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A swordsman floats by in a shitty rowboat. His legs hang off the side drenched in salt, blood, dirt and who knows what else.
He looks like Death saw his name on the list, shook their head sternly and decided Actually, no thank you.
Sanji watches as the boat bobs along parallel to the Baratie’s decks. He can practically climb into it. Can simply step off of his home and join the mossy corpse in its lackadaisical journey towards wherever-the-fuck land.
The fins had been extended for a fight earlier in the morning. A band of ne'er-do-wells who had, for some inexplicable reason, assumed that wearing metal trays right over their chests would actually protect them. The Breast Tin Pirates were disappointingly more tin than breasts. Still, seeing the perfectly shoe-shaped dents in the middle of their ‘armour’ really made up for it. Patty counted at least seventeen of the poor suckers groaning into their soups, hands clutching their ribs.
What a day.
He smiles around his cigarette. Takes it from his lips and taps off the ash, sprinkling the sail-by corpse as he casts his gaze out. The blue water sparkles invitingly, stretching as far as his eye can see. Sanji stamps down on the twitch in his legs; he’s too busy for that. Their course is due for an island soon. The old geezer's been yelling at Sanji for lurking in the pantry which is as good a bellwether for the state of their supplies as anything.
Maybe he should check one more time…
“Oh fuck you,” the dead swears, offended.
Through sheer force of spite, the withered and wounded man manages to struggle up, arms shaking as he holds up a finger and bared teeth.
“You seriously see someone injured and your first instinct is to reminisce and use him as an ashtray?” the man snarls, more pants than words. “Whatever happened to basic common decency?”
“Ah,” Sanji intones, glancing down with a distant stare. “He lives.”
“Of course he fucking lives.”
There's a glare in there somewhere. Impressive considering the man’s bandana covers half his eyes in cloth and the other half with blood.
Sanji's nose crinkles in distaste. Disgusting. They’re going to need more than a little elbow grease to clean all that algae off.
“Well?” the swordsman postures, getting more aggressively upright by the second. A little flailing here and there, but understandable given how long he must have been cooking in this noon-high heat. “Are you going to help or not, twirly-brow?”
Said brow twitches.
Somehow, there's not a hint of weakness in the swordsman’s words despite his poor state. A threat coiled tightly ready to spring, a stalking tiger of a promise.
Sanji's with Death on this one. No thank you, indeed.
“No shoes, no service,” the sous-chef says breezily.
The swordsman is incredulous for a moment before he's scowling again.
“Half a shoe,” he points out, smirking like he's done something clever. “Half a service.”
They both stare at the half of a boot clinging stubbornly to the left foot. Rather than falling apart from wear and tear, the cut is clean through. It shaves off the portion protecting the toe, exposing the devastating state of the man's toenails with Sanji as their unfortunate witness. Noticing it only makes the stench of sweat worse.
He wonders what could have done this and shrugs when he realises, oh right. He doesn’t care.
Sanji takes a long drag.
Then the shitty swordsman's stomach growls.
Shit.
—·—
As soon as the Curlybrow prick is out of sight, Zoro collapses. It had taken everything he had just to talk. He groans, happy to be horizontal again even though his head is swimming.
That villager had sworn on their life that the ship docked in port had a doctor on board. A decent enough one too considering they offered to do a few rounds of check-ups and spot treatments in exchange for food and supplies. Zoro didn’t need one, but he wouldn’t say no to nicking a roll of bandages if it meant that his wound would stop bleeding ominously through his shirt. He was down to one spare and he definitely didn’t have the kind of money to replenish his stock.
Shit like that doesn’t bother him, but he’s been around long enough to know that walking into an office to collect bounties while covered in blood is more trouble than it’s worth. Marines and their stupid excuses. Would sooner run through a vagabond than cough up berries.
He closes his eyes against the harsh sun. So he didn’t end up finding the boat. Why anyone would build a port in the middle of a forest is anyone’s guess, but whatever. It hardly matters now.
Zoro climbed into the rowboat and decided to try his luck. He still had a bounty to hunt down—something about tin and pirates. Definitely meant that they should have swords which was exciting news.
Less exciting was his past week spent freely sailing. The scraps he foraged ran out on the fourth day. His canteen ran dry on the sixth.
He’s probably still bleeding too. Fuck.
“Oi.”
Zoro’s eyes roll lazily up towards the asshole. Then the smell hits him and he’s drawn back upright like a puppet on a string.
Oh, his boat’s been tied off, when did that happen?
The curly bastard grins. He sticks out a long black leg and catches the rim of his boat with his heel, dragging it flush with the deck in a petty show of strength. The rocking eases down to a gentle stir.
“Here,” Curlybrow says. A tray gets set down in Zoro’s lap and Zoro looks down at the bisected plate and half-cup of water.
He blinks.
There’s nothing on it.
Zoro is shaking, mouth flooding with saliva. His stomach opens up in a long guttural demand for more food. Wait—
Curlybrow spits something into the water, narrowly missing the boat. A white stub, end still orange and glowing. What the actual fuck. That could have hit the tarp and sent his whole ship ablaze.
A match strikes fast, flame brushing the ends of blond hair and Curlybrow sighs. A new cigarette sits neatly between two long fingers.
“Damn good, eh?” the bastard crows, grin stretching wider and Zoro notices that he’s squatting down so they’re near eye level. “Was worried you were going to inhale the plate too.”
The food making its way down to his stomach rubs at his starved and dehydrated brain enough to connect the dots. He’s ravenous because he’s been fed. He’s thirsty because he drank. The food was, to put it mildly, the best thing he’s ever had the pleasure of eating and he can’t remember a damn thing about it.
“This the kind of gruel you serve around here?” Zoro scowls. Looks back down at the half-plate and it really is half of a plate. Someone took a knife to it and cut it clean through. Same with the glass. “Bring me something better, shit cook.”
Curlybrow snickers. “Half a shoe,” he says cryptically and Zoro can’t untangle what that means.
The man—boy, really. He’s all gangles and legs all the way down. The suit is fitted, sure, but it’s still like watching a kid walking around in his dad’s clothes. He draws up to his full height and doesn’t look back as he starts walking away.
“Hey—!”
“I’m fucking busy, mossy.” Casually tossed out, smoke puffing after every word. It’s only because the sun catches on the blond’s hair that Zoro notices the boy turns his head. “Dinner service is in half an hour and the shitty customers keep tossing out food like it’s going out of style. The aft deck is going to stink of the stuff and guess who’ll have to clean up all that food just laying around there? Probably me. Like hell I have time to tend to some invasive species playing samurai.”
Anger chews through common sense at the insult. Zoro wobbles to his feet, thumbing the hilts of his blades before the timer dings on his brain and he processes what Curlybrow’s actually saying.
…huh.
Curlybrow walks down towards a side door. Pauses and then finally turns to face Zoro as he’s heading in, a smirk dancing across his lips. “Better make sure that Patty doesn’t see your broke ass. He’ll toss you overboard in no time flat. Good luck!”
As Curlybrow disappears, Zoro is left with a single question: who the hell is Patty?
—·—
“Alright, where is it?”
Sanji doesn’t look up, completely focused on the mind-numbing task of peeling potatoes. His old man made it pretty clear that he can’t even take a break to piss. Threatened to kick his chickpea brain out and serve it as hummus if he didn’t get everything done and now Zeff wants Sanji’s attention?
