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The inn worker helps them to the storage with spare sleeping mats. From there, it's free reign for the Strawhat crew until morning.
Luffy doesn't wait for the beds to be lined up against the wall - he hits the pillow as soon as his own takes the shape of a more or less acceptable resting place, flopping bodily on top with his battle dirty clothes still on, merrily snoring away as the others get ready for their sleep properly. It's well deserved. Franky folds the pillows for Robin, Robin smooths out the wrinkles on Nami's bedsheets with her abundance of disembodied hands. It takes the longest for Usopp to lay down, who takes it upon himself to put Chopper to sleep first and return the storage room keys to the inn staff.
Then it's silence, and Zoro relishes in the moment's peace, an inordinary respite after days, weeks, months of none. It's a safe place (not that it stops him from picking the spot with the best view at the door and windows), and the worries are already chased away (not that he really plans on being fully asleep anyway). Light night wind gently hums outside. The town they ended up in is a quiet one, lacking the vibrancy and breathlessness of other islands they stayed at. It folded itself shortly after sundown, lit up the lanterns, and the streets’ crowds gradually thinned out as the crew sought an overnight shelter. If not for the restless sounds of the ever present nature, the silence would be piercing his ears. Luffy's snoring also prevents that from happening.
He's used to the sound of humans breathing.
Always being around someone in recent times, growing up in a group of kids, it's constantly there, a heartbeat of the community, so he seeks it out to make sure not a single one is missing. He knows the embarrassing things Usopp mumbles to the fantasies in his dreams, and the metallic sound of Franky's knee joints. He moves his legs twice every time he's asleep, and Zoro doesn't remember when he started to pick up on it. He can tell when someone is having a nightmare, when it's best to make an “accidental” noise somewhere far off on the deck and wake them, or to leave them be, as the worst thing he can imagine for himself is being shaken awake in a vulnerable state. If it's Chopper, he will go. If it's Nami, he knows Robin will handle it.
The serenity of the moment doesn't last.
As he lays there, eyes closed, breathing steady, enjoying his stiff pillow and involuntarily listening in to catch on to the exact moment the others succumb to their long awaited rest, a sound of stirring and rustling throws him out of his monotone peace.
Next to him, Sanji kicks the blankets off with a huff, only to fix them moments later. He goes still, but only for a few moments, resuming the tossing around with a heavy sigh just when Zoro thinks he's going to stop and let him return to that half meditative state.
He's within Zoro’s arm’s reach. The room is a tight squeeze, but they're used to this or worse, no beds, and Merry used to be smaller too, before Franky came along with his bigger ship, not to mention the boat he shared with Luffy for a while before Merry was even a dream. Their night stay at this inn is only a one time occurrence, like with all the places of this kind. Connecting all the sleeping mats into one long side by side bed was the most efficient way to work with the space they were given. Not much was available when they came up to the front desk. He has Brook’s bony everything threatening to breach the border of his blankets and poke him all over his backside with every movement the skeleton makes. He moves surprisingly a lot, for something supposedly dead.
Sanji flips his pillow.
Zoro rolls his eyes.
Sanji pulls at the pillow again, gives it a good shake to fluff it up, stuffs it back under his head, and Zoro can tell from the way his body flexes at the contact that he doesn't enjoy the result. It's none of Zoro's business, however, so he lays still, ignoring the increasingly frustrated movements on his right in his peripheral vision. In the boy's quarters, throwing oneself around the bed like a disgruntled princess will gain some laughs around the room. He resists the urge to say something smart to rile Sanji up, forming in his head instinctively like a red little devil skirting around on his shoulder, trying to play on how easily irritable and impulsive of a man the cook is.
The last straw breaks the camel's - Sanji's - back the very same moment Zoro chooses to roll over on his side as well, and they end up face to face, eye to eye, Sanji's frustrated, Zoro's vaguely tired, but more intrigued at this point, and both of them blissfully within fighting range.
“Boo.” Unable to resist the pull any longer he makes a mocking face at the cook, who looks like he wasn't expecting anyone else to be awake. “You're disturbing my beauty sleep.”
Sanji pulls the blanket up all the way to his nose. His hair is messed up from the constant tossing around, and a part of his cheek starts to flush from being pressed into the rough texture of the pillow he picked. Consequences of offering up the good ones for the ladies in favour of using decorative sofa cushions as a substitute, a gentleman's demise. He looks like he does when he really needs to smoke, but all his cigarettes just got dunked into the sea. Zoro can't sympathise with the stupidity of that - but he can say the result is almost endearing to watch.
“You're a lost cause, Mosshead. Not even slipping into a coma would help you,” Sanji grumbles from under the covers, fabric muting his words.
Classic cook. Trying to take it out on him when inconvenience strikes. Too bad Zoro has become somewhat of an expert in the field of pissed off cooks with an attitude, ready to pick a fight all around the clock.
Speaking of the clock, it's not any less late than it was seconds ago. Franky snores loudly with some loose screw rattling in the back of his throat along every steady intake of oxygen. Sanji makes a face at the obnoxious sound, then again when Zoro covers his own mouth to stifle the laugh that threatens to come out.
“Keep rolling them and they will get stuck in your skull,” he repeats after the aunties, remembering how they used to scold bratty kids from the nearby village, “and you won't see how beautiful I get when I sleep enough.”
“Spare me the view.”
Zoro's laugh is pinched out of his lungs as Brook's sleepy joints choose that moment to deliver a sharp knee to his back. Hard. He jerks forward, poked right into the spine with that cold and pointy bone, and rolls onto Sanji's futon, landing inches away from his face.
Immediately, the cook’s hands come up to keep him at a distance, slapping Zoro's bare chest, pushing him away as if he gladly chose to get so close, “Fuck off. Fuck off, back on your own bed!”
“I can't when he's trying to stab me!”
Sanji tries to knee him, a double sided knee attack, stopped only by the blankets that tangle around his legs when he moves too fast. It's hard to dodge his movements even when the beds themselves try to stop the attacks, with Brook's bones now taking up Zoro's own bed. Talk about a rock and a hard place.
