Chapter Text
Sanji isn’t sure of what to expect once he arrives on Saboady, but it surely isn’t an overgrown house plant.
He’d envisioned all the ways the crew would react, how the crew had changed, but unfortunately, he had thought about the mosshead the most. At first, he was mainly worried about what Kuma had done with him. Where he’d ended up. If the idiot bothered treating his injuries. How much he’d blame himself for being separated.
He’d fantasize during the day, imagining how he’d fight the idiot once they both grew stronger. It fueled his training on the hardest days, refusing to be outdone, refusing to see him again only to need his protection. And at night, he’d dream too. How they can grow beyond this poorly-balanced dynamic. How it would feel to embrace each other once they reunited. How it would feel to have the courage to just say how he feels about the idiot.
Where he was all edges before, Zoro’s features filled out. The sharp jaw now squared. Sure, he was always masculine, but now he’s actually a full-fledged man. He carries a level of reservation in lieu of his former youthful apathy. Amongst all these ways the idiot had changed physically, some of the questions at the forefront of Sanji’s mean were why the hell’s he twice the weight in muscle, tits bigger than Nami, and a missing fucking eye!
“What’s wrong mustache-eyebrow, not sure where to look with this eye?” Zoro fiddles with the inner curl of Sanji’s exposed, left eyebrow.
“Surprised you didn’t get lost on the way here, dumb moss.”
“Oi, I was here first. Speak for yourself, number 7.” Sanji would accuse him of a lie if the immaculate Shakky didn’t tell him the same earlier.
“Ah, shame to see you still an annoying moss just even bigger now.”
“Scared?”
That seals the deal, they’re back on each other blow-for-blow. Sanji lights his leg on command, throwing even more momentum in his kick that can’t manage to move all the mass the idiots put on. The contact sends a thrill throughout him, leg burning hotter than before. They keep testing each of their new skills until their goofy captain intervenes, oh how the sight of his gangly ass just patches up most of the holes in Sanji’s weary heart.
The crew is stronger, wiser, their love for each other is deeper. They missed one another endlessly, but learning to live alone meant they weren’t so reliant on each other as their younger selves were to a fault. That being said, it doesn’t take long for everyone to settle back into old dynamics, or rather, habits. Like the habit of talking yourself out of a planned confession carefully constructed over two years apart. Like the habit of showing your feelings through acts of service and nourishment. The damn mosshead is on the deck, meditating in the freezing cold, shirtless. Sanji watches, and as he watches he’s doing the math, overthinking. He knows, as well as any decent cook knows, ‘energy in versus energy out’ is the simple math that dictates bodies, dictates life. There’s no fucking way the swordsman is hitting the caloric intake and protein needs to sustain his new size without help, consistent at that, he wonders what he’s been doing to even reach this point.
“Oi, stray moss. What the hell have they been feeding you on Kuragaina?”
“Hm?” Irritated at the interruption, unable to ignore the pesky cook, he opens his eye. “Two years apart and that’s the first thing you want to know about?”
“Well yeah, look at you. You’re massive. Got to plan our meals out if you want to stay that way.”
“You thinking about me, curls? Wow, distance really does make the heart grow fonder.”
“Starve then, see if I care.” The moody man walks back to the kitchen as the swordsman follows.
“Oi, don’t get pissy.” The cold shoulder continues. Fuck, it was like this often back then and he’d hope the time apart would change some of that. Zoro will think they’re having fun, shooting the shit, back-and-forth, until the moody cook puts it to a screeching halt. They need to learn to push through, to not shut down at the first sign of anything that isn’t a fight. So the swordsman does the only thing he really knows: egg him on. “Mihawk is a good cook.”
Sanji freezes. “Dracule ‘Hawkeye’ Mihawk cooked for you?!”
“Yeah, I mean it was the three of us, and I sure as hell wasn’t eating Perona’s shitty cooking.”
“Don’t you fucking dare!” Cigarette between the index and middle finger of the hand he uses to point at the ungrateful idiot, “You’d be so lucky to have that angel even think to throw scraps your way.” He uses the other to pull at his golden hair. “Dracule Mihawk.” He paces now, “your sworn nemesis. The man you’re trying to kill and take his title from. Cooked for you?”
“Five meals a day. Every day.” Sanji’s eyes bulge out of skull at that revelation. five. meals. a. day. That is 3,650 meals made for him, meals presumably shared. Zoro has that stupid lopsided-grin on his face, he’ll keep the cook talking. “His food is really good, some of the best.” He can see Sanji’s blood pressure rising at the verbal praise. “Grew most of the ingredients on the island himself.”
“Right. Right. I’m sure you were just eating out of the palm of his hand, yeah?”
“I mean he was my mentor. Still intend to take his title, but I owe him a lot. Slept under his roof, trained under his watch, tended to his garden, ate at his table, drank from his cellar.”
Six months of feeding the bastard on the Merry, and he nary a single acknowledgement let alone a ‘thank you’ from the idiot. A vein pops out of Sanji’s forehead, blood rushing through him like a raging river “Oh, so now you’re just a wine connoisseur, are you?”
