Woooh. I don't know, man. I own nothing.
Sam just didn't talk, and it wasn't like that was a big deal or anything. He carried a small whiteboard with him everywhere and Jess had a friend in high school whose little brother was deaf, so she knew a little ASL. She taught herself more when she and Sam started to get closer, and so when he finally asked her out months later he did so by signing, not by writing, because it was easier and faster and he was ridiculously, adorably happy that she learned his language just for him, and if Jess could make him happy like that all the time she'd learn any language he wanted.
So yeah. Sam didn't talk. Whatever. But he wasn't mute. And Jess kind of hated when people said he was. And she kind of really hated when he nodded and smiled at them like they were right and he was grateful that they understood and that they were labeling him like that.
'Cause see, being mute would mean that Sam was unable to make noise at all. And if Sam was mute, he wouldn't be able to make that little gasping noise she had identified as a laugh, and he wouldn't be able to hum just shy of silently when they cuddled on the couch, and he wouldn't be able to go "tcheh tcheh tcheh" under his breath when he got stuck on his homework.
(He also wouldn't be able to whimper in his sleep, and those were the only times that Jess maybe wished he was mute, because no one should have to sound like that, especially her sweet Sam with the family he didn't talk to and the scars he didn't talk about.)
But anyways, Sam wasn't mute and it wasn't fair that people called him that, but the first time she corrected someone ("His name's Sam, yes we are dating, and what do you mean, mute? Sam's not mute.") he cornered her later and asked her not to.
If people think I can't talk, they don't try to make me, he had explained, and she had frowned.
"I never did, and I know you're not mute."
He had smiled. Well you're special, J-baby.
The nickname sounded stupid and sort of pimp-y out loud, but when Sam signed it, it was just sweet.
She asked him, just once, why he didn't talk. They were sprawled on the couch in their new apartment, and they were both exhausted from lugging the stupid thing and all their other furniture around, and the question just slipped out.
Sam froze.
I... He pointed at himself, then stopped.
"No, babe, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked, I just wasn't thinking-"
He waved a hand as though he could physically shoo the words away. Okay, he signed slowly. You're okay.
She couldn't figure out what about this made her eyes fill. "No, Sam, I'm sorry, I know you don't talk about it, or, I mean, crap, sign or-or write, or, um..."
Sam didn't shush her, he just started signing and she had to quit babbling to pay attention. I was fourteen, he told her, eyes somber and movements jerky. Something bad happened. Bad. He clapped his hands together so hard on the last word that it echoed in the otherwise silent apartment. And no one heard me scream, so I stopped screaming.
"Sam," she whispered, and crap, why was he the one holding her? Wasn't she supposed to comfort him after he told her about something in his past that was so traumatic it made him stop speaking for the next seven years?
"'M sorry," she mumbled against his chest. "I shouldn't've..."
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and traced a heart on her back and stayed silent.
Sam had nightmares for the next three nights, waking wild-eyed and shaking, and Jess held him and knew better than to ask. Sam wouldn't say anything if she did.