The Fiction He Lives - Part 1 of 2
Title: The Fiction He Lives - Part 1 of 2
Author: x_cheapnovelty
Pairing: Alex Gaskarth/Jack Barakat
Rating: M
Summary: Alex is the architect of Jack's despair.
POV: Third
Warnings: Angst, heartache, bad words
Disclaimer: Moderately imaginary.
Author Notes: This is heavily influenced by the movie Fight Club. If you haven't seen it, you won't understand it as much. Not in terms of plot, but .. yeah, you'll get it.
It's also based on trufax
“One skim latte to go, please.”
Jack looked hard into the eyes of the man ordering a latte in front of him. He wondered vaguely if the man actually wanted a fucking skim latte or if his wife put him up to the task of ordering. A skim latte, as everyone knows, is a woman’s drink.
Whatever, Jack thought; did it matter? So he half-grimaced at the man, and set to work on making a coffee. He sighed; it was probably the hundred-and-eleventh latte he’d made that day. The man handed over his gold, and Jack repeated the process over and over, stupid customer after stupid, arrogant, rude customer.
Alex was Jack’s will to live.
The business slowed eventually and Jack leaned against the counter of the coffee shop he worked at, soaking up his oh-so familiar surroundings. He’d been working at this teensy little shop for two years and he’d liked it until now. In fact he liked movies, music, sleeping and living until now. Recently life just became so mundane; a handful of his friends had come to their senses and left for college, so Jack was left without his beloved Bilvy and his terrific Tommy. All he did was serve coffee to the dumbest people in Baltimore and go home to watch TV with his mom. He was 19, surely he should be doing illegal and illicit things with girls in booty shorts and boys with bongs. Whatever, he thought again, because he remembered why he was so forlorn. All the aforementioned things; movies, music, sleeping, working, walking down the fucking street reminded him of his happiest times. The times when Alex was still here.
Alex was Jack’s wasted youth.
Jack felt like maybe Alex was only a figment of his imagination, like Tyler Durden. Though he was pretty sure if he was, Alex wouldn’t have had a family or a dog or... appeared in photos; but he wasn’t a vampire. Though Tyler Durden had a house and managed to wrangle up hundreds of fight clubs all over the country, and appeared very real to Narrator... But no matter what stories Jack conjured up (or borrowed), Alex was very real, and very gone. The gun was not in Jack’s hand, and Jack had no way of knowing what Alex knew.
Alex was Jack’s heartache.
It physically hurt Jack to think about it, and it was doubled tenfold by the absence of William’s incredible positivity or Tom’s comforting cuddles. William would rock up to Jack’s house, bottle of vodka in hand, ready to convince Jack that Alex was useless and an architect of sorrow, as opposed to himself, who was obviously a sex god. Jack almost agreed. Right now, though, Jack was looking at the front counter of the shop, remembering the times when Alex would just appear at the perfect time and order one “sexychino, please, and I’ll have that with cream.” complete with a naughty wink. Now was a time when he could use Tom pushing him onto the couch, barricading him in with pillows and blankets, putting ugg boots on his little tootsies and settling in to cuddle, gossip and maybe even make out a little bit. He missed his friends. He missed Alex more.
Alex was Jack’s lonely one and only.
'Jack and Alex. Alex and Jack. Best friends; boyfriends. Architects of merriment. General hooligans. Bedroom bandits. Togeth forev, we’ll probably share a grave.'
This is what Alex wrote in sharpie on the back of Jack’s guitar. He always had a better vocabulary than Jack. He stroked the back of it, home once again, home alone once again, wondering what went wrong once again. It wasn’t expected, well, at least not so soon and not so independently.
Jack knew Alex was moving. He never liked America as much as he liked England, and he always said he’d move back after graduation. Jack always planned to follow him there. Alex thought this was a brilliant idea and frothed at the idea of them living together in a city like London, pissing off the locals and waking up with headaches and memories. Jack thought this was brilliant too. So when he found out Alex had moved without him, without telling him, without setting a date... Jack crumbled. Obviously, Alexander never really needed him. It was so unpredictable yet so very typical. Jack didn’t try to contact him, he accepted the fact that he would never be happy again and so, Bella Swan style, set himself a routine and tried not to think or feel anymore. He was now an empty vessel.
6 months later and Jack was still trying not to lose it.
