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1.
Zoro can’t quite put a name on this thing he feels for Sanji.
In his defense, he can’t put a name on a lot of things he feels for Sanji; Zoro has met a lot of people that drew his ire, and a select few that deserved his respect and admiration, but he has never met anyone that makes him feel both at the same time.
It is not unlike what he used to have with Kuina — someone who can look you in the eye and say, I am better than you; but also, you can be better than this. A sword on the neck and a pat in the back all at once. This is rivalry, he thinks, sometimes, but the word doesn’t quite fit either; Sanji lit a different heat inside of him, forest fire and brimstone and something much more all-consuming at the pit of his stomach —
(He never quite understood affection, he would learn later on; what he had with Kuina was good, but they were things that were built on sharp steel and gritted teeth.)
“— my equal.”
“What?”
Sanji is looking up from below, legs still pinned down by Zoro’s torso. It is one of their weekly sparrings — an actual, regular training they agreed upon instead of one of their usual petty fights — and this is Zoro’s win. This tallies up to 30 to 29, Zoro’s lead, but neither of them has ever maintained more than a one-win lead ever since the Shit Cook boarded the deck of Merry, much to Zoro’s chagrin.
Zoro’s mind is already revising today’s spar — he had some atrocious footwork from the wounds he received in Little Garden, but the Cook wasn’t at the top of his game either, his spine probably not fully healed yet since that avalanche at Chopper’s place — and it takes him a moment to realize Sanji is still looking at him funny. “What?”
“That’s my line,” Sanji says, pushing Zoro away with his legs as his hand searches around his suit pocket. “You said something about — equal? Your equal? Doesn’t surprise me at all that your moss brain can only retain memories for less than five seconds, though.”
“Shut up,” Zoro growls at the insult, but tries not to rise to the bait; they’ve had their fair share of fighting today, and this thing he’s about to say is. He’s not quite sure what it is, but he knows it’s — important. That it carries weight. “Listen, I was trying to say — you are.”
Sanji seems to have found his packet of cigarette, and is now lighting up a stick. “I’m what?”
“My equal,” Zoro says, and trying to ignore the heat rising up his cheeks for no reason. “You are my equal, and I want you to be — I need you to be that. Forever.”
He looks away, unsure of what he’s even saying — what he even wants. He just knows that to be true, and he never makes a habit of lying.
He can see Sanji frowning from the corner of his eyes, the end of his cigarette glowing bright red as the Cook takes a deep breath. There’s a moment of awkward silence as Sanji seems to try to figure out what’s going on, before settling with, “is this your way of telling me I wasn’t on par with your expectation? That I’m, what — dragging you down?”
That’s — not what Zoro means at all, but anger is easy. Anger is familiar. So Zoro says, “I’m leading the score, aren’t I?”
“Today was a fluke, shithead, don’t get cocky with just that,” Sanji says, scrambling to his feet; Zoro watches Sanji’s muscles ripple under his too-small dress shirt, clearly gearing up for another spar. “I’ll show you what a true victory looks like.”
“Bring it on, Cook,” he says, putting Wadou between his teeth; something fluttering underneath his bird-cage bone ribs, and he ignores it.
2.
It takes sailing through a few islands and overthrowing a dictator together before it dawns on Zoro that this thing with Sanji extends beyond roughness
They still have their rivalry, the bickering and the fighting and the (admittedly) childish name-calling, but there is also room for something more — a touch of something soft, perhaps. Something in the way their hands would brush when Sanji hands Zoro a bottle of sake after dinner.
(He still can’t put a name on it, though.)
Zoro thinks he’s going insane, like he’s imagining it all on his own, but he swears there is some kind of tension between him and the cook, building up to something. Like an itch, spreading wildfire-like under his skin.
So it is, technically, not entirely his fault when he bites into one of the best onigiri he’s ever tasted in his life and finds himself blurting out, “I want you to cook for me every day.”
During dinner.
In front of the rest of the crew.
Luffy continues eating, because Luffy is Luffy and nothing less than a near-death experience could stop the boy from eating; but the rest of the crew goes quiet in a matter of seconds, clearly trying to listen in on his and Sanji’s conversation and failing miserably to hide it.
Sanji gives him a flat, unimpressed stare. “I’m this ship’s cook,” he says, slowly, like Zoro is a particularly stupid kid. “Who the hell do you think has been cooking for you all this time? That Sea King we ate for breakfast?”
