Archive of Our Own

Sanji can’t believe he and Zoro are losing a fight to fucking birds.

It’s a wonder the problems Zoro creates when he gets himself lost. Sanji’s never going to volunteer to find him again.

It should’ve been presently obvious to anyone with eyes that this damn island was overrun with birds; bird shit encrusts almost every crevice of the place. But it’s not like any of the crew actually considered birds an active threat to their safety. It was just a gross problem to clean off their shoes once they got back to the Sunny. An annoyingly little inconvenience.

That should’ve been the case, before Zoro had the gall to get lost and step straight into the birds’ nest, cracking a few too many eggs as he did so.

And that pissed off every single bird, ever.

What the birds lack in brains and brawn, they make up for in sheer mass and variety. It would be easy enough for the two of them to take out a flock of only ostriches, or only seagulls, or only the weird huge sharp-beaked monstrosities on this island, but all at once was becoming a capital p Problem.

Sanji kicks one pestering bird to the ground, right before it nabs him in the ear. “You just had to step in it this time, didn’t you,” he accuses. Another bird takes the first’s place, and isn’t that just peachy.

In front of him, Zoro swings an arm back. He bisects the bird next to Sanji’s head in one smooth motion, and Sanji doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he makes a low sweep of the leg, trying to dislodge some of the fucking incoming ostriches from tearing his hair out.

“You’re the one who wanted eggs, shit cook!”

That, however, manages to make Sanji pause. It’s enough of a pause that one of the shit birds gets close enough to tear the cigarette out of his mouth, and Sanji wants to scream.

“Is that why you’re lost in the woods,” Sanji yells. “You’re– you’re grocery shopping?!”

With a growl, Zoro cuts close to the ground in a wide sweep. He only hits half his targets. Bloody feathers fly in the air. “I’m– you– what of it?!”

Sanji laughs, and he hopes it sounds more strained than pleased. “Well if you were looking for eggs, you shouldn’t have cracked them, idiot!”

He’s expecting a retort back, but when one never comes, Sanji re-evaluates the situation.

Zoro’s surrounded. The birds have, annoyingly, decided to pick one target and swarm, and like a mass of bees, hope to pick off targets one by one. It’s a shitty tactic, if he could call a gaggle of birds’ erratic actions a tactic.

The birds are just high enough in the air, and low enough to the ground, that Zoro’s not able to attack all of them at once. Sanji can practically feel the irritation from the man as one rowdy bird pecks him directly in the earring. He tries to hit it with the sword in his mouth, but it’s a futile effort. The bird almost pries the thing clear off his ear.

There’s too many of them to take on at once, at least with Sanji’s current level to the ground. Sure, he could kick them out one by one, but that’ll take too long. He’s not tall enough to take them all out in one roundhouse kick, but…

“Duck, mosshead!” Sanji yells, and that’s as much of a warning he gives Zoro.

And, Sanji realizes with an amused huff, Zoro actually listens. He hunches over, focusing now on cutting down the stickly-looking ostrich legs, rather than the birds above him.

That’s good, because Sanji’s not going to give himself much time to change his plan. With a running start, he vaults himself forward into a flip straight into Zoro. He presses his palms flat against Zoro’s ducked shoulders, arching his back over just enough to get his balance.

A handstand on Zoro’s shoulders is just enough height to take out his targets.

Anchoring his right hand to Zoro and using his left for balance, Sanji spins his legs in a wide sweeping kick. The birds aren’t expecting shit, so he’s able to slam a row of the fuckers in a single kick. Feathers fly in the air around them, and the birds hit the ground with a pitiful squawk.

The kick nearly unbalances him, but Zoro shifts ever so slightly to the left. Sanji can feel the strength of the movement under his palm, muscle stretching beneath him. He brings his left hand back down, maintaining his handstand as he eyes the battlefield for movement.

Most of the aerial birds have been taken to the ground in his sweep, and the ones that haven’t are making a swift retreat. There’s still one outlier, a big one with a beak to match, that’s just outside of Zoro’s reach.

Tensing his arms, Sanji doesn’t even have to ask. As soon as he readies for a leap, Zoro’s standing with him, giving him a boost in the air. With another flip, Sanji drives his heel into the bird’s head. He grounds it, easily, bringing its skull to dirt in a satisfying crunch.

The birds must’ve recognized an inevitable defeat, because they start to scatter.

Looking around, Zoro made easy work of the rest of the group. Any bird that isn’t half-feathered on the ground is retreating back into the woods, either kicked to the ground or cut in the legs.

It’s exhilarating. As much as he and Zoro bicker, and fight, and try to one-up each other, when shit hits the fan something clicks. And Sanji can’t help but laugh, a stupid grin plastered to his face, at the absurdity of it.

Feathers fall in the air like snow. They’re getting everywhere, stuck in Sanji’s hair and on his suit. He’ll have to clean that off later, along with the bird shit. What a pain.

Brushing off as much as he can, he turns to Zoro. He’s not looking much better. Blood trickles down from his ear all the way to his chin, and he’s got a practical bird's nest of feathers stuck in his bright green hair. Feathers stick out at odd angles, and light hits just right to make the plumage and his hair glow.

Sanji meets Zoro’s eyes, and the man grins, toothy and feral.

For a second, Sanji’s heart stops in his chest. He’s not really sure why, but he’s suddenly unmoored, trying to blink to regain his footing.

The grin fades, slightly. “What?” Zoro says, head cocked to the side. It makes the bleeding ear all the more noticeable, his three earrings dangling unevenly.

“Uh,” Sanji starts. He was hoping he’d find the words as he started talking, but no, nothing. He’s at a loss. “Your…”

In a foolish motion, Sanji reaches forward. He cups Zoro’s ear in his hands. The third earring, the one closest to the bottom, is only dangling on by a thin loop of skin. Damn, the birds really did a number on him. Blood trickles down his hand, collecting at the base of his thumb.

Breath hits the heel of Sanji’s palm, and he’s suddenly reminded with a jolt just whose ear he’s holding in his hand. Sanji looks up, and Zoro’s face is close. Too close. Zoro’s eye widens, just enough to break Sanji out of his stupor.

He darts his hand away, as if burned. “You’ll need to get that looked at by Chopper,” Sanji says. Zoro’s still looking terribly close, and Sanji steps back. “Can’t believe you almost got beat by a bunch of birds,” Sanji continues. He pauses. No, that’s not enough. “Shithead,” he tacks on.

“Like you’re any better,” Zoro mutters, his voice a low rumble.

Luckily for Sanji’s sanity, after that, Zoro’s turning away, assessing the damage around them.

“You think you could cook these?”

Oh. Right, they’re in the middle of carnage. There’s a bunch of dead birds and a collection of abandoned nests. It’s the groceries Zoro had, absurdly, gotten lost to find. Something pulls in his stomach again.

“Yeah, bring as many back to the ship as possible,” Sanji says, distracted. “And try to pick up the eggs instead of stepping on them.”

Zoro grunts, but obediently starts picking up bird carcases and eggs in his arms. His back is turned to Sanji, and Sanji can actually see where he’d balanced on Zoro’s shoulders. His hands left sweat marks, pressed deep into the fabric. He wants to press his hands to Zoro’s back again, he thinks. Maybe without the distance of fabric in between.

Sanji can’t look away. He swallows, a flash of recognition in the back of his mind at what, exactly, unbalanced him before. What’s unbalancing him now. He feels his breath hitch. Shit. Oh, fuck. His heart speeds up, then sinks low in his chest.

