Safe in His Arms

Zoro slipped away from the party, a large tankard in one hand, a keg slung under his arm, overstimulation clawing at his chest like rage. The noise, the strangers, the relentless celebration – all of it scraped at his nerves. He didn’t care where his feet took him, as long as it was away.

The further he got from the bonfires, the quieter it became. Darkness swallowed the light, and only the moon kept him company. That was fine. Getting lost was the point. Better to be alone than risk snapping with his words, or worse, his swords.

The island’s inland terrain was dry and woodsy, rising gently from the coast. Shagbark hickories reached high into the sky, their rough, peeling bark and fan-shaped leaves swaying in the salt-touched breeze. Zoro found a clearing nestled deep in the grove. Here, the only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the distant hush of waves against shore.

He sank into the soft earth, back against the jagged bark of a tree, and rested his katanas across his lap. A throb from his side reminded him of the fight they'd just survived – a war for a stolen kingdom, their crew victorious against another tyrant. He drank deeply from his tankard.

Above, the stars blinked through the canopy. Zoro tilted his head up, forced a breath in. He could meditate, or he could drink until the anger thinned to something tolerable. Tonight, he drank. Every muscle in his body stayed wound tight. A headache pulsed behind his good eye like a blade pressed too long against a whetstone.

He’d catch hell for disappearing again – he always did. But none of them really understood. Crowds, noise, strangers trying to talk to him, touch him, celebrate with him – it burned like fire under his skin. Even being around the crew had taken time, trust, and space. That space came in training breaks, long naps, or stretches of silence where no one asked him to talk.

He’d known for years what the problem was. Doctors had given it a name back when he was a kid too angry to sit still or listen. His brain worked differently. Too much input became too much sensation, and the easiest emotion to reach was irritation. Sometimes it exploded. Sometimes it simmered like now, buried under the pressure of too much feeling and no words to explain it.

But it didn’t make him weak. If anything, it sharpened his instincts. He fought like he was born for it – focused, fast, relentless. His body reacted before his mind got a chance to drown. In battle, his difference was an edge. In peace, it was a splinter.

He took another swig of ale, then exhaled through his nose.

Luckily, everything bounced off Luffy like rubber – literally and figuratively. He never flinched at Zoro’s silence, never mistook his irritation for disinterest or lashing out for true ire. He just saw Zoro. Because of that, Zoro had the chance to be part of something greater than himself, something real. The crew had become his purpose. Protecting them came before everything, even his dream. He would still become the world’s greatest swordsman – he had no doubt. But now, he wanted his friends beside him when it happened, even that stupid cook.

Zoro took another swig of his drink, a different kind of annoyance pulling at his brow. He had never been able to connect with Sanji the way he had with the others. Their relationship was all friction – arguments, bickering, physical fights. He’d found a way to get along with everyone else, even Nami, with all her sharp edges. But Sanji? It was like every word between them was a spark to dry kindling.

He knew it wasn’t on Sanji to fix that. If he wanted something better, he had to be the one to try. Had to push through his dislike of talking, the resistance that rose in his throat every time he tried to explain himself. Had to swallow the irritation that always came when people didn’t get him right away, when his tone sounded angry even if he wasn’t.

Still, he trusted Sanji. And he knew Sanji trusted him. That counted for something. It gave him hope they could do better. He just wished he knew how to say what he was thinking without it turning into a fight. 

He didn’t usually waste time wishing he were different. Normalcy felt like a dumb thing to want – he was fine the way he was. Most of the time. But sometimes the wish crept in, quiet and sharp. Like when he wanted to tell Sanji that dinner was actually amazing. Or that the way Sanji had moved in a fight – fast, clean, graceful – had impressed the hell out of him. Or when he wanted to say something even harder. Like how Zoro was attracted to him.

Zoro blew out a frustrated breath and took another drink. Sanji had looked really fucking good tonight. He’d worn some soft-looking navy sweater, the kind that clung to his chest and arms. The v-neck dipped low, revealing a patch of golden curls on his chest that caught the firelight. Zoro’s fingers had twitched with the urge to touch, to feel if the hair was soft or coarse, if it would prickle against his skin. Zoro didn’t have body hair like that – his chest was smooth, arms and legs barely dusted. He wondered if Sanji even liked being touched like that. If he’d let Zoro find out.

Sanji wasn’t gay, but he wasn’t exactly straight either. Zoro knew that firsthand. He’d once gone looking for a restroom at a restaurant and instead stumbled on an alley door propped open with a brick. What he saw through the gap had burned into his brain: Sanji leaning against the wall, cigarette between his lips, head tilted back, mouth parted in pleasure while a guy in cooking whites knelt in front of him.

So yeah, Sanji liked guys enough to let one get him off. Which meant Zoro’s chances weren’t zero. Aside from the part where they couldn’t exchange more than five words without it becoming a fight.

Zoro listened to the faint rustle of something moving through the underbrush – an opossum, maybe. Or a rabbit. The island’s main predators were people, not animals, and with the fall of the last regime, even that threat had faded. There were birds of prey overhead, but nothing on the ground that concerned him. Not tonight.

He kept drinking, draining one tankard and refilling it from the keg without pause. The tension in his shoulders finally started to loosen, the sharp rage in his chest softening to a dull, familiar irritation. The headache lingered, heavy and needling behind his eye. He hoped it wouldn’t twist into a migraine. Those hit like a hammer and stayed for hours.

A small shift drew his attention back to the wound at his side. Chopper had patched him up with steady hands and a gentle threat not to tear it open again. The swordsman he’d fought had carried a green-dripping blade with serrated teeth, and it had chewed into Zoro’s side like it meant to stay there. A handful of stitches had sealed it, neat and tight. An annoyance, like most things. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

Zoro took another long drink, letting the alcohol smooth over the sting in his ribs, the ache behind his eye, and the rest of the world with it.

Zoro didn’t remember falling asleep, only that he awoke with hunger gnawing at his belly and a desperate need to piss. His mouth tasted foul, stale and almost rotten. The stench of sweat, earth, and antiseptic clung to him. Somewhere close, something was screeching – sharp and constant.

He opened his eye, blinking through the blur of sleep, only to be blasted by bright sunlight. He raised a hand to shield his face, tension spiking with that sound that Just. Would. Not. Stop.

He squinted, disoriented. Everything felt wrong – too loud, too bright, too sharp. The leaves rustled like static. The sunlight sliced through his eyelid. His skin itched with the weight of sweat and grit.

He realized he was in a sensory storm. Every sense was overloaded. The woods were worse than any party, worse than navigating cities crowded with voices and lights and smells. He didn’t understand why it was happening – he was alone, surrounded by nature, nothing overtly triggering.

His body tightened, curling in on itself. A migraine stabbed behind his eye like a blade, made him grimace and shake. A zigzagging aura sparked behind his scrunched-closed eyelid. Nausea climbed high and fast. He gritted his teeth and forced air into his lungs.

Gather the pain around you. Make it yours. Let it go. He repeated the mantra in his head, grasping for control. He tried to center himself, to focus on a single breath. The migraine needed painkillers, but the overstimulation – he should be able to regulate that.

But he couldn’t. It didn’t stop. Noise, smell, light – all at once, relentless. His clothes felt too rough, the ground too sharp. He yanked them off, desperate to stop the scratch. Still the itch spread, fire ants beneath his skin. He clawed at the bandages, at the stitches, trying to peel the sensations away.

He could taste the iron tang of his migraine. Smell his own stale sweat and lingering alcohol. Sunlight stabbed at his eyelid. Even the air felt too loud.

He needed it to stop.

He slammed his head against the tree behind him – hard – chasing one pain to quiet another. But the storm kept raging.

“Hey, hey, hey – dumbass – Zoro, shit!”

A familiar voice cut through the noise. “You’re bleeding everywhere. What the fuck, marimo?”

Hands found him. Rough, calloused. Gentle. They touched his side, his arm, the back of his head.

“Fuck, looks like you bashed your head in.”

The nearness brought scent – sharp cigarette smoke and clean, crisp cologne. Masculine. Familiar. Sanji.

Zoro locked on. He pulled the scent into himself like a lifeline. Reached blindly and grabbed something soft, crushing it in his sweaty fist. He made a low, broken sound in his throat. Words were still out of reach. He clung to what he could, pulling it close, trying to burrow in.

“Ow – fuck – stop clawing at me, you brute.” Arms shifted around him. Rearranged him. Held him. “I need to get you back to the ship.”

“No,” he forced out, pressing his face into the crook of a neck, chasing that grounding scent. The body against him was solid, anchoring.

“What? Shithead, you’re hurt.”

“No,” he repeated. He pushed closer, lips brushing skin. He tasted salt, clean and real, something to overwrite the rot in his mouth.

“Did you just lick me?” Sanji jolted. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Zoro still couldn’t answer. He clung tighter, pressed in, breathed in Sanji’s scent, tasted his skin, felt the steady warmth of him – and centered himself there.

This distorted flood of sensation wasn’t new. He’d lived with it for as long as he could remember. His mind didn’t filter the world the way others’ did. Noise stayed loud, light stayed sharp, touch lingered too long. He’d learned to manage it – through focus, through silence, through sheer discipline. Most days, he could ride it out without anyone knowing. But today there’d been nothing to hold onto. Until Sanji.

“Okay,” Sanji breathed, voice quivering as he shifted them again. “Okay. We’ll stay here for a few minutes. Maybe this… whatever the fuck this is… maybe it’ll calm down. Just— I got you, okay? You’re safe. You hear me, Zoro? You’re safe.”

Safe. The word threaded through Zoro’s psyche like balm. Safe.

When had he last felt that?

The arms around him were solid. Steady. Warmth bled between them. Beneath his clenched fist, soft fabric and a heartbeat – constant and strong. He sank into the new sensations, let them tether him. The migraine still pounded behind his eye, but the contact, the presence, was slowly pulling him back.

“Talk,” he croaked, needing sound, needing all the senses engaged to quiet the storm.

“Talk? About what?” Sanji’s voice vibrated against his lips, pressed against warm skin. “That you’ve gone fucking feral? That you’re bleeding all over my sweater? That you licked me?”

Zoro hummed, a steadier breath exhaling. The scent of cologne and cigarettes filled his lungs.

“This better not be a mating ritual for sentient marimos. I’m a wine-and-dine kind of guy.”

The storm was easing. Not all at once. But he could feel it. The itch beneath his skin faded. The light behind his eyelid no longer stabbed.

“Everyone’s back on the ship. Luffy wanted to leave before the locals felt indebted to us. I got sent to find your ass. Didn’t expect you to be naked, bleeding, and clinging like actual moss.” A sigh. Fingers brushed gently against his arm. “Whatever this is, you’re tougher than it. And I’m here. Just breathe. I’ll mock you later.”

The steady ramble continued – reassurances, insults, aimless musings – woven together in that familiar voice. Surrounded by Sanji’s scent, sound, taste, and touch, Zoro slowly found his way back to himself. The migraine remained, sharp and pulsing, but it was singular now, no longer swallowed in a storm. The sting in his side, the ache at the back of his head – they registered, but felt distant. Unimportant. He could breathe again.

Language returned, surfacing through the static. Not fluid, not whole, but there. His throat worked around the weight of silence, and after a few false starts, a word made it out. Small. Cracked. But his. “Thanks.”

“Ah, what’s this I hear? The dulcet tone of a coherent mosshead?” 

Zoro grunted. A wave of embarrassment washed over him. He’d never lost it like that before – never gotten so overwhelmed that he couldn’t pull himself back. Usually, he could meditate, breathe, wait it out until the world settled again. Solitude had always helped. This time, it hadn’t.

“You able to tell me what happened?” Sanji asked, still calm, still solid, still holding on. 

“Overstimulated.” The word felt awkward in his mouth, heavier than it should’ve been. He didn’t like talking about this stuff.

“By what?” 

“Everything.” Zoro flexed his fingers around the soft material clenched in his fist. The texture grounded him. “Too much.”

“Is that normal, or… unusual?” Sanji’s tone stayed easy – light, but careful.

Zoro hesitated. Even he didn’t fully understand it. “Both,” he said finally.

“Huh. You say that like it’s happened before.”