“No, but I have my favorites.”
“Great!!” Sanji would make the most of out of this then, no more pig swill, isn't that just fan-fucking-tantastic! “That’s just great! So what was the Farm-to-Table Warlord serving you then, huh, Mr. Sommelier?” Sanji was ready. Ready to hear all the wondrous things the older swordsman had grown and prepared and served lovingly to further highlight Sanji’s inadequacies.
“Lots of stuff. Lots of foods I’d never heard of before.”
The cook’s standing cross-armed and tapping his foot, patience running thin. “Ah, of course!!! How could I have forgotten? Everyone knows the legendary food, it’s the seafood of the All Blue, mysteries of the Forest of Gluttony, the acclaimed “stuff” of Kuraigana!" The lack of specificity only bothered the blond cook more. It’s one thing if a certain ingredient or dish stood out, but no, apparently it was the mentor’s general excellence.
“Yeah, I even learned how to make my favorite. Want me to make it for dinner tomorrow? The witch says we should arrive at an island tomorrow, so I can pick up the ingredients.”
“Come again? Have I gone mental, or are you offering to cook for me?”
Zoro smirks, he knows he’s throwing curly off his game, and didn't even tap a foot for calling his beloved Nami a witch. Too easy. “Yeah. Show you what he taught me.”
“Have you gone mental? You learned how to cook?! He taught you how to cook!!?”
One. More. Push. “Yeah, said I was too skinny when I arrived at Kuraigana. ‘I won’t have my apprentice running around like a famished Victorian child. You need to learn to nourish yourself, rabbit.’” The mosshead mocks his mentor’s accent.
“FAMISHED?!!” Sanji paces in the galley in an enraged state. Warlord or not, Sanji has never felt insulted truly insulted like this. He’d give his life before letting any of his crew go malnourished.
“Alright, let’s see it then. Tomorrow after lunch, the kitchen will be all yours, yeah? You can show us how delicious Mihawk’s food is!” He’s so upset that he storms out of the galley, slamming the door shut as if the kitchen wasn’t his space. He can’t even look at it, disgusted by his own deficiency at the one thing that made him useful to the crew.
The next day they arrive at the island, and Zoro volunteers himself for ship watch since he’s cooking dinner away. The rest of the crew decide they want to sleep in a warm bed with insulated walls, so they cram themselves into the local inn.
One lodging is sorted, Zoro and Sanji set out to the local market. The cook for his normal restock and provisions, and the swordsman for any ingredients he needs for tonight’s demonstration. Sanji can’t help notice the limited number of items the mosshead has in his cart. Some canned tuna, some eggs, sweet potatoes, all of that make sense for the macros the musclehead needs to maintain his weight, but doesn’t seem like quite enough to create a well-thought out dish.
“Oi, Mosshead, are you actually intending to make us a real meal with that?”
“You’d be surprised how much a good cook can make with very few ingredients.” he says with a stupid, smarmy grin.
Oh, the cook could just pummel into the frozen ground right now if it weren’t risking the eggs in the swordsman handbasket getting crushed. Sanji takes deep breaths to calm himself, and sees to the rest of his shopping alone.
The cook hands off all the goods to Zoro to walk back to the ship. Sanji lights a cigarette as he strolls back into town, having entrusted storage of the new goods to the swordsman before dinner preparation. Normally Sanji couldn’t fathom allowing another person into his pantry, but the swordsman’s done it alongside him enough times after a shopping trip that Sanji can trust him now.
Sanji tucks the hand not holding his cigarette into his pocket, feeling the cold numb his fingertips despite the gloves. He thinks about what domestic life must have looked like for the mosshead and his mentor, working in the lush garden together. Thinking about it now, the two swordsmen spent more time together than the two wings. Sanji imagines how they develop their own rhythm, their own silent chemistry. Tilling, planting, watering across all four seasons. The peaceful vision leaves him a bit forlorn, mossheads should be planted not planting.
Stupid mosshead wouldn’t be ready to serve dinner for another forty-five minutes, so Sanji stops into a wine bar slightly more inland to burn some time and enjoy the stop on land. He browses the offerings, the different blends, aging techniques, years. He looks at the menu and wonders about Mihawk’s collection. Being a Warlord meant he had a lot of spare beli to buy any wine he wanted. Hell, vineyards would be honored to give it to him for free, is more likely. What kinds of bottles did he keep, how he’d get the stupid mosshead to even savor it? Did the rude moss sneak into the cellar to steal a bottle every evening? These are the questions he asks himself, tipsy and cold, on the way back to the Sunny.
The wine has him feeling nice and fuzzy, somehow numb now, but also brave enough to be teetering up the gangplank with giddiness instead of just anxiety. Sanji braces himself for the impact of this occasion, he is a man. He will accept his defeat from Dracule Mihawk, just as Zoro had done at the Baratie those years ago, and learn to become stronger, to become better.
Yet the resolve he’d built up with courage and stupidity near comes crumbling down the second he walks into his own kitchen. The kitchen is no war zone like he initially expected from the violent man. No, mosshead seemingly meticulous to clean as he cooked.The smell is what makes Sanji sick.
