Chapter Text
Sanji lays on the rumpled bedspread, distantly tuned into the muffled patter of the showerhead. His pale gold hair is made dark wheat by dampness and his skin smells of the citrus bodywash stocked in the hotel bathroom. The usual vest, tie, and blazer have been forgone—only the charcoal slacks and blue button-up remain.
He’s patiently waiting for Zoro to finish washing up so they can begin their final day together. Maybe lunch and then shopping? The mosshead would probably like looking at what kind of swords this island has to offer. Would he prefer sightseeing? Maybe just a day in, relaxing?
Sanji cannot quite let himself fall into the soft excitement of an entire day with the swordsman as a willing companion. A low undercurrent of guilt seemingly thrummed in his bloodstream—a constant whisper in his ear reminding him of what he will have to admit to Zoro when night falls.
He can picture it now. Maybe in secluded corner of a tavern, or under the awning of a building. The moon will be full and bright, stars winking in the distance. People will pass by him, but none of them matter in the moment. He’ll ask Zoro to stop, and the fool will laugh and tease until he sees the stony determination in Sanji’s eyes.
There’s something I haven’t told you.
Sanji takes in a shaky inhale. He isn’t such a glutton for punishment that he will imagine the moment his and the swordsman’s relationship will shatter beyond repair. Swiftly, he plucks a cigarette and his lighter from his pocket and administers to himself a healthy dose of smoky nicotine.
The bathroom door’s hinges creak open as Zoro steps out with a towel slung low on his hips. Sanji gapes. His eyes drag over the strong shoulders, the generous slope of his chest, the hard, bronze planes of his abdomen, the sharply defined lines of his adonis belt, the—
Sanji rips his eyes away from the swordsman’s sculpted body, firmly stamping out the lascivious thoughts from his mind. His guilt is already suffocating enough, no need to add the weight of looking upon Zoro’s body so shamelessly. Zoro huffs quietly at the cook’s increasingly pink face before rooting around in the wardrobes in search of something.
“Are there any extra clothes here?”
Sanji points to the foot of the bed, still pointedly avoiding eye contact with any part of Zoro’s body, lest his nose bleed like a faucet. A neatly folded set of shirt, pants, socks, and underwear sit there.
“I asked Robin-chan to bring you some extra clothes earlier. The…drug made you very sweaty, so I imagine your old clothes must not smell very pleasant right now.”
Zoro shrugs. “I could’ve made do with ‘em,” he says, unruffled.
Sanji’s head snaps towards back to Zoro, insult fiery and pointed at the tip of his tongue. It immediately fizzles out when he notices that Zoro is now much closer than he was before. And that he’s still in a towel. And wet.
Ah, Sanji thinks dumbly. He made me angry on purpose so I would look his way.
The small drops of water look crystalline on his battle-worn skin, as if he’s been adorned with tiny diamonds. Sanji eyes helplessly at where they cling to his broad shoulders before flicking his eyes to Zoro’s face. He really is beautiful, Sanji thinks, stupefied.
Zoro’s face is crimson, but an air of bravery clings to him like a shroud. Sanji is transfixed by the big, lone gray eye—he’s been petrified to his spot on the bed and is helpless to move away as Zoro inches closer.
“Cook,” he rumbles in a low timbre.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Molten heat pools in Sanji’s belly before it’s swiftly drowned in sickly-green nausea. Zoro’s confused, both by memory loss and the cocktail of drugs still probably swirling around in his body. Sanji won’t—can’t—let Zoro make a mistake he will surely regret when he fully recuperates. The thought sobers him, along with the shame he feels for even feeling a spark of arousal while Zoro is so clearly not okay.
Boyish shyness is written all over Zoro’s face and Sanj’s heart squeezes with sympathy. The swordsman deserves someone that will give them as much affection as he’s trying to show Sanji right now. He’s never seen the man ever show interest in anyone at harbors or during their adventures, but he at least hopes this whole experience will finally give the fool the motivation to find someone he actually cherishes.
“We can—do you want to…?” Zoro winces at the awkward stagger of his words. Sanji prays his hesitant delivery will mortify him enough to stop whatever the fuck he’s trying to do. Instead, resolution graces Zoro’s face once more.
He grips the edge of the towel with one callused hand and slowly begins to unwrap himself.
