2022-04-30 - The Morning After

Afternoon fades into evening, with just enough lifting of the clouds that there's a sunset to watch from Wā Kāinga's deck-- and later still, some starlight, too, the moon bright and close to full above. Some would call it romantic; Mikaere doesn't comment on that, because he's too busy in the moment. Whether his offer for her to stay is made verbally, this time, or expressed through other means is perhaps lost to history: what matters is that, come morning, the aft berth has not one occupant but two.

Or did, anyway: Mikaere's an early riser, and has already pulled on pants (but not a shirt) to tiptoe out of the cabin and into the tiny galley kitchen, where there's coffee on the boil and a package of bacon as well as a box of eggs, ready to go. To say that he cooks would be an overstatement; to say that he can make breakfast is a completely different thing.

At some point, Jules will have sent a quick text to those housemates of hers to let them know her "detour" is extended and she won't be coming home. That's all the explanation they get and all that she thinks they need. Then her phone gets turned off altogether and shoved in the small drawstring bag she brought on board. No distractions, at least not of that kind.

Jules isn't quite a morning person in the same way, but the bed is small when two people are in it, and in those cozy quarters she can't help but rouse a little when there's movement. It's the kind of situation that makes sleep more sleepless, but given the current circumstances, that is also perfectly fine. Welcome, even. This time, when morning comes, she's a little slower to stir, but eventually she swings her legs out of bed and finds the All Blacks t-shirt that got flung to the wayside at some earlier point. Thus dressed (half-dressed), she makes her way to the galley, following her nose and the sound of movement.

"Morning," she says, yawning and sleepy and stepping right up to peer not over Mikaere's shoulder (too tall), but more like around him or under his arm. "Mm, bacon. And I smell coffee. You know how to wake a woman up."

"I can think of a few other," better? "ways," he says by way of reply, glancing over his shoulder to grin at her. "But I thought you might need the sleep. Grab some mugs?" He gestures towards where they are, not that there's much room for anything to be hidden around here: it's cramped, and most have made for interesting times when the Kiwi was living aboard here for months at a time. "We can eat down here, or take it up on deck, your choice."

Now that she's up, he adds the bacon to the sizzling pan, then the eggs. Life's tough.

Jules grins back, letting her fingers settle at his hips for a moment as she leans in against his bare back and places her lips against his skin. "Considerate of you," she murmurs from right there before stepping away to bring out those mugs. She pours the coffee, while she's at it. "Up," she decides. "Morning on the water is beautiful. Do I have to put on pants?" Translation: are any of the other boats docked near enough and occupied to see her if she doesn't?

Common sense kicks in after that first sip of coffee, though. “Actually, scratch that. What am I thinking, it’s gonna be cold up there.” Even in summers, the fog won’t burn off until at least mid-morning. “Do you have sweats or something?”

There's a subtle but undeniable shiver in Mikaere at the sensation of Jules' fingers, her lips. His shoulders flex. Cooking bacon shirtless is probably not the smartest thing a person can do, but he seems relatively adept with it: it sizzles along, and he glances over his shoulder to grin at his companion.

"Yeah," he allows. "It'll be cold, unfortunately. I'd offer to keep you warm, but-- not so useful for eating, I guess." More's the pity, really: he's clearly enjoying the view, as it is now. "But yeah - there should be some in the cabin. Try the drawer at the foot of the bed, maybe. Just don't trip over them, ay? Food won't be long."

"Alas." Jules takes another sip of coffee, then sets both mugs down and heads back to hunt for those sweatpants. Success -- she reemerges a minute later more fully dressed, though she's had to roll the waistband a couple times in order to make the sweats fit her better. No tripping on a boat, even one that's moored. She drifts back in, now staying out of the way of the cooking. It's a small space, after all, so she doesn't crowd in again. "Thanks for cooking. What do you need me to get? Plates?"

Alas. Why is this boat not in the tropics somewhere, moored well out of the way of anything and anyone? Alas.

While Jules puts on more clothes, Mikaere turns bacon in the pan, and checks on the eggs. His, "You're welcome," comes with a glance over his shoulder, his smile abruptly turning to a grin for the sight of her in his clothes: he really does have a fair amount of height on her. "Plates, yeah, that'd be good." They, too, are in plain sight: carefully secured to the wall. "Nearly done, and then we can head upstairs. How'd you sleep?"

"Coming right up." Jules finds the plates quickly in this tiny galley -- behold, there they are -- and slides them over to a free place on the countertop nearby. She takes up her coffee again, taking a seat for the short while before the burners are turned off, the bacon and eggs tipped onto plates, and they migrate to the cool deck lightly rocking on that green-black water beneath. "Slept fine. I mean, I'm still fucking exhausted from that whole trip, but that's to be expected. I'll take a long nap today, be better tomorrow. You?"

