The Thousand Sunny barely reached Wittleton Harbor when Luffy gathered almost half the crew and launched them screaming toward town. Luffy’s jubilant laugh rose above it all as he and they snapped out of sight.
A few gulls scattered off the pilings. Zoro leapt down to the pier that extended into the bay once the Sunny was close enough. His boots hit weathered planks still damp from spray, the whole dock shifting faintly under him. Part of him wished he’d been one of the chosen; his back thanked him otherwise. While the ride was fast and convenient, the landings were brutal. One day, Luffy might figure out that not everyone bounced, but Zoro wasn’t holding his breath.
Jinbe piloted the Sunny expertly into the slip, easing her between the pilings, and Franky tossed the mooring lines down. Zoro caught one, then the next, rough rope dragging through his palms as the Sunny drifted close. He tied the three lines to the metal cleats, pulling each knot tight enough to hold against the harbor’s slow push. Bumpers auto-inflated along the hull to protect the Sunny from knocking against the pier, bright and round against the painted wood. Robin’s many hands lashed the sails overhead, canvas folding in crisp sections while the harbor breeze tugged at the loose edges. The gangplank extended and thumped down near Zoro as he secured the final line.
The island sat between log pose routes, the way plenty of small islands did across the Grand Line. It wasn’t strong enough to hold a magnetic marker of its own, but it lay close enough to the path that passing ships could spot it without much trouble. That made it a stopover island – good for restocking, repairs, and a few hours on land. Nami liked those places because she could add them to her maps. Sanji liked them because he could fill their stores, whether they needed anything or not. Luffy liked them because they were there.
A late spring breeze blew off the water, carrying the scents of salt and surf. Overhead, white clouds drifted across an azure sky, occasionally shadowing the sun. Beyond Wittleton Harbor, the island rose into rolling hills and open plains, with farmland and ranches separated by tall oaks and maple trees. Winding brooks cut through the fields, fed by a lone peak at one end of the island, where snow still capped the summit.
Zoro followed Robin and Chopper into town, planning on finding the nearest tavern. He still had his usual coat, sash and haramaki on, too, which counted as luck. Nami had been one of Luffy’s victims, and that meant no one had shoved local clothes at him before he could escape.
The town stretched from the harbor between clay roads and shade trees, but it felt empty. Clapboard buildings with painted signs lined the streets, their porches left with grain sacks, barrels, crates, and chairs no one was sitting in. Storefront windows displayed work shirts, boots, tack, jars of preserves, coils of rope, and polished belt buckles, though the open doors had more dust moving through them than customers.
Handbills were nailed to posts and storefronts all along the road: livestock judging, barrel races, pie contest, calf roping, bull riding, animal auctions. Zoro could see the fairgrounds from there – fenced pens, off-white tents, wagons, and a dirt arena with most of the noise gathered around it.
The taverns were probably still open, but the empty street made them look less promising. Any place worth drinking in would either be packed later or missing half its staff right now. Besides, the fairgrounds had food, noise, and enough people gathered in one place that even Zoro could find it.
Zoro kept following Robin and Chopper until they reached the edge of the fairgrounds, where the road widened into packed dirt and the noise hit all at once. Voices, music, animals, bells, laughter, shouting, an auctioneer’s fast call. A beer tent caught his eye off to the left, canvas sides rolled up, barrels stacked behind a counter, and several men in hats leaning around as if they’d been planted there. It worked just as well as a tavern for him.
The beer came in a large disposable cup, which meant he didn’t have to stay put. The tent was crowded with people talking over each other, and none of the tables had enough room to stand without becoming part of someone else’s conversation and Zoro wasn’t into small talk. Zoro polished one off there, ordered another, and wandered.
Tents and booths lined paths crowded with people dressed in denim, plaid, cowboy hats, and boots. A lot of them wore fringe on their shirts. Some had bandanas tied around their necks. Some had belt buckles big enough to use as armor. Dust clung to hems and boot heels, kicked up every time the crowd shifted. Tanned faces and relaxed smiles greeted Zoro wherever he went, easy and open in the way of people who spent most of their lives outside and thought strangers were just visitors who hadn’t been fed yet.
