The Freudian Slip (10/15) (Part One)
Title: The Freudian Slip (10/15) (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 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: There's kind of a surprise twist here.
Masterpost | Writing Tumblr
When the patient returns there is a platter of salted nachos on their table. The intermixture of sun-kissed yellow and green corn chips is accompanied by a flaming bowl of red salsa and another of fluffy sour cream. Despite their alluring smell, seemingly right out of the oven and laced with melted cheese and bits of beef, he hesitates to sample them. His stomach is in knots and he settles one of his hands down to his hip, finger curling around his belt loop in a tugging fashion.
“Do you come here a lot?” It is a simple question, harmless really, but the familiarity and ease Jack seems to have in the restaurant seems to uproot the hairs on Gaskarth’s skin.
“Kinda,” Barakat admits as he freely begins to nibble on the chips, “The food is really good, so is the service.”
Gaskarth hums absentmindedly, looking out the expanse of the restaurant in search of the pretty hostess. He does not spot her, but eyes the waitresses that weave through and past the tables, the curve of their hips causing their orange coloured skirts to spin. There are a few male waiters as well, their erect frames sporting black slacks and fitted white collared shirts tied up with orange knots. Regardless of gender they dance along the crowd, laughing and calling out to one another. The atmosphere is spirited and light, so Alex does his best to try and enjoy it. His date continues to dip his nachos into the thick red sauce, letting out a contented sigh. His patient mimics his actions and reaches forward for a corn chip.
“But I don’t usually, you know,” the university student continues as the disc jockey has dipped his snack in salsa and brought it to lips, “Bring dates with me.”
The patient does his best not to choke on the chip he is chewing on as he processes the darker haired boy’s words. Barakat cannot possibly consider Alex an exception to the rules. Though the disc jockey must admit he himself has not been on a date since he was seventeen. He curses the fact he went for the salsa, bits of jalapeño stinging his gums.
“You okay?” demands Jack as the specimen begins to cough and heave. Gaskarth’s chest presses up against the table. The half-empty flask presses hard against his heart while his nose disrupts the cutlery. When he gasps he seems to inhaling liquid fire and his breath stutters. Barakat gets up from his seat as nearby customers stop their conversations to stare.
“Ay, ¿que pasa?”
“¡Agua por el poorsito!”
The disc jockey knows enough Spanish to know that means ‘water’ and he nods, a hand over his chest in a weak attempt to stop the burn.
“Eh, ¡Este necesita leche!” another voice soon announces, and Alex manages to breathe in enough air to lift his head and look to see the university student has returned with a waiter.
A tall brunette sets a tall glass of what appears to be milk in front of the choking customer. Gaskarth, who is willing to drink his own urine at this point if it would quench the burn, brings the glass to his lips eagerly. He finds that it is in fact milk, a cool white liquid containing caseins, a phosphoprotein that dissociates the irritant capsaicin found in chilli peppers from the taste buds. The chemicals soon wash away from his mouth, easing the ache. He calms, settling down the now empty glass and wiping away a milk moustache.
“T-thanks,” says the patient, now feeling the heat leave his mouth and tinge his cheeks. Most of the other customers applaud and whistle, always amused by others’ lack of resistance when it comes to the peppers they have been suckling on since they left their mother’s breast.
“No problem hombre,” the waiter assures the specimen, giving him a friendly pat on the back for good measure. “Jack should’ve warned you it was hot.”
“I didn’t think- I’m sorry Alex,” interjects Barakat, sincerely sorry for the scene. He meant to startle the disc jockey, but not to the point to where the man would choke. He looks at Alex worriedly, trying to reassess his specimen’s behaviour.
“It’s okay,” the disc jockey says slowly, trying to compose himself.
“Anyways. Hi, I’m Gabriel, I’ll be your server for tonight,” reels off Saporta with a certain tone of slack that makes Alex frown, “What can I get you?”
The specimen gapes as the light bulbs goes off over his head a little too late. The waiter is Jack’s roommate Gabe, the slim figure who had tagged on along as his sidekick on Halloween. Tonight he is outfitted in the required black slacks that hang a little too lowly on his prominent hips. His white coloured shirt is folded at the elbow and unbuttoned at the top. The thin orange tie hangs loosely around his long neck. His hair is slicked upwards in this devil-may-care fashion that lets one know that Gabriel charms enough customers that he can get away with not following protocol.
He shoots Alex a mischievous grin, face uplifting to reveal dangerously sharp cheekbones, the kind that taunt the skin so that Saporta’s eyes seem to hollow and darken. The Uruguayan purses his lips just the slightest, his upper lip being a little fuller than his bottom, giving it a strange feline like quality. Without the mask, it is obvious that Gabe has a visage to match those infinitely long legs of his. Gaskarth does not realize how he inspects Saporta, trying to compare their features and finding himself coming up both figuratively and literally short.
“I’m not even going to bother with Jack,” Saporta explains after a moment, not at all unnerved with how Alex scrutinizes his figure after having lived with an analyst for so long, “Kid always orders burritos.”
“Gabe,” the psychology major warns, growling a little.
“Well you do,” Saporta insists, “I swear he has this weird fetish for burritos...”
Barakat does not even grace the comment with a response but merely huffs, and directs his attention back to an uneasy Alex. “Order anything you want, it’s on me.”
“You can ask for no hot sauce,” encourages Gabriel, his upbeat and bouncy manner doing nothing to improve Gaskarth’s mood.
“I’ll have a taco,” the disc jockey says finally, settling his menu down on the table so he can join his hands together underneath the table.
“A taco?” repeats Gabe sceptically, “As in a taco platter?” In truth, the specimen really feels like he can only stomach one taco, but he decides it is best to just agree. “Bien,” concludes Saporta, “Will that be all?” Alex nods as he hands Gabe his empty glass of milk.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” asks Jack tentatively when the two are left on their own again.
“I’m fine,” sighs the disc jockey, though in truth he feels a bit nauseous. He cannot tell if it because he has not eaten for most the day or if he is just nervous. Either way, food is the last thing on his mind. “The spiciness just caught me by surprise.”
Jack’s eyes narrow in thought, trying to read Gaskarth’s words though this time his date is speaking perfect English. “Do you not,” he questions, “...was it a bad idea to pick a Spanish place?”
“No, no,” insists the patient, “I just, I mean, well, it was good your friend was here.”
Barakat smiles weakly, understanding his specimen’s jealously perfectly. “Gabe’s a good guy.”
