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Inhaling the crisp, salty air, Zoro reaches up with a calloused, battered hand to uselessly yank the hood of his drenched jacket forward. Amidst the torrential downpour, flashing street lights, creaky windshield wipers of old cars, and swathes of people rushing for cover, Zoro is a solitary figure who has nowhere to hurry home. In the cacophony of the raging storm–in a world where everyone is in a dash to get from one place to another, no one notices the lonely one-eyed man covered in scars and bruises and cuts. No one notices how the white T-shirt he’s wearing, the one that’s soaked through to his skin, is tattered and stained with dry blood. In this world where everyone is so engulfed in their own lives, no one ever spares him more than a passing glance.
And Zoro prefers it that way. It’s easier to move through life like a phantom with nothing weighing him down anymore. Like everyone around him, he’ll proceed from one job to the next in an endless cycle–collecting his paycheck, and crashing in the cheapest hotel he can find, with a bottle of the best beer money can buy. He rarely sees the faces of his employers, and he rarely knows their real names. His only friend died years ago–he’s a stranger to everyone he meets. And everyone he meets is a stranger to him. Things are simple. Things are easy. If he weren’t so tired, he would dare say things are boring.
He exhales, his warm breath makes his chapped lips burn as it filters out into the pouring rain, vanishing into the night sky. Everything burns. He can’t remember the last time it didn’t. He can feel water rush into his boots with every step he takes as he listens to the screeching sirens on the street to his left and the muffled conversations of the people who race past him to the right. In this world, where no one notices him, Zoro, Unfortunately, notices everything. Every car horn, every curse, every door slamming, every squeak of a shoe–to the pathetic whining of a stray cat shivering against the pole of a street sign wedged between the crowded and sprawling buildings all around. He notices because he has to.
Wordlessly, Zoro shrugs off his tattered black jacket, and walks over to the small creature. His clothing is dripping wet, covered in grime, and largely useless, but he kneels down in the puddles beside the street–not making a sound, though the brown tabby stares at him with wide eyes full of fear and hesitation and uncertainty. And, yeah, he has to agree with her–if he were in her position, he wouldn’t exactly be too keen to see a guy like him lurking about either. But he tries, regardless, and slowly holds the jacket over her trembling form, just barely allowing the hem to touch her tail.
The second the thick fabric tickles her back, the kitten startles. With a deep, guttural hiss, she lashes out. Her sharp claws catch Zoro’s cheek, tearing his skin open before she retreats further against the pole. He winces at the sharp pain, and a frown stretches his lips downwards–which only serves to worsen the sting, but he tries to catch her again anyway. There are better ways to do this, he’s certain, but he can’t think of anything else at the moment.
The thick rain makes the kitten’s dark fur difficult to see, and with nothing covering his head, it soaks his green hair until drops are cascading down his face, and getting into his eye. With a grunt, he wipes at his face with his arm, smearing blood and dirt all over his jaw, forehead, and cheeks. If anything, he might very well be making the situation worse. But he scowls instead of calling it day, and glares at the mass of growling, spitting, brown fur. Her piercing, yellow eyes almost seem to glow in the low light.
So focused on not letting the terrified feline get away from him, It only occurs to him now that he can no longer feel the relentless pressure of the rain slamming against his bruised body. The sound of it has been muffled, drumming, instead, against something looming above him–its shadow obscured by the darkness. Reluctantly, Zoro slowly turns his head to look up at the bright, red umbrella held above his head. Tracing the line of its rusted handle to its owner–a man with curly, black hair, an old straw hat that, against all odds, actually looked worse for wear than Zoro himself, and the brightest grin Zoro has ever seen.
The second he notices Zoro’s eyes on him, the stranger speaks up. “Wanna come home with me?” His voice is cheerful and unabashed–like the sun on an unceasingly hot and bright summer afternoon. There’s something almost enchanting about him. Something that draws Zoro in despite himself. He feels as if he’s being consumed by the other’s overwhelming vibrancy.
It takes a few, long seconds for the man’s words to actually sink in. And, surely when they finally do, Zoro thinks that he must have misheard him. But those words are all he can absorb–ringing in his ears over and over again through the endless wail of the storm pelting down on them. All he can muster up in response is a dumbfounded, and unnecessarily harsh, “Huh?”
“Wanna come home with me?” The stranger repeats as if it’s the most natural thing in the world as he leans down a bit more, nearly tipping the water that had collected on his umbrella onto Zoro’s head. Just to get closer to him, as if he believes Zoro might not have heard him the first time.
