Three, Soulmark, Forever

During the summer when he was thirteen, Sanji’s arm suddenly started burning out of nowhere.

“Fuck!” He dropped the knife mid-chop, clutching his right forearm just below the elbow. The blade clattered against the cutting board, half-diced carrots scattering. He hadn’t touched anything hot. But it felt exactly like pressing his skin against a searing skillet.

“Cut yourself, shitty eggplant?” Zeff called across the kitchen, and a few of the other chefs snorted into their sleeves.

“What? No. Fuck off.” Sanji shot a glare toward the line, already yanking his sleeve up. He shoved his arm under the cold tap, jaw clenched against the sting. “My arm got burned.”

Zeff’s brows rose as he strode over. “You’re not even near the stove.”

“No shit.” The water cooled it fast, the pain ebbing to a dull memory. Sanji narrowed his eyes, staring at the inside of his forearm. “What the hell is this?”

Three inky black lines marred his skin, clean and precise. Not blistered, and not red like an actual burn. The bottom line was the longest; the top one a little longer than the middle. Each ended in a tiny beaded curve, like the mark of a pen held just a little too long on the page. They sat in parallel close to his elbow, the longest line at the bottom. 

Zeff squinted at it. “Let me see that.”

Reluctantly, Sanji extended his arm.

Zeff grunted. “Well, shit. That’s a soulmark. Guess you’re finally a man.”

“A what? And I’ve been a man for years, old geezer.” Sanji tugged his arm back, heart hammering. Something about that word – soulmark – sent a flutter down his spine.

Zeff gave him that look, the one he wore when Sanji didn’t know something he should have learned already. “A soulmark. Means you’ve got a soulmate out there. Everyone gets one during puberty.” He eyed Sanji’s expression. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of it.”

Sanji scowled, folding his arms. “Of course I have. I just… forgot the details.” He could already tell that it wouldn't fly.

Zeff stared at him for a long moment, then snorted. “Tch. You won’t die. Get back to work.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sanji returned to his station and picked up the knife, but his focus was shot. The stupid mark burned under his sleeve, and every time he moved his arm, it itched like it knew he was trying to ignore it.

He tried not to let it bother him.

It really bothered him.

Later that night, Zeff cornered him at the kitchen’s back table, dropping down with a heavy sigh. “Alright. Refresher course. Since you already know this.”

Sanji nodded like he totally did.

“Think of yourself as a steak,” Zeff began.

Sanji blinked. “What?”

“A steak. You’re plenty edible on your own,” Zeff said. “But a soulmate’s the seasoning – gives you flavor, balance. Makes the dish complete.”

Sanji leaned forward, more interested than he wanted to look. “Right. That’s what I remember,” he lied, again.

“That mark on your arm,” Zeff said, gesturing, “it’s tied to your soulmate. No two marks are ever the same.”

Sanji stared down at it. It didn’t look like anything. It didn’t spell a name. It wasn’t a picture. Just… lines. 

“Do you have one?”  he asked Zeff.

“‘Course I do.” The old man rolled up his sleeve. There, inked into his skin, was a cluster of herbs twisting around each other.

Sanji stared, fascinated. “Do you know who your soulmate is?”

“Sure do. We sailed together for a long time, back before I met your sorry ass.” Zeff shoved at Sanji’s head affectionately. “We’re great friends.”

“So… soulmates are friends?”

“Eh. Can be,” Zeff said, leaning back on his chair. “Can be enemies. Can be lovers. It’s just someone out there who adds that spice to your life, makes you better than you already are.”

Sanji wrinkled his nose. “That’s it? Sounds boring.”

Zeff laughed, deep and gravelly. “Most things are. I’ll get you a book. Let you read up on it some more. Since it’s been a long time, and all.”

Four nights later, a book showed up on Sanji’s bed. Soulmates: a Guide to Soulmarks, Soulmates, and Bonded Pairs. Stupid old man must’ve ordered it with the morning delivery.

Sanji washed up, lit the bedside lamp, and climbed into bed with the book propped in his lap.  He had to admit, he was curious. He’d never heard anyone talk about soulmarks. Not at the Baratie. Not in the books he read. Definitely not Vinsmoke Judge. And apparently this was supposed to be common knowledge?

Sanji started reading, and before long, he was completely enthralled. He flipped page after page under the soft glow of his bedside lamp, eyes wide, heart thumping. Most people, the book explained, had soulmates – friends, mentors, rivals – people who shaped them into better versions of themselves. But then there were Bonded Pairs. Romantic soulmates. People who found true love in each other and became something more. Bonded Pairs could talk to each other across oceans, feel each other's joy, pain, sometimes even dream together. It was magical.

A pressure coiled in his chest in a way he didn’t have a name for yet. He loved romance. Flowers and candlelight and soft glances from across the room. He devoured every love story he could sneak from Patty’s bookshelf, novels where lovely maidens and rugged strangers fell into each other’s arms, swore eternal devotion, and built lives full of passion and tenderness. Love that wasn’t weak. Love that made you stronger. That mattered.

And now, he realized, love like that wasn’t just make-believe. It was real. Out there, somewhere, was a person with a soul that matched his. Someone who might love his food best of all. Someone who would never look at him like he was a burden or a failure.

He flushed, thinking about the kinds of dreams he’d started having lately. His fantasy romances were different now, full of heat and mouths and hands and a bone-deep hunger. An aching pull that left him breathless even after waking.

His fingers brushed over the mark on his arm. The three black lines looked plain. Ordinary. But they meant everything. The book said bonds could be tested, even frayed by time or distance or harm. It also hinted that sometimes a bond could be renewed, rekindled, when love was strong enough to survive the breaking.

It felt just like one of his stories – hopelessly romantic and full of heart. Sanji smiled faintly, half-dismissing it as fluff even as his chest tightened at the thought. If love like that was out there, he couldn’t imagine walking past it. The thought of someone choosing him – really choosing him, forever – made his heart sing. It was the kind of thing heroes always found, and though he half-told himself it was silly, another part of him longed for it so badly it felt almost like wishing on a star.

He didn’t care how long it took. One day, he’d find them. And they’d be special. The real thing. A Bonded Pair.

His soulmate.

The word slipped out of him in a whisper, then again, louder this time, bubbling with sudden laughter. Soulmate. He liked the way it sounded, dripping with promise and happy endings. His cheeks burned just saying it, but he couldn’t stop grinning. He hugged the book to his chest, heels kicking against the mattress like he could barely contain the fizz of joy in his veins. Somewhere out there was a person who would hold his hand, look at him with adoration, and kiss him soft and slow under the moonlight. Someone who would choose him – just him – over and over, and say, I love you, soulmate.

And it would be the most romantic thing in the world.

Zoro stared at the thing on his arm, lip curled. “What the fuck is this?”

It had started burning out of nowhere, right in the middle of his post-training shower. One second he was scrubbing shampoo out of his hair, the next, his left forearm felt like someone had pressed a branding iron to it. The sudden pain had made him hiss out loud, a sound ripped from him without warning. He hated being caught off guard like that. His skin still buzzed, heat and sting lingering like even the water had turned against him. When the pain faded, a weird-ass tattoo was just there.

Water. Heat. Sting. He named them before he could breathe again.

The tattoo sprawled across almost his entire forearm, thin black ink that looped in strange, fluid shapes. An upside-down curl melted into a heart, then twisted into another curl before trailing off in a curving, zigzag line.

Zoro couldn’t stop staring. The curls made him itchy, his eyes tracing them again and again. He tapped the tile three times, the beats pulling the world back into line.

He’d seen people with tattoos on their forearms before, but he’d never paid attention to the actual markings. He didn’t really pay attention to people unless they were fighting. And even then, only if they were good enough to be worth watching.

Zoro shut off the water, ran a quick towel over himself, and reached for his haramaki, the tight band a constant, familiar pressure against his belly. The fabric was coarse from long use, edges frayed in places, but the weave was solid, dependable. Sliding it into place now, with the mark still burning and itching, was like pulling himself back together. The warmth of the cloth, the tug of it cinched firm, quieted the restless buzz under his skin until his body finally felt like it belonged to him again. Almost without thinking, he tugged at the edge twice, then once more, making sure it sat just right.

He threw on the rest of his clothes and strapped his katanas to his waist. Then he paced quickly down the hall, agitation tight in his movements as he went to find the group home caretaker.

“The fuck is this?” he demanded the moment he found the old man in the office.

The caretaker squinted through thick glasses, leaned in for a look, and grunted. “Soulmark.”

Zoro blinked. “What the fuck is that?”

“Means you got a soulmate.” The guy shrugged like he’d just told Zoro the weather report. “Everyone’s got one. No big deal. There’s a book in the living room if you want to know more.”

Zoro frowned. Soulmate? That sounded like some sappy, fairy tale nonsense. He was fourteen, too old to believe in that stuff. He turned and stalked off.

It took him too long to find the living room again. Hallways blurred, doors never where he expected. Stupid hallways. Stupid brain.

He finally found the bookshelf and scanned the titles, running one fingertip lightly over the spines like he always did, three at a time. It helped him focus. He spotted one that caught his eye: Soulmarks and You. He sighed, grabbed it, and flopped down on the cool hardwood floor to skim through it. Three breaths in, three breaths out.

It was exactly what he expected. Some mystical bond. People who were supposed to help you “grow” or “improve” or whatever. Some destined connection that made you more than you already were.

He snapped the book shut, the sound louder than he wanted, and cringed slightly before relaxing his hand. A quick three-pattern against the cover, then he tossed the book halfway across the room. He didn’t need anyone else to make him stronger. He had plans to become the world’s greatest swordsman, no soulmate or fanciful nonsense required.

Zoro pushed himself up and rubbed the bandana around his bicep between two fingers to steady himself. Three strokes. The soft weave against his skin gave him something to focus on besides the crawling loops etched into his arm. He was hungry now and had better things to do. Empty belly. Dry throat. Feet dragging heavy. Enough to remind him it was time to eat.

Sanji was obsessed with soulmarks.

Anytime someone came through the Baratie with their forearms exposed, he found a reason to stop by their table. A refill, a recommendation, a compliment on their jacket. Just long enough to get a look at their mark. They fascinated him.

He hadn’t seen one yet that looked like it might be his, but he still looked. Always. He liked to imagine the stories behind each one: who they belonged to, what kind of soulmate they had, what kind of love or rivalry or friendship had etched itself into their skin.

As the years passed, Sanji built up an entire story in his head about his soulmate. When he found her, he’d sweep her off her feet. It would be love at first sight. It had to be.

She’d be beautiful, of course. Busty, kind-eyed, with a smile just for him. She’d spot him across a crowded room and know – just know – that he was hers. That he’d been waiting.

And he’d take care of her the way a real gentleman should, spoiling her with every ounce of love he’d stored up for years. She’d never want for anything. He’d cook her meals that made her cry from happiness. He’d call her darling, angel, ma chérie, every sweet name he’d never heard for himself. She’d never want for anything, not as long as he was breathing. 

And maybe, if the stories were true… she’d love him just as fiercely in return.

He started wearing suits every day, polished his shoes, and got meticulous about his hair. He wanted to look good when they met, but it also helped him feel more confident. Zeff had trained him well, taught him how to walk tall and talk shit, but deep down, Sanji still felt like a failure in disguise. Like one wrong move would shatter the illusion, and someone might see the real him underneath.

The grooming had other perks. He got hit on a lot, mostly by men, which he secretly didn’t mind. He’d smuggle them back to his room under the guise of a break, have a little fun, and be back on the floor before anyone noticed. He was a teenager, and breathing made him horny. There was nothing wrong with taking the opportunity. With guys, it felt safe, casual. He wouldn’t do it with a woman. That, he was saving for his soulmate.

Then the new chore boy arrived. Luffy was all wide grins and boundless energy, and wouldn't take no for an answer. He had a row of sleeping Zs on his forearm, and Sanji’s mind immediately conjured a rival, the antithesis of all that energy. Luffy tried to recruit him on the spot. Said he needed a cook for his pirate crew. 

Sanji laughed him off. He wasn’t going anywhere. He owed Zeff his life, and was the closest thing to a father he’d ever had. Even if the old man liked to insult his food and act like Sanji was a pain in the ass, Sanji knew better. 

He had two great passions in life: cooking and soulmates. And he was a damn good chef. Better than that shitty old geezer would ever admit. One day, he’d take over the Baratie, change the menu, and make it famous across the seas. He’d prove Zeff wrong, and make him proud in the same breath. That was the plan, and nothing was going to convince him otherwise. 

He did get to meet Luffy's crewmates, who’d claimed a table into the Baratie. One of them was a redhead, and Sanji fell in love with her instantly, as expected. She was beautiful and busty – exactly his type – but then he caught a glimpse of her soulmark, something abstract and angular that made no sense to him. Definitely not his. Which was… disappointing. He might have taken her mark as a sign, might’ve actually considered saying yes to Luffy’s invitation to join their crew, especially after the old man threatened to throw him off the Baratie altogether.

Another crewmate, the long-nosed one named Usopp, had a soulmark, too. Sanji caught a glimpse of it during a spat over some mushrooms left on a plate – two hands, open and giving. A good one, honestly. Sanji respected hands. His own were his livelihood. His pride. And giving people food was one of the most important things in the world to him. But he knew the mark wasn’t his. Besides, Usopp was a guy, and Sanji’s soulmate was going to be a woman. He was sure of it.

There was a third guy, too, with green hair, a stern face, and dead-serious eyes, but Sanji hadn’t gotten a good look at his soulmark. Roxanne and her girlfriend had arrived at the same time, and work had pulled him away. The guy barely spoke anyway. Just sat there glowering like someone had personally offended him by existing, shoulders tight, one thumb rubbing at the band across his waist as if checking it was still there.

Then everything changed. Don Krieg swaggered through the doors with the force of a wrecking ball, demanding obedience and food in the same breath. Chaos erupted in his wake. In the middle of it all, the green-haired guy – Roronoa Zoro, Sanji learned – mentioned he’d be heading to the Grand Line. So would Luffy and Usopp. 

Sanji called it foolish, that they’d die.

And Zoro, with that same carved-stone expression, didn’t answer right away. He just sat there, eyes lowered, fingers tapping thrice against the table. The pause stretched, deliberate, like he was filing the words into place before pulling them free. Then he said it: that he was willing to give his life for his dream. As if the words were already stored inside him, neat and waiting, ready to be pulled out when challenged.

Sanji couldn’t understand it, how a dream could ever be worth dying for. He had one, too, after all. Finding the All Blue, the chef’s ocean of legend. But he knew what it was like to live with death breathing down his neck, to not die alone and unwanted in a cell, to starve so long that staying alive became the only dream that mattered. Life was precious. People were precious. And no dream, no matter how grand, should come before that.

Then, Dracule Mihawk showed up and Zoro promptly proved how idiotically serious he was by throwing himself into a duel with the greatest swordsman in the world. And nearly got cleaved in two. Sanji noticed how abrupt the shift was – the tapping, even that haramaki rub – all gone the moment his swords were in hand. Like the whole world had been shoved aside for a single focus: Mihawk’s blade. When he finally collapsed, bloody and barely breathing, his body still carried that same coiled tension, as though shutting down simply wasn’t an option. Then he swore to Luffy that he’d never lose again.

Sanji watched it unfold, his teeth grinding until his temples throbbed. He’d spent his whole life fighting to prove he was worth the space he took up in the world. Every bruise, every insult, every dish served had been a way to earn his place. And here was this kelp-headed lunatic gambling everything on a dream he might never live long enough to reach.

Sanji couldn’t decide if that made Zoro admirable, reckless, or absolutely insufferable. Maybe all three.

It was early evening, the sky washed in deep orange and violet. The village square was alive, noise and motion everywhere, but Zoro kept himself on the edge of it, where the input was easier to sort. Long picnic tables were crammed together in the open square, the wood uneven under mismatched plates and jugs of beer. The air smelled like grilled meat, saltwater, and crushed citrus from the drinks someone had spiked. Laughter carried over the clatter of plates and the offbeat strains of a half-tuned guitar. People passed platters stacked with fruits, chicken legs, slabs of ham, and meat still clinging to the bone.

It was a lot, but his cataloguing held. Smell, sound, distance – each in place like sword katas. The celebration threaded through it all, freedom for Nami’s island. That was the frame he slotted the rest of it into.

Zoro sat on someone’s porch just off the main square, where the noise thinned enough to filter. He had a bottle in one hand, the cook sitting across from him with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a tower of empty plates at his feet.

Zoro’s chest wound itched fiercely, the stitches tugging whenever he took a deep breath. The bandages pressed too tight, the constant squeeze making his skin burn and prickle. His haramaki was caked with dried blood, snagging at the flow he’d built. He tapped three times against his thigh, each beat a check before he glanced up. Three was the number that steadied him. Tap, tap, tap – order from chaos.

The smoke from the cook’s cigarette curled around him, tugging his attention away from the itch and tension. Vanilla-scented. It slotted in alongside salt and steel, distinct and certain. Not invasive, but sharp-edged enough to hold his focus. It didn’t bother him as much as he’d expected. Same with the cook’s company. He didn’t fill the silence for the sake of it. When he did speak, it was about strength, how it could take different forms, and how he wished he was half as strong as Nami.

That made Zoro pause. The cook didn’t mean physical strength. The man could kick through solid rock like it was wet clay, and that… did things to Zoro he shoved into a corner for later. No, he meant emotional strength. The kind you couldn’t measure or improve by repeating until it stuck. Nami had survived hell while protecting others. Zoro had mostly just hunted bounties to buy meals, stabbing anyone who got in the way. Sometimes he defended someone, like that kid and her mom who’d pulled him into Luffy’s orbit, but that was different.

Emotions were harder – tangled things that refused neat lines. It had never occurred to him there might be strength in them. That maybe the mess itself was part of the strength. He’d have to think about that for a while, probably in threes, the way he trained.

The cook unbuttoned his cuffs and pushed his sleeves to his elbows. The fabric rasped faintly as Sanji shoved the sleeves back, the soft brush of cotton over skin standing out to Zoro’s ear. That’s when Zoro noticed it – the mark on his arm. Three clean lines stacked together. The bottom line longer than the top two. Simple. Orderly. The Shimotsuki Village symbol for the number three. The count fractured, then snapped back into place. 

Three.

“Hey, Sanji,” Luffy called as he came up the porch steps. “Was there something on that last melon you ate just now?”

Sanji. It was the first time Zoro had heard the cook’s name.

San-ji.

Three.

A soulmate will be recognized by the symbol they possess…

The pattern snagged, unraveled, then tightened into place with a finality that left him breathless. Certainty hit like a blade, swift and undeniable.

Sanji was Zoro’s soulmate.

Well, fuck.

His body locked hard at first. Then the moment shifted, heartbeat slamming against the haramaki, the fabric the thin barrier between order and collapse.

Zoro’s gaze dropped to his own forearm, to the inverted curl there. It matched the cook’s eyebrow exactly. His throat tightened. He pulled his arm in tight, the squeeze across his middle both calming and protective. He didn’t want Sanji to see. His pulse thudded in his ears, his thoughts scattering too fast to catch. He rubbed the band once, twice, three times, before forcing his hand to still.

He was nineteen. He’d been on his own for two years, eating when he could, sleeping where he could, keeping his swords sharp, keeping himself alive while hunting men for bounty. It had been simple. Predictable. This wasn’t. This was the opposite of simple.

Sanji’s cigarette smoke curled lazily from his lips as he talked with Luffy. Zoro’s gaze tracked the subtle shifts: the way Sanji’s shoulders relaxed when he laughed, the quick tilt of his head when he caught something Luffy said, the tempo of his fingers tapping against his knee in neat, measured beats. The contrast between Sanji’s casual poise and the storm in Zoro’s chest made the order blur again, smudge out of focus.

After Luffy wandered off again, Sanji grinned wide, a flash of teeth and warmth that hit Zoro in the gut. “Time to flirt with the ladies.”

He left in a swirl of cigarette smoke and lazy confidence.

Zoro closed his eyes, leaned back against the porch wall, and forced the pattern to settle again. That was a problem for later. For now, he shut down the noise in his head the only way he knew how: by drumming three beats, smoothing sensation flat, pressing it all down until sleep took him.

Sanji liked the crew.

They’d been at sea for a week now, after leaving Conomi, and Sanji was slowly settling into the rhythm of life aboard the ship. It was different from the Baratie. Smaller, for one, with fewer crew onboard. It wasn’t as loud or foul-mouthed, and there was a lot less fighting. Getting used to sharing a room was hard – Luffy and Zoro snored like buzzsaws, and Usopp whistled – and having a woman onboard was a new experience for him. But Sanji appreciated the ship’s intimacy, the fact that he was fully in charge of the cooking, and that he was getting to know the crew on a more personal level.

Luffy was both dumb and passionate, rarely serious except when it mattered. Nami was as sharp and fierce as she was beautiful. Sanji was already planning how he’d treat her like a goddess. After eight years of suffering, she deserved nothing less. Sanji only remembered about four years of his time in Germa, but, unlike Nami, he’d been a sniveling weakling, a failure.

Usopp was like the brother Sanji had always wanted. Kind, funny, and lively, he pulled Sanji into everything he did, even when Sanji didn’t quite understand it. Usopp had taken the time to show him the ship from top to bottom, including all the tiny, hidden spaces in between. He helped out in the galley and just generally liked to hang around.

Usopp was good company, and, to Sanji’s surprise, he already knew his soulmate.

“Her name’s Kaya,” Usopp said one evening, sitting cross-legged at the table, his long nose twitching with excitement. “We’ve known each other forever.”

They were sitting in the galley. The stone kitchen nestled in the corner, the worn picnic table scarred with scratches and laughter, the well-stocked refrigerator humming quietly beside the wine rack, and the shelves piled with provisions. The whipstaff for steering stood near the door.

