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Kanaya does not speak anything but English where you can hear her.
She speaks English when she addresses you, and nothing you’ve tried so far has startled her out of it. It doesn’t seem to matter how she flushes bright jade when you discover the chest with her stash of Rainbow Drinker novels, or how much you bring out extraneous, superfluous, circumvolving vocabulary (making accusations regarding your involvement with a thesaurus teeter dangerously close to accurate). Of course the redundant words don’t trip her up at all, you can’t ever chase her back to what should be more comfortable terrain. Not Kanaya, who is a creator of your universe and all within, which apparently comes part and parcel with probably knowing more about your own language than you do, and whose words are always enunciated so very precisely. She doesn’t have what you’d call a British accent, but she speaks properly, every sound crisp and correct.
She speaks English when she is speaking to other humans. She speaks English when she is speaking to other trolls, as long as you are in the room. (You haven’t really investigated what she does when you’re not in the room, though you won’t say that five different methods for figuring that out haven’t occurred to you.)
You can hear Karkat speaking Troll—Trollish? Alternian?—you can hear him speaking Troll at nearly any hour of the day if you care to, for how easily he is wound up when in John’s proximity, and how he doesn’t seem to realize when he code-switches. Of course, that means both listening to Karkat shouting himself hoarse, and being witness to John’s confused discomfort and frustration, neither of which appeal to you, the entertainment value quickly depleted after the first thirteen times it happened.
Terezi, too, does not hesitate to throw in words of her own language. She alternatively lords their secret meanings over Dave to entice reactions she knows she won’t get, and then schoolfeeds him (under protest, he’s managed to learn one single word, which he tells you translates to ‘your fucking language’).
Kanaya does not speak anything but English where you can hear her. Not even when Karkat is frantically babbling at her in Troll. Hs arms are waving in all directions, while his tongue dances and clicks and rolls in ways you’ve never gotten to see Kanaya’s. In return she diffuses him with a clearly discernable, “Really, you don’t think you are overreacting at all?” or a “I hardly think that is the case.” He demands something—at least the lifted tone of a question seems universal—and you just catch the flicker of Kanaya’s eyes in your direction, before she sets a diffusing hand on Karkat’s shoulder. “Because it’s rude,” she replies to him. He stubbornly resists being calmed, with ballistic bursts of what are probably curses, and you quietly withdraw from the lab.
Well. Why should it be a problem that Kanaya wants to ensure that you can understand what she’s saying? English is, after all, the language that everybody speaks, so why not insist on using it all the time?
You could ask her, of course. You could be direct and simply inquire. It isn’t as though you care to hear all the details of Kanaya preventing Karkat from flipping all his shit; they could choose to speak in Russian for all you care. Kanaya doesn’t need to spare your feelings and enforce a strict English-only policy in the veil. You could tell her that it’s okay if you’re not privy to every conversation.
You won’t, of course. But you could.
~~~
Sometimes, when it is only the two of you, alone in her respite block and seated on piles of soft and plush pillows and fabrics, and when you have used a myriad of inconsequential words to avoid saying anything relevant, and she has humoured you and played along (“But you would look absolutely lovely in a dress with Octarine trim, don’t you think?” “Oh, no, I think it clashes with my complexion.”), sometimes then your sentences dwindle and shrink away until you are left together in silence, only the white noise hum of the veil remaining to fill up your ears.
You have your yarn on your lap and your needles to keep your hands busy, working in a pattern to make a warm hat. Kanaya has an open sketchpad on her lap, drafting patterns and designs. (You did a double take at the sketchbook at first, realizing that you expected some sort of electronic tablet or other device instead of bound paper.) There is no need to talk, and perhaps for Kanaya the silence is comfortable.
You imagine asking her, “Is it difficult?”
When you were younger, sometimes you would leave your room and creep towards your mother’s. You would stop at the stairway, hands tightly gripping the rail, and you would think about opening your mouth and saying something. “Mom, I’m scared,” you would imagine saying. “Mom, I had a bad dream.” “Mom, I’m thirsty.” You would stand there, hanging on the edge of the staircase, imagining again and again calling to her. You would think about it so long, so many times, that you fancied you could feel your sealed mouth opening, that you could hear the words.
In the end you always slipped back to your room, and at no point did you ever give voice to your fantasies.
Her pen stills, and she lifts her head to regard you. “Is what difficult?”
Your hands and needles, too, come to a stop. You could pretend you meant to ask (anything at all) after her sketches, that you wondered if it is challenging to create new patterns as she does, to attempt to bring new concepts into a field so wide and varied as fashion and clothing. You could turn this right back into another exchange of empty and meaningless fluff. (Not that you think learning more about her interests is meaningless.)
“Speaking a different language all the time. Constantly translating and forming different sounds.”