“You know what I mean,” he snarls, but of course Sanji doesn’t, because Zoro himself doesn’t know what the fuck his brain was thinking.
He was just eating an onigiri; a simple meal he grew up with. It is one he associates with — not Koshiro’s dojo or Shimotsuki or a specific, geographical location, but the idea of home. Something safe, something to come home to. And the Cook put his own spin to it, making it all Sanji, and Zoro was caught up in images of coming home to Sanji —
“I want you to cook for me — after,” Zoro says, before he can think twice. “Even after Luffy becomes the pirate king. After you find your sea, and I become the greatest — I still want you to cook for me.”
He thinks he can feel a couple pairs of eyes boring holes into the back of his head — Nami and Robin, most definitely, and probably Usopp — but he can’t bring himself to care when all that matters right now is Sanji’s reaction. Zoro doesn’t know what he wants, but he wants, the desire carving him up from the inside like a need.
But Sanji simply narrows his eyes at that. “...do you think so low of me?”
Zoro balks. “What?”
“Is that what you think I will amount to?” Sanji says, waving his spatula in anger, “a mere cook to the Greatest Swordsman? How dare you, I will open up a successful restaurant in All Blue, just you wait —”
Zoro bites into his onigiri, tuning Sanji out. He tells himself he is not disappointed. He isn’t.
3.
“What the fuck were you thinking,” is the first thing Zoro hears when he comes to.
Zoro blinks his eyes open, and immediately shuts them close again — the harsh white light of the infirmary lamp sends a sharp pang to his head. Everything hurts like a bitch, and he groans, already regretting waking up.
“Oi, oi —” the voice scrambles, and Zoro feels a hand rest on his shoulder. “Just stay put, Marimo, let me go and get Chopper —”
It’s Sanji.
His hand moves by itself against the haze of pain — Zoro doesn’t remember doing it, but the next thing he knows he’s coughing up blood, Sanji’s hand rubbing soothing circles on his back, his own hand clinging onto the Cook’s shirt. It is only after another round of coughing that Sanji is still with him, has been with him by his bedside for god knows how long. There are dark circles under his eyes, and the expression on his face is something Zoro has never seen before — ghastly and sickly pale, like he’s seeing a ghost.
And isn’t that ironic, because Zoro is the one who feels like he’s seeing a ghost. He was this close to losing Sanji, and fear grips his heart like a vice once again at the thought of Sanji, standing tall in front of him, shoulders shaking as he said, tell everyone to find a new cook —
“Cook —” he blurts out just as Sanji says, “Zoro —”
They both pause.
It is Sanji who breaks the silence. “You were going to die for me.”
“It was a fight, Curly,” Zoro disagrees. “I did not stand in line awaiting slaughter. It was a bargain, an offer for a fair fight.”
“You were going to die,” Sanji insists. “For just a cook.”
The words make something in Zoro’s stomach churn. “Where is this even coming from? You’re not just a cook. You are my equal — I would never fight for your life without risking anything less than my own.”
Some of his words seem to finally get to Sanji, because the Cook looks flustered. “How could you just say those things —” Sanji sputters, hand fumbling for a cigarette before realizing he’s still in the infirmary and he ends up chewing an unlit one. “I just — why did you do that?”
“Because I can’t imagine a life without you,” Zoro says before he can even think about it.
Sanji flushes an even deeper shade of red at that, and only then it dawns on Zoro that it is… embarrassing to admit. It is true, and he finds no need to correct himself, but it’s not like he and Sanji have a habit of sharing their feelings —
“Chopper must have put in something strong in that,” Sanji suddenly says, scrambling to his feet as he refuses to meet Zoro’s eyes, “I’m gonna — he actually asked me to call him after you wake up for — check ups and shit —”
Zoro has seen Usopp tell a better lie, but he can feel his own face flush. “You do that,” he mumbles, and for once, Sanji complies.
He watches Sanji close the infirmary door. Something clings on the tip of Zoro’s tongue, constricting his throat, but he chalks it up as part of the wound he receives from Bartholomeow Kuma.
4.
Sanji’s eyebrow twitches in annoyance.
Zoro responds in kind with a scowl, but there’s something warm threatening to bloom in his chest at the sight of Sanji. It is kind of hard to smother, not when Sanji is there, in the flesh, after two long years of separation — not just something from Zoro’s imagination, but someone he could see, and touch, and hold.
