Work Text:
“ You two have so much in common—you’re both idiots.”
---
“So, where are you off to now?”
The question caught him off guard, and the cigarette smoke hit his nose, triggering an overwhelming urge to sneeze his lungs out. But not this time, damn tobacco! He never lost to anything.
“I don’t know. Never really thought Luffy would disband us.”
Only a year and a half had passed since their reunion on Sabaody, and now they were parting ways again. This time, though, it seemed like it might be for good.
The cook leaned on the ship’s railing, exhaling another puff of smoke. Zoro's nose burned unbearably, and unsightly tears—not befitting a warrior—pricked at his eye. Damn cigarettes. It was all because of the damn cigarettes and the idiot attached to them.
“Luffy’s a god. Sounds dumb, but with our captain, it’s not even surprising. He’s now a symbol of freedom for everyone oppressed and downtrodden,” Curly smirked bitterly, staring at the azure surface of the water. “...And symbols, like gods, are usually lonely, Marimo.”
Zoro took a deep breath and closed his eye. The tickling in his nose and throat refused to subside. Damn, did the shitty соok light up another one of his poison? The cook… who, annoyingly enough, was absolutely right.
Most of their dreams had been fulfilled. So had the shared goal of all the Straw Hats.
Monkey D. Luffy—King of the Pirates!
No, not just that.
Monkey D. Luffy—the Last King of the Pirates!
A small clarification, but as it turned out, it was the entire meaning of their journey. Why the last? Because, how could anyone inherit a title when the previous bearer left no regalia, no trophies, nothing at all? What was once considered Roger’s treasure, they’d dutifully split evenly (well, as evenly as Nami’s calculations allowed) among all the nakama. Now, the Mugivara had no treasure to hunt, no crew to defeat, and no ship to capture. All he had was a name, one that no one else would ever bear again, and a new mission—to carry freedom in the rhythm of his heart to those who didn’t even know what the word meant.
That’s how it was. One D. started the "Golden Era," and another ended it.
Zoro cleared his throat.
“And what about you? Though, let me guess. Planning to build a restaurant on that rock over there? Or maybe right here?”
Roronoa pointed to a massive chunk of stone proudly drifting past the ship’s side, seemingly indifferent to being referenced by a one-eyed swordsman.
“I always knew, my green-headed friend, that rational thought was beyond you. Why build something when you can just bring it along?” Sanji smirked, tapping his temple with a finger.
“You going back for Baratie?” Zoro asked, ignoring the obvious jab at his intellect and still fighting his watering eyes, even though the damn curly cook had stopped smoking.
“Yeah, after I drop Usopp off at his village and meet the amazing—hopefully real—Kaya-san,” the cook sighed dreamily, and Zoro’s remaining eye rolled out of habit. If the other one still worked, it would’ve joined in. “Then I’ll round up my idiots and bring them here, even if I have to tie the old man up if he starts ranting. They need to see «All Blue»,” Sanji made air quotes around the mythical sea’s name.
Zoro smirked. Yeah, All Blue . That one was funny. Curly had fulfilled his dream. He hadn’t found the legendary sea… he’d created it. It’s worth mentioning that Roronoa himself had a hand (or rather three swords and Conqueror’s Haki) in making that happen. It happened when they were on their way back to fulfill Brook’s wish. But when your crew includes a God, the King of Hell, and an unkillable cyborg disguised as a cook who forbids the aforementioned two from entering the galley early, a reunion with an old friend might not go as smoothly as you’d like. Long story short, Reverse Mountain was no more, and in its place appeared the dream.
“After that, back to the New World. Baratie needs to step out of its comfort zone and into the brutal world of haute cuisine,” the cook chuckled at his culinary joke, stretching contentedly. “And, who knows, maybe our idiot captain will get tired of hopping from island to island.”
Zoro closed his eye and squeezed it shut tightly. The cigarette smoke seemed to have lodged itself in his throat and nose for good.
