Archive of Our Own

When Zoro had turned seven, an itch had grown deep in his gut. 

It wasn’t something he could just scratch. But rather, a small needle, something that caused just enough discomfort for him to notice. It was nothing but a distraction. He should be able to ignore it, to push it aside and treat it like a bug he’d swat in the sky. But it was always there, poking and picking and itching. 

He doesn’t worry about it. By then, he knew things would come and go. He felt this before: When his arms ached from training, it watched over his shoulder and he had learned not to mind it much.

His sword clashed against Kuina’s, rather messy compared to the girl’s form. Though, he felt his itch morph into a burn—it felt rather enticing compared to the latter. 

Noticing, Zoro repositioned himself, jaw clamping to prepare for another swing. He performed a horrible open attack, a basic slash, he recalled. His foot shifted, and Kuina countered. Zoro saw stars while the wind was knocked out of his lungs. One moment, he was on his feet; and the next, he was on his back, dizzy and dazed like a flipped over turtle. 

Through his haze, he saw the face of his friend peer down at him. “You’re a loser, once again,” Kuina tutted, sheathing her sword with mastered precision. “You’ll be fifty by the time you beat me, Zoro!” 

“Shut up.” Zoro sat up with a bite. His swords were scattered across the ground, and he didn’t bother to pick them up again. His face was flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment. But, of course, he wouldn’t reveal either of those feelings out loud.

Kuina laughed, filling the tense air with her own glee, and Zoro felt his anger subside. He supposed he could revisit the feeling during their next battle. 

“You’re predictable,” she said like a taunt, moving around to collect Zoro’s swords. He watched, a crook in his neck, head tilted to the side like a curious dog. She grimaced at his expression. “I mean, you use the same moves. It gets to a point, Zoro.” 

“Am not!” He yelped, pushing himself to his feet. He stomped over, practically ripping the swords from Kuina’s hands. She raised an eyebrow, and Zoro braced for the smart remark that was about to roll off of her tongue. 

“You say that, but I was able to parry every attack you threw at me.”

“Shut up and fight me again!”

Kuina shook her head, making her way to the dojo door. It slid open and the moonlight shone in his eyes like a dim torch, illumination Zoro can’t find himself to be mad at. He noticed her face change, morphing into something that she wore often— while being lectured by Sensei, she looked conflicted for a few moments. 

“You need to take risks, Zoro.” her voice is different now. “They do more good than harm.”

Zoro recognized the feeling, and he knew it was something he should hold onto. He instinctively grabbed it, tucking it into his pocket and saving it for later, because the words make him feel right. 

He watched Kuina leave, her shadow growing smaller as she descended down the pathed hill. Without noticing, his face twisted into a frown, and that burn of determination fades. 

He felt the familiar itch again, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

The concept of death was not new to Zoro. Rather, unexplored, something he didn’t want to dig up because the idea of swordsmanship and rough-housing had intrigued him, instead. Boy things, to put simply. 

He learned at a young age that all things had a beginning and an end, everything would die, no matter how long it took. He had learned from family history that once fate was decided, it could not be changed. 

Flower, bird, wind, and moon, his mom would always repeat while sitting in the soft green blades of the grass, coursing her fingers through his parallel hair when he had finally decided that climbing on a nearby tree was boring. 

The words had stuck to Zoro like a mantra. A song to use whenever he found himself staring out the window for a bit longer than usual, tranced by the colors and trees and the thoughts of life; when his chest felt odd with ideas he couldn’t put into words. 

Flower, bird, wind, moon. Flower, bird, wind, moon.

Zoro’s eyes were glued to the living things before him: A bee that buzzed around, the stray cat who seemed to visit twice a day, and a flower that looked a little odd in the light, all bent and twisted in weird ways.

It did not fit in, and Zoro couldn’t help but notice the way its color did not reflect in the sun the way its peers did. He tilted his head to match the flower’s awkward angle.

“Isn’t it pretty, Zoro?” his mom had asked, scratching at a particular spot on his scalp. Zoro could hear the fondness in her voice, and he didn’t have to look to see the soft smile she had always worn while looking at the landscape. 

But, Zoro did not understand. 

No, it was not pretty. It was weird and twisted with ugly colors in all of its glory. It was dying; its leaves were hanging limply off of its stem and its petals fraying at the edges. 

He scrunched his nose, voice small. “It’s different.”

Zoro’s eyes slid over to the other flowers; the ones that had color and were pointing at the sun, leaves open as if they were reaching their outstretched hands towards the sky. Their petals were blooming, welcoming the occasional bees that would pay visits.

“Just because it’s different, doesn’t mean it’s worth any less than the other flowers.” His mom’s voice cut through the thick of his personal indifference. 

Zoro’s eyes land back onto the ugly stain. He watched as a bee began to collect pollen from the decaying bud, as if it was just any other flower. And by the time the bee flew away, Zoro grew an odd, antsy, sensation in his stomach. A feeling he couldn’t feel, but rather think, something he knew he would not be able to put into words. The fingers in his hair move on, the feeling becoming a lull rather than a thought. 

“It still has a purpose, silly.” he heard the faint exhale in his mom’s voice—a sound he almost mistook for a laugh—one he, now, couldn’t quite picture an expression to match. “And it’ll even have one after it’s dead, flowers help the environment— …Ah, that’s it, I haven’t taught you what flowers do, silly me.”

Her soft voice blended with the rustle of the trees, and his untouched itch dimmed to a tickle. 

The flower’s fate had been decided and couldn’t be changed, right? It was dying, no doubt about it. Its color was dull and it was sinking towards the ground. It was dead, and yet, it was not useless.

Words fell out of his mouth before he could think. “I want to last forever, too, like the flower,”

His mom’s hand fumbled for a brief moment, and Zoro could feel his heart lurch. Then, she giggled, and he felt his body calm once again. 

Zoro did not know what his words had meant at the moment, but they felt right. They made his untouchable itch fade, hiding away for the next time thoughts like these appear. 

And in times like these, Zoro felt like a sponge, absorbing what he could to the best of his ability, before being forced to let it all out when there was a squeeze. 

Kuina was dead, and Zoro couldn't bring it upon himself to accept it.

The flowers around her body were colorful, light capturing the pedals in just the right way. And, for a few fleeting moments, they reminded him of fireworks—they popped and shot out colors that were pleasing to the eye. It did justice to the bleak sight before him. 

