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The tavern was too loud. Sanji kept his head down, cigarette burning down to the filter between his fingers, focusing intently on the cards in his hand rather than the scene he knew was happening.
"Your turn, Sanji," Chopper prompted, but Sanji barely heard him.
He heard the laugh instead, even over the noise of the crowded bar—that low, rumbling sound that Zoro always made when he was with someone he intended to fuck. It felt like a blade sank straight into Sanji’s chest, twisting deep.
Don't look. Don't you dare look.
But he couldn't help himself.
Zoro sat at the bar, a bottle of sake in hand, and the man beside him was stunning—tall, blond-haired, with a smile that belonged on a magazine cover. He was too comfortable, both elbows on the counter, his knee brushing against Zoro’s thigh.
And obviously, that shitty swordsman wasn’t pulling away. In fact, Zoro was angled toward him, a small smile playing at his lips as he said something that made the stranger throw his head back in delighted laughter.
Sanji's fingers crushed his cigarette.
Why did this shitty swordsman always have to go after every blond he came across when he already had one right under his nose?!
God, how Sanji wanted to launch them through the nearest window.
He watched Zoro's eyes crinkle at the corners—the way he wished Zoro would look at him just once, in his miserable life—and instead saw that warmth directed at some cheap nobody who'd wandered in from the street. The jealousy curdled in his stomach, venomous and bitter, turning his vision red at the edges.
Not fucking fair.
"Sanji-kun?"
He startled, nearly dropping his cards—but he forced himself to play his turn anyway. Robin was sitting next to him, her eyes knowing behind those dark lashes, her head tilted in that particular way that meant she'd seen and heard too much.
"Robin-chan!" He plastered on his best smile. "Is everything alright? Can I get you another drink? Something to eat? Your wish is my—"
"Are you okay?"
The question landed soft but heavy between them. Sanji's smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second, but he caught it, reinforced it, leaned into the role of the charming cook who had nothing weighing on his heart.
"Of course, my dear! Why wouldn't I be?" He lit another cigarette with trembling hands he hid behind the flame. "The food here is excellent, the company divine—"
Robin didn't look at him. Instead, she glanced toward the bar, her gaze lingering on Zoro and the stranger for a brief, weighted moment. When she looked back, that enigmatic smile curved her lips—not mocking, not pitying, but reassuring in its mysterious way.
"You should tell him," she said quietly.
Sanji's chest seized. Of course she'd bring up what she'd overheard that night on Thriller Bark eventually. He couldn't blame her for being so direct. He never could.
He'd been nineteen, absolutely terrified, sitting vigil beside Zoro's unconscious body while the rest of the crew slept. The swordsman had taken all of Luffy's pain, all of his damage, and collapsed into a coma that the little reindeer said might last days.
Might last forever.
He knew Zoro was strong—hell, he'd seen him get carved open by the world's greatest swordsman and survive it—but the fear wouldn't leave him.
Sanji had barely left his side. He'd only slipped away to cook for the crew, returning as soon as the meals were served. He barely ate, barely slept, refusing to stay away any longer than he absolutely had to. He'd held Zoro's hand in both of his, pressed it against his forehead, and whispered everything he had wished he'd been courageous enough to say when he still could.
"I love you Zoro. God, I love you so much it hurts. I'm so fucking scared of losing you. Please don't leave. I beg you... don't make me live in a world where I never told you, where I wasted every day being too much of a coward to say it to your face."
The tears had been unstoppable, ugly, desperate. He'd felt weak and pathetic, pouring his heart out to a man who couldn't even hear him.
He hadn't heard Robin knock. Hadn't heard the door slide open. But he'd felt her hand on his shoulder, solid and grounding, and the shame had burned so hot he thought he might combust.
She'd simply squeezed his shoulder, handed him a handkerchief, and left him without a word. She'd kept his secret, and he'd loved her for it, even as he wished she'd never heard any of it at all.