“Don’t cry, little Marimo. Who knows, we might meet again. Of course, I won’t miss you at all, but if you ever get lost in our waters, stop by. Maybe I’ll even feed you for old times’ sake,” Sanji grinned venomously, slapping a firm hand on Zoro’s shoulder.
“Are you an idiot? I’m not crying. It’s your stupid cigarettes. At least there’s one good thing about this—I won’t have to put up with your moronic face anymore.”
“Sure, keep telling yourself that, Lawn Head,” Black Leg snorted and pushed off the railing, heading toward the galley.
And yet, Zoro hadn’t answered his question, though the answer was strange, stupid, teetering on the edge of naïve insanity, and probably deserving a kick to the head.
Roronoa swallowed hard.
“You know, Marimo, you’re right,” Curly’s voice came from behind, slightly hoarser than usual, “these cigarettes really are crap.”
Oh, screw it. To hell with it all…
“Hey, cook,” Zoro called, turning and immediately meeting the intense gaze of wet blue eyes, “mind giving me a lift to East Blue?”
—
He flung open the large red doors with handles shaped like curlicues and strode into the spacious, brightly lit hall. The place was bustling. Waiters rushed back and forth, balancing trays laden with food. The tantalizing aroma of exquisite dishes filled the air, making his mouth water. Hunger gnawed at him, but that wasn’t why he had come here, dammit.
He needed to find him .
He moved further in, closer to the tables. Some of the guests were already casting curious glances at the strange newcomer. To be fair, he hardly looked like the typical patron of such a refined establishment. But he wanted their attention. They're shoud all be watching. Everyone was to witness him finally realize his wish.
A tall, slim man with shoulder-length golden hair glanced at him briefly before returning his practiced charm to a group of giggling, elegantly dressed women at one of the tables.
He cleared his throat.
“Roronoa Zoro. I need Roronoa Zoro. I know he’s here.”
The blond turned around again, but this time his blue eyes weren’t filled with professional indifference. Instead, they radiated a deep, unmistakable irritation.
“Ladies, if you’ll excuse me for just a moment,” he said with a dazzling smile before striding purposefully toward the intruder.
This had to be Sanji Black Leg. Once the cook for the Last Pirate King, now the owner of the finest restaurant in the New World. It was sheer luck that this magnificent vessel had docked at their godforsaken island. But the real draw was the rumors—rumors that the greatest swordsman alive had made his home aboard this famed restaurant ship. Why? That part didn’t matter. All that mattered was that today, he would defeat the Strongest.
“Listen, kid,” Black Leg stopped in front of him, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring with undisguised annoyance. “I don’t know why you’re looking for Marimo. If he owes you money, tough luck. But let me be clear: I haven’t seen that old geezer in two hundred years. So why don’t you and your hunk of steel turn around and scram before I personally kick you off my ship,” he hissed venomously before spinning on his heel, clearly giving the guy a chance to leave and intending to return to abandoned ladies.
How dare he! How dare he speak to him like that! To him, the future Greatest Swordsman. He would teach this arrogant cook some respect.
“You bastard!” he shouted, the metallic hiss of a blade slicing through the air.
The sharp edge of his katana, freshly unsheathed, aimed directly for the cook’s back, encased in a crisp white shirt.
Oh yeah, it was his fastest strike! The arrogant eyebrow freak won't even have time to turn around..
And then the world flipped upside down.
He didn’t even understand how he ended up sprawled against the far wall, limbs flung out like a broken puppet with severed strings. His vision swam. When his eyes finally refocused and his scattered wits reassembled, the first thing he saw was a long, thin blade with a lacquered purple hilt gripped in a massive hand.
It must have been this weapon that deflected his perfect strike. And deflected it so hard, his very soul nearly departed his body.
From the table he had just been standing near (and now lay several meters away from), a towering figure in a long black yukata rose and turned around. Oh, how he wished it hadn’t turned around, because the sight was… terrifying . Green hair streaked with gray, one katana in hand and two more at the waist, a face like carved from stone, and a single dark gray eye that seemed to reflect the fires of hell and the tormented souls within.
