Chapter Text
“–and he’s so damn smug, y'know? Thinks he knows fucking… everything about everything. Jackass. Sometimes I wanna take my sword and slice him open from stem to fucking stern, make him bleed for me.”
“Sorry, are we still talking about the chef?”
Zoro startles, almost surprised to remember Mihawk is still there. “Yes. Keep up.”
Mihawk gives a pained sigh which manages to convey his deep regret about all the life choices that have led to this moment.
“Thinks just cos he has a big dick and he knows how to use it that I'll be at his beck and call like some… some fucking girl...”
“You're fucking the chef?”
Zoro feels himself blush again, and sees Mihawk notice it. It makes him think of last night, blushing in Sanji's arms. You blush so fucking sweet.
He clears his throat. “So what if I am?”
Mihawk seems more interested in this than he has in anything else Zoro's said all night. “Fascinating,” he proclaims, and his gaze falls to Zoro's throat, the base of which, he knows, is purple with bruises.
“Well, technically,” Zoro's mouth says, before his brain has time to catch up, “technically he's fucking me.” Once. Not that Mihawk has to know that.
Unless the blowjobs count as fucking? And the… the hand stuff. Fuck, why is this all so complicated?
Mihawk looks like he's trying not to smile. “Yes, Rabbit. I rather thought.”
Hang on. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that I've never had a man beg me to cut him quite as beautifully as you did.”
Zoro's gut swoops with a sudden rush of embarrassment and weird pride. He hides it in his wine glass. This stuff is pretty good, he decides. Strong, for wine, and not too sweet. But it's starting to give him a headache, and the price is astronomical. He wonders just how deep Mihawk's pockets actually are–then decides he doesn't give a shit, as long as the booze keeps coming.
“I didn't beg,” he mutters into the bottom of the glass.
“Not with words.”
What does that mean?
Zoro doesn't meet Mihawk's eyes when he says, “But you have had other men ask for… that. Before.”
“Oh yes.” He can hear the smirk in the guy's voice when he replies, can picture the cool, arrogant twist to his mouth. It does things to Zoro's insides. “Did you think you were the only one?”
“No, I–” Zoro might be too drunk for this conversation. “I didn't even know I was one.” He’s not sure that sentence makes sense, but Mihawk's a smart guy. He'll get it. He gets Zoro, generally–far better than most do. “But the cook knew. Fuck knows how.” Recognised it in him, like Mihawk had. “Shit. Is it that obvious? Does everyone fucking know this about me?”
“How should I know?” Mihawk makes a moue of distaste, and looks more uncomfortable than he has at any other point this evening. “Most people are dull, in all possible ways. I have no interest in what they think they know.”
Zoro knocks his glass against the one resting in front of Mihawk. “I'll drink to that.”
“So you're fucking the chef, but you don't like him.”
Zoro's skin prickles in irritation. “I like him fine. I just can't stand him.”
Mihawk gives him a flat look. “Tell me I was never this young.”
“Yeah yeah, you're older than the fucking mountains, I get it.”
“Careful.”
Zoro relishes it; the frisson of danger that shivers its way up his spine at that note of warning in his velvet-smooth voice. He's drunk enough that he even relishes the heat in his cheeks, the blush that Sanji likes to obsess over, that he called sweet.
“So you like him, and you can't stand him. And you're… jealous, as I understand it?”
“I'm not jealous. I just can't get… certain things… out of my damn head.” He waves his hand around by his ear like he’s trying to swat a fly. “I can't concentrate on anything else any more, it's driving me crazy.”
“And you've decided to make that my problem.”
“Well you're the one who didn't want to fight.”
Mihawk chuckles ruefully. “Oh Rabbit. I always want to fight.” Zoro swallows, tongue suddenly thick in his mouth. Danger, his mind whispers, and his heart trips over itself in its mad rush to beat. His eyes fall to the sheathed dagger that hangs from Mihawk's unblemished throat. “But some of us have a more refined sense of self control. Speaking of which; why don't you tell me exactly what these certain things are that you can't get out of your head, when it comes to that chef of yours? Perhaps the experience that comes with being older than the fucking mountains will be of some use, hm.”
Ugh. Where to start? “He likes women.”
A raised eyebrow.
“I mean, he likes both. I think.” Zoro senses that he’s still not making much sense. “But the way he acts around women is different. You know? Fuckin’... chivalrous.” He thinks he was attempting to say that disdainfully. Instead, though, it comes out full of a wistful sort of longing. “Always kissing their damn hands and… calling them pretty, and shit.”
“And you want him to stop?”
“No,” Zoro scoffs. “I don’t give a damn. It’s just how he is, it doesn’t mean shit.”
“I see.” Mihawk steeples his hands on the bartop in front of himself. “But you're upset that he doesn’t call you pretty, or kiss your hand. Is that it?”
Almost. Closer, certainly. “No, he–” Zoro blushes, and scowls at the floor. “He does. Do that.” Mihawk's other eyebrow rises to meet the first, so Zoro rushes to clarify. “Only sometimes, when we’re alone. I mean, when we’re–” he feels the blush intensify, and it’s more embarrassing than the words he’s struggling to get out. “When we’re alone alone.” He puts enough emphasis on the word that he’s sure Mihawk will get it.
“When you’re having sex?”
Fucking hell. “Yeah,” Zoro sighs, scrubbing his face with a weary hand. Subtlety never suited him anyway. Fuck it. “When we’re having sex. And that's… I wouldn't want him to do that shit in front of other people, anyway. It's private. But I told him–” is he really admitting this, to a man he’s admired since he was a little kid playing swords? “–that I like it when he treats me like a girl.”
Silence.
He risks another glance to the side. Mihawk’s staring at him intently. Studying him like a naturalist might study a rare species of butterfly, the full force of his attention on each minute detail of Zoro’s pinned wings.
“So what’s the problem?” he asks, eventually. Quieter, like the words are only for Zoro to hear. “He treats you like a girl, you enjoy it. Are you ashamed of that?”
“I’m ashamed of nothing,” Zoro spits. “The problem that it’s not the same.” He slams the fragile-stemmed glass down on the bar a bit too hard, frustrated with his own inability to explain–it itches on his skin like an insect bite.
He closes his eyes. Tries to sift out the chaff of his useless emotions, leaving only the grain at the core of it all.
Finally: “It’s not real. It's just words. I know I’m not actually.” He gestures to himself helplessly. And quietly, almost under his breath, he releases the word he’s been searching for. “Pretty.”
