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It was disgustingly hot but Zoro didn’t mind. He was stretched out near the railing, swords within reach, half-dozing with his arms folded behind his head.
There wasn’t much to do. No enemies on the horizon. No storms. Just stillness and sky and the faint creak of the deck. He didn’t know what to do with quiet days before – not really. They used to feel like time wasted. Like waiting for the world to resume spinning.
Now, he found he didn’t mind them. Now, he was waiting for something else.
Boots tapped lightly across the deck. He didn’t have to open his eyes to know who it was. A shadow passed over his face and then a cool glass pressed against his arm.
“Hydrate, dumbass.”
He cracked one eye open. The cook was standing over him, holding two drinks. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, hair pushed back from his face by the wind, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knew exactly how good he looked.
It's how the cook always looked the days after a good fight. Looser, like the tension that vibrated in his muscles had been burned off clean.
Zoro grunted and took the glass. “What’s in it?”
“Citrus. Ice. A little mint. Something refreshing, unlike your personality.”
He sat up enough to sip. Not bad. He drank half before handing it back.
The cook rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to chug it like a caveman.”
“I was thirsty.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why I brought it, you sword-stupid marimo.”
He didn’t answer and the cook dropped down to sit beside him. They stayed like that for a while, just sitting in each other’s presence. His fingers brushed against the cook’s on the deck. The cook didn’t move away.
Their hands were loosely tangled between them on the deck. He knew the cook liked touching him. Like it grounded him. Like Zoro became more real in the way the cook’s fingers curved against his palm. And Zoro – He liked being treated like that.
There weren’t many people he’d let this close. Hell, there weren’t many people he wouldn’t slice open just for trying. But the cook? His hands had sliced skin. His feet had crushed bones. The cook was strong. Dangerous. So when he touched Zoro carefully like this, it meant something.
He didn’t have to hide his edges with the cook. Didn’t have to dull anything down. He could be all blade and instinct, and the cook wouldn’t flinch. More than that, the cook wanted it.
He turned his hand over, palm up, and tugged gently. The cook didn’t resist. Let himself be pulled down, grumbling softly like he always did when he wanted to act like he didn’t love this. Zoro guided him easily, until the cook’s long body was draped across his, the other’s head tucked just under his chin.
“Gonna squish me, you log,” the cook muttered, but his arms were already wrapping around Zoro’s waist, slipping under his haramaki.
“Don’t lie,” Zoro said into his hair. “You love this.”
The cook huffed a short breath, and he felt the curve of the other’s smile against his collarbone.
“I do,” the cook whispered, like it was a secret.
His heart thudded, heavy and warm.
He slid his fingers up the cook’s back, tracing under the fabric of the other’s shirt, his fingers dragging over the fine muscles and smooth skin there. The cook shivered a little, his breath catching.
Zoro smirked. “Ticklish?”
“No,” the cook lied quickly, but his voice had gone soft, melted around the edges.
“Liar.”
The cook curled tighter into him, hiding his flushed face in Zoro’s neck. “You make me soft, you bastard.”
His arms came around the cook fully now and pulled him close until there was no space between them. His lips brushed against the cook’s temple.
“You were always soft,” he murmured. “Just hid it behind smoke and yelling.”
And yet he was one of the few people Zoro wanted beside him when shit hit the fan. Not many he trusted to go for the throat and still guard his back. And not many he'd let close enough to bare his own.
The cook made a noise in his throat that was half-laugh, half-grumble. “You like the yelling.”
“I like you,” Zoro said, without thinking. “The rest is just background noise.”
The cook pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His cheeks were still pink, his bangs falling in front of his eyes. His cigarette had gone out somewhere along the way. The way he looked at Zoro – eyelids heavy, lips parted like he’d forgotten how to speak hit harder than it should’ve.
“You’re disgustingly sweet when no one’s around.”
“Only for you.”
And it was true. He’d never been good with words, but the cook dragged them out of him, raw and honest. Not because the cook needed him to say them, but because he deserved to hear them.
The cook blinked slowly, his smile going crooked and soft. The kind he only wore when they were like this. He leaned in and kissed Zoro’s cheek, slow, gentle. Then his jaw. Then, finally, his mouth.
Zoro kissed back, eyes closed, hands roaming slowly along the cook’s back like he hadn’t long since memorized the shape of him. The cook sighed into the kiss, hands curling in Zoro’s hair, dragging just a little.
“Someone’s gonna walk in,” he mumbled against Zoro’s lips.
“Let them,” Zoro muttered, pulling him closer again.
The cook rested his forehead against his, their noses brushing, and whispered, “You’re gonna kill me with how sweet you are.”
He huffed. “Then die in my arms, cook.”
The cook groaned and buried his face in Zoro’s chest again, shoulders shaking with laughter. “You’re the worst.”
“You love it.”
“...Yeah,” the cook admitted. “I really do.”
