Archive of Our Own

Pirates do not, as a general rule, retire.

Pirates die at sea — in untamable storms, in clashes with the marines, in brawls with rivals crews, in mutinies. Scurvy. Alcohol poisoning. Sun poisoning. Calenture. Infection. Starvation. Pirates die on land, too, usually on poorly-constructed execution platforms with nooses around their necks. Any pirate who manages to outlast their journeys and escape a life at sea to go into hiding might dump themselves on scarcely-inhabited washes of sand with enough booze and bread to keep them alive for, generously, a few more months. Piracy doesn’t come with a safety net, and there’s no real need for it. Old age is a wilder dream than the One Piece to most; the oldest of the natural, human pirates Sanji has met were only drifting through their fifties.

The All Blue, though. Sanji could see himself retiring here.

It’s . . . everything he’s ever dreamed and like nothing he’s even seen. Crystal-clear waters, the hazy green of the North and South mixing with the frothy blue of the East and West. There are schools of fish he’s never seen before swimming past in a dazzlingly array of colors and sizes. He’d been giddy like a child, pointing them out and shouting what he might make with them. Seaweed, greener than he’s ever known, perfect for sushi. There’s sea fennel down there, the water is clear enough that he can see it, that will add a kick to any meal when properly dehydrated and ground up. And the fish! So many fish! Enough to feed everyone in the world, and still have some left over! Usopp called for the fishing nets as soon as he saw the look on Sanji’s face, hanging over the rail of the ship. The sky is somehow clearer, bluer, with fluffy white clouds floating overhead, a lone seabird gliding through. And the air — is it just him, or is the air sweeter somehow? Salted, of course, but brined from the froth all four Blues. This is what’s possible without the Red Line. This is what’s possible with Luffy on your side.

The Thousand Sunny drifts lazily across the miracle that is the All Blue’s waters, the crew laughing on the deck, and Sanji could spend the rest of his life right where he is.

It’s been a good, long while since he excused himself to the galley to weep privately. The dishes from breakfast are still piled patiently beside the sink and he can’t bring himself to start them. Nami had run in before he’d had the opportunity to so much as run the faucet, grabbed his hands in her lovely little palms, and tugged him out to the deck. Sanji, she said in amazement, I think — well, just come see. And see he did! He still hasn’t recovered from the shock, but his eyes have since dried. He’s not embarrassed to admit the beauty of the All Blue brought him to tears. It’s the way he looks in the aftermath that he can’t let the girls see: probably red-eyed and swollen and horribly unattractive.

The door knocks open, heavy with the shove of a shoulder, and Zoro tromps in, carrying the scent of the All Blue and the earthy but acrid sweat of his workout in with him. He crosses to Sanji at the counter, where he’s standing useless and dazed, staring out the window at the water. At the All Blue.

Oh, the old geezer won’t fucking believe this. Now that he has himself together, he has to find the closest transponder snail and make a call.

Naked and vulnerable without his swords on his hip, tucked safely away in their scabbards and set with care by the door, Zoro leans his elbows on the counter. This is how Sanji likes their swordsman best, in the quiet of the galley or the crow’s nest together, just the two of them. When they’re not fighting enemies or fighting each other, it’s . . . it’s almost like something that Sanji’s been searching for almost as long as the All Blue. “So.”

“So,” Sanji echoes.

“The All Blue.”

“The All Blue.”

“You found it.”

“We most certainly did.”

Zoro nods, just the once. So eloquent, their first mate. “Got any big feelings about that?”

A big breath in, a slow release. A smoker’s breath, sans cigarette. They’re stuffed in his pocket, but he hasn’t had one since he realized what they’d sailed into. He hasn’t felt the need for one. Sanji shakes his head, the smile he hasn’t been able to keep off his face stretching him until his cheeks hurt. “I am . . . overwhelmed.” He chuckles. “Underwhelmed. A bit of everything.” It’s ridiculous; he feels like a little kid, giddiness bubbling up unexpectedly, whenever he has a moment to remember that this is real, this is happening. He found the All Blue! “Was it like that for you?”

“When I defeated Mihawk?” Zoro tilts his head this way and that, weighing his words. “Yeah, a little bit. Disbelief, kind of.”

“Exactly!” Sanji agrees. “My whole life, I’ve dreamed of this. It doesn’t feel quite real.”

Zoro straightens up, palms to the flat counter. He has this radiant smile that softens his rough face into something utterly lovely, all crinkled eyes and pink cheeks and deep dimples. He’s intimidating at first glance — and the second, and the third. More of a flashing sign screaming DANGER than a man. It’s in the cut of his hair, in the shift of his stance, in the line of his jaw, but when he smiles . . . Who would notice the scar, the missing eye, with a smile like that? “I bet it’ll feel real once you call your old man and tell ‘im.”

A laugh barks out of Sanji’s throat. “I don’t know who’s more likely to cry — him or me.”

“Oh, you,” Zoro says, definitive. “Definitely you.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that. He’s an emotional sort.” Nobody would think so, just looking at him, just hearing about him. Red-Leg Zeff, fearsome captain of the Cook Pirates. Who would guess he’d cried when the shitty little eggplant he’d taken in and sacrificed his leg for finally started gaining weight again and the doctors released him into Zeff’s custody, when he bested one of the other cooks in a sparring match for the first time, when he taught him how to shave? Sure, he’s a rough and mean old shithead, and he shoved Sanji around just as much as he did everyone else, but he made it clear he loved Sanji in his own way. Homesickness washes over him for that shitty restaurant, finest in the East Blue. He sighs. “I can’t wait for him to see it.”

