CHAPTER NINE

Sanji's bedroom

A couple of hours later

Sanji was exhausted, but there was too much adrenaline and uncertainty swimming in his veins for him to possibly sleep. Having one urge satiated, he was feeling the desire for another licking at the edges of his consciousness... That craving was probably just the after-effects of the assault of nostalgia on his brain, however, as he tasted a body he never thought he would lay eyes on again, let alone get to enjoy so fully and without restraint. It still felt surreal.

He shrugged himself slightly upright, propping up his head in his hand as he stared at the other man, taking him in, feeling some faint semblance of relief over just getting to see him. Zoro laid on his back with his eye closed, his arm resting over his forehead.

"What?" Zoro asked finally, no doubt feeling the steady gaze fixed upon him. He opened his eye a sliver and glanced over at Sanji.

"It's nothing," he replied, averting his stare, hesitant to share the superfluous thought swirling around in his head.

Zoro turned his head toward him, looking at him a bit more alertly. Suddenly he reached out and placed a firm thumb on Sanji's forehead, applying pressure to iron out the deep furrows that had formed above his brow. "Nothing, huh?"

"Don't worry about it, it's really... It doesn't matter."

"If it doesn't matter, then just spit it out."

The cook exhaled loudly. "It's just... it's been so long since I wanted a cigarette this damn bad," he finally admitted.

"That so?" Zoro smirked. "I find that hard to believe."

"It's true. It was bad for awhile... Damn near unbearable, in fact," Sanji confessed, smiling wryly. "But after awhile, I felt like I didn't even want to anymore."

"And how long ago was that?"

Sanji knitted his brow; it had been a long time since he had thought about it. He turned toward Zoro, who was now also propping himself on his side, his arm holding up his head.

"A bit over twenty years," he murmured quietly, his expression darkening.

"Was it because of..." Zoro started to ask, furrowing his brow, the corners of his lips turning downward nearly undiscernably.

"No," Sanji replied quickly, before the swordsman could find the rest of his words. It had nothing to do with his health or Chopper's warnings or anything along those lines.

Zoro did not respond. Instead, he stared at him, his gaze filled with patience as he awaited the continuation of Sanji's explanation.

Sanji sighed with resignation, wondering if there was any point to repeating such a meaningless memory. But, there was no reason not to, and the swordsman's stare continued to burn into him. Hesitantly, he started to speak.

That godawful, cliff-covered island somewhere in the New World

Over twenty years ago

For days, Sanji barely slept, spending most of his time digging through the broken pieces of gravel and rock. Everyone else had begun taking turns, so some could rest while others searched—with the exception of Luffy, who searched for his lost nakama with a frenzy rivaling the cook's, but tinged with a hint of madness. However, Sanji just could not bring himself to rest. He couldn't sleep knowing that maybe, the swordsman was buried out there, likely injured and suffering.

He had been trying not to consider the notion that it was improbable he was still alive... that he was now searching for a corpse. But even then, he had to lay eyes on him again; he had to know.

When Sanji wasn't in the water, he chain-smoked constantly, going through packs at more than double the usual pace. Not even the nicotine and smoke could alleviate him in the slightest, but that didn't stop him from trying—even if he broke into intermittent coughing spurts. Even if he felt like he couldn't quite stay under water as long as he used to, even when the dives were for such a critical purpose.

Ten infinitely long days passed, each one feeling more grim than the next. After ten days of searching, the crew had to come to a very difficult decision; Sanji had never felt so helpless and distressed and consumed by rage in all his life.

Even when they were preparing to finally leave, he was still crawling over the rocks, his clothes tattered and his hair disheveled, as he continued to search up until the very last second. And finally, the ship was ready to embark, and his nakama called out to him, urging him aboard.

He looked up at the Thousand Sunny for a moment, then back toward the island, his cigarette loosely hanging off of his lips. Knee-deep in water, his clothes filled with sand, he stared helplessly at the rubble that they had overturned twice-over, to no avail.

If they left, he was really gone, he realized. It was really, truly the end.

Why did his last conversation with the shitty marimo have to be over something as dumb as cigarettes, he wondered angrily. Suddenly, the cigarette in his mouth seemed revolting. The smoke in his mouth tasted of death and misery.

Silently shaking, he struggled to restrain whatever emotion threatened to spew forth. He felt ill, thinking that if it wasn't for a shitty cigarette, maybe his last words to Zoro could have been something fractionally less despicable.

Furiously, he wrenched the cigarette out of his mouth and hurled it down into the water with all of the force he could muster. But it wasn't enough. He grabbed the pack from inside his front pocket, and after he crushed it with a trembling hand, he threw it after the cigarette. Finally, after he boarded the ship, avoiding the empathetic glances of his nakama, he retrieved every last cigarette he knew of on the ship. As the shitty, cliff-ridden island began to disappear in the distance, Sanji hurled the packs far into the ocean beyond.

