Chapter Text
Nami handed Sanji a bag of coins, clicking together as he slipped them into his pants pocket. “I mean it Sanji, if you don’t bring me back the change, I’m going to-”
“Nami~, I’ll be so frugal, I’ll bring you back at least half of the Beli, and I’ll even get a little treat for you and Robin~”. Sanji swirled around, inching closer to Nami, who rolled her eyes and walked away. They had docked the night before on a new island- Holdtown was a large commercial hub in the area, which meant that the sounds of vendors and sailors moving cargo could be heard even this early in the morning. It had been several weeks since they last reached an island with anything more than a small store, and Sanji was off to replenish their food supply, plus some requested medicinal herbs for Chopper. He pulled a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and read over his list while he lit it- There was more here than he could carry on his own, and he sighed as he turned to search for someone to help him lug around his shopping. He saw Zoro, still sleeping upright against a wall on the deck, and kicked him roughly in the side. Zoro glared at him, not moving.
“Get up, stupid Marimo. I need an oaf to carry the groceries while I shop”.
Zoro shut his eye again and pretended to be asleep, acquiescing only after Sanji landed another two blows with increasing fervor. “Can’t you get anyone else to go, Curly?”.
“No, and if I have to ask again I’ll kick you in the face. It might improve things visually, so maybe it’s not such a bad idea…” Nami stood from the upstairs doorway, arms crossed as she glared at the two of them. Zoro grimaced with a hiss, but stood. She gave him a pitying smile and walked inside. The two of them rarely went on errands together, and they both knew the day would be like pulling teeth.
✱ ✱ ✱
“Tell me you’re joking,” Zoro asked, both arms cradling several bags full of produce and meat. Sanji tutted and kept walking several paces ahead.
“Of course I’m not. I would never joke about making special treats for the ladies”. Sanji was backtracking through the stalls they’d already visited, combing over everything again in search of a particularly fresh looking bundle of vanilla pods. They had everything else crossed off his list, but he refused to buy the low quality ones he’d seen at the last stall, and he certainly refused to make anything other than a masterpiece for the loves of his life. The sun was beating down on them as they made their way through the open-air market, and Zoro was scowling with a deep frown embedded in his face.
“If you think I’m going to follow you around while you waste both our tim-” Sanji shoved a hand in his face and silently eyed two men standing in an alley across the market from them. Both their faces were covered with thick hoods, and they were whispering with each other, pointing in Sanji’s and Zoro’s direction.
“I have a feeling they might be talking about us,” he said, taking a long drag off his cigarette. They weren’t even being subtle, he thought. Didn’t they know who Blackleg Sanji and Roronoa “Demon of the East Blue” Zoro were? Awful ballsy to be tailing them so obviously. He turned to ask Zoro not to start a fight with so many people around when he felt a hand fall against his shoulder.
✱ ✱ ✱
A cigarette twirled gracefully cinder-first to the ground, and a loud series of thuds rang out as grocery bags spilled on the cobblestones one by one.
“I just cannot congratulate the two of you enough on the new jobs. These roles are highly sought after, you’re so lucky you applied when you did!”
A slender man with a mousey-brown ponytail had both his arms dressed around the shoulders of the two men. He was wearing an ill-fitting suit and toothy grin, and the two men looked at each other blankly.
“Sorry- New job? And who are you?” asked the Yellow-Haired Man.
“I’m your new supervisor, you can call me Salvatore!” The man laughed again. “Boss is waiting, and it’s a long trip back to the base. Let’s get going, you two!”
The Green-Haired Man shrugged. He wasn’t sure when he had applied for a new job, but he was glad to have made the cut. He also wasn’t sure what his old job was, or what he had been doing just a handful of seconds before. He pressed a palm against his left temple, where a dull aching pulsated in and out. Everything felt muddled and the world around him sounded like it was coming through a transponder snail in the distance.
The Yellow-Haired Man looked around as they moved forward, searching for anything familiar. Where had Salvatore come from? What had he been doing before he arrived? His head pounded steadily and he winced, resigning himself to figuring it out later. As they walked he began to feel heavier and heavier, and his vision grew fuzzy.
“Oh, and thanks for holding onto those for me!” Salvatore said cheerfully, reaching for the three swords at the waist of the Green-Haired Man. He felt a twinge of sadness as he handed them off, and the three of them made their way towards the dock. Each step they took, the two bright-haired men felt themselves shrink, until they boarded a large ship and sank onto the deck and into an unnaturally deep sleep.
✱ ✱ ✱
The Yellow-Haired Man and the Green-Haired Man sat in a small, one-room shack. They were sitting in two decaying chairs, one several inches higher than the other, and two men covered in soot stood before them. Salvatore had taken them onto a boat, and after what was apparently over a half-day's journey, they’d been led through a small village surrounded by a high wall, and into the house. Despite having no windows, a draft rolled through the room, and the wind made the one small lantern flicker. They both rubbed their eyes, sleepiness clinging to them as they tried to listen.
“I know it’s confusing at first,” offered one of the soot-covered men. He was missing an eye, the socket sunken in, and he kept glancing uneasily at the Green-Haired Man’s own missing peeper. “It gets easier though, once you get settled in”.
The two men described their new job. They were at a coal mining company; The town around them consisted of the miners and the rest of the company staff. It was the only coal mine on the island, they explained, and as it was a small island that didn’t see too much trade, the mine was very valuable and often attacked by the other inhabitants.
