Archive of Our Own

There’s a hole in the crew, after they leave Alabasta. Zoro knows this, despite what the others may think; he’s the first mate, after all. It’s his job to notice these little details, and it has been since that day he lay bleeding out on the deck of the Baratie, when he first vowed to follow Luffy to the ends of the earth, and beyond. So Zoro watches, noting the gaps in the conversation, pauses that linger for just a smidge too long until someone catches on to the fact that there is no Vivi to keep the chatter flowing.

(Later, he’ll blame this sense of heightened awareness, cursing it into the night until someone blearily throws something at him. Usopp, it would seem, is far braver when he skirts the realm between sleep and wakefulness.)

Nico Robin is yet another disturbance aboard the ship. Not like the Going Merry was ever particularly peaceful, not with their crew. Luffy alone is the equivalent of a Category 5 hurricane (another thing Zoro has learned due to his increased vigilance, even though he pretended to sleep through Nami’s impassioned sea weather rant as a matter of principle). The truly disturbing thing about the woman is the strange tranquillity she carries with her, silently reading her book on her deck chair like everything was normal. It’s jarring, a sharp juxtaposition to the vibrant personalities of everyone else. If Zoro were slightly more prone to flights of fancy, he’d probably describe it as the calm before the storm, the unnatural stillness of a predator’s gaze on the nape of your neck. He’s not, though, and Nico Robin’s eyes – at least, the two on her face – remain trained on the words in front of her.

She hadn’t fought any of the crew during the whole Alabasta ordeal, despite having ample opportunity. It should be reassuring, and the others seem to find comfort in it, but it grates on Zoro’s nerves as well as his pride. They’d all fought tooth and nail for their victory at Alubarna, been pushed to their very limits for success, and Nico Robin had not once tried to defeat them. Miss All-Sunday was a completely different class than the rest of Baroque Works, second only to Crocodile himself. Had she exerted even the slightest effort against them, the scales may very well have tipped out of their favour, and they would’ve died in the Square, just another six sets of sun-bleached bones smouldering before the palace.

The others have more or less accepted Robin into their little group, but Zoro is still wary. Luffy could probably take her, if worst came to worst (and if Luffy could bear to earnestly fight a member of his crew), and Zoro’s sure he could at least hold his own, but the rest of the crew? There’s no telling. Chopper’s too trusting, and wouldn’t suspect a thing if the ex-assassin crept up on him, especially with that Devil Fruit power of hers. Usopp and Nami are resourceful, sure, but they aren’t good in fights, especially ambushes. Moreover, he’s pretty sure that Robin’s some sort of genius, which, alongside her skill at manipulation, makes her an immensely difficult opponent. If she took out those three before him or Luffy noticed, there’d be no coming back from that. As for the cook… well, he could handle himself in a fight, but he’d be useless against Robin. She could probably just stand there and he’d be genuflecting at her feet, beaming at her with that stupid face and eagerly awaiting the imminent crushing of his windpipe. No, the responsibility to combat this potential threat lies on his shoulders alone. He needs to get stronger.

*

Zoro takes to training on the deck, near Merry’s bow. This way, he can sneakily peer over the edge, down to where Robin likes to sit and read. It comes with the unfortunate consequence of Luffy’s near constant interference – he can barely lift a single weight without Luffy trying to swing off it, catapult himself between Zoro and his favourite spot, and inevitably fall overboard. Frankly, it’s more trouble than it’s worth half the time, given how he’s always the one who has to rescue him. Training is training, though, and he can’t deny that between dealing with a bored Luffy, and keeping a careful eye on Robin, his reflexes and peripheral awareness have improved.

His fights with the various Baroque Works agents remind him that he can’t separate strength and technique in his swordsmanship. Against Mr. 3 in Little Garden, he wasn’t strong enough to cut through the wax at the odd angle. The sea prism stone of Crocodile’s cells were too hard for his swords. He’d finally reached a breakthrough against Mr. 1 – Daz Bonez, what an idiotic name – when he’d heard that strange rhythm of the world around him, finally allowing him to cut the bastard down. Had he not been so sure of what he’d heard, Zoro would have long since dismissed it as a hallucination brought on by blood loss, because he can’t replicate it. He can’t reach that place anymore, where the edges of the world are blurred by pain but the earth itself sings a melody that only he can decipher.

He blames Robin and Luffy. He can’t focus like this. Even now, Luffy’s rubbery fingers are creeping towards the end of Zoro’s weight, waiting to fling himself into orbit whilst simultaneously throwing Zoro off balance so he faceplants into the deck.

Salvation, for once, comes in the form of the cook. At the slightest creak of the door, Luffy’s head shoots up like a bloodhound, and he’s off, the possibility of a snack, however slim, immediately drawing his attention. Typical. Zoro moves to focus on his training, intending to use the brief moment of solitude to actually get some reps in, until he realises that the cook is prancing over to Robin’s deck chair.

He’s as starry-eyed as ever, carefully balancing a tray laden with a coffee and several small cakes. Luffy, naturally, tries to steal some, rubbery fingers extending like the tendrils of some particularly peckish eldritch being. Uttering curses, Sanji dances out of reach, deftly avoiding the captain’s grabby hands without spilling a single drop over the edge of the fine china he reserves for the ladies of the crew. Though Zoro is loath to admit it, it’s actually quite impressive; the cook manages to always be exactly where Luffy isn’t. After a minute or two of ducking and weaving, he finally manages to place the tray on the little table next to Robin, flashes her a wide smile, and swings around, foot solidly connecting with Luffy’s torso. Their intrepid captain goes flying through the door, and, judging by the thumps and one very shrill scream, falls all the way down to the men’s bunks and onto poor Chopper. All in all, a fairly typical day aboard the Going Merry.

Sanji fixes the collar of his shirt, and turns to try and engage Robin in conversation, until the realisation that he kicked Luffy in the general direction of his kitchen dawns on him. He disappears as quickly as he arrived, face a rictus of horror. Zoro smirks; Luffy can be somebody else’s problem for a while.

His brief amusement evaporates shortly thereafter, when he turns back to his training and catches sight of Robin’s book. Two eyes have sprouted on the cover, eerily superimposed over the protagonist’s face. As he balks, one eye slowly winks at him. The corners of Robin’s mouth turn slightly upwards. He scowls and quickly turns away, embarrassed.

Damn woman. Damn ship. He really does hate it here, sometimes.

*

That night, after a typically rowdy meal, Zoro finds himself on watch. It’s peaceful, the moon pale and shining above the water. The sky is dark and clear, the stars scattered against the night like Nami’s treasure hoard. The only sound is the gentle lap of the waves against Merry’s hull.

Even the sounds in the kitchen below have ceased, for now at least; even though the cook has finished his meal preparations for the next day, it’s only a matter of time until Luffy springs one of the numerous traps trying to get at the meat. Zoro’s heard this time referred to as the ‘witching hour’ before, usually by someone trying to freak out Usopp and Chopper. Witches notwithstanding, it’s one of the few moments when everyone else aboard Merry is fast asleep, the usual hustle and bustle replaced by a sweet serenity. It’s one of Zoro’s favourite times, and there’s nowhere better to spend it than up in the crow’s nest, utterly alone. 

He likes the crew, he really does, but the constant yelling (Nami), fawning (the cook), or minor explosions (Usopp, and sometimes Chopper) occasionally makes him miss the solitude he had as a bounty hunter. He’s a swordsman, after all, and despite his dislike for it as a child, he recognises the importance of meditation. Up here, alone in the crow’s nest, he thinks he’ll be the most likely to reach that state of rhythm again (without bleeding out, at least. He’d broached the idea of forcing himself into a state of artificial blood loss to Chopper the other day, then been forced to spend half an hour of his training time promising the little doctor that he’d never try anything that stupid. The cook, who’d been passing by, had scoffed and remarked that only someone as stupid as Zoro would have to go to the brink of death to learn a single technique. It had started a rather marvellous brawl that only ended after they broke the table, and each earned another thousand berry of debt).

Zoro takes a cursory glance at the ocean around him, and, finding it empty, shuts his eyes. He tries to envision opening his mind, hearing the rush of plants grow under the soil and the sound of fruit swelling on the branches of trees, like those legendary swordsmen Koushirou used to prattle on about back at the dojo. He’s on a boat, though, so he focuses on the steady swaying of Merry on the ocean waves, back and forth, and the slight breeze on his face. Unfortunately, the gentle lull of the sea serves more to rock him to the cusp of sleep than open his mind. He’d barely napped today, after all. A minute or two could hardly hurt.

He cracks an eye open sometime later, when he feels the rhythm of the ship change ever so slightly. Someone must’ve woken up and started moving around – perhaps the cook, awake for a midnight (or very early morning) smoke. Sometimes he shares these pockets of silence with the other man, a transient solidarity that couldn’t exist under the sun. Neither would speak, either because it would shatter whatever strange camaraderie that lingered, or because there was simply nothing to say. A bit of both, perhaps. Sanji would light a cigarette, and Zoro could always picture him leaned against the door to the galley, cupping his hand around the little flame to protect it from the wind. A thin tendril of smoke would undulate through the air, up past the crow’s nest like it was trying to grasp the stars. Sometimes Sanji would light two, or three, and stand in Zoro’s peripheral awareness for close to an hour. Those nights, Zoro could picture the cook’s lighter illuminating his face, lengthening the shadows and making him look sterner, haggard - a far cry from his normal, stupid vapidity. Then Sanji would leave, disappear inside to cook or disinfect the kitchen counters or write bad poetry comparing Nami to the summertime.

They never spoke about it. Zoro knows that Sanji is aware of his presence on those nights, the same way Zoro is aware of Sanji. It changes nothing, of course. There’s no begrudgingly offered sake, no knowing half-smiles exchanged between them when the sun rises. It’s a comfortable status quo that Zoro has no intention of altering.

Zoro opens his other eye when he becomes aware of an unusual sway in the mast, brow furrowing in confusion. The cook would never come up, never breach that unspoken boundary between them. So it’s someone else – but who? Usopp would be too scared, Nami would never deign to leave the comfort of her bed at this hour to talk to a man , and Chopper’s hooves make a distinct tap-tap-tap across the deck that he hasn’t heard at all. And Luffy wouldn’t bother to be so silent, so-

Robin’s face peers over the edge of the crow’s nest. The moonlight makes her appear paler, unblemished alabaster like a statue. It’s a far cry from her usual tanned skin. “Good morning,” she says pleasantly, like she’d happened across him somewhere innocuous like a market, “I’ve come to relieve you from the watch.”

Zoro regards her warily. “Bit early for that.”

She points at the horizon behind him. When he twists to look back, he can indeed see light at the edge of the ocean, a smudge of pale violet beginning to creep up the sky. He must’ve dozed – meditated – for longer than he’d thought, an hour or two at least. Probably not the best thing to do on watch, but the ship didn’t seem to be on fire or anything, so Zoro counts it as a victory.

He grunts, moves to rise before something occurs to him. “Why’d you come all the way up? Can’t you just,” he waves his hand around, vaguely imitating the stance she takes when she uses her Devil Fruit powers, “you know?”

Robin pulls herself into the crow’s nest in a single fluid movement. Her eyes are bright. “I could have,” she agrees serenely, “but – and forgive me for the assumption – you don’t seem particularly comfortable with my powers. I thought it prudent to avoid startling you, lest the rest of the crew wake up.”

She doesn’t seem bothered, but he still feels strangely guilty. Everyone aboard the Merry has their own quirks, and the rest of the crew adapts around them. He still doesn’t trust her, but everyone else seems to. He doesn’t want any member to go out of their way to accommodate him, lest they expect the same from him. “’S fine,” he grumbles. He moves to leave, swinging his leg over the side opposite from Robin.

“You don’t trust me.”

Zoro freezes, halfway over the ledge. Robin says it plainly, calm as ever. A slight breeze stirs her bangs.  He briefly thinks about lying, or pretending he never heard her, but his reaction was already telling. “Do we have to talk about this right now,” he grits out, more statement than question. Preferably never.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Robin continues, “I understand. We met on opposite sides of a war. Frankly, I expected more resistance from your crewmates. They are an exceptionally accommodating group of people. I’m… unused to it.” Something colours her tone – disbelief. Yearning, perhaps. She turns her gaze to the barely visible dawn in the distance, though it seems like she’s looking at something else entirely.

Zoro resigns himself to the fact that he’s going to have this conversating whilst straddling the crow’s nest like a child on a carousel. “Don’t come looking for pity from me,” he growls, “It won’t make me trust you more. You’ve done what you’ve done – we all have. Just don’t put the crew in danger trying to do it again, or I’ll cut you down.”

He doesn’t expect her to laugh, eyes sharp. “I could kill you right now. Push you over the edge, make it look like a drunken accident,” she offers, “or I could sprout an arm from your chest, claw your heart out. Squeeze it until it stops beating.” To illustrate her point, a hand pops up on the railing next to Zoro, waves at him.

He holds her gaze. “You won’t kill me that easily,” he says simply, “and you won’t push me over the edge anyway.” He knows it deep in his bones, can feel it in the air around him. Nico Robin will not kill him tonight – or anywhere in the near future. He senses no ill intent from her. This is merely a test of sorts.

“And if I do betray the crew someday?”

“We’ll hunt you down, day and night, until we find you. Then we’ll resolve things, and you’ll either come back to us or I’ll put you down myself, save the rest of the crew the trouble of killing a friend.”

Robin smiles suddenly, the thick tension dissipating, leaving Zoro somewhat off-kilter. “Good. I wouldn’t expect anything else.” The hand disappears in a flurry of petals. “The crew is lucky to have someone like you watching their backs.” She sounds almost wistful. It’s a far cry from how she acted as Miss All-Sunday. He wonders whether this lowering of her guard is an attempt to win them over, or if it’s truly the first time she’s been able to be vulnerable in twenty years.

He tries to leave again, but Robin, usually so reticent, isn’t done talking. “The Strawhats’ biggest strength is each other. Perhaps you should shift your observations to one of the others. It might be beneficial to your training.”

“Huh?”

“Your training. You appear to have hit a roadblock. Examining your friends – particularly those you see as on your level – may give you the perspective you need.”

It’s none of your business lies at the tip of his tongue, but between his desire for this conversation to be over, and his embarrassment at having his staring acknowledged, he keeps his mouth shut, electing to just grunt instead and begin his descent.

“Sleep well,” Robin calls after him placidly.

(He doesn’t.)

-

Zoro wants to disregard Robin’s advice out of principle, but there’s a little voice in his head that sounds an awful lot like Kuina telling him to suck it up and not look a gift horse in the mouth. That Robin is well-travelled and deeply intelligent and probably knows what she’s talking about. There’s also Mihawk to consider; the man has a reputation for solitude, but he’d glanced at Luffy’s hat with something akin to amused recognition. Perhaps even Mihawk had needed the input of another in his ascent to the world’s greatest swordsman.

Over the next few days, he tries to covertly view the rest of the crew through new eyes. He visits Chopper first, because the little reindeer is by far the most tolerable member of the crew. The little doctor is delighted by his company, more so when Zoro expresses mild interest in one of the compounds he’s mixing. Zoro can’t keep up with the steady stream of long, complicated-sounding words, so he just pretends to follow along, grunting at intervals so Chopper doesn’t get upset. Unfortunately, this means he inadvertently agrees to be a test subject, and when Chopper presses a small capsule into his hands with an excited beam, he can’t bring himself to refuse despite having zero idea what he’s getting into. It tastes foul, and he grimaces, then swears loudly because when he looks down his hands are green.

From what he can gather from Chopper’s tearful explanation to the grinning crew, it was supposed to be some sort of camouflage medicine. Apparently, the fact that humans have no innate ability to blend in with the environment worries Chopper, and he thought that the element of surprise may prevent certain people from getting grievously injured every other battle. Tragically, it seems to have backfired somewhat, because the acid-green hue tinting every inch of Zoro’s skin is about as unnatural as possible. Luffy spends a good five minutes gawking at the strange optical illusion of his hairline blending into his skin, sparking a heated debate with Usopp about whether it means that all of Zoro’s skin is now hair, or if the hair on his head is actually millions of elongated skin projections. The rest of the crew is equally unhelpful; Nami is frantically searching for a camera, convinced that she could sell his image to some conspiracy-nut newsletter as undeniable proof of aliens. To her credit, Robin’s trying to calm down Chopper, but she’s also laughing, judging by the shake of her shoulders.

By far the worst reaction is the cook. Zoro’s never seen him this delighted before, not even when that stupid camel in Alabasta mistook his hair for a patch of juicy grass. When he’d first caught sight of Zoro, he’d laughed so hard that he’d swallowed his cigarette, falling to the ground and clutching his ribs at the swordsman’s predicament.

“You look like the world’s stupidest Christmas tree,” Sanji wheezes, utterly delighted, “We could hire you out at the next winter island.”

Nami sticks her head out of the galley, eyes calculating. “Now there’s an idea. You could finally pay off your debt.”

“Like hell,” he spits, furious and flustered in equal measures.

