The Freudian Slip (8/15) (Part One)
Title: The Freudian Slip (8/15) (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: R
Warnings: References to alcoholism, physical violence, anxiety disorder and psychiatric help.
Summary: An amateur psychoanalyst becomes enamoured with his latest patient.
Disclaimer: This story and its author are in no way affiliated or representative of the band All Time Low or Gabriel Saporta. This work is purely fiction, I don't own 'em. If you are any of the aforementioned people, I recommend reading at your own risk.
Author’s Notes: This chapter may come off a little crazy, but believe me, every single scene has its own significance.
Masterpost
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Jack takes his time getting intoxicated. He downs one drink at a time, slowly increasing the alcohol by volume percentage until he switches from bottles to shot glasses. He allots time for the various liquors to settle in his gut, encouraging the tender to address other customers that come and go whilst Barakat seemingly drinks himself dumb. The amateur psychoanalyst settles nicely into his bar stool, letting his shoulder slowly come undone as the tension and control leave his body. The line of empties in front of him grows, leaving rings of perspiration on the counter top.
“’Nother one,” Jack pleads, raising his index finger to indicate his offer.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” the tender questions slowly, frowning as he takes in the sorry sight before him. The customer’s eyes are glassy, the black of his pupils overpowering the brown of his irises. His whole face is flushed red, and his lips are parted slightly, allowing slow breaths to leave and enter the body.
“Yeah?” the amateur psychoanalyst half questions, half responds. His vision is blurring and his limbs feel heavy. His hand comes crashing down on the table, abruptly knocking over the line of bottles in a domino effect.
“You don’t need any more alcohol.” The tender manages to catch most of the bottles before they roll of the counter but winces when one hits the floor with a loud clang. “I’d say you’re pretty smashed as is.”
“I am pretty smashed,” Jack admits, chuckling to himself. “But I need more.”
“Can I see some I.D.?” Rian asks vainly, as he picks up the unbroken bottle. The tender really does not feel comfortable serving the boy anymore alcohol. The psychology student is so thin, it is impossible that his body can sustain so much of it.
The concentration of ethanol in the customer’s body is in fact much too high for his blood content. With every beat Jack’s heart takes, the neurons in his brain are being bathed in toxins that are damaging his nerves’ dendrites. The very antennae that receive inputs from other sections of his nervous system are being dilated, drowning in calcium that cause surges of electricity. Sparks are flying and cells are short-circuiting as excessive fatty acids enter his cranium, releasing far too many potassium ions that disrupt chemical messages. The amateur psychoanalyst is well aware of what he is doing to his brain, and does his best to remind himself that each social experiment requires personal sacrifice. Jack knows the only way to approach his specimen is to lower himself to same level of respectability. He ignores the voice of reason that tugs at his consciousness and lets the numbness sink in. He has done worse. He will do worse.
“I.D.?” Barakat repeats, finding the request ludicrous so late in the game. Small giggles escape his mouth, but his drunkenness amplifies the noise until he is out right laughing. He pushes back against the counter, trying to give himself breathing room as his lungs expand. Unfortunately, he leans too far back in his seat, causing him to lose balance and topple over. Jack lands on his back; knocking the much needed air right out of him and cutting the giggles short.
“Shit,” Dawson curses, clambering up over the counter, to spot the younger male rubbing at his backside. At least the customer sat up by himself.
“You, you want I.D.?” Jack guffaws, grabbing at his back pocket which the tender assumes is where the customer keeps his wallet. The boy’s hand struggles against the denim, the tightness of his jeans and his lack of concentration stifling his coordination and shortening his patience. “I got I.D.”
“Of course you have a fake. What kid doesn’t these days?” Rian sighs more to himself. He hops over the bar ledge to help the dark haired boy. The tender easily pulls Jack to his unsteady feet, noting how clammy the customer’s hands feel.
“I’m not a kid,” Jack protests, wrenching his hand away from the tender’s grip. “I’m an adult.”
“You’re drunk, that’s what you are,” Rian informs him bitterly. The tender has had enough experience dealing with drunks to know that is the last thing he should be telling his customer at the moment. Barakat will only deny the accusation or brush it off. Dealing with a drunk while sober is like walking around in circles, pointless. They will not remember what has been said and done while intoxicated, which can be dangerous because inhibitions dissolve under the influence. Logic is thrown out the window along with time and if it were not for the resulting hangover, one would swear it was all just a bad dream.
“What’s it to you?” Jack teases. He does not settle back into his stool or bother to remind the tender about his order. He is trying to not to sway as he watches the way Rian’s fists clench and unclench at the sides.
Dawson has no idea who he is more disgusted with, Alex for constantly being drunk, or Jack, for pretending he is better than Alex. “You’re my customer. I’m fucking liable.”
Barakat’s eyebrows rise in an exaggerated fashion. “W-what?”
“If you do anything stupid tonight, I’m going to get blamed. You can’t possibly be legal and I was dumb to serve you thinking you knew better than to get this hammered.”
The customer rolls his eyes in response. “Relax. M’fine.”
Rian closes his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he does his best to inhale in through his nose and out through his mouth. Despite Jack’s slurred words, the tender is not going to relax. He knows that Jack is not fine, and that one way or another, this is bound to end badly. When he opens his eyes again, Dawson is stunned to find that the customer has disappeared. He looks left and right, squinting against the neon flashing lights of the club. The party is in full swing, the mob of dancers threatening to spill over the designated dance floor. The disc jockey has abandoned his post and Rian can only guess he is in the mob, as is Jack.
*It is barely half an hour later when Barakat decides it is best to leave. He is tired from dancing, and sick of the stickiness of sweating. The alcohol has settled nicely in his bloodstream now, and he decides it is best to act before he gets any more light-headed. Jack heads to the exit, swiping excess perspiration off his brow as he spots the bouncer manning the door. Barakat has enough sense left in him to hide the smirk threatening to overcome his face because everything is going according to plan. The university student keeps his profile faced forward as he attempts to stride past Zack, but stumbles at the door frame, bumping into the older man’s broad chest.
“Woops,” the boy giggles, ducking his head down and trying to skirt away as Merrick grabs at his lanky arm.
“Jack?” the bouncer questions, though he has grown to recognize the thin frame that always seems to be frequenting the particular club.
“Z-zack.” The boy nods in acknowledgement, trying to wriggle out of the bouncer’s grasp. He knows struggling is fruitless when Merrick’s arms are twice the size of his own, but actions speak louder than words.
“Are you, drunk?” the bouncer asks in disbelief. Of all the times he has seen Jack enter and leave, the boy has never been intoxicated. He is also without the pretty green eyed girl that smiles extra wide when they arrive together.
“Not really,” Jack dismisses, going limp in Zack’s grip.
Merrick’s hold only tightens. “You seem pretty drunk to me.”
“That’s what Rian said,” Barakat recalls, a goofy grin colouring his features.
“Are you heading home now?” the bouncer demands, and he is perplexed. This character is nothing like the responsible university student that drove Gaskarth home not so long ago.
“Yeah,” the amateur psychoanalyst admits, “M’tired.”
Zack straightens his back with apprehension. “You’re not, driving yourself home are you?”
Jack dismisses the question with a wave of his hand. “My car s’parked... a block away. No worries bro.”
The bouncer winces at the pathetic attempt at reassurance. “You can’t possibly consider driving like this.”
“I have keys,” Barakat informs Merrick, like that somehow explains everything.
“You had keys,” the bouncer corrects, free hand snaking to the boy’s waist until he pulls out a university lanyard riddled with keys.
“Hey!” Jack responds a moment too late, because even though the bouncer has let go of him now, he cannot get home. “Gimme my keys.”
“I’ll call you a cab,” Zack offers reasonably, “On me.”