Their inevitable back and forth doesn't last longer than several kicks and punches punctuated with labored breathing.
Nami stirs in her sleep behind Robin, disturbed by the increasingly loud sounds, and Robin herself follows, pulling on the blankets with extra arms coming out of nowhere.
Sanji frowns at Zoro amid a badly aimed offence that's already blocked by Zoro's forearm. “You're going to wake up the ladies.”
Zoro feels himself scowl.
“You're going to wake up everyone .”
Reluctantly, the cook gives one last push of moral defeat and huffs, rolling flat on his back like he doesn't care that they're still stuck side by side, refusing to acknowledge each other's presence. Maybe he has something human in himself after all that doesn't plan on making a meat skewer out of a man today by shoving him onto a bone. Whatever. Zoro focuses on the ceiling, broad wooden panels and paper lamps with painted scenery of the town. Tasteful, modest design, good for promoting local tourism, exactly what one would expect of an inn. Then the light kick to his side comes, and well, who is Zoro not to answer?
He slaps the bare thigh under his blanket.
Sanji makes a face like he's been gravely offended and shoves his knee in Zoro's hip. And it's back on.
The covers land on the floor, followed by one of their pillows as Zoro struggles to keep the oncoming flurry of limbs from hitting him directly in his solar plexus. He hates to admit it, but at such a close range, free of the previous restraints and without pulling out his swords, Sanji has actual high chances of beating him, and beating him hard. The heel of Zoro's palm connects with a calf aimed at his left temple, sliding off awkwardly thanks to landing right on the elastic band part of the cook's sock as Zoro barely dodges a strike that flies past his defences. Sanji goes for his usual attempt at choking, trying to wrap his thighs around Zoro's ribs. Blocking them while up so close is not an easy task, but Zoro already has experience in this.
It takes effort to awkwardly pin Sanji down avoiding doing so in a way that would seriously hurt him. Even then it's not fully effective, not with the thigh that slips out and shoves an aggressive knee into his ribs, knocking the air out of his lungs. Zoro heaves a pained wheeze past the point of caring that everyone around is asleep, and other guests are definitely going to fill in complaints. He has one hand pushing Sanji's face away, a dirty move coming from him, and Sanji's trying to bite at it.
On the far side of the room Luffy's mop of bird nest hair sticks up and a rubbery arm shoots out to poke them for attention.
Zoro freezes. Under him, Sanji goes still like a rock in their tangle of limbs.
“Z’ro? Sanji” Luffy speaks tiredly through the sleep that lingers heavily on his tongue, “is something wrong?”
Zoro looks at Sanji. Sanji puts a finger to his lips with a warning expression.
“Nothing at all captain,” Zoro answers, not even looking in Luffy's direction.
Luffy hums, and he listens for the sound of him laying back down. It doesn't come.
“Are you playing? Can I join?” Luffy speaks again, way more excitedly and with way less tiredness in his voice. Bad sign. Sanji is making all sorts of panicked expressions under him, all meaning to convey one message - do something before he gets up, please.
Zoro’s grin turns devilish.
“I'm putting the cook to sleep.”
That will be his way of getting back for the nasty kick earlier. It's not meant to turn Luffy's attention away, proving to only do otherwise. Instead of getting him back to sleep, Zoro watches an arm stretch across the room, patting around the pillow until it finds the cook's head and gives it a few light slaps over his bangs. Sanji bears it with a face that spells he's about to explode, but he doesn't make a move to stop it at all. Despite both his arms being pinned down by Zoro's hand to the futon, he is slowly regaining some mobility of his legs, currently fighting Zoro’s in a struggle to trap him between his thighs. A soon to be winning position for him.
“Sanji, you can't sleep?” Luffy asks with concern in his words, messing up the cook's hair with his curious hand, blindly poking around.
“Not when he's here,” Sanji carefully spells out every vowel, giving Zoro a pointed look that wants to kill.
Luffy goes quiet and retreats his arm.
“Zoro needs to give Sanji a kiss goodnight,” he advises after a moment of silence. “Makino gave me a kiss goodnight when I couldn't sleep, and it made me sleep.” Then he slumps back onto his bedding, and immediately resumes the snoring, as if he was never awake at all.
Sanji sucks in air so hard, Zoro worries he might choke. He might hyperventilate, and then they will have to wake up Chopper, and Chopper won't hesitate to wake up everyone including the staff and all the other guests on their floor.
“Don't you fucking dare,” the cook mouths at him. Even in the darkness of the room Zoro can see how high the blush creeps up his face, and it satisfies him how much of an upper hand he's just gained when the physical advantages began to slip. He doesn't know who Luffy's Makino is, but he knows what he has to do. He's gonna thank her later.
“Captain's orders, I'm afraid,” he whispers. No more disturbing anyone else's sleep tonight. “Don't wake up the ladies.”
He lands a comically noisy kiss directly to the middle of Sanji's forehead, right where Luffy's fingers played with his hair. The obscenely wet smack echoes in the silence of the inn, followed by Sanji’s sound of surprise noise at the impact. His eyes go wide in shock, darting between Zoro's face as soon as he pulls away and the general direction of where Nami and Robin are sound asleep, and Luffy snores into oblivion.
Before he shakes out of that astonishment and knees Zoro in the chest again, Zoro braces himself for the impact and rolls back into Brook’s bony presence for the rest of the night.
No action in the universe exists without an equal reaction, or as one might say, not without its consequences.
Naturally, he and Sanji are no exception to the rule.
Zoro could go as far as to say they set the example for it. Where one's fight goes, the other's follows, they take on duos, they take on mundane daily tasks together, they get included in everything as a set by default, or by fate. If another crew member ends up with two extra things, Zoro and Sanji are the ones most likely to receive them, unless it's meat of course, then Luffy will receive it without questions asked, but when it's not meat, it's always a dance, an exchange, inseparable. One cannot call either of them and expect the other not to answer. Sanji can't do anything and not expect it to bounce back in his face. Zoro can't dream of missing out on the part where he finds out what he had started.
That's why he sees it coming. He just doesn't know when.
