The Freudian Slip (10/15) (Part Two)
Title: The Freudian Slip (10/15) (Part Two)
Author: Gess aka live_by_lyrics
Pairing: Jack Barakat/Alex Gaskarth
P.O.V.: third person omniscient, (slightly limited to Jack Barakat)
Rating: R
Warnings: References to physical violence, intermittent explosive disorder, alcoholism, 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: This date is infinite.
Masterpost | Writing Tumblr
“You-need-to-calm-down,” echoes the bouncer, as he notices that the tender’s fingers have bundled themselves up into fists. “Breathe.” Rian unfurls his fists and looks up at Zack with stinging eyes. Somehow Merrick is smiling, showing off that one crooked tooth of his. It is too much for Rian.
These past few weeks have been the worst days of his life. He would even claim they are worse than the night he spent in prison. Having undergone a frustrating interrogation, he had even been charged with aggravated assault under the influence. The claim was of course dropped and he was free to go, but he had never been so ashamed of himself in his life. Going to ‘Alcoholics Anonymous’ for an addiction he did not have, and undergoing anger management therapy sessions with an elderly therapist who did understand his situation whatsoever, was nothing compared to this. His parents’ disappointed faces when they suggested he not come around until he got his life in order had hurt yes, but not as badly as Zack’s face when he saw Rian again for the first time.
It had been a party that their ex-tour manager had held when Alex finally came out of the hospital. It had taken some convincing to get Rian to agree to come. When he did was ninety-nine percent sure none of his band mates would even acknowledge him. But they did. Gaskarth, who was still reduced to crutches at the time, had even dared to hug him. Merrick, who had stuck to his disabled friend’s side like glue that night, had offered Dawson a sad smile. After receiving a look of pity and utter sincerity, the ex-drummer had just about broken down in tears then and there. He considered getting a drink, but swore alcohol was the last thing he needed. He soon left the party and was not heard from for another few weeks. It was not until Zack himself came knocking, with a plea for a roommate that Rian had relented.
It had been awkward for the few months, especially when Alex had informed them he had bought a house of his own and would not be joining them as promised. But they pulled through, and eventually developed a routine of their own. They were almost like an old married couple, arguing over the little things because the big things, the important things, were never something they would risk for the sake of one another. Dawson had basically convinced himself that everything would be okay. That this half-baked scheme of Gaskarth’s to start a club would work, and they would slowly make something out of themselves. That was before it came clear the disc jockey had a different agenda. The drunk had no real intentions for starting a new popular hotspot, so much as insuring himself a popular hotspot every night where he picked up girls and drank too much. He is a mess, and it kills Rian to watch one of his oldest friends go down a road he was wrongfully forced to take.
When a whimper is let loose and tears begin to form it is clear that the tender is not the tough guy, hard-ass he tries to be. He is weak, sensitive and he cannot relate to people because he still has not accepted himself as human. Being human means making mistakes and carrying regrets. Rian Dawson is always going to regret punching his best friend in the face. Neither of them is going to forget it happened. Forgiveness is so not so much understanding why it happened as it is denying how much it hurt. They say memories fade like photographs, but most people do not ever upload half their pictures. Locked up in a memory card, or locked up in darkest confines of the mind, it easier to deny it and move on.
So that is what Zack does. He crawls on over the mattress and wraps his broad arms around Rian’s shaking frame. Within the past year, the bouncer had been constantly working out, and it is safe to say he is bigger than Rian. Whether he has done this in case the tender ever tries to hit him again, or because he has never been able to properly hug Dawson, one cannot tell. Either way, his arms constrict themselves around the other’s torso. He feels a gooey line of watery snot on his exposed shoulder and grimaces slightly. Not because the spittle grosses him out, but because it scary to think how overwhelming Rian is in all aspects of his emotions. The tender lets loose more violent tears, his eye’s ducts continuing to expand and contract, releasing salty drops. He ends up wiping his nose against Zack’s shirt because he knows it is his job to do the laundry.
“I-I can’t, I don’t know h-how to tell you how much you m-mean to me-,” struggles Rian, before sighing roughly. The ex-drummer’s fingers curl back into fists on either side of his friend’s hips.
“Shh,” hushes the bouncer, nodding his head and letting his chin run the length of his friend’s shoulder. His hands run up along Dawson’s back, and he can feel the ripples of where the muscle has tightened. “You don’t have to say anything.”
That is when the tender lifts his head up, a dark frown settled on his features. “Yes I do, Zack, I need to tell you how much I-”
Merrick bows his head down to press his forehead against his friend’s quivering mouth. His hands have not relented their hold and press down harder on his friend’s back. Smoothing out the unnatural crevices formed from all the tension. “Just, lay down.” Dawson does as told, knowing where is this going. He flops down on the bed, on his stomach. He hears the bed groan in time with Zack’s grunts as his friend re-positions himself over Rian. He settles each knee on either side of Rian’s hips and sits himself down slowly on his friend’s backside. The tender does not care for the added weight as he feels his friend’s hands settle beneath his shoulder blades. “You need to relax,” coaches Merrick.
The bouncer runs his calloused hands down the length of his friend’s back once, causing Rian to shiver, before starting at the bottom. Merrick’s hands run off horizontally around the circumferences of his friend’s waist. His fingertips tap against the tender’s defined pelvis before he brings them together again. He repeats the motion for a while before deciding to work up higher. His hands turn themselves upwards as they begin to glide up towards Rian’s straining neck. Despite the smoothness of his skin, Zack feels Dawson squirm when his hands get too close to that patch of pigmented skin. Merrick just chuckles softly, having given Rian a massage enough times to know all his quirks. Regardless of how grotesque some have found the ‘death patch,’ he merely sweeps the meat of his thumb across the border of it lightly before continuing.
By the time the bouncer reaches midway up Rian’s back, he seems to have relaxed. Dawson’s skin is hot, and flushed, but the natural oils arising from his skin act as a lubricant. Merrick widens the gap between his fingers as he reaches for the shoulder blades, pushing hard with his thumbs at the centre. The tender lets out a muffled groan of content and ends up hunching himself over as he tries to smother the sound out of embarrassment. Zack merely takes a hold of his tight shoulders, smoothing them out in a rolling motion, once, twice before returning to the centre. His thumbs press to each ridge of the spinal cord, humming softly as he imagines them to be frets of his bass guitar. He plays a silent song as he reaches up higher, to the collar of his friend’s frame. By now Rian is motionless, too stilled to ask for more, but Merrick continues.
