🌾🌱 Starpiece (a zosan one piece/stardew valley AU) 🌱🌾
//zoro has a farm, but he doesn't have a kitchen. he's learning to live with it.//
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Zoro doesn't have a proper kitchen.
He doesn't have much of anything, really. The farmhouse is all of one room, with furnishings that consist of a bed (too small; his feet hang off the ends), a dresser (he only needs one drawer to fit all of his clothes), a fireplace that smokes, and a small pet bed (bought new, one week after a little kitten ambled onto his farm and refused to leave; he's named her Onigiri.)
Feeding the cat is pretty simple. Pelican Town has an abundance of lakes, streams, and rivers scattered around. Not to mention the entire ocean. Lucky for him, Onigiri isn’t too picky about where her fish come from because Zoro can never seem to find the same body of water twice.
He lets the cat tag along whenever he ventures into town. Actually, Onigiri practically insists on it. She doesn’t seem to have any trouble finding her way around. Zoro chalks this up to some innate, mystical cat sense because, as far as he’s concerned, Pelican Town is a fucking maze. Even with Onigiri's help, he manages to get lost at least four times a week.
Not that Zoro’s an exceptionally social guy; he wouldn’t even bother going into town at all if not for the fact that, on most days, the Stardrop Saloon is his primary source of food. Sure, he manages to catch, cook, and eat his own fish in addition to the cat’s, but he’ll be the first to admit that he’s no cook, and there’s only so many times he’s willing to endure food poisoning in a place without proper indoor plumbing.
So, for now, food from the Stardrop is a necessary expense. Luckily, his most recent crop of parsnips turned out decently enough, so for now, he’s sitting on enough cash to last him a while. That is…if he manages not to blow the entire thing on booze. Again.
Zoro and Onigiri make it to town a little after eleven. Most folks have long since settled into their daily routines, and more than a few of the older folks can be seen around the town square, jibber-jabbering in groups of two or three. Zoro gives a respectful nod to those who raise a hand or greet him by name, but Onigiri is the one who soaks up most of the attention— As usual.
“Isn’t that just the cutest sight you’ve ever seen!” gushes Caroline. Zoro remembers her name because she’s one of the few people he’s met with hair that’s even greener than his own.
“The cutest!” Her friend, a redhead, agrees. Zoro is pretty sure her name is Jodi, but he’s not confident enough to address her directly. Luckily, he doesn’t have to. He’s not the one they’re looking at, anyway.
Onigiri weaves between his ankles as he walks, seemingly confident that the hulking farmer-swordsman would never dare to tread on her, even by accident. Head held high, she struts out in front as if leading a parade, putting her black-furred chin on proud display. The rest of her is pure white, nearly blinding in the late morning sunlight.
The cat looks over her shoulder, tail undulating like a plume of smoke, and fixes Zoro with what he can only describe as a look of pure smugness.
“Tch,” he scoffs— stupid cat.
In the distance, he can barely make out the squat, blue roof of JojaMart looming above the treetops. He wouldn’t usually waste his energy giving a shit about that sort of place, but the townsfolk are plenty riled up about it. Nearly everyone despises JojaMart, but that doesn’t stop most folks from shopping there. Zoro can’t blame them, either; he’s seen their prices (or at least, he’s heard Nami fume about them often enough.) People in Pelican Town are just trying to make ends meet, same as everyone else. They can’t exactly be blamed if JojaMart’s prices suit their budgets more comfortably than the unavoidable upcharges at Pierre’s.
Zoro grits his teeth and scowls at the looming blue roof. If Kuina were here, she’d come to the same conclusion:
I’ve got to try harder.
A warbling meow and the thump of a warm, furry weight to the side of Zoro’s left shin. Instinctively, he stops in his tracks and looks down.
Onigiri has stopped in the middle of the path. She sits on her haunches, staring at him with umeboshi-colored eyes.
“What?” he grunts.
She meows, in answer.
“What, cat?”
Another meow. Her tail flaps, annoyed. She headbutts his shin.
Zoro blinks and looks around. “Oh. Where’d this bridge come from?”
He’s halfway across the east river, on the path toward JojaMart. That damn place must be cursed, if it can move around and draw people in like that. Freaky.
Impatient now, Onigiri pushes at him again with her head as if trying to shove him back in the opposite direction. Zoro is pretty sure he’s already going the right way, but he decides to defer to the cat; he’s too hungry to argue.
The Stardrop is empty when Zoro and the cat finally stroll inside. Which makes sense; the saloon doesn't open for another hour. Not that Zoro is fully aware of what time it is. All he knows is that he's going to need a big breakfast if he expects to get an entire gross of potatoes planted before sundown (he might have gone a little overboard when buying seeds, but, in his defense, he was thinking about vodka.)
He makes his way through the underbrush of four-top tables toward the bar. The chairs haven't been taken down yet but the floor doesn't look wet, so Zoro isn't worried about getting yelled at for ruining a fresh mop job.
