Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Zoro feels it the next morning when he rolls out of his hammock; the echo of having sex with Sanji last night. It's not pain, exactly. More an awareness of his own asshole that he doesn't usually have. Images of exactly what use it was put to last night up in the lookout rush in with the morning light slanting through the porthole, in vivid detail: the unfamiliar burn of another man’s cock breaching him, the bone-deep satisfaction of that burn, the way it had sunk into every muscle in his body as he lowered himself down, down, down, until he’d taken it all. Begging for it, spreading his legs for it. Sitting on another man's dick and riding it, the hunger in Sanji’s eyes when he’d shoved Zoro onto his back and had him. The deep satisfaction and unimaginable wetness when he’d spilled inside.

Fuck.

Zoro stretches, and uses the cover of that stretch to lean into the feeling; the ache of his thigh muscles, the twinge in his ass, the strange feeling of emptiness–as if, now that he knows what it’s like to be full, he’ll never feel anything but hollow without it.

He twists his hips, feeling sinuous in a way he never has before, a way he would never have even thought about before.

He remembers the way Sanji swore when he finally got his dick inside him, the tight pitch of his voice, the tortured expression on his face, like he was experiencing so much physical pleasure it had become painful. And Zoro realises that the memory makes him feel aware of the power of his body in an entirely new way.

He finds he likes the fit of this new feeling. The way it settles in his body like muscle memory, like the first time he set his feet into a guard position and unsheathed a sword.

The angle of the light suggests it's still early, but he's alone in the boys’ sleeping quarters. Everyone else must be already awake. That, in itself, isn't unusual; Zoro keeps hours that never seemed all that odd until he was sharing living space with other people, people who tend to sleep at night and be awake during the day instead of cat napping as and when the mood strikes them and staying conscious to train for long hours, even days, in between.

It makes sense that those who weren't up all night on watch are already awake, somewhere. But where the hell is Sanji, who was up later than Zoro last night? Who stayed aloft, awake, while Zoro came down below deck at the changing of the watch, their fingertips brushing against each other in a silent goodnight as he slipped past and down the rungs inset in the mast, through the lower hatch to the bedroom, setting out his hammock in the dark before dawn. Still post-coital lax, saturated with more physical contact than he’d had from another human being in years and yet, somehow, feeling strangely bereft as he lay there alone, while the ship rocked with the newly awakened wind, and he finally fell asleep to the sound of Luffy’s snoring.

And why does Zoro care? Why is he casting his gaze about the room hopefully, why does something inside him fall at the sight of the cook’s neatly stowed hammock on its hook on the inner wall? It makes him feel vulnerable. Pathetic. Did he expect to wake up in Sanji's arms like some sort of fucking princess? Like a bride with her new husband, the morning after giving herself away? That's not what this is. Nothing like it has been promised to him.

Still. A part of him can’t help comparing sex with Sanji to the moment Mihawk cut him down. Both changed him, invaded his body and made it theirs, made him theirs.

Both left him alone afterwards.

In the galley a breakfast that seems excessive, even compared to the cook’s usual standards, weighs down the long table.

The aroma of it hits Zoro before he even reaches the door, wafting down the narrow corridor; butter and dough, seafood, citrus, the compelling richness of freshly brewed coffee and, woven almost imperceptibly amongst it all, the ashy bitterness of the cook’s cigarette smoke.

Zoro's stomach rumbles, and he suddenly realises that he's ravenous.

In the kitchen the rest of the crewmates are gathered around the long galley table, while Sanji ferries platters of food from the countertop.

There's a tablecloth on the table. Zoro blinks at it. Is there usually a tablecloth? Has he just never noticed it before? And there, there are neatly folded white napkins by each place setting, and in the centre a vase of herbs that look freshly cut from the miniature herb garden that the cook installed over the sink when he first came aboard, below the bigger of the kitchen's portholes.

Zoro's never seen the place look so damn fancy.

He meets Sanji's eyes over the table and instantly feels all the blood in his traitorous body rush to his face at the sight of him.

Oh, he thinks. You were inside me last night.

Sanji's wearing his blue shirt. The one that makes him look even blonder and bluer-eyed than usual. It's impeccably neat, pressed to within an inch of its life, and Zoro didn't even know they had an iron on board, but somehow the thought of it, of Sanji in the kitchen at dawn in his underwear, painstakingly pressing each item of clothing, is so domestic that it takes his breath away.

He's got a white apron tied around his narrow waist and he smiles at Zoro when their eyes meet, warm and soft. Shy, maybe, in a way that he never normally seems to be.

Zoro has no clue what to do with it.

“Zoro!” Luffy exclaims, cheerfully. His is the only cheerful face at the table, Zoro notes. Usopp and Nami both have the common sense to not be morning people; she's got almost her entire face in her favourite coffee mug, while he's seemingly fallen asleep again on the wooden table top.

“Good morning, captain,” Zoro nods.

He swears he can feel the chef's shy smile shift into a self-satisfied smirk when Zoro limps ever so slightly on his way to the table, his gait affected by that new, private ache.

“What the hell’s all this?” he grunts at the grand serving plates of ridiculously fussy food, to hide his wince when he sits. And okay, perhaps he could've expressed that a little more graciously–for a moment he thinks he sees Sanji's face fall, but it passes too quick for him to be sure.

“Food!” Luffy replies, happily, picking up what looks like a piece of fish in some kind of yellowish sauce and dropping it into his mouth. He yelps when Sanji raps his knuckles with a ladle.

“Don’t eat off the serving dishes with your fucking fingers. Were you raised in a barn?”

“No,” says Luffy, his smile never wavering. “I lived in a crawl space under a dock near Makino's bar when I was a kid. And I guess for a while I lived in the jungle, when Grandpa would leave me there to fight animals and get stronger. Oh! And I also spent a lot of time in this really big junkyard after Grandpa left me, with some other kids who didn’t have parents. We were trying to find things to sell to get money.” He tilts his head, thinking. “There weren't serving dishes at any of those places, though. Or tables. Or food, except what Makino gave me out of the leftovers at the end of the night, or what I could kill in the jungle. Your food is so much better, Sanji!”

Zoro watches Sanji's face go through a complicated series of emotions. He's seen this happen on multiple occasions, now, when people are confronted with Luffy's blissfully unaware anecdotes about his fucked up childhood.

Zoro doesn't really get it. They all had fucked up childhoods, right? Luffy, Nami, Usopp… and he doesn’t know exactly what the cook’s got lurking in his past but, contrary to appearances, Zoro's not an idiot, and he’s picked up that the guy's history is far from sunshine and roses. So why does his face look all… pinched like that, right now?

