Sometimes, when the sky is clouded over and the sea is dark, Brook forgets. He sits very still on the mast bench with his white bone-hands folded in his lap, and stares at nothing. He doesn’t react when people pass him by. Sanji calls them all in to dinner, but Brook seems not to hear.
Eventually, Zoro gets up from where he’s been sleeping in the grass, and approaches him. The others disappear into the mess, the sound of their voices a distant murmur once the door closes behind them.
“Oi, Brook.”
The skeleton is singing, Zoro realises, a deep humming under his breath.
“Hey.” Zoro reaches out and places his hand gently on Brook’s arm … bone. It feels odd; thin and hard under the rough fabric of his suit.
Brook stops humming. He looks down, studies Zoro’s hand for a long moment. Then he looks up. “Oh. You’re real,” he says.
Zoro nods. “Come on. If we don’t get up there, Luffy will clean our plates.”
“Yes.” Brook clears his throat and stands up quickly, fussing with his hat like he’s embarrassed, or maybe moved. Moved that it was real after all. The voices are not in his head, the ghosts are solid and alive. He is no longer alone.
