Chapter Text
The first thing Reggie notices when he wakes up is how hot he is. Which is definitely weird.
Out of the four members of Sunset Curve, Luke is the one who consistently runs the hottest. He’s like a furnace—and one Reggie is not ashamed to take advantage of on the nights they’re playing outside clubs in the dead of winter, desperately trying to get some attention from execs or managers or whoever as long as it’s someone who might be willing to let them play inside.
It’s become a bit of a game, at least in the privacy of Reggie’s head. Whilst they’re hanging around—waiting to start a set or for Alex to finish setting up his drums or Bobby to stop flirting with whichever girl has caught his eye that night—Reggie will casually sidle up to Luke and see how long it takes for the other boy to inevitably throw his arm around Reggie’s shoulder, plastering their sides together until his body heat bleeds through both their flannels and Reggie is finally able to stop shivering.
Luke’s record is currently four seconds; his worst, two minutes and forty seconds—though Reggie chalks that one up to the fact that Luke’d been desperately trying to rewrite a verse of one of their new songs five minutes before they were meant to be playing it at the time.
Reggie’s pretty sure Luke is yet to cotton on to what he’s doing. Judging by the exasperated yet amused looks Alex keeps shooting him, he’s noticed, but isn’t saying anything. Reggie can’t help but be grateful. Not that he thinks Luke would mind necessarily that Reggie’s using him as a personal hot water bottle, but he doesn’t want to risk making Luke self-conscious, especially if it might make the sort-of-hugs stop.
Luke’s naturally just a very tactile, touchy person—especially with Reggie and Alex. It used to be the same with Bobby too, but since presenting as an alpha last year he’s started getting all pissy at Luke’s Lukeness and shoving him off whenever he gets too “touchy-feely”, as Bobby calls it.
It’s only gotten worse since Luke himself also presented as an alpha.
Or, no—maybe worse is the wrong word. It’s not like things have been bad since then! Honestly, Reggie’s probably the happiest he’s ever been. Sunset Curve are like his family. It’s just a fact of life that sometimes families argue.
Look at his own actual family; they’ve barely stopped arguing for the last decade. And Luke and Bobby (and Alex, when he joins in) are nothing like his parents. At the end of the day they’re all still friends (Reggie’s not one-hundred percent sure if the others consider them family the way he does, but that’s fine), they still care about each other, and none of them have shown any signs of packing a bag and running for the hills.
‘Sunset Curve Forever,’ Luke’s taken to saying and none of them hesitate to echo him, even if it is sometimes accompanied by an eye-roll.
Anyway, as far as Reggie is concerned, Bobby is the one who’s missing out. If anything, Luke’s hugs have only gotten better since he presented. Now, they’re not only warm, but sort of comforting and calming in a way Reggie’s never experienced before. He also smells really nice—like cedar wood and morning rain and a dash of chili powder—but Reggie’s not sure if that’s related or if he’s just started wearing a new cologne.
Later, Reggie will lament that he probably should have seen this coming. That he probably should not have been the last one to notice his own classification. But then, it’s not like their school has taught them much in the way of sex-ed (or if they did, Reggie must have skipped that class for rehearsal) and his parents have definitely never bothered to give him anything resembling “The Talk”, so maybe it’s not entirely Reggie’s fault.
Even if Bobby teases him mercilessly until Luke tells him to knock it off, and Alex quietly gives him the book his parents had given him when he’d hit puberty (it’s a bit, well… Christian but at least Reggie closes the book with more of a handle on these things than when he opened it).
Now though, Reggie kicks off his sweaty (which, gross) sheets and curls up in the middle of his bed, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. For some reason his brain really wants to try and pretend the arms are Luke’s, even though that makes no sense because a hug from Luke The Walking Radiator is surely the last thing he needs when he already feels like he’s being baked alive.
Logic doesn’t change the fact that Reggie really wants a hug. He feels childish even thinking it, but once the idea’s wriggled its way into his brain, he can’t stop thinking about it.
A hug from Luke just sounds really nice right about now. Or from Alex—Alex gives great hugs. They’re rarer but all the more special for it.
Or—or even Bobby wouldn’t be too bad. Except Bobby normally kind of hates hugs, but sometimes he’ll put up with one if a performance goes really well and he’s still riding the endorphin high.
Though honestly, Reggie’s starting to think he wouldn’t mind a hug from his parents—who definitely haven’t done hugging since he was a little kid, if ever—and if anything’s a sign that something’s gone wonky in his brain overnight, it’s that.
More days than not, his mom and dad can barely be bothered to remember he exists. If he went and asked one of them for a hug out of the blue, they’d probably have an aneurism. At least that’d stop the fighting for a bit.
It’s not until the bridge of his nose starts to itch that Reggie realises his eyes are leaking.
It takes him far too many seconds to realise what’s actually happening, brain foggy and even slower than usual. But he’s crying, of course, and duh, he knew that.
He can imagine the exasperated look Alex would shoot him so perfectly, their drummer might as well be in the room. (He isn’t.) (Reggie sort of really wishes he was.)
