CHAPTER TEN
Sanji's bedroom
A few nights later
Sanji woke up with a gasp, covered in sweat.
He blinked several times, trying to take in his surroundings. His room. This was his room.
He stared down at his hands, which felt dirty and raw to him. He turned on the light and studied them. The skin wasn't cracked and torn or covered with scrapes and cuts. Dirt wasn't caked behind short fingernails. They appeared completely and startlingly normal; and why wouldn't they, anyway?
There was no reason for the smell of salt and sediment flooding his senses, either. He was in his room. There was nothing with an earthy scent. He hadn't been digging in rubble and rocks, he reminded himself. This was all in his head.
And even more irrationally, the person supposedly lost beneath the devastating layers of rubble was right beside him. Even if that man was a little bit older. A little worse for the wear. Even if he was so different in ways that Sanji couldn't wrap his head around. It was him, and he wasn't gone.
His feverish mind struggled to get a grip on what was presently happening. He was still groggy and confused, and for a moment, panic shot through him as he wondered if Zoro wasn't real. Perhaps he was only a delusion; a figment of his imagination that he had unearthed as he tried to excavate the swordsman's body in his dream. Maybe, this time, he was really losing it. He had been starting to feel like he was coming unglued lately. Too many unfamiliar feelings were flooding his chest, even when he was conscious.
And then the figure lying next to him sat upright, a hand seeking out Sanji's shoulder. At first he flinched at the touch, but then he greedily snatched up the calloused hand with both of his own hands and squeezed it tightly, indiscriminately. He was prepared to put up a fight, if Zoro tried to pull his hand away—but he did not try to retrieve it.
"You alright?" the swordsman asked, leaning in closer.
Sanji didn't really know the answer to that question at the moment. Silently, he urged the other man to stop asking him questions. He knew would get past these frantic feelings if he had just a few seconds. It was perplexing that his useless brain fed him such senseless imagery.
His eyes shifted to Zoro. Right, he reminded himself, he was right here. Even if he had disappeared, now he had returned from the damned dead, shaking up his life and making him remember what it felt like to not be slowly drowning at the bottom of the sea.
Realizing he was still clutching Zoro's hand, he abruptly loosened his grip. To his surprise, instead of pulling back, the swordsman leaned forward and pulled the cook back against his chest, in a sort of reverse embrace. For a moment, Sanji held his breath, taking note of the warm chest pressed against his back; the strong arm, fiercely holding him against him; and the warm cheek pressing the side of his face, where Zoro's head rested on his shoulder.
This was so unlike what a younger Zoro would have done. And, indeed, a younger him would have recoiled if the swordsman ever had held him like that. Yet now, he couldn't deny the wave of relief washing over him. Sanji couldn't help it; he laughed.
It was a sad, empty laugh, tinged with confusion and paranoia. He felt the swordsman wrap his arm around him a little tighter.
Then it came to Sanji: this had happened once before. And at that time, the result had been starkly different. This same man, who now embraced him with comfort, had reacted so differently.
He laughed harder; he couldn't help but wonder if this was irony or just that the world had changed too fucking much for him to understand.
A nondescript hotel room, somewhere in the New World
Over twenty years ago
Sanji woke up with a gasp, covered in sweat.
He clutched at his chest, trying to rip off silky, lacy fabric. Yet his fingertips met nothing but bare skin and chest hair.
Naked. Why was he naked again?
He blinked heavily, trying to take in his surroundings. The room looked unfamiliar, but its scent was all too recognizable; the musky smell of sweat and semen.
Had he let it happen again? Recoiling in horror, Sanji leapt out of the bed, eyes desperately scanning the floor, expecting to see discarded female clothing strewn about, despite the fact that the lump in the unfamiliar bed was undoubtedly male.
He ran toward the bathroom, groping madly at the wall until he was able to find a light switch. When he stared in the mirror, he was surprised to see his usual face staring back at him.
No lipstick or blush. No eyeshadow or mascara. No fake blonde curls extending out from the bottom of his real hair.
