Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sanji can’t tell what’s worse: the sun scorching the back of his neck, the riot of screaming parents vibrating through his hungover skull, or the fact that they’re fifteen minutes into this game and he’s already considering throwing in the towel. He cups his hands around his mouth, trying to project across the field.

“Luca, push up! You’ve got space on the wing! Just like we – ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”

Luca goes flying, landing in a tragic tangle of spaghetti limbs and plaintive mewls. Sanji nearly storms the pitch, pinching the bridge of his nose to calm his farm. “Oi, REF! That was a foul! Number 4 shoved him and I know you saw it!”

“Looked like gravity to me,” Zoro drawls, half a protein bar in one hand. His sunglasses are firmly in place, concealing whatever smug, smug expression he’s wearing underneath. Sanji has to take a beat to remind himself that the kids would be devastated if he went to jail for manslaughter.

He’s not that cruel: he can wait until after the semi-finals, at least.

“I’m going to write you up,” he snaps instead, even as Zoro gestures for the game to continue. “He body-checked him!”

Zoro waves lazily from across the pitch, sidestepping a tackle that borders on both illegal and morally reprehensible. “He’s fine. He bounced.”

“You gutless, idiot-brained, dickheaded –”  Sanji gets cut off by Meena’s mum, who claps a hand over his mouth with the precision of someone who’s done this before. She flashes Zoro a smile that’s trembling at the corners.

“Thanks, ref!” she calls, then hisses at Sanji, “Can we please just let the kids play?”

Sanji scowls but slinks back to his corner of the field, where he dutifully minds his tongue and doesn’t curse. Not even once. Until – “ARE YOU FUCKING BLIND?! They were offside!”

Zoro, jogging unfortunately close, gives him a withering glance. “They’re under-sevens? Offside doesn’t kick in until under-twelves. Aren’t you meant to be the coach?” He drags poor Ariel’s dad into the fray with a thumb jabbed toward Sanji. “Who is this guy? Did you find him on the street or something?”

They lose, two-nil.

Leo ends up with a bloodied nose. Yui and Hana take turns verbally dismantling the opposing team in Japanese until Sanji corrals them into shaking hands (he definitely does not see Hana trip Number Four, nor their mum whispering praise about it, no siree).

As he hurls the ball back into the kit bag with unnecessary violence he takes the time to glare daggers at Zoro. “I’m getting you fired.”

Zoro doesn’t even blink. He shrugs, radiating pure apathy. “Sure. What’s your name again? Let’s see whose complaint gets taken seriously first.”

Maybe Sanji kicks him. Maybe he doesn’t.

The kids don’t see it and that’s what matters.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Sanji slams through the kitchen doors like the sun itself wronged him which, judging by the fresh burn scraping along his neck, it has. The kitchen’s already in high swing and he’s running late, slightly, so he starts slamming the lockers open with enough force to startle one of the newer dishies.

Zoro follows a beat later, somehow still chewing the same goddamn protein bar like it’s a slow-burn threat.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he yawns, tossing his whistle and phone into Sanji’s locker. “That offside call? I could’ve decked you.”

“Oh, you could’ve decked me ?” Sanji whirls around even as he’s trying to get his apron somewhat presentable. He’s forgotten to bring a spare change of clothes, yet again, and he will die if anything gets on this shirt. “You let Number 4 commit a war crime and then blamed gravity.”

“First of all, they’re kids. Plus, gravity’s undefeated,” Zoro shrugs, like that means anything. Like that’s a point. 

Sanji shoves open the fish fridge, mostly to keep his hands busy so they don’t accidentally wrap around Zoro’s throat and give it a little squeeze. “I’m still filing a complaint.”

“Who to?” Zoro leans against the counter with a sneer. “You think Jinbe’s gonna demote me from volunteer ref to, what, less volunteer ref?”

Sanji slams the fridge shut. Nearby, Lewis is already giving them an exasperated side-eye, whispering something inaudible to Yvette when he really should be stopping those scallops from smoking. “You’re smug. You’re lazy. Why do you even do it? You hate kids. You hate rules. You hate me.”

“Whoa, now. I don’t hate kids. Or rules.”

Sanji scoffs. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Zoro smirks and dodges the tea towel Sanji throws with zero effort. “Don’t tempt me to try harder.”

This time Sanji throws a kick that definitely hits if Zoro’s wince is anything to go by. “Next week I’m switching fields. You can ref the Vipers.”

“Cool. They suck less.”

“They’re five.”

Zoro smirks, escaping to the pass to line up plates. “And yet.”

Somewhere in the background, Patty yells something about undercooked linguine and Zeff smashes a pot with enough fury to register as an aftershock. There’s pans sizzling and knives chopping and it’s all very loud and chaotic, which Sanji’s hangover loves, obviously. He ignores Zoro by slipping into business, hissing at Kyle to pay attention before the milk catches. 

(Honestly, it’d be a minor miracle if Kyle doesn’t set fire to himself by the end of the day. It’d be a newsworthy miracle if Sanji doesn’t do it for him.)

“If you’ve got time to gossip you’ve got time to prep,” he tells Lewis none-too-gently, who at least has the decency to look mollified. Steam’s fogging the windows and the air is vibrant with the smell of multiple stocks simmering. Someone’s got a break-up mix playing (Henry, definitely; poor kid) that manages to warble over the clatter of pots and pans. Flour hangs in the air like pollen and, hangover or not, Sanji’s mood lifts in the organic way it does whenever he gets into this space. 

Saturdays are hectic and exhausting, but in all the best ways. It’s the busiest day by far, the day when all of the tourists amble into town and everyone loses their will to live a little, but it’s also the day the Baratie really comes alive under his hands.

He moves between stations like he owns the floor because, let’s be real, at this point he practically does. A check on the lamb reduction here, a flick of seasoning into the bowl of pickled daikon there. There are multiple apprentice chefs with them this season, squabbling over how to julienne the carrot and Sanji slips between them with laser focus. “You’re cutting for eyes, not elbows. Try again.”

Mimi’s lip wobbles. “But we –”

“Try again.” He doesn’t yell, because he doesn’t usually need to: the kitchen bends around him like it always has, someone calling out to him to test the confit and Kyle begging him to remedy whatever the fuck is going on with that pastry case.

“Oi.” Zoro swings himself up onto one of the prep benches and Sanji shoves him for it one-handed, all instinct and adrenaline and muscle memory. He’s peeling an orange that he’s clearly nabbed from somewhere, working the pith with a scowl. “Are you going to Luffy’s thing later?”

“I’m not giving you a lift,” Sanji retorts automatically, scrunching down on his legs for a second so he can eyeball the pastry properly. God, what he’d give for Kyle to develop a single iota of spatial awareness. “Go beg Nami. Why are you even here? You don’t start for two hours. Go stare at cement or photosynthesize or whatever the hell you do.” 

“Robin’s grabbing her.” Zoro splits the orange evenly, leaving half on the bench for Sanji, which would be considered a kind and generous act if he didn’t immediately shove the entire other half into his mouth like a fucking savage. Whatever he tries to say next is rendered utterly unintelligible by the citrus monstrosity going on there, and Sanji physically recoils. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He manages, but it’s a moot point: if he had a dollar for every time he’s asked Zoro that question he wouldn’t even be at the Baratie. He’d be off on the other side of the country, opening his own little bed and breakfast a thousand miles away, safe from neanderthals who don’t know how to chew.

Zoro shrugs, picks at his teeth like he’s not in the kitchen of a two-hatted restaurant. Two hats! And he’s sitting on the damn bench! “Pick your poison.”

“Ah, Sanji?” It’s Mimi again, her mouth puckered like she’s just swallowed a lemon or, apparently, left a bunch of pipis ceviche for too long. “S-Sorry, I got distracted?”

“Pretty shellfish of you,” Zoro drawls, and Sanji tries very, very hard to remember that Zeff’s insurance policy probably doesn’t cover choking the floor staff out. He fixes Mimi with his most winning smile and redirects her back to her station, letting the calm rumble of the prepwork distract him and then it’s just a hop, skip and a jump before the Baratie is humming with the clink of glassware.

The tourist crowd’s soaking up the sun, chattering amongst themselves contentedly while their every need is met and then some. The ocean’s glimmering beyond the patio doors and the floor staff zip through narrow gaps like it’s a choreographed dance, albeit one where everyone’s slightly sweaty and someone’s dropped a fork in the bearnaise. 

Sanji finds himself, at some point, crouched between a pair of women debating desserts, explaining the difference between the signature yuzu tart and the calamansi panna cotta with reverence. 

“If you want something light and a little dangerous, I’d say the panna cotta. But if you’re planning to come back tomorrow to try the other one… well, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

They laugh, one of them blushes. He winks at her and spins the dessert menu around before tucking it back under her plate, like he’s done this a thousand times before. 

“Stop flirting with your reviewers,” Nami whispers, resplendent in whatever suede combination she’s got going on. It’s suede on suede on suede, and Sanji knows the room is probably appreciative. “Table two's still waiting on mains.”

“It’s called brand engagement, darling.” Sanji grins at her but threads back with her to the kitchen doors, throwing out a little wave here and there when he recognises someone’s face. 

Nami snorts. “Yeah, well I’m about to dock a star from the brand if you don’t move your ass.” As soon as they step through the doors she flags Paulie and Meghan about to get into an all-out brawl near the spice racks. “Absolutely not. Whatever this is? Table it. We’re booked out, I’m already tired and I do not want to field yet another complaint about someone’s waiter growling at them.”  

They fall quiet like trained dogs.

“Thank you,” she says sweetly, which means she’s going to draw and quarter them later. “Now, Paulie, can you please go take the verandah table for the influencer birthday party before I go tell them you have an intricate knowledge of shibari but maybe you just need to be loved?”

Paulie splutters but slinks off, leaving Meghan to cackle before she’s unceremoniously booted to tidying the walk-in freezer. Sanji does not envy her.

“Yo, table six wants their steak well done.” Zoro’s got someone else’s glittery pen tucked behind his ear and he’s not even trying to wear his apron properly. Sanji wants to fold him into the dishwasher. “I told them they could either have meat or shoe leather. Also, table eight says it wasn’t what they ordered.”

“Table eight can bite me,” Sanji snaps, “I plated it myself.”

Zoro jerks a thumb back towards the restaurant, smirk turned wolfish. “Oh, you wanna come tell them that yourself, big guy?”

“Absolutely not.” Nami winds her hand through the back of Sanji’s apron before he can go give table six his regards. She shoos Zoro off with a murderous squint. “Quit trying to start drama and go do your damn job. Sanji, honeypie, light of my life, if you keep accepting overripe mangoes from the produce girl I’m going to start taking it out of your pay, got it?”

In the end, Sanji gives Zoro the damn lift. It’s his own fault, really: he’s too nice for his own good. Also, it’s late now and Nami left with Robin ages ago so, really, what choice does he have? He grumbles the whole drive, trying and failing to ignore the way Zoro’s feet keep finding the dashboard. 

“You know if I crash the car your legs’d just snap in half like that?” 

“And I’d still manage to kick your ass,” Zoro snips back, shoving his feet so far forward they hit the windscreen and Sanji squawks, just knowing he’s going to be cleaning bootprints off it later.

Going Merry is already in full swing by the time they slink through the doors, weaving through the thrumming crowd to find their usual table. Nami and Robin are already there, deep in conversation about whether the true crime podcast they’re binging will lean too hard into the killer’s lonely childhood.

“You made it!” Usopp crows, slapping Sanji on the back with genuine warmth. One of his overall straps is hanging loose, and there’s a sad, wilted dandelion threaded through the buttonhole. “Thought Zeff had you scrubbing burnt pans ‘til midnight again.”

It’s fair: Sanji stays back longer than he should more often than he should. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he returns pleasantly and it’s mostly true. Somewhat true. Slightly true. There’s a little stage cobbled together in the far left, spotlit from above, where a tiny lady with a truly ambitious amount of hair is absolutely mangling My Heart Will Go On. Sanji claps anyway.

“Yo.” Zoro appears beside Robin, dropping into the seat with his usual lazy weight before slinging an amaretto sour across the sticky table to Sanji. His own whisky is half-empty already, pressed to his mouth like a shield which tells Sanji that Hiyori must be somewhere nearby. “When’s he on?”

“Ten minutes.” Nami checks her watch. She’s somehow managed to change out of her work outfit to a slinky blue dress and Sanji will never understand how she manages to look so put-together at every turn, but he will appreciate it for all eternity. “Oh, hey Ace!”

Sanji freezes, amaretto half-way to his mouth. He resolutely does not look at Ace, not the way the light catches on his earrings or the way he’s wearing a vest over nothing, or the way his grin could probably unmake a man or – the point is, he’s not looking. 

“Hey,” Ace slides into the empty seat between Nami and Sanji like he’s always belonged there. “Gotta get the best view of the little gremlin.”

“I hear he’s been rehearsing in the shower,” Nami says dryly. 

“Thought that was him screaming,” Zoro mutters.

Ace grins. “Probably both. Hey, long time no see.” He directs this to Sanji, who clutches his drink like it’s a flotation device and struggles to form a single coherent word, let alone a sentence.

Usopp coughs pointedly into his hand and Sanji’s so frozen he can’t even think of how to kill him properly. “Big fan of your, uh, glasswear technique, Sanji was just saying.”

“Loves a good glass,” Robin intones solemnly, propping her head up with both hands, looking for all intents and purposes like she’s about to perform a seance. 

Sanji, for his part, makes a sound like a kettle dying. He tries to shoot daggers at the both of them, but nothing quite sticks. Zoro snorts into his whisky. Nami reaches across Sanji to pluck the olive from Usopp’s martini. None of them are helping, and he nearly jumps out of his seat when the lights around them plunge low, lighting up the stage and the stage alone.

Luffy lurches up onto the rickety wooden deck (which is, realistically, breaking several WHS codes) with the microphone stand like someone about to duel with it. He’s barefoot and absolutely covered in flowers. In his hair, around his neck, through the belt loops of his shorts – it’s just a lot of florals. He looks grave, his expression not matching the sheer volume he yells into the mic with. “TODAY,” he bellows, “I SAW GOD IN THE VENDING MACHINE.”

“Oh no,” someone a few tables across whispers, not quiet enough. 

Luffy takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders forward, right until he’s balanced precariously on his tiptoes at the edge of the stage. He says, his voice solemn, “I put three dollars in the vending machine and got back a tuna can, a baby sock, and a receipt that said: YOU HAVE BEEN SEEN.” There are jazz hands, maybe. It’s hard to know with so many flowers going on. “A man walked past wearing a suit made of mirrors. He said, “Every time I blink, a carrot is born.” I said, “Is that a threat?” He said nothing. We shook hands anyway, but. His palms were full of bees.”

“Are the bees a metaphor?” Nami whispers.

“In aisle seven of my local supermarket, God is holding a rockmelon and weeping. He asks me if I want to split it. I say no… I’m allergic to metaphors. A woman in rollerblades tells me I’m late for my own funeral. I check my phone: she’s right. I order a hearse on UberPool.”

“So not a metaphor?” Usopp whispers back. 

Luffy takes a deep breath, hovering on the brink of his finale. Somehow, he finds a way to pull more flowers out of his sleeves. “The vending machine blinks. Out pops a fortune cookie that reads: EVERYONE YOU LOVE IS EDIBLE. As I always suspected.”

The light plunges into darkness again, just for a second, before Luffy bows to his captivated audience. Zoro keeps his face perfectly blank. Sanji downs the rest of the amaretto, immediately, and Ace cheers as Luffy bounds offstage like he’s delivered anything sane instead of the fever dream that’s occurred. His arms are raised triumphantly, trademark grin back, even as he sheds flowers all over the place. Nami flicks them off her shoes. 

“Woo!” Luffy crows. “You guys feel that?!”

“Yeah,” Usopp says faintly. “Something happened, for sure.”

“It was… intense,” Robin offers, which is technically true. Nami looks like she’s counting out how many drinks she’ll need to consume in order to erase this night from her memory bank. Luffy plops down on the floor beside the table, winded and sweaty and glowing. There’s lavender glitter swirled across his collarbones. 

“Wow, I left everything up there!”

Ace leans back in the chair to affix his brother with a smile that’s both proud and resigned. “He actually practised that one. You should’ve heard it before.”

Sanji blanches, swiping the rest of Zoro’s whisky to drown out that particular line of thought. He’s heard a lot of Luffy’s poems at this point and, honestly, he’s starting to think some of them warrant a trauma disclosure.

“Hey, did you ever figure out if Koby’s coming later?” Ace nudges Luffy with his foot, and at first Sanji thinks it’s a diversion tactic, but he grins at Nami. “He keeps trying to set me up with his cousin.”

“Oh?” Nami leans forward, her smile sharpening in a way Sanji does not appreciate. Like a little blade. “How’s that going?”

Ace waves his hand in a so-so motion, clearly completely unaware that he’s setting off some kind of nuclear reactor in Sanji’s brain. He knows Ace is popular with the – well, everyone, actually, but he prefers knowing it on a distant, resigned level. Not right in front of him in a dimly lit bar. “She’s sweet but, like, we didn’t vibe. I think I’m more into… I dunno. People with a little edge to them, you know?”

Nami snorts, giving him a dry look over her own mojito. “You mean people with a little spouse to them. Guess she wasn’t off the market enough for your taste.”

Ace laughs, not even pretending to be sheepish. “Alright, alright. We all have a type, right? Can’t blame a fella for having a preference.”

Sanji’s ears go hot, even as the other man stands back up and ruffles his brother’s hair. “Alright, back to the grindstone before we get flogged, eh? Lemme know if anyone needs another round.”

“What’d you mean?” Sanji blurts as soon as Ace is clear, hand tightening around Zoro’s glass. He can feel the way his stupid face flushes at Nami’s sly grin. “I just mean. You know. Off market. There’s a market, and… you know.”

Nami crackles, clearly revelling in his humiliation which is not good friend behaviour. Usopp, on the other hand, reaches out to pat awkwardly at Sanji’s elbow in some attempt at diplomacy. “Uhhh, I think she just means he’s got a history of… I don’t think you actually want to know this, man. He just gets around, you know? He has a thing for… unavailable people?”

“A thing for unavailable people,” Sanji repeats dumbly, letting it echo around his mouth and his brain. “A thing for people who are unavailable.”

“Are you okay, Sanji?” Luffy leans right back to look up at him, blinking earnestly like he’s completely and blissfully unaware of the raging whatever Sanji’s been carrying for his brother. “Hey, do you wanna join the open mic? We could do a duet.”

“What? No, Jesus.” Sanji wipes his mouth and forces himself to slump a little, trying desperately to find some iota of casual coolness. He’s never managed to come off as casual or cool before, but who knows? Maybe tonight’s his lucky night. “Anyway, anyway, I wanna hear about you guys!”

Robin studies him for a moment, her smile beguiling, before turning back into Nami’s orbit. “So, as I was saying, it was very clinical. They only realised something was wrong because the postman noticed the dog hadn’t barked in three days.”

“Oh,” Nami’s eyes light up. “The guy with the finger collection!”

Robin sighs, but it’s a contented sigh. “No, darling, that was the one who used to preserve ears in baby jars. They say the dog was never found.”

“Can’t you guys at least wait until after we’ve eaten?” Usopp is concerningly pale. Luffy slings his arm around everyone’s shoulders somehow, like he’s a rubber man, before leaning in with a conspiratorial grin.

