Archive of Our Own

The world didn't sound like anything to Po anymore.

No birdsong. No screech of tires. Not even the mechanical whine of the moving van pulling away from the curb. Just the hum of his thoughts. Steady, dark, and too loud in the silence.

The keys to his new place were still warm in his hand. They didn't jingle. Po liked that. Nothing to startle him. Nothing to remind him of what was gone.

He glanced at Pepper, who was standing on the sidewalk with a cardboard box resting on one hip, patiently waiting. The wind ruffled his curls, and he gave Po a small nod, one that said, Take your time. It was the kind of patience Po had come to depend on. Quiet patience. The kind that didn't make him feel broken.

Po raised his hand and signed a soft thank you. Simple. Two fingers brushing his chin, moving forward. Thank you. Thank you for lifting the boxes. Thank you for not rushing him. Thank you for staying.

Pepper smiled and nodded again. "Of course." He said aloud, and then again in sign, lips moving slowly so Po could catch the shape. His hands moved with a kind of elegant precision: Anytime.

The inside of the row house smelled like dust and stale air, like something forgotten and waiting. Po liked it. It wasn't trying to impress him. It wasn't trying to be anything other than what it was: bare, honest, a little broken.

"Kitchen's to the right." Pepper said. He pointed, though Po had already begun moving that way, memorizing the layout in quiet steps. "Bathroom's small, but I put the towels in there already. You can move the rest at your pace."

Po set the box down on the scuffed floor and looked back at him, eyebrows raised. "You're leaving?"

Pepper gave a half-shrug. "You want space, right? You said that. Said you wanted to do this yourself."

Po hesitated, then nodded. He did say that. He meant that.

Still.

He watched Pepper retreat down the front steps, not looking back. The door clicked shut, and Po was alone again.

He unpacked until the night thickened and pressed against the windows like sleep he couldn't afford. One box became four, and four became an army of flattened cardboard skeletons lined up against the wall. The couch was still wrapped in plastic. The floor was covered in small decisions; where the books would go, which shelf needed a nail, which framed photo he didn't have the heart to hang yet.

At some point, the exhaustion set in. Not just in his arms, but deeper, in the soft places, the ones he didn't talk about. The kind of tired that wasn't fixed by sleep.

The next morning, the doorbell rang. A faint vibration rolled through the floor, too weak to stir Po from where he had passed out on the couch, limbs curled in on themselves like punctuation at the end of a sentence.

Pepper stood outside for a while. Rang once. Waited. Rang again.

He knew better.

Digging into his coat pocket, he pulled out the spare key, the one Po had handed over with a sigh and a reluctant glance. "Only if it's really bad", Po had signed. Pepper had smiled.

He unlocked the door quietly. Tiptoed inside like it was a chapel.

There was Po, curled under a blanket, fingers twitching in some half-formed dream. The light filtered through the window in pale threads. Pepper stood there for a moment, watching. Not like a guard. Like a friend. Like someone who knew how heavy even silence could be.

He walked to the couch and crouched beside it. Gently, he tapped Po's shoulder. Not too hard. Not too sudden. Po flinched, eyes fluttering open. He blinked, confused.

Pepper signed slowly. "You okay?"

Po blinked again, then nodded. He sat up, rubbing his face, embarrassed. "Forgot to set the alarm." His fingers tripped a little, clumsy from sleep.

Pepper smiled. "You needed rest." And because it didn't need to be said aloud, he added one more sign, as natural as a breath between friends: "I'm here."

Pepper stood and offered a hand.

Po looked at it for a second before taking it, letting himself be pulled upright. He felt like a stack of uneven books. Too much weight on one side, just barely balanced.

They moved toward the kitchen together. The fridge hummed softly, the only sound that existed for Pepper and the only vibration that existed for Po.

A few grocery bags were still by the back door, forgotten from the night before. Pepper crouched and began to unpack, holding up items one at a time.

He raised a carton of eggs, eyebrows lifted. Po pointed toward the top shelf.

Pepper nodded and slid it inside, careful not to let the carton bang against the glass. One by one, they went through the bags: milk, vegetables, a jar of spicy kimchi that Pepper held up with a smirk.

Po signed. "You hate that smell."

Pepper grinned and signed back. "But you love it. That's what matters."

Po rolled his eyes but looked away, like maybe he was smiling too, just a little.

They worked in a quiet rhythm. Po tapped his fingers against the counter every now and then, the motion grounding. Pepper responded with small gestures. A nod, a glance enough to say I see you. Always enough.

When they finished, the fridge was clean and full. Po stood with his hands on the counter, staring into it like it was something unfamiliar. Like a life he wasn't sure how to step into yet.

Pepper nudged him with his elbow. "First meal in the new place?" He signed.

Po shrugged. Then, slowly, signed: "Something easy."

Pepper was already reaching for the loaf of bread. "Peanut butter toast it is." He said, opening a cabinet and then looking over. "Where'd you put the plates?"

Po signed. "Box near the sink. I think." Then added: "Maybe."

Pepper laughed not loud, but bright enough that it showed in his eyes. "Helpful." He teased, and Po shook his head with mock disdain.

They found the plates. Toasted the bread. Ate standing at the counter, paper towels instead of napkins, the toast just a little too burnt on one edge.

It wasn't perfect. But it was theirs.

After they finished, Pepper didn't rush to leave. He rinsed the knives in the sink, dried them slowly. Po leaned against the counter, watching the way the morning light painted his friend in soft gold.

He tapped the counter, then signed: "Thanks. For earlier. For... this."

Pepper looked up. His expression went softer than soft.

He didn't sign anything back right away. He just looked at Po, and then reached over, squeezing his shoulder.

"Always." He signed it with one hand, the other still damp from the dishcloth. And it settled between them like a promise. Quiet and full and enough.

The day unfolded in quiet moments stitched together by simple acts.

Po unpacked more boxes, peeling away layers of his old life. Pepper hovered nearby, ready with a hand when something too heavy or awkward came up, or when Po needed a break. They shared quiet smiles over mismatched mugs and half-forgotten memories tucked inside books and vinyl records.

Lunch was a mix of takeout. Spicy noodles for Po, something mild and balanced for Pepper, eaten cross-legged on the floor amid open boxes, surrounded by the slowly growing sense of home.

They talked little, but Po's eyes said enough. Pepper understood. He watched for the subtle shifts. The way Po's fingers twitched when he was overwhelmed, the way his shoulders relaxed when Pepper signed a joke or a silly face.

In the afternoon, Pepper helped Po organize the tiny closet, sliding hangers onto the rod, folding clothes with patient precision. They moved slowly, deliberately. No rush, no pressure.

As evening fell, Po cooked dinner for the first time in the new kitchen. Pepper chopped vegetables while Po stirred the pot. The scent of garlic and chili filled the air, wrapping around them like a gentle invitation.

After dinner, they settled in the living room. Pepper with a journal of Po's mood, Po with a worn sketchpad, tracing shapes with quiet focus.

Night came softly, and neither wanted the day to end.

