Chapter Text
The silver tie around Beckman Beckman’s neck felt less like a garment and more like a noose.
As he stood at the front of the sun-drenched chapel, he maintained the steady, unshakeable composure that had made him a world-class dentist, but inside, he was performing a slow autopsy on his own soul. He watched Makino glide down the aisle, her eyes locked onto Shanks with a terrifyingly pure devotion.
For years, Beckman had been the one she called when she was lonely, the one who held her hand through every crisis and the one who listened to her dreams. He had given her every ounce of his care, never realising that he was merely building the foundation for another man’s palace.
He watched the way Shanks beamed at her—the loud, boisterous man who was Beckman’s closest friend—and felt a wave of nausea. It was a cruel irony that the two people he loved most in the world were currently destroying him just by being happy.
If he had known that all those late-night conversations and shared secrets were leading to this altar, he would have stayed a stranger to her. He would have kept his distance and spared himself the indignity of standing here, smiling for the cameras while his chest felt hollowed out.
He realised then that he had no right to be jealous, no right to protect her and no right to want her. The word “friend” felt like a brand on his skin, a permanent reminder that he had been invited to witness a life he would never get to lead. He clapped as the vows were finished. The sound of his own palms meeting felt like the final nail in a coffin he had spent a decade building.
Beckman played his part to perfection.
As the ceremony transitioned into a lavish reception held under the golden hue of a late September sunset, Beckman remained the consummate best man. He stood before the crowd of two hundred guests, his voice steady and rich as he delivered a toast that was equal parts witty and heartwarming. He teased Shanks about his lack of punctuality and praised Makino’s infinite patience, making the room roar with laughter.
No one—not even the groom—suspected that every word was a measured effort of will.
He danced with the bride, held her hand briefly and gave her away to the life she wanted with a smile that never reached his eyes but never faltered for the cameras. It was a flawless day, the kind of crisp, clear autumn Saturday that people prayed for, making the beauty of it all feel like salt rubbed into an open gash.
By the time he returned to his apartment in the West Village, the city was draped in a cold, midnight rain. Beckman sat on his designer leather sofa, a bottle of high-end scotch open on the coffee table. He had finished half of it, yet his mind remained sharp. His tolerance was a curse; he wanted the world to blur, but he remained tethered to reality.
He looked around his spacious loft—a place with soaring ceilings and a rent that would make most people faint. As a top-tier dental surgeon in Manhattan, he earned more than enough to live in a penthouse, yet he kept this space modest by his standards: dark wood, shelves of books and a view of the skyline that felt more like a cage than a luxury. He was a man with everything and nothing, sitting in silence, waiting for a morning that offered him no reason to wake up.
The rain continued to lash against the glass.
It was a rhythmic tapping that filled the silence of the loft.
Beckman finally set the glass down, realising the scotch would offer him no mercy tonight. He stood up, his movements fluid and precise despite the amount of alcohol in his system, and moved toward the bathroom. His dental practice was only a ten-minute walk away—a sleek, high-end clinic on a quiet street in Chelsea—but tonight, that short distance felt like a different world.
He stripped off the tailored suit that still smelled of wedding incense and stepped into the shower. The hot water scalded his skin, washing away the lingering scent of lilies and the phantom touch of Makino’s hand during their dance.
He dried himself off and pulled on a pair of simple cotton sleep pants. He climbed into his king-sized bed, the sheets crisp and cool, and stared at the ceiling. The apartment was secure, protected by high-tech locks and a doorman downstairs, yet as his eyes began to grow heavy, a strange sensation washed over him. It felt as if the air in the room had shifted, growing warmer and humming with a chaotic, vibrant energy that did not belong in his sterile life.
The silence of the loft was usually a comfort, but tonight it felt heavy, expectant.
As Beckman settled into the pillows, he felt a sudden, sharp tug on the blankets.
