Archive of Our Own

i.

Sanji first asks shortly after Alabasta, on some winter island that has Chopper laughing and dashing around in circles as soon as they disembark. Robin—lovely Robin, darling Robin—offers to watch the Merry that first shift. 

They’re already close to town when Sanji notices Nami forgot her gloves; of course his are unworthy of touching such precious hands, and they’re too big, but he can’t bear to have Nami-swan’s fingers go even slightly red or dry from this shitty cold. So onto her hands they go. And oh, now that he’s looking at her, that jacket really isn’t warm enough, so why not take his coat as well? Nami says no, but he insists, really, she’s only wearing a tankini under that isn’t she, and by the time his nose has stopped bleeding she’s stopped objecting. There is no warmer sight than Nami-swan wrapped in his clothes, waving once before turning to the shopping arcade.

He’s miserable almost immediately, hands tucked into his pants and teeth chattering. Chivalry shouldn’t make him grimace, though it sucks how quickly his extremities freeze up. That’s probably why, when he sees the inviting trail of steam and the fluttering banner, he’s more than a little pushy getting all the guys into the hot springs. 

“Don’t you want to bathe?” He asks, despite knowing the disgusting answer. “Don’t you want to get warm?”

“I’m not cold,” Mr. Shirtless Number One says, but because Mr. Shirtless Number Two yells: “OOO, ONSEN SOUNDS FUN!” the argument is over. They troop inside, except for Chopper, who wants to play in the snow more, and maybe find a bookstore.

It is, as usual, an ordeal to get to the springs themselves—everyone’s haphazard about shedding their clothes, and for some reason there are red-faced monkeys lounging everywhere, to Luffy’s LOUD delight. Sanji has a moment where he imagines the women’s bath and hemorrhages blood all over the tiles, which they have to clean. By the time they’re settled in the main tub he has a minor headache, Usopp and Luffy have twin bumps on their skulls, and Zoro is looking faintly mutinous. He’s been looking mutinous ever since the dressing room. Sanji cannot understand why this man hates even the idea of being clean.

Other patrons keep glancing over at them, probably because of Zoro’s big-ass scar. Zoro glares at the strangers, then at him. Sanji wishes he had a cigarette.

“What?” He finally asks.

“What?”

“Stop staring.”

“I’m not staring!”

“Right. You’re glaring.”

“I’m not—why the hell would I be looking at you?” He jerks his head to glower at the tiled mountain mural, face flushed from the heat. 

The steam works fast—Sanji inspects the back of his own hand, already turning lobster-red. He should find some lobster in this city, make lobster bisque with potato rolls for the crew tomorrow. If they have fresh greens available he’ll make a salad with raspberry dressing, too; the ladies always appreciate some salad.

The mirage of their approving faces makes him think of the question—how weird it is, that they’ve never talked about this, after all this time traveling together.

Maybe it’s not that strange. Luffy is Luffy. And Usopp has some kind of hometown girl. When he suggests this, Usopp squawks, “Kaya’s n-n-n-ot my girl, she’s just, she’s one of my dearest friends. I’m n-n-not in love with her!”

“Oh? Then you won’t mind introducing me?”

Usopp yelps in indignation. “I will never let you near her!”

Satisfied, Sanji turns to his next target. “So Usopp’s been in love with the same girl since forever. But you—I don’t understand you. You say you don’t like Nami-swan, or Vivi-chan, or Robin-chwan. What’s wrong with you? How can you not be attracted to them? There’s the cute type. The elegant type. Even the spunky princess type. And none of them work for you?”

“Do you know how stupid you sound right now? If I repeated this back to any of them your balls would be gone.”

“That’s…definitely true. You’re not answering my question, though.”

“What’s a type?” Luffy manages three backstrokes in the water. 

“It’s the kind of person you find—” Hot, Sanji nearly says, before amending: “—Pretty,” even if Luffy is seventeen and probably knows enough about sex to decide he doesn’t care about it.

“Oh. What Zoro finds pretty? That’s obvious.” He stretches his toe to poke a monkey in the far corner.

“It is?” Sanji asks, shocked.

“It is?” Zoro asks, eyes wide.

“Why are you confused,” Sanji asks, eager for the juiciest reveal of his life. 

Luffy starts laughing, his wow-everyone’s-so-stupid-except-me laugh, and says, “If it’s Zoro, then his type is—eugheeeee!” The monkey he was heckling finally retaliates and slams into his face, sending him splashing into the water.

They’re kicked out for causing a disturbance. Luffy laughs out the door, the monkey now affixed to his head. Sanji is too disappointed to be properly annoyed. His muscles are still knotted, his hair is still wet. He’s probably going to freeze before they get back to the Merry. The only thing that can possibly thaw him is Robin’s worried attention or maybe a kiss from Nami. He rubs his hands together and starts to trail after his captain, sniffling from the icy breeze and self-pity.

A coat thumps over his head, blinding him so that he slips in surprise. When he whips it off and starts yelling, Zoro just says, “What? You’re cold, aren’t you? Your cheeks are all red.”

He’s wearing the usual thin shirt with matching thin frown, and Sanji wants to object, but even if the coat stinks like a Marimo he’s already warmer from its bulk. At his hesitation, Zoro growls, “I don’t need it.”

Sanji grudgingly pulls it on. “Thanks.”

“Tch. Whatever.”

Zoro’s cheeks are rosy too—still flushed from the hot springs, probably. Sanji envies how much better the swordsman retains heat. They fall into step behind Luffy and Usopp, who are taking turns naming their temporary monkey friend. Sanji, slightly embarrassed by the coat, says: “So, Marimo. What was Luffy going to say? About your type?”

“I don’t have one. Luffy doesn’t know anything.” 

Well, they both know that isn’t true. Plus Zoro says it too quickly for a legitimate brush-off. It’s the rare, uncool flicker that relieves Sanji, whenever it happens: a stupid comment, an awkward movement, that proves Zoro’s just another pirate, nineteen and trying to figure this shit out as he goes. Sometimes Sanji thinks he can read Zoro perfectly, every grunt and raised eyebrow so transparent. But sometimes, after a particularly good sparring session, or when Zoro hands him a plate licked clean, there’s a silence that he can’t decipher at all.

This is like both of those things at once. Zoro clearly has a type, but he’s not going to tell him. And now, Sanji’s never going to rest ’til he knows.

ii.

Zoro, like Usopp, has a hometown girl.

Except she’s dead.