The bouncer’s fingers curl over his friend’s broad shoulders. His nicely trimmed nails burying themselves over the ridge and into the collar bone. His wrists work an up and down motion, creating a wave in his both his hands that roll Rian’s upper body. Dawson lets out a blissful sigh, snuggling his head deeper into his sheets as he is tempted to fall asleep. But Zack is not done yet, as he leans over his friend, his chiselled stomach pressing up against Rian’s back as his hands reach up for his friend’s face. His index fingers draw small circles into each of his friend’s cheeks before sneaking behind his ears. They trail back up to Rian’s temple, where the most tension is stored, and press up.
The simple gesture causes a ridiculous amount of relief to course of Rian’s body, so much so that he quakes for a moment before completely going limp. He purrs loudly in satisfaction, unable to form words of thanks when he gets into the mode of absolute pleasure. He swears those fingers seem to work magic on his muscles; that they caress his skin in ways that only clouds could caress the sun. But the smelting heat soon leaves him when Zack’s warm hands finally leave his body. The ex-bassist tumbles off over him, landing softly on the sheets and splaying himself down parallel him. Though Merrick cannot see Rian’s face, he knows it is one of content. He rubs at Rian’s head a little, causing more purring to be admitted.
“Better?” whispers Zack, his mouth up close to Rian’s ear.
“Mmm,” mumbles Dawson, reaching for his sheets so he can encase the two of them in his duvet.
“You can’t fall asleep,” titters Merrick, though he curls up closer to Rian, bringing back the much needed body heat. “We have to get ready for work.”
“Let’s take a day off,” suggests the tender carelessly even though he knows they cannot. They have three mortgages to support.
The tender’s hand leaves Dawson’s head so it can prop up his own while he stares at Rian sceptically. “I wish. But Alex is already taking a day off, we can’t.”
“What?” snaps the tender, and he groans in disappointment. His moment of bliss is always cut short.
“He called me earlier,” the bouncer explains, “Said he couldn’t make it today, but he left us a mix. All we have to do is push play.”
“Is he sick again?” questions Rian, finally pushing himself up on the mattress so he can look Zack in the eye.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then why can’t he come?”
Merrick’s green irises seem to sparkle despite the dim lighting of the room. He smiles a little, and the gesture seems to reach his left cheek more so than the right. “He said he had to meet up with someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Rian sighs, starting to get up from under the sheets but gives up halfway into the lift. He slumps back down on the mattress and curses. “Alright fine,” he decides, “I’ll go get ready soon. I just need a shower.”
Merrick nods, taking his cue and getting up. He turns the light on all the way before stalling at the door frame.
“Rian?” he asks on the threshold.
“Yeah?”
“You know I love you right?” the question comes forth casually, a slip of the tongue between friends. It has been said before, in less grave circumstances, and will be said time and time again.
Yet it still makes Rian’s cheeks heat up and flare. He bows his head down facing his pillow before squeaking,
“Yeah. I know.”
*“Eh, you didn’t tell me you had a date tonight,” accuses Gabe when he returns to his roommate’s table to find him sitting alone.
Jack merely shrugs, looking up at his waiter with a neutral expression on his face. “I didn’t want you to make a fuss.”
“And yet you chose to dine at the restaurant I work at?” Saporta cocks an eyebrow in disbelief. Barakat says nothing as he watches his roommate set Alex’s order down gently on the opposite of the end of the table. “Where’s your date anyways?”
“Restroom,” answers the psychology major simply, but the edge of his lips upturn and Gabe’s brow only rises.
“Is he okay?” the waiter asks, genuinely concerned, “The salsa, it wasn’t too picante?”
“He’ll be fine,” the amateur psychoanalyst promises, “Don’t worry.”
“Why should I be worried? What are you plotting?” questions Gabriel, as he pulls up Jack’s plate and fumbles.
“¡Mierda!” he curses as the dish clatters against the tabletop. The philosophy major manages to catch the plate before it slides off the edge, but the burrito unravels and the complimentary salsa bowl tips over. “¡Por el amor de Dios!”
“Relajate,” advises the customer, glancing back and forth to make sure Gabe has not drawn too much attention to them.
“Sorry,” murmurs Saporta, his face darkening as he notices that Barakat’s shirt sleeve is now stained. There goes his long standing record of never having dropped a dish. “Here, let me...” He sets down his serving platter, carefully, and grabs the damp towel slung over his shoulder. The perturbed waiter leans over and pulls at his roommate’s wrist, vigilantly dabbing at the fabric of his shirt.
“Gabe,” sighs the amateur psychoanalyst tiredly, “I’m fine.”
“Yeah. ¿Pero qué pasa con él?”
“What?” hisses the customer, leaning in forward so that his frame rounds over the waiter’s back. His free hand wraps around Gabe’s bent waist and his nose presses to the side of his roommate’s face.
“What’s wrong with him?” reiterates Saporta, and Jack is so close he can feel the way the elder’s jaw line tightens. Nonetheless, Gabriel knows his roommate understands what he is saying, and more importantly just exactly what he is asking.
“It’s nothing-nothing I can’t handle,” Barakat assures his sidekick, who continues with the pretence of cleaning his shirt.
“Do you know who he is?” murmurs Gabe, and his hold on the customer tightens. “You know what he used to do right?”
“I-”
“Jack?” a third voice shakes the pair from within their vice grip hold on one another. Saporta freezes, his fingernails cutting into Barakat’s wrist to the point where he can feel the uneven throb of the younger boy’s pulse.
“Ni una palabra a nadie,” demands the amateur psychoanalyst so quickly that even a native Spanish speaker would have trouble interpreting the slur. The waiter feels his roommate’s warm hand slide up from his lower back up to his neck, gripping at the sweaty flesh. The younger of the two squeezes the upper most part of Gabriel’s spine, a move that causes the waiter to shudder and stand up straight.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” begins the specimen, as he awkwardly stands beside his seat. His red-rimmed eyes stare at the pair because he can suspect something is not right between the two.
“What? No!” insists Saporta, holding up the towel he had been cleaning Jack’s shirt with. “You weren’t interrupting anything; I was just cleaning up a spill.”
