It starts with a hunch, like most terrible ideas that end up being good for him. The port town smells like citrus and brine and someone burning sugar three stalls over. Lights hang crooked between buildings, their glass smudged with thumbprints and smoke. The streets are a crush of colour and noise and fish laid out on glittering beds of ice, steam curling from noodle carts, someone shouting about miracle knives that definitely are not.
The crew explodes outward as soon as they hit the docks.
Luffy's gone in the direction of food like a fired cannonball. Usopp and Chopper are already being dazzled by a toy seller with suspiciously flimsy-looking limited edition slingshots. Robin peels off toward a narrow bookshop with and Nami glides through the market like a shark in heels, eyes already doing complicated math on every price tag.
Zoro lets the tide of people push him along until a familiar glint catches his eye.
Weapons.
Tucked off the main drag, the shop is cool and dim, dust floating in the slant of light from high windows. The air smells like oiled metal and old leather, undercut with a faint trace of rust and neglect. Most of the stock is garbage, probably: flashy long blades with ridiculous guards, swords so blunt they might as well be clubs, axes with more ornament than edge.
He’s halfway to turning around when he sees it. On a lower shelf, almost hidden between a crate of loose hilts and a busted spear, sits a thin, battered manual. No gold leaf, no dramatic title, just darkened canvas and a spine cracked enough times to say used, not useless.
Zoro picks it up to find that the pages are soft at the edges, gone that particular colour that only comes from years of hands and sun. The diagrams are painstakingly precise, drawn from three angles, lines of attack mapped in neat arcs, tiny notes about balance and breathing in cramped handwriting. He finds a whole chapter on recovery stances, skims a paragraph about the sword that rests in stillness and feels his fingers twitch around Wado’s hilt.
“Alright,” he mutters, a little warmth uncurling in his chest. “You can come home.”
He doesn’t realise he’s smiling until the shopkeeper clocks it, eyes narrowing in the universal expression for ah, an easy mark and adds an extra zero to the price.
Zoro pays anyway.
They reconvene by the Sunny as the sky starts going peach around the edges.
Nami arrives first, weighed down with a fat little pouch that clinks when she walks and the serenity of a woman who has haggled three people into crying. Usopp shows off a bundle of essential tactical devices aka cheap fireworks, by the look and smell of them. Chopper has medical pamphlets fanned out like cards, babbling about new herb combinations. Robin’s got a thick history tome tucked under one arm, expression pleased, like she’s just befriended it. Luffy has skewers in both hands, a mysterious stain on his shirt and a ban from at least one vendor.
Sanji also has a book. No, not just a book. A brick. It’s heavy and bound in dark red leather that looks soft enough to bruise. Gold script curls across the cover, looping around an illustration of a cake so elaborate it probably requires structural support.
“Oh my god,” Usopp breathes. “You’re going to sleep with that.”
“Shut your mouth,” Sanji snaps automatically, hugging it closer to his chest like it has feelings.
“What is it?” Luffy asks around a mouthful of skewer, already reaching.
Sanji moves it out of reach with the kind of practiced ease that says years of captain-proofing. “Hands off, Luff,” he says, fond exasperation threading through the bite. “This is advanced material. You’d eat it.”
Nami sighs. “I told him he could buy one thing if he didn’t try to purchase the entire shop and start a fire.”
Sanji’s eyes still have that fever-bright gleam, the one Zoro recognises from good fights and rare ingredients.
“It’s not just a cookbook,” he corrects. “They don’t sell this edition outside the North. Half these recipes were banned after some idiot noble tried to live on cloud meringue and sugar foam alone and then died like the useless sack of teeth he was. D’you know how hard it is to even see one of these?”
“No,” Zoro says. “And I don’t care.”
He does. A little.
The way Sanji’s holding it, careful and protective, like it’s a living thing that might bolt, makes something weird and warm shift behind his ribs. It’s not the book but the look on his face, that mix of awe and determination. Like he’s been handed a map and a promise at the same time.
Robin’s gaze slides from Sanji’s treasure to the slim manual tucked under Zoro’s arm. One elegant eyebrow lifts. “A cookbook and a sword manual. You two are becoming quite predictable.”
“Shut up,” they both say, perfectly in sync.
Robin’s smile widens, satisfied.
x
That night the ship is in one of her softer moods. They’re anchored in a quiet cove, the sea a dark, slow breath under the hull and the sky’s clear enough that even Zoro can admit the stars don’t look half bad. Most of the crew is below. Someone (probably Brook) is strumming very gently somewhere toward the figurehead. The smell of dinner still lingers, herbs and seared meat.
Zoro ends up on the lawn with his back against the mast, manual open across his lap, the diagrams catching the deck lights in thin, clean lines. He’s mouthing his way through a dense paragraph on breathing patterns when a familiar shadow falls across the page.
He doesn’t have to look up to know who it is.
“You’ll wrinkle it if you glower that hard,” Sanji scoffs. Smoke curls down with his voice.
“It’s already wrinkled,” Zoro mutters. “That’s how you can tell it’s good.”
Sanji makes an unimpressed noise and drops down beside him without asking, back to the mast as well, legs stretched out long. His shoulder’s warm where it brushes Zoro’s bicep through two layers of shirt and not nearly enough distance.