Not pretty like Nami. Not pretty like Nojiko, or like any of the girls he’s seen Sanji stare at with that hungry light in his eyes. Zoro’s a tool: well-maintained, deadly sharp. Functional.
A pause. Then Mihawk gives a disbelieving huff of not-quite-laughter. “Is that what you think?”
Zoro blinks his eyes open. The candlelight hurts; it feels too bright. Outside, sheets of rain batter the windows. The yellow of Mihawk’s eyes has deepened to something like flame.
“Come, Rabbit,” he says, abruptly, in a tone of such quiet authority that it’s clear he’s used to being obeyed without question. He stands–he’s tall, god, Zoro had momentarily forgotten how tall–and starts to weave his way through tables to the foot of the wooden staircase leading to the upper floor.
“What–where–”
“Quickly, if you don’t mind,” he tosses back over his shoulder. “We don’t have all night.”
A little unsteady on his feet, and not quite sure where he’s going or why, Zoro stumbles after him.
*
The wind that had been so still not twenty four hours ago is steadily building to a squall that threatens to break their little caravel free of its moorings and wreck her on the rocks north of the dock.
“It doesn’t make sense!” Nami fumes, tearing out a clove hitch on one of the starboard braces and letting the line race out, the yard swinging hard around the mast as the sail catches the new wind. She raises her voice to be heard over the roar. “Three barometers on this ship. Three! And not one of them so much as hinted at the pressure change you’d expect from a storm this size.”
She catches the loose end of the rope as it whips past and thrusts it into Usopp’s hands, brushing hair wet with the driving rain back out of her face. “Take in the slack and tie that off. Securely.”
“I take it this means dinner’s on hold?” Usopp hazards.
Sanji shrugs apologetically. “Sorry, man.”
Usopp sighs. “I figured.” He busies himself tying off the brace.
Meanwhile, Nami pulls Sanji further aft. They’re somewhat sheltered here by the forecastle, which breaks the worst of the wind.
Nami’s voice drops low and serious. “We’re in trouble,” she says, without preamble. “This storm? Means business. We need to get out of here now.”
“Can’t we wait it out? If we lash her securely enough to the dock the three of us can head inland, find somewhere to shelter until it passes. Then we can collect our idiot captain and our idiot first mate and–”
She’s already shaking her head. “The storm’s heading in too fast from the west, and this?” She gestures expansively at the Merry and the sea beyond; the high waves battering the ship from the rear, the wind lashing the single mainsail sheet they’ve got unfurled, raindrops fat and cold and coming in nearly sideways off the sea. “This is only the outermost edge of it. And if it hits head-on… when it hits head-on, the shore will be to leeward of all the ships on this side of the island. And none of them will make it out the other side intact. The only way Merry gets through this is if we strike out for open ocean before the worst of it arrives.”
The reassuring smile Sanji’s been wearing all afternoon finally slips away, lost in the wind.
He feels like the bottom of his stomach has fallen out, leaving nothing but a cavernous space behind. Any sailor will tell you that one of the worst positions you can possibly be in at sea is trapped between a storm front and the land–even a sailor who spent most of his life so far on a floating restaurant.
But they can't set sail without the rest of their crew. Luffy and Zoro are still missing and it's been long enough that the nagging worry at the back of Sanji's mind has grown so loud he can barely think over it.
“Sanji.”
If the storm hits and they're still here on the ship at the dock, that's… it’s not survivable. They’re not even out of the East Blue yet and they’re not going to survive...
“Sanji,” Nami repeats, taking him by the elbows and giving him a good shake. She waits for him to make eye contact. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Usopp and I will get the Merry ready to sail. You’re going to go find Luffy and Zoro and bring them back here, quickly. You can do that, right?”
Can he? Yes. He has to.
So he nods, and wishes he could light a cigarette to calm his fucking nerves. Bastard storm won’t even let him have a fucking smoke. “You can rely on me,” he promises, because it'll be a cold day in hell before he ever lets a beautiful woman down.
He gets ready to leap across the widening gap between the Merry and the shore.
“Sanji,” she calls, and he pauses just long enough to look back at her. “I mean it. One hour and I’m taking this ship out, whether the three of you are on it or not.”
Her eyes are wide with fear, but her jaw is set. Determined. And in that moment he admires the steel core of her so strongly that, for a second, it’s nearly overwhelming.
“Don’t worry about us. Get Merry ready, make for open water if you have to.” Situations can change fast, Sanji knows. If the speed of the storm picks up, even an hour might be too late. “Just be safe. As long as we survive, we can meet up again.”
A single, solemn nod. “One hour, Sanji.”
He takes a few steps back to get a good run up to the rail, and then he’s off.
*
Luffy’s had a great day, all told. He found a bar where he could get a drink of milk, heard some really cool stories about the pirate king, and managed to avoid all the marines, just like he promised Nami.
And now he’s spotted his old friend, Buddy the Clown, here in the crowd of tourists in the square by the old wooden execution platform!
“Hey!” he calls out. “Hey, Buddy! Buddy, over here!”
Nami’s going to be so pleased with him.
*
The room Mihawk’s renting is at the furthest end of the hallway, right on the front corner of the building, up against the gable. The ceiling slopes with the thick, dry thatch of the roof, dipping down too low for a grown man to be able to stand fully upright under it on that side of the room. The bed is set sideways against that wall, and there’s a dark wooden wardrobe against the opposite, taller one. The furnishings look old but clean and neatly kept, and someone’s already come in to set a fire going in the grate and light the heavy, old-fashioned lamps.
Zoro toes his shoes off and waits in the doorway, feeling simultaneously both too drunk and not drunk enough for whatever this is.
“In.” Mihawk hooks a finger in the vee of his shirt and tugs him over the threshold. He nudges the door shut behind them; it shuts with a heavy wooden click.
“Are you going to kill me?”
He laughs, and doesn’t remove his finger. Instead he drags it lower, parting the vee further, applying pressure where the pale fabric of one side of the shirt is wrapped over the other and tucked haphazardly into the haramaki. The shirt begins to slip free, starting to expose the bare, scarred skin of Zoro’s chest, though he pauses before much more is exposed than the top inch or two. His cat-like eyes burn. They’re fixed on the top of the long, pink, diagonal scar as it’s revealed, and the gleam in them is possessive. Approving.