Barakat nods in agreement, a small smile gracing his lips because this is why he chose his roommate. The philosophy major is an impeccable actor and a natural charmer. He watches as the Uruguayan pulls out Gaskarth’s chair for him. Saporta pats the seat cushion appreciatively before guiding Alex’s wavering frame onto it.
“You’re in luck, the tortillas are straight out of the orno,” enthuses Gabe, playing his role perfectly and yet adding a particular genuineness that only comes from a good heart and sharp mind. A wide grin takes over his lips and he flutters his eyelashes in an over-excited fashion. He stands in front of their table for a prolonged moment, before finally gesturing towards their plates. “Por favor,” he persists, “its tradition here that you tell us how the first bite tastes.”
“Oh,” sighs Alex quietly, reaching for a taco, “Okay.” He takes an unnecessarily large bite as he makes his way through the crackling shell and into the juicy beef. It seems to still be sizzling as his tongue laps up the sour cream and salsa. His mouth is caked with freshly cooled cheese that burns his chewed up lips. “Ohhhh.” He swallows a little forcefully, smacking his lips together for a moment before articulating, “This is so good.”
“Told you,” chides the university student, as he too takes a bite out of his distressed burrito.
“Good,” declares their waiter, slapping his hands against his sides and taking up a solider-like stance. “If you want anymore, just let me know.” He watches the couple for a moment longer, a twinkle of insight reaching his eyes before leaving for another table of rowdy hombres who have had far too much to drink.
Neither man says much after their waiter leaves, each of them consumed in the consumption of their dinner. Alex, who has not had a proper meal in months, who has never experienced a meal so sensuously arousing cannot help but moan. The heat of the meal and spice of the garnishes warm his stomach and prickle his taste buds. He finds himself starting on the second taco, savouring it even more so than the first because of this new built up anticipation. Jack, who has been to the restaurant enough times to get over the initial excitement and thrill, takes his time, watching.
“This is so, so good,” insists the patient, leaning inwards to catch the pieces of filling that slip out from the taco shell. “I know you said it was good, but...”
The amateur psychoanalyst merely beams, as if he is the one who made the delicious meal. “You should order another platter,” he suggests, “You can bring it home with you if you don’t finish.”
“No, uh, that’s okay,” stammers the specimen, stalling for a second as he realizes how eager he must sound. It is probably obvious he does not take proper care of his body. He can already feel his stomach expanding in a painfully tight burn that indicates that his cavity is not accustomed to being so well nourished.
“That’s what you say now,” Jack teases. “The first time I came here I was sick for a week after. I ate that much.”
“You don’t look like much of an eater,” notes the specimen.
Barakat pats his stomach affectionately. “I know. I’ve always been pretty skinny, even as a kid.”
“I had a really big forehead as a kid,” frowns Alex in admission, “and blonde hair.”
Jack chuckles at that, trying to imagine a child version of his date. “Blonde?”
“It was blonde until I was about ten,” explains the disc jockey. “Then it darkened naturally, to a light brown. And then I thought I was cool by dying it black when I was fourteen.”
“Little rebel were you?”
“Not really,” admits Gaskarth, “I mean... I didn’t really have anything to rebel against. Despite everything I’ve said, I, I didn’t have a shitty childhood. My parents have proper jobs and are in love. They understand, for the most part, that I am my own person and am entitled to my own mistakes. I just...I didn’t appreciate that back then. I thought my life sucked. So I used to wear tight black shirts and really baggy jeans. I refused to let my mom buy me new shoes and I liked wear this dog chain around my neck. I even used to keep a cigarette tucked behind my ear. I didn’t even have a lighter to smoke it. I just liked how it looked.”
“What made you change?”
At this, Alex hesitates. The first thing that comes to mind is music. Music was the one thing that changed his whole perspective on life, but it was also what destroyed it.
“I grew up I guess,” he bluffs, “I dyed my hair back to blonde, and then I settled for my brown.”
“And now it’s purple.”
“It was supposed to be more of auburn.”
Jack chuckles at his patient’s defensiveness, “Either way, I think it suits you.”
“Yeah?” asks the specimen, unconsciously swiping few stray strands away from his face.
“It’s perfect.”
*
Their dinner date soon ends as they finish their complimentary drinks. At first neither man had been too keen on the idea, but Gabe had insisted. He claimed word had gotten back to the manager of Alex’s choking and he wanted to make sure Gaskarth left as a satisfied customer. The disc jockey merely laughed, assuring their hearty waiter that he would be back for more tacos and that the doggy bag he was taking would not be enough. He now watches as Barakat pulls out his wallet to pay for the meal, teasingly asking Saporta whether he should leave a tip. Gabriel merely scoffs as he hands out the free mints, advising that Jack take two.
“Where are you two kids off to now?” their waiter teases as they slide out of their chairs.
“Uh,” Alex hesitates because he was under the assumption that the date was over.
“Movies?” suggests Jack casually, because really what could be more cliché than a dinner and a movie?
“Gunna make out in back row?” snickers Gabe.
The patient frowns, overly rattled by their waiter’s words. Obviously as Jack’s roommate, it can be presumed that Saporta would know something of Jack’s personal life. It is supposable that he would be clued into the boy’s habits, if not his undeceive sexuality and the irregular attention he seems to pay towards Alex. The specimen’s nose upturns in disgust, a little unnerved at the idea that other people may see the two of them as a couple. That is that last thing they are. Yet he is not sure what they are. They seem to fall somewhere along the lines of less than friends with benefits, yet a little more than fuck buddies. Whatever they are, it is not a couple, not boyfriends, or even crushes. They just ate dinner together, and one of them offered to pay. Sure, they have been tossing the word ‘date’ around a lot, but what is a date? A pre-arranged meeting is all. It is nothing more and nothing less because Jack deserves much more. Alex sighs in defeat, jamming up his hands in the pocket of his coat as he feels his fingers tightens and his fists shake. His date watches him for the corner of his dark eye before turning to his roommate with scorn, “And you wonder why they don’t want you to be a host?”
Gabe’s grin falls a little at the jab because Jack knows that he’s been hinting at the bump up in position for weeks now and it has yet to happen. Not everyone has been granted a full scholarship like a certain boy genius, but Gabe takes pride in his work nonetheless. The waiter lets out a huff and takes the money. “I was kidding.”
Barakat just smirks, “I’ll see you at home yeah?”
It takes a moment too long for Gabe to reply, “Yep.”
“Good. See you.”
*
“You okay?” questions the amateur psychoanalyst when they pull out of the parking lot.