Turning on the faucet, Sanji leaned over and began to splash cold water over his face. The nightmarish fog was beginning to lift from his mind, and he recalled what he was really doing here. He had come here with Zoro. He wasn't on Momoiro Island. There were no newkama here. He hadn't lost himself, or given into the forceful persuasions of discovering his inner femininity. Sanji had very purposefully come here with the shitty marimo, as himself, fully aware of the utter stupidity of his actions.
When he looked up from the sink, he saw in the mirror that Zoro was standing in the doorway.
"The hell is wrong with you?" Zoro asked gruffly.
Sanji gripped the edge of the sink tightly, averting his gaze. "Just a bad dream," he replied.
"Yeah? What about?"
When the blonde man glanced back at Zoro's reflection in the mirror, he noticed the swordsman was smirking. His eyebrow twitched.
"Like hell I'm going to tell you, marimo."
"Tch, fine. Then stop making such a damn racket," he replied flippantly, abruptly ducking out of the doorway.
Sanji's patio
Present time, the next evening
Sanji felt unsettled. Something unpleasant churned in his stomach, something that left him deeply troubled, although he could not quite put his finger on it. A mood passed over him that left him somewhat sullen, and although the swordsman was unusually talkative, he was not eager to participate in the exchange.
The topic just barely broached Zoro's recently acquired title—the strongest swordsman. As Zoro stared down at Wado Ichimonji, turning the sword around in his hand in contemplation, he asked a question that Sanji did not quite know how to answer.
"So tell me, Mr. I-own-a-restaurant-in-All-Blue," Zoro started, his voice surprisingly chipper. "What do you do after you've achieved a dream?"
Sanji stared at him for a long moment. It was not that he didn't understand the question; he just didn't really have an answer. He'd spent the last couple decades unable to figure out the same damn thing.
"Well, I guess most people move onto something else. A new goal," Sanji finally replied, his brow furrowing deeply as he stared down at the ground. As much as he had tried to ascertain what he was supposed to do after he found All Blue, he had never come up with anything even close to an answer.
After another long pause, Sanji shrugged tiredly. "Whatever it is, it's just another thing that makes you able to get up in the morning." The corner of his mouth marginally curved upward. "One more dream to take your mind off of wondering when the hell you're going to die already."
The lines around Zoro's mouth deepened into a frown as he studied Sanji, a hint of concern in his eye. "Oi, what's with that attitude?" he asked solemnly.
Sanji grinned at him wryly. "Didn't I already tell you? I haven't had a dream in a very long time."
"Fine, but that response..."
"You asked me a question and I gave you the best answer I had," Sanji replied moodily. "If you're asking me what to look forward to next, I don't have a damn clue. Figure it out for yourself, shitty marimo."
The swordsman's frown grew, but he didn't push the subject.
Sanji could not even say he was relieved. He was simply less troubled. Even when Sanji had found his own dream, the achievement was dull and tinged with disappointment. There were so many moments in which Sanji had felt the pieces of himself slowly slip away; he stopped understanding who he was and lost sight of who he thought he would become. How could such an empty and forsaken man bother with dreams anymore.
Thousand Sunny
Twenty years ago—sometime after Zoro's death
Sanji trudged into the kitchen, the effort of moving his feet forward almost too much to bear. He clutched his throbbing head, trying to remember why he hadn't followed up his bottle of rum with a bottle of water the night before. He knew his body; knew it would wind up this way.
It was long past breakfast, but apparently everyone had managed to get fed somehow. From what he understood, the crew was setting out to explore the island they had docked at the night before. Not that he cared; he didn't want to go. If anyone had tried to rouse him to tag along, he didn't remember it.
Robin was seated at the dining table, her intelligent eyes fixed on a book spread out in front of her. When she looked up and saw Sanji, she wordlessly rose to her feet and started to head into the kitchen. He started to follow her, but she simply turned around and shook her head no, gesturing toward the table.