Zoro feels naked already under the intensity of that stare.
So he tugs his shirt the rest of the way open himself, shoving the haramaki down low on his hips so that the entirety of the wound is visible. It’s Mihawk’s, it belongs to him. He should be able to look at it if he wants to.
Mihawk freezes for a moment, then he touches the jagged line of that scar, cool fingertips lingering on places where the skin is puckered, or the edge especially ragged.
“Messy,” he murmurs.
Zoro swallows. It’s loud in the quiet room; the chatter of the bar downstairs has been muffled to nothing but a far-off background hum, the wind is an outcast beyond the closed window and heavy storm shutter, the rain’s pattering is dulled by the soft straw of the thatch.
He's drunk. Too drunk to work out if this is supposed to be some kind of hook-up or some kind of assassination, and definitely too drunk to care.
“The cook had to re-sew it when the sutures broke at Arlong Park.”
It's one of Zoro's favourite memories. The almost overwhelming sting of it, the blood tacky on his skin, Sanji’s steady hands stitching him back together, his clever, wicked fingers all over the wound.
Mihawk makes a considering sound. “So this will be the second time I've made you beautiful for him.”
Zoro has no idea what that means. But it doesn’t matter, because it’s at that moment that he catches sight of Yoru, suspended from a hook on the near wall beside the door. It’s tall as a man, that sword, and lean, hungry. Thirsting.
Everything rushes in him at the sight of it: blood and breath. Wado Ichimonji sighs in its sheath.
“A man could get jealous,” Mihawk comments, amused. “Do you look at your young man the way you look at my sword?”
Zoro doesn't know. In this moment, he doesn’t care. He's too busy trying not to fall to his knees in front of Yoru, to open his lips and put his wet mouth to the metal…
“Eyes on me, Rabbit.”
Mihawk clicks his arrogant, infuriating fingers in front of Zoro's eyes.
Zoro scowls at him.
“Don’t pout. I don't usually give makeovers to young miscreants, you know. You should be grateful for my time.” He raises an expectant eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Yes sir,” Zoro answers without thinking, some deeply trained reflex to respond immediately and respectfully to a master swordsman when he uses that particular tone. Then– “Wait. Makeovers?!”
There's a faint hint of a smile on those immaculate lips. Zoro squints. Is he wearing makeup? Or does his face just naturally look like that; eyes black-lashed, dark-rimmed, lips dewy with peach, cheekbones contoured with dusty shadow?
“I’m going to make you feel pretty, Roronoa Zoro. What you do with that is up to you.” He shrugs. The dark red silk of his blouse ripples, catching the flickering light. “At the very least you'll know how to keep your boy's attention.”
Zoro doesn't say What the hell makes you such an expert? He doesn't say Where’s the boy whose attention you're trying to keep?
For all his failings, Zoro knows how to recognise a master in any given field when he sees one. So instead, he only asks, “How?”
And Mihawk smiles like a wolf, white teeth flashing, and opens the left-hand door of the wardrobe.
Inside is a riot of lace and satin, hanging sachets of lavender and the rich smell of beeswax on leather.
Zoro frowns and tries to work out what he's seeing here. The garments are black, for the most part, with some red, and some the colour of sweet, over-ripe plums, and they all…
They all look like women's… undergarments.
“These are ladies’ clothes,” Zoro says, flatly.
“No,” Mihawk corrects him, in a tone like he's bored. “They're mine.”
“Yours?!”
“Does that shock you, Rabbit? How provincial.”
Zoro's gaze drops down to the front of Mihawk’s shirt, the crotch of his trousers, trying to catch any sign that he's not kidding. That he really is wearing some sort of silky fucking women's lingerie under his clothes.
Mihawk's smirk widens and, as if in answer to the question on Zoro’s face, he undoes his shirt with a single twitch to the dark lacing, letting it fall dramatically off one shoulder and open, giving him the smallest peek at a sculpted, unblemished, hairless chest…
…and the wine coloured, cupless brassiere that hugs it.
Zoro gapes. Everything else fades to white noise.
He thinks Mihawk is speaking, but no sound reaches him. Nothing exists in the entire god forsaken world but that scrap of lace, that exposed skin.
The bra is such a dark red that it's almost purple: Mihawk's pale skin is stark against it in contrast. The straps that rise up over each strong shoulder are shiny and thin, impossibly delicate. The two empty half-moons where the cups should be draw the eye like an arrow to its target, right to the centre of each of his pectorals: two tiny, dusky pink nipples, rosy in the firelight. The lace below is scalloped, like a stylised ocean wave along the rib cage.
This is how Zoro dies. A heart attack at age twenty on the floor of some backwater inn, slain not by the warlord's blade but by his fucking underwear.
“Close your mouth, Rabbit. You'll catch flies.”
“You.” Zoro's mouth closes. Opens again. Closes.
“You want to be feminine for him,” Mihawk says, as if this is all very reasonable and not at all fucking insane. As if he deals with this sort of thing all the damn time. “At least in certain… specific contexts. And from what I can tell, your beau is a man who appreciates sartorial elegance. A fine fabric; a tailored fit. Why not use that to your advantage?” He circles around Zoro slowly, his footsteps measured, no sudden movements, until he's standing directly behind him, peering over his shoulder at the contents of the wardrobe.
“Besides.” His mouth is so close to Zoro's ear that he can feel the small, warm stir of his wine-tainted breath. “They’re exquisite to wear. A sensory revelation.”
He takes Zoro's hand and places it on the skirt of a black lace camisole hanging from the rail; lets the waterfall of fabric run through their joined fingers.
“You'll like it,” he purrs. “I promise.”
*
Sanji ducks into a doorway as a group of marines jogs past, hiding in the shadows until they’re out of sight and the fading sound of their footsteps has disappeared into the storm. He uses the windbreak of the porch to finally get a cigarette to light, and sucks in a grateful lungful through the damp filter.
There are more marines now than there were earlier. This is the third group he’s run into. And they’re moving purposefully, not patrolling but running from place to place strategically, accompanied by the crackle of small, portable snail phones.
Something’s going down. And if something’s going down, the one thing you can bet on is that Luffy will be right in the bloody middle of it.
There’s been no sign of Zoro yet. Not entirely surprising; that idiot can get lost going from one side of the ship to the other. But they’re on a time limit, here, and the bad feeling in Sanji’s gut is only getting stronger by the minute.