“Let’s. Rip. It. Up!” 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 

“Where the hell did you park?” Zoro asks, a truly criminal amount of hours and beverages later. His hands shoved deep in his pockets, which is the only sign he’s not 100% sober. They’ve already passed the same frozen yoghurt shop twice and Usopp’s visibly wilting in the warm night air.

“You were with me, seaweed-head! I swear it was near the mural with the croc on a skateboard,” Sanji mutters, spinning in a slow circle, eyes flicking over each wall around them. “You remember that one, right? Real bold colour blocking? Kind of like a Banksy but... less shame?”

Usopp yawns, rubbing at his eyes. He’s always been a sleepy drunk, and he holds onto the hem of Zoro’s shirt like that could possibly keep him upright. “I told you to just take the bus, man.”

“I would’ve if I’d known Ace was going to –” Sanji cuts himself off, then frowns. “Nevermind.”

Zoro sighs. “Nope. Say it. You’re dying to.”

Sanji glares at him, then flicks the keys between his fingers in a nervous rhythm. “I just… look, I know I’m not exactly his usual vibe. But he said he likes people with an edge! You know I have an edge. I have layers of edges.”

Usopp makes a face like he’s trying to figure out how to endure this but his brain keeps getting steamrolled. Sanji forges ahead anyway. “And! You said he goes for unavailable people. It’s interesting. That’s, you know. Telling.”

Zoro rolls his eyes. “Yeah, tells me he likes drama.”

Sanji ignores him. “Like, that could be strategic, right? He’s avoiding commitment. Or maybe he’s drawn to mystery. He wants what he can’t have. Classic.”

“Classic,” Usopp echoes, dead-eyed.

“I’m just saying –” Sanji stops abruptly, then spins around. “Wait. There it is. I knew it was near the other gelato place.”

“That’s a completely different mural?” 

“Same genre,” Sanji defends, unlocking the car. “Anyway. So I’m thinking if I… date someone? Just to see if it stirs anything, you know? Like a little controlled experiment.”

Usopp slides into the backseat, obviously regretting accepting this ride. He locks the seatbelt in and lays down across the backseat, groaning. “What? Nooooo. Sanji. Please don’t doooo that.”

Zoro doesn’t get in right away. He stands beside the passenger door, arms crossed, squinting at Sanji like he’s a particularly bad riddle. “You’re fucking with us.”

Sanji lifts a shoulder, playing it off. His ears are hot again because it’s way too late at night to be perceived. “Why not? Maybe he just needs a little nudge. A little competition.”

Zoro shakes his head, climbing in with a garbled curse.

The car fills with the low hum of the engine and that one late-night jazz playlist that Sanji probably thinks makes him sound chill and mysterious. They're halfway through the drive when he breaks the silence.

“Hypothetically,” he says, drumming his fingers on the wheel, “If someone were to date someone to get someone else. Like, purely for tactical reasons. Who would be the best option?”

Usopp, who has managed to slump himself upright in the back seat with his cheek against the window, doesn’t even open his eyes. “No-one. No-one is the best option. Don’t do this, man.”

“I’m being serious,” Sanji insists, taking a turn way too confidently for someone with no idea where half the side streets go. “You have to think strategically. You need someone attractive – obviously – so it seems plausible. But not too attractive, or it becomes suss. Like, oh wow, how’d he pull that, you know?”

Zoro’s forehead creases. “This sounds like you just wanna pretend to date someone.”

“Exactly!” Sanji says, as though Zoro has just made his point for him. “It’s got to be believable but not so good it’s unbelievable. There’s a science to this.”

Zoro exhales long and slow through his nose. “No, there isn’t.”

“There is,” Sanji counters, eyes flicking over to him for a second before he has to wrestle with his least favourite intersection. “I mean, you’d be an obvious choice. If you weren’t, you know.”

Zoro raises an eyebrow. “If I wasn’t what?”

“You’re too Zoro. You’d make it look like I was trying too hard. Ace would be like, ‘oh wow, you landed Zoro? What are you compensating for?’”

“…Yeah, Ace wouldn’t say that. Nobody would say that,” Usopp mumbles, still not opening his eyes. “And I hate how much thought you’ve already put into this.”

“I’m just brainstorming,” Sanji says defensively, like he hasn’t been replaying Ace’s grin all evening like a tape stuck in a loop. “It has to be someone close enough that it seems natural, but not so close that it’s awkward. And someone Ace wouldn’t be into himself, because that’d defeat the purpose. You get me?”

“No,” Zoro says flatly. “No-one gets you.”

Usopp lifts his head finally, squinting between the seats. “Wait. Are you saying Zoro’s hot?”

“What? No!” Sanji huffs. “I’m saying he’s obviously hot. There’s a difference.”

“I need to get out of here,” Zoro scowls. 

Sanji flicks him a dirty grin. “Too late. You’re trapped with me, lover.”

“You’d crash this car if I said yes.”

“You’d crash it just to end the conversation,” Usopp adds. “In fact, please crash it. I’d pay you to crash it. Make it look good.”

Sanji lets out a long, theatrical sigh. “Fine, you’re both off the hook. But someone out there is perfect for this plan. I just have to find them?”

Zoro leans his head against the window. “God help them.” He pauses, then smirks. “Cod help them.” 

Usopp pats his shoulder from behind, groaning again. With the motion of the car or the awareness that Sanji’s about to ruin everyone’s lives, it’s hard to say. “Cod help all of us.”

The problem is Sanji does not let it go. He can’t. Now that the idea has latched onto his poor, desperate little brain he would sooner have a lobotomy than admit it’s a terrible, terrible plan. 

“Alright, hear me out,” he says, flinging a tea towel over his shoulder like he’s just had a divine revelation and not been workshopping this idea for thirteen hours straight. “Brook.”

Zoro doesn’t even look up from the crate of lemons he’s slicing. It’s unclear, actually, as to why he’s even here today, but Zeff would never complain about free labour. “No.”

Nami frowns, mid-way through finishing the last of someone’s abandoned plate of calamari. “What? Brook’s cool. What’s wrong with Brook?”

“Nothing,” Zoro returns coolly. “Except that Ace would never believe it? Brook’s like, ninety. Spiritually.”

“Which makes it non-threatening!” Sanji insists. “He’s suave, he’s polite, he wears a suit –”

“He called me an anklebiter yesterday,” Zoro mutters, grumpy.

Nami hums thoughtfully, tearing a calamari into tiny pieces. “Actually, yeah, I can kind of see it. You both have that whole tall-and-floaty thing going on.”

Sanji narrows his eyes. “Tall and what now?”

“You know,” Nami waves her hand around. “Tall. Floaty. Like, you both kind of move like you’re on the moon or something. No gravity.”

Zoro barks out a laugh. “You mean like ghosts.”

“No! Like ballerinas. Or snakes. Or like… those haunted house statues. It’s hard to explain. Maaaybe ghosts.” 

Sanji is mildly offended, but Nami can truly do no wrong so he ultimately waves her very rude comments off. “Whatever. Brook’s a maybe. Moving on: Franky.”

Zoro stops slicing. “Franky.”

“Why not?” Sanji challenges. “He’s loud. Dramatic. Built like a wall.”

Nami laughs into her hands. “Okay, but like… dating Franky might work if you want to distract from literally every other part of your plan. No-one would be looking at Ace, they’d be too busy watching Franky.”

Sanji points. “Thank you. That’s what we like to call strategic misdirection. Someone bold, someone –”

“Someone who isn’t actually into you,” Zoro cuts in, voice level. “Your whole dodgy plan hinges on the idea that you can pretend to be with someone without actually catching feelings or making shit weird. Can you imagine Franky pretending anything subtly?”

Sanji deflates a little. “...Fair.”

Nami grins deviously. “Robin? Your babies would be so tall.” 

“Too good for me,” Sanji sighs immediately. “She’d see right through it. I’d owe her, like, twelve favours and a kidney by the end.”

“And she’d make it look too real. You’d be in love within the week.”

“I’m not that emotionally fragile,” Sanji lies. “Ugh, this was supposed to be a productive meeting.”

“This was supposed to be you wiping tables!” Zeff calls from the dry store.

They all startle. Sanji makes a noise of defeat and slinks back to polishing cutlery like a kicked pet. He needs to cut the idea loose and bury it somewhere, but it keeps coming back, because of course it does. It waits until the dead of the night, then blooms like rot in the corner of his mind until he’s up and pacing, barefoot on the floor, muttering to himself like a man possessed.

Zeff’s always said he’s like a dog with a bone. Once something sinks its teeth into that slippery outer orbit of his mind, that’s it: no rest, no reason, no letting go. It’s served him well now and then while cramming for exam, retooling the Baratie’s menus, managing group drama like a team sport, managing an actual team sport. Etc.

Now, though, it feels like punishment, like obsession disguised as strategy and he’s self-aware enough to realise it, but tragically not self-aware enough to stop it.

The worst part is the end plan makes so much sense. It clicks into place like something that was always waiting to happen because, sure, in theory he could date anyone. He could flirt his way through this with barely any effort once he finds someone sweet and eager and kind enough. All it’d take is a few smiles, the right kind of story and bam – Ace is looking.

But. Then what? Then he’s got to hurt someone, break their heart, and that’s just not who he is. Not as a person and sure as hell not as a lover. Not even for Ace. Thus, he needs someone heartless, or invincible, who won’t fall, who won’t care. The whole damn plan relies on it, otherwise he’ll be drowning in guilt before Ace even tosses him a glance and nobody will be getting laid.

“House meeting!” he announces far louder than necessary, ringing the brass bell they use for fire drills and emergency announcements. Does this constitute an emergency? Probably not, but he clips his hair back from his face anyway, just in case. 

Chopper shuffles in first, a textbook in hand and dressed in footie pyjamas with a completely unnecessary sleeping cap. He’s wide awake, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, betraying the fact that he’s definitely been letting study overtake his already tenuous sleeping schedule. 

“It’s two in the morning,” Usopp croaks, barely making it to the couch before collapsing facedown in a cushion. He looks like he’s been excavated from a graveyard. Zoro drags himself in not long after, dropping bodily into the other side of the couch and nearly crushing Usopp’s legs in the process. Neither of them react, because it’s two in the morning. 

The projector coughs to life with a mechanical wheeze, filling the lounge room with the soft hum of poor decisions. It had been a Christmas gift from Brook, who’d looked personally offended when he learned they didn’t own a TV. 

In retrospect, Brook may have been enabling something sinister. 

Sanji queues up his Powerpoint, nudging the projector with his foot until the image stabilises into something almost legible on the far wall. Zoro blinks awake like a man emerging from anesthesia.

“What,” he rasps, voice low and full of dread, “The hell is this.”

It’s a fair question, really, considering the first slide, rendered in violent purple Arial, is titled: Why Zoro: A Case Study in Convenience! :D :D :D :D 

Usopp lets out a muffled scream into the couch cushion and doesn’t come back up. Sanji, undeterred, taps the wall with a chopstick.

“Welcome,” he begins, with false bravado, “To Operation: Help A Bro Out. Now, it’s a truth universally known that Ace is smoking hot and that I, historically, do not stand a single chance in hell –”

“Acknowledged,” Chopper chimes in, frowning thoughtfully. He’s set his book down, which Sanji takes as a win. “It is a truth universally acknowledged that Ace is smoking hot. But you need to be nicer to yourself, Sanji. If he doesn’t want you for you then he’s not worth it.”

Sanji doesn’t quite dodge the twist of shame that punches him lightly in the diaphragm; Chopper’s always had the unsettling ability to strike at the softest part of a crisis without even blinking and normally he’s grateful. Right now, it makes him feel like lying down in traffic and that’s not the vibe he’s going for tonight.

This morning.

“Thanks, buddy, emotional support noted,” he says, half-wincing. “But we’re staying in the realm of tactics. Don’t even think about it, Mosshead.”

Zoro shifts, clearly preparing to stand and Sanji reacts by hurling the nearest cushion at his face. A warning shot. Zoro catches it on instinct but the look he throws back could peel paint. It’s pathetic, but for once, god help him, Sanji needs Zoro to stay put. 

“I am not getting involved in this,” Zoro grits out, already on the verge of murder.

“Anyway,” Sanji steamrolls, clicking to the next slide. “As we can see, there are several key reasons why Zoro is ideal for this role. One: he’s always around. We already live together, work together, blah, blah. Two: he’s not Ace, which seems crucial. Three: he’s already emotionally constipated, which gives us some plausible deniability. Four!” he turns, tapping emphatically. “He’s not my type.”

This last point has been underlined, bolded and (because Sanji has no self-preservation instinct) highlighted in red.

Usopp lifts his head just enough to cast an exasperated squint at the screen. “Oh, this is going to end in flames.”

“Thrilled by the optimism, thanks,” Sanji says dryly, though the sting doesn’t quite hit. Usopp retreats back into the couch like he’s bracing for a blast wave.

“Our desired outcome,” Sanji continues, “Is that Ace gets wildly jealous and realises I am both emotionally evolved and in-demand. Zoro returns to whatever cursed rock he grows under. I emerge triumphant and, most importantly, I don’t have to break anyone’s heart.”

Zoro folds his arms, unimpressed and increasingly incensed. “Take me the hell out of this.”

“I’ll give you free food for a month.”

“You already do that.” Zoro glares, as if Sanji’s the dumbest person alive. It’s not a new type of glare, so Sanji’s pretty confident in ignoring it.

“Okay, but this time I’ll actually season it with love and care instead of loathing.”

Zoro doesn’t move. His silence is heavy. Dangerous, maybe.

Sanji stares him down, eyes narrowed, because he’s prepped for this reaction. Hell, he expected it. “Look, as much as I hate admitting it, you’re the best bet. It’ll be a few weeks! We’ll take some photos, be seen in public, that’s it. We do all that shit already anyway. Think of it as community service. Oh, and Hiyori might actually leave you alone for once, so it might work out for you too, right?”

Zoro doesn’t respond, but something twitches in his jaw. Not quite offense. Not quite agreement. Just that unreadable middle ground Zoro seems to live in, which is exactly why Sanji picked him in the first place and also why he kind of wants to punch him in the face right now.

Usopp snorts, muffled and half-asleep. “Community service? This’s more like a suicide pact.”

Sanji throws his hands in the air. He’s not frustrated yet, but he’s edging into that territory. “It’s not like you have to marry me, Jesus. Just look pretty and shut up, which is your usual MO anyway!”

Chopper raises his hand like they’re in class. “Are we voting on this? Can we vote?”

“No.” 

Usopp groans again. “We don’t even get to vote? Then why’d you call a house meeting, man? Quit making your love life our collective trauma.”

Zoro fixes Sanji with a scowl, seeded with something Sanji can’t even begin to parse through and has no interest in parsing through. “Did you think about this at all ? What if it works? What if it doesn’t work? What if you want to stop, or I do? What’s your plan then?”

Sanji bristles, caught off-guard by the unexpected venom in the other man’s tone. “I don’t think –”

“You spiral if someone looks at you too long. You spiral if someone doesn’t look at you long enough. You’d try to keep it casual and then spend the next week giving me shit about how I didn’t smile at you believably enough. You’d end up crying in the laundry by day three and we’d never hear the end of it. There is no version of this that ends well.”

“I do not cry in the laundry!”

Zoro snorts. “You’ve done it twice this month. Also, way to miss the point. Dating you would be fucking insufferable and…” He falters, brow furrowing like a mental gear just jammed sideways. Sanji, poised to fire back, watches the moment unfold in real time. “Fine. You’ve got two weeks, tops.”

“What?” It comes out strangled; Sanji has to kind of knock the chopstick into his forehead to get himself back on track. He feels like he’s got whiplash. “Did you just agree?”

Zoro stands abruptly, like staying seated for one second longer might make him combust. “Two weeks and you owe me so much food. None of that quinoa bullshit. No kissing, no holding your hand, none of your shitty cutesy pet names. The second this gets weird, I’m out.”

“It’s already weird.” Usopp looks back and forth between like he’s watching a particularly niche, violent game of tennis. Knives instead of balls. He looks unwell. “Zoro, man, don’t take this the wrong way but –”

“Two. Weeks.” Zoro’s jaw does the thing it does when he’s about to throw someone, usually Sanji, but he doesn’t. He just stalks off back into his bedroom, leaving Sanji to flounder. 

“O… kay.” He blinks. “I guess that’s it then? We’re dating?” 

“Fake dating,” Chopper adds carefully, like he’s not sure how to break the news to Sanji. He sighs. “It’s a truth universally acknowledged that this kind of setup never, ever runs smoothly.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 

Later, when the others have retreated back to their rooms, still murmuring like they’ve just witnessed a legalised car crash, Sanji parks himself at the kitchen bench with a glass of pinot gris and his laptop open like a war map. It’s not like he’s going to sleep in the next few hours anyway. 

He names the file “ZORO_FAKE_RELATIONSHIP_TERMS_FINAL_FINAL.docx”, because maybe if he gives it a stupid name it’ll sting less when this inevitably explodes in his face. He types:

Fake Relationship Agreement

Between: Sanji (The Undersigned) and Zoro

• Duration: Two (2) weeks, effective immediately.
  
  
• Public outings required: Minimum of three (3), including at least one photo-worthy event and one casual hang.
  
  
• Physical affection: None.
  
  
• Pet names: Banned.
  
  
• Quinoa: Also banned.
  
  
• Exit clause: Either party may terminate the agreement at any time with no hard feelings.*

[*Hard feelings are statistically guaranteed.]

He leans back, sipping his wine, squinting at the bullet points like they might rearrange themselves into something smarter. They don’t.

He hits save anyway,  then attaches the document to a new group chat titled Official Biz (Zoro Do NOT Leave) and adds only a few people: himself, Zoro, Usopp, Nami, Robin and Chopper. Not Luffy. God no. Luffy cannot be trusted with even basic secrets, let alone this hormonal nuclear bomb that exists in direct relation to his brother. 

As he hovers over the send button, he hesitates, just for a second. Then he sighs, wry and a little unhinged. “Guess it’s showtime.”

Admittedly, Sanji’s never pretended to date any of his friends before, but he’d kind of expected it to feel a little more dramatic than this. Maybe some kind of inner chaos, a slow unraveling, a Shakespearean sense of doom. Instead, all he feels is restless.

He waits until the sun starts thinking about dragging itself into the sky before heading out for a run. Not to train, not even to think, really, just to keep his blood moving so his brain doesn’t start eating itself alive in all the ways this could go wrong. 

The gulls are already screaming at each other, dive-bombing what appears to be a breakfast burrito some poor sucker’s lost on the pavement. It’s peak summer, which means no such thing as a quiet morning: the beachside markets are already starting, vendors dragging out their stands with the grim determination of people who regret their life choices but need to make rent.

Sanji ducks under a few awnings until he finds Nami looking like she maybe had a bigger night than she meant to. Her hair’s tied back with a scrap of ribbon, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown.

“Morning, my beautiful angel!” he sing-songs, grinning.

“Get stuffed,” she groans, but still hands him an egg tart from a brown paper bag which was almost certainly pilfered. Her stall’s half-unfolded and fighting her, so he jumps in to help, chattering about breakfast and the merits of iced coffee while she eyes him like she’s working out the square root of his existence.

