Title: Cerulean

Rating: PG-13/ light R

Warning: Language, Mild Sexual Content

Timeline: continuation of Incision & OP Movie 5

Current Song Stuck in Head: Ano Basho He – Harebare

~*Cerulean*~

Sailing away from that island, now free from the curse of that diabolical sword, had never been an easier thing to do. For as the Merry drifted at a leisurely pace from those dark waters into the great unknown, the ship was completely silent, as if fearful of disturbing some coveted peace that had been narrowly attained by retreating from the land.

The evening was calm, dim shadows dancing across the edges and walls of the small ship, the slosh of the sea washing against the sides of the vessel almost like a calming song. A cool breeze found its way across the tan cheeks of the immobile figure leaning over the railing, elbows resting against the polished wood, head dipped slightly as the air brushed sharply against the warm flesh. The breeze from the sea was pleasantly caressing his arms, ruffling the tattered sleeves of his shirt and jingling his three earrings teasingly against the side of his neck. There was nothing on deck but himself and the bright moon and stars, peering down at him dimly, enveloping him in an ethereal glow.

The crew had retired to bed several hours earlier, but this night was not one of rest for the anxious swordsman whose mind was running rampant with reverie and regret. Regret…that pooling feeling bubbling in his stomach, tightening so thickly that it made him literally ache inside, palms rubbing at his glazed jade eyes, willing futilely to ward off those painful whispers in the back of his mind that made him feel extremely guilty and irrevocably disgusting.

Disgusting…for what kind of man could knowingly turn on – no – could knowingly injure his own lover…and not be disgusting?

He couldn't, and didn't even try to, hold back the sigh that slipped past his lips, disappearing into the breeze, leaving no evidence behind of its presence. He didn't care right now if a sigh meant that he was weak…because that's exactly what he had been – weak.

He was so weak that he had chosen some empty promise that he had made to an old friend many years prior…a friend that he owed nothing to and that probably wasn't even in his right mind at the time Zoro took him up on his offer. He was so weak that he had forsaken his own crew, of which he was the first mate, for said empty promise…and so weak that he hadn't even batted an eye when he struck his lover down and watched him bleed – all because the shit-cook had been trying to figure out just what the hell was going on and that happened to be hindering him in his progress to find those fucking orbs.

It was the truth…Zoro felt like ten different kinds of heaping, steaming shit for what he had allowed himself to do to that island, his crew, and the man that he loved above all others. That man had trusted him, for God's sake – trusted him so much that he had let him go, knowing full well that he might never return and that if he did it could be to take the blonde's very life. If that wasn't devotion, then Zoro didn't know what the hell devotion was…

He kept replaying the scene over in his mind, reliving that moment and wondering just what the hell he had been thinking. The answer was: nothing. He had not been thinking…just acting; acting on some expired promise that had been twisted into a vague shadow of what it was originally intended to be. He couldn't help but shiver at the image of his blonde lover standing before him, shoulder bleeding profusely under his stained palm, eyes wide with shock and confusion, that betrayed expression as he turned to leave. God, he felt like such a dick…

He had only spoken with the love-cook once since the incident, and the man had acted as if the situation had never happened…but Zoro knew better. He could see the subtle differences in the blonde: the way he favored his left shoulder more now; the way his eyes always seemed slightly glazed when in his presence; and the steadily increasing number of the martial artist's cigarette intake. He wasn't getting anything past Zoro.

Not knowing what else to do, Zoro turned over his shoulder and headed for the galley to snag one of those cheap bottles of whiskey they had picked up on the island, thankful that something good had come of that god-forsaken trip.

He pushed the heavy wooden door open, stepping inside and allowing it to close behind him, darkness flooding his vision. Reaching to flip the light switch on, he was suddenly stopped cold at the sound of a soft and gravelly voice; "Luffy, get the fuck out or you aren't getting breakfast tomorrow…"

Ah, Sanji…but what the hell is he still doing up? Hadn't he gone to bed with the others, hours ago? Apparently not…But what concerned the swordsman the most was that the cook hadn't immediately recognized him upon entry, assuming him to be the bottomless pit of their captain sneaking around for a midnight snack.

Walking as silently as he could towards the direction of the voice, shrouded in shadow and thick blackness, he noticed the faint glow of the embers at the end of the blonde's trademark cigarette, the scent of the smoke reaching his senses like the earlier breeze against his cheeks. Following that scent and that glow, he came to stand directly in front of the dark figure slumped against the wall beside the sink, boneless on the floor, long lethal legs spread straight out in front of him.

