Have you ever wanted to enter the one piece world? Maybe you want to be friends with the strawhats, or the heart pirates? Perhaps you'd rather be dating one of them, or all of them!! Here you can do that, feel free to send in requests in my request...
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A/N: Hello lovelies! Now real quick
CW!!: For very descriptive language used around dead bodies!
Also WANO SPOILERS will be in this story.
Okay continuing with the A/N: You ask me for angst, well I'll deliver but I'm not paying for your therapy okay!!
Also,,,, slight spoilers for the story ahead and BIG SPOILERS FOR WANO, but, Izou's death was very glossed over and it made me very upset, so here is the love he deserves I suppose:)
You woke to light and the sound of gulls. The curtains didn't keep much out anymore, the thin fabric had gone pale from too many summers, so the sun found you quick, laying a bright bar across the bed where he should have been.
His half of the mattress was mostly cooler beneath your palm. It usually was. You lay there a moment, listening to the quiet morning sounds, the slow tide of the sea working at the shore, and told yourself not to feel disappointed. You were used to this. Mostly.
You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling beam where an old nail stuck out of it. The two of you had hung a lantern there once, and sometimes, if the wind came just right through the window, the beam made a soft tap, like a soothing rhythm.
Today it only held a silence. You let out a breath, braced for a moment and then pushed the blanket down, and stood, feet finding the cool plank where the floor always kept a small patch from the cool night.
The kitchen was the same as you'd left it the evening before, cups turned upside down along the drain, a pot soaking, a square of cloth folded over the bread to keep the flies off.
You crossed to the window and thumbed the latch up. The frame stuck, like always, you had to put a shoulder against it to ease it open. Warm air leaned in. The sea's noise lifted, filling the room.
He was where you expected him to be. In the scrap of garden, bare chested, hair pulled half up, kimono tied around his waist because the day had decided to be hot early.
He moved through a set of forms slow enough to look easy until you watched the precision of them, the exact angle of his elbow, the way his weight settled and then released, the small twist through his middle that meant strength held in check.
Sweat made a clean line down the centre of his back. When he turned, sun struck at the curve of his jaw and disappeared again as he faced the other way. It was like watching the tide find the shore, natural.
You leaned your forearms to the sill and let the wood press a groove into your skin. His breath came in measured pulls. He finished a sequence and held still for a count, then bled into the next move, and the next.
