Chapter Text
There’s a sudden thud on deck, and thuds are usually followed by shrill laughter (Chopper), loud cheering (Franky and Usopp), and hyperactive limbs (Luffy). Except two seconds pass and there’s a pause, like the lull before an unprecedented cyclone hits the starboard side of the ship, and Sanji reaches into the silence with his observation haki to check—ladies first, the bastards, then the green shithead—and freezes.
That can’t be right.
In those two seconds, china cracks somewhere and tea stains the lawn of the Sunny as Brook must’ve dropped his. But that’s not important—not to Sanji at least. He’s wiping his hands with the dishcloth and rushing out, feeling out of his depth with each step. His haki can’t be wrong. It’s not perfect and it’s not yet refined, but it’ll never be wrong.
“Everyone, I think you should see this,” comes Brook’s voice, devoid of the initial panic. Sanji’s got his hand twisting the galley’s doorknob when he hears a barrage of footsteps, and suddenly someone’s screaming.
Sanji opens the door and takes in the scene.
Usopp is pointing at the source of the commotion with a shaky forefinger. Chopper is the one who screamed, and now he’s hiding behind Jinbe’s thick mane, and Luffy’s grinning like there isn’t a stranger standing on the lawn of his precious ship.
On the ball of Sanji’s foot comes the telltale lick of ember—a reflex. He squashes it with sheer will alone and fishes out a cigarette instead, lighting it with deliberate slowness. Beside him, Robin mutters, “Oh my.”
Sanji looks up at the crow’s nest and finds Zoro making his way down. He’s the last to arrive. When he reaches the deck, Sanji grits his teeth.
“Don’t tell us,” he starts, and they turn to him at the same time, stare him down in the same manner, and Sanji thinks he can perhaps train to ignite both legs next time, “but you got lost, didn’t you?”
“Like hell, shit cook,” Zoro says, and it’s echoed, except the echo is a deeper baritone and the face it belongs to has aged, standing perhaps an inch or two taller than his twenty-one-year-old counterpart and is broader (impossibly so) across the shoulders. But everything is the same: the three swords, the stance, the glare.
Even the disgusting, unwashed haramaki is there: a darker shade of chartreuse that Sanji wrinkles his nose at the sight of.
“This is the Sunny,” older Zoro adds, like that’s enough to prove Sanji wrong. But while this is the same ship, having two of him on it is plain wrong. Besides, this Zoro looks middle-aged, perhaps forty.
Somewhere from behind him, Usopp snickers. Nami is shaking her head, her pretty bangs fluttering in the wind, and for a moment Sanji focuses on that to remember that there are still good things in this world.
The other Zoro—their Zoro—sizes up the older version of him and it’s jarring to look at. Then, because he’s Zoro and he’s equal parts insane and stupid, he places a hand on the hilts of his swords.
Older Zoro’s attention is suddenly on him: lightning fast.
“You wanna have a go, squirt?” older Zoro taunts, grinning like a hyena, and Franky shoves his massive cyborg body between the two and pushes their Zoro back. His momentum is only stopped by Jinbe’s waiting hands landing on his shoulders, acting as a buffer.
“Don’t try it!” is what Franky says, just as Luffy laughs.
“Zoro,” Nami says in warning.
“Should listen to her,” older Zoro says, and Sanji’s heard enough.
“Hey, asshole,” he says, and he feels two eyes look at him but he only focuses on one, “you any good?”
It has to be what Zoro wants to know. If this person is truly him from the future and he’s not maimed or left horrifically disfigured from facing so many overpowered opponents, then he must be a decent fighter. This is all Sanji will give him—twenty years older or not, a marimo is a marimo.
“Better than you, shit cook,” older Zoro says. Then before Sanji can retort, he adds, “I’m the best swordsman in the world.”
He sees how those words affect their Zoro, how he holds himself in place in front of Franky and keeps his emotions in check with a slide of a muscle in his jaw. The words create a ripple effect on the ship: somewhere out there is a future where Zoro has done it, his name reaching the heavens.
Chopper, still perched atop Jinbe’s head, gasps.
For a brief moment, Sanji lets the revelation of that wash over him. If this Zoro has bested Mihawk, then the Luffy there has to be the Pirate King. It makes something in him unwind, unspooling like a tightly wound cord, dissipating into something unfamiliar but warm.
It’s not their reality, but it can be.
Then, because the moment passes and he’s Sanji, he blows a puff of smoke in older Zoro’s direction and snorts. “Not here, you aren’t.”
“Not yet,” their Zoro clarifies, and on account of a very strange noon they’re having, Sanji doesn’t refute him.
Instead he asks, “You still like onigiri, old man?”
Older Zoro is frowning. “I’m not that old. You should see how you look at forty, twirly.” Sanji levels him with a look and he rolls his eye—clockwise, as always.
“Your onigiri’s fine,” he grunts.
“More than fine and you know it,” Sanji says, turning on his heel. Then, to everyone else: “Give me fifteen minutes to do some finishing touches to lunch. Brook, can you lend a hand?”
Brook appears by his side in moments and salutes gamely. “Of course, Sanji-san!”
He enters the galley with a skeleton in tow, but not before he hears Luffy ask, “You got lost, didn’t you?” and as soon as they’ve got the door closed, Sanji finally laughs—half in amusement and half in sheer disbelief.
Two marimos. Fucking hell.
——
By the time everyone flocks to the galley, Robin has managed to extract the specifics of older Zoro’s unforeseen trip to their ship: this Zoro was napping on their ship (typical), then a hurricane appeared out of nowhere (also typical) and he got sucked into the eye of it (in typical Zoro fashion).
Then the next thing he knew, he was here and everyone looked approximately twenty years younger (atypical, impractical, illogical).
“If you’re the best swordsman in the world, how can you let a hurricane beat you?” Usopp asks with cheeks full of food, and Sanji smirks.
He loves their long nose so much.
His question makes everyone pause, utensils held in the air as all eyes shift to older Zoro, who looks five seconds away from murdering Usopp.
Usopp begins to pale, and it’s Nami who steps in to save him.
“Because he isn’t the best navigator in the world, what else?”
Ah, Nami-san. So gracious to all beings including plant life. Sanji adores her.
“You can’t fight a natural disaster,” older Zoro reasons mid-chew, because he’s a heathen even twenty years later and he will never learn manners. His future is so fucking bleak, Sanji thinks, save for the fact that he’ll best Mihawk.
“I thought you said you didn’t believe in god, Zoro,” Chopper points out, curious eyes turning to him and Sanji watches the entire exchange. Chopper gets away with shit Usopp doesn’t because he’s cute, and even Zoro isn’t immune, no matter how old he is.
If he’s truly Zoro, that is. Sanji is still not excluding the possibility of this person being a very talented impersonator. That, or Bonney’s fruit powers got a strange mashup with Mr. 2’s and decided to give him his worst nightmare because the universe thinks he hasn’t gone through enough shit after Whole Cake Island and goddamn Queen.
“Still don’t,” older Zoro clarifies, voice turning soft. “It’s a Grand Line thing; not god. If I was sailing with Nami, I wouldn’t be here.”
Across the table, Sanji doesn’t miss how Nami’s face breaks into a small, proud grin. Beside her, their Zoro snorts and earns an elbow to his side. Serves him right, the impudent bastard.
“But why weren’t you sailing with Nami, Zoro?” Robin asks.