"I can't," Sanji said now, his voice rough around the edges. He took a long drag, exhaling smoke like he could expel the memory with it. "He doesn't—" He gestured vaguely toward the bar with his cigarette, the ember tracing a bitter arc. "He's never looked at me like that. Never will."
Robin's lips quirked slightly. “How do you know if you never ask?”
"Because I know." Sanji laughed, but it came out broken, hollow. "I've watched him for years, Robin-chan. I know every expression he makes. I know when he's annoyed, when he's amused, when he's interested." He swallowed hard, glancing back despite himself.
The stranger’s hand was on Zoro’s arm now, and Zoro was leaning in, close enough to count eyelashes.
"And he's never looked at me with anything but annoyance or anger." Sanji whispered, defeated.
Another laugh came from the bar, and Zoro threw his head back, laughing.
Sanji couldn't stand watching anymore. So he poured himself another glass, forcing himself to ignore the archaeologist’s worried gaze.
And still—he sat there, letting his heart bleed in silence as the man he loved flirted once again with someone who could never be him.
--
The bottle was half-empty before Sanji realized he'd been drinking alone. The sake burned going down, but it did nothing to numb the ache in his chest.
He knew his limits—everyone on the crew knew his limits, had witnessed the disaster that was Sanji after half a glass of wine—but tonight, he didn't give a fuck. He really needed to get drunk and the alcohol was the only thing that might dull the pain of watching Zoro give someone else his attention for what felt like the hundredth time.
He poured another glass, his hands were steady—deceptively so. Inside, he was coming apart at the seams.
How long had it been? The question haunted him with every swallow. From the moment he laid his eyes on Zoro, probably. Which was insane because he had never been attracted to a man before...
Surely it had to be because of the swordsman's tanned skin, his hair—such a strange, unnatural shade of jade, yet utterly captivating all the same. Those sharp, steel-grey eyes (or rather, eye, now that only one remained, though that hadn't diminished the swordsman's appeal in the slightest in Sanji's eyes). And that damn smirk that always curled at the corner of Zoro's mouth, making him even more infuriatingly attractive.
Sanji couldn't pinpoint exactly when he'd fallen in love with Zoro, but a few weeks of travelling with the swordsman had been enough to send him tumbling head over heels. His determination. His unwavering pride. His fierce devotion to the crew. The way he'd throw himself into danger without a second thought if it meant protecting them. The surprising gentleness he reserved for Chopper—the patience with which he'd indulge the little reindeer's questions, the quiet reassurance he'd offer or the way he'd let the reindeer sleep on his chest...
It had all done him in.
Sanji had been struck stupid by him. Still was, apparently.
Those two years apart should have cured him, allowed him to move the fuck on, but they only reinforced the fact that he was still in love with the insufferable moss-head.
He'd accepted it eventually. What choice did he have? You couldn't unlove someone just because it hurt.
"Nami wins again!" Usopp's wail cut through his thoughts and Sanji blinked back to the present, realizing the card game had concluded. "This is rigged!"
"You're just bad at cards, Usopp." Nami's smug grin was blinding as she swept up her winnings. "Pay up, gentlemen."
Luffy was already complaining, patting his stomach. "Sanji! I'm still hungry! And thirsty!"
Sanji stood, swaying only slightly. The bottle was empty now—when had that happened?—and his head felt fuzzy, distant. Good, that was exactly what he needed.
"I'll get more," he said, his voice rough.
He crossed the tavern with long strides, keeping his eyes fixed on anything but the object of his desire.
But he was fucking hopeless.
Zoro was bathed in the warm glow of hanging lanterns. The light caught the sweat on his temples, the gold of his earrings, the strong line of his jaw. He looked unfair. Like someone had carved him from marble and breathed life into him just to torment Sanji. The swordsman was saying something, head tilted toward the stranger, and the soft expression on his face made Sanji's chest contract so sharply he had to stop walking.