Yeah right, Sanji huffs. He doubles his speed, peels flying off perfect spirals. I’m not going to fall for it.
“Hey, I asked you something.”
Triples his speed. Stupid old man. If Sanji was one of his usual crap chef hires, then sure, he definitely wouldn’t be able to get everything done in time. Good thing he’s not. He isn’t the sous-chef for nothing, as much as the others scoff about nepotism.
Let them talk, Sanji has better things to do. Like speeding through this to get back to cooking. The mosshead looked half a day from keeling over. Some good food and proper rest should be more than enough slop of muscle and steel. It’ll be fine…probably. The restaurant’s got plenty of medical supplies and Sanji can do a decent stitch if he needs—
THWACK!
Sanji explodes. “Hey!” he screeches even as splinters rain down over his shoulders. He rockets out of the pile of crates, anger spitting all over Zeff’s stupid moustache. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“That depends, Eggplant. What are you doing?”
“I’m doing my job. You know—the thing you asked me to do. Don’t take it out on me if your chefs are struggling without me when it's your own fault.”
“You’re ruining the main dish is what you’re doing,” Zeff gruffs. “Stop acting like you’re God’s great gift on this earth when your ‘job’ is looking like it’s more potato than peel.”
He can’t help from glancing at the peels. Shit. The geezer’s right. It really is more potato than peel.
Sanji crosses his arms and scowls. “I knew you were senile, but people can’t just read your mind. You have to actually explain yourself instead of saying whatever crap you like.”
“Where’s the stray?”
Sanji stares.
Zeff narrows his eyes.
“There’s no—”
“Don’t. You. Dare.” An already uncomfortably close father figure sneers even closer. “You’re distracted and it’s affecting your cooking. Whatever it is, it’s a liability if it’s got you wasting food like that.”
“Don’t you dare!” Sanji barks. His blood bubbles and boils, lashing against its cage made from skin and vein. “Sure, whatever—I’m doing a shitty ass job! I can admit that! Use the skins for tomorrow's stock or something, figure it out yourselves. But I would never ever waste food. You know that! Why would you say that? Why would you, of all fucking people, ever say that!?”
There’s a flicker of something. If Sanji could see past the film of rage and steam, he might have caught onto the little nugget of genuine regret. Instead, all he sees is Zeff’s resolve clamping down.
“Because I need you to listen,” Zeff sighs, a little older than usual. “Eggplant, you can do what you want because you’re stupid, but you’re usually not that stupid. I trust you that much. But this ain’t like you which means you’re in over your head and you’re too far up your own ass to see that. So where the fuck is it and what the fuck is wrong?”
Shit.
Fuck.
Shit fucking shitty ass geezer.
“Make up your stupid mind,” Sanji croaks, hands shaking. “How am I supposed to be over my head when I’m also up my ass?”
The tension blows out of the kitchen, hot air venting through the open port hole. Motion comes back and Sanji finally notices the dulled yells and cooking sounds, their small army of chefs not-so-subtly glancing their way.
“Eggplant.”
Fuck he needs a cigarette. Sanji sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair and yanking at it until he can feel it burn. “Some stupid seaweed—wrote him off for dead, but he’s apparently too stubborn to just roll over. I told him to hide, so uh.” A shrug. The bastard looks dumber than the grass bed he keeps on his head, but the Baratie’s not that big. Sanji fumbles with his matches, breaking three before finally managing to light it. As soon as the smoke curls in front of him, obscuring Zeff’s harsh edges, Sanji’s spine relaxes into a comfortable droop. “Guess we’re hunting for mould, old man.”
The look Zeff gives him is withering.
The hand on his shoulder is warm.
—·—
Okay, so maybe it’s bad. Bad enough that Zoro is less travelling and more passing out and waking up somewhere completely different, body dutifully completing its task of don’t let Patty find you.
At least he manages to curl up somewhere safe—probably. It’s dark and he can’t see shit which means that in turn, no one can see him.
After that, it’s safe and kind of comfortable. Nothing to write home about but after the week he’s had, it’s welcome. Even with the supposed ‘dinner service’ Curlybrow complained about, there’s barely any sound.
Definitely no Patties running amok. Even if he does get caught, ‘Patty’ doesn’t seem like he’ll be much of a challenge. Curlybrow certainly thinks the same going off of his cheerful tone and he’s more twig and fabric than actual man, so…
His questionable health will just add an extra challenge. It’s—what’s it called…zest. There we go. It was getting a little boring anyway.
He blinks, feeling his lashes hit his eyelids. It’s the only way he can tell if he really does blink. The only downside of the dark is that he can’t tell how long it’s been. Either it’s just a moment in time or he really fell asleep and is only now waking up.
Voices drift from down below.
“—a stupid hunk of kelp. Where the hell did he go? I swear to god if he managed to stumble into the ocean and drown then I’ll swim down and kill him for real myself.”
Curlybrow.
Zoro feels for the legitimacy of his limbs’ ability to hold himself upright and figures there’s only one way to find out. He builds up momentum, rocking back and forth on the yielding surface beneath him and he’s just about to tip over and land on his feet like a complete badass when the door opens.
Light stabs into the room straight into his innocent eyes. Pain erupts, cascading down as he collapses onto the floor with a heavy thunk. Zoro groans and only remembers to growl halfway through. His hands grasp for his swords and he relaxes when he finds their hilts.
He staggers to his feet. All ten toes flex against the cold floorboards and he holds up Wado in clear threat.
An old man with a moustache made of dishwater raises a brow at him. There may be three of him swimming into and out of each other, bulking up into an intimidating shadow against the rectangle of yellow ship light.
“So you’re the stray,” the man says, calm as a tide pulling back from the shore. “I’d ask why you're in the little Eggplant’s room, but,” clear blue eyes look him up and down and he grimaces, “—I think I’ve got the gist.”
“Patty,” Zoro huffs, settling into a stance. Patty sure did say a lot of words that made no sense, but if Zoro has to fight his way out, he’ll be proper about it.
“It’s Zeff,” not-Patty corrects. He turns his head, keeping his body facing Zoro. “Eggplant!” he shouts down the hallway.
Zoro keeps quiet. His arm is starting to shake from the effort so he places Wado between his teeth and rests his hands on the other two. They’re both tense, ready for a battle. Feeling the string drawing more and more taught as sharp footsteps finally careen up the stairs, two at a time.
“What.” Curlybrow—Eggplant?—starts before he looks through the open doorway and baulks. “YOU!”
“Me.” Zoro frowns, pointing at himself.
Eggplant doesn’t even blink, already stomping over with indignant anger. “I explicitly told you to go to the aft. How the fuck did you end up in my room!? Want to add peeping to your abysmal sailing skills, huh? Pervy cactus head?”
Zoro flushes and tries to cover it up by driving into Eggplant’s personal space. “Your stupid ship has too many floors.”
A hand grips Zoro’s collar and yanks him even closer.
“Like I’m taking criticism from a guy who decided it’s fine to sail the sea on a rowboat.”
“At least my rowboat doesn’t have doors that just up and move! Ever think about that, curly?”
“My name is Sanji and are you for re-al!?” The cool smug air from before is completely gone and Zoro can’t believe this is the same person. The voice break is the last nail in the coffin. Sanji continues to squawk in his face, splotches of red highlighting the curves of his cheeks. “Are you seriously that dumb? Oh, but it makes so much sense how you’d end up like this if you’re telling me the only reason you’re here is that you got lost.”
