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In a small forge, on a small island, a blacksmith prays as he quenches his new blade in water. Prays that the sword will emerge true and sharp, that he has beaten and folded out any imperfections, that his careful and precise application of clay will hold, that the god of the blade will heed his call because he has lost too much steel to the vagaries of the forging process.
The god of the blade is too busy to listen. She has limbs to sever, animals to butcher. But another god, a small god, stands at the door of the forge. This god listens. He shifts the temperature of the water slightly, moves the blacksmith’s hands more precisely, adds a bit more uniformity to the clay coating the blade.
And the sword emerges, beautiful and deadly. Because beautiful things are often the most deadly. The straight line of the hamon shimmers. If the blacksmith had been paying attention, he might have seen the small god reflected in the blade.
But right now, his eyes are only on the steam still rising from the sword. He breathes a sigh of relief, and the god of hamon leaves the forge to return to his small shrine.
---
At sea, sailors see white in the clouds, in the wings of a seagull, in the lighthouse representing home. They also see white in the breaking of waves, the crest turning into foam and mist. The lapping waves of the sea on a peaceful day are beautiful.
Tonight, a storm threatens a small fishing boat sailing off the coast of a small island. The fishermen try not to panic as they secure the boat and try to ride out the largest of the waves. To see the white crest of a wave meters away means the wave will break over their boat, means capsizing, means death. The captain prays to the god of the sea.
The god of the sea listens but doesn’t particularly care. He doesn’t pay much attention to one sinking boat and its men. The ocean is a wide expanse to rule after all. But another god, a small god, places a gentle hand on the captain’s shoulder. The captain doesn’t feel it, but he notices that the waves break far away. He sees a series of white crests in the distance, the sea around him calm, and deep in the recesses of his mind knows that mathematically, when a wave breaks is random, so how can they all break at the same time, so far away.
But right now, his heart rules his mind. He breathes a sigh of relief, and the god of the crest on waves leaps off the boat to return to his small shrine.
---
In the capital, the gods of the blade and the sea have lavish shrines, tended to by paid staff, financed by donations from followers who believe that gods care about them.
Gods don’t usually care.
This small island, however, far from the bustle and intrigue of the capital, is littered with shrines. Shimotsuki has become well known for the eclectic collection of shrines maintained by the residents. Many started as a joke. The god of lies that are told for the listener’s own good. The god of heroic outlaw thieves that distribute 30% back to common people and keep 70% themselves. The god of rubber gaskets.
Some of the shrines, though, are for gods that a weary craftsman prays to in his time of need. Some are for gods that children joyfully create. Sanji and Zoro are two such small gods. For many small gods, it is a dream to develop a large enough following and receive a shrine dedicated to them in the capital. To be forever remembered.
This is Sanji’s dream.
For other small gods, it is their dream to see a particular smile directed their way. For even gods fall in love.
This is Zoro’s dream. But that’s a bit of a spoiler, so we’ll let Sanji tell the rest of the story.
---
Sanji sits on the rocky beach of Shimotsuki, watching a group of children splashing in the waves. He flourishes his hand, making the waves crash higher up their thin legs, tickling their curled toes as they try to stand firm in the shallows. He’s pushing it a bit, using his power to affect more than just the crests of waves, going beyond his domain. The god of the sea doesn’t much care about the beaches though. He is busy with deep ocean currents.
He gasps when one of the children teeters and lands on his butt. But then relaxes when the boy giggles and splashes his friends with seawater from his lower vantage.
“Torturing kids these days, curly?”
Sanji looks up to see the god of hamon watching him from the shade of a nearby tree. His grey eyes are piercing, but he has on a tiny smile.
“Giving them some fun,” Sanji sniffs, “Don’t you have pointy things to make pointier?”
Zoro chuckles, “It’s a day of rest around the country. No metal is being fired today.”
“So you’ve come to bother me? Must be nice to have a day of rest,” Sanji sighs. Zoro sits down next to him, and they watch the children together.
Sanji spares the god next to him a glance. He is all sharp, hard edges, as if trying to embody the end results blacksmiths seek in the forge. Zoro has been on Shimotsuki for as long as Sanji can remember. A fixture on an island known for its blacksmiths. He only comes when called by his followers, otherwise napping in the tree above his shrine. A lazy god.
Though… a handsome god, Sanji can admit. Zoro is the poster child of what mortals expect a god would look like. A chiseled face, a powerful body. The sun shines on his gold earrings, the sea breeze makes them sway back and forth like metronomes keeping pace with the slow passage of time on Shimotsuki. His green hair had made Sanji ask when they first met whether he was certain he wasn’t some kind of strange god of the sea, of plankton, or sea scum. But in the sunlight and by the fire of the forge, Zoro’s hair shines like foxfire. Sanji wonders if his fingers will burn if he touches it.
“Do I have something on my face, curly?” Zoro asks.
Sanji turns back to watch the children still splashing in the low tide. He ignores the question. “Have you ever been in the ocean, mosshead?”
“Can’t swim,” Zoro grunts, “Prefer land and fire.”
Sanji rolls his eyes, “You don’t have to go all the way in. Just as far as your feet can still touch the ground. Float on the waves, look up at the sky.”
“God of the sea isn’t exactly welcoming.”
“Are you scared of the little ol’ god of the sea?” Sanji grins, poking Zoro’s cheek, “Don’t worry, I’m here to protect you. I won’t let him bully you.” He stands and offers a hand to Zoro, “It’s your day off, come explore my world. It’s not like you can drown.”
