Life After Deaf
Title: Life After Deaf
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Pairing/Characters: Brian/Justin
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,781
Description: Fear not the loss of hearing in old age. The deaf are the lucky. They alone may listen only to what is worth hearing.
Challenge: None
Disclaimer: Cowlip just won't hand over the QAF cast to me however many times I offer them money. Or pot. Also any medical jargon in this fic came from one day of me plus google so it is probably pretty much gobbidigook, just take it as artistic lisence... I'm not entirely sure on the sign language either. Please don't send me hate-mail.
Life After Deaf
Fear not the loss of hearing in old age. The deaf are the lucky.
They alone may listen only to what is worth hearing.
At first Justin puts it down to those noisy nights a Babylon. When he notices his conversations are littered with “What?” and “Pardon?” he reckons he’s just getting old. And when his neighbors complain for the first time that his music’s too loud, he thinks they’re just pissed because he lets his art friends hang around and the smell of their pot lingers long after they’ve gone. But when he misses three calls from Brian without even hearing the phone ring he decides he needs a second opinion.
Dr Prowse’s practice is a five-minute walk from Justin’s apartment. In the six months since he moved to New York, he’s gone past every day and never even noticed it, tucked between a second-hand bookstore and a Mexican restaurant. Inside it is one of those frighteningly clean places, with bare white walls and shiny metal surfaces. But the strong stench of cheap disinfectant cannot cover the smell of nachos and cheese drifting in from next door.
When Justin pushes open the door he can see one of those small bells above it, hung there to ring if anyone comes in. When he doesn’t hear its chime he absentmindedly assumes it’s not working, then bites his lip when he realizes that it is.
He steps up to the woman seated behind the front desk.
“I’m here to see Dr. Prowse, I’ve got a 4:20 appointment.” She winces a little and blushing, he realizes he must be speaking too loud.
“Sorry,” he says, lowering his voice to a level that’s practically inaudible to him, “The name’s Taylor, Justin Taylor.”
She scans her list and then says, “Okay, Mr. Taylor, the doctor will see you when he’s done with his last patient, shouldn’t be too long, please take a seat.” Her strained expression and the wideness of her mouth tells him that she’s speaking loudly for his benefit. And although he knows she probably deals with this kind of thing everyday, he can’t help feeling a bit embarrassed, a little handicapped by it all.
But he follows her pointed arm all the same and slides onto an uncomfortable orange seat. Ignoring the small pile of magazines, he stares at the floor instead and lets his mind drift.
He wonders what Brian would say if he was here. He’d probably laugh and tell Justin that the problem was a result of all those years when the blood that should have been in his head was busy rushing … elsewhere. And then he’d say that a fuck cures everything and they’d have sex on the nearest available surface.
He is just considering which surface would be least painful when his reverie is interrupted by,
“Mr. Taylor, Dr. Prowse will see you now. It’s the second door on the right.”
And Justin slides off the chair and walks along the corridor to a door adorned with a plaque that reads “Dr. M Prowse MBChB University of Illinois, General Practitioner”
Inside the small office it’s even cleaner and whiter than the waiting room outside and the smell of nachos is definitely less noticeable. The doctor takes his name and gets him to lie down on a blue-sheeted bed. He then proceeds to prod and poke him with a variety of instruments for the better part of half an hour, all the while firing question after question in his direction. Justin, head tilted back, is reminded irrefutably of his visits to the dentist, he can actually feel that heavy sinking of the stomach that has always been associated with toothache and childhood.
When the examination is over Justin sits up again and Dr. Prowse rearranges his scrawled notes, his face grim.
“I’m afraid your loss of hearing seems to be caused by cochlear nerve damage, that’s basically a medical term for saying that there’s a break in the circuit between your ears and your brain. It’s usually the result of an injury, do you have any history of brain damage or head trauma?”
Justin nods wordlessly. The bashing.
“Well, I could send you off for a thorough examination at a specialist clinic but I’m pretty sure they’re just going to validate what I’ve said. Your hearing’s going to deteriorate rapidly, maybe two to three weeks, and I’m afraid at present there’s no cure for it and the effects are irreversible.”
“A hearing-aid?” Justin asks numbly, his brain still stuck on “rapidly, maybe two to three weeks”.
“Unfortunately hearing-aids can only be used when the patient retains some residual hearing and the aid is used to amplify it. In cases of cochlear nerve damage it’s common for the sufferer to become completely deaf within a matter of weeks. I would suggest you find a course in sign language and advise people close to you to do the same. I have the number of a good tutor in New York City who’s willing to take on people at short notice.”
