A/N: The next one is going to be the final chapter. Thanks so much for keeping up with this so far!
Also, the One Piece college AU collaboration with okama-kenpo is steadily progressing, and we are excited to announce that we'll start releasing chapters in the (relatively) near future. You can follow our joint FF account, dickyang, to be sure you don't miss the first chapter!
CHAPTER TWELVE
Thousand Sunny
Nearly twenty years ago
Sanji loved women.
He loved each and every shape and size, build, personality, nationality—they were all his beautiful goddesses, and he adored them all more than he could ever express—but that, of course, didn't stop him from trying to express it.
Sometimes it seemed like it made them uncomfortable or upset, but that was okay. He had to let them know his feelings, after all. How he lived for them.
But there was one goddess who shined brighter than the rest. She was perfect. She was amazing. She was his ideal woman.
And she was his nakama.
Despite his innumerable attempts to flirt with his wonderful Nami-swan, she never once showed even the smallest flicker of romantic interest. But that was alright—it was how it needed to be. After all, gods and mortals were never really meant to be together. She let him worship her and bestow her with gifts and praises, and he was permitted to have her present in his life.
Then something broke inside of Sanji, crushed underneath the hundreds of tons of rock that had presumably swallowed up another one of his nakama.
He started to change. His romantic escapades began to dwindle. His endless energy to cater to ladies started to extinguish.
And sometimes, he let the act slip—even to the ideal goddess he worshiped above all the rest.
It's not like he had stopped treating her like she was special; his zeal was just fading. It was for everything, not only her, and he was powerless to stop it. Even if it was in his control, he may not have done anything about it, though. He just didn't know.
Maybe it was the first signs of old age creeping up on him. Sure, he was only in his early twenties, but he was starting to feel weary all the time. Starting to notice dark circles under his eyes all the time. Starting to notice just how the deep the lines around his mouth were becoming.
"Nami-swan, I thought you might like some tea," he called out with exaggerated cheer as he burst through the library door, setting down a cup in front of her. She looked up from her map.
"Ah, thank you, Sanji-kun," she smiled brightly, setting down her pencil and taking the warm cup in her hands.
'"Would you like anything else? Perhaps a snack to go with it?"
"No, I'm not hungry, but I do need a break," she mentioned, setting the cup down and leaning back in her chair. She stretched her arms upward, arching her back slightly.
"Ah yes, you definitely mustn't overwork yourself, Nami-swan," he said. He turned to leave.
"Let's talk for awhile," Nami called after him.
He faltered, the forced grin on his face momentarily twisting into a frown. But he quickly recovered. He walked back toward her, apprehensively taking a seat in the next chair. Trying his best to keep up his cheerful facade as she kept asking him questions, keeping him there.
As the conversation progressed, whatever semblance of a buoyant, flirtatious mood he had managed to psych himself into gradually began to decline. Finally, he was exclusively answering her in tired, spiritless tones.
The indifference and the frustration seeped out, and the tiny part inside of him that cared about hiding it away wasn't nearly forceful enough to overpower his overwhelming cynicism.
He closed his eyes, sighing heavily.
He hated who he had become.
And just then, a slender hand reached out and touched his arm, gently tugging at his sleeve.
"Sanji-kun, why don't you talk to me about what's bothering you?" Nami asked, her large eyes focused on him, so clear and concerned and blindingly beautiful.
"I have no idea what you mean, Nami-san," he said quietly.
"It's just the two of us. Just say whatever comes to mind. I'll listen to anything you have to say." Her grip on his sleeve tightened, and she took a step closer to him, until he could feel the warmth of her body, nearly touching his own. "I'm worried about you."
The sweet scent of tangerines reached his nostrils, and with a trembling hand, he reached out to touch one of her beautiful, orange curls.
She didn't crack him over the head or pull away. But for some reason, he knew that at this moment, she wouldn't.
And suddenly, he imagined dragging his goddess down to earth. How easy it would be, to snatch the wings off of an angel, and drag her kicking and screaming down to the dirt and the mud in which mortals like him were forced to walk.
God, how he hated himself.
"I can't talk about it, Nami-swan," he murmured, startled by the tremor coming from his own voice.
