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Katanas flashed, bright and deadly in the sun. Two wielders, three blades.
Zoro thought he had her this time, but even with his strikes staggered, Kuina managed to block them both, fast as lightning ripping across the sky. Zoro had learned to quell his frustration. Some heat was good—it strengthened his resolve, pushed him to be smarter. But the boy had accepted that anger, left unbridled, simply made his attacks messy and less skilled. He leapt back, regrouping, watching his opponent for the slightest opening. Watching her eyes more than her hands.
Kuina shifted her stance and came at him again. Zoro blocked an overhead strike with one katana, slashing across with the second, but she somehow moved out of the way like it was nothing, as liquid as the stream flowing within earshot. Her blows came harder this time. Playtime was over. Zoro crossed his blades to shield himself, and she took the opportunity to kick him in the gut, sending him to the turf. The sword point held at his throat signaled they were done.
Zoro lay there, chest heaving, until Kuina stepped back and sheathed Wado. She held out a hand that he accepted without resentment or hesitation. He picked up his own swords and sheathed them, black-hilted and unbroken.
“You’re still better,” he said, resigned to this simple fact.
Kuina smiled in her way that could have been condescending, but never was. “But you’ve gotten better, too, Zoro,” she told him. “Faster. Stronger.”
“Mihawk defeated me like I was an ant,” he protested. His body was young, Kuina a head taller, yet an old scar marred his chest. “I have to do my training alone now. What if it isn’t enough?”
“You have the rest of your life to fulfill our promise.” Her soft smile made his heart hurt.
“I don’t know if that’s true,” he said, barely a whisper. This didn’t feel like a dream, though he had dreamt of her many times. So, what was it?
Kuina shook her head. “It’s not your time yet, Roronoa Zoro,” she said in answer to his unasked question. “Your friends need you.”
“My friends,” he echoed. He knew who he was, yet his mind wanted to cling to this past, when things made sense. When he and his friend had equal opportunity to become the world’s greatest. But if he focused, he could summon their faces.
His captain, grinning like a fool. Their navigator, always one step ahead. The sharpshooter, full of heart. The cook, annoying but reliable.
“They need you more than I do,” she said, watching the recognition dawn on his youthful face. She bowed deep, warrior to warrior. “We’ll meet again, Zoro.”
“But I want to—”
Zoro didn’t get to tell Kuina what he wanted.
Zoro remembers hangovers from when he was young and inexperienced, downing mixed drinks as readily as water. This didn’t feel like that, but the throbbing in his skull was similar. The sensitivity to light. The way he felt out of sync with his body. His eyes opened slowly, then blinked in regret against the sunlight pouring in. He was laying on some kind of makeshift cot, warm blankets draped over him to keep the chill at bay. The room was quiet as his gaze drifted and landed on the cook, sitting on a piece of rubble next to him, an unlit cigarette being turned restlessly between his fingers. The sole of one shoe tapped a ceaseless rhythm against the floorboards. His bangs fell forward, curtaining his face from view. He appeared to be lost in thought.
Zoro groaned as unused muscles signaled their displeasure at being stirred to life. The sound alerted Sanji, who gasped, his head snapping towards him.
“Zoro,” he said, but it was more a shocked breath than a name. He jerked forward, a hand reaching out instinctively, but didn't fully leave his perch. The cigarette fell to the floor, forgotten.
Now that he was awake, he couldn’t stand being on his back. Zoro sat up, groaning, and brought a hand to his bandaged forehead. The blankets slid down into his lap, revealing a torso wrapped in the same. An IV tugged uncomfortably.
“Whoa, whoa,” Sanji said, gentler than he ever spoke to the swordsman. He was sitting close enough that his outreached hands hovered by Zoro’s chest, as if to steady him in case he fainted. “Hey. Take it easy.”
“I’m fine,” Zoro said, but the words came out scratchy, his throat sore and dry.
Sanji barked a laugh this side of hysterical. It didn’t help Zoro’s headache.
“You’re not fine,” he informed Zoro, like he had been waiting by his bed to tear into him. Then, with less bite, “You… You lost a lot of blood, marimo. You’ve been out for a week.”
