"That's the best way to do it, in my opinion." Holding a mug of foreign tea in earthen mugs with Bodhi is shades of sitting in the church with Sonny, but also closer to his own sensibilities. It's the kind of thing he'd want to take to Ren's grave, a mug steaming next to him on the piled stones as he sips, letting the dead know they're still thought of as the companions they were in life. "Even if they had been around to teach you, you'd still have to figure out what it means to you specifically, what purpose it serves at all."

The tea, when it's cool enough to sip, reminds him of his mother's green tea kombucha, fermented at the back of the pantry and poured most often for those in the house who couldn't sleep.

He touches his tongue to the wet of his lip, testing the taste of it even as he lowers the mug to breathe in the steam. A little smoke's never bothered him--his preference has always been cheap bancha, roasted and bitter. "My mother always liked reading tea leaves best," he offers, past for past. "She said it was like the wreckage of a little world in a cup, everything washed up on the shore. And it smelled nice."