The red cookbook lands in Sanji’s lap with a soft thud and, for a while, they’re quiet. Pages whisper. The ship creaks. Somewhere over their heads a seagull complains once, then thinks better of it.
“What’s yours say?” Sanji asks eventually, eyes still on his page.
Zoro snorts. “Words.”
“Wow.” Sanji flicks ash neatly into a little tin by his hip. “Riveting. Truly you’re the scholar of our age.”
Zoro feels his mouth twitch. He clears his throat and drags his gaze back to the manual before it can evolve into a full smile. “It says…” he squints at the careful script. “A blade that chases victory will tire but a blade that accepts stillness will cut even the wind.’”
Sanji’s silent and when Zoro finally glances sideways, the blonde’s staring at him, cigarette paused halfway to his lips, expression caught somewhere between derisive and interested.
“Cut the wind, huh?” he says at last. “You gonna try that next time we’re becalmed, Moss?”
“Shut up,” Zoro grumbles, heat pricking at his ears. “You asked.”
Sanji taps the ash out, flips a little further into his own book. “My turn.”
He licks his thumb, gentle with the paper, and finds a page like he already knows where he’s going. “For the genoise, beat your eggs and sugar until the mixture is pale, thick and wonderfully fluffy, doubled in volume like a cloud that has learned how to sing.’”
Zoro stares at him.
Sanji glances over, smug. “Go on, say it.”
Zoro narrows his eyes. “Fluffy,” he repeats, deadpan. “That word's banned now.”
Sanji gasps, outraged. “You take that back! Fluffy is a sacred texture. Fluffy is the difference between cake and regret.”
“Fluffy’s what Chopper’s hat is,” Zoro says. “Not what you should be doing to eggs.”
Sanji clutches the book to his chest in mock horror. “Heretic.”
Zoro flips his manual pointedly. “At least my book doesn’t sound like it’s trying to seduce breakfast.”
“Oh?” Sanji arches a brow. “Read another line, then. Enlighten me, oh stoic warrior of the page.”
Zoro glares at the print, picks one at random. “‘When foot and earth are strangers the strike will wander. When they are lovers, the cut is inevitable.”
The silence that follows is different this time. Thicker. Sanji’s mouth curls, slow, even as his tone is deceptively light. “Sounds like someone’s book is trying to get lucky.”
Zoro tries to read about the correct angle for a sliding parry and fails because he keeps noticing the way Sanji’s mouth moves slightly as his eyes scan the lines, a tiny, unconscious shaping of the words. He flips another page, then pauses. “Hey. Read yours. I’ll read mine. Out loud.”
“Why?”
“So I can mock your ascetic little sword bible properly,” Sanji says, like it’s obvious. “And you can mock my decadent odes to butter. It’ll be educational.”
Zoro opens his mouth to say absolutely not and hears himself say: “Fine.”
Sanji’s eyes flicker, something quick and warm passing through them that Zoro pretends he didn’t see. “Deal. One stance, one recipe. Trade-off.”
The words settle between them with more weight than they deserve. One stance. One recipe. Quiet nights. Two idiots sharing the most serious books they own.
Zoro clears his throat and starts in the middle of the paragraph, because he’s not starting at the beginning like some performance. “In second guard the practitioner must be aware not only of the enemy’s blade but of the space carved by his own intention. The sword is an extension, not of the arm, but of the will. To overreach is to invite your own undoing.”
There’s a pause. Then Sanji says, very softly: “That’s metal.”
“Shut up.”
“No, really,” Sanji muses. “Space carved by intention. I could write that on a menu. Okay, my turn! ‘To prepare the citrus veloute one must first make peace with patience. The broth must not be rushed and the zest must not be forced. There is no faster way to ruin brightness than to demand it appear before it’s ready.’” He glances sideways, daring Zoro to comment.
Zoro frowns at the page like it’s a complicated footwork diagram. “Make peace with patience? It’s food.”
Sanji clasps a hand to his chest. “You just read a whole paragraph about space carved by intention and you’re coming for my metaphors?”
“Mine’s about not dying,” Zoro says. “Yours is about citrus.”
“Same thing, in the wrong kitchen,” Sanji says, but there’s no venom in it. He leans over to skim the ink across Zoro’s lap instead now. “When tired, do not cling to your blade. Lay it down and let your spirit rest, for a dull heart cannot hold a sharp edge. You listening to your boyfriend in there, or are you going to keep doing pushups in your sleep?”
Zoro’s pulse jumps at the casual boyfriend, stupid and involuntary. “I don’t do pushups in my sleep.”
“You snore in squats. I’ve seen it.”
“Liar.”
Sanji smiles, small and sideways. In the lantern light, with his hair falling over one eye and that heavy book open across his thighs, he looks… soft. Not the right word, Zoro thinks, then remembers fluffy and wants to choke. The page in front of him blurs a little. He clears his throat. “Last one, then I’m done.”
Sanji’s gaze flickers to his face, quick; he nods. “Hit me.”
Zoro finds a line he liked earlier and pretends it’s random. “A sword is not a promise to win. It is a promise to stay, to stand in the space between what you love and what would harm it, no matter how many times you must raise your arm.” The words feel too big in his mouth. He pushes them out anyway.
Sanji goes very quiet.
