Sanji ties the skiff to the pier and hops ashore. He pulls his shopping list from the inner breast pocket of his black suit coat, checking again what Zeff wants him to buy. This is his first solo trip to the island and he wants to prove to the old geezer that he can do it.
Tucking the list away, he leaves the dock and heads into town. He hears the fighting first, then sees the young woman peering around a corner with a tear in the sleeve of her dress. Immediately, he goes to help her, because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do. “Mademoiselle?” he says, keeping his voice low and soft. “Are you hurt?”
She jumps, then focuses on him, taking in the suit, the tie, the not-at-all-threatening fifteen-year-old height. “Help him,” she says in a rush, grabbing his sleeve. “He saved me from those men, but there are too many of them.”
Sanji agrees, of course, because one should always do what a lady asks of him. “Stay here,” he says, easing her back against the wall. Then he jogs around the corner.
It’s five against one in the narrow alley, not sporting odds at all. Four men in cheap, stained shirts and one with a jacket that thinks it’s important. Opposite them, a boy about Sanji’s age, maybe a little taller, with green hair and three saya at his hip, is already fighting, two of the blades in hand. He moves with sharp, efficient motions, but even sharp efficiency can’t cover every angle forever.
Sanji drop-kicks one of the men before anyone even realizes he’s joined the fight. With two of them fighting now, the remaining men go down in quick succession. As the last idiot he kicked is still sliding down the opposite wall, Sanji lands lightly, brushes invisible dust from his hands, and straightens his tie. His breath is a little fast, his pulse still jumping from the fight. Only then does he turn to his unexpected partner.
Their eyes meet, and Sanji forgets why he is on the island.
Up close, the swordsman’s eyes are dark and serious, framed by a face still soft at the edges with youth. Sweat has dampened the fringe of green hair at his temple. Sanji feels a flutter in his stomach and a ridiculous tingle in his palms. “Hi,” he says, more breath than word.
Rosy splotches appear on the green-haired swordsman’s cheeks. “Hi,” he whispers back, lowering his gaze like he suddenly finds the cobblestones fascinating, the three earrings in his left ear giving a faint metallic glint as his head tilts down. The toe of his boot scrapes a small line in the dirt.
The lady runs up to them then, dress still torn but smile bright, showering them both with profuse thanks. She hugs Sanji, then the swordsman, arms warm and grateful around his shoulders. Zoro stiffens like he doesn’t know what to do with the hug. Normally, Sanji would swoon straight into one of his stupid little fantasies – her, a sunset, maybe a glass of wine, a perfectly timed compliment.
He can’t stop looking at the swordsman.
“Thank you, thank you,” she keeps saying. “You were both so brave,” and then she hurries off down the street, glancing back once before disappearing into the crowd.
They’re left standing in the alley, fallen men groaning around them.
They both just… stand there, Sanji staring while his heart tries to beat out of his chest, the other guy avoiding eye contact and shuffling. Finally Sanji blurts, “You fight good.”
“You do too,” he says, glancing at Sanji briefly and then away. His fingers hook into the edge of one sword sheath and tug, like he needs something to fidget with.
“I’m Sanji,” he says, because that seems like basic, non-stupid information to share.
“Zoro,” the other boy replies.
They stare and shuffle some more. Sanji’s stomach does a ridiculous flip; he has no idea what to say next.
A gull shrieks overhead. Somewhere, a door slams. The sounds of the harbor drift faintly into the narrow space, but the little bubble around them feels weirdly quiet.
Zoro bites his lower lip, then huffs out an audibly nervous breath. “Do you want to…” He flaps his hand in the general direction of town.
“Yes!” Sanji says immediately, too enthusiastically, voice cracking in the middle of the word. His response makes his face heat and he clears his throat. “I mean, yeah. Sure. If you want.”
Zoro digs his toe a little more into the dirt with a jerky nod. “Okay.”
They leave the alley together, abandoning the groaning pile of idiots to sort themselves out. Sanji falls into step beside Zoro. It feels strange and natural at the same time, their shoulders almost brushing, the space between them charged with a buzzing sort of awareness.
They buy takoyaki from a stand in the market and sit on a hill overlooking the small town to eat. From the top, the island spreads out below – patchwork roofs, the slash of the harbor, ships bobbing gently in their berths, the open sea beyond. They sit side by side, not quite touching, knees bent, takoyaki skewers balanced in their hands.
They spend the afternoon talking and laughing about nothing and everything. Sanji learns Zoro has just left his hometown on his quest to become the World’s Greatest Swordsman and that his eyes light up when he speaks about his dream. Sanji shares that one day he’d like to find All Blue and Zoro smiles when he says, “You’ll find it.”
When the clouds shift from white to orange, Sanji panics because he still hasn’t shopped. Zoro goes with him, laughing, as they tear from place to place, helping carry the supplies. By the time they make it back to the dock, the sky is a deeper orange, streaks of pink catching on thin clouds. The water laps against the pier, and the skiff bobs patiently, rope creaking.
They load everything into the boat, arranging sacks so they won’t shift with the swell. When the last small crate thumps into place, Sanji turns and suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “Do you… want to hang out again? Next time I come back to the island, I mean.”
The rosy splotches return to Zoro’s cheeks. He looks away toward the horizon, then back, like he can’t quite help it. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’d like that.”
Sanji nods, elated. “Okay! I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
Zoro smiles and ducks his head.
Sanji steps into the skiff, unties the rope, and uses the pole to push off from the dock. The boat drifts backward, the gap widening between hull and pier, between him and the boy with green hair and three swords and a smile that makes Sanji’s heart do stupid things.
He lifts his hand in a wave. “See you!”
Zoro raises his hand in return. “Later,” he calls, voice carrying over the water.
Sanji keeps looking back as he raises the small sail and catches the wind, the skiff cutting a line across the calm harbor. Zoro stays on the dock, a solid shape against the wash of sunset. Sanji watches until Zoro becomes a speck on the shore, a tiny green dot against the orange and gold, and only turns around when the island is mostly behind him and the Baratie’s silhouette has started to grow ahead.
He is definitely coming back.
