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Zoro lands on top of a bright yellow container. He hates to admit even to himself that his breathing is ragged, but it's loud and it's obvious. Bare chest heaving, chest damp with sweat.
A tickle starts in his throat, somewhere behind the prominent bump at the center. The thyroid cartilage, a voice suspiciously like Chopper's says in his mind.
He clears his throat in an attempt to get rid of the itch, wild gray eye counting each Straw Hat currently locked in battle. He's satisfied when he counts nine and wills himself to return his attention to himself and the clumsy third rate pirates they're fighting.
The problem isn't the pirates, so much as it's the sheer amount of them. They're never ending, spilling out of the galleon like pesky rats.
Zoro clears his throat again, the itch persistent.
He'd heard a port-worker say the Marines are on their way. At least they'll bring more of a challenge.
Zoro pretends he isn't wheezing when he hops to another container, this time colored a dumb blue. Not the shade of blue like the cook's eyes, mixed with greens and yellows and oranges to look like the sea at sunrise. No, this dumb container is a kind of blue that's more of an eyesore — definitely why a hot pulse thrums in his temple at that very moment.
Not because of this insistent itch in his throat, becoming more pressuring as time continues to move. Swallowing is now a little painful, and Zoro furrows his brow.
Had some bastard slipped something...? Airborne, maybe?
He pauses and mentally catalogues his limbs and any aches or stings. There's a shallow cut on his jaw, probably nothing to do with this dumb fight, but otherwise he's fine.
Zoro clears his throat again. He hates the little wince he makes when he swallows.
"Found ya!"
He rolls his eye and slashes the pirate down without fully turning to face him. The thud the fool makes when he drops on the container is grating. Zoro kicks him off to join the others lying in heaps of bloodied limbs on the ground.
The next container he hops onto is green and it's already occupied by Nami and two pirates that are so busy leering at her they don't realize she's told Zeus to shift into a spiked bat. The sparkle in her copper eyes is scary.
Zoro hops to another yellow container, greedily sucking air as he goes. He can't seem to get enough of it into his lungs and it's making him a bit dizzy.
"Oi." Sanji effortlessly jumps onto the container, his boots and the hem of his trousers are soaked in blood and caked with little bone fractures and other bodily bits. "I've been watching you play hopscotch with these containers, marimo. What gives?"
Zoro blinks hard. It's really hot here in this port where the wharf roars around them as loud as the screams of nameless, faceless pirates. The port-workers are also yelling in fear, running through the maze of containers in search of safety. And the sky is gray, casting shadows, the wind cool and persistent. Zoro feels like he's burning up.
Despite this, he slashes at a pirate that tries to climb onto his container. Far less graceful than the cook, might he add. The third rate pirate falls with a wet squelch.
To think this all happened because they need emergency rations to see them through to the next island.
Zoro lifts a hand to rub at his damp forehead with the back of his hand.
"Mosshead? Hello?"
Sanji tongues his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other, hands in the pockets of his trousers. There's a splatter of blood on his right cheek, like red freckles.
Zoro bares his teeth at him in disdain. It's all fake, of course, since Zoro's actually quite in love with him, but the cook is none the wiser so it's fine.
"Mind your business, dartboard-brow," he says gruffly. His voice is a wreck and, on instinct, he clears his throat again.
It feels like something's definitely in there. Zoro coughs.
Sanji furrows his curly eyebrows, eyes sharp as he stares at Zoro in a way that looks like he's studying him. In the middle of a fight, the complete idiot.
"Why's your mouth bleeding?" he asks, sounding both confused and amused. "Did one of these idiot pirates actually get the jump on you?"
Yeah, there's the familiar metallic taste of blood in his mouth, now that the cocky bastard mentions it. Zoro spits a thick wad of it onto the container. When he next speaks, his voice is indiscernible, "Of course not, you idiot!"
Sanji stops from the laugh that's bubbling up his chest and his stupid, beautiful eyes are wide as he looks at him. Comical, how in the background the fight is still happening: yells of agony, death rattles, the chaos of all the other Straw Hats and their signature moves. Luffy's laugh.
"Marimo—hey!"
Weird, hilarious, confusing how everything goes black.
-
It smells like antiseptics and Chopper.
It's a scent Zoro's weirdly fond of despite how often he evades coming in here. He's in the sickbay, he knows, even with his eye still closed and his mind still under a thick blanket of fog.
He hums softly, brow furrowing when he feels a pain much like at the port but with a bit of control. If that even makes sense, which he knows it doesn't. Chopper must've given him some kind of medicine to subdue the pain.
Zoro inhales long and sharp as he swims past the dizziness and into consciousness. It's dark when he opens his eye. The infirmary's lit by an oil lamp on Chopper's desk, illuminating a small circumference of the room in a dimmed orange glow.
Chopper's at said desk, using the low light to write into a thick file that no doubt has every injury Zoro's had in great detail.
"Give it to me straight, Doc," he mutters, closing his eye and shifting on the cot. His voice sounds a little better than it did earlier. Very little, actually.
Chopper gasps, dropping his pen and hopping off his chair. His hooves make clicking noises on the floorboards as he scurries to turn the lights on. He looks both relieved and concerned which is normal for Chopper. These are his two basic expressions only after the cute one filled with whimsy and wonder.
"Zoro!" He scurries closer. "I thought you'd be out for longer. I'm glad you're awake!"
He brings the annoying stethoscope to Zoro's chest and his big black eyes look at him expectantly. Even like this the little shit is cute as hell, so Zoro has no choice but to inhale deeply and then exhale.
Chopper hums.
Zoro repeats.
This goes on until Zoro starts to cough, feeling like something's lodged inside his throat again. The little doctor makes a noise of distress, running out the room and coming back with a glass of water.
"Tell me what you feel," he asks, running to his desk and picking up his pen.
Zoro holds the now empty glass in his hands, staring at a paper hanging up on the wall with Usopp's headshot doodles of all the crew.
"Feels..." He trails off, clearing his throat so it won't be so damn raspy. He sounds worse than the cook. "Feels like there's something in my throat."
"Say more, please!"
Zoro sighs, feeling like he wants to claw his skin off and bury himself in the sheets at the same time. He lifts a hand and runs it through his messy green hair. "It's a tickle... Like an itch, except it isn't itchy. And it hurts to swallow—I mean, not right now, did you give me meds? Can I have some more of those?" Chopper gives him an unimpressed expression. "Anyway, swallowing hurts after a while and my voice... well, you can hear me."
The little doctor pulls a drawer open and rummages around. When he next hops off the chair, he's holding a small and thin flashlight and a stick that, if Zoro didn't know any better, would believe came from an ice-pop.
"Open," Chopper commands and when Zoro does so, he presses the stick to Zoro's tongue.
With his other hoof holding the little flashlight, lighting up the inside of his throat, Chopper peers in. His little face is scrunched up in concentration, blue nose wiggling the way it does when he's thinking too hard.
Zoro feels like it's hours later before he's allowed to close his mouth. Chopper hops off the bed, mumbling to himself as he walks back to Zoro's opened file and starts to scribble.
"I can't see anything," he finally admits and he looks so forlorn when he looks up at Zoro. "You may need some scans and tests done, but I don't have the materials for that." He taps his hooves together, nose wiggling. "I'm going to ask Luffy if we can snail-call Doctor Torao tomorrow."
"That's—"
Chopper's frown makes Zoro's mouth close with a snap.
"The meds I gave you will wear off soon," he mumbles, looking at the goofy wall-clock that Franky and Usopp made for him. It's in the shape of Luffy, the clock's face on his stomach. When it hits noon or midnight, the coiled up arms release to the sides, like party blowers. Zoro hates the thing.
"I'll leave some out for you to take at exactly an hour before midnight. Sanji's in the kitchen, so on my way out I'll ask him to plate your missed dinner."
Zoro gets what the little guy's trying to say: he's to stay in the infirmary. And when Chopper pauses just as he's going through the opened door, turning to look at him with a shadowed expression, Zoro knows he's right. And he also knows he won't be doing any of that.
Well, aside from taking the painkillers. And maybe the food.
Nonetheless he blinks at Chopper, feigning to know what the loaded expression means. Sighing, the little doctor walks out and closes the door.
-
Zoro walks out of the infirmary after a quick little nap.
The galley is bright which means there's someone inside and constantly moving, keeping the automatic switch from shutting them off. Zoro scratches at his bare chest, near some of the tender scar tissue bisecting him.
