Chapter Text
For the past couple of weeks, Sanji had felt the constant burning of someone's eyes on the back of his neck.
Not a minute spent in the swordsman's company didn't he feel this godawful, intense and perceptive stare of his, prodding at his nape and piercing into his soul. And although he was now accustomed to it, the sudden reminder that somebody was paying such close attention to his person sometimes still made him jump in surprise.
He knew that it was just Zoro's way of doing things. Always intense, always fierce and extremely attentive, sometimes analytical, even. Yet, in the beginning, he had been especially uneasy with the attention, going slightly insane at the ashy silver of those eyes never leaving his silhouette, and growing more and more irritated with the man in the process.
He hadn't understood what it had all meant, at the time. Hell, even now he still couldn't be too sure, reason and a darker part of his brain refusing to accept what some other side of him was hoping to be true —but none of that really was the point for now.
The thing was, that, in this madness of a situation, Zoro hadn't really been acting all that different from before, apart from the prodding attention he was —most definitely unconsciously, Sanji suspected— subjecting the chef to.
He was still the same annoying kale-brained asshole, ready to fight him for anything —to which Sanji was gladly taking him on—, only with the additional creepy staring and a new weird facial expression that he, in his moments of daze and never with the willful intent, sometimes gifted Sanji.
Like that one time at the beach. Or, maybe, that evening in the boy's room, when they had been both slowly dozing off to the rhythm of the water below.
It was some kind of frowning, thoughtless face, not harsh like usual but still somehow looking a bit threatening, in a strangely soft —gentle?— way. Sanji was always unsettled whenever he saw it, and could never in those instances tell whether the swordsman would spout some nonsense without end or just keep staring in silence.
And it wasn't anything more than that, truly; Zoro hadn't changed overnight, wasn't suddenly any more irritating than before —or worse, agreeable. Yet, Sanji's heart had still been strained by those small changes alone, dramatic like it ever was despite his best wishes for it to comply with the input of his much more composed brain.
Then, one fateful day happened, and Zoro came into his kitchen an afternoon to offer his help.
The Moss. Offering his help in the kitchen.
No matter how he put it in his mind, the thought still remained absolutely risible.
First of all, Sanji didn't need help in the kitchen. Ever. He was damn well able to do his job without someone hashing things for him, thank you very much.
Secondly, and a fact that had at the time made matters worse for his understanding of the situation: the Moss had never, in all seriousness, offered his help to Sanji before.
In fact, the chef had been so shocked by the event that even after a few days, he still had been ragingly tugging at his hair in incomprehension every time he thought back on it.
He still had ended up indulging the swordsman in his strive to be useful, in the end —maybe because his traitorous brain hadn't been strong enough to let the pathetic weed sulk in his corner. He had called him back, given him things to get his hands and attention on, and had decided to move on with his life despite the scarring event, hoping —no, praying—, that it would all seal the end of his misery.
It had, in retrospect however, absolutely not sealed anything, since the fucker Zoro had absolutely not moved on for his part.
And so that event had been followed by other similar phenomenons. The man had offered his help again, given him weirdly considerate compliments, the occasional gift that always felt as if crafted specifically for him, some elusive touches that made him yearn for more...
Sanji was a weak, weak-minded man. Despite the alarms blaring in his head, telling him that this probably didn't mean anything, or worse, that it was just some elaborate and prolonged scheme to grate on his nerves, there was always the least disciplined part of his brain screaming at him that Zoro was maybe, simply, doing this to make him happy.
Ultimately, really, the problem in this situation had never truly lay on the swordsman's side, despite how Sanji had been adamant about convincing himself of the contrary. No, the problem had always been on him, on his trust issues and those fucking insecurities that were the bane of his existence, and most of all, on the raging crush that he had on the man.
Yeah, he had been surprised too when he had realized that, after two years without the blessed company of a woman —apart from those on Momoiro Island, to whom he owed a lot yet arguably didn't keep such a good memory of—, his eyes were still more drawn to the resident stinky, attractive Mosshead of their crew —who had, for goodness sake, bulked up an awful lot during his absence.
