When Severin’s best friend Ike knocks on his door late at night, they haven’t seen each other or spoken for close to a year. Severin invites him back into his home and his life, relieved to see him again and to finally get some answers.
Ike and Severin reconnect over steaming mugs of tea and heartfelt conversations, revealing secrets and hidden truths. Will an unexpected question change the nature of their relationship forever?
Ike. In the flesh in my house for the first time in almost a year. My chest aches: I’ve missed him so fucking much.
We’ve been best friends since our teens. When my parents divorced and sold the old house, they asked me and my sister to choose who we wanted to live with, and we both went with Dad -- Mom was the strict and demanding parent, so we chose the easier road -- even though I had to change schools in the middle of second year in high-school, and that’s when I met Ike.
He was late for the first class of the day and missed my introduction. He came stumbling through the door, tripping over his own feet -- tall, gangly, and uncoordinated, and hadn’t grown into his limbs yet, always stumbling on a speck of dust or accidentally knocking something off a table -- and the teacher sighed loudly. “Isaac. You’re late. Again.”
“Tell me about it,” he muttered and slid into the only free seat, which happened to be next to me because no one wanted to sit next to the new, nerdy kid, hit his knees on the table, and managed to elbow me as he opened his book and dug a pen from his jeans pocket. “Sorry,” he hissed.
I nodded.
“You’re new.”
I wanted to roll my eyes, but I also wanted to make friends, so I refrained. Instead, I mumbled, “And you’re observant.”
He grinned. “Cheeky. I like it. Name’s Ike. Whatever you do, don’t call me Isaac.” He held out a fist for me to bump, and I did.
“I’m Severin. Don’t ask me if I’m severe.”
That made him laugh and earned him yet another stern look from the teacher, but after that awkward introduction, we became fast friends.
We were inseparable the rest of our high school years and swore to each other we’d stay in touch when we got accepted into different universities. And surprisingly, we did. We didn’t let the distance stand in our way, but called and e-mailed several times a week, and when we both decided to move back home after graduation, we picked up where we’d left off as if the years of separation hadn’t happened.
Going this long without seeing each other or even talking has never happened before, and it’s been unsettling, and I didn’t understand the necessity, still don’t. The explanation he gave me was sparse and flimsy, but he was in such a state that I didn’t want to question him or upset him further, and my first instinct has always been to support him in whatever he needs, so I did. I didn’t expect it to be almost a full fucking year before I saw him again, though.
The electric kettle clicks off, signaling it’s done, so I pour steaming water over the tea leaves and carry the mugs into the big room. Ike sits cross-legged on the floor by the fire, his hoodie discarded somewhere, his sleeves rolled up, revealing his mouthwatering, hairy forearms. He’s holding my blanket close to the fire, and when I set his mug next to him on the floor, he hands it to me. “I warmed it for you.”
When I take it, he pats the floor beside him. “Join me.”
I nod, sit, also cross-legged, and drape the blanket over my lap. Our knees bump, and I can’t help trembling.
“And you worry about me being cold,” he murmurs, and I don’t tell him that, for once, it isn’t the freezing temperatures sneaking in from the outside that makes me shudder, but being close to him, that sitting next to him has made me weak in the knees for years now.
Instead, I fish out the strainers and gesture to his mug. “Drink your tea.”
Ike grabs it, blows across the surface, takes a big slurp, then lets out a happy moan.
“Mmm. I haven’t had grass-flavored hot water in ages.”
“Shut up.” I elbow him, but carefully so he won’t spill. “It’s new, supposedly the best sencha the tea shop had to offer. It’s also stupidly expensive.”
His eyes twinkle in the firelight. “Pearls before swine, my dear Severin.”
“Ungrateful heathen,” I huff and drink the perfectly steeped tea. It is subtle and delicate and excellent, and somebody should at least appreciate my efforts.
He sputters out a laugh. “Nobody’s called me heathen in a long time, either.”
No. That’s my nickname for him. One of many. Heathen. Uncoordinated giant. Lunatic. Boor. My darling. Although the last one is never spoken out loud, only felt deeply and thought constantly.
