The Sound
(AU)
Words: 1,875
Rated: T
In a world without sound, Mello is loud. Maybe that's why I've always been so drawn to him. His very presence is welcome white noise, nails on a chalk board, wind through leaves, cars on asphalt. Everything that I miss, every day of my life, he is.
It's hard to explain to people who can hear. I'll try though, because I know how you feel; I could hear once too. But here it goes: Every person who I meet has a sort of signature. Not the kind you sign on a credit card slip, but the kind that you feel in the air. It's colors and vibrations and with Mello it's noisy. No one else's presence screams to me like his does.
I don't know when this started exactly, because we've been next door neighbors for forever. At age six, fate tied us together and decided that we would not just live in neighboring houses, but that our second story bedroom windows would face each other. At age six I could still hear, but that was ten years ago. At the time I didn't realize that my Dad's job transfer was the most important event in my life because it placed me right next to the boy I'd fall in love with. Not that he knows that, but it doesn't change the facts.
At six years old we were friends. We were on the same tee ball team, and we rode our bikes up and down the street after dinner. At age seven, when the world went quiet, Mello was the only one who didn't seem intimidated by my difficulty communicating. I'd always been shy, I guess, so when you suddenly can't understand what people are saying, it's easy to become even more introverted. But Mello was there. A seven year old, who could have been playing kickball and teasing girls, was with me at my sign language classes.
Things are better now than when I first went deaf. I'm back in public school, a necessary step to "get me out of my shell." It didn't work all that well, because my only real friend is still Mello. But I can read lips, and my teachers make copies of their lessons for me in advance. I have a special tutor who knows sign language and helps me pass my classes. I don't mind high school, and it certainly could be a lot worse.
For the last ten years I've kept my bedroom curtains open almost all the time. I'm lying on my stomach on my bed now, reading Beowulf for English class on Monday. I don't see Mello enter his room across the space between our windows so much as sense it, and I glance up from the page I'm skimming. Mello is in the process of slamming his bedroom door shut, yelling words I can't hear. I prefer not to read people's lips when they aren't talking to me; it feels like an invasion of privacy for some reason. Like they expect me to not know what they're saying when they're not talking to me, so actually knowing what they said is overstepping some unspoken boundary. Force of habit, I guess.
I focus on Mello's body language instead, which is all rigid and angry. Mello never hides what he's feeling. It's refreshing. I cringe a little, though, when he picks up something off his desk and throws it against the wall. It was his pencil holder, because I see pencils go scattering around the room.
I scoot off the bed, abandoning my book to instead grab the yellow legal notepad that I keep by the window; I buy them in bulk, so it's only like 75 cents a pad. I sit down on the edge of the bed again after I grab a sharpie — also bought in bulk.
Mello is doing something similar across the way in his bedroom. He's already seen me, and knows what I'm doing. I pull off the sharpie cap with my teeth, scribbling, 'Is everything okay?' and holding up the pad of paper for him to see.
Mello grimaces, writing his reply. I can always tell Mello's tone by the way he writes and holds up the paper; it's like reading inflections in a person's voice. When Mello all but slams the paper against the window, his bold writing saying, 'Shit's fucked up,' it's his writing equivalent of yelling.
I flip to the next page, writing in clear, slanted script, 'Want to get out?' When I hold up the paper he just nods, already getting to his feet. He holds up ten fingers, telling me in our own language that he'll be ten minutes. I just half wave to let him know I saw, and I look around for my shoes. I pull the worn converse sneakers on, then go to the side of my bed and lift up the mattress. Underneath is a stash of cigarettes I've been pilfering from my father's packs for ages. He started smoking just after I lost my hearing. I started smoking about a year after he did.
I grab the notepad and some extra sharpies, pulling on my jacket before heading downstairs. My parents aren't even home — it's Friday night, they have lives, I guess — so I just head for the backdoor.
Mello meets me outside just a few minutes later. It's cold, but not so cold that we want to go inside, even if my house is empty. He doesn't sign anything to me, even though he could if he wanted to. We just start walking, already knowing where we're going. The old field two streets over used to be a baseball diamond, but in the last decade it hasn't been used. We sit with our backs against the chain link fence, hips almost touching.