He knew he should have insisted she return to her seat, but a sharp burst of pain in his temple convinced him to heed her silent command. He took a seat in the chair across from where she had sat, leaning on the table and cradling his head in his hands.
A moment later, a cup of coffee was set down in front of him. Greedily, he reached forward and grabbed it, taking a long swig, uncaring of how hot it felt on his throat.
"I'm glad you're the one who made it. Otherwise it might've been toxic to drink," he said hoarsely, taking another sip. Then his eyes widened as he realized how he was speaking to her. "Ah, I mean, Robin-chwan makes the best cup of coffee on the ship," he said, his flirtatious tone croaking out unbecomingly.
"You know," Robin said, taking a sip of her own coffee, staring at the black liquid pensively, "it's just the two of us here right now."
"Ah, it seems everyone has already left," he said, nodding. "But why don't you go join them, Robin-chan? I'll stay on the ship and keep watch."
"That's quite alright, I can go later if I have any desire to," she replied coolly. "That wasn't the reason I was mentioning that, though."
"Hnn, what is it then, Robin-chwan?" he trilled forcefully.
She smiled slightly, her gaze fixed on him with a disturbing intensity. It made him feel uncomfortable, like she was seeing something he didn't want to reveal to her... or to anyone, really.
"I understand the necessity of keeping up appearances—probably more than you, in fact," she spoke slowly, pronouncing each word with a gentle grace. "But when it's just the two of us, there's no reason to keep up such a façade."
"What are you talking about, Robin-chan?" he asked, trying once again to make his croaking voice trill her name in the sing-song way he preferred to use when addressing women.
She simply smiled. "You most certainly know."
With a heavy sigh, he hung his head in his hands. He most certainly did; but in that instance, he hated himself a little more than normal.
He did take her comment under consideration, however. First, Sanji only dropped his flirtatious act when they were alone—which admittedly, wasn't often—but it began to trickle into his every day behavior.
Still, he adored women; he couldn't help but dote on them, and want to treat each and every one of them like a queen. Even if sometimes, when the mood wasn't quite right, he found himself slipping into a darkness where the light of a beauty didn't quite penetrate. But the decline was a slow one; so gradual, in fact, the cook convinced himself that maybe nothing was changing at all.
But not long after, there was one perilous moment that broke him forever.
A desert on an island in the New World
Nearly twenty years ago—sometime after Zoro's death
The sun beat down, painfully bright and blisteringly hot, in sharp contrast to the chilling, gruesome details that Sanji had to take in with perfect clarity.
Endless desert spanned in all directions. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to take shelter. Chopper and Robin had already been taken down, both of them lying unconscious somewhere behind him. Meanwhile, Nami had been disarmed, and her clima-tact had spun away to somewhere in the distance that couldn't be seen in the shimmering heat of the sand.
Sanji did not know where the rest of the crew was. They were somewhere way ahead, searching for the town where the ship awaited; too far ahead to possibly be of any help. In other words, it was up to him to protect the rest of them.
He was faced with a grave dilemma, however; their assailant was his ultimate weakness. A beautiful woman, wearing a skin-tight leotard, with locks of curly hair poking out from beneath her hat. Ruby-red lips. A lovely flush on her cheeks from the exertion of fighting.
Sanji would rather die than hit a woman. There was no way he could attack her seriously. And so, he was taking hits again and again, trying to figure out what he could do, trying to ignore the nagging voice in the back of his mind reminding him of the weakness in his creed. He shoved his hands more deeply into his pockets, trying to ignore the fact that they were shaking.
The experienced fighter expertly defended himself, but there was only so much he could do to protect his body from her rapid attacks over an extended period of time. After being beaten and pummeled, he finally felt his trembling legs fail him, and he fell to the ground. He tried to pull himself upright, but he just couldn't do it.
Pressure mounted in his skull as the voice in the back of his head grew stronger, more persistent, and so fucking condescending. The cook bit down on his lip, struggling to suppress the dark thoughts with teetering will. After all that had happened, he wasn't sure if he could take another hole being punched through his foundation.