“Here,” Sanji says, eventually, his voice kinda rough, and he piles a large portion of food from each of the serving dishes onto Luffy's plate. He clears his throat; Zoro watches the movement of it, the subtle tremor of the muscle. “Here we have scallops benedict, with a brown butter hollandaise. And this is smoked goosefish frittata, you'll like that one, and a ricotta and crab soufflé with a dill mousse… et voilà, a classic croque madame, made with the last of our salted hog, can’t really go wrong there… and grilled sunbream with steamed rice and a miso soup. I caught the bream myself this morning with Usopp's fishing machine, that thing is a fucking godsend...”

The mountain of food grows and grows.

Luffy's eyes go wide and delighted. “Woah. Thanks! You're the best.” He smacks Zoro's shoulder affectionately. “Isn’t Sanji the best?”

For a beat, their eyes meet again. Blue-green, the colour of the sea where it deepens beyond the coastal shelf of the islands. Pretty. Almost too pretty; but there’s steel there, too. Something tempered and sharp.

Zoro feels like the breath is frozen in his lungs. You were inside me.

“He's alright,” he eventually manages to mutter. He ignores the way Nami snorts into her mug.

Sanji doesn't ignore it. He perks up at the sound, as if she'd sighed out his name with fucking hearts in her eyes.

“And for our beautiful navigator…” He sweeps a pristine white plate off the counter and goes down on one knee to place it in front of her. “Sea buckthorn crepes, with tangerine coulis and a dark chocolate ganache.”

She blinks, seeming somewhat dazed at the sudden appearance of so much sugar. She tugs the plate closer cautiously, and stares at the artfully arranged pancakes. The idiot chef has arranged the chocolate sauce and the orange goo into two stylised and intertwined hearts. “Sanji, this is exquisite.”

He winks coyly at her, and Zoro feels his good mood start to evaporate into thin air.

“How fitting,” he says, “for a woman as exquisite as yourself.”

She rolls her eyes and Zoro makes an unnecessarily loud retching sound, smirking when Sanji scowls at him across the table.

He reaches over Usopp's still-sleeping torso, though, and tugs the dishes with the sunbream and miso close enough that he can help himself liberally to both.

“Good?” Sanji asks, nonchalantly, when Zoro takes his first bite. He's taken his own seat at the table, directly across from Zoro, and there's a wicked, teasing light in his eyes that says he already knows what the answer's going to be.

The food's good. Ridiculously good. The soup is spicy and sour, with smoky cubes of tofu and the wild, green bite of the same fresh herbs as the ones in the vase. This close Zoro can smell them, grassy and alive, pungent where the stems were cut.

The fish is tender, sticky with ginger and some kind of pickled root vegetable that Zoro can't identify.

It's better than anything Zoro's ever put in his mouth before in his entire god damned life.

Not that he's going to admit that. The cook’s ego's big enough already–any bigger and it'll sink the ship.

“It’s fine,” he grunts.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sanji shake his head, that shit eating grin still fixed on his too-handsome face, blonde hair falling in a pale curtain over one eye. “Heathen,” he says, so fondly that it makes Zoro's skin prickle, self-conscious.

“So,” says Luffy, his mouth obnoxiously full of food, stretching out one rubber cheek. “What’s the plan? We're moving again, right?”

All eyes turn to Nami.

There's a smear of chocolate just under her lower lip. Sanji, Zoro notices, is staring at it like he's hypnotised. It makes Zoro's stomach turn.

She swallows her mouthful of fancy pancake before speaking.

“We're moving again,” she confirms, and the general cheer that goes up at that is enough to rouse Usopp. He gladly and enthusiastically returns the captain’s high five, before asking exactly what they're celebrating.

“We are officially no longer becalmed,” Sanji informs him.

“Ohhh. I knew that.”

“Course you did.” Sanji gives him a wink.

Zoro's stomach turns again. He glares at the food. Should've known better than to trust anything cooked by that pervert waiter.

“Anyway,” Nami continues, pointedly. “If this wind keeps up we'll reach Loguetown before noon.”

Luffy's eyes are shining. “Our last stop before the Grand Line.”

“And it had better be a short one,” she says, in a voice that brooks no argument. “Loguetown will be crawling with marines, and now you've got a bounty on your head.”

Luffy beams, as if she's paid him a high compliment.

It's contagious, Luffy's happiness. His excitement, his sense of adventure. As compelling as firelight to a moth, and easily as dangerous. Zoro can't help but return that grin when it finds him, can't do anything but nod in approval and confirmation: You're my captain. The first man who's ever been worthy of commanding my loyalty, and it's yours. All of it. You own it; my sword, my strength, my devotion.

Movement in the corner of his eye makes his grin fall away.

Sanji leans towards Nami. “Permit me,” he says, and dabs at the chocolate on her chin with one of the pressed white linen napkins.

“Oh,” she says, distractedly. “Thanks. But Luffy, you've still not said why you want to stop in Loguetown.”

Luffy's grin only widens and widens on his stretchy, improbable face. “Are you kidding? I want to see the place where the king of the pirates was executed!”

“You want…” Nami’s face falls. For a moment it looks like she might be about to burst a vein. “Are you kidding? That's the last place any of us should be! Out of all places… the biggest tourist trap on an island swarming with marines, the place that's going to be the most locked down, the most heavily guarded…”

“I'll be careful! I won't draw any attention, I'll just sneak in and take a look. No one’s gonna notice!”

“That’s insane. Zoro, back me up here.”

Zoro shrugs. “Don't look at me. I'm not the captain.”

He takes another bite of sunbream and lets the sounds of their bickering wash over him like sunlight, mind clear of everything but the way Sanji had wiped her lip, infinitely gentle, and the timbre of his voice, low and intimate. Permit me.

*

Sanji corners him on the steps leading down to what would, on any normal ship, be the gun deck. On the Going Merry, it’s mostly used to store Usopp’s tools, barrels of liquor, and any non-perishable food items that Sanji wants to hide from Luffy.

“Hey. Can we talk?” he says, all gentle and soft, like somehow having the guy’s penis in him has turned Zoro into a porcelain doll overnight.

Zoro shrugs. “Sure.”

He heads down into the not-gun-deck.

He’s been experimenting with meditating down here over the last few days. He prefers to be up on the main deck, where he can feel the wind in his face and the salt in the air is so thick he can physically taste the ocean. Or, better still, up on the lookout, aware of the bounce and sway of each wave as they crest it. But there are fewer distractions down here. The other crew members tend not to bother with this room unless they want something from it. And Zoro has been feeling… oddly distracted, lately. Unable to focus on his training and meditation as easily as he normally would.

It’s concerning.

