roronoa "sword swallowing fuck" zoro (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stopbleeding) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
recolle2017-09-11 08:20 pm
stopbleeding) wrote in recolle2017-09-11 08:20 pm
[CLOSED] no matter how many seas separate us
WHO: zoro and baren
WHERE: their apartment
WHEN: maybe 9/12
WHAT: pleasant nightmares where you wake up because of the reality of loss and immense emotional pain.
WARNINGS: idfk. sad things. probably.
[Dinner is a race against a monster. "Eat fast or he'll–" he hears himself say, just as a hand stretches across and snatches the meat on his fork. He objects but not as loud as the long-nosed kid at the table, who threatens the odd stretching boy who can't seem to stop smiling. Beside him is Nami, aggravated, exasperated–even more than him. Across from her is the reindeer, smaller now, vacuuming noodles into his mouth while the man with stupid eyebrows makes sure he breathes. Tricks are played, the rubber captain breathes fire, a camel joins, the banquet continues and slowly, slowly, the rest of the room warms. The guards that had been behind them, frowning in disgust, begin to smile, then grin, then laugh. The long-nosed boy is dancing on the table, the reindeer's shoved sticks between his nose and mouth, the stretching boy blows himself into a balloon and rolls along the feast. They're laughing. He's laughing. Everyone's laughing.
And then–no one is.
Zoro wakes with a start usually reserved for nightmares, lurching with a gasp, palms sweating. There's something thick in his throat and he hopes it's meat from the banquet choking him. At least then it'd be proof. Some evidence that what he had seen was real and close and alive, if not here.
But it's just the dryness of his throat and he's just in the center of a bed that's too wide in the middle of a room that's too clean. Everything is sanitary. Everything is quiet. There's no clutter, no noise, no disruption of personal space or destruction of personal property. In its peacefulness, Zoro's apartment lacks warmth. In its privacy, Zoro feels suffocated by solitude.
The futility of his hopes is clear to him as he slips off the bed. His bare feet leave no sound on the hardwood floor as he walks by Baren, draped on an equally pristine couch. His pace is slow, four steps stretching across four minutes. He's looking as he walks, hoping that with each new floorboard some memento would be left behind. A button from the rubber boy's vest. A cigarette butt that the blonde one had discarded. Unsurprisingly, there's nothing.
His first true stop is the kitchen. It seems the most logical place to go for a group that was no better than vultures. The shift from hardwood to tile is marked only by the shift in temperature at his feet. It's cold. It's quiet. It's stifling. The pots and pans are in order, the sink is cleared, dishes are drying. He wants to break them. He wonders if that would summon them here.
The closets are next. The supply closet holds little possibilities and the linen's closet only makes him wonder if their sheets would make good capes and if they'd like that. Should he try it? He decides against it.
Then there's the clothes, stuffed in drawers and hanging from wire hangers. There's not much they could do with the fabric. Nami might like some of it at best. He runs his hands along the sleeves and tries to guess which. He can't figure out an answer; he moves on. Fiddles with a wire hanger and wonders if the reindeer would like it or if it'd be too dangerous. They could unravel it, reshape it, maybe fit it around the antlers but that seemed too high maintenance for a crew with such little patience.
His last stop is in front of the flag. When they had first moved in, he had obstinately hung it on the wall in front of the door. "They need to know who this home belongs to", he had told Baren. As if he had any clue. The people in his memories were ghosts. The flag hadn't been delivered to him as an emblem, but as a grave.]
It hurts.
[He mutters and hopes the souls in the flag will hear him.]
WHERE: their apartment
WHEN: maybe 9/12
WHAT: pleasant nightmares where you wake up because of the reality of loss and immense emotional pain.
WARNINGS: idfk. sad things. probably.
[Dinner is a race against a monster. "Eat fast or he'll–" he hears himself say, just as a hand stretches across and snatches the meat on his fork. He objects but not as loud as the long-nosed kid at the table, who threatens the odd stretching boy who can't seem to stop smiling. Beside him is Nami, aggravated, exasperated–even more than him. Across from her is the reindeer, smaller now, vacuuming noodles into his mouth while the man with stupid eyebrows makes sure he breathes. Tricks are played, the rubber captain breathes fire, a camel joins, the banquet continues and slowly, slowly, the rest of the room warms. The guards that had been behind them, frowning in disgust, begin to smile, then grin, then laugh. The long-nosed boy is dancing on the table, the reindeer's shoved sticks between his nose and mouth, the stretching boy blows himself into a balloon and rolls along the feast. They're laughing. He's laughing. Everyone's laughing.
And then–no one is.
Zoro wakes with a start usually reserved for nightmares, lurching with a gasp, palms sweating. There's something thick in his throat and he hopes it's meat from the banquet choking him. At least then it'd be proof. Some evidence that what he had seen was real and close and alive, if not here.
But it's just the dryness of his throat and he's just in the center of a bed that's too wide in the middle of a room that's too clean. Everything is sanitary. Everything is quiet. There's no clutter, no noise, no disruption of personal space or destruction of personal property. In its peacefulness, Zoro's apartment lacks warmth. In its privacy, Zoro feels suffocated by solitude.
The futility of his hopes is clear to him as he slips off the bed. His bare feet leave no sound on the hardwood floor as he walks by Baren, draped on an equally pristine couch. His pace is slow, four steps stretching across four minutes. He's looking as he walks, hoping that with each new floorboard some memento would be left behind. A button from the rubber boy's vest. A cigarette butt that the blonde one had discarded. Unsurprisingly, there's nothing.
His first true stop is the kitchen. It seems the most logical place to go for a group that was no better than vultures. The shift from hardwood to tile is marked only by the shift in temperature at his feet. It's cold. It's quiet. It's stifling. The pots and pans are in order, the sink is cleared, dishes are drying. He wants to break them. He wonders if that would summon them here.
The closets are next. The supply closet holds little possibilities and the linen's closet only makes him wonder if their sheets would make good capes and if they'd like that. Should he try it? He decides against it.
Then there's the clothes, stuffed in drawers and hanging from wire hangers. There's not much they could do with the fabric. Nami might like some of it at best. He runs his hands along the sleeves and tries to guess which. He can't figure out an answer; he moves on. Fiddles with a wire hanger and wonders if the reindeer would like it or if it'd be too dangerous. They could unravel it, reshape it, maybe fit it around the antlers but that seemed too high maintenance for a crew with such little patience.
His last stop is in front of the flag. When they had first moved in, he had obstinately hung it on the wall in front of the door. "They need to know who this home belongs to", he had told Baren. As if he had any clue. The people in his memories were ghosts. The flag hadn't been delivered to him as an emblem, but as a grave.]
It hurts.
[He mutters and hopes the souls in the flag will hear him.]