“Oh.” She smiles, slowly and close-lipped. “Not particularly. The only real issue is that English has so little variety compared to what I am used to.”
You collect yarn, half-formed hat, and needles all into a bundle, which you place to the side, so that they do not slide off your lap as you lean forward. “It would be awful if you were to fall out of practice with your own language due to your insistence on constantly speaking ours.”
“Are you genuinely worried that I will lose the ability to speak in my mother tongue?” Her eyebrows rise at a glacial climb.
“I wouldn’t be so presumptuous,” you demure. “But muscles do tend to weaken with disuse.”
“And your language fails to demand full use of certain muscles, I understand your implications. What a shame, that there is no other way to exercise what is neglected while I am with you.”
“You could always teach me.”
Her laugh is a quiet thing, almost more of a “hm hm hm,” than any honest giggle. “I do not think it would be a fair demand of you. It is a complicated language, unlike your Grimdark tongues.”
“Try me.”
She smiles fully, sharp white teeth gleaming, and sets her sketchbook aside. You rise up (why ever did you choose to sit across the room from her?) and move to sit next to her, settling pillows under you. It seems a strange level of intimacy, difficult to define—not chairs, but certainly not a bed, and you forget to over-analyze it when Kanaya says, “Repeat after me,” and finally, finally you hear her.
You do not close your eyes to better appreciate the sound, but you watch the shape of her mouth forming the words. There is no hiding the fact that she is speaking at a deliberately slower pace for your benefit, and you pick out her crisp enunciation around the foreign sounds. She repeats herself without being asked. You tell yourself that your interest in the way her tongue dances is purely academic.
Following her demonstration, there are two things that you regret. The first is that she said only one word, albeit she chose one that was more than a single syllable in length. The second is that your own efforts to reproduce the sounds—that blend of throaty ‘chh’ noises and full vowels, plus that thrilled ‘r’ that you’re sure she drew out solely for your benefit—sadly your efforts do not result in success. You have, so to speak, put your money where your mouth is, and your mouth is clumsy and slow, your throat tight and dry.
You try for a second go, and Kanaya laughs again, her shoulders shaking slightly from it. You decline to attempt a third time.
Dear Jaspers taught you many things, one of which was how cats deal with failure: either by pretending it never happened, or accepting it with poise and dignity. You attempt an unbothered expression, all the purposeful appearance of ‘I absolutely meant to make unattractive donkey noises,’ and the corner of Kanaya’s mouth tugs upward. “We have a human saying, that practice makes perfect,” you say, stiffly.
“The Troll version of that saying is not nearly so optimistic.”
“What is it?”
“Well, it does not sound quite so neat or convenient in English, but—”
“Then don’t say it in English.”
To her credit, Kanaya only quirks her eyebrow briefly, before obliging. She forms the words slowly, her bright alert eyes holding your gaze. She says the phrase a second time, and you feel your mouth moving soundlessly. When, patiently, Kanaya begins a third repetition, you attempt to follow along out loud. You stop barely halfway through, frowning as though you would like to spit to rid your useless mouth of the sour syllables.
“I am sorry, Rose. It is not my intention to be insulting, but there is simply no way your tongue can handle what is required.”
“Do you honestly have no idea what a double entendre is, or is this just a ploy to see how long it takes to get me to drop the snarky horseshit and kiss you?”
Her eyes may be as wide as yours, but where you are pressing your lips shut to prevent more idiotic noises escaping, she is smiling. She whispers something soft in Troll, and as you marvel over the carefully quiet clicks and rumbles, her fingers curl through your hair behind your ear and she pulls you in close.
Funny, your stories (and Kanaya’s novels as well, you would wager) never mention the new awkward noises that you find yourself making, an entire cut above the dumb sounds that emerged when you attempted to speak Troll. You’re caught by surprise by the embarrassing wet sucking noises that evolve into little squeaks and smacks when your lips part. When she holds your bottom lip between her teeth and sucks on it, you hear a little high-pitched sound and discover its origin was your own throat. Perhaps your hands should go somewhere; you stiffly set them on her shoulders. Upon contact, all the deft skill your fingers employ with your needles is drained away. Your hands seem stuck and uncooperative. You try to card your fingers through the soft hair at the nape of her neck, and your motions are jerky, nothing you think would feel pleasurable.
Still, Kanaya hums and pulls back to rest her forehead against yours. You can see her smile, her eyes half-lidded. Her claw tips are light at the back of your neck, a tingling pressure that makes you fight back a shiver.
“Well,” she murmurs. You do not try to say anything, for your own throat is closed and clogged and you know you are capable of nothing but croaks for the time being. You can feel your lips beginning to dry under her breath, so you lick them. “Well,” she says again. “Practice makes perfect. I like the sound of it.”