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There wasn’t always this much silence. The silence rarely had been good, too, when it occurred. Suspenseful, pensive, debilitating. But, the silence in Sloan’s home was never really silent. Whether it be the ancient dishwasher humming loudly in the kitchen, the boiler whirring in the upstairs closet, or the faucets dripping in the bathroom, there was never really silence, in the traditional sense. Maha thought she would go crazy in the quiet, so background noise was always welcome, something to ground her. And it did become an ordeal, to Maha, privately. Dealing with the quiet became harder and harder, be it Sloan was working or just out, everything just seemed a little too undisruptive, which she never thought she’d see as an issue. While yes, the occasional background noise was nice, it really ever was just that; occasional, nice. Having time to sit and do nothing and reflect had never been something Maha had needed — or had time — to do, not in the past few years anyway. The lack of noise seemed to be introduced too suddenly, despite Maha and Sloan having been living together for, what, just over a year now. Before this, before Sloan, everything had been so busy, and so loud. There had always been so much to think about at once, or rather, life had been moving at an unrelentingly swift pace, leading to too little time to fully process the weight that Maha was carrying. Now, it was peaceful. Now, life was calm. Maha didn’t have to worry about training, or a berating, or something traumatic happening to either her or Sloan. Her nervous system had never needed a reason to pause and recover, and she’d never been short of adrenaline. What was she to do with that lack of stimuli? What ever could she do with herself, now she was not serving? What would she do with her hands, the hands she had killed with, had slain with, tortured and beaten with? In her opinion, it was too disorderly being so peaceful.
Sloan, though, was the anchor in Maha’s life. They brought disruption, the loud into the quiet, the snoring in the middle of the night, the screeching from the couch after a heated session of Mario Kart Live; Home Circuit. They were never really quiet, not for a long while whenever they were, and talkative, chatty people had once been the type that Maha had despised. Perhaps she still did, but Sloan seemed to be the only exception. She conceded that that was just what it was like when you were in love.
Every morning, Maha got up earlier than Sloan. It was just her body clock, maybe out of habit. One might assume that after years of a strict schedule, a person would easily welcome the freedom of slow rising, of slow starts, of slow everythings. For Maha, that wasn’t exactly the case. Every morning, no matter the plan of the day, Maha would arise quietly anytime between 5:30 and 6:30. That hour’s worth of leeway was something Maha called a luxury, and Sloan didn’t resist it. Maha’s mornings went a little something like this;
By 6:40 — at the very latest — the kettle would be boiling. By 6:42, Maha would be drinking her tea. 6:50, she was washing and brushing her teeth. 7:00 would be roughly when Sloan would get up, on a good day. And at the latest, Sloan would drag themselves out from under the covers at 10:00. So, Maha of course spent this time staying busy, completing chores that needed completing, exercising, drinking more tea, and by the time Sloan would have gotten up, they’d express concern at not having been able to help around the house, as Maha would have done most, if not all, of it by then.
“I like to help, amor,” Sloan had reminded her at a time, as the kettle boiled on the countertop. “It is my house, and I don’t keep you here as a personal maid.”
It had initially seemed like such a non-issue to Maha, that at first she didn’t take them seriously. She continued her morning routine as so for a week, keeping the norm and keeping her brain constantly occupied, until Sloan would awake and she could spend the day with them. It progressed up until Sloan’s surprise and lightheartedness had understandably developed into something more close to genuine concern, and Sloan had to be more direct.
“You never really let me do anything, you know?” Sloan cringed at the manner at which their words came out. They both conversed in their shared study one late afternoon, Sloan stationed by the door as they addressed Maha, who had previously been reading at her desk over soft music from her stereo. “In the sense that, you take all the hard chores and hog them. I’ve never known anyone to do that.”
“Is that bad?” Maha placed her open book page down on the desk.
“No,” Sloan began, obviously struggling still with enunciating their thoughts. “Not really. I just wish you would let yourself take a break more often, let me do the work. I never thought I would actually want to do chores, but it means taking something off of your plate, so.”
“You know you don’t have to worry about that, Slo,” Maha countered gently at first, “you know I like to be busy.”
“Yes, well,” Sloan wrung their hands, a nervous habit of theirs, “that isn’t a problem, in theory. But, what I’m trying to say is that — maybe, in this case, it sort of is a problem?”
One thing that Maha disliked was Sloan’s lack of confidence. They were and they weren’t confident, as in, they could easily start up a conversation with several strangers all at once, and they weren’t afraid of showing off their skills or their special interests. But when it came to expressing their problems, or feelings, or sharing something that bothered them, they sort of just, crumbled. The reason it bothered Maha so much was not only because she liked to see her partner able to talk about the things they struggled with, but also because straightforwardness was one of the most important traits Maha valued in a person. Not just in Sloan, but in anyone. Maha didn’t often beat around the bush, and she certainly didn’t enjoy it when she could tell others were doing it. It felt too misleading, too indecisive and too unreliable. She needed facts, solid truths and full certainty when it came to another person's intentions. She was over fearing the probability that another's words were true or false, Maha didn’t ever want to be left guessing, never again. At least, this time, Sloan was admitting to the issue at hand being a bother, but what had Maha feeling uncertain was Sloan’s own uncertainty.
“How is that a problem?” Maha asked, brow furrowing in confusion.
