Nothing Like Expected

It was an ordinary, mundane afternoon aboard the Thousand Sunny when Zoro upended his life.

Sanji stood at the prep counter in the galley, blue shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows as he deboned a chicken for dinner. The space was quiet, the only sound the clean, rhythmic cuts of his knife. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, the ash long and curling. Late afternoon sun streamed through the portholes, catching dust motes dancing in the warm air. They’d sailed from Wano just yesterday, already into a summer sea.

He tapped his cigarette into the tray on the bar that separated the kitchen from the dining area. The kitchen side gleamed with high-end appliances, everything Sanji needed to feed the crew properly. On the other side: a table that seated eight, bench space along the bar, and a sofa that ran from Chopper’s infirmary to the outer door. A service elevator, ladder to the upper deck, and dry storage filled out the rest of the space.

Sanji chopped the deboned chicken into stir-fry-sized pieces, then pulled another cleaned bird from the pile. He removed the wingtips, then the wings, followed by the thighs, then breasts. Bones went in one bowl, meat in another. He’d used the bones to make stock, later.

The galley door slammed open mid-cut.

Sanji glanced up. “Kitchen’s closed, marimo. And no sake until dinner.”

Zoro stood in the doorway, shirtless, sweaty, and scowling. “I’m not here for sake.”

“You’d better not be here for food. Dinner’s in two hours.”

“I’m not.” Zoro’s fists clenched. His jaw worked. His expression was resolute. “I came to tell you I’m in love with you.”

Then he turned on his heel and stomped out, slamming the door behind him.

Sanji stared at the closed door. Slowly, he set down his knife, stubbed out his cigarette, and crossed the kitchen. He opened the cabinet with the oils and cooking liquor, reached to the very back, and pulled out an unlabeled bottle. A glass followed. He poured a finger of high malt scotch and knocked it back. It burned going down.

He poured another, slammed it back too.

Then, to the empty galley, he said, “What. The. Fuck.”

Sanji loved a lot of things in life. A well-aged scotch. A flawless soufflé. A sharp suit that fit just right. But women – women were at the top of the list. He loved them all: tall, short, curvy, lean. The bat of an eyelash, the sway of a hip, it was enough to unravel him. He flirted like it was an art form, worshiped like it was religion. 

Cooking came first. Women came close second. Everyone knew it. Shot down every hint or whisper that maybe he didn’t. He hated that part of himself, sometimes. But he knew where it came from. Growing up where being other was seen as weakness, he’d plated on armor wherever he could. 

Sanji poured a third finger of scotch. This time, he didn’t throw it back. He leaned his hip against the counter and sipped, letting the burn settle in his throat and spread through his chest. His eyes drifted to the tiled floor, staring at it without seeing.

Zoro had barreled into the galley like a drunk bull in a china shop, said “I’m in love with you,” and stormed out again.

Sanji took another sip. What the fuck.

It had to be a joke. A dare. Maybe Usopp had put him up to it. But real feelings? From Zoro? Toward him? It couldn’t be true. Their relationship thrived on insults, eye-rolls, and grudging loyalty. They had that classic rivals who’d kill for each other but also maybe just kill each other kind of bond. Though, if Sanji was being honest with himself – brutally, regrettably honest – he didn’t hate Zoro quite as much as he let on. The idiot had grown on him. Like moss. Fitting, really. Between the trauma of Whole Cake and the enhancements in Wano, it was hard not to reassess a few things.

Still, that didn’t mean he loved Zoro. Not like that. Not like Zoro apparently did. If he was serious. Which was still up for debate.

Zoro didn’t do romance. As far as Sanji had ever seen, he didn’t do sex either. Zoro was a sentient marimo who liked lifting heavy things, fighting harder things, and sleeping wherever he landed. Sanji wasn’t even sure Zoro knew the difference between men and women, let alone what you could do with them.

So what the hell was he doing barging into Sanji’s kitchen and declaring love like they were in some bargain bin romance novel?

Sanji drained the rest of his scotch and let the glass clink softly against the counter. He muttered again, quieter this time. “What the fuck.”

Drinking wasn’t going to solve the idiocy that had just landed in his lap, and he still had dinner to make. He put the scotch back in the cabinet, rinsed his glass, and returned to his chicken. And if he burned through the rest of his cigarette pack before dinner, no one was around to complain.

Sanji aired out the galley by opening the portholes and doors before calling that dinner was ready. He’d already eaten – he always did first, to stay on hand to serve. Back on the Baratie, he used to eat late with the other cooks. But Luffy had a tendency to eat everything in sight and hunger was a feeling Sanji never intended to revisit.

Luffy arrived first, slingshotting into his chair. The rest filed in more casually, taking their usual spots. Luffy, Usopp, and Zoro on one side; Robin, Nami, and Chopper on the other. Brook took one end and Franky was across from him. However, Franky opted to relinquish his seat to Jinbe, their newest crewmember, and parked himself at the bar.

The crew dug in with their usual gusto, conversation revolving around the last Road Poneglyph. All they had to go on was a vague rumor about a man with a scar who sailed on a black boat. Not exactly helpful. Sanji moved through the space, refilling plates and glasses, distracted. He expected Zoro to look at him, or be weird, but Zoro acted completely normal: head down, eating like a savage. He swatted Luffy’s hands, grunted the occasional response, belched, scratched his stomach, and generally behaved like the caveman he was. That he loved Sanji’s food didn’t make him any less disgusting.

Sanji itched for a cigarette but held off until the meal ended, planning to grab a fresh pack from his locker. He briefly considered sticking Zoro with dish duty instead of Usopp, but decided he actually wanted the dishes to survive. He didn’t trust himself not to smash a plate over Zoro’s head for sending him into a mental spiral. Usopp, at least, would distract him with one of his usual tall tales – stories about his grand army that never failed to amuse. If even half of them were true, Usopp would be ruler of the world by now.

When dinner finally wrapped up, Zoro stomped off to do whatever it was he did in the evenings, and Sanji retrieved his cigarettes. As he lit up, Usopp launched into a new story while scrubbing plates – something about single-handedly defeating a sea king who had taken a sea princess hostage. The princess, naturally, was incredibly busty, which Sanji might’ve appreciated more if the green-haired idiot hadn’t taken up permanent residence in his thoughts.

Dishes done, Usopp left. Sanji reset the kitchen, prepped a no-knead dough to rise overnight, and chain-smoked through half a pack. Usually, he’d end the evening in the Aquarium Bar or playing cards in the men's quarters. But tonight, he had to deal with the sword-wielding idiot and his bombshell declaration, or he wouldn’t sleep. Probably wouldn’t sleep anyway, because, still, what the fuck.

It didn’t take long to find Zoro. He was, unsurprisingly, in the Crow’s Nest, training. He’d stripped down to his ratty green haramaki, trousers, and boots, his long coat, sash, and katanas discarded nearby. Muscles bunched and flexed as he curled an obscene amount of weight, his chest slick with sweat. He looked so absurdly built, so overwhelmingly male, he may as well have the word man tattooed across his chest. Sanji watched, baffled. Zoro was the complete opposite of the curvy, busty women he normally drooled over. How could he possibly want that when breasts still existed?

Zoro flicked a glance at him when he stepped through the hatch into the Crow’s Nest but didn’t stop his reps. The circular room perched high atop the foremast had windows on all sides and a padded bench running around the perimeter. A metal mesh carpet covered the floor. Weightlifting equipment, a locker, a towel rack, a telescope, and a pair of binoculars filled out the rest of the space. Sanji knew Zoro kept blankets and a rolled futon in the storage bin beneath one of the benches. He basically lived up here. If there were a toilet, Sanji doubted he’d ever leave except to eat.

Sanji lit his umpteenth cigarette of the evening and moved to one of the open windows. A warm cross breeze stirred the air, cooling the heat Zoro’s training had built. Outside, stars glittered in the ink-dark sky, the moon nowhere to be seen. The steady hush of waves against the hull was the only sound. Below, the ship had quieted, everyone tucked away somewhere, enjoying their evening.

He let the rock of the ship and the comfort of the cigarette anchor him. Sanji had spent his whole life at sea. It wasn’t until he’d joined Luffy that he’d spent much time on land. But the roll of the deck beneath his feet was as familiar to him as his cursed curled eyebrows. Germa’s snails might’ve been steady on the water, but he couldn’t imagine life without the smell of salt or the sea breeze in his hair.

Sanji let the familiar sway of the ship and the burn of his cigarette settle him before finally addressing the marimo in the room. “Did someone put you up to that?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the sea. “Saying that… that stuff?”

“No,” Zoro said, voice steady, matter-of-fact. “It’s the truth.”

Sanji shook his head. “It can’t be. You’re you, and I’m me. We don’t like each other. It’s stupid. And ridiculous. And I like women.”

“Doesn’t change anything.”

Sanji shoved a hand into his hair and tugged slightly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t even know what love is.”

Behind him, he heard the soft clunk of Zoro setting down his barbell. “Finding out you were getting married made me constipated. I don’t get constipated. So, I must be in love with you.”

Sanji spun around, disbelief written all over his face. “You’re basing love on taking a shit?!”

Zoro shrugged. “Makes sense to me. Luffy confirmed it.”

Sanji pressed his fingers to his eyes and groaned. “For fuck’s sake, that’s not how love works. And you’re trusting Luffy? The same guy who thinks boogers are a snack and can fart the entire chorus to Drunken Sailor?”

“He does a solid Bink’s Sake, too,” Zoro said, wiping sweat from his brow.

Sanji seriously considered diving out the nearest window. This entire conversation was a disaster. “I should’ve known this was idiocy talking.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because you were the idiot speaking.” Sanji let out a breath, slow and steady, trying to release the knot in his chest. This wasn’t real. It was just Zoro being Zoro – dense, blunt, and emotionally stunted as a damn rock. “You don’t love me, you moron.”

