Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Reggie's great at not thinking about stuff. 

If it was a school subject, he'd ace it for sure. 

He manages not to think about his parents all the time, for one thing. He’s excellent at not thinking about all the schoolwork he’s missed, or all the sleepless nights spent staring at the cracks in his bedroom ceiling while his little sisters burrow either side of him like small, frightened animals. He’s great at not thinking about when he’s gonna get home each night, or why his mom looks straight through him more often than not these days. He’s totally steller at taking the 20 dollars she slips him, and he never questions how he’s gonna make it stretch into week's worth of meals when all they have left is a can of beans in the cupboard. 

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, his English teacher reads. His eyes linger on Reggie’s desk; an unpleasant smirk slides over his face. How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot. 

He knows he’s being made fun of, even if he can't figure out how. 

Whatever. From where Reggie’s standing, it sounds like the girl in the vest had it pretty good. 

There's nothing better than cleaning out your mind (leaving more room for bass riffs, hello) and sitting in the sunshine (what’s the point of living on the beach if you’re not gonna soak it up?) and Mr White can go to hell because that’s Reggie’s life philosophy, right there, and if that makes him stupid then so be it. 

Reggie doesn’t vibe as much with the rest of the poem. The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

All that sunshine hardly seems worth it if that's the price the clean vest lady has to pay for it. 

There's so much he wants to forget, true. But... he doesn’t want to be forgotten, either. 

He talks a lot when he’s with the band, and he tries to tell himself that he's not trying to prove that he's still here.  

***

Here's the thing. These days, they’re around each other practically twenty-four seven.

They don't have school any more, and band practice stretches and warps time around them, melting days into nights. They're writing songs, grifting their way into gigs, playing into the small hours and sleeping in until late afternoon. The garage becomes their haven, their own little world. Reggie does start to forget about what lies beyond, outside of the smoky notes that curl out from the strings of his bass in the darkness. 

Some nights it’s just him, stretched out across the couch. Their songs flow through his head like water; he dreams the music sometimes, waking with a start only to find his fingers plucking invisible strings. 

Most nights, though, it’s all of them. Together, they create a sound big enough to make the thin walls tremble; Reggie jumps and yells lyrics alongside the others, his heart thundering so loud it’s like the rhythm is coming from somewhere inside him, like it's his body that's the real instrument. 

They breathe music that summer, scribble lyrics on every available surface, run through cassette tapes and vinyl with money they don’t have because this is everything and the four of them know it, right to their bones. 

Reggie doesn’t think about the flat look in his mother’s eyes when he waved goodbye to her that morning. He picks out the bass riffs of Zeppelin and Thin Lizzy by ear, playing through them careful and slow. He isn't with much else in his life, but the bass is different. He feels out the rhythm on his own, or with Alex, while Luke sits curled up in the corner scribbling out chord progressions. 

When Luke hears something he likes, he makes Reggie play it over. They've been friends forever, but Luke's gaze under the dim lights of the garage always makes his palms itch, for some reason. Reggie finds that his fingers slip more often than not, but Luke never minds, just nods along. Sometimes he slides his six string into his lap, riffs something overtop on the fly. 

Sometimes it's just the two of them, jamming out to the Chilli Peppers, or Green Day. It's real good whenever the two of them are alone together; they can really focus on their synchrony without the outside distraction of band drama. After a while, they begin to read the other’s mind. The direction of the music shifts from one breath to the next, changing key and tempo until it becomes a game between them. Reggie’s pulse always thuds with the adrenaline of it whenever Luke turns on a dime, because he knows Reggie will be right there with him.  

One such evening, Reggie's lying back on the couch with his eyes closed. He's sleeply thumbing out the opening notes of Dazed and Confused, letting it drip from the bass like honey. 

When he opens his eyes, he realises that Luke’s watching him. 

Reggie sits up, flipping his hair out of his face. Damn, it really needs a cut. Gracelessly, he lets his guitar slide down his body. “What?” 

"Nothin'," Luke shrugs one shoulder, going back to his notebook. “You’re good, s'all.” 

"Yeah?" Reggie feels one side of his mouth curl up into a grin; warmth floods his chest. “Thanks, boss.” 

There’s still a ghost of a smile on Luke’s face, but Reggie can tell he’s gone back to thinking about other things. After a minute or two, he goes back to his bass.

***

Trouble is, once he starts thinking about Luke, Reggie can't go back to thinking about other things.

