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The open-air market sprawled along the harbor, bright awnings snapping in the salt wind and gulls wheeling overhead in hopeful arcs. Crates of citrus and pomegranates were stacked beside coils of rope and nets drying in the sun. Vendors called out over one another, advertising fresh fish, warm bread, and sugared almonds, while sailors and townsfolk pressed shoulder to shoulder through the narrow lanes. The scent of brine tangled with cinnamon, yeast, and hot oil, the air alive with barter and laughter and the clink of coin.
They were in port to restock, scattered across the market with lists and loose plans. Zoro had taken the shortest path between ship and supply stalls, which seemed to take an hour to reach, only to find himself drawn up short when he recognized a familiar head of blond hair bent over a merchant’s table.
Sanji turned just as Zoro approached, as if he’d felt him there. His smile came easy and bright, cutting through the noise. “Ah, my favorite sentient plant,” he said, amusement warming his voice. “Come and try this. I was thinking of getting it for you, but since you’re here, tell me what you think. I can always find something else for our resident prickly pear.”
Sanji’s easy grin and the careless warmth in his tone slipped past Zoro’s guard before he could brace for it. The bright my, the thought of something bought with him in mind, it all surged up at once. Feelings he kept locked down tight pressed hard against his ribs, sudden and disorienting.
He cleared his throat, shifted his weight. “What?” he croaked, certain his voice betrayed him.
Sanji held out a small paper tasting cup. Steam curled up, fragrant and sweet. “Mulled, spiced cider. It’s got alcohol in it, so don’t wrinkle your nose like that.”
Zoro hadn’t realized he was. He forced his expression smooth and took the cup, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. The cider was hot and sharp on his tongue. Apple and clove and something darker beneath it. It tasted like a late autumn morning, crisp air with a bite that promised warmth later. “S’good,” he muttered, heat spreading down into his chest.
Sanji’s smile returned, softer this time, pleased. It made something in Zoro’s stomach turn over. “I’ll get a couple bottles then.”
“Why?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Sanji blinked. “You don’t want ’em?”
“Didn’t say that.” He was quick to correct. “Just… want to know why.”
Sanji gave a small shrug, as if it were nothing at all. “Tried a taste. Thought of you.”
The market noise seemed to dim around them. “So it’s not… special or anything?”
One pale brow arched. “Why the hell would I get you something special?”
The words were careless, tossed off. They still landed square in his chest. Zoro’s hand tightened around the flimsy paper cup until it crumpled with a soft crackle. He looked away first, toward a stack of oranges bright as signal flares. “Yeah,” he said evenly. “Why would you?”
He spotted a barrel for refuse, crossed the few steps to it, and dropped the crushed cup inside. “Later, cook,” he muttered, already turning back into the crowd.
People liked to think he didn’t feel much. They said it often enough, sometimes to his face. Blunt. Practical. No patience for theatrics. As if quiet meant empty.
It wasn’t true.
He feared as much as Usopp. Felt joy as bright as Luffy. Lusted like Sanji. He could match Franky’s enthusiasm, Nami’s greed, Chopper’s sweetness, Brook’s passion, Robin’s dry humor, Jinbe’s delight. His emotions ran wide and deep – anger, sorrow, contentment, want. He just refused to parade them for the world.
It made things harder. His size, the scars, the permanent scowl – people stepped aside with wary looks, warmth cooling into caution. Even when he meant to help, they flinched first. And when desire tightened low in his belly, when he let himself want, it only ever seemed to end in futility. The only person who had claimed to want him had taken what he hadn’t offered, touched when he couldn’t agree, tending his unconscious body in a parody of care he’d never asked for.
The memory still made something in him lock down. So he retreated further inside himself. Protecting himself and those emotions from additional harm. And if it made him seem more uncaring, it was a price to pay.
And now he’d been stupid enough to let hope slip in through a crack. To think that maybe Sanji’s smile meant more. That being thought of – even in something as simple as cider – might count as special.
Why would Sanji like him that way? Why would anyone get him something special? Why would anyone ever think he was special?
The crowd swallowed him as he moved, voices rising and falling around him. Zoro set his jaw and kept walking, shoulders squared against the noise, against the cider’s warmth still lingering in his chest. He refused to let it hurt him.
