Chapter Text
Zoro checks his phone again, just to make sure.
It fucking hurts. Even after killing the brightness a notch. It’s either the glare of his screen or squinting at it and there’s no relieving the excruciating pounding in his temples. Every step he takes feels like stomping on his own skull. That’ll teach him, for not wearing his computer glasses when he’s coding for hours on end. Or maybe not—Zoro’s not particularly vain, but ever since Luffy said he looked like a frog with glasses on, he’s started feeling self-conscious about wearing them altogether.
And here he is, now. The fool.
With his head stuck in a vice, Zoro zigzags through endless obstacles to reach the louder and busier Main Avenue fast. At this point, he’s desperate for a beer, some painkillers and a nap, wishing he could teleport home instead of trying to decipher Nami’s precious scribbles in a sea of meandering people to get himself there.
Zoro curses himself, forevermore, for ever agreeing to move into a big city for the ultimate semester of his student life. What a shitty idea that was.
He looks down at the directions Nami penned for him one last time.
TURN RIGHT AT ROBECCA HANBERG
GO UP MAIN AVENUE
FIND KING UTOME BUS STOP
WAIT FOR BUS R
Zoro looks for the familiar sign of a hanger up ahead. There it is. Robecca.
He’s got this.
Almost there.
As his screen fades back to black, Zoro sticks the thumb and index of his free hand out. The L is backwards so it means right is this way, he figures, balling his hand into a fist with resolve. This is where he goes, this is where he turns. The street gives way to the bustling Main Avenue and Zoro winces when rays of sunlight hit him directly in the face, as they peak through the otherwise dark clouds of the November sky. He snaps his head the other way to spare his poor retinas, the sudden sunny spell kindling the pain in his forehead, so much so that his eyes start to water.
“Fuck,” Zoro mutters, blinking the wetness away, until his gaze lands on the vehicle driving right past him.
There goes Bus R.
Zoro groans at the idea of sprinting, with that migraine holding his brains in an armlock— but then, the bus stop is close and bursting with people waiting to get on, so he’ll have no trouble catching up. Also, he’d much rather deal with a few seconds of pure agony than with a fifteen-minute wait for the next bus.
So, fuck it.
Zoro turns on his heels, facing the throbbing pain and the blinding star head on, and starts running towards King Utome like his entire life depends on it. Shielding his sore eyes with a hand and holding his tote-bag close to his ribs with the other, Zoro takes himself close and closer and he would’ve made it—if it wasn’t for the body crashing into his. Zoro’s palms break his fall, hitting the uneven cobblestones and a puddle of lukewarm coffee hard, his spectacular display of reflexes, despite the impeding headache, preventing his weight from fully pressing onto the body trapped under him.
People are watching and whispering at the mess of limbs and explosion of belongings, but in true big city fashion, no one comes to help. Zoro looks up ahead and watches as his bus takes off without him, falling back in defeat with a hand on his chest pushing him off — hand that immediately goes to collect the items scattered around them, before they get trampled by passers-by.
Zoro holds his head in an attempt to tame the pang blooming in there. It hurts so bad, it feels like blood will start gushing out of his face any second now. He’s about to cuss at the stranger—when their eyes meet… and Zoro forgets what he wanted to say entirely.
After catching a glimpse of the piercing blue eye shooting daggers at him, Zoro can’t stop staring. He notices the eyebrow, long eyelashes and neatly trimmed facial hair. His gaze finds mumbling lips then, mourning the spilled brew and complaining about bruising, blemishes and tardiness.
Huh.
Unbelievable. Blaming Zoro under his breath like a coward—blaming Zoro for running into him when he’s the one who should be apologizing for getting in the way! Also, how dare he be Zoro’s type on top of everything? Pretty and pesky…? The fucking nerve of that guy, really.
Zoro wants to say something, he has to—but it feels like there’s a bunch of sentences in his mind going around, like in a wheel of fortune that just won’t stop spinning; he doesn’t know if he should tell the curly brows to watch where he’s going next time, ask if he’s hurt, say sorry, insult him or straight up ask if he’d like to go for a drink or whatever.
His time to make up his mind runs out fast. Zoro can only watch, too stunned and hurting too much to properly speak or even react, as the pretty boy stands, walks towards what seems to be a golden lighter and picks it up, turns back to retrieve his belongings from under Zoro’s nose and takes off just like that.
