Archive of Our Own

The witch’s eyes are glass bottle green, and her blue hair spills in waves over her shoulders. She has a fetching mole on her upper lip. It’s impossible to guess at her age—possibly infinity—and unlike the rest of this blasted pirate compound, she doesn’t seem bothered by the Straw Hats barging in via cannonball and wrecking everything. Zoro was running through one of the top floors with Usopp and Sanji when they heard her laughter and saw her lair. Sanji took one look and said, “Pass.” Zoro’s glad they came to that decision so quickly, as she tucks her hair behind one ear and bats her eyelashes. The cook would’ve folded immediately.

She smiles as he approaches.

“I’m really quite useless against swords,” she says. “Did they have to send their swordsman after me?”

Zoro feels weary. “I won’t fight you if you just tell us where the captives are being held.”

She shrugs. “You can’t possibly liberate everyone. You know that, right? Maybe I’m a captive myself.”

She clearly isn’t—there’s nothing restricting her movement, and she’s enjoying their conversation way too much to be genuinely troubled. Still, Zoro answers, “In that case, surrender, and we’ll let you go free. My captain isn’t the sort to hold grudges.” He pauses. “Most of the time.”

“I think I’ll take my chances,” she says, airily. “You don’t even know what I do.”

“What do you do?”

“You’ll have to come closer if you want to find out.”

Explosions erupt in the corridor. Zoro needs to hurry and get back to the rest of them, but he’s not going to make this more violent than it needs to be—the cook’s influence, probably, but he also likes to think he’s developed more patience over time. Luckily he’s also faster at finishing fights. He sighs and readies his blades. There are several ways to incapacitate her with minimal bloodshed, and he’s trying to think of the best one, when quick as a flash she darts close, her long nails gently tapping over his throat.

He twists away, sword raised to block, but she’s suddenly behind him, hands clamping on his head. Something’s strange. The air smells of flowers and he can’t move. Shit.

“Don’t worry,” she whispers, directly into his ear. “I’m not going to take something you haven’t already lost before.”

“What—”

“You know this loss. You’re used to it.”

Panic climbs his throat. She has to be bluffing.

“I know it’s precious to you, and that’s why I’m taking it.”

He hears screams outside. The cook’s voice isn’t among them—he was just there—shouldn’t he at least be cussing their enemies out? Zoro’s heartbeat is going way too fast. The witch’s hair spills over his shoulder as she wraps her arms around him from behind. He tries to calm himself, find some center to latch onto and win this.

He twists his grip, exertion making all his nerves seize as he forces his body to move. Maybe he’ll have to stab her after all, regardless of what the cook will say.

“Oh?” She draws back from him, slightly breathless. “That sort of powerful resolve is very rare. That’s bad—you’re the worst type of person for this to happen to.” Her laughter is wistful. Zoro takes a swing—at least he tries to—and misses by a mile. He crumples to the floor, head swimming. His vision goes blurry.

“The fuck did you do,” he grinds out.

She leans over him. “I feel a little bad,” she says. “But it’s not actually hard to get back what you lost. If you could only admit—”

He’s out before he hears the rest of it.

Zoro’s not proud of it, but he sometimes has nightmares about Zou. If anyone asks him why, he wouldn’t be able to explain it. Worse still, the nightmares sometimes happen when he’s not asleep. Like when he’s zoning out on the deck or in the middle of training; then he has to catch his breath, at how the memory makes his chest feel torn open, like it’s happening all over again.

Seeing Nami in Luffy’s arms, curved over, sobbing. How quickly he realized what it was, how that weird feeling simmering in his gut since they arrived on the island was suddenly burning a hole in him. Listening to her say, tearfully, that Sanji was gone. The momentary disbelief, followed by hot, blinding anger—of course the bastard would do something like that. It was so like him. The fucking coward—the nerve he had, to leave their crew. As if they couldn’t have helped. As if it wasn’t their business. As if Luffy would let it go—did he even know his captain? This wasn’t the time for stupid little freakouts—they had an emperor to fight, for gods’ sake.

How it worsened, hearing the story, realizing it was more fucked up than he guessed. What it must have felt like for the cook, hearing Big Mom’s threat. Some part of Zoro registered that was the reason why, that he should be understanding—but it was beyond him. He didn’t want to know. Instead he sat on the bench outside Nekomamushi’s room and stewed. The cook loved so many people, was always so desperate to protect them. Zoro remembered tracing the scar on Sanji’s lower back with his eyes, when they were together in the baths and he thought no one was looking. His cool voice on the sea train, about to fight CP9 all by himself: Robin was in trouble, that was all that mattered. His frame, quivering, as he stood before Kuma, his clothes in total disarray, his exhausted body barely holding up; the way his face looked, in profile, as he told Zoro they ought to get another cook, and—

He was always pulling that kind of shit. It was infuriating.

Zoro didn’t want someone like that on the crew. Someone who could make him feel this way: like his heart had a problem, and wanted to detach from the rest of his body.

I’ve gone to see about a girl. That was some fucking bullshit.

Later that evening, after they’d decided on their course of action, Luffy came up to him and said, “Zoro, I’ll get him back.”

Zoro said, “I don’t fucking care if you do.”

Luffy just looked at him. Didn’t smile, didn’t say a word.

Zoro wakes up gasping, in darkness. He takes huge gulps of air, as if his lungs are empty. He can tell he’s in the Sunny’s infirmary based on the smell, the feel of the sheets. He’s barely conscious and already his chest is constricting—he definitely did not win that fight.

“Zoro! You’re up!” Chopper’s voice is both relieved and worried. A bad sign.

“Zoro,” Luffy says. He sounds serious. Another bad sign. Zoro’s heart pulses with fear.

“Where’s S—the cook?” He manages not to let his voice shake. His mind’s already replayed the witch’s words three times, and isn’t stopping: You know this loss, you’re used to it. His heart’s going to climb out of his throat. What if this time, he’s gone for good? Could it be that she’s wiped him from memory, that everyone’s forgotten him?

“You mean Sanji?” At least they have his name.

“Yeah. He’s—” in danger, Zoro thinks of saying, or gone, because what else could she have meant? What else could matter to him? He’s about to say this, to bolt upright and find him, when—

“I’m right here, mosshead.”

Every tense, trembling nerve rattling his body suddenly relaxes. He unspools back onto the bed. The sudden loss of adrenaline makes him feel lethargic. Something’s not quite right, but he’s not sure what, and doesn’t really care. Not if he’s here, alive and otherwise fine. It’s so simple Zoro instantly wants to sleep again. “Oh. Okay.”

Sanji moves closer to the bed; Zoro can tell because of his scent. “Something the matter?”

“No.” He’s too tired to feel embarrassed. He wants, stupidly, for the cook to touch him, just so he’s sure—but of course he wouldn’t. Zoro’s not even sure why he’s thinking that.

Chopper says, “Are you really okay? Your vitals are normal, but…we found you on the floor of that room, and the enemy was gone. You’ve been sleeping for two whole days.”

“You were fighting a blue-haired witch, weren’t you? Do you remember anything?” Robin’s there too, voice gentle.

Zoro wonders why they haven’t turned any of the lights on, or at least drawn the curtains back.

