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Imperfection lives in many things - the mirror, the faint scratches along the glass that catch in the low pre-dawn light, and the thin gold frame of it. It lies in the man standing before it, with automatic movements that suggest this process is more ritual than vanity.
The straightener passes through another curl of his hair, sizzling faintly.
He dug the mirror out of this very room a few weeks prior. When the air was still thick with enough dust to coax a cough out of anyone who entered, when spare boxes were piled up halfway to the ceiling.
It was once supposed to be the captain’s quarters, before turning into a storage room of a sort. But now it bears signs of occupation from two very different men.
Franky designed the space for Luffy when he first drafted the Sunny’s structure. A generous cabin tucked near the front of the ship with wide portholes and enough room for.. well, whatever chaos Franky believed Luffy would have liked to fill it with.
But he never exactly ended up filling it. That’s why, for the following years, it became a place where boxes storing odd supplies and spare blankets were tossed. That’s why, ever since Zoro and Sanji recently announced they were going to try to commit to an actual, resolute relationship, Luffy gladly handed over ownership of the space.
Because the room was sitting vacant while the men’s quarters was growing crowded with six other men plus a couple in their honeymoon phase. And privacy is preferred when you’re still testing waters and don’t want to worry about your crewmates waking to the sight of your boyfriend balls deep inside of you.
So now, the captain’s quarters is furnished. Or rather—Sanji corrects himself every time the thought arises—their room is furnished. The word still tastes new in his mouth.
And at the wall beside the bed, Zoro’s katanas rest in their usual line. A new room means they’ve migrated here, as well as every other possession the swordsman owns. The bed itself has his grey sheets, still mussed and askew from where Sanji crawled out earlier.
Zoro lies sprawled face-first into a pillow, bare shoulders exposed above the thin sheet. One arm hangs off the side of the bed, limp, as if gravity simply claimed it and he hadn’t cared enough to argue.
His hair is a mess of green spikes crushed in uneven directions.
Sanji watches him with soft eyes through the mirror, before deliberately looking away.
He refocuses his attention onto the straightener, passing it through another winding section. It’s heavy, with metal plates heating evenly at a high temperature. Not the cheap, sputtering device he once relied on - this one is unmistakably a device designed with familiar handiwork.
Franky had given it to him back in Water 7 with an easy grin and a casual, ‘this one’ll work better’. At that time, no questions were asked, and it was a simple gift because Franky’s the type of person who notices things. Sanji’s always been grateful for that.
The motion becomes repetitive as he works around his head. Strands falling sleek and smooth after the heat tames them, pale gold catching in the faint lanternlight even though they so obviously want to protest.
He hates when his hair refuses to lie flat. When it tries and tries with every chance it gets, with the humidity of the sea, the salt spray or stove heat that tries to interfere on the daily. And this morning he scowls at his reflection, noting how the roots are already attempting to betray him with their little game.
A subtle curve is visible where blonde emerges from his scalp, attempting to form those soft spirals that strive to soften his face. They never do really disappear. But he tries his best to force them away anyway, reflection staring back at him almost mockingly.
He knows that without his mustache and the beard he keeps carefully trimmed along his jaw, the effect would be worse. He’s seen it before. Years ago, back on the Baratie, when he shaved too close and the facial hair didn’t return quickly enough. When the humidity ruined his hair during an unanticipated storm and the curls kept creeping back.
He looked younger. Strikingly younger. And the reflection as he leaned over the railing, peering into the passing black waters, had shown him a boy he didn’t want to recognize.
One with a face too soft around the mouth. Eyes a lurid shade of blue that appeared excessively expressive. A boy with curls falling into his vision, possessing features that when combined, looked dangerously close to—
He stops the thought before it finishes, setting down the straightener in exchange for a brush. His gaze flicks back up to himself, to the length of his lashes, the shade of his lips. The features that remain more stubbornly permanent.
Reiju had always laughed at those features when they were small. Saying things like they were compliments full of pride.
“You look just like her.”
He remembers when her fingers would tangle briefly in his hair, tugging lightly at the waves as if confirming their shape. Her lips would break into a smile so wide, so reminiscent that little Sanji, too young to comprehend grief properly, would mirror her expression automatically.
“Blue eyes.. hair that curls when it gets long enough. You know, you’re practically her reflection.”
