“Are you okay?” Jake repeated, a little more insistence to his question this time. Rye just nodded again, even though he wasn’t really sure. He was probably fine. Sort of. Jake cleared his throat quietly. “That sounded terrible,” he said. “I wish I could get you some water to drink, or some tea with honey. That would probably help both of us, honestly. But I’m afraid I, um... can’t.”
It’s okay.
The aching in Rye’s chest forced his eyes open, and he glanced across the room. Jake had pushed himself up a little so he was sitting on the edge of the couch, and though he was watching Rye with gentleness and concern, his own pain was still so clear in his eyes.
It’s okay. You’re hurting more than me. I can... I can do it.
Ignoring the heat and pain in his chest, Rye sat up and then gathered his energy and courage and stood. He’d make them some tea. It couldn’t be that hard, right? He used to watch his mom make tea all the time, didn’t he?... However-many years ago that was.
He wobbled, a reminder that his strength was low, but he managed to start toward the kitchen, his gaze fixed on the floor. From the corner of his eye, he could see Jake shifting on the couch, though he didn’t try to get up. Which was good. Rye wasn’t sure if he had the energy to help Jake off the ground again.
“Are you . . .”
Rye stopped in the kitchen, suddenly unsure now that he was standing in this unfamiliar space, and his eyes skimmed over the shiny black stovetop, pausing for a second on the small light-blue kettle that sat on top of the corner burner. He swallowed hard and then looked up at Jake.
“I-I’m sorry, are you...” Jake frowned and shook his head slightly. “Are you going to make tea?”
Before he could change his mind, Rye nodded, and he reached out to pick up the kettle. All he had to do was heat the water and then... He froze, holding the kettle in one hand, his other hand gripping the counter to help himself balance.
How much water did he need? How did he turn on the stove? How would he know when it had heated long enough? Where did Jake keep the tea bags?
He bit his lower lip and glanced back at Jake.
How do I do this?he wanted to ask. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t form any words.
And even still, that seemed to be okay with Jake. Jake’s expression, which had been tight with concern, softened, and he smiled gently.
“Okay, okay. It’s easy. You just fill the water about halfway—that’ll be a good-sized cup for each of us,” Jake explained.
An odd shiver, somehow warm and not at all uncomfortable, rippled through Rye, and he nodded and then turned to the sink to fill the kettle. They continued that way, Jake giving Rye simple, easy-to-follow instructions, and several minutes later, Rye very, very carefully carried Jake’s slightly-too-full cup of honey vanilla chamomile tea over to the couch.
Not a drop spilled.
He set the mug of hot tea on the coffee table and then straightened up as another odd feeling hit him. It was a warmth and lightness in his chest, and it sort of... bloomed. He pursed his lips and looked toward Jake, whose smile seemed filled with the same feeling. And that made him feel even better.
Jake spoke again, quietly. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
Rye backed up a step and then one more when Jake leaned forward and reached a shaky hand toward the mug.
I hope it’s okay, he wished he could say. But he just clasped his hands together and swallowed hard, fighting the urge to back up more, back into his little corner of the room where he could see the front door and the back door. Where he felt less exposed and safer.
And then he watched as Jake took a cautious sip, the liquid still steaming. Jake made a small sound of contentment, a hum or something, and closed his eyes.
“Perfect. It’s perfect. Thank you.”
The feeling in Rye’s chest—the warmth and lightness—grew more, and he dropped his eyes to the floor, even as he felt a small smile tugging at his lips.
He swallowed again, and the rawness in his throat reminded him of his coughing fit earlier. He wrung his hands together and turned to go get his own tea, still sitting on the counter. Hopefully it would help both him and Jake. It had certainly smelled fragrant—soothing and calming, somehow—and he imagined it probably tasted wonderful too.
A moment later, Rye settled back in his spot in the corner, scooting against the wall as he held his warm mug in his hands.
God, he was tired. Tired, but... okay, maybe.
He pulled his knees up to his chest and then peered up at Jake over the top of his mug. Jake seemed better too. Or at least he was more comfortable than he had been earlier, which wasn’t really too much of a surprise. That made Rye happy, though.
Was he actually... happy? There was something like happiness inside him right now, he was sure. Plus that other feeling. Pride, maybe? He was proud of himself for doing something to help Jake, after everything Jake had done for him.
He closed his eyes and took a small sip of his tea. And a tiny bit more of his tension left him.
