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“How many times do you have to get hurt to finally understand that you’re not invincible?!”
Sanji’s angry and at once panicked voice rings throughout the forest, startling a few birds from their previously safe and comfortable spots on the tree branches. He’s on his knees, beside a large body of a man. Hands shaking, covered in blood, hovering over the greenhead’s abdomen, itching to help. Yet, he’s got no clue what to do. Short, sharp breaths enter and leave his body at irregular intervals, matching perfectly with the ones of the Swordsman, although for an entirely different reason.
It’s ridiculous, really, that the calm and collected in this situation turns out to be Zoro. Zoro, who’s collapsed on the ground, bleeding profusely as he uses all of his willpower to cling to consciousness. A huge, fresh gash now decorates his stomach, providing an unpleasant sight. At this point, the fact that his guts aren’t flowing out can truly be considered a miracle.
“Cook—” Swordsman tries, slowly realising that if he doesn’t take control of the situation, nobody else will. But it proves hard, figuring things out while trying to keep your body in one piece.
If there was any strength left in his limbs, his clammy palms would be shaking just as much as Sanji’s. And yet, they stay still, barely twitching.
“Cook—” he coughs out once more, desperate for the blonde to focus on him, instead of all the blood and gore surrounding the pair.
A certain note must stir something in the other man because after another while his ocean eyes lock on the greenhead’s face, as he awaits instructions. Lost on what to do, yet determined to act and help, however he can. His breathing is still laboured, his expression giving a clear message, saying, ‘If this doesn’t kill you, I will.’
That’s good enough.
“Fire,” Zoro rasps out. Everything should be fine, as long as the few words at the tip of his tongue manage to roll out into some sensible commands, ones possible for Sanji to follow.
Fortunately, it would seem that the adrenaline flowing through Cook’s veins has some impact on his brain, as well. Without needing any further explanations, he sprints into action, gathering what few dry leaves and branches he can spot nearby and assembling them all in a small fire.
Once the flame’s hot and alive (unlike Zoro), the blonde glances at him; surely for guidance, and perhaps, some peace of mind as he checks if the latter’s eyes are still open.
The Swordsman’s breaths are too shaky and too short for Sanji’s liking.
“Knife?” The greenhead asks, unable to get out more than one word at once.
Normally, the thought of trying this method wouldn’t even cross his mind but the moment seems dire enough to risk it.
Still, Cook understands fully. “Don’t have one.” He shakes his head, apologetically. It’s not like he has a reason to—carrying blades around isn’t one of his habits.
Zoro groans, obviously in pain. Before the blonde can stop or yell at him to stay still and save his energy, the Swordsman reaches for Wado and weakly tosses (pushes) it towards the other man.
Sanji’s starting to catch on, apparently far beyond the point of hesitating or caring about the consequences of his actions. It’s not like their situation can get any worse, after all.
Grabbing the katana’s handle, he swiftly brings it over the blaze, praying whatever the plan is will, in fact, work.
He doesn’t realise that the fog covering his vision is actually the tears welling up in his eyes and slowly finding their way down his cheeks. The same way that he doesn’t notice that the reason he can’t smell the iron scent of blood or the odour of burning brunches is the snot filling his nose, as his whole organism fights against the urge to just curl up and break down, hoping he’ll soon wake up from this nightmare.
Later on, the blonde will most likely make sure to swear himself up and down for letting the weakness take over in such dire circumstances.
The single comfort? The fact that the gaze of that damn Marimo is still focused on him.
At last, the blade blushes red, which forces Sanji to take action.
Moving closer to the Swordsman, he gazes at him through the blur, suddenly filled with dread. Yes, it can’t get any worse but what if he doesn’t manage to make it any better?
“Hold it flat,” Zoro tells him, very much aware of the blonde’s distressed state. Not like he’s better off. “Press it against the wound.”
Hearing the confirmation in the greenhead’s words, the Cook nods, knowing it’s now or never.
“Just do it,” Zoro coaxes him weakly, bracing himself. The procedure is sure to be one of the most painful things he’s ever experienced, but if done correctly will bring salvation.
Sanji nods again, griping the handle a bit tighter. Mosshead’s asking him to do this. There’s no turning back now.
With a little shaky clutch and yet firm movement, Cook presses the blade flat against the open wound. He does everything in his power to ignore the scream that rips out of the Swordsman’s lungs, as he continues to keep Wado in place, watching the skin on the latter’s stomach burn, seeing Zoro bite down on his own hand to channel the pain…
Half-heartedly, he decides he’s going to pass out, once it’s all over.
Every few seconds, Sanji pulls the blade away to see if the bleeding has stopped. Every other second, he puts it back down, praying it’ll work this time.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, repeating the two words like a mantra, not even realising he’s doing it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
His senses, picking up on the other man’s distress, battle against his instinct to halt the harm immediately; his mind is unable to comprehend the paradox of causing the pain he so badly wants to take away.
Finally, finally, at fuckin’ last, he pulls the katana away for what feels like a hundredth time, only to reveal a sealed gash, with a scar sure to later form over it. With an immense wave of relief, Sanji spots the lack of any fresh body liquids coming out, at least not from the Swordsman’s stomach.
His next inhale is deeper than the previous one. Which also proves true for Zoro.
“F—uck,” the greenhead swears under his breath. His now bloody hand gets released from between his teeth and although the sight isn’t great, it’s still the least of their worries.
The blonde nods shakily, agreeing with the statement. His shaky palm reaches up to wipe all the tears and snot from his face, leaving red smears in their place. He’s trembling, although he wouldn’t admit as much when later asked about it.
“Hey…” Zoro mutters, not really comfortable in his consciousness, yet too stubborn to give up on clinging to it.
Sanji looks at him, his gaze a bit dazed but there.
“Y’did good…” The greenhead forces a small smile onto his face, although with all the sweat, blood and hurt, it much more resembles a distressed grimace.
The Cook appreciates the sentiment, though.
Catching his breath and calming his thoughts, he stills himself.
“I’ll—” He pauses, surprised by the hoarseness of his voice. Shaking his head quickly, he continues, however. “I’ll get the crew,” he chokes out.
Zoro simply nods, knowing that the only way to get him safely back to the ship, without risking him losing any important organs in the process, is to get help from their nakama.
Sanji gets up, exhaling shakily, his eyes never leaving Mosshead’s.
“You better be fuckin’ alive when I’m back,” he threatens miserably.
Carefully letting himself lean back against the tree, Zoro manages a weak smirk. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”