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When the green-haired man walked into the Baratie, Sanji didn’t think anything of him.

Of course, it was impossible not to notice him with the green hair and all. Add the fact that he carried around three swords— which was just fucking weird— and he was some form of combatant since the ratty white t-shirt he wore did nothing but emphasize the width of his shoulders and significantly defined muscles.

Okay, maybe saying that Sanji didn’t think anything of him is a lie. It was the green hair, more than anything, that annoyed him. It reminded him of a different boy, one in a kingdom far away with skin as tough as steel and a heart practically made of stone.

But it’s not as if Sanji saw him and felt anything more than just mild annoyance. It was just another day, another customer, and for fucks sake, Zeff, please stop scaring away the waiters, because regardless of how many beautiful women he had the pleasure of serving, Sanji didn’t think he could last another day waiting on tables.

He seriously wasn’t cut out for customer service, mostly because the customers were so fucking annoying. If Sanji got another complaint about how rude he was or how he hit on someone’s wife, he was seriously going to lose it. Despite his numerous protests, he still got stuck with the job, and that was how he found himself walking up to the green-haired man’s table.

“Welcome to our restaurant,” Sanji greeted him disinterestedly. “Is there something you want to eat or are you just here to take up space?”

The green-haired man looked over his menu indifferently before tossing it down on the table. “Just get me whatever. I don’t care as long as it's good.”

Fuck, Sanji thought, taking a deep, calming breath in an attempt to restrain his temper. In general, Sanji tried not to judge people by their appearance, but this fucker was seriously starting to get on his nerves. He dressed like a slob and acted like he was too cool for everyone around him. Chances were that he was just another shithead obsessed with power like the other green-haired asshole in Sanji’s life who would not be named.

Sanji gave the man the fakest smile he could muster and grabbed the menu from his table. “Great. I’ll see if we can find some plant food in the back, then.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

Sanji blinked at him, ever the picture of false innocence. “Oh, I’m sorry. With all that green on your head, I thought you were a sentient plant.”

The man stood up, his hands going to the three swords strapped to his side. “Do you have some sort of problem with me, asshole?”

There was a voice in the back of his head (which sounded distinctly like Zeff) that said something about not fighting customers, but Sanji’s anger had been boiling from the moment Zeff put him on waiter duty; he was tired of trying to keep a lid on it.

“Why?” Sanji asked the man, taking a step forward. He was beginning to itch for a fight, and something about this man told him that he’d get one. “You gonna do something about it?”

There was a split second where the two of them just glared at each other, sizing the other up, before Sanji’s boot hit the sharp end of a blade, the sound echoing across the restaurant. If Sanji was honest with himself, that was the moment where it all started, like striking a match to start a flame. That was the moment when the man went from just another customer to somebody— not that Sanji knew who yet.

Sanji blinked in surprise, momentarily taken aback by the other man’s strength. Perhaps this won’t be as easy as I thought, he thought to himself, a grin finding its way onto his face. He saw a matching expression on the other man’s face and he knew he was thinking the same thing.

“Eggplant!” A booming voice broke through the scene, breaking the moment. “You better not be picking fights with the customers again!”

“Fuck you!” Sanji shouted, putting his leg down and turning away from the green-haired man to face the entrance to the kitchen. “You’re not the boss of me, shitty geezer!”

At that, Zeff came storming down the steps that led to the kitchen. “As long as you work in my restaurant, I am! Now go take table eight’s order.”

Sanji made no effort to move, instead just staring challengingly at him.

Zeff’s eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms across his chest. “You want to be banned from the kitchen?” he threatened.

“I practically already fucking am,” Sanji muttered to himself, but he knew he had already lost. He turned, giving the green-haired swordsman one last glare. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but whatever reaction he wanted, he didn’t get, so he turned away.

“Oi,” the man spoke up as he put his sword back in its sheath, and Sanji turned back to give him an annoyed look, something sparking in his chest.

“What do you want, mosshead?”

The man’s eye twitched, but he didn’t say anything, just giving Sanji a long look. Eventually, he let out an irritated breath of air. “Nevermind. Go back to work, curly brow.”

“What did you call me?” Sanji demanded, turning back around for another fight, but Zeff’s voice stopped him.

“SANJI!”

“Okay, okay, fine, you shitty old man,” Sanji muttered, going to do as he was told. The green-haired man would pay for that later.

And that was how he spent the rest of his shift, biting his tongue to stop himself from making sarcastic remarks and always looking back at the green-haired man’s table to make sure he didn’t leave before Sanji could make him eat his words. And the man didn’t. After he finished his food, he just leaned back, resting his feet on the table like a barbarian, and closed his eyes.

Sometimes when Sanji looked back at him, he could see the man’s steel gray eyes tracking him across the dining hall, and Sanji would just glare right back challengingly, even flipping him off once. The man had grinned at the sight.

However, when Sanji did finish his shift, the green-haired man was nowhere to be seen. Pushing down a feeling that felt suspiciously like disappointment, Sanji moved to head back to the kitchen, hoping to cajole Zeff into letting him cook a bit before his next shift. He was interrupted by a man who came bursting into the room, shouting wildly.

“It’s a duel! The Pirate Hunter Roronoa Zoro has challenged Dracule Mihawk to a duel!”

There was a collective gasp that went across the room, and Sanji frowned, briefly recognizing one of the names. If he remembered correctly, Roronoa Zoro was some bounty hunter who had been recently starting to gain a name for himself.

“The fuck?” He muttered as half of the customers ran out of the Baratie, and the other half started crowding around the windows, blocking his view of whatever was happening outside. Zeff himself came trudging down the stairs, the sound of peg leg against stone echoing through the room.

“What did he say?” He demanded, and Sanji shrugged, reaching into his jacket to pull out a cigarette and a box of matches.

“Hell if I know,” Sanji muttered, striking the match to light his cigarette. “Something about a duel? Roronoa Zoro against some hawk guy?”

“A duel?” Zeff’s eyes narrowed. “Against Mihawk?”

Sanji nodded, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. The smoke filled his lungs like honey down a sore throat, easing an ache that Sanji didn’t realize was there.

Zeff immediately snatched it out of his mouth and put it out under his peg leg. “They better not damage my restaurant.” He ignored Sanji’s affronted noise and began stomping out the door.

Sanji, having nothing better to do, followed him out. Thankfully, someone had already folded out the fins earlier that day, so the restaurant wasn’t in any immediate danger of becoming collateral damage. There was a large crowd of people watching from behind the railing, and Sanji and Zeff pushed their way to the front.

Sanji couldn’t stop the small sound of surprise as he recognized one of the duelers as the green-haired man from earlier, two swords in his hands and one in his mouth. It looked even more ridiculous than Sanji could have imagined, especially since his opponent was fighting him with something that looked less like a blade and more like a butter knife.

“What’s the big deal?” Sanji looked around at the large crowd, and he was answered by a sharp kick to his side.

“Haven’t I taught you anything?” Zeff growled. “Dracule Mihawk is the greatest swordsman in the world, brat.”

Surprised, Sanji looked back at the fight again. It was clear that the green-haired man was utterly outmatched, as the knife-wielding man blocked all three of his swords with considerable ease. That must be Mihawk.

This meant that the plant that had been bothering him earlier was Pirate Hunter Roronoa Zoro, the so-called Demon of the East Blue. He was strong, Sanji thought, remembering with a start how the Zoro had blocked his kick with ease.

Sanji had no illusions about his own strength, completely aware that he was nothing compared to the monsters beyond the East Blue. Still, watching Mihawk, Sanji became aware of a completely new level of strength. This is the world’s greatest.

Instead of the fear he had been expecting, he felt a brief sense of awe as he watched the world’s greatest swordsman sidestep Zoro’s attack with ease and knock him out with a hand to the back of his neck.

“What an idiot,” Sanji snorted, thinking that the fight was over. “Why would you even try to duel the world’s greatest?”

Zeff gave him an unimpressed look. “To become the world’s greatest, obviously. The only idiot here is you.”

Sanji looked at him, affronted, but Zeff just gestured for him to watch. Still looking determined, Zoro struggled to his feet with unsteady legs.

“Riiiiiiiiiight,” Sanji watched incredulously as Zoro attempted to attack once again, only for Mihawk to dodge handily. It was starting to look a little pathetic, the way Zoro was stumbling around, clearly exhausted.

Apparently, Mihawk didn’t think so. “What weight do you bear on your shoulders?” He asked Zoro. “What do you desire after you’ve obtained power, weak one?”

“I can’t lose,” Zoro struggled to his feet. Seemingly resolving himself, he brought up the two swords in his hands so that they were stationed vertically across the blade in his mouth. “Tiger… Trap!”

He sprinted forward, and Sanji held his breath, stupidly nervous for him. Regardless of his foolish ambition, he was charging towards his death, and Sanji resented the conflicting emotions that were rising in his chest.

Sanji flinched as Mihawk stabbed his knife straight into Zoro’s chest, closing his eyes and looking away. Serves him right, he forced himself to think, ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach. Another fool, obsessed with strength.

“Are you just going to let me pierce your heart?” Mihawk asked, and Sanji opened his eyes to see that neither of them had moved from where they were before. Mihawk still had his arm extended, knife still embedded in Zoro’s chest while the idiot just stood there unflinchingly. “Why aren’t you withdrawing?”

“I don’t know why…” Zoro started, and Sanji had a single moment of incredulity as he realized the man was talking around the sword in his mouth. “But if I withdrew even a step, I feel like those various important things such as pledges and promises in the past would be shattered, and I won’t be able to come back to where I am now.”

“The fuck does that even mean?” Sanji questioned as Mihawk replied with an assessing gaze, “Yes, that’s what defeat is about.”

“Then all the more reason I can’t withdraw,” Zoro tilted his chin up challengingly.

“Even if you die?” Mihawk asked.

Zoro’s answering grin was borderline manic. “I’d rather die.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Sanji hissed, and Zeff snorted. “That kid… that’s how you should live, Eggplant.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sanji muttered as Mihawk pulled his knife out of Zoro’s chest and stepped backward.

“Kid!” Mihawk called out, returning his knife to its original place in the cross around his neck. “State your name.”

Zoro stood taller, bringing his swords around so that they formed a triangle in front of him. “Roronoa Zoro.”

“I’ll remember it,” Mihawk declared, and Sanji looked back and forth between him and Zoro in disbelief. What was even happening here?

“I haven’t seen anyone like you in a while, strong one. Thus…” Mihawk pulled out the enormous sword on his back. “As a swordsman courtesy, I’ll sink you using the world's strongest black sword.”

“I appreciate it,” Zoro told him, and Sanji had never wanted to kick someone more in his life. Was he insane? Here he was, outmatched beyond measure, yet he still stood, challenging the world’s greatest so confidently.

“Three Swords Secret Technique!” Zoro shouted, beginning to spin his swords around. Mihawk came charging forward as Zoro stood in his path, making no move to dodge or run away.

“Three Thousand Worlds!” Zoro shouted as the two of them intersected. There was a heart-stopping moment where the two of them stood, frozen like the whole world was holding its breath to see the outcome of the fight.

Then, Zoro’s swords shattered, blood slowly soaking through the front of his white shirt. Zoro fell to his knees, reaching up to grab the sword out of his mouth and return it to its sheath.

Sanji let out the breath he had been holding for far too long, thinking that finally, finally, the fight was over. The idiot had lost, no doubt about it, and he’d received acknowledgment from the world’s greatest. Now, he could leave and go treat his wounds, and Sanji wouldn’t have to think about him anymore.

Apparently, the green-haired man was set on making Sanji’s life even more miserable than it already was, and he turned to face Mihawk with his arms extended to the side.

“What are you…” Mihawk started.

In response, Zoro just grinned, and Sanji was absolutely certain at the sight of it that the man was insane. “Scars on the back are a swordsman’s shame.”

There was a moment when Mihawk stared at him in disbelief, and Sanji pleaded with almost every deity he could think of that the man would just leave it at that. Then Mihawk grinned, and Sanji cursed almost every deity that he could think of.

“Admirable!” Mihawk declared, and without hesitating, he sliced downward.

There was an itch under his skin that Sanji couldn’t quite shake, watching Zoro get nearly sliced in two. He should give up on his dream, rather than die, he thought to himself.

Sanji knew what dreams were worth. He knew what it felt like to cling to a dream, the promise of a mystical ocean like it was the only thing that kept him alive in a dark dungeon many kingdoms away. But he also knew the taste of kindness after ten long years of starving for it: a small bag of food as someone gave up a leg for a little boy who had done nothing but brandish a knife in his direction.