“I don’t wanna see a movie,” Alex states bluntly, his right hand fiddling with the seat belt he has no intentions of putting on. It is too confining. The car, the date, Jack, everything is too confining.
“Where do you want to go then?” asks Barakat calmly but he is already making the appropriate turn.
“Home.”
*
“Thanks for the ride,” begins the disc jockey after they pull up to his empty home, “and for the food and stuff.”
“No problem,” dismisses the university student cheerily, “I had fun.”
“That’s good,” counters the specimen, hand wavering over the door clasp, “‘Cause I had fun too. Despite everything that, yeah.”
“I’m glad,” admits Jack, shutting off his car even though he is supposedly only dropping Alex off.
“So, I’ll see you ‘round ‘The Party Scene?’” affirms the patient, somewhat eager to end the night that has only really begun. The clock on Barakat’s dashboard indicated that it is only half past nine.
“Uh, yeah,” answers the university student in mid-thought, “I mean, my final exams start up soon, so I don’t think I’ll be out as much, but...I’ll try to...see you?” The amateur psychoanalyst does not sound very convincing.
The disc jockey stalls, one foot out the door and the other still in. “Oh, of course,” he nods, biting at his bottom lip, “School comes first,” he quotes some authoritarian figure from his childhood, “I get it.” Alex gets it very well.
He realizes this entire affair has been an entire flop and he probably will not see Jack at ‘The Party Scene’ even after the boy’s exams are done. It is completely understandable. Who would want to spend time with someone so unstable and indecisive? Alex cannot even sit through a dinner without having to go the bathroom every five minutes so he can keep his addictions and emotions under control. His worst fears now confirmed, Gaskarth cannot help but wish he had tried harder because there was this tiny delusional bit of hope left in him that Barakat was different. That Jack could change him.
“I don’t know if you do,” warns the university student, unbuckling his safety belt and leaning up against the steering wheel in an almost exasperated fashion. Alex cannot help admire the angle of the other’s contorted lanky frame sits in. “I want to see you again,” the amateur psychoanalyst asserts, “But I want to be able to hang out with you outside of the club. Don’t get me wrong, I love to dance and drink as much as everyone else. But I also want to be able to just sit and talk to you, whether it’s about why the economy has gone to shit or why food is delicious. And I don’t think that’s what you want that.”
The specimen frowns at this confession, because maybe it is true. Maybe Alex does feel his best while at the club, but he also feels really good just being with Jack. He just had not realized it until the prospect of not seeing the university student again, of not hearing that ‘I’ll see you soon’ had arisen. He just does not know how to admit that or how he feels about it. He does not know how he feels about his own feelings? Gaskarth does not really know anything about himself he decides. So instead of trying to figure himself out like everyone else, he creates long and intricate identities of assholes and big shots, because those are the type of people that impress and inspire.
“I get that maybe, talking isn’t one of your strong points,” the amateur psychoanalyst eases up a little, “But would it have been so bad to go a movie with me? You don’t even have to talk during a movie Alex. You just have to appreciate me sitting beside you, but I guess you don’t really feel the need to do that.”
Gaskarth bites down even harder on his lip now, so much so that it turns from pink, to red, to a stark white. He does not know how to explain how badly he would have liked to go to a movie with Jack. That he would have been content to sit beside the university student and watch some stupid romantic comedy. He would not care what was on the screen, because he would just watch Jack’s reactions to the stupid jokes and frivolous tears. He would not minded making out in the back corner like a bunch of horny teens, but he also would have been content with just having their arms touch when they shared the popcorn. He knows he would have enjoyed Barakat’s company, but he also knows he would not be able to handle the moments before the movie theatre lights went down and again when they went back up.
Alex would not have been able to withstand standing in that long line for a ticket. He would not have been able to handle having Jack pay for his popcorn and lead him gently to their seats. He would not be able to stand the friendly look he would get from the ticket taker or the movie usher. Gaskarth would not have wanted a crowd of kids sit next to them, or worse a real couple. He would feel their eyes on them, and hear their whispers. He would obsess over how he was seated and whether he would get an aisle seat to allow quick access to the washroom. He would miss out on the previews because he would be thinking too hard. The sex scene would make him uncomfortable because it would only bring back memories of how he met Jack. The night would be a complete disaster by that point, and he would have been such a terrible mess that he would have scared Jack off completely. That is the biggest thing Alex thinks he would not be able to handle. Not having Jack around.
The amateur psychoanalyst says nothing as he watches his patient. He eyes the way the disc jockey nibbles on his lower lip, tearing apart the sensitive tissue with his incisors. The man’s caramel coloured eyes scrunch up in thought, and Jack swears he can hear the gears turning in the man’s head. He supposes his specimen is trying to consider why exactly he refused to see a movie with Jack. For the psychology major it is simple. Gaskarth is scared. While sitting together in close proximity in the dark is nothing for the disc jockey, having to sit with Barakat under fluorescents lights in a room full of observant people is daunting. He would feel pressure to conform, to not pull out that flask that Jack notes Alex is carrying. The patient would have to go into puppet mode and let himself be lead along by the invisible strings of societal norms.
Though Jack could easily take control of the situation, become the puppet master so to speak, he does nothing. He just waits in the silence of his car, for his specimen to make up his mind, to figure that he had a mind of his own to make up. The patient quakes with revelation, as he pulls himself full back into the Nissan. He shuts the door slowly, before turning back to his date. He slides up the edge of his seat, until nothing but the parking brake separates him from Jack. He has his awful urge to just grab the university student, to yank him down by the shirt and claw his way through the other’s black silky hair. But he knows that is not what the situation calls for. That if he wants to prove that he likes Jack, than he has to do something more than just jamming his tongue down the other’s throat. So instead, he clears his own dry throat, unlatching his lip out from under his front teeth and asks. “Do you wanna come in?”
Barakat decides to close the distance between his date and himself, but instead of a kiss or sleazy crotch grab, he merely rests a hand on his specimen’s shoulder. “What for?”
“I was thinking,” laughs Alex dryly, “We could watch a movie.”
Jack’s poker face breaks at this, and for the first time tonight he is the one who blushes.
--
A/N: Okay, so I realize it is terrible of me to not post for over a month and then drop this overwhelming update on people, but I would really appreciate if you would comment saying you are still reading. I don't have as much time these days, but I do want to continue this story. Also on how you feel about Zack/Rian, because as of now, I'm iffy on them.
