"Wakey wakey, sweetheart. My stomach's grumbling, and that means it's food time," Shanks's voice drifted into my consciousness, sounding almost as if he were whispering directly next to my ear.
"Huh?" I murmured, still lost in the fog of sleep, the words coming out as a sleepy jumble. As I stirred, I became acutely aware of the warmth radiating from his body, which felt remarkably comforting. Ignoring the intimacy of our proximity, I couldn't help but appreciate how he served as a perfect body pillow: his solid frame provided just the right amount of weight that enveloped me in a snug cocoon of safety. The gentle thump of his heartbeat created a soothing rhythm, like soft white noise, lulling me to relax further as the remnants of sleep began to fade away.
"GRRRRR!" A deep, resonant gurgle erupted from Shanks' stomach, echoing through the quiet room like a thunderclap. It was unmistakably him, the clear culprit of the early morning racket.
"Loud," I muttered with mild irritation, burying my face deeper into the warm crook of his neck, desperately trying to reclaim the comforting embrace of sleep. His warmth wrapped around me, lulling me back toward the land of dreams.
"DAHAHAHAHA! I can't help it, sweetheart!" Shanks chuckled, his voice ringing with an almost dizzying cheerfulness that was far too bright for the hour. It was impossible not to smile at his unyielding enthusiasm, though I was still half-asleep and grumpy.
"Go. First," I groaned, half-heartedly pushing at him. The overwhelming energy radiating from him felt like a burst of sun in the dim light of the room, too much for my weary mind to handle. I could feel his laughter reverberate through his body, and despite my irritation, a small part of me admired his zest for life—even if it did come at the cost of my precious sleep.
"DAHAHAHA! You need to eat too; I think everyone's a bit worried about your outburst last night," Shanks chuckled, his laughter filling the air with a warm, infectious energy. Before I could muster a reply, he effortlessly scooped me up, lifting me off the bed in one smooth motion. "Time to brush our teeth, then!"
I could hardly process what was happening as he wrapped me snugly in a plush blanket, its soft fabric cocooning me. Cradled in his arms, I felt both bewildered and somewhat comforted as he carried me out of his room. I didn't need to glance in a mirror to know that I must have had an utterly bewildered expression on my face—probably one of the dumbest looks ever—as I was whisked away like a child being spirited off for a playful adventure to the bathroom.
"What do you have there, Shanks?" Beckman's amused voice rang out, cutting through the morning air as he observed the scene unfolding before him. It was hard not to chuckle at Shanks, who had taken it upon himself to hoist me up in a cradling manner playfully, only then to put me over his shoulder like a giant baby, my limbs awkwardly draped over him. The warmth of the sun, already high in the sky, illuminated the deck and cast lively shadows of the crew, who were now fully awake and stirred by the commotion.
Laughter erupted from my crewmates as they turned their attention to the spectacle. Their eyes widened in surprise before bursting into fits of giggles at the sight of me wrapped up snugly like a burrito. I pouted in response, cheeks flushed with embarrassment as I realized the target of their amusement was largely me—though I suspected a good portion of their laughter was aimed at the ridiculousness of Shanks himself.
Yet, beneath the lighthearted façade, a sense of relief lingered. The captain's antics lightened the heavy atmosphere that had settled over the crew after the previous night's tension. It was hard to fathom that anything serious could be amiss when Shanks was being so delightfully foolish; his carefree demeanor served as a balm for the unease that had threatened to linger. After all, if there were truly an issue brewing on the horizon, Shanks wouldn't be gallivanting around in such a playful manner.
Eventually, I found myself seated at the dining table, where I couldn't help but notice Uta sitting there, her demeanor sullen and distant. She poked at her food, lacking the usual gusto that animated her small, cherubic face. It was hard not to notice the shift in the atmosphere; everyone around the table exchanged glances filled with concern. It struck me that her gloominess stemmed from my harsh rejection of the idea of going to Elegia, the island renowned as a musical paradise.
When the meal ended, the crew gradually dispersed, returning to their individual tasks around the ship. I felt an overwhelming urge to reach out to Uta, to clear the air and see if I could ease the heaviness that hung over her. I took a deep breath before calling out to her softly, "Uta."
Her head lifted slightly, but she made no move to come closer. Instead, she remained seated on the deck, moping while idly playing with a stuffed Shanks plush I had gifted her long ago. My heart tightened at the sight. Uta, the little girl adored by everyone aboard, was like the ship's beloved niece—an embodiment of joy and innocence. She was Shanks's daughter, cherished and pampered with the finest clothes, the most delightful toys, and a boundless supply of affection. I was equally guilty of spoiling her, utterly captivated by her spirit.
Her infectious laughter had a way of lighting up the dreariest days, and the thoughtfulness she often displayed whenever the crew got busy showed a maturity beyond her years. I remembered the pride swelling inside me when she had preferred the gift I had given her over the extravagant present Shanks had chosen for her birthday during my first year with the crew. It was moments like those that solidified my bond with her, but now, seeing her downcast, I long to restore that sparkle in her eyes.
"Uta," I called her name once more, and this time I caught a glimpse of her cheeks puffing up in a pout as she shifted her posture to offer me her shoulder, a clear sign of her annoyance. "I'm sorry." My struggle with words had never been easy; attempting to articulate the reasons behind the commotion I'd caused felt like trying to navigate a maze blindfolded.
Uta sighed deeply, the kind of sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, as if she were trying earnestly to embody the role of an adult in that moment. Slowly, her cheeks unfurled from their puffy state as she looked at me. "I forgive you. After all, you apologized, and I'm a mature young lady," she said, her tone lightening. She stood up and turned towards me, one arm hugging her favorite Shanks plush while the other dramatically flicked her hair back, adding a touch of playful flair to her demeanor.
I couldn't help but giggle at her antics, and soon her usual glowing smile broke through the remnants of frustration. It was a familiar dance for us, one that had transformed over time. I remembered the early days when miscommunications seemed to define our interactions; my presence was often minimal, almost non-existent, and it felt like I was shrouded in a cocoon of blankets instead of opting for warmer clothing. It had almost made me seem mute, invisible beneath layers of shyness. But now, in this moment of shared laughter, it was clear how far we had come, and how much those misunderstandings had shaped our bond.