Dust rises in clouds from the boards of the lower deck with each footfall as they walk, and hangs in the motes of light filtering down between the upper boards. The click of Sanji's metal soles is hypnotic, like the tick of a grandfather clock.

They stop and face each other a few paces apart, like they're facing off for a duel.

Zoro wishes they were. This is more fucking awkward than any duel.

He crosses his arms over his chest and stares Sanji down. “Okay. Talk.”

Sanji's got a weird look on his face. Zoro doesn't like it.

But then he takes a half step towards Zoro and reaches out a slender hand, makes contact, hand slipping round to the back of Zoro's neck and squeezing. Firm. Warm. So warm and so reassuring, and some of the tension leeches out of Zoro's spine before he can help it.

His throat is still ringed with bruises from their sparring yesterday afternoon. Sanji had leapt at him feet first, knocking Wado out of the way and wrapping his long, powerful legs around Zoro’s neck, the force of the impact throwing Zoro down onto his back on the deck, muscular thighs squeezing his vulnerable throat, depriving him of oxygen until he saw stars.

Sanji’s fingers are on that ring of bruises now, digging in tighter, pressure on pressure, and it’s like everything goes suddenly hazy at the edges.

“There you are,” Sanji murmurs, and Zoro's head tips forward of its own accord, landing on a broad shoulder.

He closes his eyes and drifts.

They stand like that for a moment in silence. It's not terrible. The cook’s thumb rubs soothing, achy circles on the nape of his neck, where Zoro’s green hair is clipped down to almost nothing.

Then Sanji stirs, and says, gently, “I wanted to check how you're doing, after last night?”

And Zoro feels the tension rush back in.

“‘m okay,” he mutters.

“Yeah? Cos you seemed kinda off at breakfast.”

Twined hearts in chocolate and tangerine. A woman as exquisite as yourself.

It's not that Sanji means anything by it; Zoro knows he doesn't. Knows Nami would gut the cook with his own kitchen knives if she thought he did. Zoro never particularly cared about it before, mostly he found it funny, and enjoyed mocking Nami for it mercilessly.

So why does it bother him now?

He clenches his core and takes a step back, shrugging off the hand on the back of his neck and its confusing, addictive pressure-pain on his day-old bruises.

“I'm fine.”

Sanji stares, sceptical. Zoro feels undressed by those piercing blue eyes.

“Don’t you have shit to do?” he snaps, perhaps a bit harsher than he'd meant to.

The breath that Sanji exhales at that is exasperated but not angry, Zoro's pretty sure. Exasperated is fine. If he's going to be living on such a small ship with Zoro he's going to have to get used to exasperation.

Zoro's been on his own for a long time now. He can’t change who he is just because he and the cook… do what they do.

“Yeah,” Sanji relents, after a tense moment. Like maybe he understands. Or maybe he just can’t be bothered to argue. “Yeah, I do. Plenty. But I'll catch you later, though, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Zoro replies, eyes fixed on the deck, the dust, those stupidly shiny black shoes the cook always wears. “Sure.”

*

When Sanji was sixteen a group of girls only a few years older than him started visiting the Baratie every weekend. Saturday evening, their busiest service. Normally that slot was booked out months in advance, years in the case of special occasions, but these girls were dripping with money; enough that Daddy dearest could fork out for the bribery needed to reserve a weekly table at the most coveted restaurant in the East Blue, in Sanji’s section specifically, and insist that he was serving instead of cooking for that shift.

They were daughters of the aristocracy, fresh out of whatever finishing school their parents had seen fit to send them to. Old money, money attached to land and power, and Sanji was young enough that it left a bitter taste in his mouth, reminding him a little too forcefully of things he wanted to leave dead and buried in the black soil of the past.

Still, it couldn’t be denied that they were gorgeous. Gorgeous in the way that only rich girls could be gorgeous; which is to say that they’d very obviously never worked a day in their lives, and had entire armies of hairdressers, stylists, cosmetic surgeons and makeup artists at their disposal. They wore only the finest, newest, most flattering clothing, they dripped with jewels, and they seemed to hold everyone–including each other–in the deepest, most scathing disdain.

As a group, they were exhausting. They nitpicked the food, loudly complained about everything from the wait time to the other guests to the way the sodding waves rocked the ship, and they pinched Sanji’s arse whenever he walked by their table.

But they tipped ludicrously well, and when you got them one on one, some of them were kinda alright.

One of them, at least.

Her name was Aurélia.

Aurélia had long silver hair, a wicked sense of humour, a penchant for butterfly oysters, and daddy issues big enough to be visible from the fucking Grand Line. And Sanji had loved her.

Loved the way she’d toss her hair and call him an idiot, loved the look in her eyes when they caught his across the busy restaurant floor and she’d bite the straw of her dirty martini like she was thinking of his fucking mouth. He loved the hitch in her breath when they’d fool around in the mop cupboard out back of the cloakroom; it was proof that he could make her feel good, and it gave him that same satisfying feeling of competence that he got from successfully putting together a complicated dish. He even loved the disdain in her voice when she sent food back: “It’s just a steak, oh my god, how do you mess up something so utterly basic? What a joke. Do you even know who my father is?”

So, he’d gone to Zeff and asked for the next six months of his wages in advance.

The old bastard had frowned at him suspiciously, moustache twitching, knife going still in his hand.

“Why?”

“None of your fucking business, old man.”

He’d pointed the paring knife at Sanji like a finger. “You watch your mouth, little eggplant. And I think you’ll find that it’s entirely my fucking business if I’m asked to pay six fucking months of any of my employees’ salary upfront.”

So Sanji told him he was going to buy an engagement ring for his future wife. And the shit hit the fucking fan.

There was yelling. There were a few thrown dishes, and a few thrown exclamations of “you are sixteen bloody years old, you little shit,” but Sanji had remained resolute. Aurélia was worth it.

In the end, Patti had touched Zeff’s shoulder, mid-rant, and gently suggested that maybe some lessons could only be taught by experience. And Zeff… Zeff had looked so fucking weary at that. Resigned. Like he felt every single one of his years, all in a rush.

“You're right,” he’d said, simply, all the bluster knocked out of his sails, and he’d looked at Patti beseechingly. “But I can’t fucking watch it.”

Patti nodded. “I know, boss. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

So Zeff had marched to the office, looking like every step pained him in a way it hadn’t since he first got the damn prosthesis, and came back with Sanji’s advance.

And as soon as he could get a day off to go with the supply boat to Pastinake Island, Sanji had spent the lot of it at the local jewellers.

Hours, it had taken, choosing that ring. Platinum, of course: the colour of her hair. With the biggest, most beautiful solitaire diamond he could afford, sparkling and lovely. The jeweller set it in a red velvet box, and Sanji carried it around in the inner pocket of his suit jacket the rest of the week, until Saturday rolled around.

