CHAPTER SEVEN
Sanji's living room
A couple of nights later
Sanji awakened to the familiar sound of a patio chair scraping against wood. He was surprised at himself, for having dozed off when all he had meant to do was lay back on the sofa for a moment. Although he had not been sleeping well lately, even the most unbearable weariness was usually not enough to help him sleep.
Groggily, he pulled himself upright, glancing at the clock on the wall. He had not been asleep for long. Although it was always rather late when he got home after closing the restaurant, it certainly wasn't late enough to preclude a visitor. And so, it was easy to conclude that unmistakable sound was being caused by a certain man.
That's every night this week that shitty headdress has shown up here, he thought irritably. He wasn't in the mood to deal with him right now; not tonight. His head hurt and he felt beyond fatigued.
Grumpily, he walked to the glass door that led to the patio, throwing it open in anger. A burst of startlingly biting air rushed toward him, although the coolness was not nearly enough to chill his slowly burning temper.
Isshin turned to look at him, only his grin visible beyond the black mask and headdress. He nodded his head in greeting. He looked aggravatingly nonchalant, for a man who had just made himself comfortable, despite once again not being invited.
"I was starting to think you weren't going to come out tonight," Isshin called out, turning his body in the chair a bit more so he could more fully face Sanji.
The cook furrowed his brow. "I wasn't planning on it," he replied simply.
"Well, you're here now. Come on, let's drink."
His brow twitched. "Oi, listen, I've been putting up with you almost every night lately, but enough is enough."
Another crisp gust of air blew in. This time, Sanji actually took notice of it. Taking a step outside, he looked up and realized the sky was completely black.
"Ah, that a hint for me to leave, then?" Isshin asked.
"I think it's more than a hint," Sanji replied moodily, his gaze momentarily ripped away from the dark clouds as he glared at him again.
The grin faded slightly. "If I've been that much of a bother, you should've told me to go before," he said a bit more seriously.
Sanji raised an eyebrow. "Did you think dropping in on someone every damn night wasn't troublesome?"
Isshin shrugged. "You didn't seem to mind. Not my fault that you couldn't open your damn mouth about it." He turned around and started to walk away. "I'll see you tomorrow—don't worry, only at your restaurant, though."
And just as the man dressed in black turned his back on him completely, another brisk wind hit him, and a moment later, the sky opened up.
It was one of those rains that began unhurriedly, with chilled, plump drops noisily crashing to the ground. And then, incrementally, the rain's momentum began to increase, streaking the space in the distance beyond with smears of black and gray. In a couple of minutes, it would be pouring buckets; it wasn't uncommon for this kind of storm to hit the island, though.
As he looked at Isshin again, Sanji heaved a sigh; he already knew he was going to regret this, even if he couldn't quite fathom how much.
"Oi, come back," he called out. "This is going to get a hell of a lot worse in second."
Isshin looked over his shoulder, and started to decline.
"Just come over here, bastard," he snapped, opening the door wider and stepping aside.
"What?"
"I'm inviting you in," Sanji barked, gritting his teeth.
The other man stared at him wordlessly for a moment—he wished he could see his damned expression. He could make out a slight tension on his lips that might have been hesitation. But it was impossible to tell. "Alright," he nodded finally, turning around and somewhat hesitantly walking toward the open doorway.
It was the first time the other man had actually been inside of his home. In fact, it was the first time in a long time that anyone had been in his home.
"Let's get a drink first," he sighed, leading him through the living room that was immediately inside of the patio doors, back toward the dining area and kitchen. Sanji opened a large pantry that opened to a cool, dark room with a great number of bottles of wine stored on a rack. "I'm out of sake... There's mostly wine in here, although I probably have a couple bottles left of something harder if you prefer."
"Wine's good."
"You have a preference?" Sanji asked, turning to glance back at him from inside of the dark room.
"Red and dry," the other man replied.
Sanji studied the bottles for a moment before pulling a dusty, dark green bottle from the far end.
Wordlessly, he turned to the kitchen, pulled out a couple of wineglasses and uncorked the bottle. Even for the house-guest he never wanted, he couldn't help but serve the wine with a flourish. Once the glasses were poured, he gracefully passed one to Isshin.
