#m.op

it’s hard to think about these things whenever he’s around, anyway. not when he’s kicking you underneath the table during dinner, or hiding behind corners and grabbing you by the waist because he “thinks it’s funny.” it’s even harder to think when those moments take unexpected turns. when he slips a leg between your thighs and interlocks your ankles, or when his hands linger on your body longer than necessary, slipping underneath the hem of your shirt, as he just… stays there. fingers swiping idly against your skin while he peers at you, curiously. and of course, it’s flat out impossible to think when he presses you against the nearest wall and kisses you until you’re breathless and panting into his mouth. 

the first time you kissed him, you thought you would die. it was on a good night, a cool night. the rest of the crew had gone to bed, but the two of you stayed up, talking about things neither of you could recall, now. an unassuming conversation. but luffy had been staring at your mouth the whole night, and, feeling uncharacteristically emboldened—perhaps due to a few stolen sips of zoro’s booze—you asked him if he wanted to kiss you. he said yes. and it was messy. his lips were chapped from the cold. you bumped into his nose, and he bit your lip, and his tongue slipped into your mouth, and you thought you would die.

you broke apart, your fists clinging to his vest, breathing hard. for once, your mind was completely, utterly blank. “slower,” you instructed before leaning back in. he nodded, dazed. your arms wrapped loosely around his neck, his hands darted to your hips, and you tasted his smile. 

the truth is, you feel unstoppable when you’re with him. because of him. you want nothing more than for him to feel the same. 

is that selfish to think? are you a horrible person? how else could this have gone? the boy had you wrapped around his finger from the very start. had the whole world spiraling around his finger from birth: for he is luffy and he is the most magnetic person you’ve ever met, and he is going to be the king of the pirates. you’re just lucky that you can come along for the ride. 

you’re lucky. that should be enough.

but still. you want.

you want to be indisposable. you want him to need you like you need him.

are you enough?

yes, of course. you are a straw hat pirate, and you are proud. 

but why? why did luffy ask you to join his crew? what do you have to offer? you’re not particularly strong, or intelligent, or useful. it’s a wonder he wants you on his crew at all.

it’s a bitter pill to swallow: inadequacy. you have to hit your chest to get it down. 

“you’re thoughtful.” nami declares after you confide in her, one slow day on the sunny. she says this easily, like she needn’t think about it, like this is a well known fact. she sits cross-legged on your bed, hugging a pillow as you brush her hair. “thoughtful?” you repeat, dragging a hairbrush down her scalp. 

nami turns around to face you, something expectant on her face. her hair’s still wrapped around your fingers. “duh.”

something heavy rattles in your chest.

thoughtful. you’re thoughtful? that’s a nice thing to be. you should be appreciative of the compliment. a thoughtful person would appreciate the compliment. 

“but—”

“but nothing,” she interrupts, rolling her eyes. “we want you here. can’t you see? we trust luffy to protect our dreams, always, but we trust you to protect out hearts.”

your grip on the hairbrush loosens. “…isn’t that… the same thing?” 

nami hums vaguely. "not at all."

her words plague you late into the night. 

thoughtful.

you are thoughtful, maybe, on a good day, but what good is that for the break-neck pace of piracy? are you gonna think your enemies into submission? kill ‘em with kindness, maybe?  

you’re lying on your side, buried under your covers, attempting to sleep. across from you lays robin, in her bed. robin sleeps like the dead. there’s been a few restless nights where you’ve simply watched her sleeping form, counted her breaths, made sure she was actually alive. 

however, this is the first night that someone’s knocked on your door in the middle of the night. three harsh raps. being the only one up, you slowly rise out of your cocoon and tiptoe across the wood floor, but the door cracks open before you can reach it. moonlight slips through the crack, casting shadows on a figure as it steps into your room. 

it’s luffy. he’s in his pajamas, clutching his straw hat. 

“lu?” you whisper. “wha—what’s going on?” 

he stalks over to you. you can’t read his expression as well as you could have in the daytime, but his mouth is set in a thin line, and his eyes… he doesn’t give you much time to examine them before he’s wrapping his arms around you, hiding his face in your neck.

“it’s nothing,” he mumbles into your skin. goosebumps prickle across your flesh. nothing? is this nothing?