Her display is full again, which means she’s been busy pouring wax all week. They arrange them together in companionable silence: twisted tapers, glass jars labelled things like Mercury in Retrograde and Cottagecore But You’re Crying. Sanji rotates them into perfect angles. Nami watches him too closely.

“So, new group chat,” she says, not casually at all.

Sanji freezes, thumb resting against the rim of a ceramic tealight. “…Which one?”

“Oh, not the main one. Not the food one. Not the memes one. No, no. I’m talking about the new one.” She raises an eyebrow over her sunnies. “The one with no Luffy, because apparently Luffy can’t be trusted.”

He wilts. “Okay. Yup. That one.”

“Sanji,” she asks gently, ominously, “Did you actually ask Zoro to date you?”

He takes a long, deliberate bite of the egg tart. “Define ask.”

“Sanji.”

“What? It’s not like I kidnapped him. He agreed! Technically.”

She stares at him. Then blinks. Then sighs like she’s aged ten years in one second. “Okay. Okay. Wow.”

He folds his arms. “It’s strategic. It makes sense.”

“It never makes sense with you two.”

He grins. “Exactly! So no-one will see it coming.”

“Uh-huh.” She picks up a candle labeled Emotional Bankruptcy and holds it between them. It seems appropriate, all things considered. “You understand this could go horribly, horribly wrong, right?”

“Everything I do goes horribly wrong,” he says, and he’d feel sadder about it but at this point it’s factual. Part of the landscape. “Why should this be any different?”

She watches him for a beat longer than he feels comfortable with. Then she sets the candle down and goes back to unpacking, tsking under her breath.

By the time Sanji jogs back into the house the early morning haze is burning off and the kitchen windows are already alive with heat. He kicks off his shoes at the door and makes a beeline for the stove, stomach growling like it resents him for every poor life decision he’s ever made.

He’s still high on momentum, sweat cooling on his neck, heartbeat pounding with purpose. He hums tunelessly as he sets the pan to heat, pulling eggs and spinach and leftover bread out of the fridge with mechanical ease. The kitchen’s still half-dark, blessedly quiet.

“You’re back early,” Zoro says from the corner like a horror movie jump scare.

Sanji startles so hard he nearly drops everything. “Jesus Christ! Were you just sitting there?”

Zoro shrugs from his perch on the bench, nursing a shake with the colour and consistency of wet cement. “Training started at four.”

Sanji shoots him a scandalised look over the frying pan. “You’re a shocker.”

“Not a very nice boyfriend so far,” Zoro says casually, but there’s something pointed beneath it, slightly sharp. He takes a swig from the bottle, and Sanji watches in horror as the sludge somehow makes it down his throat like it’s nothing. 

Sanji rolls his eyes, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Is that a challenge, Mossy? ‘Cause I’d be the nicest boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

Zoro lets out a snort and hops down from the bench, grabbing his foam roller and dropping to the floor. “You’d be the only boyfriend I’ve ever had.”

The sentence lands harder than it should and Sanji does drop an egg this time. It hits the bench with a sick splat and begins to slide toward the edge. He curses, scrambling to mop it up with the nearest cloth, which may or may not be Chopper’s discarded scrubs. Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

“What?” he blurts. “That’s not – wait, what?”

From the floor, Zoro doesn’t look up. He’s working his calf muscle with the grim focus of a man at war with his own body. There’s a fresh bruise unfurling across his eyebrow. “Have you ever seen me with anyone?”

Sanji opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks. The answer is obvious, but it still surprises him that it is the answer. “I guess… no? You’ve really never…?”

“Not like that.” He exhales through his nose, wincing at a knot in his leg. “Dating? The shit you do? Nah. Doesn’t work for me.”

Sanji leans back against the kitchen counter, forgetting the heat of the stove for a second. “Why not?” 

Zoro shrugs again, not looking at him. “I dunno. People always want something I don’t know how to give. It’s not worth the effort just to disappoint them.”

There’s a beat of silence before Sanji responds, aiming for levity but missing the mark completely. “Well, lucky for you I’m not expecting shit.”

Zoro glances at him then, just for a second, just enough for something in his expression to shift. Like maybe he doesn’t believe him, or maybe he does and Sanji’s not sure which part is meant to sting. “Good.” 

He finishes stretching in silence and pulls himself up just as Sanji plates the eggs, toast, and grilled tomato. Nothing fancy, but somehow the eggs are still cooked perfectly and the toast is brushed with garlic butter like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

Zoro chews methodically, wolfing the food down in efficient bites. Sanji watches him for a moment, then looks away, picking at his own toast like he’s forgotten how food works.

“So… I was thinking we could go to the markets tonight?” he asks finally, trying to slide back into safer territory. “It’ll be packed. Kids everywhere. Fireworks. You know how it is.”

Zoro grunts.

Sanji glances at him, a little hopeful. “Luffy said Sabo’s performing. I figured it’s… I don’t know. It’s visible without being over the top? Casual enough to be believable.”

Zoro raises an eyebrow. “Your idea of casual is going to a public event with fireworks and five thousand tourists while pretending to date your housemate in front of your crush’s weird brother?”

Sanji scowls. “It’s a good plan. Shut up. And Sabo’s not weird!”

“He set fire to Usopp’s sleeve last time.”

“True, but I’m pretty sure it was unintentional. Or maybe it was part of his act? Look, what do you reckon?”

Zoro grins, just a little, but it fades fast. He sets his fork down and leans back in the chair. “You sure you’re not overthinking this already?”

“I…” Sanji starts, then falters. “I’m underthinking, actually. Totally chill. Detached. Stone cold.”

Zoro glances at him sideways and, after a beat, taps the back of his knuckles against Sanji’s arm in a small, almost imperceptible gesture that has Sanji jumping out of his skin all the same. Then he clears his throat and finishes his protein sludge without further comment, leaving Usopp to come through like clockwork, 8:30am on the dot to take his own plate. 

“Morning,” he moans, half-slipping into the dining table. “Shouldn’t you be at work, man?”

“Shit!” Sanji throws back the rest of the very sad, very diluted apple juice and scrambles to find something halfway decent to wear. He’s about to run upstairs when he spins around to jab his finger at Zoro threateningly. “Tonight. Don’t be late!”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Sanji goes through his day like he’s half-submerged. The restaurant’s closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, thank god, which means there’s no customers to impress and no-one hovering over his shoulder. Just the hum of the fridge, the clatter of prep bowls and the reassuring rhythm of routine.

He double-checks stock levels, rewrites the produce order and reorganises the pantry even though it doesn’t strictly need it. Anything to keep moving.

“I just don’t think the gnocci is working out,” he mutters, scratching it off the menu for what must be the seventeenth time this month. 

Zeff grunts from his usual stool without looking up. “Then stop trying to force it.”

Sanji shrugs, already writing it back in. Zeff leaves him to it after lunch, muttering something about errands and not ruining the walk-in. Sanji stays, sweeping through prep like it might yield enlightenment. By the time the sun shifts in the window, he’s got the week’s menu kind of finished, the produce order submitted and half a new seasonal special outlined on the whiteboard.

That’s when his phone buzzes with a message from Zoro that reads: What time’s this thing again?

Sanji stares at the message for a second longer than necessary. It’s fine. It’s good, actually. This is the whole point: Zoro being cooperative, playing the part, helping the plan along. Totally fine. Sanji is fine. He texts back: meet me at 6 @ the bus stop by the markets. dont wear your usual funeral outfit

He pockets his phone and returns to slicing limes he doesn’t need, adrenaline starting to buzz somewhere under his ribs. 

It’s not like he hasn’t done this before. Dates, attempts at something. Some whirlwind weekend thing with a waitress that spurred Zeff to ban all workplace relations. A failed winter fling with a delivery guy who only ever texted at 2am. The near-miss with Vivi’s friend who was so nice it made Sanji feel like a fraud just for breathing near her.

They all fizzled, or imploded or dissolved into awkward goodbyes at bus stations. To this day, he’s still not sure if he’s worse at choosing people or at being chosen. 

He’s still not sure he ever wants to find out.

The air hits different as he heads into the market: warm and thick with the scent of charcoal, sugar, fried batter. Music’s thudding from somewhere behind the alley, too loud to be anything but a teenage DJ’s dream. Kids are sprinting around with glowsticks. It’s the same damn nighttime markets that run every summer and he’s been to them every single year, almost always with a friend or two. Hell, he’s been to this same market with Zoro countless times at this point.  He’s cooked at it! It’s not like this part is new. 

Plus, he’s done dumber things to get a date before. He once baked an entire croquembouche for a girl who ghosted him mid-assembly. Pretending to date one of his friends for a couple of weeks is nothing.

He tells himself that, again, as he eyes the crowd and tries to locate Zoro. Maybe he’s not nervous, maybe he just doesn’t know how to be, exactly. Like, what’s the move here? Hands in his pockets? Hands at his sides? Should he wave? Does he do a fake-arm-around-the-shoulder? 

Sanji’s halfway through a minor breakdown next to the snow cone cart when he catches a glimpse of green hair, standing right where he said, next to the bus stop, looking like the universe deposited him here by accident and he’s just waiting for a reason to punch it back.

He’s in a dark shirt. Fitted, but not flashy. No gym bag, no dirty bandana. He looks like a person. A Zoro kind of person, sure: arms crossed, mouth drawn tight, that permanent squint that says I hate fun but he’s undeniably holding up his end of the bargain so far. 

Sanji snorts. “You look like you’re about to deck someone.”

Zoro turns. His eyes flick down, then back up, fast, unreadable. “You’re late.”

“I’m two minutes early, asshole.”

“You said six.”

“I meant six-ish.” Sanji lets a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. “God forbid I make you wait in public for once. You could at least pretend you’re not disgusted at this.”

Zoro doesn’t take the bait. He just glances at the crowd, then back at Sanji again, not quite a smile, but not not one, either. “Didn’t say I was disgusted.”

Sanji blinks. He’s about to say something clever (something biting and cool and incredibly smooth) but then Zoro steps in a little closer. Not a lot. Just enough that the edges of their arms almost brush and Sanji is so surprised he momentarily forgets how to use his lungs.

“Where to?” Zoro asks.

“Right. Yeah.” Sanji coughs, then points toward the far end of the food stalls. “I figured we’d do a lap. Grab some food. Look natural. Maybe have a squiz at Sabo’s tent before the show starts.”

Zoro grunts something that might mean “fine” or “kill me,” it’s impossible to tell, even after all these years. He falls into step beside Sanji anyway, only giving the blonde’s ankles a little kick. A moderate kick, which is pretty tame for them. “You’re walking too fast.”

Sanji snaps, “Grow longer legs then. Sorry, am I messing with your tragic little stride?”

And just like that they’re bickering again: louder, more familiar, easier. People look. Someone smirks. Sanji leans into it. Grins a little too wide. Flicks ash off his cigarette like he’s bored of this conversation, of this guy beside him, tries to trip him up a few times. 

There are the same paper lanterns the council drags out every year softly overhead, probably on their last legs as they throw streaks of green and pink across the crowd. Somewhere, a bunch of kids scream joyfully from the shanky spinning teacups ride, known for its frequent breakdowns. The smell of charred sausages and fried noodles drifts over the thrum of chatter and music.

Sanji tilts his head back to let a puff of steam rise from his mouth. “This’s so good?” He warbles around a bite of grilled octopus. “You ever had proper takoyaki,  Mosshead?”

“Yeah. You made it. Was fine.”

Sanji scoffed. “ Fine my ass. That was art. This is good, too, though, so I’ll allow it.”

Kids weaponising sparklers dash past. Somewhere off to the left, someone’s half-serenading, half-heckling people with a cello. It feels just like every other night he’s spent here, in every other summer, with every other version of Zoro, and he lets the familiarity of it charm him a little. “Weirdly enough, this might be the most normal thing I’ve done in ages. I mean, aside from the whole everyone’s-gonna-think-we’re-dating thing. And the lying. And the –”

Zoro elbows him, not unkindly, before stealing the last takoyaki right off Sanji’s paper tray. “You were doing so well.”

Sanji gasps like he’d been personally violated. “You absolute rat! That was the best one!” He’s mid-rant about betrayal, still dramatically clutching his plate to his chest like a wounded soldier, when a loud CRACK echoes from the other end of the market grounds.

“Cough up the coin, ya dog! I saw you slip it up ya sleeve!”

Sanji blinks. “No. Nooo. Don’t tell me –”

Sure enough, Doflamingo’s weaving through the crowd like a salmon. Shirt unbuttoned to his belly button, wraparound sunglasses on despite it being well after sunset, leaving a thin trail of terrified stall vendors in his wake. 

“Deadset,” Zoro mutters, “I thought he was banned after last year.”

Doflamingo stops dead when he spots them, his face lighting up with a grin that probably isn’t meant to look so maniacal. His hand claps on Sanji’s shoulder because even he’s not game enough to try Zoro this early in the night. “Blondie, you wanna check my stash, yeah? I got bare gear to light up and give some mad vibes, ya feel?” 

Sanji tries to wriggle free. “Christ, Doffy, why are you always so sticky?”

“You wanna talk sticky?” Doflamingo gasps, affronted, then immediately pivots. “Anyway, you got a lighter, bah? Mine’s cactus. This vape’s all show. No go.”

Zoro, with a vaguely bemused expression, rustles around in Sanji’s pocket and just. Hands man the lighter. He shrugs at Sanji’s horrified look. “It’s probably got like two sparks left. He’ll never figure it out.”

Normally Doflamingo would needle a bit more but there’s a group of cops loitering at the dumpling stall that apparently have him on edge enough to give them both finger guns. “I heard that, ya gronk! Anyway, no drama, no drama. Hit me up if ya switch it up.” 

How the other man manages to disappear into the crowd with hot pink furs is anyone’s guess, but Sanji exhales, hard. “You ever get that feeling like the universe wants you to snap?”

Zoro grins and tears the takoyaki in half, handing over one of them. “I’d fork out good money to see you deck him.”

Sanji winkles his nose, savouring the last bite of the takoyaki – seriously, he’s going to have to loop back and let the vendor know how amazing it is. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin Law’s fun. C’mon, let’s find our magic man.”

The circus tent’s strung up with cheap fairy lights and crooked signage, equal parts charming and depilated. Sabo’s just outside it in a vest and fingerless gloves, firetwirling like it’s second nature. 

“I hate how good he is at everything,” Sanji sighs, which is a lie, obviously, because there’s not a single thing about Sabo he could ever actually hate. Sabo is Luffy’s heart and Ace’s troublemaking streak wrapped in something golden; he’s kindness made effortless, charm without ego. Why Sanji couldn’t have the hots for him instead is a mystery for the ages.

Zoro grunts a little. “Man can juggle, backflip, escape from a straightjacket, firetwirl. Should’ve just asked him to date you.”

“Too late now. You're locked in, Mossy.”

Sabo spots them and gifts a little double-wave before tossing the torch into the air and catching it behind his back. Then he bows, hair ruffled and wild, showman smile in place, before jogging over during the brief applause. “Hey, guys! Is everyone else here?”

“No,” Sanji says quickly, then winces like it came out too fast. He tries again, smoothing it over. “I mean, just us. We were in the area. And you know how it is, festivals are better when you’re… when you’re not alone. In a weird way. Like as a couple. Of friends. Or people. Together. At the same time.”

For once in his life – for once in his life – Zoro helps him out. Says, bluntly like it costs him nothing: “We’re on a date.”

Sabo blinks once. Then twice. “Oh, nice.”

“Nice?” Sanji repeats, trying desperately to cram down the spike of indignation that nearly guts him out of nowhere.

“Yeah,” Sabo shrugs. “I figured something was going on. Anyway, I’ve got to do the ring of fire next, but hang around if you want and I’ll introduce you to Breanna! She’s going to do a lyra show later.”

Sanji makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, eyes fixed on Sabo as he melts back into the crowd, flipping a baton between his fingers like it’s nothing. Already calling out for a volunteer like he hadn’t just barely reacted to seeing them.

“So dramatic,” Zoro mutters beside him.

It’s not clear who he’s talking about. Sanji, Sabo, or the show itself? Sanji takes it personally anyway.

“You’re dramatic,” he fires back, weaker than usual. “That was supposed to be… he was supposed to react. He’s Ace’s brother.”

Zoro shrugs and pops a toothpick into his mouth, which must’ve come from his pocket, lint and all. “Man’s been on fire before. You think this is what rattles him?”

And, sure, maybe not. Sabo has always been the calm one. Even in contrast to Luffy’s boundless appetite for chaos and Ace’s wild temper, Sabo’s always felt… settled. Grounded. Sanji can’t remember ever seeing him lose his cool. It probably shouldn’t bother him.

It still does.

They drift from the crowd without really deciding to, weaving through the dimming market stalls until the noise thins out and the air clears. They pause near the edge of the park, far enough from the buzz of lights and music so that Zoro can unceremoniously destroy a set of skewers in peace, perched on the backrest of the bench like he owns it. Sanji sits properly, chewing absently on the end of a half-finished skewer like it might help sort out the fuzz in his head.

“So…” Sanji tries, eyes flicking up to the sky like he’s hoping the stars have an answer. “You really don’t think it was weird?”

Zoro doesn’t even pause between bites. “I think you’re weird. Trust you to crack it because someone didn’t freak out.”

“That’s not –” Sanji starts to snap, but swallows it down before it can land. He exhales hard through his nose, glancing around in case anyone’s watching. Nothing like being caught verbally throttling your boyfriend at a public event. “I just thought he’d be more surprised, that’s all.”

Zoro glances over at him, chin shiny with sauce, expression unreadable. “Why? You think you’re undateable or something?”

“What? No. That’s not what I’m saying. Of course I’m dateable, you dick.” He frowns, scrubbing a hand down his face. 

“Oh so I’m undateable?” Zoro goes on, raising an eyebrow. 

Sanji rolls his eyes. “I guess I figured it’d be a harder sell.”

Logically, he knows it checks out that Sabo had believed them. They’ve been orbiting the same group of friends for years now, showing up in the same spaces, splitting groceries and shift covers and stadium seats. If Sanji steps back far enough, he can almost see it. Something that might, to someone else, look like it makes sense.

Less logically, though, he’s horrified. 

Zoro doesn’t give him an inch. “You know people flirt with me, right? Like. A lot.”

“You don’t flirt back though. Not even with Hiyori, which is fucking insane to me, by the way.”

It just doesn’t track. The poor girl’s had a very public, very persistent crush on Zoro for years; the kind that makes headlines in their friend group. The kind that makes people assume they’re inevitable. She laughs at his dry comments, links arms with him at parties, always seems to know where he’s going before he does. Is beautiful in a way that has most men around her captivated, hanging on her every word. Hell, she practically floats through the world… actually, maybe she should date Brook and they can have eerie, beautiful floating babies together. 

“You go date her then,” Zoro says snidely as they turn off the main road, walking a quieter stretch now, just footpaths, fence lines, a couple of quiet houses. The noise of the market still floats behind them, distant and fizzy like the echo of a dream. “She’s not what you think, you know.”

Sanji blinks. “What, like she’s secretly a murderer?”

“No,” Zoro scowls, shooting him an incredulous look. “But you’ve got this idea in your head that she’s some perfect, tragic, noble thing. That’s not her.”

Sanji frowns. “I didn’t say she’s perfect. I mean, she is, but I just meant she obviously really likes you?”

