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Zoro blames the marines.
It had been a beautiful and warm morning when they had dropped the anchor on a tiny paradisiac island. The sky had been so very blue with just enough cottony white clouds to make it perfect. The logpose would not even take a day before recharging. Enough for a supply run into town and an afternoon of relaxing at the beach. The day had promised to be be delightful and uneventful. No complications, no headaches. Easy as breathing.
Zoro had been designated pack-mule for the market run. He had grumbled for the show but had not minded as much as he’d let on – never truly does on such duties. As a whole, the time spent with the cook during these outings was the nicest time they’d have together. Zoro would just follow the cook around, carrying whatever needed to be carried.
The blond cook would usually be a whole different person when focusing what ingredients he wanted to buy and what he wanted to cook for lunch or dinner. The cook would shed his insufferable lady-charmer, cringy character for a little while. He would banter with the merchants to lower the prices, or would be getting suggestions to try this or that. Sure enough, he would be offering a kind word or a compliment when trading with a lady, making some of them rosy in the cheeks. But all in all, pretty much tolerable.
They would also exchange cordial words, Zoro could even remember them laughing together on some occasions.
So, by all accounts, Zoro’s morning had started well. He’d been enjoying the sun and listening to the love cook trading pleasantries.
Then something had caught Zoro’s eye. He had turned his head mid-yawn to find himself face to face with a middle-aged marine. There had been a moment of hesitation, before recognition bloomed on the marine’s face. He’d given the alarm before Zoro could drop the groceries he had been carrying and knock him out.
Well, fuck!
A momentary panic — the shitty cook had been shouting at him, something about his idiocy, Zoro had caught him by the elbow, had half a mind to grab the groceries, and ran.
Not very far, as a kick had landed on his back staggering him. Zoro had turned on his heels ready to rip into the cook.
“Directionally challenged moss, the harbor’s the other way!”
There had been shouting and blows had been exchanged before the marines had been upon them. The stupid cook had been fuming, eyes glaring daggers at him.
Whatever.
They fled in the other direction. Zoro had wisely let the blond lead. He had his moments, thank you very much.
In Zoro’s mind, that’s when everything went wrong.
Zoro doesn’t know how it happened, but soon enough, they found themselves surrounded. No other choice but to fight. Zoro had grinned, he could take his frustration out on some marine soldiers dumb enough to think they could stop them.
He had let go the bag of groceries once again, none too gently– pretty sure he is never gonna hear the end of it; damaging perfectly good fresh products, but well.
They had fought. Everything had felt glorious, for a few moments. Zoro had felt the tension draining out of him. It was just small fry. The swordsman didn’t even bother taking out more than one sword. And the cook had not even broken a sweat, a manic glint in his eyes. That’s why Zoro had absolutely not been prepared when one marine had tried his luck, jumping the cook, from behind.
The man’s hands had landed on Sanji’s waist and Zoro’s eyes had been there too, zeroing on it so fast, before his brain could even register anything.
Time had felt frozen. There had been blood rushing to his ears. So loud.
The marine had been of average build but his hands—
Those fucking filthy hands had almost perfectly circled around Sanji’s waist, fingers nearly touching.
There had been something hot and almost ugly rising in Zoro’s chest. And he had lost contact from reality because next he came to, the scuffle had been over, he had been breathing hard around a hilt in his mouth. Three swords out. Blood on his blades. And marines lying around in a heap and a pool of blood. There might have been a pair of hands detached from their body at his feet, but Zoro was not going to acknowledge that.
He had cleaned the blood from the steel of his swords, slowly, carefully before sheathing them, buying himself a second. What the hell had just happened?
It’s what the cook’s face had seemed to say too, watching him, a curly eyebrow elegantly raised. Zoro had sniffed and acted as if nothing was wrong, nothing had happened. Because nothing had.
“Let’s go, curly,” he had grunted.
He wasn’t going be touching that with a ten-feet pole. The cook had said nothing, he had just lit one cigarette taken a deep breath of nicotine before starting towards the harbor. No other words had been exchanged and it had been perfectly fine with Zoro.
It keeps happening.
Zoro had doubled his training. Doubled the weights. He had been pushing himself to failure and beyond, until his arms shook, his lungs burned and sweat burning his eyes. There had been nothing left in his mind but the next rep, the next weight, the next breath. It had worked, for a while. An hour, maybe two. Then he would come up for air and it would still there, waiting for him. Lingering in a dark corner of his mind.