Completely unperturbed by Zoro’s rough edges, his smile remains. That silly straw hat of his–the one that’s just slightly too big for him, tilts with the motion. With nearly as many holes in it as Zoro’s shirt, it does absolutely nothing to keep him dry. If anything, it’s only making things worse.
“You can’t be serious.”
Without hesitation, he extends his hand to Zoro. “I am.”
The confidence in his voice is so all-encompassing and vibrant and breathtaking that Zoro truly, and utterly believes him. Against his better judgment, and without thinking, he grasps that hand that’s been extended to him tightly with his rough fingers. It’s the first hand that’s been offered to him in what must be many years by now.
That’s how Zoro ends up on a worn-down couch with as many holes in the cushions as he has in his body. Sopping wet with a towel draped over his broad shoulders as he looks down at the bundle of damp fluff the kitten has become as it carelessly, and joyfully rolls around on the off-white carpet of Luffy’s, a name he had only just recently been told on the walk over, messy apartment floor without a single care in the world. Apparently having already forgotten her disdain for Zoro.
With a grunt, he uselessly tries to wipe his face on the towel, staining the rough, blue fabric red with the blood from the irritated cuts Luffy’s new feline friend had given him. She’s Luffy’s cat–Zoro has decided, because she had happily strode over to him purring like a freight train as she rubbed all over his legs the second he had knelt down to help Zoro.
The cuts sting. He wouldn’t be surprised if they left behind scars. But every part of him always seems to ache. He has a new bruise, a new scar, or a new wound everyday. At this point, he can barely recall how he’s gotten most of them, but they’re an unwritten record of his life–of the days he’s survived up until now. One more wouldn’t be noticeable.
He can hear Luffy rummaging, loudly, through his overstocked kitchen for this and that. From where he’s sitting in the living room, he can see the flickering light of the fridge opening and closing over and over again. When he inhales, he can smell the scent of steak and ham so heavily in the air he can almost taste it. It’s not necessarily unpleasant–not that Zoro is one who can talk when he looks and smells like something dragged out of the depths of a swamp–but it certainly is distinct. Truthfully, everything about Luffy’s apartment that he can see is…rather distinct.
There are piles of clothes scattered all over the floor in various sections that probably mean something, but they seem so mismatched that Zoro can’t even begin to guess the logic behind them. There are countless photos and paintings strewn about the white walls–ranging from pictures of the sea to elaborate artworks of ships to what appear to be family portraits of three boys–one of which is most certainly Luffy, alongside some…well, questionable drawings of things Zoro can’t even begin to make out. There are games and model ships, too, stacked up on the old coffee table in front of him. The TV looks like it’s a good 20 years old at best, and the handful of gaming consoles tucked under its broken stand are discolored from frequent use. A handful of stuffed animals are sitting beside the TV–a raccoon dog (reindeer) with a silly hat, and a skeleton with more hair on its head than he has.
It’s disorganized. It’s cluttered and messy. But it’s still the best place Zoro has found himself in for years now.
“Found it!” He hears Luffy declare, and when Zoro cranes his neck to try to glance through the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, he can see the other’s head is almost entirely in the refrigerator.
“Found what?” With his foot, Zoro rolls around a stuffed lion the kitten has been playing with–one just as big as she is, and vaguely watches as she pounces on it.
“The first-aid kit.” Luffy kicks the refrigerator door shut, his hands full with a collection of things–ranging from the first-aid kit itself to an impressive concoction of meats, fish, fruit and a handful of bottles of beer.
“You keep your first-aid kit in your refrigerator?”
Luffy emerges from the kitchen with his spoils, shoving the piles of seemingly mismatched items off of the coffee table so he can plop his armful down there. “Where else would I keep it?”
Zoro shrugs, he supposes Luffy has a good point. And, more importantly, he has beer. To hell with the first aid-kit when he could drink his way to forgetting about the cut and the rain and the fact that his shirt feels like it’s stuck to his own skin.
So, without hesitation he grabs a bottle, and his gracious host doesn’t bother to stop him. Instead, Luffy plops himself down on the now damp couch beside Zoro. The sound of Luffy unsnapping the lid of the first-aid kit echoes through the room at the same exact moment Zoro pops the cap off the bottle he grabbed.
Glancing over at Luffy shifting haphazardly through the bandages, alcohol pads, cotton swabs, tweezers, and all of the other bits and bobs contained inside of the box makes him all the more grateful for the drink. He has a feeling he’s going to need it. And there’s no time like the present, so he tilts his head back and takes a long sip. It burns on the way down, but it’s the best thing he’s tasted all day. Not that it has much competition.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” He suspects he already knows the answer to that question.