He tells himself that Zoro’s probably already with Luffy. Those two have a knack for turning up right where they’re supposed to be, right in the nick of time. He’ll find them, kick their arses back to the ship, and they can all get the hell away from this place and its rancid fucking vibes as quick as possible.
Up above, the sky is as dark as a bruise, layers of opaque cloud muddying the moonlight. The wind whips the warm air from his lungs. He stubs out his smouldering fag end on a nearby wall and sets off after the group of marines that just went by. They were heading towards the centre of town, where he knows, from the beautifully drawn map Nami showed them before their arrival earlier, the tall buildings of the inner city open up into a wide, paved square.
It’s the only lead he’s got.
*
Zoro jolts with the force of each strong pull. Expensive wine churns in his otherwise empty stomach, and he considers how mortifying it would be to vomit on Dracule Mihawk’s bed. Even a temporary bed in a room he’s only renting for a handful of nights, and which Zoro is currently bent over, elbows on the eiderdown quilt, head dipped below his bare shoulders.
“Hold still,” Mihawk reprimands him, sharply.
“I am holding still,” Zoro grits back.
“Hold stiller.”
“I can’t hold still if you’re yanking me around.”
A big hand squeezes Zoro’s waist in warning. “Try.”
Fucking warlord. Fucking world’s greatest swordsman. Fucking… bastard.
He’d dragged Zoro through a small side door into a bathroom, earlier, stripped him off with brutal efficiency and dumped him into the small, enamelled tub. ”I’m not letting you anywhere near my nice things until you’re presentable.” Prissy, stuck up…
He’d scrubbed Zoro from head to toe like a farmer might scrub down a prize winning pig before the village fair. Zoro’s skin is still scalding from it. And he’s never been bashful about his body, never seen it as anything but a tool, a weapon–but then, he’s never expected to be naked in front of Dracule fucking Mihawk either.
Mihawk had barely glanced at Zoro's body, though, while he was in the bath. Only washed his hair like a child who couldn’t be trusted to do it himself, and then stroked some sort of oil into it that smelled kind of like Sanji’s cologne.
“What’s the point of all this?” Zoro had groused, feeling about as happy as a wet cat.
“The point, little frog, is to make yourself delectable. So you don’t go to your young man's bedroom like you’re staggering in fresh from a week in the gutter.”
His fingers were gentle on Zoro’s scalp, for all the scathing tone of his cultured voice. And Zoro tried to master his body’s instinctive response to that gentleness; the way it made him want to shiver and lean into it, to roll belly-up and expose all his softness.
“Swordsmanship is an artform. And so is seduction.” Mihawk threw a towel at his face. “Dry off and come back through.”
Then he disappeared back to the bedroom, taking Zoro’s clothing with him.
So Zoro stepped out of the bath, rubbed himself down roughly with the towel, then tied it around his waist. That was when he caught sight of his reflection in the steam-fogged bathroom mirror: damp green hair, bleary eyes, a constellation of bruises and a long, angry scar.
How could this be beautiful?
Mihawk's voice called from the other room. “Sometime this evening, Rabbit.”
Ugh.
When Zoro made his way back through, Mihawk had been stood by the open wardrobe holding what looked like some kind of ancient torture device. It had several panels connected by strings; each panel was black and had a sort of shiny pattern to it that reflected the light. There were red ridges running down it where the panels met, and two narrow strips of red satin where the strings were attached to rows of small silver eyelets.
“What the hell is that?”
Mihawk gave him a disappointed look. “You've never seen a corset before? My, we are sheltered, aren't we.”
“Why should I know anything about women's clothing?”
“It’s not women’s clothing. We’ve already covered this.” Mihawk tilted his head to one side, looking for all the world like an owl eyeing a vole in the dark leaf litter. “Do you think I'm a woman?”
Zoro's eyes fell to Mihawk's immaculately groomed jawline with its dark, artfully sculpted smudge of facial hair, his broad shoulders, flat chest, narrow hips, the slight bulge of his crotch.
All of this, he knew, could mean nothing.
“I don't know. You tell me.”
“No. Come here and I'll lace you into this.”
Zoro scowled, but he did as he was told.
Now, Mihawk puts his not-inconsiderable strength into tightening the strings on the back of the corset, jerking Zoro's body with each tug, making his earrings jump. Zoro can hear the music of it, the soft chime of metal on metal on metal.
It's a strange sensation. Not, he has to admit, entirely unpleasant.
He's not used to feeling physically small or weak. Even with Sanji there's an understanding that, despite the games they've started to play, they're actually pretty evenly matched, strength-wise. When they spar, Zoro wins about half the time. Maybe a little over half.
He's painfully aware that that’s very much not the case with Mihawk. His torso is marred with the knowledge.
And something about that, combined with the slowly increasing pressure around his middle, like an all-encompassing weight pinning him down, and the way he's jerking like a ragdoll under Mihawk's strong tugs, is sinking him like a stone into that vague, murky state he sometimes finds himself in when Sanji hurts him.
He doesn’t have words for this state. Doesn’t really think of it in terms of words: it’s too ethereal for that. Like something from a dream that you only half-remember on waking.
It’s not only pain that does it. That one time Sanji let him put his mouth on him–he knows he felt it then, just from the weight of Sanji’s cock on his tongue, the way he’d manipulated Zoro’s body to exactly the use he wanted to put it to, the steady rhythm, the pressure at the back of his throat like something trying to give...
He drifts in that feeling quietly, now, limbs gone lax in a way that alcohol alone can never quite achieve, face almost touching the soft eiderdown on Mihawk's bed.
It smells of him. He must've slept here at least one night already. It's a spicy smell, all burnt sugar and incense. Deeply, compellingly masculine–and if Zoro had had any doubts about his newly awakened sexuality, this would put them to bed. Because through the fog that is his current mental state, he recognises that he’s so powerfully attracted to Dracule Mihawk that even the smell of his bedsheets is turning him on.
It's a distant thing, the arousal. Vague. He feels detached from it, a total lack of urgency, content to merely float along under Mihawk's hands while the corset is laced and tied.
When it's done, Mihawk has to tap his elbow to gain his attention. Zoro realises he hadn't even noticed.
Huh.
A pair of strong hands help him upright. The room is soft and blurry at the edges, like looking through a grease-smeared window.
“Hm,” Mihawk says, and Zoro thinks, dimly, that he might be embarrassed to be seen like this if he was in his right mind. The towel is still around his hips, but above it the corset presses his waist in, rearranging him, making the flesh curve in like the middle of an hourglass. “How does that feel? Can you breathe?”