“You two Bonded Pairs?” Sanji asked, eyes bright. The magic of that kind of connection fascinated him. “Romantically involved?”

Usopp shook his head, cheeks coloring a soft pink. “No. We promised maybe someday after we reach our goals. But we’re really good friends. She’s going to be a doctor. I’m gonna be a brave warrior of the sea!”

Sanji’s smile faltered, but only slightly. It was still thrilling to hear about someone who’d met their soulmate. “So, you fall into the ‘kick each other’s ass to get stronger’ kind of soulbond.”

“Not really kicking,” Usopp chuckled, hooking his thumbs into his overalls. “She believes in me, so I can’t slack off. Luffy’s the same. He’s bonded with his brother. Well, unofficial brother. They push each other to be the best. There’s a third brother, too, but he’s got a different soulmate, which Luffy complains about if you get him going.”

Sanji ghosted his hand over his soulmark hidden beneath his suit. “What about Nami-san? She know hers?”

Usopp shrugged. “She hasn’t said, but maybe you could ask.” He leaned in like it was a secret. “Sometimes, she scares me.”

Sanji grinned. “Damn right she does. All the good ones do.” He brought over the drinks he’d been preparing as they talked. “What about the resident sentient plant-life?”

“Zoro? He doesn’t know who it is, and he’s touchy about the subject,” Usopp said. “His soulmark’s really nice – kinda pretty, which is the opposite of everything Zoro is.”

“What kind of bastard is he, then?” Sanji’s curiosity was piqued.

“Grumpy. Bitchy. Likes naps and lifting stupid amounts of weight.” Usopp smirked. “But he’s protective, and he never gives up.”

Sanji had seen that side of Zoro at Conomi. “You actually like him?”

Usopp glanced toward the galley door, lowering his voice. “He’s awesome, but terrifying. I wanna be like him, only nicer.”

Sanji grinned, giving Usopp the truth. “From what I’ve seen, that crazy swordsman’s not half bad as a role model.”

Sanji liked Zoro. He had from the moment they’d started arguing on Conomi, and that feeling only grew as he saw how stubbornly Zoro fought. Sanji’s first impression – that Zoro was just a fool – had faded. Now, he counted himself one of those fools, too. While Sanji still believed lives mattered more than dreams, he understood Zoro’s fierce dedication to giving everything in a fight.

Zoro reminded him of the cooks at the Baratie – blunt, unafraid to talk back, ready to throw down as easily as breathing. Zoro felt like home. Sanji admired how hard he pushed himself, and how naturally they worked together. Plus, that rugged brute kind of handsomeness didn’t hurt.

He hadn’t spent much time with Zoro on the ship, though. Zoro kept mostly to himself, working out or catching naps in corners of the deck. Sometimes he’d get oddly lost – showing up in the galley when he was looking for the head, or standing on deck with a faintly puzzled look when he meant to find the men’s quarters. It wasn’t incompetence. Zoro just seemed to move through the world on his own terms, paths that didn’t always match everyone else’s. Strange, but not unappealing. He was punctual at meals, methodical with his food, and Sanji sometimes caught him tapping three times before picking up his chopsticks – a little ritual, odd but almost endearing.

Sanji hadn’t seen Zoro’s soulmark yet. A bandage wrapped around his forearm, likely from Conomi, covered it. He’d been banged up pretty badly during that fight, on top of the wounds from the duel with Mihawk. Eventually, the wounds would heal, and Sanji would get the chance to see.

Usopp had called it pretty, which made Sanji imagine a delicate woman as his soulmate, the kind who would bring softness where Zoro was hard, balancing his rough edges. Though Sanji hoped not too much. He liked that roughness.

Sanji pushed the thought aside with a small smile. Whatever the mark looked like, whoever it belonged to, he was ready to see it when the time came. For now, he had dinner to start, and Sanji knew there was a lot more to uncover about his new crew.

Kuina was on Loguetown. 

But Kuina was dead.

But she was on Loguetown.

Zoro stared at the ghost on the ground, the words running over and over in his mind like a stuck gear. Kuina was on Loguetown. But Kuina was dead. But she was on Loguetown. He focused on the certainty of those facts, trying to pin the impossible to something concrete. The rest – the grief twisting inside him – he shoved aside.

Kuina had been his best friend – his only friend – back in Shimotsuki Village. She was the only swordsman he’d never beaten. Every day was a fight to get better, stronger, and she always won. They’d made a promise: whatever made them different wouldn’t hold them back from becoming the world’s greatest.

But then she’d died. Fell down the stairs. Broke her neck. She was twelve. Zoro was ten. He carried her sword now so they could both still reach their dream.

So why was she standing in front of him?

This Kuina took the glasses he held out, slipped them on, and wasn’t Kuina anymore. Her face was the same – too much the same – but her eyes held different fire. She wasn’t Kuina.

Zoro’s chest cinched tight. He had to go. Now.

He didn’t remember the words he said as he stood, but he kept his pace deliberate, refusing to let panic take hold. He tapped three times on Wado’s hilt, steadying himself. He was fine. It wasn’t Kuina. Kuina was dead. Just some sword-wielding woman he’d never have to see again.

And then he saw her again, the woman with Kuina’s face, right there at the swordsmith’s, where he needed to buy two new swords to replace the ones Mihawk had broken. She was loud, bright, and strangely excited about swords, and Zoro had to keep telling himself she wasn’t Kuina. Her name was Tashigi.

He found a sword that caught his eye – Sandai Kitetsu. It was cursed, but that didn’t bother him. He believed the sword would judge him clearly: either he was worthy of wielding it, or he was nothing. He threw the blade into the air, eyes locked on its spin as it fell toward his bare arm. The cold bite of steel, the dusty smell of the wooden floor, the low murmur of the shopkeeper’s breathless worry – three things fixed in his mind as the blade curved precisely around his skin, landing with a heavy thunk on the boards. That was proof. He was worthy. And he was going to become something.

The swordsmith also gifted him Yubashiri, another named sword. Once he had all three swords strapped to his waist, Zoro felt whole again. Three was everything. Without it, he wasn’t complete.

He thought he’d escaped the woman with Kuina’s face, but then she showed up again, trying to take his swords. He lost control. He didn’t strike her down – she was still weak – but when she blamed her gender, just like Kuina once did, Zoro’s patience snapped clean apart. He couldn’t handle the same excuse repeating itself.

“It’s not your gender, it’s you!” Zoro shouted. “You’ve got her face. Her words. And she’s dead. So stop acting like her, you knockoff!”

Tashigi yelled a lot of words back, voice high and defensive, ending with, “How do you know she wasn’t copying me?!”

“Fuck you!” Zoro roared, breath ragged. “She was the best. You’re weak! Don’t wear her face if you can’t fight like her. Get stronger, damn it!”

And then he shoved her into the dirt before running off. A storm opened in his head, heavy and chaotic, and outside the sky broke open with a sudden, fierce downpour. Rain hammered the streets, blurring the world, turning the ground slick.

He pushed forward, relying on memory of where Luffy and Sanji had gone. He forced himself into pattern – tap, tap, tap at his hip, hand on the soaked haramaki. Wet stone, puddles, rooftops spilling water; details to cling to until the chaos passed.

He lucked out, crashing into the other two just as the storm roared around them. They made it back to the ship without further trouble. They jumped aboard the Merry and set sail immediately, even with the storm still raging.

Zoro made a beeline for the galley, out of the rain, his steps quick but uneven. Frazzled and upset, he folded his arms tightly across his haramaki, wrapping himself in the familiar pressure. His fingers once again tapped three firm times against the worn fabric, a small ritual amid the disarray inside. But the taps didn’t steady him this time. His ribs still felt too tight, the count slipping out of sync with the storm hammering outside. 

The door creaked open again. “Fuck, wish I was a duck right now,” Sanji muttered, shaking out his hands and wringing water from his tie. His eyes flicked to Zoro, who stood stiff and tense by the doorway, body rigid, jaw clenched tight enough to feel every tooth grinding. A faint trace of vanilla smoke clung to Sanji’s soaked coat, carried in with the damp air. “You okay, mosshead? You look like shit.”

No, he wanted to say. Yes, he wanted to lie. Instead, he stayed frozen, silent, the tightness in his chest making it hard to breathe.

Sanji hesitated, then nodded to himself. “Hot drinks. Towels. You like tea, not cocoa, yeah?” He peeled off his wet suit coat and draped it carefully over the bench. Zoro’s gaze flicked briefly to the coat, then away, overwhelmed by the sudden shift in texture and sound.

Sanji put the kettle on, fetched clean towels, and returned. “Here.”

Zoro wanted to take it, but he couldn’t. He tapped his haramaki, each beat a push against her face lodged in his head.

“Hell if I know what’s going on, but something’s definitely off,” Sanji murmured more to himself than to Zoro. He lifted one of the rough towels with careful intent. “Tell me if this pisses you off.”

He pressed the towel gently to Zoro’s cheeks. Zoro tensed, waiting for it to sting – but the drag steadied instead, turned tolerable, almost grounding. Sanji continued, patting his face dry, then moving slowly down to his neck and ears, mopping up the lingering moisture from his hair.

No one had ever taken care of him like this before. He’d grown up in a group home where the only constants were meals and a bed, not affection. Yet here was Sanji, treating him like he was someone special.

Sanji paused, as if searching for the right words or simply gathering himself, then wiped the towel on himself, scrubbing through his hair before draping it around his neck. He reached out and placed his hand lightly on Zoro’s forehead. “Not runnin’ a fever. Don’t start sneezin’ on me, though – I’m not in the mood for that crap.”

His muscles tightened — first instinct, always — but Sanji’s palm lingered light, not demanding. His body let the contact through. This time, it soothed.

The kettle whistled sharply, cutting through the quiet. Sanji moved quickly back to it, the soft clink of the teapot against the stove filling the space as he began pouring tea. “Storm came outta nowhere. Good thing that lightning fried the executioner’s tower. I tried making it over, but no chance. Losing Luffy that quick would’ve sucked. Idiot actually made me believe I might find the All Blue.”

He carried the tea over to Zoro and held out the cup. “Here. This’ll warm you up.”

Zoro pried one arm free from his haramaki and cupped the tea, heat seeping through his cold skin.

Sanji poured another cup, then asked, “So what happened with that marine woman? If you hurt her, I swear, I’ll kick your ass so hard you’ll taste it.”

The mention of the marine woman struck that tender spot. Zoro’s hand jerked suddenly, spilling hot tea across his skin. He hissed, the sting biting through his nerves with sudden force.

Sanji’s visible eye widened, putting his tea down quickly. “Shit.” He grabbed Zoro’s elbow, took the cup, set it aside, and dragged him to the sink. He ran cold water over the burn, muttering, “Okay, you’re sick. I’m gonna slap some aloe on this and get you dried up and in bed.”

“M’not sick.” Zoro managed to find his words again. The sharp burn and then the sudden cold water jolted him enough to pull him out of the spiral in his head.

“Hm,” Sanji hummed softly, disbelief in his tone. His thumb moved gently over the scorched skin. Zoro braced for it to sting, for his nerves to spark wrong, but it didn’t. Somehow Sanji’s touch kept skimming the line between careful and firm, exactly what his body could accept right now. 

For a moment, Zoro stayed in place, letting the sound of running water wash over him as the chaos inside eased. Fatigue dragged heavy, his body sagging as if stitched back together only to slump again. “M’just tired,” he admitted quietly, finally feeling the truth of it.

“Lucky for you, the treatment for that’s the same.” Sanji offered a crooked grin, and Zoro felt that odd flutter stir deep inside.

Sanji turned off the tap and retrieved the aloe salve, opening it with care. He took Zoro’s hand again. Zoro’s muscles jumped at the contact but didn’t lock. The cool gel eased the burn, and Sanji’s even pressure slid in under his guard. He waited for nerves to spark wrong, but they didn’t. That, more than the salve itself, unsettled him – the cook kept getting it right.

“Why bother helping?” he asked finally, gaze wary but unguarded in the smallest way.

“‘Cause you’re my crewmate,” Sanji said bluntly. “And I wanna be friends, idiot.”

Friends. Sanji wanted to be friends.

Only three people ever told him they wanted that: Kuina, Luffy, and now Sanji. Three on the soulmark, three in his name – his third friend. Three threes. Zoro had been skeptical of the soulmate thing, but now, it felt like Sanji might actually be meant for him.

“…Friends is fine,” Zoro mumbled, as Sanji put the aloe away.

Sanji’s face brightened like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Good. Don’t make me regret it.” He poured a fresh cup of tea, grabbed his wet suit coat, and gently nudged Zoro toward the door. “We’re gonna have to get wet to get dry.”

The storm still raged outside, rain thrashing against the hull like a relentless drum. Sanji led the way to the hatch down to the men’s quarters and gestured for Zoro to go first. The narrow, dimly lit hatch pressed in around Zoro, a sharp contrast to the open deck where the squall held sway. The lights were on below, flickering softly as if resisting the gloom.

Inside, Luffy and Usopp were sprawled across the worn sofa, Usopp animatedly recounting a story. “…and then the waves crashed so hard, I swear, even the Fiercest Storm in History would’ve looked like a summer breeze!” Usopp’s voice was bright, full of excitement, and Luffy laughed.

The men’s quarters were cramped but lived-in: hammocks strung in orderly rows, three battered sofas surrounding a low table cluttered with books and papers, a tall wardrobe chest standing guard against the wall, and a laundry set tucked into the corner. The floor was scattered with flotsam, the scatter of four boys’ belongings in close quarters.

Sanji hung his soaked suit coat on a peg to dry and set the tea aside before peeling off the rest of his wet clothes. Zoro tugged off his heavy boots with care, still unsettled in his chest but steadier than before. He set his katanas on the sofa, methodically wiping the sheaths with a towel before stripping off his soaked shirt and trousers. He wrapped a towel around himself. The haramaki clung damp and heavy at his waist, water dripping steadily to the floorboards.

Sanji had already changed, trousers and a fresh shirt half-buttoned, when Zoro joined him at the wardrobe. His gaze flicked to the wrap. “You’re not going to take that off?”

“No.” Zoro pulled a dry pair of trousers from his shelf, drawing them under his towel.

“It’s soaking. You’ll just make yourself worse if you keep it on.”

“I’m not taking it off.” Zoro didn’t bother with a shirt; the quarters were warm enough, and he was heading straight to sleep. He did grab a fresh bandana, though, replacing the wet one with the soft cotton.

Sanji paused. Zoro braced for the usual judgment, but instead Sanji only said, “Think you could wring it out and put it back on? Or even twist it while you’re wearing it?”

The warmth that rose in Zoro’s chest surprised him. Sanji wasn’t questioning, just adapting. It felt like being understood. “Yeah. I can.”

He stripped the wrap off, pulse spiking at the absence, unsettled in a way that clawed tight with the weight of Kuina and Tashigi’s faces still haunting him. He twisted the cloth hard, water spilling onto the planks in steady rivulets. They could mop later. The instant he pulled it back on, shoulders eased, breath steadied, the familiar pressure returned, comforting, even while damp. Three taps on the band, sealing it in place.

With that anchor restored, he moved slower, towel in hand. Zoro patted carefully over the bandage at his forearm, deliberate and precise. The mark underneath was meant to be seen someday, but not tonight. He set the towel aside, body finally settling.

Sanji reappeared at his side and pressed a steaming cup into his hands with a dry quip: “Careful with this one. This cup’s for your mouth, not your damn hand.”

Zoro sipped slowly, the heat spreading through his chest like a small fire. He settled down beside his katanas and began drying them more thoroughly with deliberate care. The cool slide of steel, the rasp of towel across the blade, and the faint steam curling from his tea – three steady anchors in the quiet. Each careful stroke was methodical, almost meditative, a cadence that soothed his frayed nerves.

Sanji moved about, mopping the small puddle on the floor and hanging their wet clothes and towels to dry. His eyes frequently checked Zoro’s, silently asking if the tea was warm enough, if the taste was okay. If Zoro was okay. It was more than polite, it made Zoro feel seen, special in a way he rarely allowed himself.

When the swords were dry, Zoro climbed into his hammock, tugging the damp haramaki tighter around his middle. His thumb brushed the worn edge, the familiar texture easing the unease still lodged inside him. He tapped three times, then let his hand drift up to the bandana tied at his arm, rubbing the soft cloth between his fingers until the tension eased further. With the warmth of tea still lingering in his throat and the press of fabric steady against his skin, he finally let his eyes fall shut.

Exhaustion pressed down heavy. Sleep tugged at him… until a cool hand brushed his forehead again. Instinct jolted him at the sudden brush, but his body allowed it, like before.

“Still not hot,” Sanji muttered. “Whatever. I’m makin’ chicken noodle soup tonight. Garlic, onions, leeks – burn that crap right outta you. Bone broth’ll kick your system back into gear. Noodles go down easy, even for stubborn bastards.”

Zoro blinked, absorbing the flood of details. “… Okay. Still not sick.”

Sanji quirked a small smile. “Soup’s good for worn-out swordsmen, too. Thick-headed ones especially.”

That smile fluttered through Zoro, unnameable, but settling deep.

Sanji stepped away, calling out to Luffy and Usopp. “Oi, you idiots want hot chocolate?” Their eager voices rang back, bright and loud against the storm’s roar.

Zoro closed his eyes, tapped three times over his bandage, and let the pattern hold him steady. Outside, the gale battered the Merry, but inside, with tea’s warmth still in him and Sanji’s small kindness lingering, the pressure inside let go enough to let sleep in.

Sanji had gone up a mountain and down a mountain. Into a whale and out of a whale. He had no idea what happened at Whisky Peak, other than they picked up a new crewmate, Vivi, a blue-haired beauty he was more than happy to dote on. She wasn’t his soulmate, but he wouldn’t hold that against her.

Then came Little Garden. Zoro trash-talked him into a contest over who could take down the biggest dinosaur. A challenge Sanji loved. And, obviously, he won.

Until he didn’t.

“What the fuck…?” Sanji’s words trailed off as his gaze landed on the dark smear of blood coating Zoro’s bare feet, soaking into the cuffs of his trousers. Zoro was lowering himself stiffly onto one of the men’s quarters couches, his katanas leaned neatly against the wall. His left forearm was wrapped with a faded bandana, the same one Zoro always kept pulled low to hide his soulmark. Sanji clocked it automatically, but the thought barely registered, his focus locked on the blood.

Zoro’s hand skimmed briefly over his haramaki as he sat, fingers brushing the fabric before his hand dropped to his thigh. He tapped in a short rhythm, then stilled.

Sanji closed the distance in four strides, knees bending before his brain could tell him to breathe. “The hell– is that your blood?” The edge of panic cracked his voice.

“Yeah.” Zoro frowned down at his legs, avoiding Sanji’s eyes. His fingers tapped on his thigh again before curling into his palm. Three taps, Sanji realized. Not idle or restless, but measured, sharp, deliberate, like the idiot was counting out something only he could see. “Bad.”

“You think?” Sanji crouched lower, scanning for the wound, his hand hovering close but not quite touching. All he saw was crimson. “Where?”

“Ankles.”

Sanji reached for the hem of Zoro’s trousers, hesitating when his fingertips brushed skin. He felt Zoro tense. “How the hell d’you manage that? Tryin’ to kick like me or someth–” He froze mid-word, breath snagging hard in his throat. “Fuck.”

Zoro’s ankle was sliced nearly clean through, muscle and sinew parting to reveal the white gleam of bone. Blood welled, thick and fast. Zoro’s jaw tightened once, his eyes focused on the wall as his fingers rubbed at his bandana.

“Shit. Don’t you fucking move.” The towel rack was across the room. Sanji bolted for it, snagged the first one he saw, and dropped to his knees again so fast his thigh hit the mounted coffee table. He wound the towel tight around Zoro’s ankle, knuckles brushing the back of Zoro’s hand as he pressed it into place. “Hold this. Hard. I need supplies.”

Zoro’s grip closed obediently, gaze pinned to the wall like it was the only fixed point left, shoulders locked tight. “What about the other one?”

Sanji’s stomach gave a slow, queasy roll when he looked. The other trouser leg was dark with blood. “Right. Leave it. The fabric’s slowing it down.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Sanji was up the ladder in a heartbeat, ignoring the startled glances on deck. In the galley, he grabbed a bucket, scoured it out with soap, and filled it with warm, clean water. Two bottles of sake went under one arm. Back in the men’s quarters, he dumped the bottles on the couch beside Zoro, set the bucket at his feet, and hauled over every clean towel plus the first aid kit.

He shrugged out of his coat, rolled up his sleeves. “Drink. I’ll patch you up.”

Zoro yanked the cork from the sake with his teeth and swallowed deep, the bottle steady even as his foot tapped three times against the couch frame before stilling again.

Sanji’s gaze dropped to the blood-soaked trouser leg. “These need to come off. Keep the other side covered, but I can’t work around this.”

Zoro arched a brow, lips pressing together before he shifted to lift his hips. He grunted as he pushed his trousers down. Sanji caught a flash of bare skin – normally a welcome sight – but right now the only thing pounding through him was we don’t have a damn doctor.

He peeled the fabric off with care, draped the couch blanket over Zoro’s lap, and set to work.

“What the hell happened to you?” The words came out sharper than Sanji intended, his gut twisting at the sight of the gash. He crouched low, damp cloth trembling slightly in his grip as he began wiping away the blood. Zoro flinched with every brush of rag or hand.

Zoro’s gaze skated away, fixed on some invisible point above Sanji’s shoulder. “Tried to cut ’em off,” he mumbled.

