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“Zoro,
I wish I was able to say these things to your face, but I just can’t. I’ll try to keep it short so that your moss-brain can keep up. Don’t you ever, ever pull this shit again. I don’t know if you can even imagine what I felt when I found you there, in a pool of blood. I just can’t understand why you took my place. You were giving up your fucking dream.
I’d want to say that I’m angry at you, but that wouldn’t be true. The truth is, until I saw you awake, I feared you were going to die. And I couldn't handle the thought of it, knowing it could have been me, if you had just let me.
Needless to say, keep this letter to yourself. You don’t have to answer, but I had to get this off my chest, or I’d never be able to treat you the same way again. Promise me this won’t ever happen another time. I think I’ve earned it.
—Sanji”
It's late in the evening, and soon they will reach the Red Line. The air is heavy with humidity, making his hair frizzy. Sanji sighs, turning the piece of paper over in his hands. The handwriting is shakier than he’d like. He bites his lip and wonders if Zoro will make fun of him, for this, for this weakness and, maybe, for the concern and affection he's showing.
In the end, he convinces himself that no, it's that serious. No space left for jokes.
Heart pounding, he gathers his courage and grabs the bottle of good sake, the really good one he had hidden in the back of the kitchen cupboard for a special occasion. This is hardly the time to start drinking again (not that Chopper would ever allow it), so it's more of a symbolic gesture than anything else.
Zoro’s resting in the infirmary, and Sanji can only hope that he is actually asleep. If he had to explain what he's doing, he might as well throw himself overboard. Chopper has gone to bed too, Nami’s orders, since things are now stable. Can’t do your job properly if you’re exhausted, she said, and she’s right. He would normally be the one giving this kind of advice, but he hasn’t been able to focus on anything except Zoro lately, it seems.
Thankfully, the infirmary door doesn’t creak when he pushes it open. He leans against the frame, peering inside. Zoro really does seem to be sleeping like a log. Sanji looks at him and feels something stir in his chest.
He watches Zoro’s chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm (he’d never imagined such a sight could be so comforting) and takes in his face, his complexion pinker, healthier than the past few days, though his eyes are still marked by deep, dark circles. For a fleeting moment, he feels the urge to press a kiss to his forehead, and quickly shoves the thought away, embarrassed.
Stop watching, he reminds himself, just do it. He sets the sake bottle down on the nightstand and, as cautiously as possible, tries to slip the letter between his arm and the blanket, so it won’t be left in plain sight.
Even when convalescent, however, Zoro’s senses seem alert: Sanji is startled by his body twitching, as he squints one eye.
“Curls?” he murmurs, confused, his voice thick with sleep.
Sanji curses himself more for waking him than for being caught red-handed. He tiptoes away, only whispering, “Go back to sleep,” as he closes the door behind him, his heart racing.
Once under the covers, in the men’s room, he can do nothing but stare at the empty bed above his, listing every ingredient and passage of a thousand recipes, hoping it might calm him down.
The next morning, he’s rinsing the breakfast cups when he senses a familiar presence behind him. He doesn’t even have time to react before those green locks have already disappeared out the galley door. His heart skips a beat when he notices the envelope lying on the counter. He recognizes it: it’s the same one he handed over the night before, now just more crumpled. His stomach twists for a moment at the thought that he… returned it. He can’t make sense of it. Not replying, he would have understood. But this?
He extracts the letter, almost masochistically, and only then he realizes he's gotten it all wrong: on the back of the paper, there’s a response. He opens it frantically.
Sanji’s head spins, and he has to force himself to focus on the words, not helped by his companion’s slight dysgraphia.
“Sanji,
I knew what I was sacrificing and I was not going to let this kill me; you were, and I'm not saying that in terms of strength. I was determined to fight, you were committed to dying. I couldn’t let you do that. You don’t owe me anything, and for the record I’d do it again, if it meant that all of you were safe.
