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The thunder of deafening music echoes in the crowded establishment and Koby shifts uneasily. Heavy feet bounce against concrete and Koby reconsiders his plan hastily—this won’t work. It’s not a good idea, he tells himself, even as his feet carry him forward, and the cluster of feverish bodies grows denser. More alive—twisting around, striking him with boney elbows and bumping into him with little care. But with Helmeppo’s words in the background of his consciousness, he is nothing but determined (and a tad bit—okay, a lot, terrified of the outcome). But, similar to a rat, or devil, on his shoulder, the familiar voice of his best friend slithers into his ear, corrupting: just be confident—you’re friends. What’s the worst that could happen?
For the record, Koby would like to state that a lot could happen. And of that lengthy list of scenarios, more than half end with Koby moving to a different country with a new identity. So, Koby is absolutely justified in the sweat that paints his brow as he dodges the jab of a shin and dives forward until he reaches the stage, dead centre amidst the back wall. With low neon lights casting a dim glow across the dancefloor, the atmosphere of the club is gloomy. The only real, potent light source is the one that gazes down upon the band. The Straw Hats, clad in their matching-but-also-not-matching attire, which consists of varied white tees and tank tops—black jeans, with rips and cuts. Something about being presentable, Koby recalls Nami saying, but it had mostly flown over his head then, at the sight of Luffy glistening with sweat, across rippling muscles—it had stuck to his skin, revealing his toned chest and lithe frame. And shamefully, Koby couldn’t tear his eyes away, since.
Unfortunately, that has yet to change as Koby’s stare remains glued to the wild movements of Luffy as he strikes at cords and lets out a grating sound—blending in with the chorus of instruments, to manifest an abrasive melody that encourages people to move. It’s not Koby’s type of music, but he hums along, regardless. He is familiar with all their songs, after all. Every beat, chorus and lyric ingrained into his heart, just the same as his childhood best friend, who stands proud amidst his group of people. It’s enticing, the way his hair sticks to his tawny beige skin and the way the light envelopes him like a halo, proclaiming him an angel with an affinity for guitar solos. The thought almost draws a snort from Koby and it would have, if he hadn’t been trembling with anxiety. In reality, he doesn’t need to be here—to attend their showing, or listen to the loud, intrusive music, but he does, because it’s Luffy. And there’s not much that Koby wouldn’t do for the man. A scary thought, to be unpacked later when Koby is in the comfort of his own home and beneath the warmth of his comforters. Maybe.
Despite having no need to be here, he stands at the front and watches with rapt attention, eyes unfaltering from the object of his affections—desires, since he was old enough to learn what the word meant. He sings along absentmindedly, the lyrics of his friends’ songs falling from his tongues like sweet honey, even as aggressive as they are by nature of their genre.
Luffy’s wide eyes blink open in a daze, his eyes sweeping across the crowd until they land on Koby—who surely sticks out with his downy, sakura pink hair. They brighten within an instant, a grin tugging at Luffy’s lips as he suddenly goes rougher on the guitar, leading to the catchy part of their song. The crowd goes wild, but Koby stands in silence, fixated by the image before him.
Perhaps from the start, Koby had been destined to love such a terrible man. Who tugs at his heartstrings the same as he does his guitar. Doomed, just the same as Eve, who bit the apple at the gentle persistence of a snake—he, too, would devour God’s holiest creations at Luffy’s command.
His heart stutters as the song wanes and Luffy calls out his thanks to the club, as they welcome on the next band and prepare to take their much needed rest. Koby does not miss Luffy’s beckoning hand—and like a moth to a flame, a bee to a flower and a lovesick boy to his heart’s greatest need, he follows.
Backstage is far from remarkable, barring the putrid smell that permeates the air and the torn wallpaper along the walls. It’s the same as any other backstage location, Koby decides, as he glides across the grey carpet that has surely never been washed in the last decade. He wrinkles his nose. As Koby strides across the hall, he is distracted by a body that hurls itself towards him, effectively ensuring the two men crash to the floor in a mess of limbs. Because Koby has known Luffy for a long time, he does not surprise him. Regardless, a huff escapes his mouth as his lips quirk up, despite his best efforts. It’s a natural response, by virtue of years’ worth of Luffy and his too sunny personality—not unlike the sun, but something entirely different. Something that burned brighter, but did not hurt to touch. More so the welcoming touch of summer’s winds, wafting across a green land of high grass and a cotton candy blue sky, embraced by cirrus clouds. He is peace, happiness and love, contained in one man, and Koby is hopeless in its proximity.