The creak of the ship comes back into focus. The faint slap of waves, the soft murmur of someone talking in their sleep below deck. Zoro keeps his eyes on the page, ears straining.
“You really like that one,” Sanji says eventually.
“Shut up,” Zoro says, but it comes out softer than he meant it to.
Sanji’s hand shifts on the deck, fingers brushing his. Just once.
“Read it again,” he says.
Zoro’s throat is dry. “You can read it yourself, Curls.”
“Yeah,” Sanji says. His knuckles stay where they are, warm and steady against Zoro’s. “But I like the way it sounds when you do it.”
Zoro’s heart does something stupid. Instead, he finds a paragraph about low sweeping guards and the importance of shifting weight through the hips, about controlling the opponent’s hand by controlling their expectation. Sanji reads about layering flavours like voices in a choir, about the exact moment to pull caramel from the heat before it tips from amber to bitter.
Zoro finds himself leaning sideways despite himself, peering over at the cookbook’s illustrations. “That grip’s wrong,” he mutters at one. “You’d cut your fingers off like that.”
“That’s dessert. Nobody uses a cleaver on spun sugar, you animal.”
“You should, if you’re holding the knife like that.”
“Okay, yeah, that angle is… weird.” He flips a few pages. “Ugh, look at this clown. Who taught him to julienne, Marine?”
At some point, Zoro realises he’s not reading his bits in his head first anymore. He’s just… letting them come straight out of his mouth. The rhythm of the manual is soothing, in its way. Precise. Measured. Everytime he stumbles on a word Sanji corrects him without mocking, or only with the gentlest possible scoff. Every time Sanji barks out some ludicrous North Blue term for a technique Zoro repeats it under his breath until it sits right on his tongue.
He doesn’t notice when their knees end up touching. He does notice when Sanji stops midway through a sentence and says: “Hold up. Show me that.”
He’s pointing at a diagram in Zoro’s manual. Third stance: weight shifted, blade angled down, back hand braced.
“What, you can’t read?”
Sanji flicks his lighter open and closed once, a little nervous tell Zoro’s only recently learned. “You’re not the only one who’s ever picked up a sword,” he says, a shade defensive. “It just looks… off. Here. Stand up.”
Zoro blinks, then scoffs and gets to his feet. Sanji rises too, graceful in that annoying way, cookbook left open on the deck like a patient dog.
“The manual says,” Zoro recites, because he’s nothing if not thorough, “Allow the knee to track the line of the toes, not collapsing inward, lest the joint be compromised under pressure.”
Sanji makes a face. “That’s ugly.” His hand lands on Zoro’s knee, firm and sure, pushing it a fraction out. His other hand settles on Zoro’s hip, adjusting the angle. Heat jumps up Zoro’s spine like someone struck flint there.
“There,” Sanji mutters, stepping back half an inch to look, fingers still on him. “Now you won’t tear your ligaments like an idiot the first time you have to pivot on a bad surface.”
Zoro stares at him for half a heartbeat too long. Sanji’s close. Close enough that Zoro can count the faint freckles clinging near his jaw, smell the lingering lemon and smoke. His eyes are bright even in the low light, intent, mouth soft with focus, not twisted in a smirk.
Zoro’s body, rude bastard that it is, registers possibility. He looks away quickly, clearing his throat. “You done copping a feel?”
Sanji snorts and steps back, hands dropping. “You wish.” He sits again without making a big thing of it, patting the plank beside him in a wordless come on.
Zoro sits back down, their shoulders slotting together more easily than they did at the start of the night.
“Again,” Sanji says. “One of yours, one of mine.”
x
It becomes a thing. Not every night. Not on storm days, or on evenings when Luffy ropes them into some stupid contest that leaves them both too tired to do anything but fall where they stand. But often enough that, after a few weeks, the crew stops commenting when they see the two of them side by side by the mast, two books open and one lantern burning low.
Zoro can tell, now, when Sanji’s trying to hide how much a particular passage hits him: the way his voice goes a shade too casual reading lines like feed the ones who have known hunger first. Sanji can tell when Zoro’s chewing on a concept - weight shifts, mental stillness, the idea of using retreat as an attack - because he’ll read the same paragraph twice without noticing.
Sometimes they don’t even mock each other. Sometimes Zoro will stumble over a line about finding the balance between restraint and abundance and Sanji will go quiet, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, eyes far away. Sometimes Sanji will read something about never cutting with more force than necessary, that the blade should do the work and Zoro will sit back, manual slack in his hands, thinking of everytime he’s swung too hard out of fear.
“You’re thinking,” Sanji will say, softly.
“You’re breathing,” Zoro will retort, equally soft.
It’s code, quickly, for i see you doing it too.
x
One night when the air is so clear every star looks close enough to touch, Sanji reads: “The most important ingredient in any dish is the intention with which you prepare it. Food, like people, cannot be forced to open. It must be invited.”
Zoro snorts, but quietly. “Sounds like something Robin would say.”
“Robin would say it with less drama,” Sanji glances sideways to where Zoro’s head is tipped back against the mast, his eye half-lidded, gaze elsewhere. His manual's closed and his fingers rest lightly on the cover, thumb tracing the groove worn into the spine.
Sanji’s chest does a weird, traitorous little squeeze and he thinks, ridiculously, of that line Zoro read days ago and tried to pretend he didn’t like: space carved by intention.