"You'll feel better if you let it out a little bit, Sanji-kun," she insisted. She loosened her grip on his sleeve, but didn't remove her hand. Instead, she inched closed. "Trust me on this."
If I let it out, he thought, a dark cloud passing over him until all he could see and feel was thick, choking blackness.
A look of anguish spread over his face. He let out a shudder, and tried to stand, tried to move away. But the blackness spread through his body like a poison, coursing through his blood until it was all there was, and there was nothing he could do to stop himself.
Sanji grabbed Nami's arm, violently yanking her toward him, until her soft, luscious body was pressed against his. He gripped her by the back of her head, fingers tightly clutching her hair. He took a moment to inhale deeply, breathing in sweet tangerines. She stared at him, eyes wide, but she didn't wrench her body free yet.
So he forced his lips to hers—too forcefully for a woman, he knew it somewhere in the back of his mind, but that part of him wasn't in control right now. It was such an ugly, terrible kiss. It wasn't what he wanted. And it sure as hell wasn't what she wanted either. But it didn't matter, he wasn't in control, and she didn't shove him away.
Nami didn't necessarily respond, either, although she attempted to wrap her arms around him, maybe to try to comfort him, maybe to attempt to return the gesture. Sanji didn't really care what the purpose was, though; in fact, even as he lecherously ran his hands up and down her supple body, touching the bare skin of her arms, sliding fingers along her back and then her abdomen, he knew this wasn't about her, even if it should have been.
If I let it out... even if it's only with a substitute...
And then he felt like the breath got knocked out of him.
He stumbled backwards, nearly falling over, bracing himself by clutching at the wall. For a moment, he thought Nami had punched him in the stomach, but then he saw she was stumbling backwards too, and he realized that some warning signal had gone off in the back of his brain, and he had shoved her away.
The word substitute flitted across his mind again, and he thought he was going to vomit. Nami-san was his shining star, his inspiration, the beacon in the distance that represented everything he had ever wanted. What the hell did his brain mean, substitute.
He ran out of the room, half-stumbling, not really sure where he was headed until he somehow found himself deep below deck, in a small, hidden away space, no bigger than a closet.
He slid to the floor, clutching his head and hyperventilating, his mind spinning in a million different directions.
He felt around the inside of his suit coat, unthinkingly searching for his cigarettes and lighter, until he realized they weren't there anymore.
"Shit," he muttered out loud.
And then he realized this place was one where he and Zoro used to slip away to, when they couldn't wait until they got to an island to release their frustrations.
To let it out, he thought.
Sanji had never hated himself so much before.
And then time passed, like it had to.
It was uncomfortable, but maybe not as uncomfortable as it should have been.
Sanji should not have been able to live with himself. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that there was a time when he may have felt like he should take his own life over doing something so horrible to Nami. Yet for some reason, with each excruciating exchange between them, he found it becoming less and less hard to cope with.
Where he had once felt tightness and anxiety, he felt nothing. Like a portion of his brain had fallen asleep, just like a limb when the circulation had been cut off for too long.
He probably should have been concerned, but he couldn't bring himself to care. This was much less troublesome.
As for Nami... It became difficult between them. She tolerated him, but the wall between them was heavy and impenetrable.
Fortunately for him, they had only needed to suffer through seeing each other's awkward, estranged existences for just shy of a year after that. And then, they parted ways forever, and he never saw her again.
Sanji's living room
A short while later, present time
So much had happened—so many terrible, irrevocable things. It was a wonder he could even live with himself.
At some point during their conversation, he and Zoro had relocated into the living room, where they could sit a bit more comfortably. The swordsman stayed silent, waiting for Sanji to continue speaking, but the cook shook his head from side to side.
"I can't say anymore right now," he muttered, sinking deeper into the chair.
"That's fine," Zoro told him. He took a long sip from his glass, staring off into the distance. "Well, I gave you my word. Guess it's my turn."
Sanji nodded, shifting his gaze to the other man as he started his story. He spoke for some time, telling him all of the details of the doctor who had found him and treated him, giving him the care he needed to walk again; and the doctor's wife, a doctor of a much different discipline, who had helped with his healing in a much different way.