Even if it already did.
The market churned around him, bright awnings snapping in the harbor wind, gulls crying overhead as vendors haggled and coins clinked from hand to hand. Somewhere nearby, a fishmonger laughed too loudly; farther down, a child darted between barrels of apples. Life pressed in from every side.
Sanji stood still in the middle of it and watched Zoro’s broad back disappear into the crowd.
Zoro’s shoulders were set too tight, his stride just a shade too rigid. To anyone else, he would look the same as always: stoic, faintly irritated, carved from stubborn stone. Most people joked that he had two expressions – dead asleep or deeply constipated. An angry rock in boots.
But just now, for a split second, Sanji had seen something else flicker across his face before he turned away.
Hurt.
The echo of his own careless words rang back at him. Why the hell would I get you something special? And then Zoro’s flat reply: Yeah. Why would you?
Sanji exhaled slowly through his nose. “Idiot,” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure which of them he meant.
He paid for the cider. The vendor bagged bottles while Sanji reached for his cigarette case. He slipped one free, tapped it against the lid, and lit up, drawing in smoke as if it might settle the uneasy twist in his chest.
Out of all their nakama, Zoro hid the most. Robin kept her thoughts close, too, but she did it with a small, knowing smile, and she had Franky’s open adoration to meet her in the middle. The others were transparent in their own ways. Luffy felt everything out loud. Nami demanded to be heard. Usopp narrated his own fears.
Zoro gave you nothing unless you fought for it.
The pieces Sanji had gathered over time were hard won: that Zoro noticed when someone was struggling and helped without fanfare; that he was harsher on himself than anyone else could ever manage; that a promise from him was ironclad, heavier than chains. That he stood watch longer than he needed to. That he remembered small preferences and pretended he didn’t.
Sanji flicked ash to the cobblestones and stared in the direction Zoro had gone. He’d seen that flash. He knew he had. And if that look had been because of him, because of a stupid, defensive joke tossed out too quickly, then maybe he’d just struck something far more fragile than anyone would ever guess to exist inside that scarred chest.
The market roared on, oblivious. Sanji took another drag, eyes narrowing slightly against the smoke, and wondered how the hell he was supposed to fix what he’d possibly broken.
Zoro stared at the whetstone sitting on his stack of weights. It hadn’t been there that morning, when he’d trained.
The crow’s nest was a circular room perched high above the deck, wrapped in thick glass panes set in four directions so he could see sea and sky no matter where he turned. A narrow bench ran along the perimeter beneath the windows, worn smooth from use. The space doubled as his training room and retreat: iron weights stacked in careful columns, a battered locker bolted to the wall, a square meditation pad laid out opposite the hatch.
Zoro pushed the hatch shut, sealing out the wind and the distant thrum of voices below, and crossed the short span of floor to the weights. He picked up the whetstone, turning it in his hand.
It was a fine piece. Dense, evenly cut, the surface smooth without being slick, the grit balanced for finishing work. The edges were cleanly beveled, no cheap crumble at the corners. Whoever chose it had known what they were looking at.
His old stone worked just fine. It had shaped and maintained his blades for years. But this one was simply better. It didn’t explain why it was here.
He opened his locker, checking his cleaning kit. His regular whetstone nestled inside. Not lost or broken. He looked at the new whetstone in his hand, then the one in his kit. Maybe this one belonged to Brook and he’d accidentally left it up here after watch. It made more sense than it being for him, when he already had one.
Zoro closed his kit, putting it back in the locker, then pocketed the new whetstone. He’d give it to Brook later.
Sanji noticed Brook seated at the galley table, long fingers guiding a blade along a whetstone with slow, elegant strokes. The scrape of steel against grit was soft but unmistakable. It was unmistakable for another reason, too.
Sanji stopped short. It was the exact same whetstone he’d picked out for Zoro at their last port. He frowned. “Did you pick up a new whetstone?”
Brook paused mid-stroke, empty eye sockets turning politely in his direction. “Zoro-san gave this one to me. He thought it was mine,” he explained. “When I attempted to correct him, he said it couldn’t possibly be for him. Is it yours, Sanji-san?”
Sanji resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Of course the idiot would think it wasn’t meant for him. Wasn’t that the whole problem? No one would get him anything special. Why would they? “You can keep it. I have others.”
