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Morning sunbeams shine brilliantly against the deck of the Thousand Sunny, plants and crew alike thriving under their care. Mildew glimmers atop the grass, caterpillars wiggling freely amongst the soft blades.
Freshly washed laundry sways in the breeze, strung up to dry between Nami's tangerine trees. On one line hangs a string of pants arguably more patches than straight fabric—the subject of today's argument.
"Listen, idiot!" Growls the Sunny's resident cook, tolerance detereorating in tandem with his latest cigarette. "I'm not saying this shit again! You need lessons on dodging slices or what? Any more and your clothes are gonna fall apart—they're in tatters as is!"
Their swordsman clicks his tongue in a flippant display of apathy. "The hell does it matter? It's just fabric. I'm gonna wear 'em either way."
"That's 'cause you're a neanderthal who's too lazy to bother taking care of himself," Sanji grumbles back. "I'm done stitching up your shit every other week. Acting like I'm your damn servant."
"Don't bother then," Zoro yawns. "Makes no difference to me." One blade swipes languidly at Sanji's ankle, its master chuffing faintly as the cook hops back.
At the enraged silence, he adds, "You done bitching?" The swordsman sinks lazily backwards, arm positioning to pillow his head once more. His eye begins drifting shut, decidedly disengaged.
Sanji, however, has other ideas. His leg prods incessantly at the other man's ribs, earning an agitated growl.
"You done being disgusting?" He snarls, lip curling in disdain. His cigarette dangles precariously, leaking flakes of ash onto the floorboards. "How the hell did Mihawk let you wander around his castle wearing no underwear? You belong in a fucking swamp."
Zoro leers at him. "You been worrying about my underwear? Wow, Curls. I'm honoured."
"You're sick in the head," Sanji seethes. Sparks dance at his feet like blazen ballerinas. "As if I'm worried for your sake. Other people live here too, shit-for-brains."
He leans in to poke at Zoro's forehead, nose scrunching in distaste. "When was the last time you bathed? The ladies shouldn't be subjected to your filth."
Zoro's on his feet in an instant, face twisting rapidly into a scowl. "If you're gonna whine," he utters icily, "At least make it about me beating you."
Unperturbed, Sanji lets out a scoff. "Oh yeah, shithead?" A vicious grin spreads across his face, growing as he steps forward to blow a plume of smoke directly into Zoro's eye. "Do your worst."
Zoro leaps at him like a starving tiger and they're off, kicking and slicing in a dance as intricate as it is deadly.
Across the deck, tucked safely away from any ensuing mishaps, Robin sips leisurely at her cocktail, finding herself thoroughly entertained by the routine conflict. At her sides stand Brook and Jinbei, similarly transfixed.
Some minutes in, the fighters end up momentarily face-to-face, prompting Brook to debut a thought. "Yohoho! If I didn't know any better, I'd wager that they were married! Wouldn't you agree?" The skeleton chortles cheerfully. "Ah, the joys of young love."
Not long after, he excuses himself, citing inspiration for a brand-new composition; his comment, though innocuous, births an aura of intrigue.
Leaning slightly forward, Robin hums in consideration. "Yes, 'nagging wife' certainly seems an apt descriptor for our dear cook at the moment, don't you think? It's a pity nothing has yet to come of it."
Below them, Zoro swipes at said cook's leg; Sanji flips neatly out of range, gone for the briefest of seconds before lunging in again. The movements wax and wane, fluid as the passing waves, practiced motions comprising the crux of a bizarre ritual privy only to the duelling fighters.
Proving her point, Jinbei's brows shoot upwards, his eyes widening a touch at her words. "Given Wano, I assumed... they aren't married? Or at the very least, engaged?"
Robin's own eyes narrow, a graceful hand rising to disguise the mirthful twitch of her lips. "Surprising, isn't it? After all this time."
"Yes," Jinbei hedges out, "It certainly is." The fishman studies her for a moment, curiosity giving way to a tentative question. "Nico Robin... might you be planning to interfere?"
Ah—she is caught. Robin releases a conspiratorial giggle, bearing a grin that she knows appears downright wicked. "Perhaps."
"Thank you, Sanji," Robin demures, fingers curling around a mug of her beloved chamomile tea. The galley's overhead lights shimmer invitingly in its reflection. Around her, the seats are almost empty, the crew having cleared out a few minutes prior. Dinner that evening had concluded rather tamely, everyone feeling thoroughly exhausted following a stressful ambush by a thunderous fleet of Marines.
Shaking out of her thoughts, she continues, "Brook noted something peculiar regarding your battle earlier today. I thought it rather intriguing to hear—might you be interested?"
"Of course, my dear! Just one second!" Sanji chimes, spinning neatly around. Stacked plates slide onto his arms as he glides with swan-like grace along the length of the table, pausing at their swordsman's side to ask, "You done, Moss?"
Zoro grunts affirmatively. Sanji's hand drifts over his shoulder to collect his plate, its owner giving a light scoff that wafts over the cook's ear. "Brute," Sanji murmurs affectionately. For the way he lingers, it seems he'd loathe to move away.
Across the room, Robin giggles softly, finding it all too easy to conjure the image of a ring adorning the cook's finger—or, she amends, picturing slender hands submerged in soapy water—an earring.
Having by now gathered every dirty dish, the man soon twists to face her, prompting, "You were saying, dearest?"
Her lips perk at the corners. Merriment flickers within her chest, growing livelier as she speaks. "Well, our musician is of the opinion that your bickering is strongly reminiscent of the behaviour of a married couple."
Sanji evades dropping a plate or two, but it's a near thing. "That shitty skeleton," he hisses, muttering a dark series of phrases seemingly concerning bone broth—only to swiftly twirl around again, bearing a smile that strains as if he's been stabbed.
"My sincerest apologies, my sweet Robin!" Sanji simpers, "It's just clear to anyone with sense that I would never marry such a disgusting caveman, especially with so many lovely ladies to choose from! Our musician is severely..." The last word parses through gritted teeth, "Mistaken."
"Is that so?" She says, her tone kept carefully casual. "Interesting. Then it seems I myself may be lacking in sense also. As a matter of fact, so would our helmsman."
A number of hands sprout from the floor, deftly catching the plates having this time slipped from Sanji's grip. His body stands petrified with something akin to horror.
A peek at Zoro finds him similarly still. 'Something,' indeed.
To his credit, Sanji recovers admirably quickly, though he fires her a pleading look that appears more than a little pathetic. "Robin, my angel," he sputters weakly, "Please tell me you're joking."
"I apologise for startling you, Sanji. Alas, I was not." Here, his shoulders fall dramatically, making it difficult to stifle her amusement. "In fact, I recall it was myself who observed a distinction—in particular, at the time, the term 'nagging wife' seemed adequate."
"Hah," Zoro snorts, breaking his bout of silence, "Sounds about right." He flashes his teeth, kicking his feet up in a devillish move of spite. "Who was the one shouting about my underwear again? You can't get enough of me, Twirly."
"I wouldn't have to if you owned any in the first place," Sanji spits. "You're revolting. Why the hell would I marry someone who only washes himself once a week? It's bad enough with your moldy ass sullying my kitchen every day."
Zoro yawns, at once sounding bored. "Lotta talk from someone who hasn't got the balls to ban me. Seems to me like you don't wanna get rid of me."
Glaring hard enough to fell a rhino, Sanji retorts, "If it were up to me, you'd be banned from the entire fucking ship." His teeth are grinding painfully, having progressively ravaged his prospective cigarette.
Robin watches with twinkling eyes, royally invested in the back-and-forth.
Entirely unphased, Zoro counters the chef with an airy, "If you wanted me gone so bad, you would have kicked me out by now."
"It'd be disrespectful to Robin," Sanji sniffs haughtily, glancing in her direction. She gives a pleasant wave. "Otherwise, you'd be halfway across the Grand Line, fuckhead." The cook twitches bodily, stiff as if rooted to the ground.
In a show of blazen defiance, Zoro rises liberally from his chair, positively dripping with arrogance as he strides across the room. "Sure."
Sanji glares witheringly at him the entire way, likely wanting nothing more than to pummel him beyond the stratosphere.
Instead, Zoro slips safely out of the galley with a lofty, "See you at breakfast, Dartbrow. Robin." He doesn't bother looking back.
The second the door closes, Sanji lets out a haggard groan. "Bastard—knows damn well I can't abandon the dishes this time of night. Table's dirty, too." He hunches over the sink, mumbling, "Fuck, I need a smoke."
Feeling a surge of pity, Robin flexes her many fingers with a flourish. "May I provide some assistance?"
Sanji jolts upright, pivoting harshly to address her. "There's no need for that, my darling. I'm perfectly capable of handling it on my own. Besides, I'd... prefer to be alone, if that's alright." He eyes her cautiously, unsure.