Despite the fog, it's threatening to be a reasonable enough day outside, and Mikaere stretches as he takes his usual spot at the bow, pausing first to sip at his coffee. There's no milk, but it'll do, even if it does mean he's added sugar to his (he's clearly not quite man enough to drink black coffee without it). "I'm not surprised," he agrees. "Big, emotional experience like that, and I imagine-- not all that much sleep throughout, too. You're more than welcome to kip out here for a while-- I promise, I'll even leave you alone--" not that he doesn't smile as he says that, "if you want to make sure you're well-rested enough before you head home."

And Mikaere? "Slept like a log. Been a while, since I slept next to someone else."

"You're not cold?" Jules can't help but ask, arching her eyebrows as she looks at Mikaere before settling alongside him. "Not that I'm complaining." She just smirks at the whole 'leave you alone' remark as she tucks her legs beneath her, cross-legged again, and picks up a delightfully greasy piece of bacon to crunch into.

"Yeah," she allows, after she's let a moment of quiet stretch out while she polishes off that strip and licks her fingers clean. "Been awhile for me too."

Mikaere's laugh is light and easy, and there's obvious mirth in his expression. "I'm a Kiwi male," he says. "As a species, we have evolved beyond getting cold. Middle of winter, maybe we'll consider long sleeves, but otherwise..."

He tilts his head to the side, hesitating over what to say next. There's the quiet, and then there's what Jules has just said, and the necessary mental negotiations of how one responds. "You get used to it, when there's someone there. And then you eventually get used to it when they're not, too. It's still nice. Companionable. As much as the rest." And the rest? Also pretty good.

"I thought it was warm there." Jules literally has no clue about the geography of that part of the world. It's Southern Hemisphere, so it must be hot, right?

It's a welcome tangent, one that skirts away from other aspects of personal history. Conversation has dipped its toes into more precarious waters. Jules does come back to it eventually, after she's eaten a bit more and washed it down with coffee. She's drinking it black this morning in the absence of milk. "Definitely nice," she agrees, smiling. "Did it get lonely out sailing the ocean?" Okay, so maybe she's not wading right in after all.

"It's-- not cold the way it gets here, I think. But it's not tropical, either. I'd give you degrees, but they'd be in celsius, and I'm going to guess that will mean nothing to you-- and I can't translate them in my head either, sorry." Mikaere takes a moment, then, to dig into his breakfast, making short, easy work of the food: he eats without flourish.

"It-- did, yeah. It was good thinking time? I needed the space, to be alone with my thoughts, to work some shit out. But then I'd come into port somewhere, and that made a huge difference. Sometimes it'd feel like there was too much in my brain, and I couldn't stop it. But it's peaceful, too. You can go days, even weeks, without seeing another soul."

"That would certainly make for good thinking time." Jules steals a glance to the side. She's curious, but wary too, and above all respectful of Mikaere's privacy. It's enough, those hints of a muddier past, and she doesn't pry. Instead, Jules applies herself to finishing off her food. She makes short work of it, then puts the plate to the side and picks up her half-full mug, letting it warm her hands.

"My ex," she says then, looking out across the bow, "was a fisherman. Well, is. So he'd be off at sea a lot of the time. I wish I'd used that alone time to work out my own shit sooner." Her tone remains perfectly even. Jules glances at Mikaere after she's shared this much to take in his expression, but otherwise she's content to look elsewhere, out at the water.

"I think..." Mikaere starts and then stops, as if he'd been inclined to rush into comment and then thinks better of it, giving himself a moment to work through his thought before he shares it. He, too, has his mug held between his fingers, and lifts his chin thoughtfully as he considers Jules. "I think it's hard to work your own shit out when you're in the middle of something. It takes-- well, look. Some people manage it. Maybe some relationships are better at building in that space. Or some people."

"I wasn't ready, when I was with my ex. Sounds like maybe you weren't, either?"

Jules steals another look at him. This time, she doesn't immediately glance away. She's not skirting the subject, after all, so Mikaere deserves the honesty of her regard as well. "Yeah, no. I was pretty shitty at it." Her mouth twists into a wry smile with this self-assessment. "Moving here has helped a lot."

An even nod, by way of reply, then. "Sometimes that helps," he agrees. "Physical distance from things, giving perspective. I know I needed that. I think... I'm much more in touch with who I am, and who I want to be, now, and that feels powerful. Because... I get to decide."

"Yes. Exactly." Jules gives her firm affirmation with a nod and, then, a smile. "I know that I like who I am a lot more these days. And I'm enjoying figuring out the rest." It's not meant as innuendo, or at least not just as innuendo. Jules does let her expression turn a little sly, playful, openly eying the shirtless man next to her. She drains the last of her coffee, then, and sets the mug with the plate. With a stretch, she shifts and resettles, now leaning back on her elbows with her legs stretched out before her.

