Archive of Our Own

The little things were what Microphone missed the most.

She missed the over-exaggerated gestures he would make when deep in conversation, when he wasn’t conscious of who could be privy, when he was comfortable. Those sweeping hand motions and flapping arms coupled with a twinkle in his eyes that Mic could seldom forget, even now as the months drag on with him bearing a body with no guide.

She missed his facial quirks, the ones that went unnoticed unless you stuck around long enough to peel away the layers of his facade. When he scowled, a definite crease formed in between his brows, and occasionally, his upper lip would curl in distain. When he laughed, his smile lines were remarkably prominent upon his silicone skin, traceable, even. And when he smiled, truly smiled, cracked that ever elusive ear to ear grin, he wore crow’s feet like no other. 

She missed his chambré, albeit crushing bear hugs. She missed the ardent timbre of his voice. She missed his chaste kisses, his tentative touches and the way they lingered upon her skin, committing her outline to memory. She missed, she missed, she missed. Oh, how she missed it all. 

But it was best not to dwell on what she had lost, but what she had in the moment. 

And what she had in the moment was a new and shiny way of identification, patented by yours truly.

It had been a…process, to say the least, to find a way to effectively communicate who a person was to MePhone, to forge an approach that lacked thin skin for holes to be poked into. At first, tracing a name or an abbreviation of said name into the palm of his hand sufficed, at least, for the ones he held dear.  The triad in question had curated unspoken rules for when it came to, establishing a routine, though a routine they'd admittedly neglected to educate the rest of the hotel concerning..

For one, don’t, in any circumstance, initiate contact, physical contact, with MePhone without proper forewarning. Microphone remembers many a time she’d accidentally spooked him whilst attempting to garner his attention, once startling him so bad he’d nearly toppled off the bed. She’d laugh looking back on it, but pondering such a snippet only served to sadden her.

It reminded her of the night she’d roused to greet him upon his return, only to find him robbed of the functions they’d all previously taken for granted. He bore no expression to gauge, but Mic could taste the fear that radiated from him; salty, bitter, like the tears that would have fallen if he had eyes to properly shed them from. She’d never let herself live it down, the way she stood, uselessly frozen in slack-jawed horror, as she watched MePhone on his hands and knees, fingers fisting the blades of grass below, as he bore no fruit in his attempts to regain whatever bearings he may still retain. Only when prompted by Knife did Microphone unroot herself from whereat she stood and rushed to his aid.

Nowadays, if she wanted to check up on him, maybe even engage in a little moonlit chat, (his sleep schedule did naught but improve after he was impaired, though Mic was all the willing to accommodate) she’d first tap on the bedspread, creating minute ripples that he’d sense beneath the palm he now perpetually kept splayed upon the mattress. He’d turn his body in her general direction, exhibiting a subtle, anticipatory eagerness Mic didn’t bother concealing a smile at, even if he couldn’t see it. Such excitement wasn’t mutually exclusive to her presence, but there was always a difference between his reactions, like he could differentiate off the mere rhythm in which his partners drummed their digits. 

Endearing that he could decipher, sombre that he was forced to. 

Secondly, if you intend to converse, keep it concise, not for the receiver's case but for the sender's. It was a little taxing to trace an entire, long-winded conversation into the palm of somebody's hand, after all. But that was neither here or there, as this approach had long since been retired due to its inadequacy.

Similarly outdated were the bangles, straightforward in practice and yet prone to blunder. Microphone should've seen it coming; living in close residence of a couple dozen other...rather eccentric occupants? A mix-up was inevitable. Bedazzlement mattered naught to a man that could not see, but hotel residents were encouraged to personalize their wristlets beyond the required engraving in order to prevent said mix-ups, but alas, as you can tell, these efforts were in vain. Microphone had spent who knows how long that ill-fated day convincing MePhone that it hadn't been her who jerked away (instinctively, might I add. The party was guilty, but not cruel) when reached for. That she was, nine times out of ten, willing to cuddle and would let him down affably if she wasn't in the mood, never to even dream of flinching away like a woman burned. Until this day, she experiences pangs of guilt deep within her chest when reminded of that incident in any capacity, even if she wasn't directly at fault.

And so came the tattoos.

Raised tattoos, to be exact. Knife had introduced her to the concept of scarification when prompted about his own, and in all honesty, Mic had gotten a little obsessed with them. Not only were they quite flattering, the sleeves and such he wore, Mic absolutely adored tracing them, mapping out the patterns upon his greige skin. And after being briefed that Knife had in fact done some of the branding himself, Mic found herself inspired. She ran the idea by her partners after a touch a research, and Pickle had hopped on the bandwagon with minimal convincing. Knife, however, had been wary. Neither Mic nor Pickle bore tattoos and starting off with scarification was a sizable jump he wasn't sure they were prepared for. The procedure would be permanent, after all, but upon witnessing their trust in his handiwork, not to mention the dedication they radiated, he caved and sought out his utensils.