Yet, in front of him then, covered with a blanket that was surrounded by flowers, he was enclosed with a cold body. Her presence did not bring the recognizable idea of determination and resolve.

Back in his mind, innovative ideas came to life—he still saw her ahead of him, brandishing her swords with a dance, to entertain once more, much like a jester in a court. Every laugh and doubt was only a stab to her already wounded heart. 

In the dark that did nothing but light a fuse of thoughts, he saw the far-off light of a girl, shining and bright and warm.

His eyes were open again, and the rest of the day moved on as if he hadn’t lost a thing. 

As a kid, Zoro never had the knack to try new things. Yet, he grew up wondering, wanting to learn everything he could because what could he accomplish in knowing nothing? 

Everything had an answer, he decided on a random midnight. He laid belly-up in his bed and his blankets were pulled close to him. The moonlight was bright in the sky with all the clouds gone. It was the type of night where ideas galloped and the gears in his head sounded like the hoof of a horse. 

Everything had an answer, even if he could not find it, he realized on that same night. A little voice in the back of his head told him he was right: everything he had come to know now was once unknown, and Zoro dawdled on that. 

Try new things, Kuina reminded him in the same hour. Her voice was only a whisper. Her voice couldn’t be more than a whisper, he reminded himself. 

As a kid, Zoro was scared of the unknown, but he grew up and he had to dig deep into his childhood to remember the fact. 

He watched the smoke rise to the sky, the colorless mist blending with the breeze seeping into his bones. Kuina’s grave sat contently, and he felt his eyes burn the longer he stared. Flowers were blooming, and yet the emptiness hollowed out his chest—the space was too much for him to handle. 

Zoro sat for the whole day, blowing out and relighting the same candle flame. 

He found himself in the garden shortly after, using a stick to beat on a tree stump which looked oddly dead despite it only being spring. He wondered if death had also taken the tree unsuspectingly, like it had Kuina. He wondered if death had warned her, gave signs that her life was coming to a close: a shadow that was birthed in the darkest of corners, a familiar and cold grasp that was everywhere and nowhere all at once—in the warmest of summers and the emptiest of nights.

He tried to remember if anything was different. He thought it was all the same.  

The sight of a burning candle on the porch pulled him away from his thoughts. The smoke swirled in the air. He scowled, dropping the large stick before storming inside. 

“Everybody has their own ways of feeling sad,” Sensei Koushirou had reminded him when he had seen Zoro seething with his misplaced rage, striking a dummy over and over. He had assumed that with each strike, his feelings and confusion would dull, everything would numb and it would stop buzzing. 

It was in the back of his skull—constant and never ending and making his head ache. It was driving him mad. 

Zoro does not miss the way his own hands shook when holding his swords, how they felt loose and not like his own. His flesh felt fake and the blood rushing under his skin was pumped by, what felt like, machinery. And yet, they spoke for him, they felt for him.

They knew he was grieving, his hands knew that the guilt strangled him immensely. No—rather, afraid, they knew he was afraid of not knowing where to go next, not knowing what to do next. 

Zoro striked a dummy with his swords. He tuned the world out around him. He allowed his swords to speak to him, to ease his fear and shaking hands.

They knew he was out of place.

Koushirou watched from the sidelines as Zoro aggressively kicked and swung. Zoro ignored his own sloppiness, ignored the other voices in the background, and he forced himself to forget the headache that made his eyes a little more watery than usual. 

“You must learn where to relocate and use those methods, Zoro,” he began again, and Zoro took his tone for one of indigence, something to get under his skin, one of those little things. 

Koushirou understood he would not get through to the grieving boy. Instead, he exited the room, blowing out a candle in his wake.

The blown-out smoke clouded Zoro’s thoughts.

Years had slipped out of his grasp now. This routine was familiar to him. 

Zoro trained everyday. Breaks were limited, an imaginary oasis which was, more often than not, redefined as lethargy.

He awoke, he ate, he trained, and yet, the itch was still there. Zoro wanted to rip it away, to fill the gaping hole in the back of his skull with nothing but fists—replace the feeling of cotton that made his head feel stuffed and full. 

The grave was the same as any other day: empty and missing its emotion. It was snowing, endless white dots littering his skin. Zoro hated snow. 

The candle burned, releasing a smoke that smelled just as displeasing as the other days. He frowned and thought it ought to be replaced within the next week or so. The flame was dull. He blew it out and relit it, his nose scrunching at the smoke that swarmed him. 

The sun was setting and the dojo was empty. He could hear nothing but the whispers lingering in the back of his mind and the itch that made him squirm. He watched the candle light dance across the room. The smoke somehow found its way to him.

He inhaled. He swung his sword. The dummy fell and clashed against the floor. He exhaled the breath he had not noticed he was holding.

The sun beat down on him as a morning light and the grave still looked dead in the rays. He tried to ignore the candle flame that had the same effect as every other day. He blew it out and went on with his day.

Zoro blew out the candle on Kuina’s grave as the nighttime shadows flickered across his face. It was breezy outside. The wind swirled around, rustling the trees and tickling his neck. 

He blinked, then the candle light was gone with the wind. He gave one look at the stone. 

He wanted to speak. He had a million things to say and yet they would all mean nothing at all.

To her, his words would mean nothing. 

She was gone and it had been years. 

He did not allow the smoke to influence the itch in the back of his mind. 

Zoro laid in his bed and he thought about that same night.

The lingering idea of dullness and uneasiness drenched his thoughts. 

He was reminded of familiar whispers drowning him; and the sword’s voice echoed in his head—a prickly lullaby screaming at him.

He picked at the itch that seemed like torture to a man, one who teetered the line of life and death. 

The little things, he remembered.

And it’s until then that he finally recognized his feelings.

Zoro was afraid of what was to come. 

The fabric of the hilt felt soft against his calloused fingers, reminding him of the years of gentle care Kuina had provided the sword. It was an admirable feat, being able to have spurts of strength and kindness in the same grasp. 

In his hand, Wado Ichimonji spoke to him, and his fingers ached at the notions. Created with nothing but determination and ounces of others' defeat, he wondered if he was worthy of the trophy.

It came in measures and lines, words blending together to create a perfect Iliad of her dreams. Wado reached the end and her words hung off a cliff like a suicide, a story that will forever remain unfinished. Zoro didn’t know its song well, but he would learn. 

The sword was his exorcist and he allowed it to free the ghost of his past. 

Kuina was dead, and he was not. It was something he still struggled to come to terms with. The sword was his reminder. 

