This chapter is set just before the events in Alabasta.
-Thirty-seven-
It was the middle of a hot, wet night and Rocinante stared tirelessly at his reflection, the light emphasizing the development of wrinkles settling just underneath the eyes. He rested his index finer over one, pressing against soft skin drenched in a combination of sweat and luxurious oils. He dragged it down, testing the dwindling elasticity, watching his lightly tanned skin go white for a moment before shifting back into the place, noticing right away the way the small wrinkles reformed, bringing itself back to his attention.
This was thirty-seven.
This was hitting that point where running around and acting like a fool was using up more energy than before, and left him feeling more winded than he cared to admit. It was the stress of living waist deep in the gambling industry, dealing with loud crowds, drunkards, and losses. Trying to keep everyone happy as they wasted their hardworking money on cheap thrills. It was supposedly retired from the life of a marine, discharged after the origins of his past surfaced, and yet spending a majority of his time trying to keep peace between a kingdom, its subjects, and the pirate that exploited its economy.
Rocinante leaned on the porcelain sink, letting his gaze drop to the rest of his face, past his neck, and down to his collarbone. He stared at worn out scars, no longer looking as intense as they once did, not with the whiteness now starting to blend with the surrounding skin. Some marks still protruded outward, but it all looked so smooth now, even the parts that shared space with active muscle. This was no doubt a result of being pampered; bathed in fine delicacies made to sooth old wounds, perhaps even slow the aging process.
Outside of the washroom he heard the sound of sheets being tossed, kicked off a body in favor of reaping the comforts of the conditioned air. He almost though to lean back and check to see if Crocodile might be stirring in his sleep, but remembered he only left the door slightly ajar. He didn't want any of the light to pour out, didn't want the warm air of the washroom to spoil his rest, in case Crocodile was sleeping soundly.
A few seconds past listening to Crocodile shift, settle, and go silent. Rocinante raised his head up yet again and went back to the wrinkles, then finally settled his focus on the eyes.
This body was thirty-seven, but the eyes looked as though they were near Crocodile's age, if not a few years more. He was hot and restless, but his eyes were tired and wanted to shut tight and enjoy just a few hours of peace before dealing with several hours of sun, noises, people and pirates.
Perhaps his wrinkles were really a result of the occasional restless night where memories from over ten years ago still haunted him. They were enough to reappear in his subconscious and torment him until he awakened, and remained awake until the sun rose across the desert. It could be shame that he carried when he left the marines, a combined result of the scrutiny he received after everyone learned of his familial ties, as well as the discovery of the White City and government funded cover-ups. And there was also the possibility of it being a result of being chased, disappointed and toyed with by pirates. If not Crocodile, then by raising and not being able to stop Law from going out and adopting black sails of his own. Yes, there was certainly some shame to be had in knowing that he was still consorting with pirates, this time by his own choosing.
Rocinante let go of the sink and took a step back, only to nearly slip on his heel and stumble forward again. His mouth shut, Rocinante snapped his head to the opened door, anxious to see if he might have awoken Crocodile. He heard nothing, not even light breathing. He shuffled back up, avoiding his reflection as he made his way to the door, flicking off the light before leaving the washroom. Clumsiness this late at night was a sign that he'd been thinking for too long, and was now at risk of injuring himself and causing a stir throughout the casino.
He was light on his steps as he approached the large bed, making out Crocodile's form resting near the edge. At first he was glad to see that Crocodile was silent, at least he didn't wake him up, not after a long day of him keeping pirates away from the country, but the lack of soft rhythmic breathing drew his attention, and when he knelt down he saw Crocodile staring back at him.
Rocinante fidgeted and nearly came close to stumbling, forward or back, it didn't matter, either way he would've made a scene of himself.
"How long?" he asked.
Crocodile's arm rolled under the pillow. "You're not very subtle," he answered. He turned on his back, sighing. "And once I caught sight of the light, there was no going back."
"Sorry," Rocinante muttered.
Crocodile blinked. "Close the door next time."
Rocinante felt the surrounding cool air rest on his bare shoulder, his chest. He shivered as he stood up, ready to return to the sheets, Crocodile's hand broke through the blankets and grabbed his wrist. He stared at the greedy hand clinging to him, felt the rings pressing against his skin, almost uncomfortable.