“How do you know?” Zoro said, brows drawing together. “You’re not me.”

“I know because it’s you and me.”

“So?”

“So we hate each other. Mostly.”

Zoro shrugged again. “So?”

Sanji ground his teeth. “You can’t love someone you hate.”

“Why not?”

Sanji stared at him, disbelief clear in his voice. “Do you even hear yourself? Love is about passion, trust, commonality, devotion.”

“We’ve got all that.”

Sanji’s eyes narrowed. “We do not.”

“Sure, we do.” Zoro lifted a hand and began ticking off points on his fingers. “We like to fight and argue – that’s passion. We’ve got each other’s backs – that’s trust. Protecting the crew is something we both care about. And we’re devoted to pushing each other to be better. Sounds like love to me.”

Sanji opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “That’s friendship, you idiot.”

“Same thing,” Zoro said. “Except, you know, the constipation.”

Sanji needed a cigarette – despite the one already burning between his fingers. He sucked on the smoke like it was his lifeline. Maybe it was. Zoro was killing him with this conversation. At least now he knew Zoro had mistaken friendship for love, which wasn’t exactly a world-shattering revelation. “Enough with the constipation,” Sanji snapped. “You were just off because I wasn’t around to cook for you.”

Zoro scratched his jaw. “I didn’t get constipated before I met you, before I had your cooking. And I stopped being constipated once you were in Wano, but I wasn’t eating your food. Your being gone was the only difference.”

Sanji glanced at the window and the escape he wanted, then sighed in exasperation. “I know you’ve got the brain of a seaslug, but this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Yes, okay, there’s love in friendship. But being in love means physical attraction. Sex.”

“Why?” 

Sanji blinked. “Because… it does.”

Zoro frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

Sanji opened his mouth, then closed it again. He didn’t really know why – it just did. At least, that’s what he’d always believed. Deciding to try another approach, he said, “Okay, so the kind of love I want includes physical attraction and sex.”

“Huh. Okay.” Zoro gave Sanji a once-over, casual as anything. “I don’t hate your face. And I guess you could do me.”

Sanji stared at him.

Then he stared some more.

Then he finished his cigarette, stubbed it out, and lit another. Smoked it all the way to the butt in quick, panicked puffs before he could form words. “You don’t even know what sex is.”

“Sure I do. I’ve been to bars. Guys talk about it. Usually not kindly when it’s two men, but I get the picture.”

Sanji could easily imagine the conversations he’d overheard. He’d been the topic of a few before he rearranged the speakers’ faces. Why people assumed he was gay just because he liked wearing suits and cared about his appearance was beyond him. “Zoro, I’m not gay.”

“So?”

“Neither are you!”

Zoro shrugged. “Still doesn’t matter.”

Sanji gaped. “You’re talking about gay sex.”

“Don’t guys do that to girls, too?”

Sanji felt the familiar tickle of blood rising in his nose as he realized Zoro was right. He quickly fought it back. “...Yes.”

“There you go.” 

Sanji should have brought his scotch up here. He was going to drain the entire bottle once this conversation was over. “You are not a girl.”

“Doesn’t bother me.”

“It bothers me!”

“Why?”

Another damn why. “Because… I like breasts! Curves! Lady parts! That’s what turns me on!”

Zoro raised an eyebrow. “Fighting you sometimes makes me hard.”

Sanji froze. “What?”

“You heard me.” Zoro sat down on the bench, unlacing his boots.

“You get a hard-on from our fights?”

“Well, yeah. Don’t you?” 

“No!”

“Huh. Weird.”

“That’s not weird, that’s normal!” Sanji flailed. “You’re supposed to get turned on by people. Not by bruises.”

“People never did it for me,” Zoro said. “But fighting someone who pushes me? Apparently that does.”

Sanji’s brain short-circuited. That was… oddly sweet. Wait, what was he thinking? It was weird. Zoro was weird. This whole situation was weird.

Zoro set his boots aside, peeled off his haramaki and reached for the waistband of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” Sanji demanded.

“Figured we’d have sex. Then you could stop worrying about the girl thing.”

Sanji’s cigarette dropped from his mouth. “WHAT?!”

Zoro unbuttoned his pants and shoved them down. Sanji was now faced with a lot of naked Zoro. Too much. He’d seen him naked before in passing, but never looked. Now he looked. How in the world did Zoro’s muscles get muscles?

Sanji grabbed his fallen cigarette, puffed desperately. “We are not having sex.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?!” Sanji's voice cracked.

“Yeah, why not?” Zoro bent over and rooted through the bench seat storage, inadvertently mooning Sanji. Sanji jerked his eyes away. “I heard it feels good. And I know that guys do it. So let’s do it.”

“We are not going to have sex!” Sanji insisted, edging toward hysteria.

Zoro took out his futon and unfurled it onto the floor. “You’re the one who said love means sex. I’m just trying to help you out. I don’t really care one way or the other.”

“You don’t love me!”

“Yeah I do.” Zoro smoothed out the ends of the futon. “Constipation, remember?”

Sanji made a sound between a cat dying and a braying mule. “YOUR SHITS HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH LOVE.”

Zoro scowled. “You don’t have to yell.”

Sanji stabbed out his cigarette with more force than necessary, nearly sending the ashtray skittering. He started cursing – marimos, his life, the star signs, everything. “Listen, you absolute moron of a man – love is special. It’s beautiful. It’s when you want to be with someone to the exclusion of everyone else. It’s comfort and commitment and… and a sense of home.”

“Oh.” Zoro sounded thoughtful, quieter than usual. “Guess I really do love you, then.”

Something clenched tight in Sanji’s chest. He glanced over. Zoro had a soft, dopey smile on his face. Fuck. Fuck. “Zoro…”

“We gonna do this, or what?” Zoro asked, dropping down onto the futon like a sack of potatoes. “I think I’m supposed to be on my knees.”

Sanji sat heavily on the bench and buried his face in his hands. He laughed, a desperate sound laced with disbelief. “I can’t believe you want to do it with me, just like that.”

“It’s your hangup,” Zoro said. “If you get past it, maybe you’ll think about loving me back.”

Sanji peeked at him between his fingers.

Zoro was on all fours, completely bare and unbothered, with an earnestness in his eye that made Sanji’s heart ache. His dick didn’t exactly go, hey, naked guy, let’s go but it did murmur sex is sex. Sanji ignored that part. Because this – it wasn’t about sex. Zoro meant this. Zoro really thought that sex might make Sanji fall in love with him. The thought filled Sanji with a mix of affection and something like grief, because he never wanted to hurt Zoro. Not like this.

Zoro had always been straightforward. Honest to a brutal, exasperating fault. And also kind of an asshole. But this wasn’t bravado or stubborn pride. This was innocence. This was Zoro offering up his heart to Sanji in his own way. His dumb, loyal, honest heart.

“I don’t want to lead you on,” Sanji said, quietly now. “Even if we had sex, it doesn’t mean I’d fall in love with you.”

“But it’s a start, right?” Zoro asked, completely guileless.

Sanji broke, just a little. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Zoro, I’m not going to have sex with you. You should save that for someone special. Someone who truly loves you.”

Zoro’s face fell slowly, like the last glow of a lantern before it went out. “Oh.” He sank back onto his heels. “Okay. Well… if you change your mind, you know where I am.”

Sanji’s chest ached so hard he couldn’t breathe. “Yeah.” 

He stood and made his way to the hatch. He paused and looked back.

Zoro was sitting there, rubbing the back of his neck, looking awkward and a little lost.

It made Sanji want to cry.

He climbed down the ladder before he did something he’d regret.

Sanji couldn’t stop thinking about Zoro.

It had been a week – an entire damn week – since Zoro’s declaration of love, and Sanji hadn’t gone a single day without replaying it. The guilelessness. The idiotic sincerity. The offer. Zoro had tied him into knots, which, frankly, was the most Zoro thing about this entire mess.

When they finally hit Sunny Creek, it was a relief. Sanji had gone through half his cigarette stash – fully restocked on Wano, no less – and a steady stream of smoke drifted from the galley portholes. Zoro hadn’t brought it up again. Hadn’t looked at him differently. Hadn’t said a single word. Which somehow made it worse.

Zoro was still Zoro: blunt, annoying, mannerless. He drew his swords twice that week, challenging Sanji to a fight. Sanji bolted to the galley so fast he left burn marks on the deck. No way in hell was he fighting Zoro now. Not when he knew it turned the bastard on.

Sanji was going insane. The second the Sunny docked, he escaped with his shopping list, a heavy pack, and enough beli to buy a brothel. He did buy a brothel visit, in fact. Made a beeline for the nearest one without even glancing over his shoulder. He didn’t like brothels, but he had desires and none of his flirtations ever went anywhere. He just needed to get laid. Reset. Erase the image of Zoro’s earnest face offering sex like it was a love letter.

Except…

He couldn’t concentrate. Not on the breasts. Not on the soft thighs. Not on the heat between them. He didn’t even get a nosebleed. All he could see was Zoro – on his hands and knees, open and willing, offering not just sex but something more. It was a nightmare. A nightmare that made his orgasm feel like a eulogy.

He cleaned up, thanked the woman, and left the brothel dismayed.

What the hell was happening to him?

Shopping didn’t help. He bought fresh fruit, vegetables, paid the butcher for a delivery, and cleared out an entire vendor’s stock of his brand of cigarettes. Through it all, his mind spiraled. He wanted to go back. Back to before Zoro’s stupid confession. Back to when his only real baggage was a mess of self-worth issues, instead of being emotionally disassembled by an open-hearted menace who didn’t even try to lie.

