Chapter Text
“Could you STOP THAT??”
The exasperated request comes out as an angry huff, Brook practically spinning on his sharp heels to face the current problem head on. “The problem” doesn't even register his vice-captains' frantic words, still sitting behind the tall man on the kitchen’s worn wooden barstool. Brook never could use the seating while cooking like Yorki, and the others always could; the downside to height like his. Instead, he stands before the stove, ridged back facing the boiling pot that is currently simmering on the front burner. Now facing ahead, one glance at Yorki is all he needs to know about what is currently frolicing around his captian’s lofty mind. Resting his tired fists on his thin hips, the worn wooden spoon is still clasped tightly in one hand. Being too focused on scowling at his bacchanal of a captain, He doesn't even register the slow, rhythmic drip of soup onto the kitchen floor from the recently used spoon.
‘He really does look like a disappointed parent..’
Yorki’s thoughts continue on their rapid pace of spinning and churning, unable to even properly register the request spat at him, too busy looking at the lanky, suggestively comedic but still absolutely ensorcelled figure. Ogling both up, then trailing back down from Brook’s afro, and down still, the blonde’s eyes trail still, coming to rest again on what had caught his attention in the beginning of this little cooking session; the bow.
A rose colored bow, plush and pulled with such habile grace around his extraordinary thin waist. The fabric holding the bow around the man’s thin frame appeared to be…silk? It shone like silk, acted as silk. Reflected light, with such an exquisite, thalassic sheen that made the fabric look auric in nature. But again, Yorki was just a seaman, they know little of such trivial titles. Whatever the material, the effect was as mesmerizing as watching waves meld into one another, but the movement that comes along with it being attached to a person? Well, Brook’s words would not, nor could not reach his captain without a full shove of possibly forceful effort.
The moment of silence between the two men does not last for long, for the aphonic lack of response creates a flying spark again. That second spark lands right back onto the already lit and growing flames of Brook’s annoyance, lips still pursed into a scowling, admittedly parental expression of disapproval. It was indeed like a teacher with a slacking delinquent of a student, and with another exasperated sigh, Brook can only spin back to face the bubbling pot. In one more flaming spur, and admittedly in an absent, immature blink, he can only toss his arms into the air in a louder exclamation of his exhaustion. This, however only results in a further spark, the wooden spoon in hand, long forgotten by now, flies into the air. It hits the table with an audible thud, splattering the table and counter like paint. However, Brook doesn’t even bat an eye at the noise. And if he noticed, he wouldn’t really have cared. The dribbling of earlier still sits pooled on the floor in a murky, not quite clear puddle. The soup itself seems to almost stifle its boiling and simmer, as if not to draw any attention away from its creator's own (mute) point.
“YORKI. PAY ATTENTION TO ME!!!”
The attempted alerts from Brook hardly reach the busy, amorist mind of the blonde, the argyle-bargle sounding almost muffled to Yorki. His mind still drifts in and out of a dizzying daydream he wished he could share properly with Brook, however, now slowly gazing up at the angry expression on his partner's face, it was clear this was a one-sided dream for now.
“I am,” He responds with a balmily expression, head tilted gently towards his other man. “What else do you want from me?”
Yorki’s sheer calmness, and the hint of laziness accompanying it is the tipping point for Brook. Hands dropping back to his sides, an exasperated huff followed. Leaning his head back to face the wooden-planked ceiling of the ship kitchen, Brook can only let out another hiss.
‘ Ghh..Damn it all.’
Brook’s sigh trails into a softened growl, rumbling through his charnel of a chest. His eyes focus briefly on the new and old stains dotting the archaic, water-logged boards. Small, greenish spots, where algae had blossomed at one point or another, maybe when water had been spilled, or waves had splashed after a rain into the mess room, and kitchen alike. These small spots make for a decent distraction, like stars among a chaotic night. A place to focus on while cooling off, as to not allow any ‘ungentlemanly’ behavior to leak through, and further exacerbate an already frustrating exchange.
Brook is surprised once more, and tilts his gaze back to his captain. Brook’s eyes once again meet Yorki’s and his anger banks low, leaving only an exasperated annoyance at the childish man in front of him.
“YOU KNOW what I mean , Y o r k i. How can I focus on not burning things in the kitchen with your… EYES! - burning into the back of my skull??” On the note of the kitchen, Brook gestures loosely at the stovetop, glancing down at the red mess that was once soup, that now had sunk into the porous wooden boards, leaving a brownish, wet trace.
