One of the more odd things about being around the artist was that he made fantasy seem a reality. Even if his stories were far fetched and unrealistic, we lived in a world where, I do believe, realism loses its sense at some point or another. Even his art seemed to tell a unique story he made on the spot, and despite my scolding, it seemed appropriate that I appreciated.
I more than appreciated it, but that's not the point.
You see, when I walked in on Robin holding Nami in her arms, I realized that I was never interested in anything more than boosting a womans ego and being a gentleman. I mean, any woman who had a man serving them to their every whim and telling them how much they admired them would come to act like a grand lady. I had a lot of growing up to do when I joined the crew, and now, I see that I have. When I woke on that crisp morning, I had expectations.
They had been met.
I looked down to the artist who layed in my arms, his leg swung over mine in the hammock. For some reason, this seemed to be a story in itself. Just us two, on a hammock, and myself going over thoughts. It swayed slightly, and he stirred, though didn't wake, as I shifted, putting my arm more comfortably around him. It ruined my poetic mood.