Work Text:
Zoro huffs, gripping the edge of the sink a little tighter than is maybe necessary. Flicking his head back, he watches, agitated, as strands of hair fall back into his eyes. He hears the porcelain creak under his shaking hands.
His hair hasn’t been cut since they entered the Grand Line. So much had changed, it’s barely been a few weeks and Zoro felt like his stupid mess of a life had been flip-turned a thousand times over. They stopped a war that was tearing a friend’s country apart, picked up two new crewmates, they went to a fucking island in the sky and fought God, for fucks sake.
So, sue him, he forgot to get a haircut.
Except, now it’s too long, fringe skirting his eyes, the back shaggy and so much longer than he likes it. It’s inconvenient for fighting, sure, but there’s something so much darker there, too. He feels the long-forgotten pulls of dysphoria deep in the pit of his stomach, remembers every stupid time someone had looked at him and seen girl, when he had never been that, not even for a second.
Logically speaking, he knows that no one would make that mistake now. There’s constant stubble threatening to poke through the sharp cut of his jaw, his voice is a low growl of what it used to be, and his chest is a flat plane of muscle and strength. Regardless, though, long hair feels like everything he spent his youth running from, girlhood and femininity and an agony that made his stomach churn, a feeling of displacement that he couldn’t escape, not until the surgery, until the hormones.
He sighs again, standing up straight, struggling to take his eyes off his reflection. He momentarily eyes the scissors in the cup, glinting at him in the light of the bathroom, a temptation. He can’t, though, it’s too short, he’d never get the back right with just a pair of scissors and a sense of gut-churning unease. He’d just have to wait, to pray there was a barbershop at the next island they stopped at. He’d have to be patient.
Despite his years of training in meditation, he’s never been very good at patience.
Zoro shoves his hair back from his forehead and exits the bathroom, ignoring Nami’s grating complaints at how he took so long, and how other people need to shower too, you know! He just walks right past, barely sparing her a grunt of acknowledgement, and not getting even a dull satisfaction at her enraged spluttering.
Unable to shift the feeling of crawling beneath his skin, the wrongness that chokes him, he walks out onto the deck, tucks himself comfortably in a quiet corner, swords safely beside him, and closes his eyes for a nap. He hopes he’ll feel better once he wakes up.
He doesn’t. In fact, he feels worse, somehow. It might have had something to do with his nap being rudely interrupted by the Cook shoving his foot into his stomach to tell him dinner is ready, but it’s more likely to do with the fact that, immediately after, the asshole smirks, flicks at a stray bit of hair on Zoro’s forehead, and mutters, “If this gets any longer it’ll look like seaweed instead of moss,” before strolling casually away.
Zoro is immediately hyper-aware of his problem all over again. He growls, shoves his hair back with a calloused palm, and goes to retort, to send back some scathing comment that would surely have the cook bristling, but Sanji’s long gone, the coward has already retreated to the sanctity of his kitchen. Zoro can do little but sit and seethe.
He skips dinner that night, instead isolating himself in the crow's nest, lifting weight after weight, silently praying that if he trains enough, the sick feeling will leave his stomach. Yet somehow, shockingly, skipping a meal only serves to worsen the nausea churning through him, a biting hunger heightening the dizziness. Come to think of it, he might have missed lunch too.
He tries to work through it, blindly convincing himself that just another rep, a slightly heavier weight, something, would help. Eventually, though, he collapses on the bench beside his workout gear, sweating, exhausted, and buzzing with something all too similar to anxiety, something he swore he’d never let himself feel again, not since he stood eye to eye with Hawkeyes Mihawk and lost.
It’s late, by the time he stops working himself into the ground. He doesn’t know exactly what time, but the moon is high in the sky and the deck is empty of his crewmates, they could’ve gone to bed hours ago, for all Zoro knows.
He’s about to join them when he realises there’s light coming from the kitchen windows, bright and welcoming. The cook must still be awake, likely planning meals for the coming week. His feet are moving before his brain can catch up, and he tries to convince himself he’s just desperate for a drink, something strong to calm himself. He definitely doesn’t just want to be around someone right now, especially not the fucking cook. No, definitely not.
—
Sure enough, Sanji is just finishing meal prep when Zoro enters the kitchen, stacking tubs of ingredients in the fridge and crossing things off in the little notebook he always carries with him. Zoro stands awkwardly in the doorway, watching him lock the fridge tight, protecting it from their Captain’s ever hungry, thieving grasp. Sanji doesn’t react, doesn’t show any sign that he knows Zoro is there, but Zoro knows he’s aware.
