Zoro came into the All Blue’s kitchen and took a seat on his favorite stool at Sanji’s workstation. He rubbed at a smear of blood on the back of his hand. “She’s the one.”
Sanji paused while chopping. “How long?”
“Three to five years.”
Sanji started chopping again. “Better take a nap then, old man.”
Zoro never mentioned it again. And if their friends stopped by to visit, one by one, for an afternoon of reminiscing as the years passed, no one ever said why they suddenly decided to drop by after so long.
Four years and three days later, a voice was heard outside the All Blue. “Hey, old timer, I’ve come for that title!”
Zoro drew on his bandana over his gray-green hair and left his haori behind. Sanji folded his arms, annoyance creasing his aged face. “I’m not going to miss your smelly ass.”
“And I won’t regret not seeing your ugly face beside me every night.” He cupped Sanji’s cheeks and placed a long, lingering kiss on his lips. “Give her Wado.”
Sanji nodded. Hesitated. “I can still try to revive you.”
Zoro shook his head. “A swordsman should go out in battle.”
“Don’t make it easy on her.”
Zoro flashed him a grin. “You know I won’t.”
Sanji watched him walk out the door to his long-awaited fate. Then he turned back to his staff in the kitchen and barked, “Get back to work, you slaggards. Prep isn’t going to finish itself.”
Roronoa Zoro’s body was consecrated to the deep at age sixty-eight. He died with a smile on his face.
And Roronoa Sanji mourned.
End