A gentle blue sky. A pleasant breeze whisking through fine green strands of hair.

Dust gusts overhead, small rocks embedding skin.

A heavy copper scent smothers the nasal cavities, a thick liquid coats the tongue, wringing the taste of something corrosive and bitter.

Pain courses the body, but it's dull and hazy―much like the sensations evoked from a dream.

Determined eyes gaze up at soft, affable blue. White haze clouds once crisp vision, eliciting a fear unlike no other: a fear of life's fading essence. A fixation to the atmosphere remains, a primary source of comfort.

Senses numb. The metallic stench of blood is no more; the acerbic taste of blood is less pervasive. Pain steadily erodes, like water against rock.

There is a cry.

It pierces the air, anguished and sorrowed. There's a traced rasp in the howl, roughened around its edges, but sharpening nonetheless. It wrenches at the heart, screaming a name, wet through tears.

The blurred figure in the distance. . .

Luffy? Usop―

Zoro punches him.

Their lips part, tearing Sanji from his vision. There is an unexpected show of clumsiness from the cook as he blunders with his feet, evidently thrown afoot. He tumbles onto the floor, hand indignantly placed over his cheek―it bulges red from the infliction.

"What the hell, Marimo! I was just trying to―"

Silence emanates from the galley. It's thick―near palpable.

Dinner has come to a halt, eyes dividing between the swordsman and pirate chef.

Chopper and Usopp shield behind their captain, who to his credit, displays genuine shock, almond eyes widened, rather than bulged with a comical slack jaw to match. Nami bites on her lower lip, brows creased in bemusement, showing little reaction otherwise; Robin positions her hand over her mouth, an 'oh my' muttered under her breath; The cyborg's metal linked fingers smush against his face in a desperate attempt to suppress laughter.

Shit.

Sanji realizes the importance of subtleties at that moment. He is alone in the knowledge of his abilities. What is common for Sanji raises a tension dissimilar to anything he's ever felt before.

His chest stings.

It's unlike him to be so tactless.

To be so affected by the mere utterance of death. . .it's ridiculous. Death is a natural part of life―his life especially. He's molded by its ever-present linger. It is a part of who he is, what has built on his character.

But now. . .

A thought burdens his conscience.

He fears what it will do to Zoro.

A blush creeps the swordsman's face. A deep wine against his tan skin.

"Zoro―"

"You. . .You. . ." He takes a step back. "You. . .homo-cook."

He storms out of the galley, slamming the door shut behind him.

The impact reverberates into the quiet of the kitchen.

Franky loses it.

Death, Sanji finds, precedes its reputation.

Many, Sanji included, scorn death as being, what they consider, one's undoing. When in truth, it is not death they should fear, but their circumstance.

If anything, death looms as a brutal spectator. It watches from afar, a warmth emitting from the dark gloom. It leads Sanji to believe it garners some sort of sick, sadistic pleasure from observing its malicious takings. Fear spikes as its fading sensation settles in, the rancor remains, yet death is never the element leading in one's condition of illness, injury, or other deathly situation.

If Sanji had to define death's position, its burden on life, it would be as a conclusion. A final result.

Sanji has grown to understand death as he's matured and there is much he's learned since gaining his more morbid abilities. For example: unlike its more desired counterpart, death has always been the fairer of the two, the quality of life catering to the well-fortuned. However death―death will never discriminate. It is as fair as it will ever be, callously so.

That fact alone should ease him in his disdain towards death, but Sanji holds little respect for the bringer of unhappiness. He will never forgive its merciless taunting brought on as he lay stranded on that god forsaken rock.

At a young age, Sanji knows there are certain boundaries that should never be crossed. He's learned to loop his way through quite a few, yet there stands three bonafide laws in which can never be broken.

Sanji's Law: Death Edition

1. Never deter death.

2. Never inform those marked by death of their impending fate.

3. (Personal) Never place emotional investment of those marked.

Sanji realises he's about to break two of those three rules.

A cannon fires. It's of close proximity, judging by the lingering crackle of gun powder heard upon its fire.

Zoro's out there, he thinks with dread.

He's quick to jump on his feet, escaping the awkwardness of his inelegant display of. . .whatever that had been.

The rest of the crew quickly follows suit. They gather on deck, Nami assembling her Climate Baton, Robin's arms crossing in defense, Franky cocking his arm, and Chopper breaking into his Arm Point form.