Pepper unfolded the small mattress in the tiny room tucked next to the front door, the space Po reserved for his caretaker. It was cramped, barely enough for a bed and a shelf with a few essentials, but it was Pepper's space here. A quiet sanctuary of his own.

Po paused at the door, fingers brushing the frame. Pepper looked up and smiled.

"Want to stay?" Po signed.

Pepper nodded. The door closed gently behind him. Outside, the streetlights flickered to life, casting long shadows over the row houses.

As the first morning light touched Po's face, he stirred awake. Cuddling a sweater he didn't remember putting on, Po felt his alarm vibrating faintly beneath his pillow. 7 AM.

He shuffled through the living room and into the kitchen, planning to brew his first cup of hot coffee in the new place. But when he entered, Pepper was already there.

Pepper stared at a glass of water, yawning without even looking at Po, and gave a sleepy wave.

Po stopped mid-step, hands raised in a silent shrug, wordlessly asking, Why are you here?

Pepper yawned again, covering his mouth with his hand. Then, he shook his head. "Your neighbor plays rock until 2 AM."

"What?" Po glanced toward the wall that separated the two homes. "Are you serious?"

"I'd be happy if I wasn't." Pepper blinked heavily, barely able to keep his eyes open.

Po smiled, his tired expression softening. "Is he good?"

Pepper cocked his head toward Po, staring into his shining eyes for a quiet second. "Po... It's loud."

Oh, Po mouthed the word, then shrugged and moved toward the coffee machine. After making his coffee, he turned back to Pepper. "Talk to them." The first words he'd spoken aloud in three days.

"I should." Pepper played with the hem of his shirt. "I will."

Pepper led the way up the worn concrete steps to the neighbor's door, his hand steady around Po's wrist. Po's heart beat unevenly. Not with fear, but with the unfamiliar weight of confrontation. He stayed close, trusting Pepper to handle what needed to be said.

When Pepper pressed the doorbell, a chime echoed inside the house, silent to Po, but visible in the slight tense shift in Pepper's throat and the subtle twitch of his fingers.

Po peered over Pepper's shoulder just as the door creaked open.

There stood the neighbor: a young man, about their age, with dark, tousled hair that looked as though he had just rolled out of bed. His skin glowed with the warm brown tone of southern Thailand, smooth and untouched by tattoos or marks. Po noticed the quiet confidence in his gaze, the way his sharp eyes quickly took in the two visitors before settling on Po.

He wore a faded rock band t-shirt, the kind that spoke of years of wear and something familiar to Pepper. Po felt a quiet connection in that faded fabric, though no sound reached his ears.

The neighbor's lips moved in a silent exchange. Po watched the shapes carefully. The lift of an eyebrow, the slight tilt of his head, curiosity and surprise flickering across his face. His eyes lingered on Po a moment longer. An unspoken question in their depths, before he nodded, a small, deliberate gesture of acknowledgment.

Pepper's hands moved swiftly, signing, so Po would understand what he's talking about. Po caught the gestures: "The electric guitar playing at 2 AM?" The neighbor's eyes narrowed slightly in response, lips moving silently.

"Didn't know you two live there." Po watched the way the man's expression shifted. Surprise, maybe irritation, but mostly understanding.

Without stepping back, Pepper held his ground, signing again while speaking, firm but calm. "He lives alone." Pepper glanced at Po, then back at the stranger. "He couldn't hear your music, but I did. It's very loud, the walls are paper thin. Could you stop playing at midnight? Or maybe get something that tones it down?"

The neighbor's gaze flickered to Po, then back to Pepper. Finally, he nodded once, a silent promise to be more considerate. The tension in the air softened.

Po reached for Pepper's hand, squeezing it, relief mixing with something new. An unfamiliar thread of hope.

Pepper gave a small, tired smile. No more words spoken, but everything said. They turned away from the door together, the quiet neighborhood waking slowly around them.

As they stepped away from the door, the morning air felt different, lighter, somehow. Po's fingers twitched with a mix of nerves and something he hadn't expected: curiosity.

He looked up at Pepper, eyes bright with a quiet excitement he rarely showed. He signed slowly, carefully: "I like him."

Pepper glanced down, surprised but gentle, and smiled a knowing, soft smile.

Po's cheeks warmed. It wasn't just the neighbor's messy hair or the faded t-shirt. It was the way he held himself. Easy, real, unguarded. Someone who didn't pretend, even in the tired haze of morning.

Pepper squeezed his hand. He signed back: "Maybe this is good." Then, after Po looked down, he said: "But he's too loud."

Po nodded, hope settling deep inside him like a seed waiting to grow.

For the first time in a long while, the silence outside wasn't just buzzing in the background, maybe it was the start of something new.

Thame's gig that night was silent for Po.

When Po woke the next morning, the row house felt different. Softer, as if the walls themselves had leaned in to apologize. He padded into the kitchen, expecting Pepper, but found an envelope taped to the fridge instead. His name was scrawled on it in black marker, and beneath it, a shaky little drawing of an electric guitar.

He peeled the tape and opened it. Inside was a small sketchbook, its pages blank except for the first two. On page one, in careful print:

Hey, I'm Thame.

Sorry about that night. I moved practices to afternoons now.

Hope this helps.

On the second page was another drawing: a cartoon amp sweating under the midday sun, next to a clock face showing 3 PM. Po couldn't hear the note, but he could feel the thought behind it was genuine, a little clumsy, and entirely unexpected.

He traced the sketch with his fingertip and smiled.

That afternoon, just after three, Po saw the light sensors going off, indicating someone rang the doorbell. He opened it to find Thame standing on the stoop, arms full of bright yellow daisies, (one of the few flowers Po could immediately name) and a sketchbook cradled against his chest.

Thame cleared his throat, but Po didn't hear it. He watched the way Thame's Adam's apple bobbed, the way his fingers fidgeted with the daisies' stems.

Po held up a finger: wait. He grabbed his phone from the counter, opened the notepad, and typed: Hi. You moved practice. Thank you.

He turned the screen toward Thame. Thame's eyes lit up. He pointed at the daisies, then to the sketchbook, then back at Po.

Po tapped: These are for me?

Judging from the way Thame's throat moved, he cleared it, then offered the flowers. Po smiled and took them, gesturing toward the living room. They both sat on the soft couch, daisies in a jar between them.

Po's house was a mirror of Thame's in structure. Same old wood beneath the tile, but the comparison stopped at the walls.

For Thame, inside, everything felt soft, like breath held in a warm chest. The living room was simple, but not bare. A low sofa with brushed fabric sat against the far wall (the kind that invited you to curl into it, not pose for photos). A few plants flanked the corners: rubber plant, pothos, a trailing vine reaching toward the light. The coffee table was scattered with two-three sketchbooks and worn-spined paperbacks, each clearly used, not staged.

Po pulled out his phone and opened Notes. With a tap he typed: I'm glad you're kind enough to move practice.

He showed it to Thame, then added out loud: "I really do."

Light spilled in from clean windows. No curtains, just pale blinds pulled high. Thame's face lit up. He reached into his pocket and produced a small keyring of foam earplugs decorated with lightning bolts.

"These... for the afternoons, so you can rest." He said softly, and silently hoped Po could follow.

