Nowhere Left To Climb

It was suicide, what he was doing.

Meaningless actions that meant everything. Actions that would lead him into a void, into the open arms of death and he'd be struck down, without a second thought.

Between fighting pirates and this..... Zoro gritted his teeth, time seeming to slow, vision clear, mind blissfully blank, and suddenly he was aware of the sweat all over his body. Of the heat emanating from the person under him, the gushing, steady flow of blood. The vibrancy of life. Of the slick sliding down his thighs, coating the inside of his leg, a sloppy mix of semen and perspiration.

Mostly he was aware of his desire to devour the other whole. To bite, scratch, and mark in any way that he could. And that if he gave in to the temptation, it'd be the last thing that he'd ever do. But still....would that be so bad? He wondered, control withering away by the second as he moved, the soft slap of skin against skin seeming to grow louder, echoing in the bedroom-- a setting that he still wasn't used to. The moon was quiet cool, and yet it felt as though its light was burning through the bandages, igniting his flesh. He didn't get it, and was still getting used to it. The contradictions that had become Zoro. The inexplicable need to wreck the chef, to destroy him until he was nothing more that a whimpering, convulsing mess. And the want, to hold him close, whisper sweet nothings as the hunter fucked his prey slow, savoring his meal to the fullest.

Because he's had the other before, but not like this. Not like this at all. With the pale teen so compliant and willing, none of the harsh nips or insulting remarks. For the first time, they were in a real hotel, they were in a real bed, on real bed sheets, sinking down into a soft mattress, the creak of the box springs a low lull. It felt like his hands had a mind of its own, roving, touching, exploring, discovering every ridge, bump and crevice that made up the Straw Hats Chef Blackleg Sanji. And the blonde responded eagerly, arching his back into Zoro's embrace, their hands intertwined, never parting, never disappearing, a silent promise built on a mountain of lies and half truths. Still, it had been a sight to behold, a memory he wasn't ashamed to admit that he'd treasure forever. As the chef led him into the bedroom, locking the door, and stripping slowly, no hesitation. The slow methodical intent as each garment was removed and discarded. The thin, nimble fingers hooking into the space between his boxers and skin, before pausing to look at Zoro. It had been so surreal, and he'd been close, so fucking close to coughing his heart out and scattering the petals everywhere. But he kept it back, gulping softly and made his way to the blonde, stripping him of the last piece.

So strangely intimate. Foreign and unfamiliar. The way he eyed the swordsman, raising a curly eyebrow and crossing his arms, until Zoro caught on and took off his own clothes, faster, since he didn't wear underwear. They took a bath. Together. Proper, customary traditions and when the steam cleared, he'd been utterly shocked, almost too late to stop the flower from exiting his lips, though the thorns tore at his esophagus and the metallic taste of iron filled his mouth. Sanji's hair was down, wet and soft, downy with a slight sheen and a slight curl. The chef's face was red, eyes averted to the side and Zoro hadn't been able to stop himself, and damn near drowned trying to reach that creamy skin, to see if it was as sweet as it looked.

They had been laying on the bed. Sanji had looked at him, gaze peculiar and oddly unreadable before reaching behind a pillow and grabbing a bottle of lube. Zoro had hesitated, staring warily and knowing without knowing how he knew that a line was going to be crossed. What he hadn't known was if he was ready, if he could handle the consequences of crossing the line. Fuck it. He had thought, and grabbed the bottle, squeezing the cold fluid onto his fingers.

And was blessed with warmth.

Warmth.

That was the only word to describe it. The hypnotic suction of Sanji's hole, puckering languidly around his long digits. Zoro's fingers sinking into the other with slow, soothing movements. The abrasive stretching and the uncontrollable ruts that he couldn't stop his hips from making. The pull of his teeth on skin, slick with sweat. The feather light kisses, and harsh bites. The curl of his digits as his nails scraped the chef's prostate, the tan teens entire body shuddering as the first orgasm came, and with it, string after string of thick white discharge. The easy, welcome weight of Sanji's legs resting on his shoulders, shifting as Zoro leaned down, lapping up the semen with broad, heavy strokes, unable to hear anything but his name falling from perfect lips. They laid there, and in the quiet, the swordsman felt himself overcome with an unreasonable fear and voice that screamed for it not to be over. That it couldn't end. Because his body knew more than his mind. His body knew the consequences. But then the blonde crawled over, draping his body on top the tan teen's and rolling his hips, a needy whine escaping.

The process began all over again.

"I won't leave." Is what their actions said, and neither chose to acknowledge the falseness of that. It wasn't important until it was over.

The singular thought alone made the swordsman growl, and he turned his head away, the wall that he so painstakingly built crumbling away into nothing, each brick representing a piece of his being, of who he was.

I wonder how long it'll be before I'm completely broken.

"A-aye you jackass," Sanji-- his sparring partner, hi-his friend, the person who was going to get him killed-- gasped, and a hand made it's way to Zoro's face, gripping his jaw with an earth-shattering hold, at odds with the delicate framing of his fingers. "Hnh...e-eyes down here, yeah? The vacant expression you're making is starting to piss me off."

On instinct the swordsman thrust forward, a harsh, reprimanding motion and the chef's complaint dissolved into long, wanton moan. But the hand never left his jaw, and instead pulled him down into a rough kiss, a bruising clash of lips, Sanji's mouth already swollen from constant teasing. He tasted bittersweet.

It was futile.

It was suicide, truly. A fate of which he'd never be able to outrun.

Because between fighting pirates, sex, and the constant, lethal probing of thorns...

Zoro was going to die. Without a doubt.