“T-That’s why you’re here as the new guards,” said a short, shoot-covered man. He had a long and full beard with a mustache that twisted upwards at the ends. “T-The last guards didn’t last very long thou-”
The one-eyed man elbowed the short man in the side. “The villagers are surprisingly strong,” he said gently, “and we’ve lost a few guards this year alone. But you two seem stronger than they were… So I wouldn’t worry about it!” He grinned at them, showcasing a missing front tooth.
The Yellow-Haired Man sighed. Habitually, he fumbled at the front of his coat and reached for something in his breast pocket- He pulled out a packet of cigarettes. I guess I smoke, he thought. Not very healthy of me. He lit one and inhaled slowly, noting the greedy eyes of the short soot-covered man following his hands. “Explain the name thing one more time,” he asked, leaning forward.
The one-eyed man nodded. “Boss ate a devil fruit, the Name-Name Fruit. Once you get hired, he takes your name while you’re under contract, and since your name holds your memories, sometimes it can take a while to decide who you want to be, without your name, that is.” He pointed at the short soot-covered man. “We pick our own nicknames, ‘till we can figure out our real ones. He goes by Dirt, and I go by One Eye”. He glanced uneasily at the Green-Haired Man again. “I see you’re also missin’ an eye, sir, but I’ll ask you to please pick your own name. One Eye is already taken”.
The Green-Haired Man moved his hand across his face and felt the ridges of an old scar. I guess I’m missing an eye, he thought, although he wasn’t particularly upset about it. He shrugged at One Eye. “What happens when you remember your name?”
One Eye smiled his gap tooth grin again. “See, Jino, we used to call him Tommy, well he heard his name one day and remembered everything! He tried to sneak away that night but the boss caught him and stole his name again.” One Eye’s smile dropped and he hung his head. “But the thing is, once Jino learned his name, he was sad to be here. Tommy used to be such a fun guy, always smiling- But Jino was miserable. We decided,” One Eye looked at Dirt shyly, “that we wouldn’t tell Jino what his name was this time. Not until his contract ran out. Let him be happy as Tommy again”.
Dirt nodded, shuffling his feet. “N-Not that we remember when our contracts end… But ’m sure the boss is keeping track of that f-for us…”
“Anyways,” One Eye returned to his grin, “the boys and I put together a welcome present for ya. We don’t get paid until next week, so this’ll have to tide you over”. He waved towards the small pot on the table. “There’s only one store in town, and since we can’t leave, it’s the best place to get what ya need!” One Eye let out a bellowing laugh. “The boss owns the store, and the boss pays us… Isn’t that just a great business for him?” He grinned.
Dirt looked at his feet. He was grimy, certainly more so than One Eye, and it was easy to see where his nickname had come from. “We sometimes…” his voice was barely above a whisper, “we sometimes buy a drink from the store on our day off, and try and guess each other’s names…” He briefly flashed his eyes towards the new guards. “I-If you’d like to join us… Sometime…”
The Yellow-Haired Man smiled as he finished his cigarette. “Thank you both so much for the welcome party.” He stuck his thumb in the direction of the three swords leaned against one of the walls. “Whose are those?”
“Not sure!” One Eye laughed. “But if you’re guards, I reckon you must know how to fight. Good luck tomorrow!” And the two soot-covered men left.
The Yellow-Haired Man eyed the Green-Haired Man. There were only so many houses in the village, One Eye had explained, and besides, this was where the guards had always lived. The Yellow-Haired Man wasn’t thrilled by the idea of living with someone who he knew nothing about- But then again, he didn’t know anything about himself either. He sighed and lit another cigarette. “So,” he exhaled, “do you know how to use swords or something?”
The Green-Haired Man leaned into his chair, the back of it pressed against the wall, stabilizing him. His arms were above his head, and both of his eyes were shut. “Dunno,” he said, unmoving. “I look a lot stronger than you though, you sure you’re even supposed to be a guard?”
The Yellow-Haired Man glared. “I feel perfectly strong,” he retorted, “and this is getting confusing. I’m going to give you a nickname to make things easier.” For the first time he turned to look at the Green-Haired Man thoroughly. He was a broad, muscular man, with spiky green hair and a chest scar rising from his open shirt. The Yellow Haired Man felt something churn in his stomach. He felt like he was supposed to be cold to this guy, to frown at him, to avoid him at all costs. But considering they’d just met, he pushed the feeling away, and sought to make a good first impression. “I’ll call you Sprout for now,” he nodded, taking the cue from the man’s prominent hair color.
Sprout cracked one eye to look at the Yellow-Haired Man. “Sprout’s a stupid name. From now on, your name is Stupid”.
Stupid’s mouth was agape, and as much as he wanted to argue, he was exhausted. Not knowing himself felt empty, like he’d run all day without anything to eat. He shot Sprout a nasty scowl and looked over the gifts One Eye and Dirt had left them: A cooking pot, a dull knife, some dry rice and assortment of vegetables, some steamed buns, a bar of soap, two well-worn changes of clothes, and… one toothbrush. He would have to seek out another tomorrow.
There were two musty-smelling bedrolls which Stupid laid out next to each other, almost taking up the entire floor of the small room. He sank into one fully clothed, and was going to ask Sprout if he was planning on sleeping, when he heard the man emit a gentle snore from the chair. He snores? That’s kind of annoying, thought Stupid, who fell quickly into a dreamless sleep.
✱ ✱ ✱
“I obviously will be taking the swords”, Stupid argued. It was morning and Salvatore had come to show them to their stations. “You’re gigantic, you clearly fight by hitting people. I’m refined, I’m clearly a master swordsman”.
Sprout was scowling. He didn’t know why, but he was sure those swords were his. He felt a radiating presence from them, the heat in one’s stomach from the last sip of a warm drink. “I don’t think you can even lift them”, he snarled, taking a step closer to Stupid.