Sanji catches a glimpse of a muscular, bare hip before making a sound that is not a squeak and jolting to stand upright. His abrupt jump jostles the lamp next him, causing it to sway precariously before settling back down on the wooden surface. His pack of cigarettes and lighter fly out of his pocket and land with a soft thump on the carpet, but he could care less about losing either of them. Right now, the only thing that matters are getting away from Zoro before he can remove that towel completely.
“I—I have to use the bathroom!”
Sanji crosses the room in long strides before slamming the wooden bathroom door shut. The room is still full of steam from their hot showers and smells faintly of the complementary bodywash and shampoo. Sanji takes heaving breaths, eyes wild and wide. They land on Zoro’s clothes laying in a trail on the tiled floor, which is such a strangely erotic sight that he’s forced to tear his eyes away before he can feel a tell-tale tingle in nose.
Zoro wanted to have sex with me.
As quickly as it came, he shakes the absurd thought from his head. Zoro doesn’t want to do anything with him. He’s vulnerable, drugged, and suffering from severe brain trauma. He’s ashamed that he must remind himself of these facts time and time again, but his traitorous heart and Zoro’s earnest expression are preying on his desperate wish for reciprocation. Maybe the proximity over several weeks have caused the swordsman to develop a little crush or—God forbid—their meddling crewmates have decided to convince Zoro that he and Sanji are lovers in the name of a hilarious prank.
He loses himself in the vacuuming spiral of his thoughts and is only broken out of his trance when two knocks reverberate through the wood of the door.
“Curly?” Zoro calls through the door, muffled.
Sanji has known Zoro long enough to read the tells in his voice and body and, although obscured by the door, he can tell that dejection tinges the edges of the swordsman’s voice. He steels himself, takes a deep breath, and rips open the door.
“Mosshead!” Sanji exclaims with a grin. “Ready to go? Let’s go. Now. Okay?”
He grips Zoro by his blessedly clothed shoulder and steers them both to the hotel room door. He won’t give either of them time to address or dwell on the embarrassment of what only happened a few moments earlier. All he has to do is keep smiling and steering and he can save the rest of the day.
Sanji and Zoro ambled through the open-air market, smiling and laughing lightly. Tension from the towel incident had slowly faded away and Sanji insistently chose to focus on their itinerary for the day. Sanji poked and teased at the mosshead until his self-consciousness finally gave way to his carefree, somewhat serious nature.
Although they had visited the market the first day on the island, Sanji still thoroughly enjoyed every stall. They appeared to rotate and the market seemed completely new apart from few vendors. There was new food to try, trinkets to poke at, and swords to admire.
Sanji probed carefully at few colorful glass vials, thinking about potential cooking oil storage. Somewhere near his left, Zoro hummed over the vendor’s selection of whetstones and polishing cloths. He eventually selected a beautifully ornate chartreuse bottle while the swordsman chose a travel-sized whetstone. Slowly finishing up their purchases at the stall, the pair begin walking along the paths between the small stores again.
Sanji tried to avoid physical contact with the mosshead, lest he lead him on and incite another attempt at seduction. His heart ached for the casual intimacy of their first trip to the market, but he knew it’s not what Zoro truly wanted or deserved. Acutely aware of every part of his body, Sanji carefully begin to lead them to another interesting booth.
“I was thinking maybe after another half hour we should get something real to eat, not just a bunch of fried snacks from the kiosks,” Sanji deliberated. “I was thinking a pasta and salad, but—”
Zoro abruptly slid his hand into Sanji’s and tangled their fingers together.
“Mhm,” the swordsman hummed as if he hadn’t just totally disoriented Sanji.
“We could—um. Pasta and salad, because they’re light and—and it’s cold right now. I—I mean hot,” he stuttered.
Swiftly, he pulled his hand out of Zoro’s grasp, heart immediately warring with his decision. A pang of sympathy rang through him as he watched the swordsman deflate at his clear attempt to escape his affections. Humiliation was never his intent, but a clear boundary set earlier in the day would ease Zoro into the inevitable. He swallowed a wince and pointed to a stall with the same hand that was being warmed a second ago.
“This one looks good. Let’s check it out.”