“No. I want my car.”
“You can pick it up to tomorrow.”
“I want my car.” Barakat repeats, this time stabbing a bony finger directly into the bouncer’s chest.
“I’m not letting you drive drunk. You could kill yourself, or worse, someone else.” Zack crosses his arms against his chest, Jack’s keys tucked safely away under his shoulder.
“M’not gunna kill somebody!” Jack blanches at the idea, “I jus’ wanna go home.”
“I’ll you cab a then.” Zack reiterates, pulling out his mobile phone only to have Barakat lunge forward.
“I don’t need a cab!” the boy bellows, slamming all his feeble body weight onto the bouncer. Though the weight in itself is not a lot, the action startles Zack and his fingers loosen enough around his phone that Barakat is able to pry it loose.
“What are you doing?” heaves Merrick, pressing himself up against the wall exactly the way he did when Jack first confronted him all those weeks. He is sporting a sleeveless shirt yet again but Jack suspects he is not shivering from the cold weather.
“Give me my keys,” Jack barters, “And I’ll give you your phone.”
“This isn’t a game we’re playing,” Merrick warns. “I’m not letting you drive home.”
Barakat outwardly huffs in defiance even though he knows this is the moment he has been waiting for. He grips the mobile device tightly in his left hand, noting its expensive branding. The amateur psychoanalyst steps forward, even closer towards the bouncer so that their shoulders are squared to one another. Merrick is clearly much stronger than Jack, the way his veins constrict and bulge around his muscles confirm it. Yet Jack uses his height to his advantage as he throws his first punch. It is more of a cuff, across the bouncer’s jaw, but it is enough for Zack to realize Barakat is serious. The bouncer’s first instinct is to walk away, knowing it is an unfair and unnecessary fight, but he is already backed into a corner.
Jack throws another punch, knowing it is going to take a few shots until Merrick fights back. This time he aims higher, his knuckles imprinting nicely into Zack’s cheek, right above the zygomatic bone. The man finally unfolds his arms from around himself, holding up both fists to block the next hit. The defensive stance is easily broken as the amateur psychoanalyst leans left then strikes right, sending a blow to the bouncer’s forehead. A smack is emitted as Barakat’s fist collides with the man’s frontal bone. The impact is so great that the bouncer’s head snaps back on his neck.
“Crazy fuck,” the bouncer spits when he recovers from the hit, spitting out blood and saliva because he seems to have bitten his tongue upon impact.
Jack says nothing, narrowing his eyes and trying to focus. He lets the bouncer’s phone fall to the ground, knowing it will not cause all that much damage because it is encased in a thick lining of plastic. He opts for two fists and aims for the sternum.
This time Zack anticipates the attack, his rough hands grabbing both of Barakat’s thin wrists. The keys are long forgotten. They clatter to the ground with a small tinkling noise that is muffled by the howling the drunken customer is making.
“Stop it,” Merrick hisses through clenched teeth, not wanting to cause a scene.
Jack nods his head side to side, because he needs a scene. Since his hands are occupied he switches to his lower limbs and kicks Zack in the upper thigh. The action does not do much but cause the bouncer to flinch of surprise. He always knew there was something weird about the boy but the bouncer had not pinned him for the violent type. As Merrick tries to process what is going on, Barakat struggles in his hold. The amateur psychoanalyst loses all sense of control and starts to kick in any direction possible. His long legs are used to his benefit and he kicks higher, the top of his knee grazing Zack’s crotch.
This is when Merrick realizes he too must act, because that was in literally a ‘low blow.’ He picks up Jack’s skinny frame a few inches off the ground before he sends him flying. The boy collides into the opposing wall that shelters the club’s entrance. Jack lets loose a pained cry. He slides down against the wall, his shirt riding up to expose a slightly bloated stomach. The sight leads Zack to wonder just how much alcohol the boy has consumed.
The bouncer is then presented with the opportunity to ask someone who might know, because all the sudden the tender is at the threshold of the entrance. Rian sports a look of utter disbelief as he takes in the scene before him. Zack’s lip is bleeding from where he bit down on it and his face is red from the punches. Jack is now slumped against the opposite wall, his legs splayed out awkwardly, his head in his hands, letting out soft whimpers.
“W-what?” Rian whispers, rushing to his friend’s side. “What’s going on here?”
The bouncer says nothing at first, squirming under Dawson’s touch as he the tender wipes at the blood slipping off his chin. Rian’s hands are shaking, and Merrick noticeably gulps as he realizes what is about to happen next. Dawson is teetering again.
“Zack,” the tender pleads, his features softening for a moment as he registers that he is hurting his friend more than helping. He retracts his red stained hand, pained that the bouncer still does not feel one hundred percent comfortable around him. “What happened?”
“N-nothing,” Merrick lies, not so much for Jack’s sake but for Rian’s. He knows how the tender’s mood can be changed with the ease it takes for one to flick a switch on and off. If Zack tells Rian what happened, the tender will immediately take matters into his own shaking hands. Dawson will blame himself for serving Jack too much alcohol, for not coming earlier to defend Zack, and even for listening to Alex’s stupid suggestion to open up a club. The bouncer decides it is better that Rian take out his anger on himself, for not telling his friend what happened, than have Dawson fall off the edge.
“Doesn’t look like it,” the tender insists, taking in the scene. He spots Merrick’s phone on the ground and a set of unfamiliar keys. “Did he, did he try to-” Rian does not finish the sentence because he knows the guess is wrong. There is no way that Barakat would try mugging the bouncer. He is drunk, not stupid.
“He wouldn’t give me my keys,” interjects Jack, interrupting the moment between the two friends. “So I punched him in the face.”
“What?” snarls Rian, blinking back astonishment. His vision is slowly discolouring.
Jack lifts his pounding head out of his hands, dragging his body forwards until he is close enough to reach his aforementioned keys. “I need to get home.”
“Are you really that drunk?” demands the tender. He is so furious he does not see how the customer slows at his words.
The truth is; Jack is not as drunk as he seems. A lot of his stronger orders were poured into an empty bottle Barakat hid underneath his stool when he fell over from laughing. The amateur psychoanalyst just happens to know a lot about drunken behaviour, the perks of having studied various alcoholics when he first entered university. The abundance of the poison had led Jack to divide drinkers into three general categories; the happy drunk, the silent drunk, and the angry drunk. The angry drunk of course is then subdivided into the bitter drunk and the violent drunk.
This particular situation calls for Jack to play the role of both subdivisions. His perceived bitterness over losing Mina Valentino has allowed him to morph into a violent drunk who has taken out his frustrations on the idea that he needs to get home. Since Zack Merrick has good-heartedly tried to stop Jack, the amateur psychoanalyst is left with no other choice but to outright attack the bouncer. The commotion caused by the attack calls for Rian Dawson, and Jack jumps at the opportunity to explore the tender’s behaviour.
The psychology student pulls himself up onto his knees, looking Dawson dead in the eye. “That’s none of yo’business.”
That is when Rian topples over the edge. His sense of colour completely dissipates and all he sees is red. His vision loses focus on his surroundings, and sharpens on the drunken boy’s face. There is a roaring in the tender’s ears as his blood vessels dilate, increasing his blood pressure. The sound overpowers the loud thud that is emitted when Dawson’s knuckles come crashing down on Jack’s nose. He registers the feeling of Zack’s protesting arms on his shoulders, but it does no good. The tender shakes his friend off, his entire body trembling with repressed rage. His heart hammers unsteadily in his chest; keeping in time to the rhythm of the pounding he gives Barakat.