“Now now boys, behave.” Salvatore stepped between them with a smile. “Why don’t you share until you figure it out?”. He handed both men one of the swords, leaving one against the wall. “If you promise not to wear yourselves out, I’ll even let you spar a little later to get all of this energy out of your systems. Goodness, my new guards are feisty!”.
They were led to the front entrance which they had passed through the day before. There was a large wooden gate with a smaller door cut into the side of it. Salvatore spun and flourished his arms as he explained their roles.
“You stand here, and you don’t let anyone in! Not a single person!” The way he moved was almost liquid; Salvatore spoke with his hands and exaggerated faces. “The boss is busy so he can’t come see you right now, but he’ll send you a list of people allowed in and out each day. If you let anyone else in, you’ll get in sooo much trouble!” He chuckled to himself like it was the funniest joke in the world. “We have a second set of guards roaming around the rest of the village, so you only need to worry about this entrance. Got it?”
Sprout’s arms were folded and he looked annoyed. This was such remedial work. Was it really something he’d applied for— This was the best he could do? “What if someone tries to break in?” he asked Salvatore with a frown.
“Oh, they will! They always do try!” Salvatore spun around again. “Just kill them! All the boss cares about is that you keep them outside of the gates.” With that he turned to leave, offering a ‘You boys be good, now!’ on his way out. Stupid looked at Sprout.
“I can already tell you’re more muscle than brains,” he glared, still angry about his nickname from last night, “but this doesn’t feel like the sort of job I’d normally take”.
Sprout smirked. Something about seeing Stupid looking at him, angry, made him feel at peace. He briefly wondered if maybe he was a bad person. “I mean, he said we both applied for these jobs, so you’re no better than me. Just a normal goon”. As he said it he decided that he didn’t feel like a normal goon, but here he was either way. He picked up his sword and unsheathed the blade. His hands moved on their own, and he was now more convinced than before that these were his blades. He tucked the sheath in his waistband and stood, facing Stupid, sword pointed towards him. “Want to see who these belong to?” he coaxed with a grin.
✱ ✱ ✱
Stupid fumbled to unsheathe his blade and took in the sight of Sprout. He wasn’t an ugly man. He was toned and tan, but his skin looked like it would be rough against your hands. His legs were slightly bent, and based on his posturing, the man certainly knew how to fight. Stupid matched his position, keenly aware the blade felt heavy in his palms. “Listen, don’t get too crazy. I don’t want to get in trouble on our first da-” Sprout lunged forward, clashing his blade against Stupid’s. The feeling recoiled in his arms and jolted him into action.
The two collided in a flurry of blows and blocks. Stupid felt like he was moving slowly, clumsily; His arms couldn’t keep up with the weight of the blade, and while Sprout was mercilessly landing blow after blow, it was all he could do to defend himself. Stupid felt a jolt of dread as he narrowly missed blocking a slice that would have cut his arm. Something doesn’t feel right, he panicked, this isn’t right this isn’t right this isn’t right- He jumped back and threw the sword on the ground as if it had bitten him.
Sprout lowered his own sword and let out a hearty laugh. “Is that really the best you can do, Stupid? You’re clearly no swordsmen, then”. He grinned wide, until he saw Stupid was bent over, clenching his right hand. It looked like he was nursing a fresh wound, and his breathing was ragged. Sprout didn’t like seeing him like this. Stupid being angry earlier had made him chuckle, but seeing Stupid in real pain didn’t make him the least bit happy. Sprout allowed himself a brief moment to celebrate this confirmation that he wasn’t really that bad of a person.
“I think- I don’t think I can use that sword,” Stupid muttered. It felt like the wind had been knocked out of him and he worked to catch his breath. The sword he’d thrown on the ground lay in front of him, its hilt shining among the grass. Sprout bent down to pick it up.
“Stop! I think there’s something really wrong with that thing”. Stupid eyed the dark blade and drew a deep breath as Sprout picked it up.
Sprout turned the sword over in his hands. It was an intricate piece, with a tri-fold tsuba and a golden flower nestled within the lilac of the hilt. He felt a familiar tugging as he held it, like a dog dragging his owner on a leash.
“Seems fine to me,” he shrugged, wielding the two blades in each hand and making several slashes into the air to test them. This definitely feels better than just one blade, he thought. He imagined that he looked pretty cool right now.
Stupid scowled and crossed his arms, musing. “I don’t think I normally fight with swords,” he said after a pause, “and it seems like you’re pretty familiar with them. I think you’ve earned yourself an upgraded nickname. I’m going to call you Shitty Swordsman”.
Shitty Swordsman stopped slashing the air and glared at Stupid. “How is calling me Shitty an upgrade?” He pointed one sword in Stupid’s direction in protest.
“Swordsman is a nice name, and since you’re calling me Stupid, it’s only fair that I get to call you Shitty”. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with still slightly trembling fingers. “I just need to figure out what kind of fighter I am before someone shows up to break the gate in and I get fired”.
Shitty Swordsman cocked his head at Stupid and sheathed both the blades, placing them gently in the grass. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and took a wide stance, slightly bending his knees for stability. He balled his hands into fists in front of him. “Come at me, then. Let’s find out”.
Stupid took one more long drag and stomped out the cigarette under his foot. He walked closer to Shitty Swordsman, mirroring his stance with his own fists.
“I won’t come at you as hard as before,” Shitty Swordsman said, “so just try different things until something feels right. Maybe you’re a wrestler or something”.