I hand him the paper and while he starts writing I get out the cigarettes. We could use sign language — hell, he's one of the few people in my life who actually bothered to learn it. But I think we like this better. I light up, taking a deep drag and exhaling into the cool night air. The streetlight a ways away casts a dim enough illumination over us that I can see his concentrated features as he writes. I don't read what he's writing until he hands it back; I ignore the parts that are scratched out.
He takes the lit cigarette that I offer him, dragging. I try not to think too hard about how his lips are where my lips were just a second ago. I focus on his scrawl instead, so familiar to me after all these years. It says, 'I told my parents tonight,' and my heart aches a little at that, because I understand his pain even if I haven't had the same courage to talk to my parents. 'They flipped out. Dad said he doesn't want a fag for a son. My Mom wouldn't even look me in the eye. Dad said I should have waited until after Christmas to ruin fucking everyone's life, so at least they could have enjoyed the holiday without thinking about how much of a disappointment I am.'
He gives me back the cigarette, which I accept gratefully. After a moment's hesitation, I write underneath his words, 'Do you need to stay at my house?' because I'm a fucking awful friend and I can't think of anything better to help him.
He smiles weakly when he reads that over my shoulder, shaking his head no. "But thanks," he speaks for the first time, and I read the words on his lips. If there's anything good about being deaf, it's that it gives me a legitimate excuse to stare at Mello's mouth.
I just shrug, handing him back the cigarette, not even realizing I hadn't taken my drag until he laughs at me. It's a beautiful sight, when his lips curl up and I can almost, just almost hear the sound of his laughter. I bet it's amazing.
He takes his drag anyways, then grabs hold of my chin and pulls me closer. I lean into him, the color rising in my cheeks. Thank God it's dark outside. I already know what he's going to do, so I part my lips, trying to keep my breathing steady as he blows smoke into my mouth. And you wonder why I'm in love with him.
We part, my cheeks still flaming. We hadn't done that in a while. Usually cigarettes are just passed between us; the last time we shared smoke like that was when Mello got some weed from a guy at school. We don't do drugs, not really, but we tried it a few times just to say we had.
After exhaling the smoke that had been intimately nestled inside Mello's lungs, I take the cigarette from him. It's almost burned down to the filter, so I take the final drag and crush it into the dirt on my far side. Holding the smoke in my lungs burns, but I lean into him and he meets me halfway. This time I get to breathe into his mouth.
It was so much easier when we were high. First of all, I didn't have to think about it then. It just sort of happened. But here, when we're sober and it's dark and we're alone, it feels a lot more intimate. Maybe it has something to do with what Mello told his parents, too.
We go through another cigarette after that, taking turns, keeping the smoke to ourselves this time. We don't say anything, with words or letters or hands. It's quiet, as always, but I feel so right there with my hip pressed against his. I don't know when we shifted closer, but we did. I bite my lower lip, thinking for a long while.
Finally I pick up the pad of paper, my hand hovering over the sheet for a long while. I start writing, slowly and with measured strokes, 'I think…' but I scratch that out. To say 'I think' implies doubt, and I have none. Mello is watching the words as I form them on the paper, not rushing me. Still, I can feel his gaze on my hand, like he's waiting for its next move. I swallow, and he probably hears it. It felt loud, anyways. I mentally steel myself and write in careful script, 'I love you,' and I hand it to him before I can change my mind.
Mello looks at the paper, with all our scribbled sentences, scratched out misspellings and misthoughts, and just stares at it for a long moment. After what feels like an eternity he plucks the pen from my hand, writing quickly and handing the legal pad back to me. It says, simply, 'Took you long enough,' and then he smiles.
Despite my blushing, I'm smiling too. And when he kisses me it feels like we've done it a million times before in a thousand different lifetimes. And it doesn't matter that I can't hear him whisper my name or the rustling as he pushes my jacket off my shoulders because Mello is the loudest person I know, and I hear everything he's telling me.
AN: This one warmed my heart. =D I hope it gave you a little smile too! Wednesday is my last final, then I'm done until the end of January! I'll try to post again tomorrow, but I won't promise anything. Studying has been a bear. Thank goodness the end is in sight! You all have been so patient and kind. =D Thank you for everything, you make my holiday season so much brighter and encourage me to do the things I love. You guys are the best!
QOTD: How do you imagine the Wammy kids celebrated the holidays?
