Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

From the beginning, Toriko was the only one of his adoptive brothers that Zebra had ever considered a real challenge. Sure, Sunny and Coco both had potential, but the former was too busy with his appearance to spend time training as he should, and the later was far too placid to ever utilize his full capabilities. 

But even then, at first, he wasn’t strong.

Zebra had only followed Ichiryu back to the IGO nations for two reasons: the promise of all the food he could eat, and the fact that, even though Zebra had only been ten at the time, Ichiryu was the only person who had ever bested him in combat. When Ichiryu had introduced Toriko and Sunny as his primary training partners (since Coco hadn’t joined them at that point), Zebra had scoffed. 

He’d been right to, he figured. 

The little waif with the pastel hair was more focused on looking like he belonged in their new environment than training, and he was no match for Zebra. 

On the other hand, Toriko, bold and beaming, was always up to tussle—and Zebra enjoyed the roughhousing with a kid his age who didn’t break the moment pressure was applied, but in a real fight there was no contest. 

Not that that ever stopped Toriko, indomitable and irrepressible, beaming and coming back for more no matter how many times he lost, always saying next time, next time, and going off to train for their next match. 

It was fun, but it was Ichiryu that Zebra wanted to fight. He wanted a challenge. Wanted, like Toriko did, he suspected, the burst of pride that came from overcoming someone stronger than you, or surpassing your own limits and proving to yourself and everyone else that there was more to be seen.

But Ichiryu was not an easy man to fight—largely because it didn’t matter how Zebra tried to sneak or ambush or come at him in any way, the man swatted him from the air like a fly, laughing heartily about how Zebra was getting faster but never fast enough. 

“Fight me for real,” Zebra demanded one day, raging in a way that most people would flinch away from, what with his large stature and torn face, despite his still being only fourteen years old. But Ichiryu laughed like he was talking to any other petulant teenager, not even bothering to stand to acknowledge the challenge. 

“Zebra,” he chortled, like Zebra had been telling an amusing joke instead of threatening his very life, and Zebra didn’t pout because Zebra never pouted but he certainly scowled in a way he knew would make most animals run from him. Ichiryu, as always, was unaffected. “I’m not your sparring partner. You’re going to have to work up to fighting me.” 

“How?” Zebra scowled, crossing his arms and only not forcing a fight by just attacking the man because he did know that he’d simply be swatted to the ground. “I’d need someone who can fight me to train, and no one here can but you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Ichiryu grinned that way that Zebra always hated, like he knew something that they should both know but Zebra just hadn’t figured it out yet. “How about this, kid. I’ll make you a deal.” 

That was how Zebra found himself in the gourmet colosseum, fighting beasts for the entertainment of men rich enough to solve poverty in every non-IGO nation and inhumane enough to spend the sum on creature fights instead. Not that Zebra cared—their money was irrelevant to him, and it wasn’t the first time he’d done it. 

Zebra liked the colosseum, actually—not like Coco, who never said anything but winced whenever it was brought up—it was the only place he could really go all out, and no one kicked up a fuss if one of the creatures died in here. That was what they were here for, after all. To entertain, and if that was the last thing they did then the rich snobs would pay all the more for the show. 

But this time was different—each of the kings had been in the colosseum before, Zebra’s first time was when he was eleven, but never together. This time, Zebra had started on one end of the bracket, and Toriko on the other. 

Zebra could win against all his opponents easily, and the odds reflected that. He was sure that Toriko would also handily defeat the creatures he was up against—not as easily, though, both because Toriko was weaker than Zebra and because the fool was sure to avoid killing any of them. Toriko simply didn’t have the fortitude to subjugate other creatures like that, and that was one reason he would never be the opponent Zebra needed to improve. 

It went as expected. Zebra won his fights handily, slaughtering and devouring his prey with gusto. Toriko struggled more, avoiding killing blows and seriously crippling attacks but eventually knocking out or tying up his own and moving on to the finals. 

So Zebra versus Toriko became the final fight, each sequestered in the stinking animal cages on either side of the arena, awaiting the gates opening to signal the start. 

Zebra wasn’t worried. Toriko was impressive, but he was weaker than Zebra—and whoever was in charge of the odds seemed to agree. Not that Zebra cared about the odds, but often it was harder for him not to hear, and listening for that specifically helped him block out the thunderous noises of the crowd. 

Zebra heard the order to open the gates long before the gates themselves began moving, but he didn’t bother to stand until they had finished; he may be fighting in the colosseum, but he wouldn’t have them think he was fighting for their amusement. Zebra didn’t accommodate others like that; he was fighting here because he wanted to, and whether or not the crowd was entertained was nothing to him. 

When he did exit into the blinding light (they really kept those cages quite dark), the roar of the crowd was deafening—it would be to any normal person, and Zebra ground his teeth at the assault on his particularly sensitive ears.

“Zebra!” Toriko called from the other side, grinning in that dopey way he had and waving as if they’d just run into each other in the park. Zebra grinned back, the split skin of his cheek pulling wide to reveal far more teeth than most found comfortable. 

Perhaps the fight wouldn’t be hard, but it would be fun.

“I’m gonna beat you today, Zebra!” Toriko called, far too quietly for anyone else to have heard, but Zebra had focused his acute hearing on his opponent—both so he could fully enjoy the match and to block out the still deafening cheers of the unwelcome crowd watching them. 