Brook placed a hand to his chest. “Such a fine gift! I shall treasure it dearly. It would be unfortunate if my blade grew dull. I have no muscles to compensate for poor edge control. Yohoho!”
Sanji exhaled slowly, smoke drifting from the corner of his mouth, as he went about making tea. The next thing he bought would not be practical. It wouldn’t be useful. It wouldn’t be transferable. It would be so blatantly personal that even Zoro couldn’t mistake who it was for and shove it off on someone else without looking like a complete idiot.
Sanji’s eyes gleamed faintly. Game on.
Zoro tilted his head, staring at the bottle of sake in his locker. He didn’t remember leaving one there. He picked it up, examining the label. It was a good brand. Expensive. He turned the bottle to examine the maker’s information and saw handwriting on the back label. For the World’s Greatest Swordsman.
Huh. He must’ve picked it up at Mihawk’s and forgotten about it. But nice – good alcohol for him tonight on watch.
Sanji waited for some question, some acknowledgement that Zoro had gotten the sake and was happy about it. But nothing. He knew Zoro had taken it up on watch, found the empty sitting in the recycle bin that morning.
Three days he waited for Zoro to mention it, and nothing. By the fourth afternoon, patience had worn thin. When Zoro wandered into the galley after training, skin flushed and damp with exertion, swords slung loose at his hip, Sanji was ready.
Finally, when Zoro wandered into the galley after training one afternoon, he set down a bowl of cut fruit and yogurt on the breakfast bar without comment. Zoro dropped onto the bench and started in immediately.
Sanji made a show of taking the recycling bin from beneath the sink. He lifted the bin, rustled deliberately, then paused. “Huh.”
Zoro kept eating.
Sanji withdrew the bottle and held it up, tilting it so the afternoon light caught the lacquered label. “For the World’s Greatest Swordsman,” he read aloud, tone airy. “Guess someone was thinking of you.”
Zoro glanced up, brow furrowing faintly. “Got that from Mihawk’s cellar.”
Sanji blinked at him. “You–” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “Never mind.” He dropped the bottle back into the bin with more force than necessary. “Hope it was good, at least.”
“It was okay.”
Sanji stared at the back of his green head for a long, dangerous second. He imagined, briefly, hurling the empty straight at his skull and seeing if it might finally knock something loose.
Instead, he went to work washing the bottle and cursed under his breath about stupid marimos and their obliviousness.
Zoro found the haramaki sitting on his bunk. A new one, green of course, with good stitching and strong weave. He immediately traded his threadbare one for it, then wandered out to toss the old one in the rag bag. It was about time Nami got him one. He’d put it on her shopping list ages ago.
Sanji noticed it the second Zoro stepped onto the deck. Zoro was wearing the haramaki. The idiot finally figured out that something was for him, not anyone else.
“See you finally decided to spruce up your appearance,” Sanji drawled, leaning back against the rail. “Not that you’ll ever be good-looking, but at least it’s a step up from slovenly to adequate.”
Zoro glanced down at himself as if he’d nearly forgotten he was wearing it. “Yeah. It’s been on the list for a while. That witch kept saying she couldn’t find one, but I guess she finally did.”
Sanji exhaled slowly through his nose, tamping down the flare of annoyance. He’d chosen that fabric. Checked the stitching himself. Made sure it would hold under strain. Left it where Zoro would find it. And the moss-brained idiot thought Nami had picked it up off a shelf somewhere, because Zoro had put it on her shopping list.
Sanji was glad Zoro called Nami a witch, because it gave him an excuse to kick the man in the head.
Zoro was quietly pleased to find a book on swordsmen waiting on his bunk. He’d drawn the short straw on their second day at the island and had watch duty, which meant long, still hours with little to do. It would give him something to occupy the time – aside from training – until someone relieved him.
Sanji wandered up the gangplank, hands in his pockets, cigarette in the corner of his mouth. The afternoon sun cast long gold lines across the deck.
He saw it immediately. Zoro sat in one of the deck chairs near the rail, boots braced, one ankle hooked over the other. A book rested open in his hand. The book.
Sanji felt a sharp, private surge of triumph. So the idiot had noticed. Had kept it. Had even brought it outside.
