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Words aren't Zoro’s forte. He doesn't care and he doesn't mind, except for when Nami tried to make him talk to Luffy, or when Usopp made him try to talk to Luffy, or when Usopp tries to talk to him, or when Nami tries to make him talk. Basically, when people decide to completely disregard his obvious dislike for talking.
At least Luffy doesn't expect him to do anything besides having his back in a fight, and that's good enough for Zoro.
Then there's the Cook, who also doesn't talk to him, but who won't stop looking at him with a glint in his eye that unnerves Zoro into taking out his swords and challenging him. They have entire conversations like that, exchanging blows, testing each other, familiarizing themselves with the way they move, to the point where they can keep a fight going forever. Zoro is just slow enough to let the Cook block his blade with the sole of his shoe, and the answering kick is high enough for Zoro to safely duck out of the way. Nobody looking from the outside should be able to tell that neither is aiming to win.
He doesn’t like the Cook, but he likes how things work with him. Their language doesn’t involve words, and that makes it easy for Zoro to speak and read it. They have a tacit agreement to protect the crew and not stand in each other’s way. To support Luffy. To exist in the same space, get on each other’s nerves, and take a step back when there’s a risk of real harm being done.
It creates an easy balance that they gleefully upset at every chance they get, using the flimsiest of excuses. The Cook winks at Zoro and Zoro sneers. Zoro trips the Cook when he’s carrying drinks for Nami and the Cook kicks him at dinnertime. The Cook meaningfully looks from Zoro’s swords to his crotch and shakes his head in mock sympathy, and Zoro insults his food.
Zoro makes a habit out of stealing alcohol from the galley, mostly because he knows it annoys their glorified waiter. The strategy is simple: he walks in and heads for where the alcohol is kept. No attempts at sneaking in. If the Cook is there, he gets stopped and has to come back later. If the Cook isn't in the galley, Zoro gets to drink.
Simple. Direct. Win-win.
Sometimes, though, he goes in because he genuinely wants a drink. It's almost four in the morning. The galley should be empty and he should be able to get what he wants.
What he gets is the Cook sitting at the table in the galley, smoking and drinking. His hair needs to be combed, his gaze is lost in the distance and the line of his lips is unhappy, but he manages to put together a welcoming smile for Zoro when he notices him. He even raises his glass in a silent greeting.
If the Cook is drinking, he can't complain if Zoro does the same. He finds a glass, sits across from the Cook, and grabs the bottle in front of him.
"I didn't think you’d care for wine," the Cook says while Zoro fills his glass.
"Booze is booze," Zoro says. And this must be good wine, if the Cook is drinking it. The Cook cares about what he eats, when he can afford to do it.
The Cook raises an eyebrow and goes back to his thoughts.
It should have stayed like that. Two crewmates drinking in silence.
Trust the Cook to ruin it.
"Let's play a game, Moss-head." There's a lazy smile on the Cook’s face, the sort that promises trouble. The bottle is half-empty already, so Zoro knows what to blame for the playfulness.
"No."
It doesn’t change the Cook’s expression. "You haven't even heard what the game is about."
"I don't want to play a game with you, Cook."
The smile twitches. "Not even a drinking game?"
Zoro glares. The Cook’s smile widens.
"Thought so."
Zoro leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. "Tell me the rules."
The Cook has the decency to soften his smile into something nicer before he explains.
"It's called 'Two truths and a lie'. One of us says three things about himself. Two of them are true and one isn't. The other person has to guess what’s the lie. If they guess wrong, they have to drink. If they guess right, the other person drinks.” The Cook tops off his glass. “Turns are taken saying things and guessing."
Zoro makes a face. Nami had called him an open book and a shit liar and she'd been right. He likes drinking, but he hates losing, especially to the Cook.
"No, thanks."
Up goes the Cook’s eyebrow again.
"Are you scared, Moss-head?" And up goes the corner of his mouth too, so that his smirk is knowing and smug.
"Watch your mouth."
"Play with me, then. Consider it part of your first mate duties." The eyebrow comes down, but the smirk remains. “Bond with the chef to boost morale.”
It makes Zoro itch under his skin and his fingers twitch for his swords.
"Shoot, then," Zoro growls.
The Cook leans back in his seat and studies his glass.
"Let's see…" He licks his lips. “I’ve never hit a woman. I started smoking when I was fifteen. I’ve never eaten hake.” He raises a finger for each statement. Zoro watches him as he talks, looking for signs that give away the lie.