He hears the flick of a lighter; smells cigarette smoke. Sanji says, in a vague tone, “Hey. What’s your deal?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not—” He pauses for a moment. “You’re not looking at me. Zoro. Can you…”

Oh. Shit.

“I can’t see.” Now that he’s noticed, it’s very obvious.

There’s a loud silence.

Chopper says, “What do you mean?”

“I can’t see,” Zoro repeats, feeling a little crazy, because what else could he mean. “I mean my vision’s gone. In my right eye.” The working one, he doesn’t add. He swallows. There’s more silence. He continues, trying not to grit his teeth, “It was the witch I was fighting—she must’ve had some kind of devil fruit. She said she was going to take something from me, but didn’t say what.”

Something you’ve lost before, she said. In all of his fears—he didn’t imagine this. He feels relieved, in spite of himself, and vaguely embarrassed. Like he nearly confessed something he shouldn’t have.

“I’ve never heard of such a devil fruit. I’ll research it,” Robin says. The faint worry in her voice is crushing, though not as bad as Nami’s overt concern when she says, “We’ll have to find her, then. Reverse it. I’ll figure out where she might have gone—she wasn’t there anymore, when we got to you—”

“It’s fine,” Zoro says.

There’s a strange pause. He can feel tension rising, and realizes it’s from Luffy—and Sanji. That defensive anger that he recognizes all too well: someone in the crew is suffering. He doesn’t want those feelings directed at him. Sanji blows out a long string of smoke. The smell does something to calm the erratic stutter of his heart. He wishes he could see what expressions they’re all making—Luffy, especially. And the cook.

He means it, though. It’s not the worst thing he could lose.

“It’s not fine,” Nami says, using her all-you-boys-are-so-exhausting voice, but it’s also the voice she gets with Zoro in particular sometimes, when she isn’t sure whether to slap or hug him, because their friendship is like that. He’s acutely grateful for her. “The witch vanished but she can’t have gone very far. We’ll fix this, Zoro.”

“I’m tired,” Zoro announces, to cut the conversation short. He is, between the whiplash of emotions, and the way it feels like everyone’s pitying him. Sanji’s angry at him, he can tell, and he can’t be bothered to figure out why. The cook takes another drag of his cigarette, and stalks away.

“Let me just check that everything else is normal.” Chopper’s voice is subdued.

“Do what you need to,” he answers, and shuts his eye, not that it makes a difference anyway.

The first time Zoro loses an eye, he’s not that surprised about it, either.

Sure it hurts. Perona yells at him nonstop as she stitches it up, but she does that most of the time they’re together, so he’s used to it.

“I hate this job,” she grumbles.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“If I don’t, you’ll bleed all over the carpet again! No thanks! You’re so grubby!”

She’s genuinely angry, not just worried, as she finishes sewing up his face and neatly snips the thread. She starts applying medical tape over the cut. “You’re lucky I’m so good at sewing, otherwise that would heal ugly.”

“Thanks,” he answers, contrite despite himself.

Perona huffs. “What’s that little grin for?”

Zoro tries to stop it, but can’t. “I think—I was pretty close. That last fight. He took me seriously, which is how I got injured. I mean, he never goes easy on me, but this time he really had to put some effort in. It means I’m getting better.”

“Oh boy,” she says. “Whoopee.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are. Why am I stuck in a castle full of grim sword-freaks? Ugh.”

Maybe he should be more bothered, but he isn’t. Luffy’s lost so much in the time they’ve been apart. This is nothing in comparison. Since he couldn’t be there for his captain when it mattered most, it seems reasonable to push himself every day—as hard as he can, so that the next time the King of Pirates needs him, he’ll be unstoppable. Besides, some part of him always expected this type of injury, after fighting that samurai back in Thriller Bark. There’s an inevitable toll to being a great swordsman, though Mihawk seems to have evaded it, at least where the eye can see. Zoro has scars all over his body, but this one will be unmissable, and part of him—savors that. Like the scar across his chest, it communicates something about what matters to him.

Maybe his lack of concern about the eye won’t fly with some people, but what the hell. He was the first to be pushed out of that battlefield with the robot-Kumas, because he was too fucking weak. He couldn’t manage his own injuries, his own lack of stamina. If that’s not proof that he needs to work harder, he doesn’t know what is.

A much smaller part of him wonders if maybe—that guy will find the missing eye ugly, or disturbing. Not that it matters. Zoro’s never really cared about how he looks and he’s not about to start now. Plus he was never within the realm of being—that guy’s type, anyway. He has a dick, for starters. It’s irrelevant. It’s not worth wondering about.

Over dinner that night Mihawk cooks some pork roast medallion thing with a red wine sauce (“A reduction,” some nagging voice in his head goes), and as they sit about munching it primly, Zoro realizes—he’s used to this. There’s still so much left for him to work towards, so much further for him to go, and it’s not just his face hurting now but his whole body, all his muscles screaming for rest. But this part of the day feels like a habit, clean and familiar, and it’s oddly comforting, down to Perona’s sentient plushes staring glumly at their plates, and the faint shrieking sounds of the carnivorous baboons outside the massive gilt windows.

“Zoro,” Mihawk says lightly. Zoro snaps to attention, because Zoro’s played precious few roles in his life but student has always been one of them.

“Yes?”

“Are you going to let it change you?”

Zoro tenses. It feels like a trick question, even if he knows Mihawk is never deliberately misleading; he’s just so goddamn cryptic sometimes. “If you’re asking whether it’ll weaken me, or worsen my technique—it won’t.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Zoro tries to reflect on how he’d answer in all honesty—without worrying about whether there’s a right response. At the end of the day, he lost his eye because he wanted to learn from Mihawk; because he threw away his pride for the sake of getting stronger. To support his captain, and his crew. To be good enough to be the best in the world—no matter what it takes, no matter the cost. He wants this. Of course it’s going to change him—it has to.

“Yes,” Zoro says, and doesn’t miss the twitch of Mihawk’s lips, the closest thing he’ll ever get to a smile.

“Good,” the world’s greatest swordsman answers. “It should.”

It’s not so bad with the second eye either. He adjusts quickly. The Sunny is his home and he knows it by heart. Maybe sometimes he has…trouble getting around it, but it’s not all that different from before, if everyone’s constant grousing is to be believed. His haki is so finely honed now that he can basically use it to see any living thing—friends and threats alike.

This becomes obvious when a marine ship crosses theirs and Zoro takes down the same number of enemies as usual, calmly slicing through the hostiles. It’s only slightly annoying that he can feel everyone paying extra attention to him; Jinbei sends a wall of water crashing into half the crowd circling him. Then Robin goes clutch on some soldiers who thought they were sneaking up on him, but she really didn’t need to. They get through the battle with minimal difficulty, despite the genetically modified hippos. Afterwards they have a nice little celebratory meal and all help Franky patch up the boat, and Usopp teaches Luffy and Chopper some weird song about a starfish-sealion, and it gets stuck in everyone’s head for days.