He thinks of this: the small patch of deck by the mast, the lantern, the two books, the way their shoulders lean together more easily now. How he can tell, from the sound of Zoro’s breathing, when the other man’s reading something that scares him.
He wonders what the hell he thinks he’s doing, inviting someone in this far.
“Hey,” Sanji says, before he can think better of it. “Read that bit again.”
Zoro squints. “Which?”
“About… intention,” Sanji says, flicking his fingers. “The space thing. You know.”
Zoro eyes him, then flips through with careful fingers until he finds it. He doesn’t need to read it off the page, Sanji realises. He knows it now. He just… wants the anchor of the words in his hands.
“In second guard,” he reads, voice a little lower than usual. “The practitioner must be aware not only of the enemy’s blade but of the space carved by his own intention. The sword is an extension, not of the arm, but of the will. To overreach is to invite your own undoing.”
Sanji hums. There’s a tiny, sharp ache in his throat. Space carved by intention,” he repeats, softer, tasting the phrase like it’s something delicate on his tongue. “Show-off.” His hand has gone still on the page of his cookbook; he’s not reading. Zoro isn’t either. They’re just… sitting here, close enough that their shoulders press, listening to each other breathe.
stupid, he thinks, heart climbing up into his mouth. absolutely stupid.
Then, before his courage can evaporate like steam, he turns a little, bracing one hand on the deck to shift his weight until shoulders slide against each other, fabric on fabric, the contact suddenly huge.
“What?” Zoro asks warily, like Sanji’s about to suggest they analyse another metaphor.
Sanji swallows. The light paints a warm line across Zoro’s cheekbone; the shadow of his lashes fans down and up close like this he can see the tiny, pale nick along Zoro’s lower lip, some half-forgotten sparring mishap.
He has wanted, for months, to put his mouth there.
“Nothing,” Sanji says. His voice isn’t steady at all. “Just… testing something.”
“Testing wh -”
Sanji leans in and kisses him, so small he could almost pretend it isn’t. Just the bare press of his mouth to the corner of Zoro’s, a precise little contact like placing a garnish just so. There and gone in a second, soft and careful enough that if Zoro flinches, if he laughs, if he shoves -
Zoro’s breath catches, once, hard. Sanji feels it, a tiny jolt under his palm where it braces on the deck.
“Oh,” Zoro says faintly and the sound goes through Sanji like someone’s pulled a wire tight from his throat to his ribs. He can feel the way Zoro goes still-still, in the way the muscles under his shoulder ease and tense all at once, like someone reset his balance.
“You sure?” he asks and it’s a stupid question from a stupid man and Sanji’s stupid heart is pounding loud enough that Sanji’s sure everyone on the ship can hear it.
“Yeah,” he says anyway, eyes flicking down to Zoro’s mouth and back up. “I’ve been sure.”
He doesn’t have time to regret it before Zoro turns his head the last few degrees between them and meets him, softly, square on the mouth this time. The kiss is clumsy around the edges - Zoro’s nose bumps his, their teeth click once - but underneath that it’s… careful. Intentional in a way that makes Sanji’s toes curl against the deck.
Zoro’s hand is still on the manual, white-knuckled on the edge of the page. Like if he lets go of something, he might really fall. Sanji wants to laugh and lean in and bite his lip and tell him to stop being such a damn martyr about it. Instead he just tilts his head, just enough to make it fit, and lets it be what it is: simple. Real. Here.
The kiss breaks on a shared breath. They don’t go far, just forehead to forehead, noses almost brushing, their mouths a whisper apart. Sanji’s hand has somehow ended up curled in Zoro’s shirt, fingers hooked in the fabric like a man hanging off a cliff. He lifts Zoro’s hand, just a little, just enough to lay a quick, experimental kiss against the knuckles. Another test of gravity. The world doesn’t end.
“Tomorrow,” he says, quietly. “I’ll make the citrus thing.”
“With the clingy sauce,” Zoro mutters.
“With the clingy sauce,” Sanji agrees. “You can read me about not overreaching while I stir.”
Zoro snorts. “You never listen.”
“Sometimes I do,” Sanji says, eyes skimming his face like he’s memorising it. “When it’s important.”
Under the lantern, with their books open and their shoulders pressed together and the sea breathing around them, it feels like the kind of stupid, fragile promise you only make when you’re really going to keep it. Above them, the stars go on glittering like spilled salt as Zoro leans in and steals one more quick kiss, just to make sure it’s real.
Sanji lets him.
“Greedy,” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” Zoro grins. “Get used to it.”
x
this was supposed to turn into them making fluffy souffle but...... the books kept luring me back in <3
Here's my contribution to Zosanuary 2026 by @simonstardust!
Zosanuary Day 2; Prompt: Hearts
(all works will be reblogged on @zosanuary)
1811 word fic under the cut!
Notes: this is set after Thriller Bark, and there are minor spoilers of how Thriller Bark ends.
Sanji is a bit OCD-coded here and that's because I have OCD and headcanon him as having OCD.
Hope y'all enjoy the fic! :)
Sanji has grown really fond of hearing Zoro’s heart beat. Fond doesn’t quite feel like the right word, but the only other words that come to mind are obsessed, or addicted, and Sanji doesn’t like either of those to describe this feeling, this need to hear Zoro’s heart beat, and how the need won’t die down until he follows through with the action.
