The Freudian Slip (14/15) Part One
Title: The Freudian Slip (14/15) 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 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, their crew, or Gabriel Saporta. This work is purely fiction, I don't own 'em. If you are any of the aforementioned people, I reccomend reading at your own risk.
Masterlist | Writing Tumblr
A/N: I would just like to remind everyone that distinguishing physical features of General Anxiety Disorder are stomach problems, nausea, and diarrhea. While it is normal to worry, healthy people do not consistently get physically sick from stress.
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The ticking is maddening in its steadiness. The consistent back and forth is reminiscent of a grandfather clock in a decrepit manor, continuously beating long after the owner’s heart has stopped. The well-timed ticking currently resonates from a tiny metronome sitting on top of a battered vertical piano. The forever sharp echo travels through the music room of the local university providing a rhythm for the feet of listeners passing by. One passerby in particular chooses to stop by the half-open door for a longer listen. He catches the pounding of padded keys against steel strings. The pounding is infectious in its repetitiveness. He begins to feel it in the pulsing in his blood and decides to enter the room.
The piano player is then startled from his reverie when the listener dares to sit down next to him on the narrow bench. The player flinches, so deep in concentration he did not register a second presence, but only misses a single note as he realizes who has joined him. He shakes his head in mock admonition before hunching over the keyboard once again. The listener takes that as permission to stay and watch long fingers glide across the white and black keys.
It takes the listener a moment but he eventually recognizes the song being played. Instead of the usual Beethoven, Mozart and Bach the piano player has chosen a much less known tune with a much slower tempo than those that usually accompany cartoon chases on television. The song is soft and melodious like that of a lullaby. But it is not the type of lullaby that a mother sings to her child to put them to sleep. No, this lullaby is for those who cannot sleep. It is commemorate those who lie awake with their hands fisted in their pillows, mouths pressed against the feathered down to muffle the sounds of screaming. It is for those who dream with their eyes wide open because life is a nightmare of unaccounted for responsibility and misguided anticipation for a sun that will not rise.
“And I know,” begins the listener, voice surprisingly low and sweet, “That we don't talk as much, but I still hear your ghost in these old punk rock clubs.”
The piano player shows no sign of hearing the accompaniment but continues onward, his sharp shoulder blades jutting in and out with every touch of the keys.
“Come on, write me a song,” pleads the listener come singer, placing a hand on the player’s left shoulder, not entirely surprised to find it trembling. “Give me something to trust.”
The player looks up at the gentle touch, his eyes straining red with the weight of dark shadows. In the span of a few weeks his young looking cheeks have become sallow and pointed, lined with more facial hair than usual. He is dressed for warmth and comfort rather than style. One would assume he is coming down with the flu that is going around if it were not for the quick movements of his hands. His actions reveal an overflow of energy that borders on manic. The listener can tell by the way the player repeatedly blinks and twitches that he is obviously sleep-deprived and overworked, which is a common case with university students this late in the semester, but not the case with one Jack Barakat.
“Just promise you won't let it be,” croons Gabriel, wrapping an arm around his roommate and effectively cutting off his playing, “Just the keys that you touch." (1)
The last note rings out longer than necessary before Saporta pulls Jack away from the keyboard completely.
“Hey,” protests the psychology major weakly, letting his hands fall into his lap out of his own accord.
“Enough,” demands the philosophy major, tucking the younger underneath his chin, “You finished class before I did, why are you still here?”
“Practising,” explains Barakat lamely, “I have a piano final next week.”
“I didn’t know Jack’s Mannequin would be on your final,” muses Gabe pointedly.
“I didn’t think you’d know the song,” shoots back Jack grumpily, but makes no effort to remove his head from where it has been nestled into his roommate’s neck.
“Pfft,” spits Saporta is mock derision, “This is me we’re talking about, there is no song I don’t know. The question is how you, Mr. I-can-play-Beethhoven’s-fifth-symphony-with-my-eyes-closed, know it. I remember listening to that song in high school so you must’ve still been in diapers.”