Sanji froze. “Someone tried to cut off your ankles?” He knew he’d missed a fight with the others on the island, but no one had told him much beyond that something had happened. Meanwhile, he’d killed a dinosaur, stumbled across a wax house, had a little chat with Mr. Zero of Baroque Works, and kicked the crap out of two small fries who thought they could take him. He’d also secured an eternal log pose to Arabasta. But apparently Zoro had been… busy.

Zoro gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of the head, eyes still locked on the wall. His hand clenched against his haramaki, then dropped into the three-tap rhythm. “Did it to myself.”

Sanji blinked hard. “Yourself?! What the hell were you thinking, idiot?!””

“Needed to escape,” Zoro muttered, flat but precise. He took another slow sip from the sake bottle, thigh tapping again in that same three-beat rhythm – again, contained, controlled, rationed the way he rationed his words.

“And to do that, you needed to cut off your feet?” Sanji’s towel stilled mid-motion.

“Wax. Stuck.” Zoro’s gaze stayed anchored somewhere low. “Only way out. Had to protect the others.”

Sanji’s throat tightened. This idiot – this ridiculous, stubborn idiot – had been ready to maim himself for their sake. “That,” Sanji said, the corner of his mouth quirking despite the knot in his chest, “is the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard. And I approve.”

Zoro’s brows drew together slightly. “Stupid… but you approve?” he asked, tone baffled.

“There’s stupid, and then there’s saving lives stupid,” Sanji said, threading the needle, the faint tremor in his hands hidden by the practiced motion. “Who stopped you before you pulled it off?”

“Luffy. Usopp. Karoo.”

Sanji’s palm rested briefly on Zoro’s calf, the contact reassuring him as much as it was meant for Zoro. Zoro’s muscles tensed but he didn’t jerk away. His hand drifted once more to the haramaki before falling back into the three-tap rhythm. “Sorry I wasn’t there, marimo,” Sanji murmured.

Zoro’s shrug was stiff, his head tilting just enough to show he’d heard. “You didn’t know.”

“Still…” Sanji swallowed down the guilt. Zoro needed him steady. He braced the needle at the wound’s edge. “This is gonna hurt like hell.”

Zoro swigged, nodded once.

Sanji stitched quickly and efficiently, the way he sewed meat or the way he’d stitched his own skin as a kid. Zoro’s jaw worked through it, breath escaping in short bursts as he tried to suppress the yelps, but he stayed still as stone. His fingers dug into the couch cushion, shoulders stiff, gaze locked on the middle distance as if focusing anywhere else would help. The faint brush of Sanji’s sleeve against his bare knee made him blink before his focus steadied again.

When both ankles were wrapped, Sanji smoothed the bandage with his thumb, letting the motion linger just a second longer than necessary. “You’ll live. Don’t go hacking your feet off again for a while, yeah?”

“Hah. Hah.”

Sanji rose, his relief tucked under a lopsided grin. “Dumb marimo, you’ve got good legs. Not like your brain does the work.”

Zoro stayed quiet, though the silence shifted, his gaze a little heavier on Sanji as he gathered the bloody towels.

“…Tch. Thanks,” he muttered at last, clipped, like the word didn’t sit right. His eyes flicked away, then back, as if the compliment had thrown him more than the stitches.

Sanji kept his tone light. “Stick to sitting exercises for a week. You going to sleep?”

“Yeah.” Zoro propped his feet up, blanket neat over his lap, and reached for the second bottle.

Sanji was halfway up the ladder when Zoro called, voice low and awkward, “Oi. Thanks… for patchin’ me up.”

He grinned over his shoulder. “Anytime. But don’t make a habit of it.”

Once they’d reached Drum Island and the crew disembarked to find a doctor for Nami, Zoro was left to guard the Merry. His ankles had finally healed enough for him to train again, though the stitches would have to stay in longer.

He stripped down to his trousers and haramaki, ignoring the horrified squawks from Karoo. “Going swimming.”

Snow drifted across the Merry’s deck, piling against the railings, settling into the seams between planks. The river lapped at her hull, dark and fast, steaming faintly where the current fought the cold. Beyond the shoreline, Drum Island rose in a wall of white and green: mountains buried in snow, slopes thick with pine and birch. At the peak stood a solitary castle, its turrets blurred by storm, looming against a sky the color of slate. The wind carried resin, salt, and smoke, bitter on the tongue, and the world seemed carved from ice and stone.

An icy swim would get his blood pumping, be good training, and also clear his head. The winter wind came at him sideways, needling cold that slid between skin and muscle. Snow hissed against the deck, piling in grooves between planks. The shock of it only sharpened his focus.

He dove from the Merry without hesitation.

The water was crushing, so cold it stole his breath, replacing it with fire. He forced air back into his lungs and began swimming, cutting through the current toward the river that spilled into the sea where the Merry was anchored. The rhythmic motion warmed his muscles quickly, and his ankles held firm. Sanji had done a solid job patching him up.

The thought reminded him of Sanji’s words. That he’d done the right thing by trying to cut off his feet, even if it was stupid. That he had good legs. Both had landed strangely well inside him. He was used to people treating him like he didn’t have feelings, because of how he presented: angry, gruff, or stoic. But he had feelings – like swords left unsheathed, clattering in every direction – and to be complimented was a novelty.

Zoro’s arms sliced through the frigid water in counted threes – breath, muscle, cold – each exhale puffing into the frozen air.

He’d noticed that Sanji still beat himself up for not being there to help on Little Garden. Sanji had tells: the brutal hair tugs, the extra cigarettes. Zoro knew the exact sequence of Sanji’s smoking – six a day, two threes. Morning, after breakfast, after lunch – after dinner, before bed, during his watch. More when they were on an island. Deviations caught Zoro’s eye like a crooked sword on a rack.

They were different, but also the same, a symmetry Zoro found quietly absorbing. Luffy was brightness: sunshine, heat, flame. Sanji was contradiction: tough yet prissy, foul-mouthed but kind, steel-hard and still soft in ways Zoro couldn’t name. Those contradictions made sense in his restless mind, because he was never just one thing either.

He still hadn’t let Sanji know they were soulmates, keeping the soulmark hidden beneath the bandana. He didn’t want to complicate things, or let some fairy-tale mark decide what they were. Vivi had once asked to see it, but he’d brushed her off with a gruff, “You’re not mine.” Her smile faltered, but when Nami appeared, it brightened instantly.

The riverbed rose under his feet. He hauled himself onto the bank, icy air slapping his bare skin. Trees pressed close on both sides – dark trunks, heavy snow, stark silence. The river stretched behind him. His hands tugged his haramaki tighter, the wet cloth icy but firm around his waist. The familiar squeeze braced him, holding against the numb chill. His senses keyed sharp: wind in the pines, resin in the air, hard earth frozen beneath his feet.

He intended to follow the river back to the Merry. But a gust whipped snow into his face, grains stinging like grit. The whiteout rolled in fast. Outlines blurred, shapes vanished, sound thinned.

Zoro stopped. Wind, snow, trees – sliding out of line. Off. 

Cataloguing was how he held the world steady when it tried to tilt. Pieces named, ordered, stacked one after the other until the noise fell quiet.

He tapped three times on his bicep, a silent metronome. Rough bark to his left, brittle twigs to his right, snow beneath his feet. He forced air into his lungs and pushed forward. Three steps, then three more.

The wind swallowed his trail within minutes, leaving nothing but white.

Zoro was annoyed with himself. He thought he was strong. He’d taken down bounty after bounty in East Blue, but the Grand Line kept kicking his ass at every other turn. He needed to get much, much better if he was going to hold his own, survive, and someday challenge Mihawk again. He could cut steel now, which was something, but he’d gotten his ass handed to him long before reaching that point.

After they sailed from Arabasta and said goodbye to Vivi, the crew held a private party. It had become a ritual, these small feasts to reassure each other they were healing, that they were okay, to reinforce the bond that held them together. Zoro liked these gatherings better than the wild celebrations. He’d learned to handle the big events by forcing his cataloguing into order: noise, faces, color, light, but often retreated early, seeking quieter spaces. These smaller moments with just the crew – his friends – where he didn’t have to pretend, felt good.

He had six friends now. Seven if he counted Kuina, but she wasn’t coming back, even if Tashigi wore her face. Usopp, Chopper, Nami, and Vivi had all called him “friend” at one point or another. Though Vivi wasn’t sailing with them anymore, she’d always remain his friend. He’d never really thought much about wanting friends. Sure, he’d gotten lonely sometimes, but training, meditation, and sleep kept him company. He’d thought the things other boys did in the group home were stupid or silly – and besides, they’d never included him. He was too different.

Zoro was who he was, comfortable in his own skin. Some things still caught him wrong – scrape of fabric, unexpected touch, the ritual wash of his haramaki – but he didn’t have to change to please anyone. 

The crew never asked him to, either. They accepted him as he was and treated him no differently than anyone else. That quiet acceptance settled deep in his bones, something he treasured. He would do everything he could to protect them. And to do that, he had to get stronger. He vowed to train three times as hard – always three – to succeed.

For now, though, he enjoyed their company. They ate and drank, laughter spilling until everyone grew tipsy and overly full. Eventually, the boys stumbled to the men’s quarters, collapsing wherever they landed, including Zoro. His katanas got the couch; he stretched out on the rug, serious injuries bandaged beneath his black dishdasha. He knew it would take at least a week, maybe longer, to heal enough to move unhampered. When injured, he needed sleep. It was the one thing that sped recovery.

Zoro shut his eyes, letting the sounds of his friends slipping into sleep wash over him. Sanji had curled on the rug nearby, head close to Zoro’s but body turned away. Zoro liked having him there. He didn’t know if it was the soulmate thing or just that Sanji was the one he matched best. Zoro was blunt and easily irritated, but Sanji gave it back with sharp words and rough kindness. When Zoro felt out of sorts – like when his food touched wrong no matter how he arranged it – Sanji seemed to notice. His tone softened then, probing but gentle, like he actually cared.

Sometimes they fought physically, too, which was great training. Sanji was seriously strong. Zoro had watched him one-shot a banangator and was still in awe. There was no doubt Sanji was his equal, maybe even stronger at the moment. That pushed Zoro harder, to improve, to make sure he stayed at least on par, or better.

The ship creaked on the waves, darkness of the hold folding around him as Usopp put out the light. Zoro tapped his finger three times against his haramaki, slow and deliberate, a calming tic. He exhaled, thumb working over the worn cloth until the low buzz inside him thinned out. Then he let exhaustion take him.

Next thing he knew, Nami was calling overhead, telling them to wake. He cracked open his eyes with a jaw-stretching yawn. Blinking sleepily, his gaze landed on a face inches from his own. Either he or Sanji had shifted during the night, because now they were extra close. Zoro could see individual lashes. Blond, like his hair.

Sanji hummed softly. “One more kiss before I have to get up,” he mumbled, lips pursed as he leaned closer.

Zoro froze, heart catching. 

He must’ve made a sound, because Sanji’s eyes fluttered open. They cleared slowly, widening in surprise. “Oh, shit. Tell me I didn’t just kiss you in my sleep?”

It took Zoro a moment to find his voice. “No.”

Sanji let out a relieved breath, sitting up. “Good. Would’ve been a real shitty move kissing you without permission.”

The words froze Zoro again. Wait… Sanji wanted to kiss him?

No one had ever wanted that before. He was too blunt, too scary, too… different. Sometimes he thought maybe someone might want him someday, but it was never something he focused on.

Now he was fixated. And he realized he really wanted Sanji to kiss him.

“...You can,” he managed, tapping his finger three times against the rug.

Sanji’s eyes widened, the faintest sound catching in his throat. “You…” He stopped himself, pulse jumping in the hollow of his neck. Something flickered across his face that Zoro couldn’t place – uncertainty, maybe. Or a question. His cheeks flushed soft pink, and he swallowed before nodding, gaze dipping then lifting again with quiet resolve. “…Alright. Okay.”

Zoro’s heart thundered as Sanji shifted closer, cupping his jaw with careful hands that made him flinch only slightly. Nervousness shone in Sanji’s eyes, and somehow that steadied him.

“Been wantin’ to do this a while,” Sanji murmured with quiet confession, leaning down.

Zoro tensed for an instant, then his body decided. This was okay. Good. Sanji’s lips were warm, his focus pulled tight to that single point. To Sanji – smoke, salt, the soft line of his lower lip, the damp warmth of their mouths. His jaw tingled under Sanji’s hand, pulse syncing with the kiss until it ended too soon.

Sanji pulled back, cheeks flushed deeper, eyes questioning. “Was that okay, marimo?”

And Zoro knew what Sanji was really asking. Was it too much? Could he handle it? Because Sanji knew him and treated him like he mattered.

Zoro nodded. His face felt hot. He wanted Sanji to do it again.

Sanji seemed to read his mind. He leaned in once more, slower, lips meeting Zoro’s with more certainty. The second kiss was different, less shock, more flow, a balance sliding into place. Zoro tracked the warmth across his mouth, the slip of breath, the contrast of cool air on his cheek and Sanji’s heat. His fingers twitched, but his body let the kiss stay. He matched the rise and fall of Sanji’s breathing until the world evened out.

Finally, Sanji drew back with a grin, cheeks still rosy. “Gotta get breakfast started.,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear the haze. “And you smell like ass. Go brush your damn teeth, dirty ape.”

Zoro sputtered, but Sanji just laughed, rising fluidly and grabbing clothes before heading up.

Luffy and Usopp were stirring as Zoro lay on the floor staring up through the open hatch at the clear blue sky. His mind replayed the kisses in an endless loop. New. Overwhelming. But not bad.

He rubbed his fingers against the bandana on his forearm, grounding himself. Slowly, he raised it, staring at the fabric that hid his soulmark with quiet wonder.

Sanji had kissed him without knowing. Without knowing they were soulmates. Which meant Sanji kissed him because he wanted to. Because he liked Zoro.

Heat. Tightness. Weight. Three things jammed inside him, hard to contain.

“Oi, Zoro, why’s your face look like you just bench-pressed a sea king?” Usopp teased, peering over.

“We’re having sea king?!” Luffy shouted, leaping for the mast. “Sanji, gimme sea king!”

Zoro grinned wide, cheeks aching. “…Good morning.”

Sanji settled against the coarse bark of a fallen log beside Zoro, passing him one of the two steins of beer he’d brought. Shifting firelight and distant laughter drifted up the hillside from the celebration below, a lively glow glowing through the trees of Skypiea that surrounded them. The crisp night air was scented faintly with pine and woodsmoke, muffling the festive sounds into a soft hum. Enel was defeated, the skies finally free, and for once, the people of the cloud islands could breathe easy.

Every inch of Sanji’s body ached, though he tried not to show it. He was wrapped in as many bandages as Zoro usually was, the aftermath of being thoroughly electrocuted by Enel more than once. The last strike had nearly fried him to a crisp, but he’d stood firm, protecting their friends no matter what. Then came the celebratory feast, and he couldn’t refuse the call to cook. Feeding people was woven into his very being. But now, finally, he just wanted to sit and rest, so he sought out Zoro’s quiet hiding spot to share the silence.

At first, Sanji thought Zoro kept to himself at parties because he was a prickly grump. After the soaked haramaki incident, he realized it was more than that: Zoro liked patterns, quiet spaces, things in order, even his food arranged just right. Sanji started catching other little tells, too – the way Zoro tapped in threes, that touch seemed to bother him more often than not.

Sanji couldn’t miss the softer side tucked in with those habits, either. Zoro liked when Sanji dropped some sappy line just for him, blushing fiercely but smiling all the same. He liked when Sanji fussed, sliding a refill of sake his way or reminding him to rest. Though when it came to giving affection, he reached for the practical instead: sharpening Sanji’s knives, sewing buttons back onto his shirt, small acts that said more than flowers or flowery words ever could.

They still argued and fought; for Sanji, that was home. But now those sharp edges were softened by quiet, tender moments. And Sanji liked it. He liked Zoro. He liked how they fit together. Zoro pushed him beyond his comfort zone, challenged him to be better, while letting Sanji care for him in small but meaningful ways. Zoro accepted Sanji’s heart-driven nature and never saw it as a weakness. And Sanji saw Zoro clearly for who he was, perfectly imperfect.

Zoro leaned his shoulder briefly against Sanji’s, a quiet hello before pulling away. His fingers drummed three beats against his thigh, then stilled. Sanji caught the rhythm but said nothing. The rough bark of the log pressed into his back as he took a long pull from his drink and exhaled softly. “Good spot, marimo,” he said.

Zoro hummed in response, his gaze sweeping the treeline with the same deliberate care Sanji had come to recognize. His eyes tracked from bark to smoke to shadow to flame, each detail set down like steps in a kata. Not hurried, but methodical, as if he needed to line the world into place before words could follow. The stiffness in his shoulders eased a notch after. Sanji found himself watching the small ritual, one more detail that drew him in despite himself.

Sanji rested his head back, eyes tracing the stars peeking through the leafy canopy above. He wondered if this would always be their life: the fierce battles, the drive to free others. First Conomi, then Drum Island, Arabasta, and now Skypiea. If that was the case, Sanji knew he needed to step up his game. He already trained early, before dawn, while the crew still slept. Maybe it was time to add afternoon sessions, between lunch and snack. And perhaps Zoro would agree to some planned sparring. They couldn’t afford to let their friends down, or the others who placed their hopes in them.

Sanji felt a hand brush against his thigh and glanced down. Zoro’s fingers rubbed the fabric of his trousers briefly before pulling away, the motion tight, almost stingy, like he was rationing himself. The contact left him visibly tense, shoulders bunched, jaw set, until his fingers found the bandana around his forearm. He rubbed at the material, and some of the strain seemed to ease from his posture. Sanji’s gaze lingered there, drawn to the wrap and what it hid. Zoro’s soulmark.

He hadn’t thought about soulmarks in a while. The old dream of a romantic soulmate, some beautiful woman who he would sweep off her feet, had faded. It would be nice to find the person matched to his mark, sure, but what he had with Zoro was everything he needed. No what-ifs or fanciful daydreams. Though their relationship was still new, Sanji could see it lasting. They fit. And while Zoro didn’t have the curves or softness Sanji might have imagined in a long-term partner, he had what truly mattered: trust, honesty, loyalty, and heart.

The firelight below flickered faintly through the trees, a broken shimmer across bark and leaves. Beside him, Zoro stayed quiet, cataloguing sky and forest alike, arranging pieces into order in that deliberate way Sanji was starting to recognize – blunt, rigid, and ritual-bound. Yet under it ran warmth, tender and unexpected. Sanji found he liked every piece of it.

“I’m from the North Blue, y’know,” Sanji said quietly, eyes drifting back toward the stars. “Grew up reading about Noland the Liar. Except that city in the clouds wasn’t a lie.” He exhaled softly, the words hanging in the cool air. “Makes me wonder if maybe the rest wasn’t lies either.”

Zoro was silent for a moment, thumb pressing briefly against the band of his haramaki before he murmured, “...Tell me one.”

A small smile tugged at Sanji’s lips. “He swore there was a whole kingdom made of sweets. Streets of candy, rivers of syrup.”

“Sounds stupid.”

“Yeah? Probably your worst nightmare.”

Sanji was upset. Really upset. And it was upsetting Zoro.

Zoro clenched his arms around his haramaki, leaning against the doorframe as Sanji shoved the Merry’s stores into place in their cramped Water 7 room. Earlier, Luffy and Usopp had fought over the Merry, and Usopp had left the Straw Hats. Zoro knew how close Sanji and Usopp were, and he’d seen Sanji flinch every time Usopp called himself a burden. Now, every few boxes, Sanji yanked at his hair, his frustration and worry simmering just beneath the surface. He wanted to comfort Sanji, but his ribs cinched, jaw stiff, and the woolly thrum of sound clogged his mind.

The air smelled faintly of damp wood and salt, the cramped walls lined with mismatched crates that seemed to close in around them. The scrape of wood against stone rang in Zoro’s ears. Wood scraping, too loud. Salt damp. Barrels, boxes, bags crowding close. He tapped his haramaki three times, then again, then again, trying to force the pattern into order. His jaw ached with the clench.

Maybe if he could push some words past the knot in his throat, Sanji’s upset might ease. Then his own might ease. Maybe they could get through this together.

“Love… love…” He forced it out through clenched teeth, the word snagging raw in his throat. “…love…”

Sanji looked up between his hands, still gripping his hair. “Zoro?”

“…love…”

For a moment everything stilled. The noise, the damp, even the tightness in his chest – gone. No order, no pattern, only blank silence inside him, like his body had shut off. His eyes fixed on Sanji without moving, every muscle rigid. Then he shoved against his haramaki hard enough to hurt.

Sanji dropped his hands, skirted around a crate, and came to Zoro’s side by the door. Worry and reassurance mixed in his expression. His hand hovered under Zoro’s elbow, not touching, but there. “Shit. Been stuck in my own head. Didn’t think you might need comforting, too. What’re you tryin’ to say, marimo? Take your time.”

Zoro looked at him desperately. “Love…”

“Love?” Sanji’s gaze searched his. “…You want me to touch you? Is that okay?”

Zoro nodded. Sanji’s hand settled on his elbow, the other curving around his shoulders, tucking him against his chest. Zoro stiffened, his body rejecting the sensation even though he wanted it. He tapped three times again, tried to unclench, to breathe through it. “Love...”

“M’right here,” Sanji soothed quietly, holding Zoro with a steady arm. Not stroking him, or adding to the sensation. Just solid warmth. “Pull away if you need. It’s always okay.”

Zoro did, because he couldn’t take it, but Sanji needed to know, needed to hear the words. He squeezed his haramaki harder, as if using force could shove them out of his lungs. “Loveyou.”

They ran together, but they were out now. And Sanji heard, because his eyes widened, lips parting in stunned silence.