Sanji gets the story not on some balmy evening of drunken storytelling, but pre-dawn after a night of getting his ribs kicked half to shit. He has no real excuse for things except that at some point in the fight he got sloppy, ended up on a boat by himself, and is now tied up, bleeding from the mouth. The devil fruit user is telling Marimo (when did he get there?), your crewmate or your sword and Sanji is so sure, so sure it’s going to be the sword that when the rope around his neck is unceremoniously cut he’s completely confused for a few seconds.

Then Zoro starts whirling around the two swords he has left, and his mouth is empty, and Sanji, while choking, thinks god fucking damnit and jumps into the sea.

He manages to grab it and swim back up before his breath is gone. By the time he’s onboard again the ship is split in half and the pirate is probably dead, or at least about to be, given his nasty chest wound. Sanji dumps the sword before folding over to cough extravagantly on what’s left of the deck.

“The fuck did you do that for?” 

Zoro sounds so angry, it actually makes Sanji’s neck prickle. But he’s too tired and too ashamed of his own weakness to let himself feel guilty on top of everything else.

“Because you obviously knew I’d grab it, and that’s why you chose me! Stupid mosshead, I don’t want to owe you anything. You think I don’t know that one’s your favorite?”

Sanji tries to stand and retches instead, trembling slightly when he feels Zoro’s hand on his back. Zoro’s voice has that sharp, focused quality it gets when he’s talking to Luffy in a fight. “Look, could you stop moving? They’re going to get here any minute now. Lie down. You look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks.” But Sanji complies, stretching out like a corpse. Maybe that’ll get him to stop feeling nauseous. Stop hearing the nasty voiceover he gets whenever he’s badly hurt: how no one would actually ever choose to save him, especially not over something precious. He knows this. He doesn’t need to be told how worthless he is.

Zoro’s still hovering over him. He kind of—his face is weird.

“What? I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“This said it. This.” He puts his whole hand over Zoro’s face, like that might get him to stop, with that expression. He doesn’t want to argue. He’s in so much pain, and he’s using up all his energy to hide it, because for some reason Marimo is acting like seeing him this damaged is personally offensive. He hates it too, being a drag on everyone. A dead weight.

He shuts his eyes, exhales slow. Sleep plucks at him, sweetly.

“Don’t pass out yet.”

Ugh. “Just resting my eyes.”

Shifting sounds. Since when was Zoro so fidgety? 

“…It was my friend’s.”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, I don’t know if she’d call us that. But she was the daughter of my sensei, and we sparred together every day, and nothing mattered more to me than defeating her. When she died I inherited it.”

He says more. It’s a very short story, because Zoro is bad at telling stories, but Sanji gets the gist. 

“It’s why I can fight women, you know? Your thing, being unable to hurt them—I get it, but the strongest swordsman I’ve ever known, after Mihawk, was a woman. She literally beat my ass every day for years. She wouldn’t want me to say no to a fight, only ‘cause of that.” Sanji keeps his eyes closed, but he can hear the pride in Zoro’s voice: feral, certain. The essential qualities that make up their swordsman. “She worked hard for her wins, every day. I learned that discipline from her.”

Any other time, Sanji might have quipped: so your type is…someone who can beat your ass?

But this isn’t a moment for teasing; this memory shouldn’t be touched like that. Zoro never offers stories, because he doesn’t think the past matters all that much (and what is that like? To always be looking forward, to fix your eyes on the horizon, instead of being beholden to the million failures of your existence?) It means something, to be given this piece of Zoro’s past. And now it makes sense: how fighting women, in some strange way, is Marimo’s way of respecting them. When he talks about Kuina, it’s about her strength, her dedication, and nothing else. It’s not love in his voice—they were kids, after all. But that respect is its own kind of devotion.

Sanji has fallen in love hundreds of times, but even he can admit, it’s not with that same depth of feeling.

“Hey,” Zoro is saying. “Are you going to fall asleep? Don’t. At least wait til Chopper gets here. They’re almost here. Cook?” Sanji opens his eyes. Zoro’s leaning over him again. His hand does this thing like it’s trying to find a place to land, but can’t.

Sanji laughs. Stops before it morphs into a cough. “I said I’m fine.”

Zoro curls his floating hand into a fist. Mutters something, voice rough.

“Can’t hear you, Marimo.”

“I said. That’s not why I chose you.”

Did he miss a thread somewhere? Maybe Zoro got lost in the conversation. He traces back through their exchange, dizzy with pain. A question, an answer, Zoro explaining himself, to make Sanji understand something critical, something that goes against the very root of who he is. Zoro’s eyes on him again like he’s trying to figure something out—the story Sanji won’t tell, will never tell, the past he’s going to bury with his bones. But his words still don’t make sense. He starts, with an effort, “What—”

“ZOROOOO! SANJIIIII!” Chopper’s voice in the distance, cracking with worry.

Sanji feels relief in his fingertips first. His body goes sluggish with it, the assurance of home overtaking even the indignity of his current state.

Zoro shouts back, beckoning their crew over, and never explains himself.

iii.

Two years later and Sanji still doesn’t know. It’s not like he thought about it all that often, what with his ass getting kicked daily by every Newkama in heels and impeccable mascara. It’s actually more like he didn’t think about it at all, except coming face to face with Zoro, when it happens, is the strangest kind of deja vu. He has so many other questions and no way to ask them. Instead, they argue, and even if it’s fucking annoying, it’s so familiar he could cry.

He could cry for entirely different reasons when they run into Perona and he finds out that the Marimo has spent the last two years in the company of such loveliness. But before he can bust out a poem about how the perfect pinkness of her hair outshines all the roses, Perona says: “You’re the cook? But you’re not cute at all!”

It’s a strange greeting. Sanji is undeterred. His heart eye bobbles. “It’s because you’ve stolen all the cuteness in the world, ma chérie.”

“Gross,” Zoro says. “She’s the opposite of cute.”

“If anything isn’t cute here it’s you, shitty Marimo!” He shoves his face into Zoro’s to deliver his point, and is distracted by the troubling possibility that Zoro has grown a smidge taller than him. Fuck.

“Oh my god I agree! If someone had to crash into our castle they should have been cuter!” Perona gestures violently at Zoro with her parasol. “Living with him is the worst! He gets lost every day and he never says thank you!”

“Right? And he eats like a slob!”

“Exactly!”

Zoro groans. “Why are you two bonding at my expense?”

