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1.
So it turns out that Sanji has thrown his whole life away for a man with two left feet.
Luffy is writhing his body to the music; it’s not to the music that is currently playing, certainly, but there has to be at least one song somewhere in the history of the world that has a fitting rhythm. He twists into shapes that could be from ancient cave drawings of humans engaging in intricate magical rituals, though his new captain doesn’t seem all that interested in that sort of thing. The rest of the crowd keeps a safe distance from the flailing appendages he calls limbs. They did, after all, come here to save Cocoyashi Village, not injure it further.
The crowd whoops and cheers Luffy on anyway. His grin is wide enough to fit the world in. And that whole tray of food an innocent villager was walking by with, apparently.
Yeah, Sanji is going to have his work cut out for him.
He chuckles from the sidelines when the meal makes Luffy bouncier. His enthusiasm is contagious, and that’s how Sanji ended up here. There’s a warm feeling in his chest, but he hasn’t lit his cigarette yet. He hopes this fever never breaks.
In the corner, Nami laughs as Nojiko spins her as the music speeds up. It’s the kind of happiness that comes from feeling safe, from knowing that no one was coming to take it away. It looks good on her. Her hips hit every beat, and her arms move with the ease of leaves in the wind — she’s grown up on these songs. They’re in her bones.
Usopp shimmies his way between the two sisters. The looseness in his shoulders and the way his goggles are crooked on his face tell Sanji he’s running on liquid courage. With a completely straight face, he leans backwards, bending his knees until his head is almost touching the ground. There is no game of limbo to be found, but Nami claps and squeals, so Usopp wins anyway, even if he collapses to the ground right after.
Sanji is tired just looking at them. He supposes he could dance his food off in a bit. His stomach is still pleasantly heavy with dishes he needs to get the recipes for before they leave. He’s sure that Nami will appreciate having a taste of home when they’re out at sea.
He makes a mental reminder of it before slipping into an alley between two houses.
The last member of his crew had the same idea. The swordsman, sitting cross-legged with a mug of liquor bigger than his head, is the most subdued Sanji has seen him so far. So he is capable of shutting the fuck up. Noted.
Sanji settles across from him. His knees are pulled up to his chest, but the space is so narrow that the tops of his shoes are almost touching Zoro’s.
He lights his cigarette, takes a hit, and tips his head back to blow out the smoke. Its rise into the air is slow and lazy. He figured they’ve got time and all that right now.
“How’re your injuries?” he asks. His eyes slide over the bandages around his ribs. If they happen to linger on the bare tan skin above them, well, that’s just collateral. His field of vision just happens to be wide enough to see it.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” Zoro’s eyes rest on him. His eyes are sharp and angular, uncannily cat-like for a man as brutish and inelegant as him. He’s handsome. It’s inconsequential. Sanji has seen a lot of handsome men and women over the years. Look, don’t touch. “You?”
“I’m just glad I don’t have to cook for once.” Sanji takes another hit. He looks out to the crowd, where Luffy and Usopp are still moving with abandon, which is unfortunate for the creaking table they’re currently standing on. “How the hell are they still going?”
Nami runs over to them with a stern look. They both hop down from the table. Usopp’s head is hanging, but Luffy just pulls him back into the main crowd, which disperses immediately.
Zoro snickers.
Sanji turns his gaze back just in time to watch Zoro take a long drink from his mug. The drop of beer that rolls down the side of his mouth like it’s got all the time in the world is catastrophic.
“There’s nothing funny about a beautiful lady in distress.”
“I only see a witch.” He’d really be better as a photo in the newspaper. “Oh, here she comes.”
“Zoro! Sanji!” She claps her hands once. “We’re doing a fun traditional village dance soon. I want you guys to be a part of it, so let me teach you.”
Sanji is on his feet so fast he gets a flash of vertigo. “Of course! Anything, for you darling.”
Zoro is still on the floor with that damn mug. “I’ll pass.”
“Of course.” Sanji rolls his eyes. “Not the type to do something you suck at, huh?”
Okay, maybe that’s projection. A little. He has to, for his sanity. This boy, who is unfortunately good at fighting and bet on his dreams long before Sanji could even dare to imagine it, has to be bad at something.
Zoro bristles. Ah, so there he is. “What’d you say?”
“That I bet you can’t dance for shit.”
Nami turns around to giggle.
“I can do better than you, asshole.” He chugs the rest of his drink and tosses it to the ground.
“I’d like to see you try.”
He gets up. “Like you don’t trip over your feet at the sight of a pretty girl.”
They’re standing almost chest to chest now. This alley is narrow, but it isn’t that narrow. Zoro is staring stab wounds into him. The inside of Sanji feels like a pile of heated coals, and still, he takes a drag.
He turns his head to blow smoke away from Zoro’s face. He’s thoroughly entertained and compelled by the urge to take off his suit jacket. So he does. He tosses it over Zoro’s head like he’s putting out an annoying fire.
“Lead the way, Nami.”
She mutters something under her breath before starting to walk.
“Bastard,” he hears Zoro curse. What a satisfying noise.
She takes them to a quieter part of town, where Usopp is drinking water like a madman and Luffy is (still) eating meat like a madman. Zoro throws his jacket back at him. At least he took it with him here, what a gentleman, or whatever. Sanji sets it on a crate nearby and rolls up his sleeves to his elbows.
Nami takes them through the steps of the dance. Sanji is a quick study; maybe it’s because he misses this so much. Baratie was a melting pot of cultures at times, and that included dance. Some nights guests would waltz across the ballroom to lilting tunes, and other times it was a more passionate and fiery affair. Aside from the guests, he’s picked up a few more quaint folk dances from Patty and Carne. It was a useful skill to have; there have been many times when he’s had to lead a lonely lady on the dance floor.
He has to admit he didn’t know he’d miss it until he was standing in front of Cocoyashi Village, feeling a little smug that he can move his hips better than the rest of the boys. Usopp’s got the rhythm, at least, and Luffy is hopeless.
At one point, Sanji turns his head to his side, and—
Okay, so maybe the gap in skill for the great art of hip gyration isn’t as wide as he thought.
“What the fuck.” He’s staring at Zoro like he just grew horns out of his head. That would make more sense for him.
Usopp wolf whistles.
Zoro just stands there with one hand on his hip (talk about calling attention to the problem) and shrugs. “Swordplay requires a lot of footwork.”
That is sound logic, he has to admit. He just won’t admit it out loud.