The whole place smelled like hay, manure, hot oil, sugar, smoke, and animals. Greasy or sweet aromas floated from food tents and stalls, changing every few steps. Zoro tried something called a corn dog, which seemed to be a corn pancake wrapped around a hot dog on a stick. It made more sense than it should have. There were a lot of fried things – cookies, pickles, cream cakes, candy bars, funnel cakes, jalapenos. There was corn on the cob, large soft pretzels, pizza slices, burgers, and barbecue. Zoro ate as he walked when something looked worth trying and ignored the stalls that looked too sticky to deal with.
At the edge of the row were eating contests – pie, hot dogs, watermelon, Wittleton Mountain oysters. Luffy sat at one of the long tables with a gleam in his eye and a number pinned to his shirt. He had both hands flat on the table, leaned forward like he was waiting for a cannon to fire. The sign nearby listed the times for the contests, about an hour apart each. At least they knew Luffy would be occupied for a while.
Zoro spotted Nami once in the crowd, talking to someone with a clipboard beside a prize board. She had the smile she wore when money had become possible. Zoro kept walking. Franky’s large form came out of a tent. Brook’s afro bobbed near a small stage where live music played. Jinbe’s laugh rolled from a tent filled with chickens.
The fairgrounds had a pull to them. Even when Zoro wasn’t aiming anywhere in particular, the crowd kept pushing him along one main path, past game booths, livestock pens, children carrying ribbons, and farmers arguing about feed as if the fate of the world depended on it. The noise grew louder ahead – cheering, announcer static, the thump of hooves.
The path opened at a dirt arena ringed by fencing and risers. People packed the seats and leaned along the rails, boots hooked on the lower rungs, hats tipped back against the sun. Zoro disposed of his empty beer cup in one of the many trash barrels and sidled up beside Usopp. Usopp stood with his arms folded over the rail, watching the arena with the intense expression of a man about to lie.
“What’s going on?” Zoro asked. Inside the arena, men in colorful clothing with cowboy hats and clown makeup milled around near the center. A few leaned against the fence, loose and ready, watching a pen at the side of the arena. Behind it, Zoro could see someone in a cowboy hat being helped onto the back of a bull. The bull stood packed into the narrow chute, all muscle and horns, its hide twitching under the rider’s legs.
“Bull riding,” Usopp said, pointing toward the chute. “I was once a champion bull rider. Could ride for hours – no, days. Weeks. No bull could buck me. They finally begged me to retire so other riders had a chance at glory.”
“Good of you,” Zoro said dryly. He propped a boot on the lower fence rung and rested his forearms along the top rail like Usopp. The wood was sun-warm and worn smooth where hundreds of hands had leaned before them.
The announcer came over a speaker, voice crackling bright through the arena. He introduced the rider with a lot of enthusiasm Zoro didn’t bother remembering. The rider adjusted his grip on the rope tied around the bull’s shoulders. His other hand lifted into the air. The bull shoved hard against the gate.
A bell rang. The gate snapped open, and the bull came shooting out. It bucked immediately, violent and ugly, back legs kicking high enough that the rider’s body snapped forward, then back. Dirt sprayed from under its hooves. The rider held on with one hand, jaw clenched, hat still on for about half a second before it flew off. The bull twisted sideways, dropped its front end, kicked again, and the rider’s whole body whipped loose. Three seconds later, the rest of him followed the hat.
He hit the ground hard enough that several people around Zoro hissed through their teeth. The men dressed like clowns moved at once, waving their arms, shouting, dragging the bull’s attention away before it could turn the downed rider into paste. One darted close, slapped the bull’s shoulder, and jumped back fast enough that Zoro gave him a little credit.
Usopp winced. “I’m not sure which is worse – hitting the ground, or imagining that poor guy’s balls.”
Zoro twinged in sympathy. “Yeah.”
The bull was herded toward an open chute. The rider got helped to his feet. He took his hat from someone near the rail, dusted it off, and shoved it back on his head. A scowl of defeat lined his tanned face as the announcer read his time. He limped out through a different gate while the crowd clapped anyway.
The announcer’s voice came over the speaker again. “Next up, we have a visiting rider hailing from the Thousand Sunny. Let’s give it up for Blackleg Sanji!”