"Thanks... Sanji," he said, instantly taking a hearty gulp.
One again, Sanji felt the hair on the back of his neck rise; he really hated the way this man pronounced his name. Holding back a shudder, the cook nodded toward the living room. "Let's sit in there."
"I can't say I'm not surprised by that cellar of yours," Isshin commented, taking a seat at one of the open chairs. "Why do you have so much wine, anyway?"
The cook raised an eyebrow. "Is that really a question? Why the hell else does someone have a lot of one thing—I like it, of course."
"Tch, but it's a shame to have so much that hasn't been drank yet."
"We've made a good dent in it over the past couple of weeks," Sanji said pointedly.
"Oi, I've brought some bottles, too."
Sanji swirled the contents of his glass, smirking slightly. "That's probably the only reason I have anything left."
It was a different ambiance, sitting inside of the house, leisurely chatting with this man. He noted that even inside, he still kept on every article of his slightly damp clothing, from the feathered headdress to his heavy boots to the long robe he always wore. Although, as he looked a little closer at the hand holding the wine glass, he realized he had actually removed his gloves; it was the first time he had seen his hands exposed like that. Well, one of them, at least; the other was presumably tucked away underneath his long sleeves.
"This isn't bad, actually," Isshin commented as he finished the rest of his glass. Instinctively, Sanji got up to grab the bottle so he could refill it.
"Of course it's not bad. I don't buy anything but good alcohol," Sanji replied curtly, as he poured the other man's glass and topped his own off as well.
After settling back in the chair and taking a few long sips, the pirate produced a cigar from his pocket. "You mind?"
"Do what you want," he replied with a sigh.
"Oi, you want one?" he asked, holding it out.
Sanji shook his head. "No thanks."
"Ah, that's right, you don't smoke," Isshin said. "Not even a cigar, every now and then?"
Furrowing his brow, Sanji replied curtly, "No, not even then."
"Tch, your loss, then."
"Yeah, I supposed so," Sanji murmured.
Oddly enough, Sanji noticed that for a moment, Isshin faltered as he reached inside of his coat. He raised an eyebrow curiously. "Something wrong?"
"No, nothing," the other man replied, clutching the unlit cigar in his teeth.
"I'll get you an ashtray," Sanji replied tiredly, rising to his feet. "You need a light or something?"
There was a twitch of something indiscernible in his mouth. "No, I've got one."
As he walked into the kitchen, Sanji couldn't help but be a bit annoyed by that twitch. It was so hard to tell what the hell was going through this man's head. It looked almost like—relief, maybe. What kind of shitty man feels the need to hide his face like that, he wondered moodily.
He heard the click of a lighter from the other room as he dug through an old drawer. Finally locating an ashtray—he was lucky he had one at all, really—he returned to the other room and set it down on the table next to his visitor's chair.
As they continued conversing, for some reason, Sanji found himself becoming increasingly more annoyed at his hidden features. Beside his mouth, he occasionally he noticed the glint of an eye through the mask beneath the headdress, but not enough to even see what color eyes he had. Why, he couldn't even tell exactly how tall he was with that ridiculous thing on his head.
"So why'd you name it 'Trois Bleu,' anyway?" Isshin asked, as the topic of conversation turned toward the restaurant.
Sanji shrugged. "We're in All Blue. It seemed like the thing to do."
"Ah, I could've guessed that part," he said with some annoyance. "But why the three?"
Closing his eyes, Sanji mulled over the question for a moment. He was actually surprised that the man knew trois meant three—he didn't seem like the kind of person to pay attention to things like that. "That's personal," he finally replied.
"You named your whole restaurant that, how personal can it be?"
"The reason is personal."
"Tch. You can be a real bastard, you know that."
Sanji's eyebrow twitched violently. "I'm a bastard? Who's the shitty pirate who keeps showing up at my house unannounced like it's a damned bar?"
"I thought I was doing you a favor, since you looked lonely sitting out there by yourself," he said, removing the cigar from his mouth for a moment.
"If I wanted company, there are over a dozen taverns in walking distance."
"Ah, but you weren't going to come out tonight until you noticed I was there," he started, turning his head slightly in his direction. "Doesn't that mean you wanted to drink with me tonight?"
