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Zoro tries to open his eyes and finds himself unable to.
Well, not entirely. His right eye opened just fine, but his left stubbornly stays shut. He instinctively brings his hand to his face, trying to rub it open, when he feels the familiar ridge of raised skin over his eyelid.
A scar.
He frowns. He doesn’t remember getting a wound over his left eye, but then again—now that he thinks about it—he doesn’t remember sleeping in the crow’s nest either. He racks his brain, trying to figure out what he did last, when the memory washes all over him like a bucket of ice water.
Thriller Bark. Bartholomew Kuma. The crew, defeated and unconscious.
Sanji.
Tell the others to find a new cook—
Zoro jerks awake and sits up straight, immediately on hair-trigger alert. He doesn’t feel any pain from the movement, and fear instantly grips his heart like a vice—did he mess up? Did he fail to knock the Cook out? Did Sanji somehow get the upper hand on Zoro and—fuck—did he go on with his stupid, self-sacrificial plan against Kuma—
Someone beside him stirs, and Zoro’s train of thoughts screeches to a halt.
There’s someone else under the blanket with him.
There’s someone else under the blanket, sleeping with him.
Zoro always thought that this is the kind of thing that doesn’t happen to him. He doesn’t get drunk—not without a drinking competition with Nami, that witch—and even then he definitely doesn’t fall into beds with strangers. This…thing never ends well, so Zoro moves again, trying to inch as far away as possible from the figure, but soon realizes that there’s an arm slung across his middle. He accidentally jostles it during his attempt to move away, and its owner lets out a sleepy groan in a voice that’s all too familiar to Zoro.
It’s Sanji. Zoro is sleeping with Sanji, in a position that came straight out of dreams Zoro would never admit to having, and for the first time since his entire breakdown, Zoro realizes he’s stark naked.
Zoro isn’t exactly shy. It’s not like Sanji has never seen him naked before either, but the combination of the blanket, the arm across his stomach, and the whole… sleeping together thing just implies a whole lot of things that can send Zoro spiraling into another breakdown.
There must’ve been a mistake. There’s no way Sanji is also…
He lifts the blanket covering them both and catches a glimpse of the cook’s very pale, very naked butt.
Zoro’s traitorous dick twitches in interest.
He glares at his crotch, irritated by his bodily reaction. This is hardly the right time—Sanji isn’t exactly subtle about his disgust for intimacy towards the same sex, and that doesn’t even consider his relationship with Zoro, whom he spends every day bickering, trading insults, and whatever else is the opposite of ‘friendly’.
Zoro tries to weigh his options between running away and sneaking away, both of them involve leaving out of the crow’s nest before anyone could even get a hint of what just happened, but he must’ve taken too long to decide because Sanji stirs from his sleep and blinks up with bleary eyes.
Zoro has half the mind to leap towards the door. It’s early, too early for any of this. His limbs are heavy, his head dazed and groggy from sleep; Zoro’s not awake enough for a fucking heartbreak—
Sanji presses a kiss to his lips.
A fucking—
Kiss?
“Did I oversleep?” Sanji asks when they part, mind seemingly occupied by things like today’s laundry or the crew’s breakfast menu—things that are, clearly, not kissing Zoro. As if Sanji hadn’t just done something Zoro had thought was downright impossible to happen; as if Sanji wasn’t acting out a scenario out of Zoro’s wildest dream.
As if it was normal.
“Uh,” is all he could muster to say as his brain practically powers down.
Sanji doesn’t seem like he was expecting an answer from Zoro anyway, because he simply yawns and runs a hand through his hair. Zoro watches him, mesmerized, licks his lips absentmindedly as the Cook strolls to pick up his pants from the floor. Sanji slides them up slowly, almost torturously, as if he’s putting up a show, and it’s exhilarating, in a way, to think that Sanji is letting him watch.
“Go to sleep, it’s still early,” Sanji says once he’s done dressing, and before Zoro can form any intelligent response, Sanji leans in for another kiss. Just like the previous kiss, it’s light and casual—more like a greeting than a kiss, a soft pressure against the corner of Zoro’s mouth that’s gone before Zoro could fully process what’s happening. “See you for breakfast.”
The sound of the latch door slamming close echoes against the walls of the crow’s nest as Sanji disappears to prepare breakfast.
Zoro blinks.
His hand absentmindedly touches his lips. He’s just kissed Sanji, his mind slowly registers. Twice. Just a few hours ago, he thought Sanji’s slipping grip against his arm was the closest thing he’d ever get to even touch him before he died in the hands of Kuma. And now...
He doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he knows one thing for sure: there’s no fucking way he can go to sleep again.
+
Zoro traces the scar against his left eye. It doesn’t hurt, but when he tries to blink, it stubbornly stays close.
Okay. So he’s lost an eye.
Zoro thinks he should’ve been more upset with that, but mostly it just confuses him. Kuma’s devil fruit power was supposed to transfer pain, but all he got is a scar against his eye that doesn’t even hurt anymore. Not to mention the whole thing with Sanji, which, holy shit, was that just an imagination? Did his brain come up with an illusion to compensate for the pain?
There’s a sharp ache against his heart at the thought, which is stupid. He’s never had an ounce of hope that his feelings for the very straight Cook would ever be reciprocated.
And yet—
He takes a deep breath and exhales. Well, there’s no point in mulling over the hypotheticals. All he can do is to go out, find Sanji, and find out the truth by himself.
He cracks his neck, stretches, and climbs down the crow’s nest.
There’s something unsettling about his surroundings—like everything has changed ever so slightly, as if they are somehow smaller—but he ignores it. Breakfast first.
+
Breakfast is odd, for a lack of better words.
First of all, the crew seems to have forgotten to tell him that the skeleton—Brook, wasn’t it?—is joining them now. Brook is engaged in a lively conversation with Robin about the old languages of a culture Zoro has never heard before, and she’s actually so engrossed in the conversation that she forgot to bat Luffy’s hand away from stealing her bread. This—Zoro can roll with this. Luffy brings people into his crew at whims, and between a reindeer doctor and a pantsless cyborg, a talking skeleton seems to fit right in.
The other thing, though—
Sanji plops down to his right, and Zoro’s brain freezes for what seems like the thousandth time this morning.
Because Sanji’s sitting beside him, which isn’t that weird in and of itself, but Sanji’s also sitting so close, much closer than Zoro is used to, their shoulders and arms pressing against one another’s. The touch feels like wildfire on Zoro’s skin, and it takes him all his might not to just drag the Cook to the infirmary to get his head checked.
Zoro is never a man of plans. He’s good with rolling with the punches, going along with whatever kind of cruel scheme the universe has in store until he knows how to strike back—
Sanji places his hand on top of Zoro’s under the table.
Zoro whips his head so fast he could hear an audible crack from his neck.
He doesn’t miss the way the tips of Sanji’s ears have turned bright red at the gesture, but other than that, it is as if nothing happened—Sanji is yelling at Usopp to eat your shitty mushroom already, his right hand fending off Luffy’s attempt to snatch his meal. Zoro could’ve sworn everything was just his imagination if it weren’t for the warmth of Sanji’s hand on his own. He shifts his hand for a moment, testing the waters, and the tip of Sanji’s thumb skitters across Zoro’s palm, the contact sending sparks of something that makes Zoro almost giddy.
For the first time since he woke up, he finally has the time to truly take Sanji in—the soft lines of his face, the jut of his chin, the curve of his lips. His hair is longer and wavier than Zoro remembered, and his facial hair is definitely much more pronounced than before. How long has Zoro been unconscious?
He opens his mouth to ask about Kuma, but Sanji chooses to notice his gaze at the same time and narrows his eyes. “What are you looking at, mosshead?”
Zoro squeezes Sanji’s hand as he answers, “you look beautiful.”
Zoro has thought about this a lot, before. Sanji, beautiful in all his juxtapositions; the soft lines of his smiles against the hard edges of his postures, warm hands and bloodied legs. Sometimes the word clings at the tip of his tongue, a universal truth begging to be told: you are beautiful.
Zoro has thought a lot about Sanji’s reaction, too. Anger, probably; one of the insults they’d easily trade with one another, the kind meant to hurt. He would scoff, and retort with a familiar, shitty swordsman. Zoro knows Sanji might prefer masculine words like handsome or suave, but Zoro can never think of him as anything other than beautiful.
Zoro prepares himself for the worst, but instead Sanji blushes bright, his cheeks visibly reddening. “Dumbass,” he sputters, but he looks pleased, a small smile, soft and shy, making its way to his face. “Why are you so embarrassing.”
“Get a room,” Usopp pipes in, and Sanji only flushes further.
Zoro watches, fascinated.
Holy fuck.
