Work Text:
Rain drizzled and pattered on the soaked porch like inferior gun shots to a fortress, the wood slowly wearing away. Another dreary day in Manchester. Raining. Covered peoples tracks. I was used to it. Used to the cold. His cold. The nerves in my brain that once held any fear of the cold has been long severed. A natural lobotomy some could say. The condensation raced down the transparent border of glass that separated the warm interior air from the humid atmosphere outside. Though, drafts of air always managed to invade, mixing in with the coveted warmth. The hairs on my arm erected up as it passed over my hunched figure, providing a short but compelling argument to get up and-
The kettle burst into a high pitched ear raking scream, like an airborne missile whistling past. Only to explode into an amalgamation of fire, ash and souls. I was fortunate to avoid that fate, though the constant fumes this cursed kettle produced always left a lasting reminder of those who weren’t as lucky. Removing the kettle from the stove, I carried it cautiously to a table for two.
Two mugs stood with fierce tenacity on the table like recruits in military base courtyard. One was blue and white of the Scottish flag, mine. The other was of a rich black, his. It was chipped on the side and marks of abrasion decorated on the ridges. Scars from use of its previous owner. Inside the blue and white mug lay a tea bag and in the black, finely ground coffee grounds; rich in smell and bitter in taste.
It was his preferred choice of the two; the jolt of caffeine helped him stay frosty on those long stakeouts and missions. I on the other hand preferred tea, calmed my shaky nerves. A relaxing dose, as opposed to the shot of adrenaline coffee injected.
With a final inhale of the bitter aroma, I poured the scalding water into my mug. Steam caressed my calloused hand, the warmth unwinding the tense muscles that lay dormant. The sound drowned out the distant patter of the rain, as it enveloped my senses. The heat permeated the air, producing beads of condensation that cling to the sides of the mug, only to tricked down to the rising water level. The tea bag left sunken like an abandoned ship. The tag flopped to the edge, a reminder that it’s still there, brewing and enriching the hot water.
The tranquil smell of the tea filled the room, my heart slowed and my breathing, replaced with a more calmer pace. Adding a cube of sugar and a dash of milk, the tea was complete. Though as enticing and alluring the tea looked, the solitude black mug stood there. Void of any warmth. And so I offered some warmth. I poured the remaining hot water into the black mug. I poured until there was nothing left but limescale in the kettle. Instantly I was hit with it.
Now amplified by the simple addition of water, the aroma ascended into the air like a soul, dissipating; a short-lived catharsis. Looking into the mug like a scrying glass, I wafted away the white steam to uncover a deep brown. It was like looking into his eyes for the first time. His black oil paint around his eyes creating the perfect frame.
Breaking from this dream-like stance, I caressed the rim of the black mug, stroking the handle gently with utmost care. The smooth ceramic radiated a warm aura of heat as I cupped the side of the mug. Reluctantly, i slid the black mug away from my grasp. The tea left unattended started nearing the change between hot and lukewarm.
“Ghost, your coffee is ready” I repeated to myself.
The empty house replied with rain clamouring on the roof and the occasional fauna conversing in incomprehensible chatter. But all I could hear is his gruff voice. There was a certain warmth from his voice when he spoke. They were sometimes muffled but i didn’t mind. If only I could hear him say “Johnny” again. One more time. But I’m not ‘Johnny’ anymore. I’m ‘John’ now. As that name died long ago. Died between his bloodied lips. Its bittersweet aftertaste left me clinging onto that memory, slowly eroding until there was nothing left.