This is bad. This is really, really bad.

Sanji’s just going to have to squash this feeling under his heel. Somehow, he’ll get over it.

He doesn’t get over it.

There’s a nefarious part of Sanji’s brain that’s telling him to touch Zoro again. It’s likely the same part of his brain that tells him to touch a hot pan that’s already burnt him. He knows it’s a bad idea. He knows he’ll get hurt. But it’s a constant thought, treacherous, in the back of his head, waiting for the best opportunity to become a problem.

And he’s given so many damn opportunities.

Now that every touch feels electric, he’s noticing he makes a lot of contact with Zoro. Most of the time it’s when they’re fighting, which is innocuous enough on the surface, but he can still feel the skin on skin contact. He can still feel the meat of his leg hit Zoro’s arm in the middle of a fight, the contact brutal but warm all at once.

He’s lost three times to Zoro. It’s embarrassing. It’s becoming a problem.

This is beginning to feel like an anchor tied tight to his ankle. Like something that he’ll drown with if he’s not careful. And he can’t even force this away, not when he’s reminded every damn time they get into a fight.

Some of the time, they touch when they’re not fighting, which is even worse. He’ll accidentally hit his hands on Zoro’s arm when passing out dinner, or brush shoulders in the galley when Zoro’s searching for booze. It’s much harder to hide a flinch when they’re not in a fight, and he’s afraid Zoro’s picking up on it.

Even avoiding Zoro’s not an option, because that’ll just be a complete spotlight on Sanji’s issue. He’s already stretching his luck, avoiding him as much as he has. No, Sanji needs a better solution for this, and ‘get over it’ isn’t fucking working.

He’s just got to learn to be normal about it. Maybe he’s just not used to having non-irritated feelings about Zoro. Maybe he can act normal around him if he just… gets more exposure to him. Trains himself to bury the feeling down. Sanji’s out of practice, is all. He’s not used to this feeling of– no, he doesn’t want to put a name to this.

Maybe it’s a trick from that nefarious part of his brain urging him to reach out and touch. But if it’s a trick, Sanji’s falling for it. He’ll just have to deal with the inevitable burn later.

The sun sits low on the horizon, the sunset fading from a bright orange to a low reddish glow. It’s dark enough in the galley Sanji should turn the full set of lights on, but there’s something comfortable about the lowlight in the room. There’s just enough shadow to soften harsh edges, but not enough to dull his senses entirely.

Sanji shoves his hands back in soapy dish water, taking a fine sponge to the soaking ceramics. His crew’s good about leaving their plates clean, he thinks fondly, but there’s always something caked on at the end of the night.

Then, the light in the room grows darker. A shadow hangs in the entryway, dimming the light from the outside deck.

“Oi, cook,” Zoro says. “You still cooped up in here?”

“What, mad you can’t steal my liquor?”

Sanji narrows his eyes, but the light doesn’t give away much, other than Zoro’s posture. He’s upright, back straight, the normal easy laziness of a man with only booze on the mind replaced with something else. He’s here like it’s some kind of challenge.

Maybe because Sanji’s been avoiding him.

Zoro scoffs, head turning away. “Tch. Idiot cook. Shouldn’t keep you holed up all night.”

Definitely because Sanji’s been avoiding him.

Steeling himself for embarrassment, Sanji pauses. “You offering to dry?” he asks.

Zoro snaps back to Sanji, and Sanji doesn’t know if he’s thankful or regretful about his decision to keep the lowlight in the room. He can’t make out the expression on Zoro’s face, a blessing and a curse.

Without a word, Zoro’s in the galley with him. With practiced ease, Sanji makes room, ever aware of how close their shoulders get to brushing. His heart hammers in his throat, traitorous and cruel.

Right. He’s supposed to be solving that hellish problem.

Sanji dips his hands back into the water. It’s gotten cold, and his hands feel pruned and slick with soap. The hot water faucet is just out of reach, closer to Zoro’s side drying than his own.

Reaching over, he intentionally bumps into Zoro’s arm as he turns on the faucet. The water sprays loudly, and Sanji holds his hand under the running water until he feels it heat. His elbow digs into Zoro’s side, and Sanji maintains the contact, no matter how much he’s itching to move away.

Finally, the water heats. Sanji pulls away, sinking his hands back into the dish water.

The sun sets fully, and the deep red of the room turns dark. There’s an ease to Zoro helping him with the dishes, one that doesn’t require much light in the room. It’s a practiced routine, one that Sanji is hoping to maintain, despite whatever terrible wrench of the heart he’s been thrown.

They don’t talk, not until the dishes are done. It’s not like they ever have, but Sanji can still feel the lingering tension between them.

Finishing up with the plates, Sanji lifts his hands out of the water. He starts shaking the water off, then looks over to Zoro drying, wondering if he’s spared him a towel.

His back is turned, and Sanji’s drawn back to his shoulders. They’re wide under his tattered graying shirt, tension still high in his shoulders. Sanji swallows, and resists the urge to look away.

Shit, he has to solve this. This is ridiculous. Embarrassing. He’s got to adapt, hell or high water, and if it takes forcing himself to touch Zoro again, so be it.

With a huff, Sanji stops wringing his hands in the air, and dries them on Zoro’s back. The fabric is hot under his skin, just like he’d expected, and he does his best not to linger for too long, just enough to dry his hands. It feels wonderful, and it also feels like torture.

“What the hell,” Zoro protests, whining pitifully, and that shocks a laugh out of Sanji.

“If you don’t want me using your shirt as a rag, wear something nicer,” Sanji says. “My dish towels are better than whatever shit you’re wearing.”

“Well why don’t I dry the dishes with my shirt then,” he shoots back. Sanji’s lip curls in disgust, and even in the faded sunset light Sanji can see Zoro’s triumphant grin at his reaction.

Tension eases out of Zoro. His stiff posture retreats, like things have returned to normal.

And, Sanji supposes, for him they have. But all that tension’s transferred to Sanji, the back of his neck heating and goosebumps trailing all up and down his arms.

Weeks back, back before Sanji’s current emotional crisis, he’d broken one of the planks in his bunk.

At first, he just had a loose plank under his mattress. Not a big deal; it would squeak, but out of practice and necessity Sanji wasn’t a restless sleeper. He slept in a tight pose, controlled enough that if a nightmare startled him in the middle of the night no one would notice. Most of his bunkmates were heavy sleepers, anyway, and those that weren’t had bigger fish to fry than one squeaky board.

It became much funnier to Sanji, though, when he’d realized the only person who seemed peeved at the creaky board was Zoro, in the bunk below him. So he’d let the plank squeak away, into the night, until eventually Zoro had taken a solid slash to the board and left Sanji’s bedding slightly lopsided ever since.

They never fixed the plank.

That shouldn’t be a problem. It wasn’t a problem, really. Sure, at first he could see Zoro in the bunk below, but that was an easy solution. He’d just shoved his bedding over the hole, and hoped the rest of the bunk didn’t give out.

Now, however, Sanji’s left with a predicament. He could, theoretically, move his bedding back. He could give in to the part of him that now wants to come in as close of contact with Zoro as possible.

This seems as optimal a time as any. He moves his bedding, only air now between him and Zoro. It’s all for getting acclimated to this feeling, he thinks. That’s beginning to feel like a sorry excuse, ringing false in his ears, but Sanji’s never been good at controlling his emotions.

