#finally wrote something about this version of boggie and i'm thrilled about it because they've lived rent free in my head for ages

[joyandthephantoms]

we’ll pretend because we need it

1.3k, T, Bobby/Reggie

Content warnings: underage drinking, references to bad parents, Reggie tries to kiss Bobby when Bobby doesn’t want that but he backs off pretty quickly

ao3 link

taglist: @chickwiththepurpleguitar @sunsetcurvecuddles

The frequency at which his friends show up at his house in the middle of the night really can’t be good for Bobby’s health. But it’s not like he sleeps much anyway, and it’s important that they know they have somewhere they can turn; Bobby would sooner die than pull that out from under them. So he’s only ever sent any of them away once, and that was because what Luke really needed to do was go talk to Alex, not whine to Bobby about him.

It’s no surprise, then, when a series of knocks on the garage door pulls Bobby away from halfheartedly trying to work out a new melody without making enough noise to wake his parents, and it’s no surprise when he opens the door to find Reggie standing in front of him.

It is a surprise when his grin is lopsided, when his words slur together a bit as he says “Hey Bobbers, fancy seeing you here,” when he takes a step forward and almost trips directly into Bobby.

Weirdly enough, “Bobbers” sets off Bobby’s alarms more than any of the other glaringly obvious red flags. That’s Luke’s stupid nickname for him, never Reggie’s. “You’re drunk,” he says flatly.

“Mmhmm, think so.” Reggie tries to laugh, but he doesn’t look happy, he looks scared.

This is a new one. When Luke is drunk, he just gets all giggly, then even clingier and more affectionate than usual, and a little extra inclined to think he’s an artistic genius. And Alex is much the same—a little more cuddly, a little looser with secrets he’d never give a voice to otherwise.

Bobby doesn’t drink when there are other people around, and Reggie doesn’t drink, period. Or, he didn’t.

“Come here.” Bobby loops an arm around Reggie’s waist and guides him through the door. “And for fuck’s sake, Reg, call me next time and I’ll come pick you up.”

“No next time,” Reggie insists. “Don’t wanna do it again.”

“That’s a good plan too.” Bobby leaves Reggie on the couch, says, “Don’t move,” and crosses the room to grab a bottle of water out of the mini fridge.

Reggie stays almost perfectly still until Bobby’s back, until he can adjust his position to make room for Bobby to sit beside him and wrap an arm around his shoulder and hand him the water he’s just retrieved. He looks absolutely miserable, the weak facade of joy he’d tried for a minute to maintain entirely vanished.

Bobby keeps his voice only slightly above a whisper when he asks, “Are you okay?” The answer is obvious, but he wants to give Reggie an opening to talk.

“I thought it’d make me feel better,” Reggie mumbles, “But I don’t, I don’t feel good at all.”

“I know, I know,” Bobby says, running a hand up and down Reggie’s arm. “But it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay.”

They sit there quietly for a minute until Bobby ventures, “So do you want to tell me what happened or do I have to guess?” He wouldn’t push if it was Alex sitting here beside him, wouldn’t need to push if it was Luke, but Reggie always does better when he has permission to explain what’s upsetting him.

He lifts one shoulder in a shug. “Just the usual shit with my parents.”

“God, they’re such assholes.”

For once, Reggie doesn’t protest or uncomfortably change the subject, just says, “I know, and that’s why—I mean, I just wanted everything to stop, and you’re supposed to be able to drink your worries away, right? Except I tried that and now I have more worries and I don’t know how to make those ones go away either.”

“Drink some water and sleep it off?” Bobby suggests. He’s not trying to be dismissive of how Reggie’s feeling, it’s just that his instinct is always to move towards the practical and to act like nothing fazes him so that he doesn’t make anyone freak out more. Reggie usually understands that, but Bobby still makes sure to add quietly, “I’m glad you came here.”

“Me too. You’re a good boyfriend, you know?” Reggie looks up at him, eyes wide and sincere, and Bobby’s swallowed up by guilt.

It's not the kind of guilt that ties him up in knots and makes him feel sick to his stomach, and it's not the cold, sharp kind of guilt that cuts straight through him. It's something quieter, a kind of guilt that makes his limbs feel slow and heavy and that always, without fail, creeps up on him when Reggie says stuff like this.

It’s a kind of guilt that’s always paired with a voice in his head that tries to argue against it, a tangle of defensive justifications that springs up automatically: he really does love Reggie, even if it’s not like that, and he doesn’t want him to get hurt, and it’s not like he’s stringing him along for fun. And even if Bobby’s doing something wrong by dating Reggie, it’s not as wrong as playing fucking mind games with him and demanding every second of his time and accusing him of cheating every time he so much as looks at one of his bandmates, like his last girlfriend had, or ignoring him completely for days on end just to turn around and expect him to drop everything for someone who had never once genuinely listened to him, like the girl he’d dated before that.

Reggie deserves someone who pays attention to him and treats him well and makes him feel special and loved and safe, and Bobby can do all of that—he’s good at doing it; Reggie just said so himself—so what does it matter how he feels about it?

But Reggie also deserves someone who gets all gooey at his smile and who gets excited to hold his hand and kiss him and take him on dates and who actually wants him like this. He deserves someone who would be proud to hear he thinks they’re a good partner. And that’s not Bobby, no matter how hard he tries to talk himself into it.

And if Reggie knew that, it would crush him and break this thing between them, and if their relationship is something that can be ruined by honesty, then Bobby has already fucked up beyond repair.

And none of this is the slightest bit helpful. Bobby’s boyfriend came to him in the middle of the night looking for comfort, and that’s what he should get, not Bobby’s guilty spiraling. He needs to get it together.

Two deep breaths, and the feeling is—well, not gone; contrary to popular belief and his best efforts, Bobby isn’t actually capable of blinking his emotions away. But it’s packed away safely, some place where it can’t interfere anymore.

“You deserve good things,” he tells Reggie.

“You too. Wish I made you happy like you should be.” Reggie does this a lot, he sees too much, but it catches Bobby off guard all the same, makes the guilt he just buried twinge in his chest. And Bobby doesn’t even have time to process what the fuck that means, because he’s distracted by Reggie getting right in his face and trying to press their lips together.

Bobby turns away, and when Reggie whines and tries to lean in again, Bobby pushes him back as gently as he can, says, “Hey, I don’t want to kiss you while you’re like this, okay?”

“Sorry.” He looks sorry, too, glancing nervously from Bobby’s face to his own hands.

“It’s fine,” Bobby says. “Here, come on, get up for a second.” Reggie can definitely see what he’s doing, because they do this dance too often, trying to redirect whenever the energy between them gets weird. It’s honestly what Bobby thinks Reggie was trying to do in the first place by kissing him.

Reggie does get up, though, and Bobby moves around so he can lie on his back, motions for Reggie to come back. Reggie lies down right on top of him, head tucked under Bobby’s chin and hands slid under his shoulders.

“Better?” Bobby asks.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He rests his hands on Reggie's back, steady and warm and solid. This, at least, he can do right.