Author: Gess aka live_by_lyrics
Pairing: Jack Barakat/Alex Gaskarth
P.O.V.: third person omniscient, (slightly limited to Jack Barakat)
Rating: R
Warnings: References to physical violence, intermittent explosive disorder, alcoholism, 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: This date is infinite.
Masterpost | Writing Tumblr
“You-need-to-calm-down,” echoes the bouncer, as he notices that the tender’s fingers have bundled themselves up into fists. “Breathe.” Rian unfurls his fists and looks up at Zack with stinging eyes. Somehow Merrick is smiling, showing off that one crooked tooth of his. It is too much for Rian.
These past few weeks have been the worst days of his life. He would even claim they are worse than the night he spent in prison. Having undergone a frustrating interrogation, he had even been charged with aggravated assault under the influence. The claim was of course dropped and he was free to go, but he had never been so ashamed of himself in his life. Going to ‘Alcoholics Anonymous’ for an addiction he did not have, and undergoing anger management therapy sessions with an elderly therapist who did understand his situation whatsoever, was nothing compared to this. His parents’ disappointed faces when they suggested he not come around until he got his life in order had hurt yes, but not as badly as Zack’s face when he saw Rian again for the first time.
It had been a party that their ex-tour manager had held when Alex finally came out of the hospital. It had taken some convincing to get Rian to agree to come. When he did was ninety-nine percent sure none of his band mates would even acknowledge him. But they did. Gaskarth, who was still reduced to crutches at the time, had even dared to hug him. Merrick, who had stuck to his disabled friend’s side like glue that night, had offered Dawson a sad smile. After receiving a look of pity and utter sincerity, the ex-drummer had just about broken down in tears then and there. He considered getting a drink, but swore alcohol was the last thing he needed. He soon left the party and was not heard from for another few weeks. It was not until Zack himself came knocking, with a plea for a roommate that Rian had relented.
It had been awkward for the few months, especially when Alex had informed them he had bought a house of his own and would not be joining them as promised. But they pulled through, and eventually developed a routine of their own. They were almost like an old married couple, arguing over the little things because the big things, the important things, were never something they would risk for the sake of one another. Dawson had basically convinced himself that everything would be okay. That this half-baked scheme of Gaskarth’s to start a club would work, and they would slowly make something out of themselves. That was before it came clear the disc jockey had a different agenda. The drunk had no real intentions for starting a new popular hotspot, so much as insuring himself a popular hotspot every night where he picked up girls and drank too much. He is a mess, and it kills Rian to watch one of his oldest friends go down a road he was wrongfully forced to take.
When a whimper is let loose and tears begin to form it is clear that the tender is not the tough guy, hard-ass he tries to be. He is weak, sensitive and he cannot relate to people because he still has not accepted himself as human. Being human means making mistakes and carrying regrets. Rian Dawson is always going to regret punching his best friend in the face. Neither of them is going to forget it happened. Forgiveness is so not so much understanding why it happened as it is denying how much it hurt. They say memories fade like photographs, but most people do not ever upload half their pictures. Locked up in a memory card, or locked up in darkest confines of the mind, it easier to deny it and move on.
So that is what Zack does. He crawls on over the mattress and wraps his broad arms around Rian’s shaking frame. Within the past year, the bouncer had been constantly working out, and it is safe to say he is bigger than Rian. Whether he has done this in case the tender ever tries to hit him again, or because he has never been able to properly hug Dawson, one cannot tell. Either way, his arms constrict themselves around the other’s torso. He feels a gooey line of watery snot on his exposed shoulder and grimaces slightly. Not because the spittle grosses him out, but because it scary to think how overwhelming Rian is in all aspects of his emotions. The tender lets loose more violent tears, his eye’s ducts continuing to expand and contract, releasing salty drops. He ends up wiping his nose against Zack’s shirt because he knows it is his job to do the laundry.
“I-I can’t, I don’t know h-how to tell you how much you m-mean to me-,” struggles Rian, before sighing roughly. The ex-drummer’s fingers curl back into fists on either side of his friend’s hips.
“Shh,” hushes the bouncer, nodding his head and letting his chin run the length of his friend’s shoulder. His hands run up along Dawson’s back, and he can feel the ripples of where the muscle has tightened. “You don’t have to say anything.”
That is when the tender lifts his head up, a dark frown settled on his features. “Yes I do, Zack, I need to tell you how much I-”
Merrick bows his head down to press his forehead against his friend’s quivering mouth. His hands have not relented their hold and press down harder on his friend’s back. Smoothing out the unnatural crevices formed from all the tension. “Just, lay down.” Dawson does as told, knowing where is this going. He flops down on the bed, on his stomach. He hears the bed groan in time with Zack’s grunts as his friend re-positions himself over Rian. He settles each knee on either side of Rian’s hips and sits himself down slowly on his friend’s backside. The tender does not care for the added weight as he feels his friend’s hands settle beneath his shoulder blades. “You need to relax,” coaches Merrick.
The bouncer runs his calloused hands down the length of his friend’s back once, causing Rian to shiver, before starting at the bottom. Merrick’s hands run off horizontally around the circumferences of his friend’s waist. His fingertips tap against the tender’s defined pelvis before he brings them together again. He repeats the motion for a while before deciding to work up higher. His hands turn themselves upwards as they begin to glide up towards Rian’s straining neck. Despite the smoothness of his skin, Zack feels Dawson squirm when his hands get too close to that patch of pigmented skin. Merrick just chuckles softly, having given Rian a massage enough times to know all his quirks. Regardless of how grotesque some have found the ‘death patch,’ he merely sweeps the meat of his thumb across the border of it lightly before continuing.
By the time the bouncer reaches midway up Rian’s back, he seems to have relaxed. Dawson’s skin is hot, and flushed, but the natural oils arising from his skin act as a lubricant. Merrick widens the gap between his fingers as he reaches for the shoulder blades, pushing hard with his thumbs at the centre. The tender lets out a muffled groan of content and ends up hunching himself over as he tries to smother the sound out of embarrassment. Zack merely takes a hold of his tight shoulders, smoothing them out in a rolling motion, once, twice before returning to the centre. His thumbs press to each ridge of the spinal cord, humming softly as he imagines them to be frets of his bass guitar. He plays a silent song as he reaches up higher, to the collar of his friend’s frame. By now Rian is motionless, too stilled to ask for more, but Merrick continues.
