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In his heart, the word “partner” rings out across thousands and millions of universes.
He’s watching Killer putter around the kitchen from his seat at the table. It’s way too early in the morning and the only other people awake are the ones on morning watch (Quincy and Wire, but he doubts they managed to make it to the AM). No one is really sure when Killer became the semi-designated cook, but the best guess would be that it was after Heat almost killed half the crew with a vaguely-fish dish burned beyond recognition.
“Killer.” Kid tests out the name with the flavor of nostalgia like a grandma’s taffy. He rolls it around his mouth with his tongue and it gets stuck on his back molars whenever he looks at his first mate’s face framed in gold. He is a dumb teenager with a crush all over again.
“Killeeerrrrrr.”
A spoon slips off the rim of a pot and into the steaming stew as Killer turns ever so slightly in response to Kid’s sickeningly yearning voice.
“Damn it,” Killer mumbles, and throws a pointed look Kid’s way.
Kid laughs under his breath and, with a flick of a finger, rights the spoon using some magnetic manipulation. It used to take some serious effort to drag a wrench towards him using his devil fruit— Killer was relentless with his training, upgrading from screws to anvils in the span of a week. Younger Kid would lose his shit with excitement if he saw how cool he was now.
It’s fascinating to watch how Killer works. Killer has had to eat some of his strange concoctions in their youth; he knows more than anymore that Kid is most helpful as a sous chef slash can opener. Killer chops an onion into perfect tiny squares and Kid is as impressed as the first day he ever saw him wield scythes. Some more unidentifiable ingredients (besides the color) are thrown into the pot, alongside dashes of seasoning. It’s so effortless and Kid is itching to kiss every inch of him; chew on him like the vegetables he uses, be eaten and devoured entirely; and he doesn’t feel weak or submissive in the slightest.
Said spoon now holds some strongly-spiced soup, and is held up to his face. The mask is on now, probably sensing that the crew is starting to wake up. The mask stirs up some unknown emotions inside of him.
Granny-taffy nostalgia? Sadness? Arousal? The mask is pretty badass.
In proper doting fashion, Killer blows onto the hot stew; Kid being Kid, he leans forward and practically inhales it all.
“You’re gonna regret that.”
“Fuck!”
“I told you,” Killer laughed, as quietly as he could. His chapped lips, purple lipstick not yet applied, are littered with scabs and scars from all the laughs he bites back. “That looked painful.” He held out a glass of water, having already anticipated that this would happen. Kid shook his head stubbornly and swallowed.
Killer probably knew that would happen too.
“Mmmf—” Vigorous head shaking. “It’s fucking good,” he coughs out, and it’s blunt and crude; it’s not even close lavish praise, but they are not about theatrics with each other.
Bull-headed Kid, goggles proud, unabashedly reckless and rough around the edges, never thought twice about his right hand man. Childhood friendships always entail close relationships, like Heat and Wire, but when they’ve dug through trash cans together, starving and desperate, an understanding that transcends verbal communication forms. And it’s special.
Not many can escape that trial of fire— and they did. Kid and Killer, Killer and Kid, forged into the sharpest blade and the heaviest hitting brass knuckles.
When the sun starts leaking through the crack beneath the kitchen door, they’re drawn to each other (No Magnet-Magnet Fruit needed), and the mask is discarded between them. Chipped nail polish brushes against Killer’s cheek, hands that have brutally beaten men to death and destroyed entire civilian villages for the mistake of laughing at his dearest, and he revels in the softness of the moment. Kid, right here and now, is no one but Killer’s, and needs to be nothing more.
Faces come close and they press gently against each other, giving each other greeting kisses despite spending the entire morning together. Familiar and practiced and electric all the same.
Smoke starts to curl in circles around the entwined pair.
“Kid! You… are you fucking kidding me?” Killer swears to himself as he frantically reaches behind him for the stove knobs. Kid notes with satisfaction that Killer pries himself off of Kid like it physically pains him.
“It’s probably salvageable.”
“Kid!” He’s dead serious, but the motherly mental image makes Kid want to laugh. A pinch smartens him up quick. “This isn’t funny. You fucking seduced me.”
“Fine! Fine, I’m on dish duty,” Kid concedes. The guilt gets the best of him.
It’s still worth it, getting up at the crack of dawn, to hear Killer graciously and carelessly laugh; little gestures and gifts and making sacrifices for the crew and Kid himself meaning the world, and Kid’s ‘cold’ heart sings.