The ringing wouldn't stop.
Even a month later, it was all she could hear, that persistent, high-pitched "screeee" that drowned out all other sounds, no matter how loud, no matter how clearly she used to remember them. When she pictured familiar faces in her mind, she had trouble imagining their voices, and sometimes, she could barely even hear herself think.
But the worst part, she found, was that she no longer could hear herself sing. She couldn't hear the chords of her beloved Gibson no matter how hard she plucked at its strings, couldn't hear the notes she'd listened to Carole play so often, she'd thought she'd memorized them by now. The one and only thing she could hear, the only sound she wished she could block out, was that dreadful ringing that never seemed to want to go away.
Tuesday had been laying in bed all morning, staring down at the living space below where Carole's blankets and pillows had been neatly folded and stacked at the edge of the couch. Since the incident, Carole had taken to sleeping downstairs, insisting that her friend take the bed for her own comfort. Ziggy watched over her constantly, its wings flapping and beak moving as if trying to talk to Tuesday, but not even the AI had caught on yet that she just couldn't hear.
Carole emerged from beneath the balcony, turning to face Tuesday with that same sympathetic smile everyone seemed to wear around her lately. She lifted her hands, forming shapes with her fingers that Tuesday had learned meant "Do you need anything?"
The two had just started studying sign language in order to make communication easier for Tuesday, but Carole had seemed to pick it up much easier, and Tuesday was still very limited to what she could read and say.
She shook her head, smiling for her friend's sake, even if she wasn't feeling very happy or grateful right then. Carole had been nothing but amazing, as always, and Tuesday was forever appreciative of her, but even a month later, Tuesday just couldn't help but blame herself for messing up everything, for making one clumsy mistake, and dragging Carole down with her.
If she wanted to, Carole could continue to make her own music. Her friend was certainly talented enough, and there were hundreds of people in Alba City who would immediately jump at the chance to play with her. She had even received offers from Crystal to work on a collaboration album, but Carole had refused, insisting Tuesday was her one and only partner.
But Tuesday couldn't sing. She couldn't play. She couldn't even write when she had difficulty hearing how her lyrics would sound in her head. She was pretty much useless to Carole now that half of their act was severely impaired, but still her friend remained by her side, as did Gus, and did Roddy, all with hopes that one day, Tuesday would return.
Carole signed once more, letting Tuesday know she was coming upstairs. Tuesday let out a silent sigh, pushing herself up into a sitting position and making room on the bed.
"How are your ears?" Carole asked as she sat down beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder.
Tuesday shrugged. "Same," she mouthed, having forgotten the sign for the word. She reached underneath her pillow, taking out the journal she'd kept hidden there. She opened to a blank page, and scribbled something down.
"Still ringing."
Carole glanced at the notebook, a small frown weighing down her lips. With her free hand, she pointed to her own ears. "Aids?"
They were supposed to help. Tuesday had been given a pair of hearing aids that her doctor had instructed her to use daily, but Tuesday hated the way they tickled the backs of her ears. She hadn't yet had them adjusted, as they were only supposed to serve as a temporary solution while her doctor determined the severity of her hearing loss and if it could be salvaged. She had another appointment in just a few days to check her progress, but the pessimist in her, no matter how many times she tried to defeat it, was doubtful she would return with good news.
"Tues." Carole mouthed the word, the nickname Tuesday had heard so many times from so many different people, but never so sweet compared to the way her friend would say it. She could only imagine what that name sounded like, now.
Tuesday lifted a hand to her throat, something she often did now when she tried to speak, wondering if her voice sounded as foreign as it felt when it left her lips. "I don't know… if I can do it…"
Carole's brow furrowed, the worry in her eyes seeming to deepen. She turned away from Tuesday, searching around her for the hearing aids. When she didn't find them, she said something to Ziggy, and the little mechanic bird fluttered off the balcony into the living space below. It returned a moment later with a small, round container, dropping it into Carole's hands.
Inside was a pair of tiny, pink-coated devices shaped like earbuds. They were an older model, definitely not up to date with Mars's most recent medical technology, but Tuesday had paid for them herself, refusing any money her mother had tried to offer her. After all, it was her own fault she was even in her current condition.
She hated thinking about it. Every time she'd read an article detailing the events of that night, she couldn't help but cringe at how careless she'd been. She and Carole had finished playing a set at a local club, and had sat down at a table for a break. Fans had come up to them asking for photos and autographs, but Tuesday had panicked, still not quite used to all of the attention. Carole had tried to ward them off, but somehow, they found her abrasive manner more encouraging than intimidating, and the crowd had only grown larger and more excited.
Fortunately, after a few minutes, Gus and Roddy had finally shown up, and managed to part the crowd. As soon as she was able to move again, Tuesday had excused herself from their table, hoping to catch her breath. On her way backstage, she lost her footing on the steps, and had tripped over a cord, ripping it out of a nearby amp. The piercing explosion of sound that erupted from the amp as Tuesday fell face-first right before it sent a sharp and stabbing pain through her eardrums, rendering her unconscious. When she came to, all she could hear was a loud, persistent ringing, and it was the only sound she'd been able to hear since.
Tuesday glared down at the hearing aids in Carole's hands, wanting nothing more than to toss them out a window. If it were up to her, Tuesday would much prefer to hear nothing at all than to mess around with the tiny devices that only seemed to amplify her suffering. But Carole was giving her that look, the pleading, pitiful puppy dog eyes that Tuesday had used on Carole many times in the past when something wasn't going her way. Carole had become just as much a professional as Tuesday in making her feel guilty for not obliging, and she silently cursed herself for teaching her friend the trick.