So I can’t really promise. Especially since we’re about to enter the New World and you know everything is gonna be different. But I’ll try, if you try to knock it off with the martyr-like tendencies.
—Zoro”
He rereads every sentence three times, for good measure, to engrave them in his memory; he then folds it again and again, until it fits in his jacket's pocket. He doesn't say anything, his mind blank and painfully full at the same time. He resumes the washing.
His eyes sting. He blames it on the steam coming from the sink.
Only two weeks later, stuck on a damn island in the middle of nowhere, he allows himself to cry about it.
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋
It's been a year. He's training, he's getting stronger by the day. He also has plenty of time to ponder, maybe a little too much.
On the hardest days, he desperately clings to the silent promise they made to Luffy and reminds himself that it's going to be worth it. A sentiment, he is sure, they're all sharing.
He thinks about his captain every day. And soon, he comes to realize, about him. He contemplates their complex yet spontaneous relationship, realizing just how much they are interwoven and complementary to each other. It has always been like this, he believes, but it's become so much more intense after all that went down.
He wonders if everything will be the same when they meet again.
Somewhere far away, the other is thinking the same thing.
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋
Being reunited with the crew is at once strange and deeply natural: familiar looks, places, smells, except nothing is exactly the same as before. Sometimes it feels as if everything that happened before their two years apart was a vivid dream; not in the sense that they don’t remember it, quite the opposite, but in the way that everything feels so… tangible, now. Luffy’s dream is the absolute priority, with all its implications.
Sanji doesn’t know what's gotten to him tonight: he's fairly wine-drunk, sitting at the dining table alone, the light of a single candle stretching along the walls. The ashtray is filled to the brim. You're so gonna regret this, a voice in his head says. Good thing he doesn't like being told what to do.
The letter in front of him holds much less turmoil than the last one, but still the same earnestness. The chef finds himself unhappy with the handwriting once again; this time, at least, he can blame it on the alcohol.
“Zoro,
Don't freak out. Nothing's wrong. Actually, I'm not even sure why I'm writing to you. Maybe it's just that, as much as it pains me to admit it, I feel like you're the only one that will get me.
I think you'll agree that it's been two hard years and it will only get harder, from now on. The New World, like you reminded me a while ago, is entirely different from what we've ever experienced before. I don't fear it, though. I'm sure you don't either. Not when we're all together. It's just… this is it, you know?
The Wings of the future Pirate King, huh. Two guys from the East Blue,” which is a lie, Sanji knows, though to be fair that's where his soul belongs, “who didn't even want to be in a pirate crew, have gone this far. Following a boy with a heart bigger than the sun.”
Sanji taps the pen rhythmically on the table. There are so many more things he'd want to say. What the fuck happened to that eye. What it has been like for him, stranded on another island. If he has ever thought of him during all that time.
He sighs instead.
“You're gonna give me so much shit for this, but I have to say, I'm glad that it's you, that I'm doing this with. And I've missed kicking your butt.
Hope you'll like the sake. If you don't, I'll beat the crap out of you. That shit's expensive.
Take care.
—Sanji”
It's only the second time he's recklessly done something like this, but the sake already feels like a ritual. A token of affection, that he knows he won't refuse.
He sets them up in the crow’s nest.
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋
The answer comes fashionably late, after some days. He's begun to think that maybe, the voice in his head was right.
Zoro hasn't really been acting weird or anything, he's just been shooting more glances at him when he thinks he isn't looking, but Sanji's aware. So he's sure he's read the letter; he only needs to figure out if he took it badly.
The swordsman finally leaves it on the table during nighttime (presumably before night watch, Sanji guesses, to avoid prying eyes, knowing he'll be the first one to enter the kitchen at dawn), pressed under the empty bottle. The sight of it alone makes his heart flutter for a second. It's not dread, like the first time, it's anticipation. That's Zoro’s way of showing he appreciated the gift. A good sign.
It's a brand new piece of paper as well, he notes.