Gritting his teeth, Sanji shouted out. “It should be easy… to give up on your ambition, right?”

Because Sanji had done it, simple as that. There were some things worth more than dreams, and a debt as large as a missing limb was hard to repay.

Then why won’t that itch go away?

Unfortunately, Sanji didn’t have much time to think, because the bisected piece of moss was falling backwards into the ocean. Sanji might not have thought much of the man or his dream, but there was no way he was going to watch him die in front of his very eyes.

He sprinted across the deck of Baratie, shoving off his jacket and taking off his shoes as he went. He stumbled around on one leg momentarily, struggling with his second shoe, but as soon as it was off, he was diving into the water, following the cloud of blood.

Zoro was sinking farther and farther down at an alarming rate, and there was one terrifying moment as Sanji reached out, hand fully extended out in front of him when he thought I can’t reach him.

Then Zoro’s eyes opened slowly, his gaze unfocused. Sanji tried to shout, but it came out unintelligible under the water, just a cloud of bubbles and noise. Somehow, Zoro seemed to understand him, because he reached his arm out, wincing in pain at the strain of it. Sanji kicked forward, fueled by a sudden burst of determination, and their hands met, grabbing onto each other and holding tight.

Sanji pulled, hoisting Zoro’s arm over his shoulder. Come on, he thought, gritting his teeth as he swam back up towards the surface with the sun’s light glinting temptingly in front of him.

They both broke the water gasping for air, and Zoro violently coughed out the seawater in his lungs. Before long, blood started mixing with that water, so Sanji pulled him back to the Baratie’s deck. He dragged him out of the water, turning to shout at the gawking crowd who was watching them. “What are you just standing there for? I need bandages! And someone get a needle, some string, and a bottle of alcohol!”

There was a moment of shocked silence before anyone moved to do what he demanded, but Zeff was already prepared, peg leg clunking across the deck as he tossed all the requested items at him.

“You gonna do this, eggplant?” Zeff asked him, eyebrows raised as Sanji grabbed a towel and poured alcohol on it.

“What else am I supposed to do, watch him bleed out on the deck?” Sanji snapped back.

“Don’t worry,” Mihawk moved to stand up above him with his arms crossed across his chest. Sanji ignored him, using the alcohol-soaked towel to clean Zoro’s wounds. “I didn’t kill that man.”

“No, you just mutilated him for no reason,” Sanji muttered under his breath, blanching a little bit at the state of Zoro’s wounds. Didn’t kill him, my ass, he thought, taking in the long wound across Zoro’s front. He could see more blood than skin at this point, and it wouldn’t surprise him if the man’s organs were spilling out.

Zoro hissed in pain as the alcohol made contact with his wounds, and Sanji scowled. He was worried, and there was only one thing he knew how to do when he felt that way: get mad. “Shut up, you brought this upon yourself.”

But Zoro wasn’t paying attention to him. Instead, he was staring up at Mihawk, teeth gritted.

“It’s still too early for you to die,” Mihawk declared, staring down at him. “My name is Dracule Mihawk! Learn about yourself, learn about the world, and become strong. No matter how many years it takes, I will hold the seat of strongest and wait for you. Surpass this sword! Try to surpass me, Roronoa Zoro!”

Somewhere to his left, Sanji could hear Zeff let out an amazed sound. “To think that he got Hawk-Eyed Mihawk to say this much!”

Sanji wasn’t paying attention to any of them, instead looking at the idiot in front of him as Zoro reached for the last of his swords. “What are you doing?” Sanji demanded as the man lifted his sword in the air, agitating the wounds that Sanji was trying so hard to heal. “Stop that, you’ll hurt yourself!”

“I will not be defeated ever again!” Zoro announced, and Sanji cursed the idiot under his breath. Was this really necessary? All he was doing was bringing himself closer to death.

Mihawk didn’t seem to think so, because he grinned at the words, and Zeff nodded along like anything the idiot was doing made any sense. “Until the day that I defeat him and become a master swordsman, I’ll never be defeated! Do you hear me, Kuina?”

Who the fuck is Kuina? Sanji barely had any time to think before Zoro promptly passed out. “Oi,” Sanji said, shaking him. “Don’t you dare die on me, shithead.”

Mihawk looked down at him. “Keep him alive, young one.”

“You fucking shut up,” Sanji hissed, briefly forgetting he was talking to the world’s greatest swordsman. “You should stitch him together. You’re the one who fucking cut him open in the first place.”

Mihawk didn’t even bother to respond, turning away to the most ridiculous ship Sanji had ever seen in his life. Sanji didn’t bother to watch him go, instead focusing completely on the idiot in front of him.

The Baratie didn’t have a ship doctor (which was probably a stupid idea considering how often everyone on their floating restaurant got into fights), and that meant that the sole responsibility of sewing the swordsman back up fell on Sanji. He attempted to clean Zoro’s wounds one more time before grabbing his discarded jacket and digging in his pockets to find his box of matches.

Strike the match, light the flame. It was something Sanji did almost every day, yet now, his hands trembled. He took a deep breath, then bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He was a cook, and his hands were steady. He would not let them tremble.

He held the needle out over the open flame, attempting to sterilize it. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered under his breath, and he began to suture the wound.

It was messy since Sanji was by no means a proficient doctor. The stitches were wonky and uneven, but it was good enough, working to close the wound and minimize the bleeding. Sanji lost track of how long it took him to finish, but by the time he was done, the sun had long since set and Sanji was doing the last remaining stitches by firelight.

He wrapped bandages around the idiot, taking care not to pull any of the stitches or reopen any of the wounds. When he was done, Zoro looked more like a mummy than a human, and Sanji let out a breath of relief, taking a moment to rest his hands against his face. I did it.

Feeling as if he more than deserved it by now, he hunted down his box of matches and found a cigarette. Putting it against his lips, he lit it and breathed in a mouthful of smoke, leaning back and closing his eyes.

That was how Zeff found him, back turned towards the Baratie’s wooden deck and smoke dancing in front of his face.

“Can you help me move him?” Sanji asked, opening his eyes lazily.

“Where do you want to put him? We don’t have any extra beds.”

“He can just take mine,” Sanji muttered. “I’ll sleep on the floor or something.”

“Awfully concerned about his wellbeing, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sanji said, taking another slow drag of his cigarette. “I just don’t want to see someone die in my restaurant.”

“My restaurant,” Zeff corrected him. “Now get up and help me move him upstairs. And take that damn thing out of your mouth— I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that smoking that shit is bad for you.”

“Whatever,” Sanji muttered, far too tired to even consider arguing. He pulled himself up to his feet and then grabbed Zoro’s torso, taking extra care not to ruin all of his hard work (if he had to do another set of stitches, he was going to set himself on fire). Zeff grabbed the man’s legs without a word, and together they lifted him and took him inside and up the stairs toward Sanji’s room.

…

Again, Sanji was not a doctor.

His medical experience was limited to bandaging small cuts, handling burns, and pretending that bruises didn’t exist. Sanji hadn’t ever been sick, so he didn’t think he could even recognize it if Zoro was. Because of this, he sat at the swordsman’s bedside for almost a whole day, obsessively checking his temperature and the state of his wounds. It had been a long time since he had felt so helpless.

He looked down at Zoro’s sleeping figure, unable to do anything but get lost in his thoughts. He had thought about it over and over again, and he still couldn’t understand why the man had gone that far. There was pursuing your dreams, and there was throwing your life away; it was clear which one of those categories Zoro fell into.

Frustrated, he reached into his suit jacket, pulling out his box of matches and a cigarette. More than he couldn’t understand Zoro, he couldn’t understand himself. Why was the image of Zoro standing there, arms outstretched, so ingrained in his memory?

It was trauma, he decided. The stupid marimo had traumatized him, making him watch as Mihawk cut him in half. Clearly, there was no other explanation, because Sanji had given up on his dream. He had decided, almost nine years ago now, to repay Zeff, and nothing was ever going to change his mind.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Zeff entered the room, tray in hand. Sanji looked up at the sound of the door opening, and Zeff’s eyes immediately zeroed in on the cigarette in his hand.

“Put that damn thing away and eat something,” Zeff growled, and Sanji scowled.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” It was mostly to be contrary since he immediately put the cigarette back into his pocket. Zeff walked over to his side, putting the tray of food down next to him. There was a plate of pasta on it, most likely leftovers from the dinner rush.

“How’s he doing?” Zeff fell back down into the seat next to Sanji. It screeched loudly in protest at the sudden weight.

“Take a look for yourself,” Sanji waved a hand at Zoro’s sleeping form.

Zeff looked at Zoro for barely a moment before turning to look at Sanji, inspecting him with narrow eyes. His face was impassive, but Sanji knew him well enough to tell that he saw something that caused him to furrow his brow. “Stop worrying so much. He’s not going to die.”

“How can you be so sure?” Sanji snapped. “He was cut in half.”

“Oh, please,” Zeff snorted. “As if a scratch like that could ever stop him.”

“You knew him for a total of ten minutes.”

Zeff crossed his arms across his chest. “Dracule Mihawk himself acknowledged him. And besides, a man with that much determination? I doubt he could be truly taken down, even by Death himself.”

Sanji grit his teeth. “I don’t understand. What about him is so special? Why does everybody…” he trailed off, unsure of how to explain it. All Zoro had done was try to kill himself. What about that was so astounding?

Zeff clicked his tongue. “Have I taught you nothing? Men like that? You’d be lucky to find one in a single lifetime.”

“So explain it to me,” Sanji spit out.

Zeff gave him a long, pointed look. “I don’t have to explain it to you, eggplant. You already know. You feel it, don’t you?”

Sanji swallowed, his throat suddenly dry as the memory of Zoro’s dark gaze flashed in front of his eyes. No doubt. No hesitation. The absolute conviction, like he could move mountains with just the force of that alone.

“I saw eyes like that a long time ago,” Zeff said. “In a child, no less. He knew that he wouldn’t die, not until he achieved his dream.”

Sanji looked over at Zeff slowly. “And now?” He asked quietly.

Zeff held his gaze, the weight of it heavy. “It’s still there. He’s just holding it back.”

At that, Sanji broke eye contact, looking down at his hands instead. “I’m sure he has his reasons. Some things are worth more than dreams.”

“No,” Zeff stood up, the movement sudden and loud as the chair underneath him scraped backward on the floor. “They’re not.”

Sanji had nothing to say to that, choosing to stare down at the wooden floor instead. Zeff walked across the room, pausing once he got to the doorway.

“Sleep,” he said. “Eat. If I don’t see you taking proper care of yourself, I’ll tie you down and do it myself, brat.”

“Shut up,” Sanji muttered, but he reached for the plate of pasta beside him. He ate it robotically, not even able to savor the taste with too many thoughts bouncing around in his brain. You feel it, don’t you? Zeff’s words echoed, and that itch came back again, stubborn and insistent as ever.

“Shut up,” Sanji said again, this time to nobody in particular. “Just… shut up.”

…

As Zeff predicted, the marimo didn’t die, instead waking up two days later. Sanji had been in the midst of checking his temperature when he began to stir.

“What the….” Zoro muttered, looking around blearily. “Where am I?”

Sanji removed his hand from the top of Zoro’s head instantly. “Good, you’re awake,” he said, trying to sound cool and unaffected instead of enormously relieved. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Zoro groaned, and Sanji snorted.

“Yeah, I’m sure getting cut in half would do that to you. You’re at the Baratie right now. Do you remember what happened?”

“Mihawk!” Zoro gasped, jolting upright. He immediately hissed in pain, hand going to the wounds at his chest.

“Careful!” Sanji reached out to stabilize him. “I spent a lot of time on those stitches, and I swear, if you pull out a single one of them, I will personally make sure that you can’t move for the next two months.”

“I lost,” Zoro muttered, sounding numb. “How did I lose?” He stared down at his hands like he didn’t recognize them, and Sanji sat back, going quiet. He didn’t know what to say, so he just let the man have his moment.

Eventually, Zoro came to some sort of resolution, clenching his hands and moving to kick off his blankets.

“Hey, wait a second,” Sanji stopped him with a hand on his chest. “You were just seriously injured. You should probably stay in bed for at least a week.”

Admittedly, Sanji had always healed pretty fast, so he didn’t have much of a reference for how long it took other people to heal. A week sounded pretty reasonable, right?

“My sword,” Zoro muttered, looking around. “Where’s my sword?”

All of that movement was definitely not good for his wounds, so Sanji grabbed a nearby newspaper and whacked the idiot on the top of the head. When in doubt, violence was the best answer. “Your sword is fine, okay? I grabbed it after your battle, so can you please just stop moving?”