All the good things aside, the mutual understanding and no necessity for too many words between them, Sanji can still be one hell of a sneaky bastard. Currently he's being one at the safe distance of half the main deck and with a wall of the galley between the two of them, but Zoro isn't a fool, and he wasn't born yesterday, so he knows . Anytime now.
Sanji had missed some prime opportunities already.
He walked past Zoro while he was training with his heaviest weights, an easy target in a compromising position. Zoro would have no choice but to drop the metal bar over his back and break his own spine, and that situation was not worth an outcome so gravely. After all, what is this, if not another game between them? He ignored Zoro when Chopper had him sitting down for a medical exam, taking a close look at his strained shoulder, requiring him to sit very still and make no sudden movements. Any forms of violence are forbidden within the boundaries of the Sunny’s infirmary, leaving Zoro potentially defenceless against all forms of public humiliation from Sanji. He did nothing when he had an upper hand in one of their petty fights, not a touch anywhere near Zoro’s face, not even a suggestive expression, or a mocking kissy face in his direction. But Zoro knows, deep down, that under all this staged mask of being unaffected there's a plan to hit him when he least expects it. He even anticipates it.
So when he sees the galley’s door swing open with a fierce kick, giving way to the cook, every limb and head available loaded with full plates, he knows this is not the one. Sanji would never ever risk dropping a plate for something stupid like this, especially not one with food already on it.
The cook beelines to the spot where Nami and Robin hide in the shadow of their beach umbrella. The bowls and glasses with fruits and colourful cocktails wobble as he fawns over them, promptly rejected, then a line of arms and hands sprouts from the deck and takes two portions from his shoulders to pass them on like a conveyor belt over to the mini table between the sun loungers. There's a gesture from Robin that Zoro reads as an offer to help, but Sanji denies it, even though he's clearly struggling to carry and balance everything evenly.
With both hands and forearms still full, he turns around heading in Zoro's direction. Instinctively, Zoro closes his eyes to avoid being caught staring.
He listens to the steps approaching him, feels the deck vibrate, until he’s nudged in the side with the tip of a leather shoe. He ignores it, just for the hell of it.
“Marimo,” comes the annoyed voice, “I know you're awake.”
Zoro doesn't open his eye until the fourth jab comes out more like a kick than anything else, and he does so while feigning reluctance. He meets the frown on Sanji's face at an awkward angle, plate on his head making it unable for him to look down properly. Zoro badly suppresses a laugh.
“Fuck off,” Sanji bites, talking around the cigarette that stubbornly hangs from his mouth.
“Really.”
“Yours is on my head, get it yourself.”
With grace unbefitting the foul language he spews in Zoro's direction, Sanji bows down keeping the plates perfectly upright and safe from spilling over. More than anything he's showing off his agility, bending that slender body into the exact shape he needs it to be for Zoro to think wow, I wouldn't be able to do that if I tried.
He lingers for a second as Zoro picks up the dish without getting up, arms stretched out towards it and not looking anymore for whether Sanji stands or falls. His plate holds a simple arrangement of dried meat cut into thin, nearly transparent slices, fruit jam that Zoro knows won't be too sweet for his liking, and a mix of herbs and pickled vegetables. Since when does he recognise the difference between pickled and cooked vegetables? He can tell by smell now, the acidity of vinegar and spices that he wouldn't have paid any attention to in the past. Before the Strawhats, before Sanji, food was just food, a thing to be eaten that would fuel him throughout the day and mix well with alcohol, something to set his earnings aside for out of necessity. Now he has regular dinners and plates of refreshments every now and then at his disposal, like the one he picks up from the top of the cook's head.
It's a small thing, and a lot. And Zoro doesn't want to give him all the satisfaction just yet.
“You woke me up just now, you know,” he lies to tease him, knowing that there's no way Sanji would kick at him in his current predicament.
It works like a charm. Sanji's expression visibility twitches with ire from under his bangs.
“Now, did I…”
Zoro nods solemnly, and thinks for a moment to fake a yawn, but being in the cook's spitting range he decides against it.
“Disturbed sleep can cause indigestion.”
“Surely,” Sanji replies, sharply with a bite to it, “we wouldn't want that to happen, would we?”
Zoro picks up a piece of that dried meat with his bare fingers. It looks like it's well cured in salt, but he doesn't know what the jam is there for. If he made a comment about it on any other day Sanji would blow, call him ignorant to the fine art of pairing flavours, swing a knee in his face, but for now, he can only limit himself to blowing smoke in his direction.
Zoro has the front seat to watch the cook's expressions today and he won't waste any minute, even if the food he's been given smells fantastically tempting.
He looks up just in time to watch a flash of hair fly up and past him, and he drops the meat he's holding when he feels the scratch of Sanji's facial hair rub into his forehead, as he presses a loud and smacky kiss there, angling the burning tip of the cigarette to the side and away.
Zoro's back goes straight and into the wall behind him. The meat slaps loudly into the jam, spraying red around the plate. He feels himself turn red too, face feeling too hot and too cold all at once in an instant, all the blood from all over his body rushing upwards like on a command, leaving the rest of him somewhat numb. Sanji pushes himself back with a balanced jump, still holding four plates with snacks stacked high on top.
“Back to sleep then, Mossy,” Zoro hears him snicker as he heads to the workshop to drop off Usopp and Franky's servings. “That's your goodnight kiss.”
Fuck.
So much for seeing it coming.
The padlock on the alcohol cabinet was picked open weeks ago, courtesy of Nami at the small price of adding to his debt. She will do nearly anything for money, and doesn't care whether Sanji forgives her a small transgression like this, knowing the first person he will go to whenever as much as a millilitre of any wine is missing is anyone but her. Besides, it only means he will beg for spare cash whenever the budget doesn't cover new padlocks that month. Truly a witch to the very bone.
Zoro vaguely wonders whether this already means he has a problem, but the thought disperses as the frustration increases. Because it seems that the navigator has just lent out money for one of these new padlocks.
Kitchens can be so confusing to search.