Sanji realized he could hear Nami shouting something at him, but it was hard to tell what exactly she was saying, as his vision started to turn dark...
"Who cares if she's a woman, Sanji-kun! You have to fight back, or she's going to kill you! She's going to kill us all!" Nami's voice suddenly pierced into his mind, and his eyes snapped open again.
"It isn't right," he choked out, the words reflexively tumbling out of his mouth. But his usual conviction was starkly absent, and suddenly the memory of that shitty swordsman and his booming voice flooded his mind.
"It's not right to kill anyone. But I don't care if it's a man or a woman, or even a fucking fishman... Even if it's wrong, I'm willing to take on that sin."
Those chilling words, spoken by the dead swordsman as he took the life of the woman Sanji had just slept with... That awful woman who had tried to assassinate him, and who wanted to kill Zoro and the rest of his crew when she was through. That nasty woman, who Sanji believed from the bottom of his heart, it would be wrong to kill. That demon of a woman who Zoro had chosen to kill, even though he, too, knew how wrong it was.
"She's trying to kill our crew mates, cook. She's trying to kill us."
Sanji's face contorted into a sneer as he pulled himself to his feet, his eyes enshrouded in darkness as he fixed his gaze back on the woman in front of him. He sucked in a ragged breath, returning his hands to his pockets. Absently, he noted the shaking had ceased. In fact, all of growing frenzy that had nearly overtaken him seemed to have seeped away, to be replaced by nothing at all. Just emptiness and haze.
"Don't you see, cook? She's still trying to kill you right now, too."
Who the hell would care if he took on that sin, too, then.
And then the blonde man's thoughts vanished as instinct overtook him. He felt almost outside of himself as he unleashed blow after blow, like the deadness inside of him had come out to decimate something and his consciousness slipped away to somewhere beneath, where he was just a spectator.
There was no great tale behind it. No glorious moment where he attained victory and saved his nakama. He killed her, plain and simple. As her mangled body finally collapsed on the ground, her blood rapidly soaking into the sand, Sanji just stared at it blankly, unsure of what he was supposed to feel.
He said nothing as they continued back to the ship, Sanji carrying Robin on his shoulders and Nami clutching onto Chopper. Nami tried to speak to him a few times, but whatever she was saying, he couldn't even make out the words.
When he finally got his nakama to safety, instead of letting his many wounds get bandaged, he disappeared, roaming around the sparse town until he was at the outskirts, next to an abandoned and crumbling building.
He had no idea what he was doing, but he had an energy that he needed to expel. It burned more brightly than the sting of his wounds, eating away at his very soul. It was the kind of energy he used to skin off of the surface with the body of the swordsman. But now, there was no swordsman, so it had been accumulating for months and months and he felt like it might eat the rest of him if he didn't do something.
And now, he had killed a woman. And all he could think about was Zoro, and his stupid words when he, too, had murdered a woman in front of him.
Forget that fucking swordsman, he thought angrily, lashing out at the decrepit building.
And then he couldn't stop himself; although it had done him no particular wrong, he murderously attacked the decrepit building, because he had to take this out on something and he wasn't around anymore. He reduced the brick and mortar to nothing but dust and rubble, and even then, he stomped at the ground until his feet felt as numb as he did inside.
If there was a defining moment between when something went from broken to broken beyond repair, then perhaps that was it. But Sanji was likely incapable of making that determination; all he knew was that his entire life had felt like a sea full of regrets and mistakes, and he no longer had the wherewithal to make himself function the way he was supposed to.
Sanji's bathroom
Present time, a few days later
The hell is wrong with me, Sanji thought as he blinked at his reflection in surprise, watching fat teardrops start to roll down his face. His face contorted into a terrible expression, emphasizing all of the haggard lines around his mouth, eyes and forehead. His cheeks and nose were turning red, and the dark circles under his eyes seemed more pronounced than ever.
He clapped a hand over his mouth, trying to hold back the sob threatening to escape. Despite the overwhelming melancholy that was taking over his body, he was still shocked.
