Chapter Text
It’s the smell of blood that wakes Sanji up.
Usually, he awakens from his slumber in a lazy, peaceful way. Most nights, if he is lucky, he believes to wake up from a dream, and if he tries hard enough, he can see the sunlight coming into his room and hear his mother’s hums coming from somewhere in the castle. But those are only illusions, of course, for his mother has been dead for a long, long time and Sanji will never again feel the sunlight on his skin.
Still, that cursed night, he doesn’t come to his senses in disappointment. No, it’s the hunger that jolts his body awake, making him sit up on his bed, eyes scanning the room and fangs out. It’s pitch black, but he can see perfectly. Everything is in its place. His house remains silent, and outside there is little movement, a few animals in the nearby forest.
But now, he only needs his sense of smell to guide him through his house and into the backyard. It’s an old building, with a back gate all rusty. Sanji never felt the need to fix it – no one would dare to trespass into his house, and if anyone did, he could always scare them away. The people of this small village are all superstitious and avoid the old mansion like the plague. It’s the occasional bandit or traveler that thinks they can enter and try to plunder it. If they try, Sanji makes them go away. And if it’s only someone in need of a place to sleep through the night, he can offer the shack a couple of meters away and a plate of food.
This time it’s no traveler, he knows. No bandit, either. He opens the door without a care to prepare himself – he knows there is no one else outside or anywhere nearby – and walks to his backyard to find the man lying among the grass. He had enough strength to push the gate open and crawl through the plants until the place where he fell, right in the middle of Sanji’s roses.
He bleeds, and bleeds, and bleeds.
The earth soaks his blood and everything around him is a dark shade of brown. And the smell, the smell is the worst part. It smells so good it makes Sanji’s stomach hurt. When was the last time he tasted human blood? Maybe forty or fifty years ago, it’s difficult to tell – the years all blur together for him.
The man is not dead, he knows. His heartbeat is faint, and he’ll be dead soon, but for now he clings on to life. Sanji could let him die, should let him die and bury him in the forest outside. He could also drain the man’s blood until there’s not a drop left – he has the most delicious scent Sanji ever smelled, strong and metallic and warm, somehow. Sanji’s mouth waters and he puts a hand over it, forcing himself to take a step back. He wants it so bad, one more moment and he won’t be able to control himself. So he does what he knows best: he runs.
—
The people of the village think Nico Robin is a witch, and that works just fine for her. News of wanted people and criminals rarely make the rounds to that place forgotten by the gods, and if it did, they wouldn’t turn on her. After all, she is the smartest person in the village, the one who helps them all with their problems.
Sanji has to be careful when knocking on her door, lest he’ll knock it out of the handles. It’s difficult to control his strength when he’s hungry. As soon as she opens it, Robin can see that there’s something wrong with him.
“Robin, I need your help, please,” he says, looking down. If he doesn’t look at her, she won’t see how red his eyes are, or how his fangs won’t retract. He is so hungry he is about to lose it. “You need to come with me.”
“Of course, let’s go.” She doesn’t ask questions, just picks up her things and lets Sanji hold her so he can run. It’s brave of Robin to trust herself to his arms in the state he’s in – her blood is not as alluring as the man’s, and Sanji will die before he ever drinks from a woman – and he both fears and admires her for it.
He’s afraid that the man will be dead by the time they arrive, but his heart still beats as Sanji gently lets Robin down closer to him. She touches his neck and nods to herself. “Can you get him inside?”
It’s the hardest thing Sanji has had to do in years, to control himself enough to hold the man and take him to a spare room so Robin can treat him. He closes his eyes and walks on instinct, but as he lets the man down on the bed and Robin opens the window to let the moonlight shine on them, Sanji finally sees his face.
He is so handsome, this man. His sharp features, his defined muscles, his green hair. Everything about his looks is almost as alluring as his blood. It comes from a wound on his chest, a deep cut that, if Sanji’s knowledge of anatomy is still good enough, nearly missed his heart.
“I’ll trust him to you, Robin,” Sanji says, walking backwards. He doesn’t want to stop looking at the man, for maybe soon he’ll be under the earth, but he can’t stay. Not like this. His control is slipping, he needs to go.
He needs to hunt.
—
This is the perfect region for him, full of forests and big animals. It’s not hard for him to find a bear, a large one that will keep him sated for weeks, if he’s careful. Every time Sanji needs to hunt, he thinks of his brothers, of their laughs as they played with their prey, echoing through the halls of their castle, sending shivers down Sanji’s spine.
He does it as quickly and as painless as possible, and when the animal is down, he thanks him for it. Then he drinks, and drinks and drinks until his clothes are soaked and his face is all red. Usually, when he has to drink, Sanji does it so because of his nature; his mind stays blank as if he’s in a trance, and by the time he comes out of it he’s sated and left only with emptiness. Now, however, he thinks of drinking the man’s blood, of how thick and warm it would be, how delicious it would taste compared to the bear’s.
By the time he is finished, Sanji’s body is at ease, but not his mind. The smell of the man’s blood still haunts him, and he is, for the first time since he moved into that house, scared of going back. When he finally goes back the night is almost ending, one more hour and the sun will rise. Sanji dreams of it, of its warmth and light. Sometimes, they are good dreams. Sometimes, like tonight, they are visions of himself walking into it as he is right now, turning to dust like his family once did.
Robin is sitting in the kitchen, a cup of tea in hands. She has no reaction to his state, never had. Sanji doesn’t know her full story, but he thinks she has seen and done worse things. “He will live,” she says. “He lost a lot of blood, but I was able to patch him up. He will have to stay in bed for a few days, though.”
Sanji, who had been washing his face on the sink, looks at her, dripping water everywhere. “A few days? He can’t stay here, can’t we take him to your house and–”
“We can’t move him the way he is right now.” She interrupts. “I’ll come and take care of him during the day.”