“How long have you guys been rooming together?”
“I roomed with him during my first year of school,” explains the university student, “And came back here in September.”
“You’re not from around here then?” assumes Alex, still curious as to his date’s back story.
Barakat smiles and waves his hand vaguely with a negative connotation. He really does not want to delve in his personal life. This date is all about research. “What about you? Where are you from originally?”
“It’s that obvious huh?” chuckles Gaskarth, as he picks at his nachos, opting to eat them plain.
“Yes,” admits the amateur psychoanalyst over the crunch of his chips. In truth the disc jockey looks out of his element in the suburbia of the larger metropolitan. Their district is one of the smaller ones of the entire area. The disc jockey seems better suited for a big city that never sleeps, one with more clubs than churches, where there is always a hotel room ready and party song playing.
“A friend of mine moved up here last year,” Alex informs the amateur psychoanalyst, “He moved in with his girlfriend so Rian, Zack and I came to visit sometimes. I grew up more up North, but I fell in love with the water here. So I decided to stay.” Barakat nods, though the water Gaskarth refers to is nothing but a small port and a beach that can only be enjoyed from June until August. Most of the townspeople take to walking along the boardwalk, couples holding hands and children searching for seldom found sea shells. “I’m originally from England though,” he adds as an afterthought. The patient runs a hand uneasily across his jaw, recalling his childhood and the teasing he would receive for his now well concealed accent.
“England?” repeats Jack, not having gauged that one, though he had yet to recall historical reference of a Gaskarth clan.
“I was born there,” the specimen shrugs, “But I moved here when I was barely five.”
The amateur psychoanalyst blinks in understanding, knowing that his specimen spent enough time in the other country to have founded a sense of identity but not enough to mould said pre-disposed shape. “Do you remember any of it?” he wonders aloud.
Alex frowns, his brows meeting in the middle. “Not that much,” he admits honestly. “A few castles and the Southend Pier. We lived in one of those box-shaped houses that are built too close together. You could always hear the neighbours yelling through the walls, or the cars driving by.”
“Why’d you move?”
The specimen’s hand moves to scratches his head as he tries to remember. “Uhm, my dad was elected for a job in the American branch of the company he works for. He was offered a huge promotion, and my mum is a math teacher, so she can basically work anywhere.”
Jack nods, noting how just talking about England could cause his specimen to unconsciously use the term ‘mum’ instead of the North American ‘mom’. “Do you like it better here?”
The specimen hesitates a moment, before nodding ‘yes.’ “I guess, I mean, I consider this place my real home. This is where I went to school, made friends, had my first love, my first job...this where I became who I am today.”
“True,” agrees Barakat, “Your physical background is what shapes who you are.”
Gaskarth flinches at the university student’s words as he continues, suddenly more willing to talk. “That’s not the say I think this place is perfect. I mean, I’m not saying that it’s only North America, but the lifestyle we’ve got going here blows.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean sure, we moved into a bigger house when we got here, but it was so superficial. Two car garage, white picket fence, and a nice big yard for the dog, that’s the American dream right? So why aren’t we ever satisfied with what we’ve got? My dad works way more hours here than his dad did back in on the farm in England fifty years ago. There’s no denying that our economy has gone to shit, but it’s ridiculous how much we’re all concerned with buying the latest and greatest phones and cars. My mom went from teaching at some fancy prep school to a regular public school. It’s pretty obvious there really isn’t such a thing as public funding. Her students don’t have pencils to take down pointless notes or toilet paper to wipe their good-for-nothing asses in the restroom. Yet they have to go through metal detectors and pat-downs just to open their drug-filled lockers.
And if money isn’t enough of an issue, some of her kids are barely holding on to their sanity. A lot of them come from broken families, but they don’t need a mommy and daddy to tell them they’re fucking up. No one needs to tell them anything; it’s all over the TV, in movies and magazines. People don’t say anything. They don’t mention the bruises they see when you change into your gym shorts, and they don’t notice when someone is absent for over a week because they started chemo. It’s easier to cover for their friends with nasty curses and backhanded jokes. That is, if they have friends. ‘Cause who can they actually depend on these days? It’s every man for himself. You don’t want to be picked last for football, or the only one without a date to prom. That’s why kids spread rumours like STDs. You gotta spread your legs out wider and jam your dick up higher if you want respect.
Respect is fear and fear is love. Kids fear their parents aren’t going to come home tonight. They sit by the phone waiting to hear how much bail is this time. Kids pretend their moms work real jobs at the office and not the street corner. That the meals they make aren’t from a box or the McDonalds menu. Kids aren’t proud of their parents and parents aren’t proud of their kids. That’s why it’s easier for them to hide their report card, because who needs another fight? Professionals like to quote statistics about high schools dropout and suicide rates, but they don’t do anything but shove pills down kids’ throats to fix stuff. Parents keep complaining about how this generation is stupid and ignorant of the fact. If they can’t quote Shakespeare, tell you the Einstein’s theory of relativity, or calculate the slope of that parabolic curve, then they’re not going to be successful. So what are kids supposed to do if they don’t get it, if they’re not getting the support they need to achieve something? They just pretend they don’t care. Pretty soon they’ll be enough bums on the streets to make a whole new army to send to Iraq.”
The amateur psychoanalyst says nothing as his specimen takes in a breath.
“I mean, you have to send somebody right? Fight for what’s ‘right’ even if they run out of places to bury the casualties. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think there is anything casual about an innocent little boy dying in Afghanistan just because his neighbour joined some twisted cult. I mean, we can’t let the gays in the army ‘cause taking it up the ass means you can’t shoot a gun. Nobody trusts anybody with a turban here. God forbid we build another mosque, or vote for a Black president. This country is already overrun with Mexicans who slip through the border like cocaine. If you’re not in the army you can always join a gang. There are some kinds of jobs that’ll hire anybody, the kind that makes sure you don’t have pay taxes.”
Alex sighs as he finishes his tirade. He looks down at his hands in shock as his jaw quakes with repression. Gaskarth likes to pretend he does not care about any of these matters. He does not watch the stock market’s rise and fall no more than he watches the rise and fall of his latest fuck’s panties. He does not know what the war on terror is actually about no more than he knows that the country needs more oil from the Middle East because the price of gas is getting ridiculous. He cannot vote for the next president because he still has an English citizenship and the only left wing he cares about is the one on his chicken. The specimen does his best not to acknowledge the people who walk past him on the streets, burden struck with backpacks and briefcases filled with paper and responsibility. The disc jockey gets lost in the lights and the music because any sort of light that used to dance in society’s eyes has been snubbed out the same way the candle was snubbed out by the electric bulb. He knows everyone thinks this it is progressive, that the future holds promise. But whether one anticipates 2012 or the year 3000, it is all just escapism.