"can we just go to sleep?” he asks. there is something like desperation coloring his voice. and you—you know something about desperation. are intimately familiar with the beast that lies in your chest, that clogs your lungs ’til you can barely breathe. 

it’s not nothing, not even close. but maybe he needs it to be nothing. you can accept that. so you pluck the hat from his hands and set it on the barrel you use as a nightstand. guide him to your bed. the bed dips under his weight, and there’s really not much room for the both of you, but it doesn’t stop him from sliding over to meet you in the middle. he reaches out and tugs on your arm until you’re rolling on your side, and then he’s slotting into you like a matching puzzle piece. his knees tuck into yours, and his arms slither round your stomach, and he’s breathing by your ear, and you are praying that you are enough. that you’ll be enough.

you think you are. will be. 

maybe there is a difference between protecting dreams, protecting hearts. 

🍓 .・゜-: ✧ :-

you can catalogue the days spent with luffy during a week by the amount of damage done to your closet. 

the pretty pale pink blouse you thrifted a few months ago—the one with the lace trim that shows off the perfect amount of cleavage—tossed in the hamper with thoughts and prayers thanks to the gigantic-ass stain luffy blessed you with last wednesday. 

(you should’ve seen it coming, really, neon blue sludge dripping from his sun-speckled fingers with reckless abandon near moments before he grabbed you by the waist to bring you in for a sloppy, tart kiss. it was quick and bright, an explosion of blue raspberry, before he pulled away as quickly as he initiated the kiss. he wiped his mouth with a lazy flick of his hand, then grinned a proud, dopey grin, teeth glinting in the sunlight. 

you remember feeling dizzy and warm, baked in the sun and your love and the sheer aura your boyfriend possessed.

“tastes good, right?” he asked. 

your eyes caught his flash of tongue as he spoke, tongue stained blue. 

“yeah,” you agreed quietly, reverently. “tastes good.”)

then there was the trip to the beach a few days ago that luffy suggested, which… alright, maybe you can’t blame him for getting sand all over you at the beach.

(and really, it was a nice trip. you and the straw-hats all packed into franky’s van like a baby soccer team getting driven to their first game. windows down, luffy happily chewing on a sandwich you packed him, nami rattling off directions like it’s her day job, brook belting 2000’s pop. and then, the lot of you spilling out and ambling to the beach. sunscreen slathered on every inch of your skin. the feel of hot wind and sand in between your toes, the salty tang of the sea on your tongue, and your hand in luffy’s, always, as he drags you across the beach with glee.) 

but still. luffy brought home a slimy strand of seaweed to prank you with, and it somehow found its way into your underwear drawer. 'no, he did not put it there', let him tell it. you had to resist beating him with a slipper. gosh, he’s such a dork.

so, yeah. dating luffy definitely means more frequent loads of laundry, but it’s fine. it really is. s’not like you didn’t know what you were getting into. s’not like you mind any traces of luffy you can get. 

luffy seems the type to be born in the summer.

he’s not- he wasn’t. a spring baby through and through, to your initial surprise. and sure, there’s probably something poetic you could say about blossoms and rebirth and fresh starts, but really, luffy reminds you of the hot, everlasting summer. he’s practically the sun incarnate. could’ve been a sun god in another life, for all you know, because his touch is so hot, hot, hot, and his laugh is crude and bright, and he is the only person you know to not wilt under the full force of the sun. instead, he feeds off of it. it gives him life, vigor, sustenance. 

you used to dread the summertime. now, it’s your favorite season.

so when luffy pops over with a blanket and a basket, you don’t need to think too hard to throw in a couple of (okay, several) sandwiches and some leftover fruit.

you decide on a quaint spot at a nearby park. the two of you walk side by side underneath the orange light of the dying sun. it’s a cooler evening. the grass next to your feet bristle; trees dance in the gentle breeze. the endless drone of the cicadas meshes with luffy’s rambling about his latest outing with ace and sabo—apparently, it ended in a fire—and you sneak a few glances at him. luffy’s skin is a rich, warm gold. underneath the last few embers of day, the sky soaked in warm oranges, pinks, and a devastating purple, you find traces of its colors reflected on his skin. 

and luffy is loud, loud, loud, but he is also quiet. and underneath the weight of the sky, you feel incredibly lucky to be a part of his life. 

his hand, looped lazily around your free wrist, snakes down to intertwine with your fingers. 

“what is it?” he interrupts his spiel with a sudden question. 

your teeth sink into the plush of your bottom lip as you consider your response. “it’s nothing.” you pause. parse through your emotions and will them to become coherent thoughts. “i guess i just missed you.”

slowly, he drags the two of you to a stop. he tugs on your hand, a reminder, even as he blinks in confusion. 

“i’m right here,” he says, solemn.

“i know.”

a beat.