“Shit. Wait,” he calls, pocketing his phone, grabbing his stuff off the pavement and jumping up so hastily his vision darkens at the edges. “Wait…,” he breathes out, eyes searching the silky mop of blonde hair amongst the swarm of people, but to no avail.
It takes someone bumping into him for Zoro to come back to reality and realize he’s been standing there for a beat too long.
Disappointment pulls a sigh out of him, as he drags his sore carcass to the bus stop. The timetables blur even more than Nami’s directions on his phone when he consults them. He doesn’t know why he bothers checking, even. It’s exactly as he expected; a fifteen-minute wait until the next bus.
And like an absolute loser, Zoro spends his waiting time, the ride and his walk back home replaying the encounter in his forever aching head, thinking about the curly brows’s features and imagining scenarios where he says something to him, where things turn out different.
Maybe this was a once in a lifetime opportunity and he blew it. Now, the blonde’s lost forever and he’ll never get the chance to see him again, to find out what could have been.
But then again, maybe it was meant to be this way.
Just like he’s not vain but will willingly put himself in predicaments to look cool, Zoro’s not a people-person but secretly craves deep and meaningful connections.
He can fantasize all he wants about what could have been, still, if he was given the chance to redo the encounter all over again, the outcome wouldn’t change. He so badly wishes to experience the thrills life has to offer — everything he’s heard from friends, everything he’s seen or even read — but Zoro’s wired a certain way that makes it all impossible. Making space for others, allowing people in… it means disturbing his peace and balance, his plans, the control he has over the future he’s chosen for himself. And that’s… that’s unnerving, to say the least.
Fantasizing, however, is fun and harmless. Zoro even fools himself into thinking it’s enough to cure his loneliness sometimes; that it’s the closest he’ll get to experience it all; and most of all, that he’s OK with it.
By the time Zoro reaches the house, his migraine’s gone so intense, he feels nauseous. He tries the knob and groans when he finds resistance. Locked.
It feels as if his brain has registered that he’s near his bed, has send the message to his entire being and now his body knows. He leans heavily against the cold polished wood, cheek first like it’ll hold him if his legs give out, and carefully reaches into his tote-bag, avoiding any sudden move.
If he pukes on the doormat, Nami’ll gut him.
His forefinger gets through a hoop, the familiar sound of chiming metal ringing in his ears. He pulls the bunch of keys out of the black cloth and frowns at the colorful and quirky key rings spread out on his palm, outnumbering the keys.
That’s not his.
Zoro straightens up, spreads the handles of his tote-bag along his shoulder and arm and peeks into it. His eyes widen. None of the shit he sees in there belongs to him.
Holy fucking shit-fuck. The realization hits him like a ton of bricks.
Surprisingly, he finds himself smiling at what it entails.
Zoro takes his phone out and slides against the door until his rear hits the threshold. Nami picks up after the fourth tone.
“What do you want.”
“Lost my keys.”
“Ugh,” she drawls out, long and annoyed, and the complaint stops when she suddenly hangs up.
Zoro drops his phone into the bag that’s not his bag, pulls on the strings of his hoodie until it completely engulfs his face and closes his eyes in an attempt to meditate the pain away.
It’s thirty minutes later when Nami finally shows up, the hurried clicking of her heels against the concrete snapping Zoro from his shallow transe. She almost steps on his slouched figure to get to the keyhole. When Zoro frees his face from his hood and opens his burning eyelids, his migraine comes back in full force.
“You look like shit.”
“Feel like it too.”
She offers a hand to pull him back on his feet and snorts when he staggers a little. Zoro’s in actual Hell. At this point, it feels like the headache is embedded so deep into his system, he’ll never get rid of it. He winces when Nami slams the door behind them. He only takes the time to kick his shoes off before he heads to the kitchen. “Where’re the painkillers?’’ he asks, opening the fridge to get his hands on a beer.
“Top drawer,” Nami replies from the hall, still removing her shoes, scarf and coat. “Where does it hurt?’’
“Head.”
Nami scoffs. Here it comes, Zoro thinks, and it doesn’t miss. Nami doesn’t wait a beat to start giving him shit about how expensive painkillers are in this day and age and about how she’s saving them for period cramps, a.k.a. pain she can’t prevent or do shit about. Zoro knows he’s in the wrong, knows he owes her, so he endures the remonstrance.
“Top. Drawer,” she repeats exasperatedly, crossing the room to open said drawer, and gives Zoro a pointed look, who’s neck-deep in the top cupboard. She plops a pill into his palm with a weary sigh. “Wear your damn glasses, you blithering fool.”