“Don’t you get cocky,” Zebra shot back, a sound bullet delivering the message because there was no way Toriko would hear it otherwise. Toriko let out a laugh, Zebra stepped forward, and then, in a moment, Toriko flung himself forward with his usual reckless abandon, and the fight had begun. 

It was only a moment before the hit landed that Zebra realized it was going to happen. The fight was fierce, it always was with Toriko, and even though Zebra always won he had never held back; he didn’t like holding back, not for anyone, and he figured that if Toriko wanted to get better that he would just adapt to Zebra’s strength. 

Their fights were fun, but entirely one-sided. Zebra was stronger. He was faster. He could hear the minute changes in Toriko’s stance, in the way his heart beat or his muscles contracted, that gave away his next moves. But they had been getting more fun over the years, as Toriko improved, became faster, found ways to misdirect or otherwise overcome Zebra’s brute strength. Still, he’d never landed more than a glancing blow, not unless Zebra had seen it coming and decided to take the hit just to prove how much he didn’t even need to dodge. 

This time, he didn’t even see what was happening until it was too late. He’d blocked an attack from Toriko’s left fist, had been ready to retaliate with his own kick, when suddenly he’d realized that Toriko, moving faster than ever before, was an inch away from landing a punch squarely to his jaw. And there was nothing he could do but brace for it. 

The punch was strong.  Zebra thought if he hadn’t seen it coming it may even have stunned him enough to give Toriko the upper hand for a few moments—as it was, the shock of getting punched at all caused him to stop, gaping. The crowd was quieter than it ever had been, also shocked into silence save for a few who had cheered in surprise—those who had bet on Toriko, no doubt. 

Zebra’s shock, the sudden realization that perhaps he was the one who had been cocky, that Toriko was strong, and not just compared to normal people, but perhaps even strong enough to be a real challenge—may have given Toriko that same moment to take another swing. 

Except that Toriko had also stopped in shock, gaping at Zebra’s own shocked expression, looking between it and his own fist like he couldn’t quite figure out if what he thought had happened had actually just happened. 

“I did it!” He jumped in excitement, looking to his fist and then back to Zebra with unguarded excitement. “I hit you!”

“You did,” Zebra muttered, absently rubbing his jaw and taking a moment to glance up at the old man, watching from the sidelines. Ichiryu wasn’t saying anything, but the smug grin he was wearing was enough to tell Zebra that this was exactly why fighting Toriko in the colosseum and winning (a feat he had considered pathetically easy) had been his conditions for a real fight. 

But still. 

Toriko was a stronger opponent than Zebra had given him credit for, and after this he would make a point to train with him more often—but he would be fighting Ichiryu tomorrow, and that meant winning this fight. 

So he turned back to the fight with a feral grin, and a light in his eyes that Toriko hadn’t yet been faced with.

“But I bet ya can’t do it again.”

Chapter Text

Zebra’s first impression of Sunny had not been particularly impressive. They had been children at the time of course, but as two children who had grown in the harsh environment of impoverished non-IGO nations, Sunny wasn’t exactly what someone would expect. Or, rather, he seemed to be entirely overcorrecting. Zebra could hardly believe he’d ever seen a day of hardship in his life based on his appearance, and wouldn’t have believed it if anyone but the old man had said it. 

The kid was dainty, skin pale enough to have never seen the sun, wearing clothing clearly chosen for looks over practicality, taking care of his hair like it was the most precious thing in the world.

“Who’s this runt, he got gourmet cells too?” Zebra asked skeptically, making sure his torn cheek was on full display to the little prince to highlight how different they clearly were. 

“Oh, the old man brought home another stray,” Sunny sniffed, as if he didn’t fall into that category. He didn’t bother standing up, taking a moment to observe their newest addition with a look of blatant disgust. The fact that Zebra stood nearly twice his height, had four times his muscle mass, and carried an attitude problem on his face didn’t even cause Sunny pause as he continued, “and this time it’s an ugly one.”

They had made mutually bad impressions on each other, apparently. 

Zebra had scoffed, and gone to eat the endless supply of food the old man had promised to get him here without further argument. 

Sunny had taken offense to that, he’d realized quickly; Sunny thought that when Zebra ignored his barbs it was because he was being deemed too pathetic to bother with. Which was funny, because Zebra had never found something annoying that was too pathetic to put in its place. He was a simple guy, and he had two rules: The cockiest thing someone could do was lie, thinking they could get away with it. The weakest was to lie out of fear of the truth, or what the truth would result in. 

Sunny had looked him right in the eyes from day one, seen the difference in stature, undoubtedly noticed the difference in power of their gourmet cells, had to have sensed Zebra’s willingness to commit violence—and the little punk had called him ugly. So Sunny wasn’t weak, and he wasn’t lying either, so there was no reason to punish him. 

But he wasn’t wrong that it was a bit of a slight; Zebra loved to fight, and if he had thought Sunny would have been anything close to a challenge he would have taken the opportunity to start something for sport. Sunny was brave, but he wasn’t strong. 

As they grew up, Zebra didn’t change his opinion about that. Sunny became stronger, certainly, but never enough to be a real challenge. This never stopped him from being extremely vocal about his opinion of Zebra, though, and at the very least Zebra could enjoy their verbal spars. 

