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“Careful,” Sanji says. He holds Zoro’s elbow, keeping his body close as Zoro steps into the bath.
Steam fills the washroom along with the pungent smell of herbs. Oil of arnica, mint, calendula. Lavender dusts the water’s surface and the second the heat hits Zoro's legs, his breath hitches. Sanji's grip tightens around his arm, his other hand catching Zoro by the waist when he sways toward the wall, “Shit, you alright?”
Zoro nods, almost imperceptibly. “Hip,” he mutters.
Slowly, Sanji guides him to the floor of the bath, “You should've let one of us—”
“Don’t even waste your breath, Curly.”
Sanji sighs, “I know, it's just—” he stops himself, watching Zoro’s back heave as he hangs his head forward, stiff, in water up to his waist. The bruise mottling his hip has spread across and up his lower back, his scars pucker with the heat. Thunder echoes faintly in the distance and Sanji can’t help but curse this belt of the ocean. It was inevitable they would be struck with the weight of its storms. And sure enough two nights before, the winds blew, the masts tore and seawater took the deck with an eye for the crew. Sanji had merely blinked and Luffy was over the rail. He saw Luffy’s arm extend, his hand miss the railing and before he could make it to the other side of the deck, Zoro had jumped in.
“I just wish I got there first,” Sanji says as he slips off his trousers. He unbuttons his shirt and folds it on top of the heap of Zoro’s robes.
“I woulda gone in before you either way.”
Sanji scoffs, lowering himself in the bath behind Zoro, “You’re dreaming if you think you’re faster.” And, oh, it feels good, the warmth, the herbal aroma of a soak mixed just right. He runs his hands over Zoro’s back, feeling his muscles slowly loosen as he eases his fingertips down his sides, across the swell of his ribs. Zoro sinks deeper into the tub and lightly squeezes Sanji’s thigh, “Not what I meant.”
“I know,” Sanji whispers through a kiss to Zoro’s shoulder, “Doesn’t mean I like it. Hand me the soap.”
Zoro reaches forward, wet flakes of lavender cake his arm when he lifts it out of the water, “Smells like grass in here.”
“It’s medicinal herbs. For inflammation. You just noticed?”
Zoro shrugs, wincing with the motion, “Just sayin’ it now.”
“Me and Chopper got them on the last supply run. We got another for a recipe I want to try. Tilt your head back a little.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Love, you can barely raise your arms.”
Zoro grunts and Sanji can imagine the exact look on his face as he hangs his head back. He lathers the soap in his palms then slides his fingertips through Zoro’s hair, scrubbing with a calming pressure. It doesn’t take much for him to relent, he exhales heavily, his thumb circles Sanji’s knee beneath the water.
“What’re you gonna make with it?”
Sanji’s lips tip up, “I was flipping through my old recipe journals from the Baratie the other night,” he says, massaging the soap to Zoro’s temples, easing around the scab that reaches past his hairline toward his eyebrow. That had scared him— pulling Zoro out of the sea, blood pouring down his face. Sanji held a rag against it for what felt like ages. He’d forgotten just how much a cut there could bleed. “Zeff had used it before,” Sanji continues, parting Zoro’s hair away from the cut, “the herb, I’m not sure how to pronounce it. There was a drawing of it next to a marmalade recipe.”
Zoro’s eye falls shut, “Marmalade?”
“Yeah, like a jam or jelly. Keep your eye closed.” Carefully, Sanji pours water over Zoro’s head, rinsing the soap from his hair. When wet, it’s the color of pine, so many shades darker than the moss paled green. Sanji runs his fingers over the back of Zoro’s neck just under his hairline. “Done,” he whispers and leans Zoro back into his chest. Sanji can feel him settle, feel the warmth seeping deep into his bones within a single sigh.
“I was thinking,” Sanji says, rubbing the heel of his hand down Zoro’s hip, “of stewing down some of Nami’s tangerines. Zeff used peaches but I think tangerine would be nice.”
Zoro hums, softens just a bit further into him as Sanji’s touch rounds his hip socket.
“Never heard of it.”
“Of what?”
“Marma— whatever you called it.”
“Marmalade, you brute,” Sanji smirks and wraps both hands around Zoro’s hip bones, pressing his thumbs into the small of his back. “No toast and jam at the dojo?”
“Mostly rice.”
“What a surprise.”
“And persimmons. I like those.”
Sanji falters. This, he never knew, “You do?”
Zoro nods.
“Say far more than that, moss.” Recipes spin through Sanji’s head along with the best methods of drying and preserving and the feel of the optimal ripeness. Nami had said the approaching island was in autumn season.
“Not much to say,” he starts, then guides Sanji’s hand a bit lower and lets out a breath, “Right there. Fuck, it hurts.”
Sanji waits for his breath to even back out, for the pressure in his fingers to provide some relief. He lightly kisses Zoro’s neck, “Harder?”
“No, that’s good,” he breathes. “We— we had a persimmon tree outside the dojo. Picked them every year.”
“Yeah?” Sanji encourages, wanting to hear more. He never talks about food, Sanji has never thought him to have anything more than the blandest of palettes. Sure, Zoro would listen to his ramblings and nod along, maybe even ask a question but this—
He says nothing. It’s like he has fallen into a memory that intends to keep him there.
“Have you had them since?” Sanji asks, a tinge of hesitation in his voice.
“No,” Zoro says, shifting forward, “water’s gettin’ cold.”
Sanji stands before Zoro tries and reaches for a towel, “Hold on, let me—”
“Cook, I can stand.”
He can’t. He lists to the side and Sanji grabs him, “Easy as that, huh?” Sanji quips at Zoro’s scowl. He pats him dry and Zoro holds his shoulder like a brace. His skin is red and the bruising, Sanji thinks, seems to have slightly calmed.
“Do you want to?”
“Want to what?” Zoro asks, raising his arm as Sanji slips his robe around him.
“Have them again. Persimmons.”
For a moment, he doesn’t speak but watches Sanji’s hands pull his haramaki over his thighs and up to his belly. He shakes his head, “No, I don’t think so.”
Sanji glances up at him, the pain of a memory Sanji will never know is barely veiled, “How about the marmalade?”
Zoro chuckles just under his breath, “Doubt I’ll like it.”
“Well,” Sanji says, buttoning his trousers, a small smile reaching his voice, “I guess I’d almost be disappointed if you did.”