He works the brush through a knot, angling his jaw sideways to check for any strands that might have escaped his notice. Predictably, there’s a few. Rebellious, imperfect waves at the back of his head smooth obediently once he lifts the straightener again.
And while imperfection lives in many things, it had not lived within his mother.
Every cloudy memory he possesses presents her as nothing less than perfect. Gentle cerulean eyes that widened expressively when she spoke in her soft cadence. There was a point in time when he felt praised at the comparisons Reiju so often made, when he felt pride swell in his chest every time he caught his reflection and saw her within himself.
But there was also a change in time when his soft, resembling features became dull reminders. Of beauty squandered in a son who still, after all these years, hasn’t overcome the mourning. Who still can’t wear his hair natural because it reminds him too much of his mother. Who will never be able to live up to her.
When he finds himself satisfied, or at least finished, the glow of the clamps dim and the heat abates.
His fringe now sits pin-straight and presentable over his eye.
With one last glance in the mirror, Sanji’s mouth curls faintly upward at the sight of Zoro. Still dead to the world. It’s dawn, the sunbeams just now beginning to shine through those wide portholes.
And as Zoro swivels, turning briefly onto his side before deeming that position uncomfortable—returning restlessly to his original sprawl, the mirror image suddenly becomes a concern pushed to the backburner.
Sanji shakes his head fondly, reaching for his tie to loop it around his neck. He tightens it with a final, neat tug, not sparing another glance to his appearance.
Luffy has fallen into the sea enough times for the occurrence to become foreseeable and expected.
It happens at least twice a month, once if the universe is feeling gracious. Because Luffy’s fascination with the sea is so profound that it borders suicidal curiosity. His earnest attempts to investigate things that catch his eye over the railing are endless, whether it be an unusually colored fish, or a distant silhouette on the horizon he perceives to be a pirate ship.
This time, they happen to be sailing over a coral shelf.
The Sunny cuts through water so clear it almost appears shallow, even this deep into the waters. Turquoise and teal replace the typical leaden shade, sessile branches of pink stretching upward in curving shapes. The formations are far larger than anything one might see near ordinary shores. But the Grand Line is no ordinary place.
“I’m still worried the current will push us too close to the coral. It looks shallow, Franky.” Nami insists for the third time as she peers warily over the railing. “If we scrape the hull—”
“Sunny ain’t gonna be taken out by a little seaweed!” Franky’s booming voice returns, from somewhere near her at the bow. “She’s super durable!”
“That’s not seaweed!”
Sanji’s been listening to the exchange with only half his attention.
He’s been favoring the portside part of the deck where the best view is. Well - the best view is at the bow, where you can see the reef stretching endlessly ahead. But at the siderailing, the sleek forms of dolphins arc through the water, chirping sharp little calls before vanishing beneath the surface again.
They’ve been following the ship for the better part of an hour. And Sanji, admittedly, has always been fascinated by their beauty. The strange things that are their calls.
Behind him, Zoro sits on the staircase’s last step with weights gripped lazily in his hands. He’s been lifting them in slow repetitions that are more habitual than anything, attention elsewhere as his eyes linger on Sanji.
“You sure you’re not tired of staring at ‘em yet?” He asks absently, cocking an eyebrow as he lowers one dumbbell again. “Luffy got bored ten minutes ago.”
Sanji huffs through his nose, yet doesn’t tear his gaze away. “Jealous I’m not staring at you instead?”
The dolphins had attracted an audience earlier, of course. Luffy and Chopper were the first two to notice them, both gawking and cheering delightedly until they dragged everyone else over with their commotion. Sanji thought it a miracle that neither of them had gone overboard then, in an attempt to peer closer at the creatures.
Zoro rolls his eyes in response, even though Sanji doesn’t catch the motion due to his eyes being angled away. “Jealous of fish? Seriously, cook?”
“They’re dolphins,” Sanji corrects, distracted as they weave between the coral below. One of them leaps again, encouraging a second to follow, the pair of them splashing up water in perfect harmony. Sanji breathes again, leaning slightly more forward. “And they’re beautiful.”
Zoro sets the weights down with a dull thud and wipes sweat from his temple. He catches his breath before one corner of his mouth tilts upward, not moving to disagree.
