Zoro almost didn’t see it – the look of devastation that flashed across Sanji’s face before it disappeared under a cutting joke at Usopp’s expense.
They were at the castle’s onsen, sharing a relaxing soak with their Wano allies, post-battle. Steam rolled over the water in slow, lazy clouds, softening the edges of lantern light. The scent of cedar and minerals filled the air.
Zoro lowered himself into the pool, towel knotted at his hips. The heat bit into him first, then worked its way into the stiffness of healing muscles. Bandages were gone now – replaced by stitches, scabs, and aches that throbbed with every breath. A week unconscious hadn’t done him any favors. He felt like he’d aged years in that bed.
Franky struck a pose in the steaming water, declaring the onsen SUPER! Chopper circled the edge, hooves paddling idly through the heat. Brook’s laughter clattered like his bones, light and echoing against the stone. Off to the side sat Sanji, water beading on his shoulders, blond hair damp and pushed away from his face. When Zoro settled across from him, Sanji’s attention flicked over – just for a heartbeat – and that was when he caught it. That look.
Then, as fast as it came, it vanished under a razor-sharp grin and joke aimed at Usopp.
Usopp squawked, splashed back, and soon everyone was laughing again. Everyone except Zoro, who closed his eye and let the hot water soak into his bones, as if that would force the feeling away. Something’s wrong with him.
Zoro thought maybe it was the death pact-thing, the one he’d called off once Zoro confronted him. Zoro hadn’t gotten much out of Sanji about it. He trusted that whatever Sanji had been concerned about had rectified itself, trusted that if the cook said it was over, it was over. Pressing further would’ve meant prying, and they didn’t work like that. At least, that was how Zoro had always assumed they worked. Zoro’s job ended when Sanji said he wasn’t needed anymore.
He cracked an eye open and studied Sanji more closely. The cook’s posture was loose, legs stretched out, arms draped behind him. Sanji laughed again at Usopp, head tipped back, throat bared to the lantern glow.
Not my problem, Zoro told himself. If Sanji wanted help, he’d say so. If he was hiding something, that was his business. Zoro wasn’t his babysitter.
Still, he filed the moment away in the same place he kept things that mattered more than he liked to admit. Then he leaned back, shut his eye again, and reminded himself he came here to relax – not think about cooks who didn’t ask for help.
He didn’t care about the numbers. Posters came and went; lives didn’t. The ship was loud with reactions anyway – Usopp wailing about his number going up, Chopper whining about being mistaken for a pet again, Franky pissed off that his picture was of the Sunny instead of his fabulous self. Zoro tuned it out – until Sanji froze.
Zoro now sat at 1.111 billion. Jinbe followed at 1.1 billion, landing him in third. Sanji’s fell well below them both at 1.032 billion, pushing him down to fourth. The difference between him and Sanji was 79,000, the biggest gulf between them yet.
Zoro expected the usual reaction: a loud tantrum, a flying kick, something obnoxious and flaming about “I’ll show you!” with a strike aimed his way – the shitty marimo swordsman who supposedly had no business ranking above him.
But instead, the cook stared at the poster like it slapped him in the face. His cigarette burned down between his fingers, ash dropping unnoticed to the deck. The spark in his eyes didn’t flare – it dimmed, drastically.
Then the theatrics came. Too loud. Too sharp. Sanji went up in flames, flopping onto the deck, berating Jinbe, yelling “Why am I below HIM?!” about Zoro as if volume could drown whatever he’d actually felt first.
But Zoro caught the moment right before the fire, the part where Sanji looked less angry and more… hit. The split second of disbelief, the stillness. That was the real reaction. Everything after was armor.
“Forget him,” Zoro muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone. “Just leave number four to his sour grapes.”
Sanji glared through the flames, chest heaving. He shouted something Zoro didn’t bother processing. The fire didn’t impress him. Neither did the yelling. They got into a fight, because that’s what they did. Then it was over as quickly as it started, nothing unusual there.