She ignores him, as per usual, bringing a thoughtful finger to her chin. “Of course, I’d also deduct my managing fee from the proceeds, a modest seventy-five percent. Paid up front, naturally. If you can’t do that, you’ll have to borrow some more money.” The insidious gleam in her eyes is back, the one she gets when she’s running the numbers and they’re looking favourable. The rest of the crew associate it with danger, and rightly so.

Zoro splutters. “Why the hell would a winter island need a Christmas tree, anyway? Wouldn’t they have their own?” is what eventually comes out of his mouth, instead of a more sensible rebuttal like no or how am I supposed to pay you seventy-five percent of the profits before we make anything.

A mouth appears on the door frame, next to Nami. “Perhaps this particular island is suffering the effects of deforestation?”

Nami nods triumphantly. “Precisely. You should really leave the business to the smart people, you know. Now I have to up my commission to eighty percent, as compensation for your financial illiteracy.”

The cook sighed, lovestruck. “Nami, my love, you’re so beautiful when you’re extorting people.” Then he glances back at Zoro and snaps out of his Nami-induced haze, which never happens. He honest to God starts giggling , like green Zoro is the funniest thing he’s ever seen, and Zoro finally reaches his breaking point.

He thumbs Wado out of her sheath, baring his teeth. “At least I don’t look as stupid as you, cook. The witch can rent you out to the next bar we find, dartboard-face.”

Sanji glowers. Zoro tracks the tensing of his muscles, and when Sanji swings himself off of the deck and transitions the momentum into a kick, Wado is there to block him. “Not bad, for a mossball,” the blond sneers.

“And I thought I was supposed to be a Christmas tree. Guess your memory is as shitty as your cooking.” He pushes Sanji back, then aims for his ribs, determined to draw first blood.

Nami sighs theatrically. “There they go again. Great.”

Sanji flips backwards, smoothly evading the blade. He reaches into the inner pocket of his suit, lights a cigarette, takes a deep inhale before glaring at Zoro. “My cooking speaks for itself. I don’t need the endorsement of some shitty tree-man bastard.”

Zoro’s eye twitches. “I’m going to make you eat another cigarette,” he vows.

Sanji flicks some ash off the end. “I’d like to see you try.”

And then they’re fighting again, hacking and kicking and clawing. It’s second nature at this point, a strange waltz that only they know the steps to. At some point, the cook kicks him squarely in the stomach, sending him careening into Merry’s railing. Zoro barely manages to avoid falling overboard. He gets the cook back, though, slicing at his tailored pants so the fabric flutters in the breeze. Soon, Wado’s blade is stained red, and Sanji’s polished shoes start leaving bloody footprints on the deck.

It ends in a tie, as their brawls often do. Sanji’s foot rests on Zoro’s throat, just barely enough pressure to make swallowing difficult. Because of the angle, Sanji’s stupid tie flutters above Zoro’s face, making him grimace. Despite being crowded into a corner, trapped at an awkward angle below the cook, Wado’s blade lies against his throat. Zoro imagines that he can feel the steady thump of Sanji’s pulse, reverberating down the cold steel. A single movement, a twitch of Zoro’s wrist, and Sanji would be gone, reduced to a bloodstain on the deck. They both know this delicate balance well, have been caught in this paradigm numerous times before. As it stands, they could easily kill one another, finally determine the victor in their countless stupid competitions. Or maybe they’d both die, take their last breaths in the same instant, and Luffy would be out a cook and a swordsman in one fell swoop.

Zoro holds his hand still. Sanji doesn’t crush his windpipe.

The cook searches his face intently, before his scowl melts away. “You really do look stupid,” he snickers, cheeks flushed from exertion, “Has anyone ever told you that green isn’t your colour?” He takes another long drag from his cigarette. It’s burned almost all the way down during their brawl. Zoro wonders whether the ember would singe Sanji’s lips if left unchecked, if their fight continued just a little bit longer, or if he’d flick it away and crush it under his heel first.

Finally, Sanji removes his foot from Zoro’s throat, and saunters back to the kitchen. Usually, one or both of them would have stormed off to lick their wounds, but the cook has a definite pep in his step, some unseen tension having slipped off his shoulders. He’s not even giving Zoro hell about his torn pants leg.

Zoro is still sprawled in the corner, bemused, because they’d been sailing together for months now, elbow to elbow on this too-small ship. But for some reason, he’s only just discovered that Sanji’s eyes are blue.

It was definitely a tie. Indisputably so. And yet, eyes trained on the galley door, Zoro can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s lost somehow.

-

It takes two days for the green to fade completely. During this time, Zoro manages to give Usopp three separate heart attacks by looming in Nami’s tangerine grove and staring intensely at the sharpshooter’s back until he notices. He refuses to admit that it’s intentional, and reports to Chopper that his experiment may have been on to something.

Over the course of those two days, he spends time with the rest of the crew, doggedly determined to see the idea through. Once again, this yields mixed results. Someone has convinced Luffy that Zoro is matcha flavoured, and Zoro isn’t totally convinced that Luffy knows what matcha is but he still has to dodge the captain’s attempts at licking him. Tragically, he’s not as successful in this endeavour as he would like to be. When Luffy does manage to land a hit on him, the result is invariably the same; Luffy pulls a face, sticks his tongue out, and gives Zoro a betrayed look. Like Zoro is at fault for tasting like sweat instead of matcha or one of the cook’s roasts. Then he scampers off to bother someone else, until the mood catches him again and he descends on Zoro once more.

Usopp walks him through the construction of his slingshot ammo, weaving ridiculous tales about their origin, such as how a mysterious sage bestowed upon him the recipe for his exploding stars as thanks for saving his temple from an evil spirit. It’s surprisingly interesting, seeing Usopp in his element instead of cowering behind the stronger members. It reminds Zoro of when they first met, Usopp’s dedication to saving Kaya and Syrup Village overpowering his base fear. The Grand Line can really force the best of out of a person, if they survive long enough. Unfortunately, he can’t see how any of Usopp’s stories will help him hear the breath of the world, and his uncharacteristic attention seems to be gradually unnerving Usopp, so he eventually takes his leave.

Watching Nami is another dead end. When he awkwardly asks about the principles of cartography, because there’s no way she’d tolerate him just observing her, she stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “I didn’t think you knew what that word meant.”

He flips her off, and she returns the gesture. He actually quite likes Nami, despite her egregious price gouging and loan-shark attitude. She’s the only one who can keep up with his drinking. Sometimes, when Nami feels like scamming some overconfident idiots at the various small bars they come across, Zoro goes with. In exchange for the reduction of his debt, he’ll loom in the corner and dissuade any particularly stupid thugs from trying to take Nami’s ill-gotten gains by force. Unethical, perhaps, given Nami’s propensity for cheating at cards, but they are pirates.

“Okay, but seriously, what’s gotten into you lately?” she asks, fully turning away from the map she’s working on. It’s her recreation of Alubarna, one she’s been particularly fastidious about. “I mean, all Chopper’s medicine did was turn you green, not give you a total personality transplant. You’ve been so social that it’s sickening.”

Zoro scowls, and debates not answering, but he knows better. Nami is relentless. If she senses something unusual, she’ll pick at it until it unravels, until her metaphorical fingers bleed and she tastes victory. It’s usually less painful to be up-front with her. “That Baroque Works goon,” he mumbles, staring at the table, “Mr. 1, or whatever. I beat him.”

Nami’s fingers skim over the dried ink of the map. Zoro wouldn’t be able to pick the place out if presented with the map alone, but his gut tells him she’s brushing over the spot where he’d fought. She was there, after all – for some of it, at least. “Obviously.”

“I was able to cut him because I could hear the rhythm of the world. I knew exactly how and where to strike – hell, I probably could’ve cut him without damaging his shirt, if I wanted to.”

“But you can’t replicate it,” Nami surmises. Her eyebrows have been steadily creeping up her forehead as he spoke. They’re in imminent danger of disappearing into her hairline. “And you’re sure this wasn’t some sort of hallucination? I mean, let’s face it. You weren’t exactly in peak condition.”

He sort of hopes that her eyebrows slide up past her forehead and get swept away by the ocean breeze, lost forever in the Grand Line. It wouldn’t even be the strangest thing to happen this week. “I won, didn’t I?”

“Your ability to fight being directly proportionate to the amount of blood you lose is one of Nature’s great mysteries,” Nami sighs theatrically, before turning a critical eye on him. “That still doesn’t explain your sudden social life, though.”

“I thought that observing the rest of the crew might help,” he admits, strangely bashful. “Fresh perspective, or whatever.”

Nami nods sagely. “Robin’s idea?” She smirks when he balks, caught out. “Robin’s the only other person on this ship with any real intelligence. The rest of you boneheads are either too stubborn or too stupid.”

“Witch.”

“Troll. I mean, seriously. Even before,” she gestures at him, mildly repulsed, “ that, you definitely gave off ‘my bridge is a billy goat toll plaza’ vibes. This just makes it so much worse.”

He’s really going to strangle her one day. Preferably in her sleep, so he doesn’t have to hear her chewing him out for doing it wrong.

Nami continues, unperturbed by his rapidly fraying temper. “Has it helped at all, though? Robin’s super smart. She wouldn’t suggest it if she didn’t think it was worthwhile.”

“…Not really.”

“Well, what exactly did she say? You must be doing it wrong.”

He rolls his eyes, but casts his mind back to Robin’s words. “Observing the crew might give me the perspective I need. Especially those on my level, or whatever.”

Nami mockingly bats her eyelashes at him. “Aren’t you sweet. I’m always glad to help those beneath me.”

“Yeah, right. That’s the problem, though – it’s not like there’s any other swordsmen around. I figured she meant I needed to see everyone else do what they do best, or something.”

The navigator’s fingers drum a staccato against the wood of her cartography table as she thinks. “And who have you watched thus far?”

He lists out the various crew members he’s observed the past few days. Nami massages her temples, a vein throbbing in her forehead. “I’d hoped it wasn’t true, but you really are that stupid, aren’t you?” she laments.

Zoro frowns, miffed.

“She was obviously talking about Sanji, you dolt!” she yells, flopping against the table in despair. “The one person you’ve avoided this whole time. I mean, think about it. You’re rivals, you fight all the time, so you’re obviously equals in some way. Even though he spends all his time in the kitchen while you train and sleep all day, you still tie more often than not. Clearly, he’s doing something right.”

He doesn’t pout, no matter what Nami says later. “How the hell am I supposed to learn anything from that pervert?”

“Ugh. You’re so pigheaded. Can you honestly look me in the eyes and tell me that there’s nothing valuable to learn from him? Some manners, at the very least.”

He considers this. Nami’s words do have some truth to them, loath as he is to admit it. Sanji is a good fighter. Zoro wouldn’t dedicate nearly as much time in petty little competitions with the cook otherwise. He knows, deep down, that he could benefit from it. Another part of him, however, strenuously objects to the idea of scrutinising the other man so. It would feel… weird. Voyeuristic. It would upset the delicate balance that exists between them, the thin line between outright animosity and begrudging respect. Zoro trusts the man implicitly, despite their differences; they have to, out on the Grand Line like this. As two of the Merry’s three fighters – often the ones cleaning up Luffy’s messes while he goes for the biggest opponent – it’s vital that they watch each other’s backs. Maybe they don’t particularly like each other, but that’s fine. They didn’t have to. But if that status quo is violated, everything they’ve worked for could be thrown into jeopardy. Would they suddenly be forced to acknowledge each other? Would that late-night solidarity disappear, or would it merely change? Zoro pictures Sanji climbing up to the crow’s nest, clutching his cigarette like a lifeline and murmuring about their feelings in low, private voices . It makes him shudder.  

Nami’s gaze pins him to the wall. Her brown eyes are narrowed, calculating. “What? You chicken or something? When Mihawk cuts you down – for real this time – are you gonna accept that it’s because you were too shy to ask for help? I refuse to believe that your dream is that superficial.”

She’s baiting him, not even bothering to hide it. Still, Zoro’s hackles are raised. “I’m not shy.”

“Then prove it. Go watch Sanji cook breakfast or something.”

It’s all too much for him. It’s Robin’s knowing smile, that night on watch when she said the crew was lucky to have him. It’s his promise to Luffy, bleeding out on the deck of the Baratie and vowing to follow him to the end of the world. It’s Mihawk, countering his three swords with a glorified butter knife and the composure of a man who wasn’t worried in the slightest.

It’s Kuina, and a promise to become the greatest. It’s him, refusing to accept mere biology as an excuse. It’s a funeral, rain pouring in rivulets down his face and mingling with his tears.

The fight drains out of him, and he groans, slides down the wall. “Fine. Whatever. You win.”

Nami beams victoriously. “There we go. Was that so bad?”

Zoro has to count to ten in his head before he trusts himself not to strangle her.

 *

The next morning, Zoro finally wakes up back to normal, with no trace of green remaining beyond his hair. He takes this as a sign and sits up on his hammock to pull his boots on. A quick glance around the men’s quarters confirms that the cook has already left. The others are still fast asleep; Chopper snuffles quietly, back legs jerking like he’s dreaming about running through a field. Usopp, as per usual, is mumbling something unintelligible, eyes darting back and forth behind his eyelids. Luffy seems to be having what he mysteriously refers to as the ‘Meat Dream’, judging the way he’s sleepily gnawing his own right arm.

Zoro carefully climbs up the ladder, not wanting to disturb his crewmates. The men’s and women’s quarters share a wall, after all, and if Luffy wakes up he’ll make so much noise that everyone else wakes up too. Nami will actually murder him if that happens.

Sanji isn’t in the kitchen when Zoro arrives, which makes things marginally easier. Maybe if he sits still enough, the cook won’t notice him when he returns from his morning smoke. Unlikely, sure, but Zoro isn’t above a hint of optimism when the occasion calls for it.

Zoro takes the time to cast his eyes over the kitchen, curious as to whether he can glean any hint regarding breakfast. There are various types of fruit piled neatly on the counter – from his spot at the table, he can spy apples and some of Nami’s tangerines, amongst other more unfamiliar varieties of fruit obtained from some of the islands they’ve docked on. The Grand Line and its weird climates make for some very strange fruits and vegetables.

Otherwise, he can also spot the staples; fresh bread, bacon, sausages, rice and eggs. There’s also a jar of fluffy, marshmallow-like substance which had appeared after their last shopping trip. Chopper was obsessed with it, but the sickeningly sweet scent alone makes Zoro feel sick. There’s a kettle on the stove, barely beginning to boil.

Predictably, the cook zeroes in on his presence as soon as he comes back inside, just in time to remove the kettle from the heat before its shrill screech wakes Nami. His eyes narrow. “You better not be looking for alcohol in my kitchen, mosshead. It’s barely five in the morning.”

“’S communal space,” Zoro grunts back, annoyed already, “I’m just sitting here.”

Sanji squints at him a moment longer, then evidently decides that this is not an avenue worth pursuing, because he starts to prepare breakfast. The way the kitchen is set up means that the cook has to face him while he’s using the counter. Zoro receives several suspicious glances, but neither of them break the silence.

Zoro watches him, trying to keep an open mind about this little theory of Nami and Robin’s. He uses several different types of knives as he works, of varying sizes and edges – the small one to peel, the larger one to dice. The serrated one was used to cut both the bread and, surprisingly, tomatoes. The cook wipes down his blades every time he changed what he was working on, to prevent cross-contamination if Zoro were to guess. He had grown up in a restaurant, after all. Sanji handles the blades well, cutting everything into uniform pieces with care. Koshirou would be impressed.

Everything Sanji does is precise, well-practised. Zoro sits up straighter, interested at the way he moved. Despite the various bubbling pots and pans, all simmering on the small stovetop, nothing boiled over or even came close to burning. Several times, Zoro is sure that something will go wrong, but the cook always pulls through; he pulls the stringy white pith off of each segment of Nami’s tangerines, then spins around to flip the bacon and check on the fried tomatoes. He doesn’t use any measuring spoons for the seasoning, using his intuition instead; a little more thyme here, some paprika there. Zoro knows it’ll be perfect when he tastes it.

Nami and Robin were definitely onto something. It’s almost mesmerising, watching the cook in his element. He’s always exactly where he needs to be, like he has some sort of culinary sixth sense. Except it extends outside of the kitchen, doesn’t it, because Zoro has seen the cook move in similar ways before while dodging Luffy or anybody stupid enough to attack the crew. It’s like a veil has been lifted from Zoro’s eyes. How has he never noticed? Maybe he doesn’t explicitly hear the breath of the world, like Zoro did that time, but he’s certainly in sync with his environment, the epicentre of a million moving parts. He’s utterly in control, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing with practised ease as he mixes something.

First the colour of his eyes, now the way he moves. What else has this cook-shaped blind spot hidden from him?

Sanji whirls around. “What are you looking at, bastard?” he spits. His shoulders are tense, fingers white-knuckled on the handle of his spatula, which he waves menacingly. “Got something to say?”

Zoro blinks, caught off-guard and oddly tongue-tied. “Meat dream,” he blurts out stupidly, for lack of anything else to say.