There’s a long pause, only the creaking of the ship and the distant sound of Luffy shouting something down to Usopp out on the deck between them. Zoro licks his lips. Sanji doesn’t see it, but he hears it. The slight indrawn breath, the wet sound of his tongue moving around his mouth. He can picture it perfectly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m going to stay here.” It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. “Set up shop. Get the old geezer to join me, if he can be bothered to make the trip.” He can even see it, in his mind’s eye: a restaurant built with his own two hands, floating on the rarest waters in the world. His very own Baratie, serving the world’s most diverse cuisine, fish and vegetables and spices from all four Blues. A place of his own, where no one can tell him what to do, where to go, who he is, who to be. A place where he can feed everyone, where no one will go hungry. Just thinking about it has him sounding dreamy, warm with satisfaction and sunshine, flush with daring. His hand inches across the counter, little finger brushing tentatively against Zoro’s. “You could stay, too.”

Zoro doesn’t flinch away, but he doesn’t do much of anything else either. His face doesn’t change, blank and impassive. “Me?”

With a huff of breath through his nose, he rolls his eyes. “Yes, marimo, you.”

Finally, a reaction. Zoro looks down at their hands, at their fingers, the space between. His dark eyebrows furrow, digging a crease in between that Sanji longs to soothe away with his thumb. “Why would you . . .”

Joke about something like that? Oh, Sanji’s not joking. Even if they didn’t have a history of banging out their frustrations in the boy’s bunk room, he’d keep Zoro with him. He’d keep all the Straw Hats with him, if he thought they’d stay. But they all have other things to do, other people waiting on them, other dreams to search after. Zoro, though, has already gotten everything he’d ever wanted. And Sanji’s willing to offer himself up as his next adventure. “I’d like it if you stayed. I thought maybe we could — I don’t know, settle down. Start a life together. Make a real go of it.”

“We can’t—“

Leave Luffy. Leave the crew. Do it on their own. There are a million things they can’t do, but this isn’t one of them. They’d be good at it, if they did it together. They work well as a team; they’ve proven that one million times over. A stable life. A home. A marriage, maybe. Sanji’s always wanted to be married, dreamed about it the way everyone told him little girls do. Children, if Zoro’s into that sort of thing. Sanji’s probably too fucked up mentally and genetically to do it right on his own, but Sanji’s seen Zoro with kids, with Chopper, with the crew. Sanji could do it, if he had Zoro.

Giddy eagerness bursts out of Sanji. “We can!” Anything feels possible right now. “Listen. I know it sounds crazy. Starting a restaurant is no easy feat, and leaving the crew will feel like severing a limb. But compared to what we’ve done . . . isn’t it worth seeing what it could be? Don’t we deserve it? Everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve lost, everything we’ve gained, don’t we deserve a quiet little life? If anyone can do it, it would be us.” He hooks his finger over Zoro’s, an easy hold to break, and gives it a firm squeeze. “I found the All Blue. I need a new dream now. This is mine. You are mine.”

“Cook,” Zoro’s pinky pulls out from under his, “I can’t.”

“. . . Oh.”

Heartbreak sure is a kicker, isn’t it? Dreams crumbling to pieces and washing away in the tide with just three words, said with irritation. Rejection from Nami and Robin, from all of the women he dotes upon, that’s never stung like this. Probably because that’s all in good fun, all because old Red-Leg raised him to believe it’s a man’s duty to treat every woman he meets like a queen, because the girls know he’s not really serious in his affections, because he’s just returning the favor for every woman who was ever kind to him when the world was cruel and the men in it were crueler. Yes, he loves them. Yes, they’re beautiful. But he’d be at an utter loss if they ever accepted his advances.

Zoro, though. Rejection from Zoro bites as sharp and stinging as his swords. Because this means something. Years of friendship. Years of camaraderie. Years of poking at each other, shoving at each other. Years of fighting back-to-back, feeling Zoro’s presence and knowing he’d be safe no matter who their foe happened to be. Years of throwing themselves overboard whenever Luffy happens to go for an accidental dip in the ocean. Years of patching each other’s wounds, at least until they could get to Chopper. Years of domesticity, washing dishes and eating meals and folding laundry side by side. Years of falling into each other, heavy petting in the pantry and slow lovemaking in their bunks, bodies rolling with the rock of the sea. Years of Sanji pressing his forehead to Zoro’s solid, sleeping chest and begging the gods desperately: please, please, please. Let him be with me. Let me keep this one thing. What they have, it means something to Sanji. And he’d thought it meant at least half as much to Zoro.

Stupid to assume. Sailors on ships get lonely. Months at sea, shared spaces, very little privacy. People start looking for comfort wherever they can get it. Sanji knew that before he ever stepped foot on the Going Merry. Plenty of men and women and people in between stopped at Baratie for a bite to eat and a game of grab-ass with another patron or a free member of the staff. His own first kiss had been with a passing marine recruit, and his second with a slightly older woman who taught him how to kiss with his tongue. He’d lost his virginity to a drifting Devil Fruit user in the little bedroom he had that adjoined to Zeff’s — though he hadn’t known he was a Devil Fruit user at the time, and he shouldn’t have pretended not to know him when he turned out to be his captain’s big brother. And, sure, he’s seen evidence that maritime affairs could become more. He’d grown up with Carne and Patty’s tales of finding comfort, camaraderie, and convenience in each other during their sailing days, how it turned to love when Zeff took them on as kitchen staff and they weren’t constantly on the move. But they were always the exception, not the rule.