But the cook’s shoulders were too tense now. His jaw clenched wrong. His eyes didn’t shine with petty rivalry – they burned with something closer to self-loathing. It needled at Zoro in a way the usual squabbling never did; this wasn’t about a game he could shrug off and forget, not when it was Sanji.
Not my problem, Zoro told himself again.
Even so, when Sanji stalked off toward the galley, Zoro watched the sway of his shoulders – rigid, tight – long after the door swung shut.
“There’s another in your group that can use conqueror’s haki,” Gaban said.
They were on Elbaph, in the underworld, Luffy, Zoro, and Sanji preparing to go after the knights along with the other giants. Gaban pointed out that the knights weren’t immortal with the use of conqueror’s haki before making the second pronouncement.
Sanji lit up, hustling over to Gaban. “Is it me? I knew it! With how things were going, Mosshead and Jinbe were about to usurp me.”
“You there, swordsman.,” Gaban said, looking past Sanji. “Your body seems to be growing accustomed to it.”
“I have conqueror’s haki?” Zoro said, confused.
“What? You didn’t know?!” Luffy exclaimed. “It’s been oozing off you.”
“How absurd. Haki is a power that must be understood and tamed. Your captain is one of the four emperors. You should be meticulous if you intend to have his back.”
Zoro winced, taking the admonishment seriously.
“Hey, old man! What about me?!” Sanji sounded desperate now.
An argument between Loki and Hajrudin exploded, cutting off Gaban’s response to Sanji from Zoro’s ears. But Zoro could see the look on Sanji’s face.
There was no shock, no dramatic outrage, only a muted slackness of his mouth and around his eyes, the kind someone slips into when they know they’ve already lost something. Whatever Gaban just said, Sanji wasn’t blindsided by it; he’d already feared it. The stillness wasn’t calm – it was defeat.
Sanji said nothing more about it. His expression smoothed into one a general annoyance as Luffy invited Loki to join their crew. But Zoro had seen it, and it lingered.
Not my problem, he reminded himself. But it was starting to sound hollow to his own ears. He wasn’t the type to chase after feelings, his own or anyone else’s, but the idea of Sanji quietly carrying that loss pulled tight at something behind his ribs.
Zoro thought maybe he’d made too much out of nothing. Those scant moments over the past few months where Sanji showed something other than his usual idiocy. Elbaph was behind them, and everything seemed to be as normal as the weeks passed.
But then they were having a bonfire on a random deserted beach, Robin having spotted the uncharted island from the library window. After sailing around it to give Nami time to chart it, the Sunny set anchor and the crew disembarked for a night on the beach.
The flames rose high on the bonfire, flickering red and gold against the dark. Zoro had helped haul thick logs over to sit on, their rough bark scraping his palms as the crew arranged them in a lazy ring around the heat. The air smelled of charred meat and salt from the tide, the smokiness clinging to clothes and hair. The crew was well fed, the barbeque having been dragged ashore for a mini-feast. Sake, wine, and cocoa were being passed around, cups never left unfilled.
Conversation meandered from the relatively deep to the absurd – wondering about old friends and how freed nations were faring, debating if Franky should add projector capabilities to his nipple lights, what animal would everyone want to be if they were a mink. Then they got on the topic of worst injuries – “Mihawk,” Zoro declared. “Left two marks.” – and opinions were contested with each trying to outdo one another, even the girls.
“I’d say Absolam, coupled with Oars,” Sanji said when it reached his turn, leaning back against the log. A cigarette dangled from his lips, his cheeks rosy from the bonfire’s heat and the wine. “Fighting while stabbed and with a broken leg left me pretty messed up afterward.”
Zoro noticed that Sanji hadn’t included the fight with Kuma. That might bring up things better left unsaid regarding what really happened that day. Zoro appreciated the cook’s discretion, acknowledged it with a silent tip of his head. He didn’t have a word for whatever sat between them – it wasn’t the hearts-and-flowers crap people wrote songs about – but he understood the weight of someone who treated your secrets like they were theirs to guard, too.
“But Sanji,” Chopper chirped loudly, “Queen killed you!”