As blood begins to trickle from the boy’s nose, the rational part of Rian tries to recalls feelings of empathy and understanding. Yet Dawson is not being driven by rationality. Anger towards Jack’s smartass drunkenness has triggered a biological reaction. All the adrenaline diffusing into the tender’s bloodstream is triggered by his flight or fight reaction, and any need for emotion is lost. The only sort of sensation Rian will remember feeling is pleasurable heat; the friction of his fists as they collide into Jack’s face. The sweaty fabric of Barakat’s t-shirt by which Dawson tugs the boy onto his feet. There is warmth of satisfaction that builds in the tender’s stomach as he slams hard into Barakat’s gut.
Meanwhile, it is clear to those who still use rationality that chaos is ensuing. Zack lets go of his friend when he realizes that Rian has no intention of just smacking Barakat around a little. The drunken boy has managed to tap into something deeper than Dawson is willing to let on. The amateur psychoanalyst has created out outlet for the all the anger that the tender has been harbouring, a sickening monster by the name of resentment that been slowly feeding off of Rian’s angst. A crowd gathers, club goers halting their sensual dancing to swarm around the scene at ‘The ‘Party Scene.’ Some even dare to pull out their cell phones, capturing tiny videos of the action to post online later. The bouncer does not know what to do. He calls out for help, but stops when he comprehends that he and Rian are the ones in charge here. There is no manager to come sort through the messes they cause anymore. Merrick’s heart aches for a second as he recalls all the times he wished there were not so many people telling him what do, what their expectations of him were.
Now all Zack needs is a leader; someone who always has an opinion and will stand their ground fighting for it. He cuts through the crowd swiftly, unsure of what he is looking for until Merrick finds him. “Alex!” he calls, spotting the disc jockey on the nearly abandoned dance floor. Of course Gaskarth has not stopped dancing just because there is a fight happening outside of the club. Alex uses music and dance as escape for his problems; why would he leave that sense of weightlessness just to submerge into other people’s inconveniences? “Alex!” Zack tries again, grabbing onto his friend’s shoulders and shaking him out of a daze.
“What’s up?” Gaskarth questions casually, as if he does not notice the screaming coming from outside. People seem to be choosing sides and placing bets on the winner of the battle.
“It’s Rian. And that guy, J-jack. They’re fighting and I-I don’t know how to stop it.”
“Rian?” Alex asks, and his calm features shift into something between bemused and baffled. But Zack does not give any further explanation as he drags his friend through the club and eventually back to the front entrance. The crowd only grows louder as they see the oncoming workers, curious to see whether the beefy bouncer and drunken disc jockey will join in on the fun.
“W-what do you want me to do about it?” exclaims Alex over the commotion as he takes in the sight before him. He would never guess that his childhood best friend would ever take to fighting. Rian is swinging wildly now, breathing hard as he does his best to reduce Jack into a limp pile of bruised skin and battered bones.
“Stop him! Before he kills him!” The bouncer is desperate now as mentions of ‘calling the cops’ are passed around through the mob. Blood is pooling now, colouring the dull grey cement.
Instead of springing into action like Zack hopes, Alex stills. His already pallid face drains of colour as the thought of responsibility looms over him. “Why m-me? You’re the bouncer.”
“Alex,” Merrick snaps, “You’re his best friend! He’ll listen to you.”
At that, Gaskarth only snorts. “I’m pretty sure Rian doesn’t even like me anymore.” But it is only once he says the words aloud, that he comprehends that they are probably true. He suddenly feels a familiar clench that grips his abdomen.
“I-I have to go,” the disc jockey excuses, ignoring his friend’s protest as he pushes past through the crowd. Instead of returning to the dance floor, he heads straight to the bar. He scrambles to climb over the counter and runs into the shelving with anticipation. Gaskarth does not even look at the bottle’s label as he struggles to open it. All he needs is the feeling of a cool tonic slipping down his throat, cooling the heat in his stomach. He tips his head back against the wall, letting himself slowly slip onto the tiled floor. Alcohol may be the reason why Jack is in so much trouble, but it is also the only way Alex gets out of trouble.
*Eventually the fight is broken, by its own accord. It is not so much that Rian’s hot temper cools, but that his body can no longer keep up. He soon slumps back in on himself, stepping back from the mess he has made. He turns to Zack, who stayed to watch the disaster unfold even when most of the crowd has returned to the dance floor.
“Zack,” he breathes fondly, raising his tired arms in an approaching hug.
Merrick does not return the gesture, but pushes past the tender to get a better look at what is left of Jack Barakat. The boy is curled up in a ball against the wall, his arms shielding his head for the sake of not getting a concussion. The university student’s knees are pulled up to his chest, but his left leg is angled awkwardly.
“Are-you-okay?” Zack rushes to enquire. He goes to rub at the boy’s back dotingly, but the ball flinches at the contact. Jack does not respond, but lets out small sobs. He slowly raises his head to look at the bouncer, unable to speak with so much spittle and blood bubbling out over his lips.
“Dear God,” grieves Merrick, taking in the pretty picture of purple and blue. The blank canvas that was Jack’s face is now splattered with every hue of colour. Though his shirt is black, Zack can make out the stains on it, noting how it sticks to the boy’s skinny frame in certain places from the blood. The only thing worse than how Jack looks, is how he smells. He is giving off this pungent odour of alcohol and fear. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
Barakat’s narrowed eyes widen at the notion and he starts to nod his reply but decides against it when he feels faint. He opens his mouth wider, assuring Zack that he still has all his teeth, and manages to breathe out a, “No.”
“You need to get cleaned up,” the bouncer insists, “I have to g-go back inside and make sure ‘the Scene’ is okay.”
Jack blinks in understanding, and points weakly to his right pocket. The bouncer hesitantly follows the university student’s trembling hand, cautious as he slides his own hand into the tight denim. He soon feels the smoothness of a cell phone screen and pulls out Jack’s mobile device. Zack is unsure of whom he is supposed to call, but he thinks that 9-1-1 would be the easiest. Yet Barakat has no intentions of calling for an ambulance, and reaches over to unlock his phone and access his contact list. The dark haired boy scrolls through a countless number of names until he reaches the ‘Gs.’ He puts a single finger on Saporta’s name before pushing the phone back to the bouncer. Merrick nervously clears his throat as a small ringing is emitted from the speakerphone.
“Hola, Gabe here,” answers a tired voice, and Jack knows he is just getting out from work.
“Uhm. Hi,” Zack tries, smiling sheepishly even though Gabriel cannot actually see him.
“Jack?” the roommate questions, mostly likely staring at his caller identification in uncertainty.
“No, uh, actually, my name’s Zack,” the bouncer begins; unsure of how to explain what has happened in the last few hours.
“Where’s Jack?” Gabe gets to the point, a certain edge to his voice now. “Why isn’t he speaking?”
“At a club, on Main, ‘The Party Scene’,” Merrick explains, “He’s here with me, but, he’s pretty drunk and...”
“Mierda, he’s doing it again,” Saporta swears, cutting Zack off. The bouncer’s face twists in discomfort as a colourful string of Spanish curses are emitted from the Gabe character. Merrick is unsure of whether he should really trust the man with Jack but Gabriel cuts to the chase and sighs in resign. “I’ll be there in like, half an hour.”
*
True to his word, Gabe arrives to the unfamiliar club in only twenty-five minutes. He managed to cut back five minutes by driving over the speed limit, running two red lights, and parking next to a ‘NO PARKING’ sign. But at the moment, a driving ticket is the last thing on his mind. The roommate takes long strides down the block of the club, fiddling with his sunglasses which are still perched on his nose even though it is far too dark to need shade.
He bursts into the venue, noting the absence of a bouncer as he takes in the bright lights and loud music. Gabe curses the fact Jack kept refusing to let him tag along whenever he frequented the club; the place looks crazy good. It is the thought of the boy that causes Gabe to break out running, as he decides to head to the bar to see what exactly is wrong.