Laying on his back, Sanji takes in a huff of breath, and lets his hand fall into the crack in his bunk.

Immediately, unexpectedly, Sanji’s hand meets flesh. With startling shock, Sanji freezes, feeling a sharp breath on his hand. Tensing his fingers, he presses into Zoro’s face, tips of his fingers just on the rough skin of Zoro’s jawline.

Right, the bastard sometimes sleeps upright.

Not a problem. He can think of a completely normal, rational reason for doing this later. Maybe he can claim he was fast asleep. Or proclaim insanity. That’d be honest and accurate.

Zoro hasn’t killed him yet, so Sanji keeps his hand still on Zoro’s face. His skin is rough, stubble just coming in underneath. He frowns, trying to picture exactly where his hand fits on Zoro’s face. He rubs a thumb over the skin of his nose, he’s sure, and stops at the tip before following the bridge back up.

Unexpectedly, Zoro’s breathing startles, a slight hitch in the breath. Bizarre. He still hasn’t complained, which is more shocking than anything. Instead, he keens into the touch, the back of his head meeting Sanji’s palm.

While he’s not quite sure why Zoro’s allowing him the patience, Sanji’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead, he pulls his hand upward past Zoro’s eyes until he catches Zoro’s hair. It’s an awkward position to adjust to, but he manages, and settles in.

It’s indulgent. This isn’t making things, better for him, he’s definitely burying deeper in the grave he’s digging for himself, but–

Zoro’s hair is coarse. Like grass, he thinks, and tries not to laugh. Sanji cards his fingers through, settling on a slow and even motion. He can feel the bump from where he’d kicked his head in their last brawl, and he runs over it with his thumb.

Sanji stares up at the ceiling of the bunkroom, longing to look down and see but not having the courage to do so.

It’s not long until the weird, hitched breathing turns into steady snores. Zoro’s always been easy to fall asleep, Sanji’s not sure why he’s expecting anything else.

Something hums in his stomach, calmer than before but not quenched. Maybe this will actually work; Zoro’s being accommodating enough. The idiot’s sheer dedication to sleeping outweighed any protest.

Sanji can adjust to this, he thinks. Great. He’s adapted. He’ll savor this moment, tuck away his feelings into a nice box, kick it under the bed, and never think about it again.

Just as Sanji’s eyes start drooping down, he looks to his right, and startles awake.

He’d forgotten that he shared this bunkroom with other people.

In his own bed, Usopp stares at him with big, wide eyes, looking between Sanji’s bunk and Zoro’s. His eyebrows are raised to his hairline, and he lingers on Zoro’s bunk before returning to Sanji. There’s a question on his lips, and Sanji wants to kick him quiet.

Sanji feels his face heat, like it’s melting off. He presses a finger to his lips, imitating a whisper, and, for good measure, hisses, “Shut the fuck up.”

Treasonously, Usopp displays a hint of bravery, and doesn’t settle down just yet. Instead, he smiles slightly, and before Sanji has the chance to hiss at him again he settles into his own bunk.

Peevish, and ornery, Sanji keeps his hand in Zoro’s hair.

After a couple more days, Sanji’s confidant in the fact that he’s used to this. He’s normal again. Everything is blissfully returned to a pre-unfortunate-revelation state of being.

He’s not over his actual feelings, not exactly. Fighting an immovable object is difficult; it’s better to just walk around, instead of wasting his energy on something he can’t change. But, he’s no longer avoiding contact with Zoro like the plague, and their regular bickering returns at a nice, comfortable cadence.

Really, he’s ecstatic he’s acclimated by their next actual battle.

Marines don’t give them much problem, not on most days, but the unfortunate mix of a particularly tenacious group of Marines and a particularly dangerous storm puts the Strawhats at a distinct numbers disadvantage. Half the crew is battling the storm and keeping the Sunny upright, while the other half is dealing with the swarming masses.

Rain pours on the deck, making the wood slippery under foot. It’s not enough for Sanji to completely lose footing, but he’s not on the top of his game. He slips down the deck, hitting the railing with a thunk.

Lifting himself up with the railing, he can’t even recover properly, because something sharp and pointed careens toward him. It takes all his focus to dodge under the incoming weapon and keep upright on the deck. The axe, it turns out, lodges deep within the Sunny’s railing, right where his hand had been.

They need to turn the tide of this battle, fast.

Rain pelts his face, and Sanji assesses the damage. Nami’s barking orders to Franky and Robin who are keeping Sunny afloat, Luffy’s eagerly tossing Marines back into their own sails like it’s a game, and while he can’t quite make out where the rest have gone, he can hear the idiots’ yelling from somewhere buried in the hoard.

Zoro, annoyingly, has cleared his portion of the deck. Blood drips off his swords, and, after meeting Sanji’s eyes, sheaths one.

“Cook, give me a lift,” Zoro says, eyeing the Marine commander on the opposing ship’s deck. His bandana is still wrapped around his head, and he grins wide around the sword in his mouth.

“Tch,” Sanji mutters. Still, he readies a kick, only glaring as he does so. “Showoff.”

Then, Zoro’s hand grips Sanji’s leg, the touch tight and warm. It’s a sharp contrast to the cold, brutal rain around them, and it shocks Sanji’s heart in a way he thought he’d gotten used to. A way he’d so carefully acclimated to.

Apparently not.

It shocks him enough that he only kicks half-heartedly, the force giving out halfway through. Heart pounding in his chest, Sanji launches Zoro straight into the side of the Sunny.

He hits the railing with a loud thud. Sanji freezes, watching in slow motion; it’s like the rain pauses, just for a moment, to highlight his terrible mistake. Sanji straightens his back in an effort to hide his wince. For a moment, Sanji can only stare as Zoro struggles back up to his feet. The confusion on his face slowly turns sour, his brows furrowing and frown growing.

“Cook,” Zoro growls. “The hell was that?”

Someone interrupts from the sidelines. A group of Marines is suddenly knocked back by an onslaught of vines. “Uh, you guys, we really have bigger problems than–”

“-shut it, Usopp,” Zoro raises a hand. He’s glaring daggers through Sanji, and Sanji realizes he’s disappointed. The failure sits in his stomach, and he’s suddenly overcome with the need to bury his weakness.

Sanji laughs, sounding a bit hysterical. “Footing’s shit in the rain, asshole,” Sanji yells. “Think about that next time before you try a stunt like that!”

“We do stunts like that all the time!” He’s right, Sanji wants to evaporate. “It’s just some rain!”

“Again, good points all around, but we really need to–”

Sanji cuts Usopp off, desperate for the last word. “If you want to show off so bad, just do it yourself!”

With a growl, Zoro snaps his eyes back to the battle. Sanji got the last word, but he feels like he’s lost the argument regardless. His shoes slip on the Sunny, rain soaking through his shoes and the deck both.

Zoro’s already leaping over to the next boat, on his own. It’s not shocking when the tides of the battle turn quickly after that, the Marine commander easily taken down without even much of a sweat on Zoro’s part.

With minimal grumbling, the Strawhat pirates clear off the Marines from the Sunny, leaving their defeated ship behind. The rain continues pouring down on the deck, soaking Sanji to his core. He watches as Zoro sulks into the bath, and stays out in the pouring, just a bit longer, before retreating to the galley to lick his wounds.