It was followed by the sensation of someone small and persistent curling up against his side, a weight that felt incredibly real and yet impossible. He rolled over, his arms sweeping through the darkness to catch the intruder, but his grasp closed on nothing but shadows. He felt the bed, his hands moving over the empty pillows, but there was no one there.
He let out a weary sigh, rubbing his face.
Loneliness was a powerful architect.
It seemed, capable of building a person out of thin air just to mock his empty heart.
Beckman decided to stop fighting and let the exhaustion take him.
He fell into the abyss of sleep, but the transition was jarringly vivid. Suddenly, he was standing in a forest that felt like it had been pulled from an ancient, forgotten storybook. The trees were unnaturally tall, their bark black and peeling, and a thick, low-hanging mist swirled around his ankles. It was silent here—not the peaceful silence of his home, but an eerie, bated breath of a forest that was waiting for something. Somewhere in the distance, past the tangled briars and the looming oaks, a faint light flickered.
Beckman looked down at his hands, noting the clarity of his skin and the weight of his breath in the damp air. “This’s a remarkably stable hallucination,” he remarked to the empty woods. He tried the standard tricks to wake himself up—pinching the bridge of his nose, demanding his eyes to open—but the forest remained stubbornly real.
Scientifically, he knew the brain was capable of constructing elaborate landscapes to process emotional trauma, and he figured the wedding had simply broken his mental filter.
He was powerless to change the script, so he decided to follow it. If his brain wanted him to walk through a haunted forest, he would play along until the chemicals balanced themselves out.
Beckman approached a cottage. It was draped in fake cobwebs thick enough to catch a dog, and the porch was lined with glowing skulls that looked like they had been hand-painted by someone with a lot of energy and very little talent. The contrast between the eerie forest and this clunky, “spooky” decor was almost comedic. Beckman wondered what part of his mind had birthed a personality so dedicated to this bizarre aesthetic. Suddenly, the door flew open, spilling a warm, golden light onto the mossy ground.
“Hey! You’re finally here!” the boy in the doorway shouted, grinning so wide his eyes nearly disappeared. He was wearing a straw hat over a dark hood. “I’m Monkey D. Luffy, the future King of the Vampires! Well, once I can eat again! Get in here, I have been calling you for like, a hundred times!”
Beckman stood frozen for a moment.
The boy—Luffy—looked barely out of his teens, significantly smaller and slighter than Beckman’s own broad-shouldered frame. His skin was an unusual contradiction, possessing a deep, healthy tan that seemed to be fighting a layer of unnatural, marble-like pallor.
He was vibrant, radiating an almost physical heat that felt at odds with his claim of being an undead king. “King of the Vampires,” Beckman repeated quietly. If this was how his subconscious chose to manifest his mid-life crisis, it at least had a sense of humour.
He followed the boy inside, prepared for more gore, but found himself in a surprisingly cosy space. The interior was a chaotic mismatch of styles: plush, Victorian velvet chairs sat next to rough-hewn wooden crates and the walls were adorned with both fine tapestries and what looked like hand-drawn pictures of meat.
Luffy scrambled toward a small stove, his tattered red cape fluttering behind him like a puppy’s tail. “Sit! Sit down! I made human snacks!” he announced, nearly tripping over his own feet as he brought over a tray.
The “biscuits” were lumpy, charred on the edges and shaped like tiny bats, while the tea smelled like warm cherry juice. Luffy watched him with wide, expectant eyes. “I read that humans like to eat when they talk business. I hope it does not taste like dirt. I worked really hard on the shapes!”
Beckman sat, looking at the tray and then at the boy, wondering why his brain had created a creature that seemed so desperate to please a stranger.
Beckman picked up one of the bat-shaped biscuits, turning it over in his hand with a clinical curiosity. “Thank you for the... hospitality,” he said. “But I have to ask again. Who are you? And why are you here?”
Luffy huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and pouting. “Man, Gramps said some humans are dumb even when they think they are smart, but you’re really slow! I told you! I’m Monkey D. Luffy! The man who will be King of the Vampires!”