That night, every part of the meals he served them was perfect. He saw to that himself. Every morsel of food, every delicately placed garnish, every freshly mixed cocktail.

It was the usual group; Eglantine, who always spoke so loudly she could be heard from the fucking kitchen, Ninitte, haughty Clémense and her sister Cléore, who looked down their noses at everyone and everything they came across, Héloïse, already giggling behind her hand at something, and Aurélia.

She was resplendent that night. Like she knew it was special; like the two of them were just that much on the same wavelength. She wore a deep grey gown, several shades darker than her hair, that pooled around her feet and seemed to flow, like water, when she moved.

Sanji was glad he’d worn his smartest suit, and taken the time to shine his shoes before service began. He placed the last butterfly oyster on its bed of ice, carefully wiped the edge of the plate, and swept it up into the air.

When he set the plate down in front of her, Aurélia’s exquisite face creased in a puzzled frown.

“I didn’t order this.”

“Compliments of the house, Madam,” Sanji assured her, smiling winsomely.

“Do I look like I need free food?” she asked, frostily.

“N-no! Not at all, Madam. I only meant–” He rubbed anxiously at the back of his neck, and plastered the smile on harder. “I mean, these are from me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course they are.” Héloïse let out a fresh round of giggles, and Clémense and Cléore exchanged glances.

“Why don’t you try them?” Sanji prompted.

“I know what butterfly oysters taste like.”

“Ah, but this is a special recipe.”

“Ugh. Whatever.”

She cracked the topmost oyster, opening the milky white, wing-shaped shell.

Inside sat the diamond engagement ring.

Sanji dropped down on one knee.

“Oh my god,” exclaimed Eglantine, meanly. Loudly. “The waiter. I’m going to die of second hand embarrassment.”

“What are you doing?” Aurélia hissed.

“Aurélia Andilet-Whittinghurst,” Sanji began.

“Get up.”

“Will you do me the honour–”

Héloïse very nearly screeched with laughter. “This is hilarious. Wait until everyone hears.”

“–of giving me your hand in marriage?”

“No!” Aurélia snapped, emphatically. “What the actual fuck, Sanji.”

Ninitte, sweet little Ninitte with the unfortunately horsey teeth, gave a syrupy sweet false smile and patted Aurélia’s shoulder. “I had no idea you were this charitable, Aurélia dear, to be on first name terms with the staff.”

It seemed like everyone else in the restaurant had fallen silent, just to watch.

There was a rushing in Sanji’s ears, like waves on a rocky shore.

“But I love you,” he heard himself say, as if from a distance.

The laughter seemed to come from everywhere. All around him.

“Well you shouldn’t! We barely even know each other, it’s weird.”

“But we. All those times, in the store cupboard.”

“That was just fooling around! What’s wrong with you?!”

“Oh Aurélia.” Clémense sounded both scandalised and delighted. “You little tramp. Just wait until your father hears about this.”

“Shut the fuck up, Clémense,” Sanji’s future wife spat. “Like you’ve never indulged in a bit of rough. We all knew about it when you shagged that dancing instructor.”

A chorus of ooohs went up round the table.

Clémense seemed to puff up like a spine-adder, poisonous and enraged. “How dare you. At least Alphonse had the decency to not humiliate me in front of an entire restaurant.”

An impeccably mixed dirty martini was splashed into Clémense’s elegant face.

“Ladies,” Sanji began, in an attempt to cool things off. “Surely there’s no need for–”

“You’re the reason Mama fired Alphonse?” Cléore demanded, rising to her feet.

“Well it was certainly never going to be you, little sister, was it?”

A loud slap rang out across a dining room full of customers who had largely, by this point, abandoned all thought of their own meals in favour of watching the entertainment unfold.

Ninitte had her hand clasped to her heart, her face a picture of distaste. “What a temper, Cléore. I suppose it must be that North Blue blood making itself known. So unladylike!”

“What the devil do you mean, North Blue blood?”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I thought the rumours about your Mother were well known.”

Sanji ducked as another drink went flying. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Patti hovering nearby. “To return to the matter at hand,” he attempted, raising his voice to be heard above the rapidly escalating commotion. “I really think that if you give me a chance, I can prove to you just how good a husband–”

“Oh my god, he’s still going,” Eglantine brayed, no doubt audible in the kitchen, the bar, hell probably from fucking space at this point. “Please tell me someone’s getting this on a video transponder.”

“You’ve always been an unmitigated bitch, Ninette.”

Héloïse’s laughter reached a pitch that, Sanji was pretty sure, could shatter glass.

Aurélia turned to her, sopping wet, clumps of skyberry daiquiri stuck to her eyelashes, making her mascara run down her cheeks in two purple-black trails. “I don’t know what you’re laughing at,” she sneered. “You were the one who absolutely insisted we all come and waste our Saturdays at “the trashy restaurant with the pretty blonde waiter”, weren’t you?”

While witnessing the ensuing fight, three things became clear to young Sanji.

First: Despite what you might think, posh girls could throw a fucking punch.

Second: It doesn’t matter how hard he’s trying to stay out of it, if you make enough noise on the dining room floor, head chef Zeff will come out of the kitchen and kick you out of his damn restaurant no matter who your father is.

Third: That while he could take just about any personal insult you could imagine against himself, Sanji could never, ever, marry a girl who called the Baratie trashy.

He knows he has a tendency to fall for a pretty face a bit too quick. To read more into things than he should. And so he’s been trying really bloody hard, with Zoro, to not fall into that old trap; to keep things as casual as he can. To stick to Zoro’s pace.

Still, it stings like a bitch to be brushed off like this.

He tries to work out if it’s something he’s done wrong, something he can fix. Did Zoro not have a good time last night? Is he regretting it this morning? Does he wish he’d saved his first time doing that for someone special, rather than Sanji?

Sanji lights up a cigarette when he reaches the deck, letting the rush of the nicotine calm him and telling himself that Zoro’s just being Zoro. He’s a terse little ball of moss, and he needs time to process stuff; especially change.

All Sanji can do is give him that time, and hope he’s still wanted when Zoro figures it all out for himself.

*

It stays with Zoro throughout the day, nagging at him like an old injury in bad weather. The way Sanji fawns over Nami, the way he spoke to Nojiko back at Coco Village. The way he kisses the hand of the port official when they finally reach Loguetown, and flirts with her until she forgoes the usual docking fee and doesn’t bat an eye at the transparently false names they give, or the giant fucking jolly roger flying from the mainmast of their ship.

