Chapter Text
Soft kisses brush against lips and Zoro finds himself in the arms of the annoying cook of his crew once again. “Annoying” is one of those words that have lost all their meaning, mixed in a slurry of what he doesn’t dare call love, but has long ago lost all words that it could be.
There’s a rhythm to it, the passionate embraces, the shared looks, the way their hands travel across their bodies with no hesitation. In the nights when they hold each other tight, but never talk about it the next day.
Zoro doesn’t know what he has with this man, but whatever it is, Sanji has it too.
When he rests his head against Sanji’s chest, he can hear their heart beats in synchronicity.
“Mine,” Zoro had muttered one night, his head buried into Sanji’s back, as if trying to brand the cook permanently with his words.
And Sanji is silent, and Zoro can’t help but flinch. He shouldn’t have said that. He would regret it in the morning, he knows. It will cloy at him, tear him open. He exposed his belly, his heart, the thoughts that linger in the back of his mind and never are allowed in the open.
But Sanji leaned into Zoro’s kiss and trailed his hands up and down Zoro’s thigh. He turned around to face the swordsman with a grimace.
“Okay,” Sanji had muttered back.
And Zoro couldn’t quite tell what Sanji had meant by that, and yet it had meant everything.
There’s something weird about being in love with a strange, annoying asshole like Sanji. He doesn’t change, but in a way it seems like he’s trying.
He’s a man with many unpleasant reactions to everything he meets, and Zoro watches as Sanji tries and fails to cull each and every one. And maybe it was for Zoro’s sake. And maybe that’s what makes it hurt more.
Sanji doesn’t really take his side when Nami is involved, but Zoro wouldn’t expect him too. Zoro wouldn’t expect Sanji to give up anything just because of what they do to each other in the night. That would be ridiculous.
Sanji still sneers at him when he makes Zoro food. Says he gives Zoro the scraps, the food unfit for the women. But that has always been a lie, and its moreso now, with unspoken gifts delivered randomly when Zoro works out, baskets of dried meats and cheese, an anonymous delivery if it wasn’t painfully obvious who it was.
Sanji never says it’s him.
And Zoro never thanks him. He thinks Sanji would explode if Zoro addressed it directly.
But it’s enough.
It’s enough to know Sanji loves in his own way, not with words that Zoro wouldn’t even want, but with action. It’s enough to know that every time Sanji runs his mouth, he’s also running his fingers through Zoro’s hair so caringly, so naturally.
Maybe it’s a secret. Zoro doesn’t really know.
Sanji doesn’t say anything.
But neither does Zoro.
It’s none of anyone’s business what they do.
Maybe part of Zoro hopes Sanji would run his mouth. Blurt out what they do to the unsuspecting crew. It would piss Zoro off to no end, hearing Sanji sharing secrets without telling him.
But maybe Zoro wants to be pissed off about it.
It shakes him, such a thought. He doesn’t know what to do about it. So he puts it away. He lets it die in his skull, a thousand deaths as it keeps coming back, resurrected in full strength only to be put down again.
Sanji still flirts with women. But he tries. He stops about five seconds sooner. He takes two seconds longer for his entire body to turn into a casket of wet noodles. He says different things. He doesn’t bring up his undying love anymore.
Zoro notices that sort of thing. It started after that night. When he called Sanji his.
Sanji listened. And maybe that’s the problem.
Zoro used to not care too much about what Sanji did. They fucked, they held, they pressed their foreheads against each other, but there was no closeness Zoro could claim. Sanji was just a man with his own life, his own dream, his own agenda.
But now it’s different.
“Okay” Sanji had said, carving the word into Zoro’s heart like it was a declaration deeper than anything he had ever said to anyone.
So now he watches. He watches Sanji try with a growing lump in the swordsman’s throat.
Seconds shaved, gifts given, tighter embraces.
Zoro doesn’t know what to do about it. Sanji exists in his heart now. He’s taken up space. Even when the cook isn’t there, he feels the phantom smell of smoke, and the touching of hands up and down his back.
Sanji’s always here.
And fuck, Zoro’s in love.
It’s a bullshit term. In love . Not useful. Doesn’t mean anything.
But what else can he call it? He’s been brought to his knees, something he swore he’d never do, and this time he did it eagerly, without hesitation.
He’s fallen in love with an asshole who gives and takes in equal measure. And Zoro lives to be taken from. When they kiss, it feels as if Sanji is ravenous, devouring Zoro whole. The cook is starving, somehow. Starving for touch, for a human body, for Zoro , and it makes Zoro’s head dizzy each time he recalls.
And in those moments, he has carved his place in the cook’s heart too.
So one night, docked on some small island, Zoro walks aimlessly with no fear of being lost. He would be found, he always his.
And somehow, supernaturally, he ends up in a bar, and the familiar smell of smoke is already present.
He’s here. Because of course he would be. They find each other. Somehow they do. It’s new. Only for the past few weeks.
But now Zoro can always find him.
He wanders through the bar, not really thinking, his body already warm, aching for the cook. Aching to be whole again. To embrace in private, far away from the ship.
And then a pit forms in the bottom of his stomach, and his stride grows frantic.
He knows what he will find before he opens the random door.
The woman is gorgeous, with long, braided hair and freckles covering her shoulders and thighs.
And Sanji kisses her just like he does Zoro. His hands hold her as tightly as he did Zoro.
He joins with her as easily as he does the man who he called nakama .
And Zoro doesn’t move.
He doesn’t know how.
It takes a few seconds for them to stop. For Sanji to freeze. Zoro counts the seconds as he watches the man’s eyes tremble, and slowly, slowly , match Zoro’s gaze.
The woman turns first, looking at Zoro in confusion.
“Hey--do you mind?” She says, as if Zoro were the intruder.
And Zoro supposes he is.
He leaves. He doesn’t even remember leaving. But he’s out of the bar and his heart is pounding in his ear and his muscles ache and bile rises in his throat.
He doesn’t know what to do.
So all he can do is shatter.