Zoro tapped three times, paused, tapped three times, paused, tapped three times–

“Fuck. I just wanna kiss you,” Sanji breathed, pained and amazed, and no longer appearing upset about Usopp. His grin went crooked and stupid, and Zoro latched onto it, trying to pull himself back with that image. But his chest still felt knotted, discomfort coiled in his bones, his own upset still there.

“Alright. I need a smoke. Change of scenery’ll help.” Sanji reached for the doorknob. “Roof?

The shift into the hallway loosened something small. The air was cooler, the smell of brine edging in, the sound of their footsteps clearer than the muffled scrape of boxes. The stairwell’s damp stone was firmer underfoot, sharper in its detail. Brine, stone, air. Cleaner. His catalogue flickered back, scrambled but there, enough to help him climb the steps.

By the time they stepped onto the roof, sunlight was a thin, warm hand on his shoulders. Water 7 rose like a tiered fountain, waterfalls spilling in measured intervals, the clean symmetry pulling his focus. Zoro rested against the stone pony wall, grit rough under his forearms. Grit, water, sun – aligned. The neatness held him in place.

He heard the click of Sanji’s lighter, followed by the smoky vanilla thread of his cigarette. Zoro breathed it in, the familiar aroma weaving through the ocean breeze that teased his hair and tugged at his earrings. His grip on his haramaki eased.

Sanji leaned nearby, elbows on the wall, cigarette in his mouth. “Wonder where Robin went. Been a while since she’s disappeared.”

Zoro hummed, the sound no longer caught in his throat.

“I’ll probably go looking later,” Sanji said. “When you’re up for it, we’ll hunt down a rice bowl stand. If not, I’ll whip some up myself.”

Zoro’s jaw unclenched. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

Sanji went quiet, letting the warmth of the sunshine and the wide, open space settle around them like an unspoken comfort. The faint salt tang in the air mingled with the lingering scent of Sanji’s cigarette. Zoro’s fingers found the strip of his bandana tied to his forearm, rubbing it between his fingers, a familiar tether. He slowly let his hands fall to his sides, the rough stone beneath his palms steadying him as the knot inside him gradually eased. Each breath came longer now, cooler and more even, the air moving easily in and out of his lungs as the silence stretched between them.

“I wonder what kind of local seasoning this city has,” Sanji mused, like he knew Zoro was now okay. 

“Wanna find out?” Zoro asked, voice low, feeling the even thump of his heart against his ribs. 

“After you eat,” Sanji replied, stubbing out his cigarette with a quiet flick. “Can’t have my favorite walking plant shrivel up.” His gaze caught Zoro’s for a brief second, a small spark of something tender in their depths.

Zoro snorted, a short laugh that made the corner of his mouth twitch. “Stupid curly brows.”

Sanji smirked, the shadow of a smile lighting his face. “You love these stupid curly brows.”

Zoro felt his cheeks warm, color creeping over his skin. He bumped his shoulder into Sanji’s as he passed toward the stairs. “Shut up.”

Sanji’s soft chuckle followed him down, echoing like a quiet melody. The city noise felt distant, like a world paused just for them, softened despite the ache Usopp’s absence had left. The knot of worry and frustration that had gripped Zoro ebbed away, replaced by support and companionship, and a quiet promise that whatever came next, even without Usopp for now, they’d face it together.

Sanji sat on the roof of the sea train, Aqua Laguna crashing hard against the metal as the train thundered along the tracks laid above the water. Sheets of rain and spray whipped his hair and tugged at his clothes, the wind howling so loud it almost drowned out the rhythmic clatter of the wheels. Lightning flared on the horizon, thunder rolling after, the storm’s fury pressing close from every side. He was with Usopp and the pervert in a speedo named Franky, who’d been related to the crew that’d beaten Usopp up. Sanji’s jaw tightened; once Robin was safe, he was going to kick that blue-haired ass.

Robin was a prisoner on the train, captured by CP9, en route to Enies Lobby and certain death. Sanji wasn’t going to let that happen. Robin was their crewmate and, more importantly, a friend. He knew Robin’s story now, about her past, a lifetime of fear and being unable to connect. His own tortured history was a blip in comparison, but he knew what it felt like to have the right to exist questioned every day.

He’d found a den den mushi like he’d hoped, after tearing through several cars of Marines. They’d escaped to the roof so he could call the others, as promised. Nami’s voice came over the snail, filling him in about Robin. The knowledge of it sharpened his resolve to save her.

Nami was speaking to someone else on her end. Sanji wondered if it was Zoro. He hadn’t had the chance to check on him since leaving to hunt for Robin. Zoro had chosen to stay behind, saying he’d wait it out, but the slight droop of his shoulders and the weight in his half-lidded eyes had told Sanji he’d needed a nap. His shutdowns always left him drained, and Sanji was surprised he’d lasted as long as he had. Sanji remembered the tiny beats before Zoro spoke when he was worn thin, the way his fingers tapped out a count or his hand found the haramaki for grounding before the words caught up.

He’d learned to read those signs without thinking, small cues that spoke louder than words. They were intimate in their own way, proof of how far their relationship had grown. And that made Zoro’s confession resonate all the deeper in his chest. He hadn’t said the words back, because he knew he was prone to falling in love at the drop of a hat. He’d wanted to give himself time to examine their connection and his feelings.

But now, on a sea train bound for the judicial island where pirates went to die, the answer felt obvious.

He loved Zoro.

“Luffy, come here! It’s Sanji,” Nami said sharply.

The den den changed hands, and Luffy’s voice crackled through. “Sanji, how are things there? Where’s Robin?”

“Robin’s… they still have Robin,” Sanji said, tension coiling tight around his neck like a noose. “Nami-san filled me in. Heard the whole damn thing.”

“Is that right?” Luffy’s tone hardened. A beat of silence stretched, his trust in Sanji clear even through the crackle. “Then don’t hold back. Tear things up!”

Sanji was already planning exactly that. He wouldn’t let Robin down.

No! Stop, stop, stop! Wait!

Sanji frowned, staring at the den den mushi. He’d just heard Zoro’s voice, but hadn’t seen the snail’s mouth move.

Then suddenly, it did. “Cook! You hear me?” Zoro’s gruff voice came from the snail’s mouth, twisted in that familiar scowl. “There’s some nasty bastards on that train!”

“Zoro, I’m telling you, it’s okay!” Luffy shouted in the background. “If it were you and we tried to stop you, we wouldn’t be able to.”

“Sounds like you get it,” Sanji said. “Hey, marimo… worried about me?”

Yes. Dangerous. Worse than we’ve faced. Wait for me. Wait for me. Wait for me.

“Tch. Like I’d worry about you,” Zoro scoffed over the connection, completely opposite to what Sanji had just felt in his head…

…in his head.

Zoro?

There was a beat of silence. Then… Sanji?

Holy fuck, you’re in my head.

I’m in your head? You’re in my head!

What the fuck?

Zoro went silent–

–and then a tidal wave of tangled emotions and fractured sensation crashed into Sanji, raw and overwhelming, flooding his head and body with a force that wasn’t his. His heart slammed against his ribs, breath locking halfway in his chest.

He realized he was feeling what Zoro was feeling.

It hit without warning, without shape, a surge of noise and brightness and motion that had nowhere to go. Every thought scattered into static. His skin prickled with phantom heat and cold at once; his ribcage pulled inward until it threatened to crush him; his throat sealed like it was trying to keep the world out. Sound pressed too loud, the air too thin. It felt like he was trapped in Zoro’s body, caged and closing in on itself.

Sanji knew this. He’d seen it before from the outside – Zoro’s jaw locked, shoulders rigid, arms crushing his haramaki as though the fabric alone could hold him together. He’d seen the swordsman’s hands curl into white-knuckled fists, that familiar bracing posture. And now he was inside it. Heat and cold spiraled, pressure closing in. Light and sound drove hard against him. Threes piling instead of steadying. Overwhelm.

The sea spray stung his eyes, saltwater mixing with tears he refused to acknowledge. The wind ripped at his clothes and hair. He couldn’t hear the train anymore. Couldn’t hear himself. Just the storm of Zoro’s mind spilling into his own.

Sanji fought to regain control. He had to push Zoro out. Robin needed him. But Zoro needed him, too.

Zoro. I’m here. With you. But I gotta shut you out. Just for now. Sanji pushed back with feelings of comfort, steadiness, reassurance, not sure if they reached. Trust me. I will save Robin.

He began constructing a mental wall, stacking block after block in his mind. Gray stone rose around him, familiar and terrible, until he was locked again in a Germa cell. Silent. Alone. His head sagged heavy; for a heartbeat he feared the iron mask was back on his face.

The fear lingered, sour in his chest, until the train’s voice pulled him back – the wheels hammering, spray lashing, rain hissing against steel. The world bled in ragged pieces, but it was there. Usopp and Franky stared at him, their worry written clear in the way they watched him.

Zoro was gone.

Sanji took a shaky breath, hand trembling, and spoke into the den den mushi. “After hearing Robin’s story – captain’s orders or not – I won’t hold back.”

He crushed the dial, freeing the snail.

Then he lifted his head, forcing his breath steady, a thin smile cutting across his face. “Robin’s waiting on us.”

Zoro had to isolate himself until he regained control. Luckily, the sea train offered plenty of compartments to hide in. His cataloguing splintered the moment he shut the door: wheels, water, voices – steel crashing through, wrong again, wrong always – until the noise thinned threadbare into silence. He pressed into his haramaki, bracing. Three taps, then again, until the pattern carved enough space to breathe.

Hearing Sanji in his head had rattled him. He already fought enough to keep his own thoughts ordered; he didn’t need someone else’s crowding in, uninvited. But worse was when Sanji disappeared completely. Even when Sanji wasn’t speaking in his mind, Zoro had felt him, like warmth from a fire in the background. Then, suddenly, that warmth vanished. The connection had been brief, but even that short moment made the loss sharp and painful. A hollowness settled inside him, making the outside world bite harder, even after the noise inside dropped to a low roar.

That hollow feeling didn’t fade once Sanji rejoined them, though knowing he was safe helped. The cut-off had left a bruise Zoro couldn’t shake, a space where fire should’ve been but wasn’t. His ordering snagged. Breath. Heartbeat. Then nothing. The third beat never came, jarring like a kata cut off mid-strike. He forced himself to reset. He couldn’t afford to lose focus. As long as Sanji stayed alive, he’d heal from anything. Zoro had to trust him to take care of himself.

“Hey,” Sanji murmured, stepping close in the cramped, rattling train car as the muffled voices of their crewmates and friends hashed out the plan to rescue Robin and Franky. The faint clatter of wheels on the tracks mixed with the roar of water beyond the windows. The air was thick with the scent of oil and sweat, bodies pressed tight into the space. “When this is over and Robin’s safe, we need a word. Just us.”

Zoro nodded after a beat, fighting to sift through the clutter in his head until one clear line rose above the rest - Sanji was fine. He tapped his finger three times against the worn hilt of his katana, a ritual that centered him enough to meet Sanji’s eyes.

Sanji pressed his palm gently against Zoro’s cheek. Zoro stiffened at the first touch, instinct locking his body taut. Then his body eased, the warmth and solid press of Sanji’s hand slipping past the first jolt of alarm, settling instead of choking. He pushed lightly against it, nuzzling once, rationing the contact in a way he could manage. The touch steadied him, anchoring him to now, even if the hollow feeling lingered at the edges.

He breathed once, slow and measured. Warmth, weight, contact – lined up clean, something he could grip.

“Let’s get her back,” Zoro said, low and certain. “She’s ours now.”

Sanji rewarded him with a bright smile.

The Merry came for them, one last time.

One last adventure. One last act of love.

Zoro pulled his arms around himself, folding into the familiar comfort of his haramaki as he watched them say their final goodbyes. The fabric’s tight hold gave him something to lean against, even as his chest ached. In his mind, Merry’s voice echoed softly, carrying words meant only for them, whispers that she wished she could carry them farther, that she had been happy sailing with them. Her farewell lingered in his thoughts, bittersweet and resolute.

Goodbye.

Zoro tilted his head back to the sky, watching the snow and ash fall around them. His heart ached fiercely. He wanted to tell himself it was just a ship, but she wasn’t. She was the Going Merry. She carried him to new friendships, sheltered him when he needed isolation, provided him with comfortable places to nap. She was a crewmate, a Straw Hat. And she had been loved.

Zoro tapped his finger three times against his side, then pushed out the breath trapped high in his chest. The count aligned him, something precise and repeatable in the swirl of grief. Sanji moved closer, his shoulder brushing lightly against Zoro’s. Zoro’s muscles pulled taut – cloth, heat, ash. He shifted a fraction to the side, no longer touching, but he didn’t mind Sanji being near.

The press of everything they’d been through clung thick in the air as Merry made her final bow. One by one, the Straw Hats, slow and silent, climbed aboard Iceberg’s ship, setting sail back toward Water 7.

They were given space at Galley-La’s Temporary Headquarters – a single, open room with mismatched bunks, a scuffed wooden floor, and two tables surrounded by chairs. The kitchen smelled faintly of frying oil and dish soap. The attached bath hummed faintly from a dripping faucet. There was a pool in the back, its faint chlorine tang different from the sea air. Zoro could hear Sanji’s voice from the kitchen for a while, low and snarking, syllables clipped in his usual way, but then even that faded when the crew scattered.

They didn’t have a ship. Their belongings from the inn were gone to parts unknown. There was nowhere to go yet. So after everyone was showered, wrapped in fresh bandages, and fed by Sanji, the crew scattered – Robin to a quiet corner, Nami to the pool, Chopper to check injuries of their Galley-La friends – until it was just Zoro and Sanji left.

“Come with me, grass-for-brains,” Sanji said, voice casual as he lit a cigarette. The scratch of the lighter wheel was distinct in the quiet, the first curl of vanilla-tinged smoke threading into the air.

Zoro followed, tugging at the collar of the Galley-La Company t-shirt he wore. The fabric was rough and held the faint scent of starch and cedar. It felt constricting, even though he knew it fit.

The back opened onto a narrow stone veranda that ran the length of the building. Umbrella-shaded tables stood here and there, each with a pair of chairs, and a couple of cushioned benches waited for anyone who wanted to sit and stay. Potted plants with thick green leaves and bursts of hibiscus blooms decorated the space, their petals vivid against the pale stone. A bench swing with a high, curved back sat in an archway overlooking the pool.

Sanji settled on the swing, the wood shifting slightly under his weight. Zoro unhooked his katanas and propped them in the crook of his shoulder before sitting beside him. The seat was wide enough that their knees didn’t have to touch. He rubbed the bandana tied around his left forearm between his fingers, texture rasping smooth against rough skin, his body easing into it.

The sun was bright in a sky scoured clean by the storm, the heat wrapped around him like a heavy blanket but without the suffocation. A soft wind threaded through the space, carrying salt, hibiscus, and the faint burn of Sanji’s cigarette. From the pool below came splashes, shouts, laughter. Somewhere, a gull cried once before fading away.

Zoro let his eyes track Sanji’s profile, the way his jaw moved when he held the cigarette, the shift of his fingers as he tapped ash away. The cook had a fresh bandage on his cheek and another just visible under the open collar of his button-down. His shirt smelled faintly of soap and cooking oil, different from the starch of Zoro’s own. Sanji’s breaths came slowly, measured. Zoro matched them without meaning to. Neither of them had taken the kind of damage they had in Skypiea or Arabasta, but the deep bruises and cuts still mapped their skin beneath the bandages. Zoro had come away from Enies Lobby with a new technique, Asura, but he knew Sanji hadn’t brought him out here to dissect the battle.

Sanji took another drag, exhaled smoke that drifted up and away, and said, “I love you.”

Zoro blinked. That was not at all what he’d expected Sanji to say. A warmth swelled in his chest, like breath filling deep into his lungs for the first time, blooming outward until it reached his mouth in a huge smile. His palm settled against his haramaki, keeping the warmth there. “I said it first.”

Sanji snorted. “In some things, we both win.”

“Hn.” Zoro pretended to think about it. “Nope. Still won.”

Sanji chuckled, his hand shifting over to hover above Zoro’s thigh. Zoro pressed his own down until it rested there. He tensed, cataloguing: fabric against skin, warmth seeping through, pressure shared. But his body didn’t reject the contact. Instead, the touch slipped past the first jolt of alarm and settled as something firm, almost wanted. It felt good. Right. A cicada somewhere nearby droned in one long, unbroken tone, a sound that was easy to track and file away.

“Right, so…” Sanji tapped ash over the side of the swing. The chains creaked. “We talked in each other’s heads..”

Zoro’s gaze dropped to the hand under his. The pale skin contrasted with Zoro’s, fingers longer but the palm the same size as his own. “Yeah.”

“…I felt you, too.”

Zoro nodded, eyes tracing each finger: forefinger, middle, ring. Then back again. The pattern steadied him. In the background, wind rattled the hibiscus leaves in uneven bursts. He boxed it away.

“Do you know why?”

Zoro shrugged, still tracing.

“I’m tearing down my cell. Means you’ll probably hear and feel me again.”

Zoro heard the warning tucked under the words, so he could prepare. “Okay.”

Sanji took a slow breath. Zoro’s eyes kept moving over the fingers – up and down, up and down, up and down – pausing briefly on the faint stain of nicotine along the cuticle of Sanji’s middle finger.

The cozy fire came first, trickling into the back of Zoro’s mind like it belonged there. It made him feel good. Safe. Cared for. He realized he was feeling Sanji’s love. His fingers twitched once against his haramaki, a reflex for balance.

I wonder what my love feels like.

“Like… floating in the ocean,” Sanji said, pulling Zoro’s eyes back to him. A trace of a smile crossed his lips. “Fitting, because when you got overwhelmed, it tossed me around like a storm.”

“You heard my thoughts?” Zoro said.

Yes.

Sanji didn’t speak aloud, but Zoro heard it clearly. His shoulders tightened for a heartbeat: air pressing close, shirt clinging, sting of tobacco. But the Merry had spoken to him, too, and that hadn’t been bad. He tapped his finger three times on the back of Sanji’s hand.

“Can you hear all of them?”

“No.” Sanji exhaled again, the vanilla-scent blending with hibiscus. “If I’m remembering right, I believe we have to be thinking intently about each other or thinking at each other, to hear them.”

“You know what’s causing this?” Zoro said, surprised.

“Of course I do.” Sanji’s smirk had a shy tilt. “Been obsessed with Bonded Pairs since I was thirteen.”

Zoro tilted his head. “What’re those?”

“Soulmates, marimo.” Sanji shook his head in faint disbelief. “We’re soulmates.”

Three on his arm, three in his name, my third friend. Zoro’s mind locked onto the pattern automatically, a pulse of order against the press of the words.

Sanji’s eyebrow rose. “Something you want to share, moss?”

Zoro shrugged. “Your soulmark. It’s mine.”

He felt a flare of anger and annoyance, tangled with mirth and happiness. These weren’t his feelings. The unfamiliar mix twisted inside him, prickling along his skin. His shoulders drew tight. Laughter carrying. Water splashing. Trousers coarse. Sanji warm. He tapped his finger, trying to stitch the pieces back together.

“You bastard,” Sanji muttered, but there was no real bite to it. “D’you know how bad I wanted this? Wanted to find my soulmate? And you’ve been right here all along.”

“Does it matter?” Zoro wasn’t sorry he hadn’t said anything. I wanted you in my life because I wanted you in my life, not because some mark told me.

The wave of love and affection in response almost knocked him over. He clutched his haramaki, the snug band pressing into his palm. The swing shifted beneath them, its chains clicking. He curled one hand harder around Sanji’s, katanas biting into his other shoulder.

There was a softer pulse of apology, and then the feeling settled. “I can tell this is hitting you hard,” Sanji said. “I can block myself off again if you want–”

“No!” No, no, no. Don’t leave me hollow again.

For a moment, everything stilled – just the swing’s faint sway, the hush of water below, breath caught between them.

Then Zoro pressed Sanji’s fingers against his thigh. Fabric rough. Muscle solid. Heat steady. His throat closed before words could form.

“Oi, hey,” Sanji soothed, his hand tightening briefly on Zoro’s thigh. Zoro’s body jerked under the touch – warm palm, chain creak, faint sweetness of hibiscus. Too much. Sanji eased off instantly. “I’m not going anywhere. We’ll leave it for now, figure it out together.”

Zoro nodded, tethering himself to the thought – this was Sanji. He let the name turn over in his mind, mapping it: the precise timbre of his voice, the faint drag of smoke that clung to him, the clean heat of his skin when they touched. If Sanji was inside him now, maybe Zoro could lean on him, draw a little from that unyielding strength. He held the thought like a lifeline, not expecting it to fix him, only to keep him steady. The coil inside him loosened at its own pace, slow and stubborn, until he felt something close to his version of normal.

The air settled softer against his skin, no longer heavy, but easing with each breath. Slowly, sounds filtered back: the low groan of a ship’s frame somewhere beyond the walls, laughter and splashing from the pool, the swing’s wood squeaking softly as it swayed.

Sanji’s hand relaxed under his, in time with his own. When he looked again, Sanji had crushed his cigarette out on the swing’s armrest and closed his eyes.

Sanji?

“Gonna take some getting used to,” Sanji murmured. “Lucky we’ve got time.”

“Yeah,” Zoro said. “Everything I’m good at, I get better with practice. Maybe this just needs it. Got a new form – Asura. Three heads, six arms. Nine-Sword Style. Gotta work on it.”

Sanji’s amused huff came with an amused pulse inside Zoro. It wasn’t so bad this time. “Did it give you multiple dicks, too?”

Zoro’s cheeks warmed. “Uh… didn’t check.”

“Well, check and tell me, yeah?” Sanji smirked at him. “Could be a hell of a lot of fun for our sex life.”

Zoro’s face burned hotter. We haven’t had sex!