“What’s hake?” Zoro asks, narrowing his eyes.
“A type of fish.”
“That one," Zoro says confidently. "That’s the lie.”
He knows he got it wrong from the way the Cook tilts his head and looks at him through his eyelashes. Taunting.
“Drink, Swordsman. I took up smoking at eleven.”
What the fuck.
Zoro empties his glass. The Cook’s face shifts into horror. That makes them even, then. Who lets an eleven year old smoke?
"It's supposed to be just a sip," the Cook says, grabbing the bottle and putting it away from Zoro’s reach before he can try to refill his glass. "That was— Do you even know how good that was? And you drank it like it was water!" He looks at Zoro indignantly.
"You said I had to drink,” Zoro reminds him, speaking very slowly so the Cook will realize what an idiot he is. “You didn’t say there was a limit.”
The Cook groans.
“Have you ever played a drinking game? The point is to drink for a while, not to get drunk immediately!”
He can almost hear what Nami would say to that.
Kinda hard to play a drinking game when you have no friends.
Zoro huffs at the Nami in his head and raises an eyebrow.
“You think I’m gonna get drunk with a bit of wine? You have to give me something stronger for a drinking game."
"You're the one that poured himself the wine!” The Cook cradles the bottle like it’s his firstborn. “You could have gone and grabbed something else!"
"Too much work," Zoro says, shrugging. "Do we keep playing?"
"No. You don't value this, so we're not playing anymore."
"Suit yourself."
Zoro gets up and goes for the strong stuff. The Cook lets him, maybe so he won't try to ask for more wine, which is perfect for him.
To avoid the risk of more talking, Zoro takes his rum outside and drinks it under the stars.
The drinking game slips out of Zoro’s memory after that. They’re too busy not dying in the snow and then not dying in the desert for Zoro to bother remembering that interaction.
It all comes back late at night in Alabasta, right after they’ve been to the baths and seen a king bow to them in gratitude.
Zoro’s feeling content, relaxed. This is an indulgence he’s only allowing himself tonight because their enemies have been beaten, and because he knows he’ll be ready to fight in a second if he needs to.
He isn’t ready for the Cook to approach him with two bottles of… Alabastan? Alabastian? Alabaster? Well, booze from Alabasta.
The Cook offers him one and says, “I’ve learned my lesson. How do you feel about playing again?”
It takes Zoro a moment to figure out what he might be talking about.
“The lying game?” he asks, taking the bottle.
“That’s a different one,” the Cook says, smiling. He’s always smiling at some joke he's not sharing. “But yes, that game. Do you want to play, Moss-head?”
The others are on their way to bed. Zoro gives them one look and pointedly heads in the opposite direction.
“Where are you going?” the Cook asks, laughter in his voice.
“I saw a bench on the way here.” Zoro doesn’t look back. The Cook follows him.
They don’t find the bench. They end up sitting on a railing, overlooking the sleeping city.
“You start, Cook,” Zoro says.
The Cook kicks his legs and uncorks his bottle.
“These are my two truths and my lie, Moss-head.” He clears his throat. “I’m an actual prince. I think oregano is for savages. I hate your hair.”
He says every sentence with the same tone, giving nothing away.
Zoro gives him an unimpressed look. “You just want to drink, don’t you?”
“That doesn’t sound like a guess to me, Moss-head.”
Even if Zoro hadn’t heard him bitch about oregano, the lie is too obvious.
“The first one, Cook.” He makes a face. “Mr. Prince was a shitty alias and it’s also a shitty lie to tell.”
Sanji laughs, loud and bright. It chases away the night’s shadows and makes Zoro feel visible and exposed. He doesn’t like it.
He brings a hand to the Cook’s mouth to shut him up.
“Less laughing and more drinking, Cook,” he warns.
“Why are you so sure that that’s the lie?”
Zoro feels the words against his palm. He won’t deign them with an answer.
The Cook brings the bottle to his lips when Zoro uncovers them, and holds eye contact as he drinks.
“Your turn, Moss-head,” the Cook says.
Zoro is a terrible liar. His bottle is empty long before the Cook’s. The Cook refuses to share with him, putting an end to the game.
The next time they play is in Skypiea.
