One Piece, "The Way Back" -- Happy birthday, Zoro-chwan!
Title: The Way Back
Fandom: One Piece
Pairing: Zoro x Sanji
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: One Piece and its characters do not belong to me.
A/N: Takes place in the future, after their dreams have been achieved.
Dedication: Happy birthday, Zoro!
“You better be back for your birthday, asshole. I’m not making a cake for you just to have Luffy scarf it down.”
Zoro scoffs, though it comes out as more of a weak cough, and specks of blood land on the wood of the raft he is sprawled out upon. (It isn’t nearly as terrifying a mode of transportation as Luffy’s fleet of large and colorful ships, but in Zoro’s mind, all the greatest swordsman really needs is his sword.)
He has only a vague sense of how close his birthday is, and how far away the Baratie. Sanji’s words are buzzing, nagging, in the back of his mind, but he’s too tired, too worn out from his last fight to care. And it isn’t as if he promised or anything. Not in so many words.
Still, Sanji will be pissed.
It really isn’t fair, Zoro thinks, for Sanji to expect him to simply show up at a particular point in time. He isn’t a navigator; he doesn’t use a map; he can’t even tell what direction he’s going in most of the time. He doesn’t see why the cook can’t just be satisfied with him finding his way to the floating restaurant whenever he can, spending a couple of weeks there to rest and eat food that’s fully cooked, and then doing the same thing over again four or five months later.
That’s the kind of life he lives and that’s the kind he likes. He wishes Sanji could understand, and even like it, too. But Sanji wants something a little more stable than that, a little more established, and Zoro supposes he always really knew that. But he can’t be the kind of guy to stay in one place for the rest of his life. He needs the wind and the open sea and the ever-changing sky. He needs the thrill of each new challenger that faces him, the taste of blade in his mouth, and the blood staining his clothes.
He thinks of Sanji, waiting for him and trying to look like he isn’t, like he’s just outside for the fresh air. He wishes this could be the kind of fairy tale world where he could find his way there by the mere sound of Sanji’s voice, the smell of his cologne and cigarette smoke, the force and heat of their desire. But all he can hear is the call of seagulls, and all he can smell is the salty sea air, and his only desire is to sleep.
Maybe, he thinks hazily as his eyelids grow heavy and close, this thing called romance isn’t really meant to be.
When he comes to a day later, there’s a shiny, black shoe nudging at his bandaged chest, a chocolate cake sitting beside his head, and a lazy voice (that tries to sound annoyed, but is ultimately too pleased) saying, “Happy birthday, shithead. And welcome back.”
Fandom: One Piece
Pairing: Zoro x Sanji
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: One Piece and its characters do not belong to me.
A/N: Takes place in the future, after their dreams have been achieved.
Dedication: Happy birthday, Zoro!
“You better be back for your birthday, asshole. I’m not making a cake for you just to have Luffy scarf it down.”
Zoro scoffs, though it comes out as more of a weak cough, and specks of blood land on the wood of the raft he is sprawled out upon. (It isn’t nearly as terrifying a mode of transportation as Luffy’s fleet of large and colorful ships, but in Zoro’s mind, all the greatest swordsman really needs is his sword.)
He has only a vague sense of how close his birthday is, and how far away the Baratie. Sanji’s words are buzzing, nagging, in the back of his mind, but he’s too tired, too worn out from his last fight to care. And it isn’t as if he promised or anything. Not in so many words.
Still, Sanji will be pissed.
It really isn’t fair, Zoro thinks, for Sanji to expect him to simply show up at a particular point in time. He isn’t a navigator; he doesn’t use a map; he can’t even tell what direction he’s going in most of the time. He doesn’t see why the cook can’t just be satisfied with him finding his way to the floating restaurant whenever he can, spending a couple of weeks there to rest and eat food that’s fully cooked, and then doing the same thing over again four or five months later.
That’s the kind of life he lives and that’s the kind he likes. He wishes Sanji could understand, and even like it, too. But Sanji wants something a little more stable than that, a little more established, and Zoro supposes he always really knew that. But he can’t be the kind of guy to stay in one place for the rest of his life. He needs the wind and the open sea and the ever-changing sky. He needs the thrill of each new challenger that faces him, the taste of blade in his mouth, and the blood staining his clothes.
He thinks of Sanji, waiting for him and trying to look like he isn’t, like he’s just outside for the fresh air. He wishes this could be the kind of fairy tale world where he could find his way there by the mere sound of Sanji’s voice, the smell of his cologne and cigarette smoke, the force and heat of their desire. But all he can hear is the call of seagulls, and all he can smell is the salty sea air, and his only desire is to sleep.
Maybe, he thinks hazily as his eyelids grow heavy and close, this thing called romance isn’t really meant to be.
When he comes to a day later, there’s a shiny, black shoe nudging at his bandaged chest, a chocolate cake sitting beside his head, and a lazy voice (that tries to sound annoyed, but is ultimately too pleased) saying, “Happy birthday, shithead. And welcome back.”