Embarrassment swells up in his throat. Zoro shoves Sanji away as hard as he can, hoping to knock him down.
It doesn’t work. Either Sanji’s got legs of steel or his room is giving him power.
“And on top of everything, of course the phytoplankton is injured. Wouldn’t be surprised if your brain leaked out along with your blood. Not that there was much brain matter to begin with.”
Zoro feels his retorts biting against the back of his teeth, but now that Sanji’s no longer holding him up, he’s starting to list.
“Eggplant.”
Heavy. Calm. A whole undertow of seasoned exasperation and amusement of all things rippling through the single word.
Sanji snaps to attention, turning to face Zeff before swivelling sharply towards Zoro.
The last thing he hears is Mossy! and then it’s dark.
—·—
Zoro doesn’t wake for another three days.
His wounds have been cleaned and dressed expertly. You don’t build a reputation as a restaurant full of fighting chefs without amassing enough medical knowledge between them to keep each other from dying. Now, all the moss needs is time to rest and heal.
Time said moss is determined to spend snoring like a grain mill.
“Figured you’d turn out to be a lazy bastard,” Sanji muses. He tips his chair back, letting his eyes roll up towards the ceiling.
Wood grain. Wood planks. Same shitty sight as it has been for the past six years.
“It’s business as usual at the Baratie,” Sanji informs him. He hears Zeff barking from below, telling him to leave the local plant life alone and get back to work. “Crap geezer’s been giving me nothing but shit these days. I gave you my bed so I’ve had to slum it with the rest of the chefs in their hammocks for the time being. Apparently, it’s worse for them than it is for me. Can’t imagine why.”
A warning count starts to sound.
Sanji sighs and drops the chair back down on all four legs. He stands, stretching his limbs with a sigh. He looks at the steady breathing of the still unnamed man. Smiles. He can’t help himself from ruffling his hair. The moss is soft, Sanji will give him that much. Short and spiky and brainless—exactly like a marimo.
“Anyway, three days is much too long, don’t you think?” Sanji croons sweetly. He grabs the pillow from underneath and replaces it over the sleeping guest’s face. A foot stomps down to make a seal.
Then he starts to add pressure.
A few seconds pass. Zeff starts yelling louder, sound travelling from the outside heading in.
“EGGPLANT!” Zeff bellows, reaching for the tone specifically reserved for full-naming his young sous-chef. “Get down here this instant!”
“In a minute,” Sanji calls back, staring intently at his would-be corpse. “I’m doing my civic duty, hold on!”
A decidedly more tame response. More horror, less anger. “...Eggplant, no.”
Sanji presses down harder, feeling the body jerk and spasm. “I want my bed back, you jolly green fuck.”
A hand snaps to his ankle. Nearly crushes it to dust and Sanji grins, eyes feral and bright.
“There we go,” he purrs, using his leg to push himself on top of the bed and moss. His other foot crashes down on the man’s groin, holding back an inch of force. He’ll never let the algae live that squeal down. “Welcome back to the land of the living. Look at me working miracles. I could’ve been a doctor.”
“I’ll kill you,” roars the swordsman, rage muffled but still healthy and strong.
“Sorry, not interested.” And then he kicks down again, using the wheeze and the momentary weakness in the kelphead’s grip to flip away. Zeff’s peg leg bursts through the door and Sanji cackles, jumping over the old man’s shoulder. He barrels straight down the stairs, not stopping for anything.
If he knocks the stupidly tall hat askew on purpose, well, that’s just a bonus.
“That’s what you get!” he calls out to them both. Sanji bursts into the kitchen, sliding into his station as quickly and elegantly as possible.
He’s nearly late for work, after all.
Carne looks at him over his sausages.
“That was stupid.”
“So was giving me half a week of chore boy duty,” Sanji counters.
“It’ll probably be a month now.”
“Worth it.” Sanji shrugs. “And the marimo’s awake now so it all works out.”
“If you say so, Eggplant. If you say so.”
—·—
“He could have killed me.”
“Yes. He could have,” Zeff says simply.
Zoro stops at that. Briefly caught off guard by the nonchalance of that statement. A shiver very much does not pass through his spine and even if it did, it’s because of the old man in front of him, not because of some dartbrow.
Which, speaking of…
A quick glance towards the old man’s face. No curl.
“The hell is his problem anyhow?” Zoro grumbles.
“Who knows.” Zeff shrugs. “Found ‘im like that.”
Zoro nods. Interesting way of putting it, but he supposes fathers can’t be choosers.
He pinches the end of the bandages wrapping him up like a ham. The process to unwind them is slow. Sure, every time he moves his shoulder a certain way it twinges, but that’s only half the problem. The other half is the fact that the bandage layers are seventeen deep at least. Who even does that?
“A safety precaution,” Zeff explains gruffly when Zoro lifts his eyes to ask. “You kept waking up and scrambling to move which did a number on your bruised ribs. To say nothing of your guts leaking out. Eggplant locked you down and you slept like a baby since.”
He takes that information in, scowling at the parting comment. “How long?”
“Three days.”
Way too long. The tin pirates are probably long gone.
Zoro clenches his fist before forcing himself to relax the tension. Let go. He’ll be back on the hunt soon enough, there’s no need to rush the process. He can pick up some other bounties and keep an eye out for them. He may get twisted around sometimes, but he usually ends up where he needs to go. Eventually.
Zeff observes him quietly and Zoro lets him. The old man seems to be the captain of this vessel and he’s old for a reason. The air of someone experienced and dangerous lies tucked underneath his white uniform. Carefully pressed and ironed; still as sharp as ever. He grabbed Zoro’s swords that had been left by the doorway and placed them within Zoro’s reach.
It’s an attitude that Zoro can respect.
“What’s your deal then, string bean?” Zeff finally asks.
There are a lot of ways to answer that. Zoro looks outside Sanji’s window and from here, Zoro can only see the ocean. It stretches far beyond the horizon and somewhere out there is that man. He’ll get there. There’s no doubt about that.
“I was tailing some pirates when I got…sidetracked,” Zoro admits. “I want to be back on my path as soon as possible.”
“Bit young to be a bounty hunter.”
“Swordsman,” Zoro corrects.
Zeff smirks, a shadow of his legacy crossing over his wrinkled and sea-leather features. “How candid.”
It feels like he passed the test.
Then the old man gets up, the chair creaking as he does. “Eggplant would lend you a boat, but given how it went last time, we’re better off just dumping you at the nearest island. Don’t fuck up my ship and don’t miss mealtimes.” He’s almost out the door when Zeff mutters something under his breath. It’s soft and almost fond as if it’s a secret no one is meant to hear. “Not that it’ll be a problem if you end up hanging around Sanji. Can’t help himself when he sees a stray.”
The door closes fully and suddenly it’s quiet again. Not dark like last time and his head doesn’t hurt nearly as much.
He’d much rather be on his way, but it’s not a bad deal.
Sanji, huh, he muses, turning their encounters over in his mind. He grins. This will be fun.
—·—
“So, what kind of food do you like, mossball?”
“Zoro.”
“Never heard of it.”
The swordsman blinks, finally pausing in his nauseating display of inhaling a whole bowl of soup. It’s flattering as hell to see someone scarf down his food all gung-ho like that, but the noises are so bad. Not to mention he keeps splashing shit everywhere. Half the onions are probably on his chest. His very naked chest.