The circle went silent. Sanji’s face went tight, then he scoffed. “Obviously not. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Well, yes, but anyone else wouldn’t have survived! It was terrifying.” Chopper started to wail. “I’m so happy that you didn’t die!”
Questions began overlapping. “Are you a zombie?!” “What’s Chopper talking about, Sanji-kun?” "Is it possible one day I will have a brother in bones, yo-ho-ho?!” “This is about your physical modifications, correct?”
Sanji’s expression twisted into anger, his words clipped, annoyed. “Oi, enough! I’m not a zombie, I’m not a robot, and I’m not giving anyone a damn anatomy lesson. Drop it.”
He shoved to his feet and stalked off down the beach, disappearing into the dark.
Everyone fell silent again. Then, Nami prompted, “Chopper, what happened?”
“He told you to drop it,” Zoro snapped.
“I think we have a right to know if Sanji died,” Nami hissed.
“Does it really matter?” Zoro scowled at her. But inside, his gut was churning from the news.
“I didn’t mean to make Sanji mad,” Chopper said, upset.
Franky patted him consolingly. “It’s okay, little bro.”
“Sanji’s okay now, that’s all we need to know,” Luffy stated, and that was the end of that.
It wasn’t, though. Curiosity was a standard state of the crew. Zoro noticed that, except for Robin and Luffy, the others kept eyeing Sanji like he was a Vegapunk experiment. Chopper wrung his hooves and apologized repeatedly. Sanji brushed him, and everyone else, off, ignoring the bombshell that had been dropped.
Zoro remembered the flash of devastation at the onsen, the slapped expression over the bounties, the look of defeat on Elbaph, those little moments he’d filed away and claimed weren’t his business. He understood, now, that this was the cause. Sanji might be walking around, but he shouldn’t be. And each subsequent thing built upon the other to say you’re not good enough.
Sanji had always been competitive. Always tried hard to be the best. To be worthy of being a Straw Hat. To show that Luffy had chosen wisely. It was one of the reasons Zoro actually liked him – that burn, that drive, that need to be better than he was before. He was as harsh on himself as Zoro, but he also had a different role on the crew, to support them through his cooking more than his fight.
Still, before, he had been Zoro’s equal. They’d always been neck and neck in everything they did. Zoro had more endurance, Sanji had more agility, and they were closely matched in strength. They were the wings of the future Pirate King. Zoro had never wanted the nonsense people called romance – dates and kisses and soft-focus futures – but somewhere along the line, every picture he had of the end of the world had the cook still there, bitching at his elbow. Since Wano, though, they’d been getting farther apart. Zoro hadn’t seen Sanji trying any less hard, but the gap was still there.
It had to be killing him. Or, if Chopper’s words were to go by, it already had.
Not my problem, Zoro tried to tell himself again. He wasn’t responsible for fixing everything. But he didn’t like the way it made him feel.
Zoro didn’t like talking. Words felt like another kind of battlefield, and he won the ones with swords far more often. But Sanji stood there like he’d been hollowed, and Zoro felt a sharp, unwelcome twist in his chest.
He’d cornered Sanji in the galley early that morning, forgoing bed for confrontation. Only Usopp was up, in the Crow’s Nest on the last watch. They wouldn’t be interrupted by cries for breakfast or the need for coffee for a while yet. Part of him didn’t want to do this, wanted to let it lay like Luffy had said. The other part of him valued Sanji too much to pretend it wasn’t his concern. He guarded that value the way he guarded his swords – by choosing, quietly and absolutely, that this was part of the life he intended to hold onto.
Sanji was already moving when Zoro stepped in, the galley lit only by a single overhead lamp still half-dim from the night. The cook moved through the quiet like a shadow in motion, filling the kettle, measuring out grounds, setting leaves to steep. The smell of fresh beans and black tea was just starting to bloom, rising with the steam. Cups waited upside down on the counter near the stove, clinking softly as Sanji arranged them.
Zoro didn’t give a greeting, warning, or beat around the bush. “You died,” he said bluntly.
