Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Zoro hated his seat. Back of the room, third row from the window, right under the flickering fluorescent light that made his notebooks hum every time he opened them. The desk wobbled. The chair creaked. The kid in front of him chewed erasers. It was a cursed spot.

He slouched into it anyway, headphones still hanging off his neck until Garp entered.

Garp was already loud, thunder in human form. His gravel-voiced bark called the class to attention before anyone realized someone new was right outside the door.

"Listen up, brats!" the teacher grinned. 'tch weird why do adults smile so weird' thought Zoro. Garp clapped his hands together "We have a new transfer student. Come on in. Introduce yourself, Kid."

Someone near the front whispered, “Ooooh, fancy.”

That’s when he stepped in.

Blond. Too blond. Pale in a way that made him look like he belonged in a painting, not a classroom full of screaming 13 year olds. His blazer sat stiff on his shoulders, like he wasn’t used to wearing it. He clutched a thin notebook with both hands like it might protect him.

“This is Sanji.”

Sanji didn’t bow. He didn’t wave. He opened his mouth like he might speak but then shut it again.

“Why’d he come here if he can’t talk?” someone muttered behind Zoro.

“He can talk,” another girl whispered. “He’s just, like, French. Maybe he doesn’t know how to say stuff yet.”

That was the first time Zoro looked at him. Really looked. The new kid’s eyes scanned the room like he was waiting for something to hit him. When their gazes met, Sanji blinked, startled, and then quickly looked away.

“Go ahead and take the seat next to Roronoa,” the teacher said, pointing directly to the empty desk to Zoro’s right. "He's the boy with the green hair. Can't miss him."

Zoro’s stomach dropped. He immediately regretted slouching.

As Sanji crossed the room, his shoes barely made a sound. His blazer brushed against Zoro’s elbow when he passed, and Zoro stiffened like he’d been touched by fire. He didn’t look. He didn’t move.

The classroom air shifted. Quiet, but buzzing. Like everyone else had noticed it too.

Sanji didn’t speak all day.

Not a single word.

He nodded once when asked a question in English. Shook his head when the teacher asked if he understood something in math. His handwriting, when they had to do pair worksheets, was tight and slanted. French cursive. Zoro stared at it too long, and Sanji turned his paper slightly away without saying anything.

At lunch, everyone moved fast. Desks scraped. Voices rose. Someone turned their phone on and started playing music that the teacher pretended not to hear.

Sanji stood near the windows holding his bento. It was rice and eggs and some weird little rolled bread. He didn’t ask to join anyone. He didn’t even try.

Zoro watched him for exactly eleven seconds before pretending not to care.

That day, Zoro walked home with Luffy and Usopp. It was muddy out. Spring inched closer but the wind still bit at his cheeks.

“New kid’s weird,” Usopp said. “Did you see his lunch? Like, who eats eggs and croissants? That’s messed up.”

“Eh I thought it smelled good,” Luffy said, grinning mouth full of rice ball.

Zoro made a face at Luffy's disgusting habit. “You think everything smells good,” Zoro muttered, kicking a pebble into the gutter.

“He didn’t even talk, man,” Usopp said, laughing. “I mean I tried saying hi and he looked at me like I’d offered him a dead rat.”

Zoro didn’t laugh. He just shrugged.

“Maybe he’s mute.”

“Maybe he thinks we’re all idiots.”

“Maybe he’s just scared.”

That one was Luffy again. Zoro glanced at him, eyebrows drawn together, but didn’t respond.

By Friday, they had a nickname for him.

“Chef.”

It started after Sanji brought in leftovers one day that filled the entire room with the smell of garlic and herbs. It was delicious. Too delicious.

“You trying to show off?” a boy named Kid asked as he walked by.

Sanji didn’t answer.

“You trying to be the next Gordon Ramsay or some shit?” another boy named Hawkins said, grinning.

Zoro watched from the doorway as the others started laughing. At first it was dumb stuff like imitating French accents, faking that awful cartoon snob voice. Zoro joined in once or twice. Just once or twice.

Then it got worse.

By the third week, Zoro had started kicking Sanji’s chair in class. Lightly. Just enough to startle him. Just enough to see the way he tensed and didn’t turn around.

It wasn’t just him. Apoo, Kid, and Hawkins started tossing things into Sanji’s bag. A crumpled receipt. Gum wrappers. One day, a marker uncapped and leaking.

Sanji never said anything.

But he stopped sitting upright. He curled in more. He kept his bag on his lap.

Zoro told himself it didn’t matter. It was just school. He didn’t really care what happened. And anyway, if the new kid wanted to stop being a target, he could just say something. Do something. Fight back.

The fact that he didn’t? That was on him.

Then, one day, Sanji turned around.

Not in anger. Not in tears.

Just calmly. After Zoro had whispered something cruel about his voice. Mimicking the soft, accented way he said “pencil", Sanji turned and looked at him.

Not sad. Not afraid.

Just quiet.

Like he was waiting.

Zoro’s breath caught in his throat.

And for the first time, he felt like he was the one who couldn’t speak.

The moment passed.

The teacher called on them. Someone knocked over a desk. The class moved on.

But that look stuck to Zoro like a bruise under his ribs.

At home, Zoro pushed open the apartment door and dropped his bag on the floor.

Perona was already hogging the couch, scrolling on her phone with her legs dangling over the armrest. “You look like shit,” she said without looking up. "Stop being depressed."

“Uhuh. Thanks.”

“Did you finally hit puberty or are you just brooding for fun?”

Zoro didn’t answer.

Mihawk was at the kitchen counter, slicing vegetables. Still in his button-down and rolled sleeves from work. The man barely glanced up.

“You’re late.”

“M' had stuff.”

“Don’t slam the door next time.”

Zoro bit the inside of his cheek and mumbled something. He walked to his room and closed the door without another word.

"typical teenagers." said Mihawk under his breath, sipping his cup of wine. Perona looks back at the closed door, furrowing her eyebrows.

That night, Zoro opened a notebook.

He didn’t know why. He just picked it up.

The first page was blank. He wrote a word. Then scratched it out. Then wrote it again.

Sanji.

Just the name. why?

He stared at it until the ink bled slightly into the page.

Then he closed the book and tossed it into the corner.

Chapter Text

It started with a pencil.

Or maybe it started with the way Sanji held it, almost elegantly, between thumb and knuckle, wrist just slightly lifted like he was sketching something delicate instead of solving math equations in the back of a classroom that smelled faintly of erasers and cheap deodorant. His handwriting stayed perfect. Even when the others started to crowd.

By the fourth week, Zoro had become fluent in mockery.

He didn’t think about it. It came out of his mouth easily, like breath. not that he cared.

“Parlez-vous pencil?” he muttered once, low enough that Garp wouldn’t hear. A few kids snickered. Hawkins repeated it louder. Apoo exaggerated the French lilt. And then suddenly, Sanji’s name became an accent. A joke. A wind-up toy for boys who didn’t know what to do with discomfort except crack it open.

Zoro never looked directly at him. He didn’t need to.

Someone called him "pretty boy" in gym class. Another one asked him loudly, in front of the lockers, if his dad was a makeup artist. “You’ve got eyeliner on, don’t you?” they laughed.

Sanji didn’t answer.

Zoro told himself he wasn’t the worst of them.

He told himself that kicking a chair wasn’t hitting. That repeating someone’s accent was just a joke. That laughing didn’t mean anything.

But he noticed the difference in Sanji’s posture. The slow droop in his shoulders, like gravity had turned mean. The way his fingers started picking at the edges of his sleeves until the cuffs frayed.

“Hey,” Vivi said quietly one day, during science. “Why are you guys being so awful to him?”

Zoro shrugged, not looking at her. “It’s not that serious.”

“You think it’s funny?”

“No. I just don’t care.”

"Hm you guys seriously are the worst of this generation." She said almost no emotion, quite serious. She didn’t say anything else after that. Not for a while.

During lunch, Sanji took to eating by the windows. Always alone. Always quiet. His bentos looked like they’d been packed with surgical precision. It was rice layered with egg, roasted tomatoes tucked beside garlic marinated vegetables. Things that didn’t belong in a school cafeteria.

Someone swiped the lid off once when he wasn’t looking.

“Hey Chef,” said Apoo, snorting. “You trying to poison someone with this European shit?”

Sanji didn’t reply. He calmly picked up the container, replaced the lid, and walked to the farthest end of the hallway.

Zoro watched it all and told himself again that it didn’t matter.

Then, a Thursday.

It was raining, faintly. The classroom lights flickered harder than usual. Zoro was cold. Agitated. His socks were wet from the walk to school, and the heater in the classroom made the air smell like burnt dust.

The assignment was group reading. Sanji didn’t get picked. He never did.

While Garp turned to scribble on the board, Zoro leaned close.

“Hey, Chef,” he whispered, slow and mocking. “Say ‘croissant’ for me again. You said it so cute last time.”

A few kids laughed behind their hands.

Sanji didn’t flinch. He turned.

Not fast. Not angry.

He just turned his head and looked at Zoro like he was staring at something not quite human.

Zoro blinked. The laughter behind him faded like someone had shut a door.

Sanji’s gaze was pale and level and expressionless. Not sharp. Not soft. Just… very tired.

Then he turned back. Didn’t say a word.

Zoro felt heat crawl up his neck.

For the first time, he felt like he’d been slapped without being touched.

After class, Zoro didn’t walk with Luffy or Usopp. He said he had to use the bathroom, but really he just sat in a stall for ten minutes and stared at the graffiti on the metal door. One scratchy message said Don’t kill yourself make them watch. Zoro stared at it until the bell rang.

He didn’t know why he kept noticing these things.

That night, Sanji cried.

He didn’t sob. No one heard it. There wasn’t anyone around.

Just a quiet bedroom above a bakery that smelled like vanilla and yeast and everything soft in the world.

Zeff had already gone to bed.

Sanji sat at his desk with his French notebook open. He’d tried copying a sentence from the English textbook: The boy walked home slowly.

The letters were fine. Tight and clean.

But something cracked before he could finish.

His shoulders trembled. Not violently. Just enough that his pencil dropped from his fingers.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and let the tears fall.

Silently.

No noise. Just the sound of the city outside his window and the soft hum of an old fan.

He didn’t write anything else that night.

Meanwhile, with Zoro that night, he didn’t speak at dinner. Mihawk noticed. Of course he did.

“Well you're quieter than usual,” he said flatly, folding his newspaper.

Zoro shrugged. His fork playing with his food.

Perona raised an eyebrow. “Maybe finally a girlfriend dumped him because he's a meanie meanie boy.”

Zoro scowled. “Tch. Shut up.”

She smiled sweetly. “Make me.”

“That is enough,” Mihawk said. “Both of you. We don't quarrel when eating dinner as a family.”

Zoro stood up before they could say anything else. Mumbled under his breath. He dumped his half-eaten curry in the sink and stalked down the hall.

He didn’t slam the door. But he wanted to.

That night, he picked up the notebook again.

The one with Sanji’s name still faint on the first page, half-scratched out.

He turned the page.

He wrote one word.

Then stopped.

Then pressed his pencil harder and wrote it again.

"Why."

He stared at it until his vision blurred.

And then he closed the notebook.

And he didn’t sleep.

Chapter Text

Zoro didn’t ask to be paired with him.

Garp stood at the front of the classroom with his usual bored scrawl on the whiteboard, smacking the end of a dry-erase marker against his palm as he read off the names. Scanning the room.

“Group Three: Zoro and Sanji.”

Zoro blinked. He looked up. He wasn’t sure he heard right.

Sanji didn’t react. He didn’t even lift his head. Just flipped a page in his notebook and quietly adjusted his pencil grip.

A few kids chuckled. Someone muttered, “Good luck.”

Zoro sighed. loud enough to be heard, not loud enough to be scolded.

They were supposed to work on a poster. Pick a famous figure from history. Research. Present together. It would take the rest of the week. Garp told them to move their desks.

Zoro dragged his chair toward Sanji’s without speaking. The sound of metal legs scraping tile rang in the silence.

Sanji didn’t look at him.

The space between them felt like a live wire.

Zoro leaned back in his chair. “Alright,” he mumbled. “Pick someone already.”

“Hm I was thinking Marie Curie,” Sanji said, quietly but clearly. His voice was soft, but not shy.

Zoro slightly tilted his head. blinked. “Why?”

“Well for starters she changed science. And she did it in a language that wasn’t hers.”

Zoro didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to respond to that. It wasn’t what he expected. Sanji had barely spoken to anyone in weeks. Now he was… engaged?

“You actually care about this?” Zoro muttered, not quite able to keep the irritation out of his voice.

Sanji shrugged. “Don’t you?”

Zoro snorted. “No.”

A pause.

Sanji smiled faintly. Not the polite kind. The you’re hopeless kind. It was the first time Zoro had seen him make an expression that didn’t look like it hurt.

“I can draw the poster,” Sanji said. “You can do the bullet points. We’ll keep it simple.”

Zoro scoffed. “You think you’re good at drawing?”

Sanji turned his notebook around. A quick charcoal sketch of a croissant sat neatly in the corner of one page, tiny and shaded with almost loving precision.

Zoro blinked again.

He didn’t understand this kid.

He didn’t understand why he felt suddenly awkward. Or why his stomach twisted slightly at the softness in Sanji’s tone. It wasn’t weakness. Just… quiet certainty.

They worked for half the period in silence. Too silent

Zoro wrote down three facts. Sanji wrote eight. His handwriting was tiny and perfect. He didn’t ask Zoro to redo anything, but he did quietly rotate Zoro’s paper sideways once and fix the spelling of “radium.”

It should have annoyed Zoro.

It didn’t.

Instead, it made him feel like he was being seen in a way that scraped too close to the bone.

As they packed up, Sanji glanced at him.

“Thanks for not making this harder than it had to be.”

Zoro grunted. “M' Didn’t do anything.”

“I know,” Sanji said. Then smiled again.

And Zoro felt that same strange heat under his collar.

That night, Zoro stayed late at school for kendo club. He didn’t talk much, but when he was holding a shinai, people left him alone. The noise in his head went quiet.

When he finally left the locker room, the hallway lights were half-off. Garp’s voice echoed down the corridor, he was shouting at someone about missing homework. Zoro kept walking.

Then, just before the exit, he heard laughter.

Not the fun kind.

“Aw, come on, Zorooo,” said Apoo, leaning against a vending machine with Hawkins and a few other boys. “Tell us how dreamy Frenchie’s eyelashes looked up close.”

Zoro stopped.

“I bet he smells like lavender,” Hawkins added. “Did he offer you a love letter, too?”

“Or just feed you macarons with his little pinky up?”

Laughter again.

Zoro’s stomach twisted. Side-eyeing them both.

“I said shut up,” he muttered.

“Aw, getting defensive?”

“You gonna kiss him during your presentation?” Apoo drawled. “Get your Eiffel Tower on?”

Something snapped. maybe not all the way, but enough to sting.

“Why would I care about some fake French freak with girl hair?” Zoro shot back. “We’re just partners. I’m not soft like you losers.”

He shoved past them, shoulders tense, jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt.

Behind him, the laughter shifted.

Somehow, it felt colder.

That night, Zoro couldn’t sleep.

He lay on his side, staring at the ceiling fan. The Marie Curie notes were still in his bag. So was Sanji’s sketch. Zoro didn’t know why he hadn’t crumpled it.

He’d meant to.

He should’ve.

Instead, he thought about the way Sanji had smiled when he said “Thanks.” The kind of smile that wasn’t a performance. The kind of smile that had warmth underneath.

Zoro rolled over and punched his pillow.

He didn’t like this feeling.

He didn’t like how sincere it had felt. Like something real was trying to crawl out of the space between them, and he’d already slammed the door shut.

Chapter Text

Sanji didn’t really plan it.

He just cooked too much that morning, his hands moving faster than usual. Muscle memory stirring the pot before his brain had fully caught up. Maybe he just wanted to impress Zeff. Maybe he just wanted to prove something to himself. Maybe he just liked the quiet focus of cooking before school.

Or... maybe it was for someone else.

He packed two bento boxes instead of one. He told himself he was just making use of the leftovers. That it didn’t mean anything. Although it was an act of kindness on his part

Or so he thought...

When the bell rang for lunch and the hallway buzzed with noise, Sanji stood at the back of the classroom holding that second bento box, wrapped neatly in a soft blue cloth.

Zoro sat near the window. He wasn’t surrounded by friends not really. He never was. But a few boys hovered nearby, laughing too loud, already tearing into their snacks.

Sanji didn’t think. He just walked over.

He set the bento down on Zoro’s desk without a word.

Zoro blinked at it.

“What’s this?” he muttered.

Sanji rubbed the back of his neck. “You forgot your lunch yesterday.”

Zoro stared at him. Then at the bento.

Sanji forced a little shrug, like it didn’t matter. “It’s really nothing. Just rice and tamagoyaki. You don’t have to eat it.”

For a moment, just a breath, it felt like something shifted. Like the classroom got quieter.

Zoro didn’t say thank you. But he opened the box slowly.

Steam rose. The tamagoyaki was still warm. A tiny parsley garnish sat on top, shaped like a clover.

Zoro looked up at him.

And for the briefest second, Sanji thought he saw something flicker across Zoro’s face. Something real.

That’s when Hawkins snorted.

“awww, your boyfriend made you lunch?”

Apoo howled. “Hey, Zoro, you’re blushing!”

Zoro’s eyes darted to the others.

Sanji saw it all in slow motion. The way Zoro’s mouth pressed into a line, the way his hands froze, the way his shoulders coiled up like something cornered.

“Zoro—” Sanji started, voice low.

But Zoro’s face darkened.

He shoved the bento hard. So hard it clattered off the desk, crashing open onto the floor. Rice scattered. The tamagoyaki split down the middle.

The whole class went quiet.

Sanji stared down at it. His mind processing what just happened.

Zoro stood, pointing at him. “You think I’d eat that?” he said, voice cold and loud. “What, you trying to poison me or something?”

No one laughed this time.

Sanji felt everything drain from his chest. Like someone had taken a spoon and scooped his lungs out.

He bent down silently and picked up the box. He didn’t look at Zoro. Not once.

“Hey, you okay?” Vivi’s voice was somewhere behind him, soft and uncertain. Hand going to put support on his back

Sanji didn’t answer. He moved past Vivi's hand and walked out of the classroom and didn’t come back until the bell rang for the next period.

Zoro didn’t eat lunch that day.

He sat at his desk, staring at the faint smear of egg yolk on the floor. No one said anything to him. No one really needed to. The damage had already sunk in.

He could feel it.

He’d said what he said on instinct. Gut reaction, muscle memory, defense. It wasn’t real.

But Sanji didn’t know that.

The look on his face had been real. And Zoro couldn’t stop seeing it.

He hated that it made his chest hurt.

The bullying didn’t stop. If anything, it got worse.

By the end of the week, someone had started mimicking Sanji’s French accent during class. Someone else taped a drawing of a baguette to his locker.

Sanji didn’t react.

He didn’t do anything.

He just stopped talking.

Not all at once. Not in some big dramatic silence. But slowly. Bit by bit. His answers in class got shorter. His presence faded. He no longer smiled when Vivi spoke. He didn’t sketch anymore during free time. His hands stayed folded in his lap.

When Zoro looked at him, Sanji didn’t look back.

And somehow, that was worse than if he’d screamed.

Zoro didn’t really sleep the night after the lunch incident.

He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, jaw locked, arms folded behind his head like he was still braced for a punch. Perona’s music played from her room next door loud enough to be felt through the walls, not loud enough to drown anything out.

He kept seeing the rice hit the floor. The tamagoyaki breaking.

Sanji’s face as he left the room.

You think I’d eat that?
His own words rang like a bell he couldn’t unhear.

He told himself it didn’t matter. Sanji was weird. Foreign. Out of place. It wasn’t his fault everyone else started laughing.

But it didn’t sit right in his gut. Not like it used to. That sick, self-satisfied feeling, control, distance, invulnerability. It was gone.

He was just tired.

And his chest ached like something was pulling tight from the inside.

On Monday, Sanji didn’t speak at all.

Not in class. Not in the halls. Not when the teacher called on him. He just tilted his head and blinked, as if the world had gone blurry.

It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Controlled. His lips would part slightly, like he wanted to say something. But never did.

And somehow, the silence screamed.

Zoro felt it every time he walked past him in the hall. Felt it when he sat behind him in math. Felt it when Sanji didn’t flinch or look or breathe.

It was worse than any yelling. It was worse than the slap he half-expected.

It was nothing.

Two days later, Sanji didn’t show up at all.

Then again the next day.

Rumors started. He was sick. He was suspended. He transferred again. He went back to France.

Zoro said nothing.

Vivi walked past him at lunch without speaking. Her tray clattered down at the far end of the table. She didn’t sit near him again that week.

He didn’t blame her.

He didn’t sit near anyone either.

On Thursday, the notebook appeared.

It was Sanji’s. The green one he always kept tucked inside his desk. Half recipe journal, half French vocabulary. Everyone had seen him scribbling in it. Sometimes drawing little food sketches in the margins.

Now it was spread open across Zoro’s desk.

Zoro hadn’t put it there.

The first page had been torn out. The second was defaced. Crude slurs, jagged Xs across the words. Homo. Chef fairy. Go back to France. Drawings of hearts with knives through them. A little stick figure hanging from a fork.

Zoro stared at it.

His mouth went dry.

He didn’t know who’d done it. Hawkins, probably. Apoo had a new Sharpie in his hand.

But that didn’t matter.

Because as he stared at that notebook, something cold and sharp twisted behind his ribs.

It wasn’t just anger. It wasn’t even guilt. not yet.

It was recognition.

He’d seen that kind of hate before. In the mirror.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel above it.

He felt inside it.

After school, he waited by the back gates.

He didn’t know why. Sanji hadn’t come back. Wouldn’t. Not today. Maybe not ever.

But still, Zoro stood there. Backpack slung over one shoulder, arms folded, pretending he wasn’t hoping for anything.

He imagined Sanji walking up, saying something offhand in that clipped accent. Maybe calling him an idiot. Maybe brushing past him like he didn’t exist.

He didn’t know which one he wanted more.

He just knew he wanted something.

But the gates stayed empty.

Zoro went home alone.

That night, Zoro sat at the kitchen table with his dinner untouched. Mihawk barely looked up from the newspaper.

Perona slammed a mug down in front of him.

“You’re being weird,” she muttered. “Weirder than usual.”

Zoro didn’t answer.

Perona narrowed her eyes. “You look like a kicked dog.”

He looked down at the mug.

Warm cocoa. Two marshmallows floating on top.

He picked it up. Held it for a long time. Didn’t drink it.

Something inside him was beginning to crack. Quietly. Like a wall buckling under weight it was never meant to hold.

He was starting to feel it.

Chapter Text

The rain had stopped by morning, but the world still felt wet.

The halls were slick with the smell of muddy shoes and old air conditioning. Students filed in quietly, unusually subdued for a Thursday. The hum of routine had settled in again. But something was missing. Something obvious.

Sanji’s desk was empty.

For the third day in a row.

Zoro tried not to look. He stared at the chalkboard like it held answers. Like if he squinted hard enough, it might distract him from the way Vivi refused to meet his eyes, or how Hawkins muttered under his breath behind him.

But he felt it. That emptiness. Like someone had taken the room and carved out a piece with a knife.

He hadn’t seen Sanji since the food incident. Not in the hall. Not outside. Not in his dreams, though the silence still echoed there, thick and unfinished.

Guilt pooled in his stomach like oil.

By lunch, it had curdled into something worse.

He didn’t sit with anyone. Again.

He ate his rice balls by the window and tried to pretend everything was normal.

It wasn’t.

Zoro didn’t hear the classroom door open. he felt it.

The weight of the room shifted.

The murmurs died down like someone turned the dial.

Sanji walked in, quietly, wearing a black hoodie with the hood up and sleeves pulled over his knuckles. His hair had grown a little in the time he’d been gone, curling just slightly over his ears.

He didn’t look around. Just headed straight for his desk.

He didn’t sit. He didn’t take his hoodie off.

He opened his bag slowly. Pulled out a tattered folder. Tucked it into the desk without a sound.

Zoro stared.

He didn’t know what to say. His tongue had turned to sandpaper days ago.

And then to Zoros' surprise, Sanji looked up.

Their eyes met.

And the room snapped like a wire.

“What? you think I’d just disappear forever?” Sanji asked.

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

Zoro blinked.

The words didn’t land properly. They hovered. Hung in the air like smoke.

Sanji took a step forward.

“You thought you won. Didn’t you?”

“Oi—”

“You thought if you threw my food on the floor, I’d stop showing up. That I’d leave like nothing happened.”

Zoro opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

The class had gone quiet. utterly, disturbingly quiet. Even Garp, at the front of the room, had stopped flipping through attendance.

“I made you something!" Sanji said. “Because I thought maybe, just maybe, you weren’t like the others.”

Zoro flinched.

Sanji’s hands shook at his sides. Not from rage. From restraint.

“You ruined it.”

“Don’t—” Zoro’s voice cracked. “Don’t say that here.”

“Oh and why not?” Sanji spat. “You had no problem humiliating me in front of everyone.”

Zoro stood up too fast. His chair scraped violently backward.

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Make me.”

A blur of motion.

Zoro lunged.

Sanji didn’t move back.

The crash of fists and desks was immediate.

Zoro grabbed him by the collar, and shoved. Sanji’s elbow flew up, caught him under the jaw. Zoro stumbled but swung again. A shove, a punch, fingers in hair, a kick to the ribs it was raw, uncoordinated violence with no technique, just noise.

The class exploded in shouts. Chairs scattered. Desks upturned. Someone screamed. Garp barked something, loud but neither of them heard it.

Zoro’s knuckles split. Sanji’s lip burst. A cut bloomed across Zoro’s cheek.

But the worst part wasn’t the hits.

It was the tears.

Sanji’s falling silently, steadily, through every shove, every impact. His shoulders shook, but he didn’t stop.

Zoro just froze mid-swing.

Sanji’s fists hit his chest one last time, softly, almost like a child..

Then Sanji’s voice broke.

“I hate you.”

Not a yell.

A whisper.

Not angry.

Just wounded.

He pushed past Zoro like he wasn’t even there.

Walked out the door.

And didn’t come back. Or more like ever.

It was the next day after the fight.

