Chapter Text
Sanji cursed whatever devil had possessed him and accepted Zoroʼs challenge. He would have been above an utterly pointless contest like that if not for Zoroʼs expert taunting that followed the declaration. Sanjiʼs buttons were pushed one after another, and when the argument was finished, Sanji didn’t remember anything else but accepting the dare.
Zoro had the gall to put Sanjiʼs reputation on the line in it. If Zoro won, Sanji would have to take him in as the crewʼs second cook. If Sanji won, he could tell Zoro to shove it and have him wash the dishes for the next fifty years.
They didn’t need a judge. The ultimate victory would come in the form of having the other admit defeat, a condition Sanji gladly accepted. He would cook a meal so divine Zoro would fall at his feet, call him his prince and kiss the back of his hand. Sanji tried not to question why the fantasy contained exactly that because he had an idea he wasnʼt ready to accept the answer.
While Sanji cooked, he ignored the images of Zoroʼs content face as he chewed on his personally tailored dinner. He waved away the sounds of his thanks. He turned away from his smiles. If he were to win—and his pride as a chef wouldnʼt let the contest end any other way—he had to please Zoro. The dinner had to be cooked for him and no one else, and it had to come from the deepest and most intimate roots of Sanji’s passion for the art. To keep his sanity in check, Sanji led a grueling battle in his head.
The evaluation took place at sundown. Apparently, Zoro didn’t need to cook too long, so aside from some fifteen minutes, Sanji had the kitchen for himself. The amount of time Zoro had spent on the meal was a bad sign, and Sanji dreaded what abomination would be waiting for him when he walked outside with his own dish. The table had been set on the aft where Namiʼs orchard provided privacy from the rest of the ship. As soon as Sanji turned the corner, all thoughts fled his mind.
Zoro was leaning on the taffrail with his back to the setting sun. An unbuttoned patterned shirt waved in the gentle wind and revealed the scar across his chest. Waning sunlight reflected off the trio of earrings while the golden disk behind him bathed him in bewitching light. Serenity in Zoroʼs eyes softened his perpetual scowl. He glowed like a divine treasure at the end of a lifelong journey every old pirate dreamed of on their deathbed.
Sanjiʼs heart ached with pain of missing what he stubbornly denied himself. A crack grew in the wall that kept it trapped.
“Are you ready?” The manifestation of all of Sanjiʼs wishes asked.
“Y-Yeah…” Sanji blinked. There were words to describe what he was feeling, but he avoided them for so long he couldnʼt find them anymore. “Yeah, I am.”
Zoro approached the table, and Sanji did the same with quick steps. When Zoro sat down, Sanji put the plate he was carrying in front of him.
“Filet mignon medium rare with herb butter and a side of grilled vegetables.” Sanjiʼs brain kicked into gear again. “Itʼs a simple dish that tests a chefʼs skill. I trust you will find mine to be the best youʼve eaten.”
“Weʼll see.”
Sanji smirked. “Youʼll eat those words too.” He sat down across from Zoro to a dish prepared by his rival.
“Have a good meal,” Zoro said and cut a piece of his steak. Clear red juice bled from the cut when Zoroʼs fork pierced the chunk. Sanji nodded to himself—it was perfectly done. Mesmerized by Zoroʼs dining, Sanji watched the piece fit between Zoroʼs teeth and slide off the fork. It disappeared between his lips, which moved while his jaw processed the delicate meat. Zoro blinked. His cheeks hollowed while he rolled the morsel on his tongue.
Time stopped. For that split second, the only thing that existed in the whole wide world was Zoro. He was looking into Sanjiʼs eyes, devoid of all of his defenses, and let out a quiet affected hum before he swallowed. Sanji had never been so captivated by seeing someone this taken aback by his cooking.
“Are you gonna eat yours?” Zoro asked.
Only after Sanji blinked a few times did he realize that Zoro continued eating as usual and watched Sanji with an amused smile.
“Ah, right.”