Irresistible. The word didn't cover it. Zoro was magnificent, and he wasn't even trying.
Sanji fumbled for his cigarettes, hands shaking now. He lit one with clumsy fingers, sucking in smoke like it could fill the hollow space the sight of Zoro had carved out of him.
"What can I get you?" the bartender asked.
Sanji ordered mechanically—more meat for Luffy, more sake for the table, something strong for himself—and waited, drumming his fingers against the polished wood.
Sanji's eyes drifted again, traitors that they were, drawn to Zoro like magnets.
The stranger had moved far too close for Sanji’s liking. As he watched, frozen in place, the man’s fingers trailed lazily up Zoro’s forearm.
The touch was intimate, lingering on skin Sanji had only ever brushed against by accident while fighting the swordsman. The only times Sanji had ever touched Zoro's arms, felt the hard curve of his biceps beneath his fingers, were when they were fighting. When he was shoving the swordsman away, or being shoved, grabbing fabric and muscle to throw or be thrown. It was always rough and violent, something born of aggression rather than affection.
He wished—God, how he wished—it could be different. That he could trace those same muscles with reverence instead of pretending it was rage, feel Zoro's pulse under his thumb without the context of combat. That he could map the scars, kiss them...
But Zoro would never look at him like that. Would he?
Sanji’s jaw tightened until his teeth ached. His cigarette crumpled between his fingers, tobacco spilling across the counter. He needed to look away, to breathe, to be anywhere but here, watching someone else touch what he could never claim.
But he could only stand there, bleeding out in silence, while the man he loved let a stranger map his skin with greedy hands.
How could he be confronted with the same thing over and over again and still let it hurt him this much? Shouldn’t he have gone numb by now?
He tried to pull himself together when his gaze met Zoro’s, and his heart skipped a beat. The swordsman frowned when he saw Sanji’s expression—one that must have revealed every emotion he was desperately trying to hide—which forced the cook to look away.
The bartender reappeared at the perfect moment with a tray, handing it over to Sanji. He took it and made his way back to the table, placing it down in the middle of it to Luffy’s excited cheers. Somehow, it still managed to draw a small smile from Sanji.
He sat back down in his seat and immediately reached for the bottle of alcohol.
He needed to not feel for five fucking minutes.
"Sanji." Robin's voice was soft beside him. "You're going to make yourself sick," she said, barely above a whisper. An imperceptible sigh escaped her, the kind of sound that spoke of watching someone you cared about drown in plain sight.
Sanji turned to her, plastering on a smile that felt like cracked glass.
He was such a fucking nuisance, making people worry about his useless ass.
"Robin-chan, don't worry about me." He poured another. "I'm perfectly fine. Just enjoying the evening with my favorite archaeologist."
"Sanji—"
"Really." He touched her hand briefly, reassuring, lying through his teeth. "Don't worry."
She searched his face, finding whatever broken thing was leaking out from behind his eyes, and her expression softened with something like understanding. But she didn't push.
Sanji's gaze was once more drawn to the bar, he reached for his glass and—
The stranger's mouth brushed Zoro's ear, whispering something that made the swordsman's expression darken with interest. And that fucking hand trailed down Zoro's arm in a slow, deliberate caress, fingers sliding over corded muscle, past the elbow, to the wrist in a possessive way.
Sanji's chest cracked.
He couldn't stand it anymore.
Sanji stood abruptly, chair scraping loud against the floor.
"Be right back," he managed, the words strangled.
He didn't wait for a response. He walked—fast, nearly running—pushing through the crowd, away from the bar, away from them. The hallway to the bathrooms was narrow, dim, mercifully empty. He made it three steps before the tears blurred his vision completely, hot and humiliating, spilling down his cheeks despite his best efforts to hold them back.
He slammed his palm against the wall, leaning his forehead against cool wood, and squeezed his eyes shut. But he could still see it—Zoro's smile, the stranger's hand.