Sanji is by far the most observant member of their ship. Zoro can sense danger from a hundred miles away, sure, but it’s Sanji who always knows where everyone is, who can recognise each crewmate by the tread of their foot, who seems to know how everyone is feeling without them even having to open their mouths. Zoro sometimes envies that talent, that obsessive-compulsive hyperawareness that the cook carries with him, but mostly he’s just grateful there’s someone at his back, looking out for the crew just as much as he does. Though sometimes, just sometimes, he worries about why Sanji had to learn that skill in the first place.
After securing every lock, Sanji stands, starts putting away jars of herbs and spices and, without turning, says, “I was wondering when you’d show your face. You missed dinner.”
Zoro, painfully aware of the cook’s refusal to waste food, simply shrugs. “Figured Luffy would eat my portion.”
Sanji sighs irritably. “You missed lunch, too. You think I’d just let you starve, Marimo?” Still not looking around, he waves a hand to the kitchen table, where a plate Zoro had only assumed was a pre-prepared midnight snack for Luffy sits, untouched. “Made some sushi for you, you better eat it.”
There’s little room for argument in Sanji’s voice, and Zoro doesn’t find himself all that compelled to fight him anyway. He’s too fucking tired, so he nods, shoves at the stupid strands of hair on his forehead, and sits down. He didn’t realise how hungry he was when he was training, but now that the food is in front of him, it’s difficult not to inhale it, full-on Luffy-style. He grunts in thanks and takes a bite, watching Sanji flit around the kitchen, tidying and organising. It’s embarrassing to admit how much better the food makes him feel.
“Something’s bothering you,” Sanji speaks up after a long, almost comfortable silence. His voice is controlled and calm, and he finally swings to look at Zoro.
Zoro figures he doesn’t need to confirm that, Sanji has never read him wrong so far, so he just shrugs, shoving another sushi roll into his mouth.
Sanji sighs again, there’s a familiar agitation brewing in him, Zoro see’s it in the twitch of his eyebrow, the stiffness of his shoulders. He’s always prided himself on his ability to get under the cook's skin, but right now it doesn’t feel much like victory.
“You wanna… talk about it?” And, okay. That’s new. That’s weird. Sanji has never shown any indication that he cares about Zoro’s fucking mental well-being before, has never offered to talk to him. They’re always too busy clashing and trading blows to have much of a civilised conversation.
Zoro must look bewildered because the tips of Sanji’s ears go pink and he looks away, jaw clenching. “I mean,” He says hastily, “If something’s bothering you, there’s probably not much time before it’s a problem for the rest of us too. I’m looking out for the ladies here.”
Zoro would normally believe him, God knows the whole crew is aware of Sanji’s priorities, but something about the tone of Sanji’s voice is rushed and unnaturally stilted. Sanji has always been one for dramatics, but this feels even more like a performance than his usual activities.
“It’s not,” Zoro grumbles once he’s finished his food. Sanji looks confused. “A problem for the rest of the crew, I mean, it’s not. Nothing you need to concern yourself with, shit-cook.”
Sanji’s frowns a little, and he moves a few steps closer, as if he was planning to sit down but then decided against it. He lights a cigarette instead, resting his hip against the kitchen counter. There’s an oddly gentle look on his face, one Zoro has seen a thousand times, but never directed at him. Not once.
After a long drag, Sanji speaks again, smoke spilling from his lips.
“As much as I loathe to say it, if someone on the crew is upset, that is my concern. Even if the person in question is an irritating, overgrown moss ball.”
Zoro bristles, but there’s no heat behind the insult, just a little tug of something that sounds far too much like worry for Zoro’s liking. He’s tempted to run from this whole situation, to just grunt out an ‘I’m fine’ and escape to the safety of the men's bunk. This is brand new ground for them, a quiet conversation, genuine concern, wanting to talk. Zoro feels like he should hate it. So.. why does it make his chest feel a little more full? Why does it break down a little of the anxiety that’s so desperately eating at him?
“I’m gonna make us some tea,” Sanji says after a moment, eyes lingering on Zoro briefly. He fidgets under the analytical gaze. Even with only one eye visible, Sanji somehow has the ability to pin him in place with a single look, it feels like he can see straight through to Zoro’s soul sometimes. It makes something pull in Zoro’s chest.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches the cook work silently, steeping the leaves, sweetening his own tea and leaving Zoro’s blissfully plain. It’s easier not to get stuck in his own head when he has something to watch. Even though Sanji making tea is not an uncommon sight, it's oddly enchanting right now, watching him work gracefully and methodically under the warm kitchen light, stars flickering in the sky through the window beside him.
