Archive of Our Own

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.

Chapter Text

“Cook?” Zoro asks, concern tinging his voice, like he worries Sanji is about to pass out.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he kisses Zoro.

They don’t talk about it afterwards. For some time.

Sanji turns on his heels and runs. He hides until he is needed again for dinner.

Zoro feels pain on his chest. He doesn’t know what it's from.

They both try not to think about it.

It ends like this.

Cold hands under warm water. Fluffy white foam. The slow, methodic rhythm of practice, of usualness, of domesticity.

They are nakama, after all.

A single look, exchanged.

Sanji wouldn't be able to tell you when the mosshead turned into mosshead, when the him turned into him, when the anger and the explosive fire turned into warmth, into melody, into life itself.

What he can tell you, though, is how this happens.

He keeps looking, and it feels like the other man had never been this close. Close enough he can feel the hot air of his breath, so, so close. They are hovering on a knife’s edge, and unwillingly, it blurts out of him.

“Zoro, I-”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence, though. As if reading his mind, as if anticipating his every move, every thought, every feeling. Back to back, and yet Zoro is somehow two steps forward, just far ahead enough to get what Sanji is just now starting to let take root in his chest, deep and tangling — a desert flower, resistant and beautiful and unrootable.

He is kissing Zoro. Or, better, he is being kissed by him. He cannot describe the experience in any other way, how Zoro places two strong, warm hands on the sides of his face and he feels like he’s burning, like he's flying, like he’s drowning. It doesn't matter, though, because Zoro is the only thing that exists in the entire world, in all the four blues, in the whole universe and whatever exists beyond. He is being consumed like never before, and he can die happy knowing the man tastes like matcha and warm honey.

He ended up on top of the table, plates and a towel on the ground, thankfully unbroken. His legs are spread apart, wide and he pants like he just ran a marathon. His naked back on the hard wood. Zoro’s head in between his legs, supporting Sanji’s feet on both strong — oh, so strong — shoulders. There’s a whisper of hesitancy in his own head, of pure fear at being exposed like this, of the other man seeing his defectiveness up close.

Then he feels his hot breath on the warmth between his own legs, feels the grip of calloused hands on his thighs tighten, sees the sheer admiration on the swordsman’s face.

There is no place for hesitation after that.

Zoro takes pleasure in taking him apart slowly. Sloppy, wet kisses on both his feet, he’s being held like precious china, and somehow doesn’t have the space in his mind to be offended. It’s not because he’s weak, he knows. Zoro would never think that, would never do this, look with such admiration at a failure.

He feels holy.

There’s suddenly a sharp sting, and he looks up in time to see the undeniable circle of teeth form a red-purple mark on his inner thigh.

He’s so close, but so tantalizingly far away.

Instead of holding onto the table with his hands, and gripping tight, readying himself for the ride,  like he truly wants to , he gets up to a sitting position, and pulls Zoro close by a vice-like grip on his short hair.

He wants him close, wants him on top of him, inside him, everywhere all at once all the time.

They’re kissing, hot and heavy, tongues sliding against each other. It is full of teeth, of burning lava. It drips down, works its way through his heart and his groin, and all of Sanji is alight.

He doesn't feel the chill in his bones anymore. Because Zoro’s free hand slides down in between their bodies and rubs his clit hard, just once. 

He sees stars.

God damn, he’s a fucking cliche.

But there’s no time to dwell on that. There’s a hot breath in his ear, hot hands on his waist and an even hotter pressure on his opening. He feels the tip of Zoro’s cock press on, and there is no resistance, with how wet he is, with having just had the hardest orgasm of his life.

Zoro pushes himself inside, and he is buried to the hilt inside Sanji.

“I love you” the other man says, and it takes all of Sanji’s strength to not start crying right then and there. The only pain he feels is in his heart, the rest of his body sparkling with so much sensation he feels like he might actually catch fire.

“Fuck, Zoro!” He screams, and holds on to Zoro’s back with short nails that have to be drawing blood. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t care. It’s too much, it’s not nearly enough. He might only be satisfied if their souls became one, if their bodies merged completely and they became one being.

Now, though, he’s here, and he aches to respond in kind. The words are heavy on his tongue, warm honey but also cloying venom. He looks down, and sees the sixes tattooed on his thighs. He had forgotten, how in the world had he forgotten? Now Zoro must see, must know the wrongness that lies within him,  can pull on that thread and untangle all the ugliness inside his mind. Not enough, Sanji thinks, never enough. A failure, his one and only failure. He’s defective, he’ll never be enough for the man who will become the best swordsman in the world.