Sanji's kitchen

Present time, the next morning

Sanji was preparing breakfast.

It was strange; he had been cooking in this kitchen for fifteen years or so. He had made thousands of meals, including the same, simple breakfast of eggs and sausage he was about to complete.

But for some reason, the food seemed to a cook a little more perfectly. The aroma was more pleasant, and indeed, even his kitchen appeared a bit less drab than usual. The vague ache in the pit of his stomach, tinged with a hint of glee, seemed hauntingly familiar, but he could not quite make the connection between it and how he felt cooking in his younger days as a chef; the memory was too distant.

Zoro entered the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of pants and a yawn, just as Sanji was plating their food.

"You hungry?" Sanji asked, glancing back over his shoulder. He nearly started in surprise; the swordsman's silver-tinged hair, glistening wet in the late morning sun, appeared far more green than it had in the soft evening lights the night before. Realizing he was gaping, Sanji quickly clamped his mouth closed and turned his attention back to the meal.

"Ah, starving," Zoro replied, taking a seat at the small table in the kitchen.

A moment later, Sanji set their plates on the table and joined him.

"I made some coffee, if you'd like some," Sanji said, beckoning to the pot he had already set on the table.

Zoro nodded, already hungrily digging into the plate. He took his first bite as Sanji started to pour his cup of coffee.

Suddenly, Zoro clapped his hand over his mouth, dropping his fork. Sanji slammed the pot down on the table, springing to his feet in alarm and leaning forward.

"Oi, are you okay? What's wrong?" he asked with panic. He had no idea what had happened. There was surely nothing wrong with his food. For a split second, he thought perhaps the swordsman was choking.

Zoro glanced up at him, removing his hand from his mouth and gesturing for Sanji to sit back down. "It's okay, sit down," he mumbled through a full mouth.

As Zoro stared down at the table, taking what seemed like an eternity to chew and swallow his bite, Sanji sat on the edge of his seat, nervously watching him.

Finally, he looked up. "Sorry, it's just... This is the first time I've eaten food you've actually cooked since I've been here, isn't it?"

Sanji's jaw fell open slightly. "Y-yeah, I suppose that's right... It's my recipes at the restaurant, but I rarely cook anything myself."

Zoro closed his eye. "That's what I figured."

"Oi, is there something wrong with it?"

He shook his head from side to side. "No, there's nothing wrong with it. It's—"

"Let me guess... 'It's okay,'" Sanji interrupted, dropping his voice exaggeratedly low, as he mimicked the response the infuriating swordsman used to give him again and again, whenever Sanji asked him how his meal was.

"It's good," Zoro rumbled solemnly, opening his eye. The words seemed to cut across the silence of the room, and Sanji felt the breath catch in his throat.

"It was always really good, dumbass cook," Zoro muttered finally.

The swordsman continued eating his meal in silence, and Sanji didn't know what else to say. He was starting to feel like his appetite was waning a bit. Sipping his coffee, he intermittently glanced up at the shirtless, scar-covered man, who calmly chewed and swallowed bite after bite with a zenful expression on his face.

Just one day ago, this scenario could not have existed in even the most remote realm of possibilities.

Only a mere twenty-four hours ago, Zoro had been dead and gone, only existing as a ghost in the darkest crevices of his mind; a specter who took sick joy in creeping into his consciousness, endlessly haunting him.

Yesterday, as he had sat at the same table, sipping coffee out of the very same mug, the swordsman Isshin had been just an irritating man who shared an uncomfortable amount of similarities with that man he used to know. He had never once even imagined they were one in the same... He had spent too many years believing Zoro was lost forever for the notion to cross his mind for even an instant, right up until that moment that Zoro had revealed who he truly was.

Sanji had briefly thought that having Zoro back would solve everything. But now that the swordsman was before him again, the unsettled feeling that had constantly plagued him for the past twenty years was still ever-present within himself. Perhaps too many things had happened... Too many unforgivable, unforgettable things. Frowning, Sanji struggled to swallow the last few bites of food on his plate.

Trois Bleu

That evening

As long as he repeated the same actions as the day before, life would be tolerable.

The mantra Sanji had used to survive all these years was quickly slipping away from him, though. The numbing euphoria of being reunited with Zoro the night before was slowly dissipating, as the reality of it began to crash down upon him.

The truth was, the cook didn't really remember how to live any other way than through mindless repetition. Though he had been able to get so many things off of his chest when he was together with Zoro, even with some of those weights lifted, he was no longer actually familiar with how to live his life, other than by going through the motions. And he certainly did not recall how he was supposed to deal with all of these crippling feelings washing over him.

The cook actually did not expect Zoro to come to Trois Bleu tonight. When Zoro finally came to the restaurant, Sanji was so startled, he nearly dropped the armful of dishes he was about to deliver to a table.

