Chapter Text
Zoro should’ve reached Drum Island Resort before sunset. That had been the plan. Simple. Even he shouldn’t have been able to mess it up.
Yet here he is, boots crunching in the snow, breath fogging in front of his face in the cold night air. The wind nips at his ears and he shifts the straps of his backpack, feeling the slight sway of the skis balanced over one shoulder. He lets out a resigned sigh.
He fishes his phone out of his pocket one more time just to double-check that it’s still very much dead. Perona’s gonna give him so much shit for this. He looks ahead again and at least the building finally comes into view.
However, the resort looks… off. Buildings slightly shifted, some lights missing, doors where they shouldn’t be. Great. They must have rearranged everything again. He was supposed to meet Mihawk and the pink menace by the entrance a couple of hours ago, but the shadows are empty and there’s no way for him to call either of them now.
As he approaches the place, he spots a figure leaning near the back door of a building. After a few steps, he suddenly finds himself near a head of blond hair catching the light that comes from the inside, cigarette smoke curling lazily around him. The uniform fits him perfectly—crisp chef’s whites and a deep blue apron, clean, effortlessly put-together—it makes him look… untouchable, in a way.
Zoro’s gaze unconsciously lingers longer than it should. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, boots crunching in the snow, a faint tension in his shoulders easing only slightly as he draws even closer.
Zoro walks right up to him, careful not to stumble on the uneven terrain. The blond lifts his gaze, assessing him with a sharp, inquisitive stare. His lips curl faintly in an almost condescending smile, but no words come out for a full minute.
“Can I help you?” he finally asks, voice calm and precise. Zoro notices a small glint of gold coming from his apron pocket. A neatly tucked ashtray.
“Uh…” Zoro blinks. “Is this where the registration is?” His tone is flat, deadpan, posture stiff. He’s almost a hundred percent sure it isn’t, but this might get him somewhere.
The blond laughs softly, the sound snappy in the quiet night. Zoro flusters, annoyed by the mocking and even more annoyed by the fact that he thinks there’s a nice ring to it. “Depends. Are you here to sign in as the new dishwasher?” He gestures behind him with a shit-eating grin. “Because this—” a thumb points to the door behind him “—is the kitchen’s backdoor.”
Zoro’s pride pricks, shrugging as he watches the blond take a new drag of his cigarette. “Not my fault they decided to rearrange the facilities.”
The blond’s eyes flick over him again, lingering on his hair, his eye scar, his earrings. Recognition sparks in those blue eyes, but there’s no question, no hesitation.
“You’re Roronoa Zoro.” The words come out confident, smooth, like he’s stating a fact rather than asking. “You’re here to compete this year.”
Zoro’s expression doesn’t waver, but he feels like he’s being sized up. The pause the cook takes and the way he scans him up and down once more says that he doesn’t know much more than that.
Then the blond smirks, a small upward curl that is half teasing, half impressed. “Thought I’d seen that mosshead somewhere.”
Zoro’s eyebrow shoots up. Mosshead? Great.
What does this curly-browed jackass know anyway? He’s just annoying, distracting… and maybe a little attractive.
He’s about to reply with a nickname of his own invention, but a low growl coming from his stomach cuts through his resolve, forcing a small grimace he tries to hide behind a shrug. Damn it. He’s hungry, tired, and oddly aware of how the residual warmth of the kitchen seeps into his shoulders.
“Hungry, huh? Kitchen’s already closed. Good luck getting anything from the menu right now besides a sad sandwich.” The blond tilts his head slightly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his uncovered eye before snubbing the cigarette into his ashtray.
“I’ll just get room service later,” Zoro mutters, voice flat.
“Sure, hope it’s a miracle.” He muses sarcastically and immediately holds the door open, gesturing toward the visible counter. “Just come in. I’ll reheat something for you before you starve out here.”
He’ll make the time to argue later, so Zoro does as told.
The warmth from the deserted kitchen hits him like a wave. Steam curls from a pot of what seems to be fish stew and right next to it there’s a container with leftover rice. Herbs and the faint ghost of roasted turkey linger in the air.
Zoro feels his tense muscles relax slightly, loosening the strap of his backpack and letting himself fall into a high stool near the counter. He quickly catches some cutlery being slid to him, eye flicking to the blond as he moves around the place with quiet precision.
Every wipe of the counter, every aligned dish, the way everything’s set shows deep care. Thoughtfulness. This sly jackass sure knows what he’s doing. He stops thinking altogether the second a steaming plate is placed in front of him.