These are the moments that Sanji most highly cherishes. The shared ones when all they’re doing is sailing through calm, pristine waters, with nothing better to do than admire the ocean’s fauna.
Moments are one of the few rewards of pirate life. And as the breeze catches the ends of his hair, the flat strands pushing into his eyes and obscuring his vision for half a second, he grows distracted. Just long enough to believe the next splash that cuts through the calm is once again from the dolphins.
But then it’s followed by Nami’s shout.
Sanji looks over just in time to see the ocean’s surface rippling as a figure goes underneath, the clear water showing a distorted blob of black hair, red sleeves, and limp arms. A straw hat bobs up alone.
“Luffy, that dumbass–” Sanji’s posture straightens immediately, the calm vanishing as it always tends to do when you live on a ship with a bunch of rash, unthinking idiots. The urgency is automatic even though no one questions the monthly occurrence anymore.
Sanji’s eyes find Jinbe’s from where the helmsman has emerged from below deck after the loudness of the splash. The glance they share has been exchanged countless times before, wordless but effectual.
You or me?
Jinbe’s brows lift slightly, and instantly, one of Sanji’s memories from two weeks ago is evoked. Jinbe taking a turn, diving into the sea to retrieve their captain.
Sanji exhales through his nose, shoes already halfway off before the thought finishes forming. They land with dull thumps against the deck as he kicks them aside, tie loosening with a swift tug of his fingers. He plants a hand on the railing, preparing to pivot over and plunge into the sea—
Zoro stands behind him, plucking up the discarded shoes before Sanji can even say anything. “I’ll get the towels.”
Water crashes around his shoulders as he dives, cutting downward through the clear blue. For a moment, the world becomes nothing but fractured sunlight filtering through the surface above and the vast coral gardens waiting below.
Then Sanji spots him. Luffy. Sinking like a very out of place rock between passing fish and dancing plants.
Sanji’s eyebrows knit with utter determination, as Luffy’s half-lidded, drooping eyes stare blankly in his direction. A fistful of his collar is then grabbed, and Sanji yanks him back upward.
They break the surface seconds later with a loud gasp and a cheerful laugh that bubbles up immediately. Despite the energy that was drained out of Luffy’s body mere moments ago, he recovers quickly enough to cackle obnoxiously and drop his head laxly against Sanji’s shoulder.
“That coral’s huge! Sanji, did you see it?!” He says, to which Sanji sneers and focuses on steering them toward the ladder hanging off of the Sunny’s side. The sea clings cold and heavy to his clothes, water dripping from his sleeves as he hauls Luffy upward ahead of him.
“Save it. You can tell that the coral’s ridiculous just fine from the deck. You didn’t have to plunge in for a ‘better view.’” He growls.
Franky’s the first face that appears at the top, leaning over the ship’s side before his massive hands are relieving Sanji of Luffy’s weight. He transfers him to the dry deck and helps steady the ladder so Sanji can haul himself up next.
Seawater streams from his sleeves in rivulets, dripping onto the wood of the deck where his palms meet the planks. He climbs up the rest of the way, straightening to wring water out of his cuffs. And by the time he’s moved to the second one, Nami’s already marched across the deck to their captain. Her fist lands squarely on his head with a hollow thunk.
“Luffy! How many times are you going to fall off the damn side before you learn?!” She snaps, as he collapses with shameless laughter. “What if you’d gotten stuck between the coral—!”
“I wanted to see it up close!” Luffy throws back, rolling onto his elbows as though this detail absolves everything. His canines flash as he glances back to the railing, completely unrepentant. “It’s really, really big!”
“I think we got that, captain,” Franky calls over his shoulder, unfazed as he hauls the ladder back upwards.
Sanji’s eyes skate to Nami and the absolute lost cause at her feet. He sighs, “Don’t ridicule him too much, dearest. It won’t help anything.”
“I know it won’t help anything.” Nami simply shakes her head, rubbing her temples before turning sharply on her heel. “Next time we’re leaving him to sink to Davy Jones’.”
That seems to be all she has to say. Because there’s truly no point in wasting energy arguing, since Luffy will never learn.
Sanji wishes he would.
He’s already noticed the darkened, clinging strands of hair that refuse to settle around his ears and neck. The salt brings out a little bit of texture, as it does for most people’s hair when they get it wet.