We will one day…

It was possible Zoro was going to combust right there. His hand brushed his haramaki, then knotted in the bandana at his arm. The fabric soothed softly under his fingers, a tactile anchor, but it couldn’t hold back the rush that flared hotter with each pulse Sanji sent across the bond.

His cataloguing wavered – bandana rasping, swing creaking, cicada droning. Sanji’s smile bright, ash tang lingering. But this time the overload carried a different edge, heat pooling low in his stomach, blood sparking down his spine, his body racing ahead of his thoughts. His pulse hammered in his ears, every beat syncing with Sanji’s amused grin and the hand pressed against his thigh.

He yanked everything down to one anchor: Sanji. The draw of his breath, the teasing smirk, the promise humming in his voice. Zoro’s body answered to it, need rising fierce and undeniable, a coil of excitement that felt dangerous and good at the same time.

His grip tightened on the bandana, a groan catching low in his throat as the sensation tipped past balance into want. The bandana rasp only stoked it now. He wanted Sanji closer – close enough to erase the space between them.

Zoro let the thought coil tight in his chest, fiercer now, almost desperate: Don’t let go of me. The swing creaked again, sunlight pressed against the backs of his eyelids, and instead of balance came fire – breathless, trembling, nothing like order at all. It was want.

The soulmark on Zoro’s arm was beautiful.

Sanji finally got to see it, after much cajoling for Zoro to remove the bandana. He knew, the second he saw it, that it was him: the curl for his eyebrows, the heart that was the center of everything he did. The three dots at the top and the bottom, connecting him to Zoro’s precious threes.

He clasped his right hand in Zoro’s left, their soulmarks aligned together as they sat side by side. Zoro seemed content in the contact, not forcing it, not prickling away. Sanji caught the difference and savored it, his grin foolish and unbothered. 

Zoro was pink-faced and still muttering about perverted cooks, forgetting Sanji could hear every flicker of thought about sex. He understood it now – the way touch worked for Zoro. The first brush always locked him taut, body deciding which way it would break. Sometimes the answer was no, and he’d pull away at once. Other times, the tension eased, and the contact lingered. And if the moment tipped far enough, Zoro leaned in hard, all his focus pouring into it until Sanji was left dizzy. Sanji let him set the pace every time.

Basking in the sunlight, Sanji lightly pushed the swing with his toe, letting them rock gently. He noticed Zoro’s free hand ghost briefly toward his haramaki, fingers brushing the fabric as if to anchor, before easing back again. Sanji’s thoughts drifted to the books he’d read about soulmates, how soulmates pushed each other to become the best versions of themselves. His lips curved, thinking of all the fighting and sparring he and Zoro got into, driving each other to grow stronger. It was all true.

The magic of being Bonded wasn’t going to be seamless, though. Sanji had always pictured it as effortless, like in the books. But Zoro was different – divergent in ways Sanji hadn’t expected. It just meant they’d have to fight harder for it. And Sanji never backed down from a fight.

He glanced at Zoro, who was tapping in his familiar pattern of threes, blush still warm on his cheeks. The neat rhythm ran under Sanji’s skin, order reasserting itself after the chaotic swell of earlier. “Oi, marimo… can I get a kiss?”

Zoro froze. The blush deepened, and a rush of excitement bled through, nerves curling tight in his chest. Sanji felt the little stillness – a half-breath of shutdown, catalogue cut off, body deciding if this was safe. Then came the answer, sharp and unguarded: Yes. I want that.

“Okay.”

The instant of contact flared too bright. A breath later it shifted, hyperfocus surging in, every ounce of Zoro’s intensity locking onto him: lips, breath, smoke-sweet taste. The force of it stole Sanji’s air.

Sanji felt it all – the overwhelm at the start, the stillness of his body deciding, then the cascade into focus, dangerous and consuming, until there was nothing left but him. Sanji let his own feelings seep back in return: contentment, pleasure, affection, satisfaction. The tentative swipe of Zoro’s tongue sent a shiver through him. He parted his lips, inviting Zoro in, letting him lead.

Kisses in his past had always been rushed, messy, flavored with ale and impatience. With Zoro it was different. Every beat carried a current – tension, release, intensity. What began tangled always smoothed into calm. It was slow, questioning, exploration instead of conquering. It twisted Sanji’s insides in the best way, making everything feel brighter, sweeter.

I really do love you, he thought across the bond.

And he felt Zoro’s answering smile – pressed against his lips, and warm inside him.

Sanji…

Sanji heard Zoro’s voice pulse faintly in the back of his mind, dragging him from unconsciousness.

Sanji… where are you?

He moaned through deep pain as he pushed himself upright, crushed stone grinding into his skin and clothes. Around him, the air was thick with dust and the acrid sting of smoke. Part of the castle’s ancient wall had exploded, chunks of rubble scattered like deadly hail. Amid toppled columns and crumbled battlements, the other Straw Hats staggered to their feet, wincing and checking each other over.

“Ouch.” Nami cursed, clutching her shoulder, skin already blooming purple.

“Look at me!” Luffy danced around with his usual grin, completely unscathed despite the wreckage. “I feel as good as new. I wonder why.”

“Come on now! You’ve got to be kidding me,” Franky complained, wincing as he rubbed his back beneath his torn shirt.

Sanji…

Chopper gaped at Luffy, his own fur clumped with dirt and blood. “Huh?!”

“Liar! After the beating you took, there’s no way!” Usopp shouted, clutching his bandaged arm.

“Perhaps all the damage has made him slap-happy,” Robin suggested gently, touching her bruised cheek.

Everything hurt. Sanji could hardly move; every breath stabbed shallow in his chest, pain darting like needles between his ribs. His leg throbbed fiercely – broken, he knew – but the pain that twisted through him wasn’t all his. Amid the haze, a faint pressure curled in his skull. Zoro’s voice.

Memory surged over him like a wave. “Zoro!”

Sanji… I need you…

“Coming.” I’m coming. Sanji summoned every ounce of willpower and strength he had, corralling the agony that wasn’t his own into the confines of his mental Germa cell. He shaped it with bars, enough to filter Zoro’s presence without shutting him out.

He pushed himself up, unsteady but determined, ignoring Chopper’s urgent protests that no one should move until everyone was checked. Eyes sharp despite the haze, he pointed at Usopp, “Take Zoro’s swords,” before hobbling off as fast as his broken leg allowed.

Sanji…

I’m coming. Hold on for me.

Memories flipped through Sanji’s brain as he searched for Zoro. Kuma, planning to take Luffy’s head. Zoro, offering up his own instead. Sanji, stepping in, because everyone’s life was more precious to him than his own – especially Zoro’s. Zoro, cracking the hilt of his katana into his side, the whisper of his thoughts as darkness drew Sanji under: …love you until my last breath…

Sanji…

Zoro’s mental voice grew faint, fraying like a thread about to snap. Don’t you dare die on me, you bastard. I still owe you a kick in the ass for knocking me out!

Sanji hauled himself over a shattered wall, spotting Zoro near the forest’s edge.

“Zoro!” he shouted, sliding down the rubble. He pushed himself forward as fast as his battered body allowed. 

Around Zoro, dark crimson stained the stones and splattered across broken debris, more than Sanji had ever seen.

Zoro stood motionless, arms crossed, stance rigid. Sanji felt the catalogue splinter: blood, pressure, silence. No words, no speech, only the bond kept him tethered. When Sanji reached him, his heart nearly stopped. Blood seeped from everywhere – head, nose, eyes, ears, mouth, even through his skin.

“Zoro…” Sanji’s breath caught. “What the hell happened here?”

“Nothing happened,” Zoro said flatly, voice low and strained.

Then, like a stance breaking under its own weight, a wash of relief and safety rippled through the bond. Zoro’s eyes rolled back, his body collapsing into unconsciousness.

Sanji caught him just in time before he hit the ground. “Zoro! Oi, Zoro, stay with me!”

Inside him, Zoro was silent, the ocean still as the Calm Belt. Sanji needed to get him to Chopper. There had been so much pain, and there was so much blood…

Sanji hefted Zoro over his shoulder, a sharp cry tearing from his throat as the searing agony in his broken leg flared. Should’ve been stronger. Each step sent jolts through his body, but he forced himself to keep moving. He couldn’t afford to slow, couldn’t afford to falter. Gritting his teeth, he put weight on it, carrying Zoro back toward the others, toward Chopper. Stay with me, marimo. The doctor is coming.

Sanji’s breath came ragged, hot and shallow, mixing with the acrid scent of dust and splintered wood that hung thick in the shattered castle air. Beneath his feet, uneven rubble bit into the soles of his shoes, each step treacherous. Somewhere distant, a twisted beam groaned ominously, threatening to collapse. But Sanji didn’t dare look; his whole world was the body on his shoulder, the fragile form of the man he loved.

Dragging himself and Zoro through the ruins, Sanji moved toward the destroyed castle. Voices rose ahead, the Rolling Pirates checking on each other amid the wreckage. “Chopper! Chopper!” Sanji yelled, his voice cracking mid-word. “CHOPPER!”

When Chopper scrambled over a broken wall with Franky close behind, Sanji nearly sobbed with relief.

“Zoro!” Chopper’s panicked cry pierced through the haze. “Oh no! Oh no! We need a doctor!”

“That’s you,” Franky said, voice tense.

“Ah! That is me!” Chopper hurried down the rubble, already shifting into healer mode. “Franky, get Zoro somewhere flat, under a roof if one’s still standing.”

Franky moved quickly, but gently as he took Zoro from Sanji. “I got him, Eyebrow-bro. I’ll take care of him.”

Sanji’s jaw clenched, the growl rough and raw, “You’d better.” But inside, fear clawed mercilessly. Watching Franky carry Zoro felt like a blow – both relief and torment.

Chopper’s rapid-fire questions rattled through the air. “What happened? Where did you find him? Why is he covered in blood?”

Sanji’s throat tightened, words barely more than a whisper, hoarse with pain and panic. “Just fix him, Chopper. Please.”

Chopper’s nod was brisk before he disappeared into the shadows of broken stone and scattered debris.

Alone now, the weight of everything crashed down. The shattered bones of the castle loomed around him – broken arches jutting like teeth, half-collapsed walls leaning at impossible angles. Once-tall towers lay in heaps of fractured stone, smoke still curling from fissures in the rubble. Every breath tasted of dust and ash, every blink stung with grit.

Sanji’s leg buckled, sending a fresh wave of agony through his body as he collapsed onto the cracked ground. Rubble scraped his palms and knees, cold and uneven through torn fabric. He curled into himself, fingers yanking at his hair, heart pounding with a brutal mix of helplessness and guilt. The air was metallic, thick with the bitter reek of charred wood. Somewhere deep in the ruins, the rubble shifted in a slow, dangerous slide.

Around him, the Rolling Pirates staggered like shadows through the haze. Some limped with broken limbs, others cried out from beneath the weight of fallen stones. Blood smeared across dirt-streaked faces. A man pressed a torn shirt against his comrade’s bleeding scalp. Another strained to shift rubble pinning a leg, curses breaking into sobs. Their pain threaded with his own, an unrelenting chorus that scraped at his raw nerves.

I was weak.

The thought hit hard, then fractured, repeating, spiraling. Too weak. Should’ve been faster. Should’ve been stronger. Should’ve stopped it. Kuma, the crew, Zoro…

Each name snagged and tore at him. Each failure replayed sharper than the last. His chest heaved, breaths shallow, broken. Zoro bleeding, Zoro falling, Zoro breaking apart while I– while I…

The words looped, disorderly, collapsing into each other. My fault. Should’ve protected him. Should’ve taken more. Should’ve given more. Not enough. Never enough.

The spiral pressed in until the only thing left was Zoro, limp in Franky’s arms. The bond was silent – terrifying.  A single thread lingered, faint but steady: Zoro’s love remained, and Sanji would not let it go.

Sanji pressed his forehead to the dirt, choking on the taste of iron and grit. He forced himself not to black out, not yet. Around him, survivors moaned in pain, stone dust heavy in the air, the castle groaning like a dying beast. But through it all, one truth cut clear in his mind: Zoro was still alive.

He has to be. He has to be.

Zoro reached for Sanji before he was truly conscious. He felt the soft flow of reassurance, buoyed on a current of relief, and, relaxing, slipped back under.

The second time, he caught conversation, bandages snug, blanket pressing close. His hand drifted to his belly, comforted by the haramaki. A bit lower, there was nothing clothing him. A faint smile tugged at his mouth. Sanji must’ve insisted the haramaki stay on. He let that warmth carry him back to sleep.

The third time, he became fully aware. People milled nearby, their shuffling and conversation occasionally broken by bursts of laughter. The sounds came blurred at first, laughter too loud, voices overlapping, footsteps scraping harsh across stone. The blanket rasped against his skin until he named it, then the haramaki, then the bandages. Three taps to his thigh, and he slid into mentally Sanji’s arms.

Sanji’s love was a constant, cozy fire in the background, but when Zoro wanted more, he’d learned to pull Sanji into a mental embrace that felt like a hug without the need for touch. In Zoro’s opinion, it was the best part of the soulbond – to be able to feel like he was being held whenever he wanted.

They’d trained with the bond, just like Sanji suggested. Testing its edges, learning what Zoro could and couldn’t tolerate, and what to do when things became overwhelming.

Sanji was better at it than Zoro. He’d quickly figured out how to regulate his feelings so Zoro didn’t receive them unless invited. He’d invented the idea of sending a mental pulse before speaking in Zoro’s mind, and he’d told Zoro to reach out anytime, whether for a conversation or to send feelings. It was especially handy when Zoro was up in the crow’s nest and wanted a drink. And when things pressed too close, Zoro pictured himself on a boat surrounded by open water, to help Sanji not become swamped, too.

When Zoro did reach for Sanji’s emotions, they always came soft and slow, like honey unwinding from a spoon. That made them easier to take in and welcome. He could feel Sanji now: the warmth of his mental embrace, the quiet probing question, the gentle waves of relief. Then came the pulse – Sanji wanted to talk – and Zoro was ready when the voice whispered in his mind.

’Bout damn time you woke up, lazybones. I’m in the makeshift kitchen. Don’t move till Chopper clears you, or I’ll kick you back into a coma.

How long was I out?

Three days. It’s been pleasantly quiet without your incessant yapping.

Funny. I’m thirsty. Bring me booze.

I’ll bring you something to drink with lunch.

I want it now.

And I want Nami to flash me again like in Arabasta. Not happening. Same with the booze. And yeah, I can feel you pouting.

…Fine.

Good marimo. Don’t give Chopper a hard time. He saved your green-assed life.

Fear slipped through the bond, not his own. Bandages bit, blanket rasped, voices jabbed sharp at his ears. Sanji’s fear tangled through it all until Zoro’s ribs cinched tight against the surge.

Zoro pushed back through the bond, thoughts steady even as his chest constricted, I’m not sorry that I did it, but I’m sorry that I made you afraid.

Sanji started to pull back, but Zoro held fast. Don’t go.

I’ve got lunch to make, shithead.

And I want to hold you for a while.

A beat of hesitation, then Sanji’s mental embrace returned. Zoro sank into it, fingers twitching down to press against his haramaki. The firm fabric pressed against his palm, pressure neat and even, his cataloguing stitching back together: blanket rasp softened, bandages even, air moving free again, heartbeat leveled. The splintered edges smoothed, the bond warming him from the inside out like Sanji’s arms around him.

Sanji stayed silent for a long while, until Zoro was just beginning to drift off when Sanji spoke again.

Why did you stop me?

Zoro knew exactly what Sanji meant. He tapped three times against his thigh before answering, tightening his grip in the bond.

Because the world needs that beautiful heart of yours.

He felt the startled hitch, then a flood of emotion too tangled to name before it was tamped down.

Bastard. Saying stupid shit. Kuma must’ve broken your brain.

Zoro’s lips curved into a smile. Love you, too.

Panic slammed into Sanji like a physical blow. The force of it was so sudden he actually flinched, teeth gritting as the rush of Zoro’s fear flooded through their bond. Instinct had him reaching back at once, sending steadiness and reassurance to hold him fast. But almost as quickly, he had to retreat, slamming a curtain over the mental bars that anchored his own mind. It wasn’t to shut Zoro out entirely – never that – but to blunt the raw, fractured flood of overload pouring into him.

Zoro must not have had the time, or the wherewithal, to climb onto his mental boat. Everything came unfiltered: dread, disorientation, broken scraps pressing through – wrong voice, too bright light, no swords, shards Sanji couldn’t piece together.

Sanji had been combing this strange place for the others for what had to be an hour now, weaving through a forest that looked like love exploded – pink trees arching overhead into heart shapes, their blossoms spilling petals like soft confetti on the breeze, pink animals darting in and out of the brush. He had no idea where Kuma had scattered them, other than away from Sabaody. Since the moment he’d washed up on the beach, he’d kept his own panic under tight leash, fencing it in behind grit and habit. Zoro had vanished into the still, dark ocean of unconsciousness shortly after they’d been separated. But the steady pulse of that connection told Sanji he was alive. And if Zoro was alive, then maybe the others were, too.

Finding them, though, was another matter. He should’ve stumbled across someone by now. Zoro’s return to consciousness – overload or not – was still a good sign. It meant Sanji might soon be able to pin down where the idiot swordsman was and get to him. That mattered more now, especially knowing Zoro still wasn’t fully healed from Thriller Bark.

Sanji stopped and leaned back against the thick trunk of a tree, fishing out a fresh cigarette. The lighter flared against the breeze, and the first drag bloomed hot in his chest before curling upward into the pink canopy. Beneath the drift of vanilla smoke, he felt Zoro pressing against the curtain, overload leaking in faint bursts – scattered cataloguing Sanji caught without the whole burn. Through the tether, Sanji caught the faint phantom press against fabric, Zoro’s hand digging into the haramaki, his body’s anchor even in overload.

He’d learned how to shield himself without severing the tether, and truth be told, he didn’t want to. That steady, unfiltered pulse of Zoro’s presence – raw and imperfect – was proof of their soulbond. Zoro fought battles most people never saw. Sanji would shoulder them gladly, if it meant Zoro could be unguarded, free.

The island was warm, almost balmy, but the ocean breeze kept it pleasant. Pink leaves whispered overhead, joined by the faint calls of unseen birds and the skitter of small creatures in the underbrush. The sun had begun its slow slide toward the horizon, light gilding the forest in a surreal blush. He needed to find the others before dark. Empty stomachs were the last thing this crew needed right now.

By the time he’d burned his cigarette to the filter, that mental weight had shifted. The chaos of Zoro’s mind dulled, still disordered but not breaking him apart. Sanji lingered a few more seconds, then let the curtain drop and sent a soft pulse of concern, support, and question.

Silence answered him. Heavy, blank, stretching on for nearly a minute – the unmistakable stillness of shutdown. Sanji stayed quiet, soothing himself in smoke and breath, until finally, like cracks opening in stone, Zoro’s voice pushed through.

That woman stole my swords. Won’t give ’em back!

Sanji blinked. Not exactly the crisis he’d been expecting. What woman?

That ghost lady from Thriller Bark – Perona. She took my swords and won’t give them back!

Zoro’s agitation spooled tighter again, his inner rhythm stuttering rough: no swords, no ground, nothing right. Sanji’s thoughts pressed back like a hand against a shaking shoulder. Breathe, marimo. Tell me what you see. I’ll come find you, and we’ll get your swords back.

Some sort of castle. And it’s gloomy outside the window.

Sanji glanced at the sunny sky and the absence of stone towers above the trees. A sinking heaviness settled in his gut. Any pink trees out the window?

Pink trees? Hold on… No pink trees. Perona says there are pine trees and ruins and mountains.

His hands clenched into fists, tugging at his hair. Fuck. They must’ve been flung to separate islands entirely. Despair gripped his heart. He’d failed Zoro again.

Through the bond came Zoro’s voice once more, slower now, steadier but clipped. You feel upset. Why? Where are you?

Sanji reined in his control, shoving his emotions firmly into his cell. No sense in letting Zoro drown in his feelings, not when the man was already dealing with enough. What he sent instead was quiet reassurance, love, and the bare truth. I think we’re on different islands.

A storm of frustration and resignation rolled back at him, ending in one flat word: Shit.

Yeah. Sanji pulled on his hair again. You safe?

Eh. Perona patched me up. Seems to want company, even if she’s still holding my swords hostage.

When you can, try to head for Sabaody. Luffy gave us three days to regroup.

Not without my swords.

Sanji’s mouth twitched faintly. He could almost see the set jaw, the restless tapping that came whenever Zoro’s body refused to yield. Wouldn’t expect less. And… keep talkin’ to me. I need to know you’re okay.

Goes both ways, cook.

The corner of Sanji’s mouth lifted despite everything as he sent a long, slow wave of affection across their bond – a mental hug – and was immediately met with Zoro’s fierce, unyielding reply, a solid embrace that latched onto him without hesitation. The surge of strength and certainty bolstered Sanji’s resolve, steadying his racing heart and filling the hollow ache with quiet confidence. Whatever it took, they would find each other again.

I’ll see you soon.

Soon turned into two years. Two long, mostly lonely years in hell.

If not for Zoro’s voice in his head, Sanji doubted he would’ve survived them.

He’d been forced to learn Sky Walk because the hunts never stopped. Forced to master Observation Haki just to sleep with enemies breathing down his neck. Forced to harden his Armament Haki to defend against the endless pursuit. Forced to stop cooking for people – the thing he loved most – because the second he lingered, they were there again. Then, insult on top of injury, he’d been shoved into a dress, wig, makeup, and heels and made to fight like that, with zero regard for how it wrecked him mentally or emotionally.