“Gabe, we’re only two years apart,” recalls the amateur psychoanalyst, “A girl I used to know in elementary school showed me it.”
“Girl?” repeats Gabriel, perking up so quickly in interest that he dislodges Barakat from his resting place. “Tell me about this girl.”
Even though Saporta cannot see it, he knows that Jack is rolling his eyes. “She was twelve and told me I should listen to this band because their name had my name in it.”
The Uruguayan nods in concession, “Sounds like typical twelve-year old logic.” He mentally notes that even a young Jack would know better than to listen to such logic unless the girl’s opinion was something he valued. The fact he took the time to learn the notes to the song, and chose to play them now after all these years, is indicative of something more that Gabe is not quite ready to name yet.
“It’s a good song,” he concludes lamely, taking to the piano and playing the first few notes of ‘Chopsticks.’
“Mhm,” hums Barakat in agreement, too tired to add to the conversation or declare it over.
“Okay, that’s it,” declares the philosophy major sternly, “We’re heading out. You look like utter shit and- don’t even try to pretend something isn’t wrong with you-need some rest.”
“I can’t sleep,” argues Jack, but lets himself be pushed up and off the bench. He stands there uselessly as Gabe picks up his backpack, shouldering it along with own. The psychology major’s arms hang out awkwardly as they are slipped through the appropriate holes in coat and he only just manages to do the last button himself before his wrapped up to his chin in his signature thick red scarf.
“Dios santo” curses Saporta under his breath as he takes a moment to look at his roommate closely as he slips the ends of the scarf into the other’s coat. “I haven’t seen you this bad since you were working on that one girl with the severe insomnia-”
Barakat is more alert than he has let on and jerks violently before the elder can recall any more of his past specimens. “Let’s go,” he croaks out, suddenly wide-awake. He snatches his backpack from the philosophy major, who cannot help but note how heavily it weighs, and stalks out the door.
“Hey, wait up!” calls the Uruguayan, weaving past fellow students and breaking into a jog to catch up with Jack. He soon matches the other’s stride as they make their way down to the school parking lot. “The car’s this way and I’m driving,” declares Gabe, knowing the amateur psychoanalyst is in no state to be behind the wheel. The car is licensed under Jack’s name since he is the one who put the down payment on it, but the younger has always acted as if it was equally theirs since they both contribute in terms of gas money and repair costs.
It had originally bothered Gabe to accept charity. Between paying tuition and rent he was in no way able to purchase his own car, but Barakat had taken the bus for a week straight in protest when Gabe had first refused to take it on the days when he had class later than the psychology major. Now they mostly alternated who got the car on what day and did their best to work around Saporta’s work schedule. The younger of the two is a on a full scholarship and still receives so many monetary awards every year for his grades that he does not need to work. Not that he has a lot of spare time, notes the philosophy majorly bitterly, as the psychology major slumps tiredly into the passenger seat and struggles to put on his seat belt.
The drive to their apartment is not a long one but Jack manages to fall asleep on the way. Gabriel hesitates to turn off the engine, recalling how soothing it has been as a kid to fall asleep with the heat on high and the purr of an engine on a cold day. He considers pulling out of the parking lot and going for a drive, maybe to get some take out for dinner, when the song on the radio changes and a loud pop song startles Barakat out of his sleep.
“Home?” he asks groggily, wiping at his eyes and turning to Gabe with a helplessly young look on his face.
“Yeah,” admits Saporta, doing his best to school the fondness for his roommate out of his features. He does not do as well as he thinks though, and Barakat’s expression soon changes into one of suspicion.
“What?” he demands, picking up his things and opening the door.
“Nothing,” replies Gabriel, knowing now is not the time.
The amateur psychoanalyst does not bother to pursue the issue, another sign of just how tired he is. By the time they reach their actual apartment he cannot be assed to properly take off his attire. He leaves his snow-ridden boots at the doormat and lets his backpack to fall to the ground with a loud thump. It is thankfully a Friday so he does not have any work for tomorrow and can just go to bed. Saporta once again helps him with his coat and scarf, setting them on Jack’s desk chair as the younger slides into already messed up sheets.