Sanji scowls at the coil of soiled bandages.
“It’s my name,” the kelphead says slowly like Sanji’s the one who needs that kind of teacherly patience. “Zo-ro.”
Sanji hums and sizes Zo-ro up. Pretty muscular, but there’s still a bit of baby fat on his cheeks which is promising. Sanji can work with that. There’s no helping the stench, but get the right spices on him…
“Oh, the dishes I can make…” Sanji sighs, head spinning with the possibilities. He’s always down for a challenge. Zeff doesn’t let him entertain the thoughts of butchering men like they do cows, but it’s practical. No one knows better than them how life on the sea can turn out. That it’s also fun to do is just a nice bonus. “Anyway, answer the question.”
There’s a purposeful pause. Zoro’s spoon clinks against the ceramic as he lets down the bowl, eying Sanji in turn. Is Zoro actually any good with his swords? The calloused hands and scars imply some experience and he’s felt that strength for himself.
He’ll have to beat the shit out of him later.
“White rice,” Zoro says. “Sea king meat. Anything that goes with booze.” There’s a challenging light in his eyes. “Sake.”
“Unsurprising.” Sanji smirks. “Simple tastes for a simple man.”
“Yeah?” A cocked brow, swarming with an arrogance that would irritate him on a good day, but luckily Sanji’s feeling great. “Better than subsisting on whatever prissy soylent you serve at this place. Those onions tasted like shit.”
Sanji gasps, hand fluttering to his mouth in shock. “I’m surprised you recognized that the soup had onions in it! Glad to see the little scallion is aware of his fellow vegetables.”
“You want to go, Curly?”
“That depends, Marimo-kun. You going to pass out on me again?”
Twin grins meet as soon as the valuable and breakable crockery is set aside. A flash of silver and Sanji can taste the metal in his mouth when they clash. Two swords strain against his leather sole, neither allowing any give.
“Fast,” Sanji comments.
“That’s nothing—”
Sanji doesn’t let him finish. He uses Zoro's frankly ridiculous strength and stubbornness to push off the swords, putting some distance between them. He taps his toe against the floor in a polite warning for down below as the adrenaline starts to surge through his veins.
There’s an answering bellow of don’t you fucking dare, Eggplant! before they’re flinging themselves towards each other. Steel whistles past his face as Sanji ducks down low, letting his hands take the brunt of his weight as he flips his legs up, aiming for the head and clicking his tongue when a third sword tilts up to block his blows.
A laugh builds up in his throat, giddy as anything. Already Zoro’s worth more than the entire Breast Tin group combined.
Zoro’s arms swing down, aiming to slash Sanji’s torso into ribbons and Sanji springs back and rolls away. He carries the momentum, spinning as he swoops up to his feet, leg extending just in time to block another flurry of slashes.
“Not bad,” Zoro mutters around a diamond-wrapped hilt. “For a cook.”
“It’s chef, dumbass,” Sanji corrects, preening when he catches Zoro in the hip. At the cost of a massive tear riding up one of his favourite slacks, but he hardly notices.
They go at it long enough to upend his bed and tear up his room. Zeff stares at him through the door, face red and mouth wide enough to swallow them both whole. Oops.
There’s no chance of either of them avoiding the chef’s hat coming down on their head like a gavel strike.
Not that it matters. Sanji beat the shit out of the marimo as god intended. The mossball is good with swords, who knew! That he himself looks like he got thrown into a blender and whacked with a meat tenderizer can be skipped over because of this simple fact:
Zeff knocks Zoro down first which means Sanji wins.
—·—
Zoro disagrees. Zoro disagrees so hard that it takes him several fights worth of rehashing the score for it to finally click that he enjoys fighting with the stupid eyebrows.
Sanji’s got a mouth that runs fouler than the run-off from Zoro’s cleaning cloth and a shitty personality that’s more eclectic rules than sense. He’ll pick a fight for fun only to turn around on his heel in real anger if they actually do any damage to the Baratie. Bathe more, but don’t use those soaps. Don’t waste food, don’t ignore him, and don’t sleep in the middle of hallways.
Ugh.
Sanji likes to lose just as much as Zoro which means not at all. Always has to have the final word, the final say, the final everything. He’ll hold lunch hostage over Zoro’s head until Zoro submits—it’ll never happen—and then he gives Zoro his three square meals anyway.
The constant fighting is probably why his recovery keeps being set back. It’s Sanji’s fault for finding it ethical to fight an invalid.
“So you admit you’re injured,” Sanji says cooly, displaying yet another irritating factor of his existence. The weird eyebrow dwarfs his forehead and his hair covers the rest so it’s hard to remember that Sanji is damn perceptive when he wants to be.
“I did when we first met.” Zoro frowns, not knowing where Sanji is going with this. The rowboat was not his finest hour. He’s man enough to admit that.
“Yeah, but you’ve pretty much rejected the idea ever since.” The prongs of a fork jab towards him as Sanji speaks. “First it’s taking off your bandages, then it’s training in the middle of the dining room—”
“I’m telling you, the upper deck likes to move. And Patty said the customers enjoyed the show, so…”
Sanji is decidedly not impressed. “Anyway, do you just think that recovery isn’t a thing that people need to do?”
“I’m different,” states Zoro, tone flat and final. “‘cause I’m stronger.”
Really, Zoro should have seen the foot going for his shin. He’ll have to train harder to ensure it never happens again.
“That’s not—” a splutter, somehow not spraying food everywhere. Sanji always makes sure to swallow. Spit’s fair game, though. Zoro has learned to keep a napkin handy. “That’s not how it works! You’re a muscle-headed brute, but that means you should know about muscles, right? Like how you should let your muscles rest after a workout and shit.”
“Of course.” Zoro hopes Sanji knows how stupid that sounds. “I’m not an idiot.”
Sanji stares at him, looking genuinely at a loss.
Hah. Add that to the tally.
“What’s the difference between that and letting yourself recover from an injury?” the cook presses, practically leaning over their barrel-turned-table like he wants to drive the point straight into Zoro’s skull. “It’s the same principle!”
“I recover fast,” Zoro shrugs.
“Say that when you don’t wince every time you climb up the stairs!”
“You’re the one who keeps jumping me!”
Another pause. Another victory. Both of them know that Sanji can’t exactly deny that and just because they’re both at fault for pushing the other into conflict, it doesn’t mean shit if Sanji is the one on trial currently.
“Yeah, well.” And then Sanji’s gone, taking his musky cologne with him as he drifts back to his side of their barrel to poke at his leafy greens. “It’s not my fault you’re better than most people here even with half your foot in the grave.”
“I’m literally fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Zoro says. And it’s the truth this time. A little twinge here or there won’t make a difference at this point. It’s already been more than Zoro would have allotted himself usually and it’s only because he needs to rest every time Sanji bludgeons him with a perfectly aimed heel.
“You slept for three days.”
“Your bed was comfortable.”
“I knew that was just you being lazy.”
Sanji huffs, the exhale playing with the long fringe covering his eye. It nearly lifts off just enough to reveal what’s under there, but at this angle, all Zoro gets is shadow.
How…disappointing. His chest feels a little weird at that thought. Like there’s an earthworm squirming in there.