And this monster of a man began to approach him. The sound of heavy footsteps drowned out the wild thundering of his heart, and each step ticking off the remaining seconds of his short life.
Summoning the last shreds of courage and trying desperately to keep all his bodily fluids in check, he staggered to his feet on trembling (very trembling) legs, coming face to face with his Fate—Roronoa Zoro, the man they called the Demon of East Blue.
The beast in human form stopped just a step away. The suffocating aura of death bore down on his shoulders like a granite (or rather, a tombstone-like) slab.
“Who are you?” The voice was deep, rumbling—like the voice of the God of War, marveling at the audacity of such a pitiful speck daring to appear before him.
“I…” he squeaked weakly, like a newborn chick. “I… Sato… a swordsman… and… and… I’ll… I’ll defeat you, Roronoa Zoro!” he finally shouted, burning through the last reserves of his bravery. Only then did he realize his katana was no longer in his hands. It must have flown off somewhere during his spectacular display of flight for the Baratie patrons.
“You call yourself a swordsman and attack from behind?”
“I… I came to fight you,” he stammered, trying to dodge the damning question.
The lips of the “Embodiment of Bloodlust” stretched into a grin—a sight that made many warriors regret not confessing their sins when they had the chance.
“You’re about to fight for your life, brat,” Roronoa growled and grabbed the skinny boy—barely twenty—by the ear like an angry mother.
“You sword-geezer, don’t you dare drench the deck in blood again! I swear I'll send you back to your ancestral homeland in different boxes!” shouted Black Leg, finally breaking his silence, boiling like a pot of chili.
“You're crazy?! I’m not gonna kill the idiot! And you’ll pay for the ‘geezer’ remark, cook-geezer!” Zoro shot back at the same volume before kicking open the heavy door with a toed boot and dragging his wailing opponent outside.
“Start praying, Seaweed-head,” Sanji hissed, grabbing a fork from the nearest table (presumably to poke a few extra holes in Marimo's dumb torso) and stormed out after the “combatants.”
“Well, I've been told that the ‘Baratie’ is better than the theater, but I didn’t think it’d be this good. Let’s come back tomorrow,” one of the ladies, abandoned by Sanji, said enthusiastically, and the others nodded in agreement.
A young waiter stared nervously at the door through which his boss’s indignant yelling could still be heard.
“Zeff-san, shouldn’t we step in?” the boy asked, turning an anxious gaze to the elderly man with snow-white mustaches sitting at the table recently vacated by the Great Swordsman.
“Why?” the old man replied absently, more interested in his newspaper than the latest scandal.
“But what if the boss really kicks out Roronoa-san?”
Zeff smirked into his mustache, still scanning the press.
“He didn't kick him out in twenty years. I doubt today will be the day . Now get back to work.”
The boy sighed heavily and tucked his tray under his arm, heading to the kitchen for the next order.
The boss’s business wasn’t any of his business, after all.
—
The sun washed over the deck in a soft, radiant wave, warming the small white tables, dancing in gleams on polished glasses and silverware, and viciously trying to scorch the retina of the unblinking swordsman. But he couldn’t care less about the sun’s destructive plans.
He was watching.
He was watching the elderly-curly idiot, who today was more idiotic than usual. And more annoying than usual. Mostly because for the past thirty-five minutes ( and twenty-two seconds… twenty-three seconds ), he had been cheerfully chatting with an unfamiliar lady. There didn’t seem to be anything particularly unusual about it. The curly moron constantly wandered out onto the deck or into the dining hall, offering attention and exaggerated respect to anything vaguely resembling a woman. But he never sat down with guests for this long ( thirty-six minutes and forty-four seconds ). And he rarely smiled so openly and sincerely. What's that about?
“Why’s the cook so damn cheerful?” Zoro asked the former chef sitting across from him with an unchanged newspaper.
What he really wanted to ask was, “Who the hell is that woman?”
The old man turned and gave his adopted son a scrutinizing once-over, as if checking him for excessive joy.
