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If there's one thing Zoro can say with absolute certainty, it's that he's not a particularly talkative man. Maybe he'd once been, when he was young: a foolish child, yelling his unfiltered thoughts to anyone who would listen, and even to those that wouldn’t. A cub before he ever became a tiger, spouting off declarations of his ambition and challenges to those he deemed worthy. Kuina, in particular, took the brunt of most of his provocations.
Zoro isn’t entirely sure when that changed. After her death, maybe, when the remaining vestiges of his innocence truly faded away under the weight of her white sword in his hands. Or maybe sometime afterwards, in the years he spent mostly in solitude, chasing after the ghost of a dream.
Either way, Zoro doesn't speak in excess anymore. And often, Zoro sees this stoicism interpreted by others as slow-wittedness. As if by not advertising his thoughts for the all the world to see, he doesn’t have them at all. They couldn’t be more wrong.
Because if there's one thing Zoro had learned during his younger years in Shimotsuki, it was the power of observation. Maybe its value was a bit forcibly imposed onto his hardheaded, overly spirited younger self, Koushirou’s teachings difficult to stick in his one-track mind. But his old sensei diligently made sure the lesson was eventually imparted on him nonetheless. One can only strike efficiently with an effective understanding of their surroundings and situation, after all.
It's because of this that Zoro discerns things that others likely miss, even if he doesn’t necessarily point out his observations verbally. This includes the swordsman’s passing perceptions about the resident chef of the Strawhat Pirates. For in his silent adoration, the swordsman finds his gaze is often drawn to Sanji almost instinctively in nearly any scenario.
It starts small. Zoro notices, over the course of their days spent together, that Sanji smiles with his mouth closed more often than not. It's a sideways smirk that comes across as more suave than any kind of expression of unfiltered joy. Zoro had once thought it was just a part of Sanji’s persona, his ‘cool guy’ schtick that accompanies the suits and ties.
But there are times when Sanji does smile wide, like when someone makes him laugh, or when he finds a new recipe that gets him excited. Zoro remembers fondly a time Sanji had been telling Chopper about All Blue, the way his eyes lit up and he grinned talking about his mythical ocean taking permanent residence in the back of the swordsman’s mind. There was another occasion, too, in which Luffy had ended up launched across the ship’s deck into the waiting ocean, an instant karmic punishment for messing with one of Usopp’s unfinished experiments. It seems like the kind of thing Sanji would have normally shaken his head in exasperation at, but that day, the cook had laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever witnessed, smile beaming all the while.
There’s a gap in between his two front teeth, Zoro had noted. It's… cute.
But for as brilliant as the cook’s smile is, it's just as fleeting, like a flower blooming in the driest desert. Sanji will seem to catch himself whenever he smiles larger than life like that, either retracting into a familiar closed-mouth smile or covering his mouth with a hand. As if he had done something worthy of correction, like a child caught sneaking from the cookie jar.
There’s other things Zoro descries, too. Some days, he finds himself catnapping in the galley, silent and overlooked. And from there, with one eye barely peeked open, Zoro watches Sanji cook, or clean the kitchen, or write in the little notebook he keeps with all his recipes and ideas inked permanently within its pages. He’s always liked to watch the man when he’s absorbed in his element.
One of these times, Zoro sees Sanji suddenly cease his rhythm to stop dead in his tracks in front of the sink, as if pulled by a string to be physically brought to a halt. His face turns, stuck staring at his own reflection in the window there, frozen like a trapped animal. A beat passes before one of the cook’s hands slowly comes up to graze his nose.
Zoro likes Sanji’s nose. It’s aqualine in shape, the proud, hooked slant of it just shy of straight at the bridge. But Sanji glares at it as if the appendage has wronged him, somehow. The cook runs a precious hand down its slope, tracing the line of it as if he could reshape it with the force of his mind alone. He turns his head this way and that, as if negotiating with his reflection to change what he sees. Like the window itself could show Sanji something different, if only he was able to bargain with it more, the way he does with food vendors when stocking up on supplies at new islands.