Everyone was still standing when Garp slammed the classroom door shut behind him. It echoed like thunder.

He was holding a letter in one hand. A wrinkled slip of paper in the other.

He walked to the board. Didn’t look at anyone. Just read aloud.

“Sanji Vinsmoke has officially withdrawn from East Blue Middle School. Effective immediately.”

Silence.

Zoro’s breath turned cold.

Garp turned slowly, as if each movement was deliberate.

He looked at the class, at the overturned desks and the shaken faces.

Then his eyes landed on Zoro.

And something changed.

His expression hardened. Not the loud, joking anger most kids knew him for. Not the boisterous, overbearing kind that came with detentions and pop quizzes.

This was something colder.

More ancient.

He walked forward,step by step, until he reached Zoro’s desk.

Then, without a word, Garp grabbed the desk by both sides and shook it so hard Zoro jolted forward in his seat.

The metal screeched. Zoro braces his hands on the front of the desk.

“You think this is funny?” Garp growled. “You think I don’t notice what’s been happening in this room?”

No one answered.

“You think your silence makes you innocent?” His voice rose booming, biting. “Every one of you who laughed. Who watched. Who didn’t say anything.”

He leaned down, eyes locked with Zoro’s, so close Zoro could smell the old coffee on his breath.

“But you,” he said softly, pointing his pinky at him. “You started this.”

Zoro couldn’t breathe.

“Do you know how many transfer papers that boy’s father has filed in the last five years? Seven. Congratulations you just made it eight.”

The silence was suffocating now.

Garp looked around again eyes sharp, unflinching.

“You’re not kids anymore. Not when you do this.”

He let go of the desk. Zoro sat down hard, his breath shallow.

Garp stood tall.

“I don’t want to hear a single word about Sanji Vinsmoke for the rest of this year. Not unless you’re asking where to send an apology.”

He stormed out of the room. The door didn’t slam. It shook.

And this was not the end for Roronoa Zoro.

Chapter Text

Monday morning arrived, unchanged in all the ways that mattered. The same fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, cold and uninviting. The same scuffed floor glared under the weight of young footsteps, smelling faintly of pencil shavings and floor wax. The classroom, a place of patterns and repetition, offered one change.

Sanji’s chair was gone.

Not empty, juat gone. Removed. Scrubbed clean from the space as if he had never existed there at all.

Zoro sat at his desk and stared across the room at the vacant spot. The hollow where Sanji used to sit gnawed at the edges of his vision. His fingers were cold against the metal edge of his desk. He hadn’t spoken since Friday. Not a word. Not to anyone.

Garp didn’t look at him when he walked in. Vivi didn’t say good morning. Even the desks closest to his had shifted away, just an inch or two, but enough. Subtle, deliberate. Intentional.

He hadn’t expected the silence to feel like this. Like drowning in a still pond. Quiet. Heavy. Unrelenting.

At first, the classroom moved as usual. Bell. Lecture. Scribbled notes. Nobody mentioned it. But by lunch, the dam cracked.

"Should’ve known he’d snap,” someone muttered near the lockers.

“Kid’s a freak.”

Zoro turned toward the voices, expecting, hoping that they meant Sanji.

They didn’t.

“Seriously. He went off the rails.”

“You saw the fight, right? He punched him.”

“He’s, like… sooo messed up.”

A girl’s voice, soft but sharper than glass: “He’s a monster.”

Zoro stood there with his lunch still clutched in his hand, untouched. His ears buzzed like static. The hallway around him twisted slightly. The edges too sharp, the colors too bright. He took a single step forward.

The whispers stopped.

Then started again the moment he passed.

They didn’t even bother hiding it.

By Tuesday, it was worse.

When he reached his locker, a sticky note waited on the door. Thick block letters in blue marker:

BULLY

No name. No threat. None needed.

He peeled it off with trembling fingers, tore it in half, and threw it away.

It was back the next day.

In red this time:

MONSTER

His breath hitched. No one had called him that since childhood, not even when he’d deserved it.

In gym class, Vivi didn’t look at him. She sat across from him on the bench, tying her shoelaces with methodical precision. Not avoiding. Ignoring. As though he wasn’t even there.

Zoro’s voice came before he could stop it. “What?”

Her hands froze. Then she stood, met his eyes with something brittle in her expression. “You think I’m mad because of what you did?”

Zoro didn’t respond.

“I’m mad because I watched you do it,” she said. “Because I thought you were better than this. But you stood there while they laughed at him and you let it happen.”

She turned, voice hollow. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”

Then she walked out.

Zoro sat down hard on the bench, his knees too weak to hold him. His eyes locked onto the floor until the tile blurred. His food stayed untouched. The guilt didn’t come in a wave, it came like dust: slow, constant, and inescapable.

Garp didn’t call on him for the rest of the week. Zoro used to be asked every third question about history, literature, ethics. He thought it was favoritism once. Or a challenge. Now, it was absence. Not punishment. Just gone.

He didn’t know which hurt more.

At lunch, he sat alone on a long, cold bench while conversations buzzed at far tables like bees in another room. His food sat there. He didn’t touch it.

He thought of the bento Sanji had given him. The smell of egg and rice, the ridiculous garnish tucked in like Sanji had cared. Like it mattered.

Zoro still remembered the way it had looked when he knocked it to the floor.

He stopped walking home with anyone.

The path past the train station stretched longer now. Hotter. Heavier. Once, he passed the bakery on the corner and paused. For a moment, he thought about going inside. About asking.

Hey, is Sanji here? I’m the one who drove him out. I wanted to see if he’s breathing.

But he didn’t.

He kept walking.

Didn’t look back.

Friday. End of the week. End of middle school.

Graduation photos went up on the bulletin board. Yearbooks passed from hand to hand, pens scribbling final messages in margins.

Some kids laughed. Some cried. Garp gave a speech in the auditorium.

No one mentioned Sanji.

Not once. Not in roll call. Not in the speech. Not even in the slideshow.

It was like he had never been there.

Zoro stood outside the school gate after it ended, arms crossed, head low, the collar of his uniform stiff against his neck.

His phone buzzed.

Perona: Don’t come home late. Mihawk’s cooking.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

His hands clenched until his knuckles ached.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to grab someone just anyone and say: You laughed too. You said things too. You looked away.

But it wouldn’t matter.

Because it was him. His face. His fists. His voice.

He couldn’t shift the weight.

And he wasn’t sure if he deserved to.

The bell rang one final time.

He didn’t turn around.

This was the end of middle school. The end of everything.

He didn’t take a graduation photo. When the teacher lifted the camera and asked everyone to smile, Zoro had already slipped out of frame.

No one noticed.

Or if they did. They didn’t call him back.

Especially not Garp.

Zoro stood just outside the gym doors, hands buried in his blazer pockets. The ceiling above him buzzed with light.

A boy pushed past, laughing, yearbook in hand.

“Can you believe he’s not here?” he snorted. “Guess monsters don’t get graduation.”

He didn’t even notice Zoro.

Or maybe he did.

Didn’t matter.

The hallway emptied slowly. Shoes against tile. Lockers slamming. Posters being ripped from the walls.

Summer loomed.

It should have felt like freedom.

It didn’t.

Zoro climbed the stairs slowly. Second floor. Then the classroom.

The door was unlocked. Desks stacked. Sunlight slicing through the windows, dust spiraling in slow, shimmering patterns.

He found his desk. Still there.

The one beside it, Sanji’s, wasn’t.

This time, no one could pretend it wasn’t deliberate.

Zoro sat down.

Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead to the cool wood.

He thought of the things he had said.

The things he hadn’t.

Of Sanji’s face after the fight with blood and tears smeared together. Of the way he whispered I hate you, like it hurt to say it. Like it hurt more not to.

Zoro exhaled, slow.

He didn’t believe in ghosts.

But the room felt haunted.

Maybe it always had been.

Footsteps.

He didn’t look up.

He knew the weight of those steps. The heaviness in each one. Garp.

The old man stood in the doorway for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he entered.

His shadow stretched across the floor.

“Everyone’s gone,” he said finally. Voice quiet. Too quiet.

Zoro blinked.

Garp walked to a desk. Knocked his fist against the wood.

Shoved it aside like it was weightless.

Then he moved to Zoro’s desk. Rested his hand on the edge.

“Stand up.”

Zoro didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Garp leaned in. And for the first time Zoro could remember through all the loud laughter, the rough affection, the careless scolding that Garp was furious.

Not angry.

Disappointed.

Deep, bone-splitting disappointment.

“You think this is about you?” he asked, voice like gravel.

Zoro’s breath caught.

“You think what happened in this room is yours to carry alone?”

Silence.

“I watched this class laugh at that boy,” Garp said, voice rising. “I watched them mock him. Ignore him. Push him to the edge. And you... you were the loudest. But not the only one.”

Zoro flinched.

“But now they get to forget,” Garp said. “Because you gave them a scapegoat. A face. A fist.”

His hand slammed the desk.

“And now they all get to pretend they were innocent.”

Zoro looked down, shame eating him from the inside.

Garp’s voice lowered again. “You failed him. So did I. So did everyone.”

Then, quietly:

“He’s gone.”

Zoro’s stomach twisted.

Garp stepped back, exhaled once. Then steadied.

“I don’t care if you feel bad,” he said. “I care what you do next.”

Zoro barely nodded.

Garp looked at him one last time.

“You’ve got one shot, Roronoa. To be better than what you’ve been.”

A pause.

“But right now? You don’t deserve to look like you suffered the most in this class.”

Then Garp turned and walked away.

Zoro didn’t watch him leave.

He sat there until the sun dipped past the windowsill. Until the classroom faded into shadows. Until he was just a shape in the dark.

He reached into his pocket.

Pulled out a sticky note.

MONSTER in red.

He unfolded it. Smoothed the creases. Laid it flat on the desk like an offering.

Then pressed his hand over the word. Hard. Until his knuckles turned white. Until the ink bled into his skin.

He didn’t cry.

But he didn’t move either.

Because this was the end.

Of middle school.

Of forgiveness.

Of the boy he used to be.

Chapter Text

“We all grow older, but the past stays the same. It just waits for us to come back.”

It had been years since middle school. The air always felt heavier by the river.

Zoro stood on the footbridge, hands in his pockets, watching the sluggish water pass beneath him. The city around him hummed. Car tires against wet pavement, a dog barking two blocks away, the whistle of a train in the distance—but it all felt like static, low and unshaped. Background noise.

He didn’t wear his old uniform anymore. No more clip-on tie, no more pressed shirts with the school crest over the heart. Now it was a plain black hoodie, sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, collar loose, the same two pairs of jeans rotated on a cycle. He kept his headphones on most days, even when they weren’t playing music. A habit. A shield.

Zoro had grown a little taller. His voice had dropped, roughened, lost its middle-school sharpness. But none of that mattered.

Not really.

The guilt had grown with him. A shadow stretched by time.

He leaned on the railing and looked down.

Every Saturday for months, he’d come here. The bakery wasn’t far from the bridge—just five minutes if you knew the shortcut through the alley behind the record store. He never went straight there. Always to the bridge first. Like warming up for something painful.

It was almost spring again.

Same season.

Same weight in his chest.

He exhaled, pulled his hood up, and walked.

The bakery was tucked between a florist and a shuttered stationery shop. Bright windows, gold lettering on the glass, and a faint smell of yeast and burnt sugar leaking into the street. Warm light spilled out like something from another world.

Zoro hesitated just outside the door. He could hear someone moving inside. Not a crowd. Just two people, maybe three. The time between lunch and dinner rush. safe and quiet.

He reached for the handle.

The bell above the door rang when he stepped in.

He blinked at the change in lighting. The space was smaller than he remembered, or maybe his memory had stretched it over time. There were only four tables along the window and a single counter stacked with pastries behind a glass case. Soft jazz played faintly from a speaker tucked in the corner.

And behind the counter, arranging a tray of powdered croissants—

Sanji.

Zoro felt everything in his chest seize up. Like the air had been pulled from the room. He swallows softly.

His hands clenched inside his sleeves.

Sanji was taller now, too. His hair was a little longer, still sun-gold and slightly curled at the ends. He wore a black apron over a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, collar half unbuttoned. A smudge of flour streaked across one cheekbone. He hadn’t changed much.

He was beautiful?

Zoro swallowed.

Sanji looked up.

Their eyes met.

Zoro didn’t breathe.

Sanji tilted his head slightly. His brow furrowed. Not a frown but in just confusion.

“...Can I help you?”

His voice was lower now. Still smooth, with a hint of something foreign in the lilt.

Zoro opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

He stepped forward. Reached up with one hand and scratched the back of his neck.

Left hand. Two taps. Look away.

It was nothing. A tic. A stupid thing he used to do back in school, a way to deflect when he didn’t want to answer something. Sanji had once mimicked it in class, grinning around a pencil. Zoro had rolled his eyes, but inside, it’d made him smile.

Now, in the golden quiet of the bakery,

Sanji’s eyes widened.

His lips parted just slightly.

“You…”

Zoro felt his chest tighten.

Then, a creak from behind the kitchen door.

It swung open.

Zeff.

He stepped out with a tray of baguettes balanced on one arm. His apron was dusted in flour, and a dishrag hung from his belt. His sharp gaze scanned the counter then landed on Zoro.

The room shifted.

Zoro tensed.

Sanji’s mouth snapped shut.

Zeff raised a brow.

“Boy, you ordering or standing there breathing lookin' like a psychopath?”

Zoro blinked.

Sanji ducked his head quickly, retreating behind the counter. The moment vanished, cut clean, severed by reality.

“I’ll have…” Zoro forced his voice out. “Whatever’s fresh.”

Zeff grunted and set the bread down.

Sanji didn’t speak again. He moved behind the case, grabbed a pastry with tongs, and slipped it into a paper bag. No eye contact. No sound.

The warmth from before was gone.

He handed Zoro the bag with a nod.

Zoro took it, fingers brushing Sanji’s just briefly.

Too fast to register. Too soft to mean anything.

He gave one last look at Sanji, awkwardly raised his hand at Zeff as a kind gesture for the treat and hurriedly left store. He murmured "idiot" to himself.

He left without another word.

The bell rang above him.

The cold bit harder outside.

Back at the footbridge, Zoro sat on the edge of the railing and opened the bag. The pastry inside was still warm. Almond, maybe. He broke off a corner and tasted it.

Sweet.

Softer than he expected.

He stared at the water again, chewing slowly.

Sanji had remembered.

Not right away. But, eventually. A gesture. A tic. That stupid motion he never thought meant anything.

Zoro wiped powdered sugar from his thumb.

He didn’t know what to do next.

But for the first time in years,

he felt something.

Not forgiveness.

Not hope.

But a thread.

Tenuous.

Real.

He held onto it with everything he had.

After that, He didn’t go home right away.

Zoro walked the city with the paper bag still crumpled in his hand, the half-eaten pastry long forgotten. Streetlights buzzed on one by one as the sun dipped behind rows of apartment buildings, casting long, yellow shadows on the sidewalk. He didn’t listen to music. He didn’t speak to anyone. He just walked through the neighborhoods he used to know, through back alleys and shortcuts that hadn’t changed.

His legs moved on instinct, but his mind remained frozen at that counter.

The way Sanji’s eyes had widened.

Just for a second.

Recognition. A flicker.

Then… nothing.

Zoro stopped at a vending machine outside the station, coins already in his palm before he realized he wasn’t thirsty. He leaned his forehead against the cool metal and closed his eyes.

He should’ve said something.

Anything.

But the words had died in his throat. All the French he had practiced, rehearsed under his breath, repeated into a pillow night after night and had vanished the second he saw him. There was no sentence that could undo the past. No apology that would land clean.

Still… that look.

It was real.

Zoro replayed it in his mind, over and over. Sanji’s voice. Quiet and unsure. The way his mouth had opened in surprise. It hadn’t been anger. Not exactly. Not fear, either.

Just… memory.

That left something in Zoro’s chest aching, sharp and constant. It burned.

He stood there until the vending machine’s light flickered off.

Later, back in his room, he sat at his desk without turning the light on. His textbooks were open, pages warped from days of sitting untouched. He stared at them until the dark swallowed the words whole.

He reached into the drawer and pulled out a small notebook. It was filled cover to cover with short French phrases.

Je suis désolé.
Je t’ai fait du mal.
Tu n’as rien fait de mal.
Pardon. S’il te plaît.
Regarde-moi, s’il te plaît.

His handwriting was still clumsy. Some sentences had been crossed out three or four times. But it was all there. Every thought he never got to say.

He flipped to the last page. It was empty.

Zoro picked up a pen.

The silence around him was absolute.

He started to write.

No poetry. No apology.

Just one line.

"You remembered me."

His hand trembled slightly when he set the pen down.

He closed the notebook.

Pressed his fingers to his eyes.

He didn’t cry.

He hadn’t in years.

But something inside him gave way, quietly, like ice thawing in spring.

And for the first time, Zoro let the stillness settle without fighting it.

Tomorrow, he’d go back.

Even if Sanji walked away again.
Even if he said nothing.
Even if it hurt.

Because that flicker of recognition meant something.

And he wasn’t ready to let it go.

Chapter Text

Zoro stood across the street from the bakery again, the paper bag from yesterday still folded in his pocket like some kind of proof.

The pastry had gone stale in his stomach. He’d eaten it in silence, every bite tasting like shame. But he hadn’t thrown it away. He hadn’t wanted to. It felt like the closest thing to contact he’d had in years.

Now it was Sunday, mid-morning. The city had a strange quiet to it. Families were inside eating brunch, older folks walking dogs along the sidewalks, a pair of kids passing a soccer ball between them on the corner.

The bakery sign swung gently in the breeze. Baratie Boulangerie in gold script, the sun glinting off the glass.

Zoro adjusted his collar. He was wearing something clean, still dark, still plain, but he’d made an effort. He couldn’t explain why. Not to himself. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was because Sanji had remembered. That split-second in his face, the widening of his eyes, that breath he’d taken. Zoro had been holding onto it all night like it meant something.

It had to mean something.

He stepped off the curb.

The bell above the bakery door jingled.

Sanji was there again, behind the counter. Same spot. Only this time he wasn’t arranging pastries, he was icing a small cake, hand steady, sleeves rolled up. There was jazz again, low and muffled, something from an older record player spinning in the back room. The place was warmer today, and smelled faintly of oranges and butter.

Sanji didn’t look up.

Zoro stepped to the counter, slow. He felt his pulse in his ears.

He opened his mouth.

“…Hey.”

Sanji’s hand paused, hovering over the cake.

Zoro swallowed. His tongue felt thick.

“I came back to—” His voice caught.

Sanji looked up. His eyes were unreadable. Pale blue, like cold fire.

Zoro forced the words out.

“I’m sorry.”

There. Said it. Out in the open. His voice was rough, uneven, cracking at the edges. He hadn’t planned a speech. He didn’t have one. Just that. Just those two words that had been caged in his throat for almost four years.

“I’m—” he tried again. “I should’ve—”

But Sanji had already stepped back.

He turned away without a word. Walked through the swinging door into the kitchen and disappeared.

Zoro stood there, the silence ringing in his ears louder than the music.

A sharp sound snapped through the room a moment later. The clatter of a tray, or maybe something hitting the floor.

Then heavy footsteps.

Zeff came out, wiping his hands on a towel.

He eyed Zoro like a stray dog had wandered in.

“You again,” he said flatly.

Zoro nodded, unsure what else to do.

Zeff didn’t ask what he wanted. Didn’t offer anything. Just stared.

Zoro shifted his weight.

“I just… wanted to talk to him.”

Zeff snorted.

“Didn’t look like 'e wanted the same.”

Zoro winced.

“He remembered me.”

Zeff’s face didn’t change.

“I doubt he could forget.”

That hit harder than Zoro expected.

“I’m trying to make things right.”

Zeff folded the towel slowly, deliberately.

“You kids always think that means showin' up out of nowhere, saying a few words, and expectin' the world to click back into place.”

Zoro lowered his gaze.

“I don’t expect that.”

Zeff raised an eyebrow.

“Then what do you expect?”

Zoro didn’t have an answer.

After a long pause, Zeff pointed at the door with a tilt of his chin.

“Go home, kid. He doesn’t need your ghosts right now.”

Zoro clenched his jaw.

But he left.

Sanji stood in the kitchen with his back to the wall, arms crossed tight over his chest.

He’d dropped the icing bag as he walked inside to avoid Zoro. It was still on the floor, forgotten.

His heart wouldn’t slow down. It beat like it was trying to get out of his ribs.

Zoro’s voice still echoed in his head. Not the words but just the sound of it. Familiar and rough. Not the same as it used to be, but not different enough to feel like someone else.

It had shaken something loose.

He’d spent four years learning how to seal every window shut. How to bury memories so deep he could convince himself they weren’t real. He’d worked beside Zeff until his hands were raw, forced himself into quiet routines where everything was predictable. Safe.

Zoro showing up was like someone had set fire to the floor beneath him.

He had remembered him yesterday. That gesture scratching the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact, it had brought it all back like water breaking through a dam.

But today… today it was the voice. The voice Sanji used to hear sneering, laughing, yelling.

And now?

Now it had trembled.

He didn’t know how to feel about that.

He bent down, slowly picked up the icing bag, and stared at the crushed tip.

“Stupid,” he muttered under his breath.

And not just about the bag.

Zoro sat on a bench outside a flower shop, his gaze to the puddle. His reflection wasn't his present self but more of his past. He threw his head back, shutting his eyes feeling the soft breeze. His hoodie was damp from a passing mist of rain, and he hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.

He replayed everything over and over again. What he could’ve said. What he shouldn’t have. The way Sanji had walked away. The look in Zeff’s eyes.

Maybe it was too late.

But he hadn’t come this far to stop.

He pulled out his phone.

Opened the French learning app he still used.

There was a phrase he’d practiced over and over last year, one he hadn’t been able to say aloud today.

He whispered it to himself, quiet and broken:

Je suis désolé.

Again, Zoro didn’t go home right away.

After leaving from the bench, he walked without thinking. The sun had dipped behind a bank of low clouds, the afternoon flattening into that washed-out grey where the world felt muted and suspended, like something holding its breath. There was traffic in the distance. The occasional bark of a dog. But in Zoro’s head, it was quiet.

He ended up near the bridge. Where the river was.

There was a bench, but he didn’t sit. He stood there with both hands in his pockets, staring at the water and the way it moved like it had somewhere better to be.

He thought about how Sanji hadn’t said anything.

Not even "get out."

Not even "why."

Just silence. And that silence had felt heavier than any insult.

Zoro had pictured this moment a hundred times, maybe more. Ever since the middle school hallway had emptied for the last time. Ever since Garp had said Sanji was gone and the class had fallen into an almost cruel quiet. Zoro thought maybe he could apologize and Sanji would spit something back, punch him even, anything that meant the ice between them was thin enough to crack.

But today had proved something else.

Sanji had built something stronger than distance.

He had built absence.

And Zoro had nothing strong enough to tear through it.

He didn’t know what he’d expected. Maybe some version of relief, or catharsis like saying sorry would let him start breathing again. Instead, it felt like he’d pressed his face to a closed door, only to realize the house was long abandoned.

The ache that curled in his chest now didn’t feel like guilt alone. It felt like grief.

Sanji stood in the bakery kitchen long after Zeff returned to his prep station. The frosting bag still sat on the stainless steel table, forgotten again. The cake had lost its chill, but Sanji didn’t move.

He kept replaying the sound of the door chime.

The way Zoro had said his name—no, he hadn’t even said his name. Just “Hey.” Like they’d run into each other by accident. Like they were acquaintances, or worse, like they were still kids and nothing had ever happened.

Sanji had almost laughed.

Not because it was funny. But because it had been such a surreal, pitiful sound, Zoro’s voice cracking under the weight of two syllables. Like he didn’t know how to carry words anymore.

Sanji had felt his chest twist at that.

And that was what scared him the most.

He hadn’t wanted to feel anything. That had been the plan. For four, almost five years he’d locked the memory of Zoro behind a thick wall, like you do with a scar something you see sometimes, but learn not to touch.

But now it stung again.

Not from hatred.

From the way Zoro had looked at him. As if he wasn’t sure Sanji was real. As if Zoro had spent just as long memorizing a ghost.

And maybe that was what this was.

A haunting.

Zoro didn’t sleep that night.

He lay on his bed staring at the ceiling while Perona played music too loud in her room down the hall something she always does. Mihawk wasn’t home either, it was one of those late nights at the university, or maybe he just didn’t want to be in the same space as Zoro lately. It was hard to tell. Things between them had turned quieter over the years.

It wasn’t cold, but Zoro shivered.

He kept remembering the way Sanji had stepped backward. Like a reflex. Like Zoro was a threat.

And maybe he still was.

It didn’t matter that he was sorry. It didn’t matter that he’d taught himself French just in case he ever saw him again. It didn’t matter that he had changed.

To Sanji, he was still the boy who had laughed while his notebook burned. Who had shoved a plate of food to the floor. Who had let the whole class make fun of his voice, his clothes, his family.

And then had punched him for standing up.

Zoro covered his eyes with one arm.

The guilt had been a slow fire for years. But now it had shape. A voice. A face. And it hurt in a way he hadn’t been prepared for.

He sat up suddenly, swung his legs to the floor.

He reached for his phone and opened the French app again.

It was late. Almost 2AM. But he needed to say it right.

He whispered it again, barely loud enough for the room to hear:

“Je suis désolé.”

And then:

“Pour tout.”

Sanji meanwhile, lay in bed too.

The walls of his room were thin that he could hear Zeff still rustling around in the kitchen, probably cleaning things that didn’t need cleaning.

He stared at the ceiling, the same way he used to as a kid in foster care after his mother died and his biological father grew abusive and distant with him, back when sleep never came easy. Even though, Zeff adopted him and gave him a loving home. Some habits never left.

He couldn’t shake the way Zoro had stood there. Not confident. Not smug. Just... raw.

It wasn’t like he wanted Zoro to suffer. Not really. He didn’t even think about Zoro anymore, not on purpose. But now that he’d seen him again, it was like every part of him was trying to rewind.

And he hated it.

Because a part of him remembered things he didn’t want to like how Zoro had always fidgeted with his pencil when he was nervous. How he used to scratch the back of his neck when caught lying. How his handwriting had looked when he passed notes to Luffy.

Small, stupid things.

