AN: This piece is one that leads into the piece before it, Stronghold, and goes through the piece from Sanji's PoV.
Pairing: Zoro/Sanji
Rating: PG
Timeline: right before Stronghold.
~*Benediction*~
Sometimes…scratch that – all the time – talking to the swordsman was like talking to a goldfish…a really ugly, fat, stupid goldfish with a Hercules complex! Any sort of attempt at civilized conversation usually led to the use of a few choice words at an ear-splitting volume ultimately resulting in some form of violent repercussions. But…the cook couldn't say that he wasn't completely used to it by now, accepting it even.
As he took a long, deep drag on his nicotine stick, allowing the smoke to permeate to the core of his nerves, he couldn't help but reflect on the fact that his painful, and sometimes bloody, spats with the bushido were an integral part of his daily routine. But lately, he was loath to admit, that disagreements-that-led-to-arguments-that-turned-into-fights-that-became-murderous-intent had been absent from the ship for the last week – and Sanji wasn't handling it very well.
His final count of cigarettes-per-day had jumped from the normal seven to a startling fifteen – over twice his regular average! This was unacceptable. Sure he knew that it was best that Zoro didn't leave the medic bunk after receiving near fatal wounds from their incidents in that heinously damned place called Thriller Bark but Sanji couldn't seem to shake the awful feeling that he was far more worried about the moron than he should be.
Or was this only natural – to feel this much concern for someone you happen to have a strong attraction to. It was true that he and Zoro had been, well, fucking for a few months; but that didn't mean that they were in love or anything like that. No…absolutely not. Falling in love with one of your crewmates spelled destruction for one or both of you, should anything happen to the other person while traversing these unforgivable seas.
Of course, Zoro and he had never spoken of their feelings for each other, because their intentions were enough to make this 'thing' work…for now. Also, Zoro had never been much of a talker anyway. Sanji believed the phrase had been, "Words are for pussies, women, and priests. I am none of those."
That was his Zoro, eloquent as ever with the manner of his speech.
It was true that they had laid claim on one another, but that was only natural…wasn't it? Sanji and Zoro had signed this unspoken agreement to not fuck anyone else while they still fucked each other, and that was normal…wasn't it? That didn't mean that there was some clandestine love affair occurring – the kind that was written about in those 'heaving bosoms,' sappy, Oh-my-fucking-god-I'm-going-to-vomit-sugar-after-allowing-my-mind-to-absorb-this-feminine-bullshit romance novels. No, they were both just horny young adults that happened to come to an understanding with each other and their hormones; one finally coming to terms with an awakening sexuality, and the other scared to death that, for the first time, he wasn't the one in control.
But that still didn't explain why Sanji's feet unconsciously led him to that heavy wooden door that sheltered the broken body of the swordsman, as he lay, still unconscious, from his severe wounds. It definitely didn't account for the painful swell of involuntary fear that twisted and knotted tightly in his torso, threatening to steal his breath. No, this was not normal…
So why was he here? Why was he standing with his left palm flat against the Adam's wood door to the infirmary? Why was his breath so shallow, his eyes wide with anticipation, and his heart thundering in his chest as if there was some imminent danger nearby? Why couldn't he just turn around and return to the galley where he could immerse himself in his natural art and forget about all of this worrisome bullshit, letting them swordsman recover in peace? What was the force that was driving him to press against that heavy door, sliding it from it's resting place against the frame, pushing his lithe body through the narrow opening, letting not a single ray of light in? What had possessed him to kick his shoes off and pad in black-socked feet over to the mat on the floor where the wounded marimo lay unconscious, chest rising and falling with every labored breath?
He may never know what unseen force drove him to kneel silently at the foot of that occupied mat; what pushed him to cross his legs beneath him and hunch his shoulders forward as he stared tensely at the sleeping man before him, taking in the bruises and scratches that still littered those chiseled features, the brow creased in a subconscious frown even in rest.
And, for the twenty-year-old cook, he didn't really need to know. All he needed to know was that that man was going to wake up soon, and that when he did, everything was going to go back to the way it had been before. The fighting, arguing, insulting, annoying-as-fuck lifestyle from before all of this shit spun chaotically out of control.
Resting a cold and trembling hand on the warm ankle in front of him, covered by a mere thin sheet, Sanji hung his head, and for the first time in a very long time…he prayed.