Zoro felt himself tensing – not like earlier, not from sensory overload, but from reticence, from the urge to shut down. But he’d licked Sanji, for fuck’s sake. He figured that earned some kind of explanation.

“It’s not new,” he muttered. “Just… not usually this bad.”

Sanji shifted his grip, not pulling away. “So it’s not a one-time thing.”

Zoro exhaled, slow and steady. “It’s how I am. Always been. Usually manage it better.”

“Hn. Okay.” Sanji sounded thoughtful. “Do you always get naked and bleed?”

A self-deprecating laugh puffed from his lips. “Not so much.” Sometimes he had to take his clothes off, sometimes he had to scratch, but not like this. 

“Think you’re steady enough now that I can get you back to the ship?”

It was on the tip of Zoro’s tongue to say yes, but the thought of moving from the safety of Sanji’s hold brought with it a swell of anxiety. That was… not good. He really needed pain reliever for the migraine stabbing his head and Chopper had to restitch his side. He forced the word past his lips. “Yes.”

Sanji shifted, moved, but all he did was reach for Zoro’s pants. “Here. Pull these on. I’ve seen enough of your tiny dick for today.”

Zoro felt himself sputter with both indignity and outrage. “My dick is not tiny!”

“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.” The amusement was thick in Sanji’s voice, mocking but gentle, like he wanted to help Zoro feel normal again. 

“I’m going to cut you,” Zoro threatened, as he tugged his pants over his feet. He was sitting sideways on the ground, between Sanji’s knees. He still leaned heavily against Sanji’s solid chest.

“Pft. You won’t get the chance. Chopper’s going to kill you first.”

That pulled a soft groan from Zoro. “Shit.”

“Heh.” Sanji stretched for Zoro’s boots, kicking them closer with a foot before snatching them, one arm remaining secure around Zoro’s back. He put them within Zoro’s reach. “I’m going to Sky Walk us out of here, get us back faster. Don’t bother giving me any shit about it.”

Zoro felt like he should make a token protest, even though it sounded good to him. “I can walk.”

“When you pass out from blood loss, I’m going to do it anyway. May as well save a step.”

Zoro huffed and glanced around for his katanas. They were nestled against Sanji’s leg behind him, safe. 

Sanji picked them up, gave them to Zoro, along with his discarded shirt. Then, he stood, leaving Zoro with a swift feeling of unmooring before Sanji squatted and hefted him up, bridal style. “You’re lucky I haul around sacks of rice and flour regularly, to be able to carry your heavy ass.”

“M’not heavy,” Zoro muttered, but he tucked his head back into Sanji’s neck and closed his eye. His head fucking hurt, and now exhaustion was weighing over him. 

“Gonna put you on a diet,” Sanji said as he kicked up into the air. He jumped from pressure point to pressure point as if he were leaping up a set of stairs. When he cleared the trees, he headed for the Sunny anchored at the coast.

Zoro hummed, letting the desire to sleep pull him under, feeling safe and comfortable in Sanji’s arms.

Zoro awoke in the infirmary, greeted by the familiar knot in the ceiling that looked vaguely like a cat. A drip was in his arm, but his head didn’t ache. He no longer felt tacky with blood. Bandages wrapped his torso and limbs, and his skin smelled clean.

His eye wandered the room – Chopper’s desk scattered with charts and open books, shelves above stacked with texts, and the medicine cabinet lined with jars, boxes, and powders. His katanas were where they always were when he was in the infirmary: propped at the foot of the adjustable bed, leaning against the wall beside the door to the galley. That door stood ajar, letting in the clatter of silverware, layered voices, laughter, and the occasional shout at Luffy.

Zoro pushed himself upright. He was wearing a pair of his rarely-used boxer-briefs instead of pants. His stomach rumbled, a good sign. That he no longer needed to piss meant Chopper had handled it, and Zoro pushed the thought aside without shame. Tugging out the IV and dropping it on the bed, he stood. No dizziness.

Satisfied he wouldn’t keel over like an idiot, he grabbed his swords and pushed through the open door.

The galley was golden-lit by sconces. The crew was gathered around the table, Franky stretched out on the sofa and Jinbe settled at the bar. Food towered from the center of the table, rapidly disappearing. Sanji glanced up from behind the bar where he stirred a pitcher of sweetened iced tea, his hand pausing for half a beat before he resumed.

“Zoro! You shouldn’t be out of bed!” Chopper scolded as Zoro slouched into his empty seat.

“M’fine,” Zoro muttered. “Hungry.”

Sanji came over, carrying a place setting and the pitcher. He dropped the plate in front of Zoro and began filling glasses. “Pass the rice,” he said to Usopp, who sent the bowl down the line – through Brook and Robin – to land in front of Zoro.

Zoro grunted a thanks, scooping a pile of rice onto his plate. No one commented on his appearance other than Robin’s soft, “It’s good to see you up.” He looked roughed up, but not worse than usual, and his boxer-briefs weren’t too noticeable next to Franky’s scandalous swimsuit. The bandages over his chest covered enough.

He reached for the vegetables. The smell hit like a wall: spinach’s iron bite, kale’s bitter minerality, the syrupy sweetness of carrot, and underneath it, the soft nuttiness of roasted cauliflower soured with a sulfuric note he hadn’t registered before.

It was too much. Too layered. Too wrong.

The scents tangled at the back of his throat, thick and slick. His stomach twisted, not from nausea, but confusion. Sensory input clashed and blurred. His hands curled on instinct. His shoulders tensed.

He didn’t look at the bowl again. He just breathed shallowly, trying to push the smell out.

But then came the sound. The conversation, once pleasant background, turned grating – each voice sharpened, every laugh a scrape across his nerves. Light from the sconces flared painfully against his vision. He blinked and flinched. This couldn’t be happening. Not again.

But it was.

He swiveled from the table, knocking his swords to the floor. Voices called after him, concern in their tone, but it all grated like glass in his ears. He stumbled from the galley, back through the infirmary, and shoved open the rear door to the aft deck.

The wind hit hard – salt and cold and relentless. The sea’s scent flooded his nose, burning the inside of his head. He collapsed to his knees, curling in on himself as pain and overload surged through him. His body seized with tension. Too much. Too fast. Too sharp.

There were hooves on his back. Rough, scraping. Zoro jerked away like he’d been struck. Voices again. Overlapping. Loud.  Ripping through him. Salt spray seared his nostrils, his throat. It was too much. Too much. Too much.

Then, a different touch. Hands. Strong, steady.

“Fuck, here – let me try what we did before,” Sanji’s voice cut through the din.

Zoro was moved – gently, surely – until his face pressed against the crook of a neck. Cigarettes. Cologne. Heat. Familiar. Safe.

“Alright, marimo. Let’s do this again. You breathe, I’ll keep you safe, okay? Listen, lick, whatever works.”

Zoro clung to Sanji’s shirt, fingers fisting in the fabric, breathing shallowly, nose full of grounding scent.

Sanji shifted, bracketing him with arms and legs, anchoring them together. “You guys go finish eating,” he said. “No sense letting it get cold. Throw a plate together for the idiot. Cover it with foil, I’ll reheat it later.”

Footsteps retreated. Doors closed. Silence. Zoro didn’t know where he was now. Didn’t care. Sanji was everything – scent, voice, touch, solidity.

“Okay, it’s just us,” Sanji murmured. “And what the fuck again, mosshead? You said this happens, but I wasn’t expecting a repeat performance this soon.”

Zoro tried to ground himself. Breathe. Focus.

“At least you’re wearing underwear this time. Your tiny little dick’s not flopping in my face.” A chuckle. “No comeback? You agree with me?”

A pause, a mutter. “Fuck, your mouth is doing bad things to my neck.”

The world narrowed to just Sanji. Just this. He was regulating quicker this time, but it still scraped him raw.

“Just… whatever. Never mind. I’ve got this. I’ve got you.” Sanji breathed deep. Zoro moved with his chest. “You owe me, you know. Nami-san and Robin-chan saw me holding you like this. My reputation’s destroyed, clingy moss.”

Sanji’s steady, irritated affection filled the silence. He rambled complaints – missed food, future dish duty, and poetic threats. Inch by inch, Zoro’s muscles unlocked. The taste coating his throat faded. Breath came easier.

“Fuck,” Zoro finally murmured into Sanji’s skin.

“Yeah,” Sanji replied. His fingers ghosted up and down Zoro’s arm. “You good now?”

“No.” Zoro sat back, slowly. “This… isn’t usual.”

Sanji frowned. “You think maybe you hit your head too hard?”

“No,” Zoro said. That had happened after the first sensory overload. “I don’t know what this is.”

He hoped it wasn’t a sign that something deeper in him had changed. Something he couldn’t train or meditate away.

“Chopper’ll figure it out,” Sanji said, no hesitation in his voice. “Should I get him? Or do you need me a bit longer…?”

The offer was soft. Genuine. Like they didn’t fight a majority of the time. It made Zoro’s chest ache.

Suddenly, his stomach growled, loud and demanding, surprising them both. Sanji chuckled, and Zoro scowled, embarrassed. He got to his feet and headed for the infirmary bed, knowing Chopper would send him there anyway. He adjusted the backrest, settling into a comfortable upright position.

Sanji didn’t say anything else, just left, cracking the door behind him. Chopper came in a moment later, face tight with worry. “Zoro, are you okay? What happened?”

Zoro had never told Chopper about his diagnosis. There’d never seemed a point. Chopper couldn’t cure it, and Zoro could manage.

Until now.

So he told him.

Chopper listened closely, asking the kind of quiet, pointed questions Zoro didn’t like. What was normal? What wasn’t? What triggered it? What helped? Then he took blood, murmuring about tests.

A knock.

“Food and drink for the clingy moss,” Sanji said as he entered, carrying a plate, a fork, and a tall glass. He flipped the infirmary’s tray table into place and set everything down.

Zoro scowled. “Don’t call me that.”

Sanji just grinned and sauntered off.

Zoro grumbled under his breath and picked up the iced tea. He took a swig. Sweetness, then surprise as alcohol hit his tongue.

He blinked at the glass. Then at the door. Then at Chopper’s back. A slow, sneaky smile spread over his lips. 

He didn’t know why Sanji had laced the drink, but he wasn’t about to look a gift booze in the mouth.

“It’s a neurotoxin,” Chopper told Zoro, once he’d finished running his tests. “Did something sting you? Drink something you shouldn’t have?”

The infirmary was quiet. The only sound came from the galley: soft clinks as Sanji washed up. The door had been left open after Sanji collected Zoro’s empty dishes. Zoro had dozed while Chopper worked, body wrung out after the second sensory storm.

The test results were surprising.

Except… they weren’t.

Zoro remembered the blade – green-tinted and dripping – slicing into his side. His hand drifted to the bandage over those stitches. Chopper caught the movement, eyes narrowing.

“Think maybe it was that sword,” Zoro said. “It had some kind of green drip.”

“You have to tell me these things, Zoro!” Chopper snapped, tugging irritably at his hat. “I could’ve checked your blood right away!”

“You’re checking it now.”

Chopper growled softly, muttering under his breath about Zoro being a terrible patient. “We’re not on the island anymore. Which means I don’t have access to the source of the toxin. Which means making an antitoxin just got a whole lot harder. I might be able to synthesize one using your blood, but there’s no guarantee it’ll work.”

Dread knotted low in Zoro’s gut. “So what does that mean?”

Chopper hesitated, then said, without sugarcoating it, “It means until I can make a working antitoxin, you’re going to keep having sensory overloads.”

Zoro grunted, jaw clenching. “So that’s it? I can’t even smell food without going down?”

Chopper pulled his chair closer and sat, tapping his hooves together. “It wouldn’t affect everyone like that. Neurotypical systems – most people’s – have automatic filters in their brains. The toxin still hits them, but they get milder symptoms. Lightheadedness. Maybe they flinch at bright lights or strong smells, but it passes.”

He looked up at Zoro, his tone gentling. “Your brain doesn’t have those filters. You’ve always processed more – more sound, more light, more texture, more scent. It all hits you harder. And the neurotoxin’s messing with the exact neural pathways you’ve trained yourself to regulate. It’s like... turning Brook’s speaker volume to max and breaking the dial.”

