home
This is how you build a home.
Regulus never had one. Not when he was little, anyway. Grimmauld Place was not a home but a house. An outline without color. Its foundation built on broken bones and twisted voices.
When Sirius and Regulus ran away, he hoped the Potters’ house would become a home. But still Potter Manor remained a house. A nicer house with brilliant colors, but Regulus didn’t fit. His colors were all wrong. Too dark and muddled; not enough brights. Not like Sirius, who smiled and lit up a room.
He hasn’t told James yet, but he remembers the moment when he finally found a home.
It wasn’t in the wood beams and framing of a house, but rather in the sinew and bone of a boy. In the spaces between his fingers where Regulus’ fit perfectly. In the shape of his mouth when he smiled, or the crinkle in the corner of his eyes when he laughed.
Even after the accident, when Regulus still didn’t know, he understood that James was—is—home.
The first time they kissed felt like stepping through the front door and dropping his bags in the foyer. Darling, I’m home.
The first time James found him in the kitchen making coffee (for himself) and tea (for James), there had been a stillness when James asked, You remember how I like my tea? and Regulus replied, With milk, because you’re awful. And when James hugged him, it was that feeling again—stepping through with a sigh because finally, there was nowhere else he needed to be.
He sees the flash of hurt each time he can’t remember the details. When James is too kind, loves him too much, to say that his heart breaks with each memory he holds but Regulus forgets.
I’m trying, Regulus wants to tell him, but he doesn’t want James to feel bad. I’m learning you all over again, but you’re still all I want.
Regulus may have only the outline and not all of the colors, but he’s doing his best to learn the shades.
He paints with new brushes and might not always get it right, but he knows that James is bright yellow or warm red or calming orange. Knows that he is always dark green or depthless blue or soft burgundy.
Regulus is made of colors that don’t light up a room, but that’s alright in the end. After all, the moon takes from the sun and the sun never asks for anything in return.
And James—well, he never asks Regulus for anything at all. Hurt flashes when Regulus doesn’t remember, but he doesn’t push. Knows there’s no point because it will take time. Years or the rest of their lives; no one knows for certain.
Regulus thinks the outline is enough to know that James has loved him for a long time, and he has loved James. Twice, he might add. For the outlines were enough to learn the colors, to fill in the spaces, to accept that he may not always know, but he can at least, with confidence, say,
I’m home.