+
It’s a confusing affair for the next few hours, but Zoro knows this to be true: this isn’t his reality. It might be an illusion, or he’s been transported to a completely different world—surprising, but not exactly the weirdest thing he’s seen a devil fruit can do. If Bartholomew Kuma’s power can repel something as abstract as pain, it’s not a stretch to expect it to repel things like consciousness or soul. Zoro doesn’t care about the details—that’s more of Robin’s thing. Or the Cook’s.
And speaking of—it’s probably a good sign that he’s not in his own reality, because in this one, he’s dating the Cook. There are no other explanations for the way Sanji is acting around him—the blushes, the fidgeting, the pleased smile he has whenever Zoro hovers around him. As if he actually likes having Zoro around. What a fucking novelty.
There’s something here. Something about this coming from a different Sanji, that all these affections amount to nothing, but—
“Oi,” Sanji says, eyes never straying from his chopping board. “Shouldn’t you be training right now?”
“‘s time to rest my muscles,” he lies easily, and feeling brave, adds, “besides, I missed you.”
There’s a loud THWACK as Sanji chops the vegetables with more force than necessary. “What the fuck,” Sanji sputters heartily, but Zoro can see the blush crawling up from the base of Sanji’s neck. “What are you—what’s gotten into you lately?”
“What, have I not been saying it enough?” He asks, because that sounds like a stupid idea. He hasn’t even got to do anything with Sanji yet, and he already can’t shut himself up. I love you. I miss you. You’re beautiful. He wants to say those words all the time, because they are true, but also because he can.
When Zoro looks up Sanji has already left his knife and apron at the kitchen counter; he’s glaring down at Zoro with face as red as tomatoes, and before Zoro could comment on that, Sanji has pushed him further into the chair and climbed on top of him.
“You need to learn when to shut up,” Sanji says, and kisses Zoro—rough and deep, different from the way the morning kisses went, but not unwelcome. Zoro can feel Sanji’s tongue slipping between his teeth and yeah, shit, definitely not unwelcome. Just when his brain finally catches up and he’s about to lean into the kiss, Sanji has moved away from the chair, standing up straight and looking down at Zoro. There’s an infuriating smirk on his face.
“Yeah, you’re definitely better when you don’t say shit,” Sanji comments smugly before returning to the kitchen counter and Zoro’s left with the weirdest sensation of having won and lost at the same time.
Zoro watches Sanji’s back and absentmindedly licks his lips, still remembering the way the Cook tastes, warm and fierce in his embrace.
If this keeps up, Zoro’s going to die before the day ends.
+
Sanji turns out to be a very tactile lover. Not even in a perverse way, though that wouldn’t be unfavorable.
A hand on Zoro’s arm when Sanji walks past, lingering a little too long to be incidental. Fingers brushing when Sanji’s handing him the afternoon snack. Stolen kisses every time they cross path on the ship—and Sunny suddenly feels very, very small.
By the time evening rolls around Zoro finds himself with Sanji in the bathroom, his hair being washed by the Cook. There’s nothing sexual about the gesture, which actually makes it worse, because Sanji’s tending to Zoro’s needs because he cares. It is a show of affections that not only suits the Cook, but also seems to take into account Zoro’s preferences—no cooing or twirling around, no mention of stupid nicknames like sweetheart or mellorine; just little, bite-sized affections, peppered throughout the day.
The worst part is—Zoro doesn’t think he can even enjoy it.
Well, he sort of is, on the surface; the touches and the kisses and the way Sanji is smiling at him, light and free. But he’s also been plagued by a nagging feeling he can’t quite put his finger on, something that keeps him from taking the final leap of faith and accept this whole thing as his new reality.
There have been occasions where he almost blurts out the truth, but he never quite finds the right time; Thousand Sunny is a busy ship, and Straw Hat Pirates are a busier crew. They dock on an island first thing in the morning, and before he knows it Luffy has insulted the king of the local nation, and they’re on their way to overthrowing another monarchy.
At night, as the ship falls into slumber and quietness finally settles between him and Sanji, sometimes the truth would cling at the tip of Zoro’s tongue; but Sanji turns out to be cuddler, and he would pull Zoro into a tighter grip and Zoro is just a man, damn it.
Zoro is not strong enough for this.
+
They are two days away from the last island when the Sunny crosses path with a battalion of marines.
The enemy force is two galleons-strong, stationing themselves at both the bow and stern of Sunny, and its men have swarmed the deck before Franky could pull a Coup de Burst. Zoro has been itching for a fight—he didn’t get much action in the previous island, the streets having been moved and leading him on the other side of the town as his crew fought against the corrupt king—and he readies himself as one of the marines approaches him with a rapier in hand.