Unsurprisingly, it's the cook that's in the galley's kitchen proper, splitting his attention between the food he's prepping on the counters and a pot that's on one of the burners on the stove. He looks more disheveled now than what he allows himself to look like during the day.
He's discarded his jacket and the mint-green button-up, both carefully draped over the thin back of a stool from the breakfast counter. His undershirt is thin and white, the sleeves short and allowing his lean muscles to show.
It's on them, where Zoro's attention settles as he walks further into the center of the galley. The shirt is tucked into his trousers and his belt is visible as is the chain that hangs on his hip, clipped on the front loop and the back one too. The cook's body is different from Zoro's, his muscles are lean and wiry unlike Zoro's thick bulk.
And yet, when Sanji tenses his arm, his muscles flex, bicep bulges, tricep cut, forearm veiny.
Distracting, Zoro thinks as he forces himself to look away and walk towards the doors.
"I'd figure you would come out the moment Chopper left."
The cook's words are airy and weighed by mild amusement. Zoro continues towards the door, pushing it open to get a glimpse outside.
Nightfall makes the sea around them pitch dark. It's hard to decipher where the sea ends and the sky begins with the thick splatter of stars reflecting over the sharp and moving surface. Zoro leans further out, noticing the thick smoke and orange glow of fire in the distance where the fight on the port had been. It's far, though still slightly visible.
It means he hadn't been out for too long, if this is the mere distance they've sailed.
He returns into the warmth of the kitchen, inhaling the delicious scent of stew in the air. The cook has some of his hair tucked behind his ear, though rebellious blond waves still cover his eye.
"He told me to feed you," Sanji continues, expertly dicing a defenseless carrot. "Dinner was curry. I thought you'd be out for longer, you looked so ill. So I let Luffy eat your portion so it wouldn't go to waste." He sounds a little guilty and Zoro's heart flutters a bit.
He tries to clear his throat when he feels the discomfort of something being stuck in there again.
"I'm making you stew," Sanji continues, finally looking up. "It'll be hearty and good for whatever disease you're carrying." Then, teasingly to hide his concern, he adds, "Is it contagious?"
Zoro shows him a crude gesture, though he itches to say something rude back. He just knows what his voice currently sounds like: a thick rasp rendering his already low and deep baritone indiscernible. It'd be pointless to even try.
The cook's visible blue eye sparkles and Zoro's heart flutters again. He tries and fails to focus, to not lose himself in the shade of blue, in the hues of orange and green that ring around his pupil like a halo. He swallows thickly and it hurts so much, he shifts to hide the wince he's unable to keep at bay.
"Are you mute?" Sanji asks, delighted. "Oh, this is great."
He's laughing, an attractive chuckle punctuated by his natural rasp from years of smoking. He isn't at this very moment, but he has an unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear.
Zoro opens his mouth to say something mean. He catches himself at the last minute, making a croaky wounded noise and turning away.
Bastard, he thinks as he moves to the couch and throws himself on it. Damn idiot and his pretty face and shitty attitude. Next time, he'll just make his own food.
"If you're wondering," the cook unfortunately starts again, "after you so gracelessly passed out, we had little time to scavenge that galleon for some goods. The Marines were closing in and we had to do a Coup de Burst to get outta dodge."
How did they get into that galleon, Zoro wonders, it seemed to carry an endless amount of those weak pirates. How they managed to get their hands on such an enormous ship is beyond him. It's probably all gone now, anyway. The Marines might've given it a viking funeral, less out of respect and more to prove a point.
Sanji begins to chop again, the rhythm coaxing Zoro into another nap that lasts as long as however much time it takes for the stew to be ready. He floats back into consciousness when he hears a bowl being placed on the table.
"Come eat," the cook says with that kind of finality in his tone that only appears when he's in the kitchen where he's the sole ruler.
The kitchen is clean and pristine and Sanji has his jacket and outer shirt draped over an arm. He's staring at him with that usual layer of judgement. Zoro's used to it so he forces himself up from the couch and walks to the dinner table. He feels very hot again and he mildly wonders if the fever has returned.
Instinctively, he clears his throat to see if the feeling of obtrusion is still there. It is and Zoro makes a face that he hides by looking down at his meal. He gives a curt nod in thanks and the cook sees himself out, leaving Zoro alone with his freshly made food, his fever and whatever the hell is wrong with his throat.
-
Days later and his persistent fever has gone away and Zoro's allowed to return to his usual habitual hobbies. They manage to get to an island with scraps for food left in their storage and Nami, though Zoro sees the heartbreak in her eyes, gives Sanji extra beri so something like this doesn't happen again.
To say the amount of food the cook brings back can feed two fleets is an understatement and Zoro grins when Usopp is tasked with helping him put everything away. In his defense, Zoro had to help bring all of that back to Sunny.
All in all, though he still can't talk as loud as he'd like to, things settle back to the strange normalcy that the Straw Hats have cultivated.
And then it starts. Of course it does.
It's simple, what triggers it: a freckle on the back of his palm.
It shouldn't be a problem, Zoro has plenty of them in different shades of brown and gold. Gold on brown, brown on gold. This one's different though because it's green.
When Zoro first notices it, he's shirtless and is in the middle of switching from bicep curls to some shoulder presses. His throat is hurting from his greedy inhales of air so, despite his desires, he tries to tone it all down.
The freckle looks like a tattoo blob, like a tattooer pressed the needle to Zoro's skin, leaving a speck behind.
At the sight of it, Zoro picks at it.
A little scratch that soon wakes up a dormant itch and now he somehow subconsciously keeps moving his un-green-freckled hand to scratch. Sometimes soft and absentmindedly, sometimes harsh and full of annoyance.
Suffice to say, by the end of his morning training the back of his palm is raw and tender. And the green freckle remains.
-
During dinner, Zoro leans his cheek on a closed fist and unabashedly — though he now does it without meaning to, more a fond indulgence, like muscle memory — watches the cook.
He's all smiles as he moves around the table, placing plates with well-thought out serving portions, depending on the Straw Hat he's placing the plate in front of. His blond hair is disheveled, like he's run his hands through the strands countless of times, lost in thought. His thin lips are a pale pink, stretched and curved into a crooked smile, no teeth showing.
He's always like this when he's serving the food he's poured his endless love into. Usually, Sanji likes to make dishes that he can put in large bowls he'll then set at the center of the table. It's easier like that when they're a rowdy crew of ten and one of them is an insatiable bottomless pit.
But there are dishes he'll serve individually. He'll wave them all to the table, insisting they take their seat. He'll start bringing the dishes out two by two, twirling when he's placing plates in front of Nami and Robin. Afterwards, he'll pour them drinks — fresh squeezed juice for Chopper, iced oolong tea for Brook, cola for Franky of course, water for Jinbei. Sake for Zoro.
He'll pour the first cup for him and then leave the carafe near his elbow for Zoro to serve at his leisure. Nothing special: he does the same with Robin and her fancy white wine with the fancy name.
But Zoro likes to watch Sanji like this not just because he's stupidly, hopelessly in love with him. He likes to because there's always a pink flush across the bridge of the cook's nose, different from the angry red when Zoro's pissed him off. Or the one he gets when they're in battle and Sanji allows himself to be unrepentant in the space he takes up and just as unapologetically free as he kills his enemies with swift kicks.
Sanji is a lot of things but confident isn't one of them. Not unless he's in his galley, not unless his hands are smeared with whatever he's concocting with his endless arsenal of ingredients.
Zoro likes to catch that. The little glimpses of the Sanji he sees on the battlefield, when he's let loose and forgets he's a man hiding behind endless disguises.
Zoro spears some of the sauteed broccoli and brings it to his mouth, chewing as he returns his attention to the rest of the group. Sanji's laughing behind his glass of red wine, eyes closed and shaped like upside-down crescent moons.
Usopp probably cracked a joke. Even Jinbei's chuckling.
"Do you have a rash?" Chopper asks, big black eyes searching Zoro's face.
He hadn't noticed he'd been scratching at the dumb green freckle again. Zoro blinks, willing himself to stop. Lowly, so as to not irritate his throat, he says, "Nah, nothing like that, Doc," to ease Chopper down before he gets all worked up over nothing.
Chopper's eyes have shifted to the angry red his skin has turned, splotchy and raw. He's been very observant of anything Zoro does or feels or, truthfully, doesn't do or feel. Hovering is what he's doing. They haven't been able to lock in on Law; too out of range for their snail comm to reach the Heart pirates captain.
Zoro shifts his hand away, under the table, and with his other one grabs for his cup of sake. It looks like genuine movements, rather than an attempt to hide something from the observant little doctor.