"It sure as hell does not," Sanji replied through clenched teeth, taking a sip of his drink darkly. "But there's no way I was getting back to sleep knowing you were holing up on my damned patio."
"So you don't sit out there every night?"
The cook shifted his position slightly, growing increasingly agitated at the barrage of questions. "I do it when I feel like it, I don't have a damn schedule."
"I'm just asking. You don't need to get so pissed off."
"I'm getting sick of your questions, that's all," Sanji replied shortly.
"That so," the other man said, his tone noticeably more subdued. He set his wine glass down on the end table "Okay, I'll keep it down to two more questions."
Someone, the change in the intonation of his voice made Sanji feel increasingly uneasy. He glared down at his glass anxiously, gazing at the crimson wine rather than at the annoying man. "How about no more questions. This is really getting old."
"Two more," he repeated solemnly. "And then... Then, you can ask me whatever you want."
"The only thing I want to ask you is when you're leaving," Sanji replied with irritation; not that he really expected him to leave. He could tell from the sound of the rain on the roof that the storm was still raging outside.
"Tch, I bet you're wrong," Isshin replied, a bit confidently.
Sanji closed his eyes, bowing his head down as he tiredly rubbed his temple. Conversing with this man was causing such a familiar headache.
"So what the hell are the questions?" Sanji barked finally, his head still in his hands. He was faintly aware that the man had stood, but he did not look up.
"First, when did you quit smoking?" he started. He heard the sound of something falling to the floor—something soft, so it just barely made a rustling noise as it collided with the wood.
Sanji inhaled sharply; that was strange, that he would know to ask such a question. Not many people would have known that particular detail about his old habits, and how he used to constantly have a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. As he hesitated to answer, the other man continued to speak.
"And second," he said, as Sanji heard sound of more rustling fabric, "when the hell did you stop being an ero-cook?"
His heart halted for a few seconds, right before it started to sputter madly out of control.
Sanji tried to take in a shocked breath, but suddenly, he felt like all of the oxygen had been stripped out of the room, and he could no longer draw air into his lungs. When he finally looked up at the other man, he felt like his body was moving in slow motion, despite how quickly he wanted to spring into action—how desperately he wanted to confirm the crippling suspicion about this man's identity, even if he had never had it until this very moment.
And yet, he was also terrified to look up. So first, his gaze fell to the floor, when he saw the black feathered headdress, discarded carelessly on the ground. His eyes traveled further upward, and he saw the black cloak had been tossed on the back of the chair.
Unthinkingly, Sanji rose to his feet to study the man. He face was still covered, but without these things, it was easier to get an idea of the other man's height and body. Underneath the cloak, he was wearing simple, plain clothes that clung loosely to his muscular, broad-shouldered body. Long sleeves extended past his wrists, or so he thought. He was near the same height as Sanji, as well—perhaps slightly taller, at most. Not nearly as tall as he had seemed before, with the headdress on.
But Sanji only took a moment to study his body before his eyes rested on his face. He had just peeled off the mask that covered his head. First, his face was exposed, revealing one eye with its penetrating stare fixed on him. The other eye, however, was permanently sealed shut by a faded scar.
Then the black mask was pulled off completely, revealing short hair that had mostly turned a silvery gray—but even in the dark evening lights, the strands seemed to reflect a faint glimmer of green.
Sanji stared, open-mouthed and utterly unable to form a single word for what felt like an infinite span of time.
Before he knew it, however, he had taken a few steps closer to the all-too-familiar swordsman.
Familiar, yet different.
Finally standing right in front of him, Sanji took in the changed features.
Like him, he looked older; there were telltale lines riddled around his mouth and eyes. The ear that had once displayed three proud golden earrings was missing a large chunk of its lobe, and the piercings were no longer there. In additional to the scar over his left eye, there was a deep gash along his left cheek that ran the length of his neck, disappearing under his shirt by his shoulder.
And as he looked down at his body again, taking a closer look, he realized the reason for the seemingly long sleeves; Zoro was missing his right arm.
When Sanji finally felt like he could breathe again, he inhaled big, awkward gulps of air, still stunned speechless as the two men stared at each other.