He pries his waterlogged jacket off his shoulders, setting it on the galley bar. He’ll deal with cleaning up the water later, he thinks miserably. He’s soaked to the bone, like the rest of the crew, but wants to avoid the bath for the time being. No matter how enticing a warm soak is now, he wants to sulk on his own.

Leaning into the kitchen counter, Sanji runs through the moment in his head again. Above all, it’s embarrassing, but he’s used to embarrassment and this is much, much worse. He shivers, cold settling in on the back of his neck.

So, maybe he’s gotten used to touching Zoro. That doesn’t mean he’s immune to Zoro touching him.

It has to be done, Sanji thinks. Zoro looks peaceful, back resting on the crow’s nest bench like it’s the most comfortable place in the world. His chest rises and falls, his face neutral, completely unaware of the incoming threat.

It’s a cruel reminder of what Sanji has to do.

Lifting one leg up, he slams down on the bench, inches from Zoro’s head.

The man startles, eye darting around the room until they land on Sanji. It widens, then narrows, and then he’s on the move.

“Wh– what did I do!?” Zoro yells, using the side railing to pull himself up and over Sanji’s attack.

It’s such a stupid question, and Sanji laughs. He’s done absolutely nothing, but Sanji’s so anguished for a return to normalcy that he struggles to find an excuse.

“You’re– you! Do I need a reason?!”

There’s a new desperation to solving this, now that it’s causing him to fail in battle. While Sanji could probably live with completely nosediving his tenuous relationship with Zoro, he can’t live with jeopardizing his crew just because he can’t keep it together. He already does that enough as-is.

So, it’s back to basics. Sanji can definitely do that. Fight like cats and dogs, throw an insult Zoro’s way when he as much as touches a nerve–

“Shithead cook,” Zoro growls, and that’s what Sanji’s looking for.

Sanji flips backwards, giving Zoro the chance to grab his swords, and they meet in a harsh clash.

It’s familiar. It’s like Sanji can pretend everything from shitbird island to now is just some far-off nightmare he’s been living, and instead of being a stupid lovesick fool about Zoro he’s a lovesick fool about literally anyone else.

Stepping back from the initial contact, Sanji jumps on the crow’s nest bench for higher ground. With the angle, he can parry Zoro’s slashes away with a low kick and prepare to hit him in the head with an easy to reach upper cut.

He gets one good, solid, satisfying kick in before has to move again. Sanji presses his advantage back to the center of the crow’s nest, but a sweep of Zoro’s sword up the leg of his pants catches him off guard. The thread frays up to the knee, and while it’s not enough to make him bleed it’s enough to rattle him. He misses the next swing of the leg, just a hair off of catching Zoro’s neck with his foot.

With a grin, Zoro’s making ground, two swords in hand now. He’s not using the third, which irritates Sanji more than it should. Instead, Zoro finds a solid of his sword into Sanji’s side, knocking him off balance. This time, Sanji returns with a diverish of kicks, which finally seem to hit hard.

“What’s up your ass today,” Zoro’s fingers thrum against his third sword, but he doesn’t take it out of its sheath.

Sanji lashes a leg out, hooking Zoro’s wrist on the front of his foot. “Nothing, you’re just a fucking eyesore,” he spits. He twists, and Zoro’s hold on his sword falters. It clatters to the ground with a loud, reverberating twang.

Smug, Sanji doesn’t notice until it’s too late that Zoro’s dropped his sword to find purchase on Sanji’s ankle. Eyes widening at the harshness of Zoro’s grip, Sanji miscalculates his trajectory and his balance. His back knee gives out from under him, and he’s falling backwards to the floor.

Wincing, he braces for a slam to the ground that never comes. Something keeps him upright, his shirt taut on his back. He blinks his eyes open, sees Zoro’s hand clasped on the front of his shirt, and immediately closes his eyes again.

With his eyes closed, he can feel the two sharp points of contact like a livewire in his brain. The hand on his ankle is immediately warm, and the fingers fisted in his shirt are close enough to touch but not quite enough. Mortifyingly, he wants more, he wants to pull himself closer, but instead he lets himself hang limp.

Zoro lets go, and Sanji’s back hits the floor in a thud.

He doesn’t bother opening his eyes. He allows himself, instead, to wallow miserably on the floor.

“Whatever the hell is up with you, get over it,” Zoro says, confusion and irritation laced in his tone in equal measure. Sanji doesn’t allow himself to open his eyes and look, only knowing Zoro’s gone by the clicking of the door.

It takes a long time for Sanji to pick himself up off the floor of the crow’s nest. Zoro’s long-since gone, to nap somewhere else now that Sanji’s pestering has been dealt with, he’s sure.

“I’m trying,” Sanji says. His voice cracks in the middle, and he’s never been so glad to be alone. “Asshole.”

Sanji doesn’t make anything easy for himself.

He’s been trying to deal with these feelings by kicking them to the ground, or ignoring them, or briefly acknowledging them and then promptly regretting it. He’s been doing a great job at that. But every time Zoro touches him, something irrational in the back of his brain says that maybe he wants more. Maybe he could have more.

That hope is proving to be much, much more dangerous.

When they hit the next island, the Strawhats are greeted with such an unexpected exuberance everyone expects it’s a trap. After some suspicious conversations and crew-internal debating, eventually they piece together the fact that their latest Marine run-in and this island’s jubilant celebrations are related.

No one can deny a party. Especially not one thrown on their behalf.

Alcohol dulls the brain, and as fast as Sanji was to deliberately fight out his feelings, two and a half drinks in, he’s back to being drawn to Zoro like a moth to a flame.

He leans against Zoro’s shoulder, forging his initially planned needling and antagonism entirely. To his credit, he’s not entirely plastered, nor is he entirely plastered to Zoro’s side, but he’s getting close on both fronts.

Sanji’s half a drink away from nodding along to any conversation, but he’s not so far gone as to not call out any bullshit. And when Zoro mutters something about liking parties, of all things, he’s ready to call it like he sees it.

“What do you mean, you like this kind of thing?” Sanji says. He leans back into Zoro’s shoulder, watching as the rest of their crew makes a ruckus. There’s distant chatter, and yelling, as Luffy’s arms stretch through the crowd, pulling a protesting Usopp along for the ride.

Zoro grunts in affirmation, not even trying to push Sanji away.

“Really? Is it for the booze? Every party you just sit and sulk in the corner,” Sanji tuts, and waves his hand in the direction of the dance. “It’s sad. You’re such a loser.”

Zoro searches him for something, and Sanji dodges eye contact, hiding behind a whiff of fresh smoke.

“Corner’s nice,” he says. “Did the same thing at Skypiea.”

Sanji scoffs, tapping the ash off his cigarette. “Again, you spent the entire time drinking yourself silly with wolves,” he says. “You didn’t even dance.”

There’s a flash of something in Zoro’s eyes, meeting Sanji’s gaze for just a moment, but he quickly turns away. He’s back to watching the crowd in front of him. “Everyone else did,” Zoro says softly, like that makes sense.

Thinking back, Sanji doesn’t remember much of Skypiea’s party, honestly. He’d always been too much of a lightweight, after all. He knew he danced, at the least, unlike some shitty swordsman. But he does remember Zoro, off to the side, eagerly downing some shit grog with wolves, a younger, easy smile on his face. A smile he hasn’t seen for a while.

Oh, screw it. He has to be some kind of masochist.

Sanji picks himself up off the ground, dusting off the ash from his pants, and grabs Zoro roughly by the arm to pull him up.