Frowning, he forces himself to sit up and scrubs at the offending body parts with the heels of his hands. Okay, Reggie appreciates a good cry as much as the next reasonably emotionally adjusted guy, but he swears he’s not normally this sensitive. Especially not at—he glances at his alarm clock—eleven-thirty in the morning.
Wait.
He looks again, blinking rapidly in the hopes that it’s just the water affecting his vision, and that any second that “eleven” will morph into a “nine”.
It doesn’t.
Shit.
Reggie flings himself off his bed, nearly tripping headfirst into his wardrobe as he’s hit with a wave of dizziness that sends him reeling and would normally result in him sitting on the floor with his head between his knees, except he can’t do that because he’s an hour and a half late.
They’ve got a gig next Saturday night, a proper one in a proper club—and, sure, it’s a small, not-at-all-well-known club, but they’re not just opening for the main band this time, they are the main band and that is definitely both new and something worth getting excited about.
So because of that, Luke had made them all promise to be at Bobby’s garage at ten on the dot this Saturday, with enough snacks to last them through to Sunday evening. According to Luke, they were ‘not gonna blow this cos we haven’t practiced enough’ and none of the rest of them had been willing—or wanted—to argue.
The problem is that “this Saturday” is today and of course Reggie has overslept. He’d smack his own forehead, except that would just waste more time.
He gets halfway through pulling on his usual black, ripped jeans before he realises that no, nope, nopety-nope, he can’t do this. There’s something wrong with the material—he must have spilt something on them or put them in the wash on the wrong setting (though he doesn’t remember doing anything like that—not that that means he didn’t) because every time the rough denim touches his skin it makes him want to gag.
He rummages through his wardrobe until he emerges with a pair of yellow beach shorts he’s pretty sure belong to Alex. Without really registering it, he brings them to his nose and inhales, immediately getting hit by the scent of cinnamon-raspberries-smoke that he’s never explicitly noticed on Alex before and yet is so unmistakably him. So, yep, the shorts are definitely Alex’s.
It’s then that Reggie realises how weird he’s being, because he might not know many things but he’s pretty sure that smelling one of your best friend’s shorts is on the no-no list.
Even weirder is the fact that he’d really rather sit here just sort of clutching the shorts and letting the smell of Alex and friend-safety-comfort envelope him, rather than put them on and get going. Or better yet, he wants to search around until he also finds some of the stuff belonging to Luke and Bobby he’s sure he’s accumulated at some point or another, pile it all on his bed, and curl up in the middle with as many blankets as he can scrounge up from around the house.
So, Reggie’s starting to think there might be something wrong with him—and that is one hundred percent something he will revisit at a later date, when he is not in the process of letting his friends down.
He shakes his head rapidly, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, until the bizarre urges retreat again and he can get up and finish getting dressed. He ends up in a black t-shirt and his red flannel, even though they clash horribly with the yellow shorts, because they smell like him in a way that the old Hawaiian shirts he has—which might match but that he hasn’t worn since he discovered his love of the more punk-rock kinda look—don’t.
The clashing ensemble has got to be the reason for the weird looks Reggie gets from passing strangers as he’s cycling to the studio—that or it’s the fact that he has to stop every hundred yards because his stomach keeps cramping like he’s eaten some bad tuna from the school cafeteria.
After the seventh time Reggie ends up bent over his handlebars, taking deep breaths and clutching at his stomach, he decides he’s better off just pushing his bike.
He swears it’s so much heavier than it is normally. By the time he’s turning into Bobby’s drive, the sweat is pouring off him and he’s starting to feel like the world is spinning again.
Judging by the sound of things, they’re halfway through Hippo-bop-amus (Luke refuses to call it that but it’s not like he’s come up with a better title and, honestly, Reggie thinks it’s pretty apt since the song’s literally just about a hippo, and he’s not budging on that fact no matter how many times Luke insists ‘It’s a metaphor bro.’), so Reggie dumps his bike outside and attempts to slip into the studio without the guys noticing.
Maybe he can just grab his bass, act like he never wasn’t there and get away with it?
Almost as soon as Reggie’s shut the garage door behind him, the music peters off. Okay, maybe he can’t get away with it after all. He sighs.
‘I know, I know, I know, I’m really late, I’m so sorry. But I’ll make it up to you guys, I promise.’
Luke’s got his little frown on—the one that makes him look even more like a puppy than usual—as he puts down his guitar and hops over an amp to get to Reggie, putting a hand on his shoulder.
‘Dude, where were you? We’ve been getting, like, super worried. As in, Alex was five minutes off sending out a search party worried.’
‘Whaaat?’ Alex replies from behind his drums, his voice doing that high pitch thing that happens whenever he tries to lie. ‘No I wasn’t.’
‘You so were.’
Reggie barely hears their bickering, because apparently Luke’s hand on his shoulder has become the most fascinating thing in the world right now. It might as well be the whole world as far as Reggie’s concerned.
There’s this… feeling radiating from where Luke’s touching him—like a warmth, but nothing like the burning heat that’s been coating his skin since he woke up this morning. This one is more like drinking cocoa on a snowy day, like dozing off on the couch and someone caring enough to put a blanket around you, like… well, Reggie can’t think of any more similes, but like all of that and more and Reggie just wants to wrap himself up in that feeling and let his brain turn to mush.