Sanji didn’t turn from the cabinet, reaching for the flour. “Morning to you too.”
“That’s what Chopper said. That Queen killed you.”
“And I got better.” His voice was too thin for the joke he was trying to make.
“Cut the crap.”
Sanji finally paused, canister in hand. “What do you want?”
“An explanation,” Zoro said, folding his arms. He stood in the walkway between the kitchen side and the dining area. “Did Chopper give you some of that shit he gave me, that healed me up?”
Sanji set the canister down on the counter with more care than it deserved. “Does it matter?”
Zoro pictured the expressions he’d seen on Sanji’s face, then nodded once. “It does.”
Sanji pulled his cigarettes from the breast pocket of his jacket, lit one up. Smoke curled toward the ceiling. “Don’t see why I should–”
“Don’t,” Zoro interrupted sharply. He didn’t want to do their usual song and dance. Not now. “Just tell me the truth.”
Sanji’s lips thinned around his cigarette, his visible eye narrowing. Zoro didn’t change his posture, chin set with demand. They stared at each other, neither budging, until finally Sanji made a sound of derision. “Tch. Stupid marimo. It’s nothing. Queen got hold of me, but those Vinsmoke modifications kicked in so it didn’t matter. I’m fine. Won the fight. The end.”
Zoro didn’t like what he was hearing. He knew, vaguely, about the modifications because that’s what prompted Sanji to contact him during the raid, but he didn’t know specifics. “Explain more. Like the part where you died.”
Sanji inhaled on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke with irritation. He opened the canister and sprinkled flour onto the clean prep counter. “It was nothing,” he said again. “And I didn’t die. That's all there is to it.”
“Bullshit.” Zoro ground his jaw. “There’s more.”
Sanji grabbed a covered bowl, took out the raised dough inside, and thumped it on the floured counter. “There isn’t.”
“Then why does it bother you to tell me everything?”
“What do you want to hear, Zoro?” Sanji snapped, slamming his fist into the dough. “Some tragic tale of misery? My modifications prevented Queen from killing me, end of story. The fact that I lost has no bearing on anything. Now, get the hell out of my galley. I have work to do.”
“You lost.” The word snagged in Zoro’s ear. “What do you mean, you lost?”
Sanji shifted the cigarettes between his lips. “Forget about it.”
But Zoro wasn’t going to do that, not with the bad feeling growing inside him. “Cook…,” he pressed quietly. “What do you mean?”
A bitter laugh rose from Sanji as he punched and kneaded the dough. “Fuck, you just don’t give up, do you? You just want to rub it in. You can survive a hit from Kaidou, Big Mom, and defeat King because you’re a fucking badass swordsman. Whereas I would’ve been defeated, if not once, twice, in that single fight with Queen. The only reason I’m still walking around is because my truly abhorrent father manipulated my genes before birth and that Raid Suit activated them, turning me into some unholy monster that can be crushed to a pulp and still not die. If that hadn’t happened, I’d be at the bottom of the sea with the other dead sailors.”
Sanji slammed the dough again, harder this time. It stuck to his knuckles and tore unevenly, strands clinging stubbornly before he scraped them off. He wiped his hands on a damp towel with sharp, efficient motions, then stopped halfway through, fingers pressed into the fabric, as if the energy had drained out of him all at once.
He stood there like he’d been hollowed, and Zoro felt tightness in his chest as recognition settled in – not pity or anger, but the stark understanding of what it meant to still be breathing because someone else decided you would. Sanji hadn’t survived Queen on skill, or willpower, or some heroic refusal to die – he’d been dragged past death itself by a power he never asked for and couldn’t refuse. Alive because of a bloodline he wanted nothing to do with.
Zoro knew that feeling, understood in a way that other people might not. Mihawk had cut him down and left him living, not because Zoro earned it, but because Mihawk allowed it. He’d survived a fight by someone else’s choice, and he’d had to carry that knowledge like a blade pressed to his own throat every day since. That loss lived in everything he did, the training he endured, the battles he fought. It was fuel for him to get better, be better. He’d sworn to Luffy that he’d never be defeated again, and he hadn’t.