Iva would be laughing at him. She’d told him, time and again, to stop seeing the world in black and white. “Try purple,” she’d said. Well, purple had shown up. Only it wasn’t purple – it was green, loud, irritating, and not at all in between.

This wasn’t a femme guy. Not an okama. This was Zoro – pure, brash masculinity – and Sanji couldn’t pretend otherwise. And he didn’t like guys. He wasn’t turned on by them. Not even a little.

But that wasn’t what Zoro was offering, was it?

That cruel little voice in Sanji’s mind whispered: Zoro didn’t care about sex. He only offered it because he thought that might make Sanji fall for him. Sex and love were two separate things to Zoro. One he had no real interest in. The other – love – was just friendship turned up to eleven.

And Zoro had given that to Sanji. Freely.

Sanji dug his fingers into his scalp and tried not to scream. He’d only just recovered from being reminded he was dogshit, from fearing he was a ticking time bomb bound to hurt the people he cared about. He’d barely begun to believe his mother’s sacrifice for his emotions had been a good thing. And now those same emotions were trying their damnedest to drive him insane.

Why couldn’t Zoro have barged in and said, “Hey, I’m horny. Want to have sex?” That, Sanji could’ve handled. That he could’ve understood. They were twenty-one, male, healthy, trapped on a ship with two women who were off-limits. It would’ve made sense. Sanji would’ve laughed in his face – and then might have actually contemplated it. Sex was sex, so long as he didn’t have to touch Zoro’s dick.

But no, Zoro wasn’t horny. Zoro was in love. With him.

Stupid marimo.

Sanji dropped his hand and looked around. He was standing in front of a tea shop, warm spiced scents curling out through the open door. He decided to go in, have a cup, maybe a bite. The crew were on their own for lunch. No one was expected back at the ship until dark. 

Inside, the tea shop was all polished wood and soft rose wallpaper. Small round tables dotted the room, each set for two. A few patrons sat sipping from porcelain cups, nibbling finger sandwiches, flipping through books or newspapers. It was quiet. Pleasant.

Sanji picked a table near the wall, by a window, and tucked his overstuffed pack out of the way. He adjusted the open collar of his raspberry shirt beneath his black vest and jacket, then skimmed the pre-printed menu in its holder. 

An older woman approached, her gray-streaked hair pulled back neatly, her rose-colored apron matching the décor. She smiled with warm wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. “Welcome to the Tea Room. What would you like to try today?”

Sanji smiled back, a genuine one. “I would love a black tea and finger sandwiches, thank you.”

“Of course, dear. It will be out shortly.” 

She departed, and Sanji turned his attention to the window. Locals and visitors strolled by, going about their business. Flowers bloomed in pots outside shops and along the street. Colorful flags fluttered from the lampposts. Sunny Creek was a friendly little village on the seashore, a random stop on the log pose route.

Sanji fingered his pocket, craving another cigarette, but this wasn’t that kind of place. He needed to cut back anyway, before he went broke. This thing with Zoro was doing his head in, too much. He needed to figure out how to put it to bed.

Bad choice of words. Now all he could think about was Zoro in bed, wearing that soft, dopey smile. Fuck. Zoro was making him question things that he never thought about questioning.

The tea arrived quickly, along with a plate of crisp sandwiches. Sanji pulled himself from his thoughts, offering the woman a distracted smile.

“If you don’t mind me saying,” she said gently, concern creasing her warm face, “you look troubled. I hope the tea helps.”

Sanji gave a faint smile. “Only if it can turn back time.”

“Ah. Love troubles, then?”

Sanji nearly choked. “No. Not love. Not by me, anyway.”

“Oh?” Her gaze was genuine, open, and before he knew it, he was talking.

“He—” Sanji paused, then went on. “—A person told me they were interested in me. But they’re not my type.”

“I hope you let them down gently,” she said, soft and kind.

“I did,” Sanji replied. He hesitated, then added, “But I can’t stop thinking about them.”

“Maybe you’re more interested than you thought.”

Sanji stared, horrified. “No. That can’t be it.”

She smiled knowingly. “Love can be sneaky. I didn’t expect to fall for my husband, and now we’ve been married for thirty-eight years.”

A shadow passed across Sanji’s face. “It’s... more complicated than that.”

“Is it?” she asked, tilting her head. “I met Henry at a bar. The first thing he did was vomit on my shoes. I wasn’t attracted to him before that – and definitely not after. But he left a note for me, along with money for new shoes, with the bartender.”

Her smile deepened, fond and faraway. “We were both regulars. Next time I saw him, I thanked him. He offered to buy me a drink, promising not to vomit again. I accepted. It was a free drink and a kind gesture. We chatted a little. That was it. He still wasn’t my type.”

Sanji watched her, quietly captivated.

“We bumped into each other again another night. He smiled and asked if my shoes were new. It made me laugh. He offered another drink. We talked. Then moved on. Nothing big.

“It kept happening, these small, casual, friendly encounters. Sometimes he was with someone, sometimes I was. But when we weren’t, we’d share a drink and a chat. Still nothing serious. Just... nice.”

Her eyes crinkled with the memory. “And then, I started looking for him when I went to that bar. I felt happy when I saw him. I liked talking to him. I thought I was losing my mind – he still wasn’t my type. But I took a chance. Suggested we meet up properly, away from the bar.”

She shrugged, lips curving with remembered affection. “That’s when it changed. Our relationship grew from there. The attraction came later. I fell in love first, not the other way around.”

She tucked her tray under her arm. “Might be something to think about.”

Sanji thought it was sweet, and kind of her, to offer this story to a stranger. It warmed something in him. But his lips curled into a sardonic smile. “You didn’t have to change your gender preference, did you?”

“No,” she said with a gentle smile. “But you don’t strike me as someone who backs down from a challenge.”

Sanji headed back to the ship, pack slung over his shoulders, thoughts drifting. The tea and sandwiches had been delicious – he’d made sure to leave a compliment – and the unasked-for but welcome maternal advice still echoed in his mind. Her words circled through him: about love leading to attraction, not the other way around. About not being the kind of person who backed down from a challenge.

He never backed down from a challenge. Ever. Especially not one that involved Zoro. Their entire rivalry was built on challenges, sparked on Little Garden and only grew stronger from there. Before that, things had been... tentative. Wary. A slow, getting-to-know-you rhythm on a small ship. But then Zoro had implied he was weak – weak – and Sanji couldn’t let that stand. Not when he’d spent his whole damn teenage life trying to prove otherwise.

Zoro was a man. That was a fact. And Sanji was straight. He’d always been straight. Never questioned it. Never dreamed differently. But ever since Zoro planted that damned idea of sex in his head, Sanji had been swinging between disgust and intrigue. It wasn’t the idea of getting sucked off or fucking a guy that unsettled him. It was the idea of being the one on his knees. He didn’t want another guy’s dick. Didn’t want to touch it, suck it, or have it anywhere near his ass.

But the thought of being with Zoro, of sinking into him, wasn’t as repulsive as he’d thought it would be. Of course, Zoro wasn’t even interested in sex, apparently, so it wasn’t like Sanji had to do anything about it.

But then... wasn’t that just friendship? Shouldn’t there be desire? A want to touch and be touched? Or was he falling into that same black-and-white trap again, the one Iva always warned him against?

He’d grown up without hugs, save for the smattering of times he’d been able to see his mother, faded memories that ended before he turned eight. Judge never hugged him. Neither did his siblings. Zeff gave out affection in the form of kicks and crusty life lessons. Luffy had been the first person to hug him with genuine warmth, real friendship. But even those moments were rare. And the brothel workers… that affection was paid for, not the kind he needed.

His perfect, imaginary partner had always been a woman. Someone he could protect. Someone who’d throw herself into his arms, call him strong and handsome, believe he was never weak. Someone soft, warm, snuggling into his side at night while he held her close.

He couldn’t even get his arms around Zoro.

Sanji shoved his hands into his pockets, weaving deftly through the people on the street. He couldn’t picture love without touch, without the intimacy of a hug or a snuggle even if sex wasn’t part of it. He could have sex without love – he already had, more than once. But love without sex, or love without desire? That was harder to wrap his head around. Maybe he could separate the two. Love one person, have sex with others. It was an option that made logical sense.

But would he really want that?

Honestly, it would be easier if Zoro had just confused constipation for love.

Sanji sighed. He was going to have to make a decision. A conscious, fully aware decision. Was he going to bury this thing under time and cigarettes? Or was he going to take the challenge – accept it – and see where it led?

He couldn’t hurt Zoro, though. Wouldn’t. That idiot was too damn precious. And damn him for making Sanji think that.

No, he’d have to be careful. Keep things quiet. Try things out without letting Zoro catch on. See if there was something there. See if he could get past the gender barrier. It would be hard. 

But Sanji didn’t run from hard things anymore.

And just like that, he realized he’d made his decision. He smiled ruefully to himself. Iva would be proud.

The thing about Zoro was, he really was quite simple. Not in a brainless way, just straightforward. A always led to B. Sanji figured the reason Zoro got lost in real life was because his thoughts ran too straight a line. 

Take training. Zoro got hurt in a fight. Zoro declared – out loud – that he needed to train more so he wouldn’t get hurt next time.

Simple. A to B.

But he never thought about the rest – the C, D, E, F, and Gs. Nutritious meals. Proper sleep. Healthcare. Friendship. Dreams. All the things that made a fighter better beyond brute force. Zoro didn’t ignore them, exactly; they just didn’t factor in. More training equaled better fighting. A to B.

So, Sanji decided he needed to spend more time with Zoro. Peacefully. No fights. Which felt borderline impossible, since sometimes all Zoro had to do was exist and Sanji wanted to knock his teeth in.