There is a hand in his face, its touch feather-light. Sanji is crying, individual tears slowly dripping down his face, and the softest hand in the world dries them away. I baffles him, how a hand that has seen so much bloodshed, that has shed so much blood itself can be so delicate.

How he can be deserving of that softness.

“I can’t-” Sanji chokes on his own words, on his own tears and snot. “God, I must look the opposite of sexy right now. I’m so-”

“Don’t” Zoro interrupts, a hardness washing over his face that disappears as fast as it came. “Don’t apologize.”

“But I’m-” The protest feels weak in his mouth. He feels weak, his head aching and his body light. He could be floating.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He says, slowly pulling his penis out of Sanji. He can’t help but hold back a whimper, feeling so empty and cold all of a sudden. “Look Curly, I don't know what type of shit you’ve been through, and whatever bullshit is in your head, but it’s wrong and that’s the end of it. I will not let you offend me by thinking so low of yourself that you’re not enough for some reason, and I won’t let you put your ass on the line like you did with Kuma again.” He breathes out, reminiscent of a bull with fire in his eyes and vapor on his breath. “You’re the one who has my back. You push me to be better. I meant it about us being a team.”

Sanji is speechless for a second, tears still falling silently, his chest resigned and falling faster than it should be. He is now sitting on the table, not strong enough to curl in on himself like he wants to do. Zoro’s hand is over his scarred chest, right above his heart.

“That’s… the most words I’ve heard you say at one time.” He breathes, shakily. “Are you finally evolving, plant-head?” He tries for humor, but it sounds weak on his ears.

Zoro gives him a single, appraising look, and grabs his yukata from the floor, wrapping Sanji in it. He is not a small man, by any means, but right now, shaking in the dark of the kitchen, a chill in his bones and the green cloth around his shoulders like a blanket, he feels all but eight years old again, heavy iron mask over his face, nails ripped from clawing at the walls of his cell like a caged animal.

He lets out a breath, and with it his remaining strength to  fight Zoro on this.

“Just take me to bed, please.” The words are foreign in his ears, the request outright unimaginable to the Sanji that started this day. But too much has happened in front of Zoro for him to pretend anymore, too many of his layers peeled, the armour stripped leaving only Sanji red and raw and broken into tiny pieces.

But as he looks at Zoro from under his lashes, he knows he can still be put back together. He lets Zoro hold him — bridal carry his traitorous brain still has the energy to supply — and take him to his bed.

He falls asleep before reaching his destination, he thinks, because when he wakes up, it is alone. He smells like Zoro, but he’s surprisingly unsticky. Did the swordsman bathe him? The idea is so ridiculously domestic his lungs fail to suck in a breath.

When his breathing is back to working, he gets up, legs slightly wobbly. He is still wrapped on the green yukata, and wears it like a robe outside, not having the energy to care enough if his nakama will comment on it. The sun is high in the sky, and it must be closer to noon. His heart races, thinking he’s missed breakfast, but when he reaches the kitchen it is empty, but for the green-haired man holding a spatula while he cooks something. 

There is a plate of eggs on the table, still steaming — kept warm, he thinks, for me? — and he knows it belongs to him. It sits beside his favorite mug, a garish thing of blue and red flowers on a yellow background bought for him by Luffy. “I thought you should have some color in your mornings.” the man — the boy, for he still had been just a boy — had said. The sentiment so honest Sanji had never let go of the damn mug. Luffy had kept it for him, these two years apart, just a single crack around the rim. 

He smiles despite himself.

“I hope you didn’t destroy my kitchen, idiot.” He snarks, but the undertone is soft. “I will throw you overboard if I find even a scratch on my pan.”

“I’d like to see you try, blondie.” Zoro is smiling, just a little. He softens, then says “I thought you could use a little break.” He leaves the stove, and presses a kiss on Sanji’s forehead. The blond pulls him by the collar of his light-blue shirt, and kisses him. Tongues and teeth forgotten, Sanji uses the touch of their mouths to say what he isn’t able. He then pushes the man away, landing a playful kick to his leg.

“Thanks.” He sips his coffee, black but brewed with a little bit of cinnamon — how does he even know that — then says “Don’t expect to be getting any special treatment from me, Marimo. This doesn’t mean I’ll be going soft on you.”

We are a team, Zoro had said. You push me to be better.

“Wouldn't dream of it.”