Chapter Text
Zoro had never been with very many people in his life.
That’s not to say he had never been with anybody. During his days of wandering around by himself, he found company in people now and then. However, it never lasted long. It never bothered him. He wasn’t much for such sappy things like ‘love’ and ‘settling.’ After all, it would be hard to be with someone while he was becoming the World’s Greatest Swordsman. So, he settled for the occasional connections he found with people in closed rooms. Connections that would remain buried and forgotten the next morning. He had no problem with this setup. However, that changed after he joined Luffy.
To be more specific, after he met a certain prissy-pants cook.
All of a sudden, his thoughts were consumed with things that had never crossed his mind before. What would the cook’s skin feel like when he brushed a finger across the man’s cheek? How would he react? Would he get angry and throw a kick at him as he usually did? What would it feel like to hold his hand? How would his lips feel against his own? How would his skin feel against his?
But Zoro was never one for words. So he stayed silent.
Instead, he accepted the banter they shared. The insults. The remarks. The fighting. It felt natural. It felt safe.
Unspoken.
Anyone would deem the word to be the perfect definition of the relationship between the cook and the swordsman.
There were never soft words shared between him and the swirly-browed cook. Just sharp remarks, heavy blows, and silent understanding. Anything close to softness was saved for their other crew members—not each other. Never each other.
That worked with the swordsman. His forte was never words, but actions. His love was shown in the way he constantly kept an eye on the crew; in the way he would stand there as a stone for them to lean on. He was the pillar for the crew. Always there, and never-ending.
But the cook never leaned on him. He never needed to. Sanji was his own pillar. One that was similar but different from Zoro’s, all at the same time, but just as strong nevertheless. While Zoro watched, the cook provided. His hands provided the food that the crew loved so much. His hands held and carried the struggles of his crew members. He provided never-ending love and comfort to the crew. And that’s just what Sanji did. Provide.
Love.
He never stopped loving. He was the epitome of feelings and was ever so human. And yet, it felt like that love could never reach Zoro. They were both strong, never-moving pillars. But that also meant they could never cross paths. Instead, the two could only share a silent understanding with each other. They were the two protectors of their crew. Of their captain. No one could see these pillars fall.
But, in the night, when no one was there to watch these pillars, maybe one of them shifted a little closer. They never named it, what they shared, but it existed. Nights when the struggles of their battles weighed too heavily, they would find each other in the galley. There, they would have a shared understanding different from their usual one. Instead of being the protectors, they allowed themselves to lean on each other.
It was never said in words. Never in words. But rather in actions. In the way, the cook would set a bottle out for the swordsman before lying down across the floor. In the way the swordsman took over the dishes, despite it not being his turn to do so.
In rare moments, when the swordsman had a little too much liquid courage and when the chef was just far too gone in exhaustion, they would sit together. Once in a blue moon, during these times, the swordsman would massage the knots out of the chef's back. More often than not, the chef would help the swordsman trim his hair. They never said a single word during these escapades. They spoke equally as much about them afterwards.
These moments were sacred and to be cherished. Not talked about.
The war was hard. Everyone on the crew had sustained an injury of some kind, physical or mental. Zoro had sustained the most amount of physical damage. Between broken bones and literally meeting death, he hadn’t fared too well. He had spent weeks recovering, and that left the Strawhat crew stranded at Wano until they could all heal back up. Through the partying and the gifts, they found they couldn’t complain.
Zoro never did well with resting, though.
It took him a while to find the kitchen in the place they were staying. The place was only slightly smaller than Mihawk’s castle, but just like his castle, the rooms moved around at random. Once finally reaching the room, he quickly began to scour around for a bottle of sake. It felt like hours as he continued to open the dozens of cabinets they had in the kitchen. It was far bigger than the one they had on the ship.
This whole place must be cursed. These damn cabinets are shuffling as well.
“The hell are you doing?” Had it been an average day, Zoro probably would have known the person was there. However, almost dying does make it slightly harder to detect others, even for an expert like him. But, injured or not, he knew that voice. He allowed himself a glance, and as expected, there stood the irritating swirly-browed cook. He was dressed in the same kimono he had been wearing when they worked together to save Toko. He felt the same way now that he did then. He could feel his cheeks heat up slightly, his heartbeat quicken, and his thoughts couldn’t stray from the ethereal look the cook held. Perhaps it’s because he hadn’t seen the man in so long.
“Getting a drink.” He said, pulling himself out of his thoughts to instead continue his search. Rather than leaving (because the chef never left when it came to providing), he could hear the soft footsteps of the cook getting closer. The growing presence made his hair stand up on his neck.
Ever since the cook had returned, the urge to be around the man, to finally give in to his desires for him, had begun increasing. He risked another glance over to the cook to see him searching through a cabinet that he swore he had checked earlier. His thoughts quickly refocused on the kimono that the blonde was wearing. It matched him perfectly. It complemented his fair light skin and matched his light blonde hair close to perfection.