“Are you not sailing with all of us?” Luffy adds, just before he steals a piece of shrimp off Brook’s plate. With his question though, everyone sits a little straighter, no doubt coming to the same conclusion as Sanji.
The crew of the Pirate King likely went their separate ways after achieving their dreams. Sanji looks around the table and finds himself unable to imagine not seeing these faces. He wonders what everyone is thinking. This crew is their family, after all.
“I was making my way back to you,” older Zoro clarifies, still not losing that almost affectionate tone that he uses whenever it’s Luffy or Chopper he’s talking to. “To all of you.”
Sanji doesn’t miss how his gaze slides over to the side, only to fall on him. There’s a story here, and it’s one Sanji doesn’t know. The look lingers for a second too long and Sanji’s fork misses the piece of carrot that he’s aiming for.
“Well, then why were you on your own in the first place?” Nami asks, frowning. She glares at their Zoro. “We will never leave you of all people to sail on your own.”
“To be fair, I was sailing with Jinbe,” older Zoro explains, raising his drink in Jinbe’s direction. “Not that he’s terrible at navigating, but he’s no Nami. Even he couldn’t predict that storm. Anyway, he picked me up after I dealt with someone who challenged me for the title.” This time, he looks at Franky. “I never bring my fights to the Sunny.”
Franky lifts his sunglasses off his nasal bridge to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye, sniffing. “That’s growth, Zoro-bro! I’m so proud of you!”
“So you don’t fight the shit cook anymore?” their Zoro suddenly asks, voice like steel. It’s the first time he asked the older version of himself a direct question.
Older Zoro lifts his drink to his lips, eye meeting Sanji’s behind the rim of his tankard. “Of course we fight.”
The way he says it makes Sanji’s gaze flit just a little to the side, catching a familiar glint that makes him pause.
This Zoro is missing an earring.
Impostor, his mind supplies. This is the proof.
“That’s how you lost one of our earrings?” their Zoro prods, and Sanji realizes that like him, Zoro is on fight or flight because it’s the only time they think of the exact same thing. Still, the implication of his query is somehow flattering: that older Sanji must’ve kicked him so hard and it permanently destroyed one of his earrings that he only wears two now.
But Sanji can only focus on that for so long because he hates how a moron isn’t a moron when he needs him to be. He needs younger Zoro to shut his trap because older Zoro is still looking at him and it’s making the hair on his nape stand.
He’s not scared, no. There’s nothing about sentient algae that terrifies him; green as he may be, he’s no bug. But it makes something settle at the pit of his gut—heavy, hot, and unknown.
He refuses to think about it any longer and lets his gaze fall on sweet Nami and Robin. His gorgeous goddesses that make everything better.
Older Zoro finally looks at the younger version of himself, head tilted to the side. “That’s not really what you want to know, though, am I right, squirt?”
Their Zoro holds his older counterpart’s gaze, and the tension between them feels taut, akin to a plucked bowstring.
Then, unexpectedly, their Zoro shuts his one good eye and mutters, “Fuck.”
Older Zoro leans back in his seat in self-satisfaction, hiding another cryptic smile behind his tankard.
Sanji blinks. He has no idea what just happened, and judging from everyone’s faces (especially Usopp’s), he’s not alone.
“You can’t just dangle shit like that, old man,” their Zoro complains, like this isn’t himself he’s talking to but somebody else. Inexplicably, Sanji sees Nami rub a hand across Zoro’s back in soothing circles, as if she understands and sympathizes.
What the actual fuck.
Sanji clears his throat. “This is the part where you tell him that you’re not that old.” He’s scrambling for some normalcy here because he’s not privy to what’s happening and as the seconds pass, it seems everyone, in their own way, is beginning to realize something.
Especially Robin.
“He calls me squirt, I can call him whatever the fuck I want,” their Zoro retorts.
Sanji frowns at older Zoro, arching an eyebrow. “Oh? So it’s all right if he says it and not when I do? Good to know that hasn’t changed.”
“I forgot how chatty you become when you’re uncomfortable,” older Zoro says, and Sanji feels something in his solar plexus tighten, like he’s bracing himself for a tavern brawl because Luffy accidentally started one with the locals. “You haven’t done this in so long.”
“I’m sure he still talks all the time,” their Zoro says, and Sanji glares at him. He’s trying to think of something clever to say, but this directionless bastard is persistently distracting him and now there’s two of them so Sanji has twice the distractions and is left with half the patience.
He’s going insane.
“He does,” older Zoro confirms, and there’s something there, something undefined in the way his voice loses that gruffness to it, and Sanji wants to kick him from under the table and subsequently do a handstand on the furniture to land a kick across younger Zoro’s face.
Shitheads. A fucking plight from the heavens, times two.
“Just not like this,” older Zoro adds, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “Not so much anymore.”
Sanji’s heard enough. He finishes everything off his plate silently and deposits the dishes in the sink, and he’s standing in the threshold between the galley and the upper deck when he lights a cigarette.
“Finish your food, decrepit moss, and let’s see how good you are,” he says, not even glancing behind him as he descends the stairs, because if that man is Zoro then he will never turn down a challenge from Sanji.
He hears the scrape of a chair across the floorboards just as he reaches the Sunny’s deck and lets flames kiss his flesh, reaching as high as his shin, and decides on serving hamburgers as an afternoon snack.
——
To avoid confusion, whenever the Zoros—there are still two of them and Sanji wishes for a hurricane to appear now and whisk them both away—speak, he refers to them in his head as little marimo and senile marimo, respectively.
The fight ends with Sanji’s heel centimeters away from older Zoro’s jugular, and the tip of Enma just lightly grazing the spot where his spleen must be. Sanji buries his awe beneath the usual seething he saves for the marimo: this Zoro is good. He fought like younger Zoro did, meeting Sanji blow for blow, but underneath each block he did with his sword was the horrifying implication that he could somehow predict Sanji’s moves.
Even Sanji’s feints, which were usually executed well enough that they trick their resident marimo and let Sanji land a hit or two. He’s unable to hit a single vital point this time and the closest he got ended with Enma just shy of ruining his dress shirt.
“Your haki can’t be that good,” he says. Zoro’s got observation haki, but surely he can’t see glimpses of the future twenty years down the road now, can he?
Sanji grits his teeth. Can he?
“You tell me, cook, if I was using haki the entire fight,” older Zoro says, calm and infuriating.
Sanji side-eyes Enma, its dark blade gleaming under the afternoon sun. “So you found a way to permanently turn this sword into a black blade. Congratulations. That’s haki, in case dementia has already set in for you.”
“You know I’m not talking about that,” older Zoro says, like he suddenly has all the patience in the world. This is usually the part where Zoro snaps and calls him an idiot, followed by variations of fuck off punctuated with a strike from Wado or Kitetsu.
The expletive that Sanji’s expecting doesn’t come, though.
Sanji’s leg is still curved in a dangerous arc, and he considers his options. This old coot won’t actually nick his skin, will he? He can flip to a handstand and aim for the man’s ankles, see how much he smirks once he loses his balance.
If Zoro falls on his ass, will he break a hip? Is Chopper on standby?
“Not if I jump,” the deep baritone says, near whispers. Sanji’s eyes narrow, feeling the tips of his ears burn. He wasn’t talking aloud; he quit doing that the moment he boarded the Orbit. He reaches into the space between them and finds Zoro’s haki: still imposing, seemingly unbreakable, faintly familiar, and focused on his swords alone.