More to mush.
Like, Reggie doesn’t claim to have much going on upstairs normally, but his brain is definitely more mushy than it usually is right now.
Mushy mushy mush.
Eh, it doesn’t seem like a word anymore.
Reggie vaguely registers Alex getting up from his drums and coming over, asking if he’s feeling alright.
‘Great,’ Reggie tells him, even though his mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, because duh. Luke’s hand is still on his shoulder, and even through his flannel the contact feels heavenly.
‘You sure dude? Because honestly you don’t seem so hot right now,’ says Luke.
…which is pretty rude of him in Reggie’s humble opinion. Just because Reggie’s not as good looking as the rest of them, doesn’t mean Luke has to point it out, thank you very much.
Though that does make him think (for some reason) about how “great” is relative and, sure, compared to five minutes ago when Reggie thought he was going to barf on the sidewalk, it’s pretty accurate, but that doesn’t mean things wouldn’t be greater if Alex would step just a tiny bit closer so Reggie can grab his hand without worrying about dislodging Luke.
Before Reggie is able to make his mouth cooperate enough to articulate what he wants, he’s hit by another dizzy spell and his legs apparently decide that the floor is where he needs to be right now, because they swiftly give out without consulting the rest of him.
Reggie just sort of… plops.
To their credit, both Luke and Alex try to catch him—and even Bobby takes a few steps forward as if he thinks he can do anything from halfway across the room—but that doesn’t change the fact that Reggie ends up on his arse.
Looking on the bright side, Alex is now in hand-grabbing range, and Reggie swiftly takes the opportunity to latch on, curling their fingers together so that Alex would have to really tug hard to get away from it—which he doesn’t do because Alex is a good friend, even if he is currently looking at Reggie like he’s either spontaneously grown a second head or is about to fully keel over.
On the not so bright side… ‘Ow.’
‘Reg, look at me,’ says Alex, kneeling down and squeezing his hand to get his attention. ‘Are you sick?’
Reggie shrugs because, honestly, he’s got no idea. The temperature and the dizziness and the nausea and the aching muscles would suggest yes, but if this is an illness it feels like nothing Reggie’s ever experienced before.
He opens his mouth to try and tell them this, which is when Bobby cuts in with a loud ‘Shit!’
Bobby had made his way over to their little huddle without Reggie noticing, but now he’s quickly backing away again, his hand pinching his nose and covering his mouth.
‘He is definitely not sick.’
‘What are you talking about?’ exclaims Luke. ‘Of course he’s sick! He just collapsed, he’s sweating like crazy, and—’ Luke’s snapping fingers appear in front of Reggie’s face, making him jerk back, blinking, ‘there’s nobody home.’
‘Hey,’ Reggie protests weakly. He’s not that out of it.
‘Sorry dude, but you are like super unresponsive right now.’
Alex squeezes his hand again. ‘He’s right. It’s kinda concerning.’
Bobby shakes his head. ‘Are you guys nose-blind or something? Smell him, you idiots.’
Because Luke’s never heard of personal space, he only hesitates to shoot a glare at Bobby before sticking his entire face in Reggie’s neck.
Reggie barely has time to register Luke’s hair tickling his cheek, before the other boy is recoiling like he’s been slapped, practically leaping to his feet and putting space between himself and Reggie—and taking the wonderful comforting contact with him.
It aches, deep in his chest, and Reggie can’t help letting out a whimper as his brain screams at him rejection, unwanted, bad, bad, bad—
He curls his knees up close to his chest, clutching at Alex’s hand as tightly as he can so he can’t leave him too—
But then he catches sight of Alex wincing out of the corner of his eye and—shit, nonono—he didn’t mean to hurt him and now he’ll definitely reject him and Reggie will be alone and—
And suddenly it’s like all the air is gone from the room because Reggie can’t breathe.
‘Shit, Reg, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have got so close if I knew you were…’ Luke trails off to make some vague hand gesture that Reggie can’t even begin to decipher when his stomach is clenching again like it thinks it can dispel all his internal organs if it tries hard enough.
‘I still don’t know what you guys are on about,’ Alex mutters, forehead wrinkling in concern and concentration as he leans in to sniff Reggie.
Reggie watches him, wide eyes turning wet and lungs screaming that the shallow little breaths he’s taking aren’t good enough—but that doesn’t matter because any second Alex will catch the scent of whatever had made Luke and Bobby so… horrified? Disgusted? Reggie has no idea what the other two are thinking right now, but if whatever they smelt makes his friends not want to come within five feet of him, he knows it isn’t good.
Shit, maybe he really is sick. Like, when Reggie’s grandpa had passed away a few years back, in the week leading up to it he’d smelt of what could only be described as death itself. And that hadn’t been a pleasant smell, even if they’d all put up with it to be by his side when he went.
