Zoro's had worse hangovers, but not by much!
Luffy was kneeled in front of him, haloed by a wisp of smoke with a lockbox tucked under his arm. He was covered in black, powdery snow, his shorts singed at the edges. His eyes were glassy and big and dark, dark brown, the kind that burned into your retinas and stayed there long after you blinked. He was smiling, unharmed and whole and alive and perfect.
The feeling in Zoro’s chest—previously smothered in cloth and waterboarded by meditation down to a single smoldering piece of coal—ignited in an instant. Every safeguard Zoro had put in place disintegrated like spun silk on a stove. Every sound or look or touch that he tried to suppress shook him at his very core. It was never fucking ending. This, this would be never fucking ending.
There was something deeply wrong with Zoro. And he knew precisely what it was.
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