“Nope,” Luffy responds with the exact same unwavering confidence that had landed Zoro in the other’s apartment in the first place. “Can’t be that hard, right?”
Zoro watches as Luffy stabs one of the cotton balls with the tweezers before holding it up to his eyes to inspect it. Zoro is fairly certain that Luffy’s already doing something wrong. What it is; however, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he has a sinking feeling in his gut that he can’t quite seem to shake, and that the crooked grin on his host’s face isn’t the least bit reassuring.
Truthfully, He’s never bothered to tend to his own wounds. Oftentimes, a few hours of sleep and a decent bottle of beer can drown out any of the lingering aches or agonizing wounds he has. Pain–violence, death–all of it comes wrapped up in a neat little package in his line of work. It’s part of what makes this such a solitary job. What point is there in getting to know the faces of people who might not even survive long enough to get their second target?
It makes him question, not for the first time, why he had followed Luffy in the first place. “Just so we’re clear, I don’t owe you anything.”
“Sure.” Spirited–full of life and vigor are all words that could be used to describe Luffy. “I’m doing this cause I want to.” He’s so matter-of-fact that it makes speaking with him both difficult and effortless at the same time because every response he gives takes the wind right out of Zoro’s sails while simultaneously creating a whirlwind in its place. He seems to do everything at his pace, based on his whims.
Which leaves Zoro precious little room to give a response, and whatever that response might have been, it’s sucked right out of him the second Luffy reaches up to grab his jaw without warning. Tilting it this way and that way; shoving his face close enough that Zoro can feel his breath on his damp hair before pulling back again, only to repeat the process several times. All to get a better look at the cuts the kitten had left on his face.
Luffy’s grip isn’t exactly pleasant, but it’s not painful either. It’s awkward and uncoordinated, and he’s squeezing Zoro’s cheeks like they’re oranges he’s trying to crush into a pulp. But his hands are warm, and his lanky fingers feel soft against Zoro’s rough skin. Subconsciously, he finds himself leaning ever so slightly into that inexperienced touch like it’s something to be savored. Something a part of him has always yearned for.
Zoro can’t even begin to recall the last time someone had touched him with anything other than in malice or rage. He can barely even remember a time when someone he wasn’t fighting had gotten this close to him. His life feels like it travels from one target to the next–one kill, and then the next. He sleeps in odd places most nights–in rundown hotels, 24-hour gyms, and the occasional park bench when he’s wasted all of his money on booze. Anywhere and everywhere. And maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to grow a bit jaded and weary from all of it.
Luffy feels like a breath of fresh air in his stale life. A blindingly bright ray of light that is as relentless and unyielding as the storm still raging outside. He feels like freedom and adventure and joy pumped into his very veins. And he’s not even entirely certain what stirs those thoughts inside of him.
Though, any amicable and rose-tinted ideas he has about the other are swiftly shoved to the very back of his mind the second Luffy shoves an alcohol-drenched cotton ball against one of the many scratches the kitten had left on his face. Zoro bites his tongue, and hisses in discomfort. He’s been punched. He’s been stabbed. He’s been shot. Hell, he’s lost an eye, but he’s fairly certain Luffy’s poor attempt to play nurse might just be one of the most painful things he’s ever been forced to experience in his life.
On instinct, he grabs Luffy’s wrist, forcefully, while growling out, “What the Hell?” between clenched teeth.
Luffy’s brows crinkle visibly, as if confused by Zoro’s reaction, but he pulls the cotton ball away from the scratches that have turned even redder and angrier than they had been a moment ago. “You’re supposed to clean it…I think.”
“Pretty sure you’re not doing it right.” Zoro lets go of Luffy’s wrist, but how much smaller it is compared to his own isn’t lost on him.
“Oh.” Luffy sounds surprised rather than disappointed, and he tilts his head slightly to the side. That rundown, oversized straw hat of his tumbles in front of his eyes with the motion. “How’re you supposed to do it then?”
Zoro doesn’t know. Most of his wounds become scars–the ones bad enough to need medical attention are, well, bad enough that he’s not conscious through most of it. “How would I know?” He grumbles, looking significantly less menacing with Luffy still squeezing his jaw.
Pushing up the brim of his hat, Luffy’s forehead visibly wrinkles. As if Zoro had somehow disturbed his process–assuming there was even a process behind his actions in the first place. “So you don’t know if I’m doing it wrong then?”