"Hmph!" Chopper's pouts are always cute. "I know you're not really allergic to anything aside from a little pollen. But if you're experiencing discomfort, come see me! I have some salve to ease the itch and pain." He grabs his glass of juice and pauses to glower at him. It's cute rather than menacing on someone as small and precious as Chopper. "You're still not on the mend, Zoro. You still can't even speak properly and you're wheezing in your sleep!"
Ah, that's news to him, actually. Zoro checks to see if anyone else is paying attention to their conversation, but the others seem to be engrossed in Usopp's tall tales.
"You're the best," Zoro drawls, no longer listening.
-
On the second day after the green freckle's appearance, it grows.
It's fuzzy to the touch, the size growing to look like a patch rather than a freckle. Zoro feels his heart speed up despite himself, running the pad of his index finger over it and feeling softness and a type of sponginess that is, truthfully, freaking him out.
He's up in the nest, sitting on one of the benches. His initial plans were to have a good workout: he's steered away from the weights for now, since his throat has been remaining raw and tender and only grows more agitated at his increased breathing. So he's mentally built a mini regimen consisting of planks and meditating with an assortment of yoga postures that he's picked up from a book Robin gifted him.
He'd rolled out of bed, his hair wild after going to bed with it still damp from his nightly shower. He hadn't noticed the patch of green on the back of his palm until he'd climbed up here, ready to do some warm ups before being called down for breakfast.
Now he wonders if anyone had been nearby as he'd moved from the men's quarters to the crow's nest and, more so, if anyone noticed this abnormality.
His throat feels closed up and he tries to clear it to no avail. Standing up from the benches, Zoro looks for the wad of white bandages he'd snuck from Chopper's stash in the infirmary on one of his many times confined there.
And you know what, Zoro's annoyed with himself when he catches his right hand shaking while wrapping the bandages across his palm so it doesn't obstruct his fingers. Sure, always awesome to be ambidextrous but fuck you nerves for being all weird.
Zoro's been sick before; he's had the common cold and even a couple versions of the flu. He's human after all; with all his crazy prowess on the battlefield it's easy to forget that.
The common cold and the stomach flu are a walk in the park compared to this though. Whatever this is. This—this fuzzy green thing that's growing out of him. Actually, wait, maybe it's just something that attached itself to him overnight? In his haste, he didn't even try to pull it off.
Fuck, Zoro thinks as he unwinds the bandages he'd already wrapped around his palm, balling them in his fist and throwing it over his shoulder.
He touches the fuzzy green patch again, wondering where he's felt this texture before. He shakes his head, pinching what he can of the velvety green stuff and pulling.
It hurts.
Like he's pinching and pulling his own skin.
Zoro wheezes as his breathing picks up speed, blindly grabbing the wad of bandages again to wrap around the fucking moss. That's what it is, isn't it?
He's growing moss?!
In his panic, he fails to hear the hatch slam open and he jumps in place when he hears the one voice he really doesn't want to hear right now.
"Have you gone deaf along with your muteness, algae-for-brains?" Sanji looks annoyed, curly eyebrows furrowed and thin lips puckered, cupid's bow pronounced. "Usopp's been calling you down for breakfast for ten min—what happened to your hand?"
Zoro frowns, thick and capable fingers tying the ends of the bandages.
When Sanji's persistent stare feels heavy on his skin, he finally looks up with his frown deepening into a glower.
"Cut myself," he says softly. It sounds like his throat has been victim to a cheese grater.
"You cut yourself?" Sanji asks back with incredulity. He looks around at what could have done the deed and turns back to him when he can't find anything. "Let me see."
"Fuck off, curly," Zoro scoffs as he stands up. That makes his throat burn and he grows annoyed.
He walks to the hatch door but the cook is standing there, his upper body inside the nest and his lower body still on the ladder. Zoro wants to shove him down to make space.
Before he acts on the intrusive thoughts, Sanji lets go of his hold on the hatch's edge and lets himself drop down, using his weirdo flying powers to stave off the chances of getting hurt. He lands gingerly, hands in the pockets of his trousers and accusing eyes still staring up at Zoro.
-
The days blur together.
More than that, the hours of the days become one big convoluted ball of nothing. He can't train, he can't talk, eating is just this side of painful and everyone is grating his nerves.
He avoids the cook most of all because there's always an air of suspicion to him. Hovering just as bad as Chopper but for all the wrong reasons.
It feels like after the events on the island Thriller Bark and the hours on their first stint on Sabaody, where he'd study Zoro's every move. Kept taking one step forward when Zoro would be taking one step back.
A part of him delights in the attention and he must be delirious with discomfort and pain because he thinks the pressure in his throat eases up. But it comes back just as intensely, if not more, hours later.
Clearly, all this is why he slips into the ship's library.
He rarely comes in here, unless it's to grab a new book when he's finished the current one he's reading. Robin has helped fill his shelf with books on kendo, and martial arts, a couple of math books to stimulate his brain when they're in an exceptionally long voyage. She's even put in books she thinks he'll enjoy: biographies and books about knights and ronins and dragons.
Zoro does not go to his shelf, but he does drop onto the floor on the emptier side of the room.
There's a wrap-around couch adorned with cushions and throw-blankets and half of the room has a couple of thick tables with matching chairs. That's where Robin is, a tomb opened in front of her but her attention now on him.
"Hi," she says, an amused tilt to her lips.
Zoro tries to groan in response and, when it proves difficult, he raises an arm in the air to acknowledge her.
It's quiet after this. He supposes she returns to her readings and allows Zoro his space. One of the reasons he seeks Robin's spaces when he feels overstimulated and agitated. Not only is her presence soothing — albeit super creepy in a not so creepy way, if that makes sense, which it doesn't — but she also just leaves him alone.
Not like Nami who pokes and prods until he gives in and then charges him for having to listen to his grievances or his fickle and silly thoughts. Or the horrible combination of Usopp and Luffy who feed off each other's energy and make so much noise. He'd throw them overboard if it weren't for the fact that he'd then have to dive in to get them.
Worse of all: Sanji.
But there's always a duality in what he feels for the cook. More often, he makes Zoro want to yank his hair out with his insufferable bad attitude and his crooning over the girls.
And then he'll catch glimpses of the same nineteen year old from three years ago, questioning his role in the crew. He thinks the first time he ever became privy to that had been a total accident but it'd been what Zoro needed to soften up to him.
Sanji's haughtiness fuels Zoro's competitiveness but it's the soft and fragile side that anchors him in the deep and depthless pool where his feelings for the cook reside. They're alike, despite refusing to show the burdens they carry: insecure in their abilities, in the broad idea, the intricate fear and wonder, of being enough.
Zoro exhales soft, deep and long.
Typical that his initial annoyance of the blond menace has turned into thinking about him in general.
He's got it bad.
He's shifting to scratch at an itch over his shoulder when he hears Robin: "Care to join me?"
Zoro opens his eye, abandoning his itch to watch Robin come closer to where he is. He hadn't noticed the loose fitting clothes she's wearing compared to her usual strappy getup.
Yoga, he wonders with a raised eyebrow.
"Indeed," she says as if she can hear his thoughts.
Zoro tries to sigh and lifts his bandaged hand to grasp his throat. Robin understands what he's trying to convey and smiles at him, eyes crinkling at the corners.
"I know," she says. "We'll do some of the less intense poses."
Zoro swallows, feeling the pain thick and heavy in his trachea. Nonetheless, he nods and shifts as Robin comes to join him. There's decent space between them for their movements and Robin takes a moment to tie her long dark hair back in a way that won't mess up her initial hairdo of the day.
"Let's start with the upward dog," she instructs.
In unison, they drop onto their stomachs and use their core to lift their upper body up, palms flat on the ground. Their hips and thighs hover just above the floor and, with their palms and the front of their feet against the ground, they keep the pose.
The burn is everywhere, in the most delicious way.
The thing Zoro realized the hard way, when Robin had first offered him the idea of yoga, is that though the poses look simple enough, it's as intense as his usual workout routines. It helps with stretches, boosts energy.
"One more minute," Robin says after what's felt like a lifetime.
They do two more reps before Robin suggests they do the child's pose. And had Zoro not studied the quick book she'd given him, months ago, he'd question what the hell she's talking about. Yoga has the strangest names for their poses, but thankfully Zoro's aware of the more basic ones.
He rises to his knees, opening them as wide as he can, big toes touching. He lowers his forehead down and extends his arms forward, palms on the floor.
