Seen But Never Heard - A PJ Liguori Love Story [Completed]

Chapter 12 - PJ and Emily

I settled in well over the next week; PJ made me feel very at home in the house, and I'd even got used to thinking of it as 'our' house, and not just PJ's. The first morning I'd woken early, due to the different bed and lighting. I'd decided to venture downstairs and make some tea, but I'd found PJ already in the kitchen, cooking bacon and eggs in his pyjamas. The kettle was boiling, the spout emitting billows of steam that was causing PJ's hair to curl up at the ends, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright. I cleared my throat slightly as I walked into the kitchen, catching his attention. He swung round, a spatula in one hand and a bright smile on his face. 

"Goodmorning, how did you sleep?" He inquired, turning back to the bacon and eggs slightly, peering over his shoulder at me.

Good, the new surroundings were a bit strange to get used to.

He smiled and nodded, flipping the bacon over. The smell of the sizzling meat wafted toward me, filling my nostrils with a pleasurable aroma. I watched as he finished cooking and plated up the bacon and eggs, pouring two mugs of tea and setting them at the kitchen table. We talked over breakfast, well, PJ talked, I listened and occasionally nodded or signed to him. I liked to listen to him, his voice was soft and sweet, pleasure to my ears, and apparently my stomach as well, since all the time he was speaking, staring into my eyes I felt like my stomach was in knots, writhing and purring like a kitten. 

*

Over the next week we spent a lot of time out, going to museums, meeting up with Dan and Phil, sometimes Chris. We met Jamie for coffe once while we were out at the Tater Modern, but usually it was just PJ and me. Every night after we'd said goodnight and parted ways, closing ourselves up in our rooms I'd practise speaking, slowly loosening my vocal chords and re-learing to speak more words, but 'PJ' would always be my favourite to say. It was the first thing I'd said when I started talking again, and I felt like that connected me in an even more emotional way to him, more than I already was. He'd helped me so much. Before I'd met him I was shy, lonely, unhappy and couldn't even imagine what I would ever be able to do with my life since I couldn't talk. Now I was slightly more sociable, I had friends, I was happy and I could talk again. I could now say that I could talk. I maybe couldnt' talk for too long without getting a raw throat and feeling a little like I couldn't swallow but I could talk, and it was understandable. I could now imagine what my voice sounded like and it would be exactly how it really did sound, not a voice I had made up in my head, pretending it was my own, even if the one I'd made up was very close to my real voice. I had a voice, I could speak on the phone, order things from shops without having to write it down, chat with people I'd never met more easily, introduce myself with actual words. I had a far larger chance of getting somewhere now that I could talk. 

A few days after I'd established that I could talk, truly talk, form sentences and speak for about half an hour straight without feeling like my throat was bleeding I decided I would show PJ. I wanted him to know the progress I'd made, I wanted him to see how much I wanted to talk. I wanted to explain how I'd done it. Truth be told, I was proud of all the work I'd done to get to this point. I'd spent hours repeating words over and over again until they were imprinted in my brain and I knew exactly how they sounded in my own voice. I wanted to show off really. I wanted him to see how much I had tried, to praise my hard work. I felt like a child after they'd painted a picture they were proud of and were excited to show their teacher, hoping for a word of praise, hoping the teacher would say it was good, because they're opinion mattered. PJ's opinion mattered. PJ mattered full-stop. 

It was late on Saturday evening, two weeks after I'd moved in and PJ was in his bedroom editing a video. I stood in front of the mirror I'd set on the mantelpiece and breathed deeply, swallowing a few times, trying to lubricate my throat as much as possible. I wanted it to sound as good as possible, I wanted to impress him. I wanted him to praise me. Taking one last deep breath I left my bedroom and crossed the hall to the door of his. Knocking lightly I waited for a response.