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As Shawn gets more sloshed, he commits more to each headcount. He keeps losing track, or counting Mick and Joey wrong because he just sees a head of black hair, never mind that one's about half the size of the other. The numbers are muddled, but he’s trying his goddamn best. He stumbles along at the back of his pack of rowdy ducklings, in case one falls behind
Paul manages to catch him as he gets an ankle tangled in a tent. So maybe he's not the real mother duck around here.
Casually holding Shawn upright with one hand, Paul sips his beer can in the other and laughs about something with Jim until Shawn gets his feet under him. He’s finally free, not without spitting curses at both the tent itself and the couple yelling from inside the whole time.
By the time they rejoin the path, the front of the pack have forged ahead, Mick's bulldozer of a chest easily clearing their route through the crowd heading for the festival arena.
A gaggle of shirtless lads make it in front of them. They’re drunk and loud, same as everyone else. Kind of the rules at a festival like this. One of them guffaws and claps another on the back for something he said.
Jim leads their own little pack of stragglers, trying to weave around the no-shirt club to catch up with the others. Paul curls two fingers around Shawn's wrist in case they get separated. Closer to the gates, the crowd is thicker. People are jostling, impatient to get away from the stench of the nearby toilets (it’s the second last day and it’s become ungodly) and into the stages.
They’re not making much headway. And of course the others don’t turn back, too caught up in their own excitement. Up ahead, Corey has him arm slung around a wobbly-looking Chris and is yelling something in his ear over the noise of the crowd and the speakers somewhere in the arena. Sid is practically hanging off Mick. Shawn hopes they’ll let him past the gates. Maybe they did go a bit too hard back at the campsite.
Jim bellows out to Mick, which was always a hopeless endeavour.
Not looking where he’s going, Shawn’s eyes get unceremoniously torn from the guys in front by one of the shirtless pack colliding with him. The guy doesn’t even notice. Regaining his balance, Shawn is just another ripple in the shoving crowd. He aims a glare at the back of the guy’s head, internally judging his blond fucking curtains and stupid fucking laugh as the group point at something and exchange joking looks.
The crowd carries on and the guys manage to squeeze in front of them.
“Fuck yeah, dude!”
“Go for it.”
“Fuuuuck, it’ll be so funny…”
They’re still laughing about something. Shawn tries to tune it out as they slip further ahead into the mass of people.
“Got it?”
“Ok, ok, ok.”
“Grab the little one.”
Shawn’s eyes immediately dart up again. There’s a million fucking people here but there’s one person he thinks of when he hears that. He better be wrong.
He finds Mick first, towering over everyone. The others are all still packed in behind him, but Joey's tripping along a little behind them. Definitely too many drinking games, fuck. He’s not looking around him.
He knows Paul's heard too, because the fingers on his arm tense and a panicked look shoots between them. Then they both move as one, hollering and reaching forwards to swim through the people. Jim looks over in surprise as they shove forwards, roughly moving shoulders out of their way. But he’s right there when some bigger guys take exception and push them right back. Hearing Paul shout for Joey, he cranes his neck.
Shawn curses loudly as he sees the pack catch up to Joey between the heads in the crowd.
He’s too floppy to resist straight away, looking up in confusion. They swamp him all at once, arms around his waist and shoulders, and by the time his claws come out, they’re a good distance away. Shawn can see the small scuffle erupt, but they don’t stop.
Some silent exchange (or maybe there was a real one, Shawn just missed it) has Jim pushing past to grab Mick and the others, while Paul and Shawn change path and thunder after Joey.
It’s easier, going this way, sideways from the crowd. It’s still not quick enough.
There are too many gaggles of drunks shouting or tripping over, falling into the mud and carrying their friends. Shawn looks around murderously for that fucking curtain douchebag. He’s gonna dig him a grave right here in this fucking campsite.
Can’t do that if they can’t find him.
Paul tugs on his sleeve, nodding to the toilet block. They run down a line each, shoving on each door as they pass it, getting more than a few shouts of surprise and unpleasant eyefuls.
“JOE!” Shawn barks, reaching the end of the block unsuccessful.
Instead of a reply, he hears someone else yelling Joey’s name. Jim must have caught up. Shawn climbs down the steps at this end of the toilets, looping around the back to go find the others.
He doesn’t get any further.
It’s them. All standing around laughing, surrounding Joey who’s on his ass in the churned-up mud, back to the wall. Shawn notes with satisfaction two split lips on the group of dipshits, but Joey couldn’t have taken out the whole group of them. Curtains has Joey’s hair in a fist, tugging painfully upwards as Joey claws at his hands. Another guy has his dick out in his hand, jerking it and waving it in Joey’s face. The others are laughing, and when Joey gets his feet a bit too far under him, one guy pulls back his leg to kick him.
He never manages to, because Shawn slams into him with all his might, sending him skidding down into the piss-filled mud.
The flying body clearly acts as a beacon, because a small army comes around the corner and Mick’s the first to mash his fist into someone’s face.
Shawn charges straight for Curtains, crushing his neck to the wall with his forearm and tearing him from Joey. The guy’s eyes widen as Shawn practically blows steam in his face. As Shawn watches the guy scrabble pitifully at his arm, his eyes zero in on one hand. Three of his fingers are streaked in blood. From fucking bite marks, all the way down at his knuckles.
Shawn sees red and shoves him against the wall for a second time before bringing his knee up hard into his stomach. He lets the guy drop to the ground and crawl away, gasping.
Finally, he turns straight to Joey. There’s carnage around them by now, and Shawn deeply regrets not stomping on that other guys’ dick, but he can tell the others have it taken care of. Joey’s boots slide in the mud and mushed-up toilet paper as he staggers against the wall to stand. He’s coated in the shit too. He roughly yanks up his pants. Shawn hadn’t even noticed, but clearly an attempt had been made at getting them down.
Then Joey’s wary eyes meet his. There’s spit on his cheek, and through his scowl Shawn can see blood staining Joey’s teeth. He knows it’s not his own.
Paul materialises at his other side. He reaches out the way he really wants to, but never touches Joey, just hovers as if he’ll have to catch him any second.
Joey glances at him, too, but manages to avoid looking either of them in the eye as he wipes his hands ineffectively on his pants. When he scrubs the glob of spit off with the back of his hand, he looks like he’s gonna throw up.
“Joe, you… you okay?” Paul ventures.
Joey pushes his hair back, trying to smooth it before gathering it in one hand at his collar. Where no one else can grab it. It pulls back from this side like a curtain to reveal bruises already peeking out from his jaw.
The sight has Shawn stepping forward on instinct. Irritable, Joey dodges his hand.
“I’m fine, dude, fuck.”
But he still doesn’t look at them.
“You wanna catch the show, then? Or we can say fuck this whole thing,” Shawn offers.
Scowl settling into a straight line, Joey eyes the distant crowds over Shawn’s shoulder.
He looks back at them and they both know the answer.