Worse than that: he can't seem to simply... not think about him. 

It’s possible that he’s used up all of his energy not thinking about everything else, but he can't deny that the whole Luke thing has been getting to him lately. If he were the high-strung type, like Alex, he might be more disturbed by it. 

But Reggie’s not disturbed. Reggie’s totally cool. 

You do think about him though, don’t you?

Jeez. Reggie’s subconscious should really give it a rest.

And you have been looking. 

For fuck’s sake, when Luke's like this, who wouldn't look? 

He’s an enviable frontman when he's in full-fledged performance mode, all white teeth and boundless charisma, his loose fitting tank sliding off one shoulder. It’s late into the night, and they’re all wrung out from playing; Reggie’s fingers are aching and his throat is sore, but Luke’s still bouncing on his toes, kinetic energy soaring out and filling up the room. Reggie breathes it in gladly, lets it buoy him up, lets the music carry him the rest of the way.  

Luke has a well of energy that Reggie’s never once seen run dry. 

The floodlights catch his sweat-slicked hair, and when he shakes it off his face he looks as if he’s burning up from the inside. Maybe he is, or maybe Reggie is; it’s hot enough in here that he’s pretty sure he could dissolve. Maybe he'll turn into water vapor and be recycled by the fog machine; at this point he'll take it. 

Luke shakes his hair out again like he's a dog fresh out of water, and Reggie feels like he's been winded.  

Crossways from Luke, Bobby shoots him a curious expression.

He looks away.

***

A local publication runs a review of their performance in a small run-down of up-and-coming bands. 

It’s barely ten lines crammed into a tiny square, but it’s Sunset Curve. It's them and they’re in print, and Reggie’s dumbfounded to see his name in black and white letters, in the news . He can’t stop running his thumb across the page, over and over, like the ink might fade if he stops reassuring himself it's really there. 

They crowd around the torn-out page (okay, that was Reggie’s bad; he got excited) jostling and elbowing each other until Alex grows impatient and snatches the review away from them, holding it out of the reach of three pairs of outstretched hands. 

“I’ll read it, just -- just chill, ok?” He skips backwards and climbs up on the sofa, clearing his throat and judiciously ignoring their groans of annoyance. 

In another lifetime, Reggie thinks Alex would’ve made a real good kindergarten teacher. 

“Newcomers to the LA music scene, Sunset Curve prove that they’re the ones to watch after an electrifying breakout performance last Friday night at the Pavillion,” Alex pauses mid-sentence to jump up and down on the couch cushions, “where they opened for Midnight Madness! Frontman Luke's heartbreaker charisma and killer vocals sizzled up against bassist Reggie’s boyish charm -- their palpable onstage chemistry finds a perfect match in the form of rhythm guitarist Bobby, and Alex --” Alex points at himself, and Reggie points at him too, bouncing with excitement. “On the drums, lends the group its soulful edge. They played a thirty minute set -- blah, blah -- guys! ” 

“Is that it?” Bobby takes advantage of Alex’s momentary distraction to tug the page out of his hands and skim over it. “I thought there would be more.” 

“We’ll get more,” happily, Luke slides his arms around Bobby and Reggie’s necks and pulls them in close. It never seems to occur to him that he’s the shortest of them; Luke’s an affectionate guy, and every member of the band has been subjected to this awkward sideways lean-in on many an occasion. “This is just the beginning, guys. You’ll see.” 

The contents of the article are rapidly pulled apart and discussed from every angle. Some light bickering follows, but Reggie’s barely listening; he’s finally got his hands on the page again. And he can’t stop reading it over and over, mouthing it to himself.

Heartbreaker charisma. Sizzled up against bassist Reggie. Palpable onstage chemistry. 

The words tug at something inside his stomach, twisting it like a fish hook. 

“It’s somethin’, huh?” 

Reggie turns. Luke’s leaning over him, reading, his shoulder a warm press against Reggie’s arm. There’s an all too familar hunger in his expression. 

When he looks up at Reggie, the intensity lingers for a beat or two. His eyes burn; he's the frontman of Sunset Curve, ready to steal the oxygen clean out of the room.

Heartbreaker, thinks Reggie, mouth dry. 

Then expression smooths away, and he's Luke again, all of seventeen with a goofy grin plastered over his face. 