Sanji felt a sadness wash over him as he listened, each new harrowing detail feeling like a spike being driven into his heart. He didn't want to think about Zoro suffering like that; the hardships he had to overcome. And it also pained him, hearing all of the details of yet another chapter in the swordsman's life that he had missed.
Once Zoro was through, Sanji could only stare at him with uncertainty, the creases in his brow deepening as the silence lengthened.
"Are you telling me the wife of that doctor who patched you up talked you into being this way, marimo?" Sanji finally asked.
"That's a hell of a way to put it..."
"It sounds like what you just explained."
"Yeah, but you make it seem so damn stupid," Zoro muttered, his eyebrow twitching.
"It sounds stupid!"
Zoro sighed deeply, tiredly rubbing his temple. "Yeah, well, I guess I can't blame you. I thought that at first, too. If I could've walked away, I would have." He frowned. "But I already told you... I couldn't even do that."
Sanji sighed; he remembered. "So she was a head doctor. And she somehow managed to fix you."
"Oi, don't make me sound like I was broken to begin with."
"You were damaged, for sure," Sanji murmured. He could remember dozens of times the swordsman had reacted to something in a dangerous, threatening way when it came to feelings he couldn't express. When it came to pain and loss, or even lighter feelings of affection, he had never been able to deal with it.
Zoro was unable to speak back then. Yet now, he could; difficult things, complicated things, even affectionate things and expressions of longing. Sanji slumped deeper into his chair, covering his eyes with one hand, pressing a thumb and forefinger along his aching temples.
The difference, though, was that Zoro actually did feel things back then. It was why he often reacted so badly; he was dealing with a kaleidoscope of complex emotions that often set him off-kilter, making his inner turmoil rage out of control, like a geyser of feelings. In contrast, Sanji had gone through two decades of detachment.
He had grown older, grayer, obsolete... All while feeling absolutely nothing. But he had been okay.
And now, he had no idea what to do with himself. Or what to do with the swordsman.
"I was doing fine until you showed up," he blurted, a bit forcefully; maybe a bit hurtfully. But the marimo wanted him to talk, so he'd do it. "I can't even remember the last time I let something affect me very much."
Heaving a sigh, Zoro leaned back in his chair, staring off into space as he shrugged his shoulders. "If you think feeling nothing at all is a way to live, I can't stop you."
Sanji watched him press his lips together tightly as he glowered up at the ceiling.
"Like I told you," the swordsman continued, his voice low and filled with defeat, "if it's too hard for me to be here, I'll leave."
Sanji opened his mouth to retort, but the words got stuck in his throat. Unexpected and unwelcome emotions rushed through him; struggling to breathe, he buried his head in his hands.
He had to say something though; he knew that much. Because Zoro's current appearance in his life still felt so fragile and surreal, and if he didn't tell him now, maybe he really would go.
"Idiot, I don't want that," he finally managed to utter.
If you think feeling nothing at all is a way to live.
Zoro's words repeated in his head, filling him with a sadness he had barely remembered. Struggling, he tried to recall why he never thought there was anything wrong with it to begin with. Probably because of the gaping hole ripped into his life. The absence that he didn't want to admit tore him apart so much, shredding him to pieces. Apathy worked better at dulling the pain than time and alcohol; more thoroughly than debauchery and distraction.
It wasn't a way to live; it was the only way to survive when nothing else worked. But now, things were different. Biting down on a trembling lip, Sanji realized the swordsman was right.
Damn, did he hate it when Zoro was right.
A warm hand suddenly slid against his cheek, gentle and filled with affection. Sanji flinched in surprise; he hadn't realized the swordsman had approached him. Zoro carefully pushed away the hands covering Sanji's eyes, his fingertips finding his chin and tilting his head upwards, forcing the cook to look at him.
As his eyes haltingly met Zoro's, he was a bit startled by tender gaze staring back at him. The swordsman was close, so close that their noses nearly touched.
"I don't want to leave, either," Zoro whispered softly, slowly leaning forward until his lips pressed against Sanji's.
When they broke from the kiss, Sanji's head was spinning.
"You don't want to leave," the cook repeatedly slowly.
