Archive of Our Own

Zoro adjusts the strap of his guitar, the weight of it digging into his shoulder into a familiar groove. The leather’s worn soft against his skin, as much a part of him as the scar across his chest. His thumb traces the marred wood of the guitar’s neck, each nick and dent a tally mark of fights he’s already won. 

Punk Hazard. The city’s ultimate music fest, where local musicians and die-hard fans converge to kick off the summer concert season. A sprawling maze of stages across a grassy sea, each band vying for their fleeting fifteen minutes of fame. For Three Blades, this is well-traveled territory – a rite of passage they’ve mastered over the years. Zoro knows the score better than anyone: at best, you walk away with a handful of free drink tickets and the hope that someone, somewhere, was paying attention.

Dues that must be paid on the pathway to success.

Their stage is barely holding it together, a patchwork mess of peeling paint and boards that creek. It smells like suntan lotion and spilled beer, the sun beating down on them with a fury. Behind him, Johnny stomps around like a kid who doesn’t know his own weight, every step making the platform groan in protest. Above, their banner hangs crooked, flapping weakly in the breeze, looking like it has already given up.

But it doesn’t matter — it never does. The stage doesn’t call the crowd; the music does. The song and sound, the passion, the fervor. There’s no authenticity in a look. It’s all about presence, energy, and hard work.

Johnny’s yelling at Yosaku over a tangle of cables, their voices a mosquito’s whine in Zoro’s ears. He doesn’t bother telling them to shut up. Let them fight. Let the heat melt their brains. He’s focused on the guitar in his hands, the vibration of the strings under his calluses, the way it pulses like tension before a storm. Exactly how he likes it. 

Across the field, there’s another storm brewing, and it’s wrapped up in sleek black and cigarette smoke.

Tangerine Dream’s setup is everything theirs isn’t. Big. Bold. Polished to a shine. Their banner hangs perfect and still, the logo crisp and clean. The boards don’t sag. The amps don’t crackle. The whole thing’s a goddamn showpiece.

And in the center of it all, Sanji stands like he owns the place. His guitar slung low on his hip, cigarette dangling loose between his lips, blond hair swept just enough just to appear accidental. He’s leaning into his drummer’s space, laughing, the sound carrying even over the low murmur of the festival. One hand flicks ash to the stage, the other coaxes a riff out of his guitar so smooth it's practically velvet.

Zoro hates it. 

Hates the easy way Sanji’s fingers move, like he’s not even trying. Hates the sound, so polished and perfect, the kind of thing that’s all for attention. It’s not music. It’s a trap. Every note a hook, reeling people in. And it works. Even from here, Zoro can see heads turning, bodies leaning unconsciously toward the bastard’s stage.

They’ve been circling the same scene for years, their paths crossing and crashing at every festival, venue, dive bar, and open mic worth showing up to. Sanji’s always been there – too cool, too smooth, too infuriatingly good at making people think he’s untouchable. Zoro’s not sure what’s worse: that he hates him so much, or that he’s spent years outplaying him and still can’t look away.

Zoro cranks his amp, the low hum rumbling like a volcano waiting to erupt. A blade sliding free of its sheath. The first note he plays also isn’t music – it's a warning shot. An animalistic cry so aggressive it halts Johnny mid-rant and makes Yosaku snap to attention. Heads swivel. Conversations falter. The crowd turns his way. They listen.

Sanji hears it too. Of course he does.

A blond head looks Zoro’s way, blue eyes narrowing as through a plume of smoke. He’s still got that stupid grin, as if nothing in the world could bother him. But there’s something sharp at the edges of it now, and it almost seems like interest. Zoro watches as he flicks his cigarette to the ground and grinds it out with his heel.

Sanji steps to his amp, twisting the knob with an air of apathy that makes Zoro’s teeth ache. His fingers drive over the strings, and the sound that follows is pure seduction. It starts soft, almost teasing, before it builds into a richer flavor. A bluesy undertow that pulls at the crowd, drawing them in like the tide. 

Zoro’s scowl deepens, He slams into a heavy and distorted riff, letting it crash out of the amp. It’s ugly, loud, and impossible to ignore. It doesn’t seduce – it commands, dragging eyes and ears toward him whether they like it or not.

The crowd between the stages begins to stir. People glance back and forth, their curiosity sparking before they realize what’s happening. 

It’s all out war.

A faster lick flows from Sanji’s stage, fingers flying the frets in a blue. Clean, delicate, maddeningly perfect. A hard punch through air. Water slipping through clenched fists. A taunt and a challenge, all rolled into one. 

The air crackles with tension.

Zoro plants his feet and leans into his next riff, pushing his strings harder, heavier, the sound grinding through the crowd of cheers. He doesn’t play clean. He plays loud. He plays rough. A battle cry, a fistfight in the language of music. Every note a swing, every chord a strike.

Sanji’s fingers glide in response, his playing lighter, faster, a sudden kick to the gut through the density of Zoro’s sound. Where Zoro is brute force, Sanji is finesse. A deadly counterattack to the overwhelming aggression. 

The crowd grows, drawn toward the dueling sounds like moths to a flame. Phones rise into the air, capturing the scene as their hostility reaches a fever pitch.

Zoro’s sweat drips onto the neck of his guitar, his hand cramping slightly from the fierce pace of his playing. But he doesn’t stop. He won’t. He can’t. Not until Sanji backs down.

But Sanji doesn’t look tired. If anything, he looks alive . His grin hasn’t faltered and his body is moving with the music like it’s part of him. 

Vanity meets determination. Production meets power.

The dueling guitars swell to a breaking point, their sounds clashing in the air until it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. The festival hums with electricity, the crowd’s cheers blending with the music in a deafening roar.

Finally, Zoro slams his last chord, the sound reverberating through the boards beneath his feet. Across the field, Sanji ends on a single sustained note, holding it just long enough to make his point. The amps hum, the sound lingering before it fades into heavy silence.

Then the crowd erupts. 

Zoro straightens, his chest heaving, rolling his shoulders as he wipes the sweat from his brow. Across the way, he spots Sanji lighting a cigarette with a flick of his wrist, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he meets Zoro’s glare with a slow, infuriatingly smug grin.

Neither of them makes a motion. They don’t have to – a single shared thought unmistakable beneath the sun:

This isn’t over.

#

Zoro slouches in the cramped chaos of Franky’s makeshift office – a room barely holding itself together. Blueprints scatter the walls, tools and half-built amps piled high like drunken skyscrapers, the desk buried beneath a mess of cables, guitar pedals, and an ancient computer wheezing loudly as it struggles to load a webpage. The scent of stale coffee wafts from Franky’s mug as the single overhead bulb flickers, casting the entire room in a jittery glow. 

Seated in his normal rickety chair, Zoro’s guitar is propped against his knee, fingers idly strumming a muted riff as he waits for whatever nonsense he’s been summoned for.

“You’re gonna love this,” Franky says, practically vibrating as he types aggressively on the keyboard. His Hawaiian shirt is unbuttoned per usual, gold chain shimmering over his bare chest. 

Zoro grunts, skeptical, not even bothering to raise his eyes. “Doubt it.”

Franky ignores him, hitting the final key dramatically before spinning the ancient monitor around.

“Ta-da! Check this out.”

On the screen, a video plays – shaky cell phone footage of Zoro onstage at last weekend’s music fest, his green hair wild as his fingers rip across the fretboard. The riff he’s playing is raw, distorted, loud. And damn good. The camera pans, catching Sanji at the opposite stage, his bluesy-rock notes weaving between Zoro’s grungy sound, almost as if they belong together.

The caption of the video reads: “Battle of the Bands? Dueling Guitars Set Punk Hazard on FIRE.”

Franky jabs a meaty finger at the screen. “You’re going super viral, bud! Tiktok, Instagram, YouTube – this thing’s everywhere. People are eating it up. Look, look!” 