He's making progress, she thinks with pride. Bringing himself to ask her, a woman, to leave the room for his own good... it's a step in the right direction. Small, perhaps—but groundbreaking nonetheless.
"Very well," Robin says, patting his shoulder reassuringly as she passes him by. "Goodnight, Sanji. I hope the rest of the evening treats you well."
With that, she exits the galley in a whirl, praising herself for a job well done.
Calm down, Sanji tells himself sometime after midnight, settling into his bunk with a prevailing feeling of dread. There's a chance this doesn't turn into anything.
It absolutely turns into something.
Tomorrow brings another sunny day. The crew are scattered across the deck, enthusiastic as they appreciate the subtle blaze. Notably, Chopper is cooling off in a kiddy-pool, giggling as Usopp and Luffy circle eachother menacingly whilst armed with water pistols. In the distance rings a familiar cry of, "Super!"
Sufficiently distanced from the chaos lie Nami and Robin, lounging lasciviously on their deckchairs in the blissful shadow of the trees. Their whispers are enticing, susurrant syllables straying in the breeze as Sanji twirls over to serve up a round of colourful cocktails—perfect for combatting the heat.
The ladies thank him in unison, delicate hands plucking their glasses from his tray. Nami murmurs something inaudible to Robin before leaning forward to address him once again.
He awaits her thoughts eagerly, suppressing the urge to sing her praises until his throat runs hoarse. Clearly she notices, awarding him a pleasant smile for his efforts, before resuming the conversation.
In an instant his mood is shattered. Nami sprouts a prowling, cat-like grin that sees him wilting like a torn-out flower. Sanji's smile adopts an irrepressible edge. This can't be good.
"So, Sanji..." She drawls, so slowly it's agonising awaiting the conclusion. Of course, then—because his luck is an actual minefield—she proceeds to drop the terrifying bombshell of, "How's married life?"
His expression sours without his permission. Oh, he's in trouble now. Sanji adores their navigator, truly, but if Nami has heard, Usopp has heard, which means that before long...
Out of the blue, an evidently unsupervised Luffy catapults in their direction, crashing squarely between the two chairs. Nami swears, immediately rounding on him; her forgotten drink falls cleanly into one of Robin's waiting hands, another few blooming from the deck to stabilise the surroundings.
"Watch where you're going, idiot!" Nami fumes, slapping their captain upside the head with bruising force.
Robin chuckles, not saying a word. Sanji, too, stays quiet, having learned by now that Nami has things thoroughly handled in the Luffy department.
"Sorry, Nami," whines their captain, rubbing his head with theatrical farce. Then, as quickly as he'd arrived, his attention pivots to the chef remaining stationed at their side. Leaning eagerly over Nami—at which she grumbles, but makes no attempt to shove him off—Luffy asks, "Wait, wait, Sanji's married? To who? That Dumpling girl? Didn't we stop the wedding?"
"Her name was Pudding, Luffy," Nami corrects, exasperated. "And yeah, we did."
Luffy hums, puzzled expression deepening. Sanji rushes to clarify, saying, "No, Luffy, I'm not–"
Robin calmly interjects. "Worry not, Captain. We're merely discussing a hypothetical union with our swordsman."
Everyone knows context is wasted on their captain. Luffy's eyes twinkle dangerously; it's an omen of doom if he's ever seen one. Shit.
"Whoa, Sanji's married to Zoro?! Cool!" He rounds on Sanji with a grin so bright it almost hurts to witness. "Zoro's super protective of his stuff, so now you really don't gotta worry about being taken away!"
Luffy flashes a thumbs up, flinging himself across the ship with an excited yell aimed at Zoro before Sanji can even think of trying to explain. The ladies are laughing at him, too.
Great, he thinks, morose. Now the entire crew knows. He gives it thirty minutes max before he's got a herd of clowns crowding into the galley to pester him, if that. And Luffy's going to demand a feast.
Hell is he fucked.
Days later he's cheerily descending the gangplank, a worker's whistle harmonising with the clicking of his shoes against the wood of the docks at which they've moored. Zoro plods alongside him with a disgruntled expression, grumpy at having his midday nap interrupted.
A flock of seabirds soar overhead in tight formation, surfing the wispy breeze flowing through the air. On the ground, mild sunrays lap tastefully at the duo's skin.
Greeting them this morning aboard the ocean is an enormous island, hosting a bustling marketplace it keeps nestled behind a sprawling outcrop of mountain. Spring embraces its visitors warmly, vibrant flowers and friendly villagers cultivating a blissfully refreshing climate. Petals of various origin pepper the ground in an impressive array of colour.
Presently, both men are unusually quiet, an occasional yawn from the ship's overgrown housecat the only thing to breach the space between them as they walk. For once, Sanji is wholly content to let it stay that way, immersed as he is in his internal noting of their stocks and possible mealplans.
Before them, a series of flowering azaleas line the footworn path to the market, an indicator so obvious that even the most directionally challenged of marimos should theoretically be able to follow it.
In practice, however, Zoro is an idiot, so follow it he does not. Instead, halfway down the supply list he veers absurdly in the direction of a massive tangle of overgrowth, warping tendrils of vines and branches emanating a comically threatening aura—because of course he does.
If his brain isn't damaged, I'll eat my shoe.
Wary of their navigator's strict emphasis on schedulling, Sanji says, "Oi, your fellow plants calling to you or something? It's this way, dumbass."
He isn't gracious enough to resist dispatching a kick to the mosshead's ankle, despite already having captured his attention. It's clearly necessary, given he's so easily distracted.
Ignoring the resulting glare, Sanji latches tightly onto Zoro's wrist, yanking him forcefully back into the throes of civilisation, where they can continue their shopping in (relative) peace—hopefully.
He's not in the mood for arguing today, despite the crew's joking hanging over his head—although it hasn't been mentioned today, oddly enough. Maybe it's finally dying out after all.
Carrying that newfound reassurance, his thoughts naturally redirect to Zoro's latest display of idiocy. No way anyone's naturally this stupid, he thinks, mentally shaking his head. What runs through Zoro's mind sometimes, he'll never know.
Speaking of, he's torn back to reality by the swordsman flexing his wrist in 'subtle' rebellion. Brainless mutt. He really does loathe following instructions. If that isn't taxing enough, then comes the real kicker:
"Damn Curlicue, would've thought twice about marrying you if I knew you'd be this handsy," Zoro snarks, words dripping with venom.
Scratch that—Sanji might end up murdering the marimo after all. Really, if he considers it, he would be paying the islandgoers a favour. Who wants their town contaminated by a stinky, mannerless oaf with a major drinking problem? He certainly wouldn't.
Nevertheless, he refrains from instigating a fight for the offence, solely down to the fact that he'd rather die a painful death than rob Nami of her personal accountant—that, and he'd like to avoid triggering the ire of the townspeople if possible, considering the sorry state of the pantry due to the night previous (Luffy's fault, of course).
Besides, comes a stabbing thought, no one sane would consider him worth marrying in the first place.
"As if anyone sensible would entertain the idea of marrying you," Sanji snorts with derision, tugging a tad too hard and jostling the bags. "And I wouldn't be so handsy if your moldy excuse for a brain could wrap itself around basic directions."
His eyes rove over the remaining stalls, settling on a nearby potato merchant whose hearty demeanour seems conductive to haggling. So resumes his mission of guiding Zoro along the footworn path, calculating the rest of their route as he goes. "Come on, Mossball, we need–"
Time comes to a standstill, right there in the middle of the street. He spots two people, a couple, pressed together and giggling, all soft touches and giddy smiles. Their cheeks are rosy, eyes wide and bright with adoration; they take no notice of the discordant streets, unaffected by the shouting vendors and yelling children.
One of them pauses, conjuring a rose from behind her back; the other accepts it with a laugh, tilting forwards to connect their lips in a passionate kiss. Inbetween, he makes out the words, I love you.
The sight floors him, leaves him paralysed halfway to the weathered stall. Staring is impolite, he's well aware, but oh, if looking away isn't suddenly an impossible feat. His gaze lingers on them, they pair they make, the linkage of their fingers. Together. Happy.
A familiar burning builds up in his throat as his mind begins to drift helplessly away—as does his cigarette. There's a reason he's been avoiding even the mention of romance after Whole Cake. Longing roils in his stomach, cloying in his lungs, staining him a gunky, unshakeable grey, as it always does when he thinks too hard about partners and relationships, because...
Because he knows, deep down, that he is worthless. Unlovable. Because he can't erase the feeling that no one will ever love him like that—that nobody ever could. Echoes of a time long gone are melding together in a foggy haze of overwhelm, produce and market ruptured by taunting whispers of failure and mistake. If only he'd been born to anybody else. Would he be...
His trance is broken by a forceful hand shaking at his shoulder. "Curls? Twirly? Oi. You alive in there?"
