Archive of Our Own

Sanji has always envied Zoro, even admired him, ever since he proved to be a man of his word, a man who valued his dreams more than his life, and that this life had no meaning without ambition.

He never told anyone, but somehow Zoro sensed it, and that’s one of the reasons why it’s so easy for him to provoke the cook. Sanji seems to chase after him like a man who knows he can’t catch up, and Zoro laughs at him because nothing could be further from the truth.

Zoro, for his part, did not immediately warm to the cook. He respected his point of view, even though he found it sad. Then Sanji joined the crew, and Zoro quickly wondered how this force of nature, this insane talent, could have believed for a single second that achieving his dreams was impossible.

Sanji has so many skills Zoro is convinced of one thing: if the All Blue doesn’t exist, he could simply create it.

But Sanji’s finest strength is undoubtedly having won over so many hearts that each and every one of them would be willing to dig up this ocean if it turned out to be fictional. Sanji wouldn’t have to lift a finger. All the men, women, and children to whom he has shown his kindness would bend over some abandoned land, sink their nails into it, scrape their hands so the cook wouldn’t have to hurt his, and the All Blue would be there, a watery mirror to his flamboyant heart. Sanji would become its master, its king, like Luffy is the king of pirates and Zoro is the king of hell, not because he wanted it, but because his actions would have elevated him to this unlikely rank without him even having to ask.

However, the first time Zoro admires Sanji and falls a little in love with him is when he discovers him, furious, with the skull of that stupid lieutenant in his hand. A wild expression adorns his princely features, his piercing gaze sends shivers down the spines of the most fragile hearts, and yet, Zoro already knows this raw aura that licks his guts like molten gold comes from an inner purity only Luffy should have possessed. In the meantime, the cook knows how to fight, and the swordsman always wants to measure up to these warriors who have honed their skills to perfection.

The second time is obvious, because Zoro sees the cook fight. Sanji is as powerful as he expected, as violent, vibrant, reckless… The way he moves his legs like weapons would have hypnotized him if he weren’t about to faint. Sanji is focused and nonchalant, in control even in his panic, and his hair looks like a patch of molten metal when he moves too fast for the eye to follow.

Then Sanji dives and swims as if he were born in the water. As if this childish dream he had given up on was not just a legendary ocean, but a desire to find himself among his own kind.

Zoro is an excellent swimmer. However, Sanji is faster, more fluid, more graceful. Zoro would never admit it, but he thinks it’s fitting that the cook is so attracted to mermaids. In his eyes, they are almost the same species, and Sanji should reign among them, merman without a fish tail, missing link between their two species.

Zoro admires Sanji and falls a little in love when he tastes his food. It is also the first time he feels left behind and experiences the need to do better, not only by his own standards, but also in relation to the cook. He, who thought he was so superior, finds himself lagging, a dead weight unable to follow his peer in the clouds he dominates.

For this man… This man with such perfect martial skills, this man so foolish, obsessed with women, romance, and sex, this man so great, so competent, so complete already… This man’s main asset is not even that he is an outstanding fighter… His function, his passion, his thing… is feeding people.

Zoro has never eaten anything so good, of course. He is careful not to mention it. It’s not as if it weren’t obvious, or as if Sanji weren’t aware of it. The cook seems convinced he never does enough, but at least he is confident in his talents. With each demonstration, Zoro imagines Sanji’s radiance becoming a little more powerful, and the king’s crown he hallucinates on his blond head slowly gains substance.

Then Zoro discovers Sanji is also a good actor. He plays all kinds of roles, from the most absurd to the most necessary. When he calls himself Mr. Prince, it’s to flirt with girls. The next moment, it’s to thwart the plans of a warlord by faking his death. He can infiltrate a marine base without being spotted, he plays the hunter facing a wolf, he strikes a pose to better get himself killed. Zoro falls a little more in love, feels more distanced by all this versatility, and the crown shines almost like a divine halo above the yet already blond skull.

Sanji also knows far too much, even for someone as multi-talented. It’s one thing for him to be able to identify a species of fish at a glance, guess the contents of a dish just by its smell, master the table manners of several cultures to the point he never accompanies sushi with a useless pair of chopsticks.

But why does he know so much about the Grand Line without ever having set foot there? The gossip of Baratie’s customers is not enough to explain. And where did he learn all this basic knowledge? Navigation, mechanics, science, biology, devil fruits… Since joining the crew, the cook has also absorbed rudiments of cartography, even if it’s because he listens religiously to his precious Nami. When Robin joined them, Sanji began quoting her as if he were a historian himself, and the man and woman sometimes sound just as expert to the swordsman’s often overloaded ears.

In short, the cook is smarter than his immunity to disease would suggest, and when Zoro discovers what malicious science has forged this being whose benevolence has prevailed, he feels as if he has solved one of the many mysteries surrounding his peer’s dramatically changing personality. It is this revelation that makes him fall in love once and for all: Sanji is a fairy-tale prince. Is it any wonder Zoro has always been convinced that one day, the cook would become a third king alongside their captain?