“We just defeated a god, Shitty Swordsman,” the Cook says, offering Zoro a glass of… something. Whatever. There’s alcohol in it, Zoro can smell it. “Play with me.”
Zoro stares for a second and then pats the ground next to himself. The Cook makes himself comfortable.
“You start this time,” he says, his eyes on the celebration.
Zoro studies the Cook's profile and thinks he should have made him sit to his left, so that he could actually see his face. Like this, all he gets is hair.
It’s nice, soft-looking hair. Whatever it is that he uses to wash it, it smells good. There’s no hint of that aroma now, though. All Zoro can smell is blood, sweat, and antiseptic. And cigarette smoke, of course. He thinks he smells sunlight too.
It’s probably what gets caught in the soil, what with sky islands being closer to the sun than the rest of the world.
“I had a friend named Kuina,” Zoro says. Her name isn’t a secret, and he’s under no obligation to say more about her. Her name is a fact he can use in this game. “I never meant to be a pirate hunter. I’ve never been drunk.”
The Cook hums in thought.
“The first one is true,” he says slowly. “You say the name too carefully for it to be made-up.” He tilts his head and meets Zoro’s eyes. “You want to be the world’s greatest swordsman, so I assume pirate hunting was never a job you actually wanted.” He hums again. “That only leaves the last one, by process of elimination.” He grins. “Am I right?”
Zoro drinks, and Sanji laughs his sunshine laugh. It gets partly caught behind his teeth, because if he were to laugh openly he'd drop his cigarette.
“Don’t rub it in,” Zoro threatens.
“Did I hurt your feelings, Moss-head?” the Cook says, still laughing.
“Say your things now.”
“Alright, alright. Let me think for a moment.”
There’s mirth caught in the corners of his eyes. Zoro wants to shove him.
“Here we go,” the Cook announces. He raises three fingers and lowers one for each statement. “I have three brothers. I hate bugs. I’m exclusively attracted to women.” He takes his cigarette from his mouth, holds it between the fingers with which he listed the first two statements.
“You’re an only child,” Zoro says without hesitation. He’s hoping to be wrong.
“How are you so sure?” the Cook says, even though he’s already bringing his glass to his mouth. “Maybe I have an older sister.”
“You wouldn't shut up about her if you did. Stop stalling and drink.”
The Cook drinks and Zoro drinks too, in case his face gives away his disappointment.
Everything Zoro knows about the Cook—everything important—he learned it from observing him.
He learns small things when they drink and he learns how they fit together when they fight—as allies and as enemies—, but the things that matter to the Cook himself? He learns them slowly, digs them up and dusts them off from memories when he gives himself the time to look back on their journey.
He has seen the way the Cook’s shoulders become a tight line of tension when he tries a new recipe, and how he only relaxes when he knows what every member of the crew thinks of it. The Cook aims to please.
Nami smiles at the Cook but isn't interested in him, yet the Cook never seems hurt by that. The Cook isn't in love with her.
The Cook never moves in his sleep unless he's exhausted. It's unnerving. It's the way people that didn't grow up safe sleep.
This is the most important truth Zoro knows about Sanji: he doesn't realize how much he matters to the crew. Whenever someone shows even a drop of concern for him, he looks like he doesn't understand what's happening, like he thinks the attention got lost on its way to its intended recipient and landed on him. For a while, he'd seemed surprised to find Zoro guarding his back, even though he did the same for Zoro without him needing to ask.
Zoro doesn't pry. It's not his place, and he's the last person the Cook would want to share his vulnerability with. The only instance in which the Cook trusts him is when they're back to back, facing enemies.
It's the highest honor. Zoro doesn't need anything else.
His back always feels cold for a long time after a battle.
It's Kuma who makes Zoro see that he needs more than what he has, and that he wants more than he will ever be allowed to get.
He can address the former and deal with the latter.
What Zoro needs is for the Cook to stop trying to be a martyr. He can't make him see his worth to the crew, but he can figuratively pull him back by his jacket to get him away from harm.
Now, speaking of what Zoro can literally do… That's to hit the Cook with the hilt of his sword and knock him unconscious.
To say that he sacrifices himself to Kuma for the Cook would be a lie. Until the moment he'd tried to die, Zoro hadn't really spared a thought to the Cook's survival as something separate to that of the rest of the crew. Even then it isn’t about the Cook, but that's because Zoro had made his choice before the self-sacrificing idiot intervened.