And then, Sanji sighs, slumping before moving away from the window altogether.
When the cook leaves the galley after that, Zoro sees him jump in surprise at the sight of Zoro in the corner, obviously not having noticed him there the whole time. Sanji slinks away while Zoro does him the courtesy of still pretending to be asleep, though his mind whirs with confusion at the odd interaction he had just witnessed.
The final nail in the coffin, though, that led to Zoro truly thinking about the sum of Sanji’s strange behavior in more depth, is their recent excursion to a summer island. Warm, humid air, white sandy coasts, and at least three days to reset their log pose has their captain declaring a mandatory ‘beach day’ for the crew, and the men’s bunk is a mess of flying clothes and tangled limbs in an attempt to get them all outfitted in their swimsuits. When the door finally flies open, out pours a good majority of the crew, outfitted in swim trunks and armed to the gills with floaties, beach balls, and pool noodles, cheering in delight for the day ahead.
Zoro follows behind, careful to keep out of the way of the chaotic rampage. But as he goes to leave the men's bunk, that little voice in the back of his head that sounds vaguely like his old sensei tells him to turn and look back.
’Be sure to always pay attention to your surroundings, Zoro. You never know what you might be missing if you overlook things that seem insignificant.’
The only one left in the half-lit room is Sanji, standing in front of the full-length mirror in the farthest corner. He's clad in flowery swim trunks that border on silly, figure on full display, and for a moment, Zoro stands stricken in the doorway, captivated at the sight. The swordsman is shaken from his stupor, though, when he looks a bit closer.
Sanji’s back is turned from Zoro, but the swordsman can see the other man’s expression reflected back in the mirror. And what sits on the cook’s face is... a bit unsettling. Without the presence of the others around, Sanji’s expression has dropped from casual neutrality into something more resembling irritation - frustration as his eyes trace the shape of his body, his hands on his hips as if in defiance.
It’s irritation at himself, Zoro realizes, his stomach dropping at the implication.
Sanji’s hand absentmindedly moves to run over his forearm, fingers carding through the coarse hair dusted there. The appendages trace the shape of the freckles dotted like stars over his arm, then his shoulder, roughly, like he could scrub them away with the force of his fingers alone.
He kicks a calf into his hand, running a thumb over the overlapping scars there: thin slices, patchy burns, and the pucker of bullet wounds rest against his skin in pink and white patterns, raw evidence of their adventures and fights on the Grand Line. Zoro finds himself captivated at the way his muscles make the shapes move on the surface of his skin. He's always been fascinated by Sanji’s legs, after all.
But Sanji looks so… dissatisfied.
It's enough to make Zoro realize that, even as deeply as he's gotten to know the cook over the course of their journey, that maybe there’s still more that he needs to learn. And maybe at this moment, he's intruding on something that wasn’t intended to be seen by him.
But the alternative of leaving Sanji to whatever his own devices are seems the worse option.
“Oi, cook,” Zoro says, voice low as it bounces off the near-empty room’s walls. “You comin’?”
Sanji’s eyes flash up to meet Zoro’s in the mirror, painted over with surprise. Uncannily quick, Sanji’s posture shifts into something lazier, more confident, and Zoro is left stupefied at the speed of the transformation. It makes him wonder how often the cook has to do it, to be that quick and seamless, and how many times Zoro has missed it before.
“Waiting for me, marimo?” he teases with a smile.
“In your dreams,” Zoro quips, instinctual, but still silently reeling.
Sanji turns from the mirror and walks up to the doorway, bumping Zoro with his shoulder on the way, and the two of them leave to meet with their crewmates on the beach.
Between that incident, and all of Zoro's other small observations, a picture starts to form in his mind, still murky and unclear, but existing there nonetheless. It all comes together in a mysterious, heavy little package that ultimately makes Zoro terribly uncomfortable.
Why does the cook look at himself that way when he thinks no one else is looking? What is it that causes the disdain there when there’s nothing negative to see? At least in Zoro’s eyes, there isn’t.