“Yeah, well, that’s the problem.”

Sanji stops walking. “Wait. What?”

Zoro scratches the back of his neck before rolling his shoulders, like he’s trying to shrug off something that’s been hanging there too long. “She just… sees something in me that’s not there. I wouldn’t be able to stop disappointing her.”

It’s not even bitter, the way he says it. Like it’s something he made peace with a long time ago. Like the wound’s stopped bleeding but never healed quite right and Sanji replays it in his head a few times.

“You think you’d disappoint her?” He asks eventually, careful because he knows how skittish Zoro is about these things: emotions, talking about emotions, having emotions, talking about having emotions. It’s a nebulous path they’re walking now but Zoro is surprisingly quick to answer.

“I know I would.”

“That’s a shit reason not to try.”

Zoro gives him a long look, unreadable but heavy. “Sometimes it’s the best reason not to try. Besides, I’ve got enough complicated shit going on already.”

Sanji snorts. “Is that what this is? Complicated shit?”

Zoro side-eyes him but there’s a flicker of something almost fond behind it, half-buried under all the usual exasperation. “You’re the most complicated shit, Curls.”

“Oh, please,” Sanji mutters, trying to hide how warm his ears feel. “You’re the one who just had an emotional breakdown about being too noble for a gorgeous woman.”

Zoro rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t strain something. “You don’t listen to a damn word I say, do you?”

The problem is that Sanji listens to everything Zoro says. He just doesn’t always know what to do with it.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

He clocks something’s wrong the moment he wakes up.

Part of it is instinct: that tight, crawling unease in his gut, like being watched. The other part is a little more obvious: the dead weight pinning his legs, heavy and obnoxiously familiar. Only one person in the world would be this stupid and this entitled.

“Luffy,” he groans, voice rough with sleep. “Get the hell off me, man.”

There’s a rustle of blankets. A suspicious, creeping kind of dread that Sanji’s body registers seconds before his mind does because he’s already being smothered. Again.

“Morning,” Luffy chirps, entirely too close now, throwing a leg over Sanji’s.

He sighs into his pillow. He contemplates suffocating them both. “Go haunt someone else’s bed.”

“Nope,” Luffy says, with the serene finality of someone who’s already made peace with this arrangement. He tucks himself tighter into the covers, stealing more than his fair share of blanket and breathes out one long, satisfied sigh, like this is comfort. Like Sanji is comfort. “Sabo said he saw you guys last night on a date.”

The words drop like ice water on Sanji’s spine and he stiffens so fast it feels like whiplash. “O-oh?” He chokes. “That’s – uh. That’s something, huh.”

This whole ridiculous plan of his hinges on Luffy’s instincts here. Sanji knows better than anyone how razor-sharp they are when it comes to the people he loves, which means this is a dangerous cliff edge. Luffy knows him – not just the version Sanji lets people see but the whole messy core of him. Every flaw, every kindness, every little lie. He sees through it all like it’s nothing.

And Zoro? Luffy’s known Zoro longer. Better, maybe. Their bond is bone-deep, silent in ways Sanji could never fully grasp. Luffy knows the exact shape of Zoro’s silences, the difference between his apathy and his restraint. 

Worse: he knows them together. 

Honestly, Sanji’s not sure which outcome would hurt more. Luffy seeing through him, or Luffy being disappointed in him. 

Luffy hums, propping his chin on his arms to say, almost absently, “Just don’t run this time.”

Sanji pulls back like he’s been burned. “What?”

Luffy gives him a  Look. The same one he used to give when Sanji tried to smile too wide, back before everything fell apart and then fell back together in a different shape. It’s not cruel. It’s not accusing. It’s just honest. Brutally, stupidly honest. It sees everything.

“You get twitchy when you’re happy,” Luffy says. “Like you’re already planning how to blow it up before someone else does it first.”

“That’s –” Sanji tries to brush it off, laugh again, but his throat’s too dry and his heart’s climbing into his mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Luffy just shrugs. “Okay. But Zoro doesn’t muck around. You know that, right?”

And that – that’s what makes Sanji sit up, sharp and hot, like pressure lancing behind his ribs. Because he does know, everyone bloody knows Zoro’s never done anything by halves. Not fights. Not loyalty. He’s all in or he’s nothing and so he takes a steady breath, careful to come across as calm and cool and totally, 100% in control. “Relax, Luff, it’s gonna be fine. I’m not going to just dump him or whatever.”

It doesn’t even feel like a lie! It can’t be considered a dumping if they’ve mutually agreed to it beforehand, the same way that things can’t get weird if there’s nothing to get weird about. Sure, okay, maybe his barometre for weird has been long broken, but. He trusts Zoro to know if things start to tip. Not into anything real, of course, because that would never happen, but dicey. Tense. Anything that could even remotely cause a disaster.

“I know,” Luffy replies, easy as anything. “I just want you both to be okay. That’s all.”

Sanji presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he can rub the whole morning out of his brain, disturbingly shaken by this exchange. Of all the ways he imagined Luffy to react, this probably wasn’t one of them. He’d half-expected the other guy to be displeased, or to have a mild existential crisis or – okay, maybe not totally freak out, but some level of disbelief would be nice.

Some faith in Sanji’s capacity to remain level-headed would be even nicer.

“D’you want pancakes?” 

Luffy, true to form, is out of the room in less than a few seconds, already announcing exactly which toppings he’s going to have. The door swings shut behind him with a soft click, leaving Sanji to wrestle his burgeoning anxiety in peace before it brews into anything tangible. He can’t help but feel there’s something almost cruel about how easily Luffy trusts him… and, more to the point, how certain he is that if anyone could mess this up, it’d be Sanji.

(And look, he’s done the court-ordered therapy, okay, he’s well-fucking-aware it would be him. He’s always known: flirt his way in, joke his way out. Bolt the second it gets real. Burn it down before anyone else can. He already knows what his track record looks like. 

It’s another thing, though, for someone else to know it too.)

Breakfast with company should be relaxing and normally it is? He loves company and loves to cook for company, but now his nerves are sitting funny under his skin, like a livewire biding its time. The way Luffy is sitting at the table with the most unreadable expression he’s ever worn isn’t exactly helping matters, and Sanji flits around almost haplessly.

“You’re making the eggs weird,” Usopp warns lightly, elbowing him on the way through. “Relax, man. You’re not gunning for Masterchef.”

“I always cook like this,” Sanji lies, finding his voice tight. He clears his throat and tries again. “Besides, I’d win either way.”

“Okay, like, you know best but… your toast is burnt and you might be stressing out the potatoes?” 

“I like the potatoes like this!” Chopper chimes in from the corner, kicking his legs from the bar stool, blissfully unaware of the storm hovering over Sanji’s head. He pokes at his hash brown (more brown, less hash) enthusiastically, but the poor kid’s probably just grateful for anything that isn’t hospital cafeteria food so his opinion on taste is usually vetoed anyway.

He dumps scrambled eggs, more pancakes than legal and a bunch of mishmash onto a plate and slides it to Luffy without ceremony. “You alright?” 

Luffy picks up a fork and shrugs. “Just thinkin’.”

“About?” He truly, truly means for it to sound casual but it comes out like he’s being tortured. He winces at his own tone, his own reliable defense mechanisms kicking in a little too sharp this Tuesday morning, apparently. 

“About you and Zoro,” Luffy answers simply, leaving Usopp to choke on his pancake. Chopper goes wide-eyed. Zoro makes a sound like he’s been winded, the twitch of his brows betraying that he did not see this very public conversation coming.

“Oh my god,” Sanji hisses like he’s been stung by a bee. A lot of bees. A whole fucking haram of paper wasps. “Can we talk about this later?”

“Why?” Luffy asks, utterly sincere, mouth already full of egg. “Aren’t you happy?” 

“Of course they are!” Usopp blurts, eyes bulging, hand flailing in what he probably thinks is a covert gesture of backup. “They’re super happy! And it’s normal, right, like we all saw this coming! Not a weird surprise at all. It’s like those people who can’t decide if they wanna make out or kill each other?”

“Oh, we’re still weighing the options,” Zoro says from where he’s sitting on the benchtop. “Leaning towards killing you right now, though. Krilling you?”

Sanji jabs the spatula down a little too hard so he doesn’t throw it at Usopp’s fucking head. “Are you done?”

Usopp squeaks, half-flinching away like he’s imagining it too. “I’m just trying to support the narrative! It’s what I do when my best friend suddenly starts dating his mortal nemesis.”

“He’s not my mortal nemesis, fuck.” Sanji inhales sharply and drops the plate onto the bench harder than he means to. But then Luffy’s watching him – really watching him, same way he did twenty minutes ago, with too much kindness and too much knowing – and any further explanation catches in Sanji’s throat like smoke.

Usopp sniffs indignantly. “I mean, that’s not what you said in grade 11, but okay.”

“Well, I think it’s nice,” Chopper says earnestly, beaming. “You both seem happier.”

Sanji actually cannot take it anymore. 

“Can you guys handle washing up?” He wipes his hands on a tea towel like the motion might somehow mop up this mess of a situation. He doesn’t look at Luffy again, just beelines it to get his stuff ready.

He’s halfway through shoving his keys and wallet into his pockets by the front door when he hears the quiet thud of feet behind him. He doesn’t turn because he doesn’t need to: he’s known the weight of those footsteps for years and he’s not in the mood right now. 

“You’re acting weird,” Zoro says, leaning against the wall like he’s got all the time in the world. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Casually obnoxious. Like he wasn’t right there in the kitchen for whatever cosmic joke that was. “Weirder than usual.”

“Cheers,” Sanji mumbles, hunching down to get his sneakers on. “Look, I don’t know if Luffy spoke to you about it as well, but –”

“No.” Zoro’s tone is indecipherable, which means it’s perfect for grinding Sanji’s gears. “He doesn’t seem mad, though.”

“Why would he…” Sanji plucks at his shoelaces with a frustrated scowl. He always knots them too tight. “He was just worried, I guess.”

“He trusts us.”

“You,” Sanji huffs, before he can stop himself. He winces at his own stupid mouth, which seems to be on fire today, and gives up on his shoelaces altogether. He shucks his Birkenstocks on and meets Zoro’s stare head-on. “He trusts you. You don’t mess up. You don’t lie unless you have to. You don’t – you don’t do this kind of thing.”

Zoro’s mouth flattens, just enough to flag. “And you do?”

Sanji drags his fingers through his hair. “You know I don’t, asshole. Look, if Sabo’s already told Luffy then he’s definitely told Ace, so let’s just… give it a few more days, see what happens. Keep it on the downlow, ‘cause the last thing we need is Luffy thinking I’m using you or something.”

“You are using me,” Zoro mutters, dry as a bone.

“Not like that,” Sanji bites out, but then falters. “…Okay, kind of like that, but not, like, maliciously. You agreed to it, for starters, so pretty sure that cancels out any chance I’m manipulating you here.”

There’s a long pause, filled with the hum of their friends chattering a few rooms away and myna birds fighting the galahs in the yard. Zoro shifts against the wall, looking like he’s chewing something bitter. Sanji half-expects him to say something cutting, judging by his face, but instead he asks, “How is she?”

Sanji pauses at the door, just for a moment, glancing at the other man over his shoulder with badly concealed surprise. Zoro’s consistent prying into his personal life (his consistent concern for his personal life) is almost worse than when he’s being an annoying twat.

“Yeah,” he says finally, licking his lips. “I mean. As fine as she ever is.”

Zoro nods, like he gets it which he definitely does not. He says, “Drive safe,” and disappears back into the kitchen, leaving Sanji to blink after him, not quite sure of how he’s meant to interpret any of… that. The morning sun is spilling golden across the hallway, soft and perfectly ordinary, but Sanji’s chest feels un-ordinarily unsettled. He ducks out the front door without wasting another moment, still trying to make sense of whatever the hell that was.

It’s a long, long drive but he doesn’t listen to anything consistent because he’s never really found the right mix for this kind of journey. He gets half-way through a podcast on prion diseases before he has to turn it off, letting the silence sit like a fist in his gut.

The parking lot is still half-dust, half-gravel, and twice as bleak as Sanji remembers. He kills the engine but stays in the car with his hands clenched tight around the steering wheel, knuckles pressing bone-white.

He forces himself to breathe, counting four in, four out, like Nami taught him. Then he gets out of the car, smooths the creases from his shirt and heads toward the entrance. The front desk is manned by a tired-looking woman who doesn’t bother hiding her disinterest. 

“Name?”

“Uh, Sanji Vinsmoke,” he answers, already sliding over his driver’s license. “I'm here for Reiju Vinsmoke.”

She scans the list, checks him off. “Lockers are to your right. You know the drill: nothing inside. Hands and pockets empty before you go through.”

He’s always been good at this part, both in here and out in the real world. His movements are smooth, practiced: wallet, keys, phone, click, clatter, slam. He steps into the checkpoint, lifts his arms for the wand sweep, lets the security guard run through the motions without complaint.

Once cleared, he’s ushered through a locked door, down a short hallway that smells like disinfectant and sun-baked brick. Then another guard gestures him toward the visiting room, larger than he remembers, but just as fucking grey.

There are maybe a dozen tables inside, each ringed with bolted-down chairs. Other visitors are already mid-conversation: an older woman holding her daughter’s hand, two teenagers talking in low voices to a wiry-looking man. The guards hover at the perimeter, stationed like shadows. Everyone keeps their voice down. Everything feels borrowed, blue. Depressing as it ever is.

He spots Reiju before she sees him. She’s sitting at a table near the far wall, back straight, hair in a curl that softens her expression but doesn’t hide the edges. She looks good but it’s the kind of good that takes work: masked. Measured.

Sanji swallows, crosses the room. “Hey.”

Reiju looks up, and smiles in that slow, amused way of hers. “You’re early.”

“I had time,” he lies. What he had was too much time, a good ten minutes or so spent in his car imagining every way this visit could go wrong. It’s routine for him, at this point. Get dressed. Drive two and a half hours. Have a mild panic attack. Sit through another hour of watching his sister wear thinner at the edges. Drive two and a half hours back. If he times it right he can even fit in a cry somewhere along the highway, though that’s been happening less this year. It turns out you really can get used to almost anything. “How are you?”

She gives a soft shrug. “Same as yesterday. Still confined to state property. You look tired.”

He exhales, slow. “Lena called last week. She said you didn’t even read her proposal.”

“I read it,” she says stiffly, her gaze lingering on something over Sanji’s shoulder. It’s the only sign that betrays what she’s feeling. “And I threw it out.”

Sanji groans and drags his fingernails down his cheek. “Reij, what the hell?”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. It’s just… unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary?” His voice tightens, despite his best efforts to keep this level. To keep himself level. Lena had said it herself: this has to be Reiju’s choice. “You’ve got a chance to get out early. What’s unnecessary about that?”

Reiju won’t look at him. She picks at a thread on her sleeve instead. “What would I even do out there?”

“Are you serious? You can do whatever you want, that’s the whole point –” He presses the heel of his hand to his mouth, forcing himself to chill the fuck out. Four in, four out. “Reiju, you can’t keep finding excuses to stay in here. It looks like you’re just trying to punish yourself.”

Her mouth lifts at the edge but it’s not a smile. He can’t even remember the last time he saw her real smile. When Sora was alive, maybe. “I don’t know if you remember, but I’m not exactly clean. My name’s still got weight and people remember that sort of thing.”

“Fuck people.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“It’s not, actually,” he snaps darkly, folding his arms across his chest because the anxiety is wound so damn tight in his stomach now that he might throw up. “Do you think I don’t know – I have the same fucking name, I know what it – c’mon. Don’t pull that card.”

Reiju looks at him for a moment longer, then lets out a quiet laugh, one of the dry ones, the kind that tastes more like old smoke than amusement, the kind he hates. “I just keep thinking about how stupid it all is. All that effort, all that training, all those rules… what did it actually buy us?”

“I did everything right,” she continues softly, voice turning sharper by the syllable. “Played the game, kept my head down, used the name when it helped and cut it when it didn’t. And I’m still stuck here.” She gestures broadly to the bland grey walls, the guards, the bolted chairs. Then she looks back at him, eyes dark with something bitter and bone-deep, something he’s not going to be able to dislodge in a hundred leftimes.

He’d know. He hasn’t been able to unpin it from him, either. He folds his arms across his chest and tries, tries, tries to keep his voice level. His breathing even. His heart soft. “Then let’s get you out. If they approve the parole –”

“You’re still trying to fix everything,” Reiju interrupts, leaning back from the table. Her mouth twists, unhappy. “You always think if you juggle fast enough, pretend hard enough, it’ll just magically get better. We’re not made from nice things, Sanji. We don’t get to just start fresh like that. Even you… you’re free, sure, but look at you. Must be exhausting, walking around pretending like you’ve forgiven yourself all the time. Doesn’t look too tempting, little brother.”

Sanji exhales through his teeth. “You’re not making this easy, you know.”

Reiju sits back, perfectly composed again, like she’s boxed it all up inside her ribs where no-one can see. A secret place, just for her. “You didn’t come here for easy. You never do.” 

A buzzer sounds, faint, but insistent. The warning call. Five minutes left.

“We’re not them, Reiju. You’re not them,” he says finally, tired. He wipes at the corners of his eyes and watches his fingers come away wet. “Just. Think about it, okay? Please.”

She purses her lips at the wall, but Sanji doesn’t miss the shine to her gaze. “You should get back to your life,” she says finally, voice gone quiet. “I’ll talk to the stupid lawyer, if that’ll get you to stop sooking around.”

It’s disguised as an insult, because it always has been, but he can see it for what it is. It’s mercy and empathy and a plea all in one and so he, in turn, swallows down the awful guilt and yearning that rises in his throat in retaliation. He forces his voice steady. “You’re being treated okay, though?”

She laughs, sharp and pointed, a huff. “Sure. Probably, yeah. I guess I’ve been in here so long I forgot what it feels like to not be watched. You’d know, I guess.”

Sanji presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Doesn’t say what he’s thinking: that she’s always been watched. They both have, long before either of them set foot in a cell.

Their whole damn lives and then some.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The thing is, Reiju never pretended to love him more than she could. And for a long time, he hated her for it. Really hated her. Couldn’t even look at her without remembering every time she didn’t step in or, worse, every time she helped.

But hate’s never quite stuck like guilt does. Guilt’s always, always had a tighter grip on him and god knows he’s got a lot to feel guilty about. She wouldn’t even be in there if he hadn’t opened his dumb mouth. Then again, neither would the others, neither would Judge and sometimes that almost makes up for it.

Not quite. But almost.

The afternoon sun cuts through the windshield like a slap and he squints against it, tapping ash into a takeaway coffee lid. A semi rumbles past, scaring him half-to-death and by the time he makes it to the practice field he’s already twenty minutes late, still covered in road dust and his nerves are thrashed raw. 

Unfortunately for him, the kids are already in chaos.

There’s yelling. There’s weeping. One of the twins has climbed the perimeter fence and is straddling it, grinning mockingly down at her sister who doesn’t seem to have inherited the same agility. Someone’s chasing Luca around and Kai is lying face-down in the grass, making a suspicious amount of chewing noises.

Sanji takes one long breath, then two, and then forces himself into motion. 