Zoro blinked. Then he turned his attention to the starting gate. Sure enough, Sanji was climbing onto the back of a bull. “The cook’s riding?”
“There’s prize money,” Usopp said. “Nami told him to do it.”
“Ah.” That explained it. Zoro watched as Sanji settled himself onto the bull. One gloved hand wrapped around the rope. The other stayed loose at his side while one of the handlers checked the wrap. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, showing corded muscle and dark blond hair. His tie hung slightly loose around his unbuttoned collar, and his black vest fit snug around his waist, pulling across his chest when he shifted.
Figured Sanji would do something stupid like this because Nami said so. For a moment, Zoro debated doing it, too, and showing Sanji up. It didn’t look that hard. Stay on, don’t get thrown, avoid the horns. Simple enough. But he didn’t want to give Nami ideas that he’d do shit like this for her greedy hands.
The arena seemed to draw in around the chute. The crowd quieted slightly, boots settling on risers, hands tightening around the rails. The bull rammed the gate once, hard enough to make the metal bang, and a murmur ran through the nearest spectators. Sanji didn’t look toward them. He just tipped his chin slightly, as if giving permission for the whole thing to start.
The bell rang, the gate was pulled open, and Sanji and the bull came bursting out of the pen.
The bull hit the dirt like a storm with horns. It twisted hard, kicked up, dropped its front end, and snapped sideways with enough force that the nearest spectators shouted and pulled back from the rail.
Sanji stayed on. Worse, Sanji made staying on look easy. His thighs locked tight beneath the fitted weave of his trousers, muscle pulling sharp every time the bull tried to throw him. His hips moved with each buck, loose enough to follow the motion and strong enough to control it. One hand gripped the rope. The other stayed free. His shoulders barely shifted. His blond hair blew across one eye, his mouth curved around a look that said bull riding was nothing and he had somewhere better to be.
Then, because apparently that wasn’t enough, Sanji reached into his vest pocket.
Zoro stopped breathing.
The bull threw itself sideways. Sanji rolled with it, smooth and balanced, his legs clamped hard, his back straight, his free hand already pulling out a cigarette. He tucked it between his lips like he was leaning against a bar instead of riding half a ton of pissed-off muscle. Another buck hit. Sanji barely dipped. The cigarette stayed in place.
The lighter came next. Sanji flicked it open with his thumb, bent his head, and lit the cigarette while the bull tried to launch him into the next island. The tiny flame caught for one bright second beneath his face. Sanji inhaled, slow and calm, then tipped his chin up as smoke slipped from his mouth.
It was the hottest thing Zoro had ever seen.
Zoro felt pressure hit the back of his nose. Hard. Sudden. Then warmth burst from both nostrils. The metallic taste of blood coated his throat, the world spun sideways, and the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, staring up at the sky and Usopp’s horrified, deeply questioning face.
“You okay there, Zoro?” Usopp said.
Zoro blinked up at him several times. The sky was too bright. Usopp’s face was too close. The cheering around the arena rolled over him in waves, and for one stupid second, Zoro had no idea why he was on the ground.
He sat up, caught himself with one hand in the dirt and brought the other to his face. It came back bloody. Oh. Right. He’d gotten a nosebleed seeing Sanji ride that bull.
“Zoro?” Usopp questioned again, leaning closer now, worry around the edges of his mouth.
“Uh, yeah. I’m good,” Zoro lied. He pulled off his bandana and scrubbed at his face, which only made the blood smear worse. His nose still felt hot and full. His throat tasted like metal. Around them, people were cheering, the announcer was shouting something excited through the speakers, and the crowd by the rails had started clapping hard enough to rattle the boards.
Usopp’s worry shifted and turned into a grin. “Oh.”
Zoro narrowed his eye over the bandana.
Usopp’s grin got worse. “Oh.”
“I will punch you.”
“You missed Sanji’s record score,” Usopp said, ignoring the warning with the bravery of a man who knew Zoro never followed through on his threats unless it was to the cook. “Want me to tell him to go again so you can watch?” He said the last word with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Unless you’re worried about another nosebleed.”