“Because you’re awful!” Sanji and Perona retort, and Sanji grins at her for two seconds before spraying blood all over her face. She screams, slaps him. The boom of cannon fire inches closer.

“You’re vile, but I like that you understand me.” She shakes out a lace handkerchief and wipes her face with it, eyes mutinous. Sanji’s too besotted to properly apologize; the lady can slap. She shouts a few things at Zoro that don’t register, and he shouts some things back at her, but Sanji can tell it’s mostly because he sucks at goodbyes. When she turns back to him, it’s to say: “Make him lots of onigiri, not-cute-cook. He kept saying he missed it.”

Before it dawns on him that he’s actually having a conversation with a woman, an actual bonafide lady (and is this what conversations with women are like? When he’s not in the throes of their goddess-like beauty? And why did the conversation have to be about Marimo, of all people?)—there’s gunfire at their back. Luffy laughs, wraps an arm around them both, and Perona screeches at them to get the hell out of there, ugh, boys, why do I always have to do all the work?

Back on the Sunny, somehow even more like home than he remembers, he comes to in the aquarium bar. There’s a blood bag taped to his arm. Zoro says they put him there to keep him away from the women, and tosses a bunch of photos of Nami and Robin in his face.

“Rehabilitation,” he deadpans. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Why are you here?”

“What? I was already here.”

Sanji can’t remember, after all that fainting. He decides, instead, to see if Zoro’s finally ready to confess.

“So you’re not hot for Perona. That’s not surprising. I knew you wouldn’t be into the Lolita type.”

“You say the weirdest shit sometimes.”

“You still won’t tell me? Not even as a thanks for safely getting you to the ship?”

“I didn’t need help from you, number seven. And I don’t want to hear this question again from someone whose type is has tits and breathes.”

“That’s not true! I have standards!”

“Oh yeah? Has tits, breathes, doesn’t run away screaming when you approach?”

If he wasn’t still lightheaded he’d be slamming his foot into Marimo’s face. He wants to feel it: the parry, the counterstrike. To finally see the efforts of how hard he’s worked. Sure, there was that little skirmish on Sabaody, and it was pretty gratifying to take down a Pacifista in one move. But he won’t know how good he is, how far he’s come, until he and Zoro spar. Somewhere along the way their fights became the gauge of his improvement: how much he can protect, how quickly he can destroy.

He wonders if it’s like that for Zoro too, but some part of him knows it is. They’ve been that for each other, from the start. 

Still—he’s not comfortable with the quiet. (He’s never really been.) He eyes Zoro, clinically. It’s not a contest, he knows how to use his own body in a fight even better now, but—damn. 

“Just how much protein did you eat every day?”

“What kind of topic change is that?”

“Answer the question!”

Zoro shrugs. “Mihawk made most of the food.”

Sanji feels a stab of envy. Best swordsman and a great cook? He probably has insane knife skills. Is his food better than Sanji’s? He can’t ask that—it would seem selfish. It’s not like he has a monopoly on feeding this crew. And why is it silent again? They should say something else to each other. Sanji doesn’t know what, but if he doesn’t make the effort, Zoro will simply go on glowering with his arms crossed over that massive chest. 

“Your eye. What happened?”

“Training.” Zoro smirks. “It was a good match.”

“Bet it was another masochist thing for you. What’s a teeny-tiny eyeball when you’re willing to destroy yourself?” Sanji tries to say this carelessly, but it comes out sharp. Shit. 

He sees tension creep into Zoro’s shoulders, feels it twinge along the back of his own neck.

“I don’t,” Zoro says, very deliberate, “Want to hear that from you.”

Wow. Way to get him where it hurts. They glare at each other. Sanji can’t even defend himself—he knows what Zoro means, how pathetic he was, back when they were last in a death-or-death situation. Zoro doesn’t need to know this, but: Sanji’s spent all this time getting stronger so that the choice of who can take a buttload of damage isn’t so obvious next time. There’s room for more than two monsters on this crew—even if they never need to find out, how monstrous he is.

He still wakes up sometimes, haunted by a phantom pain in his side, thinking what if I didn’t find him in time? Those first few days, keeping vigil next to Chopper, so tired he couldn’t dress properly, the only thing that kept him going was how angry he was at Zoro. The guilt ate holes in him; it still nibbles at his guts, every now and then. He can’t shake the way Zoro offered himself up, without fear, with utter self-certainty. How it seemed to be not a sacrifice, but all part of some plan that made total sense in his Marimo brain. Some plan that meant Sanji would have to live with that loss forever.

When Zoro finally regained consciousness he couldn’t say it right, couldn’t articulate how selfish and annoying and stupid that was. Then the moment passed, and the years passed, and here they are. Sanji’s not going to make things weird just ‘cause he still has nightmares about Thriller Bark sometimes. That’s between him and his pillow.

“Fine. Forget what I said.”

He finds a cigarette in his pocket and lights up. Zoro is frowning at him again. He’s always frowning. Sanji feels exuberant, twitchy with the promise of adventure and fighting and trying out all his new recipes. In contrast, this new (?) Zoro feels grave, his edges rubbed off to something smooth and immovable as stone. Something’s changed in him, but Sanji doesn’t know what. There’s now a whole chapter in the Book of Marimo he knows nothing about. Will never learn, unless Zoro tells him, and why would he?

Zoro opens his mouth. “Your eyebrow’s different.”

“God, what’s with you and my eyebrows? You’re still a slimy green mossball!” 

This is what they’re about. How could he forget? They’ve always been shit at talking. He tugs off the IV drip, vertigo be damned, draws his leg back, and lashes it out. Zoro laughs as he ducks and brings up the hilt of a sword. As they get into the rhythm of the brawl (light, easy, Franky’s going to have a heart attack if the newly tuned up Sunny gets wrecked not even half a day into their voyage), he thinks what he means to say, that he can’t say, which is probably also what Zoro wants to say, is: god, it’s good to see you too. So, so good. 

Even if it’s Zoro. Nothing compares. It’s—really nice to be with his crew again. It's the best. And this time, nothing’s going to separate them. 

The questions run through his mind as he crosses his hands on the floor and spins, trying to catch Zoro in the chest. Where were you? What was it like? I literally went through hell but I also learned a lot. I know it’s made me better.

Zoro stops his momentum by blocking with his scabbard. “I missed beating the shit out of you.”

Sanji is abruptly embarrassed by the tightness in his chest. “Aww, that’s sweet. Is the truth so hard to say? Because I missed you too, shitty mosshead. I missed everyone.” 

