Chapter Text
Bass pounds through the floor, making Joey’s feet buzz. Music crams itself against his ears, but his thoughts are still clamouring for airtime. He hangs his head forwards, gripping the edges of the sink.
Cracking his eyes open, carefully avoiding his reflection in the mirror above, he watches the bottle sitting innocuously by the faucet.
His wrist tugs, that familiar, sickening sting against the bandage.
Everyone is throwing themselves around downstairs, either drunk or halfway there. No one is here to see.
That’s the way he wants it. Since it happened, he’s been stubbornly ignoring every twinge, every stab of hot pain when his friends grab him wrong. Stubbonly kept his sleeve down, keeping the bandages on until he’s well away from them. Part of him is honestly too scared to see it anyway, glad to put it off until later. To pretend it isn’t real.
But now he turns his head, and shifts his sleeve up.
No escaping. It’s red where the bandage presses on his skin. With screaming guitars and drums drowning out the world outside the bathroom, he lifts the bandage.
Skin comes with it, puckering and dragging until blood spills out all too easily.
He keeps going.
There’s that sting in his eyes: a promise and a lie. Joey hasn’t cried since it happened. Since he spent the night frozen in terror on his kitchen floor, holding his breath for morning, or for worse. Then, the tears had mocked him, not stopping even though he needed to be quiet. It’s like he used them all up that night. Now… he just can’t. He wants to, alright. It feels like he is – that screaming hole in his chest should be enough, right?
But the sting stays inside. The knife twists but nothing breaks.
The sink is streaked with blood now, but his eyes are dry. His body is far away, not connected. Can’t it feel this? He can hardly swallow, hardly force down air. Everything is twisting, like he’s being savaged by a burning sea, but when the waves spit him thrashing to the surface he’s still in this bathroom.
Not moving.
Not crying.
And those pills.
Even as the raging party blocks his ears, it feels miles away. As if he’s surfacing, clarity reaching him at last as his mind screams one thing, stronger than the cacophony outside this room, and his hand closes around the bottle.
Everything is wrong. He doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to be here because he’ll only have to go back there, always, always. Even if he dies he won’t escape. His dad had assured him of that.
His stomach twists, the dead end sending him in spirals. He’s shoving open the bathroom door, stumbling across the hall into the next room.
No escape, no way out, just a prison to throw himself against.
He screams, the noise and his pain swallowed up without a hope against the roar of the speakers. His hand tightens painfully into a fist but it’s not enough, and he rams it into the wall.
How can someone keep him from death?
But… if he dies, maybe it wouldn’t hurt. He won’t escape, but he won’t feel it either.
There’s a dresser looming in the corner, and he kicks out hard with another throat-searing shout, its contents tumbling to the floor. Swipes at them with his feet before they even have the chance to lie still. He grabs something, a bottle, and hurls it across the room. It smashes as if in silence, a new riff pounding through the very bones of the house, eclipsing his rampage.
No one can hear him. But what does it matter? He can’t destroy what really counts. Just has to hide and pretend, pretend he hasn’t given up believing he’ll ever get out.
He doesn’t want it.
And so he turns again, hurling his agony into the deaf space. Tears things off the walls. Rams his fist again, again, again into the wall until nothing is left.
He’s on his knees and his fingers are digging into his arm, gritting his teeth through a jab of pain. It’s one that’s been plaguing him long enough.
His breathing is heavy as he works furiously at it, but no more yell or scream comes to his lips. The music ploughs on, filling the room. No one else hears, no one else sees as his world pivots, fingers gradually slowing as his vision narrows, centring on the blood.
He swallows down bile as the red liquid rises up all too quickly, readily pouring across his skin. Like something from a gory movie, except it’s… right in front of him.
Maybe he dug too far.
Trying to stand, he takes a lurching step forwards and lands on his knees again in a blink, glass shards scratching at his legs and palms.
He shakes. The blood is like it had been then, like it had never healed at all. Horror crawls hot over his skin at the reality he’s crash-landed into once again.
He can feel the presence, even now, at his shoulder.
“Do it. Do it now or I will.”
Only this time, there is no knife. The blood is already there.
A drop lands among the glass.
He stops.
There, among the fragments, lies the small bottle. He’d half forgotten it, must have let it slip in his blind meltdown.
But they’re still there, and maybe this is a promise he can get behind. No bleeding or screaming or breaking, just… numb. Just a closing of eyes and a slipping away…
It lies still, staring at him.
With the party raging on, he reaches a trembling hand out. Grasping the lid, he tries it, to the protest of his bleeding arm.
He pants, shallow, breathless – arms shaking, head pounding. He pushes his weight onto the opening, ignoring the descent into dizziness.
