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The problem with a curse is that it doesn’t arrive with thunder. It doesn’t announce itself like an enemy captain roaring across a shattered deck. It slips in quietly, like the sea mist through the galley floorboards, settling into the marrow until the blood itself runs different.
And Zoro, who had spent his entire existence stripping life down to the barest essentials; the weight of steel, the direction of the wind, the clean line between living and dying; now found himself cluttered.
It was the cook’s fault. It was entirely, unmitigatedly his fault for existing with such a loud, persistent frequency that the silence of the ship felt empty without him. Before Sanji, the world had a simple geometry.
People were either allies to be protected, enemies to be cut down, or background noise.
Kissing was a distant custom practiced by others, a mundane transaction that required no space in a mind trained exclusively for mastery.
Now, the geometry was ruined.
The worst of it wasn't the desire itself; it was the strange, fractured shape it took. If it were a normal craving; a straightforward hunger for a mouth against a mouth. Zoro could have fought it.
He could have treated it like a fever, something to be starved out through grueling hours with the weights or buried beneath the clean shock of ocean water. But his brain had bypassed the ordinary lanes of human want, fracturing into an obsession with the small, specific pieces of a man who refused to break.
He would sit in the shadows of the galley, watching the cook move through the evening prep. It was a domestic sort of violence, the way Sanji handled the knives; precise, ruthless, and terrifyingly fast. The light from the oil lamps always caught the faint, pale tracks of old steam burns across the back of his hands and the red welt of a fresh splatter on his wrist.
And Zoro, sitting with his ankles crossed and his back against the bulkhead, would feel a sudden, heavy ache behind his ribs. Not a desire to conquer, but an absurd, fierce urge to reach out, trap that moving wrist in his rough palm, and press his lips directly against the wounded skin. To taste the salt and the heat of the stove, to pin that restless hand against the wood until the tremor stopped.
It was a madness born of too many long watches and too much silence.
Then there were the quiet hours, the deep midnight when the rest of the ship slept and the only sound was the hull creaking against the dark weight of the sea. Sanji would stay up late, accounts scattered across the table, a cup of cold tea at his elbow. Sometimes Zoro would find him there, head dropped onto his folded arms, the cigarette in the tray having burned down to a long, fragile cylinder of grey ash.
In the dim gold glow of the lamp, the cook looked stripped of his sharp edges.
Zoro would stand in the doorway, the breath caught in his throat, looking at the pale expanse of Sanji’s forehead beneath the tangled blonde hair. The thought would hit him then like a physical blow; the urge to step across the room, lean down, and press a kiss so faint and careful against his temple that it wouldn't even disturb the rhythm of his breathing.
A silent, useless gesture that served no purpose other than to anchor them both to the same small patch of wood in the middle of a vast, indifferent ocean.
And the fights. The battles were supposed to be the one place where the world made sense, where the blood sang and the focus was absolute. But even there, the curse followed him. He would see Sanji through the smoke, his suit torn, blood dragging a dark line down his cheekbone, yet still laughing that arrogant, breathless laugh as he lifted his leg to split a stone wall. It did something terrible to Zoro’s focus.
It made something feral and protective claw its way up his spine, a tight, hot anger that wasn't directed at the enemy, but at the sheer, terrifying fragility of the cook’s life. After the dust settled, Zoro would find himself staring at the bruised knuckles, the split lip, the heavy rise and fall of Sanji’s chest, until the urge to touch became a physical hazard, forcing him to turn on his heel and walk into the treeline before he did something irreversible.
Lately, it had settled into smaller things. The way Sanji’s nose scrunched up when he was genuinely insulted during an argument, the quiet, stubborn glare reserved for Zoro alone.
Every time those small lines formed between the cook’s brows, Zoro’s hand would twitch on his sheath, his mind instantly filling with the bizarre, intrusive image of leaning across the space between them and kissing that exact expression off his face just to see the shock replace it.
Or the cheek. The rare, honest moments when the flirting stopped and the cook just smiled, a small, tired tilt of the lips meant for no one in particular, born of a good meal or a clear sky.
Those moments made Zoro’s chest tighten so hard it felt like a cracked rib. They made him think of slow kisses, the kind that took their time, lingering against the warmth of his skin until the tension left the cook's shoulders completely.
A mouth would have been simpler. It had rules. It had a beginning and an end.
But this scattered, hyper-focused devotion to the small details of another person was an entirely different kind of trap. It was an admission that every part of the cook had somehow become essential, that Zoro couldn't look at a hand or a brow or a shoulder without wanting to leave a mark of reassurance upon it.
It was becoming ridiculous. The weights felt lighter, the sake tasted flatter, and the horizon kept blurring into the memory of a golden head under the galley lamps.
One of these days, the discipline would slip. The exhaustion or the adrenaline would catch him off guard, and his body would move before his pride could stop it. He would reach out, he would touch, and the truth would be laid out on the deck between them like a drawn blade.
And knowing that stubborn, beautiful idiot, he would never let Zoro hear the end of it. But as Zoro closed his eyes and listened to the distant, rhythmic chop of a kitchen knife from the deck below, he realized, with a grim and quiet certainty, that he might not even care.