The rest of their time at the market was…quiet, to put it simply. Painful and guilty to not put it simply. Sanji winced every time he glanced at that dejected look on Zoro’s face. It felt like shame was eating him alive, and he only had reprieve from its sharp teeth once they finally decided on a little waterfront restaurant to have their lunch in.
Some elation had returned to Zoro’s face once they were seated at a little table by the window. It was an intimate nook, with a pretty gabled window casting dappled sunlight onto the chestnut table. A single daffodil stood proudly in a short vase at the center of the table accompanied by tea light candle that smelled faintly of vanilla. Sanji’s heart squeezed again at the simple but tender setting. He knew he was giving Zoro the wrong idea, that he was only hurting the swordsman by playing hot-and-cold. Had he been a better man, he would’ve never strung Zoro along on this mockery of a date and told him the truth like he deserved.
But I’m not a better man, Sanji thought contritely. I’m a pirate.
He wasn’t heartless enough to pretend that nothing was amiss, but he wasn’t courageous enough to face reality quite yet. He was stuck in a prison of his own making, Zoro an innocent captive trapped in the cell alongside him. Shame and disgust swirled in a nauseating concoction in his stomach, and it was only years of practiced endurance that allowed Sanji to shove his misery aside and paint a smile on his face.
The waiter dropped off menus with a chirped greeting and glasses of ice water. Sanji hummed as he perused the surprisingly tasteful menu, finding solace in mundanely wondering which appetizer and entrée would pair well with which wine or cocktail.
“Hey, cook,” Zoro drawled. He jerked his head towards the menu still closed in front of him. “Do you—”
“Yes, mosshead, I know what you like. I’ll order for you so stop looking so helpless,” Sanji huffed teasingly.
“Whatever, shitty curlybrow,” Zoro beamed. The harshness of his words was completely dampened by the pleased grin on his stupid face. There was a touch too much of something sparkling in his lone eye that made Sanji swallow heavily and look back down to the printed words on the menu. Seeing open happiness on the swordsman’s face felt like a warm embrace as much as it also felt like a punch to the gut. Someday, someone would have the privilege of enjoying Zoro’s affections truthfully and wholly.
Somebody that won’t be me.
Sanji’s spiraling thoughts were cut off by the return of the waiter with a small notepad in hand. Sanji rattled off the drinks and entrees they would be ordering for lunch while Zoro practically burned a hole into the side of his face with how intensely he watched him while ordering. He stumbled over his words when he felt a boot slide up against his own dress shoe, nudging his foot slightly until their legs were practically pressed together under the small table. Sanji didn’t dare move or even look at Zoro while he finished speaking to the waiter, simply allowing the heat of the swordsman’s leg to bleed into his own.
As soon as the waiter left with promises to return quickly with hot food, Sanji dragged his leg away from where it had been pressed against Zoro’s and into safety by crossing it up and over his other leg. He suppresses a grimace before sneaking a peek at Zoro’s face in time to watch something crumble in the swordsman’s expression.
I’m hurting him. I’m hurting him by being here. I’m hurting him just by existing.
Still, he doesn’t look away from the devastating transformation taking place across Zoro’s face. He’s a coward, but punishment must be taken when it is due. Something familiar blooms on Zoro’s face—the tick of a jaw, twitch of an eyelid, the popping of a vein in his forehead. Anger.
It dissipates quickly, and Sanji is reminded of just how much discipline Zoro truly possesses. He has more control, more self-restraint than Sanji will have in his entire life. Despite how Sanji has been pushing and pulling him the entire day, Zoro continues to lean in towards him like a flower seeking sunshine. His guilt roils over him in a tidal wave.
Conversation, stilted but light, is made until the plates of steaming food arrive. The presence of delicious entrees and plentiful alcohol allow their conversation to flow into something natural again and Sanji doesn’t feel like he’s quite drowning anymore. He’s still under the water, but it feels like he can break the surface for a gulp of air.
“…and I beat him! He had to fork over all his Berri!” Sanji crowed.
Zoro laughed openly in a way he had done the past several days that he hadn’t done in the past few months. “C’mon, you’re exaggerating curly.”
“No really! It was a serious cooking competition! All those grown guys were just surprised a twelve-year-old schooled their asses on how to make the perfect chocolate ganache,” he sang.
