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First there’s a kick, and there would have been a second one if a sheathed sword hadn’t come up to intercept it. Zoro doesn't even bother opening his eye for this.
“You need a haircut.”
That's a fact, visible for anyone with working eyes. It's something that Zoro himself has been aware of for days—since he cleaned sweat off his face with his arm and felt his hair get brushed back by the movement.
He's been meaning to ask Robin or Usopp to cut it, but something always distracts him—Sanji picking a fight, Chopper pulling him into a game, Sanji needing help with the dishes, Nami demanding Zoro to do something for her, Sanji bringing him a snack—and so it has kept growing to the point that Sanji has decided to bother him about it.
The pressure against the sword increases. Zoro offers enough resistance to keep them at a standstill, his eye still closed. This isn't even a tenth of Sanji’s strength, there's no reason to make an effort.
“That's none of your business,” he says.
Sanji stops pushing. Zoro hears him walk away and resumes his nap under the sun.
Drying dishes is a relaxing task. It's mechanical and automatic, to the point he has turned it into its own form of meditation. Next to him, Sanji’s silent as he turns the debris from dinner back into clean plates and glasses. He smokes as he works, content with the proof of how much his food has been enjoyed, and Zoro uses him as a focal point.
At this stage, Zoro could recognize the exact brand of cigarettes Sanji smokes by smell alone.
If somebody handed him a color chart showing every shade of yellow in the world, he could pick the one that matched Sanji’s hair without hesitation.
He could tell you how healthy Sanji is just from the way his hands move when he’s in front of the sink. They’re slow and deliberate when he’s injured. Today they’re quick and steady; Zoro doesn't need to worry about anything falling and ruining the peace.
“You need a haircut,” Sanji says as he hands over the last glass.
It’s rare that Sanji speaks when they’re alone like this, unless it’s to say Zoro’s name and make him want a closeness they don’t have. Zoro has grown used to the way his name sounds when it’s spoken in front of the sink, where it’s as fragile as the soap bubbles Chopper likes to make. He doesn’t expect to hear anything but his name when he’s drying dishes.
The surprise makes him miscalculate—his fingers brush Sanji’s as he takes the glass from him. Zoro hurries to end the contact.
“You told me yesterday.” His voice doesn’t give away the rhythm of his heart.
“And you still haven’t done anything about it.”
“What is it to you?”
Sanji huffs and takes the kitchen towel from Zoro’s hands to dry his own. Zoro could have done that for him—he'd be as careful as Sanji himself is, if Sanji let him.
“I don't want you getting distracted by your own hair and fucking dying while we're fighting.”
Zoro raises an eyebrow.
“You hate the way it looks, don't you?”
“What if I do?” Sanji asks, his eyes narrowed.
“I think I like it this way, actually.” Zoro smirks. “Maybe I should let it grow longer, you know? Try a new style.”
It's fun to see Sanji grit his teeth. Zoro’s smirk turns into a shit-eating grin.
“You don't give a fuck about style.”
“Maybe I do, pretty boy. You don't know me that well.”
Sanji’s fingers curl, probably eager to throttle Zoro. He wouldn't succeed if he tried, but Zoro would appreciate the detail. Sanji’s hands are reserved for what he's passionate about, after all.
In the end, he throws the kitchen towel at Zoro and leaves the galley without another word.
Compared to everybody else's, Zoro’s hair isn't long—he’d get flat stares if he complained about it, so he suffers his discomfort in silence. He's often rubbing the tips of his ears because his hair is tickling them. The back of his neck feels uncomfortably warm all the time. He's getting tired of brushing his hair off his forehead.
If he goes to Robin for a haircut, though, he'll be losing to Sanji. Worse: he'll be surrendering to Sanji, which is simply inadmissible now that Sanji’s the one at disadvantage.
These days, Sanji looks like he swallowed a lemon whenever he sees Zoro. He sets his jaw, glares, and proceeds to finish his cigarette in record time, his fingers twitching.
“You need a haircut,” Sanji grits out a couple weeks after Zoro decided not to get one.
“Nah, I don't think so,” Zoro drawls.