Nami has them sailing for an island where some scraps of the pirate operation the witch was part of have supposedly sought refuge. It’s not a strong lead, but it’s something. Robin’s researching in full force; she found an entry for the Take-Take Fruit, but it doesn’t seem to be the same thing (“Why,” Robin muses, “Does it have to be something you’ve lost before?”), and anyway there’s nothing about how it gets reversed. Chopper insists on regular check-ups. There’s nothing wrong with the eye. It’s still there; it’s just not working. Brook composes a violin solo called The Swordsman Who Can’t See, and Usopp tells him to be more sensitive, in a stage whisper that everyone can hear.

Zoro feels stoic about the whole thing. He thinks about the admiral in Dressrosa and wonders if this was what it was like for him, at the start. His other senses are sharpening as he relies on them more: sound, and smell, and touch. Illustrating the world around him in a different way. Zoro likes to meditate but he’s not exactly one to stop and smell the roses (unlike other people), and it’s interesting, maybe a little humbling, to sometimes be forced to. Observing the notes in Luffy’s laughter, the clip-clop of Chopper’s hooves when he’s happy. The sharp tang of tangerine when Nami peels one as an afternoon snack. The cologne in Brook’s kerchief, even if he has no nose.

And he can still envision things—the world is intact in his memory. Like the riceballs Sanji keeps giving him. Their perfect shape, the plump grains, the neat rectangle of seaweed that covers the base. The fish flakes at their center, a different filling for each piece in the trio he usually gets. Sanji makes riceballs several times that first week. He also makes yakitori, fried potato skins, breadsticks. A lot of Zoro’s favorites. They’re so delicious that at first Zoro’s just happy. It takes a few days for the thought to cross his mind, and once there, it doesn’t leave. And the more he thinks about it, the more pissed he gets.

So when the cook stops by again, Zoro huffs, “I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“This.” He jerks his chin at the plate he knows Sanji is holding.

“It’s your lunch.” The cook’s voice has shifted into a register with a tinge of violence. Good. Zoro wants him mad, because he’s starting to feel humiliated. “It’s takoyaki. It won’t kill you, it just might burn your tongue if you eat too fast.”

“You’re feeding me all this stuff because it’s easy to hold.”

“The fuck? I’m making this because I have the ingredients. I personalize meals all the time.”

“Why so many riceballs then?”

“Because you fucking like riceballs!”

“I can hold a pair of chopsticks,” he says, and maybe he’s harsher than he needs to be, but he never asked for special treatment. “I can hold a fork. I can take care of myself.”

Sanji sets the plate down. Probably because he wants to throw it. “Oh yeah? You take such great care of yourself, you can’t even see anymore. Congratulations.” There’s something sharp in his voice that tapers away into a tremor.

Zoro senses him turning away and instantly regrets it.

“Cook—”

“What, Zoro?”

Sanji’s angry, but there’s something else in his tone, something that makes Zoro insist, “I’m fine.” He doesn’t like the way it comes out.

Sanji says, coldly, “I didn’t ask.”

He stalks off. Maybe Zoro deserved that. It’s just—he can’t stand the idea of anyone’s pity. It’s wearing him down, and he absolutely won’t accept it from the cook, of all people. Besides, if he were to get any kind of special treatment, he’d strongly prefer it in the form of booze.

In Wano, he thinks of saying something, but can’t figure out what. It occurs to him sometime between when they first lock eyes, defending Otoko, and right after they’ve finished the fight and Hiyori no longer needs protecting—he has shit to say to this guy. Except by the time they’re out of danger and everything’s de-escalated, they’re back to bickering again. The cook is being a little shit about his bounty, and Zoro’s preoccupied with training a sword that won’t listen to him. He needs to get Enma under control before they face Kaido. The training takes a lot of work, and he spends time on it because he has to—and not because he doesn’t know what to do about the weird sensation in his chest, whenever Sanji’s around.

It’s partially anger. The anger started in Zou and never really went away—it followed him into Law’s submarine, and settled in his stomach while he wandered around the Flower Capital, so that even while sipping sake he’d imagine the cook’s dumb face. Smiling as he said goodbye, then bruised and bloodied by Big Mom’s subordinates, his eyes gone lifeless—which didn’t happen, of course. He’s back with them, just as Luffy promised.

It’s not only anger, though. There’s something else, something tentative and grasping, a chilly anxiety Zoro doesn’t know how to handle. When Sanji’s near him he has the urge to put his hand on the cook just to make sure he’s actually there, that he’s not going anywhere, that he’s not a figment Zoro made up so he could face this battle. One time, the cook laughs at something Usopp says—eyes closed, head thrown back, sunlight framing his face and neck, stupidly distracting in that yukata—and Zoro feels ice down his spine. It takes a few more instances for him to recognize the feeling as fear. The fear is smothering any relief or even—fuck it—joy, that Sanji is with them again. It’s trapping the words in his throat, which is maybe a good thing, because if they crept out they’d probably be something weak and desperate like don’t leave me again.

Me as in the crew. Of course. They all need him.

And it feels stupid and awkward to admit this, out of the blue, so he doesn’t. Anyway there’s a lot to do. It’s not that he’s avoiding the cook, exactly. They’re just—both busy, and he finds himself having to look out for Hiyori more often than not, and there’s so much to coordinate what with the samurai rebels and the minks and their tenuous pirate alliance.

So it drives him a little crazy when, in the middle of an extremely critical battle, he has to hear the cook’s tinny voice over a micro-snail asking Zoro to kill him. As if it’s so easy to just ask something like that. As if that isn’t exactly the scenario Zoro’s been trying not to think about, this whole time—losing him permanently.

At least this way he gets to take things into his own hands. Fine, I’ll kill you. Just don’t die before then.

He’s grateful for the distraction of King, and everything else that follows. Not having to think about it. He’ll do it if he has to. Then probably do something crazy to himself.

And after the battle—after wrestling with death and somehow coming away intact—he wakes up to find the cook not looking at him, eyes averted, hand in his hair as he says No, it’s good now. Forget it. As if Zoro can.

Speaking honestly, Sanji looks at him like he wants to be punched, and Zoro refuses. It’s not that he doesn’t want to spar anymore. It’s that if they start—really fighting, fighting honestly, dredging up whatever they’re not saying between them—he doesn’t think he’ll be able to hold back what’s really inside him. And he doesn’t trust the cook not to run away again.

The lead turns out to be mistaken. There’s no trace of the witch on the island. Nami seethes for an hour, then heads into town to dig around for intel with Usopp. They come back with another tip, something about a doctor who might be able to help—no knock on Chopper, he’s the best doctor ever, but this doctor has supposedly researched how to reverse long-term devil fruit afflictions.

It’s bullshit. Zoro knows there’s no way he’s getting his eyesight back, and he’s made peace with it. He made a policy for himself after Kuina died: if something doesn’t need to be painful, then it isn’t. It’s a mind trick that’s served him well, most of the time. It’s pretty much how he survived Thriller Bark. That, and the knowledge that he was protecting his crew. Not letting anyone else make a sacrifice he can’t bear.

They set off sailing again. Luffy sits beside him for a while and tries balancing things on his head while he meditates. Out of everyone on the crew, Luffy’s been acting the most normal, which is to say, he doesn’t seem particularly worried. After that first flash of anger, when he found out what happened, he’s been mostly calm. He even tells Zoro to look at things sometimes, and Zoro angles his head towards where he thinks Luffy is telling him to look, and doesn’t say, “I can’t.” They talk as usual, and Luffy relies on him as usual, and Zoro hopes that eventually everyone else will do the same.