But his hair acts differently from the average person’s. He knows that it starts with the bend, then transforms into a full head of untamed curls after the nuisance of drying the salt out. He dreads the possible necessity of dragging his straightener back out if the world decides to be particularly cruel today.
A towel suddenly smacks against Luffy’s face with enough force to muffle his following howl. Zoro steps back onto the turf, a second towel slung over his shoulder. “Stop watering the grass and dry off.”
Luffy peels it off of his face, grin still firmly in place - the one that shows every tooth in his mouth. “Thanks, Zoro!”
Sanji receives the second towel with a little more grace, meaning it still gets flung in his direction, but lands in his hands instead of over his eyes. He huffs softly, running it roughly through his hair. “Didn’t even consider jumping in yourself, huh?” He mutters.
That earns a shrug, as Zoro rejoins, “You were already halfway over the railing.”
Sanji doesn’t argue with that—water shaking free in bright, scattering droplets that the towel soaks up. He narrows his eyes to get a better look at the hair in his face, swiping it away with mild annoyance. Predictably, when his wrist lowers, it falls right back into place. But not in the way he wants it to.
He clicks his tongue. “Great.”
Sanji pushes his bangs back again as he glares down at the deck. He doesn’t even notice Zoro stepping closer because he’s too busy drying his hands and shrugging off his jacket. The irritation fades into something more grudgingly accepting, now that the crisis has passed.
But his eyes lift again when a hand suddenly reaches out, hooking two damp strands of his fringe behind his ear. Properly this time around. He startles, blinking up through wet lashes, as droplets slide down the sharp line of his jaw before disappearing into the open collar of his shirt. The blazer drops to his feet.
“..What’re you–” Sanji starts. Zoro’s hand remains there for a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing along the shell of his ear before the towel is stolen back. “Hey!”
“Let me do it.” Zoro ignores the protest, dragging it over the crown of his head in rough, determined motions.
Sanji sputters, instinctively angling away from the touch. He glares up through the sodden strands Zoro’s now scrubbing at. “Why the hell did you throw it at me if you wanted to do it yourself?”
“Mm,” Zoro doesn’t give him a direct response, just absentmindedly grabs him by the chin with his free hand to prevent any evading movement. “Hold still.”
Naturally, Sanji does the exact opposite of that. He snorts despite himself, ducking away and escaping Zoro’s grip. “You’re going to ruin it, you brute—”
He grabs the fabric with a laugh that slips free before he can suppress it. Zoro looks startled for a moment, stunned that he was able to escape - before a smile of his own tugs at his lips. He lunges for the towel just as Sanji stumbles back, retrieving it easily and condemning him to the same fate as Luffy. The towel stuffs over his face.
Sanji’s voice muffles beneath it as he dissolves into another burst of laughter. His hair is worse now—looser waves forming where water and friction have coaxed them free.
Zoro notices. “It looks fine.”
But there’s something else in his gaze that lingers, scrutinizing the way the waves fall. So different from the kempt, maintained shape he always tries to sustain. The strands frame his face in a manner that makes his features appear almost softer, and the smile playing at his lips serves no help.
His smile always makes Zoro’s heart ache with something fond. Paired with the unfamiliar curls in his hair, Sanji looks nothing short of mesmerizing.
Sanji peels the rag off and discards it onto the deck with his blazer. He shifts slightly as his gaze drifts to the washroom, then back down to his ruined suit.
Zoro’s eyes are still on his hair when Sanji realizes he can’t stay in these drenched clothes, and that a shower is more than likely necessary. His grin softens when he glances back up, but nearly morphs into a frown once he catches Zoro’s look.
“..What?” He asks suspiciously, and Zoro blinks away just in time to write the look off as normal. He clears his throat and tips his chin towards the dome where the showers are.
“Go rinse off if you think it’s that bad, before you start bitching about the salt,” Zoro says easily, to which Sanji scoffs. His expression twists instantly into something marginally less dubious.
“I wasn’t going to bitch about anything, thank you very much.” He insists, though Zoro knows him well enough to detect that lie. Sanji bends to pick up the discarded blazer, brushing off the blades of green that have stuck to the fabric.
“Sure you weren’t.” Zoro returns, folding his arms over his chest. He purposefully averts his gaze.