It was a deadman’s tale, really. It spoke volumes, becoming inspirational despite the dread that lingered behind it. It carried the weight of a girl he once knew. And, when he closed his eyes, allowing the sword to whisper to him softly, he could almost feel the warmth that he had remembered from years ago. 

He knew it would become familiar, that the ending would begin to piece itself together. 

On his shoulders, he will carry the Iliad to the skies. With his hands, he will carry their dreams to the heavens. 

He had heard stories of evil spirits and rhymes that were created to scare. He couldn’t count the number of times those fables had left him too scared to be alone, tucked away in his bedroom with the fear that he’d become one of the unlucky ones—targeted by an oni who lived on nothing more than dark magic. 

Though, as he grew older, he became ignorant, he believed they were only tales.

He stared at a soybean on the floor, tossed there only moments ago despite the ants already swarming to it. His mother sang and danced around and more beans flew through the air. 

He’s doesn’t understand it much, and he tried to think about it while he was on his mother’s shoulders, high above the crowd as he watched the parade haul down the path, men dressed as oni’s and demons leaping about to make children wail: but he can’t think much of it because he was not one to cower from these mythical creatures and tales. 

Though, he started to think a little of it when he heard old family stories of those who were now dead, a life of happiness drained to nothing but shame because of one, simple, doubt. 

And it was when he began reading those books of curses and hexes that he realized his carelessness would have a price. 

It was when his mother tossed another bean that he knew he couldn’t see himself relying on the specks to protect him. 

His mother handed him six light beans, counting off each one as they dropped in his palm.

“You might not care now,” she began, counting off the beans in her own palm. “but this will seriously determine your future. If you choose not to do this, then you’ll be facing the consequences of the fate you chose. So, make good decisions, and never regret them.” 

She held the beans up before popping her head back. The beans dropped in her mouth, and her cheeks were stuffed like a chipmunk. 

She cheered. “Devil out, fortune in!” It sounded more like a muffled squeak. 

Zoro’s mouth pulled into a frown and his mind instantly wandered to those pages.

Off in the far distance, over the hills and deep in the forest, he could see a figure. It’s twisted and sick, two large horns on its head, its large mouth and unruly skin sticking out like a scribble on a white canvas. It doesn’t smile, it doesn’t even move, and it was the lifelessness that scared Zoro. 

What he saw deep in his mind stuck with him closely, leeching emotions and thoughts out of his blood like sweet nectar. 

He felt clammy, then.

The beans in his hand don’t speak, they don’t even whisper or sing or rhyme. And yet, he saw himself understanding them; bit by bit, he allowed himself to come to terms with them. 

He stuck his tongue out, eyeing the six beans in his hands. He glanced up at his mother, and her shining smile made his gut feel bubbly. He couldn’t help but crack a grin.

“Devils out, fortune in.” He threw his head back, downing the beans. 

Zoro had come to realize that loneliness had scared him. 

He had been sailing alone for months now, basking in the constant silence and thoughts of nobody but himself. He has had the time to finally wipe his blurry vision clear of the tear stained grief and realize things he has not before. 

He sat in a lousy bar that smelled too much of sweat and men and smoke that made his eyes feel a familiar watery sensation, his too-rough hands crossed together firmly as if he were to make wishes to someone above, and he listened to the nagging buzz in his skull and reflected about his future. 

He had a purpose: the contemporary desire to last forever and never be forgotten, the weight of two dreams to carry on his already heavy shoulders. 

He had made a name for himself in such little time, brutalizing his way through obstacles that have had no goal but to stop him in his tracks. His once soft hands became rough and calloused, tainted with poisons and bloods and the loss of life. He created marks that cannot be healed, cracks in porcelain that will never be adhered without the reminder of destruction and violence. 

In the times where he has had to kill, he did not stop to reflect on what the consequences would bring to him. And in those rare moments where he had a fleeting amount of guilt—a fear that his isolation is doing nothing more than transforming him into an unrecognizable being, someone who would not look back at him in a mirror with the same reflection—he wondered if loneliness was the problem. 

He wondered if his swords were what was left of him; what was left of his humanity and sanctuary, if he used the edge of each blade to communicate rather than words and gestures because he was too far gone.

He was born as a human, yet he only knew the language of steel and death. 

Zoro scared people. 

He had come to learn that, deep inside of his brain that was always poked by grief and guilt, the hidden shadow of loneliness lingered like a parasite. It greeted him with bewildering feelings of regret and sorrow, waiting to consume his body whole. 

And he could only come to think: was this who he wanted to be?

Zoro was lonely. As a child, he’d play with weapons and he had become one with the lining of blades. His companions were his enemies and his family was nothing more than dust in the ground. And the longer he lived, the more he felt the memories of loved ones slip out of his grasp, mineralizing and becoming just like the rest—a forgotten dust.

He couldn’t help but think about those beans from many years ago. 

His mother’s voice rang. Face the consequences of the fate you chose. 

He remembered the hill from years ago. The way the trees parted, the moon that shone down on him, and the demon that waited for him—every single time. 

Zoro could see horns in his shadow, an otherworldly deity who bathed in the blood of others who crossed his path. Zoro is what people prayed against, he was why they threw those beans.

It all felt heavy, rubbing at his muscles with no intent to soothe them. 

His eyebrow scrunched, and he opened his eyes again to stare down at the bar table. 

Zoro shook with a spiraling feeling of emptiness, but he pushed it aside and told himself that he does not have time to envisage, to try and disinfect himself from the stain of this parasite.

Roronoa Zoro could not afford to be distracted with bitter feelings of loathsomeness.

He had a promise to reach. He had a purpose. 

Zoro wondered what his name would sound like once he was dead, if the same amount of what little respect that had once stained people’s tongues would vanish and be buried like his body. 

He didn't notice himself moving, but his chair was swiveled and he faced the drunken crowd, wondering if he would be forgotten like every other man in here, who wished nothing more than to live a life of worthiness. 

He wondered if all of those familial prayers and wishes to unbeknownst gods—those very beans that he had swallowed years ago—would amount to something. No matter what heaven or hell or afterlife he was sent to in feeble attempts to make him pay for his heinous crimes—he wondered if he would still be known.

His name, Roronoa Zoro, blended with the stars and moon, becoming the next deity in the face of her promises and dreams. 

And until his dream came to pass, he was alone. He must get stronger—to be able to adorn wounds and reflect words. 