His reflection in the bathroom mirror was a disaster. Red-rimmed eyes, flushed face, hair falling into his eyes. He looked pathetic.
Sanji turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on his face again and again, trying to wash away the evidence of his breaking heart.
He stared at his reflection and wondered how much more of this he could survive.
When suddenly, the door swung open.
Sanji's head snapped up, heart stuttering to a painful halt in his chest. Zoro stood in the doorway, backlit by the tavern's warm glow, and for a moment Sanji could only stare at the man who had shattered him without even knowing it.
His first instinct—the one honed through years of rivalry and denial—was to lash out. To throw a barbed comment, a jab, something to put distance between them. What, marimo, couldn't wait your turn? Or Get out, I'm busy trying not to vomit from looking at your face. The words formed on his tongue.
He opened his mouth—
"You're crying."
Zoro crossed the space between them in two strides, invading Sanji's personal space before he could retreat. The swordsman was so close that Sanji could smell the sake on his breath, the familiar scent of steel and sweat and something uniquely Zoro that made his knees weak.
"I'm not—" Sanji started, acerbic, but Zoro cut him off with a hand on his jaw that was devastatingly gentle.
Zoro's thumb brushed the corner of Sanji's eye, catching the tear that had escaped despite his best efforts, and wiped it away with such delicacy that Sanji's entire body went rigid with shock. Those calloused fingers that wielded swords, that broke bones and carved through steel—touched him like he was something precious.
"Sanji." Zoro's voice was low, rough with an emotion Sanji couldn't name. Real concern darkened his grey eye, pulling his brows together. "What is it? What's wrong?"
The alcohol haze wrapped around Sanji's mind, lowering his defenses, making everything more. He leaned into the touch without meaning to, chasing the heat of Zoro's palm against his skin. This—this—was what he'd dreamed of. What he'd ached for with a hunger that kept him awake at night. Zoro touching him with intention, with tenderness, with care.
It felt like a blessing. Like absolution.
Sanji's eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing his cheeks, and he let himself have this one moment. Zoro's voice vibrating through him, that warm hand cradling his face, the proximity making his head spin in ways the alcohol never could. It was intoxicating, addictive, and a sound built in his chest—low, desperate, wanting to escape as a moan.
He bit it back. Hard.
But he couldn't stop himself from leaning in, just a fraction closer, chasing the warmth like a drowning man reaching for shore.
Then reality crashed over him.
How dare he.
Sanji's eyes snapped open, and he jerked back, knocking Zoro's hand away with his own. His fingers collided with Zoro's wrist, pushing him back, putting space between them that felt like miles.
"Don't," Sanji spat, the word cracking like a whip. His chest heaved, breath coming sharp and fast. "Don't you dare touch me like that."
Zoro blinked, hand hovering in the air where Sanji's face had been. "Sanji—"
"Not after—" Sanji laughed, but it was bitter and broken. He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the blond strands hard enough to hurt. "Not after you let him touch you. Not after you let all of them."
The words poured out, venomous and wounded, years of jealousy finally finding voice through the alcohol.
"Do you know what it's like?" Sanji asked. "To watch you leave with them? Every time, Zoro. Every fucking time. Standing there with my heart in pieces while you smile at some stranger, while you let them put their hands on you—"
He stopped, throat closing around the rest. The pain was immense, consuming, a black hole in his chest that swallowed everything. He'd tried to distract himself—drinking until he couldn't see straight, flirting with women who deserved his full attention, his heart—but he could never really be present. Not when Zoro was somewhere else, with someone else, carving out pieces of Sanji's soul with every touch he gave to another.
"I hate you," Sanji whispered, and the tears were back, hot and humiliating, spilling down his cheeks. "I hate that you're so good. That you're so loyal to the crew, that you protect us, that you—" He gestured helplessly at Zoro, at everything he was. "That you make it impossible not to love you. Knowing I'll never—never—have you."