“I’m still better than you.” Sanji loosens his tie as the current song fades. It’s silent for a second before an energetic guitar solo cuts the quiet wide open, allowing the cheers of the villagers to tear it even further. Nami joins in. It’s night time. The only lights are the stars, the torches everywhere, and Nami’s eyes. He’s happy for her.
“Well, prove it on the dancefloor!” Nami turns on her heels to join the crowd, gathering into several circles, each one larger and containing the previous ones. It’s a gathering storm, and Nami shoves past people to make it to one of the inner rings.
“Wait—” Luffy does not wait for Usopp. He grabs Usopp by the arm and drags him into the fray.
“Ready or not.” Zoro looks at him like he’s ready to draw blood. Like it would be easy to.
That just wouldn’t do.
The music lulls. The villagers keep moving. Zoro slips past the outermost circle and then the next. Sanji chases him, ducking away from arms and slipping through the narrowing gaps between bodies. Zoro disappears and reappears as the crowd comes together and comes apart and begins to rotate, the world’s most annoying magic trick.
The villagers begin to sing. It’s a flood of sound and physical bodies around him, ebbing and flowing like the tide. He’s sure he can feel the ground shaking beneath him. He doesn’t even know where the others are.
The crop of green hair is his North Star.
Zoro’s close to the center.
Sanji jumps in mid-movement and doesn’t miss a beat.
“I’m going to kill you,” he yells over the villagers’ long note.
Zoro doesn’t even turn to look at him. He flings his arms up, all ten fingers outstretched as he stomps to the right, crossing each foot over the other.
“Quit yapping and show it with your moves!” Zoro yells back.
Sanji doesn’t have time to retort because Zoro is turning to him. Everyone around them is turning to someone, right, there’s a duet portion of this.
Zoro throws out a hand in the space between them. No room to think when the music has invaded his brain and staked a flag there. Sanji throws his hand out too, their palms facing each other, not touching, but he can feel the heat between them, crackling with possibility. It’s a part of the choreography, he knows, but it feels like a handshake — an agreement, or a declaration of war.
Their hips swing to the music. They both bend their legs to get into it, and gods, Sanji might swing his hips right down to hell tonight.
They hit beat after beat hard, interspersed with more flowy grooves.
And there’s a lot of hands. A lot of not touching with hands. Like the not-handshake, there’s a lot of hovering. Hovering over biceps and waists. Sanji thinks of all the times he’s held his hand above a stove to check the temperature, but he’s never entertained the thought of closing the distance until now. They never touch when they’re not supposed to, not even accidentally — they’re so in sync that they know when to move and how much to move so that they never bump into each other.
He’s so high on adrenaline that his heartbeat sounds oceans away.
They don’t touch until they do. Both of their hands slap together hard enough to sting, but neither of them pull away. They just keep pushing as they lift their hands up until their arms are completely straight, and then—
There is no and then. They separate.
Zoro grins at him.
Sanji stumbles backward. He expects to get trampled, but instead, there’s a strong arm around his back, and a hand in his.
Zoro dips him back and smirks. “Not just pretty girls, Cook?”
“Oh, what the hell.”
The demon laughs. The circle is already rotating. He spins Sanji towards his next partner. The rest of the song goes flawlessly.
2.
Usopp slaps the wood of the counter and subsequently doubles over in pain when his shot shatters the bottle. Even off a couple shots of whiskey, he’s still managed to shoot down an entire row.
Sanji pats him on the back. “Walk it off.”
Beside them, at the bar, Nami and Zoro are attempting to break the world record for fastest alcohol poisoning. Empty cups litter the counter, but neither of them looks anywhere near drunk. The night is still young — the sun was still setting when the Straw Hats had sashayed through the saloon doors like they belong here.
They do look the part. The addition of Robin invigorated all of them with a desire to immerse themselves even more in the local cultures of the islands they were visiting. This one, a summer desert full of red sand and gunslingers on horses, was a detour, but not an unwelcome one. They’ve managed to stay out of trouble here, so it’s a vacation, really.
Sanji can’t say he hates the flared dark denim jeans he’s in, or the accompanying jacket, which is tied loosely around his waist. He certainly doesn’t hate the leather belt, especially not the gaudy silver buckle. He doesn’t know if he can rock a cowboy hat as well as Robin though. She and Nami are both in denim skirts and cowboy boots and all is well in the world.
Maybe not all. Franky’s tasseled denim trunks are a bit much.
Zoro stands up, and his leather pants are definitely too much. His bandana is around his neck tonight, and it’s a nice touch, considering the furthest he was willing to go was those pants and a white tank top that might as well be glued to his body.
They’ve overthrown Crocodile in Alabasta, declared war on the World Government and survived, and Sanji unfortunately still thinks Zoro is handsome and Sanji still doesn’t understand him. It’s the kind of will-testing ordeal one could do nothing but accept. As long as he’s with Luffy, his life will be under threat daily. Zoro is attractive. That kind of thing.
It doesn’t help that he and Zoro are friends now. And it’s Zoro’s fault. Zoro is the one who sounded like a fretful mother over him at Water 7. Before then, Zoro is the one who asked him to work together at Davy Back (hell froze over too). Zoro is the one who challenged him to a hunting contest at Little Garden. Zoro is the one who turned to him at Cocoyashi Village and held out a hand to him.
They’ve touched more since then. Only in fights, though, and that’s different anyways. In fighting, touching was necessary. Banal. Just like in dancing. Context matters. It’s foolish of him to think otherwise.
Honestly, their fights bring him back to that night, the way they ebb and flow and push and pull and give and receive. The way that Sanji is aware of his own body only because he’s aware of Zoro’s. Zoro’s jaw clenching around his sword before ducks. The extra little step before he feints, a necessary piece of his internal rhythm, and Sanji can hear it if he listens.
And he does listen. The fights are his chance to. They don’t talk out loud. But they do. Talk, he means, in their own way.
Zoro walks over to Luffy and Sanji slides into his own seat. He steals one of Nami’s shots. His insides sizzle.
“I hope you’re paying for that.” Her eyes narrow.
“And I’ll buy you another one.” He waves the bartender down for another round.
She nods in approval. “Now we’re talking. Hopefully another one will make you stop looking like you were just told you were terminally ill.”
Sanji waves her off. “The only thing I’m sick with is your powerful beauty.”
He means it, as he always does; Nami is as beautiful as an apparition of a goddess. It’s more a form of banter nowadays. After he stumbled upon Nami crying over Vivi after Alabasta, he realized a lot of things about her. And he, of course, respects those things greatly.
“Flattery won’t pay the tab.” The bartender puts down two more shots in front of them. She holds her shot glass out to him. The glasses make a satisfying little clink together. He’s never truly thought he had a chance with Nami, and what he got instead is better. More comfortable. A friend. Sanji has a lot of those nowadays, and it’s strange and exciting.