Still, when he tries to die in Zoro’s place, something in Zoro cracks.
Yes, he wants the Cook to live, that much has always been true. They're crewmates.
The surprise is when he realizes that he wants to live basking under Sanji’s light.
There's no warmth in Thriller Bark. Not even when you manage to catch some sunlight, not even when pain is burning up your insides, not even when a fever takes hold of you.
That's why Zoro's shocked into consciousness when he feels the sun in his hair.
There's no need to open his eyes. The smell of cigarettes and salt gives away who it is by his bed.
He opens his eyes because he knows he can't fool the Cook into thinking he's still asleep.
The Cook doesn't stop what he's doing. He cards his fingers through Zoro's hair and watches him in silence, his mouth set into a grim line and his brow furrowed. There are shadows under his eyes. That's not the most puzzling part.
"You're not smoking," Zoro mumbles.
The Cook’s hand stills.
"Chopper told me not to." He sounds normal. He's stating a fact. There's a cadence to his words that promises he's going to tease Zoro soon.
There's one problem with what he said, though.
"And you listened?"
The Cook doesn't reply. Zoro must be dying.
"You went to find me," Zoro says quietly. The Cook can pretend he didn't hear him, if he wants to.
"Of course I did, Moss-head." The Cook resumes his petting of Zoro’s hair. "I couldn't let you die."
Zoro’s never been treated so softly. Not since he was a boy, before the dojo and Kuina and his dream. Tenderness has as much use as words in a swordsman's life.
He should push the Cook’s hand away and get out of the bed. If the Cook is there, though, it must be because Chopper told him to ensure that Zoro rested. If he tries to fight his way out of bed, he’ll lose.
He lets his eyelids drop. His body’s cold and in pain, except for where the Cook’s touching him. His fingertips through Zoro's hair tether him and politely keep Death away. They can't keep Zoro from her embrace forever, but they can ask her to wait a bit longer.
"You like my hair, Cook," Zoro says with a smirk, half-asleep and happy to tease.
The Cook snorts.
"I like it as much as I like the rest of you, Shitty Swordsman." His tone is warm, like his hands. Like his body had been when Zoro collapsed against him earlier.
He hadn't let Zoro fall.
Sanji’s strong. He can take care of everyone for a few more minutes, while Zoro soaks up as much sunlight as he can.
Kuma is something they don't talk about. By extension, the aftermath is something that they don't discuss either.
Zoro watches the Cook work in the kitchen and remembers that those hands the Cook treasures so much had held him upright. The Cook refuses to even touch a weapon if he can avoid it, and yet he'd gone and touched Zoro. Like Zoro was more than a vessel for a shared dream, more than a tool through which his swords could fulfill their purpose, more than Luffy's first mate.
It makes something twist in Zoro’s chest.
He wants to be whatever it is that Sanji thought he was when he carded his fingers through his hair.
Getting to train for two years with Mihawk was not on Zoro’s bingo card for life events. He also didn’t have “Become a pirate” and “Fall in love” on it either. He did, however, think he was likely to lose some body parts on the way to becoming the greatest, so ending up with one eye less isn’t really a big deal.
Since he only guessed one thing that would happen to him, it can be safely said that he’s as bad at predicting his future as he is at lying.
He makes up for it by knowing himself. He figures that if he’s aware of his own heart and mind, he can deal with anything life throws his way.
That’s why he isn’t surprised when he sees Sanji again and his heart skips a beat.
His hair is longer and parted to the other side. There's a cigarette between his lips. His smile is still warm and it almost makes Zoro smile back at him.
Then the Cook sees him and his smile turns teasing, reminding Zoro that he’s only allowed to bask in the sun when it’s a matter of life and death.
“It’s been a while since we last played,” the Cook says later, while they’re celebrating their victory in Fish-Man Island.
He’s grinning and holding two bottles. He offers one to Zoro, who stares at him instead of taking it.
The Cook’s smile falters.
“Did you lose your memory along with your eye?” he says, recovering his composure.
Zoro grunts and takes the bottle.
“Kinda hard to play when we haven’t seen each other in two years.”
“Details,” the Cook says, sitting next to him. He lights a cigarette and fixes his gaze on the pretty people around them, freeing Zoro to study the one by his side.
He can’t see any new scars or marks. Other than the new hairstyle, it’s like time and life forgot about the Cook’s body these last couple of years. His fighting skills, however, reveal that he spent all that time kicking and screaming.