After a few minutes, a cup is placed gently in front of Zoro, and Sanji takes a seat opposite him, his own cup held delicately between long, unscarred fingers.
“So, talk to me,” Sanji instructs, his voice is carefully calm. It almost feels more like a request than a command, not pushing, but welcoming the conversation regardless.
“My hair’s too long.” Zoro blurts before he can think twice about it, immediately snapping his mouth shut again. It’s an embarrassing confession, and the crack in his voice, the blatant fragility he’s showing, is even more humiliating. He picks up his mug and takes a sip, annoyed at how perfect it tastes.
Sanji frowns, looking lost. “...Huh? I coulda told you that myself. You know scissors exist, right?” It sounds should’ve been mocking, as if Sanji intended it that way, but lost steam halfway through, making the words come out soft and tinging with confusion. Zoro chalks the rapid beat of his heart up to anxiety alone.
Shuffling awkwardly, he tries to find words that would explain it in a way Sanji understood.
“I can’t,” He mumbles after a moment, “I wouldn’t do it right.”
“And you couldn’t accompany Usopp and Nami to the hairdressers they literally went to on the last island because…?” He speaks flatly, like Zoro is stupid. He isn’t. He knows about the stupid hairdresser.
“Wasn’t a barbershop.” He grumbles, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. He knows how ridiculous he sounds. “Hairdressers are for girls.”
Sanji seems to need a moment to process that last statement. Zoro doesn’t blame him, he knew from the moment the words left his lips that he’d said it wrong. He just… he doesn’t know how to put these feelings into words, least of all to the fucking chef.
“You’re… You’re kidding, right?” Sanji blinks at Zoro, and when the swordsman’s expression doesn’t shift, his eyes widen a little. Surprise rings in his voice when he speaks again, “There’s no fucking way your sense of masculinity is so fragile that you can’t go to a fucking hairdresser. What, you think Usopp’s a girl for going?”
Zoro grits his teeth. Sanji sounds so fucking patronising. He just wants to grab him by the collar of his stupid jacket, to yell that it isn’t like that. It’s personal. His aversion to typically feminine beauty salons had nothing to do with his sense of masculinity and everything to do with how, whenever he went to one as a kid, whenever he demanded his hair as short as possible, the most masculine cut they could manage, they would smile at him condescendingly and he would leave with an embarrassingly girly hairstyle that would brush the back of his neck when he moved, barely any dignity, and a strong desperation to tear his own skin off.
He wants to explain to Sanji how his life changed the first time he entered a barbershop, a long walk away from the Dojo that housed him. He wants to tell him about how the tall, bulking, hairy man behind the chair listened to his request and simply nodded, with no condescension, no questions, and cut his hair short and tufty and messy and utterly, completely perfect. When he looked in the mirror as he left, it was the first time he’d ever felt at home in his own skin.
He wants to say all of that and so much more, but he doesn’t. Instead, he huffs, glares, and bites out words through gritted teeth. “Obviously not.”
The irritation is setting deeper into Sanji now, Zoro can tell, likely a response to Zoro’s tone and his own inability to make sense of what Zoro is trying to say. Sanji takes a long sip of tea before he speaks again “Then what, exactly, is your problem?”
Zoro looks down at the steam rising from his tea, not wanting to meet Sanji’s judgemental gaze. It’s easier to speak if he’s not looking into that one piercing blue eye. “They don’t- They never cut it right.”
Sanji scoffs, “It’s hardly the most complex style, Marimo, you could probably hack at it with some hedge trimmers and achieve the same result.”
“Don’t.” He bites, deeply regretting trying to have this conversation with the fucking cook, of all people. “I’m not in the mood.”
Sanji seems momentarily surprised. Normally, Zoro will rise to any of his stupid comments, always give him the response he’s hunting for, the satisfaction of the fight. Right now, though, Zoro just feels tired, shitty, dysphoric, and he doesn’t have the energy to fight.
“Jeez, sorry,” Sanji mutters, and Zoro can’t help his head shooting up because, what the fuck, did the cook actually just apologise for something?
He regrets it the second his eyes catch Sanji’s, though, he’s watching Zoro with a steady, calm gaze that makes him squirm.
“Talk to me, then. Not like a fucking caveman, use your words, and tell me what the problem is. Otherwise, how am I supposed to help?”