He cannot reflect his thoughts. 

He reflected. He wondered. He prayed.

Zoro wasn’t one to dwell on change. It happened—and that was all he could say. He had witnessed change plenty of times, and had seen the way the other children in his dojo bend and mold into different shapes. He had seen it all, he knew it all. 

Despite all of that, he could not find his own shape. He was bits and pieces of everything and nothing, of what was there and what was behind him—it was all something he could not physically grab, in the end. 

“If you were a strong warrior, would you be brave enough to fight off demons?” Kuina asked one day. The question was uncalled for, something she had made up because of the thoughts that ran through her own brain. Zoro felt weird at her tone; it sounded uncertain and quiet. At first, he didn't respond, but he immediately thought of the thing that was known to haunt.

Demons. 

He laid in the grass, feeling the tickles of the blades against his back. He could feel Kuina’s eyes burning through him, waiting for the words—the words she wanted to hear.

The sun shone in his eyes and he used it as an excuse to close them. The light in his brain flickered on, a spotlight referencing years ago: Books. He saw loads of books, too many to count. He was there in another world and yet he ran his fingers over the spines, and he could feel the texture of each one. They all felt different; they all had their own personalities and Zoro wanted to understand them. 

It was then that he realized he could read the pages without opening the covers. Among the pages, ideas of life and death and family came back to him all at once. He couldn’t put it into words.

The scene changed: he stood on a familiar hill. He didn’t realize that his feet were moving, skin making contact with the ground that felt oddly real and comforting. But he moved, and the trees and bushes got lusher and darker, the type you see in a jungle when they were scarce of sunlight. He stopped where two trees parted and a ray of moonlight welcomed him.

His eyes descended down the bluff and he saw it. 

It was the same as every other time; the sizable horns, the uncanny mouth that stretched into a scream—yet it didn't make a noise, it was silent and it just stared back at him. It was haunting, but it did not scare Zoro. Words hung at the tip of his tongue and he felt destined to it.

He should speak, but he doesn’t. 

He opened his eyes again, meeting Kuina’s gaze.

“Are they really that scary?”

His words brought a frown to her face. Zoro knew he was in for an earful. 

“Of course they are,” she tutted, “why do you think Sensei makes us pray every day?” 

Zoro grumbled, “Well, he’s not always right, is he?”

“He knows more than you! It’s because they do bad things, Zoro. What would happen if you’re in an intense battle and a big demon decides to hurt you, or someone you love?” Kuina’s voice was strained by the end of it. She didn't even realize what she said until she did.

The idea made Zoro’s mind wander for a childish moment.

It was something he had thought of before, that a single creature could take even more from him—his mom was already gone and even though he tried not to think about that much, he really wondered if one more prayer would’ve saved everything. 

“I’d kill it, then.” His hand automatically moved to his blade, fingers gripping the hilt—a silent warning to the one on the hill. Kuina exhaled a breath out of her nose and turned her head back to the cloudy sky. 

Zoro did too. No more words were exchanged. 

His mind wandered again, and he wondered if he’d still feel the same in the future. 

He didn’t understand him much.

The sun was bright, creating a spotlight on Luffy, who was bouncy and bubbly, and that beaming smile only emphasized it more. His presence brought a familiar sense of warmth and Zoro hated it, at first. 

It was suffocating because it was all around him, it was unfamiliar and Zoro didn't think he could adjust to it. It grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him in and he couldn’t seem to rip himself from the embrace. 

Zoro didn’t miss the way Luffy could read his emotions, every expression he made never went unnoticed by the boy. He felt breached, because Luffy somehow knew it all and nothing at the same time.  

He felt a certain push and pull with the boy, one that he shouldn’t feel because they were only human—they knew nothing beyond what they knew then, yet they defied that rule and Zoro couldn’t figure out why. 

It made Zoro think back to years ago.

He had read books of gods as a child: they expanded the world and ensured a harmonious existence for all; they clashed with each other, yet worked so well together because that was their purpose. 

He had always wondered if this is what they were truly like; living proof of what he thought was fake, because he was here now, experiencing it for himself. 

Luffy was the sun—reincarnated: he shone just as bright, if not brighter. His skin was sunkissed and his spirit was free. 

Zoro was the moon: his light was present, dim or not. He was silent, and yet his determination burned just as bright. 

He watched the boy drone on and on in the little boat rocking against the waves. His light shone in Zoro’s eyes and this time, he didn't use it as an excuse to shut them. Zoro wanted to catch every feature of Luffy, to know what it all meant and figure out why he was so warm. 

The sun was setting and was replaced by the moon. The light shone on Zoro, but he didn't mind it. The sun was gone, yet the warmth was still there. It wrapped the two in a comforting silence. 

It had only been days with Luffy, but it felt like weeks. 

Zoro didn’t understand him much, but he will learn. 

It felt existential, like everything he had ever known had passed through him with one breeze; it was ahead of him now, just out of reach, and even when his fingers grasped it, they glided through like a phantom. He couldn’t directly explain the feeling, but he knew it was there.

The stupid-giraffe talked and talked, rambling about how he couldn’t be beaten; all Zoro could do was grunt. He didn’t know what he had just felt, but he had his sword pointed at the giraffe’s neck, and he somehow knew what he had to do.

The giraffe wound up an attack and Zoro did it again: his eyes were open and yet he could see beyond. It was just ahead of him, waiting and beckoning, telling him to reach. 

He did, his hands grazed it again, and this time, it was there. It didn’t phase through his fingers and he managed to take hold of it. It felt like nothing and something at the same time. He squeezed it, he allowed it to happen.

He couldn’t feel it, but he could sense it.

He split. It was like everything was being unwrapped and tied together all over again. 

It felt new. 

His swords—his 9 existent but nonexistent swords—clashed against the Giraffe’s attack, denaturing it in one simple parry. It was easy now. His hands understood the movements, his body understood the feeling. 

It was only a second until the Giraffe was bleeding, his ichor pouring from his chest. Zoro watched it flow, and a familiar burn rushed through his veins. 

In the back of his mind, he could see a clone of himself, smiling pridefully, teeth coated in a deep, blotchy red. 

But, in reality, the key was in his hand and the battle was over. The breeze was gone and Zoro exited the room, mind somewhere else but also there. 

Enies Lobby came and went. They got on the Merry and sailed back to Water 7; it happened just like any other adventure that was fueled by the search for freedom and justice. 