Franky scrolls down, revealing an endless stream of comments.

“They’re on FIRE 🔥🔥🔥”

“Blondie’s killing it for real.”

“Peak rivals-to-lovers energy. 👀 Don’t @ me.”

“These guys need to release a song together STAT.”

“Lovers? What the hell?” Zoro snaps, honing in on that particular comment with a scowl.

“Ha!” Franky slaps the desktop, rattling a small hill of junk. “That’s how the internet is, man. With the way you guys were staring each other down? It’s totally a thing.”

Zoro groans. “Great. Exactly what I needed – a whole buncha idiots talkin’ about me online.”

“It’s not just fans, dude,” Franky says, clicking through more tabs. He gestures to a video of a music blogger dissecting their performance in obsessive detail. “Industry people are noticing. Promoters. Labels. Even…” he pauses, grinning like he’s about to drop a bomb. “Even the Soul King himself.”

That gets Zoro’s attention. He sits up straighter, resting his prized guitar on the ground. “Soul King? The Soul King?”

Franky nods furiously. “Yeah, the big kahuna! His team emailed me this morning. They saw the festival clips and said they want you guys as the opening act for his North American tour! Super cool, right?” 

Sanji? Tour? Zoro blinks, his mind struggling to catch up. The Soul King is a legend; a guitarist so iconic that his name is synonymous with rock and roll. Opening for him isn’t just a big deal – it’s a career-defining moment. And a major stepping stone in his dream.

The dream to play for the best — to be the best. 

“You waited all damn day to tell me this?!”

“Whoa!” Franky raises his hands. “I had to confirm it wasn’t a prank, okay? But nope – it’s legit. They want you and Sanji. Together. The dueling guitars thing is the whole act. They even said the viral clips gave them ‘serious creative vibes.’ Whatever that means.”

“Together?” Zoro repeats, frowning. “We don’t play together.” 

“Well, that’s the deal. Brook’s team thinks you two have some kind of magic with that whole rivalry thing. They want you to turn it into a full set. Twenty minutes of back-and-forth guitar fireworks, building up to a big boom!”

Zoro leans back, the chair groaning beneath the weight of his thoughts. Playing with that prick’s the last thing he wants to do. That insufferable, arrogant, obnoxious showboat who spends more time flirting with his audience than respecting the music. 

But opening for a rock sensation like the Soul King is impossible to decline. 

“When?” Zoro asks finally.

“Tour kicks off in about six weeks. They said they’d send a tour manager to help you two get it together.”

“Six weeks? ”

Franky nods. “Brutal deadline, I know. But if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

Zoro exhales sharply through his nose, his gaze dropping to his guitar. Six weeks to figure out how to work with Sanji without murdering him. Six weeks of jam sessions, joint practices, sharing stages and playing side-by-side. Six weeks of hearing that slick blues style slither through his riffs like smoke.

“Did he already agree to this?”

“Nami did,” Franky answers with a sly grin. When Zoro doesn’t immediately answer, he reaches across the desk and clasps a large palm on his shoulder. “This is huge, Zoro. Don’t overthink it. Just go jam with blondie and make something super awesome.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Zoro says, rising from his seat and slinging his guitar strap over shoulder. “He better watch himself.”

“Nah, man. You guys are gonna kill it. I can feel it!” 

Zoro takes his leave without another glance, his mind already racing. He doesn’t quite know what’s worse: going viral for a duel he didn’t plan, or the fact that, for the first time in years, he’s uncertain about what comes next.

#

The practice studio reeks of stale air and ego. It’s a cramped and dingy excuse of a building tucked between a dirty tattoo parlor and a Chinese takeaway. The walls are painted a garish orange that’s seen better days with chunks of soundproofing foam sagging in places where it’s lost its adhesive battle with time. Instruments line the edges of the room, battle-ready and worn. 

Sanji’s perched against his amp, cigarette dangling from his lips, blue eyes half-lidded and unreadable. The picture of indifference with one hand in his pocket and the other flicking ash onto the floor. His guitar leans  casually against his thigh, a king on its throne. Too good for the stand, too precious for the filth.  

“Late as usual,” Sanji drawls without looking up. Honey-coated venom. “Let me guess. You got lost on the way like a dumbass?”

Zoro kicks his amp on harder than he intended to, causing it to wobble and threaten to topple over. 

“Don’t start with me, shithead. I’m not in the mood to deal with you.”

Sanji exhales, the smoke curling out lazily. “Me? Pretty sure I’m not the one dragging us into this ‘dynamic duo’ nonsense. That was your viral temper tantrum, not mine.”

Zoro growls under his breath, popping open his guitar case and pulling out his battered Stratocaster. The familiar weight steadies him, but it doesn’t ease the irritation simmering beneath his skin. He shoots Sanji a glare.

“You think I wanted this? I don’t got time to babysit a hack like you.”

“Hack?” Sanji straightens, smirk evaporating. “Are you blind or just plain stupid? I play circles around you, you tone-deaf oaf.” 

Zoro cracks his neck before slinging the guitar strap over his shoulder. “Funny. You were tryin’ pretty damn hard to keep up last week. I saw you sweatin’.”

“I wasn’t sweating. That’s called style . Something you wouldn’t recognize even if it hit you over the head.”

“Yeah, sure. Looked like pretentious indie garbage to me. I could play your songs with my eyes closed.”

“I’d love to see you try, you two-bit poser.”

“Moron.”

“Blockhead.”

“Tight-ass.”

Sanji exhales sharply, breaking the moment. He runs a hand through his hair, brushing it out of his face as he takes a step back. “This is a waste of time. Just stay out of my way and maybe I’ll make you look good enough for this gig to work.”

“Out of your way?” Zoro growls, testing a chord on his guitar, enjoying the way Sanji flinches as the sound rips loudly through the room. “Try to keep up, blondie. I’m not here to watch you shit yourself every time you miss a note.”

Sanji glares, his hand already on the fretboard. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“And you’re predictable.”

The tension instantly thickens, teetering on the edge of outright war when the door swings open with a jarring creak, the dull light of the studio spilling into the hallway outside. 

“I’ve heard enough.”

Both Zoro and Sanji freeze mid-glare, their heads whipping toward the door in unison. Standing there, framed in the peeling orange, is a dark-haired man with a glum expression and a wide variety of tattoos. His steely, calculating eyes sweep the room – the disheveled mess of tangled cords, battered amps, stained carpet before finding landing on the two clashing guitarists still seething with rage. He steps inside.

“And you two are supposed to become professionals?” the man mutters to himself, drifting toward the center of the room and giving them a candid look. “So you’re the brats I was sent to babysit.”

“Who the hell’re you?” Zoro asks, immediately disliking this strange man. 

“I’m your tour manager – Law.” 

Sanji, the prick, extends a hand. Law simply stares at it with callous apathy, much to Zoro’s amusement. He continues, “No need to introduce yourselves. I know who you are.”

Sanji snorts, tugging out his pack of cigarettes and placing one between his tips. “Quite the professional, hm?”

Law’s mouth twitches into a slight frown. “I don’t care what you think of me, Mr. Show-Off. What I care about is the fact that I watched your promo clips and I saw potential. But what I just heard out in the hallway…” He sighs. “That was a mess.”

“That’s his fault!” Both men point at each other, shouting in unison.

“Don’t go pinning that on me, moron,” Zoro sneers, eyes immediately like daggers as he shoots a glare Sanji’s way.

The fire in Sanji’s stare is just as intense. “That absolute shit you call ‘music’ is the whole reason this guy’s ears are bleeding!”

Law pinches the bridge of his nose, as if physically pained by the noise of Zoro and Sanji’s bickering. He leans against a nearby amp, crossing his arms with the deliberation of someone preparing to deliver a very unwelcome truth.