Slowly, a little delayed, Zoro nods. He can breathe fine. He likes it, it's good to be held so firmly. He feels contained. Safe.
“Good,” Mihawk says. He trails a finger along the top of the corset, where it spans Zoro's chest just below his pecs. “It’s showing off your tits beautifully.”
Zoro blinks, slow and syrupy. “I don't have tits.”
“Oh Rabbit.” The look Mihawk gives him is pitying. It makes Zoro's cheeks burn.
He's still hazy, and the filter between his brain and his mouth is disrupted enough that he hears himself murmur “I like it when you call me that.”
Mihawk's eyes sharpen dangerously, zoning in on Zoro's placid face. He studies him for a long moment. Zoro can't quite summon the energy to be self-conscious about it.
Finally: “Fascinating. Just from a little manhandling?” he asks, nonsensically.
Zoro frowns. “Huh?”
“Never mind. Don't get too comfortable, I'm not quite done with you yet.”
And he turns back to the compartment full of silk and lace.
*
When he overhears, from a couple of civilians scurrying by as they evacuate, exactly where Luffy is and what trouble he's gotten himself into, Sanji's first thought is that it sounds about right.
His second thought is that they are unequivocally fucked.
“Excuse me,” he tries, stopping the bigger of the two men with a hand to the chest and flashing them a hopefully-nonthreatening smile. “I couldn't help overhearing you talking about a pirate being taken hostage on the old execution platform.”
The big guy would be quite intimidating to someone who hadn’t grown up being trained in the fine art of kicking the shit out of anyone causing trouble during the dinner service, even if they are ten times your size. He frowns and gives Sanji a cautious up-and-down look. “What of it?” he grunts.
Unthreatening, Sanji tells himself. Try to act fucking normal for once.
“I don't suppose you gents happen to know if he was alone, or if there was someone with him? Perhaps a young man about yea high, mossy green hair, anger issues? An overabundance of swords, like maybe he's compensating for something? Body that won’t quit?”
“No,” the man’s smaller companion replies, helpfully. “I saw it with my own eyes; only just got out of there before they locked down the whole square. There was no one like that. The straw hat guy was on his own and the other crew got the jump on him.”
“Another crew? So it's not the marines?”
“Why d'you wanna know?” the first guy demands in a deep growl, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
Sanji mentally scrambles for a moment. “Because I–” Think, Sanji! “I'm a journalist! Just started a few weeks ago. I'm in the area doing a, uh–” Hold it together! “a retrospective on the death of the Pirate King, twenty years on.” He flashes a winning smile. “But now my editor wants me on this right away, she thinks it could be a big scoop. And she’s not the sort of lady I’d like to disappoint, if you catch my drift.”
The big guy's face immediately brightens, all trace of looming aggression clearing like a sudden pause in a storm. “Of course! Wow, talk about the right place at the right time, huh? What are the odds!”
The little guy, in contrast, barely comes up to his friend's elbow. He's practically bouncing where he stands, full of an excitable energy that makes Sanji feel exhausted just looking at it. “Yeah,” he says, “you're in luck, man. You don't get much more newsworthy than rival pirate crews taking over the platform where Gold Roger himself was executed. You gotta get over there, capture the action as it all goes down!”
“I bet you'll get a promotion after this,” big guy chimes in. Then a wistful sort of look comes over him. “You know, I always wanted to be a journalist.”
Sanji stares. This guy is built like a brick shit house, taller than Sanji and almost wider than he is tall. He looks like he could bench press the entire Going Merry. His hair is shorn down to a thick, dark stubble, and he's heavily tattooed on every visible patch of skin from the top of his head down. His belt is a piece of iron chain.
Sanji doesn't think he's ever, in his entire life, seen a less likely looking journalist.
“Do you need our names, for the article?” the smaller guy asks, eagerly.
“Uh. Sure. But first–”
“Okay well I'm Phill Darbondy, and this is Brix.”
“Spelled B-R-I-X,” Brix adds, and helpfully points to a heavy black tattoo of the name that runs down the length of his forearm.
“First,” Sanji persists, eyelid twitching, “as eyewitnesses, please tell me everything you can about what happened, gentlemen. Spare no detail.” He pulls out the notepad he'd pickpocketed from the sales guy at the trendy clothes shop, the one with all of Nami’s measurements recorded in it, and flips it open to a blank page.
He needs to know as much as possible in order to come up with a plan.
*
Mihawk ends the call on his transponder snail, and fixes Zoro with an intense stare.
Zoro tries to focus on him in return. He couldn't quite follow what Mihawk was saying to whoever it was on the other end of the line, and he's not sure if that's because of the fogginess of his brain or because Mihawk was speaking in some other language, but he’d enjoyed listening to the sound of his voice and drifting.
“Your captain’s in trouble,” Mihawk declares without preamble, and Zoro feels the words run down him like a shower of ice, sobering and waking him up all in a rush.
“Luffy's in trouble? Where.”
He reaches subconsciously for the katana at his hip, only to remember that Mihawk removed them earlier–along with Zoro's clothes.
Shit. Shit. How long has he been here playing dress up while his crew were in trouble?
“Give me my swords. I need to go help him.”
“Yes, I thought you might say that.” Mihawk collects the sword belt from on top of the dressing table and offers it to Zoro with a quirk of his lips, the three hilts facing him.
This time, Zoro barely notices the shiver that seeing another man's hands on his swords causes. He takes the belt–and abruptly realises he has nowhere to put it. He's still in his fucking underwear.
In Mihawk's fucking underwear.
Mihawk seems to find this hilarious. He's smiling that condescending, closed-lipped smirk, and he scoops Zoro's shirt off the back of the chair. “Still not quite firing on all cylinders, I see. Do you usually go down this hard, or should I be flattered?”
Zoro has no idea what he's talking about, and even less patience to find out. He needs to get to Luffy, now.
“Who were you talking to on the snail phone?”
“A friend.”
The most powerful swordsman in the world holds Zoro's shirt out, helping his arms into it like he thinks he can't dress himself. This might be a new personal low point.
He's not asking for the corset back, though, Zoro notices.
“What friend?”
“One with a tendency to ask annoying questions. I suspect the two of you would get along.”
The pants next, and Zoro grabs them out of Mihawk’s hands before he can get any ideas. Slides them up his own damn legs, and tries not to blush at the way they settle over the gauzy fabric underneath.