The galley is filled with the rich smell of caramelized sugar that overpowers the lingering scent of frying oil and mirin. The fragrance hits him like a smack to the face, a jarring reminder of the gap between himself and the experienced warlord. Dracule Mihawk could bend any man’s will, how else could Sanji explain how he has convinced Roronoa Zoro to not only eat but enjoy sweet foods. Sanji’s fears are confirmed when he looks at the counter to see perfectly fried and glazed Daigaku Imo, it practically makes his knees give out.
“Oi, curly you’re early.”
He can’t take his eyes away from the dessert. “Don’t tell me you have performance anxiety, idiot.”
“Nah.”
“When are the others arriving?”
“They’re staying in town for dinner tonight. The witch said she doesn’t want to deal with me giving everyone food poisoning.” It's not like the greenhaired man will openly admit he paid Nami out of his own pocket to keep the crew out out of sight for evening and cover their inn fees.
Still fixated on the sweet potatoes, he doesn’t even look at the swordsman to scold him “Don’t call her that.”
“Oi, love-cook.” Sanji doesn’t look at him, doesn’t give any sort of response. Zoro grabs him by the elbow, “Oi, are you okay?”
Sanji flinches and finally meets his eye, nodding. He’s wearing Sanji’s pink Doskoi apron with the panda on it, which is way too small to cover any significant part of the swordsman, but it oddly suits him. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little tipsy.”
“Oh, want to pass on the wine tonight then?”
Sanji snickers at the thought, mossball with dessert and a wine pairing ready for the evening. He has to experience it to believe it, “no, I’ll have one more.”
Zoro pours him a glass of Riesling, chilled enough from being out in the cold weather, and perfectly dry. Somehow it makes sense now that it’s in front of him, probably does go well with all of the swordsman's favorite foods. Zoro watches him with anticipation, “so… what do you think?”
“Yeah, mosshead, I like it. You did good.” Zoro smiles with his full face now, both corners of his mouth lifting and crinkles form at the outer corners of his eyes. It’s the smile rarely seen since the crew reunited. Sanji had missed it, and a part of him withered away inside knowing that this joy and this enthusiasm over food existed in the mosshead the whole time, just in a place Sanji couldn’t reach.
Zoro starts filling the dining table with the various side dishes he prepared for the evening, tempura eggplant, braised daikon, and the candied yams. Sanji’s heart thudded louder and louder as the table slowly filled, the muscle trying to squeeze every last bit of oxygen out of him, desperately, faster, faster.
“Alright, the main dish is ready. Let’s eat, pervert cook!”
Sanji turns away from the bar top to look away as Zoro places the serving dish on the table, he’s so curious, but almost afraid of knowing more than not at this point.
“Oi, cook hurry up. You’re the one who gets angry when the food gets cold.”
“Yeah, let me just refill this glass.” Stalling.
“You know, I craved this all the time on the island. I asked Mihawk for it at least once a day. He got so annoyed, but he gave up fighting me on it once he realized I would keep asking.”
“I get it idiot, you’re obsessed with it enough to learn how to make it.”
“Yeah, it took so many tries to get it right. It was worth it though.”
Sanji can't hold the wine glass stem steady. “You really like it that much?”
“Yeah, I love it.”
He tries to calm himself, taking long breaths before he can will his legs to sit at the table. He looks up at the table center, it’s a platter of onigiri. Oh. The discovery stings a little, but at least he knows the mosshead well enough to know this is his favorite dish.
So, he preferred Mihawk’s recipe, so what? What’s so special about it anyway? He picks one up to take to try. The rice is cooked perfectly and seasoned well. There’s a good ratio of tuna-mayo filling, enough seaweed and sesame season on the outside for extra texture and flavor. Overall, it’s well-balanced, but it pretty much tastes the same as his. “Mosshead, what is this?”
“Onigiri.”
“Yeah, but I mean, what’s so special about it? About Mihawk’s special recipe? Why do you love it so much?” At this point it was kind of annoying, is it perfect by virtue of being from the greatest swordsman in the world? Like placebo?
“What the hell are you talking about? This isn’t Mihawk’s recipe. It’s yours.”
“What?!”
“It’s your onigiri recipe.”
“This was your favorite food on Kuraigana?”
“It’s my favorite food anywhere. I missed your cooking.” The nonsense his heart was doing early is nothing compared to this. His heart beats so violently, each thud blends into the next. It’s practically vibrating in his ribs. “I missed you. I thought about you all the time.”
Sanji’s scowled face slowly unfurls from his confusion, “I missed you too, a lot.” He manages to smile. The sincerity’s uncomfortable, he can’t quite manage to sit in it, “so don’t go getting lost again Mosshead, who knows how long it will take you to find me again next time.”
Zoro won’t let it go unsaid this time, two years apart had filled him with enough onigiri that didn't taste quite right and reminders of the opportunities missed. “Will probably get lost. Will look for you everyday regardless. After all, I love you, Sanji."