All these emotions he had been feeling recently were one thing, but how many years had it been since he had actually been able to cry? As he sank down to the bathroom floor, leaning back against the wall while still firmly clamping his hands over his mouth, he realized he couldn't even remember.
It was probably somewhere around that time, over twenty years ago, when he desperately searched for Zoro, his body long past the limits of exhaustion. But even then, he couldn't recall; his tears would have been hidden by all the water and the dirt.
And then, he had shut it off. Maybe not so well at first, but eventually, he realized it was a lot easier to just not let the emotions come out at all. There was no way to experience joy without pain; no way to know happiness without despair.
The price that had to be paid to experience the pleasant side of the emotional spectrum was too high to pay, he had decided. The misery was too unbearable, and so, Sanji had simply cast them aside, both negative and positive feelings alike. It probably hadn't been a conscious decision, but it shaped the man he would become, nonetheless... The man he was.
The man he had been until now.
The charm of apathy broken, he was now just a pitiful old man, suddenly overcome by an emotion he thought he was no longer capable of, sitting with his knees nearly touching his chin as he tried to hide his cries, like a pitiful child.
Although he didn't know what had triggered this onset of emotion, he did feel it start to slowly subside after a minute or two. All he had to do was wait a few more minutes, and he would be fine. He couldn't let Zoro see him like this, after all. He just prayed the swordsman wouldn't notice.
The ache finally abating, he stood up and splashed cold water on his face. Looking at himself in the mirror again, he decided the redness of his eyes was barely noticeable. Preparing a false smile, he turned around and exited the bathroom, returning to where Zoro was waiting in the living room.
As soon as they locked eyes, the swordsman looked at him searchingly. From the crinkle in the other man's brow, Sanji knew he must have noticed something. And then he realized, it was naïve of him to think he wouldn't notice; that was one of the endlessly irritating traits of Zoro, that he always noticed exactly what Sanji did not want him to.
Just ignore it, shitty swordsman, he pleaded inwardly.
Unfortunately, Sanji's pleas were not heard. The swordsman abruptly rose to his feet and approached him, his brow furrowing more deeply as he drew nearer.
And then Sanji felt himself being pulled into a rough embrace. Zoro's single arm latched around his back, his large hand clamping around the back of the chef's head, forcing it to rest on his shoulder.
"Aren't you a little old to hide your emotions, shit-cook?" he murmured quietly.
"The hell are you talking about, marimo?" he asked, his voice slightly muffled from being pressed against the other man. Sanji struggled to suppress the lump in the back of his throat that was threatening to return.
"It's annoying when you play dumb," Zoro replied. His sharp words were surprisingly gentle.
Sanji grit his teeth, trying to pull away, but the swordsman held him firm.
He didn't know what the hell was wrong with him. He didn't want to think about it, to work through all of the stupid, pent-up issues he had racked up throughout his shitty lifetime. And even if he was going to do that, he wouldn't speak about it to anyone. Let alone to Zoro. Not that there was anyone but Zoro, he thought numbly; he had made sure of that.
"Oi, you remember that time..." Zoro started suddenly, speaking a bit haltingly, as though he was saying something difficult. "We went to a hotel together, and you nearly kicked me through the wall?"
"I'm going to need a better description. That could be a lot of times."
Zoro shook his head, his cheek faintly brushing Sanji's hair. "There was only one time you seriously did it."
Sanji closed his eyes. "Ah, then yeah, I remember. But why the hell are you bringing that up now?"
A sleazy hotel room
Over twenty years ago
Sanji knew he should have felt intensely uncomfortable. Other than the first drunken time, which he barely recalled anyway, whenever they snuck away to these seedy old love hotels, they seldom went at the same time. One of them paid for the room and headed there first, and the other of them joined later. It was less complicated like that—and less likely to draw unwanted attention.
