What is person if not memories?

Tim

You go silent and Tim feels it like a wall slamming down between you. His face hardens. For the first few hours he matches your energy with his own brooding silence, jaw clenched, movements sharp as he stomps around the house. The tension in the air is thick enough to choke on.

Eventually it gets to him. He grabs his jacket. “Porch. Now,” he grunts, not really asking.

You follow him outside into the cold night air. Tim lights a cigarette, the flame briefly lighting up the hard lines of his face. He takes a long drag, then holds it out to you without looking over. You accept it, fingers brushing his. The two of you sit on the wooden steps, shoulders almost touching, passing the cigarette back and forth in the quiet.

After several minutes of smoke curling up between you, Tim exhales heavily. “This silent shit sucks,” he mutters. “I know I fucked up, alright? Didn’t mean to push it that far.”

He bumps his knee against yours, a small, tired gesture. When you finally mutter something back, even if it’s short, the stiffness in his shoulders eases. He takes the cigarette back, then surprises you by wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. His jacket smells like smoke and him.

“Next time just yell at me instead,” he says, pressing a rough kiss to the top of your head. “Hate not hearing your voice.”

Brian

Silent treatment is Brian’s specialty, so when you turn it on him, he hates it. His first instinct is to give it right back. He becomes a ghost in his own home: quiet footsteps, no unnecessary words. He does his tasks with that calm, detached precision, eyes passing over you without lingering, like he’s proving he can play this game better than anyone.

You feel the coldness of it after a few hours. The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable. Eventually you cave and ask for something small. “Brian… can you get the box from the top shelf?”

Without a word he crosses the room, tall frame reaching up easily. He sets the box gently in your hands, his fingers brushing yours for a moment longer than needed. The touch is warm, a tiny crack in the ice. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes soften just slightly when they meet yours.

You try again later with another small request. He helps every single time, wordless but attentive. A blanket draped over your shoulders when you look cold. A mug of tea left beside you without fanfare. Each act is silent, almost detached on the surface, but the care is there in the details - how he adjusts the blanket so it covers you properly, how the tea is made exactly how you like it.

Finally, when the weight of the silence becomes too much, you break it properly. “Brian… I hate this.”

He pauses what he’s doing, turning toward you slowly. For a long moment he just looks at you, expression unreadable. Then he steps closer, one hand coming up to rest lightly on your arm, thumb brushing your skin in a rare show of softness.

“I know,” he says. “I hate it too.” He doesn’t pull you in or overwhelm you with words, that’s not his way, but he stays close, letting the silence finally shift into something gentler. His hand lingers, steady and reassuring, until you’re ready to talk more.

Ben

Ben does not handle the silent treatment well. At all.

He starts annoying on purpose. Whining dramatically from across the room. “Baaaabe. Hello? Earth to my favorite person?” He drapes himself over the back of the couch while you’re sitting there, sighing loudly every thirty seconds. “I’m literally dying over here. Respawn me with attention, please.”

When that doesn’t crack you, he gets fidgety, guilt creeping in. Eventually he crawls onto the bed beside you, hair a mess, expression genuinely sorry for once. He pokes your side gently.

“Okay, okay… I was a dumbass. I’m sorry,” he says, voice softer. “I hate when you go all quiet like that.”

You glance over and he gives you that crooked, sheepish grin. “So… we good now? Can I make it up to you?” His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Lemme eat you out. On my knees and everything. What do you say?”

You smack his arm and he laughs, rolling on top of you in a tangle of limbs, pressing sloppy kisses all over your face and neck until you’re laughing too. “There’s that sound I missed,” he mumbles against your skin, still grinning.

Jeff

Jeff reacts with his usual sharp edges first.

“Fine. Be a bitch then,” he snaps when you refuse to answer him, voice cutting. He storms out of the room, door slamming hard behind him. You hear him moving around the house for a while, restless and pissed.

But he comes back. He always does.

Later that night you’re lying in bed, still wrapped in silence, when the mattress dips heavily. Jeff stretches out on his back right beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours. He doesn’t speak at first, just stares at the ceiling. Then he turns his head, looking at you with that dangerous, crooked smile - the one that’s equal parts asshole and charm.

“C’mon, baby,” he drawls. “You gonna freeze me out forever? I know I’m an asshole, I can't help it.” He shifts onto his side, facing you fully. One hand comes up to tuck your hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. “Don’t make me beg.”

When you finally crack a tiny smile, his grin widens. He scoots even closer until his forehead rests against yours, breath warm on your lips. “There’s my girl,” he murmurs, voice dropping. “Hate not hearing you talk shit back to me. Don’t do that silent crap again, you hear me?”

He stays right there until the wall between you melts completely.

Jack

Jack notices the shift right away. His dark voids linger on you a little longer than usual, head tilting slightly in that quiet, thoughtful way. He seems a bit confused, like he’s not entirely sure what the right amount of space is, but he respects it completely.

He doesn’t crowd you. He moves around the infirmary or the house with his usual careful precision, still doing small things to take care of you from a distance: leaving water or snacks where you’ll find them, making sure the lights are dimmed when you’re in the room.

The silence stretches, but it never feels angry with Jack.

After some time, when you finally step closer or speak, he turns to you immediately. “Are you ready to talk?” he asks, voice low and calm, no pressure at all.

When you nod or reach for him, Jack pulls you in. His arms wrap around you with that careful, solid strength, cool skin against yours as a low purr starts rumbling deep in his chest. He rests his cheek against the top of your head, holding you close.

“I... missed your voice,” he murmurs quietly. His hands rub slow, soothing strokes down your back.