Chapter summary: Set very early in his career as a Marine, Smoker reflects on his birthdays and those people surrounding him during them.

A/N: Pre-canon again. Just a lot of little Marines losing brain cells the moment they band together in a pack.


Smoker Week 2025

Prompts: Birthday

Every year brought with it a new surprise.

The first year, Kuzan sold him out. It had been unintentional, or so the man claimed—but in his most innocent asking if Smoker had plans for his birthday ("You wanna get drinks? I got nothing to do."), it alerted the pack of jackals the cadet had somehow endeared to himself.

He'd won Hina over through a mishap where, against his will, she'd dragged him to her dormitory to scrub something vile another cadet had scrawled on his face while Smoker'd been passed out. Refusing his rebuttals, she only succeeded in setting off an allergic reaction that left him literally red-faced for a week. So she claimed (it wasn't the guilt, gods no), a disaster like himself, short of temper with a repulsive personality, he couldn't be trusted alone. So she'd hung around.

As much as Smoker loathed to admit it, he felt a small streak of protectiveness over Drake. Short, skinny, and with a family history he couldn't shake, it made him a target for the shittier folks on base who made tormenting others their entire personalities. And when the nerdy ginger hit it off with Hina, she started inviting him around more simply for conversation that wasn't dismissive grunts.

Lind, Smoker was fairly sure only stuck around because he smelled disaster brewing and wanted to stand at ground zero when the whole thing detonated. Smoker couldn't say he minded though. From the neck-up, Lind was a mouthy menace. From the waist down, the man was a goddamn marble statue with legs for days.

Banded together, the trio cornered him.

"You didn't tell Hina it was your birthday." It wasn't yet, technically. He still had a day to go.

"Nothing quite as bad as a birthday swept under the rug. Why didn't you say something?" Namely, so he wouldn't be bothered.

"We should do something!" He really hoped they wouldn't. But they did.

What should have been early spring, instead dragged its heels, unseasonably cold. But playing to their strengths, with Kuzan still in earshot, they openly bemoaned that it wasn't cold enough for a proper celebration. When the admiral sighed quietly, defeated by their collective fervor, he thumbed over toward a pond just beyond the fencing.

"I heard it's iced over. You guys know they've got those strap-on blades in with the winter training supplies, right?"

Last they'd checked, nothing had been cold enough to ice over, let alone safely, but they took his word at face value. In the time it took to find enough pairs in the correct sizes, by the time they hurried down to the pond, carting a still, struggling Smoker, Kuzan was there to greet them—or was in part, on his way out.

"Don't worry about me," he waved them off. "Turns out I've got something to do after all." He didn't, but they let it go.

Well-manicured eyebrows rose as Hina paused at the edge of the pond, examining the far-too-neat stretch of ice spanning across it and the fish locked up beneath the surface. "I think he flash-froze the entire thing…" She turned to Smoker, eyes narrowing slightly. "—And you're sure he's not into you?"

He'd never figured out where she'd yanked the idea from but found shit like that both unbelievable and impossible (Could two men not have a friendship without someone making it weird?), so he blew her off and against his better judgment, strapped on his blades and shimmied out onto the ice.

It turned out that despite being a decent shot with a gun and an even better melee fighter, Smoker's balance fucking sucked. Wobbling and swearing, he watched bitterly as Drake effortlessly glided along.

"How the hell are you not falling over?" It took all Smoker's effort to move forward upright.

Drake chuckled, earning a fresh battery of muttered swears from Smoker as he turned mid-stride, skating backward for a distance.

"Where I lived up North, the winters were really long grueling things. Had a lot of time to learn how."

Growing up on Polestar in the East, the climate generally held too balmy for ice. Begrudgingly, Smoker accepted the explanation. It didn't mean he liked it though.

The whole ordeal was almost a bust. Chilled and miserable, Smoker really only had the zoans as entertainment as they both manifested their tails (made possible by newly earned Devil Fruit), taking turns as they grabbed on and hauled one another like a two-man chain of shrews.

Show-offs.

At the very least, Hina slipped and busted her nose—so while he had to put up with her bitching as she bled over them both, it'd been hilarious watching her go down.

.

The second year they came prepared and sprung it on Smoker at the last second. He hadt o come, after all, or they'd lose the deposit they'd all pitched in for.

"See? No reason to cry. This is something you can do." Hina hefted the riding saddle with an ease and strength that in their group, only Smoker had become accustomed to.

She hailed from old money and with nothing better to do, he'd spent one of the last holiday breaks with her at her parents' place. While he hadn't been allowed to so much as sniff the racehorses, there'd been some others on the property who hadn't made the cut to compete. She's taught him on those in a series of efforts, of trial and messy messy error.

With only minimal fuss from the stallion they'd brought over for Drake, he saddled up with marginally more ease than Smoker.