“Wh— hey!” he protests, but Sanji’s having none of it.

Ignoring his own nervousness, he forces Zoro’s hands to his own shoulders, and sets his on Zoro’s waist.

“Quit sulking,” Sanji mutters without bite.

Zoro stiffens, staring at Sanji with a bizarre, open expression that’s closer to how he looked at Skypiea than anything Sanji’s seen lately from him.

Looking away, Sanji hopes he can pass off the flush on his face as only being from the booze. “Just think about it like a fight,” he says. “And don’t step on my toes, these are nice shoes.”

Luckily, Zoro’s not uncoordinated, just a bit stiff, and a bit awkward, with dancing. Despite the apparent lack of practice, it doesn’t take long for him to loosen up, and soon Sanji’s able to catch the hint of a smile on his face.

“Told you it’s not hard,” Sanji says. Tentatively, he places a hand on Zoro’s hip. When the man doesn’t move away, he tightens his grip, thumb just over the hem of his pants.

Zoro misses a step, nearly stomping on the toe of Sanji’s shoe. He recovers, but it takes him staring down at his own two feet to do so.

“Never said it was hard,” Zoro counters, without much aggression. His brows furrow, and he continues staring down at his own two feet, as if that would make him more coordinated. “I just didn’t think you’d…”

“I’d what, dance?” Sanji says. He steps on Zoro’s toe, on purpose, but swings him around before he can protest. “I’m always good at showing you up, this isn’t any different–”

Zoro snorts. “Right, we’re back to normal then,” he sighs, that fleeting smile of his lost in confusion.

Sanji’s brow pinches, trying to follow what Zoro’s saying. So, he’d been able to successfully convince things were back to– whatever they were? That’s great, but he’s broken something, and now he needs to figure out what.

The song slows, and Sanji is left to study Zoro’s profile without distraction.

Firelight hits sharp edges, lighting the sharps of his cheekbones and darkening everywhere else. From this angle, too, Sanji watches as the light dances off Zoro’s three earrings. His bird-induced injury from before long-healed, the earrings dangle evenly again, but it doesn’t stop Sanji from wanting to cup them in his hand.

Sanji’s hand twitches treasonously, and his heart stammers in his throat.

He’s not getting over this, he thinks. In fact, his entire plans miraculously backfired, and now he’s forced to deal with the consequences of realizing he’s head over heels. Shit. he’s in love with him. This is terrible.

“—oi, cook,” Zoro says, and Sanji startles back to himself.

Sanji pulls back, shoving his hands in his pockets. Zoro said they were back to normal, before. Shit, he’s fucked up some delicate equilibrium here. Some balance of nature, and addled three drinks in he has no idea how to fix it.

“I’d better—” A hand grips Sanji’s wrist, and Sanji jolts away. “—I’d better go. There's, ah, we probably need refreshments or something, I shouldn’t be sitting around and leaving it all to our hosts.“

“Wait—” Zoro protests, but Sanji’s already gone. He leaves Zoro in the center of the party, and ignores the instinct to look back.

Sanji ignores all chances to fix that conversation and deal with Zoro, until the Strawhats find some new misadventure and he’s forced to face the music.

It doesn’t end well. Neither of them say it out loud, but the injury is Sanji’s fault.

Zoro’s arm feels heavy, slung around Sanji’s neck. His side presses in, uncomfortably warm, partially from the man’s natural body heat and partially from the fever-causing poison in his veins. Sanji should pick the man up rather than drag him to safety, but he’s not sure either of their pride will allow that.

“Pick up your feet, mosshead,” Sanji says, eyeing their surroundings.

Sanji’s expecting a harsh retort from Zoro, but all he gets is a half-muttered, “Whatever. Fine. Stupid mud.”

Everything underfoot is an absolute mire of muck. The groundcover is a layer with a soggy, wet sludge of water-logged leaves, and underneath is an abysmal foot of mud. Maybe if he were stepping lightly Sanji’d be able to find proper footing, but instead he’s dragging along a half-dead swordsman.

Mud cakes to their feet up their legs, and rain pelts them both. “What, do you want me to carry you?”

Zoro’s head lulls to the side, into Sanji’s shoulder. Shit, does he seriously have to carry him?

Luckily, before Sanji can over think that one, he finds a reprise. From the corner of his vision, under the rain and mud and misery, Sanji makes out what is sure to be the only sanctuary in the area. It’s a cave, with far up enough ledge to be delightfully dry, unlike the rest of this shit island.

Gritting his teeth, Sanji heaves Zoro’s arm further up his shoulder. “Just keep it together a couple more feet,” he mutters.

Zoro’s stubborn, reliably so, so he does manage to make the last couple of feet to the cave. Once they’re both inside, Sanji gently sets Zoro against the side of the cave, and promptly collapses against the opposite wall.

Shucking his jacket off, Sanji shakes rain out of his hair and shivers. The cave’s dry, but it’s still cold. There’s a laundry list of things Sanji needs to fix about this situation, and his own shivering is on the bottom of the list.

Sanji presses a hand into Zoro’s forehead. He definitely has a fever. Robin had warned them about the poisonous vines on the island, and Chopper had prepared an antidote for just this situation, but Sanji still feels underprepared. He hadn’t expected the poison to make such quick work of Zoro’s composure.

Realistically, Sanji knows he’ll be fine. Chopper’s antidote will work, and Zoro will be fine. His stomach still sinks low in his chest, and he claws at the fabric of his own pants.

“‘m fine,” Zoro mutters, eyes half-lidded. “Stupid fever.”

He startles. He hadn’t expected Zoro to be cognizant.

“Ah, well, good,” Sanji says. It’s too familiar. Too nice. “If you didn’t want a fever, you shouldn’t have got your leg cut open, shithead.”

Zoro gives him a long flat look, startlingly aware. Right, this whole shitstorm is still Sanji’s fault in the first place. He just had to get caught off guard, again, by Zoro getting in his personal space, and it just ended up leading to a deep slice down Zoro’s leg and subsequent fever.

Digging through his pack, he finds the medicine Chopper so helpfully prepared before they set off on the island, along with bandages and water. Great. All he had to do now was clean the wound, apply the balm, and he can put this situation behind them both.

“You’re jumpy lately,” Zoro interrupts him, again. Of course Zoro notices him falling apart at the seams, even when feverish.

Sanji stiffens, but quickly recovers. Hovering over Zoro’s leg, he pours a generous amount of water into a cloth, and starts cleaning mud off the wound.

“I fucked up,” he says. “Don’t rub it in.”

Zoro’s face pinches, like he’s about to talk back, but it quickly turns to a wince.

The cut’s thin, but already puffy and red. It stretches up from his knee to his upper thigh, the start of the cut still under the torn fabric of his pants. Running through the symptoms and Chopper’s advice, he’ll need to apply that ointment, fast.

With shaky fingers, he moves the torn fabric away from the wound. Everything’s still coated in thick mud, and he’s realizing quickly that no matter how much he cleans off the wound, if Zoro keeps his pants on it’ll just get coated in mud again.

It’s a sick twist of fate that he’s required to ask this now, when he’s sure Zoro wants absolutely nothing to do with him. Sanji gnaws at the unlit cigarette in his mouth. What grand fucking irony.

“Zoro,” Sanji starts, trying to sound firm. Confidant. He swallows. He can’t believe he has to say this. “Take your pants off.”

