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Sanji’s heart is pounding as they enter the room. He prepared everything the day before, confident in his plan.
Zoro is an easy boyfriend to please, really. Too easy. Sanji doesn’t know what to do with him anymore.
He knows how to serve women, how to please them with sweet words and compliments about their appearance and skills. He knows how to tell them they’re perfect even when they’re not.
He also knows how to serve men, in his own way. He doesn’t show it openly, but he never refuses Luffy a snack or Zoro a bottle of alcohol when he asks for it, even if the swordsman just uses it as an excuse to start a conversation or a fight. He only noticed this after they adopted the Sunny, because the alcohol supply is in the aquarium bar and not in the kitchen, and Zoro’s excuses no longer hold water.
Sanji also knows how to pamper a partner, regardless of gender. He has fantasized about it long enough, and he’s the attentive type, so he’s well aware of what pleases those around him. Zoro is no exception, even if he still has trouble admitting it. Just because they are together does not mean they will stop indulging in their favorite game—quite the contrary. Pretending to hate each other has never been so much fun.
It’s even more fun when he takes Zoro to specialty bars, finds him rare liquors, or offers him his thighs to nap on—he doesn’t know what Zoro’s problem with his thighs is, but he’s not complaining. But Zoro is too easy to please. He has some very specific interests, and Sanji, between alcohol, martial arts books, and Wano food, found himself lacking in creativity.
For tonight’s date, however, he has gone all out, to the point that he feels nervous. A knot rolls around in his stomach, malicious, telling him he doesn’t seem to belong in this environment of boorish men who shout vulgarities at each other and spill their beer at the slightest movement. Not that he doesn’t belong there in reality, but no one ever notices.
That’s why the manager looks him up and down once again as he approaches, in that very chic red suit that makes Zoro’s metallic eyes sparkle every time he looks at him.
The swordsman stands next to him, looking surprised that Sanji has lowered his standards so much when it comes to their romantic rendezvous locations.
The bartender raises an eyebrow, then bursts out laughing.
“Ah, right, at least this one looks promising! You scared me, you know, when you showed up earlier in your neat little suit!”
Sanji exhales cigarette smoke and grits his teeth. He hates being underestimated, but he always accepts it because it allows him to stay in the shadows, to do things that no one else can do because, in the end, he doesn’t look like a pirate.
“I made a reservation, we’re still good, I hope?” he growls in his gruff tone.
The owner nods. He glances furtively at a table of half-drunk marines, then guides them toward a back door. Sanji grabs Zoro’s hand before he goes his own way, and it closes behind them.
They follow a hallway and go down a staircase. The swordsman doesn’t let go of his hand, although Sanji feels like he can hear his heart beating in his fingers. It’s not that Zoro doesn’t want to get lost: he still hasn’t accepted he has this absurd tendency. Rather, in this context, he doesn’t want to lose Sanji, and Sanji can’t help but find this silent confession adorable.
Sanji likes to feel that someone doesn’t want to lose him. He hadn’t realized how important it was to him until Luffy yelled it at him.
After one last door, finally, a harsh light greets them, and they have to shield their eyes at first. Sanji thinks to himself that everything is perfect, the surprise will be absolute: Zoro will first hear the crowd, the enthusiastic shouts, the risky bets. He will then smell the sweat and blood. Finally, he will lower his hand and discover with his one eye, amazed, the underground arena and the pretty employee waving at them from the edge of the ring.
The swordsman holds his breath behind him, stunned. Sanji doesn’t want to leave him time to understand, so he gives up on seeing his reaction right away. He drags him along behind him, hurriedly, his intestines in a jumble, to the central square surrounded by bleachers the size of the Dressrosa Colosseum, which he has never seen in real life.
“Ah, Roronoa Zoro?” says the pretty girl—Maxima—in her official uniform. “Delighted to have you with us!”
Several heads turn toward them at the mention of the fearsome swordsman of the Straw Hat crew. A murmur spreads, like wildfire. Sanji smiles despite himself and feels Zoro do the same, both satisfied with the fear this name alone generates.
