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Here’s the thing: Aaron is good at hiding stuff.
Not in the flashy way people imagine when they think of secrets. Not in a dramatic or tortured way. He hides things he doesn’t feel people need to see. He does it deliberately, carefully, with timing that looks effortless if you don’t know what you’re looking for.
People think he speaks before he thinks, but Aaron knows that’s not true.
Talking is the buffer. In his opinion, that’s the difference between a bad comedian and a good one- you don’t just tell the joke. You shape it, read the crowd to see how it will land, and say it in a way that makes or breaks it. He’s an expressive guy, so when he has something on his mind, and it fits the moment, he’ll say it without shame. Atleast, now that he’s grown older...
Which is why, when hes still in his teens and his hearing starts deteriorating, he’s the first to notice.
It starts small. A teacher’s voice blurring when they turn to write on the board. His mom calling him from the other room and sounding like she’s underwater. When he accidentally interrupts conversations, rattling on about some new fixation, and noticing but not understanding the looks people shoot each other. Friends laughing at something he didn’t quite catch, and the half second delay where he laughs anyway, too loud, too squeaky, and prays the timing isn’t off.
Then there’s the ringing.
A high, sharp sound that never really leaves. Google suggests a headache or tinnitus, but sometimes it fades into the background, while other times it swells until it feels like it’s drilling straight through his skull. His hearing comes and goes in a way that’s hard to explain, even to himself. Almost like a wire that isn’t connected properly.
He tells his mom eventually, shrugging it off like it’s annoying and unserious. She doesn’t shrug, though- she schedules an urgent appointment.
The doctor is kind in a way that makes everything worse.
They explain it calmly: one ear is mostly gone already. The other one’s compensating, but it won’t last forever. Hearing aids aren’t required yet, but highly recommended to slow further loss.
When he cringes at the thought, the doctor insists to his mom. They’ll help.
His mom gives him an expectant look, and Aaron sheepishly nods like this is fine. Like this isn’t one more thing.
He thinks, privately, that it’s the last straw.
He already feels like too much. He talks weird, moves weird, is weird. Expresses too much. His laugh is high pitched and off- maybe he can blame the hearing loss for that? People clock him as strange before he even opens his mouth, and once he does, they decide if they’re staying or leaving in about ten seconds flat.
Now he has to add deaf to the list? Great.
He doesn’t tell his friends the next time they hang out. Doesn’t explain the doctor’s appointment. Doesn’t blurt it out randomly. He moves silently, gets the hearing aids, and decides immediately that it won’t be something he talks about anytime soon.
They’re skin colored, discreet in-ear ones, barely noticeable unless you know what you’re looking for. It’s almost worse. They exist in this liminal space where he can hide them, so he does.
He grows his hair out just enough to cover his ears and never wears it short again. Hats become non negotiable. Beanies, caps, anything that shadows the sides of his head where the hearing aids are.
He never forgets to charge them, never skips an audiology appointment. Cleans them obsessively. Knows exactly how long he can wear them before the pressure headache sets in, before the overstimulation creeps up on him and everything becomes too loud and not loud enough all at once. Sometimes, even with how meticulous he is, the headaches still happen.
He hates them.
He hyperfixates for a while on the community surrounding them. He still doesn’t apply the things he reads to himself, just can’t do it yet, even when it’s all too close to home. When the things he reads are relatable and applicable to his own experiences.
He quietly learns to read lips. Picks up just enough sign language to know how it works and how it should feel in his hands. He tells himself he’ll never need it, which is why he doesn’t go all in. He sticks with finger spelling everyones names, just basics with no special spelling names or anything, only used with very few people in his life.
When people stare, he’s convinced they’re staring at his ears, where the hearing aids are clipped in, attention grabbing in all the ways he hates.
When he tells a couple of friends he trusts while hes in college, early on, tentative, bracing, the reactions are bad enough that he stops trying. Too much pity, too much disbelief, jokes that go too far. Apologies that aren’t quite sincere.
So he folds it back up inside himself, hides it, and keeps going.
As he gets older, the embarrassment dulls. He stops caring so much in theory. In practice, though, the habits stay. You don’t just undo years of self erasing because you feel better about yourself now.
And it’s not something he can bring up casually. Hey, by the way! I’m going deaf. Feels like a strange bomb to drop on people you’ve known forever.
What he does have now, though, is a brotherhood he didn’t always have.
Denny’s been there the longest, solid and familiar. But getting closer to Herm, meeting Kevin and Zane- that changes something fundamental. With them, he gets to joke freely, push bits without consequence, be annoying on purpose and not be punished for it.