Being dumped on an island of Okama – fine, whatever. It sucked that he couldn’t even look at women when he liked both women and men, but he could’ve stomached that much. What gutted him was being forced into a dress he didn’t choose. He wasn’t a woman. He had no desire to “find his inner maiden.” He’d already had his gay panic at thirteen, thanks very much. That dress wasn’t empowerment – it was the theft of his agency, humiliation gnawing at old wounds until Momoiro felt like Germa again. And standing there in a dress he hadn’t chosen, the bitter thought sank in: maybe he was still the same failure, too.

It sucked.

Zoro, on the other hand, had been a chatterbox of happiness for most of the two years. He was exhilarated, constantly buzzing with excitement to push himself, to learn from the one man he considered the best: Mihawk. Sanji had nearly choked when Zoro told him he was going to train under the same guy who’d nearly carved him in two. And yet, Zoro thrived. Mihawk’s structure and steady training gave him a baseline Sanji had rarely seen. Isolated with only two people – and a horde of sword-wielding gorillas meant solely for sparring – Zoro found order in the predictability, leaving him calmer than Sanji had ever known him. It should’ve been a relief, but the steadiness carried a faint sting, because the kind of quiet that soothed Zoro was something Sanji could never give him.

He’d even grown to genuinely like Mihawk and Perona, enough that Sanji caught himself feeling twinges of jealousy when the constant Mihawk this and Perona that filled their conversations. Still, Zoro spoke more to him in those two years than he probably had in his entire life combined, his words an unwavering thread in Sanji’s mind through the bond, constant, centering. Something he could hold onto when his own world felt like it was coming apart.

The only truly bad thing – other than Sanji aching from his absence – was the idiot losing an eye in a training incident.

How do you lose an eye?!

…Lack of talent.

Sanji might’ve brushed it off for a joke if Zoro had the faintest clue how to tell one. But he didn’t, and the silence that followed proved it. Sanji’s nerves frayed on the spot. Through the bond he felt neither sharp pain nor anger, only a blank, muffled wall where Zoro should have been. Sanji kept reaching anyway, again and again, unwilling to accept the static that met him, like a seashell whispering only the ocean’s dull roar when he needed Zoro’s voice instead.

For four days it stayed that way. No words, only faint thuds in sets of three – Zoro grounding himself.

The emptiness gnawed at him. He’d grown used to Zoro’s voice – sometimes clipped, sometimes rambling, but always there. Without it, Sanji’s nights stretched long and airless. He tossed on his narrow cot, smoke after smoke burning down to the filter while his nerves prickled raw. He’d once overloaded from Zoro’s unfiltered emotions, buckling under the flood of fear or fury. Now it was the opposite: silence pressed down until his own thoughts rang too loud. 

When Zoro finally came back, his words weren’t smooth. They were halting, broken by those mental taps, every thought tested before release.

Fine. …Still… fighting.

Balance– wrong. Fixing it.

Not– weak. Don’t– worry.

Even in Sanji’s head, the pauses dragged, as if Zoro had to hammer each phrase into shape before letting Sanji hear it.

It wasn’t despair. Sanji knew despair. This was something else – Zoro shutting everything down, pulling all his energy inward to rewire his body, to learn to move, fight, and balance with one eye instead of two. A shutdown, not a surrender.

In the weeks that followed, the clipped speech remained. The shorthand came back in fragments at first: a few sharp sensory notes dropped into Sanji’s head, then silence, then another note hours later. Steel. Crimson. Edge sharp. Never full sentences. Sometimes Sanji felt the ghost of fabric pressed against skin, Zoro grounding himself against the haramaki before letting another shard slip through. Sanji treated those snippets as proof Zoro’s mind was mending in its own rhythm.

Gradually, the fragments stretched longer. Training reports slipped in – sparring drills, Mihawk’s critiques, Perona’s sarcasm – sparse but steady. Sanji felt the shift: the taps less urgent, the pauses less uneven. Zoro’s presence, once splintered, started to smooth back into its old pattern of chatter and dry remarks, and with it came the quiet hum of contentment he hadn’t felt since before the injury. It wasn’t forced; Zoro was adapting, reshaping himself around the loss, and finding balance again.

And while Sanji’s time was misery on repeat, he couldn’t begrudge Zoro’s joy. He was glad – no, relieved – that Zoro was free to be himself without the constant friction of a crew’s noise and chaos. That he was learning, that he felt strong enough to protect them all. Once, Zoro had told him quietly, Dream’s not worth it if it costs one of you.

Dreams drove them. Love kept them alive. On that, Sanji couldn’t agree more.

The salty, bubble-scented air of Sabaody Archipelago hit him the moment he stepped off the ship. He flicked off the Okama who’d given him a lift, then slipped into the tide of people. Above him, colossal mangrove roots curved toward the sky like the ribs of some ancient leviathan, their canopies glowing green-gold in the sunlight. Transparent bubbles drifted lazily from the trees, catching rainbows in their skin before popping in soft whispers against clothes and hair. Market cries mingled with the hiss-pop of bubbles and the distant wash of waves.

All of it blurred into background noise. Sanji had only one focus: find Zoro.

He already knew the mossbrain was here – Zoro had been grumbling for hours that it was taking him too long to arrive. But first, Shakky’s bar. The place smelled of cigarette smoke, spiced rum, and polished wood, the low ceiling making it feel like a harbor from the chaos outside.

I’m fishing, Zoro muttered, undertone skittering with overload. After two years of near-solitude, the press of Sabaody’s crowds hit Sanji through the bond like a fist to the gut. Zoro had been tipping into shutdowns almost daily since arriving. Unsurprising. Sanji let his steady warmth seep into the bond, quiet and anchoring, a reminder Zoro could lean without being smothered.

Shortly thereafter, the bond went soft, ebbing into that blank, drowsy quiet Sanji had learned to recognize. Zoro had drifted off again, shutting the world out the only way he knew how.

Later, while halfway through stocking the Sunny, Sanji caught an old man fretting about a green-haired stranger boarding the wrong boat. He didn’t need the rest. Of course it was his directionally doomed swordsman.

Confusion flared in the bond, sharpened into irritation, then cut clean into killing intent. A heartbeat later, the ocean erupted. One ship, cleaved in two, pitched up with a groan.

The old man gaped. Sanji grinned, sending a pulse of dry amusement. Your grand entrance would be more impressive if you hadn’t gotten lost, marimo.

He told me the wrong boat!

Sanji’s chuckle earned him another wide-eyed stare. Overhead, the supply bubbles drifted lazily. Zoro leapt from the broken mast to the dock as if stepping off a curb, coat flaring, haramaki snug at his waist, new muscle bulk in his shoulders and chest. The scar over his eye made him look sharper, dangerous. Sanji’s chest tightened with giddiness. Two long, lonely years… and there he was.

Zoro saw him, and the grin that broke across his face nearly undid Sanji.

“Sanji!” Five bounding strides and Sanji was crushed in a hug – then shoved back just as quick. “Nope.” Zoro’s face twisted, caught between want and unease, before he darted in to steal the briefest, blessed kiss.

The moment was short, tense, a flinch wrapped with longing – but perfect.

 “I missed your ugly face,” Sanji said, grinning like a fool.

Joy flooded the bond, raw enough to ache. Relief, too. Beneath it, a tremor in Zoro’s hands, jaw clamped, rapid blink. The crowd, the clang of signs, the heat of sun on dock wood, the salt-and-fish tang of the breeze – all of it grated like salt in a cut ground into an open wound. Zoro pressed three quick beats against his thigh, exhaled, then tapped again.

Sanji’s throat eased as he caught the rhythm. His hands itched to hold him, but he kept them still, letting reassurance ride through the bond instead of pressing close.

Zoro’s grin wavered, then steadied. “You parted your hair different.”

“Figured we should see eye-to-eye, you fucking cyclops.”

Zoro shrugged. “You know it’s fine.”

Sanji longed to drag him in again, to erase the ache of two years, but instead he lit a cigarette, smoke curling into the salted air. “I need to finish shopping. Come with?”

Zoro’s gaze flicked to the gawking crowd. His body went rigid, prickling discomfort echoing across the tether. “Tired of people.”

Sanji nodded, then turned to the old man. “Oi, take him fishing. Which boat is yours?”

The man pointed shakily at a little skiff – not a ship, not even close. Trust Zoro to still get it wrong.

Sanji jerked his chin toward it. “Go on, moss. I’ll come get you when you’re done.”

Relief rippled through his frame in a near-physical wave – shoulders dropping, jaw easing, fingers drumming three beats against the haramaki before he drew a steadier breath. “Okay.” He started toward the boat, coat swaying, then paused, glanced back.

“Do you want to come with me instead?”

Sanji’s chest expanded, hot with love that burned almost painful. The bond that had carried them through two years thrummed under his skin. “I’d love to.”

The skiff rocked gently as they stepped aboard, the old fisherman muttering under his breath about swordsmen and troublemakers but pushing them off with practiced ease. The moment the oars dipped, the noise of the dock began to fade – voices swallowed by distance, the constant hiss-pop of bubbles softening into the background. Out here, only the slow creak of wood, the rhythmic splash of oars, and the lilt of waves brushing the hull filled the space.

Zoro sat across from him, shoulders hunched, eye half-lidded. He dragged in a lungful of the open air, then let it out with a sound so close to relief Sanji’s own chest loosened. His fingers tapped again, softer this time, against the haramaki. Three beats. Then stillness.

Sanji felt it through the bond, the rawness easing, sparks dimming low. He didn’t need to ask. But when Zoro shifted, breaking the quiet with a mutter, the words landed heavier than they should have.

“Too many people. Too many smells. Too loud.” Another quiet set of taps, then a slower breath. “Here’s better.”

Sanji exhaled smoke, letting it curl away in the wind. “Yeah. Here’s better.”

The ocean stretched endless around them, sky and water blurring at the horizon. The little boat rocked with an easy rhythm, and Sanji found himself cataloguing the sounds for Zoro’s sake: creak, splash, gull. Naming them in his own head steadied them both.

Zoro cracked his eye open, caught him watching, and smirked faintly. “Stop staring.”

“Not my fault you look good, mosshead.”

Warmth stirred in the bond, irritation tangled with shy pleasure. Sanji let it rest there, quiet and sure, while the skiff carried them farther from the noise and deeper into calm.

Sanji’s nose bled so much at the sight of Nami, Robin, and the mermaids he needed multiple transfusions. Dumb. Zoro was annoyed with him. He got that Sanji hadn’t been around women in two years – and had a thing for mermaids – but come on. If Zoro hadn’t known it was general horniness, he’d have punched Sanji out of jealousy.

It didn’t help that Zoro couldn’t do anything about Sanji’s horniness, which might’ve put a stop to the ridiculousness. He wanted to, but his stupid body could never settle on if touch was a good thing or a bad thing at any particular moment, which was frustrating as hell now that he had someone to share his life with. It would’ve been nice if he could have just one typical thing, especially since he fantasized about taking all their clothes off and pressing against each other. Some days even jerking off was impossible – the touch too raw, nerves sparking wrong. Before, it was just irritation. Now it was a reminder of how broken things could feel, with someone he actually wanted.

So Zoro chose to ignore Sanji, not talking to him in person or in his mind, and instead let annoyance run the line between them. Then Fish-Man Island’s chaos distracted him – until Sanji brought it back before they left.

“Aaah! To think the day would come when the mermaid princess of Fish-Man Island herself would shed tears at our departure,” Sanji spun hearts and adoration at Princess Shirahoshi. “I wish I could live here for another year!”

Anger and hurt clenched Zoro’s chest. He wrapped an arm over his haramaki. “You know, that’s a good idea,” he said flatly. “You should stay here, nosebleed.”

Sanji scowled. “Who are you calling nosebleed, mosshead?”

“You, asshole.” Zoro turned and stalked off, walling himself away from Sanji’s gentle push of concern with a hard fuck off.

He retreated to the storage room below the men’s quarters, a space he had claimed for himself. The hatch let in a slant of light. Otherwise it was dark and still, quiet pressing in from all sides. Zoro had cleared away boxes and stacked junk, spreading old blankets across the floor until it became a den that was completely his. When everything else became too much, when every voice and noise scraped at him, this was where he came to breathe.

Dropping down onto the makeshift bedding, Zoro pressed a fist against his haramaki and scowled into the dark. Fucking Sanji and his mermaid fetish. Saying he wanted to stay a year with them. Fine, whatever. Sanji could have his women. Zoro didn’t give a shit.

He shut his eye, tapped his finger three times against the fabric of his haramaki. The coarse weave rasped against his skin, giving him something to hold even as order still slipped jagged and uneven.

A few minutes later, he felt the pulse of warning that Sanji was about to speak to him through the bond. His lips pressed thin. What?

You tell me, Sanji’s voice curled across the connection. I’m practically vibrating from your emotions.

If you don’t like it, fucking cut me off then.

…I would never do that. Ever. You know that, marimo.

For all I know… I’m an anchor. Dead weight. Dragging you down.

What the hell? What are you talking about?

You know what I’m talking about. His jaw tightened. You could have someone normal. Instead, you’re stuck with me.

Again, what the hell? Where is this coming from?

I’m just pointing out the truth, cook. You got the raw end of the deal. You should cut your losses, block me off, and find some normal woman or mermaid to love.

Wait… are you jealous? That I found the mermaids attractive?

No. That was the truth. He wasn’t jealous. It was just the reminder of difference, and while he usually carried it with acceptance, this time it tore through him.

Footsteps clanged on the ladder. Zoro stiffened. “Go away. I don’t want you in my space.”

Sanji paused at the bottom and flicked his lighter, a small flame haloing his face without reaching the corner where Zoro sat. “Something’s obviously bothering you, marimo, and I want to see you when I talk to you.”

“I don’t want to see you.”

“Well, tough shit. Either you come here, or I’m coming to you.”

The idea of Sanji invading his cocoon made him clench. He hugged his haramaki tighter, pattern slipping again: rasped fabric under his palm, order jagged and uneven. His words came flat, pared down, the clipped cadence he fell into when everything narrowed to black-and-white. “I don’t want you in my space.”

“Zoro–”

“No! It’s mine, and I don’t want you in it.”

Silence. Sanji’s emotions were shuttered, too well controlled for Zoro to read, unlike his own ragged ones. Finally Sanji sighed. “I get it.” The lighter snapped shut. He turned toward the ladder.

“No, you don’t,” Zoro muttered before Sanji could climb. “You don’t get it at all. Because you’re normal and I’m not.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Sanji said immediately. Light from the open hatch framed his silhouette.

Zoro gave a derisive snort. “We both know that’s not true.”

Sanji’s anger surged hot and undeniable as he repeated harshly, “There is nothing wrong with you.”

“I think I know myself–”

“No!” Sanji’s voice cracked through the dark. “There is nothing fucking wrong with you. You are the best part of us, and I won’t have you talk shit about yourself.”

Zoro didn’t believe it. “But I’m–”

“What – strong? Protective? Loyal?” Sanji said sharply. “If I were half the man you are, I’d count myself lucky. But I’m luckier still – I get to love you. And don’t you dare think I’d ever want anyone else.”

Zoro’s mouth snapped shut, heart pounding unevenly. Beneath Sanji’s anger rippled fear.

“Why are you afraid?” Zoro asked quietly.

Sanji tried to pull the feeling away, to dampen it, but Zoro pushed back, tightening to catch it: the hum of the flame gone out, the ache of clenched fists, the steady beat of his taps on fabric. “Don’t. Let me feel it.”

After a pause, Sanji relented, letting the fear seep through, tinged with resignation. “Because it sounds like you want to break things off.”

Zoro winced, chest tightening. His cataloguing frayed: too-hot air, haramaki biting into his ribs, the ragged rush of breath in his throat. He fought to piece it back together before speaking, fingers trembling as he tapped again. “I just… I want to touch you.” His throat closed. “To be naked and–” He cut off, words collapsing. “You could have someone else. Someone not broken. Not me.”

The words hung between them, heavier than he expected. Saying it out loud stripped away his defenses, leaving him exposed. He hated how small it made him feel, like the difference he’d learned to live with had turned into a weight he couldn’t lift. He could fight through anything with a sword in hand, but against this – his own body, his own wiring – he only felt inadequate.

Touch always betrayed him. His chest wanted it, his hands wanted it, but his skin turned traitor the second it came close. Sometimes it scraped raw until he shoved it off. Other times it slipped through and felt almost good, sometimes better than good. He never knew which it would be, never knew when what he craved would burn him instead. That was the wall he kept hitting – not training, not strength, but his own body making him feel defective.

Sanji went still, shoulders lowering almost imperceptibly. His hand shifted once, fingers brushing the ladder. Then Sanji spoke, calm and unwavering, “When I was a kid, I got locked in a cell for six months. Now I build one in my head to keep my emotions in check. And I’ll keep doing it if it means I get to be with you.” His hand brushed absently over his own stomach, mirroring Zoro’s haramaki touch – a quiet promise that he would anchor himself, too.

Zoro froze. His fists clenched against the haramaki, cataloguing unraveling – skin prickling along his spine, band of cloth too tight, throat too dry. He tapped once, twice, three times, forcing pieces back in line until the shards smoothed. “That’s… probably not healthy,” he muttered, voice rough.

“Likely not,” Sanji admitted softly. “But you’re worth it.”

Zoro’s shoulders slumped fractionally, tension bleeding from his neck though not gone. He swallowed and let a long, measured breath escape. “I don’t want you in a cell. Can’t you do something else?”

“If you think of something, let me know. But until then, I’ll keep it.” Sanji hesitated. “Are we okay?”

Zoro rubbed his haramaki, grounding. Cloth even, dark holding firm, Sanji’s presence anchoring. Finally, he spoke. “I don’t want to lose you… but I don’t want you stuck… unsatisfied.”

Sanji huffed a laugh. “Marimo, I have a hand. And I don’t mind if you pull away a hundred times. The point isn’t touching – it’s us. If it’s too much, we stop. End of story.”

Zoro absorbed the words, warmed but still fragile at the edges. “You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, you shitty hunk of seaweed. I’m not going anywhere. Except back upstairs to start lunch. You nap. Come find me after.”

“Okay.”

Sanji’s steps receded up the ladder. Zoro sat back in his den, the dark pressing like a blanket, the ache in his chest eased if not gone. Sanji’s words hadn’t fixed everything, but they had stitched his scattered cataloguing into something steadier. Upstairs, Sanji’s even rhythm waited. The rest they would work through together, in their own time.

Sanji had said he wasn’t going anywhere. That he’d never want anyone else.

He lied.

Talk to me, you fucking piece of shit! Should’ve had the balls to dump me in person!

Zoro had been on his way to Zou when Sanji abruptly disappeared from the bond, leaving a hollow, echoing void behind him. For a moment, the world shuttered. Sun too bright, wind rasping raw, every sound splitting into shards. His mind jammed. His chest locked, breath shallow, body rocking as he tapped sharp threes against his haramaki, desperate for order.

When words finally broke through, he shouted at Luffy and the others, voice raw: Go faster. Sanji’s in trouble. The thought gnawed at him, frantic and unrelenting.

Dead would’ve been easier. Dead meant an end. Abandonment left only the ache of being replaced.

But he wasn’t dead. He’d walked away – to get married. He’d cut Zoro off on purpose. 

Rage flared, but underneath his body shook holding together. Clamor tore at him, motion scraped against him, too much, too constant. His fists knotted hard at his sides. He rocked harder, chasing a beat that slipped away each time he reached for it.

Fuck Sanji. Fuck his petty family bullshit. He hadn’t been coerced. He’d gone willingly. Nami had said so herself. Not worth chasing. Not worth the time. Not worth anything. The words looped like broken glass in his head, each cut deeper than the last.

Luffy didn’t listen, saying they’d go after him anyway, claiming Zoro was worried, too.

But Zoro wasn’t worried. He was furious. He was shaken. And underneath it all, he was utterly, completely devastated.

Every memory of the past weeks slammed into him at once. The relentless pace after Fish-Man Island had left no time to breathe, no space to speak or touch. Punk Hazard – chemical stench, the SAD factory collapsing in fire. Dressrosa – SMILE production, Kaidou’s shadow tightening, endless stops, endless fights. Noise. Pressure. Chaos without end.

Burnt stone in his nose. Falling debris ringing in his ears. The crush of the crowd against his skin. Each sensation clawed at him, sharp and insistent, until they layered over one another, a chorus too loud to escape. There had been little time to sleep, let alone to be with Sanji.

Sanji had promised the sail to Wano would be different. That they’d have a moment just for themselves. But it was a lie.

I hate you, Zoro thought, sharp as a blade. And then, beneath it, trembling and thin, What did I do wrong?

Once, he had let himself believe someone might choose him – really choose him. Might accept all of him, quirks, differences, the way his body and mind fought him daily.

He was wrong.

He tapped the haramaki once, twice, three times – but there was no order strong enough to hold him.

Sanji sat on the bed in the room he’d been given, knees pulled up to his chest. Bege’s Castle was absurdly opulent: parquet floors, chandeliers, gilded furniture, tapestries softening cold grandeur. Sitting areas flanked either side of the room, plush and perfectly arranged, yet everything felt distant, irrelevant, as if the beauty around him mocked the chaos inside. A single guard lingered outside, silent and watchful. Sanji could take him if he had to, but what would be the point? He’d agreed to come, and that was the only restraint between him and total destruction.

The past ten hours had been a storm of disbelief and fury. Capone Bege had appeared on Zou, delivering an invitation to Big Mom’s Tea Party as well as a second invitation – to an arranged marriage, his name emblazoned in full, including his title: Prince Vinsmoke Sanji, third son of King Vinsmoke Judge of Germa. Seeing it felt like someone had punched him in the gut. It had been over a decade since he’d heard those names, and he’d sworn never to hear them again.