“You don’t even know what I was planning,” he says, because now Sanji’s certain that this Zoro isn’t even using observation haki against him, either as a form of gloating about his strength or he simply forgot how to. He won’t put it past Zoro—this is Zoro, after all. Resident idiot of the Thousand Sunny after Luffy.
“Sure,” is all older Zoro says, confident and exasperating since there’s no hint of condescension in his tone, like he’s simply enjoying this. “Besides, you shouldn’t do a handstand there.”
Sanji’s frowning now. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he grits just to be contrary, but he does dart a glance behind him and sees the broken china that were once Brook’s teacup. They’re yet to sweep it off the deck.
“I know how precious your hands are to you, cook,” older Zoro says, so soft and quiet that his voice trickles down like molasses down Sanji’s spine. Sanji hates him. “You don’t have to prove a point.”
He eyes Enma against his side like it’s the source of all his problems. “Get your sword off me.”
Senile marimo’s eye narrows as it zeroes in on Sanji’s heel—a truce. Sanji relents, lowering his leg while older Zoro sheathes his swords.
Up deck, Luffy whistles. “That was good, Sanji! Zoro!” Then he pauses, blinking repeatedly. “Old Zoro.”
Beside him, younger marimo makes a face of displeasure. “You could’ve defeated him two moves earlier.”
Sanji flips him, and older Zoro cocks an eyebrow in his direction. “Like you won’t land on your ass if you were the one here.”
On the one hand, senile marimo’s acknowledgement of Sanji’s abilities has him feeling three things at the same time: bewilderment, confusion, and pride, against his better judgment. But on the other, older Zoro is defending Sanji against himself, albeit in a convoluted manner that only Zoro can manage.
He needs a cigarette.
“So,” he starts, because if he doesn’t speak he thinks he’ll start dissecting older Zoro’s words and give meaning to things that aren’t there, “how are you planning on getting back to where you came from?”
“Oh right, I was going to ask that,” Luffy says from above. “Where were you planning to meet up with us? Maybe we can drop you off.”
Luffy has always been considerate, but his ideas can be highly improbable. It’s Jinbe who begins explaining as Sanji’s adrenaline from the fight earlier starts to dissipate and he needs to prepare the afternoon snack.
“He came from a different time than ours, Luffy. Even if we bring him to their rendezvous, they won’t be there,” Jinbe says patiently.
“He’s right, Luffy,” Robin affirms. “We can’t help him because we know nothing about the hurricane that sent him here. Unless Nami can figure that one out for us.”
Nami’s already shaking her head beside Robin. “Unless we experience the same thing then I won’t know how it works.” Then she looks at the sky threateningly. “Not that that was a challenge! I’m loving this perfectly fine weather, thanks!”
“Please don’t wish a time-displacing hurricane on us,” Usopp begs, also looking up at the sky as if a higher power might be listening. “No offense, old Zoro, but if helping you sends one of us to another time, then I’m suddenly afflicted with the cannot-lend-a-hand disease.”
To Sanji’s surprise, older Zoro only gives a small smile in Usopp’s direction. “Don’t worry about it, Usopp.”
Usopp has a hand flat on his own chest, dramatically sighing in relief. “Oh thank goodness. I thought he'd cut me in half for that.”
“Besides, I can go back the usual way,” older Zoro says, and everyone looks at him. He sounds so confident that Sanji braces himself for what he has to say next: Zoro and directions are two things that can never go right together, no matter the dimension or the timeline.
He’s certain of that.
He feels older Zoro look at him for the briefest moment, and he throws back a questioning stare.
Instead of explaining himself, older Zoro turns to Luffy. “I’ll wait here until then, if that’s all right with you, Captain?”
This, Sanji realizes with a fondness, will never change. Luffy will always be Zoro’s captain, even twenty years down the line.
Luffy grins, all sunshine and carefree limbs as he nods. “Sure thing!”
——
So that’s how Sanji makes two sets of onigiris for the rest of the week because now there are two marimos on the ship and apparently, being the best swordsman in the world doesn’t mean you can skip a workout day. Winning the title isn’t enough; it has to be kept after it’s earned.
Which means there’s two of them in the crow’s nest, resulting in a stench that’s twice as bad. It should be a health hazard at this rate. Sanji wonders if Chopper still has the hazmat suits that they kept from Punk Hazard. Perhaps he can borrow one whenever he delivers the workout snacks there.
When the marimos aren’t training and concocting smells that can rival Usopp’s stink bombs though, they stay on different parts of the ship. Little marimo sleeps on deck, often with a Chopper on his lap or leaning right next to him, while the decrepit marimo takes a seat in the galley, right where he can see Sanji working in the kitchen.
It irks Sanji to no end. One, that is still Zoro, and Zoro always manages to annoy him by just breathing, and two, this Zoro naps here like he owns the place when he’s just a freeloader (this isn’t even his ship, technically speaking!) and he cracks an eye open every time Sanji’s beginning to think that he’s truly asleep.
Like he’s cautious of every move Sanji makes. As if observing how Sanji operates a kitchen with effortless finesse is worth his time when he could’ve been adding another muscle to the growing expanse of his back.
Not that Sanji’s been looking. This Zoro, like all Zoros (maybe; it has to be a universal constant), is somehow allergic to shirts on a hot day and often parades around without one. It’s awful enough that the acrid scent of his sweat lingers in all the places he goes to, but of course he has to put all that bulk on display as well.
He’s not shirtless now (thankfully), but he might as well be, given how his robe is struggling to contain his pecs. Sanji can see hints of his areolas and once again prays for a hurricane to come and take the stinky moss away.
Did those get bigger twenty years down the line? Sanji’s always had the innate talent to accurately state a woman’s measurements on first meet; he wonders if—
Sanji shakes his head to purge that thought. Fuck. That was close.
He pauses in between kneading the dough and resists slapping a hand to his face. The bastard behind him is to blame for all of this. He can feel the shithead’s stare on the back of his neck.
“Why are you here?” he finally asks. Demands. This is his kitchen. He has a say and who goes here and who doesn’t when it’s not mealtime. “I don’t have any sake to spare you. The two of you here can finish my entire stock in a matter of hours if I don’t stop you.”
“I’m not here for booze, cook,” older Zoro says, punctuated by a yawn. Unattractive, ungraceful ape. He stretches, and that makes his stupid robe stretch too, revealing an obscene view of his chest that has Sanji kneading the dough a little too roughly.
“Dinner isn’t until two hours.”
Older Zoro puts his arms behind his head and closes his eye again. “I always stay here on our ship.”
“Your ship,” Sanji says.
“That’s what I said.”
Sanji slathers a generous amount of olive oil onto his pan and leaves the dough to rise. “So in the future, the marimo will claim that particular seat as his and take naps there? And future me never kicked him out for it?”
“You’ve kicked me out many times,” older Zoro confirms, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Kept coming back though.”
“I will kick you out now,” he says, just as the door to the galley opens and Zoro—younger, shirtless piece of shit—strides in and frowns at the sight of older him.
“Why are you here,” Zoro demands, not even phrasing it as a question, and Sanji nearly chucks a spoon at them both. If he angles it right, it will hit both of them right in their foreheads.
“Why are you both here?!” he hollers instead. “Get the fuck out of my kitchen!”
“I just need water, shit cook,” Zoro says, and Sanji closes his eyes to forget about how this Zoro’s chest is heaving from his recently concluded workout session.
“There’s plenty outside, go drown in it,” Sanji hisses, but he does fill a glass and slides it across the counter, landing right into Zoro’s waiting hand.