Zoro, still feverish, looks him directly in the eye, narrows his gaze, and challenges, “No. You do it.”

“It’s life or fucking death, mosshead!” Sanji says, and even as Zoro’s head leans to the side he maintains his narrowed glare.

Still, he’s not going to let Zoro die here. With an uneasy hand, he pulls at Zoro’s waistband. He tries to go fast enough that his skin barely has the chance to touch flesh, but it’s fucking impossible to avoid any contact.

This is the worst, Sanji thinks. This is some kind of divine punishment. He’s upset plenty of people in his life, after all. One of them could’ve been a god.

It’s a struggle to get the damn things off, too. They’re heavy, coated with mud, and the knuckles of Sanji’s fingers keep brushing over Zoro’s feverish skin. He’s sure he looks just as red in the face as Zoro is, by the type his pants are off and to the side. If the world were merciful, Zoro would be feverish enough to forget, but Sanji’s been proven wrong on that front so far.

Still, with pants fully removed, Sanji’s able to treat the injury quickly. The wound’s thin, so it’s not difficult to clean, and once Chopper’s ointment is applied the reddening starts fading almost immediately.

Once Sanji confirms that, he wraps the rest of Zoro’s leg up, and gives the man a painkiller that he suspects he’d never accept if not for the fever. When he’s sure Zoro’s off death’s door, Sanji leans on the opposite cave wall to get some much needed space.

Even as the wound’s been patched up, Zoro’s fever hasn’t faded. As much as the man can try to pretend he’s a perfect brick shithouse that’s impossible to falter, he’s still only human. The cracks at the seams are as apparent as they are heartbreaking, really, with Zoro’s arms shaking and head nodding off.

“You’re so fucking confusing,” Zoro announces, and some of Sanji’s pity disappears.

Sanji kicks him, lightly, in the leg. “I just saved your life, shit for brains,” he says. “Be grateful, or something.”

Apparently, either Zoro’s fever has gone enough that he misses Sanji’s comment, or he’s just being intentionally irritating. “Trying to- pet my hair then kick me in the face–”

Sanji’s face heats, and he stares out the cave entrance. Hopefully Zoro’s far gone enough to not to remember anything.

Zoro meets his gaze, with a look of self-assurance that looks frankly ridiculous on his feverish face. “Just take off the pants yourself, coward,” he reiterates, delirious and unaware he’s already pantsless.

He glares at Sanji with the will of a lion but the strength of a newborn kitten, his eyelids drooping with the tired effects of both fever and medicine. His eyes slowly close, and his head lulls back against the cave wall.

Once he’s positive Zoro’s unconscious, Sanji leans forward, places his head in his hands, and lets out a suffering groan.

Sanji doesn’t even realize he’s being overly irritable until fucking Usopp of all people comments on it. Zoro’s ignoring him, he’s ignoring him, and everything is fine.

“I’m fine,” Sanji hisses, pointing what he’s sure is his sharpest knife in their sniper’s direction.

It doesn’t even phase him. Bastard. Why can he grow a spin in the most inconvenient of times. “Sanji, you’re making everything into a puree.”

Sanji looks down at his diced onions, the remainder of them finely chopped into something nearly resembling a puree. But Sanji will keep his dignity intact, and claim it as finely chopped.

Picking up the cutting board and sliding the diced onions into a bowl, Sanji pointedly ignores the pitying glance Usopp sends his way.

“It’s diced,” Sanji argues, “Which is what I was going for.”

“Sure,” says Usopp. He doesn’t know how Usopp has the conversational upper hand. It’s pitiful. How the mighty fall.

Slamming his next vegetable of choice on the cutting board, Sanji thinks about his sharpest knives, and which would be best for intimidation. Maybe if he threw the knife across the room Usopp would flee, but he couldn’t do that to his knives.

“I don’t know what’s up with you. You know, your flirting with Zoro-”

Nevermind, sometimes sacrificial knives were necessary. Sanji cuts into his vegetable with enough force and shock that the knife edge cuts clean through the woodgrain of his cutting board, splintering the surface.

“My what,” Sanji says.

Usopp’s mask of confidence fades into something incredulous. “Your flirting,” he repeats. “You– you didn’t know?”

He can’t respond. He can’t even look at Usopp. Sanji stares down at his cutting board distantly. Pity. It was a nice one.

“You’ve been flirting with him for weeks,” Usopp says. He seems to shock at Sanji’s expression, eyeing the door.

It’s said with such confidence, Sanji almost believes him.

“No,” Sanji counters. He doesn’t have a solid argument. “No fucking way.”

It’s a crack in his armor, and Usopp can see it. “Yes, sorry to be the one to inform you,” he says. In a rush, he adds, “Please don’t shoot the messenger but you’ve kinda been coming on to him hard?”

Neither of them say anything for a moment. Just in case something possesses him, Sanji lets go of the knife handle. His knife sits upright, in the middle of his broken chopping board, frozen in place. There’s something he’s missing here, something he’s sure he’ll figure out if he ruminates on the details of the shitshow more.

But, importantly, he doesn’t want to.

“That’s bullshit! I’m not trying to– I’m not– I haven’t been– flirting with him,” the words come out like a hissing teapot. “I’m doing the– I’m trying to get over him!”

His face heats. Sanji shoves his hands in his pockets and straightens his back, as if acting intimidating could recover him from the hell of his own admission. Maybe he’s been in hell for a while, and this is just some divine punishment for being a continuous shithead his whole life.

Usopp’s eyes are impossibly wide. He gapes at Sanji like a dead fish, mouth open but no words coming out.

“What is it, Usopp.”

“Flirting with Zoro is the best way to get over him?!” Usopp says, way too loudly.

“Be quiet,” Sanji says, then lowers his own voice. It takes sheer force of shame to keep his voice low. “That would be stupid but I’m not flirting with him!”

“You’re all touchy feely! All the time!” Usopp, thankfully, matches Sanji’s whispered voice. “The whole bunk thing could’ve been a one time thing, but the dancing! Sanji, you got him to dance.”

Sanji doesn’t want to explain himself. This is stupid. “I’m– I’m trying to get over– you know!”

“No, I don’t know!” Usopp throws his hands up. “You’re not making any sense!”

Grimacing, Sanji pulls his hands out of his pockets to shove a cigarette into his mouth. What? Does he have to go over this whole thing with Usopp?

“Look, I just thought if I could get used to touching him and–” The words in love with Zoro almost fell out of his mouth. Maybe he can ask Usopp to mercy kill him. “-being a fucking idiot around him, I could get used to it, and things’d be normal again.”

Sanji bites into his cigarette, and cuts it in half. Shit, he just fucking lit that.

“So you’re flirting to get over him,” Usopp says, incredulous.

It sure is what it sounds like, isn’t it? Now that Usopp puts it that way, there’s a hint of horrible reality to his words. ’“Maybe,” Sanji finally relents.

Oh, now Usopp’s gone from looking utterly confused to looking sad. “And that’s what you want?”

“That’s what needs to happen,” Sanji snaps. “Anything else is not an option.”

It isn’t. It hasn’t been this whole time, and Sanji really wants to stop rubbing salt into an open wound, but this conversation is more like being dipped in a pool of lemon juice. There’s a list of impossibilities that Sanji can’t even toy with thinking about, because if he does it’d hurt all the more.

This is fine. His current solution is fine, he can live like this forever and he doesn’t need Usopp questioning this, not now.