His voice broke on the last word, and he grabbed the front of his shirt, right over his heart and crumpled it between his fingers.
This was making him ill.
"Knowing you'll never look at me like that," he finished, barely audible. "It's fucking killing me, Zoro."
Sanji's blood turned to ice.
The words echoed back at him, horrific and real, slicing through the alcohol haze with devastating clarity. He'd actually said it out loud, to Zoro's face, after years of trying to pretend he didn't feel a thing. The confession sat between them like a wound, bleeding and exposed, and Sanji's heart plummeted through the floor.
No. No no no no—
His stomach lurched violently. All the sake he'd poured down his throat surged upward, bitter and burning, and he gagged, one hand flying to his mouth, the other bracing against the wall. He was going to be sick. He was going to die—of humiliation, of heartbreak, of whatever terrible thing was about to happen when Zoro would reject him.
Because there was no fucking way that Zoro loved him back. Not with this visceral, consuming intensity that had defined Sanji's existence for years. Zoro was indifferent and interested in literally anyone else on the planet. The man at the bar proved it. All the others before him proved it. Sanji was just a nuisance with inconvenient feelings.
How could Zoro love him when even his own family deemed him worthless.
"Sanji—"
"Don't," Sanji choked out, but he didn't know what he was forbidding. Don't reject him? Don't pity him?
His breath came in short, panicked gasps. He clawed at his own chest like he could tear out the heart that had betrayed him, disgust curdling in his gut—what had he been thinking? What had possessed him to open his stupid mouth? He was pathetic. Pining after something he could never have.
"Oi. Cook."
He couldn't hear. The panic was a roar in his ears, drowning everything. Zoro should be laughing. Should be sneering, telling him "You're not my type" or something gentler but equally devastating, something that would hollow him out and leave him empty. Because that's what Sanji deserved for being so stupid, so weak, so desperately in love.
A hand touched his shoulder.
Sanji flinched hard, jerking away, his mind screaming why is he touching me? Zoro should be recoiling. Should be putting distance between them, not—not crowding closer, not touching him with that same gentleness that made Sanji want to scream and cry and beg all at once.
"Don't touch me," Sanji rasped, but there was no force behind it. "You should—just—mock me. Get it over with. Tell me you could never—" His voice cracked, humiliatingly. "That you don't—"
Zoro was watching Sanji unravel, watching him shake and gasp and drown in his own head, and something in his expression shifted. Something fierce and decided.
"Hey, Sanji—"
"—could never want someone like—"
Zoro moved.
He crossed the final distance between them in a heartbeat, hands finding Sanji's hips, gripping tight, and then his mouth was on Sanji's and the world stopped.
Sanji went rigid, stunned into silence, into stillness. His brain short-circuited.
What the fuck was happening ?
Zoro's lips were warm, firm, pressing against his with an intensity that burned through the panic.
Zoro's hands slid around Sanji's waist, large and hot and demanding, pulling him flush against a body that felt like a furnace, solid and real and there. Sanji's fingers found Zoro's hair—green and soft and his at last—and gripped hard, anchoring himself in the sensation. His other hand scrambled for purchase, finding Zoro's shoulder, his shoulder blade, the hard line of muscle he'd only ever touched in combat, now yielding under his palm in an entirely different context.
This is a dream.
But if it was a dream, he would take it, greedily, desperately, storing every second in his memory for the cruel morning after.
Sanji kissed back with everything he had. Years of longing poured into the movement of his lips, the grip of his fingers, the way he surged forward into Zoro's heat. It was better than any fantasy—better than the thousand scenarios he'd imagined. Better than every kiss he'd ever shared with beautiful women who deserved his full attention but never quite got it, because some part of him had always belonged to this man.
Zoro made a sound against his mouth—low, hungry—and Sanji felt it in his spine, in his gut, in the blood rushing south with embarrassing speed. The swordsman angled his head, deepening the kiss, and his tongue traced the seam of Sanji's lips, asking, demanding.