₊✩‧₊˚౨𓊝ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
The storm had been raging for so long that the Sunny itself seemed exhausted by it.
Rain slammed against the deck in violent sheets, thunder rattled the walls every few minutes, and every cabinet in the kitchen trembled whenever the ship crashed against another wave.
Most of the crew had either collapsed into sleep or gotten smart enough to stay out of the way hours ago, but Sanji was still awake because of course he was.
There was soup simmering on the stove for whoever woke up hungry, towels drying near the ovens for the idiots who kept getting soaked on deck, tea steeping for Nami because storms gave her headaches, and enough coffee brewed to kill an average man.
Sanji moved through the chaos with that same automatic grace he always had, cigarette hanging from his mouth, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened just enough to suggest exhaustion without admitting it.
But Zoro noticed things nobody else did. He noticed the slight hitch in Sanji’s movements every time the ship tilted too sharply. He noticed how long it took him to flex his fingers after gripping a pan. He noticed the dark smudges under his eyes and the fact that he’d reheated the same cup of coffee three times without drinking it.
Most importantly, he noticed the burn stretched angry-red across Sanji’s palm when he reached for another pan.
“You burned yourself,” Zoro said from the doorway, voice rough with sleep and irritation.
Sanji didn’t even look up. “Astounding detective work, marimo. Next you’ll figure out the kitchen is hot.”
Another violent wave hit the ship sideways. Sanji grabbed instinctively for the stove to steady himself and hissed sharply when his injured palm connected with hot metal again. This time Zoro crossed the kitchen before he could stop himself. He caught Sanji’s wrist roughly enough to make the cook blink in surprise.
“Oi,” Sanji snapped immediately, trying to yank free. “Hands off.”
But Zoro was already staring at the burn with a tightening jaw. The skin looked painful. Worse than Sanji had let on. And suddenly Zoro felt furious, not because of the injury itself, but because Sanji had clearly just kept working through it without saying a word. Without asking for help. Without even slowing down.
“You’re stupid,” Zoro muttered.
Sanji opened his mouth with an automatic insult ready, but before either of them could think too hard about what was happening, Zoro lifted Sanji’s hand and pressed a brief rough kiss directly against the center of the burn.
Silence hit the kitchen like another storm. Sanji froze so completely the cigarette slipped from his mouth onto the floor. Zoro himself seemed to realize what he’d done a second too late because his entire body went rigid.
For one horrifying heartbeat they just stared at each other, Sanji visibly blue-screening while Zoro looked like he wanted the ocean to swallow him whole.
“What,” Sanji said finally, voice dangerously quiet.
Zoro dropped his hand immediately like it had burned him too. “Shut up.”
“You kissed my hand.”
“No I didn’t.”
“I FELT IT.”
Zoro looked genuinely offended at being perceived. “You talk too much.”
Then he turned around and walked directly into the pantry door because he was too busy internally dying to navigate properly.
Sanji stood motionless in the middle of the kitchen for almost an entire minute afterward, staring at his own hand like it had personally betrayed him before finally turning the stove off because he had completely forgotten what he’d been cooking in the first place.
The silence that followed the collision with the pantry door was heavier than the thunder outside. The ship took another steep roll, the wood groaning beneath their feet as a massive wave passed under the hull, but neither of them adjusted their stance with their usual fluid precision.
Zoro slowly backed away from the pantry door, rubbing his forehead where it had impacted the wood. His dark brow was furrowed, his single eye darting toward the floorboards, the ceiling, the spice rack, anywhere that wasn’t the blond cook currently frozen near the burners.
A dull, dark flush was creeping up the swordsman's neck, settling thick and undeniable beneath his tanned skin. He looked less like a feared pirate hunter and more like someone who had just accidentally flung his own sword into the sea.
Sanji’s hand remained suspended in mid-air, right where Zoro had dropped it. His fingers were curled inward slightly, the white blister forming over the angry red skin of his palm feeling entirely detached from the rest of his body.
The burn stung, but the sensation was entirely drowned out by the lingering, phantom pressure of rough, chapped lips against the center of his hand. His internal processors were wholly offline, rendering his face blank and his posture stiff as a statue.
"You..." Sanji started, but his voice cracked, the sound vanishing beneath a sudden rattle of pots inside the cupboard. He cleared his throat violently, his left hand reaching out to grip the edge of the prep table just to keep himself grounded. "You absolute lunatic. What the hell was that?"
"I told you to shut up," Zoro growled, his voice dropping into a rough, defensive rumble. He took a calculated step toward the exit of the galley, his hand automatically reaching for the hilt of his sword out of pure habit, seeking anything familiar to anchor himself. "The storm's loud. You're hallucinating."
"Hallucinating?!" Sanji’s voice found its usual sharp volume, the indignity of the claim finally kick-starting his brain. He dropped his hand, pointing an accusing finger at the swordsman. "My eyes work perfectly fine, you moss-headed barbarian! You pulled my hand up and you—you pressed your face into it! In what universe is that a hallucination?"
