#[[ I think I struck a good balance between 'edge' & 'chill' this time. All hail me ]]

[julies-butterflies]

Kiss prompt 25 with boggie (and maybe hinting toward Sickfic cause you know I love when these boys suffer 👀👀)?

50 types of kiss prompts  //   accepting!!  ( for jukebox, willex, reggielukejulie, boggie )

25.   Wet kisses after finding refuge from the rain.

                         ( read on ao3 here! )

It says a lot about the current state of his life (and friend group) that when Bobby wakes in the dark to the soft echo of someone rummaging around in the loft, his first thought is not “someone broke in”, but “which one is it?”

Slowly, he pushes himself upright. While he doesn’t remember dozing off in the garage, the evidence is all around him. His back is stiff from dozing on the couch in an awkward position; his calculus textbook is still wide open on the table, the equations he only half-finished sitting next to it. Here’s Bobby’s first clue  ---  someone picked up his pencil, and made a few hasty, scribbled corrections in the margins, solving one of the problems he wasn’t able to get.

He’s also sure the blanket covering him now was folded on the other end of the couch before he passed out... and, leading from the doorway, a glistening trail of footsteps have tracked their way across the garage floor, leaving puddles along the way.

He sighs between his teeth, forcing himself to his feet. The trail leads across the floor, straight to the loft ladder. From the still-audible sounds coming from above  ---  not drowned out by the rain outside, which batters the windows and drums on the roof like the roar of a mosh pit  ---  the intruder hasn’t noticed he’s been noticed. Bobby takes care to keep quiet, ascending the ladder slowly. When he pokes his head through the floor, he has to squint to discern shadows through the dim light.

Sure enough --- there’s a dark figure burrowing around amid piles of junk. He’s wrestling with an old quilt buried at the bottom of one of the trunks, and losing. Even from a distance, Bobby can see the dark hair slicked against his temples, the water streaming from his sodden flannel to drench the wooden boards beneath him. He trembles in his damp clothes, shaky movements fueled by restless energy. No doubt, he didn’t realize how much noise he was making.

Bobby leans forward on his elbows, and rests his face against one palm. “For a second, I thought we had racoons. But racoons don’t usually stop to help with homework.”

The rustling stops cold. It’s a minute before Reggie turns; when he meets Bobby’s gaze, he looks like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

“I, uhh ---” He huffs, then shrugs, sending off a hail of raindrops. “Figured since I was already breaking and entering, may as well pay you back somehow.”

“You know you don’t have to, Reggie.” Bobby folds his arms, balancing his chin on top of them both; his foot scuffs idly at the nearest ladder rung. This is far from the first time one of the guys has shown up at Bobby’s garage unannounced; since he never leaves the door locked anymore, it can hardly be called breaking and entering. There’s a makeshift bed up in the loft, and spare clothes in a duffel bag downstairs. They’re always welcome when they need it.

“Yeah...” The word comes out hoarse; Reggie has to clear his throat, ducking his face back into the shadows. “I know.”

A part of Bobby wants to ask  ---  but there’s no point, when he already knows the answer. When it’s Luke, it’s his mother; when it’s Alex, it’s his atmosphere; when it’s Reggie, the world is just too loud. I like how quiet it is here, he admitted once. It feels like a home. (A home, not his home  — there’s a big difference.)

So, instead of asking, he just shakes his head. “You could’ve called me. Or Alex. We’d have come to pick you up, instead of —”

“Alex hates driving on a good day. You want him to go out at night? In the middle of a rainstorm? All the way down to the beach, just to pick me up?”

There’s an edge of real frustration in his voice; and it’s Reggie, so that’s worrying, but Bobby’s own temper can’t help responding in kind. “Well, it’s better than you on your bike, freezing to death! Reg, you’re almost blue.”

For some reason, Reggie chuckles at that, ducking his head again. His sense of humor is as crooked as a wire hanger. Bobby’s learned not to question it, or try to follow the strange routes his mind goes down. With Reggie, it’s enough to just be along for the ride.

No matter how he got here, Bobby reminds himself, the important thing is, Reggie's here. He made it here, where he knows he’s always welcome… and there’ll be time to tear into him for his dumbass choices another day. Tonight, only three things are important: Reggie’s here, Reggie’s safe, and Reggie needs to get dry.