Justin notices that Dr. Prowse has stayed facing him throughout their conversation, allowing Justin to see his mouth form words as well as hear them. But when the doctor turns away to scribble the email address on a scrap of paper, within seconds Justin has lost the thread of what he is saying and has to ask “Sorry, what?” Turning his head back and focusing once more on the mouth shaping those repeated words. Justin, welcome to the rest of your life.
He is handed the email, takes it, folds it and says thank you. And five minutes later he’s out of the building and on his way home. During the walk to his apartment he’s desperately aware that the doctor’s words haven’t sunk in yet and that frightens him because he has no idea what will happen when they do.
-----
It takes Justin two days to work up the courage to call Brian. The conversation is short, difficult, hopelessly one-sided. Justin, never great at phone calls anyway, is forced to speak non-stop, explain everything in one go without the distraction of Brian’s voice. When he’s finally finished he stays listening to silence for three minutes, phone pressed so hard to his ear that when he eventually puts it down it leaves red welts on his cheek.
The conversation ends when Justin says, “I can’t hear you Brian.” And his voice cracks for the first time, “I can’t hear a fucking thing you say”.
And back in Pittsburgh Brian slams down in phone in anger, his throat ripped raw from shouting across the wires at a boy who for the first time will not, cannot, listen.
-----
In the end it’s relatively quick, two weeks or so and it’s gone completely. Throughout that first fortnight Justin develops a habit of knocking on his bed frame the moment he wakes, listening to the sound diminish each time. The day he feels wood under his knuckles but hears nothing, he doesn’t get out of bed. Stays wrapped in sheets, pulling the material over his face and feels as though he’ll choke on the silence.
But life goes on and after two days Justin is determined to live it. He takes the doctor’s advice and emails the tutor in New York City. He gets a three week crash course in sign language. It’s funny how quick you pick things up when you have no other choice.
He never really enjoyed New York company and now actively avoids it, throwing himself into work instead, painting and sketching for hours on end. But every now and then his mind will drift and his paintbrush will hang loose in his fingertips, his thought returning to how life used to be. He feels older than he’s ever been and is no longer prone to melodrama. All the same, he can’t help longing for his old life. He misses the little things, alarm clocks, announcements at train stations, doorbells. Things you hear every day and never even notice.
One week after the first day of silence he writes a long letter to his mother and emails Brian asking when he can next visit. That weekend Brian replies saying not until May the first, some shit is currently hitting the Kinnetik fan and he’s needed there for damage control. He doesn’t mention the phone call and makes no reference to what Justin told him. But on the Sunday Justin receives a second email, a single line, sent almost as an afterthought.
“I was never really one for words anyway.”
-----
On May the second Justin drives to the airport, Brian’s flying in from LA, been there on a business trip and stopping over at New York for a week before returning home. Despite huge amounts of summer-vacation tourists, Justin arrives at Gate 4 too early, a little jittery and nervous. And has to stand there for hours, leaning on the barrier, a cup of lukewarm coffee in his hands.
When the board finally flashes with the details of Brian’s flight, he’s worked himself into such a state of anxiety that his feet can’t keep still and he nearly misses Brian when he walks past. But Brian sees him, a mop of blond in a sea of black-suited commuters. And the moment their eyes meet Brian stops walking, stands still, and, unaware of the pile-up he’s causing behind him, raises an eyebrow and opens his arms, half shrug, half invitation.
But it’s all that Justin needs to send him round the railing and barreling into Brian’s chest. Pressed against each other, feeling that old, familiar contentment. But before their lips can meet, Brian cuts the embrace short and takes a step backwards. He meets Justin’s curious gaze with serious eyes, then slowly, stiltedly he raises his finger, touches his chin, points at Justin. Clumsy and self-conscious but Justin sees it, sign language, I miss you.
Justin stands there stunned, aware of just how much is behind those simple motions, and in the end it’s up to Brian to fold him in his arms and finish their embrace. Justin, leaning in to his chest, slides his hand under Brian’s shirt, palm resting on the spot where Brian’s heart beats. He thinks of all the things that Brian will never say and that he will never hear. The things that when he was younger he dreamed of, longed for constantly.
But then he remembers Brian’s awkward “I miss you” and thinks about the effort that went behind that tiny gesture. And Justin realizes that those things don’t matter anymore, he doesn’t need to hear them. They’re there already, between them. Always have been.
