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King the Wildfire falls, all black strips of leather and plucked feathers dancing in his wake like a dark tail of burning up star, and the the earth of Onigashima crumbles with him in enormous chunks of cut down rock. The air is heavy with lingering discharge of power, electrifying and still raising the hairs on his nape, dripping down with goosebumps and anticipation, his body not fully getting yet the battle is over.
It was…truly something else.
They more or less knew what Luffy was getting them into by messing with Kaido and his men, and wholeheartedly followed him without an ounce of hesitation or doubt. Of course they did. Their captain is the future King, and there’s nothing that will ever stand in their way.
But. Holy shit.
His knees buckle under him, and he collapses into the dirt, chest heaving as his breath becomes more and more labored. He rolls on the ground favoring his right side, where Enma latched itself and almost offed him before the fight really begun, ragged stone against his back-
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-his back is flat on the soft colorful cloth that once hung in the entrance to the tea shop, which casts cool half-shadow where they now lie in. The quiet chatter of two women is nothing but a hum from where the kid Luffy found is recovering from the poisoning, and the scent of oshiruko and herbs waft in the warm breeze.
For the first time since he arrived in this country, he breathes.
“Wano is pretty, right?” Rubber finger drags down his scarred eye with soft squeaky sound, through the earrings falls to the collar bone, and follows the mark Mihawk has left all the way to his exposed midriff. It tickles, but there’s no way in hell he’s making a show of that— a twitch in his content smile must be enough though, because Luffy huffs out a small chuckle before continuing trailing further down. “Zoro fits here.”
He thinks of the horrendously large idle castle on the gloomy, sunless island, and its sole occupant dipping his days away in wine. He thinks of the archipelago of trees and popping bubbles where a thousand faces pass every day, and the drunk at the bottom of his whiskey glass waiting on a familiar-looking shadows to use him as nothing more than a steppingstone.
He also thinks that much was obvious between the two of them, but with the stupid stunt Cook has pulled out (and who the hell he thinks he is to just leave them like that? Not a fucking Vinsmoke, that’s for sure, because as much as Sanji is a jerk, his family is on Sunny, and that’s that), it couldn’t hurt to clarify.
“The strongest swordsman’s place is at his king’s side. I’m not staying here Luffy.”
“I know that.” He is quick to affirm, a dose of humor and fake offense in his voice, but his chaffed lips still jut out into pout. Cute. Zoro blindly reaches to rub his thumb on it, smoothing the edges back into grin.
The two years changed few things, but most of them were left the same— well, maybe a bit reshaped into their next and greater form, intensified in a way. Absence does make the heart grow fonder, as Perona loved to remind him floating just outside his newly restricted field of vision to irritate him further, and he had to at some point come to terms with what he already knew deep down, down to the very marrow of his bones. A threat of death by Yoru’s blade wasn’t as grave of a prospect as a rejection from his captain, but if he could beg Mihawk to train him, he could also bear his heart out for Luffy to see and take whatever part of it he wanted. It was his from the start anyway.
So, the day the Ryugu Palace regained control over its people, and the total destruction no longer hung on a fishhook, Zoro too fell to his knees— not forced down by the imposing Haki of his King, but because he was conquered long time ago, and he couldn’t keep his truth from spilling any longer. In turn, he was rewarded with sore throat and chest bursting with joy, so full no feast with the best alcohol could ever rival it, and Luffy’s touch burns no more when it lingers, just warms up his insides like golden sunrays and fills him to the brim with feeling he never quite experienced before. The best part however is that the stars dancing in rubberman’s eyes anytime their gazes meet (which is embarrassingly often) indicate the happiness is mutual, and perhaps that’s the greatest gift that came out of all this yearning and longing Zoro endured seemingly for no reason.
Because now it’s absolutely ridiculous to consider, and fucking stupid on his part, to believe that Luffy would never understand the depths of his devotion.