Luffy says, “You’re all right, aren’t you?”

And Zoro says, mostly truthful, “Yeah.”

Completely uncalled for, Luffy adds, “What did you think she was gonna take?”

That’s private, he thinks. Aloud, he says, “I don’t know.”

“Hmm,” Luffy goes. “Well. Maybe the fix is something really easy actually. Stupid and easy.”

“Right.”

“And if we really need to, we can go see Traffy about it!”

Zoro does not want to ask Trafalgar Law for favors. Luffy probably wants to see his friend regardless, but—his crew’s concern is one thing. A rival crew attempting to heal his fucked up eye is taking it a step too far.

Across the deck, Sanji yells, “Sandwiches are ready!”

Luffy yells Yaaaaaay in one long note as he sprints to the kitchen. Zoro exhales. Something flops down from his head; he picks it up, and uses his fingers to decipher that it’s a misshapen paper hat.

A few minutes later, Sanji sits beside him, and passes over a plate with—Zoro sniffs—toasted bread crusts.

“Thanks,” Zoro says.

“Sure.” After a slight pause, Sanji adds, “You seem to be doing well.”

Zoro hmphs. He won’t be baited into responding.

“Even seems like you’re getting lost less now.”

“Huh?”

“Maybe losing your eyesight fixed your shitty sense of direction.”

“Oh, shut up.” Zoro tries to sound annoyed, but he’s thinking, are you not mad at me anymore? They haven’t talked much since he accused Sanji about the riceballs, and he likes fighting with the cook, but not this way. He knows he started it. But he’s never learned the trick of picking up conversations where they’ve left off; it wasn’t something they trained you for, back in the dojo. And it’s worse with the cook, who always knows exactly how to rile Zoro up, which would be impressive if it wasn’t so goddamn irritating.

It’s always been like this with them. It probably always will be, too.

To his mild surprise, Sanji does shut up. He lights a cigarette—Zoro hears the click of his lighter, the tsss of his cigarette meeting the flame. The smell of smoke wafts over them, and Zoro resists the urge to inhale it, take it inside himself. It’s another thing he’s grown used to, almost from the beginning—ever since Cocoyashi, when Sanji sat across him in an alleyway, lit up a smoke and smiled and asked, How are your wounds, Zoro? After he stood in front of him in that battle, and dived after Luffy, and kicked a fishman clean through several walls with those long legs. Zoro looked at his face, at the way the shitty streetlights touched his hair, and thought: who on earth are you, and what are you doing to me?

It wasn’t so clean a thought as that, of course. It was more a feeling, that deepened over time, until it became as familiar as the scar across his chest, which he got the same day they met, and which he sometimes forgot was there: that thing he felt for the cook, about the cook. Dangerous and uncomfortable and searing a hole in his heart, but what was he supposed to do about it—say something? And ruin what tenuous peace they had most days? He didn’t even realize how much of a liability it was until they got to Zou. Sanji takes away his peace. Sanji also, infuriatingly, returns it to him—whenever he’s close like this, close enough that if Zoro reached out slightly he could touch Sanji’s hand, which is probably cold, because his hands are always cold.

Not that Zoro would know, really. He hasn’t held them. He just knows that about the cook—that he’s always a little cold. He runs out of body heat so quickly, it’s kinda concerning.

He shouldn’t be thinking about holding Sanji’s hand. It’s just—the smell of his cigarette, doing funny things to his concentration. Zoro lets his breathing slow, lets the sun warm his face, resists the urge to say or do anything, because he likes having Sanji near him like this.

Sanji says, “Zoro. I—”

It always jolts him a little, when Sanji says his name. Come to think of it, he hasn’t really called him Marimo in a minute. He turns his head, but Luffy starts shouting for Sanji from the kitchen. He can sense the cook standing.

Zoro doesn’t grab his arm, but he does ask, “What were you going to say?”

“Oh—I have some nigiri sake that’ll go bad soon. You can have it if you want.” His voice drifts away; Zoro knows he’s not looking back as he says, “See you later.”

Zoro dreams in color.

The golden sands of Alabasta. The pink inside Kuma’s paw bubble, as every inch of his life is squeezed out through his pores. The blue of the hoodie Sanji wore, in the days after that fight, his bandaged head resting on the bed next to Zoro, cheek smushed against the sheets. Two of his fingers were on Zoro’s wrist. He looked so worn out, and there were dried tear tracks on his face, but maybe Zoro was hallucinating those; he was too afraid to touch him.

The gloomy purple of Kuraigana; the gray mists, sometimes punctuated by Perona’s lacy black umbrella. The waters of the East Blue, the ocean sparkling as he and Nami and Luffy set sail on a tiny-ass ship, laughing about some dumb seagull joke Luffy can’t properly repeat. The green and pink of Otama and Momo’s kimonos, the riotous colors of the Flower Capital, doused in cherry blossoms.

Sunny’s bright and cheerful mast. Luffy’s straw hat when the sun touches it, the bright blood red of its band.

Zoro wakes up from a memory: coming back from a night watch, at dawn, to see Sanji leaning against the ship’s railing, enjoying a smoke before breakfast prep. He was framed in the first glow of sunlight; it made his hair golden. He flicked ash off his cigarette, and smiled at the sea—like he was savoring it. A private, guileless smile. He’d been so incandescent, oblivious to Zoro observing him, he didn’t seem real.

In the dark of waking, Zoro rubs a hand against his eyes. It’s fine, he meant it when he said it, but—if he knew he’d lose his sight, he would’ve looked harder.

It starts with a fight.

Which is, in some ways, a relief—because they haven’t been sparred since Zoro went blind, and when he realizes this, it annoys him even more than the pity riceballs. It’s like an itch, running under his skin—that’s probably why he’s sleeping so poorly these days. He tries to calm himself, tries not to dwell on it, wonders if maybe there’s some other reason—but of course there’s no other reason. So when Sanji climbs up the crow’s nest in the middle of the night, while Zoro’s trying to train the irritation away, Zoro snaps: “Do you not want to fight me because you think you have an advantage?”

Sanji probably brought him some kind of midnight snack, but Zoro’s too keyed up to feel grateful.

“I just don’t feel like it,” Sanji says.

“Well I do,” Zoro says. He drops his weights and picks up his swords, meaningfully.

He hears the sound of a tray being settled somewhere safe—maybe under the table, next to Nami’s telescope. Then the hatch bangs shut.

“You asked for it,” Sanji mutters. The air around Zoro gets displaced, followed by a kick so fast he barely dodges—he doesn’t even have time to bring his swords up for a block. Adrenaline blooms in his chest, making him giddy—and relieved, even as he brings his full attention to bear, because the cook is going all out. He’s angry, Zoro realizes—seething, in a way that shows he’s also been holding back this whole time, and Zoro can’t help but wonder, as he blocks and parries, why? They move across the floor, trading blows, clearing the length of the room, around and back again. He’s learned to calibrate his attacks in here so they don’t ruin everything, but he does hear the rattle of the walls, the splintering of a bench when he moves and Sanji breaks it in half.

