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nicksreggies · 3 years

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@jorian-is-my-new-obsession asked for “nick is reggie’s neighbor and is very confused as to why he’s playing his bass in the rain” from this list

tagging: @i4akane @pamesjatterson @sylphrenas @confused-theatre-puppy

anyways

Reggie wouldn’t pick up the phone.

Nick sighed as the call went to a voicemail again, glancing out of his window and trying to make out any shapes in the thundering rain.

Tire tracks graced the pavement of the street, left by Mr. Peters, who had sped out of his driveway, wheels on his car spinning, twenty minutes earlier.

The grass of the shared space between their yards was already flat and muddy, worn from countless run-overs.

Arguments were not a new experience in the Peters household.

Pacing the length of his room, Nick dialed Reggie’s number.

The sound of a dial tone filled his ear.

The blond marched downstairs and yanked a black raincoat off of a hook by the front door, pulling the hood over his head and slipping on a pair of old sneakers.

He left through the back door, wincing when his foot landed in a mud puddle and soaking his sock with squishy, cold liquid.

The space between the Peters and Danforth-Evans homes were small, but between a raging storm and the slippery lock on the gate (Nick’s father had insisted they installed it), it felt like it took Nick two hours to reach Reggie’s front door.

Nick gazed through the nearby window, fogged up from the rain, taking note of Mrs. Peters, asleep on the living room couch, empty cups stacked on the coffee table nearby and a bottle of whiskey uncapped in her hand.

Splinters of a painting laid in the hallway, an empty space on the eggshell white wall where a family portrait used to hang.

This was a bad one.

Nick’s hand drifted toward the doorknob. Perhaps Mr. Peters had left the door open in his haste to leave, and he could sneak upstairs to Reggie’s room, to check if he had barricaded himself in his bedroom.

He grasped at the metal, but before the lock could click a stream of pounding, loud bass music came bursting from the garage.

The first thing that ran through Nick’s mind when he saw him was that Reggie was going to get hypothermia.

Or an electric shock.

Either worked.

“Oh, hey, Nick.” The bassist greeted, his voice nearly drowned out by the rain.

“Don’t hey Nick me,” Nick took note of the amp, its extension cord stretching the length of the driveway, before marching over and pulling it out of the socket. “You promised you would come over if it got too bad.”

Reggie’s protests were muffled by the water, still pounding down in sheets around them as Nick reemerged from the (now quiet) garage.

“I didn’t want to bother you?” The sentence came out like a question and Nick rolled his eyes at the brunette.

He took the bass from Reggie’s outstretched palms, their fingers brushing together, warmth flowing between them before Nick dropped his arm, not missing the blush on the other’s cheeks as he turned and slipped the guitar onto its stand.

“Reg, that would never bother me. Your safety comes first, remember? That’s what we agreed on.”

It had been a quiet and rainy November night (not unlike the one they were enduring right now) when Reggie’s parents had argued for the first time, doors slamming and yells ripping from throats.

In the dead of night, a sobbing Reggie had appeared at Nick’s front door and asked if he could sleep there, his face pale and a bag tossed over one shoulder.

Ryan and Chad, Nick’s fathers, had been quick to accept, ushering the boy into their home and into dry clothes.

Neither Nick nor his guest got any sleep that night, instead watching Captain America until the sun rose on the living room couch.

They must have downed ten bags of microwavable popcorn.

“You’ll come over if you feel unsafe again, please?” Nick asked when it was time for Reggie to leave.

Reggie promised he would.

“I know, I know.” The present-day Reggie carded his fingers through his soaked hair, following Nick to the warmth of the Danforth-Evans garage and accepting the baby blue towel his neighbor produced from a cabinet.

Nick, a towel of his own slung around his shoulders, kicked off his muddy sneakers and waited for Reggie to do the same to his boots.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, hovering in the mudroom until Nick spoke up. “Do you...want to talk about it-”

“No, not really.”

“Okay.” Silence. “Wanna watch The First Avenger instead?”

“I would love to.”

Ten minutes later, the boys were lying on the couch while Captain America played in the background, laughing and clutching at their sides, (“Look at that twerp! He’s such a shrimp though.””Yeah, until he turns hot.””Turns hot?! NICK!”) .

Nick still didn’t know what had happened earlier that morning, and he wasn’t planning on bugging Reggie about it. Not until he was ready.

But for the time being, all he needed was this.

This was perfect.

#i don't hate this surprisingly #nickinald #nick danforth-evans #nick jatp #jatp nick #reggie peters #jatp #julie and the phantoms #jatp fic #request #jatp fic request #tw parents fighting #tw parents arguing #parents fighting tw #parents arguing tw #elsie writes

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