Zoro doesn’t have anything he can say to that. Again. Instead, he sighs, and leans back more comfortably against the creaky couch. “Guess I don’t.”
At least this time he’s better prepared when Luffy starts relentlessly dabbing that wad of cotton against his face again. It reeks so badly of alcohol that it fills his nostrils, and completely eradicates the lingering taste of beer on his tongue. His throat burns when he swallows, and it almost feels like he’s choking on disinfectant. None of this makes any sense, and he suspects Luffy’s treatment is utterly useless. But he complies anyway.
Once Luffy is convinced the very enraged cuts have been thoroughly cleaned, he hurls the cotton ball somewhere into the abyss that is his apartment’s carpet. Then he dives nose deep back into the first-aid kit, tossing and shoving things out of the way until he finds what he’s looking for. A Box of band-aids. Not just any band-aids, these ones apparently have a generic image of the ocean and a random beach on them. Zoro is just about to open his mouth to protest, but Luffy slaps one of the bright bandages onto his face before the words can leave his mouth.
“Done,” Luffy declares with a grin wide enough to make the corners of his eyes crinkle and his cheeks sore. Pulling up his legs, he wiggles himself, cross-legged, into a more comfortable position beside Zoro–looking much too proud of himself.
Zoro touches the curved edges of the band-aid with the tips of his fingers. He briefly considers tearing it off, but finds he doesn’t have the heart to do so.
“Don’t expect me to thank you.” He drops his hands back down into his lap. To come and go has been the vast majority of Zoro’s adult and teenage life. In all of the years he’s been alive, he’s had one friend. He doesn’t need to make more.
“Sure.” Luffy gives him the exact same response he had before, with the same enthusiasm and delight. He looks at Zoro like he’s someone special–like he’s someone good.
It makes Zoro squirm in his seat. He grabs the bottle of beer he had started, and downs the rest of it in a single sip to wash away the discomfort crawling down his spine.
Slamming the empty bottle onto the table, Zoro stands up. “I’m leaving then.”
Luffy immediately grabs hold of his arm and pulls him back down onto the couch with surprising force given how scrawny he is. And, instead of tearing his hand away, Zoro, for some reason he doesn’t understand, lets Luffy pull him back down. He knows, in the depths of his heart, that if this man were to ask him to stay–right here, right now–he doesn’t think he would be able to say no.
And Luffy does ask just that, or rather he almost demands it. “You should stay.” There’s a fire in his eyes that was always present, but not quite as hot and determined as it is now. There’s an air about him that sucks Zoro in, and makes him want to listen–makes him want to be in Luffy’s orbit. And it’s frustrating because it feels like something so instinctual and primal–something so deeply embedded into his very soul that he doesn’t know why.
And so all he can do is ask. “Why?” He wants a reason to leave, even if every part of him knows he should go.
And maybe Luffy’s onto him or maybe Luffy knows something he doesn’t because that goofy, toothy grin seems to seep into every part of his being. “Because I want you to.” It’s simple. It’s straight-forward. Zoro’s not certain if Luffy–this person who should be a stranger to him but doesn't seem like one–is capable of anything other than bulldozing his way forward with earnesty.
Zoro turns his head away. Looking at Luffy feels like he’s staring directly into the sun. “You’re an idiot.”
Luffy laughs. It bubbles up from the depths of his stomach, and makes his chest rumble. The entire couch shakes with it. “And you’re a good person.” He says it like he knows it’s true. Like it’s some indisputable fact. Like he knows Zoro better than he seems to know himself.
Zoro stares at the kitten sleeping on top of the stuffed animal she had claimed for herself, not a single care in the world. Luffy is a good person, he would argue. But he runs his hand through his hair, and says, “I’m drinking all your booze then,” instead.
“Go ahead!” Luffy jumps to his feet gracelessly. The thump his sandals make when they hit the carpet is somehow nearly as loud as the thunder banging outside. “But the meat is mine.” The meat that has been sitting on the table this entire time. The meat that is probably cold by now. Zoro could live with that.
“Whatever.” Zoro shamelessly grabs another bottle as Luffy scurries off, only to loop back a second later to grab a slab of steak before slipping into another room. He’s not a quiet person. There’s never any wonder for what he’s doing. Zoro can hear him stomping and banging around out of sight. Opening and closing doors, tossing things aside. He chooses to ignore him as best he can.