“Maybe we’ll get a feature next time,” Reggie grins back at him, easy. A new idea strikes him, and he gasps. “Don't they send bands free stuff? Do you think they’ll send us snacks? ” 

He could really use some chips right about now. And some cookies. Maybe a chinese… when was the last time they ate, anyway? 

“It’s eleven thirty in the morning,” Alex says drily. 

Huh. Did he say that last part out loud? 

“Sooo... lunchtime?” Reggie asks him, full of hope. 

Alex just sighs. Reggie takes this as a resounding yes, and it’s the work of a few minutes before he and Bobby are heading out of the door to go pick up something to eat. 

If he spares a final glance at Luke before they leave, then that’s neither here nor there. 

Luke’s hair has fallen over his face, and he’s holding the review in his hands like it’s a sacrament. Luke’s all grandiose declarations, but really, he’s standing on the same quicksand as the rest of them.  

Maybe Reggie's not the only one for whom all this feels like a dream that he’s afraid, sooner or later, he’ll wake up from. 

***

It’s stupid, anyway.

Reggie’s thought about girls for as long as he can remember. He likes it when they laugh, and he likes the way their hair smells kinda flowery and plasticky at the same time. Sometimes, after a show, one will put her hands up on his chest and smile at him, curling her pretty fingers into the neck of his tee, and he likes that too. 

(One time, a girl asked him to sign her boobs. The heat flooded his cheeks; he didn't need anyone to point it out to him (thanks, Bobby), he knew his face was glowing like a beacon. He could barely hold the pen steady, and he was pretty sure he misspelled his own name. The others had given him a lot of shit for that one.) 

Girls are sweet, soft. His attraction to them thrums, a steady, familiar undercurrent, and it's a crying shame, because he's almost afraid to reach out and touch. They're so poised and serene, and there's too much grime underneath his fingernails these days.

He'd only mess it up, anyway. 

Luke isn’t poised or serene. Luke isn’t soft, either, though he’s pretty by anyone’s standards, with his soulful grey eyes and shaggy, overlong hair. 

Luke smells the same way they all do, like sweat and bar soap, and it shouldn’t be so nice when he comes up to Reggie at the end of a long set but it is, and Reggie’s not sure what it means if he wants to lean close, right into Luke's neck. What it would mean, if he breathed in that sharp masculine scent, buried his face in Luke's shoulder, felt his heart beat against Reggie's own. 

So Reggie’s a straight guy. He's in a band with a charismatic frontman who is also his close friend -- hell, he’s practically family -- and he… he really… 

Admires him. Reggie says the word admire to himself a couple of times, checks out the fit of it. Yeah, he really admires Luke. The guy is talented, charismatic, ambitious... it completely makes sense for Reggie to have a bit of a man-crush on him. 

It’s not like Reggie hasn’t looked up to guys before. What about Patrick Swayze in that Dirty Dancing film? He’d never seen anyone move their body in that way, and it had been kind of hypnotising. Anyone could admit that to themselves, man or woman. 

It’s only natural to be impressed by talented people. If anything, it just proves how in-touch Reggie is with his masculinity, that he can recognise that Luke's an appealing person and not get totally freaked out by it. 

For god's sake, it doesn’t mean he wants to bang him or anything. 

***

He wakes in the small hours sometimes, when daylight is just beginning to creep through his thin curtains and the ocean is a dull rush in his eardrums.

He’s always soaked in sweat, and trembling uncontrollably. Most often it’s fear that he’s feeling.

But sometimes... occasionally... 

Reggie swallows. Once, twice. He clears his throat, lets a hand rest loosely across his chest, feels his heart racing beneath his ribcage. He takes a few deep breaths, attempting to slow his pulse. The dream had been vivid; the memory of it lingers in the early morning gloom. 

It's late, and the kitchen's dark.  

That’s normal; Reggie comes home late all the time. It's fine as long as he's quiet, as long as he keeps the lights off and moves stealthily. Mouse-steps, not footsteps, as his sisters like to say. 

A tap drips somewhere on the other side of the house. The fridge hums. He shuts the back door soundlessly as he steps inside. 

Something moves in the darkness, and the shadows shift, resolving themselves into a human form. Someone's been lying in wait for him.  

Reggie wants to cry out, but for some reason he can't open his mouth. 

The figure steps forward, half-lit by the moon.

Luke.

He exhales shakily.   