“It isn’t like I’d prefer you sat around and did nothing, I’m grateful you’re so keen to get work done. I just worry that you aren’t taking more time for yourself. You know, at first, I didn’t care much, because I suddenly didn’t have to hang out laundry or —” Sloan searched for an example, “load and empty the dishwasher almost every single day. Being productive like that has always been something I’ve struggled with. But then, when I noticed how much you were doing, and I started comparing how I would’ve felt having to do all that work early in the morning, it just felt wrong. But by the time I get out of bed in the morning, it’s all already done. I just feel… Kind of useless, to be honest.”
Guilt suddenly flared up in the back of Maha’s head, and she felt it manifest as a slowly approaching migraine. “You aren’t useless. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”
But saying that evidently didn’t cause the uncomfortable look on Sloan’s face to ease. “I can tell. But that isn’t the point, it doesn’t matter how I’m feeling about it. Maha, I’m trying to ask you how you’re feeling.”
When Maha didn’t answer right away, she was met with more from Sloan.
“You know I suck at reading people, but I’m always better at it when it comes to you, and I can tell when you’re upset.” Sloan took a step forward, pushing off of the doorframe. Maha couldn’t quite look them in the eye. “But I’d rather you tell me instead of doing… Whatever this whole thing is. Working and working and working until there’s nothing left for me to do. And not to mention, when we’re both up, it’s not like we spend the day doing nothing. In fact, we’re always pretty busy. Most nights, you cook dinner too.”
Maha was still yet to answer. She felt bad.
“You try to take on everything when you really just don’t need to,” Sloan continued to stare at Maha in silence for several heartbeats. “I just want you—”
“I’m really sorry I made you feel that way.”
“No, Maha…” Sloan sighs now, approaching to lean back against the desk. Maha pushed the chair back a little to make room. “I’m glad you’re thinking about me and I don’t doubt you’re sorry. I’m worried about you, I’m worried ‘cos you’re obviously overworking yourself and I don’t even think you’re meaning to.”
Maha visibly struggles, her brow twitching and lips thinning, that look that Sloan had grown to recognise. It almost makes them turn around and apologise for ever bringing anything up at all, but Sloan hated seeing Maha like this. They wanted her to be happy, and calm, and not so gosh darn stressed all the time. If only Maha let them in more, spoke about what she was really feeling underneath it all. But Maha hated being vulnerable.
She thought, by now, maybe it would’ve gotten easier to be more open, seeing as she’d been romantically involved with Sloan for a little more than a year now. Not to say Maha was ever dishonest, she hated to think she was, but there were certainly things on her mind that she didn’t care to share, not with anyone. Not with Sloan. She had, at the very least, been honest about “not feeling ready” or “not feeling confident enough” to talk about the trauma she had endured before meeting Sloan, but it got to a point, especially when it was obviously bothering Maha so much. So no, she discovered, it hadn’t gotten any easier, and the idea of opening up hadn’t gotten any more pleasant to think about.
“Babe,” Sloan beckoned, drawing Maha out of her thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” she sat back a little in her chair and sighed, “I’m being stupid.”
“Kinda,” they offered a timid smirk.
Maha finally locked eyes with Sloan, to which she returned the smile gently, slowly. She was such a pent up, short-tempered, snappy individual who could melt at a meer glance from her lover. They were her only weakness.
“I just hate feeling idle,” Maha admitted after a brief pause. “I hate not having something to do or distract myself with. I get up early just because I’m used to it, and staying in bed does sound nice, but I never like being left alone in the silence for too long. So I get up and distract myself until you get up and we can spend the day together. That way, I don’t have to think about anything other than what I’m doing in the moment.”
Meanwhile, Sloan stared quietly and listened, eyes wide. This had been the most Maha had opened up in a long while, and it suddenly felt like a huge weight had been shifted within Sloan’s chest, not lifted completely, but shifted.
“What else is there to think about?” Sloan asked, their tone far from judgemental or intrusive. They wrung their hands in their lap.
If Maha wasn’t hesitating before, she certainly was now. What wasn’t there to think about? The bloodshed and the fighting and the manipulation and the fear. Maha had done horrible things, endured equally treacherous acts and still come out on the other side. She would have called it a miracle, or a blessing, if she wasn’t left with the scars that it’d inflicted on her way back when.
Sloan knew the ins and outs of Maha’s past. Sloan also knew that there were some things she wouldn’t share. It did bother them sometimes, not knowing, being kept in the dark, it was one of their greatest pet peeves. But they were more respectful than they were nosy, specifically for Maha.
Getting the gist of Maha’s silence, Sloan dipped their head and rested their palms on the edge of the desk. “Okay. I’ve gotten an answer. I just want you to be okay.”
“I know,” is all Maha could manage for a moment. “It’s just difficult. I don’t want to keep things from you.”
“You don’t have to,” Sloan straightened their back now, standing up properly from the desk. “But you don’t have to tell me everything. Not if you aren’t ready.”
“Okay.”
They stared at each other for a moment. A moment in which only eyes could communicate what got lost on the tongue, words that got trapped behind teeth and caught up in throats until they were sure they’d sob. They understood each other, at the very least, and Sloan was glad to have spoken to Maha about it at all. She was a hard safe to crack, but she was worth every hour, every tear and every night spent worrying. Sloan was sure she felt the same way about them.
“I’ll cook tonight,” they said, already pressing a kiss to her forehead. Maha wouldn’t protest, not after all that. “What do you want—”
“Surprise me,” Maha answered, already turning back to flip her book over. That alone surprised Sloan, but they masked it with a smile. No, there needn’t be a mask; that smile was genuine. Maha hated surprises.
“Aye, ma’am,” Sloan was already strolling to the door when they heard Maha utter,
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” and they left the study.