He hurriedly tears his gaze away from the couple. Zoro frowns at him, concern etched into his features; Sanji grimaces. The swordsman grabs his hand, delacing his fingers where they enforce a crushing grip on his hair. When did that happen?
Zoro ensures their eyes are meeting before he speaks. "Hey. The hell's got you so upset?"
The suffocating mass crumbles away. Dregs of melancholy recede, slithering off towards their resting place, curling beneath his ribs in a subtle, immutable ache—this he can deal with. What he can't process is that Zoro still hasn't let go, won't until he's satisfied that Sanji is okay, and fuck if that doesn't hurt even worse because it's the closest they'll ever get to genuinely holding hands.
He curses the traitorous heart pounding away in his chest, moving to crush the forgotten cigarette with his heel. One of these days, he's going to have to move on. It's just...hard. Even more so when Zoro does things like this—it's starting to feel a little akin to torture.
"Nothing, fuckhead. I'm fine," Sanji tries, but his heart clearly isn't in it. He frees their hands, drained of the energy to continue their usual bickering. Was he always this exhausted?
Unable to muster up a proper excuse, he mumbles, "Really, I'm fine, Moss. Didn't sleep much."
Zoro's eye narrows, scanning first Sanji's face and then the market for the perpetrators of his gloom. He zeroes in on the couple in seconds, looking back to the cook for validation.
Sanji averts his gaze. Squaring his shoulders, he paces forwards without a word, offering the remaining market vendors a sunny smile and a genuine, if dulled, enthusiasm for their wares. Zoro lags behind him the entire time, mute and painfully awkward.
Partway back to the ship, he hears a sequence of shuffling. He swiftly dismisses it, well accustomed to the sound of Zoro readjusting his load—only, he's caught off guard seconds later when, without warning, a set of calloused fingers curl around his palm... and stay there.
"So you don't get lost," Zoro asserts, falling into step at his side. He faces determinedly ahead—probably seeking out the Sunny as soon as possible.
Sanji smiles wryly, wishing away the sensation before it becomes a memory. "Yeah." Stupidly, he can't bring himself to unlink their hands.
Their journey is otherwise a noiseless affair. Zoro accompanies him to the galley, loitering restlessly as Sanji restocks the supplies and fidgeting with the scabbards at his hip as he gathers his words.
"Curls–" He starts, faltering briefly as Sanji refuses to face him under the pretense of inspecting the contents of a cupboard. Zoro continues with a sigh, scrubbing at his face with his palm. "Promise you'll talk to Robin about it. Or the witch."
Sanji freezes with his hand hovering in the space between two shelves. "I'll... consider it." His skin crawls with the exposure; hoping to disspell the feeling, he swallows before tentatively tacking on, "And don't call Nami that, asshole."
That fetches a wisp of a smile.
"I'll call her whatever the hell I want," Zoro parries automatically—and then he nods, becoming solemn. "Take care of yourself, Cook."
Immediately he leaves, having finally articulated his piece. Seconds later, the door closes with a thud. Sanji is alone.
He rakes a shaken hand through his hair, releasing a forlorn sigh of his own. "Fuck."
The next morning, Zoro scarfs down his breakfast at breakneck speed, only to linger until every other Straw Hat has vacated the room to announce, "'M goin' down to the market again."
"Okay?" Sanji says, dismissing the swordsman with a wave of his free hand. No way he's rescuing him today—Luffy's finally reached boiling point concerning that feast. "Don't take too long. Be back by dinner or you're getting scraps."
There's an affirming grunt. Caveman, he thinks, smothering the feelings swirling away in his chest. He makes to start on lunch prep, awaiting the series of fading thumps signifying the mosshead taking his leave.
Except, in a jarring turn of events—he doesn't. Rather than go, Zoro remains shuffling in place, seeming strangely... unsure? It's off-putting.
"Oi, Cook..." He prompts. Sanji hums idly in response, the result of a rare bout of patience; the swordsman's spine straightens hastily, as if he's got something to prove. "You gonna be here later? When I get back."
Sanji's hands resume their work, even as his nose scrunches in aggravation. "You hit your head or something? Where else would I be?"
The lack of response leads the cook to glance at him warily; consequently, he abandons his prep. The mounting expectance in that eye clearly warrants a full address.
Admittedly thrown off course (and fiercely determined to hide it), Sanji scoffs out, "Of course I am, shit-for-brains. Unless you get back at ass o'clock in the morning again."
It'd happened once, years ago; it's the reason they always deploy someone to locate him after dusk (usually Sanji, given his uncanny ability to guess exactly where the swordsman's faulty brain has taken him). Zoro had ended up missing—they'd scoured the island, come up with nothing, and at Robin's suggestion, resigned themselves to staying put and waiting for him to find his way home.
That was a massive mistake. Zoro had stormed back onboard in the dead of night covered in muck and tatters, fuming at the top of his lungs about someone moving the ship when he wasn't looking. Naturally, Nami had gone ballistic at him, and then rounded on Sanji, since he found it so hilarious.
They'd called a truce to scrub the entire deck clean afterwards, according to her orders. Weirdly, once the barrage of yelling was over with, it turned out to be kind of fun.
The reminder incites a playful smirk. "Might still be up, knowing you."
His entire demeanour's set to rights, quick as a flash—so fast Sanji could've imagined it, if not for the buzz of haki assuring him it was real.
"I'm off," Zoro drawls, brandishing his hand in a lazy wave. "Don't wait up for me, princess."
His cutting retort about Zoro's nastiness is unfortunately drowned by the slam of the door behind him.
"Anyone in the damn world, and it had to be him," Sanji mutters, knife punctuating his words with some baleful thunks to the chopping board. "Arrogant piece of shit."
A chunk of mutilated carrots finds its way to Luffy's disaster-pile. They'll be inhaled before anyone can scrutinise the damage.
Sanji rolls up his sleeves with a flair. He'll make sure of it—the rest of the food will be perfect.
By some miracle, Zoro navigates his way back to the ship before dusk. Brief tidbits of a spirited exchange with Luffy slither through the open window, their substance muffled by the crooning notes of the tone dial accompanying the last of Sanji's dinner prep.
Their captain bounces along the deck, shamelessly loud as ever. In the ruckus, he almost misses the subsequent swinging of the door. Almost.
"Cook. 'M back." Zoro announces himself with a smile he feels without seeing, widened and a little jagged. His aura teems with satisfaction—likely the product of a successful booze hunt. Nothing to bother Sanji about, anyway. He hums, happily preoccupied, and doesn't react further.
"Oi," Zoro presses, to zero avail, "Curly. Look."
He doesn't, obviously, because he's very much busy and really does not want his good mood ruined this late into the day because of Zoro's bullshit. So he stays quiet, decidedly engaged with the meat he's browning, and prays the marimo will miraculously learn to take a hint and screw off.
Unfortunately, Zoro is about as socially inept as an actual mossball. Combined with Sanji's horrible strokes of luck recently, it's dismally unsurprising that he doesn't listen in the slightest. Maybe there's algae growing in his ears, for how common that occurrence is.
Instead, he settles for the dubious approach of scuttling closer in sprawling increments, as if Sanji is blind to the imposition just because his back is turned. He's pointedly silent—probably not feeling the need to speak, but Sanji'll chalk that up to idiocy, too, purely for the sake of it.
In any case, nothing comes. Zoro gets a sigh of resignation for his troubles, and a habitual beratement along the lines of: "You're not getting any leftovers, kelphead. No booze either. Get the hell out of my kitchen."
If Zoro is really hungry, even after the hefty dinner he's about to serve, a plate of riceballs may or may not surface in the crow's nest after dinner, but he won't mention it. It's a matter of pride as much as not awarding Zoro the satisfaction; he's cocky enough as it is without talk of a specialised snack on the regular.
Case in point: undeterred, Zoro shuffles even closer. At this rate, Sanji'll have no choice but to turn around and acknowledge him, just to kick some sense into him regarding the matter of personal space.
Right as he decides on doing that, however, Zoro blurts out something that piques his interest. "Brought you somethin'."
He swivels around in a deliberate, unimpressed manner, recalling all too vividly the catch Zoro had carried in just last week. He'd slammed it down onto the counter (splashing water everywhere in the process), accompanied by a shamelessly ignorant, "You can use this for dinner, right?"
Safe to say, Sanji could not, in fact, use it for dinner, lest he have an extremely dead crew on his hands—barring Luffy, probably.
He shudders at the scenario. If it's another boxfish, he's going to murder the idiot on the spot. See how he likes being used for dinner instead.
It's not another boxfish.
Sanji blinks, dumbfounded. "Why'd you get these?"
It's a small pouch, barely the size of Zoro's palm; in it lies a modest clump of dried lavender.
