Safe Travels

God, how he wants to argue. If no one takes it half as well but he still has to admit it was lonely, then why not have a few people out? Toughing through the elements is infinitely easier when softened by the warmth of company, after all. There has to be a better way to go about it, one that might spare Peter or anyone else the dreaded isolation, but rather than brainstorming a solution, it's brushed over as being how things had ought to be, nothing more, nothing less.

Maybe Raivis can figure something out before he leaves or convince Peter to come with him. He wouldn't mind hosting him back at Riga for a while, even if it couldn't be the whole winter. Peter probably doesn't want to be away from his home for so long, especially since someone needs to be around to keep Sealand claimed. A stand-in for a few days or weeks, tough weather or not, has to be doable, right?

But if he pushes the issue, he might upset him. The topic is changing, with "enough of all this" acting as a firm barrier between what should and should not be spoken about. They're onto Peter's skills as a host, and Raivis needed to drop the concerns. "Um-" Right, offering things. Food and drink, just like Raivis would do were the positions reversed.

"C-Could I, ah... Do you have herbal tea? The green and brown bag is actually, um- We can bring that with us, to the kitchen. I brought some fresh food." The canned rations necessary for living at sea are far better than the alternative of starvation, but it's nothing compared to a home-cooked meal. "I mean, is mostly ingredients so I can, um - I was thinking we could cook together, if you want? As a fun activity? O-Or I can make it myself, if you don't like working in the kitchen! The only pre-made thing is a tin of gingerbread cookies - biscuits? - I made for the trip."

Is he rambling? He probably could have said that he brought food and explained later, but the details come stumbling out without thinking, gaze flickering over to the gulls.

"If I knew you had so many friends, I would have brought dried sprats..."

"Did you really??"

Peter swivels to face Raivis, dazzling at him as though his guest contained within him the sum total of worldly kindness. The bag slung over his shoulder swings wide from the momentum, and Peter snaps out of his surprise to still it.

"Did you actually? No, no, I'd absolutely love to help out-- I'm complete rubbish, but I can at the very least follow your directions-- that sounds so fun, I normally never bother with ingredients-- they're such a hassle and all I do is muck 'em up anyway!"

"Never mind the flock, they've got to look after themselves," he carries on, hauling open the heavy riveted front door, now doubly eager to get inside. "I much too much offer 'em half my hauls of whitebait typically anyway."

On the outside, Peter's home sort of resembles a condemned building. On the inside, though, it looks instead like a condemned soul with a warm cosy knit jumper on. That is to say, a hollow rusted and haunted thing, but with charming decor decisions. Such as the floral print theming in the lounge Peter had been so eager to assert the merits of before.

"Erm, okay, you've got the Row which is this here-- the big hallway..."

It's a swift left turn into the kitchen. Despite his earlier flurries of anxiety-tidying, Peter can't much help but suddenly notice so many more small, embarrassing details of his home, the sort of thing only ever noticed as soon as somebody you wish to impress is already present.

(To name a few: the tape holding his address to the mailbox gone dirty and curling at the edges; bare wires stuck out in places from the ceiling like cords of tendon; the walls of the kitchen were off-white in need of repainting, with rust-stains gathering around screws in the wall; and the absolutely garish yellow tablecloth that he’d been meaning to replace for at least a decade, and has just never gotten around to it.)

Currently taking up the majority of the kitchen table is a miniature robot looking thing, with its blocky exoskeleton half built and half in pieces, the tiny parts still to be constructed all fastidiously sorted around it. (For those in the audience who could have recognised it by sight: yes, it's a Deathscythe gunpla.)

The bag he'd taken from Raivis earlier is not here but one room over, where Peter had before hurriedly placed it down to rush back outside. Peter shrugs down this second bag from his shoulder, sitting on the floor to open it up straightaway.

"Does any of it need to stay cold? Not that that's necessarily so urgent, now that I think about it."

So the kid was intent on trying his own key? . . . Admittedly, that was incredibly strange. Any normal person would have apologised for their mistake and moved on. So why not this guy? But Peter didn't have the presence of mind to think about how utterly bizarre that was. Rather, he was giggling and pulling his key from the ignition, waving one arm in an exaggerated motion for the other to come aboard.

"Well come on, then!" he called, shrugging his coat on over his bare chest to preserve some sense of modesty (now, where had his shirt gone?), and shoving his keys into one pocket. He moved further into the wheelhouse, clearing enough room in front of the doorway for the kid to enter the enclosed space.

Peter leaned against one wall, but perhaps a bit too much. The fiberglass groaned against his weight, eliciting a quiet, "Oop—" from the blond before spurring him to straighten up. He gestured to the console with a big, stupid grin on his face.