As usual, the younger’s room is a jumble of open psychology textbooks and loose-leaf sheets of paper with unintelligible notes and even a few flow-charts. But now empty coffee cups are stacked in a corner, a clear sign that Barakat has been foregoing sleep in favour of even more research. Upon closer inspection of some of the books it is clear that Jack has been reading up on various forms of therapy. It is unclear which one to be exact, seeing as one book has been turned to a page on the merits of aquatic therapy whereas another has marked a chapter on music therapy. The latter spark’s Gabe’s interest seeing as he a music fanatic himself, but he only manages to read a few lines about how playing music during therapy sessions can help a patient verbalize their emotions when Barakat lets out a distressed moan.
“Go to sleep,” hushes Gabe, discreetly putting the book back in its place and shutting off the lights.
“S’pposed to call Alex,” murmurs Jack weakly, making to get up.
Saporta sighs loudly and shoves at his roommate. “You’re too tired to go out,” he reasons.
“I promised,” insists the psychology major, beginning to straighten out his hair as if he really were going to go now.
“Cancel. He’ll understand,” argues Gabriel, digging through the other’s coat pockets until he locates Jack’s mobile phone.
He tosses at Barakat who is still so muddled he fails to catch it. The device smacks his across the face and Gabe would have laughed if it were not such a pathetic show. He settles next to his roommate as Jack scrolls through his contact list, nudging him to finally press the call button. Alex picks up in less than five rings and after the pleasantries are over with the amateur psychoanalyst struggles to get his words out.
“So listen, about tonight, I know I said I’d come and see you, but...”
Gabriel does his best to tune out the conversation, not wanting to come off as too nosey. He can tell Jack is uncomfortable with the conversation, what with the way he is chewing on the inside of his cheek. He continues to hesitate before talking, sputtering his words in a very non-Jack manner that should be a clear enough sign for the disc jockey that the younger is unfit to go out.
“I’m sorry,” says Barakat finally, shrugging his shoulders helplessly even though Alex cannot see the gesture. He looks truly guilty about the rain check, far more upset than he should be, in Gabe’s opinion. The phone call soon ends after that, and Jack tosses the device on his nightstand out of frustration.
“See that wasn’t so bad right?” teases Saporta trying to lighten the mood. Barakat clearly does not appreciate the weak attempt at humour as he shoots his roommate a nasty scowl in return.
“You don’t understand,” he huffs, settling back down into his bed.
“There’s nothing to understand,” retorts Gabe, but he gets up to leave anyways. “You had to cancel and it sucks, but he’ll get over it. You wouldn’t be any fun tonight regardless, so just give yourself a break, kid.”
“M’not a kid,” insists Jack, punching at his flattened pillow.
“Well you sure are acting like one,” persists the Uruguayan, tucking in the sheets around his roommate. Despite his height, Jack seems so small all of the sudden.
“Only because you insists on treating me like one,” drawls Barakat, sounding a little more like himself but unable to keep his eyelids open.
“Someone needs to remember that you’re only human,” points out Gabriel, sitting down again and placing a hand over his roommate’s brow. He does not expect Jack to have a fever, but instead notes how cold Barakat is.
“What are you doing?” demands Jack, struggling against the sheets now. “I’m not sick, there’s no need to-”
“Hush,” hisses Gabe, clamping his hand down over the other’s mouth. It is not a very maternal method, but it works nonetheless.
“Sleep. I’m not leaving ‘til you’re snoring.”
His roommate huffs loudly but eventually acquiesces. The psychology major lets out one last final heavy sign before relaxing his limbs. After about five minutes his breathing changes, letting out little puffs of breath that Gabe is not entirely sure are real or not. The philosophy major begins humming softly under his breath, the same tune that he heard earlier, but it does not interrupt the steady breathing. After a while he deems it genuine and leaves with a quiet click of the door.