“You’re too good, Robin.” He smiles at her, though he knows he must look grotesque. He can’t ask more of her, not with all the favors he’s always asking. “I’m sorry I forced this on you.”
She offers him a small, but genuine smile. “Don’t be, you know I will always help you, Sanji. We’re friends.” That they are. His only friend. “I’ll sleep here and take care of him tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll have many questions when he wakes up. What should I tell him then?”
Sanji cleans his face, feeling slightly better. He looks around the mess he made on the sink and on the floor. Zeff would never approve it. “Tell him the same thing they say in the village, that this house is haunted and he shouldn’t leave his bedroom after sunset.”
Robin takes a sip of her tea. “This man doesn’t strike me as someone who will be afraid of ghosts, but I’ll do it.”
Sanji thinks of the smell of the man’s blood again, shivering. “If he isn’t, then I’m sure he’ll be scared of me.” Everyone is, eventually. He looks down at his clothes, now soiled with blood and dirt. “I’ll clean up and go to sleep.” Before he leaves the kitchen, he stops at a safe distance from Robin – he’s sated now, but he still doesn’t trust his instincts, not fully. “Thank you for helping me, I don’t know what I would have done if I couldn’t count on you.”
Robin looks at him, her expression as serene and enigmatic as always. “You would do the right thing, of course.” Then, she gets up. “I’ll sleep in the bedroom next to his, so I can hear when he wakes up. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he doesn’t disturb you.”
Sanji smiles at her. “You’re the best.”
Her trust in him is touching, but Sanji isn’t sure it’s warranted. Would he really do the right thing if he was left with the man? Would his humanity win over the hunger he felt? It scared him, how much he wanted to drink the man’s blood, a need he hadn’t felt in years. It will all work out, he tells himself after he cleans up and lies down, slumber already taking over his body, all he needs to do is stay away from the man.
—
There is no one but the two of them in the house, Sanji knows as soon as he wakes up. He can hear the man’s heartbeat but worse than that, he can hear the characteristic opening and closing of doors of someone looking for food in the kitchen. Maybe, had the man chosen to investigate any other room in the house, Sanji would have left him alone. He would have escaped through the window and come back only close to sunrise. But he’s a cook and he can’t stand the idea of anyone messing up his precious kitchen.
He is silent as he comes closer, but the second he’s at the door, the man turns to him, a bottle in hand. Like this, with his mind clear, Sanji can study him properly, see all the details he missed the previous night: his scarred eye, his three earrings and his three swords. And, of course, the large scar on his chest, part of it hidden under bandages that are thankfully not blood stained.
“You shouldn’t be drinking that,” is the first thing Sanji says after he has studied the man enough and also looked around his kitchen to make sure everything is still in place. The man holds a bottle of sake, the lid already open. “And you shouldn’t be here. Didn’t Robin tell you not to leave your room at night?”
“Huh?” The man asks, blinking as if to wake himself up from a trance. “Ah, you mean the woman? Yeah, she told me that, but I don’t believe in ghosts.” He looks Sanji up and down. “You look very solid to be one.”
Sanji does his best to walk at a normal speed, reaching out and snatching the bottle from his hands. “I’m not a ghost.” No, he is something far worse, and if this man knew what is good for him, he wouldn’t be standing in Sanji’s kitchen while smelling so good. “I just don’t want moss balls walking around my house.”
The man rolls his eyes, but by the time he tries to take the bottle back, Sanji is already out of his reach. “My name is Roronoa Zoro.” He speaks as if it’s supposed to mean something, but if he’s famous, Sanji has never heard of him – he didn’t choose to hide in an isolated village to learn all about the world’s most famous mossy heads.
Seeing as Zoro won’t stop staring at him, Sanji finally speaks: “Sanji.” He places the bottle on a counter. “And as I said, you should not be drinking.”
“Because of this?” Zoro looks down at the bandages around his torso. “This is nothing.”
Sanji rolls his eyes. Of course the one time he tries to help someone it would be a stubborn type. “You almost bled to death.” Then, seeing as Zoro won’t leave, he gestures towards the table. “You need to eat. Sit down and I’ll cook you something.”
Zoro looks at him for a long moment, but sits down. He looks much better than the previous night, miraculously so, but Sanji can sense that he’s still not as good as he makes himself out to be. The faster he nurses Zoro back to health, the faster he will leave.
“So, is that woman your wife?” Zoro asks just as Sanji was about to start cooking.
He drops the pan he was holding, turning around to look at Zoro. “No!” Sanji is quick to reply. The question makes him uneasy, not because it’s Robin – he can only wish a lady like her would ever look at someone like him – but because it reminds him of his past. “She’s just a friend who I asked to help. You better not have done anything to her!”
“I promise you your friend is fine. She said she had business in town.” Zoro crosses his arms over his chest and Sanji turns back to his cooking. “So you live here alone?”
Sanji busies himself with walking around the kitchen, selecting vegetables for a soup. Zoro is probably still too weak to eat anything too substantial. “Yes,” he finally replies. “But don’t think you can rob me.”
Zoro snorts. “I’m no thief. Relax, curly.” He smirks when Sanji looks back at him. “I’m a bounty hunter.” There is pride in the way he says that.
Sanji is not that impressed, he has seen many bounty hunters during his long life, and they all tend to have short lives. Sooner or later, they find someone stronger that can’t be defeated. Sanji guesses that Zoro is around the age he was when his life ended, and with a body already full of scars, he will not live much longer.
When Sanji doesn’t say anything, Zoro asks: “And you? What is it that you do?”
“Mind my own business.” Sanji continues chopping vegetables, ignoring the way Zoro scoffs at his answer. He has no need to say anything to Zoro. After all, he’ll leave soon.