They finish their meal in peace, Sanji collecting their plates and adding them to the pile of dishes that have been stacking up during the day. The chore boy doesn’t blink at their additions, elbow-deep in water.
Contrary to Zeff’s threats, Sanji’s was allowed back to his usual station after their initial fight. In exchange, he has to spend his free time ‘plant-sitting’. It’s obnoxious and rude, but Zoro can’t exactly complain if it means they’re basically sanctioned to spar.
Not that the old man said that that’s what it meant, but the yelling has been toned down to rolling eyes and muttered curses, so. Spars.
Sanji rolls up his sleeves. “I have to go back to my shift. Think you can find the aft this time?”
“If your architecture doesn’t do its whole ‘shifting’ thing, then yeah. Meet you there.”
“Previous events inspire little confidence,” Sanji laughs. Then he throws Zoro one of those smiles. The toothy grins should be a safety hazard for how they just catch all the light and reflect it, threatening to blind anyone stupid enough to stare directly into it. “If you manage, I’ll make you something as a reward. Now go before you start developing roots in my kitchen.”
“It’s not your damn kitchen,” is muttered by at least three other staff including the old man who’s stoically watching them both.
Zoro shakes his head to clear it and heads off through a door. A cook tries to tell him that’s towards where the main restaurant is, but Zoro does know his way around, contrary to popular belief.
—·—
Sanji hums a shanty around a fresh cigarette, smiling as the cool air rushes towards him once he steps outside. The moon hangs full above them, yanking the stars in closer to light up the sky.
What a beautiful night.
He balances the tray on top of his head and slides his hands into his pockets. Follows the snoring all the way towards its source, his smile widening when he sees the snoozing ball of moss tucked in behind some crates.
It’s very much the back of the ship. He got the play-by-play from Patty who kept seeing Zoro wandering up and down the main spiral staircase multiple times before finally finding the door leading to the back.
The marimo is sprawled carelessly out. His new boots already have a layer of grime on them which is impressive considering it’s only been a few days.
He’ll have to kick Zoro back into the bath again. Apparently, the oaf doesn’t understand that it’s supposed to be a daily affair.
Speaking of kicking…
Sanji grins. His leg extends out like an axe, black shoes catching the moonlight.
“Rise and shine, shitty swordsman!” Sanji dodges the retaliation, dancing around the worn planks. “If I see a tear anywhere on my clothes, I’ll take your treat away.”
That catches his attention. Zoro blinks fully awake, settling back into his comfortable position on the floor, swords sliding back into their sheaths. “Treat?”
Feeling nicer than usual, Sanji dials back the attitude and sits down next to him. Behind them is the kitchen. The wall they’re resting against still bleeds with warm ovens and stoves, the last of their chefs slowly staggering out. No wonder the moss decided to set up shop here. He’s still a creature that seeks certain comforts no matter what his sparse lifestyle and curt manner might suggest.
“You did find the aft deck,” Sanji says. He rolls his shoulders, blowing out a lazy cloud of smoke. “I promised I’d reward you, didn’t I?”
Hazel eyes find the tray still perched atop his head. Sanji motions his permission and Zoro doesn’t waste time.
“Onigiri.” Zoro’s eyebrows raise, delight hiding in the arches. “Have you been to Shimotsuki?”
“Is that where you’re from?”
A nod answers Sanji and the swordsman mutters a string of words under his breath before stuffing the entire sphere of rice inside his mouth. Every inch of him wants to cringe at the display, but he forces himself to still. Watches, blue eyes carefully cataloguing his reaction.
It’s all in the microexpressions with Zoro.
“It’s just rice.” And the blunt answers.
“Duh.” Sanji rolls his eyes, bringing his cigarette in for another pull. He waits until he can feel the remaining echoes of that sweet buzz before breathing out. It takes the edge off the building worry. That’ll have to be enough. Zeff had suggested rice balls when Sanji listed out Zoro’s favourites. Simple tastes for a simple man, right? It’s easy enough to figure out by himself. Never mind that his instincts had been screaming throughout the entire process. “You said you liked white rice, right?”
Zoro looks down and plucks at the remaining grains of rice still clinging to his hand. He looks at the rest of the rice balls. The overall presentation is a little lumpy and Sanji’s less than pleased with it, but surely the marimo isn’t concerned about that, right? He’s never looked twice at anything else Sanji’s served him. It always goes straight into his gullet, every drop and every scrap of it. He calls it shit without tasting it, so why—why now?
“It’s just rice,” Zoro repeats.
The budding unease is starting to blossom, unfurling in Sanji’s stomach and climbing his throat.
“So what?”
A wide grin cuts through Zoro’s face. All boyish, making full use of his round cheeks as his eyes crinkle and shine. “It’s supposed to have fillings in it—or at the very least some salt.”
Oh.
“It’s just rice,” Sanji echoes, horrified. “Oh fuck, it’s just rice.”
“I mean, you weren’t wrong. They are rice balls.” Zoro is practically preening, chest full and wide with joy. A cackle lives in the conciliatory pat he gives Sanji. Both of them can hear the scoreboard tipping in Zoro’s favour. The tallies keep coming. Chalk grinds against the blackboard again and again and again. “It’s still good, shit cook.”
Face in hand, shoulders hunched and voice muffled by his palms that still remember the careful way he shaped the rice. “You’re never going to let me live this down.”
“Nope,” Zoro replies. The grin slides back into something more fond as he stuffs his cheeks full of the others. “Guess that answers that on whether you’ve been Shimotsuki. Was going to ask if you knew the way there.”
An olive branch. A little clumsily extended, but Sanji takes it. His cheeks are bright red when he withdraws from his cage of shame.
“Have you been trying to get back home all this time?”
“No,” Zoro replies. He seems to consider the sea lapping at the Baratie’s hull. “I’ll go back eventually, but there’s a man I have to defeat first.”
There’s something in there. Something heavy. Like the shape of froth as it bubbles along the crest of waves, hiding the wealth of the sea below.
“Why’s that?” Sanji asks, carefully. He snuffs out his cigarette on the empty plate, not wanting anything to be between them for this.
Zoro’s hand clenches around his swords. No, sword. Singular. The white one that never leaves his sight. Sanji’s seen Zoro sit down to sharpen his blades, never slacking and always showing precise care to all of them. The chef in Sanji appreciates it. That one, though, is different. He can tell.
It goes beyond a favourite knife.
For some reason, Zeff comes to mind. Of the old man’s mouth clenched around the meat of his own leg. Once prized, once feared and once given without a second thought. Sanji has had nightmares of Zeff’s dream finding its way into his lips, tasting of nutty marrow and iron. There really is no place more intimate for a dream to rest than the mouth.
“I made a promise, is all,” Zoro says, clear as an arrow cutting through the sky. There’s no waver, no hesitation. Nothing holding him back. There’s practically nothing to him apart from the clothes on his back and the swords attached to his hip. As if it’s all he’ll ever need. “To become the world’s greatest swordsman.”
Sanji’s stomach still has hollows shaped like the calendar days they buried on that accursed rock. If he doesn’t tell anyone about it, it’s like it doesn’t exist.
Zoro has no such complications.
“Big dreams for such a small marimo,” Sanji teases, nudging Zoro’s shoulder. Muscle all the way down with very little in between. He’ll only grow from here on out. Bigger, faster, stronger. All things Sanji has never once known what to do with but envied the path they carved towards all the same. “The sea is vast, you know.”
