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Lynette was visiting the apartment of World Famous Folk Rock Band Play Not on a fine Sunday afternoon, expecting tea as they had promised, when she was served a cup of what was decidedly not tea. At the very least, not any tea she knew.
“Well,” she said after a short and excruciating sip of whatever concoction she’d had the misfortune of meeting. It was served with ice, for whatever mind boggling reason, though it was already melting because the liquid itself — was that bright blue? — had clearly been boiled moments previous. This was not, in the grand scheme of World Famous Folk Rock Band Play Not antics, the strangest occurrence in the world, though it was a new one.
Lynette looked up at her hosts. Not a single one of them looked as though they were attending the same event. Tristan donned an apron reading, in 11pt neon pink Arial font, ‘baby slut’, which Lynette was sure she would have thoroughly enjoyed if he had been wearing a shirt underneath it. In Dinadan’s lap lay Iseult, not a single piece of clothing unripped nor her own, Lynette was sure. In fact, she thought, was that the belt she’d lent her last month fashioned into a choker? Dinadan himself looked like he’d just stepped off the set of a period drama loosely inspired by Oscar Wilde.
“Do you like it?” said Tristan, pouring himself his own cup of “tea”. The look on his face was so pitifully genuine that Lynette almost couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth. Because she was Lynette, she did anyways. What did softness measure? The man needed to know.
“Tristan Kernow,” she said, setting her mug — it simply read ‘Cop Tears’ — on the piano, despite Dinadan’s panicked expression. ‘Not on the piano’, he’d said, more times than he could count.
“I’ll be completely honest with you, king. I have no clue what in the goddamn fuck I just drank. Why is it thick? Why is it spicy? I mean, is this an assassination attempt? You should know I can never be killed, but genuinely you’ve outdone yourself this time.”
She looked back at the perplexing beverage in front of her, shaking her head. “I’d almost be impressed if I had any respect for you whatsoever.”
“It’s boiled gatorade! Iced!” exclaimed Tristan, smiling enthusiastically. “With, like, two or three drops of hot sauce for fun.”
Lynette almost gagged. “Tristan. Tristan Tristan Tristan. Why would you do this?”
He cocked his head to the side, perplexed. “Me? Oh no, this was all Dinadan. He taught me the recipe! Dinadan’s Special Sauce.”
Lynette’s world stopped in its orbit. “Dinadan!” She held a hand to her chest, utterly aghast. Dinadan looked the closest to ashamed she had ever seen him, and carefully met her eyes. “I thought better of you! I’m taking away your licensed Lynette rights, this is the peak of betrayal.”
“Not my Lynette rights, please,” Dinadan said, wringing his hands. He looked downright mournful. “I worked so hard for those.”
“You’re gonna have to work again, bitch. I mean, Christ,” she presented her cup of Dinadan’s Special Sauce, the ice now completely melted into the muddy blue. “Why?”
“This is really heartbreaking to watch,” lilted Iseult from Dinadan’s lap, fiddling absentmindedly with a butterfly knife.
Lynette sighed. “I just really thought you were the least weird member of your little motley crew. How the hubris of the Lynette fails her.”
“Oh no, Didy’s plenty weird on his own,” Iseult said, raising a hand to pat Dinadan’s cheek twice. She neglected to aim in this endeavor, however, and ended up somewhere around his neck, then over correcting and pushing his glasses to the side. At her third attempt he took the offending hand in his and wove their fingers together, gently redirecting their joined hands to rest on his knee. Lynette rested her chin in her hand with the mystified air of a field scientist observing three wildly different animals in their natural habitat.
“No, she’s right,” said Tristan, wriggling in his chair to face Dinadan. ‘Rodent-like’ Lynette might have noted, if she had not already made that assessment years ago upon first meeting Tristan.
“First of all,” he shot a hand out and snatched Dinadan’s glasses off of his face before he could protest.
Dinadan sighed in the way someone who has lived with Tristan for years may sigh. “Beautiful, are we all going to mess with those today? Lynette, do you want a turn?”
“I could stand to, juice boy.”
He waved her sneer off with his non-Iseult-occupied hand.
“After,” said Tristan, too busy inspecting the frames before putting them on himself. He looked around, squinting and widening his eyes dramatically. “Yep, they’re still fake!”