“you don’t have to miss me. i’m already yours.”

and, he’s right. like a sun rising above the horizon after a night plunged in the dark, he returns to you, again and again. 

“i know that.” in a stroke of luffy-branded honesty, you admit to him with a shrug, “but i don’t think i’ll ever stop missing you.”  

it is not a bad thing. not a bad thing at all. just another way to say i love you. perhaps the only way you can say it, right now.

luffy stares at you for a while and then releases an uncharacteristic sigh. he takes the picnic basket out of your hands and lets it drop in the grass, along with the blanket he was carrying. then, without warning, your boyfriend tackles you to the ground.

you barely even register it, he breaks your fall so gently, and then he’s clambering over you, long arms pressing you into the soil, long tendrils of grass tickling your skin, and you’re thinking about the dirt undoubtedly ruining yet another shirt of yours as he clumsily lowers his mouth to yours. he smells like grass and sunscreen and maybe a little bit of sweat, and tastes a bit like koolaid. but all you can register is him, the ever-present heat radiating off his body, the nimble fingers digging into your skin almost brutally, the clink of his teeth against yours. hot and sloppy and luffy, luffy, luffy.

you kiss until you can’t breathe, until you breathe fire, until your head is spinning and you can think no more.

then, he rolls off of you. the two of you pant: you, content to remain a puddle on the ground, him, leaning back on his arms. still close, though. still above you, dark eyes roaming over your form intently, tracking your every flutter. 

it’s quiet, save for the cicadas. soundtrack of the summer. 

you sit up and try to pat yourself off. it’s probably useless. you know there’ll be nasty grass stains on your back when you get back home. ah, well. can't be helped.

“i get it,” luffy says, eventually. after you’ve both caught your breath. he runs a finger down your leg, tracing inexplicable patterns into your skin. “i miss you too.” 

oh, how silly it is, to be in love.

“i know,” you say, cheekily. 

he relaxes. “good.” luffy reaches up to pat your head. 

you bat his hand away.

he tosses you a toothy smile.

you catch it.

It’s Halloweekend, a Friday night, and you’re pregaming in the shoddy little apartment you share with Nami and Usopp. Nami’s dressed to kill as an alluring vampire vixen, and Usopp’s fiddling with the zipper of his Party City superhero costume. Knowing your friends, you expect for a little mayhem to occur tonight. Especially considering the party you’ll be attending: hosted by none other than the ASL brothers. 

If there’s one things you can trust the ASL brothers to do, it’s to wreak havoc on society. If there’s a second thing you can trust the ASL brothers to do, it’s to throw a decent party. 

Nami swats your thigh at your remark and thrusts the bottle into your hands. “Drink more,” she orders. “You’re not nearly drunk enough.” You fumble for your Hello Kitty shot glass and pour liquor into your glass.

“Just drink from the bottle,” Nami chides, fingers curling around the hem of your dress. You take this in stride; sink into the spotty old couch Usopp salvaged from a flea market with a sigh. Nami’s a flirty drinker: you know this. Get a couple drinks in her and she’ll get touchy and bossy—or, bossier than she already is. The girl cocks her chin up at you in challenge. “Don’t be a pussy.” She’ll also get mouthy.

You reject her protests with a minute shake of your head. “No way.” Usopp trots over from across the room with a matching Hello Kitty glass, and you tip the bottleneck until vodka pours out, to Nami’s displeasure. “I’m not a fucking heathen.” 

“Cheers to that,” Usopp says, then clinks his glass with yours—Hello Kitty to Hello Kitty. He throws his drink back and immediately starts coughing. 

You smile at your friend’s pathetic demonstration, raise your glass, and toss the drink to the back of your throat. It goes down a little smoother than your first had, but still lights a fire in your chest, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. 

A loud knock has your head swiveling to the front door. “The calvary is here!” Someone from the other side shouts. 

You say Usopp’s name, and he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says and shuffles toward the door, probably resenting the day he signed a six-month lease with two bossy girls. He quickly unlocks the door, swinging it wide open. A boy springs through the entrance with a loud whoop, arms in the air. Behind him struts the moss-headed Zoro, who heads straight for the kitchen, determined to find the booze and drink you out of house and home, you’re sure. Hovering by the entrance lingers Sanji, who towers over Usopp.

“Are you seriously dressed as Batman?” You hear him ask.

Usopp’s pitch raises unnaturally as he defends himself. “The ladies love Batman!”

Sanji snorts. “What do you know about ladies?” He asks, stepping around the Walmart Superhero. Suddenly, he halts, gaze locking on you and Nami like a fucking aim-bot. 