“Here,” The blonde shoved the bottle into his hands, startling him out of his thoughts. “I swear, you’re more likely to die of alcohol poisoning than any battle.” The chef remarked as he reached for his pack of cigarettes. The comment sounded like it was supposed to have more bite than it ended up having. A few minutes passed with them sitting in silence. Between drinking and smoking, there was never a chance to say much. That’s usually how these nights went. Had always gone. Will always go.
I could be because of the amount of medication Chopper had given him, but the swordsman could feel the buzz settling quicker than it normally would. Instead of stopping like he usually would on nights like this, he continued to drink the bottle. The burn down his throat wasn’t new. It was more of a comfort. As he pulled the bottle from his lips, he allowed himself to fall into thought.
As much as the cook showed love to others and mentioned it when talking about or to ladies, the swordsman had never heard of the cook having a love life. Was he like Zoro? Not finding the point in settling when he could never leave Baratie, could never give up on his dream to one day see the All Blue. He had thought about it on occasion, but due to recent events, the thought had taken forefront in his mind.
Did he actually love the girl he left the crew for?
He quickly erased that thought from his head. He knew better. He knew Sanji would never leave unless he thought it was good for the crew. And the fact that he came back should say enough. It was jealousy and alcohol that allowed him to think like that. That’s all it was.
For the first time that night, he turned to look at Sanji fully. The man had his eyes closed as he took a drag from his cigarette, his chest puffing out as smoke filled his lungs. Softly, barely noticeable to a more unobserving eye, his eyelashes fluttered softly. It happened every time Sanji took his first smoke. Zoro had seen it happen enough that it felt like routine. Next, his eyes fell from his eyes to his nose, then his lips.
Had he kissed that girl with those lips? His eyes fluttering as he closed them the same way they did when he took his first drag? Had she felt the same skin he dreamed of touching one day? He wouldn’t have gotten angry. He would never get angry at a woman for touching him. Did he swoon, or get flustered?
Would he get flustered if Zoro did it?
Despite his logic and reason (he would blame the alcohol later), his hand came up to brush against the man’s cheek.
It was a soft touch. Barely there that he almost doubted the chef could really feel it. He did, though. He could see it in the way that the chef’s cheeks went lightly pink for half a second before his eyes shot open. They stared at each other for what felt like an hour. Neither said anything as Zoro’s hand hovered absentmindedly near the man’s face.
The skin he had touched, even if it was only for a moment, was soft. Just as he expected. It felt as if he were a kid who had put his finger too close to a fire, and for a brief moment felt the flames lick the tender skin there. He wanted to say something. Anything. Do you feel like I do? Sanji was the one who felt more out of the two. Do you think the things I do? Can we, if for just once, use words instead of actions? Can we-
“I haven’t seen you this drunk in a while. I think you’re seeing the wrong person right now, Marimo.” The chef softly knocked the man’s hand away, though it felt like a slap across Zoro’s face. The chef muttered the last part, but Zoro could still hear it. There was an emotion laced in his tone that he couldn’t pinpoint. Didn’t care to pinpoint as disappointment coiled in his chest.
“Who the hell would I be looking at right now?” The swordsman asked through furrowed eyebrows and barely contained bitterness.
At first, the only response he got was silence and a furrowed brow that was likely mirroring the one on his own face. Then, the cook looked away, and the swordsman thought he was about to have to coax an answer out of the man. But then he said something he didn’t expect.
“Hiyori, obviously, who else?”
Zoro looked at the cook with a blank stare. It was all he could muster as he put the pieces together.
“You and Nami have a taste for blue-haired women, and for having to deal with long-distance, I see.”
He had never felt this way about anyone else–only the cook.
“I mean, Nami made it work, I don’t see why you can’t.”
He never even looked at anyone else like that since the cook.
“It’s crazy to me that a lady like that would fall for a moss-brained idiot like you, though!”
He would never tell death himself to ‘fuck off’ for anyone other than his crew. Other than Sanji.
“You must have infected her somehow. Maybe it’s mold on your head instead of moss and-”
“I don’t love Hiyori.” The swordsman cut through quicker than he had expected to. The chef stopped in his rambling and snapped his head towards the other man. Surprise painted his features, and his eyes were impossibly wide.
“WHAT!” Zoro would have laughed if his mind wasn’t running a hundred miles per hour at the moment. “Are you positive? I’m pretty sure you guys have something going on. Are you doing the same denial thing Usopp does? That method doesn’t fit you, shitty-swordsman, quit lying.” The man pointed an accusatory finger at the man before him.
“Eh! The hell you say!? I’m not lying!” Zoro remarked aggressively.