The point is: Sanji knows better. He’s more than knowledgable about what time at sea does to a man’s libido. That’s how it started between them, after all. Sanji thought Zoro was handsome and stupidly brave and bravely stupid; Zoro thought Sanji was . . . passable, he assumed, and willing enough. At some point, fighting became sparring and rivalry became a game. At some point, tousling stopped cutting the tension between them. At some point, he’d kicked and Zoro had grabbed, they’d gotten tangled up, and mouth found mouth. And then they’d just never stopped meeting in the middle. Never defined it, not really, but Sanji thought they hadn’t needed to. He thought that maybe — well, it doesn’t matter what he thought.

A few fumbling seconds and Sanji has a cigarette between his lips, the end burning cherry-bright and hot. He crosses to the sink and flicks the faucet on, plugging up the bottom. “Right. That’s that, then.”

“Cook—“

Sanji shakes his head. The taste of tobacco on the back of his tongue doesn’t soothe him like he thought it would. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore. I want to stay. You don’t. That’s fine. The matter is closed.”

“It’s not that I don’t wan—“

There is very little that Zoro hates more than being interrupted, always so deliberate with his words and who he gives them to, but Sanji does it anyway, sharp and short. “I don’t need platitudes. I understand.”

“You don’t understand,” Zoro insists. “I can’t.”

“Yes,” Sanji grits out around his cigarette, “you’ve made that quite clear.”

“No,” Zoro growls. “You’re not listening to me. Sanji—“ And it’s the use of his given name, usually reserved for only the most intimate of moments in the bedroom, that gets his attention, that makes him drop his guard. Zoro’s hand folds heavily around his elbow, yanking him around to face him and holding him there with a hard set to his mouth. “I can’t. I can’t stay in one place. I’m not capable of it. I’m really not capable of it.” His eyes, so dark and so earnest and so fucking sad, flick to the ground. “I’m always wandering off. I can’t stop myself. It’s — I have to keep moving.”

They’ve spent enough time at each other’s throats for Sanji to know that if Zoro really wanted rid of him, he wouldn’t hold back. Why let him down gently, when that’s not in Zoro’s nature? Why play at the whole it’s not you, it’s me when they both know it’s really, absolutely, always Sanji who is getting attached and assuming too much? If Zoro didn’t want him, he would say it right out. He takes a long, slow drag of his cigarette. “What do you mean?”

Zoro has these impossibly broad shoulders, honed from years of training every day. They’re crisscrossed with scarring from a million fights, from a rough life, from the sharp drag of Sanji’s fingernails. He’s drooled over those shoulders, both literally and figuratively, many a time. They lift and fall in a shrug. “Mihawk said I’m cursed.”

“Cursed.”

Zoro reaches around him, flicks the faucet off with the might of one strong finger. “It came up, back on Kuriagana. I kept . . .” His stubborn mouth twists. “. . . getting lost, even in the castle. He said it’s a Flying Dutchman kind of thing. You know, cursed to wander endlessly.”

Flailing, Sanji sputters. “But — but you’ve been on the Sunny for years! And the Merry before that!”

“Always moving. Never in one place for long. An active ship is the closest I’ll ever get to having a chance at somewhere to stay.” That . . . almost makes sense. Island to island, traveling the open seas. Zoro’s tan face flushes red. “And even then, if I’m on the ship for too long, I start wandering again.”

A hundred memories play through Sanji’s mind. Zoro, wandering into the galley, searching for the bathroom. Zoro, napping in the hall because he couldn’t find the bunk room. Zoro, insisting that the layout of the ship changed when he wasn’t looking. Always after a few days into their latest voyage, once the island they’d been on was behind them and they’d had time to settle back into life at sea. Wasn’t the Sunny built with subtle guides to combat that exact problem?

“I thought, maybe, it would stop once I defeated Mihawk and I became the world’s greatest swordsman, but . . .  I was wrong. It hasn’t stopped. I don’t know if it ever will.”

They live in a world where stupid kids eat fruit and it turns their bodies to rubber, where that kid grows up to be King of the Pirates. A curse, in comparison, sounds much more believable. Even probable. And Zoro’s definitely pissed off enough people to end up cursed. It wouldn’t be a surprise. “It can’t have always been like this. I mean, you grew up in a dojo. You stayed there for years without wandering off.”

“I wandered around before that, though. Dojo to dojo, town to town, besting their strongest fighters. I only stayed because I couldn’t beat . . .” Kuina, the mythical Kuina. Zoro still struggles to talk about her, to even say her name. Sanji can’t imagine a little baby mosshead drifting from place to place, all alone in the world. It hurts his heart, to know they were lonely and lost at the same time, on different Blues. “And then one day I woke up and I needed to leave.” Zoro sighs heavily, hangs his mossy green head. “Haven’t stopped moving since then.”

Sanji pinches the bridge of his nose, cigarette clutched between two knuckles. “And you never thought to question that? You didn’t think that was strange?”

“You didn’t.” That’s . . . true enough. The whole crew just assumed Zoro was geographically challenged. Hell, it was a running joke! For years, they’ve drawn straws for Zoro Duty, which solely involved assigning someone the responsibility of getting him back to the ship at the end of the day. Sanji’d rigged it a few times, back when he was pathetically crushing on the swordsman and they were fighting their tension away instead of fucking, to have an excuse to spend time together. “I just figured I was grown up, you know? Time to move on. See the world. And then I didn’t have anywhere worth staying, not until I met Luffy.”