Zoro goes “Ugh,” trying to whack his shoulder with the blunt edge of his sword; Sanji blocks, backflips away, and taps the ash from his cigarette. Same old pretending-not-to-care softie Marimo.

“What were you even fishing for?”

“We need fish on the ship, don’t we?”

“Since when did you care about—” The ship lists. There’s a lot of shouting outside, and he and Zoro run out to find intruders, their play fight suddenly a real fight. Which is, as always, even better.

iv.

After Punk Hazard, Sanji feels like he’s cracked the code. It’s so obvious.

“Who? The copycat marine girl?”

Of course Marimo won’t admit he’s right. 

Sanji tries to be patient.

“She’s hot. She’s strong. She’s a sword nerd.” 

Zoro looks at him like he sprouted another head. “She’s a marine.”

“So? She’s cute. She carries around a little booklet with sword names.”

“Why do you keep saying sword like that? Also, are you stupid? I’m a pirate. If I end up with anyone they have to be a pirate too.”

“Oh,” Sanji says, disappointed. “I guess you’re right.” 

“And I don’t care about shit like sword names! I know a good sword when I hold it.”

Sanji’s surprised at how bummed he feels. Maybe it’s because there’s something so nice about that story. If Zoro and Tashigi-chan end up together it’ll be like one of those books young Sanji was really into, the kind with lovers destined to overcome meddling gods and terrible trials. Is being on opposite sides of the law really such a huge obstacle?

Sanji considers Zoro giving up a life of piracy. It’s immediately unappealing. Not everyone is Luffy, with close friends and literal family in the Marines. Zoro’s lawless in a different way: dangerous, downright murderous. He’d wreak untold havoc every chance he got, between stretches of confinement in Impel Down.

Okay. Fine. So Zoro’s great love has to be a pirate. Sanji catalogs all the pirate ladies he knows—it’s a consuming, wonderful task, but there are so many strong ladies, those descriptors don’t narrow it down at all. If Luffy knew way back in those hot springs, it must have been someone from early in their travels, right? Is Zoro really so afraid of Sanji stealing her?

Brook, who has been idling alongside them, suddenly turns those fathomless black eyes on him. “Sanji-san. Are you perhaps trying to figure out who Zoro-san is attracted to? I daresay, it’s quite obvious.”

Now that’s annoying. Brook has a clue, but he doesn’t? And it’s someone specific? That only makes it more confusing.

“No it’s—I’M NOT!” Zoro shouts, which is barely a sentence. 

“If you would just tell me, I’d stop asking, you know.”

“You’re so frustrating,” Zoro seethes, angrier than he should be. He stomps away. 

Sanji chases him, more to tease now than anything. “Marimo. Your ears are red. You are thinking about someone specific, aren’t you?”

“Would you shut up? I’m so glad you’re back in this body now, so I can kick your ass.”

For some reason this makes Brook start laughing uncontrollably. “Zoro-san,” he says, wiping mysterious tears of mirth away. “You’re such a horrible liar.”

“Shut the fuck up! Perverted skeleton!”

“What’s he lying about? He likes Tashigi-chan after all?” Sanji hates when the crew talks like this. For some reason it only happens when Zoro’s around.

Brook leans in to whisper conspiratorially. “He has a thing for blondes, Sanji-san.”

“Blondes?!” He says this loud enough that Zoro yells with rage. He slashes at Brook, who hops away, chortling.

“Stop attacking me! And don’t pretend—you’ve never looked at Nami-san the way you did on that island!”

Sanji erupts into flames. “You were looking at my precious Nami-swan? How dare you!”

“Are you insane? She sent me because you were being a perv!”

“This is hilarious! Yohohoho!”

They pause fighting only to pummel Brook together.

v.

Another night on Whole Cake Island, another night of crying himself to sleep, despite knowing that it’s only going to make everything worse.

He can’t help it. His heart is broken. He keeps thinking of the Sunny, of his kitchen, of making golden curry for everyone, ladling extra meat for Luffy, watching them eat til their plates are clean because they understand the rules of his table by now. Asking Usopp to shoot down some weird climber fruit for him. Listening to Franky strum his guitar. Bonding with Brook over Nami’s latest swimsuit. Napping by the tangerine trees after making a decadent brunch and waking up to find that Chopper has nestled beside him, Robin grinning at them both from her own shaded seat.

He doesn’t deserve them. Not after how he’s acted—how he left. It’s not like he really thought he could escape this fate, given the wretched blood in his veins. He was stupid to dream of it. It’s only—the Baratie gave him a vocation and the skills to make it a reality. Zeff’s conviction made him actually want to live, a little. Then the Straw Hats had made a different life not only seem possible, but inevitable. Under Luffy’s unrelenting faith in everyone, he forgot: in the end, he is still who he is. Someone who isn’t worth much.

Happiness. A concept. Materialized every damn day on that damn ship. But every step he took to escape was only bringing him back here, after all. 

Remembering the crew is both a salve and salt on the wound. He thinks about them collectively, then holds up each person, in rotation, treasuring them from every angle his cruel mind can conjure. Tonight he’s thinking about how he never did find out Zoro’s type. For some reason this makes him cry even harder. Stupid Marimo is probably so glad he’s off the ship, his life must be so much better now, he always said it would be. Of course Sanji’s hoping maybe it’s also slightly worse, because who else is going to indulge him, sparring any moment he’s bored? And like Perona said, no one can make him onigiri like Sanji does, because only Sanji knows exactly how much salt he likes on his salmon flakes and which variant of plum has the right sour note.

He thinks about Zoro a lot these days, because he knows, out of everyone, that Zoro won’t forgive him. He remembers what Zoro was like, after Usopp left. It’s not the same thing, but Sanji is—supposed to be there at every fight, another wing for Luffy, all the way to Laugh Tale. He’s abandoning the post he’d sworn into, years ago in that battle at Arlong Park: Zoro bought him thirty seconds so he could save their captain. And he did. No matter how much they fight, that’s always been simple, and true.

Zoro in stillness, meditating or napping against the Sunny’s railing. Zoro with that flat frown whenever Sanji trimmed his hair (it was actually really soft, when Sanji ran his hands through it to shake out any loose strands; he always made jokes about not being a gardener, about how topiaries shouldn’t be made of moss). Zoro asking for sake before dinner; the shock on his face the one time Sanji complied. He’d found a delicious yuzu sake in the latest port and thought it might be good to pair with their grilled fish that evening, and what did Zoro think? Zoro taking the cup, actually tasting it for once. Zoro saying, “It’s too sweet,” but having another sip anyway.