"G- hic- Go ahead, be my fuckin' gues'. Bu' wot's all this abou' leavin' you alone?" He rested one hand on his hip. "Yo're the one ou' here, accusin' mae o' stealin' my oon ship. Go' ih a lil backwards there, mate."

Awfully committed to this bit, isn't he.

Some people will swear up and down that if one speaks and acts with sufficient confidence and self-assuredness, people will typically assume they're meant to be there, and that they are supposed to be doing whatever it is they happen to be doing. Even if it's, like, wildly illegal or stupid.

It's great fun, to pull off that kind of stunt. Just as it's a tad irritating, to see someone else trying to get away with it!

Peter storms up onto the boat and around into the wheelhouse, fighting down his own amusement at the situation with a somewhat forced annoyance.

Despite this smug lush choosing of his own free will to give Peter enough space to walk past, the boy still irritably waves him away as though he hadn't moved at all. It's not for any particular reason, and there's nothing accomplished by it, but it makes him feel better. That groan from the glass is a bit concerning, but he's not about to let himself get distracted.

"Right." He sits down with a huff, jabs his own copy into the key into the ignition, turns it and wakes the poor boat back up again. Well. That's good. They've at least not replaced his with a fake. If he weren't so cross, he might've been impressed; so far as he's aware, only one person's ever successfully pickpocketed him, and that particular individual had had centuries of practice being up to no good!

"There. See?" He turns around in the chair, not keen on having his eyes off this guy for too long. "I guess we're at an impasse, yeah?"

But talking over the noise when they don't have to is a bit of a pain, and if they're about to get into an altercation (you never know!), it'd be better not to have running machinery involved. He shuts the engine off.

"No dramas though. I've got an idea. Let's the both of us take this boat up to Solomon and he can get this sorted for us."

"I... yes, I live alone." Nowadays, at least. It was odd, to have something be at once a sense of pride and a discomfort. For centuries he was forced to live in other people's homes, other people's nations, and all that time he dreamed of what it would be like to be on his own. Now that he was, it was... mostly nice. There were times he missed having his brothers around, especially after multiple empires together. On the other hand, living alone meant he could interact with people when he wanted.

Raivis tilted his head from side to side slowly, weighing the response and trying to see what floated to that top as bothering him at the core of it all. Something wasn't settling right, and after a moment, he found it. "But I can go into town and see people there," he countered. "Um, my culture isn't really into 'small talk,' but even just seeing people has an effect, you know? If I spend too long alone, I still have to go to the grocery, or I can go to the library and ask about the newest books. I-I can still be having people close by. Out here, though..."

Would Peter go to shore even when the weather turned nasty, risking his own safety, or did he stockpile to keep him through the winter without need for supply trips? The internet made things better, surely, as he could video chat with his friends, but that quite frankly wasn't the same as being in the same space as others.

"I-It seems awfully lonely... And unsafe. If something happened to you, if you got your foot trapped in one of these holes or were too injured to be getting up, s-someone would know to come looking for you, right? Do you have people to at least check in often so they know to be sending help?"

The seagulls, cute though they may be, wouldn't be of much help should something terrible happen. Emergency plans for any situation were key; there was no telling how and when something could go terribly wrong. "Sorry, I know I'm, eh... n-nagging on this, I guess? I know, but it's worth worrying about, I think. I want to stay here with you for my visit - this is not about me leaving! - but I'm worried for you when I'm gone."

Peter stands still and patiently hears him out, though he has a pretty good idea of where this concern is going and where it will probably end. The wind turns, and his smile makes it feel as though the breeze is warmer from this new direction.

"I get that a lot too," he finally says, with a halfhearted shrug. He walks back under the shelter of the helipad, and leans his back against the wall, counterbalanced by the bag he's got slung over his shoulder, to re-tie his shoelace which the gull had undone.

"We used to have people who'd swing by and toss the daily papers up."

With the excitement of having been called fading away, all around them the flock is swiftly growing bored. A few of them take off, while the rest continue wandering about for something more interesting. Perhaps Peter had hidden something somewhere for them to find and eat?

"It's only ever unsafe if I don't pay attention and don't know what I'm doin'. I won't get hurt. And if I do, I will just have to get up and deal with it, won't I? I could think of it like, a chance to make someone proud of me, with how well I can deal with the situation... and that's only if one sees fit to present itself in the first place."

"... It is a bit lonely, though, yeah, at times."

He finishes tying his lace with a final authoritative tug, pulling it tight, and stands up straight again.