And now, of course, that one stinky Mosshead was fighting him and somewhat being pleasant with him on the side.
Sanji had no idea what to make of that behavior, even less of what to do with his own feelings blossoming wider and wider. He wanted to believe, really, that the man shared the infatuation he felt for him. Even more, he wanted to confess, had wanted multiple times already. But in the end, his irrational fear or rejection always spoke louder, and so every time he backtracked and swallowed the words on the tip of his tongue, forlorn and miserable.
There was always this excruciating feeling that he imagined things that weren't there; imagined looks, or the brush of a hand on his shoulder. Maybe it was just his desperate brain closed on himself and on his wishes, trying to make sense of a situation that forgone all reason.
Only by yesterday had he felt that, maybe, by some sort of miracle, the other man could share to an extent the feelings that he had harbored for such a long time. Zoro had barged into the kitchen once again, and Sanji had felt such domesticity in his company that he had seriously wondered if he was simply going mad, or if a kiss from the ever so stoic swordsman could mean, maybe, something more than simple tight-bonded rivalry.
He felt like an absolute dumbass, pacing one day after in the kitchen and chain smoking like a whole ass chimney, gears in his brain turning so hard they were almost overheating from the friction of his spiraling thoughts.
Maybe it was time for some answers from the Moss, he reckoned, splashing some water on his face to help him think straight. To hell with his doubts.
"Comin' in", he announced as he was climbing the last of the ladder to the crow's nest. He popped his head in the hatch and immediately grimaced at the smell.
"Jesus, how do you even breathe in there?" he accused as he scanned the room, nose wrinkled and disgust clear on his scrunched-up face. Zoro ignored his visceral reaction and just shrugged.
He wiped his face with some gross towel and muttered under it, "what do you want, Cook," tone bored. Sanji gave him a judgemental once over and rolled his eyes.
"To talk," he said. "And for you to open the damn windows, you absolute animal!"
Zoro scowled and grunted like he usually did in his caveman ways. But he complied all the same, still in his usual habits as Sanji had come to recognize in the last few weeks, the green-haired man slightly more amenable to his wishes despite the fight that he most of the time still childishly put up against them.
The chef watched his back as he let the wind in, eyeing the muscles roll under his skin as his arms lifted and flexed to open the windows wide.
(Shit, now wasn't the moment to fawn over the man's physique, he reminded himself when he felt the taste of blood in his mouth, threatening to spill a drop or two from his nose. A little focus, for a change.)
He wiped at his face hastily as the man turned to face him again; the Marimo didn't catch the gesture, thank god, and cocked his head to the side, watching with curious eyes.
"Talk, then," he prompted, the scrutiny of his eyes leaving his face once more as he sorted some dumbells out of the way. Sanji considered him, eyes squinted, following with a distant kind of interest a drop of sweat rolling down his left collarbone. It met with the scar crossing the man's torso, and in a quick course rolled along to his stomach.
The man swiped it eventually with the flat of his palm and hastily ruffled his hair with the towel. He sat on one of the benches and draped the cloth over his shoulders, yet again meeting Sanji's eyes with a piercing but calm look.
With a gesture of the head, he quietly motioned for Sanji to speak.
"I wanna know what the deal had been with you these past couple of weeks," Sanji told, tone voluntarily neutral. There wasn't any use in beating around the bush, he figured. Especially with a man as blunt as the Marimo.
A beat passed. Or maybe it was just his antsiness, distorting his perception of time as blood thumped at the side of his throat.
"Why do you ask?"
Sanji was tempted to throw a snarky retort to the frankly bullshit reply he had been granted. He was the one asking questions, not the other way around, and it kind of made him want to fight him in frustration.
Maybe it would actually move the discussion forward, if he could place a hard enough hit on his thick skull and make him connect a bunch of neurons for once in his life.
With a look at his face, however, he realized that the man's intention had never been to pick a fight. His expression only communicated complete seriousness, the slope of his eyebrows expressive of attention and thoughtfulness, quite like the times he was focused on cataloging the steps of a plan in his mind.