Zoro didn’t speak. His fingers curled tight around the edge of the infirmary sheet.

“That doesn’t make you weak,” Chopper added quickly. “It just means this hits you in a way it wouldn’t hit others. Like how Sanji’s lungs wouldn’t last in a smoke bomb. Or how Luffy can’t swim. This is your vulnerability. And right now, it’s under attack.”

Zoro let out a slow breath through his nose. “So you’ll fix it.”

“I’ll do everything I can,” Chopper said, eyes steady. “But until then, we’re going to figure out how to help your brain come down from it, faster and safer. You’re not in this alone.”

Zoro shoved down the anger threatening to choke him. He had his own processes – his routines, quiet strategies that helped him regulate and adapt. Tools that let him function without feeling like a liability. Without feeling less than for being built differently.

And now those tools had been ripped away by a fucking toxin, leaving him exposed. Raw. Like every part of him that didn’t match the others had been thrown into harsh light.

“Why the hell would that guy use a weapon that wouldn’t even affect most people?” Zoro growled, bitterness laced through the edge of his voice. The sting of failure burned in his chest. He’d gotten cut. Sloppy. Stupid.

Chopper didn’t flinch. “Torture, possibly,” he said, voice steady but grim. “If you were captured and poisoned, every touch, every sound, every breath would hurt more. It wouldn’t take much to break someone.”

Zoro grunted, memory flickering: the bastard whipping bolas at his ankles, over and over. Trying to wear him down. Zoro had just cut them to shreds.

At the time, it hadn’t seemed important.

“In any case,” Chopper said, standing, already mentally shifting into working mode, “we know what we’re dealing with now. I’ll get started on the antitoxin right away.”

Zoro needed out of the infirmary. Needed trousers. Needed to train. Maybe if he pushed hard enough, he could sweat the neurotoxin out.

Chopper didn’t stop him, just warned him to call for help if he needed it. That made him feel worse.

He cut through the galley, ignoring Sanji’s usual razzing. It was dark outside now – night had fallen while he was stuck under Chopper’s scrutiny. Moonlight glittered over the sea. The grass on deck felt sharp under his feet, not soft like usual. He ignored it and walked faster.

The men’s quarters were active. Usopp, Franky, and Jinbe played cards at the sunken kotatsu-style table. Brook tuned his violin. Bunks hung on chains, lockers lined the wall, and the air was filled with chatter and energy. 

“Ne, Zoro, want to play?” Luffy asked.

“No.”

“I trust all is well, Zoro-san?” Brook asked gently.

“It’s fine,” Zoro lied, heading straight to his locker. He didn’t want to talk. The noise was rising. His chest was tightening. He grabbed clean trousers, trying to leave—

Luffy laughed, sharp and piercing. Usopp whined. Franky’s “Yeow! Super!” hit like a bullet to the brain.

Zoro staggered toward the door, trousers and katanas in hand, fighting the onset. If he could just get outside, maybe he could regulate. He heard someone call after him but didn’t stop.

The darkness helped. The noise cut off behind the door – but it was already too late.

Luffy reached him first. He smelled like sunshine and rubber, and his arms wrapped around Zoro, too tight, too wrong. Zoro flinched, hunching in on himself.

Franky tried next – too loud, too strong.

Jinbe’s hand was steady, but massive. Usopp’s voice was uncertain and jittery, spiking Zoro’s overstimulation further. Brook called for Chopper but didn’t approach.

Then Sanji arrived – bitching, cursing, grabbing Zoro, manhandling him into place. Chopper shooed everyone else away, and suddenly it was just Sanji. His scent, his sound, his strength. Safe.

Zoro locked onto it. Anchored. Centered himself in the presence of Sanji’s steadiness, listening to his voice. Sharp-edged words, sure, but familiar. Grounding.

When he could breathe again, when the static in his brain finally eased, Zoro cursed with all the fluency he could muster.

Sanji chuckled, the sound vibrating against Zoro’s shoulder. “Tell me how you really feel, clingy moss.”

“Shut up.” Zoro shoved away harder than necessary, heat prickling across his cheeks.

“Is this gonna be a regular thing?” Sanji asked, pulling a cigarette from his breast pocket. They were both sitting on the lawn. Zoro’s trousers and katanas lay scattered around them.

Zoro yanked his trousers on. “Chopper’s working on an antidote.”

“Hn. Poison, then?”

“Neurotoxin.”

“Ah.” Sanji lit up, the cigarette’s cherry flaring in the dark. “So. What do you want to do?”

“Train.”

“No, dumbass. I meant about the breakdowns… what do you call it again?”

Zoro glowered. “Overstimulation. Sensory overload.”

“Right. That. I seem to be the only one who gets you through it.”

Zoro had noticed. It only made everything worse. Sanji had seen him weak. Any chance of returned interest – gone. “I can handle it if everyone just leaves me alone.”

Sanji snorted. “You really think the crew’s gonna let you suffer? That I’d let you?”

Zoro shot him a look. “You don’t like me.”

The cigarette glowed again. “I’m not an asshole. Whether I like you or not, I don’t want you hurting.”

Zoro exhaled hard. He wanted to retreat, disappear. He needed space. “I don’t like this.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Sanji replied. “It’s happening. So now we deal.” He took another drag. “Take the damned help, jackass.”

Zoro didn’t want to. Admitting he needed help grated – worse was thinking Sanji’s offer meant something more than it did. He grumbled, grabbed his katanas. “Fine.”

Sanji blinked, surprised. “Okay. So how do you want to do this?”

Zoro grunted and stood, eyeing the rigging to the crow’s nest and escape.

Sanji huffed, rising too. “Different question, then. Do you know when it’s coming on?”

“Yeah. Kinda.”

“Think you can find me when it starts?”

Zoro glanced at him. The moonlight turned Sanji’s hair silver-blue. “Maybe.”

“Then do that,” Sanji said. “The second it starts. Maybe we can cut it off before it really hits.”

Zoro’s mouth tightened. This meant relying on someone else. Being the one needing protection. “Fine.”

“I’ll be in the galley for another hour or so,” Sanji said. “I’ll come up and check on you when I’m done.”

“I don’t need a sitter.”

Sanji gave him an arched look and walked away.

Grinding his teeth, Zoro climbed the rigging. He ducked through the hatch into the crow’s nest, his personal space, his sanctuary. Metal floor. Dumbbells. Barbells. Meditation mat. Storage cabinet. A bench ringing the room.

He kicked the hatch shut, tossed his swords on the bench, and dropped down beside them. Pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

This sucked. This fucking sucked.

Life was already a challenge – always had been. And now this. He didn’t want Sanji – or anyone – invading his space, no matter how well it had worked.

He knew his limits. He knew his boundaries. And this was testing all of them.

Chopper’s cure better come fast.

Because Zoro just wanted his version of normal back.

The beginning of another sensory storm hit just as Sanji pushed through the hatch of the crow’s nest.

Zoro had opened the window to cool off and air out the sweat. But now, the tickle of the breeze on his damp skin felt like a thousand tiny knives.

He’d been fine before that, for a full hour. The weights felt familiar in his hands, the strain of muscle grounding. His own body odor didn’t bother him.

But now... “Shit.”

“Is it coming?” Sanji asked, kicking the hatch shut behind him.

The bang made Zoro wince. “Yeah.”

Sanji didn’t hesitate. “Okay. C’mere. Let’s just sit.” He dropped onto the bench seat, the invitation open.

Zoro yanked the window closed, shutting off the wind, and dropped heavily beside him. Sweat prickled his brow, his skin itching. His muscles were tightening. His breath sounded too loud in his ears.

Sanji curled an arm around his shoulders, thigh pressed to thigh. “Need me to talk?”

Zoro gave a stiff nod, trying to pull up his own regulation techniques, too.

“Hm… I’m making donuts in the morning. Yeast ones. Made the dough earlier – was proofing while I was in the galley. Menu’s the usual for breakfast. We’re having seafood salad for lunch, using the bass Usopp caught. Dinner’s chicken. I revised this morning after we left port, using up the fresh meat we got from the island. I might shift a few more things around. Gonna recheck the freezer, decide what I can stretch a little longer.”

Zoro leaned into the sound, into Sanji’s voice, steady and low. The smell of cigarettes. The solid arm anchoring him. It all kept Zoro grounded. The spiral didn’t hit like it had the last three times. The sensation still lingered, threatening at the edges – tight skin, the flicker of an aura at the corner of his eye – but it hadn’t won.

He focused on his breath. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. Slow. Measured. His skin still itched. He scratched at his temples and forehead, the sweat a raw line across his nerves.

Sanji grabbed his wrist. “You’re leaving welts.”

“Itches.”

Sanji scanned the space, spotted Zoro’s towel hanging on the wall. “Want to get the towel?”

“Yeah.” But Zoro didn’t move right away. Not until the itch got unbearable. Then he pushed off the bench, snagged it, and came back. Sanji’s arm slid around him again without a word.

The towel was scratchy, but it dried the sweat, removing the worst of the sensation. The migraine still hovered, but didn’t bloom. Zoro kept his attention on Sanji, on his breathing, clinging to the rhythm.

The storm stayed on the horizon.

He didn’t know how long they sat like that. Sanji talked, casual and steady. Zoro had shifted, turning inward, his cheek pressed to Sanji’s chest. The towel had been abandoned on his lap; his hand now gripped the fabric over Sanji’s thigh, squeezing and releasing in a repetitive motion that helped him stay grounded. The vibration of Sanji’s voice under his ear kept him anchored.

When it passed, it left Zoro feeling wrung out, awkward, grateful, and other things he didn’t want to name. He pushed away from Sanji and stood, putting space between them. He crossed the room and shoved the opposite window open. The breeze didn’t hurt this time. It cooled his overheated skin.

“Think you’ll be okay for another hour or so?” Sanji asked from behind.

Zoro grunted.

“Alright. You can find me in the men’s quarters before then.”

Then he left – no mocking, no pity, no softness that Zoro didn’t know how to handle. Just calm, like this was normal. Like this was just something they did.

Zoro was left with the silence. With the relief. With the discomfort.

This was going to be even harder than he’d thought.

He ended up in the men’s quarters even though he didn’t need Sanji’s help.

After gathering himself in the crow’s nest, Zoro had showered, rinsing off the sweat and stink from training. His skin no longer itched. The pressure in his head had dulled. He could’ve gone back to the deck, or the library, like he usually did.

But he didn’t.

The men’s quarters weren’t completely quiet, but the edge of the day had softened. Chopper and Luffy were already snoring. Usopp lounged in bed with a magazine. Jinbe and Brook sat at the table playing a quiet game of cards. Franky was gone.

Sanji looked up from his seat at the table, concern flicking across his face, a half-full glass of wine in front of him, some kind of journal in hand. A cigarette smoldered between his fingers. He slid a pencil inside, shut the book, and rose without a word when Zoro came in.

Zoro waved him off. “M’fine. Just changing.”

Sanji didn’t press, just sank back into his seat. Zoro could feel Usopp’s eyes flicking toward him – worried, curious – but Jinbe and Brook didn’t spare him a glance. Chopper must’ve said something earlier.

He didn’t love that everyone knew. But it wasn’t like the overload had happened in secret. 

Normally, he’d head out with a bottle of sake or beer, find the quiet under the stars beside the main mast. If the weather sucked, he’d tuck into the library instead. Sometimes Robin or Nami were there, but they didn’t chat much, which suited him.

It had never been about being alone, not exactly. He didn’t mind people. He just didn’t know how to be around them without it feeling like effort. He read people fine. That wasn’t the problem. He just didn’t always know how to respond without sounding awkward or defensive or like he was yelling. It was all too easy to sound angry when you didn’t have the words.

This whole thing – Sanji, the overloads, the rest of the crew watching him like a dropped sword – made everything feel too exposed. Like he was standing under bright lights with no defense.

He didn’t want questions. He didn’t want pity. He didn’t want to explain something he hadn’t hidden, but also hadn’t shared.

Still, instead of slipping away, he changed into sleep shorts and pulled a magazine from his locker. He left his swords resting against the locker door, close but not in hand, and crossed to the table.

Sanji glanced at him as he sat down. One brow lifted.

Zoro scowled.