“Koby!” Luffy exclaims, breathless and laden with sweat, but he is practically vibrating with energy as his limbs stay encircling Koby, as though he will slither away at a moment’s notice. “You came!” He says, like he expected a different outcome. Like Koby would miss the expression Luffy wore when he performed. It would be a wintry day in hell when Koby purposely disregarded the invitations sent his way.
“I did,” he acknowledges, just as breathless but for entirely different reasons. Reasons which Koby is dreading to confess, as he knows it will sully their friendship—built upon years of trust, memories (the good and the bad), and devotion. “You were amazing out there.” He murmurs, like he always does post Luffy’s shows. He cannot help the praise. He means it. Luffy was amazing—is amazing.
Luffy giggles, light and cheerful as he abruptly disconnects and they stand. The absence of his heat brings the startling chill of the backstage area to reality, and Koby shivers. Over the chatter of the room at the end of the hall, he can hear the hum of air conditioners and attributes it to that, rather than his own intense yearning for Luffy’s body against his. A can of worms he is not willing to acknowledge, much less open—not today, when he is attempting to confess his heart’s greatest shame, to his most coveted treasure.
He recalls, when they were younger—childhood naivety, encircling the edges of the memory; Luffy had been unusually obsessed with pirates. To the point of forming a roleplay of his own amongst their friend group. A treasure, to find across the playground and when Luffy had turned to Koby, asking him what his treasure would be—Koby, young and cheeks lined with baby fat, had supplied the only answer that had made sense then. You.
Now, older, with the same supple cheeks, and several inches taller—Koby can confidently say that his answer hadn’t changed. It merely had blossomed like the blooming of a sakura tree, into what Koby has dubbed as love.
Luffy drags him up with one hand, displaying his casual strength and Koby is close to swooning. “I’m glad Koby came.” He speaks it in such an earnest way that it is hard for Koby not to drop to one knee, confess, and propose in one fell swoop. “Come on, the others are back there. I’m sure—” Koby interjects before he can continue, otherwise he will lose all his confidence and all of this will be for nought. He owes Helmeppo that much—he has had to suffer hours’ worth of Koby’s rants, regarding his childhood best friend. And for that simple fact, he deserves a reprieve. And, he also owes it to himself, he thinks. Years of pining, yearning for something that had appeared untouchable—out of reach. Like a god, maybe, always too high to grasp for a mere mortal, always too divine to mix with something as fleeting as a mortal soul. Their blood is never the same, far too different for their worlds ever to intermingle.
But Koby wants to bridge that gap, even if it’s a chasm he’s peered over for the entirety of his life. And if it ends with ruins of what was once a temple of tender love, and tranquil memories blanketed in melancholy and nostalgia but teeming with laughter—then so be it. Koby just hopes Luffy can forgive him, if it comes to that.
“Actually, can I talk to you alone for a minute? Or two…” He trails off, wincing at his own hesitant voice. Fortunately, Luffy is hardly perturbed and eagerly waits for his friend to continue. Unblinking, wide eyes—softly curved cheeks, a pink scar below his left eye—a sharp jawline but a round nose. It is pretty, but in a way that can never quite be accurately captured. Even if a thousand artists tried their hand at it, there would always be something off in the portrait—never quite capable of catching the likeness of one Monkey D. Luffy. Who stands, unique and sculpted by an architect in the heavens. “Okay, okay.” He breathes in deeply, then exhales. That brief movement of respite is all he gifts himself, as he blurts out his truth. “I like you, Luffy—no, wait—I think I love you.”
Luffy blinks. “I love you too, Koby?” Bewilderment laces his voice and Koby tries to hide the tremble in his hands as he stuffs them in his jeans.