*
“Hey, hold up,” directs Zack, gently tugging at Rian’s elbow as he makes a right turn. They are heading home for dinner after doing a few tune ups at ‘The Party Scene’ on their day off and now drive past the familiar coffee shop. “Can we stop and grab some coffee to go?” the bouncer pleads.
Dawson sighs but obligingly turns back around through the back entrance of the parking lot. “Coffee, now?” he questions without any real bite. Though the housemates have done a lot more talking since the Gaskarths ended their visit, he still knows he is on a friend-type probation and must do his best to play nice. He shuts off the engine and follows Merrick into the cafe.
“For Alex,” explains Zack. Gaskarth junior has also been dropping hints about wanting to return to his own home, claiming that ever since he got the hang of his crutches he is perfectly capable of being on his own full-time. The bouncer is not quite convinced though, and Merrick is doing his best to sweeten his old friend into staying just a little longer. He distractedly notes with disappointment that the shop has finally discontinued their holiday menu now that it is mid-March. Zack has a penchant for the white hot chocolate but knows that the disc jockey prefers a medium black coffee.
A dark haired employee at the counter perks up when hears them come in and offers them a broad smile. “Hello there,” he greets, eyeing the pair closely. Neither man is particularly bothered by the behaviour as it has become a regular occurrence ever they opened the club. Regular clients sense familiarity in their features, but can never seem to pinpoint when within the blurred memories of drunken nights they encountered the men before.
“Hi,” replies the bouncer, “Can I have a medium black, a medium hot chocolate-you don’t have any of the white do you? And Rian, you want anything?”
“Uhm, maybe one of those blueberry Danishes?” supplies Dawson, he figures if they are going to spoil dinner he may as well go full out as he inspects the back counter for the freshest pastry.
“To go,” adds Zack.
“Coming right up,” chimes in the employee whose nametag reads as ‘Eric’.
While they wait for their order to be completed, Rian takes to fiddling with a stand up card sitting on the counter top advertising available part time employment. “You know eventually he’ll get tired of your bribes,” he informs his housemate quietly though the shop is practically empty at this time.
“It’s not like he can actually physically leave,” argues Merrick, “The doctor told him at the last check up that he won’t be able to drive home for months. And he’s too much of a stubborn ass to ask for a cab driver for help getting down those front steps.”
“What about Jack?” points out Dawson, oblivious to how their server has stilled his movement at the sound of Barakat’s name. “He’s been coming around more and more. And the just the other day when I offered to help ‘Xander into the bath he said not to the worry ‘cause he had one when Jack was over. As in he must have let the guy help him into it.”
“No,” denies Zack, accepting the tray with their drinks and beginning to pull out his wallet. “Jack knows better than to let him leave.”
“You never know with that guy,” notes the tender, shaking his head. “He’s a bit of a wild card.”
“I trust him,” defends Merrrick. “You think if he didn’t care about Alex he’d have stuck around this long? Alex has always been a disaster, but these days he actually looks like one and that hasn’t stopped Jack.”
“I’m not saying his intentions aren’t...honourable,” suggests Rian, “It’s just...” he trails off as Merrick turns to pay for their order.
“Look,” continues Zack as they thank their server and make their way out. “Jack makes Alex happy, and we both know it’s been a while since Alex’s been happy, so who are we to question it?”
“Just because something makes you happy doesn’t mean it’s necessarily good for you,” points out the bouncer. It is unclear if he is referencing Alex’s drinking, or something even deeper the disc jockey’s past.
“Well this current thing got Alex to cut back on his partying, working semi-regular hours and eating three meals a day,” asserts Zack a little firmly. “So I would say it is good for him.”
“You’re right, you’re right,” acquiesces Rian as they settle back into the car and begin to put on their seat belts. “It’s just...I don’t know...I can’t help but wonder, I mean-why Jack? What is he doing that we somehow failed to do to help one of our best friends, you know? Are we that awful, or rather, did I...”