“I don’t know that. I’d rather not work that hard to figure out if that’s true,” Zoro grumbles, but allows himself to be pulled up and led to the water. Sanji squats by the children, smiling as they run past him, not able to see the white-haired god who provided their entertainment that afternoon. Zoro bends down tentatively, touching the water and drawing his hand back quickly.
“Cold,” he says. Sanji waves his hand and one of the waves comes up the shore farther than it should and splashes Zoro. He yelps and steps back, glaring.
Sanji can’t help but laugh. There’s something so endearing about Zoro’s flushed face. Sanji has seen him add the edge to swords that will kill hundreds with as much emotion as a whetstone. But today, he is a child afraid of seawater, who now rolls his pant legs up, kicks off his shoes, and sets forward determinedly into the ocean until he is calf-deep. Sanji creates a whirlwind of breaking waves around him, delighting in Zoro’s grin.
“It’s pretty, curly,” he says. Sanji hears surprised yells and immediately stops, having forgotten they have spectators. He watches the children run to where Zoro stands. Though mortals cannot see gods, their bodies know how to curve around a god’s space, and Sanji watches the children frolic around Zoro, splashing him with seawater to try to find what had caused the small frothing pools of water.
Zoro stands still, but eventually he raises one large hand and places it gently on the head of a child who stands close to him. Sanji watches him pat the boy’s head a few times, before he turns and rejoins Sanji.
Something flutters in Sanji’s chest. But he dismisses it as a sign of summer ending, the start of hurricane season when the difference between temperatures aloft and sea surface temperatures is the greatest. Sanji is busy during hurricane season, as are most of the ocean deities. He will need to work hard, make the waves look beautiful, gain more followers. Maybe in a few decades, they’ll build a shrine for him in the capital.
“What are you thinking, curly?” Zoro asks.
“About the future,” Sanji says absentmindedly.
“So about the capital,” Zoro sighs.
“About cute girls in kimonos coming to bring me offerings,” Sanji says, smiling happily at the thought.
Zoro frowns, “Is that really why you want to go to the capital?” He sounds almost petulant.
“Don’t you want to be remembered, Zoro? Forever and ever?” Sanji asks, “Think about all those abandoned shrines on Shimotsuki. The last son of a family who always used to pray for a small god leaves the island and no one tends to the shrine any longer. A small god of some obscure food decays when the people forget how to make it. A once popular technique for farming is supplanted by a new technique and that small god fades out of existence. It’s about legacy, about survival.” He sighs and looks away. “People will always worship you,” he says softly, “As long as there is war, people will always want sharp swords. And there will always be war.”
“The ocean is always going to be worshipped,” Zoro says, just as softly.
“I am a small god conceived of by a child,” Sanji says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice, “Why worship the crest of the waves when you can worship the power of the water? I’ll be forgotten if I stay in Shimotsuki, I’ll perish if I stay here.” He tries to give Zoro a brave smile, “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to visit once I’ve made it big.”
“There will always be a place for you here,” Zoro says. Another flutter in Sanji’s chest.
The children are called away as the sun begins to set, leaving only Sanji and Zoro on the beach. Zoro stands and again gingerly enters the water. Framed by the setting sun, he looks eternal. Sanji should be jealous, but instead he is only in awe. He shakes his head, poor form to gaze in wonderment at another small god.
He joins Zoro, standing so that their shoulders are barely not touching, the space in between their bodies a dew drop on a spider’s web distance away. The ocean is relatively calm tonight. Sanji can feel the breeze ruffling through his hair and puts a hand over his eyes to see a school of dolphins leaping in the distance. He turns to Zoro to point them out, but the god is staring at him with as much or more intensity as he puts into his craft. His eyes are steel, more piercing than grey.
“Do I have something on my face, mosshead?” Sanji asks dryly, trying to hide his breathlessness.
Zoro blinks, then extends a steady hand to trace the curve of Sanji’s eyebrow. “A ridiculous-looking curl,” he says with a smirk.
“Oh fuck you,” Sanji glares, snapping his fingers and sending a spurt of water into Zoro’s face. He splutters and rubs at his eyes, and Sanji flees back to the shore. Zoro gives chase, but Sanji is built faster, keeping just out of reach as he runs down the path of the forest to his and Zoro’s neighboring shrines. He stops at the crossroads, and Zoro skids to a stop behind him, as if unsure what to do now that he’s caught up.
“I’m this way, mosshead,” Sanji smiles, jerking his head to the right, “Thanks for keeping me company on your day off.”
“Sure, curly,” Zoro mutters. He looks down at the ground and then up again at Sanji, a shy look on his face that Sanji doesn’t know how to interpret.
“Good night,” Sanji says and turns. He doesn’t check to see if Zoro is still standing there, words stuck in his throat. Sanji coughs, feeling as though he has words of his own that need to be said but he doesn’t have the vocabulary yet for them.
He sleeps and dreams of waves that never break.
Lucky's art of two small gods by the beach
---
The first time Sanji met Zoro was a week after Sanji was brought into the world. A child had seen a pretty wave and asked her father if the white color had a god. As a gift to his daughter, the father had made a shrine in the woods out of three large branches. The child prayed there every day, gathering power at the spot. When her father passed a few years later, she built a larger shrine and brought her husband and children to worship Sanji as well. Shimotsuki’s beaches became known for playful, whimsical waves, and Sanji was called to care for them.
