Chapter Text
Spring on The Thousand Sunny was one that you had looked forward to for what seemed like years now. From the way Nami and Usopp talked about the season, it was like children on Christmas day, bright-eyed and practically shivering with expectation. The two so often spoke of this Spring that it could be just as easily concluded that their souls were attached to its birth, not only their unwavering admirational faith. Not to say the others did not enjoy it, however, the pair had their roots firmly planted in nature and the life that bloomed alongside the coming of warmer days.
From Nami with her tangerine trees, which brought her such peace, and joy that it could have been considered a kind of seasonal mood shift, to Usopp, with his garden, which had died out during the harsh winter months. The coming of the spring brought about the buds of the tangerine to rear their heads with the brilliant white smile of petals, hidden behind their closed lips. This blossoming of the season brought about a parallel budding enthusiasm in Usopp’s love for his hobby. The chance to begin to garden, and dig in the soil again brought out his smile again, as the winter had put a damper on it, due to his distaste for the bland skies and bone-chilling weather.
You could see him now, across the Sunny’s deck, furtively burrowing into the large rectangular planter that Franky had built the previous spring. The planter had been painted a beautiful blue by Usopp’s gentle hands, with small streaks of colorful yellows and cloudy whites that blended together pleasingly. It was not unlike the sky above, like the ocean’s mirroring visage. An assortment of paper-potted flowers sit beside him, purchased during the latest docking of the Sunny.
You do not remember ever seeing him bring any new arrangements aboard, however this was an easy feat to do. It was probably done while everyone was busy, so as not to provoke nagging from Nami about the costs. The small containers they sit in appear not to be Sanji's collection of pots and pans, which is both proof of your theory on their origin and of Usopp’s intelligence, or perhaps simply his will to live. In his hands now sits a brilliantly white plant, a flower you cannot name off the top of your head, but it contrasts with his rich skin tone, and the earthy soil that now litters the Sunny’s deck. You pray that Usopp uses that earlier intuition, accident or not, to sweep the spots of deck clean before Franky notices it.
Sighing, you leaned back, head hitting the tree trunk behind you with a gentle thud. You can feel through your hair the texture of the rough bark, those small bumps and notches recognizable as something you had traced over again, and again before. On some spots along its trunk, abruptly interrupting its natural patterning, gougings and carvings sit written. You know every place by heart, from the deep lines that Zoro had accidentally cut into when waking from a particular invigorating dream, to the faint, shamefully created initials of a certain shipwright and his crush.
The fresh and blooming scent of tangerine blossom, with its brilliantly poignant presence wafted about your head as you sat beneath the Sunny’s tree. The swing beside you rocked gently as well, as if some other guest was sitting to enjoy the smells of spring alongside you. It had been made before you came along, but the comfort of its presence was like that of an old friend. It is a stable constant and a welcoming sight.
Glancing back down about your legs, you can see the scattered remains of fallen blooms; white petals that cover the shaded grass in inconsistent intervals, similar to the tree’s branches above you. The beautifully simple flowers were the adorning jewels of the tangerine tree, crowning every branch. The presence of the prominent white flowers did not only act as a calling card for the countless types of pollinators, but also seemed to open the ship’s doors as well.
It was a slow trickle at first, of different members on different days taking more time out of their rooms to enjoy the rising temperatures of the sunlit deck. But soon it was an eruption of Spring-Time life. From Franky, who always had his hands working on something, to Chopper who took the time to sun across the lawn of the deck, it was like those white flowers had rolled out a white welcoming carpet of petals for all.
On most days, your eyes could take a head count of every crew member on the ship’s grassy deck, soaking in the spring just like the blossoms above you, all with the same natural glow.
However, this was not the case on this day. For unknown reasons, as you scanned the deck, your eyes could only spot Usopp outside. Unusual for Spring, but not unreasonable. Everyone always had their own things to do, and sometimes those things overlapped, creating both comical and emotional bonding sessions. Often they were your favorite moments.
“Good afternoon, Y/N,”
Your body tensed, head whipping around to find the source of the sound behind your back. Your eyes are met with a lengthy set of legs, clothed in brown corduroy pants that show their wear in small patches. Scanning up, your eyes seem to go on for minutes, until you finally reach a familiar toothy smile. You should have recognized his voice. It was always filled with such gentleness, afraid he would scare you away like a fawn.
“May I sit with you?”
You give a small affirming nod, smiling back with an equal softness involuntarily. Brook gives a look back, gingerly stepping over your outstretched leg. His arm reaches out to the trunk of the tree, holding himself stable as he sits down on the wooden swing with an audible creak. It is a soft sound, like putting a pile of laundry on said wood; muffled, with a sound of giving wear. The plank isn't the only thing that makes a sound, however. Huffing, Brook exhales in a small expression of relief, probably from the fear of falling over due to his imbalance.