Again: delicious. A good kind of burn on his lower back.
They continue like this, doing three sets of reps for every pose she calls out. Soon, Zoro is sweating and he breaks from their little spot to take off his damp shirt.
Robin gasps.
It's a soft little sound, more like a sharp intake of air than an actual gasping noise. It's just that it's so weird to hear something like that come from someone like Robin.
Zoro looks over his shoulder at her, brow furrowed and muscles pulsing.
Her brown eyes are glued to his back, a hand coming to hover over her frown. In his peripheral vision, he catches glimpses of green.
"What?" he asks, voice soft and low and the rasp thick and obtrusive.
"Zoro," she starts, elegantly lifting herself to her feet and coming closer. "Has..." She pauses, clearly at a loss of how to say the many things she wants to. Her lips curve in a word she doesn't say, seemingly losing herself in thought.
Zoro pictures it as the many, many, many facts she knows and carries in her head floating around like a swarm of pesky bees, buzzing around each other. Or like connect-the-dot: facts and definitions linking up together.
She reaches out to him and pauses, her eyes searching his for something. "May I?"
Zoro makes a wheezing noise and he supposes he's mildly glad she interprets it as consent.
Her finger is warm when she touches him, starting just over his shoulder and tracing down to his shoulder blade. She murmurs, "I've never seen this before."
"See what?" he asks, forgetting to lower his voice and thus hurting his throat and sounding like a wreck. He'll be surprised if she understood what he's said.
He tries to look over at what she's looking at but is unable to. He sees green though and his heart beat starts to escalate.
"Zoro," Robin says and she sounds clinical and concerned at the same time. "You're growing moss."
-
He's the last to finish dinner, and has been since his throat problem's begun. Swallowing is agonizing so he eats much slower than how he normally tends to.
"Do you know why Chopper and Robin-chan are holed up in the library?" Sanji asks, collecting some of the dishes left behind on the table: small things, since the actual plates get brought to the basin by each person once done.
Chopper and Robin had politely said they'd take their meals up in the library. They're going through books and tombs, doing research while they still can't get a hold of Law.
Zoro shakes his head and fights the urge to reach over to his patchy back. He grips his spoon tighter instead, pushing at the second of his breaded pork-chops and hating how he wants to devour it but being unable to.
"You didn't like your food?" Sanji asks, curly eyebrows raised.
Zoro looks up at him for a brief moment. His expression is carefully blank, so much so that it doesn't look genuine. The stupid love-fool side of him flutters, heartbeat thumping loudly in his ears — how can he tell this idiot that he'll eat absolutely anything he cooks without actually saying those words exactly?
And how can he convey what's happening, without giving too much away?
How embarrassing, to be called mosshead and then to actually start to grow moss from his skin. His flesh, his bones even. He doesn't know! All this is weird and new and Zoro is susceptible to things like fear, which he feels at the sight of the islands of moss that have started to grow on his back. He's so afraid, he covers himself as soon as he can, incapable of staring, of studying.
"Mosshead?"
Zoro flinches, and he pretends to cough to hide it.
"You really don't want to eat it?" Sanji asks, expression pinched. "I can make you something else. I'll add breaded pork-chops to the list..."
Zoro vehemently shakes his head and spears the meat in question, bringing it to his mouth and taking a big bite. The problem isn't the meat and it isn't Sanji's cooking. It's him, Zoro, with his failing throat. The breaded texture makes it even harder to swallow than the difficulty he's already having and it's making him incredibly thirsty to boot.
Yet he locks his gray eye on Sanji as he chews, hoping it isn't too obvious he's chewing extra long to avoid swallowing. The cook looks confused and mildly annoyed, shaking his head and looking back down at the dishes he's in the middle of washing.
"I'll never understand you," he's muttering, sounding incensed and making Zoro dump his cheek onto his unoccupied, bandaged palm.
Yeah, he thinks, swallowing and feeling like his throat is on fire. He forgets that there's a completely different side to a coin; he observes Sanji and has grown fond and even smitten with him. Meanwhile, the cook doesn't even spare him a thought that doesn't carry disdain.
Sucks to be in love with someone who doesn't love you back.
-
They finally get a hold of Law.
It also so happens that the moss growing on his back has grown and spread. A map of green has formed in the expanse of his broad and muscular back, fuzzy and velvety. Zoro wants to claw it all off, scratch and yank and pull, use a scissor, hell, one of his swords. He feels itchy in his own skin, too big to be contained, too agitated to relax.
He grabs onto the edge of the bathroom sink as he starts to violently cough, wheezing and feeling incapable of breathing. He gasps, a raw and throaty thing as a new round of coughing starts.
It's gotten worse, he knows, though he pretends not to acknowledge it. Robin and Chopper's research bears no fruition. Robin is restless, feeling like she knows but incapable of finding the words under years and years of studying the world. And the tombs she's selected from her shelf to skim and read aren't triggering any memories.
The door is slammed open, Usopp's wide brown eyes on him. But his look of utter concern morphs into shock and horror at the sight of him. Despite feeling like he's dying, Zoro lunges over and shoves him out of the bathroom with a large hand to the sniper's face. Then he hastily slams the door closed again.
Fuck.
Zoro dry heaves, hoping he can just spit his larynx out and be done with this bullshit. He blindly grabs for his change of shirt, yanking in on and hoping it covers the patch of moss growing near his neck.
He refuses to look anyone in the eye when he makes his way to Chopper and Robin, knowing that Usopp's already told them. Not out of malice; Usopp's not like that. But definitely out of concern — how normal is it to see your friend growing moss like hair, like skin?
When he gets to the library is when he realizes that Chopper is on a snail call with Law and that Luffy is there, fighting the urge to be his flaily self at the sound of the other captain's voice, and being as serious as the topic at hand requires him to be.
"Bronchitis?" Law is muttering, his voice sounding extra low in the call. The snail in Chopper's hooves has eye bags and golden eyes. "Strep throat, laryngitis, fucking tonsillitis?"
Chopper shakes his head as if Law can see him doing so. "No, it's definitely not any of those. There's... there's more, Doctor Torao, I just can't say it in a call."
"Is that right?" They hear a sigh. "If it's that important, fine. This is another one you owe me, Strawhat-ya. Send me your coordinates, we'll come to you."
"Right." Chopper looks at them with wide eyes, knowing they need Nami for this and now needing to have yet another person know that Zoro's turning into an actual fucking plant.
They look at Zoro, who wants to crawl into a hole, die and just turn into actual moss forever. He shrugs, since chances are the witch knows already.
Robin's eyes glaze over the way they do when she's distributing her powers to a location where she is not. Moments later, Nami comes in, orange hair wild and expression filled with curiosity and as much concern as the next Straw Hat.
Zoro can't stomach it.
"Traffy, I'm giving you coordinates to the island we're going to anchor at. There better not be any Marines coming our way," Nami says, button nose scrunching up.
"You telling me you think I'm gonna sell you out?"
"I'm telling you that you're friends with Luffy so you're stupid by association, you better have your snail attached to a white one!"
"Shishishi, Torao is smart, Nami," Luffy says with a big smile and a flush on his brown cheeks. "He's gonna make Zoro all better."
The back and forth continues, but Zoro drifts off into a restless sleep where he feels like he's on fire. Where moss consumes every bit of his being and all he can really do is yearn to be touched by the one person that never will.
Earthquakes happen where he's rooted, but as he swims back to consciousness he realizes he's merely being shaken awake. His eye flutters open, glassy and unfocused. He's still in the library, tucked under a throw-blanket. The expansive room is dark and crouched before him is Sanji, a mug of something steaming in the hand that isn't shaking him.
"Hey," he says softly. "You've slept all day and missed all three meals. I... I thought maybe a little sustenance would help pick you back up..."
Zoro sits up, feeling caged with his inability to talk. The throw-blanket falls and pools in his lap.
"It's tea," Sanji says softly, "I made black tea and added milk. A dollop of honey, just enough to give it a little flavor. Promise."
He hands the mug over, not letting go until he's sure Zoro's grip is solid. He's not an invalid, Zoro wants to sneer but knows that it's misplaced anger that the cook doesn't deserve to carry for him.
"I thought about something herbal, given the time," Sanji says, shifting so he's kneeling. "But I figure... You don't want anything like that... given the circumstances."
Zoro huffs, pulling away from the mug that he'd been guiding to his mouth. He starts to shove the throw-blanket off so he can get up from the cushioned couch and away from this bastard.