But a relationship couldn’t be built on air. It needed a foundation. They were already friends – Zoro had said so, bluntly – but Sanji needed to see if they could coexist. If he could be content with Zoro underfoot.

Sanji spent most of his time in the galley. Not on purpose, it was just how things worked out. The ship was bigger than the Sunny. More places for the Straw Hats to occupy. He was the only cook, unlike on the Baratie. So it was natural he’d be alone most of the day.

Breakfast prep started at five. Then cleanup. Mid-morning snack prep. Cleanup. Lunch. Cleanup. Afternoon snack. Cleanup. Dinner. Cleanup. Bread prep before bed. In between: laundry, showering, inventory, meal planning, training. His free time came late, in the few hours before midnight. Not exactly ideal for seeking out extended quality time with a moss-headed menace. So Sanji figured he’d lure Zoro into the galley instead.

Zoro always came in after post-lunch training, sweaty, shirtless, and smelly, to grab a drink before his nap. Today was no different.

He stomped in on cue, hair damp with sweat. Sanji realized, now that he was really looking, that Zoro’s lips curved faintly in satisfaction. It was a small thing, easy to miss. Maybe it was a good workout. “Oi, cook, gimme a drink.”

“This isn’t a restaurant,” Sanji replied automatically. They went through this dance every time. Sometimes he meant it. Today, it was just noise.

“Shitty service, if it was.” Zoro smirked. Sanji wanted to kick him.

“If you want a drink, sit down,” Sanji said, gesturing lazily at the dining area. “I’m tired of finding bottles all over the damn ship.”

Zoro unbuckled his swords, set them on the table, and slouched onto the couch. If you want a drink, sit down. A to B, Sanji thought.

He fetched the cold bottles he reserved for Zoro, usually beer or sake, whichever he’d managed to stock. Chopper hated how much Zoro drank, just like he hated Sanji’s smoking. Though it didn’t matter anymore. Thanks to Judge’s little science experiment, Sanji’s lungs were practically like new. 

“Here.” Sanji handed off the beer. “Don’t be annoying. I’ve got work to do.”

Zoro popped the cap and drank deep. He leaned back into the couch, legs sprawled, hand tucked into his haramaki. He looked like a portrait of manly sloth. Gross. He was getting the couch sweaty. He belched. 

Sanji rolled his eyes and turned back to the counter, picking up his knife. He resumed slicing fruit for the afternoon parfaits. Yogurt was mixed. Granola was ground.

The portholes were open. A breeze blew in, carrying the sound of Nami yelling at Usopp. Sanji’s smoke drifted lazily through the air. His knife hit the board in rhythmic chops. He flicked a glance at Zoro, who looked half-asleep already, beer in hand, eye drooping.

It wasn’t bad, actually. Quiet. No insults. No needling. No fight.

It helped that Zoro wasn’t talking. Sanji wondered if it was Zoro’s default mode, silent unless provoked. On deck, they always snapped at each other. Usually after Sanji delivered Zoro’s food last – a small snub that Zoro definitely noticed.

Another piece of fruit joined the bowl. A shadow crossed the portholes – Jinbe, dressed in blue. He moved past with quiet gravity. He was fitting in well, his steady presence balancing out the crew’s particular brand of chaos.

Sanji liked to think he landed on the calm side of that scale, but he knew better. He was too quick to snap, too tightly wound, too eager to please. Robin was calm. Brook, in his own odd way. Zoro, too – still water, deceptively deep. Luffy was the wild card. He gathered people with big dreams and bigger hearts, somehow binding them all together. He offered a place to nearly everyone they met – but somehow, he always knew when the offer itself was more important than someone accepting it. Sometimes, people just needed to know they were wanted. Loved.

Luffy’s dream of becoming Pirate King had nothing to do with treasure or status. It was about freedom – giving it, sharing it. Nami used to say they were the worst pirates, because they built instead of destroyed, gave instead of took. She knew what real pirates were like, Arlong had made sure of that. But Luffy lived by his own rules. And under his flag, everyone was free.

Sanji’s first dream had been simple: to cook. It was his passion, his calling. He wanted to honor his mother, who had always smiled and told him it was delicious, no matter how burnt or bitter it came out. He loved feeding people, watching their shoulders relax, their eyes close in quiet joy when the flavor hit. After starving himself, he never wanted anyone else to feel that way. Not ever again.

Even if he only cooked for the crew now, there were still moments – celebrations, rescues, long nights in unfamiliar ports – when he could feed others, too. He saw it as a challenge, a privilege. Keeping his nakama strong with the right food, the best balance, the energy to survive what lay ahead. Attack Cuisine, what he’d learned on Momoiro Island, had taken that dream and sharpened it. Strength through sustenance. It mattered. Especially for the crew of the future Pirate King.

He slid the fruit into a bowl, added a squeeze of lemon juice, and gently folded everything together with a spatula. A breeze flowed through the open portholes, softening the heat of the galley. Outside, he could hear Usopp shouting and Nami yelling back, their voices carried faintly on the wind.

Somewhere beneath it, a snore rose. Sanji glanced up.

Zoro had slouched sideways on the couch, beer bottle dangling from loose fingers, mouth open. Asleep.

Sanji hadn’t forgotten he was there, but he hadn’t really thought about him, either. Zoro had faded into the background, like a worn-in song playing low in the kitchen. Just there. Comfortable.

He paused, listening to the snore. And realized it didn’t bother him. Not really. Sanji plated the fruit parfaits and set them to chill. He moved unhurriedly, filling the time with the measured comfort of routine. He made a pitcher of lemonade from the leftover lemons. Zoro snored through it all.

Sanji didn’t read into it. Zoro had once fallen asleep mid-battle on Wano. Sanji had carted him around like luggage, mummy-wrapped and unconscious, and still managed to use him as a weapon.

So no, this wasn’t surprising.

If anything... it felt kind of normal.

Sanji cleaned up, sat at the table, and scribbled out a few recipe ideas. When it was time to serve the snack, he left Zoro snoring on the couch and catered to the others. On his return, he flicked Zoro in the ear. Zoro snapped awake instantly, eye flying open in a glare.

“Snack, marimo,” Sanji said, jerking his chin toward the table.

Zoro grunted, hauled himself from one seat to another, and dug in. He ate like a noisy pig. Sanji still found it disgusting.

When he was finished, Zoro stood, stretched, scratched himself in a way that should’ve been illegal, then brought his dishes to the sink without being asked. He mumbled a thanks, grabbed his swords, and wandered off.

Sanji passed through the infirmary, out to the aft rail, lit a cigarette, and smoked in the quiet of the afternoon. The sea stretched endlessly behind them, deep and blue.

He hadn’t killed Zoro. That was something. A small step. Now he just had to repeat it a couple hundred more times.

Zoro did come back, every day they were at sea. Sanji made him sit and have a drink. Zoro never thought anything of it. Sanji grew used to it. Found it kind of nice, actually. Not being alone, even if Zoro’s only contribution to the galley was his snoring.

It was raining. A steady downpour without thunder or wind. Everyone was holed up, keeping themselves entertained. Sanji knew the ladies were in the library, and Franky and Usopp were in the hold. Zoro was probably up in the Crow’s Nest. The rest of the boys were in the Aquarium Bar.

Sanji, naturally, was in the kitchen, sending snacks down through the service elevator. He’d bring something to the others in a little while. Lunch would be bentos so no one would have to go out in the rain. Except him. He didn’t mind. Feeding people was his job, and apparently, delivery service was part of it today.

He glanced up from the couch, a knee tucked beneath him, using the small side table as a makeshift desk. A cup of black tea steamed at his elbow. He was meal planning. Nami said they’d hit a populated island soon, so he could restock. He aimed to plan at least thirty days of meals per crew member, just in case. 

Rain spattered in through the open galley door until Zoro shut it behind him. He scrubbed a hand back and forth over his soaked hair.

“You’re dripping on my floor, shithead,” Sanji commented flatly.

“Hn.” Zoro stripped off his wet sash and long coat, draping them over a chair. His katanas went on the table. Bare-chested and damp, he padded into the kitchen and fetched a towel.

Sanji returned to his notes. Zoro had become a steady fixture in the galley, though usually in the afternoons. He figured he could put up with him for longer stretches. It was a good test for what he’d started to call, in the quiet corner of his mind: what the fuck am I thinking.

Zoro rubbed the towel over his chest. It probably helped that the guy never wore shirts. He returned to the table to dry his katanas.

“What’cha doing?” Zoro asked, curious.

“Meal planning,” Sanji replied.

Zoro frowned. “What’s that?”

“Deciding all the meals for the next thirty days, so I know what to buy.”

“You don’t just decide what to cook that day?”

Sanji scoffed. “That’s not how it works. I need supplies. Everyone’s got different nutritional needs and food preferences. There’s prep time, cost, storage – logistics, marimo.”

“Huh. Sounds like a lot of work.”

“It is. And I don’t appreciate being bothered.”

Zoro paused, eyeing him. “I can go.”

“No. You can stay. Just don’t be noisy.”

“Okay.” Zoro settled in, opened a small box from his coat, and pulled out powder and a cotton dauber. He started cleaning his katanas.

Sanji was surprised he hadn’t gone to the Aquarium Bar or stayed in the Crow’s Nest. He scratched a few more notes but kept glancing at Zoro from the corner of his eye. Zoro was meticulous, his focus absolute. His movements were deliberate, precise.

“How often do you clean them?” Sanji asked before he could stop himself.

“After every battle. Otherwise, about once a month. I check ’em weekly. Gotta keep them sharp. Neglect means you're not really a swordsman.”

Sanji remembered his own sword training. He hadn’t cleaned anything. Servants did that. He wondered, if Judge hadn’t locked him up, if things had gone differently, would he be cleaning a sword right now, like Zoro?