Zack does not reply at first, letting Dawson focus on the road ahead of them. When they reach a backed up red light he leans up against the dashboard and sighs heavily. “I don’t think it’s that simple Rian. You can’t say what it was exactly that caused all of this to happen. It was a combination of things like hard work, timing and maybe a little bit of karma that’s led us here.”
“But what about us, Zack,” insists the tender, “Forget fate, what if we did something?”
“You can’t think like that,” maintains Merrick, “You can’t blame it on anyone. We did the best we could the only way we knew how at the time. Do we know better now? Yes. But the important thing is that we survived it and we’re still here, together.”
He continues before Rian can interject. “And I know we’re not all together, not the same way we were when it was the whole band and crew jammed into a couple of vans, but that’s okay. We’re still friends with Matt even though he’s married now, right?
I think a big part of getting older is realizing that a majority of your friends are eventually going to find a single person they want to spend all their time with. And that person won’t be you. Though if they’re lucky it’ll be a person they’ll feel comfortable sharing all the things you were there for. Together they’ll flip through old yearbooks and hear about bad teachers, first crushes and that one time when your friend really did drink too much. This singular person might not get it, not the way you two do, but the important thing is they’ll care. They’ll care enough to stick around to memorize old lyrics and make new inside jokes. They’ll see your friend naked and giggle the same way you would, amused but excited to touch something that has always been within your reach and never in your mind. Of course, they’ll see your friend in the same light you do, beautiful and sexy and absolutely disgusting because your friend won’t bother hiding that side from them. The only difference is they’ll want to see more. They’ll want to dig deeper and deeper, until they’ve created a gaping hole in your friend’s heart that can’t be filled with anyone but them. And that’s okay too. It’s not about you getting replaced or forgotten. Because your best friend is the first great love you choose, and entrust to help you pick the best singular person. It’s just a matter of also finding someone who might not have been there for all the hard stuff, but who wants and ultimately can for whatever reason, ease that ache.”
Dawson says nothing more, seeming to mull over his friend’s words as they continue their drive home. It is reassuring, their not-so-long journey down a road worn with familiarity and habit. Zack eventually turns away to lean against the glass window, squinting through reflected images to watch the blur of foliage and traffic that seem to pass them by. But the truth of the matter is that they are actually passing it all. They are the ones moving forward with every press of the pedal, with every tentative question and awkward but honest answer. The last year or so has not been easy, but the ex-bassist cum bouncer finally feels as if they are finally coming to terms with everything that has happened. They had spent so much time trying to make things as they once were that they ignored the option of simply making something new.
Soon enough they arrive, pulling up in their driveway and noticing that the lights in the kitchen are on. Merrick hopes that means that Alex is still there, but before he an exit the car and check, Rian pulls him back.
“You were talking about Alex right?” he asks quietly, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that Zack can spot the bulging veins in his hand. “You were talking about how Jack came along and fixed him in a way we couldn’t…and you were talking about Sam never understood that your best friend can’t be your lover too.”
“Yes,” replies the bouncer, “And no. Yes, Jack has done for Alex that you and I, despite being Alex’s best friends, probably could have never done. But no, Sam wasn’t wrong entirely wrong in confusing his best friend and his lover.”
“I don’t understand,” admits the tender. “I mean, I always resented the fact that Alex stringed him along like that, pretending he cared for Sam more than a friend would. It wasn’t fair of him to lie like that, even if Alex was trying not to hurt Sam.”
“Well you could argue that Alex didn’t lie,” points out Zack, “Lying would have been saying ‘I love you’ and not meaning it. And that was the thing, Alex did mean it. He loved Sam so much he was willing to show it in a doting and sexual way that would please Sam the way a lover would.”
“But Alex didn’t actually do those things because he wanted to, he just felt that the was the best way to keep the band together.”
“I think he thought it was the best way to keep Sam together,” corrects Merrick softly, “But that’s not the point. The point is that Sam loved his best friend as a lover, and there is nothing wrong with that. It only goes wrong when the other person doesn’t feel the same.”