Captain’s breath is warm against his hand, mouth still turned carelessly upwards, so it takes Zoro completely off guard as he shakes his head ever so slightly and corrects, “Not now.”
“When I’m dead.”
He blinks, stunned for the longest of seconds by that single sentence, before recovering enough to weakly assure, “Hey, it’s gonna be fine.”
“Shishishishishi yeah! I’m gonna beat Kaido really good!” And Luffy laughs like he hadn’t just presented Zoro’s with world shattering notion, eyes bright and fire flickering within them. Then his mean grin melts into something softer, gentler, and he leans back to look at the sky, the thought most likely trailing off with the gust of wind.
The blue above is so bright, only dappled with scattered clouds, that Zoro can almost imagine they’re back on Sunny bobbing away to the next adventure, far from Yonkos and years of repression and cruelty and impossible challenges. He is not one to stray from fight of course, far from it— and the incoming raid seems promising in terms of powerful opponents that has his blood pumping with excitement— but Luffy’s always the happiest on the free ocean where the possibilities are endless, so that’s where he longs to be too.
The silence stretches to such a length that Zoro squints his one eye open, only to find his captain’s gaze already on him. He smiles, softly, and huffs a breath flapping his hand in the air, the tangent nonexistent as he continues.
“Yanno, back when…uh, after Sabaody—” he frowns, sticks his tongue out. The topic is still hard to discuss, words and feelings tangled in a messy knot, and neither of them is all that good at talking about it. They’re both more of the action-speak-louder kinda guys anyway. Zoro closes his eye again, pretending it’s for Luffy to collect himself without pressure, and swallows back the acidic taste of failure. “I met Bon-chan.”
He sifts through his memory until he lands on swans, absurd levels of heat and sand and too much make-up for his taste.
“That face-stealing bastard?”
Luffy throws his head back in a startled barked-out laughter, the sun peeking from behind the building illuminating him like a golden halo and accentuating his handsome features. Somehow, just during those two weeks spent apart he managed to lose some of that adorable roundness to his cheeks, making his jawline sharper and those sparkly brown eyes even bigger. His hair grew out too, now messily gathered into the topknot already partially falling apart, not able to keep up with his constant movement. He looks insanely good. “Yeah! He wore your face too!”
Oh.
Anger coils in his stomach quicker than he can process the thought and he growls out, spit almost dripping down his teeth, “He tricked you.”
“He was a friend.” Captain counters instantly. The unusual tightness in his voice is wrong, like a thousand pebbles suddenly blocking his airways, and Zoro knows he misstepped.
Whether one would call it boyish charm or anarchist’s fire, Luffy has this weird magnetism about him— one that attracts so many different kinds of people, and make them either hate him or love him— and there’s never in-between. Those who find themselves sympathetic to his cause often go above and beyond to be seen, to bask in his light, to ask favors as if of a god; and in most of the cases they go on ignored, because Luffy’s not the hero they need. Zoro sees the discomfort in his posture and the side-eyes he sends whenever someone puts him on a pedestal, and fully agrees— Luffy is meant to fly free however high he wants; not encased in bronze figure labeled as savior.
So, when in turn Luffy chooses a poor bastard to call them his friend, they might’ve just as well won the greatest prize in the whole wide world. Nothing can compare to the encompassing experience of being caught in his orbit and drawing strength simply by sharing space with him (at least in Zoro’s opinion), and the rubberman positively shines the more people genuinely love and care for him. It’s a total win for everyone involved.
But there are downsides to that too.
The loss, when it inevitably comes, wrecks Luffy more than stormy sea, cuts deeper than his bright smile might suggest.
Zoro doesn’t know the details, doesn’t know even the shape of the events that took place over 2 years ago— just the tidbits of information hidden in overly dramatic newspaper reports and whole two sentences he managed to coax from Mihawk— but it seems his brother’s death wasn’t the only one he’s suffered through without his crew (because his swordsman was too weak).