They take the shot, and he hears Zoro laugh. His competitive streak means he must work to override every other sound in the room. Sanji looks over, throat still burning, and sees him leaning against Luffy’s table, one palm pressed against the surface. His whole body is open. It believes he’s safe.
Sanji doesn’t see him in that state often. For the most part, Zoro lives with one hand on his swords at all times. Sanji gets it. Maybe that’s also why he likes fighting the swordsman; it’s relieving to know they could have a fight where their lives weren’t on the line. It could be fun and nothing more.
Zoro beams. Sanji feels the light in his stomach. His insides are shriveling up.
Beside him, Nami breaks the spell with a thoughtful, “Huh.”
He turns back to her and blinks. “Is something troubling, my lady?”
She stares at him like he’s a math equation she’s trying to solve. “So… Zoro?”
“Did that brute do something to bother you? I can walk over and deal with him right now—” He moves to stand up. Nami stops him with a gentle hand over his palm. That gets his ass back in the seat.
“No, no, I mean...” There’s a moment of silence. She is still looking at him. “Robin did a good job with his outfit.”
“Robin’s perfect.” Sanji leans his cheek into his palm. He traces the rim of his empty glass. “Of course she could turn a beast into a prince.”
“Prince.” The word comes out as a half-laugh. Something in her brain clicks, and she begins to nod slowly. “Hmm. I see.”
He recognizes her scheming face. He raises an eyebrow at her, only to be met with a shrug.
“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”
“Something that’ll cost you a lot of money to know.” She glances past him. Her eyes widen. “I guess you were right about Robin.”
Sanji turns just in time to see a beautiful woman saunter up to Zoro. Both her arms are covered in tattoos. A woman with a pain tolerance, how incredibly Zoro, he thinks, not at all bitterly. Her denim shorts barely cover her ass, and respectfully, it’s a good ass, so of course she should show it off. She twirls a strand of earthy brown hair between her fingers as she speaks to him. He doesn’t look all that interested.
“Hopeless fucker,” Sanji swears. “Do you see this? A literal angel is giving him the time of day and he’s looking at her like she’s an encyclopedia he’s being forced to read cover to cover.”
“Is that so.”
Sanji’s getting pissed off just looking at them. If he imagines what verbal failures Zoro is putting out into the world right now, he might kick a hole into the bar.
Nami leans her elbows on the bar with a contemplative look on her face. “Wow.”
“I know.” Sanji combs a hand through his hair. “He’s so clueless.”
“Definitely.”
“GOOD EVENING TO ALL YOU FINE FOLKS HERE TONIGHT!” a voice screeches over a scratchy microphone. Sanji mentally apologizes to his ears. On the little stage against the wall across from them, a little man in a big (really big) cowboy hat stands. The crowd cheers in response. “Lovin’ the energy y’all are bringing tonight. Especially because it’s the first weekend of the month, and y’all know what that means…”
Sanji does not know what that means.
“LINE DANCING COMPETITION!” By the crowd’s response, they took their line dancing seriously.
Sanji looks over to Robin, who looks like a child in a candy store. There’s a nonzero chance she planned this.
“Y’all know the drill.” Some patrons begin lining up at the stage. A second small man in a medium-sized cowboy hat sets up a table on the stage with three chairs. A third small man in an appropriately sized cowboy hat (thank the gods) begins handing out large slips of paper with numbers on them, which the patrons stick onto their backs, before forming a horizontal line in front of the stage. The announcer puts it into words: “Just come on up, grab a number, and take a spot! Newcomers welcome.”
Sanji welcomes the distraction from the swordsman with no game that’s messing up his mood.
Except the swordsman in question is coming over to him. And the beautiful girl is now by herself, looking distressed. Luffy and Chopper certainly won’t give her the time of day either.
“Oi, Cook,” Zoro says. Absurd.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” He almost falls out of the stool to grab him by the straps of his stupid tank top.
“What?”
“You left that beautiful girl hanging!”
He rolls his eyes. “I told her I wasn’t interested.”
“You are ridiculous.” He releases Zoro, who doesn’t even stumble. “So why are you bothering me?”
He crosses his arms and tosses his head towards the stage. “I bet I can beat you.”
“In line dancing?” Sanji is incredulous. Cowboys are a nomadic bunch, so he’s had his fair share of opportunities to throw it down at the Baratie.
“You heard me.”
“Where did you even learn to line dance?”
“I got lost once, and I ended up being rescued by a bunch of cowboys.”
Sanji believes him. “Okay.”
“You scared I’m going to beat you or something?”
“No. ” Sanji is not scared, but he is a lot of things. Such as astounded that this conversation is even taking place. And also nervous, yuck, considering the last time they danced. It’s not like there was any touching involved in line dancing, but—
What is he even doing. His brain is out of control.
“Okay, so get in line.”
“What is this?” Beside him, Nami is so silent. “Have you secretly been yearning to dance all these past few months? You should bother Luffy about getting a musician.”
“No.” Zoro shrugs. “I’ll take any chance to kick your ass.”
“Okayyyyyyyy.” Maybe the alcohol is kicking in a little because it’s not computing, and Nami is still quietly sipping on a cocktail he doesn’t remember her ordering. Everything is insane.
This is when Robin chooses to insert herself into the conversation. Exactly what he needed, a grounded and levelheaded presence.
“Robin,” Zoro places a hand on her shoulder, “tell the Cook to enter the line dancing competition with me.”
“Don’t let him pollute your mind.”
“I think it’d be wonderful if you two entered!” Goddammit. And Robin’s smile. He’s weak. “It would be a great way to get to know the local customs better. And I’ve always wanted to learn, so you could teach me when we’re back on the ship.”
Robin and Nami’s eyes meet. Robin is still smiling. Nami sips her drink.
Sanji blinks and he’s standing in front of the stage. The number 33 is on his back. Next to him, Zoro is doing lunges. It can’t be this serious. In leather pants?
The announcer screams into the mic, and Sanji is surprised he doesn’t drop dead right then and there. “ALRIGHT, Y’ALL! LET’S GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD!”
The music starts, and Sanji quickly finds out that these islanders really don’t mess around when it comes to line dancing. As soon as someone makes a mistake, the announcer barks out their number, and the participant takes a walk of shame up to the stage where they have to chug pure liquor.
Luckily, it’s mainly all footwork. He keeps his hands in his pockets so he can concentrate, and the flow of it is familiar. Each stomp of his foot against the wooden floor is loud and powerful enough to send vibrations through his body. This is the way he fights.