Mikaere would not be Mikaere if he didn't raise his eyebrows a little in answer to that expression, those words; his mouth curves a little smugly, his expression openly an invitation, if not a pushy one. He's content enough, after all, just to sit here. "Me too," he agrees. "And I could say I wish I'd think it all through sooner, but-- I wouldn't be me, would I? Our experiences shape us. The good, happy ones as well as the ones that hurt."

Jules may not entirely agree -- she's already stated a preference for 'working out her shit' earlier, as nonspecific as that is -- but she will say this: "It makes the good ones better."

Nor would Jules be Jules if she didn't respond to this non-verbal communication as if it were a challenge. Almost as soon as she's settled back, she shifts her weight to one arm and raises herself up a bit, enough to reach out with the other. She has ever intention of pulling Mikaere towards her, fingers curling around the nape of his neck. "C'mere."

Look. That's an invitation if there ever were one, and not one Mikaere intends to pretend he didn't see, ignore, or otherwise miss. He sets down his coffee-- it's finished, anyway, or close enough to count-- and scoots in, as commanded.

Sometimes making out is better than talking.

And that might be the end of it, conversation drifting away in favor of other things, except at some point Jules has a thought (stupid brains, getting in the way) and breaks off. She leans back a little further to say, "First Salmon Ceremony is next weekend. Do you want to come?" Almost as soon as she's said it thought, more thoughts pile in. "I mean, I totally get it if you'd rather not. Cause it's with family and stuff. It just popped into my head that you might enjoy it, but seriously, no pressure." She's almost immediately starting to look a little embarrassed.

As Jules leans back, Mikaere withdraws too. It does take a moment for his head to catch up with this shift in mood. "Oh!" he says, and there's a pause: not a well-this-is-awkward pause, though it may well be possible to take it that way. More of a... let-me-consider-this pause, which, even so, may not be ideal in this particular moment.

He reaches for her hand, though, his fingers warm over hers. "I'd like that," he says, quietly but firmly. "I'd be very interested." Which seems genuine. "I'd love to get to experience something so important to the people here."

Mikaere the Mentalist might just hear all those self-flagellating alarm bells going off in Jules' head. Hell, it doesn't even take superpowers to decipher her expression. Awwwwwkward. "You sure?" she asks, anxious. Her fingers lace with his own, though. "I wasn't really thinking. I mean, fuck, my ex is probably going to be there." She says it like it's an unhappy revelation to her as well, a bit of dawning knowledge as she actually thinks this through. "I one hundred percent will not blame you if you change your mind."

"I'm sure," promises Mikaere, fixing his gaze squarely upon Jules. "But it's up to you, whether you want me there or not. If it's going to be too weird for you, it's absolutely fine. I was a politician, remember; I'm pretty good at making myself at home around other people, and not making things weird. So in the end, it's all up to what you feel comfortable with."

Jules searches his expression to see just how closely it matches his words while she sorts through her own feelings on the matter. They’re a confused jumble of desire and dread. “If you’re sure,” she finally settles on. “I mean, my grandparents will just be like, oh yay, who’s your friend, have some fish.”

"I'm sure," he confirms (re confirms), this time with a warmer smile. "But see how you feel, okay? Though I would love to eat some of this fresh salmon, and if you decide against it, I'm going to expect some soon enough." There's a tease to that, but his expression otherwise hasn't shifted: he means what he says, and he says what he means.

"Okay." Not 'okay, everything's fine and I've sorted myself out,' but 'okay, I'm going to keep sorting myself out.' Either way, Jules relaxes; crisis averted. "Don't worry, there'll be plenty of salmon," she assures, confident again. "Salmon all summer, then more. My grandpa keeps a big freezer in the garage and just packs it full of salmon every year."

"The real question," says Mikaere, abruptly all seriousness, except that gleam in his eyes. "is what kind of salmon we're talking about. Back home, it'd be Hāmana-- King Salmon. Which, in my opinion, is the tastiest salmon out there, but..." His brows lift. Question mark, question mark, question mark.

Oh, that’s the kind of challenge Jules can get into. “Blueback,” she promptly responds. “It’s a sub-species of sockeye, and it’s only in the Quinault River. And it’s the best.” She grins up at him and steals another kiss, just because she can. “Should we take the dishes downstairs?” This is not an innocent suggestion.

Look at Mikaere, putting on that dubious face. Can anything really be better than Hāmana? Really?

But, look: kisses. And dishes, and all the innuendo that lies within them. "Yes," he says, mouth drawing wider and wider, not even only a little smugly pleased. "We should."

And they will.