The crew got Robin back, and even though Zoro tried to act aloof, he couldn’t ignore the swell of his heart when their new crewmate was finally safe and sound—when she finally returned home. 

There’s a big celebration and the night was drowned away with booze, meat, and plenty of rest. 

He didn’t think about it again, the thing he touched. It burned his skin like fire, it lingered even when he was in water. 

But, he knew it now. 

Asura, he would call it. 

The ship sailed again and the crew was back to normal. Not much happened throughout those days; the ship—now called the Thousand Sunny—sailed across the water with ease; hours were spent training, and those hours turned into days. 

It was all odd, in Zoro’s head. Things were scrambled, and it felt like someone had taken apart his brain and reassembled it with no precision. He remembered the feeling well—when everything had been remade. He was tied together with new strings, but they were something he was not used to yet. 

The day passed by quickly, wasted away on weight lifting and cardio. It was nothing new but it was new, because Zoro was different.

He was stronger. 

The sun began setting and dinner was served by the time it hit the horizon. 

Zoro ate like normal. His crew talked and laughed, but Zoro didn't feel there, fully. 

He felt a familiar sensation: a cold veil wrapped around him. His fingers ached again, and they urged to scratch at a new, blooming itch. It was there, but it’s not there. 

He remembered the burn on his hands. It ran under his skin, absorbing into his veins and rushing through his blood. It coated his teeth, hot and smoking. 

He scrunched his eyebrows at his food, as if starting at it any longer would fix this. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder, tan skin and black hair invading his personal space, and Zoro snapped back into reality. 

The cold disappeared. It was warm again, and that itch slipped out of his mind. Luffy’s smile beamed as his rubber fingers picked at his plate. Zoro almost allowed the boy to get away with it, but he couldn't help the smile that grew on his own face while he reached over, poking him with his fork. 

The crew talked and laughed, and Zoro was there again. He joined them, and he didn’t allow that feeling to consume him. 

For the first time in a long time, he felt afraid. 

He couldn’t remember the last time this feeling had dawned down on him. Maybe when he was a child, when he had gotten lost in a forest with no way home, when the sun was setting and the shadows had looked like monsters. 

It cradled his face, like a mother comforting her child. Except, it was not comforting—he felt cold and he knew there was nothing else he could do. His lungs were constricted, and he thought of clawing the feeling out of his chest. 

Sanji lay not far from him, on the ground all bruised and battered. The mere sight of him made Zoro’s heart lurch. He couldn’t unsee the Cook's hand, dragging down his arm as he sank to the ground, and Zoro had seen the hurt in his eyes. In the deafening silence, his mind couldn’t help but think about the what-ifs. 

He tried to imagine Sanji in his place now, hands smugly shoved in his pockets as if he were the king of the world. As if he didn’t matter—find a new cook. 

He thought of his crew: the people who he had vowed to protect. They were symbols engraved in stone to never be forgotten—their epigraphy was unique in their own ways. Zoro could run his hand over each one and recognize every individual divot, because he had come so far to learn about every one of them. 

There was a shift in the air that brought him back to the present, and he remembered the foreboding man in front of him. 

Zoro’s chest felt less tight, and he could finally breathe again—the clarity he felt as a child when he had breached the treelines, finding his way out of the lush forest before the sun had vanished. 

Kuma reached his hand out. Zoro stepped forward.

His fear turned into determination, then. 

It was something he had never felt before; it was all around him, gripping and twisting his skin that already felt as if it was tearing. His muscles didn’t function, it was the kind of numbness that passed through his bloodstream and to his brain. 

He thought he could taste blood, from the inside and out. He couldn’t comprehend anything other than pain. 

His heart stopped beating for one-hundred and three seconds. 

There was a void in him; nothing functioned and it was hollow.

It felt like nothing, he thought.

Nothing happened, he said to Sanji. 

It felt like everything, he knew. 

The topic of home was brought up and Sanji was entrenched in finding out about Zoro’s home life—or more specifically, his home dishes.

It bordered on irritating, really. Zoro took what the man gave and he didn’t complain much; it made things easier for himself, because Zoro was a man of simplicity.

Sanji was a man of complicated messes and sophistication; Zoro thought that was where his distaste stemmed from.

“I don’t care what the hell I eat, idiot-cook,” Zoro said between the bottle of sake that rested on his lips, “this is pointless.” 

Sanji dead-eyed the other. “You'll be eating rice and eggs everyday, then.” 

Zoro doesn’t bother to look at the man. He could already imagine the shit-eating look he wore. It was something he had become used to over the time Zoro had sailed with him; he knew it was something he would continue to see over the years, so he refrained from bruising it up, for now. 

Despite the other ruining his valuable time, he let his mind think, wandering back to his childhood. 

He had to close his eyes to remember the chubudai that lay in the middle of his home. He squinted through the haze; it was covered in various bowls and plates, housing certain meats and rice and vegetables. He couldn’t recall the specific names. In fact, it was all a blur. 

In his mind, he thought he could see a woman. She brought a sense of warmth despite the confusion that came with it; her face was out of place, eyes missing and smile blank. It all meant nothing, but something urged him to keep trying. 

Zoro didn’t know what to say about it. He decided to keep it simple.

“I wouldn’t mind that.” He opened his eyes again. He was greeted with a weird stare in return. Could a man not shut his eyes, now?

Sanji tapped his pencil against his notepad. It created a rhythmic melody, something to fill the silence as he thought. It lasted longer than it should, and Zoro didn’t know if he should fill the space with his usual, empty insults. 

Sanji’s brow curled in a familiar scrunch, the look he achieved when he thought too hard about the future and its consequences. 

Zoro frowned. He had never asked to be understood, and yet there was something that obviously kept pulling Sanji in. 

Zoro was a closed off man. He didn’t know why Sanji wanted to know how to work with that.

“Of course you wouldn’t. I should just kill you,” Sanji said. His tone invited Zoro to branch off of the insult, to which he does.  

“Fine. Onigiri, you plebeian.”

“That’s it?”

Zoro paused, inhaling to say something but exhaled with nothing. His mind was blank; Sanji had the man right where he wanted him.

Zoro placed the bottle of sake on the deck. He had to learn forward and fold his hands together, as if it were some ritual when it came to remembering. 

He found himself doing that a lot. Odd.

“I liked to eat meat whenever I had dinner with my Sensei, but I don’t remember what he made, exactly.” Zoro’s brow scrunched and he tried to clear the haze.