This began when Thriller Bark ended, when he found Zoro barely breathing, with only a hint of a heartbeat.
He’ll never forget the fear he felt when he thought Zoro’s heart had stopped.
So he uses every chance he gets to make sure Zoro’s heart is still beating. Sometimes he’ll shove Zoro on the chest, and let his hands linger over Zoro’s heart longer than they should, to see if he could feel Zoro’s heart beat through his chest. But that was often too obvious, so he’s been grabbing Zoro’s wrist instead, checking for a pulse. Every now and then his hands go to Zoro’s neck to check for a pulse when they are in a heated fight, but the wrist is much less conspicuous, and easier to grab at all times.
Sanji knows these thoughts are bordering irrational, but he can’t quiet the worry in his head until he confirms Zoro is alright.
Sanji’s currently making onigiri, but his mind isn’t present, thinking about when the last time he checked Zoro’s heart was. He looks down and sees that he made three heart-shaped onigiri. Not like a human heart though--the kind that people use to symbolize love. He sighs.
“Food almost ready, Cook?” Zoro comes into the kitchen without warning.
Sanji jumps, heart beat quickening. “Not quite yet Marimo!” he tries to squish the onigiri in a panic, trying to rid it of its heart shape.
Unfortunately, Zoro has already noticed. “Is that…a heart?”
Sanji freezes. Too late now. “Yes.” He gulps. “I was thinking about Nami-swan,” he tries to lie with non chalance.
Zoro raises an eyebrow. He’s not believing him. He looks down at Sanji’s hands. “You’re reshaping it so it’s not a heart, aren’t you?”
Sanji stays still, unsure how to dig himself out of this one. “Yes.”
Zoro reaches forward to grab one of the still heart-shaped onigiri, and Sanji’s heart quickens again. Zoro takes a bite. “I like it.” He gestures back to the one in Sanji’s hands and takes another bite. “Change it back. I like it.”
A light blush rises on Sanji’s face.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to talk with your mouth full?” Sanji mutters, but still does what Zoro wants, reshaping the onigiri into a heart. “There. Satisfied?”
Zoro grabs it graciously, then looks Sanji in the eye. “Almost.”
And then he walks about out again, as if he didn’t cause Sanji’s heart to have more palpitations.
They don’t talk about it at dinner. Not that Sanji wants to. It would be nice if Zoro didn’t ever bring it up. He hopes he’ll be that lucky.
—————
Sanji stands at the railing in the aft of the ship, smoking another cigarette, watching the waves gently lap the ship in the night, contemplating.
“Hey.”
Sanji stills as he recognizes Zoro’s voice. “Hey.”
He can hear liquid splash around in a bottle. “Mind if I join you?”
“Sure, why not,” Sanji murmurs, not turning to look at him at all.
Zoro slides up next to him. Sanji wills himself to stay still.
Zoro tilts his head back and guzzles his bottle of sake, as Sanji lets out another puff of smoke.
They stand in silence for Sanji doesn’t know how long. Not that he would know how to fill it.
“Can we talk about it?” Zoro asks after some time.
Sanji tenses. “About what?”
“How you’ve been acting recently.”
Saji finally turns his head, nearly lets the cigarette fall out of his mouth. “...What?”
“You’ve been touching me more often,” Zoro continues in a neutral tone. Sanji’s face is on fire. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. And you know, if you wanted to touch my pec, you could have just asked.”
Sanji barks out a laugh of surprise. Of course that’s what Zoro would think he was doing. “That’s not what I was doing, Marimo.”
“Then what else?”
“I…” Sanji trails off. It feels embarrassing, admitting it out loud. “It doesn’t matter. It won’t happen again.”
“I know how you move, Sanji. I know when you’re doing something on accident or on purpose. All those interactions were on purpose.”
Sanji lets out a deep sigh. “You aren’t going to let this go, are you.”
“No.”
Sanji sighs again. Looks like there’s no getting out of this one. So he admits it, ready to get this over with. “I wanted to check on your heart.”
Zoro tilts his head, turning his body so he’s facing Sanji. “Hm?”
“I know, it’s stupid.”
“But why would you need to? We have Chopper. And why do you need to know?”
Sanji swallows. He needs to say it. He turns to face Zoro. He looks Zoro in the eye. “Because ever since Thriller Bark and I found you like…that…and I could barely feel your heart beating when you collapsed, I’ve been worried about you, and your heart.”
Zoro leans back in surprise. “You’ve been…worried?”
“Oh course, you idiot!” Sanji snaps. “How do you think I felt when I saw you standing in the field like that?! Of course I’ve been worried!”
“And you just think my heart is going to randomly stop again?” Zoro asks slowly.
“Yes, yes, I do,” Sanji snaps. “I know it’s stupid.”
“No it’s not, I…actually think it’s sweet.”
Sanji flinches back in surprise. “You…do?”
Zoro nods genuinely. “I didn't realized you cared that much.”
Sanji turns away again, flustered. “Of course I do, idiot. We don’t talk about it that much, or show it, but you’re still a part of the team. Of course I want you to still be alive.”
“It’s funny, hearing it actually said aloud,” Zoro muses. “We don’t really talk about how we feel.”
