Im just a silly littel clown

I took up the role he had left behind the day after. There came with it no ceremony, nor some grand handoff, and it only dawned upon me in the following stagnant week what my new normal and my new title would spell for me.

It had been Madaisuki to first use the loathsome thing on me, the poor boy having been a wreck since the send-off.

His usual boisterous nature had been subdued into something so meek, I, at times, regretfully forgot that he was even there. Like two mirrors of the same specter, the shells of what were once vibrant young men had wilted into recluses. No more outside games, not during the first week at least, their noise being replaced by a silence I had never known the crew for. No games, for who was to play with them? No more laughter, for who was to laugh with them? Instead, they cooped up indoors for the most part, being spotted now only huddled amongst John’s feet on most days, or the next most tolerant man.

For hours, they would sit sheltered and chittering like doves, clinging to themselves and whomever they chose to wordlessly share that I was still was breaking apart. Somedays, when passing by a store room, or a crack in the library door, I could hear them weep— the cries muffled by one another's shoulders, and by the countless others who had the same idea.

The Mizutas were simply the youngest, the most confused and perhaps the most unsteady, but they were not the only ones to feel the wake Yorki had left behind.

Warm, and naught a cloud hanging above, not as a day should be without a sun. Silent, I stood distant to the wheel that I was guiding, hands stuck to the worn wood in the grooves both he and our men left behind. It was my own warmth that I was feeling as I rubbed my thumb along the divots, but part of me, some desperate, sappy piece knew it must simply have been him, having just put me in charge of his job as he went to take one of his numerous breaks. He would be right back, bringing me a pint, and himself a tankard so full it was almost always to spill upon himself and the floorboards below. He would laugh then, and I would bristle, and he would laugh harder. I wished I could yell at him again, and perhaps I could play nicer. Glancing to the floorboards, part of me wished to touch them, hopefully to feel the cling of where beer still stained, to smell his choice of liquor. To have any of his presence.

“Brook.” My name came spilling halfway and timid from Madaisuki's lips as he approached me from up the stairs, and I could hear the way he stifled it back down with a gentle sniffle. “C-Captain.” The footfalls stopped briefly at the top of the stairs, and the side of my skull burnt from where he lay his gaze.

I did not answer at first, my brain not recognizing the word as my own. Instead, I continued facing ahead, my subconscious awaiting the gentle, warm reply that always greeted our men. The sound of boots beside me, the shove of his heft upon my ribs and waist, all of the space he took up and in. But, there was no one but us that stood upon the helm that day, as it had been for the past few. There was no other man but I, and again, Madaisuki, with a tremble to his meak tone, spoke to me.

“Captain—” I did not offer an immediate acknowledgement, for my throat had begun to close to better swallow back my stomach.

I paused only my motions, letting out a heavy exhale as to show him in a silent gesture that I was indeed ready for what was to follow. I was a liar.

Careful steps, as if I were to vanish if he came too fast, treaded closer in the silence I gave him. Creeping, tender, careful— a sniffle. Soon, I could feel him behind me, the odd displacement of air burning the sides of my coat before his hands finally stopped hovering and settled gingerly around my hanging coattails. They were usually not so bold, Mizutas, or any man, for my clothing was not to be touched by anyone under my authority, or even above it depending on the day.

However, I did not bend nor wane, and no sound could come from me as the weight of his skull softly leaned itself against my spine. His thumbs rubbed over the caffoy fabric of my coat briefly before settling on simply clutching, holding me as a child would a parent. Was I— had we not been in some way just that? This did not help my composure, my brain still flipping the word he used over and over, enough to make myself sea-sick. A tremor began in my wrist, and I prayed my nerves would not show to him.

“Do...” A sniffle cracked through his voice, making him unable to continue without swallowing. “...do you think they made it?”

It was the same voice he had used around Yorki; an uncertain, airy, childish innocence, as if I somehow could change the answer he feared so greatly. As if I could change the worry that bit at everyone so loudly, so terribly loudly, that it almost deafened me.

As if I knew if my Yorki's heart still beat.

Swallowing sick back through my teeth, I did not flinch as I wanted to, I did not sob as I needed to, instead simply engaging in an audible and heavy deglutition. Madaisuki did not move much, and I could feel him do the same as I through the back of my jacket’s fabric. A sniffle, a sound to hold back his own tears.

My body was present, and pieces of my mind stood, however, in a strange regard, there was a disconnect. As if I could separate mind from body from heart, these sections having begun to split once he had. It was disorienting, numbing, and uncomfortable. That lost piece stared off at the sea blankly now, closing my throat in abject silence as it watched the way the tides danced.