He never knew that pain could be beautiful, and technically, it wasn't. At it's core, pain was a violent, sadistic entity, a being which thrived on suffering. Pain was a poison the pulsed at it traveled through his veins, searing every part of his body and setting it alight. A vise that shredded the inside of his throat, filling his mouth with blood and the sharp flavor of iron. His pain wasn't beautiful. Nothing about it was. Not the burn of his throat, or the heavy pants that came from something other than strenuous activity. There was no beauty in pain, but the cause of his pain was beautiful.

Sanji. The greatest chef in the East Blue. The light to his dark, the other side of the coin.

His equal in all things.

Zoro found it ironic.

The fact that the things that gave him life, gave him purpose, would be the same things to take that away from him when his time finally came, at one point or another. Blackleg Sanji was a death trap, a siren luring him into the ocean with the prepossessing music of his moans, the hands wrapped around Zoro's neck that said, "Don't let me go." And yet the chef was always quick to kick out his pet demon once the afterglow settled and all was normal. When the siren's song was finally over and the bewitching creature grew hostile, a cold being that had gotten what it wanted and needed him not.

But that was okay.

It was okay.

While he was here, in the moment, he'd take advantage of it, he'd pretend it was love, that the affection was mutual. If he faked it long enough, if he lied and used that lie to its fullest potential, to drag himself from his pit of darkness, then for a moment, a sweet sweet moment, he could be happy. He could be loved. And he could keep the flowers at bay.

Hanahaki:a disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings, or when the victim dies.

Camellias, a flower known for its fragility. Stems that couldn't be cut because it broke too easily. Petals that were bright pink, a fitting color that meant longing, a yearning for something unattainable.

Zoro never spoke while they had sex. On his end, it was always a silent transaction. He didn't trust himself to speak, didn't trust himself to not say the one thing that would make the other shrink back with revulsion. The truth that had taken him forever to accept. He already could never forgive himself, for defiling the only one that might be the ideal human being, for ruining something so perfect.

And with that guilt was a disturbing sensation of pride.

Mine.

That's what Zoro felt. That Sanji was his and his alone. That's what Zoro wanted. That's what Zoro could never have. So he settled from pretending, indulging the childish belief that hopeless dreams like this one came true.

I love you.

The pure determination. The need to fight for ideals. The strength. His bright blue gaze. The one that hardly showed any emotion other than rage. A deep blue, a cerulean sea so gorgeous that made the tan teen want to dive in and drown. It made him want to tell the other that there was no point in finding the All Blue. That he already had it.

I love you.

The fact that the same piercing gaze was a hazy, cloudy sky. A weakened state of arousal, something that only he, Roronoa Zoro the Demon was privy to. He had seen the chef in all ways, but would always be cast aside. It hurt knowing that in the end, Blackleg Sanji would inevitably find someone else and live a prosperous life. But it was okay. There was still the present, a gift he'd be sure to cherish. The long blonde hair, messy and soaked laid splayed across the pillow in an skewed halo. His rival. His angel.

"I love you, Sanji." He whispered in a breathy moan and with those three words the world was perfect. The world was right. The mirage was complete and in its place was a mural, the depiction of balance. They were Yin and Yang, together but apart, as close to each other as they could be without breaking the peace.

And yet Zoro was fated to be broken into a million pieces.

"W-what the hell did you say?"

Cold.

That was the only word to describe the atmosphere.

To describe the change.

"Get off me, now." Freezing. Halting. Curt.

Zoro was in a blizzard, he was being frozen, taken by the snow, Sanji's tone like an icicle stabbing through his chest and in that moment, the swordsman understood that he was a fool. He had never trusted, couldn't afford to. Not on the seas. But at some point along the road, he had stopped being wary. He had lowered his guard.

And had gotten skewered.

He was a fool. A fool to think that Sanji would do something so underhanded as to stab his back. No. The chef was a straightforward as always.

And used his words to stab Zoro directly in his heart.

In silence, the teen righted himself, turning away from the cold, cold gaze and dropped his head, searching for his discarded clothes. He only heard, not saw when the blonde had left the room and sat still, soaking in the brutal pain of rejection.

He could no longer pretend.

He knew.

And the flower knew.

Camellias had come to kill him.

He felt as it bloomed, doubling over in unabashed suffering and clutched his throat, hacking lowly as the thorns clawed their way out, ripping the interior with a lack of remorse. He grabbed a long vine, screaming in pain as he pulled it, blood gurgling an ominous sound. It was terrible and in that moment Zoro realized that he didn't want to die.

Tears pooled down his eyes as he tore the stem apart, thorns digging into his palm and slicing it open while pink petals tinged in red fluttered lightly onto the bed.

For the first time in a long time, for the first time since his defeat from Mihawk, Zoro sobbed, nothing but blood falling from his mouth and the slight wheezing of air passing through his lungs. It was over. It was the end.

He didn't hear the bathroom door open.

He didn't taste anything beyond the salt of his tears and the acrid flavor of shame in his weakness.

He could feel nothing aside from heart-wrenching sadness and anger that he couldn't beat the disease.

He couldn't smell anything but metal.

"...Zoro?"

Blankly, feeling souless and empty, Zoro turned.

And saw him.

Blackleg Sanji.

The best chef in the East Blue, soon to be the best chef in the entire goddamn world.

With his pale, creamy skin and mussed hair, body completely exposed and shining with a thin layer of sweat, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.....

His rival, his angel, his life, his death, his everything.

He saw Sanji.

But what Zoro noticed the most...

Was the clutched handful of flower petals.

Roses, instead of Camellias.

Red instead of Pink.

Love instead of longing.

He could no longer pretend.

He didn't have to.