Those hands. Around the shitty cook's fucking tiny waist. The marine's fingers nearly touching.
Zoro is fuming. He is going out of his mind. No amount of training or alcohol is helping.
It ambushes him at the worst moments.
It’s three days after that island. Zoro feels like he managed to get a reign on those unruly thoughts. Finally. So he allows himself a short pause in his training. He comes down from the crow's nest for water. Just water, for once.
The galley is quiet, mid-afternoon, everyone is going about their own business. So of course, the cook is in the galley. Working at the counter, with his back to the door, jacket off, sleeves rolled. He’s humming. From the cheerful tone alone, Zoro knows he’s preparing snacks for the ladies. He rolls his eyes and pays it no mind.
But then the love-cook reaches up for something on the top shelf and his shirt pulls taut at the waist and Zoro's eyes are there before he can stop them.
He turns on his heels and run. Without the water. There’s a shameful heat in the pit of his stomach. He feels dirty. He feels like it’s written on his face. He’s back up the ladder of the crow’s nest before he even registers it.
He tries to reason with himself. He has never been attracted to anyone — man, woman, otherwise. It simply does not register in him, never has. So this is not that— probably.
This is simply a perfectly normal reaction to danger, nothing more.
A crewmate in the hands of the enemy.
A threat, assessed and neutralised.
His eyes went there because that is where the danger was.
This is what he keeps telling himself. That’s his mantra.
Zoro his not prepared when his thoughts take a turn, because he cannot help looking down at his own hands. Rough, large, powerful. He could easily circ—
No.
He shakes his head hard. He feels obscene. Those thoughts cannot be his own. And that treacherous feeling in his chest is making him dizy.
Of course.
Of course the cook had to find a whole new way to make him lose his mind.
He has forcibly pushed all those thoughts from his mind, locked them away in the farthest corner of his mind. He is doing better. He has met the dumb cook twice now since the galley incident, and on both accounts, Zoro is pleased to notice that no indecent thoughts had been thought.
This weird obsession had only been fleeting. Nothing more.
He’s leaning against the mast, on the deck, dozing off in the sun. Enjoying the late morning. An eye on Luffy and Chopper laughing at a story narrated by Usopp. It must be something funny. His captain and the little doctor are crying tears of laughter, rolling on the floor, gripping their stomachs. It brings an amused smile to his face.
And then – the cook bursts out of the galley, satisfaction is written on his face. He has a platter balanced on one hand, weighted with various refreshments.
Zoro doesn’t pay it much mind. Until the cook starts going around and the swordsman notices the cut of the suit. Something Zoro has always overlooked. An inconsequential piece of clothing. But suddenly, the detail sends him reeling. His eyes zero in on the way the jacket seems tailored to the cook’s body. So tight at the waist. Lewdly narrow.
God fucking dammit!
Zoro bangs his head against the mast in an effort to derail that particular train of thoughts. He pretends to sleep when the blond approaches him to give him his drink.
“Moss grows in the shadows, y’know?” comes the joyous tone of the cook. “You should get out of the sun, you’re all red,” the dumb cook is taunting him.
Zoro grunts in acknowledgement.
Shut up, shut up, shut up..
In reality Zoro just ignores the cook. He cannot be held responsible for what he might do, should he rise to the bait.
“Thanks,” he mumbles when the cook leaves, despite everything, he still has some manners.
Dinner that night is a terrible thing. He’s staring, he knows he’s staring. Zoro tries to focus on the food. On his captain trying to steel the food off his plate as he’s distracted. On the discussions going on around him. But nothing registers in his mind. He’s so focused on trying not to let anything show through. And yet, his eyes find that damned waist every chance they get. The way the cook turns, reaches, leans, bends. He has to be aware. The pervert cook is mocking him, right? There’s no explanation for how many times the shitty cook has leaned across the table, across from Zoro. So close.
Zoro feels too raw. Too open. He’s sure everyone around this table can hear his thoughts, loud and clear.
How much he yearns, he obsesses over his own hands around Sanji’s waist. Encircling. Reaching all around. Squeezing. Feeling the warmth of the skin through the clothes. Feeling the muscles give way under his fingers.
He slams his fork down much more forcefully than he intended. He springs on his feet and starts for the door.
