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At first, Zoro almost brings a shovel. Sometimes that brain of Luffy’s runs so fast that he visualises the result without thinking through the method, and though it’s the quickest way of getting things done and has almost always worked, it’s not the smartest. Not in Zoro’s books, though Luffy’d disagree. Whatever works is the smartest, he’d say, probably.
Still, there’s no arguing that a shovel’d be better for whatever the hell Luffy’s doing right now with his bare hands, crouched before the fresh, soft earth that only a spring island can have at this time of the year. Luffy’s nails are always rough or bleeding or gone: now they’re covered in grime, the loose dirt lodging under their edges, though it’s not damp enough to cover his hands. Doesn’t seem to matter to him either way. He keeps scooping out handfuls, flinging them out of the way, eyes so focused on the ground they’re almost blank.
That’s why Zoro doesn’t bring a shovel, or make a sound, or give himself away. Because Luffy’s digging the dirt up like he thinks he’ll find something under it, only they’ve never been here, and they’re only making a stop before they set off again. Nothing special about this island but the flowers in bloom everywhere, the sky so blue it hurts to look at. Nothing special about the spot, even, a grove in the stretch of woods just after the shore, young thin trees all around them, pale green leaves. Nothing special about the date—
‘I can hear you thinking,’ Luffy says, light, absent. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worried,’ Zoro says. Steps closer then, tries to gauge the depth. Not too deep, but the earth keeps caving in, and the way he’s going about it he’ll never— ‘Think you need water. To make—’
‘I don’t need help,’ Luffy cuts in. Raises a hand then, don’t get me wrong.
Zoro never would. ‘You want me to go?’
No answer. Luffy leans back, tilts his head at his work, sighs. Reaches into the jute bag lying beside him, and pulls out— a decanter. Glass and solid silver, handle inlaid with rubies small like drops of blood. Zoro doesn’t remember seeing it, but the make looks like it’s from their last haul, just before they got here.
‘When we were kids,’ Luffy says, puts the decanter in then taking it out— not deep enough— taking to the dirt again. ‘He had this hoard. Whole bunch of treasure so that he could take off and be a pirate one day. Y’know, regular kid stuff.’
‘Regular for your insane family, you mean.’
‘Fuck off,’ Luffy grins. Huffs when the earth crumbles as soon as his fist leaves it. ‘But y’know how you remember something clearly, and when you grow up, you can still look back at it? Like it happened yesterday.’
He tries the decanter again. This time it seems to fit, though Zoro doesn’t have the heart to tell him it’ll stick out on the surface, make a mound. Luffy realises it himself, groans, lifts it back out.
‘I remember that hoard,’ he continues. ‘Bunch of junk. Some stuff he could’ve sold, but most of it? Junk.’
Zoro sits at the foot of the tree he was leaning against, crosses his legs. The ground is soft and cool in the shade, though the sun’s on Luffy, green like the bottom of a bottle through the thick crown of the woods. His hair’s grown out, voice gone lower, mellower, though he still screams like an animal and talks like a child. There’s a scar on his chest to rival Zoro’s, a hole in his heart to rival any of theirs.
‘So I decided that day.’ Luffy finally gets the decanter in, starts closing the ground back over it. ‘I’d make him a new hoard. Bury stuff everywhere we go.’
‘Nami’s going to kill you,’ Zoro says. She isn’t. Spent their first real night off drinking herself to death while Luffy got into trouble in the city, then came banging down their door, bawling why doesn’t he say anything, not really, not enough. Zoro’d let Usopp handle her, watched from his bed as she curled up in his quiet knowing arms. Felt, for the first time, in a moment when he should’ve felt anything but— lonely. Lonely because none of their sorry asses is serene unless their captain is, lonely because his captain won’t talk to even him, lonely because his open secret’s never been as ridiculous as now, two years later, when they strode back in one by one— Zoro the first, the fucking first— and realised, one by one, that he’s still as gone. Still just as gone.
His captain’s got a scar on his chest now, and Zoro wasn’t there when he took it. ‘She will if you snitch.’
‘Hey,’ Zoro says, raises his hands. ‘I wasn’t here.’
Luffy’s done. Straightens up, hands on his hips, looks down. No mound after all, nothing that gives away what’s just under the surface. His nails are filthy. He’s worked up a sweat. There’s a hole in his heart that Zoro doesn’t know how to get on the other side of.
‘No, you were,’ Luffy says. Looks up finally, and right at him. Sure like the spring sun, always— always— like he’s waiting for Zoro to catch up to his faith. Because no, if he wanted Zoro gone, he’d have made it known. ‘You were here.’
‘I didn’t help.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ He grins, bright and proud. ‘My treasure to bury.’ My grave to dig.
Zoro straightens up too, shakes the dirt from his legs. Luffy steps towards him, his feet silent on the earth.
‘But you watched,’ he tells Zoro. Checks to see where they came from, says aha. ‘Let’s go, now.’
Then, without waiting, without looking, he starts to walk. Through the thicket and towards the blue.