Zoro fidgets, drinks down the rest of his tea, ignores the way it scalds his tongue. “Who says I want your help?”
He’s expecting it to spark another fight, giving him an excuse to leave, but Sanji just rolls his eyes and fixes him with a pointed stare. “You came here, didn’t you?”
The excuse that he was just looking for sake dies as quickly as it forms. Sanji’s not stupid, Zoro can’t lie to him.
Zoro stays silent for a long time, searching for words that will even vaguely convey the mess of feelings tugging at his gut. Eventually, he lands on something that treads dangerously close to honesty, with just enough details left out that he won’t be completely baring his soul. “I don’t like having long hair, and I don’t like going to fuckin’… beauty salons, ‘cause they make me feel like a girl.”
Sanji’s frown deepens, but Zoro can tell he’s at least trying to listen this time. He sips his tea and lights another cigarette, but his gaze doesn’t leave Zoro. “Are you seriously so caught up in some twisted idea of masculinity that you think doing feminine things will make you a girl?”
And… okay. That's surprisingly closer to the truth than Zoro is comfortable admitting. Unease buzzes beneath his skin.
“No. It just makes me feel like one, asshole.”
Sanji still looks lost. “I don’t get it. Unless I have you painted wrong and you’re secretly a fuckin’ misogynist or something, none of this makes sense. What’s so bad about that? What’s so wrong with feeling like a girl sometimes?”
Something in Zoro snaps, then, that last question stuck like a knife in the base of his spine, he feels a week's worth of steady-building anxiety crest and break, crashing down around him. The heady adrenaline of fight or flight kicks in almost immediately, and it’s second nature to pick fight, he always does. He’d never forgive himself for fleeing.
But maybe, just this once, he should have.
“Everything.” He grits out, his voice frantic and shamefully uneven. His blood is roaring in his ears, heart pounding like a kick-drum, reverberating through him. He’s so tense that his grip shatters the cup in his hand. He doesn’t even notice. “I should know, I was fucking born one.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Silence falls on them, thick and heavy and suffocating. The words echo throughout the kitchen. Zoro can’t quite breathe right, his sight is blurring, heart rate spiking when he tries to gauge the cook's reaction. So instead, he looks away, to the broken remains of the teacup. He fixes his gaze on the shattered porcelain, like if he stares hard enough it will reverse time, put the words back in his mouth, fix his stupid mistake.
“Wait, I didn’t mean-” He starts, trying to dig himself out of the hell he landed himself in, but silences himself just as quickly. It’s too late, the confession is out there now, hanging heavy in the air between them. Zoro feels the weight of it like it could crack the ship in two. He wants to run, but he can’t make his body move. “Shit.”
No one, besides Luffy and Chopper were ever meant to know. Chopper, obviously, because he monitors Zoro’s hormone levels, keeps them regular and consistent, ensures Zoro will never run out of the injections; and Luffy because he had, when they first met, prodded at the faded, barely visible scars on Zoro’s chest and asked what they were. Even back then, when it was just the two of them, barely days into their journey, Zoro couldn’t bring himself to lie to Luffy. He is his captain, after all, the first person to ever give Zoro’s life a sense of direction beyond mindlessly, clumsily cutting his way through bounties and struggling to afford his meals. He owes Luffy everything.
That doesn’t matter now, though, because it isn’t Luffy or Chopper sitting across from him, it’s Sanji; the man who got under Zoro’s skin the first time they met and never fucking left; the man who Zoro sometimes struggles so hard to read, to understand, because he has a thousand layers of performance masking his true self; the man who infuriates Zoro more than any enemy they’ve ever faced; the man who, despite all of that, Zoro trusts with his life.
His life, and, apparently, his most closely guarded secret.
It’s not that he thinks Sanji will hate him for it, not exactly. He trusts Luffy’s judgement more than anyone's, trusts that he would never invite someone cruel or bigoted onto their ship. But this is Sanji. He has the most impossibly outdated views on chivalry and women Zoro has ever seen. What if this changes something between them? What if the cook starts treating him like one of the girls, refusing to fight him, no longer sneering and insulting him at every opportunity? What if he starts avoiding him altogether, uncomfortable with Zoro’s reality and how it goes against everything he’s ever known? What if he doesn’t want to stay on the crew anymore? What if-
“Oh.”
Zoro is ripped from his spiral by the sound of Sanji’s voice, impossibly soft, barely audible. He forces his eyes up and watches Sanji take a drag of his cigarette, a carefully neutral expression on his face. All he can do is stare at the other man, waiting for him to say his piece, or maybe he’d just leave, Zoro wouldn’t be surprised.