After lacing him into the corset, Mihawk had had a lot of fun adding to the look with various other… pieces. Then dabbing beeswax onto his lips and lining his eyes with kohl. Treating Zoro like his own personal doll, and all the time Luffy was getting in trouble, his crewmates needed him–
“You're spiralling, Rabbit.”
“I am not,” he snarls.
Wordlessly, with an air of infinite patience, Mihawk hands over the red and grey striped cloth of the haramaki. Zoro gets it situated on his hips, then Mihawk bats his hands out of the way with a soft tut of disapproval and smooths the two sides of his shirt down oh so carefully over the stiffness of the corset, tucking the lower edges in neatly. Far neater than Zoro would have bothered with.
He scoops up the sword belt from the bed, next, where Zoro had dropped it in order to dress himself. Then he steps in until they’re almost touching, chest to chest, and Zoro has to crane his neck up to meet those amber eyes, the black ring around the pupil zeroed in on him like a marksman's target. Uncanny eyes, unblinking as an owl. He reaches behind Zoro with the belt, carefully wrapping the well-worn leather around his waist, then leans back just enough to fasten it at the front, drawing the tongue through the buckle, adjusting the haramaki to cover all but the right hand side, at his hip, where the three sheaths are tied with sageo cord to the belt's leather.
“There,” he says, all smugly satisfied, and he's still right up in Zoro's personal space, his hands on Zoro's hips possessively, and Zoro's not got time for this. “Don’t you scrub up well, little Rabbit?”
Zoro leans into the heat of him helplessly, just for a moment, one moment of weakness.
God, he's so warm.
“I'm still wearing your…” Zoro doesn't even know what to call them. “Clothes,” he settles on.
“You are, aren't you.” Mihawk touches his stomach, fingers deft and warm even through the thin cotton of his shirt and the stiffness of the corset beneath, and fuuuuck it would be so easy to bend and mouth at those fingers, to drop down on his knees and offer everything, anything Mihawk wanted to take from him.
Zoro thinks of Luffy, of Sanji, and holds steadfast.
“I intended for you to keep them,” Mihawk tells him. “They make you feel beautiful, don't they? Like this does.” His fingers shift upwards, and unerringly find the scar on Zoro's chest. “Tell your gentleman friend that I'll put it on his tab.”
Then he’s backing up, heading towards the door that leads down to the bar, dragging Zoro along in his wake.
Outside, the storm is raging. It's angry, Zoro could swear it. The rain has paused, for now, but a fierce wind blows the last of the cobwebs from his brain, sobering him up abruptly.
He needs to find Luffy, now.
Mihawk lifts an eyebrow, gaze trained on the dark clouds brooding overhead, and says “Interesting.”
He doesn't sound interested. He still sounds bored as hell. But that's not Zoro's problem right now.
“Did your friend say what kind of trouble Luffy's in?”
“The usual kind.” His eyes never leave the sky as he waves his hand in a vague sort of gesture. “Revenge, mayhem, death. That sort of thing.”
“Death?!”
“Hm. I've heard it's an occupational hazard.”
“I don't have time for this.”
Zoro stalks off, deciding he might as well leave Mihawk to his skygazing and find Luffy himself.
“Wrong direction, I'm afraid, Rabbit.”
Zoro spins back towards him, fuming.
Mihawk's eyes glitter in the flickering streetlight. “That way leads deeper inland, away from the city.”
“So Luffy's in the city?”
He tilts his head again, gives Zoro that weirdly intense, considering look. As if Zoro's the one being confusing. “Can’t you tell where he is?”
“What do you mean?”
A bolt of lightning forks the sky, and a few seconds later the air rumbles with the deep voice of the thunder.
“It doesn’t matter. Follow me; I'll take you to him.”
“You will?”
“Why not. I have some time to spare before my appointment, and it's only good manners to return a borrowed toy to its rightful owner.”
Yeah. Zoro's not touching that.
Mihawk sets off down one of the identical looking cobbled roads, quick enough that Zoro has to sprint to keep up.
“What’s the appointment?” he calls, voice raised to be heard over the wind.
If Dracule Mihawk has to see a fucking dentist then Zoro’s going to walk into the ocean and never return.
One side of Mihawk’s mouth twitches. “Just an arrangement with an old friend.”
*
“Excuse me, sir, but you can't be here. We're evacuating all civilians from the centre of town due to an ongoing serious incident.” The marine repeats the words by rote, bored and barely paying attention to anything outside of the shoddy barrier that's been erected across the unevenly cobbled road.
They're young. Probably a new recruit. Sanji could take them out no worries, but the issue is the group of others further in, standing guard in their ugly uniforms, too far away for their features to clearly be seen at night in this weather. If they're all on the same level as jobsworth, here, it shouldn't be a problem. But in a sea with marines like fucking Garp running around it's better to be safe than sorry.
Sanji’s just about to turn back and see if he can find another way into the square when one of the two men flanking him decides to speak.
“He's not a civilian,” Brix announces, with an air of great importance. “He's a journalist.”
Sanji feels the expression on his face freeze.
“That’s right,” pipes up Phill Darbondy, from the other side of Sanji. “That means you've got to let him in; freedom of the press, innit.”
The marine sighs, casting their eyes to the heavens as if pleading with some greater authority.
“The evacuation order is in place for your own safety. We can't guarantee the wellbeing of anyone who enters the vicinity of the execution platform at this time.”
“You think safety is of any concern to a man hot on the scent of breaking news?” Brix demands, scornfully.
Sanji does a small double take, blinking at him in surprise. He hadn’t expected quite such a passionate defense from these guys he randomly picked up, and now can’t quite manage to shake.
The marine pinches the bridge of their nose. “Look, I don't really–”
“Do we have a free press or don't we?” Phill demands.
“Sir, I must reiterate that the incident is serious and ongoing...”
Brix steps forward menacingly, and he must be at least ten fucking tons of pure, rippling muscle. Sanji starts to ever so slightly panic. “Step aside,” the big guy demands, puffing out his chest. “This young man's career hangs in the balance.”
“I've taken a note of your badge number,” Phill adds. “The eyes of the world are upon you.”
Sanji swivels back to the marine and smiles tightly. “What they said.”
“Fine,” the marine accedes, finally. “But be careful, and don't say I didn't warn you!”