They laugh with him, loudly, fully.
And Aaron gets to hear it.
That matters more than he lets himself think about. He just feels so grateful to be able to laugh and hear the laughs hes causing, career wise and not.
Even when the jokes about deaf people pop up, even when they feel a little too close sometimes, he still laughs, high pitched and shoulders shaking. They’re funny. He knows they’re not aimed at him, not really.
There have been close calls, though.
Like the times when everyone’s talking at once, Herm and Denny arguing with each other, Kevin jumping in, contestants answering questions, crew rushing about. The voices stack and blur until it just… shuts down. Aaron will go still in those moments, eyes unfocused, face locked while he waits for it to pass. Often, someone will nudge him and ask if he’s good, and he’ll laugh it off, blame the Celcius.
Or there will be moments when a joke lands and everyone laughs, and Aaron laughs a beat late because he caught the vibration of it, not the words. He’ll glance around, try to piece together from context, throw something out that sounds right if he’s up to it.
Once, someone says his name from behind him on set and he doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even notice. Not until Herm waves a hand in his peripheral vision and mouths, Yo? Aaron startles, overcorrects, says sorry too quickly. Herm just shrugs and keeps moving.
Another time, they’re filming with a guest who mentions being hard of hearing. The words land heavy in Aaron’s chest, and he feels it immediately when the room’s attention shifts. Later, they poke fun at the fact- and the comedian seems fine with it. Elated, even. Aaron laughs when everyone else does, nods along, keeps the show moving. But afterwards, when he’s alone for a second, he has to press his fingers into his palm to ground himself. He tells himself it’s fine. These are jokes, not mean ones, about deaf people, about not listening, about selective hearing.
He’s not even sensitive about it anymore. It’s just the fact that they don’t suspect is what gets to him. Not even a little.
They don’t take note of the way he positions himself so his good ear faces the room. They don’t notice how he watches mouths when the noise gets bad, nor how he angles his body to catch words better from Kevin sitting on his right. They don’t question why he zones out only when things get loud, or why he’s always the last one to react when someone speaks from behind him. And that makes him feel worse than being found out ever could.
He wishes, sometimes, that one of them would notice. Not to call him out or corner him, but just to see the thing he’s been holding back and hiding. To make it feel less like a wall between him and the guys.
x
They’re filming KL2, sitting around, casually, playing a game that’s basically designed to get them talking. How Well Do You Know Each Other? It’s a game with discussion questions, some serious and some not, on cards. Kevin and Zane put a slight twist on it, where whoever gets a bigger reaction from their answers gets to spin the infamous wheel. Everyone’s answers are jokes, at this point- Herm’s teasing and Denny’s being sassy. No one’s taking it seriously.
Aaron’s half focused, letting the noise wash over him, tracking just enough to stay in rhythm.
Kevin’s voice cuts through sharper than the rest. “Aaron, pay attention. Answer this card.”
He blinks, refocuses. “What is it?”
Kevin reads it aloud. “What’s something you should have mentioned that would shock people who’ve known you forever?”
Everyone leans in. Something clicks.
Well, if he was ever going to say it, it might as well be now, right? They’re all here paying attention to what he has to say. He isn’t being confronted or anything, and he’s not bracing for rejection or scrambling for the right words. They could probably take the moment and satirize it, if anything. The timings too perfect to ignore…
“Well,” Aaron says, leaning back, unserious, like he’s talking about his favorite cereal and not a huge aspect of his life he’s been actively hiding away. “I try to hide it, but I’m actually hard of hearing. Like, nearly fully deaf in my right ear, and my left’s on its way there.”
Silence. Confusion. Straight up disbeleif.
“No you’re not,” Zane says, laughing, but it lands wrong.
“Dude, what are you talking about?” Denny says.
Aaron feels something cold settle in his chest.
He straightens a little. “I am,” he insists, posture tightening.
The room stays weirdly suspended.
He keeps going before anyone can interrupt. “I wear hearing aids. Didn’t tell anyone because I used to think it was lame.”
The looks they give him are… not what he expected. It’s not the joking kind of stares. Not the oh, he’s kidding kind.
Kevin laughs reflexively, the sound sharp and wrong the second it leaves his mouth. “Dude-”
“What?” Denny cuts in, confused, looking between Aaron and Herm. “How did I not know about this?”
Aaron feels it immediately. That drop in his stomach, like he’s stepped off something he thought was solid.
