Memories - wc: 462 - Starchaser - @accio-sriracha @rosiesangel @leeny-leens
James stands in the quiet of an empty house, dust caught in the golden light filtering through sheer curtains. It has been years since Regulus left—since he disappeared into the void of war, of choices neither of them understood at the time.
He exhales sharply, lifting a trembling hand to brush against the spine of an old book on the shelf. A familiar title. One he swears they read together, curled up in a too-small armchair, limbs tangled, whispers exchanged between the pages. But was that true? He remembers Regulus' voice, the soft lilt of it as he read aloud, but maybe it was just a dream. Maybe it was never his voice at all.
Memories are a fickle thing.
James remembers the first time Regulus had let him hold his hand in the open, in the safety of the dark, under the canopy of a night sky that stretched endlessly above them. Regulus had been hesitant, his fingers curling inward as if second-guessing the moment. But James remembers squeezing, remembers the way Regulus let go of a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. James remembers the warmth, the way their hands fit together like they were always meant to.
Sirius, though, tells him otherwise.
"Regulus never did that," he had said one night, after too many drinks and too much silence between them. "He wasn't like you, James. He wouldn't have risked it."
James wants to argue, but the truth wedges itself between his ribs. Was it real? Did Regulus ever hold his hand like that, or was James just wishing, just rewriting the past into something softer than it ever was?
He turns the pages of the book, but the words blur together.
He remembers Regulus laughing. That much, at least, he’s certain of. He remembers the rare, unguarded moments where Regulus had let the weight of the world slip from his shoulders and allowed himself to be young, to be free. James can still hear the sound of it, crisp and bright, the way it had felt like something holy.
Or does he?
Regulus, if he were here, might scoff. Might shake his head with that fond, exasperated expression he used to wear when James said something ridiculous. He might say, "I never laughed like that. You're romanticizing things again."
James presses his forehead against the bookshelf and closes his eyes.
It doesn’t matter, does it? Whether his memories are true or not, whether they align with anyone else’s. Whether Regulus ever held his hand under the stars, whether his laughter was bright, whether they ever read this book together. Regulus is gone. And James—James is left with nothing but memories, fickle and fleeting, slipping through his fingers like sand.
And he holds onto them anyway.
