Final Night, an one piece fanfic

Final Night

"Tea, Sakazuki?" Issho asks, his voice a quiet rasp. He gets no response but feels Sakazuki take Issho's single cup and bring it to his own lips. He wonders if Sakazuki sees the significance of the act.

Written for the OP Marines Week Server Holiday Exchange

Notes:For FourleavesClover. I hope you like it.

The fabric is neither soft nor scratchy against his skin. It rests perfectly in the space of comfort, each fold simple, following the mysterious shape of the human body. In the quiet and cool air of this particular night, Issho's lips quirk up as he lets his thoughts fall where they will.

The final night of a year. An ultimately arbitrary and utterly human designator of time. He brings the warm cup of tea to his mouth, the smooth feel of the ceramic an old companion. The ground vibrates with the far off explosions of early fireworks and partying.

By the waterfront, one of the rowdier marine crews has set about firing cannons into the sea. Shouting and yelling, drunkenness the only nudge needed to scream "I'm here! I am alive!" Daring. A breeze blows across the tops of homes, over the tiled roofs, up and across fences, stirring leaves and grass.

The Last Gasps of God, his mother would say. Memories ripple across him, sinking into the fabric on his skin. His childhood home, quiet and dark, inauspicious. The island waiting on bated breath through the Dying Days, the five days they believed heralded the death of the old God and the rebirth of the new year. The new God.

Days of rest, but of uneasy rest. To be born during such a time was a terrible omen. To die during such a time was a terrible omen of a different sort. His mother, prayer beads wrapped tightly in her fist, whispers to a fate beyond their understanding. The village he grew up in, as silent as a tomb.

Waiting, waiting, praying that the days would pass uneventfully. That the dying God would not decide to take any of them with him.

Nothing like the festivals he came to know later, after he'd long left his homeland far behind. Yet Issho could never shake this particular old tradition. It felt nigh sacrilegious to party, to revel, to celebrate.

The paper screen behind him slides open like the wind through a reed. A heavy presence, one Issho has known for a long time. One he met during the Dying Days so many years ago. His mother had seen Sakazuki as an omen.

Strong legs settle next to him, the smell of heat and fire on his clothes, on his skin. Within him.

The tea is bitter and sharp, ritualistic, and yet Sakazuki makes no comment. Issho returns to watching his thoughts drift like snow. His mother's face, fear etched lines deep around her mouth and eyes. Her head bowed against the old wood floors of their hut. Incense and myrrh, streams of smoke that coated the back of Issho's tongue. The language of omens and superstitions, of treading carefully as if life is not one's own.

He muses that he can see her ways mirrored in his own actions. He goes where fate will take him, lets it use him as a compass. A loud explosion lights the air, he feels the ripples across the fabric of his robe. Shouts of children, the barking of dogs, laughter.

Sakazuki shifts beside him. It is a precise motion, no hesitation in it. He does not fear taking up space. A man of complete control. Fate does not own him, he creates fate. The opposite of Issho's mother. He can still hear her voice in his ear, fearful and trembling. "He goads the Gods, he will bring ruin to us all. Arrogance is man's folly!"

But she never saw as Issho did. Sakazuki is warm beside him, unyielding, a rock. He left his home island long ago, to follow the man who chose to make his own future. It is only now that Issho understands his mother's fear.

The clocks tick down, the air trembling as if in wait for the birth of the new God. Boom boom boom, crackles, pops, shrieks and bangs. The smells of gunpowder, of alcohol, of lips meeting in joy. The New God is Born! If the sun could choose, perhaps this is the noise it would make instead of the soft whisper of the wind and of the calling of birds.

Calloused fingers wrap around his own and Issho smiles.

Notes:

I was thinking a lot about old traditions and new traditions and I wanted to write something thoughtful. For you, Chi.

Let me know your thoughts!

As always, thank you for reading and you can find me on Twitter at buggyisbest.