Sanji, like all gods, was born fully-grown. But the process of being created is disorienting. Sanji had spent the first few days of his stay in the human world stumbling down the paths of Shimotsuki’s forest, feeling drawn to the ocean, but needing to find his shrine to sleep. He took the wrong turn one day and ended up in front of a tidy shrine made of burnished bronze. It didn’t look like his shrine, but he was tired, and any otherworldly bed would have been fine for him at the moment.
He had yelped when Zoro jumped down from a tree to stare at him.
“Who are you?” Zoro asked.
“I’m… Sanji, I think,” Sanji said helplessly. Zoro’s eyes softened as he took in Sanji’s disheveled appearance.
“You’re a new god.”
“Yes,” Sanji said, “A week old.”
“You must have a shitty headache right now,” Zoro sighed.
“I do,” Sanji replied.
“Can’t find your shrine?”
Sanji shook his head.
“Took me three years to find mine,” Zoro said, and Sanji desperately hoped this god just had a very bad sense of direction.
“You can stay,” Zoro said, pointing at his shrine, “At least until dawn. I’ll just sleep in the tree, it’s close enough to the shrine.” He looked Sanji up and down, “What are you the god of anyways?”
“The crest of waves,” Sanji said. He had met a few other small gods on this curious island. They had all snorted when he stated his domain, and Sanji could see in their eyes that they did not expect him to stay long.
“Makes sense,” Zoro simply nodded, “You smell like the ocean.” He jumped up onto his branch and was snoring before Sanji could ask his name or what he was god of. Sanji curled up in the shrine, which smelled like steel and fire, and for the first time since being born, got a good night’s sleep.
---
Sanji wanders through Shimotsuki village. Spring is on the way, and the newest fashion trends are being decided. He smiles at a kimono being displayed in one of the storefronts with a gorgeous curling pattern that looks like waves. He feels strong these days.
In the distance, he spots a familiar green color and jogs over to see Zoro peering into a home, a huge grin on his face.
“Creep,” Sanji says, slapping him on the back, then looks into the house as well.
The object of Zoro’s attention is a young girl who waves around a wooden sword.
“You’re really a creep,” Sanji whispers.
“Shut it, curly, she’s the daughter of one of the best blacksmiths in the village,” Zoro says.
“How does that make you any less of a creep?” Sanji asks.
“Look at the way she wields the blade. Kuina’s going to be the world’s greatest swordsman one day,” Zoro says proudly, “She’ll show the world how great Shimotsuki’s swords are.”
“Uh huh,” Sanji says, straightening up, “Still a creep.”
Lucky's art of Zoro watching over Kuina
Sanji stretches, still thinking about the kimono in the storefront.
“You look happy, curly,” Zoro says.
“I am,” Sanji nods, “Shimotsuki village council has decided to start a boat tour to increase tourism. The boat will visit the whirlpools by the Isshin Cliffs. I overheard the boat operator say there are a few visitors from out of town who are joining the maiden voyage.” Sanji is proud of the whirlpools, visiting them every morning to make sure they are appropriately mystical.
“That’s great,” Zoro grins, “We should celebrate. My treat.”
“Oh?” Sanji laughs, “A gracious marimo? What in the world can you possibly treat me to?”
“Have you ever had yakitori?” he asks, “It’s a food.”
Sanji frowns. Gods don’t usually eat. Sanji enjoys good food when his followers bring him offerings, and he relishes eating the raw fish the god of the sea occasionally allows him to take, but he has yet to actively seek it out.
Zoro takes his hand. It’s something he does more often now than before. In the past, when they met each other at their crossroads in the morning, Zoro going into the village, Sanji going to the ocean, their fingers would brush when they walked down the path together. Eventually, Sanji found himself adjusting his schedule to meet Zoro every day. One day, on a particularly beautiful morning where they laughed about a fisherman who tried to grab one of Sanji’s waves and tumbled into the ocean, Zoro wrapped a pinkie around his. Then added more and more fingers until it felt like second nature to have Zoro’s strong grip around his hand.
Sanji plays it off as two gods with a unique but close friendship, but can’t help but hold tight when it seems as though Zoro might let go.
They arrive at a busy street in the center of town, and Zoro makes a beeline for a food stall in the center square that appears to sell various grilled meats on sticks. Sanji watches as he drops a good deal of coin in the jar, then grabs a handful of sticks when the merchant isn’t looking. He brings them eagerly to Sanji.
“Even the food you eat has to look vaguely swordlike,” Sanji says.
“Just try it, curly,” Zoro replies, rolling his eyes. He shoves a stick in front of Sanji’s face, who obediently opens his mouth and takes a bite.
An intense, smokey flavor erupts in Sanji’s mouth. His eyes widen as he chews. His followers bring him small cakes and fresh fruit, but this…
“Fire is pretty useful,” Zoro winks, “Can’t make this with just seawater.”
Sanji doesn’t have time to argue, pointing at another stick. Zoro laughs and holds it out for Sanji to take a bite. They are still standing right next to the stall, and when Sanji finishes all that Zoro has bought, the god goes to get another handful.
“You have the taste for human food now,” Zoro says, as they wander away from the stall, Sanji still stuffing his cheeks full of delicious yakitori.
“Why aren’t you eating?” Sanji asks, watching him curiously.
“Don’t have much of an appetite right now,” Zoro says. Sanji frowns. Zoro has seemed thinner than usual these past few months. Gods don’t usually eat, but maybe some meat will bring some color back to Zoro’s face.
“Eat,” he says, forcing the last piece of chicken yakitori in front of Zoro’s face. Zoro hesitantly takes the bite, chewing slowly.
“How are your followers?” Sanji asks.
“Fine,” Zoro shrugs.