“A week?” Zoro cried, but again, the words came out wrong from disuse. “Why didn’t somebody wake me?”
Sanji’s mouth fell open at the question. “Because your body was busy fighting to keep you alive, you useless sack of seaweed. We thought—...” Sanji looked away, clearing his throat. “Things were touch and go for a minute there.”
Zoro remembered thinking he might succumb to that first taste Kuma gave him, the way it tore at him, body and soul, though he has never been good at recalling pain with much clarity. Once it was past, it was an abstract thing, as real as picturing the color blue in his mind’s eye.
He remembered steeling himself and accepting death in the moments before he lept into the projected damage of his captain. He remembered the pain as a cold, shocking thing, like jumping into a frigid lake. He didn’t remember anything that came after.
It’s with those thoughts that he asked, “The others? Luffy?”
Sanji’s mouth pressed into a firm line. “He’s alright. Thanks to you.” Yet his tone implied disapproval. Zoro wondered at that, but let it go.
It was only then, with Zoro more awake, that a certain incongruity registered in his mind: Sanji wasn’t wearing one of his suits, or even dressed down in a button-up. He was adorned in soft cotton, the fabric holding him like a blanket. The shades of blue brought out his eyes, weary and bloodshot though they were. It looked so right on him, Zoro almost hadn't questioned it.
“Why are you wearing my hoodie?” he asked, as though this ranked up there with Luffy’s wellbeing.
Sanji froze in the middle of bending down to pick up his cigarette, eyes lifting to Zoro. He sat up, checking the paper wrapping, a hint of color rising to his face. He pulled out a lighter, grumbling.
“It was cold,” was all the explanation he got. Zoro tried to huff, but even that hurt. His hoodie was going to smell like cigarette now.
Sanji took a pull. Exhaled. “Are you hungry?” he asked.
Zoro eyed the cold oatmeal by his side. His stomach grumbled, but the thought made him nauseous. He shook his head.
Sanji, always perceptive when it came to appetites, read between the lines and stood with purpose. “I’ll heat up some broth, then. We’ll start simple.” Sanji looked to the door. He hesitated. “I should tell the others,” he said, mostly to himself. He turned to Zoro, pushing his hair back only for it to slip back into place. “Do you want visitors right now? Besides Chopper?”
The cook was probably considering how Luffy would react, jumping on his recuperating vice-captain like a rambunctious puppy.
“It’s alright,” Zoro said, feeling a smile but not being able to manifest it. He knew there was no keeping his crewmates away. And besides, he wanted to see for himself that they were alive.
Sanji nodded and left the room, leaving a thin trail of smoke in his wake.
A couple days at sea later, Zoro walked into the galley sans bandages (much to Chopper’s voiced disapproval). Luffy, Usopp, Franky, and Robin were all seated at the table, engaged in lively conversation, with Sanji listening nearby, peeling potatoes at the counter. Zoro saw one bowl set out in front of an empty seat. Seafood fried rice, Sanji’s speciality.
The cook, still shamelessly wearing his hoodie, looked up at Zoro’s arrival and smiled. “Made you something,” he chirped. “Rich in iron, so you'll have more blood to bleed.”
Zoro eyed it silently, then walked into the kitchen, past Sanji. He reached up and opened a cupboard.
Sanji turned, blinking at him. “What are you doing?”
“I want sake.” He had nearly grabbed a bottle, too, when Sanji slammed the cupboard closed.
Zoro’s reflexes weren’t completely shot; he pulled his hand to safety just in time. It balled into a fist as he glared at the other man. “What’s your problem?” he growled.
“You don't need sake,” Sanji said sternly. His free hand hadn’t left the cupboard door. “You’re still healing, moss head. Act like it.”
Zoro turned to squarely face him, irritation rippling down his neck. “That’s not your call, cook.” Even in his weakened state, he knew he could take him.
Sanji glared at him with grim determination as the crew looked on, ready to intervene. His brow twitched. Finally, he pulled his hand away, turning back to his food prep without a second glance. “Fine, stupid fucking marimo,” he snapped, grabbing the next potato and beginning to peel it. “Drink yourself into another fucking coma for all I care.”