It’s an opening—he jabs Sanji hard in the ribs with the hilt of one sword, cuts down with the other; through his haki, he senses Sanji drop low to avoid it. He sweeps his leg out to force Zoro to jump, then springs up in a handstand and knees Zoro clean in the side. Zoro lands on his back, hard; a foot slams onto his chest. As he wheezes, his world gets darker—the cook must be looming over him.

Zoro can almost picture it: the haughty intensity of Sanji’s gaze, post-victory; the exhilarated, taunting smile, that always gets Zoro a little hot. His heart spasms when he realizes he won’t ever see that expression again, except in memory.

Sanji takes his foot away and drops beside him, breathing heavily. “Happy now?”

Zoro catches his breath. That spot on his chest is going to bruise, but he was asking for it. “Yeah. ‘Cause you were taking it seriously.”

It takes Sanji a moment to reply. He can feel the cook looking at him, which is weird, because all Zoro’s doing is breathing and gazing at the ceiling with his unseeing eye. He can sense, with the haki he hasn’t dispelled yet, Sanji’s hand grasping at his hair, that strange habit of his. “You’re the one who doesn’t take things seriously.”

Zoro’s not quite ready to let go of his happiness from the fight. He says, evenly, “I knew when I swore to become the world’s greatest swordsman that this sort of thing could happen. You weren’t there, in Dressrosa, but we met an admiral who’d blinded himself, and he was one of the strongest sword-wielders I’ve ever met.” He closes his eye, steadying himself. “That witch could’ve taken something worse, but she didn’t. I can still fight the way I want to. I can still do my job. I learned how to adjust to a world with only one eye—I’ll learn this too. You won this fight but I’ll win the next one, you’ll see.”

“It’s not about the fighting. I know you can do that. It’s everything else, it’s—”

Zoro feels like he’s been a broken record about this, though it’s not like they’ve ever actually addressed it. He feels bone-tired, but he can tell it’s important to Sanji, so he says, “Shitcook. I already said it’s fine. I really don’t need to see—it’s not a big deal.”

“Would you stop saying that? It’s a big deal to me. If I’d been able to fight her—”

Zoro sits up. He had no idea Sanji was even thinking that. “Of course you wouldn’t have been able to fight her. You’d lose.”

Sanji swallows, loud enough that he can hear it. “Maybe not. Maybe if I could use my power, like I did back in Wano—”

“You told me you didn’t want to become that. You made me swear to kill you if you did, remember, dickhead? I didn’t want you in that fight.” Who knew what the witch would’ve taken from the cook? He’s already lost so much; Zoro doesn’t want him anywhere near more loss.

“Well what am I supposed to do? You can’t see anymore—when I look at you, you don’t—” His voice breaks, and Zoro, without thinking, grabs his arm, because he knows Sanji’s bringing it up to cover his face. Sanji tries to break out of his grasp, but Zoro won’t let him. Instead, Zoro tugs him close—he’s mostly acting on instinct now, heart hammering, breath short, and it’s not the fight anymore, it’s something else, it’s the way Sanji’s genuine tears always kindle something inside him: a strange desire to take his swords and lay them down and do something different with his arms, like wrap them around the cook.

Sanji puts his hands flat against Zoro’s chest and tries to shove him off, but Zoro doesn’t budge, doesn’t let him go. After a moment that feels like an eternity, the fight finally goes out of Sanji, and he—presses his face onto Zoro’s shoulder. Says, muffled, “You don’t look back at me, you can’t.” Then he starts crying. Really, really hard.

“Cook,” Zoro says. His head feels blank; he’s surprised he can talk, because he’s not sure what to think. “Cook. It’s all right.”

“It’s not fucking all right.” He gasps this between breaths, like it’s hard for him, and his tears are warm, soaking through Zoro’s shirt. “Goddamit, Zoro.”

His pained whisper makes Zoro feel banged up inside. He doesn’t like it when anyone on the crew cries, because he feels useless and futile and the words come out even worse than usual. But it’s worse when it’s Sanji. It’s always worse, for him, when it’s Sanji. He’s desperate to make those tears stop, so he blurts, “I thought it was going to be you.”

“What?”

“She said I’d lose something I’d lost before. And I thought it was going to be you.”

Sanji pulls back and sniffs, mightily, before going, “What the fuck? What do you mean me—”

“I lost you once. I’m not going through that again.” Zoro lets the words sink between them, then decides it’s no longer worth holding anything else back. “So it’s all right. It’s not great, sure, I miss being able to see things. But I don’t need it as long as you—as long as you’re still here.”

It feels like giving himself away, every last piece, laying it down in front of the cook. He knows it’s a dumb offering that isn’t wanted, but he’s tired of wrestling with fate, or running away. Now’s as good a time as any to come clean, while Sanji’s captive in his arms and they’re alone. It was bound to happen eventually. He feels like he should say more, but that’s never been his strong suit. Still, it might be worth it to drive the point home: it’s just an eye, dammit. I don’t care.

Against him, still shivering, Sanji whispers, “I hate you so much.”

Zoro huffs out a weak laugh. “Hate me as much as you want. Just don’t leave again. I won’t survive it.”

Sanji goes completely still, like he’s well and truly snapped. Zoro decides that’s probably not a bad thing. He’s used to Sanji shouting at him; the silence, the whispering, is making him more anxious. He feels Sanji draw back, and it hurts like salt water against a wound, not being able to see his face, because even if Zoro can’t always tell what he’s thinking, at least he’d be able to look into his eyes and insist: I mean every fucking word, cook. I refuse to lose you again. Anything but that.

And because he’s wrung out already, and not afraid of another fight if it comes to that, he reaches out to cup Sanji’s cheek, letting the soft, damp curve of it rest against his palm. He waits, willing the cook to understand all the things he can’t verbalize, because he’s never felt like this before, about anyone. This has been a long time coming. He thought the two years apart had taught him trust, that this crew would always find their way back together—it had seemed such a certainty, after everything they went through to bring back Nami, rescue Robin, make sure Usopp’s pride didn’t ruin what a good thing they had. Then Sanji left, and Zoro realized how easily he could forget all that—the new world seemed foreboding, his own strength hilariously fragile in the face of that loss. He tried to temper it. He thought he got away with it. But this is why he should’ve said something back in Wano—so that it wouldn’t come spilling out like this, too sudden and too much between them.

Now the cook will either have to pretend he doesn’t understand, or worse—will have to let him down easy, and for all of Zoro’s big talk about not wanting pity, it’ll still hurt, to finally be told no.

You don’t have to like me back, he thinks of saying. I just wanted you to know.

“Why are you telling me this?” Sanji asks, voice low.

Zoro shrugs, helpless. “It’s the truth.”

Silence stretches between them. Zoro feels resigned to closing out the conversation, but before he can figure out what else to say, Sanji grabs a fistful of his shirt, right beneath the collar. He’s surprised, but the cook’s always been a hothead; it’s a shitty position Zoro put him in. Except instead of dragging him upwards or slamming their foreheads together, Sanji comes closer—Zoro can tell because of his ragged breathing, so near now that Zoro feels it warm against his skin—and puts their lips together.