Zoro takes a sip, eye never leaving the older him, and Sanji drums his fingers on the nearest surface as he gets impatient.
“He wants you out of here,” Zoro tells the older him, as if Sanji isn’t waiting for the return of his glass and for blissful silence to soon arrive. “You didn’t hear him?”
“I want you both out of my sight, actually,” Sanji clarifies. “Choke on the water already, shitty swordsman!”
“I’m done, twirly,” Zoro says, sliding the glass back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. If he had a shirt on, he would’ve used that to wipe himself, Sanji thinks, disgusted.
“And you,” Sanji says, pointing at older Zoro, “get out. You’re distracting me. I have to watch my dough carefully.”
“It won’t rise for another ten minutes though, will it?” older Zoro asks.
A curse sits on the tip of Sanji’s tongue because how the fuck in the four seas did that old coot know about that? Twenty years from now, is Zoro also baking? Who would teach him? And why would he bother learning in the first place? He can’t even tell the difference between flour and baking powder because none of them are swords.
Little marimo seems to realize something, however; he’s the one wrapping a fist around the older Zoro’s collar and hauling him up, and the bulkier man surprisingly complies with a smug grin that Sanji has no idea what’s the reason for.
“We need to talk,” is all Zoro says, meeting the eye of his older counterpart in challenge.
“I don’t bring my duels to the Sunny,” older Zoro reminds him, but he squares against himself anyway.
Zoro grins, savage and familiar, and Sanji hopes Franky will pummel him on the deck later. “Good thing this isn’t your Sunny then, old man.”
“Kill each other and bring me peace, I don’t care,” Sanji says. “Just fuck off!”
When the door to the galley finally closes and he’s alone, he lets himself breathe.
——
Sanji loves women. Adores them. To him, they’re god’s blessings bestowed upon unworthy men because men are entitled, degenerate, and often uncouth, and Sanji bathes daily to make sure he never lands on the third category.
Besides, when the beautifully tormented Viola-chan went poking in his mind, she found nothing but thoughts of women there. So he knows what he wants and it’s women; like he told Ivankov and Black Maria, he’s born to love all the ladies.
This is where his understanding of himself ends because something happened in the last two weeks that makes him not think of women that often, much to his own surprise. Sanji has stashes of magazines in his locker for a reason, and it’s to fuel his own creative fantasies. But he isn’t tapping into those fantasies as of late, and that’s where it gets confusing.
Sure, he’s still serving perfectly crafted drinks to his gorgeous angels on board and still preens under their gratitude and attention, but outside of that, he knows he’s distracted. He should be thinking of his goddesses, not glaring at the patches of moss growing stubbornly on the deck of the Sunny like they have the information on the location of the last Road Poneglyph.
He reaches the limit of his patience when it starts to feel that he’s more affected by this rather than Zoro himself.
“Marimo,” he says as a warning before bringing his foot next to a sleeping Zoro, who jolts awake and instinctively reaches for Wado, its scabbard blocking the kick aiming for his face.
This is their marimo because the old coot is fishing on the port side of the ship with Usopp and Luffy, and Sanji spent two minutes deliberating on whether he can get away with pushing him overboard before deciding to take his frustration out on the source of it all.
Because upon consideration, this is all Zoro’s fault. Because he exists and twenty years from now he’s pumped himself so full of testosterone that he’s all muscle and sinew and his tits are bigger than anyone else’s on this ship. Fuck him and all his ancestors; Sanji wants to kick him for napping too—he does it where Sanji can see him, both versions of him, and it’s driving him insane.
“What the fuck is wrong now, pervert cook?” Zoro snarls, and Sanji lifts his other leg to aim for his temple.
“Stop sleeping!”
“All right, curly, you’re on,” Zoro says before putting the hilt of Wado in his mouth and they go all out, still deftly avoiding the ship’s mast and the stairs because Franky’s going to murder them if they inflict serious damage to the Sunny. This is the real training here, Sanji thinks: landing solid hits to humble the mossball while avoiding Franky’s ire by sparing the ship from the scorch brought about by his flaming leg.
Sanji considers igniting hotter, bluer flames but pauses, attention shifting for a fraction of a second because he now feels an eye on them. It makes him yell in frustration as he tries to kick Zoro’s chest, and Zoro blocks him with Kitetsu while Enma swings in an arc.
“He’s better than you,” Sanji says, and he sees Zoro’s nostrils flare.
“I’m killing you for that, just so you know,” Zoro warns. Sanji bends his leg at the knee, armament haki blocking Enma’s slash, and twists his trunk to use the momentum to jump back.
Sanji snorts, knowing that older Zoro is watching and hearing all of this. “How does knowing that feel, asshole?”
Zoro flips his grip on Kitetsu and Sanji knows that move; the fucker will actually be turned to fine paste by the time Franky’s done with him. He can’t wait.
“He’s me, you know,” Zoro says, and suddenly everything becomes white noise. “Twenty years older, but he’s still me.”
Zoro crouches and Sanji braces himself for the blow, but the impact of it still sends his heel screeching across the deck. Somewhere, he’s sure that’s Franky sobbing and Usopp taking bets. But it’s muffled, and all he hears is the scrape of metal against his haki accompanied by his booming heartbeats and Zoro’s labored breaths.
His gaze leaves Zoro’s face to flit across the deck, to that one eye watching. Always watching, always somewhere on him. He hates that feeling, amplified by his observation haki flaring whenever it lands on him. It makes his skin crawl, tempting gooseflesh in their wake.
“What did he tell you?” he asks, turning back to Zoro who’s pushing just enough to keep the heel of Sanji’s foot at bay. “You talked that day and you almost destroyed the Sunny’s helm so what did he say?”
“Does it matter?” Zoro asks, and before Sanji can answer, he adds, “You’re not Franky.”
“I hope not,” Sanji says, rolling his eyes. “Germa may have done some shit to my body but I won’t become like that.” Franky’s great, but Sanji loves his suits and ties. He’ll never exchange these fineries for a speedo.
“I meant that I don’t answer to you,” Zoro says, and finally, he exerts enough force to break the clash, jumping back a few meters across the deck.
“That’s quite enough!” Nami calls out from the upper deck. “Children, the both of you. Zoro, I need you to help me in the library.”
Zoro removes Wado from his mouth, lips curled in a snarl. “What? You know I don’t go there, witch.”
Sanji snorts from across him; he’s never met a proud illiterate before this. Well, Zoro can probably read, but Sanji’s positive he only learned by necessity.
“I have to audit our expenses for this month and you are going to help me,” Nami says with finality, a glint in her eyes that makes Zoro sheathe the rest of his swords and follow, but not without a grumble.
How Zoro is good at math, Sanji doesn’t know. But he’s seen it firsthand, whenever he’s Sanji’s pack mule for a grocery run and he’s having trouble budgeting the money their lovely Nami-san gave them. That’s where Zoro steps in, mouthing percentages and haggling way better than Sanji ever could because he uses that intimidating aura of his that befits a goon to scare off stingy vendors.
So far, older Zoro is better at fighting, in a way that comes with age. Sanji wonders if he’s better at maths too, and decides to test it for himself.
“What’s fifteen point eight percent of a thousand and seven hundred one?”
Little marimo pauses from climbing the stairs and a beat passes.
“Two hundred sixty-eight point seven fifty-eight,” comes their combined voices, one deeper in timbre but still the same, and Sanji takes a long drag from his cigarette.
He’s me, Zoro said earlier. His voice still rings in Sanji’s ears and he’s not even talking anymore. Neither of them is.
