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You notice it in the small things first.
Izou doesn’t swing his fan open as often. His teasing comes slower, quieter, and more measured. Even though he still walks with the same straight spine and graceful step, there’s something duller in the way he carries himself if he’s weighed down by something.
But what you notice the most is that you happen to catch him on the deck at sunset every day, leaning against the railing, arms folded, watching the horizon like he’s expecting something out there to come back.
At first, you don’t say anything and just lean beside him, resting your forearms on the railing as well. Above you the sky’s turning gold and orange, the sun setting, making everything look peaceful. Everything besides Izou… Izou doesn’t look peaceful at all.
This is when you glance down and catch sight of something in his hands. Fabric. A small square, navy blue with silver embroidery that catches the fading sunlight. His fingers move along the edges, slow and steady. He’s not even really looking at it. Just touching it out of habit.
“What’s that?” you ask, voice soft.
He doesn’t startle, just glances your way before folding the fabric and slipping it into his sleeve. “Just an old handkerchief,” he says.
“From Wano?” you ask.
He nods, eyes drifting back to the sea. “Yeah.”
You bump your shoulder lightly against his. “You miss it?”
There’s a pause. Then a small sigh. “Sometimes,” he admits. “There are days it creeps in without warning. A sound. A smell. The way the light hits the water.”
You don’t say anything right away. You don’t want to pretend to understand. It’s not the kind of homesickness you can fix. Wano’s far. And from the way he talks about it… complicated.
“I didn’t think I’d miss it this much,” he adds. “Not after everything.”
You want to help. But what do you offer someone who’s aching for a whole world you’ve never seen?
“Is there anything I can do?” you still ask, sincerely.
He looks at you. Offers a tired smile. “No. But thanks.”
You nod and stay beside him until the sun dips behind the sea.
But the thought doesn’t leave you. It sticks through dinner and clean-up. Through the half-loud conversations echoing across the deck and the sound of someone playing cards in the distance. You’re still thinking about it the next morning when you spot Ace leaning against a crate, chewing on something, and watching two crew members spar half-heartedly nearby.
Faking being calm you walk up to him, hands in your pockets. “Hey.”
Ace squints at you through the sunlight. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Nothing much,” you shrug and let your gaze drift before focusing back on Ace. “I was just wondering if you’d know anything about Wano food…”
Ace raises an eyebrow. “A little bit. Why? Are you planning on requesting it for dinner? You should talk to Thatch if that’s the case.”
“No,” you shake your head. “I want to make some for Izou.”
Now that gets his full attention. So, you continue explaining.
“He’s been off lately,” you say, sitting down beside Ace. “I thought… maybe if I make him something from home, I’ll help.”
Ace makes a face. “You’re gonna cook?”
“I’m not that bad.”
“You once burned water.”
“That was once,” you mutter. “I was tired.”
He snorts. “Alright, alright. At least now I know why you’re not asking Thatch. He’ll never allow you to use his kitchen. Let me think.” He chews on his lip for a second. “I remember him talking about some rice thing. With chicken and eggs. Uh… oya… oya… something.”
“Oyakodon?”
He snaps his fingers. “Yeah, that. Said his mom used to make it. Real warm comfort food kind of thing.”
You nod slowly, filing that away. “That sounds doable.”
_____________
You’ve never felt more determined—or more underqualified. Oyakodon. Chicken, eggs, rice. It sounds simple enough. Just three ingredients, right? How hard can it be?
So, you sneak into the kitchen late morning, when Thatch is off sparring with Vista. To you, the timing is perfect, because you’ve got a decent window before anyone notices.
The moment Ace mentioned that dish yesterday, something clicked. You don’t know anything about Wano—not really—but you know that kind of food. The kind that wraps you up, fills your lungs, warms your hands. It’s not just about taste. It’s about memory. Comfort. Care.
And Izou deserves that.
You rummage through Thatch’s pantry until you find rice…. Eggs… chicken… no. You open the fridge to have a look, but there’s no chicken either. Where you find some, however, is in the freezer. It’s frozen into a brick, so you leave it on the counter and stare at it like it’ll defrost faster that way.