"The universe where you've been breathing in stove fumes for six hours straight," Zoro fired back, finally snapping his gaze up to meet Sanji's. The flush on his face hadn't abated, but it was now backed by the fierce, stubborn glare he used when he was losing an argument he refused to concede. "You're sleep-deprived. Go to bed."
"I am the chef of this ship, I will go to bed when the prep work is finished!" Sanji stepped away from the stove, his boots clicking sharply against the floorboards despite the tilting of the ship.
He kicked the dropped cigarette under the counter with a quick, irritated flick of his shoe. "And don't change the subject! You don't get to come into my kitchen, act like a completely deranged person, break my pantry door with your face, and then order me around!"
"I didn't break the door," Zoro muttered, casting a quick, defensive glance back at the unmarred wood.
"You dented it with your thick skull!" Sanji crossed his arms, though he took care to keep his right palm from pressing too hard against his shirt. The adrenaline was fading, leaving the raw throb of the burn behind, but his face still felt incredibly hot. "Why did you do that?"
Zoro stared at him, his mouth set in a hard, thin line. The anger he had felt a minute ago; the irritation at seeing the cook work himself into the ground without an ounce of self-preservation; was still there, but it was twisted up with something far more volatile now.
He looked at the dark smudges under Sanji's eyes, the way his shoulders were rigid with tension, and the faint tremor in his fingers.
"Because you're annoying," Zoro said bluntly, stepping closer until he was standing just on the other side of the prep table. "You stand here acting like you're made of iron. You're not. You get burned, you get tired, and you keep making that stupid coffee instead of just sitting down."
"That is my responsibility. I don't expect a lazy marimo who sleeps fourteen hours a day to understand what it means to look after this crew."
"Looking after them doesn't mean you have to bleed into the soup," Zoro growled, his hand slamming onto the table between them, the wood rattling with the force of it. "You think nobody notices when you're dragging your feet? You think I don't see you holding your breath when the ship drops?"
"It's just a burn," Sanji said, his voice dropping from its shouting register into something quieter, almost defensive. He looked down at the table, his blonde hair falling forward to shield his expression. "I've had worse than this every week since I was seven years old. It doesn't stop me."
"It should," Zoro said.
Sanji shifted his weight, his eyes tracing the line of Zoro's scarred arm where it rested on the table. "You're a brute," he murmured softly, the insult lacking any real venom. "A brainless, uncultured brute who doesn't know how to treat a chef."
"Yeah," Zoro agreed, his voice rough. He didn't pull his hand back from the table. "And you're a stubborn idiot who doesn't know when to quit."
"The tea is going to go cold," Sanji noted, his eyes drifting toward the ceramic pot sitting near the edge of the stove. The pilot lights were out, the blue flames gone, leaving the galley to slowly lose its intense heat.
"Nami's asleep anyway," Zoro said. "I saw her head down to the cabin twenty minutes ago. The navigator isn't going to come up here in this weather."
Sanji let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders finally dropping an inch. The automatic grace he maintained had fully fractured, leaving him looking exhausted, the lines of fatigue clear in the slope of his back.
He reached into his pocket with his left hand, pulling out his gold lighter and a fresh cigarette, but he didn't light it. He just held it between his fingers, staring at the unlit tip.
"If the soup spoils, it's your fault," Sanji said, his voice barely audible over the steady patter of rain against the glass.
"I'll eat it anyway," Zoro replied.
He turned around slowly, his movements less jerky now that the initial shock of his own actions had settled into a dull, lingering ache in his chest. He didn't walk into the pantry door this time. He moved toward the main exit, his hand resting on the frame as he looked back over his shoulder one last time.
Sanji was still standing by the table, the unlit cigarette resting between his lips, his right hand cradled close to his chest.
"Put some ice on it," Zoro said, his voice dropping into that quiet, commanding tone he used when the fighting was over. "The cream is in the lower icebox."
"I know where the ice is, marimo," Sanji muttered, his voice muffled by the cigarette.
₊✩‧₊˚౨𓊝ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
The celebration after the mission had started loud and chaotic and gradually dissolved into the kind of exhausted happiness.
Empty bottles littered every table in Sunny's main room, Brook had passed out mid-song with his violin still in his lap, Usopp and Luffy were somehow asleep tangled together beneath a pile of blankets, and Chopper had collapsed face-first into a bowl of snacks an hour ago. Eventually even Nami and Robin disappeared to their rooms, leaving the ship wrapped in soft silence broken only by distant waves and the occasional creak of wood.
Zoro woke sometime after three in the morning thirsty and vaguely annoyed at existence in general, only to find light still glowing beneath the kitchen door. He already knew who it would be before he stepped inside.
Sanji sat slumped at the kitchen table surrounded by half-cleaned dishes and neatly stacked glasses, asleep while still technically upright. One elbow rested beside a drying rack while his head dipped lower every few seconds before jerking back up instinctively like his body still refused to fully stop moving.
Even asleep, he was trying to keep working. There was a dish towel loosely clenched in one hand. His tie hung half undone around his neck. One shoe had slipped halfway off sometime during the night.
Zoro stood silently in the doorway for a long moment watching him, and something uncomfortable tightened beneath his ribs.