“Any new general using one of your fancy swords?”
“Dunno, don’t really keep track of that kind of stuff,” Zoro says.
Sanji sighs. It must be nice to not think about spreading influence all the damn time. People from all across the country visit Shimotsuki for Zoro’s swords. Creating a hamon is a process safeguarded by Shimotsuki’s blacksmiths. Only the forges on this small island create swords with the distinctive sharp line of the hamon that is prized enough to create a god for its care. Zoro will never need to worry about being remembered. The blacksmiths will always need him.
“Are you thinking about followers again?” Zoro asks.
“No,” Sanji lies, “I’m thinking about spring.” He grins, pointing up at a nearby orchard of peach trees. “The blossoms will come in soon.”
“You usually cut your hair when spring comes,” Zoro says.
Sanji looks at him in surprise. Zoro doesn’t much care about appearances. Sanji never really thinks of him as someone who notices changes in hairstyles.
“It gets hot,” Sanji explains. Even gods don’t like sweaty strands of hair on the backs of their necks.
Zoro touches a curl of Sanji’s hair that has escaped his bun, and Sanji shudders. There is something almost painful in Zoro’s face as he holds the lock of his hair. His eyebrows are furrowed, teeth clenched. But his fingers are gentle, not so much gripping as sheltering. A slight breeze would drag Sanji’s hair out of his hand.
“Your hair looks like waves when it’s long,” Zoro whispers.
“That fits the theme,” Sanji tries to say as nonchalantly as possible, “Whoever formed me had good taste.”
Zoro smiles, letting go, and Sanji feels like he can breathe again. The god of hamon turns his attention to another food stall, this one selling brightly-colored orbs on skewers.
“Dango,” Zoro says with a grin, leaving Sanji’s side to retrieve a few. Sanji sighs. More food on sticks from the god of making sticks. Typical.
As they continue wandering peacefully through the village, Sanji decides he won’t cut his hair this year. Even gods can use a change.
The meeting of hands by Lucky
---
When the first woman who worshipped Sanji died, he wept alone in his shrine. When he was done, he created a cascade of waves for her burial at sea, feeling horribly silly for crying about a mortal.
Zoro came to the funeral, and Sanji was infinitely grateful for his fellow god’s steadfast presence next to him. As the last of the tiny lantern boats floated away, Sanji felt drained and tired. He mourned the sweet child who became a sweet woman who died a sweet grandmother. She brought apples and sweet peaches to his shrine every weekend and sat with him, bragging about her children and grandchildren.
Her death felt like the beginning of the end for him as well. A common story on Shimotsuki. Plenty of gods were created by one individual and died with them. Small gods could not help but be tied intricately to the mortals upon whom their existence depended.
“Her children will still come,” Zoro had said quietly, as if reading his mind, “And their children, and their children after that.”
“Thanks, mosshead,” Sanji sighed, “She did have a lot of children.”
“Funny how sometimes our fates depend on the virility of humans,” Zoro said, deadpan. Sanji couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Are you going to be okay tonight?” Zoro asked, turning his eyes to Sanji’s.
“Do you think my heart is that weak?” Sanji asked.
“I ask because your heart is too strong,” Zoro replied, “You care too much.”
“I’ll be fine,” Sanji said, ruffling Zoro’s hair, “But thank you.”
When he returned to his shrine, he gasped at the piles of flowers and offerings placed before it. One of the notes read, “You were important to our mother, so you are important to us.” Sanji cried again, then took a few bottles of the alcohol to Zoro.
Zoro wordlessly took one of the bottles, opening it with his teeth and taking a huge swig. Sanji sighed at the barbarian act but hopped onto the tree branch next to him.
“This is good shit,” Zoro said.
“My followers are the best,” Sanji sniffed. He shivered as a breeze whistled through the branches. It was winter, a cold one. Gods had a high tolerance for the cold, but, spend enough time amongst humans with their winter coats and red noses, and gods could get tricked into shivering. Zoro brought an arm around him, and Sanji rested his head on his shoulder.
“Maybe I’ll be okay,” Sanji said, thinking about the flowers by his shrine.
“You will be,” Zoro replied.
---
One winter, Sanji makes his first breakthrough. He runs to Zoro’s shrine, leaving footprints behind in the snow that some locals will assume was made by a woodsman. Zoro is sleeping, as per usual. He sleeps a lot these days.
“Zoro,” he exclaims, and the god’s eyes immediately snap open. He blinks a few times, as if clearing fog away from his sight.
“A great artist, a famous artist,” Sanji says, trying to form proper sentences, “Hokusai. He came to Shimotsuki a few days ago and spent all his time watching the ocean by the Isshin Cliffs. They told him about me, Zoro. He left a fortune as an offering to me.”
“That’s incredible, curly,” Zoro smiles, the corners of his eyes turning up. He jumps down from his branch, then stumbles slightly. Sanji frowns, “Have you been drinking?”
“You know no matter how much alcohol I have, I don’t get drunk,” Zoro says, rolling his eyes. He opens his arms, and Sanji runs into them, laughing as Zoro lifts him up and twirls him around.
“You’re on your way to the capital,” Zoro says in his ear. And Sanji is suddenly sad. Zoro isn’t at the capital. It will be lonely, without his friend.
“You’ll come visit, right?” Sanji asks.
“And have to deal with peacocks and assholes?” Zoro mutters. Sanji pokes him in the gut. “Fine, yes, curly, I’ll come visit you in the capital.”
