Work Text:
—
Once he learns to cut steel Zoro hears the world differently. The world is alive in ways that shackle him to the earth and its will. He reveres himself to the newly found beating of his ship’s heart, to the beats of his shipmate’s breaths. He doesn’t believe in gods but can concede that there is an intimate sort of intuition he now has of the earth.
The world is now different but all the same. The orange trees he knows provide the best shade in the afternoon after a morning of relentless training sway easily to the tune of the breeze, unperturbed by onslaughts of marines or the petty skirmish the cook and the swordsman will undoubtedly get into.
Except now the trees talk to him in a weird non verbal way and Zoro understands.
Trees, he notes, are constant and rooted. They provide shelter and shade, fruit and foliage; they breathe life back into the air in a never ending cycle of give give give. Stones too, are constant, but instead of reaching into the depths of the earth, they cement into place eroding where rain pours and smoothing down where shoes scurry over endlessly. Even the land, as barren as the desert, breathes undauntingly, unwithered despite the desiccation of its very surface.
His swords make noises too, which is a wonderful development. Koushiro had always said that swords had wills of their own but Zoro had an awful way of forgetting about lessons until he needed them. The most recent case in point, his battle with Mr. 1.
Wadou Ichimonji is quiet for the most part, humming in a soft song, perpetual in her tranquility. She feels like Kuina, like his dreams. She’s a burning resolve and a testament to his growing strength. Yubashiri is the tamest. Always sitting still, tempered and even, sheathed in between the two other swords. Sandai Kitetsu seethes. Demonic energy reverberates in its scabbard and though Zoro has reign over it, it requires constant vigilance. Kitetsu sings in what Zoro considers to be something straight out of a horror story. In any presence of any danger, she wails and by now her tune is fully committed to memory.
When he is there to witness Luffy in his full glory, she whispers incessantly at his side. An enemy of proportional power has her baring non existing teeth. Nothing, however, compares to Sanji. At the mere sight of the cook Kitetsu is rattling in her saya. It’s anticipatory and suspenseful, she sings in preparation—in ritual—knowing a fight is inevitable.
In those moments, in the vicinity of the cook, Wadou remains mellow, resting almost knowingly as if she has all the secrets to the world, the secrets to the swordsman himself. There is something final and accepting in Wadou’s breath. A declaration of something he can’t quite name yet. Zoro can read the basic undertones of the abstract expressions, but has had too little time to learn how to translate them.
Swords are extensions of himself, no matter how long they stay in his possession. A sword of his, is a sword of his. In his inexorable pursuit of being the greatest swordsman in the world, he grieves at any sword that cracks under his guardianship and promises to become better, to become stronger, and so he revels at his newfound ability to hear the world, to bring everything to flesh and bone.
And thus he is not surprised at all to learn that people had rhythms, too.
Luffy’s is reliable and volatile all at once. It quickens in mere seconds of an island appearing, only slowing when something has truly angered the boy. When he’s hungry a gnawing echo pounds incessantly, listless and limitless. Zoro comes to appreciate knowing when his captain’s hunger turns into the need to gather the hapless members of the crew enjoying the deck into a game of who can fish him out of the sea the fastest. But his sound is peace and trust and infallibility, one Zoro never takes for granted.
Nami’s beat lacks any trill save for when there is Beli on the line. She is a floating breeze of the sea that trudges the ships along, smooth and with certainty, as if nurturing the throes of boats that litter the seas. He will die before acknowledging that out loud though.
Once the notion of money rises, she’s like a storm on land. Crackles of lighting and the boom of thunder sound rapidly as she leers at her next unsuspecting victim (which is more often than not, Zoro). Again, Zoro is pleased he can distinguish her likeness because even as his debt grows relentlessly each island they stop at, he at least learns to keep his mouth shut when her tempestuous mood arises.
Usopp sounds like a hammer on steel. Clanking of tools as he builds inventions always accompanies a nervous hiccup that never goes away. He shadows the sound of Merry as he shrieks in agony as cannon after cannon nick her hull, shoddy repairs enacted instantaneously as if the sooner the holes are patched, the sooner she can sing them all to sleep.