Zoro shoved to his feet. His knees held, which was good. His dignity was dead, which was less good. “I said I will punch you.”
“Uh-huh.” Usopp just continued to grin.
Zoro pressed the bandana under his nose and glared. His attraction to Sanji wasn’t new. Sanji was his type – a mouthy bastard who could shove him around. Zoro hadn’t been pining or anything pathetic like that. It gave him some good wank material and that was about it. Simple. Manageable. Mostly none of anyone’s business.
The nosebleed was new, but whatever. Seeing Sanji ride that bull had apparently tripped something in his brain. Or broken something. Maybe both. It would certainly fuel his imagination for a long time, which was fine, because imagination stayed private when long-nosed idiots kept their mouths shut.
“I’m going to find the restroom,” Zoro told Usopp.
Usopp nodded sagely, even as his grin stayed bright with glee. “Probably a good idea.”
“Say anything, and I will make your nose bleed when I cut it off.”
“My lips are sealed.” Usopp pretended to zip them. “Captain Usopp’s promise.”
Zoro shot him one last threatening glare and turned to go.
Then Sanji swaggered through the crowd around the fence. He came out with dust on his shoes, his sleeves still rolled up, his tie loose, half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips.
Zoro’s brain, traitorous piece of garbage that it was, immediately supplied the image of Sanji riding him like that bull. The same loose hips. The same hard thighs. The same mouth around a cigarette, as his body rocked on him.
Pressure hit the back of Zoro’s nose again. Harder this time.
“Zoro?” Usopp said, voice suddenly wary.
Warmth burst from both nostrils. Zoro looked down, saw blood hit the dirt between his boots, and had just enough time to think, Damn cook.
Usopp’s hand caught his shoulder too late. The world spun sideways, Usopp yelped, and everything went dark.
He blinked open his eye this time and found himself staring at the ceiling of the infirmary on the ship. He recognized the pattern in the whorls of the adam’s wood. One of them looked like a sea cow.
He touched his hand to his face, but it came back clean this time. Someone had fixed him up – stopped the bleeding, wiped the mess. His bandana sat folded on the edge of Chopper's desk, rinsed and left to dry. Usopp was the obvious answer, except Usopp wasn't here. Neither was Chopper, or Franky, or anyone else. The ship was quiet in the way it only got when everyone was off it.
His head felt thick. His nose ached. His throat still had a faint metallic taste clinging to the back of it, which was annoying. Passing out once was bad enough. Passing out twice because of the cook was something he planned on denying until death.
A sound from the doorway drew his attention. Zoro lifted his head and found Sanji leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, smirk on his face. “Welcome back, marimo.”
Zoro silently groaned. It had to be him. At least his nose didn’t start up again. Small mercy. Possibly the only one he was getting. “Shut up,” he said, swinging his legs over the edge of the infirmary bed. Embarrassment warred with belligerence, and belligerence usually won, but embarrassment had a lot of blood to work with today.
“Hn, don’t think I will,” Sanji said, far too pleased with himself. “Someone got a little ol’ nosebleed, and this time it wasn’t me.”
Zoro glared at him.
Sanji’s mouth curved wider. “What? Don’t get shy now. You already bled all over yourself in public.”
The infirmary held a bed, Chopper’s desk and swivel chair, medical cabinets, and equipment to keep their battleworn bodies alive. Zoro spotted his katanas sitting in their usual corner. Drawing them on Sanji seemed like a good idea. Committing seppuku was also on the table. “Fuck off.”
“Sure that’s the kind of fuck you want?”
Zoro’s head whipped toward Sanji. He couldn’t have heard that right. “What did you just say?”
Sanji’s shoulder lifted in a casual shrug, but his eyes stayed fixed on Zoro’s face. Sharp and focused. Like he was watching for the exact second Zoro understood. “Seems a waste to pretend that nosebleed wasn’t for me. Especially seeing as a long-nosed bird ratted you out.”
That should’ve sounded like Sanji making fun of him. It mostly did. The rest of it sounded like Sanji had been handed confirmation that something he’d wanted wasn’t one-sided.
Thinking that made Zoro’s head go briefly blank. His brain had clearly gone out with the blood. “You like women.”