All he does know is that he cannot fix society. He cannot even make them feel better about this fast approaching apocalypse. That is why he wanted to be a musician in the first place. No matter what kind of trouble he was in as a kid, there always that one song he could turn to. His favourite band was not going to let him down. Yet Alex ended up letting everyone down. Those kids who made their parents drive for hours just to get to one of their shows. The ones who pre-ordered their album that was never released and stood in line for meet and greets. The ones who bought over-priced merchandise if it meant they could expand their tour. There were people who lived by his word because it was different than what one hears on the news or what one reads in books. Alex was never going to be censored or scripted. He intended to real even if that meant being wrong. And, boy, Gaskarth was wrong. So terribly wrong about everything he had assumed.
The specimen looks up from his hands to find Jack staring at him with wide eyes. He cannot tell if the university student is impressed or disgusted with his critique of society that sounds more like a whiney rant fuelled by some pimply face teenager who is filled with too much teen angst. “Alex,” the amateur psychoanalyst begins, doing his best to contain his excitement. His heart seems to pound double time in his chest as he realizes he has finally begun to pull back the layers of his patient. He cannot help but feel impassioned by Gaskarth’s rage. Barakat is stunned to find someone else who is so deeply invested in the human condition and his respect and fondness for the older man only grows. “I,” he struggles for words, “What you said, it’s so-”
“Forget it,” dismisses the disc jockey lowly, blaming his loose lips on the scotch he downed earlier. “I don’t know what I was saying.”
“No,” insists the university student, leaning over the table to grab hold of the electric haired man’s hand. “It was true, all of it. We may not want to admit, but society isn’t perfect. Nobody’s perfect.”
The patient bites down on his lip anxiously as his shaking hands are stilled by Jack’s softer ones. His gut begins to tighten as his words ring in his ears. If nobody is perfect than why does his date appear so? Anybody else would be completely freaked out by Alex’s hissy fit. They would be embarrassed that he referenced Mexicans as illegal immigrants in a Spanish restaurant in such a loud voice. But no one seems to have heard Gaskarth’s harsh words except for the amateur psychoanalyst. The darker haired boy lets go of his patient’s hands for a moment so that he can cup his date’s face, stalling any tears that threaten to spill.
“Everyone’s a little fucked up Alex, he whispers lowly, “but the fact you can admit it. That is what makes all the difference.”
The specimen cannot help but snort a little, hastily pulling back from Barakat’s gentle grip. “You have no idea how fucked up I am,” he warns.
“Maybe not,” the university student counters, “But I’m willing to find out.”
Alex says nothing more as he realizes that maybe Jack Barakat is not perfect all. He is so great in his nobility, his intelligence and charisma that he is marked with one fatal flaw, that of the tragic hero. “I’ll be right back,” he eventually interrupts the silence that falls between them, “I have to use the washroom.”
*
Rian sighs as he cuddles his pillow, fingers hovering over the remote control as he flips through the channels. He is lying on his bed, the curtains drawn shut and the light dimmed as he tries to find something decent to watch on the television. He scrolls through rerun upon rerun, a long list of reality and how-to shows that leave him feeling guilty for not doing something more productive. Dawson was never really one for screened entertainment, he would much rather be out on the streets or on a field. Being knee deep in water would be better than drowning in his pathetic thoughts. He stops when he spots Jennifer Aniston and David Shwimmer in all their glory, hoping an old episode of ‘Friends’ can keep his mind off his own friendship problems.
He lets out another sigh as he tosses the remote to the side, cursing when it ends up falling to the floor. He supposes he is stuck with the channel now, seeing as he has been too lazy to make any sort of move in the last four hours. His days have become monotonous, dread-filled and repetitive as he does his routine. He wakes up every morning, showers, and eats a solitary breakfast. He will do some chores; wash dirtied dishes, sort laundry, maybe even scrub the mildew in the bathroom all the while he has his earphones jammed up his ears. At some point he will eventually run into Zack, something evitable when they share a house. The only thing his housemate will tell him is how much time until they have until they leave for ‘the Scene’. That is it.
There is no friendly ‘good morning,’ no offer to make him some eggs for breakfast or an extra hand when it is time to shift the couch to vacuum. Merrick is the one picking up groceries, mowing the lawn and stopping off at the bank to make sure the bills get paid. The bouncer spends as much time as he can away from their shared home, away from his best friend. A cold tension has wafted into their address, settling on every clean surface. They tip-toe past one another’s bedroom doors, and rarely sit in the living room for fear the other may attempt in joining them. They crank the radio up extra loud on their way to work to fill the void of conversation that used to flow so easily between them. They do not care to look at one another in the eye, comment on the weather or inquire on one another’s mood. The tender tried at first, he really did, but he soon learned Zack would rather not have anything to do with him. He expects a notice of expulsion any day now.
So Dawson has taken to moping. Hidden away in his room where he caters microwavable dinners, he sits on his bed alone. He occasionally sends a text other friends, hinting that they should visit, but he has come to the conclusion that people have lives and he does not. Most people work nine to five jobs, come home to spouses and children. They have co-workers to drink with and near-by mothers to please. Rian has no one. Not since the club fight with Jack Barakat. Ever since then Zack cannot seem to bear association with him. He seemed to flinch under Rian’s gaze and sit up a little straighter when the tender entered the room. It was almost if he was scared of Dawson. A few weeks later Merrick has grown comfortable in his state of ignorance to just live with indifference.
This kills Rian. It is strange to feel be so physically close to someone and yet feel an infinite amount of distance between them. Sometimes he feels the urge to just a take a hand off the wheel when they drive to the venue, and place it over top of Zack’s. Just so he can make sure his friend is still actually there. Dawson fears their friendship was not just something of the past, but something that never really existed. Maybe it was a figment of the tender’s imagination? The fact they used to constantly be together, sharing meals, spilling drinks, tossing the pigskin in the yard, grimacing at the latest news update and just singing along together to the radio. It seems almost dream-like, the days where Merrick could read him like a book, and took fun in doing so. The bouncer was constantly on his case, reminding him to do things and recommending he not do others. Zack has played a boundless amount of roles in Rian’s life; mother, father, teacher, brother, best friend and even lover. He was both the devil and angel on Dawson’s shoulder, and yet it is only after Merrick is out of Rian’s life that the tender feels the gravity of the bouncer’s presence.