Zoro has considered how Sanji would look like when they’d reunite — a pastime activity he sometimes indulged himself in between Mihawk’s gruelling training. But no part of his imagination could measure up to the real Sanji, all blue eyes and sharp tongue. His golden sun hair is longer than Zoro remembers, and he wonders what it’d feel to run his fingers through it.
He also learns, in those two long years of separation, that he is not a selfless man.
He always knew he couldn’t live without Sanji — the Cook’s attempt at sacrifice in front of Bartholomew Kuma was more than enough of a wake up call. But he always thought he could live with simply knowing that Sanji is alive, even though he is away from Zoro. Happy and content without Zoro by his side.
Two years were two years too long of a trial. Zoro already knows the answer to that.
They bicker all the way through Sabaody and even through a fight with a Pacifista. The heat is back, simmer-shine under his skin, and he lets it burn.
He waits for the crew settle into their routine around the Sunny before calling out to Sanji across the deck with a quick, “Oi.”
“What,” Sanji immediately snaps back, but it isn’t as harsh as it usually is. He is hanging his laundry on a clothesline, and seems to be more preoccupied by it than by whatever it is Zoro wants to say.
Well, better get this over with. “Feels good,” he says, making his way to Sanji’s end of the deck. “Fighting side by side like that again.”
Sanji’s hands pause, halfway into the laundry basket. He looks up and stares at Zoro. “Um, yeah,” he replies, fumbling with his words, “it’s not — bad. Us. Together. In a fight, I mean.”
Zoro watches a blush bloom on Sanji’s face, dusting his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. It’s not a bad look. “I always thought it was enough, to be strong on my own. But having you by my side is not something I would trade for anything in this world.” He looks Sanji in the eye, facing him head-on, like he always does. “I want that for the rest of my life.”
It is the nicest thing he’s ever said to Sanji — it is the nicest thing he has ever said to anyone. He expected Sanji to smile; maybe they’d share a laugh or a handshake. If he’s lucky, he might even get an offer for some drinks later.
Instead, there’s suddenly a laundry basket in his field of vision, catching him off guard; he instinctively grabs it by the handle, but it tips over, and fuck, there are wet clothes all over his arms and legs now, and he isn’t quick enough to catch some items that have fallen onto the deck —
“You can’t just say things like that!” Sanji yells, red-faced. “Do you even know what you’re doing — argh,” he groans, and before Zoro could explain himself, the Cook stomps off, slamming the galley door close behind him with a bang.
Zoro watches the door in confusion. What the hell just happened?
“You know,” a familiar voice behind him suddenly said, “people usually go on dates first before proposing, right.”
“Witch,” Zoro grumbles, and definitely doesn’t jump in surprise. “How long have you been listening to us.”
Nami crosses her arms and gives him an unimpressed look. “Right, because you two weren’t practically yelling at each other just now.”
“Shut up,” Zoro says, and tries to backtrack. “What do you even mean — proposing?”
“‘I want you to be by my side for the rest of my life’,” Nami says, hands making air quotes gesture, “come on, Zoro, even you can’t be this dense. I’ve heard actual marriage proposals that are less romantic than that.”
And it suddenly clicks.
The constant need to see Sanji, to talk to him, to be with him. The desire to stand as his equal, to be the man the Cook challenges him to be. The heat, thrumming under his skin, crackling under his ribcage — Zoro can finally put a name on it, and the weight of his own feelings startle him, in all its simplicity.
Holy shit. He’s in love with Sanji, and he’s been proposing to him.
“No fucking way,” Nami says beside him, “you really didn’t notice?”
5.
He has heard this story, time and again, in the various folklores Robin sometimes share, or in those fairytales Sanji wouldn’t shut up about: a warrior, strong as a thousand men, brought to his knees in the face of love. He thought it would be a disgraceful thing — to fall in love is to be weakened, distracted.
He was wrong.
It is an honor, to fall in love with Sanji — to know this kind, fierce man, and to be able to see that he is worthy of love. And to love Sanji is to want to become a man deserving of being by his side, and Zoro has never been more focused on his dream than today, as Sanji would expect him to be nothing but the Greatest.
Things, however, fall into place too easily in the stories. The warrior confessed, his love was accepted, and they both lived happily ever after. The reality is much more complicated. The Straw Hats don’t seem to have a moment of rest in the New World as Sunny travels through a flurry of islands. Fishman Island, Punk Hazard, Dressrosa; before Zoro knows it, they get separated again, and by the time they reunite, it is with the threat of Kaido looming over them.