“You’re not sleeping in the loft,” Bobby declares, glancing around the dimly lit ceiling room. Aside from the cobwebs, it’s drafty and leaky up here; Reggie will catch a chill in a second, if he somehow hasn’t already. When Reggie opens his mouth to protest, Bobby just shakes his head, nodding downstairs. “The couch is more comfortable. Grab a blanket, okay? And go through what we’ve got — you gotta change out of those wet clothes.”

For just a second, a smile flickers over Reggie’s face — there one minute, gone the next. He doesn’t say anything, only nods… but Bobby reads his relief clear as day, and his gratitude.

It’s enough.

(No, it’s not — but he can’t change his friends’ shitty lives, he can’t protect them from the world, so it has to be enough.)

Bobby slips back downstairs, and busies himself making the couch comfortable. It pulls out easily into a bed; there are pillows tucked behind it for rainy days just like this one. He folds the blanket that had been tossed over him, and clears some of his papers off the table, just to chase away the clutter. By the time the loft ladder creaks, a few minutes later, the couch is as cozy as it will ever get.

Bobby turns, and almost sighs in relief at the sight of Reggie — in dry clothes, a grey t-shirt and dark sweatpants that hug his bony hips. Bobby never likes to think about how thin Reggie is… but when it’s presented to him like this, so intimately, there’s no way to ignore it. (Home cooked meals, he suspects, are as rare in the Peters household as a trip to Disneyworld; no wonder Reggie inhales any food they put in front of him.) He still looks pale, skin paper white and washed out in the gloom. Though he’s run fingers through his hair, it’s still wild, flyaway hairs clinging to his brow. He hasn’t completely stopped shivering, either, but at least he’s settled down. 

“Here,” Bobby says, nodding to the couch. He can’t help cursing himself; clearly, his bedside manner deserves awards.

Reggie isn’t bothered. He just steps forward, that ghost of a smile back on his lips. “Thanks,” he murmurs, and says nothing more. When Bobby steps aside for him, he settles on the couch, tucking the blanket  around him. Immediately, like a leaf tossed into a windstorm, he starts shivering again. Bobby grimaces.

“So, when you catch pneumonia, is the plan to just ride it out, or…?”

Reggie glances up at him. His expression steals the words from Bobby’s mouth. There are dark circles under his eyes, standing out all the more in his pale face; his lower lip is bitten raw, flushed and sore, and hands fiddle restlessly in his lap.

“Bobby,” he mutters, and something in his voice is… desolate. So absolutely freaking tired... drained and defeated... so wrong for a person like Reggie, who is made of enthusiasm. He’s the bubble of soda in a glass, the dancing blaze of a sparkler, the crackle of a firework, the lilt of a bass line. Reggie is alive in living color… and tonight, the rain has washed it all away.

Something in Bobby’s stomach twists. His heart rattles against the cage of his ribs. Impulse spikes within him, and he doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he has already settled onto the couch at Reggie’s side, and opened his arms wide.

“Okay. Bring it in.”

Reggie’s eyes widen. Touching isn’t Bobby’s thing. It’s Luke’s, sure, and even Alex’s. They’re both all about that casual affection, with too much love to be contained. Bobby shows his affection in quieter ways — a steadying hand, a late night drive, paying for take-out when he knows his friends’ pockets are light. He’s never been sure how to handle all the touching which comes with the package, with the Sunset Curve boys; he’s never known how to start.

Tonight, though, Reggie’s here, and he needs it. So, just for tonight, Bobby is officially a hugger.

“Come on,” Bobby encourages; and that’s all the prodding Reggie needs to gently tuck himself against his friend’s chest.

He doesn’t expect how well Reggie fits there, like a puzzle piece naturally slotting into place. He knocks the breath from his lungs without trying; even as long arms come to wrap around his chest, and a damp head ticks against his collarbone, it takes Bobby a minute to adjust. Yes, he asked for this — he reminds himself of that, as his own arms come up to wrap Reggie in an embrace — but Reggie’s so much better at it, and he’s not sure where to go from here.

