Chapter Text
Some days, Reggie can’t even remember if they’d made it to the hospital before they died. He remembers the ambulance ride with some clarity on most days, the screams of the sirens and the shouts of the paramedics fading out to become background noise because all he can hear is the whispered fear of Alex and the quiet but pained attempts at reassurance from Luke. (“It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.”) He remembers staring at his friends through tears, looking at Alex and Luke and reaching out to them, his arm dropping before he can reach them and god he just wants to hold their hands. (“Don’t let me die alone,” he whispers to them, and he thinks Luke hears him because he reaches out to grab his hand.) And he remembers the order they died, Alex going first, his eyes going blank as he stares at them, Luke second, his hand falling away from Reggie’s. He goes last, the frantic chaos around him fading into a more peaceful darkness as he floats away, weightless. (“What is this?” he asks the darkness, but there is no response.)
He remembers the dark room, the sheer relief at seeing his friends again fading away into grief. (He'd told Alex that street dogs hadn't killed them yet. No, more than that, he'd practically promised that they'd be fine with his words, and look at them now, sitting in a dark room dead with Alex crying. "Was this my fault?" Luke shakes his head, but Reggie thinks he might see some anger there.) The guilt lasts for far longer than anything else, lasting long after the initial shock at dying wears off. With every sob from Alex and every shout from Luke, it feels like another dagger in his heart. (He never should’ve said anything, shouldn’t have jinxed it, and now they were dead and they were never going to play the Orpheum.) He remembers the whispered panic that fills the air when everything sets in, when they realize everything that happened, when they realize that they’re dead.
He remembers Luke’s quiet whispers of regret (“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry mom, I’m sorry.”) and Alex’s loud grief (“My sister, what about my sister, what will she say?”), but he remembers staying silent. They say your first thought after death reveals what’s most important to you, so what does that say about Reggie? (He isn’t quite sure anyone actually says that, but it seems right.) He remembers his flurry of thoughts (of guilt and grief mixed with some strange sense of contentment and relief) and it pains him to remember how selfish he was. (“Now I won’t be caught in the middle of all their fights, now I won’t have to keep them together, now I can be with my friends all I want without feeling guilty about staying out too late, now I don’t have to be scared of their shouting anymore.”) And he remembers not knowing what to do, remembers freezing in place and watching in horror as Alex continues to cry.
He thinks about when they all fell out of the sky, landed in their - Julie’s - studio, found out that 25 years had passed. (“We were going to be legends…” he thinks when she tells them the truth, shock written on all of their faces.) He thinks about how everything, during a rare few moments, felt the same as when they were alive. He thinks about how his house is gone, everything is gone, his life (ha) is gone. He thinks about Luke and Alex making an attempt to cheer him up, thinks about how everything felt good during that moment when they were singing together, and thinks about how good it would’ve been to perform for real. (But they can’t and everything is gone and god, he never should’ve opened his mouth. Never should’ve made that comment, never should’ve jinxed it.) He thinks about their performance with Julie, thinks about how good it felt to be seen by everyone, and he’s happy for a moment, joy filling his mind. But it vanishes when they find out about Bobby (or Trevor), and for a split second, he wonders. (“Could we have died because of Bobby? Could he have gotten us killed in order to steal our songs?” He shakes the thought off quickly - no way would he do that.)
He thinks about meeting Caleb, about the Hollywood Ghost Club, about ditching Julie and the dance, and here comes the guilt all over again. (“I should’ve paid attention to the time,” he mutters to himself, but Alex shoves his shoulder and tells him to knock it off. “It’s not just on you, Reg.”) He thinks about Luke and his family, about Unsaid Emily, about everything they left behind and it hurts. (It stings like a paper cut at first before becoming something that aches.) He thinks about everything they were supposed to do, and he thinks about it even more with every jolt from the stamp. He thinks about their Orpheum performance, of breaking free from Caleb and his stupid ghost club, of the fear of not passing on, of appearing in the studio to let Julie believe they were gone. He thinks about how something compelled him to respond to her, an apology for trying to trick her being replaced by a “You’re welcome” as he lay on the ground. He thinks about how she saved them somehow, their stamps disappearing into the air, and he thinks that maybe everything will be okay. (There is peace with them afterwards, relief and joy instead of grief and pain. Reggie knows it.)
Some days, Reggie can’t even remember if they’d made it to the hospital before they died. But it doesn’t matter anymore - their afterlife has become so much more than their deaths.