Po's smile widened. He slipped the earplugs onto his keyring and replied: "Perfect. I'll use them."

Thame took out his phone, turning toward Po so he can read what he types. I asked the guy you came with yesterday. He told me you can't hear, so I looked it up. I watched some videos and they said deaf people can be sensitive to things like vibration or residual low-frequency sound. My electric guitar might freak you out if you don't know it's me.

He glanced up, catching Po's lips curving up into a tiny smile. Po bowed his head a little as a 'thank you'. Then, Thame typed again: Can I learn sign?

"Watch me." Po said softly, then leaned back to show him.

He straightened his posture, shoulders square but relaxed. His right hand came up to his forehead, palm facing out, fingers pressed together like a flat salute.

Then, with a simple motion, he moved the hand away from his forehead, out and slightly downward, like he was tipping an invisible hat or greeting someone across a sunny street.

No words. Just the movement.

He repeated it slowly, again: Palm to forehead. Fingers flat and tight together. A confident, but casual flick outward.

"Hello." Po said.

Thame watched the shape of the motion, the way it was both formal and soft. Like a wave dressed up in manners. He mimiced it, fumbling a little, his fingers splaying too wide at first.

Po shook his head gently. "Keep your fingers close." He said, gesturing to correct him.

He reached out, tapped Thame's hand, then pressed Thame's fingers together like closing a book.

Thame's hands were warm, soft to the touch. Po's lashes fluttered as their skin made contact. Still a little tense, Thame tried again. Hand to head. Fingers straight. Flick away.

Po nodded as their eyes met. Thame grinned, a little proud. "Hello." He said, both with his hand and his voice, finally matching the shape Po taught him.

Po signed it back.

For a moment, the room was completely still, except for the quiet pulse of something new between them. Not quite words, but a beginning.

Happy with the new skill he was learning, Thame copied it again, brow furrowed in focus. Something unspoken, warm, and new passed between them like a comfortable breeze.

"Coffee?" Po said quietly, setting the sketchbook aside, leaning forward.

Thame nodded, and Po led the way.

The kitchen gleamed, but not in a showroom way. Everything had a place. Clear containers with labels. A fruit bowl that actually had fruit in it. Tea boxes arranged by mood. A small whiteboard beside the fridge showed scribbled reminders, some clearly written by another hand. And next to it, there was a tiny doodle of a cat and a smiley face with round cheeks.

A tablet rested in a wooden stand, propped beside the sink. Probably for recipes, video messages, visual alarms. Po didn't cook much, but when he did, he liked knowing exactly what it was supposed to look like.

The clock on the wall read 3:10 PM.

Po moved easily around the kitchen,sleeves rolled just past his elbows, hair still a little tousled from the afternoon heat. He opened a cabinet, pulled down two mugs, one plain white, the other chipped blue, and set them on the counter with quiet purpose.

Thame stood a few feet away, leaning against the island, arms resting on the surface. His gaze followed Po, never drifting. There was something intent in the way he watched like he didn't want to miss anything.

Po scooped coffee into the machine, measured the water, pressed the start button. He glanced over once, and Thame smiled, a little crooked, as if unsure wether he was allowed to smile yet.

Po pointed at the mugs, then to Thame. A question. Thame nodded.

Po returned the gesture with a small one-sided smile and pulled out a carton of oat milk from the fridge. He poured just a splash into the blue mug, then hesitated. Looked back at Thame, lifted the carton, tilted his head.

Thame held up a hand: that's fine.

The corners of Po's lips turned upward, as he placed everything down on the counter. He turned to Thame, straightened his posture, and their eyes met. Po held up his left hand flat, his palm facing down. He curled his right hand into a fist, thumb resting along the side of his fingers. He nodded, while moving his left hand in a firm motion forward.

Thame tilted his head, not quite understanding what Po was trying to tell him. Then, Po pointed at the blue mug, and repeated the easy motion.

"Ah!" Thame's face lit up again. "Coffee?"

Po shook his head, repeating it for the third time.

"Mug?" Thame asked, nodding as if he already got it right. But no.

Po sighed. Not sad, not disappointed, just aware the coffees will cool down if he's not explaining the meaning in time. Before he could open his mouth, Thame held up a hand. "Wait, don't tell me. I wanna figure it out on my own."

For the next four minutes, both Po and Thame were doing the same hand movement. Thame guessed and guessed, going far and getting closer to the answer; hot, flat white, cappucino, blue, hold, tasty, bitter... He tried everything.

"Gosh... Which one was the closest?" Thame asked slowly, making sure Po can read his lips well.

"None." He looked down to his foot, like it's the most interesting thing in the world. He let out a chuckle. Or a full-blown laugh, he wasn't sure. His gaze found Thame's face again. He's so fine, Po thought.

Thame's shoulders did that involuntary shrug of joy that happens with a real laugh. His mouth opened wide, not just smiling but in a soft, full shape that showed his white teeth. His eyes creased at the corners, eyebrows lifting slightly, then relaxing. His chest moved in a quick rhythm, air vibrating through his lungs.

After he calmed down, he copied the sign again. And again. This time, analyzing every part of it. "This is the mug." He mouthed, staring at Po's engrossed expression. "This is... the air? My hand? Your hand? What is this?"

Po smiled, shaking his head. Now, it didn't mean Thame was incorrect. He was entertaining. Funny, even without trying. Po felt like he was in a circus, where his favorite clown was currently performing.

Thame, focused on his own hands, narrowed his eyes. "Mug." He tightened his fist. "Not mug." He wiggled his fingers, making Po take a big breath before accidentally hurting Thame's feelings. "Enough!" Thame screamed. "Enough! It means enough, right?"

Thame spoke so fast, Po could barely follow. But he caught the way Thame's lower lip touched his upper teeth at the end of the word. Enough. Po nodded, smiling wide as Thame almost collapsed to the ground.

Thame held up both his hands in a fist, shaking them a little. "Victory."

It started the next day. Thame showed up at Po's door, holding up his phone like a question. On the screen was a simple message: "What's a good app for learning sign language?"

Po raised an eyebrow. Then smiled. His neighbor was the most understanding person he'd met in a while.

From that day on, Thame came by every afternoon, sometimes with coffee, sometimes with nothing but a sheepish grin and a handful of new signs to show off.

The first week was clumsy. Thame's fingers stumbled through the alphabet, accidentally flipping a few letters backward, and confusing "thank you" with "goodbye" more than once. Eyes bright, shoulders shaking, he laughed at himself, and Po laughed too.

By the second week, Thame was showing up with full fingerspelling, signs for food, numbers, and days of the week. He'd lean against the kitchen island while Po made tea or reorganized boxes, and he'd proudly flash new words with his hands: hungry, guitar, friend.

He was getting better. Fast.

Po pretended not to be impressed, but it was written all over him. The way he lingered a little longer by the door. The way his eyes softened every time Thame got a sign exactly right.

By the third week, they were stringing simple phrases together. Thame's hands moved slower, more carefully now, like he understood the weight of each gesture.

"Your coffee is good."

"You're funny."

"I like being here."