He’s—definitely being kissed, right? He’s not making up that feeling against his mouth. Zoro grabs Sanji’s neck with one hand and kisses him back. Sanji wraps his arms over Zoro’s shoulders, crawls halfway into Zoro’s lap, and makes a noise that has Zoro feeling dizzy, completely unmoored; he braces his other arm on the floor, as Sanji says “Zoro” into his mouth. Zoro doesn’t know what else he should be doing. He’s overwhelmed, all his senses flaring to life as Sanji strokes the inside of his mouth with his tongue, and he retaliates by catching Sanji’s bottom lip between his teeth and rolling their hips together. He swallows down the sound Sanji makes, harsh and pleading. Zoro can’t help it—he grips the cook’s waist with one hand and slides the other underneath his shirt. His skin feels amazing, perfectly smooth; Sanji twitches under his touch, when Zoro skims his fingers over a nipple. Zoro stops, hand at the center of Sanji’s chest, and they pant against each other for a moment. Beneath his palm, Sanji's pulse is rapid, fluttering.

“Is this what you meant?” Sanji asks, and the small, worried undertone in his voice breaks Zoro’s heart. “Is this—what you want?”

Zoro decides the cook is an idiot. They’re both idiots. “I’ve wanted you from the start,” he says, dead serious. “More than you know.”

“Oh,” Sanji says. Before he can say more, Zoro kisses him again, pulls off his shirt jacket, then tries to yank off his stupid dress shirt. Sanji slaps his hands away, probably to undo the buttons himself—it would’ve been hard, even if Zoro could see. Zoro peels off his own shirt, then reaches out again, frantic, and touches Sanji’s shoulders, feeling the skin bared to him. He knows this body so well, but he’s never been allowed to touch it this way. He traces it with his hands, slow and decadent; he pushes his face against Sanji’s chest and sucks on his nipples, palms his ribcage, delirious with want. Sanji curves over him, gasping, and Zoro wishes, for entirely different reasons than before, that he could see his face. His dick throbs.

“Cook,” he starts. “Do you—” really want me, too, and since when, and why the fuck did it take us so long, but he doesn’t want to break the spell so instead he says, “—know what you’re doing?”

Sanji grabs his shoulders and shoves him against the floor and says, clipped and brutal, “Sure I do.” He kisses Zoro again, sloppy and open-mouthed. Then he kisses a line down Zoro’s chest, which feels indescribable, and tugs down Zoro’s pants, and takes Zoro into his mouth.

Zoro isn’t prepared for it. He’s not prepared for any of this, and he’s still not sure how he went from angrily training to having some of his most private fantasies fulfilled in the span of nothing. He’s not complaining, but Sanji’s decadent mouth on his cock is definitely making his brain short-circuit. He’s jealous at the thought that Sanji’s ever done this with someone before, though maybe it’s bluster—it could be enthusiasm and instinct, powering the way Sanji’s sucking him down. He’s overwhelmed because it’s been so long and it feels so good, and he can’t help moaning as Sanji swallows him deeper—it’s already almost more than Zoro can take. They’re at a weird angle, and one of his knees is drawn up; he can feel Sanji’s hair splayed over his belly, and his hand instinctively palms the cook’s head, though he doesn’t grip hard. What is he allowed to do? He’s unraveling too quickly—he feels Sanji swallow and he jerks, the motion jolting them both—

“Cook,” he chokes, barely able to squeeze the words out, “I’m gonna—”

Zoro comes in a rush, all the grays of his world briefly turning white. He ends up gripping Sanji’s skull after all, fingers tangled in his unbelievably soft hair. Sanji’s throat tightens around him, taking what he can, before he eventually pulls off with a sticky pop. Sanji coughs, as Zoro tries to collect himself, too spent and shaken to feel embarrassed about how quickly he got off. It occurs to him that this is actually happening. It’s not a fucking dream after all, what the fuck. The thought lurches him into action like a man possessed—he reaches out, seizes Sanji by the waist, and wrestles him over, tugging off his slacks and briefs in the process, until he thinks they’re arranged in the way he wants. He smooths his hands down Sanji’s body, holding him by the hips, and then he leans over and hooks his chin over the cook’s shoulder, so he can nestle his face against Sanji’s neck and drink in his smell.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, right into Sanji’s ear, and feels an answering shiver, all down that slender spine. Sanji makes a weak sound as Zoro palms his ass, but he insists, “I need you to say it’s all right.”

“I want it,” Sanji answers, turning his head so he can kiss Zoro back, so that they can lap at each other’s mouths in desperation. “I want you.” Now that Zoro has permission, desire is overwhelming him—there must be more to say, to figure out, but he can’t stop what they’ve started, not now, not yet. Zoro kisses the skin below Sanji’s ear, kisses his neck, bites at his shoulder, thinks about all the time they’ve wasted—then decides not to think at all.

He just acts. He ignores the voice in his head that’s wishing he could see this, and focuses on what’s available to him: the tremor of Sanji’s body, as he licks his way down it, the heat of his skin, the noise he makes as Zoro places a kiss against his trembling thigh, caressing it to reassure him. The way he tastes, as Zoro traces the rim of his hole with his tongue. Sanji makes a choking sound, as Zoro works him open; he curses, calls Zoro a bunch of names, as Zoro grips him tighter, holding him in place. He imagined this, hating himself, intermittently and for a long time. But those thoughts were mostly sight—fragments in dreams, or daydreams, or when he was hunched over in the shower after finally giving in—and the reality, absorbed through all his other senses, is different, and raw, and intoxicating.

It helps, that Sanji’s always so verbal—Zoro takes his time, making him fall apart, with his tongue and then his fingers, because he wants this to be good. It's so good for him already, but he wants more—as much as Sanji will give him. Sanji goes “Shit, ahhh,” and Zoro drinks down Sanji’s groans even as he concentrates, finding that spot inside him that makes his body seize, makes him go fuck, fuck, oh fuck, and push his ass back so Zoro can grind in deeper. Zoro decides its finally enough just as Sanji says “Come on, fucking come on already,” and Zoro can’t help but grin, at how impatient and fearless Sanji is—it’s going to hurt, using only spit and cum, but if he wants it, Zoro will give it. He always will. He slips his fingers out, hears Sanji whine in protest or maybe anticipation. He lines up his cock, already fully hard again, using his fingers to map out where—and pushes in. They both swear, trying to adjust to the pressure. Sanji’s so tight, colors spark across Zoro’s vision, even as his cock swells within that swallowing heat—he wants to savor this, too, get drunk on the feeling of Sanji’s body taking his, letting him in.

“Zoro,” Sanji pants, straining, and his voice washes over Zoro like a balm. He feels the cook trying to relax around him; he rubs circles over his side, makes hushing sounds into his shoulder. It seems to work. Sanji gasps, inching backwards as Zoro thrusts in, then repeats, hoarse and pleading: “Zoro. Zoro.”