“Sanji,
Who's kicking who's ass?
You must’ve been drunk when you wrote this. I can smell the wine, you know.
Anyways, I agree with you, on everything. Shit's getting real. We must stay focused on our goal.
I am indeed gonna give you so much shit about it, love-cook. Same here, though.
Take care as well.
—Zoro”
Sanji smiles.
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋
The thought strikes him as he's mindlessly chopping greens to make soup. Must've been the color.
I'm in love with him.
Eugh. The fuck? For a moment, Sanji wonders if he's accidentally using hallucinogenics as an ingredient.
Unfortunately, it all checks out: the pleasant tightness in his chest when he catches his smile, the affection towards him, so different from the fondness he feels for his crewmates. Had he not spent two years in Ivankov's presence, he would be much more in denial about it. Now he's come to terms with his bisexuality, therefore that's not a problem. The issue is that he's fallen for Zoro, of all people.
Actually, no, the real question would be: how does one not fall for Zoro. He was handsome before, but now he's an Adonis, with chiseled features and that scarred eye that adds an aura of mystery. And then he's strong, and caring, and so kind and—
God, Sanji thinks, I'm down bad. It's almost pathetic.
But of course it had to be him: they are the two sides of the same coin. Zoro is the same as him, and all that Sanji isn't, at the same time. They fill the gaps for each other. There is a connection between them that he has never found with another person.
What now? He considers the limited options. He can't just tell him. He doesn't know if Zoro likes men, hell, he doesn't even know if he likes people or just swords. And besides, even if he did, he doesn't know if Zoro would ever like him like that.
He sighs. He values their current relationship too much to risk messing it up — or worse, disrupting the crew’s dynamic.
He'll just keep pining. He's good at that. He's spent most of his life longing for things he couldn't have.
This time, it's just about love. Soon, as the whole shitshow that is Whole Cake Island unfolds, it'll be about freedom.
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋
Victory, in Wano, tastes sweeter than ambrosia. Luffy’s an emperor. It fills them with such pride. Every hardship they went through seems so trivial, now that they're here.
The warmth he feels in his chest is reassuring. He's still himself. He's still human. He can still love.
He looks at Zoro, laughing heartily with the locals, a jug in his hand. Their deal didn't have to go through, not yet, at least. He feels crushing guilt about asking him to carry such a burden. However…
Sanji’s never been selfish, and he's still not sure if he's allowed to want something. But for once, just this once, if it had to be like this, he'd wished to die in his arms. In the arms of the person that wouldn't leave a single scratch on his body, on his precious hands. In the arms of the man he loves.
He suddenly catches Zoro's gaze in the crowd and they lock eyes; for a moment, it is as if everything around them had disappeared.
Something between them has inevitably shifted.
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋
It's been awkward, for a lack of better word, over the past few days. During meals, they don't talk directly; Sanji tried, at first, but soon got the hint. When they pass next to each other on the deck, the air between them feels scorching hot. They aren't even fighting.
And then, one morning, he opens the kitchen's cupboard to find a bottle of sake he surely doesn't remember putting there. He checks the label: this one's for cooking, not for drinking. From one of Wano’s best distilleries.
Heat spreads through every inch of his body. He knows what's coming.
He tentatively fumbles around the shelf until the unmistakable texture of paper hits his fingers.
Finally.
His hands are shaking.
“Sanji,
I’m not good at this kind of stuff. But I think, at this point, that this is the right way to go about it.
I don't care about your past or about a family you haven't deemed important enough to mention over three years. You're the Strawhats shitty cook. That's all I need to know about you.”
Sanji’s vision blurs with tears he doesn't try to hold back.
“I can’t, and don’t want to stop you from doing whatever you want with your life, but if you ever have to leave again one day, just make sure it’s for a good reason. And allow people that care about you to help.