Luffy. Really, no matter how they might feel about each other or anyone else, the captain is the great love of their lives. And that goes for all of them, every single person on their crew. Luffy is a revelation. Sunshine incarnate. Bright, bright enough to burn if you’re not careful. The one person who believed in them when no one else did. The one person they would do anything for. Sanji knows he’d lose, if he ever asked Zoro to choose between them. Which . . . come to think of it . . . could be exactly how Zoro might interpret his invitation to stay.

Abandon Luffy and everything you’ve built together to build something new with me. That’s what he sounds like. Pick me. Choose me. Love me.

And everyone knows Zoro would rather commit seppuku than ever leave Luffy behind, not to mention the others.

Oh, no. The others. Do they know about the curse? Robin, at the very least, must suspect; he would never doubt the power of her perception, the sheer strength of her mind. Maybe Chopper, as their doctor. But the rest of them? Zoro obviously doesn’t want anyone to know. If he did, he would’ve told them. They deserve to know. Luffy and Nami and Usopp, who’ve been with him since the beginning — and Luffy, especially — they deserve to know. How could he keep this from them?

Maybe it’s the emotional whiplash that makes him harsh. Or maybe Sanji’s just an asshole. “You never thought to tell anyone about this, you sentient piece of seaweed? I’d say it’s a pretty big fucking thing to keep from your crew.”

Careless, Zoro shrugs. “I never said I didn’t tell anyone. Maybe I just didn’t tell you.”

Okay, ouch. And here he’d thought they’d come a long way from the competitive, antagonistic nineteen-year-olds they’d been when they met. He’d thought there was more trust between them, more respect and mutual affection. Ugh. It’s like he can never quite find his footing with Zoro. Does he feel the way Sanji feels, years into their maritime affair, or is Sanji nothing more than a convenience that grew too attached? He can never tell, because they can never talk to each other straight. It’s all shrouded in insults and playful sparring, substituting honesty for sarcasm, with hot, heavy kissing in between.

There is a very real possibility that, despite all the sweet words and despite all the sex, Zoro simply just does not want Sanji. Not the way he thought he did. Not in a forever kind of way. Maybe it was fine to pretend at it, until Sanji made his intentions clear.

Maybe Sanji’s just not the type of guy people want to settle down with.

“Is this just some over-inflated it’s-not-you-its-me thing?” Sanji hates to ask, but he can’t stop himself. “You’re not trying to let me down gently, are you?”

Zoro has a multitude of smiles. A smile reserved specifically for Luffy. A smile, small and private, for a good cold beer on a hot day. A smile for kids, soft and open, so they know not to be afraid of him. A smile never seen, only ever felt against the curve of Sanji’s neck or bare shoulder or naked thigh in bed. This one, though, is Sanji’s second favorite of the lot: a dangerous, sharp baring of his teeth, with a canine fierceness that reminds him of a chained up attack dog. It’s stupidly hot. “I don’t do anything gently, Curly.”

That’s maybe the only lie Zoro’s told this whole conversation. He does plenty gently. He lifts Chopper gently. He cleans his swords gently. He makes love to Sanji gently.

Or — he fucks Sanji gently. He’s not so sure, suddenly, that they’ve been making love.

Well, he’s sure he’s been making love, on his end. Maybe this is just another case of Sanji mistaking attention for affection. But . . . no. Zoro cares about him. Whether or not Zoro is in love with him, whether or not Zoro wants to stay with him, they’re nakama.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a big, tough guy. The Demon of the East Blue. King of hell. Whatever.” With a roll of his eyes, Sanji takes a long drag of his cigarette. He barely resists the urge to blow the smoke in Zoro’s face, just to be a dick. Back to the matter at hand. He narrows his eyes. “Then you’re serious. You’re really cursed.”

Hands out to the sides, Zoro offers him: “Really cursed.”

“So you’d want to stay with me.” A moment of hesitation — not doubt, but embarrassment — followed by a grunt of acknowledgment. “But you can’t.” Another grunt. “On account of the curse.” Less of a grunt, more of a hum. They wait in silence while Sanji drags on his cigarette. The smoke fills up his indestructible lungs, heady and fragrant in a way that reminds him of the Baratie after hours, and then empties the nostalgia out of him as he sighs. “How romantic. I’ve always wanted to be a star-crossed lover.”

Deadpan, Zoro says, “You cannot be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious. You know I don’t joke about love, marimo.” It’s part of his brand.

“No one’s dream is to be a star-crossed lover.”

“Mine is.” He flicks ash into the sink. He’ll wash it out later. “One of many.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Cook,” Zoro says, “look where we are.” He gestures wildly to the window, to the cerulean water sparkling all around them, crystal clear and calm, to the salt air that’s somehow sweeter than usual. “This is your dream. You got your dream. Now you get to live it.”

“That’s not good enough.” He sounds like a greedy bastard. But he’s a pirate. They’re all greedy bastards. It’s part of the job description. “I want someone to share it with.”

“Your old man—“

“There are some things a father can’t be.”

Even if there are a startling amount of similarities between Zoro and Zeff. Big, strong, rough men with a proclivity for extreme, incredible violence. Men who raise their voices, who show they care with actions rather than words because their words aren’t always kind.

It must be true, what they say: children look for love from men who remind them of their father.

Zoro chews unattractively on his lip. They’re always fucking chapped, because he’s always shoving that fucking sword between them. “You’re right. But it doesn’t have to be me. There’ll be someone else. Once you get your place up and running and word gets out, all the pretty guys and girls are going to flock here. You’ll meet so many people, you won’t know what to do with them all. But you’ll find one. Someone who will stay for you. Someone you can share all of this with. You’ll be happy with them.”