“I trained with swords, once,” he said. Regretted it immediately.

Zoro blinked, surprised. “I thought you only kicked. Because of your hands.”

“Zeff taught me that.” Sanji fiddled with his pencil. “Judge wanted soldiers. I trained with swords from as far back as I can remember. Until I was about eight.”

“Were you any good?”

Sanji gave a bitter chuckle. “No. I was too weak.”

Zoro snorted. “Doubt that.”

Sanji looked at him, caught off guard by the quiet compliment. “You didn’t know me then.”

“Doesn’t matter. I can tell.”

Heat crept across Sanji’s nose. He cleared his throat. “Not true, but… uh… thanks.”

“Just how I see it.” Zoro wiped his blade. “Who’s Judge?”

Sanji gave him an incredulous look. “My father? Vinsmoke Judge? Ruler of the Germa Kingdom? Tried to marry me off to a woman I disgusted?” Wow, he thought. Still bitter. He’d even made peace with Pudding in the end.

“Ah. Didn’t know his name.” Zoro glanced at him. “Why’d she think you were disgusting? Were you doing that romance bullshit again, with the arms and hearts and stupid nosebleeds?”

“It’s not bullshit,” Sanji snapped automatically, though it lacked bite.

Zoro snorted. “You look like an idiot when you do it.”

“You are an idiot,” Sanji muttered. Lame retort. “Whatever.”

They lapsed into silence. Sanji scowled at his notes. Zoro kept cleaning, unbothered.

“You didn’t say why she was disgusted,” Zoro said eventually.

Sanji bristled. “She thought my kindness and sincerity were stupid. And that my face was gross, because I’d gotten beaten up by my brothers.”

Zoro paused. “You got beat up?”

Sanji cursed himself. “It was nothing. A few scratches.”

Zoro turned to face him, eye narrowing. “How few?”

“None of your business.”

Zoro studied him for a moment, like he was trying to see the injuries across time. “You get them back?”

No. And I saved their lives, too. Sanji glared, defensive. “Why do you care?”

Zoro looked at him like it was the dumbest question he’d heard. And it was. “I don’t like talking about my past,” Sanji grumbled.

Zoro nodded. “Okay.” He turned back to his swords.

Sanji hated Zoro at that moment. Hated that Zoro listened. Hated that he didn’t push. Hated that he wanted Zoro to push.

He let out a breath, tense and irritated. “I couldn’t fight back. They were holding Zeff’s life over me. And even when I had the chance to let them die, I didn’t – because no matter how much I hate them, I just can’t.”

“Of course you can’t,” Zoro said easily. “That’s not who you are.”

Sanji blinked, caught off guard. It sounded so casual, so knowing. Just like Luffy. Just like someone who saw him, clearly, without judgment.

“Fuck,” he whispered, something twisting warm and sharp inside him. How had he gotten so lucky? How had he ended up with people who understood him better than he understood himself?

Zoro slid a katana back into its sheath and looked over again, thoughtful. “This really bugs you. The Whole Cake Island shit.”

Sanji raked his fingers through his hair and exhaled. “Yeah. Never expect to have to deal with any of that – any of them – again.”

“I don’t have a family, except you guys,” Zoro said. “Can’t say I know how you feel. But you’re back now, with us. Where you belong. Whatever crap they put you through – learn from it, use it to get better, to be better. Don’t allow them to fuck you up.”

Sanji stared at him. He felt something swell in his chest at Zoro’s words, something for Zoro himself. Zoro had said it like Sanji’s place here had never wavered. Like being part of this crew – part of Zoro’s world – was a given. 

And he wanted to believe what Zoro said. Really, he did. “It’s not that easy,” he said quietly.

“’Course it’s not. Anything worth anything’s gotta be fought for.” Zoro gave him a crooked grin. “From what I’ve seen, you’re a pretty decent fighter. Not as good as me, of course, but I think you’ll manage.”

That grin. It was teasing, friendly, heartfelt. And it twisted Sanji into a knot.

This was what Zoro’s friendship looked like when they weren’t at each other’s throats: steady support, quiet care, and more wisdom than Sanji expected. And Sanji… liked it. Liked him. 

Sanji wanted to stay right here, in this quiet camaraderie. In the unspoken understanding that he mattered. That he had worth. That he wasn’t weak. Everything Zoro had said today had told him that, not just in words, but in presence.

And the way it settled in his chest – warm, steady, grounding – felt a lot like love. Or something close to it.

Shit, this is really happening. He was starting to like Zoro. More than just nakamaship. Maybe even… falling. Shit.

Sanji cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. He glanced down at his notes. “I have to finish this. Stop talking to me, mosshead.”

“Sure.” Zoro shrugged, amiable as ever. He drew another katana and got back to work.

Sanji flicked a glance his way. The silence settled between them again – warm, easy, comfortable.

And Sanji liked it.

A lot.

Shale Island was made of thin, flat, buttery-colored layers that reminded Sanji of puff pastry. Houses and businesses built from the same stone dotted the landscape. Oak trees shaded the shore, their leaves turned rich shades of brown, gold, and red. A network of piers stretched into the bay from the more populous island, accommodating a steady stream of visitors.

Sanji had his shopping list tucked into the breast pocket of his dark brown suit, paired with a rust-colored shirt – appropriate, given the autumn climate. Chopper would be taking the cart into town in a bit. Sanji planned to meet him at the markets. The doctor had needed more time to finish his list; Usopp’s last experimental pellet had left half the crew with an unfortunate rash.

The sun was warm, the air crisp. Ocean salt mingled with the tannic scent of fallen oak leaves. Ships of all sizes and flags were berthed in the harbor. No Marines in sight, though a local contingent kept order on the island.

Sanji descended the gangplank onto the pier. As he reached the bottom, something blocky and green caught his eye – Zoro, standing at the very end of the dock beyond the Sunny, scratching his head.

Sanji rolled his eyes.  “Oi, idiot, shore’s the other way,” he called, slouching up behind him. “I can’t believe you got lost already.”

Zoro turned, scowling. “I don’t get lost.”

“The ocean in front of you says otherwise,” Sanji smirked. “Dumbass.”

Zoro popped the seal on Kitetsu. “Want to say that to my blade?”

Sanji hadn’t fought Zoro in a while, not since the whole fighting with you makes me hard sometimes confession. But Zoro’s heels were right at the edge of the pier, the water behind him sparkling… It was too tempting to pass up.

Without a word, Sanji launched a kick, aiming to send him flying into the bay.

Zoro drew Kitetsu in a flash. Sunlight gleamed along the steel as it met Sanji’s shoe. The impact scraped Zoro’s heels back, kicking up splinters, stopping him just shy of a fall. His boots teetered at the dock’s edge, heels hanging, toes clinging.

Zoro smirked. “Nice try.”

“Not done yet,” Sanji said, and spun into another kick.

Zoro blocked again, moving a hair further. His brute upper body strength against Sanji’s powerful kicks, different styles but equally matched. Fighting each other always pushed them further, even if that wasn’t the goal.

Sanji could disappear, turn this into an observation haki game, but that would kill the fun. He wanted Zoro to see who was kicking his ass.

Zoro’s blade was coated with armament haki. Smart, considering Sanji’s body could break steel if he landed a solid hit. Zoro flicked his wrist, turning a block into a strike. Sanji twisted clear, just barely, and Zoro edged forward on the dock. Damn it.

Sanji dropped low for an ankle sweep. Zoro jumped clean over it, landing solidly on the pier. His grin was wide, dark eye sparking with thrill. Sanji felt the rush surge in his chest. He spun again, aiming the same kick. Zoro jumped once more, but Sanji used the timing to vault onto his hands, twisting into a mule-kick. His foot caught between Zoro’s as he landed. For a split second, panic flickered in Zoro’s eye before focus snapped back in.

Zoro shifted, catching himself on one foot, one arm windmilling for balance at the very edge of the pier. Sanji flipped upright and aimed for Zoro’s shoulder. Zoro recovered fast, blade up, and Sanji’s sole rang against steel.

He wasn’t about to let Zoro win. No way. The meathead was going in the drink. With no warning, Sanji lunged – this time grabbing Zoro around the waist. Zoro squawked in surprise. With a sharp twist and lift, Sanji hurled him straight into the sea.

A splash erupted, soaking Sanji’s pant legs. He grinned as Zoro surfaced, sputtering. “Got you.”

A rusty, barking laugh cracked out from the water. “You bastard. You never use your hands.”

Sanji’s grin only grew. “You underestimate my desire to win.”

Zoro grabbed the edge of the pier, hauling himself up with a swift, bright grin that did something irritatingly fluttery to Sanji’s stomach. “I’ll get you for this.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll believe it when I see it, marimo.” Sanji pulled a cigarette from his pocket, trying to smother the feeling.

Zoro climbed onto the dock, soaked through, clothes clinging to his frame. “Now I gotta change.”

“Go ahead. I’ll wait and drop you off at the tavern. Assuming you don’t get lost on the Sunny.”

“I’m not that bad.” 

Sanji gave him a look.

Zoro laughed again, boots squelching as he clomped off.

Sanji watched him go, cigarette burning between his lips. That stupid laugh lingered in his mind. So did the smile. He wanted to hear it again. See it again. Directed at him.

Shit.

He turned toward the bay, looking out over the ships moored in the harbor. He hadn’t expected this, at all. He thought he’d give the Zoro thing a quiet go, just to prove there was nothing there. Zoro would still be Zoro – annoying, smelly, utterly unappealing. Sanji could say he’d tried, then go back to normal. He’d tuck Zoro’s feelings into the back of his mind, make it clear they were friends – only friends – and return to chasing women.

But now…

Sanji exhaled a long stream of smoke. A weight settled across his shoulders. Was it worth it? Changing – or at least bending – something so ingrained in who he was, just for one person? For Zoro?