“Excuse me?” Saporta calls out, when he finds the counter empty of any barman, “Hello?”
No one seems to respond. Gabe looks around to see that most of the seats are empty, and the ones taken are occupied by people far too drunk to care whether they are being tended to or not.
“Anybody here? I need some help!” he calls, peering over the edge of the counter to find a man who looks to be about his age slumped on the floor.
“Hey! You!” Saporta insists, because the lack of service at the club is starting to disturb him. “Wake up!”
It take a few more minutes before the drunk awakes, rubbing at his bleary eyes before shooting Gabe a disgruntled look. “Whatta ya’want?”
“I’m looking for my friend Jack,” Gabe prompts, “Some guy named Zack called me and let me know he’s in some sort of trouble.”
“Zack,” the drunk repeats, forehead creasing as he fully awakes and has his memories return to him. “Yeah I know ‘im.”
“Do you know where he is?” the roommate pushes, getting antsy now. Jack has never actually called Gabe out on his romps around town. The Uruguayan cannot imagine the trouble Barakat must get up to, and sometimes thinks he is better off not knowing. Saporta used to like to snoop through the boy’s notes while he was in class, but Jack soon caught on to Gabe’s spying and began keeping his files in a locked cabinet. “Man, I need to find my roommate.”
The drunk’s head bobs up and down on his shoulders; he is getting a terrible headache from the man’s frantic pleading. “Have you tried the backroom?”
“Backroom?”
The drunk points vaguely to door off to the side of the stage where he performs every night. It is half hidden by propped lights and speakers, but Gabe can just make out a ‘DO NOT ENTER’ sign.
“Thanks,” Gabe rushes in gratitude, hastening towards the platform.
“No problem,” the drunk replies, grasping too late that Gabe has already left.
That is when Alex decides he is best off leaving as well. He grips at the counter to pull himself upwards. He struggles a little, his equilibrium faltering, but manages to stand up with a huff. He does not bother looking to say goodbye to Zack or Rian before he stumbles out the exit. He plans on catching a cab and going home. He pulls out his phone, using speed dial to call a local cab service, for once thankful Dawson has programmed his phone with unnecessarily handy numbers. He slumps against a lamp post for a few minutes, waiting for the traffic to reveal a uniformed car. Gaskarth nods lazily when the driver stops in front of him, attempting twice before he manages to open the back door. He flops lazily inside, murmuring his address to the driver before falling back asleep.
*“Dios mio, what happened?” bellows Gabe after he has burst into the backroom to find his roommate splayed out on a ratty old couch. Or at least he thinks that is Jack Barakat. The figure on the couch looks just as thin as Jack, if not thinner. He is wearing the same outfit that Jack was wearing earlier, but now it is covered in a dark liquid.
“You must be Gabe,” Zack instigates calmly, offering him a hand. “I’m Zack.”
“Who did this?” demands Saporta, completely ignoring the handshake. “W-What happened?”
“He got into a fight,” Merrick tries again, lowering his hand. “He’s drunk.”
“Who did he get into a fight with?” Gabriel inquires sarcastically, “Godzilla?”
“Not exactly,” the bouncer wavers, beginning to regret not having called the emergency contact number instead of Gabe’s.
At this point Saporta is too hysterical to even want to hear what happened, and so he crosses the small room to sit on the armrest of the couch the amateur psychoanalyst is on. “Jack,” he says, carefully putting a hand on the boy’s chest. Gabriel can feel a faint but steady heartbeat. “Jack, hermano, you okay?”
It takes a bit of painful shifting on Barakat’s part, but he eventually sits up, opening his eyes slowly to find a distressed looking Gabe inches away from his face.
“Jack,” his roommate tries again, oblivious to how much pain the boy must be in as Gabriel takes him by the shoulders and wraps him in a too tight hug. “Thank God, gracias a Dios. You scared me. You know better than to get drunk, what do you think-”
“Gabe,” the younger of the two attempts hushing, cringing at the firm headlock his roommate has him in, “Gabriel.”
“Don’t worry, I’m here. Shh, It’s okay.” Gabe coos under his breath, petting back his friend’s matted hair. “It’s okay.”
“Let go,” the psychology student persists, too weak to shrug him off, “You’re hurting me.”
“What? Oh, perdon,” Gabe apologizes, pulling back with a sheepish smile. He knows how much Barakat hates it when the older man babies him but Gabriel cannot help it. Jack really does look young for his age and the swelling to his face reminds Saporta of a pudgy little boy that Jack probably never was. Besides, being curled up in the fetal position covered in blood does not help Jack’s argument of being ‘an adult’ who is ‘completely capable of taking care of himself.’
“Can we, go home?” Jack breathes, grimacing at the way Gabe is staring at his profile. Barakat hates how overbearing his roommate can be sometimes. Saporta has no sense of privacy whatsoever, both in a literal and figurative sense. The philosophy student is leaning in far too close, his hot breath ghosting over Jack’s cuts, causing them to sting. The psychology student knows Gabriel can never mind his own business, that he always feels the need to manage Jack’s well being. It does not surprise him when Gabe makes no move to get going.
“Not until I found the asshole that did this to you,” Gabe growls, the sympathy leaving his features as his body tenses. “Do you know who it was?”
“Some guy,” Jack lies smoothly, because of course he had this all prepared ahead of time. “I didn’t really see.”
Gabriel nods in understanding, finally turning to Zack. “You the bouncer?”
“Yeah,” Merrick responds softly, crossing his arms against his chest defensively. He is unsure of whether he should tell Gabe what happened. On one hand he feels the compulsion to point out that it is Jack’s fault that he got beat up. On the other, there is the fact that Rian intervened in a conflict that did not involve him and used it as an opportunity to release the tension he has been storing up for the last few weeks.
“Did you see what happened?” Saporta questions, getting up from the couch to help the boy sit up. Even though Jack has yet to remove his shoes, the swelling to his left foot is obvious.
“No.”
“Damn. Well, thanks for helping him out,” Gabe thanks, oblivious to how guilt ridden Zack feels for lying. “Kid always bites off more than he can chew.”
The amateur psychoanalyst lets out a groan of protest because sometimes Saporta is more embarrassing than Jack’s mother.
“Don’t worry about it.” Zack swallows a moment of weakness as he helps Gabe pull Jack up to his feet. They both take their time helping him to the door and are about to make it out of the room when the tender barges in.
“Zack,” the man begins, before registering the other two males in the room. “Oh.”
“Rian,” Zack greets hurriedly, “What are you doing here?”
“I, uh, I was looking for you,” Dawson clarifies, and for a second it is hard to believe this is the same man that had gone blind with rage only about half an hour ago. Despite the curves to his muscles, he now looks incredibly small and vulnerable. “I want to...talk.”
“Excuse me, sorry,” Gabe interrupts the awkward moment, not even giving Rian a second glance as he pushes past the insecure tender. All that is on Gabriel’s mind is getting Barakat home.
Yet the tender does do a double take, wondering who this strange man could be and why he is in a room clearly not meant for customers. But then Dawson spots Jack’s battered frame in the other man’s arms, and is quick to dart away from the door. He takes to the chaise the drunken customer was previously laying on, rubbing at his reddening face. The tender says and does nothing else until the footsteps have gotten so faint that they are barely audible.
It is only then that Dawson says, “I know I promised to never do something like that again. I didn’t mean to, I just-” and he breaks off unable to finish. He sits in the silence for a second, before pulling his hands back from his face to reveal tears. Rian waits for his friend to say something, anything, before coming to terms with the emptiness he sees in front of him.
Zack left the room.