“I can’t say that I get why you're doing this to yourself but,” Usopp pauses, as if considering the options that’d prevent him from being maimed. “He could like you.”

Slouching over, Sanji picks up a new, not crunched in half cigarette. He lights it under his hands, and covers his face with his hand as he places it between his lips.

“Just get out of my kitchen,” he says, without bite. Usopp pauses, for too long. Sanji grips the handle of his knife as an intimidation tactic, which while not being intimidating is enough to get Usopp out of the galley.

“Flirting with him,” Sanji repeats. “Shit.”

Ornery, and seeking to prove Usopp wrong, Sanji seeks out a bar on their next island pitstop.

He’s not flirting with Zoro. He can’t be. He will, however, flirt with someone, anyone, he can find. That’ll prove… something, if only to himself.

So, he finds the seediest bar in town and sits in the darkest corner, looking for some guy to prove this theory to. He doesn’t normally flirt with men unless men flirt with him, but he’s not going to rope a lady into his emotional despair like this.

Still, his heart’s not really in it. It takes half an hour nursing one sad, woefully under served drink for someone to even approach him.

Conversation goes fine, the same kind of fine that Sanji deals with with gritted teeth and false statements. He definitely looks like enough of a sad sack to be an easy lay, so he takes the conversation as it comes. Sanji’s probably flirting, but his heart’s not really in it.

Then, after some half-flirtatious comments Sanji can’t even remember, the man moves. The man’s hand– Guss, was it? Miles?- holds tight to Sanji’s hip.

Oh, it’s obvious what this guy wants. His thumb rubs a slow circle on Sanji’s hip, warmth penetrating through the fabric of his shirt. It’s distracting, but not enough as his spiraling thought process.

There’s a ring of clarity in his head. Sanji’s pretty sure he’s been pulling these same damn stunts with Zoro, all in a horrible, ill-thought out plan to get over him. Oh, right, the way to get over his unnecessary feelings is to get used to acting lovesick around Zoro, and getting used to it meant being in close proximity to Zoro, and close proximity meant–

Shit. Shit, he thinks, blood going cold in his veins, Usopp is so right. He’s been flirting with Zoro this entire time.

He’s a goddamn moron.

“-you sure you don’t want another drink?”

Sanji blinks owlishly at the guy. Gil? His name had to be Gil. Sanji’s sure he has the dumbest expression on his face, and he doesn’t bother to conceal it. Who cares if this random sees his emotional breakdown. He’ll kick him in the head behind the bar later.

More importantly, shit, if he’s been flirting with Zoro this entire time, Zoro definitely hasn’t been flirting back. He’s been an impassive wall of normalcy. Sure, he’s been confused about the whole thing, but he hasn’t been receptive, has he? Sanji thinks he’s going to be sick. Or pass out. Maybe both.

The thumb on his hip pauses. Right, Gil is still here. “Sure,” Sanji manages to get out, voice strained. “Another drink sounds great.”

Gil smiles wolfishly, and heads back to the bar.

His departure gives Sanji a moment of space to breathe. He desperately wants a smoke. That would probably be rude, but he doesn’t give a shit, Sanji just needs to get out of this bar.

Trying to find an escape plan, Sanji scans the place. There’s not a clear path to the exit, unfortunately, being in the nook of the little bar. It’s busy, too, patrons crowding around tables and barmaids dodging around elbows and chairs in too-thin spaces. Escaping will not be subtle.

Still, he’s got to try and figure a quick path out of this. He does another pass at the crowd, and this time picks up a shock of green in the crowd.

Everything stops, for a moment, as he meets Zoro’s eyes head-on. Disaster’s imminent, and Zoro’s expression is inscrutable, but he keeps it steady, even going out of his way to dodge around some poor barmaid in order to maintain eye contact.

Not knowing what the other man’s thinking, Sanji shrugs helplessly. He sips at the paltry remains of his first drink, in need of doing something with his hands.

Wrong move. Zoro’s coming over here now and, shit, he’s between Sanji and the exit. Bad move, extremely bad move, maybe he could start a bar fight by tossing his glass at someone, seems practical, but he needs a target, any idiot will do–

“-Cook,” says Zoro. “You’re enjoying yourself,” he adds darkly.

Oh, Sanji isn’t mentally able to parse that right now. “I thought you were avoiding me,” Sanji says through gritted teeth. He’s desperate to get out of this conversation anyway possible. Maybe he can dump his near-empty glass of ice on Zoro and dash across the bar tables and out the door.

That startles Zoro, his eye widening. “I’m not trying to. I just– I don’t know what you want,” Zoro stutters.

And that startles Sanji, looking at Zoro like he’d grown two heads. Sanji had his intentions written out for him by almost the whole crew, before he even knew what he was doing. “I don’t think I’ve been subtle,” Sanji says, miserably.

Zoro looks confused, his lips pinch in a way Sanji recongizes as an incoming argument. Whatever he’s going to say, though, is absolutely lost, because something catches both their visions quickly.

Right. Gil. Giles? Who cares. Sanji had forgotten about him, in his impending panic. “Ugh,” Sanji gets out, and it’s enough of a note of derision for Zoro to move.

In a shocking display Sanji didn’t expect, Zoro pulls Sanji close. His hand sits possessively at Sanji’s hip, and Sanji is forced against his side with an undignified gasp of air.

It’s… great. Giddily, he thinks, it’s great. He’s been resisting reciprocation for so long, adamant on touching but not being touched, that when he finally doesn’t have the choice but to give in he forgets why he’s avoiding it in the first place. Absolutely mollified, Sanji smiles tightly at Gil. Zoro’s hand feels so heavy, he can’t concentrate at all.

Mutely, Gil hands Sanji his drink. He looks between the two pirates, and then meets Sanji’s gaze with a frown.

“Thanks,” Sanji says. He takes a long sip of the drink in his hand and swirls it around. Then, for lack of a better idea, he hands the drink directly to Zoro.

Predictably, Zoro doesn’t pass up free alcohol, and he takes a long chug of it.

“That wasn’t for you-”

“-my drink, I decide what I do with it,” Sanji interrupts. He eyes up Gil, and with his best worst customer service voice he continues, “Now scram, asshole.”

Gil gives an incredulous huff but, luckily, finds a way out of the crowded bar.

Sanji allows himself a moment of self-indulgence. Zoro hasn’t moved away just yet, still downing the drink. His hand is rigid on Sanji’s side, and Sanji hopes he’d move his thumb, just a bit, just to indulge his whims.

But, he doesn’t. As fast as he was there, then, suddenly, he’s gone. Zoro backs away, a million questions on his face, and Sanji doesn’t want to answer any of them.

It feels like Sanji’s heart has left his body somewhere along the way. His blood feels frozen cold, and suddenly he’s deciding yet again between fight or flight. Fight is his first instinct with Zoro, but that’d bring them closer together, and Sanji can’t.

“Are you finished?” Sanji says. He points to the glass in Zoro’s hand.

Zoro mutely nods. The drink’s long gone, only glass and ice remaining.

Sanji takes the glass from Zoro’s hands, looks around, and lobs it across the bar, at no one in particular. He’s long since passed the need to plan things out discreetly.

The striking crash distracts the room, and more importantly Zoro. The impending chaos is enough for Sanji to make his retreat.

He could find a better hiding location than the Sunny’s galley. Any other option, however, would likely be a worse sulking location.