“Right,” agrees Dawson, relaxing his hands and letting fall to his lap. He watches their movement with exaggerated concentration, avoiding eye contact with his own best friend.
“There was nothing wrong in admitting how he felt,” continues Zack, whispering now. “It’s the only way you ever know for sure how the other person feels.”
“And when you find out the other person doesn’t feel the same, huh?” prompts Rian, still looking down at his lap. “You ruin the whole thing.”
“Not necessarily,” argues his housemate, “There are much worse things to happen between friends than finding out one is in love with the other.”
“Like what?”
Dawson can see the way Zack taps his chin in mock thought as he considers the question. “Oh I don’t know, probably everything else we’ve been through together?”
“I guess,” replies the tender, cheeks warming. He wants to blame it on the enclosed space and the warmth seeping out from the hot drinks Merrick is holding, but he knows that is not it really.
“Honestly, I don’t think you could throw me any more curve balls at this point,” jokes the bouncer, shifting to open the door and go inside. He steps out carefully, balancing the cardboard tray of drinks in one hand. “But if you’ve got another one Rian, just let me know.”
He closes the car door before Rian can reply, which is just as well seeing as Dawson has no reply for his friend. He sits in the driver’s seats a moment longer, stunned and embarrassed. It is not the first time one of his friends has cracked a joke about him being in love with Zack. In fact Flyzik had once tried having a private and serious sit-down with the ex-drummer, explaining to him a rather round-about way that if Rian was in fact gay, there was no shame it and there was no need to keep his sexuality private. Dawson had immediately stopped his tour manager in his tracks, expressively denying such a thing. He was definitely not gay. He had had past relationships with women and had enjoyed them. He often found himself watching attractive women longingly as they traveled from place to place. He merely did not bother committing to any which one while being on the road. He had witnessed the distress that came with long distance relationships via both Sam and Alex and did not want any part in one.
So what if he did not engage in as many one night stands as the rest of the single guys in the group? So what if he did not even masturbate as often as the rest of them? He may have been a healthy young man but that did not necessarily equate to a high sex drive. Everyone has something that drives them, and while for most people it was sexual tension, for Dawson it had always just been tension. He is constantly wound up, with his shoulders back and what Alex likes to refer as a ‘stick up his ass.’ There is not anything for it. His parents had tried to address the issue that had gotten progressively worse as he entered puberty. Medication, calming herbal teas, yoga and even an ocean-sounds soundtrack; nothing seemed to work until he joined the football team and put all that tension to work in a purely physical but non-sexual way. He was pretty aggressive on the field but it was the only place he was encouraged to be.
The other guys on the team had often teased him about it, one even go so far as to suggest that Rian must be a ‘beast in bed,’ but the grand total of three women he had ever slept with would argue otherwise. Dawson was in fact very submissive in the bedroom, a secret he kept to himself. It was not so much that he into ‘love-making,’ but rather he likes it sensual, drawn-out to the point where the sweat has pooled on one’s upper lip and one’s thighs are twitching in anticipation. He likes a good tease and a slow fucking. He has dismissed it as need to slow-down and relax when the rest of his was so full of pressure and constraints.
By the time he graduated high school his sex drive had tampered down significantly. He was content with his right hand and even then it took a lot of prep work with little real reward. A few times he even considered whether he really did have a sex drive at all, or was merely manipulating his body to perform an act that was innate but not really desired in his case. But thoughts like those would just lead to more tension and the more the pressure mounted, the harder it was to find release. Once he was living with only this childhood friends, he was never questioned about it and therefore no longer thought about it. Until now.
