2Summary: AU in which a mute Mikasa struggles with expressing herself with Jean.
Notes: You can also find this on my writing blog on Tumblr: superdumbwritingblog
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She never spoke much.
In fact, he's never heard a word out of her mouth. He doesn't know what the sound of her voice is like when she laughs, when she sings, when she screams.
He's never minded.
They make it work.
He didn't know why she doesn't speak, he's never asked. She wouldn't be able to tell him, anyway.
He would never be able to tell you what the sound of her voice would be like, but he never minded. He could tell you a million other things. Like the shine in her eyes she gets whenever she sees something she likes. The way her ink black hair frames her face, or how baby soft and delicate her hands are. He would be able to tell you the various expressions she could make, that could speak more than vocalized words ever could. Or how sometimes, in her own way, she was louder than he.
To those on the outside communication between the two may appear strictly one-sided. He would ask her things, simple questions in a soft tone that require only "yes" or "no" answers. Are you hungry? Beautiful day today, isn't it? Do you love me?
She would nod or shake her head.
But it goes deeper than that; in the soft touches between the two, in the silent way they moved together. That one element that most people use to establish a bond is not present; so they use the resources that are left. Sight, touch, taste.
He's never minded.
He figured she was just shy in the beginning. He was shy himself, anyway. He learned that that wasn't it.
She just never talked.
No one knew why; they never asked, and even if they did she wouldn't be able to tell them.
He's never minded.
But that's not to say that she hasn't.
Every day, with every fiber of her being, she's frustrated. Frustrated in the way that her friends talk amiably around her, almost as if mocking her silence, even though she knew that isn't the case. Why force everyone else around her into the quiet world she's trapped behind?
Frustrated she can't speak to him. Can't talk and laugh at his joke and sing sweet music to him. Frustrated she can't scream into the hills: I love him I love him I love him.
Three simple words that she can't even begin to fathom how to say.
She tries to establish them in other ways, to push them through her skin and brand it into his. When she kisses him, her useless lips like honey, to whisper it into his mouth. Pass it down his throat into his being. It never works. It never has the impact she looks for; the light in his eyes stays the same. She wants the expression of realization.
He knows of her struggle. He understands her frustration. He limits his speech around her, the quiet torn away by only the necessities of speech. This only frustrates her more, but she can't tell him.
She feels his heart beneath her hands and it's so close and so far away and so alive. She gestures to her own and hopes he realizes; he sees. For a second she thinks he does, but then nothing happens.
I love him I love him I love him.
But she can't tell him.
He's never minded.
He gives her other ways to let it show. In the way they love. The way they smile. The way her hands roam him, up and down up and down. With each touch, with each spark. Screaming, whispering: I love him I love him I love him.