‘Another spot to focus on - for later’ , the musician sighs inwardly.
Brook was someone who often used his hands when communicating, every emotion and situation punctuated with fluid gestures. This however sometimes resulted in..accidents. Be it hitting Yorki across the face at the speed of a baseball, or making a gesture that could be taken quite poorly on certain islands. It was a habit that needed to be broken. However, today was not such a day, and in another swift flick of his ecstatic wrist, another sudden splatter of liquid is painted across the messy room floor. Brook’s stern expression however did not waver, resulting in a scene that could only be labeled as practically comical. The sheer violence of the gesture, being splashed, then finally combined with the outfit that started this entire situation, leaves Yorki more amused than ashamed, or eager readiness Brook was trying to stir within him. The corners of the blonde’s mouth twitch, his feverish mind unable to actively stop the expression from coming into fruition. The entire situation, at least to Yorki, was becoming more and more of a challenge for him to keep anything, especially himself together. The temptation of laughter was strong, however the fear of Brook’s back hand is the greater of the two, tipping the scales by only a single blonde hair.
“Well,” Yorki coughs out, pushing the side of his hand over his mouth, in any attempt to hide the smile that threatened him recently. “It's hard NOT to look when you're wearing THAT.”
Yorki’s hand, the same that covered his smile a second before, gestures loosely to the caffoy distraction. Brook watches intently behind his mirrored, darkened shades; a multi-ringed finger points to the large ribbon tied tightly around the taller man’s thin waist. Brook’s thin frame and penchant for dressing to accentuate it left the new accessory with a rather pronounced effect..at least on the blonde. However, not everything new was a bad thing for Yorki. But a welcome deviation. Brook stiffened up, pursing his lips in admittedly feigned annoyance. Yorki cannot help but subconsciously see some aeonic lady in front of him instead of his lively musician.
“I should not have to take off what I chose to wear because SOMEBODY cannot keep their eyes up where they SHOULD be.” Brook protests, giving an annoyed squint from behind his glasses.
Yorki simply laughs, leaning his head onto his right hand, his left arm now loosely hanging forward across the tabletop. A somewhat provocative smile remains on the blonde's face, his thoughts straying from where Brook wished them to be.
“Why is that damn bow such an eyecatcher…” Yorki’s eyes lazily continue their set course; on that damn piece of stupid fabric. This hyperfocusing would be more aggravating to the pirate captain if not for the fact of his growing need to remove it being utterly greater. His leer can almost be felt scalding down Brooks neck, causing the said man to rub the spot swiftly and anxiously, stealing a glance behind him just to confirm what he already suspected.
Calico Yorki had never been a good liar, nor particularly adept at hiding his emotions, and Brook knew this better than anyone. Now was no different, but Brook has no interest in pointing out the obvious. He can only hang these issues to his side for another argument of another day, shifting his attention back to his major trouble. Gripping the wooden spoon tightly, Brook begins the practice of cooking once more. Pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, the metal only slips back down due to the condensation gathering on his aquiline nose.
The heat was more than he was used to, and if this soup was to burn, the crew would not be pleased. The Rumbar Pirates are a crew composed of over 100 men, all of which could easily snap their vice-captain in half like the twig of a man he was. Shuddering, Brook gets back to work with renewed determination.
Turning his back to the bar stool again as he had been at the start Yorki just watches, leisurely eyeing the accessory before him. The soft sound of the bubbling, blistering liquid is the only interruption of the silence between the two. Well, that and the intermediate steps of Brook’s nervous heels. As the blonde has noticed over time, Brook does not stand still as often as first assumed from his gracious manner. Often moving a step or two each couple of minutes, it must be mindless restlessness; he always was an energetic man. The tightly pulled fabric bounces with every step, the trailing ends curling upward from the supple material.
Up, down, up, and down again. Not that Yorki really minded all of this tittering about, only let his mind trace the strokes of the beautiful painting before him. Brook’s hands worked so swiftly, so precise compared to his own bulky, clumsy pair. Yorki was built for withstanding the sea, but in comparison to him, he looked like a truck. Brook’s thin, practically bony physique allows him to manage many smaller tasks that a man of his height could normally not accomplish, at least not so efficiently. Another perk to having such a slender build was the ability of striking so many musical keys at once, and such was often utilized by the duo. It is said some men are born to be musicians. Blessed, even as a child, with a gift from some muse above; such as the ability to play as he hears, or the length his fingers could sprawl over the piano. Brook was given the whole package, or so it seemed to Yorki, be it musical, or body, and spirit. He, in truth to the blonde, was what all men wished they could be. It was sometimes hard not to be jealous of those talents, but such thoughts get you nowhere in this world. Yorki’s drifting eyes are drawn to the elegant movements of Brook’s hands again. They swiftly drop down to the ribbons curves, gripping the fabric tight and pulling it taunt around his waist. Just a brief moment, a fraction of a second of motion, but that one action causes a greater stir than ever before in the blonde man's already lascivious thoughts.