Mic considered it an art form, the way Knife conducted himself throughout every step of the process, the sheer delicateness exhibited. He held the electrosurgical tool like a painter would hold their prized paintbrush, with the knowledge that his canvases were ever so fragile. They'd gone through nearly a tin of numbing cream, and after the fact, not only did their wounds sting, but their hands did in fold from squeezing the latter's a bit too tight, but their pain was near overshadowed as they fawned after the gore was scrubbed away.

Knife's blended in with the rest of his scarring; charcoal flames that slithered up his wrist and connected seamlessly to the faded wisps that adorned his shoulder. Most would gloss over the new addition, but he and his partners alone would know of its significance. He'd considered a barbed wire cuff, but even he had limits for what he'd etch into his own skin.

Pickle had gotten a medley of Tetris pieces, with monochromatic shading as he hadn't bothered with colored ink. Sure, he wasn't an avid player of Tetris, at least, not anymore, but the embellishment reminded him of a simpler time, filled with lighthearted banter and friendly competition.

And Mic, predictably patent Mic, had requested a music note. 

Now in present time, she ogled the decorative lesion at her windowsill, outline accented by the sun's rays. She turned her wrist over once, twice, checking for any signs of infection, and thankfully finding the scarring only slightly uneven. It had been ten days, the recommended healing time, so the wound was now properly scabbed over and blessedly discernible. Even though the tattoo remained tender to the touch, Mic saw it fit to finally reap the benefits of their labor. That, and she was also exceedingly impatient by now. She had been ever since the boys came to an agreement that she should be the first to surprise MePhone with the renditions of their commitment, as she'd been the one to come up with the idea in the first place.

She went through their usual song and dance in an unassuming manner, tapping on the mattress and holding out her hand in invitation, one that was accepted in a heartbeat. MePhone ran the pad of his thumb over her velvety palm, a grounding technique that had transitioned a repetitive tick Mic felt it alright to encourage. His thumb slipped low, grazing the junction of her hand and wrist, and the motions paused. Mic repressed a slight flinch as he got a curious feel, ginger at first as he assumed he was touching a fresh wound, then mazed as he connected the dots and intuited the mark for what it was. 

Instead of tilting a head he did not own, he made the presumed motions, however he may, with his shoulders, retracting his hand with the intention to sign. Mic shook her head, remembered that he couldn't see her do so, and took up his hands, signaling that inquires weren't necessary. Before MePhone could take on a more flummoxed stance, she wordlessly requested that he open his palm, and after a moment's consideration, he acquiesced. 

In the awaiting palm of his hand, Microphone traced, with every letter carrying unfathomable weight; 

'𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊.'

She watched with bated breath as MePhone deliberated, devoid of any sound beyond the gentle shuffling of sheets. With notably shaky fingers, he took up her wrist, and traced the outline of the music note before faltering, hand falling away to rest in his lap. His shoulders abruptly jerked, and began to tremble, frame shook by unheard, repressed sobs. Mic took on a distressed visage, and before she could reach for her lover, arms opening pre-maturely, he all but dove for her blest embrace, burrowing into her chest. The fabric of her top got cinched in between the joints of his fingers from whereat they grasped, and he squeezed at her waist just a bit too tight, but beyond the man currently situated in her lap, naught mattered in the moment. Hand planted upon the small of his back, another encircling his waist, Mic let the outside world melt away, as she began to hum a tune. A tune naught but one would recognize, no words heard but vibrations of each syllable felt as MePhone coddled flush against her sternum. Many a question hung unanswered in the air, but neither of the pair would dare to shatter the interval of raw, unfiltered intimacy that had enveloped them. 

And as Mic continued to croon, and MePhone reintroduced his wandering digits to her manifestation of devotion, the boys happened to enter the scene as Mic reached the whispered chorus.

'𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝐼 𝒹𝑜 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒 𝐼 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝓊𝒻𝒻𝒾𝒸𝑒 𝒶𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒.

𝐼’𝓁𝓁 𝒽𝓊𝓂 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓉𝓊𝓃𝑒𝓈

𝐼’𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝑜𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒷𝓁𝓊𝑒𝓈

𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓈 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝑜𝓃 𝓇𝒾𝓈𝑒𝓈, 𝐼’𝓁𝓁 𝒷𝑒 𝒶𝓉𝓉𝓊𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 ...‪‪❤︎‬ '