And they lift the hastily erected barrier and usher Sanji through, still flanked by his two new best mates.
A feeling not unlike hysteria starts rising in him as he's swept along with the tide of these two extremely unlikely champions–but he tells himself that this particular tide will, at least, carry him closer to Luffy.
He takes a deep breath and plunges beneath the waves.
The closer they get to the town square, the quieter the streets become. They still see marines and, from what Sanji overhears from those marines and their crackling radio updates, there are still quite a few civilians on this side of the barrier, but mostly they seem to be confined to the main square.
Every time the marines come anywhere near Sanji, Phill and Brix start loudly declaring “Press! We're press!” until the group fucks off.
It's actually pretty bloody convenient.
At one point a rather harried looking woman with a camera overhears them and comes sprinting over. “You're press?” she checks. “Me too. Do you know where the action is?”
“Follow Sanji,” Brix tells her, with a sniff of self importance. “That guy, there. He's a journalist, and he's hot on the trail.”
“Perfect, thank you!” She falls into formation alongside them, camera swinging from its strap at her side.
Around another corner, a trio of middle aged men with snail transponders and little name cards dangling from around their necks are arguing loudly amongst themselves.
“Press?” Brix hazards, and the three men pause mid-bicker and look over as if someone's called them by name. “This way.” Brix beckons them over with one beefy, ink-stained arm, never breaking stride. “Fall in line, that's right, no shoving.”
By the time he reaches the alley behind the square, Sanji has amassed a gaggle of around sixteen journalists, eight photographers, two news presenters, a camerawoman and a sound guy, plus Brix and Phill Darbondy who, it turns out, work in bricklaying, and have been contracted to repair a damaged section of wall in the main square–which was why they'd been in the area in the first place.
“So you've got your fifteen basic types of cement,” Phill's explaining to one of the newscasters. She's pretty and blonde, and keeping pace with the group even in stiletto heels, which is an impressive feat in itself, and her eyes are beginning to glaze over as Phill's lengthy response to her polite ”And what do you do?” continues unabated. “Rapid hardening. Extra rapid hardening. Quick hardening–not to be confused with quick setting, mind you–”
At that moment Sanji's group bursts out of the alleyway and onto the square. Right at the back of it, in fact, behind the legendary execution platform and some way away from it, beside a series of archways and a partially collapsed section of wall that's been neatly cordoned off, and which has a metal toolbox and a large pile of haphazardly stacked bags of cement mix that look like they were too-hastily shoved under a tarpaulin that keeps flapping around in the high wind.
“This is where we was standing when it all started kicking off,” Phill explains, grandly.
Sanji takes it all in at a glance: the mixed crowd of civilians and pirates being buffeted by the wind, the cordoned off area of damaged wall that Brix and Phill must've been repairing, the marines dotted around the outskirts of the square in positions they clearly and misguidedly think are stealthy, the huge wooden scaffolding in the centre with Sanji's captain right on fucking top of it, being held captive by…
“Buggy the fucking clown,” Sanji growls murderously. “Knew I should've kicked that fucker's head into the sea when I had the chance.”
“Wait,” Brix says slowly, turning to face Sanji head on. “You…” Sanji winces, braced for whatever's coming. All he has to do is grab Luffy and get the fuck out of here, he tells himself. So what if he accidentally misled one or two… or thirty people. “You've interviewed pirate captain Buggy?”
“Uhh.”
“Holy shit. You're an amazing journalist!”
The group of newspeople crowds around, eyeing Sanji with open awe.
There comes a time when a man simply has to accept whatever it is that fate insists on repeatedly thrusting in front of him.
“Yes, I did,” Sanji replies, confidently. “Interviewed the shit out of him. So I can tell you right now that he's a narcissistic bastard with a grandiose sense of self importance who loves the sound of his own voice. Martel?”
The blonde with the stiletto heels perks to attention.
“Take your crew and offer him a live interview. He'll leap at the chance.”
“On it,” she says, and tucks a stray curl of her pretty hair behind her ear. “Thanks Sanji. Serin, Huygo, you're with me!”
She straightens her blouse, takes a deep breath, then strides off purposefully towards the front of the platform, heels clicking on the cobblestone, the other two close on her heels. “Excuse me! Hello there, excuse me, Mister the Clown?”
Sanji grins. Okay, that's phase one of the plan. Now for phase two. “Journalists?” The majority of the group falls in this category; they gather round attentively. “There are platoons of marines hiding badly in the alleyways and upper floors of buildings around the square; there, there, right under there, and… up there, see in that window? They're going to have a lot more info than we do on all of this, and I reckon now would be a great time to pester them for some on- or off-the-record quotes.” He claps his hands and the journalists start to scatter, chatting excitedly. “Don't take no for an answer!” Sanji calls after them. “They're a public body, they should be answerable to the public. Right?” There’s a general murmur of agreement, and even a few cheers. Mostly from Brix and Phill.
Speaking of whom…
“I've got a special job for you two in a minute, so don't go anywhere.”
Two pairs of eyes widen in awe.
“For us?” Brix asks, in a hushed tone of disbelief. As if never in his wildest fucking dreams did he imagine that he might one day be of assistance to a man pretending to be a journalist.
“For you,” Sanji confirms. “It’s a job that requires a certain skillset that, out of all of us here, only you two gents possess.”
Brix looks like he can't quite decide whether to faint or start openly sobbing. Phill Darbondy strokes his arm supportively. “There there, mate. You can count on us, Sanji! Can't he, Brix?”
Brix nods speechlessly.
“Great. Now, photographers–”
“Oh my god,” one of the nearby journalists gasps. “It's one of the Seven Warlords! And he's with the demon pirate hunter!”
An excited and somewhat terrified murmur ripples through the small remaining crowd surrounding Sanji.
“That's Dracule Mihawk!” someone says. “Mister Mihawk, sir, over here!” Then the sound of a dozen cameras clicking.
Sanji's eyebrow twitches. With a deep, dark sense of foreboding, he turns to face the far side of the square.
*
The tight lacing of the corset doesn't negatively impact Zoro's movement as much as he'd feared. If anything, it makes him more aware of the way he's holding himself; his posture, his stance, it’s all neater. More tightly controlled. The slink of his hips, though, is new–it reminds him of this morning, how he'd felt waking up after being fucked in the ass for the first time the night before. Powerful. Sexual. He feels Mihawk's eyes on him as they round the next corner and lets his stance widen, his hips roll even looser, just to hear the soft catch of his breath like a snare tightening around a rabbit.