“Probably because of Eileen. But who knows what with that Eggplant,” Zef replied, satisfied with his inspection, and shifted his gaze back to the fresh news.
“Who’s Eileen?”
“The lady you’ve been glaring at for half an hour,” the old man replied, peering over his glasses like a responsible father addressing his least successful offspring.
“I wasn’t looking at her,” Zoro muttered into his mug of beer.
To be fair, that was true. He was trying to burn an аdditional hole in curly-moron.
“She’s a good woman. And it seems she likes our Eggplant. Fifth time she’s shown up,” Zef smirked as if the cook’s charm was his own personal accomplishment.
Zoro turned his piercing gaze to the woman. She was beautiful… probably … well, as far as Zoro could tell. Around their age, with an open, friendly face, long wheat-colored hair, and sparkling green eyes. She looked like the perfect heroine of a melodrama destined for a «happily ever after» with a handsome blond man with deep blue eyes and gentle hands… Damn it!
Zoro averted his gaze, focusing with exaggerated attention on the bottom of his now-empty mug.
“We’ve only been docked here for two days.”
“That’s what I mean. And it’d be for the best. Eggplant doesn't have anyone. No kids, no pets. The only living thing is one old swordsman.”
Zeff cast a quick glance at said «living thing,» assessing his reaction. But Zoro was fully immersed in heavy thoughts—ones where perfect men ended up with perfect women, and not… with completely imperfect men. Zoro shook his head, trying to shake off the depression creeping over him.
Zeff, who had been silently observing the swordsman’s inner turmoil, seemed to decide that the man had lived long enough. His next words hammered the final nail into the imaginary coffin of his tablemate.
“Maybe he’d finally start a family.”
Family.
Cook's family with… someone else. In fact, Zoro was prepared for this scenario for the first five years, when he saw every woman who flirted with a bad idiot as a potential Mrs. Vinsm … Blackleg. Back then, he was ready to accept it and leave. But now, twenty damn years later … After all it was Zoro who considered Sanji his family (along with the other idiots here, including the grumpy old man). Of course, he didn't consider himself “Mrs. Black Leg,” but calling the cook “Mr. Roronoa” was wanting to the point of absurdity. But it was always just «thought,» «imagined,» «dreamed,» and never «said.»
Back then, twenty years ago, standing on the deck of the “Sunny“, he had an answer for Sanji.
“Where are you going now?”
“Wherever you go.”
But he hadn’t said that. He’d simply followed Black Leg and stayed. And Sanji hadn’t minded, though he’d regularly yelled about kicking Zoro off on the next island once a week.
But now… what if the old man was right and Sanji truly wanted something more? More than a former crewmate constantly lingering in his line of sight? Maybe he wanted a real family, warmth, comfort, tenderness… all the things the swordsman hadn’t given him. But damn it… the idiot deserved to be loved. Loved fiercely, to the point of dizziness, with unwavering devotion, for a long time… twenty years, even. And most importantly—openly. As for Zoro… well, he’d just be happy for someone else’s happiness.
Zoro cleared his throat. His mouth felt dry and bitter. Why was that? Maybe he ate too much eel?
“Well, so be it. He’s not getting any younger for the ladies anyway.”
Zeff sighed heavily, setting his newspaper aside. He leaned back in his chair and openly studied the dumb and oblivious fool before him.
“Is that why your face looks like you swallowed a lemon? Out of joy for a friend?”
Zoro frowned. His face wasn’t doing anything! He was genuinely happy… Really.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man,” Zoro muttered, pouring himself another beer and promptly hiding behind the mug.
Zeff rubbed his face tiredly.
“Gods, you two are exhausting. Like a pair of adolescent. You’re both grown-ass adults, damn it. Old, even. Dancing around each other like a couple of neutered peacocks. Your courting routine has been driving me nuts for twenty years, right alongside my gallstone. And I’m not sure what will kill me first.”
“You… uh,” Zoro tried to interject, utterly stunned by the old man’s rant.