That was the problem. If Sanji had collapsed, or complained, or admitted he was exhausted, maybe it would’ve been easier to ignore. But this? This quiet endless habit of taking care of everything until he physically couldn’t anymore? That felt worse somehow.
Zoro walked over slowly and tugged the dish towel from Sanji’s loose grip. Sanji made a small sleepy noise in protest but didn’t wake. Up close he looked younger like this. Softer. Completely defenseless in a way Zoro almost never saw.
Damp blond hair fell across his eyes. His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheeks. There was still flour dusted faintly across one sleeve from earlier cooking. Zoro’s chest hurt unexpectedly.
“Moron,” he muttered under his breath, but there wasn’t any real irritation behind it anymore.
Before he could stop himself from thinking too much, Zoro leaned down and pressed a soft lingering kiss against Sanji’s forehead. The warmth of it startled even him.
Sanji inhaled sharply in his sleep, eyes fluttering open just barely. “...Zoro?” he mumbled, voice rough with exhaustion.
Zoro straightened instantly like he’d committed a crime. “Go to bed.”
Sanji blinked slowly at him, visibly too tired to process anything properly. “Kitchen’s still messy.”
Zoro looked around at the already mostly-clean room and felt something twist painfully inside him again. “Doesn’t matter.”
Sanji hummed faintly like he didn’t believe that for even a second. When Zoro finally lifted him out of the chair, Sanji didn’t fight him the way he usually would. He just relaxed automatically against Zoro’s chest, warm and heavy with sleep, forehead dropping against Zoro’s shoulder.
Half asleep already, he mumbled quietly, “You’re kinda nice when nobody’s looking.”
Zoro nearly dropped him directly onto the floor.
Zoro’s entire body went completely rigid, his boots locking against the floorboards as if he’d been pinned by an enemy blade.
His heart did a sudden, violent thud against his ribs, a frantic, erratic rhythm that had absolutely nothing to do with the exertion of lifting another man.
Nice? Zoro’s jaw tightened so hard his teeth clicked. Who the hell is nice? I ain’t nice.
For one tense, panicked second, Zoro seriously considered dropping him right there onto the hardwood floor, just to shatter the quiet illusion of whatever the hell this was.
He wanted to hear the cook swear, wanted to see the sharp flash of his blue eyes, wanted the familiar, grounding friction of an argument to snap them both back to reality.
But Sanji just let out a long, shuddering sigh against the fabric of Zoro’s shirt, his fingers loosely catching on the edge of Zoro’s collar before going completely limp. He had slipped right back under, a level of exhaustion that had been building for days.
The galley was silent again, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the sea brushing against the hull of the Thousand Sunny.
Zoro stood frozen under that light, breathing shallowly. He looked down at the pale, soft lines of Sanji's face buried in the shadow of his shoulder. The cook looked smaller like this, stripped of his sharp movements, his cigarettes, and the heavy armor of his perfectionism.
He was just a guy who had worked himself to the absolute bone for the sake of other idiots who were currently sleeping off their hangovers on the deck below.
“Stupid, stubborn cook,” Zoro muttered, his voice a low, rough rumble that barely carried across the empty room.
With a deliberate, careful shift of his weight, Zoro adjusted his grip, sliding one arm securely under Sanji’s knees and pulling the cook closer against his torso to distribute the weight.
He turned slowly, maneuvering around the kitchen table with an agonizing amount of precision. For a man who usually moves like a storm, cutting down anything in his path, Zoro becomes hyper-aware of every single obstacle.
He watched the low-hanging copper pots, the sharp corner of the prep table, and the heavy wooden door frame, ensuring he didn't jostle the sleeping man a single inch more than necessary.
He nudged the kitchen door open with his hip, stepping out of the warm, humid galley and into the crisp, cool air of the three-o'clock morning.
The deck of the Sunny was washed in deep blues and silver moonlight. The sea breeze caught the damp edges of Sanji’s blonde hair, shifting it slightly across his forehead. Zoro paused on the lawn deck, taking a single deep breath of the salt air to clear the sudden, dizzying heat from his own face.
A few feet away, Luffy let out a massive, whistling snore from beneath his pile of blankets, Usopp shifting blindly beside him to pull the covers higher. None of them woke up.
The world was completely asleep, leaving Zoro entirely alone with the one person he spent every waking hour fighting with.
Zoro crossed the deck with silent, heavy strides, heading toward the hatch that led down into the men’s quarters. Descending the short ladder was a logistical nightmare with his arms full, but he braced his back against the bulkhead, guiding himself down rung by rung with deliberate, tense muscle control until his boots touched the lower deck.
The air in the bunk room was thick and warm, filled with the deep, rumbling snores of Franky. Zoro didn't look toward his own hammock.
He walked straight past the swinging ropes, tracking the familiar path in the dark until he reached the low, built-in bunk near the bulkhead where Sanji usually slept.
Slowly, carefully, Zoro leaned down, lowering Sanji onto the mattress.
The moment Sanji’s back hit the sheets, his body reacted automatically to the shift in temperature. He curled onto his side away from the open room, drawing his knees up slightly to preserve his own warmth.