Sanji is so many things, he can do so many things… The swordsman would like to be able to say the same about himself, to be strong enough that the cook doesn’t need to fight, even after understanding Sanji derives his own satisfaction from it, even after elevating Sanji much higher, to the position that makes him the only man Zoro will ever rely on…

Meanwhile, Zoro is too focused on these sensations to realize that, if he sees all these drops of solidified yellow gold in the shape of blond hair, it’s not because they symbolize the distance that makes Zoro feel like the cook is untouchable, it’s because they were forged by love.

And it takes Sanji’s love, the love he lavishes on those around him without reserve, to make Zoro realize the nature of his feelings for him.

That day, Zoro admires the cook’s versatility once again and, without noticing, falls a little further behind and a little more in love.

It has been some time since he symbolically conquered hell and became a conqueror himself, one of those grandiose men who change the world through sheer willpower. He doesn’t know how others perceive his own crown, he doesn’t want it to define him. It is but a tool for his ambition. However, much like Luffy, he began to reign without meaning to, just as Sanji reigns over all those hearts that slowly submit to the power of his love.

Luffy and he are the only ones who have always discerned the crown on Sanji’s head, that divine aura the cook himself continues to shun, and this is yet another of his greatest powers: the awareness that all this talent does not make him a superior being, but simply a human who has the means to bestow his care upon the entire universe.

Zoro finds his fictional crown, made of iron and grief, ugly and weathered compared to the radiance of his peers’. Luffy and his white essence shine with every smile, Sanji and his golden halo reflect the sun as if, instead of feeding on it, he were gathering its benefits to dispense them to the world. And isn’t that what the cook has been doing, after all, long before the sun took the form of their captain? Isn’t that what the cook has been doing since he came into existence, tiny fairy-tale prince lost in a kingdom of modern wizards and gray skies where no sun ever shone, but the sun was already burning in the child’s heart, and all it took was a little luck, a twist of fate, to reveal the golden fire of his regal soul?

On that day, Zoro perceives Sanji more clearly than ever as the king he has always been. He doesn’t know what to do with this image in his head, but he treasures it and pretends it antagonizes him, even though it complements and elevates him like never before.

Sanji is just cooking, as always, but if that were it, the swordsman would have continued drinking and pretending he was there by chance. It’s half true: he got lost for part of the evening and only ended up in front of this scene because he smelled alcohol nearby.

The crew bustles around, elsewhere, busy feasting as is so often the case. The villagers they saved from some random disaster have cleared a large field whose plowed mounds make for the worst possible terrain to hold a banquet, but everyone is making do.

Franky flattened a dance floor on which the cook has already made people of all ages dance, because even though Sanji likes pretty girls, he never hesitates to give people a good time if they wish. He picked up a baby girl swimming in a blue dress riddled with holes, tucked her into the crook of his elbow, and started waltzing. He spun Chopper around at arm’s length and suddenly let go, sending the reindeer crashing onto Luffy’s round belly, and they all screamed with laughter. He taught a blushing teenager a few cha-cha steps, then swing danced with a grandma. She made him an indecent proposal, which he declined as delicately as usual, despite the grimace on his face.

Zoro made fun of him. They fought.

Usopp grew trees to provide shade and support for early sleepers and drunkards. Sanji flew away to hang up colorful lanterns and fluorescent garlands.

Nami made it rain in a corner, so they wouldn’t have to move too much water. Sanji got wet fetching the tanks and relocated them where needed, with his usual impressive sense of priorities.

Zoro complained, asking where the alcohol was. They argued.

Chopper ran his infirmary late into the night. Sanji found time to grind some herbs into powder for him and act as a medical assistant, as well as preparing meals suitable for the sick and injured. The cook knows how to do rough sutures, because he also knows how to sew, because he had to learn. Zoro gathered he already knew how before he needed it for cooking, and deep down, he guessed that if the stitches on his ankles are so neat for an amateur, it’s because Sanji had to stitch himself up before trussing a roast, closing a fish, or even adjusting his clothes. Sometimes he looks at the scar on his chest and regrets Sanji didn’t stitch that one too.

For his part, Zoro reset a few dislocated bones. Sanji helped him without a word.

Robin made the trees blossom, scattered petals all over the parched field, then wove flowers into the villagers’ long hair. Sanji wove hers, because he knows how to do that too, murmuring incessant “Mellorines.”

Zoro called him a horny freak when he touched the beautiful jet-black hair and a drop of blood dripped from his nose.

Then he called himself a hypocrite as he looked at the cook’s hair and thought that one or two braids would materialize the crown he fantasies on the blond skull, and give Sanji a slight Viking air that would make Zoro internally sing “Mellorine” throughout his entire vocal range.

Zoro drank to clear his head. Sanji braided Usopp’s hair while the latter braided Luffy’s. They teased him because his hair is too short. Zoro decided to let it grow just enough so he too could qualify for a braid the next time they indulged in this whim. He will protest the whole time, but he will keep the ornament for the rest of the evening under the pretext that it doesn’t bother him.

Sanji sang with Brook, because the cook can sing too. Zoro is starting to think that the day the cook pulls out a musical instrument and plays it as if he’s been doing it all his life, he won’t be surprised. Then the cook’s voice, suavely light and too perfect, reached him, and he remembered vocal cords are their own instrument.