But Zoro’s not bad either. Sanji doesn’t turn to look at him. It’s so he can concentrate, of course, but the swordsman has to be keeping up well if he hasn’t been booted yet.
And he still manages to taunt, “Put your back into it!”
The next time they have to lean backwards in the sequence, Sanji leans so far back that he would fall if he were any other person. Except he’s not.
“Surprised you haven’t lost on purpose to get a free drink,” Sanji manages. Some people around him are breathing heavily.
“The best drink is a victory drink,” Zoro retorts. Well, Sanji can’t disagree.
The other competitors are dropping like flies. Sanji doesn’t see them, for the most part, until they’re at the stage. He has no time to pay attention to them. He knows the numbers are dwindling from the announcer barking out numbers like he’s reading off the names of fallen soldiers.
“You were half a second too late there.” Zoro has the nerve to be watching him at a time like this?
Sanji swings his leg to the side. It makes a satisfying scuffling noise as it skids against the floor, rises, and comes back to the earth. He has to keep it bent, so it’s not as fun as a kick, but it still reminds him of those fights.
“Judges didn’t think so.”
“But you know it was.”
He does. Ugh.
They clap to the music. They’re so in sync it’s kind of spooky.
“I dream about killing you,” Sanji says, before he spins to his right. Step out with your right foot, to the back with your left, back to the front with your right, then bring your left foot in to complete the moment.
“I hope I look cool as hell in your dreams.” They spin to the left.
“You’re a helpless pile of moss, actually,” is what he answers because unfortunately, Zoro is kind of cool in his dreams. But like, it’s not like those dreams happen often, or anything. Yeah.
“FINAL TWO, EVERYONE!” the announcer yells.
Luffy screams their names. It’s muffled; he’s still eating.
Sanji turns his head to Zoro. There’s an intense look in his eyes, the same one he always has when he’s trying to figure him out in a fight. Sometimes Sanji forgot how observant Zoro could be, how it manifested in knowing how to care for all of them in his own quiet way. Sanji’s heart stutters, and it’s been calm all this time. His brain momentarily sputters. But this isn’t Cocoyashi Village, and Sanji doesn’t miss a step. “Now shut up and be quiet while I beat you.”
Zoro grins and faces forward.
Sanji dances like his life depends on it. He’ll stop when his heart stops.
Or when the music stops. Honestly, he doesn’t even realize the music stops until that wailing microphone pulls him out of it. “Uh… Y’all? Hello? HELLO!!!!!”
Sanji and Zoro look at the announcer, whose jaw is almost on the floor. Well, he’s small to begin with, so the distance isn’t that far. “My gods. You two danced so long that we need to kick y’all out ‘cause we’re closing.”
Sanji looks around and realizes that somewhere in the haze, the bar has emptied itself. Other than the Straw Hats, the only people left are too drunk to leave.
A smattering of applause. Luffy hollers.
“This is a tie. Geez louise, this ain’t ever happened before. Not sure how to split the prize between you two.”
“It’s alright, sir,” Nami calls from the bar. “They’re part of our crew. We can take it.”
“Ain’t that something!”
Zoro lowers his voice so only Sanji can hear. “This won’t happen next time.”
“In your dreams,” is all he can say. Really, what he wants to say is what the hell does he even mean by next time. He liked to think he came to understand Zoro more during fights, but this just undid all of that in an instant.
At least the gold cowboy boot filled with liquor is a fine prize.
The cowboy boot stays on display in the galley.
3.
Franky builds a barre on deck without Sanji having to ask. Before then, Sanji had only done ballet on the Sunny once since the Straw Hats reunited on Sabaody. The railing wasn’t ideal, but it worked. He hadn’t spoken much about his training on Kamabakka Kingdom, so when Franky told him about the barre and Brook told him he’d play music whenever Sanji practiced, he figures he must’ve left his ballet shoes out somewhere.
He has to admit that he missed this, how his crew cares for him without even having to try. One day he’ll feel deserving of it.
He has to admit that these specific gestures meant a lot. Growing up he remembers his mother showing him picture books full of magical women and magical men who were magical because of the way they could move their bodies so beautifully. He remembers his mother telling him that once upon a time, she had been one of those magical women. He still thought she was magical anyways. He spent a long time wanting to learn.
He never thought the okamas would be the ones to take his neglected childhood fantasy and turn it into reality. He never thought he’d find such compassion and acceptance among them to begin with. Their oddly extensive dance culture was a fun bonus. He got to learn a new form of dance he hadn’t heard of before that involved freestyling, mainly with controlled movements of the arms. The okamas had competitions for kind where everyone dressed lavishly. The first time he won one was a surprisingly affirming experience, and in time he’d return to that too.
For now he tugs his black spandex pants over his leotard, short-sleeved and the same shade of blue as one of his favorite dress shirts. The pants are flared; he thinks about his flared jeans more than he cares to remember, especially when he goes into the galley and sees the stupid cowboy boot.
He goes out to the deck. They’re docked at a spring island, so most of the crew has gone out exploring. He’s only expecting Brook to still be here since he asked earlier if he could play some tunes for Sanji’s exercises. Admittedly, counting in his head wasn’t as entertaining.
Brook is nowhere to be seen. Zoro and Nami are at the railing though. She’s grinning at him the way she does when she has someone by the throat, and he is looking at her like someone whose throat is, indeed, had. Sanji has no idea what’s going on, but whatever it is, Zoro probably deserves it.
Zoro.
Oh, Zoro.
Since coming back, things between them have been… Well. They haven’t been.
The only reason Sanji thought about him so much during their two year separation is because they left it like that. No matter what some of the nosier okamas thought. If they knew the full story they’d get it. Zoro had stopped him from sacrificing himself at Thriller Bark and then Sanji found him like that.
The next time Sanji found him, it was two years later, and Zoro decided to get on his nerves immediately. It was like Zoro said. Nothing happened.
It’s for the better, probably. Sanji doesn’t want to poke this thing between them when he wasn’t even sure if it existed or if he was just in his head.
He’s fine. The barre is near a wall near where they’re standing, and he isn’t going to let any dumbass-shaped obstacles stand in the way of doing ballet.
Nami notices him first. Zoro’s gaze follows hers. His eye widens. He looks like an idiot. Sanji, for some reason, almost wants to cover up.
“Did your good eye stop working too?” Sanji easily puts his right leg up on the barre and bends over it. He touches his nose to his knee. He’s always been flexible, but his time on Kamabakka has turned him into the bendiest version of himself. It feels damn good.