He knows the smell of alcohol all too well. Whenever there's a bar, a party going wild or dying down, or as much as a stray old pirate popping open a bottle at the docks, Zoro's nose will lead him to the exact spot without a fault. Whether he gets back doesn't matter, because next will come the cook, who somehow, always…
Kitchens are full of spices.
Tens and hundreds of them, all stacked in jars and containers as if they're collectibles, pastes, fine powders and crushed dry plant parts, a variety of colors, seasonings in bottles taking up shelf space. They chatter like hungry teeth with every heavy movement of the ship, and fill the place with their mixed scent on top of the smell of whatever the last dinner was. Fish, in this case, it's so often a variety of fish on the Sunny. Chopper's sensitive nose would do better in this situation, seeking out sake by being able to separate out that characteristic smell in this mixture of memories from all over the Grand Line, but Chopper would never let himself get enlisted into Zoro's indulgence seeking escapades.
He resorts to what he knows will eventually work.
Rummaging through the cabinets that open without using too much force, he examines their contents one by one.
There are jars of variously shaped pasta, because Sanji loves those with seafood. Bags of flour, something with grains bigger than flour, more types of salt than Zoro knows and at least five different types of sugar. Does sugar take more than one form, which is just unbearably sweet? Tightly wrapped rice paper and dried seaweeds are stacked by the plates in evenly cut thin sheets. In the far back behind the tableware the cook stores an assortment of dried fruits, dull in color dehydrated apples, candied dice of pink and red and yellow. They stick to Zoro's fingers but no, he did not conveniently cover up any bottles with them. Lined up by the wall are bottles of vinegar from fruit peels. They have an invitingly sour and alcoholic smell to them, having been fermenting for a while already, but ultimately, they're not the goal. Maybe just the very last option, if he's that desperate.
His sake isn't in the cutlery drawer, nor is it on the shelf strictly for notepads and recipes, hidden in some secret container that only pretends to be a spine of several separate books. The pans are only the pans, the pots stack into each other allowing no extra space for anything other than the smaller, and smaller and smaller pot. Every jar of jam smells too sweet to be anything else, tea is pleasantly fragrant but definitely not what he's looking for and the leftovers cooling down before being put in the fridge and repurposed the next day were already tested during dinner.
It leaves the pantry as the last option, and the key to that place never leaves Sanji's pocket.
Speak of the devil.
Zoro starts slamming the cabinets close fast enough for the hinges to rattle when he hears the footsteps approaching the galley door.
“Luffy,” the voice behind it warns, as the knob twists, “I told you, for the hundredth time, no going through my stuff! There is nothing that you don't already– Zoro?”
Shoving his foot into the last open drawer, Zoro slides it shut with force the moment Sanji enters. The containers inside let out a panicked cacophony of glassy sounds, cramming into one another, and Sanji reacts like it's him they're calling out for.
The cook's face morphs from vaguely annoyed to surprised, and then back to very annoyed before he points at the empty deck behind himself. “Get the hell out.”
And Zoro knows where the key is.
Any physical fights in this part of the ship are a no go. Nobody ever speaks about this rule out loud, but it goes without being said that the damage would be a high expense to cover, with all the utensils scattered around the place, not to mention Luffy possibly gaining access to the fridge if it's damaged and Sanji will be terribly upset about everything in general. He will mop around the place for days, mourning some cup or spoon lost forever, it will be irritating as hell and Zoro will be upset too, not because Sanji is, obviously, but because he doesn't like his crew feeling upset at all. Obviously.
Sanji already interferes with any exchanges at the table that feel too close to blowing up into a bigger thing, whether it’s mealtime or a board game with Chopper getting too emotionally out of control. Zoro will always respect that. Doesn't mean he can't find a loophole in the sentiment.
Sanji's eyebrows draw together in annoyance when Zoro doesn't move from his spot. He knows it's clear to the cook what he's been doing here, it's not his first time snooping around while the other's on watch, completely missing when the watch ends, and certainly not the first time being caught. Zoro refuses to be embarrassed about it, moving out of the cabinets area along the kitchen counter, careful not to disturb any objects and set the bomb off too early.
Sanji's eyes follow his every movement with growing impatience.
Hands held up in a peace offering, Zoro walks around the tall chairs and then the way across the room to the door is clear. He puts his best efforts into charming Sanji out of thinking this too thoroughly, sensing the cogs already turning inside his brain.
“I'm leaving,” he reassures, not fully feeling the lie yet.
“You better be.”
“I am.”
“Are you?”
The last few steps and he's face to face with the cook, both of them standing in the soft wooden arch of the doorway. Sanji puts his hands fisted on the sides of his waist, blazer riding up and open. Just perfect, unbuttoned, making Zoro's work so much easier. The pocket is within his reach now, all he needs to do is keep Sanji's eyes up and swipe the key like Nami has done a million times before, making it look so easy. It feels like it should be easy. He was born for this.
“I'm going,” Zoro repeats, lowering his arms. Just a bit more.
Sanji's eyes narrow. He must be getting sceptical about Zoro lingering in the doorway for so long. Zoro knows his field of vision like this is limited, with bodies so close to each other it's hard to keep a sharp eye on everything below.
One hand sliding down to Sanji's side, he can feel the weight of the key pulling the fabric down. It's definitely there, and it's definitely the one, silver-grey steel with a piece of ribbon tied to it as a marking to distinguish between what feels like a hundred of other keys necessary for the ship: the fridge's lock, the padlock on the storage, cabinets in the workshop with valuable materials, Nami's safe and a separate key for her waterproofed cabinet with maps. This one is special. This will open the door to booze, Zoro's sweet, sweet happiness for the night.
“You're trying to do something.”
Well, this wasn't a part of the plan, but it might as well now be.
“Just a goodnight kiss, since you asked.”
Grabbing Sanji by the hair, he pulls his head down to land a quick press of his lips to the cook's forehead, hoping the element of surprise will deter him from what's really going on here. Sanji makes a sound in shock, going still for a second then whipping his head away as the hand Zoro slides into his pocket gets swatted away.