He saw the blonde cook blink as he felt eyes watching him, and Zoro heard him exhale a particularly long drag of nicotine-laced smoke. Zoro's own eyes blinked, rapidly adjusting to the darkness, his vision clearing enough to make out the vague features of the man before him. Without thinking he crouched in front of the silent cook, watching as he crushed his spent cigarette into a previously placed ashtray by his side, and heard the sound of a head thump against the kitchen wall, apparently realizing the identity of its newest guest.

Silence set in for several long minutes, the tension thickening, before Sanji swept a foot out and tapped at Zoro's ankle, fiddling with the tails of his own un-tucked periwinkle dress shirt, sleeves rolled up past the elbows, tie abandoned long ago, "Did you need something?"

Zoro's brow furrowed at the nearly dismissive words from his aloof lover, pushing himself into a sitting position beside him against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest. He heard the blonde sigh in resignation beside him, his knuckles drumming along the floorboards beneath them in a cadent rhythm.

Not being able to stand the silence any longer, Zoro turned his body to face the man beside him, resting his left hand on the black trouser-clad thigh, corded muscles twitching beneath his touch in surprise. Then the words did come, laced with a mixture of sadness and resignation, "What is it?"

Instead of giving a reply, the swordsman grasped the cook by his narrow shoulders, careful not to jar him, spinning him around, feeling the cerulean eyes widen and lock onto his own. Then one of Zoro's hands slowly threaded through his sandy-colored hair, feeling it slide between his digits like silk or satin, tumbling back against the porcelain cheek below, shrouding that left eye in mystery once more. Tilting the alabaster chin, Zoro leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on the soft skin of the blonde's forehead, lips barely brushing against the cool flesh.

The swordsman could feel the shudder that ran through the cook's body, resting his forehead against the slighter man's, gazing into that one cerulean eye that was half-hidden beneath a tired lid. Then, with bated breath and a shuddering sigh, Zoro whispered gently across the cook's breathy lips, "You know I love you, right?"

He heard the hitch in Sanji's breath at the blunt words, never spoken before between the two. There had never been any need to speak them, for words were just that – words. Words were so empty compared to the meaning that actions could convey so much more accurately. So to hear those words uttered from the mouth of a Nihilistic, antisocial, masochistic swordsman shook the blonde to the very core, emotions welling in the young cook that he had forgotten he could feel.

Sanji did his best to nod, succeeding in brushing their lips ever-so-slightly against each other, evoking a soft sigh from the swordsman before the man whispered once more against those soft petals, "Because you can't know just how terrible I feel for what I did back there…"

As if to punctuate his words physically, Zoro lifted a callused hand to the still healing wound on the cook's left shoulder, running his fingertips over the soft fabric of his thin shirt where he knew the bandages were hidden beneath, "You have no idea how sorry I am…"

He could feel the cook shiver under his touch, lips brushing once more against his own, "Oi, Marimo…shut the hell up and kiss me already. It's been a week…"

Zoro eagerly obliged, leaning in to mesh their lips gently together, but he couldn't help but smirk knowingly against the other's mouth at the harsh approval, knowing that he wouldn't have his Sanji any other way.

Their lips slid effortlessly against each other, velvety and smooth as their tongues slid against one another, dueling half-heartedly for control before Sanji's quickly relinquished to the larger man's advances. "Zoro…"

God, the sound of his name breathed by those soft lips…he felt himself shudder, a surge of arousal running through his body, a hand now running through his green hair, caressing his scalp gently.

Breathing harshly against those smooth, cool lips, Zoro muttered softly, "I'm sorry...for scaring you, Sanji."

A groan was his answer, teeth lightly nipping at his own hot petals, "Shut up, dumbass-marimo. Why would I be scared about what happened to you...?"

But Zoro knew, and smirked lightly at the truth behind the lies. Even though the cook's words spoke of apathy, his body said otherwise. It was apparent in the rigidity of his shoulders, the trembling of his slight frame, and the breathy rasp behind his words against the swordsman's lips as he held back stutters of anxiety.

So, to Zoro, it came as no surprise that after a few moments of heavy silence, the blonde burrowed his head into the soft shoulder and whispered breathlessly against the swordsman's neck, "It was far too close this time."

His voice was hoarse, pinched at the edges by the echoes of the lingering pain of that fateful day. Zoro could feel the cook's blunt nails digging desperately into his forearms, his hot breath spilling across his throat, tickling the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. Raising his left hand, Zoro rubbed his thumb gently across the blonde's cheek, catching his breath at the presence of a suspicious wetness against his fingertips. Lifting his other hand to cup Sanji's opposite cheek, he thumbed over the tear tracks, smearing them against the pale porcelain skin, trying to erase their presence.

