Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I don’t care. Get me whatever, man, I really gotta piss.”

“If you’re sure.”

Chris slaps Joey on the back and follows the rest of the pack into the takeout. Joey doesn’t even try to raise his arm to wave. The impact shudders through him, blurring the fluorescents that blare through the shop windows.

He makes himself start walking before the world has fully settled, but two steps and the ground is solid again. He’s fine.

Chris hadn’t hit him that hard. Just a less-than-ideal spot. Unclenching his jaw, Joey rolls one shoulder. As if this is a problem he can shake off. All it achieves is yet another lance of pain that brings the tension rocketing back in.

He groans. Runs his teeth over his tongue and keeps walking. All he wants is to move faster, get home already, but the exact reason he wants to do that is the same thing holding his pace back.

It’s fine.

It was just a long practice, that’s bound to agitate it. He wasn’t about to let some stupid injury stop him with the band. They don’t need to know. He doesn’t wanna go slow. Anyway, they’re going to chill out for the rest of the night, so he is resting.

Just gotta change the bandages before they make it back with food.

The mess of scratches pull with each step, and he imagines it’s just the drizzle making it feel damp. The droplets are cold against his face but hardly make him damp, really.

He loses himself to the rhythm of footsteps and stinging skin, and then he’s home. It’s not his, but it’s home anyway.

Knocking, Joey rocks on the balls of his feet and digs one hand out from his pocket to swipe away the moisture on his face. It doesn’t take long for the latch to click on the other side.

“Joey!”

“Hi, Mary.”

“Come in! Where did you leave the others, hm?”

Joey smiles down at his boots as he steps in and wipes them on the mat. When the stomping tugs harder at the wound, his grin weakens.

“They’re just picking up food,” he tells her, “can I, uh, use the bathroom?”

“Sure, love,” she steps out of the way, “and you boys have fun, yeah? I’m going out in just a minute.”

“Thanks, Mary.”

His smile doesn’t leave yet, but it dims as he shuts the door behind him. Shawn’s mum is moving around somewhere outside, getting ready to go. It makes him wonder if this is what it’s supposed to be like. Coming home.

His home’s special welcome greets him in the mirror a moment later.

With no idea how long it took him to get back, or how far behind him the guys will be, he knows he should hurry this along. His body doesn’t agree. When he tears his shirt over his head, the pain that responds is sharp. For a few-days-old wound, it shouldn’t come that close to blinding him.

Chomping hard on his lip, he refuses to cry out.

Flinging the black fabric to pool on the tiled floor, he lurches forward and grabs onto the edge of the sink. He huffs out a sharp breath. Flicking his eyes up to the mirror facing him, he swallows once.

This is more fucking effort than it should be. But all he needs to do is change the bandages and start ignoring it again. It’s fine, it’ll heal. If only his dad had gone for anywhere else, not his back.

His fingers get to work on the bandages around his middle. Okay, it had been bad this time, but the way the bandage circles his midriff looks more dramatic than it should. In fairness, Joey didn’t really know what he was doing. Maybe there was a better way to wrap it, but this was the only way he had found that would hold.

Now the fabric fell away, but it was snagged over the wounds themselves. Glaring at himself in the mirror, Joey twisted to see what he was doing. It was low down, on his left side, so his dad probably could have claimed he was going for the softer flesh of his ass. As if that would be better.

Joey hadn’t even got to unwrapping it yet and he stopped. Cursing, he averted his eyes. It had fucking bled through again.

He hadn’t been ready for the sight of it just yet. By now, he should be used to it, but he has to flatten his hand on the cold ceramic of the sink and lean there for a breath.

A soft thump of the door from outside tells him Mary’s left.

At least he can swear now. A string of curses at the harsh lights of the ceiling and he pushes away from the sink, back on his feet.

Reaching back at the awkward angle, he grabs the bandage, tacky with blood, near the spot it connects to his wound. Forces his eyes to it in the mirror and pulls.

