Chapter Text
It starts like this.
There is an island that seems peaceful, and suddenly the air changes. Marines come out of every house, inn and restaurant in the vicinity, and Sanji finds himself surrounded in the town square.
Well, if you really want to argue about semantics, Sanji and Zoro find themselves surrounded in the town square. It’s nothing new, really. He and Zoro have been fighting side by side for years, the captain's right and left hands, as you will. They’re like a well oiled machine, Sanji’s back glued to Zoro’s, a cigarette falling from his lips.
“Let’s give these guys a show, shall we?” Sanji says, a tilt to his words and a sly smile on his lips.
And it is as if Zoro can read his mind from those words alone. Their eyes lock, and he is in the air, using Zoro’s back as a step to jump and spin, kicking five marines to the ground with one swoop movement. Moss-for-brains doesn’t fall far behind, a sword in his mouth and two in his hands, his one remaining eye glistening with hunger that gives Sanji shivers… Nevermind.
The fight continues, and unsurprisingly Black-leg and the Demon are left standing. The corner of his mouth curls up, and then Zoro, in an act of surprising eloquence, says:
“We make a good team, huh Curly?”
And all of a sudden, it’s different from all these other times. Sanii says nothing, refusing to let his smile falter at the words. They’re just words. camaraderie, the kind of thing you say to your companion at sea. They’re nakama after all, no matter how much they enjoy making the other growl and lose composure.
But something about it shakes Sanji. Coming from Zoro, that’s as much of a compliment as he ever heard. He probably doesn’t even mean anything by it, nothing other than the obvious meaning of the words.
It makes Sanji feel warm. Needed. A part of something.
He doesn’t like how it makes him feel. Likes the slight blush he can feel crawling up his face even less, and curses the gods for his fair skin that makes veins show blue, bruises pop up from even the smallest knock and red color his complexion way before his nose starts to bleed.
Too long without seeing the sun. Without feeling it's warmth touch his skin. Now, he was like a lizard, always cold, always looking for the warmth his own body seemed to have forgotten how to maintain.
He needs another cigarette.
It is not the same after that.
Zoro is still his same brutish, rude persona, refusing to shower and disrespecting the women of the crew in a way that drives Sanji up a wall. How can he live with himself? Sleep at night having cursed out the beautiful Nami and not having showered?
Sanji remains shaken by his comment nonetheless.
A team, he said. Sanji is part of a pirate crew, has been part of kitchen staff, and sees the same faces every single day at breakfast, but it doesn’t feel the same. The two of them, a team. He can’t stop thinking about their backs touching, about the warmth felt even through Zoro’s thin shirt and Sanji’s multiple layers… But that is impossible, and he is probably picturing it after the fact. He doesn't know anymore. Has no idea how something that was so normal, so natural can feel completely different after a couple words, a simple sentence.
He brings Zoro food while he’s training, onigiri packed with protein and a cold ginger tea for hydration.
“What’s up with you today, Cook?” Mosshead asks, and Sanji just stares for a second. He must be getting sick, his head feels all fuzzy.
“N-nothing. Just came here to make sure you don’t starve to death, idiot.” He growls, but the words lack any real kind of heat. “I’d hate to have the work of throwing you to sea after your untimely passing.”
“Sure.” He responds, seeming already bored with the conversation at hand, focusing back on the dumbbell held firm in his hand. He curls his arms with seemingly no effort, but Sanji can see the sheer glint of sweat in his forehead — can smell it, and that’s a thought he doesn’t care about examining. He wipes at his nose instinctively.
As he turns around to leave, he can’t help but feel as though he’s being watched.
He’s watching the moon. It’s a full moon today, but even if it wasn’t, Sanji can never get tired of looking at the sky…
He doesn’t want to think about why that is, but it seems like he and his brain have stopped cooperating lately.
It’s always like this after he dreams of his childhood, the cold dampness of the dungeon accompanying him. Sometimes, he feels like the chill has never truly left his bones, like he’s always seconds away from starting to shiver from a cold he can't even feel. He comes up on deck then, wrapped in as many layers as he can manage without waking the boys — except for Luffy, who could sleep (and snore) his way through a sea storm. Usopp has the night watch today, the light noise of his tinkering filtering all the way down to the deck where Sanji stands. It 's nice. He doesn’t like the quiet, and Usopp’s constant presence comforts him, the occasional swear leaving his mouth.
“What is it that you’re humming?”
Sanji startles, not having heard the steps behind him. His heart is slow to quiet, a steady tu-dum, tu-dum that feels so loud in his ears he fears it will reach Usopp, all the way in the crow's nest.