They stay in silence, the only noise is that of Sanji walking around and cooking. Soon, the kitchen is filled with the smell of the soup. Sanji remembers a time when his mouth would water at the smell of his own creations, but now he feels nothing at all. No, now he still feels the desire to drink Zoro’s blood. The smell is still stronger than the one of the food, and Sanji can sense it flowing through Zoro’s body, so warm and inviting. Zoro needs to leave as soon as possible.
Once the soup is ready, Sanji serves it with bread he baked a few nights earlier. He sets the plate in front of Zoro, taking a seat in front of him. “Eat.” He reaches out for his pocket, taking a cigarette. He doesn’t breathe, but he can create the illusion of doing so, and the cigarette helps him look more normal. And yet, it’s not as good of a habit now that Sanji knows it’s not slowly killing him.
“You’re not going to eat?” Zoro asks.
“I’m not hungry.” It’s a lie. He is ravenous. Especially with Zoro this close. But Sanji knows how to control himself now that his body is full, and so he only takes a drag of the cigarette, exhaling to the side.
Zoro gives him a long glance, but shrugs and starts eating. This is the moment Sanji had been waiting for. The last time he cooked for someone new was when he first met Robin, and it has been a while. He watches as Zoro’s eyes widen and he starts eating his soup faster, taking large bites of the bread in between. Even though he never tastes his food, Sanji knows it’s still delicious.
“More.” Zoro slides the plate towards him once he has finished in record time, and Sanji snorts, but gets up and refills it. Cooking has always made him happy, no matter who for. “So this is what you do?” He asks. “Cook?”
Sanji hums. “You could say that.” He smiles. “Delicious, isn’t it?”
Zoro scoffs. “It’s passable.” And yet, he cleaned the plate. Sanji takes the time to study his features, feast on his beauty.
He rarely sees anyone new, not when he barely leaves the premises of his house to begin with. Usually, Sanji will hunt through the nearby forests, and sometimes see the occasional merchant traveling by or women looking for herbs or washing their clothes at the river. He always hides from them, but keeps watch to make sure they’re safe. But seldomly someone like Zoro will show up – this is not a violent region, being known to be favorable to the great pirate king Monkey D. Luffy, and bandits know better than to try their luck.
No, he never sees someone with the presence and the aura Zoro has. Even wounded, he still looks like a threat. Sanji looks at the swords on his waist, reaching the ground. Does he use all three at the same time? Is that even possible? He seems too aware of his surroundings too, choosing the chair that stands closer to the back entrance. Sanji wonders if he walked around the house and the outside during the day, if he mapped the whole building in case he needed to escape. Not that he ever could if Sanji wanted to kill him; whatever his strength is, Sanji is stronger, such is the nature of his cursed body.
“Are you enjoying the view or have you never seen another man before?” Zoro asks in between bites. His voice has an arrogant tone that Sanji doesn’t like, but that riles him up all the same.
“Not one as ugly as you.” He gets up, putting his cigarette out in the trash. It’s fun to have someone else in the house, but he won’t let the banter make him forget the truth: if he stays close to Zoro, he will drink from him, maybe kill him to drink all his blood. And that is a line Sanji is not willing to cross. “Listen, Moss–”
“I have a name!” Zoro interrupts.
“Mosshead,” he continues as if Zoro didn’t say a word. “You are welcome to stay here until you’re fully healed, but after that, I want you out of my house.” And judging by Zoro’s state, that shouldn’t take longer than a day or two. Sanji can deal with that, he’s still full of bear blood. “There are just two rules: one, never enter my room during the day. And two: don’t mess with my kitchen. Think you can do that?”
Zoro nods. “You won’t even notice I’m here,” he says, though Sanji doubts. The smell of Zoro’s blood won’t let Sanji forget his presence. “But you seem fairly calm with offering your house to a person you don’t know.”
That makes Sanji smile. “You’re not a threat to me.”
Something subtle changes in Zoro’s expression. For a moment, Sanji sees the person he can be when wielding those swords. “Is that so?” He asks. Then, as quickly as it comes it goes and he’s back to his unassuming posture. “But fine, I won’t get in your way.”
It’s still early in the night, but Sanji doesn’t want to stay around Zoro. Lonely as he is, he might get attached to the man just because he’s company, and that never ends well. Attachment is not something he can do, not in his condition. He makes his way to the back door, ignoring the way Zoro’s eyes follow him.
“I’ll go out and I don’t want to see you when I come back,” he says just to sound rude. He’ll climb through his window when he’s back. “And don’t go around snooping in my house or I’ll know.” Not that Sanji cares, nothing in this house is precious or personal to him except the things locked in his bedroom, and he doubts Zoro can pick a lock.
He leaves before Zoro can reply, to the quiet of the forest, to drown himself in the smell of earth and animals and forget how alluring Zoro is to him. Just a couple more days and he’ll go back to his solitude, as he should be.
—
Sanji doesn’t see Zoro for the next three days. He knows the man is still in the house, but he climbs in and out of his window, paying attention to make sure Zoro is not outside and able to see him as he does. It’s easier this way, to keep his distance. He visits Robin’s cabin, cooks her dinner while she reads, complains when she beats him on board games. She is kind enough to check on Zoro during the day, to make sure he didn’t drop dead by his stupid choice of drinking alcohol while healing from a nearly fatal injury.
It’s only on the fourth day, when Sanji is about to climb through the window again, that he hears Zoro’s voice:
“Strange way to enter your own house.”
He is in the backyard, hiding against the shadows of the house. Strange, Sanji couldn’t feel him then – maybe, he thinks, it’s because the whole house smells of him, or because Sanji has already gotten used to it. A dangerous thing to think about.
“You seem healed,” he says, ignoring Zoro’s words. His guest is wearing new clothes, a coat that doesn’t match the style of clothes they use in the village. But it matches him, especially how it’s open, showing the gnarly scar on his chest. “I take you’re leaving tomorrow, then?”