His face buried itself into the shadow of the pillow, his breathing remaining deep, heavy, and unbroken. The half-undone tie fell loose against the collar of his shirt.
Zoro stood up straight, his arms suddenly feeling strangely light, cold, and empty. He looked down at the cook for a long, unblinking moment.
He reached down, grabbed the heavy quilt from the foot of the bed, and pulled it up over Sanji’s shoulders, tucking it securely around his neck to block out the chill of the lower deck.
Sanji didn't wake. He just let out another soft, contented hum into the darkness, his features settling into a deep, peaceful stillness that Zoro almost never got to see.
Zoro watched him for three more seconds, his hand lingering on the edge of the blanket before he forcefully yanked it back, shoving his fists deep into his pockets.
₊✩‧₊˚౨𓊝ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
The fight had ended nearly twenty minutes ago, but Zoro still felt like his blood hadn’t stopped boiling yet. The ruined courtyard around them looked like a battlefield dragged through a hurricane; collapsed stone pillars, scorch marks across shattered ground, smoke curling lazily upward into the evening sky.
Somewhere nearby Luffy and Usopp were loudly arguing over who technically landed the final hit while Franky attempted to pry debris off the Sunny’s docking path, but all of it sounded distant to Zoro compared to the image currently burned into the inside of his skull: Sanji twisting sideways at the last possible second to intercept a blade that had absolutely been meant for Zoro.
The cut across Sanji’s thigh was deep enough that blood had soaked through the ripped fabric of his suit pants almost immediately, dark crimson spreading down toward his knee in ugly streaks. Chopper was kneeling in front of him now with frantic doctor energy, waving antiseptic around while Sanji insisted for the fiftieth time that he was “fine” despite visibly bleeding onto ancient ruins.
“You are NOT fine!” Chopper snapped, tiny hooves fumbling through medical supplies. “If you keep moving, it’ll tear worse!”
“I’ve had worse,” Sanji muttered automatically, cigarette dangling from his mouth despite the fact his hands were shaking faintly from adrenaline and blood loss.
Zoro stood there staring at him too long before finally stalking over and crouching directly in front of him without a word. The movement itself made several nearby crew members go suspiciously quiet because Zoro voluntarily participating in medical care ranked somewhere between “rare” and “sign of the apocalypse.”
Chopper blinked up at him. “...uh?”
Zoro held out one hand impatiently. “Bandages.”
“You’re helping?” Usopp asked immediately, sounding deeply alarmed.
“Shut up.”
Chopper handed over the supplies automatically while Sanji looked equally confused and wary.
“Oi, marimo, what exactly are you doing?”
“You’ll complain if Chopper hurts you.”
“I complain when YOU breathe.”
“Then stop talking.”
Zoro’s hands were rough but unexpectedly careful as he pushed the torn fabric higher to properly reach the wound. Up close the injury looked worse than before, an angry slash carved across strong muscle dangerously close to where a few inches deeper could’ve ended catastrophically.
The thought hit Zoro again all at once: Sanji throwing himself into the path of that blade without hesitation. Sanji nearly dying. Sanji not getting back up. Something ugly and furious twisted in his chest so sharply it almost made him nauseous.
Sanji hissed softly when disinfectant hit the wound. “Ow, asshole.”
“Good.”
“You are literally the worst nurse alive.”
“And you’re reckless.”
“Pot calling the kettle green—”
Zoro looked up then, meeting Sanji’s eyes directly for the first time since the fight ended.
There was still adrenaline crackling under his skin, still fear lodged somewhere behind his ribs that he didn’t know what to do with. Sanji’s hair was sticking messily to his forehead with sweat. There was dust smeared across one cheekbone.
He looked exhausted and alive and stubborn and painfully, terrifyingly precious in a way Zoro had been trying not to think about for months now.
Before his brain could catch up to literally anything happening, Zoro leaned forward and pressed a hard fierce kiss directly against the inside of Sanji’s thigh just above the fresh bandage.
Time stopped. Completely.
Sanji made the single most catastrophic choking noise any human being had ever produced. Chopper dropped the entire medical kit. Usopp screamed loud enough to startle birds out of nearby trees.
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”
Luffy’s jaw dropped open so far it looked medically dangerous. Brook began laughing so hard he fell backward onto the rubble. Robin calmly took a sip of her drink like this was exactly the sort of thing she’d expected from them eventually.
Sanji himself had gone completely motionless, eyes blown wide with pure horrified disbelief as color climbed violently up his neck and ears.
“...Zoro,” he said faintly.
Zoro seemed to realize what he’d done approximately three full seconds too late. His entire body locked up. Then he stood immediately.
“I’m going for a walk.”
“YOU JUST KISSED HIS LEG!” Usopp shouted, pointing accusingly.
“No I didn’t.”
“WE ALL SAW YOU.”
“Hallucinations.”
“THAT’S NOT HOW HALLUCINATIONS WORK.”
Sanji looked moments away from either passing out or bursting into flames while Robin smiled serenely over the rim of her glass.
“My my,” she said softly. “How forward.”
Zoro disappeared into the distance without another word while Usopp continued screaming and Sanji sat frozen on the rubble trying unsuccessfully to remember how breathing worked.