At that moment, finally, the swordsman has a sudden flash of understanding. He turns to Sanji, who feels his stomach churn like the first time he tried to approach this charming pair of ladies when he was ten or twelve years old at the Baratie. His legs tremble, his cheeks flush with embarrassment at the thought of having been wrong, of having made a mistake even though he is so sure that everything is perfect.
He remembers the relief when the pretty girls giggled delicately, surprised, and told him he was absolutely adorable. The same relief grips him when he discovers Zoro’s enchanted face.
The swordsman stares at him, his cheeks flushed with the same shy enthusiasm, his eye wide with surprise, his lips curled into a flattered smile. His ever-furrowed eyebrows are slightly raised, making him look younger, more innocent. Sanji already feels himself melting, because he’s crazy about this idiot swordsman and can no longer deny this feeling inside him.
Zoro opens his mouth, then closes it again. Finally, he stammers:
“Did you… Did you sign me up for an underground tournament?”
Sanji feels Zoro’s hand burning in his, suddenly damp with eagerness. The knots become loose; he smiles at his partner, embarrassed by how much the attention seems to please him.
He could add that he sold his soul to the rest of the crew so no one would disturb them, willingly or not—Luffy would be first in this tournament if he hadn’t bribed him with pirate bentôs—but the baritone voice interrupts him, as tremulous with emotion as Zoro is willing to show:
“Fuck, I love you.”
Then the swordsman’s full lips are on his, his two hands on his face, his body pressed against him as if they were alone in the world and kissing for the first time. Sanji has stopped struggling to pretend he doesn’t like the contact. He responds to the kiss with eagerness, laughing intermittently.
It is the silence of the crowd that pulls them out of their romantic bubble. Even the pretty Maxima stares at them, her expression a mixture of fondness and modesty. Zoro glares at them all menacingly, as if to say, “If you have a problem with this, I’ll be your next problem.” He seems to realize it’s pointless, since he’s about to become the other competitors’ problem no matter what, and shakes his head in disillusionment. The murmurs resume, soon replaced by the grunts that preceded them, and Zoro’s name remains on everyone’s lips.
Sanji throws a fake jealous tantrum—about whom, no one will ever know—when Maxima takes Zoro’s yukata and red sash away, explaining that fighters are encouraged to show off their athleticism. Zoro clings to his katanas, but no one tries to steal them. He slips them into his haramaki.
The gesture is nostalgic in Sanji’s eyes, but the massive, half-naked body before him makes him whistle like the proverbial horny wolf in that old North Blue adult comic. It’s a problem, Sanji sometimes thinks to himself, that his desire for the swordsman is as obvious as it is for all the ladies in the world. Then Zoro turns to him and gives him one of those devastating smiles made of tenderness and thirst for victory, and Sanji concludes that no lady in the world would feel insulted that he reacts to her existence the way he reacts to that man he is so desperately in love with.
The swordsman disappears behind a curtain after winking at him, and Sanji has to lean on a stray chair to keep his legs from giving way beneath him. The pretty girl saves him by leading him to the middle of a small area at the edge of the stage, where the participants’ “relatives” are gathered, according to her.
To his delight, she accepts a kiss on the hand, and he’s so busy drowning in his multiple feelings of attraction that he doesn’t immediately notice the suspicious looks directed at him. However, it doesn’t take him long to realize the “relatives” are other crew members, thugs who have bet big on their captain or their most seasoned fighter. By bringing Roronoa Zoro among them, Sanji threatens their chances of success.
He lights a cigarette nonchalantly and sinks into his chair, a satisfied smile on his lips. Some of the other “relatives” are familiar faces, groups of bounty hunters, and even undercover marines, no doubt there to test their limits. Zoro should have some fun.
“Behind you, you idiot! Kick his ass!”
