Honey wherever you go, I know
The side eye he grants her suggests he could never forget the torture of tickling she's mercilessly unleashed. It lingers longer than necessary, as if calculating the current danger he might be in, if she means to remind him here and now with something other than word. He'd throw her hand away in an instant and run screaming down the beach. He doesn't care if he looks like a scared little girl, so long as it'd keep him free of harassment.
The familiar sight of the Sugartide is more comforting than he expects, especially since the last time he'd been on it they had not exactly been speaking to one another. That's an awkward memory he doesn't mind letting go of. Truly embracing it is a bit overshadowed however by the absolute nonsense she's spouting. "Definitely not," he corrects swiftly, her thoughts an affront to the mere idea of sandwiches. "C'mon Flo-mo, when have you ever had a sandwich that is only one ingredient? Get real, it needs at least two." He holds up two fingers in case she also forgot how to count, since she's gone completely mad by his estimations.
The deck rolls past like it isn't unfurling memories of her topless (in nothing but pasties and a tempting smile) or her invisible amid a mountain of pillows. It just moves, familiar as anything else he's called home. Although his hand is free of hers now, he doesn't feel the chill sweep in, not here. Besides, he needs both of them to do knife hands to punctuate the point he makes as he talks. "You know that gummy worms aren't actual worms, right?" he asks after her as they descend her stairs, 'brows lifting with the volume of his voice, too worked up over the idea of her finding the gummy worms tragic. "You eat them either way!" he points out. "I've seen you split one in half length ways, like forbidden string cheese." But drowning would be too sad, sure.
It all falls away when he stutters to a stop behind her, the living spaces below deck opening to them, completely unchanged as rooms and things, despite everything else about them existing entirely different now. She takes it in with more quiet than he expected, and for a moment he wonders if he picked the wrong location, if coming here where it's been just here, where's she's been living all this time, had maybe been too invasive of a space that she kept just so. She had offered it, but maybe she hadn't meant to, or maybe it all felt wrong now that she's here with him. He could understand any of those snags.
What he doesn't understand is the red color he catches on her as she turns, practically apologizing for furniture he already knew she didn't have here. "A blanket on the floor would do, although if it's all the same to you, the bed sounds far nicer." He hopes that'll waylay whatever embarrassment has risen up.
He opens the fridge and freezer as she goes through the pantry. "Yeah grab the chips!" he calls over the open door as he picks up a nearly empty bag of cheese and some loose slices of deli meat. "Gonna make the weirdest nachos, but it'll have to do." He didn't realize this would be an episode of Hell's Kitchen or Chopped.
The familiar sight of the Sugartide is more comforting than he expects, especially since the last time he'd been on it they had not exactly been speaking to one another. That's an awkward memory he doesn't mind letting go of. Truly embracing it is a bit overshadowed however by the absolute nonsense she's spouting. "Definitely not," he corrects swiftly, her thoughts an affront to the mere idea of sandwiches. "C'mon Flo-mo, when have you ever had a sandwich that is only one ingredient? Get real, it needs at least two." He holds up two fingers in case she also forgot how to count, since she's gone completely mad by his estimations.
The deck rolls past like it isn't unfurling memories of her topless (in nothing but pasties and a tempting smile) or her invisible amid a mountain of pillows. It just moves, familiar as anything else he's called home. Although his hand is free of hers now, he doesn't feel the chill sweep in, not here. Besides, he needs both of them to do knife hands to punctuate the point he makes as he talks. "You know that gummy worms aren't actual worms, right?" he asks after her as they descend her stairs, 'brows lifting with the volume of his voice, too worked up over the idea of her finding the gummy worms tragic. "You eat them either way!" he points out. "I've seen you split one in half length ways, like forbidden string cheese." But drowning would be too sad, sure.
It all falls away when he stutters to a stop behind her, the living spaces below deck opening to them, completely unchanged as rooms and things, despite everything else about them existing entirely different now. She takes it in with more quiet than he expected, and for a moment he wonders if he picked the wrong location, if coming here where it's been just here, where's she's been living all this time, had maybe been too invasive of a space that she kept just so. She had offered it, but maybe she hadn't meant to, or maybe it all felt wrong now that she's here with him. He could understand any of those snags.
What he doesn't understand is the red color he catches on her as she turns, practically apologizing for furniture he already knew she didn't have here. "A blanket on the floor would do, although if it's all the same to you, the bed sounds far nicer." He hopes that'll waylay whatever embarrassment has risen up.
He opens the fridge and freezer as she goes through the pantry. "Yeah grab the chips!" he calls over the open door as he picks up a nearly empty bag of cheese and some loose slices of deli meat. "Gonna make the weirdest nachos, but it'll have to do." He didn't realize this would be an episode of Hell's Kitchen or Chopped.
Kaisel
I'd give up half of forever, just to be with you
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