Zoro shouting at him on the battlefield at Fishman Island. Zoro carrying groceries back to the Sunny. Zoro kneeling down at Thriller Bark; Zoro upright and 98% dead, at Thriller Bark. Zoro against the campfire of Skypeia, resolutely not dancing, until Luffy wraps both limbs around him and puppets him around. Zoro in the desert, asking Chopper if he’s dehydrated. Zoro vertical, and weeping, his whole chest open and Mihawk staring at him with the calmest pity on earth.

He has never seen Zoro cry after that. And here’s Sanji, crying again, crying daily, because in their last fight Zoro got the upper hand and god, what an awful note to end on. Sanji was supposed to even the score next time. If he won, he would have forced Zoro to tell him, because crushes are not the kind of thing you’re supposed to withhold from your crewmates. He has to know who Zoro’s strong blonde pirate lady is! Sanji could be his wingman! Sanji could give him love advice! 

He imagines what it would be like: Zoro on his back, Sanji’s heel digging a bruise on his chest, perpendicular to his scar. He’d laugh in surprise. Say, “Good one, cook.” Then grab Sanji’s ankle, force them into a rematch.

He misses that laugh. Annoying as it is. That big belly laugh Marimo mostly saves for Luffy, and Chopper, and the rare moments when Sanji startles it out of him, so loud it rings across the deck like a bell.

vi.

It ends up making sense in Wano.

Hiyori isn’t a pirate, nor is she blonde. But she’s perfect for Zoro, and so obviously into him.

Sanji feels like he’s in hell. When she prettily puts her hand on Marimo’s arm. When she covers her mouth to laugh, eyes never leaving his face. When she talks about cleaning his body—her immaculate hands, on Marimo’s disgusting body! Sanji looks at her and feels inadequate. He can no longer count how many times that’s happened, from when he first saw her in Zoro’s arms til now. And she will never look at him, because all her attention is on Zoro.

He can’t look at Zoro, either. If Marimo gives Hiyori his usual surly stare, Sanji will want to pick a fight, and Chopper will probably Monster Point him if any of those bandages come undone. But if Zoro looks at her any other way, Sanji will turn inside out from jealousy.

It’s not like he doesn’t get it. Zoro saved her life (even if he probably did it mostly because he saw another swordsman and got his usual fight boner). And he fits here, perfectly, even if his fighting style makes no sense and he has weeds for hair—didn’t Vivi call him Mr. Bushido? He’s basically a samurai. So Zoro will return to Wano once Luffy is Pirate King, because his future wife is here, and it’s too bad that they’ll lose their swordsman, but when you meet the one it’s the one, right?

“I hate you,” he declares, in a lull when Hiyori has gone to speak with Momo. “You said you weren’t into princesses.”

“I’m not. You’re the only one who gives a shit about royalty.”

Nami chugs a shot of sake. “Zoro. You know that Sanji’s a prince?”

Zoro frowns. “Oh. I forgot. I take that back, I guess.”

“Noooo! Nami-swan! I’m not! I have nothing to do with that family anymore!”

Zoro’s already wandering away to get another drink when Sanji actually registers his words, and tries to grab him. “Hey wait—what do you mean you take that back?”

“Get off me.” Zoro sounds tired.

“Zoro-san!” Hiyori swoops towards them, and Sanji loosens his grip on Marimo’s arm. “Another sake?”

Her eyes sparkle with unbridled hope. It makes Sanji feel too much. He ends up fleeing to the kitchen to calm himself, helping with the feast despite everyone trying to shoo him away. The sheer volume of dishes to produce has him distracted enough that he successfully doesn’t think about Hiyori swooning over Zoro that whole time. 

Until hours later, when he runs into Zoro again. The swordsman is staring around in utter confusion, smack in the middle of a palace corridor with delicate washi screens and a random pond reflecting the moon.

There are a lot of corridors like this, but Sanji’s not going to pass up the chance to annoy him. 

“You have to pay attention to the paintings, stupid. This whole wing has frogs. To get back to the dining hall you need to walk straight til you reach a fork, and then you should head right, down the hallway with the fox paintings.”

“I knew that!” Zoro eyes the frog art like it’s threatening him. “What’s the—animal-thing for the rooms they gave us?”

“Why? You should go back to the party.”

“Hah? What for?”

“Hiyori’s waiting for you.”

He has the gall to look confused. “What about her? Oh—you’re jealous?”

“Of course!” Sanji falls to his knees, frustration boiling over. “She’s obsessed! She touched you! She bandaged you!”

“You bandaged me first.”

“That wasn’t—I wasn’t doing that to score with you—”

“I know.” Zoro grins. “Believe me, I know.”

Something about the way he says it, the way he’s not moving to leave, gets Sanji to stop smushing his forehead onto the floor. He sits up, glowering. “Don’t act. Brook told me you slept together.”

“Fucking skeleton. You know I wouldn’t. I was passed out. My armpit got stabbed.”

Since this is completely plausible, Sanji drops it. “I’m still not going to make you a wedding cake when you get married.”

“Hey.”

Oooooh shit. He knows that tone. 

“Speaking of wedding cakes.” 

Now that the battle’s over, it’s coming. It’s definitely coming. They haven’t been properly alone since Dressrosa, and now they’re apparently going to have the conversation they’ve just not been having, and Sanji can’t. He can’t do this right now. He has to go.

“You’re trying to distract me.” 

Sanji gets to his feet, but Zoro grabs his forearm. Shit. 

“I’m still going to say it.” Zoro shifts, so that Sanji is forced to look at his face, the utter seriousness in that one gray eye. “If you ever leave again, I will kill you. I mean it.”

Zoro’s glaring at him with intent, pressing the promise out of him. Making sure he understands. 

And Sanji does understand. When it comes down to it, no one’s more steadfast about this crew than Zoro. No one else can so clearly enforce the rules they need to abide by, to make things work. Sanji’s not going to run away from what he did. His captain didn’t deserve it, and neither does his first mate. Nothing matters more, right now, than making sure Zoro believes him. 

“I get it. I won’t. Okay?”

To his surprise, Zoro only waits a second before releasing him. “Good.”