₊✩‧₊˚౨𓊝ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
Breakfast aboard the Thousand Sunny was always chaotic.
But today felt especially doomed from the moment Sanji entered the kitchen already mid-argument with Zoro.
Nami sat at the table with coffee and a newspaper watching the incoming disaster with tired acceptance while Robin quietly flipped through a book beside her looking far too interested for this early in the morning.
Luffy and Usopp were engaged in a loud debate about whether soup technically counted as a beverage. Brook was humming happily in the corner.
And in the middle of it all, Sanji stormed around the kitchen aggressively making breakfast while Zoro sat directly on the counter despite repeated complaints that he was “in the damn way.”
“I’m serious,” Sanji snapped while violently whisking eggs like they’d personally insulted him. “One day somebody’s gonna die because you leave those stupid weights lying around everywhere.”
Zoro took a slow sip directly from the coffee pot because mugs were apparently beneath him. “Nobody’s died yet.”
“That is NOT the point.”
“Sounds like the point.”
“And another thing,” Sanji continued without pause, jabbing a spatula toward him accusingly, “your room smells like an illegal brewery and I’m not cleaning it again because I found THREE—”
“Still talking,” Zoro interrupted lazily.
“Because YOU keep giving me reasons to!”
“Thought cooks were supposed to be pleasant company.”
“Thought swordsmen were supposed to have survival instincts.”
“Thought blondes were supposed to be prettier quiet.”
Sanji visibly short-circuited for half a second before recovering violently.
“EXCUSE ME?”
Zoro, looking barely awake, reached out suddenly and grabbed Sanji lightly by the chin before the cook could continue ranting himself into cardiac arrest.
Sanji stopped mid-word immediately, eyes widening in confusion.
And then, Zoro leaned forward and pressed a tiny absentminded kiss directly against the tip of Sanji’s nose.
The world ended.
The spatula slipped from Sanji’s hand and clattered dramatically onto the floor. Luffy inhaled so hard he choked on his own breakfast.
Usopp screamed loud enough to physically echo through the kitchen. Brook collapsed into hysterical laughter while Chopper looked like he needed emergency medical attention himself.
Nami lowered her newspaper very slowly. Robin’s smile became downright radiant.
Meanwhile Sanji stood perfectly still in front of the stove looking like his soul had just left his body entirely.
“...what,” he whispered after several full seconds of catastrophic silence.
Zoro released his chin and took another sip of coffee like nothing unusual had occurred. “You were talking too much.”
“YOU—” Sanji pointed at him with visible outrage but no actual words emerged afterward because his brain had clearly crashed beyond repair. “YOU CAN’T JUST DO THAT.”
“Did already.”
“IN FRONT OF PEOPLE.”
“There were witnesses, yeah.”
“THAT’S NOT BETTER.”
Luffy immediately started pounding both fists against the table chanting, “KISS AGAIN KISS AGAIN KISS AGAIN,” while Usopp looked moments away from ascending spiritually from secondhand shock.
Nami buried her face in her hands. “Oh my god,” she groaned. “They’re actually flirting. They’re literally flirting like divorced old people.”
Robin turned a page in her book serenely. “No, dear. This is courtship.”
Sanji’s face had gone so red by now it genuinely looked dangerous.
In his panic he spun too quickly back toward the stove. Through all of it, Zoro remained sitting on the counter drinking coffee with the faintest smug curve tugging at the corner of his mouth while Sanji yelled threats loud enough to wake the dead.
Sanji’s ears were burning, his chest was heaving, and his hands were trembling with a chaotic mix of fury and intense embarrassment.
Every time he tried to focus on salvaging the morning meal, his eyes would lock onto the green-haired swordsman sitting unbothered just inches away, still nursing that stolen coffee pot.
"Look what you did!" Sanji shouted, his voice cracking slightly. "You ruined the food! You ruined the entire morning! You are a menace to this ship, marimo!"
Zoro didn't even flinch at the volume. He set the coffee pot down on the counter with a dull click, leaning his head back against the upper cabinets. "I was just sitting here."
"You were not just sitting here! You physically assaulted me!"
"It was a kiss, Sanji. Stop being dramatic," Zoro murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching upward again.
"KISS AGAIN! KISS AGAIN!" Luffy continued to roar, completely unbothered by the lack of edible food on the table, his rubber arms stretching across the room to shake Usopp by the shoulders. "Zoro, do the nose thing again! Make his face change colors!"
"Luffy, shut up or I will starve you for a week!" Sanji hissed, pointing a trembling finger at his captain. He turned back to the counter, desperately searching for a clean apron, his mind spinning so fast he could barely think straight.
Usopp was currently fanning himself with Nami's abandoned newspaper. "I can't take this. The stress of this voyage is already shaving years off my life, and now I have to witness whatever... whatever this is during prime breakfast hours."
"Oh, come now," Brook laughed, adjusting his cravat as he sat up straight again. "It bodes well for the unity of the crew! A harmonious ship is a successful ship, yo-ho-ho-ho!"