The sensation is so gut-churningly awful that it launches him out of his body for a dizzying second. The moment the fabric is free, it slips through his fingers, uncaring where it goes, and his hand clamps back on the cold sink. Blinking through a storm of black splodges obscuring the white room, he pants.

Fuck.

He’s taking too long, but he also wants to cling to this sink forever. He half wants to vomit, actually, but he’s not going to do that. He’s not a fucking pussy.

Gritting his teeth, he turns again. The wounds are still the same, as is the surreal feeling of seeing them. If anything, it seems even angrier, but the reddened skin surrounding them can’t erase the raised slashes where the buckle bit into him.

Sure enough, he’s opened them again. Pretty much all of them, too, though that shouldn’t be a surprise. He has to move in every angle as he drums, and he’s not about to wait around for some stupid cuts to stop him.

He feels oddly light as he looks around. But it’s a feeling that will pass once he gets to collapse on a sofa and not move for the next few hours.

Joey settles on the loo roll and grabs it, winding a wadge around his hand. At least the bleeding is slow, if consistent.

He wants to hurry, wants to just scrub it all off, but this time he can’t help himself. He brings the tissue to the skin gingerly, presses with so little force. The skin complains loudly anyway, sensitive to the rough texture.

He breathes stubbornly through it, brings away the tissue, sticky with… not just blood. There’s some lighter liquid too, and it probably means it’s healing, right, but it’s gross. Joey scrunches his nose up.

Screw this.

Balling up the tissue, he chucks it in the toilet and tears off a new lot.

Twisting his arm, he presses his hand flat against the injuries, eyeing to check he’s covering it. The skin prickles and bites. It won’t give him a break.

Then he presses the top of his hand harder, and pulls, scrunching the tissue in the hope of wiping all this shit off at once. It blares with pain. The wound is a mess, skin paper-thin and soggy, breaking as he tries to pull away the grime.

He sucks a breath through his nose. Breathing through it, he keeps going. Ignores the dizzying heat flushing his face. He needs to get this done, so there’s no use fucking around. His fingers dig in over a stubborn clump.

And suddenly the movement is far away, the feeling crashing over him so startlingly quick that his muscles go on without him and the pain spikes.

His vision spirals away from him, going the opposite direction than his stomach which swoops to his feet. Nausea grips him. In slow-motion, with agonising certainty, the white tiles are spinning. There’s blood on his hands, he thinks, and his skin erupts in fuzzy heat. The tiles spin quicker.

His eyes are open. He’s cold.

Something chilly presses against his clammy forehead. But there’s still a prickling, burning patch on his back.

Joey winces as white light pierces his eyes. It bounces off the tile which is… right in front of him. Pressed up to his nose.

…he’s on the floor.

A fountain of what-? how-? and mostly fuckfuckfuck, for fuck’s sake, clamours in his head, erupting at once. With a sighing groan, he screws his eyes closed and completely ignores them. Moves his hands up, along the floor, dragging on the tiles until they’re at his shoulders.

The floor wobbles as he pushes up, so he lets his head hang between his arms, puffing out his cheeks.

A few experiments tell him it isn’t much better with his eyes open. He’s still shirtless and the air feels like it chills him from the inside when he breathes in. And although his body’s still not-quite-there, it settles so he does it again, despite the shiver that runs through him.

The door handle pushes down sharply.

Joey’s head snaps up at the sound, making the room blur at the edges again. But the rush of terror has nothing to do with that.

“Hey, Joey, are you still in there?”

It’s Jim, and he accompanies it with a rap of knuckles on the door.

Shit.

Joey’s scrambling to his knees, looking around for his shirt before Chris’ voice joins too.

“Must be a hell of a dump, man! Hurry the fuck up!”

Joey needs to get out of here. He wishes he could melt into the floor. Or wishes his body would snap out of it and move a bit quicker, dammit-

He finds the bandages first. He hasn’t even had time to find fresh ones in the cupboard and wrap the injury again. He’ll just do it later.