“There’s good yakitori at the capital, I’m sure, and better booze,” Sanji says, trying to convince him to be more excited. He links his arms into Zoro’s, and they amble slowly toward town.
“No better yakitori or booze than in Shimotsuki,” Zoro replies stubbornly.
“You’ve never been to the capital, how do you know?” Sanji glares.
Zoro laughs, “The same way I know there is no swirlier, no kinder, no prettier god than you in the capital. I just know.”
Sanji freezes at the word “prettier.”
“Mosshead, are you losing your mind?” he asks, “What did you just call me?”
“Hm?” Zoro asks, looking confused. He frowns, “What did I just call you?”
It is unsettling, the way Zoro sometimes forgets things these days. Just yesterday, Zoro told Sanji a story about their fellow god of rubber gaskets, Luffy, but told it twice. Sanji had listened to the second iteration, utterly perplexed about why Zoro was explaining it again. Zoro had insisted that he hadn’t repeated the story, but the whole incident had made Sanji lose a few nights’ sleep.
“Are you feeling okay, Zoro?” Sanji asks, hesitantly.
“Yeah, fine,” Zoro replies.
Sanji doesn’t bring it up again, but he worries, and decides he will watch Zoro a bit more closely for the next few weeks.
They stop by Koushiro’s home. Kuina is an adult now, feisty and powerful. They watch her training, counting hundreds of push-ups in a row. Every time Zoro sees her, he has a soft smile on his face. Sanji knows he loves her. Not a romantic love, but perhaps deeper than romance even. It is pride and admiration and adoration mixed into a complicated morass that comes when a god loves a mortal.
Zoro has been on Shimotsuki for hundreds of years. Sanji wonders what happens when Zoro loses a mortal that he cherishes. Does he get used to it? Sanji has been on Shimotsuki for just a few decades, and he already cannot imagine losing a loved one over and over again.
Wouldn’t it be nicer to fall in love with a god? Sanji thinks these thoughts sometimes, both when he’s alone and when he’s with Zoro. To fall in love with a fellow immortal. To never have to see the effects of age and sickness.
Zoro coughs suddenly, and Sanji puts a hand on his back. He bends over, hacking out puffs of smoke. Sanji begins to panic, wondering what hospital he’s supposed to bring a god to. Eventually, Zoro’s coughs subside, and he stands up, wiping his mouth as he breathes heavily.
“Someone must be cursing me,” he says, voice hoarse, “Happens every now and then. People blaming me for bad forges.”
“I’ve known you for decades, and I’ve never heard of anybody cursing you,” Sanji says, “Your swords are perfect.”
Zoro waves him off. “Mistakes happen, curly.”
“Let’s sit down,” Sanji says, still cautious. He leads them to a nearby bench, and Zoro slumps down heavily. Sanji wracks his brain for someone they can see to figure out what’s going on with Zoro. Gods don’t lose weight. Gods don’t forget. Gods don’t cough.
“How are your followers, Zoro?” Sanji asks.
“I don’t know, curly,” Zoro sighs, “Stop asking me that. And stop worrying about me. I’ll be fine.” He takes Sanji’s hand and squeezes until Sanji yelps.
“See?” he grins, “Still strong.”
“Fuck you,” Sanji mutters, but doesn’t pull his hand away. They sit in peace, and Sanji watches as Zoro touches the armrest of the bench.
“You’re everywhere,” Zoro grins, his finger pointing at a whorl in the wood grain.
“Yeah, yeah,” Sanji says, glad that Zoro can still joke.
They watch Shimotsuki’s villagers hurry past. A storm is coming, Sanji can sense it in the waters. The mortals, bundled up in scarves and jackets, move quickly to complete any errands before the snows come down thick on pine trees.
He feels a strange movement and turns to see that Zoro is trembling.
Gods don’t feel cold.
“Mosshead,” Sanji says, moving closer and putting his arm around Zoro’s shoulder.
“You’re rubbing off on me,” Zoro says, teeth practically chattering, “You and your inability to deal with the cold.”
It has been years since Sanji felt cold.
“Let’s get you back home,” Sanji says firmly. Zoro doesn’t protest as Sanji helps him up, and they walk back to their shrines. He stands hesitantly at the crossroads, not wanting to leave Zoro alone.
“Congrats on that artist guy,” Zoro says, “They’re going to build you a shrine in the capital soon.” With that, he turns and walks down the dark path, footsteps slow but steady.
---
It is a strange sensation, feeling a shrine being built in your name hundreds of miles away. Unsettling to feel power flooding through you, spreading through your veins like wildfire.
Sanji wakes to the urge to go where he is called, which, at this moment, is everywhere at once.
“Something is happening,” he gasps when he sees Zoro at the crossroads.
“You’re shining,” Zoro points out, his own eyes bright as he surveys Sanji, “It’s all the cute girls in kimonos going to your shrine in the capital.”
“What do I do, Zoro?” he asks, staring down at his hands. They are glowing.
“Go to the capital, go see them,” Zoro says firmly, “Go and make a miracle happen or something. Show your face to them, show them how worth it you are.”
“Will you come with me?” Sanji begs.
Zoro shakes his head, “I can’t go so far from my shrine, you know that.” He takes Sanji’s hands in his own, “Go to the capital and sleep in your new shrine, curly. Go try the yakitori and come back and tell me how it is.”
Sanji nods, still unsure. “What if… what if they realize I’m nothing to write home about?” he chokes out, “Just a small god from a small island who can only make small miracles.”
Suddenly, he is pulled into Zoro’s arms, enveloped by broad shoulders.