Beckman did not focus on the title this time. Instead, he found himself staring at the curve of Luffy’s jaw and the messy, dark silk of his hair. A cold spike of anxiety pierced through his chest. Why had he conjured this specific image? The boy was strikingly attractive, possessing exactly the kind of raw, unpretentious charm that Beckman had always secretly admired. Was he truly so lonely that his mind had fabricated a beautiful, younger man to cater to him?
Was he some kind of closeted creep? A pervert who dreamt of boys half his age?
He looked at the floor, feeling like a predator in his own imagination.
Luffy let out a sudden, bark-like laugh that broke the tension. “You’re thinking weird things, Beckman! Stop it! Your face looks gross,” he said, pointing a finger at Beckman. “And don’t worry about that ‘young’ stuff. I’m way older than I look. I have seen like, four different kinds of hats go out of style! I’m probably older than your house!” He leaned forward, his expression turning serious. “And you did not make me up. I’m real! I just snuck into your head because my tooth’s broken and everyone says you’re the best at fixing them!”
Older than his house? If this was a hallucination, it was certainly an elaborate one.
He wondered if his mind had absorbed too many of Shanks’s drunken rants about ancient legends and mythical kings during their late-night drinking bouts. It would be just like his best friend to infect his subconscious with something this ridiculous.
“I see,” Beckman said, crossing his arms. “So, you’re an ancient vampire who just happened to choose my brain as a waiting room?”
Luffy pouted, a look that made him appear even more like a disgruntled child. “I had to! I went to see Nami and Robin—they are my friends, and they said you’re the best! Nojiko even said you have magic hands or whatever. But then I went to that glass building with the scary lady at the front, and she said I cannot see you for six months! Six months!” Luffy threw his hands up in the air. “I cannot be toothless for half a year! I have meat to eat! So I asked Robin how to find you sooner, and she told me you were a ‘dreamy’ guy, so I figured I would just find you in your dream!”
Beckman blinked, trying to parse the absurdity.
Nami, Nojiko and Robin were indeed some of his most high-profile clients—wealthy, sharp-witted women who always paid on time. The idea of them sending a vampire to his subconscious was almost too much to handle.
He looked at Luffy, who was now grinning wide to show his frustration. There, right at the top, were two distinct, empty gaps where sharp, predatory fangs should have been.
“Well,” Beckman sighed, a ghost of a smile finally appearing. “If my secretary is that booked, I suppose I can hardly turn you away here.”
... ...
Dream logic proved to be remarkably efficient.
The moment Beckman decided to help, the walls of the mismatched cottage shivered and dissolved, rebuilding themselves into the familiar, sterile white of his Chelsea clinic. Even the scent changed, the smell of damp earth replaced by the sharp, clean sting of antiseptic.
To his surprise, his dental assistant, Abby, was already there, adjusting the overhead lamp as if she had been waiting for them all along. She looked a bit dazed, moving with the slow, fluid grace of someone walking through water.
“Is this the 2:00 PM, Dr. Benn?” Abby asked, her voice echoing slightly. She did not seem to find it strange that their patient was wearing a red blanket for a cape.
“I pulled her in too!” Luffy chirped, hopping onto the adjustable leather chair and swinging his legs. “She will just think she had a weird dream about work when she wakes up.”
Beckman did not question it. He simply leaned in, his shoulder brushing against Luffy’s as he prepared to examine the damage. He expected the boy to be cold—vampires were supposed to be the walking dead, after all—but Luffy was radiating a heat that felt like a summer afternoon. It was grounding, almost comforting.
After a thorough inspection of the gaps, Beckman stepped back, scratching his chin. “It is a fascinating case, Luffy. Your dental structure does not follow human biology. These were not permanent fangs, but they appear to be more akin to ‘milk teeth.’ Because you’re an ancient immortal who... well, grew physically at a slower rate, your adult fangs are only just now being pushed through by the roots. You essentially knocked out your baby teeth.”
