Work Text:
"Reginald!" Rings a feminine voice from downstairs. It's barely audible to the ears of a sleeping teenager.
The owner groans, rolls onto his other side, and hopes for a few minutes more in the warm bed. Is that too much to ask? He tries to slip back into the dream; the same one about the sweet girl singing into a lollipop.
A hand pats down on the nightstand next to the bed. A few slaps against the wood tells the boy the alarm clock wasn't in it’s usual spot. Eyes shoot open with panic not feeling the clock. Across the room sits the dead digital clock. The batteries ran out last night, he remembers. No effort was made to change them last night.
'What time is it? ' He thinks.
"Reginald Peters!" The voice repeats louder.
His mother's voice only digs him deeper in a hole of panic. It has to be past seven. There was no other reason why she's screaming his name — his full name, in fact. He slept in.
There is no way he is going to be tardy again. Last week's tardy slip only caused a disappointing conversation with his father. He didn't need that again.
Quickly, he throws off the blankets and steps out of bed. Tired eyes do not grasp the fact that one leg is wrapped in the blankets when he tries to stand up. The blankets are all that he could blame when he watches the wall merge with the floor. Thud!
A groan escapes the teen when his chest slams into the floor. His head even made out with the carpet. A ringing headache starts to form in his head. His head turns to his bed. He had pulled off all the blankets with him. There was no time to fix that.
"If you are not out of bed in–"
"I'm out of bed!" He cuts her off.
Reggie knows better than to interrupt any of his parents, but his brain was still asleep. There was no stopping his mouth from working. All he could do was hope there wouldn't be any repercussions from what he had just done.
Silence echoes for a minute as Reggie waits. Nothing. Maybe he’s safe. He takes this advantage and changes. Discarding the pajama pants and exchanging them for some jeans that have seen better days. He searches the drawers for a clean shirt and comes up empty. The floors have collected most of the shirts. Laundry day was overdue. His closet has a few shirts that could work, but they were too overdressed for high school. Hands grab the first shirt he sees. He's in such a rush he throws it on backward. A jacket hides the mistake.
Once changed, the teen grabs the red backpack in the corner and throws it over his shoulder. One check over in the mirrors helps the teen figure out what was missing. Hair gets both hands to comb through to get it slicked back.
"Reginald, if you don't leave now!" His mother shouts from the kitchen. She continues to go off about how he will be tardy, but Reggie has learned to ignore his parents' voices.
He takes one good look around before grabbing the guitar case that sits in the corner of his bedroom. He couldn't forget that. Once he knows he has everything, he rushes out of his room and down the stairs.
His mother was standing in the kitchen working on making Steve's lunch. The butter knife — covered in peanut butter — in her hand became a threat to her older son when he made his way down the stairs.
"And where are you taking your guitar to?" Her voice shoots darts to Reggie.
There was a rule with his bass that he promised his parents the day he received it: do not lose it. If so, he would never get another. When it came to bringing it anywhere, his mother would question him to drill the rule back down inside him.
His eyes shoot over to the digital clock on the microwave. Mentally, he curses to himself. He barely has enough time to answer. He does what feels the easiest.
"Bye, mom!" He avoids the answer.
He grabs his shoes and rushes out the door. Her voice follows him until the front door slams shut. He thanks the door.
School is a sanctuary to Reggie. Yes, it has its own demons, but his parents weren't there. Sure there was James — who would probably threaten him at his locker before math — but he doesn't call him a useless kid. There is his history report he knows he failed, but that didn't remind him of the financial issues. School is heaven.
His bike is his only transportation to school. Both his guitar case and backpack hold onto his back as he races there. Los Feliz High School is about a thirty minute bike ride. Though Reggie is fueled with fear of being late and half-annoyance from his mother, meaning he might make it in twenty. He takes every shortcut he knows. First through the park, which causes him to run a red light, then cuts through every other backyard on the way there.
Twenty-seven minutes, that's how long it takes for Reggie to reach the bike stand. As he climbs off his bike, the school bell rings through campus. A sigh slips, but he knew this was unavoidable. His hands quickly lock up his bike before heading in. Luckily, his first class wasn't too far from the entrance of the school.
All eyes raise as Reggie opens the door to the science classroom. Mr. Hoffmann passes out the worksheets when he speaks up to address the late comer.
"Late again, Mr. Peters. Detention after school." He states, continuing passing the papers.
The teen gives a silent nod for his answer before shuffling to his desk. He sets his backpack on the table before sitting down. His hands pull the zippers away from each other to reveal a bag of a hundred loose papers. Organization is not a key to the kid.
The boy next to him watches. Hazel eyes travel from the exploding bag to the guitar case. Questions bubble up in his mind, but are popped when Mr. Hoffmann speaks up.
"You'll be working on this assignment with the student next to you. This should take about half the class. If you have any questions, resort to your textbook or raise your hand."