Sanji studies him for a moment, slinging the wet jacket over his shoulder. “Maybe you should join me,” He teases, “Who knows when the last time you showered was?”
“Hey,” Zoro replies mildly, with mock offense. “I shower.”
“You wouldn’t understand the concept of grooming if it punched you in that ugly mug of yours.”
“I showered a few days ago. When we left the last island.”
“Exactly - a few days ago.” Sanji says loftily, leaving it at that. He turns toward the stairs and blows a spiral out of his vision with a huff of breath, feeling the coldness truly beginning to seep into his clothes. His trousers cling unpleasantly, and the urge to be standing beneath the rain of warm, filtered water instead of an open deck becomes stronger.
Zoro figures that out, too. He lets the last comment slide, falling quiet for a moment, and then nudges Sanji forward with his shoulder. Firm enough to move him, not rough enough to jumpstart another round of shoving. “Don’t wait on me, curly.”
Sanji stumbles half a step forward, recalling the offer he’d introduced. He’d already nearly forgotten about it, but that doesn’t mean disappointment doesn’t flash across his face. “You’re seriously not coming?”
“Didn’t finish my work out. Got reps left.” The weights still sit abandoned near the railing, the sheen of sweat across Zoro’s chest half-dried by now.
Sanji simply scoffs and turns fully this time, intent on departure. “Your loss, then, mossy.”
He ascends the staircase with quick footsteps, working at the top buttons of his dress shirt with deft fingers. His gaze roves absently, scanning the deck and the decorated waters they’re still sailing through.
The dolphins have swam farther out by now, their calls faint echoes in the spacious ocean. He scans the horizon for their sleek bodies as he walks, eventually shrugging it off when he doesn’t catch sight of them. His gaze instead travels to the doorknob as he reaches the bathroom, then to the small, reflective window mounted on the door.
That’s when he sees his reflection.
The wet spirals of darkened blonde that replace the pale, straight strands he’d had earlier. The faint glisten on his skin from where the salt water has soaked in, bringing the youthfulness out around his eyes. Automatically, his hand rises to his goatee, brushing the scruff there with some distrustfulness.
He’ll never understand how one flaw in his appearance can throw everything else off. Even with the goatee—the hair at his upper lip, the obvious, mature features that would cancel out softness on any other person..
Just a small texture change in his hair can make him look so different. So much like his mother.
Sanji’s throat works around a swallow, and he tears his eyes away from the reflection. They drift back to the lower deck, to where Zoro and the dumbbells have both vanished. Probably to the crow’s nest or below deck.
Then he promptly opens the door and pulls it closed with a faint rattle at the hinges.
The island is the kind sailors would typically expect after sailing and crossing through coral waters.
Sanji recalls docking this morning at dawn. When the heat was already beating down despite the sun barely being out yet. The palm trees were the first enticements, trunks wide and ancient with fronds dangling from their branches, swaying in the morning breeze. Even Franky looked antlike compared to them.
And by the time evening settled over the island, the heat had not lessened so much as changed its character. The air is swollen with humidity now, torches planted along the sandy paths that weave between the hut-style buildings of the island - flames undulating lazily in the calm.
The tiki bar they’d come across an hour ago had a low sort of roof, thatched and supported by wooden beams. Sanji had unfortunately noticed the buzzing air conditioner behind the counter that sounded like it was about to give out, and listened to its humming alongside the bickering of Usopp and Luffy not too far off.
Technically, he was there to accompany Nami at the bar. But in truth, he’d ended up being the one to supervise those two idiots, while she nursed something sweet and fruity beside him.
He hadn’t minded. After some persuasion, he’d even accepted his own drink, while absently tracking the movements of Usopp in his peripheral. It tasted faintly of citrus and rum, warming his chest slowly alongside the laughter that bloomed once Luffy ran into one of those massive palm trees, and yelped the moment a coconut fell directly onto his head.
It was fun for a while. Though from there, things had devolved predictably. Drinks finished, tabs paid, coconuts split down the middle.
And now, an hour later, the warmth of that drink lingers in Sanji’s bloodstream as he walks back towards the shore alone.
The island quiets further as he moves away from the torchlight, the exhaustion of the day weighing down on him. The heat took its toll—well, still takes its toll even when the sun is descending and the sky has been tinted orange and roseate. His shoes dangle loosely from one hand, while the other holds a cigarette to his lips.