Zoro hummed quietly as he drank, careful not to let anyone hear him. He caught himself thinking that one day, he might like to join his voice with the cook’s.

Most of the humans no longer fear Jinbe, and the fishman affectionately described the kingdom under the sea, the mermaid princess, and the terrifying depths. He stared at Luffy, already in the thick of the party, dancing badly, singing out of tune, eating messily and laughing loudly. Zoro knew he spoke of the sun on the surface. For a moment, he caught the gaze of his peers on their captain, and they felt even more in tune than usual, because the sun fishmen hope for is the same one that Luffy showers them with.

Finally, Zoro cut down some trees to make a large fire in the middle of the field, as well as benches and tables around the dance floor. Sanji lit the pit with a kick, pushed some benches under the trees, and set all the tables.

Now, because the captain was hungry again and it was time for dessert, Sanji is back to cooking.

Zoro is there, a little drunk. He is sitting on a bench that Sanji moved, under a tree he decorated, next to a girl he made dance. The smell of the cool water she is drinking cuts through the fumes of his alcohol. She is still pale, but Sanji’s broth has revived her. She sings, and her flower-adorned hair floats around her radiant face. The cook would find her drop-dead gorgeous if he weren’t busy at his stove in front of a horde of curious children.

A set of tables made of tree trunks and kitchen equipment stands in front of Sanji. He bustles about, opening pre-filled containers — because while Sanji can whip up a feast in thirty minutes, he also knows how to plan it days in advance.

The little ones all sat facing him as if they were at a puppet theater. On the side, Usopp and Franky improvised as commentators, analyzing movements too fast for their eyes and techniques they know nothing about.

“Watch out, my dear Franky, kids, the magic is happening!”

“Take a good look at this foul mixture, you’ll see…”

Sanji beats egg whites at a speed that should have caused them to explode. The children sigh in awe as they watch the batter take shape.

The cook stirs a pot of melted chocolate, its aroma filling the air and making pirates and children alike salivate. With a few more strokes, the chocolate mousse is revealed. He divides it into two gigantic dishes and adds triple sec to one of them, which convinces Zoro to try the dessert.

Sanji whispers in his theatrical tone as he places the containers in a giant cooler:

“Now we have to wait for the magic to wear off, and then we can eat without getting sick.”

The little ones swallow hard, but the cook has something to keep them busy in the meantime. He has also prepared tons of yellowish ramekins, and in the light of the lanterns, they have an unreal transparent tinge.

Sanji takes out a pocket blowtorch and gently spits fire from it to make sure the children aren’t too surprised. They hold their breath, impressed. Franky takes notes to improve the device. Chopper, attracted by the smell of sugar, approaches with interest. Zoro, meanwhile, has eyes only for the blond hair that momentarily glows in their golden-yellow hue and for the precious metal with which his mind has adorned them.

Suddenly, the cook’s left hand moves. He takes on a mysterious air, smiling radiantly at the small gathering, and declares:

“Now, dear friends… for this trick, I’m going to need your help. I can’t do it alone, because, you see, it is veeeeery advanced magic.”

The children hold their breath. Zoro notices one of them forget to swallow, and his saliva drips down his chin. He snickers.

“This spell must be cast collectively, otherwise it may fail. So, I’m going to teach you a magic formula. And I’m going to ask you to repeat it after me.”

The children squirm, laugh, and enjoy the idea of being included in the show. A little girl has found a stick and is already waving it around like a fairy wand.

Sanji’s left hand is still moving, fascinating. No one thinks to look at what the cook is doing with his other limb, but Zoro sees him adding something to the bland ramekins.

“Okay, are you ready?”

The children nod, shouting “Yeeeeees?!” with an almost suspicious look on their faces.

“Sanji! Food!”

The cook pauses as he receives his captain on his shoulders. The crown wobbles comically before Zoro’s eyes, then settles back into place, shining brighter than ever, a reflection of the laughter in which the pirate king, long crowned in their eyes, drowns them all.

The little ones, disappointed, begin to sulk, but the cook is too adaptable to let himself be overwhelmed.

“Ah, Luffy, you’re just in time. You’re going to help us too. My captain…”

Sanji struggles desperately to extricate himself from Luffy, using one leg at an absurd angle. The flexible movement finally pays off.

“My captain, you see, already knows the magic formula and has spoiled the surprise a little. But now you can repeat after me.”

Zoro sees him muttering something to Luffy while stomping on his face, no doubt to prevent him from disrupting his show. The shape of his lips forms the words “Shitty rubber!”, but the enthusiastic shout that follows contradicts his aggressiveness:

“Come on, repeat after me the magic words: Sanji, food!”

Luffy’s eyes widen at the mention, and the god-man roars in his benevolent storm voice:

“Sanjiii! Food!”

The children comply, some eager, others hesitant.

Sanji scratches his chin as he looks at his ramekins, skeptical.

“Hmm, I don’t think we put enough energy into it. Let’s try again. Louder this time. As loud as this pain in the neck.”

He glances doubtfully at the children, then adds:

“You can shout louder than Luffy, all together, right?”

The children fidget, nod, protest.

“Okay, let’s try again… Sanji, food!”