“It’s just—it was my fa—”

“Don’t say it.” The fury in Zoro’s voice makes his blood run cold. “Don’t tell me what they did. I’m going to want to go back and murder them, and I shouldn’t. We don’t have the time.”

“Marimo—”

“What? I was leaving the party already. There’s nothing with me and the princess, all right? If you care so much, ask her out yourself.” 

The grim expression on Zoro’s face, how he's suddenly trying to get away from him, tugs at something in Sanji. He’s not sure what it’s about, but when in doubt: fight. 

“Are you saying you’re too good for the princess of Wano?”

“The hell? That’s not what I’m saying—”

Sanji’s already trying to kick him, like getting a good kick in will solve all of his problems, only he remembers just in time what a horrible idea that is and how much Chopper’s going to hate him. He pulls his leg back, loses his balance, and Zoro, already grabbing his calf to block, isn’t able to stop either of them from crashing down. 

Sanji lands against Zoro’s chest, cheek pressed to his heart. 

There’s a long moment where neither of them do anything.

“Fuck,” Zoro says, voice tight. He hasn’t pushed Sanji off yet, which only goes to show how fucked up he actually is right now. He inhales, like he’s trying to control his anger. Sanji tenses up for the inevitable shove.

Instead, Zoro wraps arms around him. 

Sanji’s heart stops beating, even as Zoro’s speeds up.

It’s loud, that steady beat like a sea train. Too real, too close, and for some reason the misery Sanji felt when he left and hasn’t felt since returning rises up in him like a tidal wave. The memory of that pain, the bars of his prison and their endless taunting laughter. What it felt like, to get his heart stepped on there, for years and years, over and over and over. But he won’t ever go back there. And that won’t ever happen here. 

Here, with the crew, and—here, actually. With this person.

“Do you know,” Zoro starts, and Sanji can feel the words, deep as the bottom of the ocean, vibrate against his cheek. “How fucking difficult you are? Leaving like that? Asking me to kill you in the middle of a battle?” His hand comes up, and palms Sanji’s skull. “Bastard. Cut me some slack here.”

Sanji’s brain empties out. “Huh?”

“I’m saying, you stupid cook. I might have a type. And it’s not Hiyori.”

Sanji has no idea what’s happening. He tries to lift his head, but Zoro keeps him pinned down. Not letting him look.

“Someone who’s strong. Who always tries hard. Who’s a fucking pain in the ass.”

“That’s not what a type is, actually—”

“Someone who won’t let me breathe.”

He has to stop talking. Sanji has to make him stop. He wriggles, trying to dislodge himself, but Zoro just grips him tighter.

“Someone who’s kinder than he has any right to be, given what the whole world’s done to him. Someone who does everything for everyone else, doesn’t ask for anything, except that we’re safe, and happy. Someone who smiles too big. When he walks into the room it’s like he’s dragged the sun along with him. It kinda hurts to look at.” He says all this while smoothing Sanji’s hair, repeatedly, gentle as a lullaby. “Someone who’ll never feel the same way. What did you call me before? A masochist?” He fists the fabric of Sanji’s robe. “I’m not, actually. I don’t like this feeling.”

Abruptly, he releases Sanji and levers himself up on his arms. The motion drags them apart, and Sanji slides off him, boneless as a slug. Zoro gets to his feet. “Get it? So don’t ask again. I’m never going to repeat this shit.” He clears his throat. “I’m going back to my room.”

Zoro starts to move past him. Sanji thinks of Hiyori, and the longing in her eyes. She loves Zoro even if there’s nothing gentle about him. He’s not made to be gentle. He’s rough and drinks too much and belches at the table and complains about washing his clothes and hair, thinks flambé is a kind of liquor, does nothing but sleep, fight, and work out. Sanji has understood all this for so long: Zoro is not made to be anything but who he is, which is the kind of good that wants to hurt the people who hurt you, that doesn’t ask for explanations. He doesn’t care how broken you are, if you’re there, and trying; if you mean what you say. The kind of good that saves you, nothing owed, no questions asked.

Sanji understands Hiyori, suddenly. What he really wanted, watching her fuss over Zoro. What he wants, now, inexplicably. He has no right to feel this way, after all this time, but the ache of it slams into him, so strong he feels dragged down by it—doesn’t know what to do, how to survive knowing. It’s like someone has rearranged his guts, but his brain still hasn’t gotten all the way there.

He grabs the hem of Zoro’s robe. “Zoro. What are you talking about?”

“Fuck you, eyebrows. You’re really going to make me spell it out?” Zoro’s glare is desperate—like a fist around his throat. “Look. I don’t understand what it’s like for others, for you. What goes on in that crazy brain of yours when you say you’re in love. I don’t even know if I’d call it that. I just—know I want you. I’ve wanted you for so long I’m sick of it, and I don’t care what happens anymore.”

This is too much. Sanji surges up, so that he can get in Zoro’s space, make him take back every stupid thing he’s saying. He understands Luffy needing him as part of the crew. But someone wanting him? That’s insanity. No one should be able to look at him and think there’s anything there worth desire. 

“That’s bullshit.” Panic is making him angry. “You don’t like me. You can’t.”

Zoro’s hand comes up to shove him away, and Sanji flinches at the raw, broken look on his face.

“You think I want to?” He actually steps back. “I’m over this, cook. Stop fucking with me.”

And Sanji—hates the hurt in his voice. That he’s the cause of it. No one should be allowed to make Zoro feel this way, least of all him. 

He is hideously in love with the Marimo—what the fuck? When did that happen? 

Sanji touches Zoro’s cheek with one hand, and his warm, warm neck with the other. The swordsman’s eye goes wide with panic.

“Zoro, I—” 

His throat catches. He tries again: “Zoro, I—”

Nope. Still not working.

“Zoro,” he says, because that’s really the only thing his brain can muster right now. Zoro looks properly horrified in the seconds before Sanji kisses him.

The response on the other side is instant, angry—Zoro seizes his waist, drags him in, mouth hot. Sanji’s shaking. His hands crawl up to tangle in all that green hair, so he can pull himself closer, too, like they’re sparring over this, like someone’s going to win. He shuts his eyes and gets his tongue in Zoro’s mouth, presses tighter against him when he hears a sound that’s basically a snarl. Those hands on his hips now, pressing tight enough that he feels it against his bones, against all those bruises from the fight and he doesn’t care, it feels so good and he wants more—

Zoro jerks away. His hands come out in tiny dinosaur claws, frozen in the air before him. He takes several steps back, slams into the wall, eyes bugging. There’s spit shining on his lip. Sanji lifts a palm to touch his own mouth. His body feels like it’s made of fireworks, sparks skittering beneath his skin.