The tender spends far too much of his time replaying these moments. He tries to analyze them and pinpoint a certain moment in time where he could have gleamed on the idea that Zack would leave him. There is of course one prominent event. One that Rian does his best to repress with every fibre of his being because to this day he swears that was another Rian Dawson. Yet there it still stands. For all the bullshit criticism Dawson like to put Alex through, the tender is no saint. In fact, it is his lack of empathy, lack of the ability to put oneself in another person’s shoes and understand why they act the way they do that got him into the mess he is in. Rian does think with neither his heart nor head. He just reacts, violently, to every problem pitted at him. He yells and punches as he breaks things, things that cannot be replaced. He laces his mouth with spiteful words while his opponent’s is streaming in blood. He indulges in frenzies where it is almost like he has become this devolved human being, part beast, part man. Caveman like, Dawson does not even have Flintstone’s wit and charm to get people to forgive him. No matter how hard he pleads, it is always too late. He gets down on his knees, bowing his head in defeat only after wards, when the adrenaline has panned out and his head is sore. That is when he realizes just how fucking stupid he is.
This time, he feels that he really is damned. It is bad enough to lose control once. It is worse to lose control, promise never to do it again, and break said promise. He solemnly swore to Zack he would never let his emotions get the best of him again. Rian promised he would never hurt anyone, not even himself, if it meant that Merrick would forgive him. So the bouncer did. Of course he did, Zack Merrick is a good person, someone with a kind heart and almost infinite amount of patience and understanding. It is for that reason, and that reason alone Rian believes, that he hears a quiet knock on his door. The abandoned man turns, glancing at his door which he has left the smallest sliver open in case this situation would somehow arise, and calls out,
“Yeah?”
“Can I come in?” asks Zack lowly.
“Yep,” breathes Rian, getting up and running a hand over his shaved head as if it will make a difference to his appearance. In truth, Dawson looks like shit. He has not been bothered to care for himself when it was his selfishness that ruined everything. He shuffles his messy sheets as he gestures for his friend to sit down. Merrick does, on the very edge of mattress and says nothing. “W-what’s up?” the tender asks, breaking the overwhelming silence because he just cannot stand it anymore.
“Nothing,” Zack replies casually, a hand fingering a lose thread on his pants instead of looking at his ex-best friend.
“Oh,” stalls Rian, knowing that it cannot be nothing, otherwise Merrick would not have bothered coming in. He waits, knowing his housemate well enough that Zack will talk when he is ready.
It takes a few more minutes, in which Matt LeBlanc makes some naive remark about a woman he has been dating, before Zack speaks up.“How have you been?” the bouncer asks slowly, finally looking up at Rian. He talks in such a way as to acknowledge their time apart.
“Okay.” Dawson shrugs, leaning down to pick up the remote control and shutting off the television. He wants to let Zack know he had his undivided attention. “Been better.”
“Me too,” admits Merrick, scratching at the side of his cheek with unease.
“I’ve missed you,” the tender says bluntly, unable to contain himself as usual. “A lot.”
“I know,” replies the bouncer, not returning the gesture.
“I-I’m sorry,” Rian offers, knowing that an apology will do nothing to better the situation. “I know it doesn’t fix anything, but Zack, I’m so, so sorry.” Merrick nods, waving off his friend’s apologies. “I never meant to hurt you,” adds Dawson earnestly, “I know it was such a selfish thing to do Zack, but you have to believe me. I would never want to hurt you again.” The bouncer lets a shaky breath as they both recall what exactly Rian is referencing. It happened over a year ago, and yet it is still freshly imprinted in their minds.
“Rian!” Zack had pleaded, tears streaming down his face as he tried his best to grapple at his larger friend. Dawson had Alex pinned in the corner of the tour bus. A loud thump resonated as the lead singer’s head slammed against the wall. “Stop it!”
But their drummer didn't listen. He swung his arm back again, knocking the bassist back with his elbow before letting his fist collide against Alex’s chest. Gaskarth let out a wheezing cry, coughing up spittle and blood. “You’re gunna kill him!” warned Merrick, backpedalling into the lounge’s couch before bouncing forward and trying to squeeze his small frame in between his two band mates.
Dawson had grunted in response, getting down on his knees so he could better aim his hits. Alex had stopped struggling, convinced that this was the end. Rian was the strongest of the four of them, and now that there was only three of them, there was no way the two of them can take him on. Zack got a hold of Alex’s shaking arm and tried pulling him aside. Dawson was quick to stop him, grabbing hold of Gaskarth’s shoulder and pushing it sharply against the opposing chaise. The lead singer cursed aloud, shutting his eyes tightly because the pain threatened make his eyes pop out of his skull.
“R-rian,” begged Zack, looking up at the fuming mess with those slanted eyes and reddening cheeks. This was not his best friend.
“What?” he had snarled lifting an arm to wipe the sheet of sweat off his forehead. His chest lifted up and down from the exertion.
“Y-you’re hurting him,” whimpered Merrick pathetically.
“He fucking deserves it,” deemed Rian, giving Gaskarth a good kick in the groin for emphasis. “This is all his fault.”
Merrick wrapped an arm protectively round Alex’s frame, worried that the singer’s ribs may already be broken. By the looks of the darkening marks around the base of his throat, Gaskarth would be lucky if he ever sung again. “You- need-to-calm-down,” warned the bassist.
Rian frowned, his cognition all amuck. He was not thinking logically. He was being driven by some sort of pent up anger that seemed to have heightened his reflexes. Before anyone can even register what happened, Rian’s fist came down again. His knuckles imprinted themselves on Zack’s open-mouth jaw, and a terrible jarring noise was heard as one of Merrick’s teeth was dislodged. A stream of blood immediately begun to pour and by then their ex-manager had managed to undo the locked door.
The man in charge immediately blanched at the sight of the broken beer bottles and blood that covered the floor and walls. The blinds had been pulled off the rod and there was a large tear in one of seats. His initial reaction was scolding them as per usual. He went to remind them that they didn't even own the bus anymore and they were most definitely going to get charged. Yet he backed up a step when he spotted the drummer, who was practically foaming at the mouth as he ran out of the room. Biting down on his lip ring in anxiety, he called 9-1-1 asking for both an ambulance and a cop car.