Not that spars was exactly the correct word. Mostly Sunny just insulted him and Zebra either responded in kind or just snarled and got far too close to his face for comfort; it couldn't really be said that there was any sort of real back and forth or witty repartee, just a couple of guys slinging the same insults back and forth. Ugly, brute, and menace to civilization, were traded for shrimp, idiot, and cocky, instigated by Sunny “whispering” in a way he knew he would be overheard and ending either with Zebra ignoring him or starting a fight. 

This mission the old man was sending them on started just the same as all the others. 

“But Ichiryu,” Sunny wailed, not to Zebra but far too loudly and knowing he was nearby, “why do I have to go with Zebra? I know you’re all ugly but he’s the worst one!” He dismayed, swooning dramatically backwards as if he might actually faint from the strain talking to someone so disgusting would put on his psyche. 

“Have fun, kids,” Ichiryu laughed, as unaffected by their squabbling as he always had been. The man wasn’t really much for parenting, Zebra had noticed, and that suited him just fine. It meant that no matter what Zebra got up to, no matter that last year he’d eaten a species to extinction, no one who could do anything about it seemed to care. Ichiryu had simply laughed about his appetite, and anyone who was powerful enough to bother Zebra couldn’t very well do so as they all worked for the old man, who had made his stance on the occurrence clear. 

The world at large was quite bothered about it, but Zebra could beat most skilled fighters at age nine, before he’d been brought in by Ichiryu, and now it was nine years of eating gourmet-cell-boosting foods and being trained by possibly the most powerful person in the human world later. They could whine all they wanted, none of them were capable of enforcing something the IGO didn’t care to. 

Zebra was sitting reclined on a chair with his eyes closed, listening to Sunny have his customary snit fit, and he didn’t take Ichiryu’s dismissal as a cue to move. Sunny would be moping for at least several more minutes, then steaming for more, and might go to rant at Coco about the unfairness of it all before finally stomping loudly past as an indication he was finally ready to head off. 

Sure enough, Sunny did just that, leading the way to the helicopter he’d been granted just a few months previously. Zebra hadn’t been allowed near it so far, something about its beauty being tainted by his presence, but apparently Sunny’s desire to get this over with as quickly as possible outweighed that. 

“Don’t touch anything you don’t have to,” Sunny sniffed, tossing his hair before levitating himself into his seat, pretending not to bother watching Zebra step up. Zebra couldn’t see Sunny’s feelers like Coco could, but he would bet Sunny wasn’t paying as little attention as his gaze indicated. 

The flight was as uneventful as anything could be when Zebra and Sunny were confined into a small area together—which could be surprisingly calm, given that Zebra had at least enough sense to realize that wrestling the pilot was likely to end badly for the both of them, and Sunny (presumably because of the same knowledge) was keeping his distress at their proximity to the occasional irritated noise. 

Zebra spent most of the flight with his eyes closed, listening idly to the world passing by and more specifically making note of any specific creatures he heard so he could go find them later. But the further they went, the less he heard anything substantial. Zebra hadn’t heard where they had been sent exactly (hadn’t listened, had specifically decided not to hear) but he was getting more irritated as he realized it was to some Acacia-forsaken plateau without anything that sounded delicious in the least. 

For once Sunny agreed, if the disgusted noise he made when it came into view was any indication. Upon landing on the barren rock, he made a point to hover instead of touching his feet to the plain ground. 

“This is disgusting,” Sunny sniffed, an invisible hair sending a rock skittering away as he passed by. “Not a single beautiful thing here, even the rocks are dull.” 

Zebra jumped to the ground, sending every loose rock in the surrounding area shaking with his impact. He didn’t much care for beauty, but he had to agree with Sunny that there didn’t seem to be a single thing on this plateau worth their time. He could hear movement, but it was all small and scraping, like little rocks moving about and completely lacking the enticing smells that usually accompanied quality ingredients. 

One of the rocks was plucked from the ground and floated closer to Sunny’s face, at which point he let out a distressed squeal and dropped it, sending it to the ground with a too-hollow clatter.

“Ugh, they’re so gross,” he whined, stamping his feet as if they were touching the ground. “Why’d the old man send us to this ugly rock with the gross rock-snails to get some nasty stone that you can’t eat and isn’t beautiful in the least!” 

Zebra squinted at the many loose stones and realized that they were, in fact, all rock-snails ranging from the size of Sunny’s pinky fingernail to the size of Zebra’s fist. 

It was a rare occasion the two of them agreed about an ingredient, as it took finding one that was both underwhelming to eat and of no aesthetic value, but this was one such instance. 

With a huff, Zebra crushed a mid-sized one under his foot. 

Sunny stopped his fit, snapping to look at Zebra with an unreadable expression. 

Zebra didn’t bother minding that, closing his eyes to concentrate—the ingredient they were actually here for was some kind of rock-flower that grew inside the plateau, and Zebra suspected the sound of such a thing would be rather distinctive. Sure enough, he believed he’d pinpointed it rather quickly—the sound of rock brushing rock just like the rest of the creatures here, but lacking the telltale other signs of breathing or the slick slide of the rock snail’s slime. 

He also heard a wisp of a breeze nearby, undoubtedly coming from an opening into the caves beneath the plateau. 

And, when he stopped focusing on finding the flower, let his enhanced hearing drift a bit, he also heard Sunny’s heart beating far faster than it should. 