Sanji’s shoulders slump, spatula limp at his side. “Fuck, again? That’s the third time this week. We’re almost out of meat as it is.”

Zoro grimaces. For some reason, Luffy always refuses to elaborate on these particular dreams, but everyone else is more than familiar with the aftermath. Luffy becomes even more insatiable than usual, and tries his best to devour Sanji’s entire stock in one sitting. When he inevitably does, they’re all forced to start fishing. This wouldn’t be a problem, if not for Luffy’s uncanny ability to catch everything but fish. To date, this includes skeletons, shipwrecks, the occasional sea monster, and one very confused marine biologist. “The witch said we’re coming up on an island soon.”

“Don’t call her that,” Sanji snaps. Zoro probably would’ve gotten kicked for his trouble, were Sanji not manoeuvring towards the fridge to grab some more bacon. The cook casts a critical eye over the half-assembled breakfast, mumbling under his breath. “The lovely Nami did inform me that if the wind is favourable, we may arrive sometime this afternoon. In that case, I can use the last of the bacon now, and that should tide him over… then I can use the leftover beef stock for soup, so that lunch still retains some meat taste…”

Zoro tunes the chef out, largely uninterested in the intricacies of menu planning. His heart is beating slightly too fast at his near miss. He was just lucky that Luffy had been a convenient excuse, and that the cook had bought it. The idea of Sanji knowing he’d been staring rankled. He’s perfectly fine with observing the cook, subtly cataloguing his movement to further his own swordsmanship. He just doesn’t want the idiot to know about it. He’d get all sorts of insufferable, and Zoro can barely tolerate him as it is.

Zoro stands up abruptly, fully intending to make a strategic retreat before he embarrasses himself. Sanji just levels an unimpressed glare at him. “And just where do you think you’re going?” he demands impatiently. “If you’d told me beforehand, when you’d first gotten here, I’d do it myself. But no, you stared at me like a particularly witless ape, and now you’ve screwed up my timing. Set the table.”

He mumbles mutinously under his breath, but moves to the cupboard where the cutlery and plates are stored. Just as his hand touches the handle, something white flashes before his eyes, stings his wrist. “What the hell, cook.”

Sanji flicks the dish towel imperiously over his shoulder. His blue eyes - really, they’re so obvious, how on earth did he miss that – are alight with annoyance. “Wash your hands first, you filthy imbecile. Nami and Robin don’t need your shitty germs in their systems.” Zoro’s fists clench as the cook continues to degrade him. “Actually, do you even know how to wash your hands? Genuine question, given that I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do it before. Need me to come hold your hands while you do it?”

Zoro stalks over to the sink, aggressively yanking the tap open. “Don’t even think about it.” He holds eye contact, making sure to wash his hands as infuriatingly as possible – one finger at a time, because he knows Sanji will watch him the whole time to see if he does it properly.

Sanji’s upper lip curls in disgust. “At least you were a novelty when you were green. Now that you’re back to normal, you look even uglier.”

“Glad to hear from an expert on the topic,” Zoro retorts drily, wiping his hands on his pants. The cook seethes as Zoro carelessly decks the table, haphazardly arranging knives and forks. Then, finally, Zoro gets to leave, retreating to the relative safety of the crow’s nest to train before breakfast.

No matter how forcefully he lifts his weights, his frustration doesn’t wane. The single most irritating thing about the whole mess in the kitchen is that it wasn’t enough. He needs to see more, to study the damn cook until he internalises the art of moving with the world. The answer to his current problem has been dangled right in front of his eyes, tantalizing and shiny. And, just like some idiot fish, he has to bite. He’ll just have to grit his teeth and endure.

(Zoro’s portion of rice tastes as immaculate as ever, because the cook could never bring himself to tamper with food. If the toast is slightly charred for the first time in Merry’s history, though, nobody mentions it. Not even the presence of the women could fully temper Sanji’s obvious malevolence, though, and Nami sends Zoro a knowing, reproachful look. He tries his best to ignore her.)

*

The island they dock on that evening boasts a rather splendid night market, which feels oddly convenient to Zoro. It’s no Loguetown, but the open-air bazaar stretches along one of the town’s main roads, honeycombed with smaller alleys containing various stalls or tents. The atmosphere is lively and welcoming – for once, they don’t even have to liberate the population from some curse or tyrannical overlord.

According to Robin’s preliminary investigations, the island is a common stopping place for all sorts of people sailing the Grand Line. It’s one of the more prominent trade nexuses, with goods from all five oceans, most of which have been smuggled. Pirates and smugglers are not only welcomed on the island, but vital parts of the economy at both the supply and demand levels. As such, there’s somewhat of a truce existing between the pirates who dock there. Minor skirmishes are accepted as an integral part of piracy, sure, but there is to be no open bloodshed and no ship-theft. If one crew violates the understanding, the rest have free reign to retaliate as they wish, provided no damage comes to the vendors and their goods.

Everyone disembarks, splitting off into the crowd. Nami grabs Zoro’s arm, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Places like this are a haggler’s paradise. Stand behind me and intimidate the vendors.”

He tries to protest, but Nami is a woman with a mission. It’s not so bad, actually; the whole place is littered with alcohol stands, so his hands are rarely empty, the pleasant buzz of alcohol thrumming in his veins. It’s cheap, and probably only in such free supply to get people drunk enough to be adequately scammed, but it’s not like he cares. He even takes a perverse sort of pleasure in intimidating the poor shopkeepers, eyes boring into their souls as his hands rest casually on the hilts of his swords. He could do without the steadily growing number of bags foisted upon him, sure, but he finds that if he looks suitably pouty, Nami rolls her eyes and nicks a pint for him. It works out well enough.

He's examining a stall laden with swords and sword-related items when he hears Nami inhale sharply. She’s at the stall next to him, poring over a table of accessories. He moves to see what she’s looking at.

It appears to be a hair ornament of some sort, though Zoro has no clue how it’s supposed to work. It’s made up of two pieces, a smooth metal circle and a long, thin pin. It’s made of burnished bronze that flickers in the golden glow of the lamps that illuminate the market. At the very end is the small form of a duck, captured mid-flight.

Nami stares at it with a longing he’s never seen on her face before. It’s naked, desperate, desolate. It feels entirely too personal to see. “Isn’t it silly,” she says softly, eyes still trained on the ornament. “We knew each other for such a short period of time, but I still see her in everything.”

Zoro doesn’t know what to say, so he just stands there, floundering in his silence. Even Luffy would be able to tell what she was talking about; Nami’s feelings for Vivi were an open secret on the ship.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she says, an uncharacteristic note of wry self-deprecation in her tone. “I know it’s ridiculous. Someone strong like you or Luffy would never be bound by such… sentimentality. Even Usopp was able to leave Kaya behind.”

He awkwardly places a hand on her shoulder, squeezing slightly. He really has no idea how to comfort people, but touch is supposed to be soothing, right? They move a few paces away from the stall, near the entrance of a mostly vacant alley. “I, uh,” he wets his lips, thinking, “It’s not stupid.”

“I always knew how it was going to end. From the beginning, we always knew Vivi was going to stay in Alabasta. Even so, when I saw her at the dock, I really thought… I really thought she was coming with.”

He’s utterly alarmed to see a sheen of tears in her eyes. “We all did. Not many people can manage to escape Luffy when he’s made a decision.”

Nami huffs a laugh at that, shaking her head. “Yeah, I know. Not even us. I just wish I had a chance, is all. I want to know what we could’ve been.”

“Did you ever think about staying in Alabasta?”

She snorts. “Briefly, I guess? Not really. A life like that is nice to think about. I’d be the royal cartographer, have my own apartments in the royal suite. We’d be happy, I’m sure. But when it comes down to it, I’m a thief and a pirate.” Her shoulders sag. Zoro gets the impression that she’d been running these scenarios in her head for ages, back and forth, trying to get a different answer. Her voice takes on a bitter tone. “We can’t even speak to her without putting the whole kingdom in danger, and it’s only going to get worse the more notorious we get. A thief who lingers amongst royalty is a dead one. People like us aren’t supposed to hang around people like her.”

Zoro frowns. “Bullshit. Vivi was happy with us, happiest with you. You’re not the one who gets to decide that.”

“I know that.” Nami’s voice is smaller, honest. Like even she knew her previous words were just a defence. “I do. I think she might’ve felt the same way – about everything.” And finally, a smile breaks on her face, like the sun peeking out from behind the clouds. “Even if I wish she were here, I’d hate to take her away from Alabasta, y’know? Just like she’d hate to keep me there. Vivi’s dream, her devotion to her people… those are the things I like about her. If she were the type of person to give up on her dream for the slightest chance at love, I doubt I’d like her nearly as much as I do.”

Zoro can relate to that. It’s one of the reasons he’s pretty disinterested in romance, as a rule. He’s not really the compromising sort, doesn’t think he’d be able to give up on becoming stronger for some faceless spouse or children. If he ever did fall in love, it’d have to be with someone as driven and insane as he is. A partnership born from challenge, rivalry. If his promise with Kuina was the thing that started him on his path to becoming the world’s greatest swordsman, then whatever romance he has would need to be at least of equal value, provide him with equal strength. He’d need someone with ambition, a dream of their own – someone who would reach out alongside him, take everything they want together. It’s a tall order.

Even he can see how Nami and Vivi complement each other – Vivi’s innate kindness verses Nami’s blunt attitude. Their shared drive to protect their people at all cost. How Vivi delayed her return to Alabasta just to get Nami medical attention, and how Nami acted as Vivi’s anchor, tempering her anxieties with conversation and rallying the others to fight on her behalf. They had a shared connection, a mutual understanding of how it felt to force themselves into the service of the people who invaded their homes. Personally, he thinks it’s foolish for Nami to deny herself the person who made her undoubtedly stronger. Nami, self-proclaimed non-combatant, who defeated the second-highest ranked woman in Baroque Works just to protect Vivi.

Voicing any of this would probably just end in pain for him, though, so he inclines his head towards the stall. “Why don’t you send it to her? Anonymously, so it can’t be tracked back to us. Let her know you’re thinking about her.”

She gives him a vaguely pitying look. “Vivi’s a princess, Zoro. She doesn’t need worthless junk. She’s probably got a solid gold toilet seat somewhere in that palace. It’ll probably get tossed out before it even gets to her. Thanks for listening to me, though.” She punches his arm affectionately, sharp knuckles digging into his flesh. It’s a conscious effort not to wince. “It feels good to talk about it. I’ll be sad for a while, but I’ll get over it soon enough. There’s a whole world out there to see. Maybe in another life, I’ll get to tell her all about it.” Nami grins suddenly. It’s reassuring; morbidity doesn’t suit such a vibrant person. “At the end of our journey, when Luffy’s the King of the Pirates, I’ll pull off my biggest heist yet: I’ll steal the princess directly from her palace! Sneak in through the window or something.”

“Or you could just knock. They’d let you in.”

She sticks out her tongue. “What’s the fun in that? Anyway, I think I’m gonna turn in now. All this emotional honesty stuff is exhausting. See you tomorrow. If you lose my stuff, I’ll kill you.”

True to her word, Nami departs, weaving her way through the throng of people. Zoro is left alone, slightly reeling from a conversation he was definitely too sober to have and still laden with purchases that don’t belong to him. He swears at her but doesn’t bother trying to catch up. It’s obvious she wants to be alone right now, anyway. Zoro wonders how long she’s been carrying that particular burden – she’s hardly forthcoming with her feelings at the best of times. Arlong Park was proof enough of that. Knowing her, she’s been nursing her grief since before their time with Vivi ended, letting the pain of losing her taint their last few days together. It just doesn’t feel right – if losing Vivi hurts her so much, why wouldn’t she hold onto her for dear life? Zoro’s not fooled by her bold declaration at the end, either. It feels more like Nami is intentionally staving off communication to make it easier for them both.

Someone bumps into him, nearly dislodging Nami’s numerous bags. He scowls. Maybe he should try and find the cook. He should be grocery shopping somewhere, and he’d be more than happy to carry his beloved Nami’s purchases. Besides, it might be a valuable opportunity to observe him again. Mind made up, he picks a direction and starts walking – but not before he grabs another pint of beer. Fuel for the road, and all. Whether he also stops at the trinket stall is his business alone.

He spends the next while wandering around, giving the various stalls a cursory glance. A couple things do draw his attention, like the man claiming to sell ancient manuscripts containing the secrets to perfect swordsmanship, or the hawker selling a whetstone that can supposedly give a spoon an edge sharp enough to cut steel. Zoro knows better, of course; his time with Kuina and Koushirou taught him the value of hard work over petty shortcuts, and he’d never beat Mihawk by relying on cheap tricks.

Occasionally, he thinks he sees some of the others – Robin, curiously thumbing through an old book, or Luffy eyeing the vertical rotisserie at a shawarma stand with a look that can only mean trouble. He leaves them be, and soon enough, they’re swallowed up into the crowd.

He finally catches sight of the cook some time later - maybe forty-five minutes? An hour? Long enough for the sun to almost set, the first few stars appearing in the twilight. More of the oil lamps have been lit, casting their warm glow across the market and raising the temperature by a few degrees. Sweat begins to form on his back, but it isn’t too unpleasant yet.

They’re separated by a row of stalls that bisects the wide road down the middle. Sanji’s back is turned, eagerly examining the stall’s wares, but Zoro could recognise him anywhere, even without the stupid eyebrow. They’ve fought each other – and side by side – too many times for Zoro to not recognise the set of his shoulders, how he stands when he’s relaxed as opposed to itching for a fight. And isn’t that an interesting thought, the abrupt realisation that perhaps he’s been watching the other man for a while now, just without really knowing what he was looking for. He knows the shape of the cook, could probably conjure up his form in his mind’s eye, but he doesn’t know the man very well. He gets the distinct feeling that Sanji might know him far better than he knows the cook. It’s… disconcerting, to say the least. Maybe that’s where he’s been going wrong.

Zoro stares intensely at Sanji’s back, forcing himself to consider why Sanji is the way he is. He’s chatting animatedly with the stall owner, holding up what appears to be two small boxes. Zoro can’t make out what they are, but the cook seems uncommonly excited about it. Maybe he’ll have to snoop around in the pantry later, if he buys any.

A young lady walks past, dressed in the same flowy material that everyone on the island seems to prefer (Nami had bought or otherwise obtained several items made from the same fabric. It’s breathable, apparently, to keep the heat out). Predictably, the chef swoons, pulling a flower from God-knows-where and offering it to the woman. She smiles bashfully, and Sanji’s face lights up. He places a gentle kiss on her hand, the boxes carefully tucked under his arm. The woman blushes slightly, a pretty pink colour. Zoro’s begrudgingly impressed – this might actually be the first time a woman has reacted positively to Sanji’s dubious charms, not counting the times where they’ve been trying to rob or kill him like in Whiskey Peak.

She places her hand on his arm, and murmurs something or the other. Zoro feels like he’s dreaming, has to pinch himself to make sure he isn’t. Is he witnessing history? Will this exact moment be footnoted in the account of Luffy’s rise to Pirate King? That’s an invitation if he’s ever seen one. Sanji has gone and done the impossible. Zoro should probably make an escape sooner or later, because he refuses to ruin his evening by stalking the cook on a date, or even worse: a hookup. Observation be damned, he’d genuinely rather die than see that. Some boundaries should simply not be crossed.

…Except the cook is patting her hand gently, body language apologetic, and her face falls slightly before breaking out in a rueful smile. She walks away, glancing back once or twice. Sanji remains rooted to the spot, watching her go with a fond expression on his face. When she disappears from sight, he turns back to the stall-owner, who’s looking at Sanji like he’s a bit of an idiot, but seems willing enough to continue their previous conversation.

Zoro blinks, thoroughly caught off-guard. This must be how Usopp feels on a daily basis - nobody will ever believe him. Sanji’s feelings for women in general have already become legendary amongst the Strawhats. This feels entirely uncharacteristic.

…Or is it? Unbidden, his conversation with Nami comes to mind. It’s entirely possible that the cook feels the same way about romance and dreams as Nami does – no matter how hard or frequently he falls, he refuses to give up on his dream of finding the All Blue, and he wouldn’t want to force anyone else to compromise on their dreams either. It’s a common thread that ties the crew together. They all know they can’t be tied down. Adventure calls to them, some more so than others, but the fact stands that nobody is really keen on settling down anywhere in the near future. They probably never will, either. Maybe they’ll find a port they return to more frequently than others, but they were all born to wander.

Sanji is idiotically enamoured with women. It grates on Zoro’s nerves. Would he be forced to endure the cook if he’d been born a woman? He hates the idea of being treated differently because of something so superficial as gender. Kuina would never stand for it. Regardless, the fact remains that Sanji would never force a woman to spend long months waiting for him to return. He’d never give up on the All Blue, either. Zoro’s not too clued up on the circumstances of the cook’s childhood, having been bleeding out around the time the tragic backstories were spilled, but Sanji has the same drive as Zoro does. It’s defiance, ambition and willpower tempered in the fires of suffering and pain. He knows Sanji will eventually find the All Blue, the same way he knows that he’s going to be the world’s greatest swordsman and Luffy’s going to be King of the Pirates.

