Three things survived the year he was gone from the ship. Water, which was contained in air tight barrels, tea, which was also in air tight barrels, and liquor. Lots and lots of liquor.
The same could not be said for anything else. Bones littered the deck, bugs and worms crawled in the remains of food, paper molded and ink dried. Even Brook's piano was weathered, some insect having taken interest in the legs.
Brook was stuck for the time being. With no way to steer, he had to hope he'd somehow float to freedom. Which likely meant he was in it for the long haul. That was okay. He was okay with that. He'd suffered through worse, hearing all his crew die and then dying himself.
He didn't know how long he'd be stuck in the Florian sea. So he figured the would try and make what did survive last as long as he could.
Brook was never a fan of tea. He didn't like it, it was too bitter, and usually tasted like plants (at best). He didn't think he'd be tearing into the tea any time soon.
He would like to hold off on the water for a while, as he could use it to clean with eventually, when some instruments began to to accumulate dust. He didn't need water anymore, anyway.
The liquor, however...
Brook thought he deserved a drink or two.
Brook hadn't drank anything for a long time, both before and after joining the Rumbar Pirates. He'd never had anything against it, he just didn't drink all that much. Better things to do, songs to sing or work to be done.
But music seemed a little useless, then, and there wasn't any work that could have been done. Brook could think of nothing better than checking out for a little while, letting his mind be somewhere else than an endless sea of shadows.
He clambered into the mess hall, bottle in hand, and tugged the cork free. He let it drop to the floor.
Eating and drinking were odd endeavors. He could still eat and drink, he found, and his body usually knew what to do when he did so. But by all accounts he shouldn't be able to. He was bones, only bones, and while his mind strayed from darker topics he ended up pondering his missing organs.
He drank until the bottle was empty, feeling fuzzy around the edges. He would have frowned if he could, he didn't want to go back just yet. To the sharp clarity of his situation, no, he'd rather be fuzzy a while longer.
So he grabbed another bottle and opened it. Just two bottles, he reasoned, after this he'll sleep and continue keeping watch when he wakes.
But as the liquor, ale or sake or rum, burned down his nonexistent throat, the idea of seeing the once lively deck empty seemed horrific. It was horrific. And while Brook ended up keeping his promise to himself, it was only because he passed out on a table after he drained the bottle.
When he woke, a migraine pounding through a head that shouldn't be able to have a migraine, like seriously this was unfair, he couldn't make himself go up to the deck. Not yet. Maybe it was to delude himself into thinking his crew was just above, waiting for him for a little while. Perhaps they were, and he just couldn't see them. A ghost crew on a ghost ship, with a skeleton as their captain.
He sat in the dark for a time, in silence, in mourning. He felt like he was slipping. Slowly slipping where he should be rocketing off into madness. Maybe he was already crazy.
He went up the stairs and arrived on the empty deck just to prove to himself it was barren.
It was.
He went back down and pulled out another bottle.
Time passed. How much, he didn't know. There was no day, no night in the fog. Only distant memories and distant figures in the gloom that made Brook certain he was losing it. He would go up to the deck to sing, occasionally. He'd sing, play songs on his violin, say hello to the ghosts in case they were there. He wondered what his crew would think of him now, what Yorki would think.
They'd be disappointed, a traitorous thought whispered, strong and noble Brook, look at him now, fallen to a new low.
When those thoughts entered his mind, he'd go below and grab a bottle. The liquor would make him feel worse, usually, but would also drown away the whispers, make the stream of consciousness falter ever more. This situation happened again and again until it stopped.
He got very drunk. He wondered if he could drown himself in the ocean. He tried to sit up but his bones refused to cooperate. He wondered if he could drink himself to death (though he was already dead). He sat in the hold, surrounded by barrels and bottles, having completely forgotten how much he had drank.
He legs wouldn't cooperate, but his arms could, and he drank bottle after bottle, not even pausing to savor the flavor. He was far too gone to care.
Thoughts became null, emotions became mush, and the only thing that stopped him for finding out if a skeleton could drink himself stupid was the alcohol finally running dry.
Brook looked over a sea of empty bottles, still alone, still a corpse, and then promptly passed out for three days.
When he woke next, tired and burning, but still very much alive and trapped on his damned ship, he decided liquor wasn't worth it.
He stood, wobbling, swaying in an unseen breeze, and decided to give the tea another chance. His crew had always loved the stuff. He'd never found it to be any use, being a morning person. But the crew, and Yorki on occasion, would lose it if anything happened to their tea.
He brewed a cup, took a sip, and found a newfound appreciation for tea. And a caffeine addiction.