Sunny was still where he’d been before, hovering above the ground and staring at Zebra with that inscrutable look, and if Zebra couldn’t hear it he wouldn’t have thought Sunny was so worked up. 

But that wasn’t Zebra’s problem; if Sunny wanted to say something he should, nothing had ever stopped him before and it wasn’t Zebra’s job to intuit what was causing an imbalance in Sunny’s ecosystem. He stalked towards the cave opening, knowing that either Sunny would follow or he wouldn’t, and either way it wasn’t his problem. He tread on several more of the snails on the way—probably could have been avoided, but his feet were large and there were so many that it would have been annoying, and if they didn’t want to get crushed they should have moved out of his way anyway. 

He could nearly hear Sunny’s seething as the younger teen floated along behind him, but hell if he knew what it was about. Sunny was always mad about being near Zebra, so it wasn’t like this was anything new or out of the ordinary. They continued without speaking, Zebra leading the way into the cave and to where he suspected the flower to be located without ever checking if Sunny was following (he didn’t have to, he heard, not that he would have stopped if Sunny wasn’t of course). 

He could see it now, in the light bioluminescence that lit the walls of the cave (the glow had soothed Sunny somewhat, though the fact they came from the multicolored gummy worms on the walls did disgust him). The flower, just as dull as all the other rock-creatures here, was growing from the wall just at the end of the tunnel. 

But between them and their quarry was a little creature—some sort of rock-mammal snuffling around the ground. It was made of the same stone as the rest of the things here, completely useless for food to Zebra’s knowledge (he’d eaten a rock-rodent earlier and it had been a pathetic experience he didn’t fancy repeating) and not beautiful in any way Sunny would care about. 

Unfortunate, then, that it was between Zebra and his goal. 

Sunny’s heart rate ticked up. Zebra wondered briefly if he’d accidentally touched one of the gummy worms, but figured Sunny could at least take care of that by himself and continued to gear up for a sound bullet that would shatter the creature and spare Zebra the hassle of stepping around it. 

But his step forward was hindered—Sunny’s hairs, which Zebra always assumed where floating around, were suddenly making their presence known, wrapping around his arms and legs and applying pressure against his progress. There weren’t many, one or two each, and although Sunny’s hairs were strong Zebra knew he could break from them, and so did Sunny, who was suddenly standing in front of him and between the impending attack and the creature he’d been aiming at. 

“Zebra!” Sunny snapped, and his expression had none of the usual frivolous shows of disgust he usually performed. For a moment Zebra considered tearing himself from Sunny’s restraints, but the flint he usually didn’t see in his eyes deserved a moment’s pause. “You aren’t going to eat that, are you.” 

“Why would I?” Zebra scoffed, tugging his arms into a crossed position just to prove he could do whatever he wanted. And then, because he couldn’t help himself, added, “it’s disgusting.” 

From the face Sunny pulled, he’d noted Zebra’s use of one of his trademark words. 

“There is nothing less beautiful than killing something you aren’t going to eat. I won’t let you,” Sunny imitated Zebra’s stance. 

“Let me?” Zebra’s eyebrows shot up. But Sunny’s heartbeat was steady now, and he showed no signs of backing down. He’d lose in a fight, Zebra knew. And Sunny knew that too, he must. 

Sunny had stood between Zebra and prey before—when it was something that Sunny valued. Something beautiful, something he wanted. But never before something he found dull and ugly, for nothing more than the principal of it all. He'd always done it with a pout and a whine, with red-face and flared tempers, not with a cool calm that Coco would struggle to emulate. 

Zebra considered, once again, tearing himself from the meager restraints and proceeding anyway. But he’d only wanted to destroy the thing because it was a nuisance to do anything else, and that would be a lot of work for something he’d be hearing Sunny complain about for weeks afterwards. 

Besides. Strength should be rewarded. 

Zebra dropped his arms, sliding his hands into his pockets and rolling his eyes. 

“Then get the flower, shrimp.”

The follicles still knotted around Zebra tightened for the barest moment before loosing and falling away. Sunny didn’t hug, it was undignified, and Zebra wouldn’t have accepted anyway. 

“I was going to anyway,” Sunny scoffed instead, not bothering to turn as his hair reached out and plucked the stone flower from the wall and brought it back to where they stood. 

The flower now hovering beside them in the air, they stared at each other for a few more beats of silence. Sunny’s face wasn’t the steel-sharp mask of resolute anger he’d shown earlier, but he wasn’t affecting the usual disgust he made sure to display around Zebra either. He almost looked proud. 

“Don’t get cocky,” Zebra grunted, turning to leave without checking if Sunny would follow yet again.

Sunny’s heart was beating faster again, the same way it did when Ichiryu gave him a compliment that he pretended didn’t mean anything to him. 

Zebra pretended not to notice. 

Chapter Text

It wasn’t that Coco was weak, in the classical sense. To be honest Zebra had always felt that Coco was the most dangerous of all the heavenly kings, the one who could most likely kill any one of them had he been so inclined, partially from his fighting prowess and largely due to his penchant for poisons. Zebra may specialize in brute strength, but he wasn’t so foolish to not realize that he could be taken unawares by something sneaky and underhanded like poison. 