Link to Part Two
Author: Gess aka live_by_lyrics
Pairing: Jack Barakat/Alex Gaskarth
P.O.V.: third person omniscient, (slightly limited to Jack Barakat)
Rating: R
Warnings: References to alcoholism, physical violence, anxiety disorder and psychiatric help.
Summary: An amateur psychoanalyst becomes enamoured with his latest patient.
Disclaimer: This story and its author are in no way affiliated or representative of the band All Time Low or Gabriel Saporta. This work is purely fiction, I don't own 'em. If you are any of the aforementioned people, I recommend reading at your own risk.
Author’s Notes: This chapter may come off a little crazy, but believe me, every single scene has its own significance.
Masterpost
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Jack takes his time getting intoxicated. He downs one drink at a time, slowly increasing the alcohol by volume percentage until he switches from bottles to shot glasses. He allots time for the various liquors to settle in his gut, encouraging the tender to address other customers that come and go whilst Barakat seemingly drinks himself dumb. The amateur psychoanalyst settles nicely into his bar stool, letting his shoulder slowly come undone as the tension and control leave his body. The line of empties in front of him grows, leaving rings of perspiration on the counter top.
“’Nother one,” Jack pleads, raising his index finger to indicate his offer.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” the tender questions slowly, frowning as he takes in the sorry sight before him. The customer’s eyes are glassy, the black of his pupils overpowering the brown of his irises. His whole face is flushed red, and his lips are parted slightly, allowing slow breaths to leave and enter the body.
“Yeah?” the amateur psychoanalyst half questions, half responds. His vision is blurring and his limbs feel heavy. His hand comes crashing down on the table, abruptly knocking over the line of bottles in a domino effect.
“You don’t need any more alcohol.” The tender manages to catch most of the bottles before they roll of the counter but winces when one hits the floor with a loud clang. “I’d say you’re pretty smashed as is.”
“I am pretty smashed,” Jack admits, chuckling to himself. “But I need more.”
“Can I see some I.D.?” Rian asks vainly, as he picks up the unbroken bottle. The tender really does not feel comfortable serving the boy anymore alcohol. The psychology student is so thin, it is impossible that his body can sustain so much of it.
The concentration of ethanol in the customer’s body is in fact much too high for his blood content. With every beat Jack’s heart takes, the neurons in his brain are being bathed in toxins that are damaging his nerves’ dendrites. The very antennae that receive inputs from other sections of his nervous system are being dilated, drowning in calcium that cause surges of electricity. Sparks are flying and cells are short-circuiting as excessive fatty acids enter his cranium, releasing far too many potassium ions that disrupt chemical messages. The amateur psychoanalyst is well aware of what he is doing to his brain, and does his best to remind himself that each social experiment requires personal sacrifice. Jack knows the only way to approach his specimen is to lower himself to same level of respectability. He ignores the voice of reason that tugs at his consciousness and lets the numbness sink in. He has done worse. He will do worse.
“I.D.?” Barakat repeats, finding the request ludicrous so late in the game. Small giggles escape his mouth, but his drunkenness amplifies the noise until he is out right laughing. He pushes back against the counter, trying to give himself breathing room as his lungs expand. Unfortunately, he leans too far back in his seat, causing him to lose balance and topple over. Jack lands on his back; knocking the much needed air right out of him and cutting the giggles short.
“Shit,” Dawson curses, clambering up over the counter, to spot the younger male rubbing at his backside. At least the customer sat up by himself.
“You, you want I.D.?” Jack guffaws, grabbing at his back pocket which the tender assumes is where the customer keeps his wallet. The boy’s hand struggles against the denim, the tightness of his jeans and his lack of concentration stifling his coordination and shortening his patience. “I got I.D.”
“Of course you have a fake. What kid doesn’t these days?” Rian sighs more to himself. He hops over the bar ledge to help the dark haired boy. The tender easily pulls Jack to his unsteady feet, noting how clammy the customer’s hands feel.
“I’m not a kid,” Jack protests, wrenching his hand away from the tender’s grip. “I’m an adult.”
“You’re drunk, that’s what you are,” Rian informs him bitterly. The tender has had enough experience dealing with drunks to know that is the last thing he should be telling his customer at the moment. Barakat will only deny the accusation or brush it off. Dealing with a drunk while sober is like walking around in circles, pointless. They will not remember what has been said and done while intoxicated, which can be dangerous because inhibitions dissolve under the influence. Logic is thrown out the window along with time and if it were not for the resulting hangover, one would swear it was all just a bad dream.
“What’s it to you?” Jack teases. He does not settle back into his stool or bother to remind the tender about his order. He is trying to not to sway as he watches the way Rian’s fists clench and unclench at the sides.
Dawson has no idea who he is more disgusted with, Alex for constantly being drunk, or Jack, for pretending he is better than Alex. “You’re my customer. I’m fucking liable.”
Barakat’s eyebrows rise in an exaggerated fashion. “W-what?”
“If you do anything stupid tonight, I’m going to get blamed. You can’t possibly be legal and I was dumb to serve you thinking you knew better than to get this hammered.”
The customer rolls his eyes in response. “Relax. M’fine.”
Rian closes his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he does his best to inhale in through his nose and out through his mouth. Despite Jack’s slurred words, the tender is not going to relax. He knows that Jack is not fine, and that one way or another, this is bound to end badly. When he opens his eyes again, Dawson is stunned to find that the customer has disappeared. He looks left and right, squinting against the neon flashing lights of the club. The party is in full swing, the mob of dancers threatening to spill over the designated dance floor. The disc jockey has abandoned his post and Rian can only guess he is in the mob, as is Jack.
*It is barely half an hour later when Barakat decides it is best to leave. He is tired from dancing, and sick of the stickiness of sweating. The alcohol has settled nicely in his bloodstream now, and he decides it is best to act before he gets any more light-headed. Jack heads to the exit, swiping excess perspiration off his brow as he spots the bouncer manning the door. Barakat has enough sense left in him to hide the smirk threatening to overcome his face because everything is going according to plan. The university student keeps his profile faced forward as he attempts to stride past Zack, but stumbles at the door frame, bumping into the older man’s broad chest.
“Woops,” the boy giggles, ducking his head down and trying to skirt away as Merrick grabs at his lanky arm.
“Jack?” the bouncer questions, though he has grown to recognize the thin frame that always seems to be frequenting the particular club.
“Z-zack.” The boy nods in acknowledgement, trying to wriggle out of the bouncer’s grasp. He knows struggling is fruitless when Merrick’s arms are twice the size of his own, but actions speak louder than words.
“Are you, drunk?” the bouncer asks in disbelief. Of all the times he has seen Jack enter and leave, the boy has never been intoxicated. He is also without the pretty green eyed girl that smiles extra wide when they arrive together.
“Not really,” Jack dismisses, going limp in Zack’s grip.
Merrick’s hold only tightens. “You seem pretty drunk to me.”
“That’s what Rian said,” Barakat recalls, a goofy grin colouring his features.
“Are you heading home now?” the bouncer demands, and he is perplexed. This character is nothing like the responsible university student that drove Gaskarth home not so long ago.
“Yeah,” the amateur psychoanalyst admits, “M’tired.”
Zack straightens his back with apprehension. “You’re not, driving yourself home are you?”
Jack dismisses the question with a wave of his hand. “My car s’parked... a block away. No worries bro.”
The bouncer winces at the pathetic attempt at reassurance. “You can’t possibly consider driving like this.”
“I have keys,” Barakat informs Merrick, like that somehow explains everything.
“You had keys,” the bouncer corrects, free hand snaking to the boy’s waist until he pulls out a university lanyard riddled with keys.
“Hey!” Jack responds a moment too late, because even though the bouncer has let go of him now, he cannot get home. “Gimme my keys.”