But Reggie isn’t ready to die. The band and him… they have so much left to do! And he definitely doesn’t want to die alone. If the guys decide they can’t deal with his death-smell, where’s he meant to go? Home? If he dies at home, what happens if it takes a week for his folks to notice? Is his body just meant to lie there decomposing until his mom tries to hoover his bedroom?
‘Reg! Reggie!’ Alex has a blessedly cool hand on his cheek, his forefinger tapping out the familiar rhythm to Now or Never against Reggie’s skin. ‘Come on,’ he says softly, lips pulled into half a smile even as the crinkles around his eyes give away his worry. ‘I know even you know how to breathe. With me now; in, one two, three, four. Out, one, two, three, four…’
Guilt gnaws at Reggie, even as he pulls in a sharp intake of air that burns as soon as it hits his throat. He’s not supposed to make any of them worried. He’s meant to be the easy-going one, the comic relief, the silly distraction from their own problems. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong.
But Alex keeps counting their breaths and eventually Reggie’s lungs stop feeling like they’re about to collapse in on themselves.
‘You good?’ Alex asks gently.
Reggie nods, voice stuck somewhere beneath the lump in his throat. It leaves a squirming in his stomach—God, he’s so useless he can’t even manage to thank Alex for helping him—but Reggie just wraps the hand not clutching Alex up in the fabric of his flannel and wills himself to be okay. He can’t afford to be a burden right now.
‘Okay,’ says Alex, taking his hand off Reggie’s face so he can turn to see the others, but thankfully not moving any further away. ‘One of you needs to tell me what’s going on before I also have a panic attack.’
Luke is the first to open his mouth, but when he just sort of stands there like a goldfish, it ends up being Bobby who speaks first.
‘Sure,’ their rhythm guitarist shrugs cockily—which shouldn’t be an action you can do cockily as far as Reggie’s concerned but, as always, Bobby manages it somehow. ‘But first I just want to point out that all bets are officially off, because you, Alexander, are a beta.’
‘What?’ Alex sounds confused, which Reggie can definitely get behind because, unless he’s missing chunks of the conversation, he really can’t see where that segue came from.
Apparently though, it’s enough to wake Luke from his staring-at-Reggie-but-not-meeting-his-eyes stupor. ‘Dude,’ he starts, indignant. ‘You’re literally the only one weird enough to speculate on your friend’s classifications, let alone bet on it. Don’t try and drag me or Reg into this with your little,’ he waggles his fingers, ‘insinuations.’
‘Piss off,’ Bobby bites back, yanking his guitar strap off over his head and crossing his arms defensively. ‘I guarantee we were all wondering about Alex. He’s got one of those vibes that could go any which way.’
Well, Reggie can say for sure they weren’t “all” wondering about Alex’s classification, because he’s certainly never thought about it before. But then it’s not something he really thinks about full stop, no matter how many times he’s heard groups of guys or girls at clubs speculating about whomever they’ve got their eye on.
Reggie just doesn’t really get it? Sure, he’s heard (mostly from some of the crowds at those same clubs) that alpha’s are meant to be aggressive and stupid, omega’s are submissive and slutty, and beta’s are boring and forgettable—but considering the types of people who say that tend to be the same ones saying being gay is a sickness and girls are only good for one thing… basically, Reggie’s learned to tune out anyone who comes out with that sort of stuff.
It's rubbish anyway. Luke’s passionate and protective, not aggressive, and Bobby gets A’s in most of his classes. Sure, Mrs Patterson yells at Luke sometimes, but then Reggie knows Luke gives as good as he gets, and that he’d never dream of calling her “aggressive”. Reggie doesn’t really know Mr Patterson or Alex’s parents, but they’ve all got jobs and hobbies and friends, and all that suggests “boring” isn’t a good fit for them either. Not to mention, the last thing Reggie’s mom is, is “submissive”, if the yelling and occasional smashed plate is anything to go by. (If his dad fits the alpha stereotypes pretty spot on, then he’s probably just the exception that proves the rule, or something.)
As far as Reggie’s concerned, people are people, and guessing someone’s personality based on their classification is stupid.
‘Reggie, on the other hand,’ Bobby continues, smirking like the cat who’s got the cream, ‘I could’ve called in fifth grade.’
‘Shut up Bobby,’ Luke snaps, just as Alex makes a little noise of understanding.
Reggie looks at Alex helplessly, because their drummer might have figured out what’s going on, but he’s definitely still lost. How did they even get onto this topic?
Alex’s face takes on a slightly embarrassed red tinge and he winces, though this time it looks to be out of sympathy rather than pain. Reggie consciously tries to loosen his grip a little anyway, just in case he’s still hurting him, but Alex squeezes rather than take his hand back. ‘You’re in heat, Reg.’
He’s what? He already knows he’s too hot—it’s been an uncomfortable fact sitting on his brain ever since he woke up. But what’s he meant to do about it? Cos it kinda sounds like Alex is expecting him to do something.
The only logical thing he can think of to cool himself down—that doesn’t involve relocating to the inside of a fridge, which sounds like an awesome plan right about now, if he thought his legs would function long enough to get him there—is to take off his flannel. Even though he doesn’t particularly want to, not when it smells like safety and comfort and he really kinda needs that right now when he’s scared with no idea what’s going on. He starts to pull his arms out of its confines anyway—the loss is worth it if it will make the guys happy with him—but—
‘W-whoa, whoa, whoa,’ Luke stammers, slapping his hands over his eyes.