Sanji opened for him with a sob, a soft, broken sound that he couldn't contain. Zoro's tongue slid against his, hot and wet and skilled, and Sanji's knees buckled. He would have fallen if Zoro's arms weren't locked around him, holding him up, holding him close.
The kiss turned languorous, unhurried, like they had all the time in the world. Zoro explored his mouth with devastating thoroughness, mapping him out, learning him. Sanji met him stroke for stroke, tangling his tongue with Zoro's, tasting sake. His hands roamed—down Zoro's back, up his neck, into his hair again—touching everywhere he could reach, memorizing the terrain of a body he'd studied from afar for so long.
He forgot the man at the bar. Forgot the jealousy that had been eating him alive. Forgot everything except the wet slide of Zoro's tongue against his, the way Zoro's thumbs dug into his hips, pulling him impossibly closer, the hard evidence of Zoro's own arousal pressed against his thigh.
Robin-chan was right, some distant part of his mind thought, hazily. If I'd been honest before—if I'd told him—maybe I could have spared myself years of this pain.
But he couldn't think about that now. Couldn't think about why Zoro was kissing him—pity, curiosity, temporary insanity—because Zoro's tongue was tracing his lower lip, nibbling gently, and then plunging back in, and Sanji's thoughts dissolved into pure, golden sensation.
He moaned—soft, helpless, wrecked—and Zoro swallowed the sound, answering with a growl that vibrated through Sanji's entire body.
This was better than alcohol. Better than anything. Zoro's mouth on his, Zoro's hands on his waist, Zoro's body hard and hot against him—it was intoxicating, consuming, and Sanji was drunk on it, drowning in it, never wanting to surface.
"Zoro," he breathed against swollen lips, not knowing if he was begging or thanking or praying.
Zoro pulled back just enough to look at him, eye blown wide and dark with want, pupil blown. His mouth was red, wet, and Sanji wanted it back immediately.
"I've wanted—Fuck, Sanji, I've wanted you for years." Zoro said, voice rough, wrecked.
Sanji's heart stuttered, stopped, restarted. "What?"
But Zoro was kissing him again, fierce and claiming, and Sanji decided he could demand explanations later.
Much, much later.
The kiss spiraled—deeper, wetter, a collision of tongues and teeth and desperate, hungry sounds. Zoro's hands slid down to grip Sanji's ass, hauling him closer, and Sanji gasped into his mouth as their hips collided. The friction was electric, sending sparks up his spine, and he found himself grinding forward without conscious thought, chasing the pressure.
They rutted against each other, messy and urgent, erections straining through fabric, seeking friction. Sanji had never—God, he'd never done this with anyone. His experience started and ended with his own hand, quick and secretive. Before Zoro, his fantasies had been conventional—soft curves, delicate hands, plush lips against his skin. But that was before. Since Zoro had crashed into his life like a hurricane, his fantasies had shifted entirely: Zoro's strong body, those large rough hands, piercing grey eye watching him, sun-kissed skin under his fingertips.
How many times had he ended up in the bathroom after their fights, still flushed with adrenaline, jerking himself off to the memory of Zoro's weight on him, the violence of their clashes transmuting into something desperate and hot in his mind? The conflict between them should have killed his attraction, but instead it had fed it—because Zoro fought him like an equal, unafraid, meeting his fire with fire, and there was something intoxicating about being seen that way, about wrestling and sweating and colliding with someone who didn't hold back.
"Zoro," Sanji breathed, rocking forward, seeking more pressure, more contact. His hands roamed under Zoro's shirt, finally touching the skin he'd dreamed about, mapping the hard planes of muscle, the scars that told stories he wanted to learn by heart.