But the reason for his shock was not simply his presence. Today, instead of the familiar all-black garb of Isshin sitting at the table near the back, there was a man with one arm, two swords and short, mossy green hair riddled with silver.

Once he delivered the plates, he made a beeline toward the swordsman, his heart pounding thunderously in his chest.

"Oi, what the hell are you doing?" Sanji asked, in a kind of frantic whisper.

"Hah? What kind of question is that?" Zoro replied. "I'm hungry."

"Yeah, but why are you dressed like that?"

Zoro glanced down at his attire. He was wearing another long-sleeved shirt—leaving the sleeve hanging down over his absent right arm—and the same style of pants and boots that Isshin usually wore. But other than that, he didn't wear any other of his trademark clothes. No mask. No headdress. He was exposing his face, plain as day.

"What, you have a dress code or something?"

"That's not what I mean, marimo," Sanji hissed. "You're not hiding your appearance."

Zoro raised an impatient eyebrow, giving him a look that told Sanji the swordsman thought he was being positively stupid. "Isn't that pointless? You know who I am now, and there's no one else here I need to hide myself from."

Sanji stared at him, dumbfounded. "But that's how you're recognized... It's how people know you as the world's strongest swordsman."

Zoro nodded. "Ah, that's right. I didn't say I'll never wear those clothes again, but they can be a pain to eat in."

"And why are you here?" Sanji suddenly asked, the question becoming even more pressing than why Zoro was not dressed as Isshin.

"Hah, didn't I already answer that? I'm here for food. Why the hell else would I come to a restaurant?"

"Yeah, but I guess I didn't..." Sanji paused, scratching his head as he averted his gaze. "I wasn't sure if you'd come by anymore."

"Hah, why not?" Zoro asked. "I still need to eat, after all. Besides, I also wanted to ask you something."

"What?"

Zoro leaned forward slightly, looking up at him with a startlingly intense gaze. "Can I come again tonight... Sanji?"

An involuntary shudder; he wished the swordsman would not use his name so plainly, especially in this public place. And once again, he seemed to draw out the vowels in a way that made his stomach jump into his chest.

"Tch, since when do you ask before coming by?"

"That a yes, then?"

Sanji sighed. "I won't tell you no."

"Good. Because I want to see you again." The corner of the swordsman's mouth turned up in a smile. "So, what should I eat, cook?"

Sanji was stunned. For a moment, he felt like he had no idea who this outspoken man was, who plainly spoke of what he wanted... Things that Sanji wanted as well, but that he was sure he could not articulate so freely.

Sanji's living room

Later that night

After leaving Trois Bleu, Sanji found Zoro on his patio, sprawled out on one of the chairs, mouth agape and snoring loudly. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn earlier to the restaurant; this was Zoro, not Isshin.

Sighing, Sanji opened the patio door and poked his head outside. "Oi, come on in," he called out gruffly.

Zoro languidly opened his eye, turning in the other man's direction. "Ah, you're here," he said, his voice a little bit warmer than Sanji expected it to be.

"Yeah. You coming in?"

Nodding, the green-and-silver-haired man rose to his feet.

"So, what'll it be? You know what I have as far as liquor, and I picked up some more sake as well," Sanji told him, sliding the door closed once Zoro had stepped inside.

"Nothing right now."

"Nothing?" Sanji asked, taken aback, turning to look at him. But then, stalwart fingers reached around and brushed the back of his neck, entangling in the back of his hair, and the breath caught in his throat. As Zoro leaned toward him, Sanji could see from the look in his eye, he had no interest in liquor.

"There's something else I want," Zoro went on, his mouth leaning in toward Sanji's. "But if I can't have it, tell me."

"Tch, what kind of line is that," Sanji murmured, before responding, "Well, I won't tell you no." Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized he had told the swordsman that a few times already.

And then, there was no more time to think about insignificant details like words, as heavy lips crushed against his. Even though he had tasted those lips so many times the night before, he still felt like his palpitating heart was likely to thrash out of his chest. Fingers clutched at his hair, yanking at the tendrils, and Sanji murmured and deepened the kiss in response.

Sanji realized the reason he could barely contain the emotion in his chest. Last night was not a fluke; not only was he was feeling something, but it was something that made his heart ache with a strange amalgamation of joy and sorrow. After so much time had passed of endless apathy, feelings he had long since cast aside flooded his senses.

And how he wanted. Unconsciously, he ground his body against Zoro's, letting out a gasp of satisfaction as the other man's erection rubbed against his own. Even through their clothes, he could feel just how much they both craved each other.

The chef felt like he could barely breathe, from the mix of panic and lust that overtook his body, filling him with unbearable anxiety and trepidation. Despite all the years he had had to regret all of the things he never said to Zoro, and how he had not come to his senses back then, now that this man was in front of him, he had no idea what he was supposed to do.