Luffy, who took the orders for himself and understands he must scream even louder, once again covers the mass of high-pitched squeals. However, this time the cook seems satisfied with the overall performance and, with his ever-moving hand they couldn’t take their eyes off, he makes a dramatic gesture.

Then, a shower of glitter falls around him, materializing the crowns on his hair and Luffy’s. At the same moment, the table explodes into sparks of all colors.

Under the astonished gaze of the children, the ramekins ignite for a moment as they take on different shapes and tones. The cook’s hands, too fast for the eye to follow, rendered invisible by the explosion of the magician’s powers, decorate the ensemble before the bewildered children.

Zoro smells aromas of syrup and alcohol filling his nostrils. The scene brings a smile to his face.

The additions suddenly materialize in the containers as the glitter and sparkles disappear: palm trees, sugar figurines, and shimmering coulis.

Each ramekin has its own taste, its own identity. Zoro recognizes those reserved for the crew, and among them, the familiar scent of rum raisin.

A ceramic dish contains Luffy’s portion, which Sanji provides to divert his interest from the other personalized desserts.

The children receive crème brûlées decorated with animals. Sanji grabs the trays on which he’s placed the rest of the servings and rushes over to the women of the crew. Usopp and Franky have grabbed theirs on the fly. The cook won’t bring him his dessert knowing he’s so close, so Zoro is about to get up and disrupt his poor attempts at flirting, but Sanji is already back.

Only two ramekins remain on the tray. One is decorated with a cherry and fake flower petals, the other with marinated grapes.

“Oh, it’s you,” Sanji grumbles, grimacing, but Zoro knows the rum and grapes are for him, so he chooses to ignore him and help himself, grumbling as well.

Sanji responds with an annoyed growl, then turns to the young woman who was singing next to him and says in his suave yet theatrical tone:

“Don’t mind him, lovely lady. I indulged in… a little fantasy that made me think of you.”

The young woman hesitates, a little embarrassed, but the aroma of rose wafting from the ramekin already makes her melt, and before Zoro has time to bring his spoon to his mouth, she’s taken the container in her hands and thanked the cook.

They both look at the mixture, colorful and far too personalized for what it is about to become, then raise their spoons at the same time. A shared groan escapes their lips as Sanji’s eyes are fixed on the pretty girl, but the way his ear twitches tells Zoro he’s heard his hoarse voice and finds it satisfying.

The pretty girl almost faints. Zoro, accustomed to the cook’s divine food, simply adjusts himself on his bench and takes a big swig of alcohol. Sanji chuckles and takes advantage of his success to ask her for a dance when she has finished her dessert. The girl accepts, and as he devours the rest of his rum raisin crème brûlée, Zoro tells himself that if the idiot had asked him for a dance, even as a joke, he would have agreed.

As a joke, of course.

Sanji returned to his assortment of tables, and this time, Zoro can’t resist approaching him, because the cook has brought out an army of bottles whose heady aroma he can already smell.

Sanji smiles at him knowingly. Zoro finds himself hoping for something more. A wink, a little wave, an invitation. He shakes his head and finishes his dessert, distracted by the images that are beginning to fill his mind.

At that moment, Sanji starts juggling.

It’s not the first time he’s seen him do it, but it’s something else the cook has mastered when perhaps he shouldn’t have. Because it’s too much. How can this already so talented man constantly show just how much more he is capable of? Zoro knows that Sanji is a perfectionist, that he works himself to death, that he tries to compensate for something by any means necessary… However, even if the cook has specialized out of a need to be perfect, to respond to a survival mechanism Zoro doesn’t fully understand but which requires Sanji to be so obsessively versatile and expert in every art he touches, it all seems absurd to the swordsman.

Some time ago, he realized there are many different disciplines in cooking. Chefs, pastry chefs, mixologists, bakers, butchers, and who knows what else, are all different. They don’t learn the same things. They devote themselves to a single branch of this vast world of possibilities. Except Sanji. Because Sanji can do everything. So Sanji isn’t just a chef. He’s a pâtissier talented enough to have knocked out an empress of the seas with a cake. An outstanding baker who makes his own bread with minimal tools, even if some people he won’t name aren’t so grateful. He’s a butcher capable of cutting up a sea king with a precision Zoro and his lack of knowledge regarding animal anatomy could never match. He’s a superb performer who comes up with improbable recipes and knows how to captivate dozens of children.

Other crew members approached as the children joined their parents to tell them about the cook-magician’s tricks. Some lingered and watched the cook continue his performance. Sanji smiled, proud, loving and loved as he should always be.

Zoro isn’t usually a fan of cocktails, but Sanji seems so happy, so fulfilled, too perfect for his own good and too watched to disappear, that Zoro decides to stay.

It’s an exception he doesn’t regret.

Sanji makes transparent shakers fly in multiple, fascinating arcs. He pours liquids from an improbable distance, controlling the momentum he gives to the bottles so as not to waste a single drop.

Suddenly, before his eyes, there are blue coupes covered in foam, steaming cocktail glasses, punch tumblers, and flaming shots. The partygoers help themselves. Zoro reaches out to grab a flaming shot, certain of its alcohol content, but pale fingers push it in front of him.