“Don’t do that,” Luffy called from the table.
Zoro groused, still glaring at Sanji as he pointedly opened the cupboard again and grabbed the bottle for himself. He sat with his crewmates, setting it down loudly on the table. He ate most of lunch. Sanji should be happy for that, at least, but the cook didn’t say another word to him all day.
The following morning, Zoro awoke in his bunk—still aching, still not as alert as he would like. His swords were propped against the wall beside him, passing silent judgment that he wasn't on deck doing his katas.
Normally among the first to get up, he found he was alone in the men’s room, his body still hoarding extra sleep. No one had asked him to take his turn at watch, either, as if he weren’t trustworthy in his current state. Feeling sour now, Zoro got up, shivering as he pulled his blanket back and the insistent cold crept in. It was getting too chilly at night to sleep without a shirt. He found one on the floor beside him and put it on.
Once out of bed and on his feet, Zoro could see into the upper bunk and spotted his blue hoodie there, folded neatly atop Sanji's blankets. Apparently the cook had no qualms about claiming it as his own.
Zoro frowned, snatching it off the bed and tugging it down over his head in a huff. But it didn’t smell like how he remembered, blending seamlessly with his own profile.
He sniffed.
The smoky, burnt smell of cigarettes clung to it, no doubt, but underneath, he caught a clean salty tang, smelling of seafood and the ocean. As the fabric settled against him, he smelled a third, more subtle scent: Sanji himself. His citrusy shampoo. His light musk, spicy and sweet.
It wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
Zoro made for the kitchen and found Sanji there alone, already elbow deep in food prep for dinner that evening. He saw two burners going on the stove, and an assortment of protein and vegetables in various states of readiness. Sometimes the cook got like that, going all out and giving them a buffet when ingredients were at risk of spoiling. He was chopping cucumber when Zoro walked past, looking for leftovers.
Sanji did a double-take, as though surprised to see Zoro wearing his own clothes.
“Didn’t get a chance to wash it,” he mumbled by way of apology.
“I noticed.”
Wordlessly, Sanji set his knife down, reached up into the cupboard, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He set it on the counter and slid it Zoro’s way. He then picked up his knife and resumed chopping.
“Nothing happened, right?” he asked flatly.
Zoro stopped the bottle with one hand but didn’t pick it up. His eyes were on the cook.
Sanji’s words rattled in Zoro’s mind. Had he said that?
He felt an agitated rumble build in his throat. “Are you that upset I didn't let you die?” he asked, voice low and measured. He remembered Sanji standing between him and Kuma, horrible pain etched into every inch of his body. He could barely stand for all his trembling. The jerk didn’t know when to mind his own business.
The movement of the knife stilled, but soon resumed again.
“I was buying us time,” Sanji said, but Zoro knew it was a lie from the way he wouldn’t look at him.
At Zoro’s silence, Sanji sighed. He freed his hand and rounded on him. “That was rash,” he scolded, like the words had been forming in his mouth for days, uselessly, while Zoro laid there on the cot. “You gave up on me. You gave up on yourself.”
Zoro’s back stiffened defensively.
He remembered Sanji’s hand gripping his shoulder. The look of outrage and betrayal before he crumpled, unconscious.
“I did what I had to do,” Zoro told him, maintaining an even temper. Maybe Sanji didn’t like it, but that didn’t change the facts. He gestured; wasn’t he standing here under his own power? “I survived, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“You nearly didn’t!” Sanji countered, something like fear in his words.
Zoro growled. He didn’t need this man questioning him, judging him, getting in the way of what needed to be done.
“What do you even care, shit-cook?” he snapped. “I thought you’d be happy with me gone.” The sentiment wasn’t true, but he wanted the cut to bleed.
And bleed it did.
After all, the swordsman rarely missed.
Sanji gaped at him, dumbfounded, but then the anger flared up twice as hot. He bared teeth in a snarl and closed the distance between them, muscles taut and ready to attack.