“Alright, monsters!” He slings his bag down and claps his hands loud enough to startle the poor ibises trying to make off with someone’s evening snack. “Circle up! Everyone gets three minutes to scream and cry and finish whatever weird shit you’re doing and then we’re running drills. That means you, Hana, off the fence!” 

“I’m Yui,” Hana says primly, like a lying seven-year-old who lies. Sanji gives her a flat look and she smiles sheepishly, climbing her way back down.

“There’s mint in the grass,” Kai says, definitely chewing.

Sanji sighs. “I don’t care if there’s truffles, kid. You’re not a goat.”

A handful of harried parents glance over from the sidelines, looking somewhere between relieved and apologetic. Teddy mouths thank you like Sanji’s pulled their family pet out of a house-fire. 

Sanji offers a tight, tired smile in return and whistles sharply. “Shoes on, grab a ball, let’s crack on.”

The kids scatter like bream, suddenly and chaotically full of energy, and Sanji presses a hand to his face. His fingers smell like cigarette smoke. His stomach’s still twisted into an ugly knot. There’s a conversation still echoing in his head that he can’t do a single damn thing about. He can’t make Reiju want anything that she doesn’t want herself and it’s infuriating.

Even if his brain’s not fully invested in this practice session his body still knows what to do. Set cones. Call out names. Toss compliments when they manage a good kick or, hell, deign to pass the ball to each other. Squawk insults when they trip over themselves. It’s automatic, the way he folds into the rhythm of it.

“Hey,” Leo says at one point, tugging on his sleeve during the water break. “You look like crap today. Are you sad or something?”

“No,” he lies, gently pulling his sleeve free. “I’m just thinking about how much I wanna kick all of you into the sun. Now go finish your sprints before I give it a try.”

Practice winds down with minimal bloodshed. Only two crying fits (both unrelated to actual injuries), one minor vomit incident (surprise, surprise, Kai) and a dramatic faceplant into the mud from Akash. Pretty standard training night, overall.

Sanji’s bent over with his hands on his knees, wheezing through what might be the start of a stress ulcer when Chiyo and Tatiana come over looking unusually hesitant. He knows them well enough to smile at and talk about game concepts to, but not well enough to correctly interpret the cautious expressions on their faces. They usually don’t hang around after practice finishes, too eager to get their respective kids into showers and dinners and beds and everything that sounds like a nightmare to Sanji, frankly.

“Uh, hey.” He dusts his palms off on his shorts, wary. The last time Tatiana had spoken to him she’d curtly asked him to stop teaching Leo ‘fancy foot tricks’ and just focus on ‘the basics’, so he’s already bracing himself. “Everything okay?” 

“Great practice,” Chiyo says carefully, as if she hasn’t been witnessing a slow-moving car crash for the past sixty minutes and as if her own two weren’t the ringleaders.

“Oh… thanks? Sorry about the mud. The twins, uh. Really committed to the bit.”

Tatiana opens her mouth like she might say something and then Sanji really braces himself, but her gaze flicks to Chiyo. Chiyo clasps and unclasps her hands. “We just wanted to say that we think you’re very admirable. We know it takes a lot of guts.”

Sanji’s brow furrows. He can feel a headache coming a mile away. “Right. The, uh, coaching?”

“No, well – yes,” Tatiana says quickly, “But more than that. This town isn’t always the most, um… welcoming. But you’re setting a positive example for our kids and we’re really… appreciative. We really appreciate it.”

There is a long silence, only broken by Yui screaming somewhere in the background about bull ants in her shoe. Sanji squints at them, wishing he’d called in sick and gone straight home, into the calm hush of his bedroom. Instead, he’s here: sweaty, dusty, bruised from being tackled by children and holding an orange peel like it’s evidence in a murder case. “I… thanks? That’s really nice?”

Chiyo pats his arm gently. Her eyes are downcast. “We just wanted to let you know. We’re very happy that you can be… you.”

“Oh.” Sanji blinks, exhaustion starting to crackle behind his eyes. “Thanks. That’s – yeah. I’m always myself. Very me. In all situations.”

He can’t tell if they’re happy or sad, satisfied or disappointed; it’s all a little too much for him, frankly, and so he hurries out a goodbye before either of them can speak again, his quota of emotional conversations in one day well and truly hit. 

Usually the parents don’t talk to him too much and they sure as hell don’t compliment him, so he’s a little unnerved and he tells himself that’s why he starts reorganising the pantry. To shake off the conversation and because the fridge is a mess and the pantry does need a better flow and someone has been storing pasta near the cereal like a psychopath.

It’s definitely got nothing to do with needing to move his hands into something that isn’t just gripping the edge of a table until his knuckles go white. Something that isn’t tracing the way Reiju had said you’re just pretending you’ve forgiven yourself.

He’s halfway through violently alphabetising the teas when Zoro leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, face unreadable in the dim kitchen light. He’s in boxers, quiet and watchful. “You trying to tidy that or fight with it?”

Sanji tries to smirk or glower or something – anything – but it doesn’t stick. “Just wanted to do something useful.”

Zoro makes a point of looking at the clock. “At one in the morning.”

“Well, excuse me for having a productive breakdown,” Sanji gripes half-heartedly. “Sorry we all can’t just pick fights in pubs or whatever it is you do.”

“You picked most of those fights, you weirdo.” He doesn’t move for a moment, like he’s just waiting to see if Sanji will explode or fold or say something honest. Which is maddening because Sanji is two steps from all three.

“Like you can talk,” he says huffily, shoving a jar of turmeric into place. He doesn’t look at Zoro, but he can feel him shift slightly, like some muscle in the air between them is tightening. He explodes, nearly dropping the tarragon in his effort to wave his hands through the air. “And you know what? She’s not even sure she wants out! After everything she still thinks she’s the problem here!” 

For a long beat there’s no sound but the fridge cycling and the faint rattle of cinnamon sticks settling in their jar, before Zoro crosses the distance and grabs the paprika from the bench to place it gently in the absolute wrong place. 

Sanji glares at him, mouth twitching despite himself. “Could you be more of an asshole?”

“You’re spiralling anyway,” Zoro smirks. “Figured I’d help you focus.”

“By sabotaging my paprika system?”

“Nobody needs a paprika system, Curls. How much paprika can there even be?” 

Sanji snorts, kicking his shin lightly. “Don’t think you can distract me by getting me to talk about spices, Mosshead, that’s a low bar even for – and no, you know it’s more complicated than that. If you want Hungarian paprika then you – actually, no, fuck you, I’m better than this.” 

Zoro smirks and drops down on the floor, languid and easy, like they do this all the time. Like this is a normal Tuesday night (Wednesday morning?) for them. Which simply won’t do, so Sanji kicks him again, just for good measure, and slides the misplaced jar back home. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

He wakes to the blissful, cherished sound of his phone buzzing violently off the bedside table and into the bin.

It buzzes again. And again. A third time, more insistent. When he finally reaches down and fishes it out from where it’s landed next to an empty bottle of gatorade and a sock he doesn’t remember owning, the screen reads: Robin. [7 calls, 1 voicemail]

He squints. Blinks. Presses accept and croaks, “Did someone die?”

“Franky has crabs,” Robin replies smoothly.

Sanji stares at the ceiling. “…Sorry?”

“In the bathtub.”

“…Your bathtub?”

“Yes.”

There is a moment of total, exhausted silence in which Sanji contemplates simply hanging up and starting a new life somewhere very far away. Instead, he clears his throat. “Come again?”

“I told you. Franky went on his morning run and came home with some crabs. They are currently occupying the bath. He named one of them John.”

“John,” Sanji echoes.

“Yes. The others are named John 2 and Mr. Pinch. He’s very fond of Mr. Pinch in particular.”

Sanji scrubs a hand down his face and sits up. “Why are you calling me about this?”

“Because,” Robin says with great patience, because Robin is a saint in every scenario. “He’s asked me to prepare them for lunch and I certainly won’t be doing that. Also I suppose it’s important to check we aren’t violating any fishery regulations.”

Sanji is out of bed and half-dressed before he realises what he’s doing. “Okay. I guess? I’m coming over. For the love of god, don’t let him boil anything.”

“I won’t,” she says pleasantly. “We don’t have a pot big enough anyway.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He’s still buttoning his shirt by the time he actually gets through Robin’s front door and comes face to face with the sight of Franky on the living room floor, a bandaid slapped over his nose. He’s enthusiastically building a tiny crab obstacle course out of chopsticks and wooden spoons.

“Sanji!” Franky bellows, grinning from ear to ear. “Check out my guys! They’re thriving! I think Mr. Pinch is the alpha.”

Robin sips tea in the hallway, pressing a little kiss into Sanji’s temple. “Good morning, dear. They seem to have established a hierarchy.”

Sanji stares at the crabs. The crabs stare back.

“These are mud crabs,” he mutters eventually. “Where the hell did you find three of them?”

“The mangroves behind Woolies!” Franky beams. 

Robin adds, with the perfect clarity of hindsight, “There were signs.”

Sanji pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alright. Sure. That’s a normal thing to happen. Can you chuck them in a bucket or something?” 

Franky sulks but complies, scooping up the crabs with exaggerated care while whispering encouragements like, “You’re gonna be okay, soldier!” and, “Alpha behaviour, Mr. P.”

Robin raises a brow at Sanji. “Breakfast?”

It’s how he finds himself sitting at her kitchen island with half a piece of toast hanging out of his mouth, two steaming mugs of coffee in front of hi and the distinct sense that he’s wandered into a sitcom that no-one’s warned him about. He keeps looking between them, the question rising and dying in this throat, not unlike the poor crustaceans trying to scrabble free from the tupperware container Franky’s found.

Robin, unbothered, flips through her tablet with practiced ease. This is clearly a normal morning for her, complete with Franky being shirtless and inexplicably wearing lab goggles. He’s lovingly drawing a diagram labelled ‘CRAB RETENTION SOLUTIONS V2’ on some butcher’s paper, so maybe they won’t get eaten after all. 

“So just to clarify,” Sanji says slowly, trying to adopt some kind of quasi-casual tone about this. “Franky was here because…?”

“He lives here, darling,” Robin answers easily, scribbling something onto the tablet. He’s not one hundred percent clear on what she does for a living but he’s pretty sure it only ventures into legal territory every so often. 

“Right. Right. Uh. And… why… does he…?”

Robin and Franky exchange a glance. Franky grins. “We’ve been together for like a year now, mate.”

“A year?” That can’t be right. None of this can be right. He looks between them again, feeling very much like the sitcom has veered sharply into a crime procedural. “Since when?”

Robin sips her tea. “Since a year ago, it would seem.”

Franky grins at her, really grins at her, the type of grin you give someone when you’re very, very sappy. “We’re super low-key. Intimacy through efficiency, that’s what I always say.”

Sanji blinks. “That’s not a sentence.”

Robin offers, kindly, “We share a Google Calendar.”

“That is definitely not a sentence.”

Franky gestures to the crabs. “Honestly, this is the first time we’ve had a tiff.”

Sanji splutters and takes a mouthful from both coffee mugs, one after the other, like a life-saving serum. It’s terrible coffee, but he’s a desperate man. “Wow, okay. Does… everyone else know about this?”

Robin hums, like it doesn’t bother her either way. “Possibly. You can be very unobservant sometimes.”

It’s – fair, actually. He clamps his mouth shut before something deeply stupid falls out and just… watches them instead. The way Franky lights up mid-sentence like Robin’s the cleverest person alive, and the way she smiles back at him like she agrees.

“I’m happy for you guys,” he says eventually and finds he means it.

Their whole dynamic makes about as much sense to him as a soup sandwich, but whatever. He loves his friends. He doesn’t have to understand how it works to be glad it does, and god knows Robin deserves someone who looks at her like she hung the moon.

He leaves them to it, new pets and all, and gets about as far as unlocking his car before his phone buzzes again, this time from Chiyo. She’s never messaged him privately before and his thumb hovers over it cautiously before swiping DenDen open. 

Hey, Sanji it reads, I hope we didn’t overstep last night and sorry if we made you uncomfortable. We’re all just really happy for you and Zoro and we’re really proud of you both. Hope that’s ok ♡ PS We would love you to come to the trivia night on Saturday. The club would be so grateful :)

Sanji freezes. Reads it again. “What. The. Fuck.”

The message is still there.

His brain replays last night in grainy, humiliating detail: the warm smiles, the weighted looks, Tatiana not stomping him into the dirt for once. Sanji had thought – god, he’d thought they were talking about the kids. About the game. About his reputation and coaching.

But no.

They were congratulating him on his relationship. On being – 

“No, no, no, no, nooo.” He jumps into the car with a pitchy noise. If he was clever he’d stay there, or crash into a tree, or drive straight into the ocean and let the fish raise him in exile. Instead, he explodes across the Baratie kitchen like a missile. “Where is he?!”

Half the kitchen flinches. Mimi drops a knife. Patty, who’s eating someone else’s discarded breakfast, just grins and says, “Ooh, lovers’ tiff already. He’s out back –”

Too late. Sanji’s grabbed Zoro by the elbow and is dragging him bodily back across the kitchen before Zoro can even hope to brace himself. Zoro blinks. “What the – ”

The moment the freezer door shuts behind them Sanji rounds on him like a wild dog. Hair windblown. Eyes wide. Hands flailing. Steam’s practically pouring from his ears, though that might just be the actual cold.

“They all know!" He hisses, pointing outside like there’s a sniper squad of soccer mums camped in the dining room. “They all know, Zoro!”

Zoro stares. “Who’s they?”

“The parents! The – everyone, idiot! Chiyo messaged me to congratulate me on our relationship! With a heart emoji! The pink one, Zoro, the one with STARS!”

Zoro doesn’t falter. “…Okay?”

Sanji makes a choked sound. “What do you mean okay? This is a disaster!”

Zoro crosses his arms. “Pretty sure you wanted people to think we were dating. Wasn’t that the whole point of your little slideshow?”

“Yeah, Ace! Not the entire town!”

“So what?”

“So what?” Sanji sputters. “So, the more people know, the more people can talk, and then if Ace hears it from someone else before I can – we lose the narrative, you idiot!”

Zoro snorts. “Who are you, Nami?”

Sanji shoves his hair back with one frozen hand. He’s pacing now. “For once in your life can you just pretend like something means anything to you? This is a disaster!”

“You wanted people to know we’re dating. This is what people knowing we’re dating looks like.”

“That’s not the point!” Sanji hisses, waving his arms like a man on fire. “I am trying to control the rollout and instead I have soccer mums telling me they’re proud of me for – oh my god, do you even get how messy this is now? The kids are gonna know. And you’re not even fazed!”

“Because it doesn’t matter to me if people know,” Zoro snaps. “I don’t care if the whole team or the neighbours or the bloody Premier knows. You wanted this thing to work and now you’re cracking the shits because it’s working?”

“Because!” Sanji stops short. The air hangs with condensation and misplaced rage. He doesn’t put a voice to how this thing has only been going on for two days and it already feels like it’s spinning a bit too far beyond his control. He says, stilted, “I just want it to go right.”

Zoro studies him for a moment, eyes narrowed, before he flicks Sanji clean across the forehead. “You worry too much, Curls. You’ve got ten more seconds before I go and tell Lewis you’re crying in here.”

“I am not crying!”

“Eight.”

“Zoro, I swear to god!”

“Seven.”

Sanji lunges at him and very nearly tackles him to the ground. “You’re an asshole. ”

Zoro smirks and throws him back, bracing himself with a splayed arm. “Takes one to know one. Six.”

The door bangs open like judgement day and they both jump out of their skin, turning to Zeff filling the doorway. His arms are folded and his eyes are hard and cold, well beyond what the freezer can compete with. Sanji can feel Zoro tense beside him in a way he hasn’t seen before, not with Zeff. Not with anyone, actually.  

“Well,” Zeff says, “Guess this is why everyone’s out there talkin’ weddings instead of working.”

Sanji’s face is burning. “Wait, we can explain –”

“You can explain in your own time,” Zeff interrupts. “But right now you’re blocking my walk-in, on my clock, looking like you’re one second from a fight or a fuck and I don’t like either of those options when you’re meant to be prepping lunch service.”

Sanji makes an inhuman sound, his hands fisting. “We weren’t – we weren’t doing either, what the hell. We were just –”

“Talking,” Zoro supplies quickly, his voice strained. “Privately.”

Zeff’s stare swings towards him like a cleaver. “You think I give a damn about your privacy? I’ve run this place for decades. I’ve seen how this kind of thing plays out, time and bloody time again. Two idiots think they can balance home and work and before long someone’s bleeding all over the floor. We’re a business, not a –”

Sanji cuts in quickly. “Whoa, stop. Let’s just take a breath, old man. Nothing is happening. I don’t know what gossip you’re on about but this? Not happening. It’s not real, alright? Whatever you heard is fake.”

“Don’t care,” Zeff growls. “Fake, real, whatever the hell you want to call it, it’s still happening in my kitchen. And that means you’re making it my problem, the same way it’ll be my problem when this blows up in your faces.”

Zoro’s jaw tightens, just enough for Sanji to notice. He doesn’t drop his gaze, though. “You know I wouldn’t mess anything up for him.”

Sanji’s mouth opens, then clamps shut. His ears are ringing a little, maybe: It’s the him that does it. Not the restaurant. Not Zeff. Not us. Just him. Zoro said it like there’s no question who he means, like it’s never been a question. Like they should just know. Sanji can’t even look at him and he doesn’t get a choice in the matter regardless: Zeff jerks his thumb at the door. “Eggplant, out.”

He actually hesitates, just for a moment. Long enough for Zeff to grab him by the scruff of his neck and chuck him out the freezer door, leaving him to stare at the entire kitchen staff, who have clearly been trying to listen in on the drama. Yvette is looking at him like he’s a mystery she can’t wait to get to the bottom of. With her teeth, possibly. 

“Get back to work,” he says loudly, not quite a shout but definitely a distant cousin. “Don’t even start, Kyle.”

Kyle squeaks and redacts whatever monstrosity he was about to bring forth, shoving the bowl back onto the prep bench. “S-Sorry, chef!” 

Sanji gets to work like a man possessed (fluid, sharp, terrifyingly efficient) but there’s something brittle in his rhythm. He’s still counting seconds when the freezer door finally creaks open enough for Zoro to slip out like he’s just survived a natural disaster. Colourless, quiet, slow in the way people are when they’ve been gutted and haven’t quite noticed yet. He doesn’t say a word to anyone, just grabs his keys and phone and walks out the door like someone heading off to their own execution. 

“Did you fucking fire him?” Sanji demands the second Zeff’s limped back into the office. The door slams behind him, a little too hard, but he’s too keyed up to care. “Because FairWork will eat you alive, for one thing, and for another, I swear to god I will murder you with your own ladle if you –”

“He’s not rostered today,” Zeff cuts in, tossing his hat onto the desk like it personally offended him. “He’s not rostered most of the time he’s here, in case you haven’t noticed. Brat needs to learn to butt the hell out.”

Sanji opens his mouth to argue, but Zeff barrels on, voice low and dangerous. “I told you from day one: no mess in my kitchen. I meant it.”

“It’s not –” Sanji starts, too fast. Stumbles. Tries again. “It’s… complicated.”

Zeff’s gaze is sharp, but he doesn’t raise his voice and it’s so much worse than yelling that something in Sanji wilts. “That’s not a word I like hearing from you. You wanna say it’s fake or real, whatever, I don’t bloody care. Just tell me if it’s dangerous.”