But only a moment later you decide to leave the chicken alone and dig through drawers again for anything else you’ll need. A cutting board. A knife that’s probably too big. A pot. You’ve seen Thatch make this look easy a hundred times, but you’re already sweating and you haven’t even turned the stove on yet.
You hold the chicken up and poke it with your finger. Still solid. Not great. Then you glance around the kitchen. Still alone. So, with a deep breath, you roll up your sleeves.
Step one: Cook rice.
You dump a generous amount into a pot, rinse it half-heartedly, then eyeball the water level. You think there’s supposed to be a knuckle-measure thing, but you forgot which knuckle. You shrug and guess.
Close enough.
Next, you crack eggs into a bowl and whisk them with… something. Soy sauce? Maybe sugar? You throw in both. It smells strong, but maybe that’s what gives it flavor.
Then the chicken. You don’t have time to wait for it to thaw, so you start hacking at it with a smaller knife. It makes an awful sound. You slice it into thin, ugly pieces and toss them in a pan with oil.
As soon as the pan heats up, the chicken starts spitting.
You curse under your breath and jump back, nearly knocking over the rice pot. Smoke billows up, and you flap at it frantically with a towel. Spinning around, you scan the counter for anything to salvage, just as the door swings open.
Marco leans in, eyebrows raised, eyes drifting from the smoking stove to the eggs cracked unevenly on the floor and then to the raw chicken strewn across the counter like a battlefield. He says nothing for a long moment.
Then finally, dry and low: “Should I be worried?”
You blink and rush, “No, no! Totally under control.”
He blinks slowly, like he’s deciding if he wants to save you or just watch the chaos unfold. “You’re cooking for someone… or at someone?”
“For Izou.”
Instantly, Marco’s expression softens. Then, he steps fully into the kitchen, arms crossed. “That explains the effort… and the chaos.”
You scowl at him, brandishing your spoon like a weapon. “You can go now.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Far be it from me to interfere with a romantic kitchen disaster.”
“It’s not romantic.”
“Sure.” He turns, already halfway out the door. “Try not to burn the ship down.”
You mutter something rude under your breath and turn back to the pan. This is fine. It’s fine. You’re definitely not panicking. Even though the rice is bubbling weirdly. The chicken’s browning unevenly. The eggs might be overmixed. But it’s too late to back out now.
You’re making oyakodon… Or… something like it… And you’re not stopping until it’s on Izou’s plate!
So, you continue cooking, but as time goes on it becomes more and more apparent that this isn’t going well.
The rice is definitely not cooking right, because half of it is turning into mush, while the rest stays hard. And even though you try stirring it, poking it, and whispering encouraging words under your breath, it still ends up looking like it’s just resembling something that’s faintly rice.
Well… shit.
And unfortunately, the rice is not your only problem. The chicken still sizzles in the pan, browning too fast on one side and barely cooking on the other. You panic even so slightly and flip it with a fork only to yelp when some oil pops and kisses your wrist. You hiss, but shake it off, and toss in the egg mixture to try and salvage it.
Big mistake.
The egg hits the hot pan and immediately starts clumping in odd spots. You watch in horror as it turns from smooth and glossy to scrambled with brown edges. The soy-sugar combo caramelizes in the worst way, sticking to the bottom of the pan.
“No, no, no,” you mumble, trying to stir, but it’s already too late.
The smell hits you first, strong, sweet, and clearly burnt. Then you grab a second pan, toss in more egg, and this time try it slower. But this is when the rice boils over
You curse under your breath and rip the lid off, set it down somewhere on the counter, and try to save what’s left of the rice. It’s clumpy and uneven and smells faintly scorched.
So, naturally, you dump in a little soy sauce. For flavor. For... hydration?
It only makes it worse.
In the chaos, you step on something slippery and nearly faceplant into the counter. You catch yourself at the last second, knocking over a small jar of sugar that spills everywhere. Sugar and rice now coat the floor like some weird, crunchy beach.
So, you stop and take a breath. You’re fine. This is fine. Nothing’s actually on fire.
Yet.
And just as you manage to scrape your chicken-egg catastrophe into a bowl and start mixing the rice again, the door creaks open slowly. Naturally, you turn around and see Ace strolling in, munching on an apple. However, when he sees you and the chaos you’ve created he stops mid-bite.
“Oh…” he says with the blank tone of someone who clearly needs a moment to process what they’re seeing. “So, this is really happening.”