Far off, over the bow, that tide roared and glowed in the sun, glittering as if satin with pearls and diamonds sewn upon its rippling undulating fabric. Teals and cerulean, endless and vast, oh, so terribly vast— it stretched on forever. Past any scrutinizing, longing eyes of any sailor, and in that maybe it offered— that unseen land and far off horizon— I prayed it still rocked the ship that I had once called home with love. With a mothers tenderness, gently rocking the cradle that made my Yorki's wooden, rotting bed— oh seas, may that casket have been dirigible.

The image of that pale sheet rippled along with the waves, creeping like the rot it carried and the mystery of what lay beneath it. With the sound of the flag that audibly fluttered and creaked above me, the movement of this terrible phantom display came to me in greater detail. Cyans and the alabaster foam of the waves mixed with that horrid linen, that all encompassing wake of salt water becoming a droning buzz in my heating ears. A waking nightmare of flashing pictures, overlayed over things I should be comforted by, but the memory of him now had been tainted in odd ways, and I had not realized how long I had been suffering in shuttering silence until Maidasuki spoke up.

“C-C-Captain...” It was almost inaudible over my own quickening heart rate, and I suddenly realized how warm my lower back had become. “...Captain.”

Anger blistered quite suddenly, that word becoming grating so quickly, it was as if a switch had gone off. For nary a discernible reason, it now triggered a violence I knew to be irrational even then, but it was almost blinding. Gripping the steering wheel as to control my form, I twisted my neck around finally with an audible pop. Ginger hair met my eyes, the curls waning and oil that usually kept them up lacking. Madaisuki faced the floor in an odd slant and although I could not see him at that moment, the way his head shook meant he must be still crying. With another gross, strangled sob, the man trying so desperately to hold it in, he must have felt my ribs move, for he looked up at me then, meeting my gaze.

Whatever devil contorted my heart must have also warped my expressions, for those shimmering brown eyes, almost red from the sheer amount of salt, widened with a horror I had never seen upon him. Whatever tenderness and joy that warmed his face for Yorki had been shipped off with him, reserved for him alone perhaps or, maybe I had done something wrong. Fear clouded those eyes and he quickly lowered his brows. He looked at me as if I had struck him, and I might have in a way I had not meant to.

I realized suddenly the warmth had begun to get cold, and looking past his fearful face, the cause sat cooling. Through two layers of clothing, a patch of tears stained, making my already umber coat somehow even darker. Vexation dispelled itself as suddenly as it had come, flying out like a bat into the night and leaving me in a suddenly vacant stupor.

My eyes fell downward with my heart, my face rippling back at me in odd intervals. Another puddle, one that was actively growing for the rivers that ran from his face still flowed strong, if not stronger, but not for the same reason it had been. Frozen and stiff, his hands, trembling still, did not let go of my coat. Knuckles almost white, they in fact tightened, as did the grip his upper lip had over his lower.

Like a child, Madaisuki was, or perhaps, I was simply too old. Old and cruel, bitter and vicious over a name I realized we both mourned. The poor thing had, I realized in my sudden and brief clarity, not been crying for my answer, but dolent for my lack therefore of. Captain and Yorki, they came hand in hand, and that repetitive mantra that he wailed out— it was never for me.

Swallowing, it ached for a moment, as if my throat caught upon something while looking at myself in his trembling eyes. Terror, it gripped him like a vice, and I, the cause. Before I could even speak, my lips parting and teeth unclenching, Madaisuki released himself from my clothes, somehow shrinking further upon himself.

“Madaisuki.”

Gentle was not my usual nature.

Boisterous, pompous, sure, but not quite gentle by anyone's definition, including myself. But it was who I needed to be, it was who I needed to emulate, and with a shaky, heavy breath, I drew myself upward, relaxing what muscles I could. I could only pray my facial features conveyed what warmth my captain had once bathed me in, acting as a mirror, not a source.

With his fingertips grazing his wrists, he froze again, brows furrowing as if he expected some greater amercement than the venom I had already spat at him. Guilt gnawed at me something fierce, and it took all I could not to react with frustration, instead taking another breath. It was all I could do.

”I am not sure… in regards to your question” It was an honest answer, and a loud one at that, the niveous space between each possibility hanging in the air as I continued. “But knowing him... they will be fine. He has survived a lot worse, do you not remember?” That part, I was unsure of.

Unlike the times he picked fights with men I knew he would need aid from, or creatures far vaster than I knew he to be able to ever dent, this was a fight I could not gauge nor see. It had been a fight that had raged within him for longer than I knew. Or, had it?

That had begun to weigh on me after his absence, growing louder and louder with every thought that rolled passed. What if I had known? If I had known all this time what he truthfully was ill from.