Zoro stares at him, unreadable as usual.
Actually, scratch that. There is a curious look in his eye, and unusual softness reserved for the moments late at night, when it feels like the world can’t reach you.
Sanji hadn’t even noticed he was humming.
“Oh.” He falters, not knowing where to start. It appears his whole past decided to catch on to him that night. “It’s just something ma mére used to sing…” He says, the language foreign in his tongue, the years of disuse catching up to him and making the words strange; unfamiliar.
“Your mom?” Zoro guesses.
“Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t know about it.” Zoro hums in agreement. “I lost her when I was pretty young. She was sick.”
There is a long silence, one yellow eye looking at him expectantly. The air feels thick, and Sanji has to put in significant effort to breathe in. There is a pain in chest that he rubs away with a closed fist.
“Anyway.” He waves his hand like the gesture could push away the heaviness he feels. Bitter, awful words keep stumbling out of his mouth like he’s a fractured dam. “Haven’t thought about her in a long time. Haven’t thought about home in a long time, not since…” He manages to stop himself from saying too much. “It’s just one of these nights, you know?”
Zoro hums again.
“Yeah, I know.” He takes the cigarette that now hangs limp from Sanji’s hand, almost fully burned. Then he does something that baffles Sanji even more than those damned words: he takes a deep drag of it, slowly exhaling the smoke. It twirls in the air, obscuring his face just a little in a way that has Sanji trying to guess what that expression in his face is.
He finishes the cigarette, still staring at Sanji unblinkingly, and stumps it out with his foot.
“Go to bed Curly.” He turns around, heading for the bunkroom. “Tomorrow is here.”
As he says the words, Sanji finally takes a good look at the sky. It’s bright now, tinged with hues of orange-purple-pink. He probably could get two hours of sleep, still.
He is so tired, that he doesn’t even think of the almost caring way Zoro said it.
As he lays his head on the pillow, he is quick to fall asleep, and quicker yet to forget the moment shared. It gains that hazy shape of dreams, far-off and distant.
It also starts like this.
“No way!” Sanji protests during a drunken truths game. The crew is all laying on the floor, pillows and covers strewn around. Nami has her head on Sanji’s lap, and her feet on Usopp’s. Robin and Franky are fully intertwined, and Sanji can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. In front of him is the Mosshead, Luffy on one side, somehow hanging upside down from the ceiling. There is a slow, calm song coming from Brook’s violin, and Jinbei observes them with the air of someone who has lived too long to judge. Chopper has already gone to bed, and so the adults have started talking about escapades.
And Zoro says a number. A ridiculous number, if Sanji may add his input.
“There is no way that many ladies have fallen to the wiles of a brute like you! I refuse to believe it!”
Suddenly, there are disbelieving eyes on him. Nami is the first to speak up, a choked laugh clear on her runken voice.
“Pff ladies? Come on Sanji, I thought you were smarter than that.” The sentence is punctuated by what is probably meant to be a slight tap on his face, but the redhead’s hand misses the mark and hits his nose instead.
“Yeah Sanji-bro, I thought it was pretty obvious that Zoro-bro has an eye for the fellas.” He seems to think of the sentence he just said, and adds. “Pun not intended, Zoro-bro. My bad.”
Zoro just nods his head at Franky, not caring to take offence.
“Yeah, I thought it was pretty clear.” Zoro says, a weird tone in his voice that Zoro can’t name. “Maybe if you stopped perving on every woman we meet, you would have a bit more awareness of what happens around you.”
Sanji splutters, unsure of how to respond. The idea lingers in his head, and he keeps picturing, beside himself, the men Zoro claims to have taken to bed. Or maybe they took him? He shakes his head, the vague image of Zoro tangled around Ace, his smile is bright and fiery…
“That’s beside the point!” Sanji manages to blurt out. “I simply believe that number is a gross overexaggeration.”
“Yeah, you’d think so.” Zoro smirks.
“What does that mean?” Sanji splurts, suddenly offended. “Moss, come back!” He says as the man heads up, heading to the galley, an empty bottle in his hand. “That was the good Sake you bastard! How are you already finished?”
Zoro lifts a middle finger behind his back.
Next time they’re alone, it’s in the kitchen. It’s a slow afternoon, the crew lounging on the deck after a particularly rough patch of sea is done — is there such a thing as calm after the storm?
Because of said storm, Sanji is organizing the last of the kitchen utensils that got jostled, singing low under his breath.
“You should sing more,” Zoro says, apparently in the habit of startling him now. “It 's nice.”