Sanji’s mouth twitched, the hint of a smirk threatening. But he didn’t say anything. Just opened his journal again.

Zoro flipped open the magazine, stared at the page without reading it. Maybe if he was already around Sanji, another storm wouldn’t come. He didn’t understand why the cook made a difference. Why being near him helped.

Nobody had, before.

In the early days, the overloads just ran their course. Nothing grounded him. Nothing reached him. He burned through it until exhaustion took over, until his body gave out and sleep dragged him under.

But now... Sanji did something. Gave him an anchor.

Zoro didn’t like needing that.

He told himself it was only temporary. Chopper would come up with the cure – he had no doubts. Things would go back to the way they were. He’d stick to his routines, lean on his training, rely on his techniques to keep steady if things got to be too much. His crewmates would forget, eventually, that he wasn’t exactly like them. Life would move forward.

He flicked a glance at Sanji. The cook sat across from him, brow furrowed in concentration as he wrote, pencil moving in smooth strokes across the page. The attraction still simmered under Zoro’s skin. It had been there for a while, stupid and constant. But it felt wasted now. Sanji had seen him undone. Vulnerable. Weak.

Not that Zoro had figured out what the hell to do about it before that.

With a grunt, he turned back to his magazine. Something about swordsmithing in Wano. He liked swords. Always had. Even if he didn’t need another one, even if the three at his side were irreplaceable, he still liked reading about them.

Across the table, Sanji yawned, a wide, cracking thing. He closed his journal, tucked the pencil inside, and stood. Zoro watched from the corner of his eye as Sanji crossed to his locker and changed into his pajamas. He brushed his teeth, slipped out briefly to the toilet, and returned with the easy rhythm of someone who didn’t feel awkward being watched.

He paused at Zoro’s side. 

“I’m going to bed. Wake me up if you have to, marimo,” he said. No judgment. No pity. Just simple, solid words. Like maybe they really were friends.

Zoro grunted in acknowledgement, the awkwardness creeping in again. Sanji didn’t wait for more. He climbed into his bunk beneath Usopp’s, shifting with a quiet exhale, body relaxing into the thin mattress like he didn’t carry anyone else's weight.

Zoro stared at the page in front of him again. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with this – this strange sense of comfort, of tether, of want that didn’t let go. But he knew, deep in his bones, that even if things did go back to the way they were…

…he wouldn’t.

The start of another overload hit while Zoro was taking a piss.

“Damn it! Fucking all to hell!”

His curses ricocheted off the cramped walls of the water closet beneath the stairs on the main deck. Now he couldn’t even take a piss without spiraling?

Rage surged through him as he shoved his hands under the cold stream at the basin, hissing when the water scraped across his nerves like sandpaper. This was getting fucking unbearable.

He stormed out onto the deck, fuming. Fuck this. Fuck all of it. He wasn’t going to need anyone. Not for this.

He climbed the rigging in bare feet, shoving open the crow’s nest hatch and slamming it shut behind him. He paced the space in tight, erratic circles. The chilled metal floor grated against his soles, the air sharp against his skin. Even the moonlight slanting through the window felt like a knife in his eye.

His breathing grew louder, ragged. His body tensed, and his thoughts scattered. The stitches at his side, unwrapped after his shower, started to itch – first a flicker, then a burn. He couldn’t focus long enough to calm himself. Anger had short-circuited any control.

And then the storm broke, rage no longer keeping it at bay.

He dropped to his knees, curling in on himself, fingers tearing at the itchy wound. His nerves misfired. A migraine exploded behind his dead eye. He turned his scratching there, trying to claw the pain out.

Rational thought collapsed, drowned in a flood of sensory chaos. He was burning, suffocating, and being sliced to ribbons all at once. Every nerve screamed. His body rebelled.

He vomited, cheek pressed into the mess, the migraine behind his dead eye detonating like a supernova. The world fractured into sound and light and agony.

Then, at last – his body gave out. Muscles slackened. Breath hitched once, then stilled. Exhaustion dragged him down, too fast and too deep for him to even feel the relief of silence.

“...hell, you fucking dickead of a fucking fucker. I told you to wake me the fuck up!”

He was being hoisted up, slung unceremoniously over a shoulder, yanked from sleep without warning. His limbs were limp, his mouth too sluggish to form words, his brain still pounding.

Air rushed past. A jolt followed as Sanji landed on the deck, boots hitting hard. He cut through the galley toward the infirmary, muttering furious curses under his breath the whole way.

“Should’ve just left you up there, fucking dumbass, passed out in your own blood and vomit. Can’t believe your fucking pride or your fucking idiocy or whatever the fucking stupid thing you were thinking overrode your own fucking common sense. Damned stupid shithead.”

He was thrown onto the infirmary bed like a sack of trash. A groan rose from his throat. Sanji had no sympathy. “Shut it. You did this to yourself. Now I gotta clean you the fuck up before Chopper sees you. Do you even fucking care that this would hurt him? That he’d think it was his fault, that he didn’t do enough? No, you didn’t, because you’re a stupid fuckhead and I’m going to fucking kick your head inside out.”

Instead, he roughly bathed Zoro with a basin of water and a washrag, scrubbing away the blood and sick without ceremony. He stripped him without hesitation, exposing Zoro to cold air and colder shame. His fingers were efficient, unkind. He restitched Zoro’s side, wrapped bandages around his torso and over his clawed eye, then threw the sheet over him like an afterthought.

The painkillers came next, shoved into Zoro’s mouth, a glass of water pressed to his lips.

Then Sanji bent close, his mouth brushing Zoro’s ear. “You pull this shit again, and I will hide your swords where you’ll never find them.”

He slammed the infirmary door on his way out.

Zoro lay limp in the bed, dazed and dumbfounded. Sanji was furious, more than Zoro had ever seen, more than even their worst fights had stirred.

He felt… ashamed. 

It sat wrong. Zoro moved through life with purpose. If he fucked up, he took the hit, learned from it, and kept going. 

But this? It felt different. Cut in a way that made him feel like shit. And he’d done it to himself. 

Zoro pinched the bridge of his nose, the dull throb of the migraine still echoing behind his eyes. He’d survived the overload – barely – but did he really want to go through that again? Not when there was another option looming over him. One that threatened to disappear his swords.

And Zoro didn’t doubt for a second that Sanji meant it. He’d follow through. Hide them somewhere impossible, and leave them there until Zoro actually needed them.

Fuck.

He dropped his hand onto his belly, the sheet cool around his waist. The ceiling cat stared back at him. He didn’t like apologies, but this felt like it might need one, or at least an acknowledgment that he’d heard Sanji, loud and clear.

But that could wait. For now, he shut his eye again, willing the pain meds to kick in, and tried to come up with something to tell Chopper that wouldn’t make the little doctor worry more than he already did.

Zoro endured both sobs and a lecture from Chopper over his state. The little doctor checked Sanji’s stitchwork, assessed the damage Zoro had done to his dead eye, and declared him beyond the worst patient ever. Harsh words, coming from Chopper.

Still, he let Zoro go once the migraine finally eased. Now in a clean pair of boxer-briefs – flung at his face by Sanji before Chopper had arrived – Zoro shuffled into the kitchen.

The scent of breakfast didn’t trigger anything, and that small mercy brought relief. Short-lived, though, as Sanji turned to glare at him like ice personified. Zoro braced himself, stepped into the space between the bar and kitchen, and forced the words out through gritted teeth. 

“Won’t happen again.”

“It fucking better not,” Sanji snapped, still pissed. “Now sit down and stay there. I don’t trust you not to be an idiot and push past your limits.”

“I’m in my underwear.”

“I don’t care.”

Zoro slouched over to the couch and sank down, catching himself before the posture became full-on sulk. His gaze landed on his swords, propped beside the service elevator that led down to the Aquarium Bar.

The galley was split down the middle by the bar: dining on one side, kitchen on the other. The couch ran the length of the room between the main deck doors and the infirmary. Behind the kitchen was the storage room. He leaned back into the cushions, tried not to scratch under the edge of a bandage.

The Adam’s wood on the ceiling had swirling patterns. One looked like a starfish. Another, somehow, like Usopp with Brook’s afro.

That kept him entertained for a while as pans clinked and dishes clacked in the kitchen. Sanji moved with the usual precision, cooking for ten like it was nothing. Zoro even caught him eating – actual bites, not just tastes.

It made sense. Sanji never really sat down to eat with the crew. He was always on his feet, circling the table, refilling drinks, clearing plates. A lot of effort for something as mundane as food.

Then again, Sanji liked it. That much was obvious.

Zoro shifted, thinking through the shape of his day. He’d train, obviously, and nap. Maybe even fish if the weather held. All of it depended on how often his system betrayed him, and how tight a leash Sanji decided to keep him on.

He glanced over. Sanji caught him looking and fired off another glare sharp enough to flay skin. Zoro promptly turned his gaze back to the ceiling.

Yeah. Fishing was probably out of the question.

It didn’t take long before Sanji put him to work. “Set the table. Don’t forget the napkins. Forks go on the left. Robin, Jinbe, and Brook get cups and saucers. The rest get glasses.”

Zoro pushed to his bare feet and did as told without argument. He figured it was a way to apologize without actually saying the words. Sanji’s narrowed gaze tracked him between pancake flips.

“Your other left, idiot.”

Zoro grunted, switched the fork to the correct side, and made his way around the table. When he was done, he slouched into his seat, resting a fist against his cheek as plate after plate of food landed in the center of the dining table.

Next, Sanji moved around filling drinks – coffee for Robin, tea for Brook and Jinbe, juice for Nami and Zoro, cola for Franky, milk for Usopp, Luffy, and Chopper. Then he swung the galley door open and bellowed toward the deck, “Breakfast is on the table!”

Zoro didn’t dare reach for anything before Sanji gave the okay. He wasn’t looking to get kicked in the head on top of everything else. Chopper wandered out of the infirmary. Luffy launched through the door with his usual chaos. The rest of the crew strolled in at a saner pace.

Usopp gave Zoro a quick once-over. “I’m not gonna ask.”

Zoro grunted.

Everyone took their seats. Sanji slapped a special meat-stacked plate in front of Luffy to buy peace and said, “Everyone enjoy.”

Zoro started to reach for the tempting plate of bacon in front of him, then hesitated. Fuck. He better not lose it during a meal again. He just wanted to fucking eat.

A hand landed on his shoulder. Zoro flinched, then looked up.

Sanji stood beside him, gaze steady, unreadable. He didn’t say anything. Just gave Zoro a brief, knowing look before turning his attention back to deflecting the wave of compliments rolling in about breakfast.

Zoro exhaled, subtle and slow. He dragged the plate of bacon toward him, the crisp scent blessedly normal. He took a few strips and passed it on, accepting the blueberry whole grain waffles next. Sanji didn’t move. His hand stayed right where it was – firm, grounding, weirdly reassuring. Also just weird.

Zoro caught the looks from the others – nothing from Chopper or Luffy, but the rest definitely noticed. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to growl or retreat inside himself.

Instead, he ate. The food was delicious. No surprise there.

His system held steady, no spikes, no crashes. He didn’t know if that was thanks to Sanji, but he didn’t rule it out, either. It was just nice to feel normal again, after the past twenty-four hours. 

Fuck, had it really only been that long? It felt like weeks.

Zoro got stuck with dish duty. Again, he didn’t complain. He washed. Sanji smoked and dried. Together, they put the kitchen back in order.

“You usually train after breakfast, right?” Sanji asked, stubbing out his cigarette.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I can give you about an hour and a half before I need to come down, fix a snack, and then start lunch.”

Zoro blinked at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You think I’m leaving you alone after how I found you this morning?” Sanji’s tone was flat, no room for argument. “You’ve got the nearest thing to a shadow until Chopper works his magic.”

He pulled a jug of water from the fridge and picked up a book Zoro hadn’t noticed, sitting on the end table beside the couch.

“Grab your swords.”

Zoro retrieved his katanas, still looking at Sanji like he’d grown a second head. “I said it wouldn’t happen again.”

“Yeah, well, I’m going to make sure of it.” Sanji opened the galley door to the main deck and gestured. “After you, marimo.”

The usual nickname meant Sanji wasn’t livid anymore, just stubborn as hell. Zoro stepped out of the galley, bracing himself for what promised to be an interesting day.