Since they had never really gone in together, Sanji had never awkwardly stood near the doorway of the lobby while Zoro pushily asked for a key. He had never heard Zoro bark a quick "come on" to him as he strode toward the room. And certainly, the green-haired man had never grabbed Sanji's hand and physically dragged him toward their destination.
He should have probably reacted differently, but the only thing Sanji could focus on was how strong the swordsman's hand felt as it tightly clutched his. His hands were a little larger than his own, not to mention considerably rougher. The chef had spent his life holding paring knives and assembling dishes, after all; not clutching heavy swords and lifting impossibly heavy weights.
No, it wasn't just the hand he was fixated on, he realized; it was the dismal expression on Zoro's face. The way his jaw was set tightly, like he was clenching his teeth. The way his eyes seemed enshrouded in darkness, even though the hallways were more than adequately lit.
Something had happened at the last island they had visited. No one in the crew had been with Zoro at the time, but several of the townsfolk they had been trying to protect were found dead amongst the sea of corpses of the enemies that Zoro had taken down, and the green-haired man refused to speak a word of it. But it didn't take much to figure out he was troubled; his temperament had been far more difficult to take than usual.
When they were inside of the room, the swordsman closed the door slowly and turned the lock with a click that seemed deafeningly loud in the otherwise silent room. Sanji turned to look at Zoro, expecting that sort of lustful expression he adopted when they did this kind of thing. But when he turned around toward Sanji, his gaze was cast downward, a deep frown carved into his face. Wordlessly, he untied the large sash from around his waist, letting it fall to the ground along with his swords, before he started to pull off his overcoat.
"Take off your clothes," he commanded.
"Don't order me around," the cook muttered through clenched teeth, although he still obliged. Even if the swordsman was being a little terse, there was no reason for him to be bothered by Zoro's brusqueness; they were only there for one thing, after all.
When he was naked from the waist up and had started to slide off his pants, Zoro roughly grabbed his shoulders, his brow furrowed angrily. "Why are you being so fucking slow?" he grumbled, leaning forward and pressing his mouth against Sanji's exposed neck. He bit down on the sensitive skin with force, making Sanji flinch from the weird mixture of pain and pleasure.
"That's too hard, shitty swordsman," Sanji barked in protest, shoving the green-haired man back with irritation. He finished kicking off his trousers and stripping away the rest of his clothes.
Zoro fixed an angry glare on him, brooding for a moment before he lunged toward Sanji again, slamming him into the wall.
The kiss was borderline-barbaric, as Zoro fervently crushed his mouth against the cook's. Even through the roughness, Sanji still felt that flush of desire course through him. The boorish swordsman had a way of making his body feel like it was on fire with an indescribable passion that gave him the ability to tune out almost anything else.
As the intensity grew, however, Sanji became aware of just how close the fury bubbling beneath the surface of the green-haired man's demeanor was threatening to spill out. He would never admit it aloud, but the dark energy was terrifying, and it sent a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the aggressive mouth traversing the length of his chest.
Each bite was brutal. Each touch was vulgar. As Zoro tore him away from the wall and started to shove him toward the bed, Sanji's patience snapped.
"Oi, what the hell is going on with you?" the cook shouted, pushing Zoro away a few inches, trying to get a glimpse of his face.
With a deep scowl, the swordsman renewed his efforts to shove the cook toward the bed, ignoring Sanji's question. This time, he managed to force him onto the mattress.
"Don't just ignore me, you shitty marimo," Sanji growled, shoving him backward again. "Why are you acting like this?"
The scowl turned furious, and for the third time, Zoro shoved the cook downward, pinning him back against the bed as he straddled him.
"Are you fucking listening to me, you bastard," Sanji shouted, trying to push him back again. They struggled against each other for a few moments, the green-haired man only concerned with continuing his advance.
"Oi, I'm warning you," Sanji said loudly, trying to meet his gaze. He was startled to notice that the swordsman's gaze seemed blank and distant, like he wasn't even paying attention to what was going on around him.
He leaned forward and bit down on Sanji's neck again, even harder than before. Sanji flinched, trying to slap his face out of the way.