Sanji finally looked at the plate in front of him that Zoro had prepared. His mind was still recovering from the earlier attack on his senses, so it took him a good minute of staring at the plate to start recognizing the contents. It was… some sort of food, that was certain. Upon further inspection, it consisted of perfectly cut cubes of various vegetables and fruits.
“What is this?” Sanji hoped there was something he was missing.
“Salad.” Zoro grinned. “I trust you will find mine to be the best youʼve eaten.”
Disappointment settled in. “Yeah. I was an idiot to think you would take this seriously.”
“It doesnʼt matter what you think. We agreed on something, didn’t we?”
Sanji held back the urge to dissipate the exasperation with a smoke. His fork pierced one cucumber cube and brought it into his reluctant mouth. Just so he wouldnʼt be accused of half-assing, he scooped up a few more different pieces to assess the combination too. However, it wasnʼt the taste of the salad that was on his mind. The memory of that first morning played out in front of him. Zoro was standing in the kitchen, cutting what had apparently become his signature dish and plunging the counter into chaos. The view brought a small smile to Sanjiʼs face.
There was an aspect to cooking mastery that hardly anyone talked about, but which Sanji considered the most important of all. The ability to foster genuine feelings in peopleʼs hearts was found only in the hands of the best of cooks. It didnʼt matter if it was a passionate chef at a renowned restaurant, a food stand cooking by the family recipe, or a mother preparing her childʼs favorite dinner. Anyone who made the world a better place with their food was a proper cook worthy of respect.
Sanji had never tasted anything as terrible as Zoroʼs salad, and he was never so glad that he did.
“Do you like it?” Zoro asked from behind his empty plate.
Sanji never thought he would be considering admitting such gentle feelings towards someone who barged into his life as a dumbass extraordinaire.
“Yes.” A soft chuckle expressed the irony of getting the opposite of what he had always dreamed of.
“Oh, Iʼm glad you say that.” Zoroʼs smile turned suspiciously smug. “Because that salad… is me.”
“Listen, Zoro… Wait, what?” Sanjiʼs confession disappeared somewhere over the ocean like a startled bird.
“At first sight, it looks just like what you think of me, but you like it all the same, donʼt you? For all its faults, you like it even more.”
“Are you…” Sanji looked down at the salad, then back at Zoro. “This isnʼt—”
“I like you.”
“Huh… Huuuh?!”
“I like you, Sanji.”
Sanji stuttered so much he barely made it past the first word. “H-Hold on a second, Zoro—I mean, Mosshead.”
A shit eating grin spread across Zoroʼs face. “You look so adorable like this.”
Sanjiʼs instinctual defense included a high-pitched scream and a kick to Zoroʼs shins. The table above his legs rattled, and Sanjiʼs cutlery fell to the ground with a clang.
“Hey hey,” Zoro scorned. “You donʼt have to make a scene out of it.”
“Youʼre one to talk.” Sanjiʼs face was as red as the tomatoes in his salad.
“I was just being romantic.”
“Likening yourself to salad is the least romantic thing I have ever heard in my entire life!”
Zoro tsked. His ears caught a bit of the salad color too. “I was just going off of your idea of romance.”
“Courtship would include serving actually good food.”
“You said you liked it.” Zoro pointed his finger at Sanjiʼs chest.
“That was not what I was trying to say before you interrupted me with your salad parable.”
“Then what were you trying to say?”
Sanji matched Zoroʼs loudness. “I take it back. I take it all back!”
“You donʼt get to do that!”
“I do!”
“What did you want to say, you dense idiot?”
They were now both standing and shouting at each other for all of the Grand Line to hear.
“Forget it! Youʼve just lost all of your privilege to hear it!” Sanji wanted to settle the matter quickly, and he wanted to forget any of this happened at all. He wanted to run away, just like he had ever since Zoro had stepped into his kitchen.
“Thatʼs not how it works.”
“It is!”
Zoro growled. “Just once, meet me halfway, you bastard!”
“I wonʼt.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me!”
“No!”
“Tell me!”
“Iʼm in love with you, okay?”