“I was taught to eat and not question, because a meal is a meal, at the end of the day. But, before that, I always had a sense of appreciation. I think it’s something I learned when I was very young.”

He didn’t imply anything else. He’d rather ignore the topic of childhood homelessness.

Sanji listened and refrained from belittling the man. 

He tilted his head, “That’s a lot for you to remember, considering your brain is always clouded with moss.” Sanji wrote in his notepad, it was a few words and he didn’t miss the way Zoro squinted at him. 

Zoro’s hands unfolded, snatching the bottle of sake back off of the deck and instinctively bringing it up to his lips, but not before he growled, “I’ll skin you!”

Sanji slid the notepad into his pocket, clicking his tongue with satisfaction and deciding to spare his breath. He left, stepping back to the galley. 

Zoro frowned as the blonde vanished. He felt weird, deep down, like he should scream at the man, like he should grab him and pull him back and merge into one. It pissed him off, more than anything. 

Sanji was refined, and Zoro doesn’t think he’ll learn to like it.  

Zoro tried to remember home with his eyebrows scrunched. He realized he couldn’t, and he doesn’t know if he should hate it or learn to be content with it.

He can’t really remember the sight of the snowy plains, or what his blankets had felt like on cold winters. He thought of the breeze that blew through the dojo, and what color flowers would bloom in the spring. He can barely think of the trees rustling in the sunlight and the kids that used to play in the summer. He was left with nothing when he wanted to remember the leaves crunching under his feet in the yard. 

He tried to remember Kuina’s grave that had always sat calmly in the fall, yet it only fogged and whiffed away when he tried to reach for it. 

It had been like this for years, he knew. Zoro didn’t try to strain the memories, but there were times when it came back to him; it flowed like water in a mill, and in those rare moments, he felt it on his skin, cold and awakening.

Sunny rocked against water for fourteen long days. It had been mundane and monotonous; repeating the same cycle with nothing to show but the sight of endless sea. Zoro sought out the moon to distract his mind during nights like these. 

It brought a familiar sense of a gentle and comforting place.

He began to remember, slowly, and he wanted to reach his hand out, but not before he heard a sound. 

He had tried to ignore the new footsteps that ratted against the wood—soft and repetitive in its motion. Then, a faint smell of smoke hit his nose, and he peaked an eye open to be met with a tuft of blonde in his face. 

He felt his mood instantly sour at the sight of Sanji, watching a mock innocence cross his eyes despite the look of distaste cocking into place within his lips.

“Are you always this lazy?” Sanji questioned, but Zoro can pick out the lament he had held back between his shitty teeth. 

Zoro closed his eyes again, hoping to will the cook away. 

Sanji dug his foot into the swordsman’s side, nudging and shoving until Zoro opened his lids again. Dull eyes watched the cook rise to his full height, lifting a plate off a silver tray to shove into the man’s hands. 

Zoro hummed, choosing to not play into the man’s surface-level idiocy. His eyes looked down at the food, taking in the recognizable appearance despite nothing but moonlight shining off of it. 

Onigiri, wrapped with strips of seaweed, complemented with meat on the side. 

It was familiar; but he didn’t have time to think about it. Instead, he lifted a ball in between two fingers, squinting at it in a way that he knew would irk the man—pretending as if the cook had tampered with it. Zoro wondered if the idea had ever crossed his mind. 

“Are you always a shit-cook?” Zoro serenely contested with a shoved-stack of rice in his mouth. He held back a smirk when he had felt the satisfaction of the Chef’s abhorred tut in response. It was always difficult to not insult the man. 

“I make the shittiest plates just for you, Mosshead,” Sanji sneered, eyes watching every muscle twitch in the other’s face—Zoro ignored how the other watched him shove food into his mouth, like a gorger. 

He ate with swiftness, and for a moment he couldn’t tell if it was to enjoy all the flavors that the chef knew he had liked, or to get the cook’s attention, demanding his eyes to only be on him because that was the way it was meant to be. 

Sanji stood in silence, tucking the silver tray under his arm. The onigiri was gone a few moments later. Zoro looked back at Sanji, seeing the man’s eyes crease, expectantly. At first, Zoro stared back, and he took in the look that he had seen on the cook's face before—tense, worried, as if he was awaiting a scolding for doing something wrong, when he thought too far into the future. 

The moon shone from behind him, lining his silhouette. It was more of the awkward silence that kept Zoro from commenting on it. 

Zoro blinked his eyes away, his tone impish, “It tasted like shit, by the way.”

He turned the plate to its side to catch the remaining grains of rice. The food was licked clean. 

Sanji’s shoulders lifted upward as he recoiled with a scoff, though he should know better than to take the man seriously. He took a step forward to rip the plate out of the man's hands.

“I’ll shove this plate down your throat!” Sanji warned, and Zoro had quickly lifted his hand in preparation to catch a flying leather shoe; but instead, nothing came. He was sure he’d catch it, throw the cook off balance, and make a fool of the man. 

Instead, the cook stopped himself to stare at the other for a beat longer, his eyes filled with a certain look—one Zoro couldn’t recognize, anymore. 

Zoro raised an eyebrow, watching the Chef place the ware onto the wooden planks. He sat coolly, eyes staring into the horizon as if he hadn’t threatened the swordsman mere seconds ago. 

Deep in that look of his, Zoro could see the fake of his eyebrow scrunch, the way he tried to seem angry. 

He knew Sanji was not angry. Not really. 

His eyes avoided Zoro’s, clenching his jaw while he began digging into his pocket. Sanji chewed on his bottom lip. 

“I tried to make it as simple as I could. You didn’t tell me much about what you liked, or much of anything, for that matter.”

The chef had stopped himself there, still fiddling with the plump of lip between his teeth. He waited, only met with silence. 

Zoro exhaled, kicking his legs out and cradling his own head with his hands while he continued to gaze into the clouds. They were pristine white, and they seemed to be glowing against the moon's rays. 

The plate lay beside the duo, and Zoro hadn’t ignored the ease that washed over his body at the sight of the sky. He felt a sense of familiarity, the moonlight giving him a spotlight that was so strong, so recognizable. 

He couldn’t help but let his thoughts wander, and he was sure if he wasn’t human, his soul would reach out to graze the cook’s skin—to try and mold and become one with him.

Zoro pretended not to notice the burning of Sanji’s eyes on his face. He allowed himself to think now, basking in the comfortable silence of not just himself, but Sanji, too. 