Stupid rolled his eyes but took a swing at the man before him. Shitty Swordsman dodged the blow, and bounced closer to Stupid, shoving him hard in the shoulders, causing him to stumble backwards. “What the hell was that?!”
“Maybe you’re more of a long-range fighter”. Shitty Swordsman moved to shove him again and Stupid grabbed his arm, trying to pull the man over his shoulder. Shitty Swordsman held his ground- Instead, Stupid felt himself pulled backwards, and found the muscular torso of the man pressed against his back. He felt his face turn red.
“Get off of me you bastard!” He shoved the man away and threw him a square kick to the chest. To both of their surprise, the man flew several feet backwards.
“Fuck,” Shitty Swordsman grasp at his chest. “You have some fucking legs on you”.
Stupid shot several kicks into the air. This feels good, he thought. It felt natural. He aimed higher, his legs stretching effortlessly into what was almost a split. Shitty Swordsman felt a tinge in his stomach and his eye opened wide. I think I might be into that, he thought. Something about the way the man before him was so limber as he took stabbing kicks at the air with his feet, and the way his thin waist moved smoothly along with his body… Kind of did it for him.
Weird. And with that, he decided to ignore it.
“Oi, Legs, congrats, now we know you aren’t totally useless. Let’s call it there before you kick my ribs in”. Legs perked his face up at the change in name.
“Sorry if I left a bruise, by the way”. He smiled to himself and fished out another cigarette. For someone who hadn’t even known that they smoked, he thought, he sure did a lot of it. He’d have to work on that.
The two men meandered back to the small gate and each took one side of the door, leaning against the wall and staring into a dense forest that stretched out around them. Shitty Swordsman had tucked both blades into his waistband and closed his eyes, his breathing quickly steadying as he fell asleep standing up. Legs looked at the clouds and tried to match their shapes to memories, but none bubbled to the surface. The day wore on and by nightfall no one had tried to break through the gate, which meant that Legs didn’t get to kick anyone else, even though he really, really wanted to.
✱ ✱ ✱
Legs had a sleepless night. His dreams felt fuzzy, like there was a coating of film over them, and the snoring of the swordsman from the other bedroll kept him half awake. When he did finally sleep, he saw tangerine trees swaying in the wind, an ocean breeze slapping saltwater against his face. He could hear laughter from below, and the sound of a violin waltzed through the air. It felt like home, and when he woke up in the morning, he held a hand against his heart which was like a twisted knot in his chest.
✱ ✱ ✱
“What are you- STOP! Those aren’t edible raw!” Legs reached across the table and grabbed Shitty Swordsman’s chin, sticking two fingers into his mouth to pluck the berry off of his tongue in the same way a person would wrestle something out of a dog’s mouth. “Are you fucking stupid?” Shitty Swordsman felt his cheeks turn red, and he wondered if there was a nonchalant way to tell someone you just met that he's welcome to put his fingers back in your mouth.
“How do you even know you need to cook those? How do you know any of this?” Shitty Swordsman turned away from Legs, leaning his elbows on the table and covering his face with his palms, hoping to hide the blushing. Legs returned to peeling the vegetables in front of them.
“I just know,” he said with a frown. Was that not common knowledge? They had eaten the steamed buns Dirt and One Eye had brought them the day before, and the two of them needed to cook the rest of the rice to last until payday. One Eye had explained that every ten days they were given their salaries and one day off, and with the date of their arrival, their first payday wouldn’t be for another four days. The rice they’d been given was dirty and had several small rocks mixed in with the grains, but they’d make due. It would be meager rations, yet Legs was grateful to their new coworkers that they wouldn’t starve.
“Why am I the only one cooking right now, Shitty Swordsman? Can’t you at least wash the rice or something?” Shitty Swordsman scowled. He was almost entirely sure, somewhere deep inside his bones, that he had never cooked a day in his life. They’d agreed to cook breakfast before they returned to their posts this morning, and before he could put together a plan, Legs had already begun preparing the vegetables with deft hands. As pathetic as he’d looked while wielding the sword yesterday, he clearly knew his way around a paring knife.
“Doesn’t look like you need help,” Shitty Swordsman retorted, leaning back in the chair. He was giving Legs shit of course, but it really didn’t look like the man needed help.
Legs shot him a glance and focused on peeling the root vegetables in front of him. It felt like his hands knew what to do- He carefully cut away the rotten parts of the turnip he was holding, leaving as much edible meat as he could. It was the first time since they’d arrived that he felt the tension leaving his shoulders. He exhaled and a small smile found its way across his lips. Legs decided then that he liked cooking, and he thought that he was pretty good at it too. It made him feel useful, like he was pulling his weight.
Shitty Swordsman sat back and took in the view. Legs added the vegetables he’d prepared into their worn pot, sprinkling in a pinch of the small amount of salt they’d been given. He took a sip with a spoon and tilted his head to the side lost in thought, leaving Shitty Swordsman eyeing the soft place at the nape of his neck that called out to him. This became their daily ritual- Legs would prepare their meals in the morning, and Shitty Swordsman would watch him with a different kind of hunger.
✱ ✱ ✱
It was their fifth morning on the island, and they were both handed a small sum of change from Salvatore, who wished them the best but was simply ‘far too busy’ to stick around. It wasn’t very much, but considering they’d only worked five out of the ten day workweek, it was plenty to last them the next pay cycle, even with a few vices thrown in. As Legs had been doing almost all the cooking (Shitty Swordsman had tried to make rice once, and while the two of them ate burnt grains they had agreed to end his tenure in the kitchen) he demanded a hefty portion of Shitty Swordsman’s pay, which he obliged. If someone else was willing to cook for him, he thought, he wasn’t going to put up a fight. The store was scantily stocked but Legs managed to gather a variety of ingredients for the week, as well as a resupply for his dwindling smokes.