Sanji’s nose works. So does his mouth, and his body, both often moving fast enough to make Zoro’s head spin. And what is there to see in the shape of Sanji’s legs, mottled and scarred from battle, that could be anything but worthy of admiration? Those same legs have saved Zoro’s life, have saved the lives of their crewmates more times than he cares to count. Those same legs are the ones Zoro spars with near-daily, the strength and power contained in them etched into Zoro’s mind like a brand.
He's not quite sure what it all means. So, as he always does when faced with things outside of his typical skill set of beheading their enemies, Zoro consults one of his nakama.
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“Have you tried writing him a love song, Haramaki-bro? Works for me all the time. Robin can never keep a somber expression when I bust out my trusty guitar!”
On second thought, maybe asking Franky for any kind of advice outside of shipbuilding or the best brand of cola wasn't the smartest idea.
“You know who you're talking to, right?” Zoro replies gruffly, taking a swig of sake from his bottle.
“That’s fair,” says Franky, a large hand coming to rest under his pointed chin, pondering. “Well, what about, like, making a sculpture out of the bodies of your defeated enemies? That seems like something you'd both be weirdly into.”
“I think Robin is rubbing off on you too much.”
Franky guffaws, taking a drink from his own bottle of cola. It's become something of a habit, now, for them to spend the occasional evening drinking their respective beverages in the Sunny’s aquarium. They might make a strange pair, but honestly, Zoro enjoys the cyborg’s company when he manages to settle down enough to stop dancing or blowing things up. They can relate to each other in ways they can't with some of their other nakama, both being the only trans men on the crew.
“It's not a matter of just cheering him up,” Zoro finally says, idly watching how the ambient blue light from the aquarium walls reflects in his bottle. “At least, I think so. It’s more than that.”
“So you think curly-bro might be… what, insecure?”
“I… guess so.” Zoro fidgets with his bottle more, turning it this way and that, as if it could give him the answers he seeks. “What’s there to be insecure about, though? The cook is strong. Capable. Reliable… and it’s his body that allows him to be so. Why does stuff like…” and he huffs, growing frustrated, “I don't know, his nose, or his teeth, or whatever, matter?”
Franky shoots him with a sympathetic look that screams of the gap of age and experience between him and Zoro. “That’s so like you, bro. Pragmatic to a T.” The cyborg takes a long drink before he continues. “Hell, I've built myself near from the ground up to be a rad, battle ready, turbo-brawling machine. But there’s still things about my body that I'm insecure about.”
“You!?”
“Yeah, ‘course. You can make yourself in your own image however you like, but you'll still worry about how the world sees you.”
Zoro blinks once, twice, and the motion of it is enough to prompt Franky to continue.
“People gawk, you know. I embrace it! Everyone deserve to see my rockin’ bod.” Franky does a little pose with his arms that makes Zoro cringe. “But people don’t always see things the same way, ya dig? And you never really know what nasty things people might've heard from others over the years.”
“Okay… Sanji isn’t a giant cyborg, though.”
Franky sighs, and his eyebrows raise, as if he thinks Zoro is particularly dense. “You really can't think of a time when something about your body bothered you?”
Well. Zoro can be dense, admittedly, but he thinks he understands what Franky’s trying to get across.
And Zoro remembers. It’s easy to recall the feeling of wrongness he had, back when he had at least two less scars to his name and a body that felt foreign to him. He remembers the way the eyes of others seemed to weigh heavy on his form, interpreting him in ways that made his skin crawl; how those same eyes seemed to follow him wherever he went, even when he was alone. The gaze of a mirror on his own form felt sickly hot and shockingly cold all at once.
The feeling still creeps up on him occasionally, even with as much time and effort that he’s put towards finding comfort in his body, his gender.
But…
“That’s not the same thing.”
“‘Course not,” Franky says, matter of fact, because he gets it, too. “But it might get you pointed in the right direction.”
Zoro blinks, owlish, and Franky sighs dramatically.