“No,” except Zoro is looking at him like he doesn’t know what he’s looking at.
“I’m going,” Nami says suddenly.
“Have so much fun, darling,” Sanji calls after her. He bends his standing leg to stretch further. His eyes narrow. “Seriously, what is your problem?”
“Just wondering when you became a ballerina with all these fancy clothes, Cook.”
“You think they’re fancy?” Sanji switches legs. Zoro snorts. “Well, I got them from Iva. When we were all… you know. That’s also where I learned.”
He’s stretching far enough that the pain is at the forefront of his mind, not the awkwardness that he’s feeling over having this conversation.
Sanji comes out of the stretch. Zoro is still standing there watching him. He swallows as Sanji kicks his left leg up and backwards, grabbing his ankle with his left arm so that he’s holding himself in a split in the air.
“...What are you still doing here?” He pitches forward just a little, stretching himself a little past 180 degrees.
“You mean the ship of the crew that I’m also a part of?”
“Don’t get cute with me, Marimo.” What. His own words register at the same time as the bewildered look on the other man’s face. His ankle slips from his grip. “I just meant… You don’t have shit to do on the island?”
“No.” He crosses his arms. “I thought you’d be happy, Cook. You won’t have to chase me down like you always seem to do.”
Sanji needs to turn around and do the stretch on the other side. Turning away from Zoro right now seems like a bad idea. There’s some weird challenge in the swordsman’s tone, and ignoring it seems like admitting he’s lost. Sanji leans his elbow against the bar, chewing the inside of his cheek. He wants to retort, something like Where you are is none of my damn concern, except Zoro is right. Sanji is always the one bringing him back when he’s lost, one hand around Zoro’s wrist. Most of the time he’s too busy fussing to notice the contact, and now Zoro had to bring it to his attention.
“You’re like a hunting dog.” Sanji does not mean to say it out loud, except he does.
“The hell are you talking about?”
He’s talking about… reliability. Loyalty. Weird acts of kindness. Instead he says, “It’s like you’re always throwing dead things at my feet and expecting me to do something about it. But I don’t know what.”
“The fuck.” Zoro pulls one of his swords half out of its sheath. “Do you want to go?”
“No.”
Zoro pauses.
Sanji is somehow exhausted by this conversation, this reminder that it’s weird between them and he doesn’t know why or how to fix it. He doesn’t want to fight Zoro anymore because he’s afraid of fighting Zoro and still not understanding him.
“I came out here to do ballet.” Sanji pushes a hand through his hair. “So… You know.”
In an instant, Zoro’s out of his fighting stance. The sword is put away. “Fine.” There’s no fight in his voice. He sits down. “I’m going to sit here.”
And watch , he doesn’t add. It’s for the better. Sanji can’t untangle the reasoning behind it right now.
“Fine,” Sanji replies. There’s no fight in his voice. He turns to the other side and stretches his other leg.
Brook clatters up the gangway onto the ship, violin in hand. “Sanji, dear, I hope I haven’t kept you waiting for too long. I had an impromptu little concert with a flock of birds.”
Right. Brook hasn’t noticed it, so maybe the tension in the air is all in Sanji’s head. “You’re right on time,” he lies. “Could you give me something a little slow to start?”
The music starts, and Sanji drops into his body. His mind is too chaotic of a place to be in right now. When he first started training, he hated these adagio sequences the most. All he wanted was to move fast and hard, to replicate the delicious tempo of a good battle, but in a pair of ballet shoes. Nowadays he’s learned to appreciate the slowness. When each gesture had time to breath, he was more aware of his body. He could take the time to see if his hips were in alignment and if his shoulders were down and back.
Not to mention that it fucking burned. A fast kick didn’t hurt as much as the slow and controlled lift of his leg.
Even when he’s turned to Zoro, he doesn’t look at Zoro. His chin is slightly up, his eyes trained forward, or his head is moving with the soft movements of his arms. The other man has probably been bored to sleep anyway.
After moving through a faster set of exercises, he moves away from the barre, out into the main area of the deck. He does the 300 jump sequence that Iva tortured with him daily. It comes more naturally than it did at first, mainly because there were so many different jumps with slightly different names he had to contend with. He has a newfound appreciation for the effortless grace of most ballet dancers because by the time he’s done, his leotard feels like it’s plastered to his skin.
He wipes away the sweat on his forehead, shakes his legs out, and moves to one end of the deck to one end of the deck to do some across the floor exercises.
These are his favorites. It feels damn good to move for the sake of moving — not because he was fighting, or because he was running, but because he was free. Brook places him a tune that reminds him of rocks skipping across a pond, and he’s smiling as he glides across the deck, weightless. To think at one point he had been imprisoned. The thought is a sore wound as he continues to dance underneath the sunlight.
It’s interesting, really — some ballet principles went totally against his instincts. In ballet, every foot had to be pointed. Sanji’s spent years kicking people, his foot flat as he sent them flying. Yet he’s somehow all the better at the latter because of the former.
Part of him wishes he could do this until the moon is high in the sky, but dinner won’t make itself. He decides to close out with some snippets of choreography that he learned from the okamas.
There’s a turn series in it — four fouettes that finish with five pirouettes. To him, ballet turns seemed to be a mystical art in themselves. Landing this for the first time was as satisfying as mastering his haki.
He preps for it. All of his muscles are activated, and his body is straight. There’s not supposed to be any twisting of the torso; the momentum comes from the force of his legs alone, and he has plenty of that.
He sucks in a deep breath as a beat passes, and then he’s off.
He can feel his form is off with his fouettes, but he gets through them okay enough. It’s the pirouettes that get to him. He launches into them with too much speed, his eyes unfocusing after the second one.
Before he knows it he’s falling forward, and one hand reaches out to grasp something, anything—
And impossibly, it’s Zoro’s hand. Without thinking, Sanji throws a leg out behind him like he’s done so many times when dancing with other people. Zoro holds him there, suspended in his arabesque. Brook keeps playing. Sanji feels like they’re two figurines in a music box right now.
Sanji straightens himself up and comes down gracefully.
“Thanks.” He’s very aware of the fact that his hand is still gripping Zoro’s.
Not the other way around. Zoro had somehow gotten up and ran to him. He had positioned himself so that Sanji could grab him, but Zoro palm is still outstretched.
Somehow, even in the position they’ve found themselves in, Zoro is… avoiding any more necessary contact?
Sanji blames his entire life on this man.
“Would be a stupid way to get injured.” Briefly, his eyes flit down to their hands. The music has stopped. Sanji frees them both. “Gonna train.”