You glare at him. “Don’t start. Marco already made fun of me… I don’t need you to rip into me too.”
“Is that sugar on the floor?” he asks.
You ignore him.
He steps over the sticky patch, sniffs the air, and makes a face. “Smells like you dropped a soy sauce bottle…”
“I tried to fix it.”
Ace peeks at the pan and picks up a stray piece of chicken, popping it in his mouth, and instantly you swat at him with your spoon. “Stop eating it!”
He chews. Winces. “It’s got… personality.”
“Get out.”
“Nope,” he grins, hopping up to sit on the counter like this is a show. “This is far too entertaining to miss.”
You groan and grab a towel, starting to wipe at the spilled sugar. This is when behind you, something begins to hiss and you freeze. The second pan, the one you thought was off, is now steaming and boiling over, the egg mixture oozing out the sides, bubbling up like a thread.
Ace cough. “Uh…”
In the blink of an eye, you lunge for the pan, yanking it off the burner just as the egg mixture begins to blacken. Is it still edible? You stare at it for a moment until you hear Ace whistle low. “Impressive. You’ve got two disasters going at once.”
“I’m trying to do something nice!”
“I know,” he says, and his grin softens just a little. “It’s actually kind of sweet. In a tragic, destructive sort of way.”
You sigh and lean against the counter. “It’s not even going to taste right. I wanted it to feel like home.”
Ace shrugs. “Izou’s not expecting a miracle. He’s not even expecting anything. He’s just sad.”
You glance at the food on the counter. The rice is salvageable. The chicken-egg mess… might pass as edible.
So, you pull it all together the best you can, layered in a deep bowl with some sort of garnish Ace finds in the fridge. You’re 90% sure it’s not poisonous.
“You’re really gonna give that to him?” Ace asks, curious.
“I don’t have time to start over.”
He grins. “Bold of you to assume you should.”
You smack his arm and carry the bowl to the center counter like it’s something sacred. And that’s when Thatch walks in only to stop in the doorway. Instantly, his mouth opens… then closes… then opens again. “What the… What happened?!”
You immediately start talking. “I was careful…”
“CAREFUL?! The floor is sticky. The stove is… what is that smell?”
“It’s oyakodon,” you say, like naming it will make it real.
Finally, Thatch walks in, staring at everything like he’s trying to decide what to mourn first.
“My cutting board,” he whispers. “My pan.”
Ace leans over. “She made it for Izou.”
This is what gets Thatch to finally stop and blink. Seeing Thatch this still is both easing your nerves and tightening them. You just stand there for a moment, watching his mouth twitching like he’s about to say something else, but instead, he slowly walks forward and peers into the bowl that you’re carrying.
Then he takes a spoon, scoops a bite, and eats it.
The silence is deafening as you and Ace watch Thatch chewing. And when he swallows it he grimaces so hard it looks painful. “You can’t give this to Izou.”
You frown. “Wow, okay.”
“Don’t get mad. I’m not judging the thought.” He points the spoon at you like a lecture’s incoming. “The thought? Sweet. Heartfelt. Makes me almost forgive you for ruining my kitchen.”
“Almost?”
“But this dish?” He sighs. “This would break a man’s spirit further. This would end him.”
You cross your arms. “I tried.”
“I know.” He sets the bowl down, gives you a look, then mutters, “Get a cutting board. We’re doing it again.”
You blink. “You’re helping?”
“I have to,” he snaps, already grabbing ingredients. “If I let you give that to Izou, I’d have to live with the guilt… and with the fear of you wanting to redeem yourself and return.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, watching him work for a second. Like always Thatch moves fast and precisely. Moreover, he talks the whole time, ranting about pan temperatures and rice rations and seasoning balance, but it’s more bark than bite.
You grab what he asks for, follow his instructions, and somewhere between washing the eggs and slicing better cuts of chicken, you realize you’re not mad anymore. It stung at first, hearing him say your dish wasn’t good enough, but now? Now you’re kind of grateful, because this time… it smells right.
And if this is for Izou, then you want it to be good. Really good. Even if it took burning down half the kitchen to get there.
