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A fruitless love. A painful love. A onesided love.
It was during their first battle that he tasted it.
Blood.
And beneath that, the bitter flavor of flower petals.
Strong, overwhelmingly metallic. It filled his mouth, sliding to the back of his throat on a slimy path. He scrunched his nose, taking a step back and spitting out a wad of crimson.
He didn’t need a reflection to know that his teeth were stained red.
It wasn’t until their third clash on the ship that Zoro saw it for the first time, a harsh jab to the gut from the end of a fiery leg forcing the plant up his throat and out of his mouth. The sensation was harsh, ripping and tearing in a way that made his eyes water and shoulders heave from exertion.
It was only one petal, and it floated to the ground gently, guided by some unfelt wind.
The petal was a vibrant golden.
The same color as the cook’s hair, and as he stared, it seemed as though the fallen piece was reflecting every last ounce of his disbelief.
Him?
Demon of the East Blue?
Pirate Hunter Roronoa Zoro?
Had managed to contract hanahaki disease and for most infuriating blond in all the seas.
Fucking impossible.
“Are you really that surprised, acclaimed Hunter?” Sanji drawled, the scent of cigarette smoke wafting over the deck. Zoro hated that he could no longer effectively hate the scent. “I told your Mossy, shit for brains ass that I’d kick your fucking ass if you underestimated me.”
Former Baratie chef Blackleg Sanji stood above him, namesake held high, pale hands hidden safely in dark slacks and long leg poised to kick once more.
The blond’s face was bloody, signature suit cut nearly to shreds and a smug glint in those azure eyes.
Zoro looked up from his semi-crouched position on the barren wood, fingertips grazing the harsh surface, cracked and scratched from being witness to several battles between the teens and he smirked, recovering quickly.
“What makes you so sure? What if I let you land that one on purpose? You know, out of pity.” he quipped back in a nasty sneer, golden eyes shining with equal proportions of mischief and malice. He returned to his original stance, hands out, wrapped tightly around sword handles, muscles rippling along the torn white tee shirt gracefully.
Without thinking, rather subconsciously, he placed his feet slightly wider apart than what was necessary.
The yellow petal was crushed mercilessly under unforgiving black combat boots, Roronoa Zoro silently cursing his heart, refusing to believe in fate and charged forward, the disgusting illness forgotten with the thoroughness of battle.
It was no more than two weeks later, when Zoro coughed up his first full flower. His swords laid forgotten on the ground, though safely tucked within their scabbards. A taunt and challenge led him to discard the weapons and fight bare handed.
A jab.
A hook.
An uppercut.
The 3 strikes landed in perfect succession and Sanji was sent flying back, body crashing to the ground. He looked nearly out cold, blond locks falling over a pale, bloodied face in waves, and body hunched over the deck of the Going Merry in an unnatural way.
Still, Zoro knew better.
The swordsman waited, knowing what was going to inevitably happen. Sanji would rise, seething and steaming, dumb fucking curly eyebrow furrowed and blue glare intense in a way that made Zoro’s skin break out in chills.
After all, the idiot had said best himself.
“On sea, provoking your chef is the same as committing suicide. Remember that.”
Zoro smirked, his gaze never straying from the hero’s prone figure. Damn shitty cook.
The Grand Line was filled to the brim with vicious, dangerous pirates, and Blackleg Sanji stood at the head of them all. The swordsman couldn’t stop his feelings of admiration from swelling, and as much as he tried to stomp them down, it only came back twice as strong. It made his body warm, and his skin prickle, thinking of a person who could so easily destroy him if they truly chose.
The chef was a fucking monster in his own right.
A terrifying beast that people underestimated because of Sanji’s willowy stature. But no one understood.
That if Zoro was a demon, then Sanji was the Devil incarnate.
Affection rose with awe and with it, rose a tickling sensation at the back of his throat.
A sensation that grew until it became unbearably painful and the swordsman doubled over, eyes going wide as he hacked loudly, trying to dislodge what was stuck.
The petal.
The stem.
The leaf.
Each part was spat out fluidly, thorns raking the interior skin and shedding blood all over the pavement.
He couldn’t do anything other than stare.
Him.
The Demon of the East Blue.
The Pirate Hunter Roronoa Zoro.
Had Hanahaki.
From his peripheral vision, Zoro could see that Sanji was starting to revive, something like a flaming aura surrounding him as though he were some kind of avenging angel.
The green haired teen knew instinctively that if he looked into those twin pools of endless blue, then he’d be trapped forever. That if he dared utter a word to Sanji, his love and hate would wrench him apart. That Zoro would blossom into a bouquet of bloody tulips, stems raking through his lungs to stake claim in his heart, yellow petals and green leaves mingling over the shreds of his body as if to remind the swordsman of what could have been.
Already, just gazing at the other male, had more flowers blooming in his chest, ready to grow and suffocate him.
Sanji growled, standing up, sacred hand tugging loose his tie and expression fierce. The chef wore an angry smirk, a smile wide enough to reveal hidden canines and eyes alight with a mania that sent shivers down Zoro’s spine.
“I’m going to kill you.”
A growl that doubled as a purr and ominous words that paraded themselves as a loving caress, comforting in its honesty.
Zoro couldn’t help but laugh. Laugh and love Sanji in all of the chef’s bloody, perfect, bittersweet imperfections.
It was another nail in his coffin.