“I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it,” the swordsman said good-naturedly. “I’m sure you could beat anyone in cooking competition now at your age.” Zoro took a giant bite of rice and sea king meat, seemingly unaware of how complimentary his statement sounded.
Sanji chokes on his bite of pasta but passes it down with a gulp of red wine. The swordsman’s strange, new affections have taken on a new meaning since his…epiphany last night. He desperately wishes that all those casual compliments and soft touches Zoro has given him since his accident are all echoes of real emotion, not some twisted byproduct of a brain injury. But more than anything, he wishes he could return to blissful ignorance—both towards his own feelings as well as the marimo’s.
Their conversation continues flowing smoothly despite Sanji’s brief and embarrassing hiccup. Soon enough, their plates have been cleared and their respective wine and whisky glasses drained. There’s an air of particular satisfaction brought on only by a meal well-eaten with good company. Both of them bask in it silently as they breathe contentedly and pat their full bellies.
Sanji sighs happily and brings his attention to the small dessert menu discreetly dropped off earlier by their attentive waiter. All the options sound absolutely delectable—raspberry and pistachio macaroons, bourbon pecan pie, honey lavender cookies, and—
“Wow,” Sanji gushes. “Quadruple chocolate satin layered cake.”
Zoro’s lip quirks up in amusement. “What’s so special about some chocolate cake?”
“A marimo like you wouldn’t know, but it’s really hard to make a quadruple anything layered cake since oversaturation can make it soggy or collapse.” Sanji taps his chin thoughtfully. “I’ve only ever tried triple chocolate cake, and it was probably the best cake I’ve had.”
Zoro tilts his head. “D’you want to order it then?”
Sanji laughs and scoffs. “As much as I’d like to, I’m stuffed, mosshead. I’d only be able to eat half of it.”
“Then I’ll eat the other half.”
Sanji blinks his gaze away from the waterfront view and meets Zoro’s lone eye with disbelief. A curly eyebrow raises almost comically.
“You don’t like sweet shit.”
Zoro looks off to the left. Sanji watches as the swordsman seems to steel himself.
“I like it.”
Sanji laughs at that. Another full bellied thing that Zoro has been dragging out of him again and again since they’ve landed on this island. His raucous fit lasts for a solid minute until he’s gasping for breath and wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.
“You’re such a bad liar!” Sanji manages to gasp out between giggles, ribs hurting.
Zoro’s eye remains firmly fixed somewhere to that spot on his left. “I’m not lying.”
Sanji gives the swordsman a light kick under the table, drawing Zoro’s attention back to him.
“Listen mosshead, only one of us has brain damage, okay? I know that you don’t like sweet stuff. Don’t choke it down for me.” Sanji grins.
Zoro’s eyebrows furrow and he grits his teeth. “I said I like it! Things can change. I want the damn cake, and you want the damn cake, so—so just order the fucking cake already!”
His outburst is only made adorable by the crimson flush he sports from forehead to neck. Damn it, there I go again thinking the mosshead is endearing or something.
Sanji huffs with a little relenting smile. He motions with his hand for the waiter to return to their table and settles the little dessert menu in front of him.
“You’re gonna finish your half since you love sweets all of a sudden. No leftovers, right?”
A serious determination only fit for the most intense of battles settles upon Zoro’s face in hard, set lines.
“Of course. I promise.”
A quick order and wait later, a slice of the most perfect chocolate cake sits delicately on a plate between them. Sanji picks up the teaspoon and sinks it into the moist, soft sponge and lifts it to his mouth with reverence. His eyes flutter shut and a groan slips out of his mouth as the dessert practically melts on his tongue.
Wow.
He’s already thinking about how to recreate the recipe and the logistics of such balanced baking measurements but stops to observe the way Zoro holds his little teaspoon like a weapon of war. Slowly, cautiously, he takes a spoonful of the decadent cake, brings to his mouth and chews.
To anyone else, Zoro would have seemed impassive. No real like or dislike for the dessert. But to Sanji’s experienced eye, Zoro is not enjoying the cake and is clearly out his depths. Still, he swallows and sinks his spoon back in for another bite.
Sanji finishes his half with plenty of appreciative sounds and lingering mouthfuls. Zoro eats like a soldier marching—steady, slow, and a little despondent. Regardless, Sanji knows that the swordsman honors a promise and knows that there won’t be a chocolate crumb left on the plate.