Was he attracted to his best friend? It was hard to say. It all depended on how one defined attraction. Of course he thought his friend was pleasant to be around, otherwise they would not be friends, right? And he could not deny that he found Zack handsome. But Rian is not sure if this handsomeness comes from a physical desire or from a long-wrought familiarity. The tender knows how fondness can blur perception, after all, most people tend to find their friends beautiful because they been able to see the inner beauty of within them. Merrick’s natural patience, friendliness and stubborn loyalty are all attractive qualities to be sure. He has a good sense of humour, a nice-sounding laugh and any really annoying quirks about him go unnoticed by someone who has known him as long as Dawson has.
Sometimes Rian wonders if the others all feel this way as well. He has never broached the topic with Alex, whom he knows loves Zack dearly, but maybe not the way he loves Sam. They had always been a foursome of friends, but it was natural to pair off into Sam-and-Alex and Rian-and-Zack merely because many outside situations had called for a buddy system. He did not even consider asking Sam, because it had been obvious from the start that the blond only had eyes for Alex. Everyone had known it, and yet he had never gotten teased about it the way Rian had. Dawson used to think it was because the others knew the boy was more sensitive. Now he begins to wonder whether it was because they all plainly knew it was not a joke, and definitely not a laughing matter.
Before he can delve on the issue further, violent knocking on his window interrupts the tender’s thought process. He looks up, rather startled, to find that Alex is standing at the side door. He is leaning against the doorframe and using one of his crutches to reach out and tap at the glass. Rian glares at the other, projecting his scorn and fear of having the glass shatter in a single look that would faze anyone but his best friends. Instead, Gaskarth only smirks, mouthing that dinner is ready and they are waiting. Dawson eventually relents and exits the car as soon as the crutch is retracted. He steps inside, relishing in the warmth of his home and begins to unbuckle his boots.
“What took you so long?” demands Alex, having backed up far enough to let Rian enter, but still very much in his personal space.
“Just thinking,” dismisses Rian, standing back upright and shrugging off his coat.
“You’re cheeks are all red from the cold,” notes the disc jockey, reaching out to press the back of his against one of his friend’s stubbled cheeks.
“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when it’s cold out,” replies Dawson carelessly. Despite his flippant attitude he stays still under the other’s touch.
“You’ll get sick if you don’t stay warm,” states Gaskarth, sounding uncharacteristically serious and borderline domestic.
“Alright, mom,” jokes Rian, finally stepping away. “Geez, maybe you do need to get out, you’re already losing it.”
Despite the crutches, Alex is quick to follow his friend and they soon meet in the dinning room to drink their respective drinks. “I am not,” he refutes childishly, adding in a small pout for good measure. “It’s just that a lot of people are getting sick these days…remember two weeks ago when Jack was sick?”
“I thought he was just tired,” supplies Zack.
“That’s what he said, but he looked sick to me the first time he came back around,” notes Gaskarth. “I just didn’t want Rian to catch it.”
“I, uh, well thanks for your concern,” says Dawson awkwardly, biting into his Danish to avoiding having to elaborate.
“See, I do care about you,” teases the disc jockey, taking a long sip of his coffee and shooting Zack an appreciative smile. “I don’t know what I’d do without you Ri, I mean, who would rub that smelly ointment on my feet twice a day?”
As delicious as the blueberry Danish is, Rian decides to take a piece of it and toss it at his friend’s smug face. Alex in turn does not flinch, but picks up the discarded piece and stuffs it in his mouth.
*
It wasn’t the first time Alex had kissed Sam, but it was the one kiss, that stupid, half-drunk and reeking of McDonalds at 4am kiss, that changed everything.
On the outside, everything appeared to be the same. The rest of the guys eventually came back from the lounge that night and found Alex and Sam asleep in a single bunk, limbs sprawling and the sheets a mess. They all woke up the next day to the smell of Rian’s coffee brewing and no one said a word when Gaskarth stumbled out of the bunk. His hair was sticking up on one side and his shirt clung to his back with the sweat that came with sleeping in a too enclosed space with someone else. Their guitarist came soon after, his face still a bit swollen and red from what had obviously been tears, but they chose not to comment on that either. They fully well knew there were some things you just didn’t ask about, some questions that didn’t really have answers you could give without exposing old scars and swiping at the gunk that filled the cracks of your very bones.