Zoro ignored him, instead choosing to glare at him suspiciously. “I remember you. You were that waiter with the curly eyebrow.”

“Leave my fucking eyebrows out of this,” Sanji muttered. “Honestly, are you even thinking? It’s like you’re trying to get yourself killed.”

And you came very close to dying, he added in his head, remembering the last couple of sleepless nights. If these past few days had taught him anything, it was that Sanji was even less cut out to be a doctor than he was to be a waiter. The amount of stress and constant worry had been practically unbearable.

“You,” Zoro said suddenly, eyes narrowed. “You shouted something at me near the end of it, didn’t you?”

Sanji stiffened, briefly thinking back. Had he? He had been so frustrated with the idiot that he couldn’t remember what he had kept inside his head and what had come out of his mouth. He vaguely remembered saying something about giving up on his ambition, so he crossed his arms across his chest defensively and glared at Zoro. “So? What of it?”

Zoro scoffed, looking away. “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand.”

Sanji sniffed. “That should be my line.” What kind of idiot would give up his life for his dream? Dreams were foolish things people decided on as children. There were a lot more important things to devote your life to.

“Anyways, stay still while I replace your bandages.” He reached out to unwrap the ones Zoro had on already. Somehow, the man had managed to irritate his wounds in the short minute that he’d been up, and the bandages were already beginning to get soaked through with blood. Sanji clicked his tongue at the sight of it, reaching out towards the bucket of warm water that he had placed next to the bed to start cleaning the wounds again.

He worked for a bit in silence, cleaning the wounds and wrapping them with a new set of bandages before Zoro finally spoke up. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why do people keep asking me that?” Sanji muttered, mostly to himself, as he finished tying the bandage. “What was I supposed to do, leave you bleeding out on the deck?”

Zoro shrugged and then winced at the movement.

“Has that moss on your head infected your brain?” Sanji snapped. “Stop moving around so much, idiot.” His harsh words were immediately betrayed as he gently pushed Zoro back down onto the bed, and Zoro watched him, his gray gaze unreadable.

“Thank you,” he said finally. “Asshole or not, you saved my life.”

“I don’t want your thanks,” Sanji muttered, feeling stupidly flustered. “Just don’t kill yourself after I worked so hard to bring you back to life.”

Zoro grunted in response, and they fell into an awkward silence. Sanji looked down, fiddling with his hands for something to do. Now that the other man was awake, he felt more than ever that he had no idea what he was doing.

“Are you hungry?” He asked suddenly, mostly for something to do. “Do you want something to eat?”

“Sure,” Zoro said, moving to sit up again. Sanji pushed him back down as gently as he could, but still firmly with a scowl on his face.

“I’m going to get you something to eat. If I come back and see that you’ve so much as moved a finger when I was gone, I am going to bandage you up so tightly that you won’t be able to move and you will be eating plant food for the rest of the week. Understand me?”

Zoro scowled, looking away. “Fine, whatever.”

Sanji gave him one last glare, holding up a roll of bandages threateningly before he left the room and went down to the kitchen.

It was as busy as ever, the sound of chopping and clanging echoing through the room. Over all the noise, he could hear Patty and Carne cracking insults at the other, and occasionally a laugh would sound through as someone said something particularly cutting.

“Geezer!” He shouted as he walked in. “The mossball is up! Do you have any soup?”

“He finally woke up, did he?” Zeff limped over. “You gonna stop freaking out at his bedside now?”

“I wasn’t freaking out,” Sanji crossed his arms across his chest defensively. “I was just… being careful.”

“Sure,” Zeff snorted, placing a bowl of soup in front of him. “This good enough for you, eggplant? Or you gonna keep bothering me with all your fussing?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sanji grabbed the bowl away from him. “I don’t fuss.”

“Nice try,” Zeff barked out a laugh, and the rest of the chefs in the kitchen echoed his amusement. “Hear that, guys? Sanji thinks he doesn’t fuss.”

“Has the kid even met himself?”

“Does he do anything else?”

Sanji ignored the shitheads. What did they know about him? He wasn’t worried or anything— he just didn’t want all his hard work stitching the idiot up to go to waste.

Zeff knocked him on the head with his peg leg, a gentle tap compared to what he used to do when Sanji was younger. “Honestly, with the amount of useless shit going on up here,” he emphasized by knocking him on the head again, “It’s a miracle you manage to get anything done. Now get out of my kitchen and fix up that stupid cabbage head so you can get back to work.”

“Stop telling me what to do,” Sanji snapped back, turning out of the kitchen in annoyance. It wasn’t his fault that he had an actual brain compared to those shithead cooks. In his opinion, they could all benefit from thinking a lot more.

Remembering the careless way Zoro had gone and gotten himself cut in half for no reason, Sanji scowled. Exhibit A.

Said idiot was already out of bed when he got back, the white sword that Sanji had grabbed for him clutched tightly in his hand as he staggered around the room.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Sanji demanded, temper immediately boiling. “Didn’t I tell you not to fucking move, you idiot? Put down the damn sword and get back into bed this instant!”

“Shut up!” Zoro growled back at him, leaning against Sanji’s bookshelf for support since he was so injured he couldn’t stand. “I don’t have time for this. I have to get stronger. I have to train.” He scoffed, looking Sanji up and down in a way that clearly conveyed his opinion of him. “Someone like you wouldn’t understand.”

The words struck Sanji, like sticking a finger in an old wound and pressing. Weak. Useless. Someone like you is no son of mine.

You can’t kick an injured person, Sanji reminded himself deliriously. You can’t hurt him back.

Instead, he put the bowl of soup down wordlessly and turned out of the room, slamming the door behind him. He leaned up against it, sliding down so that he was curled up into himself, both hands in his hair.

Someone like you. Someone like you. The words echoed through his brain, rattling around like coins in a jar when you shake it. He couldn’t have meant it that way, Sanji reminded himself, taking unsteady, stuttering breaths. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t understand.

How could he? How could anyone? What Zeff had done for him was something Sanji could never have even imagined. People didn’t give out such great kindness so freely. The swordsman did not understand; he never would, and there was no reason to try and make him. At the very least, all Sanji could do was make sure he didn’t die, and then he could send him on his way and forget all about him.

Taking a steadying breath, he got up and walked back into his room to find that Zoro was back on his bullshit, attempting to tear off the bandages that Sanji had so carefully put on him earlier. Doing his best to ignore that atrocity, Sanji stood in front of the doorway, blocking it with his arms crossed.

“You have a dream,” he began. “Good for you. As much as I don’t understand your need to throw your life away to accomplish it, I know that trying to kill yourself now has nothing to do with that dream.”

Zoro paused, finally, finally turning to look at him and listen. Sanji clenched and unclenched his hands, longing for a cigarette.

“Look, maybe I don’t understand your dream, but I do understand what it feels like when you’re not strong enough. It’s frustrating, I know, and you’ll do anything to-” be good enough, Sanji wanted to say, but he held his tongue. He didn’t need to say stuff like that in front of this man who was still very much a stranger.

“Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re trying to accomplish, this,” he gestured at Zoro trying to take off his bandages. “This is not the answer. If you don’t let yourself heal, you’re just going to die from blood loss or infection before you can even think about getting stronger.”

Zoro gave him a long, unreadable look, gray eyes against blue as Sanji glared back, refusing to break eye contact.

“Fine,” the green-haired man said finally, putting his sword down on the bed. Sanji let out a loud sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging as the tension bled out of them.

“But,” Zoro cut in, and Sanji’s gaze snapped back to him, already ready to argue against whatever bullshit he was about to spout. “Three days. I’ll rest for three days, and that’s it.”

“Four days,” Sanji countered immediately, some part of him reminded of one of his many arguments with Zeff. “Four days, and you’ll listen to me if I say your wound is still not healed after.”

“Three days,” Zoro argued back. “I know my body. Three days is all it will take.”

Sanji’s eyes narrowed as they stared each other down, neither one of them yielding.

“Fine,” Sanji folded first, realizing that he was probably lucky to get more than one day in the first place. “Three days, but you listen to everything I say. If I tell you not to move, you don’t move, got it?”

“Whatever,” Zoro muttered, and he sat back on the bed, kicking his shoes off before lying down on the covers and closing his eyes. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Eat first,” Sanji grabbed the bowl of soup that Zeff had given him earlier. After their whole argument, it was probably already cold, but that was the mosshead’s fault, so he would just have to put up with it.

Zoro moved to sit up again, and Sanji immediately reached out and stopped him. “Stop. Just… let me.”

He helped Zoro slowly ease himself up so that he was leaning against the headboard of the bed for support. He brought the bowl of soup over, grabbed the spoon, and scooped some of the soup, holding the spoon out for Zoro to eat.

“I can do it myself.”

Zoro looked down at the offered spoon like it was poison, and Sanji scowled, feeling his face heat up.

“No, you can’t. You’re going to rip open your stitches or reopen a wound. Just fucking eat it, okay? I don’t like this any more than you do.”

Zoro glared at him, but he complied, letting Sanji feed him. It was equally humiliating for the both of them, Zoro having to be treated like an invalid and Sanji waiting hand-and-foot on a stupid barbarian of a man.

“Just for your information,” Sanji found it necessary to say, “I would much rather be taking care of a beautiful woman, but unfortunately, I’m stuck with you.”

“Whatever,” Zoro muttered, taking another bite. “You’re the one who wanted to do this.”

“I told you,” Sanji hissed. “You’re going to reopen your stitches if you move too much. I spent far too much time on those just for you to ruin them.”

Zoro rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Doc.”

“Not a doctor,” Sanji muttered.

“Fine, waiter.”

“I’m not a waiter, either. For your information— not that it matters to you— I am the sous chef of this restaurant.”

“Whatever you say, cook.”

Sanji felt a vein throb in his forehead, and he scowled, reminding himself for the second time that day that he shouldn’t kick an injured man. “Chef,” he corrected him, closing his eyes and pleading for patience from some higher power. “I am a chef. Not that a barbarian like you would understand the difference.”

“Sure,” Zoro grunted, and Sanji scraped the bowl, getting the last couple of drops of soup. He fed the final bite to Zoro, who ate it like it was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.

Relieved that that was finally over, Sanji put the bowl back down on the table with a small clink and moved to help Zoro lie back down.

“You’re done, right?” Zoro said, glaring at him. “Now can you leave me alone so I can sleep?”

“How do I know you’re not just going to get up the moment I leave?” Sanji eyed him suspiciously.

Zoro frowned, looking affronted. “I gave you my word. I’m not going to go back on it.”

Sanji gave him a long look, considering what he knew about the idiot. Finding with some surprise that he believed him, he nodded and grabbed the bowl to return it to the kitchen. Maybe he’d sit down for a bit and finally get some rest.

…

True to his word, Zoro spent the next three days in bed, resting. A majority of his time was spent sleeping… which was relieving, because when the bastard was awake, Sanji had to argue with him every step of the way.

During this time, Sanji learned two things. One: Zoro was even more of an idiot than he thought. Somehow, the mosshead managed to get through nineteen years of life without ever learning the difference between left and right, and no matter how hard he tried, Sanji couldn’t teach him. He tried every trick in the book, starting with the classic left-hand-L, and none of them worked. Honestly, at this point, Sanji was shocked that the man knew up from down with how shitty he was with directions.

Two: somewhere along his long journey across the East Blue (which started because the marimo got lost trying to get back to his hometown because of course he did), Zoro had gotten the idea that alcohol was an acceptable substitute for water. He acted like Sanji personally offended him every time he put a glass of water in front of him, and he never stopped asking for fucking booze.

Sometimes, it felt like someone had carved out the exact person who would get on Sanji’s nerves in almost every way imaginable and then tossed him on Sanji’s doorstep and cut him in half. Not kicking the moron in the head every day was almost harder than stitching him up in the first place.

When the fourth morning came, marking the end of Zoro’s period of rest, the swordsman was up and out of bed the moment the sun rose. Luckily, Sanji with all his insomniac tendencies was awake, and he was able to look over his wounds before he could do anything too reckless. Despite the chef’s lack of skill as a doctor and Zoro’s best efforts, all of his injuries had somehow managed to heal, and Sanji could see in Zoro’s movements that they no longer caused him any strain.

“So what are you going to do now?” He asked as Zoro tested the limits of his movement, running through a long, complicated-looking kata.

“Train,” Zoro responded like the simpleton he was, and Sanji let out an annoyed huff.

“That’s not what I meant, asshole. Are you going to stay here? Or are you taking off on the earliest ship?” He paused, spinning a cigarette between his fingers. “Not that I care or anything. I’m just curious.”