Zoro looks at him a little strangely there. As if it’s not what he expected Sanji to say.
Sanji clarifies, “That just means there are only so many places that man can hide.”
“…huh.” A slow smile spreads across Zoro’s face like butter. “Never thought of it that way. Don’t think he’s the type to hide, but I get what you mean.”
“Guess I’ll have to keep a lookout too.” Sanji muses. “It’ll be faster with two pairs of eyes and knowing you, you’d find a way to miss him completely.”
A little quietly. “…you have two eyes?”
Sanji exercises every bit of his flexibility to kick him in the head. “I’m trying to say that I believe in you, asshole.”
“W—” A slow, single blink and widening eyes. “Really?” The confidence rushes back in like the tide and Zoro shakes himself and sits a little straighter. “I mean of course. No doubt about it.”
“Trust me, I know all about impossible-sounding dreams,” Sanji laughs. “You’ll get there someday. Definitely not today, but someday for sure.”
A private smile answers him. Nothing like the grin, nothing like the smirks or challenging curves that irritate and challenge and soothe. It’s special, almost as if it’s just for him. Custom made, like misshapen rice.
Sanji has such a complicated relationship with possibility.
Before he can think about it, Sanji goes— “Hey, Zoro.”
“Yeah?”
“Have you ever heard of the All Blue?”
—·—
He hasn’t.
Zoro wonders what else he hasn’t heard of because if it means he gets to see Sanji like this more often, then being called an ignorant slob might be alright.
The cook comes alive under the spell of the All Blue. It’s hard to see with just the moonlight bouncing off the waves, but Zoro has spent too long honing his instincts to be defeated by a lack of light.
Sanji’s visible eye sparkles, hands moving like the steady motions of a kata. It’s the stuff calligraphers would kill to capture in sweeping strokes. Ink hitting scroll; the motion of the brush and the enormity of myth. Sanji weaves story after story, words almost fighting with each other as they tumble out.
It draws Zoro in. Nothing compares to this sense of wonder stripped down to its most sincere form. Filed down so finely it’s nigh impossible to see. Like a blade’s edge that has been sharpened so much that the edge disappears as it cuts through tangibility itself.
“—a miracle sea. It’s the dream of every seafaring chef. Imagine! Fish from each of the four seas all come together in one place. The All Blue must be huge to hold all of them inside it. I could make so many dishes—think of all the food I could make for people. It’s hard to believe no one’s ever found it.”
It sounds impossible.
Sanji echoes his thoughts, trailing off with a laugh that throws the last few minutes in sharp relief. “Though I guess it makes sense—the way the All Blue doesn’t. That’s not how it works. To say nothing of how fish who’ve evolved to live in the cold North would coexist with fish who’ve evolved to live in the tropic East. But…”
A complex look warps his face. Sanji looks out towards the sea, the wall of his fringe blocking his face apart from the tremble in his lip. Zoro is reminded, suddenly, of Sanji’s bedroom window.
The more he listens, the more he understands that it’s not so complicated at all. Cutting a man down is simple. You either do or you don’t.
The sea is even simpler. It just is.
“But it’s out there.”
Sanji turns on him so fast, Zoro can feel the curve of wind hitting his face. “Of course it is,” he hisses.
A cocked brow, raised in challenge. “You sure?”
“It’s out there!” Sanji spits. He repeats it again, building momentum and volume. And suddenly, the singular trace of doubt turns to ash as Sanji lights up and burns. “It’s out there goddamnit! I'll find it! I’ll come back to the East Blue and tell Zeff and the others at the bottom: It’s out there and I found it! In your shitty faces!! I’ll laugh at them like they laughed at me.”
Sanji smiles brightly, cheeks flushed with the rush of excitement.
He’s never looked better.
“So?”
“So what, marimo?”
“When’re you going to find it?” Zoro asks, nudging Sanji’s shoulder, the same way.
Sanji goes cold.
Shit.
It’s a hair trigger with this bastard. A thousand sensitive spots laid out in haphazard patterns that are impossible for him to translate in the week he’s been here.
“Soon,” Sanji answers lightly. He’s retreated all the way back into himself, schooling his face carefully.
Long fingers at the ends of his hair.
“Oh…why the holdup?” A long pause rattling with answers. Something uneasy settles in Zoro’s gut about it. “Is your old man keeping you here?” Zoro asks.
“What—oh, you mean Zeff. He’s not my dad and no, of course he’s not. He wouldn’t, not like…” Sanji says around a chuckle that bubbles on hysterical. “Anyway, I just have stuff to do here.”
“…stuff,” Zoro repeats flatly.
A nod, more determined now. “Yeah. Stuff. And clearly, I have more to learn if I can’t make fucking—what was it called?”
“Onigiri.”
“—onigiri properly. I mean, before I go around bragging about making meals with what the All Blue has to offer, I should at the very least learn how to fillet every kind of fish that’s out there.”
“Wouldn’t that be easier, you know, out there?”
Sanji shrugs. “Sure, but it’s not like we never get fish imported from the other Blues. I’m still young—I have my whole life ahead of me. It’s not like the All Blue is going anywhere so there’s no need to rush.”
“How long are you going to stay here?”
Sanji’s fingers dig into his skull. “I’ll stay here until it’s time to go.”
And how do you know you have that time?
Zoro wants to ask, but he’s almost afraid of the answer.
Humans are such fragile things.
(Her voice, a memory: You’re lucky—)
A trap door slams down. The lock clicks. His chest feels tighter under a single shirt than it did under the seventeen layers of bandages.
“That’s dumb,” Zoro scoffs, looking away. “You’re dumb.”
“No dumber than paddling out in a rowboat half dead with no plan, mossy,” Sanji shoots back. “No dumber than that.”
He gets up, picks up the tray and disappears into the kitchen. Instead of following Sanji up to share his room like always, Zoro stays outside.
The night is unbearably, unbearably cold.
—·—
In the morning, Sanji finds Zoro sitting on the staircase.
Zoro glances at him, reflecting the same sleepless night in his haggard eyes.
Without a word, Zoro stands up and steps out of the way. It’s not until Sanji reaches the bottom, feet firmly on the restaurant floor, that Zoro finally leaves.
Sanji lights up his first cigarette at five in the morning.
—·—
Things are, in a word, tense.
The other cooks glance between him and Sanji, separated by several doors and sometimes several floors with something that could be called concern. None of them does anything, though he suspects they have a lot to say. The word Eggplant keeps slipping past the walls and open windows. An oddity considering only one dish on their menu today features the vegetable.
Zeff, for his part, tells Zoro that Sanji’s an idiot.
Zoro looks down at his boots. The ones Sanji practically bullied a fellow cook into handing over while Zoro was in the bath. He heard them yelling through the pipes, Sanji swinging from bartering to straight-up threats without a hint of shame.
He checks the sun. Barely moved at all.
His swords all sit mutely at his hip. Zoro sighs and resigns himself to staring out at the ocean until the day is done.
It’s just them, in the end.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
Zoro grunts.
“Look at the horizon,” Sanji instructs, coming to stand behind him. He reeks of smoke and seafood.
Funny, Zoro thinks, finding the horizon. Considering how often he complains about how I smell.
“Now what,” Zoro asks only after Sanji physically squirms. He tries to hide it by taking a drag from his cigarette, but his fingers twitch, leg curling at the knee.