Plate cleared, stomachs truly stuffed now, both men recline in their chairs heavily. The waiter leaves the check in a little leather book on the table and Sanji begins putting Berri notes inside of it.
“Well, mosshead,” Sanji begins as he rifles through his jacket pocket for his wallet. “Now that you like sweet stuff, I guess I’ll have to start thinking about new menus to eat on the Sunny.”
Zoro groans and puts his head in his hand, oddly expressive again. “Don’t worry about the changing the menus, cook. I don’t like sweet things anymore.”
“I knew it, you liar!” Sanji lets himself laugh freely again, thoroughly entertained by the swordsman’s wary attitude. “You never—”
He’s interrupted by the sudden warmth of Zoro’s palm cupping his cheek.
Frozen. He’s frozen again. His eyes are wide but they’re unable to move away from the sight of Zoro’s earnest face. The warm hand shifts a little. A gentle, callused thumb is rubbing the corner of his mouth with something that feels terrifyingly like adoration.
Sanji’s heart is jackrabbiting with panic as he feels traitorous infatuation envelop his body. He has to stop Zoro before—before—
“Sorry,” Zoro murmurs. “You had some frosting on your face.”
That tender thumb keeps stroking the corner of his mouth so softly it makes Sanji want to scream. It stops moving in mild circles and Zoro’s whole hand shifts from his cheek to his jaw and begins drawing Sanji’s face closer to his own. No. Zoro’s face is coming closer. He watches helplessly as that gray eye settles its focus on his lips. No, I can’t—!
Sanji stands up so abruptly the chair he’s sitting in almost topples over.
Shock explodes outwards between the two of them. Zoro’s hand remains in the air where it was once cupping Sanji’s face. He lets it fall heavily back to the chestnut surface of the table, meets Sanji’s eyes for a moment, and resolutely fixes his gaze out the gabled window.
Sanji feels like he can barely breathe. The crush of his own desires, guilt, pain become a compressing straitjacket in that very moment. His trembling hands dust his suit jacket in a sad attempt to regain normalcy. Shaking fingers search his pockets for his lighter and cigarettes. Fuck. Fuck, where are my smokes when I need them?
He makes the mistake of looking at Zoro where he still hasn’t moved. His eyes are closed and his face is crumpled where he’s turned away from Sanji. Anger. Below that, humiliation.
And at the very depths of the swordsman’s expression, sorrow.
It all disappears again, washed away by a mask of placidity. It’s a depressing repetition of what happened earlier in their meal. The illusion of pain not existing if it is simply never spoken aloud.
Zoro stands slowly.
“Let’s go, cook.”
Slowly, silently, they make their way to the beach.
There are only a few people lounging on the beach, seemingly celebrating Andro’s newfound liberation. Good, Sanji thinks. A crowd would only
They walk down the seashore together side by side as the late afternoon sun beats down on them. It’s tense, undeniably so. But regardless of how strained they are, that solid, bone-deep sense of trust remains thrumming between them. It gives Sanji some comfort knowing they’ll always be able to rely on each other as nakama before their ever-changing personal relationship. I can only hope he still find a shred of trust in me after I destroy what’s left of our bond.
They follow the line of the ocean wordlessly for hours until an unspoken agreement is made to settle on an empty stretch of soft sand. Neither makes a move to sit down, stiffly waiting for…something. Stupidly, they stand there not looking at each other until Sanji steels himself and begins removing his suit jacket.
He lays the navy fabric on the slope of the sand dune right in front of Zoro. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and stubbornly looks away until the swordsman clicks that Sanji has laid down his suit jacket for him to lay on.
Zoro huffs through his nose when he finally understands. Slowly, he removes his own green robe and lays in front of Sanji on the sand for him to lay down on as well.
Silent peace is forged between them, and the last threads of tension unravel as they lay down on each other’s makeshift towels. They lay on their backs and let the sun beat down on them. Not a single word is uttered. Not a single word has to be.
Sanji’s eyes grow heavy as the warm sunshine heats him up. He can hear the reverberating snores of where Zoro has already succumbed to the comfortable sand and sun.
Maybe, he thinks as he blinks drowsily. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I slept a little too.