Sanji meets up with Zoro four more times, whenever he has a day off and Zeff lets him take the skiff. It’s nice having a friend his own age. The Baratie’s full of older cooks with older tempers, and Zoro feels like a breath of air his own size.
Sometimes Zoro is already there, sitting on one of the pier posts with his swords leaned against the piling, watching the horizon like he expects trouble to climb out of it. Sometimes Sanji has to go hunting through the little town, spotting him at a food stall or leaning against a wall in the shade, arms crossed, asleep upright like some kind of weirdo. Every single time, Sanji feels lighter the moment he sees him.
They talk and wander the island. They climb things they probably shouldn’t climb, especially in a three-piece suit. Sanji plants a polished shoe on a low rooftop ledge, squints up at the higher one, and says, “Bet I can get there faster than you.” Zoro snorts, calls him an idiot, and follows him up anyway.
They dare each other into races – up stairs, along the beach, across the crowded market. They have stone-skipping contests at the shore until their arms ache and the stones give up. They time who can hold their breath the longest underwater in the shallows, Zoro stubbornly counting on his fingers, Sanji refusing to lose. Sometimes they push and shove each other, and Sanji gets a tightness in his chest. He finds Zoro’s laugh addictive, and his smile steals the breath right out of him.
The way the sunlight hits Zoro’s hair doesn’t help. It isn’t just green; it’s a whole range of greens – darker at the roots, lighter at the tips, turning a pale, almost silvery green at the edges in bright afternoon. Sanji catches himself watching how it shifts when the wind comes off the water, his fingers itching with the absurd urge to see whether it’s as soft as it looks or as coarse as Zoro’s mannerisms.
The rosy splotches that appeared on Zoro’s cheeks didn’t help, either. They’d flare along his cheekbones when Sanji complimented him, or when their shoulders brushed, and then stay there, stubbornly pink. It makes Zoro look…good. Attractive in a way Sanji had absolutely no idea how to handle.
On the fifth visit, Zoro ruins everything.
They spend the morning cutting across the island, following a narrow path that winds up a rocky hill. From the top, the ocean spreads out on both sides as far as they can see. They sit with their backs against a warm boulder, the wind tugging at their clothes, talking about nothing important.
Sanji is in the middle of describing, in great detail, the perfect way to sear fish skin when Zoro interrupts him.
“I can’t stay on this island anymore,” Zoro says.
Sanji’s words stall. His breath does, too. He blinks. “What?”
Zoro is looking out at the water, not at him. “I’ve run out of people to fight who’ll challenge me,” he says, tone matter-of-fact in that infuriating way of his. “They all start dodging me now. Or they lie down before I swing.” His hand rests on the nearest sword, fingers tapping the pommel. “I can’t reach my dream staying put.”
Sanji feels like his chest is cracking at the news, but he puts on a wise, knowing face. “Right. World’s Greatest Swordsman doesn’t exactly sound like a homebody job.”
Zoro’s mouth quirks faintly. “Yeah.”
They drift down from the hill, wandering the town slower than usual, as if moving too fast will make time notice and pick up the pace. They share skewers from a stall, split a cheap cola, argue about whether soup counts as a drink or a meal. Sanji watches Zoro’s fingers curl around the glass bottle, watches his throat move when he swallows, and he memorizes it in a stupid, secret part of his brain.
By the time they end up at the dock, the sun has gone lazy, sliding toward late afternoon. Zoro’s small boat is tied up on the far side of the pier, low in the water with a bundle of supplies and a worn-looking bedroll.
This time, Sanji is the one seeing Zoro off. He hates it.
Zoro stands a little away from him, hands jammed into his pockets, shoulders set stubbornly. He looks anywhere but at Sanji – the water, the boats, the distant line where sea meets sky. His mouth is caught in a line that isn’t quite a frown, isn’t quite anything.
“So,” Sanji says, because silence feels worse. “You’re really doing it.”
“Yeah.” Zoro’s voice is low. “If I stay, I’ll just… stop. Training. Pushing. Start getting used to it here.” He shrugs, but it isn’t his usual uncaring one. It looks heavier. “Can’t let that happen.”
Sanji understands that. He really does. He just wishes his understanding didn’t feel like knives scraping the inside of his ribs. “You’d be an idiot not to go,” he says, because if he doesn’t cheerlead, who will? “You want to be the best, you can’t do that beating up the same drunks every week.”
A tiny, reluctant smile tugs at Zoro’s mouth. “They weren’t all drunks.”
“Most of them,” Sanji insists.
“Half.”
Sanji rolls his eyes. “Two-thirds at the least.”
“As if,” Zoro mutters, without much force.
Silence slides in again, suddenly too big for the two of them. The sounds of the harbor – ropes creaking, gulls crying, voices calling across water – feel far away, muffled by the pounding in Sanji’s ears.
He knows he should say something cool. Something easy. “Good luck.” “Don’t get lost.” “I’m still better than you.” His tongue won’t pick one.
Zoro solves the problem by moving. He steps forward so fast it startles Sanji, grabbing him in a hard, awkward hug that mashes their chests together and knocks the air from his lungs. Zoro’s grip is fierce and trembling, as if he doesn’t know how to hold on but refuses to let go anyway. His arms are strong and clumsy around Sanji’s back – like he’s never hugged anyone before, but is determined to get it right on the first try.
Sanji freezes for a heartbeat, then his arms come up of their own accord, hands fisting in the back of Zoro’s shirt. Everything inside him goes bright and painful and too much.
Then Zoro shoves him away, face bright red, eyes looking anywhere but at Sanji. He practically flees to his small boat, hopping in with more speed than grace. He yanks at the knot securing the line, casts off, and shoves away like the air on land has turned toxic.
The boat wobbles, then steadies, drifting out.
“Don’t die!” Sanji yells after him, hands cupped around his mouth. The words that follow jam in his throat and come out almost inaudible, even to himself. “I’ll miss you.”
The little boat catches the current and the swell, growing smaller with each passing second. Zoro finally looks back once, hand lifting in a brief, sharp wave. Sanji raises his own in answer, fingers spread, palm stinging like he’s touched something too hot.
