Zoro did the same thing every morning.
He woke up in the big purple bed, padded to the toilet, then looked in the mirror to remind himself what he looked like. The man looking back at him had a scar that cut across one eye and a split through in his green hair. He’d been told the stories. The eye – older, like the one on his chest – came from Mihawk. The scalp – newer – came from protecting a child who’d fallen into the water, a propeller hitting him instead of her. There were hundreds of other marks, pale seams and raised ridges across shoulders, ribs, forearms. Evidence of fights he couldn’t recall.
His head injury had taken the world he once lived in and left him with the world he lived in now. People, events, things he’d done – gone. Some things returned with repetition. How to tie his boots. How to hold a fork. How to brush his teeth. Speech stayed illusive. He knew words. He knew what people meant. He could hear a sentence and understand it from beginning to end. But when he tried to send language out through his mouth, it refused to cooperate.
It didn’t stop him from living.
He dressed from the drawer where outfits were already paired – shirt and trousers, socks for his boots. He pulled on the fuzzy green haramaki that sat snug around his middle. It gave him a tug of recognition he couldn’t explain, a sense of mine that didn’t require memory to prove it.
In the corner, three swords waited where they always waited. Supposedly his. He looked at them the way he looked at the scar: with acceptance, without connection.
He could make new memories, though.
Chopper and Law – the two doctors who’d saved his life – visited often, along with Law’s Pirate King boyfriend, Luffy. Nami sailed with them, along with Jinbe, Robin and Franky, on a big ship called the Thousand Sunny. Mihawk, who had a scar like Zoro’s across his chest, appeared now and then like weather, inevitable. Perona liked to spook him by sliding through walls and laughing when he jumped. Brook, Usopp, and Kaya, usually stopped by with the Pirate King, every once in a while.
The cooks and servers were his people, too – faces he saw every day, voices that called his name, hands that waved him out of the way with fond irritation.
And then there was Sanji.
Zoro went downstairs to the kitchen and took his seat at the small table tucked into the corner, where he could watch without being in anyone’s path. The room moved fast. Knives flashed. Pans hissed. Orders flew and were heard. It was work that demanded attention from everybody at once.
His stomach rumbled in anticipation. Sanji appeared within minutes, as if he’d heard it from across the room. He set down a plate stacked high and a big glass of juice.
“Morning, marimo,” Sanji said. “You slept late.”
Every time Zoro saw Sanji, he lit up on the inside. Warmth spread low in his gut, right under the ribs, and he smiled brightly.
“Ck-ck,” he clicked, aiming for Cook. It was the word he could get closest to saying. When he’d first heard what Sanji did for a living, something about it stuck and he’d been calling Sanji that ever since.
Sanji was the person he lived with, in his floating restaurant. He handled Zoro’s laundry. Made sure he ate properly. Forced him to do his therapies. At night, he read aloud in the big purple bed, book propped in one hand, cigarette in the other.
Sanji slept in a tiny room that looked like a closet with a bed crammed inside. Sometimes, when Zoro couldn’t sleep, he’d sit on the floor of Sanji’s little room just to be close to him. By morning, there’d be a blanket over him and drool on the pillow tucked under his head.
Zoro didn’t remember what Sanji had been to him before. Now, Sanji was the person Zoro liked best. He liked everything about him – from his foul mouth, to his scruffy goatee, to the way he looked at Zoro sometimes, like Zoro was something rare.
Sometimes Sanji looked sad, too. It never lasted long. Especially if Zoro hugged him.
“You going fishing today?” Sanji asked, resting a hand on the nape of Zoro’s neck.
Zoro arched into the touch, nodding as he dug into breakfast. Zoro’s job for the restaurant was to catch fish. He had a small boat that had an extra long chain anchored to the back deck. He could take the boat in any direction the chain allowed and drop his pole.
He didn’t go every day. Sometimes, the weather prevented him. Other times, his head felt wrong, like his brain wasn’t sitting right in his skull. Law assured him that he put it back in correctly, but he’d still get piercing migraines that laid him up. He’d mostly sleep those days away, out on the staff deck or tucked into bed.
There were other days, too. Days when his body demanded movement. Skin-crawling restlessness, muscles wanting work until they burned. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Pull-ups. Anything that kept him moving until the feeling broke and left him tired in a better way. Sanji said it was normal for him, so he went with it whenever the feeling struck.
“Let me know before you leave,” Sanji said, lightly squeezing his neck.
Zoro hummed in agreement and kept eating. Sanji went back to work, already shouting at one of the cooks.
Zoro finished his breakfast, enjoying every bite, then watched the busy kitchen for a while. He liked how everyone moved fast but no one got in each other’s way. It seemed like a dance, with food.
Eventually, he rose and stopped by Sanji’s side to mimic casting his line. Sanji gave him a nod and a bento before sending him off.