The wink he hopes for is there, sealing the cook’s only visible pupil for a moment. Zoro wonders if making the effort to get closer, if simply taking a few steps toward his friend, has changed the balance between them and prompted Sanji to respond to this small truce. If he has just found a way to catch up with him.

Until now, Zoro’s been content with watching from afar. It has never bothered him; he likes to take in the whole picture and admire his peers casually, giving them knowing or tender glances they may not necessarily notice, but which they will feel deep within their beings.

However, for the first time, he wants to change the dynamic. He wants to see more closely, he wants to share in Sanji’s enthusiasm as he has never wanted to for anyone else. It won’t be the first time they’ve drunk together. Nor will it be the first time they’ve managed to laugh while looking each other in the eye. The conflict will return, he knows, but for now, he just wants to admire Sanji as closely as possible, and perhaps, by reaching out and touching all the things the cook does, graze the essence of this man who occupies so much space in his life and… and in his heart, he realizes as he sees Sanji raise his own flaming shot glass.

The fire casts mysterious shadows and unusual reliefs across his face. Instead of hiding it, spoiling it, it plays on his pale skin and seems to reveal its hollows, folds, and scars. It makes the gold shine, precious metal of the crown adorning the skull of this fallen prince, this champion of the people, this servile king.

Zoro straightens up and raises his shot in response, too lost to smile, but Sanji takes no offense. He places his hand on the glass to smother the flame, then drinks, his head thrown back. His hair floats with the movement, his crown falls to reveal his humble humanity. For a moment, Zoro imagines the flame is still at his lips, giving the impression that, for once, instead of dispensing his fire to the world, Sanji is taking his share.

His jaw tightens, his throat swallows, his long neck bends before its dormant power straightens it back. Zoro jerks. He smothers the fire in his hands, burns himself a little, and empties his shot as fast as he can. It’s delicious, a mixture of rum and lemon, perfectly to his taste.

“Are you a magician too?”

The high-pitched voice snaps him out of his stupor. He looks down at a little boy with a toothless smile who is wiping drool from his lips. Zoro recognizes the kid from earlier.

“Uh.”

Sanji’s clear laughter answers for him.

“He’s a novice,” he says. “He specializes in teleportation. Sometimes he’s with us in the middle of town, and then he suddenly disappears. Poof!”

Sanji spreads his fingers for effect.

“An hour later, we find him in the middle of a field.”

The little boy lets out an impressed cry as he stares at Zoro. The latter can’t even protest at the jab, caught by the innocent gaze. Sanji hides behind his counter to giggle. Zoro throws his empty shot glass at his face, but the cook is too dexterous to take offense. His hand catches it in midair and gives him the middle finger in response.

The little boy is still there, however. He examines the table hesitantly, his index finger on his mouth. His short black hair flutters in the wind, his brown skin covered with cuts Chopper has smeared with cream.

Suddenly, he seems to reach a decision. He stares at an empty bowl, shakes his fingers awkwardly, then takes a deep breath and yells at the top of his lungs:

“Sanji, food!”

Zoro feels an impromptu blow to his heart. He doesn’t know why, but his eye wells up as he realizes that this man, this foolish man, through his existence, his skill, and his kindness, never limits himself to feeding bodies without also feeding hearts, souls, and dreams. The crown is there, he realizes, not in everything Sanji can do, but in everything he does, because all he does is dispense his love, and since Luffy, this is how Zoro recognizes true kings.

Sanji bursts out laughing. Zoro swallows.

Then the cook takes the bowl in his hands, looks inside, and comments:

“Oh, that’s a lot of magic, well done!”

He spins around, makes a few movements too quick for the eye to follow, and an identical bowl appears before the eyes of his two spectators. It’s filled with a chocolate mousse emitting an almost intoxicating aroma. The little boy lets out a cry of joy.

“Thank you, Sanji!” he exclaims, grabbing the bowl and the spoon the cook adds.

“You’re welcome, pet. I could never have done it without you”, the cook says, giving Zoro another wink.

Zoro’s heart melts at the privilege of this second nonverbal communication, devoid of aggression. He decides he hasn’t had enough to drink for the evening.

The little boy disappears into the crowd with his chocolate mousse. Zoro knows that several children and adults, including other members of his crew, will soon rush over to get their share of the nourishing magic.

He remembers the smell of triple sec that wafted through the air when Sanji divided up the dessert portions. He wants to approach the cook, to ask for more, because Sanji is always available, even though he claims otherwise. Zoro verbalizes it as directly as usual:

“Hey, cook. Do I get a magic trick too?”

Sanji raises an eyebrow. Zoro imagines the second one doing the same. Thin lips pinch the cigarette that adorns them, a nervous tic the cook has never lost, even now that he is better and it shows.

“Don’t you hate chocolate?” Sanji asks playfully, as if Zoro didn’t gobble up absolutely everything the cook serves them, because everything tastes so good when he cooks it, even the most syrupy of cakes.

Zoro points to a bottle a little further away, decorated with a red ribbon.

“You put that in the adult mousse. It can’t be bad if there’s alcohol in it.”

Sanji, always impressed by his ability to smell spirits when he can barely tell a clove of garlic from an onion, immediately rewards him with his own bowl of chocolate mousse.

