Title: Danse Macabre
Copyright: One Piece and its characters © Eiichiro Oda. Lyrics © Jerry Jeff Walker/The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. The only copyright I stake is intellectual. Thank you, drive through.
Notes/Spoilers: Inspired by the seeming similarities between "Mr. Bojangles" and Jango's names. Simple, yet effective.
I'm still in the shallow end of the One Piece pool, and I've been told that Jango quite fancies dancing later on. I'm not the biggest advocate for complete-canon storytelling, but I imagine that our resident hypnotist would enjoy dancing, outside of circumstances like the following. Not really sure on the timeline for this; I'll let you all decide where you think it fits.
Dedication: To Quatrina Raberba, who got me interested in Kuro/Jango, encouraged my evil ideas, and ended up betaing this. Thank you very much for your gracious assistance. Any remaining errors are my own.
In worn out shoes, with silver hair
Ragged shirt and baggy pants
The old soft shoe.
--The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Mr. Bojangles
The inn's small room was dimly lit and sparsely furnished. It smelled of smoke and stale air, but Jango didn't dare move to open the window. If Captain Kuro wanted the window open, he would say so.
They had been on the move since last dawn, with hardly any sleep between the two of them. Three or so of the captain's few surviving crewmen were occupying another room in the rustic, dingy little inn. Jango didn't know the particulars, and didn't care.
Over the top of the heart-shaped rims of his glasses, Jango quietly watched what he could see of his captain. In the fading sunlight, filtered through yellow-stained windows, he watched the midair tapping of Kuro's boot to an unheard song.
It amused him, but he didn't say so.
"Jango." The word popped in the still air, and for a moment Jango imagined the sound reverberating off of the dark, wooden walls. Dust floated through the rays of sun, quickly returning to anonymity.
"...Yes, sir?" Tensed on the edge of the bed, his gloved fingers reflexively clenched on the white linen. He hoped it wasn't obvious.
"I want to dance." Kuro's voice, dry and scratchy and hollow in the room, held no humor.
"Sir?" At this, Jango looked his captain in the eyes, wondering if he had misheard.
"Not me. You," he corrected, drawing his hands up and laying one atop the other. He waited.
Seeing that he was going to have no further instruction, Jango rose from the bed, whose springs gave a rusty squeal of protest. "What did you have in mind?" What an utterly ridiculous request.
Kuro gave a little shrug and a smaller grin. "Amuse me. Dance for me."
Jango rocked on the balls of his feet. He was many things. A hypnotist. A pirate. A stylish dresser. One thing he was not was a dancer. This was going to be embarrassing.
He couldn't remember ever dancing before. He had seen others dance, had heard dancing was like fighting, was like love.
Jango took a moment to conjure an imaginary partner, steeled himself, and began to move without music.
It was an awkward beginning, a mishmash of fighting and love and waltzing. He felt incredibly self-conscious, knowing that eyes were upon him. Watching every step, every breath, every quiver of lip or brow born of nervousness. He knew he was failing.
If he had to die today, there should have been a less humiliating way to go.
After long minutes of repetitious steps, he began to find a rhythm. Swirling with his transparent partner across the creaking wood of the dance floor, he snuck little glances at Kuro. Was he still watching? Was he angry? Was he pleased?
He could not read Kuro's face. That made him more nervous. He willfully swallowed the lump building in his slim throat.
Jango noticed that Kuro's boot had been keeping time - still with the melody only he heard. Jango had been following the captain's song without knowing. Kuro was helping him?
Perhaps Kuro was pleased, which meant Jango would likely not die that night. He might have the chance to wake up tomorrow and relive the embarrassment once again, and slit the throat of anyone who dared to laugh. Not that he would tell them.
He felt the moisture ringing his hairline, the cling of damp shirt to back. How long had he been dancing? The sun was gone, and in its place, a small candle burned steadily behind walls of dirty glass and dainty ironwork from the table at Kuro's side.
The idea that Kuro had not interjected - the fact that Jango was still breathing - gave him a kind of awkward confidence, which he decided to test. As smoothly as could be, he reached for his hat, sliding thin fingers along its black brim; latching on to the stiff material, he lifted it from his head and sent it sailing gently to the bed.
Newly freed platinum hair glowed in the dingy lantern's light, the waves dancing as he did, creating a sort of curtain which Jango could hide behind. Monopolizing this effect, he reached for the simple band that held his hair in place, tugging a few times before it relented and slipped away from its charge.
The jacket became too much. Still dancing, Jango slipped it from his shoulders, letting it slide down thin arms, and tossed it as he spun. He had aimed for the bed, but as the coat left his fingers he knew he had miscalculated. The heavy fabric waved across the short distance to Kuro, the collar hitting one boot-clad foot.
Jango stopped cold. A dozen scenes played out at lightspeed through his mind - the various ways Kuro might indulge his wrath.