He fluttered his eyes closed, and he could see the chabudai again. It was in the same spot, but he was seated there, this time. 

He could vividly see the foods: a plate of perfectly cut up salmon, one of rice, steamed and mixed vegetables, and two bowls of broth. 

Ahead of him, a woman sat, and she was recognizable. Her eyes were crinkled as if she had been smiling for ages, and he could feel her hum that echoed through his head. Her hair was green and it flowed on top of her shoulders in waves and curls. It was beautiful, and she brought the sense of warmth that he had felt before. 

This time, Zoro knew what to say about it.

“It reminded me of home,” Zoro admitted. “The food, I mean.”

He scrunched his nose at his own words, but it felt right. His conscience told him that he was becoming soft, but there was something in Zoro that eased him. 

Or, rather, there was something beside Zoro that eased him. 

The emotions invoking him were too complex, and he thought he could learn to live with them.

But, Zoro hated complexity. 

Zoro hated home. He hated Sanji. 

Sometimes, Zoro wondered if hate was the same as love, divided by the lining of his own blade. 

He spared a final glance at the chef. Sanji’s eyebrows were no longer scrunched. 

I know what I feel now, he thought, as he blinked back the feeling of devotion. 

On the rare occasion that the ship happened to be quiet, they had always ended up here.

It was the same spot every time; in the crows nest, the far leftmost seat, right in front of the window where, more often than not, the sun usually set. It created a rather beautiful scene across the water, and it had soon become something that Zoro could never get tired of looking at.

With a shuffle, Sanji laid his head on Zoro’s shoulder, exhaling his cigarette smoke through his lazily parted lips. 

Zoro angled his head to catch the blonde in his line of sight. It was entrancing, almost; the way he had always seemed to look divine, even in the simplest of moments. 

He, too, was something Zoro could never get tired of looking at.

After the first few times, he had learned to let this become normal. Something about the way Sanji managed to ground him was what kept Zoro from running away. He couldn’t bring himself to push, because that was not what he wanted.

Not that he knew what he wanted, but he had a few ideas.

It was like a light had been lit inside of him, something that Zoro had forced himself to keep hidden for years. 

He wondered if this was what it meant to finally take shape. 

Upon their countless pitstops and seemingly unplanned adventures across the seas, Zoro still could not get used to the rare stillness of his days.

As pleasing as it should be, he found his mind wandering more often than he would normally allow it to—he had practiced the art of meditation, after all, and he did not plan for it to go to waste on the topic of boredom. Of course, he had a lively crew with an annoying captain, but not everyday could be spent playing games. It took a while for Luffy to respect that everybody needed their own personal time.

The point was, it was too quiet for Zoro and he needed a distraction.

He found himself in the library when the afternoon settled, staring at the rows upon rows of books that had somehow found their way onto this ship. It wasn’t a surprise to be greeted by Robin, who sat at the table placed in the middle, her corner-crinkled eyes looking at him. 

“Hello, Zoro.” 

Her voice was as soft as always, conveying no emotion while somehow sounding expectant—it was an odd thing she could do, sounding like one thing while meaning the other. Zoro exhaled through his nose, fully stepping into the study to allow the door to fall shut behind him.

“Afternoon,” he grunted, his feet moving by themselves. Perhaps it was the lure of the books calling to him—he couldn’t remember the last time he had physically touched one, anyway.

He knew Robin was watching his feeble movement, the way his feet slowly inched closer to one of the shelves. Zoro had never found himself here often, too caught up in training and napping. 

Robin chuckled, merely loud enough for his ears to catch on. 

“Something funny?” Zoro paused, head cocking to raise an eyebrow at the woman. Though his tone was business as usual, holding no bite. In fact, the mere sight of Robin’s smile made him feel comfortable. 

She waved her hand dismissively, “I’m just thinking, that's all.”

He exhaled, “When are you not thinking?”

Her eyes stare into his, showing nothing that could give a hint to her thoughts. Zoro squinted, as if he was trying to get into her overcomplicated brain. 

The woman shrugged her shoulders. “It’s just, I've never seen you enter our library until today.” Her palm lay flat on the book she was reading, fingers tapping in a rhythmic order. “A change of habit, maybe?”

“It just happened to be quiet today,” Zoro tutted. He reached the bookshelf, reading the titles that were printed on the spines. There were various selections, ranging from topics about sailing to things as niche as North Blue bird species. None of them had interested him in the slightest. 

“And where’s Sanji?” Robin jested. 

Zoro glanced back at her, trying to combat her all-knowing expression. At this rate, he wondered if she had also known about their nightly activities in the nest. He sighed, “He kicked me out of the kitchen.”

Robin doesn’t humor him with an answer, only offering a fond huff as she looked back down at her book. Zoro took the chance to properly observe the bookshelf ahead. He couldn’t recall a time during their journey where they had stopped to buy an array of covers. But, then again, Zoro was often left out of the loop on things that didn’t include being a pack mule.

He swiveled, approaching an empty chair at the table, asking, “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I’m attempting to implement my study of anthropology to connect with our fellow shipmates,” Robin answered steadily. 

He blinked, his mouth opening, closing, and then opening again.

“…What?”

Robin reached over, sliding a bookmark in between the book in front of her. “All of us came from different parts of the seas, and I feel it would make us feel more connected if we combined all of our customs into something unique.” 

She closed the cover, rotating it and pointing to the title for emphasis. A Sourcebook for Multicultural Families. 

Zoro clicked his tongue, even if he didn’t fully understand. “Huh. So like.. learning about everyone’s background? That’s a bit much, don’t you think?” He asked while pulling his swords from his side, carefully balancing them against the table.

Robin watched him and his swords with a soft glint in her eye; Zoro could practically see the gears running, ready to hear a steely observation that would only, somehow, make sense in her head.

“Not quite,” She faced the book back towards herself, flipping through pages. “For example, I've known plenty of other swordsmen in my lifetime, they have all carried values much different than yours—yet, you both bear the swords. Humor me, how many swordsmen have such care for their swords as you do?”

Zoro finally settled into the seat across from Robin, scoffing. “Not enough.” 

Despite the snipe, her words gave him a brief clarity on the topic; he’s immediately reminded of his bond with Luffy. The captain was the complete opposite from himself, and yet, they were here, far out into sea with no regrets behind them. Many would have called it an odd fate, but Zoro knew he chose this path the very moment he had laid eyes on the boy.