“The moral of the story, bro, is that we’ve all got stuff we can't always explain super well. And maybe it's less important to understand it, and more important to respect it, and help out where we can.” Franky pauses for another drink before pointing a large, metallic finger Zoro’s way. “Riddle me this. What do you wish someone would've done, or said, back when you really felt that stuff heavy, and didn’t have anyone that cared?”
On instinct, Zoro wants to fight back at that notion: to resist the idea that he needed anyone, that he couldn’t handle his problems on his own. But, on further inspection in the privacy of his own mind, Zoro can admit that at that time in his life, it would have been nice to have affirmation from someone that he was a man. That it was okay for him to be a man.
Is that what the cook needs, then? Affirmation? But for what, exactly?
“It takes bravery to exist as you are,” Franky continues, seemingly reading Zoro’s mind. “Some of us need a little more of it than others. And sometimes we need a bit of help… I don’t know, ‘generating’ that bravery, I guess. That’s what nakama are for, right?”
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Zoro’s introspection comes to fruition when they land at a relatively inconspicuous winter island, just large enough to appropriately restock but small enough to not require much time for the log pose to adjust. It’s a couple days into their stay when Sanji approaches Zoro.
“Marimo,” the cook says as they both eye the snowy shoreline from the railing of the ship. “There’s a restaurant here I heard about from the locals that I want to try.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sanji says, idly flicking the cap of his lighter open and closed. “Seafood that’s to die for, they say. There’s sake in it for you to come with me.”
Zoro cocks his head at that, his earrings softly chiming. His relationship with the cook is still a relatively new thing to them, both clumsily walking the lines between their hotheaded rivalry and the gentleness of whatever… this is. The natural progression of their relationship is something experimental and foreign to them both, even as correct as the development feels.
“You don’t have to bribe me to go on a date with you, you know.”
“It’s not-” Sanji barks, interrupting himself at his own instinctive rebuttal, face flaring red. It is a date, and they both know it.
They both want that. The concept is still strange in all its tender newness to Zoro.
“Do I have to dress up?” Zoro finally asks.
“By your standards? Yes. Just try your best, mosshead.”
That’s how later that evening, Zoro finds himself clad in a simple, casual kimono of deep red, thick enough to withstand the cooler temperatures so that the cook doesn’t yell at him about freezing. He hopes Sanji likes it, but if he doesn’t like it, well… he’ll just have to live, Zoro supposes. As smitten as he can admit to being for the other man, it’ll take a bit more effort on Sanji’s part to get the swordsman into a full suit or anything otherwise fancier.
Zoro had gotten dressed a bit earlier, so when he doesn’t see the cook anywhere else on the ship, he makes his way to the men’s bunk. As he guessed, Sanji is there, standing alone and getting ready in front of a familiar mirror.
He’s dressed in a suit Zoro hasn’t seen before, a dark navy that shimmers with a subtle amount of sheen. A white shirt and similarly dark tie complete the outfit, and the cook finishes the knot that sits at his collar with practiced hands.
And Zoro sees it, even now: the way Sanji’s gaze takes in the lines of suit, eyes critical and searching. A crease in his brow appears as he twists and turns in front of the mirror, searching for imperfections that Zoro can't even begin to find. The cook tugs at his sleeves, adjusts his lapels, kicks his legs gently to shift his pant-legs to lay differently. And most damningly, Sanji’s mouth ultimately pulls into a firm line at something he finds in his reflection, something inherent there that Zoro knows isn’t as easy to alter as adjusting a cufflink or retying his tie.
Quiet and nimble, Zoro walks up behind Sanji and hooks his chin over the man’s shoulder. An arm comes to wrap around the cook’s midsection, hand nestled against his hip. When Zoro glances up, the mirror shows their reflections staring back at them, his own gaze serious and intense, and Sanji’s curious, questioning.
“Oi. I’m trying to finish getting ready, marimo. Can't you keep your hands to yourself for a few minutes?”
Zoro smiles, but the grin that smiles back at him in the mirror is sharper than he intends. He tries to soften it into something gentle, hoping it doesn’t appear too strange on his face. “You look good, cook.”
Sanji blinks at the sudden segue before huffing a quick, sardonic laugh. “Good enough, I suppose.”