“About this…” Zoro stops in front of him, not even pretending to be bashful. “I’m not leaving.” He says it as if they’re old time friends and Sanji won’t mind his presence. “You see, curly, I need to lay low for a while, and this little village of yours is perfect for it.”
Sanji takes a step back, putting some distance between them. “Then go hide in the village, not here!” He gestures towards the valley down his backyard, where the village is located. It’s not more than a cluster of houses, with a few shops in between. They’re close to the sea too, and make most of their money from fishing.
“You know, I asked around the village about this house,” Zoro continues as if Sanji didn’t say anything. “And there is this crazy story about how it’s haunted.” He stares at Sanji with such intensity Sanji wants to look away, but doesn’t. He wouldn’t show any weakness in front of Zoro. “Apparently there’s the ghost of a young man that lives here. It kills all the men who approach, but is always nice to women.” Zoro snorts. “Is this your angle? Live here for free and perv on the women of the village?”
Sanji gasps. “How dare you! I’m a gentleman, you hear me, you stupid moss ball?” He splutters. “I would never hurt a lady!”
“Right,” Zoro says, tone dry. “You’re hiding from something, aren’t you? Is that why you only leave the house at night?”
He is not going to drop the subject, Sanji can see it in his expression and posture. He sighs, what a troublesome man. “I have a rare skin disease, alright?” He lies. “Sunlight burns my skin. Happy now?” Sanji takes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it up. It’s a nervous tick, a way to calm himself down. “Anyway, you really should leave.”
He walks past Zoro and towards the house. He doesn’t care if Zoro finds him suspicious, as long as he goes. But Zoro is relentless, walking and stopping in front of him. They stare at each other, and for a moment, Sanji wants to let his true nature come out, to scare Zoro or, if it doesn’t work, to hurt him. It’s a terrible thought, one that is only made worse by the enticing smell of Zoro’s blood. It wasn’t so bad after he healed from his wound, but here, up close, it’s almost too much.
“I’ll pay you back,” Zoro says, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Sanji makes a valiant effort not to look at his pecs.
He exhales right into Zoro’s face, just to be annoying. “And how, exactly?” Not that he needs money, not here, but something about Zoro makes Sanji want to continue arguing just because.
Zoro moves his hand in front of his face, expression sour after having smoke blown directly into it. He opens his mouth, then closes it, seemingly deciding to say something else. “I’ll fix your house. It’s falling apart.”
Sanji looks at it. When was the last time the house was fixed? Maybe the first time he met Luffy’s crew, twenty or maybe thirty years ago – it’s difficult for him to track the time. Sometimes it passes too fast, sometimes it seems to drag. The house was already vacant for a couple of years when he found it; it belonged to an old mayor of the village, a man who, according to legend, felt himself too important, hence why building his house on top of a hill where he could look at the village like a king to his lands. A fire broke down and killed the man, his wife and their three sons. It seemed like the perfect place for Sanji to live.
“And you know anything about carpentry?” He asks, amused. “You don’t seem like the type.”
Zoro smirks. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.” His smirk turns into a grin as he continues: “Besides, why would I leave when I can stay here and have you feed me?”
Sanji stares at him in disbelief. “Then I’m not cooking for you anymore, this is not an inn. You can starve.”
He walks past Zoro and into the house, but Zoro only follows him, chuckling. “You found me almost dead and nursed me back to health, you wouldn’t let me starve.”
Sanji doesn’t like the certainty with which he says that. They’ve known each other for only a couple of days, but Zoro seems to believe he knows Sanji longer. He wonders how Zoro would feel if he knew what Sanji really is, if he saw how brutal Sanji can be. Would Zoro finally fear him? Or worse, would he try to capture Sanji as a trophy? Over the years, he has heard of it, bounty hunters who would find different creatures and sell them to rich men. Would Zoro try to sell him out as a curiosity to some bored merchant? And if they fought, would Zoro have it in him to kill Sanji? Would Sanji?
He doesn’t like how being near Zoro brings all these questions to his mind. Sanji believed he was used to his solitude, adapted to it only in a way a creature who clings to life despite it all could. The interruption of his routine angers him, but as he turns around in the kitchen and sees Zoro already at the table, polishing one of his swords, Sanji can’t help but smile. He is making a mistake, he knows, nothing good can come from being around such temptation, but he can’t help it. Maybe he isn’t as used to his loneliness as he thought.
—
There is a wedding happening in the village.
From where Sanji sits on his back porch he can see the street lights and hear the music. They are not religious people, and most weddings are simple ceremonies followed by a party, and Sanji can hear the clapping and laughing. He can see the bride and groom, dancing in the center of the party, holding each other and smiling. People always look better when they’re happy, his mother used to say, and he can see that in the couple.
He blinks and is transported to the day of his own wedding. It was a beautiful, starry summer night and the whole city was decorated to celebrate it. That is what Sanji remembers the most, looking up and gasping at how beautiful the sky looked. He lived his whole life in a cold place, where the sky was mostly gray.
After that, all that comes are flashes: spending the previous night working on the cake, dressing in his all white clothes, walking down the aisle, his family sitting in the front row, shedding one lone tear as he watched Pudding arrive, her pretty smile as they looked at each other, the first shot, the screams–
“Oi, curly, are you listening?” Zoro pushes his shoulder in a rough way, but it manages to bring Sanji back to reality. “You’ve been sitting here staring at nothing for hours.”
Sanji realizes in horror that he had been crying and wipes his cheeks. Thankfully his body has this defect – if he could call it that – of actually producing real tears instead of the bloody ones his family did. He doesn’t know how he would have explained that to Zoro.