Contrary to what he would have thought, Sanji is also enjoying himself. He expected to be a little frustrated at not being able to fight as well, to be upset that all the attention is—once again—on Zoro, but his status as a spectator has turned him into some kind of rabid supporter who participates in the fight by proxy and shouts encouragement tinged with bile.
His jacket lies on his chair as he clings to the arena barrier, fist forward and face concentrated. He has untied his tie so he can better yell at Zoro, who, when within earshot, never fails to return his imprecations.
There is no firmly established system in the arena: everyone goes in whenever they want, and is considered a contestant from the moment their feet are in the ring and their clothes outside. Some “relatives” and bettors from the crowd have already thrown themselves into the fray to save their investments, but Zoro, or the few other higher-level fighters, have mostly crushed them. The ceiling, though reinforced, is streaked with sword marks. An axe remains stuck in it after an axe-man tried to bring it down on the swordsman.
It’s probably because he’s so enthusiastic that he doesn’t immediately pay attention to what is going on behind him. It’s not as if he fears anything from these second-rate pirates, after all, and part of his mind clings to this idea to justify what follows—no, it’s not because Zoro already obsessed him more than any woman long before he fell in love, no, it’s not because it’s even worse now.
In any case, Sanji suddenly feels himself being lifted off the ground and stripped of his shirt before he can react. A second later, and this time he has only himself to blame for the enthusiasm that made him lean over so far, he falls headfirst into the arena.
Sprawled on the ground, he lights a cigarette, just to calm himself down a little and get more worked up afterwards. Just to decide that if he didn’t see anything coming despite his observation haki, it’s because he’s in no danger whatsoever.
Above him, panicked explanations buzz.
“He won’t be so cocky with his little boyfriend in the way.”
“Hey, Roronoa! Try to protect your twink!”
“Guys! Everyone on that small fry in the suit!”
Sanji slowly exhales cigarette smoke. He’s tired of being underestimated. He knows he doesn’t have Zoro’s imposing physique or bloodthirsty aura. He knows that everyone just sees him as the crew’s cook, a weakling who devotes himself to feeding people and whose wanted poster is only there because of his infamous surname. He knows he doesn’t have the same ambition, and that it shows.
He still can’t stomach it, though, especially since being the cook for the future Pirate King is much more demanding than anyone could imagine. Sanji is tired, but as always, he is mostly furious.
So he stands up straight, cigarette in his mouth, teeth clenched, hands in his pockets. The cool air of the underground room clears his mind after all this time of agitation without being able to physically let off steam. He senses the aggression around him, the fighters approaching, then hesitating when their gaze falls on his nonchalant posture and his finely sculpted muscles, too well-defined not to belong to a seasoned fighter.
Zoro’s hoarse laughter resonates in the air, echoing the sounds of swallowing coming from his attackers.
“Dude, your queer vocabulary sucks, that’s clearly not a twink.”
“Don’t look at me like that, I couldn’t have guessed!”
“Did we just give Roronoa an advantage rather than a handicap?”
Sanji was about to glare at them, but he finds it much more amusing to agree with the man who just uttered the only sensible thing of the evening.
He walks away, feigning indifference. He dodges a few attacks, his hands still in his pockets, a predatory smile on his lips. Someone tries a sword strike at his ribs, and he parries with his shoe. No need for haki against such puny opponents.
When he reaches Zoro, no one saw him running. The swordsman stands behind him, delighted that his greatest rival is joining the brawl.
“If you slow me down, I’ll cut you to pieces,” he growls with a confident smile.
“If you piss me off, I’ll kick your ass,” Sanji grumbles in response.
The ballet that follows is even better than the moment when Sanji was half perched on the fence shouting obscenities. The sound of blades and kicks fills the room, flames burning the most resistant. When only a few opponents remain, Zoro, who hasn’t bothered to take out his third sword but seems satisfied with the challenge, suddenly slips in:
“Cook, what’s a twink? Is it an insult?”
Sanji grits his teeth and uses the broad shoulders as support to kick behind Zoro. The swordsman blocks and then slashes, causing blood to spurt across the ring.
“I’m not telling you!”