But after Zoro’s loss to Mihawk, he didn’t immediately get shown that he was worth far less, like Sanji did with the bounty poster. He didn’t get told that the person who’d been his equal had something he didn’t have, with the conqueror’s haki. He didn’t get slapped down repeatedly like that, reminded that not only did he fail, he was no longer good enough.
Sanji turned back to the stove, pouring coffee and tea into waiting cups. His hands moved slower now, mechanical, as if ritual was the only thing keeping him together.
“You’re needed. Here. With us.” Zoro swallowed hard. “With me.”
Sanji stilled, back to Zoro. Cigarette smoke curled slowly over his head.
Zoro didn’t have pretty words for what he meant. It wasn’t romance or anything soft like that. It was simpler: the same way he chose his swords, his path, his captain, he’d already chosen the cook as someone he meant to keep walking beside when the fighting was done and their dreams were carved into the sea.
Zoro forced more past his lips. “I get it. I wear Mihawk’s mark where the world can see. But I– you–” He stumbled over what he wanted to say, frustrated with himself. “You’re still beside me. Not Jinbe. I don’t… I don’t want anyone else in that spot.”
Sanji didn’t respond immediately. But Zoro saw the loosening of his shoulders, heard the quiet exhale. He stabbed out the remains of his cigarette in the nearby ashtray.
“Told myself I wouldn’t let this get to me,” he murmured when he eventually spoke. He picked up the teacup, turned and passed it to Zoro. “That it wouldn’t change how I acted. Didn’t expect it to be this hard.”
“We want to earn things,” Zoro said, accepting the cup. “Feels like cheating, otherwise.”
Sanji huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. Guess it does.”
He turned back to the counter beside the stove, picked up his own coffee cup. Zoro sipped his green tea, bitter steam in his nose and heat biting at his tongue. The ship creaked as it settled on the waves.
“By the way,” Sanji said, voice too light to be natural. “Did you just hit on me?”
Zoro choked on his second sip of tea. “I– no– maybe? Shit.”
Sanji blinked, then sputtered a laugh that sounded more shocked than smug. “You– no way. Seriously? You?”
Heat splashed across Zoro’s cheeks. “So what? Shut up.”
Sanji pointed a finger at him. “If this is some weird sympathy crap–”
“It’s not.”
“Or a rivalry thing–”
“It’s not.”
“Or you’re trying to make me feel better–”
“I’m not.” Zoro lifted his tea and drank, ears scarlet. “You’re just someone I want around. That’s it.”
Sanji stared like Zoro had just split the ocean. “I… don’t know what to do with this.”
Zoro shrugged. “Who said you had to do anything?”
Sanji swallowed, set his coffee down, then picked it up again like he’d forgotten how hands worked. “Right. Sure. Great.”
Zoro decided it was time to leave. He slammed back the rest of his tea, ignoring the burn in his throat, and set the empty cup on the counter. “You good now?”
Sanji cleared his throat, like he had to reset his voice.“Yeah, yeah– I’m fine. Get lost. I have breakfast to make.”
Zoro gave a short nod, more like acknowledging a command than saying goodbye, and turned toward the door.
The morning chill on deck hit him as soon as he stepped out of the galley. The sky was still gray, a pale wash of light that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be dawn yet. The ship’s ropes creaked. The ocean lapped at the hull.
He scratched at his neck, annoyed at how tight it felt. He hadn’t lied. He hadn’t even said much. Just a few words, badly put together. But they were the truth, and now Sanji knew where he stood.
Zoro leaned against the railing, breathing in salt and cold air, letting it settle the heat still stuck in his cheeks. Behind him in the galley, Sanji would eventually move. Bang pots, grumble at ingredients, pretend nothing happened. Maybe that meant things were fine. Zoro just hoped he’d helped. No one should have to hold that kind of thing alone.
He glanced toward the portholes where inside light burned against the galley glass. He didn’t need to check if Sanji was still in there, stuck in his thoughts. He already knew he was.