“Shut it, Zucchini. Eggplant is idiot, but you… Mihawk would drown himself in wine if he knew what a coward beat him. And I didn’t tell him you two aren’t together when he visited last. We all even placed bets on you two. But we stopped after ten years because you’re hopeless. I can’t even die in peace because of you idiots,” Zef barked. If looks could kill, well… the chef’s problem would’ve solved itself.
“I'm…”
“If you dare say this isn’t true, I’ll shove my prosthetic up your ass, and trust me, you won’t like it,” Zef growled threateningly.
The old lunatic could do it. Damn, he could. And Zoro swallowed the excuses clawing at his throat.
“Do whatever the hell you want,” the old man suddenly muttered, all his previous fire extinguished. He seemed even older now, worn down by disappointment and stupidity of great-aged kids. He heaved himself to his feet, not sparing another glance at the dumbfounded swordsman.
“Wait,” Zoro finally snapped out of it.
Zeff braced a hand on the table. His pale-blue, almost translucent eyes seemed to see straight through to every thought racing in the swordsman’s not-so-green head.
“Are you… are you sure he—” Zoro’s gaze flicked briefly to the smiling Curly. “He… feels the same?”
“You know, Zucchini, you’re not the most pleasant person. Not even a decent roommate. I wouldn’t have put up with you for twenty years,” Zeff smirked, his white mustache twitching.
“Fair enough. Guess you just don’t like me,” Zoro chuckled, shaking his head.
“Exactly. Think about that. And one more thing…” The former terror of the seas glanced again at the laughing pair. “Do you really think there haven’t been others like Eileen over twenty years?” Zeff threw one last pointed look at the world’s Strongest—and apparently Clueless in love—Swordsman before stalking off, muttering about grown-ass fools.
And Zoro stared.
He stared at the cook with one eye. And the cook turned around. Gray met bright blue. Sanji tilted his head slightly and smiled warmly, then turned his attention back to the woman.
What if Zeff was right?
Oh, Nika, may the old man be right.
—
Well, Zeff was certainly right about one thing. Mihawk would’ve hanged himself from the nearest tree in his garden if he saw his student cowardly pacing outside someone else's stateroom door.
It was late into the night, and Zoro, having downed a few drops «of liquid courage» (in the form of three bottles of sake), had been standing like a mule in front of the cook’s cabin for twenty minutes, unable to make himself enter.
No, enough of this! He is a grown man! The best warrior! The first mate of the Pirate King! And no curlicue will take him by surprise! He is strong, he is brave, he is…
…standing at his own cabin door.
Damn it, he is a fucking coward.
Zoro took a deep breath, rubbing his face vigorously with his hands.
Screw it.
His fingers gripped the doorknob.
Maybe another time…
Suddenly, an image appeared in his mind: a woman with long, wheat-colored hair on the arm of a smiling cook. Two identical rings glinted in the sunlight.
“Are you happy, Marimo?”
Roronoa whirled around sharply.
No, Marimo isn’t fucking happy at all!
The next moment, he flung open the door to Sanji's room.
The cook didn’t stir from the intrusion, only rolling onto his back, his long hair fanning out over the pillow. The swordsman froze. And now what? Damn it, had Curly always been this beautiful?.. Stop.
Roronoa carefully sat on the bed. Sanji muttered something unintelligible before resuming his soft snores. The moonlight danced over his pale face, highlighting the faint wrinkles near his eyes and mouth. Honestly the cook hadn’t changed much over the years. He had almost no wrinkles, no gray hair—only longer locks. Zoro had always wanted to touch those golden, slightly wavy strands, to brush back the long fringe from pale face, to cradle his soft cheeks, to lean down and—
Zoro leaned in and… shook Curly by the shoulder.
“Cook, wake up.”
Blue eyes glinted dangerously in the room's dim light, and the next second, the swordsman felt a sharp jab in his ribs. He looked down.
“Why a fork?”