With one drag, smoke curls into the air. The breeze carries it off.
Another reason he decided to depart early was because of the humidity, because the effect on his hair was simply predictable. It began while they were still at the bar, barely noticeable at first, then shifted as the moisture increased.
He had caught glimpses of himself in the reflective surfaces scattered throughout the bar—the curve of a metal shaker, the glass bottles lining the shelves behind the counter. Even in the liquid of his own drink.
And each time, familiar irritation stirred within his stomach.
He bites the cigarette with his teeth as he tugs at his collar, eyes finding the lion-headed prow of the Sunny at the shoreline. Today he decided to abandon his usual suit after some contemplation, trading it in favor of something more appropriate for the weather. A white, collared shirt with yellow stripes as his top, paired with plain gray shorts.
He can’t even imagine the heatstroke if he were to have worn his typical layers. Boarding the ship from the outstretched gangplank, he’s even impatient to get this shirt off himself.
The corridor to the captain’s quarters is one of the closer ones since it’s located at the front. Sanji almost sighs in relief knowing that.
Everyone else should still be on the island, drawn by food and music and whatever else he knows they’ve surely found. So when he gets to the room - their room, no one blocks his path or interrupts.
Moonlight spills through the wide portholes, silvering the interior in bands of pale light. Sanji’s gaze drifts from the bed to the vanity, to the floor when he drops his shoes with a quiet thunk. He nudges them aside just a smidge so he knows Zoro won’t stumble in later and face-plant from tripping over them.
He plucks the cigarette from his mouth again, moving to the ashtray automatically. It sits on the surface of the vanity, beneath the cracked, golden mirror. He pauses before grinding it out, watching silently as the ember dims.
The thing is… he already knows the state of himself from peering in those mirroring surfaces. Knows that right now, after being awake from dawn to dusk on a tropical island, the image that will meet him when he looks up will be that of a softened man with springing hair. A man he doesn’t have the energy to face right now.
So he pulls his shirt overhead first, delaying the inevitable. He drapes it over the vanity stool before flicking on a lantern, and drawing in a breath.
Then he builds up the courage to look.
And god, it’s worse than he’d thought. The waves are unmistakable in the dimness, not the tight spirals from his childhood memories, but waves that sit looser and curled. Even taking that into account, they continue to soften everything.
The lines of his cheekbones no longer appear as sharp, as if the curls have created an illusion. Every line of his face is soft, the blues of his eyes appearing brighter, more vivid. And while the insecurity wants to surface, he knows the reflection staring back at him is not unattractive.
He looks pretty. A pretty that almost matches hers.
“You’re practically her reflection.”
See - grief, as strange as it is, it’s an insidious thing. People swear up and down that it vanishes with time and healing and maturing. That you just have to wait it out. But instead, it changes shape, living on in memory, and sometimes in dreams. In his case, it lives in something as small and as ordinary as the reflection resting in a mirror.
Sanji leans both hands on the vanity, head lowering slightly as he feels that ache stir deep in his chest. The waves lap against the hull, causing the ship to sway in a disorienting manner. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol messing with him.
But it pushes him slightly forward on his palms, closer to the person staring back. It causes the ache to change its shape, to knot into something tangible within his throat.
With an exhale, he reaches toward the vanity drawer where the straightener waits, tucked away as always. Maybe if he just—
“–for fuck’s sake,” Zoro’s voice arrives in a series of curses, subsequently followed by the scrape of a boot catching something on the floor. He steadies himself with a hand against the doorframe, scowling down at the pair of shoes sitting guiltily in the doorway. “Damn shoes right in the way,”
Sanji barely reacts at first. His mind is still somewhere afar, tangled in memory. Then he stills, glances back into the glass and sees the door swung wide open behind him.
Zoro seems to register the room properly after recovering from his stumble - drinking in the sight of moonlight illuminating the bare ridges of Sanji’s shoulders. His own shirt hangs loosely open, the smell of brine and alcohol overpowering his usual musk - hair wind-tousled, expression unsolidified for once.
And the next thing Sanji knows, Zoro is pressing in close behind him, one hand sliding unthinkingly to the curve of his waist. His mouth finds the side of his neck before peppering chaste kisses there. “Found Nami,” He murmurs lowly, “She said you came back early. Why’d’you do that?”
