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A SWORDSMAN’S SHAME
It’s an established fact that Roronoa Zoro was never the brightest person in the crew.
He didn’t have to be, of course. That’s what Nami was for. No, Zoro was tasked with being the crew’s rabid attack dog, something he didn’t need a vast intellect for, and he fulfilled the role to perfection. It only took the smallest sense of danger, just the tiniest hint, and he became a whirlwind of blades, ready to strike down whoever had so much as glared at them.
That was back when he was young and stupid.
Now he’s older, and even stupider.
Which is why Sanji is quick to drop everything he’s doing—cooking and supervising the kitchen and ordering the staff around—the moment a waiter peeks inside and helpfully informs that a swordsman has just arrived and is talking to mister Roronoa Zoro sir.
It happens often, really. It’s not like Sanji was trying to hide when he built his restaurant, as it’s no secret that Zoro spends there most of his time, so they get visitors more often than not. Ambitious bounty hunters, reckless pirate rookies, over-achieving marine recruits — all of them chasing the infamous couple, Pirate Hunter and Black Leg, the wings of the Pirate King, and the fame that will come with defeating them.
They always leave the way they came from, cut and kicked and having learnt their lesson about aiming higher than they can fly.
And then there’s the swordsmen — men and women and everything in between, trainees on the way of the blade, who come seeking the one who holds the title of strongest among them.
Sanji didn’t bother with the first one who showed up. They were Zoro’s to deal with.
Then they had drawn swords inside the restaurant: chopped a table in two, destroyed three chairs, a tablecloth and half a dozen dishes, and broke a window, all in the span of thirteen seconds — thirteen seconds being the time it took Sanji to leave the kitchen, cross the restaurant, and kick their faces in.
Zoro has been strictly forbidden from drawing his katanas inside the restaurant ever since, but he tends to forget about that.
And sure enough, his fingers sliding over Wado’s hilt are the first thing Sanji notices when the swordsman comes into view.
He’s still sitting at his table, the half-empty mug of sake forgotten in favour of the newcomer. They’re measuring each other with their gaze, the challenge that no doubt has been issued lingering on the air, and Sanji knows that Zoro is about to pounce. He can see it on his posture, the tension on his neck, the steely gleam in his eye. He’s been on the receiving end more than enough times to recognize Zoro’s attack mode.
Sanji doesn’t hesitate for a single second: the moment Zoro is in range, he stops dead on his track, uses the momentum to spin on one leg, and connects his other foot’s heel to the back of Zoro’s head in a rather elegant spinning kick.
Zoro’s eye opens wide in surprise as his face collides against the table with a loud clonk. The other swordsman gasps and makes to draw his sword, but freezes on the spot when Sanji sends a glare his way, and he’s left to witness a tale as old as time:
“What the hell, cook,” Zoro snaps as he sits back. His forehead is bright red and there’s blood trickling down his nose — but he’s been through worse, so Sanji easily overlooks it.
“Take this outside,” he barks.
“Fuck you.”
“Something you won’t get to do again if you even think of having this duel in here.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” he growls, standing up so they’re at eye level.
“I am while you’re in here. Out.”
“Fuck you.”
“You either go outside by your own foot or by mine.”
“You either go outside blah blah blah,” Zoro parrots in a high-pitched voice.
“Oh, that’s very mature.”
“Oh, that’s very mature.”
Sanji feels his eye twitch. “Go outside to fight or I swear I’ll fillet you for dinner.” And, for extra insult: “With your own knives,” he adds, jerking his head towards the katanas at his hip.
“These here are a big boy’s swords,” Zoro replies, his eye narrowing in offense, but it’s with a cocky grin that he adds, even as he complies and starts making for the door: “Not that you could tell the difference.”
“If they’re a big boy’s swords, how come they’re owned by a manchild?” Sanji yells at his retreating figure, then huffs in annoyance. He needs a cigarette.
All this time and Zoro still gets on his nerves. He really is the most insufferable person he’s ever met, his head so full of swords there’s no room for anything else. Dumb like a brick, nine out of ten things that come out of his mouth are stupid or not worth listening to.
But, admittedly, he’s not that terrible. He helps at the restaurant when they’re understaffed, making a big effort to be kind and polite to the customers. When he leaves for a few weeks to travel around and meet swordsmen, he never forgets to bring back home new ingredients or recipes he encounters — and he’s learnt to ask for help to find his way back in the first place. And for all that he loves winding Sanji up, he’s always there when Sanji needs a break, or a hug.
He’s a fantastic hugger, though Sanji suspects only he knows this.
Well. He and Chopper.
