Archive of Our Own

You were fascinated with her. There hadn't ever been a time in which you had seen a house who was "alive", for lack of a better term. There were houses with personality, of course-- the neighbourhood was full of them. But when people described a home with a personality, they meant the design, the colour scheme, the interior; everything that really meant the personality of the person who inhabited it.

But Home was alive. A puppet all of it's own, with thoughts and dreams and an uncanny knack with chess (seriously-- you had no idea how he did it. But you and Frank hardly ever won against them). A stationary neighbour whom Wally lived in. Lived with. Could you consider them roommates if Wally lived in a room and Home technically was the room?

Most of your friends in the neighbourhood gave the abode polite greetings as they passed by. Barnaby occasionally talked to the house as Wally did, telling her about his day. Wally, of course, constantly chatted with his home.

Now, you didn't exactly understand Home when they "spoke". Being that they communicated mainly with squeaks, and creaks, and fluttering shutters and shingles and all sorts of other movements when you were inside, you usually relied on Wally or Barnaby to tell you what Home was saying.

But as of late, you'd been hanging out with them more. He was a lovely presence when you wanted someone to sit by but not talk to. It sounded a little rude, but you knew that Home liked it. He was usually left out of the typical shenanigans that you and your fellows got up to because, well, he couldn't move from his position. Being a house and all.

As much as said shenanigans was fun, certainly, once in a while you preferred a slower sort of day. And if Wally was busy, then you'd hang out with Home instead. It was a funny sort of set up on the outside, sure, informal and infrequent. But though you couldn't quite understand Home word for word, the more time you spent around them the better you got at understanding the meaning of their sounds. 

Home was quite expressive when one paid attention. Their eyes and curtain eyelids let them portray a lot of emotions, and though his windows were quite static he could almost warp and flex them, just so, wider or flatter than before. He could wiggle his shutters and siding as well, and the shingles could flutter and the chimney could wobble. She could settle on her foundations, and rattle her doorknob, and let out all sorts of sounds through the animation of her front door.

When inside Home, it was a little subtler. You had learned that their eyes did not stray from the two at the front, but they could feel you inside them with near pinpoint accuracy. Her floorboards could ripple, nearly springing up from the floor sometimes. The walls could shudder, and the rafters could squirm. The fire in the fireplace was a part of him, not always stoked-- but when it was the flames could even conjure images! Faster "speech" with the pops and crackles of the firewood, but only a murmur with the embers. 

Home only had a limited ability to interact with objects within them. Doors and cabinets and drawers were things they could open, but any sort of furniture was usually static. Same with utensils, or minor kitchenware. Any decoration was like jewelry on a person; just for looks. 

But he could touch you if he wanted to. You'd seen Wally pressed between the front door and it's doorframe, his arms hanging limply by his side in the way they did when he hugged anyone, and his cardigan wrinkled from the gentle force of Home pressing her door into him.

You'd had Home's curtains brush against you when walking by her windows during your time within her, hanging out with Wally and the others. The walls occasionally pressing back against you when you leaned against them.

Again, despite not knowing what Home had to say, you had a pretty good hunch that he liked you much in the same way he liked Barnaby. Wally sometimes confirmed it when Home asked you questions through him; appearing almost surprised, but quickly settling into a warm happiness whenever it happened. Apparently, they didn't ask much about anyone else.

You felt a little giddy knowing that you were closer to them than most in the neighbourhood. It was somewhat of a purposeful thing; you had felt the needle-like teeth of sympathy when Home had performed in the play that Poppy was to star in, realizing with a bit of guilt that you had really put them out of your mind as a ninth neighbour. So, you had begun to spend your quiet days with her, sometimes talking and sometimes not. And over time you noticed that she would flutter her shingles whenever you came by, front door flapping and eyes blinking rapidly. 

And every day you spent with them, you felt as if you understood them a little better. Maybe one day you'd be as fluent as Barnaby or Wally! But you were content with what you knew for now. There was plenty more quiet days ahead, after all.

"Hey Home?" you asked, looking up from the crossword you had been stuck on for the past few minutes. You were sitting close to their flower bushes,

Said abode blinked at you, their curtains rolling down, then up. They leaned to one side, then the other, foundations creaking long and low.

Creeeeaaaakkk, creeeeaaaaakkk

A questioning response, a "what is it?".

You smiled up at them, warmly.

"I love you."

Home stared at you, blinking once, and then their chimney shifted; a big cloud of smoke puffed out, quite suddenly. You jolted, staring up at it as it floated away; it had the distinct shape of a heart.

Their door opened, doorknob twisting quickly. You looked down and watched as he opened and closed it at the same cadence and speed you had spoke.

Squeak squeak squeeeaakk

23 across: Where the heart is

With another little laugh, you penned in HOME.