Chapter Text
This was the life.
The day had been bright and sunny and busy. The new location was a good one, and Zeff decided they’d anchor here for a long while. Make the most of it.
The evening had been bustling, a hive of noise and food going out and empty plates coming in and customer shouts and laughter and conversation.
The night was winding closed, the dining room shut down and wiped down, the kitchen slowing as waiters, servers, chefs, bakers, busboys and dishwashers began to sit down wherever and all over, pulling out cigarettes, beers, or far-too-late meals. The clinking of dishware and quiet laughter and conversation created a pleasant hum, and Zeff smiled to himself, standing in the doorway and looking up at the sky, breathing in a bracing lungful of sea air.
The night was dark, with stars sparkling in the endless sky and the moon illuminating the figure that made its silent way down the stairs from the deck, swaying slightly, their gait uneven. They clutched the railing, head hanging, moonlight glinting off of green shocks of hair.
Well, he’d be a sea beast. It was the swordsman. Bigger than last time, if his silhouette was anything to go by.
Zeff straightened, unfolding his arms. “Strawhat!” he called, stepping out into the night, his wooden leg thunking on the deck. “Didn’t expect to see you. Heard you were East.” The swordsman reached the bottom and went still, waiting while he made his way closer. Zeff squinted one eye, glancing around, surprised by the silence. No whoops or hollers, no conversation loud enough to wake the dead. “Where’s the rest of your crew? Still on the Sunny?” The swordsman remained still, his eyes an unnatural black in the darkness, reflecting little points of moonlight. Dread began to pool in Zeff’s stomach. “What’s wrong?” he barked, voice low and gruff. “What’s happened?”
The hard jawline worked. “Sanji’s dead.”
Zeff stared.
The silence stretched between them.
“Sanji’s dead.” The swordsman’s voice was quiet, as rough as gravel. “I killed him.”
Zeff’s brows lowered, and he snatched his hand out, grabbing a fistful of the swordsman’s shirt. “Watch what you say,” he warned. “Be very careful what you say. Because you did not say what I just heard.”
The eyes didn’t leave his. “I killed him,” the swordsman said again, voice little more than a rasp.
Zeff’s hand began to shake, a dreadful, awful crack opening in his chest. “No you didn’t,” he hissed, baring his teeth. “Because if you did I know you wouldn’t be stupid enough to come here.”
The swordsman continued to hold his gaze, and Zeff jerked him forward, bringing their faces an inch apart. He saw, as the moonlight and shadows shifted across the planes of the other’s face, scabbed lines crossing it. He saw it, but it didn’t register as the crack opened into a drowning space of emptiness as he read the truth in the swordsman’s expression.
With a roar, Zeff shoved him back. The swordsman stumbled and fell against the stairs, the sound of his back cracking against the step loud in the silence. He gathered himself as Zeff stalked forward, still growling, and didn’t even put up an arm when Zeff’s wooden leg connected with his thigh. That sound was satisfying.
“You killed my boy?” he roared, a streak of pain lacing through the raging tone.
The second crack of wood on flesh echoed in his ears. The swordsman curled reflexively, grunting, but still didn’t raise his arms or try to defend himself.
“You killed my eggplant?”
He lunged, grabbing the swordsman’s shirt in both fists, stumbling and falling a little as his wooden leg slipped out from under him. He shook, roaring with grief and fury.
Not his boy. Not the boy he saved and raised. Not the boy he gave up his leg, his life, for. Not the boy he taught everything he knew. Not the boy who had grown into a man, cocky and sure and more skilled than Zeff could ever be.
Not his boy.
Bloody lips parted. “I’m sorry.”
Zeff screamed in his face, tears burning down his face and collecting in his whiskers. Shoving him back, he pushed himself to his feet and turned away, scrubbing his face.
“How?” he finally shouted, turning back around. “Why?”
Why, when they were both Strawhats? How, when they were nakama?
“He asked me to.”
Zeff couldn’t hear this. Couldn’t listen to such a ridiculous lie.
And here he’d always thought the swordsman had honor. Honor enough not to pass the blame onto his victim, at least.
There was a small sound, the swordsman curling in, holding his ribs. Struggling to push himself upright from where he lay sprawled.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Zeff scrubbed his face again.
Then he turned and stomped back inside, shoving past the small crowd that had gathered just inside of it, leaving the swordsman in the darkness at the bottom of the stairs.