Sanji has no way of knowing if the marimos are correct, but if they both have the same answer then they must be. They can’t lie at the same time; that was the point of the test.
Or was it? What was he even testing for?
All this thinking is hurting Sanji’s brain.
He blows off a puff that momentarily distorts the polished wood of the Sunny’s mast and tells himself that he’s not impressed.
“Fuck both of you, too,” he says instead.
——
Being in charge of grocery shopping eighty percent of the time, Sanji has grown to love lists. It helps him compartmentalize things and sort them according to importance: he always leaves the perishables at the end. That way, they’re still fresh when he makes it back to the ship.
He makes lists for other things too, like what he loves about Nami and Robin, and those lists never end. There’s always something new to admire about them, something that makes him sigh and melt in a puddle as bliss overtakes him.
Then there’s also that list of simple, everyday things on the Sunny that make him happy: the drifting notes from Brook’s violin solos, the steady clashes of waves against the Sunny’s hull, the creak of wood as Jinbe steers her to the right course. There’s the scratch of straw against soft hair whenever Luffy adjusts his hat, Chopper’s little hooves running across the deck, Usopp’s increasingly artful stories, the bubble of cola as Franky chugs a bottle while saving the best for the Sunny. Sanji hasn’t told anyone of this list, but Zoro’s in it too: whenever his earrings clink against one another when he lifts his head as he wakes up from a nap.
Now that he’s thinking about the damn earrings, since senile marimo’s arrival those blasted things developed their own list of curiosities in Sanji’s head. Not that Sanji will ask either of the marimos about it, of course—he still has his pride! But he can’t help wondering whenever he sees the two Zoros and some inexplicable corner of his brain inevitably goes, what do you think happened to that one?
Did he stop wearing it? Why, did he lose it? Zoro, for all his stupidity and lack of foresight, never loses things. He’s incredibly protective of stuff he calls his own (including his crew), despite his lack of care for himself and where he gets to. If he didn’t lose it, where did it go? Is someone keeping it safe for him, like Shanks did when he bestowed that straw hat onto Luffy? If so, then who?
Sanji pauses when he hears footsteps come up behind him, and he needs no haki to tell who it is. The stench alone is a dead giveaway.
“Just because I’m restocking the fridge doesn’t mean I have any sake to spare you,” he says, resuming his task.
Behind him, he hears more than sees little marimo making a face. The change of breath always gives him away; he’s so loud everywhere he goes. He snores on deck, stomps those smelly feet of his against the floorboards, grunts instead of uttering words like a normal human being, and the scabbards of his swords often hit one another every time he walks.
Sanji wonders how he was able to make a name for himself as the Pirate Hunter—the infamous Demon of East Blue—when he obviously knows jackshit about stealth. He’d make a terrible assassin; the shitty croc was truly a moron for trying to recruit this man before.
“You didn’t give me a snack,” Zoro says, and it almost sounds like a complaint, except Zoro never complains in front of him. He’ll screech at Nami whenever she orders him around because he’s barbaric and uncultured, threaten Usopp each time Usopp roasts him just because, and tell Brook off for stating the obvious (that his marimo head failed to notice), leaving the skeleton laughing, but he never complains to Sanji.
He insults Sanji, so Sanji waits for him to do so.
When he doesn’t, Sanji gives him a cursory glance. “No one gets hungry on this ship, as long as I’m on it.”
“I didn’t say I was hungry,” Zoro says, taking a seat on the nearest stool and watching Sanji work, and Sanji considers chucking a jar of mayonnaise at him but decides against it because Zoro isn’t worth the food wastage. “I just said you didn’t give me a snack yet.”
“It’s not yet time for snacks,” Sanji says, jerking his thumb towards the oven where ten sets of pies are being baked to a perfect crisp. “What am I even saying? Of course you can’t read the timer, shitty swordsman.”
This is the time when Zoro is supposed to snarl at him like a rabid dog, causing Sanji to kick him out lest he destroys his beloved kitchen. But Sanji is left waiting for a retort that doesn’t come, and the moment passes.
“Why are you really here?” Sanji asks finally, when Zoro remains sitting in silence and he’s done restocking the fridge.
“It bothers you, doesn’t it?” Zoro asks, and Sanji’s grateful he still has his back turned lest his features give something away. “That there’s two of me here.”
“That is putting it lightly,” Sanji tells him. He exhales a puff of smoke in Zoro’s direction. “Two marimos, can you imagine? Just one of you is enough to annoy me, and now you’re two.” He points at Zoro. “You’re annoying me right now, in case you aren’t aware.”
“Why does it bother you so much? It’s not like you’ve got another person onboard to write notes about food preferences for; I like the same stuff as he does,” Zoro says with a frown, arms now crossed over his chest and Sanji is pointedly keeping his eyes on the man’s face. “You were like this during the first few days we had Kin’emon, Momo, and Law onboard, too, but that tantrum of yours lasted shorter than this one.”
Sanji processes those words, dices them in his head like onions because was he really that obvious? He wasn’t throwing a tantrum after Punk Hazard; he was making adjustments to their rations! Mosshead doesn’t know anything, given that all he does is drool in his sleep and grunt in exertion.
“How the fuck do you know about those notes?” is what Sanji asks; he’s positive only Brook does. Brook rises as early as him and when Sanji serves him tea, he uses their companionable silence to write about everyone’s developing preferences in his journal. It’s private; he hasn’t shown it to anyone.
Then he backtracks; the answer is obvious.
“Nevermind,” he tells Zoro. “I will leave Brook’s bones simmering in a pot and make an exquisite broth out of them.” He flicks the ash off his cigarette onto the nearest ashtray and narrows his eyes at Zoro. “I’m not throwing a tantrum.”
“You are,” Zoro says, nodding at him. “You click your tongue whenever you see me, sure, but when you also see him, you snort and roll your eyes. I know you don’t like him—believe me, I can somehow sympathize with that—but this has been going on for too long.”
“He’s been here for three weeks,” Sanji says.
“So? I’ve been here longer,” Zoro says, totally missing the point. Sanji wants to strangle Zoro and knock some sense into that head.
He wants to call Zoro brainless and all its other colorful variations, but instead his traitorous mouth operates in an entirely different tune and says, “He’s missing an earring.”
A stillness settles over them, disturbed only by the faint, almost imperceptible thrum of Sanji’s oven.
Then Zoro’s eye narrows at him.
“And? It’s just jewelry, cook.”
“It doesn’t bother you?” Sanji asks, aghast. “Your future self lost an earring, one that completes the set I’ve never seen you without, and you think it’s just jewelry?”
“Because it is,” Zoro says. “I got it as a rite of passage back in Shimotsuki, just before I left the village to look for Mihawk. Marking the start of my journey or some bullshit like that.” Zoro snorts. “I was nineteen.”
As if that’s an excuse. But flimsy though that may be, Sanji somehow understands. There’s stuff his nineteen-year-old self would do and stuff he now won’t, and loathe is he to admit it, his trip to Momoiro Island may have contributed a lot to that.
Sanji processes the words and realizes he doesn’t know this story. He and Zoro don’t exactly talk about their pasts, and what Sanji knows about the man, he got via osmosis thanks to Usopp’s big mouth and Luffy’s loose one when bribed with food.
“So it has significance,” Sanji says. “Why doesn’t that bother you?”
“Well, why does it bother you?” Zoro asks back. “It’s not like you’re the one who lost it.” Zoro clicks his tongue, the furrow between his brows deepening. “And who says I lost it?”