“I will,” Zoro mumbles, gulping the painkiller with a mouthful of ale.
“Go rest. I’ll wake you when the food’s ready.” Zoro nods and leans in to peck her on the forehead as a thank you. Her scowl softens a little. “You’re welcome.”
Back in his room, Zoro quickly drains his can of beer, drops the bag that’s not his, strips off his jean jacket and hoodie, draws his curtains and ungracefully crawls into bed, wishing the pounding in his head would just stop already. The room keeps spinning for a while longer, until he finally manages to even out his breathing; and just like that, he’s out like a light.
When Zoro opens his eyes again, all he sees is darkness. He feels groggy and thirsty, but at least, he’s pleased to notice the pain has disappeared. Lazily, he rolls towards his nightstand and turns his lamp on, shedding light on his messy bedroom, so he can locate his water bottle. It’s on his desk. Across the room.
Sitting at the edge of the bed to stretch and yawn, Zoro can faintly hear the true-crime podcast Nami’s listening to in the kitchen. He can also smell the shallots and onions she’s browning, the scent making his stomach growl. His bones crack with each step he takes towards his desk and his eyes land on the black tote-bag discarded on the carpet as he downs the remaining of his water in a few gulps.
Right. The curly brows.
“Alright,” Zoro lets out in a sigh, before he goes to sit cross-legged on the fluffy rug, and seizes the piece of cloth by the bottom to empty it out.
Zoro immediately removes his phone from the pile of items and then takes the sweater since it stands out, with everything else pretty much tangled into it. He shakes the fabric to free it from the other stuff, the mess of belongings falling like raindrops on the carpet. The piece of clothing is black and it has the solar system sewn into it. Without thinking, Zoro brings it to his face to breathe it in. His face feels hot from the burning shame, especially after letting out an appreciative hum that just escapes him—but it’s all worth it in the end because it smells good.
Stubborn in the face of embarrassment, Zoro slips the sweater on. For emphasis.
He then proceeds to carefully arrange the items in front of him, more gentler this time, determined to find clues regarding the pretty boy’s whereabouts. There’s not much, besides a few receipts from various food stores, a promotional lighter and the business card from a beauty salon, with a lipstick mark kissed on it. Upon looking at the pack of medicine he could have used earlier if he’d known it was there, the chapstick and loose bandaids, Zoro finds himself drawn to the dirty red notebook and retraces the words carved into it.
does this hunger have a name?
It’s with trembling fingers that he opens the cover and turns the blank title page. His heart skips a beat when his eyes fall on columns of neat handwriting, overlapping with doodles in a clash of colors.
i, too, was born on a sunday — rose at first light like an aubade
with a feeling, overwhelming, twirling in the pit of my stomach
a hunger
that no fruit, sweets, or petal could ever temper
i, too, was green in the beginning, pie-eyed with innocence, roaming the earth for sustenance
a languid prisoner of this appetite, dark and bottomless, unfathomable and unknown, like the depths of the salty ocean; henceforth, sunday to sunday
i devour
rations of passion, morsels of myths and tales
snack on soul food & food for thought
then lick the tip of my fingers for crumbs of knowledge and wisdom
still, satiety shuns me endlessly
i feast on other people’s beauty, develop late-night cravings for what makes them alluring, compelling and unique,
perpetually yearning for the saying “you are what you eat’’ to become my reality.
still,
it is only emptiness that i feel
it is only ever me, and this black hole-like belly
perhaps i have yet to taste the true meaning of being. longing and pining is enough to stop my insides from growling but it is never really filling, is it?
hanging over my head like the forbidden fruit; and just as for the wicked downcast into that place far distant from earth as earth is distant from the sky, it shies away from my starved grasp whenever i dare reach out.
does this hunger have a name?
sunday to sunday, all i do is chew on the enigma
day in, day out; until my jaw aches, until it runs out of taste,
whine when it gets stuck between my teeth and wail in the morning when i’ve slept on it and it made a cavity. the pain renders me useless, unable to bite too hard into anything else.
does this hunger have a name?
if it does, what an exquisite one it must be. delicate and heavenly,
like how luscious ambrosia most certainly is.
and how i wish for it to, one day, meet my mouth—
until then i’ll daydream, until then i’ll wait, until my time runs out and i have to weave the cocoon around that half-empty stomach, hoping i come out the other side a moth and not a butterfly for i feel i have sipped enough nectar as a caterpillar; for i hope the moment has come for my ravenous heart to find its matching flame,
yet to be called,
yet to be named
Well, fuck.