Zoro’s eyes narrow, his reflection in the mirror dutifully following suit. “I mean it.”
It’s then, only at that very moment, that Zoro strengthens his resolve, taking Franky’s words fully to heart.
Zoro doesn’t quite know how to do this. And for all he knows, he’s overstepping for the stage they’re at in their relationship. But the swordsman has never strived to do things as they’re expected of him, and he dislikes the thought of Sanji being in any kind of distress.
“I've seen you do this before,” Zoro starts, fingers pressing into the fabric of Sanji’s suit jacket. "Fiddle and preen at things that aren't there, I mean.”
Sanji blinks once, twice, taken aback. “Eh?”
Zoro doesn’t pay the man’s confusion much mind, already set in his now clear path forward. The language of affirmation is foreign to Zoro, but that’s okay. He’s always learned best by trial by fire, anyway. He’s not exactly sure where to start with something like this, though, so he'll begin at the top and work his way down.
“I like your eyebrows.” Sanji blinks again at that, and, well, maybe that was a strange thing to say out of the blue. Zoro will just have to keep going. “You don't like that they’re asymmetrical, right? Maybe that's part of why you hide one side of your face. But I like them. It's unique. You wouldn’t be you without them. Curly.”
Zoro finishes the statement with a tap of his finger in the middle of the curl of the cook’s visible eyebrow. What he’s met with when he glances at Sanji’s face in the mirror is something bewildered, something wild in his expression there. It looks like a cross between awestruck and affronted, emotions in conflict, opposites colliding just like everything the two of them are together all at once.
“Zoro…”
As if it’s automatic, Zoro’s free hand moves down to trace the line of Sanji’s nose. The pads of his fingers glide across its profile softly, memorizing the shape with reverence.
“I like your nose. It's strong. Pretty. I know your face well enough to pick your profile out in a crowd at this point. It makes you look… handsome.” Zoro blushes as he says it, the words feeling strange coming from his mouth. Then, he smiles, his line of sight finding Sanji’s nose once again, admiring the slight asymmetry there. “You probably broke it once or twice, huh? I bet it's a fun memory. Makes you look tough.”
Zoro’s hand drops slightly, moving to rest over Sanji’s lips, soft as a feather.
“I like your smile. You hide it a lot, and I don't really understand why.”
A brief pause ensues, then, while Zoro thinks of how to continue, before Sanji finally interjects.
“There’s a gap,” Sanji whispers, hot breath fanning over the tips of Zoro’s fingers.
“Hah?”
Sanji’s expression is pinched as he says it, his voice barely audible. “There’s a gap. In my teeth.”
“So?”
Sanji doesn’t seem to have an answer to that.
“There’s nothing wrong with it. I think it’s...” and oh, this is hard for Zoro to say, but he pushes the words past his lips with firm resolve, “...cute.”
Zoro chooses not to look up to see Sanji’s reaction at that, the swordsman’s cheeks burning hot. He focuses his gaze downward instead, taking one of the cook’s hands in his own.
“I like your freckles. Chopper says they can come from being in the sun.” Zoro’s thumb traces the freckles that are visible on Sanji’s hand with his thumb, drawing nonsensical shapes with the motion. “So, I think about all the days we spent underneath the same sun before we ever even met. Me getting tanner, and you getting freckle-ier.”
“That can’t be a real word.”
“It is now.”
Zoro’s hand finally drops, and the opposite one still sitting on Sanji’s hip grips just a tad bit tighter. “I probably like your legs more than anything. They’re strong. Reliable. They push me to be better. And the scars are all reminders of what you’ve been through and lived to see the other side of.”
It’s quiet for just a moment after that, and as the silence drags on, Zoro finds a mild seed of anxiety blooming in the forefront of his mind.
“Sorry. I'm not good at this sort of thing.”
But when Zoro looks up, Sanji’s bottom lip is quivering, expression pulled into an emotion Zoro can’t quite name, eyes suspiciously moist.