Zoro hasn’t even fully pulled Wado out of its sheath when another marine visibly pales and starts pulling on his friend’s arm, hissing, “are you insane?”
His friend, rapier blade still aimed at Zoro, tries to push him away. “What?!”
“You’re trying to engage the world’s greatest swordsman in a swordfight?”
That... can’t be right. He immediately scans his surroundings, trying to look for Mihawk, before he hears Usopp huff at his side.
“Very funny, Zoro,” Usopp says, “they’re obviously talking about you.”
It takes a moment, long enough for the two marines to scramble in fear, before the knowledge finally sinks in.
He has suspected this. Bartholomew Kuma’s Paw Paw Fruit, pushing him through time instead of realities—certainly one of the more plausible scenarios. And yet he finds himself surprised, the realization now washes over him, all at once.
Zoro has thought about this in passing a couple of times—what it would feel like when he finally achieves his dream. He has considered the sense of accomplishment for keeping his promise with Kuina, and the pride that comes along with it.
He has never expected to feel this hollow.
“Oi, mosshead!” Sanji’s voice calls out from across the deck, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Focus!”
Zoro moves just in time to evade an axe aimed at his head. The axe-wielder stumbles from the momentum of her weapon, and Zoro uses the chance to knock her away with Wado. “Mind your own shit, Love Cook.”
“Maybe I will, once you stop daydreaming,” Sanji shouts as he effortlessly kicks a guy in the neck with a roundhouse kick. Zoro glares at him in return, but he knows Sanji’s right—he doesn’t have time to dwell about his situation right now.
He tears through the enemies around him, trying to finish the fight as soon as he can, but finds himself struggling. The gravity of his eye loss finally dawns on him as he has a hard time gauging enemy distance, the swing of his blades out of sync with his steps and oftentimes a little too fast. His muscles must have been trained over the years, stronger than he can ever imagine, but it is strength he’s not yet familiar with, the momentum of his own movements taking him aback, stuttering his attacks and gives him unnecessary openings.
It doesn’t help that one of his blades is not Shusui; something must have happened to it, and his own future self must have obtained a new sword in replacement. While he can fight with any sword as a swordsman, the soul of this sword is not one he has known, and he cannot draw its full potential.
Another marine manages to avoid his slash, and Zoro grits his teeth in frustration. Such a rookie mistake is downright embarrassing; certainly unbefitting of the title he supposedly holds—
“Zoro!”
There’s a flash of metal, and Zoro’s heart drops as he watches Sanji take the full brunt of an attack meant for him.
+
“Stop pouting.”
Zoro crosses his arms. “I do not pout.”
“Of course you aren’t,” Sanji says, in a tone of voice clearly implying that he’s not buying a single thing Zoro’s selling.
Zoro sinks further into his chair, and definitely does not pout.
Sanji chuckles to himself at the sight, and returns to the apple he’s peeling. Zoro watches him from his chair by Sanji’s bedside, his good eye trailing over the wounds Sanji has acquired during the fight—a few bruises across his temple, ones along his neck, and a deep gash from his shoulder all the way down to his hips. They’re all obscured by gauzes and bandages now, but Zoro can still remember the way the gash on Sanji’s side turned purple from the poison laced on the enemy’s blade.
He’s the one who’s supposed to be on the infirmary bed.
Seeing Sanji like this, paying the price of his own oversight, Zoro now understands the nagging feeling that he felt before—that hollowness that he still feels. The taste of a glory that was never his, achieved through blood he has never spilled.
“Oi, you’re hurting yourself,” Sanji points out, and Zoro realizes he’s balled his fist so hard his nails have started drawing blood.
Sanji sets his knife and apple aside, wrapping his hand around Zoro’s, a clear attempt to console him; but Zoro’s skin comes into contact with the bandages around Sanji’s fingers and he is once again reminded of his failure—not only to protect the person most important to him, but also the hands he treasures.
He pulls his hand away, and ignores the pang in his heart at the way Sanji’s face falls.
“Cook, listen,” he begins. “I’m not—I’m not the person you fell in love with.”
The look of hurt is replaced with confusion; Sanji tilts his head, eyes searching, as if expecting Zoro to add just kidding at any moment. “Of course you are,” Sanji says, slowly, when he’s finally sure the swordsman isn’t joking. “Zoro, you’re...you.”
Zoro shakes his head. “I’m not—Cook,” he says, ignoring the lump in his throat as he stares straight into Sanji’s eyes. “There’s something I need to tell you,” and then the truth finally spills out of his lips.
