The man is promiscuous; a drunken flirt that only has one thing on his mind. The quickest and easiest fuck is his aim, and Rian does not see how Jack could fit the description of the floozies the drunk usually pursues.
“Hey guys,” he greets them nonetheless, resolving to question Alex about the supposed friendship soon.
“Hey,” replies Jack, cool and slick as usual. Gaskarth does not say anything, which is unusual for the specimen. He should be demanding his drink by now.
“What’ll it be?” the tender asks, pre-maturely reaching for whiskey.
“Water,” responds Barakat, settling onto a stool and patting the one next to him so that Alex will sit.
“Make that two,” says a voice, and Dawson swears his breathing hitches as he does a double take. He looks up; eyeing his best friend in disbelief.
“You, want water?” he questions.
“That’s what he said,” confirms the university student, not even looking at the drunk to make sure. He knows he cannot make it seem like a big deal. He can hear the way his patient’s foot is tapping impatiently against the counter, not at all in time to the way his fingers drill against the countertop.
“Alright,” complies Dawson, unable to decipher what has happened or whether he likes it. He soon returns with the two orders, sliding them across the counter. He watches Alex with heightened curiosity, and the man shoots his a nasty glare.
“What?” he asks, taking a large gulp of the water in some sort of defiance. His face twists for a moment, as if water has a bad taste to it.
“Nothing,” the tender dismisses, knowing when it is time to back off. He turns to the other end of the bar, figuring it is best to leave the odd pair, to whatever it is they are doing.
“Fuck,” curses Alex the moment Rian is out of earshot.
“Hmm?” Jack hums lazily, turning to finally look his specimen in the eye. They are narrowed in anger, his hands gripping at his half empty glass.
“I want a drink,” Gaskarth states bluntly, “A real one.”
“Then order one,” Jack replies lightly, as if the consequences do not affect him in any shape or form. In truth he is making mental notes on how the tension is building. Jack observes the reddening of his patient’s face, way the tendons in his neck bulge as he grinds his teeth out of frustration.
It is not so much that the patient is angry at Dawson for giving him water, he is mad at himself for needing the alcohol. Gaskarth has always liked to drink alcohol because it livens up a night. Whether it is a casual beer, or some classy wine, alcohol dims the harsh glow of reality. Everything is so much easier when one is drunk; one says things they are afraid to say and one does things they have waited to do. One does not think of consequences or feelings, they just live in a moment of absolute being. Yet the disc jockey never thought he would reach a point where he would need alcohol in order to live. Living is more than the mere act of breathing, it is the act of thinking, remembering, and knowing what one is doing, and why. One cannot truly live while intoxicated. But tonight Alex does not want to delve on philosophy. That is something one does when they are already drunk and uninhibited by social mannerisms.
“I don’t want to,” the specimen contradicts himself, eyes crossing in concentration as he stands at a mental crossroad.
Jack decides it is best not to examine the situation for the drunk’s sake, “You wanna dance then?”
“With you?” snaps Alex, pinning his sour mood on Barakat’s previous backhanded comment. Yes, he has heard Zack and Rian drone on and on about how he drinks too much, but it feels different when it is said by a complete outsider who is not expected to care about his escapades. The disc jockey feels the way Jack watches him all the time but he always interpreted the look as interest and not judgement. Gaskarth does not like being told what to do; because that means that he is not in control, that he is not living up to invisible expectations.
The psychology major raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. It is interesting to note how quickly his patient’s mood changes once the rush of the jump falls through. One moment Alex is upbeat and laughing, the next he is bitter and snappy. It almost as if the neon haired man is giving Jack a test of his own. The man clearly is not all that easy to be around while sober. “That was the idea,” the amateur psychoanalyst responds after a moment. He gets up from his seat, and heads towards the dance floor when he gets no response from the disc jockey.
*
A/N: To be frank, a large reason why this chapter is so late is because I realized I didn’t want to move to fast progress-wise but was trying my best not to sound completely redundant. We are still at step one in the sense we must ‘establish a relationship with the patient’ and are trying to ease into ‘get the patient to admit they have a problem.’ But before we are able to address GAD for what it is, we have to break past all the deviant coping methods Alex’s character has developed (alcoholism/sexual compulsiveness). He denies that anything is wrong with him, and you’ll see that whenever he does try to address it, physical symptoms of the disorder (see chart) will get in the way.
Part two link.