He plants himself in a stool and rests his elbows on the bartop. Onigiri joins him, claiming the stool to his left. She sits up on her haunches and rests her little paws on the edge of the counter. It's cute as hell. So cute, in fact, that Zoro is manly enough to admit it makes him giggle against his palm. He's still chuckling when the swing door behind the bar is shoved open.
“No, that's fine, Emily dear! I'll prepare the beef. You go ahead and prep the—” Sanji, calling over his shoulder to his singular employee, stops in his tracks. His eyes lock with Zoro's. “—lettuce,” he finishes with a snarl.
Not even the shit-cook's ire can wipe the grin off Zoro's face, not when Onigiri is still bellied up to the bar like she's ready for happy hour. Because of this, Zoro is still battling a giggle-fit when he informs the cook: “We're hungry.”
It takes a beat for Sanji to respond. His face looks weird; flushed and tight around the mouth. He chews the filter of his cigarette with extra verve.
“We're not open yet,” the cook grits out, kicking the swing door shut behind him. The hinges squeak. “Which you would know if you had more than two brain cells kicking around in that mossball you call a head.” He jabs Zoro square in the forehead with his finger.
Zoro doesn't flinch. He's used to this song and dance by now, and he knows the cook is, too. Petty things like “hours of operation” haven't stopped Zoro from barging in at all hours looking for a meal, and Sanji's dislike for the farmer hasn't stopped him from providing one, every time.
Onigiri offers her thoughts on the matter:
“mrr-yow,” she trills.
Sanji and Zoro turn their attention to the cat in tandem. The effect on the cook is instantaneous.
“Oh hello, jolie chat,” Sanji coos in the same smitten manner usually reserved for buxom human women. “Look at you waiting so politely for your breakfast! Coming right up, princess. Wait just a moment.” He scratches Onigiri between the ears; she thanks him with a loud purr.
Zoro grumbles. “Thought you weren't open yet,” he says in a flat tone.
“Hmph. Hungry people always eat in my restaurant, idiot,” Sanji barks at Zoro. Abruptly, he switches right back into love-cook mode: “Especially if they're as sweet and perfect as Oni-chan.” He twirls on the spot and disappears into the kitchen once again.
“Restaurant,” Zoro snorts, ostensibly for Onigiri's benefit. “I've seen gas stations fancier than this place. People only come here for the booze.”
The cat yowls again, tail flicking. She's not buying Zoro's line, and he can't blame her, not when he's eaten at the Stardrop at least once a day, every day, since arriving in the Valley.
“Always calling me on my shit, cat,” Zoro grumbles. “Typical.” He faces forward in his stool and props his chin onto his crossed arms. Behind the bar, an array of bottles stare back at him from their shelves. He can hear the hum of the mini-fridge under the counter, keeping the beer kegs cold. Maybe the cook will let him have a pint with his lunch today, if he's not feeling too stingy.
Maybe the cook will join him today, too. He does that sometimes if there's not too much prep to be done before the actual customers start trickling in (however slowly; it's a small ass town.) Onigiri is with him today, which works in Zoro's favor. Sanji is always more likely to eat with him when the cat is there too.
The thing is… Zoro's started looking forward to these lunchtime trips. They've become… special to him. He knows the reason why, just like he also knows why he always makes sure to arrive before the Stardrop officially opens for the day.
See, the cook will actually talk to him while they eat. Sometimes Sanji will ask him how the food tastes and Zoro will respond in five syllables or less, which never fails to rile the cook up. His cheeks always get red when he fumes, ranting about uncultured marimo, and Zoro keeps waiting for the day that Sanji notices him smirking around his fork. Will the cook figure it out on his own, or is Zoro going to have to admit to riling him up on purpose? It's not Zoro's fault that the cook looks cute when he’s pissed off.
Sometimes Sanji asks about how things are going on the farm, and Zoro always has more than five syllables to spare for that particular topic, especially if they're enjoying a beer with their lunch.
The crops grow too slowly; the fences never stay fixed; and no matter how many damn scarecrows he puts up, Zoro can't seem to protect his plants from stupid crows. Sanji never offers him any advice on the matter, and Zoro doesn't want any. Not from him. He's perfectly fine with getting laughed at by the cook, especially because he's got a point. What the fuck is Zoro doing, thinking he can run a whole farm by himself?
But no matter how much they bicker during the meal, Zoro always walks away from those shared lunches feeling fuller than when he went in. The chores always feel a little easier, after. His tools don't feel so heavy.
Beside him, Onigiri stares intently at the swing door as if she shares Zoro's eager anticipation for the cook to reappear. Zoro reaches out a hand to stroke her back.
The swing door is pushed open, and out comes the cook.
He's got a small bowl in one hand full of what looks like tunafish puree. The bowl is pink and dotted with little white paw-prints (Zoro just knows the cook bought it specially for her, his only cat customer.)
Balanced in Sanji's other hand is a large round tray, topped with two heaping plates. Zoro smiles.
He's doing just fine without a proper kitchen.