By the time he’s done, Sanji’s staring at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, his uninjured hand running through his hair.
There’s a beat, before Sanji breaks the silence with, “shit.”
Zoro can’t disagree with that sentiment.
“Fucking shit,” Sanji repeats heartily, and continues into a ramble, “this is all—shit—it’s kind of bullshit how this actually makes perfect sense. The way you’ve been acting these past few days… have you considered, wait, give me a moment, I’m gonna, ” his hand starts scrambling around his shirt and backpocket before reaching for what seems to be a secret stash of cigarettes and lighter under the infirmary bed. Zoro watches Sanji light it up and take a deep drag. “Shit, really needed that. No, you don’t get to say shit to Chopper—not when you just dropped that.”
Zoro shrugs. Fair enough—they all have their own vices.
“Have you considered other alternatives?” Sanji asks after a moment, “I mean, I don’t know, memory loss, maybe? You only had your memories up until, shit, Thriller Bark? That was eons ago.”
“Thought of that, but I don’t know,” Zoro shakes his head again, “I don’t think that’s that. Probably need to ask Chopper about this kind of stuff, but instinctively—” he places his hand on his chest for emphasis, “I know this isn’t me. I did not age with this body.”
The tip of Sanji’s cigarette glows bright red as Sanji takes another long drag. The Cook seems to be lost in thought, a frown creasing his eyebrows, before settling with, “...okay. Okay. Zoro, do you still—are we still good? In Thriller Bark, we weren’t…” Sanji pauses, a horrified look crossing his face, “did I cross any boundaries?”
“I have always wanted this, Cook,” Zoro quickly replies, “even then.” Even now. If there is one thing he’s sure of in this mess, this is it.
“C’mere, then,” Sanji says gruffly, possibly trying to hide the blush that blooms on his cheeks. He pulls on Zoro’s arm, and Zoro lets himself be guided into the bed, Sanji’s head resting at the crook of his neck. “We’ll figure it out. Tomorrow.”
It’s definitely not the reaction Zoro expected.
“You believed me?”
Sanji huffs. “I mean, shit, don’t get me wrong, I’m freaked out as hell—but yeah, I trust you.” When Zoro looks down, Sanji is tilting his chin up, meeting his eyes. “I always trust you.”
Zoro suddenly feels heady, breathless. “Cook,” he presses, “I am not the man you fell in love with.”
“Of course you are,” Sanji says easily, like it’s a simple truth. Zoro can feel Sanji’s warm breath in tune with his heartbeat, Sanji’s lips pressing the words against Zoro’s skin, “Zoro, you dumbass. Didn’t I tell you? You’re you.”
+
Maybe it’s because of the dream-like haze of his surroundings, or maybe his brain is one too many miracles over-quota that he could barely process what’s going on; the fact is he wakes up and finds Kuina, and doesn’t question her presence.
“Zoro, Zoro,” she murmurs, soothing as a blanket. She is crouching in front of him, forever eleven, small hands on her knobbly knees. “Ever so hard on yourself.”
He tilts his head, confused, and she laughs, so good at reading him still.
“Have you ever considered,” she explains, “that this is a reward?”
There’s a playful smile on her face, and the sight aches like a hum under his ribcage. “You know why,” he replies.
“Zoro, I don’t,” Kuina says, and puts her hand on his shoulder; if he doesn’t think too hard about it, he can almost feel the warmth of her touch. “There’s so much weight on you,” she says. “You are young, but there’s so much weight on you. Don’t you think you deserve a reward?”
“So were you,” Zoro counters. “And you didn’t deserve—“ he stops, breath hitching, nails digging into his palms. It feels like he’s ten all over again, all too small for everything.
“Zoro,” she whispers.
“It is not about deserving,” he tells her, in the end, the thing he knows to be true. “This is not my reward to claim.”
She sighs, exasperated and fond mixed into one. “As I said—ever so hard on yourself.”
“Learned it from the best,” he grins, thinking of a girl who was larger than life, who had set her eyes on the world as long as he could remember. Hard on yourself, indeed.
Kuina sits beside him, and nudges her shoulder against his arm. “Then you better get moving, crybaby.”
“I will,” he says, and quickly adds, “I am.”
He closes his eyes then, burying his face in his arms. He can feel Kuina’s warm body against his side, and he takes a moment to try to commit that into memory. “Listen—wait for me, okay? I know I’m not quite there yet. But I’m working on it.”