Po didn't say much, but he didn't have to. He watched. He smiled. And every time Thame walked in, it got easier to believe that maybe this wasn't just a neighbor learning signs. Maybe it was someone learning him.

On a calm Friday afternoon, when Po opened the door, Thame slid in with no hesitation, no awkward pause, no unsure glance. He moved like someone who had been there many times before, stepping out of his shoes, and setting them near the wall with practiced ease.

Po watched him for a moment, then reached out and tapped his shoulder.

Thame turned.

Po held up his phone. The screen read "I haven't given you a tour of my house yet."

Thame looked up, meeting Po's eyes. His expression softened, a small smile spreading across his face. Po lifted his hand and signed a word Thame already knew, his fingers curling then flicking out, eyebrows raised slightly.

"Interested?"

Thame didn't hesitate. He signed back with both hands, a little clumsy, but clear. "Yes."

The moment settled between them, quiet, simple, and full of possibilities.

Po closed the front door, pointing at the wall next to it, where a tablet was hanging. "Video doorbell." He said out loud.

Thame furrowed his eyebrows. "Sorry?" He asked, looking at the tablet, then back at Po. Po tilted his head to the side, questioning. Understanding, Thame took out his phone, typing fast, then showing it to Po: Your voice is very hoarse.

Po's face heated up, his ears turning completely pink. "Sorry." He cleared his throat a few times, opening his mouth again. "Video doorbell. Now?"

Thame's gaze lingered just a little too long. His eyes steady but gentle, not darting away quickly like when he was distracted or thinking. His lips parted just slightly, followed by a blink, like he almost said something, but decided to keep quiet.

"It's good now." He visibly exhaled through his nose, barely holding himself back from laughing.

Po touched the black rectangle, swiping down. The screen lit up, showing the outside of his front door, and half of the small yard. "It's live. I can see who's outside." He explained to Thame, then tapped at the bottom.

Thame leaned closer, noticing a tiny, light gray circle.

"Flashing light doorbell." Po raised one brow, as if asking Thame if he knows what it is.

"So... When I ring the doorbell, this lights up?"

Po nodded, guiding Thame toward the living room. He turned to Thame. "You already know this." Po smiled. Thame returned the gesture.

Mounted above the table, a screen played something muted and slow. Time-lapse, clouds, underwater reef glowing in deep blue. Thame tapped Po's shoulder, then pointed at it.

"Doorbell, too?" He asked, slowly. Po put his whole palm in a fist, and flicked it up twice. Signing a quick yes, before stepping into the kitchen.

On the counter, another device lay on the right side. "This too." He said, tapping on it twice.

Thame had seen all these rooms, even the bathroom, which was a replica of his own, except for the colors. The two rooms he haven't walked into yet, were Pepper's and Po's bedroom.

Pepper's was about the same size as the bathroom. Small, with only a single bed and cabinet fitting in. There was a big window, making the room look just as bright as the living room and the kitchen.

Over the past few weeks, he hadn't just been learning sign language, he'd also been diving into blogs and articles written by the Deaf creators. One thing kept coming up: how much visuals mattered. Not just subtitles and signing, but everything. Facial expressions, body language, clear sight lines. For Deaf people, vision wasn't just a sense; it was a lifeline. In a world built around sound, seeing became a way of hearing.

Po led the way, his steps steady, unhurried. Thame followed, watching more than walking, taking in the space as if reading it line by line.

The bedroom was cooler, the light softer. No echo there, just filtered calm. A massive 4K TV hung on the wall opposite the bed, its screen mid-motion, some kind of slow-motion nature video.Subtitles flickered at the bottom, but the images said enough on their own: wind in the fur of a fox, the shimmer of wings. The volume icon stayed muted, untouched.

The bed was neatly made, the folds precise. A single hoodie rested on the back of a chair, still holding a gentle curve in the sleeves. Beside the pillow was a small, sleek device. Thame paused, noticing the subtle hum itgave off when Po tapped it once. Not noise. Just movement.

The corner felt like a held breath. Intentional, quiet, waiting. A camera sat open, lens glinting slightly. Notebooks were stacked nearby, edges worn, corners softened by time. A row of labeled boxes lined a low shelf: Scenes. Still. Letters. No dust, no clutter. Every object had its place, as if being seen was a part of the point.

The walls held black-and-white photos, but not portaits. Just... moments. A wheel mid-turn, light playing through leaves, the crease of a curtain at dusk. Things easy to miss if you weren't paying attention.

Po didn't explain anything. He didn't need to. He moved through the space like someone who knew where everything belonged, and expected others to notice it for themselves.

Thame let his eyes linger on the shelves, the objects, the careful arrangement of the room. No noise, but nothing empty either. Everything felt like it had been lived in with thought,like the house was designed to notice things, too.

A home that listened, even if it couldn't hear.

Thame widened his eyes when he noticed Po staring into his soul. "What's up?" He asked, confused and surprised at the sudden attention he was given.

Po shrugged, smiling. He took his phone out, and typed: You've been looking around for minutes. Do you like my bedroom this much?

Thame let out a chuckle, grinning. Meanwhile, a soft pink cloud bloomed across his cheeks, delicate and sudden, like watercolor touching paper. "Yes."

Po's smile widens, not just approval, but something warmer. Slowly, he signs "Thank you.", so Thame can understand. Then added a soft nod, paired with an open-palmed gesture around the room. It wasn't exactly a sign, more of a motion that said: It's yours too, now. Welcome.

Thame leaned against the doorway, watching as Po adjusted a framed photo on the wall. Everything in this place seemed tuned to intention. Even silence felt full.

He hesitated a beat, then stepped forward, fingers drumming lightly on his jeans. "Hey." He said instinctively, then caught himself. He raised a hand instead. Po turned to him, eyebrows lifted in question.

Thame signed four words: "I. Want. Invite. You." A little clumsy, a little slow, but clear. Then he pulled out his phone, typed quickly, and turned the screen around.

Band practice? You wanna come? We're called "Last Beat".

Po read it, then looked back up, curious. Thame added a guitar-playing gesture, fingers flicking an invisible pick, then mimed a bass thump with his palm. A sheepish grin followed.

"It's loud." Thame mouthed, then paused, winced, and shrugged. Not sure if that was insensitive.

But Po didn't seem offended. He tilted his head, thinking. Then he pointed to his own chest, signed interested, then added, feel music, tapping over his sternum with both hands, twice. A small smile curved at the edge of his mouth.

Thame lit up. "Yeah! Yeah, exactly!" He bounced on his heels a little, energy sparking off him. "You'll feel it. The amps shake the floor."

Po nodded slowly. He pointed to Thame's chest now, then signed: "You play the guitar."

Thame mimed holding a guitar, threw in an exaggerated rockstar stance just to get a laugh. It worked. Po covered his mouth, shaking with silent laughter.

"Okay." Po signed finally. "Show me." He added.

The practice space was in someone's garage. Bare walls, scuffed concrete, a sagging couch shoved in the corner. Wires tangled like vines. Stickers peeled from amps and cases. A ceiling light flickered overhead, blinking in time with nothing.

Po stood just inside the door, still.