“What I just heard,” he says, his voice clipping their argument like a heavy stone, “is the same garbage you two bring into interaction I’ve seen. I’ve done my research and let me tell you, it might be entertaining for festival goers or drunk dive bar crowds, but on tour this is a ticking time bomb.”

Sanji rolls his eyes, flicking his lighter to life. “You done with the lecture, Mr. Manager? We’ve been at this longer than you know. There’s no getting along with that grungy bastard.”

“Hey now –”

“Please,” Law says, cutting off Zoro with a raised hand. “From what I can see, two things are for certain: you guys are sloppy and you’re dealing with an internet frenzy that neither of you seem equipped to handle.”

“We’re handlin’ it just fine,” Zoro says, scowling.

“Oh? You know in all of these videos, there is one key emphasis in your duel: fans are convinced there’s something happening between you two. And that is the allure of this collaboration.”

Sanji snorts, nearly choking on his cigarette. “Oh, come on. People don’t actually think –”

“They absolutely do. I’ve scoured the comments. Some of them are unhinged. They’re making up timelines, analyzing your body language, speculating on things I frankly wish I could unlearn. They think your little spats are just a cover-up for something more.”

Zoro’s face twists in horror. “Me and him? They’re insane.”

“I wish they were,” Law retorts. “But no, they’re not. They’re fans. And in case you haven’t noticed, fans are what’s going to pay your bills and keep this tour afloat. They’re the reason you received a call from Brook’s office. So you better figure out a way to use this without tearing each other apart.”

“Use it how, exactly?” Sanji asks, thoughtfully puffing smoke out. “You want us to – what? Hold hands on stage? Wink at each other between songs?”

Law arches a brow. “I don’t need you to turn this into a rom-com. What I need is for you two to stop acting like rabid dogs every time you’re within five feet of each other. Fans might like the idea of your ‘will-they-won’t-they,’ but they won’t stick around if it’s clear you can’t function as a band. You don’t have to like each other, but you damn well better learn to play like you do.”

“And if we don’t?” Zoro challenges, already hating this guy’s vibe.

Law steps closer, his shadow cutting across the room. 

“If you don’t, then this gig will collapse faster than your PR team can say ‘irreconcilable differences.’ And if that happens? Every label, every venue, every industry contact is going to hear about how impossible you both are to work with, and how you pissed away an opportunity handed to you on a silver platter. You’ll burn every bridge before you even cross them.”

The room falls into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint hum of a distant air vent. Sanji finally stubs out his cigarette on the amp, his expression unreadable. Zoro’s eyes remain trained on the floor, his jaw tight.

Law apparently takes the quiet as a victory. “I’ll give you one week to work on this setlist and clean up your act. I expect a cohesive plan and at least one rehearsal where you don’t try to kill each other.”

He starts for the door, pausing just long enough to add, “And maybe stop denying everything so loudly. The fans might be crazy, but they’re not deaf. Think about that.”

The door slams shut, leaving Zoro along with Sanji in the dingy, tension-filled room.

For a moment, neither says a word.

Then, Zoro mutters, “This is the dumbest shit I’ve ever been part of.”

Sanji sighs heavily, running a hand through his disheveled locks. “Yeah, well, welcome to showbiz, big guy.”

“Guess we’re stuck with each other,” Zoro returns. 

“That’s for the brilliant observation, meathead,” Sanji says with a snort. “Truly, you’ve captured the essence of our predicament.” 

Zoro scowls but doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he brushes his fingers over his guitar strings, the muted sound filling the void. His gaze shifts to Sanji, watching as the man hunches over like the weight of the day is pressing down on him, freshly lit cigarette in hand. 

“You always this dramatic?”

Sanji glances over, his blue eyes flashing immediately with irritation. “You’re my problem! You’re exhausting.”

“Right. ‘Cause you’re such a ray of sunshine.”

The studio lapses into another stretch of silence, the faint hum of the overhead lights mixing with Zoro’s absent strumming. Sanji leans back against the amp, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as he exhales slowly. 

“What do you want, Zoro?” he asks finally, his tone softer than normal. “If you’re gonna sit there and glare at me all night, we’re not getting anywhere.”

Zoro’s hand stills on his guitar. It’s a valid question – one he’s asked himself plenty of times since the offer was made in Franky’s office.

“I want this to work. The tour. The setlist. All of it.”

Sanji straightens slightly, as if caught off guard. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

Zoro shrugs. “It ain’t ideal but I think it’s worth the effort.”

For a moment Sanji doesn’t reply. His gaze lingers on Zoro, searching for something, before he shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet. 

“Fine,” he says, grabbing his guitar and slinging it over his shoulder. “Then let’s stop wasting time. Play something, and try not to sound like you’re strangling a cat this time.”

The faintest hint of a smirk twitches on Zoro’s lips. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Sanji plugs into his amp, his fingers moving over the fretboard with confidence. The sound that pours out isn’t his usual showy style, much to Zoro’s surprise. Less flash, more soul. It’s slow and haunting, winding through the air like fog on a cool winter night.

Zoro watches him play for a beat, mesmerized, before a quick glance of blue eyes shakes him from his admiration. He lets out a low hum of approval, adjusting his grip, flipping the switch, and starts to play. His response is grittier, heavier, but for once, he pulls back on the aggression, letting his notes find a place alongside Sanji’s.

A different sort of challenge. The music becomes a conversation instead of an argument, their notes floating together with an unspoken understanding. Sanji’s melody softens, enticing Zoro’s rougher sound to meet it halfway. And so he does, adjusting his playing and matching Sanji’s rhythm with surprising ease. 

Sanji’s curious gaze flicks to Zoro as they play, a faint crease forming between his brows.

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” he murmurs as the last note fades.

Zoro grunts, flexing his fingers over the strings. “Didn’t think you’d play something worth following.” 

“Guess we’re full of surprises tonight.”

Zoro’s stare lingers, his usual scowl softening at the edges. The way the man stands there, guitar slung low on his hip, the faint sheen of sweat peppering his brow – it catches his attention, stirring something unfamiliar deep in his gut. 

Sanji seems to notice and arches a brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” Zoro says quickly, turning his focus back to his guitar. But his fingers don’t move, his grip tightening to the neck to ground himself. 

Fortunately, Sanji doesn’t press. He simply moves to the corner of the room, grabbing a bottle of water from his bag. He takes a long drink before tossing it Zoro’s way.

“Truce?” he offers with a teasing grin.

“For tonight,” Zoro agrees as he cracks the bottle open and takes a sip.

“Guess that’s all I can ask.”

#

Four nights later, they’re back at it again.

Zoro sits on a stool near the far wall, frowning at the strings of his guitar. He’s not sure why he’s still here – his gear doesn’t need tuning, and the setlist is already etched into his brain. It’s been days of eating, sleeping, and breathing exactly what they’re going to play for Law, how it’s going to sound. 

But something about leaving tonight just doesn’t sit right.

Across the room, Sanji leans against a table cluttered with half-empty coffee cups and discarded picks. He’s scrolling through his phone, the faint blue light casting shadows across his face. Zoro doesn’t even realize he’s staring until an imploring gaze catches his own.

“Thought you’d be halfway home by now, brute,” Sanji says with a tilt of his head.

Zoro shrugs, plucking a low note. “Thought you’d be off flirting with that waitress at the bar down the street.”

Sanji smirks, pushing off the table and sauntering toward his amp. “Tempting, but someone has to stick around and make sure you don’t burn this place down with that caveman technique of yours.”

“Funny.”

Sanji picks up his guitar for the umpteenth time that evening, their little break apparently over. He strums a few experimental chords lazily. The sound that follows is a soft, mellow tune that doesn’t quite fit his usual style. 

“What’s that?” Zoro asks after a beat.