“You didn’t lose it; he did,” Sanji points out. Then: “Wait. What did you just say?” His eyes widen, and he takes a step towards Zoro and gives him all of his attention.
If Zoro didn’t lose it, then he must’ve given it away. There’s no other possible explanation; he still wears the filthy haramaki twenty years later so his fashion sense is a lost cause and he’ll remain predictable even with age.
Oh, this is juicy. This is the stuff he catches Usopp giggling over with the beautiful Nami-san, the kind that Brook writes sonatas over while Franky strums his banjo.
“You gave it away,” Sanji says with certainty, a little stunned.
When Zoro sticks to silence, he smiles.
“Oh, marimo-kun, did you develop a heart sometime in those twenty years?” Sanji laughs, unable to help himself; this is too good. “Who’s the lucky one? No, wait, don’t answer and let the expert guess.” He curls a finger under his own chin in contemplation, grinning at the sight of Zoro fuming.
“You’re no expert, stupid love cook,” Zoro retorts, and even that is weak, so pathetic of an insult that Sanji simply waves a hand to dismiss it.
A cook never lets go of something precious and rare once it arrives in his kitchen. Sanji recalls all the islands they’ve been to and starts with the one he thinks is most likely to have won the heart of Roronoa Zoro.
“Tashigi-chan,” he says.
“What?” Zoro asks, then he has the audacity to draw back, as though the very idea of a cute, marine woman is revolting to him.
Impertinent, rude brute. Sanji wants to bash his skull in using the sole of his shoe.
“What?” Sanji returns. “She’s cute, capable, and can hold her own. I figured a big musclehead like you favors strength above all. And I’ve been told she looks too much like someone from your past.”
Zoro looks away for the briefest moment, but not before Sanji catches him grumbling that Nami will die a horrific death someday.
“That’s two ladies you’ve disrespected in my presence in under a minute, asshole,” Sanji says, lightly kicking Zoro’s shin.
“I’ll never give anything to that woman!” Zoro snaps. “She’s a marine, for fuck’s sake. You really are as dumb as you look, aren’t you? Expert, my ass.”
Sanji blinks, leaning back in thought. So if it isn’t Tashigi-chan, then he can only think of one other.
“So we will return to Wano someday,” he concludes.
Zoro has that bewildered look directed at him, like he’s grown another head. “What’s in Wano? What are you talking about now?”
“You can’t tell me I’m wrong this time; I’m absolutely sure of this one,” Sanji says, nodding in confidence. “Hiyori.” Zoro’s face morphs into genuine shock, and Sanji tuts. “You’re truly a goddamn moron. She’s the most beautiful woman in that country and she wasted her precious time helping to nurse you back to health! Ungrateful lout. Least you can do is give her one of your earrings.”
“She gave me a sword which I already exchanged for Shusui,” Zoro intones slowly, like Sanji is the stupid one. “I’m not giving her anything more.”
Sanji raises one of his legs, incensed. “Brook saw you cuddling that day; have you no honor? You don’t cuddle with someone and leave them hanging on to nothing!” This ungentlemanly, ignoble animal.
“He’s a skeleton and he has no eyes!” Zoro hisses, raising an arm clad in haki to block Sanji’s blow.
“All skull jokes on this ship are patented and you have no right to any of them,” Sanji says. “Are you telling me it’s not Hiyori? Are you actually insane?”
Zoro shoves his leg back, and it’s only because of Sanji’s core strength that he doesn’t stagger and quickly regains his balance. “You’re the insane one here, curly! Do you even hear yourself? You’re upset over who has my earring!”
Sanji laughs, high-pitched and mocking. “Hah, me, upset? You’re dreaming, shithead! Wake up! I guess you do learn to sleepwalk and sleep talk at one point, given all the naps you’re taking.”
“You’re the idiot asking all these questions! And you’re trying to guess but you’ll never get it right; you’re a dumbass through and through,” Zoro seethes. “Why do you even want to know? Ask him yourself, then!”
Sanji freezes at that; he wants nothing to do with the senile marimo, not when the man looks at him like he knows so much about Sanji and acts like this is also his ship.
“So you didn’t ask to whom he gave it to,” he realizes. He has to admit, this is surprising. Zoro reacted like the knowledge was such a blow when they first talked about it that particular lunch, when the old coot was spouting bullshit and everyone thought he absolutely knew the future when he just came from one of the possible many.
“I didn’t have to,” Zoro says, sighing. It makes his shoulders drop an inch, and Sanji only notices because the man is a solid collection of muscles. “I’m him, remember? I know.”
Then Zoro looks away and shakes his head, teeth momentarily trapping his bottom lip as he says, “There’s only one person that earring would’ve gone to, and we both know who it is without talking about it.”
“Well, I don’t and I want to know!” Sanji admits. When Zoro questions him with another frown, he shrugs. “You’re a gorilla with swords; you have zero manners and style. We may hate each other, but I can give you some pointers, you know.”
“Yeah, well, fat chance, cook,” Zoro drawls. “Besides, I’m still wearing mine, so why are you pestering me and not him?”
“You just said that you’re him,” Sanji points out. “And that you know. So why would I go to him when you’re right here?”
The crease between Zoro’s eyebrows softens at that, and now he’s giving Sanji that look, the same one that the senile marimo has for him whenever he lingers in the vicinity like the pest that he is. It’s a stark contrast to the entire aura Zoro exudes thanks to how his body is shaped: he’s all hard, unyielding lines but the way he looks at Sanji is almost like a caress.
Sanji’s pride ensures that he doesn’t look away, but that unwelcome thought is rattling. He has no idea where that came from; it’s not like Zoro has ever caressed him. Whenever they come into contact, it’s all through blows and the impact of each sends Chopper into a rant about bruises and contusions.
Why do you—the both of you—look at me like that? Sanji wants to ask.
Instead he says, “Perona-chan.”
Zoro’s jaw drops. Then he huffs, finally turning away.
“Must be light up there, given how empty your head is,” is all Zoro says before getting up.
Sanji watches him go just as the oven timer dings.
——
Exactly a month after senile marimo’s unprecedented arrival on the Sunny, Luffy asks Sanji for a feast. When Sanji asks why, he tilts his head to the side like this should be obvious.
“We always celebrate when we gain a crewmember,” Luffy says.
“That’s Zoro,” Sanji reminds him. “Also Zoro,” he rectifies because this is Luffy, and the world is so simple to Luffy that he needs the gentlest of reminders once in a while. “The first one to join you, so no, technically speaking, we didn’t get another crewmate onboard.”
Luffy hums, like he’s the one being patient here and not Sanji. “You’ve been making ten sets of everything instead of nine.”
“That—” Sanji tries, then he balks. He doesn’t usually eat until everyone is fed. “I can’t let him go hungry.”
“I didn’t say that.” Luffy is now bouncing on his heels, transferring his weight side to side. His boundless energy has to go somewhere, apparently. “But if you’re making ten instead of nine then we did gain a crewmate. Even if it’s still Zoro.”
“You just want an excuse for a feast,” Sanji says, but he’s already making mental notes on what he can make given their stocks. He’ll manage it, as always. He’s just being practical because he has to be.
“Or maybe I want you to make eleven sets of everything instead,” Luffy says, uncharacteristically serious before he blinks the expression away, too quick even for Sanji to comment on. “Or twelve! Or thirteen—perhaps twenty! Sanji, can you make twenty courses for dinner?”