‘Must be gettin’ a lil’ loose with all of that movin’ back and forth..’ Yorki reasons with his own self mentally, as if these questions were asked by anyone but his own lust. His garrulous brain begins to drift back into more provocative territory on that word.
Loose.
The blooming idea suddenly begins to unfold across Yorki’s mind, the petals of this mental image of what could be at best be called a mutoscope style film comes to fruition before him. The reel of film sparks to life to show the private viewing of moving pictures of beautiful, yet hoary, grainy color. Like those wondrous shows at the piers the crew had visited, where a quarter could be given to the machine to have private access to such tantalizing views . The one the blonde had seen that day was nothing compared to the images that danced now across his thoughts in flickering photographs conjured by imagination alone. A teasing display, shifting elegantly and gossmarly frame by frame, of his own vice-captain causes color to flush faint and warm across his cheeks, but it goes unnoticed by both men.
Such a … personal display...
The hands that unravel melt into a new image. Yorki's own hands gently, but surely, tugging on the beautiful rose-colored fabric. Imagining the slow, deliberate unraveling of both the bow, and the, oh SO wondrous gift contained-
“Calico Yorki.”
Yorki’s gaze snaps back upward at whiplash speed, his arm falling clumsily across the table as well, the other snapping to hold his body steady at the bar stool.
“Eh?”
If there was blush, Brook sure as hell must have not seen it, and Yorki was thankful for such forgiveness if so.
“What do you want?” Dark eyes peer over the tinted frames of his metal-wire glasses, giving a clear impression of continued annoyance. They remain locked on the other man's own pair of wide, green eyes.
‘He looks like a deer caught in the headlights..’
“What?” Yorki responds dumbly, tongue fumbling over the words. Cursing inwardly at his own turmoil, his green eyes dart furtively up, then straight back down to that damn problem, and back up again
“You've been staring at me for the past 15 minutes,” the musician begins. Brook cants his head to the floor, smoothly lowering his glasses without touching them.
The bottle-eye lens glasses he always wears hide nothing at this angle, allowing a decent view at what lay behind. Dark, almost black eyes, with a kindness that always seemed present, even when angry with him. Now they appear focused on the new stain on the floor, a new one compared to the others, made earlier from Yorki’s other bullshit. But, it still was just one minor irritation among many that were quickly being forgotten. Shifting between the stain and the distracted captain. The expression in them was something that Yorki did not see too often. one that in this situation, was a shock. That look..one could almost call it…coy?
The heat spreading across Brook’s face was not a new feeling. But still one that was something one would have to come to terms with. Especially in front of someone, even more so in front of your captain. This rising heat of a feeling had begun earlier than even now, Brook remembers, however it had begun to die down since then. This… bubbling, simmering feeling had begun right when his eyes had been caught up in staring at the same pink bow Yorki couldn't keep his own eyes off.
The meeting of Brook, and the comminatory pink object had happened earlier that same day.
‧̍̊ ˙· 𓆝.° ｡ ˚𓆛˚｡ °.‧̍̊ ˙· 𓆝.°｡ ˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊
In front of a small cobblestone store in the town, just out from the small harbor that the Garacha still remained moored at, the bow was first discovered. Brook did not even mean to get so distracted, or even shop for anything other than what he had come into town for; groceries. The men of the Rumbar crew were not known for their focus, or actual cementation of thoughts, being easily distracted by the next wave that came their way. That was one of the multitude of reasons the ship and her crew tried not to dock unless absolutely needed. Well, except for a few pier shows or two. What kind of pirate could ever turn down a spot of action? Especially an all men crew. Today, however, he was just in for a few food stuffs; vegetables, and cooking spices. Nothing like what he left the small store with just an hour later. The shimmer of pink that reflected off Brooks' glasses from the large store window was enough to cause the man to pause, and that pause was enough for him to begin staring. And, gods, the staring he must have done. Such a… risque type of store caught the slender man utterly by surprise, like a spider's net and the fly squirming about its ensnarement, only becoming more tangled as it buzzes.The store owner must have seen the gangly man standing outside his shop, for he now entered Brook’s view with a piece of paper in hand. Brook, at the sight of another man like himself, in front of a store with such a presentation, lit up as colorful as the bow.