The fact that Nami, Brook, and Chopper were behind him when the words were read aloud made it worse. He’d spent years keeping that past locked away, a secret he’d never let stain his life aboard the Sunny. Zoro had an inkling but never the full story. He’d sworn he’d never tell it, and he’d kept that oath. And yet here it was, dragged into the open, served on a silver platter like a mockery. At first it almost seemed like a bad joke. Until it wasn’t.

Sanji had declined the invitation instantly, venom in his voice. Whatever Germa had planned, whatever marriage his former father thought to chain him into – he wanted no part of it. His past was his alone, buried where it belonged.

Then Vito leaned in. The slick bastard’s breath was hot against his ear as he whispered names. Conis. Camie. Any friend you’ve ever had. One slip of refusal, one careless word, and one of them loses their head.

Sanji’s blood ran cold. He didn’t hesitate; the decision was made. There was no world where he would gamble someone else’s life on his pride. He agreed immediately. He would’ve agreed even if the threat was aimed at a stranger. That was who he was – heart before pride, kindness before self.

And in the pit of his stomach, the old self-blame flared. Because if he had been stronger, sharper, none of this would be happening at all. He was already failing them. Failing Zoro.

Still, the tether was there, steady as ever at the back of his mind: the sensation of floating on a vast, calm ocean. It had been with him so long he hardly thought about it anymore, the weightless hold of Zoro’s love keeping him upright even now. He clung to it without meaning to, like lungs cling to air.

He’d jotted a note for Luffy, promising he’d be back, shoved Brook, Nami, and Chopper out of harm’s way, and steeled himself to reach out to Zoro through the bond, to explain, to at least leave him with the truth.

But when he turned, Vito was already there – a shadow too close, grin curling wet with his tongue. Sanji’s Observation Haki flared too late. The man’s hand clamped on his shoulder, his whisper one word: “Soulrot.” The name twisted Sanji’s gut with dread. He didn’t need to know what it was called; instinct told him what it meant.

Agony ripped down his right arm. White fire lanced through his veins and he bit back a scream, shoving up his sleeve. With horror, he watched the mark unravel – three strokes breaking apart as if scraped from skin. The lines bled into formless blotches, black smears devouring the place it had always lived. Once proud. Now ruined. His throat cinched tight. He couldn’t breathe.

Then the tether snapped. One heartbeat he was afloat on that quiet ocean; the next, cast into emptiness. Silence roared louder than any scream.

Sanji’s chest wrenched. His knees nearly buckled. The salon swam before him – chandeliers blurred, parquet tilting, gilded trim turning grotesque. The room itself seemed to sneer at him.

Sanji didn’t think – he struck. His heel slammed into Vito and hurled him across the gleaming floor, gold and wood bursting apart in splinters. “What did you do?!” The roar tore out of him raw, his leg already burning, flames boiling off him as if fury alone had set him alight. Heat warped the air. The walls rattled. Chandeliers rang like glass in a storm.

He surged forward, all wrath and fire, every strike a detonation of rage given form. The doors crashed open, Fire Pirates pouring in, but Sanji met them head-on. Each kick left smoke in its wake, the air stinking of scorched flesh, the floor cracking beneath the force. He spun and lashed out again and again until lounges were toppled, ash drifted through the air like snow, and nothing moved but him.

Only Vito remained. Leaning against a pillar, dust on his shoulders, gun raised casually, he sneered. “Big Mom’s the only one who can have your soul.”

Sanji’s heart roared in his ears. He lunged again, desperate, only to halt when Vito leveled the gun.

“I wouldn’t.” Vito’s voice was slick with amusement. “Big Mom never said you had to be intact, just alive. And Bege’s listening to every word. One mention of your uncooperation and…” His smile stretched, tongue flicking as he dragged a finger across his throat. Shhhk.

Sanji froze, body trembling, breath ripping ragged from his lungs. The fire at his foot sputtered, then died, leaving him suddenly cold. “Undo it.”

“Can’t.” Vito’s shrug was almost amused. “You’re lucky you’ve got anything left. Usually, it all just… disappears.”

Sanji heard only that one word. Can’t. Everything else drowned under it. His legs buckled, his strength draining as if the fire had burned his last spark away. He lowered his gaze to the gleaming floor, and in its mirror he saw himself trembling – not with rage this time, but with the hollow collapse of a man who had just lost everything that made him whole.

The bond was gone. Zoro was gone. And Sanji blamed himself. He hadn’t been fast enough, clever enough. He’d promised to protect what mattered, and once again he’d failed.

When Vito motioned him forward, Sanji didn’t fight. He let himself be led to the room that became his cage.

Now, alone on the edge of a bed, he curled inward, forehead pressed to his knees. His chest was hollow, his mind quieter than it had ever been, and the silence itself was unbearable. It felt like a bad dream he couldn’t wake from.

His only hope was that he’d reach Germa, tell his former father to fuck off, and make it to Wano as quickly as possible. He told himself he could endure the tea party, that one of his brothers would be shackled to marriage instead.

But deep down he already knew. The nightmare was only beginning.

The first time Zoro saw Sanji after his disappearance, weeks had passed. Sanji appeared at the worst possible moment and the best possible one. He helped shield Toko from certain death, dropping from nowhere like an unwanted ghost.

Rage surged through Zoro, eclipsing the tangled mess of everything else clawing inside. “Don’t have time to waste with you, Browgoro,” he snarled.

Sanji reared back. “Right back at you, mossjuro.”

Zoro shoved Toko into Sanji’s arms. Even if Zoro despised the cook now, he knew Toko would be safe there. “Take her.” He was already pulling a second katana free, charging toward Orochi with blood in his throat and a single intention: cut him down for murdering Toko’s father.

The yard outside Rasetsu Prison sprawled in turmoil. Smoke, screams, and that awful SMILE-induced laughter tangled with the banners of the shogun. The place reeked of blood, piss, and death, guards clashing with Straw Hats, guns firing, blades sparking, bodies jammed together. 

Zoro carved through the chaos without pause, vision narrowed to Orochi standing smugly atop a carriage. The man had already turned away, but in Zoro’s mind the moment of the fatal shot replayed again and again. He locked on, refusing to let himself think of anything else. If he wavered, if he let the noise seep in – the laughter, the clash of steel, voices battering like waves – he’d freeze. So he shoved it down. Kept moving.

He didn’t reach Orochi. Kyoshiro intercepted him, blade meeting his in a ferocious clash that stole precious seconds. Orochi slipped further away. The frustration burned, vibrating through Zoro’s arms.

Then Hiyori’s cry cut through the din. He turned, already sprinting. She was cornered, eyes wide with terror. He scooped her up, bolting for safety, her arms around his neck making his skin crawl. Screams shuddered through him at the contact. He wanted her off, wanted her not to touch, but she was one of the last heirs of Oden. He couldn’t fail her.

They ran until the city was behind them. Soldiers fell one after another, until the only sound left was the rasp of his own breathing and the frantic pulse under his skin. He carried Hiyori into the forest and ducked inside Enma Shrine, a weathered wooden place half-hidden among cedar and moss. Its doors slid closed with a groan, and the faint incense of long-abandoned offerings clung to the air. Within the dim interior, shrine tablets lined the back, dust catching the last glow of day.

There, Zoro let himself fold inward, arms clutching at his haramaki. Everything he’d shoved aside to keep moving crashed over him.

Sanji was here. On Wano.

He thought he’d feel only hatred. Instead came confusion: relief, rage, longing, all colliding until he wanted to tear free of his skin. He imagined dragging Sanji into his arms, imagined never letting go, and then recoiled from his own thoughts. His body rebelled at the contradictions. He curled tighter, fingers tapping three sharp beats against the haramaki, rhythm breaking each time. Cedar bit his knuckles, incense caught in his throat, senses scattering.

When it passed, Hiyori was watching with quiet alarm. “Is everything alright, Zorojuro?”

“Fine.” The word was flat. He wasn’t about to tell her. He shoved the mess down. “We’re leaving for Ringo.”

They left, after brief words about Toko’s father. Zoro promised himself he would not think about Sanji again. There were more pressing things to deal with than Sanji’s betrayal.

He held true, even in Amigasa Village.

Amigasa Village sat in a clearing carved into a bamboo forest, a thin river threading quietly along its edge. The houses were woven from bamboo fibers, shaped like kabuto helmets with a chonmage topknot rising at their peaks. Haze curled gently from cookfires, carrying the scent of herbs strung to dry across beams. The crew regrouped there, battered but together.

Zoro had Enma now, its violet lacquer glinting faintly even in shadow. The blade was greedy, always pulling at his haki, but he forced it to bend to his will.

That evening, he returned from the woods, practice sweat drying on his skin. Torchlight marked the paths, golden light wavering against the helmet-shaped huts. He already knew Sanji was near from the scent of food, of cigarette smoke. Zoro had managed to avoid him all day. But this time Sanji was waiting, leaning by the path with a cigarette, a yellow-and-white yukata catching the torchlight.

Zoro tensed, every muscle warning him off. He wanted his focus clean on the battles ahead, not dragged into this. He passed without a word, letting his aura speak: leave me the hell alone.

But Sanji called after him. “We need to talk.”

“No.”

“Zoro–”

“No.”

“But–”

Zoro spun, words spitting before he could stop them. “I said no!”

Sanji drew back, pale in the light, hands twitching at his sides. His face looked wrecked. Zoro forced himself not to care. He cared anyway.

“We really need to talk,” Sanji whispered.

“No.” Zoro turned and walked away. His fists itched to tap, but with Sanji’s eyes on him he forced stillness, chest tight.

Though he crossed paths with Sanji during the Raid on Onigashima, Zoro never gave him more than what necessity demanded. His words were clipped, his tone combative, stripped of anything that might resemble the truth beneath. The walls he built held firm, even when an unexpected den den mushi crackled to life in the middle of his fight with King.

“Listen, I’ll be quick,” Sanji’s voice came through the tiny snail, low and urgent. “We’re going to beat the Beast Pirates soon–”

“Think I don’t know that?” Zoro snapped, not missing a beat as his blades met King’s relentless assault.

Sanji pressed on, his tone heavy with something that made Zoro’s stomach knot. “–but after we’ve won, if I’m not in my right mind… I want you to kill me.”

For half a second Zoro faltered. His stance slipped, his body screamed under the strain of King’s counter, and it took every ounce of instinct to block. He wanted to demand an explanation, but fury rose faster than thought. “Be my fucking pleasure, cook,” he spat, forcing the words through clenched teeth. The lie burned even as it left his mouth, but he clung to the rage because it cut cleaner than the noise threatening to swamp him. Steel clanged harsh in his ears, air seared in his lungs, every clash battering against the limits of his control.

“…Thanks,” Sanji whispered, quiet enough that the den den’s line almost swallowed it whole. Then the connection went dead. 

Zoro shoved the snail into his haramaki, tapped three times, then flung himself at King. Whatever Sanji meant by that didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to think about it. He couldn’t. Not now.

He won the fight, dropped into near-death unconsciousness, and woke to find himself in Orochi’s former castle. Every muscle screamed, but he wasn’t surprised. Bandages pulled at his skin. Luffy lay nearby in equal ruin, grinning weakly, and the two of them demanded food and drink the moment they could sit up. Their friends obliged, relief spilling into the room with them.

The castle’s main hall was alive with conversation and laughter, tatami mats soft underfoot, shoji screens cracked open to let the scent of blooming sakura drift in from the courtyard. Colorful lanterns swayed above, beams creaking softly in the summer air. Low tables crowded with plates and cups stretched across the floor, surrounded by cushions where Straw Hats, their Wano allies, and even a few faces from Zou lingered together.

Sanji was nowhere in sight.

At first, Zoro didn’t care. He was starving, sore, and parched. He ate fast, drank faster, but the noise pressed on him from all sides. He hunched forward, shoulders tight, tapping threes until the edge dulled. He wasn’t at his limit. Not yet. The clatter of chopsticks cracked sharp against his ears, laughter rising. He pressed thumb to the seam, finger tapping in threes, trying to stack the noise into order.

When his hunger was finally sated, he slipped away with a jug of sake, tucking himself behind a thick cedar pillar at the room’s edge. He could breathe better there, a half-step removed from the press of voices.

Then Chopper’s voice cut through the din. Zoro tensed, heart skipping as if the doctor had called his name.

“I need to check on his injuries. Does anyone know where he’s gone?”

“He mumbled about going out for a smoke,” Usopp replied, and Zoro realized they were talking about Sanji, not him.

Chopper’s exasperation carried over the noise. “That’s the worst thing for him right now. We don’t even know how his new body will react.”

The jug’s weight cut into Zoro’s palm, wood lip digging, burn of rice-wine heat pooling heavy in his chest. His breath caught, shallow and uneven, as if the syllables themselves had pressed him under. New body?

“He’s been smoking all week. The damage is probably already done,” Usopp muttered. Then his voice dipped. “Hey… if you can tell me, is he okay? He’s been acting really off.”

Zoro didn’t hear Chopper’s answer. His mind snagged on Usopp’s words. Acting really off.

If I’m not in my right mind… I want you to kill me.

The memory slammed into him, Sanji’s voice over the den den mushi, that desperate, quiet request. The sake trembled in his hand. Slowly, he set the jug down, fingers curling tight against his thigh. His gut twisted, coiling like a spring that left him hollow and tense all at once. His knee bounced: one-two-three, one-two-three. Jagged rhythm tangled with Sanji’s voice.

He needed to find Sanji. Now.

Zoro pushed to his feet, dragging a dark yukata over his shoulders, sake still hot in his chest. He stepped into the corridors of Orochi’s former castle, the hushed atmosphere an abrupt contrast to the riot of voices in the main hall.

Shoji panels lined both sides of the hall, paper glowing faintly with lantern light. He slid one open – empty. Just cushions stacked neatly, tatami fresh with reed scent. He shut it with more force than necessary, moving on. Another door. Empty again. His breath hissed through his teeth as he stalked the length of the passage, sandals whispering against the floor.

Zoro knew directions were treacherous. Corridors twisted, doorways blurred. He blamed the place: halls rearranging, doors shifting. That had to be it. The floor shifted underfoot, or else the walls leaned. His vision snapped to corners, doorframes, sliding edges that blurred when he tried to lock them down.

Irritation spiked fast. He shoved a panel aside – only a deserted tea room – then turned too sharply and found himself in the same corridor he swore he’d already walked. His hands tightened on his swords. He could feel his pulse hammering, the throb of confusion pushing heat into his face.

He forced himself down a stairwell, then another, only to emerge in what looked like the same stretch of hallway again. His frustration bit down harder. He slid another shoji open, wood rattling. Another empty room. Each failure stacked until his chest was tight, jaw locked. He rocked once on his heels, blade-hand twitching for an outlet.

By the time he stumbled into an exterior hall, the paper screens rattling faintly with the breeze outside, he half-believed the castle was mocking him. Shifting beneath his feet, keeping Sanji just out of reach. He nearly laughed – a rough sound that scraped his throat – because the castle wasn’t just confusing him; it was taunting. Punishment for chasing something he should have let go.

Then he forced one last panel aside, wood scraping across its track, and sunlight struck his eye. Each sound rushed at once – river song, cedar hush, petals ticking against his sleeve – and he latched onto them one by one, prying them apart like threads until the din inside his head thinned.

The world outside was bright and green, almost jarringly so. A river curved at the base of the cliffs, its song threading through the grass. He tracked the sound – constant, unbroken – until it steadied the pace of his breath. Sakura branches swayed overhead, scattering pale petals that brushed his sleeve and dissolved into the grass. He felt it caught against his palm, soft and fragile, and held onto the texture. The air carried damp stone, wet earth, blossoms faintly sweet; he catalogued each note, separating them from the stale dust of the castle corridors. The edges of the overload eased, just enough that he could see clearly again. Stone. Earth. Blossom – he named them like stepping-stones, each word pulling breath steadier, until he could trust the ground beneath his feet again.

And then he saw him.

The first flash was visual – gold trim catching sun, smoke curling white against sky. Then came scent, vanilla burnt thin at the edges, dragging memory up sharp. His chest jolted like a blade drawn wrong, not clean, snagged on too many feelings at once.

Sanji sat on a rise overlooking the Flower Capital, the city spread below in a wash of tiled rooftops and drifting smoke. He wore a blue yukata with gold trim, fabric loose around his frame. The topknot he’d worn through Wano was gone; his blond hair fell in uneven strands, catching the sun. Smoke from his cigarette curled upward, a ghostly thread dissolving into the sky.

When Zoro’s steps crunched over the grass, Sanji tensed. His shoulders rose as if bracing for a strike. But as Zoro drew closer, hand brushing the hilt of a katana, Sanji exhaled, the movement loosening his frame without turning his head. He stayed staring down at the city as though it might swallow him whole.

Zoro stopped at his side. The acrid smoke stung his nose, but beneath it, the vanilla hooked into memory. The air between them felt brittle, like a blade about to snap.

“Do I need to kill you?” Zoro asked. The words tore out harsh, ragged, hated the moment they left him.

“Part of me wants to say yes,” Sanji admitted, voice frayed at the edges. “Just to end this nightmare I’ve been in. But no. I feel too shitty for me to have lost my emotions like I feared.”

Zoro’s fingers drummed against his katana hilt: one, two, three. One, two, three. The rhythm kept him upright, but relief didn’t settle. The gaps between them still gaped wide. “Chopper said you had a new body?”

Sanji snorted without humor. “Yeah. Vinsmoke genetics finally kicked in. Judge probably pissed himself with joy that I turned out like my brothers after all. But he’d still sneer that I feel things. Emotions are just wasted fuel to him.”

Zoro didn’t understand the details, only the hollow weight in Sanji’s tone. “What’s that mean for you?”

“Just another nail in the coffin of my life lately,” Sanji muttered. Smoke gusted from his lips, hand trembling as he steadied the cigarette. “You don’t want me around, I get it. No need to stay. You’ve got your answer.”

Zoro nearly turned. His whole body screamed for silence, for the relief of leaving. He rubbed his thumb over the bandana, grounding himself. Vanilla smoke lingered sharp in the air – familiar, missed.

One question pressed at him, heavy as iron. “Did you get married?”

Sanji’s shoulders sagged. “No.” His voice rasped, bitter. “The marriage was a setup to kill all of us Vinsmokes, me included. I was supposed to die before the final kiss.”

The answer should have eased something. Instead it tore raw inside his chest. Sanji almost died. Zoro’s throat scorched. Still, another question burned. “Did you want to marry her?”

Sanji finally tilted his face up. His skin looked pale in the sunlight, despair circling his eyes. “No. Never. The only person I’ve ever wanted is you.”

Zoro’s chest buckled under it, body twisting tighter around itself. He tapped in threes, chasing rhythm that dissolved before it caught: want, rage, disbelief. The wound he’d carried since Zou ripped raw. “Then why did you leave? Was it me? Did I screw up somehow?” His voice cracked against the words.

“No. Fuck no. Zoro–” Sanji crushed the cigarette out, almost stumbling as he lurched upright. “They threatened to kill someone if I didn’t go. I couldn’t live with that. I was going to explain everything, but then–” His throat closed. Pain tore across his face. “Then, the bond got broken.”

“I know. You blocked me off.”

Sanji shook his head hard, strands whipping his cheeks. “No, I didn’t. I would never.” He yanked up his sleeve and shoved his arm forward. “I tried to tell you in Amigasa. One of Big Mom’s men had a Devil Fruit that rots soulmarks. Because we were bonded… it broke.”

Zoro’s gaze snagged on the blackened blotches, body rebelling. Where there should have been three clean strokes – his mark – there was only ruin. He rubbed his haramaki until weave ground under his nails, pinning thought to stitch and grit. “So you didn’t…”

Sanji’s jaw tightened. “No. But it doesn’t matter. I failed to protect it. Failed to protect you. Again.”

Zoro’s body buckled, every muscle clamping tight as his breath scattered shallow and uneven. His fingers tapped his thigh in threes, rhythm slipping as his chest twisted. He couldn’t order all of it, couldn’t line it neat: Sanji hadn’t left. Sanji hadn’t betrayed him. Sanji still wanted him. “Sanji…”

He folded in, arms cinched tight. Taps dissolved, sound muffled in the roar of blood. He couldn’t find center; Sanji’s face slipped half out of reach.

Sanji froze, watching the lock seize Zoro’s frame. He didn’t touch, didn’t speak, only stayed nearby, ready if needed. When Zoro’s breath dragged back into him, Sanji’s voice followed at the faintest edge, quiet enough not to press, “I know I’m not worth the ground you stand on. But if there’s even the smallest chance you can forgive me…”

Zoro lurched forward, crushed him into a bruising embrace, held one violent heartbeat – then shoved away as the flood of sensation broke past what his body could take. His system locked. He needed distance, but inside, everything unraveled. He staggered back a step, air catching wrong in his lungs. Rocked on his heels, then forward, then back – anchor slipped against the swell. His eye blurred, chest scalding tight, the world around him slipping out of focus. Sanji hadn’t left him. Maybe even still loved him.

At last, breath slipped back in, uneven but settling. His chest eased by degrees, muscles uncoiling from their clamp, every scar and ache rising in the hollow left behind. Each release sagged through him, body and mind drained, as though gravity itself was pulling him back into place.

Sanji caught it at once, voice soft, careful not to crowd. “Come on. Let’s get you back inside. You need rest. We can finish this later.”

Zoro nodded. He needed a reset, needed to let his head clear. But before turning, he pushed one more question out, quiet, raw. “Do you still love me?”

Sanji didn’t hesitate. “I never stopped,” he said, plain and certain. “Never will.”

Through it all, Zoro hardly left Sanji’s side. He reached out often, sometimes with fleeting brushes of contact – a fingertip against Sanji’s sleeve, a hand at his elbow, a touch that lingered only long enough to remind him he wasn’t alone. Other times, when his body allowed it, Zoro stayed close: their fingers laced together, his chin settling on Sanji’s shoulder, his arms winding loosely around Sanji’s waist. He said little, but he didn’t have to. Each touch, brief or lasting, carried its own quiet vow.