So, all he could do was react; to desperately tear off clothes and cover the other man's neck in fervent kisses and bites. To take the other man's pulsating hardness within his hands and just thrust, and let himself get overtaken by greed and desire as the other man's scarred face contorted in pleasure.

There was no way they would make it to the bedroom; Sanji was skeptical that he could even wait until they got to the sofa. He needed, in a way that he had not needed anything for two decades, and he impatiently reached down, readying his body for the intercourse that he couldn't wait for another moment.

Although Sanji had now had an entire day to let it sink in that this was really Zoro, he still found himself wondering if he was lost in one of those dreams that had consumed him up until this time. But again and again, the swordsman eagerly reminded him that this was not a dream, and every touch made Sanji feel like it was less and less easy to deal with the reality of the situation.

It was the start of many evenings, just like this one, where Sanji started to feel less and less sure of what he was supposed to do, despite how clearly he wanted this one thing in front of him. The scars of the past were too deep to disappear just from the reemergence of Zoro—and the cook was far past the point of being able to figure out how to help himself. It had been far too long since Sanji had really cared about anything.

An island near All Blue

Eighteen years ago

Sanji sat at a table with half a dozen fishermen, disinterestedly sipping bitter coffee and eating undercooked toast while the rest of the men savagely devoured their breakfast.

"From the sounds of it, we'll be passin' by one of the Fisherman Islands by this evening, if we set out soon," the man next to Sanji said to him through a full mouth. Although he hadn't explained himself very well, Sanji knew he was referring to the artificial islands around All Blue.

"Well, I guess we'll be parting ways soon, then," Sanji said, scratching the side of his cheek. The sound of his fingernails scraping the stubble was offensively loud to him. It had been awhile since he had last shaved, though; it was probably more of a beard than stubble by now. Even longer since he had cut his hair, which he currently had pulled back into a messy ponytail.

"You sure you don't wanna stick around with us? I can prob'ly pay you a little bit more, since you're able to handle so much."

Sanji shook his head. "No, my mind is set on going to this island." He smiled, turning his vacant gaze toward the man who had been his boss for the past several months. "But thanks for letting me work on your boat until we got here. I don't know how else I would have made it."

"No no, I should be thankin' you. You're as good as three of these louts put together," he said, pointing at the other men at his table and laughing heartily. A few of them cursed back at him in protest. "I expect no less from a man who was part a' that pirate crew, though."

Sanji clenched his jaw. "Ah, thanks," he said blandly.

The fishing boat captain laughed again, mirthfully slamming a fist on the table. Sanji's half-empty cup of coffee fell over, and he quickly grabbed a napkin to stop the dark liquid from making too large of a mess.

At the precise moment he leaned forward, he heard a gunshot ring out and felt something whiz behind his head, grazing his hair. Instinctively, he leapt away, taking cover as his eyes searched the crowd for the source of the shot. "Everybody get down," he shouted to the men he was with.

Then he spotted the culprit—no one he recognized, but it wouldn't be the first time a stranger attacked him, just for who he was, even if it wasn't about bounties anymore. Taking a deep breath, he sprung into action, leaping through the air with his right foot outstretched, soaring directly toward his attacker.

One blow was all it took; the man was weak, hiding behind the strength of his gun for power. Once he was felled, Sanji nonchalantly walked back toward the table of fisherman and returned to his seat.

"We'll I'll be... Are you okay, Sanji?!" the fishing boat captain cried out, cautiously rising to his feet.

"I'm fine," Sanji said languidly.

"Oi, your hair," one of the other man shouted, pointing at the back of the blonde man's head.

Sanji raised a hand, feeling the back of his head—and instantly realized what the fisherman was talking about. The bullet had grazed his ponytail, and half of the hair was blown away.

"Well, I guess I needed to cut it anyway," Sanji shrugged, leaning back in his seat.

The table of fisherman stared at him in awe. But then, the captain chuckled again, slapping his knee, and the table erupted into chatter about how Sanji was completely undaunted, and how something like this must have been nothing for a man like him.

If it hadn't been for their blather, Sanji may not have ruminated on it that much, but he did recognize that his absence of a reaction was unnatural. Even if he was used to his safety being in jeopardy, it was abnormal to be unfazed by imminent danger.

Someone had just tried to shoot him from a mere thirty steps away, in broad daylight, and he was not even the slightest bit rattled. His heart wasn't racing, and there was no rush of adrenaline flowing through his body. Even his attack had been more out of muscle-memory than actually feeling outraged enough to take out the person who had just tried to snuff out his life.

Sanji knew that if he had not leaned forward to wipe up the spilled coffee, right at that moment, the bullet would have undoubtedly pierced through his brain.

The only thing that Sanji found even remotely upsetting was the thought that it hadn't.