The crow’s nest was spotless.

Zoro had expected a disaster, but the floor gleamed, the air was fresh, and a cross-breeze slipped through the open windows. He set his katanas against the bench as Sanji sank down near a window, lighting a cigarette. An ashtray balanced on the back of the seat.

“Did you do this?” Zoro asked, not bothering to hide his astonishment.

“Hn. Someone had to,” Sanji muttered, opening his book. “Couldn’t let it sit any longer.”

Zoro felt humbled. Grateful. Ashamed. It tangled in his chest. He couldn’t find the right words, so he just grunted in Sanji’s direction and went to lift weights.

The next wave hit mid-bicep curl. 

Sunlight glanced off the windowpane and lanced into his eye – sharp as a sword thrust straight through his skull.

Sanji was sitting with one knee propped up on the seat, book resting in one hand, arm stretched along the back of the bench. Zoro set the weight down and walked over. Without a word, he dropped onto the bench beside him.

Sanji didn’t flinch, didn’t even look surprised. He just shifted his book to the other hand, tucked Zoro into his side, and started reading aloud.

It felt natural. And nice. And it was freaking Zoro out. Not ideal, considering how close he was to being overwhelmed.

He shut his eye as the light continued to spear his head. The air turned sharp in his lungs. But Sanji’s voice – low, steady, grounding – cut through the static buzzing in his ears.

Zoro didn’t know why Sanji was doing this, beyond the not-being-an-asshole thing. Sanji was just as likely to kick his teeth in as spend extended time in the same room. But here he was, holding Zoro like he was the heroine in some romance novel, acting like it was no big deal.

And that was a problem.

Because it made Zoro itch – but not from overstimulation. From want. From a bone-deep ache to touch. To hold. To sit like this without being on the verge of breaking. He wanted things beyond the sticky imaginings in the shower. Wanted this presence, this warmth, this space to rest. And that want made him uncomfortable. Uncertain. Unmoored.

Sex had always been straightforward. A guy talked to him at a bar? Zoro asked straight-up if it was about sex. It was always yes. They’d go somewhere, fuck, done. He didn’t do talking. He didn’t do lingering.

He’d assumed his interest in Sanji was the same – just about sex. If it was good, maybe something worth repeating.

But this twisted feeling crawling up his ribs, this want for more, made everything complicated. Especially when, for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt safe. Safe enough to let go, to stop listening for danger. To just be.

The tightness in his muscles, the scratchy cling of his trousers told him he was still in overload. But it wasn’t catastrophic. It felt…closer to normal. Contained. Manageable. He shoved his trousers down and off, huffing in relief as they hit the floor. Still rough around the edges, he scrubbed at his thighs with blunt nails.

Sanji paused his reading. Set the book down. Pressed a steady hand over one of Zoro’s. “You’re gonna have no skin left at this rate,” he said quietly.

Zoro made a quiet, wordless sound. The scent of cigarettes and Sanji’s cologne filled his lungs on the next inhale. The pressure of Sanji’s hand was grounding, firm, real. 

Sanji left his hand there a moment longer, then picked up the book again and resumed reading.

Zoro pulled himself into the rhythm of the voice. The warmth at his side. The slow, even pace of his own meditative breaths. 

He started to unwind, bit by bit. His head still hurt, but it wasn’t a migraine. The noise in his chest had quieted. The sensory storm that had flattened him the night before was little more than a drizzle this time. And Sanji’s presence – steady, solid – was the anchor holding him fast through the toxin-laced tide.

When it passed, he didn’t move right away. Didn’t let on that Sanji wasn’t needed anymore. Instead, he sat in the tangle of his emotions and soaked up the false closeness while he still could.

Sanji seemed to notice anyway. Whether it was the way Zoro’s breathing had steadied or how his body had gone still, he closed the book and asked, “You good?”

“Yeah,” Zoro said, reluctant. He pushed himself upright and reached for his discarded pants.

“Thanks for keeping the underwear on,” Sanji added, amused.

Zoro flipped him off without looking and went back to his weights.

They stopped by the bathroom so Zoro could rinse off the sweat before heading to the galley. Zoro settled onto the couch, katanas leaning nearby, jug of water exchanged for a beer, while Sanji began preparing a light mid-morning snack in the kitchen.

Zoro watched him through a half-lidded eye. Sanji ignored him beyond the initial: “Sit there and don’t move.”

Zoro had wanted to bristle at the order, but why fight it? He needed Sanji to get through the toxin-laced sensory storms, and Sanji had a job to do. He could sleep on the couch as easily as anywhere else.

It just felt so… domestic. And it only added to the confusion over what Zoro was feeling.

He sipped his beer and fingered the scratch marks over his dead eye. He’d removed the bandages to wash – he hated bandages anyway – and had checked the damage in the mirror. He’d clawed himself pretty deep during the storm. Usually, the scratching only left him red for a while.

But nothing about this was usual. The neurotoxin was throwing off his entire system, making it act and react in new, volatile ways. The overloads felt more visceral. And the fact that he could use Sanji for grounding? That was downright unnatural.

Zoro normally used quiet spaces, isolation, meditation, and alcohol when things got bad. He knew his triggers. He had routines. He prioritized control. Sensory issues and connection to people weren’t related, even if they came from the same root. The first, he’d mostly figured out. The second? Forever a work in progress.

Sanji was assembling fruit and cheese skewers. Nothing heavy, just enough to tide the crew over. Zoro wanted to ask why he was always feeding them – aside from Luffy, the bottomless pit – when three meals were already enough. The question got stuck behind the awkwardness of asking, and instead came out: “You cook too much.”

Sanji flicked a glance over the bar. “Is that a complaint, or are you just making noise, mosshead?”

Zoro grunted, shifted, fiddled with his beer. “Just noticed.”

“I like feeding people,” Sanji said simply, returning to his task.

It seemed like a good enough answer, but Zoro had a feeling there was more behind it. “Why?”

“It makes people happy.”

Simple. Concise. Didn’t make sense to Zoro. Food didn’t make him happy – it made him full. Except during those years when he was broke, half-starved, and on his own. Then, yeah, food made him happy. He’d gotten used to Sanji’s cooking, maybe even spoiled by it.

Did he say any of that? No. He said, “Makes people fat,” because talking felt like pulling his own teeth.

“You’re reminding me to put you on a diet,” Sanji said easily. “Trim your heavy ass down so I can carry you easier.”

“I don’t want you to carry me.”

“And I don’t want to be this good looking, but we all have our burdens.”

The heat that rose to Zoro’s cheeks wasn’t irritation this time. He hated how much he agreed.

Sanji picked up the skewers. “Be right back,” he said, and walked out of the galley.

The moment alone gave Zoro a chance to gather himself. “Fucking pathetic,” he muttered, about himself. Makes people fat? Really?

He blew out a breath, drank the rest of his beer, and decided a nap was in order. Better than talking.

Sanji returned before he could fully settle, a slight crease to his brow. “Still good?” he asked, offering the last skewer from the plate.

The question both irritated and made Zoro feel… cared for.

“M’not made of glass,” he snapped.

Sanji’s brow smoothed. “Good to know, clingy moss.”

Zoro considered stabbing him with the skewer.

Sanji walked away before he could follow through. “I’m starting lunch.”

“I’m starting to regret existing.”

Sanji snorted, but got to work.

Zoro ate the fruit and cheese – because of course it was good – washed it down with the last of his beer, and stretched out across the couch. And if he felt a little more relaxed than usual, he refused to acknowledge it.

The rest of his day proceeded much like his morning. He woke up from his nap, lingered in the galley until Sanji made him set the table, had another attack that left them tangled on the couch until it passed, ate lunch, washed dishes, trained, snuggled through another sensory assault, returned for the mid-afternoon snack, helped with dinner prep, then crashed again for a nap. Except for one brief moment when he pissed alone, he spent the entire day in Sanji’s vicinity.

And they hadn’t killed each other.

In fact, they hadn’t even fought. A couple of barbed comments, sure, but nothing serious. Zoro didn’t bother with conversation, and Sanji didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. It was... nice.

There was that word again. Nice. Zoro wanted to rip it from his skull.

None of this was nice. This was a temporary ordeal. Something they both had to survive until Chopper figured things out.

“I’m working on it,” Chopper said when Zoro asked. “But it’s going to take a while.”

A while was generous. Days passed, and nothing changed. The attacks came every one to three hours unless he was asleep. Sanji stayed in his pocket – or maybe Zoro stayed in Sanji’s – depending on whose space they were in. Sanji was just... there. Quiet. Present. Like he’d taken the role of caretaker seriously. Like he was trying to protect Zoro. Shield him from suffering.

Zoro liked and hated it at the same time. Because he could get used to it. And that was the problem.

At some point, this would end. Chopper would fix him. He wouldn’t need Sanji. Sanji wouldn’t feel responsible or whatever-the-fuck was driving him. They’d go back to how they’d always been. Combatants orbiting the same space. Uneasy allies. That version of them.

But they had to get there first.

Right now, nights were a problem.

Sanji usually went to bed between eleven and midnight, got up around five or six, earlier if he was on morning watch. Zoro, when not under Chopper’s restrictions, normally handled most of the night watch himself – eleven to four. He was up anyway, training. It gave the rest of the crew uninterrupted sleep. They’d settled into the routine after crossing the Red Line, when the fights got worse and real rest became critical. Zoro napped enough during the day to make up for it.

But that arrangement didn’t work anymore. Not when he had sensory overloads every few hours. And after that first night, Zoro wasn’t about to shame himself again by not waking Sanji.

Which meant: no crow’s nest while Sanji slept. No long watch shifts.

The crew adjusted. They reinstated the two-hour rotation through the night. Zoro and Sanji went together, one on watch, the other dozing. It worked, more or less.

What didn’t work was the stretch of dead time in between.

Zoro was stuck in the men’s quarters, unable to train or pace or do anything he’d normally do, after the rest of the crew went to bed. His body wasn’t used to sleeping straight through the night. And every time he felt a storm coming, he had to wake Sanji. Then they’d have to quietly relocate – because Zoro needed Sanji’s voice and didn’t want to disturb the crew.

It had become a pain in the ass for everyone involved.

Franky solved it. He converted the small storage room beneath the men’s quarters into a private bunkroom.

It had been where the crew kept their overflow: trunks, tools, old weapons, discarded clothes – stuff that didn’t fit in lockers but no one wanted to part with. Franky rearranged the space, cleared it out, and installed a double bed and a nightstand with a small drawer and a lamp. Barebones. Practical. But functional.

Zoro flushed crimson when Franky unveiled it.

Sanji stared at the room for a long, unreadable beat. Then murmured, “Guess that’ll work. I need to piss,” and walked off.

Franky clapped Zoro on the back. “Soundproofed down here, too. Enjoy!”

And just like that, Franky was gone – leaving Zoro to hyperventilate in peace.

A bed. A double bed. Built for the two of them. Like they were... together. Like they were a couple. With soundproofing. Which meant they could get loud. As in sex loud.

Zoro made a strangled sound in his throat. Because he wanted that. Because he wanted everything the bed implied.

Fuck, I’m toast.

They couldn’t not use it – not after all Franky’s effort. Zoro could bring his books down, some magazines, his sword kit. Keep himself busy while Sanji slept. And when the sensory storms hit, all he’d have to do was slide over, press into Sanji’s side, and listen to him mumble sleepy nonsense until the world settled.

And if he wanted to try sleeping more at night, it would be in Sanji’s arms.

Which created a complicated mess of feelings he wasn’t sure he was ready to address.

Zoro climbed the ladder back to the men’s quarters, face still burning. At the sink, he splashed cold water on his face and stared into the mirror. His reflection stared back – wide-eyed, unsettled, and no help at all.

The door creaked open.

Sanji stepped in, expression unreadable, voice casual. “I need to move some things around in cold storage. Help me with that, then we’ll head to the crow’s nest.”

Zoro nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.

Maybe if he ignored it – like Sanji seemed to be doing – it would go away.

It didn’t.

Because every passing hour brought him one hour closer to Sanji’s bedtime.

Sanji made Zoro shower for the umpteenth time, because he wasn’t about to go to bed with a “Stinky-assed marimo.”