All at once, it gives way with a jerk, his hand slipping away. He manages to stay upright, a couple of pills rolling over the carpet with the lid. There are still more than enough.
He stares down into the open bottle clutched in his shaking, bloody hand.
“Joey?”
He freezes. Raises his eyes to find a figure in the doorway, locking with the brown ones that stare back at him.
He’s been falling, and now the cord reaches its limit, bringing the freefall to a screeching halt. A short exhale leaves his lips. Music rings fuzzy in the air between them.
~
“Where’d Joey go?”
Paul has to yell over the blasting music, bending closer to speak directly into Corey’s ear.
Corey jumps back, as if Paul’s the one blowing out his eardrums and not Shawn’s speaker setup. He shrugs.
“Went to the bathroom.”
Paul frowns.
“That was ages ago, man!”
Corey just shrugs again.
“I dunno, needs a shit?”
But he’s lowering his beer, and cranes around a bit, eyes scanning the place. Paul follows suit for a second, but there’s no hope among all these people.
“I’ll go check on him,” he yells, only getting a muffled affirmation from the other boy. He'll join Corey in his scout downstairs if Joey isn’t up here after all.
It hardly feels like leaving the party as he emerges up the stairs; the music and vague cacophony of people don’t fade. His first look to the bathroom on his left shows a wide open door, room apparently empty beyond it. Frowning, he takes a step onto the landing anyway to peer inside, not really having planned this far. Sure enough, the bathroom stays empty as he peers inside, although is that…?
There’s something suspiciously red on the edge of the sink. It’s just a streak, but still. Doesn’t change Joey’s absence for the room either way, so he turns around.
One other door is open.
Opposite, in a room Paul is sure they’re not supposed to go into, he finally sees him.
For a long second, he can’t move. The room is practically in pieces, carpet littered with jagged glass and scattered possessions. Joey’s on his knees in the epicentre of the wreckage, as if he's a bomb that gave off the shockwaves that ripped through here.
He’s hunched over something, but as Paul watches, something falls from Joey’s hands. And Paul notices several things at once.
Those are pills bouncing away on the floor. And there’s more where they came from – a bottle in a shaking hand. And there’s blood.
Why the fuck is there so much blood? It stains the lid rolling away on the floor, it runs like veins across Joey’s hand, his exposed arm a mess.
Paul’s brain short-circuits at the sight, chaining his legs to the floor in his struggle to comprehend. Had this just happened? Did he miss something? Why is there so much blood?
“Joey?”
Their eyes meet. Joey’s are so wide, open and bleeding behind that bright blue. After weeks, Paul is startled not to find them dead, not realising how normal that had become until now when they blaze. Some deep-rooted, palpable horror, like an animal caught.
He’ll only later wonder at if he had never caught him.
At last, he rushes to his senses and rushes towards Joey, shards of something crunching under his sneakers.
He only aims for one thing. Joey. He senses it too, apparently, because a split second later Joey is launching himself backwards, twisting just out of reach as Paul crashes to the floor in front of him, lunging for his arm.
In the awkward flailing, Joey pulls his bleeding one away, but Paul’s focus shifts, latching onto the other wrist. Holding it still, he knocks the bottle of pills from Joey’s hand, flinging them uncaringly behind him to lie with the other debris.
“No!”
Joey’s screaming reaches Paul’s ears over the roar of music. He turns to look at Joey properly, still struggling to grip as he tries to tug himself away from Paul. He’s never imagined such a desperate sound coming from Joey. Something broken and wild.
As they grapple, Joey doesn’t seem to see him, only kicking out at him. Paul prepares himself just in time, taking a boot to the stomach with an ‘oomph,’ valiantly keeping his grip. But Joey’s still bleeding.
Taking a chance, Paul shifts his weight and lunges again, finally catching Joey’s injured arm. With frantic hands he takes it, trying to press down over the thick, warm flow of blood.
Joey writhes, pulling his other hand free, still trying to kick away while pushing at Paul’s shoulder. He manages to hold on, but looks up, panting, into Joey’s distressed face.
His shouts give way to muttering, ‘no, no,’ over and over as his face changes, eyes screwing closed. He shakes his head furiously, not letting up his protests.
“I don’t want to go back. Please– don’t want to go back.”
Joey’s getting desperate, shoulders rising and falling, quick and panicked. Paul is, too, unable to ignore the harsh feeling of blood under his hands.
“Joey!” He tries to yell over the din.
Nothing.
He makes the mistake of lifting one hand, trying to capture Joey’s face, get him to look at him, but it only leaves an opening for him to shake himself free and get a hand under him, stumbling to his feet. Shit.