(Well, Jinbe was there, and would probably be able to share some of the experiences, but…it would feel greatly disrespectful to the captain to probe.
He still sometimes wishes he’d asked anyway, but yeah.)
However, he doesn’t have to know anything to understand and offer some sort of comfort. Wrong-footed by his own lack of tact and insecure in being the one to console, he leans on his elbow to reach and drum his fingers over the exposed rubber knee where the kimono inevitably has ridden up.
“I’m sorry Luff. You must know I’ve tried— we all did—to-”
“I know.” He cuts in, that horrible sad smile back on. “And I’m happy you weren’t there. I have enough of people dying for me.”
Zoro bites his tongue to not state his obvious opinion on that matter, guessing it would be unwarranted at this moment. He still makes a face, which Luffy pointedly ignores.
“When we were little…A-ace said he wouldn’t die.” The tiny choking sound from his throat goes unmentioned, despite swordsman’s initial instinct to fully get up, sweep him into his arms and never let go, cutting with a gaze alone everything that would ever threaten to hurt him again.
He doesn’t though, knows better to not to. His captain is not some kid anymore, not a fragile thing to shelter from the world— never was, really. He’s the strongest and most incredible person Zoro knows, and he settles for simply continuing small caresses where their bodies meet, lending his ear as the best substitute for choking back that protective urge.
“He… now I know that’s pretty stupid thing to say. Everyone dies. But still—” he sighs, and Zoro can do nothing but to stare at him. Isn’t that the same thing he agreed on after Thriller Bark? That he won’t die because he has crew to protect?
“I want Zoro to promise me he’ll live.”
“Luffy-”
“Zoro’s gonna be the greatest swordsman in the world, and I need him to live on.” He presses, his meaning clear despite seemingly the same idea upfront.
The world has stopped; there’s nothing beside the loud heartbeat drowning out Zoro’s thoughts at the incredulity of that request. He wants to protest, to shake him and demand he’d stop spewing nonsense, and it should be his turn to ask for something like this anyway— but not much comes out of his mouth, just a pathetic sound, like an animal caught in a trap.
“I-”
“For me Zoro.” Please.
I already do, he doesn’t repeat, because from that day over two years ago onward, in a scorching marine courtyard tied to a cross by his directionless decisions, starved for something he didn’t know he needed, he gave away his life to Luffy for keeping, and then proclaimed it to the heavens above with his chest spilling out, and nothing would ever change his mind.
‘Fine, I’ll be your pirate.’
I can’t without you, he can’t confess, because that’s not something Luffy wants to hear. They vowed to never stand in each other’s way to their dreams, to never let anything hinder their ambitions, and to betray that would be worse than death in itself.
The oath couldn’t predict however that soon after making it, Zoro would lay his swords down and risk his goals never coming true, because suddenly the title of the Greatest Swordsman held very little power and meaning if he couldn’t protect his captain life and assure he will achieve what quickly became theirs dream. His biggest strength was also his biggest weakness, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
‘Luffy will become the King of the Pirates!’
Why, there’s no point in asking, because he already understands. After all, the answer resonates in his soul as well.
In a way, Luffy is saying ‘I’ll go first, because I can’t survive losing another person I love. I’m going first, because it’s the only path that makes sense to me.’— as if Zoro can attend another funeral and not completely lose himself in the sea of unfairness—and it’s selfish, so fucking selfish it aches all over, through his destroyed body and scarred soul and bleeding heart. But it’s declaration of love nonetheless, and he can only respond by bearing the weight of the future world without his captain in it, grieve for the both of them, and follow him in his own time, because he too can’t stand being alone. Not since they’ve met. Not since he’d got to know what it means to breathe, to live.
Aloud he just shrugs resigned, keeping his eye open no matter what, trailing over every single inch of the man he’s ordered to outlive. So be it. It will break and shatter him to pieces that can’t be remolded, that would be pointless to even try to do so, but he will comply. Always. If that’s what Luffy asks of him fully knowing the loneliness the preserverence entices, so be it. He’ll live for the both of them.
