Greta Van Fleet // Oneshots

Lovesick Songs - Part II // Jake Kiszka

Warnings: drinking; angst.

Way back when I wrote Lovesick Songs, I did not anticipate writing a part II despite some people being interested in that. I truly believe some things are even more beautiful left alone–however, I've been in a Jake mood and I always did toy with the thought of writing a part II eventually anyway...here it is!

—

You hadn't danced with Jake–or anyone–after that Sunday afternoon, but the memory of his hand on your waist and his lips on your neck were so physical, so sensory, so forever burned into your skin that, in the months since it happened, it felt as though he was still all over you. The song you'd danced to, also forever burned in your mind, had been terribly astute–how were you supposed to know he was a heart-breaker?

But that's what Jake was, at least for you. Him being single again had only lasted so long–again–and once more you found yourself with a damaged heart. It hurt, it actually hurt, and you swore you could feel the muscle splintering and pulling itself apart in your chest. It got so bad you eventually cried to Josh about it, who had guessed your feelings for his twin all along but had never heard you confirm it. He tried to understand your anger and hurt and longing and, thankfully, his arms around you helped to ease the pain as long as you were in them.

And then, just as you felt your heart working to mend itself, Jake was single. Again.

The healing of your heart was interrupted by a pull of hope–would he? What if he? Could we? You tried to shut it down and shove it away but it was too late–that shred of hope tugged you nearer and nearer to him until you were back into old habits and it was the two of you alone, in your place, and it was like whiplash of deja vu.

The glass of wine in your hand felt too cool, far too cool in comparison with how warm your palm was. The wine was such a dark purple it almost looked black, blacker still in the low light of the evening that sifted through the windows, and one glass had stained Jake's lips violet. God, his violet lips–you tilted your head subconsciously as your gaze moved from the wine glass in your hand to his face just a few feet away from yours. His lips parted as he lifted his glass to his mouth, everything in slow motion, and the tongue that escaped just barely enough to graze his bottom lip was tinted violet, too.

Jake was clearly buzzed after his second glass and was already reaching to refill right as the legs of the wine slid down the curve of the glass, a tiny pool of purple at the bottom; you, meanwhile, felt painfully sober as you gulped the rest of yours down in an effort to keep up. Jake almost spilled the bottle as he reached for your glass, his fingers grazing your hand and making you jump back an inch, startled. It had been so long since you'd touched at all.

Sipping the third glass, you thought about how you didn't want to be the sponge for post-breakup messes from him anymore. It was too much for you. You couldn't fault him, though–you were too scared to say anything, too scared to reveal your feelings. Maybe that intimate slow dance you'd shared and his lips on your skin was him asking you to reveal them and you'd faltered and, ultimately, shut him out.

Anger returned, however, as the wine started to warm you from the inside out. How dare he tease you like that? How dare he hold you so close just to tear himself away and move into the arms of someone else? Had she danced with him like that? Had he whispered in her ear and made her shiver?

Did it even matter, because were you ever going to tell him it did?

You didn't even notice which playlist Jake had chosen was playing–your anger clouded your mind and even the feeling of Jake resting his head on your shoulder made you want to recoil. You pushed it away and diligently sipped the third glass, finishing it, then set your glass on the coffee table in front of you but, despite its loud clink, it brought no real triumph.