This is how Zoro finds out the doorway isn't a part of the kitchen where fighting is off limits; a heel connects harshly with his shoulder, forcing him to stumble outside completely. Another one follows the same pattern in the direction of his neck, pointy tip of a polished shoe attacking where his pulse speeds up. He dodges that one, ducking under and backing away towards the stairs.
Zoro breaks into a run when he sees Sanji jump off the galley's balcony like he's dead serious about catching him and rearranging his skeletal structure for Chopper to play puzzle next. Stuck on the stairs, he has the choice between sprinting back into the galley or jumping straight into the sea.
The key rests steady in his grip.
His mouth tingles in some odd way.
Drunk Sanji is a delight to witness.
Drunk Sanji is also a rarity.
There seems to be a rule the cook follows every time alcoholic beverages appear on the menu. Whether it's beer, fine vintage wine with a fancy name, sickeningly sweet, colourful cocktail or nameless, brandless, high percentage suspicious liquor from a suspicious source, he only drinks it once to get things started, then occasionally goes for a second round out of pure courtesy. Thirds are almost never an option, unless it somehow becomes a competition, and Zoro isn't that much of an asshole to turn drinking into a petty fight against someone who’s low tolerance he's aware of. Feels like too easy of a win.
Occasionally, however, Sanji does it out of his own volition, especially when there's not many strangers around and the mood is right for celebrating nothing for no reason whatsoever. It brings out things in him that contrast starkly with the snarky and sharp demeanour he dons on a daily basis, melts away fake faces he puts up to please the ladies, mellows out the corners. Enough begging can get him to sing, a bit more might even drag the poet out of him, for better or worse, very incoherent and looping around in his own words. He simply lets himself go, and Zoro blames his own inability to say no to another cup for how that sight absorbs all of his attention.
Oh no. He's doing it again.
When Robin finally suggests that maybe, possibly, Sanji has had enough, he really is past having had enough. So far past it, that the short trip around the circle they sit in on the main deck’s floor proves to be an obstacle big enough for the cook to trip and land on top of Franky once, then crash into Nami's side. She laughs it off, and Franky doesn't get back up, not after the discovery of the wonderful stars above that he now can see from his new position flat on the ground.
Zoro's had his fair share of sake tonight too. It makes him feel warm and more daring in conversations than he tends to be on the days when Sanji rations out his alcohol, but it's nowhere near the state the cook is in right now, wobbling on his lanky legs out of the rhythm the waves sway their Sunny to. He stops along the way to carefully put the empty cup that's still in his hand down on the ground, then balances himself back up ever so slowly and resumes the walk in the general direction of the galley.
Before he reaches his destination, a bed, hopefully his own, he makes a stop at the railing, a spot dangerous enough for Zoro to step in.
Sanji leans heavily on the edge, body pressing into the wooden frame with its full weight, but muscles loose enough for a harsher wave to swing him overboard into the dark hole that the Grand Line's waters turn into every night. Vast, endless nothing that not even a top tier swimmer like him can brave without a threat to his life, especially not in his state.
Zoro’s by his side before the cook leans too far out to keep balance.
“Hey, hey, easy there,” he soothes, grabbing for Sanji's shoulder. Sanji sags into the touch as soon as it comes.
“The All Blue cloud be right under us,” his words slur together accented with a tired excitement and curiosity. A good look on him.
“It's not going anywhere.”
Of course, if the All Blue appeared out of nowhere, Zoro feels like he would know it. He would feel it, all of them would, most importantly Sanji would. And he would sober up too, the very second he feels it, because that's why he's here, after all, to find and prove it's real. Under the Sunny coils the most ordinary out of the extraordinary waters, salty and full of life, even fuller of death, but otherwise nothing special to any of them anymore. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to convince Sanji, who's now clutching onto his sleeve for support, tugging on Zoro to lean over the railing as well.
“You should check.”
“I checked when you weren't looking. You've had enough, let's get you to bed, Curly,” Zoro says slowly, gathering all the patience he has in himself. He has to be the bigger person here, not entertain any careless ideas that could throw both of them off the ship and into the murky waters. Sanji's tugging gets only more insistent. “...Unless you're gonna throw up?”
Sanji shakes his head fervently. If he keeps doing that, he will eventually get sick.
“‘M not going without you.”
“The fuck does that mean?”
“Mosshead.” Glossed over eyes appear directly in from of him, blocking his way to the stairs. “Mossy. You have to sleep too, or you might fall face first into your plate when I serve breakfast.”
Sanji's tongue twists and betrays him twice in the middle of forming that sentence. First when he tries to spell “face first,” failing to pronounce the sounds right, then when he tries to gather his thoughts enough to come up with what he's really supposed to do with breakfast first, in order for Zoro to put his face into it, unconsciously.
Zoro snorts, amused. Drunk Sanji really is a delight.
“Some breakfast you will serve.”
He will be lucky to be able to look at food without feeling sick tomorrow. That is, if he manages to wake up on time, or crawl out of his bunk at all. Zoro briefly considers taking him straight to Chopper's infirmary and saving him any potentially embarrassing incidents when the oceanic sway of the ship eventually gets to the mess that his stomach must be at the moment.
Normally, grabbing onto Sanji is a sure way to get one's teeth kicked in, unless one is a fair lady, or at least an adorable kid that would never end up on Sanji's shitlist. Zoro is neither, and he takes the honorary first place on said shitlist, so it serves as a testament to Sanji's bad state, the way he follows the pull of Zoro's arm, gentle but firm, hand gripping around his bicep, another hovering over his waist for additional security. They successfully manage to get away from the bad spot near the railing, after much struggling, uncoordinated limbs knocking into one another. Sanji's head lands on his shoulder again. Zoro tells himself he ignores it, the hair that feels too long to be his own tickling the side of his neck, the laboured exhales he can feel on the bare skin of his chest, too warm, so close.
So close.
The rest of the crew rages on with their impromptu party.
As Zoro struggles to drag himself and the cook the next few steps towards the sleeping quarters, a cheerful laugh booms from behind them to the tune of Brook's violin. Next joins a voice, low and masculine, unmistakably Franky's. Has Franky always been so good of a singer? Has he managed to get up?