“Oi!” Zoro barks in a low voice, panicked. “Oi, cook. Are you…”
Zoro’s not sure how to finish his sentence, stressed at the idea that he has somehow made everything worse. Sanji’s arm comes up to cover his eyes, and he sniffs, just once.
“I’m fine,” Sanji finally says, his voice coming out just shy of choked up. “I’m fine.”
And at that, Zoro thinks of his younger self, and of a lesson he’s still in the process of learning himself. “It’s… okay to not be.”
Sanji shakes just slightly in Zoro’s grasp at that before his arm finally drops from his face, and while his eyes look just a tiny bit watery, Sanji’s warm smile washes away Zoro’s fear that he’d somehow led them both horribly astray. “How could I not be fine?” Sanji says shakily. “You’re here with me, after all, marimo.”
At that, Zoro jerks just slightly, his grip on Sanji tightening. He feels his flush deepen even more, resolve coming back to him in full force.
“Is there anything I’m missing?”
“Huh?” the cook questions.
“You know, like an open Q&A, or something. In case I missed anything.”
Sanji snorts in response, and his eyes dart to Zoro’s in the mirror’s reflection, as if asking for confirmation that Zoro really wants to hear his thoughts. Zoro stares back, patient, waiting.
“I'm too skinny.”
“No, you’re lean. It makes you fast,” Zoro answers immediately. “You’ve got plenty of muscle, anyway. Wouldn’t be a challenge for me otherwise.”
Sanji’s lips curl together as if willing himself to hold back emotion before he nods just once.
“I have too much hair. I… feel like I look like a wild beast, sometimes.”
“I like that,” Zoro says, running a hand over Sanji’s clothed forearm, imagining the hair underneath. “It's hot.”
“Zoro!”
And Zoro can’t help but snicker when Sanji flicks him lightly on the arm.
“What else?”
It’s quiet for a moment while the cook seemingly works up the nerve to say what’s on his mind.
“My hands,” Sanji finally says, his voice a whisper. As he says it, his hands come up to face the mirror fully, outspread as if they’re being put on trial.
“I like your hands. They’re so important to you, so they’re important to me, too,” says Zoro, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, because to him, it is. “What about them bothers you?”
“... I have witchy fingers. And big knuckles. And scars from all the times I cut myself as a stupid kid. It’s…” Sanji pauses, grinding his teeth. “It sounds silly, saying it out loud.”
“That’s…” Zoro’s brow furrows, trying to find the right words. “I don’t really get it, but I don’t know if that matters.”
Zoro takes Sanji’s hand in his own once again, this time entwining their fingers together.
“I like your hands. There’s no one out there who can do the things that you do with them. I… like you, as you are. For what you’re going to be.”
A comfortable silence stretches after the swordsman’s last declaration, their twin reflections in the mirror their only company in the room while the cook seemingly ponders Zoro’s words.
Unexpectedly, Sanji spins, and Zoro finds himself pushed back at the motion, thrown off balance. But then the cook kisses him, all passion and fire as he grabs at the back of Zoro’s head to thread fingers in his hair, and Zoro’s sense of equilibrium balances out once more.
With their faces this close, Sanji’s breath fans over Zoro’s lips when he speaks.
“We should go eat.”
“Yeah,” Zoro finally says, feeling slow, like he’s inebriated from Sanji’s presence. “Yeah.”
With that, Zoro trailing behind the cook on still-floundering legs, the two of them step out of the men’s bunk, walking across the familiar deck of the Sunny to deboard.
The winter island they’ve been staying at for the last few days is bright white when they step off of the ship, a fresh blanket of snow laying over the nearby village. It sparkles softly in the evening light, the harshness faded by a soft layer of fog hanging low over the red brick buildings. A light smoke lifts gently from the tops of the cottages and shops, blending into a soft, pastel blue sky.
This must be an island that celebrates the winter holidays, because the town is decorated with familiar ornaments. Forest green garland hangs from the windows and walls, twinkling lights radiating from where they’re hung on the rooftops. It’s a sea of festive reds and greens, whites and blues as the two of them walk through the village, the scent of pine needles and cinnamon wafting in the air.