“What are you doing here?” The words come out in a single breath. A fresh bout of fear floods through him, and the blood rushes in his ears. Luke can’t be here -- he can’t -- 

“You wanted me here,” Luke says, rounding the side of the counter. Suddenly, they're nose to nose; he forces Reggie to stumble backwards, corners him with ease. “You think I haven't noticed? You've been looking, haven't you?"   

“I --” Luke’s right up in his space, and he can’t focus on anything else; hot shame licks at him but Luke's hands are distracting, settling firm on his waist. His thumbs push into Reggie's hipbones hard. "I--” Reggie’s breath stutters as Luke crowds him up against the fridge and mouths hotly along his neck. Jesus, is that his tongue? “Hnnn--”

Luke slides a hand over his mouth and nips gently at the base of Reggie’s neck. Reggie’s eyes roll back in his head. He feels his knees give out. I'm gonna give into this, he thinks, I'm gonna let Luke hold me up against my goddamned parents’ fridge with his knee between my thighs. He’ll let Luke do whatever he wants; he's insensible, he can't stop wanting -- he wants -- 

Reggie screws up his face. Embarassment trickles like cold water down his spine.

He rolls over in bed and groans into his pillow, long and loud, before getting up and heading for the shower. 

***

Pretty soon after that, they die.

Which, in another universe, might have been the end of it.

(But not, apparently, in this one.) 

Chapter Text

The best thing about 2020, by a factor of about a million, is Julie. 

Reggie loves Julie immediately, in the uncomplicated, forceful, joyous way he loves all of his friends. For him, it’s as simple as that. An open-and-shut case. He’s a Molina now, and she’s gonna have to deal with it.  

As it turns out, after they died, the world just… continued on without them. One year turned into the next... hell, entire decades slipped by while they sat in the dark, oblivious to the passage of time. The millennium came and went, and the internet grew into something fast and sprawling, lighting up every corner of the globe. 

Forget late to the party. They’ve turned up to find that the party’s long since ended. 

Worse than that: there’s a new party now, and the DJ is playing some seriously confusing music. 

The first time Reggie sees someone talking to their phone screen, and the person on the screen talks back, he has to poof out of there. It’s all too weird, too Star Trek. Most of all, it’s the shock of it, the heavy, crashing realisation that they’re in the future now, and there is no going back. 

But when it comes to actually being dead? The big surprise -- for Reggie, at least -- is all the stuff that doesn’t change.

Sure, he lives in the garage now, but wasn’t he basically living there already? They still practice together, same as always, they still bicker over chord progressions and share songs that they’ve written and laze around, burrowing themselves into the sofa. Kick back, just like they did when they were alive. 

Sometimes, they sleep.

Reggie doesn't know if ghosts are meant to dream, but he does. In his dreams he’s alive again, and swimming in the sea while the sunset spills like gold over the water, warming him to his core. Sometimes there’s a girl there that he once knew, and sometimes Luke, his mouth hot and demanding, his body arching up against Reggie’s. On those nights, he wakes up gasping. He can never tell if it's fear that makes him feel like he's been punched in the gut, or something else. 

None of it is real, of course. The water doesn’t feel cool to the touch any more, and he knows the sun’s heat passes straight through his skin because it isn’t really there. The girls from his past are all grown women now, and Luke… 

Well, he never had Luke to begin with.

So, yeah.

They died, and then they came back, twenty five years after the fact. It's like the world's most awkward encore. They're drifters now, out of time, and Reggie's always been good at rolling with the punches but dying at seventeen is one hell of a punch, so he's pretty proud of himself for keeping it together as well as he has. 

Even as Alex spirals, even when they realise Bobby grew up and buried them like a shameful secret, even as Luke disappears for hours at a time and comes back red-eyed and frayed at the edges. Reggie's like one of those inflatable punching bags; you can knock him down over and over, but he'll keep coming back with a ready smile, because it's what he's always done.  

Besides, Julie’s here now, and Julie’s rad. 

For one thing, she's a vocal defender of his love for country music. For another, she never laughs at him when he hangs out with Ray. She teaches him some piano chords, and she doesn’t get mad when he gets distracted and wants to learn how to play chopsticks or the Jaws theme instead. Some afternoons, they laugh together for hours, sitting side by side on the bench and letting the sunlight fall against their backs. 

There are times that Reggie could almost kid himself that he’s alive again. From the way Julie occasionally reaches out to reposition his fingers and her hands slide right through his, it’s a surprise to her, too, to remember that he’s not. 

