Just a quickie. I suppose it is ZoSan. I hate disclaimers, but I don't own One Piece, and you know it's all true anyway, haha~
.: Scent :.
It was the smell.
Of all the things that drove him entirely mad, it was the smell most of all. Sometimes it was a passing scent of smoke, carried on by the wind. Other times it was the brief moment when the scent of spices, and salt, and whatever else had been prepared for dinner that night made its intruding way into his nostrils.
It drove him mad.
Not that the blonde knew. Not that anyone knew; it had become some kind of dark obsession—a desire, like a drug, that he couldn't quite rid himself of. It was like that single thing in your life you knew was killing you faster than anything else, but that you couldn't muster up the strength or the will to give up. It had become an addiction.
There were times when it seized hold of him, during training or when he was dozing off, or right there in the other's presence, and he felt as if he could just drown if he wasn't assaulted by the offending, delicious scent. And he always was. Some way or another.
Sometimes it was subtle. Coming from the blonde's body when he placed cold booze on the table (which Zoro always knew was meant for him) or when he brought food to the waiting party seated there, and Zoro just happened to be sitting closest to him.
Other times Zoro needed that scent, then and there. And when it wouldn't come to him, he was forced to go to it. Most times he would walk into the galley, and see the blonde cooking up some stupid meal that he'd never heard of, but assumed would still taste delicious, all the same. Everything Sanji made was delicious. (Not that he would ever admit it. He wasn't beyond sacrificing his pride, after all.)
Zoro would find himself walking up slowly to whatever was frying and stopping, quite close to the blonde, more often than not. The man never seemed to be more than three feet from his stove. Zoro would inhale a deep breath.
Standing there, taking everything in; the cook, the food, the kitchen. These moments, when he would just stand there absorbing all the smells around him—it was like the moment of release, the first intake of air after being submerged too long, soothing your burning lungs, the feeling of victory just after a noteworthy, if not fun battle.
It never lasted long though. Zoro was often kicked out quickly enough. "Oi, if you're just going to stand there and get in the way then get the fuck out." Zoro would grunt. "Don't be so damn impatient, I'm almost done. Stupid marimo." He would turn and leave; satisfied that he'd scratched the itch, so to speak, and more often than not within an hour or so, some extravagant meal would be finished and waiting to be eaten, prepared with careful hands for his crew and his crew only.
And it would be delicious.
I can't write to save my life, haha! Just a little something that I did to take a short break from some homework. I wanted to keep it about 500 words, I hope you don't mind~ 497 is close.
I've got some ideas planned out for some longer stories though, if anyone's interested. They'll likely turn out to be ZoSan, I imagine. I rather like these two.
Just let me know, perhaps I can post them here if you all would like~