“I’ll call you a cab,” Zack offers reasonably, “On me.”
“No. I want my car.”
“You can pick it up to tomorrow.”
“I want my car.” Barakat repeats, this time stabbing a bony finger directly into the bouncer’s chest.
“I’m not letting you drive drunk. You could kill yourself, or worse, someone else.” Zack crosses his arms against his chest, Jack’s keys tucked safely away under his shoulder.
“M’not gunna kill somebody!” Jack blanches at the idea, “I jus’ wanna go home.”
“I’ll you cab a then.” Zack reiterates, pulling out his mobile phone only to have Barakat lunge forward.
“I don’t need a cab!” the boy bellows, slamming all his feeble body weight onto the bouncer. Though the weight in itself is not a lot, the action startles Zack and his fingers loosen enough around his phone that Barakat is able to pry it loose.
“What are you doing?” heaves Merrick, pressing himself up against the wall exactly the way he did when Jack first confronted him all those weeks. He is sporting a sleeveless shirt yet again but Jack suspects he is not shivering from the cold weather.
“Give me my keys,” Jack barters, “And I’ll give you your phone.”
“This isn’t a game we’re playing,” Merrick warns. “I’m not letting you drive home.”
Barakat outwardly huffs in defiance even though he knows this is the moment he has been waiting for. He grips the mobile device tightly in his left hand, noting its expensive branding. The amateur psychoanalyst steps forward, even closer towards the bouncer so that their shoulders are squared to one another. Merrick is clearly much stronger than Jack, the way his veins constrict and bulge around his muscles confirm it. Yet Jack uses his height to his advantage as he throws his first punch. It is more of a cuff, across the bouncer’s jaw, but it is enough for Zack to realize Barakat is serious. The bouncer’s first instinct is to walk away, knowing it is an unfair and unnecessary fight, but he is already backed into a corner.
Jack throws another punch, knowing it is going to take a few shots until Merrick fights back. This time he aims higher, his knuckles imprinting nicely into Zack’s cheek, right above the zygomatic bone. The man finally unfolds his arms from around himself, holding up both fists to block the next hit. The defensive stance is easily broken as the amateur psychoanalyst leans left then strikes right, sending a blow to the bouncer’s forehead. A smack is emitted as Barakat’s fist collides with the man’s frontal bone. The impact is so great that the bouncer’s head snaps back on his neck.
“Crazy fuck,” the bouncer spits when he recovers from the hit, spitting out blood and saliva because he seems to have bitten his tongue upon impact.
Jack says nothing, narrowing his eyes and trying to focus. He lets the bouncer’s phone fall to the ground, knowing it will not cause all that much damage because it is encased in a thick lining of plastic. He opts for two fists and aims for the sternum.
This time Zack anticipates the attack, his rough hands grabbing both of Barakat’s thin wrists. The keys are long forgotten. They clatter to the ground with a small tinkling noise that is muffled by the howling the drunken customer is making.
“Stop it,” Merrick hisses through clenched teeth, not wanting to cause a scene.
Jack nods his head side to side, because he needs a scene. Since his hands are occupied he switches to his lower limbs and kicks Zack in the upper thigh. The action does not do much but cause the bouncer to flinch of surprise. He always knew there was something weird about the boy but the bouncer had not pinned him for the violent type. As Merrick tries to process what is going on, Barakat struggles in his hold. The amateur psychoanalyst loses all sense of control and starts to kick in any direction possible. His long legs are used to his benefit and he kicks higher, the top of his knee grazing Zack’s crotch.
This is when Merrick realizes he too must act, because that was in literally a ‘low blow.’ He picks up Jack’s skinny frame a few inches off the ground before he sends him flying. The boy collides into the opposing wall that shelters the club’s entrance. Jack lets loose a pained cry. He slides down against the wall, his shirt riding up to expose a slightly bloated stomach. The sight leads Zack to wonder just how much alcohol the boy has consumed.
The bouncer is then presented with the opportunity to ask someone who might know, because all the sudden the tender is at the threshold of the entrance. Rian sports a look of utter disbelief as he takes in the scene before him. Zack’s lip is bleeding from where he bit down on it and his face is red from the punches. Jack is now slumped against the opposite wall, his legs splayed out awkwardly, his head in his hands, letting out soft whimpers.
“W-what?” Rian whispers, rushing to his friend’s side. “What’s going on here?”
The bouncer says nothing at first, squirming under Dawson’s touch as he the tender wipes at the blood slipping off his chin. Rian’s hands are shaking, and Merrick noticeably gulps as he realizes what is about to happen next. Dawson is teetering again.
“Zack,” the tender pleads, his features softening for a moment as he registers that he is hurting his friend more than helping. He retracts his red stained hand, pained that the bouncer still does not feel one hundred percent comfortable around him. “What happened?”
“N-nothing,” Merrick lies, not so much for Jack’s sake but for Rian’s. He knows how the tender’s mood can be changed with the ease it takes for one to flick a switch on and off. If Zack tells Rian what happened, the tender will immediately take matters into his own shaking hands. Dawson will blame himself for serving Jack too much alcohol, for not coming earlier to defend Zack, and even for listening to Alex’s stupid suggestion to open up a club. The bouncer decides it is better that Rian take out his anger on himself, for not telling his friend what happened, than have Dawson fall off the edge.
“Doesn’t look like it,” the tender insists, taking in the scene. He spots Merrick’s phone on the ground and a set of unfamiliar keys. “Did he, did he try to-” Rian does not finish the sentence because he knows the guess is wrong. There is no way that Barakat would try mugging the bouncer. He is drunk, not stupid.
“He wouldn’t give me my keys,” interjects Jack, interrupting the moment between the two friends. “So I punched him in the face.”
“What?” snarls Rian, blinking back astonishment. His vision is slowly discolouring.
Jack lifts his pounding head out of his hands, dragging his body forwards until he is close enough to reach his aforementioned keys. “I need to get home.”
“Are you really that drunk?” demands the tender. He is so furious he does not see how the customer slows at his words.
The truth is; Jack is not as drunk as he seems. A lot of his stronger orders were poured into an empty bottle Barakat hid underneath his stool when he fell over from laughing. The amateur psychoanalyst just happens to know a lot about drunken behaviour, the perks of having studied various alcoholics when he first entered university. The abundance of the poison had led Jack to divide drinkers into three general categories; the happy drunk, the silent drunk, and the angry drunk. The angry drunk of course is then subdivided into the bitter drunk and the violent drunk.
This particular situation calls for Jack to play the role of both subdivisions. His perceived bitterness over losing Mina Valentino has allowed him to morph into a violent drunk who has taken out his frustrations on the idea that he needs to get home. Since Zack Merrick has good-heartedly tried to stop Jack, the amateur psychoanalyst is left with no other choice but to outright attack the bouncer. The commotion caused by the attack calls for Rian Dawson, and Jack jumps at the opportunity to explore the tender’s behaviour.
The psychology student pulls himself up onto his knees, looking Dawson dead in the eye. “That’s none of yo’business.”
That is when Rian topples over the edge. His sense of colour completely dissipates and all he sees is red. His vision loses focus on his surroundings, and sharpens on the drunken boy’s face. There is a roaring in the tender’s ears as his blood vessels dilate, increasing his blood pressure. The sound overpowers the loud thud that is emitted when Dawson’s knuckles come crashing down on Jack’s nose. He registers the feeling of Zack’s protesting arms on his shoulders, but it does no good. The tender shakes his friend off, his entire body trembling with repressed rage. His heart hammers unsteadily in his chest; keeping in time to the rhythm of the pounding he gives Barakat.