The moment the bassist plucked a low note, he felt it through the floor, not just under his feet, but in his chest. A deep thrum, steady and physical, like someone knocking from the inside. The drums followed: kicks and strikes that pulsed up his spine. Thame's electric guitar came next, brighter, messier, like a nervous line scribbled over a steady beat. It didn't come to his ears. It came to his ribs, his throat, his balance.

Po stepped forward slowly, closer to the speakers. The room vibrated with every note. He could see the rhythm. Bodies moving, hair shifting, lips shouting. He focused on Thame's hands, the way they slid and jumped across the strings. Thame caught his eyes once, and grinned.

It didn't matter that he couldn't hear.

Until someone made it matter.

During a pause, one of the other guys, a drummer, tall and sweat-slick, glanced at Thame. He jerked a thumb toward Po, and muttered something. Po didn't catch the words. But the way the guy's eyebrows lifted, like it was a joke, said enough.

Thame froze. His jaw clenched, shoulders tensed. He stepped forward. "Don't." He said sharply, articulating more, so Po can read his lips. "He's here because we invited him. He feels the music. You get that? He sees more than half of us notice."

The room shifted. The mood, the air.

Po didn't look away. He had seen this before in faces, in rooms. But what came next surprised him.

Thame turned back toward him. He signed, slow and clear: "You okay?"

Po nodded once. Steady.

Then he moved closer to the bass amp, placed a hand against it, closed his eyes. The next song began with a low rumble. Thick, almost like a heartbeat.

He smiled.

Another month passed.

Not quickly. Not loudly. Just gently, like light shifting on a wall. In that time, the space between them grew smaller. Not rushed, not named, closer. Shared breakfasts. Hands brushing at the sink. Thame's fingers picking up more signs, slower mistakes, easier laughter. Po watched, corrected him, smiled without needing to speak.

One afternoon, they walked in the park. No destination, just wandering. The kind of day where the sky was soft but undecided, clouds passing without commitment. They ddn't talk. They didn't need to.

Po had brought his camera. Old, solid, a little worn at the edges. The kind with real weight in your hands. He stopped often. To crouch. To angle. To wait.

Thame lingered nearby at first, unsure what Po was seeing. A cracked leaf. A droplet hanging from a chain-link fence. Light caught inside a bottle on a bench. Not dramatic things. Not what Thame would've photographed. But he found himself watching Po instead, the tilt of his head, the way his eyes narrowed not in confusion, but attention. Complete attention.

Po moved like someone who listened with his eyes. Like noticing wasn't something he did. It was how he existed. The click of the shutter was the only thing that moved through the air, clean and certain.

Thame satdown on a bench while Po framed something near a rusted trash can; a single feather, curled slightly, stuck against the base by rain. Thame hadn't seen it. Wouldn't have.

And that's when it hit him. Not just that Po didn't hear things, but that everything was different. The way Po moved through the world wasn't quieter. It was sharper. Tighter. Full of things Thame had never paid attention to.

He swallowed hard, hands resting in his lap. When Po came back, camera swinging from his shoulder, Thame looked up and signed, clumsily but true. "You see everything."

Po smiled, small and knowing. "Not everything. Just what matters."

They didn't say more. But Thame watched him longer that day. Differently.

Another afternoon, they were back at Po's place, sitting cross-legged on the floor with mugs of something warm between them. A candle flickered on the table. No music. No talking. Just the occasional clink of ceramic and the shuffle of knees against soft carpet.

Thame had picked up a few more signs by now. Enough to survive a slow conversation. Enough to get things mostly right. But Po had noticed something new in him lately. A quiet eagerness, like Thame wanted to get it, wanted to say things with his hands the way Po always had.

So Po signed a word. Slow, deliberate. "Tree."

Thame blinked, then smiled. "Oh." He said aloud, and mimed a tree. Arms up, fingers like leaves. Po shook his head and laughed silently, correcting him, shaping the proper sign again.

Thame nodded, trying it back. Not bad.

Then Po signed another word: "Run."

Thame leapt to his feet, mimicking exaggerated jogging in place like a cartoon character. Po raised his brows, impressed, then signed again: "Sleep."

Thame dropped dramatically onto the couch and pretended to snore. Po chuckled, just air and movement,covering his mouth to soften the laugh.

They kept going. Word after word. Thame got bolder. Goofier. He signed "cat" wrong, twice, and Po corrected him, gently moving Thame's fingers into the right shape.

Then Po paused. "Cute."

Thame blinked. "What's that one?"

Po repeated it, slower this time. "Cute."

Thame tried it, uncertain, then caught the shift in Po's eyes. The stillness. The small twitch of his lips.

"Wait..." Thame said. "Was that me?"

Po didn't answer with his hands. Just held hisgaze.

Thame's breath caught. His mouth opened, a half-laugh trying to form, but it didn't come out. For a moment, nothing moved.

Then, slowly, Po leaned in a little.

And Thame did too.

Not a kiss. Not yet. Just that heartbeat before one. Their faces close enough to feel the other's breath, but not close enough to break it. Po's fingers hovered at Thame's wrist, uncertain.

And then... a buzz. Thame's phone, vibrating against the floor.

The spell brke.

Thame pulled back with a small wince, reaching for it. "Sorry."

But Po just smiled, a soft shrug. "Another time."

Thame signed back, slower, eyes fixed on his. "Promise?"

Po nodded once. "Promise."

The first time came, when Po visited Thame's house.

The door opened with a little too much resistance, and Thame held it there with his foot while waving Po in. His fingers moved with quick rhythm; a half-sign, half-gesture that meant: Come on, it's fine.

The first thing Po noticed was how familiar the shape of the space was. The bones of the row huse mirrored his own. Narrow entrance, worn floorboards, bright light from the same window layout. But that's where the similarity ended.

Thame's place was louder. Not audibly, but visually.

Color. Motion. Clutter that had purpose. It felt like a song that had exploded and never got put back together.

"Not as... tidy as yours." Thame said, glancing over with a crooked smile. He pointed two fingers toward his mouth, then toward Po. A shorthand they'd started falling into. "Yours is quiet. This..." He said aloud, turning his palms out to the chaos. "... is not."

There was no couch, no living room. Just open space filled with Thame-things. An orange traffic cone in the corner. A folding chair covered in band stickers. Guitars leaned against the wall like sleeping guards. A stop sign, real, dented, was nailed crooked above a doorway.

Po stepped inside carefully, like the floor might be unstable. It wasn't. It just looked that way. He noticed a long rod fixed along one wall, draped in jackets and shirts, sleeves swaying slightly from the breeze of the open window. No wardrobe. No effort to hide things.

Everything here was out in the open, even the mess.

Thame nudged a path clear with his foot, then picked up a mirror from the ground and set it against the wall. It was covered in stickers too. Po caught his own reflection: a little out of place, a little amused. He liked it.

Thame signed clumsily: "I sleep in that room." Then added aloud, slower: "We'll watch the movie there."

Po smiled. It came easily.

Thame's room was simpler. He wasn't speding much time there, especially after meeting Po.