Luffy’s eyes went wide, his jaw dropping even further as he processed the news. “Baby teeth?” he squeaked, looking absolutely scandalised. “But I have had those for like, a hundred years! They were my best biting teeth!” He poked at his gums. “So... if I eat a lot of meat, will they grow faster? Like a shark?”
Beckman could not help the small, genuine laugh that escaped him as he peeled off his surgical gloves. “Not exactly. I recommend sticking to soft foods for a few days—protein shakes, soups, maybe very tender fish. No more ‘mystery meat’ until the new ones break the surface.”
Before Beckman could even set the gloves aside, Luffy let out a joyful shout and launched himself out of the chair. He blurred, colliding with Beckman’s chest with the force of a small cannonball. Beckman stumbled back, his hands instinctively coming up to catch the boy, his fingers digging into the firm, lean muscle of Luffy’s waist.
The boy was solid, deceptively strong and smelled like ozone and expensive sunblock. Beckman’s mind let out a sharp, internal scream of protest at how perfectly the boy’s head fit under his chin, but he found he could not pull away.
Luffy looked up, grinning so wide the gaps in his teeth were proudly on display.
“You’re the best, Beckman! I knew I liked you!”
Beckman looked down at him, his gaze softening as he noticed the straw hat had fallen to the floor during the scramble. He reached down, picked it up and carefully settled it back over Luffy’s messy hair, adjusting the brim. “You’re welcome. Just try to stay out of trouble until your ‘adult’ teeth arrive.”
Luffy pulled back just enough to look Beckman in the eye, his hands still resting casually on the dentist’s broad shoulders. “So, how much do I owe you?” he asked, his expression suddenly very serious. “I have a lot of gold buried in a forest, and some jewellery I found in a cave. Do you want a crown? It’s a bit dusty, but it’s real shiny!”
Beckman felt a twitch of amusement at the corners of his mouth. “Keep your treasure, Luffy. You’re my first vampire client, and considering we are in a dream, I think I can waive the fee.”
Luffy’s eyes sparkled, his face lighting up with a dangerous sort of beauty. “Really? You’re so cool! And you’re way more handsome than the humans Nami usually hangs out with. I want to be big and tall like you when my adult fangs come in!” As he spoke, Luffy’s hands wandered, patting Beckman’s chest and feeling the muscle of his arms with an innocent, tactile curiosity.
Beckman felt his throat go dry. Only hours ago, he had been mourning Makino, the memory of her soft, gentle grace still a dull ache in his chest. But Luffy was the polar opposite—he was vibrant, loud, and possessed a raw, magnetic sensuality that felt like a physical weight. It is just the dream, Beckman told himself, even as his heart disagreed.
A strange, fleeting attraction to a figment of my imagination.
Abby stepped into the room, her coat already on and her keys jingling in her hand. “The clinic is secure, Dr. Benn. No more clients for today. I’m going to head home.”
“Goodbye, scary lady!” Luffy chirped, waving a hand at her. “Since Beckman was nice, I will give you a blessing! I will make sure no mosquitoes bite you forever and I will make your skin extra glowy tomorrow! You will look like a princess! That’s a vampire promise!”
Abby blinked. “Uh... thank you? I think. Goodbye, Doctor.”
As the sound of Abby’s footsteps faded into the clinical silence, Luffy stepped back into Beckman’s personal space. He practically leaned into Beckman’s chest, his head tilted back to look up with an expression of pure, unadulterated joy.
“You really are the nicest human,” Luffy mumbled, his voice dropping into a soft, resonant tone that made the hair on the back of Beckman’s neck stand up. He felt a flush of heat. The intimacy was overwhelming. It was like a stark contrast to the polite distance he had maintained with Makino for years. He shifted uncomfortably, his mind racing. Was this the part where the predatory nature of a vampire finally surfaced? Was he about to be bitten in his own subconscious?