“Focus on it,” Sanji continues around a mouthful of smoke. He seems to have no trouble doing so, voice already far away. “Keep it there and count something—how many breaths you take, your heartbeats, how many times you blink. It’s better to focus on something physical rather than counting abstract seconds or minutes.”
Zoro adjusts his stance, eyes never leaving the horizon line. It feels weird to do this with his eyes open. He tells Sanji, “I know how to meditate.”
“It’s not meditating, dumbass.” The cook leans against the railing, looking out. He taps the ash off the side, motions rhythmic and calm. “It’s passing the time.”
“Get to the point,” Zoro grumbles.
“Impatient marimo,” Sanji admonishes dryly. Then he slumps, breaking that strange reverie of his. A blue eye regards Zoro carefully. “Why were you scared this morning?”
That cuts deep. Far quicker and more brutal than Zoro ever expected from the cook who liked to waffle around everything.
The click of swords leaving their sheathes is more for his own stability than anything. “None of your business,” he growls, voice hard.
Sanji smiles. A bitter and cruel peel of a thing and it doesn’t belong on his face. He looks like a porcelain doll that would have never grown up in a place like the Baratie. “See? Not so nice is it?”
Anger flares at the bottom of his spine. Something real, something bleeding like a freshly opened wound. So far beyond the playful annoyance that coloured the past week with Sanji and the rest of the cooks.
“You’re the one who got weird for no reason,” Zoro hisses. “I asked you an innocent question!”
“You did.”
Another cut. Less blood, more shock than actual pain. Zoro hadn’t expected Sanji to admit it so readily.
The sudden flip of emotions, from the highest peak of anger to this hollow sensation left in the wake of its destruction…it leaves him with an unsettling empathy for the cook last night.
“…if this is an apology, it’s as shitty as your cooking.”
Sanji ruffles his hair, both hands like claws. “Yeah, I know. I was a shithead. Listen—”
Zoro does.
“—I owe Zeff.”
That he sort of expected. Zoro stays quiet, letting the cook sort out whatever inner turmoil he’s brought with him to the deck. Sanji sighs like he’s suddenly tired.
“As in, I owe him my life,” Sanji continues. “That sort of thing. Call it a blood oath or whatever, but I resolved to stay and help him with his shitty restaurant.”
Zoro thinks about the old man. How he stands in the kitchen with his arms crossed, watching Sanji’s back as he’s cooking with a mixture of pride, fondness and the same deep wallowing regret that swims in Koushirou’s eyes.
There’s something complicated between the two cooks. Something heavy enough for Sanji to tie around his ankle as an anchor.
“You think too much, Cook,” Zoro tells Sanji bluntly. “Did you even do a proper blood oath? Shaking with cut palms and everything?”
“We would never,” Sanji gasps, genuinely scandalised. “Our hands are our treasures. They’re for cooking only, not for weird crap like that.”
Zoro nods as if expecting the answer. “You’re not actually bound, then.”
Sanji can only look at him, baffled. “Genuinely, I would love to live in your world for a few days.”
“It’s a lot simpler, that’s for sure.” The smirk finds him. It’s easy as anything and even easier with Sanji. Despite the things pushing up at the trap door in his mind, Zoro is glad that there’s still this.
“Simple man,” Sanji says on the ghost of a laugh. He shakes his head, plucking the cigarette from his mouth. He looks at the boats docked below them, pulling in for brunch. One of the smaller ones has a man standing watch and Sanji flicks the butt towards the boat. There’s no actual threat of fire, but it’s a near thing.
The man panics scrambling to the edge. He spots Sanji and raises a fist.
Zoro figured out quickly that one has to make their own fun on a ship like this and that Sanji is very, very good at keeping himself entertained.
They busy themselves with heckling the poor man before he storms off to complain to his captain dining inside. The ocean sweeps into the ensuing silence. The waves froth playfully beneath them.
Sanji relaxes, shoulders a little lighter after his sanitised explanation.
He looks over. Zoro doesn’t need to be good at reading Sanji’s behavioural quirks to understand why.
“…you were being stupid,” Zoro says. Sanji gives him the same courteous silence, but when it starts to encroach past the five-minute mark, there’s a tickle of annoyance in his curly brow.
“That’s it?”
Zoro considers it, for a moment. “You were being stupid and I didn’t like it.”
And he gets it at the same time Sanji does. It must be like watching a mirror, seeing the slow bloom of understanding across Sanji’s features. The raised brow, the part of his lips around a single, “Oh.”
“That is it,” Sanji murmurs to himself.
Kuina haunts it, of course. Full moon nights must be cursed if this is the second time he’s exchanged dreams with someone only for his conversation partner to suddenly scuttle away from him. Zoro hadn’t realised he was keeping watch by the stairs until Sanji came down that morning.
But talking about it now and reviewing the conversation from last night—the differences between them both are easier to see. Especially now knowing what he knows about Sanji’s own situation. There’s a lot more to it than that, but Zoro doesn’t need more to understand.
Sanji is the same.
“I don’t know why you expected anything more.” Zoro shrugs, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It’s strange, to have his body do things he didn’t intend it to. What a strange thing to be a complex creature. To have things buried in the mind, triggered silently by an arbitrary thing and only realising after the fire had burned itself dry.
“You’re right, my mistake,” Sanji says, layering his words with a smile and a genuine look.
“It’s alright. It’s not the end of the world.”
And, looking at the limitless sea stretching beyond their sight, it really isn’t.
—·—
It’s back to the endless potatoes.
Zeff sits down on a box next to him and picks up a spud. There’s a heavy look on his face. Like he’s searching for the answers to the universe in the eye of that singular root vegetable.
Sanji doesn’t look, shoulders hunched in a perfected sulk. They’ve never needed this many potatoes before, but the lunch menu is glaringly starch-heavy so here Sanji is again.
At this rate, his hands are going to forget what it’s like to actually cook.
Zeff throws the spud at Sanji’s head. It hits him square in the face. Sanji doesn’t wince, doesn’t cry out. Just a stoic silence, quietly bearing the pain.
“I wouldn’t keep doing this if you stopped disappearing without saying anything.”
“I hope you choke on worms.”
Zeff rolls his eyes. He takes out his knife and, with a speed that Sanji can’t help but envy, starts going to town on the potatoes. “Did you patch things up with your cabbage boy at least?”
Sanji stops to give Zeff a cold stare. “I don’t like your tone, crap geezer.”
“You’re one to talk, brat,” Patty chimes in, sitting down on another box. “What’s got you in such a foul mood? Did my advice not work? No. Wait. You must have fucked it somehow because that shit was fool-proof.”
Sanji’s leg lifts up in remarkable flexibility, clocking Patty’s knee. The pâtissier howls, clutching his leg and glaring at him with tearful eyes.
“I swear that your marimo is the worst thing that’s ever happened to us.”
Carne joins them. “Really, Patty? Even worse than Ol’ Red-Eyes?”
“The fire was a pain to deal with, but it was beautiful,” Patty reminisces, deftly making quick work of the spuds. Nowhere near as clean as Zeff or Sanji’s, but undoubtedly competent all the same. “Much better than seeing the two of them fight like cats and dogs in some weird mating ritual.”
It’s like being set on fire. Actual fire, not the cool fire Sanji’s been trying to summon up from hell through friction turns.
“Shut the fuck up. All of you.”