"What— why— what are you doing?" Sanji grips his arm and yanks him back down, sloshing some tea over the rim. Thankfully, the steaming contents miss them both. "What's gotten into you?"
Zoro glares at him, mouth in a deep frown.
"What did I do?"
Zoro opens his mouth to speak but unlike before where he was able to push words out, no matter how garbled and raspy, now nothing comes out. Frustrated, Zoro gives him a crude gesture.
"Now that's just rude," the cook scoffs, smacking his hand down without much force. "All I said was that you probably didn't want herbal tea given— ah, I see."
Zoro's glare darkens.
"I didn't mean it like that," Sanji says, his voice almost playful. And damn if it doesn't make Zoro's heart squeeze. "C'mon sit back. Is there anything I can make you, that you won't feel so uncomfortable eating?"
Now Zoro is a little suspicious, eyeing the other man with a narrowed eye. Sanji's never this nice to him, what gives? Zoro shakes his head slowly; he'd love to eat but it's nearly impossible now.
"I—" Sanji licks his bottom lip, illuminated by the faint glow from the moon sneaking in through the nearest window. "I'll make soup tomorrow. I'll shred some chicken, I'll dice some vegetables. As small as I can make them. I just... I need you to eat moss— mar— Zoro." He exhales through his teeth. "Zoro."
His name out his mouth isn't rare; it happens when Sanji's angry, or tired or excited. His nicknames lost to the wind and his name on his tongue like a prayer.
Zoro reaches out to touch his hair, comes back to himself and drops the hand back down, fingertip just barely grazing moon-washed blond strands.
-
To Zoro's misfortune, the island they dock at is a spring one.
It's a sick and twisted kind of joke. A part of him wants to believe it's Kuina sending him all this blasphemy both to humor herself and as retribution for getting distracted from his ambitions.
There are butterflies fluttering about over a field of colorful wildflowers. It's picturesque and Zoro hates it as much as he hates the unbearable warmth. He's in a hooded sweater despite the heat, to hide the moss on his skin. It's gotten longer, and has spread out. His entire upper back is covered in thick patches.
He feels the sweat dribble down the planes of his skin and muscles and into the moss and, not for the first time, Zoro wants to dig his nails into his flesh and claw it all off until he's mere bones.
He tries to stifle his wheeze as he walks, feeling like he can't get air into his lungs. Like they're already filled with something else. He falls behind from the group, his vision losing focus every other blink.
This is ridiculous, he thinks. He's furious with himself — he's become such a liability for the crew. Someone that has to be taken care of. What good is he if he isn't the one standing between harm and his friends?
"Are you alright?" Robin asks, falling into step with him. Her gaze is calculative but he's known her long enough to see the concern as well.
He hates it.
Zoro looks at her for a moment, mouth parted in his greedy attempts to get as much air into his lungs as they currently allow. Then, he turns to look at the rest of the group and does a double take when he sees the cook looking over his shoulder at him.
He must think this is hilarious.
Zoro knows how this will go: they'll inevitably stumble into a big fight, bounties will go up and the cook's will exceed his because Zoro won't be able to fight and cause enough chaos to get the World Government to see him as more of a threat than he already is.
"Zoro?"
He turns back to Robin, suddenly feeling so drained. Everything is too much and not enough. He closes his gray eye and wishes he had his voice so he can say something like 'don't worry about me' or something like 'mind your business, woman' so he can hear her chuckle. She has him read anyway; she knows he grows flustered when someone shows care and worry for his well being.
The rest of the trek inland is a blur. Zoro remembers hearing Luffy singing at the front, inevitably joined by Brook and Franky. He thinks Usopp had taken it upon himself to point out and name every plant and flower. He thinks Nami whacked him for his insensitivity given the circumstances.
Part of him believes he hears Robin murmur "Take care of our swordsman" to someone. And he's positive he sees her reconvene with Chopper who carries Zoro's files with him.
And a part of Zoro is sure that the cook walks next to him, keeping his steps short and slow to match Zoro's. And delicately pulling him back when Zoro's broken inner compass tells him to turn left when the road continues too stretch straight ahead.
But Zoro's delirious, so all this must be fake.
-
In the room Nami rents for him alone, Trafalgar Law looms over him. A lanky and unnecessarily tall man with a look of utter boredom even while his eyes scan him with the same look Chopper and Robin do.
Zoro wants to give them all rude gestures and tell them he's not some kind of art to be marveled at. Never would he have thought he'd miss talking as much as he does considering how obsessive he gets in picking his words until he decides to either say the wrong ones or none at all. At least he'd had that before all this: the choice to speak or stay silent.
"He's dehydrated," Law finally mutters. "Looks like he hasn't been eating either."
Robin and Chopper both say, "He can't."
Law hums, accepting the file that Chopper hands him. He opens it, his expression slowly but surely turning amused the further he reads. Zoro isn't sure he wants that bastard to know his height or weight or the measurement of his chest. Something that he still doesn't understand the reason as to why Chopper allowed Nami and Sanji to convince him into measuring.
"I see," Law finally says when he gets down to all the notes Chopper's been taking since Zoro's first symptom. His eyebrows are scrunched up together, lips pursed. "Gotta say, Tony-ya, this sounds familiar. I'll have to look through some things. Bring him to my ship in about an hour. I'll have my crew prepare for IV feeding or this'll get worse much quicker than it needs to."
Chopper makes a little noise, gripping the edge of his hat. "I understand... It seems I'm ill prepared for things like these."
"Not your fault," Law drawls in an uncharacteristic moment of reassurance. "If I'm right in what I'm thinking, diseases like these should be extinct."
He turns away from Zoro and grabs Kikoku from where he'd rested her against the wall. Law tilts his head in Zoro's direction and for a brief moment he looks like he wants to say something to him directly. His eyes shift to the other two in the room and whatever his next words were going to be die out like embers.
"Traffy," Robin says, moving closer to him. "If you wouldn't mind. I'd like to assist you. I, too, feel like this is all familiar but have failed to remember the proper name."
Law sighs, shifting his eyes skyward and Rooms them both out of sight without so much as a proper goodbye.
Chopper sighs, grabbing Zoro's discarded sweater and helping him slip it on. He looks sad and a bit miffed, the latter part towards himself for all Zoro knows. When one of his arms goes through the sleeve, he's quick to place a comforting hand atop the little guy's head.
"I wish I could be more helpful," he says softly.
Zoro pats his head, lowers his own to bump their foreheads together.
It always makes Chopper smile and snicker and it's no different at this moment. Though his little laughs are still sad, Chopper looks at him with new resolve. "We'll fix this! I promise."
That's the spirit, Zoro thinks and he hopes the quirk of his mouth conveys that.
But he's tired now, what little energy he has exhausted in his efforts to see Chopper smile. He leans back until his head settles on the pillow, eye closed and limbs far too heavy to be connected to his core. His breathing is ragged, throat feeling like particles have made a home there. And as he lies on his back, the feeling of the moss growing out of him is so consuming, so jarring in a way that makes Zoro uncomfortable.
He opens his eye, fighting the urge to dig his fingernails into his skin. Instead, he focuses on Chopper as he quietly excuses himself from the room.
It's so quiet.
Zoro is usually stuck sharing rooms with one or more of the guys. Noise like a comforting embrace and stupid pillow fights turned so serious, the last time Usopp ended up with a concussion.
Now it's just him and this room with all the amenities inn-rooms bring. Wasted on him, because Zoro can't even get out of bed if he tries.
Maybe this is a sign that he really is too weak to do anything. He'll never measure up to the responsibilities and expectations he's set for himself. He lifts his bandaged hand up to rub the heel of his palm into his eye.
Though he carries these kinds of thoughts by the plenty, he hates giving them space to root and grow. Zoro makes a little noise that's meant to be a groan; what a stupid metaphor.
He drifts off in a sleep so heavy, like sinking into quicksand.
When he wakes up, choking and writhing in place, he's in Franky's giant arms. Zoro stares at him with horror and Franky gives him a white-toothed grin.
"No worries, Zo-bro," he says with a wink. "Just takin' ya to good ol' Traffy's sub to run some tests."
Franky is cold to the touch. Under the skin of his arms is metal, after all, and leaves no room for body heat. Zoro relaxes his stiffened limbs and awkwardly settles down for the free ride.
-
There are beeps going off in different tempo when he next wakes up. Zoro shifts again and starts to heave and cough, feeling trapped when his movements are restrained by the chords needled into his skin.
As if he doesn't already have enough protruding out of him.