"You..." he finally managed to croak, drawing closer, peering closely at his face. He didn't know what to say, though. His brain was unable to process what was happening in front of him. There was no need to ask himself foolish questions like whether this was a dream; he could tell by the sensation of his heart reverberating painfully in his chest that it was real. Excruciatingly real.
"Zoro," he finally said with difficulty, his voice thick, overcome with emotion.
There was a flood of feelings coursing through his body, but the one that was slowly rising to the surface was that of anger. No, beyond anger; a fiery rage like nothing he had ever felt before. It was like a searing-hot magma that had been bubbling in him for years was finally ready to erupt.
"If you're alive, where the hell have you been all this time?" he clamored, grasping the front of Zoro's shirt and shaking him. His voice was livid and tinged with some kind of strained sadness, but he didn't even care if he sounded like a fool.
Zoro's smile slowly faded. "Ah, see, I told you that you'd want to ask me questions..."
"That's the only one I want to know the answer to," Sanji said, still shouting, although a bit less harshly than before. "It's been over twenty years, you bastard... You shitty swordsman!"
He raised a hand to his mouth as he said the nickname; even if he'd thought it thousands of times in his mind, it had been so long since he had actually spoken those words. With a pained expression, he met Zoro's gaze again.
The swordsman, in turn, averted his gaze. "There were a lot of things that happened. By the time I could have met up with you all, it was already too late."
"So you let the rest of us think you were still dead? What kind of bullshit is that? And what the hell is up with this shitty fake identity you've been using? Who the hell is Isshin supposed to be?!"
Zoro stepped back, sighing heavily. "That's actually a lot more than one question." He bent his head down and rubbed his temples. "There are reasons..."
Once again, Sanji grasped the front of his shirt, thrusting himself in the other man's face angrily, until their faces nearly touched.
"I don't care about your reasons! Where have you fucking been all these years?" Sanji asked again, the words feeling strained on his lips. There was so much he wanted to say, but he couldn't even find the words. Maybe the choking emotion in his voice would be enough to convey his messed up feelings.
Zoro bit his lower lip, closing his eye in thought.
"We tore up every fucking piece of fallen rock, we dug in the dirt and sand, dove in the water again and again..." he started. "And no matter what we did, we couldn't find you..."
"I can't imagine what that was like."
"I've been mourning your death for over twenty years," Sanji went on, his voice strained, almost a shouting whisper. He realized he sounded like a fool, and that he would probably regret the words. But whether he could not control himself or he just didn't care to, he didn't hold back. There was so much he wanted to say, so many thoughts flooding his head, he didn't know where to start. "If there's really a reason, it better be a fucking good one," he barked.
Unexpectedly, Zoro reached up with one arm—his only arm—and wrapped it around Sanji's shoulders, pulling the cook into an awkward embrace. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.
It was then that Sanji felt a tightness in his throat. It was a weird feeling; he hadn't cried in so long. Hadn't felt anything like this in so long. But he really hadn't expected the swordsman to do that—to apologize, or to reach out to him like that.
And he really hadn't expected to feel that embrace ever again.
But the sadness was once again overcome by anger; Zoro had left him thinking he was dead for all this time. He had to focus on the rage, because he had no idea what the hell else to do.
For a few moments, he remained motionless, not returning the embrace. When he felt like he had regained some composure, he pulled himself away, shoving the swordsman off of him, although there wasn't much force behind the push.
Sanji dragged his chair closer, turning it to face Zoro directly. Before taking a seat, he went to the kitchen to open a new bottle of wine and refill their glasses with a heavy-handed pour. He couldn't speak for Zoro, but he sure as hell would probably need it. When he returned to the living room, Zoro was already seated.
"Alright, let's hear it," he said finally, a complicated expression on his face as he sat down in the chair, staring at Zoro with an interrogating gaze. "Tell me where the fuck you've been all this time."
Zoro nodded slowly, taking a deep swig from his glass as he leaned back in his chair. "I planned on telling you, anyway. About what happened, after I tried to stop that landslide from hitting the Sunny..."
The silver-and-green-haired swordsman closed his eye for a moment, the deep lines in his forehead and mouth deepening as he gathered his thoughts. When he finally started to speak, he said many words, and Sanji couldn't help but notice just how different this older-man version of him was from his young, stubborn self who refused to speak about anything.