But Luffy is impossible to ignore, he returns back to the room with a blanket and a few old shirts, emerging from the darkness of his hallway like some monster with the steak clutched between his teeth. The remainder of which he swiftly swallows as he plops himself back down onto the couch with enough force to shake it.
Zoro glances at Luffy, at the pile of clothes in his hands, and then at Luffy once more. Luffy a lanky, scrawny thing in comparison to himself. “Not happening.”
Luffy tosses a shirt onto Zoro’s head. “Try it.”
Zoro reluctantly puts the bottle back down, and pulls the shirt off his head. It’s old. And it looks too big to belong to Luffy. But at least it’s just a plain black shirt and nothing like some of the ridiculously vibrant and silly ones he can see peeking out from the various piles on the floor around them. Reaching back, he yanks his drenched shirt off. The fabric almost sounds like it’s being slowly peeled away from his skin, and he dumps it onto the floor beside his feet. Grabbing the towel hanging around his neck, he sloppily tries to draw himself off to a somewhat socially acceptable degree.
Zoro can feel Luffy’s curious gaze on him. How the other’s eyes seem to dance from one scar to the next–like he’s trying to count them. It lingers on the jagged, elongated scar stretching across nearly his entire torso for a belated second before he sees Luffy, out of the corner of his eye, not so subtly lean his head over the back of the couch. Luffy has to grab hold of his hat to keep it from tumbling over the edge as his intense stare pores into Zoro’s back–despite the fact that his chest, stomach, and arms are littered with visible scars, his back is bare–not a blemish in sight.
A second later, without a word, Luffy straightens himself back up. The grin on his face is wider, and brighter than it had been a moment ago. “You haven’t changed at all.” He sounds happy–almost giddy as he claps his dirty sandals together.
Zoro yanks the shirt on. It fits him like a glove. There’s not a chance in hell it belongs to Luffy, but there’s only so much he can tackle at a time. “Yeah, people don’t typically change in the span of an hour.” His brows crinkle as he stares Luffy down, but ultimately decides the subject isn’t worth pursuing. Luffy is strange. It’s only taken him that same hour to figure that much out, but he’s also painfully straightforward and good-intentioned.
“Right, right.” Luffy rubs his nose with his index finger as he chuckles. Zoro takes a long look at him before he leans forward, and polishes off that second bottle of beer he had opened.
Tilting his head back until the nape of his neck touches the back of the couch, Zoro closes his eye. He can hear the drum of rain beating against the window, and the bang of thunder in the distance as the wind hurls itself against the building with enough force it almost trembles. For a second, he allows himself to think that he could get used to this. But only for a second. Then he sighs.
“I’m going to sleep.”
“Okay.” Luffy’s voice is almost directly in his ear, and he can feel the other’s tepid breath on his neck as the couch creaks when the other moves–as if Luffy is checking to see if he’s actually asleep. And, no, of course he’s not–no one falls asleep that fast. Okay, that might be a lie, he could actually fall asleep that fast .He feels Luffy’s warmth leave him for a moment before he hears the flap of that blanket the other had brought with him as Luffy fluffs it out before tossing it over them and settling beside him–his side flush against Zoro’s.
“Goodnight, Zoro.”
Zoro grunts in response, earning a laugh from Luffy that he can feel vibrating through his own body.
And then he feels the softness of Luffy’s palm against his forehead–sliding ever so slightly into his hair, pushing it back against his scalp. The unexpected touch almost sends a shiver down his spine, but he grits his teeth and tries his damn best to ignore it because there’s not enough beer in Luffy’s apartment for him to get through another back and forth with this man right now.
And then he feels it. A fleeting, feather-like kiss against his forehead. It's soft. It’s warm. It’s gentle. It’s nice.
Zoro’s eye snaps open, and he turns his head to face Luffy. “Hey-”
Luffy swiftly ducks his head, shoving his forehead into the crux of Zoro’s neck–snoring. All right, so maybe someone who can fall asleep faster than him exists, but he has his doubts. He has a half mind to shake Luffy awake to get an answer before the soggy brim of that disgusting straw hat tips, and he instinctively grabs it to push it back onto Luffy’s head. From the red ribbon in the center of the hat, a piece of paper slips out–its corner points directly at him. Frowning, Zoro shoves it back into Luffy’s hat without a word and leans his head back again.
“Fine,” he heaves, closing his eye once again as he listens to the sound of Luffy’s heart steadily beating against his side, and feels the soft tickle of his breath against his neck. It feels familiar. It feels comforting. It feels like home. “Have it your way.”
As he feels the fangs of sleep begin to dig in, he remembers something: he never told Luffy his name.