He had never been someone who was very graceful, in your mind. You had seen him fall over on this swing before while trying to sit down just as he was now, but he never seemed to mind such things, always shaking it off with a laugh and a joyous smile. ‘Brook must always be happy,’ you think. At least he always seemed to be, joking and dancing, happy as spring itself.
Brook stares ahead, sockets hollow and empty. Without eyes, flesh, or brow, reading him could be difficult. However, even with these impairments, he still seemed to be focused ahead. His face, never changing, stares out towards the same direction you had been gazing in or at earlier. Turning towards the direction he is facing, you’re met with the view of Usopp’s garden again, with Usopp himself now absent. You don't remember hearing him leave while you had been looking at the flowers, so, it must have just happened. Your suspicions are quickly confirmed;
“Usopp is getting more fertilizer I think.” Brook states knowingly.
It is as if he could read your mind, or rather body language. As he speaks, you look back up at his face, your body twisting to meet his own.
His posture is perfect as always, spine curved upwards to his full height. Even just sitting as he is now, he is taller than most of the crew, you included. His height was something he never seemed to notice, but to you at least, it was one of his defining features. In life, he must have been a sight, you think. With such a frame, his figure could have rivaled Franky’s! You never had asked him before about his previous form due to the fear of striking a nerve, but had whispered about it to your other crew members in passing curiosity.
Chopper said that he must have been a very thin man, due to his bone structure being so light, but Nami and Usopp seemed to think otherwise. Zoro said he must have been really strong to be a pirate captain during those times, dealing with so many men and fights. Sanji said he must have been gaunt and scraggly due to the food shortage of the crew during those times. It was a mystery that nobody knew but the man before you, but even he probably wouldn't tell. Not without prompting, but you couldn't do that to such a kind soul.
Looking back down, you admired his clothing for today. It seemed like Brook always had a different pair of unknown clothing that nobody had seen before, and today was no exception. Textured, brown pants made of worn corduroy cover his thin legs like any other person, fitted loosely into bell-bottom style. You can see some parts that are extra worn, and mindlessly brush your fingertips over the places of fabric’s decline.
Brook reacts with audible surprise, a ‘Hm!-’ but not any sign of discomfort. In a soft turn of his head, he gazes down upon your small body, huddled next to his legs. He just watches your hands, curiously, seeing as your nimble fingers tenderly graze the patches of worn corduroy with such slow deliberateness. His head does not stir, nor his gaze tilt when Usopp returns to his garden, huffing as he carries a large multi-pound bag of darkened soil. Brook simply watches you, with his head slightly tilted, not focused on anything but your movements on his being.
The patches, as worn as they were, were not quite as rough as you had expected. They seem to still hold some residual fiber of their original creation, being just as soft as they would have been brand new. However, underneath these thinning strands of yarn is the true problem. Your small, prying fingertips feel to the base of the clinging yarn at their root. The threads holding everything together, the pants and the yarn itself, can be felt, and are nowhere near as soft as the layer above. If these base underlying threads were to be exposed to the elements, they would wear much more quickly than the rest.
Your hand’s searching comes to a slow halt, gently retracting your fingers from the patches, which could practically be considered holes at this point. Your hands and arms softly fall back to your sides, one coming to prop your body up a bit better than having nothing at all. Using this prop, you can now crane back, head now able to look up into the face of the awaiting skeleton.
You hadn't noticed his gaze before, so the large void sockets that looked equally surprised, if not more curious than anything, while staring back at you. Startled once again, you bashfully stare in both surprise and humiliation at your own nature.
Brook must have noticed this, retorting in a light tone,“I’m sorry for staring, Y/N-(san), I know better than such rude manners.”
“Oh!” You had not even noticed him before now, so this apology was unneeded of the ever polite gentleman.
“No, no- I was just startled, that’s all! It’s ok!” Looking up at him now, you realize your own misdeed. “I’m sorry for messing with your … pants!- it was not a very polite thing for anyone to do to someone else, especially so out of the blue.” You stammer a bit on your words, the feeling of guilt tugging on you like that of a naughty child.
You hadn't meant to be so…handsy. Just curious. The familiar flush of your face only cemented your embarrassment before the shade of a man.
“Oh goodness, do not worry about such things! You are fine! Feel to your heart's content!” Brook chimes, his grin becoming a bit wider as he tilts his head a bit forward. He appears to be getting a better look at you.
“If I may ask, however, is everything alright?” He pauses, glancing at his legs, then looking quickly back at you in the same tilted fashion. “Were you thinking of getting a pair for yourself?”
Smiling a bit, you shake your head, pulling your legs closer to your body in a gentle tuck.
“No. Not yet anyway,” You turn, pointing to the spot you had been mulling over earlier. “I was looking at the fabric. It’s beginning to fade,” You say solemnly, folding your hands over your knees.