Sanji shrugs, still playing. “Just something I’ve been messing with in my free time. Figured it might balance out all your noise.”

“Noise, huh?” Zoro says, his fingers already moving over the fretboard. He picks up the rhythm easily, adding a low and gritty undertone to Sanji’s melody.

The two sounds clash at first – smooth jazzy riffs against rough, grungy chords – but slowly, they begin to meld. A duel turned into a dance. Sanji adjusts his tempo, Zoro softens his tone, and suddenly the music transforms.

The room feels lighter as the song unfolds. It’s not perfect – still full of missteps and hesitations – but it’s raw and real, a sound that belongs to neither of them but somehow fits them both.

Sanji glances at Zoro as they come to a thoughtful end. “Not bad. You might actually have some taste under all that shit.”

Zoro snorts, leaning back on his stool. “And you might actually know how to play something that’s not trying to get you laid.”

“Careful, metalhead. Keep saying nice things and I might start thinking you like me.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, idiot.”

A silence stretches between them. Not uncomfortable. For once, it feels like they’ve laid down their weapons at the front door.

“Why do you play, Zoro?”

This catches Zoro off-guard. He frowns. “What kind of question is that?”

“A real one,” Sanji replies. “One I don’t think I’ve ever asked. You play like you’ve got something to prove. I wanna know what it is.”

Zoro pauses, his gaze fixed on the strings beneath his calloused fingers. “It’s just something I’m good at.”

“Guess I can’t argue with that,” Sanji says, his smirk fading.

“What about you?”

“Same reason, I suppose,” Sanji says, brushing his fingers over his strings in a slow, absent pattern. “But also… it’s the one thing that’s always felt like mine, you know? Just me.”

Zoro nods his head with understanding, but inside he knows for him this is anything but the same. This isn’t a goal he carries alone. The burden of success in this industry is a gift, an inspiration shared.

Something he will never, ever do alone.

The night air is hot and muggy as Zoro steps out of the studio, his guitar case slung over shoulder. Sanji lingers in the doorway behind him, leaning lazily against the frame with that ever-present cigarette dangling between his fingers.

“Don’t forget,” Sanji calls after him, “setlist is due on Monday. Don’t waste your precious brainpower messing up what we already have.”

“You just focus on showing up on time, blondie. Leave the rest to me.”

“Big talk from the guy who can’t keep tempo.”

“That’s all you got?” Zoro waves him off with a lazy flick of his hand, too tired to argue. “Go flirt with your bar waitress. You’re getting soft on me.” 

“And you’re still as charming as ever.” Sanji exhales a stream of smoke, the glow of his cigarette briefly illuminating his face. “Don’t trip on your way home.”

“Don’t wait up.”

Sanji’s low chuckle follows him as he disappears into the night.

Zoro walks in silence, the city a muffled hum around him. His sneakers echo against the pavement in a rhythm that feels strangely out of sync with the steady beat of his thoughts. He’s spent the past week grinding through riffs, hammering out chords, and biting back at Sanji’s endless quips. They’ve made progress but it still feels unsteady. Like the floor beneath them hasn’t quite solidified yet.

And then there’s the blondie himself.

Zoro exhales sharply, his grip tightening on his guitar strap. That insufferable little prick. Always smirking, always throwing out some half-baked insult like it’s a damn sport. But there’s something else too – a tenderness that’s been creeping in.

The way Sanji plays, with that effortless, yet almost arrogant sense of care. The way he laughs, softer and warmer when he’s not trying to piss Zoro off. And the way he’d looked tonight as he asked and answered those thoughtful questions, his head tilted back and completely unguarded. Almost human. Almost pretty.

Zoro shakes his head to clear his thoughts. 

He reaches his apartment and shoves the door open with his shoulder, letting it swing closed behind him. The space is small, cluttered but comfortable, with a worn couch and the walls decorated with old band posters. His guitar stand sits in the corner, already waiting for the case he sets down beside it.  

Two beers and a container of leftover Thai in hand, Zoro flops on the couch, the worn cushions sagging beneath him. His eyes drift to the small bookshelf near the window, where a framed photo sits slightly askew. A timeless monument in his humble abode. 

The picture is old, the edges worn from years of handling. Two teenagers smile back at him, their guitars hanging across their backs. Zoro, scruffy and wild-haired even then, stands with one arm slung over Kuina’s shoulder. She’s grinning, her stance confident, her fingers flashing a peace sign at the camera. 

Why he plays – the whole damn reason he’s doing any of this – captured in this faded memory.

Kuina had been the one who’d pushed him to take music seriously, back when they were kids trading chords on beat-up acoustics in her dad’s recording studio. She’d been fierce and impossibly talented – the kind of person who made everyone around her want to be better.

Harmony and Steel is what they were going to call themselves – back when they were bold enough to dream.

When she was gone, Zoro swore he wouldn’t waste what they’d built together. Every note he plays, every riff he perfects – it’s all for her. To make sure the dreams they shared don’t vanish with her. This tour, this shot at something bigger – it’s everything they’d talked about as kids. And he’ll be damned if he lets anyone, least of all that smug pretty boy, screw it up.

#

“So how’s the practice going, bro?”

“Yeah, man. How’s it hanging with the Tangerine Dream himself?”

Zoro rolls his eyes as he takes another bite from his sub, taking his time chewing as he glares at his two bandmates seated across the table. “S’alright,” he eventually replies through a mouthful, washing it all down with a sip of soda from his styrofoam cup. “About what you’d expect.” 

Johnny nods, swiping onion rings through ketchup. “Sucks you’re stuck working with a poser, dude. Soul King’s team must’ve lost their minds. They could’ve had the full Three Blades package.” 

“Nah, man,” Yosaku says. “Big bro Zoro’s the talent here. We’re just his lackeys.”

“Yeah, which means he doesn’t need ol’ tight pants! We know how to make him look good.”

“Would’ve been helluva lot easier,” Zoro agrees, though he frowns at Johnny’s jab. “He ain’t too bad though. Just annoying.”

“He bummed me a smoke at Punk Hazard,” Yosaku interjects, stealing one of Johnny’s onion rings off his tray. “Seemed okay to me.”

“What’s he smoke?” Johnny asks with a curious tilt of his head. “Cloves?”

“Yeah.”

“See? Poser.”

“Nah, bro. He’s a nice guy, I’m telling ya.”

“Nice guy, hm?” a smooth voice cuts in from behind them. “Glad to know someone here has taste.”

The table freezes, all three pairs of eyes snapping toward the newcomer. Sanji stands only a few feet away, brown paper bag in hand. Irritatingly perfect, per usual. Not a hair out of place.

Zoro’s scowl deepens in an instant. “What’re you doin’ here?” 

“Just grabbing some lunch,” Sanji replies, a teasing grin sprouting on his face. “And what do I find? A local metalhead sulking into his sandwich. Didn’t want to miss the show.” 

Johnny and Yosaku exchange glances, grinning like kids who’ve just spotted a fight brewing on the playground. 

“Didn’t realize you had fans,” Johnny says as he leans back in his seat.

Sanji’s smirk only widens as he steps closer, slipping effortlessly into the space beside Zoro’s table. “Oh, I’m not a fan. I just like to watch him struggle with basic motor skills. It’s fascinating, really.”

Zoro sets his sandwich down with a thud. “If you’re here to talk shit, you can turn right on back around.”

“Why would I do that?” Sanji shoots back. “This is way more fun.”

“Want me to grab you a chair, dude?” Yosaku asks, barely holding back a laugh. 

“Nah,” Zoro grumbles, sending both of his so-called ‘friends’ a withering glare. “He ain’t stayin’.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Sanji coos with a mocking pout. “What kind of partner doesn’t welcome a little surprise visit?”

“You’re not my partner.”

Sanji raises an eyebrow, his smirk twitching. “Not what Soul King’s team thinks. Or the internet, for that matter. Haven’t you heard? We’re the hottest duo since Hall & Oates.”