“Luffy,” Beckman began. “How exactly do you... sustain yourself? If you’re a vampire, are you not supposed to be interested in my neck?”
Luffy let out a snort, waving a hand. “Gross! No way! Nobody does that anymore! Not since the 1800s! Modern vampires don’t do that anymore. Ever since that big sickness—the COVID thing—everyone realised human blood is full of germs and weird stuff. It’s disgusting!” He made a face as if he had just sucked on a lemon. “Most of us just go to blood banks or eat vegan now. Some vampires are real chic and only drink soy-blood. But me? I just like meat! Real, well-cooked meat! Sanji makes the best steaks in the world.”
Beckman blinked. “I see. A culinary evolution.”
Luffy beamed and grabbed Beckman’s hands. “Since you were so good to me, I’m going to give you the best blessing! You smoke way too much, Beckman. I can smell it! So, I’m going to give you super-lungs! You will never get that pathetic cancer. I don’t want my favourite doctor to die from some gross cough! You have to stay healthy so you can see my new fangs!”
Beckman looked down at his hands, swallowed by the heat of Luffy’s smaller palms.
The heat of Luffy’s hands felt like a promise, but Beckman’s heart was still tethered to the chapel in the West Village. He found himself wondering if a vampire’s magic could reach across the divide of his own loneliness.
“Thank you for the lungs, Luffy,” Beckman said with a tired, appreciative smile. “But if you have any power to spare, I would trade my own blessing to give it to two others.”
Luffy blinked, his wide eyes searching Beckman’s face. “Trade it? Why would you do that? Humans are usually so greedy!” He hummed to himself, kicking his feet against the dental chair. “Chopper does that too, though. He says doctors have to care about everyone. You must really like these people! Fine! Tell me!”
Beckman closed his eyes for a moment, visualising the two faces that defined his world. “There is a man named Shanks. He is a brother to me, even if he is a fool. Give him the luck he always seems to run out of.” He opened his eyes, and his voice softened into something so tender it felt like a secret. “And then there is Makino. She is... she is perfect. She is the kind of person who deserves everything good the world has to offer. I want her heart to stay light. I want her to always have a reason to smile like she did today.”
Luffy watched him, his head tilting further to the side.
The boy’s face morphed into a strange, unreadable mask. He looked almost annoyed, though he did not pull away. Something about the way Beckman’s voice hovered over Makino’s name seemed to irritate the vampire, though he could not explain why.
“You talk about her like she’s made of sugar,” Luffy remarked, his voice lacking its usual bounce. “Fine. I will do it. Because you’re my friend now.”
“Are you alright?” Beckman asked, leaning closer until their foreheads almost touched. He could see the confusion in Luffy’s dark eyes, a turbulent storm of emotions that the boy clearly lacked the vocabulary to explain. “You look... troubled.”
“I’m just annoyed! But I don’t know why!” Luffy shouted, though there was no heat in it. He looked at Beckman’s mouth, then at their joined hands. “Maybe I’m just tired of being in your head. It’s very big and has too many thoughts.” He let out a long sigh, then puffed out his chest. “But don’t worry! My blessing’s the best. It is not like a magic spell that stays on forever. It’s like a battery! When Shanks or that Makino girl get into a spot where they cannot win, my power will kick in and give them a push. It only works for people who are ‘bright,’ and you say they are bright, so it will work!” He beamed at Beckman, seeking approval. “Cool, right? I’m a genius!”
Beckman felt a smile tug at his lips—not the practised, polite smile of a best man, but something raw and honest. “You’re incredible.”
The praise seemed to go straight to Luffy’s head. He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and held Beckman’s hands so tightly it almost hurt. Beckman did not mind. In fact, he found himself leaning into the pressure.
Beckman watched him, captivated by the way the light seemed to follow Luffy’s every move. He felt a sudden, terrifying urge to never let go of these hands—to pull this boy out of the dream and into the cold, rainy West Village with him.
... ...