“Just because I let you stay doesn’t mean I want your company,” he says rather rudely, even though he is thankful Zoro hasn’t asked about his crying. “Don’t tell me you’re hungry again.”
He has taken the habit of cooking enough for dinner, breakfast and lunch, leaving it all ready for Zoro. It’s stupid of him, but there is nothing Sanji loves more than cooking, and there is only so much food he could make when he doesn’t eat and Robin, the only other person who ate his cooking, eats very little.
“No, I’m full.” Zoro actually smiles and Sanji decides to see it as the thank you he never got. “But if you want to make more food later–”
“You truly eat too much, mosshead.” Though Sanji can’t complain, seeing as Zoro is the one now buying food – with what money, he isn’t sure – and sometimes even hunting small animals in the forest. “If I didn’t know Luffy, I’d say you’re the hungriest person I’ve ever met.”
“Luffy?” Zoro asks. “As in Monkey D. Luffy? The king of pirates?”
Sanji nods. “Didn’t you notice his flag down there by the bay? This village is under his care.”
He remembers the day Luffy put the flag there, his large smile as he promised to take care of the village and its people. You’ll be here, won’t you? He had asked. And I’ll come back to eat your delicious food. He had been nothing but a boy, eyes shining with excitement at the prospect of adventures.
Sanji had said goodbye to them with unshed tears in his eyes, pretending they were just because of Nami. He remembers Luffy’s insistence on bringing him along, promising to build a studier ship, with a room where sunlight wouldn’t enter. But Sanji couldn’t do it – the seas were vast and the perils were many, they could end up stranded in the open sea for weeks, and then what? Would Sanji feed on fish and sea monsters? Would that even quench his thirst? No, a life of adventure was not for him.
This, he thinks, this isolation, is what he deserves. Away from everyone else, protecting them from his curse. Or rather, he would be isolated if it wasn’t for Zoro and his insistence on not leaving.
“I’ve met him a couple of times, tried to recruit me to his crew.” Zoro chuckles.
Sanji chuckles too. Sounds just like Luffy. “Didn’t fancy the pirate life, mosshead?”
“I’d rather stay on land.” There is something too serious about the way Zoro speaks. He turns his head and Sanji studies his profile, the curve of his nose, how strong his jaw looks. He swallows and Sanji looks at his throat, at the crook of his neck. How much he wishes he could hide his face there, inhale the sweet scent of his blood and drink it until he’s satisfied. “I bet he tried to recruit you too.”
He looks away, lest Zoro will notice him staring. To further busy himself, he picks up a cigarette, taking a long drag. It doesn’t make him feel anything and Sanji yearns for it. It’s the most trivial thing he misses of his past life, the burn of a good cigarette.
“Yeah, but that was a long time ago, when he was young,” Sanji says, looking down at the village. The party is still in full swing and Sanji sighs. He wishes he could have enjoyed his own wedding at least a little, to have at least one good memory of that night.
“Huh?” Zoro turns to him. “What do you mean? He was young twenty years ago. How old are you?”
Sanji drops his cigarette, eyes wide. “Not that old!” He says, voice high pitched. “I meant he was young mentally, he’s matured a lot in the past few years. I’m young, very young.”
“Right.” Zoro looks at him with mistrust. “You look kinda old, with the wrinkles around your eyes.” He points towards Sanji’s face.
“I don’t have wrinkles!” Sanji yells. The audacity. “I may look old but I bet I’m stronger than you!”
Zoro smirks at this. “Yeah? Wanna find out?” He has a hand on the hilt of one sword, a casual gesture that still looks calculated just to annoy Sanji.
And Sanji could fight him, but he would end up killing Zoro. He looks like a strong man, no doubt, but whatever human strength he has is no match to Sanji’s Germa 66 body. And Sanji is not like his family, takes no pleasure in violence or hurting someone for the sake of it. Besides, if they fought Zoro would bleed and if he bled Sanji wouldn’t be able to control himself.
He gets up. “Not even gonna bother answering that,” he says as he passes by Zoro and into the house. “Now go do something else while I make a snack, and don’t come back here before I’m done.”
Zoro smirks, but does as he’s told, seemingly satisfied with himself. Sanji finds the gesture both annoying and attractive in equal measure, and wonders how much of Zoro’s allure comes from the smell of his blood and how much comes from him.
It’s only when he’s inside the kitchen, humming a tune while he cooks, that Sanji realizes that he forgot his sadness and the bad memories related to the wedding all thanks to Zoro and his annoying conversation.
“Stupid moss ball,” he whispers as he cooks, deciding to make an extra portion for Zoro’s breakfast. He earned it.
—
Sanji comes back from Robin’s place, holding a new cookbook she got him, when he finds Zoro in the backyard skinning a deer. He has been doing this ever since he decided to stay, hunting and cutting the meat. At least he doesn’t expect Sanji to also provide the food on top of cooking. He has no idea of how Zoro gets the rest of the food – not even he would be stupid enough to steal from the village and stay up here – but he always comes back with food and supplies.
He seems to be a good hunter, too. Sanji can always smell when he has killed something and left the animal to bleed out during the day. He doesn’t know what Zoro does with the blood, and he’s thankful for it, but he can both smell and see the marks on the grass. By the time he wakes up, the animals have already been bled and cut up, all meat cuts neatly in the fridge.
Tonight, however, Zoro works on the deer under the lights of the backyard – it’s turned away from the village and to the forest, so no one ever sees them from down there, unlike the living room lights, which Sanji isn’t even sure still work. He is not wearing a shirt, because of course he isn’t, and the tips of his fingers are dirty with blood as he pulls the skin out in a way Sanji has to begrudgingly admire as skilled.
Sanji swallows, mouth dry. The smell of both the deer and Zoro’s blood is nearly intoxicating.
“I didn’t know you could hunt so well,” he says, taking a seat at a careful distance from Zoro.
