Somewhere

There is one man and there is his life-long goal. There are outrageously heavy weights to lift, rivers to sweat, painful exercises to complete, a sickening amount of blood-dirtied bandages, the never-ending effort of meditation, a fair share of wounds and cuts and countless, cursing obscenities muttered through the teeth or even only echoing inside.

And, also, there is will, his promise, his mission, and, now, a captain to follow, support and protect. It's never too late to admit that having other fools around is wonderful. Nakamas, sewed to his heart until the end of life, friends from which expecting the best and to whom give the very same.

Surfing happily through the ocean, every day, and knowing that if he naps nobody is going to capture or kill him.

How had he managed for all his life with being always alone? Zoro finds himself astounded - he actually quite doesn't remember what was it like, apart from some lost nightmare or some leaden, bubbling thought.

So that's it. After two years of waiting, nothing is going to stop them, all together again, all ready to be the first to write a brand new history for the world. With a determined look and a confident spirit, Zoro glances at the shifting, watery horizon, and knows that his determination is not going to falter, so is his faith in his friend of weirdos - his true family -, and so is his will to build his own destiny, even with blood, if necessary.

Even so - but, mind you, this is like a slightly trembling sensation - there is something new. Something engulfing the stillness of his body, something interfering with his one-way line of thoughts.

It had started back to when he was chez Mihawk, that kinky bastard, with that crazy Perona girl babbling about everything and saddening him with her friggin' ghosts.

It had all started quietly, somewhere at night, between his sacred silence and sleep*, between the emptiness of the high ceilings of the dim castle and the soft, lulling moments before falling in Morpheus' arms. Somewhere, far from his wounds and near to a curious feeling of incompleteness, something had sprouted.

His eyes heavy and his mouth already snoring, the picture of that particular someone started to come to bitter-sweetly haunt his fantasies, to fill the longing need that soon rose under his skin and rooted deep inside his young, burning flash. And then, along with the scorching desire, came the unwanted questions...

What was the cook doing? Was he fine? Was he wounded? Was he running after another useless skirt? And this last one, Zoro had found with surprise, was the one that mostly stung him.

Again so, even if now his hell is over and he sleeps peacefully in his beloved Sunny whenever he wants, closing his eyes means seeing him, measuring his wish to touch and to take him roughly and still, somehow, shyly...

- Stand up, grasshead freak, it's your turn with the dishes.- the cook tonelessly says, and Zoro at once looks at him in haze. He can't deny it, this unhealthy fixation is growing difficult to deal with.

- What are you waiting for? Move your sorry ass...-

He grunts and does as his smoking blond-hell asks and then, basking in the peaceful shadows of the galley, he asks himself when exactly he has become so compliant...

- So, shitty marimo, why are you so compliant lately?-

Zoro scrubs another pan while staring at the cook. He blinks two or three times more, frightening for a silly moment about the cook reading his mind.

- Mh, I see. You definitely fried the little brain you had left...-

Zoro stares at him, his hands now dead-still, and his mind delicately touches a brilliant suggestion: what if I'd pin this asshole to the counter and kiss the fuck out of him?

- You know, dumbfuck, there is that thing called speaking, dunno if you ever heard about it...-

Ah - Zoro thinks - I really must be a dumbfuck, because the more he opens that nasty mouth, the more I fell the URGE...

Zoro carefully finishes soaping and washing the big pan, then calmly dries up his hands.

- Oi, bastard, I am talking with you!-

Zoro let out a single heavy breath; he picks his three swords from his haramaki and let them rest against the wall.

Then he fixes his glance on the cook's one. And he grins.

There is the time, somewhere between conscious actions and steady resolutions, in which he thinks he must be crazy...

Zoro's hand flips as fast as light to Sanji's ankle and the cook is suddenly in front of him, so much that he can see his eyes glistening with fear...and curiosity and, maybe, attention...

- Wha…- the cook begins, and the swordsman shivers, feeling his breath on his face.

- Shut the fuck up, already - Zoro says, pressing his big, tanned hand on Sanji's mouth. Then he leans over and, noticing the cook's widening expression, he rest his head on his shoulder.

Zoro holds on tightly on his blond jerk and wonders how come the other is not kicking him flying off the ship. Knowing he'd be so acquiescent, he'd have tried sooner…

Well, the cook seems petrified, so Zoro decides he have had enough, enough daydreaming, enough wet dreams, enough feeling uncomfortable lonely.

When he tentatively pecks on Sanji's lips, and he only knows how his insides squirm after that, he feels the cook trembling a little. Yet, he's not moving away.

They look at each other, foreheads glued, the green-haired one wears a proud, open expression, the blond-haired one appears to be shaken and confused.

- Oi curly, say something...-

But Sanji only glomps, catches a trembling breath again then leans onwards, tilting his head, touching Zoro's lips with grace.

The fucker also close his eyes and for some twisted reason, that's the very particular in which Zoro loses himself.

While their lips part and their tongues swiftly touch, the swordsman forgets about his notorious self-control and, grabbing the cook, he attaches to him, in his mind a glorious chorus of triumph.

Their hot bodies uncontrollably rubs and their mouths fiercely fights, and when Zoro's fingers take a handful of golden strands – their heated groins already grinding - Sanji moans loudly and the swordsman head spins so fast he has to stop for a moment, breathless. Zoro leans back to the kitchen counter, separating from the cook, feeling himself drowning: there are vibes all around them, there are signs, now, that at least something has been changed.

Sanji doesn't speak, Sanji only stands there, wide-eyed, shocked, and so is Zoro when the cook hesitantly takes a step and reaches him again.

The blond, in fact, buries his beautiful head on the swordsman's neck and Zoro feels him inhaling deeply, nipping his bare skin with his hot lips then touching his hanging earrings with the tip of his nose, with the sticky touch of his diabolic tongue.

Reciprocating the hug, Zoro grins again and wonders who is this person again, who is this idiot kissing his jaw, groaning with desire, capturing his lips like the world should end tomorrow.

The answer lies somewhere, between his innermost needs and his undeniable wants, where healthily springs the wish to stay like this forever.

°Fin

*I couldn't resist, this is from SOAD's Toxicity.

Well, this is short and mostly unexpected.

And, above all, this is for a particular lemonade-chan: you see, sometimes there is no need of a particular plot. Sometimes these two simply flows and get together. I hope to read your efforts soon.

Thanks for our chats.

Yuki