But memory didn’t ask for permission.

He rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head.

Zoro had said I’m sorry.

And somehow, that hurt worse than if he hadn’t said anything at all.

Morning came slower than usual.

Zoro was up before the sun, shoes on, keys in hand, waiting for the clock to hit seven so he could find a reason to walk past the bakery again.

He wasn’t sure if he’d go in.

But he knew he’d go.

Because he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.

Not enough to fix things.

But maybe enough to begin.

Chapter Text

Zoro never stopped. He always found an excuse to show up at the bakery. Here, Zoro is outside the bakery door. Preparing himself for whatever comes inside.

The bell above the bakery door rang a little too loudly when Zoro pushed it open.

He’d stood outside for almost a full minute before building up the nerve. Pretended to check the street. Pretended to read the chalkboard menu out front. Then finally—step, breath, door.

He didn’t come for Sanji.

Not really.

That’s what he told himself.

He stared at the pastry case like it was the most important thing in the room, eyes fixed on rows of flaky croissants and neat squares of mille-feuille and sugar-dusted madeleines, all arranged with a precision he somehow knew wasn’t Zeff’s handiwork.

He could feel it before he saw it Sanji’s presence like a note held in a too-quiet song. Just out of sight. Somewhere behind the saloon-style kitchen doors, or maybe along the back counter near the espresso machine.

Zoro didn’t look for him.

He didn’t think he could take it.

Instead, he cleared his throat and leaned toward the counter. Zeff was manning it, arms crossed, expression unreadable beneath the mustache. He squinted at Zoro with the flat disapproval of someone who’d seen plenty of teenage boys lie to their own mothers.

Zoro opened his mouth.

“I need a cake,” he blurted.

Zeff arched a single brow. “You do.”

“For… a birthday,” Zoro added, mentally kicking himself. “My… uncle’s.”

Zeff didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at him, unimpressed.

Zoro tried not to fidget. “It’s this week.”

More silence.

Zeff wiped his hands on a towel and set it down with unnecessary care. “What kind of cake?”

Zoro paused. “…Surprise me?”

Zeff’s eyes narrowed slightly, then flicked toward the kitchen. Zoro couldn’t help it, he followed the motion just as a flash of blond disappeared around the back corner.

Sanji.

Even from the brief glimpse, Zoro saw the tension in his shoulders. The way he turned before he could be seen.

Zoro’s chest tightened. He looked back down, suddenly feeling like the floor might drop out beneath him.

“Pick it up Thursday,” Zeff said, writing something down on a notepad. “It’ll be at the counter. You pay now.”

Zoro pulled out his wallet with fumbling hands. The exchange was quick, clinical. By the time he looked up again, Zeff had already disappeared back behind the kitchen doors.

Zoro stood there for a second longer, unsure if he should linger.

But the moment passed.

He turned to leave, fingers curling around the door handle—

“ZORO?!”

The voice hit like a slap of sunlight.

Zoro froze.

Luffy stood a few feet away from the door, grin wide, straw hat slung across his back by a red cord. He was holding a half-eaten taiyaki and looked like he hadn’t aged a day since middle school, except maybe a few inches taller. Yes, they do go to the same high school but Zoro kept his distance from people and never fully let anyone in after middle school. Not even his closest friends, like Luffy.

“You’re alive!” Luffy said as he bounded forward. “I thought you died or joined a cult or got stuck in traffic for four years!”

Zoro blinked.

Luffy didn’t give him a chance to answer. “I knew it was you from behind, you’ve got that same ‘I’m pretending to not care but actually I’m thinking real hard about something’ look.”

Zoro didn’t know what to say. Something caught in his throat.

“You still like to collect swords?” Luffy asked.

“…Yeah.”

“Cool. I’m learning boxing now! Sabo teaches me. He’s really good but he punches too hard. My nose still feels weird.”

Zoro couldn’t stop the tiny curve of his lips.

And that, somehow, was the moment everything changed.

Because it was the first time someone had looked at him and not seen the past. Not seen what he did. Just… Zoro.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

But his eyes stung a little.

Luffy stepped closer and gave him a once-over. “You look taller.”

“You look the same,” Zoro replied, voice a little hoarse.

Luffy beamed. “Thanks.”

From the corner of his eye, Zoro sensed motion again.

Sanji had reappeared just barely, standing behind the espresso bar, half-concealed. He hadn’t said anything. But he was watching.

Not glaring. Not angry. Just… observing.

Zoro made the mistake of meeting his eyes for a heartbeat too long.

Sanji looked away.

Zoro's chest twisted.

He turned back to Luffy. “You work around here?”

“Nah,” Luffy said. “Ace eats here sometimes after his night shifts, so I tag along. Zeff gives us leftovers. Sanji makes really good food.”

Zoro nodded, though something behind his ribs pulled tight at that.

Luffy tilted his head. “You wanna come next time?”

Zoro blinked. “To eat?”

“Yeah. I mean. If you’re not too busy with your fake birthday cake.”

Zoro flushed faintly, but couldn’t help laughing under his breath.

“…Yeah. Maybe.”

The bell jingled again as Luffy wandered out, mouth full of fish-shaped pastry.

Zoro stayed for a second longer. Just enough time to glance back toward the espresso machine.

Sanji was gone again.

But the warmth from Luffy’s presence lingered. Like a door cracked open, even if only for a moment.

And maybe just maybe, Zoro had stepped a little closer to the threshold.

Zoro didn’t expect Luffy to still be waiting outside.

But there he was, crouched against the wall just past the bakery awning, his straw hat tilted over his face like some lazy cat napping in the sun.

“Hey,” Luffy said, not even bothering to look up. “You’re slow.”

Zoro glanced back at the bakery door, still half-expecting Sanji to appear again, but it stayed shut.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Wasn’t planning on running into anyone.”

Luffy finally stood, stretching his arms overhead. “You’re lucky. If you’d waited ten more seconds, I was gonna assume you were dead and move on.”

Zoro smirked faintly. “Touching.”

Luffy turned to him. “Wanna come over?”

“…What?”

“My apartment,” Luffy said, as though it was obvious. “Ace and Sabo are home. Ace made food. He always makes too much and yells when we don’t eat it.”

Zoro hesitated. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not,” Luffy said. “Ace likes people. Sabo pretends he doesn’t but he’ll talk your ear off. You should come.”

Zoro didn’t know what made him say yes. Maybe it was the quiet hum of something unspoken acceptance without demand, forgiveness without terms.

Maybe it was just easier than going home.

So he followed.

They walked in comfortable silence. The city around them moved at its usual rhythm cars, sidewalk chatter, someone’s dog barking two streets over but Zoro felt weirdly out of sync with it all. Like he was walking underwater.

Still, Luffy talked.

Mostly nonsense. Something about a bakery fight over chocolate éclairs. A story about Ace setting off the fire alarm last month at his job. He didn’t seem to care if Zoro responded.

It helped, more than Zoro would admit.

The apartment was a fourth-floor walk-up, small but warm, walls lined with books and mismatched posters. Zoro barely stepped inside before he was hit with the smell of garlic and roasted something.

“Yo!” Luffy called, kicking off his shoes. “I brought a stray!”

“Again?” came a voice from the kitchen. “He better eat everything.”

A tall young man emerged, shirt half-unbuttoned, dark hair tousled, a small tattoo just visible on his shoulder. He looked like he’d just finished cooking or maybe just got out the gym and eyed Zoro with a mix of curiosity and something softer.

Ace.

Zoro froze slightly.

Ace stuck out his hand. “Ace. Luffy’s older brother.”

Zoro nodded once. “Zoro.”

“Nice to meet you, Zoro,” Ace said, gripping his hand firmly. “We’ve got beef stew and rice, if you’re hungry.”

Before Zoro could reply, another figure appeared. His blond hair tied back, reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked Zoro up and down like a puzzle.

Sabo.

“Ah,” he said simply, not bothering with introductions. “This should be interesting.”

Zoro blinked. “Excuse me?”

Sabo shrugged. “You’ve got that ‘haunted by my past’ look. We see it a lot.”

“Don’t mind him,” Ace said, steering Zoro toward the table. “Sabo’s a therapist-in-training, or so he says. Sit. Eat.”

Luffy had already flopped onto a beanbag in the corner, slurping soup straight from the bowl.

Zoro sat. The food was good, simple but rich, and warm in a way that filled more than just his stomach.

For a while, they just… existed.

No questions. No pointed stares. Just laughter and chopsticks and Ace and Luffy bickering over whose turn it was to do dishes.

It felt impossible. And strangely safe.

Later, after Luffy dozed off against the arm of the couch, Ace sat next to Zoro with two open cans of soda. He passed one over without a word.

Zoro took it, his fingers brushing the cool metal.

“Luffy likes you,” Ace said after a pause.

Zoro glanced at him. “He likes everyone.”

Ace shook his head. “No, not like this. He remembers you.”

Zoro swallowed.

Ace tilted his head, studying him.

“You’ve got a lot in your eyes,” he said softly. “That’s not easy to carry around at your age.”

Zoro didn’t answer.

“You hurt someone?”

Zoro’s breath hitched.

Ace didn’t push. He sipped from his can, then looked out the window.

“I’ve been there,” he said after a long moment. “Did something when I was younger I can’t undo. Took me years to even admit it to myself. And longer to figure out how to be better.”

Zoro stared down at the soda.

“You can’t make the past not exist,” Ace said, voice low. “But you can decide what kind of person you’re gonna be next. The people who matter, they’ll see the difference.”

Zoro’s throat ached.

He looked up, about to speak—

The door burst open.

“LUFFY! WHY DID I GET A CALL FROM YOUR SCHOOL ABOUT YOU ‘NEARLY SETTING FIRE TO A CHEMISTRY LAB’?!”

Zoro nearly fell off the couch.

Ace winced. “Shit.”

In the doorway stood a broad-shouldered man with wild gray hair, sharp eyes, and the kind of presence that filled a room whether you wanted it to or not.

Zoro blinked, eyes going wide. “…Garp?!”

Garp narrowed his gaze. “Do I know you, boy?”

Zoro opened his mouth. “I—I—sir, I didn’t realize—”

Luffy, still half-asleep on the couch, mumbled, “Oh yeah… forgot to tell you. My grandpa lives here too. Our uh middle school teacher.”

Zoro could only stare. Garp is his grandfather, and he tells me now?!

The last person he’d expected to run into again was now towering in the same living room where he’d just begun to feel like he could breathe.

Garp’s eyes flicked back to him.

Something unreadable passed across his face.

“Well,” he said finally, in a quieter tone. “Looks like I do know you after all.”

Zoro’s chest squeezed.

And somehow, he had the feeling that his journey, whatever came next, had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

Zoro stood stiffly in the small apartment living room, the sharp scent of stew still lingering in the air, though the warmth that had begun to settle in his chest had vanished the second Garp appeared.

He felt his pulse in his ears.

Luffy scratched his stomach from the couch, eyes still fogged with sleep. “Gramps, you’re loud.”

Garp barely glanced at him. His focus was on Zoro, and Zoro felt it like a weight. That heavy, piercing scrutiny like he was back in that classroom months ago, when everything cracked and broke and spilled into the open.

Zoro swallowed hard. “Sir—uh sorry, I didn’t realize this was your—”

Garp lifted a hand. “Save it.”

Zoro fell silent, uncertain.

The room went quiet too, for a moment, until Ace stood and offered a soft buffer, tone casual. “Zoro just came by for dinner. We invited him.”

“You’ve got good taste,” Garp grunted. “Bad judgment.”

Ace raised an eyebrow. “Both can be true.”

Sabo chuckled faintly from his seat. “You gonna scold the kid again, old man? We just got him to eat!”

Zoro looked down. He couldn’t tell if this was mercy or tension disguised as comedy.

Garp stepped forward slowly, boots thudding against the tile floor. “Didn’t expect to see you again, boy,” he said. “Especially not here.”

Zoro nodded once, unsure how to respond.

“Luffy didn’t tell you, did he?” Garp said with a snort. “Never does. Kid could lose his left foot and forget to mention it.”

Luffy mumbled, “Still have both,” into the pillow.

Garp’s stare didn’t soften. But it didn’t harden either. Just stayed steady fixed on Zoro like it was trying to unearth something from the inside out.

“Tell me something,” he said, voice quiet now. “Why’re you really here?”

Zoro hesitated. “To see someone.”

Garp’s expression flickered.

“That boy,” he said. Not a question.

Zoro nodded. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed felt sharp-edged.

Zoro’s heart thumped heavily. “I… just wanted to say something. But I messed it up.”

Garp’s jaw tensed. Then he turned away, walking toward the kitchen like the conversation was over. Just when Zoro exhaled thinking that might be the end. Garp paused.

“You ever hurt someone so bad they stopped looking you in the eye?”

Zoro blinked.

Garp didn’t turn back. “Only fix for that,” he said, “is not words. It’s consistency. Showin’ up, even when they don’t want you to. Especially when they don’t.”

Zoro’s breath caught in his throat.

Garp continued. “Pain doesn’t erase overnight. You’re lucky if it ever does. But if you’re serious… then be serious. Stop flinching when it hurts.”

Then, without another word, Garp opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of soda, and cracked it open like he’d just shared nothing more than a weather report.

Zoro didn’t speak.

But something in his chest shifted ever so slightly.

Later, when Zoro stood by the door, pulling his hoodie over his head, Ace handed him a leftover container. “For the road.”

Zoro took it with a quiet nod.

“Come by again,” Ace said. “Next time, bring something too. Luffy always eats everything.”

Sabo smiled from the armchair. “Don’t be a stranger. It’s worse for your mental health.”

Luffy grinned, still half-asleep. “Bring swords next time. Wanna duel.”

Zoro gave a half-hearted snort and looked back once at Garp, who didn’t glance up.

But Zoro saw the way his shoulders sat, not tense. Just waiting.

He stepped out into the night.

The wind felt sharper now, but his chest was strangely lighter.

He didn’t know exactly what came next. Just that tomorrow, he would try again. And maybe just maybe, this time, he wouldn’t mess it up.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was loud with the clatter of trays and the hiss of butter on metal, but Sanji barely noticed it anymore. It was second nature now, muscle memory. Grab the tray, check the timer, flip the pan. His shoulders moved before his thoughts did. His hands obeyed even when his mind drifted.

And lately, his mind kept drifting to a boy with green hair and tired eyes.

Zoro.

The name tasted strange when he thought it. Like a story he’d heard long ago but never believed.

He didn’t know why he noticed him again that day. Why the way the boy stood outside the bakery, awkwardly pretending to study the loaves in the front display, made something soft knock once inside his chest.

He didn’t let it show.

Sanji just turned back into the kitchen, pretending the warmth in his face was from the oven. He hadn’t even seen Zoro’s eyes clearly, just the silhouette. The shape of someone half-remembered, blurred by years and bitterness and distance.

Still.

He kept thinking about the way Zoro had tried to speak French. Clumsy and fumbling. Like a hand held out in the dark.

Sanji didn’t know what it meant.

The bell above the bakery door rang the next day. He didn’t look up. Didn’t have to.

He knew the way Zoro walked now. Slow. Almost unsure, like the floor was still unfamiliar.

Sanji stayed behind the counter. Zeff wasn’t working that day, and the girl on shift Nami had gone on break. He could’ve hidden in the kitchen. He didn’t.

Zoro hesitated at the door. Then stepped in, the sound of his shoes too loud on the floor.

“Hey,” he said.

Sanji turned slightly, not enough to face him. “If you’re looking for the croissants, they’re gone by noon.”

“I wasn’t,” Zoro said. “I mean… I wasn’t sure what to get.”

Sanji gave a small nod. Measured. Neutral. “Pain au chocolat’s good.”

Zoro stood there. Then reached for his wallet like it weighed too much. “Then I’ll get that.”

Sanji boxed it up silently. The paper crinkled in his hands. He could feel Zoro’s eyes on him, too careful. Not angry. Just watching. And that made it worse.

When Zoro handed him the cash, their fingers brushed. Just barely.

Sanji stiffened.

Zoro did too.

And neither said anything about it.

Zoro came back the next day.

Then the day after that.

Sanji didn’t talk much. He didn’t smile. But he didn’t walk away either.

Somewhere between the fifth visit and the seventh, Zoro stopped trying to act like it was about the pastry.

“You ever,” Zoro began one day, “you ever miss being thirteen?”

Sanji raised an eyebrow. “Is this a trick question?”

Zoro shrugged, awkward. “Just… wondering if it was easier then.”

Sanji leaned on the counter, arms crossed. He looked tired, not angry. “You mean when people kicked my chair and shoved crap in my bag?”

Zoro winced. “Yeah. That.”

There was a pause. Just flour in the air, and the low hum of the fridge behind them.

Then, Sanji muttered, “I guess it was easier to hate you back then.”

Zoro didn’t speak. Just nodded. Accepting it.

But Sanji surprised himself by not walking away.

Later that week, they crossed paths outside the bakery.

Zoro was leaning against the wall, waiting for someone maybe, or just avoiding going home.

Sanji stepped out with his coat slung over one shoulder. He gave Zoro a look. “You loiter here so much, I’m starting to think you’re the new security guard.”

Zoro didn’t flinch. “Maybe I’m just waiting for good company.”

Sanji blinked.

He should’ve walked off. Should’ve rolled his eyes and left. But instead, something low and amused slipped out of his mouth:

“Keep dreaming, mosshead.”

It was light. Almost teasing. A reflex. The nickname came without thinking and as soon as he said it, his brain caught up.

Shit.

Zoro turned sharply. His face unreadable for a second. Then…

He smiled. He smiles?

Small. Barely there. But real.

Sanji felt heat crawl up his neck and tried to recover. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t,” Zoro said, still watching him. “Probably gonna forget it by tomorrow.”

Sanji huffed. “Doubt it. You’ve got the brain of a moss patch too.”

That one made Zoro laugh. Not a big sound just a breath, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. But it was more than Sanji had expected.

It wasn’t forgiveness.

But it was something.

Back in the kitchen that night, Sanji scrubbed the countertop harder than necessary. Flour dusted his sleeves. He caught his reflection in the glass of the oven door and stared.

“Mosshead,” he said under his breath, testing it.

It didn’t taste bitter.

It didn’t taste like hate.

Maybe that was the strangest part of all.

By Thursday, it had become a quiet routine, Zoro walked in sometime after the after-school rush, bought whatever Sanji recommended without argument, and lingered just long enough to pretend he wasn’t.

Sanji pretended not to notice the pattern. He’d learned, over time, that some things hurt less if you didn’t name them.

Today it was a lemon tart.

Sanji boxed it wordlessly, sliding the delicate slice into its little paper cradle like it mattered too much. He handed it over without looking up, the heat of Zoro’s presence barely brushing against his fingers. “That’s three eighty.”

Zoro pulled out a crumpled bill, and Sanji reached into the tin cash box without a word. His apron was slung over the back of the stool behind the counter he hadn’t tied it back on after break, and now it lay open, half-forgotten, the edge of it brushing the tiled floor.

Sanji handed Zoro his change and receipt automatically, not really registering the paper as it left his fingers. He didn’t even glance up when Zoro murmured, “Thanks.”

“Mm.”

But after Zoro stepped away, he didn’t leave right away.

Sanji noticed out of the corner of his eye, Zoro hovering by the front rack, pretending to look at the croissants. His hands were in his pockets, eyes flicking toward the counter. Something tight settled in Sanji’s chest, the kind of thing you tell yourself not to hope for.

He turned to wipe down the back counter.

He didn’t see Zoro approach again didn’t hear him step close.

But he would remember, later, the soft rustle of fabric. The faint shift of air. The way Zoro’s hand slipped something folded and small into the loose pocket of his apron, then withdrew just as fast.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did Sanji.

Hours later, the bakery was closed, and Sanji stayed to help restock the dry pantry. Zeff always complained that the boys that worked with them left everything disorganized, and Sanji wasn’t about to let him say that twice.

He crouched down to stack some pastry boxes, tugging his apron back into place as he reached for the lower shelf and something fluttered out of the front pocket.

A small receipt.

Sanji blinked. Picked it up.

It was from earlier that afternoon.

The total: 3.80. Lemon tart. Paid in cash.

And below that, scrawled in barely-legible handwriting, right under the printed lines:

“Text me. If you want. Or not. Just uh yeah.”
—Z

Sanji stared at it. Stared at the number.

For a long, long time.

He read it again, and again. The loop of the “Z.” The tiny smudge where the ink must’ve caught on the corner. The fact that the message wasn’t smooth or flirtatious or even particularly confident. Just… tentative.

Like a hand held out into the dark.

He didn’t know what to think.

His thumb brushed over the ink again. His first instinct was to laugh softly, surprised. Not mocking. The kind of laugh you give when something’s so unexpected it tilts the air sideways.

He leaned against the counter, letting his head fall back gently against the cabinet.

He could throw it away. He could pretend he never saw it. He could pretend it wasn’t nestled in his apron pocket like a secret meant to stay small.

But he didn’t throw it away.

Sanji folded the receipt carefully. Pressed it between his fingers. Then slid it into the back of his wallet, behind a faded picture of him and Zeff from two summers ago.

He didn’t text.

Not yet.

But for the first time in years, he wanted to.

The receipt burned a hole in Sanji’s wallet for almost a full day.

He didn’t take it out again. Didn’t look at it, didn’t reread the numbers, didn’t trace the awkward scrawl. But he knew it was there, folded behind everything else he kept close. And every time his fingers brushed over the leather, that stupid heat climbed back up his neck.

It had been so long since someone offered anything without asking for something in return.

By the time night hit, the sky outside Zeff’s apartment was dull navy, and the kitchen smelled like thyme and lemon zest. He had flour in his hair. His feet ached. And still his thoughts drifted.

Eventually, after dishes and showers and a long moment standing in front of the living room fan, Sanji pulled out his phone.

(10:37 p.m.)

Sanji: you forgot the part where you say “hi”
Sanji: or was the receipt thing your whole charm offensive

He didn’t expect a reply right away. But two minutes later:

Zoro: …i thought it was kinda mysterious
Zoro: also offensive is a strong word

Sanji rolled his eyes so hard he nearly dropped the phone.

Sanji: what do you want me to say? “wow, mysterious guy leaves his number after buying a tart”?
Sanji: how romantic mosshead.

Zoro: well it worked didn’t it

Sanji: …shut up

Zoro:
:)
cool hair today btw
looked like you lost a fight with a whisk

Sanji stared. Then scoffed out loud, a grin tugging at his lips before he could stop it.

The texting didn’t stop. Not for hours. It was like a dam broke. Zoro awkwardly, dryly sarcastic and just earnest enough to make Sanji falter. Sanji poking fun with a half-hidden softness in every line. They talked about dumb things: movies Zoro had never seen, pastries Sanji would never let him eat for free, the teachers they both still kind of hated.

The rhythm came easy.

At one point, Zoro sent a photo of his cat sleeping in a box of old math notes, captioned “same energy as you ignoring homework in 8th grade.”

Sanji choked on his tea.

The next afternoon, Zoro was slouched on the couch, phone balanced on his chest, screen glowing faintly in the dim room. His knee bounced in a restless rhythm, not from nerves exactly but something close. The corners of his mouth kept twitching like they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

He didn’t hear the door open.

Perona’s voice cut in without warning. “You’re making a face.”

Zoro jerked upright, thumb flying to lock the screen.

“I’m not,” he said automatically.

“You are,” she insisted, already kicking off her boots with a dramatic sigh. “It’s gross. You look… soft. Like you just watched a cat video. Or fell in love.”

“I didn’t.”

Perona raised an eyebrow and crossed the room, peering over at his phone with the quiet subtlety of a hurricane.

Her grin sharpened. “Ooooh. Who is it?”

“No one,” he said flatly, sitting up straighter.

She flopped down beside him, staring at the phone now tucked carefully under his thigh. “Liar. You’ve been making that face all week. Is it a girlfriend?”

Zoro paused. His knee stopped bouncing.

“…Shut up.”

Perona gasped like she’d struck gold. “Oh my god. It is a girl.”

Zoro didn’t say anything. But the hesitation was all the confirmation she needed or thought she needed.

She nudged his arm. “Aww. Is she cute? Does she go to your school? Wait, is it that girl from the bookstore?”

Zoro exhaled through his nose, more tired than annoyed. “It’s not like that.”

Perona gave him a look one of those unreadable ones, the kind that scraped just a little too close to something he wasn’t ready to name. Her teasing paused for a second longer than usual.

“…You sure?” she asked quietly.

Zoro didn’t meet her eyes. Just shrugged, staring at the turned-off TV like it might offer him a lifeline. “We’re just texting.”

She leaned back, folding her arms, mascara-smeared and smug. “You don’t text people, though. Not unless they’re on fire.”

He rolled his eyes. “Thanks.”

“Hey, no judgment,” she added, though her voice had softened just barely. “I’m just saying. You’re acting all twitchy and half-smiling like a lovesick raccoon. It’s weird. I kinda hate it.”

Zoro gave the faintest grin. “Good.”

Perona watched him for a beat longer, then shrugged it off. “Fine. Be secretive. But when you elope with her and disappear, I’m stealing your CDs.”

Zoro didn’t correct her.

But later, when she left to water her plants and he was alone again he glanced at the screen lighting up with another message from Sanji.

And he couldn’t stop the smile that pulled at the edge of his mouth.

Just texting.
Right…

He hadn’t said it.

But she knew.

And honestly? It made sense.

Chapter Text

It was the kind of afternoon that carried the hush of something about to begin.

The heat had thinned by the time Sanji tucked his hands into his pockets and stepped out from the bakery. The pavement still shimmered faintly with leftover warmth, but the shadows had stretched long and lean down the sidewalk, laced between rustling tree limbs and signs for the upcoming summer festival. Paper lanterns strung overhead twitched in the lazy breeze like they were waking from sleep.

Next to him, footsteps fell into rhythm. Not rushed. Not uncertain. Just there.

The girl didn't speak right away, and neither did he. She never needed to fill the silence. That was one of the reasons they worked so well behind the counter, after hours, sneaking bites of failed pastries when no one was watching. They'd shared enough long shifts and late walks home that conversation wasn't a performance anymore.

She walked with that easy kind of swagger, the kind that made people look twice. Orange hair tied up in a lazy bun, strands slipping out like sunbeams. A tote bag slung over one shoulder. Her eyes were sharp, but not unkind. And when she glanced sideways, her mouth lifted just slightly at the corner.