The town seemed sleepy, considering it was everyone’s single day off. Birds chirped overhead as the two men sat outside their shack on the chairs they’d dragged out. Shitty Swordsman sat in the chair which was several inches higher than Legs’ seat, and which they’d briefly quarreled over, before the heat overhead made the argument feel like more trouble than it was worth.
“D’you wanna go to the naming-meeting-thing tonight?” Shitty Swordsman asked. He was gnawing on a piece of freshly purchased jerky, although it was so hard it might have been better suited as a chew toy. Legs was leaned back in his chair, his face savoring the sun overhead.
“Do you want to know your name?”. He fumbled for a cigarette out of his fresh pack. “That Tommy guy, he was worse off because of it, right?”. A small bluebird landed close to his feet, and his eyes were captivated by it as it searched the dirt. He stuck his hand out and made a grabbing movement at Shitty Swordsman. “Gimme your jerky for a second”.
Shitty Swordsman squinted at Legs, but handed his jerky over. Legs gnawed off a small piece from the end he hadn’t been eating off of, and handed it back. He took the piece out of his mouth and threw it in front of the bird, who pecked at it with interest.
“I don’t see why not,” he shrugged. “Just because Limmy or Timmy or whatever his name is got upset, doesn’t mean we will. Aren’t you curious?”
Legs looked at Shitty Swordsman’s face. His dark eyes had a warm hue to them in the direct sunlight, and his three earrings shimmered in the light as his head moved. Legs shrugged. “Might as well see what it’s about- Plus, it sounds like a sort of a party, and we haven’t had any fun since we got here”.
✱ ✱ ✱
They arrived at One Eye’s house around the time the sun began to set. It was much larger than their own, but the number of sleeping rolls shoved haphazardly against the walls indicated that several more miners shared the space. There were about ten men already inside, spread throughout the room, chattering amongst themselves. As Legs and Shitty Swordsman entered, they all turned to look at them, but resumed talking while staring less-than-subtly at the newcomers. Legs took a long inhale and forced a grin on his face.
“Thanks for having us! Nice to meet you all”. Shitty Swordsman said nothing, but crossed his arms and followed Legs as he found a spot to nestle against a wall towards the back of the room. Legs found himself feeling almost nervous- It’d been several days of only really interacting with his roommate, and he wasn’t feeling confident that he had his personality down yet.
“Here,” he nudged Shitty Swordsman with something in his hand. It was a bottle of horrifically cheap looking whiskey, which the man eyed with interest. Oh! I think I like booze, he thought with a smile. The first swig was revolting- It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and his eyes watered. But before he could recover, he was taking a second greedy sip. “Hey! Don’t drink it all at once,” Legs grabbed back the bottle and took a sip of his own, his body shuddering hard enough to shake a splash out of the top of the glass. He handed it back to Shitty Swordsman with a grimace.
One Eye cleared his throat and stood in front of the group, who quieted their conversations. It was clear that he had a sort of social authority over the ragged bunch. He explained how the evening would work- They would start from a certain letter of the alphabet and go around the room, with each person suggesting a name, until no one could think of any more. Then, they’d move on to the next letter. “Starting where we left off last time, the first letter of the evening will be R!” The men in the room let out a hearty cheer, and One Eye led them off with a shout: “Rowan!”
The festivities went late, and the pair of guards weren’t the only ones drinking. It made sense, thought Shitty Swordsman, if they only had one day off each week, they might as well make the most of it. Suggestions got rowdier and more obscure, until most of the ideas being shot out by the group were less names and more objects.
“Urchin!” “U-Ukelele!” “Uncle!” “Undies!” “Ophelia!” “-That one doesn’t start with U!”
Shitty Swordsman looked at the man sitting next to him. Legs was enjoying himself, clapping along with the miners at valid suggestions, and breaking into laughter when someone threw out a weirder one. The circle was rotating their way, and when it was Legs’ turn, he shouted confidently: “U-Upside Down Cake!” and the room roared with laughter. His face was flushed, his neck and ears similarly crimson, and his speech was starting to slur. Shitty Swordsman held up the bottle and saw that it was mostly gone- Not that he really felt anything other than a warm buzz and tug of a smile on his lips. Guess I can hold my liquor, he took note proudly.
As the night wrapped up, miners stumbled to their own shacks, and Shitty Swordsman helped Legs to his feet. He was hiccuping in between words, and he had to lean against the wall of the room to stabilize himself. Someone’s a lightweight, he thought, and forced himself to peel his eyes off of Legs’ chest which was peeking through his progressively more unbuttoned shirt. As they made it to the door of the shack Legs turned to thank One Eye, and almost twisted his face straight into the door. Shitty Swordsman sighed and put one of Legs’ arms under his shoulders to help him walk back to their room.
“I-I really th-hick!-think those guys are great,” Legs was chattering away as they walked back. Shitty Swordsman didn’t respond, confused and questioning why this didn’t feel bad at all. He’d certainly noticed that he was physically attracted to Legs by now- His golden hair fell in delicate curls that framed his face, and his body was a lean mass of muscle. But seeing Legs laughing, the blush on his drunken face emphasized in the lamplight, made Shitty Swordsman feel… Nice. He felt the same strange twinge in his gut that he’d felt when Legs was kicking the air with joyful animosity. He wanted to make this man happy. Shitty Swordsman fuddled his brow as they walked. It wasn’t that he was upset by this revelation, but he was confused at where it was coming from. It felt like a deep-seated desire; He wanted to keep the man he was half dragging down the street smiling, the same way he wanted to feel a cool breeze against his skin under a scorching sun. Is five days all it takes for me to fall in love? No, he thought to himself, it must just be the booze talking.