“For the element of surprise,” Sanji said, pulling the weapon back under his pillow. “And why the hell did you wake me up? Are we under attack? Or did old man Marimo have a nightmare?”
Zoro rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. With age, the cook’s snark hadn’t diminished. In fact, he’d become an even bigger bitch.
“We need to talk,” Roronoa began, trying to gather his runaway thoughts.
“Can it wait until morning?” Sanji grumbled, attempting to sit more comfortably in bed, propping a pillow behind his back.
His pajama shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. In the silvery moonlight, the cook's skin seemed to glow, his light hair tousled from sleep and the pillow. Curly yawned and sleepily rubbed his eyes, as if deliberately testing a grown man’s patience. Zoro has seen such a cook in his dreams too often.
“Marimo, is everything okay in there?” Black Leg jabbed the swordsman’s forehead with a finger. “Or has senility finally caught up with you?”
“You know, I’ve never figured out where the mute button is on your body,” Zoro sighed heavily, shaking his head.
The cook snorted, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring indignantly at his late-night visitor.
Come on, Roronoa Zoro, just say it and take whatever comes—either a slap or… a confession (hopefully). The grand speech Zoro had rehearsed all day vanished from his mind the moment the cook attacked him with a fork. Damn fork! Okay, it shouldn’t be that hard, right? Just three words, and let the chips fall where they may.
Inhale, exhale. Here goes.
Zoro looked straight into those piercing blue eyes. And…
“ You love me. ”
The cook tilted his head, blinking in confusion.
“Didn’t expect that, did you, Curly Old Fool? The best defense is a good offense. Ha!” said the Smartest of the inner voices.
Sanji frowned, seeming deep in thought, then leaned forward.
Wait a second. Was the cook about to kiss him? Right now? Not that Zoro would mind. Quite the opposite. Roronoa froze, not daring to move or even breathe. Sanji leaned in closer and… sniffed?
“You’ve been drinking?” he asked shortly, pulling back.
Damn it!
“Of course,” Zoro replied, lifting his chin proudly.
The cook sighed and settled back against the headboard.
“You know, the only reason you’re not flying out of here toward our captain right now is that I don’t want to wake the entire crew over your sorry ass. Seriously, what the hell made you think of something so stupid?”
Sanji sounded and looked completely calm. But… Zoro knew him too well. Even in the dim, moonlit room, the swordsman noticed the slight twitch of thin lips in a tense smile, the way his Adam's apple bobbed, and how the pause between his inhale and exhale had lengthened. Roronoa saw it all, and it gave him confidence.
Alright then, let’s keep up the show.
“Because it’s obvious,” Zoro shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
“I’m listening to your arguments, old Marimo,” Sanji said, crossing his arms confidently. Only the way long fingers clenched into fists betrayed him.
The swordsman smirked.
“Well, first off, you’ve been living with me for twenty years,” Zoro bent a first finger, going to count of his evidence.
Sanji scoffed.
“No, you’ve been living with me , homeless Seaweed.”
“Fine. But you haven’t kicked me out,” Zoro countered, bent a second finger.
“Because you’d die in the nearest ditch without me. Besides, you’re an asshole, but you’re still my nakama,” Black Leg shot back, glaring defiantly. The calm facade on his face began to crack.
Zoro narrowed his eyes, observing the now obviously nervous cook.
“Former nakama. We don’t owe each other anything anymore. Funny how I don’t see anyone else here. And… you care about me,” Zoro bent his third finger.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Sanji muttered, looking away toward the window.
“It does.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Alright, here’s another argument. You're courting me, Curly,” Zoro said, bending his fourth finger.
Sanji’s head snapped toward him so fast that Zoro swore he heard a crack.
“I'm what ?” Sanji looked at Roronoa as if he’d just claimed he could turn water into wine.
“You're courting me. You cook for me, give me the best booze. I haven’t bought oil for my swords in twenty years.”
Sanji raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Because you don’t have any money.”
“Why would I need it when you're courting me?” Zoro’s lips stretched into a smug grin.