Likewise, Zoro peers downwards, the following phrases aiming for casual. "Dunno. Lady said you could make syrup with it. Sounded like somethin' Chopper'd like."
"Huh," Sanji starts, only to find himself suddenly unable to conjur up any words. "That's..." Genuinely useful. "Thanks, Mossball."
Zoro gives a stilted nod in response, rubbing his neck with his free hand.
"Don't mention it." He says, roughly shoving out the hand holding the pouch. Sanji plucks it delicately from the swordsman's hands, cradling it in his palms as if it's something sacred. All the while Zoro studies his every move, haki settling over his skin like a gossamer blanket.
Neither deigns to speak, for fear of shattering the atmosphere—that, and Sanji is utterly lost for words, while Zoro's never placed much stock in them to begin with. The outside world is rendered invisible and unimportant for a single, precious moment, hinging on nothing but an entirely mundane gesture shared between two entirely irregular people. Their chests expand in perfect sync, even outside of battle.
Pleasant as the moment is, however, he can't help but poke the sleeping bear—or, in this case, the marimo. Skepticism erodes at his contentment, forcing a disruptive question past his lips despite his better wishes. Curiosity killed the cook, Robin would say—or something to that effect.
"So... that's it?" He prods, aiming a pointed gaze at Zoro, "No marriage bullshit today?"
Zoro perks up at that, tension dissipating from his shoulders faster than Luffy gobbles up food not intended for his stomach.
"Nah," He concedes slyly. Smugness radiates from him in waves. "Just being a good husband 'n' getting my wife some flowers. Doesn't sound like bullshit to me."
Sanji's eye twitches.
Zoro grins sharply at the silence. "You're the one who mentioned it, Swirly. Seems to me like you like—"
Unfortunately for Zoro, just what he thinks Sanji likes will have to remain a mystery—a secret buried under the slam of man into wood, alongside Franky's thunderous roars about the Sunny.
Sanji huffs, moving resolutely for the door. Time for another scolding, he thinks, approaching Franky with the grim air of a man nobly marching to his death. The feast will undoubtedly be delayed; better pray Luffy is preoccupied.
Halfway through the flow of reprimands, he pauses monitoring the galley door and chances a glance at Zoro—only to discover him already staring, looking for all purposes like the cat who got the cream.
"Fuckface," he grumbles through gritted teeth.
The ensuing glare from Franky is worth it.
Threads of bright laughter and carefree yelling burst through the open door, underscored by the steady flow of steps pounding up to the counter.
Unfazed, Sanji's focus strays only for a second from his knifework. Disinterest seeping from his tone, he asks, "What is it this time, Moss?"
He doesn't receive an answer. Following a suspicious stretch of silence, he finally shifts over his attention to whatever fuckery Zoro has planned now. It's a mistake; the answering grin is downright predatory.
"What, I can't check in on my husband?"
Sanji pauses in his chopping. Did he actually just...
Heat creeps up into his cheeks. Not 'wife'—the usual teasing—but husband. It slams into him with the force of a tsunami, stun pulsing through him in waves. Goosebumps sprout all down his forearms, stubborn hairs refusing to stay down.
He feels a muted rush of giddiness—like what he feels for the girls, except amplified, forbidden, and much more dangerous. Try as he might, he can't quite smother the impression that Zoro's words, just then—they almost sounded real.
Strangely, whatever euphoria that brings is marred by a prodding sense of discomfort.
It's odd—and more than a little agitating—but he's almost gotten used to it, being Zoro's 'wife'. It's light-hearted, demeaning in a way that's harder to read into.
It's also the most they've interacted since leaving Wano; secretly, it benefits him too, having all these little moments. He'll take what he can get.
As a result, multiple times now he's caught himself not blinking an eye at the teasing, only to remember minutes later that the crew were anticipating a reaction—then again, they'd lessened up lately. Really, Zoro was the only person still bothering with it... at least, he had been. Why the sudden change?
Had he finally gotten tired of the same old joke? It wasn't like it paid off anymore, so it was only natural he'd get bored of things eventually. Sanji had known the novelty would wear off.
He'd awaited it eagerly for the first couple of weeks, temper sizzling readily at the giggled notes of a wedding march and obnoxious demands for cake. What he hadn't foreseen was things unfolding like this—the joke hitting a strained crescendo on the way out, cutting deeper than he's able to admit. It strikes an aging wound, one that festers and burns like a concealed cattle brand, private and haunting in the dark.
He recentres his focus. There's another little sensation, a tiny stir that he reluctantly registers as disappointment. The reason is shamefully clear, too.
He'll die before admitting it to anyone, but he does pay close attention to Zoro. Smiles or laughter were few and far between following their reunion, and so a part of him revelled in the joy the wife joke brought upon the crew, despite his indignation at being bonded to Zoro of all people.
The swordsman had smiled more in the past few weeks than he had in months; the glorious bark of his laugh became no longer a scarcity, but familiar.
At some point, Sanji's irritation began to clash with a wheedling sense of triumph. To the detriment of his sanity, hearing the bastard's laugh boom out on the regular was actually (disgustingly) exhilarating.
He'd missed hearing that sound.
Not to mention his heart's fluttering at the sentiment—not, to Iva's sure dismay, at the notion of 'wife', but the idea of being Zoro's, of Zoro being his something in return. Of something being there, out in the open, blossoming for all to see. And for it to be normal...
The image makes his chest ache.
Before him, Zoro's smug expression dissolves into a frown, thrown offbeat by Sanji's total failure to respond. "Curls? You good?"
Sanji grimaces, willing his cheeks to cool. Right, he needs to say something. Problem is, he's still reeling from the word 'husband' being thrown his way—Zoro'd found the usual routine plenty amusing yesterday, even factoring in Sanji's muted reaction. He'd been smiling an awful lot, anyway. Had something happened since then?
A memory floats into view, a flickering recollection of the evening prior. The joke had come up briefly during dinner; he'd threatened to sabotage the swordsman's food, Zoro goaded him, and Nami beat them both before it descended into a scuffle—the usual.
Except for what happened afterwards.
After dinner, Robin had excused herself—nothing out of the ordinary—before gently pulling the mosshead to the side. She spoke too softly to hear from Sanji's station at the sink, but Zoro had flashed him a heavy glance, fleeting and unreadable. When he left, it was silent. He'd taken up watch shortly after.
Hell, he'd been in a weird mood all day, hardly speaking up at all, even to Luffy. His face was set in stone, twisted in the way Sanji knew meant he was contemplating something serious. For that reason, they hadn't properly interacted until now, by Sanji's own design—fuelled half by graciousness, half by deciding Zoro would owe him a favour afterwards. Or a fight. He isn't particularly picky.
He is curious, though, about whatever had Zoro so hung-up he'd spent his entire night as well as morning ruminating over it.
An errant thought creeps past Sanji's defenses. Has he maybe realised—
His ears itch uncomfortably. No way that can be it. There's no damn way, no matter how insistent Robin is with her sneaky winks and insinuating comments, or how jittery his heart gets whenever the topic surfaces, or even the subtle looks Zoro shoots him throughout the day when he thinks Sanji isn't looking.
He can't justify it, because Zoro deserves better, he knows, and it could ruin everything, and he really can't risk losing his home. Besides—Zoro's never shown attraction to anyone, ever. Why would Sanji be the exception?
He suffocates the thought before it can progress, stature becoming guarded and automatic. He chooses the default option—it's cowardice, irrefutably shameful by his own ingrained standards—but it's safe.
Sanji inhales; his words come out hard and rushed. "You pissed off at me or something?"
"...Hah?" Zoro's eye widens, then narrows, an indecipherable emotion rippling in the void of grey. He steps forward, lightly flicking Sanji's forehead. "The hell's going on in there? No. Twirly, why would I..." He abruptly trails off, cheeks growing ruddy. His gaze drifts off to the side, untethered. He's embarrassed.
Sanji blinks. His thoughts are running a mile a minute. His neck is burning. How the hell is he meant to respond to that?
Zoro shakes his head, steeling himself to continue. "No, I'm not mad at you. Just," he falters for a moment. "Checkin' if you needed any help."
Oh, right. Sanji's supposed to be making lunch, and Zoro's supposed to be sleeping or training or literally anything else, and they don't have time to talk about this now because they're busy people on an even busier ship and Sanji really isn't ready to breach the subject at this moment in time. Or maybe ever.
That doesn't mean they can't spend time together, though. With that in mind, and an internal vow to bring things up (much) later...
"Sure, I could use a helper," he says breezily. "Even if they have algae for brains."
All things considered, the toothy grin sent his way is a pretty great distraction. That is, until he hears the words, "Alright, shift over a bit... wife."
Zoro's only saving grace from a flaming shoe to the head is that Sanji's hands are preoccupied with a skillet.
(That, and the well of warmth in his chest born solely of Zoro's earnest, unladened smile.)