Marines litter the ship, armed with swords and rifles. They are of the weaker variety, Sanji analyzes. There are at least one hundred of them in all, attacking in clumps of bodies (a strength in number tactic, Sanji presumes) They mesh together in assorted scents: sweat, salty sea air, and few with deaths' odor. It's a tad overpowering to his senses, but he stands his guard.

The marines are easy to bring down. Luffy's elastic punches scatter men in the wind. They are brought to their knees, skin charcoaled and hair stuck on end, in aid of Nami's baton. Robin ruthlessly uses her expendable limbs hauling men overboard, other marines willingly throwing themselves off deck at the sight of Franky and Chopper. Smoke bombs fume in an array of colours, fitful coughs wrung from Usopp's expertly aimed Deluxe Tabasco Stars.

It's a pathetically easy fight.

But Sanji's defenses are still raised. He can't afford to lower his guard, not when a certain Marimo falls so close to his final days.

Sanji himself faces troubles in combat. His kicks lack a Sanji edge, his muscles knot at a tension building in his gut, and his heart is not found in the fight, he realizes, his eyes searching for Zoro's fuzzy moss hair.

A marine falls at his feet, an angered growl follows immediately after.

"Sanji! What's with you?" snaps Zoro, his prior humiliation temporarily forgotten. "Are you going to let these weaklings beat you?"

"I didn't need help." Especially not from you. "I had him."

He laughs, but it comes off sounding cruel and bitter. "Yeah right. I just saved your ass."

"You saved me? If there's anyone in this crew that needs saving, it's you, stupid Marimo." He mutters the last part.

"What was that?"

They lunge for each other, only to be intercepted by a pair of arms. It emerges between them, a flutter of petals flowing through nimble fingers.

"Enough."

And they stop.

But not without a final glare.

It's a moonless night. The air is crisp and cool, the Thousand Sunny sailing gently through the calm sea. Sanji revels in the brisk air, a mug of milk tea (sweetened with a dollop of honey) warming his palms. There is another mug that steams atop the brass railing, an identical cup composed of a similar bone china. He eyes the mug warily, before gathering it up in his arms.

He moves discreetly across the deck, and with quiet steps climbs up an intersecting set of stairs. He shifts up through the companionway until he faces a door of the ship's most upper level.

The Crows Nest.

He knocks before entering.

Sure enough, he finds a bored-looking Zoro staring lazy out fog-tinted windows. He hears him come in, but doesn't bother acknowledging his presence.

Sanji sets a mug on the windowsill. "For you."

He accepts the cup and nods―more like lolls his head―in thanks.

They drink in companionable silence when Zoro, in a sleep heavy voice asks, "What do you want?"

Sanji thinks the blunt question may constitute as rudeness, but he lets it slide. "Nothing. I couldn't sleep, thought you might use some company."

Zoro takes a long, heavy sip before saying, "Is that so." His eyes squint. "But you're acting strange. Too. . .nice."

Sanji rolls his eyes. "Can't you read the mood? I'm trying to make peace."

He makes a face. "For what? Being an idiot or kissing me?"

Sanji chokes on his drink mid-swallow. "That's. . ."

He scrutinizes him as his voice fades into silence. "Say. . .do you like me?"

His expression bunches together, as if he's eaten a particularly bitter lemon. "Excuse me?"

Zoro frowns at his reaction. "I asked if you liked me."

He splutters for an answer, but his tongue twists oddly, conjuring unintelligible sentences . . .That's not a question I expected to be asked. Zoro wasn't supposed to ask him such. . .ridiculous questions.

From the moment Sanji caught death's scent, a mission was thwarted upon him. It was supposed to be handled with stealth and diligence. Instead, he now finds himself faced within a delicate situation, with a question the Zoro of yesterday would never have asked the Sanji of today.

"You know what, Zoro―" Alas, he can't do it. He can't break the third and final rule. It's too cruel. Besides, there's no reason to instill fear when I plan to erase that fear altogether.

His forgotten will courses through his body and he vehemently thinks:

I can't let him die.

"―That's right, Marimo. I've always been one for the ladies, but you. . .you catch my attention. I guess you can say you're my ideal man." It's a lousy confession, but anything to divert him from the truth. "I think I've always liked you."

Zoro looks skeptical. "Always? Since you joined the crew?"

"Ever since I've joined the crew," he confirms.

Sanji leans back against the pane, arms crossed as he awaits his response.

Zoro appears to contemplate his words (a subtle ploy in consideration of Sanji's 'feelings').

Sanji theorizes the many scenarios that could occur at that moment. A quiet order that he leave, a swallow of a laugh, a brusque 'no'.

What he doesn't expect is for his confession to be returned.