The heavy rain of the previous night had been replaced by a sharp Manhattan sun that cut through the gaps in the blackout curtains. Beckman drifted in the hazy space between consciousness and sleep, feeling a warmth that did not belong to his king-sized bed.
There was a weight against his side, a solid, breathing presence that felt remarkably like the body he had just been holding in his mind. He did not open his eyes; instead, he leaned into it, his arm instinctively draping over a slim waist. The person smelled incredible—not like the sterile antiseptic of his clinic or the lilies of the wedding, but like wild rosemary and raw honey.
Perhaps the dream had not ended.
Perhaps he had finally lost his mind and conjured a companion to fill the void.
He tightened his grip, his fingers brushing against soft skin and the fabric of a loose shirt, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of a steady chest. Then, a muffled, bubbling giggle vibrated against his arm, followed by a soft, “That tickles, Beckman!”
Beckman’s eyes snapped open. He jolted upright, his heart hammering against his ribs as he scrambled backward, nearly rolling off the edge of the mattress. There, sitting in the middle of his expensive charcoal sheets, was Luffy.
The boy looked exactly as he had in the dream, but more vivid, his messy black hair haloed by the morning light. He was wearing a pair of oversized, silk pyjamas that clearly belonged to Beckman, the collar sliding off one tanned shoulder.
Luffy pulled one knee up to his chest, resting his chin on his hand as he watched Beckman with a look of pure, unbothered mischief. “You make really funny faces when you wake up,” he said, his voice bright and far too loud for the early hour. “Good morning!”
“Luffy?” Beckman managed to choke out. He was a man who prided himself on his composure, but seeing a dream manifest in his silk pyjamas was a professional crisis he was not prepared for.
Luffy’s playful expression instantly soured into a heavy pout. “You don’t have to say it like a question! I’m right here!” He huffed, looking genuinely offended that his name was being treated as a mystery. Without warning, Luffy slid off the bed with the fluid, silent grace of a shadow and began to crawl across the plush carpet toward where Beckman sat on the floor. The oversized pyjama shirt dipped low to reveal the sharp lines of his collarbone and the tan expanse of his chest.
Beckman felt his heart lurch. His eyes betrayingly roamed over the lean muscle of Luffy’s arms and the way the silk clung to his frame. It was a sight that felt dangerous, almost predatory in its innocence. Luffy crawled right into Beckman’s personal space, settling himself comfortably on the floor between Beckman’s spread legs. He looked up, his dark eyes wide and searching.
“You’re a slow-witted human today,” Luffy noted. “Is it because you have the day off? I saw it in your head.”
“What are you doing in my house, Luffy?” Beckman asked, his hands hovering as if he did not know whether to push the boy away or pull him closer.
Luffy crossed his arms. “My house’s way too far! I was tired! And you looked so cold. I had to stay to keep you warm.” He puffed his chest out proudly. “Gramps always said I was ‘too hot-blooded for a dead guy’ and called me a ‘biological disaster,’ but I think it is a great blessing for you!”
Beckman opened his mouth to explain the concept of “personal space” and “modern insulation,” but only a soft, strangled sound came out. Luffy, misinterpreting the stutter as a sign of a lingering chill, made a determined noise. “See! You’re still freezing! Human bodies are so flimsy!”
Luffy surged forward, pinning Beckman against the wall in a massive, full-body hug.
The sensation was overwhelming. Luffy felt like sunlight made flesh. Beckman’s pulse thudded in his ears, and he felt a primal, frantic reaction from his own body that he hadn’t felt in years—not even with Makino. This was different, a hungry, electric heat that threatened to consume his composure. He felt himself getting dangerously close to losing his cool.
“That’s enough,” Beckman said, his voice dropping into a stern tone that he used to mask his inner turmoil. He pushed Luffy back, his hands lingering for a split second on the boy’s warm skin before he pulled them away. “I’m not cold. I was just... surprised. But I’m very glad to see you. Truly.” He offered a small, reassuring nod. “I need to go wash up. You can use the bathroom in the living room—it’s smaller, but it has everything you need. Let’s get dressed, and then we will find you some meat.”