“I’m full,” he claims and he’s glad his voice doesn’t come as a squeak. He doesn’t slam the door on his way out but it’s a near thing.
He starts missing meals. Training, he says, when anyone asks. He is getting suspicious looks — from Nami especially, who has a way of watching him that suggests she is already three steps ahead. From Robin who always had a keen sense of observation. He ignores it.
He cannot sit across from the cook with those compulsions running through his mind. Cannot watch him move around the galley, cannot watch him lean across the table to refill someone's glass. It is only a temporary reprieve, he knows.
The crew will notice. Luffy will ask a question that somehow cuts straight to the truth despite making no sense.
But for now, distance is the only thing working.
Better to keep the object of his infatuation at arm's length. Until he gets this under control.
If there is one thing Zoro prides himself on, it is his discipline.
He has been doing better.
Not good. But better. He has found a rhythm — training in the mornings until he cannot think, sleeping through the afternoons, until it’s time to train again. He dares not look at the cook when he brings him snacks. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t antagonize the cook. It’s probably what gives him away, to be honest. He’s sure everyone on the crew has noticed his strange behavior. He gets weird looks from the girls, but he’s used to that. And despite ignoring the shitty cook, he can feel his gaze on his back, watching him like some sort of curious animal in a zoo. He feels the weight of those eyes in the pit of his stomach.
It is not sustainable and he knows it. But for now, it works and that’s all he’s asking for.
He has almost convinced himself he has it under control.
The afternoon is slowly morphing into evening. The air is sweet and pleasantly warm. The Merry rocks gently, the kind of swell that makes everyone slow and sleepy. Nami is charting at the table. Robin is reading somewhere on deck. The rest of the crew has drifted off to their respective corners of the ship. And Zoro is dozing on and off, content. His mind is empty and quiet. He likes it. He doesn’t have to war against his own thoughts. To rationalize everything. It’s peaceful. He feels the sun softly warming his face. He doesn’t know how long he stays in that limbo between sleep and awareness.
Zoro feels his throat slightly itching. He realizes he’s thirsty. He huffs, getting on his feet. He comes into the galley for a glass of water. And maybe he can weasel a bottle of sake from the cook.
The cook is at the stove, back to the door, stirring something that smells delicious. It makes his mouth water. It must have been cooking for hours.
“Smells good,” Zoro says a bit gruff.
He has mostly stopped ignoring the cook. He still has his moments where he cannot help the impulsive thoughts running through his mind. But for the most part, he’s been successful in ignoring it.
The cooks hums in lieu of answer. Too engrossed in his cooking to pay him any mind. Probably fine, as long as it’s not Luffy breaching in.
The space between the counter and the stove is narrow — it has never bothered Zoro before. He moves through it without thinking, reaching past the cook for the shelf where the glasses are kept.
A heavy swell makes the ship lists a bit stronger and he hears the cook taking a step back rolling with it. His back comes crashing into his chest. He does not think about it. That is the truth of it. He does not think about it. But he has probably imagined about it a hundred times now, and his body moves on instinct.
His hands find Sanji's waist to catch him, stabilize him. As easy as breathing. He doesn’t register the way his body moves, because it feels so natural.
Zoro stills. It registers now.
The warmth of it. The solidity. His hands fit there the way he knew — the way he had not let himself know — they would. Fingers nearly meeting at the front. The give of muscle under his palms. Sanji is real and warm and right there and Zoro's brain goes completely, utterly silent.
He does not pull away.
He loses track of time. It’s probably nothing but a few seconds.
He becomes aware that the stirring has stopped.
"Hey," Sanji's voice is low. Not a question exactly. Not an accusation either. Something in between, careful and very still.
Zoro does not respond. He is not sure he could. He is looking at his own hands, at the way they sit there, at the narrow span of the waist between them. Weeks of obsessing over this. Weeks of training himself to exhaustion, of missing meals, of banging his head against the mast like an idiot. Weeks of telling himself it was a threat assessed, nothing more.
His reaction is visceral. His blood sings. Warmth is flooding his entire body, starting from his hands.
He puts the tiniest bit of pressure. His fingers meet. There’s a sharp inhale. Zoro would be damned if he could tell from whom it came.
His hands are still there. And he’s not crashing through ten layers of wooden walls. That has to account for something.
He has no word for what this is. He is not sure he needs one.
But he is done pretending it is nothing more.