"When I first woke up, I was in a hell of a lot of pain," he started, finally opening his eye again. "There was a man and his wife looking after me. I was resisting, shouting for the crew, trying to figure out where I was, but I can't remember much more than that. I was in and out for a couple days. But when I finally got it together, I learned there was a village in the center of that island. It was all surrounded by tall cliffs—I don't know if you remember—"
"I could never forget," Sanji muttered. "I spent so long digging through the rubble of just a fragment of those shitty cliffs."
Zoro nodded slightly, the point clearly taken. "Yeah, well, the whole island was like that. The village was pretty quiet, but to get out of it—you had to get through those cliffs, and there were a lot of dangerous beasts you had to fight to make it out."
"If it's that hard to get out, how the hell did you wind up inside, then?"
"I'm getting to that part, cook. Just wait a damn minute."
Irritated, Sanji clamped his jaw closed, his teeth clacking noisily.
"That guy told me I'd washed up through in an underwater canal that flowed into the inhabited part of the island. He said I was so bad off, he was just trying to keep me comfortable until I passed. He was pretty surprised when I came to... I do remember that."
Suddenly Zoro's face turned grim, and he raised his hand, pressing a finger to his mouth, as though he didn't quite want to go onto the next part.
Sanji silently watched him, recognizing a flicker of emotion that he could sympathize with a little too much. The word torment flashed through his head. Patiently, he waited for the next words.
"And he—he was a doctor, I probably should've mentioned that—he had taken off my arm. He said it was half-torn off anyway, and the part that was still there was... I guess it was smashed up pretty bad. Would have never healed in a way I could have used it."
"Oi, that's..." Sanji tried to speak, wanted to acknowledge just how cruel he understood it was, to hear of the swordsman losing such an essential piece of himself, but he realized there was no point in saying it. He should understand; if this man sitting before him was anything like the shitty swordsman he had known all those years ago, he would understand Sanji's sympathy without the words.
"You don't need to say it," Zoro sighed, reaffirming his thoughts. "But you can probably guess how I reacted."
Sanji nodded slowly. Just the thought of it kind of made him feel like his heart was breaking.
For a moment, his mind flashed on Zeff, and how long it had truly taken the man to seem to get over losing his leg. Even through the happy times, there was a sadness that still surfaced from time to time. His trademark, gone in an instant, leaving him forever changed and less of a man than he used to be.
"But I couldn't move that much, because I had broken bones all over my body. A bunch of the bones in my back, my legs... And hell, every one of my damn ribs felt cracked."
It was Sanji's turn to cover his mouth, as though stopping himself from speaking was going to make the painful words stop. A thousand regrets washed over him. He wondered why he didn't recall seeing an underground channel. What if he just had not looked hard enough—or he had seen it, and just overlooked it. What if he could have swam through it and found him, or climbed the damn cliffs and gotten him back...
"There's not really a lot else to say, actually. I just had to wait for my useless body to heal. It was months before I could even walk right, let alone fight. It took me three years to get back to a point where I could even think about going back to being a pirate. But when I was strong enough, I left."
"Three years," Sanji muttered. The number seemed impossible; that the man in front of him, one of the strongest people he had ever met in his life, had been unable to even take a few steps forward, was unfathomable.
But he realized he had to say something. He had been silently staring at the ground in despair. He knew he must have looked odd. So he finally mustered the words, "That's what you meant when you said it was too late, then."
"Yeah. There wasn't a crew to go back to, even if I wanted to."
"Yeah, there wasn't." A wave of familiar revulsion passed over him.
Zoro looked up at him. "I read it in the paper. What happened that day. What Luffy—"
"Yeah, I'm sure you did," the cook cut him off abruptly, reaching for his wine glass with a slightly trembling hand. Realizing it was empty, he reached for the bottle and poured himself another glass.
There was no way he could talk to Zoro about what he was trying to bring up, though. He could barely think about it too long himself. Just like the swordsman's alleged death, it was a scar too horrible to wear brazenly in the open. That's why, the chef was thankful when Zoro started speaking again, clearly picking up on his cue that he did not want to pursue this topic.