Not that it would kill him. Zebra might be aware of the dangers of poison, but that didn’t mean he thought it would end up taking him out. No matter the type or dose, it would just inconvenience him for long enough to be in trouble. Because Zebra didn’t adapt to environments, they adapted to him, and nothing could change his inner workings so easily without his permission. 

Still. If Coco was so inclined, he could surely do some damage. 

And yet he didn’t. 

Coco may have been physically powerful, preternaturally skilled, and in possession of a hell of a poisonous tongue both literally and figuratively, but he was soft. Coco couldn’t be strong, because he couldn’t use his strength. 

Zebra had seen it many times over the years they trained together. When the IGO had decided to start doing tests on him because of his poison, and he submitted to them despite how much he hated them. When Sunny decided Coco was unsafe to touch (a lie, Zebra could hear it in his heartbeat, it was just a petty snipe, not a real concern), Coco hadn’t fought to prove him wrong or (as Zebra would have done) vindictively proved him right. Instead he’d withdrawn, not only from Sunny but from everyone else, internalizing the fear and adding to his own self-made restraints. 

Time and time again he adapted to others, whether they were correct or not. It was reprehensible to Zebra, as someone who demanded others adapt to him instead. One true mark of strength that could be completely separate from the physical was the refusal to change for another’s comfort, and yet that was the crux of Coco’s character. Weakness. 

But this, finally, was too far. 

After the testing, after the hiding, after subjecting himself to the scrutiny not only of the IGO but the world at large, abiding reporters treating him like a rabid dog, reporting his location for the safety of others like—well, like Coco was Zebra or something. Like the man hadn’t kept a saint’s control over his poison since he was fifteen years old, like there was any reason to suspect he might slip up, or otherwise decide he’d had enough and finally let loose. 

They’d almost labeled the man a class 1 dangerous creature. That’s what they called Zebra, who had at this point driven fifteen species to extinction, and had quite earned the title, thanks. Coco didn’t even have the nerve to make an annoying reporter a bit ill so they’d stop following him around, much less kill someone, or a whole nation like they were implying he might. And yet instead of fighting for himself, or instead of becoming exactly what they thought he was, Coco had up and left, flying off with Kiss and setting up a little shack on top of a plateau. 

Zebra understood not wanting to be near people (being able to hear everything that everyone said about you behind your back wasn’t the best way to grow faith in humanity) but he didn’t understand letting them think they’d won and chased you off. Leave a little carnage at least; let them know that if you left them alive, it was because they’re lucky you aren’t what they think, not because you’re scared of them. 

Which was, of course, the thought process that brought him to scaling the side of Coco’s dumbass cliff of solitude to yell at the guy a bit, and maybe see if he couldn’t convince him to do some therapeutic destruction. Not that Zebra minded fighting dangerous beasts alone, but ever since the four of them had gone separate ways Zebra did sometimes want to duke it out with someone for fun, and they were the only ones both not afraid of him and strong enough to make it interesting. Well, other than the old men at IGO who wanted him in jail, but he doubted they'd want a good-natured spar either.

“Zebra, what are you doing here?” 

Coco’s tired sigh floated down to him, and Zebra grumbled at the fact that Coco’s fortune telling had revealed his approach, and yet the man was going to let him climb this dumb mountain instead of sending Kiss for him.

Not that he needed Kiss (he would have taken offense at the gesture had it been made) but the fact was that if this had been nearly anyone else’s spindly plateau Zebra would have just knocked it down to talk to them rather than going through this nonsense. 

“What, I’m not invited?” Zebra shot back in a sound bullet so Coco could hear, continuing to climb. It was strange of him, showing up like this after the two of them practically hadn’t seen each other for years, but Zebra refused to consider anything he did as strange. Everything he did was natural, and questioning it was like questioning the tides; not only useless, but revealing your own lack of knowledge about the way the world worked. 

“You are,” Coco spoke again, and Zebra didn’t need to see him to know he was rolling his eyes. 

Zebra grunted in response, not bothering to package the noise into a sound bullet for Coco’s convenience and instead continuing to climb. Coco remained largely silent during his ascent as well, sitting around and sipping tea as if there was nothing he’d rather be doing.

Maybe it was true. But Zebra couldn’t fathom feeling that way after the nonsense Coco had been put through, and he was fairly certain that not sitting silently on a plateau pretending he was as dead as the world wanted him would make him feel better. 

“Tea?” Coco offered mildly when Zebra finally dragged himself over the lip of the cliff, sipping his own cup. He nodded to the other small cup, preemptively filled, sitting on the table beside him.

“Sure,” Zebra huffed, reaching over the cup and grabbing the teapot, ignoring Coco’s disapproving frown as he poured the remainder of the pot’s contents straight into his mouth. Nice of him, he thought, to leave Coco the other little cup. He collapsed down onto the chair Coco had provided, which impressively didn’t even creak under his bulk. Coco, significantly smaller and lighter than Zebra, wouldn’t have needed something that sturdy. 

Zebra glared off into the horizon for several long moments, wondering if Coco was going to acknowledge that they both knew why he was here. 

But Coco was probably the only person better than Zebra at not using his words, and he was also gazing off into the horizon in a way that anyone who couldn’t hear his heartbeat would have thought was the picture of serenity. 

