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There’s butterfly plasters holding Beard’s eyebrow shut. The area around his eye is an ugly purple, blossoming up towards the cut in his brow like the bruise was reaching towards it. He hasn’t taken his sunglasses off all day but if Jamie had to guess, there might be a burst blood vessel or two next to the man’s iris.
Jamie tries not to stare, really, but he couldn’t force himself to look away. No one seems to notice his awkward staring. Everyone seems too interested in avoiding the eggshells that surround him to even look at him for too long. Not that he cares, it was easier to get through the day without a bunch of empathetic pouts sent his way.
Fell out of bed, is the response the lads get when they ask Beard about his face. They believe it because they have no reason not to, or maybe because it feels better to believe that over anything else. Everyone trains like normal.
Jamie knows better.
Beard never got on the bus when they left Wembley. Jamie, mind his fugue state, had noticed it. Roy had planted him against the window, taking the aisle seat next to him instead of heading back with the coaches. In the suffocating silence of the bus, the only voice Jamie ever heard was Ted’s and Higgins’ in the very, very back. Not once had the two spoken to Beard, which meant-
“Water break isn’t optional, Jamie.” Beard spoke, not looking at Jamie.
Jamie stands there stupidly before tucking his hands into the hem of his shirt. “Know that.”
Neither of them move.
Beard, clean when he shoved his father out those swinging doors, and bruised the next Jamie saw him. Beard, who Jamie never learned how to talk to but always felt that strange sense of familiarity when they stood together, like a magnetic pull.
“Must hurt.” Jamie swallows hard.
Beard looks at him now, or at least, he turns his head towards him. Can’t see his eyes behind the glasses. “Did.” He admits. “Doesn’t now.”
Jamie squirms.
Beard doesn’t move but Jamie feels his eyes this time. “Wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
Jamie’s stomach churns.
“I mean it.” Beard repeats slowly.
Jamie pulls at his shirt. Bites his tongue, lets it go, bites it again. “You don’t believe that.” He’s not sure why he says it.
Beard doesn’t move but Jamie feels his gaze vanish all the same.
Jamie wants to throw up, but he’s got an image to rebuild. “I’m sorry.” He means it.
Beard’s resolve shifts scarily fast, his shoulders dropping in shock. “Jamie, that’s not-”
Jamie’s gone before he can comprehend there’s emotion behind Beard’s voice that he hasn’t heard before. He doesn’t look at Beard for the rest of the day.
Beard doesn’t look either. He still sees Jamie.
They never discuss it again.