And if he remembers and there's a tussle after lunch, the food's served on time, so what the hell does it matter anyway?
Moonlight spills bright over the deck outside, endowing the grass with a resplendent glow. It's blocked from imposing on the galley, courtesy of the burning bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Sanji and Nami are just settling into opposing chairs when Zoro slips through the door, soundless.
Sanji twists to face him, his raised eyebrow receiving an awkward, "Sorry. Know it's time for your thing. Just returnin' this," in response.
Zoro raises the tray Sanji had delivered to him earlier, adorned with a dish licked clean of rice grains and an equally empty sake cup. Sanji nods, Nami humming in acknowledgement before they refocus on eachother across the table.
"So, Sanji," Nami prompts, her saccharine smile striking fear into his heart like no other, "Anything interesting happen lately?"
He swallows a gulp. "I'm afraid not, my dear. Only the usual." He can't help but cast a cursory glance at Zoro in his periphery, vigilant of his every move; Nami's eyes narrow in unspoken victory. Shit.
"Oh, is that so?" She asks sweetly. He fights the urge to shiver, knowing damn well she'll have him cornered the second Zoro is out that door. He swears the steps behind him increase in pace, too.
Sure enough: the moment Zoro's footfalls cross the deck, she pounces. "Alright, cut the crap," she jabs a finger at him, "Something's wrong with you two and you're going to tell me. Spill."
Fuck, he needs a smoke. Or seven.
Sanji groans, embarrassment forcing his head into his hands. He's better off just coming out with it. "The marimo's acting weird."
Nami sips at her drink, curious. "How so?"
"He keeps—ugh. Doing stupid shit like buying me gifts and acting like he cares about me. Messing me around with that fuckass joke he thinks is funny," he complains sourly. "It's pissing me off."
For a minute, she's strangely quiet. Her glass meets the table with a tuneless clink; her foot stills in place, no longer tapping at her chair.
Very slowly, she asks, "Is that all it is? All of it?"
Ice trickles down his spine. "He held my hand. Willingly," He mutters churlishly, purposefully dodging the question.
"Right," she deadpans. Her expression, in her trademark Nami way, manages to appear entirely devoid of emotion whilst simultaneously emanating a fierce aura of 'you are the biggest idiot on the planet and I am about to tell you exactly why.'
In simple terms, she's prepared to drag him back to reality kicking and screaming as if the fate of the world depends on it, because she's a wonderful friend with the grace of an angel who also happens to pride herself on being incredibly intimidating.
"Mellorine—" He tries.
"Okay," Nami says, rubbing her temples with telling roughness. "Okay. Zoro is 'acting weird', according to you. Right? He's being nice to you and it's making you feel... strange." Here, she side-eyes him. "Putting that aside. Did you ever consider that he might, maybe, possibly be doing this because he cares about you and wants you to know it? There's nothing weird about that."
Begrudgingly, he swallows the instinctive retort about having funny ways of showing it, because Nami doesn't deserve such disrespect—even if he's only dissing the mosshead.
"I know that," he acquieses instead, because he is aware of it. Zoro does do things like this for everyone, though maybe not to this scale. Theoretically, it makes sense; they are close in their own unique way, there's no denying that—it's the root of the problem.
He and Zoro share a bizarre language of insults, arguments and fighting, with a sprinkling of wordless companionship extended once in a blue moon, if that. What Zoro's doing now isn't adhering to those rules. They don't do this, whatever the hell this even is—ignoring the blatant hints to the obvious— and it's freaking him out.
He voices as much.
"Well, maybe you should. The ship would be better off for it," she snarks. A vein pulses in her forehead, exaggerated by the ceiling's angular lighting; she takes a calming breath before continuing. "Sanji. You need to stop feigning ignorance of all of this. I know it isn't my relationship, but—"
Nami shakes her head resolutely. "You know Zoro better than anyone. If I can figure out his intent here, so can you. There's no way you haven't already, and anyone with eyes can tell you feel the same way about him. If anything, you deserve eachother." Lighter, she adds, "You're both so obsessed, it's uncanny."
"I don't," he corrects bluntly, without thinking. His tongue feels ash-laden and stale. "Deserve it."
Nami startles. Her brow contorts oddly as she fumbles for a response; leaning forward in her chair, the best she can manage is a stricken, "Sanji? What are you talking about?"
"It's..." He starts, and abruptly falters. He's never verbalised this before, not really. Suddenly, shoved under the spotlight, he's unsure how to phrase it, or even where to begin.
"Tell me," she begs him. A wisp of hurt shutters over her face and that's all it ever takes.
Sanji folds instantly. "It's that... You're right, as always, flower. I know damn well what he's doing. And it's not that I don't... want it. I do." His limbs are death-heavy. He's a mouse in a gluetrap, small and indomitably helpless.
Discomfort scratches his throat like sandpaper. Gently, as he composes himself, Nami urges, "But?"
"But I know it wouldn't be fair to him. The mosshead is strong, reliable. Devoted. He should be with someone who isn't constantly flirting with other people, or picking fights over stupid shit, or—" The words that follow threaten to choke him. "Running off without an explanation." Painfully quiet, he says, "Not me."
The rest pours from his lips unwillingly, as if from a leaky faucet. "Besides—I've known from the beginning that no one should ever..."
He inhales shakily, repressing the instinct to curl into a ball—to flee into the embrace of solitude, in hopes that his fears will vanish if only he closes his eyes. The world has never worked that way. He'd been forced to reckon with that fact just weeks earlier, after all.
He knows deeply, too, that Nami deserves the truth. It's the least he can afford her, in the shadow of Zou and Whole Cake. She needs this as much as he does.
With that in mind, he steadies himself to finish speaking. "I don't deserve a devotion like that. I never have."
"Sanji..." Nami's face floods with sympathy. He looks away, a second's glance from crumbling completely. He doesn't warrant this kind of concern—Nami really is an angel.
"It's alright, dear, really," He tries for routine nonchalance, "I've known it for a while. It doesn't phase me anymore."
He recites those words as easily as breathing, a fact of life etched into his being. Some rotten part of him shies away from freedom, unable to shed this cursed second skin; it's been with him all this time, through bliss and torment and everything inbetween, shielding the wounded underbelly.
Mostly, he's frightened there might not be anything of worth to shield.
In any case, his measly dismissal triggers Nami's ire. "The hell it doesn't!" She barks, seething. "You're delusional if you really–"
She hastily cuts herself off, face twisting in recognition. She pauses for a moment, collecting herself, before taking in another measured breath. Sanji follows, uncertain.
Suddenly her consternation gives way to hardened determination. "Sure, you're scared. But what you just said is a load of crap and you know it. If anyone doesn't deserve love, if it's those monsters who raised you. You've got more loving bones in your toes than those assholes could ever dream of," she snaps. Then she softens, reaching across the table to cradle his hand between hers. "Listen to me.
"We love you. Everyone at the Baratie loves you. It'd be horrible of us to lie about something like that. And we aren't horrible people, right?" He shakes his head mutely.
"Exactly. And we'll always love you, because we're your crew. We're family. We're here for you no matter what, 'deserving' be damned."
Her grip tightens. "Love isn't something you earn. Belle-mère taught me that."
"Nami," he says, blanking completely. "I don't..."
"No." She damn-near growls. He falls silent. "Don't you dare say that you don't deserve it, because you're one of the kindest people I know. You give so much love to us, and to strangers wherever we go, even animals—it's incredible. If anyone deserves our love, it's you. So pull yourself together and take it."
Finding himself at a loss for words, he offers Nami a watery smile in their stead. Eventually, he manages, "Thank you, my sweet. I appreciate your care for me. It... means a lot."
It's a little formal, but any more sincere and he'll definitely burst into tears—he's barely resisting it as is.
Nami mirrors him, sniffling. "Don't forget the love part, idiot. That's the most important."
"I know," he rasps wetly, "I love the crew. Like family."
She laughs then. "We know too. Believe me, we know."
She rises, moving to sit at his side; there, she's free to embrace him. Nami envelops him in a hug, guiding his head to her shoulder. "You do so much for us. You can lean on us sometimes too, Sanji. It wouldn't be fair otherwise."
He croaks out, "And if I wasn't entirely sure how?" How to ask for help, how not to feel like a burden—how to accept any of this as fair, when it threatens to destroy the foundations of reality as he knows it?
She answers easily, "Then we'll teach you. You just have to let us in."
A tiny, desperate voice, scorned and begging to be heard, wonders, and wouldn't that be nice?
He feels it, the moment the dam breaks—an emptiness engulfs his chest, but it's not unwelcome. It spells an hour of rebirth, a life of honest freedom, the seeds of a fresh start planted between his ribs for his crew to tend and water. And they will, because for all his flaws, it's simple: they really do love him.