All that mattered was that something was filling in those cracks. You could fill them with music, alcohol, drugs, dirty sex, or straight up lies. Whatever got you through the day. If their lead singer was a little bit better at lying, lying down the plaster and swiping it clean through every hairline fracture, then who were the rest of them to question it? Sam Hertz had always had his ups and his downs, and this particular down caused by his ex had lasted quite some time now. They just wanted him to be as happy as the rest of them. He needed to enjoy this wonderfully crazy life of theirs, with its instability and hysteria. It wasn’t easy to be sure, but they had assumed that the cost of a permanent home, regular work hours and long distance phone calls was worth it. Nobody considered how it might be damaging for someone who found comfort in the mundane and security in repetition. After all, this had been their dream.
It was their dream, and it had somehow miraculously come true and so they were obligated to fulfill it despite unforeseen circumstances. So they continued to do what they always did. Except Alex got a little more playful on stage. He’d stand a little bit more to the left, next to Sam and dance around between songs. He’d ruffle the blond’s hair and teasingly pinch his ass. Then when they were offstage he’d grab hold of that small pale hand as they navigated a crowd and always sat next to him on long bus rides. They’d both stay back some nights, claiming tiredness from stopping the once unstoppable Gaskarth from going out for a nightcap.
They weren’t rude about it. They didn’t deny that they wanted alone time and reassured them it was nothing personal. Sometimes one or two of the other guys would even join for what would turn out to be nothing particular but a DVD being played on a laptop with some microwaved popcorn. There was absolutely nothing to worry about- until they managed to snag a hotel for the night.
*
Step 5 of Treatment: Begin therapeutic sessions.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?” whines Alex for the umpteenth time as he leans back in his seat to watch Jack navigate the 6’o clock traffic.
“Nope,” replies Barakat, eyes never straying from the road. It is raining fairly heavily now, the squeaky swish of the windshield wipers fighting back April showers the only real background noise. The driver takes note that his specimen has yet to make any sort of indication that he wants the radio playing during drives. It makes the amateur psychoanalyst curious, wondering just how intricately music is tied to the other man besides the obvious career choices, but he is wary to bring it up again after the disastrous results that came with the Christmas music mix. No, Alex has just finally been released from the constraints of plasters and bandages, and Jack has no intention of hurting him-physically at least.
“Your university?” prompts Gaskarth once they pull up to the familiar campus. The disc jockey has never actually been there, but he knows it well enough. It is bereft of most students at this at this point seeing as it is the end of the term and most students are either holed up in the library or at home catching up on desperately needed sleep. Jack himself has just a single exam left, and the thought of him leaving for the summer had set off a sharp pain in Alex’s gut that had nothing to do with his injuries until Jack had casually mentioned that he was going to take a summer class this year. Completely unnecessary for his degree, he had mentioned lightly with a darkened look that was full of unspeakable things solely for his patient, but something he thought he could benefit from all the same.
“Surprise,” hums the psychology major playfully, turning off the engine and turning to the backseats to grab a backpack that Gaskarth had not noticed before.
“Is this a study date?” asks the disc jockey, not putting it past Jack to do something like this. The guy had been fretting far too much over his final examinations in Alex’s opinion and he had been the one to push the younger take a break and have just one night of fun.
“Only thing I’ll studying tonight is you,” retorts the amateur psychoanalyst, an outrageous leer on his face.
The teasing is enough to ease any tension Gaskarth is feeling as he laughs and follows Barakat through the parking lot. Halfway along Jack casually loops an arm around his specimen’s shoulders, a gesture that he has taken to as he helped Alex wobble along without his crutches, but completely unnecessary at this point in the patient’s healing process. The dis jockey hesitates; ready to tell the other that he is perfectly capable of walking on his own now, but he considers the fact that Barakat must know this for himself. He then realizes that Jack is merely doing it because he wants to, and the thought warms Alex for the rest of their walk through the rain.
*
Continued here.