A stack of guitar picks were on the nightstand, posters taped on the wall, some slightly crooked. A hoodie draped overthe corner of a chair. The bed was unmade but clean, blankets soft and rumpled like they'd just been stirred. Across from it, a blank patch of wall waited in anticipation.

Thame placed the small projector at the foor of the bed, checking the focus with his thumb and adjusting the angle. A dim, flickering light stretched across the wall. Grayscale, shadows, wide frames, the title card of a film that hadn't spoken a word in almost a hundred years.

Po sat cross-legged near the pillows, camera bag at his side, his eyes flicking between the image and Thame, curious.

As the film began, Po turned. He tapped his phone and held it out: Does it have subtitles? I don't know what they're gonna say.

Thame looked down at the screen, then up at him. A small smile pulled at the edge of his mouth. "Silent movie." Then gently, he took Po's phone and typed: This way we can enjoy it the same.

Po stared at the message. His breath caught. Just for a second, but enough to feel it.

The room stayed quiet in the way their world always was, but something had shifted. Something small, like the feeling when your fingers brush too long against someone else's and neither of you moves away.

They lay back, the movie flickering above them, glowing across their faces in soft monochrome. Their shoulders touched first. Then hands, knuckles pressing, fingers falling into that almost-but-not-quite place.

Po didn't move.

Neither did Thame.

On the screen, a silent figure ran down a cobbled street, arms outstretched. Frantic, laughing.

Po watched, but not really. He was too aware of the warmth beside him. The breath beside him. The way silence could feel like something you could hold between your hands.

And for once, no part of it felt like missing anything at all.

Over ten weeks passed since they first met. The amp hummed low, a pulse more than a sound. Thame sat cross-legged on Po's living room floor, guitar in his lap, head bowed slightly in concentration.

His fingers moved easily, calloused and sure, coaxing notes into the air that Po couldn't hear, but felt.

Po sat beside him, knees nearly touching, one hand reting lightly on the side of the amp. The vibrations traveled into his palm, up his wrist, into his chest. He didn't need to know the song. He could feel the pattern. The emotion. The way Thame's body swayed slightly with the beat, eyes closing, lashes casting soft shadows.

They didn't talk.

They didn't need to.

Thame glanced at him once, and they both nodded, perfectly in sync. The next time, Thame offered the guitar to him.

Po raised an eyebrow. Thame just smiled and tapped the strings lightly, then touched the back of po's hand. An invitation.

Carefully, Po placed one hand over the wood, feeling the faint buzz as Thame played a chord. Then he ran his fingers over the strings himself, not to strum, just to feel. They tickled his fingertips; tense, metallic, alive. He pressed down like he'd seen Thame do, and the string resisted, humming back against his skin.

Texture. Vibration. Weight.

He looked up and found Thame already watching him.

Later, aftera pause and a sip of water, Thame fumbled to sign something. Sloppy fingerspelling. A missed movement. Then a self-conscious laugh.

Po tilted his head.

Thame tried again, slower. The signs were broken, but familiar. Po caught the rhythm. It was lyrics. From Last Beat's latest song. A verse Po had read in Thame's sketchbook once, printed carefully between two messy chord diagrams.

He smiled. Then reached out, gently corrected the movement of Thame's hand, fingers brushing skin. Slowing him down.

Their hands stayed close after the correction. Neither pulled away. Po looked up.

Thame was already looking back, not smiling, not joking. Just there. Unblinking. Something raw and close tightening in the air between them.

Po leaned in, just slightly. Their foreheads nearly touched. Thame's hand shifted, barely, as if to reach-

And then the light flashed across the room. A small, sharp flick from the sensor. The doorbell.

Po blinked, and sat back.

Thame let out a soft breath, rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. Po looked toward the front door, but his eyes lingered on Thame for one more heartbeat. "Later." He signed, small and certain.

Thame nodded. "Later."

As Po stood up, Thame placed his palm on his chest. Below his skin, his heartbeat picked up its speed. Exhaling shakily, his fingers cruved up, gripping his shirt tight. "Be patient." He whispered.

Stepping back into the living room, Po sent a slightly nervous, but mostly apologizing glance toward Thame. Behind him, Pepper followed his steps. When his eyes met Thame on the ground, one hand around an unfamiliar guitar's neck, Pepper grabbed Po's bicep, stopping him in his tracks.

Po turned to him, a sheepish smile plastered on his lips.

"What is he doing here?" Pepper asked, eyes wide. He adjusted his glasses, like they were about to fall off his nose in surprise.

Po signed back. "We're hanging out." Now, his body was only half-facing Pepper. This way, Thame could also know what did he answer.

"Hanging out..." Pepper mouthed, slowly, not raising his voice. Thame couldn't hear him, but could already tell the topic.

Po told him about Pepper, his care-taker. Who not only came when needed, but sometimes just ended up at Po's place, often staying the night. A perfect care-taker. A perfect friend.

Thame felt the need to stand up, and properly introduce himself. So far, Pepper knew him from that one day, when he confronted Thame about being loud at 2 AM.

Thame slowly walked beside Po, extending his hand toward Pepper. "Nice to meet you." He said, voice low.

Pepper shook his head, but decided to take his hand. "You too."

Letting go, Thame turned to Po, who's eyes were already on him. He inhaled, heavy air settling inside his lungs. "Should I go?"

Po rapidly shook his head, grabbing Thame's wrist. Pepper's eyes widened and widened, barely staying inside his skull as he took in the whole picture. "What the fuck just happened?" He muttered, mouth open.

Back in the living room, Po cast a glance at Thame; nervous, but mostly apologetic. Pepper followed close behind, stepping in just as Po's eyes landed on Thame, who was seated on the floor, one hand resting on the neck of a guitar that clearly wasn't Po's.

Pepper halted, grabbing Po's bicep. "What is he doing here?" He asked, wide-eyed. His glasses slipped slightly down his nose as if startled by the question itself, and he pushed them back up.

Po turned to him, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. Then he signed: "We're hanging out." He angled his body halfway between Pepper and Thame, making sure both could see the reply.

"Hanging out..." Pepper mouthed the words, voice barely a whisper. Thame couldn't hear him, but the shift in energy told him exactly what was being discussed.

Po had mentioned Pepper before. His caretaker, his sometimes-roommate, his anchor. The kind of friend who showed up when needed... and sometimes even when not.

Thame figured it was time to formally introduce himself. The last time they'd met, Pepper had chewed him out for being too loud at 2 AM. Not exactly a great first impression.

He rose slowly and stepped beside Po, hand extended. "Nice to meet you." He said, keeping his voice low.

Pepper shook his head slightly, uncertain, but accepted the handshake. "You too."

As they let go, Thame turned to Po, who was already watching him. "Should I go?" Thame asked, his breath catching a little as his hands moved.

Po shook his head instantly, hard. He grabbed Thame's wrist, firm and fast.

Pepper's eyes practically bulged. He blinked, staring at them both, stunned. "What the fuck just happened?" He muttered, jaw slack.

Pepper lingered after the handshake, eyes still flitting between the two of them. Po, now standing between them like a thread holding the whole moment together, rubbed the back of his neck, unsure how to explain the thing that didn't need explaining. Not to him.

