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A part of Regulus always feels out of place in his own skin, but the overwhelming sense of alienation is almost more than he can bear. The carpet scratches the soles of his feet, makes them itch in that specific way that feels like insects crawling up his ankles, and he fights the urge to drop the box of kitchen utensils just to scratch at the sensation spreading beneath his skin like fire ants tunneling through his nerve endings.
"I fucking hate this place," Regulus hisses, dropping the box hard enough that it hits the table with a crack that echoes through the empty rooms. It's a bit of a wonder the damn thing doesn't break, the wood doesn't splinter under the impact, perhaps it's charmed, but he feels guilty all the same. His mother would have hexed him for treating furniture like that. His mother would have hexed him for a lot of things lately.
James looks up from where he's crouching in front of the shelves, labeling them with that blasted Muggle label-maker he found at the second-hand shop, the one that prints letters in blue on white tape that looks cheap and temporary and everything Regulus has spent his life learning to despise. His face is flushed, sweat glistens on his neck in the afternoon light streaming through windows that desperately need curtains. Despite the mid-summer heat that turns the air thick and soup-like, James is still wearing dark jeans and a hoodie, and Regulus wants to punch him for it. Wants to shake him and demand to know how he can be so comfortable in his own body, in this space, in this life they're trying to build out of cardboard boxes and secondhand furniture.
"What?" James says, his eyes wide and startled, almost like a deer in the headlights, though Regulus would never admit to thinking something so trite. There's confusion written across his features, genuine bewilderment at Regulus's sudden venom, like he hasn't learned yet that Regulus lashes out when he feels cornered.
"It's too... I don't know. It's so... brown." Regulus wrinkles his nose, flopping down onto the couch with less grace than a Black should ever display. The cushions wheeze under his weight, probably releasing decades of accumulated dust directly into his lungs.
"Brown is all the rage," James offers half-heartedly, like he's reading from a script he doesn't quite believe. Regulus doesn't fault him. He has these moods often enough that placating him is becoming an impossible task, a losing battle James keeps fighting anyway for reasons Regulus can't quite understand. He glares at the faded sofa, taking in every detail with the kind of hyperfocus that usually means he's about to spiral. It's an ugly mustard color, covered in small embroidered flowers that are supposed to look cheerful but just look cheap, and then he glances over at James, whose eyebrows are knitted together like he's just tasted something unpleasant. His lower lip sticks out slightly in what would be a pout if it didn't look so genuinely distressed. He sighs, defeated in a way that makes Regulus feel like he's kicked a puppy.
"You liked it during the tour."
Regulus makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, continuing to look around like he's cataloging evidence for a crime scene. It's all browns and mustards, burnt oranges, and deep shades of sienna, whatever the fuck that is. It's so Muggle it's practically offensive, so aggressively normal that it makes his teeth ache. He doesn't hate Muggles. Not really. Not anymore. He hates that he doesn't hate them, hates that his carefully constructed worldview crumbled like wet parchment the moment he actually met one, and that his mother hates him for it. Would disown him if she knew. Probably has already, in her mind.
The house is small. *Cozy,* the realtor called it with that bright smile that seemed painted on her face. There are two bedrooms and a study on the upper floor, rooms barely big enough to qualify as cupboards by Black family standards, and downstairs is a living room, a dining room, and a kitchen that all blur together into one continuous space. There's even a cellar that James thinks he can transform into a bit of a lab, though he doesn't seem overly excited about that either. Nothing about this place screams excitement. It screams settling. Compromise. Growing up.
"It's too domestic," Regulus mutters, his mouth twisting around the word like it's something foul, like spoiled meat he's trying not to swallow. "Too... grown up. We're too grown up." The statement hangs in the air between them, heavy with implications he's not ready to examine. They're eighteen. Barely adults. Playing house in a Muggle neighborhood where no one knows their names or their families or the war happening just beneath the surface of the magical world.
James frowns, that little crease appearing between his eyebrows that Regulus has memorized without meaning to, and stands up. His knees crack slightly, loud in the quiet of the room. He crosses the space between them, just three steps in this tiny living room, and takes a seat next to Regulus on the couch. The springs groan under the added weight. He doesn't speak at first, and Regulus is content with that. Grateful for it, even. As long as they don't speak, they can ignore the weight of what Regulus just said. Can pretend this is just another bad mood that will pass like weather.