Brook looks at the spot you touched, taking his own hand to graze it. You watch as his long, bony fingers pry similarly as you did, feeling the swatch with affirming efficiency, unlike your own hands which worked slowly, curiously, and deliberate. He makes a small hum, placing his hand back onto his lap. Brook’s gaze doesn't leave the patch however, now facing downward straight ahead of him to his lap.
“You’re correct at that. I don’t notice such things due to not having much feeling in my bones. That's the downside to not having skin like you do.”
He gestures to your hands with an indiscernible point, head tilting again to face you without having to move his whole being.
You had forgotten about that.
No skin meant no feeling, or maybe not fully. That devil fruit of his.. did the bones allow for any nervous system dictated behavior at all? Could he feel different sensations or textures?
You knew he must feel some things, for he reacted like the best of them, if not more so to some stimuli, such as fire or snow. However, was it out of FEELING these things, or a knee-jerk reaction? Could it be some primal reflex that remains in him as in everyone living thing? Perhaps in Brook’s strange case, a basic instinct that was meant to preserve a body he no longer possessed? Maybe it was some kind of coping, where the body still tried to feign being truly flesh and blood once more. Or, maybe it was something else. You could never ask such a personal thing without the guilt of that curiosity snuffing it out.
“Y/N?”
You quickly snap out of your thoughts at the sound of Brook, who sounds like he is wavering on concern.
“Yes! I’m so sorry!- I was-”
You cannot simply say your thoughts, as to avoid hurting the skeleton's feelings, so an excuse is needed. Looking out onto Usopp’s garden, it rapidly rushes to you along with a swift, unforeseen ploy to sate your own self-centered curiosity which your brain did not register. “--just, thinking about how nice Usopp’s garden looks, and about how nice this weather is.”
You hope Brook cannot see through you, for the idea of his face ever being draped in the hardly seen emotion of his called ‘sadness’ breaks your heart, specially the idea of being the sole cause of it. This thought causes your hands to clutch your knees a bit harder, but your body otherwise remains rigid. Brook looks up to the garden and your head follows. Usopp’s garden really was lovely, and so was the weather. However, the underlying question of Brook’s ability had thrown itself into the mix in the form of an all-encompassing blanket over these thoughts, smothering your intentions with guilt on your conscience.
“It is indeed. He works so hard on that garden.”
Brook folds his arms, leaning onto his femur so that his back hunches forward in a sharp curve. One hand, absentmindedly flopped over his leg hangs down near you lifelessly. You don’t often get to see Brook’s features up close like this, so any chance is taken as a learning opportunity. Four bones for each finger, leading to the cluster of tiny bones that made up the palm. The tips of those long, segmented fingers seemed to look almost sharp, however you cannot remember a time Brook’s touch was ever painful or unpleasant.
He was one of the most gentle people you knew, and the idea of him ever accidentally hurting someone caused your heart to hurt just a bit more than it had before. He would never mean such harm, and you knew above all else he wanted to be treated as a human like we all do. He and Jinbe, especially, had that in common.
Brook, without warning, shifts his posture back up with an audible huff. The hand you were half mindedly studying springing to life to support his torso as he moves. Quickly unfolding his arms, he places his hands on his knees to push his full body up into a standing position.
You only can watch in anticipation as he reaches upward into the tree above you both, searching for something. Due to the thick cluster of both deep green foliage and silky white petals of the citrus flowers, your gaze is obscured so you are unable to see what he is doing properly, only being able to view his torso-down.
“Brook?” You question him half-heartedly, however, it is but an ephemeral inquiry.
Brook shifts his stance, leaning back down to sit beside you. His hands, gentle and stiff, cup an obscured object. An impulsive spur of curiosity causes you to try and lean up to see what exactly Brook was so focused on, and what could have made him rise. You don’t notice his sockets looking down upon you in a coy manner that could have been mistaken by someone else as possibly tenderness or admiration.
He chuckles a bit at your cat-like curiosity, and responds to your wide impediment gaze by slowly unfurling his cupped hands. You're met with the sight of a small tangerine, looking even smaller in his slender finger bones. Brook’s focus is back on his prize, his phalanges piercing the flesh of the fruit in a soft shanking motion. His thumbs are used to peel the skin back, pulling it open to reveal the juicy, tender meat inside.
The smell of the newly exposed citrus rapidly invades your senses, your nose overwhelmed with the zesty tang of the acidic fruit’s innards. Your nose can hardly take it, revolting in an explosion with a a sneeze, in a fruitless attempt at calming the intensity of the acidity.
“Bless you,” Brook quietly retorts, switching the fruit to be one handedly held.
Diving his hand into his pants pocket, the skeleton pulls out a handkerchief, then swiftly hands it to you, palm up. Taking it gingerly, you thank him, your own fingers absorbing the new texture subliminally. Lace lines the linen fabric, with a jolly roger stitched onto one of the corners. It looks to be custom, and knowing Brook, it would be. The skeleton always did take his fashion very seriously, more so than even the girls or Sanji.