Pepper crossed his arms. "Po."

Po met his eyes.

"Does he know?" Pepper signed, expression sharp but not unkind. "Does he really understand what you need?"

Po hesitated, then shook his head. Not as a "no," but as a "wait." He stepped a little closer and started signing, slow and clear.

"He's learning. He takes it seriously. He chooses to be in my world, even if he doesn't always know how."

Pepper didn't respond right away. His eyes narrowed, trying to read not just the signs, but what was beneath them.

Po went on.

"He picked a silent film for our movie night. Just so we could enjoy it the same. We spent hours in the park just people-watching, no pressure to talk. He asks questions about signs I haven't even taught him yet. And when he gets it wrong, he laughs at himself, but he keeps going. He wants to get it right."

Behind them, Thame sat back, on the arm of the couch, pretending to inspect the guitar strings. He wasn't listening. Couldn't. But he could feel it. The weight of being the topic of conversation. His stomach curled, and not in the good way.

The signs Po and Pepper were using looked faster than usual, compact and confident. He knew the flow of it now, even if he didn't catch the details. And he knew they were talking about him.

Pepper looked over at Thame, then back at Po. "You think he'll stay?"

Po's reply was immediate, no hesitation. "Yes."

That one word hung in the air with more certainty than any spoken promise could offer.

Pepper's gaze lingered on him a moment longer, then he sighed. One of those long exhales that meant surrender more than anything else.

"All right." He said, this time aloud. "You're the boss." He turned to Thame with a small, crooked smile. "Good luck, Romeo."

Thame blinked, caught off-guard, only managing a confused half-smile before Pepper clapped him on the shoulder and headed for the door.

When it shut behind him, the apartment fell into its usual softness. Po turned to Thame.

Thame looked up. "You okay?"

Po smiled, stepping closer. He didn't answer with words or signs at first, just gently took the guitar from Thame's hands, set it aside, and let their forearms brush as he sat beside him.

Softly, carefully, like testing the edges of something fragile, Po said aloud:
"Yeah. Everything's good."

The sound of his voice, rare and unsure in its tone, carried more meaning than the words themselves.

Thame froze, not because he didn't understand, but because he did. Completely. His gaze locked on Po, something warm flickering behind his eyes. Then his smile unfolded, slow and wide, all affection and quiet awe.

He didn't make a big deal of it. Didn't tease or praise. Just leaned the tiniest bit closer, like the sound had physically drawn him in.

"I'm glad." He said, his voice low. "I like your voice."

And that was it. No pressure. No expectation. Just something placed gently between them. Something Thame would wait months to hear again if it meant it would sound exactly like that.

Po looked away, biting down a smile, cheeks tinged red. He didn't speak again. He didn't need to. They sat like that, in the kind of silence that didn't need filling.

The venue was already packed when they arrived. Thame had offered his hand at the door, and Po had taken it without hesitation. It was meant to be something fun. Thame's band, Last Beat, was playing a surprise set, and he wanted Po to see this part of him, the stage part, the pulsing, fast-living part.

Po wanted to be there. For Thame. But by the second song, it was too much.

The crush of bodies. The flickering lights. Bass vibrations hitting through the floor like a fist to the chest. Po couldn't make sense of anything. Mouths moved but there was no meaning, hands waved in front of him but he couldn't track them, and the constant movement made his stomach turn.

He tried to sign something to Thame from the side of the stage, but Thame was laughing with a bandmate, caught in the adrenaline high, just a little too slow to notice.

Po slipped away. Found the backstage stairwell and sat down on the cold concrete step, his hands in his lap, shoulders curled in.

When Thame finally found him, twenty minutes later, his face was flushed from the show. He dropped down to the step beside Po, breathless, grinning.

"That was insane." Thame said, half-shouting before remembering. He touched Po's knee.
"What happened?" He signed.

Po looked at him, face unreadable, then typed on his phone. "Too much. I shut down."

Thame frowned, running a hand through his hair. "Why didn't you say something?"

Po signed again. "I did."

Thame's expression shifted. Confusion, then guilt, then frustration with himself. "I didn't see." He said out loud, not sure if Po could see even a little in the dark stairwell.

Po didn't respond.

Thame rubbed at his face. "I just... God, I wish you could hear me sometimes."

The silence after was immediate and thick.

Po blinked, slow. Then again. Not shocked. Just... deeply still.

Then he stood up.

Thame reached for him. "Wait, I didn't mean-"

Po shook his head. Not angry. Not dramatic. Tired. Hurt. Like the wind had gone out of him. He took his phone out, and typed one last thing, showing it to Thame. "You don't get to say that."

And then he walked down the steps, one at a time, not running. But not stopping, either.

Thame sat there alone, hand still in the air, mouth parted.

Love had been easy. Understanding would not be.

For the next two weeks, Po went quiet. Not the usual, gentle silence that surrounded him, but something deeper. Sealed off.

Even around Pepper, his signs were clipped, minimal. He spent most of his time in his room, curtains drawn. No TV, no books, not one kind of entertainment. Pepper tried once, gently knocking, asking if he wanted to cook together. Po shook his head.

Pepper didn't push. This time, he didn't try to fix it. He simply stayed close, kept the house warm, and left space for Po to decide when and how to come back.

Thame, meanwhile, unraveled a little.

He reread every text, replayed every moment, trying to figure out when his words had gone from human to harmful. That one sentence... "I just wish you could hear me" kept looping in his head, like an off-key chorus he couldn't silence.

He didn't text Po. He didn't show up right away. Instead, he sat in his small house, reading everything he could about Deaf culture, communication boundaries, emotional access. He filled notebooks. Practiced signing in front of his mirror. Watched videos of real Deaf conversations until he could read the emotions without subtitles.

He even reached out to Pepper.

The conversation was short, but real. Pepper didn't scold him. "Do you want to be right, or do you want to listen?" He simply asked.

Thame got it.

Two weeks after the gig, he finally went back. Not with his usual crooked smile or music gear. He came alone, wearing a hoodie, nerves tucked tightly under his sleeves.

He pressed the doorbell, then stepped back.

Po didn't open the door.

But Thame knew Po could see him. The small video camera above the door glinted in the sunlight. So Thame turned, square to it, and raised his hands.

His signing was clearer now. More confident. Faster.

"I'm sorry.  What I said was wrong.  I didn't mean 'I wish you were different.' I meant, I didn't know how to meet you where you are. I'm learning."

His face said the rest. Soft eyes, brows low, open. A tremble in his jaw. Hands moving with care. No rush. No pressure. "I miss you."

He stood there for a long moment after, letting his words settle; silent, but full.

Inside, behind the door, Po didn't move. Not yet.

But he watched every second of it. And that mattered.

The next day, Thame came back. Same time. Same words. And slowly, it became a habit.

For one week straight, Thame didn't miss a chance to try and make up to Po. He left flowers, colorful bouquets with pretty bows. Every night, at eight PM, when Po usually started to decide what to eat for dinner, Thame rang the doorbell, leaving complete meals in front of Po's door.

He was always gone by the time Po could open the door.