And eventually, you start portioning everything carefully into a small bento box that Thatch pulled from the back of one of the cupboards. You layer the rice first, add the gently simmered chicken and egg mixture on top, making sure it’s not too wet. Then Thatch tosses in a few pickled vegetables on the side and you wipe the edges of the box, making sure it looks clean and neat.
It smells incredible. Warm. Rich. Nothing like your first disaster. So, you snap the lid shut and tie a cloth around it with a loose knot. The whole thing is small, compact, and… personal.
And just as you’re about to pick it up, Ace walks back in (you haven’t even noticed he left), probably drawn by the smell. “Oh damn. That smells ten times better than whatever you cooked before.”
Eying him weary you lift the bento box, backing away a step as Ace approaches. “Don’t even think about it, Ace.”
“I just want one bite.”
“It’s for Izou.”
“One bite, come on…”
Instantly, you shift the box behind your back, putting yourself between Ace and the counter like you’re guarding treasure. This is when Ace finally pauses, grinning. “Wow. You’re serious.”
You don’t budge. “Dead serious.”
He throws his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. Geez. I’m not gonna steal your love bento.”
You start to object, but Thatch cuts in with a laugh behind you. You glance back. He’s watching you both with a fond smile, shaking his head as he wipes his hands on a dish towel.
“You really care about him, huh?” he says casually.
You turn, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. “…Yeah,” you say. “I do.”
Thatch nods. “Then let’s make sure it stays warm.”
Then Thatch walks over and hands you a small cloth bag and a tiny paper note. “Put this in with it. I wrote the ingredients down. So, if he wants it again, you can actually make it edible next time.”
You laugh. “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I call it realistic optimism.”
You tie the box up in the bag, tuck the note inside, and hold it close to your chest.
_____________
You find Izou at sunset again. The same spot as always, leaning against the railing, one arm resting on the wood, eyes fixed on the horizon like he’s trying to read something only he can see.
You approach slowly, the tied bento box cradled carefully in your hands. Obviously, Izou hears your footsteps and glances back. Then his expression shifts from passive to curious in that small, subtle way only Izou can manage.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hey,” he replies, voice low and steady. “You’ve been busy.”
You step up beside him, hesitating just a second before holding the box out to him. “I made you something.”
He doesn’t take it right away. He looks at you first, eyes searching your face. “What is it?”
“Oyakodon. Kind of.” You glance down at it. “Well, real oyakodon, actually. Thatch stepped in and saved me before I could… destroy it again.”
Izou raises an eyebrow. “Again?”
You grimace. “There was a failed version. And a mess. And maybe three near-fires.”
He snorts. “That explains the smoke I smelled earlier.”
“Yep.”
There’s a beat of silence, but then he takes the box from your hands gently, like it’s something delicate. Unties the cloth and lifts the lid. The scent hits him immediately—rich, warm, balanced. His eyes soften. He doesn’t say anything for a moment.
You start fidgeting. “I know it’s not exactly the same. Probably not even close to what you’re used to. But I wanted to do something. For you. You’ve just seemed… off lately. And I figured if I can’t bring Wano to you, maybe I can bring you a piece of what you miss.”
He looks at the food again. Then back at you.
Still quiet.
You shift your weight. “I mean, if it’s weird or too much or…”
“It’s perfect,” he says, cutting you off gently.
You blink.
He sits down on one of the nearby crates, opens the box fully, and picks up a pair of chopsticks tucked inside. The first bite is slow, thoughtful. He chews, swallows. Then he exhales, this quiet, soft sound that sounds like relief.
“I haven’t had this in years,” he murmurs.
“Is it… close to how you remember it?”
He nods, then pauses, correcting himself. “It’s not exactly the same. But that’s kind of the point.”
He takes another bite. “It’s different. New. But it feels like home. Because of why you made it.”
You sit beside him, not too close, but close enough. You watch him eat slowly, savoring every bite. No talking for a while, just the hush of waves against the ship and the occasional creak of wood under your feet. The sky keeps changing, slipping into that deeper gold before twilight.
“I used to eat this with my sister,” he says after a long pause. “Kiku. Our mother made it every time the rain kept us indoors. It was one of the only meals we all sat down for, no matter what was happening.”
You don’t interrupt. You let him speak. It’s rare when he opens doors like this.