‘Okay,’ says Bobby, ‘if he’s gonna start stripping then I’m out of here.’
‘You don’t need to do that Reg,’ Alex says softly, tugging the material back up over his shoulders.
Reggie feels his eyes fill with water, mind swimming as the confusion threatens to drown him. What do they want from him? He just wants to make them happy, is that too much to ask?
Distantly, he hears Luke make a sound—a weird cross between a growl and a whine that he’s definitely never heard come out of their lead singer’s mouth.
‘Luke,’ Alex warns.
‘But—’
‘No. He can’t tell us whether he wants you near him right now.’
Yes, yes he one hundred percent does! His heart screams but his mouth refuses to form anything more than a whimper.
‘Alex, look at him man. He’s hurting.’ Luke’s voice cracks, and Reggie feels like one of his ribs cracks with it.
This is his fault. He’s made his alp… his friend upset and now he has to fix it, he has to—
‘I’ve gotta help him dude, I’ve just gotta—’
Luke goes to step forward, but a hand tightly gripping the back of his tank top has him stumbling backwards with the reversed momentum. In a second, Luke is whirling on Bobby, teeth flashing and a deep growl working its way up his throat.
Bobby snarls back. ‘Listen to Alex, moron.’ He lifts his chin, looking down at Luke from his superior height, and his mouth twists into a sneer. ‘Unless you wanna be like one of those types of alphas.’
Bobby says “those types” with such utter vitriol it makes Reggie flinch.
Luke’s face contorts horribly—disgust, anger, hurt, all flashing across his features in a turmoil. ‘Is that really what you think of me? You really think I would ever be like that? Let alone to my own best friend?’
‘Guys,’ Alex tries to cut in. Neither Luke or Bobby seem to hear him.
‘I’m just saying, if you even think about taking advantage of Reggie whilst he’s like this—’
Luke takes a half step back like he’s been slapped, and Reggie knows that he hasn’t been—he’s watching, he can see—but his instincts are screaming at him to rush over and check—and help, he has to help, they’re arguing and it’s all his fault, it’s always his fault, and he has to stop them—and it’s only Alex’s hand pressing down gently on his shoulder that stops him from stumbling to his feet.
Barely a moment passes before Luke’s surging forward again, getting right up in Bobby’s face. ‘What the fuck—I wouldn’t. I said I want to help him, you jerk!’
Bobby’s fists are clenched at his sides. Reggie can see them shaking from here. ‘Oh yeah? And how am I meant to know you’re not just thinking about getting your dick wet?’
Reggie feels like he’s going to be sick.
Luke raises his hands like, like he’s going to shove Bobby and nonopleaseno and half of Reggie’s brain is still being taken up with not gripping Alex’s hand too tight because he can’t hurt him too hecan’thecan’thecan’t but his other hand has snaked its way up to press against his ear and his nails are digging little moon-shaped crevices into his skull but he needs it all to stop—
‘Hey!’ Alex’s voice is firm and sharp, louder than he normally allows himself to be. Reggie automatically jumps at the volume, and Alex rubs his thumb against the back of Reggie’s hand, softly, reassuringly. ‘That’s enough. Neither of you are helping anyone right now. Least of all Reggie.’
Dropping his death glare with Bobby to turn to glance at Reggie, Luke freezes. He does a double take, eyes going wide before his face crumples. ‘Shit, Reg,’ he murmurs, barely audible.
Reggie doesn’t know what he looks like right now. His face burns. There’s the wet tickle of tear tracks on his cheeks. His hand won’t unclamp from around his ear. He wants to close his eyes and vanish, go back to before all of this, to have stayed in bed—to, sure, have disappointed his friends, but at least then he wouldn’t have broken them.
‘Fuck,’ exclaims Bobby, taking several steps back and tugging a hand roughly through his hair, other fist still clenched even as Reggie can see him trying to take deep breaths to calm down. He looks at Luke. ‘This is our fault.’
Luke just looks stricken.
Alex rolls his eyes. ‘Okay, well I’m sure Reggie will be happy to accept your apologies for making everything ten times worse later,’ says Alex with a tight smile. He knocks Reggie’s elbow with his own. ‘Right, Reg?’
Reggie nods hurriedly, not meeting their eyes. He’s pretty sure he’s the one who’s going to be apologising—it’s him who’s the root of the problem, after all.
‘See?’ says Alex. ‘So if you’re done being useless idiots—Luke, go grab Reggie a water out of the fridge. Bobby, track down the keys to the van.’
‘Right,’ nods Bobby.
‘On it,’ Luke echoes, jumping into action and practically sprinting out the garage door, towards the house.
Reggie can’t help staring after him, body itching to follow, even as the searing pain in his abdomen and Alex’s hand keep him in place. What if he doesn’t come back? Reggie’s brain whispers. What if he takes the chance to bolt, to get as far away as physically possible from the disaster that is Reggie Peters?