Maybe Sanji’s holding out for a soulmate, or whatever flowery nonsense he believes in. A partner with a compatible dream. The aspiring world’s greatest fisherwoman, or something – another soul in search of the All Blue. But that doesn’t explain his behaviour just now. The idea of him saving himself for ‘the one’ isn’t too far-fetched, but then why bother falling over his feet every time someone with boobs walks past? Zoro’s never been particularly interested in casual flings himself, sure, but it’s difficult to believe the cook is the same. Besides, it’s not like the woman had invited him down to the courthouse to sign the marriage certificate.

Zoro can feel a headache brewing. The cook must be after something, surely, if he’s going to all this effort. The idea that Sanji might be doing all of this, with no expectation for reciprocation or companionship, but just because he genuinely likes women, makes him feel oddly unsteady for a reason he can’t quite pinpoint.

Sanji turns his head slightly, and his profile is suddenly illuminated by the lamplight. His hair, which luckily covers the eye on Zoro’s side, shines like spun gold. He’s dressed relatively down for once, Zoro notices belatedly, probably due to the heat; he’s still wearing his usual slacks, but the ridiculous matching jacket is gone, his blue sleeves buttoned back to reveal his forearms. The merchant must say something funny, because he laughs, throws his head back. Maybe it’s the island’s free-flowing, strong beer, but Zoro finds himself somewhat tongue-tied at the sight. In this one glowing moment, the cook is the most alive person Zoro has ever seen.

Unbidden, Zoro’s mind turns to Kuina once more. That night they made their promise, when Zoro had taken yet another beating, she’d looked sort of like that – chest and shoulders heaving, fingers trembling on Wado’s hilt. Her grimace, one of defiance and resignation all at once. They’d both felt so alive in that moment, like two weights on a rubber mat distorting the space around them.

And then the accident happened.

All that ambition, her vitality, gone in a sickening instant. Just mourners left behind, an empty void left to fill. A rainy funeral, and whispers of potential, of what might’ve been had the world been kinder. And then doubt creeps in – perhaps it was a sign. Perhaps Kuina simply wasn’t meant to be, not in the way she dreamed of, at least.

Zoro hates bullshit like that. He believes in fate, but not like that. Never like that. Kuina wasn’t merely a destiny, or some tragic backstory, or potential. She didn’t exist simply to die. Kuina was always destined for greatness in his mind. But strength alone couldn’t account for freak accidents. She must’ve run up those stairs a thousand times. It was a one-in-a-million chance, and she was just unlucky that day.

So he knows, when he sees Sanji practically shining in the marketplace, that it doesn’t mean anything. It’s no harbinger of tragedy, no manifestation of destiny. His mouth still dries, though. Zoro wonders what the cook thinks of destiny, whether his hesitation with that woman earlier was because of some innate knowledge that people die all the time. He wonders if Sanji thinks something like love is worth fighting for, even if it’s doomed by the circumstances. His sole purchase of the day weighs heavily where it’s tucked into his haramaki. He wonders why he even wants to know any of this.

“Oi, mossball, why are you just standing there like an idiot? Finally drank away your remaining braincells?”

Zoro blinks, finally realising he’s zoned out. Sanji has evidently finished up at the stall and is now standing in front of him. He’s carrying several brown paper bags, various groceries poking out the top. The cigarette clenched between his teeth is glowing a hypnotic orange. “Huh?”

Sanji raises an eyebrow. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

Zoro sticks his tongue out, making Sanji grimace and look away.

“You’re such an oaf,” Sanji scowls, turning his eyes heavenward, before squinting at Zoro appraisingly. “How long have you even been standing here, anyway?”

“Couple minutes,” Zoro lies, because he has no clue.

“What, get lost trying to navigate a thought? That’s a new low, even for you.”

His hand inches towards Wado. “You looking for a fight or something, curly?”

Surprisingly, the cook shakes his head, lips curving up. “Nah, not even you can ruin my day. For your information, I’ve just gotten incredibly lucky.”

“Gross. Didn’t need to know that.”

“Who’s the pervert now?” Sanji snarks, ignoring Zoro’s grumbled still you as he turns to walk away , “I obviously meant I got a good deal on a rare ingredient – not that you’d know the significance of that. Well, are you coming or not?”

Zoro’s face scrunches up in confusion. “Where the hell would we go together?”

“God, you’re stupid. The ship? Where we both live?”

“Who said I’m ready to go back to the Merry,” Zoro says mulishly, because he’s still somewhat caught off guard.

Sanji just gestures to the brightly coloured bags hanging from Zoro. “If you lose or damage my beloved Nami’s purchases, you’ll have hell to pay, you shitty bastard. Everyone knows you’ve got the directional skills of a concussed rock.”

“How can a rock be concussed,” Zoro mutters under his breath, but falls into step with the cook anyway. They walk through the market in a slightly awkward silence, but it’s not totally unpleasant. True to his word, Sanji does seem to be in a remarkably good mood. It’s weird to be walking alongside the cook without their usual back-and-forth, though, so Zoro eventually bites. “What’s the significance?”

“Of what, exactly? Use your words like a big boy.”

He gestures at the bags in Sanji’s arms, ignoring the jibe. “The rare ingredient. You said I wouldn’t get it.”

Sanji actually looks surprised, which feels like a victory for Zoro given how many times he’s been thrown off-kilter the past couple of days. He eventually inclines his head towards the topmost bag, apparently deciding to just roll with it. “It’s agar powder, you nosy bastard. For Chopper.”

That didn’t really clear anything up, and his lack of comprehension must show on his face, because Sanji sighs and continues. “It’s a substitute for gelatin. You know that marshmallow spread Chopper’s been going crazy over? Well, apparently he’s never had actual marshmallows before, so I thought I’d make some for him.”

Zoro frowns. “Aren’t marshmallows just sugar? Why would they need a rare ingredient?”

The cook snorts. “Gelatine is what binds them together and makes them all fluffy. Problem is, gelatine is made from animal products – bones, tendons, ligaments. Skin, too.”

Zoro pauses. “ That’s what gelatine is made of?”

“Exactly. He eats meat from time to time, but you’ve probably never noticed how he strays away from some of the stuff more recognisable as actual animal. Basically, if he remembers it used to be alive and something he could talk to, he gets cold feet. I figured that him seeing a massive pot stuffed with arms and legs – some of which may look a lot like his own, if we use venison - might traumatise him. Put him off sugar for good, which might be healthier in the long run now that I think about it, but he’ll be devastated. Besides, I usually use most of that stuff for stock.”

He takes a minute to process that. “What’s the agar stuff, then?”

“Seaweed extract. Your dead cousins, tragically.”

“I’m an orphan, cook. I don’t have cousins.”

“Not anymore, at any rate,” Sanji snorts, before his tone becomes more sombre. “I didn’t know that, actually.”

“What, that I’m an orphan?” The cook nods. “Not a big deal, really. Pretty much all of us are. I grew up in a dojo.”

“And here I thought you were some sort of Mafia brat. You certainly look the part of brute muscle, not to mention the whole bounty hunter thing. And the early-onset alcoholism.”

Zoro shakes his head, feeling a strange compulsion to elaborate. “I only started bounty hunting as a means to an end. A way to not starve while travelling and training.”

Sanji glances at him out of the corner of his eye. There’s something appraising in that stare. “You really are dedicated to your goals, aren’t you?”

He shrugs. “It’s not just my dream.”

The cook is silent for a long while. “…I get that. It’s the same for me.” His gaze goes distant, and Zoro wonders if he’s thinking about the Baratie, and the old chef who took him in. Zoro’s still not a hundred percent clear on the details, but even he can guess as to what’s going on in his head. He’d seen the geezer’s wooden leg himself. It was another one of those strange, nebulous similarities between them, the ones that make him feel a bit weird if he thinks about it too hard. Wado, bequeathed upon him following Kuina’s death; Sanji’s body, whole and unharmed in contrast to the smooth wood that had replaced Zeff’s infamous red leg.

They finally reach Merry, who bobs peacefully in the harbour where they left her. The conversation lapses into an awkward silence, as they come to the simultaneous realisation that they’d not only had a rare civil conversation, but managed to find common ground. If they continued on at this rate, they might venture into talking-about-feelings territory. Zoro tries to imagine them having one of the sleepovers that Nami and Vivi had been so fond of, painting each other’s nails and gossiping. Horror amongst horrors.

“Well, this is me.” Sanji says lamely.

Zoro goggles at him like he’s grown a second head. “We live together, asshole.”

“Right.” A beat. “Don’t say it like that, idiot.”

“Screw you.”

*

Things change subtly after that day. When they pass winter islands, Zoro curls up for his naps in the kitchen, to soak up the warmth of the oven. Sanji still kicks him awake and tells him to fuck off out of the way, banishing him to the snowy deck, but usually brings him a mug of warm cider shortly thereafter. Sometimes they even team up to antagonise poor Usopp, who usually starts lamenting about something called ‘the monkey’s paw’. They still bicker and fight more often than not, perhaps more regularly than before – but only because they’re gradually talking more, gravitating to each other.

He corners Nami in her office the day after they set sail and thrusts the hairpin into her hands. “Vivi was willing to explode her palace and all her fancy things, wasn’t she?” he says, cutting off Nami’s protests. “Vivi also gets to decide whether you two are worth it.”

Nami traces her fingers over the new addition to the pin – a small blue X, carved into the wing. “Did you get Usopp to do this?”

Zoro waves her off. “That’s not important. Look,” he trails off, looking for the words he wants, “People die all the time, especially pirates. Don’t put this off until later, because you might never get to. But you’re both alive now, right?”

“Right,” Nami echoes.

He frowns, sensing she’s still not totally convinced. “You don’t have to say anything. Just let her know you’re thinking of her, or whatever – why are you crying.”

Tears are coursing their way down Nami’s cheeks. She clutches the pin like a lifeline. Maybe it is. “Do you really think it’s a good idea? What if… what if this gets traced back to us and something terrible happens?”

Zoro shrugs. “We’ll deal with it, I guess? I don’t know. Terrible things happen all the time. Vivi and her family are capable enough to weather storms like that. So are we. Besides,” he adds belatedly, because this is the crux of his argument, the one thing he desperately needs her to understand, “you make each other stronger. She’s the princess of a formerly war-torn country, and you’re the navigator of the single most chaotic ship possible. Seems to me you both need as much strength as possible.”

Her lower lip wobbles, and then she’s launching herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He’s frozen, hands hovering awkwardly in the air. The metal pin jingles against his earrings. “You’re such a dummy,” she says thickly, “and I’m never hugging you again because you reek, but… thank you.”

He pats her back awkwardly. “There, there?”

She pulls back, wiping away her last few tears. “You’re a mannerless, brutish troll, and we all definitely liked you more when you were green-”

“Hey.”

“-but you’re a good friend. I’ll do it.”

He thinks he hears a click, like someone closing the door as unobtrusively as possible, but he just ignores it. “Really?”

Nami’s grin is still slightly wobbly, but proud nevertheless. “Yeah. Next island we dock at, I’ll send it anonymously. Maybe I’ll get a disguise or something.”

“Maybe one day you could send her coded letters. What’re those things Robin talks about? Horse letters?”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Poneglyphs?”

“Yeah, those.”

She shakes her head despairingly. “I’ll never know how you can go from being so right to so wrong.”

Zoro smirks. “You just admitted I was right. You’ll never live this down.”

“Yeah, right. Nobody’s ever gonna believe you.”

True to her word, she sends the pin out the next time they dock, and he goes with for moral support, both disguised in the most ridiculous wigs Usopp could find. Three weeks later, she gets a response – a perfumed envelope containing instructions to send any further correspondence to Alabasta’s specifically-trained carrier falcons, a silly doodle of a familiar duck, and a delicate golden necklace that, upon closer inspection, bears the smallest log pose any of them has ever seen, pointing straight back to Alabasta. It’s as clear a sign as any of them have ever seen. Nami cries right there on the deck. They have a party that night, lasting until the early hours of the morning and catered with a wide array of Alabastan-inspired foods, courtesy of Sanji.

Zoro’s on watch after the party winds down, nestled in the crow’s nest as one of the very few members aboard the Merry who was mostly sober – although certainly not for lack of trying. They’d busted out the good alcohol, reaffirming Zoro’s long-held conspiracy theory that Nami and Sanji were holding out on him. Much to his chagrin, he hadn’t caught exactly where they’d been stashing it; Chopper had, at some point, sipped from Nami’s sweet, pink and heavily alcoholic cocktail instead of his own mocktail, which meant that Zoro’s hands were pretty full at that exact moment.

Still, he’d managed to consume his fair share of the booze. It hums in his veins, warm and lazy and more than enough to counteract the slight chill in the air. It reminds him of the time right after Alabasta, with Robin. It feels so long ago, even though it’s barely been two months. Time is strange, out on the open sea, in such close proximity to one another. Especially with Luffy as a captain – so much happens every day that a single week can feel like a lifetime. Usually in the good way, but Zoro would be lying if he tried to pretend that some weeks didn’t feel particularly purgatorial.

The creak of a door, the quiet click of a lighter, interrupts Zoro from his thoughts. Sanji. It’s surprising that he’s up still; catering for one of Luffy’s feasts looks exhausting, and the cook hadn’t exactly abstained from the free-flowing alcohol. Not like anybody will complain if breakfast is a bit late, though, given the various hangovers currently brewing, but the cook likes his schedule. Zoro had picked up on that recently; an off-handed comment from Usopp made him realise that the cook practically factors time for their potential brawls into his daily agenda, so he doesn’t serve any meals later than he has to. Of course, it doesn’t always work out exactly, but the idea of Sanji – consciously or otherwise – carving out a niche specifically for him is another thing that unsettles Zoro. There’s been a lot of those lately.

The cook savours his cigarette for longer than usual – or at least, Zoro assumes so, because he hasn’t heard the click of the lighter or the sound of Sanji’s dress shoes against the wood. It’s almost like he’s waiting for something, though Zoro doesn’t know what. Then a put-out huff, and finally footsteps, coming towards the mast instead of back inside the galley. Zoro finds himself holding his breath for some reason.

Finally, after several muffled curses, Sanji’s head pokes above the side of the crow’s nest. His face is still flushed from the alcohol, contorted into an irritated pout. “Stupid swordsman,” he slurs slightly, eyes unfocused, “didn’t even invite me up.”

Zoro abruptly realises that the cook is still tipsy, and in no condition to be climbing up that high. Sanji sways back alarmingly, seemingly unbothered by his impending fall, and Zoro lurches across the small space to pull the cook into the relative safety of the crow’s nest. “Idiot cook. You’re gonna break your precious arms.”

Sanji blinks blearily at him, then sticks his tongue out. “Blergh. So boring, mosshead.”

He rolls his eyes. “For wanting to be spared your griping if you can’t cook? Alright.” He settles back down on the floor, leaning against the mast and stretching his legs out. The cook, after what seems to be careful deliberation, tries to sit further away from him, but is so unsteady on his feet that he ends up sitting directly across from Zoro, back against the wall.

Zoro observes him out of the corner of his eye. Tipsiness is amusing on Sanji, particularly when he passes through the realm of liquid confidence and suavity to the other end, dishevelled and wobbly like a newborn calf. His jacket is missing, his shirt half-open and buttoned unevenly for reasons that probably have something to do with Usopp and Luffy’s brief, if rather worrying discussion about becoming the combination King of Pirates and world’s most fashionable pirates. Zoro thinks they’d been trying to steal Sanji’s clothes directly off his body after coming to the conclusion that the cook was the most sharply-dressed. Zoro’s no stranger to boundless ambition, sure, and he’s no fashionista himself, but even he thinks Luffy may have been flying too close to the sun.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a feather-light touch on the bare skin of his ankle. The cook’s slender fingers are brushing over the scars there, from back in Little Garden, gentle yet firm. His expression is contemplative, open in a way that it rarely is when he’s not tipsy. “Why’d you do it?”

Zoro swallows, throat dry, Sanji’s fingers still on his skin. “Uh?”

The cook rolls his eyes, the movement exaggerated by inebriation. “Pretend to keep up, stupid. Try to… cut your damn legs off, duh.”

“Don’t insult me when you can’t string together a whole sentence, pervert cook.” Sanji sticks his tongue out, but keeps looking at him expectantly, so Zoro sighs and caves. “I wasn’t thinking, really. Someone had to do something, though. The witch’d haunt me forever if I let us die.”

It’s hard to think, with Sanji’s thumb rubbing circles over the scar tissue. Maybe he’s also tipsy, but he can’t really remember anyone touching him so gently with such little purpose – least of all the cook. It’s doing strange things to his chest – rattling him in a way that isn’t altogether bad.

“Weren’t you worried about how it’d affect your swordsmanship, though?”

Zoro considers this, and shrugs. “Not really. I guess it might make things difficult, though.”

