Chapter Text
She coughed up the first petal stained with blood a few days after their very last meeting.
It was a pure white rose—beautiful, immaculate, she’d say, if not for the red crossing the petal in splatters, a sort of premonition that made her stomach sink. Tashigi stared at it for several minutes, her brain going into overdrive, trying to figure out what could possibly be happening to her body.
Nothing actually came to mind, even for her, who had all the first aid manuals memorized, going so far as to learn a bit about medicine so she wouldn’t be caught off guard. Nothing could be overlooked in such a risky life as that of a soldier.
Tashigi concluded she was either dying or a very weird devil fruit found a suspicious way to be eaten by her. Which, on second thought, insulted her intelligence enormously since she was sure she’d be able to distinguish those hellish-looking fruits.
So it left her with the other option: she was definitely dying.
The hard beating of her heart almost made her choke, her strong hand clutching her chest, the unknown throwing her off balance. Breathe in, breathe out. She needed to be pragmatic, gather her information correctly, and put her mind to work.
She wasn’t afraid of death; that much was true. But Tashigi always thought her death would come on the battlefield as the fighter she was. A sword in hand, protecting others until her last breath. Dying from some weird disease left a bitter taste in her mouth. It wasn’t embarrassing, not in the least, and deep down, a hoarse voice kept warning her to stop being stupid, to stop having this unbreakable romanticized view of the world.
The petal, crushed inside her closed fist, was intuitive; it made her remember that lately nothing had happened the way she envisioned. His face would flash in and out of her mind, fast and fleeting, like a glitch in her brain when she wasn’t focused, reminding her how much of her own changing happened because he insisted on making her see things differently.
Tashigi gritted her teeth the way she got used to doing every time his face pushed through her barrier. He means nothing to me. Nothing.
Another coughing bout took her by surprise, and a new round of petals came up her throat; this time they were green and heavily marked with blood. Like his hair. Just like him. A trickle of blood ran down her mouth, and she swiped it away with a rushed move of her arm, the annoyance marking her features. Could it be…?
The marine didn’t even wait for the conclusion of her train of thought before rushing off to the medical bay.
—
“Hanahaki?”
“Yes,” the doctor replied in a final tone. An old lady, clearly not impressed by Tashigi’s amusement, spoke in the boredom of a Monday afternoon.
“Hanahaki?!”
“Are you also deaf? Yes. The disease people fantasize about in those comic books that young ladies like you love to read,” she retorted with a dismissive and tired wave of her hand.
“I thought that was made up? I-It’s a-a—it's a stupid disease!” Tashigi exclaimed, blatantly ignoring the direct jab in the doctor’s words. Her frantic arms wavering and bulging eyes told how stupid she felt.
The old lady sighed, probably used to such a reaction from a young person. She lit a cigarette, which made Tashigi wince, the protest on the tip of her tongue, but cut short with the lift of one knotty finger of the doctor.
“The brain is a very powerful organ, child. It’s capable of processing a bunch of chemical reactions and calling it love,” she said with a very meaningful stare that traversed Tashigi’s core, “and destroying our insides when we think those reactions are so strong and unrequited.”
Her knowing stare seemed to undress Tashigi, with all her fears laid bare to be seen. Love? That certainly can’t be right.
“Don’t worry, dear. There’s surgery and a treatment for that, even if it’s a very rare condition and particularly deadly, but all’s not lost,” the old lady said again with no worries whatsoever, as if she weren’t implying many things that crossed Tashigi’s own being.
Death and love. I was not ready to face them right now.
The question left her mouth almost in a shy whisper, afraid of the answer, “The surgery… is it the only way?”
The doctor kept staring at her, possibly trying to drag everything out of Tashigi without uttering a single word. She knew how she could wear her heart on her sleeve from time to time; that man had tried to warn her in every single encounter, but it was tiring to simply not be herself. To make such an effort to shield everything away and keep all those emotions at bay.
To push him back every time.
The fragment of a smile showed itself on the doctor’s face, her tone a bit softer than before. “No, child. Honesty can also save you.”
—
Bizarre would be the perfect word to describe the frequency of their meetings. It was almost offensive to him. But it never ceased to amaze him how that was even possible considering there was a huge-ass sea between them.
Even so, they'd bump into each other with such ease and with some honest uneasiness on his part. Not because they were supposed to be enemies or because her face was a faint reminder of the past, but mostly because thinking about her was something he definitely didn't want to do.
It wasn't easy, though. It was just simpler to force his mind to not wander and ask questions he wouldn't have the answer to (Is she alright? Is she in danger? Does she still see me solely as a criminal?) because the thinking-about-her brought some revelations Zoro didn’t want to speculate on.
Nami usually mocked him to no end, admonishing him for being so emotionally stunted. The abilities of the witch were growing, like her knowledge to predict the weather, it seemed now she could predict feelings as well. It shocked him, though, because he has never ever made any comments aloud about this situation he gave no name.
Drinking helped, even if for a little while. She wasn’t his business—he shouldn’t care about her whereabouts; his goal was the only thing that mattered. If they had any other connection other than the past and respect for swordsmanship, he didn’t need to know.