“I do. Very much so.” Sanji reached back and pulled the infirmary door shut. The latch clicked. Then he turned the lock. He slipped his hands into his pockets again and leaned back against the locked door for half a second. Like he was making a point of staying there. Like he was giving Zoro room to tell him to unlock it.
Zoro didn’t.
Something warm and dangerous shifted in Sanji’s eyes. “I also happen to like men on occasion.”
Zoro swallowed. His throat still tasted faintly like blood. “Since when?”
“Long enough, idiot,” Sanji said. “Women aren’t the only people I’ve wanted. I’m just careful about who gets to know that.”
He sauntered over to Zoro, all loose-limbed confidence and irritating grace, but there was something under it Zoro almost missed. His fingers flexed once at his side before they went still. His gaze dropped to Zoro’s mouth, then lifted again. Quick. Controlled. Like Sanji had been doing it for a while and had gotten good at hiding it.
Zoro’s stomach tightened.
Sanji stepped between his knees. Close enough that Zoro could smell smoke, soap, leather, and the faint dust from the arena still clinging to him. Close enough that Zoro had to tilt his head back to look at him. Sanji looked down, hair falling across one eye, expression cocky enough to be punched and hungry enough to make Zoro’s hands curl against the edge of the bed.
“Does it really matter?” Sanji asked, brow lifting. “If you don’t want me to ride you like that bull–”
“I do!” Zoro blurted.
The words echoed in the room with embarrassing loudness.
Sanji’s smile turned slow and satisfied. “That’s what I thought.”
There was a strong possibility Zoro was dreaming this, that he was still unconscious. Or he’d bled out, died, and gone to a horny heaven. Or it was a joke at his expense. His eye narrowed. “Is this a joke?”
Sanji’s fingers slid into Zoro’s hair as he bent down, blue eyes dark beneath the fall of his fringe. “Maybe. Or could be that I’ve wanted to get in your trousers for a while and thanks to your nosebleed, now I know you want it, too.”
Zoro stared up at him, searching for the part where Sanji’s mouth twisted or his eyes gave away the punchline. It didn’t come. Sanji looked amused, sure, because he was a bastard, but his fingers were warm in Zoro’s hair and his gaze had dropped to Zoro’s mouth again. Waiting. Giving Zoro room to shove him off, call him an asshole, do anything except sit there like his blood had all gone in the wrong direction. “You’re serious.”
“No, I locked the door for medical privacy,” Sanji said, but his thumb moved once against Zoro’s scalp, softer than the sarcasm deserved. “Yes, I’m serious.”
Zoro’s grip tightened on the edge of the bed. Sanji was still close, still watching him, still giving him enough room to back out if he wanted. Zoro didn’t want room. He grabbed the front of Sanji’s vest and yanked him down.
Sanji came with him like he'd been waiting for it. Their mouths crashed together, too hard to be graceful and too hungry for either of them to care. Sanji made a rough sound against him, one hand tightening in Zoro's hair, the other catching the edge of the bed to keep from knocking them both sideways. Zoro kissed him harder for it. His mouth was demanding and tasted like smoke and something underneath it that Zoro was going to be thinking about for a long time.
Zoro got one hand under his vest, found a shirt, too many layers, and growled into his mouth. Sanji laughed against him, breathless and low. His hands found the sash first, fingers working the knot loose with more patience than either of them had for anything else right now. It came free and went over the side of the bed. Then the coat – Sanji shoved it off Zoro's shoulders, and Zoro pulled his arms clear, and that was gone, too. Sanji's palm hit bare skin, slid over his chest, and Zoro's back went tight.
He got his hands on Sanji’s tie and pulled. Sanji made a low, impatient sound against his jaw, then straightened just enough to tear the knot loose himself. The tie went first, flung aside. The vest followed while his fingers worked fast down the buttons of his shirt. Zoro watched from underneath him, mouth dry, hands already reaching again. The whole thing went onto the floor.