The bouncer’s fingers curl over his friend’s broad shoulders. His nicely trimmed nails burying themselves over the ridge and into the collar bone. His wrists work an up and down motion, creating a wave in his both his hands that roll Rian’s upper body. Dawson lets out a blissful sigh, snuggling his head deeper into his sheets as he is tempted to fall asleep. But Zack is not done yet, as he leans over his friend, his chiselled stomach pressing up against Rian’s back as his hands reach up for his friend’s face. His index fingers draw small circles into each of his friend’s cheeks before sneaking behind his ears. They trail back up to Rian’s temple, where the most tension is stored, and press up.
The simple gesture causes a ridiculous amount of relief to course of Rian’s body, so much so that he quakes for a moment before completely going limp. He purrs loudly in satisfaction, unable to form words of thanks when he gets into the mode of absolute pleasure. He swears those fingers seem to work magic on his muscles; that they caress his skin in ways that only clouds could caress the sun. But the smelting heat soon leaves him when Zack’s warm hands finally leave his body. The ex-bassist tumbles off over him, landing softly on the sheets and splaying himself down parallel him. Though Merrick cannot see Rian’s face, he knows it is one of content. He rubs at Rian’s head a little, causing more purring to be admitted.
“Better?” whispers Zack, his mouth up close to Rian’s ear.
“Mmm,” mumbles Dawson, reaching for his sheets so he can encase the two of them in his duvet.
“You can’t fall asleep,” titters Merrick, though he curls up closer to Rian, bringing back the much needed body heat. “We have to get ready for work.”
“Let’s take a day off,” suggests the tender carelessly even though he knows they cannot. They have three mortgages to support.
The tender’s hand leaves Dawson’s head so it can prop up his own while he stares at Rian sceptically. “I wish. But Alex is already taking a day off, we can’t.”
“What?” snaps the tender, and he groans in disappointment. His moment of bliss is always cut short.
“He called me earlier,” the bouncer explains, “Said he couldn’t make it today, but he left us a mix. All we have to do is push play.”
“Is he sick again?” questions Rian, finally pushing himself up on the mattress so he can look Zack in the eye.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then why can’t he come?”
Merrick’s green irises seem to sparkle despite the dim lighting of the room. He smiles a little, and the gesture seems to reach his left cheek more so than the right. “He said he had to meet up with someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Rian sighs, starting to get up from under the sheets but gives up halfway into the lift. He slumps back down on the mattress and curses. “Alright fine,” he decides, “I’ll go get ready soon. I just need a shower.”
Merrick nods, taking his cue and getting up. He turns the light on all the way before stalling at the door frame.
“Rian?” he asks on the threshold.
“Yeah?”
“You know I love you right?” the question comes forth casually, a slip of the tongue between friends. It has been said before, in less grave circumstances, and will be said time and time again.
Yet it still makes Rian’s cheeks heat up and flare. He bows his head down facing his pillow before squeaking,
“Yeah. I know.”
*“Eh, you didn’t tell me you had a date tonight,” accuses Gabe when he returns to his roommate’s table to find him sitting alone.
Jack merely shrugs, looking up at his waiter with a neutral expression on his face. “I didn’t want you to make a fuss.”
“And yet you chose to dine at the restaurant I work at?” Saporta cocks an eyebrow in disbelief. Barakat says nothing as he watches his roommate set Alex’s order down gently on the opposite of the end of the table. “Where’s your date anyways?”
“Restroom,” answers the psychology major simply, but the edge of his lips upturn and Gabe’s brow only rises.
“Is he okay?” the waiter asks, genuinely concerned, “The salsa, it wasn’t too picante?”
“He’ll be fine,” the amateur psychoanalyst promises, “Don’t worry.”
“Why should I be worried? What are you plotting?” questions Gabriel, as he pulls up Jack’s plate and fumbles.
“¡Mierda!” he curses as the dish clatters against the tabletop. The philosophy major manages to catch the plate before it slides off the edge, but the burrito unravels and the complimentary salsa bowl tips over. “¡Por el amor de Dios!”
“Relajate,” advises the customer, glancing back and forth to make sure Gabe has not drawn too much attention to them.
“Sorry,” murmurs Saporta, his face darkening as he notices that Barakat’s shirt sleeve is now stained. There goes his long standing record of never having dropped a dish. “Here, let me...” He sets down his serving platter, carefully, and grabs the damp towel slung over his shoulder. The perturbed waiter leans over and pulls at his roommate’s wrist, vigilantly dabbing at the fabric of his shirt.
“Gabe,” sighs the amateur psychoanalyst tiredly, “I’m fine.”
“Yeah. ¿Pero qué pasa con él?”
“What?” hisses the customer, leaning in forward so that his frame rounds over the waiter’s back. His free hand wraps around Gabe’s bent waist and his nose presses to the side of his roommate’s face.
“What’s wrong with him?” reiterates Saporta, and Jack is so close he can feel the way the elder’s jaw line tightens. Nonetheless, Gabriel knows his roommate understands what he is saying, and more importantly just exactly what he is asking.
“It’s nothing-nothing I can’t handle,” Barakat assures his sidekick, who continues with the pretence of cleaning his shirt.
“Do you know who he is?” murmurs Gabe, and his hold on the customer tightens. “You know what he used to do right?”
“I-”
“Jack?” a third voice shakes the pair from within their vice grip hold on one another. Saporta freezes, his fingernails cutting into Barakat’s wrist to the point where he can feel the uneven throb of the younger boy’s pulse.
“Ni una palabra a nadie,” demands the amateur psychoanalyst so quickly that even a native Spanish speaker would have trouble interpreting the slur. The waiter feels his roommate’s warm hand slide up from his lower back up to his neck, gripping at the sweaty flesh. The younger of the two squeezes the upper most part of Gabriel’s spine, a move that causes the waiter to shudder and stand up straight.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” begins the specimen, as he awkwardly stands beside his seat. His red-rimmed eyes stare at the pair because he can suspect something is not right between the two.
“What? No!” insists Saporta, holding up the towel he had been cleaning Jack’s shirt with. “You weren’t interrupting anything; I was just cleaning up a spill.”
Barakat nods in agreement, a small smile gracing his lips because this is why he chose his roommate. The philosophy major is an impeccable actor and a natural charmer. He watches as the Uruguayan pulls out Gaskarth’s chair for him. Saporta pats the seat cushion appreciatively before guiding Alex’s wavering frame onto it.