“This isn’t a restaurant, you shitty rubber,” Sanji says as he heads back to the kitchen. “But fine. You’ll get your feast, sure. But only if you tell everyone not to disturb me while I work.”
“Done,” Luffy acquiesces; he’s so agreeable once food is involved. Before Sanji can completely shut the door to the galley, he hears Luffy add softly, “Make eleven, though.”
He nods. He can’t be difficult after that fiasco in Whole Cake Island; Luffy knows him too well. It’s terrifying how attuned he is to Sanji when Sanji least expects him to be.
“Or twelve,” he agrees. “You can have two servings just this once.”
Luffy’s resulting cheer is muffled behind the door, but its warmth still reaches Sanji and he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows to get started.
Later, when dinner is served on the deck of the Sunny and Luffy is done inhaling two portions of what Sanji promised him, he lets Franky bring out the alcohol. Everyone nurses their preferred drink because Sanji is particular about these things to make each beverage palatable to the consumer, tailored specifically to their varied tastes. Chopper is dancing with Luffy while Brook and Franky start a duet, Nami, Usopp, and Robin are playing cards, and Zoro is chugging pint after pint as he points out Usopp’s mistakes.
“You’re going to lose, idiot,” comes his gruff voice, followed by Usopp’s shriek of despair.
Robin giggles, Nami downright cackles, and Usopp collapses to the ground. Next to him, Zoro swipes the cards from his trembling fingers.
“Give me those,” he says.
It’s all good, peaceful even. Jinbe is grilling marshmallows at Chopper’s request, Sanji helping him with it, so it’s a while before Sanji notices that there’s only one marimo by the campfire and the other isn’t within eyesight.
He rolls his eyes, and Jinbe turns to him.
“Something wrong, Sanji?”
Sanji laughs; the alcohol is helping him loosen up. “You think he finally accomplished it?” he asks Jinbe, who blinks at him in question. “You think he finally got lost on his own ship? That moron.”
Jinbe laughs goodnaturedly. “I’m sure he’s just around.”
“You were with him before the hurricane; he has a knack for these things,” Sanji says, and though a different Jinbe was the one responsible for bringing Zoro back, this Jinbe simply smiles.
“I’ll take those,” Jinbe offers, watching over Sanji’s set as Sanji stands and begins the thankless task of locating a directionless piece of moss.
Sanji’s pleasantly buzzed, perhaps a little lightheaded. It transmits to his steps as he stalks the quietest parts of the ship. Searching doesn’t even take long; he locates the senile marimo in the galley where the man can undoubtedly hear the party and nap at the same time.
Except he cracks his eye open when Sanji approaches him, eyebrow raised at the bottle of liquor Sanji slides in his direction.
“No jabs this time, cook? You won’t make me work for it?” he asks, appalled.
“I’m being generous tonight,” Sanji says, taking the seat next to him. “Party’s outside, old man. Why are you all cooped up in here?”
“Here’s fine,” is the curt response, and Sanji rests his chin against his knuckles as he studies the man’s face. Few wrinkles here and there, but the curve of his jaw is distinctly Zoro’s.
“You miss your crew,” Sanji says, knowing he’s right when the old coot takes a generous sip of his drink. “Don’t you party anymore? I figured Luffy will become more adamant about having feasts once he becomes the Pirate King.”
“He is,” older Zoro says, grinning in the dark. “Feasts left and right.” Sanji watches him swirl the contents of the bottle he’s holding and thinks, those fingers must’ve also become bigger.
Everything about this version of Zoro takes so much space; Sanji can’t take his eyes off him.
“It’s just been a while, shit cook,” he explains, and Sanji takes it all in: this is how Roronoa Zoro looks when he misses someone terribly. He feels like he’s seen Zoro shift forms often; he tends to become what the crew needs in terms of strength.
Pirate Hunter. King of Hell. One of the wings of the Pirate King.
But here, under the baleful, orange glow from the round window on the galley's door, there’s no trace of those. Here, he’s just a man. A middle-aged, homesick man.
“Twenty years later, the Sunny is still our home?” he finds himself asking.
“It’ll always be, cook,” Zoro says easily.
Sanji shuts his eyes, imagining his forty-year-old self still working in the same kitchen, making the same food albeit with few modifications, perhaps. Twenty years is a long time, and he must’ve learned a new thing or two and cooks meals far better than his present self can because he knows he won’t settle for anything less. This is his home and his family, and he will strive to improve himself for the sake of everyone in this crew.
“Future me lets you sulk in here from time to time?” he asks next.
It earns him Zoro’s laugh: deeper, quieter, and half-concealed in shadows. Sanji feels a foreign weight settle in his gut, rooting him in his seat. Their Zoro no longer laughs like this, he realizes. At least not with him. Two years ago, their Zoro was unabashed with his joy, easily brought about by Luffy’s antics. Then Kuma and Sabaody happened, and two years later, he settled for smirks when he should’ve been howling in delight.
This Zoro hardly makes a sound, but his shoulders quake as he lets amusement wash over him, loose and carefree. Is this what comes at the end of their dreams, Sanji wonders? Is this Zoro devoid of worries and burdens because he’s the best of the best and he can take on whoever comes his way?
“Future you drinks with me whenever I sulk,” is the response. “You learn to hold your liquor better as the years pass; you don’t turn as red as you do now from where I’m from.”
Sanji bristles, affronted. “I’m not red,” he snaps. How can the old bastard even see when it’s dark? At forty, Sanji’s convinced that Zoro must be at least farsighted. At Zoro’s answering snort, he waves his hand. “It’s a biological thing, all right? Chopper says it’s because I lack an enzyme or something; it’s a trait shared with a bunch of other human beings.” He clicks his tongue. “Not that an algae like you can relate.”
Zoro says nothing, chugging his drink like it’s pure water and not one of the strongest brews that Sanji has on board, and Sanji glares at him.
“How did you know about the dough from that day?”
There’s a second in which Zoro looks confused, then he seems to know exactly what Sanji means. He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “How indeed.”
“I’m serious; that dough was perfect after ten minutes and I’ve never told anyone about that and yet you knew.” Sanji faces him, awaiting answers. “Are they a baker?”
Even in the shadows, he can tell that Zoro is frowning. “Who?”
“The one who has your earring,” Sanji says.
Zoro’s expression shifts, losing the tightness that it held just as easily. “You can say that.”
He offers nothing more, and Sanji resolves to find other things to be vexed about because this marimo is also stubborn. Sanji should’ve known. He could fire question after question and the old man would only reply in vague, uninteresting answers if he couldn’t grunt. Caveman to the core.
“I can’t believe how broad you are,” Sanji says next. “How are your shoulders even wider still? How much protein did you put in that body?”
“Future you is the one putting protein in this body,” Zoro informs him, gesturing towards himself.
Sanji doesn’t want to think about how smoothly this Zoro admits that, how he didn’t even have to work for that information and instead was freely given. He focuses on the tufts of green to channel his innate marimo repulsion.
“I also can’t believe that you’re taller than I am,” he complains. “I was taller than you back in East Blue!”
Zoro whistles at that. “Now that takes me back. You were so—” he cuts himself off, and Sanji watches in abject horror as Zoro curves both hands to arcs, putting the tips of his thumbs and middle fingers together.
Sanji feels warmth trickle down his nape as he swats at Zoro’s large hands. “I wasn’t that skinny! Screw you, marimo!”