The kisses travel upward unhurriedly as he awaits a response, finding the underside of his jaw while Sanji remains rigid within the embrace. Normally, he would melt into the attention, tilt his head back with a smirk and match the flirtation.
But he knows what he looks like right now. And Zoro, exhaling against his neck with no regard for personal space, kneading the flesh at his naked hip—isn’t supposed to be doing that. He isn’t supposed to be here right now.
“Oi,” Sanji starts quickly, suddenly thankful for Zoro’s tendency to be oblivious and unobservant. He turns within the circle of his arms, raising a palm to push at Zoro’s chest. “Marimo, don’t—”
The protest dies before it forms. The swordsman’s head comes up without warning and captures his lips in a greedy kiss.
It’s a peck compared to others they’ve shared. Sometimes he just likes to greet Sanji like that. But when they pull back apart, the stall has already taken effect. Sanji’s breath is caught halfway in his windpipe.
The lanternlight accentuates his hair while he’s standing still and stunned. Zoro squints faintly at him when he notices the fringe first, glowing visibly golden in their proximity. Then he pulls back a little more, gaze inevitably shifting upward to the rest of the curls. His brows draw together.
“..You curled your hair?” He gathers. Sanji’s ears burn instantly.
“No–” He starts, pausing mid-sentence as he tries to figure out how he can divert this conversation before it starts. “Why would I waste my time with a curling iron before bed? And why—why are you back so early?”
Zoro considers that. He still looks mildly puzzled by Sanji’s change in appearance. “I came to find you.” He replies, like that part is obvious. Then, continues, “..If you didn’t curl it, then why’s it like that?”
Sanji stares at him, fingers curling slowly against Zoro’s chest. “Because,” He snaps, ducking his head like that might help. Really, it doesn’t help at all, and simply gives Zoro a better view of his roots. “It just.. got like that.” He says dumbly.
“Your hair doesn’t ‘get like that’,” Zoro scoffs, nodding in a gesture. “It gets straight.”
“Well that’s because I straighten it, you dumbass.” Sanji blurts, and now the flush is prominent after creeping up to his cheeks. Zoro’s stunned for a moment, and Sanji takes that opportunity to twist in his grasp once again.
The reflection catches them both now—Zoro looming behind him with strong arms encircling his torso. And those damn waves framing his face to something feminine and familiar. “Otherwise I look like.. this. Ridiculous.”
Zoro’s head tilts as he mentally catalogues that information. That for all the years he’s known his boyfriend, his straight hair is apparently naturally wavy. He watches him for a moment, and then snorts. “You’re kidding.”
Sanji’s glare snaps towards him, sideways. “So, actually I'm not kidding. It’s unfortunately natural, and it makes me look like a goddamn twelve year old–”
“Pretty sure twelve year olds don’t have facial hair.” Zoro interrupts bluntly.
Sanji bristles as one of Zoro’s hands snakes up his chest, drifting behind his neck to brush the thickness at his nape. “That’s not—” Sanji tries, swallowing when Zoro’s finger twists a curl distractedly. When he releases it, the hair springs back into place.
“..You seriously don’t like it?” He realizes after a moment of contemplating something. Sanji frowns faintly, shoulders stiffening against Zoro’s chest.
“Obviously fucking not,” He grumbles.
Zoro stares at him for a beat too long, exhaling through his nose with lasting disbelief. It makes Sanji want to kick him. “You’re weird about the dumbest shit sometimes.”
Sanji’s brow twitches instantly. Oh, now he definitely wants to kick him. “Excuse me?”
“It’s hair, and it’s not even bad hair,” Zoro grunts, “Actually, it suits you.”
The frustration within him dwindles for a moment. Zoro speaks with complete truth, and that’s always the problem with him. He says things like he’s tossing stones into the sea—carelessly, without any anticipation for the ripple they might cause after hitting the surface.
The fingers at his neck flex, disappearing into the density now. Sanji watches in the mirror as Zoro’s head tilts a little to the other side, like finding another angle to appraise him yields further verification of what he’s seeing. “S’curly. ..Pretty.”
Before Sanji can even properly let those words process—Zoro’s head cranes over his shoulder, leaning in. His lips press briefly to one of Sanji’s eyebrows, right against the curl of it. “Matches your swirly brows, too.”
