Work Text:
Somewhere on the monastery grounds was a robin. He could hear its birdsong clear as day. A call, a pause, a call, a pause. Where was it? The Mute raised his arm, shielding his eyes from the sun's glare as he searched for the little creature.
There it was! A robin redbreast, on the garden wall! Such a tiny thing, and yet, such a bright, loud call! The Mute whistled, imitating its chirps. If a bird could ever appear astonished, then it was this one, staring at him with its small, dark eyes like the drupelets of a blackberry. It bounced from stone to stone, chirping and fluttering its wings.
The Mute whistled once more.
It tilted its head this way and that, then called out again. They continued like that—a call, a whistle, a call, a whistle—until someone cried, "Now, what is this!" and he very nearly jumped out of his skin.
The Mute stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Diarmuid was there, holding a basket of eggs.
"All these years you've been here with us, and this is the first time I've heard you whistle!" his friend said, delighted.
With a somewhat bashful smile, the Mute pointed to the robin, which was now hopping about the fence, curious about the newcomer. He whistled again; the robin repeated the sound one final time before apparently tiring of the game and taking flight towards the church.
Diarmuid laughed in delight, and it was as pretty as birdsong. "Will you teach me how to do that?" he asked the Mute.
To whistle? That Diarmuid didn't already know surprised him. But his friend already sang so beautifully—whistling would be an easy skill to learn. The Mute pursed his lips and blew, emitting a long, low whistle that tapered off into silence under Diarmuid's inquisitive stare.
"I don't understand how you're doing it. Can you show me again?"
Another demonstration followed. The Mute pointed to the shape of his lips as he whistled.
Diarmuid drew closer to him. He asked, "Once more?"
The Mute obliged. He took a deep breath, formed an 'o' with his lips, and—
—startled as Diarmuid darted forward and pressed a kiss to his mouth, soft and warm and affectionate. His lashes brushed against the Mute's cheek, his smile was bright as the sun.
"Now I get it," Diarmuid murmured.
And then he hurried off to the clocháin with the basket of eggs in his arms, leaving the Mute blushing and bewildered in his wake.
From the church's roof, the robin chirped.
It sounded like laughter.