he’s learned to control it, years of speech therapy have taught him how to keep it from popping back into his life when he’s talking to people, when he’s singing, or giving interviews. if people didn’t know eita had a stutter, they never would find out.
unless they were in a fight with him.
fights and yelling were the one instance in which his stutter would come back, full fledged and out of control. he struggled with some letters than others, but more so with syllables, it was something the speech therapist had told him would come with time, and it wasn’t to be ashamed of.
but fuck, he was ashamed.
and now, with you standing across from him, watching him trip up over basic words and sounds, he knows you think he sounds ridiculous, what professional musician has a goddamned stutter and yet can’t get into any conflict?
he waits for it. he braces himself for your teasing, your mockery for the situation and how he’s struggling just to say the words that fog his mind. everyone else has let him have their thoughts during fights with him, including past bullies, who once forbade him from “wasting their time” from his begs to be let go and spared from their taunts and beatings.
eita didn’t talk for three weeks after that. but he’s never told you that.
he’s never told you anything about his stutter- how past partners would berate him for his “effortless flirts” towards other people but can’t talk to them now, how old friends would roll their eyes and start ignoring him in the middle of stories, how even teachers would cut him off and finish his answers for them, be it right or wrong.
and now, it’s only natural that you fall into that path. that you can’t believe how long it’s taking him to say just. one. sentence, how you “don’t have time for this” before leaving him to cry in the living room to add onto his humiliation.
but, to his surprise, you don’t. you don’t try to rush him, you don’t try to tell him to get on with it, no; instead, your anger has seemed to be put on the back burner, and your hand soothingly rubs his cheek.
“breathe, eita,” you say quietly. “take your time… calm down, say what is on your mind, okay? do you want to take a break for a minute? i can call your mom, see if she knows how to help, yeah?”
and even if your words could be taken as sarcasm or malice, he knows just from the way you’re being close to him, your anger right now being the last thing on your mind and all you focus on is his well-being, that you mean them with only love.
and that only makes him cry harder.
but rather from humiliation or frustration towards himself, this time, it was tears of relief.