Sanji’s head snaps back up and he barks a laugh dredged up from some unknown, liminal space. “It’s not. I’m not gonna screw up the kitchen. And Zoro – he wouldn’t – he’s not like that.”

“You sure?” Zeff asks dryly. “Because it wasn’t that long ago you two were getting suspended for brawlin’ every other week.”

Sanji’s mouth presses flat. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? High school feels like another life now, one spent clawing his way out of juvie, cycling through group homes, too angry and too raw to do anything but bare his teeth. Everything in him had been sharp edges and bad instincts, half-feral with grief and shame, and Zoro had been the only one stupid enough to match him blow for blow. They’d fought constantly. Ugly, mean shit. And sure, Zoro gave as good as he got, but Sanji knows – knows – he was the one who started most of it. Pushed harder. Cut deeper. 

It’s a fucking miracle Zoro still talks to him. 

It’s an even bigger miracle that Sanji’s somehow let himself believe that’ll last.

“For the record,” Zeff says, after the terse silence has run its course, “I don’t give a shit that it’s him. I give a shit that it’s you. I gave you the job because no-one else would. But you kept it, because you worked like hell. You’ve fought your way to this life and you’ve come a bloody long way, so you don’t throw it away for anyone, even him. You hear me?”

Sanji’s throat goes tight. He tries to say something – anything – but his mouth won’t cooperate. There’s too much stuck behind his teeth. Old anger, old love, old wounds. “Yeah,” he manages eventually, voice rough. “I hear you.”

From beyond the door is the clatter of plates and knives echoing in the kitchen and Sanji forces himself to focus on that, something normal, something loud and alive. 

Zeff sighs. “You get all up in your own head every damn time.”

“I know that,” Sanji scowls. Then he sighs, rubs a hand over his face. Tries again. “I know that. I’m trying, okay?”

“Yeah, well, keep at it.” Zeff makes like he’s about to head back into the kitchen, grabbing his cane and shuffling back to his feet and Sanji inhales sharply, nerves flaring because it’s now or never. 

“W-Wait.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and tries again, forcing himself to take a deeper breath. The sea gleams dully through the kitchen window and he locks eyes with it. “I, uh. Reiju might apply for parole.”

Zeff slumps back down in the chair again and lights a cigarette. “Mm. Remind me who that one is again. Not the ones who left you rotting in –”

“No.” Sanji’s chest tightens, sharp. “Not them. She’s… she was better.” 

The old man makes a noncommittal noise, like he can’t actually picture anyone in Sanji’s family being anything other than soulsucking, but he waves his hand through the air, go on. Sanji crosses his arms across his chest and that’s still not enough to choke the sheer fucking tension out of his own voice. “She, uh. I’m gonna ask her to stay with me. But she’ll need a job. Income. And it’ll help… it would help. Look, she’s a good person.”

Zeff fixes him with a long, heavy look, one eyebrow arching like a warning.“Yeah? She still kept quiet while the rest of ‘em dragged you down, kid. I know you think she looked out for you and I don’t doubt you reckon you owe her, but it’s not nothing, bringing her here.” 

Sanji wants to snap at him, instinctive and cruel, but this is too important to him for him to risk it. He forces himself to keep his voice level, his face plain. “She’s quick. Smart. Useful.”

“Useful’s a dangerous thing in that family.” Zeff taps his cane against the desk and sighs. “I’m not saying no, Eggplant. I’ll give it a think. But not if it’s going to be at your expense.”

Sanji tries to reel in the surprise but probably does a piss-poor job at it: Zeff grunts, like he sees it anyway, and thumps a hand once, rough and solid, against the back of Sanji’s shoulder. It’s not soft, but it’s not nothing, and it lands right in the space that used to feel so goddamn hollow he’d have burned himself up just to make it stop. 

Later, when his shift is finally over and he doesn’t feel like his soul is leaking through his skin, he lets his headlights carve a dull path through the dark and grips the steering wheel with one hand, elbow resting out the window like he’s fine, like this is any other late shift drive home.

The weight of Zeff’s name behind Reiju’s second chance should feel good. Inspiring. But it sits strange in his chest, heavy and awkward, like wearing someone else’s jacket: familiar in shape, but not quite made for him.

He taps the indicator even though there’s no-one else on the road out of habit. His hands move with automatic grace, muscle memory forged in kitchens and the houses of strangers, in bus shelters and the exercise yard that he’d beg to stay out in, just a second longer. Places where you always had to look like you knew what you were doing.

Places where if you slipped, it stuck.

By the time the lights of the sharehouse crest the hill, he’s got his mouth curled back into a lazy smile again, easy as anything, his most reliable mask. He tucks a cigarette behind his ear and jogs up the front steps, halting when he realises Zoro’s sitting cross-legged on the verandah floor with a beer between his feet.

Sanji leans against the post, arms folded. “Aw, not getting ready for beddy-byes?”

Zoro rolls his eyes. “Ha. Didn’t feel like sleeping, funnily enough.”

“Let me guess. Tea and a bedtime story from Zeff ruin your night? You get the shovel talk, huh?”

Zoro snorts, but it’s dry. “More like the whole fucking toolbox. Didn’t even know I could be threatened in so many ways.” 

Despite himself, Sanji huffs out a short laugh. But then he looks at the other man, really looks, and sees something rigid behind the casual. Zoro’s mouth is tight. His shoulders are stiff, not from anger but something else. Sanji exhales and lets his knees fold, until they’re parallel.  

“If it makes you feel any better I think that’s his love language.”

Zoro chuckles but there’s no real humour behind it. His hand tightens around the bottle neck, then loosens again. “He’s dead serious about you.”

“I mean, he’s the main reason I’m still standing, so yeah. He’s allowed to be.” After a beat, he rakes a hand through his hair. “You know, if it’s too much… we can stop.”

Zoro looks up. “What?”

“If Zeff’s got you spooked or you’re getting heat from other people… whatever. We can call it off.”

Zoro sets the bottle down a little too hard. “I’m not calling anything off.”

“You don’t have to prove anything –”

“I’m not proving anything,” Zoro snaps, then checks himself, quieter now. “I don’t give a shit what people think. And Zeff’s just looking out for you. I get that.”

Sanji sighs, rolling his shoulders. “Man, this is way more complicated than I thought it’d be.”

“Sorry,” Zoro says incredulously, “You thought pretending that we suddenly got together would be easy?”

Sanji groans and lets himself spread out on the verandah, letting his body press into the cool wood until he can feel it in every inch. “I guess not. Look, we’ve just gotta get through tomorrow night – ugh, then Saturday night, shit. And then we can chuck a breakup and pretend this never, ever, ever, ever happened.”

“Wait, what’s on Saturday?” Zoro sounds suspicious, is suspicious. He jabs his toes into Sanji’s ribs and gets a kick to the knee for his efforts. “Curls.”

Sanji winces and rolls over onto his stomach, cupping his chin to give Zoro his very, very best attempt at what Usopp would call ‘cutie eyes’. The only person who usually employs them is Luffy and the results have been mixed at best. “Okay, so, you remember Chiyo –”

“Nope.” Zoro skulls the rest of the beer, head shaking. “Not a chance. Not going.”

“It’s one night!” Maybe it’d help if he flutters his eyelashes? He gives it a go and probably just looks like he’s having some kind of epileptic episode. “She invited us specifically, man. Maybe they’re trying to revamp their… Pride vibe?”

“They’ve never had a Pride vibe.” Zoro looks like he’s contemplating glassing Sanji, or himself, just to end the conversation. “You said one public event and we did that already. You wanna go embarrass yourself then go for your life, but count me out.”

“Ah, I’ll win you over.” He hops up and stretches, feeling like the past few days have lasted a lifetime and then some. “You gonna stay out here feeling sorry for yourself or you wanna come find some really, really bad Thai?”

Zoro makes a sound against the bottle neck like he’s dying, but lets Sanji pull him up and back inside anyway, tale as old as time.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

They’ve been hitting open mics at Going Merry for as long as they’ve legally been able to, through rainstorm and sunshine, through long, chilly winter nights and the very heart of summer. It’s been one of the constants in their lives and if Sanji had to guess, they’ve probably been to at least 90 of the damn things. Sometimes it’s for Luffy but tonight it’s for Brook, and this is, without doubt, the single most important night of them all.

He spends an agonising amount of time in the mirror, waging war over hair (subtle curl or dead straight), then spirals into shirt decisions, then the choice between chinos and jeans, until he’s practically dressing in circles. Nami drops by at some point under the guise of helping, which mostly seems to involve eating everything in sight and heckling him from his bed. 

“Yeah, that works!” she says from where she’s sprawled out, flicking through DenDen and paying absolute zero attention to anything he’s doing. 

He glares at her. “Fluro green shoes work?”

She glances down at his shoes and blanches. “Why do you even have those, what the hell? They work if you’re trying to blind him, sure.”

He rolls his eyes and kicks them off with a dramatic sigh. “I mean, if it gets his attention…”

“I still don’t get what you see in him.” She waits until he’s picked some respectable black kicks before yanking him onto the bed so she can work on his nails. It has nothing to do with his outfit but he’s learned not to question her rituals. She’s decked out in silver from head-to-toe and stays on-theme by carefully brushing sleek chrome polish onto his fingernails. 

“He’s buff as hell,” Sanji says defensively. “He looks cool, he’s funny, he’s hot, he’s probably really strong, he –”

Nami smirks and tugs his hand sharply, almost making him topple into her lap. “Which one are we talking about again? You just have so many love interests these days, it’s so hard to keep track. Where is the boyfriend anyway?”

“Hilarious.” He rolls his eyes again, just to drive the point home. “He’s meeting us there, I guess. And you don’t have to call him that, you know.”

“Don’t have to call him what?” Nami asks innocently, as if she doesn’t know that throwing around the b-word in private is a jailable offense. She finishes his other hand with a satisfied little flourish, capping the bottle like she just accomplished something important. Maybe she did. The chrome looks way better than it has any right to.

Sanji doesn’t comment. Instead, he turns his hands under the fan to dry and asks, “Did you know about Robin and Franky?”

Nami groans in stereo with the whirring blades above them. “Sanji. Sweetheart. Babycakes. You live in a completely different dimension sometimes. Everyone knows about Robin and Franky. This is like when you found out about Vivi all over again.”

The plan, in theory, is bulletproof: soft lighting, great music, good company, and the casual thrill of a second fake date. He knows Ace will be working, just like every other Friday night.

Sanji has built entire cathedrals of hope on less.

Nami talks for most of the drive, flipping through DenDen and trash-talking the people in her social work course, but Sanji’s only half-listening, tapping a senseless rhythm on the steering wheel.

He’s done everything right. He’s played it cool. He hasn’t texted. He hasn’t begged. He hasn’t let on that he’s spent the last couple of days half catastrophising over every potential, hypothetical interaction.

“Stop bouncing your leg,” Nami instructs as he carefully navigates a parallel park that may or may not be in a loading zone. The sign’s a little unclear. “Calm that farm down, babe.”

He stills. Forces a breath. Tells himself it’s fine, everything’ll be fine, this is just another night at Going Merry. It’s not like anything’s riding on it or anything.

Going Merry’s already glowing, the late summer evening spilling through the wide-open doors and casting everything in gold. Someone’s lit incense somehow, it seems. Someone else is still mid-way through setting up amps and the low thread of anticipation is already threaded through the chatter of familiar voices and shuffling feet. Open mic’s not due to start for another hour, but god knows it’s the only thing to do in this town, so the place’ll start filling up pretty soon.

Sanji exhales, casual as hell on the outside, and scans the room, finding that Ace either hasn’t started yet or isn’t behind the bar right now. He tells himself it’s a good thing: it’ll give him time to orient himself, rehearse talking points. Normal stuff, of course.

Then Nami snorts, loudly. “Oh my god.”

Sanji follows her gaze to their normal table, right up front and bathed in honey-warm light, where Zoro is early and – what the hell – wearing some kind of black button-up shirt with most of the buttons undone. Hair pushed back like he actually looked in a mirror at some point and a chain around his neck that does nothing but draw attention to the fact that there’s a lot more neck on show than usual. 

Usopp is next to him, cheerfully oblivious, waving them over with both arms. Zoro just tips his chin up in lazy acknowledgement, but his mouth twists into a smirk that has Sanji striding over to punch his arm.

“What the fuck,” he hisses, “Are you wearing?”

“Could ask the same,” Zoro drawls, giving him a once-over – a long one – that makes the skin hugging Sanji’s collarbones prickle. 

“Yo!” Usopp says brightly, scooting over like none of this is happening. “You guys took forever.”

Nami slides in without missing a beat, her smile sweet on the surface but hiding a thousand and one piranhas. “You look nice, Zozo.”

Zoro smirks at her too, sips his whisky so casually Sanji wants to throttle him here and now. “Didn’t want Curls to embarrass me.”

Sanji kicks him under the table, face hot, because what the hell are the alternatives? 

He catches Brook setting up, chatting animatedly with the girl helping him test the mic. He gives them all a huge wave. Still no sign of Ace and he tells himself that it’s a good thing, that it gives him time to recalibrate and get his head on straight. Play it cool.

He glances back at Zoro, just in time to catch the guy laughing at something Usopp’s said, head tilted back like it’s genuine, chain at his throat catching the evening light and –

Nope. Nope. Absolutely-the-fuck-not.

He orders two gin and tonics and is barely halfway through the first when Luffy appears like a damn cyclone, throwing himself across the table so hard he nearly wrecks everyone’s drinks anyway. The pretzels definitely go flying somewhere.

“Zoro!” He grins. “You look different!”

“Right?” Sanji latches on, a little vindication. “Right?! That’s what I said. Like, I didn’t know we were meant to be going clubbing later.”

It’s a dumb joke, because the town doesn’t have any damn clubs. It has this bar, another one on the edge of ruin and two pubs that really only stay afloat during tourist and footy season, which thankfully seem to coincide. The RSL is technically a town over. They don’t even have a proper bottle shop. 

Zoro shrugs one shoulder. “Guess I just clean up better than you thought.”

Sanji opens his mouth and realises, too late, that anything he says in response will sound either like an admission or a compliment and he’s not prepared to offer either. Ever, but especially right now, when Zoro’s apparently trying to embody a GQ shoot.

Nami’s smug as hell, which nobody appreciates, sipping her drink and watching this unfold like it’s the evening’s pre-show entertainment, just for her.

Luffy, meanwhile, is hanging halfway over the back of Zoro’s seat, examining his shirt like it’s a crime scene. “Is that linen? Is this a collar?”

“Get off me.” Zoro pushes him off with one hand and far too much grunting. “Aren’t you on tonight?”

“Nah, taking a creative pause.” Luffy yawns and it’s only then that Sanji clocks onto the small case slung over his shoulder. “Brook says we can work on a duet! He says we’re going to ‘emotionally devastate’ the audience.”

Usopp raises his glass like he’s toasting his own funeral. “Caaaan’t wait, buddy.”

Sanji would be enjoying all of this, truly, if Zoro wasn’t currently leaning back in his chair like the picture of relaxed confidence. His hand drops into the space between them, fingers brushing against Sanji’s thigh in a way that is probably accidental. 

Probably.

Sanji glares at him. Zoro just stretches, smirks, and what the fuck. 

Nami, thankfully, leans in to nab Luffy’s attention and derail whatever suicide mission Sanji’s brain seems to be on. “Is Ace on tonight?”

“Yeah!” Luffy beams. “He’s gonna head over after dinner.”

“Cool,” Sanji blurts and then Zoro’s thumb taps twice against his thigh and he loses it. “Do you mind?!”

Zoro blinks at him, feigning innocence, looking like he deserves a chair to the face. “What?”

“That!” Sanji gestures, hating the way his ears go hot. “You’re doing – things! Stop doing things.”

Nami snorts into her drink. Usopp leans forward, grinning. “What kind of things?”

“Never you mind!” 

Zoro says, blandly, “I’m just sitting. If my presence is that distracting maybe you need to get your priorities straight.”

“My priorities are fine!” Sanji snaps, slapping his hands over his ears like that’ll stop them from burning up. 

Zoro tilts his head, expression unreadable. “Yeah? You sure there, Curls?”

Sanji can feel the way the rest of his face heats up and knows, knows, knows, that it’s visible. He turns away, glaring resolutely at the stage where Brook is now serenading the mic lady with a tragic ballad about Iceland, it seems. 

He tells himself to just fucking focus but Zoro’s a line of warmth at his side, still infuriatingly smug and wearing whatever bizarre confidence he’s found like a weapon. He doesn’t get time to snipe at Zoro for – for whatever is happening, because Ace arrives like a summer storm: warm, loud and a little bit untouchable. He slides into the bar with his usual easy swagger, spotted first by Luffy (who shrieks), then Nami (who smirks) and finally Sanji, who nearly chokes on his gin and tonic.

“Hey, hey – heads up,” Sanji mutters, elbowing Zoro lightly in the ribs. “He’s here.”

“Who? Oh, right.” Zoro takes a long drink from his glass and finally turns his gaze towards the bar. Unbelievable.

Ace grins when he spots them and strides on over, slipping between tables like he owns the place – which, Sanji supposes, isn’t that far from the truth. He’s been a part of Going Merry’s extended orbit forever.

“Evening, kids,” he says cheerfully, and claps a hand down on Luffy’s head before flicking a casual salute to Nami and Usopp. And then, to Sanji’s immense relief, Ace’s gaze lands on him. “Hey, you. Didn’t think I’d catch you out again.”

Sanji laughs a little too hard, a little too high. His heart is hammering somewhere. “Yeah, well. It’s Brook. We don’t miss Brook.”

Ace’s grin softens into something understanding. “Fair.”

And just as Sani’s brain is scrambling for his next line – something smooth, something charming, something that implies you could fall in love with me, please and thank you – Zoro casually reaches over and rests his hand on Sanji’s knee.

Sanji jerks slightly in surprise, catching the way Ace’s eyes drop. Linger. He doesn’t say a word. But Zoro sees it, and he runs with it, apparently. Leans right in, asks “You okay?” in a voice that’s soft and rough all at once in a way that absolutely should not work. 

Sanji gapes at him. “Are you – I’m fine?”

“You were just fidgeting,” Zoro says and then – then – he squeezes his knee, like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do.

Sanji’s heart does something unholy inside his chest, even as he glances at Ace who hasn’t looked away, expression loaded. “We’re in public,” he hisses under his breath.

“Yeah.” Zoro has the audacity to smirk. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

“Aaanyway,” Ace says slowly, “I just came to say hi before my shift. Good to see y’all.” His smile is warm, genuine and directed to all of them, but it’s clear to Sanji that it lingers a fraction on him. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking?

The moment he’s out of earshot Sanji whips around to Zoro, all daggers. “What the fuck was that?!”

Zoro’s already got both hands back around his drink, unbothered. “What?”

“The – knee thing!”

Zoro shrugs, smiling small and dangerous, like he’s playing a whole different game here. Hell, like he’s playing a whole other fucking field. “Thought you wanted to sell this.”

Sanji makes a strangled sound, ignoring the way Nami coughs into her glass to hide her laugh. Usopp looks like he might be about to take notes. 

It should be a great night, in theory.