Zoro frowns, walks over to the group of spectators who threw Sanji into the arena, and repeats his question, parrying two more attacks and slicing a thigh at the same time. Sanji wants to hold him back, tell him it’s not important, prevent him from discovering a truth that will make him burst out laughing, as it always does when his reputation proves the swordsman right about the difference in their skill levels.
They’re just playing, of course, but that doesn’t mean Sanji doesn’t want to win the game when he can. They’re having too much fun not to take it a little seriously, and while the idea that he fits this gay stereotype seems ridiculous yet shouldn’t be offensive, he knows Zoro will laugh at it just to make him angry.
He rushes after his partner, already swearing as the axe-man chases him.
“Uh… did you even look at him?!”, he hears as he has to parry another blow—there’s no way he’s not going to cover Zoro, even in a crisis.
The men stammer in front of the swordsman, some scratching their heads contritely. Sanji hears snatches of conversation.
“At the same time… impressive, Mr. Roronoa. Next to you… looks almost skinny…”
“Albert started it, Mr. Roronoa!”
Zoro crushes one of the remaining opponents as his deep voice retorts amid the chaos:
“But that’s nonsense! He has more hair than I do!”
Someone lets out a pathetic squeal. Sanji moves closer, but can’t do anything to stop the conversation, as the axe-man is too busy throwing at him the weapons that come out of his limbs without stopping.
“I swear, Mr. Swordsman, we didn’t mean to insult your boyfriend… Please, don’t cut us to pieces! We won’t do it again!”
“You know, it’s all just prejudice, because of those ideas about who’s on top and who’s on the bottom…”
Zoro reacts with interest, and Sanji rubs his temples in anticipation. He balances on his hands and kicks the axe-man in the chin. He would have liked to leave him to Zoro, but he knows what that idiot is about to blurt out.
“Eh, of course I’m above him!” Zoro growls as if it were obvious, too amused by the information he must be drinking in like milk.
“He means in bed, you moron!” Sanji yells in a last attempt to regain control of the situation.
“Yes, Mr. Roronoa. Generally speaking, people think that the more imposing man penetrates the other. And as you know, well, the other one is said to play the girl, so to speak…”
His feet cling to the axe-man’s head, squeeze suddenly, and twist. A crack echoes, a mixture of twisted nerves and metal. He hears one of the men elbow another.
“It’s two guys, Albert, neither of them is playing the girl…”
“Yeah, I know, it’s just a figure of speech…”
“Well, that’s sexist and homophobic, I’ll have you know!”
Sanji would like to shake hands with the person who shouted, but first, he watches the man collapse from his imposing 3-meter height, before landing softly on the ground. He shoves his hands into his pockets.
Finally, he glances around furiously, as upset by the situation as he is angry at those who ruined his boyfriend’s entertainment.
A deafening silence reigns in the room, and he realizes everyone is staring at him open-mouthed. Oh. He’s the one who finished off the competition’s favorite. Sanji can’t resist striking a pose. The two remaining opponents move away, more terrified than ever as he approaches the swordsman, jumps over the barrier, and retrieves his shirt and jacket.
Meanwhile, Zoro finally seems to put two and two together and says distinctly:
“Huh?”
Then he turns to the small, still terrified audience and announces just as loudly:
“Oh, sex? No, no, that’s the ero-cook’s thing.”
His nonchalant thumb points directly at Sanji.
“I prefer to bottom, it’s much more enjoyable.”
Sanji freezes, surprised by the ease, the innocence, with which Zoro laid out the facts. They never argued about this. They always followed their instincts, explored together, found their rhythm and preferences. There are few things they haven’t tried, to be honest.
However, Sanji didn’t think his partner was so disconnected from the prejudices associated with their appearances and roles that he saw no shame in it.
Someone in the small audience suddenly shouts:
“Yeah, right!”
A murmur spreads through the room, made up of enthusiastic confirmations and timid confessions. Men of all ages, sizes, and backgrounds come forward, strangely candid in this place that is so violent and exudes unapologetic machismo.