“Then why the hell- why did you- why-” The cook continued to sputter as his cheeks became a dusty pink. “Whatever! Just drink your damn drink, shitty moss-head!”
The cook made quick strides across the room, finding a separate place on the floor to lie. This was often a part of their routine.
But their routine was shattered right now. It cracked the moment Zoro risked that brush against the chef’s cheek. It broke when Sanji mentioned Hiyori.
He felt his blood boil at that comment. Sanji runs off with another woman, yet Zoro is the one practically accused of betraying his love for Sanji.
(How could it be betrayal if nothing was ever there?)
“Hiyori, obviously, who else?”
Zoro looked down into his bottle, frowning so hard he could feel a headache brewing. Things had gone unspoken between them for so long. He always thought that was enough, not just for him, but for both of them. Maybe it was. But it couldn’t be enough, not after all that has happened.
Between Zou, Whole Cake Island, and everything that happened in Wano–hell, especially what has happened in Wano, Zoro was tired of trying to use his actions to let the cook know how he felt. How much he was cared for.
Zoro was tired of it.
He looked down at the half-full bottle in his hands. He shouldn’t be as drunk as he is for drinking this little. He grumbled to himself some more as he tried to consider his options. Even if he tried to talk to the cook, would it work? The man was just as stubborn, if not more so, than Zoro. Would he even try to have a conversation with Zoro? Had they ever even had a deep conversation like this? The more he tried to think of options through his drunken haze, the more irritated he got.
How was he supposed to communicate if he didn’t even know where to begin?
He let out a huff of finality before stomping over to where Sanji lay with his arm thrown over his face, his cigarette put out and forgotten near his head. After a minute of Zoro standing over the cook, he finally peered out from under his arm, the flush on his face nearly gone.
“The hell do you want?” The man spat out the comment, lacking its usual venom.
And Zoro wanted to tell him. He wanted to use words. Wanted to finally put a name to what the hell was happening to them, or at least confront it.
Instead, he plopped down with very little grace (and a bit of groaning as he felt almost healed wounds ache) and continued to nurse his drink. The cook stared at him with a contemplative expression for a second before promptly returning to the position he had been in before the swordsman had interrupted him.
And they sat like this. It could have been hours. It could have been minutes. All Zoro knew was that by the time he had finished his drink, he was a little bit of alcohol low on being plastered. His mind felt lovingly fuzzy in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. It wasn’t the most drunk he’s ever been, hell, it wasn’t even close. But it was enough to dull his senses.
It was enough to allow what happened next happen.
He thinks it started with him fidgeting with the sleeve of the other man’s kimono. Then it evolved to bickering. By the end of it, lips were clashing together in fury.
He could taste something almost metallic, which contrasted heavily with the softness he felt pressed against his lips. There was this overwhelming pressure around them. It felt like the world had stopped just for them. It may have. If death would allow Zoro to come back to fulfill a promise, why wouldn’t time grant him this moment? Then, for just a moment, he opens his eye.
He finds that he doesn’t regret it.
Underneath him, Sanji is leaning against his forearm as his other arm grips Zoro’s neck with a grip that could bruise. His eyelashes flutter rapidly as their mouths move in tandem with one another. It’s then that Zoro notices how his hands grab at both of the cook's wrists, realizing now just how grounded the action makes him feel.
So much for using words. Zoro, even in his drunken state, thinks to himself.
Zoro is a man of habit after all, and action is all he knows.
After what felt like, and what Zoro wished was, eternity, they parted. Zoro could feel his heart pound against his chest, his blood thrumming in his ears. He’s looking down at Sanji from where he is practically stradling the other man.
At least, he was. That was before something flashed through Sanji’s eyes, and his demeanor seemingly shifted. Suddenly, he’s thrown off, his ass hitting the floor hard. Before he can say anything or cuss the other man out, he’s swiftly picked up by the cook. He thinks he hears the chef say something, but his head feels so fuzzy.
He allows his eyes to droop for a second. Just a second…
It didn’t feel like long, but Zoro couldn’t tell time reasonably through his drunken state; he was back in his futon. He could vividly recall the look of what looked like a white and blonde kimono. Perhaps it was the cook? Why would he be in his room?
“Shitt’ cook?” He slurred out. “Tha’ you?”
The figure halted its movements before taking on a relaxed stance. “Yeah,” The figure, which he now recognized as the cook, replied. “You drank a little too much. Made a mess.”
“Mm, m’bad,” Zoro muttered as he allowed his eyes to droop closed again. “Night.”
And that was it. He heard the figure leave soon after and fell into sleep quickly after.
He didn’t know what was worse. The hangover, or the berating he was about to receive from their residential doctor.
How much did he drink anyway? It must have been a shit ton for his head to be hurting the way it does.
What the hell even happened last night?