He could feel the silent tremors of the cook's body, pressed tightly against him now, Sanji's long arms wrapping tightly against the backs of his muscular shoulders, as if grasping for a lifeline to keep him from drowning in his own tears. Zoro was at a loss for words, for he knew in his heart that these tears were of relief…relief from the pain of weeklong anxiety stemmed from the swordsman's heinous actions. There was nothing that he could say to ebb the flow of those salty streams that now trickled down the alabaster skin under his palms…nothing he could say that would make this lingering pain disappear.

So he wouldn't say anything, because – once more – words paled before actions.

Tonight was not a night for words, for there would be many days in the future to worry about linguistics…but tonight – this was a night for forgiveness…forgiveness and acceptance. This was a night that held the promise of a new beginning – the death of an old way of living. From now on Sanji came first…even if that wasn't what the cook wanted.

So, leaning in once more, Zoro breathed softly over those baby-soft lips, muttering one last phrase, "I will never hurt you again," before smashing his lips firmly against those precious ones below.

He could feel the slighter man gasp against his lips, taking the opportunity to snake his tongue past those straight teeth and slide mercilessly against it's twin, causing the other to shudder in his arms. Zoro's right hand slid gently down the long porcelain neck, his fingertips sliding below the collar on their way down to begin unbuttoning his thin shirt. The flesh was warm to the touch, velvety soft and aching for attention as the swordsman's fingers delicately danced across the now exposed chest and stomach. The tight muscles jumped and tensed under the tentative ministrations, those callused fingers scraping carefully over pale skin, goose bumps following closely behind the traveling digits.

As the swordsman pushed the periwinkle shirt from the trembling blonde's shoulders, his kisses trailed across the sharp jaw and down that pale neck, hesitating as they brushed against the edge of the white gauze bandages that concealed the most shameful wound Zoro had ever inflicted.

Sensing the man's indecision, Sanji grasped one larger, more hardened hand in his own, raising it to his lips and kissing it softly before placing it lightly against the still tender injury. Zoro's brow furrowed in both confusion and sadness as he thumbed gently over the affected area. His thoughts were broken as the gravelly voice reached his ears once more, "Chopper says it will probably leave a nasty scar…"

Zoro's heart dropped a mile, regret and guilt flooding his body once more, his grip tightening on the cheek in his left hand. He took a deep breath, ready to sigh and apologize again, but Sanji's words stopped him in the act, "But I think scars add character. I've kind of always wanted one…"

Zoro's eyes snapped to the one gazing at him, that shy smile on those sinful lips sending a shiver down his spine, the words affecting him more than usual. But before he could speak in reply, desperate and hungry lips were on his once more, pressing roughly against his own. Zoro gasped in surprise and Sanji pushed his tongue into his mouth, exploring it at once, following the dips and contours of that hot cavern.

As those lips slid savagely against his own, filling him with lust and love for their owner, Zoro couldn't help but notice something that he had failed to comprehend from the very beginning. Sanji loved him, and with love came trust, faith, and forgiveness, things that were strange to someone of the swordsman's lifestyle. In his mind, love had always been marked by candle-lit dinners, roses on anniversaries, solid silver bands on the left ring fingers, and the whole 'rainbows and butterflies' mentality that came with any romantic relationship.

But the beauty of his bond with the blonde cook was that it wasn't practical. It wasn't practical and it wasn't normal. Their relationship forsook all of those trite and cliché symbols of romance and 'puppy-love'. Their bond was one of trust and commitment to one another that stood strong even in the face of death: a promise, though unspoken, that represented everything that they stood for. It encompassed their dreams and goals for the future, acceptance of one another's pasts, as well as their unfailing loyalty to their crew and captain.

With a touching realization, Zoro could now understand that, even though he had broken this promise for a time, Sanji wasn't going to let him be rid of it completely, pulling him back in and doing what he could to help the swordsman bury his guilt and restore that commitment…that unwritten contract between their very souls.

That was when Zoro realized that he was holding in his arms something that was greater than himself…and it was true. Sanji was more of a man, more of a nakama, and more of a true lover than Zoro had and would ever hope to be. And for once…Zoro wasn't loathing to admit this concession of defeat to the blonde cook whose lips were flushed and panting against his own; a long, thin finger trailing softly now against the outline of his own jagged scar…