"Zoro, relax," Chopper cries out, jumping onto the cool and flat aluminum tabletop. "It's just us! We're with Doctor Torao, remember?"
Zoro's movements cease but his heart continues trying to pound an escape route through his chest. As a testament to that, one of the machines is blaring noise to match the tempo of his heartbeat. Wild eyed, he looks around the room he's in, colored in cool shades of gray to match all the fancy gadgets and machines.
Franky is here, sunglasses now resting on his ice-blue pompadour and dark eyes intense as he studies each machine at length, taking notes for every dent and bolt he sees. Then, when he isn't sure about his knowledge on what the machine is supposed to do, he asks Robin.
Luffy is, weirdly, also here and a far more controlled version of himself. He sits on the edge of the table Zoro's on, like a guard, like a keeper of Zoro's weaknesses. How the tables have turned, Zoro thinks, finding humor in the fact that they are, in fact, on a table.
The last two people taking up space in the room are Chopper and Law. They're preparing a different machine with a circular mouth like it's meant to have something — someone — go in it.
"You're getting food from those," Luffy says, pointing at the IV needles poking into him. "Torao says I can't have any, which is a total bummer. Is it yummy?"
Zoro opens his mouth, remembers why all this is happening, and quickly shuts it back. He settles for a shrug.
Luffy exhales through his nose, taking his straw hat off and placing it over Zoro's head of green hair. Like he sees how disorderly his thoughts are and how knotted his feelings and nerves are. Like he sees that he needs a kind of comfort Zoro has always denied himself and no one has realized that he also sometimes needs.
"Chopper and Torao are preparing that radio for you. Hey, you think you'll hear Bink's Brew? Oh! Maybe one of Brook's singles?"
Zoro closes his eye and fights the grin from his mouth. Luffy is... Luffy is so incredibly intelligent and yet so simple. One of his sillier traits is taking things literally.Once, Usopp said 'when pigs fly' and ever since then sometimes their captain looks up, mentioning no flying pigs in sight yet.
"They said I can't go in there either," his captain pouts. "Can't do anything. Zoro's hogging all the fun."
"What about what's happening to Zoro-ya sounds fun to you, Strawhat-ya?" Law asks as he comes over. He's traded his captain's coat for a white lab one and glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. His eyes flicker to where Robin and Franky are, still taking notes on machines.
"Eating from a tube, for starters," Luffy says, running rubbery fingers through his droopy dark hair. "Going into the radio too. And growing stuff — so cool!"
"Not cool," Law sighs. "It's actually quite dangerous, moron. And it's radiology. It doesn't play music, it scans your insides."
This just makes Luffy's eyes grow wide with more excitement. "Oh, can I please go next?"
"No," everyone in the room intones.
Except for Zoro, who cannot speak. But he's grinning, always weak to Luffy's antics.
Law turns to him, his eyes looking smaller through the lenses of his glasses. "I'm gonna ask you to sit up, Zoro-ya. While the feeding continues, I'd like to look at your back."
Zoro's heartbeat escalates which in turn makes one of the machine's beeping pick up speed again. It's embarrassing amongst other things and he feels his face grow hot when the others look at the heart monitor and then back to him.
"It's okay, Zoro," Luffy says, patting his scarred ankle. "Torao's just trying to fix you up!"
So Zoro obliges, sitting up with help from Luffy who stretches his arms enough to grab onto both of Zoro's and pulls him up into a sitting position. Law walks around the table so he's standing right behind Zoro and, though he'll never admit it, Zoro waits for the gasp or the sharp intake of air, the sound of horror and disgust.
It never comes, though. Instead he feels cool fingers against his skin, specifically the edges where skin and moss meet.
"This is crazy," Law mutters more to himself. "I've never seen a variant like this. Granted, I've never seen a variant at all — this disease should have been eradicated along with a lot of the inhabited islands in the South Blue way before any of us were born. It'd been brought over from the Grand Line and the New World before that. A lot of people died in quarantine because doctors sought to contain it in one small space to get rid of it as swiftly as possible with minimum damage. But it's not how it's supposed to be dealt with at all."
He now touches the moss itself and Zoro's back muscles twitch at the touch. Law hums, following the patches all along his back, his shoulder blades and near his neck.
"It's called the Illness of Flowers," Law mutters. "It was not contagious then, and it's not contagious now either. With that said, though, anyone is able to catch it so long as their feelings are unrequited."
Fuck.
Fuck it all, he should have known the cook would be the death of him.
Zoro feels his face grow hot, unwilling to meet anyone's eyes. A loud ringing in his ears makes it impossible to focus on anything else that Law is saying. He hears his blood rushing through his veins with every heavy pound of his heart. He hears his brain pulse and his lungs quake the way something that's rapidly failing does.
"That's stupid," Luffy says with a scoff, arms crossed in front of his heavily scarred chest. "Who wouldn't love Zoro?"
-
The moss is growing in his throat too. It has settled into his larynx, his trachea and all the areas around. His lungs are coated with it too; it explains why breathing has become so hard.
Apparently, his body has decided to be dramatic over a little unrequited love and has betrayed him. Of course, Zoro has always known that his love would never be returned, when the object of his affections is the self-proclaimed lady's man himself, Blackleg Sanji.
Zoro sits on the little cushioned bench at the window, looking down at the cobblestone streets. It's late evening and the sky is a gradient of lavender, violet and indigo. The townsfolk move about, unperturbed by the hour and laughing amongst their social groups. Flower bushes line the streets, baskets full of them hang from t-shaped poles where lanterns hang to illuminate the streets.
His room is dark, engulfed by shadows despite the moon's glow that hesitates its way in through the very window Zoro sits in front of.
He must admit he feels the renewed strength the IV feeding has given him. He's missed it, the feeling of being capable of handling himself on his own.
Zoro looks away from the scenery outside his window and to his hand. It's not bandaged and the patch of moss has grown and spread its way up his wrist and in the soft space between his thumb and index finger. He closes it into a fist, his brow furrowing in disgust at the feeling of moss straining to stretch as far as his clenching wants it to.
This is the part where Zoro exhales in dejection, but he can't do that unless he wants to fall into a coughing fit. And he really doesn't want any of the others to come rushing to his aid.
He wants to be able to take care of himself again.
The door to his room opens with a soft click and Zoro stills, listening to the footsteps and trying to discern who it is.
Sanji.
He walks slower than the others, an almost lazy gait. Zoro listens to his approach, shifting to hide his mossy hand under his leg.
"Hey," the cook greets, his voice low and soft despite the rasp. He has a cigarette tucked behind his ear. "I brought you soup?"
Zoro slowly turns to look at him, there's a plastic bag with a container holding said soup amongst other ingredients in Sanji's grip.
"I didn't make it," the cook admits. "They didn't let me. But... I figured, if you're up to eating, I can fix it up."
Sanji looks nice in his short-sleeved button up shirt. He can't tell what color it is since the room is still dark, but Zoro thinks it's a shade of orange. It brings out his eyes — Zoro feels stupid for having such thoughts.
He gives a curt nod, caught between liking to be under Sanji's care and wanting to push him away because of Zoro's obsessive need to be independent. This seems to be the correct answer, though, because the cook's face lights up just before spinning on the heels of his shoes and heading into the kitchen.
He leaves the lights to the room proper off but he lights up the kitchen to get to work. Zoro shifts so he can watch him from where he's sitting. It's a small little space for a kitchen but Sanji makes a home out of it quickly, pouring the soup into a bowl and bringing a spoonful to his mouth to taste test and see what can make it better.
There's that unguarded freedom that Zoro likes to catch, an attractive smile curving his thin lips upward as he moves about. Zoro's heart flutters, feeling alight in a way that nothing but moments like these can cause.
Moments like being on dish duty and either drying while Sanji washes or taking over entirely when the cook has something big planned and needs to prep. Moments like when they spar and Sanji's grin is sharp like Kitetsu's edge, eyes a dark blue like the depths of the sea. Moments like being on watch duty and Sanji climbing up to the nest with a surprise snack and a bottle of booze in offering.
He looks away, feeling like his chest will collapse in itself, the moss he's growing taking over the empty cavity.
Sometimes, the wonder of how he could have fallen so hard likes to appear in his thoughts. But Zoro is a man filled with intensity, so it shouldn't be surprising. He leaves no room for in-betweens; it's all or nothing.
And with Sanji it'll always be all of it.
That's why he's dying.
"Here," the cook says after an uncertain amount of time passes. "It's hot and sour soup, but it wasn't as thick as it's supposed to be. I also added some more tofu; I know you like it in your soup."