I... had known, hadn't I?

A cough here, a hack there, and I had simply brushed it off.

When had it even begun, that horrible cough, a thing I had begun disgustingly to call familiar?

A few months?

A year?

Had it been a year of that dreadful heaving? Of that tired look in his eyes, subduing his joy, and the way his crooked smile waning on the corners of his cheeks when he thought I could not see? How long had it been going on and how ignorant had I grown? When did I lose my ears to him, my eyes and my senses? Had piracy dulled my sword but naught a silver spoon? What had become of my senses, and of my mind, had he really taken them with him along with that plague? When did I lose myself to him, and, why had I believed him?

Instances of his queer behaviors, things I had brushed off out of sheer devotion came crawling back as signs of my lack therefore of. Weeds I had plucked away and thrown out when he told me they were, how long had they been poisonous blooms from some flower budding from his own being? How long had my plucking been bleeding him dry?

The smell of that iron stunk on my hands, and even as I had tried to wash it off, it seemed to only linger longer in a putrid, swamping guilt. Smearing upon my heart, smearing upon my mind, it filled my nose and lungs as an inescapable miasma. Guilt, I bathed and drowned in it.

Something suddenly fished my focus out of my own inken distress in a physical warmth. Suddenly, my body was thrown against the wheel in a soft bump, a pressure lightly compressing my waist. Madaisuki, sniffling and weeping once more clung to me just as a son would have, allowing his legs to go almost limp as he staggered. I too stumbled a bit, but steadied myself with one arm rooting against the wooden beam of the ship's support.

”I'm glad...” The word that played on his tongue would have made us both fall further, so instead, he left the air dead, and I thanked him in an inaudible sigh for that. “I hope we can see him soon. I miss him...” Silence again except for a sniffle the poor thing tried to hold in with a shutter.

I was not a gentle man, but I tried.

My free arm, almost instinctively, laid itself upon his curved, slouched back, hand finding purchase in between that mess of ginger. Oil met my palm, clumping and unpleasant, proof of his grooming habits slipping from him. It made me feel something terrible. Freezing was my knee-jerk reaction to most things, or attack, however in this case, I powered through this cowardice as no longer was I just Brook.

I was that young man's Captain. His guidance in place of where our usual sun sat. I was only the moon, and my rays were not as strong, but, I prayed the remanence of his warmth still flowed through me as I ran my fingers through his hair, lightly scratching what I could.

It seemed to comfort him fine, and he continued to sniffle for a bit, the flow becoming but a trickle as I silently watched over his heaving little body. I had once been 20, what had I been doing?

Commanding an army I should not have, in a place I never wish to see again. A hoary, terrible memory that now sits upon a shelf in a layer of dust, equal to a graveyard. It's not one I look upon often. My kingdom, a home, a prison, a lifetime ago.

I continued slow, odd circles upon his head until he shifted, stiffening up and turning his head skyward to meet me. Puffy and red were his eyes, and the corners of his mouth still pointed south, however, fear no longer lingered in his dappled gaze. Only a grief I knew he must see in my own face, for I felt it, Oh Seas, did I feel it.

“I should go check on Mararitosuki...” He began, wiping his face with the side of his hand.

”Is he unwell?” Cocking my head, I let my afro catch it upon my shoulder.

“O-Oh, he's just...” Maddy trailed off, watching my movements with a nervous intensity, anxious clearly. “He hasn't been very good alone recently.”

It made sense. The twins were normally not apart, stuck together since we had first picked them up a few years ago, and far beyond that. Inseparable and indistinguishable, they were hopelessly identical, so to see one so upset, it alluded to a mirrored problem. However, I had to remind myself often, they were seperate people, even if they could finish one another's sentences with a frightening, almost otherworldly ease. They were both but grieving men.

With a bow, he excused himself graciously, exchanging a small bow and shaky smile, as if it could crumble at any minute. As he ran back down the stairs, still wiping his nose, I wondered if it had fallen by the first step, or the minute I had looked away. When would it? When he saw his brother perhaps? The mental image of past glimpses at the pair came to mind, fashioning a fuzzy picture of the man clutching to John, nervously awaiting the news he had sent Madaisuki out for.

Or perhaps he sat at the bar with Takanaka and Rio, stuck between the pair's conversations that seemed to linger on longer than they ever should. Such were affections, allowing someone to forget of any past punchlines to start anew, laughing just as loud as if it was the first. Maybe instead, they sat in silence, with nothing left to say between the trio.

As I stood with my back to the wheel, just as Madaisuki left me, I continued my thoughts upon my crew for longer than I often times let myself do.

