Double Disclaimer: Obviously, Sirius, Remus and the world surrounding them are not mine. But furthermore, the inspiration for this story is not wholly mine either. Originally it was a challenge on the S/R Fuq-u-fest, and someone else wrote a deaf Remus. I am not sure how much more is similar, the entire premise maybe (deaf, kitchen, dancing) I tried to find it again to check, and so I could give the original author credit by name, but it would seem the website for the Fuq-u-fest is down. If it's you, or you know who it is, please let me know.
Unchained MelodyBy: Irish
Appendix: It is traditional to use italics in writing to indicate thought, or memory; however it is also used to indicate words in a foreign language. When using sign this leaves us in an awkward position, as it seems generally agreed upon that it isn't appropriate to put quotes around a signed word, as it is not spoken. So beware, italics maybe thought or sign, it should be pretty clear by context which is which. Lastly, if a phrase is both spoken and signed it will be both in italics and quoted.
My world is silence. The sound of silence. A clichéd phrase from an old sixties song. Yes the sixties are old, even to me. I am not as old as I look. My world has not always been silence. No… this is a recent development. One I am not fond of.
No, that's not true. If I'm to be entirely honest, I find a deep satisfaction in being able to completely remove myself from the world simply by closing my eyes, but that's not enough compensation for what I miss. Like what ever my dear Padfoot just said. I turn to him slowly, a small confused smile on my lips, my eyebrows arched, my face a question mark.
He hesitates a moment, unsure. At first the uncertainty was how to cope. How to understand, and deal, with this new situation we have found in ourselves. Where to even start? Then the confusion was how to communicate. Parchment and quill? Speaking and lip reading? Sign? Now, after experimenting with all three, Sirius struggles with which to use at any given time. As of yet, none are wholly effective.
Sirius and I both left Hogwarts polylingual but neither of us had learned sign. In fact I doubt either of us even knew such a language existed. Needless to say I never expected to learn such a thing, especially not at the ancient age of thirty-six. Far too close to forty for my own comfort. I am learning, out of necessity, and desperation breeds many things, including the ability to relearn language long after those areas of my brain have been dumped and written over. I read once we loose our capacity to become truly fluent in a language by the age of ten. I am starting to feel that.
Sirius is still staring at me, I focus on him again. He gets very peevish if he feels he is being ignored. I raise my eyebrows a little higher; they must have disappeared into my hairline now. I watch closely as Sirius's lips move. To be honest, becoming good at speech reading will probably take longer then becoming fluent in sign. Only forty percent of language is visible on the lips.
I shake my head I've missed it entirely. I raise my hands at about chest level, making small fluid gestures with them. This is one sign Sirius knows by rote, hands down, no questions asked.
Sign it.
He sighs softly. I can see him thinking that what ever little aside he made, or trivial unimportant question he had asked, was not worth the five minutes we will take getting the point across between the two of us. I fight back a sigh. I'm not frustrated with him, only with the situation. His hands move; graceful but opaque. He struggles with so much and struggles with it for me. Sirius Black is brilliant… but I understand his struggles. This is so different then anything we've ever tried together. His mouth moves with his hands, between the two of them, and his expression, and some part of the deep bond we share, I manage to understand.
"How was your day?" I love you. That last bit is easiest enough. A simple sign, really. Something we find ourselves more inclined to sign then we ever were to say. Maybe it's the recent near-miss that had us wanting to be more… loving… or maybe it is simply that, in a way we have our own language now. Something that no one else can hear and intercept, our love is private. Accept for the forty thousand deaf people in the UK. But I haven't met any of them yet, so to me they do not exist.
I love you too. I kiss him softly, and smile. It's okay. I mouth the words, he catches them. I speak very little, usually only in murmurs in Sirius ear. I am afraid of what my voice sounds like, and cannot make myself speak above what I know is a whisper. I know it is a whisper, because sometimes even when Padfoot's ear is against my lips, I have to say it twice. Padfoot, Sirius, is my link to the world.
I had been thinking about making dinner, but Sirius has distracted me, once again. I think the man's sole purpose of existence is distracting me… and loving me. Sirius doesn't do things half way. When he hates you, he hates you with every fiber in his soul, and when he loves you… its so bright and brilliant it is almost painful. He loved James, and he loves me. In different ways, but with the same brilliance. He loves Harry too, and I think that love shines brightest of all.