It was when Coco’s heartbeat started to calm that Zebra had enough—because Coco wasn’t like Sunny. Sunny’s heart always beat at a rabbit-pace until he steeled himself, and then dropped to a sudden calm of resolve as he confronted whatever was needed. Coco, on the other hand, only calmed when he thought the danger had passed, and therefore he would be able to pretend it never happened. His calming meant that he wasn’t about to say anything, and he was under the impression that Zebra would let him get away with that. 

“Stop bein’ so cocky,” Zebra roared, slamming his hands onto the table and leaning far into Coco’s space. Coco’s heart rate didn’t pick up—it never had for physical danger. Coco could face any number of beasts with grace and aplomb, it was the threat of an emotional conversation that triggered his fear response, which only made it more annoying that the man refused to solve any of his problems with his abilities. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Coco sipped at his tea, and now his heart rate spiked at the lie. 

And by Acacia Zebra was not about to become Coco’s therapist—Zebra wasn’t anyone’s therapist, not even his own, because he didn’t need a therapist. Everything Zebra did was, as far as he was concerned, the just and logical thing to do, and everyone else needed to deal with the consequences of its effect on their own ecosystems. If Coco could just get over his billion inferiority complexes and realize that everyone was in charge of their own ecosystems and no one else's then maybe he could have some fun for once. 

“Don’t know,” Zebra mocked, collapsing back into the chair with a mutinous scowl and arms crossed in a way he knew made him look even more intimidating than usual. “So are you gonna cower on this dumb rock forever, or just until everyone thinks you’re dead?” 

“I’m not cowering,” Coco replied primly, setting his teacup down so quietly that even Zebra was hard-pressed to hear the noise. He couldn’t fathom how someone could stand to be that controlled all the time. 

“Oh yeah?” Zebra challenged, “so what are ya doing up here? Havin’ tea by yourself since no one’ll drink anything you offer them?” It was a low blow, but Zebra knew by now that low blows were the only way to rile Coco into action.

“And what would you have me do?” Coco scoffed, and Zebra knew they were getting somewhere because he was starting to sneer, his carefully-cultivated “gentleman of the four kings” persona that he’d created to avoid getting tossed in prison for existing (because who could believe a man so kind to be inherently dangerous) slipping and revealing the scathing older boy that Zebra had grown up with. “Act like you? Hurt so many people that they give up on putting me in jail, proving them right about me?” 

“Why not?” Catching a whiff of something delicious inside Coco’s hut, Zebra hefted himself up and let himself in, quickly finding a pot of soup and bringing it back outside. 

“You don’t understand,” Coco pinched the bridge of his nose, not even bothering to glare at Zebra for the invasion of his home. It was expected at this point. “You want to be…” He seemed to struggle for words for a moment, before gesturing vaguely at his open doorway and the pot that Zebra was pouring into his maw, “like that.”

“You don’t?” Zebra replied skeptically. 

“I’m not,” Coco sighed, head falling back and eyes falling closed as he fended off a headache. “It would be so easy if I were. I could do anything I wanted,” he admitted ruefully, letting some of his poison bubble to the surface, giving his hands a purple tinge. Then, with a sigh, he shook his hands and dispelled the substance without so much as tainting a single blade of grass. “But I’m not like you, Zebra, and no amount of people assuming we’re the same is going to make me start acting like it.” 

Zebra sat back, squinting at Coco’s exhausted expression. The man’s heartbeat was steady as anything, no indication that he was being deceitful in any manner. It was hard to wrap his head around—impossible, even, for Zebra—that some people wouldn’t want to live the way he did. Freely, taking what they wanted, doing as they pleased without concern of its effects on others. 

“Then what do ya want?” He finally asked, unable to come up with a satisfactory answer himself. His strength was so much a part of him, his abilities what made Zebra himself, that separating his power, his appetite, from his desires seemed ludicrous. 

Coco was looking at Zebra now. Squinting, which was rare for the man with supernaturally powerful eyesight, as if he was just as incapable of understanding Zebra as Zebra was of understanding him. 

“I want…” Coco frowned, like he had never pondered the question before. Perhaps no one had ever asked; to Zebra’s knowledge, Coco’s entire life seemed to be characterized by people telling him what to do and him just going along with it, unlike the other three kings who were characterized by their obstinance. He shrugged a bit helplessly, still eyeing Zebra like he wasn’t sure anything he could say would make sense, “to just be me. Not a poison man, or one of the four heavenly kings, or a fortune teller, or—” he was grasping at something, getting closer to landing on what he wanted to say, and his heart rate was picking up with his agitation. “Anything. I don’t want to be characterized by what I can do, but who I am, but no one ever looks at me and thinks that I’m just Coco.” He huffed, taking one more glance at Zebra’s still-furrowed brows and falling back with a defeated sigh. “I suppose that doesn’t make sense.”

Strangely enough, Zebra was actually pretty sure he understood. 

Zebra, sometimes, hated that people would assume he would get everything he wanted through brute force—not that he couldn’t or wouldn’t, but the way they lied because they assumed what he would was annoying. If someone just had the guts to tell him no, he’d respect that. But no one thought that, not even Toriko or the other kings; they’d seen what he could do, and decided they knew how he would act in every situation because of it. Granted they were usually right, and if they were wrong then they’d soon be right because nothing pissed Zebra off more than others assuming how he was going to react and getting it wrong, but he couldn’t imagine if everyone in the world had gotten his character so fundamentally wrong, and how angry that would make him. 