Snatching the dirty fabric from the floor, he quickly folds the grossest part together and bundles the rest around it. Thank fuck there’s a little bin in here, so he chucks it in among the small pile of tampon wrappers and lunges for his shirt.

Everything is disjointed as he finds his feet, tugging the shirt over his eyes at the same time. The ugly pain rips through his back and he wants to scream, but Jim interrupts before he can.

“Joe?” there’s a louder banging on the door now, “seriously, dude, you in there?”

Joey spares a glance at the mirror. He shouldn’t have. Maybe it’s just because his tired eyes won’t focus, but he looks as white as the tiles around him. Looks as light as he feels.

But he can’t change it. They won’t notice. If they do, he’ll just tell them he’s fine.

He steps forward, and the fabric of his shirt falling against the open wound grates but Chris’ voice calls out and he really has to show himself.

“Joey-”

Joey twists the lock and opens the door. Him and Chris stare at each other in slight shock.

Joey grins.

“Chill, guys.”

“Took your fucking time,” Jim mutters, and slides past him.

Joey steps to one side as the door shuts, but keeps a hand on the frame behind him. He still doesn’t feel right, and it’s nice to have something to make him a bit less shaky.

Chris is looking at him funny.

“What, dude?” Joey laughs nervously, “I haven’t been in there all this time. Mary got chatting on the way in.”

“Okay…” Chris frowns. Then his eyes dart away, down the hall where the noise of the others is buried behind a couple of doors. They can still hear Corey yelling about whatever it is this time. “I got you a pizza.”

“Cheers, man.” Joey should move. He just really doesn’t want to. The thought of food is making his stomach clench. “I’m fucking starving.”

Chris nods. He also doesn’t move. If only Joey had the energy, he would. He should leave, Chris is looking at him way too hard-

“Are you good, man?”

“What? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Joey nods, looking to the floor.

Next door, the flush sounds just before the lock clicks again. Joey almost sags into the wall in relief. Jim will ease the tension, they’ll leave and Chris will forget he was worried about anything.

“Hey, Joey?”

Joey looks up at the guitarist, who’s stopped in the doorway, still holding the door open. He’s frowning too, and it only deepens.

“Why’s there blood on the floor in here?”

Chapter Text

Joey responds with nothing but silence for too many seconds. The way his face goes slack does very little to pretend he’s oblivious. His brain is busy short-circuiting with the latest wave of dread.

Very slowly, he forces himself away from the spot he’s frozen in.

Jim stands back. Peering around the doorframe, Joey sees it. His breath locks in his throat.

There, starkly obvious against the white tiles, are streaks of blood. One splodge below the sink, smudged at the edges. In the centre of the floor, another collection of red spatters. Despite his mounting desire to look away, stomach roiling again at the sight, he can't help but make the connections. He dropped the bandage... he must have bled on the floor when he fell...

But the faces he'll find watching him if he turns back are deterrent enough.

Fuck, he had thought he had been so subtle. There's even a streak on the edge of the sink. How did that-?

"Joey, show me your hand."

"What?" His voice doesn't shake. It doesn't.

He looks around nervously at Chris. Chris' eyes are trained somewhere behind him, but lift, narrowing at Joey.

"Tell me that's not blood."

Then Chris is moving forward, not aggressively, but Joey's stomach still plummets as he feels Chris' rough hand close around his wrist.

"Hey-"

Chris pulls at the hand Joey's using to stay upright. Not ready for the movement, Joey's shoulder crashes against the doorframe, stumbling back.

Hand still gripped in his, Chris' head shoots up again. Jim places his hand on Joey's other shoulder. They're both looking down at him and he feels like he's gonna burn up-

"What happened?" Chris demands. He lifts the hand, complete with blood Joey hadn't been smart enough to clean up.

Joey doesn't say anything. His lips hover, open, still clueless.

"Is this why you came back early?" Jim asks "What... what did you do?"

Ok, he's gonna have to tell them something, that's for sure. He's too tired to come up with any lie that would cover this.

"It's- don't worry, guys."