“You—you—what the hell, Swirly Brows!”

Something like calm washes over Sanji. He exhales. He’s been an idiot, a total bastard about this. But now that he’s figured it out, he’s going to do his best to fix it. It’s not like he doesn’t still think there’s a mistake somewhere, that this might all be a fever dream. But if he’s understanding things correctly, then what he feels, and what Zoro feels, are somehow intersecting in the most ridiculous way. 

How long has he wanted this? Why was that kiss so good—is Marimo a good kisser? He needs another round, to be sure. 

Maybe he should be careful because Zoro’s body is in 1000% fight mode, even if his face still hasn’t recovered. Sanji has to tread carefully if he’s going to survive this. He steps close, gentle like he is with any wild beast, and stops when Zoro is within grabbing distance, in case he flees.

“Let me walk you back, Marimo. You’re going to get lost.”

“No. No.” This close, Zoro looks nearly frightened, more than a little hungry. Like he’s not sure what he’ll do with himself, given permission. “You don’t know what you’re saying right now.”

Sanji feels, deep in his gut, how badly he wants to give that permission. How badly Zoro’s earned it. Fuck.

“Zoro. I’m not drunk.” He narrows his eyes. “And I know you aren’t, either, even if you sure as hell should be. I heard you, all right?” He crowds the swordsman in, adrenaline making him delirious: he’s not quite act-first, think-later, the way Zoro is, but he relies on his instincts when he needs to. He spreads a palm over the center of Zoro’s chest. Wonders when it became his. “I want this.”

It’s relieving to see Zoro finally start to understand. He grabs Sanji’s wrist, tighter than is comfortable, and drags him in so they’re nearly nose to nose.

“You mean that?”

“Yeah.” 

“You want—” he swallows. “Me?”

“Yes.” Sanji plants a kiss right on Zoro’s stupid dimple.

Zoro processes this so slowly Sanji almost hits him. 

“Um. Well. It…still might not be a good idea.” His grip tightens, eye going deadly as it skates over Sanji’s jaw, traces over his throat and collarbone. Sanji shivers, which is strange, because his skin is ready to burst into flames, and not just his leg.

Poor Chopper, he thinks, after all that work on these bandages.

“Guess we’ll have to find out,” he whispers, before closing the gap between them, Monster Point be damned.

The second kiss gets messy almost immediately. He bites Zoro’s bottom lip, relishes the answering grunt; Zoro grabs his other wrist and hustles him over so that Sanji’s the one pinned against the wall. It sends a sharp zing down his spine, arousal shot through with pain. He breaks for air, gasping, shoves a knee against Zoro’s groin and manages a hiss of “Slow down, shitty—” before Zoro’s on him again, shutting him up, mouth covering his then chomping up his neck like he’s starving. Two hands slide under his ass and he levers himself up, automatic, wraps legs around Zoro’s waist and arms around that ridiculous neck, and tries to keep it together enough to drag them somewhere private. (It vaguely registers that these walls are literally paper thin. But that’s a problem for future Sanji.) 

Zoro resolutely goes the opposite way; Sanji has to keep thumping on his back to reorient them. Neither of them can really see as they stagger down the hall. “Ow!” He yells, when Zoro bangs him into the wall yet again; he digs one heel into the bottom of Zoro’s spine, making sure it will bruise, but neither of them let go.

Later, sitting up for a smoke with Zoro snoring against his thigh, all of his muscles screaming, Sanji will think: it’s a miracle they ever made it to this room. Ever made it here at all.

vii.

It is soul-destroying how no one in the crew is surprised. 

Sanji opted for dress shirts again, a welcome change after days in kimono (…or, um, out of kimono). It’s still what he moves best in, fights best in—but there’s nothing he can do about the gigantic bruise on his neck, the damning teeth rings on both wrists. The Marimo is an infuriatingly tender fuck, but he’s a biter.

Which is unsurprising, but also embarrassing as hell.

“Didn’t I tell you that time the monkey ate my hair?” Luffy says, picking his nose.

Nami shakes her head. “This whole time I thought you were pretending to be stupid for the fun of it. I had no idea you were so dense, Sanji-kun.”

Usopp and Franky are weeping, overwhelmed by Zoro’s belated confession. 

“I thought he was going to actually die of heartache someday,” Chopper joins in, sniveling. “But you still should’ve waited til you were both fully recovered, you bastards!”

“Does Zoro have a heart condition?” Jinbei asks, with mortifying concern.

Sanji is aghast. He protests by rolling around on the ground, hands pressed to his face. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Robin is gentle, her hands materializing to stop him from slamming into the railing. “Cook-san. It’s not our thing to tell.”

Brook twangs his violin, and says, smugly: “If I may, Sanji-san. He wasn’t subtle about it.”

“Unacceptable.” He springs to his feet. “You’ve all been laughing at me—at us!—for years. No dinner for any of you! Except you, Jinbei, you’re not party to this.”

Zoro snorts in the distance. Sanji jabs a finger at him. “That means you, too, shitty mosshead!” And then, because he can’t bear how everyone is looking at him (except for Luffy, who is now flicking his booger over the railing while saying “Booooo”), he escapes to the kitchen to prepare the dinner he is not serving these traitors.

When Zoro follows him in, it’s so easy now, so expected. It’s not hard to imagine everyone’s approving faces outside, which only makes him blush harder. He still can’t quite fathom it, that these people he loves, this family he’s found, wants this happiness for him, will do absolutely everything in their power to make him keep it. And here’s the culprit, the source: Zoro steps behind him, plops his chin onto Sanji’s shoulder and snakes an arm around his waist. He turns his head to kiss the purple spot on Sanji’s neck before saying, “Thought you weren’t making dinner.”

Who the hell is this bizarrely gentle creature? And why does this feel so right? 

Zoro given permission is absolutely shameless, and clingy. Sanji hates how endeared he is to it.

He gives up. He takes a chunk of honeydew and angles it over his shoulder. “Try this.”

Zoro sucks it into his mouth and chews. “It’s sweet enough.”

“Great,” Sanji says, and goes on chopping even as Zoro’s palms under his shirt to get at his stomach. “Oi.”

“We’ve got time,” Zoro mutters, both hands against skin. “You just served lunch.”