Sanji steps on Zoro's foot and doesn't apologise. It's almost like they're dancing, if Sanji was the bad dancer between the two of them. Zoro doesn't know whether he is. There's never been a chance to test out his assumptions.
“Keep up, Curly,” he commands when Sanji starts to fall behind, clearly more intrigued with what's going on in the background than heading back inside.
“Don't wanna,” Sanji whines, not willing to be pulled along anymore, “without you.”
“I'm helping them clean up later,” Zoro lies.
Sanji's eyes dart between the stairs and the rest of their crew, still absorbed in the ongoing fun that he's not getting to be a part of anymore.
“No… No you're not.”
Zoro sighs. This is exactly what he feared, having to talk Sanji out of something on his own. He gets so insistent when he's in this state, and Zoro knows already that he doesn't make a great diplomat. Maybe that's why he's a pirate - a man who speaks fluently in the language of action. The situation requires someone who can convince the cook to turn around and accept the fate of being a lightweight without good limits, someone like Vivi, who can put reason through the thickest of skulls. Alabasta is painfully far off of their course right now.
Sanji's hands creep up his arms as he tries to keep him steady in place, safe from the threat of collapsing. Those legs aren't looking so reliable right now. He sways in Zoro's awkward hold for a few more steps until they reach the bottom of the staircase, then stops completely. Zoro considers picking him up and throwing over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Pushing a drunk person on the stairs is too risky.
Sanji’s hand comes to the side of his face out of nowhere.
“What do you think you're doing?” Zoro questions, suddenly feeling like this is heading somewhere too personal to handle under influence.
“You have to go to sleep after a goodnight kiss,” Sanji says, in all seriousness one can muster when alcohol flushes their face and turns their lips thick and hard to use. Like it's a rule set in stone that will bind Zoro to his will. A go to sleep spell.
Being one step ahead gives him the advantage of extra height, and Zoro is powerless to stop what's coming. He's focusing on keeping Sanji upright when Sanji gets his other hand to his face as well. He brushes the nonexistent hair out of Zoro's eyes, tucks it behind his ear and stares down with a woozy smile plastered on his flushed face. A good look on him. Were he not so far gone Zoro would make a brave remark about looking starstruck, but that dopey expression stirs something inside him that answers with a feeling of a similar flavour under his ribs.
Then Sanji leans forward and crashes his mouth into Zoro's forehead.
The impact is nowhere near gentle. He leaves a wet kiss that feels more like being licked by a dog, then drags his mouth up and goes for another. And another. And another. Noisy, full of spit kisses all the way from his eyebrows and up into his hairline.
Zoro stays absolutely still when Sanji pulls away with the last one loud mwah and a smile so wide it turns his eyes into happy little crescents . He takes a glance up close like he's examining whether he slobbered all over Zoro's head enough.
“Your forehead is sooo big, I have to get it whole,” Sanji sing songs, “It's so big it's not g’nna fit in your bunk…”
Fucker.
Tomorrow's Sanji can punt him across the deck for what he's about to do. There's a slim possibility his alcohol scrambled brain will retain the memory - Zoro even hopes it will. He hopes it will stay with him forever and make him fold in embarrassment at the recollection of it, just like the ghosts of that pink princess back on Thriller Bark did. But that's something tomorrow's Sanji will be dealing with.
Today's Sanji yelps in surprise as an arm sweeps him clean off the steps and hoists up vertically. He immediately starts babbling complaints and moving too much in Zoro's steady hold.
“No,” a wide of a shoe thumps weakly into Zoro's thigh, “no, no, you brute–”
Zoro only hopes he doesn't get sick from being carried like a blushing bride.
He makes his way to the sick bay eventually, after a very long talk from Chopper about the rules and head injuries, and the final threat of getting kicked around reindeer style if he doesn't treat this seriously. Not that he ever was planning on doing otherwise; after all, head injury. Serious thing.
Sanji is already awake when he enters.
It's a rare sight to witness, the cook laying down in the middle of the day, at a time he usually spends busying himself with his favourite chef's knife and whatever else falls within his arm’s reach. Yesterday Zoro saw him evenly dice some carrots and celery into small cubes, stack them on separate piles and transfer into jars, which presumably means they are for later. The other day he picked out watermelon seeds with funny bent tweezers. But now, he's motionless on the cot, head wrapped with a white bandage, hair moved out of the way. Seeing both of his eyes and eyebrows feels so odd.
He makes a move to rise up when the door swings open, but crashes back down immediately seconds later, like it takes too much effort to even try staying up in that way.
“Bask in the glory of switching places for once, Mosshead, because as soon as I'm up I'm kicking your ass hard enough to put you in the same spot.”
“Ass concussion,” Zoro says, instead of hi cook, how are you feeling, or Curly, I'm glad to see you're awake.
“Adapting the means to where your brain is stored.”
Swallowing and choking on the bait feels right - but he can't, not this time. Sanji's trying hard to take out on him his frustrations of being bed bound for the time being, and Zoro has to be a bigger person this time, knowing it's for the better to just let him voice the annoyance without letting this get physical. The jabs dissolve into an awkward silence, Zoro’s back stuck glued to the closed door of the infirmary, on the far side from the bed.
“Head injuries are serious,” he says eventually, repeating like Chopper told him before. Brain, skull, delicate and thin skin covering one of the most blood rich areas of the human body, the very heart of the entire nervous system. All it takes to drastically alter one's functioning is taking a hit only slightly too hard, wrong spot, edge too sharp. A risk no one can afford, not even Sanji, who never shows trouble recovering from broken ribs and sore muscles. He walks again hours after straining his tendons beyond what would make a regular person wail in agony, and his bruised ankles clear up evenly and quickly before the day is over. Zoro swears, when he sees the legs of his pants ride up after the fights, every time they look less painful and swollen.
“Nami wanted to tell you she will handle the most important meals with Usopp’s help, but if either of them leaves the kitchen now, the pantry will be in Luffy danger.”
Sanji makes a face that's stuck between pained and despairing.
“Nami-swan should never have to do chores like this,” he laments, “and the least you could do is be there for the pantry guarding duty instead of here.”