"It still took a few years for me to become strong as I had been. And by the time I'd gotten there, I had started to make a name for myself."
Sanji studied him for a long moment, and the other man just stared back at him, not intimidated in the slightest by Sanji's piercing gaze.
It wasn't the most thorough explanation, but the other man's story had at least explained to him somewhat about what had happened.
"But it's been over twenty damn years, Zoro," he said finally, his voice openly tremulous. "You just told me about, what, six years before you were as strong as you used to be? Why did it take you this long to... to..." He bit down on his lip as he tried to figure out what he wanted to say. To come find me? The words caught in his throat; he couldn't say such a stupid thing.
But wait, that was the stupid mistake he kept making in his youth. And what the hell did he ever accomplish back then.
"How long have you known I was here?" Sanji asked quietly.
Zoro averted his gaze. "I don't really remember. Your location isn't exactly a secret, though, so it only took a little asking around to find out."
"That means it wasn't long after you left that shitty island then, doesn't it," he said slowly, rising to his feet.
The lines in the swordsman's forehead deepened. "Ah, that's right."
Sanji stepped toward him, until he was standing directly in front of the other man. "Then why the hell didn't you come here earlier, shitty marimo?" he asked with difficulty.
Zoro rose to his feet.
"There were reasons," he said.
"Like hell," Sanji muttered in reply.
They stared at each other a long moment, eyes locked, studying one another with mutually pained expressions on their faces.
And then, it really struck him; Zoro was in front of him. He could see him. He could hear his low, rumbling voice, rendered slightly more gravelly from the years. And he could reach out and touch him, and he would feel life.
Zoro was alive.
Sanji leaned in toward him, and the swordsman didn't back away. Rather, they leaned in closer and closer, until their foreheads just barely brushed together. His breath felt hot on his face, and smelled faintly of wine and cigars.
This kind of moment... His reaction back then would have been to shove him away, to aim a strong foot squarely in his broad chest and send the swordsman flying. But he was older now. He was a little less hot-headed—and after spending so much time resisting the pieces of himself he didn't favor, there was at least a small fragment he could own up to.
And Zoro was clearly different, too. The once inarticulate man who never said what he was thinking or what he desired, who seemed unable to so much as speak at the moments he needed to most, was now far more direct.
So direct, he apparently no longer had trouble expressing his desires.
"I want to kiss you," he murmured lowly, turning his head slightly, but still not quite connecting their lips.
Sanji closed his eyes, turning his head as well, as he softly replied, "I won't tell you no."
The two men tentatively pressed their lips together. At first, the touch was slight, as though they were both afraid of what would happen once they reestablished this connection that had been severed so many years ago.
But soon, they both began to respond more desperately. Sanji felt the swordsman's hand reach up to touch his face, roughly rubbing the stubble on his cheek. The hand was more calloused than he recalled; and surely, he himself was less well-kept than the swordsman remembered.
Sanji wrapped his arms against his waist until his hands met at the small of the other man's back... around that body he never thought he'd feel again. It almost hurt too much to touch—almost as bad as it would have hurt to pull away.
They deepened the kiss, and Sanji noted that it seemed Zoro had gotten better at kissing somewhere along the way. The once clumsy, aggressive tongue was more focused than it used to be, moving with a purpose, brushing against his own tongue with soft, pleasurable sensations that made a shiver run down his spine.
But instead of lust or desire, Sanji felt himself taken over by an overwhelming sadness. The kiss tasted of the wasted years, of all the time they had spent apart, when so many times he had longed to see him again.
"If I had known you were still alive, I would have done anything to find you," Sanji murmured unthinkingly when they pulled apart, a pained expression on his face. Instantly, he pressed his fingers to his lips, realizing the words were probably a mistake.
But Zoro didn't react negatively. "I'm sorry," he said again, the grievous expression on his face undeniably heart-wrenching to Sanji.
Sanji replaced his hand on the swordsman back and leaned forward, pressing his mouth to Zoro's neck, kissing it softly. The cook realized that his hands were trembling faintly, but he didn't care if the other man noticed.
"There's no point in apologizing... Just, dammit. Let's not waste anymore time."