The cigarette dies a swift death when Sanji bites down on it so hard that it breaks. Zoro laughs until he cries at Sanji spitting out tobacco.
And then, of course, they're fighting.
The night watch is perfect for training; Zoro only has to pay attention to the distance and to his workout routine.
The night watch is also Sanji-free, except for the rare and brief occasions in which they have to relieve each other from duty. Tonight isn't one of those times—Robin climbs up to the crow’s nest with a book in a hand and a cup of coffee in another one, and settles down by the window after a quick exchange of greetings.
Zoro cleans up the weights, tries to towel off the sweat from his hair, and thinks about the snack he knows is waiting for him in the galley.
“Would you like me to cut your hair?” Robin asks him before he heads down.
Yes.
“I'm good. Thanks for the offer.”
Robin nods. There's a slight tilt to the corner of her mouth that makes Zoro uneasy—he just sprung a trap, but he doesn’t know what it’ll do to him.
There isn't only food waiting for Zoro in the galley; there's also Sanji smoking in the dark, tapping his foot, one long leg crossed over the other. He must have made Robin's coffee.
“You need a haircut, Marimo,” he says, his eyes fixed on Zoro’s hair.
Zoro brushes it back.
“I already said no.”
Sanji swallows. He sounds strangled when he says, “You win, okay?” He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You can tell everyone I begged you to get a fucking haircut if you want to, I don't care. Just get one.”
Tonight's snack is some kind of folded dough filled with cheese and shrimp. It’s warm when Zoro picks it up; Sanji must have taken it out of the oven while he was coming down from the crow's nest.
“You really hate it that much?” Zoro asks around a mouthful of food, furrowing his brow.
“Yes.”
Annoying Sanji has been fun, but if Zoro refuses now just to keep that going, he'll have to let his hair grow until it rivals Nami’s in length. This is Zoro’s only chance to get the haircut he needs.
Sanji finishes his cigarette and takes out a new one. Zoro follows his hand as it places the cigarette between his lips, watches it cup around the flame of his lighter and then settle on his knee. He's still tapping his foot.
“You cut it, then,” Zoro says, and takes another bite of his food.
Sanji blinks. “Huh?”
Zoro chews slowly under Sanji's questioning gaze. He swallows.
“If you hate it so much, you cut it.”
The sound Sanji makes is a strangled squeak that makes Zoro snort.
“What, you don't think you can?” Another bite; he won't let this go cold.
“Fuck you,” Sanji points at Zoro, “I've cut everyone's hair.”
“Not mine.”
“You've never asked.”
Because it was bound to be a disaster. Either Sanji would have made a mess on purpose, forcing Zoro to shave his head later, or Zoro would have combusted from the proximity. Or both.
There's still a chance to back off.
“I'm asking now.” Zoro shoves the last of his food into his mouth and says, “Cut my hair, Cook.”
Sanji looks disgusted. Good.
It doesn't last a second. He gets to his feet, picks up the empty plate from the table and drags Zoro to the sink.
“Wash that and wait for me,” he says, and leaves.
Washing a single plate takes no time, so Zoro dries it too. He gets himself a glass of water, drinks that, and washes and dries the glass.
He doesn't want it to be obvious that he obeyed Sanji’s order, but he's out of ideas of what else to do while waiting. Maybe he should leave.
“I didn't think you'd stay,” Sanji says from the door a couple of minutes later. Zoro’s sitting on the couch, trying to look like he hadn’t been waiting and failing at it. There’s nothing else he could have been doing in the dark and empty galley.
“After how you begged to cut my hair?” Sanji splutters and Zoro smirks. “That'd be cruel, Cook.”
“I'm going to stab you in the back with the scissors,” Sanji grits out.
Zoro’s smirk widens. “You can try.”
“And I'll succeed.” Sanji turns around and gestures for Zoro to follow him.
They go to the bathroom, where Sanji has set up a chair in front of the sink. He gestures at it and Zoro pointedly looks from the chair to Sanji, questioning.
“Your hair is disgusting.” Sanji’s tone is tense. “I’m washing it first.”