--
The sun was too damn hot.
It had already chased most of the crew inside. The heat clung to everything like a second skin and Sanji had half a mind to curse the ocean just for looking so smug about it.
He rolled a few ice cubes into two glasses, poured something citrusy and light, added a twist of mint. He wasn't even sure Zoro would taste the difference, but that didn’t stop him from making it perfect.
He stepped onto the deck, squinting into the light. And of course there he was – Zoro, flat on his back, swords beside him, eyes closed, probably not even aware he was slowly cooking under the sun.
Sanji walked over and nudged his shin with his boot.
“Hydrate, dumbass,” he said, holding out a glass.
Zoro blinked like he’d just been reinserted into the world. Took the drink, sipped it. Gave that little approving grunt that passed for a compliment before down half of it.
Sanji sat down beside him, cross-legged, letting their shoulders brush just slightly. It didn’t seem like much, but it was everything.
He didn’t always understand how they got here – how he’d gone from throwing insults and kicks to… this. To bringing Zoro water just to make sure he wasn’t shriveling up like dried seaweed. To sitting beside him without needing to fill the silence. To feeling like something clicked when the marimo was near.
Zoro never asked for help, but he let Sanji offer it. Let him walk into his space without bristling. The same way Sanji had learned to let Zoro touch him without flinching. Like he could bare his throat, his worst moods, and Zoro would still take him as he was.
It was the quietest things that wrecked him most. Like the way Zoro brushed their hands together… and then didn’t pull away.
Sanji glanced down. Zoro’s hand was barely touching his. Not asking. Not demanding. Just there. So Sanji curled his fingers between Zoro’s like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t at all undone by the way the other’s hand curled back around his, strong and sure.
He’d seen those hands kill without hesitation, and yet here they were, gently wrapped around his. Only for him.
God, he was so fucked.
When Zoro turned his hand over, palm up, Sanji didn’t even think about it. He just followed the pull, already half on his way before the idiot even said anything.
“Gonna squish me, you log,” he muttered out of habit, but his arms were already slipping around Zoro’s waist, fingers sneaking under that stupid haramaki because touching him just felt better than not.
Zoro mumbled into his hair, voice warm and low. “Don’t lie. You love this.”
Sanji smiled before he could stop himself. “I do,” he admitted, quiet like it was fragile. Like if he said it too loudly, it might tip the world off balance.
Zoro’s arms tightened around him. Sanji could have drowned in that steady pressure, that warmth, that anchoring presence.
He felt those calloused fingers slide under his shirt, ghosting over his back. It sent a ridiculous shiver down his spine, and he cursed himself silently for reacting like a damn schoolgirl.
“Ticklish?” Zoro asked, grinning into his hair.
“No,” Sanji lied immediately, too fast, way too guilty-sounding.
“Liar.”
Sanji groaned and buried his face in Zoro’s neck, trying to hide the heat crawling up his face. “You make me soft, you bastard.”
But the marimo didn’t tease him for it. He just held him tighter, pressed his mouth to Sanji’s temple in that way he did sometimes. Like it was second nature. Like Sanji belonged there.
“You were always soft,” Zoro murmured. “Just hid it behind smoke and yelling.”
Sanji made a face. “You like the yelling.”
“I like you. The rest is just background noise.”
Sanji looked up, eyes catching on the lazy curve of Zoro’s mouth, the gentle weight of his gaze and his heart was doing that stupid thing again where it felt too big for his chest.
“You’re disgustingly sweet when no one’s around.”
Zoro shrugged. “Only for you.”
Just like that. No hesitation.
Sanji would never say it out loud, but Zoro's bloodlust, the way he fought like a demon, and still - still - let himself be soft with Sanji. Trusted him enough to bare his damn throat and let Sanji rest a hand there, knowing it’d never be used to hurt him. That kind of trust? It undid Sanji.
He didn’t even think. He just leaned up and kissed Zoro. Once on the cheek. Once on the jaw. Then full on the mouth, slow and deliberate, until his hands were tangled in Zoro’s hair.
Zoro kissed him back like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like he knew Sanji inside and out and didn’t mind the mess. His hands moved slowly, almost reverently, across Sanji’s back, and he melted.
He pulled back just enough to whisper, “Someone’s gonna walk in.”
“Let them,” Zoro said, brushing his lips against Sanji’s again.
Sanji rested his forehead against Zoro’s, breathing the same warm air. It was too much and not enough, and if this was how he went out, he figured it wasn’t a bad way to go.
“You’re gonna kill me with how sweet you are.”
Zoro huffed a laugh. “Then die in my arms, cook.”
Sanji groaned and shoved his face into Zoro’s chest, muffling his voice against warm skin. “You’re the worst.”
“You love it.”
“…Yeah,” Sanji murmured, fingers curling into the back of Zoro’s shirt. “I really do.”