"What?" he asked.
"Down," Crocodile ordered. There were no light sources infiltrating the room, but Rocinante could see a slight glimmer in Crocodile's tired stare. It wasn't amusement, or anger, and it didn't look like concern either. Crocodile was just staring.
Several years being dragged deeper into the desert, falling deep into dangerous sands, staring it right in the face, and Rocinante still wasn't entirely sure what Crocodile found so interesting about him.
He knelt down, again, and Crocodile continued to pull him closer, closing a dwindling space between their faces.
Crocodile's lips brushed against his. "You look tired."
Rocinante smiled against Crocodile's lips, thankful that he wasn't overly upset with him for staying up for so long. "I don't feel too bad right now," he replied. He tried to pull away, but Crocodile held him down, forbidding him from moving too far. Rocinante remained just inches above him, staring at his confused expression reflected off of Crocodile's tired gaze.
"Whatever it was you were thinking about," he said while keeping his eyes on Rocinante, "stop it." His grip on Rocinante's wrist eased. "You look exhausted."
He let go of Rocinante and pulled his hand back into the sheets. Rocinante watched Crocodile moved around, pulling and taking bed sheets with him, until he was comfortable enough to go back resting on his side. Rocinante walked around the bed; careful when he crawled on despite knowing Crocodile couldn't be asleep yet. He kept an eye on Crocodile's back as he pulled his lesser share of the sheets, and tried to resituate himself in a comfortable enough position. He ended up on his back, facing the ceiling, waiting and counting the minutes it took for Crocodile's breathing to sound less forced.
He couldn't sleep. He didn't feel tired.
But Crocodile said he looked exhausted. He might've meant well (though it was hard to tell with the man), but his words only left Rocinante more sure that something was still off.
He stared up at the distant ceiling, remembering a time where he admired the curvature, the marble aligning the walls to keep everything cool, and the sounds of water and something swimming in the distance. There were nightmares almost every night, his subconscious clinging to those final moments before Tsuru and her crew landed, her presences just enough to alarm his brother and stop him from sending out a barrage of bullets. He lived, but his mind wandered and remained in the dark, clinging to the article titles of his brother's sentence, imprisonment, and everything else that left him a near insomniac. But when he slept he slept, tangled under a heavy and tanned body that left him feeling refreshed in the morning.
The nightmares were a rare occasion now, and Rocinante was several years past the fact that he was still alive, and would never see his brother again. But obtaining restfulness could still prove to be a challenge. Strange as it might have been, it was that night of him clinging to life, under the impression that Law was free and would grow up and accomplish so many things, and away from his brother's influence, that supplied him with the most fulfilling dream.
"You're still thinking."
"Sorry," Rocinante muttered while turning his head to stare at Crocodile's back.
He heard a sigh. "You keep apologizing," Crocodile replied. He turned his head just slightly, and Rocinante caught a small glimpse of his face. "Go to sleep."
"I know, I know." Rocinante went back to staring up at the ceiling. "I know."
He waited a few seconds before turning on his side, testing the limits of Crocodile's affection by crawling up to him. Rocinante rested a hand on his shoulder and noticed that Crocodile didn't flinch or say anything that suggested he minded the affection. Well, he guessed Crocodile didn't care as long as he fell asleep. Rocinante was fine either way. He nudged closer to him, rested his chest against Crocodile's back, and let his arm wrap under his.
A few more seconds went by, then minutes. Rocinante blinked, noticed the how eerily quite it was and moved his hand up Crocodile's chest, stopping at his neck. He whispered into his ear, "you're still awake?" Crocodile sighed. Rocinante continued to move his hand up, to Crocodile's face, moving a few strands of hair out of the way. "You can't sleep?"
"Your annoying behavior is contagious," Crocodile answered.
Rocinante stopped himself from apologizing. Instead, he let his finger rest on top of the worn scar that aligned Crocodile's face. Like his own, it was smoother and didn't protrude inwards as much as he remembered.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked while running his finger across the scar.
Even with Crocodile providing some distraction, Rocinante was thinking about his reflection, in the mirror and in Crocodile's eyes, his scars, their scars, and how they both felt tired.
He heard a groan escape Crocodile's lip. "Everything, dammit."
Thirty-seven was just another number. This is what it's like to still be alive.