✱ ✱ ✱
The pair stumbled into their room and Legs collapsed into one of the bedrolls, his face enveloped in pillow. Shitty Swordsman shed his shirt and folded it half-heartedly in a pile by the end of his comforter.
“You’re going to feel like shit tomorrow, Legs”. He filled a wooden cup from the bucket of drinking water they’d pulled from the well earlier, and crouched beside the man in bed. Legs groaned as Shitty Swordsman rolled him over to sit him up, and he pressed the cup to his lips.
Legs took a small sip of water before grabbing the cup with both hands and chugging the rest of it with a dramatic ahhhh. Shitty Swordsman moved to stand, but Legs grabbed him by one shoulder and pulled their faces closer to each other.
“Why’re you… Why’re you always so mean to me?” Legs hiccuped offensively close to the other man’s face and Shitty Swordsman guessed you could set his breath on fire.
Shitty Swordsman stared at him blankly. He felt his heart skip a beat from their proximity, and he sighed deeply. He made fun of Legs, sure, but he certainly hadn’t been mean to him. They were sharing a minuscule room, crappy rations, and worked a mind-numbing job together. Anyone would be bound to bicker. “You’re just drunk," he sighed, "and if you don’t go to sleep soon you’ll regret it tomorrow”. He stood, turning away from the man in the bedroll.
Legs glared and jumped to his feet with a wobble. “I mean it, you- you Shitty Swordsman”. He was raising his voice and took a step towards the man, knocking the empty cup from his hands, and pushing him so that his back was against the wall. Legs had his hands on Shitty Swordsman’s chest, which he beat ambiently with a fist as he spoke. “I go to the store hick! and make due with the worst produce on earth, and you’ve never even complimented my cooking once”. He frowned with his entire body, slumping forward to lean his forehead against Shitty Swordsman’s shoulder.
Shitty Swordman froze. He had to stop himself from grabbing Legs’ hands in his own, instead gently pushing him away. “Are you seriously upset about that?”. The drunk man pouted, crossing his arms and furling his brows. This guy seriously cannot hold his liquor. “Listen, you’re a great cook. I tried making rice one time and burnt it- You seem like you were born in a kitchen. It felt like a given”. He saw Legs release the tension from his shoulders and his pout mostly disappeared.
“Are you just saying that?” He swayed on his feet and Shitty Swordsman had to hold him to keep from falling over.
“How about I call you Cook to prove how much I mean it?” The man’s face lit up like he’d just won a prize, but quickly his brows furrowed again.
“I think chef is more appropriate. Or hick! maybe gourmet”.
Shitty Swordsman guided the man by his shoulders, tucking him back into the bedroll next to his own. “Cook, go the fuck to sleep”.
Cook shifted onto his side and pulled the covers under his chin, eyes shut tight. He cracked one of them open and lifted a hand which fell on Shitty Swordsman’s arm.
“T-Thanks,” he hiccuped. “I’m gonna call you Muscle-Head, ‘cause you’re kind of ripped”. He closed his eyes and almost instantly fell asleep.
Muscle-Head felt his face go red, and he palmed at his biceps shyly. He blew out their lantern and crawled into his own bedroll, fighting the itch to reach across the floor and pull Cook closer.
✱ ✱ ✱
Muscle-Head had strange dreams. He dreamt of a warm room with a large table, and several people were sitting together laughing. He couldn’t see their faces, but the rumble of their voices mixed together was familiar, even if he couldn’t understand what they were saying. He felt safe there, but his eyes drifted to Cook, who was wearing an apron and bringing out large trays of food to the table. What is he doing here? thought Muscle-Head. He sat back in his chair and drank from his sake bottle, watching Cook with the same hunger he’d come to appreciate each morning. Cook slapped a pile of onigiri in front him with a grimace, and Muscle-Head could feel the daggers in his eyes pointed his way. When he woke up, he felt guilty, like he’d done something that he wasn’t supposed to.
The next morning Cook was kneading dough with quick hands, and Muscle-Head sat against a wall in their shack, watching him with a half-opened eye. When Cook glanced at him as he moved to dust the dough with more flour, Muscle-Head quickly turned to stare at the door, his heart racing. Why did it suddenly feel like he couldn’t be caught looking?
✱ ✱ ✱
The last several weeks had been more or less uneventful. A handful of groups had shown up to try and get in, but were quickly turned away through intimidation or a roughing up. Cook felt a little relieved that they hadn’t had to kill anyone yet, despite Salvatore’s suggestion. The day after their first name-meeting, he’d woken up with the worst hangover of his life (and sort of his first, as far as he remembered) to a smug green-haired man telling him that he’d drunkenly renamed him Muscle-Head of all things. He’d made a mental note to lay off the booze for a bit.
The two of them were sitting with their backs against a tree trunk several steps away from the gate they were guarding, savoring the shade as the sun baked the earth from overhead. Cook pulled out a cigarette and rolled it over in his fingers for a minute before lighting it.
“Hey. Have you been having weird dreams lately?”. He didn’t look at Muscle-Head, but let his eyes follow the smoke dancing away from his face.
Muscle-Head cocked his head. He had been having weird dreams lately, and because of them he’d tried to put some distance between the man next to him. He still felt the same way about him- He was physically attractive, and Muscle-Head had accepted that he must be his type. But he felt a sort of shame at how open he’d been with the man when they first arrived. Something in his gut told him that he was supposed to be more guarded, to resign himself away from thinking about how his heart fluttered when Cook smiled at him.