“For someone so obsessed with his dream, you’re awfully blasé about risking it,” Sanji snorts, oddly serious even through the drunken haze, “I don’t get it.” His eye trails to Zoro’s chest, fingers still a brand against his ankle, gaze eventually settling where Zoro’s scar peeks out from beneath his shirt. For a brief moment, Zoro is struck by the alarming thought that Sanji might reach up and caress it, but Sanji’s hands remain mercifully where they are – for the best, really, because that’s a can of worms he’s not drunk enough to open.

He clears his throat. “If something like losing a limb would stop me, then maybe it wasn’t meant to be. I trust in my luck.”

“Luck,” Sanji bites off, sardonic, “runs out.”

“Maybe it does,” Zoro allows, feeling strangely insistent about getting his point across, struggling through the distraction of Sanji’s hands on his ankle and the alcohol muddying his thoughts, “but ‘s not just luck, is it? ‘S all of us, together. If my luck runs out, you’ll be there. Or Luffy, or even Usopp,” he adds hastily, because the cook’s face is doing something strange that he’s never seen before. “Whatever setbacks happen, we’d figure it out somehow.”

Sanji digests this for a brief moment, blinking blearily. “And what if something bad did happen? We all have our purposes here. If I lost my hands and couldn’t cook, if I couldn’t kick – what then? You’re a pragmatic person, when it comes down to it. I’d just be a drain of resources.”

Zoro frowns, thinking for a second. It’s not something he’s ever thought about in much detail. “What’s the point you’re trying to make, cook? You’re fine.”

Sanji’s dress shoe presses into his side, making him wince. “Humour me.” There’s something intense in his one visible eye, a question that’s larger than Zoro’s capable of understanding.

“Jeez, cook, never expected you to be such a melodramatic drunk.” He pauses, arranging his thoughts. “We’d figure something out, like I said. We wouldn’t just abandon you at the next port.”

And that’s the crux of the issue, isn’t it, because Sanji’s fingers still. “You can’t guarantee that. Out on the Grand Line, I’d be a… a liability. The difference between life and death.”

Zoro grimaces. “Don’t make me say it, you bastard.”

“Say what?” Sanji asks, belligerent in his tipsiness.

Sighing, Zoro reaches into his haramaki, digs out the bottle of the good sake he’d filched from the party for later. Ignoring Sanji’s squawk of protest, he flicks the cap off and downs a good portion of the bottle, using the neck of his shirt to wipe his mouth in a way that makes the cook grimace. He waits for the buzz of the alcohol to settle in his veins, and when his brain begins to go fuzzy at the edge, he finally – begrudgingly – speaks. “You already have been, pervert cook.”

“Been what?”

“Ugh. The difference between life and death, or whatever. You saved us back in Alabasta, with the Little Prince schtick. Before that, too – the log pose on Little Garden.”

“ Mr Prince, you shitty bastard,” Sanji sneers, and then Zoro’s words must finally register, because he falls silent. The cook grapples with that for a while, his face twisting in rather amusing ways for the next few minutes.

Eventually, Sanji comes to the conclusion that he’s too sober for this conversation, and leans forward to wrench the bottle out of Zoro’s hand, throwing his head back and downing at least a third of the remaining liquid. It’s definitely a bad idea, and Zoro should’ve stopped him, but he’d been bizarrely mourning the loss of Sanji’s fingertips on his skin, strangely caught up in the glow of the moonlight against the column of the cook’s neck.

Sanji raises an eyebrow at him, the distinctive flush of alcohol already returning to his skin. “Never thought it’d be so easy to take your booze, swordsman,” he mumbles, lip twitching, “You look like a stunned ox.”

“…robot hands,” Zoro replies, because he can’t articulate the million reasons why they needed Sanji specifically, can’t find the words to explain that it’s not just about cooking or fighting but all the small things Sanji does for everyone else – Chopper’s marshmallows, finding the most potent chillies at every market for Usopp’s ammunition, specifically catering his menu to best suit the nutritional needs of everyone. Uncounted acts of kindness that Zoro has only recently noticed, barely scratching the surface. “If you lost your hands, we’d find someone to make you robot hands. Then you’d still be able to cook.”

“Sounds like a lot of effort for one cook,” Sanji hedges, thumb running against the lip of the sake bottle. He likes to keep his hands busy, it seems. “It’d be much easier to just get someone else. We’re a dime a dozen, in some parts of the world. I’d even stay on and train ‘em before I leave, keep you all fed on your adventures.”

“Yeah, right. Leave if you want, but don’t pin it on us, asshole. As far as me ‘n Luffy ‘n the others are concerned, it’s gotta be you.” Zoro scowls longingly at the booze being kept captive by the cook’s well-manicured hands. “Besides, we’re gonna get to the All Blue place eventually, aren’t we? Gonna need a cook who knows what he’s doing, hands or no hands. Don’t look so surprised,” he continues, because Sanji’s clearly gobsmacked and the alcohol apparently makes him chatty and also, he really hates the weird silence they’re bound to lapse into otherwise, “you’ve put the idea of a food paradise in Luffy’s head. It’s inevitable now. And- and Nami’s gonna map the world, right? There’s probably history and medicine there, for Robin and Chopper – hell, I dunno, weird fish chemicals for Usopp’s stuff too-“

“And you?” The cook’s quiet tone cuts directly through Zoro’s rambling. He’s staring at him like he’s really seeing him for the first time, searching his face for the answer to a question that Zoro can’t even begin to comprehend. “What’s in it for you, Roronoa Zoro? Why even bother?”

“I like seafood,” Zoro says bluntly. It’s the easiest question he’s had to answer in this whole interrogation. “And there’s bound to be some big fuckers in an ocean like that, right? Good practise. We’re pirates, aren’t we, shit-cook? That means we get to do whatever the hell we want, whenever the hell we want. Maybe we all have different dreams, but our shitty crew works because we all wanna achieve them. Unless you suddenly decide to give up, you’re stuck with us.”

Sanji makes a noise in the very back of his throat, like a wounded animal, and promptly tries to chug some more sake.

“Hey, stop hogging my booze, bastard.” He reaches for it, but Sanji lifts it up, childishly scowling at him.

“You stole this, and I’m stealing it back. Right of conquest, or whatever, shitty marimo.”

Then they’re grappling over the bottle, wrestling in the cramped crow’s nest like a couple of schoolboys. It’s long overdue – this is probably the longest conversation they’d ever had without actively trying to kill each other – but they’re both giggling, the alcohol finally getting to them and making them giddy. The serious atmosphere has all but evaporated, leaving behind a world that is soft and pink around the edges.

(Down below, Usopp has just exited the galley, with the intent to take a midnight leak. His bleary yawn is interrupted by the sound of hushed laughter and intermittent thumps from the crow’s nest. He glances upwards, pales, and then woodenly walks back inside, having immediately come to the worst – and wrong – conclusion. He gets no sleep that night, lying awake in the darkness and staring at the damningly empty hammocks across from him. Tomorrow morning, Robin will observe his shellshocked expression, the bags under his eyes, and innocently ask him what’s wrong. To the shock of the rest of the crew, Usopp will burst into heaving sobs, murmuring despondently about his upcoming demise.

It'll take less than an hour for him to spill his guts to Nami, and then things will almost definitely worsen, because poor Usopp never learns the consequences of Nami’s intervention – for the navigator is less beleaguered ally than she is wicked, eldritch fiend. But that, of course, is neither here nor there. For now, the night continues, velvety darkness speckled with stars like crushed ice.)

They eventually regain their composure some time later, sprawled out next to each other, shoulder to shoulder against the ship’s mast. The sake is finished, only some of it sloshing over the side during their brief tussle.

Sanji is further gone than Zoro is, having a lower alcohol tolerance. Makes sense; Sanji’s vice is those damn cigarettes, one of which dangles from his lips right now. Zoro would be lying if he said he wasn’t punch-drunk either, warmth flickering his chest like a banked fire. Maybe it’s the alcohol; maybe it’s just the residual happiness for Nami.

Sanji exhales, eyelashes fluttering. Zoro watches the smoke spiral upwards, towards the stars. The cook’s shoulder burns against his, like a furnace. Alive, alive, alive, pulled taught like a livewire – except for now, bonelessly slumped against Zoro and no less living for it. He can feel the cook breathe against him from here, without even looking – inhale, exhale, a steady pulse at his side. Zoro looks anyway, though.

The cook looks back at him, pupil dilated from the alcohol, so wide his iris is reduced to a faint ring of blue like a sun eclipsed. “Y’re like a bruise,” Sanji slurs, poking Zoro’s arm to punctuate his point, “When they’re all green or whatever. Healing.”

“You’re not making any sense, cook,” Zoro grumbles back, blinking rapidly to help him focus, “Jus’… sleep.”

Sanji shakes his head adamantly, visibly regretting it almost immediately. His finger pokes insistently into Zoro’s bicep. “Shaddup. ‘m thinking. You’re a bruise because… yeah, because people poke bruises.”

Zoro snorts. “Eloquent as ever – ow, don’t pinch.”

“Deserved,” Sanji sniffs, taking another long drag of his cigarette. “I thought… maybe you’re a bruise because you’re a brute. Getting into fights, ‘n all that. ‘Cuz you’re mean ‘n rude. Forceful.”

“Thanks, cook.”

“Shh,” Sanji pressed a reproachful finger to his lips, like they’re preschoolers. Zoro goes cross-eyed trying to look at it. “’m not finished. Shitty impatient swordsman… ‘s wrong, though. You’re a big softie, aren’tcha?”

Zoro scowls, and Sanji removed his finger like he thinks Zoro will bite it. The warmth lingers; Zoro tries his best to ignore it. “You calling me soft?”

“Not like that, stupid. I just… you’re not mean, is all.” Sanji’s face is all scrunched up as he searches for the appropriate words. “Some people’re mean ‘cuz they’re strong. Think they can do anything to anyone.”

“And you thought I was like that?” It stings, and Zoro pulls away slightly, oddly hurt – but the cook shoulder-checks him, closing the gap like he’s chasing after him.

“Nah,” Sanji admits, oddly bashful. “Never. Always knew you were a big dummy. But the opposite of mean’s just… not mean. Didn’t expect you to be nice.”

Zoro feels himself relax minutely, despite the frown – no, not a pout, thank you very much – on his face. “I’m not nice.”

“But you are,” the cook insists, getting riled up. He gesticulates wildly, narrowly avoiding taking Zoro’s eye out with the glowing embers of his cigarette. “Chopper idolises you, ‘n you always rescue Luffy when he falls overboard. Nami and Vivi – I heard you talking, that day.”

“Eavesdropping, are we? Nosy bastard.”

Sanji shoots him a dirty look. “Not the point, stupid.”

“Then what is, exactly?” Zoro asks, because he gets the feeling that there was something much larger going on that he couldn’t grasp. The world spins around him, stars lurching across his field of vision. Dizzying, befuddling, untethered save for the heat of Sanji’s shoulder through his clothes.

“D’you really think love can make a person stronger?” The cook ponders, side-stepping the question as neatly as he would when dodging one of Luffy’s stretched arms. “Thought you’d think it’s… useless. A distraction.”

“Hell, cook.” He takes a deep breath in, willing the cool night air to steady his head. He hasn’t felt so- so adrift like this in a good while. Floating untethered through the ether, inhabiting the space between stars. He’d gone shot-for-shot with Nami earlier, then drunk some more. That, plus Sanji and his strange questions, make the whole thing feel like some sort of out-of-body experience. Zoro’s not sure he’s even capable of answering, but he tries anyway, unwilling to leave Sanji hanging. “Guess it depends. Nami an’ Vivi work because… fuck, what’s the word? Starts with a B.”

“Balance?”

“Nah, ‘s the thing Nami always tells us to do. Com-pro-mise.” He sounds it out, splitting into syllables, drunkenly convinced that he needs to dissect to make sure it’s the one he’s looking for. He nods, satisfied. “Yeah, compromise. ”

“That starts with a C, idiot.”

“Whatever. See, Vivi an’ the witch, that’s love, ain’t it? Or maybe not yet, but it could be. They make each other better, right?”

“Right,” Sanji echoes, a ghost of a smile flitting across his face – and it’s genuine happiness, Zoro can tell, because the cook had been overjoyed for the girls when he’d heard the news, limiting himself to a few perfunctory jokes about losing the love of his life, just to make Nami roll her eyes and laugh through her overwhelmed tears. Maybe they’re all perfunctory, another one of those small things he does to amuse the others. “I don’t think I’ve met two people who’re better matched.”

I have, Zoro thinks, and then the thought is lost before he can dwell on it. He blinks blearily, trying to organise his drifting mind. “They go together well ‘cuz they understand each other’s dreams. They won’t have all that lovey-dovey bullshit every single day, not yet. But they’ve got each other to live for in the meantime, right, and they know they have each other. So maybe that’s love, an’ strength. Somewhere to go at the end of everything, to get stronger for.”

“That’s… oddly romantic,” Sanji rasps. Zoro snickers at the cook’s expression – somewhere between restaurant owner witnessing Luffy eat for the first time and random guy at a bar realising Nami’s just screwed him over, blown him off and stolen all his stuff. He should be insulted at the incredulity in Sanji’s tone, but he can’t really bring himself to be – not when Sanji looks like this, mussed around the edges and all the more endearing for it. Zoro likes him like this, he realises suddenly; fraying at the seams, carefully curated image splintering to reveal something rawer. Split open, like a dropped egg, the anger in his scowl and the strength in his kicking legs equally appealing as these softer, more vulnerable moments.

Zoro doesn’t know what to do with these revelations, doesn’t know how to explain that he wants to tuck them into his ribcage, ensconced next to his heart for as long as it continues to beat. And there’s alarm bells ringing in his skull, warning him that this is a dangerous path to tread. But it’s not like he’ll remember this in the morning, really; he’s drunker than he’s been in a while, and sober Zoro isn’t really one for introspection even if he does manage to recall tidbits. So he lets himself linger in the warmth, lets himself bathe in the strange liminality that exists in the moment. “It is what it is, cook. Worried I’ll steal away all your ladies?”

The cook snorts, drawing in another lungful of smoke. Zoro watches it when he exhales, smoke curling around Sanji’s lips before dissipating into the air. “Like you’d know what to do with a lady.” A beat passes. Sanji stubs out his cigarette against the floor. “You ever wonder if we’re that kind of person?”

Zoro knows exactly what he means. Of course they’ve both drawn on the strength of their friends before – it’s hard not to, with a crew bonded like theirs. Everyone has pushed themselves to their limits for someone else in the crew. Hell, they bring it out in each other. That’s not what Sanji’s asking, though. It’s not to diminish the value of the platonic bonds that exist between them all, because those truly are all-encompassing. Zoro’s fairly sure that everyone aboard the Merry would gladly follow Luffy to hell and back without wanting to hold his hand and watch the sunset together.

What Sanji is truly after lies in the way he fawns over countless women, yet never follows through. Why he takes rejection in stride yet hesitates at reciprocation. Everything he’s ever wanted, that he purposefully removes himself from even as he yearns for it: a romantic love, no less significant than his friendships yet earth-shattering nevertheless. A piece of the puzzle that is the cook clicks into place – countless small observations, slotting neatly together. Sanji wants to know if there’s something like that reserved for him, if all the love he has to give could ever suffice as driving force of someone else’s ambition. If he could receive the same in return, and deserve it.

Zoro cannot look into the eyes of the universe and proclaim it so. He can’t give Sanji the perfunctory affirmations he’s searching for, doesn’t understand why Sanji is asking him these questions. They’re strange beasts, the two of them, bloodied swords and shoes and bodies lying prone. A love like that is elusive for the best of people, and they are certainly no paragons of virtue. Therein lies their salvation, though, if any exists; they live on the razor-edge of life and death, know how to reach out and take what is offered, convention be damned. And maybe it seems unlikely, that creatures of violence like them could love and be loved like that, but stranger things have happened on the Grand Line. So Zoro cuts the bullshit, answers as honestly as he can.

“Dunno, really. Don’t see why not, though. World’s full of weirdos, bound to be somebody who can keep up.”

Sanji huffs a laugh at that. There’s a sort of gratitude written into the lines of his face, the wry crease of his forehead. “If you insist, shitty swordsman.”

The conversation peters out after that, both of them overtired from the alcohol and the heavy conversations. The silence is comfortable, and soon enough Zoro can feel himself drifting towards sleep. Sanji’s headed there too, judging by the fluttering of his eyelashes. It’s impressive that they’ve held out this long, really.

The last thing Zoro hears before properly dropping off is something he only understands later, a non-sequitur that’s quite nonsensical at the time and barely registers. He doesn’t even think Sanji’s aware he says it aloud, accompanied by the warm brush of a thumb against his knuckles. Then he’s gone, floating in the dreamless darkness.

-

  (“Annoying bastard. Bruise of a man… still, not like that.” A hand runs through blond hair, eyes drooping gradually shut. “The type you poke… the good hurt. The one you get from working hard. Pr’gress.”