Sure, he could maybe be happy with someone else, one day. Sanji falls in love all the time. But he doesn’t want anyone else.

He just wants Zoro.

“And what about you?”

Zoro smiles ruefully. “I’ll wander in from time to time, I’m sure. And I’ll expect a meal, on the house. Free booze, too.” He cocks his hip and leans it against the counter. Zoro’s like that, the sort of man who leans against walls and anything else that will keep him both upright and looking dangerously, confidently cool — but now it looks far from casual. It’s almost performative. Look how normal I’m being, it says. “As much as I can drink.”

“And a bed for the night? You’ll expect one of those on the house, too?”

His jaw flexes. “Of course.”

The cherry of his cigarette flares red between his fingers. “Even if it’s mine?”

Pushing air out hard through his nose, Zoro closes his eyes — er, well, his eye. “Cook.”

“What if I wait for you?”

“Don’t.”

Sanji dips his fingers delicately into the sink and flicks soapy water at him. “Don’t tell me what to do. I’ll wait for you if I want to. And when you wander in, we can be together.”

It can be done. Carne used to leave on long supply runs, the kind of trip that would take weeks if not longer, and his relationship with Patty never wavered that Sanji ever saw. They wrote letters. They called when they could. And, as much as he does not want to think about it, the reunion sex must have been utterly fantastic because Zeff always kept Sanji down in the kitchen late into the evening to avoid him overhearing anything untoward. He and Zoro could have that. Zoro, off on adventures. Sanji, running his restaurant. Meeting in the middle when they could. Zoro, docking his ship and sauntering in like a war hero returned home. Sanji, falling into his arms, scolding him for taking too much time away. Refamilarizing themselves with each other’s bodies, tracing his tongue over the new scars Zoro would be sure to earn and asking for the stories of each one. It would be passionate, romantic, and only mildly unstable.

“And when I leave again?”

“I’ll wait again.”

“That’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid,” Sanji counters, “if you think for a second that I won’t spend the rest of my life waiting on you. I can be very stubborn.”

“That’s exactly what I don’t want you to do.”

“If all we get is a few days or weeks here and there, so be it. It will be worth it, don’t you think?” He steps in, his neat dress shoe toe-to-toe against Zoro’s scuffed boot, the buttons on his shirt mingling with the open chest of Zoro’s dark green yukata. “Look, it doesn’t have to be — it’s not like I’d expect you to be celibate out on the open seas or whatever.” He’d hugely prefer it, but he’d never expect it. Like he said before, he knows what loneliness on a ship does to a man. And, for all his self-discipline, Zoro has an eager, healthy libido that needs to be sated. If he asked that . . . well, he’s already asking too much as it is. “You can have whoever you want, do whatever you want, as long as you’re mine once you reach the All Blue.”

When they first met, Sanji was infuriated by Zoro and his big, roughly calloused hands. So aggressive, so masculine, so scarred. Fighting hands, like so many hands that hurt Sanji when he was small and helpless and young. He waffled between fear, jealousy, insecurity, and the threat of emasculation. But it didn’t take long to recognize the careful way Zoro used those hands, the gentle way he used them to maneuver around the world. And once those hands folded around Sanji’s waist with amorous intent, he came to appreciate — really, genuinely, vocally appreciate — how large and capable those hands are, how small and held and cared for they can make him feel.

They slip over his waist now, holding him by the hips. He’s not as slim as he used to be, back when they were kids playing pirates in the East Blue, but he’s certainly not as thick as Zoro. The aesthetics of malnutrition and starvation are hard to kick, even after years of recovery and eating good food; just ask Zeff. He drapes an arm around Zoro’s neck to tug him closer.

“Zoro,” he says. “This is what I want.”

“What you want is someone who will stay. That’s all you’ve ever wanted,” Zoro says. And doesn’t that just lay him bare, how well he knows Sanji and his insecurities when he never spoke them aloud, how easily he accepts that Sanji’s history as an unwanted child locked away in the darkness, as nothing more than a passing fancy for the patrons traveling in and out of Baratie has left him with an incessant need to cling like a barnacle? “And I can’t do that for you.”

“Why does that matter? I already said I don’t need you to—“

“Yes. You do.” Zoro is gruff and stern, mouth pulled down in a frown, speaking more all at once than Sanji’s maybe ever heard. “And I’m not — I can’t promise you anything but that I’ll leave. I am going to leave you. Not because I want to or because I don’t want to stay, but because I have to. I will leave and I won’t have you waiting around for me like some lovelorn wife with a husband at war while I fuck around from island to island.” He squeezes Sanji’s waist once in his big, stupid, muscly hands . . . and then he lets go. Sanji’s arm drops uselessly to his side, skimming over Zoro’s chest. “So it’s better if I never make any promises at all.”

“I’m not asking you to make promises.” This is not how he thought his truest love confession would go. There were a lot more sweet nothings and soft kisses, floating cherry blossoms and, you know, reciprocation, when he imagined it. Not . . . this. “I’m not asking you to stay, just to come back, occasionally. And be mine while you’re here.”

A step back. Space between them. Zoro folds his arms again. “And you think that will be enough for you?”

“Yes.” It will have to be.