He watches until Zoro is a speck on the horizon – just a smudge of green and brown against the silver-blue line of the sea. Only when the speck vanishes completely does he turn away.
The sail back to the Baratie feels longer than usual. The air feels heavier. The restaurant looms up out of the water the way it always does – ridiculous and familiar – but for the first time, Sanji wishes he’d gotten on a different boat.
Patty spots him in the doorway, face like someone has stolen his lighter. “What’s wrong, kid?” Patty calls, one eyebrow arched. “Boyfriend break up with you?”
Sanji chokes on air. “I don’t have a boyfriend!” he yelps, voice way too high.
Patty exchanges a look with Carne over the stove. Carne shrugs, lips twitching. “Could’ve fooled us,” he says. “You’ve been mooning around here for weeks. Thought you finally found someone who’d put up with your ugly mug.”
“I do not moon,” Sanji snaps, heat flaming up his neck. “And I am not gay!”
All the noise of the kitchen seems to press in on him at once. The word hangs there like a charred steak, and the room goes still. Even the pan on the burner seems to sizzle softer.
Sanji’s heart thuds hard enough he feels it in his fingertips. He likes women. He’s always liked women. Flirting with them, doting on them, imagining sweeping them off their feet with perfectly cooked meals and razor-sharp charm. He wouldn’t do that with a man.
Except he likes spending time with Zoro. It feels… natural. Easy. Like breathing. He can’t deny the fluttery feeling in his chest, the way his palms go stupid, the way his brain scrambles when Zoro smiles at him. People don’t have feelings like that about their friends, right?
“Oi,” Zeff says from the end of the counter, voice cutting through the static in Sanji’s head. The old man doesn’t look shocked. He doesn’t look anything except exasperated and busy. He flips something sizzling in a pan with unnecessary force. “Stop screaming in my kitchen, eggplant.”
“I’m not–” Sanji starts.
Zeff points the spatula at him like a weapon. “You’re fifteen,” he says. “You don’t know shit yet. You like whoever the hell you like. Man, woman, Fish-woman, I don’t care. Long as they don’t make you stupid enough to burn my food.”
“That’s not–” Sanji flails, because that is not the deep, life-shattering talk his brain has geared up for. “I’m not– I like ladies.”
“Good for you,” Zeff says blandly. “You like that swordsman brat too.”
Sanji sputters. “I do not!”
Zeff narrows his eyes. “You’ve been coming back here with that same lovesick face I’ve seen on sailors for thirty years.” He flips the food again. “Difference is, they usually know what they want to do about it.”
Sanji opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
“You want to have a big stupid panic about it, fine,” Zeff says. “But have it on your own time. We’ve got tables four, six, and ten to feed, and Carne’ll screw up the seasoning if you’re not breathing down his neck.” He jerks his head toward the swinging door. “Get to work.”
The world snaps back into focus. Heat from the stoves, the clang of pans, the smell of butter and garlic and steam. The cooks start shouting orders and insults at each other again. Sanji shoves down the feelings crowding his brain. “…Yes, old geezer,” he mutters.
He decides to Not Think About It. Thinking is clearly the problem. If he ignores it, it will go away. That has to be how this works. He takes orders and delivers plates and argues with Carne about salt. And when ladies come into the Baratie, he flirts extra hard. He turns up the charm to eleven, leaning on tables with a practiced smile, complimenting their eyes, their hair, their laugh. He twirls, he bows, he promises them refills and desserts and the moon.
The charm slips out of him by habit, but it feels hollow, emptier than he wants to admit. His heart doesn’t jump when they smile back. His chest doesn’t tighten when their hands brush his. He blames it on being tired. He definitely does not think about a green-haired swordsman, traveling alone under an empty sky, maybe remembering him too.
Time doesn’t slow for him.
Fifteen slides into sixteen with a few extra inches of height and a lot more muscle in his legs. His kicks get heavier, cleaner, sharp enough to make even Zeff look twice. Seventeen comes with a jawline that finally stops looking like a kid’s and shoulders that square out. Eighteen has him attempting to grow a beard that’s barely anything on his chin.
He falls in and out of love many times. A pretty traveler with a laugh like windchimes. A local girl who comes in twice a month and always orders the same soup. A Marine ensign with sharp eyes and a bust that makes half the restaurant stare. Every time, it’s the same: his heart leaps, his brain writes sonnets, he showers them in compliments and perfect plates. Sometimes he gets a kiss on the cheek. Sometimes he gets a drink poured over his head. It all feels very dramatic and very important – until it doesn’t. The sting fades. The ache fades. The names blur. None of them stick.
He learns more about who he is, how he wants to do things, becomes an adult. His fighting gets stronger, his cooking becomes sublime. His knives sing in his hands now. He holds his own against the older cooks, more sure in his skin, able to keep pace – and then surpass – men twice his age. He pretends he doesn’t itch to leave, pretends his dreams of finding All Blue aren’t stagnating, because he would never leave the man he’s indebted to for his life. Zeff saved him. Fed him. Raised him. Sanji repeats that like a mantra every time the ocean calls.
He thinks about Zoro, who would be disappointed in him.
He misses Zoro. Sometime between the random influx of acne and his voice dropping a final notch, he allows himself to Think About It – and the world doesn’t end. In fact, the longer Zoro stays out of his life, the more longing he feels for the swordsman. His dreams change, too. At first they’re wholesome and dumb – him and Zoro running around some port town, kicking idiots, arguing over the best way to skim a rock. The same stuff they actually did, just with better weather and more conveniently placed benches.
Then, as the years tick on, the dreams shift. Less “let’s race up that hill” and more… heated. Embarrassingly so.
He wakes up hard and annoyed, sheets tangled around his legs, the echo of Zoro’s hand on his arm or his breath at his neck still burning hot in his head. He sticks his foot out, searching for cool patches on the mattress, cursing his hormones and his subconscious in equal measure. It brings in a fresh wave of denial after the first few. Then the second few. He tries not to think about how often it’s happening, or what it means that his subconscious has apparently picked a favorite.
Eventually, he gives up on denying it. He has spent years pretending a huge chunk of his life didn’t exist. He doesn’t want to do that again, not for this. So if this was the truth – fine. He liked Zoro. Maybe he liked guys. So what.