“Yeah. Yeah, alright. Fine. Go first.” The words come a bit choked out, pained and hoarse, but at this point he doesn’t care how close he is to pleading. If that’s what is left to his disposal, he’ll use it.
“But… not yet.”
“Not yet.” Luffy agrees easily, satisfied enough, and leans back on his hands, head turned towards the sun and absorbing its-
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-It’s cold. Balls-freezing cold, and he can't move a damn muscle. It’s the Drum’s avalanche all over again, unforgiving in its relentlessness to stay present in his memory.
What’s worse, Zoro has a vague feeling that something is off in a way that it never should be. He just can’t put a finger on it.
What stands out the most though is that it’s too quiet.
His observation flickers in and out with a rhythm of his shaky breath, each broken lungful a tiny agony in itself, so it is probably why he can’t get a good read on the status of the fight going on atop of Onigashima’s roof, but…
But it’s too fucking quiet.
If there’s one sure way to fuck up one’s Haki, he must’ve found it. Maybe Enma still eats too much and has sucked him dry to the last droplet at the bottom of a tankard, or his stamina is simply running out after pushing back all those absolutely batshit people hellbent on getting their asses kicked by their crew, or something… because his Haki is not working.
He feels them— all Strawhats, their allies and reluctant accomplices— hell, even Kaido— but no Luffy.
He can’t hear Luffy.
Which is almost impossible with how usually his senses are fine tuned to his captain…he curses and tries again, stretching his consciousness till his vision blotches and he’s even more winded than a second ago, every broken bone screaming at him to fucking stop and go back to being passed out. But he can’t do that.
He’s so caught up in straining his Haki further and further that it goes under his radar, but soon enough the presence demands his attention in roaring display of energy, dominating over everything else.
The air stirs, pieces of what looks like dark cloth flailing in chaotic silence that comes with it, like a suffocating void has formed around Zoro and sucked everything around—maybe that’s why he can’t-
The flurry becomes a shape, a visage…
“…B-brook?” He manages to stutter— to no avail.
The skull-face doesn’t react to the name, not a flicker of understanding passing through it. Instead, the apparition reaches out, a scythe materializing in its limb, blade glistening despite the lack of moonlight in the overcast sky. And it swings it. Zoro tenses, eye subconsciously closing, ready to take the blunt force of the attack and live through it, because he has to get up and see the end of Luffy’s battle for himself. Be there before his idiot captain does something stupid and— and Zoro too can be selfish and stubborn, and if that means dragging him out of brink of death himself, then-
“You know, when someone is dying, they usually don’t make plans for what to do after.”
“I’m not dying yet.” He gruffs out over the ringing in his ears, breathing through the increasing weight on his chest. The pressure slowly retracts with the effort, and with it comes a pain-free clarity so sudden the sharpness of his surroundings hits him hard and … the recognition of the voice pulls the ground from under his feet.
His eye opens wide in shock, and he forces his body upright to face the figure crouching over him, almost knocking their heads together.
“…Fuck.”
She gives him enough space to sit, towering over him with that teasing overconfident smile he’d missed so much (and thinks an echo of it he finds sometimes on Luffy’s face, and that’s one of the things that might’ve attracted his attention in the first place). She’s as young as he’d last saw her, a tiny body in tiny box, so disproportionate to everything she meant to him, to the difference she made in his life and the shape of footprint she left behind that Zoro tried so hard to fit into. She’s somehow older and taller than him too— hair even shorter, cutting just above her slender cheeks, straight black and shiny, and her face is dotted with tiny inconsequential scars trailing down over her well-build body. She’s ever-changing, fluctuating, a wave raising and falling back to curve again. It couldn’t be her, but at the same time, it is.
He can’t keep his eye away.