Zoro eagerly dips his spoon in, recognizing the rich orange scent that characterizes the liqueur. It gives the mousse a bitter note, just right for his picky palate. The dessert melts on his tongue, leaving behind a perfectly balanced blend of flavors that keeps him from grimacing at the sweetness. The chocolate is dark, intense, almost juicy in this form.

He wants to make a comment, a compliment, but he’s always a little too irreverent for that, so a very different sentence comes out of his mouth.

“What’s there to drink with it?”

Sanji gives him a condescending look, sighs, then mutters irritably:

“Not a shred of gratitude, huh…”

It’s just their way of communicating, of course, because thirty seconds later, a cocktail appears before the swordsman’s eyes. The liquid is transparent brown with some white foam on top. Zoro recognizes vodka, the same triple sec that Sanji sprinkled on the dessert, and… coffee? Coffee liqueur, too. He should have guessed when he noticed the small grains in the foam, among a few shavings of dark chocolate. How it all floats, he doesn’t know, but he eagerly grabs the glass.

“It’s called an espresso martini, if you want to remember for next time.”

The cook uttered the sentence with resignation, as if he had a hunch Zoro wouldn’t do anything with it. He’s right: Zoro has no idea what exactly he’s eating or drinking. He just knows that it’s good, and that whatever Sanji serves him will always be good, so why hold back flavorless words when the cook could offer him anything and he would immediately declare the dish in question to be his favorite?

Zoro is about to drink when he notices the dozen bowls and glasses already lined up on trays, within reach of adults and children depending on their contents. Orange vodka for Nami, Irish coffee for Robin. There’s milk for Brook, cherry juice for Luffy and Chopper. All the drinks go perfectly with the prepared mousse, and…

“Hey, what did you make yourself?” he suddenly asks, scanning the glasses in search of a cocktail that might appeal to the cook.

Sanji gives him a surprised look, but replies:

“Oh, nothing yet.”

Chopper, pursued by Luffy and a few children, comes rushing back before Zoro can react. Shouts ring out, thanks are given. Sanji distributes, refills, whirls around and smiles. Zoro wonders how many more years it will take the cook to realize he forgets himself in the pleasure he provides others. Then he realizes he doesn’t have to wait for it to happen if there’s someone around to help him.

When the commotion dies down, the dishes are empty. So Sanji begins his usual cleaning routine, putting away his utensils, sorting everything into boxes, rinsing what he can. He leaves a few bottles out for latecomers — or for Zoro, the swordsman has never bothered to note if there was a difference until now.

Finally, the cook looks at the empty alcoholic mousse terrine and does something Zoro’s brain has never deigned register.

With a satisfied, childlike expression, he reaches into the dish and scrapes the bottom with his index finger. A small layer of chocolate comes off, which Sanji licks with relish. He repeats the movement over and over again, and really, Zoro should have noticed that alcoholic leftovers, often neglected by Luffy, end up in the sink as clean as if their captain had dealt with them.

Considering the cook’s smile, seemingly oblivious to his presence, this is an anti-waste method he takes full advantage of. Zoro lets out a sigh of relief. The cook knows how to take care of himself in his own way, in his practical sense, even though these little pleasures are always linked to everything Sanji does for others.

Zoro grabs one of the bottles closest to him — an excellent spiced dark rum — and chuckles despite himself.

That’s when the cook notices the espresso martini the swordsman has discreetly pushed to his side of the table. Sanji may treat himself to leftover chocolate mousse, but he doesn’t have time to make his own cocktails.

The cook finishes the cigarette at his lips and extinguishes it in his pocket ashtray. He seems surprised, but tries to maintain his nonchalant air.

“Oh, that wasn’t there before. Didn’t know you’d mastered that kind of magic.”

Zoro chuckles, drinking his rum to maintain the same composure as his peer.

“Heh, I’m a teleportation specialist, I hear.”

This time, the wink comes from him, and Sanji bursts out laughing. The golden crown glitters on his half-hidden forehead, illuminating his boyish face. Zoro feels privileged to have elicited such a reaction.

“It’s called an espresso martini,” he says haughtily.

Sanji chuckles again, Zoro imitates him.

They spend the next half hour discussing alcohol while Sanji’s index finger wipes away all traces of chocolate from the large container. At the same time, the cook slowly savors the cocktail.

Zoro can’t believe his luck. All he had to do was move a little closer to get a better look at the cook and his talents. All he had to do was reach out his hand for the cook to open up to him. Winks, smiles, words… they usually address each other like this, of course, but there is a certain intimacy to this exchange that Zoro had never sought before. If that’s all it takes to have the honor of observing Sanji and all the things he does so well, Zoro tells himself he’ll be back for more. It doesn’t matter if the cook is too far away, too inaccessible, at least he’ll see that he’s there, that he’s watching him, and that this gaze makes him exist.

When the cook disappears, it’s because he owes the pretty girl on the bench a dance. He spins her around, holds her close, and Zoro finds Sanji magnificent in the amazed smile he gives her.