Part said, he too drifts off, the warmth at his side lulling him to the safety of the dream-world. Then only the stars remain, mischievously twinkling witnesses from a million miles away – and they have no intention of interfering.)

*

Time passes, as it is wont to do. Usopp keeps looking at Zoro strangely, more flustered and panicky than usual, but he just brushes it off – probably the result of a nightmare, or something similarly in character for the sharpshooter. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.

Other than that, things keep chugging along as per usual. They have a number of disappointing interactions with the Marines – small fry, not enough to really sink his teeth into. Quite literally, given that he hasn’t had to use all three blades in what feels like weeks. It’s not challenging enough, like every other person on the damn Grand Line has hit a rut. He can tell it frustrates the cook, too, their impromptu sparring reaching hitherto unforeseen levels and giving Usopp stress ulcers. They’re all restless, in desperate need for a good adventure.

The cutting steel at will front is also stagnating, much to his frustration. He keeps getting sidetracked, like with Nami’s whole thing, or suffering the effects of medical experimentation. It’s not for lack of effort, though – his mind practically swims with information overload, but he doesn’t know how to make it work, struggles to parse the important things from the more mundane. When he closes his eyes at night, he sees the flash of steel, immaculate hands gripping the hilt of a knife and chopping away. It’s maddening.

He expresses this to Nami and Robin one night, out for drinks at a bar on some random island with a name that he can’t be bothered to remember. Nami had dragged him along, gaze knowing in a way that begets fear but demands compliance. To his surprise, Robin elected to join them, a placid smile on her lips when she glanced at the navigator. Maybe it was some sort of evil woman-to-woman communication, or something. Zoro did get the distinct feeling he was getting herded by them, but there’s only so much he can do in the face of the most dangerous woman in the world, and her assassin friend.

Robin sips daintily from her cocktail – a frighteningly fluorescent concoction that probably has enough alcohol to fell a horse. Zoro thinks she only ordered it because it had the most macabre name on the list, but judging by her pleased smile, it’s a hit. Or maybe she’s just enjoying the situation, watching Zoro squirm like he’s a particularly fascinating specimen (he’s long since gotten over himself about her potential betrayal, but Robin’s brand of weird still takes some getting used to) . “I’m not quite sure I understand what you mean.”

Zoro squints at her, at least ninety percent sure that’s a lie because Nico Robin is borderline omnipotent and deciphers texts far more convoluted than his embarrassed mumblings on the daily. She’s just trying to guide him into coming to his own conclusion, so he doesn’t reject whatever eventuality she proposes out of sheer spite.

“I think I’ve got it,” Nami declares, wickedly grinning. “You spend all your time daydreaming about Sanji instead of training. I must say, Zoro, didn’t think you had it in you to have a third thought. I figured you only had room for swords and naptime in that head of yours.”

He scowls. “It’s not like that, witch.”

“Isn’t it? What exactly was incorrect in that statement, huh?”

Zoro flounders. Technically, Nami was right. He had spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about the cook, cataloguing the lines of his form – all in the name of research. He’d had a Sanji-shaped blind spot for months. It was only natural that he’d reflexively overcompensate, right? If his thoughts lingered on Sanji’s behaviour – how his face shifted from expression to expression so openly, the dozens of acts of consideration directed at everyone else - then it was because he’d spent so much time disregarding all the little things about the cook that he felt compelled to make up for it.

As it stands, Sanji is his rival on the crew, the one who takes their little skirmishes as seriously as Zoro does. Of course he needs to know him in and out, so they can both continue get stronger. All of this is rational, logical. Yet the inflection in Nami’s words made something squirm inside his chest. “You make it sound so… so-“

“Romantic?” Robin suggests innocently.

“Yes- no- ugh, fuck. Whatever.” He takes a large sip from his glass. It’s surprisingly clean for a random bar, the place more upscale than Zoro is used to judging by the price of the cocktails alone. “It’s not like that at all.”

“You’ve seriously never thought about it?” Nami asks curiously, leaning forward in anticipation.

“No.”

She regards him for a moment, brown eyes searching his face for the hint of a lie. Surprisingly, she leans back, face twisted in dissatisfied acceptance.

“Would you say the nature of your relationship differs than those you have with the rest of the crew? Romantic or platonic.” Robin smiles gently, clearly trying to reassure him. It does actually settle him somewhat. “I’ve often thought that one cannot divide all interpersonal relationships into such simple binaries. Especially since joining the crew. There’s so many different ways to be important to someone.”

Zoro mulls this over. Of course he knows this – like how Chopper seamlessly slots into the role of little brother to be doted upon. It’s just not something he’s really dwelled on before. Nami and the cook have scolded him about his thoughtless nature before, and he typically brushes it off as them liking to complain. Maybe they’re right, though, because it seems like all he does these days is find more and more things he’s never considered before. “I guess.”

“From my perspective, you respect everyone on the crew because of their various strengths. Take our dear navigator, for example.” Nami preens at the attention. “Why do you respect her? And why is she important to you and the crew?”

“You better be nice,” Nami warns, sticking her tongue out at him, “or I’m gonna tell on you.”

He sighs, knowing damn well that he can’t get out of this. Robin will know if he’s lying or trying to downplay anything, and his pride rankles at the thought of being seen as a coward. “She’s the chief annoyance on board. She’s a shameless liar, thief and scoundrel who gets a kick out of exploiting her fellow crewmates.”

Nami bats her eyelashes. “Well, aren’t you sweet.”

Zoro ignores her, instead fixing his gaze on the chalkboard behind the bar that boasts the menu. “She’s damn cunning and greedy, but she… ugh. Her heart’s in the right place. She’ll come through if you need her.”

“Like the little sister you never wanted?” Robin asks fondly. He grimaces; this is very rapidly becoming too touchy-feely for him.

“Sure, whatever.”

Nami stares at him for a second, rarely and blissfully silent, before her expression melts into something both sheepish and affectionate. “Aww, you’re like the brother I prayed I’d never get.” The words sound rude, but there’s weight to them that Zoro understands. Few people on the crew are good at emotional honesty, either due to past experiences or just personality. Thinly veiled affection like this is as much as most of them are willing or able to do. This is a language they’re all fluent in, the give and take of affection and care without outright saying it, because how else are you supposed to thank the people who saved you in every sense of the word?

Robin raises a slim hand, orders them another round. Probably to give Zoro a brief period of recovery before asking more of him, lest he run away like a spooked horse. Regardless, he’s not complaining; this probably isn’t on his tab, and he’ll never turn down free sake.

Once she’s determined that he’s had enough time, Robin resumes whatever point she’s building up to. “Am I correct in assuming you feel differently about Sanji, as opposed to Nami?”

“Obviously,” Zoro snorts, because the idea is ridiculous. “They’re different people entirely.”

“You respect both of them, though. What’s the difference?”

“They’re the same kind of person,” Nami supplies, which is probably for the best because he genuinely doesn’t know what to say other than the frankly humiliating defining my interactions with Nami and Sanji as belonging to the same category makes me feel weird and a little gross . “Like, Luffy is strong in the way that makes you want to follow him, despite his reckless idiocy. He’s protective of us, but he’s the captain - the guiding type. There’s a distinction between him and you two, even though you’re all the same brand of crazy.”

Robin nods. “Devoted, is the word I’d use. We all exist around Luffy like planets in orbit, but to varying degrees. You and our cook are at the forefront of it all, the right-hand men. The ones who Luffy trusts to defend everyone else when he inevitably launches himself headfirst into another mess.”

…It makes sense, in a way. Despite Sanji’s strange, and often annoying personality, Zoro and Luffy alike know Sanji would never let them down. The man is intrinsically capable, whether it be fighting at Zoro’s back, delicately plating an elaborate dessert, or manipulating a despotic warlord – every movement carefully telegraphed, neatly dancing along the lines that make up the world. He wonders what it’d be like to see the cook at the end of everything, if he’ll one day slip off the knife’s edge he insists on inhabiting. If there’s space for one more. “Still don’t get why you’d think I’m in love with the cook, of all people.”

“Who else? And I never said anything about love,” Robin peers at him, and he feels vaguely caught out, like a bug under the microscope. “I simply believe that you and the cook exist on the same plane, one that the rest of us aren’t privy to. Did you know that plants can pull each other off course, despite the overwhelming gravitational force exhibited by the sun? It’s quite remarkable. Against those overwhelming odds, that mutual attraction still exists. Billions of years in isolation, hurtling across a predestined path, only to be forever altered by simple chance.”

“Sounds more like a collision course to me. Mutually assured destruction.”

“Perhaps. And what a beautiful end that would be, indeed – to witness the alteration of the heavens themselves is a privilege very few are afforded in this universe of ours. But,” and she stares him directly in the eyes, pinning him to his seat, “this destruction is never assured. The force of a sun – or a dream, so to speak – is so great that, more likely than not, both planets will continue on their respective paths. Their influence on each other may even prove beneficial in the long run, extending the lifespan of one or both over the course of billions of years. A foreign body – a stray meteor, or some other cosmic destruction – may narrowly miss a planet due to the seemingly insignificant exertion of the other planet, eons in the past.”

“We’re not planets, though. We’re people,” Zoro says mulishly, though his hand is rapidly tightening on the neck of his sake bottle. He hates metaphors, especially twisty ones like these. Especially when he thinks he understands what Robin is getting at.

Robin smiles mysteriously, taking another long sip of her cocktail. “Even better, my dear swordsman. Humans have free will, consciousnesses that mere celestial bodies lack. We have purposes, motivations, goals. We will always have a choice. It’s simply up to you which option you choose.”

Silence.

Zoro’s jaw clenches, then unclenches, then clenches again just for the hell of it. “That’s an awful lot of words, and yet you still didn’t manage to answer my question.”

Nami, who’s been watching the entire exchange like it’s a particularly fascinating show, straightens. “Oh, I know that one. It’s because Usopp is convinced you two are fucking.”

Zoro chokes on his drink, narrowly avoiding drenching Nami with sake. An arm sprouts from his chair in a fluffy of petals, smacking him on the back to help clear his lungs. Robin signals the waiter for some serviettes. It takes a while, but eventually Zoro composes himself enough to splutter a plaintive “ Why?”

“Apparently he heard a whole bunch of thumping and giggling in the crow’s nest one night, and when he went back to bed, yours were the only beds empty.” Nami shrugs, like she hasn’t just upended Zoro’s entire existence. “I figured it was a nightmare or something, because you two would be way too obvious about it. It did get me wondering about you two, though. That’s why I was so surprised just now when you said you’d never even considered it.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Zoro groans, resting his head in his palms, ignoring the fact that they were still sticky with sake. “Then cook’s gonna kill me, and I’m gonna have to kill him back. It’s over.”

“I told him he was wrong,” Nami says flippantly, totally unbothered. “Honestly, the only reason I’m mentioning it is because Usopp keeps tinkering right outside when I’m trying to work on my maps, so he deserves some sort of punishment. Plus, I’m sorta curious about where he got the idea from in the first place.” Her necklace glints, catching the light, and the pieces fall into place.

“The party,” he laments, defeated, “The one when Vivi wrote you back. Everyone got plastered so I took watch right after. Then cook appeared out of nowhere and started going on about some bullshit or the other. Tried to steal my sake, the bastard, so we wrestled for a while.”

“You wrestled,” Nami’s eyebrows are creeping steadily upwards, a hand reaching up to massage her temple. “You got plastered, at a party with an overall atmosphere of love, and ended up alone in a place you consider a refuge. Then Sanji – the man you’ve spent several weeks eyeing, which regardless of your intention at the time is wild in this context – appears, crossing the invisible boundary slash division of space between you. You proceed to get more plastered together, then you physically start wrestling?”

“…Yeah?”

Nami buries her face into Robin’s shoulder, and lets out a muffled scream, making some of the other patrons at the bar stare at them oddly. The older woman pats her back gently, a small smile on her lips, before glancing back up at Zoro. “If I may ask, what happened next?”

His memories of the night are fairly hazy, but he remembers enough about their conversation to feel uncomfortable spilling the cook’s business like that, especially given that it wouldn’t really pan out in his favour. “We fell asleep? He was gone in the morning, though. Breakfast or something, probably.”

Nami peeks at him. “Were you upset when you saw he was gone?”

“Why would I be?” he asks, genuinely confused, “I’m not his keeper. Even if I was, it probably wouldn’t matter,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, because his mind’s on their late-night not-tryst again, “Wouldn’t matter if he left, ‘s long as he came back eventually. Sometimes you gotta go your own way for a while, if you wanna get stronger. Cook knows that as well as I do.”

Both women stare at him. He gets the impression that this may be one of the few times he’s actually surprised Robin.

Eventually, Nami reaches over the table to grab his hands in hers, grimacing at the mild stickiness. “Zoro, I’m only gonna say this because you helped me with Vivi, so I owe you one. I thought I could help you in return, but I think we’re both out of our depth here. I cannot even begin to comprehend what you want right now, nor what any feelings you have regarding Sanji mean. All I can do is wish you the best, and pray nothing explodes in our faces. Okay?” She squeezes his hands, then releases them as she stands, digging around in her bag and pulling out a fistful of money. “We should probably head back soon, anyway. I’m gonna go haggle our tab down.”

Then it’s just him and Robin, alone at the table. She watches him, a concerned look flitting over her features. “Are you all right, Zoro? I apologise if we came on a bit too strong.”

“All I wanted was to get stronger,” Zoro replies blankly, staring at his hands like the answers are written on them. “Is this just a consequence of joining Luffy’s crew? Because I’m sitting here, directionless, soaked in my own booze, and I still can’t fucking cut steel.”

Robin pats his shoulder gently. “For what it’s worth, I really think you’re on the cusp of figuring it out. You’re on the right track.”

Given that she’s at least partially to blame for this whole mess, it’s not very comforting.

-

The next few days aboard the Merry are somewhat awkward. There’s a sudden pressure surrounding his interactions with Sanji, like the intangible weight of another’s expectations is slowly crushing him. He can barely meet the other man’s eyes.

Robin and Nami’s words reverberate around his skull for the next week, try as he might to drown them out. All of a sudden, he’s forced to hyper analyse every interaction he has with the cook. It’s different from his usual observations, in that Zoro now has to second-guess himself. He detests it; he’s always been a man of action and impulse, and yet he finds himself stewing in silence more often than not, turning hundreds of little moments over in his head in an attempt to see why they think he has feelings for the other man.

Needless to say, he’s grumpier than ever. Even Luffy picks up on it, pinning him with one of those rare looks of total and utter comprehension that reserves for moments he finds particularly serious. “Nothing will change,” the captain says once, apropos of nothing when Zoro walks past Merry’s head, “Zoro will still fight and train - and get stronger, too.”  Having someone as oblivious as Luffy aware of his conundrum is deeply humiliating, so he ignores it as best he can.

Spars with the cook that were once light-hearted are suddenly all too real, sheathed swords and steel-toed boots leaving nasty welts that bruise a darker purple than ever before. The usual spark of satisfaction that accompanies their tussles is gone, replaced by a restless itch under Zoro’s skin. Frustration festers in his gut until he starts going out of his way to avoid the cook, refusing to rise to the bait no matter how blatant. The cook was clearly confused, maybe even concerned the first few times, but soon enough it melts into a disgusted scowl. Zoro refuses to read into the fact that he can see hurt written into the tense of the cook’s shoulders, the furrowing of his brow. 

Everything is just… too much for Zoro. He despises Nami and Robin’s concerned glances, the way Chopper tiptoes around him like he’s a landmine. Why should this one small thing consume him entirely, cause such a great disturbance in the crew? The idea that it’s such a monumental thing rankles at him, much in the same way that he instinctively shies away from the notion that he likes the cook in that way. Even if he was in love with Sanji or whatever, it shouldn’t matter that much. Zoro likes things the way they are - or were. He likes sparring with Sanji, hanging around the galley like a dog begging for scraps just because it annoys the cook. The camaraderie that exists between them doesn’t deserve to be sullied by stupidly cheesy romance, no flowers or chocolate or big gestures. Their dynamic is important because it’s interesting, competitive. He shudders at the thought of losing that to some cheap, fake mirage of domesticity, making them go all soft at the edges.

Of course, the world doesn’t stop moving because Zoro’s having a mini meltdown. Soon enough, they’re on the battlefield once more, back to back against a particularly sophisticated group of bandits terrorising the latest island. Luffy’s gone ahead somewhere, gunning straight for the big boss and leaving Zoro and Sanji to clean up the rest. 

They’re frustratingly out of sync, and it shows in the way they chafe against each other, elbows clashing and throwing each other off-balance. Honestly, these bandits aren’t overly tough foes, mainly just cannon fodder, but the constant frustration of a ruined kick or slash makes both of them sloppy, tempers steadily rising as the battle extends for far longer than it reasonably should. 

Finally, Sanji reaches some breaking point, whirling around to face Zoro. He’s clearly furious, cigarette barely hanging on for dear life and his face a mottled red. “What is your fucking problem,” he seethes, practically spitting.