“Nami-Swaaaaaaan!~” He croons.

Nami grabs the bottle from your hands and takes a giant swig. 

“And you must be an angel,” the blond appears at your side, sighing dreamily. A crown rests atop his head; his hair shines like spun gold. Blegh.

“A fairy, actually.” You reply, jab your thumb at the iridescent wings strapped to your back. 

He nods reverently. “Ah, but of course. You’re made of faith and trust, magic and whimsy, my ethereal little pixie.” 

You blink once, twice. Wonder if this loon pregamed the pregame, or if he’s just naturally this ridiculous. Nami takes another shot of vodka, and Sanji’s eyes track the curve of Nami’s neck as she gulps and sighs.

Damn it all to hell. You debate stealing the bottle and drinking from it like a heathen. Nami was right. You are most certainly not drunk enough for this. 

Nami and Usopp’s friends are… Well. They’re something, alright. You met the duo in college and fell in love with their snarky energy, but their non-college friends? You pan your head from Sanji and Zoro, who are halfway to beating each other’s faces in in the middle of your kitchen, to their springy friend Luffy, who’s quite literally bouncing off the walls. Yeah… You try to avoid them when you can.

But. Tonight’s Halloween. The one day you’re legally required to make bad decisions. 

So, more alcohol. You tug the bottle from Nami’s death-grip and take a healthy swig. “What happened to ‘not being a fucking heathen?’” She quotes, mirth bubbling in her voice. 

You open your mouth to say something unbelievable witty and dry, but are interrupted. “Who’s fucking heathens?” Someone behind you asks. Both you and Nami turn to face Luffy, who’s leaning over the back of your couch, upside down. 

“Nami,” you deadpan, at the same time she intones your name. 

Luffy laughs, boyish, but also… Not. His hair’s pulled towards the ground, black curls pulled back to reveal thin brows and half-lidded eyes, and the expression is a little… Sexy. Somehow. Impossibly. Kinda lazy-like, with a shit-eating grin, and it’s... 

You clear your throat, feeling a bit warm. 

“Shouldn’t you be with your brothers? Y’know. Hosting a party right now?” You ask. Luffy chortles. In your peripherals you can see Nami considering you, undoubtedly smelling blood in the water. 

“Nah. Ace n’Sabo threw me out ta stop me from eating all the snacks,” he says. His words aren’t quite slurred, but come out as a drawl, low and intoxicating. You have no idea how this man did a complete 180 in the span of 30 seconds. It’s giving you serious whiplash.

The front door opens once more, and Nami lets out a little squeak. Ah, that’s probably Vivi and co. Hmm. Dimmed lights, a sultry voice warbling over the speakers, intermingling with the occasional drunken shout… This is turning out to be a successful pregame. 

Nami jumps off your lap, stealing the bottle from your hands one last time. Her limbs tremble before she inhales deeply, steeling her nerves.

“Have fun,” you say, shooting her a look. 

“Oh, bite me,” the vampire snaps, then stalks off to go flirt with Vivi. You silently wish her luck (the amount of times you’ve had to listen to her hopelessly pine is staggering) and turn back to face Luffy again, a twinge of uncertainty in your gut.

He’s dressed like a football player, you realize. It’s a good look on him. His jersey is neon yellow and trimmed in green, but the color’s not as obtrusive as it might be in brighter lighting. And it shows off his lean figure, which is. Nice.

Appreciative as you are of his frame, you’re thinking up exit strategies by the minute. This is uncharted territory. You can count the number of times you’ve had a one-on-one conversation with the man on a single hand, and, don’t really feel like stumbling your way through small talk.

“You’re glowing,” Luffy notes. “S’pretty.”

Never mind. This is cool.

“Thanks,” you say, sheepish. “It’s the body shimmer. I’m a fairy.”

“A pretty one.”

Ah, fuck. 

You don’t really feel the alcohol all that much, but there’s a pleasant buzz floating through your body, and it’s making you a little more… susceptible. To simple compliments like that. It has your heart stuttering, but in a good way. You want him to say it again.

“What, that you’re pretty? ‘Cause you are.” He nods. “So pretty,” he concludes; dark eyes sweeping over your frame. 

Did you say that aloud? 

You blink. Rack your brain for something coy to say. “You’re, um. Yeah. You’re pretty, too.”

Fuck.