“Have you?” asked Muscle-Head, as he pulled a blade of grass from the earth. Cook still didn’t look in his direction.
“I- had a dream, and you were in it”. Cook finally allowed his eyes to meet Muscle-Head’s. “We were on a ship, and you were lifting weights on the deck. It felt real, tangible,” his eyes returned to the smoke, “...more like a memory than a dream”. He took a long drag.
Muscle-Head opened his eye a little wider. If it was a memory and not a dream, did that mean the two of them knew each other from before they boarded the ship with Salvatore? Did that mean the recurring dreams he’d been having, ones where Cook was always snarling at him, were real? He frowned, picking another handful of grass blades.
“We’d need to have learned our names for them to be memories, idiot Cook”. There was no way these were memories. It was only natural that they’d show up in each other's dreams, considering they spent the majority of the day together for the last three weeks straight.
Cook ran a hand through his hair nervously. “What if we did learn our names? What if those really are memories?”.
Now that was a good point, and Muscle-Head let out a loud laugh that jolted Cook upright. “What, you think your name is just Cook? You think someone called you Legs or Stupid on a regular basis? Your parents must have hated you”. He laughed again and relaxed against the tree, feeling a little lighter.
Cook scowled, throwing his cigarette into the grass in front of him and standing. “I think there’s a damn good chance that someone has called you Shitty Swordsman before, based on what a jerk you can be”. He stormed off to stand next to the gate, sun beating down on him. He’s such a fucking ass, he thought. He doesn’t even care that he’s been in my dreams? He kicked the gate once before turning to stare into the forest and away from Muscle-Head.
Muscle-Head felt his heart jump as he observed the man’s golden curls glimmering in the sunlight, but he shoved the thought down and returned to plucking grass until the feeling passed.
✱ ✱ ✱
They locked the gate, swinging a huge wooden barricade in place, and walked back to their shack together. It had been a rough day- Two different groups had tried to force their way into the walls, and one of them had been some sort of Devil Fruit user, because he kept picking up rocks from around the gate that made little explosions as they collided with their swords and feet. They beat him off, but Cook’s shirt was torn at the shoulder, which he looked over with a tisk. They both had char from the rocks caking their faces and arms, and when they arrived at their room, Cook demanded they shed their shoes and shirts before it dirtied the space up.
Muscle-Head obliged, and pushed open their lopsided wooden door, bee-lining for his bed. Cook followed him in and let out a gasp.
“Don’t you dare touch that bedroll without having a bath first”. He put their soiled clothes on the table, and poured water from their drinking bucket into his cooking pot, turning to heat it over the wood-burning stove. Muscle-Head rolled his eyes. The baths were abysmal here- Your options were either one large, cold tub that all of the miners shared and refreshed each day, or what Cook was doing, which was heating a bucket of water in small batches for a lukewarm wash down.
“No thanks, too tired, don’t care,” he said, taking another step towards his bed. He felt a sharp whack! in his ribs, and realized Cook had just kicked him. Hard.
“What the fuck was that for?” He grimaced, grasping at his side.
“You’re disgusting. I have to sleep in the same room as you and you smell like shit. Take a bath before bed, or I’m happy to kick you again”.
Muscle-Head rolled his eyes so far back he thought they might stick that way. This felt so domestic of them, he thought, but also somehow familiar. “I didn’t realize I was in the presence of royalty, Mr. Prince. Didn’t realize you needed the place spotless”. He grabbed his shoes from the table, and as he got close, he noticed that Cook’s mouth was hanging open and he was looking into the distance. He’s so sensitive sometimes. “Did you need me to heat that water for you, your highness, or can you handle it on your ow-” he stopped dead in his tracks. Cook had big, wet tears streaming down his face.
“Oh shit, Cook, are you okay?”
The man didn’t say anything but covered his mouth with one hand and shook his head. Muscle-Head felt himself tense up, and he started kicking himself silently.
“I didn’t mean it, I’ll go take a bath, it’s no problem-” Cook just shook his head again and sat down at the table, burying his face in his hands. Muscle-Head moved behind him, awkwardly placing a hand on his shoulder and giving him a series of small pats. “I didn’t know you cared that much about my bathing routine”.
Cook wiped his eyes with the back of his hands and looked at Muscle-Head from over his shoulder. “I don’t know what that was,” he said, his voice a little shaky. “I just felt really bad when you called me that”. Muscle-Head tentatively patted the top of his head, and Cook didn’t brush his hand away, which he took as approval. He wished he could do this all of the time.
“Bad how?”
Cook wiped his eyes again. “I don’t know. I feel like I remembered a bad feeling. That’s stupid though, right?”
Muscle-Head nodded. It was a long day, and they both were tired. It must be the nerves getting to them, he explained. “Will you be okay if I go take a bath?”
Cook gave him a forced smile, standing to continue lighting the wood in the stove. Muscle-Head headed outside towards the bath, but not before stealing one last glance at Cook to make sure that he was alright.
✱ ✱ ✱
Cook was not alright.
Muscle-Head had woken to the sound of choked sobs. He rolled over to see Cook sitting with his legs curled tight into his chest, his face pressed to his knees. His heart sank. Cook’s back convulsed as he breathed in fast and ragged, and he was letting out muffled gasps as he fought for air.
“Hey-” Muscle-Head scooted closer to the man, hovering a hand over his shoulder, unsure if he should touch him. “Hey, everything’s okay”. The man quickly looked up at him, his eyes red and puffy, tears soaking his stained sleeping shirt. He looked away just as quickly, his breathing getting even faster, and he put an arm over his head, hiding his face away like he was ashamed.