“Don’t blame me for your own sloppiness, cook,” Zoro retorts, because he detests not being able to hit a decent rhythm in a battle, and the sight of Sanji is making him inordinately angry right now. “You’re screwing up my fight because you can’t control yourself.”

Sanji waves a near-hysterical finger in Zoro’s face. “You don’t get to blame your idiocy on me, shitty marimo. You’ve been a pain in the ass all week. This is your fault.”

An arrow whizzes towards the back of the cook’s exposed head. Zoro moves at breakneck speed to slice it down the middle with Wado, scowling as he does so. “Yeah, right. Why don’t you mind your own business, huh?”

“It’s my business when you’re screwing everything up, making us look borderline incapable in front of useless two-bit thugs like this,” the cook hisses, kicking a gun aimed at Zoro’s chest out of its owner’s hands before caving the man’s skull in, “This battle should’ve been over ages ago. It’s pathetic.”

“Then go fight somewhere else, curly. Nobody said you had to be on my case all day.” The anger keeps building, growing into something almost palpable. It’s like the events of the past months keep bubbling over, condensed into a single moment. It’s unbearable - more so because Zoro still can’t figure out why it feels so vitally all-encompassing, why he can’t just brush it off like he normally would.

Sanji snorts. “And have to waste precious time looking for you when we leave? As if.”

They continue the fight like that, back-to-back in a defensive circle and griping at each other all the while. Their words are unusually barbed, acerbic with days of pent-up anger.

Just as the horde of minions finally begins to thin, a shadow falls over them. Zoro glances up, vaguely recognising the face of one of the top subordinates in the organisation - a tall, broad man that’s been cybernetically enhanced somehow, or perhaps is just a robot entirely. Some of the bandits had been sporting what appeared to be unusually advanced weapons, but the man before him looked like the grisly test subject of a mad scientist in comparison. His entire body was blackened metal, orange currents glowing in the crevices of his body and converging in two glowing components – one at the top of his head, and one where his heart would be. Finally, an interesting opponent.

“I’ll take this one,” he volunteers, already biting down on Wado’s hilt.

Sanji sweeps the legs out from underneath three of the last cronies, sending them toppling like so many dominoes. His eyes are flat with annoyance. “Like I’ll let you steal all the glory like that, bastard.”

The robot-man-thing regards them passively. It towers over them, easily larger than a building. “Overconfidence will be your downfall, pirates,” it intones flatly, “I will not go down so easily.”

Sanji lights a cigarette, languidly breathing in the smoke as he examines the automaton. “We’ll see about that. Oi, marimo – bet I’ll take him down first. You’re slow today.”

The familiar sparks of competition flare back to life in Zoro’s chest. “You wish,” he growls, fists clenching around his swords.

 “So be it,” the automaton says, emotionless, and then its right hand is moving, slamming into the sand where Zoro and Sanji were just standing and leaving a massive crater. Zoro just barely launches himself out of the way, cursing under his breath. The robot is hot, scorchingly so, and ridiculously fast for its size. He risks a glance at the crater, and is utterly unsurprised to see it glowing cherry-red, pinging as it cools like molten glass. He can’t let it touch him, not even once. It’s vital that he dispatches it up as soon as possible, before it manages to land a hit on either of them.

Zoro prepares to strike, all three swords at the ready as he aims for the glowing core embedded in the automaton’s chest. Before he gets too close, however, the thing’s arm comes hurtling directly towards his face. He’s forced to change tactics at the last minute, defending himself against total annihilation. Wado’s blade skitters harmlessly against the metal, creating a shower of sparks that pepper Zoro’s arm, but he’s thrown the thing off-momentum enough to dart away, growling in annoyance.

The next few minutes feel more like a game of cat-and-mouse than anything else. The robot man is toying with them, strictly on the defensive. Every attempt Zoro makes to get closer is thwarted by the speed of the thing, parried by a glowing fist or mild detonation that forces him to hiss and jump backwards. The brief excitement he’d felt at fighting a decent enemy gradually seeps out, replaced by a burgeoning frustration.

Sanji lands next to him with catlike grace, unharmed but slightly worse for wear. His suit is pockmarked with holes, the ends of his hair curling up from the intense heat. Judging by the scowl on his face and the utter lack of damage on the robot, he’s in largely the same predicament as Zoro himself – if not worse, given his reliance on physical contact to deliver a blow. “The glowing is getting brighter,” the cook notes, intensely eyeing the pulsating core. “I think it’s overheating. Do you hear that whirring sound?” When Zoro nods, Sanji continues. “There’s a cooling system somewhere in the body.”

Zoro replays the past few minutes in his head. “Left side,” he says decisively, recalling its preference for attacking with the right, “Probably lower down, so it can use both arms offensively.”

They dodge another attack, much like the first one, jumping in opposite directions as the massive fist slams into the dirt. Sand rains arounds them, making Zoro’s nose scrunch up in distaste. He catches Sanji’s eye, on the opposite side of the robot – the left side, incidentally. Understanding passes between them, a plan formed in a wordless instant. He feels his lips curl up into a savage grin, mirroring Sanji’s own.

A minute later, the core glows the brightest it has thus far. Zoro has to avert his eyes ever so slightly before the afterimage is permanently burned into his retinas, but it doesn’t matter; the robot isn’t aiming at him right now. Indeed, its movements are sluggish, even as the heat rolling off of its frame increases in intensity. Against the average adversary, the decrease in speed is probably inconsequential given its strength and the fact that it’s still pretty damn fast for a thing that size. Zoro and Sanji are not the average adversary, though, have built careers off proving otherwise.

By the time the groan of twisting metal reaches his ears, the robot bellowing in agonized fury, Zoro is already moving. There must be a person in there, he thinks; it’s the easiest way to explain the way the thing reacts, swinging to face Sanji, chest wide open in its stupor. Zoro’s slash is controlled, precise, bisecting the core in one neat movement. Heat erupts from the shattered orb, and for a split-second Zoro wonders if he’s miscalculated, gained so much momentum that he can’t stop himself, the body of the thing so hot he can’t push himself off of it, but then there’s fingers tucked beneath the collar of his shirt and Sanji’s pulling them both backwards, out of the line of fire.

“Reckless,” Sanji tuts, but he can’t quite hide the smug satisfaction bleeding into his tone.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Zoro retorts, gesturing to Sanji’s feet. The leather uppers, normally polished to perfection, are scorched beyond repair, the rubber soles melted almost beyond recognition. He wrinkles his nose at the acrid scent of burning rubber. “Least I was smart enough not to touch the damn thing.”

The cook rolls his eye. “I know my limits well enough.”

“As do I,” Zoro says mulishly, because this is familiar territory – the ebb and flow of them, snarking back and forth. Loathe as he is to admit it, he missed their back and forth these past few days.

Sanji’s inevitable retort dies on his lips at the sound of groaning metal. Zoro realises belatedly that neither of them had bothered to check if the thing was dead or unconscious or whatever. They watch in bewildered silence as the thing pushes itself up off of the ground, dented metal popping back into place, the core reshaping itself and beginning to glow once more. Even the dents in the metal next to the core have disappeared, the only remaining trace of his strike being small scratches in the paint.

“I told you I wouldn’t go down so easily, did I not?” the machine said smugly, circuitry whirring back to life. Metal crawls across its form like flesh knitting back together, repulsive and yet hard to look away from.

“Should’ve cut it better, shitty swordsman,” Sanji drawls, thoroughly unimpressed. “Honestly, all this talk about cutting steel and you’ve made this little progress? You’re an embarrassment.”

Zoro flips him off. “It’s got nothing to do with that, pervert-cook. It’s the cores – probably gotta take both out at the same time.” Sanji’s words finally process fully, and he whips around to face the cook. “You know about that?”

“Obviously. You’re hardly subtle.”

Mortification ripples up Zoro’s spine, and he cringes inwards, wondering what exactly he’s been unsubtle about. The idea that Sanji might’ve been fully aware of Zoro’s gaze, allowed it, even, makes his ears burn.

They dodge and parry for a while, looking for an opportunity to strike. The core at the top of the robot’s head is too far out of reach, though; the angles mean he can’t take both cores out at the same time, and there wouldn’t be enough time to take them out one-by-one either.

Sanji’s hands are equally tied, much to the cook’s frustration. “What’s the use in all those swords if you can’t hit more than one target?” He goads, chest heaving slightly with exertion.

“What’s the use of all that leg if you can’t reach the stupid bastard’s head?” Zoro snips back.

The automaton is clearly unwilling to give them any openings, evidently having learnt its lesson. Flanking it doesn’t help, nor does attacking at the same time. Eventually, they end up side by side once more, both panting slightly.

“If you give me a boost, I can take out the core on the head,” Sanji says lowly, out of the corner of his mouth so the robot can’t hear or read his lips. “Get me high enough and I’ll have the momentum.”

“The other one is still a problem,” Zoro points out. Much to his frustration, the automaton has figured out his inability to cut metal, taking to covering the core with its left hand. If he wants to break it, he’ll have to slice through a meter of solid metal first.

“Figure it out, marimo, or I’ll kill you myself,” Sanji threatens, making direct eye contact. His eye is steely blue, aflame with certainty, and suddenly Zoro just… knows. Sanji’s suit has no particular heat resistance, his shoes are in ruins. Crushing the core will undoubtedly injure the cook. If Zoro fails, Sanji will hurt himself for nothing, leave himself defenceless against the automaton. Nothing Zoro has done in the past few weeks should give the cook any confidence in his ability, yet Sanji trusts him regardless, placing himself – his ability to fight, his future, even – wholly in Zoro’s open hands.

His mouth goes dry, spine tingling with a sharp little thrill. “I’ll do it.”

Something flickers in Sanji’s eye. “Good.” He catapults backwards, giving himself space to run up.

The automaton advances on Zoro, inevitable and impenetrable. Zoro raises his arms, crossing Kitetsu and Yubashiri over each other like he’s going to attack. It’s a move he’s done several times this battle, one of the attacks he falls back on regularly.

“Old tricks won’t work on me,” the thing says, smug.

Zoro closes his eyes, inhales. He’s caught up in Sanji’s orbit, can feel him approach without seeing him. Sanji lands effortlessly on the crossed blades, crouched and ready, as Zoro bends his arms slightly before pushing upwards, towards the sky. Sanji flies, spinning in the air like he was born to roam the stratosphere. The combination of the strength of the cook’s legs and Zoro’s boost thrust him far above the startled automaton’s head. Zoro swears he blots out the sun, immortalises the image of Sanji, glowing and grinning and exhilarated in the sky above.

Now comes the true test. The automaton is distracted, surprised, and this is the best chance he’ll ever get so he takes it. There’s no room for doubt in his head or in his heart. The world sings around him, thrumming in his veins and sparkling across his nerves. He briefly wonders if Sanji hears it too, because he can clearly feel the cook, inhabiting that same elusive wavelength. It’s the high they chase every time they spar with each other, the satisfaction of burning muscles and hard work and a hearty meal.

Zoro doesn’t waste the momentum left from Sanji pushing off of him, instead flowing into it, using it to his advantage. He grasps the hilts of his swords, feeling their worn grips against his palms, the way his fingers curl around them. Even as the robot shakes off its surprise and advances on him, raising a fist, Zoro aligns Kitetsu and Yubashiri so they’re parallel to each other, preparing to slash in sync.

Silence.

Then a deafening crash.

In the same instant that Sanji plunges foot-first onto the robot’s head, utterly decimating the core, Zoro slices through the metal body like it’s butter, smooth and uninhibited. The machinery groans, shudders to a halt, and begins to fall backwards, the cook still perched atop its head. Zoro drops his sword, reaches out to him, and Sanji grabs his hand with both of his own, allowing himself to be pulled out of the wreckage before it explodes.

They stand there in silence, silhouetted by the setting sun and staring at the twisted, smoking metal. After a beat, Sanji drops his hand like he’d forgotten he was holding it, and Zoro bends to pick up his swords, returning them to their sheathes.

There’s something divine in the way the dying sunlight kisses Sanji’s face, highlighting the strands of his hair that have begun to curl at the ends due to the heat of the robot and sweat. The rhythm of the world has begun to fade away, but Zoro knows the way back now, won’t forget how to reach that state. He can still sense Sanji, though, resonating on the same wavelength, a hair’s breadth away. It makes him inexplicably nervous. He looks away. “How’s the, uh, leg?” he settles on lamely.

Sanji blinks, as though awoken from some unknowable reverie. “Oh. It’s… fine, actually. Chopper will be able to fix it in no time. Probably won’t even scar.”

It’s true; his pants leg is utterly obliterated up to his knee, and the limb is definitely bloody, but not alarmingly so. “We should probably get back to the ship. Get you patched up.”

Sanji hums in agreement, but doesn’t move an inch. He’s staring at the wreckage, but his body is angled towards Zoro. “Have you finally pulled your head out of your ass, then? The ladies were worried about you, for some unfathomable reason.”

Zoro scowls. “Maybe they shouldn’t meddle, then.”

“Crass and ill-mannered as ever, I see.” A pause. “Maybe if you were more of a gentleman, you would’ve been fast enough to take that scrapheap out before I did.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Zoro snaps, annoyed, “There’s no correlation. Also, we took it down at the same time, damn you.”

The cook shakes his head, impudent as ever. “I was faster. You were too busy staring like an idiot, so you were a second late.”

“I wasn’t staring,” Zoro, who had definitely been staring, hisses. “And even if I was, how would you know if you weren’t also staring, huh?”

Sanji scowls right back at him. “Don’t sound so smug, idiot. Ugh.”

Zoro finds himself quite taken with the cook’s sudden flush, originating at the man’s ears and slowly crawling across his neck and cheeks. He follows the thread of the conversation, pursuing the sudden sense that he’s gained some intangible advantage. “Say, cook. I have a question – earlier, you mentioned that I’d been staring for a while now. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Chatty today, aren’t we?”

“Just answer the damn question. I figured you’d tell me to fuck off, or avoid me – not end up spending more time with me. I want to know why.”

Sanji’s shoulders are curled defensively inwards, arms folded across his chest. “We’re crewmates, aren’t we?” he says eventually, avoiding Zoro’s eyes. “Far be it from me to hinder the development of a fellow member. It’d be pretty shitty to end up dead down the line because I was too stubborn to help someone out. Even an idiot like you.”

Zoro’s lip twists, dissatisfied. “You’re holding back, I can tell. There’s gotta be something you’re getting out of this.”

“Frankly, that’s none of your business,” Sanji snaps with surprising fervour. His eyes are wild, desperate.

He holds up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. “Woah, cook. Don’t get your panties in a twist. If it’s that private, I’ll drop it.”

“Yeah, right,” the cook grumbles, surprisingly morose. “You’re relentless, you jerk.”

“Honest,” Zoro insists, “Swordsman’s honour.” He doesn’t like the look on Sanji’s face, an odd mixture of frustration, anger, and deprecation. Of course he wants to know what’s going on in the man’s head, but not like this.

The conversation lapses into a brief silence. The sun creeps lower, already beginning to disappear under the horizon. In the distance, Zoro can just barely hear the familiar sound of Luffy’s voice, whooping loudly and undoubtedly victoriously. Soon enough, someone’s going to come looking for them, wondering at the hold-up. What will they think, finding them here, alone in this secluded little cove and surrounded by wreckage and the weight of unsaid words? Zoro doesn’t know. For now, though, it’s like they’re trapped in a bubble, totally isolated from the rest of the world. Just him and Sanji and all the things they won’t say.

Zoro is so caught up in the atmosphere that he barely registers it when Sanji breaks the silence. “Huh?”

The cook rolls his eyes. “I asked what you were hoping to achieve, staring at me all the damn time.” The words are painfully over-enunciated, just to mock him, and Zoro feels a brief flash of irritation. It fades as soon as he catches sight of Sanji’s face, though – guarded and oddly resigned.

“It was Robin’s idea,” he says honestly. “Right after she joined the crew. She suggested that I look at the rest of the crew, see how they work in their elements. Said it might help me get over my roadblock.”

“Why me?”

“To be totally honest, you were my last choice. Figured you’d kick the hell out of me if I tried.”

“I should’ve,” Sanji grumbles, petulant.

Zoro ignores him. “Eventually figured that you were my best bet. All things considered, we’re pretty evenly matched, but have vastly different fighting styles. I was right.”

“More like Nami was right. You’re too stubborn to come to that conclusion yourself.”

“Maybe. But it worked, didn’t it?”

“Guess so,” the cook admits begrudgingly. A beat. “What exactly was it that you were looking for?”

“The way you move, mostly.” The aftershocks of what he’d felt in the battle make him honest – damningly so, probably. “You grew up in that restaurant, didn’t you? Made you more aware of your surroundings than I was.”

The affection in Sanji’s voice is palpable. “The old man used to say that a brat that’s constantly underfoot, is a brat in danger of becoming the daily special. Between that and his track record, I got pretty good at being where nobody else was.”