The class falls silent for a few moments before the students realize they could begin. Small chatter fills the classroom from students. Everyone knows that Mr. Hoffmann is one of the stricter teachers at Los Feliz. If the volume got above a whisper in a group, points would be deducted, or so the rumor goes.
"You play?" The kid asks, trying to make small talk.
"Play what?" Reggie questions.
"Guitar." The kid points towards the case.
Reggie glances over at his case and then realizes. Who knows what else the kid could've been talking about.
"Oh yeah. Well bass, but I've fiddled with a banjo and guitar before. Very similar." It takes a minute to get to Reggie that the other only wanted a yes or no answer. This makes him lower his head to the assignment.
The brunette gives a nod before working as well. All he does is write his name – which is barely legible – before Reggie stops him. Never has he seen such atrocious handwriting. He can't even make out the other's name.
"How about I write uh…" he starts. When he tries to address the other, he guesses at what he wrote down.
"Lul-cu?" He knows that couldn't be his name. Never has he heard Mr. Hoffmann call out that or anything close to it.
The kid stares at Reggie. "It's Luke."
"Right. Sorry. I'm Reggie." He says. "Luke, maybe I should write it?" He suggests, trying to make sure there weren't any hard feelings from what he said.
"Yeah. Probably a good idea."
Luke knew that his handwriting was terrible, but was it that bad the kid couldn't read his name? His friend always rewrites the lyrics just to make sure he was singing the right words. If he remembers, he'll be asking Bobby about his handwriting during practice.
The problem with Luke is, he can't focus on the assignment. He reads one of the questions four times, but his mind keeps jumping to the case. It takes every bit of himself to drag his attention back to the assignment. Those hazel eyes of his keeps darting back to the case. What was in there?
It had to be his bass guitar. What color was it though? Could be a classic black or a marble styled one. His mind races to the number of strings. Was it a four-stringed bass or was there more? Luke has seen a six-stringed bass before. Maybe that's what Reggie plays.
It's curiosity that causes Luke to speak up and avoid the assignment. It was a simple question. Two seconds. That's all it would take to answer.
"What's in there?"
Reggie puts his pencil down when he hears him. He turns his attention to his lab partner. "In the case?"
Luke nods. He needs the answer.
Reggie glances over to Mr. Hoffmann— who is lost in the sea of yesterday's labs he is grading — to make sure this intermission was fine. He climbs off the stool before sitting on the floor with the case in front of him. Fingers carefully unzip the case completely. He looks back at Luke to make sure he is ready to see.
He lifts the top over and reveals —
"Ramen?!" Luke's voice comes out louder than he wishes. Eyes are wide and stare at, what looks like, forty single packages of ramen noodles.
The groups adjacent to them hear Luke's voice and glance over. Even they are in shock, yet confused, on why there is a guitar case full of ramen noodles. Then again, they realized the kid who brought it is Reggie. The same kid who once brought a water bottle full of orange jello for lunch.
Reggie nods. "Yeah. Well, my bass one is at home. My dad would kill me if I brought that to school." He knew when he gets home he'll be getting an earful of the ramen and his guitar.
Luke tries to shake it off. Here he thought he found a bassist for a band he is forming, but instead he finds the class weirdo. There is no harm in asking anyway.
"Well how about we meet up and we play something, if you're free this weekend." He proposes.
Green eyes light up as he hears the idea. It has been too long since Reggie had ever been invited to hang out with anyone outside of school. This is a better excuse than going to the beach again to avoid his parents. There is no way he could say no.
He closes the guitar case as he replies. "Yeah, that'd be wicked!"
He shoots a toothy grin towards the other. Crooked teeth doesn't make it any better, but it is one of the brightest smiles Luke has seen.
Mr. Hoffmann clears his throat. Neither of the two notice that their teacher has walked up to them during their off-topic conversation. He had been standing over the two for a few minutes now.
"Are you two finished with your assignment?" The glare he launches at them could scare the devil.
Reggie shoots up like a stock of corn and hides the case as best he could, failing at so. It was too late anyway. Mr. Hoffmann has raised a brow due to the guitar case. Being a teacher means he has seen things very similar to this, though a guitar case of ramen packets is a new one.
Luke is the one who breaks the silence in the classroom and answers his teacher's question. "No, sir. We are on it." He spins to face the right way in the chair and starts to work on the assignment.
Both students pray that they wouldn't be feeling Mr. Hoffmann's wrath. Fear of being thrown into detention with him sprints in both Luke's and Reggie's minds. Ideas sparkle in their minds of ways the teacher could torture them. Would it be scraping the underside of the lab tables? Maybe it is to clean the freshman's biology slides. Any idea was better than what the teens were producing.
A nod is all he gives to two before walking back to his desk. "You have ten minutes before we move onto spontaneous reactions." He addresses the class.
Luke glances at Reggie once he is back in his seat, helping him answer the questions. "Saturday at three," He whispers before sliding a slip of paper with an address written on it.
Reggie takes the paper with a nod. "See you there," He murmurs back before he helps on the assignment.