His face was also the testify of some other hint Sanji couldn't quite pinpoint, softening his eyes just the slightest around the corners but keeping his mouth tense in a tight line. If he hadn't known any better, he would have almost described it as some kind of hope, in the way it swayed the stoic expression to a more tender one.
"This spot not drenched in sweat?" he pointed to somewhere on the bench across Zoro. The swordsman shook his head, so Sanji sat, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Alright." he schooled his expression into one of confidence and lifted a leg to rest it over his thigh. Zoro, still watching him, imitated the motion as he loosely held onto the hems of the towel around his neck, waiting in patient silence.
Sanji paused to think. He felt slightly pinned under the stare, speechless and self-conscious, and hated the way it made his stomach churn. Clearing his throat, mouth suddenly feeling very dry, he racked his brain for what to say next, eventually setting his mind on one rather safe statement.
"I want to know if my assumptions are correct," he provided.
It wasn't a courageous move, yes —he was well aware. But, he was scared.
Zoro eyed him, disturbingly focused so, and a look only sufficed to tell Sanji he wasn't satisfied by the answer. He frowned, blinked, the slight flicker of his eyes the chef could not interpret.
"What kind of assumptions?" Zoro prodded. Despite the overall soft tone, Sanji couldn't help but feel a bit lightheaded, wondering if the man could read the discomfort on his face or in his demeanor. He felt absolutely silly to be this anxious, when the man in front of him seemed perfectly calm and composed. Even the fake bravado he had put on for this moment wasn't enough to stop him from wanting to jump through the window and rejoin the fishes.
"Zoro, please," he murmured, not even caring anymore if his tone sounded remotely close to pleading. "Answer me."
Zoro's blazing gaze studied him thoroughly, and he felt kind of hot in the face; until it softened with a sigh of the man. "Okay," he conceded, voice low. He scratched his nape, looking almost sheepish now, and, frowning like he was searching for words, opened his mouth with a frail but sharp intake of breath.
No words came from it, and so he closed it in the same sentiment.
"I did all of that, because— I care about you. N' I want you to know it," he finally, tentatively said, voice quiet.
Sanji searched his gaze with a puzzled look on his face. Silent etched between them.
"Is that it?" he asked, stupefied. At the man's silence, annoyance rapidly replaced his original reaction, bubbling under his skin as he gave him a harsh look. "So you regularly do this with all our crewmates?" he spat, maybe more aggressively than he had truly meant. "You give them gifts for no reason, you hug them out of the blue? Stop with the bullshit, Moss!"
Zoro grimaced at his tone, and in that moment Sanji realized the embarrassment in his eyes. They were flitting, never frankly settling on his face or looking in the white of his eyes, and it sobered him a little, to know that the other man was facing the same predicament, hiding too behind a facade of confidence.
His eyes softened in understanding, flaring anger deflating to nothingness.
"Be honest," he asked —no, encouraged—, giving as an act of peace a small smile of reassurance. Zoro's eyes flicked over him, and he unconsciously bit his lips, frowning in thought again.
Maybe he was biased, but Sanji almost had trouble understanding what the Navy feared so much in this man, only seeing in front of him an endearing and clumsy one.
"You're special," he admitted, still reluctant to raise his one eye back to the other man's face. Sanji considered the words, not willing to assume anything. He ignored the warmth bubbling in his chest, the nagging fear that he misread the situation however not as overwhelming as it felt before.
"Please tell me more," he whispered, and Zoro's eyes flicked upwards to meet his.
"Not sure I can quite convey it by words alone," he tried with a grunt. Sanji's heart flipped painfully in his chest. He never paid attention to it, only interested in the other man's words and the way his mouth bashfully curled around them.
"I wanted to do those things for you —that's why. Wanted to make you feel loved." The red rose to the swordsman's cheeks then, and Sanji found without much surprise that the same had happened of him.
"I see," he told, for lack of anything better to say.
Then, he admitted with a shy laugh, "to be fair, I thought it was an intricate plan to get on my nerves, at first." Their gaze met, and his smile widened just a little more. "But this sounds more like you, yeah. And you succeeded."
"At what?"
"Make me feel loved."
