He stares at the calm blueness, supporting his hairy chin with his hand. His pants rolled up to his knees, legs sink in the transparent coolness. The wind gently flaps his golden, slightly touched with gray, bangs.
The melody of the ocean tinkles in his ears. Along with the spicy smoke deep down in his lungs it sooths his strung nerves. He keeps his breath down as long as he can before his throat is sore and bitter of suffocation.
The smell of the sea, the smell of salt and fresh breeze – it's the smell of his dream.
The sight he had always painted on the inner sides of his eyelids now reflects in his eyes quietly, giving him peace that he can't let flow through his heart. He wishes he could – just for a brief moment – return his perception to the time when his dream was still out of reach. When he'd been seeing the ocean of transparent blue every night, so close and far away – in his mind, but still proofless to the world. Those nights he had spent with the one whose existence, unlike the All Blue's, was real.
The hands are strong. They're gripping the hilts of the swords tightly. He moves swiftly, taking his enemies down in one brusque strike. The blood splashed over his forearms drives him to the joy of a madman. He licks the taste of steel from his lips and grins, pleased with himself.
His hands clench and unclench into fists when the cook makes fun of his hair and his stoicism that the idiot mistakes for cockiness. His brow furrows and he opens his mouth exasperatedly to respond the mockery. He yells, annoyed, and rolls his eyes. The impulse of electricity shots his spine with excitement when the cook doesn't take this shit. Sanji kicks – furious, quick, genuine with rage – that's how Sanji is. He enjoys it. He blocks, dodges, he also gives a strike with his fists. He grabs his swords. Steel flickers in the air, the movement as much menacing as it's graceful and full of respect. Sanji dodges. Sanji blocks. Sanji always answers the strike.
His fingers curl around the sweated neck, nails dipping into heated skin. He pants, and Sanji pants too. The gliding motion builds knots of almost painful tension below his abdomen, and while it gradually becomes unbearable, he can handle it anyway. He can handle anything. He is strong, his stamina is everlasting. But Sanji's hands on the inner sides of his thighs drive him insane. He bucks up, he grips Sanji's neck tighter. He feels Sanji's teeth clench on his earlobe hungrily, short heavy breaths deafening to his ear. He doesn't want to lose, but the ascending pace makes his legs shiver. He curses under his breath, unable to hold himself down any more. So treacherous. So honest, damn it.
His hands grip the hilts of his swords. Now he's the one whose blood is spilled. His fingers quiver pathetically. He doesn't want to look weak. He is not weak at the slightest. He wants to protect Luffy. Luffy needs to live, and he himself can wait. But that bastard – why is he doing this? Why does he interfere? His teeth grinding dangerously, he collects the remains of his strength into one focused blow. The hilt hits Sanji's ribs, and a creaking noise makes him aware that he has succeeded. It's not a blow to take an enemy down. It's a blow to protect his friend.
His eye fixed on the blue one, the silent stare between them is like a duel of prideful knights. The unspoken question is answered without words. His hand lands onto Sanji's shoulder, their eyes still locked. The anger is ostentatious, and their lips mash together, tongues intertwine. The familiar taste of spicy smoke fills his mouth. He is almost happy to feel it again.
He fights. They fight. They are together, and they are close to their goal. He helps to bring the supplies to the ship. He watches Sanji smoking wistfully on the deck. The fading sunrays of the dusk paint the cook's hair deep red. The long fingers hold the cigarette loosely. Even though Sanji's face is hidden behind the curtain of reddish gold, he knows what Sanji is thinking about. It's written in his tense posture. Disturbance.
He lies on his side tightly close to the sleeping cook. The cook's hand is merely an inch from his face, his palm trustfully open. He knows it's time. He's ready – has always been. His fingers brush the golden bangs away from Sanji's face only to reveal a deep frown between his curly eyebrows. The cook frowns when he sleeps, always. Now when he thinks about it, it's a little sad that he never asked why. With his fingertips he touches Sanji's lips. They quiver slightly, and the cook blinks. 'What' – he demands in a drowsy whisper, irritated but yet so... cute, in a way.
Sanji is special – he has always been. But only now he feels that the comprehension overflows him, and something heavy swells in his chest. It's exciting but yet so very agonizing. It's like he has been climbing up the infinite mountain, and now, when he's finally reached its vertex, the pressure can make his heart explode. It would probably tear him apart if he decided to neglect it further – so strong and powerful the emotion is.
"Sanji," he mouths and watches as the cook's deep blue eyes widen. He had never called him by his name, thinking it was somewhat sentimental. But now he wants to say it. "I love you, Sanji," he mutters, keeping his gaze locked with the cook's. Sanji reaches his fingers to his cheekbone and touches the scar on his left eye. A stupid grin on the cook's face wrinkles the corners of his eyes.
He had always been prepared for it. He smirks, his misted eye searches for the cook. He is happy. The pain is not that exquisite as he thought it would be. He won. He fulfilled his promise. She would be proud of him. Sanji is proud of him, too. Even when the cook's face twitches in grief when he notices the cross-shaped blade pierced through his chest, the swordsman knows Sanji is proud of him.
"Forgive me." He mutters and brushes the golden curtain away from the face in pain. Sanji shouts something to him – his nose wrinkles, his mouth writhed in a curve of unhidden despair. But he doesn't hear the sounds that are muted to his bloodied ears. He smiles softly. He is glad Sanji was with him until the bitter end.
Sanji stares at the calm blueness, supporting his hairy chin with his hand. His restaurant is far behind the docks, but he can hear the noisy clatter of utensils and roaring chefs even from there.
The blueness reflects his eyes, but he doesn't see it. The smoke clouds his vision, or perhaps that's his excuse.
He had that dream again tonight. The dream of the warm hands on his skin. He has long time since forgotten the palpable sensation of that warmth. It comes only to his subconscious like an amorphous shadow, reopening a bleeding gap in his soul. But even if his skin had lost the memory of the other's heat, he will always remember the swordsman who fulfilled his promise.