“Are you guys.. not okay with that?” Aaron asks, voice steady and measured. He seals his emotions, carefully controlled, and hides them far, far away. “Because if it’s gonna be a problem, I’d rather know now.”
“No- no,” Kevin says immediately, hands coming up like he’s trying to physically stop the moment from spiraling. “No, Jesus, that’s not what I meant! I just.. I didn’t know. At all.”
Herm leans forward, elbows on the table, all humor gone from his face. “Aaron.”
That’s all he says, but it’s enough to ground the room.
“For how long?” Herm asks quietly.
“Since I was in high school,” Aaron answers. “Started with ringing. Then stuff would fade in and out. Right ear’s mostly gone, now.”
Denny frowns. “Wait, like… gone gone? Silent?”
“Yeah,” Aaron nods. “Left ear’s still pulling its weight, but it’s not exactly winning any awards.”
“Does it hurt?” Kevin asks, brow creased. “Like- physically?”
“Not really,” Aaron says. “It’s more annoying than anything. The ringing’s the worst part.”
“How did we- I not notice? You do know you can tell us anything, right?” Denny mutters concerned, more to himself than anyone.
Aaron shrugs, light. “I’m very charming.”
Herm watches him closely. “So you wear hearing aids?”
“Yeah!” He turns his head to the table and taps on the plastic. “Pretty discreet.”
There’s a beat. They all look grim, like they’re remembering something that’s putting a bad taste in their mouth. Well, that won’t do.
“I guess I shocked you guys pretty well, huh? Does that mean I get a spin on the wheel?” He smirks, then bursts out laughing, unable to contain it.
Denny squints at him, head tilting. “Not to be mean,” he says slowly, smiling despite himself, “but that’s why you’re loud sometimes, huh? You literally can’t hear yourself.”
Aaron laughs, calming down, “Yeah, exactly.”
Kevin winces. “Oh my god. Dude. All the deaf jokes-”
“Kev,” Aaron cuts in gently. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Zane insists. “I feel like an asshole.”
“You’re not,” Aaron says. “You guys didn’t know. Most people don’t, and I made sure of that.”
Herm glances around the table. “You ever use subtitles?”
“All the time,” Aaron says. “Used to pretend I just liked them for vibes.”
“And when you miss jokes?” Herm asks.
“I fake it,” Aaron says plainly. “Smile and laugh half a second late and hope no one says anything.”
Denny exhales through his nose. “Jesus.”
“Sorry for not mentioning it at all. Its just that- I told a couple people early on,” Aaron adds. “In college. Didn’t go great, so I didn’t make the same mistake twice.”
Kevin looks sick about it. “I’m sorry.”
Aaron shrugs again, smaller this time. “I don’t really care anymore.”
Herm’s eyes flick to his ears. “Wait, but why do you never take them off? You don’t need to wear them 24/7, right?”
Aaron hesitates.
“They’re supposed to be on for a couple hours at a time, if I’m pushing it. I typically end up using all that time when we’re on set and making up for it later at home.” He mumbled, then hurried to reassure, “It’s not that bad-”
“Nope. No way, dog,” Denny says immediately.
“Absolutely not,” Kevin and Zane add at the same time.
Herm’s voice is firm. “Don’t do that, man. We can be on set all day sometimes, and not once have I seen you take them off for a break. There’s no way that’s healthy.”
“C’mon guys, I’m used to it at this point!”
“We’ll adjust,” Kevin says. “However we need to.”
“You don’t have to force yourself to be uncomfortable. Ever,” Denny adds.
And he believes them. Because, after that, things change.
Herm starts whispering things Aaron misses under his breath when he notices him confused over a certain joke. Just a word here, a summary there. He never makes it a big deal, just takes on the role like it was something he would have always done if Aaron had asked from the beginning.
Denny lays off the deaf jokes without announcing it. He has also taken on the role of reminding Aaron when he’s over his limit, reminding him if it’s time to take a break from the devices.
Zane pulls him aside one day and asks how he could go about adding formal Youtube captions to all the videos. About making them standard so as to accommodate their fans that are hard of hearing.
Kevin starts learning sign, teaching the others with him. Aaron catches them practicing one day when they had all arrived to the studio before him. He just smiled and started to correct their finger placements. (And if he also shyly gives them each sign names, something he had always wanted to indulge in, then no one would know.)
Aaron sits with the weight of it. The fact that he doesn’t have to hide this huge aspect of his life anymore from the people he cares about. The fact that he gets to hear the laughter he’s causing, and when he can’t, someone will make sure he still knows it’s there. He’s glad.