"You're thinking too much," she said.

Sanji blinked out of his thoughts, glancing at her. "Huh?"

"You've had that forehead wrinkle since the crosswalk."

"Maybe I'm just scowling at how ugly the flyers are," he said, nodding to one flapping across the street.

"Mmm. Maybe." Her smile curved wider, amused. "Or maybe you're overthinking again, and I'll have to bully you into buying a silly romance novel so your brain shuts off."

"You wouldn't dare."

She only grinned, walking a few paces ahead now. "Watch me."

------

They turned the corner. The bookstore came into view.

It was a small, independent shop tucked between a barbershop and a closed down laundromat, barely noticeable if you weren't looking for it. The bell above the door chimed when she pushed it open, and Sanji followed, the cool air curling around his skin like relief.

Inside, the world slowed down.

The walls were paneled in soft cedar and shelves reached high, cluttered but organized. The scent of paper and old ink hung in the air, mingled with the faintest trace of someone's lavender perfume.

Sanji stepped in first, but didn't go far. He paused just inside the threshold, hand resting against a table of discounted poetry books, letting his eyes adjust. The moment stretched, something unspoken hanging between them.

The girl beside him moved toward the fiction shelves without asking. Like she'd been here a hundred times. Like she knew exactly where to go.

And somewhere near the back half-hidden behind a crooked ladder and a stack of neatly folded bookmarks, Vivi was shelving.

Her blue hair was pinned loosely, a pale ribbon holding it in place. Her dress was simple, soft blue, and dust clung gently to the hem. She hadn't noticed them yet. She was placing a collection of translated love letters onto the top shelf, humming something too quiet to make out.

Then, her head turned.

It was a blink, a breath, a shiver under the ribs. The kind of stillness that happens just before a bird lifts from a branch.

She saw him.

Sanji was older now, taller, shoulders less hunched than they used to be. His jawline more defined, though his eyes still held something boyish. That impossible gold in his hair hadn't dulled. Neither had the softness in his smile.

Her chest tightened.

Vivi hadn't been close to him in years. Not since middle school, not since she used to stay behind in the classroom to scrape cruel words off his desk with an eraser. She used to leave him notes. Not ones with declarations, just little reminders: You're not what they say. You are more than this. They never talked about it.

Now here he was. And beside him, a girl.

The girl was skimming titles with one hand, the other tucked loosely into the strap of her bag. She didn't seem to notice Vivi at first. But then—

Books. Colliding. Elbows brushing.

It was the kind of bump you see in movies, It was soft, inevitable, with spines scattering like startled birds.

"Oh—shit, I-I'm sorry!" the girl blurted, crouching quickly to gather them.

"No—no, it's my fault," Vivi said, her voice catching. "I didn't quite see you there."

Their hands reached for the same book. Fingers brushed. Both paused. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough to freeze the air.

The girl glanced up. Their eyes met.

There was a moment. A spark, but not one either of them could name. Sanji noticed, smiled to himself but kept quiet.

The girl's laugh came first. It was light, effortless, like a match being struck. "Uh You okay? You look like I hit you with a whole encyclopedia."

"I'm fine," Vivi said quickly, cheeks warming. "Just surprised."

"I'm surprisingly strong," the girl said with a wink, standing up and brushing her knees. "I work with him." She gestured behind her, toward Sanji, who was now flipping through a book about desserts like it owed him money.

Vivi turned back to the shelf, reordering the display with suddenly shaking hands.

"You've known Sanji a long time?" the girl asked, curious.

"Yes," Vivi said, too quickly.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Sanji smile at a page, then look over at them.

They didn't say much more. The girl wandered toward the counter. Vivi watched her go.

There was something familiar in her walk. Something in the easy way she spoke. The way she scanned the shelves with quiet ownership. It tugged at something inside Vivi's chest like an ache that had no name.

Sanji came up beside her.

"She's trouble," she said quietly, fondly.

Sanji leaned forward, arms crossing. "Well she's... sharp."

Vivi nodded. "Yeah."

Then he said, almost offhand, "There's a festival tomorrow. The fireworks one."

Vivi smiled faintly, but something in her shoulders stiffened.

"You coming?" he asked.

"Maybe," she said. Then added, too casually: "Who else is?"

"Well whole group is coming. Luffy invited his brothers and-", Sanji's eyes dropped. He hesitated. "Zoro", he said finally.

Her smile faded.

"Zoro?" she repeated. "As in... the boy who practically ruined your life?"

He flinched, just slightly. But it was enough.

Vivi's voice softened. "I just don't want to see you hurt again, Sanji. That's all."

But her eyes betrayed her. They drifted again to the counter.

The girl was there, flipping through a book on constellations, one finger tracing the spine like it was a secret. The overhead lights caught the copper in her hair. She smiled faintly at something in the pages.

She looked like sunlight held in place.

Vivi swallowed.

Then behind the counter, Vivi's boss, Robin, serene as always, looked up from her ledger.

"Nami sweetheart," she said gently, "you forgot your wallet again."

The girl, Nami, startled and then laughed.

"God, I'm the worst!" she said, reaching into her tote.

Vivi stood still.

The name fell heavy. Soft, but heavy. Like something ancient unearthing itself.

Of course. Of course it was her. That girl. From the bakery. The one always walking beside Sanji with an extra pastry in her hand and mischief in her eyes.

Vivi's heart beat once. Then again.

She didn't understand it. Not yet. But she didn't look away, either.

From the backroom, Franky stepped out with a rag slung over one shoulder, grease smudged on his hands. Robin didn't say anything. She just looked at him. He looked back.

They exchanged a smile. A smirk, really. Like they'd seen this scene before.

The kind that happens once in a lifetime. Or twice, if you're lucky.

Outside, the sun was setting slow. Firework flyers on the glass door fluttered with the breeze.

Vivi stood quietly, a book still cradled in her hands.

She didn't know what this was.

But she knew it was beginning.

Robin turned a page in her book, a knowing smirk on her face. She hadn't missed a beat of the conversation. She rarely did.

Franky slid beside her, ringing up a customer with a low murmur and a wide grin. "Super day, huh?"

Robin smiled faintly, eyes still on the book. "It always is, when stories begin to repeat."

He glanced at her. "That a good thing or a bad thing?"

Her fingers lingered on the paper. "Depends on the ending."

Franky gives a low chuckle, putting a strong arm around Robin's waist "Can't wait to see how this plays out."

-----

By the end of the week, the group had somehow multiplied. Nami, of course. And Luffy, who invited Ace and Sabo with no regard for RSVP etiquette. Usopp showed up because he'd "sensed a gathering of great destiny." And Zoro... Zoro said nothing when asked.

But he came.

The summer festival unfolded like a memory pressed between warm pages.

Lanterns bobbed above the main street, strung between rooftops and posts wrapped in woven cloth. Paper fans slapped against legs, cicadas sang from the trees. Music drifted from a live shamisen trio seated cross-legged on a small stage near the square.

Sanji showed up late on purpose, shoulders loose, a cool confidence in his step and a fan tucked in his back pocket.

He was loud. Dramatic. Warm.

He bought two candied apples and gave them both to Nami because she couldn't decide between cinnamon or plain. He flirted shamelessly with the vendor selling grilled corn until she gave him an extra skewer. He called Ace a "greaseball" when they argued over which okonomiyaki stand had the better sauce.

He made a whole scene about winning a stuffed bear at a ring toss game, then dramatically offered it to Usopp with a bow. Usopp burst into fake tears. Luffy tried to trade a fish for it.

And Zoro... Zoro was somewhere nearby. Always a little outside the circle.

He'd shown up in a loose dark shirt and sandals, his hair still damp from a late swim, and stayed quiet most of the night. Sometimes he laughed at something Luffy said. Sometimes he helped Vivi carry drinks back to the table. He didn't seem uncomfortable. He just didn't look at Sanji.

Not really.

Sanji pretended not to notice.

Until he couldn't anymore.

It happened near the edge of the plaza, under the low curve of a torii gate hung with strings of white lanterns. The crowd had thinned for a moment. Zoro stood alone, arms crossed, gaze turned upward toward the early burst of fireworks just starting to bloom above the temple roof.

Sanji caught sight of him across the street, something pinching behind his ribs. Without thinking, he slipped away from the group.

He walked with careful steps, half a skewer of grilled eggplant still in hand. The oil had started to cool. His mouth was dry, but he smiled anyway.

"Hey."

Zoro didn't turn right away. His eyes tracked the sky.

Sanji stopped just beside him.

"I saved this for you." He offered the skewer, extending it like a peace treaty. "Didn't get it poisoned or anything. I promise."

Zoro finally glanced over. Not at the food. At him. Briefly.

Then looked away again.

"Not hungry," he muttered.

Sanji stood there, arm still outstretched for another second before slowly lowering it. "You've barely looked at me tonight," he said, soft.

Zoro didn't answer.

Not because he was angry. Not even because he didn't care.

But because there were too many people. Too many voices. Too many eyes. And too many things inside him he didn't know how to say without fucking them up.

"I didn't realize there was a rule," Zoro said, eventually.

The words were quiet. They hit wrong.

Sanji blinked. "It's not about a rule."

Zoro kept his eyes on the sky.

Another firework exploded. blue and violet, loud and beautiful and the color reflected in the corner of his eye.

Sanji stepped back. Just once. Subtle.

"Oh," he said. It came out small. Too small.

He smiled again. The kind of smile you wear when you're trying to look fine for someone else's sake.

"Don't worry about it."

He turned before Zoro could say anything more. Disappeared into the moving crowd, swallowed by the music.

He didn't look back.

Zoro stood frozen.

He didn't call out. Didn't follow.

His chest was tight, like the air had thickened.

Laughter carried from the direction Sanji had gone. Sabo yelling about fireworks. Ace shouting about some game. Nami's voice, too far to hear clearly.

Zoro's hands clenched once at his sides, then released.

He didn't know what he'd done wrong. He didn't know why his tongue never worked right when Sanji looked at him like that. With that warmth, with that openness, with everything he hadn't been taught how to hold.

A firework screamed up into the night and burst above him it was pink and silver, the crack like a gunshot and yet, he didn't move.

Not because he didn't want to.

But because he didn't know how to be the kind of person Sanji needed.

Not yet.

The crowd shifted, music swelling.

Somewhere near the goldfish booth, Vivi turned her head. She didn't see Sanji.

She saw Zoro instead alone beneath the torii gate, face unreadable, lantern light flickering against his jaw.

She started to walk toward him. Then stopped.

The fireworks kept going. Brilliant. Dazzling. Loud.

But Zoro didn't look up anymore.

He just stood there still like something inside him was holding its breath.

-----
The next morning was too quiet.

The streets were still littered with the glittering remains of celebration with shredded flyers caught in gutter drains, a few stray firework wrappers pressed into the sidewalk like fallen confetti. The smell of charcoal clung to the air.

Zoro hadn't slept well. He hadn't slept at all.

He'd watched the fireworks from a distance after Sanji left, but they never looked the same. Too far, too bright. All noise, no shape.

He walked to the bakery just past eight.

The sidewalks were still waking up. Rolling carts out, sweeping stoops. Light caught on the shop windows in long slanted strips. The bakery door was propped open slightly, the scent of yeast and cinnamon thick in the air.

He hesitated just outside. Watched the way the morning sun curled against the awning.

He told himself this wasn't a big deal. Just a conversation. Just a misunderstanding. Just two guys who were figuring things out.

He stepped inside.

Sanji looked up from behind the front counter, elbow-deep in flour, apron already streaked with butter and powdered sugar.

He saw Zoro. Stopped moving.

The oven clicked behind him. A timer blinked red. Neither of them said anything.

Zoro cleared his throat. "Hey."

Sanji didn't answer. Just stared.

Zoro rubbed the back of his neck. "About last night…"

Nothing.

"I didn't mean to ignore you," Zoro said, quieter now. "It wasn't like that. I just— well there were people. You know how I am."

"Yeah," Sanji said finally. His voice was flat. "I know exactly how you are."

Zoro frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Sanji stepped around the counter.

Slow. Measured.

He stopped in front of Zoro, flour still dusting his forearms, apron wrinkled at the waist. His expression was unreadable but his eyes were sharp. A storm caught behind blue.

"You always do this," Sanji said, voice low. "You pull close when no one's around, and then disappear the second someone else might see."

"That's not fair," Zoro muttered. "I was trying—"

Sanji shoved him.

Not hard. Just enough to make Zoro take a step back.

"You haven't changed," Sanji said. "Not since middle school."

Zoro froze.

Sanji's voice didn't rise. But it hit harder because of it.

"You think texting me, buying something from me, showing up at a festival—that's enough? You think that fixes anything?"

"I never said—"

"You don't have to," Sanji snapped. "It's written all over your face. The same guilt, the same pity like I'm something you have to atone for."

Zoro took a breath. "That's not what this is."

"Then what is it?" Sanji asked. "Because it sure as hell doesn't feel like anything real."

Zoro couldn't speak.

Sanji stepped back. His jaw clenched. He looked away for the first time since Zoro walked in.

"You're doing this to make yourself feel better," he said. "Not me."

Zoro tried to reach for something, anything, the words just wouldn't come out. Everything he wanted to say died on his tongue.

Sanji let out a quiet breath. Then turned away.

The oven beeped behind him. The timer kept flashing.

"I have things to do," he said. "You should go."

Zoro stood there, unmoving. His hands curled slightly at his sides.

But he didn't argue.

He stepped back, the doorbell jangling behind him as he left.

The sound echoed in the empty bakery long after he was gone.

Sanji stood alone among the flour and half-finished pastries, shoulders rigid, breathing shallow. The timer continued its relentless beeping, but he didn't move to silence it.

Outside, Zoro paused on the sidewalk, one hand pressed against the glass of the shop window. Through the reflection, he could see Sanji's silhouette still as stone, head bowed.

For a moment, Zoro's fingers twitched against the glass. Almost knocked. Almost went back.

Instead, he pulled his hand away, leaving only the faintest smudge of warmth on the cool surface.

He walked away without looking back.

Inside, Sanji finally moved to turn off the timer. In the sudden silence, he caught a glimpse of movement through the window a figure retreating down the street, shoulders hunched against the morning light.

His chest tightened.

The pastries in the oven began to burn, filling the air with the bitter scent of things left too long in the heat. But Sanji didn't notice. He was staring at the empty street, at the space where Zoro had been, wondering if some distances were too great to cross.

The morning stretched ahead of him, vast and unforgiving, full of all the words they'd never learned how to say.

Such fools.

Chapter Text

It started with a voice. Low and quiet. Not even cruel.

Zoro turned the corner in the school hallway, hoodie loose around his shoulders, earbuds in, hands buried deep in his front pocket like he could disappear into the fabric. Second period had already started. He was late again. No excuse this time, just the familiar weight of exhaustion pulling at his steps.

He might have missed them entirely if one hadn't looked up.

A cluster of underclassmen by the water fountain, fresh faces with curious eyes. One of them blinked, recognition flickering across his features.

"That's him."

Zoro didn't stop walking, but one earbud slipped free. The hallway suddenly felt too wide, too exposed.

"Seriously?"
"That guy?"
"Yeah. My cousin said he used to bully some French kid and made him cry in front of everyone."
"No way."
"I swear. I heard he's the reason that kid dropped out."

The words hit like small stones, each one finding its mark. Zoro's chest tightened.

Then came the final blow, quieter but somehow sharper:
"Freak."

He suddenly loses his own breath. He just kept walking. Didn't glance back, didn't swing or growl or slam someone into the lockers like he might have years ago. He didn't even speed up. But the word lodged itself behind his ribs, scraping with every breath.

It stayed there for the rest of the day.

By the time he got home, the sky had turned the pale color of breath on glass. The front door creaked as he pushed through, and the hallway stretched before him, hushed and still as if the house could sense his mood.

He didn't call out a greeting.

In the kitchen, he turned on the faucet and let the water hiss into the silence. He picked up a clean glass and began scrubbing it not because it needed cleaning, but because he needed something to hold, something to focus on besides the voices echoing in his head.

His reflection wavered in the dark window above the sink, a shape without details, something unrecognizable.

"You forgot the trash."

Perona's voice came from behind him, softer than usual. She stood barefoot in the doorway, wearing one of Mihawk's old band tees knotted at her waist, her eyeliner smudged like she'd just woken from a nap.

Zoro didn't turn around.

"Zoro?" She stepped closer, concern creeping into her tone.

He shut off the water, the sudden silence heavy between them.

"Do you ever think," he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper, "that maybe I really was the monster?"

Perona went still.

He set the glass down carefully, but it clinked against the sink and cracked a thin line crawling down its side like a silent wound.

"I made him cry," Zoro continued, the words scraping his throat. "So hard he couldn't speak. And I didn't stop. Nobody stopped me. Not even me."

Perona opened her mouth to respond, but he pressed on.

"I saw him yesterday at the bakery after the festival. He looked at me like I was something you walk around. Like roadkill."

His voice wasn't angry just lost, hollow. "I texted him. He didn't answer. He doesn't owe me that. Not after what I did."

Perona shifted but remained silent, letting him speak.

"I waited years," Zoro's hands gripped the counter's edge. "Learned how to say 'I'm sorry' in French like that would undo it all. Like memorizing words could make me worthy of forgiveness."

He closed his eyes. "It doesn't."

The kitchen fell silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator.

Then, raw and honest: "I don't think I'm built for this."

Perona took a step closer.

"Being around people. Caring about things. Feeling..." His voice cracked. "I don't think I'm made for any of it."

The tears came without warning it was sudden, wrenching sobs that caught in his throat. His shoulders curved inward as he tried to contain the sounds, but they escaped anyway, quiet and broken and ugly.

He wasn't used to this kind of crying. Not the kind that tore through old scars and forced him to face what he'd become. Not the kind that came when you realized you weren't the victim of your own story.

Perona stood beside him without touching, without offering empty comfort. She just let it happen, unflinching as he struggled to breathe through the pain.

Finally, she spoke, her voice barely audible: "He just makes you different."

Zoro wiped his eyes with his sleeve but said nothing.

"Not worse," she added quickly. "Just... more."

He sniffed, swallowed hard.

"You don't have to fix everything at once," Perona continued. "But you're not a monster. You were a kid who didn't know when to stop."

Zoro's eyes remained closed.

She bumped her shoulder gently against his. "You're trying now. That really has to count for something."

He exhaled slowly. One careful breath.

Perona stepped back, rolling her eyes as if allergic to her own sincerity. "And by the way, if you break another one of my cups, I'm ordering that pink gothic glassware set I've been eyeing and making you pay for express shipping."

A sound escaped him. A half sob, half laugh caught somewhere in his throat.

"Deal," he managed, his voice shot.

She gave him one last look before padding out of the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the tiles.

Zoro remained by the sink, staring down at the cracked glass. It was still whole, technically but it would never hold water the same way again.

Maybe he wouldn't either.

---

The cracked cup sat in the sink like an accusation. Zoro couldn't look at it for long, couldn't bring himself to clean it up. He left it there, a broken thing he didn't know how to fix.

The house felt too quiet. He wandered to the living room and collapsed on the couch without turning on the TV, elbows on his knees, hoodie sleeves pulled over his palms like armor.

Sanji's words from yesterday morning echoed in his mind: "You're still the same as middle school."

Not screamed, not even bitter. Just stated like a fact, a truth Sanji had carried for years and finally set down between them like a stone.

The worst part? Zoro had no defense. No clever comeback. No way to prove him wrong.

Later that night, alone in his room, he stared at his phone screen. The text thread with Sanji was still there that he couldn't bring himself to delete it.

His last message sat unanswered:

[Yesterday, 1:03 a.m.]
I didn't mean to ignore you.
I just—
I'm sorry.

Zoro stared until the screen dimmed, then placed the phone face-down on his nightstand. Even with the window closed, he swore he could still hear distant leftover fireworks an echo of everything that had gone wrong.

---

Morning came gray and silent. Mihawk made coffee without questions, and Perona had already left for her early shift. She'd left a note by the toaster in her messy handwriting:

"You're not a monster.
But I will haunt you if you forget trash day again."

Zoro almost smiled. Almost.

School passed in a haze. People still stared, whispered, snickered behind their hands when he walked by. He didn't fight back, didn't rise to the bait. He just existed, moving through the day like a ghost of himself.

At lunch, he found refuge under the stairwell behind the gym. The one place no one else bothered to go. He sat on the concrete with his back against the wall, eyes half-closed, letting the distant voices blur into white noise.

His phone buzzed once. Not Sanji. just Luffy.

[Luffy]
u comin to hang w us after school??

Zoro stared at the message but didn't respond.

---

That evening, restless energy drove him to run. He didn't track the distance or time, just ran until his legs burned and his lungs screamed for mercy. When he finally stopped, he found himself at the riverbank the same spot where Sanji used to sit during middle school, before he stopped showing up altogether.

The water reflected broken strips of streetlight, golden and wavering. No voices here, just crickets and the distant hum of traffic. The sound of his own ragged breathing.

Zoro sat on the curb and picked up a stone, turning it over in his palm before tossing it into the water. He watched it disappear beneath the surface without a sound.

By the time he got home, Mihawk was asleep and Perona's door stood slightly ajar. On the kitchen counter, wrapped in pink tissue paper, sat a new mug with a handwritten tag dangling from the handle:

"For next time you cry like a little bitch. 🖤"

Zoro held it for a long moment before placing it carefully in the cabinet with the others. He stood in the kitchen afterward, breathing in the quiet, the fluorescent light humming softly overhead.

He leaned against the counter, palms flat, head bowed. His breath fogged faintly against the steel surface. There was no audience here, no expectation and still something in him refused to collapse completely.

The new mug caught his eye, tiny skulls and hearts printed along its rim. He thought about Sanji, about how easy it would be to walk away. To accept defeat and close this chapter forever.

But the thought made him sick.

Because the truth was simple: he didn't want to give up on Sanji. Not yet. Not when there was still a chance, however small, that forgiveness might be possible.

He thought of fireworks and Sanji walking away without goodbye. Of hurt that curled under his skin like smoke. Of his own clumsy words: I wasn't trying to make you feel small. I just—

And Sanji's response, that bitter laugh: "You haven't changed."

Maybe that was true. Maybe change wasn't something you displayed like a trophy. Maybe it was something you chose every day, quietly, repeatedly. Especially when it hurt.

Zoro turned toward his room, fists curled around the edges of his blanket as he lay down.

"I'm not giving up," he whispered to the darkness.

It didn't sound noble or brave. It sounded like someone trying to convince himself that hope wasn't foolish that some people were worth the long, difficult road.

The next day, he didn't text Sanji. But he didn't delete their conversation either. He kept it there like a bookmark, a promise he wasn't finished making.

That night, he opened his notebook the one Mihawk had given him for learning French and he stared at the half-filled page he'd been avoiding. He didn't write much, just what he wanted to say, translated carefully word by word.

Then he closed the notebook, tucked it back in the drawer, and turned off the light.

Tomorrow was another day.

Chapter Text

Again back at the bakery.

Zoro spotted him through the smeared glass of the bakery window. Sanji with his sleeves rolled to the elbows, a rag in one hand, wiping down tables with the kind of meticulousness that only came when someone needed to stay busy. The chairs were already flipped onto tabletops, the lights inside turned low, casting long shapes across the checkered floor. The sign on the front door had been turned to CLOSED for nearly an hour.

But Sanji was still there.

Still working.

Still alone.

Zoro stood outside for longer than he should have, hands buried in his jacket pockets, breath fogging faintly in the chill that settled over the street. His reflection in the glass looked tired. Or maybe just smaller than usual.

Inside, Sanji moved to the next table. Back turned. Head bowed.

Zoro exhaled. Then stepped forward and knocked.

The bell didn’t chime. Sanji didn’t glance up. Maybe he didn’t hear it. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t care.

By the time Sanji came out with his coat slung over one shoulder, cigarette already lit and the street was empty. The last bus had passed. The only light came from the warm haze of shop windows and the gold-smeared moon overhead.

He saw Zoro.

Didn’t pause.

Didn’t speak.

Just started walking.

Zoro followed.

Not close. Not far. A pace behind. Enough to speak if he raised his voice. Not enough to be heard if Sanji didn’t want to listen.

The silence wasn’t comfortable.

It ached. Pulled like a thread unraveling between them.

Zoro opened his mouth once. Closed it again. Swallowed.

Then finally: “I just wanted to talk.”

Sanji didn’t slow down.

His voice, when it came, was clipped. “Too late for that, isn’t it?”

Zoro blinked. “I didn’t mean—”

“You never mean to,” Sanji bit out, heels clicking sharper now against the pavement. “That’s the whole fucking point.”

Zoro’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Sanji stopped walking.

The sudden stillness rang louder than anything he could’ve said.

He turned.

Face shadowed. Cigarette burning low between two fingers, smoke curling up like it wanted to disappear before things got worse.

“You think just showing up fixes anything?” he asked. “Like you being here.. like-like that’s supposed to mean something?”

Zoro stepped forward, the wind tugging faintly at the hem of his jacket. “I’m trying.”

Sanji laughed.

Short. Bitter.

“You’re always ‘trying,’ Zoro. You try when it’s convenient. You try when no one’s looking. But the second someone might actually see you what? You freeze?”

Zoro’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Yeah?” Sanji threw his arms out. “Well, congratulations. You did it anyway.”

The words hit harder than Zoro expected.

He shifted, eyes dropping to the space between them. “I came because—”

“Don’t,” Sanji snapped. “Don’t say it. Don’t give me some half-assed apology like it’s going to make me forget everything else.”

Zoro’s voice cracked low. “I’m not apologizing out of pity.”

Sanji stepped forward.

“Then why now?” he demanded. “Why do you only care when I walk away? Why is it only real to you after I’ve already left?”

Zoro stared at him, stunned.

Because he didn’t know.

Because maybe it was real before, but he never knew how to show it. Because he was scared. Because it was easier to pretend none of it mattered than admit he’d built his whole second chance around a boy with golden blond hair and too many scars on his wrists.

Sanji’s voice dropped, almost shaking now. “Do you know what it’s like? To live every day wondering if the people who hurt you even remember it? Wondering if you’re still just some story they tell themselves to feel better about who they are now?”

Zoro’s throat closed.

