Our Song || RWRB Oneshots

Two Homes Side by Side

RWRB ends with Alex unlocking the door to his childhood home...but what happened after that? This fic is Alex showing Henry round the house- I alternate perspectives so you get to see a bit of what they're both thinking!

Alex

The house looks just the same as it always has; the butter-yellow siding they'd all helped paint one day- Alex and June mainly throwing paint brushes at each other and shrieking in delight, and their parents laughing indulgently; the large bay windows under which there's still a stash of papers hidden, from late nights curled up with glasses on, studying them by torchlight; and the handprints in the sidewalk where their parents had turned their backs for a moment and looked back to find both Alex and June covered in rapidly drying concrete.

So many memories.

But now, Alex is making new ones.

Henry is one pace behind him, eyes gleaming like moons in the silver wash of the streetlight. All around them, stars are blinking into existence, and it's peaceful here- no fireworks blaze their trails across the sky, no cheering crowds fill the streets.

There's just him and Henry. Together. It's just them and the stars and the inky sky. And for the first time, they don't have to hide.

Alex finds the chain hanging around his neck; the key and the ring nestled in the hollow at the base of his throat, and he removes the key, watching as it glints in the moonlight for a moment. He crosses to the door. Fingers the faded number above it- painted on by June one day in Summer. He slots it into the keyhole, and unlocks the door.

***

This was Alex's home. Before his parents divorced; before his Mom ran for congress. He had been happy here. Alex knows he lived here once, but as he creaks the door open and peers around it, he can't help feeling as though he's looking at a museum.

The foyer is illuminated by a single crack of silvery light, flooding in from the open door. The light paints the creamy walls soft grey; the shadows in the corners, deepest black. Under a bench opposite the door, old shoes- gathering dust and skeletal cobwebs. Those are his Dad's boots; big, heavy, leather ones that Alex had always slipped his feet into when he was younger, pretending to be Oscar. His Mom's next to them- old, tattered sneakers bought long ago for a charity run and never touched again. Alex's and June's, side by side; grass-stained and well-worn. Exhibits in the museum of memories.

He moves past the shoes, grabs Henry's hand and squeezes it tightly, leading him inside.

Henry

There are traces of Alex scattered throughout the house- in the stack of lists and papers, stashed under the seat of the bay window in the living room, where Alex lifts it up to show him.

This place is part of Alex- and Henry thinks some part of Alex will always belong here. In Texas. In this house.

It feels infinitely special, Alex leading him through the dimly-lit corridor, up the stairs, showing Henry which steps to skip, where to skirt around a sharp nail poking up through the carpet. It feels fragile, and precious, and Henry barely dares to breathe. This place is like the V&A for Alex. Henry knows how much this must mean to him- understands the hitch in Alex's breath, the nerves that flit across his face on butterfly wings. He understands why he's worried, and he loves him even more for it.

They shed their shoes in the porch, and pad together down the corridor, past the living room and into the kitchen; slippery, once gleaming tiles coated with dust. Henry skids a little on the floor, and he watches as a little smile ghosts over the corner of Alex's mouth as he grabs Henry's arm and spins him around, stockinged feet gliding easily across the floor, like they're ice skating. Alex steadies himself against a cabinet, and Henry leans next to him, nudging their shoulders together and watching as Alex stares at the dirt-clogged sink, the fridge strung with tacky magnets and photographs of a younger Alex- smiling and laughing with his sister. He lets him think in silence, run a hand through his hair, let his head nestle against his shoulder.