Zoro gave him another one of those long, unreadable looks that Sanji was starting to get sick of. It was like the man only had a limited number of facial expressions and he kept recycling the same one for different situations.

“Dunno,” Zoro finally said. “Doesn’t matter where I am as long as I can get stronger.”

“Right,” Sanji muttered, looking down at the cigarette in his hand. Trying to decipher whatever mess of feelings he had about the mosshead leaving wasn’t something that sounded tempting in the slightest, so he focused on a much simpler issue. Should he light the cigarette? On the one hand, he wanted a cigarette, but on the other hand, Zeff would kill him if he caught him with one in his mouth again.

There was an old saying that Sanji often heard tossed around growing up: Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Sanji was starting to think that it should be adjusted to think of Zeff and he shall appear, because the moment thoughts of the old cook crossed his mind, the distinct sound of Zeff’s peg leg hitting the deck came as if summoned. Sanji hastily put the cigarette in his pocket.

“Hope you’re not planning to dine and dash, cabbage head,” Zeff said, gruff as ever. Sanji frowned, a little taken aback. Why would Zeff care whether Zoro stayed or left?

“I paid for my food,” Zoro sheathed his sword and crossed his arms.

Zeff snorted. “Not quite. Stayed for almost a week, did you? Gotta pay for the food, the medical expenses, and the bed.”

“Oi,” Sanji cut in with a frown. “What are you going on about, shitty geezer?”

At that, Zeff turned to give Sanji a look. “This is a restaurant, not a charity, eggplant. Now that he’s all healed up, he should pay.”

Sanji had never felt more confused in his life. Zeff didn’t care about stuff like that, and Sanji had honestly expected him to just let Zoro go without even blinking an eye. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Zoro was unaffected, looking almost bored by the whole exchange. “How much do I owe you?”

“A week or so of labor should do it. For some reason, we’ve been a little short on waiters recently. Think you can do it?”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Zoro shrugged.

At that, Sanji grabbed Zeff’s shoulder and pulled him to the side. “What are you doing?” He hissed.

Zeff just raised an eyebrow at him. “Shouldn’t you be happy, little eggplant? You’re always bitching about waiting tables.”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Sanji snapped. “Why won’t you just let him go? What do you possibly have to gain from this?”

“When you get as old as I am, you start to learn how to ask for help. I’ve got a little problem, and I think that cabbage head will help me fix it.”

“Why do you need him to fix it? What even is this stupid problem?”

Zeff gave him a long unreadable look that reminded Sanji far too much of the mosshead. “None of your business,” he turned away, and Sanji cursed him.

“Where’s he even going to sleep, huh? And he’s still gotta eat, too! I don’t see how this is helping anyone!”

“He can just sleep where he’s been sleeping up until now,” Zeff dismissed him easily, and Sanji scowled. The damn mossball had been sleeping in his bed, and Zeff knew it. Sanji wasn’t going to keep sharing with the fucking idiot. “And it shouldn’t be hard to get him something to eat. This is a restaurant, after all.”

Sanji let out a cry of frustration. The old man was finally going insane— that was the only possible explanation for any of this mess.

He turned to see Zoro watching the whole exchange disinterestedly. “You’re not going to argue?” Sanji demanded. “What, you’re just going to do whatever he says?”

“Told you,” Zoro said with a shrug. “Doesn’t matter where I am as long as I can train. Not like I’m going to complain about food and a place to sleep.”

“I hate all of you,” Sanji muttered. “Every last damn one of you. Do whatever you want, I’m going to go get some air.”

“Better not be smoking again,” Zeff growled. “Here’s your first job, brussel sprout. Follow that idiot and make sure he doesn’t pull out a cigarette.”

“I have a name,” Zoro muttered, but he complied, following after Sanji.

“Don’t follow me,” Sanji snapped immediately.

“Can’t. Got a job.”

“It’s a fucking stupid job. Leave me alone and go train or something. I’m tired of looking at your stupid face.”

“Please,” Zoro scoffed. “It’s me who should be saying that. Every time I look at that fucking swirl on your face I get dizzy.”

“Would you just leave my fucking eyebrows out of it?” Sanji snapped. “I get it, they’re weird! I don’t like them any more than you do, okay?”

Zoro gave him a bewildered look. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

“For your information,” Sanji gritted his teeth, “I did not wake up on any bed this morning because a certain piece of fungus was using mine.”

At that, Zoro paused. “That was your bed? Where have you been sleeping?”

Realizing he had probably let his mouth run a little too much, Sanji shrugged. “Just wherever. Doesn’t matter, because I’m not giving up my bed any longer. If you wanna sleep here, you’re sleeping on the floor.”

“Fine with me.”

Sanji sighed, leaning up against the railing and looking out over the ocean. The waves were calm today, and there was barely a cloud in the sky, which was a sign of good weather. He closed his eyes and felt the sea breeze blowing cool against his cheeks.

That persistent itch was still there, the same as it had been since the stupid mossball had come tumbling into his life. If he was honest with himself, it had always been there, especially in moments like this when he looked out at the endless horizon. Now it was just getting harder to ignore.

He thought of another ocean out there; fish of every kind, shape, and color drifting through the water; where the cold waters of the North met the warmth of the East and mixed with the other two seas; blue as far as the eye could see with all sorts of colors swimming across its depths.

I’ll find it one day, Sanji thought to himself, opening his eyes slowly. But right now, he was here, and he had a debt to repay. There was no time for dreaming.

“Okay,” he said finally, turning to Zoro, who had been looking out at the ocean, trying to follow his gaze. “Let’s put you to work.”

…

Zoro was a horrendous waiter. His people skills almost put Sanji’s to shame, and the directionally challenged idiot often forgot which table was which and what food went where. For some reason, Zeff refused to tell Zoro to do literally anything else, so Sanji resigned himself to picking up after the marimo’s messes for the next two weeks.

Sanji also resigned himself to an uncomfortable two weeks of constantly seeing Zoro shirtless. The idiot refused to put on a shirt when training, and the first time Sanji had seen it, he’d almost had a conniption. It wasn’t like he had never seen Zoro shirtless, he had just been more preoccupied with other things at the time that he hadn’t really noticed how muscular he was.

The mere sight of it had made something boil under Sanji’s skin, and he had spent the entire day annoyed and snapping at anything that dared move. Eventually, Sanji just chalked it up to envy (not that he’d ever admit it outside of his head). Zoro was broad and muscular whereas Sanji was thin and wiry, and no amount of any physical exercise would ever change that.

Even with the differences in their physique, they were almost evenly matched when fighting— a fact that both drove Sanji absolutely crazy and filled him with pride. He had seen how important Zoro’s strength was to him, and he knew the fact that some chef from the middle-of-fucking-nowhere was on even ground with him drove the swordsman insane.

(It was also satisfying because of how much Zoro reminded Sanji of other people with whom Sanji could put up a decent fight. He’d grown a long way from the boy he used to be, and this was a sign of it.)

They fought hard and they fought often. They both had been gifted with the incredible ability to get under each other’s skin in almost every way imaginable, and this resulted in constant arguing that would always lead to a fight in some way or another. The fights rarely ended with one of them claiming victory. More often than not, it ended with Zeff’s peg leg to the head and cleaning duty.

Sanji would never admit it to anyone else, but he liked their fights. It was a great way to let off steam, and he knew Zoro thought of them as another one of his bizarre training methods. Sometimes, Sanji would approach Zoro with the intention of starting a fight, and it was definitely the same for the other man.

Fighting against each other was nothing compared to fighting with each other. The Baratie was known for its tendency to attract pirates and ruffians alike, and Sanji had grown up constantly fighting against some of them. It was rare nowadays for pirates to think they could take the fighting cooks of the Baratie, but pirates were nothing if not stubborn.

“I bet I can take out more of them than you can,” Sanji challenged Zoro with a sharp grin, eyeing the newest horde of scrappy-looking pirates that had wandered into the Baratie with empty pockets and a sense of entitlement.

Zoro responded with one of his own, fierce and predatorial. “You’re on, cook.”

And so Sanji went, cartwheeling into battle. He spun and he jumped, taking down pirate after pirate. Sometimes there was nothing else in the world like this, the rush of adrenaline that came with a good fight; the feeling of control that came with knowing that for once, Sanji was strong enough. He could protect himself, and he could protect the things that were precious to him. Nobody here could call him weak.

There was a warmth at his back, something that had never been there before. He cast a quick look behind him to see a now-familiar white shirt and black bandana.

“I’ve got fifteen,” Zoro said from around his sword. Sanji still had no idea how he talked like that.

A sudden idea flashed through Sanji’s mind, and he bent back so that his hands were on Zoro’s shoulders before he could even decide whether or not it was a good one. Flipping himself over the swordsman, he used him to propel himself forward and kick one of the pirates in the face.

Turning around after he was done, he gave Zoro his most shit-eating grin. “Sixteen.”

The look on Zoro’s face at that moment was going to be forever embedded in his memories. Never before had he managed to piss him off that much. “You little-” Zoro growled, but Zeff cut him off.

“No more fighting! Haven’t you two already done enough damage?” He surveyed the absolute mess that had become of the dining room in their scuffle.

“You,” he ordered, pointing an accusing finger at Sanji. “Are going to grab a broom and sweep this shit up.”

Sanji opened his mouth to protest, but Zeff still wasn’t done, rounding to face Zoro next. “And you are going to help him. If this room isn’t functional by dinner time, I’m holding both of you responsible.”

“This is your fault,” Sanji muttered after Zeff had left, grabbing a broom.

Zoro scowled back at him, righting a fallen chair. “How is this my fault? You’re the one who started it!”

“You pissed them off!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

With a dramatic huff, they both turned away from each other, cleaning in silence. Sanji swept away broken plates while Zoro picked up the tables and put them back in their original spot. Picking up some remaining unharmed dishes, Sanji snuck a glance over at Zoro, who was diligently scrubbing blood off the floor.

Pausing for just a moment to watch, his breath caught in his throat as Zoro scrubbed with the same single-minded determination he did everything else with. Sometimes it didn’t seem fair, what the weight of that gaze did to him— how one man could just look forward like that, unwavering and unyielding.

And it pissed him off for all sorts of reasons, most that he didn’t want to take the time to untangle. Sure, by now Sanji could admit that the whole battle-with-Mihawk-thing was kind of impressive. It took a certain type of man to stand there and accept failure in the form of dying, to say that the only thing that could ever stop him from achieving his own dream was death itself.

It was stupid, but it was inspiring. Zoro was an all-or-nothing kind of guy, and Sanji could respect that.

Kind of.

The real issue— the one that had Sanji refusing to like the swordsman— was his dream. Zoro wanted strength for the sake of strength; to be number one just so he could be number one. There was nothing to admire about that.

So Sanji turned away, swallowing down any feelings of admiration, and returned to sweeping up his plates.

Of course, that’s when the creature of his worst nightmares appeared, scuttling across the floor of the Baratie without a care in the world. Sanji screeched and threw himself at Zoro, who reacted as any reasonable person would in that situation: spluttering wildly and attempting to remove the long-legged cook from his new perch.

“Get it away, get it away!” Sanji shouted desperately, climbing on top of Zoro like the green-haired man was a piece of playground equipment.

“Get off me!” Was Zoro’s only response, attempting to grab Sanji and push him off. Sanji, fueled by fear and panic, held tight to him as if his life depended on it— which it did. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Bug!” Sanji screeched, removing one arm from where it was wrapped around Zoro’s face to point at the offending insect. “Fuck, marimo, do something!”

“What do you want me to do?” Zoro shouted back, still trying to get Sanji off of him.

“I don’t know! Just fucking get it out of my sight!”

Growling in frustration, Zoro marched over to where Sanji had been pointing earlier, quickly scanning their surroundings before stomping down hard. Sanji, who had closed his eyes in his panic, slowly peeked out over Zoro’s shoulder. “Is it gone?”

“Yes, now will you get off of me?”

Sanji’s grip around him only tightened, and he asked, his voice barely coming out in a whisper, “What if there are more?”

Zoro groaned in frustration, turning around so that Sanji could scan the room. In his haste to get away from the cursed insect, Sanji had knocked over several more tables, creating even more of a mess. Thankfully, he couldn’t see any more of the accursed bugs, but before he could get off the mosshead, Zeff walked into the room.

Sanji could only watch, frozen, as Zeff took in the state of the room: Sanji wrapped around Zoro’s head like some kind of scarf and a bigger mess than when he had left earlier.

Zeff closed his eyes and took a deep breath, clearly trying to reign in his temper. “I don’t even want to know,” he muttered, though Sanji wasn’t exactly sure if he was talking to the two of them or to himself. “Tomorrow, you two are on grocery duty. I need you fucking brats off my restaurant.”