Thame knew he hadn't done enough, and his words still deeply hurt Po. But he couldn't lighten his heavy heartbeat.

However, in the middle of the second week, the door swung open before Thame could've even rang the bell. Po stepped out, dark circles below his eyes.

It was 6 AM.

Thame froze. The five pink carnations whispered odes in the cool breeze, as it hit their petals. Thame blinked, his hands shaking as he gave the flowers to Po.

Po's soft lips curved into a sweet smile. He closed his eyes as he breathed in the rich, expressive bloom of the carnations. His fingers tightened around them, while lifting his free hand to his chin. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Thame smiled, unsure. Not breaking eye contact, he took a step back.

Po's eyes widened. He reached out, firmly grabbing Thame's forearm. "Wait." He said, voice surprisingly desperate.

Thame stopped in his tracks. He lifted his left hand, the three fingers pressed to the side of his forehead. Then, a swift motion, one that looked like he was wiping his forehead, he signed: "Why?"

Po placed the flower down behind him, and stepped out. "I'm sorry. I know you didn't mean it. I was mean to you, too."

"What?" Thame's hands moved fast, exaggerated. "No! I was an asshole. I'm sorry."

Amidst the confession, seriousness and honesty, Po couldn't help but chuckle. "You learned 'asshole'?"

Thame nodded, rapidly. Then, with practised ease, he called himself an asshole three more times. Po smirked, shaking his head in disbelief.

Thame shrugged, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

Po reached for his phone, but Thame stopped him. A gentle hand on his wrist. He took a deep breath, then signed: "I want to understand you. Without notes."

The air between them trembled. Still cool from the early morning, but warmer now in some invisible way. Po lowered his gaze for a moment, hiding the flicker of emotion in his eyes. Then, slowly, he looked back up and nodded. He didn't sign anything right away.

Instead, he turned. Stepped back inside the house. Left the door open behind him. Thame blinked. Hesitated, then stepped in.

Po didn't go far. He stopped just inside the entryway and turned around. In the gentle morning light, his expression had softened again; less brittle now, more alive. He pointed toward the hallway, then lifted one hand, palm facing up, and curled his fingers in a gentle "come here."

Thame followed.

They walked in silence, Po leading, Thame trailing behind, unsure whether to breathe or laugh or cry. It wasn't until they reached the kitchen that Po finally stopped. He turned, leaning lightly against the counter, arms crossing over his chest.

Then, he signed, not a rehearsed phrase, but slow, thoughtful. "Want coffee?"

Thame let out a breath. A real one. Then nodded, grinning. "Yes. Please."

And just like that, with tired eyes and lingering apologies, they began again.

The morning unfolded slowly. Coffee was made, Po moved with sleepy precision, while Thame sat at the kitchen island, chin in his palm, eyes never leaving him. The silence wasn't awkward. It felt right. Like the air had softened.

They ate toast. Smiled a lot. Didn't rush.

Around late morning, Thame signed something clumsy and too fast. Po cocked an eyebrow, then burst out laughing. Thame flushed and signed it again, better this time. It meant "Come to my place?"

Po nodded.

Thame's house was cluttered in a comforting, chaotic way. Posters of old bands. A guitar stand in the corner. A desk overtaken by coiled wires and old lyric notebooks. Po stepped in, scanning it all. This was only his second time inside.

Then Thame gestured toward the guitar amp, a small square thing on the floor. He picked up his guitar without saying anything, adjusted the knobs. No dramatic flourish. Just gentle intention.

Po sat down cross-legged in front of the amp.

Thame strummed once. The floor vibrated.

Po inhaled.

The song began.

It was soft at first. Slow chords layered with pauses. Then it built. A rhythm that pulsed from the soles of Po's feet to his chest. His fingers curled into his sleeves. The amp hummed like a voice not meant for ears, but for skin and bone.

Memories lit up behind his eyes. He hadn't expected them.

Not just memories of sound, but memories of hearing sounds. Running fingers along a piano as a child. His mother's hum when brushing his hair. A film score on a car ride home. Things he hadn't remembered in seven years.

By the time Thame hit the last chord, Po had tears in his eyes. His breath came shallow, but steady.

Thame dropped the pick. "Are you okay?" He asked, kneeling.

Po nodded. He blinked quickly. He pointed at the amp, then "It was beautiful."

"Yeah?" Thame smiled. "How are you feeling?"

Po bit his lip. His hands moved. Hesitant, then sure. "I remembered something. From before. A... resonance." He paused. Thame looked confused. Po chuckled through the emotion, wiping his cheek with his sleeve. "Sorry. That's a hard word. I mean... it echoed inside me. Like I heard it again."

Thame didn't speak.

Po kept going. His hands shaped the story. "When I was ten, there was an accident. A trauma. I started losing my hearing after. Not all at once. It took years. By thirteen, I was fading in and out. By fifteen, silence."

He looked at Thame, who hadn't moved. He just stared at Po's hands, fingers, and facial expression.

"Today it came back. Not sound. Just the memory of it. The shape of music. You gave me that."

Thame's throat bobbed. He placed a hand gently over Po's. Didn't sign anything. Didn't try to say the perfect thing. Just stayed there. Still. With him.

And Po smiled small, worn, but open. For the first time, he didn't feel like something was missing.

Thame's hand was still over Po's. Warm. Solid. They sat like that for a long moment, knees almost touching, the amp beside them still buzzing faintly with cooling heat.

Po looked down at their hands, then up; slowly, cautiously meeting Thame's eyes.

Thame didn't look away. His face was open in that rare, quiet way he sometimes wore when he wasn't pretending. Like now. No stage. No mask.

Po's heart thudded in his ribs, and though he couldn't hear it, he could feel it. A rhythm all his own.

He moved first. His hand shifted slightly beneath Thame's, fingers curling, not pulling away, but anchoring there. His thumb brushed over Thame's knuckle. A question without words.

Thame's lips parted. His breath slowed. His other hand rose gently, almost unsure, until it hovered near Po's face. He paused.

Po didn't flinch.

So Thame's fingers brushed lightly along Po's jaw, then tucked a lock of hair behind his ear, hand settling behind his neck. Po's eyes fluttered shut. Just for a second.

And when they opened again, everything in them said yes.

No words. No instructions. Just closeness, built slow and real.

Thame leaned in. Their foreheads touched first. A stillness passed between them. Warm skin, shared breath. Then, softly, Thame tilted his head.

And kissed him.

It wasn't practiced. It wasn't urgent. Just two boys on a floor between their homes, held together by the quiet gravity of everything they hadn't said yet.

Po's hands rose. One settling on Thame's chest, the other curling gently into his shirt. He pressed back, answering the kiss, not with pressure, but presence.

When they finally parted, Thame kept his eyes closed, forehead still against Po's. He exhaled, lips curving faintly.

Po's eyes were open. Watching him. Every detail. The way Thame's lashes trembled, the pink at the tips of his ears, the quiet smile that dared to stay.

And Po smiled, too. Not a question. Not an apology. Truth. Right here. Now.

Even though the world didn't sound like anything to Po anymore, he could feel his hearbeat like a sweet melody as Thame's hands wrapped around his shoulders.