“You’re in luck, the tortillas are straight out of the orno,” enthuses Gabe, playing his role perfectly and yet adding a particular genuineness that only comes from a good heart and sharp mind. A wide grin takes over his lips and he flutters his eyelashes in an over-excited fashion. He stands in front of their table for a prolonged moment, before finally gesturing towards their plates. “Por favor,” he persists, “its tradition here that you tell us how the first bite tastes.”
“Oh,” sighs Alex quietly, reaching for a taco, “Okay.” He takes an unnecessarily large bite as he makes his way through the crackling shell and into the juicy beef. It seems to still be sizzling as his tongue laps up the sour cream and salsa. His mouth is caked with freshly cooled cheese that burns his chewed up lips. “Ohhhh.” He swallows a little forcefully, smacking his lips together for a moment before articulating, “This is so good.”
“Told you,” chides the university student, as he too takes a bite out of his distressed burrito.
“Good,” declares their waiter, slapping his hands against his sides and taking up a solider-like stance. “If you want anymore, just let me know.” He watches the couple for a moment longer, a twinkle of insight reaching his eyes before leaving for another table of rowdy hombres who have had far too much to drink.
Neither man says much after their waiter leaves, each of them consumed in the consumption of their dinner. Alex, who has not had a proper meal in months, who has never experienced a meal so sensuously arousing cannot help but moan. The heat of the meal and spice of the garnishes warm his stomach and prickle his taste buds. He finds himself starting on the second taco, savouring it even more so than the first because of this new built up anticipation. Jack, who has been to the restaurant enough times to get over the initial excitement and thrill, takes his time, watching.
“This is so, so good,” insists the patient, leaning inwards to catch the pieces of filling that slip out from the taco shell. “I know you said it was good, but...”
The amateur psychoanalyst merely beams, as if he is the one who made the delicious meal. “You should order another platter,” he suggests, “You can bring it home with you if you don’t finish.”
“No, uh, that’s okay,” stammers the specimen, stalling for a second as he realizes how eager he must sound. It is probably obvious he does not take proper care of his body. He can already feel his stomach expanding in a painfully tight burn that indicates that his cavity is not accustomed to being so well nourished.
“That’s what you say now,” Jack teases. “The first time I came here I was sick for a week after. I ate that much.”
“You don’t look like much of an eater,” notes the specimen.
Barakat pats his stomach affectionately. “I know. I’ve always been pretty skinny, even as a kid.”
“I had a really big forehead as a kid,” frowns Alex in admission, “and blonde hair.”
Jack chuckles at that, trying to imagine a child version of his date. “Blonde?”
“It was blonde until I was about ten,” explains the disc jockey. “Then it darkened naturally, to a light brown. And then I thought I was cool by dying it black when I was fourteen.”
“Little rebel were you?”
“Not really,” admits Gaskarth, “I mean... I didn’t really have anything to rebel against. Despite everything I’ve said, I, I didn’t have a shitty childhood. My parents have proper jobs and are in love. They understand, for the most part, that I am my own person and am entitled to my own mistakes. I just...I didn’t appreciate that back then. I thought my life sucked. So I used to wear tight black shirts and really baggy jeans. I refused to let my mom buy me new shoes and I liked wear this dog chain around my neck. I even used to keep a cigarette tucked behind my ear. I didn’t even have a lighter to smoke it. I just liked how it looked.”
“What made you change?”
At this, Alex hesitates. The first thing that comes to mind is music. Music was the one thing that changed his whole perspective on life, but it was also what destroyed it.
“I grew up I guess,” he bluffs, “I dyed my hair back to blonde, and then I settled for my brown.”
“And now it’s purple.”
“It was supposed to be more of auburn.”
Jack chuckles at his patient’s defensiveness, “Either way, I think it suits you.”
“Yeah?” asks the specimen, unconsciously swiping few stray strands away from his face.
“It’s perfect.”
*
Their dinner date soon ends as they finish their complimentary drinks. At first neither man had been too keen on the idea, but Gabe had insisted. He claimed word had gotten back to the manager of Alex’s choking and he wanted to make sure Gaskarth left as a satisfied customer. The disc jockey merely laughed, assuring their hearty waiter that he would be back for more tacos and that the doggy bag he was taking would not be enough. He now watches as Barakat pulls out his wallet to pay for the meal, teasingly asking Saporta whether he should leave a tip. Gabriel merely scoffs as he hands out the free mints, advising that Jack take two.
“Where are you two kids off to now?” their waiter teases as they slide out of their chairs.
“Uh,” Alex hesitates because he was under the assumption that the date was over.
“Movies?” suggests Jack casually, because really what could be more cliché than a dinner and a movie?
“Gunna make out in back row?” snickers Gabe.
The patient frowns, overly rattled by their waiter’s words. Obviously as Jack’s roommate, it can be presumed that Saporta would know something of Jack’s personal life. It is supposable that he would be clued into the boy’s habits, if not his undeceive sexuality and the irregular attention he seems to pay towards Alex. The specimen’s nose upturns in disgust, a little unnerved at the idea that other people may see the two of them as a couple. That is that last thing they are. Yet he is not sure what they are. They seem to fall somewhere along the lines of less than friends with benefits, yet a little more than fuck buddies. Whatever they are, it is not a couple, not boyfriends, or even crushes. They just ate dinner together, and one of them offered to pay. Sure, they have been tossing the word ‘date’ around a lot, but what is a date? A pre-arranged meeting is all. It is nothing more and nothing less because Jack deserves much more. Alex sighs in defeat, jamming up his hands in the pocket of his coat as he feels his fingers tightens and his fists shake. His date watches him for the corner of his dark eye before turning to his roommate with scorn, “And you wonder why they don’t want you to be a host?”
Gabe’s grin falls a little at the jab because Jack knows that he’s been hinting at the bump up in position for weeks now and it has yet to happen. Not everyone has been granted a full scholarship like a certain boy genius, but Gabe takes pride in his work nonetheless. The waiter lets out a huff and takes the money. “I was kidding.”
Barakat just smirks, “I’ll see you at home yeah?”
It takes a moment too long for Gabe to reply, “Yep.”
“Good. See you.”
*
“You okay?” questions the amateur psychoanalyst when they pull out of the parking lot.
