AN: Now it's Musse's turn to be given the POV torch for my first (but hopefully not last) contribution to 2022's #kisekirarepairs month! I know this is a setup I've used before but role reversal's always a fun trick for an author; I can only hope that the readers out there'll feel the same way :)

Also, for anyone that's interested the Neruda poem that inspired this has multiple translations floating around in both print and online; my personal favorite is the version done by Robert Hass as it preserves the rhyming scheme of the original Spanish, something that appeals to me quite a bit!


Speaking to your silence

It's almost criminal how heavy of a sleeper he is, really. The way she's tossing and turning, a little consideration in sharing her plight would go a long way...

But then again, she has to consider that it's Ash she's thinking about. He's never been one to break habits on the account of others and quite frankly she'd be disappointed if he started now.

Musse opens her weary eyes to gaze at the room's ornate ceiling, squinting at the intricate patterns etched on the tiles. Her lips turn up in a small grin as she remembers his dismissive evaluation - out of all the dumbass ways this place has to show off how much money's been sunk into it, that's gotta be the tackiest - and she slowly sits up and tightens the thin sheet around her bare torso, Ash remaining blissfully unaware all the while.

She turns to stare at his profile, his face half hidden in shadow, and it takes more willpower than it really should to keep her fingertips from tracing their way across his sharp features; even slumber can't soften his edges entirely, it seems. Not that she'd have him any other way. He simply wouldn't be Ash if he were.

His chest rises and falls, steady and hypnotic, and Musse's content to keep watching as her vision gradually adjusts to the darkness of the room. While she's admittedly still a bit envious of his ability to rest comfortably just about anywhere, she finds it difficult to begrudge him too much.

Musse stretches like a cat, letting herself settle into the exceptionally luxurious mattress with a quiet sigh. It was certainly an improvement over their last rendezvous, there was no doubting that. That bed had barely managed to hold the two of them at all, though she did have to concede that it also made them be creative with what little space they did have.

She'd discovered that she rather enjoyed creativity, all things considered.

Her gaze turning back toward Ash, Musse idly wonders what decided to make him follow her this time around given how adamant he usually was about using his accommodations and not hers. He'd always claimed that he chose places where they were less likely to be bothered simply because the staff didn't care enough to (why would they, they're barely paid enough to half-ass their jobs as is), but she'd always had a sneaking suspicion that he was somewhat more uncomfortable around opulence then he cared to let on.

Maybe she'll ask him tomorrow, she considers with a playful grin. While she knows she won't get anything resembling a honest answer - Ash is so far removed from the concept of genuine sincerity that it may as well live in Calvard - she also knows that there will be bits and pieces of truth sown throughout his well practiced attempts at misdirection, just like there always are, and those will be more than enough for Musse. After all, Heimdallr wasn't built in a day and piecing together the brusque, unyielding mosaic that was Ash Carbide is a task that will certainly take far longer than that.

Not that this bothers her any. She's used to challenges at this point.

She still fondly remembers the conversation they'd had about books when she stopped by the Literature Club in Tatiana's stead. It was a proper one - their first, you never forget something like that - and it never ceases to amaze Musse just how much you can learn about a person by observing what they chose to read.

She also remembers Ash, proud contrarian that he was, gleefully leaping at the chance to disagree.

"Riiiiight. It's just that easy, huh? So tell me, if you see someone on the street flipping through one of Dorothee's latest, what's it say about 'em? Besides that they either aren't getting any or they probably need to get it a lot better."

Musse had scoffed and reached over to give him a playful swat on the arm. She hadn't expected the jolt that had run up her spine when his warm fingers curled around her wrist, stopping her in her tracks.

"Too slow," he'd muttered, low and husky, the mischievous glint in his eyes replaced with something far more appealing, and neither had much use for words after she boldly closed the distance; a moth dancing merrily toward a brightly burning flame.

(It had, of course, occurred to Musse that she didn't exactly fit either one of his decidedly insulting labels. Given that she'd have rather not had a smug 'you're welcome' ruining the atmosphere, she'd decided to keep that tidbit to herself).

A low, familiar rumbling catches her attention. She turns to see a barely awake Ash lazily propping himself up on his elbows, his expression a remarkably endearing mix of bemused and groggy.

Her steady gaze holds his, lilac on crimson.

"... the hell you still awake for?" and Musse can't help but be greedy, can't help but drink in tired eyes and defined collarbones and a spot on his neck that could have only been bruised one way.

"Oh, I'm just having a little trouble dozing off," she says airily, reaching down to idly run her fingers through the mess of golden spikes. "I wish I knew why."

"You and me both. Knock that off," he groans, though he makes no effort to stop her. "Try and grab some shuteye instead of screwing with my hair, will ya?"

She debates giving him a poke or three (she knows where he's most sensitive by now and her elbows are quite pointy) but instead Musse merely heaves a put upon sigh and slides her way back underneath the covers as gracefully as she can. She's nothing if not generous.

"I suppose I should, shouldn't I?" and she barely manages to keep an undignified squeak from escaping when his arm slips around her waist to pull her close with nary a word of warning, her warm cheek settling against equally warm skin in the blink of an eye.

He's never done that before. Full of surprises, this one.

"No shit," Ash says with a grumble, halfway back to slumber already. "Go to sleep already. The chatty stuff can wait 'till tomorrow."

Musse's lips curl up in the faintest of smiles even as her own heart pounds away, every beat white hot within her ribcage, and she can't find it in herself to question how easily she's come undone. "Hehe. I'm going to hold you to that, Ash."

"Ugh. Not even gonna ask what that means."

His chin comes to rest atop her crown and he says nothing else. His lazy breaths dance through mint green locks as her palms easily settle atop his knuckles, almost as if they belong there. They certainly feel like they do.

She tries to pretend her own breath hasn't caught in her throat.

Given how comfortable she is, it doesn't take long at all for her eyelids to start turning heavy. Even so, she'll not yield easily. Stubborn to the last, Musse struggles to focus on the pattern above her, the fetching lines and complex shapes swirling together as the steady rhythm in her ears beckons her to rest. Foolish? Perhaps, but try as she might she just can't help it.

She wants to listen for a little while longer.


When he awakens the next morning, her hands still haven't left his. He can't say he minds.


"I like it when you're quiet. It's as if you weren't here now,
and you heard me from a distance, and my voice couldn't reach you.
It's as if your eyes had flown away from you, and as if
your mouth were closed because I leaned to kiss you.

Just as all living things are filled with my soul.
you emerge from all living things filled with the soul of me.
It's as if, a butterfly in dreams, you were my soul,
and as if you were the soul's word, melancholy.

I like it when you're quiet. It's as if you'd gone away now,
And you'd become the keening, the butterfly's insistence,
And you heard me from a distance and my voice didn't reach you.
It's then that what I want is to be quiet with your silence.

It's then that what I want is to speak to your silence
in a speech as clear as lamplight, as plain as a gold ring.
You are quiet like the night, and like the night you're star-lit.
Your silences are star-like, they're a distant and a simple thing.

I like it when you're quiet. It's as if you weren't here now.
As if you were dead now, and sorrowful, and distant.
A word then is sufficient, or a smile, to make me happy,
Happy that it seems so certain that you're present."

- Pablo Neruda, Poem XV