“No.” Trees on spring islands rustling in the breeze shake less definitively than Zoro’s head. “You can say that now, when you’re not living it, but that’ll change. You’ll get greedy, and want more than I can give, and end up resenting me for being away. Or you’ll meet someone else and—“

With a deep groan, Sanji shoves an irritated hand into his hair. “Ugh! The place isn’t even built yet and you’re already talking about me falling in love with the patrons. Guess what, shithead? Customers are the worst and the chances of me ever meeting a single one who could possibly distract me from you is slim to fucking none. You think Prince Charming is going to sweep into my restaurant? I am Prince Charming.” Zoro mumbles something about princesses, but Sanji charges on. “And I have been half in love with you since you got yourself cut open on the dock of my dad’s restaurant because you’re too stupidly earnest for your own good. You have been a pain in my ass — do not make a fucking sex joke — every day for years, and I still miss you when you’re just in the next room.” He pokes a finger into Zoro’s hard collarbone. “Don’t make me any promises; I don’t fucking want them. I want you. So, if you’re going to leave, then leave. And if you don’t want to come back, don’t. I’m going to wait here, in love with you, whether you like it or not.”

A discontent angle settles around Zoro’s mouth. The bubbles in the sink are popping one by one, dissolving bit by bit, softly sinking into one another. “You can wait all you want. It’s not going to change anything.”

Emotionless — that’s the tone. Like his mind is already made up, and nothing Sanji says will move him. But Zoro is far from emotionless; they’ve known each other long enough for Sanji to be sure about that. This is usually about where they start throwing kicks and swords into the mix, where Zoro’s lack of reaction would make Sanji explode because, really, all he’s looking for is some attention. And yet he feels strangely calm. The blank mask of indifference isn’t enough to fool Sanji, not this time, and it’s not enough to tempt him into their usual bouts of play-fighting. Maybe it’s the sun shining in through the window, hazy with salt air, or the gentle rock of the All Blue’s waters under his feet, but Sanji’s unusually at peace.

He can wait all he wants. He can love Zoro all he wants. It won’t change anything. For him or for Zoro. He’s weirdly okay with that.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Humans, in Sanji’s experience, can’t growl; Zoro, though, isn’t exactly human. He’s more than a man. He’s the demon of the East Blue. He’s the world’s greatest swordsman. He growls, deep and rumbling in his throat, and then spits his words through gritted teeth. “Sanji. I. Am. Cursed. Really cursed. Not storybook cursed. True love’s kiss won’t do anything here.”

One of Sanji’s many talents is a special ability to cling to what he wants to hear and ignore what he doesn’t. “You think I’m your true love?”

“What? No, I don’t.”

His smile spreads faster than a bad cold through a tight-knit line of short-order cooks and busboys. “Yes. You just said so.” He pitches his voice obnoxiously deep, smoothing his accent to mimic Zoro’s, and puffs up his chest. “True love’s kiss won’t fix this, Sanji.”

More eyebrows than mouth, Zoro frowns. No, not frowns; he pouts. Fuck, but he’s cute when he’s like this. “I do not sound like that.”

“You do.” Preening, Sanji tosses his cigarette into the sink. It sizzles atop the bubbles before it’s consumed entirely by the water. The smell of wet ash lingers. “I’m your true love.”

“Wado Ichimonji is my true love.”

A laugh bursts out of Sanji, hard enough that his face crinkles unattractively. He sets his hands on Zoro’s shoulders and rubs them. So broad. So strong. And that’s true all over. Sanji’s equal, in just about every way, the only one in the world. “You’re a stubborn, stupid idiot.”

“Hey!”

“You’re a brute. A Neanderthal. A pile of moss with more swords than sense. A stubborn, stupid idiot.” His fingers slip into the mossy green hair at the nape of Zoro’s neck, fingernails scratching. “And I like fighting with you. I want to fight with you for the rest of my life.”

“Sanji—“

He shushes him softly. “Shh, marimo. Why don’t you let me worry about breaking my own heart,” Sanji whispers, “in my own time? We both know I’m better at it.”

He has a long, storied history of it, in fact. Poor, unwanted Sanji, eager to throw himself at anyone willing to look at him twice, always looking for a rock to beat himself against.

One of the best things about Zoro is that he never does anything he doesn’t want to do . . . except, apparently, wander the world aimlessly. If he wanted Sanji out of his personal space, then Sanji wouldn’t be in his personal space. If he didn’t want Sanji’s arms around him, he wouldn’t be skimming his fingertips down the sides of Sanji’s torso. If he didn’t want Sanji at all, he wouldn’t push their foreheads together and close his eye like a man readying himself for a harsh blow. “I don’t want to break your heart.”

Sanji sets his mouth against Zoro’s, breathes in his exhaled plea. Stale sake, mint toothpaste. How considerate of him, to brush his teeth before coming to the galley. Like Sanji wouldn’t kiss him with days-old garlic breath. Actually, maybe he wouldn’t. Seems extraordinarily unpleasant. “Well, I want you to.”

What a privilege, to have his heart broken by Zoro. Though he suspects it will land him amongst the unfortunate majority of people across the globe who have had the poor judgment to meet such a man and fall in love with him. How could they be expected to resist, when Zoro is such a force of nature? A hurricane, tearing through towns, island after island, utterly unaware of all the pining souls he’s left in the wake of his storm.

It’s a mess when they kiss, because Sanji hasn’t stopped smiling, all round-cheeked fondness and giddy affection. But it’s maybe the best kiss Sanji’s ever had, all the same, because it was Zoro who closed the space between them.