And for a moment, he forgets that he can’t see, because it’s all so clear to him—the beautiful arch of Sanji’s back, the knobs of his spine gleaming with sweat; his neck, flushed a creamy pink, so perfect for Zoro to gnaw on; his hair, that has always looked like light to Zoro, like a goddamn halo; the startling blue of his eyes, clear as a lake on a spring island—looking back at him proudly, fiercely, tearfully, glazed and wanting. His swollen lips, beaded with blood, as he says Zoro’s name again, against Zoro’s lips, because it seems the words have finally left him too. Zoro curves one arm over him to hold them together as he rocks his hips forward, thrusting hard against the insistent want of Sanji’s body, clenching all around him, sexy and sweltering and somehow sweet, like the promise Zoro’s been longing for: that the cook is here, that he’s staying. “Sanji,” he groans, wrecked, as he moves his hand down to Sanji’s belly to feel himself press against that spot from the inside; “I need you, all right? You can’t leave me,” he insists, as heat blazes over them, as he fucks in and in until he knows beyond a doubt—through Sanji’s desperate wailing, the slick gushing where their bodies meet, and his entire being gone helpless, towed under a tidal wave of sensation—that they’re a singular thing, atomized together, that from now on they’ll forever be in each other’s cells, carved into some secret recess hidden in each other’s frantic, furious pulse.

Early on, sailing away from Loguetown, they spend one afternoon lounging on the deck, playing Usopp-invented games while waiting for the wind to pick up. In one game, they draw categories, and take turns saying something that matches, and whoever can’t answer in time is dubbed a loser. Zoro doesn’t like these games. His brain’s not nimble enough. But Nami’s placing bets and his pride is on the line, so he keeps playing. (Sanji, the idiot, keeps messing up on purpose so that Nami can win, until she tells him to take it seriously or it’s no fun.)

They play a round on insects, which Usopp decisively wins (Luffy’s close, but ruins it by repeating a beetle that’s already been said). Fishes go to Sanji. Nami wins cities, predictably, and in a stroke of luck Zoro wins famous pirates, because he wasn’t a professional bounty hunter for nothing. Then Luffy complains that the game’s rigged so Usopp says, “Okay fine, you can pick the next category!”

Luffy says, “Okay! How about…hmm…things you need!”

“My goggles.”

“Money!”

“My kitchen knives.” Zoro looks at Sanji’s grin and his heart goes thud, thud, thud. He’s instantly grumpy about it.

“My swords.”

“MEAT!”

“My…brain!”

“The log pose.”

“Nami-swaaaaan!”

“Alcohol.”

“My hat!”

“My pouch.”

“Heels, baby.”

“Salt and pepper.”

They’re going too quickly—Zoro can’t believe it’s back to him already. Luffy’s starting to snicker beside him. Zoro looks at Sanji’s face, smirking at his imminent loss, and he thinks, inexplicably: you. And says in a daze, “You—r…food.”

He can feel Nami and Usopp’s eyes on him. Sanji’s silly brow is scrunching, like he thinks Zoro’s trying to pick a fight. They’re always fighting and he enjoys it a completely normal amount.

The silence is on the verge of turning awkward when Luffy yells, “Zoro! No fair! I was going to say Sanji’s food!” and starts whacking him. That’s not the first time Luffy saves him, but whether it’s dumb luck or captain’s perception, he’s acutely grateful he hasn’t completely exploded their dynamic in one misguided moment of honesty. It’s too real and too raw and this ship is too small, and he doesn’t really understand how he feels, either. It’s not something they taught, back in the dojo. Nami flexes her fingers at him, and he grudgingly drops some coins into her palm, and never makes a mistake like that again.

Despite everything—he wakes up afraid, panicked that nothing happened after all. When he rolls over and reaches out, a hand settles on his head.

“Shhh,” Sanji says. “I’m here. Go back to sleep.”

Zoro really needs to bottle up this voice in a tone dial or something—it’s so good at making him relax. He wriggles upwards, seeking him out, and Sanji sighs. Hands guide Zoro’s head, carefully, onto a lap. It occurs to Zoro that they’re still in the crow’s nest; a blanket covers his bottom half, one of those they keep up here for the crew members who get cold on the night watch. He feels safe, lying in the cook’s lap. He never wants to be anywhere else.

Sanji pets his hair with one hand; he’s enjoying a cigarette with the other. The depth of gray tells Zoro it’s still dark outside. It means they might have a bit of time, before the cook needs to start on breakfast. He feels the breeze through the windows—they aired out the room, once they were done, spent and covered in fluid, and luckily they kept a lot of towels up there for his workouts. (“I can’t believe we just did it on the floor,” Sanji huffed, and Zoro said, “Really? ‘Cause I can,” and then they went another round, which only proved his point.) After, they’d lain together on the couch, Sanji’s face tucked into Zoro’s chest. He only protested once, soft and mostly asleep, about how Zoro was holding him too tightly.

It’s his fault. Now he has him, Zoro’s never going to let him go. He can’t fall back asleep, so he enjoys this instead: the cook’s gentle touch, the soft thigh beneath his cheek.

“I like you,” Zoro murmurs, because he does, and he wants to say it before the moment fades or he’s too awake. It’s not—all of what he feels, but he thinks Sanji understands, if the gentleness of his touch is any indication.

“Mm. You’re all right.”

Zoro snorts.

“You know,” Sanji starts. Zoro grunts to show he’s listening. “I didn’t know I mattered to you like that.”

Zoro feels a pang. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m not good at that stuff, not like you.”

“Obviously I’m not great at it either! I was—afraid of how I felt. And in Thriller Bark, when you—I realized, I could lose you suddenly, anytime. And it terrified me. So much so that I didn’t want to risk having it at all.” He pauses. Zoro realizes Sanji’s just articulated so much of what he’s been feeling, too. It makes his heart ache. “When I left in Zou I really did mean to come back, you know. I wasn’t lying about it. But—in Big Mom’s territory, I realized maybe I wouldn’t be able to return, after all.”

Zoro feels that familiar icy feeling run over him, but he keeps quiet, letting Sanji share whatever he wants to.

“I kept thinking about all of you. I missed you guys so badly I wanted to die. I’ve never been happier than I am on this ship. But I also thought you were better off without me. Luffy convinced me otherwise, but—that feeling still comes back. Like when you’re hurt, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“That’s bullshit.” Zoro rolls over and nuzzles his face against the firm planes of Sanji’s stomach. It comforts him, to feel Sanji’s skin.

Sanji thumbs at his ear, tracing over his piercings. “I’m serious. I keep finding you when you’re nearly dead, and I hate it. You say I left you, but you’ve nearly left me a bunch of times too. And you won’t even let me care.”

“I’m not good at that either,” Zoro confesses.

“It’s not like I don’t get it. It’s part of our role on this crew. I just don’t want you to lose more than you already have.” The cook’s fingertips run over his right eyelid, sweet and careful. “Anyway, we’ll find a way to reverse this. Robin will figure it out, or that doctor will have a cure. Or we’ll find out where that lady is and Nami will sail us there immediately. I’m not losing this without a fight.”

“It’s al—”

“Shut up. Don’t say it. I’m doing this for me too.”

Zoro feels such a painful throb of love, it makes him shy, even if Sanji can’t possibly know. He says, “I wanna talk about something else.”

“Okay, moss.” He sounds—fond. Zoro’s going to die. “What would you like to talk about?”

“Tell me about…some fishes you like.”

“Some fishes I like?”

Zoro blushes. It’s fine. He can’t see the shit-eating grin probably being directed at him. “Tell me about the All Blue. You—I like it. When you talk about it.”