Alex ducks into Reggie’s line of sight, a crease between his eyebrows that wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t for Reggie’s… meltdown? Mystery illness? Reggie doesn’t know anymore. Whatever it is, it isn’t fair of him to worry Alex like this. If Reggie were a better person—a better friend—he’d have been able to play it cool, just brush it all off. He shouldn’t have made Alex anxious—Alex deals with enough anxiety without Reggie adding to it.
‘Don’t w-worry, I’m f-fine,’ Reggie chokes out, and tries for a smile. He’s certain it comes out more watery than a swimming pool, but at least he’s trying, right?
‘Sure, Reg,’ Alex deadpans, ‘you’re the picture of good health and mental stability right now.’
‘Exactly,’ Reggie agrees. ‘L-look up f-fine in the dictionary. You’ll f-find a picture of yours t-truly.’ It takes him too long to stutter through the joke, his throat is so dry, and it’s not exactly funny to begin with. Alex humours him with an amused snort anyway. Reggie really doesn’t deserve him.
‘Okay, I think it’s time to stop this,’ says Alex, tapping the hand Reggie still has clasped around his ear. It feels like it’s made of stone, like Reggie’s arm has been petrified, but Alex slowly massages Reggie’s fingers, coaxing his hand away and back to his lap. Then he licks at the sleeve of his pink hoodie and uses it to wipe away the blood Reggie’s nails have caused from behind his ear.
‘Thanks Mom,’ quips Reggie quietly.
‘You’re welcome sweetie,’ replies Alex in a ridiculous, high pitched voice that makes Reggie laugh.
The laugh quickly turns into a groan that he tries and fails to swallow as the ache in his stomach ramps back up to eleven. Reggie presses at his belly, curling over into as small a ball as he can make himself, but it doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t notice he’s closed his eyes until a weight lightly thumps against his foot, and Reggie blinks them open to see a water bottle has rolled to a stop next to him.
Luke stands sheepishly in the garage doorway, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I’m sorry about before, Reg. I wasn’t thinking, like, at all. You’re gonna be okay though, right?’
The midday sun frames Luke, giving his normally brown hair a golden hue. Reggie is hit all over again by how badly he wants to be held. He picks up the water bottle and fiddles with the cap so he doesn’t do something stupid like reach out to Luke desperately.
‘Right,’ he echoes. He has no idea if it’s true, but Luke isn’t meant to have that edge of uncertainty to his voice and Reggie would tell him anything to make it go away. ‘Course I am.’
He must have managed to inject just enough sunshine into his words, because the corner of Luke’s mouth pulls up out of his pout, even if his forehead’s still crinkled. Reggie wishes he could smooth away the lines with his thumb, and he gets so caught up in the image he almost misses what Luke says next.
‘You gotta know this changes nothing though bro. You’re still a hundred percent a part of the band—obviously. And if anyone’s got a problem with that, they can go through me.’
‘And me,’ adds Bobby, appearing over Luke’s shoulder.
Reggie glances at Alex, but he only nods in apparent agreement with the other two. Reggie’s given up hope of figuring out what they’re all on about. He’s resigned to doing what he normally does when he doesn’t understand something: keep on scrambling along until it’s either not relevant anymore, or his brain eventually gets around to figuring it out.
At least he knows he’s probably not imminently dying. Dead people aren’t generally in bands, he’s pretty sure.
‘Keys are in the ignition, ‘lex,’ says Bobby, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the dirty blue rust-bucket they call a van. ‘We’ll head into the house, get out of your guys way.’
Bobby has to practically drag Luke—it’s like his feet are glued to the floor—but eventually they’re both out of sight and then, after the faintest ‘Wow, you’re being really pathetic about this,’ from Bobby, they’re out of hearing range as well.
A hollow sensation unfolds itself in Reggie’s ribcage, and he struggles to swallow around it. Two down, his brain whispers, only one left to leave you. The thought cuts like barbed wire.
‘Come on,’ says Alex, tapping him lightly on the cheek once more. ‘Reckon you can manage walking to the van, Bambi?
Reggie huffs out an only slightly forced, if rather jittery, laugh. ‘Oh God, please don’t get me thinking about that movie. I’m crying enough already, ‘Lex.’
Alex raises his eyebrow. ‘I’ve seen you cry at infomercials, passing dogs, and even that burger you got from downtown last week. Crying at Bambi would be almost too normal for you.’
‘Hey!’ Reggie protests weakly. ‘That burger was justified!’ It had been heavenly, though even the memory of the taste of rich, fatty goodness makes nausea rise up in his throat at the moment.
Maybe Alex sees it in his face, because he climbs to his feet, never letting go of Reggie’s hand, then holds out his other hand for Reggie to take as well so he can pull him up too. He wiggles his fingers until Reggie relents, reaching for him.
‘It was a really good burger,’ Reggie grumbles, if only as an attempt to make Alex smile.
Alex obliges. ‘Uh-huh, who doesn’t love plastic cheese and a heart attack waiting to happen?’