"If there's something wrong, then why don't you tell me, shitty marimo?" Still, Zoro ignored him, raking his teeth down the length of his clavicle, digging short fingernails in the skin along his back, crushing his raging desire against Sanji's body.
"Not going to say a damned word to me?" Sanji asked, flinching as he felt another hard bite on his chest. Whatever the hell the marimo was doing, he was definitely leaving bruises, if he wasn't actually drawing blood. There was nothing enjoyable about it. Rather, he felt like Zoro was dealing with something in his head that he didn't want to talk about; but Sanji sure as hell didn't want him getting over it at the expense of his own body.
Finally, Sanji released a brutal kick. At first, he was going to kick him as hard as he could, but at the last minute he held himself back a little bit, realizing he could have done a lot of damage to the room. Therefore, as Zoro's naked body was flung through the air, he simply slammed against the wall instead of passing through it.
"What the hell is wrong with you, fucking swordsman?" Sanji bellowed angrily. As Zoro slowly pulled himself to his feet, the cook jumped off of the bed and grabbed Zoro by his upper arm, slamming his naked body back into the wall he had just bounced off of.
"Can you even hear a damn word I'm saying, marimo?" he asked, his expression turning a bit more desperate. "Well?"
"The hell, of course I can hear you," Zoro replied angrily, finally looking the cook in the eyes. "What was that for?"
"What do you think, bastard?" Sanji shouted. "I don't know exactly what's going on with you, but whatever the hell is wrong, don't take it out on me."
"Nothing's wrong," Zoro replied stormily, averting his gaze again.
Flustered, Sanji released his grip and took a step back, staring at the other man incredulously. "You really think I'm going to believe that? Even if I don't know the details, I know something happened back there. You've been acting strange ever since."
"Nothing happened."
"Yeah, haven't heard that one from you before," Sanji shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "So tell me, Mr. 'I-sliced-and-diced-forty-some-people-but-nothing-happened,' if you're fine, then why haven't you been able to say more than a sentence or two to anybody for the past week?"
The swordsman's gaze stayed securely fixed to the floor. The vein in his forehead was noticeably throbbing, and Sanji could see that he was gnawing at his lip.
And suddenly, the blonde man felt a painful tug in his chest, as he realized it was really hard to see Zoro like this.
"Oi," the cook said, his tone softening. Tentatively, he reached forward and placed a hand on Zoro's naked shoulder. "Whatever you think you're going to accomplish by acting like this... It's not going to make it easier. It's not that hard to just talk. It may not seem like that but just... trust me on this one, marimo."
An uncomfortably lengthy silence passed. When Zoro finally looked up at him again, his expression had turned to stone.
"It's one thing to come here to do it with you, dumbass cook, but I'm not here to fucking talk to you. If that's what you want to do, I'm leaving."
Wrenching himself from Sanji's grasp, Zoro bent down to collect his discarded clothes.
The cook rubbed his temples, endlessly frustrated with the swordsman. Sighing heavily, he straightened his posture and took a step toward him as Zoro stood upright again, until his chest just barely grazed the other man's broad back. He placed his hands on Zoro's hips.
Zoro turned back to look at him, glaring with dismay.
Leaning forward, Sanji pressed his mouth lightly against Zoro's back. He felt the swordsman's muscles tense.
"We can do it," he murmured, nipping at the spot just below the nape of Zoro's neck, where he knew he was the most sensitive. "But if you bite me that hard again, this time, I'll kick you right through that fucking wall."
Zoro didn't bother with a response. Instead, he dropped the clothes he was holding and twisted around, clutching the side of Sanji's face as he pulled him into a fervid kiss.
It was a little bit clumsy, and a little bit rude, but it was the mouth he had been growing more and more accustomed to, instead of the distraught shell of a man that had been kissing him when they first entered the dingy hotel room.
He wondered if he would ever know what had happened to spook Zoro like this—or perhaps more importantly, what happened to begin with that rendered him helpless to do anything but bottle everything inside of him.