Luffy laughs at that, and you’re grateful, because you are totally off your game tonight. But he doesn’t seem to mind, just leans in closer, still upside down, and it gives you an open view of the column of his throat. Golden brown skin, taut and firm until he swallows. You tense and back up a little to see his whole face.

He’s close, incredibly close. You can smell the Corona on his breath as he exhales. And you don’t really kiss random people at hangouts after only like, two compliments, but your brain is starting to consider him the exception. 

You pull in your bottom lip reflexively, and his eyes dip to your mouth, tracking the motion. His pupils dilate. He looks, he looks hungry.

Fuck fuck fuck—

The door opens again and more people trickle into the apartment, pulling you out of whatever weird ass trance you were in, and you curse. Is this a pregame or a party of its own? The fuck. 

You lean back, hands seeking purchase on the couch cushion to support you, but maybe you’re a little more drunk than you think you are, because you completely overshoot it, body tipping toward the floor. Your head spins as you realize in real-time that you’re about to eat shit, squeezing your eyes shut before impact.

Somehow, quick hands race up your body and flip you so that instead of falling on your back, you’re braced on top of something, cushioning your fall. Your eyes open. Luffy grins from beneath you.

You’re straddling him, you realize. Make to get off him, but his hands tighten on your waist and then loosen. A suggestion. 

You stay. 

Everyone’s eyes are on you, searing into your skin, but they’re nothing compared to the hot hands sliding down, palming your thighs. You don’t know whether to be mortified or grateful that you chose such a short dress. Luffy hums appreciatively.

Grateful it is.

Time to do some damage control.

“Mind your own business,” you hiss, looking up at the room. Everyone returns to their previous occupations, albeit reluctantly, sneaking glances out of the corner of their eyes.

You turn your gaze back to the man underneath you. “How the hell did you do that?” You accuse. It should be humanly impossible for someone to perform such complicated maneuvers—while inebriated, mind you!

He just shrugs. “Didn’t wanna hurt your fairy wings, did ya?”

That is. Ridiculously sweet. 

“Fuck,” you say. It just slips out. 

Luffy’s eyes sharpen. “Yeah?”

“What?” Your breath hitches. God, you sound wrecked. 

Luffy waits a beat. Runs calloused hands up and down your thighs, and you just barely contain yourself from shuddering in his grasp. But it may be for naught, because you’re melting like putty in his hands. 

He yawns, then licks his lips. “Wanna make out?” He asks abruptly. 

It’s at this moment that you wonder exactly how you wound up here. What choices did you make in your life to end up like this? Splayed out on your apartment floor, surrounded by tipsy acquaintances, straddling the most bizarre man you’ve ever had the misfortune to come across? Fucking Halloween, man. This might just be the most humiliating thing you’ve ever experienced. 

...

You say yes.

In the end, you don’t end up making it to that party. 

Not that the world would have stopped spinning had you died. Not when death makes the world go round. Still, the sun rises. Still, the ocean’s tide sings. The tide drapes over you, blocking out the sky. Perhaps you should have fled, when you had the chance. But you didn’t-- you don't, and the wave crashes over you as consequence. You are moved. Moved by the wave; moved by the weight of your circumstances. No one prepared you for this. Your mother didn’t dole out this particular lesson in her long spiels about the meaning of life. And now, she will never speak again.

Mother leapt. 

Mother crashed. 

Like waves against a rocky shore. 

If only you could take on the attributes of the sea. The sea knows no god. She does what she wishes. But you? You bend. Bend to the will of those who want harder than you. Bend to the magnificent wave’s power as it drags you back, back into the godless sea. You are nothing, in comparison. Flotsam.

You don’t want. But there are things that you don’t want.

For instance: you don’t want to return to your mother. 

Oh, you thought that you did. You thought a lot of things. You once thought your mother believed in the hollow words she said. She didn’t. You once thought dying would be easy. 

It isn’t.

Dying burns. Like the burning in your lungs. It takes, and it consumes, until there is nothing left of you but a mound of ash. 

And, dying squeezes. Squeezes you out like a dirty dish rag, until out spills every morsel of fear, frustration, desire and hope that once existed inside your fleshy body. And, there you are. Your essence, pooled into the ocean for all to see. And in your last few moments, you are left to wonder, perhaps I did exist; perhaps I should have lived. 

You inhale. You don’t want to die. There has to be more to life than drowning in the waters of a strange island, strange ocean, stranger world. Saltwater fills your lungs as you begin to mourn the life you never lived. 

Dying, you find, is a color. A deep, solemn purple. The color of a fresh bruise; the color of your mother’s wine; the color of regret.