And Reggie’s happy, really, to see Luke and Julie writing songs, their heads bent together, thick as thieves. He’s happy to watch Luke melt the moment Julie turns her gaze on him, and he’s happy to see the fire that they trade back and forth onstage, the way they pump up the crowd, the crackle of energy and excitement and joy they radiate at every turn. 

Luke doesn’t stop screwing around with Reggie onstage. He still pulls him in with a fluidity they’ve long since perfected, still crowds the mic up against him like they’re the only two people in the room. 

They still play off each other, same as always. Better, even, now that Julie’s here. She’s pulled all of them into her orbit effortlessly, and Reggie’s never seen anyone give Luke a run for his money but that girl shines and they all shine for her. With her. 

So Reggie puts the whole Luke thing on the backburner without even realising that he’s done it.  

It’s the future now, and so what if his eyes linger on Luke’s hands sometimes when they move over the guitar strings? So what if Reggie catches the movement of muscle in his forearm when he changes chords? 

Luke is still Luke: their fearless leader, fiercely driven, passionate, untouchable. Reggie's still Reggie: the goofy sidekick, at best. 

And that's cool, that's okay. The world might have changed, but they haven't. He was chill about it back then, and he can be chill about it now. 

He has it under control. 

***

He had it under control. 

Until Luke blunders in and kicks the door down, smashes up all of Reggie’s careful contingencies and omissions and justifications until they lie around him in pieces. 

He should’ve known better than to start razzing Luke about the blatency of his crush on Julie, but once Alex starts piling on too, he can’t stop himself. The more they talk about it, the more Luke's eyes widen, the quieter his voice gets. He starts fiddling with his guitar strap, like he’s shy or something, and Reggie starts to wonder if he can get Luke to blush, or bite his lip the way he does when he gets really heated over something. 

Then Luke takes off his guitar and turns the full force of his attention on Reggie.

He realises he’s made a huge mistake around the time he feels Luke's hand slide up to grasp the back of his neck. The smooth timbre of his voice rings in Reggie’s ears, and he gapes. He can hear his useless heart hammering in his chest; his head is full of white noise. 

“Wow. I see chemistry,” Alex says, and a prickle of irritation blooms in Reggie’s chest because exactly whose side are you on here, dude? 

But mostly he’s scrambling. Trying to think of something, anything, to say. 

He swallows, manages, eventually, to choke out, “That was pretty hot.”

He can hear the stammer in his own voice, hear how it comes out about two octaves higher than usual. 

Shit. 

At times like this, he curses his janky brain-to-mouth wiring. 

Luke smiles, looking satisfied. He steps back, and for one shining moment that's the end of it. Reggie will live to fight another day. Metaphorically speaking. 

Then he kisses his fingers and presses them against Reggie’s mouth.

Reggie jerks backwards. If his skin was heated before, now it's on fire. His skin tingles where Luke has touched it. Stop it, nope, stop blushing -- 

He inhales deeply and clears his throat.

Now would be a great time to shut your mouth, dude. 

Belatedly, his mouth snaps shut.  

Luke has already picked his guitar up again. He seems blithely unaware of the shitstorm he's just created in Reggie’s brain and body. Asshole.  

“Girls, am I right?” Reggie says weakly, hefting his bass back into position. It’s a heavy, foreign object around his neck all of a sudden. He looks down at the strings, trying to remember what they were doing before this little interlude. 

“Yeah,” Luke looks pleased with himself. Relaxed, even. 

He’s in his element, thinks Reggie. Secure in the knowledge that he can ruin the lives of his unsuspecting bandmates with a single touch, a single stray glance.

“No,” Alex says, smiling in a placid kind of way and twirling his drumsticks a couple times to indicate he's ready to go.

He looks happier, at least. Wait, wasn't that the whole point of this whole thing? To cheer him up?

Reggie can't really remember. He's finding it hard to think about anything right now. 

When, exactly, does joking around with your best friend become flirting? 

Does everyone know except Reggie? Was there a class he missed? 

After that, they carry on like nothing happened. 

Because nothing happened, Reggie reminds himself. 

If he feels Alex’s eyes linger on him, or hears the unspoken question that hangs in the air for the rest of the practice, he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

***

“Reg? Can I talk to you?” 