“Yeah,” Sanji complied, slowly getting off of Zoro. He knew this tone of Zeff’s, and arguing with him now would not do him any favors. “Yeah, okay.”

…

Sanji woke the next morning long before the sun rose in the sky and sat up in bed, trying to ignore the phantom feeling of bugs crawling all over his skin. No matter how much time seemed to pass, that nightmare never seemed to leave him.

He got up with a sigh, stepping over the sleeping marimo on the floor. Needing something to distract him, he started his morning routine, walking to the bathroom across the hall to splash water on his face.

Nightmares weren’t an uncommon thing for him anymore— if anything, they had been a very common occurrence for him for the past ten years. He had gotten better at masking them over time, waking with a start instead of a scream and only going to bed after everyone else had gone to sleep.

He took his time getting dressed, smoothing out the lines of his suit and adjusting the sleeves as he went. When he finished, the sun still hadn’t risen, and Sanji stood awkwardly in an empty room with only the marimo’s snores to keep him company.

Sighing, he pulled out the box from under his bed where he kept all his money. It had been a while since he had last disembarked, so he had quite a bit saved up. There was enough there to buy a new suit, and Sanji smiled to himself at the prospect. It had been so long since he had last gone shopping, and now he was kind of starting to look forward to it.

Of course, he wasn’t going alone, and as soon as the sun rose, he kicked the sentient moss that had made its home on his floor. Zoro woke up like a cat, slowly blinking his eyes open and stretching leisurely. Sanji watched the whole thing, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Hurry up and get ready,” he demanded, kicking him again. “I’m going to get the money from the shitty geezer.”

Zoro grunted, sitting up and scratching his stomach lazily. Sanji kicked him one more time, just ‘cause, and then left the marimo to his own devices, going downstairs to talk to Zeff. Breakfast prep had just begun, and the Baratie kitchens were quieter than they were during the daytime. Zeff and Patty were both chopping up vegetables, the sound of the knife against the cutting board echoing through the room.

“Oi, old man,” Sanji called out as he walked in.

Zeff just wordlessly pointed to the corner, where a bag of money sat on top of a long list of ingredients. “Ship’s already ready for you. Be back by nightfall, brat.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Sanji waved him off, grabbing the bag and briefly skimming over the list. “See you later, I guess.”

Zeff grunted in response, and Sanji left the kitchen without much fanfare. With his own wallet in his suit jacket and Zeff’s money in his hand along with the list, he snagged the lost moss, and then they set off.

It was a good day for sailing: sunny and warm with a slight breeze to push their ship along the steady waves. Sanji looked out at the horizon, breathing in the sea air deeply. He had been born and raised on the ocean, but he never seemed to get sick of it. There was nothing quite like the feeling of the sea breeze on your face, a sort of freedom that words couldn’t describe.

That itch under his skin grew stronger at the thought, and Sanji briefly entertained it, imagining sailing across the four blues until he found the point where they all came together. It would feel something like this, he thought, inhaling again as an island began to appear on the horizon.

It wasn’t an island he had ever heard of before, small enough that it rarely showed up on maps, but with a large enough market that it was a semi-frequent supplier of goods for the Baratie.

It wasn’t hard to see why, Sanji realized as he took in the island. Rolling green hills stood out on the horizon, and he could spot small plots of farmland and large grazing fields for cattle and various livestock. The dock was full of fishing boats, many people returning home after the morning’s catches, and Sanji could see barrels of fish being carted around on wagons.

The port town was its own kind of charming, with golden-brown cobbled streets and square buildings with brightly colored roofs. There were just enough people to make the town feel alive, but not so many that it felt cramped or overrun. They trailed through the streets, walking past all sorts of stores. Sanji took special note of a divine-smelling bakery, the butcher shop, and the boutique, planning on taking the time to visit them later.

An outdoor market ran through the center of the town, leading to a small square in the middle with a fountain for drinking water. Sanji spotted almost every possible East Blue produce on sale beside all sorts of fun trinkets that he had never seen before.

Of course, all of that paled in comparison to the beautiful women who walked through the streets. Sanji had barely enough time to compliment them before Zoro dragged him off, muttering about a job to do even when he took him in the opposite direction of the market.

“Okay,” Sanji said, taking advantage of Zeff’s absence to light a cigarette, “We need a plan.”

“Get the food, go back,” Zoro said unhelpfully, and Sanji had to restrain himself from kicking the asshole.

“We need an actual plan. It’s not going to take us the whole day to get everything on this list, and I don’t know about you, but I want to look around a bit.”

Zoro was quiet for a moment, seemingly thinking (he could do that?!) to himself. “I want to get new swords,” he declared, and Sanji gave him a disappointed look.

“Really? A whole town full of almost every good imaginable, and you want to look at swords?”

Zoro shrugged. “Mihawk broke mine. I need new ones.”

“Of course,” Snaji muttered to himself. “Because for some reason, you need three. Overcompensating much?”

Zoro growled. “I just need one to kick your ass, curly.”

“Leave my fucking eyebrows out of this!”

At that, Zoro stepped closer, moving so that he could poke Sanji right in the eyebrow. “Cur-ly,” he enunciated each syllable with a poke, and Sanji brought his leg up to kick him before he could even think about what he was doing.

Shoe met steel, the sound ringing out in the port town. Sanji spotted a lot of people giving the two of them wary glances, and he clicked his tongue, lowering his leg. As much as he needed to teach Zoro a lesson, he didn’t want to get kicked out of the town before they could buy the groceries. Zeff was already mad enough about the whole pirate fight debacle yesterday, and Sanji really didn’t want to push the ex-pirate. Zeff’s anger, he could handle, but Sanji had no idea what he’d do if Zeff was disappointed in him. Just the thought made him shudder.

“Whatever,” he muttered, turning away to take a drag of his cigarette. “Let’s just buy the food and get out of here.”

If Sanji thought Zoro was going to be useless on their little grocery run, he was sorely mistaken. Somehow, he stumbled upon the bastard’s greatest hidden talent: carrying groceries. Sanji could admit that Zoro was very strong. All of that ridiculous muscle wasn’t just for show, and there was no limit to the amount of shit that Sanji could pile onto him. The best part was that Zoro didn’t even complain, treating it like it was one of his weird training exercises. It was a little embarrassing to walk around with someone who mindlessly lifted and lowered stacks of groceries like they were weights, but then again, the mossball’s presence was embarrassing to begin with.

Once they finished, Sanji surveyed their haul with satisfaction. He had been able to get everything Zeff asked for, and he still had some money left over. Humming to himself, Sanji walked back through town with Zoro trailing behind him, pausing when he saw the boutique from earlier. There was a suit in the window, a midnight blue one that looked black where the sun didn’t hit it.

Perfect, Sanji thought to himself with a grin. He turned back to Zoro who was watching him disinterestedly. “Let’s put this away and then shop for a bit.”

Zoro looked between Sanji and the suit in the window and then rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

Even the mosshead couldn’t ruin Sanji’s good mood, and he led them back to the ship, taking a shortcut in a nearby alleyway. Apparently, this was a bad idea, because before they could reach the end, a man stepped in front of them, blocking the way out.

“Give me your food unless you want to get hurt,” the guy threatened, holding his knife out with trembling hands. He looked between Sanji and the stack of groceries Zoro was holding with wild eyes, and Sanji felt his heart squeeze.

Zoro’s eyes narrowed in response, his hand going to the sword at his side, but Sanji put a hand out to stop him. The signs of malnutrition were clear: pale, dry skin over a skeleton-like frame. Just looking at the man made his stomach ache sympathetically.

“How about this,” he said, keeping his hand out and his voice low as if he was talking to a wounded animal. “Put the knife away, and I can buy you something to eat. You’re hungry, right?”

The man looked at him suspiciously, making no move to put the knife down.

Sanji just continued on, keeping his voice low and soothing. “I’m a chef. I work at the Baratie? I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it.”

“Never heard of it,” the man muttered.

“We’re the best restaurant in the East Blue, and we have a bit of a rule there: nobody goes hungry at the Baratie.” Admittedly, it wasn’t so much a rule at the Baratie as it was Sanji’s own personal rule, forged on a rocky island in the middle of the ocean, but the man didn’t need to know that.

Right on cue, the man’s stomach grumbled, and he grit his teeth, looking conflicted. Sanji could understand what was going through his mind: he didn’t know if he could trust the chef, but the hunger was making it hard to think. In the end, what did it matter as long as he got something to eat?

“Fine,” the man said, lowering his arm. “But try any funny business, and I’ll kill you.”

Sanji nodded solemnly as if he thought the man even could, especially in that state. He turned to Zoro who was still carrying their groceries. “See that man on the street over there? Ask him to guide you to the docks and put away the groceries. I’ll meet you there when I’m done.”

Zoro looked at him with his stupid unreadable gaze, and Sanji scowled, not wanting to have to explain himself to the mossball. “Make sure he takes you to the docks, okay? You’ll get lost if you go by yourself.”

“Oi,” Zoro protested, but Sanji wasn’t going to bother arguing, instead walking away with the starving man.

Going back to the market, Sanji stopped at a stand he had visited earlier that sold fresh fruit grown on the island. If the vendor remembered him, he didn’t show it, instead, looking at the starving man behind him suspiciously. Pulling out his own wallet, Sanji bought a bag full of oranges and gave them to the starving man.

Fully expecting the man to just gobble down whatever food Sanji gave him, he was surprised when the man just accepted the bag, clutching it to his chest like it was treasure.

“Thank you,” he said, his eyes welling up with tears, and Sanji frowned.

“You aren’t going to eat it?”

The man flinched, looking at the oranges in his hand with undisguised longing. “No,” he said, determination coloring his features. “This isn’t for me.”

Sanji huffed, crossing his arms across his chest. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’ve got money. How many people are you trying to feed?”

The man startled, looking up at him with wide eyes. “What?”

“I told you, didn’t I? Nobody goes hungry.”

If Sanji thought the man was grateful before, it was nothing compared to how he looked now, tears running down his face as he threw his arms around Sanji. Stiffening at the sudden contact, Sanji made a face as the man got dirt and snot all over his suit jacket, but he made no move to shove him away, instead awkwardly patting him on the back.

“You’re an angel,” the man said, looking up at Sanji reverently. “You must be.”

Unsure how to respond, Sanji just scratched his cheek, embarrassed. “I’m just a chef.”

Gasping as he had momentarily forgotten himself, the man grabbed onto the front of Sanji’s shirt. “My son! You have to feed my son!”

Sanji put his hands up in an attempt to calm him down. “I will, I will, but I need you to eat first.”

The man frowned. “No,” he said, his voice hard. “I’m not eating until I see him eat.”

Recognizing that he was fighting a losing battle, Sanji sighed. “Fine. Let’s go see your son.”

After Sanji purchased another bag of oranges, some bread, and some vegetables, the man led him down a gravel-paved road out of the port town. Sanji froze once they reached a small farm, taking in the sight with wide eyes.

The fields were dark as if they had been scorched with flames, and the house itself suffered serious damage: broken windows, a door hanging out of its frame, and large cracks running across the wooden walls. “What happened?” he found himself asking, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“Bandits,” the man answered glumly. “We didn’t give them what they wanted, so they took it.”

No wonder they had been starving, Sanji thought to himself. The bandits must have taken all their money and then ruined the only way they had of making more.

“Kenji!” The man shouted, walking into the broken house. “Kenji, I got food!”

Sanji trailed behind him, taking in the inside of the house. It was a small house, just one room. There was one bed in the corner, which Sanji assumed the man shared with his son and a table in the center that had been knocked over. Almost everything had been overturned, broken glass and plates all over the floor.

They had a kitchen, so Sanji put the food down on the counter, taking stock of all their equipment. Perhaps he could go back to the town and buy ingredients for a soup. It would be easy on their stomach, and they could probably eat a lot of it without getting sick.

His plans were interrupted as the man ran up to him, eyes wild. “He’s not here,” he panicked, looking around the little house. “Kenji isn’t here!”

“Calm down,” Sanji told him, frowning. “Do you know where he could have gone?”

“I told him not to leave,” the man continued, ignoring Sanji’s question. “What if something happened to him?” Something dawned on his face, and he went completely pale. “The bandits— I told him not to go after them but-”

Realizing what the man was alluding to, Sanji cut him off. “Where are they?”

Looking grim, the man said, “Follow me,” before sprinting out of the house, and Sanji didn’t hesitate before running after him. The man took off for the hills, running down a small, beaten path into a forest.

