![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chibi_trillianTitle: Ara-to
Series: One Piece.
One Piece: Not mine.
Rating: G.
Summary: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vampire_otaku, as she requested ZoSopp for the holidays. A damaged blade must feel the touch of a rough stone if it is ever to cut cleanly again. Spoilers for most recent chapters. Crossposted to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
zosopp.
Notes: Hopefully part the first of three. Ara-to is the coarsest grade of Japanese waterstone.
He’d never know if that shot was mistake or fate.
He’d never missed a shot in his life, never, never, especially not such an important one. And he’d never done anything quite so stupidly careless as walking into an open pair of handcuffs before.
Bad luck. Destiny. You were supposed to be able to tell the two apart.
But Zoro had sworn at him for carelessness before picking him up like he weighed nothing and stuffing the black-hilted blade into his hands, so he guessed he knew what Zoro thought of his actions. The arrangement had been nothing but terror for him in that first moment, as Zoro told him not to move, to hold fast and pretend he was a sword of all things.
But Zoro had decided to name him for some obscure reason, and the strike after that naming, when Zoro had swung his body like he was the blade he was called…
Usopp had thought his veins were on fire, and all he could do was scream as something molten-hot held his body rigid and locked his fingers around Yubashiri’s hilt. He’d resisted for the tiniest fraction of a second before yielding to it, before letting it flow through him to tear the air like translucent silk. And in that moment of defiance, that instant in which he had refused to be treated like an inanimate object, to submit wholly to Zoro’s will, he’d tasted iron in his mouth and practically seen Zoro vibrating with an inner light.
Zoro’s strike had missed, probably due to Usopp’s hesitation, and Nami had released them directly afterwards. He’d been infinitely thankful for his mask, for Kabuto’s support, for the thousand other things he needed to do and the swift distraction of pain that Jyabura had provided.
But after, when they returned to Water 7, when the first sharp shock of Merry’s death had worn off, when he’d had time to actually process when had happened in the last few days and do something other than cry about it, he’d found more empty places inside of himself than Merry could really account for. These empty places felt bruised and burnt, and they tasted like rust and blood and sweat. He’d blamed them on Merry anyway, and had fallen asleep that first night feeling like one of his copper stills after an explosion—bent and stretched, worn dangerously thin, almost unrecognizable.
He’d dreamed of molten metal and green fire and sword-calloused hands touching him, a confused dream that smelled of clove oil when he woke up.
His dizzy self-deception, lying to himself, puffing himself up for days to try and glue the fragile, hollow porcelain egg of his self-esteem back together—they dissolved in his sleep, in soft humming and oil-slick fingers touching his too-hot skin, tracing lightly up and down his back, and a quiet rumble that he was tarnished and nicked but his steel was excellent, the best he’d ever held, and some work would get him to shining again.
And if there’d been the agonized shriek of steel against a coarse whetstone under his words when he’d screamed his apology, no one would ever have heard it over the explosions.
Series: One Piece.
One Piece: Not mine.
Rating: G.
Summary: For
vampire_otaku, as she requested ZoSopp for the holidays. A damaged blade must feel the touch of a rough stone if it is ever to cut cleanly again. Spoilers for most recent chapters. Crossposted to zosopp.Notes: Hopefully part the first of three. Ara-to is the coarsest grade of Japanese waterstone.
He’d never know if that shot was mistake or fate.
He’d never missed a shot in his life, never, never, especially not such an important one. And he’d never done anything quite so stupidly careless as walking into an open pair of handcuffs before.
Bad luck. Destiny. You were supposed to be able to tell the two apart.
But Zoro had sworn at him for carelessness before picking him up like he weighed nothing and stuffing the black-hilted blade into his hands, so he guessed he knew what Zoro thought of his actions. The arrangement had been nothing but terror for him in that first moment, as Zoro told him not to move, to hold fast and pretend he was a sword of all things.
But Zoro had decided to name him for some obscure reason, and the strike after that naming, when Zoro had swung his body like he was the blade he was called…
Usopp had thought his veins were on fire, and all he could do was scream as something molten-hot held his body rigid and locked his fingers around Yubashiri’s hilt. He’d resisted for the tiniest fraction of a second before yielding to it, before letting it flow through him to tear the air like translucent silk. And in that moment of defiance, that instant in which he had refused to be treated like an inanimate object, to submit wholly to Zoro’s will, he’d tasted iron in his mouth and practically seen Zoro vibrating with an inner light.
Zoro’s strike had missed, probably due to Usopp’s hesitation, and Nami had released them directly afterwards. He’d been infinitely thankful for his mask, for Kabuto’s support, for the thousand other things he needed to do and the swift distraction of pain that Jyabura had provided.
But after, when they returned to Water 7, when the first sharp shock of Merry’s death had worn off, when he’d had time to actually process when had happened in the last few days and do something other than cry about it, he’d found more empty places inside of himself than Merry could really account for. These empty places felt bruised and burnt, and they tasted like rust and blood and sweat. He’d blamed them on Merry anyway, and had fallen asleep that first night feeling like one of his copper stills after an explosion—bent and stretched, worn dangerously thin, almost unrecognizable.
He’d dreamed of molten metal and green fire and sword-calloused hands touching him, a confused dream that smelled of clove oil when he woke up.
His dizzy self-deception, lying to himself, puffing himself up for days to try and glue the fragile, hollow porcelain egg of his self-esteem back together—they dissolved in his sleep, in soft humming and oil-slick fingers touching his too-hot skin, tracing lightly up and down his back, and a quiet rumble that he was tarnished and nicked but his steel was excellent, the best he’d ever held, and some work would get him to shining again.
And if there’d been the agonized shriek of steel against a coarse whetstone under his words when he’d screamed his apology, no one would ever have heard it over the explosions.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-26 04:14 am (UTC)Your colorful descriptors always get me, right off the bat. The word choice just seems to flow, and I find myself re-reading bits and pieces here and there to try and experience all of the different mental pictures you are painting. So beautiful.
And this will be multi-part, yes? Totally awesome. :D I look forward to reading more!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-26 07:08 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-26 04:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-29 04:28 pm (UTC)*worships*