“Sometimes I fear I’ll start forgetting their faces,” he says softly. “But I’ll always remember this dish. The smell. The warmth.”
You swallow, heart tugging. “I’m glad I got it right.”
“You didn’t.” He glances at you. “Thatch got it right.”
You laugh. “Fair.”
“But you’re the reason I’m eating it at all.” He sets the chopsticks down and looks at you again, more directly now. “That matters more.”
There’s something in his expression that wasn’t there before. Something unguarded. You’re not sure what to do with it, but it makes your chest feel too tight in the best kind of way.
“…Thank you,” he says.
You smile. “Anytime.”
You stay there beside him after the last bite’s gone and the sunset has started to fade. And eventually the bento box sits empty on his lap, tied back up with care. Izou wipes his mouth with the cloth tucked inside and lays it down gently. His movements are slow, and more deliberate. Like he’s trying to make the moment last a little longer.
Neither of you speaks right away. The wind’s grown gentler now, brushing through his loose hair and across your cheek like the ocean itself is trying to lull you both into stillness.
It’s peaceful. Comfortable. But your heart’s not still.
It’s been skipping ever since he smiled at you like that. Ever since he told you the dish made him feel like he wasn’t homesick. Ever since he looked at you and saw more than just a crewmate.
You want to say something. Anything. But the words catch in your throat. And then Izou breaks the silence, but not with words. Just the soft shift of his hand brushing against yours where it rests on the railing.
You glance down.
He doesn’t move away and neither do you. And when your fingers tentatively curl around his, he lets out a breath through his nose. Almost like a laugh. His thumb drags over your knuckles, slow and warm.
“You know you didn’t have to do all that,” Izou says. “I really hope you know that.”
“I know,” you whisper. “I wanted to.”
He looks at you then—really looks. Eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. Like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect but maybe always hoped for.
“…You care a lot,” he says quietly.
You nod. “Yeah. I do when it comes to you.”
Suddenly the space between you tightens. Not in a dramatic way. Just… naturally. Like gravity is working a little harder tonight. Like the distance between your shoulders doesn’t make sense anymore. And then his hand squeezes yours gently. “I think I’ve been trying not to notice that.”
Your heart stutters. “And now?” you ask.
He smiles faintly. “Now I don’t want to pretend I haven’t noticed.”
Next, he’s leaning in, and you meet him halfway like there’s something invisible pulling you closer to Izou until your lips meet. It’s soft at first… tentative. Like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. But you don’t. You press in instead, and his hand slides up to cradle your cheek, steady and warm.
His lips move slowly against yours, coaxing, savoring. There’s a quiet patience in the way he kisses you, like he’s waited long enough and now he doesn’t want to rush a single second. His thumb brushes along your jaw as his other hand settles at your waist, grounding you.
And then you feel it… How his tongue, slowly and deliberately flicks along your bottom lip, asking you to open. So, you part your lips for him, and he deepens the kiss without hesitation, mouth warm and sure against yours.
Your fingers find the edge of his kimono, curling into the fabric to pull him closer, needing him near. He responds with a quiet breath, barely a sound, but it’s full of yearning. Then his body leans even more into yours as the kiss grows deeper, slower but more intense, like neither of you wants to let go.
And then you hear footsteps.
“Hey, Izou, did she bring you… Oh.”
You both freeze for a beat before separating and looking anywhere but at each other or Thatch, who stands just a few steps away, a shit-eating grin already forming on his face. “Wow… and here I thought getting my kitchen clean again was supposed to be the highlight of the night.”
Izou doesn’t move, still close, but he lifts his head just slightly, eyes flicking to Thatch with calm irritation. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Thatch says, clearly lying as he steps back. “I just came to see if she really brought you the bento I helped her with, but this? Much better show. Don’t stop on my account.”
You groan, pushing your face into your hands, trying to hide the growing blush. Izou exhales a slow sigh through his nose trying not to let his own embarrassment show, but thankfully Thatch takes the hint and turns around, already walking away.
And then silence returns, but the moment’s changed. You risk a glance up at Izou, and he’s already looking at you. No. Not just looking. He’s smiling. Not the sharp kind he wears for the world. It’s quiet, full of affection, full of you.
And this is when you know you managed to do what you wanted to in the first place.
Izou is not homesick anymore.