Brook’s on fire with a repertoire of niche, motown covers, the crowd’s buzzing, Going Merry’s packed and golden with lights and the warm summer air. Everyone’s in a good mood: Nami’s already a cocktail deep despite her designated driver role, shouting encouragement at Brook. Luffy’s howling in laughter somewhere, chatting to absolutely everyone because the whole damn town adores him. There’s glitter on the floor and strings of lights above their heads and honestly, Sanji would normally be loving this.

Except. 

Except.

Zoro’s sitting way too close, deliberately close, and he hasn’t fucking stopped. 

At some point during Brook’s second song he rests his arm behind Sanji on the back of his chair. His fingers don’t touch, exactly; they just hover, like an echo of contact, and Sanji’s entire back is horrifically aware of it. 

“What’s your problem,” Sanji hisses, but it’s lost in the raucous applause to Brook’s very strange, very halting cover of Can’t Stop Me Now. Zoro just glances at him from the corner of his eye and then takes his fucking hand, lacing their fingers casually like they’ve done this a hundred times before.

They haven’t, clearly. In fact, he was the one who specifically requested that they don’t, so forgive Sanji for feeling fucking insane about it.

He can feel Nami watching them, too, from across the table, a look on her face like she’s biting the inside of her cheek to stop from cackling. Usopp keeps looking at them like he’s waiting for someone to break and Sanji’s stomach bottoms out when Zoro’s thumb drags over his knuckles, leaving something warm and prickling in its wake.

“What the fuck is happening,” Sanji demands, right as Brook launches into his next number and sends the crowd cheering.

Zoro turns his head slightly, gaze half-lidded, totally unbothered. “What d’you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Sanji hisses, “All of this, asshole.”

Zoro shrugs and leans in even closer, voice low and lazy and right in Sanij’s ear and god, what the fuck IS happening? “Being a good boyfriend. Isn’t that the point?”

Sanji jerks his hand back. Zoro lets him, but not before squeezing it, firm, intentional, possessive, just enough to send Sanji reeling back with his whole face gone hot. 

The second the song finishes he’s up and out of his chair like the table’s on fire.

“I need air,” he babbles, though no-one really hears him over the noise. Even if they had, no-one would have the gall to stop him. He ducks out the side door and into the night.

It’s cooler out here (barely) but it’s something. The buzz of the crowd is muffled by the brick wall behind him, and the lights from Going Merry spill across the ground. Sanji leans his head back against the wall and exhales hard, like it’ll do something to calm the pulse hammering in his throat.

He doesn’t know what the hell just happened in there. Or – no. He does.

Zoro and his one, sole good shirt and his one, sole cologne which he never fucking wears and his fucking hand-holding. Who’s apparently decided the fake-dating bit now includes public affection and sultry whispering and knees brushing under the table.

Sanji takes out a cigarette. Fumbles with the lighter. He shouldn’t even be this rattled! This whole thing was his idea, his plan, his setup. Zoro’s very specific rules, which he seems unexpectedly flexible on all of a sudden.

Of course, Zoro’s the one who steps out a beat after him, casual as anything. Like he’s not the reason Sanji’s in the middle of a full-blown crisis. He comes to lean beside him on the wall, close but not touching, silent.

Sanji doesn’t look over. He exhales smoke instead. “What.”

Zoro shrugs. “Just came to see if you were gonna cry or throw up.”

“Piss off.”

Zoro hums. “Could do both, maybe. Go for a personal best.”

Sanji scowls at the horizon, annoyed at how easily Zoro’s teasing slides into him, sharp-edged and familiar. “Shut up.”

“Yeah? Make me,” Zoro says, low and cool, and Sanji chokes on the inhale so violently he nearly drops his cigarette.

Zoro pats his back, helpful. Too helpful. Smugly helpful.

Sanji rounds on him. “Okay, what the hell is going on with you tonight?”

Zoro raises an eyebrow. “Dunno what you mean.”

“You know what I mean! You’re – ” He gestures wildly, as if that might explain the everything. “Hello? You were the one who didn’t wanna hold hands! And you’re – you’re flirting. Are you possessed? Is this a bloody joke?”

Zoro just watches him, annoyingly calm. “You wanted everyone to believe it.”

Sanji flounders. “That’s not – you were being nice!”

“Dangerous,” Zoro deadpans. “Next I’ll be offering you a sip of my drink.”

Sanji looks like he’s about to short-circuit. “Why are you like this?”

“Why are you so bothered?” Zoro shoots back, over his shoulder on his way back inside. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Ace saw, didn’t he?”

Sanji stares at him because that shouldn’t land the way it does. It’s not even a dig, it’s just a sentence. But it hits Sanji like a neat little punch anyway. He just blows smoke into the night again, slower this time, like that’ll buy him time to figure out why his chest feels like it’s full of bees.

When Sanji finally forces himself to go back, it’s with the kind of resolve that comes from emotional exhaustion and barely-contained rage.

Brook’s still mid-set (something fast and flashy now, full of heart) and their group’s still camped out at the same table, drinks multiplying like fungus. Usopp’s holding court with Luffy, and Nami’s laughing too hard to drink her water.

Zoro’s back in his chair, like he’s not casually unraveling Sanji’s entire night with his stupid jawline and his suddenly-fucking- flawless sense of timing. Sanji reclaims his seat beside him, pointedly not making eye contact. But the other man shifts, subtle but noticeable, leg brushing Sanji’s under the table again like it’s nothing. 

Sanji tenses. 

Fine.

Fine.

If Zoro wants to act like this is some kind of twisted romcom, Sanji can do that. He can excel at that. He’s an actor. A chef. A master of performance, some might say. And Ace? Ace is behind the bar now, chatting with someone as he mixes a pair of drinks. He’s in the line of sight. Sanji clocks it immediately.

Which means: game on.

“Moss,” Sanji says suddenly, sugary-sweet and loud enough to turn heads. He flashes a smile so fake it hurts. “Want a sip of my drink?”

It’s bright pink and wholly undrinkable: some sugary crime Nami insisted he try. Maybe it was Nami’s and she hated it so much she’s passed it over. Sanji hands it to Zoro with the air of a man daring fate to strike him down. Zoro meets his eyes. His expression is unreadable. Then, slowly, deliberately, he takes the straw and leans in. “Not bad,” he drawls, licking his lips, even though it’s akin to drinking turps.

“Aw,” Nami croons. “I miss when you used to beat each other up. Feel free to go back to that.”

Sanji clears his throat, visibly sweating. “You’re just jealous.”

“Oh, deeply.”

Zoro shifts again, arm now fully around Sanji’s shoulders, like that’s just a thing they do. Sanji can feel the warmth of him through his shirt, can smell him, his cologne, the faint bite of whisky, the fresh air from outside. It’s like drowning in carbonated heat.

And worse – worse – he catches Ace glancing their way, just a flicker. Just a second.

He turns back to Zoro and dials it up. “You’re really warm,” he says, pressing in a little. “I should’ve brought a jacket, huh?”

Zoro doesn’t move. “You want mine?”

Sanji blinks. “No,” he says automatically. Then, catching himself: “Wait, yes?” It’s thirty-one degrees. Neither of them has or needs a jacket but Zoro laughs, low and amused and real. It rakes down Sanji’s spine like a fingernail.

Brook wraps his set with a flourish, and the crowd bursts into applause. Sanji claps on autopilot, one eye still on the bar, but Ace has turned away, back to his drinks, already moving to the next customer.

It shouldn’t sting. He’s busy, he’s always busy, but it manages to dig under Sanji’s skin anyway, because it’s not like Ace reacted. Maybe he thought they were just playing around. 

Sanji grits his teeth and leans in closer. “Hope you’re ready,” he says quietly, all sugar and spite, “Because I can do this all night.”

Zoro raises an eyebrow. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

He dips his head until his mouth is so close to Zoro’s stupidly bare throat that it might be illegal, actually. Watches the way goosebumps ripple over Zoro’s skin as he exhales. “Pick your poison.”

The music shifts after Brook’s set, less structured now, something looser and bass-heavy that gets people up and moving. Luffy's already dragged Usopp onto the floor. Nami grabs fresh water and leans back, watching Luffy with the exact expression of someone monitoring a cat about to run off into the night.

Sanji’s hanging on by a thread. He’s convinced he’s winning this. Ace definitely looked at them, didn’t he? That means something. It has to. He just needs one more perfectly executed couple-y maneuver. One more nail in the coffin of Zoro’s bizarre one-man boyfriend parade. He turns to deliver some carefully calculated teasing jab only to realise that Zoro’s already standing. Offering him a hand.

Sanji stares at it. “What?”

“Dance floor,” Zoro says, aggravatingly casual. “You in?”

Sanji’s brain briefly exits his body. “You don’t dance.”

“Yeah? Try me.”

The moment they hit the floor it becomes very clear that this is not dancing in the traditional sense. This is war.

There’s no real rhythm. There’s just movement, challenge, contact. Zoro crowds into Sanji’s space like it’s a match. Their shoulders brush. Their hands tangle. At one point Sanji spins away and Zoro follows with the single-minded focus of a predator.

It’s infuriating. 

Sanji’s never seen Zoro like this: deliberate. Playful. He’s sharp in his dumb shirt, sleeves rolled, collar undone, skin warm under the low lights. He doesn’t miss a beat. Doesn’t miss Sanji.

“What are you doing,” Sanji manages finally, voice unsteady as they circle each other like they’re in a fucking boxing ring.

Zoro’s mouth brushes the shell of his ear, tugs him close. His hands feel like they’re branding Sanji’s hips. “Playing along.”

“You guys look like you’re about to stab each other!” Usopp hisses to both of them as he waltzes past with Luffy, his voice high with secondhand stress. “No stabbing, please!”

Sanji ignores him in favour of digging his fingernails into Zoro’s wrist, hard enough to hurt, intending to hurt, and Zoro just pulls him further in, subtle but insistent, like gravity itself has decided to choose violence. His eyes flicker from Sanji’s mouth to his collar to his eyes again and settle there like a dare.

Sanji’s stomach flips, something ugly and electric fizzing beneath his ribs.

Zoro leans in and says low in his ear, “You’re going red.”

“I am not,” Sanji hisses, fully red.

Zoro grins, eyes half-lidded, and spins him around effortlessly, leaving Sanji’s breath to catch in his goddamn throat. Their steps aren’t even coordinated anymore. They're circling, feinting, baiting. Every little shove of contact feels closer and closer to sparring than dancing.

Zoro presses a hand against Sanji’s chest, steady, unbearably smug. “You’re off your game tonight, babe.”

Sanji’s brain blue-screens. 

Without thinking, he flicks his foot behind Zoro’s ankle and rips it under, sending Zoro stumbling into the floor. One of his hands grabs at Sanji’s shoulder to attempt to find his balance, but the tension explodes like a snapped string. 

“Hey! Guys, seriously, chill!” A well-meaning stranger with an abundance of copper curls steps in, laughing nervously, looking between them like they’re about to brawl on the floor. To be fair, the move probably looks like a fight. 

(It is a fight. Not one that anyone else on the planet would recognise, but –) 

Sanji steps back, chest heaving. His pulse is a drumline in his ears. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t really need to; he’s pretty sure his whole fucking face is already shouting everything for him.

His heart is thrumming in his jaw, his throat, his hands – his skin feels like he might actually combust and he knows that feeling, he knows what it means but it’s not usually applied to Zoro. He bursts outside again, already dragging on a cigarette like it can rejig the framework for his whole damn brain. “What the hell, what the actual – ”

“You right?”

Sanji jolts.

Ace stands a few feet away, leaning with one elbow on a stack of milk crates, casual in a way only Ace could manage mid-shift. He’s halfway through his own break drink, smirking in a way that suggests this is incredibly entertaining. Which means he 100% saw whatever awful nightmare just happened and probably thinks Sanji’s the most unstable motherfucker around who just trips his dates for kicks. Sanji’s stomach plummets. “Oh, hey – hi. Hi? You, uh. You saw that?”

Ace arches an eyebrow. “Kinda hard to miss.”

Sanji laughs. It’s too loud. Too manic. “We were just, y’know, goofing around. Zoro’s just, uh, committed. He gets very method about things? He’s not actually into, uh. That. I mean, I’m not actually into that. Not like, like that, anyway, with the – kicking. We’re just doing a bit. A long con?”

Ace grins and pushes off the crates, taps the side of his glass. “Uh-huh. You looked good out there. Hope your lover boy appreciates it.”

Sanji short-circuits on the spot, watching Ace vanish back inside with a whole new kind of problem happening under his skin. He does what any sane person would do in this situation: he storms back inside, grabs his designated driver and makes a break for it before anyone (anyone) can stop him.

The car ride is quiet for all of ten seconds.

Then: “Did you even see him tonight?”

Nami exhales slowly through her nose, clearly trying to resist the urge to open the door and roll herself out onto the road. “You mean your boyfriend?”

“Don’t! Don’t even say that word.” Sanji flings his free hand toward the dash like she’s cursed them both. “He’s not – he’s Zoro, and I don’t know what the hell he thinks he’s doing, but it’s insane! He’s insane.”

Nami hums noncommittally, eyes fixed forward. “He seemed pretty sane to me. Relaxed, even. Kinda hot, if you’re into that thing.”

He leans forward like he’s going to be sick. Maybe he is? Maybe all of this is a fever dream and he’s actually laid up in bed with severe food poisoning. He’d take it, at this point. “He was flirting, Nami. Like, actual, real flirting. With me. In public.”

“Wow,” she gasps. “What a monster.”

“And the dancing! What the hell was that? Has he ever danced before in his life?”

“You seemed pretty into it.”

He bolts forward like she’s lobbed a grenade at him, so suddenly the seatbelt jags near his neck. “I’m not! That’s the whole fucking problem!”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, Nami continues calmly, “I see. The problem is that your fake boyfriend was being too good at fake-boyfriending, and now you're mad because Ace didn’t fall for it.”

“…Yes. No. I mean, to be fair, Ace was working. But yeah, basically. Yes. Anyway, it’s not funny. He’s throwing the whole equilibrium off.”

“By… being nice?”

“By weaponising it. You didn’t see the look he gave me.”

“Oh no,” she gasps again, parking outside the sharehouse and turning to face him. “Not a look. Goodnight, sweetie. Text me when you kiss him or push him down the stairs. I’d be excited for either at this point.”

He slams his bedroom door harder than necessary, ignoring Chopper’s surprised noise from the lounge room. Drags his hands down his face and wants to fucking scream. There’s nothing but the distant hum of traffic and the less-distant hum of Chopper’s lo-fi study mix and it’s just not atmospheric enough when he feels like he’s going to collapse like a dying star.

He tosses his shirt on the desk chair, misses completely, throws himself down onto his bed like he’s been shot. Because honestly, he might have been. Emotionally, at least. 

What the fucking hell was that? 

“Fuuuuuck,” he bites down on his pillow, hissing. His head is scrambling to make sense of it because sure, sure, some light flirting for the audience probably would’ve been okay. Maybe Ace would’ve gotten the hint and that would’ve been it. Clean, predictable, even fun.

But no, Zoro had to go and fucking ruin everything by turning it into something else, something awful and bizarrely hot and the worst part – the absolute worst, most humiliating part – is there is no way Sanji that can claim he didn’t like it. Publicly egged on more of it, despite every screaming instinct telling him to shut that shit down. 

“Get a fucking grip, you idiot,” he hisses to himself, throwing an arm over his eyes. It’s not enough; he has to pull the whole blanket over his head, like that can possibly block out the weight of Zoro’s hands on him, the jagged look on Zoro’s face when their stupid little dance almost turned into something else entirely. 

He jumps up to his feet again, paces. Once. Twice. Grabs a cigarette and lights it with shaking hands, leaning out the window like maybe the night air will punch some sense back into him. 

“Just tell me if it’s dangerous,” Zeff had said and Sanji had laughed. 

Behind him, the room is quiet and unthreatening, empty, and yet Sanji still can’t shake the feeling he’s being chased by something he has no very little to no hope of outrunning. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

He wakes up feeling like hell. Not in the dramatic, brooding, heartbreaker way he usually does when he’s overtired, but in the deeply haunted way. 

Chopper’s already seated at the tiny kitchen table, halfway through a piece of toast, watching Sanji with wide, careful eyes, like he’s watching a stray dog at the door. “You, um. You okay, Sanji?”

Sanji opens the fridge and stares into it blankly like he’s forgotten what food even is. “Can’t a man have a quiet breakdown in peace?”

Chopper frowns. “You’re spiralling so hard I think you lapped yourself.”

Sanji slams the fridge door. “Thanks! Wasn’t aware of that at all, actually!”

For his part, Chopper manages to look half-way guilty. Chews his toast, propped his head up on his hand with a sad, sad expression. “To be fair, we all told you this was a bad idea. Remember how I told you it was a bad idea?”

Sanji gives up on food or the concept of milk or conversation and settles for black coffee, throwing it back like it the double shot might somehow fix him. He forces himself to take a big, big breath, four of them, and grabs his car keys before he can say something nasty.

The sun is too bright. The grass is too green. The children are too enthusiastic. Sanji’s soul is on backwards.

He’s already at the field setting up cones for a quick practice and ignoring the sound of blood rushing to his face every time he thinks of anyone’s hands. Anyone’s! He’s got his sunglasses on like they’ll somehow block out the memory of Zoro’s thumb brushing the edge of his ribcage.

They do not.

The kids dive into kicking balls, yelling excitedly about semi-finals and chasing each other around in a blur of neon boots and high-pitched energy.

Zoro rocks up with impeccable timing, a few minutes before the game, whistle slung around his neck, looking completely normal and completely criminal for the way Sanji’s stomach flips. He saunters over with his hand raised in a lazy greeting like nothing’s wrong. “Coach.”

Sanji narrows his eyes in a glare. The effect is probably lost behind his sunnies, but it makes him feel better and that’s what matters, really. “Ref.”

“You sleep okay?” 

Sanji scowls at him. “I slept fine, thanks.”

Zoro shrugs like he doesn’t notice the twitch in Sanji’s jaw. “You sure? You look kind of –”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll break your nose again.”

Zoro smirks. “Touchy.”

Sanji opens his mouth to retort but gets tackled by Luca, shrieking his name. “Kick the ball into the sun, Sanji!”

“Destroy the enemy!” Meena howls, her hair in picture perfect plaits. “Tear their guts up!”

“We really need to talk to your mother about appropriate bedtime movies,” Sanji tells her, ignoring Zoro’s crackle. 

The other team arrives – looking a full head taller than them, somehow – in blue and white stripes and matching, threatening grins. Zoro’s whistle trills and the game kicks into gear. 

As per usual, Sanji hovers on the sidelines and yells out encouraging tactics. Zoro’s on his very best behaviour today, which means they only argue over one call that could have gone either way (the ball is on the fucking line) but for the most part the game runs pretty smoothly. 

During halftime Sanji loads them up on oranges and cheer, praising Hana’s unusual patience and Akash’s midfielding. They break even, 1-1, and Kai gets player of the match for the most consistent goalkeeping he’s managed all season. 

All in all, it’s a pretty straightforward game. Or, at least it is, until Zoro beelines it for Sanji while he’s loading the kit into the back of his car. 

“I need to talk to you about last night,” he says, voice pitched low, and Sanji gives himself a second to imagine how delicious it would be to ream him with one of the balls. Maybe he could borrow one of the kids’ boots and really stamp his face in.