Tears seep into Nami's shirt, flowing in tandem with her own. She strokes his hair, content to ride out the tide of emotion in peace.
Alas, eventually her bed begins to call. Nami loosens her hold, manoeuvering them so they're eye to eye.
"Hey—make sure you think about what I said. We're here for you too. And don't forget, Luffy recruited you for a reason. Not for your food, but for your heart," she emphasises with a squeeze, "So don't give up on it, okay?"
"Okay," he repeats, pawing at his eyes as she pulls away in favour of approaching the door.
"Good," Nami huffs, a mix of stern and playful. "You're lucky I'm not charging a consultation fee, you know." She shoots him a wink, posture drooping a fraction in relief at his responding smile—fragile as it may be.
Halfway out, she pauses, adding, "Oh, while I remember—Robin told me to tell you that she 'believes your affections will bear fruit'. If you let them, that is."
Sanji manages an airy laugh. "As for your advice?"
The smirk she aims at him is downright devious. "He's painfully smitten with you— you'll get it if you actually go for it. Maybe try making a move sometime."
Nami saunters out of the galley, sending a brisk wave over her shoulder.
He watches her go, spellbound.
Two weeks pass in a tranquil blur of sea and islands, periodically mangled by feverish bouts of overthinking. It's all well and good telling him to make a move, but planning a romantic advance on the most romance-and-sentiment-averse person on the planet is much easier said than done.
Or so he thinks until one unusual morning, during which Robin pulls him mystically from the stairway with a pressing topic of interest.
Deep into a conversation surrounding the history of breakfast dishes in the South Blue, his nose twitches instinctually—once, then twice. A scent wafts through the galley window, mingling just-so with the habitual tang of the nearby ocean. It's basic but familiar, and highly apt for the morning: pancakes.
Someone is using his kitchen.
He's starting to suspect that Robin's abrupt disruption of his routine isn't as innocent as she initially portrayed it to be.
"Robin, dear," he begins, wringing his hands as he stews over possible motives, "If you wanted something from the galley–"
"You would have accomodated my request?" She finishes, chuckling softly. "I have full faith in your abilities. Rather, it is to my understanding that someone a touch more eager than I has infiltrated your station this morning."
She rises to her feet, offering him a hand. He takes it, teeming with uncertainty and torn between his faith in Robin and concern for the current status of his kitchen.
"Shall we investigate?" She leads him to the galley with a firm yet gentle grip on his wrist, pushing open the door to reveal the startling silhouette of...
"Marimo?!" Sanji yelps. Since when could he prepare anything edible?!
Frozen by sheer disbelief, he follows his nose down to Zoro's workstation. Rough fingers uphold the handle of a pan, dappled with various golden sunstreams pouring in through the portholes. Supporting them are strong, hulking biceps, muscles pulsing slightly with undue effort.
Above, Zoro's face is locked into a frown, lips pursed and eyebrows pulled taut in concentration. He squints, his working eye steeled in fervent determination, glaring at the stove as if it houses a potent threat to the crew in place of a lumpy patch of batter. Oh, if this isn't a threat to Sanji's heart.
Zoro huffs in dissatisfaction, his chest bouncing a smidge with the movement. It's stupidly cute, this rugged, lumbering man who's barely capable of decently roasting a fish, towering cluelessly over the stove and floundering over a pancake. In the light, his hair glimmers seagrass green, a stunning addition to the radiant portrait unfolding before the cook's eyes. He's even wearing one of Sanji's fancy aprons.
It's disgustingly domestic. It's everything he's ever wanted. He shouldn't be thinking it, but he is, and he has been for a while, and if he's honest with himself he's pretty sure Zoro has too. And yet...
How could it be Zoro? He protests weakly, already knowing the answer. His heart lurches in his chest, off-beat and hammering in his ears. Yearning spirals in his ribcage, biting a forest-toned brand into the bones, each breath marked with a heavy, disorienting want.
Through it all, the truth rings out like a bell: how could it be anyone else? No one's ever gotten him like Zoro does. They're like magnets, that way—they just fit.
Also, he's smoking hot, but that isn't important. Or distracting. Definitely not.
Zoro, entirely oblivious to Sanji's internal crisis, faces their archaeologist. "Oi, Robin!" He barks, "The hell happened to keeping him out of here 'til things were ready? You couldn't keep him occupied for five more minutes?"
Sanji yells back automatically, "Don't speak to a lady that way, bastard!" A beat passes before Zoro's words sink in, and then he whips around, spluttering, "What the hell, Mosshead? You dragged Robin into this? If you wanted a meal so bad, you could've fucking asked!"
If the torrent of yelling bothers Robin, she doesn't care to show it, smiling serenely as if she were lounging on the deck with a particularly scintillating book.
Zoro's jaw twinges. "I didn't drag her into shit, she offered! Ask her yourself instead of barkin' at me like a damn dog!" The rest takes him a minute to process, puzzlement rising in contrast to the irate knit of his eyebrows. "The hell? I know that, dumb-cook. These're for you."
It's Sanji's turn to be frazzled. He searches Zoro's eye for an answer, only to come up empty, since the swordsman is stubbornly avoiding both his gaze and the need to elaborate any further. Desperate, Sanji pivots to faintly question Robin.
"I assure you, I was delighted to be of assistance," she offers simply, surveying him in turn with her habitual demeanour of patience.
His brain is one batshit addition from short-circuiting, so much so that all he can muster is an incredulous croak of, "Why?"
Robin adopts an indulgent smile. "Our treasured cook also deserves a treat from time to time, wouldn't you say?"
She straightens, seeming to relish in his dumbfounded expression, and makes a flowery gesture of farewell. "Now, if you'll excuse me, our swordsman requested that this breakfast be a private affair."
She then slips elegantly from the galley, leaving a hefty silence hanging in the air. A fleeting breeze squeezes in to flitter with his hair. The door closes, the wind settles. They are alone.
From his place near the door, Sanji eyes Zoro shiftily, confounded by the bizarre situation preventing him from making breakfast.
They remain frozen in place, locked into an awkward stalemate for a good minute until a frustrated growls rips from Zoro's throat.
"Cook—Listen, I—" He manages through gritted teeth, inhaling sharply. "I made these. For you. No one else—just you. So you're gonna sit down and eat 'em before they get cold."
His face bunches oddly as if he has more to say, but after a brief struggle, his mouth presses shut in a hard line, words evidently abandoned.
Instead, he gestures wildly to the table, watching like a hawk as Sanji perches uncertainly at its edge. Anticipation stings him like a barbed wire.
Soonafter, a clumsy hand deposits a plate before him. It poses a stack of lumpy, uneven pancakes of differing thickness. Syrup dribbles like molasses over the misshapen edges, pooling at the bottom in a miserable, golden mess. At the center, a lone strawberry peers sadly up at him. Zoro's forgotten the cream.
One steel eye drills a hole through his skull. Sanji gulps, ears burning, and raises his fork.
Crispy edges crunch under his teeth, undoubtedly singed from a touch too long spent in the pan. Syrup adheres to his tongue, claggy and overbearing; it clashes horribly with the influx of salt spiking from the batter. The occasional surplus granule fuels his sneaking suspicion that Zoro might have defunct tastebuds after all, given the blaring indicators to him having muddled the distinction between sugar and salt.
How the hell did this idiot survive on his own for so long?
Rising from beneath the derision, however, comes a begrudging pang of gratitude. A dash of fondness pairs with it, reluctant yet glaringly present—and, most damning of all, a tiny, incessant pinch of guilt.
Zoro didn't have to do this. No one was forcing him—there was no Nami hovering over his shoulder, barking out orders for peace. Absent was the agitated yell of their shipwright, or even a weary admonishment from Chopper. Silence reigned, save for the clinking of cutlery and the impatient scuff of Zoro's boots. No—he'd done this of his own free will, purely because he cared.
He'd been caring for Sanji a lot, lately.
Irritating wetness blooms over his eyes; he suppresses it as discreetly as possible, frowning. He's been prone to fits of tears as of recent. Chopper's verdict of 'trauma' be damned, it's annoying the shit out of him. Crying over the Marimo is a surefire path to an early grave, nevermind doing it directly in front of the bastard. In love or not, he'd rather die.
He swallows, mindful of the sudden lump forming in his throat. They'll have to talk about this, soon. Leaving Zoro dangling in limbo for so long isn't fair—even if he is a mannerless ogre with the hygiene of a discarded sheepdog.
He is, for better or worse, a considerate ogre, and that alone sends Sanji spiralling in directions he previously dared not name, despite the answer pervading even the innermost corners of his soul.
Minutes pass without a word as he carefully devours the entire stack placed in front of him. Taking measured bites, he lousily masquerades a smile behind chunks of pancake, undeniably touched—such that he can't prevent the genuine softness flowing out as he finally voices, "Thanks, Marimo."