Jim's eyebrows shoot up his forehead.

"Joe, there's blood all over the fucking bathroom, and it's on your hands."

"How are we not supposed to worry?" Chris finishes up for him.

Tell them.

Joey breathes in, but nothing comes out. It's not really something that readily turns into words. What does he say? It's like his tongue is glued down.

Another muffled roar of laughter makes him glance down the hall. He wipes his free hand on his jeans, fidgeting on the spot.

Chris lowers his hand, following Joey's gaze.

"We don't have to tell the others, but seriously dude. What the fuck's going on?"

Joey breathes out, whole body deflating towards the ground.

"You're hurt?" Chris prompts, voice measured in a way he never hears.

Joey still doesn't look up, but pivots around the doorframe he's still leaning on. Trudges into the bathroom.

The door closes and lock clicks into place again. This time there are two more people in the mirror behind him.

While it may not be a small place, with three of them piled in here there's not much wiggle room. Jim's head is threatening the shower rail as he backs up to let Chris in front.

"It's my back."

Joey jerks a thumb behind him. The raise of his arm contorts the injured skin, but he only bites his cheek. Next breath in is harsher. He rolls his shoulders and grits his teeth.

His defensive rage grows as Chris tentatively reaches for his shirt.

"It won't fucking stop me in practice. It's getting better-"

He's cut off by a very loud curse from Jim. If the others weren't always just as loud, Joey would be worried about attracting their attention.

"Fucking hell, Joe."

Chris doesn't lower the shirt. His fist closes around its hem and his eyes raise to Joey's in the mirror.

Joey's mouth is shut in defiance. There are more protests building in his throat, but they're silenced at the wide-eyed horror in Chris' face.

"Who did this to you?"

Joey shrugs.

"Had to go grab some things from home last week. Dad reckoned one of the albums belonged to him."

He doesn't say any more. They're not fucking blind, the square imprints that break the skin are probably explanation enough.

"Joe, take this off," Chris says, shaking the fabric in his hand.

Joey's fingers dig into the sink. Again. The blood will probably get under his nails.

Jostling his shoulder, he twists, wresting his shirt free of Chris.

"What, man," he arranges his mouth into a grin, "if you wanna see me topless, all you gotta do is ask, you know-"

"Shut the fuck up, Joey," Chris half-grins. Literally. Just one side of his mouth lifts, "I'm serious."

Joey swallows.

"What for?" his voice is too small.

"To- jesus, Joe-"

"Fuck, listen, we can just help clean it up, yeah?" Jim suggests, only mildly less stressed than Chris.

"What do you think I was fucking doing here in the first place?" Joey retorts.

Both Jim and Chris raise a brow.

"You did a shit job of it, mate," Chris folds his arms.

"Hey, I-" Joey probably started more confidently than he should have. "...took the bandage off..."

"You're not gonna get past both of us out of this," Chris warns. "That looks bad, Joey. It needs treating."

Though he tries to recover into giving instructions at the end, Chris had slipped. Something beseeching and... scared bleeds into his voice, finally punching the fight clean out of Joey's panicked backpedalling.

Looking between both of them, then doing it again, Joey's shoulders slump. Stomping back around, he mutters reluctantly at the faucet.

"Fine."

There's an inaudible sigh from both the others.

Jim crouches to slide the cabinet door open and rifle beneath the sink. Chris elbows him in the head as he takes hold of Joey's shirt again. They're all on top of each other, and it's awkward but at least they're cursing at each other instead of over him.

Joey lets Chris drag his top off again.

Fumbling, the two behind him exchange the things they collected. So Jim is looking after the shirt, wringing it between his hands as he eyes the mangled patch of Joey's flesh.

Chris, meanwhile, is opening some kind of wipe and Joey has to remind himself to brace for it. Comes dangerously close to forgetting altogether, since he's not the one doing it.

He locks the grunt of pain that instinctively sounds in his throat when Chris starts.

"Motherfucker," Joey breathes tiredly a moment later.

Chris only winces in sympathy, but keeps going.