“No we don’t,” Sanji agrees softly.
“And those heart shaped onigiri from today…”
Sanji’s face heats up again.
“...Was that also related to my heart?”
“I guess.” Sanji’s face heats up even more. “Stop making it weird, Marimo.”
“I just wanna say…thank you.”
Sanji turns back to him in surprise. “Hm?”
“For caring,” Zoro says into his eyes. “And the onigiri.” He has a playful glint in his eye.
Sanji chuckles. Trust Zoro to make it about onigiri.
Sanji nods uncertainly, not really sure how to respond. “Mm.”
“And…I’m looking out for you too, you know?” Zoro tells him softly.
Sanji’s face flushes. He never expected to hear Zoro say those words. But he finds that he likes them. “Mm.”
“You about ready to turn in for the night?” Zoro asks. “Knowing Luffy we have a full day ahead of us tomorrow.”
Sanji chuckles. “I don’t doubt it.” He pushes his hands off the railing and straightens up. “Probably best to get as much sleep as we can.”
They walk back to the boys’ quarters in silence.
Before they enter, Sanji notices Zoro looking at him, and doesn’t know what to make of that expression. “What?”
Zoro’s face continues to be unreadable. “Can I feel your heart?”
Sanji gulps. “W-what?”
“Well, you’ve checked that mine is working,” Zoro continues. He holds out a hand. “So can I check on yours?”
“What are you saying, Marimo?” Sanji mutters defensively with his eyes averted. He looks and sees Zoro looking at him steadily. “You’re serious?”
Zoro just nods.
Sanji swallows again. “Fine.”
He straightens up, face heating a bit.
Very gently, Zoro reaches out a hand towards Sanji’s chest.
Sanji tries to feel very normal about it.
But there’s something so intimate about the moment, how concentrated Zoro looks as he’s genuinely trying to feel Sanji’s heart, that it makes Sanji feel a little warm, not in an unpleasant way.
It’s ruined when Zoro smirks.
Sanji’s irritation rises again. “What are you smirking at, Marimo?”
“Your heart rate picked up a bit. Did I have anything to do with that?”
Sanji simmers. “I’m going to sleep, Marimo.” And before Zoro can do anything, Sanji opens the door and makes his way to his hammock.
Zoro follows him silently, and makes his way to his own hammock without another word, or a smirk.
Until he’s close enough to murmur, “Good night, Cook.”
Sanji swallows as he gets into his hammock. “Goodnight, Marimo.”
The room falls silent, except for the gentle movement of the hammocks, and the heavy breathing of the other boys who are passed out.
Sanji tosses and turns a bit, unable to get his mind to stop running.
After a while, Zoro murmurs, “Sanji?”
Sanji’s not even going to try to pretend to be asleep. “Yes?”
“Can’t sleep?”
“Obviously.”
“Can I help?”
“I don’t know.”
“I have an idea.”
“Do tell.”
“Come down here first.”
Sanji sighs. But he’s curious enough that he gets down from his hammock and faces Zoro, ready to hear whatever he’s about to say. “Hit me.”
Zoro stretches his hammock a bit. “Come here. Maybe you just need to listen to a heartbeat.”
Sanji’s glad Zoro can’t see how red his face has gotten. “Marimo, I don’t think this is necessary-”
“It’s supposed to be calming,” Zoro interrupts, still keeping his voice down not to wake the others--not that much could wake them. “And maybe it’ll take one worry off your mind.”
Sanji huffs. “Fine. But I’m going back up if it doesn’t work.”
“Fine by me.”
And so, very slowly, Sanji gingerly climbs in to Zoro’s hammock. It’s a bit tight, and a bit uncomfortable, but they shift around until Sanji feels like he’s not about to fall off, his head resting on Zoro’s massive chest.
Then he hears it: Zoro’s steady heart beat.
“You hear that?” Zoro murmurs.
Sanji can feel the rumble of Zoro’s voice in his chest, another sound that’s more comforting than he would have expected. “I do.”
“Good. Maybe that will help you sleep.”
Sanji has to admit, it is very calming.
Thump thump, thump thump, thump thump.
Then something changes.
“Hey Zoro?”
“Hm?”
Sanji can’t help his smirk. “Your heart beat is picking up a little.”
“I…goodnight, Sanji.”
Sanji continues grinning, knowing he has won this round; also feeling vindicated knowing that he can also make Zoro’s heart speed up. “Goodnight, Zoro.”
Maybe they’ll talk about what it means that their hearts beat faster around each other, but that’s not a conversation when sleep is finally catching up to Sanji.
The longer they stay together, cuddled in the hammock, Zoro’s heart beat goes back to normal. It’s the perfect sound that lulls Sanji into a blissful sleep.
My third contribution to @simonstardust 's ZoSanuary2026 event! In my timezone I'm late, but please ignore that
Please read the end notes once you're done with the story
All works will be reposted on @zosanuary!
•{Day 3: Lapislazuli}•
Shopping sprees were always so boring.
Zoro was usually just assignated to carry all the bags whoever he was following wouldn't bother to carry themself. Today? He was playing mule for Nami, and horse for Luffy. The navigator was dragging them in some town, under a mean sun who tried hard to erase any shady spot on its wake, while their captain was clinging to him like he was trying to become his personal backpack.
