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Sanji was no stranger to blood. He had seen the red spill out of his own body on multiple occasions for multiple reasons. It was his fate as the failed prince of Germa to bleed for the kingdom’s purpose, for his skin was not impenetrable and his bones not unbreakable.
He would get hurt during training, falling due to his imbalance or getting cut from the steel of a weapon. The soldiers never held back, the fact that he was a child unimportant. His father always said that there were no children in war, that it was impossible for them to exist in such an environment. He never really understood why he sought it out then, following the stench of bloodshed and misery like a moth followed the light.
He would also get hurt inside the castle, in the corridors or his own room, his brothers always lurking in the shadows, always there with him. They loved decorating his body with bruises and coloring his pale skin deep red.
He had never seen their blood. Not once could he recall having seen their warm blood on their cold skin. Though, they had made him bleed enough for all four of them, his own blood always clinging on their flesh as well. For all he knew it was the same. Their blood couldn’t be that different anyway. Not when they shared the same face.
Still at some point his wounds would close and scar, his memories turning faint and distant. Unlike the ones he had of the battlefield. He would never forget the way the blood of strangers painted the landscape in a dark crimson. How the grass absorbed the liquid as its own and changed into it like a chameleon trying to hide from the slaughter.
It was death that had started his nightmares, the sounds of gushing wounds and last breaths haunting his mind. Sometimes he’d close his eyes and it was the only thing he could see. He’d started hating it, the color red and how it took over everything, how it mixed with his tears, replacing the taste of salt to metal.
He could feel it on his cheek, the dried blood of the people his kingdom killed today, crusting and peeling off. He was guided back into the castle by the guards, some of them holding crates of gold and other treasures. He followed the ones that went into the kitchen, wanting to feel the comfort of a warm meal.
Clean arms put him on the counter and washed his face with a damp cloth, his eyes unfocused and staring at the floor. The sound of wooden crates hitting the stone ground shook him out of his hypnotic state. His gaze wandered to the boxes and its material. It was some type of fruit.
“What’s that?”, he pointed with his finger at it.
The chef turned his head to him, a smiling face appearing in front of him, “This, my little prince, would be a pomegranate.”
His mouth opened in awe, his eyes watching as the chef brought a handful of the fruit to the counter next to his body, “I’ve never seen one.”
“That’s because they’re quite rare on this side of the world.”
He took out a knife from the drawer.
“Can I cut it?”, he asked eagerly, his legs swaying back and forth in an excited manner.
“Sorry but they’re difficult to cut, not like the apples you’re used to”, the cook put the fruit on the cutting board and guided the knife into it, the juice jumping onto his white clothes. “And they’re so messy too. Can’t get these stains out.”
Sanji watched the red spread on the chef’s uniform, the stain weirdly similar to the ones he saw on the battlefield.
The chef cleared his throat after some time of working in silence, “Do you want to bring those to your mother?”
He nodded enthusiastically, like he always did when someone mentioned his mother, jumped off the counter and took the covered bowl handed to him.
He walked out of the kitchen, worried eyes following his back. On the way to his mother he could hear the commotion of soldiers returning from the front line, celebrating another victory. He tried not to look at them, trying to avoid the mess that their bodies were in. So he kept his gaze on the ground, only looking up when he arrived at his mother’s living quarters. She didn’t live with them in the castle, her illness making her too weak to leave the sickbay.
He was greeted by some servants who offered to take the bowl off him but he refused, wanting to carry it to her himself. The servants nodded and opened the door to her room for him.
“Mom, I brought you some fruit”, he held the bowl higher so she could see it better from her place on the bed, “There’s this new one, it’s called pomegranate.”
“Thank you sweetheart”, her voice full of happiness and gratitude, the fact that she stood at death’s threshold not audible.
He gave her the bowl and jumped next to her on the bed, her arm curling around his body instinctively.
She put the grains in her mouth and started chewing, a pretty smile appearing on her face.
“Did you know that I ate lots of pomegranates when I was pregnant with you kids?”