“Yeah, well, the internet’s full of idiots,” Zoro snaps, reaching for his soda. No chance in hell he’s entertaining any of that nonsense. 

“Maybe,” Sanji agrees, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “But even idiots can spot chemistry when they see it.”

Zoro chokes mid-sip, coughing as those unexpected words land. Across the table, his bandmates burst into maniacal laughter, Yosaku slapping the table so hard the remaining onion rings wobble precariously. 

Sanji straightens, clearly satisfied. “Anyway,” he says breezily. “I just wanted to see how my favorite barbarian was holding up. Don’t let me keep you from your gourmet feast.”

He takes a step back, but before Zoro can retort, he pauses and tilts his head thoughtfully. “Oh, by the way, don’t forget we’ve got practice tonight. Try not to eat too many of those grease bombs. Can’t have you slowing me down more than usual.”

With that, he spins on his heel and strides toward the exit, the bell above the door jingling faintly as he disappears into the sunlight. 

There’s a beat of silence at the table before Johnny whistles low. “Damn. That guy’s got balls.”

“Yeah,” Yosaku agrees, grinning. “You sure you don’t like him, Zoro? ‘Cause he definitely seems into you.”

Zoro kicks his friend’s shin beneath the table, glancing back at the restaurant door as Yosaku’s howls of laughter and pain fade in the background. 

What the hell was that?

#

The studio is quieter than usual when Zoro arrives, his footsteps echoing in the narrow hall. He pushes open the door, guitar case slung over his shoulder, expecting to find Sanji in his usual impatient flurry of setup or tinkering. But not tonight. The room is still and dim, lit only by the soft, golden glow of a small desk lamp perched on an amp.

Sanji is sitting cross-legged on the floor, his guitar leaning against the wall behind him. Next to him, two six-packs of beer resting on an abandoned box, two bottles already open and sweating in the warm air. He glances up as Zoro enters, an easy smirk curling on his lips.

“About time you showed up,” Sanji says, gesturing lazily to the beer. “Figured we could use a break from screaming at each other.” 

Zoro eyes him suspiciously, removing his guitar case and leaning it unceremoniously in the corner. “What’s this?”

Sanji shrugs. “Thought maybe we should try something radical, like not fighting for once. Scared?” 

“Ha,” Zoro snorts, kicking the door closed behind him. “You wish.”

He drops onto the floor, his back against an amp. Sanji passes him a bottle, the cool glass slick in his hand and he takes a long swig, his gaze flicking briefly over the man across from him. None of the normal coiled up tension and nervous energy springing from his body. He seems more laid back – more at ease.

So he does the same. Zoro lets himself relax – just a little. But even as he leans back, another swallow of beer dancing on his tongue, he can’t stop the thoughts swirling in his head. The sub shop. Sanji sliding to their table uninvited, teasing him with that cocky grin, throwing out comments that lingered longer than they should have.

It was flirting. Light, teasing, but undeniably flirtatious. The way Sanji had looked at him – like he knew exactly how to push Zoro’s buttons. Like there was something hiding beneath all that smirking bravado. It had stuck with him, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

A hidden truth whispers at him from the corners of his mind. He likes Sanji. Always has, if he’s being honest with himself. That stupid hair, the stupid grin, the way he plays guitar like it's an extension of himself. It's maddening and magnetic all at once. Infuriating, and impossible to ignore.

And that’s exactly why Zoro keeps pushing it down. Because liking Sanji means complicating everything – things Zoro can’t afford to complicate.

“So,” Sanji starts, leaning back on his palms, dragging Zoro from his thoughts. “What’s the verdict? Am I still the worst thing that’s ever happened to your musical career?”

Zoro smirks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’ve got competition. Johnny and Yosaku set the bar pretty low.”

Sanji laughs, the sound warm and surprisingly genuine. “Fair. Those two are like puppies with amps.”

“That’s bein’ generous.” Zoro takes another sip, the beer cooling his throat. “You’re a bit better than that.”

“Was that a compliment?” Sanji raises an eyebrow, his crooked grin widening. “From you? Somebody write this down.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

They talk about music – bands they love, riffs that haunt them, the stupid songs they first learned to play as kids. They talk about the industry – mutual contacts, venues that suck, equipment worth the money, everything that’s not. Zoro finds himself relaxing despite his better judgment, the tension between them slowly melting, replaced by something lighter.

At one point, Sanji leans forward, gesturing animatedly as he tells a story about botching a gig in his early days. His hands cut through the air as he talks, his voice warm and easy. Zoro watches him with a sense of fondness, something unfamiliar nestling deep in his chest.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Zoro’s hand moves. His fingers brush against Sanji’s wrist. Light. Careful.

Sanji freezes mid-gesture, his eyes shifting down to the touch. Then he looks back at Zoro, his usual smirk melting into a gentle smile, authentic and real. 

Zoro’s heart hammers in his chest. He leans forward, closing the small space between them. He can feel the warmth of Sanji’s skin under his fingertips, the slight hitch in his breath as Zoro’s hand lingers, those beautiful talented fingers twitching beneath the touch.

And then he kisses him.

Tentatively at first. Rough, and unsure, but honest. Zoro’s hand moves to cup the side of Sanji’s jaw, his fingers brushing against soft skin as he presses closer. Sanji responds after a beat, melting into their connection.

The moment stretches, a fragile chord holding them together.

But then it snaps.

Zoro pulls back abruptly, his eyes wide and his breathing heavy. He snatches his hand away as if he’s been burnt, and he scrambles to his feet like the floor’s been yanked out from under him.

“Zoro…”

“This was a bad idea,” Zoro says gruffly, avoiding Sanji’s gaze as he grabs his guitar case.

Sanji rises too, his brows furrowing. “What are you talking about? It’s just –”

“It’s nothing,” Zoro cuts him off, harsher than he intends. “We’ve gotta play for Law tomorrow. Don’t let this screw things up.”

“Screw things up?” Sanji flinches slightly at the tone, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “Right. Wouldn’t want to mess up your precious tour.”

Zoro doesn’t respond. He slings the guitar strap over his shoulder and strides toward the door, his chest tight and his thoughts spinning. 

“Zoro,” Sanji calls after him again, his voice quieter now, almost resigned.

Unable to help himself, Zoro pauses in the doorway but doesn’t look back. Can’t look back. It’s too risky if he does.

“See you tomorrow.”

#

The studio is unnervingly silent when Zoro walks in, guitar case slung over his shoulder. Law’s already there, standing by the soundboard with his arms crossed, clipboard dangling in hand. His steely gaze shifts to Zoro and he gives him a sharp nod.

Judgment day.

Zoro adjusts the strap of his guitar case, avoiding the manager’s scrutiny as he moves to set up. The weight in his chest hasn’t budged since last night, the memory of the kiss clinging to him. He grips the neck of his guitar tightly, focusing on the familiar motions of tuning it, anything to quiet his thoughts.

The door swings open and Sanji strides in, his expression blank and unreadable. He doesn’t say a word as he heads to his amp, the slight flick of ash from his cigarette the only acknowledgment of Zoro’s presence.

Law clears his throat, stepping forward. “Good. You’re both here. You’ve got twenty minutes. Show me what you’ve got – the ‘dueling guitars’ act that’s supposedly worth a national tour.”

Zoro and Sanji exchange a quick, terse glance before falling silently into position. 

Zoro starts, his fingers crashing down on the strings with force, launching into a heavy riff that growls through the amp. Sharp and aggressive – his specialty. Command the room. Demanding attention.

Sanji counters almost immediately, his fingers gliding a quick and intricate run that threads around Zoro’s riff like smoke. Smooth and teasing, cool water slipping through the cracks. He doesn’t back down, even as Zoro meets him with a hard, distorted chord. His melody builds brutal and fast, each note slicing through Zoro’s wall of sound. He glances over with a faint smirk on his lips, as if daring him to keep up.

