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Atsushi hummed.
It took weeks for Kyouka to pin down the barely-there sounds. He didn’t like the quiet, he confessed one night. He didn’t explain further; he never did.
The humming told her everything.
Three when he was upset, low-high-low, the notes drawn out too long. A trembling, broken scale when a nightmare woke him, quick and fragile. Faintly tongued notes meant loneliness, mimicking speech. But her favorite sounds swayed. Those notes spilled in an aimless, changeable pattern of la’s and mm’s and sighs. He purred happiness.
When a job gifted her an old music player, Kyouka filled it with lullabies and instrumentals and left it on his pillow.
Atsushi’s humming changed slowly. Sometimes he would sing those soft songs, the words sweet, like a stolen treat.
Kyouka’s mother used to sing her to sleep. Now, when the memories found her in her dreams, Atsushi’s voice tucked her back in, instead.
Eventually, Atsushi’s humming changed again. It came with sighs and pauses, smothered giggles and half-spoken syllables she shouldn’t hear, so she didn’t. When gifts began appearing, she ignored those too, until he split an Animal Crossing island down the middle. She befriended a white tiger, a black cat, and a bunny. Their island’s song changed with Atsushi’s humming.
Atsushi didn’t hum at all after Fukuchi’s betrayal. After his loss. The silence hurt Kyouka’s heart as much as her ears.
When the world settled, the dorms were upgraded. She had her own room next door, too quiet and large for just her. She slept with the window open, hoping to catch Atsushi’s voice.
One night, a shadow gifted her an apology and a stuffed, singing rabbit.
The shadow withdrew. It was welcomed through Atsushi’s window, instead. Kyouka hugged her bunny, and it sang her to sleep with Atsushi’s shy voice.