Sanji’s eyes burned. Not with tears, not yet, but with something worse: disappointment.

“I remember,” Sanji said, quieter now. “I remember everything.”

He turned again, started walking.

But this time, Zoro followed faster.

“Sanji, wait—”

“No.”

“Just listen—”

“Why?” Sanji’s voice cracked as he spun around. “So you can feel absolved?”

Zoro flinched.

The city around them blurred. The street, the windows, the sounds of a distant car passing all of it faded into a hollow, echoing space between their voices.

Sanji looked at him really looked at him and it was like he’d never seen him before.

“I thought I could handle being around you again,” he whispered. “I thought maybe… maybe enough time had passed.”

Zoro said nothing.

Sanji’s voice dropped. “But every time you look at me, I feel like I’m thirteen again. Alone. Stupid. Crawling back into the bathroom so no one sees my face.”

Zoro’s hands curled into fists.

Not from anger.

From helplessness.

“I didn’t know,” he said hoarsely.

Sanji nodded slowly, bitterly. “You never know. That’s the problem.”

Then—

He looked away.

Like it hurt too much to look at him any longer.

The wind picked up again, catching the edges of their coats.

Neither of them moved.

Then Sanji took a breath. Said, “Don’t follow me next time.”

And walked away.

No more shouting. No more venom.

Just the soft sound of boots on pavement, growing smaller, smaller.

Zoro stayed.

Alone in the middle of the street.

The sky hung quiet above him. The bakery lights flickered off behind the glass.

Zoro didn’t move.

His chest ached.

Not like before. Not like guilt.

This was different.

This was grief.

And it was just beginning.

The silence didn’t end when Sanji turned to walk away.

Zoro didn’t let it.

“Stop,” he said, louder this time, the word catching somewhere rough in his throat.

Sanji didn’t. Didn’t even look back.

Zoro’s boots scraped hard against the pavement as he caught up, shoulder to shoulder now, his voice tense. “I said stop—fuck’s sake, just listen to me!”

Sanji halted so abruptly Zoro nearly collided with him.

The air between them cracked open again.

“You want me to listen?” Sanji said, turning, jaw set, eyes rimmed red even in the dim wash of a passing streetlamp. “To what? Another excuse? Another half-truth?”

Zoro’s chest heaved. “No! Just—let me talk. Let me explain.”

Sanji’s laugh was sharp and joyless. “Explain? Explain? You don’t get to explain when you never fucking asked what it was like for me.”

Zoro blinked. “I’m asking now.”

“Too late,” Sanji snapped. “It’s always too late with you.”

His voice echoed, not loud but sharp cutting through the empty street like a blade. A few shops still had their lights on. Someone sat behind a diner window across the way, phone screen lighting their face. A delivery bike buzzed past in the distance. But none of it mattered. Nothing existed but the fight.

Zoro’s fists clenched at his sides. “You think I don’t regret it? Every goddamn day I—”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Sanji barked, stepping closer, furious and trembling. “Why did you let me carry it all alone?! You saw me, you saw me, and you walked past like it didn’t mean anything.”

“I didn’t know how,” Zoro hissed. “I didn’t even know who I was then—”

“That’s bullshit.” Sanji’s voice cracked.

Zoro’s lips parted and then closed again. Because deep down, he knew it was.

“You want to play the lost little boy card?” Sanji’s voice lowered, bitter and shaking. “You want sympathy for realizing too late that you can’t undo middle school trauma with a few texts and stammered apologies?”

Zoro flinched.

Sanji didn’t stop.

“You think it makes you brave, showing up like this? Trying to piece it together when it’s already broken?” His throat bobbed. “You’re not brave, Zoro. You’re just scared of being alone.”

Zoro inhaled sharply. “That’s not fair.”

“None of this was fair!” Sanji shouted, voice echoing down the block.

The world narrowed.

Sanji’s chest was rising and falling, breath catching at the corners. He looked like he wanted to hit something. Or cry. Or both.

“You ruined me,” he said, voice suddenly hoarse. “You ruined how I see people. How I see myself. I’ve spent years unlearning the voice you left in my head, and just when I thought I buried it, you show up again.”

Zoro’s voice was quiet now. “I’m not trying to hurt you again.”

“But you are,” Sanji said, nearly whispering. “Just by being here.”

Zoro stepped back like he’d been hit.

The streetlight above them buzzed, flickering faintly. Somewhere far off, a horn honked.

“I didn’t think I mattered that much to you,” Zoro murmured, the words tasting like blood in his mouth.

“You didn’t,” Sanji said flatly.

Then softer: “Not at first. But I kept waiting for you to change. I kept hoping the boy who made fun of my accent would grow into someone who saw me.”

Zoro swallowed. “I see you now.”

Sanji’s eyes glinted. “Then you’re too late.”

They stood there in the cold silence. Both breathing hard. Neither backing down.

Zoro’s voice cracked again, lower, desperate now. “I didn’t come back to fix me, Sanji. I came back because I never stopped thinking about you. I came back because I wanted to do it right this time. I want to know you.”

Sanji’s face twisted.

“Then where the hell were you when I needed someone?”

And that did it.

That ripped whatever fragile thread had held them together.

“I was fucked up too!” Zoro shouted back, breath white in the cold. “I hated myself more than you ever could. I wanted to disappear. I almost did. And no one noticed not you, not Perona, no one.”

Sanji’s mouth opened but Zoro kept going, broken now.

“I kept looking for a reason to stay. And the truth? It was you. You and your stupid hair and your shitty jokes and the way you looked at me like I was something worth forgiving. You saved me and you didn’t even know it.”

Sanji stood frozen.

Eyes wide.

Zoro exhaled, voice hollow. “And I ruined it anyway.”

The air between them felt electric. Too full. Too much.

They were standing in the middle of the road now. A narrow street between apartment buildings. Dim. Quiet.

And they didn’t notice.

Sanji’s mouth opened. His lip trembled. “Zoro…”

Then—

A scream ripped the air.

“MOVE—”

A blare. Tires skidding. Headlights. White.

Time snapped.

Zoro moved first.

No thought.

Just instinct.

His hand on Sanji’s chest. A shove.

Sanji fell back.

And the world erupted in sound.

Then silence.

Just white.

Just black.

Just gone.

And the last thing—

Was a scream. A cigarette dropping to the ground.

Chapter Text

It didn’t kick off with a bang. Nope, it started with a complete lack of sound. A silence that was anything but quiet, more like a loud bell ringing, echoing through his bones until everything else just faded away.

Time slowed down. Tire screeches? They felt like echoes. Faint and lost in that emptiness. There were voices somewhere, sharp and broken, but they didn’t reach the core where time had come undone.

Light streamed from the streetlamps, stretching out in long, shaky beams that splashed the pavement with a sickly yellow hue.

A pair of shoes skidded back on the ground.

A breath caught then it was gone.

Knees hit the asphalt with a hard thud. A car door slammed shut somewhere outside of whatever reality was unfolding. The engine made a metallic whining noise, idling, as if just waiting.
Then, silence.

No names. No screams. No voices.

Just a heartbeat hammering where breath should’ve been loud, jagged, way too loud for that hollow space.

He blinked. Just once.

Then the world came rushing back like a film reel catching after being stuck. The headlights blurred in his sight, smearing like oil on glass. He scraped his palms against the concrete, trying to push himself up. His chest felt heavy, lungs struggling to remember how to work.

There, just a foot away, lay a motionless body. Still. Wrong. Like everything about it didn’t sit right.

There was a shape crumpled in the street sprawled out like it had been dropped from a high place. Limbs twisted at awkward angles that made his stomach churn. One shoe was missing. Dark liquid seeped into the cracks of the pavement, way too dark to be anything but blood.

Hands. He could make out hands. Bruised knuckles, one still twitching, like some kind of muscle memory refusing to die.

Something hot surged in his lungs, like a scream trying to break free, but no sound came out.

He crawled forward, legs moving without him even feeling it. Everything was numb except that burning in his chest, that desperate need to reach out...to touch...to prove this was just a nightmare.

“Don't—” he choked out, the word scraping against his throat. “No, no—don't—”

A blur of strangers rushed in from the edges, faceless and loud. Too loud. Someone was yelling for someone to call 911. Another was crouched down, hands hovering over the body like they were scared to break something that was already broken.

“Is he breathing?”

“Oh my God—did you see that car?”

“Someone get help—he's not moving—”

But their voices faded into the background, just noise against the roar in his ears.

He reached the body first.

His hands landed on a shoulder it was too warm, too limp, too familiar.

He flipped him over, and the breath left his lungs like he’d been punched in the gut.

“Zoro—”

The name shot out of him like it had been waiting forever to be screamed.

Blood spilled into his green hair, dark against his temple. His chest barely rose. His mouth was just open enough to show teeth clenched behind pale lips, as if even in unconsciousness, he was still bracing for something.

“No, no, no—Zoro, please,” his voice broke, cracking on the second syllable, like everything inside him was splintering.

And it was too much. Too real. Too heavy.

The way Zoro had pushed him. The way he’d moved forward without a second thought. The way he’d taken the hit before fear could even register.

He hadn’t flinched.

He just acted.

And now—now he wasn’t moving at all.

Sanji’s hands shook as he clutched Zoro’s jacket, knuckles white from sheer desperation. His knees scraped against the rough pavement. His breath came fast and shallow, like he’d forgotten how to calm down once the panic kicked in.

“Zoro,” he said again, broken and almost childlike. “You stupid—stupid bastard—why did you—why did you do that—”

Why me.

Someone touched his shoulder, trying to pull him back, but he felt like he was made of stone.

Couldn’t move. Couldn’t leave. Couldn’t let go.

The lights were too bright, making everything sharp. The world felt jagged, every detail cutting like broken glass. And all he could focus on was Zoro’s body, still and silent in the middle of the street, where he should’ve been.

Then sirens. Fast. Screaming. Coming closer.

But they didn’t drown out the voice in his chest, begging this all to be a dream.

Tears hit him all at once, hot and helpless and burning. They choked him. They hurt.

He leaned down until his forehead touched Zoro's, gentle like a prayer, whispering the only words he could find:

“Don’t die. Don’t you fucking dare.”

Then the ambulance doors swung open, and hands pulled him away, and the night shattered into a thousand pieces.

He was drowning in fabric. Zoro’s jacket. Still warm. Too warm. Not warm enough. He couldn’t tell anymore. The heat in his palms felt wrong, like it was slipping away, like everything vital was leaking out through his fingers.

“Zoro,” he whispered, again and again, or maybe he just thought it, the name a raw shape behind his teeth.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

His fingers tightened on the leather, nails digging in like they could pull him back, force him awake with sheer will. His whole body curled in, protective, his cheek pressed against Zoro’s chest as if listening closely might bring back a heartbeat louder than the noise in his head.

The blood on the street clung to his hands.

The dust clung to his sleeves.

The grief hung over everything.

Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. Please—

Red and blue lights exploded against the buildings around them, casting shadows that swung like ghosts. Sirens wailed as the ambulance skidded to a stop. Heavy boots thumped against the ground, rushing.

“He's breathing! Barely—!”

“GCS is low—pulse is weak—get a line in—!”

“Sir—sir, you need to let go—!”

They were shouting at him. Someone’s hands yanked at his shoulders, trying to drag him away from Zoro’s body like he was something unwanted.

“No,” Sanji rasped, voice cracking. “Don’t touch him—don’t—he needs—I need—”

But his arms wouldn’t cooperate. His chest felt hollowed out, his muscles locked, then buckled. His vision narrowed, fading to white static at the edges.

He was still holding onto Zoro’s jacket when he collapsed.

The last thing he felt was his grip loosening.

Everything went black.

He woke up to silence.

Too white. The ceiling burned if you stared too long, like looking into fluorescent suns.

A soft beeping floated in the air—slow and steady, far away, reassuring that a heart was still beating.

He blinked once, and the light above fractured into colors.

His throat was dry. His mouth tasted like copper and regret. One arm was strapped across his chest in a sling. He felt it before he remembered why.

Then the memory crashed back like a punch.

The street. Zoro. Impact.

His chest seized.

He shot upright. Too fast. Air snagging on his ribs like they didn’t fit right anymore. His heart thundered against the inside of his chest, frantic and uneven.

“Zoro—” he gasped, voice cracking like old paper.

His eyes darted around the sterile room. Blank walls. A second bed empty, sheets pulled tight. A single chair in the corner, untouched. His pulse hammered in his temples.

He tried to swing his legs off the bed and nearly collapsed.

“Don’t.”

Sanji froze, caught off guard.

A shadow stepped into view at the door.

Tall. Pale coat over dark clothes. Black gloves, still dusted white at the fingertips. Dark eyes, almost bruised with exhaustion, set in a face like it had been carved from marble.

Sharp lines. Controlled. Cold like a scalpel precise and necessary.

“Don’t get up,” he said again, clipped but not unkind. “You passed out from shock. If you tear your shoulder again, I’m not re-stitching it.”

Sanji’s breath caught.

“...Who are you?” he managed, barely more than a whisper.

The man didn’t respond right away. He moved further in, fluorescent lights catching on metal at his ears, the faint tattoo creeping up one hand—sharp black lines like surgical markings, not art.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was cool, clipped detached in a way that felt surgical.

“Dr. Trafalgar. Law. I was the attending trauma surgeon.”

The name didn’t click at first. Sanji blinked, still dazed, piecing together where he was and why he wasn’t in the street.

“You operated on him?”

“I did.”

Sanji’s throat tightened around his next words. “Is he—?”

“Stable,” Law replied, eyes flicking to the chart in his hands. “Unconscious. But alive.”

The rest of the explanation blurred around the edges like smoke-fractured ribs, punctured lung, subdural hematoma, surgical repair. He caught none of it clearly. Only the word “alive” held weight, settled in his chest like an anchor.

Law finished speaking, then turned toward the door with the efficiency of someone with other places to be, other lives to save.

“I’ll notify the nurses that you’re awake,” he said, already halfway gone.

Sanji found his voice just as Law reached the threshold.

“...Thank you.”

Law paused. Not for long. Just a heartbeat.

He looked back with a slow blink, his expression unreadable.

“You should get some rest. He’s going to need you when he wakes up.”

Then he was gone, white coat vanishing around the corner like he’d never been there at all.

The door hadn’t even finished swinging shut before it slammed open again.

“SANJIIIII!”

The voice crashed into the room like a cannonball, too loud and too sudden and way too Luffy for the hospital’s quiet.

Sanji blinked, bleary-eyed, as a mop of black hair burst through the door and launched itself at him without warning. Arms wrapped around his shoulders. Too tight. Too desperate.

He gasped at the pressure on his ribs.

“Luffy—shit—my arm—”

“I thought you were dead!” Luffy wailed, face buried against Sanji’s shoulder.

“I might be if you don’t ease up, idiot—!”

Ace skidded to a stop just behind them, nearly knocking over a tray of medical supplies, while Sabo appeared in the doorway, hands braced against the frame, panting like he’d just run a mile.

“Jesus,” Ace muttered, taking in the scene. “He really is okay. He’s already complaining.”

“I told you he’d be fine,” Sabo said, shoulders visibly relaxing. “Did you see the size of that nurse who tried to stop Luffy? I thought we were about to get body-slammed into the vending machine.”

“You mean you were,” Ace smirked, slapping him on the back. “I was ready to go down swinging.”

“Not in a hospital,” Sanji groaned. “Please. I’m begging you.”

Luffy finally pulled back just a bit and now grabbing Sanji’s face between his hands like he was trying to memorize every line and scar.

“You’re really here,” Luffy said, voice small now, all that noise suddenly gone.

Sanji blinked, his chest feeling too full, throat tight. “Yeah. I’m here.”

Luffy hugged him again, this time more carefully, like he was afraid Sanji might break if he squeezed too hard.

In the background, Ace wandered toward the machines, squinting at the IV bag like it might tell secrets if stared at long enough. “Is this the one with the pain meds? Should we label it? Sabo, don’t let Luffy touch anything electronic.”

“I’m not touching anything,” Luffy protested, reaching for the call button.

Sabo grabbed his hand mid-air. “You literally—stop it.”

Despite everything, Sanji felt a smile creeping onto his face. Real and crooked and tired, but genuine. He hadn’t realized how much weight he’d been carrying until now, with these three idiots crashing through the silence like a wave washing away debris.

Then heels. Fast, deliberate. A staccato beat of worry and anger clicking down the hallway.

The door slowly opened again.

Perona stood there, arms folded tightly across her chest like armor, a bag slipping down one shoulder. Her usually perfect makeup was smudged, dark streaks beneath her eyes. When she spoke, her voice trembled slightly.

“Zoro?” Perona asked again, this time more brittle. “…Where is he?” she asked, low.

Sanji’s smile faltered. “Recovery. Post-op. Still unconscious.”

Perona’s jaw clenched. “But he’s alive?”

Sanji nodded once, certain.

She exhaled hard, a shudder in it, and plopped down on the edge of the windowsill like her knees might’ve given out if she hadn’t. “Good. That’s… good.”

That was all. Just that. But her hands shook when she set her bag down.

And then, like a shadow pulled in by instinct, the surgery man himself arrived. Almost as if he attracted the chaos.

Luffy’s eyes went wide as dinner plates.

He pointed, gasping. “TRAFFY?!”

Law appeared in the doorway, looking like he’d aged ten years since their last encounter. “Don’t call me that.”

“TRAFFY'S A DOCTOR?!” Luffy yelled, turning to the others like he’d just invented fire. “GUYS. TRAFFY'S A DOCTOR.”

Law didn’t even look up from his clipboard. “Don’t. Call me. That.”

“HOLY SHIT,” Ace said, suddenly alert. “Dr. Traffy? You operated on Zoro?”

Law stopped at the threshold, looking up with painfully slow deliberation, like each word was a heavy load to carry.

“I did.”

“Damn,” Ace muttered, impressed despite himself. “I would’ve bet money you were the kind of guy doing organ swaps in back alleys.”

Law sighed deeply, aging another ten years just being around them. He turns to luffy, “I should’ve left your brother under sedation.”

Luffy howled with laughter. “He says that, but he likes me!”

Perona rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward.

For a moment. Just a moment. The hospital room felt warmer. Not safe, not yet. But whole. Like they were still allowed to laugh, still allowed to be together. Like the worst had passed, even if fear lingered.

Sanji glanced toward the hallway, where Zoro was lying still and quiet.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now.

Everyone turned to look.

His eyes found Law’s steady, grateful, honest.

“Thank you.”

Law didn’t blink. Just held Sanji’s gaze for one long beat, unreadable as ever.

Then softly, he replied: “He saved you.”

And he walked away, leaving those words hanging in the air like smoke.

The laughter didn’t last.

It lingered like steam, Thin and fading until the room began to close in again. The bright ceiling, the deafening silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down like a physical thing.

Luffy was the last to let go, clinging until Ace yanked him by the collar with a sharp, “You’re gonna pull out his damn IV, dumbass.” Sabo chuckled, but it was quieter now, exhaustion catching up to them all. Sanji shot them a crooked smile, but his eyes held something heavier. No one mentioned it.

Then Luffy bumped into the water pitcher with his elbow.

It toppled. Water splashed across the tile like a cold slap.

“Time to go,” Ace muttered, grabbing Luffy’s arm as voices started yelling down the hall nurses, probably, coming to check on the commotion. Sabo gave a mock salute from the doorway. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said with a tired grin.

Sanji huffed a dry laugh, adjusting his sling slightly. “Hilarious.”

Just like that, the door clicked shut behind them, taking their warmth with it.

Perona lingered a moment longer. Her eyes stayed on Sanji, then shifted to the hallway, to where Zoro was still recovering, motionless, hidden behind walls and machines and time.

She didn’t speak for a long moment. When she finally did, the words were pried out from under her ribs.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Her eyeliner smudged beneath both eyes now. She didn’t bother to fix it.

Sanji nodded. She left, shoulders squared, spine rigid, like holding herself together was all that kept her from breaking in the hallway.

Then the hospital fell quiet again.

Outside, fluorescent lights buzzed low, almost like insects. The silence pressed in behind his ears, settled in his chest like sediment. The kind that came after a collision, when adrenaline wore off and everything started hurting.

Sanji lay back against the pillows, all alone now.

His throat ached. His shoulder throbbed. His heart hadn’t stopped racing since the street, since the moment he’d seen headlights and knew everything was about to flip upside down.

He glanced at the window, but all that was out there was black sky and his own reflection, pale and fractured in the glass. Zoro was somewhere beyond it. Down the hall. In another wing. In another kind of silence altogether.

Sanji shut his eyes and pushed away thoughts of how wrong Zoro had looked, how still he had been.

When he opened them again, he wasn’t alone.

A shadow stood just past the doorway. Still. Watching.

Tall frame, arms crossed. Dark coat catching the sterile hospital light. Boots planted firmly on the linoleum. Eyes unreadable in the dim hallway.

Sanji blinked, unsure at first if exhaustion and pain meds were playing tricks on him, showing him things that weren’t really there.

Mihawk didn’t move. Just stood there, like he had all the time in the world, like he’d been carved from shadow and patience.

Zoro had mentioned him, sure. Once or twice. In that roundabout way people did when they didn’t want to say they missed someone. Never “my father.” Just “the old man.” Sometimes said with annoyance. Sometimes with something quieter. Never with detail.

Now he was here. Real.

And looking straight at him.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t say anything. Just stared, those sharp eyes seeming to see everything.

And then, finally: “I heard you were with him.”

No accusation. No demands for details. Just a statement, low and clear.

Sanji nodded. The motion felt too small for the weight behind it.

“You saved him,” Mihawk said.

Sanji swallowed hard. “He saved me.”

A pause. Long and heavy.

Mihawk’s gaze dropped slightly not in shame or grief, but in thought. Testing the weight of those words, turning them over in his mind like stones. He didn’t ask for more. Didn’t probe for the story behind it.

Instead, he breathed slowly, finally speaking again.

“When he was a boy,” Mihawk said quietly, “he never let anyone in. He thought it made him weak. He learned to fight with a wooden sword before he learned to tie his shoes. Proud. Stubborn. Believing that caring for people was a luxury he couldn’t afford.”

Sanji listened. Every word landed sharp and true.

“But pain doesn’t always make you stronger,” Mihawk’s voice softened. “Sometimes it just makes it harder to reach you.”

There was silence, just the beeping of monitors and the distant hum of hospital noises.

Then Mihawk’s eyes met Sanji’s again, sharp and intense.

“I’m glad he had someone.”

It wasn’t a thank you, but it didn’t need to be. It was something deeper. Recognition, maybe. Understanding.

Sanji’s throat felt tight. He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Just a nod, once, then again. Slower. More certain.

Something in him steadied.

Mihawk turned for the door, reaching for the handle with practiced ease.

And paused.

“When he wakes up…” His words came out slowly this time, softer, like they were being pulled from deep inside. “Just… be patient with him. He’ll want to push you away. That’s what he does when he’s scared.”

Then he stepped out into the hallway, and the door clicked softly behind him, leaving Sanji alone with those words and all that they implied.

The door closed behind Mihawk, and then there was nothing.

Just stillness. The kind that settled heavy and deep, that filled his lungs too slowly, making the air taste like antiseptic and old fear. The room had buzzed with life just minutes ago with voices, laughter, even tears. Now it was silent. Too silent.

Sanji didn’t move. Propped up by pillows and pain medication, he stared at the spot where Mihawk had stood. His words still lingered like smoke in the air, faint but sticking.

"Be patient with him."

"He doesn’t let many people close."

"He’ll try to push you away."

They echoed in his ears, soft but sharp. Like the last hum from a blade after it’s been sheathed.

Sanji’s throat felt dry. His lips parted, but no words came. He shifted slowly, his shoulder twinging with every movement. The sling tugged, dull and distant background noise compared to what was swelling behind his ribs.

It crept up on him slowly. The thought. The realization.

Zoro didn’t just get hurt. He chose it.

Sanji’s breath hitched.

Zoro had seen the car coming. Had that moment, that fraction of a second when time slowed and the world held its breath and he chose to shove Sanji out of the way. No hesitation. No second thought. No instinct for self-preservation.

Just movement. Just choice.

No, not just choice. The only choice that meant anything to him.

He picked Sanji. He chose to take the hit. He chose to bleed.

Sanji’s stomach twisted. The weight of it crashed into his chest all at once, like the impact was delayed. His breath caught. He sank back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling but not seeing it. Just blurs. Lights. The shape of Zoro’s face in his mind—that last look before everything went white.

And the sound. God, the sound.

Not the crash. Not the tires. Not even the screams from the crowd.

Zoro’s voice. That single word he’d shouted before the impact. Sanji’s name. Ripped from his throat like a prayer and a curse combined.

It didn’t even sound like him. It had been raw, desperate, filled with something Sanji had never heard from him before.

Fear. Not for himself. For Sanji.

Sanji clenched the blanket in his good hand. Fingers trembling against the rough hospital cotton. Still no tears. His eyes burned, but nothing fell. It wasn’t grief. not yet. Zoro was still breathing somewhere down this hall. And it wasn’t relief either, because he was also still unconscious, still broken, still silent.

It was something heavier. Something sharp. Something like understanding.

All this time...all this time...he’d mistaken Zoro’s silence for indifference. The way he brushed things off. The way he kept people at arm's length. The way he let the world think nothing could really touch him.

But that wasn’t indifference. It was armor.

And underneath that armor was someone willing to bleed without hesitation. For him.

Sanji swallowed hard. A sound slipped out before he could stop it. Not a sob, Not a word. Just air. Just the shape of all the things he should’ve said sooner.

His hand curled tighter in the blanket.

Finally, the whisper came. Quiet. Raw. Honest.

“You idiot.”

It barely touched the air. Or maybe it was, “Why me?” Or: “Don’t you dare die on me.”

He didn’t know which one he felt more.

He stayed like that for a long time. Eyes wide. Breath shallow. Machines beeped their mechanical rhythm, indifferent to human pain. The lights above buzzed like insects. No one came. No one knocked.

It was just him. The weight of the man who wasn’t there. And all the things he was finally ready to say, if only Zoro would wake up to hear them.

Chapter Text

The morning was pale.

Not soft. Not warm. Just pale like light filtered through paper, colorless and unfeeling. The kind of overcast that made it hard to tell what time it was, or whether time was even moving at all.