“Kenji!” He shouted, his desperation palpable. Sanji had to sprint at full speed just to keep up with him. Somehow, starving and weak, the man was almost faster than him, but that was the power of a concerned father for you.

There was a run-down building in the middle of the woods, its door wide open. Sanji could hear the tell-tale sounds of a fight coming from inside, and both he and the starving man barged inside.

Completely ready to fight, Sanji froze when he saw the room’s inhabitants. There were bodies strewn across the floor, all in various states of unconsciousness. Standing in the middle was a familiar head of green hair, and he used his unsheathed sword to knock the last guy out before tucking it back against his side.

Behind him, a little boy cheered. “Yeah, you get them, big bro!”

“Kenji!” The starving man cried out in relief, running over to embrace him.

“Dad!” The boy jumped into his arms, a huge smile on his face. “Dad, I got our money back!”

It was only then that Sanji noticed the handful of berri clutched in the boy’s fist and the unmistakable signs of a bruise forming on his cheek.

“Oi, cook,” Zoro called out, leaning against the wall. “What took you so long?”

“How the fuck did you get here?” Sanji asked Zoro, bewildered, and the swordsman shrugged.

“The town moved.” He got lost, Sanji’s brain unhelpfully translated.

“You-” Sanji started, looking between Zoro and the boy in his father’s arms. “You saved him?”

At that, Zoro looked offended. “You think I’d just sit and watch?”

Sanji paused, feeling strangely caught out. “Well, no, but…” That’s what they would do.

Not quite sure what to think, Sanji watched as the little boy ran up to Zoro, looking at him with sparkling eyes. “Big bro, you’re so strong! That was amazing!”

The starving man walked up to Zoro, grabbing his hands with his own. “Thank you,” he said reverently. He looked between Sanji and Zoro, recognizing that the two of them had been together earlier. “Both of you. I don’t know how I could possibly repay you.”

“Eat,” Sanji said, looking between him and his son. It was obvious that the father had been giving his food to Kenji instead because while the signs of malnutrition were there, they weren’t quite as obvious as his father’s. “Both of you need to eat.”

The boy’s grip on the money in his hand tightened, and he held it out to his father. The man took it with a tight expression. “We’re going to have a serious conversation about this when we get home, Kenji.”

Then, he turned to Sanji, offering the money out to him. “I know it’s not much, but-”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sanji huffed, turning away. “I’m not going to take your money. Let me use your kitchen and that will be payment enough.”

“But-” the man tried to protest, but Sanji didn’t listen, instead grabbing Zoro by his haramaki and pulling him back down the beaten trail to the man’s house. “Let’s go, marimo.”

Zoro tried to bat his hands away, but Sanji held tight, clicking his tongue. “Oh no, you don’t. I’m not letting you wander off again.”

…

Sanji watched Kenji and his father devour the food he’d cooked with a satisfied smile on his face. There was nothing else in the world like watching people enjoy a meal that you made, especially when you knew the relief that comes with eating for the first time in a while.

“I truly don’t know how to thank you,” the man said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

Sanji sighed, pulling out a cigarette. “This world is a very cruel place. Some people,” he paused, striking the match and holding it up to the cigarette in his mouth, “have so much food that they throw it away. But there’s always someone out there in the world who would give anything for it, because a meal, regardless of the quality, means another day they can hold onto life.” He breathed out a slow stream of smoke, looking up at the ceiling above him. “I understand starving people more than anyone.”

He looked back down at the man, their eyes meeting, and Sanji could see the moment that understanding dawned in his eyes. Sanji gave him a bitter smile. “You eating my food is payment enough.”

The man nodded, looking down at his empty plate for a moment before looking back up at Sanji. “I will never forget your kindness for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah,” Sanji said quietly, thinking about Zeff. “Yeah, I know.”

The man turned to look out the window to where Zoro and Kenji were talking, the little boy jumping around the swordsman excitedly. “Is your friend a chef too?”

“Uh, no,” Sanji answered awkwardly. “He’s just a traveler. And we’re not really friends.”

The man paused, turning to look at Sanji in surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry, I just assumed cause-” he cut himself off, looking awkward. “Well, you seem very close.”

Not really wanting to know what the man meant by that, Sanji put out his cigarette on the counter beside him. “Speaking of that, we should probably be on our way soon.”

The man nodded, standing up. “I know you’re probably tired of hearing it by now, but thank you. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Sanji pursed his lips, reaching into his suit jacket. He had an idea, and he knew the man wasn’t going to like it. “Then can you do me a favor?”

“Of course,” the man said without hesitation, and Sanji couldn’t help the slow smile that spread across his face.

“You swear it?”

The man nodded, and Sanji pulled his wallet out of his pocket, giving it to him. “Use this and rebuild your farm.”

The man froze, looking at the money Sanji had given him, horror dawning on his features. “I can’t accept this.”

Sanji smirked. “You swore it. Besides, with a kid like that,” he gestured at Kenji, “I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

The man let out a disbelieving laugh. “You- are you sure you aren’t an angel?”

Sanji snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Angels are beautiful, selfless women. I wouldn’t even hold a candle to one.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” the man said, giving him a long look that made the tips of Sanji’s ears start burning.

Holy shit. “Leaving!” Sanji squeaked out, his voice cracking embarrassingly which only caused him to flush more. “I’m leaving!”

The man’s laughter followed him outside as he went to grab his moss-headed companion. Zoro and Kenji were sitting down by the side of the house, looking out at the scorched farmland.

“I want to be strong like you,” Kenji looked frustrated, clenching his hands into fists. “And then nobody can ever hurt us again.”

Realizing that this wasn’t a conversation he should be intruding on, Sanji ducked around the corner, putting his back to the wall of the house as he listened in.

“I wasn’t always this strong,” Zoro told him. “When I was younger, I’d get my ass kicked all the time.”

“Really?” Kanji asked, looking up at Zoro with disbelief like he couldn’t ever imagine Zoro being in his position. Sanji himself had to bite back a smile as he imagined a mini-marimo running around with three swords while shouting about how he was going to be the greatest swordsman.

“Yep,” Zoro sounded like he was strangely proud of the fact. “There was a girl at my dojo— name was Kuina— she always kicked my ass. I never beat her.”

Sanji paused, vaguely recognizing the name. He had heard it before, but where?

“What about now?” Kenji asked.

Zoro reached down to the sword at his side, laying a hand on it possesively. “She died before I could try again. But I carry her and those losses with me every day.”

It hit Sanji like a lightning bolt, shooting down his spine: Zoro’s promise when he lost to Mihawk. Do you hear me, Kuina?

Still oblivious to Sanji’s presence, Zoro kneeled down so that he was at eye level with Kenji, looking at him seriously. “Nobody is born strong. You gotta work for it. I trained my ass off to get where I am now, and I’m still training every day.”

“Then,” Kenji started, looking shy. “Do you think I can be as strong as you someday?”

“You can be as strong as you want to be.”

Kenji looked determined. “Then I’m going to be strong enough to beat you someday.”

Zoro smirked. “Better work hard, ‘cause I’m going to become the world’s greatest swordsman.”

“Then after you become the world’s greatest, I’m gonna challenge you and beat you.”

Zoro’s grin turned challenging, but there was a softness in his gaze that Sanji couldn’t deny. “You can try.”

They kept talking after that, but Sanji had heard enough, and he slid down the side of the house, curling up so that he could hug his knees to his chest. The stupid marimo just wasn’t playing fair.

Here was the thing: when it came to Zoro, Sanji had one very strong wall of defense.

The swordsman was incredible; Sanji could admit that. His wholehearted belief in himself and devotion to a singular ambition was something he had reluctantly come to admire in the other man. It was like Zeff said, someone like Zoro was hard to come across, and Sanji knew that after the other man left, he was never going to meet anyone like him again.

Sanji had never been one to admire strength, outside of a very superficial level. Having strength was just a means to an end; an extra level of security and protection, like keeping extra food close by in case he ever ran out again.

But Zoro… he turned that strength into something else. Sanji had seen Zoro fight before, and it was art. Every move was purposeful, strength mixed with grace in a certain kind of deadly dance. It was almost otherworldly at certain moments like the whole world stopped just so Zoro could draw his sword out of his sheath, slow and purposeful.

Sanji had read stories of people who carved men from stone, modeling them after the gods. There was no flaw, only strength and purpose. Zoro felt like that sometimes, as if he had been carved from stone for the singular purpose of human perfection. This was a man made to rival the gods, and it showed.

But as remarkable as Zoro was, he had one singular flaw, and Sanji had clung to that like it was a lifeline: like certain people in the North Blue, Zoro was selfish, desiring power for his own personal gain. There was nothing honorable or respectable about Zoro’s dream, no matter how admirably he fought to achieve it.

But here, watching Zoro ruffle Kenji’s hair fondly, Sanji was forced to come to terms with the fact that Zoro was nothing like those who will not be named. There was nothing wrong with wanting strength as long as it didn’t come with the desire to abuse it, and Zoro clearly had no desire to abuse it.

If anything, it made his dream all the more respectable. Here was a man who did not do anything in halves; if he was going to train in the way of the sword, then he was going to be the best at it, simple as that.

Unfortunately, this meant that Sanji was absolutely, irrevocably fucked. Because without that singular wall of defense, there was nothing that could stop Sanji from falling— head over heels, utterly, unmistakably— in love with him.

Burying a hand in his hair, Sanji attempted to pull himself together. Zoro was going to leave soon. He would leave, and then Sanji could forget all about him and all the feelings that he really didn’t want to be feeling.

Zoro made Sanji want things. He wanted to leave the Baratie and search for the All Blue. He wanted to dedicate his life to his dream. He wanted to stay by the swordsman’s side and watch him become the greatest.

But these were things that Sanji couldn’t have. He couldn’t leave the Baratie until he had repaid Zeff, he couldn’t dedicate his life to something that wasn’t protecting the Baratie, and he couldn’t just carelessly follow Zoro around.

Standing up, Sanji resolved himself: He would wait out the rest of Zoro’s stay at the restaurant, pretending that his feelings didn’t exist, and then he would send Zoro off with a goodbye befitting a man Zeff would be proud of.

“Oi, marimo,” he called out, turning the corner so that he was face to face with the object of his affection. “Time to go back. Say goodbye to your little friend and let’s go.”

…

Sanji had a whole rotating cast of nightmares. Some days, his brain liked to put him back in the cell. Utter darkness? Relentless beatings? Bugs crawling all over your body? Sanji had dreamed them all.

But sometimes, the cell wasn’t enough. Sanji found himself on a rock stranded in the middle of the ocean, the sun beating mercilessly down on his face and the ache of hunger slowly eating him from the inside out.

Today, joining the collection, was a familiar scene on the deck of the Baratie: a black sword sliced downward, a figure falling back into the water. Sanji with his arm extended, shouting desperately into the ocean, but he couldn’t reach him.

He woke up with a start, feeling like something had just slipped out of his fingers.

Sitting up, Sanji buried his face in his hands, regretting every single decision that led him to this moment. Because it wasn’t bad enough that all of his waking moments were consumed by thoughts of the marimo, now his dreams were, too.

And even worse, Sanji thought to himself, looking down at his empty hand, Zoro was still out of his reach even in his dreams.

Sighing, he got out of bed, stepping over the source of all his problems. He paused before leaving his room, staring at Zoro’s sleeping face. He actually looked surprisingly peaceful— no frown lines or angry wrinkles marring his face. The moonlight streamed through the window, casting pale beams across his face and causing his earrings to glint in the dark night.

“What are you doing to me?” Sanji whispered, his heart clenching in his chest. As if in response, Zoro let out a loud snore, causing Sanji to look at him in absolute disgust. “I’m going insane,” he said to the empty room. “That’s the only possible explanation for this.”

Needing to be anywhere but by Zoro’s side, Sanji got up and went down to the kitchens. It was early enough for nobody else to be awake, so he could ignore Zeff’s stupid unofficial kitchen ban.

There was something about cooking that had always been calming to Sanji. The act of creating something with his own hands— something that could give life and not hurt— gave him a feeling of purpose that nothing else could match. But there was also something else, a feeling that went beyond what words could: Sanji simply loved cooking.

So often, he felt that he was made to cook. Despite everything that man had tried to make him into, it was just a part of him that went beyond any earthly powers.

The sound of Zeff’s peg leg hitting the floor broke him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Zeff walk into the kitchen. Upon seeing Sanji, he made a displeased face, and Sanji couldn’t help but think back to almost every time Zeff had caught him in the kitchen like this after a nightmare.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Zeff asked like he always did.

