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In his dreams, a better part of reality, or maybe a kinder version of this crackhead world where skulls don’t split open as easily or as often as he wants to see it, Zoro dances with Sanji, and the music never stop.
The song is in a foreign language from a distant island, heavy with synth and a sleepy voice, one that might even sound better when sung in a crowded bar, an empty room, or over the telephone. It’s not to Zoro’s taste, not that he’s learned how to appreciate music in the slightest; and it’s certainly too sloppy for Sanji’s refined palate. Songs like these deserve quiet nights, multitudes of contemplation, or played in silence just between two pairs of eyes. Songs like these you don’t really talk over—songs like these you kiss with, you make love along, like a serene soundtrack for an ending. Nothing bloody. Nothing painful.
Songs like these you can dance to. In which it might not be perfect, their little footwork; nothing fancy and practiced like in movies with gleaming shoes. They fight over who’s leading, who’s the better dancer, whether you guide with your arm or chest or just by the look in your eyes. Zoro wins out of sheer stubbornness. Or maybe Sanji just lets him, because he’s dripping red, bleeding all over their apartment, and he thinks it’s a little bit like painting. Dancing. Leaving trails.
They stumble along walls, bump into barricades of furniture, shuffle across what’s left of their worn-out place. Let their feet crunch over junk and vomit and rust, a little spin, a small twirl. One time or two, a cheeky nudge of a palm slipping just below the small of the back. A one-and-a-two. Sway, step, swing.
This isn’t waltz, Sanji protests. This isn’t anything.
Zoro smirks, blood under his lip, tilts Sanji over his back. Blond stubbles all over his chin, two weeks’ worth of using their razors to slit necks and not trim hair. When they realign, Zoro readjusts the sling on Sanji’s shoulder cradling his arm, and they dance again.
Still hurts? Zoro asks, and Sanji chuckles with his last cigarette jutting out between his lips.
Like a bitch, he answers, and their pathetic dance is powered along by their feet, their feet only, in between all the other pain all over their bodies. Cuts, bruises, this and that. Above their eyebrows, along their jaw, peppered like constellations, scabbing and leaving scars.
The growling outside their door is low, but it’s constant, and somewhere among the deep barricade of tables and chairs something is hitting the floor, the sign of downfall. Their makeshift defense might hold, it might not. They might sleep tonight, they might not. They might be the only two sane people alive in this apartment complex, they might not. One hundred and fifty-two days alone.
Sanji’s one good hand takes hold behind Zoro’s neck, stays there, lingers. There are bandages underneath his dirty shirt. Something is yellowing, it might or might not be a bite. Nothing is definite. Zoro sometimes wakes up from nightmares and finds that he’s still sleeping, and the song in the background grows louder, looming thick, the soundtrack of a distant dream. It sings, late at night, I think of you.
It’s 2 AM. Once upon a time, when bars were alive not with diseases, they danced just like this. In each other’s arms, without shame, amongst the tame crowd. Zoro had buried his nose in Sanji’s neck and thought, this is it, as he took a deep breath, this is how he’ll die.
There wasn’t anything life-threatening back then, and yet he thought everything would end there, right between Sanji’s bones. Now that everything kills, Zoro thinks he’ll live forever. Dancing. Hurting.
And Sanji, too. Sanji has no cigarettes left, the stub dead and short, pulled out from between his lips to be replaced with a kiss. There’s nothing left in their cabinet, no rats to kill, no birds to shoot. Sanji sighs into his mouth, tired and sweet and sick, and Zoro drinks it. Their feet stills. The world, even when they wish it, doesn’t. The growling is loud. Louder.
The music stops, but it plays forever in a loop, spiraling inside their ears. The vocalist still sings, killing me softly, when I feel so lonely. One hundred and fifty-three days doesn’t sound bad, but they have no fight left—there’s nothing to savor here anyway, except maybe to try dancing. Hurting.
Sanji exhales, and Zoro breathes. Stealing the humidity between their noses, reeking of metal and sick. Stealing the air between their lips. The door breaks open behind the barricade.
They eat each other’s breath, before they eat each other.