"Taco," she calls up: once, twice, thrice, until Microphone decides to turn her power on. Taco is not a fan of being awoken against her will.
The rustle of leaves indicates her awakening; the magnificent, glorious awakening of a British hobo in the shape of Mexican food. "The bloody hell do you want, you insufferable—?"
"Can I ask you a question?"
Taco does not want to be asked a question—at least, this is whenever she is awoken against her will.
"Are you sad again?" Taco didn't do well with mushy emotions, despite her ability to decipher them at a moment's glance. It is the curse of keen observation: call it the mastery of body language or empathy or what have you, Taco knows what people are saying behind their words at a moment's glance. What she finds discomforts her at best and pisses her off at worst. "Are you contemplative and lonely again?"
"Wha—? Where is this even coming from?"
"Please," Taco says, "whenever we're not competing, you're always scampering and whimpering to me like a sad little mutt. 'Am I pathetic, Taco?' 'Am I good enough, Taco?' Pah!"
Microphone scoffs her embarrassment out of her. "I've never said that—"
"Directly. You've never said that directly." She waves her hands around as she speaks. "Your subtext is so clear that you might as well be saying these things. I'm not little miss Jiminy Cricket, Microphone; bolstering your already fragile ego is not a part of my job description."
"I, where—?" Microphone, having asked Taco many, many things after many, many lonely nights, knows precisely where her anger is coming from.
"If you want your answers so badly, go get a therapist or what have you." Taco goes back to sleep.
Microphone does not get a therapist or what have you.
YOU ARE READING
the noise.
FanfictionMicrophone has a realization. A story about things that go said and things that don't.