The smirks sets something off in Zoro. His next riff is jagged, almost reckless and aggressive. Their sounds crash against each other, drowning out the intricacies of Sanji’s notes.

Sanji’s fingers falter for a fraction of a second, but he recovers quickly, his response biting. He kicks his foot out, cranking his amp, his next run mockingly loud. A tune that makes Zoro’s scowl deepen, his forehead wrinkling with agitation.

This isn’t the setlist. They’re no longer playing together. 

They’re fighting. 

The music builds into a chaotic mess, colliding and crashing until it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. 

“Stop.”

Law’s voice cuts through the carnage. 

Both of them freeze, the amps humming softly in the silence that follows.

“That’s not music,” Law says, frowning. “That’s a screaming match. Start again.”

Sanji starts this time, his fingers coaxing a smooth, bluesy melody. Rich and inviting, but when Zoro joins him, his chords crash against Sanji’s like thunder, too loud and too forceful.

“Stop,” Law says again, sharper now. “You're supposed to complement each other – not fight for dominance. Again.” 

Zoro growls under his breath but nods, launching into the next attempt. This time, the opening is tighter, more coordinated, but the fire between them refuses to snuff out.

Sanji’s notes grow faster, more intricate, and more smug. Zoro responds with rage and violence, bloody, grungy riff after riff.

“Stop.”

The sound screeches to a halt, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

“What’s wrong with you two?” Law strides over to where they’re standing, his frustration finally boiling over. “You’ve got the talent, the chemistry, the attention of Soul King’s team, and you’re wasting it! Do you want to throw this opportunity away?”

Sanji straightens, his jaw tight. “I’m trying to fix it. Maybe if someone didn’t think volume was a substitute for skill –”

“Skill?” Zoro interjects. “I’ve got more skill in one finger than you’ve got in your whole damn routine.”

“Oh, please,” Sanji fires back, his voice rising. “Quit pretending like you give a shit about any of this.”

“Listen here, shithead, you don’t –”

“I said stop!”

The two of them freeze, glaring at each other but not daring to say another word.

Law exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what your problem is. You are sabotaging everything you have worked for. This –” he gestures at them both – “isn’t working. And if it doesn't work when I check back in two days, I will personally call Soul King and recommend he find someone else.”

“Someone else?” Sanji repeats, eyes wide.

“Surely you can’t expect me to put my own reputation on the line for this?” Law asks as he gathers his things, apparently having seen enough from this rehearsal. “You may be talented but I’m not willing to become the laughing stock of the industry for you two.”

Zoro nods, understanding.

“Two days,” Law reiterates as he heads toward the door, holding up two tattooed fingers. “Get it together.”

The studio door slams shut, the squeak if its hinges echoing in Law’s wake.

For a long moment, neither of them dares to speak.

“Nice going, dumbass,” Sanji eventually utters as he pulls his pack of smokes from his pocket and shakes his head. 

“You think this is my fault?”

“Of course I do,” Sanji spits as he starts to pace. “Do you even listen when we play? Or do you just brute-force your way through everything?”

Zoro’s head snaps up. “Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time trying to be perfect, we’d actually get somewhere.”

“Perfect?” Sanji stops mid-stride, spinning on his heel. “ Perfect?! At least I give a damn about what this sounds like! You think we’re gonna impress anyone with that noise you call ‘music?’ Face it – you’re all bark and no damn bite.”

Zoro leaps to his feet, the stool scraping loudly against the floor. “The hell did you just say?” 

“You heard me!” Sanji’s voice rises. “You don’t care about technique. You don’t care about the music. You just wanna stomp around and make noise because that’s all you know how to do.”

“You think you’re better than me?” Zoro snarls, fists clenched at his sides. “With your fancy chords and your prissy little riffs? Newsflash, asshole: your ‘technique’ is just a cover-up for your lack of soul.”

Sanji laughs, sharp and bitter. “No soul? You want to talk about soul? You play like you’re trying to punch someone in the face, not make music.”

“At least I ain’t some pretentious asshole who plays to get his ego stroked.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” Sanji says, eyes flashing as he jabs a finger into Zoro’s chest. “You think I like being the guy who has to hold everything together while you thrash around like a lunatic?”

“Didn’t ask you to do that,” Zoro returns, swatting Sanji’s hand away. “Maybe you should stop tryin’ so hard to impress everyone.”

“Impress everyone?! ” Sanji’s voice cracks, his frustration boiling over as he raises his hands in the air. “You think I don’t see how people look at you? How they’re drawn to you because you’ve got this crazy energy? You don’t even have to try and people just follow. You don’t get it. Some of us don’t have that. Some of us have to earn it.”

Zoro can feel his heart stutter, his anger faltering briefly and replaced by confusion. “What the hell’re you talking about?”

“Forget it,” Sanji says with a shake of his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“No,” Zoro commands, grabbing the man by the arm. “Tell me.”

Sanji’s shoulders droop and, much to Zoro’s surprise, he doesn’t even bother to pull away. 

“You want to know why I play?” he asks quietly, a subtle shift in the air, thin wisps of smoke curling overhead. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at. The only thing that feels like mine. And I’ve spent my whole damn life trying to prove I’m good enough to deserve it. Meanwhile, you –” he glances back at Zoro, blue eyes a surging sea. “You play like it's second nature. Like it's nothing. And you don’t even care.” 

Like it’s nothing.

Zoro holds Sanji’s gaze for a moment before slowly releasing his arm. His mind races, his heart thrumming rapidly in his chest. 

Then he mutters, almost too quietly, “It’s not nothing.”

“Sure doesn’t feel like it.”

“I care,” Zoro says, defensive, unable to help himself. “I care more than you’ll ever damn know. But I ain’t like you, alright? I don’t play for the crowd. I play because it’s the only way I know how to keep going.”

Sanji’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The sinking stone reaches the pit of Zoro’s chest.

“Forget it.”

“No, no, no. You started this. Say it.”

“No.” Zoro shakes his head as he feels his armor hardening, his walls going right back up. “I don’t gotta tell you shit.”

Sanji sighs heavily, the tension in his jaw evident as he tosses his cigarette to the ground and grinds it out with his shoe. The irritated scrape of it fills the quiet that hangs between them.

“Right,” he says, patting his pockets and glancing around the room. “Of course you don’t. God forbid you actually open up and let someone understand you.” He shakes his head. “You know what? Maybe Law was right. Maybe this whole thing is a waste of time.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Sanji snaps, grabbing his guitar and slinging it over his shoulder, “that I’m tired. I’m tired of trying to make this work when all you do is fight me every damn step of the way. You simply don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

“That’s bullshit,” Zoro growls, taking a step forward.

“Is it though?” Sanji returns in an icy tone. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re doing everything possible to make sure we fail.”

“You think I’d waste my time on this if I didn’t care? You’re fucking stupid if you do.”

“Then prove it! Because all I see is someone too afraid to actually try.”

Zoro doesn’t flinch, even though those words feel like a stinging slap to the face. He stands there, his chest heaving, his mind a storm of fury and unspoken truths. 

Sanji scoffs, quieter now but no less cutting, turning his back to head toward the door. “That’s what I thought.”

Zoro watches him go, his teeth gritted and his stance rigid. “You’re really just gonna leave?”

Pausing in the door frame, Sanji doesn't even bother to look back.

“Maybe this isn’t worth it anymore.”

#

The apartment is dark except for the faint, golden light spilling through the blinds, painting stripes across the cluttered floor. Zoro sits slouched on the worn couch, an old acoustic guitar balanced across his lap. The sun is just beginning to rise, marking the end of a night spent drinking, thinking, and playing.