“Okay.” For no particular reason, he repeats, “Okay.”
Sanji should go to the mens’ quarters, change, and make dinner.
Instead, he watches Zoro go.
Instead, he notices when Zoro flexes his hand, the one Sanji had been holding, like he’s injured it.
4.
It starts at a party. A masquerade ball, to be exact. Either way, it’s a celebratory social gathering Sanji doesn’t want to be at. He should, though — the cheese is exquisite and so is the wine. His suit is made of the softest fabric that’s ever touched his skin. The ballroom is beautiful; the domed ceiling is entirely made of glass, allowing the starlight to trickle in.
The Straw Hats are here undercover at the ball — Kudo, the drug lord’s ball, to be exact — trying to get intel on a kidnapped scientist after his young daughter pleaded with them. That’s not the reason Sanji doesn’t want to be here. It’s routine stuff for them.
The reason he doesn’t want to be here is trailing behind him like a shadow, gurgling down liquor like a beast. He’s seen Zoro spill things on his suit at least twice tonight. At least the material is dark, so the stains will go unnoticed.
So yes. The reason he doesn’t want to be here is Zoro, who doesn't look like Zoro. His face is hidden by a gilded gold mask with a deep green detailing, hiding the puckered scar on his eye. His hair has been dyed darker. His earrings are gone.
Sanji doesn’t feel any type of way about it.
He glances over his shoulder, and Zoro is still there. He’s more inscrutable than ever. The bottom half of his face is visible, but his mouth gives nothing away.
Maybe he does feel some type of way about it. The teeniest bit. He’s been trying to get better at the whole feeling thing since he was rescued from Whole Cake Island. Hence asking Robin for help on Wano. Hence asking Zoro—
Well.
Hence why he decided to add to he and Zoro’s shared treasure chest of things they don’t talk about.
A waiter offers Sanji a platter of cheese and he takes another piece. It’s excellent. Horrifically, its excellence isn’t enough to save him from himself.
He knows that he’s had a habit of downplaying things that have happened to him in the past, so maybe it was time to admit asking someone else to kill you (only if the occasion called for it!) was kind of a big deal.
They haven’t talked about it.
As Sanji weaves his way through the crowd, a woman stops him with a hand on his bicep. Her nails are long and sharp, painted blood red. There’s a heart-shaped birthmark below her lip. She’s one of their target’s close confidants. This could be a lead.
“Hey, handsome,” she purrs. “Save me a dance later?”
He lifts her hand up to his lips, placing a feather light kiss to the back of her palm. “Of course, my lady.”
She gives him a private smile before disappearing like a snake into the depths of a forest.
Sanji finds Nami playing poker. “Playing” is too gentle for the murder she’s committing. He arrives just in time for the game to end.
“Pay up, boys.” Her tone is collected, but he can feel her vibrating in her seat as all the winnings are pushed towards her. “Bye!” She wiggles her fingers at them. They’re all masked, but Sanji can sense the hatred as they get up to leave.
Sanji and Zoro slide into the seats at the table.
“Witch,” Zoro remarks.
“I guess cheating is a kind of magic.” She sticks her tongue at him. She hugs all the money close to her.
“No one’s gonna take that from you.”
“I know. It’s awesome.” She rubs her cheek to it. “I was gathering information too, you know.”
“What’d you find?” Sanji’s lighter makes a satisfying hiss as the flame comes to life. He takes a hit off of a cigarette.
“Kudo’s obsessed with tango dancing.”
Her tone warrants another hit.
“I don’t like the way you’re talking right now.” Zoro crosses his arms. He takes another swig, but his cup is empty. “Or that look you’re giving us.”
Us. So they’re on the same page about this. Might be the first time in a long time.
“What look? I’m wearing a mask.” Even then, Sanji can imagine the way she’s batting her eyelashes. “I’m just saying that I heard he watches people as they dance throughout the night, even if it’s just for fun. The ones who stand out the most get a full tour of the mansion.”
It would, tragically, make their mission a lot easier.
“If only we had two people on the ship who could tango.”
“What makes you think I know how to tango?” Sanji doesn’t like being at odds with Nami like this, but he can’t guarantee he and Zoro won’t get into a fight instead.
Even though Zoro had been willing to meet his… request, there’s been a coldness to him since they left Wano. Sanji can chalk up the show of devotion to the adrenaline rush, and now that they had come down from the high, they were just nothing. If he let himself sit with the thought long enough, he would quietly admit to himself he doesn’t like that.
He doesn’t know what it means. If not nothing, then what did he want him and Zoro to be?
“Baratie,” Nami says.
“Okay, fair.” Sanji risks a glance at Zoro. The mask makes him feel brave. The mask still makes Zoro unreadable. Zoro’s a physical person, he’s learned. All his feelings are expressed in the body. Or at least they used to be. Nowadays he was more controlled. More distant. “What makes you think he can tango?”
“I can,” is all Zoro replies with.
Nami fills in the blanks. “Mihawk.”
“Is there anyone else who can do it?” Sanji’s stomach twists at the thought of being so close to him when he didn’t know where they stood. He didn’t want to have the chance to notice that Zoro hadn’t forgiven him. Why would someone as loyal as him forgive Sanji anyway?
“You two literally already won a dance competition together,” she points out. The cowboy boot is still in the damn galley. Zoro has indeed filled it with sake before.
Sanji wants to tell her that this is different. That time they were only dancing side by side. Sanji could feel the heat of him, yes, but they never touched. Whenever they did touch, it was fleeting. Exchanged blows during battle.
Zoro’s hand, the only thing standing between him and falling flat on his face.
He tries not to think about it.
“I’ll do it,” Zoro decides. Maybe he just didn’t give a damn. Maybe he didn’t think anything of Sanji at all, love or hate, and certainly that was worse.
“Fine.” There’s no other way for Sanji to answer. The crew comes first. “I need to take a breather.”
His feet lead him to the outdoor balcony before either of them can respond. The chill night air above him is comforting. The darkness below is tempting, but he would never succumb to it over some petty anxieties.
His hand shakes around the lighter. The flame doesn’t catch.
“Fuck,” he swears, shoving it back into his pocket. Without anything to hold, his hands resort to pulling at his hair. He’s been undercover many times before, in much more dangerous situations. He’s been in much much more dangerous situations with Zoro.
“Cook,” a voice says behind him.
Sanji whirls around. There Zoro is, as if Sanji’s thoughts alone conjured him. His dark clothes make him nearly invisible against the night. Sanji might reach out, and he’d disappear like smoke.
“What do you want?” he snaps. His voice still shakes.