Then Sanji was over him again, bare skin under Zoro’s palms, mouth on his before Zoro could decide where to touch first. Zoro got both hands on Sanji's sides, thumbs pressing into the lines of his ribs, pulling him down. Sanji pushed Zoro back onto the bed with one hand against his chest, and Zoro went because Sanji came with him, knees bracketing his hips, body fitting over him like he'd already thought about it too many times. The idea of that hit Zoro hard. Sanji thinking about this. Sanji wanting this. Sanji riding that bull with his thighs locked tight and his mouth around a cigarette, then coming here to lock the door and look at Zoro like he knew exactly what he was doing to Zoro.
Zoro's nose gave a dangerous throb. Sanji's grin flashed, sharp and knowing, and Zoro tried to kiss it off his face.
It got messy after that. Hands dragging at waistbands. Sanji's knee pressing into the mattress. Zoro kicked one boot against the bed frame hard enough to make the whole thing knock against the wall. Sanji pulled back long enough to yank Zoro’s haramaki off and drop it to the floor. He looked down at Zoro, face flushed, gaze molten through the fall of his fringe. It made Zoro's breath catch. Zoro grabbed him by the nape of the neck and dragged him back down.
Sanji went, because for all his mouth, he wanted it just as badly. That was the part making Zoro stupid. The way Sanji’s control kept slipping. The way his hands weren’t quite as steady as his smirk. The way he kept kissing Zoro like he couldn’t believe this was real, either.
There was a moment where Sanji had to cross to the medical cabinet, and Zoro propped himself on one elbow and watched him go, cataloguing things he hadn't let himself look at before. The line of his back. The way he moved. He came back with a small labeled bottle from Chopper’s cabinet and a look on his face that made Zoro’s chest do something complicated. Then he was climbing back onto the infirmary bed and there wasn't room to think anymore.
The mattress was narrow and the porthole above them threw a bar of white afternoon light across them both. There were muttered curses, slick fingers, Sanji’s mouth against his throat, and Zoro’s hands gripping hard wherever he could reach. Sanji’s breathing changed first. That pleased Zoro more than it should have. The sharp inhale. The way his fingers dug into Zoro’s shoulder. The way he pressed his forehead briefly to Zoro’s and swore like he hated how much he wanted this.
Zoro’s own control wasn’t doing much better. Then, Sanji shifted over him, and Zoro stopped breathing again. Sanji looked down at him, voice gone from teasing into something lower and more careful, and Zoro understood the question without needing the words. Even now. Especially now.
Zoro’s answer was in his hands, in the way he pulled Sanji closer, in the way he looked at him and held on. Sanji’s smile came back, but it shook at the edges.
When Sanji finally sank down onto him, Zoro’s jaw went hard and his hands found Sanji’s hips on instinct, fingers pressing in. Sanji’s head tipped back. The afternoon light cut across his throat, his collarbones, the muscle working in his thighs as he braced and breathed and settled. Zoro had noticed those thighs for years and kept the information somewhere sensible and private. Now he had both hands on them, and Sanji’s expression was doing something Zoro had never seen before.
Then Sanji started to move. The same hips. The same rolling, controlled motion Zoro had watched over the arena rail, except now there was no arena, no crowd, no rail to grip, just the single narrow bed and Sanji above him in the white afternoon light. Zoro's hands tightened on his hips. His knuckles went pale.
Sanji's shadow fell over Zoro's chest. The sounds from the fairgrounds were faint through the hull, too far away to matter, the whole ship theirs and quiet except for what they were making it. Sanji took his time in a way that made the urgency worse, not better. His mouth stayed open around broken breaths and half-swallowed curses, and Zoro couldn’t stop looking at him.
Sanji was right there, hot and flushed and filthy with wanting him, and Zoro had seen him on the bull. Had seen that same easy balance, that same strength, that same maddening control. Except this time Sanji wasn’t doing it for prize money or Nami or the crowd. This was for Zoro.
The pressure hit the back of his nose again. A warm trickle slipped down over his upper lip. He felt it, and Sanji saw it, because he looked down, and his rhythm stuttered, and then his expression broke open into something bright and terrible and fond. He didn't stop. He laughed, breathless, then bent and kissed Zoro anyway. It was dirty and rough and tasted faintly metallic, and Zoro’s hands clenched hard at Sanji’s hips. Sanji’s thumb smeared under his nose, making the mess worse instead of better.