Zoro can't help but look at the picturesque scenery and wonder which of those places might be a bar. He’ll try to push that instinct down for tonight, though.
The restaurant Sanji chose is a small place, tucked away behind two other buildings and mostly out of sight, as most great eateries tend to be, Zoro thinks. The menu is impressive, and the food is good, enjoyable in the cozy atmosphere of the restaurant. Of course, it doesn't compare to anything Sanji could make.
It's a miracle, Zoro thinks, that they get through dinner without incident. There always normally seems to be someone out to get them, or their captain nearby to eat the restaurant empty until they get kicked out, or something to bicker about between him and the cook that causes coincidental property damage. Maybe it's because Zoro’s too busy staring at Sanji’s face, memorizing the other parts of it he’d yet to give thought to earlier.
Sanji’s eyes are captivating, a brilliant blue that Zoro finds it hard to look away from. And when the cook pauses eating to catch Zoro staring, he meets his gaze back just as firmly.
Zoro hopes Sanji sees something he likes there, too.
On their way back to the ship, Zoro catches their reflection as they pass by the glass windows of nearby buildings in the dark. It’s a strange, lovely little thing, he thinks, to see their forms close together, hand in hand as they walk.
When he looks back, though, Zoro notices Sanji staring at one of the nearby decorations, garland in bloom with bright red flowers. Then, the cook grins, reaching up to caress the delicate plant with his hand.
Sanji plucks the flower off, nestling the stem of it in Zoro’s hair until it settles, secure.
“Look at that!” Sanji exclaims when he pulls back from his handiwork, and when he smiles, it's full and complete, his teeth shining. “It's a Christmas moss.”
And while Zoro grumbles at the treatment, barking in mostly faux-protest as Sanji adds more flowers to his new ‘bouquet,’ the swordsman can't help but feel captivated by the sight of that uninhibited, beaming smile.
It's late when they return, and most of the crew is either out somewhere else or already asleep. When they arrive at the men’s bunk, Zoro makes quick work of getting mostly undressed, plucking red flowers out of his hair all the while, before moving to his bunk to sleep.
“Oi,” Sanji whispers, careful to try and not wake the others. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To my bunk?”
Sanji tugs him by the shoulder, forcibly pulling him forward, stumbling. “Like hell you are.”
From there, Sanji yanks a bewildered Zoro into his bunk with him. They’re a mess of tangled limbs at first, two grown men struggling to fit in a space decidedly not built for two grown men. They finally find something that comes at least close to working, though, with Sanji at Zoro’s back, breath fanning into the nape of Zoro’s neck. One of his arms finds its way across Zoro’s middle, tucked neatly against Zoro’s chest.
It all takes Zoro a bit off guard, his face flushing bright red, and he hopes Sanji can’t see the tips of his ears turn crimson in the darkness. Almost on instinct, the swordsman’s hand grasps at Sanji’s forearm, his thumb rubbing along the warm skin there, hair and freckles and all.
Sanji’s voice permeates the silence, barely audible. “I can’t believe you called me cute.
“Shut it, shit-cook,” Zoro whispers back, no heat at all behind the words, “or I’ll say it again.”
The stillness settles over them, quiet and dark before Sanji breaks it once more.
"It's not... going to be that easy. For me to feel better about it all."
"Makes sense," Zoro says, unable to see how Sanji reacts. "I'll just be here to repeat it all again, then. As many times as you need."
Zoro listens to the thump of the cook's heartbeat before the man finally hums, a huff of air leaving his nose. "Zoro... thanks."
"'Course."
Sanji tangles their legs together, and it doesn’t take long before Zoro hears his bringing slow, turning rhythmic and constant. The soothing consistency of it and the warm feeling of contact with the other man has Zoro’s eyelids drooping as well.
It's then that Zoro realizes that from here, he can just barely see the reflection of their prone forms in the familiar mirror across from them in the corner of the room. The sight of it makes him smile, a feeling of warm affection seeping deep into his core, before he finally lets the siren song of sleep take him, too.