![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Yet another 101 thingy
Theme: Overlooked
Rating: PG
Pairing: ZoSopp (extra faint in this)
Word Count: 1226
He’d only been ten when his mother had died. Ten was a funny age. If he hadn’t been a pirate’s proud and stubborn son, his mother’s beloved companion, if his island hadn’t been quite so small, he most likely would have found himself apprenticed in one way or another. Either to his family’s trade or maybe to a neighbor who knew him almost as well as his own children. But his family’s work was illegal and dangerous and there weren’t any role models of that sort to be found in Syrup village – or so he thought at the time. And he’d spent most of the last two years caring for his mama while her health began its final, inevitable descent. There weren’t many children his age to begin with and Bankina had taken it upon herself to school her bright, avidly intelligent son. So at ten he was left virtually an orphan, with nowhere to go and no one to really turn to. He’d become so self-sufficient that the notion of moving in with another family made his stomach lurch but being ten and rattling around an empty house isn’t an easy thing to stand.
The stories had started as a way to entertain himself and his mother, long strings of words to fill up a silence otherwise loud with labored breathing and hesitant, worried apologies. His mother never laughed enough and her smiles had always been loving but tight with hidden pain and so he’d turned to outrageousness in an effort to hear her laughter and watch her grin, memories that even as a child he knew he’d want. Yasopp had starred in his first tales but they hurt too much and so the Great Captain was born. The Great Captain very quickly had adventures the likes of which even Gol D. Roger had never seen and the small house on the edge of town was often full of cheerful laughter and vibrant, primary-color illustrations. The villagers would walk by and smile sad smiles, but if they stayed long enough to listen even those stretched into broad grins.
After she passed away, the house was abruptly very busy and loud and then just as swiftly empty and silent. For a week there was no Great Captain, only a curly-haired boy who sniffled into his pillow at night and spent his days looking out across the sea for a scarred Jolly Roger. And then, weighed down by the oppressing space, the Great Captain had thrown off his chains and returned bolder and brighter than ever. Talking to one’s self was a little strange but he was ten and alone and there was no one to tell him otherwise. Soon enough his stories spread, repeated by a few of the town’s other children and reaching the ears of their parents. Hope grew and replaced some of the guilt. There was nothing wrong in becoming a poet or a writer, even if it did mean the boy would probably leave them all some day. Meanwhile, they could watch his talents blossom and give him some of the attention he so desperately craved.
For several years she was his greatest audience. Kaya, pale and blond and blue-eyed, so different in appearance from his mother but like her in so many other, more important ways. Their secret, him telling stories to the wealthy, sheltered girl who lived in the big house down the lane and on top of the hill, was satisfying in a way he hadn’t known since his mother’s death. She lavished him with praise and he bathed in her open affection, drove himself and the Great Captain to ever-loftier heights in his effort to amuse her and, he hoped, heal her the way he never could for his mother. All had been well until something from right out of one of his stories showed up on his beach and changed his life.
There had never been an audience quite like Monkey D. Luffy. The laughing boy, same age as himself, had lapped at every story and swallowed the hook, the line, the sinker, and half of his arm with that stretchy rubber mouth. Luffy was the best kind of listener, always eager and expectant, willing to contribute but never taking over the thread of the tale. He never got tired and his memory wasn’t exactly the best so the occasional repeated detail never caused comment. Day after day as they sailed through East Blue on the ship that Kaya had given to them – to him in gratitude for all his help? – and he starred in his own one-man show for a growing audience. While Nami and Zoro and Sanji weren’t as vocally appreciative as the straw hat-wearing boy, he caught them listening from time to time and let the knowledge buoy him when his courage and his abilities didn’t seem quite up to snuff.
The Grand Line was a different sort of beast than the more placid waters of East Blue. And despite Vivi and Chopper and Carue’s eager ears, there never seemed to be the same amount of time or calm to be filled with stories of the Great Captain. The fighting and the danger and the struggles grew and the warm glow of acknowledgement he got from his stories dwindled in response. He felt like a failure even though he’d lived through things that the Great Captain, as told when he was younger, had never even imagined. Everything seemed to be falling apart, coming down around his ears, and he pushed away when he should have pulled even closer so that even the most silent of his companions’ spoke volumes in troubled green when they left him alone again to bury the Great Captain.
Soge King had been a brilliant diversion but nothing more than that. A character in one of the Great Captain’s stories and not the star. He’d watched death come for him over and over, hiding behind his mask, and he wanted to throw it away, die as the man he’d always told the world he was, but then the moment passed. And he was still empty inside, lonely, and he couldn’t bring himself to speak when words had been one of the few things he could control. His desperate disbelieving shout, all the fake reassurances he used to try and stuff into the hollow of himself, had blown away like chaff in the concussive wind. So he’d told the truth – much though it hurt to admit it, as much as he still ached inside from what had felt like a return betrayal – and it had been his salvation. The Great Captain had not been left behind.
Later, sailing ever onward because that was what pirates – even the Great Captain – did, he lay on the soft green lawn of the new deck and studied the stars. He felt comfortable, warm and safe and at home with his nakama, resting in the crook of one strong, sword-hardened arm. Next to him there was silence but not the slow even breaths of sleep. His audience was still awake. Usopp cleared his throat and ignored the amused sigh in his ear. He knew how to pitch a tale to his audience.
“Did I ever tell you about the time the Great Captain faced the dreaded belching beer bovines in the land of the giant sunflowers?”