Cupped hands cut through water, frantic, as you try to rise; as your head spins. Above the waterline, above your flailing body, the wind howls. It warned you, you know. The ocean warned you. And now the wind howls, though the wail doesn’t quite reach your ears. Not over the deep blue croon of the ocean, and your own pained gurgles. 

You can’t think, any longer. Only feel. 

Feel your fingertips just barely breach the surface. Feel your legs kick with a renewed sense of urgency. Feel the sudden intake of air—sweet, glorious air rushing through your body—almost too much, but not even close to being enough. Feel the hands that wrap around your torso like a lasso, firm and sort of rubbery. Feel your body fling through the air, and your stomach lurch, before you collide into a person. 

It knocks the breath out your lungs, and you choke, for a second time.

The same hand that deftly plucked you out the ocean whacks your back, while the other keeps you upright. You would wave your savior off if you had the energy. You possess no devil powers—you dare not make a foe of nature itself—yet the ocean saps your strength, anyway. Takes what little you have left to claim, like she took away your mother. 

You’ve yet to open your eyes, but you can reason you’re on a ship. You can hear the calls of a woman over the song of the wailing sea, preparing the ship for docking in the middle of a thrashing storm. You hear the grunts of men, and the flapping of wind-beaten sails, and the stamping of several feet, scurrying across a wooden deck. 

When you’re finally done hacking your lungs, the savior makes to set you down. Your knees buckle.

 “Woah there,” you hear them exclaim, then let out a boyish laugh. The stranger hoists you up by your arm pits, like you’re a drenched cat. “You’re not a fish!” 

This is true.

You blink the water out of your eyes. In front of you: a boy. Just a boy with a wide, proud grin, and a curved scar underneath his eye. A yellow straw hat hangs from his neck. 

You cough up water as a greeting.  

You know of this strange, savior boy. He belongs on fading, brown parchment above big, bold letters—Wanted; Dead or Alive—his toothy grin immortalized on the bulletin board outside the pub back home. But he isn’t just any old criminal. No, this boy is far worse. For he looks at the expansive blue sea—godless, boundless—and has the gumption to declare it his playing field. 

He looks at what the world has to offer him with wide, peering eyes, and yet, he is still not satisfied. Surely, the world has more to give. Surely, it has more to take. That’s what he does, and it’s what he will continue to do: take and take until he’s had his fill. 

He’s a pirate, after all.

The boy sets you down on the deck and you are finally centered—reunited, at last, with the ground. He’s kind of awkward looking: gangly and disheveled and bright, but his carefree countenance wraps it altogether and ties it in a messy red bow. He tilts his head at a 90 degree angle and stares at you point-blank, thin black brows furrowed in confusion. 

“If you’re not a fish, what’re ya doing in the middle of the ocean?” he asks bluntly. Like you could help getting swept up in the current of Mother Nature. Like his crew mates aren’t currently scrambling to safely dock this ship. 

Your voice sounds strangled when you speak, words getting caught in your throat and roughly tumbling out of your mouth. “Drowning. I was drowning,” you manage to say. 

The rocking of the ship you’re on is not kind to you. Hunched over, your hands brace against your knees as you huff. Your fingers are pruned grapes, wrinkled and trembling.  

“That’s dumb,” the boy tells you. “Just swim next time.”

Maybe he has a point.

You look to the sky. It’s a deep, foreboding gray, pregnant dark clouds looming above and promising rain. Somewhere, you register, behind the clouds… is the sun. It’ll set, yes, and plunge the realm into night, but by dawn it will rise again. And the world will spin. 

“Who’re you then, if you’re not a fish?” The boy draws you back to him, demanding your attention. His eyes are dark as coal, round with open curiosity. You burn under his gaze; greedy and intense. 

Your back straightens. “I’m Yuna.” 

“Like Tuna?” he questions.

“Just Yuna.”

He accepts your answer with a swift jerk of his head and a slight pout. In the distance, you can hear the woman from before calling the the ship to anchor. One of the men—this one has a slender frame and long, long legs—leaves the helm and drops an anchor to the ocean floor. 

Your gaze flickers back to the boy who saved your life. “I’m Luffy! Monkey D. Luffy,” he introduces himself, then reaches for his straw hat to place atop his head. A red ribbon wraps around the base. 

Things make sense when the hat is on, you think to yourself. He makes sense. 

“Remember that,” he demands and jabs a thumb towards his chest, something like passion lighting his coal eyes aflame. “You’re talkin’ to the future king of the pirates.” 