Sanji sat in the stiff wheelchair, one arm heavy in the sling, the other resting limply on the vinyl armrest. A nurse adjusted something behind him. His bag,maybe, or the angle of the chair but he didn't look. Another nurse said something in a kind voice. He nodded automatically, though he hadn't heard the words.

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding, and they rolled into the lobby. Sanji's stomach twisted. Not from pain, but from knowing.

Zeff stood waiting near the front desk, arms crossed, one hand gripping the coat draped over his shoulder like a weight he refused to set down. His expression was unreadable, lines around his eyes deeper than usual. The kind of weariness that didn't come from age, but from surviving too many things that should've broken you.

They didn't speak. Sanji didn't expect to. Zeff's eyes lingered on him longer than they usually did not critically, just present, like he was trying to memorize the shape of his boy still breathing.

The silence stayed with them all the way to the car.

* * *

The ride home crawled and blurred all at once. The world passed in streaks of gray and motionless buildings. The window was cold under Sanji's temple, his reflection hovering faintly on the glass like a sickly, half-shadowed, unfamiliar. A stranger with his face.

Zeff drove like he always did: steady, one-handed, thumb tapping the wheel during red lights. But now and then, when Sanji shifted or winced at a bump in the road, Zeff's grip would tighten just slightly, like he wanted to grip the pain right out of the car and throttle it with his bare hands. But he never looked over. Never said Are you okay? Never said I'm glad you're alive.

He didn't need to. And Sanji was grateful for that, because if Zeff had asked, he might've crumpled.

Instead, he stared out the window and let his thoughts eat themselves. The street. The screech of brakes. The scream. He didn't even remember falling. Just Zoro's hand on his shoulder, shoving hard. Just the flash of headlights behind him. The weight of a body colliding with the world.

And the blood. God, the blood.

Sanji's fingers twitched in his lap. His chest pulsed once, an ache not tied to any nerve endings. He breathed through it slowly.

Zoro saved him. Everyone kept saying it like it was a miracle, like it was simple. But Sanji didn't feel saved. He felt displaced. Tilted. Like the world had taken one long step to the left and now nothing fit right anymore.

Will he be angry when he wakes up? The thought came sharp and sudden. Will he regret it?

Sanji bit the inside of his cheek. Or worse—Will he wake up at all?

He didn't let that one live too long. He shoved it back down, deep, where the worst fears clawed at the inside of his ribs but never made it to the surface. Not where anyone could see.

Zeff turned down their street. The wheels crackled over gravel. The sky stayed gray.

* * *

Home wasn't right.

Sanji stepped through the front door like he'd never been there before. The air was familiar, it smelled faintly of old coffee and thyme and the detergent Zeff swore by—but it didn't land the way it used to. The couch looked untouched. The kitchen counter was wiped clean. The framed photo near the coat rack, the one Sanji always tried not to look at, was tilted just a little, like something had shifted while they were gone.

"Sit down," Zeff said gruffly, not waiting for Sanji to answer. He dropped the coat on the back of a chair and moved into the kitchen. "I'll get something hot in you."

Sanji didn't move. He hovered near the wall, eyes on the place where the sunlight used to hit in the mornings. The floorboards there were worn, scratched the result of boots and time and too many nights of coming home late, arguing over nothing.

Zoro had stood there once. Tired. Soaked from the rain. Eyes soft and unreadable.

Sanji turned away before the memory solidified and stepped into his room.

The air was still. His unpacked bag sat in the corner, half-zipped, clothes folded too neatly inside like he'd planned to come back after a weekend. Like he thought the world would resume neatly after just a small interruption.

He reached for it with his good hand. The zipper stuck. He didn't finish pulling it. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, which creaked beneath him. He leaned forward slowly, forehead pressed into the palm of his hand. His fingers trembled.

The sling itched. His throat burned. The room smelled like linen and dust and shampoo he didn't like anymore. And nothing was the same.

He stayed like that for a long time, not moving, not crying, just breathing like it hurt, and wondering how you hold on to someone who isn't gone but isn't here either.

* * *

The silence wasn't peaceful. It was thick, stagnant, heavy in a way that pressed into the corners of the house, into the soft hum of the fridge and the ticking of the clock above the stove. Sanji had stopped noticing those sounds hours ago.

He sat at the kitchen table, the mug in his hand lukewarm and untouched for the third time. The tea had gone bitter. His sling made everything clumsy, awkward, but that wasn't why he hadn't drunk it. He stared at the surface like it might suddenly show him something worth understanding. It didn't. Nothing did.

The house felt hollow. Not empty, just waiting, like it had inhaled and was holding its breath.

Sanji had been trying to keep himself busy. He'd folded towels with one hand until they were stacked too neatly to bear. He stirred soup he didn't eat. He tried reading some old detective paperback from the shelf, but he'd been on the same paragraph for nearly an hour. The words blurred and didn't sink in.

His eyes kept drifting. His thoughts were louder than the page.

The street. Zoro standing there, planted like a wall behind him. Yelling his name. Move.

And then the thud of his body hitting asphalt. It was a sound Sanji would never forget. Not a scream, not a shout, just impact. Flesh and bone meeting pavement.

He hadn't seen him since. Not once. Not through a window, not in a passing wheelchair. The nurses were kind but firm: He needs rest. The doctors gave updates in measured tones: Unconscious, stable. Under sedation. Zeff muttered something about patience, about healing.

But patience was a rope pulled too tight in Sanji's chest. His throat worked around a lump that hadn't gone away since the ambulance lights.

Is he in pain? Does he even know I'm alive? What if he doesn't want to see me?

The mug slipped from his fingers. It hit the table, clattered, spilled across the wood in a spreading amber stain. It scalded his hand. He didn't flinch, because suddenly, nothing else mattered.

He pushed back from the chair with a scraping of legs on tile. The sling jolted. His shoulder barked. He didn't stop. Didn't grab a coat. Didn't tell Zeff.

The air outside was cold and wet and too bright. The sidewalk blurred beneath him. Sanji moved like something was yanking him forward, chest-first, as if every step was tethered to a heartbeat in another room.

He didn't know what he'd say. Didn't know what he could say. He only knew he had to.

* * *

The hospital lights buzzed low, dull against the sterile whites and pale grays. Somewhere in the distance, a phone rang. Somewhere else, someone coughed. But inside the small, quiet room on the west wing, everything held its breath.

Zoro twitched. His fingers moved first, then his jaw. Then, without warning, his eyes snapped open.

The ceiling stared back. He blinked against the light. For a moment, he didn't move, didn't know what he was looking at. His mind felt soaked, too full and too slow at once. His chest ached. His ribs throbbed. Something tugged at his arm. an IV. A monitor beeped steadily nearby.

His head turned. White walls. Curtains. Machines. A hospital.

And then, like someone lighting a match in a dark room, it came back. The car. Sanji.

He jerked upright. Pain seared through his ribs, white-hot and immediate. The monitor screamed a sharp, high-pitched, accusing beep. Wires tugged. His stitches pulled. He swore aloud, breath catching in his throat.

The door opened. Nurses' voices rose in panic.

"Sir—!"

"Please, lie down—!"

But he was already swinging his legs over the bed, teeth clenched so hard his jaw popped. His balance faltered. The floor tilted.

"Where—" His voice was raw. He swallowed. "Where is he?"

"Patient, please—!"

But he wasn't listening. He shoved the IV stand forward. It caught on the floor, dragging behind him like a leash. He pushed into the hallway, feet bare, breath ragged.

He has to see him. He doesn't know if Sanji is here, doesn't know if he's okay, doesn't know if he dreamed the moment. The scream, the push, the look in his eyes just before everything went black. But his legs keep moving.

Every breath hurts. Every step sends his head spinning. But his heartbeat is pounding, and the hospital corridors feel like a labyrinth carved just to slow him down. He grips the wall. A nurse calls behind him. A doctor shouts something about post-op trauma.

He doesn't care. Where are you, you idiot?

* * *

Meanwhile, Sanji still runs. The hospital comes into view, rising pale and uninviting beneath a cold sky. The glass doors slide open with a mechanical sigh as he approaches, his breath hitching.

He freezes.

The smell hits him first. The disinfectant, rubber, something sharp and sterile. The memory follows too quickly: sirens, blood, Zoro's body going limp. His lungs seize. The weight that had been pressing on his chest all morning suddenly clamps down harder, tight and fast, like invisible hands around his ribs.

He tries to take a step. Fails.

The fluorescent lights inside flicker overhead, distant and buzzing. Everything feels too bright, too loud. The world narrows, warps. He reaches for the doorframe with his good hand but misses it. His knees threaten to give out.

Not now. Not here.

He sucks in air, sharp and dry, but it doesn't reach where it needs to. His pulse spikes. His throat closes. His vision pinches inward. That image of Zoro falling won't stop replaying. He can't go in. He can't.

His feet stay planted on the concrete just outside the entrance. Somewhere far away, a car honks. A gurney squeaks across tile. His heartbeat drowns it all out.

Get it together. You came this far. You can't fall apart now.

But his hand trembles. His jaw locks. And just when he's sure he's going to turn around and walk away, someone says his name.

Soft. Careful.

"Sanji?"

His head snaps up.

Chapter Text

“Sanji?”

His voice echoed through Sanji’s mind. The air didn’t move. Is he hearing things? More like is he seeing things?

Sanji stood frozen outside the hospital, from this distance, the cold from the entrance glass pooling around his ankles. The world around him, the low shuffle of nurses, the click of shoes on tile, the whispering hum of overhead lights had dulled to nothing. Blurred like a painting left in the rain.

Across from him, stood Zoro.

Alive.

Awake.

Real.

His shirt hung wrinkled and loose around his bandaged chest, the edge of a hospital ID still taped to his wrist. One hand gripped the IV pole, his knuckles pale. He hadn’t shaved. His hair was a mess. His skin was ghost-pale under the sickly fluorescent lights.

But he was here. He really was here.

Sanji’s heart beat too hard. Too fast. Too loud. He couldn’t trust what his eyes were telling him. Not when he’d seen Zoro’s body collapse, heavy and still, into a growing pool of red. Not when he’d watched machines scream as nurses sprinted, blood soaking gloves and sheets and silence.

His knees almost gave out right there.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

His breath caught halfway up his throat and refused to budge. Zoro didn’t move either. He just looked at him. His expression unreadable, eyes steady. The kind of stillness that wasn’t cold. Just… intentional. Present. Anchoring.

Sanji opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He took a step forward, then another. Just slow, halting, like every inch closed between them might rip the dream away. His chest ached with something vast. He wasn’t even sure what it was. Was it grief? guilt? joy? relief? Or maybe it was all of it.

“…You’re really—”
His voice cracked on the first syllable, barely audible.

He swallowed.

“You’re really here.”

It didn’t sound real until he said it aloud. His fingers twitched at his sides.

“I thought—I didn’t—I thought I lost you.”

It burst suddenly. Too much held in, too long.

“I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve said something. That afternoon, I—” He bit back the next words. His hand went to his face, trying to scrub the tremor from his voice, but it didn’t work. “We argued like idiots and then—then you were bleeding in the street and I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t—”

He blinked rapidly, jaw clenched. His shoulders shook.

“I didn’t even listen to you. I didn’t say thank you. I just screamed at you- And then you were gone... Everytbing happened so fast. These past days I’ve been walking around thinking I might not get to fix any of it. That I said too much, or not enough, or all the wrong fucking things, and—”

His voice broke again. He pressed the heel of his palm to his brow.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

His chest rose and fell, unsteady. His sling itched, his wrist throbbed, but none of it registered anymore. He now collapses down, he’s on his knees, emotion taking over him.

“I don’t care about the fight. I don’t care that I was right or wrong. I just… I needed you to open your eyes. I needed to see you again. That’s all.”

Silence bloomed.

He exhaled shakily, eyes burning, throat raw. Everything inside him hollowed out. Emptied.

And then—

Zoro moved.

No words. No grunt. Just a slow, sure step forward. The squeak of wheels. A shifting shadow. Now, he’s at his level.

Then a hand.

Calloused fingers reached out and found his.

Warm.

Firm.

Real.

Sanji’s hand trembled under the touch. His skin freezing, his body slack. Zoro didn’t squeeze. He didn’t pull.

He just held.

That was all it took.

Sanji’s chin dropped. His eyes squeezed shut. A breath fell out of him. Half a sob, half a sigh.

Their hands stayed there, clasped quietly between them, as the world spun on around them. No noise. No need.

Just gravity, drawing two halves back into orbit.

And for the first time since that night on the street, Sanji felt the weight in his chest loosen. Just enough to breathe.

The world had fallen away.

Zoro’s hand was still in Sanji’s. Steady. Warm. A quiet promise.

Sanji didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He couldn’t look away either.

Zoro’s thumb brushed faintly along his knuckles, a small, grounding motion. His breath came slow and shallow, lips parted like there was something caught behind them. Words too fragile, too heavy, waiting for the right moment to finally break free.

And then—

“There’s something I always wanted to say.”

His voice was hoarse, but sure. Low and raw, shaped by something that had been locked away too long.

Sanji’s heart stopped in his chest.

Zoro exhaled slowly, gaze flicking downward like he couldn’t hold Sanji’s eyes and hold the words at the same time.

“Je suis désolé… pour tout.”

His voice caught. “Pour la douleur. Pour le silence. Pour t’avoir blessé.”

The syllables were rough, imperfect, but careful. He wasn’t fluent. He wasn’t trying to be perfect. Just honest. Surprising Sanji. He learned french for him?

“Je pense à toi depuis des années. Depuis ce jour où tu es parti.”

A pause.

“Je n’ai jamais cessé d’y penser. À la façon dont j’ai crié sur toi. À la peur dans tes yeux. Et à moi… incapable de dire ce que je ressentais vraiment.”

Sanji blinked. The words hit somewhere deep in his ribs.

Zoro swallowed, breath shaking. His thumb still moved gently across Sanji’s skin.

“Tu étais doux. Gentil. Trop lumineux pour moi.”

His eyes flicked back up, finally meeting Sanji’s again.

“Et j’avais peur. Alors j’ai choisi de frapper au lieu d’écouter.”

His voice tightened, but he didn’t stop.

“Et puis… quatre ans. Je t’ai cherché. Je me suis demandé si tu te souvenais encore de moi. De ce qu’on a vécu. De ce que j’ai détruit.”

Sanji’s fingers tightened, just barely.

“Et quand je t’ai revu, dans cette boulangerie—Dieu… j’étais tellement nerveux.”

A laugh slipped out, broken, almost bitter. “J’ai inventé toutes les excuses du monde pour te voir encore. Pour goûter ton pain. Pour entendre ta voix.”

He hesitated, and when he continued, his voice dropped even lower, tender, like a secret being given up after years of hoarding it close.

“Et plus je te voyais… plus je me souvenais de toi. Pas comme une victime. Mais comme un miracle.”

The tears finally gathered at the corner of Sanji’s eyes, hot and sharp.

“Je suis tombé amoureux de toi… petit à petit. Puis d’un seul coup. Et je ne savais pas quoi faire de ça. Je ne savais pas si j’en avais le droit.”

Zoro paused, like the next words had weight.

“J’ai écrit tout ça dans un carnet. Des choses que je ne pensais jamais pouvoir dire. Mais je ne veux plus me taire.”

He leaned forward a little, forehead nearly brushing Sanji’s. His breath hitched.

“Je t’aime, Sanji.”

The silence afterward wasn’t empty.

It was full. Of everything. Of years. Of second chances. Of guilt and gratitude and breath that finally came easy.

Sanji didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

His fingers trembled in Zoro’s grasp, then steadied as he leaned in. Slowly. Barely a breath of space between them. His eyes searched Zoro’s with such hunger. Desperate, wide with something that cracked him open from the inside out.

And then he kissed him.

Gently.

Not rushed. Not possessive.

Just there. Present. Real.

Their mouths met in the middle of everything they’d never been able to say. Their foreheads touched. Their breath stilled. And in that single, trembling moment, the wound between them stopped aching.

It didn’t vanish. It didn’t fix itself.

But it softened.

Zoro’s hand stayed curled around Sanji’s, grounding him through the kiss. His chest rose and fell like he was still afraid he’d wake up.

When they pulled apart, Sanji didn’t move far. Their noses brushed.

The world stayed quiet.

But something in both of them had shifted.

The road ahead wasn’t clear. It wasn’t easy. But they weren’t standing on opposite sides of it anymore.

They were here.

Together.

****
translation:

I’m sorry, for everything. For the pain. For the silence. For hurting you. I’ve thought about you for years. Since the day you left. I never stopped thinking about it. The way I yelled at you. The fear in your eyes. And me… unable to say what I really felt. You were gentle. Kind. Too bright for me. And I was scared. So I chose to hit instead of listen. And then… four years. I looked for you. I wondered if you still remembered me. What we had. What I ruined. And when I saw you again, in that bakery—God… I was so nervous. I made up every excuse in the world to see you again. To taste your bread. To hear your voice. And the more I saw you… the more I remembered you. Not as a victim. But as a miracle. I fell in love with you… little by little. Then all at once. And I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t know if I had the right. I wrote all of it down in a notebook. Things I thought I’d never say. But I don’t want to be silent anymore. I love you, Sanji.

Chapter Text

Last night felt like a dream.

Morning breaks slowly. The sterile light of the hospital room filters in through cheap blinds, striping the white sheets with pale gold. The quiet is a different kind now. It’s not heavy, not tense. Just still.

Zoro sits upright in bed, already dressed. His hoodie is zipped halfway, the drawstring laced with tension between his fingers. The bandage around his chest and ribs itches. His shoulder’s stiff, and each breath pulls with dull discomfort, but he doesn’t complain. He’s used to healing by now.

The door creaks open.

“Finally awake.”

Law’s voice cuts through the silence like a scalpel. Precise and unbothered. He steps inside with a clipboard in one hand, white coat trailing behind him.

“You’re free to go,” Law says, flipping a page without looking up. “Vitals are stable. Sutures held. Nothing ruptured overnight. Well of course not, you ran off.”

Zoro doesn’t reply. He just nods, slow and small.

Law glances at him. His gaze lingers longer than usual.

“Don’t push it,” he adds, quieter. “You’re not invincible.”

Zoro huffs a soft breath through his nose. He pulls himself up, wincing slightly, then shrugs on his jacket. His legs feel strange beneath him. Solid, but foreign after so many days off them. Each step is deliberate. Careful. His body reminds him what it’s been through, but he keeps moving anyway.

Out of the room. Down the corridor. Past nurses and beds and soft beeping monitors.

And then finally outside.

The sun hits him gently, not too harsh, not too bright. The air carries the smell of morning dew and exhaust and something faintly sweet, like bread a few blocks away. For the first time in days, he can breathe without the sting of antiseptic in his nose.

He closes his eyes for a moment.

The memory returns like a held breath: Sanji’s hand in his. The tremble of his voice. That kiss. Tentative, real, soft at first and then aching. Zoro can still feel it in his bones. Like something sacred that had been carved into the night.

A car door slams.

He opens his eyes.

Mihawk stands beside the black car at the curb, dressed immaculately despite the early hour. His sunglasses hide his eyes, but his posture is familiar, his shoulders loose, arms crossed like he’s been standing there for twenty minutes and never questioned why.

Next to him, Perona paces in a circle, huffing audibly, her hair sticking out in a dozen uneven angles. She’s in a hoodie too. His, Zoro realizes absently, the one she stole last winter and never gave back.

“It’s about time,” she grumbles as he approaches. “I was this close to pretending I was your wife just to bust you out.”

Zoro offers a tired smile, small but real. “Tch. I would’ve sued.”

She rolls her eyes and grabs his arm to steady him as he eases into the back seat. Mihawk doesn’t say a word just slides into the driver’s seat and pulls away, smooth and unhurried.

The city rolls past the windows. Zoro leans his head against the glass, the hum of the tires beneath them dull and steady.

Perona complains about vending machine coffee. About how none of the nurses understood sarcasm. About how she hasn’t gotten a decent nap in three days because of someone’s brush with death.

Zoro doesn’t reply much. Just lets her voice fill the space between them, like a thread pulling him gently back to reality.

Mihawk doesn’t glance back, but when they hit a red light, Zoro catches the faintest flick of his eyes in the rearview mirror. No words. Just a glance.

It’s enough.

Zoro closes his eyes again.

Sanji’s face comes to him immediately. Creased with worry flushed with relief. The way he whispered “you’re really here” like it was a miracle. Like Zoro being alive was something worth holding onto.

He exhales through his nose, slow.

Something in him aches but it’s not pain. It’s something deeper. Softer. Like longing curled into his ribs.

They don’t talk about what happens next. Not yet.

There’s time.

He keeps his eyes closed, breathing in the quiet morning, the low buzz of traffic. His fingers twitch once in his lap, like they’re reaching for something.

The sunlight shifts against his skin.

And Zoro waits.

The car ride settles behind them like the last exhale of a long-held breath.

Zoro steps out into the still morning. The apartment stands unchanged. The same creaking steps, the same chipped paint by the doorbell, the same slow swing of the wind chime as it catches a breeze too gentle to name. But inside his chest, something fundamental has shifted. Nothing feels quite as it did before.

He climbs the stairs slowly. His body protests the motion in small ways. A tight pull in his ribs, a flare of ache in his thigh but it’s the kind of pain he knows how to live with. The front door opens with the familiar stick of the lock. Perona breezes past him, already halfway through a complaint about the neighborhood being too quiet.

“God, it’s like a graveyard in here. I’ll put on water,” she mutters, disappearing down the hall without waiting for a reply.

Mihawk steps in after Zoro, silent, the door clicking shut behind them. For a moment, everything stands still.

Zoro exhales.

The house smells the same. Wood polish and faint incense and something green from the plant Perona keeps forgetting to water. It should feel comforting, grounding.

Instead, it feels like standing at the edge of something.

His feet carry him on instinct. Through the living room, past the bookshelf missing that one old volume Mihawk still insists wasn’t misplaced. He trails one hand along the wall as he moves not conscious of it, not deliberate, just… tethering.

When he reaches his door, he pauses.

It’s ajar.

The curtains inside are pulled halfway, soft light pooling across the floor. The bed’s still unmade, the sheets tangled in the corner. It looks exactly as he left it that evening when seeking out for Sanji. That evening when everything fractured.

He steps inside. Slowly.

The quiet deepens.

It’s not oppressive. It’s just… present. Like the room has been waiting, holding its breath. His eyes drift across the space he knows so well. The pile of socks in the corner he never folded, the open window still cracked from a week ago.

But now, his gaze lands on the desk.

And he stops.

There it is.

The notebook.

Worn. Edges curled slightly. Closed, but not forgotten. It sits in the exact place he left it, undisturbed, as if even Perona hadn’t dared move it.

Zoro just looks.

His hand hovers, hesitates. He doesn’t reach for it.

Not yet.

A shift of weight behind him.

He turns.

Mihawk stands in the doorway.

The hallway light silhouettes him, arms crossed as always, dark coat trailing slightly at the edges. His face is unreadable. Always stoic, sharp as ever yet his presence isn’t cold. It’s… still. Watching.

Zoro doesn’t speak.

Neither does Mihawk. Not for a few seconds.

Then—

“I’m glad you’re alright.”

The words land without fanfare. No tremble, no drama. But Zoro feels them like a blade through gauze. It was quiet, clean, unmistakable.

He looks at Mihawk for a long time. Breath shallow. Chest tight. The years between them don’t vanish, but they shift slightly like stone ground down by water over time.

He doesn’t answer. Not yet. Just meets Mihawk’s gaze, something soft flickering behind his eyes. Almost imperceptible.

Mihawk stays in the doorway.

Zoro turns back toward the desk. The notebook waits for him. He picks it up this time his thumb brushing the cover, the spine warm from the sunlight.

He opens it.

Pages rustle gently. His handwriting stares back at him. The old pages with shaky lines, French scrawled between margin notes. A confession that never expected to be spoken aloud. A truth he kept trapped in ink.

He flips to the page he remembers. The one he read over a hundred times but never dared imagine saying out loud.

His thumb stills on the edge of it.

The silence behind him doesn’t press. it just waits.

Zoro speaks softly. Not facing Mihawk. Not quite ready to break the stillness completely.

“I didn’t think I’d ever say those words,” he murmurs, eyes on the page. “I wrote them because I was too much of a coward to say them. I thought they’d rot in here.”

He closes the notebook gently. His voice isn’t bitter. Just honest.

“They didn’t.”

Mihawk remains quiet. His arms shift slightly. Less rigid now.

Zoro places the notebook back down. The room is warm with morning light.

He doesn’t need to say the rest aloud.

Sanji heard him.

He reaches up to rub at his ribs absently, wincing just a little. His body hurts. His mind is exhausted.

But something inside him is… lighter.

He turns again and finally facing Mihawk fully.

The air between them isn’t tense anymore.

Just waiting.

The silence in the room stretches. Not tense. Not uncomfortable.

Just… there.

Zoro sits on the edge of his bed now, the notebook back on the desk behind him. Mihawk hasn’t moved from the doorway, arms no longer crossed, now just resting at his sides. The light from the hall spills into the room, faint and golden, brushing the edges of Zoro’s shoulders like a nudge he can’t ignore.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just lets his fingers rest against the bedsheets, curled loosely like he’s holding onto something invisible.

His voice, when it comes, is rough. Low. Like gravel turned over in his chest.

“There’s something else,” he says. A pause. “I need to say.”

Mihawk doesn’t respond. Doesn’t shift. Only waits.

Zoro’s jaw flexes. His gaze stays fixed somewhere on the floor, just past his feet.

“I’ve known for a long time,” he says slowly. “Since before the bullying. Since middle school. Maybe even before that.”

The words land like pebbles in a still pond. It ripples, small but impossible to ignore.

“I didn’t have the words for it. Or I didn’t want them. I thought if I pushed it down hard enough, ignored it… it’d go away. That maybe if I acted normal enough, no one would look too close.”

He swallows. His throat works visibly.

“Hurting him back then—hurting Sanji—it wasn’t just about him. It was about me. What I saw in him. What scared the shit out of me.”

His fingers tighten. His eyes stay down.

“I didn’t bully him because I hated him. I did it because he was the only person I ever looked at and—”

His voice breaks for a second. Just enough to pause.

He inhales slowly.

“—and felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

The words hang there. Quiet. Raw.