A cigarette break happens to be the perfect excuse to follow the two swordsmen outside and watch their duel — because no matter their quarrels, watching Zoro fight never ceases to be exciting. Especially when he’s facing a strong opponent, and though Sanji is no expert, he thinks this might be the case, judging by how tense Zoro was when he interrupted.
Sure enough, his swordsman is not wasting time, three blades already out of their sheaths and his kimono pulled down to his waist. It’s not a bad sight—Zoro doesn’t look any worse at forty than he did at twenty—and Sanji allows himself to stare shamelessly. He watches his jaw clench around Wado’s hilt, his arm tense when he blocks a hit; all things utterly familiar, but that he doesn’t tire of seeing.
Then Zoro turns to perform a slash, and it’s his back on display for Sanji.
Nine out of ten things that come out of Zoro’s mouth are stupid or not worth listening to, but every now and then the swordsman manages to surprise him. There’s that one out of ten, those little instances that remind him that there’s more to Zoro than just muscles and a pretty face; things he’ll say without much thought but that get ingrained in Sanji’s memory.
The first one of those was a long time ago, when they’d hardly just met and Sanji had thought he was an idiot for almost getting himself killed in the pursuit of a dream:
Wounds on the back are a swordsman’s shame.
And Zoro, for any casual observer, knows no shame.
His back is unmarked, a stark contrast to the ugly scar that bisects his chest. There’s another one across his left eye, and two matching ones around his ankles (Sanji is fond of those, because he patched them up himself); his hands and arms carry many thin scars from his early training years, and Sanji is one of the few who know about the scar on his hip. His whole body, from head to toe, is a memorial to all the fights he’s fought.
And yet his back remains unspoiled…
…except that’s not exactly true.
It’s been spoiled, plenty of times. It’s been the target of Nami’s anger only a little less often than the moss he has for hair. It’s been involuntarily used as Luffy’s landing mat time and time again. It’s been covered in doodled games of tic-tac-toe during unfortunate naps. It’s been used as a practicing target, a shield, a chair. For years, it’s suffered the company of some of the most remarkable individuals to have sailed the Grand Line.
And oh yes. There are scars on his back.
They’re very thin and almost faded, but if one knows where to look—and Sanji does—they’ll find them: irregular lines, three across one shoulder blade and two more at his lower back. They’re old, dating back to almost twenty years ago, but Sanji remembers like it was yesterday.
In his defense, it was one of their first nights together, they were still getting used to each other, and it was hard to think straight — he hadn’t meant to scratch Zoro’s back that badly. If anything, it was the swordsman’s fault for: a) insisting on topping; b) being very good at topping; and c) groaning into his ear something that had sounded dangerously similar to his name. Sanji hadn’t even realized how desperately he was clinging to him, and Zoro hadn’t complained either.
It was later, when they untangled from each other and Zoro rolled onto his back, that he hissed in discomfort and stood up to find the sheets decorated with droplets of blood. They looked at the unplanned canvas for a moment, then at each other, then Zoro blurted out: “Dude?”
Sanji remembers bursting out laughing, even though he wasn’t sure he found it funny. “Sorry,” he apologized as he watched Zoro turn around in a lame attempt at taking a look at his back, like a puppy chasing his own tail.
“You don’t look sorry.”
“I know.” He took a hand to his mouth to stop the laughter that was bubbling from his chest. “But I am. Really.”
Zoro huffed, then gave up on trying to dislocate his neck and made his way to the bathroom. “Fucking shit, cook!” he screamed from there. “Trim your goddamn nails!”
Sanji spared a glance to his nails—admittedly longer than they usually were, and sporting a visible red under them—then rushed behind Zoro, decided to help him wash. He apologized again, without laughing this time, and made a face when he realized that a few scratches might actually leave a scar.
“This isn’t good, is it?” he worried. When Zoro gave him a sideways glance, he elaborated: “Wounds on the back are a swordsman’s shame and all that…”
“These are hardly wounds,” Zoro shrugged it off, and it was with utmost naturality that the added: “And I could never be ashamed of you.”
One out of ten.
A simple line, something that Zoro probably said without thinking but that has stuck with Sanji for decades. It made him feel warm, wanted — loved, even. That was the first time that he thought he and Zoro could make it last; that he wanted it to last.
“Really?” he said, unable to hide the delight in his voice. And then, because he wasn’t capable of being normal about it (not while his brain was partially goo still): “What if I dressed in drag?”
Zoro gave him a weirded-out look. “Are you asking if that’d make me ashamed of you?” He shrugged. “Why would it?”
“What if I cooked something terrible?”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“What about when I see a pretty lady and I go all hearty and start fawning around her?”