Coco wasn’t Zebra, obviously, but even if Coco was a generally calmer person, Zebra couldn’t imagine that the assumptions wouldn’t be maddening to him. And yet, instead of lashing out, he was meditating over tea atop a plateau. 

Zebra had assumed that Coco was too soft to properly feel angry. He had never considered how difficult it would be to feel the way he felt and not act on it. For him, it would be impossible. The strength it would take, not of the power Zebra usually considered but strength of character, internal fortitude… 

But Zebra wasn’t good with words. 

“Tch,” he scoffed, turning to watch the sun begin to set. “Bunch a’ cocky bastards.” 

Coco watched him carefully for a few moments, seemingly unsure what to do with that statement, and Zebra listened to his heart rate return to normal. Finally, either realizing that Zebra had been talking about the world at large or simply deciding not to think about it, Coco turned to watch the sunset as well. 

“Yeah,” he agreed.

In the end, Zebra didn’t try to bother Coco into causing wanton destruction with him. They watched the sun set, Coco offered more food, and Zebra scoffed that nothing he had could ever be satisfying enough. And then he promised to come spar sometime (which most people would have seen as a threat, he knew, but the way Coco grinned, that sharp grin he hadn’t allowed himself in public for years, Coco knew what it was) and jumped to the ground.

Perhaps Coco was strong for not utilizing his strength, but that didn’t mean it should go to waste after all.

Chapter Text

The little man didn’t make much of a first impression. 

Zebra had been focused on Toriko at the time, which didn’t help of course. Beside Toriko’s brash loudness any normal person would be hard pressed to stand out, and the chef was small and stepped like he was afraid of bruising the ground. He disappeared into the white noise background that Zebra always heard, except for the amusing squeaks he let out every few minutes. 

A coward, then, Zebra thought. All he’d done so far was squeak, and ask if Toriko was really sure that Zebra should be let out. 

Not an uncommon question, and not one that he’d hold against the guy, but also not something that Zebra found particularly endearing. If nothing else, he seemed to be fairly genuine—

It was hard not to think so, hearing the chef prepare the first meal Zebra would be eating provided from outside of the prison. Toriko had told Komatsu that Zebra had sharp ears, but the way he was muttering to himself while cooking…

“Toriko said he likes meat… I’ve got to make sure the nutrient balance will make up for the energy he spent earlier… Ah! Maybe I should make it richer! I bet Zebra would appreciate some rare seasonings you don’t get in prison!” 

And finally, a sentence that had made Zebra stop in his tracks, completely sidetracked from his mission to eviscerate every prisoner who had spoken badly about him when they thought he was out of earshot. 

“I hope Zebra likes his meal.” 

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had bothered to wonder about that. Even from the beginning, Ichiryu had introduced him with “This is Zebra; he’ll eat anything.” 

Which was true, of course. Zebra wasn’t the most discerning with his food. But, somehow, the idea that someone was concerned about it gave him pause. Especially because he had already written off the small man as just like every other coward he’d met, liable to see his bulk and scarred face and immediately write him off as nothing more than a senseless brute. 

Perhaps that had been cocky of him. 

The little guy was sitting at the now-barren table, shifting and fidgeting and sending glances over like Zebra wouldn’t notice, like he really was worrying about whether Zebra liked the food, even after watching him decimate more than half the table. 

It had been some of the best food Zebra had ever tasted. It had been years since he had eaten anything prepared by a reputable cook, but in his vague memories he was pretty sure that only Granny Setsuno’s cooking had tasted better. 

“Little guy,” he called, and Komatsu jumped nearly a foot in terror at being directly addressed.  

“Y-yes?!” 

He could say it was delicious, or acknowledge that Komatsu had surpassed his expectations. But he wasn’t familiar enough with the chef to believe that yet. Instead, he leaned his face far closer to Komatsu’s than anyone was ever comfortable with being to him.

“Don’t get cocky,” he snarled, and watched the little remaining color drain from his face. 

“Uh, yes… I mean, no… uh…” he stuttered, cringing back.

“One thing I hate,” Zebra explained, leaning back to a reasonable distance, “is guys who get carried away and cocky.” He’d been intending to just calmly inform Komatsu of his meaning, but just talking about it reminded him of all those bastards who talked behind his back while he was here, and he couldn’t help the rage filling his expression and his voice, sidetracked— “Just lookin’ at ‘em makes me want to crush their skulls… and pulverize ‘em into dust!”

He realized, probably too late, that he’d gotten carried away, glancing at the small man. He still looked pale and sweaty, but no longer terrified. It was almost as if he’d acclimated already. 

“O-okay, so, um… I’m sorry. For getting carried away,” he smiled, even, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. 

And Zebra couldn’t help it. Komatsu, despite facing Zebra’s anger and torn face, wasn’t looking terrified. He leaned forward again, mouth pulling in a way he knew no one read as a smile.

“I knew it. So you were getting cocky.” 

“Huh?!” Komatsu jumped again, but this time a flush rose on his cheeks—indignation, not fear. “No, I wasn’t… I wasn’t cocky!”  

Their conversation was cut short by the announcement of a creature getting too close to the prison, and Zebra tamped down his annoyance with the knowledge that he would finally be able to fight something again. 