Paul follows, looking around in blind hope to the doorway. This place is full of people, and no one’s around to help.
“Joey– Joey, please–”
“No, no, I don’t want to go back.” The same reply. He’s sobbing now, voice cracking and taking Paul’s heart with it.
He tries again to reach forwards, but Joey lurches back, swaying scarily on his feet.
“Corey, you don’t need–”
Another voice makes Paul throw one more look behind him.
“Guys!”
His yell is hardly needed. Mick is already there, staring back at them. Corey, too, turning towards them with widening eyes from the bathroom door.
Thank fuck Mick has his head on his shoulders, because he’s already thundering into the room. A second later, he’s behind Joey, easily curling an arm over his chest to hold him still. Joey cries out again, overflowing into a sob wracking through his body. Mick absorbs it, quick to seize his injured arm.
Breath returns to Paul’s lungs as the flow of blood disappears under firm hands.
Corey is at his other shoulder, touching a hand to Joey’s clean arm, the other firmer on his shoulder. He stares in confused terror at the state he finds Joey in.
Paul finally has the breathing space to stop and raise his hand to Joey’s face, searching to meet his eyes.
“Joey, hey,” he tries, finger drawing the barest line of blood across his cheek, “look at me, please stop–”
His voice halts when he does meet Joey’s eyes. The wild, fearful look has faded; in its place his eyes are glazed. Worse than the closed-off look he’s been wearing for days.
He does stop, now.
“Joey!” Paul yells.
His eyes slide back, his weight falling fully against Mick.
“Woah,” Mick grunts.
Corey curses.
Mick tightens his grip, dropping to one knee to lower Joey to the ground. Corey takes a hurried step forwards, supporting him so Mick can put both hands on Joey’s wrist.
Kneeling once again among the glass, Paul leans over them.
Joey’s eyes still weakly flutter. All Paul catches as their eyes meet for a blink is that shape on his lips.
I don’t want to go back.
Then they close.
Dumbfounded silence sweeps over the three for a second.
“He needs help. Now,” Mick says. “Fucking party’s over.”
“Get them out of here, Corey,” Paul says, not looking up.
Corey nods, though it’s only for himself. Robotically, he pushes himself up. It takes him another second to tear his eyes away from Joey lying on the ground.
Then he turns and staggers downstairs, barely resisting the urge to support himself against the wall. He had not been prepared for what he just walked into.
But he has a job to do, and sets to it to avoid thinking about what the hell is going on with Joey.
He does stumble against the wall as he reaches the lowest step, an urgent rage pounding in his chest as he looks over the oblivious crowd packed into the party.
Shawn notices him come down, but Corey only stares into the fray with a growing frown.
“Turn the fucking music off!” Corey yells. Even the power of his voice can’t break through the beat encompassing the room. A few heads next to him turn, but no one moves.
Changing tack, he dives in instead, storming through the crowd. Stomps his way towards the speakers, unafraid to elbow and shove.
Shawn quickly follows him. This close to the speakers, Corey doesn’t notice the ”what are you doing, man,”even from right behind him.
Intent, Corey bends and yanks out the speaker’s plug. The room is drenched in a bewildered silence for a beat, the noise still ringing in their ears. Before anyone can start complaining, Corey throws the cable down and turns to the room. He’s got their attention now, alright.
“Everyone get the fuck out!” he yells with just as much power as before, no hint of a joke to his voice.
No one moves, just looking nervously around.
“I said, get the fuck out!”
Stepping around the speaker, he shoves past Shawn.
“Dude, what–”
But Corey’s already pushing and herding people towards the door.
“Fuck off!” He’s yelling. “Party’s fucking done!”
And it’s working: people are scrambling away from the seeming headcase. He doesn’t care what gets people to leave, so long as they do.
In the rapidly emptying room, a small group gravitates behind Corey, emerging from the mix of people filtering out into the night. The ones who know the invitation to fuck off doesn’t apply to them.
Shawn’s hand finally meets Corey’s shoulder, spinning him away from the fleeing kids.
“What?” Corey shouts in his face.
Shawn just blinks.
“The fuck’s going on, dude? What are you killing my party for?”
Some of the rage fades from Corey’s face. There’s a second where his mouth pulls down, and he swallows.
“It’s Joey.”
His voice is smaller now, only the guys hearing it. And they do, loud and clear – especially the shred of fear in his words.
Shawn sighs. But as he removes his hand from Corey and moves past, Corey hears a tired ”fuck off, then,” directed at the remaining few.
Corey rounds on his next target.
“Jim, get your fucking car keys.”
Jim frowns.
“What?”
“Just get them, fuck, where are they?”
“In my jacket, why– are we going somewhere?”
“The hospital.”