Zoro groaned, low and wrecked, grinding back with equal desperation. The rhythm they found was filthy, perfect, two bodies moving together with an instinct that bypassed thought entirely. Sanji was dizzy with it—this was better than any fantasy, any late-night imagining. The reality of Zoro's weight against him, the heat of him, the way his breath came sharp and fast against Sanji's lips—
The door swung open.
Sanji jerked back so hard he nearly cracked his head against the wall, face flaming red, heart hammering with mortification. Some random patron stumbled in, reeking of ale, and Sanji tried to pull away, to hide, because fuck, this was embarrassing, this was—
Zoro's grip on his hips tightened. It wasn't painful but immovable. His thumbs dug into Sanji's hipbones, holding him in place, and even through the panic Sanji realized that Zoro wouldn't let go. Not now. Probably not ever. Even if it had been Luffy or Nami or anyone from the crew, Sanji suspected Zoro would have stood his ground, eye blazing with that terrifying determination, grip unyielding.
"Let me go, stupid marimo," Sanji hissed, shooting Zoro a dark look, trying to salvage some dignity.
Zoro didn't even blink. He just watched Sanji with that single eye, pupils blown wide, expression fierce and hungry.
Sanji, desperate and embarrassed and aroused, shoved his hands against Zoro's abs—those ridiculous abs, hard as stone under his palms—and pushed. Except he didn't really push. His hands stayed, fingers spreading, feeling the way Zoro's muscles shifted under his touch, the heat of skin through fabric. He couldn't make himself let go.
Zoro caught his wrists gently, but he didn't pull Sanji's hands away from his chest. Instead, he held them there, pressed against his own thundering heartbeat, and dragged his thumbs across the sensitive skin of Sanji's inner wrists in slow, deliberate strokes.
Sanji's breath hitched. Butterflies erupted in his stomach, wild and frantic, and he knew he was blushing, could feel the heat crawling up his neck. Zoro was caressing him—there, where his pulse hammered, where he was vulnerable—and the intimacy of it made his knees weak.
The drunk patron shuffled past them, completely oblivious, and locked himself in a stall.
Zoro's mouth twitched. He leaned in, pressing a small, soft kiss to Sanji's swollen lips—so different from the desperate clash of moments before, tender and reassuring. Then his hand slid down, finding Sanji's, threading their fingers together without a word.
Sanji stared at their joined hands, throat tight. "Stupid seaweed," he murmured, but there was no bite to it, just breathless wonder. He was definitely blushing harder.
Zoro simply smirked. His eye dropped briefly to the obvious tent in Sanji's pants, and when he looked back up, that determination was back—intensified, promising. He tugged Sanji toward the door, hand firm and warm and strangely delicate in its grip, and Sanji followed through the bar, heart hammering a frantic, pleased rhythm against his ribs.
They emerged into the cool night air, but instead of turning toward the inn, Zoro pulled him in the opposite direction.
"Hey!" Sanji tugged at his hand, indignant, and slipped around to block Zoro's path. He pointed back the other way, trying for authoritative despite his disheveled state. "Stupid marimo, the inn is that way!"
He marched ahead, taking the lead, ignoring Zoro's low chuckle behind him and the mumbled excuse about knowing shortcuts or whatever bullshit Zoro was spewing.
But as they walked, Sanji's bravado faltered. The further they got from the bar, the more his apprehension grew—a tight ball forming in his stomach, anticipation and nerves tangling together. They didn't need to speak; he understood exactly where this was heading. The grinding in the bathroom, the way Zoro had looked at him, touched him—this was leading somewhere inevitable.
And God, he wanted it. Had wanted it for years, jerking off to fantasies of exactly this, of Zoro's hands on him, of them together, making love because Sanji was a romantic at his core, because his feelings ran deep and true and had for so long. But there was the terror too—his first time, with Zoro, and even if he knew the mechanics, even if he'd heard stories at the Baratie, he had no practice.
Sanji took a shaky breath and held on tighter on Zoro's hand.
It was going to be okay.
Because he trusted Zoro with his life, anyway.