Chopper’s tempo is easily his favorite. It’s soft in a sort of natural way, like the fluttering of wings or the fall of snow. The reindeer reminds him of the world when he meditates, it's calm and everything feels readily in place, as if nothing can move him. It quickly turns into a blubbering mess once a compliment is had (“Bastard, hearing you say that doesn’t make me happy at all!”). But Zoro doesn’t mind that either.
The newest “member” of the crew is a constant buzz. He can’t read her, nor does her rhythm offer him insight at anything further than she’s dangerous. It’s a quiet whisper, one he knows well, after fighting off nearly a hundred assassins in Whiskey Peak. The only thing about Nico Robin’s sound is that it is eons more ominous. But well, if Luffy says she stays, then that’s that.
He watches, still.
He stiffens when hears the roar of a vortex stirring. For all his new insights, it’s all observations that are had with active concentration. The lone exception exists in the form of a bumbling idiot cook. He is an unceasing shroud of wave after wave ricocheting off every plank, brash and fiery like the ocean.
It smashes into him like the force of a tsunami, as if he is a fledgling setting out to sea for the first time and Zoro lacks the navigation to not get swayed by his tune (he ignores the voice inside his head that mimics the gravel of a freshly had cigarette taunting that he lacks navigation entirely).
It ebbs and flows and pulls a writhing wave one second then a calm tide pool the next. It fizzles into a boiling mess when a woman enters his vicinity. Overflowing into Zoro’s cadence, it seeps into his own rhythm, messing with his timing and never fails to put the swordsman in a piss poor mood.
His sound ignites a fire within the swordsman, like Sanji’s rhythm exists solely to counter his. Within the natures of the crew, he is immovable and tenacious but then the cook comes blundering in, scorching swells that crash and burn until he too, inevitably molds himself to the break of the shore.
He doesn’t know why, but it’s only the cook he can’t seem to ignore. The cook’s loud, which raises his hackles most days even without the added ammunition of an insult regarding his hair or direction (or lack thereof). But more than enraged shouts after Luffy’s snuck off with half the contents of the fridge, Zoro finds himself strangely attuned to his sound.
Naps come to him easier and he wakes less frequently and he doesn't know what to do with the information. One day he slept through a lunch call (A lunch call!) and woke to a whoosh of a wave lapping at shore and the cook standing above him, nudging his arm with his shoe, smoke billowing in the breeze.
Zoro doesn’t like to acknowledge he allowed someone to touch him while he slept. Granted it was a shoe on his arm but his moniker Demon Hunter isn’t for naught. He is always alert and knows what happens when you’re ill prepared and and-
(He thinks of the blood that drips off that polished shoe up to the prickly hair on those long long legs and what? The thoughts of the cook’s legs send him spiraling once more.)
But as much as Zoro complains, more often than not, Sanji’s sound is actually quite bearable. In the quiet of the morning, when everyone is asleep and the cook is preparing breakfast his melody is a simmer of softly clanging pots and pans, of vegetable and meats diced and flayed. A pot of coffee is set and a small humming floats out the Galley. It’s a tune wholly unfamiliar to his East Blue ears and Zoro concludes it must be of North Blue origins.
In that small hour is when Zoro likes to train most.
It’s quiet, methodical, and surprisingly helps with his meditation. He falls to the call of nothing faster than a snap of his fingers. There is an easy peace to the ship and its dawn inhabitants that dissipates as soon as the Captain awakes, shouts of meat and hunger echoing instead.
Sweating enough to fill a small aquarium, the swordsman rises from his thousandth pushup. He grabs a rag that looks like it's seen the bottom of the boy’s lockers and wipes his face haphazardly. It’s early still, the light of the morning emerging purple and pink, the ocean reflecting the start of the day. To the side of the stairs is a plate of onigiri and a carafe of water.
Zoro huffs as he sits, carelessly stuffing his face full, the pickled plum and salted tuna meshing into one big gulp as he washes it down with water. The plate is empty in seconds, not a single grain of rice remaining.
Would’ve been better with sake, he thinks as he belches loudly.
He flops languidly on his back, arm tucked under his head as he relaxes to the sound of the waves against the merry harmonizing with the sea of the cook in the galley. Merry glides through the morning haze smoothly, a gale getting caught in the mast, pulling them along.