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 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: There's kind of a surprise twist here.
Masterpost | Writing Tumblr
When the patient returns there is a platter of salted nachos on their table. The intermixture of sun-kissed yellow and green corn chips is accompanied by a flaming bowl of red salsa and another of fluffy sour cream. Despite their alluring smell, seemingly right out of the oven and laced with melted cheese and bits of beef, he hesitates to sample them. His stomach is in knots and he settles one of his hands down to his hip, finger curling around his belt loop in a tugging fashion.
“Do you come here a lot?” It is a simple question, harmless really, but the familiarity and ease Jack seems to have in the restaurant seems to uproot the hairs on Gaskarth’s skin.
“Kinda,” Barakat admits as he freely begins to nibble on the chips, “The food is really good, so is the service.”
Gaskarth hums absentmindedly, looking out the expanse of the restaurant in search of the pretty hostess. He does not spot her, but eyes the waitresses that weave through and past the tables, the curve of their hips causing their orange coloured skirts to spin. There are a few male waiters as well, their erect frames sporting black slacks and fitted white collared shirts tied up with orange knots. Regardless of gender they dance along the crowd, laughing and calling out to one another. The atmosphere is spirited and light, so Alex does his best to try and enjoy it. His date continues to dip his nachos into the thick red sauce, letting out a contented sigh. His patient mimics his actions and reaches forward for a corn chip.
“But I don’t usually, you know,” the university student continues as the disc jockey has dipped his snack in salsa and brought it to lips, “Bring dates with me.”
The patient does his best not to choke on the chip he is chewing on as he processes the darker haired boy’s words. Barakat cannot possibly consider Alex an exception to the rules. Though the disc jockey must admit he himself has not been on a date since he was seventeen. He curses the fact he went for the salsa, bits of jalapeño stinging his gums.
“You okay?” demands Jack as the specimen begins to cough and heave. Gaskarth’s chest presses up against the table. The half-empty flask presses hard against his heart while his nose disrupts the cutlery. When he gasps he seems to inhaling liquid fire and his breath stutters. Barakat gets up from his seat as nearby customers stop their conversations to stare.
“Ay, ¿que pasa?”
“¡Agua por el poorsito!”
The disc jockey knows enough Spanish to know that means ‘water’ and he nods, a hand over his chest in a weak attempt to stop the burn.
“Eh, ¡Este necesita leche!” another voice soon announces, and Alex manages to breathe in enough air to lift his head and look to see the university student has returned with a waiter.
A tall brunette sets a tall glass of what appears to be milk in front of the choking customer. Gaskarth, who is willing to drink his own urine at this point if it would quench the burn, brings the glass to his lips eagerly. He finds that it is in fact milk, a cool white liquid containing caseins, a phosphoprotein that dissociates the irritant capsaicin found in chilli peppers from the taste buds. The chemicals soon wash away from his mouth, easing the ache. He calms, settling down the now empty glass and wiping away a milk moustache.
“T-thanks,” says the patient, now feeling the heat leave his mouth and tinge his cheeks. Most of the other customers applaud and whistle, always amused by others’ lack of resistance when it comes to the peppers they have been suckling on since they left their mother’s breast.
“No problem hombre,” the waiter assures the specimen, giving him a friendly pat on the back for good measure. “Jack should’ve warned you it was hot.”
“I didn’t think- I’m sorry Alex,” interjects Barakat, sincerely sorry for the scene. He meant to startle the disc jockey, but not to the point to where the man would choke. He looks at Alex worriedly, trying to reassess his specimen’s behaviour.
“It’s okay,” the disc jockey says slowly, trying to compose himself.
“Anyways. Hi, I’m Gabriel, I’ll be your server for tonight,” reels off Saporta with a certain tone of slack that makes Alex frown, “What can I get you?”
The specimen gapes as the light bulbs goes off over his head a little too late. The waiter is Jack’s roommate Gabe, the slim figure who had tagged on along as his sidekick on Halloween. Tonight he is outfitted in the required black slacks that hang a little too lowly on his prominent hips. His white coloured shirt is folded at the elbow and unbuttoned at the top. The thin orange tie hangs loosely around his long neck. His hair is slicked upwards in this devil-may-care fashion that lets one know that Gabriel charms enough customers that he can get away with not following protocol.
He shoots Alex a mischievous grin, face uplifting to reveal dangerously sharp cheekbones, the kind that taunt the skin so that Saporta’s eyes seem to hollow and darken. The Uruguayan purses his lips just the slightest, his upper lip being a little fuller than his bottom, giving it a strange feline like quality. Without the mask, it is obvious that Gabe has a visage to match those infinitely long legs of his. Gaskarth does not realize how he inspects Saporta, trying to compare their features and finding himself coming up both figuratively and literally short.
“I’m not even going to bother with Jack,” Saporta explains after a moment, not at all unnerved with how Alex scrutinizes his figure after having lived with an analyst for so long, “Kid always orders burritos.”
“Gabe,” the psychology major warns, growling a little.
“Well you do,” Saporta insists, “I swear he has this weird fetish for burritos...”
Barakat does not even grace the comment with a response but merely huffs, and directs his attention back to an uneasy Alex. “Order anything you want, it’s on me.”
“You can ask for no hot sauce,” encourages Gabriel, his upbeat and bouncy manner doing nothing to improve Gaskarth’s mood.
“I’ll have a taco,” the disc jockey says finally, settling his menu down on the table so he can join his hands together underneath the table.
“A taco?” repeats Gabe sceptically, “As in a taco platter?” In truth, the specimen really feels like he can only stomach one taco, but he decides it is best to just agree. “Bien,” concludes Saporta, “Will that be all?” Alex nods as he hands Gabe his empty glass of milk.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” asks Jack tentatively when the two are left on their own again.
“I’m fine,” sighs the disc jockey, though in truth he feels a bit nauseous. He cannot tell if it because he has not eaten for most the day or if he is just nervous. Either way, food is the last thing on his mind. “The spiciness just caught me by surprise.”
Jack’s eyes narrow in thought, trying to read Gaskarth’s words though this time his date is speaking perfect English. “Do you not,” he questions, “...was it a bad idea to pick a Spanish place?”
“No, no,” insists the patient, “I just, I mean, well, it was good your friend was here.”
Barakat smiles weakly, understanding his specimen’s jealously perfectly. “Gabe’s a good guy.”
“How long have you guys been rooming together?”