Luffy’s face lit up with a grin that was both adorable and somehow incredibly alluring.
Beckman turned to head for the door, but Luffy was a blur of motion. Before Beckman could reach the handle, the boy had darted ahead, planting his hands on the wood. Because of their height difference, Luffy had to look way up, his neck arching back as he boxed Beckman in. The oversized silk shirt slipped far down Luffy’s chest, revealing a tantalising expanse of tanned skin that made Beckman ’s pulse thud behind his ears.
“Go ahead, Luffy. Make yourself at home,” Beckman sighed, feeling his resolve crumbling.
Luffy’s eyes lit up. “That’s the magic word!” He poked Beckman ’s chest, his finger lingering on the fabric over Beckman ’s heart. “Humans have this invisible fence, you know? Like a transparent wall around their lives. Most vampires are too weak to cross it; they have to stand on the sidewalk and look pathetic until you say the words.” He laughed, a bright, melodic sound. “I’m a King, so that fence’s nothing to me. I could have jumped over it the second I saw you. But Nami said that’s how you get humans to hate you.”
Beckman found himself captivated by the boy’s logic. “So you were being ‘refined’ by waiting?”
“Shishishi! Nami said if I want to stay for a long time, I have to let the human open the fence for me.” Luffy leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that smelled like honey. “So, thanks for opening the fence, Beckman. Now I can stay as long as I want!” He spun around and headed for the living room, leaving Beckman standing in the doorway, staring after him and wondering if his life would ever be the same.
The steam in the master bathroom was thick and quiet.
Beckman stood under the spray for a long time, letting the hot water work the tension out of his neck. He scrubbed his skin until it was red, trying to wash away the phantom sensation of Luffy’s heat, but the memory of those honey-scented whispers seemed to have soaked into his very bones.
When he finally stepped out, he wiped a hand across the fogged mirror to reveal a face he had known for decades: sharp jawline, black hair slicked back and eyes that looked far more awake than they had in years.
He reached for his pack of cigarettes on the vanity, his fingers brushing the plastic out of habit. He could almost hear Luffy’s voice in his head, bragging about “iron lungs” and “pathetic cancer.” With a quiet huff of air, Beckman pulled his hand back.
If the boy had gone to the trouble of blessing him in his sleep, the least he could do was not ruin the gift before breakfast. He decided to skip the smoke—just for today.
He pulled on a crisp white button-down and a pair of dark, tailored trousers. It was his version of “casual,” the same outfit that usually earned him a relentless teasing from Shanks about being “stiff” or “boring.” But as he fastened his watch, he found he did not care about the ribbing. He just wanted to look presentable for the guest who had crashed into his reality.
Beckman adjusted his collar for the third time, his fingers lingering on the top button. He caught himself checking the angle of his jaw in the mirror and felt a sudden heat of embarrassment crawl up his neck. It was absurd; he was a fifty-year-old man fussing over his appearance like a teenager before a first date.
Why would he care if a toothless vampire found him “presentable”?
To Luffy, he was likely just a tall human with a comfortable bed. There was even a nagging voice in his head suggesting that even if he stepped out in a hospital gown, he would still be the most interesting thing in the room.
He pushed open the bathroom door and made his way to the kitchen, the scent of coffee beans already beginning to fill the air. He found Luffy perched on a barstool, looking entirely too comfortable in the modern space.
The boy had changed into a light, cream-coloured button-down and a pair of matching linen shorts that highlighted his lean, tanned legs. Over it, he wore a soft, tan suede jacket, and his signature straw hat was now hanging against his shoulder blades by its white string.
He was hunched over a thick, leather-bound cookbook—a gift Makino had given Beckman years ago. Seeing Luffy’s fingers trace the recipes she had once bookmarked felt like a strange, quiet collision of Beckman’s past and his inexplicable present.