ETA: Click here for the sequel, Listen To Me
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Pairing/Characters: Brian/Justin
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,781
Description: Fear not the loss of hearing in old age. The deaf are the lucky. They alone may listen only to what is worth hearing.
Challenge: None
Disclaimer: Cowlip just won't hand over the QAF cast to me however many times I offer them money. Or pot. Also any medical jargon in this fic came from one day of me plus google so it is probably pretty much gobbidigook, just take it as artistic lisence... I'm not entirely sure on the sign language either. Please don't send me hate-mail.
Life After Deaf
Fear not the loss of hearing in old age. The deaf are the lucky.
They alone may listen only to what is worth hearing.
At first Justin puts it down to those noisy nights a Babylon. When he notices his conversations are littered with “What?” and “Pardon?” he reckons he’s just getting old. And when his neighbors complain for the first time that his music’s too loud, he thinks they’re just pissed because he lets his art friends hang around and the smell of their pot lingers long after they’ve gone. But when he misses three calls from Brian without even hearing the phone ring he decides he needs a second opinion.
Dr Prowse’s practice is a five-minute walk from Justin’s apartment. In the six months since he moved to New York, he’s gone past every day and never even noticed it, tucked between a second-hand bookstore and a Mexican restaurant. Inside it is one of those frighteningly clean places, with bare white walls and shiny metal surfaces. But the strong stench of cheap disinfectant cannot cover the smell of nachos and cheese drifting in from next door.
When Justin pushes open the door he can see one of those small bells above it, hung there to ring if anyone comes in. When he doesn’t hear its chime he absentmindedly assumes it’s not working, then bites his lip when he realizes that it is.
He steps up to the woman seated behind the front desk.
“I’m here to see Dr. Prowse, I’ve got a 4:20 appointment.” She winces a little and blushing, he realizes he must be speaking too loud.
“Sorry,” he says, lowering his voice to a level that’s practically inaudible to him, “The name’s Taylor, Justin Taylor.”
She scans her list and then says, “Okay, Mr. Taylor, the doctor will see you when he’s done with his last patient, shouldn’t be too long, please take a seat.” Her strained expression and the wideness of her mouth tells him that she’s speaking loudly for his benefit. And although he knows she probably deals with this kind of thing everyday, he can’t help feeling a bit embarrassed, a little handicapped by it all.
But he follows her pointed arm all the same and slides onto an uncomfortable orange seat. Ignoring the small pile of magazines, he stares at the floor instead and lets his mind drift.
He wonders what Brian would say if he was here. He’d probably laugh and tell Justin that the problem was a result of all those years when the blood that should have been in his head was busy rushing … elsewhere. And then he’d say that a fuck cures everything and they’d have sex on the nearest available surface.
He is just considering which surface would be least painful when his reverie is interrupted by,
“Mr. Taylor, Dr. Prowse will see you now. It’s the second door on the right.”
And Justin slides off the chair and walks along the corridor to a door adorned with a plaque that reads “Dr. M Prowse MBChB University of Illinois, General Practitioner”
Inside the small office it’s even cleaner and whiter than the waiting room outside and the smell of nachos is definitely less noticeable. The doctor takes his name and gets him to lie down on a blue-sheeted bed. He then proceeds to prod and poke him with a variety of instruments for the better part of half an hour, all the while firing question after question in his direction. Justin, head tilted back, is reminded irrefutably of his visits to the dentist, he can actually feel that heavy sinking of the stomach that has always been associated with toothache and childhood.
When the examination is over Justin sits up again and Dr. Prowse rearranges his scrawled notes, his face grim.
“I’m afraid your loss of hearing seems to be caused by cochlear nerve damage, that’s basically a medical term for saying that there’s a break in the circuit between your ears and your brain. It’s usually the result of an injury, do you have any history of brain damage or head trauma?”
Justin nods wordlessly. The bashing.
“Well, I could send you off for a thorough examination at a specialist clinic but I’m pretty sure they’re just going to validate what I’ve said. Your hearing’s going to deteriorate rapidly, maybe two to three weeks, and I’m afraid at present there’s no cure for it and the effects are irreversible.”
“A hearing-aid?” Justin asks numbly, his brain still stuck on “rapidly, maybe two to three weeks”.
“Unfortunately hearing-aids can only be used when the patient retains some residual hearing and the aid is used to amplify it. In cases of cochlear nerve damage it’s common for the sufferer to become completely deaf within a matter of weeks. I would suggest you find a course in sign language and advise people close to you to do the same. I have the number of a good tutor in New York City who’s willing to take on people at short notice.”