“Don’t you dare—”
But no black leg came flying at him. Instead, Sanji grabbed the front of Zoro’s hoodie, pulling him close. His eyes shone like blue fire, glinted cold as steel. He was a different creature when he was truly angry. He could be unhinged. Frightening. But Zoro wasn’t afraid.
“Don’t you dare say that to me! Don’t you dare—!” His hands bunched tighter in the fabric as he shoved Zoro back against the door, no regard for his mending body, pinning him in place more with those fiery eyes than his grip. “You think it didn't hurt to watch you lie there for seven days?" His words burned hot with accusation.
Sanji in his clothes. Sanji fighting to not smoke above his comatose body. Sanji's blue eyes touched with red.
"You matter to me, you stupid, shitty excuse for a swordsman!"
Zoro went still, shocked to see those blue eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“How many times do I have to watch you die?” Sanji yelled, not bothering to keep his voice down. He was too far gone. “I…” He choked on the words, falling silent, his eyes searching Zoro’s face for something the swordsman couldn’t name. If he came to some private conclusion, it happened too quickly to show on his face. Zoro—always perceptive, always ready—failed to guard against it.
Suddenly, the inches between them were reduced to nothing as Sanji’s mouth pressed firmly to his. Far from a tender first kiss, it was hard, bitter, angry. It tasted of smoke.
A few seconds later, Zoro reached up and grabbed Sanji by the shoulders, pulling them apart. He took in those wide blue eyes, alarm hammering in his chest to be caught flat-footed. “What are you doing?” he breathed.
“I— I don’t know,” Sanji stammered, looking like a startled deer. “I’m sorry—”
But Zoro didn’t want to see that stupid, panicked look anymore. He erased it with another kiss, deeper and gentler this time. Sanji’s hands left his hoodie to link around his neck, pulling them together. The smoke was still there on his tongue, but something richer, too. Something intoxicating. One of Sanji’s hands snaked up and grabbed a fistful of his hair, tugging gently. It sent a fire through him he’d never felt before.
When they finally broke apart, Sanji still had that shell-shocked look about him, made more attractive by his mussed hair, the heat in his face.
“Fuck,” he muttered softly, finding his hands clasping the hoodie once more.
“If you want,” Zoro teased. Uncharacteristic of him, but worth it for the way Sanji’s mouth shut and his face turned red, all the way to his ears.
He shoved Zoro away with a scowl. "Bastard," he muttered, but its sting was mitigated by his tongue having just been in Zoro's mouth. The cook fished for a cigarette and pulled out his lighter. His hands were shaking.
“Just…” Cheeks still flushed, his expression grew serious. “Promise me you won’t do that again, okay?” He inhaled his beloved nicotine, exhaled smoke. “We fight together. We find a solution together.”
Zoro felt like he'd just been in a swordfight, his adrenaline pumping, but he stored the kiss away for later examination, refocusing on Sanji's words.
Was he really so idealistic as to believe there would always be a better solution? Did he really think Zoro wouldn’t die for any one of them if it were necessary?
“I can’t promise you that,” he admitted plainly, and watched Sanji’s silly eyebrows pinch. After a beat, he conceded, just as truthfully, “But I’ll try.”
Sanji seemed to hold his breath before the next exhale. He considered this compromise, then nodded to himself, satisfied. “Alright.” He gestured with the cigarette. “Now take your whiskey and get out of my kitchen. I’m busy.”
Zoro smirked at the flustered way the cook turned back to his task and tried to ignore him, like…
Like nothing happened.
The swordsman scavenged some leftovers taken from the fridge, but he left the alcohol untouched. After all, he already felt plenty intoxicated, and not from drink.
“Good morning, my dearest Nami! The lovely Robin!”
The following day, Sanji seemed like his usual self as he cheerfully greeted his shipmates filtering into the galley, once again donning the blue and white hoodie—still unwashed, still smelling of cigarettes and steel. If anyone noticed the look he and Zoro shared, the blush coloring Sanji’s cheeks, they kept it to themselves.
Eventually, the article of clothing traded hands so often, the rest of the Straw Hats couldn’t remember to which man it had first belonged.