"There is nothing harmonious about this!" Sanji yelled, snatching a fresh carton of eggs from the refrigerator and slamming the door shut with his heel. He targeted Zoro with a fierce, burning glare. "Get off my counter. Get out of my kitchen. Go find a wall to get lost next to."
Zoro slowly swung his legs down, his heavy boots hitting the floorboards with a solid thud. He stepped closer to the stove, passing right by the cook's space.
For a split second, Sanji braced himself, half-expecting another sudden movement, his shoulders tensing as he gripped the egg carton like a weapon.
Zoro simply reached past him, picked up the coffee pot one last time to drain the final drops into his mouth, and then walked toward the door with an easy, unbothered stride.
"Make sure the next batch is better," Zoro said lazily over his shoulder as he slid the door open. "I'm still hungry."
"Go eat dirt!" Sanji screamed after him, the door clicking shut and cutting off the swordsman's smug chuckle.
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The island party had started out fun in theory.
Bonfires along the beach, live music spilling from crowded bars, strings of lanterns glowing gold against the dark ocean waves, enough alcohol to qualify as a public safety concern.
The Straw Hats had fully integrated themselves into the chaos within minutes of arriving; Luffy already participating in some kind of illegal-looking eating contest, Franky dancing with strangers his size, Brook playing music for an increasingly hysterical crowd while Usopp dramatically exaggerated old battle stories to anyone willing to listen.
Normally Sanji thrived in environments like this. He was charming in a way that seemed effortless when he wanted it to be, all easy smiles and dramatic flirting and smooth compliments that made women laugh even when they rolled their eyes at him. But tonight something was… off.
Maybe he’d drunk too much too quickly. Maybe the crowd was too loud. Maybe he was simply exhausted in that deep bone-tired way he never admitted out loud. Whatever the reason, every time someone flirted with him tonight, Sanji reacted less like his usual confident self and more like a nervous stray cat cornered unexpectedly by affection.
“You’re cute,” one woman laughed near the bar, touching lightly at his arm while leaning closer.
Sanji blinked at her in visible panic. “Ah—well—thank you very much, mademoiselle—but respectfully—I—uh—”
Then, to the complete confusion of everyone involved, he escaped. Straight toward Zoro.
At first Zoro thought nothing of it. Sanji flopped down beside him at the outdoor table hard enough for their shoulders to bump together while muttering something about “too many people.”
But then it kept happening. Another woman approached Sanji near the dance floor smiling sweetly and asking if he wanted company? Ten minutes later Sanji somehow ended up pressed directly against Zoro’s side at the bar nursing another drink.
Someone else invited him to dance? Suddenly Sanji was gripping the back of Zoro’s shirt while complaining loudly about the music instead.
By the fourth time it happened, the crew had absolutely started noticing. Nami lowered her cocktail slowly. Robin looked seconds away from laughing out loud.
“Oh,” she murmured softly. “That’s fascinating.”
“He’s hiding behind Zoro,” Usopp whispered with the awe of someone observing rare wildlife behavior. “He’s literally using him as a wall.”
And the truly terrifying part was that Zoro seemed perfectly fine with this arrangement. If anything, he was adjusting automatically every time Sanji drifted closer, angling himself between Sanji and the crowd without even realizing he was doing it.
At some point Sanji became drunk enough to lose what little self-awareness he had left entirely. He practically collapsed sideways against Zoro while the swordsman sat on a bench near the edge of the beach away from most of the noise.
Sanji curled against him with all the unconscious trust of someone too exhausted to keep pretending he wasn’t seeking comfort anymore.
“You smell nice,” drunk Sanji informed him very seriously, face pressed into the side of Zoro’s neck.
Zoro nearly choked on his drink. “...okay.”
“Safe too.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Mmhm.”
Sanji made absolutely no effort to move away afterward. If anything, he cuddled closer, one hand bunching lazily in the fabric of Zoro’s shirt like he was making sure Zoro stayed there. His blond hair brushed softly against Zoro’s jaw every time he shifted. Zoro could practically feel the heat of him through their clothes.
Across the beach, the rest of the crew had completely stopped pretending not to stare.
“He’s gone,” Nami whispered. “That man is catastrophically in love.”
Then another woman approached them smiling brightly. “There you are,” she said to Sanji. “I was wondering if maybe—”
Sanji physically hid behind Zoro. Not metaphorically. Literally. He buried his face against Zoro’s shoulder and pulled closer with a quiet distressed noise like he hoped the earth might swallow him whole before he had to reject a lady politely.
Zoro stared at the woman flatly until she awkwardly backed away. Then he looked down at Sanji properly for the first time all evening.
Drunk Sanji was devastatingly soft. No practiced charm. No flirting. No walls. Just warm sleepy affection and quiet trust and this obvious desperate instinct to stay near Zoro specifically.
Something in Zoro’s chest gave out instantly.
“Idiot,” he murmured, voice quieter than usual.
Sanji blinked up at him slowly, eyes glassy and unfocused with alcohol. Then he smiled and mumbled sleepily, “Your idiot.”
The words hit Zoro like a physical blow.