“It is statistically proven that families always have something to bond over—whether it be emotional experiences or resilience.” Robin explained, pointing her finger at a jumble of words that Zoro couldn’t make out from his position. 

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, so that’s what this is about?”

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Robin looked up at him, tilting her head. 

It was hard to settle on, was what it was. Zoro had known from the beginning of Robin’s journey, the very day she had dramatically made her presence known on the ship, that she would want to know every answer possible. A single word was enough for the average person, yet a bore to the archeologist. 

Still, Zoro found himself wanting to understand. He didn’t know if it was for the interest of himself or for the entertainment of the woman.

“I dunno.” He shrugged. “I mean, we all get along great when we work towards our goals.”

“Fair point, but I believe there is something deeper than that.” Robin turned the book again, finger pointing at the words that were once a jumble from the previous angle.

Zoro leaned forward, catching the big and bolded letters. Family is a word that has many meanings across the globe. It holds economic, social, religious, and cultural value. To many, a family consists of people you can trust; people who support one another through the ups and downs. 

After a few seconds, Zoro returned to his original position. “Never thought of the crew as a.. family.” 

“Well, many dictionaries suggest one thing, when it could mean the other.” Robin took the book back, closing it to focus on a journal that laid to the side of the table. “I find it impressive how humans can interpret things differently based on certain experiences.”

Zoro was never a word person. Lots of letters and too many syllables had always confused him—became scrambled in his brain. Though he was trying to comprehend her words, it felt as if he was being slapped with the information rather than understanding it. 

He opened his mouth, an unsure exhale leaving his lips. “The definition of family is a bit odd, anyway,” 

“How so?” Robin piqued, raising an eyebrow at the man. Her journal was in front of her then, pen raised to scribble whatever she needed. 

“In my village,” he began, pausing to gather his words. They were still scrambled, pieces floating about—just out of reach. “Family was an important concept. It was a part of people’s identities, their livelihoods. I never understood it, I didn't have that bond with people. I guess I was...”

Lonely. He was lonely. It hung off of the tip of his tongue; a familiar sound feintly forming on his lips. He thought of those years, ages before he had settled with what he had come to accept today. 

He remembered his mother, those few memories together, those beans and her hymn. He remembered Kuina, he felt her faded determination with just a thought. He remembered the emptiness in his chest, the words that revolved around death and fate. 

Robin leaned forward, brushing a hand off of his. “Many of our crewmates carry experiences that are heavy, it is what shapes them.” 

Zoro rolled his eyes. Was this a therapy session, now?

Nonetheless, the unease that buried itself deep into his chest faded away. His eyebrows softened, his eyes closing as he muttered, “My parents died when I was young.”

“As for many of us.” Robin reminded him. Zoro knew better than to take it in a condescending way. 

“I had a parental figure,” The stern voice of Koushirou echoed in his ears, firm yet guiding—he couldn’t remember the warmth. He wondered if it was ever there at all; his words all boiled down to pity for an unloved child—for the belief that an orphan could live up to his daughter’s name.

Zoro shuddered, grabbing at his own arm skin. “But it was never.. like that, I think. I don’t know.”

“I see.” Robin nodded, and Zoro was reminded of the journal she held. Whatever she scribbled onto the pages made Zoro’s gut clench.

“I think a family can vary from person to person,” she clarified. “Maybe a family is a group of people who care, or a place where everyone can feel safe and trusted, or perhaps, both of those combined.”

Robin slid a drawer open, pulling out a larger book and placing it on the middle of the table, on top of everything else. It was the ship’s scrap book, started by Nami before Luffy hijacked the thing, writing his own additions to the beginning pages. Soon, it had turned into a ship custom, full of comments and sentences from everyone. 

Zoro remembered opening this book after the crew had saved Robin—a single page, full of ramblings, phrases, or signatures, all written by various crewmembers and even his own, that all meant the same thing, in the end.

We brought her home.

“Sometimes, it takes a while for people to realize that they have found a place to call home.” Robin added. With practiced ease, she flipped open to the first few pages—Zoro could recognize the page anywhere. Luffy had emphasized its importance, after all.

Shells Town — Zoro finally arrives home!

The space below the neat hand writing—that was, no doubt, Nami’s—was filled with words written in different colors. Red was the most prominent, but there were traces of orange, yellow, two different shades of blue, a black, purple, and soft pink.

Zoro found it hard to swallow, suddenly. His hands reached out, taking the book to bask in the words. He had read every page but his own, because who was he to see how others thought of him? It was a selfish way to get a grasp of his own life. 

In red pen, My swordsman!

Welcome home, Zoro! In orange.

Found at last, stupid oaf. In a dark blue.

In yellow scribbles, Fearsome and strong! Thank you for your protection! 

But it was like a welcoming party. Though almost everyone on this ship had never met Zoro before Luffy had saved him, they wrote about him as if he were the same guy—the same Zoro who would carry their love as he did now. 

Love you, little bro! in the lightest blue.

Right below that was purple, The most honorable man I know. Yohoho!

The black and pink were side by side, Thank you for everything. Welcome, swordsman. 

Welcome, Zoro! Thank you for your love!

He held his breath. 

He wondered if he did have any ounce of love, back then.

Even further, years ago, when he was only seven years old—when he carried burdens too heavy and memories too shallow. When he was left without a home, without the warmth and reminder that he was loved. 

His fingers trace the words, as if they would vanish—he wanted to keep hold of them, scared that he would feel empty once again without them. 

“That's.. too promising.” Zoro had to force himself to speak, lost in the words that were made to cherish. 

Robin didn’t respond. She allowed him to read, to understand what it had all meant—he was grateful for her and the patience she carried. Zoro was sure he looked like an idiot, with his watery eyes and clenched hands. 

“You forget who our captain is, Zoro.” She exhaled, mimicking a laugh. 

Zoro snorted, looking away from the book, giving the faintest smile towards the woman. He chose to ignore the water in his eyes, the slight quiver in his voice.

“I think we’ve finally figured this family thing out.” He closed the book, gently laying his palm over the cover—like he did in his dreams, many years ago.

He used to imagine a world where this would all be true—too caught up in the pain and emptiness to focus on the better side of things.

“And I'm glad,” Robin smiled. Her warm hand lay on top of his, a comfort through the silence.

In the back of his mind, his buried memories of family and death bloomed—intricate seeds that were once planted years ago; they grew into new vines of choice, the Strawhats, and family.

He relished in the veil, allowing the small itch, embedded in his skin from decades ago, to fade away.