Jim blinks. His face slackens. The others pause too, staring at Corey in the now empty room, waiting for more.
“Corey, what the hell’s going–”
Jim never gets any further. His eyes divert somewhere behind Corey, who also turns to find Paul at the bottom of the stairs. Right behind him is Mick, Joey lying limp in his arms. His head hangs backwards, pale, eyes closed. By now, there’s a wad of cloth tied tightly around his arm, slung over Mick’s shoulder in an attempt to raise it.
Jim closes his mouth and grabs his coat. The others stare, backing out of the way as they pick their way through discarded cups and bottles to the door.
No more need to imagine what might have happened. The towel is already showing up blotches of red.
Shawn stands by the door, face stony. Paul’s hand lands on his shoulder.
“Think he owes your parents some money, dude.”
“Whatever, man, just go,” Shawn says, “…tell us what’s happening.”
With a nod, they’re out the door.
It falls shut, echoing in the space left behind. Everyone is rooted to the spot, watching the door numbly as the shock settles in.
The first to move is Corey. He sighs roughly, drags a hand down his face and makes the few steps towards the sofa at the edge of the room before collapsing into it, leaning heavily on his knees.
Sid looks nervously around, then turns to Corey, now staring at the floor. Jittery, Sid folds his hands around and around in front of him.
“Will he be okay?” He asks quietly.
Corey’s leg starts bouncing.
“I don’t fucking know,” he bites out, broken.
Sid falls silent. Turns away, hands trembling now as he shakes them by his sides. Craig steps after him, standing at his side and saying nothing.
For a second, Shawn watches the two. He treads his way towards Corey. Chris is already there, crouching at his side.
Shawn doesn’t reach for them. He roves his eyes slowly over the group, aware of Corey’s ragged, shaking breaths. He only has to hope Corey won’t lash out when he finally has enough of waiting.
“What happened?”
Corey’s leg stills at the interruption. Tension still clings to his shoulders but he turns just his head just enough to meet Shawn’s eye.
“I don’t know… when me and Mick went up, Paul was with him… but he was freaking the fuck out, man. Mick had to hold him back before he…” his voice shakes, but he keeps going, “and the room was – shit dude, the room. You better go take a look.”
He bites his lip, looking weirdly apprehensive
“Fine,” Shawn says simply. He could use something to do other than waiting. And judging by the footsteps trailing after him, he’s not the only one itching for something to do, to take their minds of the last they saw of Joey.
Not that the room lets them forget he was here.
Shawn stops in the doorway. Staring, he doesn’t know whether to be mad or impressed. It’s like Joey’s pasted his pain on the walls.
“Fuck,” Shawn breathes, taking a step inside.
A battlefield of scattered glass remains, photo frames flung among it. Total silence smothers the group, only the grating and cracking of shards under their feet breaking it.
Shawn groans at a sprawling crack on the front of his mom’s dresser. She’s gonna be pissed.
For the rest, at least he has hands he can put to work.
“Let’s clean this shit up,” he sighs.
So they spread into the room like ants, the trash can dragged into the middle for them to chuck in clinking pieces of glass. No one knows which pictures hang where, but they put them back up anyway.
It doesn’t take long for them to notice the pills dotted among it all.
“Uhh…” Sid is the first to bring it up, holding out a palm with a couple pills inside.
“Shit, there’s some here too,” Chris joins.
What the fuck happened here?
Shawn finds the uncapped, empty bottle. His dad’s sleeping pills. He sits in on the dresser, where they deposit the contents as they gather it. The fuller it becomes the less the tightness in their chests presses in. Maybe Joey didn’t have the chance to take them – or enough to worry them.
A few words are passed around, small exchanges, people treading on each other’s toes. It’s hollow. They can all hear the space underneath the words.
The room is clean enough and Chris goes to take a piss. Instead, they hear the sounds of retching coming from the bathroom.
Shawn frowns, eyes travelling towards the door. When it doesn’t stop, he heaves himself up and yells through the closed door.
“The fuck’s going on?”
A click of the lock later and a weak-looking Chris lopes out, leaning on the frame. Feebly, he gestures behind him, but doesn’t look where he’s pointing. Following it, Shawn merely sighs again.
Blood. Of fucking course.
Chris can never stand the sight, so Shawn passes him off onto Corey and stomps over to the sink to scrub at it himself. He does so vigorously, still going even after the porcelain shines white again.
At some point it has to be enough. He throws the reddened cloth in the bin and trudges downstairs. Everyone’s made their way back here, sitting around morosely. The restless interlude of cleaning hasn’t changed much. For a second time there’s nothing to do
except share the silence.
The loudest silence of all is the one from the phone.