🌹
“You smell nice,” Franky said suddenly.
“Don't eat me,” Brook responded, reflexively.
Franky laughed, a soft one that rumbled through his chest. “Not like that. You smell...” He trailed off and his head fell forward onto Brook’s lap. He was silent for a moment, long enough that Brook thought he had fallen asleep, but then he shifted to look up at Brook, cheek pressed into his pants, eyes half closed.
“You smell like dust and paper and old wood. Like going into an attic full of boxes of memories for the first time. You smell like flowers and tea, even when you're not drinking any.” Franky’s eyes slid shut and he nestled more comfortably into Brook’s legs. “You smell like this place. Like home. It's nice.”
The last part was mumbled out and after a few moments, Franky’s breathing evened out as he slipped into sleep. Brook watched him, and gently began running his bony fingers through his hair. He glanced around the room, and it struck him how different it was from just a few months ago. Furniture had been rearranged, walls decorated and redecorated, things scattered about in the messy but organized way Franky was. It wasn't a moment frozen in time anymore, a bitter reminder of all the things he had outlived anymore. It was warm, and vibrant. It was lived in.
This house hadn't been his home for a long time. But maybe, he thought, as he relaxed into Franky’s hold, maybe it could be again.
