This Was His Favorite Part

On quiet days, Triggs rose before the sun.

He left his bed in disarray, at least for the first moments of the morning. Dren had always been a light sleeper, and stirred even at the creaks of the beds at times. Triggs did not expect Kels to wake up. He exited the bedroom, and entered the commons.

The box sat where he’d left it. Where he always left it at night. On the slightly unstable table. Triggs approached, and lifted the lid.

He smelt straw and wood. Specifically, he smelt the dried straw that surrounded the teapot, and the somewhat aged wood which formed the box. His nose tickled. Triggs lifted the teapot, brushing off the straw and strawdust, as always.

His eyes lingered on the small, painted teapot. They trailed along the green vines. They were the colors of leaves. Of the type of nature he’d only seen in the high lands. The color that Kels said matched Triggs’ eyes. He allowed himself to appreciate the moment. The artistry.

Then, he set the teapot on the table.

Triggs pulled his teacup out of the box. It was simpler, painted with a single leaf. He opened a smaller wooden box, filled with dried leaves. They were a similar color to the vines, though they might have been closer to blue. He set the cup on the table, then added several leaves to the cup. The small box was returned to the strawdust box, and set aside.

He found the two halves of the granite heating plate, and slotted them together. It began to warm. Triggs filled a small pot with water, positioned it in the center of the heating plate, and waited for the water to boil. He let the water cool as he relocated the leaves to the pot. As the tea steeped, he waited.

The waiting was Trigg’s third favorite part.

The quiet of waiting helped him to quiet his mind. To prepare for the day. He let thoughts come into his head, greeting them, acknowledging them, and sending them off with a warm farewell.

Triggs poured the tea into his cup. The steam that rose smelt of morning. Bright. Soft. Almost bitter. Anticipatory. He took the cup outside.

As the door opened, the cool breeze nipped at his face. The sky remained the deep indigo of night. The sun had just barely started its ascent above the mountains of the highlands. He almost shivered as he took his first sip of tea. This was his second favorite part.

Moments later, the sky came alive.

The sun inched higher. The clouds turned a rosy sort of hue. Bold indigo shifted to soft lavender. The last of the stars disappeared. Shadows seemed to dance over the tops of the mountains, which were dark silhouettes against the orange inchworm sun. Triggs watched, unceasingly amazed.

This was his favorite part.

As the sky shifted into warmer colors, the door creaked open. Triggs heard unexpected footsteps shuffling towards him. He took his last sip of tea, waiting for Kels to speak.

Instead, Kels wrapped his arms around Triggs’ waist, nestling his chin onto Triggs’ shoulder. He was warm to the touch.

“What are you doing?” Triggs asked.

“I don’t know,” Kels muttered.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

Kels shifted his head, mumbling, “It’s too early to know anything.”

Triggs almost laughed, “Why are you up so early?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed, “It’s too early.”

He almost laughed again, “You mentioned that.”

They fell into quiet, for a while. Triggs watched the sky. The light filtering through clouds and trees. The shadows. He listened to the birdsong. Chirps strung together to make music. He felt Kels’ arms, firm around him. Kels’ hair, tickling his ear. Kels’ breath, warm against his neck.

Triggs felt Kels and himself, falling into rhythm with the morning.

Kels whispered into the quiet, “Why are you so cold?”

“Hmm?”

“I thought you’d be warmer,” he repeated with a hint mock offense, “But you’re practically frozen.”

“Are you only here to mooch off of my warmth?”

“Yes,” he shifted his head, “Are you going to turn away a poor, cold, young man like me? When the freezing winds would surely take my breath?”

“It’s summer. You’d be fine.”

“It doesn’t feel like summer.”

“Give it time. The sun just rose,” Triggs paused, “Do you need me to explain how weather works to you?”

“I know how weather works,” Triggs could practically hear the scowl in his voice.

“You’re sure?” he teased.

“I’m not a child,” Kels stated.

“That’s debatable,” he retorted, “In fact, it’s factually untrue.”

Seventeen was absolutely still a child. So was eighteen. And nineteen. Twenty was where it really became debatable.

“You’re factually untrue.”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

“So I’ve outsmarted you,” Kels concluded, “Soon, maybe I’ll be able to hold my own against Bria.”

Triggs snorted, “You can try.”

His sister was one of the wittiest people either of them knew. Triggs was pretty sure she’d exited the womb quoting the old philosophers. Of course, instead of using this intellect to become a great poet or politician, she used it to tease her younger brother, as well as any other poor soul who happened to cross her path.

He sighed, “I won’t bother.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

The quiet came back, for a moment. Full. Peaceful. The wind rustled the leaves of the trees. Some of those leaves fell to the ground. Others were taken away by the wind, to be lodged in unknown places. Chased by children. And whatever else happened to leaves.

Triggs interrupted the quiet this time, “Would you like some tea?”

“That blue stuff you make?” he seemed to think for a moment, “Does it taste any good?”

“I like it.”

“I don’t trust your opinions, dirt eater.”

“I was three years old.”

Triggs didn’t add the detail that he would try it again if it was sanitary. Or even if it was just more societally acceptable. Soil smelled wonderful to him.

“That’s not what Bria said.”

“I rescind my offer of tea. It’s probably cold by now anyway.”

“It couldn’t be colder than you.”

Triggs almost laughed.

Eventually, the quiet of the morning turned to the bustle of day. The sky clothed itself in blue. And work was to be done.