Smoker swallowed the urge to pitch his cigar in aggravation. "Are you kidding? Is there anything you can't do, Prince Charming?" Smoker hurled it, not quite an insult, but annoyed all the same.

A few months ago, the two men tried and failed to launch. Smoker wasn't sure if Drake's time enlisted or their joint fumble left the other with a sharper bite, but Smoker found solace in that it gave Drake a little more backbone than before.

"My father taught me not long after…" He trailed off, a surefire callback to the before times—before enlistment, before freedom. It meant though, that Drake had stopped calling Sengoku by his title and accepted the literal legal truth of things. Drake cleared his throat, thighs tight as he leaned, directing the beast beneath him. "The point is, he insisted. Said it would get my mind off things."

Smoker's horse snorted, stubborn as he directed it after the other. "Did it work?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure." Drake's stallion turned a pretty little circle at his behest. "I know I'm doing better than you though."

Okay, maybe sharper Drake was a shitty idea.

A ways further along, a familiar noise cropped up in an unfamiliar shape: staring down the nose of his horse, Lind had begun to chatter like a cat locked on the opposite side of a window from a limping bird in the yard.

"Sorry—" Lind called back to the group, sheepish and a little startled. "It doesn't usually—" When his horse kicked up, whinnying, the chattering burst out of him anew.

Drake and Hina pulled up tightly alongside Smoker, forming a line.

Drake spoke first: "Oh dear. Might be the raptor," he murmured. Drake, as he'd informed Hina on arrival, had come on a full stomach. Between that and his prior experience, he'd managed to calm his horse fairly easily.

Lind on the other hand…

Try as he might to coax the animal any shade calmer, his efforts only served to spook the horse further, up to the point it ducked in with intent to bite. When Lind, spooked now himself, fired off a guttural raptor bark in retaliation, his hand clutched protectively to his chest—the would-be steed galloped off without him. His shoulders slumped as he groaned, watching the growing cloud of dust between himself and his chance to ride. With little else to do, he turned back to the group with an embarrassed shrug.

"Sorry!"

Hina sighed, far more tired than she had any right to be at this early hour. "We're not getting that deposit back, are we?"

Smoker pushed out a weighty huff of his own, "Prolly not."

A new clatter of hooves against the earth heralded not the return of Lind's horse, but of another entirely.

"Collart, what in blazes are you doing standing on your own feet?" Atop a ludicrously large draft, the fourth member to round out their team arrived breathless—not from riding, but from laughter.

Lind gestured off toward the slowly clearing trail of clouded dust. "Scared my horse. What's it look like, Masterson?" Despite the minor humiliation, Lind seemed little worse for wear.

A newer addition to the pack, Masterson had enlisted the same year as the rest, though like Lind, hadn't done so with enrollment through the officers' academy. But with both Lind and Masterson excelling in marksmanship, they'd been shuffled over for more advanced training alongside the trio, receiving all of the skills with none of the coursework, the lucky bastards.

Still, with sideburns grown halfway down his jaw and a cowboy hat sat squarely on his head, Masterson certainly looked the part atop his horse.

Hina cupped her hands around her mouth, hollering, "Masterson, get off that horse and fix your saddle before I come over there and fix it for you! Your straps are too loose!" When he played deaf, his attention firmly fixed on Lind, she brought her ire back upon Drake and Smoker instead… "Is he blind? Is he stupid? That's never going to—"

"You know," It was Drake's turn to sigh, deflating where he sat. The sight of Masterson offering a hand down to Lind inspired no confidence. I don't think that man's ever ridden a horse before."

Undeterred and ever eager to exploit a strange name in the hands of a good friend, Lind grinned as he clasped hands with the other— "Big Daddy's come to save me? Little old me?"

Smoker gagged. Masterson pulled. His horse, taking stock of Lind, or rather what ancient danger lurked behind his eyes, panicked. One rough buck from the horse sent Lind tumbling off, head over heels. Masterson, who managed to remain clinging to the pommel by the grace of the gods, sat astride laughing at his fellow marksman sprawled in the dirt…until the saddle began to slowly pitch sideways…

With a roughly landed thud, Masterson hit the dirt groaning. His none-too-pleased horse trotted off riderless, its saddle hung upside down around its middle, indifferent to the foot still caught in a stirrup.

Hina made a soft sound of anguish, not unlike a desert mummy drawing its first breath in a millennia, only to realize it owes back taxes. They wouldn't get their deposit back.

.

In the third year, on Lind's suggestion, they went camping. Camping, Smoker could do. And once their tents were standing, it was clear why the trainee sniper had chosen it—something about the outdoors made him come alive, his lips split in a broad grin and eyes bright in a way that had nothing to do with his usual shenanigans.

