You know it's not going to be an average day when you wake up in the middle of the damn night realizing that the idiot isn't there. It's not just that. It's also the scent of his cooking that somehow reaches you all the way in the bunk room. You smile when you recognize the scent; it's the dish he makes only once a year and the name of which you never seem to remember. You tumble out of your hammock and try to move swiftly across the room. When you reach the door, someone opens it almost hitting you in the face. You swallow a curse, getting an whispered apology from Usopp, accompanied by a grin and a thumbs up. You find yourself grinning back as you sneak out of the room closing the door behind you.
You reach the galley door and grab the doorknob. You're about to open the door when you hear humming from behind the door. You smile when you recognize the tune, and you can see the scene in you mind; the bastard working with the pots and pans, a cigarette between his smiling lips. You push the door open, and the scene you pictured opens before your eyes; except that he's not smoking. Only once in a fucking year, he doesn't smoke while cooking. It's because it's different this time. He turns around and looks at you, smiles, and asks what the hell you are doing in his kitchen at this hour. Your smile spreads into a grin and you answer that it's none of his damn business, and what the hell is he doing, cooking in the middle of the fucking night like tomorrow is something special. With a smirk he tells you to fuck off, returning to his cooking.
It's always the same; you're playing the stupid game again. You act as if you don't remember what day it is tomorrow, and he's pretending that he does not know that you remember. You do it every damn time, like it's a tradition or something. You don't know which one of you started the game back then, or even why you are still playing it. You just start it, sorta out of habit.
You walk around the table so that you can sit watching him while he works, especially the way he moves his hands. The way he reaches for something, not even looking, because he knows it's there; he doesn't need to. The way he walks around the kitchen, like it's a whole different world, separated from the one where all other people live, the world where everything goes like he wants it to.
Without realizing it, you fall asleep while listening to his foolish humming and the sound of something boiling on the stove. You wake up at daybreak, feel the blanket around your shoulders and noticing him sleeping next to you, all but lying on the table. You smile grabbing the shit head's hand, giving it a light squeeze as you say quietly:
"It's a special day."
"DAMN RIGHT IT IS!" the asshole suddenly blurts out, scaring the shit out of you; you thought he was asleep.
"-shitty special day..." the idiot mumbles, and you realize that he's talking in his sleep. Shaking your head you grab his hand more tightly and brushing some of the blond strands off his face and kiss his forehead before wrapping an arm around his way too slender waist, closing your eyes again. A few more hours of sleep wouldn't hurt, you think while yawning. You're on the edge of sleep when you hear the fool mumbling again:
"-special day..."
With a sigh you mutter a response that you know is going to go unheard.
"Damn right."