“I roomed with him during my first year of school,” explains the university student, “And came back here in September.”
“You’re not from around here then?” assumes Alex, still curious as to his date’s back story.
Barakat smiles and waves his hand vaguely with a negative connotation. He really does not want to delve in his personal life. This date is all about research. “What about you? Where are you from originally?”
“It’s that obvious huh?” chuckles Gaskarth, as he picks at his nachos, opting to eat them plain.
“Yes,” admits the amateur psychoanalyst over the crunch of his chips. In truth the disc jockey looks out of his element in the suburbia of the larger metropolitan. Their district is one of the smaller ones of the entire area. The disc jockey seems better suited for a big city that never sleeps, one with more clubs than churches, where there is always a hotel room ready and party song playing.
“A friend of mine moved up here last year,” Alex informs the amateur psychoanalyst, “He moved in with his girlfriend so Rian, Zack and I came to visit sometimes. I grew up more up North, but I fell in love with the water here. So I decided to stay.” Barakat nods, though the water Gaskarth refers to is nothing but a small port and a beach that can only be enjoyed from June until August. Most of the townspeople take to walking along the boardwalk, couples holding hands and children searching for seldom found sea shells. “I’m originally from England though,” he adds as an afterthought. The patient runs a hand uneasily across his jaw, recalling his childhood and the teasing he would receive for his now well concealed accent.
“England?” repeats Jack, not having gauged that one, though he had yet to recall historical reference of a Gaskarth clan.
“I was born there,” the specimen shrugs, “But I moved here when I was barely five.”
The amateur psychoanalyst blinks in understanding, knowing that his specimen spent enough time in the other country to have founded a sense of identity but not enough to mould said pre-disposed shape. “Do you remember any of it?” he wonders aloud.
Alex frowns, his brows meeting in the middle. “Not that much,” he admits honestly. “A few castles and the Southend Pier. We lived in one of those box-shaped houses that are built too close together. You could always hear the neighbours yelling through the walls, or the cars driving by.”
“Why’d you move?”
The specimen’s hand moves to scratches his head as he tries to remember. “Uhm, my dad was elected for a job in the American branch of the company he works for. He was offered a huge promotion, and my mum is a math teacher, so she can basically work anywhere.”
Jack nods, noting how just talking about England could cause his specimen to unconsciously use the term ‘mum’ instead of the North American ‘mom’. “Do you like it better here?”
The specimen hesitates a moment, before nodding ‘yes.’ “I guess, I mean, I consider this place my real home. This is where I went to school, made friends, had my first love, my first job...this where I became who I am today.”
“True,” agrees Barakat, “Your physical background is what shapes who you are.”
Gaskarth flinches at the university student’s words as he continues, suddenly more willing to talk. “That’s not the say I think this place is perfect. I mean, I’m not saying that it’s only North America, but the lifestyle we’ve got going here blows.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean sure, we moved into a bigger house when we got here, but it was so superficial. Two car garage, white picket fence, and a nice big yard for the dog, that’s the American dream right? So why aren’t we ever satisfied with what we’ve got? My dad works way more hours here than his dad did back in on the farm in England fifty years ago. There’s no denying that our economy has gone to shit, but it’s ridiculous how much we’re all concerned with buying the latest and greatest phones and cars. My mom went from teaching at some fancy prep school to a regular public school. It’s pretty obvious there really isn’t such a thing as public funding. Her students don’t have pencils to take down pointless notes or toilet paper to wipe their good-for-nothing asses in the restroom. Yet they have to go through metal detectors and pat-downs just to open their drug-filled lockers.
And if money isn’t enough of an issue, some of her kids are barely holding on to their sanity. A lot of them come from broken families, but they don’t need a mommy and daddy to tell them they’re fucking up. No one needs to tell them anything; it’s all over the TV, in movies and magazines. People don’t say anything. They don’t mention the bruises they see when you change into your gym shorts, and they don’t notice when someone is absent for over a week because they started chemo. It’s easier to cover for their friends with nasty curses and backhanded jokes. That is, if they have friends. ‘Cause who can they actually depend on these days? It’s every man for himself. You don’t want to be picked last for football, or the only one without a date to prom. That’s why kids spread rumours like STDs. You gotta spread your legs out wider and jam your dick up higher if you want respect.
Respect is fear and fear is love. Kids fear their parents aren’t going to come home tonight. They sit by the phone waiting to hear how much bail is this time. Kids pretend their moms work real jobs at the office and not the street corner. That the meals they make aren’t from a box or the McDonalds menu. Kids aren’t proud of their parents and parents aren’t proud of their kids. That’s why it’s easier for them to hide their report card, because who needs another fight? Professionals like to quote statistics about high schools dropout and suicide rates, but they don’t do anything but shove pills down kids’ throats to fix stuff. Parents keep complaining about how this generation is stupid and ignorant of the fact. If they can’t quote Shakespeare, tell you the Einstein’s theory of relativity, or calculate the slope of that parabolic curve, then they’re not going to be successful. So what are kids supposed to do if they don’t get it, if they’re not getting the support they need to achieve something? They just pretend they don’t care. Pretty soon they’ll be enough bums on the streets to make a whole new army to send to Iraq.”
The amateur psychoanalyst says nothing as his specimen takes in a breath.
“I mean, you have to send somebody right? Fight for what’s ‘right’ even if they run out of places to bury the casualties. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think there is anything casual about an innocent little boy dying in Afghanistan just because his neighbour joined some twisted cult. I mean, we can’t let the gays in the army ‘cause taking it up the ass means you can’t shoot a gun. Nobody trusts anybody with a turban here. God forbid we build another mosque, or vote for a Black president. This country is already overrun with Mexicans who slip through the border like cocaine. If you’re not in the army you can always join a gang. There are some kinds of jobs that’ll hire anybody, the kind that makes sure you don’t have pay taxes.”
Alex sighs as he finishes his tirade. He looks down at his hands in shock as his jaw quakes with repression. Gaskarth likes to pretend he does not care about any of these matters. He does not watch the stock market’s rise and fall no more than he watches the rise and fall of his latest fuck’s panties. He does not know what the war on terror is actually about no more than he knows that the country needs more oil from the Middle East because the price of gas is getting ridiculous. He cannot vote for the next president because he still has an English citizenship and the only left wing he cares about is the one on his chicken. The specimen does his best not to acknowledge the people who walk past him on the streets, burden struck with backpacks and briefcases filled with paper and responsibility. The disc jockey gets lost in the lights and the music because any sort of light that used to dance in society’s eyes has been snubbed out the same way the candle was snubbed out by the electric bulb. He knows everyone thinks this it is progressive, that the future holds promise. But whether one anticipates 2012 or the year 3000, it is all just escapism.