The shipʼs sails flapped in the wind. Waves slapped against the hull. The tired wood under their feet creaked with strain. Somewhere in the distance, the last of the sun disappeared below the infinite horizon.
“Finally.” Zoro dropped on his chair. “One has to move a mountain to get a straight answer out of you.”
Sanji didn’t comment.
“So,” Zoro broke the silence, “now, do we…”
“We do nothing.”
“What?”
“Just because Iʼm in love with you doesnʼt mean I want to act on it.”
“You…” Zoro looked up directly into Sanjiʼs eyes. “What are you saying?”
“I never wanted this, you know?”
Zoro took a moment to process that information before he shot up to his feet. “Well, neither did I. And here I am, trying to make you fall for me in exchange for doing the dishes for the next fifty years.”
“So you really werenʼt serious about the contest.”
“Of course I wasnʼt. I couldnʼt compete with you. I know very well what I’m capable of and all the things I could kick your ass at, but itʼs not this. The whole point of all of this”—Zoro spread his arms—“was to win you.”
Sanji dodged his look.
“You think I wanted to fall for you too?” Zoro asked. “I didnʼt. But Iʼm glad I did. Or at least I was.” He took off into the depths of the ship, leaving Sanji alone.
It couldnʼt have been anything else but a sleepless night. Sanji turned over for the twentieth time. The couch Zoro usually slept on was empty because he wouldnʼt let anyone else take lookout duty. The rest of the guys slept like dead. Sanji got down from his hammock and sat on the couch with his head in his hands.
For the first time since his childhood on the Baratie, Sanji felt his life slipping out of his control. Any plans he had for a romantic partner were ruined by that stupid swordsman. What was his love good for if it was heading a way he didnʼt wish for?
Lovers were supposed to be sweet on each other, to feel at ease in each otherʼs company, to find harmony in their relationship that would bring them happiness for the rest of their lives. When Sanji was on the verge of starting to try for all of those things with Zoro, that man flipped everything on its head.
For a while, Sanji hoped that his affection towards Zoro was a result of simple emotional deprivation or touch starvation, so he took it as such. It was that stupid salad that convinced him otherwise. It was the reason for Zoroʼs help that led his heart down a path he didnʼt plan for. It was because of that stupid moss ball that he had to fight the want to spend the rest of his life with him. What fool would fall so hard for someone this vexing anyway?
Sanji had never craved a smoke so much in his life.
When he walked outside, he looked up at the crowʼs nest. A clump of moss peeked from behind the edge and disappeared shortly after. Sanji lit a cigarette and watched the black sea. Its vastness always made all problems look small, so it was easy to look to the horizon for help. However, the ocean told him to find his own answers, and Sanji had no more of an idea how to approach his situation than before. When he started to compile an imaginary list of pros and cons, he found out that it was not a problem he could solve with his head.
Sanji headed into the kitchen. What was usually a sense of pure relief was accompanied by a trace of melancholy. That was his first hint of an answer.
Sanji started cooking. He would normally bake with a mood like this, but he was cooking, although he was cutting more than anything else. It started off rough, but eventually he shook off all the frustration he had felt when he cooked the beef steak earlier. A small smile indicated pleasant enjoyment, which slowly melted the ice around his heart once he stopped fighting his thoughts. When he was done, the meal that materialized under his hands was not one he expected.
Sanji packed that meal into a box. It wasnʼt a meal that could be packed prettily, but he tried all the same. Dividing pieces into parts by combinations of colors, he organized little cubes. He ordered and reordered without thought, only with feeling. His chopsticks worked until they drew a representation of his feelings in the colors. Sanji put on a lid and wrapped it in a decorative tenugui, tying a small bow on top.
The bento sat on the kitchen counter and waited. Food was made to be eaten. It wasnʼt made to be looked at, thrown out or left to wait until it withered. It would be a waste and a shame to treat it that way, even if it didnʼt always turn out the way its cook expected. Sanji was used to likening food to life, but he hadnʼt likened life to food. He chuckled.
