In Such Sleep...
No matter what he tells himself, he doesn't really need to sleep. He doesn't really need to eat or drink or pee or do any of those fleshy living things. Though it had been bizarre in a sense to discover that he could. Those first few years, because he doesn't know how to measure the time any finer than that, he had been afraid to sleep—afraid of the darkness that would sweep over him like the final curtain— or rather the final final curtain, when he would really be swept away into that black unknown, since, despite all of the things he can remember, that fate is forgotten as easily as a sneeze. Though, ah, he's forgotten sneezes, too. The moment of sensation, how good it feels knowing one is coming—the explosion of sound. He tries to imagine one in his nose cavity just now. Makes the sound. There is a faint mutter from Usopp-san, perhaps a polite 'bless you' or a piece of dream slipping through into the waking world. Brook listens hard to discern which—but there is no other sound but quiet breathing and buzzsaw snores. Breathing—he doesn't need to do. Nor can his heart jump in surprise, or joy, or love, for all that he still feels these things. But, where is his head? He is rambling and he's trying to focus more these days. The sea is not as wide as it once was—or rather, perhaps, its width doesn't matter so much anymore.
No, he doesn't need to sleep. At first he didn't want to, and then he did often. He might have passed days in sleep or years. And there were only a few dreams, though they were only memories of middle moments and final moments and last moments, and maybe he'd been awake after all and just going crazy. It was hard to tell sometimes. But whether memory or dream, there had been no fantasy, no hope, just longing, watching his nakama slip through his bony fingers again and again and again. True sleep had been blackness, emptiness, escape, a shutting off of consciousness. And when his shadow had been stolen, he hadn't slept at all. He'd been awake. He'd been angry, and afraid, full of purpose and desperation. The shadow was his, it was the principal of the thing, it was a promise long held in the back of his empty skull. And then, they had come along, and he thought he had been sleeping. Just seeing the prow of this merry little ship and all those faces staring at him with skin and eyes, standing out more real than the clinging mist, a surge of hope at last charging up his spine.
Brook shifts over on his side and peers at their captain, his eyes, though he has none, adjusted to the gloom to see the boy's features well enough. Luffy-san takes up more of the box hammock than even Brook does, and droops off the sides as well. His hand is low enough so that, with the movement of the ship, every sway of the hammock sends a small gust of air feathering Sanji-san's hair. Carefully, Brook reaches out and presses against Luffy-san's cheek with a single bone-white finger, watching it give. It is warm and Brook would like to think it's because he feels it through strange invisible nerves, but it's probably his imagination. Funny thing about imagination, though. They say that when a someone loses an arm or leg, even though the limb is gone, a phantom limb remains. There are five fingers that cannot lift anything, but still hurt, still move, still fall asleep in that annoying but lively dance of pricking needles. And Brook has phantom nerves. A phantom stomach. A phantom heart that beats against the lattice of his ribs and if he places his hand there he is sure he can feel it if he tries hard enough. He is a phantom of flesh, stitched together with nakama, purpose, hopes and dreams. Yes, dreams…
Because they exist now. Fields of flowers, moonlit skies, purple waves and marshmallow clouds, rolling with music and faces. Chopper-san and Robin-san have tea with Captain Yorki. Laboon breaches from the waves, singing songs of whale joy that carry forever and vibrates everyone's bones. Brook laughs. And sometimes he cries. And sometimes he screams and sometimes he fights. Sometimes the dreams are unpleasant but that doesn't matter because when he wakes up there are people to wake up to. People to talk to. To laugh with and tease, to fight and fight with. There is someone who still waits for him. There is sun or rain, joy or worry but no matter what, pushing forward as they surge through the waves toward a bright future.
"What dream shall I have tonight?" Brook says to himself, rolling onto his back and lacing his fingers together over his chest.
"Come with me!" Luffy-san says, or Brook thinks he says, or maybe imagines he says—in whichever case, Brook can only follow.