Zoro says nothing, save for grunting in response. His body gives him away, though: a single, minor clench of his jaw betrays the awkwardness he feels, uneven and vulnerable in this strange atmosphere of his own creation.
He retrieves Sanji's plate from him and washes it alone, drying and putting things back without a word. The display of routine familiarity in his kitchen scrapes unfairly at Sanji's throat.
Not one for small talk, the swordsman makes to leave as soon as he's finished—except he refrains at the last moment.
Zoro pauses halfway over the threshold, shoulders parked stiffly at his ears as he forces out, "You work your ass off feeding the crew every damn day. Wanted to pay you back for once."
That should be it, but before he can take another step, Sanji's calling his name, a sudden pulse of urgency pushing him to speak.
Zoro turns, staring awkwardly at the floor as if he'd rather be anywhere else. Sanji, similarly lost for words, chooses simply to infuse as much gratitude as he can into the few he manages to string together.
"Zoro, it's... I appreciate it. Seriously."
Zoro snaps to attention. His gaze roves across Sanji's face, scanning for something deeper that neither of them are willing to name. Seconds pass in a hazy tangle of grey and blue.
Eventually he reddens, rubbing sheepishly at his neck. "Yeah," he rasps. "It's—whatever. Tell the crew I ate already." Clearing his throat, he adds, quieter, "I'll see you later. Bye, Curls."
He isn't referring to dinner.
Zoro swiftly escapes the room, striding towards the crow's nest and past the growing cacophany of noise streaming from the male bunkroom. The door swings shut with a definite click.
Inside the galley, Sanji slumps to the floor, feeling peculiarly light-headed. His face drops to rest in his hands, cheeks flaming hot enough to rival Diable Jambe. Euphoria whirls in his chest, dainty like a macaron. Matcha flavour, he specifies absently—and then blanches, because seriously, what the fuck?
Has it actually gotten that bad? Shit, he's screwed. He frantically fans his (remarkably scarlet) face—to no avail—hoping to all that is holy that Nami is right on all counts, because he really can't face Zoro like this if she isn't.
Dying embers of sunlight glitter over the tumbling waves, strokes of fiery orange suffusing over the horizon in a grandiose mirage. Sanji's alone out on deck, sequestered in a corner by the railing, the others either embroiled in various passion projects or having trundled off to bed.
All except one.
Lanterns flicker to life in the crow's nest, high up above him. Someone is up there, waiting for him: his companion for the evening, should he rustle up the courage to join him.
Sanji sighs, dusting a smattering of ash from the railing. Yeah, if.
Presently, it's seeming a lot more difficult than it should be, considering it's Zoro of all people. Things between them are always so straightforward, it's comforting—even if he hates to actually admit that.
Their composure's cracking, though, and if he doesn't do something Zoro will, and he'd much rather be prepared before attempting to confront this growing thing between them if he can help it.
He growls, soaking in a surging wave of frustration. Another drag from his cigarette takes the edge off, however brief. He blows out a curling plume of smoke, transfixed by the swirling patterns dancing in the seabreeze.
It's distracting enough that he almost doesn't register the presence sidling up beside him. He does, however, and so he reluctantly disposes of his smoke in favour of the company, Chopper's chiding ringing in his ears. He doesn't bother masking the despondent set of his shoulders; he only mumbles a greeting and waits.
Robin's smile is tinged with sympathy. "Hello, Sanji. Is something troubling you this evening?"
He releases a pitiful whine, shifting his head into his palm in a move that's uncharacteristically candid. He's trying to be more open with the crew anyway, and the sudden torrent of mental exhaustion slamming into him like a seatrain renders him magically unable to give a shit about upholding a facade of reticence for a few minutes—especially towards Robin, who'd no doubt siphon the truth out of him regardless because she's a very intelligent lady.
She giggles briefly as if having read his thoughts, though fortunately she decides not to tease him. Instead, she sprouts a hand to delicately pry his fingers from his face, encouraging him to face her before inquiring any further. The motion sends a striking shower of petals sweeping across the skyline, from which they fall to in turn embellish the ocean.
When she's satisfied with his attention, Robin ponders, "Perhaps this is pertaining to the actions of our swordsman earlier today?"
Nevermind. She is teasing him—masterfully, in a way that combines poking fun at him and genuinely offering guidance for his sorry situation. If he didn't know better, he'd think Zoro were mistaken on which of their lovely ladies was the resident witch.
And there goes Zoro, dominating his thoughts. Again. An ephemeral woman is standing right beside him, commanding all of his attention—one he's pledged eternal allegiance to on more instances than he can count, and yet all he can think about is an idiot with zero hygiene habits and not one modicum of common sense. This is genuinely, seriously it for him. Against all odds, he's found the one from all his childhood dreams and fairytales, and it turns out to be Roronoa Zoro. Unbelievable.
Alas, he's pulled from bemoaning his fate by the need to answer Robin—as always, recently. He's been preoccupied thinking about this Zoro problem for weeks.
Gross. Sanji really needs to get his shit together—the sooner, the better.
"Who else would it be?" He groans, realising belatedly that by doing so, he's robbed himself of any chance of denial. Not like it'd work on Robin anyway, he thinks sourly.
"Who, indeed." Robin maintains her smile, though the subtle gleam of satisfaction confirms she'd have seen through him no matter what he told her. Her voice is earnest as she asks, "Did you enjoy the pancakes? I did wonder why Zoro chose to prepare those, considering his clear lack of expertise. Are you aware of any reason?"
Sanji snorts sardonically, answering without a thought. "Fuck no. They were the shittiest I've ever tasted." He's content to keep the sappiness to himself until a memory strikes him, too imploring to entirely dismiss. "But..."
Nights ago, huddled under a blanket in the crow's nest during a watch shift that wasn't his, he'd let it slip that he was craving pancakes, for a change—that he planned to whip some up if they suited the crew's nutritional schedule, the next time he managed to scrounge up the ingredients.
Robin regards him curiously with her head on one palm. "But?"
It was nothing, just an innocuous comment, meaningless—or so he'd thought. But the supply run happened yesterday, and Zoro had whipped up a batch for him as soon as feasibly possible. He'd willingly exposed his intentions to Robin to ensure everything worked out, despite how uncomfortable and embarrassed it must've made him and how much he'd have preferred to handle things all on his own.
Sanji continues, mindful of the rosy hue slowly spreading over his cheeks and ears. "But... I guess it wasn't that bad." He turns away on impulse, avoiding eye contact; this time Robin allows it, blessedly merciful.
Zoro had done all of that, simply because he wanted Sanji to be happy—to the extent that he viewed this tiny thing as urgent and prioritised making it happen immediately, without compromise, knowing full well that nothing was expected of him and that Sanji would be unaffected if he didn't.
Put yourself first for once, he'd grumbled back in Wano before walking away.
Sometimes, Zoro is an incredibly kind man. It's not that Sanji had forgotten—certainly not, following this morning—but reminded of the extent of that kindness, in the moment, he's blanketed by the feeling that maybe things are going to turn out alright.
Robin studies the twitch of his mouth with a sparkling halo of approval. Her hand, a real one this time, rests firmly on his bicep, anchoring him as she poses her final question. "I assume you've come to a decision?"
Birds cry over the ocean, weaving in and out of formation; waves crest and spray against the Sunny's edges. Sanji stretches his arms, gently dislodging Robin's hold, and casts a final glance at the rippling reflection of the sinking sun. "Thank you, my dear. I believe I have."
A pleasant array of light greets him as he peeks his head into the crow's nest, lanterns shimmering like scattered stars in the bottle of sake carried tightly in his hand. Zoro's watching him from the bench as he ascends, gaze lingering on his hair for a long moment that sees him fighting off a blush once he realises the (stupidly mushy) implications.
Fighting the instinct to twitch, he plods over to the bench, hesitates for a millisecond, and then drops onto it beside Zoro with a weightless shove and a lackluster, "Shuffle over, you shitty oaf."
Pointedly, Zoro refuses to budge a single inch. Sanji's arm prickles where it's pressed into the swordsman's, leeching off the abnormal heat that radiates from his body on the daily. It's more than accepted now, given the blistering chill accompanying this corner of the ocean post-sundown.
He sets down the bottle at their feet with a quiet clink. Once set free, his hand practically dives into his pocket to evade the cold; Zoro's own hand immediately gravitates towards the bottle.
Predictable, Sanji thinks, rolling his eyes. He's an alcoholic, through and through. They're lucky Chopper isn't here or he'd be giving them both an earful—not that either of them would truly listen.
Halfway down, the hand comes to an abrupt halt. Zoro squints, registering his horribly repressed shivering, and before Sanji can blink a mile of fabric is launched unceremoniously towards his head. There's a satisfied grunt from his right, and when he surfaces, having just snatched the garment mere inches away from his face, Zoro meets his scowl with a smirk and a triumphant swig of his sake. Asshole.