Zoro’s grinning like the asshole that he is. “Never said you were, twirly. You were just…lankier, you know? But one thing that never changed—” Sanji watches him glance down at their feet, “—was those legs going for miles. Drove me wild.”
Sanji must’ve misheard him. This person wearing an older Zoro’s face can’t be saying these words; it’s got to be the alcohol. Except Sanji has seen him drink barrels of booze back in Wano and all it did was make him smile in the shared baths of Momo’s castle, and he sure isn’t drinking that much now.
“What,” Sanji says flatly. Disbelieving.
“You still do, by the way,” Zoro says, voice low.
Sanji closes his eyes and fishes for a cigarette with slightly uncoordinated fingers. “Bastard,” he whispers, the sinkhole in his gut turning into an inferno.
The flicker of flame emitted by his lighter develops a mind of its own; deftly dodging the tip of his cigarette and he curses, knowing that older Zoro is watching everything.
“Here,” Zoro offers, reaching over with a palm cupped. It appears on the side of Sanji’s cheek, fingertips lightly grazing his jaw as he helps Sanji light his smokes. Sanji’s breath hitches just as the tip catches fire—the split-second of additional illumination shows him how dark Zoro’s eye is as he pulls away.
Sanji exhales, wisps of nicotine clouding the space between them, and he pulls the cigarette out of his mouth to wet his lips. Zoro follows the movement like it transfixes him, and Sanji sits too still.
“Cook,” Zoro tries, thick—liquid fire in Sanji’s veins.
“Don’t say it like that,” Sanji admonishes.
“Like what?”
Like you’ve always wanted this.
“Like it means something else,” is what he says.
“It can mean whatever you want it to mean,” Zoro whispers because he’s somehow closer—how is he closer? Sanji didn’t even see him move and he’s got his eyes on the man the entire time.
He takes back his comment regarding stealth; it’s not everyday that he can be caught off guard.
“I love women,” Sanji blurts as a last line of defense when Zoro inches closer still. His cigarette is half-reduced to ash and he’s going to ruin their dining table, and still Zoro doesn’t move away.
Zoro smiles. Nods like he understands. “Of course you do.”
Sanji inhales deep, akin to the moment right before he plunges underwater, and Zoro’s stealing that breath for himself like the seasoned pirate that he is. Reflexively, Sanji’s eyes flutter shut as his brain turns to static—all he knows is Zoro and his imposing frame, his scent, the shudder he makes as their lips meet. It’s slow like they have all the time, and Sanji feels as though he’s in a bubble, trapped in an ephemerality that used to exist solely in the deepest recesses of his mind.
This is how kissing Zoro feels like, he realizes with a tremor, breath hitching when Zoro angles his head to kiss him better, and that leaves Sanji gasping because Zoro can’t be serious. He can’t be this good at kissing, not when Sanji’s the supposed love cook. It strangely doesn’t feel like a competition, as if Zoro’s merely testing the waters, taking only what’s being offered. The lack of force causes Sanji’s head to spin.
When Zoro pulls back, Sanji can still taste him: the bitter tang of alcohol mixed with the perfectly marinated barbecue from earlier. Sanji should be repulsed, but all he can see is how Zoro’s lips are glistening in the dark and a traitorous part of him selfishly wishes for more.
Then Zoro leans to the side and his earrings catch the barest hint of light, allowing Sanji to recover.
“Isn’t this cheating?” he says, staring forlornly at his now ruined cigarette. Trepidation sits in him, embers tickling his heel as he braces himself for the answer.
Zoro’s voice is a husk. “What?”
“Aren’t you cheating when you do this?” Sanji asks again, gesturing towards Zoro’s earrings. “On the one who has the missing one, I mean.”
Zoro laughs—the belly-aching kind that Sanji sorely missed. There are crinkles surrounding his eye as he says, “Not really, no. You can relax.”
“You’re not drunk and still you’re not thinking,” Sanji says, but he doesn’t resist when Zoro plucks the cigarette off his fingers and discards it elsewhere.
“I leave the thinking to somebody else,” Zoro tells him, like it’s a private joke, except Sanji doesn’t understand.
“All brawn and no brains—typical marimo,” Sanji whispers now that Zoro’s in his space and encompassing, yet he doesn’t feel caged. He should be used to this; they’ve been butting heads for as long as he can remember, but the weight that usually rests against his forehead is absent, replaced by an exhale that accompanies a curling of Zoro’s fingers under his chin.
“You’re all talk,” Zoro says, not even accusatory. How dare he, Sanji thinks, white noise in his mind and thunder in his chest. Can Zoro hear that? It’s so loud.
The kiss lands on the corner of Sanji’s mouth this time, feverish against overheated skin, electricity coursing down Sanji’s spine. Will the years turn Zoro so tender? Is this his destiny, to wear the face of the devil yet possess the touch of a martyr, a supplicant? Sanji reels in his thoughts, a swarm of queries that make little sense when Zoro presses a smile against the angle of his jaw.
“Tickles,” he says without moving away.
“Touch me back, cook,” Zoro says—no, asks. There’s that lilt in his voice that’s never been directed at Sanji until now, and Sanji’s operating on muscle memory.
His hand finds one of Zoro’s pecs and Zoro’s breath skims Sanji’s cheek as he laughs: short puffs of air laced with liquor that smells unmistakably Zoro. “Figures,” Zoro says. “You keep looking at them.”
“You have them on display all the time,” Sanji retorts, his rebellious hand opting for a squeeze and nearly making him groan. Why is it soft? Aren’t muscles supposed to be hard? Fuck.
“It’s only hard when it’s flexed, stupid cook,” Zoro whispers, and Sanji’s hand on him jerks.
Did he say that out loud? Fucking hell.
“Stop me,” Sanji begs. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”
A shuffle of movement, then Zoro’s tanned, large hands frame his face, thumbs stroking the juts of his jaw. Then Zoro presses forward, soldiering further on, and Sanji fails to suppress a moan when he finds himself thoroughly kissed. Zoro coaxes Sanji’s mouth open with a flick of his tongue over the seam of Sanji’s oversensitive, tingling lips.
One of Zoro’s hands treks further, fingers sliding against the base of Sanji’s skull, the other finding its place in the junction between Sanji’s neck and shoulder, thumb tracing haphazardly at his pulse. Sanji reciprocates, letting his mouth memorize the texture of Zoro’s until all he can taste there is himself—cigarette and all.
Time slows as the campfire outside burns bright, evening transitioning to night. Sanji loses track of how long this goes on: each kiss is longer than its predecessor and cuts off any coherent thought. Zoro kisses him like he’s done it before, like he knows exactly how Sanji likes it. He kisses like it’s just them at this moment and nothing else exists.
Zoro finally breaks the kiss when the need to breathe arises, thumb stroking Sanji’s bottom lip. Sanji presses a peck against the pad of it and feels minute, uneven scars touch him back. Did Zoro always have these? They’re so small, knife-thin and silvery, and Sanji wants to know their stories.
“Does he know?” Zoro husks, and Sanji’s focus reverts back to him, to that face that has aged and still concealing a tenderness underneath.
Sanji’s breath catches, and it’s enough of an answer. Outside, he hears Franky propose another toast, echoed by familiar voices.
Zoro’s hands leave phantoms against his skin when he withdraws, and Sanji’s beginning to heave.
“Cook,” Zoro says sadly, knowingly. “Don’t overthink.”
Bile sits at the back of Sanji’s throat and he needs to get out of here. If he doesn’t, he’ll probably die.
“Too late,” he says, and books it out of the galley.