The cook’s mouth fell open at the sheer audacity of the walking kelp. Emboldened by the reaction, Roronoa leaned closer, causing Curly to press back against the headboard.
“Want one last argument?” the swordsman whispered hoarsely.
“I don’t,” Sanji muttered, trying to look anywhere but at the grinning Roronoa.
“I’ll tell you anyway,” Zoro chuckled, raising his clenched hand with one remaining extended thumb to cook's eye level. “In twenty years there hasn’t been a single mellorine.”
“So what? You haven’t had anyone either,” Curly countered, still holding out.
“I didn’t need anyone,” Zoro said softly, only now realizing just how close they were.
“Maybe I didn’t either,” Sanji muttered, then immediately pressed his lips together.
Gotcha!
“Of course not. Because you love me,” Zoro said, flashing a wide, boyish grin.
And the fist closed fully.
Sanji growled and grabbed the large hand, pushing it away from his face. His palm was warm and soft, and Zoro exhaled sharply.
“This is all just your drunken nonsense, Marimo,” the cook glared at him with fiery eyes.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
The Swirly-brow let out a loud breath and seemed on the verge of bursting into flames. Yet at the same time, he didn’t let go of Zoro’s fist, not noticing how the swordsman, taking advantage of his anger, turned the hand over and clasped the slender wrist with his fingers.
“Alright. Let’s say… but only hypothetically, that you’re right about something. In that case, I’ve got the worst luck,” the cook sighed theatrically, like a distressed damsel.
“And why’s that?” Zoro frowned.
“Well, you don’t court me,” Sanji grinned crookedly, but there was something almost sad in his voice.
“I do court you.”
“When?” Black Leg blinked in surprise.
“All the time. I keep the ship in shape and guard it, make sure you, old wreck, stay in form, and ensure there are no bugs in your kitchen,” Zoro listed his incredible achievements.
“There are no bugs in my kitchen!” Sanji squeaked.
“You're welcome,” Zoro smirked triumphantly.
His gaze dropped to their intertwined hands. It was time to end the games.
“I court you every day, cook… and… I love you ,” Roronoa said quietly, feeling like a nineteen-year-old idiot.
What if he’d said all this back then? Would they have wasted so much time, or would it have ended there, with Sanji hating him forever? Because Zoro had known from the very beginning… But it didn’t matter now. What mattered was that it was finally said. And somehow, breathing became easier.
“Do you really love me?” the cook asked almost childishly, his eyes fixed on their hands.
“I do. Do you believe me?” Zoro looked up at Sanji’s face.
“I do,” Sanji raised his eyes.
They stared at each other for a long moment, as if rediscovering one another, until the cook looked away. His pale cheeks turned pink, and he cleared his throat.
“So… now that we’ve got that sorted out… maybe…”
“Maybe what?” Zoro asked, confused.
“K-kiss, or something…” Black Leg mumbled, peering out from under his long bangs.
Zoro scratched the back of his head awkwardly, once again feeling like a teenager about to kiss his crush for the first time.
“S-sure.”
They leaned closer. Countless times over the years they had been like this: eye to eye, forehead to forehead. But this time was completely different. Sanji’s breath burned Zoro’s lips as the swordsman erased the last millimeters between them. It was incredible. The heavens didn’t crash down on them, the fiery pits of hell didn’t open beneath their feet, and thunder and lightning didn’t shake the cosmos. Zoro just felt like the final piece of his soul had clicked into place, and his inner demons had burned away in the azure flames of those eyes.
Their tenderness lasted what felt like an eternity, or perhaps just a few seconds, before breaking. Zoro placed a rough hand on Sanji’s cheek and gently stroked the slightly flushed skin with his thumb. Only one question remained.
“So, we’re a thing now, right, cook?” Zoro ventured cautiously.
“Guess so, Marimo,” Sanji smiled playfully. “Yeah.”
“And there won’t be anyone else?”
The cook squinted suspiciously.
“What are you getting at, you dried-up shrub?”
