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The foundations had been laid at Logue Town, with the two of them clawing their way through the heaving crowd, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed at Luffy high on the execution platform. There was the flash of lightning that made them wince and look away, but only for a second, because that was their captain up there and they both knew with chilling certainty that it came down to Luffy’s life or nothing. All or nothing. There was no way Luffy was going to die before they had broken themselves into bloody pieces trying to save him.
Only Luffy hadn’t needed saving that time. That was fine too.
But foundations are nothing until they are built upon, and the building began in earnest on Little Garden, with a contest that now seemed so long ago and so petty against the backdrop of all the things they’ve gone on to accomplish since then. Two massive dinosaur carcasses, each weighing at least a thousand times more than the both of them put together. Spitting insults and challenges to mask a nagging sense of respect beneath the white-hot fury and hatred they swore was genuine but everyone else knew otherwise.
The score was never settled, but it almost didn’t matter. Almost.
Then came Drum and Alabasta, where the two of them took turns tempting death, one against the arctic cold, one against unyielding steel, until finally that moment in the plaza swarming with enemies, when they came together, half-dead, all adrenaline, and agreed, “two seconds,” two seconds for victory, two seconds to fight their way to the clock tower, two seconds to test the foundations they had laid to find them grudgingly and irrevocably sound.
They’ve sailed through the sky, battled against a god with lightning under his skin, competed in bone-shattering games against crippling odds, spat in the face of the World Government, lost two nakama, won them back, lost another to the flames for good, and all the while the building continued and the distance between them shrank and shrank until they were standing within arms’ reach.
They both tried to ignore it.
But then came Thriller Bark. Then came zombies and ghosts and another Shichibukai, but they won, of course. They always win with Luffy, for Luffy, only now Luffy needed saving.
Luffy needed saving and it wasn’t fine.
It hurt, when Zoro knocked him out. It hurt in a way that was brand new, because this was betrayal, this was Zoro burning bridges that they had worked so hard to build, and as his legs gave out, he wanted to hiss, I hate you, I hate you, god fucking damn it,
You better not fucking die before I can kill you.
And Zoro didn’t die, because Zoro was a wonder, Zoro was a marvel, Zoro was still there when he woke, Zoro who was standing with arms crossed in a massive crater covered in blood and gory triumph, a sentinel guarding his young, battered crew.
“I hate you,” he growled as Zoro dropped like a stone in his arms. “I hate you so fucking much and you’re not even conscious to hear it.”
But when Zoro was awake again, when he was no longer so frighteningly pale and alarmingly cold, he said, “You would have done the same,” and fuck yes he would have done the same, he would have kicked Zoro’s head in if he had a chance to do it all over, but he knew that Zoro would not let him, and he knew that Zoro would win, Zoro who was first mate and Luffy’s right hand, Zoro who was named Roronoa, pirate hunter, demon of East Blue. There was never any contest, was there?
And Luffy was alive, and Zoro too, so it was fine in the end, wasn’t it?
“Whatever, asshole,” he spat back and he tried to feel angry, but there was only a tightness in his chest that was painful. “Drink your fucking soup.”
“I don’t want soup,” Zoro grumbled, and gave him a look he wasn’t sure how to interpret, so he ignored it.
“No rum for you,” he snapped, feeling irritated, about to force a spoonful down Zoro’s throat but Zoro caught his wrist.
“Say you’re not angry at me.”
He almost threw the soup in Zoro’s face then. “But I am angry at you, fuckwit. You have no idea.”
Zoro had the gall to roll his eyes. “No, you’re not.”
“If you’re waiting for me to thank you for being such a huge fucking shithead, then—”
“I’m not,” Zoro said. “You don’t have to thank me. Just say we’re okay.”
He wanted to slam Zoro into the wall, to scream in Zoro’s face, how could we ever be okay again after the shit you pulled, but before he could, Zoro tightened his grip and growled, “We’re okay, cook,” and for a moment, the tightness in his chest was unbearable, but then, inexplicably, it was unwinding, unwinding and curling outward like fire through his limbs, a tingling in his fingertips, nervous energy in his legs, a flutter like desperate wings in his throat. Inexplicable.
The bowl of soup balanced precariously on his knee, Zoro’s fingers around his wrist, Zoro insisting, “We’ll be fine. Say we’re fine, cook,” but he didn’t miss the uncertainty in Zoro’s voice and that unsettled him more than anything else, Roronoa Zoro being anything less than a cocksure bastard.
He snatched his hand back. “No,” he retorted in a tone he knew Zoro needed to hear. A semblance of normalcy after all the ghosts and spirits and martyrdom, fear that left a coppery taste in his mouth. “Not until you can sit up on your own and I can stop pulverizing your food in a blender before serving it to you. Then we’ll see if we’re okay.”
Zoro did not even crack a smile. “Promise,” he commanded, solemn and bold, curling his now empty hand into a fist.
He huffed on his cigarette, looked anywhere but Zoro, fought down another urge to chuck the soup at Zoro’s head. Almost wanted to face Kuma again instead of having to deal with this. At least Kuma’s skull he could kick in without feeling guilty. At least Kuma didn’t have godawful green hair. At least Kuma wasn’t nakama who had just tried to die for him.
“Fine,” he relented at last. “Fine, asshole. God, I hate you so much.”
It was fine, had to be fine. They would move past this because they were both stubborn and hardheaded, too stupid or too invested to admit defeat, and he’d make sure Zoro never pulled anything like that again, at least not alone. It scared him when his nakama were alone. He’ll be there next time, conscious and standing, and he’ll pay his dues as well.
He brought his own fist up, and bumped it lightly against Zoro’s own, the distance between them bridged whether they were comfortable with it or not, whether they wanted to admit it or not, after all this time, after all the way they’ve come. Close enough for warmth.
“Now drink your goddamn soup, shitty marimo.”
“Stop nagging me already, dartboard brow.”