“Eat.” A serious expression washes over the cook’s face, but there’s an edge of kindness to it.
Zoro shovels reheated fish stew and rice into his mouth, barely pausing to breathe. It’s good. Better than good. It’s amazing, actually. So amazing that he might have groaned one or two times as he downed it all in practically one sitting.
His eye then follows the blond’s movements around him. The light glints off his hair and, as he approaches with a satisfied expression, he can pick up a faint scent of citrus and smoke that clings to him. He really doesn’t know what to make of the slight pull he suddenly feels in his chest. A spark of curiosity comes to life within him to find out if he really is as untouchable as he seems.
“So,” the blond ultimately says, leaning casually against the counter, fingers gracefully brushing over a neat stack of bowls, “what’s your style? You’re a freeskier, right?”
Zoro leans back, fork in the air and plate completely empty. Finally, something he can actually brag about. “Slopestyle. Three-pole style.”
The blond raises a curled eyebrow. “Three… poles?”
“Yeah. It’s my thing. Three’s my lucky number. Earrings match. Tricks built around it. Took years to perfect.” Zoro lists succinctly and shifts slightly, drumming his fingers against the table as he imagines his moves in the air, feeling the familiar weight of poles in his hands and skis under his feet even while sitting there.
“Huh.” The cook looks up, trying to imagine what that might look like. A finger hooks against his trimmed goatee, his smirk is subtle, but amused. “Must be a sight to behold. Didn’t think anyone could make that kind of thing look… interesting.”
Zoro shrugs, trying to make it seem like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Inside, he’s quietly pleased by the acknowledgement and the fact that he didn’t get told to quit that nonsense, like he’s heard hundreds of times before.
“Do you ski just for the hustle?” the blond asks while he stores some containers in the fridge, voice casual but sharp.
“It’s what I’ve always done. I compete almost all year round.” Zoro tilts his head, studying him in return. The cook nods in understanding. “You?”
He receives a small chuckle this time. “Ski’s not my hustle if that’s what you’re asking”. The cook crosses his arms over his chest. “But I do ski cross. It’s my old man’s style. No poles.” He gestures to reveal an open palm sliding down. “Fastest way down a mountain. I’d smoke a freestyler like you in a heartbeat.”
Zoro’s competitive instinct spikes. He shifts forward slightly, imagining the turns, the speed, the feel of carving down the slope in perfect balance. He really wouldn’t mind seeing what pretty-brow is capable of. “Is that a challenge?”
Blondie smirks and raises his index finger, reading his eagerness like an open book. “It’s a statement. But if you really want a challenge, catch me on my day off.” His uncovered eye does something that Zoro is almost sure was a wink. “Some of us actually have full-time jobs.”
Zoro blinks and rises from his seat. “You’re on, cook. I’d like to see you try.” He grabs his stuff from the floor and tries to make his way towards the exit.
He hears a sigh and senses the blond reaching over the counter, grabbing his arm and lightly guiding him back. “Wrong way, Mosshead, unless you’re still hungry and want to raid my pantry.” He tilts his head in the opposite direction. “Front desk’s that way.”
He just rolls his eye and gets going without another word. Following the cook’s nudge and guidance, Zoro maneuvers around the kitchen, down the hallway and finally reaches the softly lit front desk. He sets his skis aside, still feeling a faint hum of adrenaline from the unexpected interaction.
A small amount of minutes later, he’s pressing the key to his room against the lock, a small flash of green letting him in.
Zoro drops onto the bed, giving in to the warmth sinking in his shoulders. He pulls out his phone and plugs it in to charge it, finally reviving.
A flurry of messages from Perona instantly floods his screen. Zoro braces himself and opens their chat so that she knows he’s seen them.
Zoro: Alive and here.
No response, but she reads it right away. He doesn’t need to ask to know that she’s furious, but that’s a problem for tomorrow.
He opens a new chat, convinced it would be more interesting than the last.
Zoro: Already here.
Zoro: Oi.
Zoro: Could you have the lifts ready early? Hypothetically.
Luffy: OH HOHO! For a date, huh???
Zoro: Not a date. Mind your business.
Luffy: Sure thing, three-poles champion 😏 just let me know when.
Zoro throws the phone aside, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. Not a date. Just… a race. Maybe.
And then the weight of his own stupidity hits him like a ski to the face.
He doesn’t even know the cook’s name. Nor when his days off are. Nor when he’ll see him again.
He lets out an exasperated sigh and covers his face with an arm.
Maybe moss really does grow inside his head.