“Didn’t sensei taught you it’s rude to stare?” Kuina snickers, as if she ever cared about manners outside the temple and the tea making ritual, her younger self coming into view clearer in the way her eyes sparkle. “Told you if you over-stuff your mouth with swords like that, you won’t be able to keep it clos-”
“Am I dead?” He interrupts, shaking off his stomach-churning feelings for now. (It’s not her, it’s not, he keeps repeating to himself until the confusion clears enough for him to think. It’s not her, it’s not real, so it shouldn’t rattle his composure as much as it does.) There’s no point in sitting and wondering how the hell —and that might be the keyword here— any of this is possible, he needs some facts to work with, to get back to the raid and fight as soon as he can. One way or another.
There’s shift in her demeanor, slight, there-and-gone, but still. “Well, you did say you’d go after your captain anywhere, didn’t you?” While still overly light, there’s edge in her voice now, something between challenging and bitter, sharp teeth shining in the dim. “How does it feel to find someone important like that anyway?”
Zoro frowns, not letting himself dwell on the comment about Luffy’s wellbeing and whereabouts at the moment. Even if that’s not Kuina (it’s not— he considers an illusion, some trick; Seas know what kind of devil fruit users Kaido has on his crew. Or maybe his brain is simply trying to distract him from all his injuries with some crazy fantasy long enough for Chopper give him another boost to keep him going. He already feels kinda dizzy and numb, the coldness probably dulling all his aches—), it is said with such cadence that makes him remember seeing her cry for the first —and last— time about all the unfairness in the world, and plants a thought that makes him very uncomfortable.
He tries to think of what would upset her after all this time, because isn’t that surely the reason he sees her at all? Vengeful spirits coming back to haunt for misdeeds?
He trains whenever and wherever he can (and then some when no one’s there to scold him), keeps his swords, Wado especially, in top condition and provides them entertainment, and objectively is getting stronger and better with the opportunities the Grand Line offers; it’s not him becoming a bounty hunter and then a pirate either, not really— the morals that were engraved into them at dojo never painted anything in just blacks and whites, and he stayed true to his convictions throughout all his fights and challenges.
Is it because he let Mihawk train him?
There’s also the Luffy thing, but…
About what he said, did she expect Zoro to fight death for her? To follow her to hell like he declared he would for his captain? Kuina never was unreasonable, so she must realize that would be counterproductive and stupid and childish— after all he can’t be the best for the both of them if he dies—oh.
“I… our goal has slightly changed.”
Zoro huffs, rubs hand against the back of his stiff neck. He’d never bothered enough to explain exactly how his dream is strictly connected to Luffy’s securing the One Piece and being the King in his mind, but if anyone deserves it, it’s Kuina. Or whatever this hallucination is.
“I mean, I’m still becoming the Greatest Swordsman. I’ll never break this promise, that’s not— that’s never gonna change.” She acknowledges with a hum, urging him to go on with a head tilt and eyebrow raised that is such a mirror of her father, but with that little impatient manner of her added. Like she already knows the answer and is simply testing him. Fuck, how he misses her. “But it’s not just about us anymore. I vowed I’ll make my captain the Pirate King first.”
A beat of nothing passes. He swallows and looks up at her. “Are you… mad at me for it?”
Her hair curtains half of her face, not betraying any expression she might be wearing. Gone is the awkwardness of teenage girl, the naivety of a child— the maturity she carries herself with is strange to see, almost regal; but also very fitting her. Like there no longer is anything in the world that would stand in her way. It pools in the bottom of his stomach that it’ll never come true.
“You regret it?”
“No.”
He answers before she’s even done asking, not an ounce of hesitation present in his being. Of the few things he might sometimes wish for to be different, this isn’t one of them. Never will be.
It seems it doesn’t surprise her though, a knowing smirk blooming on her thin lips. He clears his throat and adds to distract from the lingering heat on his face, “Not once.”