“Are you shopping for someone, sir?” The old man pushed his glasses upward with the side of his hand, a kind, genuine smile radiating underneath his thick-bushed upper lip. Such an honest look; Brook could not help but feel guilty, standing alongside his unseen, unclean thoughts. This store was not meant for such, however the subject matter still caused his heart to flutter. Quickly, they were shoved to the back of his mind, where others like it pile, and grow dust until the night reels them back for a replaying.
“Oh- well-” Brook stammered. Pushing his glasses back over his exposed eyes, he noded. “I-Indeed. I. am.”
Lying; Brook didn’t even know why he did it fully. A combination of guilt, and a sense of etiquette he could never let go of perhaps. Whatever the reason though, a lie is still a lie, and for every second onward, Brook knew it would only get him in deeper.
“I thought so!” The man beams, making back into the door at a pace that belied his age. The copper bell above the large door frame joyfully chimed as he did so. Brook could only watch the window as the man came into view on the other side.
‘That man..’ Brook looked blankly ahead at the store owner as he grabbed the large bow, then retreated back into the unseen interior of the store. He came back out shortly though, with the fabric in hand, his smile never wavering. He clearly was proud of his work, and such pride makes for a deadly combination of guilt, and desire to be polite. The guilt of letting the man down, and the urge to make him happy are the two things that caused Brooks' hands to mindlessly go to his pockets.
‘He.. needs the business! It cannot hurt to… support businesses like his! He was polite enough.’
The excuses his brain continued making helped soothe the musician's worries.
“It is all home-made work, including the fabric!” The man begins. “It is a mostly satin base, kind on the skin, plus a 700 strand thread count! That’s grand for the price!”
“The skin..?” For every inch of phrasing the store clerk laid out, Brook took a mile, stretching it into a sort of film roll that only he would view, and only he would pay to see. A late night picture, set to star a ravishing blonde with an even more ravenous desire.
“Yes! Its perfectly tailored to the form it flourishes!” The man stated. “It can be both a gift to someone, or a gift to yourself! The store-owner must have been clearly oblivious to Brook’s wandering thoughts, for his face was aglow with rose colored hues. “I have seen many couples buy these for multiple purposes! Such as a valentines day surprise, or a, somewhat calmer use, around the waist as a tie, or a decoration! My own wife, on some days, will wear one instead of her aprons bland tie to hold it together! It always is a smashing surprise for sure!”
Brook paused for a moment in his meandering fantasies.
‘An apron… ‘ At least this form is much less suggestive to his mind, but still a hint, or rather a shove in the direction Brook wished for subconsciously. But would it still be too much?
Even if it was somewhat inconspicuous with the day's later activities, the anxiety continued to gnaw at him. The dread of his captain knowing instantly at a suspect glance; that Brook was hoping for such...lewd activity? It sent a quick heatbuzz of hot erubscent flush across his already flaming ears. How could he ever be taken seriously? Yorki’s first mate, desiring such..!!-
“So, which will it be, sir? Red or pink?”
“Huh?” Brook stammered a bit, lips fumbling over one another as his eyes widened at the elderly man’s pushy remark. He did not wish to be rude to the kind stranger by leaving without buying something, especially since the man spent his time explaining to him such fine details. Even if those fine details were told without any earlier prompting or questioning.
“Uh, I..”
“Pink.” Yorki remarks, bringing Brook back to the current situation.
The large bow now pushes flexibly into the opened callused hands of his ruffian captain. When had Yorki gotten behind him? Brook had been too distracted to notice. His mind was out of use as of now, drawing just a blank fuzzy nothing all while the blonde below him continued his leering. His reddened face turns back to the stove, the heat from the burning coals underneath causing another wave of obscene thoughts to raise a flush from more than just external temperature.
“It’s a good color on you.”
Brook can practically feel the auric smile of the other radiate like the stove’s heat into the crook of his neck. That familiar smirk that always looked so good on an otherwise rugged man. Like jewels on a plain white blouse, it put him together as something more than just another rough-and-tumble drunkard of a pirate. Athirst to speak, Brook’s lips refuse to disclose this, only letting out an airy hiss. His throat is too dry to even speak up at the compliment, his jaw locked shut like some kind of spell. Drawn tight like the apron once was. Not like he has anything to even say back, not before Yorki began moving again. The pot before his dark eyes seemed almost like a seething void, the contents bubbling and simmering as a dream does when one is waking up. An ever boiling, changing mass of ingredients from earlier, but which? Of what contents was it now?