“I didn’t know what to call it then. Didn’t want to. All I knew was that it made me feel wrong. Weak. Like if anyone found out, I’d lose everything.”

His shoulders fall, just slightly.

“But now…”

Another breath. This one steadier. Still a little frayed, but not breaking.

“Now I know.”

He looks up. Finally. His eyes meet Mihawk’s.

“I’m not straight.”

The words don’t echo. They don’t need to.

“I don’t know what I am, exactly,” he admits. “But it’s not that. It never was.”

The silence after is full, but not heavy. Like the room is holding its breath with him.

Mihawk doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift.

Just nods once. A slow, quiet acknowledgment.

Zoro exhales.

It’s not everything. It doesn’t solve it all.

But it’s a start.

And for the first time in a long time, his chest doesn’t feel so tight.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Lets his hands hang loose. His breath comes easier now, his eyes a little clearer in the soft morning light.

And the weight?

Just slightly less heavy.

Mihawk steps into the room, finally. Not with any urgency but just a quiet decision, measured and calm. He walks over, pulls the desk chair back with a soft scrape, and sits across from Zoro, arms resting on his knees, forearms draped with the same stillness he always carries like a sword.

He says nothing for a long moment.

Zoro doesn’t fill the silence this time. He watches the floor between them, heart still thudding under his ribs, slower now, like it’s catching up. The kind of slow that comes after a fight, or a storm. The kind that feels more like aftermath than victory.

Then Mihawk speaks.

His voice, when it comes, is low. Even. Not soft but not sharp, either.

“You’ve known for years.”

It’s not a question.

Zoro nods, barely.

“I suspected,” Mihawk says, after a moment. “Not because you said anything. But because I’ve seen the way you carry it. That kind of silence has weight.”

Zoro looks up, brows drawn.

“You’re not the only one who’s had to live that way,” Mihawk adds. His tone doesn’t shift. He’s not offering comfort. Not exactly. Just truth.

Zoro blinks once, slow. Something flickers in his eyes. A quiet surprise.

Mihawk studies him, not unkindly. Just steady, the way he always is when the blade hits clean.

“You’re not broken, Roronoa,” he says. “And you’re not late. It takes what it takes.”

The words aren’t gentle. But they land like balm. Like something solid to lean against.

Zoro lowers his head again, lets the breath go from his lungs in one long exhale. His palms press against his knees. He lets the silence return, but this time, it isn’t a weight. It’s a space.

And then, quietly—

“I thought you’d be disappointed,” he mutters.

Mihawk’s expression doesn’t shift, but the pause that follows feels deliberate.

“You’ve disappointed me many times,” Mihawk says at last. “But never for being honest.”

Zoro lets out a soft, almost soundless breath of a laugh. It cracks through something inside him. Something small, but old.

His shoulders loosen.

The room stays quiet after that. The words have been said. The truth is out. There’s no dramatic swell, no music rising behind them but Zoro feels it anyway.

A shift.

A beginning.

He reaches back, absently, fingers brushing the edge of the notebook still lying on the desk behind him. He doesn’t open it. Doesn’t need to.

Not now.

He glances toward the door, then back at Mihawk.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet.

Mihawk only nods. And in that, there’s more than enough.

Zoro stands after a moment. He’s still sore, still stiff, still unsure what’s next but for the first time, the future doesn’t feel like a wall.

It feels like air. Cold, honest air.

He crosses to the window, pulls the curtain back slightly, and watches the early light hit the street outside. The world is still turning.

Somewhere out there, Sanji is too.

Zoro’s breath fogs faintly on the glass.

He lets it stay.

Then turns.

The chapter ends not with a word, not with a promise.

Just with a steady breath.

And a man finally starting to walk toward himself.

*****

Meanwhile, with Sanji he was a disaster. Not in a bad way, he was completely lovestruck.

Sanji stands at the workbench, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted white, hands sunk into a bowl of pliant dough. His fingers move without thought.

Press, fold, turn, press again.

The dough gives way like muscle, like memory, soft and alive beneath his palms. He knows this rhythm. He’s lived it.

But today, the rhythm carries him nowhere.

His gaze flicks to the timer and then past it. To the doorway, the window, the sun outside. Something else stretches behind his eyes. Something heavier than sleep. His thoughts kept drifting back to the night before. Back to the way the moonlight softened Zoro’s face. The way his voice, slow and hesitant, shaped words Sanji never thought he’d hear.

“Je suis tombé amoureux de toi… petit à petit. Puis d’un seul coup. Et je ne savais pas quoi faire de ça. Je ne savais pas si j’en avais le droit.”

Sanji breathes out. Not a sigh. Just an exhale with nowhere to go.

He doesn’t let his hands stop moving.

Across the room, trays clatter against the metal racks as Zeff shifts them with one practiced hand. He doesn’t speak. Just moves through the space like he always does. Methodical and efficient. His limp is worse in the morning, Sanji notices, but the old man never says anything about it. Just adjusts, keeps going.

The timer buzzes. Sanji flips the switch, blinks as though waking, and pulls the croissants from the oven. One tray is a second too long—edges blackened. He curses under his breath.

“Shit.”

Zeff looks up from the bread proofer. Doesn’t say anything. Just eyes the tray, then Sanji.

Sanji sets it down with a clatter louder than it needs to be. The burned corners blur in his vision for a second before he blinks them away. He wipes his brow with the back of his wrist, smearing flour through his hair.

“You gonna keep overbaking things or tell me what’s got you acting like a damn ghost?” Zeff’s voice is gruff, low, but not unkind.

Sanji freezes for a breath. Doesn’t turn around.

“Nothing,” he says, too fast.

Zeff doesn’t press. Just snorts, adjusts a tray, and goes back to his work. But his silence follows Sanji like a shadow. The kind that sees through everything.

Sanji brushes off the tray, salvages what he can. The rest he drops into the compost bin. He hums under his breath, low and tuneless, just to fill the air.

He’s trying to be normal.

To feel normal.

But he isn’t. And everything in him knows it.

The counter beneath his palms is cold and slick with condensation. He stares down at the reflection of his hands. Flour-creased, steady in motion, but trembling just slightly at the edges. He clenches them once. Flexes them open.

He remembers Zoro’s fingers. How warm they felt. How solid. How they didn’t let go.

His throat tightens.

Sanji turns back to the dough.

The bakery moves around him. The oven hums. Zeff mutters something about someone forgetting to re-up the pastry cream. The street outside grows louder with footsteps and bike tires and the chime of the delivery truck. But none of it reaches him.

He kneads, breathes, kneads again.

And in his chest, the night lingers.

The outside tension. The words. The way Zoro looked at him like he meant it. Not just the kiss. Not just the apology. But everything.

Sanji presses a palm into the dough, hard enough to dimple it.

He doesn’t know what comes next.

Not really.

They hadn’t talked about what the kiss meant. Or what either of them was ready for. Or if they were even—whatever this is.

It makes his chest feel tight. Not panicked. Not afraid.

Just… raw.

There’s a knock at the delivery entrance.

Sanji doesn’t move. Lets Zeff go.

His head tips toward the small back window. The kind above the sink, fogged with steam. The morning sun has shifted higher now, glinting off the rooftops and the bakery sign.

He’s still standing at the counter when Zeff returns. The old man doesn’t speak, just sets the new shipment of butter on the prep table and gives Sanji another look. It’s not sharp. Not curious.

Just quiet.

Zeff knows better than anyone: there are some things you have to sit with for a while. Let them prove.

Sanji presses the heel of his hand into the dough again. Feels the tension rise in the gluten. His hands are tired. His chest is tired. But he doesn’t stop.

Outside, the city is warming. The morning’s breaking. Something is about to shift.

But not yet.

Not quite.

Let it sit.

Let it rise.

The dough rises slowly in its bowl, tucked beneath a thin cloth. Sanji watches it from across the counter like it might say something to him if he stares hard enough.

He’s wiped down the prep table twice already. Refilled the flour bin. Rearranged the same three croissant trays. Zeff hasn’t commented, but Sanji can feel his eyes now and then, they were sharp, quiet, knowing. The man doesn’t miss much.

The sun has climbed higher in the sky, casting a warm glow across the flour-speckled counters. Outside, a delivery truck hums away, and someone’s dog barks in the distance. Inside the bakery, the air stays thick with heat and unsaid things.

Sanji’s still not sure how it starts.

Maybe it’s the silence. Or the way his hands keep fidgeting. Maybe it’s just the weight of the kiss still blooming somewhere in his chest, soft and painful all at once. Or maybe it’s how Zeff keeps not asking like he’s waiting for Sanji to talk when he’s ready.

So he tries.

“Y’know,” Sanji mutters, wiping a nonexistent smear of butter off the counter, “you’d think getting kissed would make you less weird the next morning, not more.”

Zeff doesn’t look up from the stack of pans he’s drying. “Depends who’s kissin’ you.”

Sanji snorts. It’s forced, but it gets out. “Fair.”

Silence again. A pan clinks.

He clears his throat. “Wasn’t a girl, though.”

That gets a pause.

Zeff sets the pan down slowly.

Sanji feels the words crawl up his throat, reluctant and clumsy. He doesn’t turn around. Keeps his hands moving, fussing with the dough that doesn’t need fussing.

“I’m not— I mean, I am—” He stops. Rubs the back of his neck. “Well... Bisexual.”

The word sits there like a second heartbeat. He doesn’t look back to see how Zeff takes it.

“I know you probably already figured,” he adds, quieter, “but I never said it. Not out loud.”

There’s no explosion. No lecture. Just the faint scrape of metal as Zeff dries the last pan and sets it aside.

Sanji finally glances over his shoulder.

Zeff’s just watching him.

No scowl. No smirk.

Just watching.

Then Sanji sighs, deep and shaky, and says the thing that costs the most:

“It’s Zoro.”

That’s when something shifts.

Zeff straightens just slightly. His jaw sets, the kind of tightness that doesn’t come from surprise. But from memory. From instinct.

“That kid,” he says, flat. Controlled.

“Yeah,” Sanji says, almost ashamed of how small the word sounds.

Zeff’s quiet for a moment. His fingers drum once on the countertop. Then:

“You really trust him?” The words aren’t angry. But they’re sharp. Measured. “After everything?”

Sanji leans against the counter, his shoulders dipping low like the weight’s finally too much to carry alone. He lets the silence linger for a breath. Then another.

“I didn’t,” he admits. “Not for a long time.”

He rubs his fingers together. Still dusted in flour. Still trembling just slightly. “There were days I’d see him, and I’d still hear middle school in the back of my head. Still feel how it felt. The names. The way he looked at me back then. Like I was something he had to challenge or tear down just to prove something.”

Zeff doesn’t speak. His arms are crossed now, but looser. Less guarded.

Sanji goes on.

“But... something changed. Slowly. He showed up. Not all at once. But he did. Visiting. Talking. Just... being there.”

His voice cracks, just a little.

“And it scared the shit outta me, ‘cause I hated him. I did. But then he’d say something, or do something stupidly kind, and I’d feel it—how hard he was trying. Not to fix it. Just... to be better. To be real.”

The oven clicks softly behind them. Sanji doesn’t notice.

“I tried not to feel anything. I swear. But I did. And it wasn’t about the past anymore. It was about him. Now. The present. Who he’s become. Who I’ve become.”

He looks at Zeff then. Really looks.

“I didn’t want this. Not with him. But I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so real.”

Zeff’s expression doesn’t change much. But the silence that follows is different. Warmer. More human.

Finally, he grunts. A low, tired sound.

“Tch. I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

It’s not approval. It’s not praise.

But it’s something.

Sanji exhales—slow, soft. He doesn’t smile. Not yet.

But his shoulders ease just slightly, like something inside him has finally unclenched.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me neither.”

The oven beeps. The timer ends. A batch is ready.

But neither of them moves.

The bakery hums around them, still warm, still quiet. Still home.

And for the first time in a long while, Sanji feels like he can breathe.

Chapter Text

The sky had just begun to bruise blue when Zoro turned the corner onto the bakery street. The early morning hush settled over everything with storefronts closed, shutters down, the occasional cyclist gliding past with yesterday's paper tucked under their arm. There was a wind today, light and forgetful, tugging at Zoro's sleeves and the ends of his hair as if urging him forward.

His hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets, fingers restless against the fabric. The scar on his side still ached when the air got cold like this, but he didn't mind. It reminded him he was still healing. That time was passing. That he'd survived something that had once seemed impossible to survive. Survived something for him.

It had been weeks since the hospital. Since the kiss. Since he stood outside that hospital with Sanji and finally said something out loud that had lived in him for far too long, eating at his chest like a slow burn.

They hadn't really talked about it since.

Not directly.

But something had changed. Something that made Zoro's pulse quicken whenever he caught sight of blonde hair through a window.

Zoro could feel it in the way Sanji would lean a little closer when they spoke, close enough that Zoro could smell the lingering sweetness of vanilla and flour on his clothes. In the way his gaze lingered when he thought Zoro wasn't looking, soft and searching and almost afraid. The usual insults came softer now, blurred at the edges with something warmer, more careful. The sharpness remained indicating it was still Sanji, after all but there was a tenderness beneath it that hadn't been there before. Like they were both afraid of shattering something fragile and precious between them.

The bakery came into view, golden light spilling from its windows into the street like liquid honey. Inside, Sanji moved in his usual morning rhythm. Wiping counters, rotating trays, adjusting pastries with a precision that still made Zoro's throat catch sometimes, made his chest tight with want. He looked like he belonged here, bathed in the soft yellow light of the ovens, curls falling in his eyes, apron streaked with flour and completely, devastatingly beautiful.

Zoro lingered at the door, heart hammering against his ribs like a caged bird, before finally stepping inside. The bell above him jingled.

Sanji looked up. He didn't smile but his eyes softened, the tension in his shoulders melting away like sugar in warm water. "You're up early," he said, drying his hands on a towel with movements that seemed suddenly self-conscious.

Zoro scratched the back of his neck, nerves making his voice rougher than usual. "Didn't sleep much."

Sanji nodded like he understood, like maybe he'd been awake too, staring at his ceiling and thinking about the same things. Then, without breaking eye contact, he tossed the towel over his shoulder and stepped closer, close enough that Zoro could see the faint dusting of flour on his cheekbone. "What's up?"

There was a pause. Zoro's throat worked once, dry as sandpaper.

Then, quietly, almost like he was daring himself to jump off a cliff:

"Wanna go somewhere with me?"

Sanji blinked, something flickering across his face with surprise, hope, fear all tangled together. "Somewhere?"

"Not far," Zoro added quickly, words tumbling over each other in his haste. "Just... outta town. For a bit. A day or two."
He cleared his throat, heat creeping up his neck. "Could use a break. Figured you might, too."

Sanji watched him for a long beat, brow arched, and Zoro felt exposed under that blue gaze, like Sanji could see straight through to the desperate want he was trying so hard to keep buried. "Are you asking me on a trip, or a date?"

Zoro flushed, heat flooding his face until he was sure he looked like a tomato. "It's not a— I mean. It's not not—" He scowled, embarrassment making him defensive. "Forget it."

Sanji laughed. Not cruelly. Not smug. Just warm, low, and real. It was the kind of laugh that wrapped around Zoro's chest and squeezed until he could barely breathe.
"I didn't say no, idiot."

Zoro risked a glance at him, "So... you'll come?"

Sanji wiped a smear of butter off his thumb with exaggerated care, but Zoro caught the way his hands trembled slightly. "You buying the train tickets?"

Zoro smirked, confidence returning in a rush. "Already did."

Sanji rolled his eyes, but there was fondness there, soft and unmistakable. "Then yeah. I'm in."

The next morning arrived quieter than most.

The city hadn't fully woken yet, and the train station held the kind of hush that only existed early on weekends before the tourists arrived, before the rush hours resumed. The air was crisp, and the sunlight slanted in through the station windows like lazy ribbons, warming the tops of benches and the edges of tiled walls.

Zoro stood near the platform, bag slung over one shoulder, earbuds in his ear without any music playing. Not yet. His stomach churned with nervous energy, anticipation and terror warring in his chest. Sanji showed up just before departure, hands in his coat pockets, a paper bag of pastries tucked under one arm, looking sleep-mussed and beautiful and completely unaware of the effect he had on Zoro's ability to think coherently.

He gave Zoro a look as he approached with a half-smile, half-challenge, eyes bright with something that might have been excitement. "Don't tell me you packed those swords for a field trip."

Zoro snorted, grateful for the familiar banter that eased the knots in his shoulders. "Just clothes. And snacks. Maybe a knife."

"Of course."

They boarded without fanfare. The train was mostly empty with just a few quiet passengers, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched from the chill. They found a pair of seats near the back, by a window, and Zoro tried not to think about how this felt like something momentous, like crossing a line they couldn't uncross.

The engine rumbled to life beneath them, and the station began to roll away. Buildings blurred. Streets faded. The city gave way to stretches of pale fields and scattered trees, bare-limbed and wind-tossed. It was the kind of view that didn't ask for attention, but settled into the corner of the eye like background music. Comforting. Familiar. Slow.

Inside the train car, the air was warm. Still. Sanji peeled off his coat and stretched his legs out in front of him, unwrapping a croissant from the paper bag. Zoro didn't say much. He never did. But something in the slope of his shoulders had relaxed since they sat down, the tight coil of anxiety in his chest loosening into something warmer.

Zoro had one earbud in.

He sat with one leg stretched out and the other angled toward the aisle, back slouched against the train seat like he'd done this a hundred times. Outside the window, trees flashed by in streaks of green and gold, fields folding open under a clear sky. But his eyes weren't on the view. They were on Sanji, drinking in every detail like he was memorizing them.

Sanji noticed.

Zoro didn't flinch just reached into the collar of his hoodie and pulled the second earbud free. No words. He held it out across the narrow space between them, heart pounding so hard he was sure Sanji could hear it.

A small offer. Quiet. But heavy in ways Zoro would never say out loud.

He took it.

Their fingers brushed for only a second. Just skin against skin, warm and electric. Still, it lingered, sending heat shooting up Zoro's arm and straight to his chest. Sanji slipped the earbud in, adjusting it with practiced ease, and leaned back beside him. Not quite touching. But closer than before, close enough that Zoro could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

Music filled his ear.

A soft pulse of rhythm. Steady percussion under a wash of light synths. And then—

"Never want to stand upon myself
Never want to get in the way, I said it…"

Sanji blinked, recognition flickering across his features.

He knew this song. Vaguely. But here, right now, in this train car beside Zoro. It sounded different. Felt different. Like it was meant for this moment, like the universe had conspired to give them the perfect soundtrack for whatever was happening between them.

"I don't know what the plan is
But you can share with me
'Cause I'll be a listening ear to everything you say…"

Zoro's gaze was turned toward the window now, jaw resting in one hand, his thumb twitching faintly against his temple to the beat. But Sanji could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he held himself like he was afraid to breathe too deeply.

Sanji exhaled through his nose, soft, something warm and overwhelming blooming in his chest.

And then barely above a whisper he mouthed along:

"I must say that I love you, so…"

Zoro didn't look at him. But Sanji caught the way his shoulder tensed just for a second before relaxing again, like he'd heard and was trying not to react, trying not to hope too much.

Their arms brushed as the train curved slightly, the motion smooth and slow. Sanji didn't pull away. Neither did Zoro. The contact sent shivers down Sanji's spine, made his breath catch in his throat.

The chorus broke through the speaker, rich and airy:

"Ooh-la-love, I've fallen in love
And it's better this time than ever before…"

Sanji smiled, small and crooked, emotion threatening to spill over.

He didn't try to sing it. Just hummed, soft in his throat, lips barely moving. A near-silent echo of a feeling too big for words, too fragile to name.

"Ooh-la-love, I've fallen in love
And it's better this time than I've ever known…"

He tilted his head back against the window, eyes closed, letting the music wash over him. His hair brushed Zoro's shoulder, and he felt rather than saw the way Zoro's breath hitched at the contact.

Zoro still didn't say anything.

But he shifted again, just slightly. His knee angled closer, close enough that Sanji could feel the warmth through the denim. His fingers tapped against his leg in time with the music. Quiet, steady, like a heartbeat.

The lyrics poured on, unguarded:

"Every day is a battle I face
Strange life I live, but it's what you've decided
I give it all into your hands…"

Zoro finally glanced over. A brief flicker. Long enough to see Sanji's lips moving, to hear the way he was humming along like the words had lived in him for a long time even if he'd only just remembered them. Long enough to feel something crack open in his chest, raw and terrifying and wonderful.

Sanji opened his eyes then.

Their eyes met.

Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be.

But between the music, the movement, and the warmth of sunlight painting the floor at their feet, something settled in the quiet between them. Something that felt like recognition, like coming home.

Not a decision. Not a declaration.

Just something real.

"I would give it up for you
I'd do anything for you…"

The train kept going.

And for now, that was enough.

What felt like hours.

The train finally hissed to a stop with a gentle jolt. Their shoulders brushed again, and this time neither of them pretended it was an accident. Neither of them moved, both reluctant to break the spell that had settled over them.

Zoro was the first to stand, tucking the earbuds back into his hoodie pocket with quiet precision. He slung his bag over one shoulder and waited, patient as always. Sanji took his time rising, something in him reluctant to leave this cocoon of warmth and music and possibility. He stretched not dramatically, just enough to work the stiffness from his limbs and cast a sideways glance at Zoro.

There was a faint smile there. The kind that didn't reach all the way to his mouth but tugged at the corner of his eyes, soft and private and just for Sanji. That smile stayed even as they stepped off the train and into the small, unfamiliar station, where the air was cleaner, the sky wide and endless, and the streets buzzed with a rhythm softer than the city they'd left behind.

They didn't speak much. Just started walking, falling into step beside each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. Past open sidewalks and rows of tight little shops, through shaded paths dappled with late sunlight. It was the kind of town that smelled faintly of cedar and grilled meat, the kind where everything moved a little slower, where strangers nodded as they passed.

They bought drinks from a vending machine. Zoro with a canned coffee and Sanji with a fizzy pear soda he immediately mocked himself for. Zoro took the can from his hand without asking and sipped, his nose scrunching in an expression so genuinely disgusted that Sanji couldn't help but laugh, something bright and breathless.

"Fruity," he muttered, handing it back with a look of deep betrayal.

Sanji rolled his eyes and finished the can anyway, warmth spreading through his chest at the casual intimacy of sharing drinks, of Zoro's lips where his had been.

The sun began to sink lower, casting gold against the pavement. Lanterns flickered to life above them, string lights dancing across the narrow street like lazy fireflies. The crowd shifted into a night market, the air filling with the sounds of laughter and conversation, the warm clang of metal against woks. Everything felt magical, touched with possibility.

They drifted with the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, and every accidental brush of contact sent electricity shooting through Sanji's nervous system. Sanji bought skewers of grilled scallion chicken, glazed with something sweet. He wordlessly hands one to Zoro. Zoro accepted it with a grunt and took a bite without hesitation, trust implicit in the gesture.

Their rhythm had become easy. Not practiced. Not polished. But real, like they'd been doing this for years instead of hours.

Zoro wiped sauce from his chin with the back of his hand and nudged Sanji's elbow, grinning. "You've got shit on your face."

Sanji licked his thumb and made an exaggerated show of wiping at the corner of his mouth, preening slightly. "There. Am I pretty again?"

Zoro didn't reply. Just looked at him for a beat too long, something unreadable flickering across his features, before finishing the last bite of his skewer. But Sanji caught it, the way Zoro's eyes had gone soft, the way his gaze had lingered on Sanji's mouth.

The air around them was warm with spice and smoke and light, alive with possibility.

They passed a stall selling small paper fans. Another selling handmade jewelry. A man with a weathered guitar strummed something lazy and blue on the edge of the crowd. Sanji slowed, attention caught by a tray of roasted chestnuts, the vendor's weathered hands working with practiced efficiency. Zoro stopped beside him, patient and steady as always.

It was then the older woman passed.

She was short, plump, smiling. Gray hair pinned into a bun that looked like it hadn't moved in twenty years. She moved past with a quiet grace, a paper bag in her arms, and gave them both a pleasant, unbothered once over the kind of look that saw everything and judged nothing.

And then, cheerful and passing, she said, "You two make a lovely pair."

Just like that.

Like it was obvious. Like it was written all over them in bright, unmistakable letters.

Sanji's laugh was automatic. Caught off-guard, soft, heat flooding his cheeks in a rush of pleasure and embarrassment. His heart hammered against his ribs, half from joy and half from terror at being seen so clearly. Zoro smirked faintly, but didn't say anything. Just looked at Sanji for a moment, something warm and possessive flickering in his eyes. Then kept walking.

But before the warmth of the moment could settle properly in their chests, it happened.

A man nearby. Young, sharp-eyed, leaning against a lamppost with a group of friends snorted under his breath.

"Fucking faggots."

Quiet. But not quiet enough.

The words hit like a physical blow. Sanji's body stiffened, all the warmth draining out of him in an instant. His smile dropped, mouth going flat and hard. His step faltered, just slightly. Not enough for most people to notice. But Zoro noticed.

He always did.

Zoro didn't turn around. Didn't stop walking. But his jaw tightened, muscles coiling like springs. His shoulders locked, hands curling into fists at his sides. The urge to turn around, to make the man swallow his words along with his teeth, was almost overwhelming.

Sanji caught it. The way Zoro's whole body had gone tense and dangerous, the way he was holding himself back through sheer force of will.

He didn't say anything. Neither of them did.

But in that breath, in that space between the words and the silence that followed, something broke open. Not loudly. Not visibly. But inwardly like a thread pulled too tight, like all the joy and possibility of the evening suddenly tainted with something ugly and familiar.

Zoro's hand twitched at his side. Not toward violence. Not toward the men. Toward Sanji. Just barely. The way someone might reach into smoke, desperate to offer comfort but not knowing how.

He didn't touch him.

He didn't have to.

Sanji kept walking, chin lifted in defiance even as shame and anger warred in his chest. Zoro followed, staying close, a protective presence at his shoulder. The market moved around them like nothing had happened. But something had. Something that made the lights seem dimmer, the laughter more distant.

The world kept spinning. But something in them had shifted off-axis, the easy intimacy of moments before now fragile as glass.