It’s at this moment that Zoro turns around, looking for the remaining participants. He frowns, and his eye falls on the axe-man lying unconscious on the ground, out of action.
“Cook…”
The tone is threatening. The audience holds its breath.
“You stole my opponent?”
Sanji loses his temper, because that’s what he does best:
“You shouldn’t have let yourself get distracted. He was right up on you, I’ll have you know!”
“As if I need your protection!”
Sanji swallows for a second, but then makes a mean face, raises his chin, and snarls:
“Duuuh, I didn’t do that to protect you, I did it because it proves I’m stronger than you!”
Zoro’s fury reaches its peak, and his bloodthirsty aura spreads throughout the arena. The crowd swallows hard.
“You wanna fight, ero-cook?!”
“Bring it on, Marimo!”
This time, the small group of relatives starts whistling enthusiastically.
“Give him hell, Blackleg!”
“Bet on you, Roronoa! Don’t let me down now!”
The crowd cheers from all sides, Sanji drops his jacket and lets out an amused sigh.
“We’ve got room, for once. Shall we give them a little demonstration, cactus head?”
Zoro draws his third sword for the first time this evening.
“With pleasure, spiral!”
The roars of the crowd drown out a more intimate exchange, the whispering of new nicknames they slip to each other when no one can hear them, but the second-long complicit glance between them does not escape anyone’s notice.
Someone stopped them before they destroyed the arena, declaring a draw. This sparked another verbal brawl between them, until the organizers and the mixed crowd decided to turn the ring into a banquet hall.
Several innkeepers take turns bringing food and alcohol. Most of the competitors, covered in bandages, mingle with the audience and share their enthusiasm. Zoro and Sanji sit in the middle of the feast, the swordsman with a large mug in his hand while the cook has found himself a glass of wine.
“When I tell my daughter that Roronoa Zoro did this to me!” says a man who will bear the scars of the double cut on his chest.
Sanji can’t help but snicker. The axe-man asked him for an autograph and is now looking at him from a distance, hearts in his eyes. Sanji gave him the autograph with a grunt, reminding him that the shape of his lips on the paper is reserved for ladies. The man almost fainted with joy.
“He wants you to top him too,” Zoro teased, nudging him knowingly.
Sanji wondered how such an innocent guy could be so perceptive. Then his dirty mind started making indecent calculations about how he could play the penetrating role for a man of that size, and he shook his head frantically. He has enough of Zoro, his resilient body, and his spirit more demanding than his apparent lack of libido would suggest.
Unfortunately, Zoro has decided to be disgusting tonight, as he adds in his ear:
“I would enjoy watching.”
Sanji jumps, feeling embarrassed, interested, and horrified at being interested.
“M… Marimo! What’s gotten into you tonight?!”
The group of relatives next to Zoro give him a suspicious number of thumbs up. The pretty Maxima, whom Sanji has been courting since the beginning of the evening, imitates them, her other palm resting on her cheek as if she were embarrassed. Sanji thinks he should rescue her from this den of debauched thugs, but she gets another beer and giggles with feigned modesty:
“Men definitely need a little more sex education… Can I stay and listen?”
Sanji feels like a trap has closed in on him, but he understands the request and squeals at the top of his lungs, his heart beating in his eyes:
“Anything you want, beautiful Maxima!”
Against all odds, Zoro actively participates in the conversation between two mugs, talking about his sensations with unsettling seriousness. Maxima lands halfway on Sanji’s lap in the meantime, recounting her own experiences while Zoro’s arm clings tightly to his boyfriend’s neck. Between explanations, the swordsman kisses his cheek or shoulder through the fabric of his shirt, and Sanji feels like he’s in heaven.
When he wakes up the next morning, naked and rested in a hotel room he remembers all too well winning at poker, he feels like he stole his date from Zoro. Then a full mouth lands on him, recognizable among thousands, and the swordsman whispers in his ear:
“Thanks for last night. It was perfect, love-cook.”