Now, Sanji’s been kissed quite a lot, and he’s kissed Zoro more than he’s kissed everyone else combined. He knows their rhythm, their flow, the push and pull of biting teeth and questing tongues and wandering hands. Zoro will — yup, there we go — nip softly at Sanji’s lower lip and — yes, just like that — soothe the rough feeling with a hot, wet slide of his tongue. In response, Sanji will open his mouth, half on a gasp, and Zoro will meet him halfway, tongue to tongue. And, ah, there it is, sake and nicotine mingling like an all-too-obvious warning about succumbing to vices. He drags his hands down Zoro’s neck, remembers when it was slim and not so thickly corded with muscle, when they were young and Sanji was mad about how much he liked him.

Zoro grabs Sanji under the thighs and hefts him up the trunk of his body. One step, then a turn, and Sanji’s deposited onto the counter like a steaming dish fresh from the oven. It’s . . . an intimately familiar position for him to find himself in. Totally unsanitary, of course, and Zeff would kill him for desecrating a kitchen in such a way, but Sanji can’t help himself. Compared to humans who aren’t genetically modified like a crop, he’s always been strong, formidable, hard to push around. The fact that Zoro can pick him up and put him wherever he wants? That’s hot.

Shoving the loose fall of Zoro’s robe aside, Sanji eagerly fits his hands around the heavy bulk of the swordsman’s ample chest. What? He’s always been more of a tits guy than an ass man. And Zoro has a fine set that deserves to be fondled, and fondled often. He gives a firm squeeze, both hands, and Zoro makes a high-pitched sound deep in his throat. The living quarters of the restaurant will require soundproofing, because Sanji wants to force that sound out of him every chance he gets until they’re too old for all of this. Though, of course, they’re already too old for this. Rutting together like this is juvenile and ridiculous — and so fucking hot.

Sanji can appreciate beauty in all its forms, and Zoro has certainly trained his body into a vision of absolute perfection. Chiseled and tanned and shockingly agile. And his mouth! Chapped, of course, and so talented — but he’d have to be, to wield a sword with it. He kisses Sanji breathless, licking into him with a single-minded focus and startling technique that Sanji refuses to believe has transferred from keeping Wado in his mouth. Big, capable hands grab at his thighs, kneading the muscle there; it’s never been a secret that Zoro’s attracted to danger, to strength, to power, that he likes to handle a weapon. Of course he likes Sanji’s deadly legs. In fact, he’s put them between his teeth and bitten down hard enough to actually hurt. And Sanji . . . well, he’d gotten a little fixated on making the bruise last. He’d even begged Zoro to freshen it up, when it started to fade. The longest it ever stayed was forty-eight hours, and it required repeated application. Sanji was sad to see it go.

He’s always ached for something permanent.

That’s why it hurt when Reiju sent him away, even though she saved his life by facilitating his escape. That’s why he cried when Zeff and the crew of the Baratie waved him off on the Going Merry, even though he wanted to leave on this wild, wacky adventure with Luffy more than anything. That’s why their goodbyes with Vivi in Alabasta felt like leaving a piece of himself behind. That’s why it stung when Usopp left and why leaving the Straw Hats for Whole Cake Island was one of the hardest things he’s ever done.

This is going to hurt like a bitch, isn’t it?

Please, Sanji asks the universe, though he’s surely used up all his miracles on finding the All Blue, please let this last. Please let me keep him.

Zoro kisses like he’s intending to be kept, like he means to keep Sanji himself for a very, very long time. He’s slowed it down, now, no frantic fire and pulsating passion, but instead a leisurely sort of give and take, wet lapping of their mouths coming together and breaking apart, soft humming noises. Forever kind of kissing, the kind that can go on and on and on and on for hours until they’re more breathing together than anything.

Sex is not on the menu. Sanji’s hard in a distant sense, his body reacting to the low-boiling pleasure but not pushing any urgent need through him. He’s certainly not whipping his dick out in the kitchen — where he cooks, where they eat — and Zoro’s cock is tucked safely away with the rest of his belongings in the boys’ bunkroom, so it’s a non-issue. He doesn’t want this to go anywhere. Not to the bunkroom. Not to the pantry, which he has to admit they’ve defiled more than once, but he’s not proud of that. Not to removed clothes and panting breath and seismic orgasm. He wants to stay right here with Zoro, just like this, for as long as he can.

Maybe he’ll model the kitchen of his restaurant like this one, so he can live in this moment every day. He’ll be able to look out the window, stare out at the All Blue, and remember how it felt to find it, how it felt to ask for what he wants and maybe . . . almost . . . not quite . . . get it.

He pulls back from the kiss. “Do you think this layout would work as an industrial kitchen?” Gesturing over Zoro’s shoulder, he sits back and sighs. He can’t quite picture it. “I mean, obviously this is built for use of one and a real restaurant kitchen would have to accommodate more than that, but—“

“If you can feed Luffy with this, you can feed anyone with anything,” Zoro answers, which is a great point. Luffy is a black hole when it comes to food. If he can satisfy Luffy with a one-man kitchen, imagine what he could do with a line of cooks under his command and a dining room the size of a whale . . . no offense intended to sweet whales they’ve previously made acquaintance with. Zoro nips at his chin. “That’s really what you’re thinking about right now?”

“Yes,” says Sanji. “I’m very practical. Can’t be distracted with a few sweet kisses.”

Zoro snorts. His calloused fingers push Sanji’s hair out of his eye, and let it fall right back into place, because it’s more an excuse to touch him than anything. “What am I going to do with you?”

Keep me, keep me, keep me. Stay with me, please. He scratches through Zoro’s hair again. “Just be with me. When you can.” He shrugs. “When you want.”

“I want,” Zoro admits.

Breathless, almost: “Yeah?”