"That's what I said."
"I still don't get it," he said, almost laughing in his confusion.
"Don't get what?" Zoro asked, kneeling on the floor, so he no longer needed to bend over to connect with Sanji's mouth.
"That you can say something like that. We didn't used to be able to say anything honest to each other."
Zoro nodded, smiling faintly. "Ah, that's true. But you know, we both had twenty years to think about what we really wanted to say."
Sanji closed his eyes for a moment; the comment hit home much too pointedly. "You're right, but I don't think that necessarily makes it easier."
The swordsman leaned in closer, until Sanji could feel his warm breath across his chin. The cook inhaled sharply, taking in the faint hint of steel that always seemed to cling to Zoro's body, even though his swords were currently propped up against the wall in the corner of the living room.
"It did for me," Zoro said quietly, his low voice barely audible. And then, before Sanji could say another pessimistic word, the distance between them vanished as the swordsman's feverish lips pressed against Sanji's.
He didn't understand how it was possible, but somehow, those heated lips seemed capable of reducing all of his inner turmoil to nothing but ash and cinders. As Zoro's affectionate tongue rolled around in his mouth, the other man's disclosure about the hardships of his past rolled around in Sanji's mind. He wasn't overcome with pity for Zoro; that was the last thing the other man would have wanted anyway. Rather, it was just the same regret, over all of the time they had missed together.
Sanji began to respond a bit more eagerly, wrapping his arms around Zoro's shoulders, shoving his own tongue back into the other man's mouth. Zoro, who had still been kneeling on the floor, rose to his feet—still keeping their lips connected—and set his knees on either side of Sanji, straddling him.
Inhaling sharply, Sanji dug his fingernails into Zoro's back as the swordsman ground against him, showing him that he was already eager and wanting. Sanji returned the gesture, surprised at just how quickly his body was already starting to burn for him. It reminded him of his youthful days, when he and Zoro seemed to be able to get to it without much of a prelude.
But as badly as Sanji craved him, he also wanted to savor him. Slowly, deliberately, he began to run his mouth along the line of Zoro's jaw, then to his neck—taking time to nibble at his earlobe, making the swordsman let out a stifled whimper of delight—and then down the length of his chest.
He could feel his buttons being plucked, one by one, until his shirt was open and Zoro's hand was sensually rubbing across his chest. Sanji tilted his head back for a moment, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply in pleasure. Seeing his chance, the swordsman pulled the shirt off of his shoulders and leaned in to nip at his neck, softly at first, but as he built up momentum, he began to suck with a little more pressure. Sanji shuddered and gasped in pleasure.
With one hand wrapped around Zoro's shoulders, Sanji let his other hand slip to the front of Zoro's pants, where he could feel a tight bulge inside. The swordsman let out a short moan of pleasure as his finger traced the tightest part of the fabric; and a slightly longer moan, when Sanji unfastened his pants, giving the constricted organ only a brief moment of freedom before tightly clutching it in his fingers.
The swordsman's head lowered slightly, and his tongue traced the outside of one of Sanji's nipples. Then his hand also lowered to the front of Sanji's pants; he slipped his hand inside, wrapping strong fingers around his erection.
Sanji leaned back, pulling a hand back and covering his mouth for a moment, covering a slight grin that had broken out across his face. This feeling... It was so damn good. No one had ever been able to make him feel as good as Zoro; he just wanted to bask in the feeling forever and ever.
Suddenly, Zoro's face was right in front of his. He opened his eyes, a bit surprised at the wide eye staring back at him.
"The hell, that isn't fair, Sanji," the swordsman muttered, his hand regretfully releasing Sanji's erection as he reached up and grabbing Sanji by the jaw, holding his head in place.
For some reason, the pronunciation of his name didn't give him the same unsettled feeling that it had before—maybe because he was a little too preoccupied to notice. Or maybe he was growing accustomed to it.
"Hah? What's not fair?" Sanji asked, scowling slightly.
"Making a face that looks that good, you bastard."
As much as Sanji wanted to protest—probably out of embarrassment, more than anything—an insatiable mouth crushed against his a moment later, and then there was no room left for words, or anything else besides them enjoying each other's bodies.