All he does know is that he cannot fix society. He cannot even make them feel better about this fast approaching apocalypse. That is why he wanted to be a musician in the first place. No matter what kind of trouble he was in as a kid, there always that one song he could turn to. His favourite band was not going to let him down. Yet Alex ended up letting everyone down. Those kids who made their parents drive for hours just to get to one of their shows. The ones who pre-ordered their album that was never released and stood in line for meet and greets. The ones who bought over-priced merchandise if it meant they could expand their tour. There were people who lived by his word because it was different than what one hears on the news or what one reads in books. Alex was never going to be censored or scripted. He intended to real even if that meant being wrong. And, boy, Gaskarth was wrong. So terribly wrong about everything he had assumed.
The specimen looks up from his hands to find Jack staring at him with wide eyes. He cannot tell if the university student is impressed or disgusted with his critique of society that sounds more like a whiney rant fuelled by some pimply face teenager who is filled with too much teen angst. “Alex,” the amateur psychoanalyst begins, doing his best to contain his excitement. His heart seems to pound double time in his chest as he realizes he has finally begun to pull back the layers of his patient. He cannot help but feel impassioned by Gaskarth’s rage. Barakat is stunned to find someone else who is so deeply invested in the human condition and his respect and fondness for the older man only grows. “I,” he struggles for words, “What you said, it’s so-”
“Forget it,” dismisses the disc jockey lowly, blaming his loose lips on the scotch he downed earlier. “I don’t know what I was saying.”
“No,” insists the university student, leaning over the table to grab hold of the electric haired man’s hand. “It was true, all of it. We may not want to admit, but society isn’t perfect. Nobody’s perfect.”
The patient bites down on his lip anxiously as his shaking hands are stilled by Jack’s softer ones. His gut begins to tighten as his words ring in his ears. If nobody is perfect than why does his date appear so? Anybody else would be completely freaked out by Alex’s hissy fit. They would be embarrassed that he referenced Mexicans as illegal immigrants in a Spanish restaurant in such a loud voice. But no one seems to have heard Gaskarth’s harsh words except for the amateur psychoanalyst. The darker haired boy lets go of his patient’s hands for a moment so that he can cup his date’s face, stalling any tears that threaten to spill.
“Everyone’s a little fucked up Alex, he whispers lowly, “but the fact you can admit it. That is what makes all the difference.”
The specimen cannot help but snort a little, hastily pulling back from Barakat’s gentle grip. “You have no idea how fucked up I am,” he warns.
“Maybe not,” the university student counters, “But I’m willing to find out.”
Alex says nothing more as he realizes that maybe Jack Barakat is not perfect all. He is so great in his nobility, his intelligence and charisma that he is marked with one fatal flaw, that of the tragic hero. “I’ll be right back,” he eventually interrupts the silence that falls between them, “I have to use the washroom.”
*
Rian sighs as he cuddles his pillow, fingers hovering over the remote control as he flips through the channels. He is lying on his bed, the curtains drawn shut and the light dimmed as he tries to find something decent to watch on the television. He scrolls through rerun upon rerun, a long list of reality and how-to shows that leave him feeling guilty for not doing something more productive. Dawson was never really one for screened entertainment, he would much rather be out on the streets or on a field. Being knee deep in water would be better than drowning in his pathetic thoughts. He stops when he spots Jennifer Aniston and David Shwimmer in all their glory, hoping an old episode of ‘Friends’ can keep his mind off his own friendship problems.
He lets out another sigh as he tosses the remote to the side, cursing when it ends up falling to the floor. He supposes he is stuck with the channel now, seeing as he has been too lazy to make any sort of move in the last four hours. His days have become monotonous, dread-filled and repetitive as he does his routine. He wakes up every morning, showers, and eats a solitary breakfast. He will do some chores; wash dirtied dishes, sort laundry, maybe even scrub the mildew in the bathroom all the while he has his earphones jammed up his ears. At some point he will eventually run into Zack, something evitable when they share a house. The only thing his housemate will tell him is how much time until they have until they leave for ‘the Scene’. That is it.
There is no friendly ‘good morning,’ no offer to make him some eggs for breakfast or an extra hand when it is time to shift the couch to vacuum. Merrick is the one picking up groceries, mowing the lawn and stopping off at the bank to make sure the bills get paid. The bouncer spends as much time as he can away from their shared home, away from his best friend. A cold tension has wafted into their address, settling on every clean surface. They tip-toe past one another’s bedroom doors, and rarely sit in the living room for fear the other may attempt in joining them. They crank the radio up extra loud on their way to work to fill the void of conversation that used to flow so easily between them. They do not care to look at one another in the eye, comment on the weather or inquire on one another’s mood. The tender tried at first, he really did, but he soon learned Zack would rather not have anything to do with him. He expects a notice of expulsion any day now.
So Dawson has taken to moping. Hidden away in his room where he caters microwavable dinners, he sits on his bed alone. He occasionally sends a text other friends, hinting that they should visit, but he has come to the conclusion that people have lives and he does not. Most people work nine to five jobs, come home to spouses and children. They have co-workers to drink with and near-by mothers to please. Rian has no one. Not since the club fight with Jack Barakat. Ever since then Zack cannot seem to bear association with him. He seemed to flinch under Rian’s gaze and sit up a little straighter when the tender entered the room. It was almost if he was scared of Dawson. A few weeks later Merrick has grown comfortable in his state of ignorance to just live with indifference.
This kills Rian. It is strange to feel be so physically close to someone and yet feel an infinite amount of distance between them. Sometimes he feels the urge to just a take a hand off the wheel when they drive to the venue, and place it over top of Zack’s. Just so he can make sure his friend is still actually there. Dawson fears their friendship was not just something of the past, but something that never really existed. Maybe it was a figment of the tender’s imagination? The fact they used to constantly be together, sharing meals, spilling drinks, tossing the pigskin in the yard, grimacing at the latest news update and just singing along together to the radio. It seems almost dream-like, the days where Merrick could read him like a book, and took fun in doing so. The bouncer was constantly on his case, reminding him to do things and recommending he not do others. Zack has played a boundless amount of roles in Rian’s life; mother, father, teacher, brother, best friend and even lover. He was both the devil and angel on Dawson’s shoulder, and yet it is only after Merrick is out of Rian’s life that the tender feels the gravity of the bouncer’s presence.