“No, not as a friend—wait, I love you as a friend too—ugh! I’m in love with you. Since before, I knew what that meant, probably.” There, the confession is out there, in the open and ready to be torn apart by the imagined vultures at the corners of his vision. Koby knows Luffy best—has watched him with avid fascination, as he grew up from the fumbling crybaby (similar to Koby, in too many ways) to the headstrong, exuberant person he is now. He knows that he will not be ridiculed for his earnest love or let go for it, for that is not in Luffy’s nature to leave people behind. He latches onto people like a snake, constricting around them and keeping them close. This, Koby knows and cherishes.
Yet, his heart is in his throat as he gulps. His stomach churns as a wave of nausea overtakes him. Standing statue still in this dimly lit hallway, he wonders, distantly, if heartbreak actually kills. Fitting, maybe, that Luffy would be his start and his end.
Luffy blinks, owlishly, a habit he picked up from his manager who is far more owl than human—Nico Robin. “Koby,” he mutters, and despite the situation, Koby cannot stop himself from watching the way Luffy’s plush lips form his name, the way his tongue darts out and licks his bottom lip. “Okay.” It is Koby’s turn to flutter his eyelashes in bemusement.
“Okay?” He echoes, hoping the sheer bewilderment and horror that consumes him at that moment is evident in the single word he utters. Because, what?
“Okay!” Luffy reiterates with a grin, as he surges forward and wraps his arm around Koby’s shoulders, pressing him against his flank.
It feels like a rejection; at the very least, the stinging ache in his heart tells him it is. Yet, he asks, “Uhm, what exactly does that mean?” A surprised gasp escapes his lips as he is dragged impossibly closer, enough so that he feels an exhaled breath against his ear.
Luffy replies, shameless in their proximity. “We’re boyfriends, right?” Koby malfunctions on the spot. Boyfriends? Since when?
The word rings in his head, loud like a church bell, and he freezes on instinct, his feet remaining planted against the grey carpet. He’s speechless—even as his mind buzzes with that single word; boyfriends—had he meant something else? Surely, Luffy had meant boy friends, instead. Right? There is no way his feelings are returned.
Koby coughs. “Boyfriends?” He is starting to sound like a broken record… but can it be blamed?
Luffy stares at him, long and hard—dissecting in a way he always does, attempting to glean the inner gears and wires of what makes a person them. He cocks his head, much like a puppy, and waits for a heartbeat. But when Koby says nothing else, his mind shockingly silent, Luffy says, “Koby loves me, I love Koby.” He shrugs like it’s that simple of a concept—which to Luffy, it may as well be. But to the mess of anxiety, Koby, it cannot be that easy.
“You love me. Like, love-love?” He is fully aware that he sounds like a prepubescent child on the playground, proclaiming their crush in a “like-like” way, but he cannot stop himself from appearing foolish. Not when his dream is being laid out before him, within reach. Something he thought was ludicrous.
Luffy hums, attempting to tug him forward but it to no avail, as Koby remains rooted to the floor. He huffs. “Yeah, of course, I do.”
“Since when?” Has he missed a memo or something? Why is Luffy speaking of it like it’s obvious and not the most groundbreaking—earth shattering—revelation out there? Like it doesn’t tear apart the seams of Koby’s carefully built reality?
Luffy gives him a glance that Koby accurately reads as, really? He flushes, avoiding his lingering stare by way of staring at the names scribbled across the shredded wallpaper. Signatures of bands and people that had performed here, years and years ago, forever memorialized through markers on walls. He wonders if they recall doing so, or if it is another passing memory, forgotten in the haze that is life. “I don’t know?” Right, Luffy has never been one for words—he’s always been an action type of guy. “Since we were kids, probably.” Luffy picks his nose and on instinct, because Koby is unfortunately used to this, he swats his hand.
Koby gulps, forcing himself further away from Luffy even as it kills him to do so. “Why did you never say anything?” He questions, recalling their shared childhood in a new light. Not that he gathers anything new from the fond memories.