“Food’s ready!” Nami exclaims, kicking her way into the room because of the bowls of creamy pasta she’s holding in each hand. “Huh. Didn’t expect to find you conscious already. The fuck you’re doing?” Zoro turns to her and makes grabby hands at his bowl. “What are you wearing?” she continues, handing his food to Zoro who immediately digs in, slapping cream at the corner of his mouth from slurping too much spaghetti. “What’s all this?” she asks on her way to his bed, eyeing the pack of cigarettes at her feet curiously.
“Bumped into someone earlier,” Zoro explains around his mouthful, not looking up at Nami who settles down where he’s been recovering, so she doesn’t see him blushing in his pasta. “Took my bag by accident—left me his. He was in a hurry.”
“Oh. I see. So you didn’t really lose your keys, then.”
“Yeah, no. He prolly has them.”
“Was he cute?”
“No,” Zoro says in earnest, with a small frown, because that’s not a word he’d use to describe curly brows.
“Alright then… What do we have here?” Nami asks, pointing at the notebook on Zoro’s lap with her chin.
“Feelings,” Zoro chuckles around his food, his stomach twisting at the memory of what he just read.
Other than the sweater, cigarettes, pills, chapstick and bandaids, the pretty boy’s bag used to contain unscented deodorant, an empty glasses case, cherry flavored gum that has Nami saying that’s a little fruity around the last of her spaghetti, a small notepad filled with recipes and a pen, tissues and headphones.
Zoro would die if he ever lost his headphones. They’re his shield against the world. He wasn’t using them on his way home today for obvious reasons, but in other circumstances, he’s constantly listening to music. That’s why his earbuds, as well as his phone and wallet never leave his pockets. It’s in character that he’d lose his bag, but very less likely that he’d lose his jeans.
That makes him think about what was in his bag, that curly brows took with him. It’s a little alarming that he didn’t worry about this earlier but for the record, he was in a lot of pain, so.
He’s definitely going to miss his own notebook—a lot of his work is in there, actually, and notes from his classes… stuff that he didn’t take the time to put into his computer yet and that he’ll need to get his hands back on soon if he wants to progress on his game and not mess up his working pace.
Except that and his keys, the rest is just junk—no, there’s also his computer glasses in the bunch, sorry.
But never mind all that, actually.
Zoro doesn’t really care. What matters most is the mystery, the adventure, the chase. The blue of that glare, the pink of those annoying grumbling lips… Zoro wants to see the curly brows again, even though that desire will never cross past the confines of his conscience. Nami doesn’t have to learn his true motivations. He’ll never hear the end of it if she does.
“I’m gonna look for him, witch.”
There’s a pause. Zoro looks up from the notebook, when it’s been silent long enough to actually become ominous. It feels eerie when Nami doesn’t instantly retort something. She catches his gaze and Zoro hates the way she stares him down, all the way to his soul with her big brown eyes.
“Down that bad, huh?” She snorts, the smug bitch.
Zoro does an eye-roll, but it’s mostly to escape her dead-on scrutiny. He’s not that transparent, is he? Damnit.
“Shut up…,” Zoro complains, “he has my sketches. My codes. My keys. I need those.”
Nami piles up their empty bowls with a giggle. Zoro really hates her sometimes.
“Any of this says where to find him?”
“Well.” Zoro looks down at the lump of potential clues he’s separated from the rest. “Not explicitly. But I feel like these’ll lead me somewhere.”
Nami joins him on the carpet to inspect each receipt closely. “What—a bunch of receipts, a lighter from…Rumbar Discotheque…?” she deciphers, from the side of the device, before throwing it back into the pile, “and Amazon Lily Beauty Salon’s calling card…?’’ she chuckles, puckering her lips in the shape of the glaring stain Zoro’s starting to hate printed on it. “What do you intend to do with these? Wait all day long around each location until your stranger shows up?”
Zoro just shrugs. This is exactly what he intended to do. “The mysteriouser the better.”
“Not a word…,” Nami argues as soon as the term leaves Zoro’s mouth.
“It’s a cool challenge, I think,” Zoro says quietly, his eyes falling back on the notebook.
“Right,” Nami concedes after a beat, sounding a little dubitative still. “Fate’s never failed you after all.”
“Don’t jinx it.”
“Nah. She loves you too much for me to have any power over her,” Nami reassures him, ruffling his hair until Zoro pulls away with a grunt.
He’s totally got this.