James takes Regulus's hands in his, his fingers warm and callused from Quidditch, his thumb rubbing across Regulus's knuckles in slow circles that ground him like an anchor. "That's workable. We can work with that."
James's voice soothes Regulus in a way nothing else can, and he grounds himself in the specific details of him, cataloging them like items on a list that might save his life someday. The subtle scent of bergamot that clings to James's skin from that soap he insists on using even though it's expensive and they're supposed to be budgeting. The timbre of his voice, warm and low and steady like a heartbeat. The couch creaks as James shifts his weight, springs protesting with a sound like a small animal dying, and the thing is so old that it dips in the center like a crater, causing them to tumble into each other with a series of undignified noises that would have mortified Regulus's mother. Regulus elbows James in the ribs until he's properly situated, ignoring James's grunt of protest, then flops down onto the couch and buries his face in James's lap. The denim is warm from James's body heat and smells faintly of laundry detergent and something distinctly James that Regulus has never been able to name.
James strokes Regulus's hair like it's second nature, like he was born knowing exactly how to do this, fingers carding through the dark strands with a gentleness that makes Regulus's chest ache, and it's all too much for him. The tenderness of it. The casual intimacy. The way James just knows what he needs without being told. He feels the tears coming before he can stop them, hot and humiliating, and then his nose is stuffy and his throat is tight, and he has to swallow twice, three times before he can speak again. "It's too real. Like we're going to stay here. And do adult things. And be married or something." The words come out thick and wet, muffled against James's thighs. "It's like..." He stumbles over his words, reaching into the void for the right ones, for something that will make James understand the panic clawing at his ribcage. "Like the whole world is moving forward without us ever getting to have a proper childhood."
James is still quiet, still stroking Regulus's hair with those patient, methodical movements that should be soothing but somehow make everything worse because they're so gentle, so careful, so completely at odds with everything Regulus learned growing up. It's almost unsettling. Regulus has never had someone in his life who did this for him, who just let him cry, or rant, or whatever it is he needs at the moment without trying to fix it or punish him for feeling it. His mother would have hexed the tears right out of him. Sirius would have made a joke to deflect. But James just sits there, solid and warm and present, like he has all the time in the world. When James speaks, Regulus almost doesn't hear him over the sound of his own breathing. "It's a bit late to have a proper childhood, innit?"
"Aye. It's not fair." Regulus mumbles into James's thighs, the words barely intelligible. The material of his trousers feels rough and uncomfortable against Regulus's cheeks, which are wet with tears and probably leaving damp patches on the denim that James will pretend not to notice later.
"I know," James murmurs, and there's something in his voice that sounds like he's holding back his own tears, like this grief is shared between them even if they experience it differently. "Deep breaths, love."
James's voice is soft, barely above a whisper, and his hands are warm where they rest against Regulus's scalp, and Regulus has the vague idea that if he were to look up at James right now, his face would be all scrunched up the way it gets when he's trying not to cry, eyes bright with unshed tears and that crease between his eyebrows deepening. Regulus isn't quite sure what there would be for James to cry about. James had a childhood. James had parents who loved him and summers that felt endless and the kind of innocence that Regulus has only ever read about in books. But maybe that's exactly why James would cry, because he knows what Regulus lost, what was taken from him before he even understood it was supposed to be his. They sit like that for a moment longer, Regulus's face buried in James's lap, James's fingers steady in his hair. He can hear James's steady heartbeat through the layers of fabric, and the tick of the clock in the kitchen counting down seconds like they're running out of time. It's so mundane it makes him want to scream, want to break something just to prove they're still alive, still capable of leaving marks on the world.
"We can make it work, Reg."
"I'm tired, James." The words slip out before Regulus can stop them, heavy with meanings he's not sure he can articulate even to himself.
It's not the first time Regulus has said those words to James, not even close, but they still weigh heavy in the air between them like a physical thing. A confession. A warning. A plea.