Alex was Jack’s broken heart.
Author: x_cheapnovelty
Pairing: Alex Gaskarth/Jack Barakat
Rating: M
Summary: Alex is the architect of Jack's despair.
POV: Third
Warnings: Angst, heartache, bad words
Disclaimer: Moderately imaginary.
Author Notes: This is heavily influenced by the movie Fight Club. If you haven't seen it, you won't understand it as much. Not in terms of plot, but .. yeah, you'll get it.
It's also based on trufax
“One skim latte to go, please.”
Jack looked hard into the eyes of the man ordering a latte in front of him. He wondered vaguely if the man actually wanted a fucking skim latte or if his wife put him up to the task of ordering. A skim latte, as everyone knows, is a woman’s drink.
Whatever, Jack thought; did it matter? So he half-grimaced at the man, and set to work on making a coffee. He sighed; it was probably the hundred-and-eleventh latte he’d made that day. The man handed over his gold, and Jack repeated the process over and over, stupid customer after stupid, arrogant, rude customer.
Alex was Jack’s will to live.
The business slowed eventually and Jack leaned against the counter of the coffee shop he worked at, soaking up his oh-so familiar surroundings. He’d been working at this teensy little shop for two years and he’d liked it until now. In fact he liked movies, music, sleeping and living until now. Recently life just became so mundane; a handful of his friends had come to their senses and left for college, so Jack was left without his beloved Bilvy and his terrific Tommy. All he did was serve coffee to the dumbest people in Baltimore and go home to watch TV with his mom. He was 19, surely he should be doing illegal and illicit things with girls in booty shorts and boys with bongs. Whatever, he thought again, because he remembered why he was so forlorn. All the aforementioned things; movies, music, sleeping, working, walking down the fucking street reminded him of his happiest times. The times when Alex was still here.
Alex was Jack’s wasted youth.
Jack felt like maybe Alex was only a figment of his imagination, like Tyler Durden. Though he was pretty sure if he was, Alex wouldn’t have had a family or a dog or... appeared in photos; but he wasn’t a vampire. Though Tyler Durden had a house and managed to wrangle up hundreds of fight clubs all over the country, and appeared very real to Narrator... But no matter what stories Jack conjured up (or borrowed), Alex was very real, and very gone. The gun was not in Jack’s hand, and Jack had no way of knowing what Alex knew.
Alex was Jack’s heartache.
It physically hurt Jack to think about it, and it was doubled tenfold by the absence of William’s incredible positivity or Tom’s comforting cuddles. William would rock up to Jack’s house, bottle of vodka in hand, ready to convince Jack that Alex was useless and an architect of sorrow, as opposed to himself, who was obviously a sex god. Jack almost agreed. Right now, though, Jack was looking at the front counter of the shop, remembering the times when Alex would just appear at the perfect time and order one “sexychino, please, and I’ll have that with cream.” complete with a naughty wink. Now was a time when he could use Tom pushing him onto the couch, barricading him in with pillows and blankets, putting ugg boots on his little tootsies and settling in to cuddle, gossip and maybe even make out a little bit. He missed his friends. He missed Alex more.
Alex was Jack’s lonely one and only.
'Jack and Alex. Alex and Jack. Best friends; boyfriends. Architects of merriment. General hooligans. Bedroom bandits. Togeth forev, we’ll probably share a grave.'
This is what Alex wrote in sharpie on the back of Jack’s guitar. He always had a better vocabulary than Jack. He stroked the back of it, home once again, home alone once again, wondering what went wrong once again. It wasn’t expected, well, at least not so soon and not so independently.
Jack knew Alex was moving. He never liked America as much as he liked England, and he always said he’d move back after graduation. Jack always planned to follow him there. Alex thought this was a brilliant idea and frothed at the idea of them living together in a city like London, pissing off the locals and waking up with headaches and memories. Jack thought this was brilliant too. So when he found out Alex had moved without him, without telling him, without setting a date... Jack crumbled. Obviously, Alexander never really needed him. It was so unpredictable yet so very typical. Jack didn’t try to contact him, he accepted the fact that he would never be happy again and so, Bella Swan style, set himself a routine and tried not to think or feel anymore. He was now an empty vessel.
6 months later and Jack was still trying not to lose it.
Alex was Jack’s broken heart.