It would hurt like hell, though. Zoro’s traitorous brain supplies, and he squishes it down. He doesn’t care what the shitty cook thinks of him, he never has, and he never will.
He resolutely ignores the shard of porcelain digging into his clenched fist.
“Oh.” Sanji says again, and Zoro wishes he’d just get it over with, call him a freak or a fag or punch him or… something, anything other than this crushing silence, this lack of response.
Sanji doesn’t call him a freak though, and he certainly doesn’t punch him. Instead, he simply flicks the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray and nods, like he’s come to a conclusion in his head. Zoro grits his teeth, steeling himself.
But Sanji simply says, “Okay.”
It’s soft and honest and easy, like this is the most casual conversation he’s ever had.
Zoro feels his mouth open slightly, but no words come, all he can do is stare in disbelief as Sanji finishes his tea, placing the cup down gracefully and looking at him with such honesty, such sincerity, that what little breath he had left is punched out of him.
Zoro’s head is spinning, he feels like he’s been turned inside out, wrung up like a fucking wet rag. The disparity between the scenarios in his head and this scene before him, this simple, genuine acceptance, makes his hands tremble. His fringe falls in front of his eyes again and he doesn’t even notice it, too busy trying to quiet his racing thoughts.
Zoro knows what people say about looking a gift horse in the mouth, but he can’t help but prod, just a little, anxiety making his mouth run. “Okay? Just… Just like that? Okay?”
Sanji frowns, he looks almost offended, “What did you expect me to say?”
“I… I don’t know.” Zoro confesses, squirming a little. He feels almost guilty. “I just… I don’t know. Sorry.”
Sanji rolls his eyes, but there’s a soft, crooked smirk pulling at his lips. “The only thing you have to be sorry for is my fucking teacup, you brute. You’re buying me a new set when we get to the next island.”
A quiet laugh huffs out of Zoro, almost sheepish, as he scrapes up the remains of the cup. He can feel the slow unwinding of his anxiety, Sanji’s easy acceptance somehow easing up the tightness in his chest, the sick twisting of his stomach.
“Yeah, alright. Seems fair.”
Sanji’s lip quirks again, and he nods, simple and accepting “Good.”
With that dealt with, Sanji stands, sweeps the shards of porcelain into his hand and throws them in the kitchen bin with a simple flick of his wrist. He washes his own mug and the pot he used, and Zoro simply sits and watches him, still trying to reconcile with what just happened.
Sanji pauses, once all the dishes are safely away, the sides wiped down, the table cleaned. It became apparent pretty early on that he was making up chores that didn’t need to be done, stalling for something Zoro couldn’t quite figure out. He’s stopped now, leaning against the counter, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag, almost as if he’s steeling himself, before he turns back to Zoro.
“I could… I could cut your hair, if you want.”
It’s a simple offer, but Zoro feels it like a sucker punch, the weight of the words lying heavy in his chest, in his stomach. The softness with which he spoke, the tenderness in the offering, the trust Zoro would be handing over if he accepted.
He does accept, of course he does. Looks up to Sanji with a nod that comes easier than he ever thought it would, a level of trust that Sanji, and only Sanji, manages to open up within him. “Yeah. Y-Yeah, if you’re okay with that.”
Sanji is visibly nervous, treading on territory entirely foreign to him, dealing with a topic he knows precious little about, afraid of saying the wrong thing. The moment Zoro accepts, though, he relaxes and smiles, a true, easy curve of lips, so much more than his usual one-sided smirk, as if he realises just how much trust has been placed in his hands. It makes Zoro’s breath catch in his throat.
Sanji hooks a chair with his foot and spins it to stand in the centre of the kitchen, under the yellow ceiling light.
“Okay, sit down.” He instructs, “I’ll go get the scissors.”
And Zoro does. He’s not one for following orders that don’t come from Luffy, but this time he goes easily. Sitting ramrod straight under the light and fidgeting a little, he can still feel the residue of anxiety buzzing under his skin. He hates it, hates expressing any emotions even remotely comparable to fear. He spent his whole life crafting a neutral, unshakable demeanour to protect himself, but he doesn’t have the energy to keep the walls up. Dysphoria has been eating at him for days and he’s so damn tired.
For the first time in a long time, he lets his pretence slip a little, allows the anxiety to manifest, to run its course. He feels safe here. He knows he won’t be hurt.
Sanji returns moments later, scissors twirling on nimble fingers, a towel, a comb and a spray bottle in his other hand. Zoro huffs a little at the sight.