“How do you think I ate before I came here?” Zoro asks without even looking away from his work.
“With your bare teeth, like the animal you are.” Sanji grins when Zoro finally looks up at him, enjoying how annoyed he looks. It’s a good distraction from the smell of his blood. “Who taught you to hunt?”
Zoro goes back to his work, hands working fast. “Some old guys in my village. They taught me most of what I know.”
Sanji can almost picture a child Zoro following adults around, being cute and annoying, demanding they teach him everything they know until they eventually gave in. “Did they teach you how to use the swords as well?”
“No.” Zoro looks at the skin of the deer, looking for imperfections. Then, he opens it and gets up to hang it out to dry. He’s been taking all the skins to Robin so she can sew covers for winter time. He’ll need it, Sanji thinks, for the winters up there in the mountain are cruel. Sanji almost misses what Zoro says next, shocked at himself for thinking about Zoro still being there during winter. “That was my father.”
He blinks, bringing himself to the present. He can think about wintertime later. “So your father is a swordsman too?” Sanji watches as Zoro goes back to the carcass of the animal to start cutting the meat itself. “Was he that good of a teacher if someone managed to do that to you?” He asks, gesturing towards the large scar on Zoro’s chest.
Zoro snorts. “He was the one who put it there.”
“Oh.” If Sanji could, he would be blushing in embarrassment now. He doesn’t know what else to say, but is rescued when Zoro continues talking:
“I challenged him to a duel and I lost, he didn’t have that much of a choice.” He cuts the meat with experienced hands and Sanji focuses on the callouses of his hands, wondering how they would feel against his skin. “It wasn’t that deep of a cut anyway, my sister just did a shitty job at healing it.”
Zoro’s body is a collection of scars, Sanji noticed. The one in his eye, the big one in his chest, on both his ankles, smaller ones on his torso and back. He lives a dangerous life, and for once Sanji is happy that he is here, hunting animals in the mountains, instead of out there in the world bounty hunting.
“So you have a sister? How old is she? Is she pretty?” He asks, interested. It’s difficult to imagine this Zoro as part of a family. He looks like a loner, never in the same place for too long. Sanji wonders if they talk somehow, if they are on good terms.
“She’s old and ugly,” Zoro answers. When Sanji opens his mouth, Zoro cuts him off: “No, you can’t meet her. You’re not her type anyway.”
Sanji rolls his eyes. “You don’t know that, the ladies love me.”
“Is that why you’re alone in the middle of nowhere?” Zoro asks, voice dry. Then, he turns to look at Sanji. “Where is your family?”
Sanji thinks of Reiju. Of blood tears sliding down her face the night before his wedding, her whisper of I wish mother was here before drying the tears off and trying to smile. He thinks of his brothers and their cruel smiles, the way they used to beat Sanji off. He thinks of his mother, her serene expression every time he visited her chambers, her pale hand in his as he talked about his days. He thinks of Zeff and how he would yell at Sanji for mixing up ingredients, but would smile proudly once he was done cooking. He thinks of Judge–
No, he won’t think of Judge.
“They’re dead,” he answers. “All of them.”
Zoro looks at him, expression serious. He doesn’t offer his condolences, nor does he try to lighten the mood. Instead, he hums and goes back to work. It’s best like this, Sanji thinks, he has heard enough empty words over the years. They’ve been gone for so long that the pain of their loss is dull now, barely noticeable. He wonders if one day he’ll forget about them, if they’ll think of Sora and not remember her face, or how Reiju sounded or how Zeff looked at him when they were alone in the kitchen.
That, Sanji thinks, is the worst part of his condition. To forget. At some point he’ll become a shell, devoid of emotions. He knows that is the end of his journey, the conclusion of his monstrous nature, and yet he can’t end things now. It would be so easy to walk into the sun and let it burn his body until he’s nothing but ashes. But he can’t, he wants to live, desperately so. Pudding gave him a second chance, he can’t betray her by taking the easy way out. No, before death Sanji must pay for his sins.
Zoro finishes cutting the meat, all that can be used to one side, everything that will be discarded to the other. He’s organized in his work – it’s a surprise, for Sanji believed a man like him would be a lot messier. He gets up, stretching. Sanji follows the hard lines of his muscles, the trail of hair that disappears into his pants. Everything about him makes Sanji’s mouth water, not only his blood, and Sanji wishes they had met in another life, one in which he wasn’t a monster.
He follows Zoro with his eyes as Zoro walks up to a large basin and washes his knife before washing his hands and splashing water over his face. Water drips down his chest and Sanji licks his lips.
“You know you can just go inside and take a bath, right?” He asks, pretending to be looking at his book that was long forgotten.
“I’ll do it later,” Zoro says, though Sanji doubts. His blood is not the only thing Sanji can smell. “I have to put this away and then go meet Franky at the village.”
“Franky? Who is that?” Sanji closes the book, trying not to look too curious.
“The new village carpenter.” Zoro gestures towards the house. “He’s the one who gave me the tools to fix the inner steps. He offered to do it, but I guessed you wouldn’t want someone else in the house.”
“Oh.” Sanji is speechless for the second time. Zoro is proving to be a very considerate person. “About that–”
Zoro makes a gesture with his hand. “I said I would do it, didn’t I?” He reaches out to a shirt left forgotten on the porch and puts it on. “Actually, you can handle the meat, cook. I’ll be going out now.”
He starts walking and Sanji gets up, looking at him. “Don’t treat me like your butler!” He yells. “Hey, mosshead! Don’t get lost on your way there! I’m not looking for anyone this late in the night!”
Zoro stops at some distance, looking back at him, a smirk on his lips. “Don’t worry, curly, I’ll be back soon.”
“I’m not worried!” Sanji says in response. Still, knowing that Zoro will be back calms him down.