But still, he couldn’t help but wonder. He decided to accompany Komatsu and Toriko to get the Mellow cola—largely because he wanted the cola. Secretly, because he was still thinking about that exchange—how Komatsu had adapted to him immediately, but not by shrinking, not by acquiescing to anything he wanted. He needed to know more, needed to know how much Komatsu would argue.

When he was younger, Zebra had always been disappointed with arguments. Perhaps it was weird to say, but they had always seemed like something he would enjoy, and then he found them deeply disappointing. He wanted them to be more like real fights, with give and take, with back and forth. But no, most people were too afraid to even make an attempt, and anyone who did soon folded under his response. 

Sunny was likely the closest to someone who would argue with him, but it wasn’t what he wanted. Fun, certainly, but nothing more than mindless insults slung back and forth. Nothing like the banter he desired.

The chef, small and shivering, jumping at small noises and fidgeting when Zebra so much as looked at him, had not folded, had seemed to get more fired up instead, and Zebra needed to know if he could keep an argument up longer. 

He needed to know if Komatsu would keep up the appearance of caring about what he thought when they weren’t confined to close quarters. 

The journey to Sand Garden didn’t afford him to check either question—confined in the small house as they were, he couldn’t trust that Komatsu wasn’t putting on an act, and he never said anything Zebra suspected he wasn’t supposed to hear. And any time he tried to do anything fun like getting a little too close or needling the chef, Toriko was there to do “damage control” or whatever, always jumping between Zebra and his “partner” and telling Zebra to step off. 

Which allowed Zebra many more amusing fights with Toriko, but not what he wanted from Komatsu. 

It was mere minutes after their arrival at Sand Garden that one of the questions was answered. 

Zebra was off greeting the first local he’d seen, getting directions to the best food around. Komatsu took the opportunity to talk to Toriko about something that had clearly been bothering him the entire trip. 

“Toriko,” he said, quietly, but not like he was trying not to be heard. Just in his usual quiet way. “Is it going to be okay with Zebra?”

“Well he is a genuine criminal, so we can’t trust that he’ll help us out,” Toriko admitted plainly, not bothering to lower his voice. Zebra knew that Toriko wasn’t cocky, that he’d say what he thought no matter who could hear it, but he focused his ears to hear Komatsu’s reply as he continued to harass the locals. 

“It’s not about trust so much as… well…” he hesitated, and Zebra knew he must be aware he could still hear everything. But after a moment, he continued with more steel in his voice than Zebra had heard yet, “Zebra committed a serious crime. And I don’t see him being the least bit sorry for what he did, so I can’t condone his behavior! Not his release, not anything!” 

Zebra had heard what Toriko had told Komatsu. That he was in jail for driving 26 species to extinction—true, of course. But Toriko, just like everyone else, seemed to ignore why he’d done it. But that wasn’t Zebra’s problem. Zebra had long ago decided that people could think what they wanted of him and it wasn’t his job to correct them, because people’s thoughts were their own prerogative and no one could change them but their owners. 

And Komatsu had spoken his loud and clear, and the thundering of his heart attested to the fact that he knew Zebra could hear. 

He wasn’t a coward. But many people were brave. Strength was the ability to keep that up even when confronted directly, and the more he saw the more Zebra itched to test the chef’s strength. 

He had to wait for Toriko to be distracted, of course, and his opportunity came later that day, when Toriko was readying the camels. 

“I heard what you said, little guy,” Zebra grinned without preamble, bending nearly double to menace the short man properly, “so you don’t like the way I do things, eh?”

“I… I’m so sorry! I didn’t know anything about you, and I got…” Komatsu’s voice was shrill and panicked, but he seemed legitimately distraught at his own actions, not afraid of what Zebra might do to him. 

“Hm? You got what?” Zebra prompted. He’d heard Toriko explain the truth behind his crimes, that everything he’d killed had been destroying ecosystems, but he wondered if that really made such a difference. 

“I got cocky!” Komatsu shouted.

Something snapped. I may have been Zebra’s stitches ripping, where Toriko had made him sew his cheek, but there were far more pressing thoughts than that. 

He was listening to Komatsu’s breathing and heartbeat. The man had just admitted to being cocky, after Zebra had explicitly told him that word incited violence in his very soul. And although the chef couldn’t be said to be calm, he definitely wasn’t lying. Which meant…

“You told me, straight to my face, that you got cocky?!” Zebra demanded, honestly more baffled than anything. He couldn’t remember a time someone had actually told him they’d gotten cocky. Even if they had, even if they were apologizing (cowering, more like), no one had the audacity to use that word. “It’s been a long time since I met such an honest guy.” 

“I’m really sorry,” Komatsu muttered, looking utterly miserable but devoid of fear for his life. Zebra had yelled at him, towered over him, gotten too close to him—and Komatsu wasn’t afraid.

Was it because he had no sense of self preservation, or was he the only one for as long as Zebra could remember that was able to tell the difference between him being serious and playful? 

It didn’t matter. He was standing his ground, he was unintimidated, he was strong. 

He shouldn’t have expected any different from Toriko’s partner. He wondered if he could steal the little man somehow. 

“Only if I get a condition,” Komatsu demanded later, not flinching, not cowed, leaning forward and matching Zebra’s sneer with a fierce frown of his own. 

And Zebra had never felt more excited outside of a fight.