Sanji doesn’t talk about it often, but on the rare occasions he does, Zoro has to put in extra effort to show he’s not listening—because the cook’s voice gets so bright and excited, and his eyes get so wide, they could rival Chopper’s—the reindeer excited beside him, asking Sanji for more. Usopp always leans close, following up his descriptions with questions, while Franky muses about building a bigger fishtank. Even Jinbei thinks Sanji’s descriptions are wonderful.

Instead of teasing him more, Sanji starts talking, his palm rhythmically stroking Zoro’s scalp. He talks about the glowing rainbow fish, that swim in a crowd with others of the same color, so that when they rush towards you it actually feels like a rainbow running through you. And there’s a fish that kinda looks like a dragon. It might actually be the size of a dragon.

Zoro says, “Remember that dragon in Punk Hazard? I think some of the fishes in Fishman Island were bigger.”

Sanji says the dragon fish is supposed to taste kinda sweet—a little fruity, sorta like a persimmon. And then there’s something called the princess jellyfish. It might taste good but no one’s ever tried because it’s too beautiful to eat. It looks like it’s wearing a translucent tutu, and it glows in the dark.

Zoro loves listening to him. He loves this whimsical, childish side of him. He stares out into the darkness, imagining all the wonders Sanji is describing, the crystalline waters of the All Blue, hidden somewhere on this earth. He has no doubt they’ll find it eventually. The King of the Pirates will make his crew’s every wish come true. Some of them already have, so why not the rest? Zoro envisions a shark with another head instead of a tail, the jumbo black pearls of a snow-white oyster, the delicate silver of a fish that looks plain but that Sanji is sure he’s going to love, because it’s kinda like fatty tuna, and pairs well with sake. He imagines the cook’s eyes, lit up with joy as he talks about his dream, this place he loves so ardently.

He thinks: I really wish I could see his eyes.

“I also read about something called angel shrimp. There’s no drawing though—I wonder if they have wings. Sorry, I’m mostly telling you about the weird creatures, because they’re the ones Chopper likes best. Hey—”

A hand touches his cheek. “Zoro. Are you okay?’

Shit. He’s crying. He swallows, embarrassed, tries to mop at his eyes, but the tears won’t stop.

“Are you in pain? What’s wrong?”

That’s right, Zoro thinks. He hasn’t seen me cry since the Baratie. He never let himself cry—not even at his bloodiest, after Kuma, or Kaido, or any of those moments when he had to tell himself the pain was irrelevant, it wasn’t allowed to bother him. No one saw him weep in Kuraigana after learning about Ace, and thinking of Luffy suffering without any of them. No one’s allowed to know how he lost it one night in the Flower Capital, sobbing over a stupid bowl of soba; a granny in the seat next to him even gave him a little piece of candy, to comfort him.

Lying on his back on the deck of that ruined ship, wondering why he was still alive, he’d wept in front of Johnny and Yosaku, and Usopp, and all of the Baratie. He’d wept, and promised Luffy that he’d never lose again. His ruined pride mattered less than making that oath to his captain, and even if there were so many witnesses—no one ever said anything to him. All his shame about that moment was in his head. Even Mihawk respected him, enough to not kill him—enough, even, to issue Zoro a challenge instead. So why should he be ashamed now? He does want to see the ocean again. He wants to see his crew smiling and laughing and arguing. He wants to see Luffy standing before the world as the King of the Pirates, that wide, endless grin on his face. He wants to see Kuina’s name on her grave, when he visits her after becoming the world’s greatest swordsman. He wants to see his cook’s eyes.

Sanji’s thumb swipes over his cheek. “Should I—get Chopper?”

Zoro shakes his head. Then he thinks: why don’t I just say it? Who am I even trying to hide from?

“I wish I could see your face, cook,” he manages. “I wish I—could see the All Blue with you, when we find it.”

“You will,” Sanji says, his voice gone wobbly. “You big, stupid oaf—of course you will.”

He sits up. Sanji sweeps him into an embrace, and Zoro feels Sanji’s tears against his face as they kiss, cradling each other close. It feels alien, uncomfortable, to be shedding tears like this, but Zoro decides to let it go. He hasn’t let his guard down in forever. It’s not that holding it up is a burden; Zoro just never imagined he could share this sort of weakness with anyone. Eventually, Sanji leans his head on his shoulder and exhales.

“I wish I could see you,” Zoro repeats. He’s going to say the truth from now on, even more than he used to.

Sanji kisses both his eyelids. Zoro swallows. It really is all right, because he has this, and it’s more than he ever thought he’d have, but—but it would be nice.

Sanji puts their foreheads together and says, “You will. I’ll make sure of it.”

His eyes are pink, blazing, gorgeous. It’s like Zoro dreamed up this face: the poetic curl of his brow, the perfect cut of his chin, and those devoted eyes, staring at him, so clearly and recklessly saying I love you.

Zoro blinks.

Sanji blinks black.

“You can see me,” Sanji whispers, shock entering his voice, his face—his beautiful face.

Zoro nods, unable to speak, unable to do anything but take in the sight. Sanji’s eyes start spilling over, and he hugs him so hard they topple back onto the couch, as sunlight slowly fills the room around them.

“Told you it would be easy and stupid,” Luffy says, patting his swollen belly. They abandoned the day’s plans in favor of a feast, celebrating the return of Zoro’s sight with a party that lasted from dawn til dusk.

Zoro tracked the sky with his eye all day, amazed at how it looked, at how the colors changed. The Sunny seemed new to him—had the jolly roger really always been so huge? Sanji let him have booze at lunchtime, and Nami clung to his neck and called him the biggest idiot ever. Robin sat beside him during a lull in the party and said, with sincere interest, so how did you reverse it, again? and calmly took in his stammering explanation, which left out a lot.

To his relief, no one mentions the stark bruise on the back of Sanji’s neck. Maybe it’s not that obvious, maybe it’s only Zoro who’s been stealing glances at it all day, stupidly proud. He’s excited to mark him up again, soon, next time—now that he can see. (He’s sure it’ll be better than his imagination. But that’s for later.) Franky cries and tells Zoro maybe he should wear sunglasses just in case, and Usopp says he’ll make Zoro a pair. Jinbei toasts to him, and they have a little drinking contest and come out tied. Brook plays his new composition, coincidentally called Princess Jellyfish, and Chopper does his wiggly dance to it. All in all a great day, and it’s not even over yet.

“You did,” Zoro says, and relishes Luffy’s delighted laugh, his cheeky pronouncement of, “I’m really smart, you know!”

Across the deck, Sanji is cutting slices of cake as a third dessert. Zoro misses him, which is silly, because he’s going to drag Sanji back up to the crow’s nest later—but this time, wonderfully, the slithering fear has left. In its place is a pure and simple wanting, a desire to be relentlessly close. Their eyes meet. Sanji looks away reflexively, but after a moment, he looks back, holding Zoro’s gaze even as he blushes down to his collar. His expression is so warm, his smile so perfect, Zoro wants to drink it in forever.

Was this what the witch intended after all? Zoro can’t know. He decides it doesn't matter, as he stands to refill his drink, and maybe say something to the cook that'll make him blush deeper. He’s sure, more than anything, that he’ll savor this sight—now and always, for as long as he can.