He’s been in much more dangerous situations with Zoro, and they’ve never run from them. They’ve fought their way out together, kicking and screaming.
But delicate situations are a different story. Dangerous and delicate are different.
This is delicate.
Zoro steps closer to him. “You ran outta there like hell was on your heels.”
“Didn’t know mossballs could be such poets.”
“I’m just checking on you.” His voice is even. “We have a mission to do.”
“A mission.” Sanji laughs. He can’t help it.
Zoro’s jaw tightens. He’s irritated. It’s the first time all night Sanji has been able to understand any of his feelings. “What the fuck has gotten into you?”
You, he wants to yell. You.
“Nothing,” comes out instead.
“You’re ripping your own hair out.” That’s Sanji’s cue to let go. “Don’t tell me this is nothing.”
“I just did.”
The swordsman exhales loudly. “I really don’t understand what your problem is.”
You. You. You.
“You leave the crew,” Zoro starts. The statement is like a sword to the heart. So are his next words. “You come back. You call me in the middle of the fight on Wano and tell me you might not be in your right mind after this. You tell me to– to—” His voice suddenly gets very quiet. This is delicate. “You tell me to kill you. And now we’re—”
“I didn’t know there was a we,” Sanji spits.
Zoro’s lips press into a thin line. “Don’t tell me this is nothing.”
Sanji should feel vindicated. He should feel gleeful, even, that he hasn’t been driving himself insane for the past two years for no reason. He should feel relieved that if this thing between them was a hallucination, at least it was a shared one.
Instead he feels split open. Three swords staked in his chest, pulling him apart like he’s nothing but meat.
“You never said anything,” Sanji whispers. There’s a moment of silence between them, and this is when he hears the laughter inside. They’re in their own world here, and it was horrible.
“Neither did you.”
Because we don’t talk, he wants to say. Because instead, we fight and dance and I find you when you’re lost and you catch me when I’m falling.
He doesn’t say it. Instead, he gestures between them. “This is nothing.”
Zoro’s face is plagued by shadows. Without a word, he turns to leave, like Sanji knows he will. Sanji knows him. He knows Zoro won’t fight for someone who won’t fight for him. Maybe that was why he said it.
Fighting for Sanji is a very heavy burden to bear.
The song inside ends. It’s replaced by a much more fiery and passionate tune.
“That’s our cue.” At first, he thinks he’s hearing things. Except Zoro stops so Sanji can catch up.
“I’m better at following,” Sanji tells him. The world inside is brighter and livelier. Here he might be able to pretend the last few minutes didn’t exist. “You lead, I follow.”
“Whatever.” The word drowns in the noise.
They position themselves towards the outer perimeter, in sight of where Kudo is sitting. There’s a moment where they’re merely standing in front of each other. Sanji thinks that one of them might leave, might walk away. But they are who they are, and they can’t. Not really.
Zoro lifts one hand up. Sanji takes it. Zoro puts his other hand on Sanji’s waist. Sanji puts his other hand on Zoro’s shoulder.
Sanji swallows. It’s not just the heat of Zoro, it’s the security of him too. Their eyes meet, and Sanji can’t understand what he’s thinking. “Let’s not get in each other’s way.”
Zoro lets out a humorless laugh. “It’s been a long time since we have, Cook.”
Turns out Zoro has more than three swords in his arsenal, because this one is a fourth one through his chest.
They move. They’ve never tangoed before but it comes easy. True to his word, Zoro seems to know when Sanji wants to separate from him and when he wants to come back together. He knows when to give room for Sanji to put his own spin onto things, and when to take the reins back.
The music swells. Sanji throws one leg around Zoro’s waist. They’re chest to chest. Sanji can feel both their hearts beating against their rib cages. There’s a pause in the music. Sanji leans in close to Zoro’s ear. “Not bad.”
“Best you’ve ever had,” Zoro replies. There’s a sting to his words. He leans forward so that Sanji arches backward. His hair falls out of his eyes. He feels exposed.
In the past, Sanji thought he hated this man so much he could cry. Now he wants to cry because of how untrue it is.
He pushes off his standing leg and wraps his other leg around Zoro’s waist. He leans backward as fast as he can. He wants to knock Zoro off of his feet. He doesn’t give a damn if he splits his head open in the process. He wants them both to fall.
Sanji’s head stops inches from the hardwood floor. Zoro’s hand is strong at his waist.
He thinks about that day on the Sunny and realizes he’s a fool for thinking Zoro would ever let him fall.
Behind him he hears some of the crowd ooh and ahh at them.
Zoro, using only the hand that is in Sanji’s, yanks him up. Their foreheads almost crack together.
Sanji grits his teeth. “What’s your problem?”
The arm around his waist pulls him flush against Zoro’s body. When Zoro breathes out, his skin pushes out against Sanji’s. “Nothing.”
“Asshole.”
Zoro releases his hold so Sanji can come back to the ground. It doesn’t inhibit their synchronization at all. In fact, they only move fast, more powerfully. Zoro dares Sanji to keep up with him, and Sanji dares him to push the limits. They’re squeezing each other’s hand so hard it’s starting to hurt. His clothes are hot and he can’t tell what the swordsman’s thinking behind that stupid beautiful mask.
Sanji kicks his right leg up to the side. It travels through the air in a beautiful arc. It stays there for a second before he folds his knee over Zoro’s shoulder.
Zoro lunges to the right. “You are the most frustrating man I’ve ever met.”
He lifts his leg off of Zoro’s shoulder, re-straightening it. He puts his leg down then steps out so he and Zoro are side by side. Zoro pulls. Sanji spins in until his back is against Zoro’s chest. “Let me go.”
Zoro spins him out until their interlocked hands are the only point of contact between them. Then he lets go, releasing Sanji like a spinning top.
Sanji twirls from one end of the room to the other. All of his ballet training pays off. He doesn’t get dizzy. His arms flow with his body. Zoro is already following after him. They blaze a path through the other dancers, who move out of their way. Some of the weaker ones stumble out of their moves.
Mid-turn, Sanji grabs a rose out of a girl’s hair.
When Zoro catches him, Sanji shoves the rose’s stem in his mouth. “Quit talking.”
At the same time they lock back into their partnered stance, Zoro turns over one shoulder and spits the rose out of his mouth like the godless heathen he is. “In your dreams.”
Sanji hates how exhilarating this is. He doesn’t know how the other dancers are looking, if Kudo is. He doesn’t know where the rest of the crew are. The world is only him, the music, and Zoro, eclipsing his entire field of vision. He doesn’t even have to look to know when and how he’s supposed to move next.
