Greta Van Fleet // Oneshots

Lovesick Songs // Jake Kiszka

Warnings: prepare for your heart to ache.

Requested by a lovely anon on tumblr <3 thank you.

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Hanging out with Jake was one of your favorite things in the world–after all, he was one of your closest friends. You could have fun with him doing just about anything–getting coffee, even though he would harp on you about going to chain coffee shops because they don't have the "right" beans; kicking a soccer ball around in the backyard when boredom had superseded everything else; baking cookies or brownies or whatever other mixes you could find in the middle of the night when you couldn't sleep.

Jake was fun. Jake was fun and you loved him, loved him more than you knew you should and, as you two had gotten older, there were fewer fun times with just the two of you. At first it was okay, since you loved Josh, Sam and Danny too, but then Jake started getting girlfriends, or at least girls he was hanging out with who weren't you, and he was busy with them, or he'd bring them around to hang out with all of you. You weren't so fond of that. It was hard to see him with his arm around someone else; hard to see him kiss a girl, as you'd imagined him kissing you a thousand times.

But Jake had been single for a little while–finally–after a string of girlfriends that, for one reason or another, just didn't work out. You jumped at the opportunity to have some alone time with him, and there he was, kneeling on your floor and looking through the crates of records in your living room.

"How do you not have any Eric Clapton?" he asked, his fingers rifling through the records quickly. "How have I not given you any Eric Clapton?"

You sank down next to him. "How have I not told you I don't actually like Eric Clapton?"

Jake turned to you, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows. "How dare you, Y/N."

You snickered and leaned over him to grab the record you knew you wanted to play, your hip brushing against his shoulder. "You'll like this, I promise," you told him, standing up and taking the record out of its sleeve. When the music started to play, with its airy drums, languid guitar and bluesy vocals, you bobbed your head and then went to the kitchen. "Want a beer?"

"Please," Jake called back. He was sitting on the couch when you returned, handing him the bottle, and he held it up to you. "Cheers."

"Cheers," you agreed, clinking his. "To drinking beer on a Sunday afternoon."

He laughed. "It's pouring outside. I think we're justified."

You took a sip. "I agree."

As the first song led into the second, Jake nodded. "I do like this, actually. What's the band?"

"Alabama Shakes," you answered, smiling triumphantly to yourself. "I told you."

Jake smiled to himself, looking out the window, slightly bobbing his head to the music, too. You watched him as unobtrusively as you could, just wanting to look at his face. You loved his face. You loved his dark eyes and how they flashed hazel in the light; his cute nose, and you imagine how that would feel gently nudging against you if he ever kissed you; the carved cheekbones and carved brows to match, his face all angular yet so soft at the same time.

He caught your glance and chuckled. "What are you looking at?"

You looked away. "Nothing, Jake. Sure as hell wasn't looking at you," you said mockingly.

He laughed and put his hand on your thigh, though he quickly removed it and gestured to your beer. "Hey, finish that. I don't want to be ahead of you all day."