Zoro nodded, a bit mechanically at first, then the meaning caught up to him and he nodded more vigorously, blush glowing a gentle pink on his face. "Oh, good," he replied lamely, immediately frowning at his own eloquence. It made Sanji laugh to see him pout at himself like that, helped him relax in relief at the dying tension in his limbs.
"You don't know how to do this, do you?" He asked with amusement. Zoro shrugged, sheepish.
"Not really."
"'S okay. I'm not really sure either."
Zoro fiddled with some loose thread on his towel, one leg slightly vibrating as he looked as if debating his next sentence.
"What made you realize?" he asked after an instant. Sanji took an instant to ponder the question.
"Yesterday morning, I think. 'Ve had a hunch for a few days, but I always thought it was just my imagination talking."
Zoro nodded at first, seemingly satisfied with the answer, but then paused and frowned in confusion. "Wait. So that means you knew yesterday night? Why didn't you say anything?"
Sanji looked away in embarrassment. "I still struggled to believe it, honestly. So I kind of wanted to test you, to see how you'd react if I was the one doing the gesture."
"And you decided to do that in front of the whole crew?"
Zoro looked at him with a bemusedly exasperated look, his mouth parted in disbelief, and Sanji grimaced, realizing now what it implied indeed. He hadn't really been able to place why Brook had been quietly laughing and chanting to himself about young love every time they crossed paths. "Well, it seemed like the best option at the time," he tried to justify, his resolve feeling weak even to his own ears. Zoro just gave him a dubious arched eyebrow in answer.
"When you were absolutely shit-faced," he deadpanned. Sanji shot up with a look of outrage.
"I wasn't shit-faced, I was just slightly drunk!"
A bewildered scoff and Zoro stood up himself, stepping closer to him and pointing an accusative finger to his chest. "You were out cold and drooling on my shoulder by the end of the night!"
Both now standing, they looked defiantly at each other, shooting daggers at each other and waiting for the first to yield to the other's accusing stare.
The absurdity of the situation didn't hit immediately, but when it did, it did hard, and they both burst out laughing in sync.
"This is so dumb," Zoro wheezed, tears of mirth in his eyes. Sanji himself had to hold his stomach as he agreed, shaking laughter at their ridiculousness. They both laughed for a moment, vision blurring and cheeks hurting from the strain; then eventually quieted down from their high.
Zoro's gaze set again on Sanji, sweet and fond. Sanji forgot how to breathe in that instant.
It was it. That look the man always gave him, that look that he had never been quite able to decipher. He understood it then, shocked by his obliviousness at the sheer reverence glinting in the beautiful silver eyes of the swordsman.
"You know, this is how I see us," Zoro admitted, that look now so overwhelming on his face it made Sanji emotional. "This made me realize that even if I want to fight you all the time, I also still want to care for you, if you'll let me."
The chef looked at him, and his vision started to slightly wobble before his eyes, the back of his eyelids stinging as he gaped at the other man, at a complete loss for words.
"Cook, you crying?" Zoro panicked, making Sanji furiously wipe at his eyes.
"Course not! You just opened the windows too wide and the wind is making my eyes water, is all!"
He cursed at the sentimentality making his voice tremble a little, exposing his lie loud and clear to the too-perceptive swordsman. Zoro's face softened, and he carefully crossed the last of the distance separating them, gently wrapping him in his arms. Sanji tensed at first, not yet quite used to the contact, but it wasn't hard to relax in those arms, and so he eventually did with a sigh.
"Cute," Zoro remarked. Sanji hid his heating face away from him.
"Shut up, Moss."
Zoro gently chuckled, his large and calloused hands enveloping his waist with a tenderness so overwhelming, coming from such strong and rough arms. Sanji almost didn't believe, then, that this reverence was meant for him, meant to hold him close. Zoro tilted his head to the side to meet his gaze, the curve of his lips framed with two endearing dimples, and Sanji took a breath, now incapable not to see in his gaze the affection that he had been blind to for so long.
Tentatively, he cradled the swordsman's face in gentle hands, eyes heavy with emotion, and brushed the cheek below the scar with his thumb. A sigh, Zoro unconsciously leaning into the touch.