Beckman walked into the kitchen. As he approached the island, he felt a strange prickle of unease. Usually, Luffy was a whirlwind of noise, but now he was silent, his brow furrowed as he stared at the open pages of the leather-bound book.
Beckman sat on the stool next to him, the proximity making him hyper-aware of the warmth radiating from the boy. Without thinking—driven by an instinct he did not know he possessed—Beckman reached out and brushed a stray lock of black hair away from Luffy’s eyes. “Something wrong?” he asked, his hand lingering for a fraction of a second too long.
Luffy did not look up. He did not even acknowledge the touch. Instead, he jabbed a finger at a recipe for cherry pie, which was marked with a delicate, handwritten note from Makino. “This book’s useless,” he grumbled. “It’s all sweet stuff. Sugar and fruit. Who wants to eat a pie made of cherries? It’s gross! Cherry pie’s the worst thing in the world!” He slammed the book shut, his expression one of pure, unbridled annoyance.
Beckman blinked, surprised by the vitriol directed at a dessert. He looked at the book—a treasure he had kept for years out of a sense of duty and lingering affection. But seeing Luffy’s genuine distress, Beckman found himself acting before his brain could protest. He reached out and slid the book across the marble counter, pushing it far out of sight.
“I suppose I have outgrown those recipes,” Beckman said, a faint, amused smile playing on his lips. He was startled by how easy it was to discard the memory when the person in front of him was so vividly, albeit irrationally, upset.
“Good riddance,” Luffy muttered. “I don’t like her. Whoever she is.”
“You have never even met her,” Beckman pointed out, feeling a wave of affection for the boy’s irrationality. “Makino is the kindest person you could imagine. I spent a decade thinking she was the only one for me. I loved her deeply, but she and Shanks... they are meant to be. I’m the odd man out.”
Beckman was shocked at how easy the words were to say. Usually, talking about Makino felt like pulling teeth, but today it felt like reciting a dry history book. He looked at Luffy—vibrant, golden and currently pouting—and realised his internal landscape had changed overnight. The “rain” Luffy had seen in his head was clearing.
Luffy didn’t look happy, though. “So you don’t love her anymore? Not like a ‘crush’ thing?”
“I will always care for her,” Beckman replied honestly. “But no. I’m not in love with her anymore. I think I finally found the exit to that particular labyrinth.”
Luffy leaned his chin on his hand, his pose both innocent and intensely focused on Beckman ’s lips. “Then... what happens to all that love you have left over? Do you just throw it away like the book? Does that mean you’re looking for a new person? Someone who hates cherry pie and likes to eat a lot of meat?”
The silence in the room stretched out.
Beckman stared at Luffy, looking at the way the light hit his tan skin and the youthful energy radiating from him. The idea of opening his heart again so soon felt like a medical impossibility—a wound that should still be gaping, yet somehow felt stitched shut the moment Luffy appeared. It was unreasonable.
It defied every law of emotional recovery Beckman had ever studied.
“Love is a slow process,” Beckman said, trying to convince himself more than the boy. “It’s a structure you build over years. You don’t just wake up and find a new foundation.”
Luffy rolled his eyes, leaning back on the stool until his straw hat bumped against the cabinet. “That sounds like a lot of work. Why wait years when you can just feel it? You humans make everything so complicated.”
“Because we are fragile,” Beckman replied, but seeing the way Luffy’s shoulders slumped, he felt like the biggest villain in Manhattan. He hated seeing that vibrant light dim. He let out a long, defeated breath and leaned in closer, invading Luffy’s space for once. “How about this... we don’t worry about the ‘years’ yet. We just start with breakfast. A date. You can tell me everything that isn’t in my head, and I can try to catch up to your speed.”
Luffy’s eyes flickered. “A date? Does that involve a lot of meat?”
“The most meat in New York,” Beckman promised, a genuine smile finally breaking through his stoicism.