Luffy's place was cluttered— full of little trinkets that the boy had collected over the years; things his friends had left behind; his clothes, dirty and clean, strewn about without care; trash he's yet to clean up. He had curtains made with fabrics stitched together acting as walls, partitions that blocked out his living room from the bedroom— the papers and books you left on his table didn't stand out in the mess, but Luffy touched them carefully. His eyes gentle on the pages and words like the weight of his gaze might break through all three hundred and more pages of words and terms that he didn't understand.

Your textbooks were important to you, Luffy knew that, maybe the most important things that you owned. Your future depended on them after all; you told him off–handedly once, you were going to make it out of East Blue, make a life outside this corner of the world that was about to collapse in on itself. You needed grades for that. Your entire life was in these books. Luffy can hardly wrap his head around the concept— even before he dropped out, he's never had a classmate as serious about studying as you were.

He carefully pushed at the page, turning it over and seeing a new collective of words he didn't understand. His fingers brushed over the photos that accompanied the text when the door creaks open, rattling as it's pushed and Luffy turns his head to the noise. "You brought food?" Luffy's grin turns upwards as you hum an affirmative, closing the door behind you as you hold out a plastic bag full of the convenience store's clearance section.

It's not for him— you didn't buy it for him, maybe thought about him for a moment as you picked and nudged at the clearance section, but that's only cause Luffy does not know 'yours' and 'mine'. You were his, so he says anyways, so the food was 'ours'.

"Thanks, shishishi, I fixed the lamp so you can study!" He nudges some dirty lamp on the table, it doesn’t fit in with the rest of his decor, but Luffy hardly has an aesthetic that he follows.