—
Sometimes, Sanji likes to pace through the woods to make sure no one is hiding there. Before Luffy claimed the region, many bandits used to hide among the trees and target the village, or so he heard from Robin, who heard from the village elders. He imagines a group finding his house, getting in, trying to wake him up during the day.
Sanji knows what would happen, the carnage that would follow, the danger he would put everyone in. He remembers waking up to the aftermath of such a moment in the Germa 66 castle, walls dripping in blood because some pirate crew had managed to invade it and get to Judge’s quarters. And as he looked at that, all he could feel was hunger. No, Sanji will never let himself get to that state again.
No one visits the forest at night thanks to the ghost stories, and so Sanji can walk calmly through it, enjoying the cool spring breeze. It’s not a bad life, to have this silence for company, not when the alternative is bringing pain to others. He can hear and smell the animals, and feel how they run and hide when they sense his presence – they all know he’s the biggest predator there.
It’s easy to pick up the smell of Zoro’s blood, and had Sanji been a stronger man he would have ignored it. But instead he lets it lead him into the forest until he sees where Zoro is. He was not in the house when Sanji woke up, but Sanji got used to it. Zoro spends a lot of time in the village during the day, doing what Sanji doesn’t know, but he always comes back.
Now he’s inside a natural spring, illuminated only by moonlight. It’s the place where most villagers go to bathe or wash their clothes, not too deep into the forest coming from the village. The water reaches up to his chest, and he leans against the edge, a bottle of sake in one hand as he enjoys the warm water.
Sanji can see him clearly even in the dimness of the night, how relaxed he looks, strong muscles not looking tense for once. Zoro takes a sip from his bottle and the act of his throat bobbing as he swallows makes Sanji feel like in a trance. His blood still smells so delicious Sanji wants to attack him like an animal, pounce on him and drink every drop. He’s been feeding a lot more than usual to control himself, but when Zoro is like this Sanji can feel his control slipping. One more moment and he could–
“Oi, cook,” Zoro calls, looking in his direction. “Don’t just stand there like a creep, come here.”
Sanji’s eyes widen. He is sure it’s too dark for anyone to notice him there and he’s been quiet the entire time. Maybe Zoro truly is like an animal, sensing rather than seeing him.
He takes a step out of the covers of the trees and into the dim moonlight. “So you can bathe,” he says. “You just choose not to. Noted.” He tries not to stare at Zoro too much, lest Zoro will notice the desire in his eyes. “I didn’t want to intrude.”
Zoro rolls his eyes and takes another sip from his bottle. “I wouldn’t be a good bounty hunter if I didn’t pay attention to my surroundings.” He puts the bottle to the side. “Well, don’t just stand there, get in. Or do you hate bathing?”
Sanji sneers at him. He shouldn’t do this. When they’re in the house, Sanji takes care to put enough distance between himself and Zoro. The kitchen table always serves as a good barrier, and Sanji always stays in the corner of the porch, watching as Zoro works on the animals he hunts or polishes his swords in the backyard.
But this spring is quite small, and if he enters it they’ll be too close, Zoro will be too vulnerable. Sanji opens his mouth to say that it’s best if he goes back to the house, but Zoro has a look on his face, challenging and cocky, as if he can already see whatever excuse Sanji will come up with. He is too good at it, riling Sanji up.
He can control himself. His body is still full of the last rabbit blood he drank a day or so ago, he can control his urges. “Don’t be stupid,” he mumbles. “Look away.” He takes off his clothes and folds them, putting them beside the pile of Zoro’s clothes.
Zoro scoffs, but does it anyway. “Didn’t think you were the shy type,” Zoro says.
The water is warm and Sanji relaxes, forgetting about his own dilemma for a moment. He splashes water on his face and his hair, looking back at Zoro once he’s done. “Not everyone is an exhibitionist like you.”
Zoro is staring directly at him, his single eye shining with something that can only be described as carnal desire. He is not discreet about the way he leers at Sanji, smiling in an approving way that Sanji finds both obnoxious and attractive in equal measure. Sanji is not much better, he knows. He was so focused on the monster part of himself that he forgot he’s still a man too.
“Why do I feel like I walked into a trap?” He whispers, noticing that Zoro has moved closer.
Zoro smirks. “Because you did.” To his credit, he doesn’t move much closer. He studies Sanji in the same way Sanji believes he studies the animals he hunts. “You think I didn’t notice the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention?” He asks, voice way too confident. “I thought I’d give you the chance to make the first move, but you were taking too long.”
With his body still filled with blood, Sanji feels it warm. It’s not enough to make him blush like a human, but he still looks away awkwardly, not knowing what to do. He’s been living in isolation for so long, he can’t remember the last time someone courted him – maybe twenty years later, when he first met Usopp. Now he feels like the inexperienced boy who once walked to the altar, hands shaking at the thought of kissing his bride.
He looks back at Zoro, and Zoro seems calm, waiting for him. Nothing fazes him, apparently. “I–” he begins, but doesn’t know what to say. He wants Zoro, not only his blood, but the proximity scares him. What if he loses control? What if he attacks Zoro? What if he–
“Do you want it or not?” Zoro asks, voice serious.
It is as simple as that, isn’t it? To want something or not. For once, just once, Sanji decides to trust Zoro, to believe things won’t end badly. He’ll be selfish just this once.
“Yes.” His voice is clear despite his trepidation. “I want it.”
Zoro moves awfully fast for a human. He pulls Sanji into a kiss with a hand on the back of his neck, making the water slosh into the border of the spring and wet their clothes. But Sanji can’t care about it, not when his lips touch Zoro’s and they both moan into the kiss. He wraps his arms around Zoro’s neck and lets Zoro lead the kiss, keeping a hand on the back of Sanji’s neck and biting his bottom lip as they pull apart.