“I don’t wanna see a movie,” Alex states bluntly, his right hand fiddling with the seat belt he has no intentions of putting on. It is too confining. The car, the date, Jack, everything is too confining.
“Where do you want to go then?” asks Barakat calmly but he is already making the appropriate turn.
“Home.”
*
“Thanks for the ride,” begins the disc jockey after they pull up to his empty home, “and for the food and stuff.”
“No problem,” dismisses the university student cheerily, “I had fun.”
“That’s good,” counters the specimen, hand wavering over the door clasp, “‘Cause I had fun too. Despite everything that, yeah.”
“I’m glad,” admits Jack, shutting off his car even though he is supposedly only dropping Alex off.
“So, I’ll see you ‘round ‘The Party Scene?’” affirms the patient, somewhat eager to end the night that has only really begun. The clock on Barakat’s dashboard indicated that it is only half past nine.
“Uh, yeah,” answers the university student in mid-thought, “I mean, my final exams start up soon, so I don’t think I’ll be out as much, but...I’ll try to...see you?” The amateur psychoanalyst does not sound very convincing.
The disc jockey stalls, one foot out the door and the other still in. “Oh, of course,” he nods, biting at his bottom lip, “School comes first,” he quotes some authoritarian figure from his childhood, “I get it.” Alex gets it very well.
He realizes this entire affair has been an entire flop and he probably will not see Jack at ‘The Party Scene’ even after the boy’s exams are done. It is completely understandable. Who would want to spend time with someone so unstable and indecisive? Alex cannot even sit through a dinner without having to go the bathroom every five minutes so he can keep his addictions and emotions under control. His worst fears now confirmed, Gaskarth cannot help but wish he had tried harder because there was this tiny delusional bit of hope left in him that Barakat was different. That Jack could change him.
“I don’t know if you do,” warns the university student, unbuckling his safety belt and leaning up against the steering wheel in an almost exasperated fashion. Alex cannot help admire the angle of the other’s contorted lanky frame sits in. “I want to see you again,” the amateur psychoanalyst asserts, “But I want to be able to hang out with you outside of the club. Don’t get me wrong, I love to dance and drink as much as everyone else. But I also want to be able to just sit and talk to you, whether it’s about why the economy has gone to shit or why food is delicious. And I don’t think that’s what you want that.”
The specimen frowns at this confession, because maybe it is true. Maybe Alex does feel his best while at the club, but he also feels really good just being with Jack. He just had not realized it until the prospect of not seeing the university student again, of not hearing that ‘I’ll see you soon’ had arisen. He just does not know how to admit that or how he feels about it. He does not know how he feels about his own feelings? Gaskarth does not really know anything about himself he decides. So instead of trying to figure himself out like everyone else, he creates long and intricate identities of assholes and big shots, because those are the type of people that impress and inspire.
“I get that maybe, talking isn’t one of your strong points,” the amateur psychoanalyst eases up a little, “But would it have been so bad to go a movie with me? You don’t even have to talk during a movie Alex. You just have to appreciate me sitting beside you, but I guess you don’t really feel the need to do that.”
Gaskarth bites down even harder on his lip now, so much so that it turns from pink, to red, to a stark white. He does not know how to explain how badly he would have liked to go to a movie with Jack. That he would have been content to sit beside the university student and watch some stupid romantic comedy. He would not care what was on the screen, because he would just watch Jack’s reactions to the stupid jokes and frivolous tears. He would not minded making out in the back corner like a bunch of horny teens, but he also would have been content with just having their arms touch when they shared the popcorn. He knows he would have enjoyed Barakat’s company, but he also knows he would not be able to handle the moments before the movie theatre lights went down and again when they went back up.
Alex would not have been able to withstand standing in that long line for a ticket. He would not have been able to handle having Jack pay for his popcorn and lead him gently to their seats. He would not be able to stand the friendly look he would get from the ticket taker or the movie usher. Gaskarth would not have wanted a crowd of kids sit next to them, or worse a real couple. He would feel their eyes on them, and hear their whispers. He would obsess over how he was seated and whether he would get an aisle seat to allow quick access to the washroom. He would miss out on the previews because he would be thinking too hard. The sex scene would make him uncomfortable because it would only bring back memories of how he met Jack. The night would be a complete disaster by that point, and he would have been such a terrible mess that he would have scared Jack off completely. That is the biggest thing Alex thinks he would not be able to handle. Not having Jack around.
The amateur psychoanalyst says nothing as he watches his patient. He eyes the way the disc jockey nibbles on his lower lip, tearing apart the sensitive tissue with his incisors. The man’s caramel coloured eyes scrunch up in thought, and Jack swears he can hear the gears turning in the man’s head. He supposes his specimen is trying to consider why exactly he refused to see a movie with Jack. For the psychology major it is simple. Gaskarth is scared. While sitting together in close proximity in the dark is nothing for the disc jockey, having to sit with Barakat under fluorescents lights in a room full of observant people is daunting. He would feel pressure to conform, to not pull out that flask that Jack notes Alex is carrying. The patient would have to go into puppet mode and let himself be lead along by the invisible strings of societal norms.
Though Jack could easily take control of the situation, become the puppet master so to speak, he does nothing. He just waits in the silence of his car, for his specimen to make up his mind, to figure that he had a mind of his own to make up. The patient quakes with revelation, as he pulls himself full back into the Nissan. He shuts the door slowly, before turning back to his date. He slides up the edge of his seat, until nothing but the parking brake separates him from Jack. He has his awful urge to just grab the university student, to yank him down by the shirt and claw his way through the other’s black silky hair. But he knows that is not what the situation calls for. That if he wants to prove that he likes Jack, than he has to do something more than just jamming his tongue down the other’s throat. So instead, he clears his own dry throat, unlatching his lip out from under his front teeth and asks. “Do you wanna come in?”
Barakat decides to close the distance between his date and himself, but instead of a kiss or sleazy crotch grab, he merely rests a hand on his specimen’s shoulder. “What for?”
“I was thinking,” laughs Alex dryly, “We could watch a movie.”
Jack’s poker face breaks at this, and for the first time tonight he is the one who blushes.
--
A/N: Okay, so I realize it is terrible of me to not post for over a month and then drop this overwhelming update on people, but I would really appreciate if you would comment saying you are still reading. I don't have as much time these days, but I do want to continue this story. Also on how you feel about Zack/Rian, because as of now, I'm iffy on them.