“Yeah, not interested,” he responds flatly, because he is not about to listen to Zoro say whatever dumb shit he’s going to say. “Don’t you have another, like, fifty games to ref?”

“Sanji, Ace is –”

“Hey, boys!” Tatiana waves at them even though she’s the whole of, like, two metres away. She tucks her hair behind her ears and smiles, bright and genuine and open, which is more kindness than she’s ever shown. “Just checking to see if you were still coming tonight.”

“Tonight,” Sanji repeats slowly, then groans and slaps his own forehead like he’s in a fucking anime. God, they’d be in the worst anime, just ninety-eight episodes of filler before an anticlimactic break-up. “Right. The trivia night.”

“The trivia night,” Zoro echoes, his voice edged with suspicion, clearly casting his mind back to a previous conversation.

Tatiana puts a gentle hand on Sanji’s arm. “I know Chiyo already asked you, but we’d love if you came. The kids love you guys so much and everyone’s been saying how cute you are. We don’t really have any… it’d be good for the club, I think.”

Sanji stares at her, his brain desperately kicking into gear to try to think of an excuse, any excuse. He’s not interested in tagging along to be the club’s token queer representation and he’s even less interested in doing it with Zoro right now. “Uh, actually we –”

“Oh, we’d love to.” Zoro smiles, devil incarnate and Sanji makes a sound like a dying magpie.

Tatiana’s smile morphs into a full-blown grin. She claps her hands. “Ah, Chiyo will be so happy! We’re really looking forward to seeing you there!”

Sanji turns around to glare at Zoro the second she’s out of frame, gone to collect Leo before he climbs so far up the tree he’s unreachable. Ungovernable, probably. “What. The. Hell. You didn’t wanna go!”

Zoro shrugs, like this costs him nothing. “Changed my mind. See you there, sweetheart.”

Sanji lobs the ball at his head.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

He’s had weird days. He’s had bad days, so many fucking bad days. He’s had days where he wished he was dead, days where he tried to make it happen. But this? This is some cursed third category, something in between psychological warfare and emotional deja vu. 

He pulls out a pan then immediately puts it back. He doesn’t want to cook right now. Which is insane! He always wants to cook. That’s how he functions. Copes.

“What is wrong with me,” he says it again, slower, trying it out like it might land differently. 

“So many things,” Nami offers, looking like she just rolled out of bed. She probably did: she wasn’t an idiot who got guilt-tripped by Jinbe into coaching a bunch of feral kids for free. Her Saturday mornings are probably amazing! Lovely, even! “So, so many things. Are you going to fix table four or…?”

Sanji groans and flops onto the prep counter. It’s pathetic, even for him. “I don’t want to go. He doesn’t even want to go! He hates this kind of stuff.”

“Zeff!” Nami calls, unrepentant, “Sanji’s having a crisis and needs to leave.”

“I am not! I do not!” He forces himself upright, scrubbing a hand over his face like that might reset his dignity, and hurls himself back into the tickets. Table eleven looks like it’s prepping for the end times with the amount of food Patty’s slinging their way and Kyle’s doing something criminal in the far corner, but Sanji ignores that looming crisis in favour of fixing Mimi’s jus again.

He knows Zeff’s got a soft spot for strays and he’s not ungrateful (he wouldn’t be here without it) but some days it’s like anyone with a tragic backstory can just waltz into this kitchen. Like the years of building up a reputation of refined service, elegant dishes and local prestige can all get steamrolled in the name of charity.

It’s admirable. Sure. Noble, even.

Just not when Sanji’s the one holding the fucking line.

He works through the rest of his shift with laser focus, partly because he doesn’t know what’s going to happen to his brain if he doesn’t but mostly because nobody else seems to have their shit together today. The day bleeds into the night, the lunchtime wave ebbs and the dinner crowd hits like a tsunami, and by the time Sanji’s slipped out the door he’s ready to throw down.

He doesn’t knock on Zoro’s door, because he never has, because he never does this. He just stomps through with the furious weight of the day and then some. His hair’s a mess from the wind, he’s got a bunch of tickets still crammed in his back pocket, his shirt’s probably got chimichurri on it, whatever. 

He kicks the door shut behind him. “We need to get our shit together.”

Zoro, mid-way through towelling off his hair in nothing but fucking jeans, barely glances over. “Wow, bad day?”

“Fuck you. I’m serious, meathead.”

“Meathead? That’s a new one.” He yawns, like this isn’t a level 3 emergency. Like Sanji isn’t pacing a hole through his awful, awful grey carpet. “You always barge into people’s rooms when you’re freaking out or is that a special treat just for me?”

Sanji scowls and folds his arms. “You want a repeat of last night? ‘Cause I sure as fuck don’t. I’m pretty sure people thought we were rabid.”

“We don’t have rabies here.” He tosses the towel on his chair and reaches for yet another black shirt (does he own another colour? In his whole life has he owned another colour?). “What are you so pissed about, anyway? The flirting? Or the part where Ace still didn’t give a shit?”

Sanji flinches, despite his best efforts. He glares at Zoro’s swords on the wall, definitely not thinking about putting one through the other man’s chest. He’s pretty quick: he could probably get at least the tip in before Zoro’d catch up. “That’s not – look, we need a script. Or basic bloody boundaries. You were the one who wanted rules, remember? I’m not spending another night fake-flirting while you make fucking heart-eyes like it’s your job.”

Zoro snorts, pulls his shirt on way too slowly for anyone’s tastes. Sanji’s eyes catch on his arm, the pull of skin over tendon, and wants to throw himself out the goddamn window. “Heart-eyes? You wish, jellyfish.”

Sanji chucks a pillow at him. “You’re not taking this seriously enough!”

“And you’re taking it too seriously.” Zoro finds a balled-up pair of socks under the bed (which ??? if that’s not a red flag Sanji doesn’t know what is). “You’re more wound up than Usopp’s bloody budget binder or whatever it is.”

“I have to be wound up!” Sanji snaps, “Because apparently you’re incapable of thinking one step ahead! We can’t just wing it again, idiot, people are starting to –”

“To what?” Zoro interrupts, eyes narrowed, his mouth a twitch. “Believe it?”

Sanji’s mouth slams shut, but Zoro just smiles, all teeth and maddeningly chill. “If it’s fake then why’re you so panicked?”

Sanji hates hates hates that he doesn’t have an answer. Hates that Zoro isn’t even trying to fight anymore; he’s winning just by existing. Just by acting so fucking unruffled and steady and –

– and god, couldn’t they just go back to throwing punches and insults in the field like normal people?

He storms to the door, half-ready to walk out just to feel like he’s got some power left here. “Five minutes,” he snaps over his shoulder, and leaves the door open just because he knows it pisses Zoro off.

He gets four minutes to get dressed and then one minute to scream into the freaking void, so that by the time Zoro drags himself into the car he’s only mildly anxious. 

True to form, Zoro queues up a bunch of songs with the casual cruelty of a man who has never once, in his whole life, considered anyone else’s ears. The first notes are an assault: distorted electric guitar, synth drums, some guy screaming about… it’s unclear, actually, but it might be about taxidermy.

Sanji tries. He really, really does. “What the fuck is this?”

Zoro grins and chucks his feet up on the dash. “Don’t be such a snob all your life.”

“I’m driving. I should get music privileges.”

“You picked last time and we’re all still traumatised.” Zoro gestures sagely to the audio horror unfolding from the speaker. “This is soul.”

Sanji makes a strangled noise and punches the button to skip the track. It barely helps; the next is decidedly worse. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

Zoro kicks his seat back a notch and stretches, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Yeah, it’s fun.”

Sanji grits his teeth, white-knuckling the steering wheel. He glances at the clock. They’re ten minutes out from the RSL and they haven’t even started laying out the plan. “We need to talk strategy. There’s going to be a lot of people there and we can’t fake this on vibes alone, Mosshead.”

“Worked fine last night.”

Sanji nearly swerves into a postbox. “Zoro, I’m serious. We need a united front here. I need to know what you’re going to say if people ask how we got together.”

“‘He begged’,” Zoro replies easily, offering a stick of gum that Sanji ignores in favour of slamming the brakes on at the intersection a little too hard. 

“I will murder you,” he hisses.

Zoro leans back against the seat, chewing slowly, watching the town lights flicker through the windshield. Beyond them, the night market’s in full swing again and Sanji can’t even conceptualise being there a week ago. Being there and being here, and all the space in between. 

When Zoro speaks again his voice is calmer, flatter. More honest, less stirring the pot just for the hell of it. “Curls, we’ve known each other for years. If we can’t sell it by now we’re either lying to ourselves or just really shit at acting.”

Whatever Sanji tries to say gets stuck in his throat, in a neat little ball that just sits there, heavy and awful. His hands tighten on the wheel. He should fob it off, say something cutting or something funny, but he can’t. 

“It’s gonna be fine.” Zoro tips his head back and keeps on chewing, like nothing he’s said has dug a little hole under Sanji’s ribs and stayed there. 

The RSL’s parking lot is and always has been a labyrinth to navigate, especially on a Saturday night, and Sanji takes his time finding a park that isn’t too far from the entrance lest they need to make a speedy getaway. 

(Lest he need to make a speedy getaway and leave Zoro choking somewhere.)

They hand over their IDs and get directed to the one and only function room, which looks like someone’s kid’s birthday party vomited up there, maybe. There are a lot of soccer balls: on banners, as balloons, as centrepieces on the communal tables. 

It’s also packed. There’s so many people. Every parent and volunteer from the kids’ soccer club, which stretches three towns across, plus bar staff, random locals. Enough faces to make Sanji’s pulse tick up. There’s a scoreboard set up near the front, clipboards on every table, pitchers of Pimms and sangria being floated around.

He takes half a step back, and Zoro’s hand lands on the small of his back – low, light, barely there – and steers him forward like he knows this game by now.

Sanji can’t stop the startled glance he throws at the other man, but Zoro doesn’t return the look. He’s already scanning the room, eyes flicking over the tables like he’s just checking for threats, not guiding them through a social battlefield. 

They’re barely two steps in before – 

“There you are!” Tatiana beams at them from across the way, waving with both hands. Chiyo elbows her lightly, clearly trying (and failing) to play it cool. Their table is already half-full, with snacks laid out, pens lined up, their team name GOAL GETTERS written in glitter marker. They’re both in loose, summery dresses and Sanji’s never actually seen them look so casual or relaxed. It’s kind of nice.

“You made it.” Chiyo smiles warmly, genuinely. “We saved you seats.”

Zoro’s returning smile is thin but probably passable to anyone who doesn’t know him very well. “Appreciate it.”

They cross the room in a handful of steps, Sanji trying to decide if he’s winded or anxious, Zoro’s hand remaining a steady, fixed point at his back. He drops back into one of the fold-out chairs and asks, casual as anything, who’s gunning for the win like he’s done this before. Like they’ve done this before. 

Tatiana’s delighted and ruthless, her grin sparking up in a way Sanji recognises from the field. She’s always been competitive. “Oh, we’re definitely winning. Don’t even worry about it.”

Chiyo nudges her, snorting. “Unless someone starts arguing with the host again about what constitutes real cheese.”

“I stand by that!”

Zoro chuckles and it only sounds half-forced. Sanji just sits there, vaguely dazed, feeling like he’s just gone and stepped into someone else’s life. He watches Zoro nick a pen from Akash’s dad to draw a frowny face on Sanji’s scorecard and has absolutely no reason for the way his pulse skips. One, two, miss a few. 

“You guys are sweet,” Tatiana whispers, putting a hand on his shoulder just briefly, just enough to give him a mini heart attack. “It’s nice seeing you both so happy.”

He fumbles the response. “I, uh. It’s not –”

Zoro, without missing a beat, says, “He makes it easy,” which shuts Sanji up immediately because what the hell is he supposed to do with that? 

He doesn’t know why, but he feels wholly off-balance here, his shoulders tight. He startles badly when Zoro’s hand catches his, well under the table, well away from anyone else’s prying eyes.

Sanji stiffens automatically. Forces himself to swallow. “What’re you doing?”

“You look like you’re about to bolt,” Zoro mutters, drawing small circles into the side of his thumb. “Would be pretty rude to leave them hanging.”

The host (who is maybe the canteen manager? Sanji’s been doing this for two years now and still struggles to puts names to faces around the club) taps the mic, the night unrolls, and Sanji finds – against all fucking logic – that he doesn’t completely hate it.  

He whispers a few herb names in Latin to Chiyo during the first round, who crows with delight and writes in the most elegant sprawl Sanji’s ever seen. Every so often Zoro leans close to check an answer, shoulder pressing into Sanji’s, and Sanji learns to make himself stop jumping every single time.

He snatches the pen from Zoro’s hand. “It’s Venus.”

“No it’s not,” Zoro replies, immediately and with far too much confidence, “It’s Mercury.”

Sanji glares. “Mercury is closest to the sun, not the hottest. Venus has the greenhouse effect you –”

“You’re just mad I knew it first.”

“I’m mad that you’re going to wreck our score because your stupid ego won’t let me be right for five minutes. ”

Normally, this would be the part where Sanji pushes it too far and where Zoro barks back, when things tip over into too much heat and history and they get a little spiky. This time, though, Zoro hums lazily and flicks Sanji’s shoulder with his free hand, because his other hand is still fucking intertwined. “You get real cranky when you’re winning.”

Sanji falters.

Zoro slides the answer sheet toward him and says, calm as hell: “Fine. Venus. I trust your giant nerd brain.”

And the moment, like so many others lately, deflates. In a good way. In a way that their tablemates probably prefer, considering how many times they’ve had to watch the two have an all-out verbal spar on the field week after week. 

During the halfway break, the warmth is simmering in the air from far too much cheap wine, even more sangria and shared victories. Half their team is deep in a debate about the best Looney Tunes character. Zoro is sipping at a beer like he hasn’t just thrown Sanji’s worldview into the blender twice in twenty-four hours.

“So,” Meena’s mum (Katie, her name is Katie, why does Sanji always forget her name?) asks, tone bright and harmless. “Did you meet through the soccer club?”

Sanji nearly chokes on his ginger beer and realises, not faintly enough, that they should have rehearsed some answers after all. So much for all that talk of strategic planning.

Zoro, on the other hand, doesn’t miss a beat. “Nah, we met in, like, grade ten. He transferred in term 2 or something and our friend had to show him around.”

It’s the watered-down, socially palatable version.

What actually happened was: Sanji got dumped with Luffy, who was far too patient and far too kind for the mess of resentment Sanji was drowning in and Sanji, in a stunning display of gratitude, decked Zoro clean across the jaw the moment he made a sly remark about his shoes.

But sure. Same difference.

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Chiyo says, idly tracing the rim of her Pimm’s. “You were friends first.”

“Friends is… definitely a word,” Sanji mutters, unable to stop himself. Zoro squeezes his hand under the table in a sharp warning.

Tatiana just grins, sipping from her glass like she didn’t catch a thing. “So how long have you been together, then? You must’ve been hiding it well if it started all the way back then.”

There’s the tiniest pause. Not long enough to raise suspicion but long enough for Sanji to feel his stomach twist, anxiety rising thick and sour in his throat.

Zoro says, so smoothly it’s almost cruel, “Depends how you count it.”

Sanji chokes. “Excuse me?”

Zoro leans in, utterly deadpan, face locked down tight. “I mean, if you count it from the day I realised I don’t hate your awful attitude, we’re about ten months in.”

That’s it. No pause, no side-eye, no awkward flinch. Just calm, flat, even. Sanji forces out a laugh that sounds more like a death rattle. “Yeah, you know. Just testing the waters. It’s… uh. Recent.”

There’s laughter. A few more questions – Do your friends know? Who confessed first? What’s your song? – and somehow Zoro answers most of them without missing a beat, like it’s second nature.

It’s mostly off-the-cuff bullshit, obviously made up. Our song’s that one with the bad sax solo from the servo radio. But some of it… some of it’s real.

Zoro weaves in the barbecue at Nami’s place when Sanji sprained his ankle from an ambitious trampoline flip. Mentions walking home from the Baratie at midnight, sharing an entire peach cobbler Sanji nicked from the fridge. How Sanji falls asleep in the car on long drives and always wakes up swearing he wasn’t, that Sanji won’t let scraps go to waste, like it reveals something too sharp.

Small truths, unguarded and deliberate, tucked into the mess, nothing stories with surgical precision that sit in a knot in Sanji’s weird, sad little heart. 

“Wait, sorry… Vinsmoke, right?” Meena’s mum (Katie, shit) says, frowning like she’s trying to place him. “Is that the same –”

“Yeah, we’re not finishing that sentence,” Zoro cuts through. His voice doesn’t rise or harden, but something shifts underneath it; quiet, firm, unmovable. Sanji clenches his jaw and lets the dread bloom quietly behind his ribs.

Silence follows. Tight and sharp, like the pin’s just been pulled from a grenade, before Katie musters up an aborted smile. “No worries.”

Chiyo, who has clearly read a number of rooms in her life, changes the subject with a bright, “So what are we thinking for Round 2?” and the table bursts into chatter again, relatively seamless. Tatiana breaks into the conversation to remind everyone about her killer geography skills.

Sanji stares at the condensation trailing down his glass, frozen in place. A wire pulled too tight, humming with everything he didn’t say. He’s not sure if he wants to thank Zoro or hurl a fucking chair at him.

Not sure he ever wants to look Katie in the eye again.

Zoro shrugs, like he’s reading his mind. “Didn’t feel like talking about your shitty dad for the fiftieth time. Sue me.”

Sanji’s chest twists. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s nothing. It’s – 

The room is warmer during the second half of the game, low-lit and lazily buzzing because everyone’s kind of tipsy, probably, and the laughs flow quicker, smoother. Their teammates drift off in twos and threes to grab more drinks from the bar, Chiyo and Tatiana holding fort because it turns out they’re really serious about trivia.

Zoro hasn’t let go of Sanji’s hand the whole goddamn time.

The thing is there’s no audience. It’s under the table, the parents have already bought into their story hook line and sinker, there’s no point to the bit right now. And still, there’s that casual grip, brushing slow circles over the back of Sanji’s hand like it's something he's used to doing. Like he’s done it a thousand times before and it means nothing.

It’s driving Sanji insane. He wants to pull away. He should pull away. But his traitor body? Relaxed. His traitor mouth? Silent. His traitor fucking heart? Uncomfortably loud.

The rounds pass. The drinks keep flowing. Someone brings out fries for the table and Sanji eats most of them without realising it but passes Zoro all his favourite ones, crispy ends, lightly salted. At one point, they both answer the same trivia question at the same time: Zoro mutters “Wolverine,” Sanji hisses, “Logan,” and then they share a smug smirk as the host confirms it. 

During the Sports Scandals round, someone makes a crack about boxers getting banned for cheap shots, and Zoro, half-laughing, says, “That’d be you.”

Sanji snorts. “Please, you’d eat a suspension just to throw the first punch.”

Greg asks, amused, “Has that actually happened?”

They both say, “Yes,” and Sanji goes quiet at the way Zoro shoots him a wicked grin, clearly remembering that one time they were booted out of Kmart. His throat’s dry. There’s a tenderness settling in his chest that he doesn’t know how to carry or label or touch or keep – 

“Fuck,” he mutters, and pulls away to get some fresh air.