Admitting it doesn’t fix anything, but it settles something in his chest, loosens a knot he didn’t know he’d tied. The days still move the same. The Baratie still creaks the same. Customers still complain about things that aren’t worth complaining about. But now, when he thinks of Zoro, the ache is cleaner. Honest. Less like something he’s fighting and more like something he’s…waiting with.
In the meantime, Zoro turns into a name. A headline. A rumor carried in on sailors’ breath. He reads about Zoro in the paper, hears about him from Marines and pirates who dine on the ship. Roronoa Zoro, Pirate Hunter, Demon of the East Blue. A man who cuts down whole crews alone. A man with impossible strength. A man who refuses to die.
Zoro is out there still, alive and well and working toward his goal.
Sanji keeps every scrap of paper with Zoro’s name on it in an empty cigarette carton tucked into the back of the drawer in his tiny cabin, smoothing the edges, stacking them in chronological order even though no one but him will ever see them. He sits cross-legged on his bunk some nights, cigarette burning low, flipping through the headlines in silence. He traces Zoro’s name with his thumb, memorizing it like he might forget otherwise, and wonders if Zoro remembers him.
If he thinks of takoyaki on a hill. If he remembers that ridiculous hug on the dock. If he ever looks at the horizon and thinks, just once, of Sanji.
Sanji doesn’t see him at first.
There’s a redhead, bright and beautiful, sitting at a table the chore boy is talking to. Sanji’s enamored immediately. He pours her a drink, lays on the charm, spares a sharp word for the chore boy, and goes to greet the two ladies who’ve just come onboard – regulars who enjoy his flirting and sometimes bestow upon him a kiss.
When he winds back after seating them, he sees the chore boy in a headlock and the long-nose picking mushrooms out of his meal. He’s about to yell when his eye snags on green and the glint of three earrings, and the breath whooshes from his chest.
Zoro.
For a second, the Baratie feels like it lurches under his feet, like they’ve hit a wave he didn’t see coming. The chatter of customers, the clink of plates, even Carne shouting from the back all fade into a dull hum. His heartbeat jumps into his throat, drowning out everything else. Sanji stares and stares until Zoro looks up and catches his eye
Rose splotches spread across Zoro’s cheeks and he looks away quickly. He knuckles the chore boy’s head.
Sanji’s brain tells him he needs to move. He needs to get the chore boy choring, needs to make the long-nose stop wasting food, needs to give the redhead a refill, his undying love, and dessert on the house. But all he can do is stand there and stare until a glass starts to fall, the chandelier light glinting against it as it tumbles.
Instinct moves him before thought, just like it did in that alley. He’s there in three quick steps, catching it before it hits the floor. He thunks it on the table, snaps at the chore boy, then yells at the long-nose about the mushrooms. Zoro releases the chore boy, wipes his hands on his trousers, and stares at the table like he’s thinking about diving under the white tablecloth.
Things escalate as they tend to do when Sanji’s patience is thin, and the table gets broken, but all the dishes are saved by this group. Not a drop of anything falls on the floor. Sanji is impressed by the swiftness and by the courtesy. Then he hears Zoro mutter, “I’ll eat the mushrooms,” and Sanji’s heart stupidly goes pitter-pat.
A busboy appears with the dish bin. Zoro scarfs down the mushrooms before handing over the last plate. Sanji shows the redhead – Nami, he learns – to another table, snaps for a passing waiter to pour her a wine, and shoulder-checks the long-nose – Usopp – on his way past. Then he finally turns back to the real center of his attention.
He stops in front of Zoro, who has gotten to his feet at some point. Up close, the changes hit hard. They’re the same height now. Zoro looks older, his jaw more squared off, his face leaner and more serious. His shoulders have broadened, his chest and arms filled out with muscle from training and fighting that Sanji can only imagine. He wears his swords like they belong there, the hilts familiar against his hip. The three gold bars in his left ear gleam when he turns his head, the same ones Sanji remembers, somehow smaller against the larger frame. He no longer looks like the fifteen-year-old who wrinkled his nose at chocolate. He looks like a man Sanji very much desires to kiss.
“Hi,” Sanji says, and the word comes out breathier than intended.
“Hi,” Zoro whispers back, eyes dropping almost immediately. Color creeps up his neck in a slow wave as his face grows steadily pinker, ears and all.
Before Sanji can say another word, someone shouts about a fly in their soup, which means manners need to be violently corrected. Sanji handles it on instinct, boots and temper moving faster than his thoughts. By the time that’s cleared up and the dining room returns to its usual brand of barely controlled madness, Zoro is gone – out to meet his death.
Sanji ends up beside the chore boy – Luffy – and chokes on the heart lodged in his throat. The sight of Zoro fighting Mihawk is like watching someone walk willingly into a storm they have no business surviving. Zoro is losing, and Sanji says something stupid because he’s just gotten Zoro back. The words rip out of him before he can stop them, useless and sharp, a knee-jerk reaction to fear clawing at his gut.
He watches in horror as Zoro is nearly cleaved in two, and a broken noise wrenches from his chest. His stomach drops, his breath stutters, and for one awful heartbeat Sanji thinks he’s watching the end of a promise he didn’t even get the chance to make. But Zoro doesn’t die. He’s rescued from a watery grave and swears never to lose again. Sanji believes him – believes him with a force that leaves his hands shaking.
Before Sanji can rush to him – to yell, kick, hug, something – Don Krieg arrives, shit hits the range fan, and Zoro sails off with Usopp after Nami, who’s gone and stolen their ship. Sanji loves Nami a little more for that, but it’s Zoro’s retreating, bloody form he stares after until he’s needed for the fight.
The battle blurs into blood, bruises and smoke. With Luffy’s help, Don Krieg finally goes down. And then Zeff kicks Sanji off the ship with cruel words and loving intent. Sanji thinks of sacrifice and saviors and shitty fathers and sobs his grateful goodbyes. He’s off with Luffy, as the new cook of the Straw Hat pirate crew.
Off to a life with Zoro.