“You are going to be the most beloved god in the capital, curly,” Zoro says, “They’ll love you. It’s inevitable, loving you.”
Sanji takes a deep breath, breathing in Zoro’s quintessential smell, steel and fire. How will he survive in a city of cutthroat small gods vying for attention and fickle followers without Zoro? But he must. He can already feel an itching sensation in his bones telling him to go. Zoro lets go of him and puts a cold hand on Sanji’s cheek.
“Go get ‘em, curly,” he says.
“I’ll be back soon,” Sanji replies, leaning into the touch.
“I’ll be waiting,” Zoro smiles.
---
The capital is noisy and terrifying. Everyone moves too fast and speaks too loud. There are garish colors everywhere Sanji looks, and he longs for the muted greys and whites of Shimotsuki. After a bit of struggle, he manages to find his shrine. It’s small, but it’s his, and already he sees a small collection of offerings. He recognizes a sweet peach and reads the accompanying note. It’s from a descendant of the woman who dreamed him into existence and is full of happy stories about his summers spent in Shimotsuki.
Sanji doesn’t feel quite as alone because of this note.
Once he has tidied and organized his shrine, he sets off to try to find some yakitori. Zoro gave him a mission, and he has to fulfill it before returning home.
That night, sitting in his shrine and surrounded by sticks from yakitori he procured from at least a dozen stalls, Sanji accepts that Zoro is right. The yakitori in Shimotsuki is better.
He curls up in a corner of the shrine that feels too large for him and falls asleep to the sound of drunken yells rather than the chirp of crickets and the hoot of owls.
---
Sanji spends the next few days in the capital, paying his respects to other gods, creating small miracles for his followers, including a particularly pretty display at a fountain in the main square. He doesn’t sleep well. But he assumes he’ll get used to the noise.
Today, he sees a flyer for a public interview with the famous artist, Hokusai. On the flyer is a tiny print of an art that instantly brings Sanji back to his home. It is a wave, a huge one, curling and writhing as it threatens to envelop small fishing boats. Sanji reads the title of the artwork: The Great Wave Off Shimotsuki. His heart swells with pride. If those are Shimotsuki fishermen, they’ll survive this wave easily. He stares transfixed at the white crest of the wave, the white droplets of water, the froth and the foam. That’s him. He realizes why he now has a shrine in the capital. It is because of this art.
Determined to pay his respects to the artist, Sanji makes his way to the event. He slips into the crowd gathered before Hokusai, who stands in front of a print of his woodblock art.
“Master Hokusai,” someone asks, “What inspired the Great Wave off Shimotsuki? Was it perhaps a great wave off Shimotsuki?”
The man laughs, “Very astute observation. Though, the seed of the idea began when I saw a friend’s blade displayed in his home. The hamon on it was so distinctive, so beautiful. It looked like ocean waves. I traveled all across the country to find a sea that was as striking as the pattern on that blade. I found it on the island of Shimotsuki, where the blade was made.”
Elated, Sanji tucks that bit of knowledge away to later tell Zoro.
“So your artwork was inspired by a failed sword?” another man asks.
A failed sword?
“I think there is poetry to it, a weak sword as a strong symbol of beauty,” Hokusai replies.
A weak sword?
Sanji leaves the interview, weaving through the crowds that subconsciously part for him, then continues, stepping onto a carriage trundling in the right direction, switching to one that travels by night, getting on a series of small ferries that brave choppy waves to bring him once again to the shores of Shimotsuki.
A failed sword. A weak sword.
He slips through the forest he knows so well and reaches the fork in the path between his and Zoro’s shrines. The path to Sanji’s is now decorated with cheerful lanterns, the path to Zoro’s is dim and gloomy.
“Mosshead?” Sanji calls out, making his way to Zoro’s shrine.
The shrine is dark and empty, and Sanji doesn’t see Zoro’s usual form lounging on the tree branches.
“Zoro?” he calls again, beginning to panic. He might be visiting some of his followers, Sanji thinks, and he immediately takes off toward the village, toward the home of a girl, now a woman, named Kuina. He peers in the window of her home and sees her before a small home altar, sharpening a sword that has a hamon pattern of curving waves.
Floating on top of the altar is Zoro.
Sanji fades into the home and runs to him. Zoro sits cross-legged, hands resting on his legs. He appears to be asleep, his face peaceful. Sanji touches the hard, sharp edges of his gaunt face. His skin feels cold.
“He won’t wake up.”
Sanji whirls to see Luffy sitting in a corner. Sanji can see tracks of tears running down the usually cheerful god’s face.
“What do you mean?” Sanji asks.
Luffy raises one finger, then points to Kuina, “Only one person worships him now. Zoro’s body has gone into a shutdown mode meant to conserve energy.”
“How can that be?” Sanji gasps, “Everybody worships Zoro.”
“In the past few decades…” Luffy says, eyes sad, “The hamon made famous here on Shimotsuki has taken on a different form than the usual straight edge. It looks like waves, it looks erratic, irregular. The first blades with this new hamon shattered. Shimotsuki’s blacksmiths have been trying to fix the problems for years, but they’re all converting to other methods of tempering steel, one by one. Only Koushiro’s forge is left that still uses the traditional technique, but even he is starting to believe it is time to give Zoro up.”
“Zoro— Zoro should know about that problem. He is… He is amazing, he would have fixed it,” Sanji says, unable to believe Luffy’s words. Zoro is… being replaced?
Luffy watches him, pain in his eyes, but also pride.
“You’re bringing people to Shimotsuki,” he says, “The villagers are happy. People will come to watch the waves on the beaches and on the cliffs.”