Zoro uncorks his bottle and takes a sip. It’s bitter, and he coughs at the taste, to the Cook’s laughter.
“What the fuck, Cook!?”
“You always drink too much and end the game too soon,” the Cook says, finally turning to look at him. There’s mischief in his eyes and Zoro wants to pour the bottle’s contents over his head. “I figured this would make you take it seriously.”
“I hate you,” Zoro says.
“Ah, you’re volunteering to start? That’s so nice of you, Moss-head.” The Cook grins. “You’re still missing one truth and the lie.”
Zoro stares, dumbfounded. He wonders if the Cook truly believes he hates him.
“I hate you,” he says again. “You hate me,” he adds, heart hammering in his chest. “I do actually know what mellorine is.”
The Cook snorts, almost spitting out his cigarette, and shakes his head. He averts his gaze and takes a sip from his own bottle before saying, “You have no idea what mellorine is.”
Zoro had looked it up in Kuraigana. He’d had to ask Perona about it.
But Sanji didn’t deny hating him. There’s no need to reveal that the feeling isn’t mutual.
“I could know if you told me,” Zoro grumbles, taking a swig of the bitter alcohol.
“That’s true,” the Cook agrees. He takes a long drag from his cigarette and keeps drinking.
They sit in silence for a while, watching the party.
“It’s your turn,” Zoro finally says.
It takes the Cook a moment to react.
“What?”
“Your turn. You remember how this game is played, right?” Zoro says, raising an eyebrow, trying to sound like he doesn’t care at all that Sanji’s arm is pressed to his, that Sanji’s cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, that Sanji hates him.
“Right. Two truths and a lie.” The line of the Cook’s mouth is soft, even where the cigarette interrupts it. His eyes are bright. His body radiates warmth.
He hates Zoro.
The Cook hums and looks up, to where the sky would be. “I have a scar on my left ring finger. My favorite food is spicy seafood pasta.” He stops to think and closes his eyes.
Zoro takes the opportunity to drink in the way he looks. He watches the cigarette smoke drift to the sky.
The Cook’s lips curl. He keeps his head tilted back and his eyes closed when he says, “I’m in love with you.”
Zoro swallows.
“You’re not even trying,” he growls. “The last one. That’s the lie.”
Sanji laughs. He looks at Zoro and he’s bright and amused and fucking beautiful, and then he drains his bottle.
He makes a face when he’s done.
“I think I’m done playing, Moss-head,” he says, standing up on wobbly legs and leaving Zoro cold and alone.
The Cook leaves. To get married.
Zoro always expected something like that to happen, but he’d hoped the Cook would get to have the romance he so clearly wanted, instead of whatever the fuck he was being put through.
He doesn’t have the energy to dwell on his heartbreak. Luffy declares he’ll get the Cook back and then there’s Wano.
It’s a busy time, as usual.
Later, Nami tells him that the Cook is an actual prince and that he has three brothers and a sister.
Without thinking, Zoro brings a hand to his hair and thinks about the Cook running his fingers through it.
It’s embarrassing how much Zoro remembers just because it’s about the Cook.
Two truths and a lie. The Cook is a prince and he doesn’t hate Zoro’s hair.
Two truths and a lie. Since the Cook does have three brothers and he does hate bugs, that means Zoro could have a chance with him if the Cook didn’t hate him.
“Does the Cook hate me?” Zoro asks before he can think better of it.
Nami, the witch, doesn’t seem surprised by the abrupt change of subject. She squints at him and twists her lips in that way that says she doesn’t want to get involved because it’s too much trouble, but that she wants to get involved because she thinks the situation will get her something in the end.
“About as much as you hate him,” she finally says.
Zoro opens his mouth to try to clarify that, but Nami covers it with her hand.
“We’re done talking about this. Go to Sanji if you want details.”
Zoro swallows and glares, but Nami has survived in Luffy’s crew for as long as he has and has no respect for him. She also knows him better than he’d like, and she must have her own horrible reasons for wording things the way she did.
Maybe Zoro should have admitted to Sanji that he knows what mellorine is.
“Kill me,” Sanji asks.
The part of Zoro that cracked in Thriller Bark never healed. At those words, the cracks extend through the rest of him.
When he makes his promise to Sanji, he shatters.