He schooled his expression before crossing the deck. “Didn’t think you knew how to read, marimo,” he drawled, stopping just within conversational distance.
Zoro didn’t look up at first. “Better than you.”
“Tch.” Sanji took a drag on his cigarette and gestured with his chin toward the book. “What’re you reading?” he asked lightly, as if he hadn’t selected it himself, as if he hadn’t lingered over the spine to make sure it was a good one.
“Book on swordsmen.” Zoro turned a page. “I asked Robin to pick me up something new next time we hit a port.”
Sanji blinked. Once. Slowly.
He considered, very seriously, whether it was physically possible to sky walk straight into the sun and let the ocean deal with the aftermath.
The cook was acting weird. Kept twitching and muttering to himself. Probably needed to get laid.
Zoro gave him a wide berth and wondered how long until they reached the next island.
Sanji had reached the end of subtlety.
Anonymous gifts had been strategic. Thoughtful. Designed so Zoro could accept something meant just for him without bristling, without feeling cornered into reciprocity or shoving it aside because it came from Sanji. The point had been simple: let him enjoy getting something special, just for him. Instead, the moss-brain had elevated obliviousness into an art form.
If it weren’t for the quiet, gnawing certainty that Zoro dismissed every gift because he genuinely didn’t believe anyone would single him out, Sanji might have given up already. But that stubborn undercurrent kept him from throwing in the towel. And now he was going to have to do something in person.
They’d docked at a new port that afternoon, a bustling, dust-choked town where rickety windmills creaked in the constant inland breeze. Sand scraped along the boardwalks, and canvas awnings snapped overhead. Sanji ran his errands efficiently, restocking flour, produce, spices, and a few local specialties he intended to experiment with. By the time everything was stored and the galley put to rights, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky bruised purple and gold.
Zoro had taken first watch. Brook relieved him exactly when Sanji had calculated he would.
“Oi, shit swordsman, come with me,” Sanji called up toward the deck. “I’m heading to the tavern. This way you won’t get lost.”
“I don’t get lost,” Zoro huffed, but fell into step beside Sanji anyway.
The tavern door swung wide as they approached, spilling tinkling piano music and warm lamplight into the street. Laughter rolled outward, thick with drink. Inside, dancing girls kicked up their heels on a narrow stage, skirts flashing as patrons cheered. Tables cobbled together from wagon wheels and halved barrels crowded the floor. Beer sloshed from overflowing mugs; sharper liquor scents cut through the air. A long bar lined the back wall, shelves stacked high with glass bottles that caught the light like jewels.
Sanji found space at the bar for both of them. He signaled the bartender with a lift of his fingers, then turned deliberately toward Zoro. “I’m buying you, Roronoa Zoro, a drink.”
Zoro’s brow climbed slowly.
Before he could respond, a familiar voice chimed in at his elbow. “Sanji-kun’s buying drinks?” Nami said brightly, materializing from nowhere.
Usopp appeared on Sanji’s other side as if summoned. “That’s great! All this dust is making me thirsty.”
Franky loomed behind them, striking a star pose. “Cook-bro is super!”
Sanji wanted to cry.
Zoro had claimed one of his favorite stretches of deck, wedged into the warm curve of planks near the slide where the sun hit just right in the afternoon. One arm pillowed under his head, the other resting loose over his stomach, he dozed in that light, balanced state between sleep and awareness.
Heavy footsteps pounded across the deck. He cracked his eye open. Sanji was advancing like a man possessed. Hair windswept, jaw tight, cigarette forgotten and burning down between his fingers. He didn’t slow as he reached Zoro.
He threw something. It smacked Zoro square in the face.
“For you, asshole,” Sanji snapped, then spun on his heel and stormed back the way he’d come, muttering darkly under his breath.
Zoro blinked up at the sky for a moment. Then he pushed himself up on one elbow and looked down. Flowers. An entire armful of them - bright, freshly cut, petals crushed slightly from impact - were strewn across his chest and lap, some sliding down onto the deck beside him.
He stared at them. Scowled. “Fuck you, too,” he snarled under his breath. This was a new low for green-hair-like-grass jokes. One of these days, he was going to shave Sanji’s eyebrows off in his sleep. That’d teach the bastard to start landscaping him.