Sanji's heart was ready to burst. This man in front of him, the bane of his existence and the apple of his eye, so handsome and disgusting and admirable and insufferable, and. Just who he had wanted for so long, who he had denied himself by fear of rejection even longer, who by some miraculous twist of fate wanted him just the same.
Sanji wanted to kiss him, just a little, wanted to know how he felt and tasted on his lips.
"I really want to kiss you," he told just that.
"I'm all yours," Zoro murmured.
Sanji tilted his head to the side and brought his lips to the other's in a chaste kiss, reveling in his reassuring embrace tightening around his middle.
Zoro's lips were slightly chapped, but soft as he gently pressed his against them. They tasted like salt, felt like home. Sanji couldn't get enough.
They had to part eventually, to his regret, but the tender smile he got in reward dissolved a little the grief of his absence so close. They breathed, foreheads flush against each other, and Zoro looked at him with eyes so loving it was almost undescribable with the mere words that came to mind, all too weak compared to the softness of his gaze and the intensity of its glint.
A playful light flashed in them, and they lowered to his waist, still held by both his hands. Sanji felt the fingers around him flex, the flat of his palms following the slope of his middle, and he furiously blushed, absolutely mortified as Zoro whistled in appreciation.
"Damn, it's even better than how I pictured it," he grinned, hands steadily set on the narrowest part of his middle and squeezing. "My fingers almost touch."
"Oh my god, shut up," Sanji glared and slapped at the back of his head, only succeeding in making him chuckle in delight.
"Make me, Curls."
Sanji did.
He crashed his lips against his a second time, roughlier, and his eyes instantly snapped shut as he fiercely grabbed at his face, the swordsman still holding to him with the same yearning. The kiss grew aggressive, teeth scraping at lower lips as they licked and nipped and sucked, fighting for dominance as if as a testimony of their entire relationship. Zoro leaned even closer, and Sanji's grasp on his jaw tightened as he pushed into the other's space, allowing the kiss to deepen as he slightly parted his mouth.
It was weirdly nostalgic, how they still competed with their lips sealed as they did with the clack of a shoe against the steel of a sword.
The hands around his middle shifted, and he distantly felt them leave his waist with a regret he was too proud to admit. Instead, one settled on the small of his back as the other groped his inner thigh to feel the muscle in its grasp. Sanji felt his face heat a little at that, but Zoro didn't leave him any time to think, always seeking more as he leaned towards him, inciting him to bend backward and hold onto him as the hand on his back held him tightly.
An impatient grunt, and the arm at his thigh moved to circle under his legs instead, suddenly sweeping him up from his feet.
Sanji broke the kiss in surprise and threw his arms to the man's shoulders in a jerky movement.
"Wha— Marimo!" he shrieked, lips furiously tingling as he watched with wide eyes the other man grin with equally kiss swollen lips. He readjusted him on his arms like his weight didn't mean anything, and Sanji held on even tighter, still processing what had just happened.
Zoro placed his legs against one of his sides, and he retreated to the benches, finally sitting on one and settling him on his lap.
Sanji arched an eyebrow, still bewildered by the man's unabashed boldness. "Greedy much, don't you think?"
"Cut me some slacks, Cook. I've been meaning to do this for a long time," the other justified with a laugh. He placed a few kisses on his forehead and his hair, before settling one hand among golden locks, following the brush of his fingers against them with curious eyes. "You comfortable?"
Sanji huffed in disbelief. "Fuck you."
"Genuine question," the swordsman assured with a snort, patting him on the side with the hand still held loose around him. Sanji shuffled against him to prop himself better on his lap, inadvertently —or not so much— poking the man in the stomach with his elbow. He pretended not to feel pleased when he grunted in discomfort, but still threw a satisfied look at him.
"Oh, so that's how it is?" the man challenged, before ruthlessly attacking him with tickles. Sanji squirmed on his lap, shrieking and laughing at the attacks as he tried to grab his arms to force him to stop.
"Okay! Okay, I give up!" he said, laughter making his eyes water. Zoro flashed him a victorious smile, and he feigned a frowning pout before the other man erased the look on his face with a quick peck square on the nose.
"Sap," Sanji pointed out. "Takes one to know one, Curly," Zoro easily shot back.