She's shorter than Zoro, the docking official. Sanji has to bend the long, slim line of his body down so far to touch his lips to the back of her small hand that he looks like a reed of barley bending in a fierce wind. She's wearing some kind of uniform, as a city official, but it's the kind that's a skirt and blouse rather than the unisex sort that the marines wear. The skirt is fitted and short, the shapely lines of her legs ending in black, high heeled shoes that look like they'd be annoying to walk in.

It's ridiculous, Zoro thinks. There's no way she could effectively fight in an outfit like that. Especially with her cleavage spilling out from the open top buttons of her blouse, a hint of lace visible underneath, like two fucking water balloons on the front of her chest.

She giggles at Sanji and touches her hair a lot, and he leans into her space like he wants nothing more than to breathe the same air as her.

Zoro busies himself with aggressively tying off the hawsers and tries to telepathically push them both into the sea between the dock and the ship.

Luffy disappeared almost the instant the Merry touched the dock, to Nami's very vocal dismay, slingshotting himself off towards the inner city to look for the execution platform where the former pirate king met his grisly end without bothering to wait for any of them to accompany him.

Zoro heads back into the interior of the ship for one last check round before they all head out after the captain, and when he's satisfied that everything's in order he leaps over the gap to the dock to find the port official has already vanished.

“Hey, Moss-head.” Sanji slings an arm around Zoro's shoulders, casual, overly familiar, and the smell of his poncey fucking cologne is so vivid that Zoro finds himself thrown back into the sense memory of the previous night; the scent of it on his bare skin, the way it mingled with their sweat and the barely-there undertone of the cooking oil. The words good girl echo in his mind like a gunshot. “The lovely Ms Nami and Usopp are going clothes shopping, and I've got to restock our groceries. Wanna come give me a hand?” He squeezes Zoro's shoulder with one of those big, slender-fingered hands, and Zoro wills himself not to lean into the warmth of it. Not to think about how far those fingers had reached inside him, how they'd taken him apart. “I'll even let you show off all that upper body strength and carry the bags.”

Zoro ducks out from under his grip without meeting his eyes. “Sorry. I'm gonna go look for replacements for my swords before we hit the Grand Line.”

Sanji frowns, and something in Zoro's chest drops like a stone. I've disappointed him. He ignores the feeling, squashes it down hard until it’s small and dense as a lead bearing.

“We could shop for swords at the same time. I’m sure the others wouldn’t mind.”

“I prefer to do it alone.”

He doesn't let himself look at Sanji, so he doesn't see how he takes this. He feels it, though: the coolness in the moment's pause before Sanji steps in closer again to speak.

“Look, what’s going on, pet? What’ve I done? I can't fix it if you won't tell me.” His voice is taut with concern.

Zoro's head snaps up at the word pet, self-conscious, but Nami and Usopp are a way off down the pier, still arguing about their spending allowance. “Don’t call me that in public.”

Sanji holds his hands up. “Okay, fine. But the question stands.”

“I'm fine.”

He feels Sanji's eyes on him, from his boots all the way up to his hair. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

Sanji makes a soft, frustrated sound. Then he rolls his shoulders and shrugs. “Alright then. We'll meet back at the ship later.” He claps Zoro on the shoulder again. More business-like this time. More distant.

Zoro aches.

“Good luck with the sword-hunting, man.”

It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, like tea steeped too long.

Koushirou-sensei would tell him to meditate on the problem; but that was his answer to everything.

Still, Zoro attempts to turn it over in his mind, letting the cloud of his feelings whirl and then settle, like storm-stirred layers of ocean sediment gradually returning to calmness and order.

Sanji is what his mind returns to, in both its agitated and rest states. The way Sanji is with women, the way Sanji is with men; the way Sanji is with Zoro. Sanji at his back in a fight, as natural and as necessary as the air in his lungs. Sanji’s bruises on his skin. The heat in his eyes when he looks at a pretty girl, like the banked embers of a fire; the way his voice drops low and his mouth curls up on one side, as if he and the girl are sharing a private joke.

Zoro can't understand it, and he can't understand why it bothers him. His mouth twists in annoyance as he slinks from merchant to merchant, inspecting their wares, and he wishes he could just stop thinking altogether.

He never used to think this much about anything but fighting.

Perhaps that's all he needs: a good fight. When he's fighting, his brain goes quiet, still as a pond–glassy and cool. When he's fighting, there's no room for anything but motion and instinct. Survival. Reflex. The muscle memory he's spent years training into his body, honing, sharpening to a fine, deadly point.

If you'd told him even a month ago that he'd be stomping around a strange city moping over a pretty boy, he'd have laughed and threatened to gut you.

He's not jealous, because that would be ridiculous. It would be… that's not what this is, okay, and Zoro might be inexperienced when it comes to this crap but he's not an idiot. He knows a few fumbles between shipmates means fuck all, especially to someone like Sanji.

Zoro was there. He was convenient. That's all. So what if he'd never…

Fuck, he needs a drink.

There's a weird prickling feeling at the back of his neck that's been bugging since they docked, like the static in the air before a thunderstorm, and it's making the newly healed wound across his torso ache. Like he's being watched. Like there's some predator close by that only the primitive, animal part of his brain can recognise.

He sheaths the two swords he's finally managed to find and heads to the nearest shitty bar.

As he walks he feels those new swords settle next to Wado, touching his leg on every other step. Getting to know each other.

Yubashiri's a solid blade, Zoro knows it, he can feel it, like that old bat Emi from Shells Town could feel it in her knee when bad weather was coming. It feels dependable. Obedient.

Nothing like Kitetsu.

Kitetsu is a cloud of cigarette smoke curling around Zoro's hip, possessive and dangerous. His hand rises before he can even register he's doing it, and he fingers the hilt. Down, boy.

It's getting late now, the sun swooning into the arms of the horizon in a messy splash of orange and pink, and Zoro's not exactly one hundred percent sure quite where he is after wandering round glowering at his own shadow all day, but he knows he's somewhere on the very outskirts of town, where the businesses sputter out into dwellings, and the dwellings into crofts, barns, stables. So he's mildly surprised to find the bar fairly busy, inside. He takes it as a good sign–clearly the booze here is either very good, very cheap, or both.

A few heads bob up at his appearance in the doorway, but they look him over and quickly return to their own drinks.

So Zoro makes his way to the bar. The pub, though small, is warmly lit by the candlelight of a dozen wall sconces, and combined with the low evening sunlight that filters through the small, clean windows, it casts the place in soft tones that make Zoro feel booze-sleepy already.

So he almost misses the prickle at the back of his neck getting stronger, more persistent, until it's a buzzing that sets his teeth on edge and–

A pair of golden eyes watch him approach, their owner lounging insouciantly against the wooden bartop.