Sanji talked. He let it spill in uneven threads – Germa’s shadow, the cruelty of his childhood, his mother’s final act of love. He spoke of Whole Cake Island, of Zeff’s life held hostage, of what he had done to Luffy, and the despair that had nearly swallowed him whole. He told Zoro about the raid suit, about Queen, about the truth of Judge’s modifications and the fear of what they meant for his future. He confessed his failures, his gnawing inadequacies, the hollow ache of worth always at risk of slipping away.

Zoro listened, expression unreadable, until one night he finally said, simply: “I love you just as you are. Just like you love me.”

And for Sanji, that was the moment he found his footing again. It meant he could be flawed, imperfect in ways he’d been taught to despise, and still be wanted. He didn’t have to grind himself down trying to earn a place, didn’t have to lock his feelings behind walls to survive. Zoro’s words steadied the chaos that had always churned through him, set the ground firm beneath his feet.

It wasn’t a miracle cure. The wounds still lived under his skin, the old doubts still whispered. But now there was something stronger than either: the certainty that he could exist as he was, unpolished and raw, and still be loved. It felt like magic of the rarest kind – not the flashy kind that leveled islands, but the kind that let him breathe. The kind that let him keep going. The kind that let him simply be.

They left Wano under Luffy’s flag of alliance and friendship, with vague hints about the last poneglyph and the desire to reach Elbaph. At the harbor, farewells turned into contests of pride – Heart and Kid pirates splitting away in their own log pose directions, every captain vowing to be the first to the One Piece. The sea opened before them again, vast and untamed, the Grand Line waiting for whatever came next.

The sea stretched wide and forgiving that day, skies clear and sun-bright, the air brushed with salt and warmth. Most of the crew had spilled out onto the deck, soaking in the rare calm. No one ever knew how long the next log pose stop would take – sometimes days, sometimes weeks – but the uncertainty was part of the adventure.

Sanji snapped his wet shirt with a practiced flick before pinning it to the clothesline. The cotton still dripped, catching sunlight in fleeting beads. A little while earlier, Zoro had passed him on his way from the crow’s nest to the shower, his gait oddly evasive, like he had something on his mind. Sanji caught himself wondering if the swordsman planned to sneak a few bottles of booze later. If he asked outright, Sanji wouldn’t say no.

Life aboard the Sunny for them had settled into a rhythm again, one that felt almost precious after Wano. They bickered, they sparred, and they sought each other out in those quiet intervals that stitched their days together.

They didn’t spend every waking moment together – there were meals to cook, training regimens, watches to stand – but in the spaces between, they found each other anyway. More often than not, Zoro drifted into the galley as if he belonged there, or Sanji climbed the rigging to the crow’s nest without needing to think why. It felt natural, effortless, like a current pulling them in.

Before, their bond had given them an easy closeness; now, they had to reach for it more deliberately. And maybe that made it sweeter. Sanji noticed the way Zoro’s presence filled the room, how his silences weren’t empty but grounding. He didn’t need the mark to tell him what he already knew: they would keep finding each other, again and again, no matter the distance or the noise of the world.

He pegged another shirt, gaze drifting to the main deck below. Chopper, Usopp, Franky, and Brook were mid-game – Chopper serving as the ball, his giggles ringing out over the planks. Robin and Nami lounged in their chairs, books in hand, while Luffy snored draped across the lion’s head mast. Jinbe kept steady at the helm. The day was peaceful, a lull between storms, their wake unmarred by chaos.

A shadow fell across the line, and Sanji looked up. Zoro was back, hair damp and curling slightly, droplets clinging to his skin. Sunlight caught the gold of his earrings. He wore only his trousers and haramaki, bare feet braced on the deck, katanas at his side. His shoulders twitched once, as if he hadn’t quite settled before stepping closer.

“You almost done?” he asked, voice gravelly but casual, though his gaze skipped past Sanji before fixing on him again.

“Yeah.” Sanji tugged another pair of trousers from the basket. “About five more to hang.”

“Good.” Zoro rocked on his heels, finger tapping against the hilt of his katana. His weight shifted from foot to foot, never quite still. “Come up to the crow’s nest when you’re finished?”

“Sure.” Sanji glanced sideways at him. There was still color high on Zoro’s cheeks, probably left over from the heat of the shower. “Want me to bring a snack and sake?”

Zoro hesitated, jaw tightening, then gave a small nod. “Don’t take too long, though, shit cook.”

Sanji waved him off with a damp tie, smirking. “Keep talking like that, and the snack’ll be chocolate.”

Zoro’s scowl was faint, fleeting. He looked as if he might say something else, but the words caught and vanished. Then, without another word, he moved off, quicker than usual, almost hurried. Sanji arched a brow at his retreating back but only huffed, finishing the last of the laundry before letting himself wonder what the swordsman was up to.

He did add chocolate to the snack plate, but that was for him. He cut fruit into neat slices, paired it with cheese and crackers, snagged a bottle of sake to share, and carried it all outside. Chopper sailed by his head with a loud giggle as he was tossed across the main deck. Robin and Nami glanced up, almost expectantly, but he merely gave them a smile and continued toward the rigging.

The climb was easy for him; balance was second nature. Tray in one hand, bottle under his arm, he moved up the ropes without a single sway or spill. When he pushed open the hatch into the crow’s nest, a wash of cooler air met him. The windows were thrown wide, letting in a cross-breeze that ruffled his hair and carried the salt of the sea.

The room always smelled faintly of sweat and steel, Zoro’s domain through and through. Training gear filled the space: dumbbells lined in rows, a rack for his barbells, the battered floor etched with faint scuffs from years of practice. A padded bench curved along the wall beneath the windows, where they usually sat with their plates and let the smoke drift out into the sky. Adam’s wood walls, warmed by the sun, hummed softly under the mast’s low groan.

What caught Sanji off guard were the blankets. Several lay spread across the hard floor, layered enough to turn it into something resembling comfort. It was such a small thing, almost clumsy in its simplicity, yet it stood out starkly against Zoro’s usual disregard for niceties.

“What’s this, marimo?”

Zoro shrugged, looking uncharacteristically nervous, the pink flush on his cheeks spreading. “Thought we could… maybe sit on the blankets.”

A smile tugged at Sanji’s lips. “Sure. We can do that.” Maybe it was an attempt at romance. Either way, it was sweet.

Zoro thumped down with little grace, his katanas left neatly on the bench. Sanji toed off his shoes and joined him, setting the plate and sake within reach. Afternoon sunlight poured through the open window, filling the room with a soft glow. Outside, laughter and shouts from the ball game rose up from the deck below, carried by the steady crash of waves against the Sunny’s hull.

Sanji unbuttoned his blue shirtsleeves, rolling them up to his elbows. “What does my sentient seaweed want first: sake or–”

Before he could finish, Zoro lunged across the narrow space and caught his mouth in a kiss.

Sanji let out a startled sound, then felt the familiar tension lock Zoro’s jaw and shoulders, taut as dough pulled too tight. It lasted only a breath before loosening, giving way to something rawer, exposed. That shift alone made Sanji’s chest twist; this kiss was precious, rare, and brought the kind of closeness that felt sacred.

He closed his eyes and yielded to it, letting Zoro’s pace decide. Heat coiled through him, slow and consuming, rising until it filled every corner of him. When Zoro’s tongue brushed his lips, Sanji opened with a quiet sigh, his hand sliding up to cup Zoro’s jaw. Under his touch, muscle tensed, then eased; the swordsman leaned in rather than away, his breath catching, his fingers drumming three beats against Sanji’s sleeve before going still.

Every part of it – the weight of Zoro over him, the taste of him, the fragile permission of lingering – made the kiss feel infinite, a moment Sanji would cherish forever.

Zoro drew back after several tantalizing moments to look at Sanji with a hooded gaze. His breathing was uneven, catching on the words. “Can we try… um, you know… being naked?”

For a moment Sanji just blinked, the question hanging between them, delicate as glass. Then it hit Sanji like a stove flaring too high, fire rushing wild and unchecked. They’d never had the chance before, the shitstorm of the past few months had shoved all romance to the side. He swallowed hard, then nodded. “Yes. Anything.”

Zoro blew out a fast breath, excitement, nervousness, and wariness flashing across his face. His fingers tapped against his thigh in a quick pattern – three beats, then again. “Might not work,” he warned.

“If it doesn’t, it doesn’t,” Sanji reassured softly. “I told you, marimo, I’m happy to wait for you.”

Zoro gave a short nod, hand skimming across his haramaki in a steadying rub. “Take your clothes off.”

Sanji didn’t hesitate. He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off and tossing it toward the bench. His trousers and socks followed. Wearing only lobster-decorated boxers, he stilled, a flush crawling high across his cheeks under Zoro’s stare. He waited until Zoro shoved his own trousers down to remove them.

Zoro was semi-aroused, green hair curling at the base of his shaft, almost the same shade as the faded haramaki still wrapped tight around his waist. Sanji’s own half-arousal twitched in answer, and his palms itched to reach out, to smooth across Zoro’s skin, but he held back. Zoro needed to be the one in control.

Zoro tapped three times against his haramaki, shallow breaths betraying nerves. Sanji caught it in the set of his shoulders, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the faint tremble in his thighs. For a moment his gaze was wide, unguarded, pupil blown in the low light – fragile in a way Sanji rarely saw. Then it steadied, sharpened, the fragility hardening into resolve. Determination showed in the flex of his fingers, the sharp tap-tap-tap pulling him into focus. And then Zoro launched forward, the only way he knew how – head-on and full force.

Sanji oofed as he was tackled back onto the blankets, his skull thudding lightly against the floor beneath. The haramaki scraped his waist, but what stole his breath was the bare press of Zoro’s arousal sliding against his own. Heat jolted up his spine, Zoro’s weight solid and immovable over him. His forearms bracketed Sanji’s biceps, close enough for Sanji to feel the tremor in them, the tension in his hold. His face hovered above, stark and defenseless, gaze locked as though if he looked away the moment might break.

The air seemed to still around them, heavy with anticipation, the sound of their uneven breaths louder than the creak of the mast. Sanji’s pulse hammered, not from being trapped but from the delicate closeness – the warmth of Zoro’s skin bleeding into his own, the scent of steel and sea clinging to him, every nerve caught between hunger and the dread of losing it. He knew the moment balanced on a knife’s edge, closeness just as likely to bloom as to shatter. Sanji froze beneath him, heart tight, willing the scales not to tip the wrong way.

Then Zoro smiled, huge and elated, joy breaking across his face like sunlight over the sea. “It’s okay right now.”

Sanji’s heart skipped, a dizzy rush of relief flooding through him. The happiness in Zoro’s voice was worth every second of stillness. He smiled back, softer, letting his affection show. “So what do you want to do?”

“Um… just kinda this.” Zoro flushed, his ears bright red. His thighs twitched where they pressed against Sanji’s legs, fingers tapping three times against Sanji’s bicep. “And kiss you.”

“Sounds great to me,” Sanji murmured, and meant every word.

Zoro lowered his head. His lips hovered above Sanji’s for one trembling beat before sealing against them. The first touch drew the usual reflex; a tight clench at his jaw, a faint stiffening through his shoulders. Then, just as quickly, Zoro let out a shaky little exhale, a sound half-relief, half-triumph. Sanji felt the tension melt out of him as Zoro pressed harder into the kiss, a bright, almost giddy eagerness in the way he gave himself over – a wild, breathless elation that said this time, it worked.

Sanji felt himself unravel, every wall inside falling away. Just lying here bare together, kissing, was somehow more intimate than anything else could be. He loved this man, loved him with every fiber of his being. Zoro was his strength and his stubbornness, his rival and his anchor, his perfectly imperfect partner. Whether he had a mark or not, he’d always be Sanji’s bonded soulmate.

The weight of it filled him, so strong his breath hitched, as if even the world had paused to listen. And then…

…a searing sensation flared across Sanji’s arm. He gasped into Zoro’s mouth, stiffening beneath him.

Zoro jerked back, alarm flashing in his gaze. “What? Am I doing something wrong?”

“No, it’s my arm–” Sanji started, but the words were drowned as a flood of emotion surged inside him. Nerves. Happiness. Confusion. Self-doubt. Pleasure. Deep contentment. And beneath it all, the echo of floating on an endless ocean.

Zoro sucked in a sharp breath, his eye going wide. “Holy fuck, you’re back.”

He shifted, fumbling to look at Sanji’s forearm. Sanji craned his neck, and there it was – Zoro’s soulmark, stark and clean. Three perfect black slashes, the Shimotsuki Village symbol for three.

Their gazes snapped back to each other. Can you… hear me? Zoro asked, tentative.

Yes.

The bond thrummed, and Sanji felt Zoro start to reel. His emotions spiked high and uneven, flooding through like a kitchen gone wrong – knives hitting the board too fast, pans clattering off-beat, spices dumped in handfuls with no measure or balance. Everything harsh, loud, impossible to sort.

He started to build the cell, but Zoro barked, “No. Don’t.”

“Zoro…”

“I don’t want you in a cell. Not like that. Never again.” His shoulders twitched hard, fingers digging into the haramaki like he could press the words into his skin. His teeth clenched, muscles locking tight. His breaths came shallow, almost panting. Sanji felt the edges of sensory overwhelm creeping in – the too-muchness pressing down. Zoro’s cataloguing blurred: skin bare, haramaki tight, sweat salt, floor hard.

“I need to do something,” Sanji murmured. “We both know you can’t adjust like this.”

Zoro surged upward with sudden strength, lifting Sanji into his lap. He sat back, knees bent, Sanji straddling him. He shoved his marked forearm up between them, almost shaking with the force of it. “This is you. Not Germa. Not the past. There has to be something else.”

Sanji steadied himself, hands sliding over Zoro’s shoulders. Beneath his palms, tension still hummed – thighs trembling, fingers tapping in threes against Sanji’s hip. His gaze caught on the soulmark, bold lines curling around a heart.

That was it.

He let the mark guide him, replacing the prison of his cell with something living, theirs. His emotions moved through its loops and lines. In the curl, Zoro’s surges softened; in the turns, Sanji’s edges gentled. At the heart, they met, balanced and safe. The bond pulsed once, steady and whole, like it had always been waiting for this. Magic of the rarest kind – not fire or steel, but the heart between them.

He felt Zoro begin to ease, the overwhelm still hovering close but no longer threatening to tip. The tension lingered, the emotion still strong, but it had softened, no longer so fierce or consuming. The tremor in Zoro’s thighs stilled, his tapping against Sanji’s hip slowing, then fading altogether, until his breath evened out against Sanji’s cheek. His cataloguing wove itself back together – vanilla smoke, warmth of skin, heartbeat in rhythm.

Zoro blinked open his eye, worry still shadowing his features. “Did you build the cell?”

Sanji shook his head. “I used the shape of the soulmark. Are you still feeling me?”

“Yeah, but it’s… muted. Banked.” Zoro rubbed absently at his haramaki. “Before I couldn’t feel you unless you let me. Now it’s like I can reach if I want.”

“Is it going to bother you?” Sanji asked quietly. The thought gnawed at him. He would sooner lock himself away in a cell again than risk making this harder for Zoro.

“I… don’t think so?” Zoro said slowly. His fingers twitched thrice against Sanji’s hip, ritual first, voice following after. “We’ll see.”

They sat together, silent. Sanji let his hand rest lightly against Zoro’s jaw, stroking once. The bond stayed muted, balanced by the soulmark’s loops. Yet something in Zoro faltered – the quickened tapping against his hip, the clamp of his jaw, the returning tremor in his thighs beneath him. Sanji felt it too, closeness slipping toward strain, the thread fraying.

“Do you want me to move?” Sanji asked gently.

“No,” Zoro said stubbornly, after a beat. “I like you here.”

“I like me here, too. But I’ll always come back if you need me to move.”

The fight in Zoro broke on a long exhale. The bond carried the rest – a sharp tangle of frustration settling into the solid weight of his body saying no.

Sanji didn’t wait for him to force the words. He shifted off at once, tugging his boxers back on, his movements unhurried but certain. Love meant listening even when Zoro’s mouth said one thing and his body another.

“This sucks,” Zoro muttered.

“I know.” Sanji kept his voice low, even. He didn’t reach for Zoro, only held his gaze, letting acceptance speak where words couldn’t. “We’ve got time. I’m not going anywhere, marimo. Not ever again.”

From below drifted the familiar sounds of the Sunny at ease – Luffy’s booming laugh ringing out bright, Brook’s violin carrying a light tune over it, Jinbe’s steady baritone rumbling something practical to the others. Robin’s voice rose now and then, calm and warm, reading aloud to Chopper or simply adding her thoughts to the flow. It was the rhythm of the ship, the backdrop of a world that cradled them no matter what passed between him and Zoro here.

Sanji plucked a piece of chocolate from the plate still beside them, letting it melt on his tongue as his eyes strayed to Zoro – hand rubbing at his haramaki, the rest of him bare. Hunched and scowling at himself, he still looked unbearably dear to Sanji, his fingers tapping three quick beats against his thigh before stilling.

Then he snatched up the sake, gulping it down in heavy swallows, the sound almost defiant. Finally, he fixed Sanji with that same fierce, stubborn eye. “We’re trying again in an hour.”

Sanji laughed low, the sound curling through the bond with quiet affection. “I’ll be here.”

Outside, the Sunny carried on, sails breathing against the wind, voices rising like music. Inside, Sanji stayed with Zoro – stubborn, flawed, perfect – and felt the bond humming soft and sure between them once more. It was soulmagic, yes, but more than that, it was home.

The sky was clear, the sun warm, the air balmy, carrying the faint tang of salt and seaweed. From the rocky shoreline, their new friends waved goodbye, bright flags and kerchiefs fluttering in their hands. 

The gulls wheeled overhead, crying piercing against the hush of the tide. Sunlight glinted off the Sunny’s lion prow as she eased into open water, her sails swelling full and white in the open breeze. Behind them, the island’s cliffs rose jagged and sunlit, dotted with green scrub and the last smudge of smoke from the village feast. Laughter and voices still echoed faintly across the water, thinning as the distance grew.

Zoro stepped up behind Sanji and slid his arms around his waist. His body braced at once, muscles drawn tight, before the warmth flared prickly over his skin in that familiar, too-much way. With a sigh, he let go and shifted to Sanji’s side at the port rail instead, close enough to share space without touch. He reached through the bond instead, wrapping Sanji in a mental embrace. Pressure in his chest eased, the fragments stitched back in order: sea-salt, smoke, Sanji.

In a t-shirt that made his eyes bluer, Sanji leaned on his elbows, hair tousled by the breeze, island lime still clinging faint on his skin. Zoro marked the details – the sunlight gilding his hair, the ocean’s tang, the roll of waves against the hull. Behind them, the crew’s noise rose: laughter, scolding, violin, all of it clattering together. Loud, but not overwhelming.

They’d just driven off a group of corrupt marines abusing their power, feasted with the locals, and now they were bound for the next adventure. The fighting had been fierce, but the crew was mostly unscathed. Zoro’s only injury was a bullet through his thigh, now bandaged tight. The bandages itched, squeezing wrong. He laid a palm to his haramaki, fingers drumming three quiet beats before he brushed the bond – satisfaction, contentment, a thread of melancholy. With their reforged connection, Zoro liked having the choice to reach without being drowned. Sanji was all heart, and his emotions could be wild, shifting things.

But his love, that was different. Sanji’s love was the cozy fire at the back of Zoro’s mind, glowing constant. His emotions now burned banked beside it, there for Zoro whenever he sought them, vivid and alive but never pressing unless invited.

Sanji glanced at him, smiling soft as he leaned into the mental hug with a gentle nudge. Zoro wanted to kiss that smile, but instead rubbed the cloth of his bandana at his arm, chasing away the leftover prickle on his skin.

They’d been naked together several times now when his body allowed it, exploring each other in ways that were thrilling and new. Sanji had even used his mouth once. Zoro had come so fast and hard his brain had simply shut down. Too much, all at once. Best overload ever.

But what mattered more was Sanji. He never complained when Zoro had to stop. Never looked disappointed. Through the bond, Zoro could feel the truth for himself: love, affection, even quiet amusement. And when things did work, when his body cooperated, Zoro could feel Sanji’s excitement, his pleasure, his want. That was more intoxicating than sake could ever be.

Having Sanji as his soulmate was one of the greatest things that had ever happened to him. He remembered when he thought soulmates were stupid, nothing more than a chain he didn’t need. He thought strength only came from himself. But Sanji had proved him wrong. Sanji pushed him harder, challenged him, encouraged him. He treated Zoro like anyone else, but carved space when he needed it. No judgment. No pity. No “putting up with it.” Just acceptance. Even without love, Zoro knew he’d want Sanji beside him.

The coastline disappeared into the distance, swallowed by haze and horizon. Only the steady lap of waves and the creak of timbers kept them company for a while, a quiet moment between them. Eventually, Sanji straightened from the rail, brushing his hair back. “I need to start prepping for the crew gathering tonight. You going to join me, or piss Chopper off by working out?”

Zoro debated for a half-second. “Piss Chopper off.”

Sanji chuckled, the sound low and fond. “Figured. Try not to bleed everywhere when you take your bandages off.”

“Heh.” Zoro smirked faintly. The damn cook knew him too well.

Sanji turned toward the stairs leading to the galley. His short sleeves shifted with the movement, and Zoro’s eye caught on the soulmark striped across his skin. Three on his arm, three in his name, his third true friend.

I love you, soulmate.

Sanji paused mid-step. He looked back over his shoulder, eyes shining, mouth curving into a smile so bright it stole Zoro’s breath – as if Zoro had just said the most romantic thing in the world.

I love you, too.

End