“Fucking—” Sanji recovers with a strangled, offended sound and shoves at Zoro’s face with the heel of his palm. “Get off of me, you braindead moss spore.”
Zoro huffs a laugh, head lolling back obligingly with the force of the push. His hands drop from Sanji completely. “You’ve got the full set now-”
“Full set my ass, say some shit like that again and you’ll be sleeping out on the deck.” Sanji steps away before Zoro can decide to be any more annoying. He rakes a hand back through his hair, a habit more than anything else. But now his fingers catch in the loose waves just enough to make the action feel odd.
“Fine, fine,” He acquiesces, still grinning. And the conversation dies there. Outwardly, at least.
Zoro lets it drop with unusual ease. It seems he’s already said all he intends to say on the matter, sparing Sanji from further teasing. He moves to the bed and peels his shirt over his head, tossing it mindlessly over the stool that Sanji had so neatly draped his own over minutes earlier.
Sanji watches him with a glare. But while he tries to channel some heat into it, he seems to space out instead.
Pretty.
His chest rises and falls as words resurface. His sister’s words. Her comparisons that made his younger self believe the fragments of their mother surviving inside of him were a blessing. The words that twisted as he got older.
Sora has been beautiful in all the ways Sanji never could be. Not merely in face or form, but in spirit, and softness as well. In the kind of saintly kindness she offered to her children and the world, without expectancy for anything in return.
She’s holy in his memory. Perfect, while he is volatile and sharp-tongued. Pretty.
No one has ever seen this version of him and called it pretty. He’s never given them the goddamn chance.
Because what right does he have to resemble her perfection? To inherit any part of her beauty, especially so much of it, while he carries so much ugliness deep down? He never quite said it aloud, not to himself in words so plain. But he’s always thought that maybe he was unworthy of looking like her.
It isn’t entirely the grief. Though he still believes her prettiness deserved better than to be reproduced in someone who still can’t let her go without it hurting. It’s because she was so perfect he thought it impossible to live up to her. And Zoro..
Sanji’s eyes flick towards the bed, where Zoro is sitting now. One of his knees is drawn up, hands busy with the task of undoing his haramaki. He looks entirely unremarkable in his own body - in his own skin. At ease with himself in a way Sanji has always found both enviable and arousing.
Sanji runs a hand through his hair again, slower this time. His mind traitorously imagines smaller hands carding through it.
And traitorously, his mind threatens to reconsider. For the first time in years.
The mirror stares back, and with the sight, a mournful ache arises. It’s still there, as it likely always will be.
But maybe he’s spent too long looking through the wrong lens. He’s always been so terrified to corrupt her beauty with his own imperfections that he’s never really appreciated it properly. And for once.. the sight of himself, of her, doesn’t feel totally unbearable.
“You coming to bed or what?” Zoro asks suddenly, where he’s now reclined with an expectant look on his face, eyes raking over Sanji’s idle figure. The sound of his voice makes Sanji blink and tear his eyes away from the mirror hesitantly.
His hand drops from his curls. Then he exhales, dry and suffering as he turns towards the bed. “I’m coming, you impatient bastard.”
Imperfection lives in many things - the mirror, the faint scratches along the glass that catch in the low pre-dawn light, and the thin gold frame of it. For once, it doesn’t lie in the warped reflection of a man standing before it.
Sanji blinks awake to the ceiling of their room, lethargic upon waking. The warmth of the blankets are cocooning his bare torso, and there’s a pressure in his head that intensifies as the Sunny sways. His brows furrow, the pressure eliciting a small groan from his throat. Goddamn hangover.
Though the groan is not loud enough to wake Zoro. He’s completely out beside him, mouth parted slightly as his beastly snores resound throughout the quarters. Sanji stares at him with bleary eyes.
Then his gaze drifts, instinctively, towards the vanity.
There’s a phantom pull of habit within him that tries to insist. That tells him he should follow routine—drag himself up, rummage through the drawer where the straightener awaits, singe his hair into submission.
And as tempting and as exhausting as that sounds…
Sanji huffs a small laugh through his nose. Then, with all the solemn dignity of a man making a very important life decision on this one, random morning at sea—he reaches over, retrieves a pillow, and drags it over his own head.