Zoro takes the offered bowl, looking down at its content. He smiles, and mortified at that, he keeps his head down until he can get it to go away.
"Do you need help?"
At this, Zoro glares up at him.
Sanji chuckles, bringing his hands up in a sign of meaning no harm. "Just wondering! I don't mind, but if you feel like you can..."
The thought of Sanji feeding him makes Zoro's face hot. So he proves his point by grabbing the spoon and bringing the first spoonful to his mouth.
As it's been for weeks now, swallowing is agonizing. Yet he's glad he's still able to taste and catch how Sanji made this soup his own creation despite not cooking it himself.
"Look at you," Sanji sighs, "eating in the dark." He walks towards the door and flicks the lights on.
Zoro sees the moment his eyes land on the moss on his hand.
He clenches his jaw.
"Oh..."
And Zoro strains his ears to hear the amusement, the ridicule, feeling weird and lost when it's not there. Sanji moves closer again and Zoro feels the way the moss on his back strains as his spine stiffens.
Sanji exhales as he crouches down, his eyes on the patch of green and his curly brow furrowed in thought and frustration.
"The disease of unrequited love," he states, looking confused despite obviously trying to hide it. "In Germa this disease was ridiculed for its dependency on love. Ah," he waves a dismissive hand at Zoro's questioning look. "Judge was a scientist, remember? He had all this knowledge on diseases, existent or not, but no idea how to be a decent father."
He flicks his lighter, the tip of his cigarette glowing cherry red. "He would talk about diseases that were so weak, and how weak humans are to succumb to them." Sanji points his cigarette at Zoro. "Lo and behold, one that he thought was so weak managed to get someone as powerful as you."
And if Zoro thinks Sanji's smile is sad, well, he mentally scrambles because he has nothing — no dizziness, no deliriousness — to blame it on.
-
Law lets out a long sigh as he leans back against one of the counters in his submarine’s infirmary. He’s jotting down on a new file, one that Zoro’d heard him tell Chopper he’ll snail-copy and give him a version of to add to his ridiculously thick one.
“You don’t want to do the surgery?”
Zoro shakes his head.
“But you also don’t want to tell him?”
Zoro narrows his eye.
And Law rolls both of his. He runs a tattooed hand through his unruly dark hair, his white hat set down somewhere and away from all the delicate testing equipment. “C’mon, Zoro-ya, give me some credit. The petulance after Dressrosa and finding out he left to ‘go see about a woman’?”
Zoro slumps his shoulders and gives a tiny little sigh. It’s not that he knew he was super obvious, and it's not that he ever tried to hide it either. It’s that he’s easy to read to those that care to look. He drags a hand down the length of his face, hating to add yet another thing to his list of things he fails at.
“It’s fine,” Law continues, looking up from his notes. “But you should really reconsider your options and choose one. It would be such a waste for someone like you to die out like this.” He hesitates, again running an agitated hand through his hair. “Maybe pay attention to Blackleg-ya’s actions, if his words are lacking as much as they seem to be.”
Zoro sits up from his slump, a questioning look in his expression.
“I’m not getting in the middle of that,” Law mutters, raising his hands up in a gesture of defeat.
-
During his time in the Polar Tang with the only two doctors he knows, Law had mentioned there was a surgery to remove the moss from his lungs. It's where the disease began, he mentioned, circling the scans he'd taken with his radiology machine.
But to get it all surgically removed means he'll not only lose the feelings, he'll forget the person he's in love with.
It's out of the question, an idea he won't even waste time considering because he knows he'll never do it. Zoro would much rather die suffering like this, let his heart stop beating and the moss overgrowth cover his entire being, than ever forget who Sanji is.
Sanji who's currently laughing as he serves up snacks at a park in the town they're all currently staying at. the Heart Pirates are here and he's currently wiggling and giggling over Ikkaku, handing her a milkshake topped with whipped cream and crumbled cookies.
Zoro had to be persuaded by the likes of Nami to come out. She'd used every weapon in her arsenal: his debt, her puppy eyes as she mumbled about wanting to spend time with him because she was so afraid of his wellbeing. And then her threats of bodily harm when that hadn't worked either.
So Zoro put on his sweater to hide his problems and now here he is, sitting on a bench and staring at the mint-chip milkshake in his hand. It's colored a soft green with the chocolate bits blended into tiny little pieces. It tastes good, despite it being horrible to swallow. More to do with his problem than the drink itself, of course.
"Have you considered the thought that he may return your feelings?" Robin asks, taking a seat next to him. Next to her, Nami sits too.
Zoro looks at her like she's grown a second and third head.
"Oh, don't bother," Nami scoffs, flipping frizzy orange hair over her shoulder. "It's so obvious you have it bad for Sanji-kun."
Zoro sighs, uncaring that it'll agitate his throat. He coughs and Robin places a hand on his back in what is supposed to be comfort, he knows. But the moss that grows there makes him insecure and he jolts away from her touch.
"I apologize, Zoro," she says and there's gentleness in her expression, her brown eyes sincere as she looks at him. "I felt the need to comfort you, I forgot that your back is currently off limits."
He shakes his head, looking away and tightening his hold on his drink. He isn't sure how much he can take; the weather is too warm for his liking and he feels too big for his own, failing skin. He knows Robin means well, though Nami's intentions are always dubious. But it's all becoming too much.
"We didn't mean to freak you out, Zoro," Nami says, her voice softer and her energy more contained. "It's just a thought that you should maybe allow in that thick head of yours. Chopper says you won't do the surgery... So what else is there but the possibility that this isn't as onesided as you've convinced yourself it is?"
Zoro shakes his head.
That's impossible and he won't put himself through that kind of emotional fuckery. It's bad enough that this is happening.
Much later that day, when he's returned to his room and he's coming out of the shower, his door is opened and a part of Zoro knows it's the cook.
He's taken it upon himself to make sure he's able to eat. Ridiculously enough, he's apologized over there being little else he can feed him at the moment, aside from soup.
"I made this one," he says without looking up from distributing it into two bowls. "It’s chicken, I hope you’re not tired of it yet.”
Zoro would eat the same meal every single day if it’s made by Sanji. He runs his hands through his damp hair, failing to see how he’ll be able to cover his back if his clothes are out in the room and he’s in the bathroom, buck naked. He moves the door to cover him a bit while he gathers himself and thinks of what to do.
It wouldn’t be the first time Sanji sees him naked. The Sunny’s big, but there’s only one shower room for the guys. And the Merry before her was so much smaller. Tight quarters and all that. So Zoro isn’t worried about the cook seeing his bare ass or even his junk. It’s his back that he has reservations about.
As if sensing Zoro’s discomfort, Sanji looks up. The bridge of his nose and his cheekbones are stained pink from today’s outing, the sunburn delicate and accentuating his freckles. He blink, like he’s finally realizing he’s come in while Zoro’s as naked as the day he was born. The pink on his face darkens and spreads.
“Sorry!” He points at the door. “It wasn’t locked!”
Zoro shakes his head as if to alleviate whatever guilt the cook is starting to feel. Pressing his lips together, he walks out and refuses to look at him as he snatches his briefs and slips them on. He’s grabbing the sweater when he hears Sanji yelp a “Wait!”
He comes closer, face splotchy and red. He tries to maintain eye contact but his attention wanders to the expanse of muscles of his chest, of his abdomen. Sanji clears his throat, hands balled into fists.
“Can I see?” he asks, his voice soft and hesitant.
Zoro wants to say hell no and shove him away. It’s hard enough as it is to deal with everything that’s happened the moment his throat closed up. But coming to terms with his back being plagued with moss, his back which he takes such good care of because scars on the back are a swordsman’s shame. So what does all this mean? What is all this?
He looks away, running his hands through his hair again in a show of discomfort and agitation.
And yet… Zoro turns and gives Sanji even this.
Sanji inhales softly, not quite a gasp but something quieter. For a moment he thinks that’ll be the end of it but then he feels Sanji’s thin fingers start to touch, start to roam and drag both his skin and the thatches of moss that decorate him like islands.
“They’ve grown,” Sanji whispers, “they’ve spread. Usopp said they were here.” He touches the top of Zoro’s shoulder blades. “And now they’re all the way down here.” Those fingers ghost down to his mid-back, traveling further down to press against his lower back.
Zoro closes his eye, his breath — already so short and light — grows shaky.
Sanji lets out a huff of air, like a chuckle. Zoro whirls around to look at him, his heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird. But Sanji doesn’t look like he’s enjoying any of this, that same sad expression from the night before back on his face like a new mask.