Kuina regards him for a moment longer before siting down next to him, gaze stuck to her hands and tugging at the skin between her fingers. Callouses had always formed there from hours and hours of exhausting practice, weightlifting and sword wielding, and then some from doing the hardest chores around the dojo to prove herself, even if only to herself, because everyone else knew her strenght.
And then she would pick on them whenever she’d something to mull over. Zoro’d almost forgot about that.
When she speaks again, she’s smaller than he’d ever known her to be.
“The way I see it, you’re living a life I always dreamed about, one I never got to have despite praying, begging and screaming for with all I had. You just have it, like it was out there for the taking all the same, and I just couldn’t reach it.” She raises her head to meet his gaze, a thousand emotions flickering in her dark eyes. He feels her anguish, irritation, chagrin and resignation, and acceptance too, so deeply and tangibly as if they were his own. Maybe they are. The urge to cut something, to shred this sheer powerlessness into pieces before it drowns him is overwhelming, and he wonders how much stronger than him she really is, because none of that shows on her face when it settles.
Instead, she flashes him with something so fond that it physically hurts. “And I couldn’t be happier for you.”
At that he draws a blank, every response, apology, argument dying on his tongue before he can voice it. What is there to say anyway? If she’s just a figment of his imagination, an image pulled from his brain, then she already knows.
(If not, if this is how things end and there’s nothing but the eternity of just sitting here together— well, Zoro figures it doesn’t matter either way.)
His hand reflexively goes straight to Wado for a hint, her scabbard almost scolding compared to the frigidity of his skin. His muscles no longer burning from the exertion and fever gone thanks to the Minks’ medicine, he does feel quite cold, as if the blanket of tiredness that has been draping over him ever since he hit the ground seeps out the last of his warmth too. Oh, how he aches for a nap…
Peering down at their sword, Kuina gets his attention back with low chuckle probably in reaction to the face he’s making, and her fingers join his around the hilt possesively before relaxing again into lax curl. She must’ve forgot that their familiarity goes both ways though, and Zoro still can read her better than an attack with called-out name.
There’s soft gasp as Wado Ichimonji ends in her hands, and they greet each other like old friends; running over the indents left by Zoro’s teeth, trailing the wear of the material, recognizing the birthmarks and faded out scars, tasting the sharpness of their ambition. Wado practically comes alive under her touch, humming and whispering stories about their adventures, the difficulties they’ve conquered and opponents they’ve faced. She tells Kuina about the crew too, how she adores to protect them, and how they in turn care for Zoro. His throat is dryer than the dirt beneath him.
“I knew you two would be good for each other.”
Mihawk could crumble at his feet and beg for swift release right here and now, and still no other words could make Zoro’s chest swell with pride like these do. That maybe if he didn’t ask to carry her with him, Kuina would have wanted him to have her family’s heirloom anyway. That the choices he made and the path he’s on is worth her approval, and Wado wasn’t along for the ride only for his own comfort.
Truly, he starts to think that staying here—
“Well, care to introduce the other two?”
Feeling a bit lightheaded he blinks the sudden haze of confusion away, his own thoughts catching him off guard, and without another word hands over Kitetsu next.
“Ah, the famous sword that rivals your blockheaded stubbornness.” She muses, eyes crescent and lopsided grin present. “Hi Kitetsu. Zoro’s very lucky he’s got you.”
He can’t disagree. Kits has proven herself many times in pulling him out of tough spots, her blade the edge he sometimes needs to shift the scales to their favor, her bloodthirst the kindling feeding his flames. Once she starts, there’s no obstacle she can’t cut. He’d even quietly called her his favorite if that wouldn’t absolutely make her insufferable and insane with power.
Still… “Yeah, lucky the brat didn’t bite my fucking arm off.”
She rolls her eyes in good nature. “And whose fault would that be? It’s a measure of a swordsman how well he is able to tame a cursed blade.”