A fascinating reel depicting everything that hair washing entails plays in Zoro’s mind. It’s probably the same one playing through Sanji’s mind, judging by his stiff posture.
“I can do that alone,” Zoro says, choked off.
“I don’t trust you to do it right,” Sanji grumbles, evidently dreading the task.
If Zoro was a nicer person, he’d insist on washing his own hair, but his eyes go to Sanji’s hands. They’d taken care of him before Chopper joined the crew—had stitched Zoro back together after Whiskey Peak and Little Garden, because Nami was the only other one in the crew that knew how.
“I’m not making her touch you,” Sanji had said, over two years ago, and that had been it.
It only takes three steps to reach the chair and sit down. Zoro leans his head back into the sink and meets Sanji’s gaze.
“Get on with it and let us never speak about it again.”
There’s something open and vulnerable in Sanji’s face that Zoro can’t figure out, and which disappears with a huff and a raised eyebrow.
“Do you even know how this works? Sit up or your clothes will get wet.”
He drapes a towel over Zoro’s shoulders and puts his hand on Zoro’s chest to make him lean back again. The tip of his pinky touches Zoro’s skin. Zoro breathes in and smells cigarette smoke and salt. He fixes his gaze on Sanji’s face and tries to determine the exact color of his eyes—he hasn’t been given enough time to study them, and for the two years he was in Kuraigana he cursed how every shade of blue would make him think of Sanji.
Sanji’s gaze meets Zoro. He swallows.
“Close your eye, Marimo. I won’t let you blame me if you get shampoo in it.”
“I won’t go blind from that.” He never gets to be this close to Sanji without arguing as an excuse; he's not wasting this moment.
Some color rises to Sanji’s cheeks. It is rather hot in the bathroom. “Suit yourself.”
He takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. Sanji doesn’t train his arms the way Zoro does, but they've still held and carried Zoro, and they keep supporting Sanji’s spinning attacks without any effort. They’re strong and worthy of admiration—the sight of Sanji’s forearms has Zoro licking his lips.
When Zoro looks at Sanji’s face again, he finds that Sanji’s eyes are fixed on his mouth.
Fuck.
Zoro hopes he didn’t realize that he was having mildly indecent thoughts about his forearms.
Sanji shakes his head and gets to work. He pours water over Zoro’s hair and spreads shampoo over it with steady and gentle movements. As much as Zoro wants to drink in the image of Sanji’s flushed and focused face as he works, Sanji’s touch has him relaxing and closing his eye without meaning to.
“Ah, you decided to listen to me,” Sanji says smugly.
“Shut up, Curly,” Zoro growls. He doesn’t open his eye.
For some reason, Sanji doesn’t argue.
The water is warm, Sanji’s fingers are careful, and Zoro’s content.
The shampoo is the one Zoro uses when he remembers to, something that only smells of whatever was used to make it. Nothing added. Unnecessary fragrances are Sanji’s thing and he's not wasting them on Zoro.
After a while, Zoro gets the idea that Sanji’s just playing with his hair instead of washing it; he doesn't seem to be doing anything besides massaging Zoro’s scalp.
Zoro quickly dismisses the thought—Sanji has no reason to want to pamper him. This is probably some needlessly fancy haircare routine that he wants Zoro to adopt. If Sanji did it for him, he'd agree.
It's clear that it's over when Sanji’s hands slow down and finally stop moving.
“Did you fall asleep, Marimo?” His voice is barely above a whisper, creating the illusion of fondness and intimacy. It's a cruel trick from Zoro’s ears.
“And give you a chance to fuck up my hair?” Zoro replies, his normal volume jarringly loud after the time they spent in silence. “Nah.”
Sanji’s hands leave Zoro’s hair fast, pulling at some strands. Zoro sets his jaw and opens his eye so he can glare.
“What?” Sanji says. His face is still somewhat red. “I'm cutting it now anyway.”
“Yeah, cutting.” Zoro sits up and dries his hair with the towel that was around his shoulders. “Tearing out my hair isn't the same, Shitty Cook.”
“It might improve your appearance.”