Zoro should return the plate, but just as he knows the sounds of the cook, he equally knows how his mind operates. Like clockwork, the North Blue shanty stops and the creak of the galley door is all the notice he has before a dress shoe is implanted in the space where his head was seconds ago.
Sanji tsk’s as Zoro yawns rolling back over. Usopp would be shrieking over the damage by daylight but that was a bridge they’d cross when they needed to. The cook plops down unceremoniously, arm laid flat on a propped knee as he lights a cigarette gnashed between his teeth with the other. Sandai Kitetsu hums her tune, basking in his familiar aura.
It’s not the first time they’ve done this, existing in each other’s space without pushing for a fight. Post battles and early mornings are times reserved for a softer Sanji and Zoro can’t help but like it.
It’s peaceful without his embellished overture; his usual manner feels like an inherent need to protect a particular part of himself from the world. It makes Zoro want to scream they’re not the world, they’re nakama, and that makes all the more difference but Sanji’s got some complex and while they may have bathed in the blood of their enemies together he hasn’t quite freed that particular back story to the cook.
He also doesn’t care to know.
Instead, what Zoro knows of is a hungry enemy and the hands that fed him. He knows of broken backs and not monsters. He knows of stolen goggles and its return to its fearless owner. He knows that when it comes down to it, the cook is every bit his equal, the wings to the future pirate king, the protectors and providers.
He’ll keel over before admitting that the cook can be a little endearing. It’s actual utter stupidity that in the heat of battle the man can be so bewitched by a woman, he becomes a veritable idiot but he supposes that’ll never change, and the thought is somewhat comforting.
He is shaken out of his stupor by a jostle to his side and a swirly eyebrow raised in question.
“May I?”
Sanji is gesturing toward his swords laid on the deck each polished to a deserving shine. Zoro simply stares, unmoving. Sanji takes that acquiescence and moves to grasp the hilt of Wadou, unsheathing the sword smoothly, examining it in the small rays of morning fluttering through the clouds.
In an instant Zoro knows that the cook is trained with a sword. Not a swordmaster by any means, no, but there is a lack of hesitation when the hamon glints in the light, untrained users are too careful, tread too lightly. A sword is a weapon first, after all.
Kitetsu’s energy spikes and Zoro immediately lays a hand over the handle. Sanji quirks his brow.
“A wild one, isn’t it?” Sanji muses, eyes flickering to the red scabbard oozing a deadly aura.
Zoro snorts, “She just always wants to fight idiots.” He gets kicked half-heartedly for that one.
“Shut up, you bastard.”
Their insults lack the usual fire and vigor, too at peace by the morning fog to get truly into it. They know come daylight they will pick up where they always leave off and more dents in Merry will appear in turn but for now they are existing in a time built for two and Zoro finds his next words easy.
Everything’s always easier here, Zoro thinks to himself.
“You can use a sword?” Zoro questions, after minutes of bickering and flinging chipped wood at each other. Kitetsu’s energy finally fades to an easy simmer so he removes his hand, letting it lay simply at his side.
“Not really. Just similar to a knife I suppose,” Sanji shrugs.
As a chef, Sanji knows blades well enough, his kitchen knives are always perfectly sharpened and stored. Zoro can respect a well-cared for blade. But this expertise is different. It’s not a swordsman’s grip per se, but there is a comfortability with the sharpness and lethality of the weapon. Zoro swallows and something swells deep in his belly. His blood sings as Sanji handles Wadou with a sincerity Zoro witnesses only for his hands. Kitetsu whines, cutting sharply in the air like the beginnings of a hurricane.
“This one,” he starts, fingers tracing the white ito, following the indentations of his teeth marks. “What’s its name?”
“Wadou Ichimonji.”
Zoro closes his eyes, arms folded behind his head. A comfortable silence follows as Sanji studies the blade. He can hear the clink everytime the weight of the blade shifts as if turning back and forth. Zoro is unsure of what the cook is looking for but Zoro can feel Wadou almost preening at the attention. It is an unusually proud display of her humble yet elegant tsuka and the gleaming shine on her blade as she beats loud and steady, tried and true.
“I cut steel,” Zoro says conversationally, finally revealing his newfound strength as if the feat were as miniscule as breathing. “During my fight with Mr. 1.”
