Archive of Our Own

You talk. A lot.

About the dream you had last night (something with a talking cat and a pasta festival), the new mochi flavor you found on the way home, the movie you almost cried at but didn’t because you were in public, and the three different people you saw wearing the exact same hoodietoday. All of this comes tumbling out before you’ve even taken your shoes off.

Megumi glances up from the book in his lap, makes a noncommittal sound – somewhere between a grunt and a hum – but doesn’t stop you.

You keep going, because you always do.

“—and then I said, ‘Well obviously it was a bad idea to microwave sushi,’ but she didn’t listen. Can you believe that? Who microwaves sushi?”

You plop down beside him, the cushion sighing under your weight.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t microwave sushi once,” you tease, nudging his arm with your shoulder.

“I didn’t,” he replies, eyes still on the page. “And I wouldn’t.”

“Okay, okay, good. Because if you had, I would have had to reevaluate this entire relationship.”

There’s a beat. Quiet.

You think he’s ignoring you again until—

“You say that at least three times a week,” he murmurs, turning the page.

You grin. “Only because you keep giving me reasons to.”

He doesn’t roll his eyes, but you can feel the internal eye-roll brewing. You lean against him anyway, tucking your legs up and resting your head lightly against his shoulder.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. But you feel the slow shift of muscle as he tilts ever so slightly into your weight. Barely there. But enough.

You stay like that for a moment. Silent. Until it bubbles up again.

“Did I tell you about the cat I saw near the bakery? It had one green eye and one blue and it was sitting like it owned the whole sidewalk. Oh! And I think it winked at me.”

“…You did. Yesterday.”

You blink. “I did?”

“Yeah. Right before the story about the haunted vending machine.”

“Ohhhh right. That was a good one.”

You’re smiling, and he knows it without looking.

He closes his book. Finally.

“You know,” you say as he sets it down, “some boyfriends would tell their girlfriends to shut up by now.”

Megumi turns his head, meets your eyes. There’s something unreadable in his gaze: tired, maybe. But not the kind of tired that comes from your voice.

“If I didn’t want to hear you,” he says quietly, “I wouldn’t keep listening.”

That shuts you up for half a second.

You blink again. “That was… oddly sweet. Was that a confession of love or do I need to record it for analysis later?”

“You need to stop talking.”

“Make me.”

He sighs, leans in, and presses a brief kiss to your cheek.

You freeze.

“…That doesn’t count,” you whisper, stunned.

He leans back with the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth – blink and you’d miss it.

“Then keep talking.”

And you do. Because you always do.

And he listens. Because he always does.

Even when it’s late, even when you forget where the story began, even when you’re snuggled against his side talking about nonsense and nothing and everything all at once – he listens.

For all your many, many words, you are his quiet.