Justin notices that Dr. Prowse has stayed facing him throughout their conversation, allowing Justin to see his mouth form words as well as hear them. But when the doctor turns away to scribble the email address on a scrap of paper, within seconds Justin has lost the thread of what he is saying and has to ask “Sorry, what?” Turning his head back and focusing once more on the mouth shaping those repeated words. Justin, welcome to the rest of your life.
He is handed the email, takes it, folds it and says thank you. And five minutes later he’s out of the building and on his way home. During the walk to his apartment he’s desperately aware that the doctor’s words haven’t sunk in yet and that frightens him because he has no idea what will happen when they do.
-----
It takes Justin two days to work up the courage to call Brian. The conversation is short, difficult, hopelessly one-sided. Justin, never great at phone calls anyway, is forced to speak non-stop, explain everything in one go without the distraction of Brian’s voice. When he’s finally finished he stays listening to silence for three minutes, phone pressed so hard to his ear that when he eventually puts it down it leaves red welts on his cheek.
The conversation ends when Justin says, “I can’t hear you Brian.” And his voice cracks for the first time, “I can’t hear a fucking thing you say”.
And back in Pittsburgh Brian slams down in phone in anger, his throat ripped raw from shouting across the wires at a boy who for the first time will not, cannot, listen.
-----
In the end it’s relatively quick, two weeks or so and it’s gone completely. Throughout that first fortnight Justin develops a habit of knocking on his bed frame the moment he wakes, listening to the sound diminish each time. The day he feels wood under his knuckles but hears nothing, he doesn’t get out of bed. Stays wrapped in sheets, pulling the material over his face and feels as though he’ll choke on the silence.
But life goes on and after two days Justin is determined to live it. He takes the doctor’s advice and emails the tutor in New York City. He gets a three week crash course in sign language. It’s funny how quick you pick things up when you have no other choice.
He never really enjoyed New York company and now actively avoids it, throwing himself into work instead, painting and sketching for hours on end. But every now and then his mind will drift and his paintbrush will hang loose in his fingertips, his thought returning to how life used to be. He feels older than he’s ever been and is no longer prone to melodrama. All the same, he can’t help longing for his old life. He misses the little things, alarm clocks, announcements at train stations, doorbells. Things you hear every day and never even notice.
One week after the first day of silence he writes a long letter to his mother and emails Brian asking when he can next visit. That weekend Brian replies saying not until May the first, some shit is currently hitting the Kinnetik fan and he’s needed there for damage control. He doesn’t mention the phone call and makes no reference to what Justin told him. But on the Sunday Justin receives a second email, a single line, sent almost as an afterthought.
“I was never really one for words anyway.”
-----
On May the second Justin drives to the airport, Brian’s flying in from LA, been there on a business trip and stopping over at New York for a week before returning home. Despite huge amounts of summer-vacation tourists, Justin arrives at Gate 4 too early, a little jittery and nervous. And has to stand there for hours, leaning on the barrier, a cup of lukewarm coffee in his hands.
When the board finally flashes with the details of Brian’s flight, he’s worked himself into such a state of anxiety that his feet can’t keep still and he nearly misses Brian when he walks past. But Brian sees him, a mop of blond in a sea of black-suited commuters. And the moment their eyes meet Brian stops walking, stands still, and, unaware of the pile-up he’s causing behind him, raises an eyebrow and opens his arms, half shrug, half invitation.
But it’s all that Justin needs to send him round the railing and barreling into Brian’s chest. Pressed against each other, feeling that old, familiar contentment. But before their lips can meet, Brian cuts the embrace short and takes a step backwards. He meets Justin’s curious gaze with serious eyes, then slowly, stiltedly he raises his finger, touches his chin, points at Justin. Clumsy and self-conscious but Justin sees it, sign language, I miss you.
Justin stands there stunned, aware of just how much is behind those simple motions, and in the end it’s up to Brian to fold him in his arms and finish their embrace. Justin, leaning in to his chest, slides his hand under Brian’s shirt, palm resting on the spot where Brian’s heart beats. He thinks of all the things that Brian will never say and that he will never hear. The things that when he was younger he dreamed of, longed for constantly.
But then he remembers Brian’s awkward “I miss you” and thinks about the effort that went behind that tiny gesture. And Justin realizes that those things don’t matter anymore, he doesn’t need to hear them. They’re there already, between them. Always have been.
ETA: Click here for the sequel, Listen To Me