“You haven’t even showered today,” Zoro pointed out.

“I shower in the mornings. And I don’t sweat like a pig on a spit,” Sanji retorted.

“I’ve taken, like, three showers today already because of you.”

“Well, take another.”

Zoro sighed dramatically and stomped past the dividing wall to the showers, making sure to slam the door shut behind him.

“And use soap this time!”

“Fuck off!”

Zoro took an extra-long shower, scrubbing down with Sanji’s expensive sandalwood soap and shampoo just to be petty. When he stepped out, hair damp and skin flushed from the heat, Sanji’s face was already creased in irritation.

Zoro smirked.

Sanji muttered something anatomically improbable involving showerheads and mossballs.

They headed down to the men’s quarters, changed into pajamas, brushed their teeth. Sanji snatched his journal and threw himself onto the couch, already scribbling furiously. Zoro, still restless, opted to run single-sword katas in the open space between the bunks and the table.

“If you get sweaty again, I’m going to murder you,” Sanji warned without looking up.

Around them, the rest of the crew was settling in. Franky and Usopp were hunched over something mechanical spread across the table. Jinbe was reading in bed. Brook sorted through sheet music. Chopper’s gentle snuffles mixed with Luffy’s snorts and muttered dreams.

Jinbe retired first, then Brook. Sanji kept yawning until finally he snapped his journal shut with a definitive clap and stood. “Time for bed, clingy moss.”

Franky grinned like a proud father. “Hope the bed’s super comfy.”

Usopp snickered behind his hand.

Zoro pretended the knot forming in his gut wasn’t there, sheathed his katana, and followed Sanji down the ladder to the new bunkroom.

Sanji snapped on the lamp, casting the small space in a soft yellow glow. The bed was larger than the bunks and layered with multiple sheets. Two blankets had been tossed on top, already rumpled like someone had tested them.

Zoro leaned his katanas against the wall. He picked up the book he’d dropped down earlier – a historical study on swordswomen – and stared at the cover like it might save him from the moment.

Sanji let out a sharp breath. He set an ashtray, his cigarettes, and lighter on the nightstand, then threw back the blankets and climbed into bed. He smacked one of the pillows a few times, shifted around until he found a position, and dragged one of the blankets over him. His posture was stiff, telegraphing exactly how much he disliked this.

Zoro hesitated longer than made sense. Then, finally, he forced himself to climb into the other side of the bed, propping his pillow against the wall. The lamp was on his side – logical, since he’d likely be the one turning it off last.

He glanced over. Sanji lay resolutely facing away, eyes shut like he meant it.

“Um… good night, I guess,” Zoro muttered, because somehow not saying it felt even weirder.

Sanji snorted. “If by some miracle this is good, I’ll give you booze at breakfast.”

“Heh.”

Sanji cracked one eye open, gave him a warning look. “Try to go to sleep earlier than four. And don’t fidget.”

“Whatever, bossy cook.”

Sanji grunted and closed his eye again with a heavy sigh. Zoro opened his book, propping it against a bent knee.

It was all very weird. And domestic. And, once again… nice.

Zoro pretended to read. Sanji pretended to sleep – until, eventually, he actually did. His breathing slowed, body relaxed, one hand falling open where it had clenched the pillow.

Zoro’s gaze drifted. The dark fan of Sanji’s lashes. The soft curve of his cheek. The slight part of his lips.

Zoro’s heart gave a traitorous little thump.

He looked back at his book. Focused. Read a few pages. It was actually interesting once he got into it. He wondered if maybe someday, someone would write a book about him. The world’s greatest swordsman.

He turned a page.

The rustling sound scraped against his spine like a warning bell.

A second later, he knew.

His nerves began to spike. The shift was starting.

Zoro quietly set the book on the nightstand and flipped off the too-bright lamp. The room dropped into stillness. He reached across and touched Sanji’s shoulder, gave a light shake.

“Cook…”

He couldn’t see much, but he heard Sanji come awake.

“Hn? Zoro?”

“Yeah.” Zoro’s muscles coiled tight. The air had gone heavy and cloying. “It’s starting.”

“Mpf. M’kay.”

Sanji moved without protest, threw the blanket off, rolled onto his back, and tugged Zoro into him. Zoro pressed in, tucking his face against Sanji’s chest, fingers knotting in the cotton of his nightshirt. It felt strange to do this lying down, but the steady thump of Sanji’s heartbeat beneath his ear anchored him.

“M’gonna make raspberry coulis f’r the eggy bread in the morning,” Sanji mumbled sleepily. “F’rst need a cornstarch slurry… that’s mixin’ cornstarch n’ cold water…”

The swell crept in, bright and sharp, but Zoro clung to Sanji’s scent, the warmth of his skin, the low, steady sound of his voice. He pressed closer, grounding himself in Sanji’s heartbeat and the quiet rise and fall of his chest. Slowly, he shaped his breathing to match, clinging to the rhythm instead of the noise clawing through his head.

They’d learned this was the key: start the regulation efforts immediately. When they did, the swells didn’t last as long or hurt as badly. It took time to figure that out. Trial and error. But now, it worked.

Eventually, the worst of it passed.

And that’s when Zoro realized he’d practically climbed on Sanji – one leg thrown over him, half draped across his body. Either Sanji hadn’t noticed, or he had and just didn’t care. Or he did care but was prioritizing Zoro over himself.

Heat flooded Zoro’s face.

He shifted, trying to ease off without making it obvious.

“Better?” Sanji asked. He sounded more awake now, but still worn out.

“Yeah.”

Zoro settled beside him instead, heart racing, skin too warm, mind trying very hard not to think about how much he’d liked it.

“Good. Sleep now.” More order than suggestion.

Zoro stared up into the dark, listening as Sanji’s breathing evened out again.

His own chest felt tight.

He had no idea how he was supposed to survive an unknown number of nights like this.

Sleep eventually claimed Zoro, smothering the lingering sensations of being pressed so closely to Sanji. When he woke, Sanji was already gone – cigarettes and lighter missing, the pillow beside him still indented.

Zoro reached out, fingers brushing against the dip in the fabric. He caught himself and yanked his hand back like he’d touched fire.

Fuck, this was bad.

He pushed out of bed, grabbed his katanas, and headed to wash up and dress. He knew better than to take his time. There was no telling what might trigger the next wave. 

The sky outside was lit in soft gold, the sun warming his face as he stepped onto the main deck. Jinbe sat cross-legged on the lawn, meditating. Franky was hammering something out of sight. Robin offered a warm “Good morning” as she climbed toward the women’s quarters.

The galley smelled of sausage, eggs, and fresh orange juice. Coffee drifted on the air. Zoro leaned his swords against the side table and moved to grab the plates without needing to be told.

Sanji was already at the stove, cigarette trailing smoke from the corner of his mouth. He looked the same as always, brusque and focused. His hair was still damp. Zoro wondered if that meant he’d overslept.

“Call the others,” Sanji said, sliding platters onto the table.

Zoro stuck his head out the galley door. “Breakfast!”

He took his seat as Luffy burst in, dragging a still-dozing Chopper behind him. The others followed at a more human pace. Sanji slid Luffy’s special plate in front of him, locking him down.

Zoro filled his own plate, unconcerned now about a potential trigger. If it came, they’d just head to the infirmary. Their new normal had its own rhythm and routines.

Conversation drifted toward their next destination, an island marked on one of Nami’s charts along the log pose route. Zoro tried a bit of the raspberry cooler – or coulis, or slurry, or whatever Sanji had been rambling about in half-sleep – on his eggy bread. Tart. A little sweet. Not bad.

He reached for his orange juice, took a swig – then paused, surprised at the burn of alcohol on his tongue. He stared down at the glass, then looked up at Sanji.

Sanji was hovering nearby, a little too casual. “A miracle,” he muttered with dry self-deprecation, then turned away as someone called for seconds.

Zoro felt a grin pull at the corners of his mouth before he could stop it.

The next night, Zoro simply got into bed, opened his book, and started reading. Sanji lay stiffly beside him again, pretending to sleep until real sleep overtook him. When an overload crept in, Zoro did what he needed to and acted like a warm, snuggly Sanji had absolutely no effect on him.

And if he trained harder during the day just to think about something other than crawling into bed beside Sanji, no one had to know.

Things continued like that for the rest of the week, until the Thousand Sunny docked at Kingfisher Reef. The island was home to a mid-sized town with corals and shells embedded in the wooden buildings. A well-traveled stop, a pause between long stretches on the map; the bustling harbor made that clear.

The town itself sprawled in rays across the island’s rolling hills. The early spring climate lent a crisp bite to the air. Crocuses and tulips dotted the ground in vibrant patches. Robins bobbed across grassy fields, beaks full of worms. The locals were transplants – retired pirates and marines, merchant sailors and missionaries – who’d built up shops, hung signs, and carved out new lives on the Grand Line.

The arrival at the island brought a new problem: Zoro didn’t want to stay on the damn ship.

It had been weeks since they’d set foot on land, and he was going stir-crazy. He wanted to hit a bar, eat crap food, maybe get into a fight or two – or ten. He didn’t need full-blown Luffy-level chaos, just a handful of loudmouthed pirates or a run-in with a cocky group of marines. Something to let the pressure out.

But of course, it couldn’t be that simple. Not anymore.

Because Zoro was fucking poisoned, by a neurotoxin that could drop him flat without warning.

He’d dealt with sensory overloads before, even during the Straw Hats’ major adventures. Back then, he could just slip away, find a quiet corner to meditate and ride it out. But this was different. The toxin scrambled his system, striking fast and often, leaving him wrecked and helpless.

And now, he needed Sanji.

Sanji, with his steady voice and grounding touch. Sanji, who’d somehow become the only thing keeping him from collapsing into a pool of his own blood and vomit. Sanji, who treated it like it was nothing – like it wasn’t exhausting – when even Zoro was sick of himself.

Sanji had to restock, which meant Zoro had to go with him. He’d played pack mule before, no surprise there. But now, he wanted off the ship. Anywhere else. Anything else. Just not another second stuck in his head, thinking about how his once-manageable life had turned into a shitshow he couldn’t control.

But first, they had to coordinate. Find the best way to work around the episodes. 

It was annoying as hell.

Sanji took charge, because Zoro was this close to punching a hole in something. “We’ll wait until after the next one. Then we should have a couple hours to get most of what we need.”

“Whatever. Just go now. I’m already a time bomb waiting to blow.”

“No. We wait. I don’t want you dropping the second we hit town.”

So Zoro clenched his fists and waited.

Forty-five minutes later, they were pulling a cart through the markets. The people on the street gave them a wide berth, probably because Zoro’s aura screamed fight me. Sanji merely huffed with irritation and loaded his arms with things. 

“We have a cart.”

“These require carrying.”

Zoro’s eye narrowed. “What if I throw them in the cart?”

“What if I kick you in the head?” 

Yes, please, Zoro thought, because then he could draw his katanas. He and Sanji hadn’t gotten into it in far too long.

Sanji tapped his toe on the ground, a sure sign he was ready for that fight. But then a little girl darted between them, laughing and running from her harried mother, and the moment passed.

Sanji lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and let the smoke out with a frustrated sigh. “Let’s go.”

When the sensory storm hit, it was harsh and unrelenting. Zoro’s own agitation and frustration had already primed him, and without his usual grip on himself, the flames only burned hotter.

Sanji pressed him into a narrow alley between the buildings, dragging their loaded cart behind like a protective barrier. He lowered Zoro to the ground, tucked him between his thighs, and held him close as Zoro shattered apart.

Afterward, Sanji gently stroked Zoro’s back, helped him get dressed, and steadied him on unsteady feet. Chopper had slipped him some pain meds just in case, which Zoro swallowed without protest. They made their way back to the ship, where Sanji helped him through a quick shower and eased him into the infirmary bed. He brushed damp strands from Zoro’s brow, then murmured, “Sleep now. We’ll go out again later.”

No recrimination. No hesitation. No hollow reassurances. Just comfort and care.

Zoro slept.

When he woke, the migraine was gone and the sun had set. He felt a thousand times better – more like himself. The tension from being stuck on the ship, from feeling broken, had ebbed into something he could contain.