Zoro freezes.

Mihawk doesn't look surprised to see him. In fact, he's holding two drinks–holding one of them out to Zoro, identical glasses of wine such a rich, dark red it puts the burgundy silk of his ruffle-sleeved shirt to shame.

Zoro stares at him like a fucking idiot.

“You.”

“Roronoa Zoro.” That cultured, elegant voice. Smooth and plummy, rich as the wine in his hand. An expensive voice. A voice Zoro's thought about incessantly since their encounter at the Baratie, simultaneously the best and worst fight of his entire life. The voice that had disparaged him and his years of training, and then in the next moment called him magnificent. And he's saying Zoro's name. “I had a feeling we might run into each other.”

“What are you doing here?”

Mihawk raises an elegant eyebrow, and Zoro's hands find the hilts of his swords.

“Having a drink,” he replies, mildly, gesturing with the glass of wine that Zoro still hasn't taken from his outstretched hand. “It’s generally the done thing in such establishments.”

Zoro's mind races so fast it starts to trip over itself. Why is he here? What does he want? Has he changed his mind about coming after Luffy? Every single one of Zoro's wounds aches, the ones that Mihawk gave him and the ones he picked up at Arlong Park, and each bruise Sanji's left on him during the past couple of weeks of sparring. Still, if this bastard's here for Luffy, Zoro will put himself between them without hesitation.

“If you want a re-match…”

Mihawk rolls his eyes. “Please. There are bigger fish than you in this particular little pond, Roronoa.”

Zoro frowns, and tries to work out exactly what the fuck that's supposed to mean, and why Mihawk saying his name like that, Roronoa, makes the newly formed scar across his torso hum.

He takes the drink before he can think better of it, downing it in one long swallow. It tastes vaguely expensive, as far as he can tell in the brief time it takes for the entire thing to slip down his throat.

It's worth it for the look of bemused horror on Mihawk's face.

“Heathen. That wine cost more than your ship.”

“What are you doing here, if you're not after us?”

Mihawk shrugs a single shoulder. “It’s a popular tourist destination, the dying place of the erstwhile king. Perhaps I wanted to take in the sights of the East Blue while I'm here.”

“Yeah, that's bullshit.” Zoro may not know much, but he knows a lie when he hears it. Even when it purrs out of the throat of the man he might just admire most in all the damn Blues.

“Or perhaps there are other pirates in the world besides Monkey D. Luffy and his band of misfits,” Mihawk chides. “Other forces at play. Forces which might, even, draw a man like myself to an island such as this. An island with a dark history, but–” he swirls the burgundy red in his glass, then takes a slow, prolonged sip, holding the wine on his tongue for a moment that stretches like rubber before holding Zoro's gaze and swallowing. “–truly magnificent wine. A pity the former has somewhat eclipsed the latter when it comes to this place's reputation; they used to be famous for it. Now they're known only for what they destroy.”

“Right. Thanks for the history lesson. Do you run tours as well?”

“None that you could afford.”

Zoro should leave. He should head back to the ship, if he can work out where it is, and let the others know about Mihawk, and that they need to get out of here. Fast.

But it’s hard to tear himself away. Mihawk is terrifying, just being this close to him sets Zoro's fight or flight responses on fucking fire, every survival instinct screaming at him that he's in danger.

But he's also devastatingly handsome. Zoro can acknowledge this to himself, now, in a way that he couldn't the first time they met. In a way he wasn't even aware of back then, a way that was all subliminal and instinctive, like the fear.

Sanji's the one who changed that. Opened Zoro's eyes, made him confront the feral beast of his own want.

He wants, now. It's a dim, distant thing compared to the far more immediate sense of danger, but it's there. Mihawk lounges on a bar stool, calculatedly indifferent, his dark red shirt only partially laced, leaving a long, pale vee of exposed skin that's wider at his prominent collar bones, narrowing to a thin, laced slit at his abdomen.

He was shirtless when they fought, Zoro remembers. Wearing a long, dark overcoat that's now conspicuously absent, along with his hat and his sword; though he still wears the tiny, golden, cross-shaped dagger around his neck that he'd insulted Zoro by duelling him with.

“Where’s Yoru?” Zoro tells himself he's asking for tactical reasons. Not because the thought of laying eyes on the blade that opened him up more deeply than anything ever had before makes something inside him sit up and beg like a hungry dog.

“Upstairs.”

Zoro blinks. “What.”

“I rented a room. I do sleep, you know, from time to time.”

His expression is unmoving, but he's laughing at Zoro.

And okay, yes, the thought of Dracule “Hawkeyes” Mihawk, one of the seven warlords of the sea, greatest swordsman alive, perhaps who ever lived, eating and drinking and sleeping like some kind of mere mortal, is jarring. It's something Zoro's never even considered. But he's not about to admit that.

“Fight me again,” he breathes, instead, helplessly.

“No. Have another drink.” Mihawk beckons to the barkeep with two imperious fingers, and Zoro can't help comparing them to Sanji's. Every bit as elegant, he thinks, though not quite as slender. Perhaps not as long. Heavily decked with rings that glint in the candlelight like fragments of captured flame, hypnotising. Zoro realises he's staring, and darts his eyes away.

Mihawk sets the new glass in front of him. “Try to savour it this time.”

Zoro immediately pours it down his throat again, just to piss him off. Mihawk shakes his head indulgently, and signals the barkeeper to leave the bottle.

*

Usopp's still complaining about this being the third store Nami's dragged them into to watch her try on approximately twelve thousand different items of clothing, which only goes to show what shockingly unrefined taste he has.

The chance to witness the beautiful Ms Nami modelling such a wide array of outfits, from dresses to jeans, winter jackets to (somebody pinch him) bikinis, is truly an honour and a privilege, and one that Sanji takes very seriously.

She throws back the heavy changing room curtain and steps out in a gently flared, extremely short white mini skirt and a racer-back tank in the exact shade of tangerine as her hair. Sanji clasps his hands to his heart and affects a physical stagger at the sight of her.

“Stunning,” he tells her, with emphasis. “Exquisite. Radiant.” He catches her eye and winks. “And the clothes aren't bad, either.”

She rolls her eyes and turns to Usopp, who is slumped in a velvet-upholstered chair with his chin in his hand, doing a pretty good impression of a man trying to teach himself how to sleep with his eyes open.

It's honestly a wonder he's not audibly snoring at this point.

“What do you think?” Nami asks him. And then, when no reaction is forthcoming, she kicks the closest leg of the chair. “Usopp!”

Usopp's chin falls off his hand and he sits up with a start. “Uh. Yeah. What he said.” He waves his hand blearily at Sanji. “Looks great. Hey, Sanji, is it dinner time yet?”