Sanji trusted him with that request, and Zoro will live to keep his promise. Then he’ll find the All Blue in Sanji’s memory.
He puts himself back together and fights his way out of Death’s cold embrace so he can run a sword through the sun and live the rest of his days in darkness.
Sanji’s next to him when he wakes up.
“I came back from Hell to kill you,” Zoro grits out, accusing.
He knows he’s not imagining the way Sanji’s shoulders sag in relief.
“Ah, no. I’m okay now,” he says with a sheepish smile. It’s warmer than every word they’ve exchanged since Fish-Man Island, and Zoro needs more.
He takes his swords and launches himself at Sanji, laughing at the thrill of their usual dance: violence for the sake of violence. Aggression as an excuse for contact.
He uses Sanji’s fire to melt down the pieces of his soul and forge them back into a whole.
After things have calmed down somewhat in Wano, they make their way back to the sea. They all spend a few days pretending that things won’t only get more dangerous from now on.
They need to lie to themselves for a moment, so they can gather strength for the rest.
Zoro, however, is tired of lies. He’s had enough of them to last him a lifetime, and every time he thinks about how many Sanji told him, he goes and fights him.
Things between them were supposed to be simple, and he’d had to go and complicate them.
Sanji’s a prince and he likes Zoro’s hair. Sanji has three brothers and doesn’t only like women.
Two truths and a lie. One obvious truth. An unbelievable truth. A lie so harmless it’s believable. Sanji rigged the game from the start, confident that his past wouldn’t catch up to him and reveal his deception.
Now that the truth is out in the open, he avoids Zoro’s gaze.
The only time Zoro tried to talk, Sanji told him what he’d done to Luffy and baited him into a fight, one vicious enough to make Zoro feel he was back in Hell, away from the sun for the rest of eternity.
He’s going to drag himself back to the light, though. He can’t give up when he has his own lies to admit to.
He goes into the galley and locks the door. Sanji gives him a curious look, one eyebrow raised and half of his mouth curved upwards. Eternally amused by life, despite everything. It’s all for show; his eyes are tired and his shoulders are tense. He’s putting his hands in his pockets.
Zoro walks towards him decisively.
“Are you looking for a fight, Moss-head?” Sanji asks, tilting his head back challengingly.
“I know what mellorine is,” Zoro says, unwilling to engage, coming to a stop in front of Sanji. “I’ve known since Kuraigana.”
Sanji blinks and opens his mouth.
“And I don’t hate you,” Zoro continues, staring straight at Sanji’s eyes.
Sanji closes his mouth, and the mask of defiant amusement cracks.
Zoro keeps going. “Give me your left hand.”
His own is hovering between them, palm up.
Slowly, Sanji puts his hand in Zoro’s. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment and then, deliberately, Zoro looks down.
He takes his time caressing the back of Sanji’s hand, brushing a fingertip over the knuckles and down the back of each finger. He finds some small cuts, probably souvenirs from when he was learning how to cook, but he knows where he won’t find a single scar.
He turns Sanji’s hand around and traces the lines of his palm.
“The game was two truths and one lie. Why did you let me get away with two lies?” Zoro accuses, meeting Sanji’s gaze again.
Sanji raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Same reason you didn’t admit you knew what mellorine is.”
He licks his lips and Zoro follows the movement with his eye. It makes Sanji smile, something slow and content that makes Zoro step closer.
“Would you believe me if I told you my favorite food is actually non-spicy seafood pasta?” Sanji says playfully.
“Sanji,” Zoro warns.
Sanji’s smile widens to the point that he’s squinting. “I thought so.”
Zoro hasn’t let go of his hand yet. He doesn’t want to, but he doesn’t know how to continue from here. He swallows and thinks about this. About how he and Sanji have dealt with everything. How they deal with each other.
Push and pull. Never surrender. Meeting in the middle.
Sanji gave him secrets for him to do with as he pleased. He’s free to turn them against Sanji, just as he is free to give them a home inside his own chest.
‘I don’t hate you’ is not the same as ‘I’m in love with you.’
Sanji got a headstart on this, but they’ve always trusted each other to be able to keep up.
Zoro takes a slow breath.
“I know what mellorine is. I had a friend named Kuina. I’m not in love with you.”
“You’re a shit liar, Zoro,” Sanji says.
Push and pull. Never surrender.
He leans in at the same time Zoro does.
They meet in the middle and Zoro tastes sunlight.