With Alex’s help, Reggie makes it to standing. Immediately, heat rushes to his head and the studio starts spinning like he’s riding the Waltzer down at the pier, but that’s probably fine, Reggie figures.
It’s decidedly less fine when he tries to take a step and almost faceplants. Something stops him halfway to the ground and it takes Reggie a moment to realise it’s Alex’s arms around his waist, supporting Reggie’s whole weight. Reggie’s knees are jello beneath him. And not even nice jello either; they’re more like jello that’s been left out in the sun too long and turned to watery mush. Not that Reggie has any experience with forgetting food like that and then burying it in a giant hole dug out on the beach so his parents don’t find out he wasted perfectly good food that cost them hard-earned cash goddamnit, no sirree.
‘O-kay,’ breathes Alex with an unsteady laugh, ‘maybe we don’t do that.’ Reggie can practically hear Alex’s brain whirring even as Reggie’s own splutters and throws up error messages. His eyes still sting, his stomach still aches, yet it’s a lot easier to ignore with Alex’s arms wrapped around him, and Reggie leans into the not-hug just a little. The pain fades into background noise, and Reggie lets his eyes flutter closed.
‘Reg,’ Alex warns, ‘do not fall asleep right now.’
‘M’kay.’ It’s fine, Reggie would tell Alex if he could work up the energy, he’s only resting his eyes for a second.
‘Seriously?’ Alex sighs. ‘Okay, well, this isn’t going to work unless…’
The world lurches, and when Reggie shoots open his eyes in alarm, it’s to find himself actually, properly, being held by Alex. Admittedly, in the most awkward princess carry Hollywood’s ever seen, but he’ll take it.
‘Reggie, I am begging you, please stop wriggling or we’re both going to end up on the floor.’
Reggie holds as still as he can to let Alex readjust his weight. He knows he doesn’t weigh much, but he’s still a grown teenager, a la long limbs galore.
Once Reggie’s chest is pressed against Alex, arms wrapped around his shoulders, Alex lets out a sigh of relief, and Reggie lets himself relax. Alex’s hand pats at Reggie’s back and Reggie feels his face heat up, though this time he’s pretty sure it’s more out of embarrassment than anything.
‘I’m not a baby,’ Reggie mumbles sulkily, burying his face in Alex’s neck and trying not to make it too obvious he’s purposefully inhaling as much of the comforting raspberry scent of his friend as he can whilst he has the chance.
‘You eat way too much pizza to ever be mistaken for a baby, Reg,’ replies Alex. ‘This okay?’ he adds after a moment, voice hesitant.
Reggie nods into his neck.
Carrying him outside and into the sunshine, Alex pauses to attempt to shut the studio door behind them with his foot. When Reggie reminds him one of the other two can get it, Alex hums high-pitched and doubtful. ‘Will they though? Because I’d really rather not get back here and find all our stuff’s been stolen because those two idiots couldn’t stop arguing for long enough to remember to lock a door.’
Reggie’s heart turns to lead and his whole body stiffens at the reminder of the argument he caused—the argument he won’t even get to attempt to make better, since they’re apparently sending him away. Temporarily, he tries to remind himself. They’d all said he’s still part of the band, after all, so whatever it is he’s done wrong, they’re already planning to forgive him. It’d be an easier fact to hold onto if he knew how long exactly it was going to take.
Alex jostles him. ‘Hey, none of that. It’s not your fault, Reg.’
It definitely feels like it’s his fault, but Reggie doesn’t want to disagree with Alex, so he just says nothing.
With only some fumbling, Alex gets Reggie situated in the front passenger seat of the van. Letting go of him is more painful than the time Reggie accidently tore his fingernail off restringing his bass, but he forces his fingers to unclench from the folds of Alex’s hoodie, and immediately winds them up in the familiar frayed sleeves of his flannel. Purposefully, Reggie twists loose thread around his thumb, letting the material dig in too tight and using the tingly numbness as a distraction.
As they’re pulling out of the drive, Reggie glances in the side mirror to see Luke standing at the window of the main house, hands on the glass, staring out at them with his face doing it’s very best impression of a kicked puppy. It should make Reggie laugh. Instead, he has to hold in a sob.
Alex puts a tape in the cassette player, and a few seconds later old school country music starts up. Humming along to Hank Williams, Reggie winds down the window and lets the breeze blow his disjointed thoughts away until his mind goes blank. He sips at the bottle of water when Alex prompts him to, and eventually the regimented front lawns of Bobby’s neighbourhood give way to urban LA streets, and finally to the salty air of the beach front.
When they pull up outside Reggie’s house, Alex’s expression twists guiltily for a reason Reggie can’t fathom right now. ‘I’m not sure a hotel would be safe,’ Alex says, ‘and my parents would absolutely freak out if I took you back to mine like this.’ His grip tightens and loosens on the steering wheel, like he’s half thinking of driving off again anyway.
Reggie undoes his seatbelt before Alex can decide to do so. There’s no way he’s going to make the band splash out for a hotel they can’t afford for no reason, and causing an argument between Alex and his parents is just as unthinkable.