Nerves and excitement coalesce into a knot in his stomach at the thought. He’s dreamed about this idiocy, but he hasn’t thought it would become real. He doesn’t even know if Zoro likes him or thinks about him at all. They knew each other for all of five days back when their voices still cracked.
But when they meet up, things slot back into place. Zoro is mostly quiet but still blunt when he speaks. He’s protective and stubborn and refuses to back down from a challenge. They fall into sync without thought, fighting together against multiple opponents again. Sanji’s tongue is sharper than before, and Zoro’s shit-meter is shorter, but the smile he gets when they win steals Sanji’s breath away.
Sitting across from him on someone’s porch during the celebration in Cocoyashi that night, Zoro fiddles with his bottle of sake, won’t look at Sanji, but continuously kicks a foot against his as they slowly catch up in fits and starts. In between talking about Zoro’s exploits at seventeen and Sanji’s broken nose at eighteen, Zoro blurts, “I missed you.”
Then he turns as red as Sanji is sure he is, too. But Sanji has been waiting for years to say this, and he tells Zoro, “I missed you, too.”
Sanji learns quickly that hanging out with Zoro and living with Zoro are two very different things.
It’s not that he dislikes Zoro’s companionship. In fact, Zoro slots into his life like he always should have been there. It’s just that he can be seriously irritating, and he snores like a steam engine, and he smells like sweat and dirty jock nearly all the time.
Zoro does bathe. He comes into the galley with damp hair for breakfast every morning. But he also works out incessantly, to the point where it’s probably unhealthy. Which means he’s drenched in sweat repeatedly throughout the day, and wiping down after a workout only helps so much. They get into an argument about it that leads to nothing but irritated, hurt feelings. Sanji finally solves the problem by smoking more cigarettes.
It’s not the only adjustment he has to make. Even though he lived with a bunch of men on the Baratie, he always had his own room. Zeff told him that growing boys needed privacy. Sanji didn’t understand it until puberty hit, and then he was infinitely grateful for the foresight.
Now he shares a bedroom with three other men in the Merry’s hold – hammocks instead of beds, no windows, no real circulation. The air always hovers somewhere between damp and male funk. Between that, the cacophonous snoring, and the way everyone treats the floor like their personal dumping ground, Sanji occasionally considers diving off the ship and swimming back to the Baratie. But he doesn’t, because then he won’t get to see Zoro putting his katanas to bed on the couch every night like some proud papa, and that idiotic earnest care does things to Sanji’s chest that he absolutely likes.
He also likes when their arguments turn physical. It, too, probably isn’t healthy, but he spent the last nine years in an environment where kicking was a common form of communication – both good and bad – and it makes the Merry feel like home. A few traded blows settle things faster than words ever do. Most of the shit they fight about doesn’t matter anyway. If Sanji is really upset about something, he goes quiet. Since Zoro is usually quiet, it’s harder to tell when something bothers him, but Sanji learns to pick up the signs and bring sake with him when it counts.
And they talk. Gods, they talk more than Sanji expects.
Up in the crow’s nest on cold night watches. In the galley while Sanji preps. Tucked behind Nami’s mikan trees on the upper deck. Sometimes it’s about a dream they had or about the island they’ve just left. Other times it’s about training and nutritional needs. Sanji rambles on about meal planning and food storage. Zoro speaks quietly about sword maintenance and the enjoyment in fishing.
They sit shoulder to shoulder, thigh against thigh, passing a bottle back and forth. They never say anything emotional aloud, but when their hands brush, Sanji’s heartbeat trips, and Zoro’s cheeks take on a faint, treacherous pink.
Sanji still doesn’t know what to do about any of it, so he does nothing. He’s accepted that liking men is fine. Acting on that liking is an entirely different world he’s not ready for.
Not until Water 7. Not until the sea train. Not until Zoro’s voice, tight with worry, comes crackling through the den den mushi.
It’s the first time Zoro has ever let Sanji hear it, that thin line of fear threaded under his words. He tries to cover it up, of course – badly – but it’s too late. Something warm unfurls in Sanji’s chest, spreading outward, negating the freezing rain and sea spray on the roof of the train.
It stays with him through the fight with the Marines. Through CP9. Through the frantic rescue of Robin. Through every blow, every yell, every desperate lunge. And when the Going Merry carries them out of danger one last time, Sanji ends up beside Zoro on the deck, both of them breathing hard, the adrenaline crashing down.
Sanji hesitates, just for a second. His hand hovers, unsure, nerves tangling low in his stomach. Then reaches out and carefully interlaces their fingers.
Pink blooms across Zoro’s face instantly, traveling from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He doesn’t look at Sanji. He doesn’t say anything. His palm is a little sweaty. But his hand tightens around Sanji’s, and there’s a small smile tilting the corners of his mouth.
The Sunny is bigger than the Merry. The galley is sublime. The men’s quarters have portholes to regularly air out the room. They no longer have to pump their own water to wash dishes or bathe. Zoro gets his own training room so his weights are no longer scattered everywhere on deck. There’s enough space to breathe, and nooks of privacy can be found all over the ship.
But privacy doesn’t automatically mean anything happens.
Sanji sits with Zoro in those nooks – sometimes behind the mikan trees again, sometimes in the library, sometimes in the Aquarium Bar where the crew sprawls during storms – and nothing happens beyond what they’ve already dared. A shoulder leans against another. A foot nudges closer. A shared blanket on cold nights on watch. And, when they’re both feeling impossibly brave, a hand seeks the other’s out – slowly, like moving through thick air – and their fingers curl together. Sanji’s heart always beats too hard at that.
He doesn’t push for more. He isn’t sure if he should. He doesn’t know what Zoro has or hasn’t done before him. Doesn’t know if Zoro’s awkward pink cheeks mean inexperience or just nerves or something deeper. Sanji has experience – not much, but enough. Just not with men. Not with someone whose quiet means more than most people’s speeches. Not with someone who makes Sanji’s stomach flip over itself with a single, stupid look.
Sometimes, when the rest of the crew is off doing their own thing, they end up on the couch in the galley. By then, sitting close has become second nature. Zoro takes the armrest like he owns it, swords stacked nearby; Sanji slides into the spot beside him automatically, their shoulders and thighs lining up without either of them pretending it means anything unusual.