And now Queen and King are standing before them, poised for a fight. Sanji is once again by his side, and Zoro has never felt so in tune with another person, his heart beats in sync with Sanji’s as they break into Queen and King’s defense together.
The heat is back — smoldering in his chest, ready to explode; and the words fall out of his mouth before he can stop it.
“Oi, Curly, once we conquer this battle—”
“Yeah,” Sanji cuts in, a smirk plastered on his face. “We’re going to catch a glimpse of Luffy as the King of the Pirates.”
That… is not what Zoro wanted to say.
But Sanji is right — this fight is bigger than just him, bigger than just them; it is a reminder how perfect they are for one another, but it is just one of many such instances, and it doesn’t mean Zoro should just blurt out unnecessary things.
He will propose properly next time.
(1.)
King raises his sword, and Zoro has already moved towards him when he suddenly hears Sanji shout, “Oi, Mosshead, will you marry me?”
Zoro trips on his feet.
“Shit,” Sanji curses as he blocks King’s incoming attack as Zoro tries to regain his bearings and quite possibly his sanity. “That sounded insane. I’m going insane, I think, just, forget what I said.”
Queen joins in on the assault, and Zoro uses Enma and Kitetsu to block his attack. He must’ve been hit pretty hard in the head, because he thinks he just hallucinated Sanji saying —
“But you know, if you actually have an answer, I’m not opposed to that,” Sanji continues rambling, “I just, after the whole thing with Pudding and Big Mom, I keep thinking about marriages, and us, and I might be imagining things but —”
“Holy shit, Cook,” Zoro blurts out, “No.”
Sanji looks a bit hurt at that, and Zoro feels like stabbing himself. Sanji tilts his head to evade a gunshot from one of Queen’s underlings as he mumbles, “Geez, all right, no need to be so rude about it —”
“No, Sanji, fuck —” he spins Wadou to slice a group of King’s men and knocks his head against Sanji’s just to erase the stupid expression on Sanji’s face. “Stop thinking too much; I didn’t mean it like that . Of course I want to marry you! I’ve proposed to you! Multiple times!”
“What the fuck are you talking about,” Sanji headbutts him back, “are you mistaking me for someone else?”
“Who else on this earth has those stupid eyebrows and annoying voice?”
He anticipates the kick before he sees it, and there’s a loud CLANK that reverberates throughout the battlefield as Sanji’s shoe meets Enma. He hears some murmurs of, is there infighting among the Strawhats? and Nami’s shrill voice, cutting through them as she screams, “YOU TWO! NOT NOW!”
“Sorry, Nami-swan!” Sanji sweetly replies, and then uses one of his spinning attacks to kick a group of them against the wall. “Look, Zoro, nevermind —”
“Sabaody,” Zoro says before Sanji can find an out and pretend all of this never happened. “I saw you for the first time ever since our crew got separated, and I asked you to be by my side for the rest of my life.”
Sanji whips his head to face him, wide-eyed. “What —”
“Thriller Bark,” he plows on, “I realized I couldn’t live without you, and I said as much. Months before that, during dinner, on our way to the Sky Islands, I told you I wanted to eat your food forever. And even before that, I had told you I wanted you to be my equal.
“I wanted you, Sanji,” he says, warmth flooding his entire being, “I’ve wanted you for so long, I can’t remember a moment when I did not want to be by your side —”
Zoro feels Sanji’s lips on his.
The battlefield is in chaos around them, but Zoro feels like the world narrows into the two of them — the curve of Sanji’s smile against his, Sanji’s arms around his shoulders, their chests pressed together. Zoro has wanted this for years, across so many accidental marriage proposals and declarations of love, that he’s mostly forgotten about it, the desire just a constant hum in the back of his head; now all of it is dawning, that he gets to taste Sanji, to put his hands on Sanji’s hips and pull him into a deeper kiss —
“I SWEAR TO GOD,” Nami booms, “OUT OF ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD.”
They instantly break apart, and Zoro wants to be embarrassed, but he mostly just laughs. Fuck, he’s so fucking happy. He hears Sanji laugh beside him, and he chances a quick glance to see the largest grin on Sanji’s flushed face. I did that, he thinks, and feels his own smile deepen around Wadou’s hilt.
King and Queen are still standing tall before them, but Zoro does not fear a single thing.
“Hey, Cook?” He asks, raising Enma against the enemies. They are hellfire, ready to raze everything in their path. “Lend me a hand for ten seconds.”
Sanji laughs beside him, loud and free. Brimstone in his chest, firecracker in his voice. “That should be enough time.”