When Sanji’s eyes crack open again, the sun has just started kissing the horizon and the sky is painted in breathtaking corals and roses that begin to melt into indigos and cobalts. The romantic in Sanji has never allowed him to miss a moment to appreciate a sunset—whether seeing it from the beach or galley window or captured in the glass of a cocktail or barely peeking through the cracks of a cell.
It’s a sacred ritual. He breathes in the sea spray and the comforting scent of brine and lets the setting sun sear his eyes. He rubs his fingers against the soft, worn fabric of the robe underneath him. Seagulls cry their familiar song, and, in the distance, he can hear the faint sounds of celebration still continuing. He’s aware of the warm swordsman next to him and how the change in his breathing denoted that he had woken up only a little while after Sanji.
They lay there together, awake and quiet and calm. The sun has sunken down until its bottom half is submerged beneath the horizon when Zoro finally breathes the first words into the air between them since lunch.
“’s beautiful.”
A small smile plays on Sanji’s lips.
“Yeah.”
The swordsman is silent in a way that only means he is carefully collecting and considering words. It’s only a few moment before he speaks again.
“I don’t usually give a shit about sunsets or sunrises or any of that.”
Frank and without hesitation. Just like him. Sanji gives a snort and keeps watching the sunset. The smile on face grows a fraction.
“Yeah, I know. Marimos aren’t the type of organisms to appreciate beauty, I suppose.”
He hears Zoro shift around next to him, but he keeps his eyes on the fading sunset. Things have just returned to normal again. He doesn’t want to look over next to him and see that there will be no more normal anymore—just the truth he will have to give to Zoro and the inevitable grief and pain that will follow.
If I don’t look, there’s no pain yet. If I don’t look, I won’t have to hurt him yet. If I don’t look, I—I can still believe that this is real.
His hands clench the fabric he’s still laying on, the fabric he’s tainting just by existing on it. He tries to breathe in the scent of the sea again but only inhales the melancholic scent of steel and earthy musk and Zoro.
“I only care about it because I’m watching it with you.”
Guilt begins its familiar, crushing descent upon his heart. Sanji suppresses a wince and grinds his teeth, letting go of the fabric to pat his pockets with rapidly mounting franticness.
“I need a cigarette,” is all he murmurs in response, but Zoro keeps plowing on.
“Things I’ve never thought about—things I’ve never appreciated—I think they’re beautiful because of you. You do something to me that no one ever has. Something that no one ever will.”
Sanji begins to agitatedly double check every pocket and crevice of his clothes looking for the numbing grace of nicotine to give him mercy while he lives through his worst nightmare.
“Really, where are my cigarettes?” he grits out under his breath. His frenzied search does nothing deter Zoro. Quietly, he has already surrendered to the knowledge that the swordsman’s chosen words would be spoken regardless of Sanji’s lack of cigarettes or not. As soon as Zoro dedicated himself to something, it would always be seen through.
“I don’t know how things were before. Maybe I never will. But I know how I feel now. I only how to wield swords. I don’t know how to wield words to show you all the things you make me feel.”
Sanji feels a steady burn begin to crescendo in his throat and behind his eyes. He’s been paralyzed with cowardice again. He never had the bravery when it really mattered. Not when he needed to run from his brothers. Not when he needed to see his mother one last time. Not now when he needs it to stop Zoro from making the ultimate mistake of tying himself to Sanji.
“But I know the most important ones. The only ones that matter.”
He can’t even speak. His silence must be taken as incentive, encouragement for Zoro to speak out those last horrible words when all Sanji really wants is for him to shut up.
A cigarette is slid between his lips and the most beautiful, honest man he’s ever known fills his vision.
“I love you, Sanji.”
Sanji shoves the only man he’s ever loved off of him, spits out the cigarette, and retches onto the sand next to him.
“Get—” He stands up, gasping and hiccupping, hopelessly fighting against the bitter, toxic taste of acid and guilt on his tongue. “The—fuck away.”
He coughs and stumbles his way to the shore, led only by the pale glow of the moon and his desperation to escape Zoro. But he’s made weak by unstable legs and shame and guilt, and he’s only able to sink his feet into the wet sand before Zoro catches him by the shirt and spins him around to face the inevitable.
“What the fuck,” the swordsman roars, collars clutched in fist, “is wrong with you?!”