They’re so in tune with each other that Sanji forgets that they aren’t supposed to be.
By the time the music ends, they’re both breathless. If Sanji tips his head forward their faces would touch. A little more and—
His eyes fall to Zoro’s parted lips.
He tears his gaze away.
Zoro’s mask falls from his face, and Sanji can finally see him.
There’s an intense look on his face, and Sanji finally knows him.
He touches a finger to Zoro’s scar. His eye twitches at the touch.
“Aren’t they the Straw Hats?” a voice says from somewhere a thousand miles away.
The moment passes. The ballroom descends into chaos.
Zoro lets go of him. Sanji runs cold.
5.
The singer’s voice is much softer and lovelier than the dull sounds of Sanji’s knife hitting the cutting board. It’s an old song from North Blue that his mother used to sing to him. On the Baratie he’d hum it to himself like a prayer. Even now, whenever he finds himself alone in the galley, he’d reach for that tune.
It’s late at night. Everyone else is asleep, and there’s no one to listen to all the ghosts that like to come out at this time on his lips, or on the radio.
The singer sings about forever. Not a lot of things last forever. He sings along anyways.
The singer sings about love walking through the door, or something. The galley door is closed. He sings along anyways.
It’s one of those nights. His body feels like a haunted house and he needs it to feel useful instead, so here he is, prepping for the most extravagant breakfast he can imagine.
The Straw Hats busted Kudo’s drug ring. They saved the day. They had another party thrown in their name. There was lots of dancing, except Sanji spent most of it sitting. Zoro didn’t ask him to dance. Sanji couldn’t explain why he was still expecting it after he was the one who ended it. It is the only way he could describe it. Nebulous and begging for specificity.
He chops more vegetables. He hums more love songs that the younger version of him believed in more than he did.
At Baratie he sang them in the privacy of his quarters. His room was cramped, and still, he used every inch of it to dance. He would pretend he was leading a partner around a fancy ballroom with chandeliers that cost as much as the Baratie itself. His partner would let him, because they would trust him with their life. That was the future he imagined for himself, once upon a time. It turned out nothing like he planned.
What he got was a tango that felt like a fight. What he got made him feel alive. He could feel it from his heart; he could feel the hot blood pulsing from his heart to the rest of his body, telling him to keep on going, goddammit.
Isn’t that this feeling they call—
He chops more vegetables. He turns the radio down.
The galley door swings open. When Sanji looks up, Zoro is standing in front of him, on the other side of the counter.
Ghost. He doesn’t realize that he’s said it out loud until Zoro’s eyes narrow. He plays it off. “You want booze? Go get it.”
“Not here for that,” he replies.
“Okay, what are you here for? I’m kind of in the middle of something.” He’s out of vegetables to chop. He turns away to grab more. His hands need something to hold or else.
“You.”
Sanji turns back to him. “Marimo.”
“I want you, Cook.” Sanji wants to climb over the counter and put both his hands against Zoro’s chest. He wants to push very hard. He wants to make Zoro fall over and hit the floor. He wants him to crumble like a statue.
He knows that even if he did, Zoro wouldn’t move. He would keep standing there, say something like nothing happened, and Sanji would be beside himself.
“I left.”
“You came back.”
“I might not be me.” Sanji’s knees buckle. He tilts backward and braces himself on the other counter.
“When?”
“Some time in the future,” he tries. “Years. Months. Weeks. Days.”
“Okay.”
Sanji swallows. “Okay?”
“You heard me.” Zoro isn’t budging.
“I did.” He finds the strength to step forward until he’s back at his original spot. “Why?”
“Because you always have my back, and I have yours.” Sanji suddenly realizes that the radio is still on. This song, he’s always loved because of its poetry, the invitation to read between the lines. Suddenly it couldn’t compare to the hidden message in Zoro’s stupid simple earnest words. Because you’re my equal. “Because you find me when I’m lost.”
Sanji hadn’t known Zoro was capable of blushing until this moment.
He lets himself smile. “And you run across the deck in a matter of seconds somehow to catch me when I fall out of a pirouette?”
“Yes.” He nods. “I want you because we’re us. ”
“...And there is an us?”
“There has been for a while.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re just slow as hell.”
Sanji scoffs. “Leave it to you to ruin the moment.”
“Oh, so we’re having a moment right now?”
“You’re infuriating.”
“You too.”
Sanji makes his way around the counter until he’s standing in front of Zoro. He’s still beautiful. He nods once. His next words are whispered. Maybe he’s still afraid, or maybe this is so sacred he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. “Okay. You and me.”
He holds one hand out, palm facing upwards.
Zoro doesn’t take it. “At some point, you’re going to have to say it how you mean it, Cook.”
He takes a deep breath. “I want this. I want us. I want you. ”
The relief he feels is so immediate that he wonders what the hell he was so afraid of, all this time. Zoro takes his hand and he stops wondering. It doesn’t matter anymore. They’re here now.
“I am not a ghost.” Zoro traces his thumb over the lines in Sanji’s hands.
“No, you’re not.” Zoro is real and solid and Sanji has known it all along. He’s known it in Zoro’s body shielding him in battle, in Zoro’s body holding him during a dance. The fact of it stuns him. “Did Mihawk teach you how to waltz?”
“Duh.”
“So let’s waltz.” Their eyes meet. “Can I lead?”
Zoro nods. Sanji is in awe.
He raises Zoro’s hand to his mouth and places a kiss against the back of his hand, basking in the way the swordsman’s breath hitches.
Sanji lifts one hand up. Zoro takes it. Sanji puts his other hand on Zoro’s waist. Zoro puts his other hand on Sanji’s shoulder.
They dance with each other. They know how.
+1.
Years later, at the wedding, Zeff and Mihawk sit together at one table, enjoying Sanji’s impeccable taste in wine. The two grooms are being subjected to a rather invasive game of truth or dare, except truth is the only option, for the entertainment of the guests. The rest of the Straw Hats are the ones leading the charge. They’re somehow still those rambunctious kids that wrecked his restaurant lifetimes ago.
Zeff turns to Mihawk and says, “So, you’re the one who taught that kid how to dance?”
“Why, yes.”
“Damn good job.” Zeff raises his glass.
Mihawk clinks his glass against Zeff’s. “You as well.”
Closer to the front, the navigator raises her hand. “I have one! Could you guys explain what made you confess at first?”
Zoro puts a surprisingly gentle hand on Sanji’s shoulder. Zeff can’t help but smile. “I got this one,” his son’s new husband says. “Well, you see, I was just getting sick of us dancing around it.”
Sanji kicks him in the shin.