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?”