‘S’fine ‘Lex.’ He pops open the door, and swings his legs down. Alex makes a noise of protest and Reggie waves him off. ‘I got it, don’t worry.’ The dizziness has retreated just enough that Reggie’s pretty sure he can make it to his bed, assuming he keeps focusing on the lyrics to Cold Cold Heart playing on a loop in his head and not the prickly heat coating his skin. Sure, he might throw up when he gets there, but that’s a problem for future Reggie.
He shuts the van door behind him, then hesitates on the sidewalk. Against all logic, considering how overwhelmingly hot he feels, he’s shivering violently. Through the open window, Alex is eyeing him intently, like he’s expecting to have to run to Reggie’s aid at any moment.
‘You sure you don’t want help inside?’
Reggie nods. ‘I’ll umm…’ He has to swallow to make himself say the words. ‘I’ll see you soon, right?’
Alex smiles reassuringly. ‘Yeah, Reg. Just focus on yourself for now. Let us know if you’re feeling up to the gig next week, okay?’
‘Will do.’ There’s nothing that could make him miss that gig, Reggie resolves. Even if he has to drag himself there, he will not let the guys down again.
He waves at Alex, and makes his way to the house, only swaying a little as he heads down the gravel path. Just a week, he repeats mentally as he lets himself inside. Only one week until he can see them again—he can do this.
The last glimpse he gets of Alex before he shuts the door is of their drummer chewing anxiously at his lower lip.
His mom’s in their tiny kitchen unpacking groceries, and she looks up when he shuffles by. ‘Reginald,’ she says, blinking like she’s surprised to see him in his own house.
‘Hi,’ he waves awkwardly. ‘Need any help?’ he adds, not wanting to spark any comments about his rudeness but also really hoping she says no because he’s afraid leaning down to unpack shopping bags might be too much for his stomach. If he threw up on the shopping… he doesn’t even want to imagine the earful he’d get.
She only stares at him for several long seconds, hand hovering frozen next to a can of beans she was apparently about to pick up, eyes flicking over him, assessing, face becoming ever more pinched. Reggie shifts his feet, caught between wanting to retreat to his room to escape what he’s suddenly afraid will be an impending blast, and needing to stay to try and manage the fallout.
He flinches when she moves, some hypervigilant part of himself half expecting the beans to go flying, but she only rubs at her forehead with the knuckle of her thumb and releases a drawn out breath. Her face is a myriad of emotions, but disappointment and frustration are familiar enough for Reggie to pick out.
‘Of course you are,’ she mutters to herself.
Reggie doesn’t know what he is, other than a mess, but that really shouldn’t surprise her by now.
‘Come on,’ she says, tone not soft, but not exactly hard either. Just practical; business like—as if dealing with Reggie is a job she might not love but has to do anyway. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’
Her hand on his shoulder prickles as she directs him to his room. She disappears whilst Reggie changes into pyjamas and climbs into bed, then returns a few minutes later with an extra pillow, the blanket off the back of the couch, a packet of Tylenol, and a cup of peppermint tea.
She helps him sit up so he can drink the tea, and it burns his mouth, but Reggie smiles and whispers ‘Thanks,’ anyway.
Some of the tension in her face drains away, and she just looks sort of sad for a moment. She leans in to lightly kiss the top of his head, and Reggie tries not to breathe, afraid he’ll ruin the moment. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ she asks quietly.
Reggie doesn’t have an answer. He wishes he’d left his flannel on so he could curl his hands up inside its sleeves.
‘Try and sleep,’ she says. ‘I’ll wake you up in an hour or two with some soup, alright?’
He nods, and when the door clicks shut behind her, Reggie curls up under the blanket.
It doesn’t smell right. It smells like his house, but not like home, not like Luke, Alex, and even Bobby do. He misses them desperately. He’s pretty sure if someone cut off one of his limbs, he wouldn’t miss it as much as he misses them. Everything aches.
***
It’s only when he’s woken up—not by soup, but by yelling coming from the direction of the living room—that Reggie’s brain finally, finally, gets it.
‘—an omega for a son—’ is all he has to catch of his dad’s booming voice, the word “omega” spat like it’s something to be disgusted by.
‘—not my fault—’ he hears of his mom’s hissed response.
Reggie squeezes himself into a tight ball, pulling the blanket up over his head and covering his ears with his palms. He should be used to disappointing them, he thinks, bridge of his nose itching as salty water leaks from the corners of his already tear-crusted eyes. He isn’t.
It isn’t fair, he thinks as everything clicks into place, the jigsaw of a day finally forming a picture he can make some sense of. He didn’t choose this. Why does it have to be a bad thing for him to be a…
He doesn’t want to think it. Luke, Alex, Bobby, his mom, his dad… their reactions. Reggie’s an idiot. It’s definitely a bad thing.
Closing his eyes, Reggie wraps his arms around his chest, just like this morning. He doesn’t try to stop himself imagining the arms are Luke’s this time, holding him, protecting him, keeping him safe.
‘It’s okay,’ imaginary Luke says softly in Reggie’s ear. ‘I’ve got you.’
Reggie squeezes his mouth shut so a sob won’t escape, and tries to ignore the lurking guilt that threatens to swallow him whole.