He was beginning to think the answer was yes.

Fuck.

He smoked the cigarette down to the filter, crushed it out, and lit another before Zoro reappeared, freshly changed into a blue t-shirt and black trousers, his swords belted at his side.

Zoro flashed him another smile, earrings glinting in the sun. “Didn’t get lost.”

“Not the brag you think it is,” Sanji said, slipping his hands into his pockets as they fell into step.

Zoro glanced around as they walked, taking in the island. Sanji stole a few glances of his own. Zoro hadn’t changed since his confession. He wasn’t acting differently. No extra attention, no awkward stares, no forced intimacy.

Of course, Sanji had turned him down. That might be why.

Then again, Zoro wasn’t into romance or sex – and maybe this was simply what his love looked like. Quiet. Stable. Dependable. A steady presence beside him, unwavering. With the rare flash of a laugh or smile.

Maybe that was just who Zoro was. And maybe… Sanji was starting to want exactly that.

Zoro paused on the tavern doorstep and jerked his thumb toward the open door. “Want to grab a drink?”

“Can’t. Got shopping to do,” Sanji said. Chopper would probably show up soon.

“Okay.” Zoro gave a casual nod and headed inside.

Sanji continued toward the market. It was busy but not crowded, with outdoor vendors selling wares in front of shops that held more inside. Restocking the Sunny would be easy, and he could probably pick up a few extras. He idled at a booth lined with colorful ties and handkerchiefs, absently fingering the silks, until Chopper arrived five minutes later, cart hitched to his speed form.

They spent the next couple of hours collecting supplies, overfilling the cart. When they returned to the ship, Chopper waved goodbye before heading back into town while Sanji stayed behind to unload. It always took longer than expected.

By the time he finished, dusk had settled. The sky was streaked in deep orange and violet. Sanji paused on the deck, considering what to do next. Normally, being on his own like this, he’d head to a brothel, enjoy a lady’s company for a while. But the idea felt… off. Unappealing.

Still, the thought nudged him toward sex. And Zoro’s innocent offer.

Sanji had never been with a virgin. Never had anal sex. He didn’t even know what would be different, aside from the obvious. And if he was seriously considering this Zoro situation – which he apparently was – it made sense to at least understand what that would mean. He’d never imagined a relationship without sex, not one that would satisfy him long-term. Especially not when the last time he’d gone to a brothel, all he could think about was Zoro. He wouldn’t be able to use those ladies as a substitute.

He was going to have to get a book. Or find someone to explain things. Both options made him light a fresh cigarette. The woman at the tea shop had said he looked like someone up for a challenge. And this? This was definitely going to be one.

The bookshop in town didn’t have anything remotely useful, which meant Sanji had to do this the hard way: actually talk to someone. It had to be a guy. Someone who knew what they were talking about when it came to gay sex.

Just thinking about it made his shoulders crawl up toward his ears.

He could forget it. Head to a tavern, get shitfaced, pretend none of this mattered.

But it did matter. And Sanji wasn’t a chicken.

Sanji tugged on the cuffs of his sleeves, squared his shoulders, and marched into the brothel tucked behind the dockhouse and the shipyard. Every heavily populated port had one. The main parlor was decorated in gold brocade and soft ivory, with ladies in luscious lingerie lounging on settees. Sanji’s nose immediately started to bleed. A great sign. 

Except he wasn’t there for that. He wasn’t there for company. He was there for… instructions. For Zoro.

Fuck.

Sanji used his pocket square to stem his nose and focused on the matron of the brothel. She was broad-shouldered, over-powdered, her bouffant hair barely holding steady. She smiled knowingly, like she could see straight through him.

She approached with practiced sweetness and a glint of greed in her eyes. “Here for a date, honey?” she rasped, voice soaked in whiskey and experience.

Sanji opened his mouth and immediately choked. His face flushed, paled, then broke into a cold sweat. He couldn’t do this. He spun around and bolted, slamming his back against the metal dockhouse fence outside. His heart hammered in his ears. Hands shaking, he lit a cigarette.

He smoked three in quick succession, the nicotine doing little to calm the wreckage of his nerves.

Fuck this. Fuck Zoro. Fuck his stupid love confession and his big dumb heart. Fuck him for making Sanji still want to do this. To learn this. To bend.

Sanji stomped the third butt under his heel and stalked back into the brothel.

The matron tilted her head when he returned, amused smile tugging at her lips. Sanji opened his mouth, gagged again, held up a trembling finger, and walked right back out. He smoked one more cigarette, then stormed in and forced the words out through clenched teeth. “I need a guy.”

The matron’s expression shifted from amusement to something warm and knowing. Sanji nearly bolted again, but she looped her arm through his before he could. “It’s okay, honey. Mama Dahlia has you.”

Heat clawed up his neck at the glances and smirks from the other ladies. Dahlia led him into a second parlor, this one dimmer, quieter. Five men in tight, colorful briefs lounged casually, talking amongst themselves until he walked in. They looked him over with measured, thirsty interest.

Sanji’s jaw ticked. His kicking leg twitched.

“Anyone catch your eye, honey?” Mama Dahlia asked.

Sanji gagged, loudly and involuntarily, which she took for inexperience. She patted him on the arm, then turned to one of the men. “Bergamot, I believe this gentleman is in need of your gentle, experienced touch.”

Bergamot was brunet, square-jawed, and had a dimple when he smiled. “Of course, Mama,” he said, his accent marking him from the South Blue.

Dahlia patted Sanji’s arm again. “Bergamot will take good care of you, honey,” she said. 

Sanji hesitated, then pulled out his money clip and paid before he could change his mind.

Dahlia tucked the money into her cleavage and gently nudged him forward. “Enjoy, honey!”

Bergamot was waiting in a nearby doorway. Sanji gritted his molars. His fingers itched for another cigarette. He hated Zoro with an unbridled, full-bodied passion and was going to kick his ass to the moon when they got back to the ship.

Stupid fucking marimo and his stupid fucking love.

Bergamot led him through a narrow hallway and up a set of stairs. He opened the door to a small bedroom – masculine, with navy bedding, soft sconce lighting, and a nightstand full of oils, silk ropes, and condoms. A window looked out over the bay.

Sanji moved straight to it, shoved it open, and lit a cigarette. He didn’t ask. He needed it like he needed to breathe. His entire body was strung tighter than a pulled bow.

“First time?” Bergamot asked behind him.

“Hn.” Sanji stared at the harbor. Lights blinked on the ships in the bay. Sky Walking out the window and vanishing into the ocean sounded like a great idea.

“Completely? Or just with a man?”

Sanji wanted to put his foot through the man’s chest. “I’m not gay,” he snapped – too fast, too reflexive.

Bergamot came closer. Sanji felt him behind him like the swell of a wave about to break. “You don’t have to be,” Bergamot said. “Not outside this room.”

Sanji spun, lifted a knee to block him. “Don’t touch me.”

Bergamot raised both hands, amused. “Hard to enjoy ourselves if I don’t.”

“Just… go over there. Other side of the bed. Stay there.”

“Oh, you’re into being bossy, huh?” Bergamot grinned. “I can be your submissive.”

Sanji gagged again. “I swear, I’m going to kill Zoro,” he muttered.

He stared the man down until he moved to the far side of the bed. Sanji took another drag. He didn’t have to touch him. Didn’t have to do anything. He just needed answers. Then he could go back to the ship and scrub his skin raw.

“Look,” Sanji said tightly. “I don’t care that you do men. To each his own and all that shit. But I don’t want you like that. So keep your briefs on and your body over there.”

“Got it.” Bergamot smirked. “Do you want me to pretend to force you? Some people like that.”

Sanji nearly screamed. “No. Nothing. I’m straight.” He took another hit of smoke and forced the words out. “I just need you to tell me what I need to do to have sex with a guy.”

Bergamot looked him over, tongue pressed to his cheek. “Ah. I see. You’re supposedly straight, but in love with a man.”

“No.” Maybe. Fuck. “Just fucking tell me.”

“Be easier if I showed you.”

“No!” Sanji’s entire body lit up in a wildfire of rage and anxiety. The only guy he was maybe – possibly – going to touch was that jackass who’d upended his whole world. 

Bergamot stepped back instinctively. Sanji forced the flames to go out, then dragged a hand through his hair. “Just… please tell me.”

“Sure.” Bergamot cleared his throat. “Best thing is to try it on yourself. Get lube meant for sex – it stays slick. Use your fingers. Or a toy. Learn what it feels like.”

Sanji exhaled hard, stubbed out his cigarette, and lit another. “I’m not the one getting fucked.” 

“It’ll teach you how to keep it from hurting him.”

Sanji gave him a sharp look. “It hurts?”

“If you’re not careful, yeah. It’s a muscle, it needs to be eased open. Should feel like a good stretch, a little burn. Not pain.”

Sanji looked away, smoke drifting from his mouth. “Is it… pleasurable?”

Bergamot’s grin turned smug. “Very much so.”

Sanji shifted, glancing away. “With virgins. Anything different I should know?”

“Just listen. Go slow. Stop if he’s not enjoying it.”

Sanji nodded, slowly. He finished the butt, ground it out under his heel. “Where can I buy the stuff?”

“Chrysanthemum’s,” Bergamot said. “Two streets toward town, then a right.”

“Right.” Sanji shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m done here. Get me out.”

They went back downstairs. Just before the parlor, Bergamot paused. “Hope things go well with your boyfriend.”

Sanji’s eye twitched. Boyfriend. He shouldered past, burning from the inside out.