Instead, Kuro's thin lips quirked into something that might have been considered a smile. Dark eyes cast down at the jacket, and then to Jango, who stood still as death, perhaps thinking he might become invisible if he made no movement. Kuro raised an amused eyebrow. "Go on," he encouraged quietly.
His rhythm had been lost when his stomach jumped to his throat. He resumed, fumbling his steps, both fear and fatigue beginning to wear him down.
Jango's breathing was heavy. He'd had no food or drink in hours, and every muscle felt it. The damp shirt was a cooling contrast to his heated body, providing a small measure of comfort. He felt the sweat beginning to pool at the juncture of his collar bones. Jango made special effort to add extra spins to his steps, attempting to make the most of the non-existent breeze.
The gloves went next. He made sure they landed on the bed.
The air was coming in near gulps to his lungs. Something was going to give. Whether it was his legs, his will, or Kuro's patience with his staggering show, he didn't know.
"Captain Kuro, please..." Let there be mercy in this world!
"Yes...?" Kuro drawled.
"Please," Jango panted, "can I stop?"
Kuro was silent. Jango continued to dance. Standing was a miracle.
Jango let his labored breaths plead his case. They were falling on deaf ears, to be sure, but his options were few in number.
His step no longer lively nor quick, the hypnotist's movements were a mere courtesy effort to dancing. His feet ached, and he knew they would ache more if he removed his troublesome shoes to set flesh to the wooden floor, which he imagined to be teething with splinters.
His shirt became the next casualty. Unbuttoning it with slick, shaking hands, he tossed it without grace behind him, not caring where it landed.
His thin frame heaved, rocking with exhaustion. Pale skin drawn taut over defined ribs, he no longer made an effort to hide the gasps, but he no longer danced. Selfish preservation dared him to defy his captain. The shades over his eyes had fallen halfway down the length of his nose. Roughly, he set his fingers about their frame and threw them, hoping that they would hit the bed.
Kuro watched the spectacle before him with masked indifference. His perfect poker face.
A breath. Two. Jango's gasps were beginning to subside. He looked directly into his captain's ever-shadowed eyes.
"Would you die for me, Jango?" Kuro asked, his voice curious and almost light.
Jango panted. What nonsense. "You know I would." He almost had three days ago, when rival pirates had decimated half of Kuro's forces.
"Well, then. Why are we arguing?"
Jango swallowed the reply in his throat. Kuro intended to dance him to death?
Kuro smiled at the confusion that played itself out across the man's face. "Jango. Dance for me."
He was still, briefly considering the possible outcome of flinging himself on the bed, saying to hell with everything and giving in to his body's plea for rest. Perhaps he'd fall asleep before Kuro disemboweled him.
Kuro watched.
Jango danced.
Spinning, swaying, madly moving to the silent melody, Jango was desperate. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he could soon dance himself into unconsciousness.
No such luck. What he estimated to be a half hour later, Jango was still dancing, albeit slower. His heartbeat pounded its way through his body like an army a thousand strong; he could feel it down to his fingertips. His pulse rang like a living bell through his ears, jarring his neck with each beat of his blood. His head was light, his focus fading.
He was panicked. He was sure his heart would explode any moment. It was too much. There had to be something he could do. Defying Kuro now would only earn him a drawn out, painful punishment.
And then, something occurred to Jango that never had before.
Stumbling through a sway and tripping on the corner of the bed, he recovered to spin away while reaching into his pocket, and returned to face his captain. He held the dainty rope of his ring in trembling fingers, the metal glinting dully in the warm lantern light. He quickly drew a breath. "When I say -"
Kuro, faster than a thought, was upon Jango, and the world was topsy-turvy. When the dust settled, both were on the bed, Kuro sitting on Jango's thighs to pin him in place, hands splayed on either side of his chest; their weight sunk the old mattress.
Jango desperately tried to focus on Kuro's eyes, but they wouldn't obey. Nothing obeyed. Not even him.
"That was brave, Jango. That was gutsy," Kuro chuckled. The sound sent a chill through Jango.
Jango panted. His throat was parched, his lungs burned, and he was beyond words. Let Kuro do what he wanted. Death would be a mercy.
Jango waited. Instead of blades, instead of gashing, as he'd expected, he felt Kuro's hand on his side, a finger trailing slowly down each rib. Counting.
"You belong to me, Jango. Right down to your bones, you're mine. To do with as I see fit. Do you understand?"
Jango watched the far wall.
A warm hand roughly clutched the hypnotist's jaw, demanding attention.
"Do you understand?" Kuro repeated, mere inches from Jango's face, shadowing the world.
"Yes," Jango hissed.
"Good. Now, sleep." Kuro rose from the bed, straightening his own clothes, and silently left the room.
Jango drifted into a dreamless sleep.
End.