The hatch of the crow's nest closes just as the swordsman completes his five thousandth repetition of his ninth move that night.
"Oi." A baritone voice greets him.
"Oi!" the swordsman replies. "What are you doing here? You're not on watch later, are you?"
"No. It's Usopp," came the low monotonous tone.
"Yes," the swordsman agrees. He pauses and turns to face his visitor. "Are you telling me that you swapped with him tonight?"
"No. Can't sleep." A lazy answer given with eyes half opened.
"Usopp is talking in his sleep again? He's got such an active imagination. In real life and in his dreams!"
He yawns before responding, "No. That's not it." Still with the same low uninterested tone, making the swordsman curious.
"Oi cook! What the hell is wrong with you?"
"..." The cook lets out a pout, sticking out his lower lip.
"I can't sleep…"
Pause.
"Because…"
Another pause.
"... I don't have my bolster with me."
Eyes drop to the floor, his right toes rubbing at a certain spot on the wood back and forth.
"Your bolster?"
The blond avoids eye contact. "Yeah... well... it's big and warm and fluffy and... I sleep better with it." He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his loose pants nervously.
"You mean you can't sleep without it." The swordsman chuckles. "Wait till Nami finds out that you splurge on a bolster!"
The blond's face shoots up suddenly. "What the hell? It doesn't cost her a single cent! Don't say such stupid things about her, you bastard!"
"So..." the swordsman grins, "you're addicted to this bolster eh? Didn't know you need one before!"
"You know, it's like my cooking. Once you've tasted my cooking, you can never go back. Everything else pales in comparison."
"And once you've tried this bolster, you can never sleep without it?" He winks and raises his eyebrow for effect.
"Moss brain."
"Moron."
"..."
"So you have a bolster. What do I have in return? A measly twig!"
"A measly twig?" The blond huffs and gives a piercing glare.
"Yeah, you know, those thin bony things." He gestures with his hands. "Maybe a bit better than Brook at most."
"A twig?"
"Yeah, a twig, I'd say! With a strange curl!" He draws imaginary circles over one of his eyebrows.
"A TWIG?!"
The swordsman takes a deep breath before he continues. "That's golden like the sunshine. Blue like the sea. Smooth as silk. Smells of cologne, sometimes lavender with a tinge of mint, I think. Slightly smokey; more than I'd like actually. Insanely hot but absolutely cool to touch." He animates each part like a poet reciting his poetry to a lover.
The blond turns beet red and bites the inside of his cheek, becoming even more adorable than the swordsman would dare to admit.
"Just shut up, asshole! I need to sleep!"
The swordsman snickers. "Well, cook, as you can see, I have a couch here, a tiny pillow and a blanket." He points to the items as he says them. "But sorry, no bolster." He shrugs.
The cook turns away, pouting, frowning, sulking, crossing his arms over his chest.
The swordsman gives a sigh and goes over to the couch. "Idiot. Whatever. I need a break anyway." He picks up a cold moist towel from a bowl by the couch and wipes himself.
He unfolds the blanket, props up the tiny pillow by the armrest and stretches himself along the couch.
Then he looks at the blond, still standing motionless by the window.
"Hey cook!" he calls out to the sulking blond, motioning with both hands. "Come here."
After hesitating for several seconds, the cook walks over into the outstretched arms and climbs onto the couch.
The swordsman pulls him to the inside, adjusts their positions as he tucks him snugly between the backrest and in his arms, and pulls the blankets over them.
"Is this better, princess?" he says calmly as he pats the blond's hip.
"Fuck you!" He flinches.
"Not tonight, baby," he whispers into his ear. Pat. Pat. Pat.
"What baby?!" He looks up. Azure eye meets hazel one.
"There, there. Go to sleep now." A firm hand pulls the blond head back to its previous position, cradling him. Pat. Pat. Pat.
"I'm not a baby!" He hits the broad scarred chest in front of him.
"Shhhhh. Close your eyes." Pat. Pat. Pat.
"I hate you, marimo."
Pat. Pat. Pat.
"..."
A firm leg is sandwiched between two long ones. The blond head, buried under the neck of the green head, his cheek resting on his own hand, with a bicep as pillow. He breathes in the scent of musk, sweat and steel in a slow relaxed rhythm. One slender arm snakes around the muscular torso.
The cook lets out another yawn before quickly falling into a peaceful, restful sleep.
END