“She handled worse chores before you came along with your dinners just fine,” Zoro argues, but doesn't mention the fact that each additional meal from Nami cost them all beri, and not a small amount of it. Nami's skills were enough - basic capability that anyone around her age would have, as long as they lived with a more or less constant access to a functioning kitchen. There's been kitchens at Cocoyashi, communal ones and the private one in Nojiko’s home, and an abundance of oranges that meant she surely made something with them before. Unlike Zoro, whose pinnacle of culinary skills stopped at spearing a fish through with a sharp stick and knowing when it stops being raw inside after spending enough time over fire. He was lucky to have access to salt from time to time, but it was never a complaint to him if he didn't. Luffy was even more hopeless than that.
Sanji wears a sour expression at the comment, like it strikes a wrong chord somewhere inside him. Something that must have to do with not being allowed to stand up and put any unnecessary strain on his body in the nearest future. Still, he obediently stays unmoving, save for the gesture he makes at Zoro, who's still stuck across the room.
“Pat down my pockets.”
Zoro hesitates.
“If this is some stupid attempt to get me in your kicking range–”
“I'll kick you if you don't. ”
Not wanting that to happen, he crosses the room to sit on the narrow part of the infirmary bed next to Sanji. His palm slides over the sides of his tailored pants, along the seams of the pockets. They're easily reachable for the cook, but for some reason he chooses to ask instead. How can Zoro say no to such a request? He figures Sanji must be riddled with a bad headache as well, if a task so easy needs assistance from him out of all people, but he refuses to bring it up.
There's a hard outline under his fingers, a shape. Oh, yeah, a box. Excellent. Bad idea. There's a very familiar voice at the back of Zoro's mind already listing all the repercussions of following through with the cook’s whim.
“...Chopper has a nose more sensitive than all of us combined, even Luffy.”
“I don't care,” Sanji whines, “I don't caaare, just this once. You can open the window.”
“I think he also took your lighter.”
Sanji groans in defeat, leg twitching and hands clenching by his sides as if involuntary. It would be endearingly pathetic, but Zoro feels for him. He's been in this situation countless times before, and though craving for nicotine was never an issue, pushing through recovery with the knowledge that he's wasting the meantime not being able to train and watch over the crew is always the worst part of the process.
“You're gonna get them tomorrow, or the day after that,” he says, trying to be consoling in the ways he promises it. Not a strong part of him, but the point stays true - things will be back to normal as long as Sanji rests his body and mind. That most likely includes not stuffing a cigarette in his mouth every five minutes as well, ironically enough, even if the withdrawal puts him on edge.
“Easy to say when your body isn't reliant on substances.”
“I think you need to go back to sleep.”
“Slept enough.”
Zoro hums, though not in an agreement. Sanji got knocked out cold for a brief moment earlier, but he doubts there was a second he spent fully asleep behind the closed door. Between the examination Chopper had put him through for hours on end and the moment Zoro came in, he most likely stared at the ceiling and walls pondering the miserable situation he's currently stuck in. Not a good way to spend the obligatory bed rest time, not for someone who thinks so much about things best left unthought.
“The more you rest the faster you're out of here,” Zoro says somewhere in the direction of the calendar hanging above Sanji's head. Two big red circles loop around today's and tomorrow’s dates meaning, he assumes, that it's the time Chopper has deemed inarguably necessary to fully heal from a concussion in Sanji's case. “Always worked for me.”
The answer that comes is unexpected, quiet. “I hate that you're right.”
Having nothing more to agree with, Zoro just sits there. His hands crumple the stiff disposable sheets where they prop him up next to Sanji's waist. It's a good spot to balance himself, considering this is a strictly one person bed, and anyone that shows up in the role of a visitor is supposed to take the chair. There's no real reason Zoro didn't take it, or push it next to Sanji to comfortably taunt him a little form a safe distance, instead opting for a spot that becomes more intimate than intended, given how long he's been overstaying his welcome.
“You're hovering.”
Zoro retreats, not fully, just enough to give Sanji some breathing room without getting up and walking away. They still remain in each other’s space.
“You're still hovering,” Sanji notes, then his eyebrows furrow in thought, some annoyance. A funny sight when they're both clearly visible. “Oh, for fuck's sake, just get over with it already!”
To be fair, Zoro wasn't going to.
It's supposed to be a game, like all their other games that consist of teasing, nipping each other with the dull parts of their teeth, testing the waters constantly. But to see Sanji so readily expect it, no, ask for it…
…That's another thing.
Zoro leans forward again as much as the awkwardness of the angle allows, moves his hands closer to the sides of Sanji’s head when he realises the balance is off and he's closer to an up close and personal collision course than anything else. He catches a glimpse of the cook's eyes looking up at him, both in clear view, unreadable, he doesn't have the time to focus on them now, and finally, finally presses a gentle kiss to the bandages on his forehead, feeling the texture of freshly out of packaging thin fabric against his lips. Under him, Sanji exhales in relief for the first time that day.
Zoro leaves the infirmary without telling him to sleep again.
It's a goodnight kiss.
They both know that much.
It's warm.
Homes are warm, they feel touched by the presence of their inhabitants, they're never pristine, never smell sterile. His is tinged with oranges and metal, herbal notes, strong sea breeze, fleeting florals from time to time. It smells like tea brewing and dinner almost ready, like secondhand smoke and the ever lit, sizzling coals under the stove.
Those sensations get the strongest when he's drifting away to sleep.
Sleep is sticky.
It lingers from limb to limb, from tired muscle to weary bone, blankets out the sounds, closes the eyes, hazes the surroundings, leaving him blissfully floating in unawareness. Tangling him in a web of nothings and everythings, it places Zoro gently in a warm spot making itself impossible to resist.
Last memories of being awake braid themselves into the dreamscape. They're hard to pull apart and separate completely - what was he doing here?
He was here because he was asked to be, someone, something, something to sort, some small parts going into a pile. Small and light parts, but he doesn't quite remember how they felt in his hands and when they disappeared, and there was something in his hand, maybe another hand? No, it would feel different. That other hand was on his shoulder instead, a burning sensation that they tend to leave, feeling like a forever imprint of the palm and fingers that lingered there for a second before disappearing. It was floral and gentle, and he could feel it throughout his whole being.