“How ironic,” he shakes his head, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I called you moss because of your hair. And now…”
Zoro stares at the way he bites his lower lip. He frowns, hoping his expression conveys his disapproval of any kind of pity aimed his way.
“Man,” Sanji says, shaking his head again. He huffs another little laugh. “I know exactly what you would say right now. ‘Don’t pity me, dartboard-brow’.” He chuckles again, but his expression is quick to sober up. “I miss… I miss your voice.”
-
Zoro drops from the bridge pose he and Robin are in.
They’re in his room, doing a couple of yoga poses since Zoro still can’t exactly start lifting weights again. Through all this, he supposes his swords have been the only source of self comfort, heavy at his hip and singing with every step.
Sometimes, he forgets they’re there from how engraved they are to his very being. He looks at them now, leaning against the wall where he’d put them the night before. If things are going to play out the way he thinks they are, he should maybe start to consider who gets which one.
He closes his eye, finding humor in a thought like that. He’s never been one to give up so easily and thoughts like starting to bequeath others his belongings is laughable.
Besides, Chopper will find a solution before death can finally get its hands on Zoro. He has the utmost faith in the little guy, and with Robin and Law helping him... Shit, death should run before all three of them get their hands on it. Besides, if this is what fate has decided for him, then so be it. Maybe he was never meant to amount to anything.
He's not a man that deals with regrets. So... come what may, he supposes. That makes him chuckle as well.
“Something funny?” Robin asks, starting up on their next rep.
With their shoulder blades resting on the ground, they lift their lower body with their core, knees bent and feet flat on the floor so that their bodies essentially make the shape of a bridge.
Zoro juts his chin towards his swords. Easier to mention that then the crazy thoughts about fate, death and his infallible faith in Chopper.
“Ah,” Robin hums with a bit of humor in her voice. How she’s able to understand what he says and what he means is beyond him. He’s stopped trying to find logic in so much of who and how Robin is.
Earlier, when she’d come over with the invitation to do yoga together, she’d asked how his visit with Law the other day had gone. Still unable to speak, Zoro had rummaged for something he could write on and had written down Law’s last words to him for her to read.
Robin had hummed though she didn’t say anything contrarian to the statement.
“Fifty seconds,” she warns.
When the rep ends, Zoro rolls over and finds the napkin he’d written on before and on it asks her who he should leave Kitetsu and Enma with.
She purses her lips after reading, her eyes a lot sharper than they ever tend to be, when she looks up from his words and straight to him. “I think they should stay with you, Zoro. Because I think you should stay here with us. I am opposed to the surgery as well, though it ultimately is not my choice to make. But as your friend, I encourage you to keep Traffy’s words in mind and…”
She uncharacteristically trails off and Zoro nudges her encouragingly.
“Sanji mentioned he was going on a walk,” Robin finally says and the look she gives him is filled with all the things she won’t say because she feels it isn’t her place.
When Zoro doesn’t move, she arches an eyebrow. “You should go on a walk too.”
He feels his heartbeat accelerate again, standing up and grabbing his swords. He looks at her, his eye wide and filled with mild horror. Robin isn’t a gushing ball of encouragement, but her smile still does the job.
Zoro leaves, thinking that if he’s bound to die then at least… Well, at least.
-
Sanji is standing at the harbor, one of his hands in the pocket of his shorts and the other one nursing his lit cigarette. The wind is gentle here, but compared to further inland, it’s a treasure.
Zoro walks up, glad for the IV feeding and Sanji’s array of soups that have been giving him sustenance while all this goes on. He comes to a stop just behind the cook’s bent elbow, his gray eye studying him for a moment before looking out to the broad sea.
They stay there in silence for what feels like hours, merely in each other's company. And for once not bickering and threatening to start a fight. It's a tentative side to them, born and nursed from Sanji's worry and Zoro's love. He looks at the cook again, liking the expression on his face, the same one he always has when he looks out to the sea. Like there's nothing better out there but this mystery draped in blue, hiding secrets and marine life by doing nothing but existing.
Zoro doesn't realize he's smiling, small and unguarded, just for the simple fact of watching someone he loves watch something they love.
“My dream is to find the All Blue,” Sanji finally says slowly, shifting to give Zoro space on the plank-bridge he stands on. “For many reasons — Zeff, for starters. My old man never found it, so I vowed to myself I would do it for him.” He flicks at the cigarette to get rid of the ash. “And because I love the sea.”
Zoro knows all this. He may not look it, but he pays close attention when his friends speak. He carries that moment on the Going Merry, after escaping Loguetown all those years ago, so close to his heart. Five dumb kids, not knowing the gravity of their choices or that they carried the conviction to shake the world.
He hums, or he tries to. It’s a rumble at most.
"Can you believe it?" Sanji asks, shifting his body so he can face both Zoro and the shoreline. "A sea where all four Blues meet, all the fishes from all the seas meeting in one single place." His eyes sparkle, like stars. "I want to find it so bad. It'd make this shitty life of mine worth it." He looks at Zoro, his eyes big and his smile bigger, the way he always looks when he talks about this. "You'll be there too, right? When I find it. You'll be there."
Zoro closes his eye, turning his head to look at the horizon. Sometimes, he can't stomach how lovely the cook is. Sometimes, he just has to look away or he'll lose himself.
“Did I ever tell you I was born on the sea?” Sanji asks, bringing his cigarette to his lips and taking a long drag. He follows Zoro's gaze to the horizon. “Germa’s a castle on a formation of giant mollusks.” And just as quickly, he looks at Zoro again, his eyes a clear blue while the sun sets around them, painting the sky in orange and gold. “I’ve never openly talked about that with anyone.”
Zoro raises an eyebrow in question, his eye drinking in Sanji’s sunburn, his hair as it whips in the soft breeze. He thinks, maybe he’s forgotten how to read Sanji after noticing all the masks he wears to hide his true self. He thinks, maybe he’s forgotten how far to dig.
“Your condition started after the island with the lovely florist,” Sanji says, flicking the butt of his cigarette away. “The one that I… that I shared a few moments with while we were there.”
It’s true.
The log pose took forever to set for the next island, so they’d stayed and roamed the island until then. And the cook had become infatuated with a florist with wavy brown hair and big brown eyes. He’d escorted her home, from what Zoro remembers. He even went on a date with her.
Zoro had blamed the cook when they’d finally been ready to leave and half their rations had gone bad due to the island’s humid climate. And then the port island fiasco happened and Zoro’s disease began.
“It wasn’t like that, though,” the cook finally says. “I mean… she was beautiful and so clever and witty. But… in the end, I wasn’t able to give her my undivided attention like she deserved. Nothing happened.”
Zoro shakes his head and grabs at Sanji’s elbow, hoping the cook understands that he does not need an explanation of any kind. In fact, he doesn’t want to hear it. What Sanji does in his free time is none of his business, despite his body’s very obvious reactions saying otherwise.
The cook looks at him with a deep frown on his mouth and a crease between his curly eyebrows.
“This is happening because of me,” Sanji says, his voice so soft the slow breeze can so easily carry it away. “I’m not stupid, Zoro. Even if I am a bit slow on the uptake.”
Zoro shakes his head again, waving a hand in the air between them.
The cook grabs it, squeezing his mossy hand in his thin one. “Let me fix… Let me take care of you.”
Zoro shakes his head. He may be selfish but not… He can’t let the cook just take up this burden that is all Zoro’s to carry. All his thoughts come to a screeching halt when Sanji bends forward and brushes his lips against the thatch of moss on the back of Zoro’s palm.
“Then, I’ll lend you a hand for ten seconds,” he says, kissing his hand one last time before lifting himself back up to his full height. “That should be enough time.”
Zoro’s eye is wide, his face hot with a flush that paints his brown skin red. His lips part, so many things he wants to say, so many things he thinks about that have made it so hard to see — to believe — what’s right in front of him.
The wind nips at his green hair. He raises his unoccupied hand and presses it to his chest and wills Sanji to understand what he’s asking.
“Zoro?” The cook furrows his brow. “Are you forgetting your name now as well?”
Zoro shakes his head, an agitated look on his face and expectancy in his eye.
“Marimo…?”
He shakes his head again, though he’s getting a lot closer.
Sanji is finally bare of all the masks he wears, it’s easy to tell when Zoro’s silently watched him for so long. His expression is soft, his blond hair whipping in front of him like the last bit of armor to get past his defenses and to the very tender and squishy parts of him. “Mossy?”
Zoro grins.