Sanji can’t argue, but he slices all the fruit, packs them into tupperware, washes his hands, and staggers over to the refrigerator, Marimo hanging off him like a dead weight, before he finally spins around and kisses Zoro back. 

The distraction lasts longer than he’d like (“Not in the pantry, you unhygienic oaf”). In the end he has to kick Zoro out to get back to meal prep, but he makes a wonderful dinner after all. No one ruins it by commenting on his good mood. 

It’s good. It’s working out. He can’t even deny it. And later, when everything’s tidied up and people are drifting off to do their various before-bedtime things, he takes his good mood up to the crow’s nest with a bottle of shochu and slides onto Zoro’s lap, making good on the promises he delayed in favor of dinner (which, honestly, will always win).

After the first week Sanji decides he’s not hallucinating from some weird Onigashima toxins. After the second week, he admits this is reality: no one cares, and life on the Sunny can go on as usual, Strawhat shenanigans and all. The only change is that now he knows this other side of Zoro. 

Admittedly. It’s fucking weird, to be one other thing on the very short list of shit Zoro cares about: Luffy. The crew. Kuina’s memory. Defeating Mihawk.

And, for some reason, being with him. Something he apparently decided on ages ago, to Sanji’s abject shame. If they’d never run into each other in Momo’s palace, he still wouldn’t have known—wouldn’t have guessed (“Did you know Zoro liked men?” He asked Nami on their second day back onboard, still hoping for absolution; her look of disgusted pity was such that he did not say more). Wouldn’t be here, back pressed to Zoro’s chest and their legs tangled up together, warm on the blankets they dragged up to the crow’s nest, because even if they squish together on their bunks most nights now sometimes they need more room to. Well. They’re not always doing that! Everyone thinks so but it’s not true! And Sanji might be shy about the whole crew assuming, but he’s still not willing to get unnecessary aches! They’re literally only lying together right now!

He traces squiggles on Zoro’s arm, realizing, yet again, how this is bizarre.

He’s not worth it. Why does Zoro make him feel like he is?

“Stop thinking,” Zoro murmurs, nuzzling under Sanji’s ear like a big sleepy bear. (And why, Sanji despairs, does he have to be so cute?) “Whatever’s going on in there, it’s not true.”

“I still don’t get it,” Sanji says, defeated. “You’re not supposed to be like this.”

“Like what?”

“You know.”

“Does it matter? I’ve been like this, you idiot. For a long time.” Zoro’s arms curl tighter around him—he always wants to be closer. It makes Sanji feel guiltier than ever.

“You’re the idiot. You should’ve given up on me ages ago.”

“Couldn’t. Besides, it worked out for me.”

“But what if it didn’t? That whole time you—how could you stand it? It must have hurt. I made it so hard.” If someone had only told him. Maybe he’d have figured out his own feelings sooner? He still thinks about Zoro’s face, in that candlelight at Wano. What it cost him to say all that. “I wasn’t—trying to hurt you on purpose.”

“I know that.”

“And you’re just okay with it?”

Zoro rolls him over, pushing easily past his initial resistance, and palms his cheek. “Sanji.” The way he says his name always does weird things to Sanji’s gut. “Are you happy?”

Sanji nods. His eyes are already smarting from not-crying.

“Then it’s all good. Quit worrying.” Zoro kisses Sanji’s forehead, because he’s the worst. “Anyway, it’s not like I said anything either.”

Held this way, Sanji can almost feel it: what it might be like, to forget every big or little mess at his center, that Zoro’s totally unfazed by. To allow himself this completely insane, enveloping love, because that’s what this is.

After a beat, Zoro props his chin on one elbow. “You know, you never told me your type.”

“You never asked.”

“Maybe I was jealous.”

He tweaks Zoro’s ear, hears the satisfying tinkle of his earrings. If he’d been asked, he probably would’ve said a lot of stuff, but in truth—all he’s ever wanted, through years of imagining, is someone who’s kind, someone who loves him. Someone who won’t leave him behind.

Someone who wants him to stay.

That’s way too embarrassing to admit, though. “You got it right before. Has tits, breathes.”

“Wow. Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Oh mosshead, don’t. You should aspire to be so much more.”

Zoro huffs a laugh and drags him closer. It’s going to be Franky’s turn on the watch soon, but Sanji smushes his face against Zoro’s neck and lingers. Maybe Zoro’s right. Maybe they’ve got time.

He’s halfway to sleeping because he knows Zoro will carry him down anyway, when Zoro says, “Hey, cook. Question for you.”

“Mm?”

“…Never mind.”

“What?”

“You’re going to freak out.”

“Spit it out, Marimo.”

He pulls back so that Sanji can see his eye. “You said you hated Vinsmoke. How do you feel about having a different last name?”

At his expression, Zoro bursts into laughter. 

Sanji roars, “That’s not funny!” which only makes Zoro laugh more.

The shoving escalates into a real duel, bad enough that Nami yells at them to stop shaking the ship while she’s drawing charts, and Luffy comes up to join the “fun”; within minutes it’s a full blown escalation which ends with Robin restraining Sanji, Jinbei restraining Zoro, and Chopper shouting at everyone that they’re running low on bandages so lay off.

“What were you even fighting about?” Usopp’s cheeks are, yet again, a casualty of the fighting.

“Nothing!” Sanji yells, face burning. 

Usopp holds his hands up and backs off, sighing.

They’re alone again, on the deck this time, the waves gently rocking the Sunny and the stars bright enough that Sanji has to blink when he looks up at them. His heart's still racing; his face feels like it’s sizzling.

Zoro bumps his elbow. “I wasn’t kidding.”

“I hate you.”

“Sure. You still haven’t answered my question though.”

“Asshole,” he grumbles, because this is clearly Marimo’s revenge. He lights a smoke, mostly to stop his hands from shaking, then digs the fist of his free hand against Zoro’s cheek. “What? You’re telling me this is a forever thing? You’ve got it all figured out, and you’re sure you won’t ever want something else?”

Zoro angles his head to kiss Sanji’s knuckles. “Yeah.”

Sanji feels his whole heart explode. Love’s not a hurricane, it’s a fucking volcano, and he’s going to melt with it. 

He takes his hand back and, before Zoro can complain, threads their fingers together. Doesn’t miss Zoro’s grin, the flush on his cheeks; the way he hides it by looking away. 

And Sanji thinks: fine, fine, you win, all right. 

It’s surprising, what a relief it is to surrender. This time, the answer is pretty obvious, even to him.