On the cusp of graduation, a painful tension hung between them all. Smoker intended to stay in the East. Hina felt the same. Drake intended to return North. Lind, however, though closer than ever to Drake (gods be good, Smoker'd heard them finish each other's sentences more than once), not beholden to the deadlines of the other three, refused to set his plans in stone just yet.

Warmed by the sun, dressed in flannel that flattered him more than Smoker was ready to admit, Lind pitched his still-rolled sleeping bag into his open tent, gaze drifting skyward.

"Maybe I'll just go where the wind takes me."

They spent the afternoon birdwatching. Already a good imitator before consuming his fruit, Lind had become an unmatched mimic in the aftermath. In silence, they waited, crouching low in the brush as his keen eyes sought out a target in the treetops. When the bird called out, Lind sang back. Each time one answered him, the group jerked in delight. Once, one over-amorous corvid swept down, unable to resist the allure of a friendly shout and the iridescent sheen of feathers Lind refused to tamp down that kept springing up, taking the place of his hair.

When the confused bird landed in the clearing, only to find a group of twenty-somethings gawking, led by something neither fully human nor bird, after a prolonged pause as it struggled to make sense of the situation, it squawked indignantly, and with a hop of annoyance, propelled itself back off into the trees.

The fair weather held all day and into the night, where the campfire kept them toasty and Smoker's powers kept any seasonal early-riser insects at bay. He kept a cloudy ring around their campsite, eyes shut as he focused on the density and heat produced by it. As something passed through—likely an overgrown bog mosquito looking for a quick snack, he ratcheted up the heat in as tight a point as he could muster, nice and quick for each trespass he felt.

Pop. Pop pop pop. Pop.

"Ooh, big one," Lind chuckled, wiping off the back of his neck. From behind closed eyes, Smoker heard the wet smack of a tongue against skin.

Hina, two beers in, shuddered, though not from the chill of night. "That's disgusting."

Smoker didn't flinch, trying desperately to keep his concentration in check. "I can drop the wall, you know."

Drake laughed softly, his joy distant, but real. "It's just protein. Safer than eating a large predator in any case."

Lind's fingers snapped. Smoker imagined him pointing toward Drake with a nodding, "Parasites."

"Exactly, parasites." Drake's chair groaned quietly, perhaps as he leaned back, surveying the stars above.

Smoker could have drank with them—he wanted to, but it meant letting his attention shift. "This is exhausting." Superheated, another insect popped harmlessly behind them.

"Means you'll sleep well," Drake offered, his words a kinder tease than anything Smoker'd heard from him in recent months. "It's excellent practice though, if you think about it. At the very least, I think it's impressive."

At a loss for words, Smoker fumbled and a mosquito slipped through, immediately stabbing into him. The startled snap of teeth and the slap of his hand against his neck set Hina and Lind off, laughing themselves hoarse, and that sudden crash of sound in turn startled Drake—sending he and his folding chair backward into the dirt.

When they finally settled in for the night, split between two tents they'd joined to flow together—the shared space populated with the soft sound of breathing and the occasional rustle of sleeping bags, Smoker knew he'd miss it.

.

By the fourth year, he did.

.

Lind was gone and no one could ferret out the whys or wheres of his disappearance. Without him, Drake suffered for it. Work consumed Hina. Masterson dropped in and out, busy caring for his young daughter. When March rolled around with an early call from Kuzan, apologizing for the distance (easily forgivable by Smoker's standards, considering the man's rank), it sank in how empty Smoker's life was without others by his side.

He could and would endure, obviously. But it…

When the term 'loneliness' crossed his mind, aware that he'd be fine in the long run, he found himself wondering if the rest would.

The call ended cordially—they always did with Kuzan, and as the snail sat quietly on his desk, eyestalks bobbing curiously at the receiver still snugly held in Smoker's gloved hand. Smoker too stared, considering his options, each carefully weighed. It was his birthday coming up and would be the first in a long time where the choice to shape it rested solely on his shoulders, but this time, he felt it was high time he reached out instead.

He punched in a familiar number, exhaling a mouthful of smoke from his cigars as he waited patiently. Lind was off the radar. He might not have a schedule yet to complement Hina's and allow them time together. He might not have the words yet for Drake. But he could start somewhere and when the line connected with the playful jabbering of a happy baby, Smoker couldn't help but grin.

"Is that Carol, I hear?"

On the other end. Masterson laughed, "—And worse. You got me too. How've you been?"

Shifting in his office chair, Smoker threw his feet up on his desk, reclining. "Called to ask the same thing. Wanted to see if you and the little lady wanted to get out for some fresh air. You got one of those little slings to cart her around, right? I'll even carry her for you."

The snail looked near ready to cry in relief. His friends had carried him for years, even if he'd only recently realized it. It was time to do some of the lifting himself.