The tender spends far too much of his time replaying these moments. He tries to analyze them and pinpoint a certain moment in time where he could have gleamed on the idea that Zack would leave him. There is of course one prominent event. One that Rian does his best to repress with every fibre of his being because to this day he swears that was another Rian Dawson. Yet there it still stands. For all the bullshit criticism Dawson like to put Alex through, the tender is no saint. In fact, it is his lack of empathy, lack of the ability to put oneself in another person’s shoes and understand why they act the way they do that got him into the mess he is in. Rian does think with neither his heart nor head. He just reacts, violently, to every problem pitted at him. He yells and punches as he breaks things, things that cannot be replaced. He laces his mouth with spiteful words while his opponent’s is streaming in blood. He indulges in frenzies where it is almost like he has become this devolved human being, part beast, part man. Caveman like, Dawson does not even have Flintstone’s wit and charm to get people to forgive him. No matter how hard he pleads, it is always too late. He gets down on his knees, bowing his head in defeat only after wards, when the adrenaline has panned out and his head is sore. That is when he realizes just how fucking stupid he is.
This time, he feels that he really is damned. It is bad enough to lose control once. It is worse to lose control, promise never to do it again, and break said promise. He solemnly swore to Zack he would never let his emotions get the best of him again. Rian promised he would never hurt anyone, not even himself, if it meant that Merrick would forgive him. So the bouncer did. Of course he did, Zack Merrick is a good person, someone with a kind heart and almost infinite amount of patience and understanding. It is for that reason, and that reason alone Rian believes, that he hears a quiet knock on his door. The abandoned man turns, glancing at his door which he has left the smallest sliver open in case this situation would somehow arise, and calls out,
“Yeah?”
“Can I come in?” asks Zack lowly.
“Yep,” breathes Rian, getting up and running a hand over his shaved head as if it will make a difference to his appearance. In truth, Dawson looks like shit. He has not been bothered to care for himself when it was his selfishness that ruined everything. He shuffles his messy sheets as he gestures for his friend to sit down. Merrick does, on the very edge of mattress and says nothing. “W-what’s up?” the tender asks, breaking the overwhelming silence because he just cannot stand it anymore.
“Nothing,” Zack replies casually, a hand fingering a lose thread on his pants instead of looking at his ex-best friend.
“Oh,” stalls Rian, knowing that it cannot be nothing, otherwise Merrick would not have bothered coming in. He waits, knowing his housemate well enough that Zack will talk when he is ready.
It takes a few more minutes, in which Matt LeBlanc makes some naive remark about a woman he has been dating, before Zack speaks up.“How have you been?” the bouncer asks slowly, finally looking up at Rian. He talks in such a way as to acknowledge their time apart.
“Okay.” Dawson shrugs, leaning down to pick up the remote control and shutting off the television. He wants to let Zack know he had his undivided attention. “Been better.”
“Me too,” admits Merrick, scratching at the side of his cheek with unease.
“I’ve missed you,” the tender says bluntly, unable to contain himself as usual. “A lot.”
“I know,” replies the bouncer, not returning the gesture.
“I-I’m sorry,” Rian offers, knowing that an apology will do nothing to better the situation. “I know it doesn’t fix anything, but Zack, I’m so, so sorry.” Merrick nods, waving off his friend’s apologies. “I never meant to hurt you,” adds Dawson earnestly, “I know it was such a selfish thing to do Zack, but you have to believe me. I would never want to hurt you again.” The bouncer lets a shaky breath as they both recall what exactly Rian is referencing. It happened over a year ago, and yet it is still freshly imprinted in their minds.
“Rian!” Zack had pleaded, tears streaming down his face as he tried his best to grapple at his larger friend. Dawson had Alex pinned in the corner of the tour bus. A loud thump resonated as the lead singer’s head slammed against the wall. “Stop it!”
But their drummer didn't listen. He swung his arm back again, knocking the bassist back with his elbow before letting his fist collide against Alex’s chest. Gaskarth let out a wheezing cry, coughing up spittle and blood. “You’re gunna kill him!” warned Merrick, backpedalling into the lounge’s couch before bouncing forward and trying to squeeze his small frame in between his two band mates.
Dawson had grunted in response, getting down on his knees so he could better aim his hits. Alex had stopped struggling, convinced that this was the end. Rian was the strongest of the four of them, and now that there was only three of them, there was no way the two of them can take him on. Zack got a hold of Alex’s shaking arm and tried pulling him aside. Dawson was quick to stop him, grabbing hold of Gaskarth’s shoulder and pushing it sharply against the opposing chaise. The lead singer cursed aloud, shutting his eyes tightly because the pain threatened make his eyes pop out of his skull.
“R-rian,” begged Zack, looking up at the fuming mess with those slanted eyes and reddening cheeks. This was not his best friend.
“What?” he had snarled lifting an arm to wipe the sheet of sweat off his forehead. His chest lifted up and down from the exertion.
“Y-you’re hurting him,” whimpered Merrick pathetically.
“He fucking deserves it,” deemed Rian, giving Gaskarth a good kick in the groin for emphasis. “This is all his fault.”
Merrick wrapped an arm protectively round Alex’s frame, worried that the singer’s ribs may already be broken. By the looks of the darkening marks around the base of his throat, Gaskarth would be lucky if he ever sung again. “You- need-to-calm-down,” warned the bassist.
Rian frowned, his cognition all amuck. He was not thinking logically. He was being driven by some sort of pent up anger that seemed to have heightened his reflexes. Before anyone can even register what happened, Rian’s fist came down again. His knuckles imprinted themselves on Zack’s open-mouth jaw, and a terrible jarring noise was heard as one of Merrick’s teeth was dislodged. A stream of blood immediately begun to pour and by then their ex-manager had managed to undo the locked door.
The man in charge immediately blanched at the sight of the broken beer bottles and blood that covered the floor and walls. The blinds had been pulled off the rod and there was a large tear in one of seats. His initial reaction was scolding them as per usual. He went to remind them that they didn't even own the bus anymore and they were most definitely going to get charged. Yet he backed up a step when he spotted the drummer, who was practically foaming at the mouth as he ran out of the room. Biting down on his lip ring in anxiety, he called 9-1-1 asking for both an ambulance and a cop car.
Link to Part Two.