Joey doesn't like what it's doing to his head. That sickening snag of scabs and dead skin except this time it stings even more, needles threading beneath the fragile skin in the gauze's wake.

Watery nausea sits uncomfortable in his mouth. He really doesn't like this feeling. Clamping his mouth shut, he breathes thinly through his nose. If he can just let Chris do what he wants to feel better, they can all move on. All he has to do is keep his eyes open this time...

His knuckles are white as the sink he clings to.

Finally, he can breathe again when Chris pulls away.

Only it’s back the next second. The fleeting wave of relief is overtaken by a spasm of pain. There’s a clattering of feet and legs and the cupboard, and Joey’s blinking at the mirror which dances between spots of darkness.

Chris is pressed up against his back, arms pinning Joey against the cabinet. Taking a shaky breath in, Joey realises Chris is pretty much all that’s keeping him vertical, and hurriedly straightens his knees which have fallen against the door, gets his feet under him.

Clearly noticing, Chris eases away. But he doesn’t turn back to his work. He stares at Joey in the glass, totally spooked.

Joey blanches more, if that’s possible, under his stare. Jim gapes behind him, too.

Choking out a breath, Joey plants his hands in front of him.

“Just get on with it, man.”

Shutting his gawking mouth, Chris shuffles to the bin and drops what’s now a vivid red cloth into it. Joey looks determinedly in the opposite direction to the dizzying sight, and keeps looking that way as Chris’ warmth returns to within inches of his goosebumped skin. His arm slips around to grab something else – how many steps were there?

“It’s gonna hurt, Joe,” he warns. Humour is lost from his voice as he eyes the younger guy apprehensively.

“’s fine,” Joey grits, but he folds his arms on the edge of the sink and leans fully on them.

Chris doesn’t complain. He disappears from Joey’s eyeline again, down behind his shoulder.

He was right, of course. But they all pretend not to hear Joey’s strangled groan as Chris applies whatever-it-is and tries to burn his fucking flesh off. That probably means it's actually doing something, though.

Probably reminded by Joey blacking out for a blink, Jim remembers the mess on the floor that led them to be here in the first place. Welcoming the excuse to stop staring at the evident imprint of Joey’s dickhead of a dad, he grabs at the loo roll and gets on his knees.

The reason the stains got here was probably a similar story, Jim couldn’t help but imagine. Lucky their drummer had people to catch him this time around. Had he really been planning on pretending, hiding this even after he failed to wrap it himself?

Jim has to reach around Chris’ feet for one spot of blood. As he scrubs, he knocks an ankle by mistake and through the chain reaction Joey’s hissing in pain, head now bowed over the sink. Jim pulls back.

“Can you stand up?” Chris asks gently. His hand hovers above Joey’s waist, ready to catch if that first scare repeats.

But though Joey looks unsteady to their trained eyes, he straightens up. Chris is reaching around him to pass a new bandage from hand to hand, and Jim flushes the first lot of bloodied tissues and starts again with Joey’s hands. Lifts each one and scrubs them under the tap.

He can imagine there’s some more colour back in Joey’s face by the time Chris is slapping him, softly, on the shoulder, and Jim’s chucking him a towel.

“Dude, you might need some drugs,” Chris nudges Joey once his top’s back on, hopefully to stay this time, leaving everything the way it was meant to be from the start. “Maybe Jim can bribe his cousin again.”

With a scoff, Jim leads them out of the bathroom. Thank fuck no one’s in the hall, or there would be some questions. All way off the mark of why they were actually in there, for sure, but just as unwelcome.

Maybe this group is too used to people sneaking off. Or maybe that’s a blessing, Joey thinks now it plays in his favour. They’ve all gone ahead and half-finished the food, apparently uncaring that three of them were missing.

He still winces at he sits down. But at fucking last, he gets to have the night of sitting doing nothing that he had planned. And when Chris and Jim both phone in sick to the next practice two days later, they both still show up to the movie night pig-out that’s arranged in its place.