So imagine his misfortune to catch a glimpse of her pale face at the very moment he sat down for a drink in the fucking bar he decided to spend his lucid hours in before coming back to his crew.
She stood there, on a stool, with her glasses resting in her messy hair, one hand supporting her head and the other grabbing a cup full of booze. There was something off; her composure wasn't there, and her marine clothes weren't either. Her disguise as a civilian was enough to not make her stand out with just skinny jeans and some boots—the floral blouses were nowhere to be seen—but he would recognize her anywhere, anytime, thanks to his brain.
Strangely, there was an absence in her waist, and that was enough to raise a red flag in Zoro’s brain. That woman would never separate from her sword, the same as him. It made them feel naked, with no barriers to protect them.
What the hell is this nerd thinking?
Against his better judgment, he let his feet trace their way to her. It made absolutely no sense to put himself in danger like that, offering himself to the enemy so freely, but as fate never let him get lost when she was around, he’d listen to it.
“Glasses,” her nickname slipped from his tongue so easily, but he’d be lying if this time her actual name didn’t battle to get out. Her face got him worried; the downcast eyes and the dark circles made her seem sick to the bone. It was only a flash of something he couldn’t describe in her eyes that assured him she recognized his face. Otherwise, she looked like she was in a completely different world.
“Roronoa, I’m not in the mood to argue. Or talk. Please pretend you haven’t seen me, and I’ll do the same for you.”
There was a raspiness in her voice, one that made it seem like she hadn't been drinking the healthy dose of water every day. Despite that, her tone was still firm, unwavering; that would have made many of those dickheads she called subordinates flinch, but that shit wouldn’t work on him. She looked frail, an adjective he never uses for her, and a bigger instinct, one he so much adored to hide, took over.
“You’re unarmed.”
Her movements were slow, and the way her head turned to escape from his stare was quite sluggish. “Vacations.”
Zoro knew theirs was a complicated relationship. He could feel it in his bones, in the way he sheathed his sword, in the influence they had on each other, but also in how they kept their distance, never really crossing each other’s boundaries. But there was time to be stubborn and to bicker; this wasn’t one of them, not when her easy smile was nowhere to be seen. Zoro could feel something was off.
“That’s not an excuse. What if you have to defend yourself?” he said, gritting his teeth. Patience wasn’t one of his best virtues, but he was trying to be a better person for her sake at the moment.
“Then I’ll fight with my hands,” she answered with frustration, her arms up in the air and then loose at her sides. “Why do you care anyway?”
Because I fucking worry. Even if I have no idea why.
It’s been a while since they’ve met for the last time; when she fought back-to-back with him, the seed of trust they’d planted together finally blossomed. It pissed him off that she wanted to pluck that off.
“Look, Glasses, my Captain wants us to be the most friendly we can be with your people, and that’s what I'm gonna do because if Luffy said it, then consider it done, but it doesn’t mean I need to indulge in your shit. Cut the crap already.”
The fire was back the moment she snapped her head in his direction, ready to bite back the way he remembered. His back straightened, a fighting stance they both were so familiar with, but then—a coughing bout, something scratchy from within, like she was putting all her insides out, the strong sound of something wanting to break free from her chest.
He saw blood. But it was the smell that captured him before he could register the red liquid—a floral scent, almost like the perfumes Nami and Robin liked to use.
Glasses stepped down from the stool, rushing for the bathroom, her hands stained, not caring to hide it anymore. A little turmoil in their own bubble; no one around seemed to spare a glance their way. The shock glued Zoro’s feet to the ground for less than a second that seemed like hours. He couldn’t grasp the idea that she was really sick. Was it a wound from a battle that didn’t heal properly? He knew quite well how some wounds could be nasty. Or was it something worse?
Luffy’s image popped into his mind, reminding him that they were supposed to protect each other now for all the things her crew did to save them and vice versa. They had each other’s backs. So he followed her like he’d do in any circumstance. She needed help, even if she was too proud to ask for it, and he wasn’t a hypocrite; he understood her. Their confidence in navigating their own lives was what made them resilient. Both were too much of a fighter, never knowing when to back down.
Glasses was hunched over the sink, the knuckles white from gripping the edges and forcing out of her own will to make the cough stop. The faucet ran free, the water was washing the red in the sink, a morbid painting on a white canvas. He could hear her ragged breath, her face so pale in the mirror in front of her that, for a moment, Zoro was afraid that the feeblest of winds could sweep her away.
“Go away, Roronoa.” Her voice was frail, but it carried the resolution of usual.
“I will when you tell me what’s going on, woman.”
Again, she wasn’t able to answer; another round of coughing, and his hand on her back was faster than the processing in his brain. This time, Zoro could see why he had smelled that scent minutes before.
Petals mixed with her blood, so much so that a chill ran down his spine. He decided their course of action right there and then.
“I have no idea what the hell this is, but I’m taking you to Chopper.”
His tone was final; he wouldn't hear any of her protests. He wouldn’t need to, though—when he pronounced his last word, Glasses was completely out, fainted in his arms, a single bloodied flower in her lean fingers.