“Ugh. You're both useless.”

The salesman, who has been lingering nearby with berry signs in his eyes while Nami tries on almost his entire stock, leans in. “If I may say…”

“You may not,” Nami cuts in. “Of course you're gonna say it all looks good, you're the one selling this stuff.”

The man’s expression freezes for a moment, then he gives another pained smile and obsequious bow. “As you say, Madam.”

Sanji rubs at his mouth to hide his grin.

It's a nice place, this. Smaller than most of the stores they've visited so far, but younger. Stylish. More of a trendy sort of vibe. The kind of place where fashionable young things from wealthy families come to spend all their parents’ money.

Not their Nami, though. Her money's her own; she's fucking earnt it. It’s yet another item in the list of things he adores about her.

The carpet is plush and thick under Sanji's oxfords, the lighting carefully designed to be flattering. Stylised mannequins are dotted around the place, impossibly tall and slender, their limbs artfully posed, each dressed to show off the shop's wares.

Opposite Sanji is an entire stand of tinted glasses; aqua blue, bubblegum pink, pastel yellow with heart shaped frames.

He lets his gaze roam, checking if they have any in orange.

“Perhaps,” Usopp's saying, “the, uh. From a purely practical standpoint, of course.” He clears his throat. “The, um, length of the skirt…”

Sanji turns to glare icily at him. How dare he insinuate that Nami's choice in clothing is anything but–

“Yeah, I was thinking that too,” Nami agrees.

Sanji blinks, momentarily devastated, then resumes glaring at their sniper, turning the temperature down to even frostier levels. If that bastard has made Nami think she needs to cover up even one inch of those beautiful thighs, he will personally carve him up and serve him on toast–

“Hey, sales guy,” Nami calls. “Does this come in a shorter length?”

This… might be the best day of Sanji's life to date.

He considers himself something of an equal opportunities romantic–a connoisseur of beauty in all of the flavours (and genders) it might come in–but there’s no denying that, aesthetically speaking, women are in a class of their own.

There’s a sensuality to a woman like Nami. Soft-haired, soft-shaped, soft-voiced, the curve of a hip and the swell of her cleavage, the delicate pink of her lip tint and the bright citrus scent of her shampoo. Sanji appreciates it on a level beyond flirtation. He appreciates the artistry of the way women present themselves, how it appeals to each of the senses like a perfectly crafted meal.

The way it appeals to the part of him that had, as a small boy, wanted nothing more than a toy doll of his own, to brush her hair and dress her in fine lace, and admire her.

Sales guy's eyebrow twitches, and he sketches another bow. “Unfortunately not, Madam. However we do offer a bespoke alteration service in store, and I'm certain it wouldn't take long to raise the hemline an inch or so…”

“Three inches,” she says, decisively, turning this way and that in front of the full length mirror.

The fussy salesman's eyebrows very nearly hit his hairline.

“Ah. If I may, three inches would take this garment to a very risqué length. Perhaps Madam would reconsider–”

Sanji stands up to his full height and takes a step into the guy's personal space. His polite smile never falters. “I think Madam knows exactly what she fucking well wants,” he explains, tucking his hands into his pockets and staring the man down, projecting that intimidating aura of just you fucking try me that years of working with Zeff had taught him. “Don't you?”

The salesman's eyes widen, his gaze flickering from Sanji to Nami, who is entirely absorbed in her own rather stunning reflection and pretending not to hear, and Usopp, who seems even more panicked than the salesman, and can only shrug helplessly at him.

“Of–of course. My apologies, Madam. Three inches, I'll make a note.”

He scurries off to the counter on the pretext of finding a notepad, clearly eager to put as much distance between himself and this particular group of customers as possible.

Usopp snorts. “That was hilarious. I think that guy was about to pee his pants.”

“Hey, I was perfectly polite.”

“Course you were, man! I mean, I wasn't scared. But not everyone can be as fearless as the brave Captain Usopp.”

Nami and Sanji exchange amused glances.

“At least Zoro's not here,” she says.

Sanji must not be able to hide his reaction quick enough, because her keen eyes track something on his face, her pretty mouth narrowing. Damn. He's always worn his heart on his sleeve, unable to keep his feelings fully hidden despite his best efforts.

“What's going on with you and Zoro, anyway? You've both been weird all day.”

Sanji plasters on his most disarming smile. “Who knows what goes on in that moss ball's brain? Don't let it trouble you. He’ll’ve forgotten whatever he's sulking about by the time we get back to the ship, I guarantee it.”

“Hmm. He looked pretty grumpy before we split up at the docks.”

Usopp makes a sceptical noise. “I didn't notice anything.”

Nami gives him a look that seems to say you wouldn't. “He turned down the chance to follow Sanji around while carrying heavy stuff.”

And oh. Sanji hadn't realised she'd been listening to that.

Lesson learned: assume Nami is always listening.

Usopp is undeterred. “He needed to get new swords. Zoro loves swords!” He mumbles the next bit under his breath. “Bet he didn't have to try out every sword in every store on the damn island, either.”

Sanji coughs to distract Nami from setting fire to Usopp with her eyes. “See? Nothing cheers that man up like pointy sharp things. He'll be right as rain by this evening.”

“If you say so.” She doesn't look convinced, but that's alright. Zoro will be fine.

And if he isn't? Sanji has more than a few tricks up his sleeve to set him right again.

“As long as whatever lover's quarrel you two are having doesn't affect the smooth running of the ship,” she continues.

At the word lover, Usopp falls off his chair with a clatter.

Sanji feels his forehead twitch. “Lover's quarrel?” he says, slowly, as if the idea of him and Zoro being lovers had never even occurred to him before. “Whatever can you mean by that.”

“Don’t give me that. I'm not an idiot.”

“Um,” says Usopp. “Yeah. Me neither. But if I was, which I'm not, I'd probably ask what the hell you know that I don't know, and why you kept the good gossip to yourself. I thought we were bros!”

She shoots him a look that would have had even Luffy shaking. Brave Captain Usopp only rolls his eyes. “Girls can be bros, Nami. Jeez. I thought you were a feminist.”

“If anything were going on between the moss-head and myself,” Sanji interjects, in a probably futile attempt to protect the owner of the shop from the property damage involved in Nami breaking a chair over Usopp's head, “I can assure you you'd both be the very first to know about it.”

“I have eyes,” Nami retorts, bluntly, and for a moment she reminds him so much of Zoro that he can see why the two of them are such good friends, despite their apparent differences. “And ears.” She raises her eyebrows significantly.

And ah. Ah, shit.

“Oh shit,” says Usopp. “You've heard them?”