As blood begins to trickle from the boy’s nose, the rational part of Rian tries to recalls feelings of empathy and understanding. Yet Dawson is not being driven by rationality. Anger towards Jack’s smartass drunkenness has triggered a biological reaction. All the adrenaline diffusing into the tender’s bloodstream is triggered by his flight or fight reaction, and any need for emotion is lost. The only sort of sensation Rian will remember feeling is pleasurable heat; the friction of his fists as they collide into Jack’s face. The sweaty fabric of Barakat’s t-shirt by which Dawson tugs the boy onto his feet. There is warmth of satisfaction that builds in the tender’s stomach as he slams hard into Barakat’s gut.
Meanwhile, it is clear to those who still use rationality that chaos is ensuing. Zack lets go of his friend when he realizes that Rian has no intention of just smacking Barakat around a little. The drunken boy has managed to tap into something deeper than Dawson is willing to let on. The amateur psychoanalyst has created out outlet for the all the anger that the tender has been harbouring, a sickening monster by the name of resentment that been slowly feeding off of Rian’s angst. A crowd gathers, club goers halting their sensual dancing to swarm around the scene at ‘The ‘Party Scene.’ Some even dare to pull out their cell phones, capturing tiny videos of the action to post online later. The bouncer does not know what to do. He calls out for help, but stops when he comprehends that he and Rian are the ones in charge here. There is no manager to come sort through the messes they cause anymore. Merrick’s heart aches for a second as he recalls all the times he wished there were not so many people telling him what do, what their expectations of him were.
Now all Zack needs is a leader; someone who always has an opinion and will stand their ground fighting for it. He cuts through the crowd swiftly, unsure of what he is looking for until Merrick finds him. “Alex!” he calls, spotting the disc jockey on the nearly abandoned dance floor. Of course Gaskarth has not stopped dancing just because there is a fight happening outside of the club. Alex uses music and dance as escape for his problems; why would he leave that sense of weightlessness just to submerge into other people’s inconveniences? “Alex!” Zack tries again, grabbing onto his friend’s shoulders and shaking him out of a daze.
“What’s up?” Gaskarth questions casually, as if he does not notice the screaming coming from outside. People seem to be choosing sides and placing bets on the winner of the battle.
“It’s Rian. And that guy, J-jack. They’re fighting and I-I don’t know how to stop it.”
“Rian?” Alex asks, and his calm features shift into something between bemused and baffled. But Zack does not give any further explanation as he drags his friend through the club and eventually back to the front entrance. The crowd only grows louder as they see the oncoming workers, curious to see whether the beefy bouncer and drunken disc jockey will join in on the fun.
“W-what do you want me to do about it?” exclaims Alex over the commotion as he takes in the sight before him. He would never guess that his childhood best friend would ever take to fighting. Rian is swinging wildly now, breathing hard as he does his best to reduce Jack into a limp pile of bruised skin and battered bones.
“Stop him! Before he kills him!” The bouncer is desperate now as mentions of ‘calling the cops’ are passed around through the mob. Blood is pooling now, colouring the dull grey cement.
Instead of springing into action like Zack hopes, Alex stills. His already pallid face drains of colour as the thought of responsibility looms over him. “Why m-me? You’re the bouncer.”
“Alex,” Merrick snaps, “You’re his best friend! He’ll listen to you.”
At that, Gaskarth only snorts. “I’m pretty sure Rian doesn’t even like me anymore.” But it is only once he says the words aloud, that he comprehends that they are probably true. He suddenly feels a familiar clench that grips his abdomen.
“I-I have to go,” the disc jockey excuses, ignoring his friend’s protest as he pushes past through the crowd. Instead of returning to the dance floor, he heads straight to the bar. He scrambles to climb over the counter and runs into the shelving with anticipation. Gaskarth does not even look at the bottle’s label as he struggles to open it. All he needs is the feeling of a cool tonic slipping down his throat, cooling the heat in his stomach. He tips his head back against the wall, letting himself slowly slip onto the tiled floor. Alcohol may be the reason why Jack is in so much trouble, but it is also the only way Alex gets out of trouble.
*Eventually the fight is broken, by its own accord. It is not so much that Rian’s hot temper cools, but that his body can no longer keep up. He soon slumps back in on himself, stepping back from the mess he has made. He turns to Zack, who stayed to watch the disaster unfold even when most of the crowd has returned to the dance floor.
“Zack,” he breathes fondly, raising his tired arms in an approaching hug.
Merrick does not return the gesture, but pushes past the tender to get a better look at what is left of Jack Barakat. The boy is curled up in a ball against the wall, his arms shielding his head for the sake of not getting a concussion. The university student’s knees are pulled up to his chest, but his left leg is angled awkwardly.
“Are-you-okay?” Zack rushes to enquire. He goes to rub at the boy’s back dotingly, but the ball flinches at the contact. Jack does not respond, but lets out small sobs. He slowly raises his head to look at the bouncer, unable to speak with so much spittle and blood bubbling out over his lips.
“Dear God,” grieves Merrick, taking in the pretty picture of purple and blue. The blank canvas that was Jack’s face is now splattered with every hue of colour. Though his shirt is black, Zack can make out the stains on it, noting how it sticks to the boy’s skinny frame in certain places from the blood. The only thing worse than how Jack looks, is how he smells. He is giving off this pungent odour of alcohol and fear. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
Barakat’s narrowed eyes widen at the notion and he starts to nod his reply but decides against it when he feels faint. He opens his mouth wider, assuring Zack that he still has all his teeth, and manages to breathe out a, “No.”
“You need to get cleaned up,” the bouncer insists, “I have to g-go back inside and make sure ‘the Scene’ is okay.”
Jack blinks in understanding, and points weakly to his right pocket. The bouncer hesitantly follows the university student’s trembling hand, cautious as he slides his own hand into the tight denim. He soon feels the smoothness of a cell phone screen and pulls out Jack’s mobile device. Zack is unsure of whom he is supposed to call, but he thinks that 9-1-1 would be the easiest. Yet Barakat has no intentions of calling for an ambulance, and reaches over to unlock his phone and access his contact list. The dark haired boy scrolls through a countless number of names until he reaches the ‘Gs.’ He puts a single finger on Saporta’s name before pushing the phone back to the bouncer. Merrick nervously clears his throat as a small ringing is emitted from the speakerphone.
“Hola, Gabe here,” answers a tired voice, and Jack knows he is just getting out from work.
“Uhm. Hi,” Zack tries, smiling sheepishly even though Gabriel cannot actually see him.
“Jack?” the roommate questions, mostly likely staring at his caller identification in uncertainty.
“No, uh, actually, my name’s Zack,” the bouncer begins; unsure of how to explain what has happened in the last few hours.
“Where’s Jack?” Gabe gets to the point, a certain edge to his voice now. “Why isn’t he speaking?”
“At a club, on Main, ‘The Party Scene’,” Merrick explains, “He’s here with me, but, he’s pretty drunk and...”
“Mierda, he’s doing it again,” Saporta swears, cutting Zack off. The bouncer’s face twists in discomfort as a colourful string of Spanish curses are emitted from the Gabe character. Merrick is unsure of whether he should really trust the man with Jack but Gabriel cuts to the chase and sighs in resign. “I’ll be there in like, half an hour.”
*
True to his word, Gabe arrives to the unfamiliar club in only twenty-five minutes. He managed to cut back five minutes by driving over the speed limit, running two red lights, and parking next to a ‘NO PARKING’ sign. But at the moment, a driving ticket is the last thing on his mind. The roommate takes long strides down the block of the club, fiddling with his sunglasses which are still perched on his nose even though it is far too dark to need shade.
He bursts into the venue, noting the absence of a bouncer as he takes in the bright lights and loud music. Gabe curses the fact Jack kept refusing to let him tag along whenever he frequented the club; the place looks crazy good. It is the thought of the boy that causes Gabe to break out running, as he decides to head to the bar to see what exactly is wrong.