"But no one else takes to it half as well as me-- so why put someone else to the task of watchin' the place, when I don't have to? But someone's got to, and in the end it's worth it, right?"

The question comes out sounding not quite so rhetorical as he'd intended it, the answer not quite so self-evident as he'd hoped. It comes out like a question he may someday actually have to come up with an answer for.

"Enough of all this, I've not even showed you around yet, I've not even offered you anything yet! What sort of host am I, anyway? Besides perhaps one who's a bit out of practice." His home looks much nicer on the inside than it does on the outside, anyway; maybe it'll bring Raivis to not worry quite so much.

[Peter's startling has Fannar startling, although thankfully he doesn't mimic the noise his friend just made. Though, don't worry Peter — he's not going to draw attention to it!]

[Instead, he just holds his hands up apologetically, with a sheepish smile to match, although he's coughing into his scarf for a second.] Ah, s-sorry — I didn't mean to sneak up on you. That was my fault. Are you alright?

[Feeling very thankful he didn't get decked, he pushes his hands into his pockets, and noses a little deeper into his scarf.]

The confetti fell out of your hair, by the way. What did you do tonight? I missed most of the festivities. But, better late than never — that is the saying, right?

Ah, yeah! I'm good! Though -- let's not be silly, you didn't frighten me thaaat much. I just…

[ think fast think fast ]

… wanted to grant you some personal space! Is all. I only meant to be polite!

[ Though from the grin on his face it's pretty obvious that he's poking fun at himself here, and neither believes what he's saying nor expects Fannar to. ]

There was a party I wanted to go to but I wasn't allowed in, so, I was the entire time sat outside on the bench instead, but people would come out now and then to keep me company!

[He appears to have crawled out of his hole for the first time in a few weeks, since he's suddenly jumpscaring his nearest friend by silently siding up beside them. Where did he come from?]

You have confetti in your hair. Do you want me to get it out for you? Are you excited for the new year?

[ Peter leaps an arm's length away, whipping around while making the most uncool noise possible. (Imagine a squeak toy getting run over by a motorbike). ]

[ In fact, the sudden movement flings a few of the confetti flakes right off him! They flutter down in their expected harmless way, accentuating the silliness of his reaction. ]

Er... yeah!!!!! Of course I'm excited!! I'm havin' a great time!! Hence my, y'know, weird squawk, and, my... unwarranted dancin' around.

[ Upon closer inspection, he'd looked for a moment like he'd been about to punch whatever's scaring him, but he'd held back in time, and is now doing his best to play the whole thing off. ]

"W-Wait... seriously? Is o- It's only us two?" And he'd done so much preliminary research on Peter's home, just as he would before meeting a proper world leader! All for nothing, apparently, but the wasted effort wasn't what bothered him. The thought of a kid - or, well, a teen, seeing as he and Peter were around the same physical age - spending so much of his time in total isolation out at sea, especially after a past abandonment, stirred that same protective instinct as when they first met. He did his best to rein himself in, to avoid overreacting to this news.

"That sounds miserable." Yep. Reined in. "I mean, not for us being here together, b-but when I am leaving and you're out here alone for-" He froze, something clicking about his earlier statements. "The last trip of the y-year? Wait, will - will you be out here alone all winter, and during the holidays, too?" Unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable. How could anyone let him live like this? Didn't he have people who cared about him checking in and ensuring he had a support system of some sort? Even if Arthur was a deadbeat, he had so many friends among the micronations.

Didn't he have anyone looking out for him?

So lost in his worries as he was, he barely noticed Peter walking to the edge and peeking over, gaze set beyond the horizon as he tried to sort out how best to handle this information. It wasn't until the sharp, piercing sound of Peter's whistle that he startled back to the present, eyes wide and thoughts rapidly catching up to the conversation he fully zoned out of. There was hardly a second to process before an explosion of feathers had him stumbling back with a yelp of surprise.

Thin arms came up to shield his face from any potential swoopings, or worse, droppings, but they gradually lowered as the honorary Sealandic citizens settled on and around his friend. Clearly Peter wasn't as alone as previously believed, though seagulls were hardly one for conversion. A few shrieking squawk from the helipad reminded him that they were, in fact, plenty conversational, albeit not in any way understandable to people.

"Um, wow, this... They really trust you." This wasn't the usual case of wild animals fed by humans and losing all fear of them. They were neither mobbing nor swarming, but simply joining him as though a member of the flock and, what's more, retained distrust of a stranger like Raivis. The guest squatted to offer his hand to one, letting it inspect this intruder on their territory and moving slowly as not to startle them. "D-Did you raise them, or...?"