He takes me in his arms, gently, taking my right hand in his left, resting his hand on my hip. My hand goes to his shoulder. Sometimes he leads, sometimes I lead. I actually don't mind not leading. I take a pride in being able to do everything he does backwards. He guides me about the uneven kitchen floor swaying gently. I move with him closing my eyes, feeling for the music…. I can't feel it.
We pause briefly; he holds up a finger for me to wait, he turns over one of the speakers so the sound vibrates directly on the floorboards… Ah, there is the music.
He takes me in his arms again. I suppose he will have to lead from now on…or at least until I learn to hear music a new way. I feel the vibrations, and follow his lead; he pulls me close, urging my head to his shoulder. I rest it their willingly. His chest rumbles and I wonder if he is speaking again, with my face turned against his neck, but after a moment I feel his voice is the same as the floor boards, he is singing along, singing the words into a silenced ear. I press closer to him, wanting to know the song. It's an American muggle ditty… I remember the lyrics, but have no idea where we are in the song. I sing along in my own head.
When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we see
No I won't be afraidOh I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand by me
I can sort of hear it…well…feel it now. Feel where the lyrics fall; even if I can't tell which verse. I sway with Sirius more confidently now, orbiting around the small room that is our kitchen and living room. Open my eyes again, and look up at Sirius, smiling. We lock gazes like angsty teenagers. I remember dancing with him like this at the Yule ball one year… well… not at the ball. We were both too… nervous… to come out in such a public way. We stood in a small dark alcove outside the main hall, swaying gently to the lyrics from with in. We stared into each other's eyes like that then, because I think we thought it was what we were supposed to do. Gaze at each other longingly. Tonight its not longing though, just love, and friendship, and trust.
I yelp, softly I hope, as he dips me suddenly. He has gotten some strength back since Azkaban. When I am on both feet again he spins me gently and pulls me back against his chest, so he is behind me now, warms around my waist, his lips against my ear. He is singing again, as he sway's gently. I lean back into him gladly, tilting my head against his shoulder. Its odd being so locked inside my own head like this.
Sirius releases me slowly, and I turn to face him again, hopping up to sit on the kitchen counter, drawing him close so he stands between my parted knees. I have always enjoyed this position; it puts me at eye level with Sirius, who has always been long and lank. Sirius, too, smiles as he wraps his arms around my waist. We talk so much less now… but I think we say so much more.
He kisses me again softly, surely, hands caressing my back, following the contours of my spine through my shirt, sometimes sidetracking along one of the more raised scars that mark me all over. He whispers his love and his passion in those gentle caresses, says things in them that never could have found a voice, and now that I hear nothing else, I hear that.
I love you. You are my strength. I regret all the times I've hurt you. You are my lover, my friend, and my anchor.
This is what his hands whisper against my back, what his tender touch speaks more truly than his lips ever could.
I have been an atheist as long as I can remember. It disturbs me to think that I have had so little faith and innocents; even as a small child, but I suspect that becoming a violent blood-lusting beast at the age of four is in some part responsible. That has not been the only hardship in my life, the Lycanthropy, but it is the well from which all else has sprung. Still, even as an atheist, I believe things serve a purpose. Maybe that isn't true atheism, but still, I see purpose in my life. I see purpose in this most recent affliction. I will likely never again hear the voices of those I love, even those in my mind have fallen silent. Yet, by not hearing them, I know them so much better. It is so much easier to ignore the little missteps. The small things that are hurtful, though not intended to be. Those things have all but disappeared.
My own hands caress the expanse of Sirius's shoulders. They are broader than mine, he is shaped much like Padfoot… or maybe more accurately, Padfoot is shaped like him, as Moony is built as I am. I love his shoulders and collar bone, I don't know why, something about the lines and angles I find strikingly beautiful. I used to sketch him a lot, in our schoolboy days; he was always willing to be my nude model.
I smile, and blush slightly at the slideshow of memories bring up, and when I look at Sirius again, he too is smiling, laughing a little, at his silly, absent minded Moony. He cups my face and kisses me softly, taking time to thoroughly taste my lips. I gladly return the favor, knowing just how to make him weak-kneed.
When finally our lips part, and our eyes meet, neither of us needs to speak the burn of passion beyond need of explanation. His hands find my hips and lift me down gently from my counter perch. It is I who lead him to the bedroom, eager, willing. We find each other's arms again once we lay down, and each other's lips. I have lost my hearing, but I have gained so much more.