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.)