Work Text:
Joey’s not doing the worksheet, even though they’re gonna be graded at the end of class. Paul stares down at the questions, scratching out one answer and writing a new one before he looks at his friend again.
Joey has his sleeves bunched over his hands and his hood thrown over his head. His chin sits on his left hand and he’s pushing his pen around the tabletop, cat-like, with the other.
Mr Tucker is coming down the row towards Paul now, so he bends his head over and pretends to be thinking about the answers. In reality, his mind’s on Joey, even though he’s something Paul figured out long ago. When Joey’s quiet, when he’s early to school, when he’s hiding inside his clothes, that normally means his dad’s done something. Again.
Apparently not bad enough for him to end up at Paul’s for a night, though. So Paul has to sit around guessing, sometimes having to settle for not knowing at all.
Whatever it was this time, the last thing Joey probably needs right now is a call home saying he slacked off in class.
Paul waits until Mr Tucker’s back is turned, heading down the next row, and reaches down to tear a corner off the book in his bag, scribbling a note out on his thigh under the desk. He folds it between his fingers and reaches over to whack Sid silently on the arm.
Sid jumps around, staring wide-eyed at Paul. He quickly spots the note pinched between his fingers that Paul shakes at him, eyes fixed on Mr Tucker.
Just in time, Sid takes it, and then they’re both turning hurriedly back to their desks as the teacher turns back around. Paul stares at his worksheet determinedly, reading nothing. His cheeks burn, but Mr Tucker’s eyes slide right on past him.
Sid is turning the scrap of paper over to read it under the desk.
Joey!!!! write something. need the answers?? or put some bs
They do the same dance waiting for a clearing where the teacher’s eyes aren’t on them, and then Sid is leaning over, shoving the note onto Joey’s untouched paper.
Joey blinks at Sid from under his hoodie. Then back at the note, and then at Paul.
Paul’s eyes flicker up to Mr Tucker, one table away from Joey.
Joey looks up just at the wrong time, but the note disappears up his sleeve before Tucker can see it.
“Eyes on our own work, please, Jordison, Wilson,” he sighs. Joey ducks his head as the other kids turn around, the first break there’s been in the quiet for half of class. “And I’d like you to try doing some of it, Joey – after you show me what’s in your pockets.”
Joey bites down on his lip. Keeping his fists in his sleeves, he tugs his hoodie pocket inside out with his left hand and says nothing.
Mr Tucker raises his eyebrows, but just sighs again and pushes Joey’s blank sheet towards him on the table.
Chewing on his cheeks, Joey shuffles to hunch more over his desk, glancing once over his shoulder to check the teacher’s moved on. Paul watches out the corner of his eye as Joey holds the note still with the side of his right hand and flattens it out with his left, fingertips finally emerging from his sleeve.
A moment later, he’s rolling his eyes and shooting a look at Paul. Come on, man.
Paul shrugs back at him. Am I wrong?
Joey looks back at him balefully. Paul just turns back to his work and tries to scribble out a couple more answers.
Can’t stop glancing over as he goes, though. To his relief, Joey has actually picked up his pen this time, gripped in a hoodie-covered fist. He’ll probably still not do great, since most of the time is gone already, but he can cover all the questions if he at least heeds Paul’s bullshitting advice.
Happy enough for now, Paul shifts in his seat, but something catches him before he can start working again. Frowning, he watches Joey scrawl something slowly on the paper. A bit too slowly. Glancing back at Joey’s face, it’s half obscured by black fabric, but he sees his brow pinch for a second. Where the tip of the pen meets the paper, it’s clumsy.
Paul doesn’t go back to his work this time. He watches Joey’s hand finish an answer with an odd jerk, before he drops the pen and shakes out his fingers. The hoodie falls back for the first time, just a little. Just enough to see purple where it should be pale.
After the bell rings, Paul slides his stuff away and shoots out of his seat after Joey. He catches up in the doorway.
“Let me see your hand.”
Joey’s eyes widen, darting around them at the rush leaving class.
“Shut up, man–”
“What happened to it?”
Rolling his eyes, Joey sets his head firmly down and barges away until the crowd is thinner. His hands are stuffed in his pockets.
Round another corner, he sighs and throws himself back against the wall, kicking a foot up to rest on it. He looks up tiredly at Paul who stands expectant at his shoulder.
“It’s bad enough without you kicking off, dude. D’you tell Sid?”
“No, when did I have time to do that? Mr Fucker was watching us close enough.”
Joey snorts drily.
“I knew fuck all on that one.”
“Least you put something. Come on, just show me, Joe.”
“It’s whatever.”
“You couldn’t fucking write, man.”
Joey’s eyes shift quickly to the floor.
“Probably be fine tomorrow, I dunno.”
“If it’s fine then fucking show me,” Paul hisses.
The two of them go quiet as a couple of teachers go past, but Joey glares loud enough at the lockers across from them. Paul’s seen him properly mad enough times to know he’s not about to kick off. Maybe about to cry, more likely. He has that same look he gets when Paul’s patching him up in his bathroom. Paul always he pretends he doesn’t see.
At least he decides not to argue any more. He looks away as he gets his hand out and holds it in Paul’s direction.
Eyeing the side of Joey’s face for a second longer, Paul reaches hesitantly for the edge of Joey’s sleeve. He lifts it back and sucks in a large breath. Neither of them say a thing: Joey bites back a wince, Paul bites back a curse.
Two of his fingers are puffy, and dark with bruises. His pointer finger is bruised at the top too.
Paul could ask what did it. He knows who, but there’s a few too many images running around his head right now about what might really have happened. A boot? A brick? A door? Maybe being Joey’s best friend has given him too much of an insight into how many small ways you can hurt someone.
Paul doesn’t ask. Doesn’t ask what the excuse is gonna be this time, either.
“That’s not a couple days, dude,” he says softly.
Joey breathes out. Puts his hand away and drops his head back against the wall.
“My uncle broke his hand one time on his bike,” he says. “Looks the fuckin’ same.”
“You should go to the…”
Paul trails off as Joey shakes his head. They’ve both been counting how many times Joey’s been into the nurse this semester, whether Joey realises it or not. But there has to be time for an exception, surely?
“This is bad, man. You know you should get her to look at it. I’ll come with you.”
“It’s almost next period.”
“So? Haven’t you got fucking art next? What are you gonna do if you can’t pick up a pencil right?”
“Are you kidding? That’s the easiest class to get away with shit! I’ll ask if I can throw some paint around. Say I’m inventing a new style.”
Despite himself, Paul snorts.
“Fine. But we’re going after. Tell her Mick stomped on you at recess, get a note, and come to mine later. We’ve still got another level left…”
He closes his mouth a moment too late, mortified. If a pencil’s proving challenging, the controller isn’t exactly going to go well.
Joey quirks a brow at him.
“Fine. ‘Cept the last bit. Kinda got a debuff going on over here.”
“We could both play with our chins on the controller?” Paul tries.
Joey punches him with his good hand.
“Moron.”
“Hey, you’ll win! Yours is so fucking pointy.”
Joey shoves him again as the bell rings, and Paul dodges away down the hall, both of them laughing at last before the crowd catches up to them.