The galley fills with smoke, and Sanji presses the butt of another worn-down cigarette into his ashtray. He lights a fresh one, and breathes it in. The air is dark enough to choke on, and, dramatically, he thinks he just might choke and die by his own hand.

Sanji runs a hand through his hair, digging his nails in when he gets to the top of his head. So, he’d been flirting with Zoro the entire time. Shit. Shit. In retrospect, it checks out. In retrospect, Sanji’s entire plan seemed like a sorry excuse for him to play pretend under the guise of solving a problem. Oh, sure, he can get over Zoro if he just does every action possible for him to get closer to Zoro. Oh, maybe if he makes a transparent excuse to play pretend everything will be fine.

Sanji groans, placing his elbows on the kitchen counter and burying his head in his hands. He’d been flirting. This entire time. He’s got egg on his face now. He’s absolutely going to need to bend over backwards to make an excuse out of this one.

The galley door creaks open, and Sanji doesn’t even bother looking up.

“Kitchen’s closed,” Sanji says, waving his cigarette at the door. “I’ll– bother me tomorrow, just– not right now.”

The galley door creaks, again. Someone steps in, and Sanji has a bad idea of who it is.

“Cook,” says Zoro, and Sanji snaps to attention.

Zoro’s hand is still on the door, an uncommon uncertain expression on his face. He’s eyeing Sanji like a puzzle he can’t figure out, like a puzzle he can’t understand, and Sanji hopes to stay that way.

Pressing his hands on the counter, he leans up, back ramrod straight. “I said get out,” Sanji says. “Or are you too stupid to read between the lines?”

Zoro’s either too stupid, or too stubborn. His eyebrows furrow, and the galley door clicks closed with a certain shut.

“Idiot,” Sanji groans, doing his best to close himself off. Crossed arms, as much hair in front of his face as he can manage, the whole nine yards. “Bother me some other time, and unless you have a death wish, I’m not in the mood.”

Nothing can deter Zoro on the warpath, though, not even Sanji’s pitiful display of bravado. Still on the other side of the kitchen island, his previously uncertain expression turns steely with a determination that freezes Sanji cold.

“What are you doing?”

It’s vague enough of a question that Sanji can deflect it easily. “Meal prep,” he says. Unless that meal prep involves turning the kitchen into an ad hoc smokehouse, it’s an obvious lie, but whatever.

Zoro groans. “That’s obviously not what I meant, shit cook, you just—” Then, bizarrely, he flushes, bright red up to the tips of his ears. “Are you fucking with me?”

That’s not what he expects. “No,” Sanji hesitates. What?

“It feels like you’re fucking with me,” Zoro says, hands clenched to the side. “First you go and— dance with me,” Sanji wants to sink into the floorboards, “—then you try to kick me in the face, and now you’re flirting with random men at the bar?”

“What, you’d rather me flirt with you instead?” Sanji jeers, feeling like maybe ripping the scab right off is the only way out of this conversation.

Zoro’s face falls, at first, into such a look of disappointment, before hitting rock bottom and turning into sheer confusion. “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?”

He’s going to die here, right in his kitchen, of some kind of traumatic shock.

“Not intentionally!” Sanji starts. He’s going to get this over with. “Look, I was just— I realized— ugh, first of all, nothing about our shitty relationship has to change. I can be normal about this.”

“This,” Zoro repeats.

Sanji grits his teeth into a fine dust. “My shitty fucking feelings,” he manages to get out.

Zoro’s mouth opens, and Sanji waves his hand to shut him up. When that doesn’t work, he just starts talking again. “This was such a shit plan in the first place, I just wanted to figure out— look, I gave up on getting over you like, week fucking one.”

There’s a choked noise, and Sanji can’t bring himself to look at Zoro’s face.

“So I figured if I could get used to,” he gestures to Zoro on the whole, “I wouldn’t, I don’t know, accidentally kick you into the railing, or get you injured, or do something else stupid like I’ve been doing because every time I’m as much as near you I overthink shit, and then I just—”

Sanji swallows, hard.

“You’ve been trying to get over me,” Zoro says, or questions, Sanji can’t decide which one is better or worse.

Miserably, Sanji sniffs. He can feel something in the corner of his eyes, maybe he can blame it on the smoke. “It’s not happening,” he confirms. “So sorry for flirting with you, it wasn’t intentional, I know what I’m doing now-”

Whatever word vomit Sanji is about to spit next is cut off by a hand over his mouth. Sanji blinks, the tears prinkling his eyes drying at the shock of the action.

Zoro stares down at him, face pink but expression resolute. “Well, your flirting worked,” he says.

Sanji pulls Zoro’s hand off his face. “I just told you it didn’t asshole—”

The hand clamps back down. Zoro’s pointer finger is now on the bridge of Sanji’s noise, running up and down in an even rhythm. It’s tender, and it makes Sanji want to combust, it’s a startling familiar gesture.

Sanji’s heart stops, and so does his breathing, and he finally shuts up, looking at Zoro with wide eyes.

Zoro smirks, and then the bastard kisses the back of his own hand, as it’s still clamped over Sanji’s mouth.

“I think your plan backfired,” he says.

He searches Zoro for any hint of dishonesty. He’s expecting to find something, some kind of trap here, but Zoro’s earlier questions on if Sanji was fucking with him ring in his head. There’s no trap, he thinks, and his heart rate slows down from his panicked dejection into a new giddiness. What the hell.

Prying Zoro’s hand away from his mouth, he pulls Zoro away but keeps his wrist tight in his own hand. “Well that’s good,” Sanji says weakly. “It was kind of a shit plan in the first place.”

Something damp hits the back of Sanji’s neck, a drip of liquid, and it’s dark enough he can’t tell what the hell it is. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stick up an end, and it’s almost enough to miss the bounty hunter coming straight at him.

Bastards thought they could use night vision goggles and darkness to get the upper hand on them, but they don’t know what’s coming.

One said bastard tries to get Sanji in the neck, and isn’t expecting him to dodge back and counter with a foot to the shin. The bounty hunter topples over with a resonating thud. Just past him, a loud metallic sheen knocks another right on top of him.

“Only six left,” says Zoro, because of course he’d been counting.

Sanji’s eyes still aren’t adjusted to the low light of the cave. The most he can see are the glints of light that reflect off the metal of Zoro’s swords, swinging with a certainty and speed that almost seem contradictory.

It’s enough of a shine he can use it to find the last three remaining bounty hunters, all cowered toward the apparent entrance of the cave. It only takes one right foot to take them out, and soon the only noise in the cave is Zoro’s.

Peering back towards the noise, Sanji finds Zoro easily. His earrings shine in the low light, seeming to collect all the light in the room and reflect it out.

With a soft smile he hopes is masked by the darkness, Sanji reaches out and holds Zoro’s head in his hand, thumb just resting on the shell of his ear. His breath catches only slightly as Zoro leans into the touch.

“Not bad, shithead,” he says. “Still got more than you did.”

Without an effort to move away, Zoro counters, “It’s pitch back, curls. You can’t tell.”

“Didn’t think you’d admit defeat so easily, mosshead,” he says. The three earrings are cool in his palm.

“If I say a number you’d just counter it,” Zoro states. His breath hits Sanji’s palm, and he can feel Zoro’s sigh. “Fifteen-”

“-sixteen,” Sanji cuts him off, and Zoro groans.

He lingers, just for one more self-indulgent moment, before pulling away.