“Excuse me?” Saporta calls out, when he finds the counter empty of any barman, “Hello?”
No one seems to respond. Gabe looks around to see that most of the seats are empty, and the ones taken are occupied by people far too drunk to care whether they are being tended to or not.
“Anybody here? I need some help!” he calls, peering over the edge of the counter to find a man who looks to be about his age slumped on the floor.
“Hey! You!” Saporta insists, because the lack of service at the club is starting to disturb him. “Wake up!”
It take a few more minutes before the drunk awakes, rubbing at his bleary eyes before shooting Gabe a disgruntled look. “Whatta ya’want?”
“I’m looking for my friend Jack,” Gabe prompts, “Some guy named Zack called me and let me know he’s in some sort of trouble.”
“Zack,” the drunk repeats, forehead creasing as he fully awakes and has his memories return to him. “Yeah I know ‘im.”
“Do you know where he is?” the roommate pushes, getting antsy now. Jack has never actually called Gabe out on his romps around town. The Uruguayan cannot imagine the trouble Barakat must get up to, and sometimes thinks he is better off not knowing. Saporta used to like to snoop through the boy’s notes while he was in class, but Jack soon caught on to Gabe’s spying and began keeping his files in a locked cabinet. “Man, I need to find my roommate.”
The drunk’s head bobs up and down on his shoulders; he is getting a terrible headache from the man’s frantic pleading. “Have you tried the backroom?”
“Backroom?”
The drunk points vaguely to door off to the side of the stage where he performs every night. It is half hidden by propped lights and speakers, but Gabe can just make out a ‘DO NOT ENTER’ sign.
“Thanks,” Gabe rushes in gratitude, hastening towards the platform.
“No problem,” the drunk replies, grasping too late that Gabe has already left.
That is when Alex decides he is best off leaving as well. He grips at the counter to pull himself upwards. He struggles a little, his equilibrium faltering, but manages to stand up with a huff. He does not bother looking to say goodbye to Zack or Rian before he stumbles out the exit. He plans on catching a cab and going home. He pulls out his phone, using speed dial to call a local cab service, for once thankful Dawson has programmed his phone with unnecessarily handy numbers. He slumps against a lamp post for a few minutes, waiting for the traffic to reveal a uniformed car. Gaskarth nods lazily when the driver stops in front of him, attempting twice before he manages to open the back door. He flops lazily inside, murmuring his address to the driver before falling back asleep.
*“Dios mio, what happened?” bellows Gabe after he has burst into the backroom to find his roommate splayed out on a ratty old couch. Or at least he thinks that is Jack Barakat. The figure on the couch looks just as thin as Jack, if not thinner. He is wearing the same outfit that Jack was wearing earlier, but now it is covered in a dark liquid.
“You must be Gabe,” Zack instigates calmly, offering him a hand. “I’m Zack.”
“Who did this?” demands Saporta, completely ignoring the handshake. “W-What happened?”
“He got into a fight,” Merrick tries again, lowering his hand. “He’s drunk.”
“Who did he get into a fight with?” Gabriel inquires sarcastically, “Godzilla?”
“Not exactly,” the bouncer wavers, beginning to regret not having called the emergency contact number instead of Gabe’s.
At this point Saporta is too hysterical to even want to hear what happened, and so he crosses the small room to sit on the armrest of the couch the amateur psychoanalyst is on. “Jack,” he says, carefully putting a hand on the boy’s chest. Gabriel can feel a faint but steady heartbeat. “Jack, hermano, you okay?”
It takes a bit of painful shifting on Barakat’s part, but he eventually sits up, opening his eyes slowly to find a distressed looking Gabe inches away from his face.
“Jack,” his roommate tries again, oblivious to how much pain the boy must be in as Gabriel takes him by the shoulders and wraps him in a too tight hug. “Thank God, gracias a Dios. You scared me. You know better than to get drunk, what do you think-”
“Gabe,” the younger of the two attempts hushing, cringing at the firm headlock his roommate has him in, “Gabriel.”
“Don’t worry, I’m here. Shh, It’s okay.” Gabe coos under his breath, petting back his friend’s matted hair. “It’s okay.”
“Let go,” the psychology student persists, too weak to shrug him off, “You’re hurting me.”
“What? Oh, perdon,” Gabe apologizes, pulling back with a sheepish smile. He knows how much Barakat hates it when the older man babies him but Gabriel cannot help it. Jack really does look young for his age and the swelling to his face reminds Saporta of a pudgy little boy that Jack probably never was. Besides, being curled up in the fetal position covered in blood does not help Jack’s argument of being ‘an adult’ who is ‘completely capable of taking care of himself.’
“Can we, go home?” Jack breathes, grimacing at the way Gabe is staring at his profile. Barakat hates how overbearing his roommate can be sometimes. Saporta has no sense of privacy whatsoever, both in a literal and figurative sense. The philosophy student is leaning in far too close, his hot breath ghosting over Jack’s cuts, causing them to sting. The psychology student knows Gabriel can never mind his own business, that he always feels the need to manage Jack’s well being. It does not surprise him when Gabe makes no move to get going.
“Not until I found the asshole that did this to you,” Gabe growls, the sympathy leaving his features as his body tenses. “Do you know who it was?”
“Some guy,” Jack lies smoothly, because of course he had this all prepared ahead of time. “I didn’t really see.”
Gabriel nods in understanding, finally turning to Zack. “You the bouncer?”
“Yeah,” Merrick responds softly, crossing his arms against his chest defensively. He is unsure of whether he should tell Gabe what happened. On one hand he feels the compulsion to point out that it is Jack’s fault that he got beat up. On the other, there is the fact that Rian intervened in a conflict that did not involve him and used it as an opportunity to release the tension he has been storing up for the last few weeks.
“Did you see what happened?” Saporta questions, getting up from the couch to help the boy sit up. Even though Jack has yet to remove his shoes, the swelling to his left foot is obvious.
“No.”
“Damn. Well, thanks for helping him out,” Gabe thanks, oblivious to how guilt ridden Zack feels for lying. “Kid always bites off more than he can chew.”
The amateur psychoanalyst lets out a groan of protest because sometimes Saporta is more embarrassing than Jack’s mother.
“Don’t worry about it.” Zack swallows a moment of weakness as he helps Gabe pull Jack up to his feet. They both take their time helping him to the door and are about to make it out of the room when the tender barges in.
“Zack,” the man begins, before registering the other two males in the room. “Oh.”
“Rian,” Zack greets hurriedly, “What are you doing here?”
“I, uh, I was looking for you,” Dawson clarifies, and for a second it is hard to believe this is the same man that had gone blind with rage only about half an hour ago. Despite the curves to his muscles, he now looks incredibly small and vulnerable. “I want to...talk.”
“Excuse me, sorry,” Gabe interrupts the awkward moment, not even giving Rian a second glance as he pushes past the insecure tender. All that is on Gabriel’s mind is getting Barakat home.
Yet the tender does do a double take, wondering who this strange man could be and why he is in a room clearly not meant for customers. But then Dawson spots Jack’s battered frame in the other man’s arms, and is quick to dart away from the door. He takes to the chaise the drunken customer was previously laying on, rubbing at his reddening face. The tender says and does nothing else until the footsteps have gotten so faint that they are barely audible.
It is only then that Dawson says, “I know I promised to never do something like that again. I didn’t mean to, I just-” and he breaks off unable to finish. He sits in the silence for a second, before pulling his hands back from his face to reveal tears. Rian waits for his friend to say something, anything, before coming to terms with the emptiness he sees in front of him.
Zack left the room.
Link to Part Two