Sanji drops the pretence. His broad shoulders sag. “Please don't make a big deal out of this around Zoro.” His use of their first mate's actual name for once seems to shock them more than the revelation that Sanji and Zoro are fucking. “And don't tell Luffy yet.”

Sanji really has no idea what this is, this thing that he and Zoro have started. And yeah, perhaps he should have figured that out before fooling around with him, certainly before taking his fucking virginity, social construct or not, but god help him, he's only human. And Zoro is… Zoro's a whirlwind. A force of fucking nature. Beautiful and stormy and dangerous, impossible to resist. Impossible to deny.

And Sanji's spent years fucking around with beautiful people who were only ever passing through, only ever looking for some fun with the pretty chef they knew they'd never be seeing again, and he doesn’t know how to handle seeing the person he's sleeping with every day, waking up in the same room as them, eating at the same table, without getting his foolish fucking heart involved.

Nami's giving him a pitying look. “Do you really think Luffy doesn't know?”

Sanji starts. Because, uh, yeah, that's exactly what he thought. That, out of all of them, Luffy would be the last one to figure something like this out.

He's so innocent, their captain, for all the dark shit he's apparently been through already in his short life. Strong, yes, loyal and capable and inspiring, yes, Luffy's a man who can convince people to change the entire course of their lives, to chase their impossible dreams, with just a grin and a few fucking words, but romantic relationships? Sex? Sanji just assumed that was outside his wheelhouse.

“He sees more than you think,” Nami says, as if reading his mind.

Usopp nods sagely. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

She smacks him on the back of the head, and finally heads back into the cubicle to change.

When they finally leave the shop, several bags heavier, the sun is already slipping under the horizon. The grey cobbled road is bathed in reddish-pink glow, and the windows of the shops and businesses that line each side of the street are illuminated with lamplight. There’s a new chill in the air, and Nami frowns.

“That’s weird. I think there’s a storm coming, but I could swear there was no sign of it earlier.”

She has a gift for reading the weather, perhaps better than anyone Sanji’s ever met in all his years at sea, and he trusts her judgement implicitly.

“We should head back to the ship,” he says. He’s got a bad feeling in his gut, like something’s coming that none of them are quite prepared for, and he doesn’t like the thought of Nami and Usopp being caught up in it.

A good chef knows to trust his gut.

“But we’ve still not found Luffy,” Usopp protests.

Luffy’s a stupid kid, but he’s also the man who’ll be the pirate king. And he quite literally bounces back from just about anything. In this moment, Sanji’s far more concerned about the two decidedly less bouncy crew members in front of him.

“The captain’s a big boy, he can take care of himself. Besides, the sooner we get back to Merry, the sooner I can get dinner started. If that doesn’t get him home, nothing will.”

And it’s true that Luffy has some sort of sixth sense for meal times. He sniffs them out like a bloodhound; half of Sanji’s work since joining the crew has been keeping him away until the food’s in a fit state to be eaten.

Usopp visibly perks up at the mention of dinner, and even Nami seems swayed by Sanji’s reasoning. “Alright,” she says. “We’ll leave Luffy to Zoro.”

At the mention of Zoro, that ache in Sanji’s gut kicks up a gear.

Don’t be ridiculous, he tells himself sternly. Zoro’s a force of fucking nature. You should be more worried for the storm, coming face to face with that guy. If it pisses him off, he’ll cut its fucking eye out. Leave it blind.

*

Zoro can’t believe he's here, getting wasted with the greatest swordsman the world has ever known. So far.

They're several bottles in, and Zoro has taken up residence on the barstool next to him, matching him glass for glass, feeling the watery frills of that red shirt brush against his bare forearm every time he moves. The room has started gently spinning, the booze is strong, but the other man is watching him with something like grudging respect every time he finishes another glass of the stuff, so it's worth it.

This is great. He's going to get such a good grade in Dracule Mihawk.

So why can't he stop thinking about the damn cook? He wonders where he is right now. If he got the damn groceries and went back to the ship, or if he's out at some other bar, drinking with Nami. Or the dock lady. Or some other pretty girl; there seems to be no shortage of willing female company where that bastard's concerned.

“Did you know that your sword is cursed?” Mihawk's saying, casually.

“Hm?”

“Your sword. This one.” He runs a hand down Kitetsu's sheath, and Zoro shivers like he can feel it on his own skin. It’s… intimate, another swordsman putting his hands on Zoro's katana. Mihawk's fingers are heavy with those jewelled rings, and Zoro thinks he hears Kitetsu whine like a kicked dog, and cower into his side. “It’s cursed.”

“Yeah. I heard something like that from the guy who sold it to me.”

He doesn't say I like it. Doesn't say I'm cursed, too, and nowhere near as finely made.

The funny thing is, he thinks Mihawk hears it anyway. He stares at Zoro for a long moment, the heavy weight of his attention suspended on a thread that feels too fragile to bear it.

Zoro blushes, and necks the rest of the bottle without bothering with a glass, and Mihawk tuts like an old woman.

“Careful, Rabbit. I'm not going to hold your hair back if you overindulge.”

“I can hold my drink.” The room sways a little. Why are rooms always doing that? “And who the hell are you calling Rabbit?”

I don't hunt rabbits with a cannon.

Mihawk just smirks.

If I'm the rabbit, Zoro thinks, he's the wolf. I belong in his jaws.

The memory springs to mind, suddenly and vividly, of Sanji's mouth biting down so hard on a nipple that Zoro immediately climaxed. Zoro can still feel the mark his teeth left, the warm sting of it. It feels like a caress. A reminder.

He wants to look at it; to strip down in front of a mirror and admire the patina of mottled blue Sanji has left all over his body, whether from fighting or fucking.

It's the same thing, something inside him whispers. It has Mihawk's voice.

He steals another look at the man beside him. There’s not a mark on him, not anywhere that's visible. Zoro wonders if he's ever been permanently marked, and if so, where that mark is hidden. He wonders how long it's been since he faced an opponent who could even temporarily mark him, and what that porcelain-pale skin would look like marred with bruises.

“You're staring,” Mihawk informs him, neutrally.

“Sorry.” Zoro snaps his gaze away, back to his own hands on the bar top.

“Why? You're quite welcome to stare.” From anyone else it might be a flirtation. From Mihawk it only sounds mildly confused. Perhaps a little bored.

“I was wondering how easily you bruise,” Zoro confesses.

Mihawk seems to consider this. His eyebrows pull ever so slightly in the middle, a thoughtful sort of frown.

Zoro realises he's staring again, and takes another good swallow of wine.

“You know,” Mihawk says, “I don’t remember.”

“Huh.”

Dimly, distantly, Zoro thinks he hears the slow rumble of thunder.