Lynette’s head snapped to Dinadan, dawning realization creeping over her face. “You’re telling me that you, Dinadan Giocondi, wear fake glasses frames?” She laughed delightedly, all previous Dinadan thoughts forgotten. This was fantastic news. She felt herself getting swept up in the energy surrounding her, of secrets and banter and the loving tease of a friend. It was almost too much for her.
Dinadan grimaced and turned slowly to Tristan. “Really Trix? Did Lynette need to know that? She already has enough material on me.” He took the glasses back from Tristan’s face — they were too small for him anyways — and calmly fastened them on his nose again. “All I do for this family, and this is the thanks I get?”
“Oh come on, Didy, you gotta lean into it. Look at me and Tristan!” Iseult said. “We’re thriving.”
“My Lynette rights have been rescinded, Zozie. My Lynette rights.”
“Sure, but your Iseult rights are in full supply.” She kissed the hand in hers and winked.
Dinadan softened. “Aw, Zoz, that’s so sweet of you-”
Tristan interrupted with a jolt, almost spilling his Special Sauce. “And, of course, there’s still the clown era for her to find out about.”
Dinadan groaned and buried his face in his shoulder. “Trix I’m going to have to kill you now. And then Iseult’s gonna have to write a song about it. And we’re going to have to perform it at your funeral. I’m sorry there’s no way around it.”
The look on Lynette’s face was akin to that of a non-believer who had just been graced with the presence of God. “The clown era? The clown era?” She laughed giddily through her words, “There’s a clown era for me to find out about?”
“We don’t need to talk about it,” Dinadan said painfully. “It was a long time ago, I didn’t even get into the industry-”
Lynette practically cheered. “The industry.”
Iseult was cackling to herself, and slapped Dinadan’s knee. “Dids, we have to show her the photos. With the makeup and the, oh my god, and the costumes-” She melted into another laughing fit, curling on her side like a cat.
Dinadan pushed her off his legs gently, and she migrated to the warm lap of Tristan. “We are not showing her the photos. I have one shred of dignity left, thank you.”
Lynette looked up at her hosts, her expression somewhere between a sneer and a beam. “God, this is the best day of my life. Thank you Tristan. Thank you Iseult. And god, Dinadan, I really don't think I can thank you enough for your fascinating and comedically exploitable self." She took a sip of Dinadan’s Special Sauce out of reflex, before realizing what she was doing and spitting the now lukewarm mixture back into Cop Tears. "Boy it's really not better the second time around, huh?"
Iseult shook her head. "Worse, almost."
"I think it maybe gets worse as it melts, yeah," Tristan said, nodding at Iseult.
"I thought you guys liked it!" Dinadan looked at his friends in shock.
Tristan slung an arm around Dinadan's shoulder. "Doesn't matter." He grinned down at Dinadan from where he was perched on the couch arm, and kissed the top of his head. "We like you, don't we?"
They were so casually and unapologetically affectionate with each other, Lynette thought, chin in hand, gazing at the friends before her. She looked from a distance at their tangled hands, their relaxed air, the easy kisses, and felt a sudden aching pang in her chest. This was not, as it was for them, her natural habitat. Lynette felt out of place in the room of musicians, of bandmates, of close friends, former clowns even.
This was not her moment to observe, this wasn't her space to take up, this wasn't her affection to absorb. What was she to expect? All her jabs, her snide remarks, her bored fronts — she didn't deserve this. For a second it was unbearable, it caught in her throat and threatened to choke her. But just as fast she shook it off. It was probably just the effects of the gatorade.
Iseult caught her eye and winked. "Lynette, stop being such a cold bitch and get over here." Her eyes and voice betrayed no malice.
Lynette gave a performative roll of her eyes, but got up and shoved down any inconvenient thoughts. Perhaps she didn't deserve it, but they were willing to give it to her regardless. That counted for something. As she settled herself on the floor in front of the couch, pulled in immediately by three pairs of hands, she felt a wash of warmth. Lynette shifted a little, unsure if she was doing it right. Was that too much pressure? Not enough?
There was a moment of soft silence before Dinadan spoke up. "Thanks for coming, Lynette. We weren't sure if you really wanted to."
Lynette fought the instinct to make a snippy comment back. You were right, I didn't. But it wasn't true. Instead, she said: "Of course I came."
A hand brushed her hair and Lynette smiled. She leaned into the three friends. Her three friends. These were her friends, and she was Lynette. It was all she hadn't known she'd needed that day. She let herself be wrapped up in playful back and forth with her companions and spent the rest of the day in their haze of eccentricity and intimacy. It was a good day to be drinking tea with friends.