But on quiet nights, when the sea smooths out and the whole ship seems to breathe slower, Zoro lets his head tip onto Sanji’s shoulder. Just lets it fall there, soft and heavy and completely unguarded.
Sanji doesn’t dare move when that happens. He barely breathes. His heart hammers so loudly he’s sure Zoro can hear it, but Zoro never comments. He just stays there, relaxed and warm and close.
Once, Sanji slips an arm around Zoro to steady him when the ship pitches. Zoro doesn’t flinch. Instead, he settles in a little more, breath brushing Sanji’s collarbone. It’s the boldest thing they’ve done yet. And Sanji realizes something then – something quiet, something he doesn’t say aloud: they’re not in a hurry.
Whatever this is between them isn’t fragile, but it isn’t something to rush. Not when they’re both still figuring themselves out. Not when every tiny touch carries more weight than kisses Sanji has given other people.
But life doesn’t give them long to breathe. A few weeks later, Sanji almost loses Zoro again.
Kuma looms with ominous intent, planning to take Luffy captive to the World Government. It’s a death sentence – one that Zoro offers up his life in exchange for.
Sanji can’t have that – won’t have that – because Zoro means more to him than anything. So he tries to take Zoro’s place, tries to sacrifice himself, because his importance in this world is nothing. But Zoro jams a hilt into Sanji’s side where he’s already gravely injured, and he can barely get out a “Why you–” before his vision goes black.
When he comes to, Zoro is missing. A frantic search finds him standing in a wash of blood, body visibly trembling, jaw set tight. Questions tumble out of Sanji’s mouth, fear and relief fighting for dominance. Zoro answers, “Nothing happened,” and collapses.
He survives – barely. He’s unconscious for three days, and it takes all of Chopper’s skill to keep him alive. Sanji finds out what actually happened and he’s both furious and understanding at the same time. Luffy is alive and free because of Zoro, but he will never know it. Sanji will never tell, and he extracts the same promise from Brook and the two witnesses.
Sanji hates Zoro over those three days. It should have been him; he is worth far less than Zoro and knows it. He thinks he was weak. That Zoro believed it too. Complicated emotions that stem from his childhood make him bitter and spiteful.
When Zoro finally wakes, Sanji wants to lash out. To kick, to hurt, to scream. But all he asks is, “Why?”
“Luffy saved me from certain death. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.”
Sanji gets it immediately. All his misplaced hate and anger disappear like cigarette smoke, replaced by a gratitude so deep for Luffy that Sanji doubts he’ll ever be able to repay it. Instead, he finds Zoro’s hand, links their fingers, and calls Zoro an idiot. Zoro gives him a faint smile. The expression lingers in Sanji’s head long after Zoro drifts back into exhausted sleep.
When he finally crawls into his bed that night, he stares at the slats of the bunk above him and feels something settle in his chest. Something certain. Something terrifying in its simplicity.
He loves Zoro. And he’s pretty sure Zoro loves him too.
Within a week, they’re all separated from each other.
Sanji has to watch – again – as Zoro is about to die. He tries to reach him, legs burning, lungs on fire, but he’s too slow, too far, too everything. Kuma’s giant paw presses down, reality twists, and Zoro vanishes in a blink. All the air is sucked from Sanji’s lungs, like someone has kicked him square in the chest, and he stares in horror at the empty space where Zoro had been.
Then he’s gone as well.
But Kuma doesn’t kill him. Instead he’s transported to a land of pink, where men come to embrace their feminine side. They want to stick him in a dress, which he refuses, loudly and repeatedly. He spends the next year running, dodging frills and lace and lectures about “the new him,” and the following year forced to be an okama, and he hates every second of it.
He misses Zoro. He misses the rest of the crew, too, but there is a Zoro-shaped hole in his life that nothing on that island can fill, and it tears at him a little more every day. He doesn’t even know if Zoro is alive. Zoro was still injured from Thriller Bark, was injured again on Sabaody. Though Sanji understands, in theory, that the crew has been transported to safety by Kuma, he doesn’t know where Zoro landed, if there was anyone there to help him. Zoro might be bones on a beach somewhere now and Sanji won’t know it until the two years are up.
And they never even kissed.
That regret haunts Sanji. Not so much the physical aspect of it, but the emotional one. The one that says, I desire you more than friendship. He knows people can be in love and not do those things. He also knows, from experience, that it doesn’t have to have love attached to it at all. But he wants it, with Zoro, with meaning behind it. He hopes he gets the chance.
Sanji throws himself into training to become better, stronger. He fights, kicking until his muscles shake, until sweat stings his eyes, until the ghost of Sabaody’s helplessness fades for a few blessed minutes. He can’t have what happened on Sabaody happen again. He needs to be able to protect Zoro, protect everyone, just as Zoro protects them. He cannot be the failure anymore.
When two years are up, he gets a ride back to Sabaody, stomach tight with nervous anticipation. He’s grown over the time – put on a final inch, put on muscle, beard fully filling in. His kicks land heavier now. His stance feels more grounded. Though he felt like an adult before, it’s different now. He doesn’t feel the reckless pull to defend his masculinity every time someone looks at him sideways. Doesn’t feel like he has something to prove just by existing. He feels a confidence in himself that has been missing, and a settled feeling deep in his bones.
He learns at the meet-up spot who’s arrived back on the island, though he stops paying attention after Zoro’s name is mentioned. The rest becomes noise. He feels like he can finally breathe again. Zoro is alive, and here; Sanji just needs to find him.
It doesn’t take long. A few hours of shopping, and Sanji runs into a fishmonger frantic on the shore. The man is pacing, wringing his hands, babbling about a customer who vanished. Seems he was going to take a green-haired swordsman fishing. Sanji shows him a wanted poster – something he’s kept in his pocket since it was released after Enies Lobby – and the man confirms that it was Zoro, and that Zoro got on the wrong ship.
Of course he did.