“I had Koby by my side,” he helpfully supplies. Koby’s heart soars at the proclamation. “I was happy with that.” Luffy’s arm leaves his shoulder, falling to hold Koby’s limp wrist. The touch is gentle, caring, and careful. So unlike Luffy, it’s jarring. “What’s wrong?” He leans into Koby’s personal space and the younger says nothing of it; Koby’s love did not not repulse Luffy. In fact, he seems to welcome it—inviting its warmth to a spot specially carved for him. And how wonderful that thought is.
Luffy loves him. Not just as a friend, but as something more. And perhaps that part needs more defining, but to Koby, who had spent years with the inner turmoil of his crush-turned-love… it’s everything and more. It’s all he needs as he ducks forward and rests his forehead against Luffy’s. He basks in the heat that Luffy naturally emanates, revels in the twinkle he spots in those wide, black eyes. The wrinkles along his eyes, telling of the smile that tug at his lips. For a heartbeat, a mere moment where sound doesn’t penetrate the bubble they have formed around themselves, Koby is content. Happy, even. Because Luffy is here, accepting and willing—and Koby can know peace, a happy ending, perhaps, because now he can call Luffy his.
A foolish plan, perhaps, it was, to appear at Luffy’s show and to confess, but he does not regret it. Not when this is the outcome. “Nothing is wrong.” He murmurs. Their faces are close now and as he speaks, his lips brush against the skin between Luffy’s brows, fleeting but there. “I just wish I would’ve known sooner.” A lifetime of this, he tells himself, as his gaze bores into the fathomless pits of Luffy’s eyes. Black doesn’t truly encompass the sea of stars that fill Luffy’s irises; he could drown in them, if given enough time.
Luffy hums again, and Koby realizes it’s the sound of their latest single. He snorts, despite himself. “Why?”
“So much wasted time—” a finger glimpses his lip, toying with the skin in a teasing way. It silences Koby in an instant.
“It’s not wasted. Besides, we have now.” Luffy’s free hand shifts from Koby’s wrist, to up his arm and his bicep, leaving a path of heat in its wake. It arrives at its destination a second later, at his nape. Luffy pulls him forward, insistent, and Koby gives in without thought. Their lips meet, brief but sweet. Luffy tastes like cotton candy, perhaps because he had been snacking on some earlier, but regardless, Koby falls into the sugary taste and devours it. Luffy’s lips are wet against his, moving and enveloping his own. Koby’s hands fall to Luffy’s waist and hold tight, pulling Luffy forward until there is no air between them. Until their chests are pressing against each other and they become one.
Holy shit. He’s kissing Luffy; the thought is buried beneath the fog of his mind, however, as Luffy’s fingers play with baby hairs. He tugs and Koby gasps—
The shutter of a camera echoes in what was once a deafeningly silent hallway. They wrench apart, gasping for air, and Koby’s gaze darts around the hallway, searching—until it lands on the perpetrator. Nami. Her ginger hair is pulled into a bun, revealing her soft features and freckled, sun kissed skin. And the evil smirk that adorns her face. “And that’s blackmail.”
Unperturbed, Luffy laughs at her interruption. “I don’t care,”
Nami nods sagely. “That’s true, but Koby does.” She winks and pockets her phone, and despite the cherry red blush that spreads across his cheeks and down his neck, Koby understands she is only joking. Still, his heart beats like a rabbit being chased. “Congrats, you two; it’s about time one of you manned up. I thought we’d be old and grey by the time you both owned up to all of that.” She inches forward and Koby makes haste to put space between Luffy and him. “And thank you, because I just won a bet.”
“You bet on us?” He weakly gasps out, a wave of dizziness washing over him. It still hasn’t fully processed what happened. Much less the conversation unfurling before him now.
“A girl has to make money somehow.” She shrugs and Luffy giggles with not an ounce of shame. Typical. “Now stop this and come back. I’m sure the others will be delighted to know about this.”
“Usopp lost the bet, didn’t he?”
“Oh, Luffy,” she coos, “They all did.” Koby gulps, realising he is very unprepared for the confrontation before him. But it’s inevitable that Luffy’s crew finds out, much to Koby’s growing dread.
He is so, so screwed.