Sanji was done. Truly, spectacularly done. He was going to string Zoro up by his ankles and beat him like a piñata until all the stupid fell out in colorful, humiliating pieces.
The flowers he’d picked for the idiot, given to him personally so there could be no mistake, were currently in a jar on Chopper’s desk.
On. Chopper’s. Desk.
“You really shouldn’t make fun of Zoro’s hair so much,” Chopper had said earnestly when Sanji demanded to know why the reindeer had flowers that very distinctly had not been meant for him. “He can’t help what color he has. It’s genetics. One of his parents or grandparents had that color green.”
Sanji had stared. Genetics. Of course.
He tried subtle. He tried deliberate. He tried direct. And the idiot still didn’t get that Sanji was doing something special for him!
Sanji smoked through three packs of cigarettes in as many days and simmered like a pot left too long on the flame. Every time he saw Zoro training, or sleeping in the sun, or casually existing with that dense, infuriating calm, Sanji’s jaw tightened.
He could walk away. Could say fuck it, give it up as a lost cause and let Zoro keep believing no one singled him out for anything. But that damned moss had gotten under his skin, and Sanji wasn’t one to give up without a fight.
It wasn’t until he was five glasses deep into a bottle of wine – alone in the galley, lamplight low and the ship quiet – that clarity finally struck. And there would be zero chance of misunderstanding this time.
Zoro scowled when Sanji came through the hatch of the crow’s nest without knocking. He finished his last rep slowly, deliberately, then set the weights down with a dull thud. “What do you want?”
Sanji didn’t answer. He crossed the small space in a few strides, expression set like he was heading into a fight. “Don’t move,” he growled.
Zoro’s first instinct was to move, purely on principle. The second was to brace, because Sanji was coming straight at him. But Sanji lifted his hands. Sanji never fought with his hands. So he stood there, ready to fight.
But warm palms cupped both sides of his face, thumbs near his ears, fingers firm along his jaw. Zoro went still out of sheer confusion. “What are you doing, aho cook?”
“Losing my mind,” Sanji told him.
And then Sanji kissed him.
Zoro sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, eye flying wide before he could stop it. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling uselessly. His pulse spiked so hard it made his ears ring, and something dropped and flipped low in his stomach.
Sanji pulled back just enough that their foreheads almost brushed, hands still framing his face. “That,” Sanji said, voice tight but steady, “is from me to you. Got it?”
Zoro blinked at him. His brain felt several steps behind the rest of his body. He nodded. Just barely.
“Good.” Sanji dropped his hands like the contact burned, turned on his heel, and stalked out without another word. The hatch slammed shut hard enough to rattle the frame.
Wind whistled through the open window. The sails snapped overhead. Rigging pulleys knocked in steady rhythm. Somewhere below, Franky’s voice carried as he shouted something to Brook, followed by a burst of distant laughter.
Zoro stood there in the center of the crow’s nest, staring at the closed hatch. Slowly, he lifted his fingers to his still tingling lips and tried to remember how to breathe.
Sanji couldn’t believe he just did that. He’d kissed Zoro. He’d really gone through with it. He had marched into the crow’s nest, grabbed the idiot by the face, and kissed him.
And it may have knocked his socks off.
It had seemed brilliant several drinks in – bold, decisive, impossible to misinterpret. So brilliant, in fact, that he’d forced himself to follow through sober, because the green menace had driven him to insanity.
Sanji stood at the rail, staring out over the ocean. The Sunny cut cleanly through the water, her wake foaming into white crests that dissolved just as quickly as they formed. His hand trembled when he brought the lighter to his cigarette. The flame flickered before he managed to steady it. He drew in smoke too fast, exhaled slower. His heart triphammered against his breastbone.
He tugged at his tie, loosening it, but it didn’t help. Heat lingered under his collar, along his jaw – on his mouth.
He could still feel it. The solid press of Zoro’s lips. The sharp inhale through his nose. The way those calloused hands had twitched at his sides like he didn’t know whether to swing or–
Sanji dragged hard on the cigarette again.
He’d kissed Zoro.
Fuck.
Zoro’s face still felt overheated when he ducked into the galley for dinner. He dropped into his usual chair, aware – painfully aware – of his own body in a way he never was. His palms were damp against his thighs. His pulse refused to settle, still running too fast, like he’d just finished a fight.