There were small parts before him but they're gone now, replaced with something else. Someone took the small parts, because he heard them being taken away before whatever he was hearing ceased to matter. Then there was the hand, floral, gentle, then everything was sweet oblivion, and he feels himself now stagger at the end of that blissful state. A part of him remains stubbornly awake on lookout.
He was placing the small parts together, fitting them into each other within the small crevices, or hollows, like some puzzle. Was it a puzzle? Yes, it could have been puzzles. It could have been a game, Zoro's body feels like a piece of puzzle too, fit into where it rests, impossible to move, heavy as it is. Was he playing a puzzle with someone?
What came next?
His eyes refused to stay awake. He remembers some… thinking. His thoughts swirling around and muddled by tiredness, until eventually they dissolved into nothing, shapes, sizes, strings connecting with the nonsense already taking the form of dreams, moulding into new beings of his mind.
Someone takes the puzzles away, but Zoro doesn't mind. It's warm, so it's safe, and he doesn't have to go looking for anything when he feels safe, for any puzzles, it's alright. There will be more puzzles, someday, when his mind is clear, right now it's all so…
Someone at some point put a hand on his shoulder. Now there's something flat and stiff under him, hard to tell what, it's stable, it's smooth, supports his silhouette. It could feel better, but something tells Zoro he doesn't usually go for better as long as it's anything. This is good, as long as it doesn't move away, as long as he doesn't have to focus on what it is. As long as nothing disturbs him.
Mind absent, but simultaneously present through a milky, hazy curtain, he hears something fast, rhythmic, steady nameless sound that's so familiar to his ears, and it comes to an end when he never heard the beginning. All through that warm air around, cocooning his every thought. It obscures the next sound, similar in tune but slower, distant, then closer, then distant again.
It would be a surprise, if surprises were a thing to react to in this place he finds himself in. The sound is somewhere nearer than ever before.
Then the warmth gets warmer, more tangible and textured as it comes tighter around what he thinks is himself. It bears a weight that doesn't press him down and is laced through with salty sea breeze, as if it's been woven of its very essence. Zoro feels his body lean into it as it accepts the welcomed sensation, that's when the low tone humming out words reaches him as well, something about a wrong place, about resting and sleeping.
There's the last shapeless feeling on his temple that pulls him out of the haze, tingling his numb body awake.
A soft press. Warm, pillowy, lingering for small eternities, too brief, cruelly taken away with its familiar scent as his eyes finally manage to open, offended by the lamps glowing gold.
The shapes he felt come to life, materialising in his vision. A table. A puzzle box. A quilt draped over his shoulder. Nonlinearity forming back into one coherent memory, continuing into the presence.
Movement becomes real again.
His shoulders jerk. He feels himself start to lift up from the table he’s leaning on, and the presence he felt through his sleep is cut off abruptly, moving away like it's been burned. Zoro's back aches lightly, his spine straightening up, that chilly sensation of reawakened nerve endings running down his back.
He doesn't need to think much about what woke him up.
The glow of the lamp swaying on the wall outlines the cook’s silhouette, already walking away.
The quilt slides off of his back and onto the bench as he moves out of his seat, chasing.
It's late. Not middle of the night late, but shower time and last snacks before bed late, pleasantly mellow. The air is warm from the stove, like a heart of the Sunny, always pulsating with life, always gathering everything to revolve around its grace.
Sanji ignores the commotion Zoro makes behind him.
He stands by that warm epicentre of everything with pinpointed focus too hard to be natural, watching over things Zoro doesn't know the names of, but believes are the most important in the world.
The jump in his arms betrays the cook’s faked disinterest. Now that Zoro can get all his thoughts in logical order, the outline of what had just transpired becomes clear to him.
His crewmates leaving him to zone out on the table was nothing new, although rare. Usually he sleeps when he chooses to, not when his body shuts down on his own, but he figures that it's a part of being human that sometimes one's will is weaker than the vessel. Robin kindly gathered Chopper and his games after dinner, leaving him be. It suits her way of showing quiet consideration, and Zoro isn't one to dig deeper into it. People usually don't bother him when they see he's dozing off, even though it's hardly the case that he fully does so, having trained himself so much to be always aware of everything at all times.
Having the cook go out of his way to make sure he's not cold (not that he would ever be, not in the kitchen ) is something entirely else.
Such gestures are only saved for the ladies, people that Sanji deems either respectable enough or in a position that plays on his soft heart, even if he denies it to be so. A courtesy so gentle and straightforward, leaving it all in plain sight, he knows how watchful of a person Zoro is. Knows he would pick up on it.
A shiver of sizzling anticipation runs through him at the memory of the kiss. Then there was the kiss.
In hindsight, Zoro should have known. Should have read the signs, unclear at the time, if he paid all his mind to it. Maybe then he would see past the something that continued to seem innocently meaningless, until now. Something reserved only for when it was capable of invoking annoyance or embarrassment, driving the other up the wall. Neither is a case when it's a purely tender gesture without anyone else to witness, not even Zoro, who was supposed to be asleep.
Sanji stubbornly continues to ignore the way Zoro lingers behind his back, stuck in the moment's realisation. Standing there like that usually gets a mean comment out of him about loitering around, or getting underfoot when he's busy.
The longer he continues to remain there without any clear actions, the sooner Sanji will shake out of the awkwardness and turn back into his snappy self. A brittle moment of this kind can only last so long.
Is he blushing?
His jaw works around the cigarette so hard he might chew it into a pulp. The back of his neck blooms flushed, skin peeking out shyly between the high collar of the dress shirt and the evenly blunt cut of his hair, mixing with the homely light of the oil lamps.
Zoro feels himself smile, image committed to memory.
He likes to have the last word in his fights, but there's nothing that speech is capable of achieving here. Something stronger than words is needed now. Fortunately, Zoro is good at things stronger than words.
What is there left to lose?
He goes for it.