“Thought you were sleeping, dumbass.”
“Nah.” Zoro shrugs. “Just resting my eyes.”
He chooses not to comment on the irony.
“Well, if you're not sleeping, then you’re helping me.” Sanji says while still focused on the task at hand. “You can take these drinks outside while I finish organizing.”
Then, there is a voice next to his ear. Right next to his ear. The hair on his neck stands up, and he can feel a slight wetness forming right under his nose, thanking every god available that Zoro can’t see his face. “Bossy today, are we?”
“Fuck off and do what I told you Marimo!”
The laugh follows him on his way out.
Alone, he wipes the blood from his upper lip and sighs.
Fuck.
Unbidden, images of strong, bronzed bodies and green hair start populating his dreams.
He pictures hands exploring bodies, heat being exchanged, sweat — the smell of sweat — and a slick wetness.
He sees himself under a strong body, can feel the static, the electricity that pulses between their bodies. Sees a strong face under him, muscles staring as he honest-to-god whines and…
Yeah, Sanji needs to get his shit together.
Sanji remembers his time on Momoiro Island, as much as he wishes he wouldn’t. He feels it everyday in his body, his every move more intentional, the fighting like a dance, rhythmic and sinuous.
His shoes have heels now, his hair is longer and there is a bag of makeup under his bed. A corset supporting his spine under his suit
He was changed, and he can’t really tell how much of himself was molded by it anymore.
He gets these urges, sometimes. Remembers the training, the need to always look the best, of being the one a husband wants to come home to every night — always beautiful, always collected, always carrying warm food and a stiff drink.
He thinks of it sometimes, now, as he brings Zoro his food, and the man only hums in response.
A husband must always be thankful to their wife for maintaining the home.
He stays for a little longer, hanging in the corner of the training room.
Don’t be a nag, he doesn’t need your complaints.
Yeah, fuck Momoiro Island.
“I do know you're a brute, but it is usually good manners to say thank you when someone brings you food.” He tsks and lights up a cigarette. When he turns his face back up to look at Zoro, there is a strange tension in the room
“Thanks.” He says simply, over a mouthful of food.
Sanji nods, and turns around.
Something has changed, and Sanji can’t quite put his finger on it. It is in the brush of their fingers when handing Marimo his plate, the looks across the table during meals, the comfortable quiet while Zoro watches the dishes and Sanji dries them.
He feels his whole body heat up whenever Zoro gets too close, has to shut his eyes firmly and count to ten or risk embarrassing himself.
He sees the burning look on Zoro’s eye. It’s almost as if he’s causing Sanji to burn as well.
The ship lurches, and a distracted Sanji drops the dish he’s been drying.
It shatters.
The next thing he sees, his hands are in Zoro’s, stained red, and he can’t breathe. He thinks they’re sitting down somewhere, but they were just standing up. It doesn’t make sense.
“Hey, Curls, are you with me?” Zoro asks, voice low, lower than it usually is. Its tone is different, it’s soft.
Sanji doesn’t know what to do with it.
His struggles to take in another breath.
Those damn cigarettes.
“Blondie? Breathe with me, c’mon.”
“'Chais pas… Oú… Q-quoi?” His tongue feels heavy, like he’s drunk something but he hasn’t, he couldn’t have, it was the middle of the day and…
Zoro mirrors a deep breath, in and out, and Sanji tries to copy him. It is stuttered and shallow, but Zoro keeps doing it, and he keeps holding his hand. He feels warm, and the chill that’s been a constant in Sanji’s bones can’t compete with the sheer heat that emanates from Roronoa Zoro.
He breathes again.
Zoro smiles, looking strained. It doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Right, let’s patch you up properly.”
Sanji finally looks at his hands, and sees red. Zoro has apparently cleaned most of the blood and is holding a tissue against the wound, an emergency kit sitting beside them on the floor.
The floor, they’re sitting on the floor, Sanji's back to the wall and his whole body hurts like he just got beat up (it makes him think of home). He didn’t, he’s sitting on the floor, knees to his chest, hands being cradled by a killing machine, while he regains full control of his lungs.
He shakes, but he doesn’t feel cold.
There's a huge, jagged cut on his hand. His hand, he can’t believe he damaged his most precious tool. It makes him want to cry, so he looks at Zoro’s face instead.
Still in pain, swallowing around the lump in his throat, Sanji takes a deep breath, and lurches forward.
“Cook?” Zoro asks, concerned tinging his voice, like he worries Sanji is about to pass out.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he kisses Zoro.