Rating: PG
Pairing: ZoSopp (extra faint in this)
Word Count: 1226
He’d only been ten when his mother had died. Ten was a funny age. If he hadn’t been a pirate’s proud and stubborn son, his mother’s beloved companion, if his island hadn’t been quite so small, he most likely would have found himself apprenticed in one way or another. Either to his family’s trade or maybe to a neighbor who knew him almost as well as his own children. But his family’s work was illegal and dangerous and there weren’t any role models of that sort to be found in Syrup village – or so he thought at the time. And he’d spent most of the last two years caring for his mama while her health began its final, inevitable descent. There weren’t many children his age to begin with and Bankina had taken it upon herself to school her bright, avidly intelligent son. So at ten he was left virtually an orphan, with nowhere to go and no one to really turn to. He’d become so self-sufficient that the notion of moving in with another family made his stomach lurch but being ten and rattling around an empty house isn’t an easy thing to stand.
The stories had started as a way to entertain himself and his mother, long strings of words to fill up a silence otherwise loud with labored breathing and hesitant, worried apologies. His mother never laughed enough and her smiles had always been loving but tight with hidden pain and so he’d turned to outrageousness in an effort to hear her laughter and watch her grin, memories that even as a child he knew he’d want. Yasopp had starred in his first tales but they hurt too much and so the Great Captain was born. The Great Captain very quickly had adventures the likes of which even Gol D. Roger had never seen and the small house on the edge of town was often full of cheerful laughter and vibrant, primary-color illustrations. The villagers would walk by and smile sad smiles, but if they stayed long enough to listen even those stretched into broad grins.
After she passed away, the house was abruptly very busy and loud and then just as swiftly empty and silent. For a week there was no Great Captain, only a curly-haired boy who sniffled into his pillow at night and spent his days looking out across the sea for a scarred Jolly Roger. And then, weighed down by the oppressing space, the Great Captain had thrown off his chains and returned bolder and brighter than ever. Talking to one’s self was a little strange but he was ten and alone and there was no one to tell him otherwise. Soon enough his stories spread, repeated by a few of the town’s other children and reaching the ears of their parents. Hope grew and replaced some of the guilt. There was nothing wrong in becoming a poet or a writer, even if it did mean the boy would probably leave them all some day. Meanwhile, they could watch his talents blossom and give him some of the attention he so desperately craved.
For several years she was his greatest audience. Kaya, pale and blond and blue-eyed, so different in appearance from his mother but like her in so many other, more important ways. Their secret, him telling stories to the wealthy, sheltered girl who lived in the big house down the lane and on top of the hill, was satisfying in a way he hadn’t known since his mother’s death. She lavished him with praise and he bathed in her open affection, drove himself and the Great Captain to ever-loftier heights in his effort to amuse her and, he hoped, heal her the way he never could for his mother. All had been well until something from right out of one of his stories showed up on his beach and changed his life.
There had never been an audience quite like Monkey D. Luffy. The laughing boy, same age as himself, had lapped at every story and swallowed the hook, the line, the sinker, and half of his arm with that stretchy rubber mouth. Luffy was the best kind of listener, always eager and expectant, willing to contribute but never taking over the thread of the tale. He never got tired and his memory wasn’t exactly the best so the occasional repeated detail never caused comment. Day after day as they sailed through East Blue on the ship that Kaya had given to them – to him in gratitude for all his help? – and he starred in his own one-man show for a growing audience. While Nami and Zoro and Sanji weren’t as vocally appreciative as the straw hat-wearing boy, he caught them listening from time to time and let the knowledge buoy him when his courage and his abilities didn’t seem quite up to snuff.
The Grand Line was a different sort of beast than the more placid waters of East Blue. And despite Vivi and Chopper and Carue’s eager ears, there never seemed to be the same amount of time or calm to be filled with stories of the Great Captain. The fighting and the danger and the struggles grew and the warm glow of acknowledgement he got from his stories dwindled in response. He felt like a failure even though he’d lived through things that the Great Captain, as told when he was younger, had never even imagined. Everything seemed to be falling apart, coming down around his ears, and he pushed away when he should have pulled even closer so that even the most silent of his companions’ spoke volumes in troubled green when they left him alone again to bury the Great Captain.
Soge King had been a brilliant diversion but nothing more than that. A character in one of the Great Captain’s stories and not the star. He’d watched death come for him over and over, hiding behind his mask, and he wanted to throw it away, die as the man he’d always told the world he was, but then the moment passed. And he was still empty inside, lonely, and he couldn’t bring himself to speak when words had been one of the few things he could control. His desperate disbelieving shout, all the fake reassurances he used to try and stuff into the hollow of himself, had blown away like chaff in the concussive wind. So he’d told the truth – much though it hurt to admit it, as much as he still ached inside from what had felt like a return betrayal – and it had been his salvation. The Great Captain had not been left behind.
Later, sailing ever onward because that was what pirates – even the Great Captain – did, he lay on the soft green lawn of the new deck and studied the stars. He felt comfortable, warm and safe and at home with his nakama, resting in the crook of one strong, sword-hardened arm. Next to him there was silence but not the slow even breaths of sleep. His audience was still awake. Usopp cleared his throat and ignored the amused sigh in his ear. He knew how to pitch a tale to his audience.
“Did I ever tell you about the time the Great Captain faced the dreaded belching beer bovines in the land of the giant sunflowers?”