“Decided to help with breakfast prep,” Sanji replied, just like he always did.

“I don’t need your help,” was Zeff’s predictable response, and Sanji realized that at this point he could probably have this whole conversation in his sleep (which was ironic, considering the fact that he was down here because he couldn't sleep).

“Well, you’re getting it anyway.”

Both of them started working together in silence— well, almost silence.

“You’re cutting the carrots too thick,” Zeff nagged, and Sanji briefly paused chopping his carrots, which were a perfectly acceptable thickness, to give the old man an unimpressed look.

“What?” Zeff demanded when he saw the expression on his face. “Does the little eggplant think he knows more than me about cooking?”

“Stop calling me that,” Sanji snapped even though Zeff had been calling him that for almost a decade now and didn’t seem inclined to give up the habit. At this point, Sanji had resigned himself to hearing Zeff call him that for the rest of his life.

“An eggplant will always be an eggplant,” the cryptic old coot said.

“And a crazy old man will only get worse.”

Zeff’s next chop hit the cutting board with an extra loud thud. “At least I’ve lived,” he said, turning to face Sanji with his arms crossed. “That’s more than I can say about you.”

Sanji’s hands clutched into fists at his side. “I’ve lived,” he protested. “Since the moment we got off that rock-”

“This,” Zeff growled, gesturing at Sanji and the kitchen around them, “Is not living.” He turned to one of the many windows looking out at the surrounding ocean. “That,” he pointed, “Is living. The brussel sprout in your room upstairs? That’s living.”

“Please,” Sanji scoffed, heart skipping a beat at the mention of Zoro. “He’s trying to get himself killed. That’s not living.”

Zeff let out a frustrated breath of air. “Did you get hit too many times on the head as a child?”

“Yeah, I did,” Sanji hissed. “By you.”

Throwing up his hands in exasperation, Zeff just turned back to his work, clearly giving up on the conversation. Satisfied that this was the only thing Zeff couldn’t talk him out of, Sanji returned to his own work as well.

“Oh, so you can cook,” Zoro said, announcing his presence as he walked into the kitchens. Sanji nearly jumped out of his skin, whirling around to face him. At the sight of the sentient plant, his treacherous heart sped up which— just no. He should not be finding a plant attractive.

“The fuck are you talking about?” Sanji demanded. “I’m the best chef in this fucking restaurant.”

“Second best,” Zeff corrected, and Sanji scowled at him.

“Oh, admit it, you shitty geezer. I’ve long since surpassed you.”

“Some brat who’s never been outside the East Blue can never surpass me,” Zeff snapped back.

Well, I’m actually from the North Blue, so jokes on you, Sanji thought to himself, but he avoided saying it. That part of his past was staying buried, regardless of whatever bullshit Zeff spouted at him.

“Old man, you’ve been outside of the East Blue before?” Zoro looked at Zeff, for once genuinely interested in the conversation.

“Of course,” Zeff scoffed. “Sailed through the Grand Line with my old crew for a year before coming back to open this restaurant.”

Zoro made a thoughtful face at that, nodding to himself. “Were the people on the Grand Line as strong as Mihawk?”

Zeff snorted. “Hawk Eyes has the title of the greatest for a reason, broccoli head. No, they weren’t,” he paused for a moment, giving Zoro a pointed look. “But they were a lot damn stronger than they are around here. If you intend to become the greatest, then that’s where you gotta go.”

Zoro nodded, and Sanji’s heart clenched at the thought of Zoro leaving. To distract himself, he started up the stove, intent on making Zoro a meal. Maybe he couldn’t make Zoro stay, but he could at least make the mosshead acknowledge his cooking before he left. That would have to be enough.

“Here,” Sanji said, putting a full plate down in front of him once he finished. “Breakfast.”

Zoro looked up at Sanji briefly before grabbing a spoon and starting to eat. Sanji watched him, perhaps a bit too eagerly, as he took a bite. The swordsman froze, shock briefly flashing across his face before he schooled his expression into something cool and unaffected. A lesser man wouldn’t have noticed, but Sanji was obsessively watching Zoro’s reaction. He also had a hopeless, pathetic crush on the other man, so he was very familiar with deciphering his facial expressions.

“Damn delicious, isn’t it?” Sanji grinned, and Zoro scowled.

“Tastes like shit.”

“Pity,” Sanji drawled, not rising to the bait. He’d make Zoro admit his cooking was good if it was the last thing he did, so he reached out to take away his plate. “Guess I’ll just eat it then.”

“No,” Zoro said automatically, reaching out and grabbing the plate almost unconsciously. Sanji’s smile grew larger as he flushed, adding to his theory that the marimo hadn’t meant to do that. “I mean… shouldn’t waste food and all that, even if it tastes like shit.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to have to eat something that tastes like shit. I’m sure Patty and Carne could whip you up something real quick.”

“No,” Zoro said again, his grip on the plate tightening.

“Just admit you like it.”

“Never.”

“Would the two of you shut up,” Zeff growled, looking weary. “Eggplant, just let him eat it. Honestly, an old man like me shouldn’t be forced to listen to the two of you go at it all the time.”

“What does that even mean?” Sanji sputtered, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks at the other possible meaning Zeff’s words implied.

Zeff just rolled his eyes and ignored him, muttering something under his breath about youngsters and other things that Sanji did not want to hear.

Zoro, noticing Sanji’s distraction, grabbed the plate from him and wolfed the food down. Sanji gasped in horror. “Oi, oi, slow down!”

Undeterred, Zoro continued inhaling his food until there was nothing left. He put the now empty plate down with a decisive clang and let out a very loud and satisfied burp. Sanji wrinkled his nose, questioning (not for the first time, and definitely not for the last) why he was attracted to the bastard until Zoro gave him a smirk, confident and cocky. And that’s why, Sanji thought to himself weakly.

“Done,” Zoro announced proudly like eating had been some sort of competition.

“Congratulations,” Sanji snarked, though the effect was slightly weakened by how dry his throat suddenly was, and he was overly conscious of Zeff’s all-too-knowing gaze at his side.

“Now that you’re done, get out of my kitchen,” Zeff demanded. “I’m not paying you to sit around on your asses all day.”

“Nobody’s even here yet,” Sanji protested, but Zeff was undeterred.

“You’re taking up space. Get out.”

Opening his mouth to argue further, Sanji was stopped by Zoro leaving the room. He debated with himself for a bit, trying to decide if he should push the issue or follow the swordsman out to make sure he didn’t get lost. Following Zoro eventually won, so Sanji gave Zeff one last annoyed look before following the marimo out the door.

He trailed Zoro to where he sat in the dining room, his sword unsheathed as he ran some sort of cleaning cloth across its blade reverently.

“You really like your sword, huh,” Sanji commented idly.

Zoro looked up to give Sanji a look that clearly conveyed how stupid he thought he was being at that moment. “It’s an extension of my body and mind. Besides, I made a promise with this sword. If I don’t respect it, it’s as good as going against it.”

“To never lose again, right?” Sanji said, pulling out a cigarette. At Zoro’s blank look, he clarified: “That day against Mihawk. You promised never to lose again.”

“No,” Zoro said, putting the sword back into its sheath. “This was long before that.”

Sanji waited for Zoro to continue but was only met with silence. At Sanji’s expectant look, he frowned. “What?”

“The promise?” Sanji prompted.

Zoro gave him a condescending look. “Thought you said my dream was stupid.”

Sanji huffed, feeling the tips of his ears turn red. “Well, it’s not like I have anything better to do,” he muttered, not wanting to admit how wrong he’d been initially. “Might as well listen.”

Zoro gave him a long look, and Sanji squirmed under the attention. “Fine,” the swordsman said finally. “But only if you answer a question of mine after.”

“Deal,” Sanji shrugged, a little curious as to what Zoro wanted to know about him. He was mostly an open book, so whatever question he had wouldn’t hurt, right?

“When I was a kid, I made a promise with my friend that one of us would become the world’s greatest swordsman,” Zoro told him, looking down at the white sword in his hands. “Except she never got the chance ‘cause she slipped down the stairs the next day and died. I promised her dad when he gave me her sword that I would become so famous that one day my name would reach her in the heavens.”

Kuina. The name rang out in Sanji’s mind even though Zoro didn’t say it. It was obvious from the expression on Zoro’s face, and Sanji knew there was only one person who could cause it.

“And,” He started, his voice dry, “That’s the sword?”

Zoro’s grip on it tightened as he gave a singular nod in response, and Sanji had never hated himself more for his feelings than he did at that moment. Envy curled in his stomach, ugly and rotten. Looking at the absolute care that Zoro gave his sword, thinking of the subject of his devotion, Sanji was fucking jealous of a dead girl.

Crushing his cigarette under the heel of his shoe, he had to fight down a feeling of nausea. How disgusting could he get? Not only was he making light of Zoro’s promise, he was disrespecting the memory of the dead.

“Your question?” He asked Zoro, desperate for anything to distract himself, and Zoro leaned back in his chair, returning his sword to its rightful place at his side.

“Why are you still here?” Zoro asked, and Sanji had to pause a moment, staring at him in disbelief.

“Well, I’m sorry,” he tried his best to keep the hurt out of his voice. “I didn’t know my presence was bothering you that much.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Zoro rolled his eyes like this was somehow Sanji’s fault. “I meant, like, here,” he gestured around them. “At this restaurant. You said it yourself that you’re the best chef here, but Zeff won’t even let you cook. Why don’t you just leave? I’m sure any other restaurant would let you work there in a heartbeat.”

“Did you like my cooking that much?” Sanji smirked, and Zoro glared at him.

“Just answer the question, shit cook.”

Sanji sighed, reaching into his suit jacket for another cigarette. He was going to need it for this. “It’s not a nice story by any means,” he muttered as he lit it up, using his bangs to cover his expression. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it wasn’t something he wanted anyone to see.

Taking a long drag of his cigarette, he looked up at the ceiling with a mirthless smile. “It was what? Maybe nine years ago now? I was working on this little passenger ship somewhere in the East Blue when we were suddenly attacked by Zeff and his old pirate crew.”

His smile got a little more genuine as he thought back to his reaction. “I was a right little shit back then with a chip on my shoulder the size of the goddamn ocean.”

At that, Zoro snorted. “Yeah, not much there changed.”

Sanji rolled his head back lazily to give him an unimpressed look. “You wanna hear the story or not?”

Zoro rolled his eyes in response, gesturing at him. “Yeah, continue on.”

Sanji gave him a glare to make sure there would be no more interruptions before turning back up to look at the ceiling. “Anyway, I kept going on and on about this stupid old dream I used to have, and how Zeff couldn’t kill me ‘cause I was going to achieve it. Of course, that’s when this huge wave swept me overboard, pretty effectively shutting me up.”

The ceiling above him turned to water as Sanji closed his eyes at the memory. “And that was only the first time Zeff saved my life. He dived right in after me, stopping me from drowning.”

Sitting back up, Sanji hunched over, clenching his hands together. The memory of what happened next already had his stomach aching, the ghost of hunger still haunting him. “We washed up on some island in the middle of the sea with only a small bag of food to tide us over. And Zeff-”

His voice broke embarrassingly, and he hunched over further, his forehead touching his clenched hands as if in some form of prayer. “He gave it all to me,” he continued on quietly. “He gave it all to me and ate his own fucking leg.”

He let out a long breath before sitting back up so that he could look at Zoro. “See now why I can’t leave?”

Instead of understanding or the pity that he had been expecting, Zoro looked pissed. “Are you actually serious right now?”

“What?” Sanji drew himself up defensively. “Of course I’m-”

“That old man,” Zoro hissed, “Did not save you so that you could just throw your life away.”

“Excuse me?” Sanji stood up, hands clenched into fists at his side. “You of all people have no right to lecture me-”

“No right?” Zoro shouted. “I have every fucking right! I know a coward when I see one!”

“I am not a coward!” Sanji shouted back. “He gave up everything for me! His life! His dream!”

“And what about your dream, huh? What was it about your dream that made him do that?”

Sanji paused, completely taken aback. He stared at Zoro with wide eyes, and Zoro stared right back, steel gaze piercing through him. For a terrifying moment, Sanji had the ridiculous notion that Zoro somehow just knew everything. “How… how did you know?”

The fear was broken as Zoro scowled, crossing his arms. “I know the fucking old man. He wouldn’t do something like that without a reason. So what was it about your dream that made him risk it all for some brat he’d just met?”

Sanji sat back down slowly, staring down at his hands like he’d never seen them before. “We… we have the same dream.”

“There you fucking go, cook,” Zoro huffed, sitting down as well. “That’s what he saved you for.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sanji snapped back. “That kind of kindness doesn’t exist. No… I have to pay him back.”