“Luffy, I’m not here to talk about that,” Sanji practically begs, “I’m here for Zoro.”
“He was proud of you too,” Luffy says, “He would tell me how many followers you’d gotten. How happy you must be.”
“Don’t say ‘was’,” Sanji hisses. He turns to Zoro and grabs his collar, “Wake up, mosshead, go and fix your stupid swords. I know you know how. Come back and clean up your shit, stop being lazy.” Hot tears burn his eyes. “I know you’re still in there. Make the hamon straight again, you dumbass. Why the fuck did you make the pattern look all curve—” He freezes.
Zoro blinks, then extends a steady hand to trace the curve of Sanji’s eyebrow. “A ridiculous-looking curl,” he says with a smirk.
“Your hair looks like waves when it’s long,” Zoro whispers.
“You’re everywhere,” Zoro grins, his finger pointing at a whorl in the wood grain.
“He did it for me,” he whispers.
“It was the only way he could think of to help you, to see you reflected in his world,” Luffy says.
Sanji falls to the ground, bringing Zoro with him until the god settles in his lap.
“Zoro,” he moans, “Zoro, please come back to me. I don’t need followers, I don’t need offerings, I don’t need a shrine in the capital.”
I just need you.
“Okay.” But it isn’t Zoro’s voice.
Sanji blinks through tears to see Kuina standing up, having finished her prayers.
“God of hamon,” she says, voice imperious as she points her blade at Zoro’s makeshift shrine, “You wait there. I’ll be back. Today, some asshole from the north came by the dojo and said Wado was better for pruning flowers than fighting. He called her a pretty blade. I’ll fucking show him a pretty blade.” She bows. “I’ll show Shimotsuki’s pride to them all.”
She grabs a bag, slinging it over her shoulders, tucks her sword into a haramaki, and leaves the house.
Sanji continues to hold Zoro, rocking back and forth in the warmth of Koushiro’s home. He kisses Zoro’s forehead, brushes Zoro’s hair with his fingers, and when the sun sets and Luffy leaves, Sanji stays with him. He remembers Zoro’s wry smile, his disgruntled glare, the way the god had a soft spot for children and stray cats, the look in his eyes when Sanji made water dance, the color of moonlight on his face.
“Wake up,” Sanji whispers, “Wake up, Zoro. Come walk with me on the forest paths. Come walk with me on the shores. Come walk with me through the village. You said there would always be a place for me here. What kind of place is it without you?”
Zoro doesn’t answer.
Sanji curses himself for not thinking harder about Zoro’s flagging health. He had watched Zoro fade in front of his eyes and did nothing but leave him, too obsessed with his own future.
“I love you, Zoro,” he says, his mouth moving faster than his mind in realizing what his heart long knew.
Zoro doesn’t answer.
---
The next morning, Kuina has not come back home. So, Sanji, with a heavy heart, lets go of Zoro, promising to return, and sets off to find her.
He finds her in a storm at sea, on a tiny boat sailing along the coast, en route to the capital through a series of remote islands. Sanji bares his teeth at the waves pulling and tugging at Kuina as she tries to secure the boat, trying to claim her as their own.
“You will not take her,” Sanji screams at the ocean. He thinks about the small god sleeping in Shimotsuki. There is one woman in the world who believes in him. And Sanji will keep that woman alive as long as he lives.
The god of the sea rumbles at him. But Sanji is powerful now, so he pulls back, letting Sanji have the girl with the wavy sword.
Sanji follows Kuina wherever she goes, watching her training, watching her winning. He thinks back to Zoro’s happy gaze through the windows of her childhood home, observing her waving around her wooden sword. “She’ll show the world how great Shimotsuki’s swords are.”
Sanji hopes. Sanji prays.
After every victory, Kuina holds Wado at her opponent’s neck, and Sanji listens to her explain the power of hamon, how the distinctive pattern on her blade shows the blacksmith’s skill and artistry, how the tempering and hardening process of Shimotsuki’s craft creates the most flexible and powerful swords. How her sword is not a failed sword, not a weak sword.
Kuina travels to many islands. Sanji protects her on each voyage, feeds her with gifts of fish ripped from the ocean, watches over her as she sleeps clutching the sword Zoro created.
Finally, Kuina arrives at the capital. Tales of her skill have already made it to the bored nobles. One of them takes her in, dresses her in fine silks, and arranges back-to-back matches against the country’s best swordsmen. They try to milk her for all she’s worth, prepared to toss her away once she eventually loses.
She never loses.
And, at the end of every battle, she slashes Wado in the air and explains the power and beauty of hamon.
---
Sanji is tired by the time Kuina is named the country’s greatest swordsman. He retires to his shrine in the capital for the night. Much of the initial excitement around the Great Wave Off Shimotsuki has died down, but he still has a steady stream of followers.
When he wakes several days later, they are building a new shrine next door. He perks up when he sees Kuina directing workers around carrying sheets of bronze.
The shrine is complete a few weeks later and already interested crowds come to visit the newest god of the capital. Sanji waits for green and grey. His heart falls further and further each day he does not see them. He wonders if it’s too late, if Zoro is too weak to return.
Kuina decides to go back to Shimotsuki and invite challengers to her home island. Sanji, naturally, goes with her.
---
There is something in the air when he arrives. It has been months, hurricane season is past, autumn is here. Shimotsuki is not an island that has the reds and golds of autumn colors, but Sanji has always loved the new crispness in the air. With hesitant steps, he walks down the forest path toward his shrine. He takes a left instead of a right.