He has a very strong grip for a human, Sanji notices. Makes sense, he thinks, with how big his muscles are. Zoro kisses his cheek and down his neck, his hand going from Sanji’s neck to his back and down to his ass, squeezing it.
Sanji is nearly overwhelmed, careful to not dig his nails on Zoro’s shoulders or come anywhere near his neck. The smell of his blood is intoxicating now that it’s rushing through his body in excitement, and Sanji has to hold tight to his control to not lose it.
They kiss again and again, Zoro pressing his body against Sanji’s, leaning forward to kiss his neck and nuzzle against it. “I want to devour you, cook,” Zoro says against his skin, biting it softly. His sharp teeth make Sanji tremble. If he had to breathe, he would be out of breath now, but he is sure he still looks like a mess by the way Zoro looks at him when they pull apart.
“Don’t say things like that.” Sanji kisses him again, daring to move a hand down from Zoro’s shoulder to his pec, feeling how soft his muscles are. Whatever he was going to say next is forgotten when Zoro touches his already hard dick, making him moan. For once Sanji is happy that his body still works like a human’s, if only to feel Zoro jerking him off slowly.
“Why not?” Zoro asks, hand still on Sanji’s cock. “Is that not what you want to do to me?”
Sanji groans in pleasure. Zoro is right, Sanji wants to devour him, but he’s sure Zoro wouldn’t like it – Sanji has the visceral need to drink Zoro’s blood until it’s dripping down his neck, making a mess, an animal instinct that makes him dizzy.
Instead of answering Zoro’s question, Sanji kisses him. It’s a rougher kiss, maybe even forceful, but Zoro doesn’t seem to mind. He moans into Sanji’s mouth and Sanji could live in that moment – until his fang cuts Zoro’s bottom lip and he tastes blood. It’s just a drop, maybe not even that, but Sanji shakes. Something in him awakened, a primal need he thought he had under control. That is the most delicious thing he has ever tasted and he wants it, no, he needs it.
And that is why he pulls away and pushes Zoro off him with enough strength to make Zoro tumble to the side and fall deeper into the water. Sanji trembles, body grappling with the desire he feels. He wants Zoro’s blood so badly it’s almost like being sick, and that from only one drop, what would happen if he drank more?
Zoro sits up in the water, looking at him in confusion. “What–”
Sanji shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. “You have to stay away from me.” He isn’t sure if his eyes are red and if his fangs are out, and he hopes they aren’t. Despite everything, he doesn’t want Zoro to see him as a monster. “You have to.”
He gets up, grabs his clothes and runs into the forest before Zoro can say anything. It’s easier to run and hide than to stay and watch Zoro look at him in horror.
—
For the next few weeks, Sanji refuses to leave his room.
He can hear Zoro walking around the house, and often he’ll come and knock on Sanji’s door, tell him to come out, but Sanji stays in the corner all night long, knees close to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs. He’s afraid of Zoro breaking in, but he never does. He never leaves either, which makes Sanji feel both grateful and annoyed.
Sometimes, he will hear Zoro working outside and has to control himself not to peek from the window, because he knows that’s what Zoro wants. He’s a smart one, that mosshead. All the time he stays there, Sanji thinks about their kisses. He thinks about the softness of Zoro’s lips against his, his strong hands on Sanji’s body, what he had said: I want to devour you. Sanji would let him, he would let Zoro do anything to him, but he doesn’t know what he would do to Zoro, and that is the scary part.
He thinks about the way Zoro laughs, about his relaxed personality, about how he eats anything Sanji cooks and asks for seconds. He thinks about how Zoro seems to genuinely enjoy his company though he masks it under sarcasm, just like Sanji does. He thinks about Zoro’s rare smiles, about how his one eye shines.
Sanji misses him dearly. He knew this was a mistake, knew this would eventually happen. Once again, he’s paying the price of his own selfishness, the one responsible for his own undoing. He stays in his room and prays that Zoro will get tired and leave, that time will somewhat heal this wound too one day.
One night he wakes up and doesn’t hear Zoro around the house, nor feels his presence. No, what wakes Sanji up from his slumber is the smell of blood. He feels deja-vu, remembering the night he found Zoro passed out in his garden. It’s not as strong as that time, but it’s still Zoro’s blood, enticing and tempting as always.
Sanji tries to ignore it, but both his instincts and his worry make him finally leave the room. It’s not a lot of blood, but what if something happened to Zoro? He goes down the stairs as silently as possible, as if Zoro could somehow hide from him in the dark corners of the house.
He crosses the backyard until he finds the source of the blood: a small bucket full of it. It’s one of the buckets Zoro uses to bleed the animals he hunts. As expected, the bucket is full of deer blood. Maybe Zoro accidentally cut himself while hanging the deer, as there is not much of his blood mixed in it.
It’s only then, as Sanji sees his reflection in the red pool, that he notices his own hunger. Before Zoro, he was used to going weeks and sometimes even months without feeding. Training himself to resist, to need less blood. But after deciding to feed constantly so Zoro wouldn’t be much of a temptation, he grew complacent. Now, Sanji stares at the blood, fangs already out, and he has no doubt: He kneels on the ground in front of the blood, trembling hands holding the bucket, and drinks from it.
It’s never pretty when Sanji feeds, but this scene must look grotesque. He is desperate, blood spilling and dripping down his neck, soaking his shirt. Sanji is in a trance, tasting Zoro’s blood mixed with the deer’s, savoring its flavor, unable to stop himself until he’s almost done with the bucket.
“I knew this would make you come out of your room.”
Sanji’s head snaps up and he sees, right in the line of the woods, standing with his arms crossed in front of his chest, Zoro looking at him.
“Hey cook,” he says when he notices Sanji staring at him. “Are you enjoying the meal I left for you?” He asks, grinning.
That, Sanji has no doubt, is the smile of a predator.