The others filled in around him, laughing, talking, jostling. No one had any idea that Sanji had kissed him.
He caught sight of Sanji from the corner of his eye. A faint pink flush colored his cheeks, stained the tips of his ears. He talked louder than normal, served faster, retreated to the kitchen area as if the breakfast bar would hide him.
Relief loosened something tight in Zoro’s chest. Sanji wasn’t acting normal. Good.
Because if Sanji had been smirking and calm and perfectly composed – like it had been nothing, like Zoro was nothing – Zoro wasn’t sure what he would’ve done.
Because it mattered to Zoro. A lot.
Sanji wanted to crawl into a cabinet - preferably the one stocked with liquor - and stay there until dinner was over. Seeing Zoro pink-cheeked and visibly unsettled made Sanji want to kiss him again.
But he was a professional. His crew needed feeding. So he served. Laughed a touch too loud. Moved with brisk efficiency. He let the stove’s heat take the blame for the color in his face.
He was grateful when dessert plates were scraped clean and the crew filed out the door toward their own evening distraction, voices fading down the steps.
Except Zoro didn’t leave.
Because Sanji had forgotten that he was on dish duty tonight.
Fuck.
Zoro began clearing the table, shoulders hunched in a way that didn’t fit him. The blush hadn’t faded. Against his green hair and scarred skin, he looked like a stubborn, flustered tomato. It should have been funny. It wasn’t.
Zoro, who threw himself at danger head on, seemed skittish and vulnerable. And it was doing things to Sanji that he wasn’t prepared for.
They stood elbow to elbow at the sink in what had to be the most uncomfortable dishwashing session in maritime history. Their postures were rigid, shoulders squared as if bracing for impact. Every time their hands brushed, both of them jerked like they’d touched live current. Steam rose thick from the basin, heat climbing up their necks and settling under collars. Zoro shifted his footing, Sanji nearly jumped out of his skin. He sucked in an audible breath, sharp through his teeth, and Zoro went still for a fraction of a second. A fork slipped from Zoro’s fingers and clattered into the rinse basin. The metallic thump made them both flinch.
Outside, Chopper’s high-pitched screech split the air, followed by a tremendous splash. Both their heads snapped toward the open porthole. “I got him!” Jinbe’s voice carried up from below, followed by another heavy splash.
The galley fell quiet again, save for the soft lap of water against the hull and the slow drip from the drying rack. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, almost reluctantly, they turned back at the same time.
Their eyes met.
Zoro’s expression was guarded, but there was something unsettled beneath it, something that hadn’t quite found its footing. Sanji had the sudden, overwhelming urge to smooth it away. The space between them felt smaller than it had any right to be, charged and fragile all at once.
“Did you mean it?” Zoro broke the silence first, somehow sounding tough and very young all at once.
Sanji could deny it. Could play it off as a one-time insanity. Could explain the series of misunderstood gifts and how the kiss was just a part of it.
“Yeah, I did,” he said instead. Because, in the end, it was the truth.
The blush deepened instantly, sliding down Zoro’s neck, blotching across his chest, painting the tips of his ears bright red. He dropped his gaze, lashes shadowing his eye. His fingers flexed in the washrag. “Was my first kiss,” he mumbled, sounding so, so, so very shy.
Sanji felt his heart expand in a slow, aching rush that stole the air from his lungs more effectively than any blow ever had. “Doesn’t have to be your last.”
A tiny, bashful smile tugged at the corner of Zoro’s lips. “I’d like that.”
In the beginning, all Sanji had wanted was to undo the hurt and give Zoro something special, just his. Now Sanji felt like it was he who’d been given the gift.
“Finish the dishes, slow-assed marimo,” Sanji muttered gruffly, retreating behind the fall of his hair before his voice could betray him.
Another fork slipped from Zoro’s fingers into the rinse sink. This time, the sound didn’t jar. It felt almost… harmonious.
People liked to think Zoro didn’t feel much. They said it often enough, sometimes to his face. Blunt. Practical. No patience for theatrics. As if quiet meant empty. It wasn’t true. His emotions ran wide and deep – anger, sorrow, contentment, want. He just refused to parade them for the world.
But now he knew someone thought he was special.
And it made his heart sing.
End