Once again he’s reminded of the old geezer overlooking seas from the cliff at the outskirts of the village, Kuina’s grandpa, the man who forged both Wado and Enma into the swords he knows now.
It also makes him think about Kitetsu’s sibling wielded by Luffy —and wasn’t that one hell of a sight. Short, because as soon as the shithead punched the other guy WITH THE SWORD the effect was completely gone, but while it lasted…let’s just say, Zoro might have some ideas for future nights— and Shusui, the extension of the legendary swordsman (Shimotsuki, apparently) Ryuma, that is of Wano origin as well.
Were his swords guiding him here the whole time like some fucked-up compass? To what purpose and what end?
He doesn’t believe in curses or blessings, fates and destinies and all that crap. He goes where his captain leads him, and that’s always towards their dreams, to what awaits beyond horizon, into the next day. Only that matters.
It is a bit unnerving though.
Without his notice Enma has joined the rest on Kuina’s lap, the weight of his swords no longer pinning him in what he’s grown used to a comforting way. There’s childish urge to immediately reach over and reclaim them, to keep them at his side, but he stifles it out. He makes do with a roll of his shoulders to relieve the builded up tension, absentmindedly noting how they don’t hurt anyone.
Come to think of it, all the ache seems to be just gone, as if frozen over in a state of this weird nothingness he finds himself in. The noises of battle ceased completely by now (only faint bells ring in the distance) and the air is suffocatingly unmoving, but this thing is particularly distinct from everything else that appears to be halted in a way that calls to his attention. Because ever since his close call with Kuma, his body is sore all of the time; no matter how much he rests, stretches or dumps cooling pastes over his muscles, there’s always the dull throbbing sensation of pain under his skin. Not that he minds; aching is good, soreness is a testament of his attempts at protecting his crew, bleeding for them so they have another day to laugh together is what makes him feel alive and all his efforts worthwhile—so now that it’s gone-
“Huh, so it really is because of Enma you’re here.”
He narrows his eye at the blade, and her aura spikes back in challenge, not willing to be intimidated. Combative fucker with authoritarian complex. He still has to find an angle to get her to cooperate how he wants and not just play around her whims, but he thought he was getting the hang of it towards the end of his battle. Was her draining his Haki what sent him over the edge after all, leaving him an empty husk like that old man Sukiyaki warned him about?
Kuina simply laughs.
“No, no, not like that!” With the back of her hand she wipes the wetness from her eyes. They still shimmer with joy and awe. “It’s more like a- like a gift, I think. An acknowledgement.”
To his questioning sound she gestures vaguely in the space. “By willing to go the extra mile for your captain and goal, you called yourself the King of Hell, right? My guess is that she respects it, recognizes you as one, and decided to grant you a peek to…this side.”
“Your guess, huh?” And Zoro wonders yet again who exactly is that haunting girl before him to know such things about him and his swords.
For all remembers from the teachings sensei insisted on to deepen their spirituality and strengthen mentality, Enma, among many other titles, is the judge of dead souls in the mythos. Would the blade in itself posses such power to summon ghosts solely by bearing the name of a god? Zoro finds it hard to believe, but he in general doesn’t trust fantastical stories like those.
Then again, it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that has happened in his life, not even close. Maybe Robin has heard or read something similar in one of her books, or Brook might have some insight based on his connections to the afterlife— he’ll have to ask them when he gets back. …Which leads to the next big question: how in fact should he get out of here if this was meant to be only a short stop on the way?
As if reading his mind, Kuina sends him toothy grin and stands up, all three of his swords in her hold, her free hand extended to him for the taking. “C’mon, get up.”
It’s like no time has passed at all. He can picture clearly the sharp shape of the moon in the background overlooking their duel from behind thin clouds, hear the crickets in the tall reeds and bamboos swaying in the wind, feel the damp soil under his body. Taste the promise on his tongue.