Silence. Sanji’s grin froze at the edges. Zoro stared back, his steel-grey eye unreadable. Neither moved for a moment, the air heavy with what was being left unsaid, the tension growing thicker by the second. A nervous laugh escaped Sanji, and then he could only blurt out:
“Please don’t break up with me.”
That made Zoro crack a smile. “Of course not,” he reassured, pulling Sanji into an embrace. “I could never be ashamed of you,” he repeated, pressing a loving kiss to his forehead, and Sanji couldn’t remember why he’d been worried anymore.
“Thank—”
“Embarrassed, though…”
There had been a bit of fighting after that. Zoro earned a kick to the shin and a rather colourful tirade of insults that he simply laughed off, then proceeded to cuddle the anger out of Sanji.
It might just be that he’s getting old, but Sanji finds himself revisiting that night when he sees Zoro’s back, and the memory clings to him for the rest of the day. It makes him feel nostalgic, miss days long gone, but it also comes with a sense of pride — at what they’ve accomplished, what they’ve built together. At the fact that he might be responsible for the only scars on Zoro’s back, but he’s also spent half of his life protecting it, and having his protected in return.
***
It’s been a long day at the restaurant. Zoro has had his hands full with the duel for hours, while Sanji has not only had his duties as head chef, but also had to fend off a small group of pirates — and energetic as they are, they’re not in their twenties anymore.
“He made you sweat,” Sanji teases when Zoro enters their bedroom fresh out of the shower, a towel around his waist and another over his hair, which he rubs with little enthusiasm.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I probably would have fared better without the concussion.”
“Aww,” Sanji coos, not even remotely sorry. He grabs Zoro’s head with both hands and pulls him close, gently, to press a kiss to the still reddened spot on his forehead. “You say that as if there was something in here to concuss.”
Zoro’s eye narrows in insult. “Idiot cook,” he fires back.
“Stupid marimo.”
“Dumb brows.”
“Musclehead.”
“Nosebleed king.”
“World’s worst swordsman.”
"That's world's best," Zoro snaps, offended.
“I know!” Sanji beams, delighted by his small victory, but also because hey, Zoro is the world's strongest swordsman, and he's his.
"Oi," Zoro breathes out in a half laugh, and his hand meets Sanji’s for the high-five he offers. He doesn’t let him go, trapping his hand by entwining their fingers together, his other arm sneaking around Sanji’s waist to pull him close and into a kiss. “I love you,” he mumbles over his lips.
Sanji hums. “And I,” he answers, fingers toying with Zoro’s earrings, “love,” he presses a kiss to his cheek, “my restaurant.”
Zoro groans and pulls away from the embrace.
“All I ask of you is, you know, don’t destroy it in one of your dick-measurement duels,” Sanji goes on, unfazed. “I know it can take a while for things to get through all that moss and into your allegedly existing brain, but the moment you learn not to start fights inside my restaurant I won’t have to give you concussions anymore.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Zoro doesn’t seem to have paid much attention to his words, and only approaches him now to pull his hair free from the ponytail. (He loves Sanji’s long hair, taking every opportunity he has to play with it or steals his ribbons. It’s not dissimilar to the way Sanji finds the two streaks of grey on Zoro’s temples ridiculously attractive, but he likes to think he’s more discrete about it.) “Are you ready for bed?” the swordsman asks casually, so randomly it takes Sanji completely by surprise.
“Uh, yes?” he answers, not sure where this is going. His gaze chases Zoro’s figure at his back—no, wait, he’s going around his other side—he’s in front of him now and…
Sanji realizes his mistake only a fraction of a second after his eyes meet Zoro’s.
He’s not one to be affected by Conqueror’s Haki, but being the sole target at this close range is enough to freeze him on the spot, his mind going blank and his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears. Only vaguely aware of his surroundings, Zoro’s laughter feels faraway. There’s a light touch to his shoulder, more playful than with malicious intent, yet Sanji’s legs still give in under him.
Zoro is there to catch him—he always is—and even though he’s careful when he picks him up bridal style and makes sure his head fits comfortably against his shoulder, Sanji hears him scoff: “Not so cocky now, are we?”
“Asshole,” he mumbles back without bite.
The dizziness fades slowly, leaving room for a tiredness that weighs down on him. His eyes fall shut, Zoro’s steady breathing lulling him, and he barely registers being tucked in bed. He does feel the soft touch of Zoro’s lip on his temple, next to his curled eyebrow, and the loving gesture leaves a smile dancing on his lips.
He might even forgive Zoro for this stunt he’s pulled off.
Oh, but he’d better come cuddle the shit out of him before he falls asleep, or else—