"So," the woman started, holding her loyal loguepose to eye level. "We need sweaters. Scarves. This kind of stuff."
"Why?" the swordman raised an eyebrow, not even catching the attention of his captain, busy to observe the busy street.
"We're equiped for winter islands. Not for casual cold night. And we're heading to an automn island." Nami rolled her eyes, as if she was making perfect sense.
"We have covers." the rubber boy spoke from behind a shoulder, hyped up by a firm nod from the swordman.
"Are you two stupid? It's not enough!" the girl pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting the urge to punch the stupid duo in the middle of the street.
After a few minutes of arguing, the captain had run off to the nearest bar with his pocket money, in the quest of some meat. The swordman tried to follow, but was brought back to his path by the threats of a few more zero written on his debt. So here he was with the witch- the very kind, very sweet navigator- into aisles full of colors.
~•~
"So, we found some little things for Luffy, Usopp, us, Chopper...Now left we're left with Robin and Sanji." the navigator listed, checking the budget they had left. "Robin will like something long. I'll let you find the rest for Sanji."
"Huh? Why the Hell would I bother to look for something for this idiot?" his protestations were cut short by a punch right on the middle of his nose.
"You guys are always stuck at each others throats. Hell, you see him more than I do, you'll know what suits him."
"...like what? How am I supposed to know what to take? I only ever saw him in suits."
"So find something fancy. And warm. An comfortable."
"You're sure this exist?"
"You'll find it."
"Why don't you? He'll even wear a pink skirt if you were the one who bought it."
"You buy him a pink skirt if you want to see him in one so badly. Freak."
"I beg you pardon-"
~•~
He had lost this argument with a few bruises, and now he had to pay with his own money. That Nami gave him. Of course. There go more zero to his debt. He walked down the street on his own, his mind rilling. He imagined Sanji, from his golder hair to his black shoes, an easy task for him really.
Zoro scowled. How was he supposed to choose a sweather for this idiot? What does he even like besides something black? Something that would look good with his suit pants, right? Would he even wear his pants if he was so cold? God, did he need to look for bottoms as well? The thought of that alone made some pink creep up his cheeks. He shaked his head. Sanji wasn't a doll. He couldn't just imagine dressing him up all handsome and pretty and nice and warm and- that was too domestic for them. In the middle of his exploration of the wideness of this damned endless street -about as wide as the Merry-, his eyes landed on something through the glass of a display cabinet. Something blue.
It looked simple, three different shades of it, a first line clear as the sky, the second lighter, a thinner line with dent, mimicking wavew, and the bottom was a blue who shone and looked...so royal. He was sure that if the sunlights graced the deepth of the sea, the water would reflet this deep color.
The tag under it read -unique piece, 100% cotton, turquoise, aquamarine, lapis lazuli. He had heard the last word before, soon after leaving Alabasta a few days ago, if he remembered? When Nami was making a list of the gold and precious stones Robin gave to buy her way into her heart. The navigator had made a remark, about how this one reminded her of the ocean they were sailing on.
The cook liked the ocean. And if this was a precious stone, it was fancy, right? Would he like it? His mind drifted to an image of Sanji wrappred in the warm fabric, and his heart did that thing he never liked, like all the times we was thinking about him. To think that maybe, maybe, this idiot could dress in something that he personally picked for him- Oh it was making him a little too happy.
He entered the shop.
He asked the lady here, dressed in a palette of baby pink and pastel greens, to take a closer look at the exposed piece. "This one is also one of my favorite!" she explained with a smile as she made her way back from the fake model with it in hand. "It took me a while, to get that color right."
He only nodded, unable to really had anything to the conversation. "This is a rare stone, my favorite shade of blue. I'm glad I could use it...and I'm happy to see it will be offered to someone dear."
"Hm? What did you just say?" the swordman was snapped out of his reveries, looking up at the woman. Had something given him away?? She sure left him to wonder, answering with a sweet smile and handing him the bag. He thanked her and left, content with himself.
~•~
"Thank you for the help, Sanji-kun." Nami said was the blond was helping her to fold and separate the new cloches they just bought.
"It's a pleasure Nami-Swan! And you have such lovely taste! It's a blessing having you take care of our shopping !" he picked up a few cloches in the bags she said were his, beaming at them with heart eyes. He looked a bit more serious when another piece caught his attention- a sweather, a beautiful blue. He looked at it all over, eyes sparkling.
"This one's from Zoro." The navigator said in a casual tone, but her smirk betrayed the malice with which she spoke. She saw the cook's face darken before he turned back to her.
"Did you pay for it?" the asked with narrow eyes. She shook her head no, and the cook just threw what he was holding with the pile of his other cloches. "Like I'd ever wear something coming from this Marimo." here he was, mumbling. "Who does he think he is? He thinks I'm as tasteless as his stupid ass? Does he think he's better than Nami-swan when it come to fashion? Plus has to be some kind of trap... He can't-"
And so the poor sweater finished forgotten down the bottom of a drawer.
~•~
Sanji was opening his second pack of cigarett. Or his third. Or this fourth. He couldn't tell. Chopper and the rest of the crew had woken up not long ago, and since then they've been grouped around their swordman and their doctor.