Sanji only sniffles wetly once before Zoro lets the rest of his heart pour out.
“I don’t expect you to love me. I don’t expect you want to me for anything more than easy company and pleasure. I don’t—but that doesn’t mean I’m expecting you to fucking vomit when I tell you how I feel. Or is that too much to ask of you?”
Zoro’s face is furious and miserable and grieving and everything all at once.
“I that’s how it was like before—but—if you want to keep it that way, then don’t fucking—treat me like this! Don’t take me on dates or smile at me or feed me or fucking…look at me like you feel the same way! I can’t--!”
Frustration overtakes the swordsman as he shakes Sanji by the collar brutally again. Some horrible, pathetic part of Sanji wishes that Zoro would hit him, hurt him the way he deserves.
“Don’t give me hope. Don’t lead me on. I know I’ve changed. I know I used to be fine with the way our relationship was before my injury but—but I can’t live like this. Whatever we had before, it’s—it’s done. I need—just—”
Zoro’s voice cracks as the inferno of his anger extinguishes into painful, tired resignation. His grip slackens on Sanji’s shirt and Sanji almost falls with how unmoored he is at the swordsman’s words.
“Sanji, stop hurting me,” is all he whispers.
He said my name, is all Sanji can think distantly.
Then gravity comes crashing down on him.
He starts crying. Not the barely-tears that were stinging at the corners of his eyes while he was frozen in cowardice, but full, burning trails that make him feel like he’s suffocating. He can barely get any air in with how hard he’s starting to sob. He wipes uselessly at his eyes over and over again, hiccupping pathetically, hands tugging the harshest they ever have at his golden hair.
It’s only made worse by the concern he sees on Zoro’s face through watering, stinging eyes.
How can he still have that stupid look on his face after everything I’ve done to him?
“Zoro,” he weeps. “Zoro.”
The swordsman’s arms twitch reflexively forward to hold him and Sanji can only sob harder at the action.
“You didn’t ask f-for any of this. I—you—Zoro, I’m so sorry.” He sniffles and finds himself still unable to stop his sobbing.
“Zoro, there n-never was a before.”
He doesn’t stop to see the swordsman’s confusion or wait for him to prompt for an explanation. Zoro’s owed this. Sanji’s a coward, a traitor, for not telling him, for hoping for something stupid like love. All he can do now is continue.
“You and I—there never was a you and I! We were never—together, in any way. I—I should’ve made that clear from the start. At first, I t-thought that you were playing a trick on me—pretending that you actually liked me. I w-was so stupid,” he sobs.
“I should’ve seen t-that I was confusing you—that I was hurting you from the start! Those first few weeks, I should’ve--! So fucking stupid!” He pulls and pulls and pulls at his hair. He feels strands break off in his hand, his scalp stinging, but nothing matters more than the truth in that moment.
“I knew we had to s-spend time together to get your memory back, b-but I should’ve understood how vulnerable you were and tell everything straight from the start. I—I admire you so much and you’re so strong I j-just never fully believed you knew nothing a-about me. But—I should have! You’re human, you deserve care and patience and space to recover--!”
Zoro’s completely still, made into a marble statue by the glowing moonlight.
“I was s-so selfish for doing all those things with you. I was still treating you like a rival, like everything w-was some stupid competition, and I was fucking stupid for not understanding the obvious way to interpret my actions!”
His entire face is damp with tears. Something inside of him is withering and crumbling away into ashen nothingness. Sanji doesn’t care if he’ll ever get it back.
“All the o-outings and the food and the festival—it all—you never, never deserved to be deceived like that! And it all—it’s all—I should’ve never done what I did just because I’m in lov—!”
He’s interrupted by the sound of clattering katana scabbards and the impact of something heavy dropping onto the wet sand.
Finally moving his hands from his eyes, Sanji almost retches again with what he sees.
Zoro’s kneeling with his head and palms pressed into soft seashore. His katanas—his tools he needs to reach his dream—have been laid in a heap where Zoro has unfastened them from his belt.
‘You know, I’ve only ever bowed on my hands and knees once.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘It was for Mihawk.’
‘Bullshit!’
‘I needed to be stronger. He was the only one that could help me.’
‘But on your hands and knees, really?’
‘Sometimes there’s no other way to show desperation or sincerity. But…I don’t think I’d do it ever again.’