"Yeah! Though, honestly, they would surely--"

His sentence breaks into fond laughter as the feathertips of another bird's wing grazes against his cheek right beneath his eye, and he flings his hands up to stave off any further wingflaps. His words struggle through continued fits of snickering.

"... They'd still be here whether I looked after 'em or not! Like, over the winter I grow my hair out, as no one will be seein' me anyway, so that when I trim it in spring, they can use it for their nests! But I don't like to spoil 'em too much, as, y'know... they've still got to learn how to rob pelicans and such. I can't bring 'em up to think they can get their way by dive-bombing people. 'Twould be irresponsible of me!"

Not that seagulls are the most polite of this beautiful world's creatures, but, considering the demeanour of the average jackass gull, Peter's are downright gentlemanly in comparison. Which is to say, only somewhat pushy and annoying, but not much worse than that.

Peter shuffles back through the milling crowd of birds, playing a weird gangly game of floor-is-lava so as not to tread on anybody or get his foot caught in any more rusty holes in his deck.

"And, it's all right, I do get that a lot! It's not all that strange I don't think-- you live alone, don't you? Most of us live alone, don't they? If I visited you at your house, wouldn't we also be alone then? Though, yeah, my friends and I do sort of... blur the line between 'territory' and 'literally just a house'... wait, you weren't actually expectin' more people, were you?"

"Er, is this... weird? That it's only me? I'm not keepin' you, I swear-- I'm not meanin' to, like, trap you here with me! You can leave whenever you like, I'll drive you back myself, the weather's meant to hold out for at least two more weeks."

Wrong boat. Blasted. . . ! Peter gave the kid the benefit of the doubt, especially given the absolute state he himself was in. He glanced between the vessel and the teen on the dock, then around the deck of the ship, looking all around with a baffled expression as he second-guessed himself. "Wrong boa', is ih hones'ly. . .? My bad, bruv."

How bizarre, that two of the exact same ship models would be moored in the same marina! They'd probably have a decent laugh afterward, though — once Peter showed him his own boat. The talk of impersonation and getting hurt were all ignored; typical boy, trying to act like hot shit before he'd even reached his A-levels. The kid was probably harmless.

Peter ducked inside the wheelhouse to grab his own personal affects (there's his coat!), but faltered upon noticing the photo of Roy and Joan taped to the glass.

". . . Oi!" He popped his head out from around the side of the structure. "No, this 'ere's my boa', ih is! Look," Peter proclaimed as he dug his utility keychain from his pocket and dangled it high above his head, "My key, innit? An' ih works, too!"

He staggered back inside, shoved his key into the ignition, and turned it, starting up the electronics in the wheelhouse along with it. Peter stared out at the kid through the glass with a huge grin, as if he'd worked out a profound mystery.

Peter is utterly flabbergasted for a moment, before the obvious truth lands, and he begins hurriedly slapping all the pockets of his windbreaker. How in the hell had someone managed to pickpocket him?? When had he let his guard down? Or maybe he'd dozed off in public again?

Oh. Wait.

… Huh.

From the perspective of an audience who actually understands what's going on here, we must all now contend with the finer details of quantum boat keys, wherein two different copies of the same world can by freak accident meld together in such a way that there exists two separate instances of item A, but only one instance of item B.

Peter holds up his own version of the very same key; there is an adorable sparkly blue heart keychain dangling from the end of it, which he hastily folds into his palm to hide.

"Now what, genius? You shut that off, and try mine next!"

For God's sake. These people are coordinated. And Peter is beginning to feel more and more like a fool, for having been utterly oblivious to the existence of some new group who evidently has it in for him. He's meant to be smarter than this! Had they gotten a keysmith in on this as well??

"Can the whole lot of you all just get a bloody hobby already and leave me alone!"

I... don't, actually...

「 Now this is where she gets a little flustered! Resident peace micronation tends to forget all the war scenes or watch them with one eye open. She can't see suddenly, she doesn't know. But how embarrassing, that she can't remember such a crucial scene from a landmark fantasy! 」

Maybe we should watch the Lord of the Rings instead? I could use a refresher. We marathon those as well during this time of year, even though the seasons are totally different. There's also Nightmare Before Christmas...

「 Would he be up for those sorts of things though? Movies were a curl-up-on-the-couch-cozily sort of ordeal, and now that he was in a place not WayTooCold Degrees Celsius, maybe he'd want to do something outdoorsy... 」

What, and put on pause our nail-bitin' sports anime season finale consistin' of takin' turns at the "sharks finally gnawed apart my fibre optic cables" game? No way. It was only just gettin' good! And you're winning, besides.

