.inarticulate // nicolas brown.

He remembered the day he saw it(as you referred to the scar), and you were utterly ashamed. Nicolas honestly had no clue you were mute, or inarticulate as you preferred to be called, he merely thought you were shy and had little words to say, and just thought you were crazy because you wore turtle-necks all the time even in heat. He was oblivious to the fact you had none to spare verbally even if you wanted too. The solider silently commented to himself it looked incredibly painful; white, pale, long and wide across your neck, the flesh on the scar rose up slightly above the rest of your skin, and you hated it. You had explained to him you had been in an accident, one of which you never explained and the raven-haired man didn't need you too to understand, and it caused you to lose your voice when you were a teenager. It broke you, he remembered you telling him, the sudden loss of your voice, and you felt you had nothing left anymore after losing the ability to follow your dreams and your passion - singing. It was your life, and you were going to build your future around it, but your chance had been taken away right on the verge of achieving it. You had been given an offer to make a record with the songs you wrote, and often Nicolas caught you staring at them with a painful expression when you believed no one was around.

The soldier could understand how you felt, with his deafness, he couldn't hear anything; the sounds of morning doves in their window as the sun rose on the horizon over the city, music playing idly on the radio in their room, the sound of laughter and joy from children and adults alike. Hell, Nicolas wasn't even sure how his own voice sounded, but you had told him once it was ... gruff. But he no longer allowed it to bother him like he would catch you doing. He had his eyes, and if he could catch it in his sight, he could tell by body language and lip movement, and he found at times it was better and more accurate than he believed his ears would be. In his quiet life(in a sense) he had more than enough time to dwell on his past, his mistakes, his losses, and while no one could figure out exactly what goes on in his head, there were things he felt bad for, things he missed but his hearing was not one of them. Even so, you had told him once that you would be his ears and he could be your voice. He never agreed, and you didn't wait for him too.

In the life you, him, Worick  - and now come Alex - shared, death was waiting around any corner, ready to grab and pull with all of it's might. The blonde had warned you of that when they picked you up, but it didn't bother you, and Nicolas always wondered if it was something you were more than willing to accept and might even welcome with open arms. You had talked to him once of God and Heaven, a place you wanted to go ... a place you would be able to sing again. The solider wasn't sure what he thought on all of that - God, and Heaven, or Hell, but despite the lifestyle you lived, you were religious and he never argued with you or judged you for it, and you never did to him, respecting his own views an opinions. But if you could find something to look forward, something to hold onto through this life, then he hoped you never let it go, and he hoped it was right there waiting for you in the end.

The day seemed quieter, lonelier with his back and the nape of his neck against the peeling wall, and the air was heavier to weigh down on his shoulders, specs of dust barely visible to his brown eyes as they seemed to still in mid-flight under the rays of golden light pouring through the bare open window. But the light felt cold, no longer warm on his pale arms, and for once it felt like the silence was screaming in his ears and he could hear it echoing in his head, pounding against his skull as his gaze bored aimlessly at the scuffed wood paneled floor. It was this morning he didn't have to nudge a figure with his foot, one that slept there and would still be asleep at this time or even until after lunch if it had been allowed. Why you chose to sleep on the floor always confused him, but you claimed since the first night you were there that you didn't want to take up space on anyone's bed, and until Alex had showed up, the couch was something you claimed. It was something you had done a lot as a kid, you tried to reason with everyone when Worick offered to sleep on the floor so you could have the couch and Alex would have his bed, and that you enjoyed sleeping by the window and feeling the warmth the sun offered in the chill of the dawn. Nicolas always believed you had the most normal childhood out of all of them until the accident, and that you felt sorry for them, so you tried to give them as much comfort as you possibly could like a mother who lost her children would to children who never had a mother.

The solider had become fond of you over time like he had over Nina, like an older brother, but you had a way of understanding him like no one else could, even if it was on one simple thing that wasn't simple at all. Though the words were never said, they weren't needed, it was shown in the small displays of affection he would give and receive in return; the little pranks he would pull on you like simply dropping you from his back after giving you a piggy-back ride and laughing at your reddened face, the way you taught Alex more fluid sign language so Nicolas could understand it better since she picked up the desire to learn it, the way he'd stoop down and press a soft pat and rub to your hair on his way to the bathroom in the morning when you were still lost in dreams. Now, as the floor bore empty, the words would never have a chance to be exchanged; verbally or silently ...

He could still remember you curled up on the floor, huddled under your blanket on a night you couldn't sleep up against the wall, eyes flickering out the window while the moon shone onto your skin that peeked out making it glow, your lips moving in voiceless words to him as he failed to find rest that night as well, the way you swallowed thickly and shyly told him: I'll be your ears if you'll be my voice. and a reply was never given that night, simply a long and tired gaze before he exhaled deeply, closing his eyes and rolling over with his front to face the wall.

A light click and jingle as his nimble fingers lazily flicked his tags, the shiny cold plates reflecting in his dark irises, his lips slowly parting, moving to utter a single gruff word, "O-kay," to an empty yet suffocating room. But you weren't there, not anymore, and you never would be as his gaze flickered back down to the floor, the chain and tags bouncing back onto his chest.

... Because you were somewhere you could sing.