Sighing once more, Tuesday reached for the hearing aids and carefully secured them around her ears. She felt along the edges of the devices for the switches, wincing as the ringing sound momentarily increased. She adjusted the volume until the ringing went back to normal — or, well, as "normal" as excessive ringing could be.
Carole tapped her shoulder, drawing her attention back to her friend. Her lips moved, forming words Tuesday couldn't quite read. She squinted in concentration, knowing this was just a part of the process. Tuesday would turn on the aids, Carole would repeat words and phrases, and Tuesday would keep adjusting the volumes to see if she could make out any of the words.
After a few verbal attempts without any success, Carole returned to using her hands. "Can you try to speak?"
Tuesday hated speaking, especially with her aids. Although some semblance of a voice did actually manage to come through when she spoke, her words were always muddied and indistinct. Though she knew in her mind what she was trying to say, it all echoed back through her ears the same, like a distant, familiar voice that spoke in a foreign, unfamiliar language. She always feared it sounded just as strange to her friend, and although she knew Carole would never be the type to laugh at her, she couldn't help but picture everyone else mocking her, distorting their faces to match her incoherent voice.
"I know this is hard for you," Carole signed, mouthing the words in sync with her hands. "But it will get better. You need to keep trying."
She swallowed, lifting a hand to her throat. "I'm… sorry," she spoke, a faint, muffled noise trailing back through the mini speakers. It sounded vaguely like a voice, small and fragile, but once again, she had trouble matching the words to the ones inside her head.
Carole's eyes fell, her shoulders drooping in a defeated manner. She met Tuesday's gaze with melancholy, but she raised her hands to try again. "You have nothing to be sorry about."
"I do," Tuesday replied, speaking slowly. She focused even harder on her words, hoping she would be able to convey how she truly felt. "You should be out there… making music, having fun… But you're stuck in here, taking care of me."
Her friend shook her head, lifting her hands to respond, but she dropped them at the last minute. She set her jaw straight, determination in her eyes as her lips moved once more. Tuesday watched her carefully, mimicking the movements with her own mouth to decipher what she was saying.
"Close… your… eyes."
Tuesday blinked. "B-but then I can't read you."
Carole gave her an encouraging smile. "Just trust me."
"O-okay…" Tuesday closed her eyes, biting her bottom lip in anticipation. She felt Carole lean closer to her, her warmth radiating around her as a gentle touch brushed the backs of her ears. She seemed to be adjusting the volumes of Tuesday's hearing aids, as the ambient noise around her seemed to fade in and out.
Now I can't hear or see, Tuesday thought to herself, thinking this exercise to be pointless. Still, she kept her eyes closed, unsure how long this was supposed to last for. Carole kept adjusting the devices, up and down, and Tuesday focused on the ringing, trying to push past it. The ambient noise was starting to take form, now, a very quiet humming pattern breaking through the ringing.
Tuesday scrunched her forehead, her bangs tickling the creases of her brows as she continued to listen. The pattern slowly morphed into a rhythm, the humming starting to take form as muffled words.
It sounded familiar, so familiar, Tuesday could almost feel the words on her own tongue. Carole nudged the volume once more, louder than Tuesday had ever dared, and suddenly, she recognized the tune. Carole's voice was still very much distant, her words still muddied, but there was no mistaking the song her friend was singing. It was the first song Tuesday had ever heard her play, the first lyrics Tuesday had written. The song that had brought Carole and Tuesday together, had started their entire career.
She couldn't stop the tears that welled in her eyes as she listened, the melody echoing through her head and to her heart. She had spent weeks thinking she'd never hear that song again, or any of the beautiful songs she and Carole had written together. She had thought her condition was hopeless, and a part of her even thought she'd deserved it after how clumsy she'd been. And while the tune wasn't perfect, while she felt like she was hearing it from several feet under water, it was a start. A wonderfully, miraculously, hope-fueling start.
Just as she had finished the first chorus of the song, Carole stopped singing, her hands moving abruptly from Tuesday's ears. The sound of her voice traveled through the speakers, her tone worried.
Tuesday opened her eyes, meeting her friend's apprehensive gaze. Carole's lips moved once more, and this time, Tuesday was able to match a word to the voice she'd heard.
"Tues?"
"You did it!" Tuesday shouted, her own voice echoing back a little too loudly, the reverb causing her slight disorientation. She lifted her hands to her ears on instinct, letting out the tiniest of squeaks.
Carole's eyes widened, a grin slowly stretching across her cheeks as she realized the meaning of Tuesday's outburst. "...an eah?"
Tuesday leaned in closer to her. "Huh?"
"Oo… an… ear?"
"C-can I hear?" Tuesday repeated, Carole's words still not perfectly distinct, but she let her brain decipher the rest.
"Yes!" Carole exclaimed, using her hands to confirm in sign language. "Did you hear the song?"
She nodded, a smile forming on her lips. "'The Loneliest Girl.'"
Carole closed her eyes, seeming to sigh. When she looked up at Tuesday again, relief washed over her features. "Tues… You don't have to apologize. For anything."
Tuesday raised an eyebrow, remembering her previous comment. Carole was speaking slowly, but signing along so Tuesday could fill in the gaps her hearing aids still couldn't quite decipher.
"I'm here because I want to be. Sticking up for each other is what we do, you got that?"
"B-but—"
"We're partners," her friend continued, cutting her off. "And you're the only person I want to make music with."
Tuesday frowned. "But what if I can't play again?"
Carole just smiled. "Then I'll play for you. Every day and every night, until my music reaches you."
"Oh, Carole…" Tuesday's eyes were wet again, but hers weren't the only ones. Carole outstretched her arms, tears already flowing down her cheeks. Tuesday leaned into her embrace, and for the first time since the incident, she knew everything was going to be okay.