You ain't missin' out on much. It's not as though it's the most finely-choreographed siege ever committed to film.

Basically the forces of evil were like, y'know what, it truly is a shame what a pain you are to get at, don't you get lonely in there? We really ought make you a tunnel so your fortress can get surprise visitors more often.

And the forces of good were like, actually, yeah, that sounds like a swell time, and then they bust their own wall down, and everyone has a lovely sunny picnic together in the Hornburg's back garden.

He doesn't want to eavesdrop; honest, he doesn't. Still, as his sights wander across the deck to the various oil drums that neatly dot the surface (is there a reason they're set up like that? If he asked, would he sound stupid?), their conversation drifts over the sound of waves and gentle wind, bits and pieces lodging themselves into his mind even as he tries to distract himself.

Last trip out for the winter is worrisome. Surely they only mean via helicopter, right? Peter needs to go back and forth between shore and, hopefully, have people come out to stay with him from time to time, as well. To spend a whole season out here without visits to the mainland, much less near Christmas (does he celebrate? He probably celebrates, right? Maybe it's rude to assume-) seems... depressing, to put it bluntly.

Even then, Raivis can't help but smile a bit. Peter called him 'cool.'

The second bag is hesitantly set down for Peter take, one more glance being cast to the host to make sure he's still okay with carrying it. Raivis has only just arrived, after all, and it's a bit early to start being a burden of a guest, but he doesn't want to fall over. At least he's keeping his backpack on.

With Peter's short introduction and spin, Raivis looks around once more and tries to imagine growing up on such an isolated place, fully removed from the earth he sprang up from. Where did Peter come from, then? The sea, or the steel? Maybe the air itself. Honestly, Raivis wasn't actually sure if nations came from their homes at all rather than appearing out of nowhere.

"Thank you for having me," he answered, not quite sure what to make of it all. It wasn't bad, necessarily, but it was a world of difference from what he was used to. He keeps looking to the cables swaying, the motion in his peripherals keeping him on edge as though they might shoot out and tangle him in their hold. Raivis watches his step, knowing damn well that he wouldn't be as lucky if the toe of his shoe got caught, and wonders for a moment what it must be like to have rusted holes in one's body. Then again, any time someone digs a hole in Latvia, isn't he getting burrowed into, as well?

Let's repress those thoughts until he's lying awake in bed.

"I didn't change my mind," he confirms with a little grin. "Don't be underestimating me. I'm not about to back down on visiting y-you because of some water, no matter how unending and imposing it is! I was more worried for the helicopter, actually... e-especially seeing seagulls fly too close to it."

Here, on a solid platform rather than up in the air, the sea is more emotionally manageable. Having the vastness closer to him is somehow less threatening than having it hundreds of meters below, much closer to the hours spent watching waves from the beach. "How many people do you have on board?"

"At the moment?" There's a grin on his face like that of someone about to deliver a joke's punchline, which may in and of itself have given away the answer: "Two!"

"Typically, it's one - myself, or, I've got someone who watches the place while I'm away, as he likes the peace and quiet... and, I'm sorry, I don't mean to underestimate you at all! Nothin' like that. It's just that loads of people will see, like, photographs of the ocean..."

As his voice meanders on, Peter heads for the west-side railing and folds himself in half straining to peek underneath the platform; about part way through, he'd had to raise his voice against the sound of the wind.

"... and think, oh, that's not so bad, but then they actually get there - you get what I mean, yeah? What I'd actually meant was, I'm glad you're here! And the gulls are all very sorry they worried you."

Peter gives up trying to see underneath the platform and stands up straight. "It's just, you know... new visitor, they've got to see what you're doin' here! Right, hold on, watch this!"

He faces the horizon again and whistles. The sharp sound cleaves the wind in two - one long high note, and one long low note.

There's a moment of stillness, before about a dozen seagulls come rushing out from beneath the deck on all sides, as though a white-and-grey firework had gone off beneath his house, and had scattered a burst of floaty debris in the form of a flock of annoying birds. They cry out in nasally voices, a few of them landing on Peter directly - one is so cheeky as to bite him on the ear - stamping on his shoulders with their smelly wet webbed feet.

Because of course they can't all fit onto his arms and head at the same time, the remaining birds are left milling irritably around the deck, wandering towards Raivis and anxiously waddling away again, or flapping to and fro up onto the helipad and back down, not at all pleased about having to wait their turn.

"... So, I s'pose, it's actually a great deal more than two! By technicality of course -- oi, you sneaky little goon!"

(One of his gulls, while he'd been distracted, had undone Peter's shoelace, with him turning so sharply after the criminal that the abrupt motion makes another bird drop right off his head.)