The ship explodes from the water a moment later, cleaved nearly in two like some kind of dramatic entrance. Sanji thinks unflatteringly of overcompensation and snorts to himself, tension bleeding off in the quiet, mean little thought. Zoro hops from the ship to shore, one-eyed and irritated and scowling, and immediately blames the guy for sending him to the wrong ship.
Zoro is bigger now. Broader. Packed with muscles that strain the open coat he’s wearing. His hair is a bit longer, wilder, a lighter shade of green that catches the light differently. His jawline has squared off and become firmer. There is a permanent furrow to his brow now, one that wasn’t there before, like the world has given him more weight to carry and he’s simply taken it.
Then their eyes meet.
Sanji suddenly feels like he’s fifteen again. There’s a flutter in his stomach and a ridiculous tingle in his palms. “Hi,” he says, more breath than word.
“Hi,” Zoro whispers back, rosy splotches appearing on his cheeks just like they always have.
They both just… stand there, Sanji staring while his heart tries to beat out of his chest, Zoro now avoiding eye contact and shuffling his feet. It’s stupid, and ridiculous, and completely them, and finally Sanji blurts, “You lost an eye.”
Zoro brings a hand up, touches the scar bisecting his face, and shrugs. “Yeah. Was stupid. Doesn’t affect me, though.”
“Yeah. It’s not like you didn’t get lost with two working eyes.” Sanji grins at the jibe, and Zoro huffs, and the years apart melt away like they’ve only stepped out of the room for a while.
A light silence settles between them, warm and familiar in a way Sanji deeply missed.
And as they fall into step beside each other, he bumps Zoro’s shoulder more than necessary as they walk. Zoro bumps him back, just as deliberately.
They reach the market grove together, bustling and loud. Someone’s frying fish; the scent hangs heavy in the air. Another stall is selling cheap sake in mismatched bottles. Sanji’s halfway through a mocking critique of their display when he notices Zoro’s hand, open, hanging close enough to brush his.
Sanji steps a little nearer, lets their knuckles touch. Zoro doesn’t move away. Doesn’t even breathe differently. Just stands there, pretending to evaluate the sake selection like it’s the most serious task in the world.
Zoro picks a bottle at random – of course he does – and pays with crumpled beli. When he holds it out, the “Here” is soft enough that Sanji almost misses it.
Sanji’s breath stutters. “For me?”
Zoro nods once, sharp and embarrassed. His face goes pink, gaze skittering away.
Sanji takes it, still a little stunned. Their fingers brush again. The contact sends a stupid bolt of warmth up his arm, settles somewhere behind his ribs.
He suddenly wants to kiss Zoro. Right here, right now. Tilt his chin, close the distance, let two years’ worth of regret and longing crash together into something simple. But he doesn’t. Zoro would hate that. He’s too private, too reserved, too… Zoro, to have something like that sprung on him in the middle of a crowded grove.
Instead, Sanji cradles the bottle and asks, “Want to head back to the ship? Share this with me?”
Zoro doesn’t look at Sanji, but he nods. His hand flexes once at his side, like he almost reached out and thought better of it. They fall into step once more, the grove bustling around them, sunlight catching on the bubbles like nothing in the world has changed at all.
They don’t get their quiet reunion. Luffy’s in a fight, the marines are on top of them, they have to flee Saboady quickly. The crew enthusiastically greets each other again as the Sunny descends into the depths for Fish-Man Island and the path to the new world.
Shit happens, as it usually does, and the next time Sanji gets the chance to hang out alone with Zoro, they’re approaching an island Luffy spotted from the bow and said “Let’s go there!”
They’re in the men’s quarters, sitting side by side at the kotatsu, sharing the sake Zoro bought. Sanji is filling him in on the horrors of the Kamabakka Kingdom, and Zoro is laughing so hard he has a tear in his eye. He tries to hide it behind his hand, which only makes Sanji want to push him into laughing even more. Hearing that sound makes everything Sanji endured on that island worth it. It’s rusty, like Zoro hasn’t used it in a long time. Proud of himself, Sanji launches into a tirade about girdles just to keep it going.
Sanji is glad they have that moment, because Punk Hazard tears open pieces of his childhood and guts him deep. He pretends everything is fine, but he still notices the signs that something is eating at Zoro. He manages to catch him after they depart with several extra passengers on the Sunny, and coaxes out a low mumble about shortcomings and a marine named Tashigi before Zoro shuts down again. Sanji stays beside him anyway, steady and quiet, until Zoro eventually falls asleep on his shoulder.
As the night deepens in the crow’s nest, with Zoro snoring softly beside him, Sanji stares out at the dark sea and thinks about children turned into experiments and the past he’s kept buried.
A past that returns to bite him.
The trip from Punk Hazard to Dressrosa goes by too quick, and Sanji’s with Zoro on the island just long enough to see Zoro in a suit – an image that lodges itself far too firmly in his brain. But the mission spirals fast. Sanji ends up holding the Sunny with half the crew while Zoro stays on the island, and though Sanji wins his part of the fight by the skin of his teeth, he’s forced to sail for Zou without the others.
On Zou, he helps save the local Minks, but then everything crumbles the moment the name Vinsmoke surfaces. He leaves with the right intentions, but of course none of it goes the way he hopes. He’s lucky he returns.
It isn’t until the chaos settles behind him and Wano rises ahead that he allows himself to think about Zoro. Brook tells him about Zoro’s reaction to the news that he left, and Sanji gets a deep ache in his gut. What he and Zoro have isn’t defined, but it’s there and real, and Sanji may have lost it forever.
He meets up with Zoro for the first time in weeks at the start of a fight, and it goes about as well as expected. A few harsh jabs are thrown Sanji’s way, then Zoro is gone, running off with a beautiful woman, and it breaks Sanji’s heart. But what did he expect? He was going to be married, even if it hadn’t been by choice.
They don’t see each other again until the crew reunites for the raid. Zoro is closed-off and avoidant, and Sanji doesn’t push – there’s too much to prepare for, too many moving parts, a new katana snarling for Zoro’s attention. They end up fighting side by side anyway, slipping back into their rhythm without needing to talk about it. And even as Sanji’s body betrays him – modifications waking, fear swallowing him whole – he survives. He stays himself. What his mother sacrificed for still lives in him.