Brook could not say anymore. The heat from the stove seemed more like a blush now, compared with the feeling on his gaunt cheeks.
This feeling…
The pot emits more and more boiling bubbles, pockets of air that made the liquid look almost like it was a living thing itself. The oil mixing across the liquids surface seemed to almost dance, skittering across the top. It remained however contained, bubbling away in a facsimile of living movement.
“Brook..” Yorki’s soft tone was like another whispering, distant daydream. A suggestion of attention, of passion, but not quite the true, loud statement. It was spellbreaking.
“Yorki.. “
Now out of the sudden flood of warm transfixion, the heat that curled up his spine was not that of his own sparking nerves alone anymore. The warm palm of his captain, fingertips spreading over the dark stretch skin it could reach. Not straining, but rather gentle in its movement, the roughness of that palm, and full hand was no longer apparent.
The man who owned them must have been mistakenly overburdened with such a gift, for no pirate could claim and wield that tenderness of their hands alone. That said tenderness was not a thing men of the sea, as careful as they were, could have. The waves that crashed over both man and beach were harmless as the sun, but the continuous nature of those crashes, and rays were away at the places they met with a permanent scarring of their givers' love
Those that married the sea always seemed to carry a mix of feelings about her, from what Brook had seen, and heard.
Grief, and sometimes even guilt for those who sought a lover other than her, for the shining sign of the perennial ring always chased those that it showed itself to away. Those fleeting possibilities of a normal life were squandered by that accursed bilboes of a ring, all for those who have seen it, know better. Nobody could compete with her, for the result was always comminatory at best. Be it the outward appearances to others, or the fact that the sea had already laid claim, Yorki had never been someone's choice. He was not alone, however, for the heart of the sea was capacious, welcoming all folk to join her canorous roar. Even with the desolation, almost all men Brook had met did not deny Lady All-Blue. Their love was a mutual thing, if they ever said it aloud or not. A pride that never seemed to waver huddled close in their heart, to the emotion that tried to reach those fleeting connections on land.
The sea. She did not let those men forget who the first was in their heart, and it would never be anyone but her embrace.
But, in some rare cases, the ocean shifted itself. Effortlessly heaving out onto her brighter waves, seafoam covered jewels, and gems of opportunity. Not those that men had married her for to begin with, nor the wealth they signed her contract for those years ago. No, these shimmering, varying sizes of pearlescent gifts are things that no man could ever dream of happening in their lifetime. Such was that gift given to Yorki himself.
It was as if the sea itself had traced her finger along a woven path, creating a wake to follow across her foamy, open waters, right to the town that now sits in his mind as the most important place on earth. This attachment is not from normal motives of man, such as a small home in which a soul was born in, or a childhood had been crafted in the sands. No woman had he met at that dock when he had stepped off, or even when he departed the same way. No village market had charmed its way into the blonde’s heart, always to be there as a comforting cry for his return. No. The bricks of that town, and the people that walk them have no worth for Calico Yorki. No soul, and no object matters there. At least, not anymore.
Why that city remained in his mind and soul at all is because of a glance.
A glance that resulted in an adventure that will forever be his greatest one, as told by his own tongue, and by his own Vice Captain.
The adventure was one that children's tales were made of; the story of a pirate captain and his extraordinary feat of successfully stealing a grand kingdom's treasure.
That treasure was something that few men would have gone for, not just for the danger, but because of the sheer fact that it - unlike the rest of all kingdom’s treasuries of gold, silver and jewels - was human. The Kingdom of Sorbet’s own royal convoy leader, taken away by a young ruffian and his crew. It would have been an outrage if it had not been legal. He resigned on his own, or so the papers said, but, anyone who KNEW the leader of that group knew better than that. The story of how, where and when it had happened was long past now, but the gratitude of that one glancing moment will forever be etched in Yorki’s heart.
How could anyone forget the day they met their future husband?
Or the day that they had fallen in love for the first time.
Not Calico Yorki, nor his Vice Captain, and partner Brook. The ring finger that now traced the latter’s back conjured the vivid image to Yorki, the shimmering buildings and abundant flourishes of that faraway kingdom of Sorbet. A trip there, perhaps, in the blackness of the inky night to take one more treasure - a soapstone ring - before escaping again, on the waves that had first brought a blonde teenager to shore 8 years ago.