His asshole, though. The sentiment subdues his temper before it can properly flare, along with the eventual nod he gets, paired with a sincere, "Thanks, Curls," that scorches him from the inside out.
He nods in return. The fabric is unexpectedly soft.
A bout of silence stretches the air as Zoro gulps from the bottle, periodically eyeing his fast-warming frame with an illegible tint to his expression. Sanji's forced to look away, nerves fluttering in a frenzy that only intensifies with every additional second. In the absence of a cigarette, he's left chewing on his lip.
He's compelled to look up again—following a millennia—by the sound of glass contacting wood. Instantly, Zoro locks eyes with him, wipes his mouth off with his fist, and blurts out, "I think I do wanna marry you. Someday."
Sanji blinks. Once, twice, then a few times. Zoro blinks back at him, cheeks gradually staining red as his mind processes what he's just said. Notably, he doesn't attempt to take it back, instead staring cautiously at Sanji and awaiting his response.
Zoro's gaze flickers over Sanji's face, darting between his eye, mouth and ears, the latter pair undoubtedly splotched with red. At once he's made hyperaware of the borrowed yukata protecting his shoulders, and it takes him a while longer to compose himself than it should, considering the frequency with which he hurls himself into romantic scenarios on the regular.
The thing is, he's never actually been confessed to, and certainly not by someone he's in love with. That's where the real problem lies—if he can really label that a confession, ambiguous as it was; but he supposes Zoro's never had a way with words, and he can't expect him to now. He's been aware of that from the beginning.
Sanji likes to think he possesses some greater degree of verbal capacity compared to the local caveman, which is why he answers the indirect proposal with an extremely intellectual, "You—Moss—That's—"
"What, you don't want to?" Zoro replies gruffly, fingers flexing unconsciously along his thigh. "Thought it was your whole thing."
"I didn't say that, dumbass," Sanji hisses. Wary of his own tone, he tacks on, lower, "And it is. It's just... fast, is all."
The flexing ceases. "Yeah, well. Doesn't seem fast to me." Staring right at him, Zoro declares, "I know what I want."
The statement isn't callous, or meant to force him into an arrangement before he's ready. It's plain fact. He knows, by now, that Zoro will wait for however long it takes, because he's confident the time will come eventually. Hell, he'll be satisfied even if it doesn't, because either way they'll be together.
For a brainless ogre with a hygiene problem, Zoro can be surprisingly romantic when he needs to be. He can't say that he hates it; he'd be lying if he claimed it didn't send his heart racing every time.
"Yeah?" Sanji opts for, instead of any of that. Despite knowing the answer, there's a hopeful lilt in his voice as he prompts, "That you proposing then, Marimo?"
A hush falls over them. Then, uttered loud and clear comes, "You deaf or something, Cook? Need me to repeat it?"
Sanji huffs out a laugh. "Nah, I heard you. Was kind of a shit proposal."
Zoro snorts, leaning back on his hands to peer up at the ceiling. "Got you to agree though, didn't it? 'Sides, no way I'm pulling any of that froufrou shit you're into. Isn't my style."
"Implying you have any style," Sanji retorts without heat. The stars peek curiously through the opposing window like a flock of sparkling owls. "You're lucky it's me you're asking, mossbrain. No way that shitty phrasing would work on anybody else."
"Wouldn't want it to," Zoro tells him without missing a beat. "I don't give a shit about anyone else. Only ever wanted you."
That's the most romantic thing he's ever heard—including anything expressed to the countless ladies he's chatted up over the years. Incredulously, he realises that right now, in the romance department, Roronoa Zoro has got him horrifically beat.
Gooey as he feels right now, there's no way in hell he's verbally acknowledging it and boosting the swordsman's massive ego. He resorts to lightly kicking Zoro's ankle in lieu of a response, hearing rather than seeing the teasing grin it elicits.
"You feelin' shy, Curls?" Zoro taunts him, because of course he does.
"Like hell I am," Sanji shoots back automatically, not quite ready to resume eye contact.
Nevertheless, he refuses to admit defeat. Sanji shifts his arm until his hand is hovering next to Zoro's, then bullies him into connecting their fingers. He feels a pulsing vindication when the swordsman lurches at the act, and an ineffable something softer when the bronzed digits untense to melt into his own.
"Shitcook," Zoro murmurs, and it conveys the feeling well enough.
From then they still, a tranquil contentment overlaying the delicate atmosphere. Minutes pass, or hours, without a noise save for the occasional shuffle to enhance comfort.
At some point, Zoro's arm appears around his waist, grounding and emanating a relaxing heat that he fails to pretend isn't slowly beckoning him to sleep. There is one more thing he needs to say, first.
Around a yawn, he asserts, "You ever call me your wife again, I'll kill you."
"As if you could," Zoro counters without venom. He gently squeezes Sanji's hip. "I'd flatten you in seconds."
"Try it so I can laugh at you," Sanji yawns again, falling victim to the settling burden of exhaustion. "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," Zoro agrees tamely. The last thing he hears as his head sinks onto Zoro's shoulder is a fondly murmured, "Night, Curls."
From there, he's guided into rest by a pleasant blur of steady breaths under the twinkling blessing of the moon.
Sanji awakens at the tick of dawn, as per usual, to the familiar experience of two muscled arms clamping him to the chest of an incredibly clingy houseplant.
He wiggles himself free, manoeuvering carefully so as to not disturb the mossball in his sleep, though it ends up being for naught (also a routine occurrence). Huffing in fond exasperation, he foregoes leaving the room in favour of staring down at his partner and waiting for his neurons to begin firing. If they ever do.
Sanji pushes down a smile. Any minute now.
Zoro rouses with a nonsensical grumble, arms tightening around empty air. Despite being dazed, he's quick to locate Sanji where he's standing beside the bed; his eye narrows, and it's infused with a minor growl when he says, "Get back to bed."
"Or what?" Sanji smirks down at him, well accustomed to this song and dance by now. "Besides, where's my 'morning'? You leave your manners back in Dreamland?"
"Mornin'," Zoro murmurs blearily, scrunching up his nose in a manner reminiscent of a cat. It definitely isn't cute. "Now get back in the bed."
"Afraid I can't, Moss. You know it's time to go make breakfast," he chides, pointedly stepping towards the door. At least, he means to—what actually happens is that Zoro somehow lunges for him at lightspeed and manages to tug him, arm-wise, back onto the sheets.
He remains silent, but there's a menacing gleam in Zoro's eyes that screams, Victory.
Sanji glares at him, giving his arm a futile tug. "Mosshead. You wanna starve this morning? That's what's gonna happen to the entire crew if you don't let me off the damn bed."
Zoro lets out a drawn-out yawn, just to be insufferable. "Crew's been through worse. Besides," he mimics, grinning wide like a preying tiger, "We got our own bed now. Might as well use it."
Suddenly the offer is growing a lot more tempting.
"Oh yeah?" Sanji teases lowly, running a hand down the sensitive tissue of the swordsman's scar and relishing in the shiver it evokes. "You think we have enough time?" Ten seconds won't suffice this round, that's for certain.
Zoro looses a pensive rumble from deep within his chest, rolling his wrist such that it makes a precise crack. His fingers graze tantalisingly at Sanji's waist. "Nah. Was thinkin' more somethin' like... this."
Unfortunately, by now Zoro knows him well enough to know the fastest way to bypass his guard, as well as how to do so flawlessly. There have been plenty of (wonderful) instances where he genuinely has initiated this early in the morning.
Therefore, Sanji is left floundering when, this time, instead of slowly leaning into a loving kiss, he finds himself swept down into the sheets in a forceful sequence that ends in a sea of strangled limbs and his swordsman once more wrapped around him like a boa constrictor.
Sanji immediately attempts to struggle. "Get off, you big lug," he says, aiming a squirming kick to Zoro's shin. Annoyingly, he tanks it, only squeezing further in response.
"Nah, don't think I will," Zoro says, triumph shining through his tone. His grip slackens by a margin, though he still doesn't allow room for escape. Pressing closer, he meets Sanji's lips in a gentle kiss that only half reeks of accomplishment. "The crew can handle themselves for a few hours. Wanna keep you to myself for a bit."
Sanji scoffs half-heartedly. "You're so fucking clingy these days," he protests, pretending he isn't actively snuggling closer. Might as well get comfortable if he's going to be trapped here for who knows how long.
Zoro simply yawns again, eye already shuttering closed despite all the activity he's been doing. "If you say so. Night, Cook."
It's morning, idiot, he almost says, before inclining towards the peaceful option for a change. So he, too, closes his eyes, and into his husband's collarbone mumbles, "Night, Moss. Love you."
"Love you too."
The morning can wait.