“About time you got up,” Sanji said when Zoro padded out of the infirmary in just his boxer-briefs, katanas in hand. “Thought we’d miss the bar entirely.”

“Bar?” Zoro perked. “What about the shopping?”

“Too late now. We’ll finish tomorrow.” Sanji slid a bookmark into his book and stood from the galley couch.  His gaze lingered, just briefly, as if checking for signs of strain. “Go throw some clothes on. I’ve seen you naked more in the last few weeks than in all the years we’ve sailed together.”

Zoro had been wearing more underwear lately than in his entire life, but he got Sanji’s drift.

The bar Sanji brought them to was the right kind of seedy. Scarred ship’s wheels repurposed into tables. Hanging lanterns with rusted chains and patched glass. Pockmarked beams and bullet-riddled walls. The place reeked of salt, smoke, spilled beer, and the press of bodies too long confined to ships.

Perfect.

Zoro made a line for the bar that stretched along the back. He’d dressed in a long-sleeved black t-shirt, trousers, haramaki snug around his waist. He elbowed himself between two burly men, ignoring the sharp looks until one glance from him – hard-eyed, unamused – loosened their stance. He flagged the bartender.

“The biggest tankard of beer you’ve got. And…” He glanced over his shoulder. Sanji had predictably paused near the door, already halfway in conversation with a table of women. Smiling, fawning, oozing smarm. Zoro rolled his eye. Of course. Sanji wouldn’t be Sanji if his nose wasn’t bleeding over a pair of tits..

“…make that two,” he added. If Sanji didn’t want it, Zoro would.

The bartender nodded. Zoro leaned against the bar, elbows on the time-polished wood. The din of laughter and slurred conversation filled the space, competing with the clatter of mugs and rickety chairs. It was crowded and loud, but tolerable for now. If he drank fast enough, he might outrun the sensory fallout before the toxin’s side effects kicked in.

Two card games were in play, and a dartboard held the attention of a handful of men. Sailors pressed close in small groups, exchanging stories, bets, and lingering looks. The crowd was mixed: mostly merchant sailors, some pirates probably, no marines with rigid postures that Zoro could spot. A good ratio of women to men, rare for a port bar.

His beers arrived. Cheap, stale, warm, exactly as expected. Zoro drained half in one long pull, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and belched. There was a piano in one corner, broken in a few keys, but someone was playing a waltz that sounded like it remembered being elegant once. A shadowed doorway in the back probably led to the restrooms. The air smelled like sweat, seawater, old ale, and unwashed lust.

Zoro exhaled and felt almost normal.

A presence sidled in beside him. He glanced over: taller than him, well-built, shaved head, a scar trailing along one cheek. The guy looked him up and down, slow and deliberate.

Zoro smirked. He knew this type. A top, looking to challenge another top. Zoro was versatile, but people always assumed otherwise – blame the muscles, the glare, the constant swords.

“Looking for company?” the guy asked, voice rough as a rocky shore.

“Looking to fuck?” Zoro shot back, skipping the small talk.

The man grinned. “Straightforward. I like that. Yeah. I want to fuck you.”

Zoro downed the rest of his beer. “Restroom? Or you got a room?”

“Restroom works.” The man peeled away from the bar.

Zoro moved to follow – but Sanji suddenly stepped in front of him.

“You get me a drink, shitty marimo?”

A flicker of guilt twisted in Zoro’s gut. Like he’d been caught cheating. But that was stupid. He and Sanji weren’t anything. Not lovers, not even really friends. Just two people stuck in an uncomfortable, too-close proximity because Zoro was an idiot who got himself poisoned. Wanting something more didn’t mean it existed.

Still, the guilt gnawed.

“Here.” He grabbed the second tankard and shoved it at Sanji. Foam sloshed over the rim.

“Watch it, asshole!”

“Whatever.” Zoro brushed past him, boots heavy on the warped planks. He was going to get fucked. Something normal. Routine. Something that didn’t mean anything.

The first door he tried was a storage closet, stacked with empty kegs and cleaning supplies. The second was the restroom. Inside, the air was thick with piss and old vomit. Urinals lined one wall, sinks the other. Three stalls in the back. Peeling paint. One flickering light overhead.

The man waited, shoulder pressed to a stall divider, eyes sharp with anticipation.

Zoro didn’t slow. He ducked into the last stall, set his katanas down with care in the corner. No love. No romance. Just a dirty fuck.

The guy followed, kicked the door shut, and locked it.

The stall was tight. The guy was decently hung. Spit served as lube. Minimal foreplay. Zoro didn’t care. He braced himself against the filthy back wall, trousers and boxer-briefs around his boots. The stranger fucked like he meant it, hard and fast and merciless, exactly what Zoro liked.

But his traitorous mind kept drifting – to Sanji. To the curl of those stupid eyebrows and the way his smirks tugged just a little crooked. To the exasperated sighs that somehow felt fond. To how he looked when he slept, lashes down, body slack, warm and real beside Zoro in the dark. To the way he touched without flinching. Quiet care. Strong arms. Safety.

Zoro gritted his teeth as the stranger fucked him – because it wasn’t Sanji. Not the one he wanted behind him, hips snapping against his ass, breath hot in his ear. Not the one he wanted pinned beneath him, powerful thighs caging Zoro in as he drove forward, losing himself in the one person who could handle all of him.

He squeezed his eye shut, wrapped a hand around his cock and jerked himself off fast and rough, like he could rub out the shame, the want, the ache that wasn’t even physical anymore.

He imagined it was Sanji behind him – Sanji fucking him like they were equals, like they meant it. Not this fumbling, grunting stranger who thought he had Zoro figured out the moment he saw the build and the scars.

Zoro came with a choked breath, anger laced into every pulse of it, splattering the sticky toilet seat. No pleasure in it. Just release. Empty. Ugly.

The guy behind him kept going – groaning, slapping, chasing his own high with no regard for Zoro, like he was just a hole to use.

When it was over, Zoro barely moved before a sharp slap landed across his ass.

He spun, eye wild, ready to draw a blade and gut the bastard where he stood.

The guy just laughed, zipped up, and left like nothing happened.

Zoro stood in that disgusting stall, the stench of piss and old beer clinging to the back of his throat, heartbeat too loud in his ears. He cleaned up mechanically. Pulled up his pants. Adjusted his haramaki. Slid his katanas back into place. 

Then he went back to the bar to drink until everything – including the ache in his chest – was gone.

But of course, Sanji was still there. Leaning against the bar like he owned the damn place, sharp as ever in that tailored suit and cobalt shirt, the top button fastened tight beneath a black tie. Too clean for a bar like this. He wasn’t nursing a beer anymore – he had a short glass in hand, dark liquor glinting in the low amber lights. His gaze kept flicking toward the restrooms like he’d been tracking time.

And when he spotted Zoro, that sharp blue eye narrowed. His lips pressed thin, all disapproval and suspicion and – fuck. Concern.

Zoro braced himself, rage and shame knotted tight behind his ribs, and shoved everything he didn’t want to feel into the dark hole it crawled out of. He forced his feet to move.

“Took you damned long enough,” Sanji said. His voice was dry, barbed. “Started to think you opened the wrong door and got yourself lost outside trying to sniff your way back in.”

Zoro grunted, already reaching for the untouched beer behind Sanji. “That mine?”

“Yeah. I wanted something else.” Sanji took a sip of his drink, eyes never leaving Zoro. “You’re stiff as hell. Is an episode flaring up?”

“No.” Zoro drained half the tankard in a single pull. “Just thirsty.” He waved the bartender over and signaled for another, jaw tight, barely chewing the words out.

Sanji didn’t buy it – Zoro could see that clear as day – but he didn’t press. Just gave him that same slow once-over, like he was reading the parts Zoro wasn’t saying, then shrugged.

“Right. I’m going to fleece those bastards at darts.” His voice lightened, but not by much. “Grab me if you need me.”

He turned and walked off, the scent of cigarettes and cologne dragging behind him.

Zoro sagged forward against the bar the second Sanji’s back was turned. His forehead hit his forearm with a soft thud, one hand twisted in his own hair. He hated this. Hated the rotting crawl under his skin. Hated the fuck he just had. Hated the one he wanted more but couldn’t find the words to say so.

Chopper needed to finish that fucking cure before Zoro broke in another way.

He tossed back the last of his beer, slammed the tankard down harder than he needed to, and swapped it for the next the bartender slid his way. “Another,” he muttered, pushing coins across the scarred bar top. His voice sounded like gravel in his own throat.

Maybe what he actually needed to do was find his balls and just blurt it out. Fuck the consequences. Then at least he’d know where he stood and could adjust accordingly. His whole life was about regulating. Why should this be any different?

He chased his third beer with the fourth, added a fifth and sixth, and felt minorly calmer. His super high tolerance for alcohol was a detriment sometimes.

He glanced toward the dart game. Sanji was barely looking at the target as he threw, and still hit it dead-on. The men he played against were visibly annoyed. Sanji wore a subtle smirk. People underestimated him because of how he dressed, just like they thought they had Zoro figured out. Weak pretty boy. Dumbass brute.

Zoro dragged a hand down his face, drank some more, and thought about what they really were: Sanji, strong and unshakably kind. Him, awkward and fiercely loyal. Both dedicated to their crew and finding the One Piece. Driven by dreams, haunted by ghosts, giving their all. Mistakes and scars and bumps in the road proving that they were human. 

He blew out a sharp breath, fingering the rim of his drink. He had two options: keep things as they were, endure this weird toxin-driven closeness, until he was cured and Sanji could stop giving a shit. Or… he could just fucking say it. Fumble through the words, however clumsy they came out. Let them twist in his mouth and still let them go.

He could face the silence after, or the rejection, or worse – Sanji laughing like it was nothing. But at least he’d know.

At least he wouldn’t be stuck choking on feelings he couldn’t name, let alone explain.

Still, he didn’t have to decide right now.

So he kept drinking, pretending it wasn’t wallowing. Sanji moved on to cards, letting the dart players try to win their money back. Zoro watched him for a while, barely seeing him.

By the twelfth drink, the taste turned. Bitter. Off. A warning.

He sighed and pushed away from the bar.

Sanji was watching – of course he was. Already half-risen from his seat before Zoro even moved. Zoro gave him a nod, and Sanji folded his cards, brushing off the curses with a sharp word and striding over. He didn’t ask. Just guided Zoro with a steady hand back toward the restrooms.

Zoro gave a hoarse, broken laugh as Sanji pushed them into the same stall where he’d gotten fucked earlier. Sanji laid his jacket across the lid like a barrier, muttering that Zoro was buying him a new one – unknowingly sitting in the exact spot where Zoro had painted it with thoughts of him.

Zoro let himself be pulled into his lap, sideways, resting his head against Sanji’s throat. Held close. Held safe.

As the world tilted and the pain began to crawl in behind his eyes, Zoro held on to the only thing that still felt solid.

Sanji’s arms around him.

“It’s done.”

Chopper had Zoro in the infirmary a week after they’d left Kingfisher Reef. Zoro hadn’t said shit about anything. Just kept hiding like a fucking coward while pretending what was between him and Sanji was real.

He hated himself for it. He wanted the closeness, the caring, the fucking domesticity of it all – but he wanted it to be choice, not need. Wanted Sanji to see him – big, awkward, imperfect, equal – not just a condition to care for. Wanted to be manhandled with desire, not obligation. For necessity to become affection.

Chopper’s news lit something hopeful in his chest. “Well, give it to me.”

The syringe was already prepped on the desk, but Chopper hesitated, giving him that soft doctor look. “I want to remind you, this might not work. Deriving an antitoxin using infected blood is an iffy process.”

But Zoro had unshakable faith. “You made it. Of course it’ll work.”

Chopper turned pink, smiling despite himself. “Shut up, asshole! Don’t say such nice things to me.”

Zoro shoved his sleeve up. “Hit me.”

The sting was like any other shot he’d had. Burned a little going in, then faded to nothing. He didn’t feel miraculously better, but—

“It’ll need time,” Chopper said, reading his silence. “It’s gotta work through your system, replicate itself. Give it a few days. A week, tops.”

Zoro nodded, gave him a faint smile, and left the infirmary. A few more days. A week. He could handle that. He’d already lasted this long.