He finds himself smiling too: despite his eccentricity, the cook has always possessed unlikely powers of seduction. It’s not so much in his behavior, his exaggerated body language, or his sometimes intimidating attraction. It’s in the way he looks at them, the way he can show a woman the full extent of his fascination to her. It’s in his overly sweet words that so many of them seem to need to hear. It’s in the warmth of his hand that brushes against them without ever pressing.

And he seems so happy just to give them a little love, content to hope they will respond… He pretends to be disappointed when they reject him, but he remains just as devoted to them afterwards, and perhaps that is why they sometimes change their minds. Sanji’s love has never been conditional, and it’s his greatest strength.

Under the cook’s burning gaze, the girl suddenly becomes beautiful herself, and Zoro realizes it’s thanks to Sanji. He watches them walk away from the dance floor and disappear into a wheat field. Zoro is happy for the cook: it’s rare for him to be able to slip away for some fun, and even rarer to do so with a girl on his arm.

When they reappear, they have ears of corn in their hair, forming a crown on the royal head. They laugh quietly and collapse against a tree near the bar where Zoro has anchored himself. The girl giggles and blushes, Sanji seems over the moon. A scarlet mark under his nose indicates he has been bleeding.

They fall asleep in each other’s arms, and Zoro watches over them protectively.

He wonders for a moment if he could still reach out his hand, approach the cook and the happiness that radiates from this charming, ephemeral couple. If he makes it to the tree, he could lean against it. He might be able to get close enough to touch the cook, so that Sanji, half asleep, would put his arm around his shoulder and let him doze against him.

Zoro knows he weighs more than the pretty girl clinging to the cook’s elbow, but Sanji has always been able to lift him as if he weighed nothing.

As he gulps down his last sip of rum, he makes a decision. He loves Sanji, and he wants to show that love in his own way. He wants to reach the cook, catch him, and lift him up in turn, even if Sanji refuses to let him because he’s too good at fending for himself. At being loved only from a distance.

Zoro wants to make up for all that, and if the only thing the cook doesn’t know how to do is let himself be loved, Zoro will learn for him.

Sanji can lift Zoro as if he weighs nothing, but the swordsman has barely made up his mind than he already starts feeling heavy. Literally, because the first gap he notes between them is, of course, related to their martial prowess: Sanji can support his peers in the air, and Zoro is totally dependent on this ability.

However, the cook isn’t always around when he needs to be thrown into the air, and more and more of their battles require aerial movement. Luffy, their pirate king, is often busy or lost who knows where. Zoro regularly finds himself alone in situations where flying is a necessity, and while he can count on Sanji, the latter has too many responsibilities in his eyes.

Zoro knows what he has to do, but before asking the cook for this favor, he must ensure he lightens his burden.

Since that night when he realized he loved Sanji and wanted to express his feelings, Zoro has been reflecting deeply. He understood that reaching out wasn’t enough, that to love Sanji, he had to make room for him, to give him time, space, an emptiness in which the cook couldn’t flee from the love of his peers as if he were convinced he didn’t deserve it.

Zoro is a man of action. He didn’t say a word, but he told himself that maybe, instead of being content with just giving back, he could also provide.

To begin with, he memorized the names of cocktails and alcoholic beverages, thinking it would lighten Sanji’s mental load a little. Now he takes the initiative to serve people himself — only men, though, as Sanji is only too happy to serve women.

He asked Chopper to teach him how to suture. He sometimes helps Usopp and Robin with their garden, and he braids Nami’s hair regularly. He still doesn’t understand how mechanical gears operate, but he knows how cola works and how to format wapometal. He has read books on world history, topics that interest him enough to keep him awake: strategy, great battles, famous warriors. He struggled with a form of shyness he didn’t think he had in order to sing with Brook, who gave him a harmonica until he finds his voice. He adopted Zen practices for serving tea, so much so that he improved his meditation methods and Sanji gave him carte blanche regarding his use of the dedicated cupboard.

At first, the cook didn’t notice anything. Learning and knowing things aren’t something that happens overnight, let alone something you brag about if you want to be credible.

Sanji associated cocktails with his interest in alcohol, sutures with an obvious necessity, and the rest with Zoro’s visceral need to watch over his peers. The swordsman didn’t blame him: Sanji finds it hard to believe anyone would want to do anything for him. How could he guess Zoro allows himself to change with the dual purpose of helping him, but also sharing things with him? Sanji doesn’t think anyone would go that far.

This golden-crowned man, who feeds sun and hell with his burning love, is unaware that all his subjects, all his peers, would move Heaven and Earth for him if he asked. But Sanji doesn’t ask. Doesn’t expect. Sanji does. So Zoro does too, until the cook finally confronts him.

“Hey, Marimo. Got something to ask me?”

Zoro hesitates. He has several things to ask, now that he’s given the chance, but he doesn’t know how to phrase most of them. He focuses on the present, on the urgency, as always in his rational mind which prefers to contain his emotions and transform them into cold analysis.

“Would you teach me how to fly?”

Sanji drops his cigarette. His surprised expression disappears almost instantly into the pitch-black starry night, but his blond hair glows, keeping his king’s crown intact even in the deepest darkness.

Zoro is leaning on the Sunny’s railing at the grassy deck. The cook has joined him to confront him, probably because he finally noticed his antics and rightly concluded Zoro is trying to earn the right to rely on him in return.