His fingers hover over steel strings, unsure. It’s been years since he’s pulled this guitar from its case. The wood is smooth, worn soft by time and countless songs, its scratches and dings mapping a history only he understands. His thumb grazes a deep groove near the headstock, a scar of its own.

Kuina’s guitar.

He sighs, rapping his knuckle gently against the faded wood. The events of the past day churn in his mind – Sanji’s words cutting deep, their sting still as fresh and raw as an open wound.

“You simply don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

Zoro’s grip tightens on the guitar’s neck, his jaw clamping shut. He can still see the fire in Sanji’s eyes, the way his voice cracked under the force of the accusation, landing like a blow meant to bruise.

The fight had spiraled out of control, their words crashing against each other like their music – chaotic, and unforgiving. Toxic. And then Sanji had walked out, leaving Zoro in the suffocating silence of the studio, blood curdling from the venom spit right into his veins.

But it wasn’t only the poison that lingered – it was the truth laced beneath it.

He’d wanted to snap back, to throw his own verbal punches and level the playing field. But the words had caught tangled in his throat and refused to come out. Because deep down, Zoro knew Sanji was right.

He hasn’t just been afraid of failing. He’s been afraid of wanting more.

With a low sigh, Zoro adjusts his grip on the guitar, his fingers settling on the strings as if drawn by instinct. The first note is tentative, soft, like a whisper carried into the wind. His hands move, coaxing out the familiar chords of a melody Kuina used to love – a wistful, lilting tune filling the room with echoes of a life once lived.

The music tugs at him, drawing him back to late nights in Kuina’s basement. Her, sitting cross-legged on the floor, this very guitar balanced on her knee.

“Faster, Zoro,” she’d urge, sharp but encouraging. “You can’t just hit the notes – you have to feel them. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

A faint, bitter smile tugs at his lips, unbidden.

The song flows from him, his heart aching with every note. It’s a beautiful rhythm, one he’s played countless times before. But as his fingers press and pluck, the melody begins to shift. A trill here, a slide there – the familiar structure bending, reshaping itself into a new creation. The old memory dissolves into thick, swirling smoke, curling around him like an unshakable embrace. 

His brow furrows as he plays on, chasing the music wherever it leads. The sound changes, expanding, softening. It’s lighter, smoother, with a finesse that isn’t his or Kuina’s.

It’s Sanji’s.

The realization strikes like a chord out of tune, his hands faltering until the final note fades into silence. The stillness that follows is deafening. 

Sanji.

He can’t stop that handsome face from invading his thoughts – blond hair falling just so, that infuriating smirk etched across lips too perfect for someone so aggravating. Those damn blue eyes, brimming with life, betraying every emotion he tries to hide: playfulness, awe, frustration, rage.

And hurt.

“You play like it’s nothing. And you don’t even care.”

Zoro’s fingers move again, this time with deliberate care. The melody blends seamlessly now, his raw grungy chords tempered by the smoother, more refined style he’s unconsciously borrowed from Sanji. The song swells, rising like high tide, filling the room with its crystalline waters. A wall cracks within him, and he’s baptised in the cool ebb and flow.

For so long, he’s played for Kuina, carrying the anchor of her memory. Every note, every performance, a desperate attempt to keep her dream alive, to honor the promise he made to her – to be the best. But somewhere along the way, the dream has changed. He’s not just playing for her anymore.

He’s playing for himself.

And, if he’s being honest, he’s starting to play for Sanji too.

Another wave crashes into him, both fierce and freeing as it drags him under its tow. Sanji – arrogant, aggravating, impossibly talented Sanji – has somehow become part of this. Not just as a rival, not even as a partner, but as something more.

Part of the dream.

Zoro’s playing slows, his gaze dropping to the guitar in his lap. The smooth ivory wood gleams faintly in the light, the golden bridge catching the sun. Kuina’s voice floats through his mind again, as if she’s sitting right beside him. 

“You can’t do this alone, Zoro. You’re good, but even the best need someone to push them to be better. That’s why you have me.”

His eyes lift to the old photograph still sitting tattered in its frame. Kuina’s grin stares back at him, her stance confident, this very same guitar slung across her back. She isn’t here anymore.

But Sanji is.

Right here, waiting – challenging him to create something out of nothing. Not just in their music, but in this fragile, messy space between them. 

Zoro leans back, calloused fingers brushing the strings of his old treasure one last time. His gaze drifts to the sunlight filtering through the blinds – warm, golden, full of life. Much like a certain smile he’s grown used to seeing every day.

He knows what he has to do.

#

Zoro’s guitar rests against his knee, his fingers idly picking away at the strings. The studio is quiet, save for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. He’s here early, though he doesn’t exactly know why – it’s not like he planned what to say. He’s been replaying their fight in his head all damn day, Sanji’s words hitting harder every time they echo in his mind.

He still feels a sick sense of shame churn in his gut when he remembers their fight, but he knows now’s the time to make it right.

The door creaks open, and Zoro looks up. Sanji steps in, his silhouette briefly outlined by the hallway’s dim light before the door clicks shut behind him. He’s dressed down tonight – just a simple pair of sweats and a tee. There’s no swagger in his step, no sarcastic quip on his lips.

Raw, pure Sanji.

Zoro clears his throat. “You came.”

Sanji raises an eyebrow as he sets his guitar case on the floor. “Thought I’d at least see if you’d try to fix this. Guess you’ll have to convince me.”

The words are still biting, but his voice is quieter than normal.

“We need to talk.”

“Oh, here we go,” Sanji mutters as he pulls out a cigarette and tucks it behind his ear. “Let me guess – this is the part where you tell me I’m a pain in your ass but we gotta make nice because of the tour, right?”

“No,” Zoro says, shaking his head. He stands, placing his guitar down on the stool behind him. “That ain’t it.”

Sanji tilts his head, curiosity flashing in his eyes despite his guarded stance. “Then what is it, metalhead? Because I’m not in the mood for games.” 

“Been thinkin’ about what you said yesterday. About me not caring.” Zoro takes a tentative step forward, keeping his gaze locked on Sanji’s stare. “You’re wrong. I care a whole lot more than I’ve ever let on.”

“About what?” Sanji folds his arms, running his fingers through his blond fringe. “The music? The tour?”

Zoro shakes his head again. 

“About you.”

“What?”

Zoro takes another step closer. “I’ve cared about you for a long time. Just didn’t want to admit it. Hell, I didn’t even wanna feel it. I thought it’d ruin everything – this chance, this tour,  my dream.” He releases a heavy sigh, taking one more step forward. “But pretending it ain’t there is what’s been screwing us up.” 

Sanji stares at him for a beat, blue eyes churning with a storm of emotion. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious. Thought if I kept my distance, it’d go away. But it hasn’t. And it won’t. So yeah, I care. More than I probably should.”

“Damn it, Zoro…” Sanji says, voice trailing off as he holds his head in his hands. “Damn it.”

A knot forms in Zoro’s gut. “If you don’t feel the same, just say it. I can deal with it. I just had to tell you so we could move on.”

A shaky laugh releases from where Sanji’s head hangs low, his hands dropping to his sides. “Feel the same?” He looks up at Zoro. “You idiot. Of course I feel the same.”

Zoro blinks. “You… do?”

Sanji’s laugh echoes louder, warmth filling the studio with every chuckle. “Yeah, moron. I do. Took me a while to figure it out. You can blame those internet fans, actually. At first, I thought it was just people making shit up but then I started seeing it myself. You get under my skin, and not just because you’re annoying.” 

“Why didn’t you say anythin’?”

“Why didn’t you?” Sanji fires back, a faint smile sprouting across his face. “You think you’re the only one who was scared of screwing this up?”

Zoro doesn’t respond – he can’t. The way Sanji’s looking at him now, those beautiful, blue eyes shining with open honesty, is more than he ever expected. 