“It’s like dancing,” he replies automatically, mind drawn back to the day at the market. How Sanji navigated so easily even in the throng of people, feet magically finding empty cobbles where Zoro could swear there was no space. Zoro’s used to people parting for him, intimidated by his scowl or the three swords strapped to his waist. He’s always direct like that, forging his own path, letting the world acclimate around him. It’s hardly as though the cook operates in the shadows, but it’s one of the important distinctions between them – Sanji is detail-oriented, precise, thumb on the beating pulse of the world around him with the same delicacy he’d use to place a sugar-spun flower on the top of his latest dessert concoction for the ladies.

Zoro used to forget how many ways strength could manifest itself in, travelling alone for so long. Tunnel vision, and all that. Not anymore, though; it’s impossible, with someone that complements him so well at his side, egging him on and demanding improvement.

“Working customer service will do that to you,” Sanji huffs a laugh, hand inching towards his cigarettes. “Of course an idiot like you would find the answers to your little universe tucked away in the apron of the average minimum wage worker.”

“Oh, shut up,” Zoro grumbles half-heartedly.

“Maybe we should invest in some dancing lessons for you,” the cook continues, faux sincerity in his voice. “Get some more of Chopper’s weird green pills. We can make you the world’s worst dancing Christmas tree – or one of those oracle trees, actually, remember Robin telling us about the legend on that island?”

“What, want me to tell your future or something?”

Sanji laughs unexpectedly, throwing his head back. It’s a nice sound. “No thanks. I’ll stick with the present, if it’s all the same to you.”

“This is a rare opportunity,” Zoro deadpans, face perfectly straight. “Humanoid fortune-telling Christmas trees are in short supply even on the Grand Line.”

“Is that so?”

“I am an orphan.”

Something in the air feels… different, somehow. Charged with something intentional. “It would be remiss of me to pass up such an occasion, I suppose. Tell me, O arboreal prophet,” Sanji drawls, rooting around in his pockets for his lighter, “I know what you were looking for, but what did you end up finding?”

This is how the cook operates – roundabout probing, tentative allusions. Rarely straightforward, motive always concealed. Zoro has long since known this, perhaps even before this whole thing started. He opens his mouth to say something - comment on how Sanji should work in some stretches in the morning to stop his neck from hurting because he’s seen the way the cook’s hand reaches up to massage the back of it when he thinks no one is looking, for example, or how he could benefit from training on different terrains like sand or snow so he can adapt in a fight – but all that comes out is “I think I’m in love with you.”

The realisation washes over him even as he says it. He knows it’s true, in the same way he could identify Wado by hilt alone, in the same way he knows he will be the greatest swordsman in the world – bone-deep, unshakeable certainty. It feels right, in every way imaginable. Still, it’s a little overwhelming, so he sinks down onto the sand, staring thoughtfully at the waves. A thousand little things make sense now, like his strange compulsion to bother the cook at any given moment, or why he’s so drawn to the other man in the first place. They’re two sides of the same coin, balanced together against the world.

Sanji, uncharacteristically, has said nothing, still fumbling around for his lighter. Zoro watches him curiously, hesitant at the uncharted territory but going along with it for now. He’s no expert, sure, but he’s pretty sure confessions don’t usually end like this – definitely not ones between people like them. He warily braces for a kick.

Instead, Sanji plops down next to him, leg awkwardly extended to avoid jostling it. Zoro watches, transfixed, as the cook holds the cigarette lightly between his teeth. One hand cups around the end, shielding it from the wind, the other flicking the lighter to life. The golden sparks leave afterimages in Zoro’s eyes. Sanji’s eye flutters closed as he inhales, silhouetted against the dying sun. A begrudging, irrational part of Zoro is a little jealous that the cook looks kind of cool like this. The other part just thinks he looks hot, which is a revelation in and of itself; apparently ‘observing your rival’s musculature to improve your own combat skills’ tends to be a little more self-indulgent than he’d originally assumed.

Then Sanji’s spluttering, evidently having finally registered Zoro’s words. He doesn’t quite inhale his cigarette, but it’s a near thing; some of the smoke must’ve gone down the wrong way, if that’s a thing. All Zoro can think to do is pat him on the back, which doesn’t seem to help much so he does it harder until Sanji recovers enough to twist and kick him off. They end up next to each other, lying sprawled out on the sand.

“What is your fucking problem?” Sanji wheezes eventually, wild-eyed with fury, “Are you trying to kill me?”

Zoro frowns. “If I were trying to kill you, why would I tell you I’m in love with you? Seems a bit backwards.”

Sanji flushes an interesting shade of pink. Zoro’s never seen him with such little composure before. It’s quite remarkable; the collar of his shirt is all wonky, sticking up around his ears, and there’s wrinkles that the other man would probably have a conniption about later. “Stop saying that,” Sanji hisses, covering his face with his hands.

“Why should I?” he replies, defensive, “I can do whatever the hell I want.”

“Oh, I dunno, because it’s not true?” Sanji retorts, scathing and bitter.

“Says who, asshole? They’re my feelings, I should know better than you.” His throat is dry, making it hard to swallow.

“Because you have the emotional range of a cutlery drawer? And you’re almost definitely making fun of me.” Sanji’s hands slide into his hair, gripping at the roots like he does when he’s stressed.

“Cook, cut me some slack. I literally just figured this out.” He slowly reaches over to grab Sanji’s wrists, pulling his hands out of his hair and forcing the cook to look at him. “I promise I’m not being a dick here, okay?”

Whatever Sanji sees in his eyes much convince him, because he goes limp, something like acceptance on his face. Zoro lets go of his arms, satisfied.

Silence.

Then: “How are you so sure?”

“I just know.”

“That’s not good enough,” Sanji stresses, lighting another cigarette; the previous one was utterly obliterated in the struggle, lying in tatters in the sand. “If I’m going to believe you, I need a reason. Why now? And what do you want from me?”

Zoro pauses, searching for the words. Speaking like this isn’t his forte; he can’t just come up with some romance-novel speech or gesture. This is important, though; if he screws it up, he might never get the chance to fix it. “Do you remember that night in the crow’s nest? You were drunk. You asked me if people like us were ever going to have what Nami and Vivi have. Love that makes us stronger. People who suit each other.”

“I don’t,” Sanji says shortly, but his jaw twitches slightly; he’s lying. Zoro raises an eyebrow. The cook glances away mulishly.

“Well, I guess we are. When you know, you know, right? I’ve spent an awful lot of time watching, cook, and I’m afraid we’re exactly the kind of people who make each other stronger.”

“Is that all love is to you? A vehicle for strength?”

Zoro gives him an unimpressed look. “I was building up to something, you know. You’re not making this easy.”

“You like that, apparently,” Sanji mumbles to himself.

“Guess I do,” Zoro grins. It widens at Sanji’s caught off-guard expression, the persistent flush on the cook’s skin deepening. “Anyway, don’t tell me you’ve never felt it before. That sort of electric feeling when we fight, whether sparring or in an actual battle.” Recognition flickers in Sanji’s eye. “We suit each other. And I like you. I like that we’re both rude assholes. I like the competition, because you make me want to be stronger, and getting stronger with you is never boring. Fighting with you is fun.”

“…You’re such a brute. I don’t know what else I expected.” Sanji moves to stand up, grimacing slightly at the strain on his leg. “If you’re just going to waste my time, I think it’s best to pretend this never happened and go back to ignoring each other.”

Zoro frowns. This isn’t going well; the cook is on the defensive, and Zoro himself clearly isn’t doing a good job at explaining himself. Love is obviously a sensitive topic for Sanji, so he can’t afford to screw this up. “You’re kind,” he says, and Sanji stills, listening. “You pay attention to everyone around you. Keeping up with Luffy’s appetite, spending hours in the kitchen cooking or making lists or all that bullshit that keeps us alive. Making marshmallows for Chopper with the aggy stuff-“

“Agar.”

“-on the off chance that making your own gelatine would freak him out. You pretend to only give Nami and Robin preferential treatment, but you know everyone’s favourite foods and go out of your way to keep us all healthy. Honestly, this is your fault,” he accuses, suddenly annoyed.

Sanji gapes at him. “How is this my fault?”

The words aren’t coming easily. How is he supposed to articulate something like this? How does he explain the feeling of being completely and utterly matched, balancing each other out? If Robin were here, she’d probably have the perfect metaphor – all her talk of planets and orbits and all that. Wisdom that comes with age, or something. But Zoro is nineteen and words fail him, and the realisation that he’s desperately in love with his greatest rival is fresh and terrifying and he’s about to screw it all up. “You spend all that time fussing over your appearance, but the ends of your hair still curl with humidity every time you cook,” he says tiredly, flopping backwards to lie on the cool sand, “and you’re strong and stupidly nice and caring and a fucking asshole who makes my life a living hell. You’re the most alive person I’ve ever met. Of course I was gonna fall in love with you. What else was I meant to do?”

Sanji’s fingers twitch, like he was thinking of self-consciously tugging the ends of his hair, but thought better of it. “What do you want from me,” he whispers more than asks, like maybe words are failing him too. Like a prayer. He’s nineteen too, Zoro remembers, equally humbled by the magnitude of it all.

“Everything. Nothing.” Zoro shrugs. “Don’t really care if you don’t feel the same way – just needed to let you know how I feel. We can pretend this never happened if you want.”

“Then why say anything at all?” Sanji presses, insistent, “There must be something you want, otherwise you wouldn’t bring it up.”

“What I want is simple, cook. I want to get stronger with you, to bicker and spar like we already do. I want to eat your food, even when you make something sweet or you’re withholding booze. I want to make Luffy the King of the Pirates, to cut down our enemies and fight until I can barely stand. I want to see you with blood on your shoes, splattered all on your stupid prissy pants, exhausted and injured and alive. Us, fighting side by side to defend our crew and reach our dreams. Maybe we’ll have to split up for a while – get separated, or whatever, to do what’s necessary. That’s fine, ‘slong as we come back. We’re the crew’s defenders – we do the difficult things.

“Selfishly, I want one thing more than anything else. When we finally find your sea, I want to be there. When you set up your restaurant, or whatever, I want to savour each bite. To know every drop of blood, sweat and tears that have gone into reaching that dream, and know that, in some way, I helped – by goading you into getting strong enough to stand there, by covering your blind spots, or even just being there. The opposite holds true,” he adds, thumbing Wado’s hilt. “When I beat Mihawk, I want you to know how I got there – every callous, every cut or bruise or near-death experience. That I’m alive because you, my rival and equal, always demanded the best from me. And to still give me hell even after, never letting each other get all depressed and stagnant. So really, nothing has to change at all. We’ll get there eventually.”

Sanji is speechless again, staring at him like he’s just turned his world upside down. Perhaps he has. When the cook’s hands grab at his collar, pulling him until they’re forehead-to-forehead, Zoro doesn’t resist, confident in his words.

Sanji’s eyes – both of them, his fringe askew enough to reveal the other one – bore into Zoro. He meets the gaze head-on, refusing to back down. It’s hardly an uncommon position for them; this is about the time where Nami starts banging on the table or, if all else fails, throwing shoes at them.

“You are the worst man I’ve ever met,” Sanji says lowly. Zoro can feel the way the cook’s hands tremble, even fisted in the white material of his shirt. “You are uncouth, slovenly, and dirty. Utterly irredeemable.” Zoro braces himself, feeling the tense of the cook’s muscles as he shifts. The other man is particularly fastidious about his hands, but Zoro can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s about to get punched. “But I guess I’ve been watching you, too.”

Then Sanji’s lips are on his, chaste yet firm, the taste of cigarette smoke still clinging to them. Theoretically, it should be kind of gross; they’ve been fighting all day, bloodstained and sweaty, and Zoro’s never been a fan of tobacco. It’s probably not a very good kiss, all things considered, but in that moment he can’t imagine anything better. In all fairness, he can’t imagine anything worse either, given that his brain has pretty much blanked the second Sanji’s lips touched his, but that’s neither here nor there.

They separate after a few seconds. Sanji is blushing a furious red. Judging by the heat in his cheeks and ears, Zoro isn’t faring much better. “Uh,” he says eloquently.

“I really do hate you,” Sanji says defeatedly. It’s not very convincing; Zoro can feel himself grinning, so wide it hurts. “I was fully prepared to spend the rest of my life in denial. But no, you had to go and ruin it all. Who just says stuff like that with no warning?”

“You like me,” Zoro says, like a revelation. “Aww, cook, do you have a crush? That’s embarrassing.”

“You literally told me you’re in love with me.”

“That’s not relevant.”

“You-“

Sanji’s voice is getting all shrill again. Zoro laughs, loud and uninhibited, and pulls him in for another kiss, a hand on each cheek. It shuts the cook up quite effectively, especially when the cook kisses back. Neither of them really knows what they’re doing, teeth clicking together painfully. Regardless, Zoro isn’t feeling particularly inclined to stop.

It feels like they’re there for hours, wholly wrapped up in each other. Maybe it’s only minutes. Zoro thinks he could spend the rest of his life like that, kissing Sanji in that little cove on some nameless island, punch-drunk on the thrill of reciprocation and the cook. They only separate when Sanji hisses in pain, abruptly returned to reality by the reminder of their injuries.

“We should probably go get patched up before Chopper kills us,” Zoro says belatedly, distracted by the way Sanji’s lips are pink and kiss-swollen.

“Yeah,” Sanji replies, swallowing. Zoro tracks the movement, the bobbing of his throat. The swordsman stands, wordlessly pulling Sanji up.

Later, there will be time to learn each other fully, to adjust to the growing pains of a new, undefined relationship. In time, they will know every inch of each other, every strength and weakness. One day, they will stand at the summit of the world, holding each other up as they witness the dawn of a new era. It will not be easy; there will be separation, and heartbreak, and a million close brushes with death.

For now, though, they make their way back to the Going Merry, squabbling light-heartedly with each other. Zoro acts as a crutch, slinging one of Sanji’s arms over his shoulders, one arm around his waist. It feels right, to gently rub circles into Sanji’s side with his thumb – like Sanji had all those weeks ago, tracing patterns over the raised skin of his scars. It feels right, when Sanji gives him a fond yet exasperated look, sticking his tongue out, and Zoro smiles back, uncharacteristically shy.

 (When they finally disappear past the sand dunes, the man in the robot finally emerges, painfully crawling out of the smoking wreckage. He’s battered and bruised, large swathes of his skin burned by the fire. He was once a proud man, the impregnable enforcer of the bandits on this island. Even his name is irrelevant now, lost to the wind.

Getting so thoroughly defeated was already humiliating, but having to listen to the awkward, bumbling confessions of the two teenagers who had beat his ass whilst simultaneously bleeding out from his injuries? Probably the worst thing that had happened to anyone ever.

“Well, that fucking sucked,” he rasped to no-one in particular. Then he blacked out, miserably hoping he wouldn’t have to wake up and face the aftermath of such mortification.)

*

Nami sits alone in the galley, carefully transcribing a letter into a cipher using a small black book Robin had lent her. She can hear the normal sounds of the crew filtering through the door – minor explosions, Luffy’s loud laugh, the sound of Zoro and Sanji bickering. She’s mostly tuned it out, but every so often she catches a snippet of conversation that makes her blood boil.

Dearest Vivi, the letter reads,

I miss you more than you could ever know. Your smile, the way your hair falls over your shoulders, your passion for Alabasta… these memories are my most precious treasures. Which says a lot, given that I’m an avaricious, money-hungry thief.

Perhaps the thing I miss most right now is your sanity. Vivi, I feel like I’m losing it. You’d think that getting together would make Zoro and Sanji more tolerable. Apparently not. If anything, they’re bickering more now, except they both get these stupid, smug looks on their faces when they do. It’s infuriating, and a little violating – like we’re infringing on some weird courtship ritual. Usopp is my only ally on this godforsaken ship, except neither of us are strong enough to make them stop. Luffy, predictably, thinks it’s funny, and Robin just smiles all mysteriously.

Just this morning, the idiots nearly wrecked the railing on the whole port side of Merry because of some stupid spat. Something about Zoro laughing at Sanji for realising he was attracted to him while he was all green? I don’t know. Poor Usopp nearly had a heart attack. I guess I’m happy enough for them – it took forever for them to pull their heads out of their asses – but if this isn’t just some weird honeymoon phase I’m going to get violent.

Enough about them, though. I have more interesting things to talk about! We just got back from an island in the sky, can you believe it? I almost got taken to the ‘promised land’ by this weird lightning god. The ‘promised land in question was literally just the moon, by the way. Not kidding…

This letter is particularly long – almost five pages. Nami refuses to remove a single detail, but ciphering it is particularly tedious. They have to use a different one each time, all based off of ancient Alabastan history or folklore that very few people would be able to figure out. It was Robin’s idea; most of the history Robin used had been lost to the general population. Only a particularly dedicated archaeologist (with a deep knowledge of the country due to her stint as a Baroque Works agent with the highest clearance) or a member of the royal family would be able to figure out what the codes were based on.

A particularly loud thump jolts the cabin, toppling her inkpot and spilling ink all over the page she’d spent painstaking hours translating. Nami’s eye twitches.

She hopes those idiots enjoyed their brief time together, because they’re dead.