He shook his head as she put the bowl aside and let him climb onto her lap so she could look into his eyes.
“There are people that believe it will make their children beautiful”, she kissed his forehead, “It must’ve worked because you’re the prettiest prince on all the five seas.”
Sanji giggled as his mother covered him in kisses, washing away the growing pain in his heart, his clothes still bloodied by the day’s events.
-
Sanji was no stranger to blood but never did it look this beautiful. The way the liquid dripped down his muscles, wandering down the angles on his skin and accentuating the shapes of his body. No one wore death better than Roronoa Zoro. And few were as handsome as him.
Zoro was, first and foremost, exactly who he claimed to be. A swordsman. He listened to his blades’ chanting, satisfied their need for battle, the only liquid keeping them alive the blood of their prey.
But as someone who found himself on the receiving end of Zoro’s sword slashes, he knew just how much the swordsman liked it too. Sanji had seen his darkened eyes and how they begged for a challenging fight. Sanji had touched his skin, a map of scars, full of constellations that told stories of gruesome matches and carnage.
And yet, it wasn't hard to love him. On the contrary, it was so easy it almost felt natural. ‘Almost’ only because loving Zoro meant loving with your whole being. Every cell of his body reacted to his touch, to his kiss, agitated as if he had been infused with adrenaline. Would it not feel so overwhelming, he would’ve missed it.
“Hey curly, I got you something.”
He entered the galley, holding a box in his arms, the aftermath of the battle still visible on his skin. He put the box on the floor and presented his findings. Pomegranates.
He turned his back to the swordsman and continued prepping dinner.
“We had wars over that fruit”, he said, his voice steady and calm.
“What?”
“The North isn’t a place for fruit to grow. Especially for one’s that need a warmer climate.” He approached the box, grabbed one of the pomegranates in his hands, and looked at it carefully.
“And pomegranates are the fruit of the gods, fitting for a king, don’t you think?”
He saw Zoro shrug from the corner of his eye, his arms crossed in front of his chest.
He leaned back and watched Sanji cut the fruit and scrape the little pieces into a bowl.
“We used them at weddings”, Zoro began, closing his eye and picturing the memory in his mind, “The bride would always throw it at the wall. Koushirou said something about fertility and the happiness in marriage. I think it’s stupid.”
He opened his eye and stole some of the pomegranate grains from the bowl, “At least the pomegranate we got to eat was delicious.”
“You threw them at a wall? That would’ve gotten our chefs killed.”
He slapped Zoro’s dirty hand away without looking at it.
“Thanks for reminding me that Judge is a douchebag.”
Sanji smiled.
“Just so you know, we won’t be throwing any type of food at our wedding. I won’t allow that.”
The swordsman turned red, the blush on his face resembling the way the fruit coloured Sanji's fingertips.
“I already told you that I think it’s stupid. Never planned on doing it anyway”, he uttered, his face only growing redder by the second, the few patches of blood on his face blending in with the blush.
He let go of his knife then and turned to his lover, “Did I make you flustered, marimo-kun?”
“Shut up.”
He put his arms around his shoulders and kissed him on the highest point of his burning cheek.
“You look really beautiful.”
Zoro groaned and hid his face behind his hands.
“Roronoa Zoro, demon of the East, defeated by a simple compliment.”
He laughed, taking in his flustered boyfriend.
“You’re pretty too”, the words barely above a whisper, existing only in their shared space between them.
“You don’t have to return the compliment, it’s fine.”
“But you do!”
He kissed him, tasting the sour fruit in his mouth, “Thanks mossball.”
Sometimes he feared that the blood on Zoro’s hands was similar to the one on Germa’s. Sometimes his red soaked fingers touched him and it reminded him of his family and how they took and took and took.
But while their hands pierced through him and grabbed his throat, making it impossible for him to breathe, his only gave love. He didn’t mind when he left behind marks, not when he kissed them afterwards and breathed loving promises into his ear.
Sometimes he’d look at Zoro and blood wouldn’t seem that terrifying anymore.