“You want it the same as always, right?” Sanji asks, gently laying the towel around Zoro’s shoulders. Zoro swallows hard when Sanji’s knuckles brush the back of his neck, trying to accommodate himself to the unfamiliar touch. It was one thing when a complete stranger did it, it’s another entirely to feel this gentleness from the cook.
He nods after a pause, and Sanji picks up the scissors and the spray bottle. “Relax, Marimo.” He murmurs, wetting Zoro’s hair with the spray. “I won’t fuck it up, I promise.”
Zoro has to fight a shiver the first time Sanji’s fingers card through his hair. They snag on a few knots, but he can't bring himself to care, already drunk on the feeling of those gentle, nimble fingers pushing back his wet hair. He feels himself relax under the touch, Sanji’s torso warm against his back, his hands and, eventually, his comb brushing through his hair with practised ease.
Once he’s content that all of the knots are out, Sanji starts cutting. He separates Zoro’s hair and combs upright, trimming the shaggy, horrible length shorter and shorter. Zoro can’t do anything but sit there, desperately biting back shudders and hitched breaths as the cook touches him with a softness he never thought himself worthy of. He knows none of this means anything, just a friend doing a favour for another, but he swears he feels Sanji’s fingers linger, just a fraction too long, in his hair and at his jaw when he turns it. There’s something so raw, so intimate about the whole situation. Zoro can feel his cheeks heating as the weight of the too-long hair slowly lifts from his shoulders.
Eventually, Sanji finishes the back and sides, only the fringe left. Zoro knows it’s coming, but it still catches him off guard when Sanji shifts to stand in front of him. The cook gently raises his head, a single finger on his chin, their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, but it's enough to make Zoro’s cheeks pink.
Sanji’s eyes focus on Zoro’s hair. His brows are furrowed a little, he’s biting his lip in concentration, and all Zoro can think is how ridiculous he looks, how beautiful, in the dim, yellow light of the kitchen. Bits of trimmed hair are threatening to fall in Zoro’s eyes, he should close them, but he can’t quite bring himself to look away.
It’s over far too quickly. Zoro almost wants to cry when the other man steps back, a crooked smirk on his lips as he admires his handiwork. “Not a bad job, if I do say so myself.”
Zoro is a little too dumbstruck to speak, blinking up stupidly at Sanji. Sanji looks back at him, eyebrow cocked expectantly, as if he’s waiting for something Zoro’s brain is far too sluggish to figure out.
“So… Not even a thank you, Marimo?”
“Uh-” Zoro jolts back into himself, he has to, God forbid his feelings are ever made clear to that idiot. “I haven’t even seen it yet, asshole, could be terrible.”
Sanji barks a laugh, and Zoro’s brain blanches. He’s so pretty. Why is he so fucking pretty? This is so stupid. Zoro has always known Sanji is attractive, sure, but he’s always annoying enough that it counteracted anything Zoro may have felt. But here, now, with Sanji knowing everything about Zoro and still standing before him, ever gentle and accepting and so, so kind. Something about it sticks in Zoro’s throat.
“Get up then, dumbass.” Sanji checks Zoro’s thigh with a gentle kick. “Mirror’s in the bathroom.”
Zoro stands obediently, towel still around his shoulders, hair falling everywhere. Sanji follows him to the bathroom, almost jarringly close behind him. It’s so difficult, now that he’s had a taste of what it’s like to have Sanji’s hands on him, to deal with him being this close and not just… reach out and touch.
When Zoro looks into the mirror, he has to fight not to grin stupidly. It looks perfect, short and choppy and messy and so wholly, completely him again. Suddenly all of the weight, the burden of the past few days, the skipped meals, the lost sleep, it all seems so pointless. Within seconds, the itchy clutches of wrongbadwrong have fallen away. He feels lighter than he has in so long.
His eyes catch Sanji’s in the mirror - the other man is watching him carefully, monitoring his reactions. God, he cares so much. Zoro smiles at him, a little bit giddy with the simplicity of it all. “‘S perfect.”
The smile that Sanji sends back is small but blinding. “Yeah? I- I mean, no shit, I did it, after all.”
Zoro rolls his eyes and turns to him, running a hand though his own hair, feeling how light it is. Something unimaginably soft tugs in his stomach. “Curls. Thank you.”
Sanji’s eyes widen briefly, and then sink into a small, easy smile that makes Zoro’s heart stutter in his chest.
“You’re welcome, mosshead.”