As if the heavens already bow to him, this future king, it begins to rain. He pulls off his hat and looks up. Water droplets kiss tawny skin. They roll from his cheeks, to his chin, down the curve of his neck. 

Rain, your mother liked to say, is good luck. Fathers renewal. Change.

You hope she’s right.

You have different kinds of smiles: big ones! Small ones! Encouraging ones! Those smiles that mean you know something I don’t, and you can’t keep it in much longer.

But what I like best about your smiles is when they’re just for me. It feels a bit like a secret. And I don’t like keeping secrets, but I don’t mind those secret smiles you share with me. 

2. Your laugh!

Your laugh is so… What’s the word? Contagious. That’s it. You are contagious. Just like your laugh. I like it when you bite your lip to try to hold it in, and when it bursts out anyway. I don’t know why you try. Nothing in the world sounds better than your hyena cackle, trust me. You’d give evil witches a run for their money. 

You like to look at me whenever you laugh, I’ve noticed. Like you wanna know if I find it funny too. I don’t think you even mean to do it. You just do. But that’s okay. I’m usually already looking at you.

3. You’re easy to pick up! 

If I’m not supposed to throw you over my shoulder and run, why do you make it so easy? 

4. You’re expressive!

You like to think you’re so mysterious. Too bad! You’re wrong. I know those books you like to read aren’t “intellectual” like you say they are. Pretty sure they wouldn’t make you squeal and cover your face with your hands if they were. I wish you wouldn’t cover it. I like the faces you make when you’re nervous. 

You’re probably nervous right now, aren’t you? You’re so easy to rile up! I like that about you, too. You get sort of mad, sort of not when I point it out. Your eyebrows scrunch and your mouth curves up and you cross your arms, all firm. I never know if you wanna kiss me or hit me. It’s cute. And fun. But wow, do you get a potty mouth when you're really nervous. Your words turn sharp and so does your stare, like you wanna cut me open with your eyes. Like it’s my fault that you’re stuttering out a quick, “Shut the fuck up.” Yeesh. You almost hurt my feelings there!

Just kidding. 

5. You’re loud!

Even when you’re quiet. Especially when you’re not. 

I like your voice. I like how it sounds when you just wake up. I like it when you finally sing the song you’ve been humming all day. I like it when you organize your thoughts out loud, and when you tell me about a joke Franky made earlier, and when you get real close and whisper things only meant for me to hear. 

Sometimes, when I think, it’s your voice I’m thinking in. I like that, too. 

So be even louder for me. Okay? ‘Cause everything you say is special, and I wanna hear it all. 

6. You’re patient! 

And kind. And smart and funny and mine. 

7. You’re everything. 

I like you ‘cause I like you. Isn’t it obvious? It’s not like I try to hide it.

So don’t hide from me. 

—Luffy

It burns. Like the burning in your lungs, as you suffocate alone underneath the swell of the sea. It burns, it burns, it burns, it—

“Tuna.”

There’s a hand on your shoulder. It startles you. You turn; follow the length of the arm to find it attached to the body of Monkey D. Luffy. You don’t know when he approached you. You don’t know how long he’s sat there, watching you stare at your dumb piece of shit chest. 

“What’re ya staring at it for? It’s empty.”

The accusation washes over you like a tidal wave. Threatens to pull you under. 

You don’t know how to respond. How do you explain the quiet devastation this wooden box has put you through? You had your whole life in here at one point. Everything important to you, condensed neatly in one mid-sized treasure chest. And now it’s empty. Now, you have nothing.

“My name’s not Tuna,” you say. Because it’s not—it never was.

The boy retrieves his hand to rest it atop his straw hat, draping a shadow over his face. “You sure?” The boy questions. Something flickers in his eyes that you can’t quite discern through the veil of darkness. It almost… burns. Like the sand. “What is it, then?”

“Yuna,” you reply. Because it is—always has been.

Luffy tilts his head, as if scrutinizing you. He digs a finger in his ear, pulls it out, and scrutinizes that, too. “You didn’t answer my other question. Answer it.”

He’s a little rude, you think to yourself. Demanding things from you when he can’t even bother to get your name right. 

Still, you sigh. You wouldn’t comply so easily under normal circumstances. You don’t make it a habit of obeying the boys you encounter in the waters of a strange island, strange ocean, stranger world. But there’s something in the air, you think. Charged, like the air before a strike of lightning—perhaps the remnants of last night’s storm.

“I’m looking for something,” you admit.

He perks up. “For what?”

Everything. “A reason.” 

“A reason.”