“Thank you, Brook..” You almost feel bad using such a lovely thing, however its purpose is still clear. Blowing your nose, you then place the cloth carefully beside you, not wishing to linger on it. “So, what’s with the fruit?”
“I wanted to show you something.” Brook then proceeds to move the fruit, moving it right in front of his skull, an inch to his nasal cavity entrance. Taking a deep breath, nothing results from it, unlike your clear reaction. “I cannot have such strong reactions as you do, to stimuli, however, I CAN smell.”
“How..?-” You freeze up, tensing anxiously. ‘How could he have known about those questions? Would he hate you? Scold you? Be disappointed or upset?-’
“I heard you asking Usopp last night about dinner.” He calmly states, attention apparently back at the fruit.
Beginning to unpeel it, he uses his sharp pointer finger to carve the outer layer away cleanly. The knife made of bone, hardened and sharp, used so delicately, oh, so tenderly, by its own creator… his precision is incredible, and sends the admittedly familiar, sensual shiver down your spine. Sanji would be impressed.
“It is not a topic that offends nor harms me, Y/N, you do not have to avoid it around me for the sake of my feelings.” The drops of his honey-like kindness makes your stomach complain, or perhaps it was the fruit. In either case, the sweetness between the two things was almost nauseating.
“Thank you Brook…I am .. very sorry if I seemed like I was speaking behind your back as well!”
This was indeed a fear, be it secondary, that you kept floating about your conscious mind. Those anxieties, those nagging fears were exhausting, however it seemed such is the cost of being around such a man day after day.
“No worries, my dear Y/N, no worries at all! It seems Usopp is both of our confidant!~”
Brook seems to almost laugh, jaw going slack before catching himself midway in an odd display of internal realization. His casual laugh is suddenly stifled, as if a cough had begun to bubble up through his throat, causing him to wheeze his finishing breath out. Sockets widening in actualization on his own words, his fingers slip into the flesh of the tangerine, the juice beginning to messily leak down the shimmering bone. The sugary droplets have begun to even get onto his wrist, and shirt cuff, soaking into the absorbent fabric to leave later troubles for cleaning day.
A smile crosses your lips at the realization of his own, for the indication is a promising one, but maybe for a later day. A much more loud, drunken one, in which bugging the poor sniper could give more conclusive answers to your now burning questions. But, for now, this is as clear a sign as it can get, and the mere idea sends another blooming display of rose across your cheeks.
Another droplet begins to run down his sleeve in his absent minded display, which is enough for his body to finally react to the beginnings of wet sleeves he now has accumulated over the course of a minute. His hands almost drop the fruit, retracting the bones from the heavily punctured flesh into a delicate fingertip hold around its circumference.
“D-” He pauses, the bubble of nervousness returning to his throat. “Do you want a piece..?”
His head turns to you ever so slightly, knot-hole like sockets somehow, gentle, and open. Flipping his palm over, the fruit rolls lazily into it, almost sticking to the exposed bone. It clearly has seen better days. You look at the mangled tangerine, it’s limpid juice still draining from its fruit. The flexuous puncture marks are clear, every indent where each shank-like phalange went in, visible before you. Glancing back at Brook, your eyes meet his own- well, to an extent; the darkness from his skull looks back at you, with a nervous air.
“Sure,”
Lifting the fruit up without a care for its leaking ichor, your thumbs dig into the mess of pulp and tissue. Separating it, with the soft sound of its separation, you hand over the other half of the tangerine to Brook.
You honestly don’t even think about the mess that now lays in your hands, sticky and staining, as anything other than a generous gift from a generous man. The once very present feeling of revolution you might've felt holding such a mass has seemingly been forgotten; replaced and painted over now with nothing but a fresh coat of admiration, and the sensation of a full heart.
Brook retracts his hand, bringing the flesh to his skeletal face and inly to his exposed jaw in a single swift motion of the wrist. Exposed teeth make quick work of the messy fruit, the sudden splash of juice spilling over his jutted chin, and pooling down into his cupped metacarpal. The thin runs of liquid also make their way down the carved shafts and grooves of his arm, rabbet-like in nature. It runs out of sight, slipping down between the seams of his ivory bone into his sleeves, probably leaving a mess for another cleaning day discovery, as was so often the case with Brook.
He never seemed to notice such things as discomfort of materials, or textures. Maybe that is why he had never noticed the wearing of those sepia hued pants, or the messes sometimes abstractly left across the side of his skull after his favorite mealtime. But, these questions could once again be prodded back into your unconscious mind, for now? The leaking gift in your palm mattered more than gold itself right now, and you were not about to let it rot before trying his alms of flesh.~