“Bobby,” Reggie mutters into his chest. “You have to relax a little, otherwise how’m I supposed to?” He tilts his head up. “I’m the half-frozen one here, but you’re like hugging a scarecrow.”

Bobby snorts. Reggie looks up a little more. His eyes shine dark in the dim studio light as his brows furrow. “Do you not want me to —“

Bobby hushes him with a shake of his head, and pulls Reggie closer, tucking the blanket around them both. Slowly, he leans back against the couch. It seems like the thing to do to relax — and Reggie agrees, if the soft noise of contentment he makes is any clue. He’s still shivering a bit against Bobby’s chest; his voice carries an ominous rasp, and whenever he breathes out, it sounds unsteady. Bobby brushes against his bare arm, and is immediately struck by how cold Reggie still is; even holding him like this, the chill begins to seep into his own skin.

Bobby will soak up every ounce of it, if it means Reggie can be comfortable again.

So, he pulls Reggie close, rubbing a hand up and down his back in broad, earnest circles. He breathes out against the crown of Reggie’s head, hot and repetitive; a few times, he even rocks him, just to get the blood flowing back through his limbs. Reggie doesn’t protest. He barely even moves. It takes a while for their legs to tangle together under the blankets. His arms tuck under Bobby’s; his ear comes to rest over his heart. Slowly, his entire body curves into Bobby’s own, ravenous for any ounce of heat a warmer form can provide.

Even as he does this, he seems to melt, and Bobby knows — just knows — this is the first chance he’s had to really relax in days.

“Exhale, Reg,” he murmurs without meaning to. When Reggie stirs against him, meeting his gaze with furrowed brows, Bobby is suddenly relieved he’s never been able to blush. (Compared to Reggie, who could gauge the weather by the color in his cheeks.)

Still locked into his gaze, Reggie breathes out, in one long gust. It chills Bobby’s jaw.

“You’re so cold,” he mutters.

“Not anymore,” answers Reggie. “Not with you.”

He’s left a damp patch against the front of Bobby’s shirt, and his hair’s still wet. As Bobby watches, a droplet trails its way down his temple, stopping just as it reaches his ear. Before Bobby can think twice, he brushes it away with one gentle hand… and allows his fingers to linger over Reggie’s jaw a second too long before pulling away.

Reggie isn’t staring into Bobby’s eyes anymore. He’s hypnotized by his lips.

And well, Bobby reasons, there’s no better way to warm him up.

That's his justification for not feeling like a horrible person, when he leans in and captures Reggie’s lips with his own.

There’s nothing forceful about it, nothing demanding; the last thing Bobby wants is to take, only to give what little warmth he can. Yet as Reggie stays frozen against him for a moment too long, an icicle of dread pierces Bobby’s chest. He’s just begun to pull away, an apology already on the tip of his tongue, when Reggie suddenly catches him by the back of the neck with one icy hand, pulling him back down.

Bobby’s breath catches; Reggie catches him. For a minute, it’s all either of them can do to be near each other, moving with and against each others’ mouths in slow, earnest rhythm.

Heat? Oh, no — heat isn’t a problem anymore.

When they finally pull back, Reggie’s lips are flushed, his cheeks bright red — there it is, Bobby thinks, with a flash of victory. His breath is heavy against Bobby’s chest, but there’s a smile on his lips all the same.

“I mean,” he says, and pauses for a breathless chuckle, “yeah, sure, that works too.”

Just as Bobby begins to smile, Reggie suddenly jerks forward. His laugh turns into a gasp — and then he’s coughing hard against Bobby’s collar, entire body heaving with it. It’s all Bobby can do to steady him, keeping one hand on his shoulders as he struggles to catch his breath, until the worst of it has passed.

“Damn it,” he mutters, once Reggie has gone limp again. “You’re totally gonna get me sick.”

“I’ll try not to,” Reggie offers generously against his collarbone.

“No, you won’t,” Bobby replies, knowing it’s probably too late already — and also, that he doesn’t really care, so long as he can keep Reggie warm and dry through the night.

When Reggie lifts his head to smile at him, Bobby brushes the rain out of his hair, and grins right back.