Zoro’s brain cut out for a second. Then, Sanji moved again, and Zoro’s whole body followed. The bed creaked under them. One of Chopper’s jars rattled on a nearby shelf. Sanji made a sound that Zoro felt more than heard, and that was it.
He grabbed Sanji tighter, pulling him down until they were chest to chest, breath tangled, Sanji’s hair brushing his cheek. Sanji swore into his mouth, and Zoro swallowed the sound, holding on as Sanji moved over him, around him, through every thought he had left.
For a few hard seconds, there was only Sanji’s hand in his hair, Sanji’s breath breaking against his mouth, Sanji losing that maddening control at last. His rhythm started to come apart, rougher and less even, and when his hand slid between them to grasp himself, whatever control Zoro had left went with it.
Zoro’s head tipped back, grip tightening on Sanji’s hips. Sanji’s breath hitched. His fingers dug into Zoro’s chest, his mouth falling open around sounds he couldn’t quite hold back. Zoro pulled him down harder, buried a sound against his mouth, and broke apart. Sanji followed a breath later, shuddering against him, and for a few seconds there was nothing but heat, weight, and the two of them clinging to each other like neither knew how to let go.
Then Sanji went loose against him, heavy and warm, his face tucked against Zoro’s neck. Zoro stared at the ceiling of the infirmary again, chest heaving, one hand still locked around Sanji’s waist and the other trapped in the mess of Sanji’s hair. The sea cow in the wood stared back. Zoro blinked dumbly at it.
For a while, neither of them moved. The bed gave a small creak beneath them. Beyond the locked door, the ship shifted with the harbor water, and distant voices carried through the porthole, muffled enough that Zoro didn’t bother identifying them. Sanji stayed pressed over him, solid and breathing and still touching him, which meant Zoro probably wasn’t dead or dreaming. He’d have been pissed if his brain had made this up.
Sanji shifted slightly, and Zoro’s hand tightened in his hair before he could stop it. Sanji huffed against his neck, not quite a laugh. The sound went through Zoro’s chest. He had no idea what to do with it, except hold on tighter.
Sanji lifted his head enough to look at him, flushed, rumpled, and too pleased. Then his gaze dropped to Zoro’s mouth, and his own curved again. Zoro looked back at him and felt, with sudden and useless clarity, that they could've been doing this for years.
Sanji's mouth curved wider. He dropped his head and pressed his lips to Zoro's throat, slow and deliberate, like he had nowhere he’d rather be.
Zoro felt his nose throb, followed by a warm trickle.
Sanji lifted his head. His hand shot out and clamped over it. Zoro breathed against his palm. Sanji stared down at him. Then, very quietly, he started laughing. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even mean. It shook through Sanji’s shoulders first, then caught in his breath, warm and helpless against Zoro’s cheek.
“Shut up,” Zoro mumbled against his hand.
“Never,” Sanji said, gaze dancing with delight. “You give me shit for my nosebleeds. I’m entitled to the same.”
Zoro glared harder. The effect was probably ruined by the fact that Sanji’s palm was still mashed over half his face. He really didn’t have an argument against it, either, which was irritating. He’d spent years giving Sanji hell for doing this over women, and now here he was, bleeding because of Sanji.
Zoro grumbled something pithy and dumb into Sanji’s palm. Sanji’s smile widened like he understood none of it and enjoyed all of it. That was enough of that. Zoro got one arm properly around Sanji’s waist, planted a foot, and flipped them on the bed as a distraction.
The mattress creaked under the shift. Sanji made a startled sound, his hand slipping from Zoro’s nose to catch at his shoulder as he landed on his back. His hair fanned out on the pillow, gold against white, face still flushed from laughing and everything before it.
“My turn,” Zoro said.
Sanji’s brow rose. For once, surprise got there before his mouth could turn clever. He looked wrecked. He looked like Zoro had done that to him. “Your turn for what?”
Zoro settled over him, one hand braced beside Sanji’s head, the other still at his waist. The nosebleed had slowed, or really Zoro had simply stopped caring. Sanji looked up at him, breath catching enough for Zoro to notice, and that made something satisfied curl low in his gut.
“To prove I’m a better rider than you.”
End