Before he could think himself out of it, he lifted one hand to cup Sanji’s face gently and pressed a slow deliberate kiss against his cheek. Not rushed this time. Not accidental. Intentional enough that Sanji actually went perfectly still beneath his hand.
The entire crew collectively lost their minds somewhere in the background. Usopp screamed loud enough to startle nearby seagulls. Luffy fell backward laughing into the sand. Robin covered her smile gracefully behind one hand while Nami looked ready to collect gambling winnings from someone immediately.
But Sanji only stared at Zoro with wide dazed eyes for one long heartbeat before his entire body suddenly relaxed at once. Then he passed out directly against Zoro’s chest.
Zoro looked down at the unconscious cook in disbelief. “…seriously?”
Sanji snored softly against his shoulder.
“HE GOT KISSED UNCONSCIOUS!” Usopp shrieked from across the beach. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen!”
“That’s NOT romantic,” Zoro snapped automatically while very carefully adjusting Sanji more comfortably against him anyway.
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By the time it happened, the entire crew had already accepted that Zoro and Sanji were apparently engaged in the slowest, weirdest courtship ritual in human history.
Nobody else understood what exactly they were doing, including arguably Zoro and Sanji themselves, but at this point there had been too many moments to ignore. Too many touches lingering too long. Too many instinctive acts of care disguised badly as irritation. Too many kisses that somehow meant everything while technically meaning nothing because none of them had been on the mouth yet.
Nami had threatened physical violence twice already if one of them didn’t “grow a spine and communicate like actual people.” Robin had started bringing popcorn whenever they argued. Brook openly referred to them as “young lovers” now just to watch them combust.
And still somehow nothing had actually changed.
Until another mission that hadn’t even been especially dramatic compared to half the disasters the Straw Hats survived regularly, but near the end of the fight an enemy had managed to catch Zoro across the ribs with a deep enough strike to leave blood soaking heavily before the battle finally ended.
He’d stayed upright through sheer stubbornness alone.
Now hours later, back aboard the Sunny while the rest of the crew either slept or recovered elsewhere, Zoro sat shirtless on one of the kitchen counters while Sanji silently cleaned and re-bandaged the injury beneath low warm light.
Sanji’s expression had been unreadable the entire time. Not angry exactly. Not calm either. Just very, very quiet. Zoro watched him carefully while Sanji wrapped fresh bandages around his ribs with practiced hands.
Those same hands Zoro had kissed once without thinking. Those same hands that cooked for everyone every day, patched people up, steadied shoulders, carried plates, lit cigarettes, reached instinctively toward others before himself.
“You gonna keep glaring at my stitches,” Sanji muttered eventually without looking up, “or are you planning on saying something useful?”
Zoro frowned slightly. “Wasn’t glaring.”
“Right. And I’m the king of the world.”
Silence settled again afterward, softer this time. Sanji tied off the final bandage carefully before resting his hands briefly against Zoro’s side to check the tension.
The touch lingered just a second longer than necessary. Zoro’s pulse stumbled immediately.
Then Sanji sighed quietly. “You know,” he said, voice oddly casual, “normal people usually kiss someone on the mouth if they’re in love with them.”
Zoro’s brain stopped functioning completely.
“...oh,” he said after a genuinely catastrophic amount of silence.
Sanji finally looked up at him then, blue eyes sharp despite obvious embarrassment already creeping into his face. “Yeah. Oh.”
Zoro stared at him. Sanji stared back. Somewhere upstairs Luffy yelled in his sleep. Neither of them moved.
“I thought,” Zoro started slowly, visibly struggling through thoughts like they physically hurt him, “I thought you knew.”
Sanji actually laughed once at that, soft and disbelieving. “Marimo, you kissed my leg in front of the crew. I knew something was wrong with you.”
“Not what I meant.” The honesty in Zoro’s voice made Sanji go still. Zoro looked strangely uncertain suddenly, which honestly felt more terrifying than if he’d drawn all three swords. “So,” Zoro said carefully, “what now?”
For a second Sanji just looked at him. At the strongest man he knew sitting injured on his kitchen counter with fresh bandages around his ribs and that rare open uncertainty on his face. This impossible idiot who apparently communicated affection entirely through random acts of physical intimacy and expected people to somehow decode him correctly.
Sanji felt something warm and helpless bloom painfully in his chest.
“God, you’re hopeless,” he muttered softly.
Then he grabbed the front of Zoro’s shirt, leaned forward, and kissed him properly. Slightly awkward because of the angle and the bandages and the fact both of them were visibly shaking a little. But perfect anyway. Z
oro made a startled rough sound against his mouth before immediately kissing him back harder, one hand coming up instinctively to hold Sanji’s jaw like he was afraid this might disappear if he let go.
Time seemed to fold strangely around them for those few seconds.
When they finally pulled apart, Sanji’s face was violently red. “There,” he muttered breathlessly. “Happy now?”
Zoro stared at him for a long quiet moment before something rare and soft curved at the corner of his mouth. “Oh,” he said again, voice rougher this time. “That’s what you wanted.”
Sanji looked seconds away from murdering him. “I am literally never kissing you again.”
“Liar.”
“…yeah,” Sanji admitted quietly after a second. “Probably.”
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