Lamplight cast long shadows along Shale Island’s cobbled streets. Stars spread across the darkened sky. The salty sea air mingled with the scent of roasting fish. The town’s nightlife buzzed with movement and music. Sanji pushed through the people clogging the streets, bee-lining for Chrysanthemum’s before he chickened out. Challenging didn’t begin to describe this hell he was walking through. This better be the best sex of his life or Zoro was going to die.

Chrysanthemum’s had black-painted shutters and a window display of skimpy lingerie. Inside, dark walls and sultry music set the mood. The front shelves were lined with oils, candles, and lube in discreet packaging. Sanji grabbed the nearest bottle that didn’t look ridiculous, an aloe-based one labeled for toys and anal sex.

He didn’t make eye contact. Not with the single clerk, a bored-looking man flipping through a magazine behind the counter. Not with the only other customer, a broad-shouldered guy browsing lingerie with unnerving deliberation, as if considering lace by how it’d feel between his teeth.

He continued to the back of the shop, where the lighting dimmed further and discreet displays showcased dildos, vibrators, plugs, cuffs, floggers, and bondage gear arranged like curios in a museum of debauchery.

Sanji slipped a cigarette between his lips but didn’t light it. Shop rules, unfortunately. He surveyed the lineup of dildos with a grimace. They ranged from stubby, colorful novelties to monstrosities the size of a horse. Embarrassed heat crawled up his neck, sweat gathering under the collar of his brown suit coat.

He reached out and picked one up – plain black, moderately sized, nothing flashy. Held it low, eyeing it against his own crotch like he was comparing sword lengths. Dissatisfied, he tried another. Then another. Eventually, he settled on one that matched his own dimensions well enough. He didn’t know Zoro’s size, and it didn’t matter. No one’s dick was ever coming near his ass, not even Zoro’s. Not in this lifetime, or the next, or any universe in between.

A shaky breath escaped him, equal parts dread and irritation, as he stalked to the counter, items clutched in a death grip. The clerk didn’t look twice. Bagged his purchase in brown paper and thanked him for shopping.

Back on the ship, Sanji shoved the bag deep into his locker. He grabbed a fresh pack of smokes, went to the aft deck, and lit up. He smoked the rest of the old pack and the entire new one, one cigarette after another.

Stars glittered overhead. The wind off the ocean was sharp and cool, tugging at his coat, threading through his hair like a ghost of memory. “You just had to give me emotions,” he whispered up at the heavens.

He imagined his mother laughing somewhere among the stars, with a quiet pride for the heart he chose to follow.

It was late, after eleven at night. Most of the crew were tucked in bed, some already asleep. Shale Island was long past, and they’d recently dismantled a pirate faction that had been terrorizing a silk-producing town. The days at sea stretched behind them, inching the crew toward their next log pose destination. There was no actionable news on the Road Poneglyph, but the Straw Hats were content to sail wherever adventure called.

Sanji slipped into the bathroom, the brown-wrapped package hidden beneath his black suit coat. He triple-checked the lock. The men usually didn’t bother locking up – only Luffy ever forgot what a closed door meant.

The Sunny’s bathroom was tucked into the top of the observation tower. A wall split the space in two: on one side, a water closet, sink, storage, and the hatch; on the other, the bathing area, complete with a long bench, a shower, and a wide onsen-style tub that could seat the whole crew. A window above the tub overlooked the sea trailing behind the ship. Bubble-patterned tiles covered the floor. Clean, folded towels filled a set of shelves on the dividing wall. 

Sanji set down two packs of cigarettes and his lighter on the bench beside the package. He didn’t know if he’d need both packs, but better to have too many than not enough. He crossed the room and cracked the window, letting the cool, salty breeze in. The familiar scent of the ocean soothed his nerves, if only a little.

He eyed the package as he slowly began undressing. Things with Zoro had settled into an oddly comfortable rhythm – quiet conversation here and there, a few shared laughs. Sanji had come to look forward to Zoro’s visits to the galley, whether they were random mid-mornings or like clockwork every afternoon. His presence slotted into Sanji’s routine like a knife into its sheath.

Sanji had realized he was usually the one who started their arguments, snapping reflexively at anything Zoro said. Zoro wasn’t blameless, of course; his dry humor and needling jabs never failed to hit a nerve. But Zoro was also quiet, content with the peace, only firing up when the topic turned to battles, barbells, or booze.

And slowly – so slowly – Sanji found himself wanting Zoro around. Missing him when he wasn’t. Wanting to share things with him. Even cooking. As territorial as he was about his kitchen, he wanted Zoro in that space, too. It was… humbling. Frightening. Revealing. That stupid, green-haired, sword-wielding pig of a man had wormed his way into Sanji’s heart and set up camp.

Sanji hated it. Hated how Zoro made him question everything. Hated how he held up a mirror to all the fears Sanji tried to ignore. Hated how much he enjoyed Zoro’s company. Hated how Zoro’s presence made the Sunny feel more like home than ever.

He wondered if Zoro had any idea what he’d done to him, with his dumb constipation and his pure offer of sex. How he’d twisted Sanji up in knots and yet somehow made their friendship stronger. There was no doubt in Sanji’s mind: Zoro was in love with him. That look of quiet wonder Zoro wore when Sanji had tried to explain love, that had said it all.

For Zoro, love was simple. Being by Sanji’s side was enough.

Sanji folded his clothes neatly and set them on the bench near the door, away from the shower spray. He slid his shoes beneath the bench. Then, with slow hands, he unwrapped the brown paper and stared at what lay inside. The contents inside made his stomach twist with anxiety for the unknown.

This was the edge of everything he wasn’t sure he could cross. He couldn't have love without sexual intimacy. He couldn’t give himself to someone else physically and still believe he was being true to his partner. It would feel like betrayal.

So he needed to decide. Could he do this? Could he bend this way? Could he cross the line and not feel disgusted by it?

He’d told Zoro to save himself for someone who loved him. That meant Sanji had to be certain. Had to be all in. If he took this from Zoro and then bailed, he’d be the worst kind of bastard – heartless, cowardly, cruel.

He unwrapped the lube and dildo and carried them over to the tub, setting them on the wide stone ledge. Stripping off the rest of his clothes, he took a brisk shower, scrubbing himself with practiced thoroughness. He wasn’t the type to explore his own ass, but he’d always been clean.

Once done, he lit a cigarette and took a long drag, the familiar burn settling his nerves by a fraction. He moved the extra packs and lighter to the tub’s edge and stared down at the toy again, unease rippling through him. He told himself it wasn’t about him, that he wouldn’t be the one on the receiving end, the one going beyond his limit. It was about Zoro, about not hurting him. About being sure. If Sanji was going to do this, he had to do it right.

“It’s a muscle, it needs to be eased open,” Bergamot had said. Right. That made sense. 

Sanji grabbed a folded towel and set it on the edge of the tub near the curved wall, then sat down, legs submerged in the hot water. His cigarette smoke caught the breeze and slipped out the open window. Moonlight flooded the night sky, piercing the dark with its cold, blue-white glow.

He picked up the lube, popped the cap, and coated the fingers of his right hand. His nails were always short and blunt – he was a chef, after all. The gel felt thick and slick between his fingers. He hadn’t needed anything like this with women, they’d been ready for him. And when it was just his hand, soap had always been enough.

He shifted to the edge of the towel and spread his thighs. Then he looked out the window, the cherry bright on his cigarette as he took a deep inhale, and slipped his slicked finger between his legs.

It felt normal at first. He’d just washed himself, it wasn’t much different. He knew where to go. But then he pressed, pushed, penetrated with his middle finger to the first knuckle and froze.

It was… strange. Foreign. And very tight. 

Sanji glanced at the toy. It was much, much larger than his finger. Still, he knew anal sex was common for both men and women. In theory, it would fit.

“It’s a muscle,” he muttered. It needed to be stretched.

He pushed his finger in deeper, up to the second knuckle. Inside, it was hot. Silky. Still incredibly snug. He took a drag from his cigarette, tapped ash into the tray kept on the ledge for moments just like this, and slid his finger in fully. 

He moved it around experimentally. The inner walls were soft, accommodating, and–

What was that?

He bumped when he curled his finger upward. It felt different, firmer, almost fleshy. He stilled, then searched again with a furrowed brow. It had definitely been there...

At first, the sensation made him feel like he needed to piss. That spot – smooth, dense, and shaped like a walnut – was clearly connected to something.

When he rubbed it again, a bolt of heat climbed his spine, blooming low in his belly. His neck tingled. His eyes widened. The sensation changed, twisted. It felt like he was getting off from the inside out. 

It felt good. Seriously good. 

He adjusted the angle, exploring, rubbing, pressing, and suddenly the sensation sharpened – focused – like he’d found a hidden switch. A spot so sensitive it felt like fire licking down his spine. 

It was phenomenal. 

He hadn’t even been hard before, but now his cock was throbbing, aching for touch. Cigarette clamped between his lips, he wrapped his free hand around himself and started stroking, all while working that perfect spot.

Orgasm hit like a tidal wave, hard, fast, out of nowhere. His entire body jerked, clenching tight around his finger as he came, thick and hot over his hand. His breath vanished. His heart slammed against his ribs. The sheer intensity knocked everything else from his mind.

When it was over, he collapsed, limp and breathless, like someone had cut his strings.

Holy shit. 

That part inside him was connected directly to his cock. That wasn’t just good – it was game-changing. And that had only been one finger.

He opened his eyes and looked at the toy again. His fingers twitched, already reaching. One finger had undone him. What would that do?

There was only one way to find out.

Sanji moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, pouring pancake batter into a hot griddle, turning the sausages, and slicing more fruit at the counter. A dull ache centered in his lower back. Not painful, just a lingering awareness that he’d done something different last night. 

Dawn filtered through the portholes in the galley, casting soft light across the room. The ship rocked gently beneath his feet, still steadying after a brief storm overnight. The deck outside remained slick with rain, the sea just slightly choppy. 