“Didn’t say shit when we used the possessive, Eggplant,” Zeff gruffs. “You know the rules. Get caught slacking and it’s your own fault for what happens next.”
“Wait. Patty’s crap about ‘throw spaghetti at the wall and see what happens’ actually worked?”
“Excuse me?”
“Everything’s fine,” Sanji strains, teeth gritted. “Figured it out between us. He’s back to training in the restaurant so the customers are happy too.”
There’s a suspicious pause.
“Everything’s fine?” Carne asks, verbally narrowing his eyes.
“We talked!” The fire has made its home in his face, spreading down his chest and bursting with red blotches of uneven blush everywhere. “I told you!”
“His marimo’s really out there, head chef!” someone pants, the sound of the kitchen door swinging shut explaining why he’s out of breath. “The little Eggplant actually did it!”
“Huh,” Patty says. “Who saw that coming.”
“Die. Every single one of you drop dead and—”
“You’ve been staring at that potato for like fifteen minutes,” another chef chimes in. There are now ten of the bastards sitting in some communal potato-peeling circle.
A nod. “Prime sulking behaviour.”
“I’m not sulk-ing!” Sanji insists, ignoring the jump into the next octave. “I’m doing my job, unlike you…unlike…”
Sanji stares. The round oblong of chefs around him give him matching grins. The endless pile of potatoes sit pristinely peeled and ready to be used in their respective dishes.
“Wow Eggplant,” Patty exclaims. “Guess now that you’re finished with your punishment, you can go back to your plant-sitting duties!”
“But…my shift,” Sanji says, helplessly.
“Don’t remember scheduling your ass for the day,” Zeff points out, raising a brow.
And okay, maybe that’s true. He’s been put on fewer and fewer shifts as of late, tacitly allowed to stretch his legs and play. Maybe, just maybe, Sanji squirrelled away into the kitchen this morning because it was the one place Zoro couldn’t accidentally wander into with how obviously it was Sanji’s space. The mosshead’s navigational troubles are fascinating, but even they run on a strange sort of consistency.
It may have been an excuse at first, but he still has his pride as a chef. He still wants to cook and what he starts he’ll—
Zeff sighs. “Just go already.”
Sanji does. Wide-eyed and almost coltish, he stands up and takes off his apron, hanging it on a hook. Then he pauses and looks back. It’s the closest to uncertainty he’s felt in years. “Zeff,” he calls out quietly.
The frozen look hides the shock in the head chef’s blue eyes. Zeff moves over, close and private.
“Can you teach me how to make onigiri?”
—·—
Another two days pass.
He feels it then, that irritating buzz jolting him awake at odd hours in the night and forcing him awake to work off the energy. The mornings spent looking out to the ocean change. That once meditative calm eludes him. It becomes exactly as Sanji says: a way to pass the time.
Sanji takes to wandering out onto the deck for a late-night smoke. Doesn’t blink when Zoro draws his swords out and is more than happy to meet him halfway in a fight.
It makes Zoro think about how Sanji is much younger than anyone else working in the restaurant. He thinks about his dream, that grand mythical thing that exists somewhere very much not here.
Zoro abandoned his life. Sanji had done so as well, but not for himself.
Zoro thinks.
He does not know what to do.
Strangely enough, Sanji does. They sprawl out on the upper deck during their last night together passing a bottle of wine Sanji stole from Carne’s secret stash.
Zoro drinks. Sanji only scowls a little when Zoro finishes off the bottle.
“Brute.” The playful look softens and Sanji sighs, leaning back on his hands to look up. “We’ll make landfall tomorrow afternoon.”
“Oh.”
Zoro knows he can’t stay. He wouldn’t be able to survive it, no matter how he’s started to get used to Sanji’s shitty cooking.
“Got shit to do,” Sanji mutters vaguely. He just pulls out another one. He looks Zoro straight in the eye, opening his mouth and letting his teeth sink into the cork. They stay there for a charged moment before Sanji yanks and pops it off. He tilts his head up in a clear challenge.
Zoro doesn’t back down. He doesn’t think he’s read it wrong.
Sanji smiles and he tastes like wine and smoke, all the way down.
—·—
Zeff doesn’t assign him to the re-supply team. Sanji should be angry. The old man has doomed them to Patty’s awful haggling skills and less-than-discerning eye for high quality produce. He’s going to complain when the team comes back. He loves to complain and he loves having a reason to even more. The other chefs are going to hate him for subjecting them to that torture, but still…
Still.
He doesn’t give Zeff the satisfaction of looking back with a look of gratitude.
He just keeps his eyes on Zoro.
Zoro doesn’t take long at all to pack. There’s barely anything in his bag, but Sanji knows that there’s more in it than it was before crossing paths with the Baratie. No one leaves the restaurant without more food than when they came here with.
“Here,” Sanji says as Zoro steps off onto the dock. He holds out a box. “For the road.”
Zoro takes it, sliding open the lid and grinning when he sees what’s inside. The box disappears into his bag, thrown with a force that lies just on the edge of carelessness but Sanji’s gotten familiar with his movements. He knows better.
Shit. He really is going to miss this ball of moss.
“You sure you don’t need help finding your way around?” Sanji teases, smiling as he plants his hands in his pocket to avoid doing anything embarrassing. “Wouldn't want you to wander like a shitty lost child right after we set you free back into the wild.”
“It’s a straight line.”
“Uh-huh, and in which direction?”
A finger points confidently. “That way.”
“Turn to your left—no, the other left. There we go. Now keep your hand up like that and you’ll find the town centre in no time. There’s a Marine base here, according to the crap geezer. You’ll find new bounties there.”
“…thanks.”
Sanji cups his ear. “I’m sorry, what was that? Could you repeat that for the whole class, it seems the seaweed is learning basic manners!”
It’s no surprise that Zoro launches himself at Sanji. He drops his bag and goes for the swords, leaping off the docks to push Sanji further into the deck.
“Stupid marimo,” Sanji scolds, holding Wado back with his leg. The grin he gives Zoro is as feral as he can make it amidst the sentiment that keeps leaking through. “You’re not supposed to come back here until you become the greatest swordsman.”
He pulls his leg back and stands on two feet. Zoro relaxes his stance and they stare at each other. It’s goodbye. With a world as big as theirs, it could be for a few months. A few years. Forever. There are words they should probably say. Things to air out in case it really is the last time they’ll see each other for whatever reason…
Sanji kicks. Whips around quickly and kicks harder than he’s ever kicked before, launching Zoro straight into the water.
The swordsman lands with a splash, sputtering to the surface with a cough and a war cry. “You better be gone!” Zoro threatens, snarl wobbling against a smile. “If I come back here and you’re still here, it’s on sight, Cook!”
Sanji starts to wave. “I don’t take threats from a waterlogged piece of shit swordsman! Go, Zoro! Before you start clinging to the rocks like algae!”
“Fuck you!”
Zoro swims back to the dock and hauls himself up. Water drips down, flying everywhere as Zoro does a full body shake like a dog to rid himself of most of it. Sanji gives himself a mental pat on the back as the white shirt clings to Zoro’s physique.
As far as last images go, it’s a good one.
Hazel eyes come to stare at him one last time, lingering like they’re trying to savour it. The sun feels hot at Sanji’s back and he hopes the mosshead is blinded as he flicks his middle finger up, cigarette wavering as he smiles.