When Kaidou falls and the dust settles, Zoro’s still alive – barely – and lies unconscious for a week. Sanji keeps himself busy, frets silently, and waits out the days with an ache in his chest, counting the hours until Zoro opens his eye again.
Zoro wakes late on the seventh day, with a taste for booze and a blade for Sanji’s head. They fight, Sanji relieves him of the promise, then Hiyori appears, all soft hands and concern, and Zoro lets himself be led away. Sanji can only watch him go with a heavy heart.
He’s surprised, then, when Zoro finds him in the middle of the night, sitting in the courtyard, smoking under the night sky. Sanji can’t sleep, nightmares about Judge welcoming him into the fold dragging him outside. The cherry trees sway in the light, spring breeze, sprinkling pink petals to the ground. His cigarette smoke drifts off. The castle is still, the stars winking lazily above.
With a grunt, Zoro sinks beside him where he’s leaning against a tree. He’s more bandage than skin, wrapped in a yukata, sandals on his feet. Sanji’s dressed in a yukata as well, thrown over his boxers. Zoro sits close but not touching, and he’s silent, head tilted back, looking up at the stars.
Sanji finishes his cigarette, not filling the quiet with his voice. He’s still not sure how to start, anyway. Sorry about a wedding he had no choice in? Sorry he hid that he’s an exiled Prince? Sorry that he’s insanely jealous of Hiyori, but if Zoro’s happy, then he is?
Somewhere in the courtyard, a night insect chirps, the tiny sound drifting through the quiet between them.
Zoro takes a deep breath beside him and murmurs, “You want to marry me?”
It’s so far from what Sanji expects that he chokes on the last bit of his smoke. He coughs hard, and Zoro thumps his back with enough force to rattle his bones. His whole body jerks tight, as if someone yanked a rug out from under him. “You–” Sanji drags in a breath, eyes watering, vision swimming. “–You can’t mean that.”
“Why not?” Zoro doesn’t look at him. He keeps staring at the stars, jaw set, shoulders tense under layers of bandage. Color splotches his cheeks.
Sanji pushes his hair back with one shaking hand, trying to get his lungs, heart, and sanity in some kind of working order. “Zoro–”
“You were going to marry someone else.”
Zoro says it bluntly, pointedly, and Sanji’s stomach twists. “That wasn’t– I didn’t want that. You know that.”
“Yeah,” Zoro says quietly. “I found that out. Still hurt.”
Sanji looks at him. Really looks at him. The bruises fading to yellow. The cut on his cheek from the raid. The bandages layered across his chest, evidence of a body that refuses to die even when it probably should’ve. And beneath all of that, something soft. Something raw, unguarded. An honesty so bare it makes Sanji’s pulse skip.
Zoro shifts just enough for their knees to brush. “So,” he says, voice low and rough. “It’s a yes-or-no question. Don’t make it complicated.”
The breeze rustles the cherry branches above them. Petals drift down like slow, gentle snowfall. One lands in Zoro’s hair, pale pink against green.
Sanji swallows something thick and trembling. “Of course I will, asshole.”
“Yeah?” Zoro’s eye lights up, and a smile breaks across his face – open, blinding – that steals the air from Sanji’s lungs.
A nod is all he can manage. Zoro relaxes against him, breath easing out, and reaches over with a shy, uncertain hand to curl his fingers through Sanji’s.
They sit there in the quiet, cherry blossoms floating down around them. The night is still, the castle hushed in sleep, the stars patient witnesses overhead. Sanji lets his head tip lightly to the side, brushing Zoro’s temple. Neither of them pulls away.
They slip off a few days later while the others enjoy the Fire Festival. They don’t tell their nakama what they’re doing. Zoro is private with his emotions, and Sanji wants this to be about them, not chaos and noise and Luffy shouting about a feast. He goes back to the Sunny to put on his favorite suit – pressed, immaculate, a little overdressed for a countryside shrine at dusk. Zoro, still wrapped in more bandages than fabric, buys a traditional wedding montsuki, the black silk setting off the green of his hair in a way that makes Sanji’s heart stumble.
Now they stand before a priest beneath the soft glow of lanterns, the air heavy with incense and the coolness of spring. The shrine is quiet, nestled behind a row of cherry trees in the Flower Capital. Beyond the courtyard walls, the city fades to a murmur, leaving the moment wrapped in a hush that feels almost sacred.
When the priest asks if they have any words they want to exchange, Sanji opens his mouth, fully intending to say something meaningful – something poetic, something worthy. Instead, his throat closes up and emotion knots tight in his chest.
“Hi,” Sanji manages, more breath than word.
Rosy splotches appear on Zoro’s cheeks, blooming fast. “Hi,” he whispers back, like he’s offering his heart.
They both just… stand there, hands clasped between them – Sanji staring while his heart tries to beat out of his chest, Zoro shuffling his feet – until the priest finally clears his throat and says, “Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you wed.”
Sanji barely hears him. He’s too busy memorizing the quiet vulnerability in Zoro’s eye and the softness in his expression – subtle, shy, and painfully sincere.
Then Sanji does what he’s wanted to do since he was fifteen and didn’t know it. His hand trembles as he tilts Zoro’s chin and brings their mouths together in a kiss.
Zoro kisses him back almost immediately – awkward, earnest, all heart and no practice. It knocks Sanji off balance, steals whatever breath he has left, and he has to clutch Zoro’s shoulder to keep standing.
The kiss lasts only a moment. When Sanji pulls back, Zoro’s eye is wide, dazed, his cheeks stained a fierce pink. He looks at Sanji like the world just shifted under his feet.
Sanji’s heart stutters. “Hi,” he whispers again, helpless.
Zoro huffs a tiny laugh, the kind that barely makes it past his lips. His cheeks deepen from pink to red, and he ducks his head – bashful in that way Sanji has always secretly adored. “Hi,” he says, soft and unguarded, carrying the same shy warmth he had the day they met – only steadier now, deepened by time and everything between them.
Sanji exhales shakily, fingers curling tighter around his. In the hush of the shrine, under lantern light and drifting petals, they begin their life together with the word that started it all.
End