Sanji inhales on his cigarette and nudges his arm with the toe of his shoe. “Cut the shit, mosshead. I know you’re over the fucking moon.”
Zoro opens one eye, finding Sanji’s. He grins, almost maniacally.
“I’m gonna be the greatest swordsman in the world.”
It’s a statement. One of conviction and truth, as if there could be no other answer.
“And you’ll find your ocean.”
This too, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.
Sanji laughs loud, falling gracelessly on his back. His cigarette is held loosely between his fingers as he curls toward the swordsman, a dress shirt shoulder brushing the swordsman’s hip. Golden strands of hair scatter on the wood of the deck and a twinkling of ocean blue meet steel grey. Mirth shines bright and bold as Sanji pats the scar on the swordsman’s left ankle.
“Of course, idiot.”
Sanji is—dare Zoro ever say it aloud—rather docile in this hour. Despite his eternal inclination of rising before the sun there is a lack of bite in his retorts. And while he retains a relatively disgruntled mood, Zoro finds the cook is placated quicker and is somehow softer around the edges.
Of course they fight (because they must) otherwise who would they be? It’s just that it’s all pretense in this period of mutual solitude to justify a closeness they wouldn't be free to display anywhere else (and well Zoro doesn’t care one way or another but the cook, the cook always has shit to say, walls built sky-high even Elbaf's tallest soldier wouldn't be able to surmount it).
Despite it all they somehow end up pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, back to back, forehead to forehead, the weight of their duties and dreams shared for a few brief moments.
For Zoro that is usually enough but-.
There’s a sudden ringing from the blonde. A surge so full crashing down yet so achingly out of reach from him. As if testing the limits it is able to push, teetering at the edge, apexing centimeters before him but never quite reaching. There is a foreboding longing that makes Zoro’s throat dry and makes his breath stutter. The swell is waiting and waiting for Zoro to step in and wade into the depths of the ocean—the cook.
Kitetsu purrs. Wadou glints knowingly. Yubashiri exhales.
Zoro swallows. Even without words he understands the man next to him. It is in the resounding topple of bodies that fall at their feet, or the collective ruin they bring upon marine ships that try to follow. A never ending endeavor to be better, to better each other.
(How many?
Fifty seven.
Hah! Fifty eight.
A marine gets a cheap shot at Zoro under the piled bodies. The bullet exits clean through his left shoulder. The marine’s skull is smashed into the deck by a bloodied dress shoe.
Watch your back.
Another marine set on slashing Sanji’s back is stabbed through the chest before he has time to even blink. Wadou is removed and the splatter of blood that leaves her blade as Zoro slashes her through the air makes Kitetsu cry tears of joy.
Watch your back.
And they devolve into hair pulling, biting teeth, flat back swords against steel toed shoes. Inevitably they return to their places, back to back, swords and shoes against the world.)
The ocean is life and death. It is rebirth and rest. It is love and hate and plates of food carefully crafted for a palate adverse to sweets. It is a walloping kick to the jaw in the midst of a fight and a cigarette nursed to the filter after a long day. It is—Zoro learns and hears and understands it as so—Sanji.
And well, how can Zoro do anything else but meet him halfway?
He pushes himself up, turning toward the blonde. The crew will wake soon and with it the hour that Zoro so covets. Shifting his weight he threads his fingers through wisps of blonde hair moving to cradle a jaw lined with stubble. As he leans to stand, he presses his lips to the top of the cook’s head, nudging his face against the softness of the cook’s hair, inhaling the smoke and spices that always accompany him.
“Thanks, Curly.”
Sanij whips his head up, eyes wide as emotions flit through his face, from shocked to outraged to plain flabbergasted. The effect of his glare is softened by a small blush that builds, flushing past the neck of his shirt to the tips of his ears blooming prettily along the bridge of his nose. At that moment, he’s like a tea kettle, water boiling to the top, steam whistling bright in the air. Zoro smugly realizes this is the first time he’s heard him like this, even when women have reciprocated his flirting it hadn’t been quite this melodic.
“What the hell, you shitty swordsman?”
Sanji’s spluttering, red and scorned and Zoro thinks he could get used to the sound.
—
Sanji finds him later in the dark of night, pulls him in by his haramaki, and kisses Zoro within an inch of his life.
Kitetsu shrieks.