“Mhm.”

“To do what, live?” He asks, setting his hat down in the sand. You tense. He’s a lot sharper than you realized. “You don’t need a reason," he says. "Just do what you want.”

You sputter. “That’s not—Forget what I said. It’s just that—I can feel everything and nothing at the same time, and I… I’m having a mental breakdown, I think.”

A pause.

The pirate scratches his chin. “Oh. Maybe don’t, then.”

Something about his offhand tone startles a chuckle out of you. Luffy peers at you, coal eyes harsh, studying, before his eyes droop in satisfaction, something coy tugging at his lips. 

Another chuckle slips out that blooms into a full-bellied laugh, and then he’s snickering too, and then you’re gripping the sand in an attempt to stay upright because your sides are in stitches, and your cheeks hurt like a bitch, and he’s here and good and free. By the time you calm down, Luffy’s splayed out in the sand, arms pillowing his head, and he’s looking up at you. There’s a gentle hint of curiosity behind his smile, and it warms you and sends something buoyant shooting through your limbs: from your chest to the very tips of your toes. 

Maybe don’t, then. It’s possibly the worst advice you’ve ever heard. Possibly the best. 

“I made you laugh, didn’t I?” The pirate asks.

You freeze.

“I guess you did, yeah.” 

It’s the acknowledgment that reels you back in. Your belongings are gone. Your mother is gone. And you laughed. How? How could you laugh, when you have nothing to your name? How could you laugh, when you have no one to call your own?  

The confirmation makes Luffy’s grin grow wider. “Good,” he says. And he is so wild, and assured, and strange. “I thought you forgot how to.” 

It burns, you realize. His attention. 

For Monkey D. Luffy gets what he wants. If he wants you to laugh, to prove that you can do so, you will. You wonder what he wants out of this conversation. What he wants out of you. What can you give? What will he take?

Maybe he’ll take everything.  

Maybe he’ll want nothing,

Your eyes flicker to the sea. A waxing moon hangs over the horizon. She glimmers, translucent and transient in her waters, ebbing and flowing, flowing and ebbing. Beneath her, a ship with a lion head bobs against the coast. 

The night is still. Hushed.

You look at your hands. There's sand on your palms.

“What are you doing out here?” You change the subject, still watching the tide. A few hours ago you were drowning in the very same sea. Now you sit with the boy who saved you, safe and dry, with rocks clinging to your skin.

“What’re you?” Luffy challenges.

A gust of wind ruffles the trees, your clothing. It tastes of salt, when you open your mouth to speak. “Wallowing,” you confess. For some reason, you cannot lie to this strange, persistent boy. Maybe it’s due to the fact that you owe him. For it’s he who pulled you out of the water. It’s he who dragged you from the maw of death. 

“You shouldn’t be,” he says. 

“And who are you to judge?” You turn to face him and find his eyes transfixed on you.

He shrugs. “I’m Luffy, and ’m not judging ya. I’m just sayin’.” 

“Saying what, exactly?” You ask, voice hushed like the night; desperate like the tide. 

Luffy’s sitting up now, rolling a seashell around his fingers. Your attention is drawn to his neck, where the apple in his throat bobs, and it takes you a second to steer your gaze back to his. 

His eyes burn. Bright, even in the dark. “That sitting here alone, moping around is a waste.”  

A pause.

“I’m not alone,” you point out. 

“Yeah,” he nods. “Not anymore.”

☼

It burns.

You dig your feet into the sand—feel teeny tiny rocks sift through the gaps between your toes. You wonder if Luffy has ever felt doubt. Wonder if he’s ever felt fear. 

For fear has not yet unlatched its brutal grip on your heart. It creeps along the fraying edges of your mind. It cups its hands against your ear and whispers sweet nothings. The fact is, Fear murmurs, this won’t last long. Monkey D. Luffy has always been able to do what he wants, when he wants, just because he can. He doesn’t need the contents of a wooden box to tell him who he is. He has no room for doubt. 

You are not the same.

So why is he here, taking the time out of his night to admonish you? What does he hope to gain? What does he hope to take?

“I wanna hear you laugh again,” Luffy taps your wrist, pulling you out of your spiral. “Get ready for my joke!” And it’s not a request, it’s a command. And, like you’ve been doing all night, you acquiesce. He shoots you a boyish smile for your assent, and your next inhale is shaky. 

There’s a voice in your head advising you to be cautious, however. For embers glow in Luffy’s round, coal eyes. And if you’re not careful, the voice warns, your savior may burn you from the inside out.