Reggie looks up. Alex is leaning against the closed door of the garage (he’s got much better with doors lately, he hardly ever falls through them anymore) having knocked once on the doorframe, like he's a guidance counselor or something.

Brushing his loose hair out of his face, Reggie leans back on his elbows. He’s sitting on the floor with his back against the couch. For the past half hour, he’s been trying to draw a horse to go with his country tracklist. He can’t seem to get it; the floor around him is littered with drawings of horse legs and tails and long horse noses, but none of the parts fit together. They just look like big, weird dogs. He’d been on the verge of giving up when Alex walked in.

“Whatcha doing?” Alex slides to the floor beside him, picking up one of his failed attempts and squinting at it. “Drawing badgers?” 

Reggie snatches the paper off him and crumples it up. He lobs it at the back wall, where it falls to the floor with a thud. He’s been in a mood since afternoon’s practice. Reggie’s moods usually come in short bursts and blow over in a matter of minutes, but this one’s been annoyingly persistent. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Reggie says shortly. He draws his knees up under his chin and surveys Alex. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to make sure you were doin' okay, is all.”

Alex is still looking at him. Reggie wishes he wouldn’t.

The radio crackles faintly in the background. Julie calls him a grandpa for listening to the radio, but sue him. He can tune into the oldies station, close his eyes, and pretend for a moment that it’s the nineties again and he’s about to call his aunt from the payphone round the corner to check on his sisters, or order a pizza for the guys. It's soothing. 

“I’m good, man,” Reggie swallows, flashes him a smile. “I’m great. You okay? Feeling better?” 

Alex exhales. “Yeah,” he shrugs, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “Well. No. Not really.”

Reggie nods. He gets that. They sit in silence for a minute before Alex speaks again. 

“Sorry about Luke --”

He doesn’t get any further than that before Reggie cuts in. “I didn’t --”

They both fall silent. Reggie bites his lip. Alex is still looking at him, but he can’t bring himself to meet his gaze. He stares at the floor, picking up a few loose papers at random and shuffling them together. 

“He wasn’t trying to mess with you,” Alex says, his voice so quiet Reggie almost misses it. “He’s not like that.” 

“I know.” It comes out more sharply than Reggie intended, and Alex winces. He deflates, shoulders slumping in defeat. He drops his head down onto his knee and turns his face away. 

You disturb my natural emotions, you make me feel like dirt, and I’m hurt, says the radio. The soundwaves buzz over the concrete floor of the garage. It sets Reggie's teeth on edge. And if I start a commotion, I’ll only end up losing you, and that’s worse. 

Reggie turns the radio off. 

The silence stretches out, but it’s not awkward anymore. There’s an understanding between them now, and it should be terrifying but it isn’t. It’s like there’s a weight Reggie’s been carrying around, and he can put it down for a moment and rest, because Alex is here. 

“I like girls,” Reggie says suddenly. It’s very important to him for Alex to know that, for some reason. 

“Okay,” Alex says, like it’s as simple as that. 

“So does he.”  

“Yes,” Alex is watching him carefully. “So you both keep saying.” 

“He likes Julie.” 

“Definitely.” 

“I --” there’s a lump in Reggie’s throat. He swallows it down with difficulty. “So. Better to leave it alone, right?” 

Alex looks lost in thought. A little wrinkle of sadness appears between his eyebrows. Reggie doesn’t like that, so he leans over and puts him in a headlock. They tussle for a minute until they’re out of breath, and Reggie feels a little bit better. 

After a minute, Alex nudges his head against Reggie’s arm. 

“You’re allowed to want stuff, Reg,” he says, soft. “Don’t let anyone ever make you feel like you don’t deserve to get what you want.”

But what Reggie wants, what Reggie has always wanted, is for his friends to be happy. 

He doesn’t know how to say that without sounding like an idiot, so he just puts an arm around Alex and rests his chin in his hair for a moment, enjoying the closeness. 

They wander into the house and steal Carlos’s laptop. Alex shows Reggie some Wikipedia pages he’s found, ones with loads of coloured flags in their headers. And after that, a lot of stuff starts falling into place inside Reggie’s head. 

Apparently, gay and straight aren’t the only things that it’s possible to be. You can like girls and boys. It’s not a contradiction. It’s just a thing. A thing that people are, that people can be. It has a name. It makes sense. 

For the first time in a very long time, he makes sense.  

Reggie reads the word bisexual in print, black letters on a white screen, and thinks: 

Oh.  