“What about me?” Zoro said suddenly, causing Sanji to look at him in confusion. “You saved me, didn’t you? Do you want me to stay at the Baratie forever to pay you back?”

“No,” Sanji said automatically, hating himself a little bit for it. If Zoro stayed here with him, it wouldn’t be the Zoro that he fell in love with.

“Then why would Zeff feel any different?”

Suddenly, it wasn’t Sanji standing in the dining room of the Baratie. It was a little boy with an iron helmet who didn’t yet know the taste of kindness. “You… you don’t understand,” he whispered. “People aren’t kind to me.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Sanji immediately wanted to take them back and shove them into that deep dark place that they came from. Zoro had flayed him open and here he was, bleeding out on the floor.

So he did exactly what he had done all those years ago: he ran.

…

Eventually, Zoro found him on the Baratie’s upper deck in the middle of chain smoking his way through a pack of cigarettes.

“Go away,” Sanji said immediately, looking away in order to avoid making eye contact. It wasn’t like he had been crying, but he still felt raw, like someone had peeled off all his skin to reveal the ugly mess underneath.

Naturally, Zoro didn’t listen, and the sound of his boots against the wooden floor only got closer. “Tell me about your dream.”

“Did you not hear me?’ Sanji snapped, finally turning to face him. “I said go away!”

“Tell me about your dream,” Zoro repeated, all calm in the face of Sanji’s ever-building fury.

“Get off this ship and get the fuck out of my life!” Sanji shouted, spinning around to kick him in the face. It threw him backward and sent him skidding across the deck. “You and your stupid green hair and three swords and- and your fucking dreams!”

Sanji moved up to kick him in the side, but Zoro was ready, blocking it with ease. Zoro’s eyes narrowed, the conviction behind it terrifying as he faced Sanji.

“Tell me your dream!” Zoro demanded, slowly drawing his blade from his sheath, the metal catching the light.

“Fuck off!” Was Sanji’s immediate retort, and they started fighting, more vicious than ever before. Zoro’s blade drew blood and Sanji’s kicks left bruises, neither of them holding back.

It ended with Sanji with his back to the ground, Zoro’s blade pressed against his neck. The pressure was light, but Sanji could feel the sting of steel, the telltale sign of it cutting skin. Sanji tried to get the bastard off, but his leg was trapped between them, folded to his chest in an inhuman display of flexibility.

“Get off me!” Sanji hissed, but Zoro held steady.

“Tell me about your dream.”

Sanji looked up at Zoro above him, his figure lit up by the setting sun. Golden light streamed all around him, making him look almost otherworldly.

“Marimo-” Sanji started, his voice coming out strained, but Zoro was having none of it, only pressing Sanji down harder into the ground.

“Sanji.” All of Zoro’s focus, all of his determination was focused on one singular target: Sanji. Under the weight of that gaze, something in Sanji sang.

He finally went limp, knowing he had lost to Zoro long before this fight had even begun. From the moment Sanji fell in love with him, this moment was inevitable.

“...Have you ever heard of the All Blue?” he asked at last.

Zoro’s answering grin was so sharp, it could probably cut steel. “Never. You gonna tell me ’bout it?”

“Will you get off me if I do?” Sanji muttered, but it was mostly for show as he looked past Zoro to the big blue sky behind him. “It’s a cook’s paradise,” Sanji told him. “An ocean where all four blues meet and mix, seafood from all over the world in one place.”

“What’s so special about this ocean, cook?” Zoro asked, his voice vibrating in his chest where Sanji was pressed up against him.

“I’m going to find it,” Sanji whispered, closing his eyes briefly. He could hear the wind blowing, the Baratie creaking as gentle waves rocked it side to side. Somewhere in the distance, a seagull cawed, and all he could hear, feel, or think was ocean. Sanji was born to be a cook, but somewhere out there, something was calling him.

“That’s my dream.”

…

Something between Sanji and Zoro changed that day, not that Sanji would ever really be able to put into words what it was. It was like they had both cut each other open, making their marks on each other’s skin; Sanji with the small cut at his neck and Zoro with Sanji’s handiwork all the way down his chest.

When they fought together, it was like they could speak without words. Sanji was surrounded? Zoro was blasting half of them away. A man charged at Zoro’s exposed back? He didn’t even turn around, knowing that Sanji was already taking care of it.

Sanji caught Zoro staring at him more often, his gaze dark and thoughtful. It was both terrifying and exhilarating, and Sanji didn’t know what to do about the fact that his feelings for Zoro were slowly getting out of control.

Everything came to a head on Zoro’s last night at the Baratie, when the swordsman cornered him in the kitchen, long after the sun had gone down and everybody had left for bed. Zoro would be leaving first thing in the morning, and Sanji was trying to distract himself from it, burying himself in his work.

“Cook,” Zoro started, and Sanji barely spared him a glance, instead focusing all his attention on chopping up the vegetable in front of him.

“What is it, marimo? I’m busy.”

There was a long silence that caused Sanji to pause, looking up at Zoro curiously. He was watching him, his gaze dark, and Sanji shivered under the weight of it.

“Come with me,” Zoro said quietly, and his words echoed through the empty space between them. Sanji stared at Zoro, searching for some kind of sign that this was just a joke and Zoro was just fucking with him. Wide blue eyes met gray, and Sanji was taken aback by what he saw in them. He remembered wishing once that he could be on the receiving end of Zoro’s devotion, and it seemed he had finally gotten his wish. Zoro’s gaze was heavy and unyielding, staring at Sanji without a hint of doubt in his eyes. “I want you by my side when I beat him. I want to be with you when you find your ocean.”

“Zoro,” Sanji protested softly, but Zoro wasn’t done.

“You’re wasted here, and everyone knows it. Why do you think Zeff’s so keen to get rid of you?”

“You know I can’t.” Sanji’s voice broke as his heart splintered in his chest. He wanted to, so badly. He was already imagining it, watching Zoro on the sidelines like before, except this time, the swordsman raised his sword in victory instead of defeat. He imagined Zoro by his side as they sailed through an ocean so blue it put the sky to shame. He imagined finding new species of fish, inventing new dishes, and every time, Zoro was by his side to taste them.

More than anything else, he heard the sound of waves crashing, ringing in his ears. The itch under his skin was practically unbearable, like something was pulling him out towards the open ocean.

Sanji tightened his grip on the kitchen counter like somehow that would stop him from getting pulled away. Zoro’s eyes narrowed at the movement, and he stepped closer, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent kitchen.

“Do you want me?” he said, quiet but demanding, and Sanji looked up at him sharply. Zoro’s gaze was cutting, and Sanji’s heart was on his sleeve, not even able to hide his complete infatuation with the other man. It was the first time either of them had acknowledged to the other that there was something between them.

Still, Sanji couldn’t fold, clutching onto the countertop for his dear life. “I don’t see how that’s-“

“You want me and you want to come with me,” Zoro said, getting closer with every word until he was standing right in front of him, their noses almost touching. “What’s it going to take for you to let go?”

Zoro’s face was close— too close. And it only came closer, the two of them drawn to each other like they had their own special kind of gravity. Sanji’s gaze flicked down to his lips, and Zoro moved in, about to do something before pulling himself back slightly as if restraining himself.

“Cook,” he breathed out, and Sanji could almost feel the air against his own skin.

“Zoro.” Sanji’s voice came out weak.

“Come on,” Zoro murmured, reaching up to put his hand against Sanji’s face. He pressed their foreheads together, gentle and desperate. “You need to let go.”

Sanji’s hands came up to grip his shoulders tightly, not sure if it was to push him away or bring him closer. “I don’t know how.”

“Talk to Zeff. You know what to ask him.”

“Okay,” Sanji said quietly, caving in. Like there was anything he could do against the force of that gaze; against the rough hand, impossibly gentle against his face. “I can’t guarantee-”

“Go,” Zoro pushed him away, rolling his eyes, and the spell was broken. “See if the old man will let you do anything different.”

Sanji walked away slowly and spared one last glance back toward Zoro before he left as if checking to see if he had just imagined that whole exchange. Zoro hadn’t moved, his gaze still fixed on him, and that was all the encouragement Sanji needed to find his way to Zeff’s living quarters.

He knocked before entering, too nervous to just barge in like he usually did. “Come in,” was Zeff’s immediate response, and Sanji took a deep, fortifying breath before walking through the door.

He was quiet as he entered, and something about that must have been telling, because Zeff grinned. “If you’ve come to ask for my blessing, then you have it.”

Sanji looked up at him, shocked, and Zeff snorted at his expression. “Oh, please, Eggplant. I knew this moment was coming the moment you saw him get sliced open.”

A lot of pieces started falling into place, and Sanji almost groaned as the realization hit him. “This is why you made him stay, isn’t it?”

Zeff’s responding grin was answer enough. “Should give the cabbage head a raise now that he’s finally getting you out of my hair.”

“I hate you,” Sanji muttered, turning around to leave. “I’m going to go pack. Don’t miss me when I’m gone.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Zeff scoffed, and that was the end of that.

…

Sanji hadn’t really realized how much the Baratie truly meant to him until it was time for him to leave. Walking through its halls, pausing in almost every room he entered, he was assaulted by memories. This was the sink where he first learned to peel potatoes. This was the stove where he had gotten his first burn. This was the storeroom where Zeff had found him after his first nightmare.

Sanji would always crave the open ocean, but this was the place he would always call home.

When he walked out on the deck, he paused, a little shocked to see all the cooks crowded out onto the Baratie’s fin. Zoro was standing by the edge, next to the small boat that they had used for their grocery run last week.

He grinned when he saw Sanji. “Took you long enough. Did you get lost?”

There have been a couple of moments in Sanji’s life where he felt a shift. Something irreversible was about to occur, changing the path of his fate. The first was when he ran, Reiju’s hand against his back as he left behind the only place he had ever known. The second was when he fell down, shocked in the face of Zeff’s kindness as he understood exactly how much the man had sacrificed for him.

The third was this moment as he walked across the deck toward Zoro and the open ocean.

“Shut up,” Sanji stalked toward him and grabbed him by the collar. “You fucking shut up.”

And then he kissed him, enjoying the brief flash of surprise across his face before he finally kissed him back, wrapping a strong arm around his waist.

Wolf whistles and catcalls filled the air as their audience hooted and hollered at the display. Sanji flipped them all off, throwing his bag into the boat. “Let’s go.”

Zoro raised an eyebrow at him, his cheeks still slightly red, but he didn’t say anything, hopping into the boat without a word. Sanji moved to follow him before a voice stopped him.

“Hey, Sanji,” Zeff called out, his voice echoing across the deck. Sanji froze, biting down on his lip. “Keep your feet dry.”

Fuck, Sanji thought as his eyes started to fill with tears. He could hear Zoro snort somewhere beside him, but he ignored him, instead turning back to look at Zeff.

“Chef Zeff!” He shouted, tears streaming down his face and snot falling out of his nose. It wasn’t a very dignified face, and it definitely wasn’t manly, but Sanji didn’t care. He got on his hands and knees, bowing down to the old chef. “All these years, living under your shitty roof— I owe you my life! I’ll never forget you!”

Like a chain reaction, once Sanji started crying, the rest couldn’t help it. Sobs and wails filled the air, and Sanji grinned, laughing despite the tears falling down his face. Even Zeff was tearing up, quickly brushing the tears away before Sanji could see them.

“You idiots!” He scolded them with a smile on his face. “Men should part without a word!”

You started this, Sanji thought to himself, joining Zoro on the small boat. He ignored the marimo’s grin, instead turning back to shout.

“Until we meet again, you shitty bastards!”

He waved, a large grin on his face, and Zeff looked down at him with unmasked pride. I’m setting out to fulfill our dream, Sanji thought, sniffing loudly as he turned around and wiped the tears from his face.

Zoro was already relaxing, lying down with his sword tucked up against his side. They both exchanged matching grins, and Sanji looked out towards the open ocean.

He could hear their sail billowing in the wind, water sloshing against the sides of their boat. The sun bore down on them, harsh and unforgiving, but the cool sea breeze soothed the burn. Somewhere in the distance, a seagull cawed, and the itch underneath his skin finally, finally faded.

After all, Sanji thought to himself, looking over at Zoro with an unrestrained smile, he was exactly where he was meant to be.

(The next day, Zoro will get lost, finding himself trapped at a marine base where he will meet a boy with a straw hat. They’ll be joined by an orange-haired thief and a long-nosed sniper before he finds his way back to Sanji again, and together, they’ll all set out to the Grand Line in pursuit of their dreams.)