Zoro is sitting on his branch, watching Sanji approach with careful eyes.
When he finally stands before Zoro, Sanji collapses to the ground, tears streaming down his face. In an instant, Zoro is there, holding him close.
“You said you’d visit once you made it big,” Zoro says quietly, “And so you did.”
“They’ve made a shrine for you in the capital,” Sanji sobs, “You fucking idiot. I was waiting for you.”
“This is my home. And I have to stay to make sure there will always be a place for you here,” Zoro says. He touches Sanji’s cheeks, trying to wipe away his tears. This only serves to make Sanji cry harder, but Zoro’s hand stays on his face, collecting tears on calloused fingers. When Sanji’s sobs subside, Zoro says, with marvel in his voice, “If your eyes are waves, your eyelashes really are like the white crests.” A finger brushes away lingering tears on Sanji’s white lashes, so gently it hurts.
“You love me,” Sanji says, something is he surer of than the push and pull of the tides.
“I do,” Zoro replies, eyes perfectly steady.
“Why didn’t you say anything, you big dumbass?” Sanji asks desperately.
Zoro shrugs, “You had enough on your mind.” His face is red, and Sanji marvels at his resemblance to a peach. “And, I didn’t think you…” he says, and Sanji realizes that Zoro is embarrassed. “I didn’t think you would love me back,” Zoro finishes.
“So you would rather die than tell me?” Sanji asks.
“Well, I wasn’t planning to die,” Zoro says, scratching his cheek, “I might have overdone it with the whole pissing off my followers thing.”
“Kuina saved you,” Sanji says.
“I know,” Zoro replies, “She told me in no uncertain terms. She also complained about the ocean and told me she had some pretty lucky escapes from capsizing.” He cocks his head, watching Sanji’s expression, “I’m assuming that was you.”
“She is amazing, Zoro,” Sanji says.
“She is,” Zoro smiles.
They fall into silence. Sanji shifts to sit more comfortably, letting one of his knees rest on Zoro’s leg.
“How long are you going to stay in Shimotsuki?” Zoro asks. Sanji stares at him and realizes that Zoro really thinks he is just here to visit an old friend for a few days.
“Zoro,” Sanji says slowly, “This is my home. I’m staying here.”
Zoro’s forehead furrows. “But… it was your dream to go to the capital. You’ve made it, curly. The cute girls in kimonos...” He looks almost lost.
“There’s a cutie that I want to stay with here,” Sanji smiles. Instantly, Zoro’s face darkens and he mutters, “Who?” He looks murderous. Sanji has never seen Zoro turn one of his blades on anyone, but he looks like he’s ready to chop off some heads.
Sanji laughs, unbearably happy, as Zoro watches him in utter confusion.
“Zoro, god of hamon,” Sanji says, taking his hands, “I love you. I never want to leave you again. This is where you are. So, this is where I stay.”
Zoro’s face goes from confused to completely blank as he tries to process Sanji’s words.
“You… love me?” he says finally.
“Yes.”
“Me, Zoro?”
“Yes, you, Zoro,” Sanji sighs, “I’m worried about you again. You’ve not quite returned to full functioning, we should make sure your followers aren’t—” He is pulled into a bone-crushing hug and wheezes as Zoro holds him tight.
“Curly. Sanji,” Zoro whispers, “You love me.”
“I do,” Sanji replies.
“You want to stay on Shimotsuki.”
“I do. It has the best yakitori.”
Zoro pauses, then says snidely, “I told you so.”
“I’ll have to go to the capital some time, or they’ll burn our shrines or something,” Sanji says, “Those people are real assholes, Zoro.”
“I told you so,” Zoro repeats, “I’ll come with you.”
“Of course you will,” Sanji smiles.
Zoro loosens his grip on Sanji, still holding him as if he has no plans to ever let go. He brings his forehead to touch Sanji’s, their noses lining up in a shared plane of existence.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Zoro announces. Sanji’s breath hitches, but he nods. And Zoro tilts his head to brush his lips against Sanji’s before pulling back. It’s not enough and everything all at once, a hint of future touches, as if Zoro is saying they have all the time in the world. And they do. For they are gods in love. Eternal beings seeking an eternal connection. Sanji places his head in the crook of Zoro’s neck, and rides the waves of Zoro’s breath as his chest rises and falls. Up and down, contentment and belonging in spades.
Small gods, neighbors, and lovers.
Comforting tears by Lucky
---
On a small island, two small gods were born. One centuries before the other. One representing fire and steel. The other representing water and beauty.
They fell in love.
The pilgrims who visit the small island feel drawn to the neighboring shrine, as if one god has taken their hand and led them to the other.
More shrines are built around the country. But the god of hamon and the god of the crest of waves are always together. For the most beautiful of hamons are the wavy-patterned midare-ba, and the deadliest of waves contain the white crest.
Sometimes, when children come to the shrines with their parents, uncertain of what all the fuss is about, they’ll look up into the tree above the shrines and see two figures. A green-haired man who is all angles. A white-haired man who is all waves. They sit side-by-side, hands clasped. The green-haired man will raise a finger to his lips and smile a gentle smile. The white-haired man will wink and blow a kiss. The child will turn back to the shrines and keep the special secret trapped in his mouth.
When the family leaves, the green-haired man and the white-haired man will bicker about the quality and quantity of the offerings to their respective shrines. Then they will kiss, sweet and tender, and fall asleep in the space between their homes, wrapped in peace and love and each other’s arms.
For even gods fall in love.