‘I hope it was worth it then, shit-swordsman.’
‘Definitely was. Now I can kick your curly ass every day.’
Sanji feels the whole world stand still at the sight of such a strong man bowing. He’s bowing for a cook of all people, someone who never deserved his respect, much less his humility.
“Sanji, please—”
“Zoro, Zoro, stop please, please get up—”
“Please, forgive me.”
Sanji is desperately, uselessly tugging on Zoro’s shirt to get him to stand. He doesn’t deserve this. Not this terrible, horrible bow, not his kindness, not his patience, and not the way Zoro has said his name with such reverence. He’s crying again, even uglier this time, if possible. Zoro shouldn’t bow. Zoro can’t bow. He’s a swordsman, a proud one that’s defying everything he is by asking for forgiveness at a stupid cook’s feet.
“Sanji, please, forgive me. I—I accused you of things you never did, things you never intended. I insulted you to your face. My nakama, my equal. I was foolish for letting my emotions cloud my judgement, and even more so for believing you could feel the same way. You were kind. You were patient. You were everything you needed to be and yet I asked more from you. I was arrogant for asking for your heart. I was stupid for blaming you for things you didn’t know.”
Sanji’s making a mess of his face and his shirt and Zoro’s shirt where he’s still leaning over it and trying to pull him up. He’s hurting Zoro even more, if that’s even possible—wounding him as a person and a crewmate and as a swordsman.
“Zoro, fucking stop already, stop it--!”
“You apologized to me although you had absolutely every right to spit in my face. Please, for everything I’ve done, please, Sanji, forgive me. Please, forgive me.”
Sanji only cries harder.
He knows that bowing for swordsmen is not as simple as the action might seem. To bare your neck, so completely and utterly vulnerable is something they are trained never to do, to protect at all costs. Zoro is no ordinary swordsman—he knows his childhood spent in a dojo has given him discipline others couldn’t even dream of attaining. He knows how closely Zoro has upheld the ancient practice of guarding one’s neck and he’s—he’s throwing it all way for Sanji on some stupid beach. And to leave his katanas at his side—God, Sanji just can’t.
“Z-Zoro, just stop. You don’t have anything to—you’re the one owed the apology! Everything—it’s all my fault! If I had just protected you that day, you’d never be in this situation.”
It’s useless. Zoro just kneels there while his head and hands keep sinking farther into the soft sand and the tide is slowly rising to lap at them. The swordsman speaks even more quietly but no less repentantly.
“Please, Sanji, forgive me.”
It’s the very determination and loyalty Sanji fell in love with. He knows Zoro will ask him that useless question as long as it takes. It doesn’t matter, because after all he’s done, Sanji will give him the answer he wants to hear.
“Zoro, you fool. You didn’t do anything wrong. Of course I forgive you,” he chokes out between heaving sobs.
Zoro lifts his head from the sand slowly. It's caked wetly on his forehead but his whole attention is focused on Sanji’s crumpled face. The ocean has soaked his shoes and pants with undoubtedly freezing water, but his body doesn’t even tremble as he studies the emotions openly playing on Sanji’s face. He moves his hand to loosely curl around Sanji’s ankle, warm and calloused and awful.
Sanji gasps and crawls backwards, ripping himself away from Zoro at the contact.
“Don’t! You—you don’t get it! You d-don’t understand how I feel looking at that stupid face of yours knowing that everything’s that happened is my fault!”
“Sanji, I forgive you, and you didn’t—”
“Don’t say my fucking name!”
Sanji covers his face with his hands and tugs harshly at his hair. He’s been crying for so long and for so hard that he’s exhausted to the bone. All he wants to do to untie Zoro from him and finally set him free.
“I don’t deserve it! I don’t deserve to have my name said by someone like—like you! Every minute, e-every second you’re around me, I can only think about the pain I’ve caused and the pain I will cause you! Zoro, forget what you think you feel about me, okay? Move on! It wasn’t real for you! You just got fucked up and—and you’ve been put in the worst situation imaginable!”
“Just—”
“Zoro, just being around you h-hurts. I won’t—can’t—forgive myself. So, d-do me a favor, okay? Go back to the ship, go to bed, and when you wake up in the morning, I want you to hate me with all your heart.”