The rest of the night unfolded like a blur. They still bought things. Still ate. Still wandered into a small bookstore tucked between glowing lanterns and a curry shop, the smell of old paper and binding glue a comfort after the harshness of the street. Zoro flipped through a photography zine with studied concentration. Sanji lingered by the cookbooks, his eyes focused on the pages, but his thoughts elsewhere, still stinging from the casual cruelty of a stranger's words.

They didn't talk about it.

But Sanji glanced at Zoro more often now, something hungry and desperate in those looks. And when they walked again, their arms brushed more deliberately still not touching, but close enough to want to, close enough to ache with the wanting.

The tension between them had thickened, charged with unspoken questions.

Not bad. Not ugly.

Just real. Raw. Honest in a way that made Sanji's chest tight.

A different kind of silence. One that asked without answering, that trembled with possibility and fear in equal measure.

Would you have held my hand?

Did you want to?

Would you still?

Do you want me the way I want you?

Zoro didn't ask. But when they passed a stall with hand-carved matcha bowls, he picked one up with gentle fingers, turning it over in the lamplight. It was the kind of thing Sanji would've scoffed at a week ago, at the overpriced tourist nonsense. But tonight, watching Zoro's careful hands, he just looked at it. Looked at Zoro. And smiled, something tender and fragile blooming in his chest.

"Ugly as hell," he said softly, voice rough with emotion. "But I kind of like it."

Zoro didn't smile. But his eyes softened, went warm and fond in a way that made Sanji's breath catch.

The moment lingered, heavy with meaning.

Still no resolution. Still no words.

But the weight had shifted again, from hurt to something deeper, more complicated.

Not gone.

Just different. Transformed.

And as they moved further into the night, into the echo of lantern light and warm air, they stayed close, drawn together by invisible threads.

Not touching.

But almost.

Always almost.

The day comes to an end, they make it back to their hotel room. The door clicked shut behind them with a quiet finality.

The hotel room was still. Dim. The city buzzed faintly through the window, it was low and distant like the end of a song. Zoro's heart hammered against his ribs as the reality of the situation hit him: alone, together, in a room with one bed and too much unspoken history between them.

Zoro dropped the keys on the nightstand with trembling fingers. Sanji kicked off his shoes without a word, the casual domesticity of it making Zoro's chest tight with want.

They didn't say much as they moved around each other. Just small things. A muttered "tired" from Zoro, though he'd never been more awake in his life. A sigh from Sanji as he tugged off his jacket, the movement drawing Zoro's eyes to the line of his shoulders, the curve of his neck. The kind of quiet you only fall into when you're no longer pretending, when the weight of possibility has settled heavy and real between you.

The bottle sat between them on the floor now just something simple that Sanji had picked up at a corner shop, claiming it was cheap but good enough. They leaned against the foot of the bed, legs stretched out, shoulders close but not quite touching, the space between them electric with tension.

Zoro took a sip, the alcohol burning warm down his throat, trying to calm his racing pulse. Then passed the bottle over, fingers brushing Sanji's in the exchange.

Sanji drank, then held it in his lap, thumb tracing the label absently.

The silence settled in again. It was comfortable but charged. Like something waiting to be named, waiting to be claimed.

Sanji's voice broke it. Soft. Not his usual swagger. No sharpness. Just… truth, raw and vulnerable.

"That guy," he said, not looking over, unable to meet Zoro's eyes. "Back at the market."

Zoro stayed quiet, but every muscle in his body tensed, ready to fight battles Sanji couldn't ask him to fight.

Sanji inhaled, thumb brushing the lip of the bottle, hands shaking slightly. "It wasn't the first time I've heard shit like that. Probably won't be the last."

He laughed, just once. Dry and small, brittle as autumn leaves.

"I used to pretend it didn't bother me. Act like I didn't care. Smirk. Make a joke. Flirt with women twice as hard just to prove a point." His voice cracked slightly. "I got good at it. The pretending."

Zoro glanced sideways, something fierce and protective clawing at his chest. Sanji's profile was calm, but there was something in his eyes, something brittle and hurt and trying so hard to be brave.

"I guess I thought if I never said it out loud," Sanji continued, voice barely above a whisper, "then no one could use it to hurt me. Like if I never admitted to wanting..." He trailed off, swallowing hard.

Zoro shifted slightly, heart breaking for the boy who'd learned to hide himself so completely. "And now?"

Sanji met his gaze for the first time, eyes bright with unshed tears and something that looked like relief. "Now I'm tired of pretending. Tired of hiding from what I want."

The words hung between them, raw and honest and terrifying.

Zoro didn't look away. His voice, when it came, was low. Steady. Certain.

"I hated hearing it. What that guy said. Not just because it was aimed at us." His jaw clenched, hands curling into fists. "Because it was aimed at you. Because it made you hurt, and I couldn't do anything about it."

Sanji blinked slowly, something in his chest cracking open at the fierce protectiveness in Zoro's voice.

"I'm not good at this shit," Zoro muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Not the talking part. Not the naming things. But… I'm here. I want to be here. With you."

There was no performance in it. No poetry. Just truth, simple and unvarnished and more beautiful than any song.

Sanji nodded, something in his chest loosening, the tight coil of shame and fear finally beginning to unwind.

"I know," he said, voice thick with emotion. "I know you are."

The silence after was different. Full of something else. Something warm and precious and fragile as spun glass.

Zoro's hand twitched once on the carpet. Then again. Not toward violence. Not away.

Toward Sanji.

Their fingers brushed. Just barely. They didn't pull back. The contact sent electricity shooting up both their arms, made their breath catch in unison.

Sanji turned his hand over. Let Zoro's settle there, palm to palm, fingers interlacing like they'd done this a thousand times before.

And that was it.

The shift.

Not a kiss. Not yet.

Just that touch. That choosing. That quiet declaration that they were done pretending, done hiding from what they both wanted.

The first time they looked at each other without fear, without walls, without anything but honest want and the beginning of something that felt like love.

The bottle sat half-finished on the carpet between them. Forgotten now.

The quiet had stretched long but not empty. Full of things neither of them had the language for yet, heavy with the weight of almost-confessions and barely-restrained desire.

Sanji stared ahead, his head tilted just slightly against the bed frame. The city's glow cast a faint amber across the walls. Soft. Safe. He could feel Zoro's presence beside him like gravity, like coming home to something he hadn't known he'd been searching for.

And then he turned.

Slowly. Deliberately. Heart hammering so hard he was sure Zoro could hear it.

Zoro looked back at him. Met his gaze, steady and quiet and full of something that made Sanji's chest tight with want.

Sanji didn't say anything.

He didn't need to.

He just leaned in, closing the space between them with agonizing slowness.

The kiss was featherlight. Testing. A question without words—is this okay, do you want this, are you sure?

Zoro didn't answer right away, frozen with the shock of finally, finally having what he'd dreamed about for so long.

But when he did, he answered completely.

His hand came up, calloused fingers brushing Sanji's jaw with reverent care as he kissed him back deeper now, with something sure and desperate behind it. The tension coiled between them, long-held and aching and so fucking overwhelming, broke open like a dam bursting.

The air changed, became thick and electric and charged with want.

Zoro shifted, one knee bending, his weight moving with careful intention. Sanji didn't stop him. He couldn't have even if he'd wanted to, which he definitely didn't. His breath caught as Zoro pulled back for just a second. Eyes flicking over him, searching, asking permission without words.

Then Zoro moved.

Over him.

Slow. Controlled. Like he was afraid Sanji might disappear if he moved too fast.

He pushed Sanji gently back onto the carpet, one arm bracing himself beside Sanji's head, muscles flexing with the effort of holding back. The other trailed down to find his hand, their fingers lacing without effort. Natural. Like they'd done this in a hundred dreams neither of them ever spoke about.

Sanji looked up at him, eyes wide and dark and full of want, breath shallow and rapid. Vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed, walls completely down for the first time in years.

Zoro leaned down, his forehead pressed briefly to Sanji's, sharing breath and space and the overwhelming reality of this moment.

No jokes.

No bravado.

Just breath.

Just closeness.

Just the sound of two hearts beating in perfect synchronization.

And then another kiss.

Longer this time. Hungrier. But still careful, still full of something fragile and new and precious beyond words.

The world outside the window slipped further away until there was nothing but this. The slide of lips against lips, the quiet gasps and sighs that escaped between kisses, the way their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces finally finding their place.

Their bodies found rhythm not in urgency, but in reverence. Each movement a question asked and answered in kind fingers tracing skin like they were mapping new territory, mouths finding sensitive spots that made them both gasp and arch and whisper each other's names like prayers. Every shift of weight, every exhale between them, felt like peeling away the last of their armor, stripping down to nothing but honesty and want and something that felt dangerously close to love.

Clothes came away in slow pieces. With Zoro's hoodie pulled over his head with shaking hands and Sanji's shirt unbuttoned with careful reverence, each newly exposed inch of skin kissed and worshipped. Left where they fell on the carpet, forgotten like everything else that wasn't this moment, this connection, this overwhelming need to be as close as physically possible.

Not a rush.

Not a performance.

Just two people learning what it meant to be chosen, to be seen fully. The scars and fears and desperate want and still wanted with equal desperation.

Zoro kissed down Sanji's throat, lingered at the edge of his collarbone, drawing soft sounds from Sanji's lips that went straight to his head like the strongest alcohol. Sanji's hands curled against Zoro's back, fingers tracing the constellation of scars there with something like worship. Not pulling him closer. They were already as close as they could get.

Just holding him there.

Like a vow.

Like he couldn't believe this was real, that someone like Zoro could want someone like him.

The light outside dimmed further, night folding over the window like a blanket. The carpet was rough beneath their backs, the hum of the city a distant lull. But none of that mattered. Nothing mattered except the slide of skin against skin, the quiet murmurs of encouragement and affection, the way they moved together like they'd been made for this.

And when Zoro finally breathed his name just once, quiet and reverent and so full of emotion it made Sanji's eyes sting with tears. It felt like a prayer answered.

Sanji answered it in kind, Zoro's name falling from his lips like a benediction.

They didn't need to speak after that.

They didn't need to name it.

It was already everything. It was love and want and the promise of something that felt permanent in a world of temporary things.

And as the night pulled around them, soft and slow and sacred, bodies intertwined and hearts beating in perfect rhythm,

the world faded to black.

Chapter Text

Zoro hadn't slept.

Not really. Not even at all.

He'd laid on his back most of the night, eyes open, ceiling staring back, shadows shifting across the walls like restless ghosts. The hours blurred. He'd counted them without meaning to—3:14, 4:27, 5:06, until eventually, the birds started. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, but the sky was starting to bruise into that soft, blue-gray.

Graduation was today.

He was supposed to wear his formal uniform, pressed and buttoned, black shoes shined. He was supposed to stand straight for photos. Accept his diploma with bowed head and polite hands. Stand up straight for family who'd sit in neat rows, applauding with quiet pride.

But all he could think was how he didn't deserve that. How he didn't deserve the experience.

The words looped like breath in his chest. Sticky. Suffocating.

He was already dressed, kind of. Sweatpants. A T-shirt. One sock on. The pressed uniform lay across his desk chair, untouched. It felt heavy just looking at it.

His fingers curled into the bedsheet.

He didn't hear the front door open. But he heard the knock. A soft one. Two taps against his bedroom doorframe, like someone didn't want to startle him.

He looked up.

Sanji.

"…Hey," the blond said, standing there with a plastic bag in one hand and that familiar worried wrinkle between his brows. "Your sister let me in."

Zoro blinked.

Sanji scratched the back of his head. "She said you hadn't left your room. Figured I'd check. Brought breakfast." He lifted the bag slightly. "Well… coffee and some melon pan."

Zoro didn't move. He hadn't expected to see him today. Not yet. And not here.

Sanji hovered for a beat. "Can I come in?"

Zoro nodded, barely. Just once.

Sanji stepped inside. Kicked off his shoes. Set the bag down on the desk. And then like it was the most natural thing in the world sat beside him on the bed, their shoulders nearly touching. Not too close. Just close enough.

He didn't speak right away. He didn't try to fill the silence, or fix it. He just sat. Present.

It made something inside Zoro ache in a way he couldn't explain. He appreciated the silence between them and how just being there for each other was enough. It felt safe, he supposed.

"I don't know if I can go," he said finally, voice low, eyes fixed on the carpet.

Sanji turned to look at him, but didn't speak.

Zoro kept going. It spilled out slow, unsure. "Feels fake. Standing there like I've earned something. I missed so much school. Messed up so many times. Hurt people in the past. Hurt you."

"Zoro—"

"I'm serious," he muttered. "I know I've changed. I know I'm not that same kid. But standing up there today… it feels like pretending I didn't used to be the reason someone cried in the bathroom. Or… well, transferred schools." He looked at Sanji as he said that, remembering how he treated Sanji back in middle school.

The silence stretched. Not cold, just heavy with things that had lived in his chest too long.

And then Sanji sighed. Not annoyed. Not exasperated. Just… soft.

"You're not pretending," he said.

Zoro finally looked up at him.

"You're showing up," Sanji said. "That's the opposite of pretending."

Zoro didn't know what to say.

Sanji shifted a little, angling toward him now. "Look, I know you don't feel like you deserve it. But that feeling isn't proof. It's just fear. And I know what fear feels like. I lived in it for years."

Zoro swallowed hard.

"I'm not here because I think you're perfect," Sanji added. "I'm here because I've seen what you've become. What you've worked for. Who you've chosen to be, even when it was hard."

They sat with that. The quiet between them filled with a kind of fragile, necessary truth.

"Also," Sanji added, voice lightening a little, "I did not wake up at six a.m. to sit on your floor and let you sulk into your sheets. So. You're going. I'm going with you. I'll sit in the back and clap the loudest. I never got to finish regular school. I've been homeschooled since after middle school. Never got the experience of walking across a stage, but I'd love to be there during your own experience."

He looked down at the uniform again. Then back at Sanji.

"You're really gonna stay the whole time?"

Sanji smiled. "You kidding? I'm your biggest fan."

Zoro felt his throat tighten, eyes stinging.

He nodded.

And for the first time all night, he breathed.

****

It had rained the night before.

The sky was clear now, stretched pale and cold over the school courtyard, but the ground still held the memory of water—wet stone, softened earth, and cherry blossom petals that had fallen too early from the trees. Zoro stood at the edge of the school gate with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his uniform trousers, watching students and families filter into the building.

He hadn't planned to come.

For days he'd convinced himself there was no point. That wearing the uniform wouldn't change the way he felt. That hearing his name called wouldn't undo everything he'd done. Graduation was a celebration, and he didn't feel like he deserved to celebrate. It had nothing to do with the diploma or the walk across the stage. Yes he had done the work. He just hadn't done the healing. Not fully.

And yet here he was. Because something in his chest ached harder at the thought of not going.

He adjusted the stiff collar of his jacket, exhaled slowly, and stepped through the gates.

Inside, the auditorium was already filling up. Mothers with cameras, fathers trying to hide their emotions, students buzzing in corners, clinging to each other like it was the last time. Zoro slipped through quietly. He didn't look around for familiar faces. He didn't want to. Not yet.

He took his place in the third row beside Luffy, who immediately grinned and elbowed him.

"Oi! You showed up!"

Zoro just nodded.

Behind him, he could hear Usopp fumbling with his graduation ribbon and whispering about how he thought he lost it. Everything was so alive. He felt like a ghost in the middle of it. Everyone here seemed so sure of themselves, so proud. He didn't even feel like he was in his own body.

The ceremony passed in a blur.

Names were called. Speeches were given. The principal tried too hard to make a joke. Zoro only really came back to himself when his name echoed through the auditorium "Roronoa Zoro." His feet moved on instinct. Up the steps. Across the small stage. Bow to the principal. Receive the diploma with both hands. Bow to the audience. Walk down.

Applause.

That was it.

He returned to his seat, throat tight, hands colder than before.

Outside, the sun was warmer now. People gathered in clusters under the cherry blossom trees, laughing, crying, hugging for too long. He lingered on the outskirts of the crowd, not quite ready to be part of it.

Until he saw him.

Sanji stood at the base of the hill, leaning against the fence just past the courtyard. He wore a pressed shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, hair tucked behind one ear. A small bouquet of white camellias rested in the crook of his arm. He wasn't trying to blend in but he wasn't trying to be noticed, either. He was just there.

He'd come for this. For him.

Zoro found himself walking toward him before he could talk himself out of it.

"…You didn't have to come," he said quietly when he reached him.

Sanji turned, that gentle, knowing smile already pulling at his mouth. "I wanted to."

There was no teasing in his voice. No sarcasm. Just truth.

Zoro swallowed hard and glanced away, eyes tracing the edge of the fence. "I almost didn't."

"I know."

The silence between them wasn't tense. It had weight, but not the kind that crushed—just the kind that asked to be acknowledged.

Zoro looked down at his hands. "I kept thinking… maybe I'd feel something if I went. That it would feel like an ending or a beginning or something I could hold onto. But I just felt numb. It didn't feel like I deserved any of it."

"You think feelings come with a stamp of approval?" Sanji asked softly.

Zoro didn't answer.

"I get it," Sanji continued. "You've carried guilt for so long that joy feels foreign. Like you have to earn it first. Like it doesn't belong to you unless someone hands it over."

Zoro's throat burned. "I didn't want to mess up your peace."

"You didn't," Sanji said, shaking his head. "Zoro… I've seen how far you've come. I've watched you try, even when it's hard. Even when it's quiet. That matters."

Zoro looked at him then. Really looked at him. "But I still don't know how to stop hating the kid I was."

Sanji's eyes softened. He stepped closer, until they were inches apart. "You don't have to forgive him today. But you do have to let him grow up. Let him step aside. You're not him anymore."

The words sank in slowly.

Zoro hadn't cried, not really in years. But something about that moment made him feel thirteen years old again, back in a hallway he wished he could redo, back in a silence he wished he'd filled with different words.

He didn't cry now either. But his breath caught like he wanted to.

Sanji offered him the bouquet without a word.

Zoro stared at it. Then at him. "You really came just for this?"

"I came for you."

There was no shame in the way he said it. No hesitation.

And for the first time that day, Zoro felt something stir in his chest that wasn't guilt. Not shame. Not fear.

Just warmth.

He took the flowers.

"…Thanks."

Sanji smiled. "Anytime, mosshead."

Zoro didn't even roll his eyes at the nickname. Just stood beside him quietly, as the laughter and photos and crowd faded into the background. For the first time in a long time, he didn't feel like a ghost.

He felt here.

And he let himself feel it.

Even if he still didn't believe he deserved to.

The courtyard slowly emptied, but the warmth lingered.

Beneath the cherry blossom trees where sunlight pooled gently over damp stone, the small crowd began to thin with families leaving in clusters, laughter trailing behind them, bouquets clutched in arms like trophies. Zoro stood off to the side, not ready to leave yet. Not quite.

Sanji was beside him, holding a can of iced coffee he'd picked up from a vending machine near the auditorium. His presence was quiet. Like the sun warming a bench that had been cold for too long.

"Chopper's still inside," Sanji murmured after a moment, eyes scanning the doorway.

"Yeah?"

"Mmhmm. They just called his name."

Zoro blinked. "I thought he wasn't done yet." Remembering how Chopper was still a underclassmen.

"He graduated early," Sanji said. "Medical track. Kid's a genius."

Just as he said it, the doors opened and there he was.

Chopper appeared at the top of the steps in a tailored navy uniform, graduation ribbon pinned carefully to his chest, holding his diploma with both hands like it might blow away. His eyes were glassy with tears, and the moment the small audience clapped, he immediately tried to hide behind the certificate, waving his arms.

"D-Don't look at me!! Idiots!!" he shouted, though his smile was wide and trembling.

A few feet behind him, someone leaned against the wall in a sharp black uniform and thin silver-rimmed glasses, a quiet, proud presence just watching.

Zoro squinted.

"…Is that my surgeon?"

Sanji followed his gaze. "Oh Law? Yeah. He's been mentoring Chopper in medical stuff since last year."

Zoro looked at the two of them. Chopper stumbling through his embarrassment, and Law offering the most subtle nod of approval imaginable. Law is the youngest surgeon of the hospital he works at, so he’s been given the offer to become a tutor for future medical students.

Down the path, Luffy came barreling out of the building next with his half-buttoned uniform, graduation ribbon askew, arms raised in triumph.

"ZOROOOO!! I DID IT!!!" he yelled, making a beeline toward them. Usopp was right on his heels, holding his phone backward and shouting, "Did I get it?! Was I recording that?!"

Behind them, Ace and Sabo appeared from the crowd carrying handmade signs. One had a massive cartoon Luffy face drawn on it. The other just said: WE'RE PROUD OF YOU, DUMBASS.

Luffy tackled Zoro into a hug so strong it nearly knocked him off his feet. "You came! You actually—oof—came!"

"Yeah, yeah," Zoro grunted, half-smiling. "Quit screaming in my ear. I was literally beside you, idiot."

Usopp skidded to a stop beside them, panting. "This is the happiest day of my life. No one died. I didn't trip. And Luffy only spilled juice on himself once."

A gravelly voice interrupted them.

"Well, well. Look at you brats."

They turned.

Garp approached from the shade, his thick arms crossed and his face split into a crooked, almost-smile.

But his eyes. His eyes were proud. Not just at his grandson, Luffy, who to his surprise had actually managed to graduate. But it was much deeper than that, It was for the boy in front of him who seemed to be a lost cause during his years in middle school, yet now, proved how much he's changed. Being the better version of himself.

Zoro straightened instinctively. "Garp."

Garp gave him a once-over. "Didn't think you'd show."

"I almost didn't," Zoro said.

Garp grunted. "Figured."

He looked over Zoro's shoulder, at Sanji, who hadn't spoken. Then back to Zoro.

"You remember what I told you," he said. "Back when you were fixing things with that one?"

Zoro nodded slowly. "Yeah. You said... it's not words. It's consistency. Showing up. Even when they don't want you to. Especially when they don't."

Garp gave a curt nod, the closest he ever came to an emotional reaction. "That's right."

He looked at Sanji again long enough to make Zoro uncomfortable then back to Zoro. His gaze softened for half a second. Just enough to be noticed.

"You showed up," Garp said. "That's what matters."

Zoro opened his mouth, but couldn't quite find the words. So he just dipped his head slightly.

"Thank you," he muttered.

Garp waved a hand. "Don't make it weird."

But he stayed a moment longer, just standing with them. Then he clapped Luffy so hard on the back that it knocked him into Sanji, roared something about going to get meat, and wandered off toward Ace and Sabo, who were already making fun of him showing so much careness. Him barely ever showing any, or just never wanted to admit it himself.

Sanji leaned closer. "You know he's proud of you, right?"

Zoro shrugged. "…He doesn't say it."

"He doesn't need to."

Zoro looked around. The fading crowd, the people who had shown up not just for themselves, but for each other. Law, quiet and unreadable. Chopper, sniffling into his sleeve. Luffy, still bouncing in place. Usopp, asking someone to take a group photo. Sanji, just beside him.

All these pieces that had once been scattered across years and guilt and mistakes now gently falling into place.

Not perfect.

But whole enough.

Sanji nudged him. "You ready?"

Zoro hesitated.

Then: "Almost."

They didn't rush.

They didn't need to.

It was almost dusk when they reached the bridge.

The same one that crossed the slow-moving river at the edge of town. The same one where cherry blossoms used to collect in the water like soft confessions. The same one that was five minutes away from the bakery. The same one that had once held the worst parts of Zoro's heart.

And now… maybe the best.

The air was still. Not heavy. Not light. Just the kind that held space for words.

Zoro stood near the middle of the bridge, hands in his jacket pockets, watching the water drift under the worn wood slats. Sanji stood beside him, just far enough that they weren't touching. Just close enough that Zoro could feel him there. Like an anchor. Like home.

For a long while, neither spoke.

There was nothing pressing them to. Not anymore.

Eventually, Zoro took a breath.

"You know this used to be the worst place in town for me," he said.

Sanji's eyes flicked toward him. "Because of me?"

Zoro shook his head. "Because of me."

The words felt like stones he'd been carrying for years.

He leaned his arms on the bridge rail, elbows sharp against old wood. "Middle school… I was angry. At everything. Myself. I didn't know where to put any of it. So I looked for mirrors."

He looked down at the water. "You were one."

Sanji blinked. "A mirror?"

Zoro nodded. "You wore yours on the outside. The way you stood. The way you spoke. You didn't care what people thought. You didn't care that you were different. You made it look like it didn't hurt."

Sanji was quiet for a moment. Then: "It did."

Zoro looked at him. "I know."

He let the silence stretch between them again, a rope neither of them cut.

"I hated how much I saw myself in you," Zoro said finally. "So I picked you apart instead. Like if I broke your reflection, I wouldn't have to face mine."

The admission sat heavy in the air. It didn't ask for pity. It didn't excuse what he'd done. It was just the truth.

Sanji's fingers traced the edge of the railing. "You were thirteen."

"I was cruel."

"You were scared."

"I was a coward."

Sanji sighed through his nose. "You're not anymore."

Zoro turned fully toward him. His heart beat too loud in his ears. "I never said it. Not really. Not the way it needed to be said."

Sanji looked at him now, eyes steady. Waiting.

Zoro swallowed. "I'm sorry."

There was no dramatic pause. No deep intake of breath. Just Sanji. Just this boy who had grown with him through silence, through pain, through a forgiveness he never even had to be asked for.

He nodded.

"I know."

Zoro stepped closer.

His hand trembled, just a little, as it brushed against Sanji's. Hesitant at first. Then firmer. Then their fingers curled together like maybe they'd always belonged there.

Sanji looked down at their hands. Then up again. "Zoro?"

Zoro exhaled. Shaky. True. "I love you."

He said it like it hurt. Like it healed.

Sanji smiled. Small, warm, and worn at the edges. Like it had lived in him for years.

"I love you too."

Zoro's throat felt tight. "Do you forgive me?"

The question didn't need to be explained.

Not for what.

Not when.

Sanji didn't blink.

He just said—

"I already did."

The wind moved gently across the river, stirring the air between them.

Zoro closed his eyes for a moment, holding onto that sentence like a life raft. Like a final chapter. Like a truth he could finally live with.

Then he pulled Sanji close, pressing his forehead to his shoulder. It was quiet, steady, finally still.

No more running. No more flinching from memory.

Just this.

Two boys on a bridge.

Not perfect.

But finally free.