“I always want.” He puts his forehead to Sanji’s collarbone and breathes in deep. Rubbing over his scalp, over his shoulders, it feels natural. Like this is exactly what Sanji’s hands are for: holding Zoro. The gentle rock of the ship carries them into silence, distant sounds of Chopper and Nami discussing the pros and cons of sunbathing in uncharted waters, with previously unknown UV levels. There are the usual creaks and groans of others moving around, too, but it’s peaceful. Quiet. Just their breathing and the heat of their bodies. Drifting on the All-Blue. “It’s going to be beautiful, you know.”

“Hm?”

“Your restaurant. What you’re going to build here.” Zoro presses a kiss to the skin available to him, which isn’t much because the knot of Sanji’s tie is intact and his shirt is buttoned to the top. But he has shed his suit jacket and rolled his sleeves. That’s basically nude, for him. “It’s going to be beautiful. And I — I’m going to try to be there, to see as much of it as I can.”

“Careful, marimo.” With his grip on his hair, Sanji lifts Zoro’s head to stare into his one glittering eye. “That’s dangerously close to sounding like a promise.” And they’d agreed: no promises would be made.

Zoro shakes his head. He’s close enough that it brushes his nose along Sanji’s. “Not a promise. More like . . . a dream of mine.”

“A dream. It’s a nice dream.” It is. It’s a dream Sanji shares, to have Zoro — the whole crew, really, but Zoro especially — at his side for the fabulous future he has. Retiring from a pirate’s life, and he’s not even thirty! There is so much life ahead of him, ahead of them both, and such a slim chance they can spend most of it together. Well . . . there’s always the possibility . . . if Sanji chooses not to settle down. Could he do that? Would he be able to give up on this, on his dream, on the All Blue, for Zoro? To keep traveling with him? He found it; shouldn’t that be enough? No, he doesn’t think so, and doesn’t that just make him a horrible, selfish man? Zoro can’t stay, and Sanji won’t leave.

“For the record,” Zoro says, low and maybe even embarrassed, “you’re one, too.” When Sanji makes a quizzical noise, still too wrapped up in his own greedy guilt, Zoro goes on: “One of my new dreams.”

And if Zoro is ferociously dedicated to anything, it’s his dreams. Willing to travel the world for them. Willing to live for them. Willing to die for them.

He and Sanji have that in common.

They wouldn’t have joined Luffy’s crew if they didn’t.

Because being a pirate . . . Okay. Piracy was never Sanji’s dream, never his goal. He was raised by pirates and by ex-cons — and plenty who were both, in truth — and he’d heard all the horror stories they swapped about their time at sea. The blistering sunburns. The infections. The scurvy. The food seasoned only with oregano. The marines, their dogged determination and penchant for punishment. Zeff lost his whole crew in one bad storm and picked up an annoying little tagalong in the aftermath. Being a pirate was always a means to an end, but being a pirate has been one of the greatest joys of his life. Look what it’s brought him. The All Blue! The stupid storybook fantasy he clung to as a child, the whimsical tale so many people laughed at him for believing in. Well, look who’s laughing now! And it’s given him even more than that. Danger, yes, and his dream, absolutely. A hefty bounty on his head. A set of skills that maybe no one else in the world can boast. A crew, a family. And Zoro. His true love. Zoro, Zoro, Zoro.

“For the record,” he says, tightening his ham-fisted grip on Zoro’s unruly green hair, “I think you’re my true love, too. Besides Nami, of course, though I’ve been rather unsuccessful on that front.” Zoro’s snort fans hot across his face. He pushes himself to the very edge of the counter to feel more of his warmth, squeezing his thighs around Zoro’s body, locking his ankles behind his broad back. Their eyes line up perfectly. “You’re my true love, marimo, even if my kiss doesn’t break your curse.” A sudden thought comes to him: a lighthouse, attached to the restaurant, something to guide sailors in. Something to lead Zoro back to him. “Maybe you can never stay for long, but I can give you a safe harbor until you have to set sail again. In between your adventures.”

A hum. “Okay.”

An agreement! Finally! The key to love has always been dogged persistence. An urgent need races through Sanji, demanding he bounce back to snark, to make up for all the sweetness and honesty. It’s where they’re most comfortable. “Is that all it takes to make you agreeable? If I’d known that, I would’ve called you my true love ages ago.”

“Oh, no,” Zoro deadpans. His lips catch the quirk of Sanji’s smile, and then his teeth fold around it. “You’ve found my weakness.”

“Declarations of love?”

He squeezes Sanji’s waist with one hand, his thigh with the other. “Only from handsome men who make their dreams come true.” There’s a thought on the tip of his tongue to mention all the handsome men they’ve known who’ve achieved their greatest dreams, but he gives himself permission to bask in the soft glow of Zoro’s praise. He’s done the impossible twice in one day: found the All Blue and made a romantic out of the Demon of the East Blue. “You should call your old man.”

He should. They can laugh together and cry together, and then Sanji should ask him to join him sooner rather than later. He should also go get a look at the fish Usopp is sure to have caught, strange delicacies that have yet to be discovered. He should bring Nami a drink, and perhaps a snack, if she really is still sunbathing. He should start on lunch — a late lunch — because the fact that Luffy isn’t already pounding down the galley door in search of meat is nothing short of a miracle. There are a lot of things he should do. He stays where he is, though, perched on the counter. “In a minute.”

”Okay,” Zoro agrees — again! — and he tucks his face back down into the curve of Sanji’s throat. “In a minute.”

Even if that’s all they have left, Sanji will take it.