He nudged up the sleeves of his yellow shirt, paired with a black vest and tie. His hands moved swiftly, paring apples and quartering oranges. His nose told him when to flip the pancakes, when to pull the sausages. Biscuits were rising in the oven. Bacon crackled on the rack above them. Breakfast would be ready within a half hour.

His thoughts wandered as he worked, the tension in his back guiding them. Last night had been… something.

Using the toy had surprised him. It had taken time – three fingers, slow and steady – to stretch himself enough to take it without any pain. At first, the sensation was decent. Not bad, but not mind-blowing. But when he managed to angle it just right and hit that spot again, everything changed. He’d felt full, stretched, tingly in a way that was undeniably sexual.

It didn’t make him want to get fucked, didn’t awaken some new craving to bend over for someone – not even for Zoro. But he understood now. Understood why people did it, how it worked, what to do to make it feel good.

The trick was finding that spot and knowing how to work it. And when he did, when he hit it just right with the toy while stroking himself… the release had been explosive. Intense. All-consuming. It was the kind of orgasm that made him see stars.

He probably wouldn’t use the toy again; his fingers were easier and just as effective. But it hadn’t been pointless. What lingered wasn’t the sensation – it was the possibility. The idea of using what he’d learned for someone else. And not just anyone. Zoro.

Sanji added another pancake to the ever-growing stack on the counter, poured more batter onto the griddle, and swapped the cooked sausages for fresh ones. His mind wandered to what came next, now that he had the knowledge. He still wasn’t gay, still cringed at the idea of touching Zoro’s cock. But maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as he’d feared, just like the toy. Maybe he needed to stop overthinking the mechanics and start focusing on the person.

Part of him wanted to retreat, to cling to what was safe and known. But another part – the quieter, more hopeful part – whispered that maybe this was worth trying. Maybe the messiness, the awkwardness, the fear could be softened by something stronger. By connection. By trust. By love.

Sanji took an unsteady breath and let it out slowly. He only needed to take the final step, to make that last decision. To let go of everything he thought he knew, everything he’d imagined, and take the chance on something real. Even if it was with another guy.

Could he do that? Could he take the risk? Could he set aside his pride and his tight grip on identity for the possibility of something more?

The answer was… he didn’t know. And part of him ached under the weight of that uncertainty.

But he didn’t need to decide now. Breakfast had to be on the table. The crew would be up soon. There was laundry to do, suits to press. Love wasn’t something that had to be rushed. For now, pancakes and coffee came first. The rest could wait.

Sanji and Zoro charged through the forest, chasing after a giant armored rabbit. The rampaging bunny on Franklin Isle was one of many destructive forces under the control of a scientific madman who had turned woodland creatures into monsters.

It had been months since Wano, since Shale Island, since Egghead and Elbaph. They’d fought pirates, giants, seraphim, and marines. Taken down corrupt governments, fanatical despots, and tyrannical Devil Fruit users. Time alternated between dragging and racing, days and weeks at sea broken by sheer insanity and death-defying battles.

Sanji had laughed, yelled, chatted, argued, and fought with Zoro during that time. They pushed each other, baited one another, even had a few full-blown brawls. Quiet moments slipped in between the chaos, stitched together by their usual sniping. It was comfortable. Stable. A friendship that settled into something irreplaceable.

They’d built something solid. Steady. Close now – tight – riding the same wave toward their dreams. Zoro did his own thing; Sanji did, too. But they could share space. Be together. Talk about things that mattered or things that didn’t. Sanji had taught Zoro how to make perfect onigiri. Zoro had shown Sanji the benefits of meditation. They bickered playfully over chess, checkers, and cards.

Zoro never pressed. Sanji didn’t fret. He just let himself exist inside the comfort of it all, content to enjoy whatever this was between them without pushing to define it. And he’d been happy. So damned happy – like he’d finally found where he belonged. That feeling had been there before, faint and fleeting, but his sense of self-worth always kept him on edge, waiting to be proven wrong. Luffy had told him he couldn’t become Pirate King without Sanji. But Zoro had shown him what it meant to feel like home.

The forest flashed around them as they ran, sunlight dappling through the maple canopy. Leaves crunched underfoot. Mushrooms and lichen clung to fallen logs. Kudzu twisted around trunks like grasping arms. Ferns and columbines blanketed the ground. Squirrels chattered angrily as the two bolted past. Sparrows and finches scattered from the branches. A deer bounded away at the sound of their approach.

The rabbit barreled through the trees, smashing trunks, tearing a wide path through the forest. It was the last of the scientist’s terrifying creations. The Straw Hats had taken down the mastermind and his henchmen, this was just cleanup.

Fighting the other enormous, armored animals hadn’t been easy – Sanji had had to quite literally smack himself back into shape more than once. But the thrill of it all, the challenge, had pushed them to new heights. Zoro sported a few bandages beneath the open V of his long coat. His green hair was a little lopsided now.

The rabbit kicked up dirt behind it, pelting them as they ran. Dirty, sweaty, bloodied, and with a few tears in their clothes, they looked a mess. But none of that mattered. They were taking this rabbit down.

Zoro glanced sideways, two swords in hand, Wado clamped between his teeth. They were nearly on the rabbit’s fluffy white tail. Sanji knew exactly what Zoro wanted and didn’t hesitate. He pivoted mid-run, swung his leg out, and Zoro leapt, landing on Sanji’s shin. Sanji launched him skyward.

Zoro soared, a dark silhouette cutting across the sun. Then he struck, slicing clean through the beast’s thick neck in a single blow.

He landed lightly, scattering leaves. The rabbit crashed to the ground, a thunderous impact that shook the forest floor. Then, stillness. The chaos vanished, leaving a silence that rang in Sanji’s ears.

Sanji brushed dirt from his hair, blood still hot in his veins. Zoro straightened, sheathing his swords, tugging the last one from his mouth. His face was streaked with grime, hair dotted with crushed leaves. He turned and grinned at Sanji, crooked, cocky, lit from within by adrenaline.

Sanji stilled, heart catching in his throat. 

Oh. 

The thought came quietly, like it had been waiting in the background all along.

I’m in love with this man.

The world didn’t shift or stutter. No fireworks, no grand upheaval. Zoro wandered over to the fallen rabbit, scratched his ass, earrings catching the light. Birds began to sing again. A cricket chirped nearby.

“We gonna cut this one up? Keep it for food?” Zoro asked, nudging the haunch with his toe.

“If we can get the armor off,” Sanji said, forcing his voice to sound normal. “Luffy’s gonna want a feast, but some of the creatures we’ve taken down taste like shoe leather.”

“Pft. You could make anything taste good,” Zoro said offhandedly, drawing a sword to wedge into the seam. “Get the other side.”

The compliment, tossed so carelessly yet precisely, curled warm in Sanji’s belly. Sanji walked around the enormous rabbit, crouched, and started working on the armor. He didn’t say anything about what he’d realized. Not now. They had work to do.

The party lasted well into the night.

Sanji cooked, carved, and cooked some more. Barrels of booze had been found and broken into. The townspeople celebrated with cheers and songs. A massive bonfire crackled on the beach, where people danced, laughed, and swapped stories. A sliver of moon smiled sideways in the inky sky. Luffy rolled on his overstuffed belly, with Chopper alternately giggling and scolding. The rest of the Straw Hats were scattered among the revelers, having a good time.

Zoro had settled against a log near the fire, blinking sleepily, a massive tankard of booze in hand. When Sanji was finally done with everything he needed to do, he dropped down beside him, their shoulders brushing.

“Hey, marimo,” Sanji said, voice quiet but steady. “I’m in love with you, too.”

Zoro turned to him, eye wide with surprise. Then a slow, brilliant smile broke over his face, and he started to laugh – rusty, loud, and bright with joy. The sound sunk straight into Sanji’s heart, where he knew it would live forever.

“This is great!” Zoro said, bumping into him more deliberately, grin wide and stupid-happy. “Did you get constipated, too?”

Sanji groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not this again.”

“I wasn’t wrong, was I?” Zoro sounded smug. “There’s all that other stuff you said, but the constipa—”

Sanji leaned in and shut him up with a kiss.

It wasn’t anything big. Just a quick press of lips. Fast. Chaste. Between a man who had been straight and a man who was asexual. In front of everyone.

He pulled away just as fast, face burning, heart thudding in his chest.

Zoro touched his fingers to his lips, eye wide again. “No one’s ever kissed me before.”

Sanji tugged at his collar, shifted in the sand. He ignored the tremble in his hand. “Was that okay?”

“It was… kinda weird,” Zoro admitted. “But good?” He rubbed his lips together. “Kinda tingles.”

Sanji’s chest tightened and his stomach swooped. “We’ll have to try it again. Maybe when we’re alone.”

“Sure,” Zoro said easily. He raised his tankard, took a long drink, and belched.

“Charming,” Sanji muttered, lighting a cigarette. He checked his pack – he’d probably smoke them all tonight, just to settle his nerves after kissing Zoro in front of half the island.

The party went on around them. Nothing had changed. And yet, everything had.

Sanji felt like he was freefalling into an abyss. But he was ready for it. He still had fears to fight, walls to take down. But he was in love with Zoro. That was the most important part. The rest would follow.

Luffy rolled by, being pushed by Franky. Zoro shouted suddenly, “Oi, Luffy! Guess what? Sanji got constipated, too!”

Luffy laughed uproariously. Franky looked deeply confused. Sanji considered burying himself in the sand.

Sometimes, love looked nothing like you expected.

Sometimes, it came wrapped in the wrong package.

Sometimes, it required a choice – deliberate, terrifying, real.

And sometimes, it belched, scratched, and ate like a pig.

But it had absolutely nothing to do with constipation.

End