Rio, John, Takanaka, Tabuchi, Doc, and that list grew. Soon, the names became so great, I gave up an attempt to list them, for I found myself forgetting and starting over. So many men, men I had perhaps not even spoken to in weeks— in all my time upon my very own carrack. Men whose lives were in my hands now, men who had to rely upon me. Everyone was to rely upon me then.

Anxiety had first crept, then scurried, and then bolted, latching upon my heart violently. Adrenaline spurted from my being as if in the throes of a wild animal, sputtering and thrashing. My hands found placement beneath the wooden bars that made up the helm, rubbing along them as the thoughts carried on their brutal and treacherous pace. A pack effort upon my already tender, weak heart, guilt had torn a hole into already. Blood in the water, stirring, churning; fear came next in a slithering fashion, repeating the numbers to me once more.

So many men, and so much to care for. Money— no, we had Tabuchi, however, just how much could he do without income? Where would those beri come from now? Thievery and the ilk, or our usual performances? Could our men even stand at this point, could they still read their sheet music and practice their merry songs without a muse? Was that what he had been to us, our figurehead?

Without a steady plan of income, what of our meals, our wellbeing? Where was the nearest port? Had John kept up with such things since our time at the last docking? It would be understandable for the poor man to have it slip his mind, that landfall being forced and traumatic, however without it, we all would be in a peril that I could not manage. He was a smart man, he kept things tight, but that was no excuse, nor expectation in the current climate. Oh, what of our crew?

We already all were so damaged, so broken, and silent, could we even play once more as we had to make our keep? Could we fight in this state— could I? Who would guard my back now? Who was my mate?

Blood in the air, putrid and pungent, attracting guilt, who swooped down and perched upon my gutted heart as a raven would a carcass.

My Yorki, he had done it all. The stress of income, the fears of ports and of enemies, of health and survival. Everything that I felt now, as their leader, had been placed singularly on his shoulders— or, had he placed it upon himself? He had asked me for brief aid, as I thought upon it, moments flooding back to me as I fished them from the cracks they had fallen between.

Small things and small tasks that became mindless to me, such as delivering reports from Takanaka when supplies got too low. Jotting down Tabuchi's complaints about an over expenditure, and the egency for certain medical supplies from Doc; all things came back to Yorki in the form of a small list. At times, oftentimes, I had to express to him these letters aloud for his lack of visual comprehension, but, I truthfully never thought much on these reports, for, they never seemingly affected me. They took so little time from me, being but easy busywork, and my days were often spent instead working on sharpening my skills in the creative field alone. I had always assumed My Captain, when he was not beside me, was simply doing what he often did beside me— relaxing.

Slacking as I had called it to his face, visiting and yammering to the crew as he loved to do. Discussing frivolous things such as the weather perhaps, or meandering into Doc's office to discuss what he thought of new supplies. Speaking to Rio about the ship's paint colors and begging Takanaka for the first shot of the new liquor he must have requested be bought. But, never had I thought in full of what those interactions meant. What weight they carried. Why would I? I was so blind to my own vision of him, that I could not see the forest for the trees.

For all those times he had chosen to be by my side, sprawled across his back and nosing in whatever I was up to, it was not just boredom, but his choice of relaxation. I was his choice of peace, and, when I was not beside him, he was doing what I should have aided him in; being a good Captain.

Blood on the floorboards, seeping and familiar, its color belonged to us both, and the visage of him spawned a wretch made of wraith, boiling that crimson into a fine blistering heat that scalded my brain and tongue to numbness. I sank to my knees, back almost hitting the wheel as I crumpled into a folded kneel. I could hear the sea no longer, only the fumes of my own engine pumping and dying away, writhing so violently it felt as if the rest of my organs may tear along with my heart. What was left of it anyway, for it must still live, that sputtering visceral heat from it alone. I wished it could not, for my anger, you see, was towards no one but myself.

Fingers enraptured about my own tight curls, painfully finding root and beginning to pull to drag myself up by any aid I could. I could not touch the wooden floorboards, for they stunk of him, everything did. That voice, it rang to me, a crowing laugh and I briefly wished to face the sun to search for the cause, but, how could I face him now— when I was but this?

Sinking further, the culmination of my straining body finally began to bleed out of me in the form of hot, gross tears. They hit the floor with enough heat it must have burnt a hole in the wood. Flaming, from the core of my white-hot venom for nothing but myself and my blindness, oh, I wished my tears would take away my sight. It already was useless, my eyes, as was my brain, I thought, for how could I have ignored his pleas? How could I have left the man I loved to grieve his own funeral for so many months? He must have known, yet he still balanced it all, while I sat on my ass and wrote limericks about foolish ditherings that I no longer even cared for.