He sat and glared out the window. His hearing had officially given out and now he was sat here not even able to tear at his ears. He would find himself humming, as he was want to when nervous, and he knows how it should sound—he had played, sung or even composed them in a few cases—but he can't hear it and it aches, it is like having his heart ripped out and crushed in front of him and he can't do anything about it.
He can't hear a thing. Not even his own breathing. There is a small part of him that wishes he had just died when that engine blew, because it would be easier and kinder than this broken existence.
Trapped in world of silence, not even a deafening silence that crushes, just empty nothingness. Blank lines on all sides that move in and trap him. He wants to reach out and crush them, to tear it all down and scream. Just scream and scream until the universe stops this sick joke, but he can't, in any sense, and the screaming would do nothing but rile Scott and that just doesn't seem fair. None of this is fair.
What he wouldn't give to swap places with his brother, though.
He could live without his sight. He would never have thought of saying that before now, but he honestly could. He wouldn't be able to draw, to paint, or watch the sun turn those waves into that beautiful golden mirror, but he could still listen, he could still paint that image in his mind's eye. Because honestly, what is the point of being able to see if you lose those rough edges that are painted by the sounds? Like the evening breeze catching on the palm trees, causing them to almost whistle and knock against each other? Or hearing the sand slip over itself as the wind chases the grains into the sea? The splashing of feet and laughter as Gordon throws Alan into it?
And really, what is the point of breathing without sound?