“You wish you looked like me, Love Cook.”
As they continue bickering, they turn around the chair to let Sanji stand behind Zoro and put the towel back over his shoulders. Sanji brushes and untangles Zoro’s hair, managing not to pull at it no matter how heated his tone gets.
“Don't slit my neck,” Zoro says when Sanji picks up the scissors.
“You have haki, idiot.” Annoyance drips from every word. “I'm not sacrificing these scissors to a murder attempt that won't work.”
“Didn't you threaten to stab me with them?”
“I didn't say I'd use these specific scissors for that.”
Zoro snorts and Sanji chuckles.
“You're in good hands, Marimo. Don't worry.” There it is again, the apparent fondness. It can’t be blamed on the volume of his voice this time, which opens the unbelievable possibility that it might be real.
“I'm not.” There aren't any better hands in the entire crew, it's impossible for Zoro to worry.
“Could have fooled me.”
Sanji’s as steady and efficient with a pair of scissors as he is with his knives. His hands are fast and skilled; if he wanted Zoro dead, there's no doubt that he'd be able to bury the tool in Zoro’s neck before he could sense the killing intent.
The only sound in the bathroom is the snip snip of the scissors. Sanji could be doing anything to Zoro’s hair, but there's nothing that can't be fixed by shaving it all off. He'll accept Sanji carving curse words, insults, and mockery into his head if it means he gets to have Sanji’s fingers running through his hair now. He'll even let Sanji try to kill him with the scissors, so he can brag that he made Sanji use his hands against him.
It won't happen. Sanji might bicker with him and fight him, but he'd put his life on the line for Zoro, same as Zoro would for him.
Zoro closes his eye and focuses on Sanji’s touch as he works.
“Done,” Sanji says after a while, taking off the towel. “You're a decent marimo again.” His fingers brush the back of Zoro’s neck.
Slow.
Soft.
Tender.
Zoro shivers. A sharp pain, deeper than any wound he has ever received, stabs through his chest, inflicted on him by Sanji’s clever hands, a pair of scissors, and Zoro’s own longing. Zoro drowns in it, in the dream of affection.
This pain could be worse, deliciously worse, if Zoro was willing to sacrifice his pride and his heart to it. They're a small price to pay.
Sanji’s fast, but he wasn't expecting Zoro to turn around and grab his wrist.
“What—?”
His cigarette falls from his mouth when Zoro presses his lips to his palm.
“Thank you, Cook,” Zoro says against the skin, looking up at Sanji.
Zoro trails his lips to the base of Sanji’s thumb to drop another kiss there, never losing sight of Sanji’s wide-eyed gaze, parted lips and quickly reddening cheeks.
The time for yelling and rejection has come. Zoro can’t bring himself to regret this moment of worship he stole for himself.
Sanji brings his free hand to Zoro’s hair.
Before it ends, Zoro kisses Sanji’s wrist, closing his eye to focus on the racing heartbeat against his lips.
“Zoro…” Sanji says fondly, pulling Zoro’s head back with a carefulness that matches his tone, and which makes Zoro’s breath catch.
It might still be a cruel trick from his mind. He only gives himself a heartbeat for cowardice, a single instant during which he lives in a fantasy—that Sanji cares, that Sanji loves him back, that Sanji’s his—and opens his eye.
Zoro spent two years mentally cataloging shades of blue, and he can say with certainty that none of them matches the color of Sanji’s eyes. Maybe the All Blue will look like them; they have to find that damn ocean so Zoro can know for sure. Even if the color ends up being the same, seeing it won’t be nearly as sublime as looking at Sanji’s face now.
There’s something transcendent in meeting the gaze of the person you love and finding all your hopes and fears reflected on it. In grinning at the realization of what’s within your reach and seeing their expression match your own.
Sanji tugs lightly at Zoro’s hair. “This was driving me crazy, Marimo,” he says with a laugh. “All I wanted was to get my hands in it and ruin over two years of self-restraint.”
“What’s stopping you now?” Zoro dares him—fond, honest, and weak for the man that’s already leaning down to kiss him.