“What’s you deal with that Eileen?” Zoro rasped, staring into the blue eyes opposite him.
Sanji frowned.
“What with Eileen? What does this have to do with Eileen? Wait a second…” His face stretched into the most mischievous grin in his arsenal. “Did you just get jealous, old man?”
Zoro scowled, and the damn bastard burst out laughing. Clicking his tongue, the swordsman tried to pull his hand away from the Swirly-brow’s cheek, but Sanji quickly caught it and intertwined their fingers.
“There’s a distillery on this island, one of the best for miles around. It’s owned by Mr. Kay and his wife… Eileen. But right now, the owner is on another island negotiating supplies, so Mrs. Kay kindly agreed to discuss collaboration. Zeff read about them in the newspaper. And the wine is absolutely fantastic, Marimo, you’re going to love it,” Sanji finished with a broad smile.
Wait a second…
“Zeff knew who she was?” Zoro asked, feeling a realization dawn within him.
“Of course he did,” the cook shrugged nonchalantly.
Now it was Zoro’s turn to laugh, both at Zeff’s cunning and his own stupidity.
“That old sly fox,” the swordsman wiped away the tears of laughter that had sprung to his eyes.
“What have you two done ?” Sanji asked warily, narrowing his eyes.
Zoro just smiled, shaking his head, and gently patted the cook’s knee.
“Nothing. I owe him one.”
“Just don’t tell him that. Otherwise, you’ll find out what life under the rule of the Celestial Dragons felt like,” Sanji smirked. “So, have we discussed everything now?”
Zoro grinned wickedly.
“Not yet. There’s one more thing,” Roronoa said mysteriously, pulling off his boots and climbing onto the bed.
The cook blinked in confusion, watching as Zoro threw the blanket off his legs and settled across from him.
“Ready, old Curly?” the stern warrior asked with utmost seriousness.
“Ready for wha… aaah !” Sanji yelped as the damn swordsman suddenly yanked him by the ankles, pulling him closer. “What the hell are you doing?!” Black Leg squeaked in a tone far too undignified for a grown man.
Zoro loomed over him, enjoying the look of shock in both of those wide, uncovered blue eyes.
“What am I doing? Fulfilling my marital duty. We’ve already wasted enough time, and we’re not getting any younger, are we?” Roronoa said matter-of-factly.
“What marital duty, you perverted old geezer?!” the cook hissed, jabbing his ring finger against the so-called husband’s nose. “I don’t see a ring on this finger, spouse,” he growled, emphasizing the last word in a particularly pointed tone.
The dark gray eye narrowed sharply, and Roronoa suddenly straightened up.
“You’ll get your ring now,” he said with utter confidence and reached for one of his earrings.
Removing a long gold pendant from its clasp, he showed it to a disheveled Swirly-brow. Roronoa spun the completed work from various angles in front of the stupidly blinking blue eyes and, taking a narrow wrist, placed the homemade “ring” on the pristine ring finger
“There. See? You’ve got your ring,” Roronoa said, holding up Sanji’s own hand for him to inspect. “You’ve got your husband,” he added, thumping a hand against his chest. “Now you need to keep your word, old man.”
His hands slid over the strong thighs, and he felt a shiver run through Black Leg’s body. Completely satisfied with the effect, the swordsman spread Sanji’s legs wider and pressed the lithe body beneath him.
“Zoro, n-no…” the cook whispered breathlessly, but instead of resisting, his arms wrapped around Zoro’s broad shoulders, pulling him closer.
“Zoro, yes,” Roronoa murmured, trailing kisses down the flushed neck.
“No… mmhaaah ,” the first moan escaped thin lips as a hot tongue flicked against the delicate lobe of his ear.
“Yes.”
“Nnn… hmf ,” Sanji’s latest protest drowned in a passionate kiss.
In the darkness of the cabin, the rustling of discarded clothing mingled with the sounds of fervent kisses and tender caresses, barely contained moans, and whispered confessions.
And finally, time stood still.
“Yes…”