Feel that it’ll be long time before he sees her again.
Some small, treacherous part of him whisper-begs for a minute more, another moment with her, a one last spar for the old times sake. To see what a clash of blades would look like if they were both allowed to survive long enough to reach their peaks, for the fantasy of two greatest swordsmen living side by side last a breath more.
He knows better than to indulge it; after all —
(The ringing in his ears grows louder, steadier, lower— like a drum, like a heartbeat—)
—his captain is waiting.
“This is not the place for you.” She affirms, and when Zoro grabs her hand, she lifts him up like he weights nothing. The lightness spreads through his limbs and settles in his chest, buzzing and alive, brightening his vision in warm glow till only her silhouette is discernible from the whiteness.
“Yeah. Not yet.”
Kuina smiles. The light, like a hug, envelops all.
ᨒ ོ ☼
Pain is what wakes him.
Searing, excruciating pain and the stiffness of bandages pulled taut all over his body, keeping him immobile to the best of their ability, so he doesn’t fall apart without their assistance. There’s very little that can compare to the ripples cursing though him with even the smallest of movements, the bone-shattering, guts-turning, nausea-causing pain he feels. Those Minks really weren’t fucking around when they said the suffering will be immense.
Still, sensing the other presence beside him, Zoro turns slightly and groggily opens his eye, squinting it back immediately. Despite the shoji drawn shut, it’s way too bright— though, while he has no idea how much time has passed since the fight, at least it gives him some idea that it’s middle of the day, late morning at best.
Well, no one is screaming at him to get ‘his lazy ass’ up, so. Back to sleep.
He sighs, almost contentedly, and glances to his left where the quiet snores intensify with each open-mouth breath.
Luffy is completely out, sprawled on his back and taking as much of the space given to him and then some as usual. His strawhat is meticulously set aside out of his immediate range of tossing around (and for a good reason too; the quilt that he was probably covered up with is a messy nest completely shoved across the room into the corner), and he’s also dressed up in cotton wraps from head to toes, skin red from scratching where it peeks in few spots. He sleeps deeply, most likely dreaming of meat— there’s thin trail of spit hanging around his mouth that has no business being so endearing. Zoro can’t keep the stupid little smile off his face as he watches his chest rise and fall in steady rhythm.
Alive. They’re both alive.
Just then rubber limbs retract and curl on themselves like an octopus retreating to its hiding place, only to stretch farther in frantic sweeps, groping, scrabbling around for purchase. Frown knits his brows close, discomfort clear on his features and tiny groans escaping him. Zoro barely ducks a mean punch thrown blindly his way, and considers shaking him awake or calling for Chopper altogether, knowing the doctor would surely like to check up on them since they’re more or less conscious now anyway, but a louder noise from Luffy stops him.
“-oro…?”
Without much thought swordsman meets the arm closest to him, his hand —despite Luffy feeling larger than life with each fight he wins, each giant he topples —still with ease encircles the rubbery wrist, and he lets himself be reeled in. The strength of the pull crashes them together chest to chest, their heartbeats instantly melting into one, and as the last of the tremors leave his body Zoro realizes he must’ve been shaking quite a bit up until now. Luffy, still deeply asleep, makes his satisfaction at the closeness known with a pleased murmur.
Alive. They’ve won, and they’re both alive.
A blink passes and they’re still laying completely entwined on their sides, wrapped tighter than all the bandages restricting his movements, but unlike them it only helps him relax more, sink into the feeling of being surrounded by his captain, his warmth and his smell, from every given direction. In turn, with his free hand that doesn’t support them both from underneath, he cards the black hair off from Luffy’s forehead, long curls cut loose from the topknot twisting and tangling around his fingers as if they too don’t want to leave a single piece of Zoro untouched. It’s awfully domestic in a way that makes him flustered more than any previous show of affection between them ever did, and he buries his head against Luffy’s neck with dumbfounded huff of laughter.
And breathes.