It wasn't too difficult to tell there was something off with the cook as well, with the way one of his legs was shaking and how he was smoking with at least three cigaretts in his mouth. By the time the raindeer was done tending to everyone's wounds, their captain was already chanting for a party and a gigantic feast with the other pirates they just saved from Gecko Moria.
When his crewmates invited him back to the Sunny to shower and change, he hesitated, gaze flickering down to the sleeping swordman, before thinking that he couldn't let Zoro see him in that state once he woke up.
If he ever woke up.
This thought haunted him until he was already clean in the Sunny. They didn't really have much time with their new ship to organise themselves, so his cloches were scattered around in his closet. He'd just pick up whatever he'll found first, he was too tired to think about how he'd look.
Until his gaze landed on something. The sweater seemed to be glowing in the dark, a stark contrast with his other cloches who suddently seemed pale in comparaison. The color was calling him, swallowing the warmth of the other tissues to présent itself as the only option. Zoro had bought this one just for him, right? He picked it up and held it a bit, passing his eyes on the tight knots and the memesrising colors. The bottom was especially pretty, it looked like nothing Sanji had seen before.
He held it to his chest, letting the fabric soak in his heartbeat. He put it on and it felt even better than being wrapped into a cloud back on Skypiea, the softness already doing a lot for his sore body. A needle of guilt came to bother his gut, a mean voice whispering that he should have worn this sooner.
He knew, but the past already happened. Now he could only hope that Zoro would see him in it, at least once.
~•~
He barely left this side for as long as he was bedridden. He left only to go to the bathroom or to cook, not even leaving to smoke. He did smoke before and after his shower, or while his pots were heating up on the stove.
He slept half in a chair, half on Zoro's bed, which earned him a few scowlings from Chopper, about how sleeping in a bad position will leave him with body aches and blah blah blah. His own wounds were healing nicely, but the swordman was in a far worst state. For once he was glad the idiot was stubborn, he knew he wouldn't let himself die after surviving whatever it was that Kuma put him through.
Now he was once again asleep, head on the matress, his hand resting over Zoro's heart, trying to hold it in a comforting embrace. Talking about him, the mosshead opened an eye lazily, taking in his surroundings. He was back at the infirmary, that was a good sign. The last thing he remembered was the sound of his nakamas and a piano- and nothing else. If he didn't aknowledge how the cook kept either insulting him or begging for him not to die in his slumber. He felt the light weight on his chest, and looked down to see Sanji asleep right next to him. He looked better than the last time he saw him, he was clean and oh-
A spark highlighted his grey eyes when he noticed Sanji had his sweater on. It looked good on him, like it was created just to fit his body and his pretty face. A faint smile appreared on his lips, and he took the risk to caress his blond hair.
He felt him tense up under his palm, sign that he had woken him up. None of them spoke, and in the silence they both understood that the other wanted this peaceful moment to stretch as much as they did themselves. Sanji drew gentle small circles over his heart, and Zoro let his hand absentmindly explore his golden strands.
~•~
Soon, the Strawhats will be arriving to Sabaody. The swordman was still weak, but he could speak and walk around freely now. After a few days of doing anything with the crew to busy himself without training -Chopper's orders-, he found himself into a strange routine. Before the sun went to bed, he would join Sanji in the kitchen, sit at the table and watch him do whatever he was preparing at this hour.
The sweater still on his back, the cook felt a bit too observed for his taste. He was busy making snacks for his dear Nami and his lovely Robin, what was so interesting about it? He was ready to aim the question at his stalker, and his mouth let out no sound.
"It matches your eyes" Zoro said out of the blue, not too low but not too high, like a secret he didn't want to whisper, making sure Sanji understood. The cook frooze in front of his dish, and said nothing. His mouvements were a bit more slow when he got back from his high, his body moving by itself to place the plate of onigiris right in front of the swordman. He looked at him directly, and his heart forgot how to beat when he saw that Zoro was already watching his face.
"They're not that dark" he protested with no real venom in his words. It was true, his eyes weren't so dark, they caught more light, but they didn't look any less intense. Zoro watched them darken a thousand of times, in front of an enemy, or in front of him, and he knew that if he had to die, it would be by drowning into those ocean eyes. None of them said anything about the remark, and Sanji broke the eye-contact, throwing himself into a feeling he was more familiar with; a good cloud of smoke in his lung.
Zoro ate in silence as the cook turned back to whatever cocktail he was preparing, his eyes lingering on the shape the cloches had on his body, how the colors looked right on him, a light blue kissing his nape and a darker once hugging his black pant. Sanji often lost himself in contemplation of the waves, like he wanted to join them, and the little pattern under his chest made it look like they had reached for him too.
He looked like he was wearing a piece of the sea, and they both found it beautiful.
~~~
This was supposed to be a story about Nami helping Zoro to find the perfect engagement ring but halfway through I saw this lovely comic by @sleepy-talker and...oh well
Also I have no idea how they can get the exact color of lapislazuli on the cloch, I'm a Minecraft kid so in my head she dyed it in a cauldron lmao
Another one for ZoSanuary!! (All entries are reblogged on @zosanuary)
Okay weirdly enough my first thought with this prompt were the glowing jellyfish from Stardew Valley 😂😂😂 So I kinda incorporated them in this piece! I also took an outfit inspo from the One Piece color walks!