“I know,” she says, and when he opens his eyes, she is no longer there.
Sanji is.
+
His first instinct is to reach out, to check yesterday’s wounds—why is Sanji the one sitting beside the bed? Did he run away from Chopper? If he tears any of his stitches again Zoro is going to kill him—
There’s a sharp pain against his everything, and Zoro freezes.
“Shit,” Zoro could hear Sanji swear amidst the pain, and he tries to look past the dark spots that are marring his field of vision.
His field of vision that’s suddenly much wider than he was beginning to get used to.
He blinks again, just for good measure, and realizes he has both of his eyes working again. Coupled with the pain coursing through his body like a low hum, it’s clear—he’s back. To the right time, the right universe, whatever the fuck it is.
Sanji is oblivious to Zoro’s inner revelation, opting to fuss over the swordsman, hand running through Zoro’s hair, grazing against his neck, sliding down his arm. “I’m gonna—shit, I need to call Chopper—”
“‘m fine,” he rasps, even though he feels the opposite of that in every way; his throat is dry, his head is pounding, his entire body hurts all over. But he’s overcome with the need to have this moment with Sanji, even for a while, so he forces his hand to gesture vaguely, “just need some water.”
“Right,” Sanji says quickly, and the request seems to ground him, giving him something to do.
Zoro watches him return with a glass of water, and he’s surprised to find Sanji slipping his free hand against his back, steadily supporting him into a seating position as he takes a sip from the glass. It reminds him too much of the other Sanji—the one that loves him—and Zoro suddenly feels like throwing up.
He knows he should feel more concerned about his wounds, but the memory of his maybe-future is still so vivid. He wanted to tell Sanji how he feels—wanted to tell the real Sanji, his Sanji—but now, faced once against with the prospect of rejection, he feels his throat close up.
Zoro isn’t scared of death, but this man in front of him, fierce and beautiful and breakable, he fears.
He sighs, leaning back into the bed, now filled with the complete opposite urge as the one he felt just moments ago—he just wants to get this over with, for Sanji to call Chopper and leave him. Anything but the reminder of what he couldn’t have.
But when he finally finds the energy to look up, Sanji is still there, watching him with something in his eyes. There’s a moment of silence, and then he feels Sanji’s hand grazes his as Sanji says, “I’m glad that you’re okay.”
Zoro’s breath catches.
He is suddenly caught up in images of the other Sanji, the one in his dream, the one that could be in his future—soft lips brushing against his collarbone as he chided, didn’t I tell you, Zoro? You are you. You are the man I fell in love with.
There are a lot of things he’s unsure of, but Zoro knows to trust Sanji—whichever version of Sanji it is, in whichever world.
He forces himself to sit up, ignoring the flashes of pain against his sides. “Sanji.”
Sanji is immediately on him, hands on both of Zoro’s shoulders, voice raising in panic, “Zoro—you Shitty Swordsman—what are you doing?”
He tries to remind himself of the need to say the words—because he can, and also because it’s true. He steels himself, and says, “Sanji, I love you.”
He can hear Sanji’s breath hitch. Zoro feels his heart race, rising up in his throat, but the tension bleeds when Sanji places his hand against Zoro’s cheek, and when Zoro meets Sanji’s eyes, they are filled with awe instead of disgust.
“This is real,” Sanji says, almost to himself. “You’re not—Chopper said he gave you some strong stuff, are you sure—”
“I have always loved you,” he cuts in, and can’t help breaking into a smile at the way Sanji flushes red.
He thought he had known what it felt like to have Sanji like this; but to have this Sanji… the other Sanji pales in comparison, a feeble imitation of this real one. This is his Sanji—the one that lived and fought and sailed with him. This is the Sanji that he loves.
Zoro leans in for a kiss, the gesture feels new and familiar at the same time; and Sanji meets him halfway.
+
When Chopper is done with the check up—and after long hours of fussing, scolding and dances from the little doctor (“I’m not happy that you called me the best, okay?”), Zoro once again finds Sanji fidgeting by his bedside, cheeks burning red.
“Oi, Shit Cook,” he calls out, hand slipping into Sanji’s to ground him. “You’re thinking too much. What is it?”
“I just realized I didn’t,” Sanji fumbles, and it is truly a wonder how red his face could be. “You know, I haven’t said it back, when you—I love you too,” the last four words stumbled clumsily out of Sanji’s lips, but they manage to warm Zoro all over anyway. “You know that, right?”
Zoro grins, thinking of a future they could have, a future he will fight for. “Yeah, I know.”