“Idiot,” Zoro muttered under his breath, unsure if he meant Sanji, himself, or both.
A few weeks passed, and the fight they’d just crawled out of left the Sunny groaning like she’d taken her own share of hits. Sails patched with fresh canvas snapped in the wind. The railing bore a new scar where something big and angry had tried to tear its way aboard. Salt spray misted the deck as the ship cut through glittering afternoon water.
Everyone wore some kind of bandage – Jinbe had both arms wrapped, Usopp had bruises coloring up his ribs, Robin was moving stiffly, and Zoro’s shoulder ached where teeth had torn into it. Brook chugged milk like there was no tomorrow to repair his various cracked bones. Nami complained that not even makeup would hide the marks on her face. Chopper had a split hoof and Luffy was out cold.
Sanji, on the other hand, didn’t have a single scratch on him. They’d all gotten to marvel at how he simply undented himself with a few well-placed hits, causing Franky to pose in dent-removing solidarity and offer up his tools for future use.
Which meant the cook was on a mission.
Sanji flitted from person to person with bowls of curry and trays of sandwiches, checking plates, refilling cups, swatting hands away if they tried to get up too soon. There was flour on his cheek and fire in his voice when he scolded Usopp for trying to lift anything heavier than his fork. He moved with purpose, humming under his breath, the air around him almost bright.
He looked… lighter. Most of the crew wouldn’t see the difference, but Zoro did: the small relaxation in his posture, the way his breaths came easier, the looseness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before.
Zoro rested on the steps near the mast, one foot braced against the wood, bandages tight across his shoulder. He watched the cook with a silent kind of satisfaction, arms draped over his knees. Salt air licked at him, warm sunlight pooling on his skin, the ship rocking just enough to lull him. This, he decided, was a good way for things to be.
He watched Sanji tell Nami she was still the most beautiful woman in the universe, then quickly assure Robin she was equally as exquisite. Watched the way laughter reached Sanji’s eyes now, not just his mouth. Watched how the crew didn’t hover or worry or glance at him like he was different.
Yeah. Lighter.
The cook made one last round, then approached Zoro with the final cup of tea. Steam curled up from it, rich with the scent of orange and spice. Sanji handed it over without the usual flourish. “Careful,” he said, an eyebrow lifting. “Tea’s hot. Try not to choke on it this time.”
Zoro narrowed his eye. “I don’t choke.”
Sanji’s smirk twitched, not mocking, just… amused. “Sure you don’t. Want me to blow on it for you?”
Zoro lifted the cup defensively. “Keep your breath to yourself, love-cook.”
Sanji clicked his tongue. “Relax. I wouldn’t waste effort on someone who can’t appreciate it. I only kiss– uh– blow… on drinks for people who want it.”
Zoro’s brain stalled a full second at that.
Sanji realized what he’d said a heartbeat late. His eyes widened, then narrowed like he meant to cut the mistake in half. “Like I’d waste real skill on you,” he barked. “You’d just stare at me like a confused plant anyway!”
The blush creeping up his ears made the insult useless. He spun around fast, practically fled toward the others, muttering curses at tea leaves and swordsmen who didn’t deserve good brewing.
Zoro watched him retreat, slow thoughts forming. “…Huh.” He wouldn’t mind figuring out what that kiss thing meant, eventually – not because kissing meant anything to him by itself, but because the idea of learning it with Sanji didn’t bother him at all.
Sanji’s voice rose again from across the deck, snapping at Franky to quit dropping crumbs in his lap and whining at Usopp for “chewing like a dying goat.” Sanji began gathering dirty bowls with rapid, flustered efficiency.
Zoro let the warmth of the tea seep into his palms. The Sunny hummed around him – the flap of sails, the slap of waves against wood, the low chatter of a crew that had survived something together. He breathed in spice, salt, sunlight.
The future looked a lot like this: steel at his hip, the sea ahead, the cook somewhere at his elbow – always loud, always there.
Zoro took a slow sip, and tasted heat, a deeper warmth under it, and the promise of more days just like this.
End