Soon he’s half-hard from the thrill of it, cock-teasing a Warlord of the damn Sea. One who marked him, dressed him, put his claim all over Zoro’s body. His cock’s rubbing against the French lace that Mihawk had eased up his bare thighs earlier. He’s not used to wearing any underwear at all; the sensation of it is new and distracting.
So distracting that he’s almost startled to finally reach the square at the centre of town and catch sight of Luffy at the top of a huge wooden platform, pinned in a set of stocks with that fucking clown standing over him with his stupid clown sword.
One glance confirms that Luffy's immobilised. Totally powerless to escape on his own, and it’s honestly a little embarrassing.
Mihawk shoots him a pointed look, as if to say This guy? Really? Out of all men to entrust with your devotion, you chose him?
Zoro ignores him. “Luffy!” he calls.
“Hey Zoro! How’s it going?”
“Better than you, from the looks of things.”
“Don’t make chit-chat while I’m executing you!” Buggy fumes.
And, well. Shit. Execution definitely doesn't sound great.
There’s a commotion going on on the far side of the square, now. Zoro spares a glance; it looks like a bunch of those parasites from the press clamouring for Mihawk's attention. Then he frowns at the sight of pale blonde hair right smack in the middle of the group. Surely that's not…
“Look, Sanji's here, too!” Luffy yells. “Wow, this is so great! I might be about to be killed, though.”
Sanji. Zoro tries to catch his eye but he's surrounded by people, talking to them in rapid succession like he's giving instructions.
Where the hell did he find all those people, and why are they happily taking orders from a pirate cook??
“There’s no might about it,” insists Buggy. “We've won. You've lost. Now I'm going to chop your head off in front of all these nice people.” He throws two fingers up and poses for what looks like some sort of film crew down in the square.
The square itself is otherwise full of a dangerous mix of Buggy's crew and civilians. Dangerous because the civilians are going to get in the fucking way, and make it hard to work out exactly how many they're up against.
Zoro unsheathes the two newest of his swords, Yubashiri and Sandai Kitetsu; he wants to see how well they play together. Kitetsu, in particular, vibrates with anticipation in his hand.
“This is going to go badly for you, clown,” Zoro warns.
“Well, it seems like you have this under control,” Mihawk comments, unconvincingly. “I think I'll give my regards to your chef before I make myself scarce.”
“Like hell you will!”
“I wasn't asking permission, Rabbit. Besides, you've got rather more pressing things to worry about, haven't you?”
He's infuriating, but he's not wrong. A dozen or so of Buggy's lackeys are closing in on Zoro; he barely has time to tie his bandana above his eyes before the first of them is upon him.
The next time he has a moment to glance round, Mihawk is nowhere to be seen.
*
Mihawk's massive ooh-look-at-me-haven't-I-got-a-big-penis sword swings in a graceful arc, blocking Sanji's path.
“Can I help you?” Sanji demands.
“I wouldn't bet on it,” Mihawk retorts.
“We are actually a little busy, in case it escaped your notice.” Sanji tries to stay focused: Rescue Luffy. Get him and Zoro back to the ship before their time’s up. Freak out about the Situationship’s fucking celebrity crush showing up with him out of the blue later. “What are you even doing here?”
“Returning some lost property of yours.” Sanji follows his gaze over to Zoro, who is currently single-handedly taking on at least ten of Buggy's followers. And winning. Ridiculous, impressive, beautiful man.
“Zoro ain't property.”
“Perhaps not. But he is yours.”
Sanji doesn't have time for this. Phill and Brix have scurried off to the half-repaired wall as instructed, the photographers are getting in the way of Buggy's crew as much as possible, taking close up photos with full flash right in their faces, while the journalists distract the marines and the news crew slow Buggy down by stroking his enormous fucking ego, and now it's time to fight.
Sanji rolls his neck and shakes out his shoulders. Oh, he's ready for this. He's been ready all fucking day.
Then that annoying fucking voice pulls him up sharp again when it drawls, “I just wanted you to know that I find myself growing rather fond of your pet Rabbit.”
Pet… rabbit? “Are you talking about Zoro?”
“Hmm. If I ever find you've been remiss in taking care of him, in any way…” Mihawk tilts the big sword, so that the blade glints wickedly.
Sanji blinks for a moment in a sort of stunned confusion. “I'm sorry, is this a shovel talk? From you?” The man who nearly bloody killed Zoro a few weeks ago. The man Zoro talks about while he and Sanji fuck. The man who just showed up with Zoro out of fucking nowhere after he’s been missing in action all fucking day.
Mihawk hums, as if agreeing with the sentiment. “We live in perplexing times, do we not?” Then he dips his head, making the feather on his absurd hat jiggle. “Take care, Sanji of the Straw Hat Pirates.”
Then he sheathes his euphemism and off he fucks.
Dramatic bastard.
He might at least have given them a fucking hand with all this, if he was going to appear randomly out of the fucking ether and talk shit. Sanji kicks the nearest pirate square in the balls to vent his frustration. The pirate drops with satisfying rapidity, and Sanji doesn’t wait; he follows the momentum and ducks down, swiping his left leg out in a graceful arc and taking two more enemies down at the ankles.
Fucking hell, there are a lot of them, and they’re all guarding the sodding platform. When Sanji last saw Buggy he barely had a body, let alone a crew of this size. It’s gonna take too long to reach Luffy at this rate.
So he changes tack. He has to get to Zoro, he decides. Together, they’re an unstoppable force–they’ll reach Luffy in time even if Sanji has to kick Zoro over there.
He’s only managed half a dozen paces when he hears a bellow of sheer distress that can only come from– “Zoro!” He kicks the next pirate in the side of the rib cage, sending them flying across the square, and glances ahead.
A familiar mop of green hair. A blur of metal. No blood, yet.
Zoro’s still besieged by Buggy’s crew, but he doesn’t look injured. No, instead he’s staring wordlessly, helplessly up at the platform. At Luffy.
Heart hammering in trepidation, Sanji turns his eyes upwards. From this angle, and in the dark of the evening and the heavy storm clouds overhead, all he can make out is the gleam of Buggy’s sword as it falls towards Luffy’s throat.
No, he thinks, numbly. NO. Distantly, he thinks he hears Zoro screaming.
Then the deafening crack of thunder, and a blinding flash that puts every camera to shame.