“Cook, listen, I’m going to touch you, okay?” The man said nothing, but shuddered as Muscle-Head gently placed his arm around his shoulders and sat next to him. The back of Cook’s hair was wet against his arm, and Muscle-Head realized they hadn’t had haircuts since they’d arrived.
“Try to take deep breaths, and try to hold them in. You’re here with me, and everything’s okay”.
He felt Cook try to slow his breathing, and he felt him shudder as his it refused to cooperate. He squeezed the man tighter against his side. “Cook, can you tell me what happened?”. The man in his arms held his breath for a moment and let it out with a small moan.
“I don’t know,” he forced the words out in-between gasps, “It was dark, it’s too dark, it’s too small, I can’t-”. Heavy tears ran down his face as he fought to explain, and it felt like Muscle-Head’s chest was being ripped open at the seams.
“Is it this room? The room is too dark and small?” Cook nodded, covering his mouth with a hand as he let out a loud sob.
That was all Muscle-Head needed to know. He gently let go of Cook and turned to grab the comforter off of his bed. He draped it around Cook’s shoulders, wrapping him into it. “I’m going to pick you up now, okay?”. Cook grabbed the blanket around himself and buried his face in it, giving a small nod.
Muscle-Head bent down and picked Cook up, one arm bracing his back and one arm underneath his bent legs. He tilted the man slowly so that his head was leaned against his shoulder, and he nudged open the door with his foot, walking the two of them into the moonlight.
It was deep into the night, and the stars overhead were dimmed by the light of the moon. He took just a few steps before slowly lowering the two of them, his back sliding down against the exterior wall of their shack. He sat with Cook in his lap, still supported by his arms. Cook’s eyes were shut, and Muscle-Head stayed quiet as he listened to the man slowly work to take control of his breathing. When he finally seemed mostly calm, Muscle-Head spoke.
“Cook, are you doing okay now?”
Cook nodded and used the blanket wrapped around him to dry his eyes. Muscle-Head was sure that he would jump out his arms as soon as he regained his composure, but to his surprise, Cook let his head fall heavy against his shoulder, and he could feel his breath on his neck in a controlled rhythm. They sat like that for a long time, until Cook spoke.
“I had a dream”. His eyes were closed and he shuddered inside the blanket. Muscle-Head wanted to squeeze him tight, but didn’t dare.
“It was pitch dark. The room was so small, and so cold. My head was unbearably heavy, and there was something in front of my eyes, like metal bars. It hurt”. Cook let out a small whimper, and Muscle-Head couldn’t help himself. He unravelled his hand from underneath Cook’s legs and ran two fingers gently through the man’s hair. Cook closed his eyes and allowed it to happen, and Muscle-Head was so grateful that he wasn’t pushing his hand away.
“I’ve been there before. I know I’ve been there before. I know I never wanted to be there again”. Muscle-Head stilled his hand and pulled it back, looking at Cook’s face. He looked exhausted, his eyes and nose reddened from crying, but he also looked sincere. Muscle-Head felt his chest tighten.
“I believe you,” he told Cook gently. If they really were getting access to their memories while they dreamed, it meant that this, them, should be impossible. Since the first night he’d dreamed of Cook, he’d never seen the man smile at him. His dreams were riddled with fights, aggressive arguments, and cold nights onboard a ship as they actively tried to avoid each other. Muscle-Head felt his shoulders sag as he acknowledged that this moment was a fluke, then, and that Cook would realize that himself one day too.
“Are you feeling better?” Cook nodded, pushing his head back to look into Muscle-Head’s face.
“I’m sorry you had to see me like that”.
Muscle-Head shook his head. He’d acted without thinking- He felt like a part of himself was gasping for air along with Cook. He’d simply done what his body had willed him to do.
“Do you think you’re ready to go back inside? We can keep the lantern on all night, if you think’d help”. Cook nuzzled his face back into the base of Muscle-Head’s neck, and he felt a warmth in his stomach. “Your hair’s still wet, you’ll catch a cold out here”. Cook said nothing, and they sat for a moment longer like that.
“Can we do this inside too?” Cook asked, his eyes still shut. Muscle-Head felt his own breathing hitch- He’d spent the last several weeks wrestling himself away from reaching out to Cook in the bedroll next to his, and now the man was offering. He didn’t reply but stood, still carrying Cook, and took the two of them inside. He laid Cook gently into the man’s own bedroll, moving to fumble with the lantern on the table until it emit a soft yellow glow. He turned to see Cook curled onto his side, and the man watched him closely. Muscle-Head walked to his own bedroll and hesitated, slowly sinking into it.
“Here,” said Cook, and he held open the blanket at his back. Muscle-Head’s heart thumped and he scooted his pillow closer to the man, quietly settling into the blanket around Cook. His muscles were stiff and he didn’t touch Cook, until the man shifted back so that Muscle-Head was spooning him, and tapped his arm, which he hesitantly wrapped around the man’s torso. Cook enfolded his own arm around the one Muscle-Head had draped over his chest, and nuzzled his head into the pillow. Muscle-Head’s heart was racing.
“Thanks,” Cook mumbled, and soon his breathing was slow, and his body relaxed. Muscle-Head allowed himself to nestle his face into the back of Cook’s head, the smell of cheap soap from the store filling his nose. He was happy, so happy- And it felt like he’d been waiting for this moment forever. He wanted to savor every second of it, to make a lifetime’s worth of memories, before Cook remembered how much he really hated him.