Bento box in hand, he walked outside and began the climb up the ratlines that lead to the crowʼs nest. He didnʼt prepare or rehearse any words. All that was on his mind hid in the box he had brought along.
“Are you hungry?” Sanji asked the man on the self-imposed lookout and leaned his elbows on the edge of the basket-like crowʼs nest. He stayed outside instead of climbing in with his feet balancing on the ropes.
Zoro turned his head. “You should be sleeping.”
Sanji extended a hand with the bento box. Zoroʼs hands took it but not before a moment of hesitation and not without careful doubt.
“Donʼt expect me to thank you.”
Sanji blew smoke from a fresh cigarette. That sour face was something he would have to get used to. “Of course not. Have I ever gotten any gratitude from you? And after all those meals I’ve cooked for you…”
Zoro scoffed and unwrapped the box.
“But this one,” Sanji continued, “well, you better fall to your knees. I only prepared the best one I know.”
Zoroʼs eyes widened when he opened the lid. Sanji waited for the message to come across, for Zoro to look back at him and do the one thing Sanji finally admitted to himself that he wanted.
Instead, Zoro lifted his eyes with a confused look. “Does that mean I won the competition?”
“No, you stupid, empty-headed, moss haired, sword-biting bastard,” Sanji said. “It means you won me.”
Zoro blinked. Then, he set the bento box on the ground, plucked the cigarette from Sanjiʼs lips, and kissed him.
Some time ago, somewhere on the Grand Line, on some pirate ship, a swordsman sat on the taffrail and looked into the kitchen through a small window.
The swordsman never attached too much importance to the taste of food. He was never interested in good food, he didnʼt know what made it better or worse, and he had no intention of wasting his energy on learning that information.
When he walked the trails as a pirate hunter, he always let others cook for him. He bought what food he needed for berries from bounty rewards in the most convenient place. High class restaurants never interested him, not even the few times he had enough berries saved to eat in one.
There were only a few meals he had enjoyed eating. During training in his childhood years, a bento box would sometimes appear by a tree on the far end of the clearing where he practiced his swings. They were the most delicious lunches he had. He never told her so, not even when he saw her for the last time with her eyes closed and her pale face surrounded by flowers. He figured she knew.
Next were the meals prepared for the pirate crew by their blond cook. The swordsman didn’t understand it for a long time, and he wasn’t able to explain it for longer. All he knew was that they were prepared differently than usual food, just like the bento lunches from his childhood. They were the most delicious meals he had. He never told him either.
After a short time with the cook on board, the swordsman came to understand why people liked to eat.
There was a certain appreciation the swordsman felt for people who taught him something about life. It wasn’t easy to keep his eyes on reaching his goals and finding joy in ordinary life at the same time. When it came to people who made the world a better place, it didn’t matter who they were or if their only mode of communication was constant bickering. The swordsman would have their back.
The curiosity about food sneaked into his life with the same sort of subtlety with which the cook assimilated into their growing crew. Arguing with the swordsman was part of that subtlety, as their animosity surfaced as easily as if they had been sworn rivals since the dawn of time. One day, the cook had just appeared and became an inherent part of the swordsmanʼs life.
The cook held a kitchen knife with the same kind of pride with which the swordsman held his swords. And just like any warriorʼs good form, the cooking was mesmerizing to watch. A certain draw got ahold of the swordsmanʼs attention. Just like the swordsman would study a fellow fencerʼs technique, he watched the cook work his magic. Soon, the culinarily uneducated swordsman found out that there was little to be learned about his technique, but plenty to be learned about the cook himself.
Cooking held the same place in the cookʼs life as fighting prowess did in the swordsmanʼs, but their passions were different. The cook didn’t do it to hone his craft, to prove his might, or to honor a dear friend. He did it for nothing else but the joy itself. He was full of feelings he couldn’t help but share with everyone who needed them. The cook’s passion was made entirely of love.
From that moment, the swordsman decided that—no less than the lives of his comrades—this love too was worth protecting at all costs.