Sanji’s voice softens. “So, what do we do about it?”

“This.”

Zoro closes the space between them, cupping Sanji’s jaw as he leans in. A tentative, tender press of lips. Testing the waters. The first honest sip. And as Sanji responds, it deepens quickly. Zoro’s other hand slips to Sanji’s waist, pulling him closer as their lips move together in a rhythm that feels as natural as breathing. 

Sanji’s hands find Zoro’s shoulders, gripping tightly as if to anchor himself, keeping afloat in their rushing rapids, the tidewaters rising. The kiss is messy and unpracticed, but so undeniably them – raw, honest, years of tension spilling out in a single moment.

When they finally break apart, both are breathless, their foreheads resting together.

“Took you long enough,” Sanji mutters, that gentle grin returning to his face,

“Shut up,” Zoro replies, though the corner of his mouth lifts in a faint smile.

Sanji chuckles, his thumb brushing against Zoro’s collarbone. “You realize this changes everything, right?”

“Yeah. But I think it’s what we need.”

“Guess we’ll have to make it work.” Sanji leans back slightly, studying Zoro for a beat. “No more bullshit.”

“No more bullshit,” Zoro agrees, his hand lingering on Sanji’s waist. 

They share one more chaste kiss before finally stepping back, the air between them lighter but no less charged. 

Sanji grabs his guitar, smirking as he plugs it in. “Think you can keep up this time, big guy?”

Zoro grips his own guitar, rolling his shoulders. “Was about to ask you the same thing.”

Their music fills the room, not as rivals but as partners, their notes weaving together in perfect harmony.

#

The studio thrums with sound, every corner alive with the raw energy of their duel. Gritty, unpolished chords crash forward like waves breaking against jagged rock, fierce and commanding. In their wake, sleek, melodic riffs glide effortlessly, like shells scattered across wet sand, adding texture and beauty to the empty spaces. Each note builds on the last, the exchange a perfect push-pull, equal parts tension and release. 

Zoro’s grunge-laden roar grinds into Sanji’s bluesy finesse, the two styles clashing and intertwining in a way that defies reason but feels inevitable. The vibration lingers in the air, charged and electric, a living, breathing force that seems to pull even more than they knew they could give. It’s chaotic and harmonious all at once – unpredictable yet impossibly balanced, each pushing the other to reach deeper, play harder. 

As the final riff tears through the air, it swells into a crescendo that bursts with raw, unfiltered power before dissolving into the soft, lingering hum of the amps.

Law leans against the wall with his arms crossed, his station for the entire setlist. His steely eyes focus on the two of them for a long moment, remaining silent and unreadable.

Zoro wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. “Well?” he grunts, glancing at Law and receiving nothing in return. 

“If you’re gonna stand there looking constipated, we’ve got other things to do,” Sanji adds from where he’s perched on the edge of a stool. 

The first signs of life emerge on Law’s sullen face – thin lips curling into a semblance of a grin. 

“I hate to admit it but this might actually work.”

“Of course it works,” Sanji says, his lips curling into a smug grin. “What’d you expect from us?”

Law pushes off the wall, his shoes clicking softly against the floor as he approaches. “I did have doubts at the last rehearsal. There’s no logical reason why this should work…” He tilts his head, giving them an appraising look. “But yet it does.”

“High praise from the babysitter,” Sanji says with a chuckle.

“You’re good for each other,” Law continues, ignoring the jab. “The grumpy brute and the flashy peacock. Such a strange mix. Maybe opposites really do attract.”

“Maybe so,” Zoro says, glancing up and finding a playful blue gaze already turned his way.

“Whatever it is, it’s working. And you’re about to prove to people much more important than me.” Law pulls out his phone, scrolling briefly before stepping toward the door. “Wait here. I’ve got a call to make.”

As Law disappears into the hallway, the studio falls into silence. Zoro runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, sending another sidelong look Sanji’s way. 

“What d’you think?”

Sanji meets his gaze again, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “I think we nailed it.”

Zoro grunts in agreement. “You were good,” he admits, almost grudgingly.

“Was that another compliment?” Sanji raises an eyebrow, tilting his head. “Two in one week. Call the presses.”

“Don’t push it.”

The door swings open, and Law strides back in. “It’s done.”

“Done?” Sanji asks, setting his guitar to the side.

Law nods. “Welcome to the tour. Brook’s team is finalizing the contracts as we speak. From here on out, it’s all press releases, photo shoots, and rehearsals. Your lives are about to get very, very chaotic.”

“So that’s it?” Zoro asks, pushing off the amp he’s been leaning against. “We’re in?”

“You’re in,” Law confirms. “And if you keep playing what I just heard, this tour’s going to be massive.”

Zoro narrows his eyes, this whole thing feeling too easy to not be suspicious. “You just reamed us out the other day. Now boom, we’re in?”

“Well,” Law says, crossing his arms as he releases a hefty sigh. “To be honest, I wanted to call and get you in on day one. You guys are some of the best talents we’ve seen in the east.” He smirks. “But I couldn’t tell you that.” 

Sanji raises an eyebrow, leaning back on the stool with an incredulous grin. “Let me get this straight. You’ve been jerking us around for what? Dramatic effect?”

“Motivation is a delicate art. If I’d told you how good you were from the start, you’d still be fighting like rabid dogs. You needed the push.” 

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?” Zoro grunts, folding his arms. 

Law shrugs, unbothered. “And now you’re ready for the big leagues. So, I’d say my methods worked.”

Sanji shakes his head, chuckling as he lights up a smoke. “Weirdest manager I’ve ever met. What’s next? You gonna tell us how to pose for the camera?” 

“Funny you should say that,” Law quips. “Because that’s part of what I wanted to discuss.”

Sanji pauses mid-drag, his smirk faltering as he watches Law’s expression darken. “What’re you talking about?”

Law steps forward, his expression unreadable again. “This tour isn’t just about the music. Brook’s team knows talent when they hear it, but they also know how to sell it. You’ve got something people want to see. It’s not just the sound – it’s the dynamic. The chemistry.”

Zoro stiffens, glancing at Sanji. “What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Law continues, “that leaning into this whole ‘dating’ thing might not be the worst idea. The fans love it, the industry loves it, and frankly, it sells. Big time.”

Zoro and Sanji exchange a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. Sanji’s lips quirk into a sly smile, and Zoro responds with a faint smirk of his own.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Sanji says casually, nudging Zoro’s knee with his own.

Zoro shrugs, pressing his leg back. “Yeah, we’ve got it handled.”

Law arches an eyebrow but doesn’t press further. “Good. Rehearsal tomorrow at nine. Don’t be late.”

As Law heads for the door, Zoro picks up his guitar again, fingers brushing over the strings before strumming a rough, resonant chord. Sanji spins on his stool to face him, blue eyes sparklight alight with amusement as his own fingers dance effortlessly across the fretboard. 

“Well, well, well,” Sanji drawls over the sound of their playing. “Guess you’re stuck with me now.”

“Guess so,” Zoro replies, plucking a cleaner, smoother note to match Sanji’s rhythm.

Zoro’s fingers move intuitively, the notes steady as his mind drifts back to Kuina, as it so often does when he plays. Her laugh echoes faintly in his memory, a melody he’s never quite forgotten. Always there, pushing him to do better. To play his best.

She’d always said he needs someone to challenge him. Someone who could meet him note for note. He can’t help but look up at Sanji now, surprised to find a warm, tender smile meeting his gaze. Something settles deep in his chest. Kuina was right. For the first time in years, he knows he’s not carrying the dream alone. 

Their music fills the room once more, loud and full of life. It’s everything they are – fire and finesse, grit and grace, chaos and harmony. For the first time, they’re not just dueling guitars or clashing egos. 

They’re a force.

Unified.

Unstoppable.

And this is only the beginning.