The weather on the All Blue was nice, the sky blue with a few scattered clouds. Zoro took out the boat, rowed a little ways from the restaurant, and set the oars. He baited his hook, dropped the line into the deep, and leaned back to wait for the fish to bite.
It was an enjoyable day.
He returned as the sun kissed the horizon, five fish in his basket, feeling proud of himself. He was the world’s greatest fisherman. He secured the boat, stored the bait, and carried his catch inside.
Dinner service was underway. The kitchen was louder, the air warmer. Cooks still danced around. Servers swam in and out of the dining room, carrying balanced trays.
Zoro brought the bucket to Sanji and beamed. “Ck-ck!”
Sanji flicked vegetables in a pan, glanced down, and made a pleased sound. “Three of the Blues today. I’ll make a nigiri platter for our dinner. Sound good?”
Zoro nodded. He liked anything with rice.
“Put them in the walk-in, and go clean up,” Sanji said, then pointed with the spatula like it was a weapon. “Then do your practice.”
Zoro’s mouth twisted. He hated speech practice. He sounded like a choking seal.
“No practice, no sake,” Sanji warned.
Zoro huffed, then nodded and stalked off. He’d suffer for sake.
Practice went the way it always went. He stood in front of the mirror and made his mouth obey. Sound came out. Words didn’t. After he’d relearned his letters, Chopper had given him a book filled with diagrams – mouth shapes, tongue placement, careful step-by-step instruction. Some sounds refused him outright. Others felt almost right. R’s, for example. Teeth bared, a growl pushed forward, something sharp and animal that always made Chopper laugh when Zoro showed him during checkups. Zoro liked that reaction. It meant he’d done something right.
When the sand timer ran out, he shut the book and set it back on the dresser where it belonged. He stripped down for a bath. Sanji insisted on bathing every night because, as he’d put it once, “We may as well give you new good habits.”
The bath felt good, relaxing and warm. Sanji kept scented bath salts stocked. Zoro liked the almond smelling one. He scrubbed his hair, behind his ears, and between his toes. He stayed until his skin wrinkled and his eyelid drooped, then hauled himself out and dried off.
His pajama bottoms had fish on them. His favorite pair, soft and loose. He glanced at the clock, saw that Sanji would be up soon to share dinner. He took a seat at the zataku on a zabuton near the window and watched the stars wink in the dark sky.
Sanji had an executive chef who could run the kitchen without him. It meant Sanji could step away in the evenings and be with Zoro in a way that wasn’t hurried. Zoro enjoyed any time he could have Sanji’s attention fully and smiled widely when Sanji brought their dinner in.
Sanji complained about guests and an incident involving boiled pears while they ate nigiri. He liked the way Sanji’s voice rose when he was annoyed and softened when he laughed at himself, his gestures as he punctuated his words, how his eyes blazed with passion when he spoke about his restaurant. Zoro poured sake for himself and took a sip that warmed him all the way down.
After they ate, Sanji brought the dishes downstairs and took his own bath. When he returned, he wore silky blue pajamas with little ducks on them, which was ridiculous, and Zoro loved them. Sanji herded Zoro to the toilet one last time like Zoro was a large, stubborn dog, then guided him back to the big purple bed.
Sanji settled against the pillows, and Zoro settled against him. Sanji picked up the book they were reading and opened it to his bookmarked page. Zoro could hear Sanji’s heartbeat steadily beneath his ear, the vibration in his chest as he started to read aloud. “Janette clutched the letter to her chest, giddy as a schoolgirl. At last, her Victor had written! She had missed him so…”
Zoro’s eyelid sank heavier with every sentence, soothed by the cadence of Sanji’s tone. His chest rose and fell beneath Zoro’s cheek. The closeness made Zoro’s thoughts slow, then drift on the quiet wave of contentment brought by their closeness.
At some point, Sanji shifted, nudging Zoro’s shoulder. “Time for bed, moss.”
Zoro didn’t want Sanji to leave. He made a sound in protest and tightened his grip around Sanji’s waist. Sanji slid his fingers into Zoro’s hair and stroked. “You don’t make this easy on me.”
Zoro had no interest in making it easy. He wanted Sanji here. “Ay,” he managed, rough but clear enough to decipher.
Sanji inhaled, held it a moment, then let it go in a long breath that carried too much feeling for a simple sigh. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
Zoro snuggled back in, pleased. “Uh oo,” he said, the nearest he could get to what he meant.
“Love you, too,” Sanji whispered, soft and shaky, after swallowing hard. “Shitty husband.”
Zoro smiled against Sanji’s chest and let his eye close again.
He listened to Sanji’s heartbeat and let it carry him under. Another day passed. Another night down. Another new memory to keep.
End