***

It’s Luke that kisses him, in the end. 

In what has to be the weirdest comeback in the history of comebacks, they’re getting ready to play the Orpheum. It seems like a long shot to Reggie, but they're out of time and options. Joining Caleb’s house band is an obvious no-go, and total annihilation sounds scary as hell. 

He keeps trying to envision what it will feel like to finally play the show they never got to play, up there on that main stage. Whatever happens, Reggie reckons it’ll be pretty gnarly.

It’s weird to think that it’s their unfinished business, though. There are so many things he hasn’t gotten around to finishing. For one thing, he’s got a half-written song for Julie buried somewhere underneath his pile of flannel shirts. Shouldn’t that count for something? 

“Dude,” Luke’s hand waves in front of his face, interrupting his train of thought. “The song’s over. You can stop now.”

Reggie blinks. “What?” 

Luke chuckles, sliding forward until his hand closes around Reggie’s fingers, stilling their movement on the strings of his bass. Reggie stiffens. 

“You were in your own little world for a minute there,” Luke’s eyes are soft and sincere. “You okay?” 

Reggie glances behind them, only to find a vacant drum set.

“Where’s Alex?” 

“Somewhere,” Luke waves a hand vaguely. He shrugs off his guitar and rests it against the arm of the couch, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “He poofed out a couple minutes ago.”

He’s probably gone to find Willie, Reggie thinks. The thought makes him feel strangely bereft. They shouldn’t be separated, not now. What if something happens to one of them without the others knowing? 

Luke’s watching him carefully. “He’ll be back, Reg.”

“Yeah?” Reggie slides his bass off his shoulders and sets it down beside Luke’s guitar. He must look worried, because Luke’s hand settles firmly on his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Luke's voice is warm. His eyes are flickering all over Reggie’s face; it’s very distracting. “You’re giving me anxiety, man,” his other hand loops around Reggie’s shoulders, fingers pushing into the knot of tension that has formed at the top of his back. “Chill. I can deal with one Alex, but two?  Forget it.” 

Reggie laughs, praying the sound isn’t as shaky to Luke as it is to him. “I’m not th --” 

A jolt of white-hot agony pierces through him. They both yell out, and Reggie finds himself clutching onto Luke for dear life. His only anchor to reality in a sea of pain, Luke doesn't let go of him, just keeps holds him steady even though he must be hurting just as badly. They sag against each other as the shock of it drains away.

Reggie's unable to stop the tremors that race through his body. Luke’s panting hard like he’s just run a marathon, and his hands keep running up and down Reggie’s arms, like he’s checking that he’s still here, still intact. He feels Luke’s head thud against his shoulder, feels it turn and press forward into the juncture of Reggie’s neck. 

Reggie can’t stop himself; he strokes a hand down Luke’s back, soothing him. It seems to work: he hears Luke's ragged breathing slow down, feels some of the tension leave the space between his shoulderblades. 

“You know, I think they’re getting better,” he says lightly, once he's regained the power of speech. 

It's a dumb joke, even for him, but Luke sniffs, huffs out a laugh against Reggie’s skin. 

It’s broken and muffled, but it’s there, and maybe Reggie could die right here, for real, holding Luke in his arms. 

“It’s okay,” Reggie says, to himself as much as Luke. “It’s okay, shh. It’ll be okay.” 

Maybe there are worse ways to go. Maybe it’s better this way; they were always running on borrowed time, after all. 

Luke’s lips curve against his neck, and Reggie inhales sharply. 

He feels Luke’s mouth as it lingers there for a moment, damp and hot. Feels it travel up, slow, reaching the space under Reggie’s ear. Blindly, Reggie fists a hand into the back of Luke’s shirt. All he can hear are Luke’s steady, careful breaths, punctuated by the sound of blood rushing in his ears.  

There’s no mistaking it for anything else this time: that's definitely a kiss. Luke presses his lips right against his pulse point, and Reggie’s glad his heartbeats are numbered because he’s sure that alone would’ve sent him into cardiac arrest.

His breath hitches. Sluggish with exhaustion, he drags his head back, pressing his cheek against Luke’s. Luke turns into him until their noses brush, until he’s staring point-blank into dazed grey eyes. 

And Reggie… Reggie just wants to make it okay. 

Maybe that’s why, when his mouth finds Luke’s, it feels like the easiest thing in the world.