"Take a nap." James's voice is gentle, practical, missing the point entirely or maybe choosing to miss it on purpose.
Regulus makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, something broken and wet that catches in his throat, and he curls his fingers in James's belt loops, holding on like James might disappear if he lets go. "I don't mean, I don't know what I mean. I'm just tired." Tired of running. Tired of pretending. Tired of feeling like he's always one wrong move away from losing everything. Tired of being afraid.
"Of me?" James asks, his tone much lighter than it has any right to be, like he's trying to pull Regulus back from whatever edge he's standing on.
"Don't be daft, Potter. You're not so bad." Regulus's voice is muffled but the fondness comes through anyway, rough and reluctant and absolutely genuine.
"High praise indeed, from Lord Black himself." James's hand is in Regulus's hair now, fingers finding that spot at the nape of his neck and scratching gently, the way he's learned Regulus likes. The touch sends shivers down Regulus's spine, makes his shoulders relax despite everything. Regulus lets himself sink further into James, boneless and heavy, as if they could somehow manage to become one person instead of two separate people trying desperately to figure out how to share a life.
"I really think we'll figure it out," James says once more, and his voice is so certain, so absolutely convinced that Regulus almost believes him. It's what Regulus has always admired about James and, at the same time, hated him for. How he can just decide to be brave when the world around him is burning, when everything is falling apart, when the sensible thing would be to run. Maybe that's how you become brave, Regulus thinks. Not by being unafraid, but by choosing to keep going anyway. When the only choice you have left is to go on living, or die trying.
"Maybe." Regulus's throat is tight, constricted like someone's wrapped their hands around it, and he feels the weight of it all pressing down on his chest until he can barely breathe. The war that's tearing their world apart. His family with their impossible expectations and their casual cruelty. James with his stupid bravery and his ridiculous optimism. This house that he can't quite bring himself to call home, can't quite let himself believe in. Because no matter how nice the furniture, or how many bookshelves James labels with that absurd Muggle machine, or how many boxes they unpack, the only way he knows how to think of home is a cold, dark brownstone in London steeping in decay and arsenic green wallpaper and the particular silence that comes from a place where love is conditional and affection is a weapon.
"We should get another cat," James says after a long while, after the silence has stretched thin and comfortable between them.
"We barely know how to take care of one," Regulus counters automatically, but there's no heat in it.
James laughs, and Regulus can feel it rumble through his chest, vibrating against Regulus's cheek. "Yeah, but Diogenes is Diogenes."
"Diogenes is going to murder us both in our sleep, mark my words." The cat in question is probably lurking somewhere in the house right now, plotting their demise with the single-minded dedication of a serial killer. Regulus had bought him as a tiny, slightly wrong-looking kitten before his first year at Hogwarts, all oversized ears and crossed eyes, and the creature has spent the last six years nursing a grudge against existence itself. The personality, it turns out, has only gotten worse with age.
"Nah, we're too much fun." James is smiling. Regulus can hear it in his voice, feel it in the way James's body has relaxed beneath him, tension draining away like water. James's fingers brush across his forehead, gentle and deliberate, and he feels the rasp of calluses on his skin, rough patches earned from hours of Quidditch practice, as his thumb glides down his cheek to pull at his bottom lip. The lip parts involuntarily at the touch, muscle memory responding before his brain catches up, and Regulus's breath catches in his throat.
"You're impossible," Regulus mumbles against James's thumb, and James laughs again, bright and unguarded and so full of life that it hurts to hear. The room feels warmer somehow, sunlight streaming through the bare windows at a different angle now, painting everything gold. The couch is still the worst thing that Regulus has ever seen, hideous and sagging and probably harboring decades of dust mites. Their cat definitely hates them, has drawn blood on three separate occasions. The walls are brown and the carpet is scratchy and nothing about this place looks like the elegant manors Regulus grew up visiting. But maybe James is right. Maybe they can paint the walls. Maybe they can buy new furniture eventually. Maybe they can fill this space with books and arguments and lazy Sunday mornings until it stops feeling like a house they're borrowing and starts feeling like something that belongs to them. Maybe they can make this place a home after all.