He found Sanji in the galley – because of course Sanji was in the galley, like he always was when he wasn’t at Zoro’s side. The cook glanced up from the sink of breakfast dishes. “Well?”

“Got the cure. Just have to wait for it to kick in.”

Sanji shifted his cigarette to the other side of his mouth and paused, hand resting lightly on the edge of the sink a moment longer than necessary. Then he said, “Come help finish the dishes.” A faint smile curved his lips. “Then we’ll go outside and have a celebratory fight.”

Zoro blinked, crossing to the sink. Surprise flickered across his face even as anticipation tugged in his chest. “You haven’t fought me since this started.”

“You complaining?”

He liked not fighting Sanji. But he also kinda did. “...Maybe.”

Sanji snorted, and the sound was warm. Familiar. “Bloodthirsty brute.” He handed over a dish to dry. “Those attacks take a lot out of you. I wanted you to save your strength for that, not waste it defending yourself from my ass-kicking.”

“Pft. You never win.”

Still, the words sat warm in his chest. Sanji had been protecting him. Watching out for him. Not out of duty, but maybe something else. Something gentler.

“We’ll see,” Sanji said, grinning. “But I’m putting a time limit on it. And if you ignore a single warning sign, it’s your ass.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Zoro bounced on his toes. “Hurry up already.”

Sanji laughed, low and light. “Impatient mossball.”

“Yes.” Zoro grinned, all teeth.

Sanji took his sweet time, and Zoro was seconds from screaming obscenities when the galley was finally clean. But then they were outside – morning sun bright above them, sea breeze crisp against their skin, canvas sails snapping overhead. Their crewmates were scattered across the ship, occupied. The space was theirs.

Zoro drew two katanas, coating the blades with haki. Sanji lit a fresh cigarette and tapped his foot against the deck. His smirk flashed in the sunlight.

“Ready, marimo?”

“As ever, cook,” Zoro said, sliding into stance.

The air cracked between them – not with panic or sensory overload, but with electric anticipation.

Sanji struck first, a blur of motion and power. Zoro met it blade to boot, the impact ringing through his bones. And then they were off – kicking, flipping, slicing, dodging, trading blows. Slamming into walls, ricocheting off the mast, knocking down leaves from the tree. Laughter and taunts mixing with the clash of steel and the thud of boots.

Zoro hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this. Fighting with Sanji. Being pushed. Having to earn every hit. But this wasn’t anger or rivalry. It was joy.

He ducked a flying kick, laughed. Blocked the follow-up, laughed again. Spun, twisted, and slashed upward. Sanji blocked it clean, grin never leaving his face.

When the cigarette was done, so was the fight. Sanji called time like he’d promised, ignoring Zoro’s scowl.

Zoro sheathed his swords, sweat-damp and breathless in the best way.

Sanji’s eyes flicked to Zoro’s face for a heartbeat longer than usual, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “I’ll grab drinks and my book. Meet you up in the crow’s nest,” he said, headed for the stairs.

Zoro climbed the rigging, pushed open the hatch, and set up shop. Opened the windows. Peeled off his shirt and haramaki. Dropped his katanas. Added weights to the barbell. Tossed his towel on the bench.

Sanji arrived soon after, carrying a jug of water, a bottle of booze, and a thermos of tea. He set everything down, got comfortable, cracked open his book. At home beside Zoro. Like he belonged there.

And Zoro – standing in the sun, muscles loose, heart steady – didn’t want it to end.

A few more days. A week, tops.

Then he’d say the words. However they came out. And finally make this real.

The cure was working.

As the week wore on, the sensory storms spaced further and further apart until Zoro was down to only one or two a day.

He’d expected Sanji to start pulling back. To let Zoro come to him only when the symptoms flared. But Sanji didn’t go anywhere. He was still there – lounging in the crow’s nest as Zoro worked out, shoving him toward the couch to nap, making him set the table, scrub potatoes, dry dishes. They stayed in each other’s space – casual, comfortable – like nothing was changing.

Like maybe… nothing would.

Cedar Island rose from the sea like a fortress, draped in sweeping conifers – blue-tinged needles, sharp silhouettes, steep cliffs at the shoreline. The Sunny pulled into port under a high midday sun, expecting a quiet stop.

“Shit! Go! Go! GO!” 

The crack of cannonfire split the sky. Stone buildings echoed the blast. A cannonball screamed overhead, hitting close. Streets erupted. Gunfire, explosions, shouting, steel clashing against steel. Buildings collapsed, screams rang out, and the air thickened with the metallic stink of blood and fire.

Zoro’s heart pounded as he pushed civilians to run to safety, away from collapsing stone and splintered wood. The Straw Hats had landed in the middle of a warzone. They didn’t pick sides, only helped. Trying to get as many innocent people as possible out of harm’s way. 

He’d lost the others hours ago, scattered by crumbling roads and panicked crowds. Sanji had caught his eye once across a wrecked street – just a look, a nod – and then they were gone again. They both knew the priority was elsewhere. If Zoro went down, he knew Sanji was still out there, doing what needed to be done. He wouldn’t want it any other way.

More cannonfire. More chaos.

Zoro kept moving – clearing rubble, breaking doors, dragging people from burning homes. He leapt over flames, kicked through collapsing beams. His body was a map of cuts and scrapes, his skin bruised, scorched, and dirty. His muscles burned, but he didn’t slow down.

He couldn’t.

The fighting dragged on into the night. The city crumbled around him, caught in its death throes. Still, screams echoed – calls for help that clawed at his ears. He moved through it all, slicing through wreckage, clawing through stone with bare hands. Survivors limped through the ruins. The dying screamed. Bodies lay broken in the streets. Children wept. Families crumbled.

Flames licked the night sky. A full-blown inferno.

Zoro was past exhaustion. His head throbbed – pressure behind his eye like a spike. He hadn’t spoken in hours. The words were gone, unreachable. Not from pain, not exactly. Just… used up. Like some part of him had shut a door to keep everything else running.

All he could do was grunt. Point. Keep moving.

He knew what it was.

Not a sensory storm. Not the poison. This was different. Familiar, even. Prolonged overstimulation. Too much noise. Too many screams. Too many faces. The stench of blood, smoke, and loss clinging to everything. The kind of overwhelm that came from hours of chaos and too many people dying too fast to stop it.

It didn’t hit him the way the storms had. It didn’t steal his body from him, or twist his thoughts sideways. It was just too much, for too long.

He could still push through it. Wouldn’t collapse until time gave him permission.

By dawn, the fire had claimed most of the city. Orange flames gnawed at the horizon. Smoke blotted out the rising sun. The city wasn’t quiet, just emptied. The only sound was fire chewing through what remained.

Zoro pulled himself through one more shattered home, pushing out his observation haki, searching for any flicker of life.

Nothing. Just the dead.

He found a closet – miraculously untouched amid the ruins – and folded himself inside. Sat lotus-style. Shut his eye. 

Breathed.

Focused.

Centered.

Drew himself back together, piece by piece.

Alone.

They dragged themselves back to the Sunny, one by one. 

Zoro found the ship on his third try, catching sight of it in the unblemished harbor, fixing his tired eye on it as he trudged through the rubble. When he finally climbed aboard, Chopper was already there, ushering him into the infirmary. Nami sat in the galley, bandaged and hollow-eyed. A battered Usopp snored in a chair beside her.

Chopper treated Zoro’s cuts and scrapes, then sent him on his way just as Jinbe arrived, ragged, torn, sorrowful.

Zoro made his way to the bathroom, catching Robin on her way out. She rested a hand on his shoulder in passing. He stripped off his filthy clothes, left them where they fell, and showered under scalding water, rinsing off the dirt and the weight of the dead.

Towel around his waist, katanas in hand, he went down to the men’s quarters, down to the lower bunkroom. The towel hit the floor. The katanas leaned against the wall.

Zoro crawled under the blankets in the dark. Morning filtered through the portholes above, but all he wanted was sleep.

He woke enmeshed in limbs and warmth. A steady heartbeat thumped beneath his ear. His head rose and fell with each quiet breath. Sandalwood soap and cigarettes lingered in the air. He felt comfortable. Safe. Right.

He drifted off again. 

The second time he woke, it was to shifting muscle beneath him. A stretch. A breath drawn deeper than the others. He held on tighter, arm tightening around a warm torso before he even thought about it. He didn’t want this to end.

“I need to get up, clingy moss.”

“I don’t need you anymore.”

The words left his mouth before he could catch them, tone flat but not sharp. They weren’t wrong, but they weren’t right either. He meant something different. Something harder to say.

Sanji’s body went still. “Oh. Cure’s done working, then? That’s good. Guess we can be out of each other’s hair—”

Zoro cut him off. “Make this real.”

That landed with weight. It was the closest he could get, with his throat tightening and everything raw. No anger to hide behind. Just truth.

There was a silence. Not tense, just full. Zoro could feel the weight of it in the air, in the way Sanji’s lungs held still. “This... us?”

Zoro’s chest tightened. His cheeks started to heat, and anxiety clawed lightly up the back of his neck. Still, he nodded against Sanji’s chest. “Yeah.”

Beneath his ear, Sanji’s heartbeat kicked up, fast and loud. He inhaled sharply, held it, then exhaled through slack lips. “Okay.”

Zoro blinked. “Wait… really?”

He pushed himself up just enough to see in the dim, golden light spilling from the open hatch above. Sanji’s blond hair was a mess, his face creased by the pillow. His eyes were open, quiet, watching. “Yeah, marimo. Really.”

Zoro’s chest expanded like something unlatched inside him. He hadn’t expected it. Hoped, sure. But Sanji had never shown he felt the same, and Zoro’s real struggle wasn’t reading people, it was trusting that this could actually happen. “How did… when…”

Sanji’s mouth quirked. “You really think I’d let just anyone cling to me?”

“Yes. Everyone. You’re kind like that.”

Color rose in Sanji’s face, easy to see even in the low light. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well. In this case, the answer was you.”

Zoro grinned. That meant he wasn’t alone in this awkward, stumbling want. That maybe neither of them had known how to say it. He finally felt like they were on even social ground. 

The unspoken truth settled between them. Sanji’s secret willingness was a sign. The words stumbled out, caught somewhere between disbelief and excitement, messy and half-formed like most things Zoro really meant. But he didn’t care – Sanji seemed to understand him anyway. “Chances weren’t zero.”

“Close to. Don’t get cocky.” Sanji’s voice was dry, but not distant. “This just… pushed it over the line.”

Zoro’s grin sharpened. “You like getting blowjobs from men,” he said smugly. “Not zero.”

Sanji sputtered. “How the hell do you know that?”

“Saw you.” Zoro tilted his chin, all self-assured swagger. “I can do better than him.”

The sharp inhale was deeply satisfying. So was the telltale bump of heat against his knee, still slung over Sanji’s hip.

“You… ugh. Fuck. I need to get up. Feed the crew. Shitty marimo.” Sanji shoved at him, more flustered than angry. “Don’t get me aroused. We’ll talk about the fact that I’m an exclusive top later.”

Zoro rolled to his side of the bed, still grinning. “Okay. Sure. Bet your old lovers were just bad. That’s why.”

Sanji made a noise – half-annoyance, half-laugh. “You won’t win that fight, clingy moss.”

Zoro’s teeth flashed. “Watch me.”

The kick to his stomach was a little too real. “Get up. You’re scrubbing carrots.”

“Fine, fine.” Zoro rubbed his belly. “Be right there.”

“And put clothes on, you damned nudist. I swear you’re doing it on purpose to drive me insane.”

He hadn’t been – but it was nice to have confirmation that Sanji found him hot. “Maybe.”

Sanji grumbled a string of insults as he climbed the ladder and disappeared from view.

Zoro stayed still in the quiet left behind. He could still smell Sanji on the pillow beside him. Still felt warm where they’d touched. He waited for a slow count of twenty – just in case.

Then he pumped a fist into the air with all the energy of a man who’d just won a three-day duel.

He hadn’t just made a connection. He might’ve made a partner. His partner. For real.

He let out a breath, shoulders relaxing.

Maybe getting poisoned hadn’t been so bad.

.…Actually, no. Fuck that. Never again.

End