He snorted, settling his head with an unconcerned shrug on the crook of the swordsman's shoulder. "Maybe."
It wasn't too hard to admit at this point, he reckoned.
Zoro brought him closer, one hand taking its place in his hair again. Sanji watched him, bemused, carding his fingers through his locks, a look of amazement on his face.
"I really like your hair," he told, never taking his eyes off of it.
"I know. You may have alluded to that once or twice."
Silver met blue, and they smirked at each other.
"Did I?"
Sanji laughed, and Zoro's grin enlarged to a smile. He never stopped caressing his hair as their eyes eventually drifted to the windows and the seagulls floating in the sky along the ship.
"How did you get the idea?" Sanji asked, quiet. He felt the other briefly glance at him before his eyes set back on the outside again.
"Robin, she taught me about those five languages. Landed me one of your books."
Sanji gave a soft laugh. "Well, you better thank her, then."
"I will," he assured, rubbing gently at his stomach. Sanji didn't get to see the smile on his face from how his vantage point, but despite that, he still heard it in his words. The warmth of his breathing on his temple, the muted crash of the waves and the whispers of the wind in the crow's nest rung like a nice lullaby, and time felt as if stopped just for their perception only, just for them to take their time simply existing, together.
A moment of quiet appreciation. Then, Sanji spotted a small green ball on a shelf among some weights. He snorted when he finally understood what it was, straightening just a second to look the swordsman in the eyes with amusement.
"So, you kept Moss Junior?"
Zoro ignored his question, frowning and looking away in embarrassment, and Sanji had a bout of laughter at the traitorous pink endearingly creeping to his face. He settled back down, a smile lingering on his face, and gave a pat to the man in reassurance on his naked chest, not missing the soft intake of breath at the gesture.
After a thoughtful moment, Sanji let his hand roam and travel on his bust, feeling the grain of the skin with light brushes of his fingertips. He eyed his pectorals with interest, and gave one a tentative squeeze, pleased to see the relaxed muscle so plump and supple under his hand.
"Got a thing for my chest, Kinky-Cook?" came the teasing voice of the man under his scrutiny, eyeing him with amused curiosity. He stilled in embarrassment, but immediately a hand rubbed at his back as the other hurriedly followed, "No, keep going, keep going. I like it."
Sanji relaxed, and hesitantly let his hand resume its exploration, the skin tickling gently under his fingers as he followed his scar with a careful and reverent motion. He leaned closer and placed a kiss on the swordsman's collarbone, then let his cheek rest back on his shoulder, closing his eyes with a soft sigh.
The hand never stopped petting his back, unhurried and peaceful. It followed the outline of his scapulae and the slope of his spine in soothing motions, lightly scratching his back through the fabric of his shirt.
It felt good. Unexpected, and different from the touches that they shared usually. Not vindictive in the way they exchanged hits, nor awkward in the way they had yearned for this kind of intimacy before.
Simple. Unapologetic.
"Cook," Zoro whispered.
"Mh?"
"Would you believe me if I told you that I love you?"
Sanji remembered the previous weeks, made of only remorse and regret, never letting himself imagine a shared moment of intimacy like this as anything else than an absurd and delusional fantasy. He remembered only a few dozens of minutes before, pacing in the kitchen and scared shitless to be the only fool in love.
He looked at himself now, surrounded by the steady presence as warm eyes watched over him, feeling the blood race to his ears as he processed the words, the other man's breath held behind him as he waited.
He had struggled to see it, but now that it was so stark and clear before his eyes, it wasn't anything hard to believe.
"I would," he said, hoping to convey in his voice all the feelings he had never spoken of before.
And, following in an almost inaudible whisper,
"Would you?"
Zoro didn't even pretend to fight the smile of glee that crept at an alarming speed on his face.
"Of course I would."
No hesitation, his voice as certain as the arms holding him a little bit tighter. He buried his nose in his hair, and added as a soft-spoken confession, "I already do, you know."
Sanji's heart soared in his chest. He hid his smile against Zoro's torso, right on his heart. It beat mirroring his own: full, appeased, and genuine.