All of this to say,” and Sanji can clearly see that the ink changes color from this point on, as if the rest had been written at a different time, “I don’t want to know the reason behind the promise you made me swear. But I do believe I have the right to ask why you chose me.
Yours,
—Zoro”
Sanji gasps at the new sign-off. His mind is already jumping through hoops, but he tries not to misread the signals. After all, the priority lies elsewhere. He knew the question was coming, yet he's not sure he'll find the right words.
So he's sitting at the dining table once again, the pen in his hand and another shitload of cigarettes. The whole day has passed and he can see, through the portholes, that it's a beautiful starry night outside.
“Zoro,
Thank you.”
He could say so much more, about how healing it is to be reminded of your place in the world, by the people you care the most about. He doesn't have to, though, because Zoro knows that's what he needed to hear. Zoro knows him.
“You’ve asked me a hard question. The answer isn’t simple. I will say that you’re the only one I could ever trust with my true self, and the only one whose blade I’d ever accept to die by.
Of course, I hope it never comes to that. But if it did, I know you’d keep your word.
It could only ever be you.
Yours,
–Sanji”
Somehow, wearing his heart on his sleeve like this feels more intimate than just replying, “because I love you”. He folds it neatly; as he exits the galley, he reflects on where to put it this time, since Zoro’s not on night watch tonight. No, Zoro's not on night watch tonight, and apparently he's not sleeping either, because he's standing in front of him, leaning on the railing.
Sanji stops in his tracks, as his stomach flips. Zoro turns to look at him, wide-eyed, alternating his gaze between his face and the hand holding the envelope, and for a second Sanji's convinced that he's blushing.
He muses over what the fuck he's supposed to do now and ultimately follows his instinct. He just goes up to him and, under stupefied gaze, hands him the letter. The tension is palpable. As Zoro retrieves it, his fingers brush faintly over Sanji’s, sending a shiver down his spine.
“Here,” he mumbles, before walking back to where he came from, as casually as he can, except he's sure he's about to implode. He closes the door behind him without locking it and lights himself a cigarette, resting against the counter. Suddenly, a singular knot in the wooden floorboards seems extremely interesting.
All he can do now is wait.
No matter how Zoro will react: he's aware that there's no coming back now; something is about to change. And Sanji doesn't want to get his hopes up, he really doesn't, because he's not ready for that kind of heartbreak, but if he's reading the room correctly maybe—
That's when the door swings open, and the cig almost falls from Sanji’s mouth. Zoro’s body's backlit, illuminated by the moon. He looks like a god.
He quickly steps forward, until he's facing the blonde, inches away from him, a single drop of sweat glistening on his forehead. He's still holding the familiar piece of paper in his hands, his expression unreadable.
Sanji's choked up. He feels as if his heart is about to explode.
“You're fucking crazy,” Zoro sighs.
Then they're kissing.
It's raw and desperate and sweet altogether, and it's all that Sanji has yearned for all this time. Zoro gently cups his cheek with his free hand, while Sanji slides his fingers through Zoro's hair. They deepen the kiss, Sanji’s tongue sliding in the other's mouth, drawing a surprised yet pleased gasp from him. It's them, it's them only, right now. They're not in the galley anymore, instead floating in a warm sea.
They part for a second to catch their breath, locking their eyes. No need for words this time. Then they find each other’s lips again, slower and tender. He could get used to it, he thinks. He doesn't even realize he's crying until Zoro pulls away.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes. Just… happy. Kinda overwhelmed.”
“At least I'm sure it's you.”
Sanji lets out a bittersweet laugh, blessed to be here, in the moment. It's not going to be easy, he knows. He is not going to be easy. The future's uncertain: he’s still not sure if it will always be himself, or if his shitty past will betray him again. He asks himself, for a second, if he really deserves this love. If he's worth all the hassle he's putting Zoro through.
But when Zoro’s arms pull him into a tight embrace, he forgets every doubt.
I'm glad that it's you, that I'm doing this with
It could only ever be you
It has always been you