The swordsman is careful not to tell him this concrete goal allows him to hide his true desires, and that once he has mastered the sky walk, he will persist in his attentions.

“Wait…” begins the cook, still stunned.

Zoro gets ready to justify himself, to explain why it’s necessary, how important it is if they want to be able to carry Luffy to the skies and support his dream. It’s not something they’re doing for themselves, it’s something they have to do for their peers. So they can protect them better. So Zoro can be less dependent on Sanji and all the other people who fill in for him when he’s away. So Sanji doesn’t have to be so vigilant about Zoro’s needs anymore.

“You did all that… just so you wouldn’t feel indebted to me?”

Zoro would have blushed if it were entirely true. Maybe he does blush a little, his cheeks warming slightly, but it’s not noticeable on his matte skin in the darkness.

“No,” he replies sincerely.

Sanji raises an eyebrow, but his question already carries the positive answer Zoro was expecting. The latter opts for honesty:

“You’re always doing lots of stuff and you know lots of things. It’s not just about cooking. So, if I want to live up to my captain, it’s important that I know how to do at least some of it too.”

Sanji picks up his cigarette from the ground, lights it again with a nonchalant gesture, then looks him in the eye once more.

Zoro finds him beautiful in this soft and confused expression he wears when a man shows a little tenderness.

“I get it. It’s hard to live up to a god. I myself feel like I never do enough. I didn’t think that…”

The cook stops, as if voicing the doubt in Zoro’s heart would shatter the image he has of his peer. As if Sanji couldn’t allow himself to realize that Zoro himself, despite showing it every day through overly intense training and senseless risk-taking, never feels completely up to the task.

“You do too much,” Zoro interrupts, never one to hold back his stray thoughts.

Sanji freezes, surprised.

“Excuse me?”

Zoro shakes his head, but since he’s started, he might as well finish. He knows Sanji won’t let him off the hook. Worse still, Sanji might figure out way too much if he lets him come to his own conclusions. So Zoro needs to regain control and reveal only what matters, what he can afford to say.

“If I tried to learn the things you know how to do, it’s because you do everything all the time and more than anyone else. I know we all have a role on this ship, but you’re one of the wings of the pirate king. You can’t burn yourself out like that.”

Sanji is about to retort, looking offended, but Zoro cuts him off:

“I know what you’re gonna say: it makes you happy and you won’t slow down. But in that case, if you always do too much, it’s my duty to do the same. So that we can both fly alongside Luffy.”

The cook opens his mouth, but mentioning Luffy tends to stop all protests, all questions, because Luffy, no matter how clumsy he may be, is always right. Therefore, evoking their shared destiny is extremely serious, important, and requires the utmost respect. Sanji cannot counter the “Luffy” argument.

Proud of himself, Zoro flashes his predatory smile and blurts out:

“We can start whenever you’re ready, dartbrow.”

Sanji has barely begun his explanation and they’re already fighting.

Zoro is not good at listening to instructions, especially when his favorite pastime is to annoy the instructor.

“You strike the air ten times in a row, as fast as you can,” Sanji said. “But wait…”

Zoro didn’t wait for him to finish before acting, and now there’s a boot-shaped hole in the grass on the Sunny they’ll have to explain to Franky.

“You have the patience to discuss iaidō with Brook for two hours, but not to wait for me to finish talking?!”

“You should have just told me to go somewhere else!”

“I shouldn’t have to think on your behalf!”

“I should’ve guessed thinking’s way too hard for you!”

When they have exhausted their verbal creativity and Nami knocks them out for disrupting her work, they wonder for a moment about the impracticality of such training.

They resign themselves to settling in the crow’s nest: Zoro is unlikely to take off on his first attempt, and they can always ask Franky for a special platform later.

“So, as I was saying…”

Zoro tries again, this time striking the metal floor without leaving a mark. Sanji covers his face with his hand.

“If teaching you to fly tires me more than taking back everything you stole from me without my permission, I’m power shooting your sorry ass into the air, and you can figure out how to land on your own.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

They’re about to start arguing again, but Zoro stops.

“Sorry. Go ahead, tell me.”

He really wants to learn how to fly. To be able to do more on his own. To free the cook’s mind and everything that chains them to their own limitations. He wants to be independent, so that his iron crown isn’t just a mere ornament. He wants to continue to deserve it, long after he becomes the best swordsman in the world. And if, at the same time, he can help make the cook’s crown shine with its fascinating yellow gold, he has to put in a little effort.

Sanji is already smoking, either to calm himself down, out of nervousness, or both, or something else. Zoro is beginning to notice the difference.

“Okay, then. Don’t stomp on the ground. It’s useless. You have thicker thighs than mine, you won’t lack physical strength; so forget about that. What you need is speed.”

Zoro considers himself quite fast, and he knows how to jump into the air with a simple flex. Adding a little speed can’t be that complicated.

He strikes with all his might; his foot crashes back down to the ground with a loud clang. The cook stops him immediately.

“Not fast enough. Try hitting ten times in a row, for starters. If you do less, it doesn’t create enough resistance against the air.”

Zoro complies. He jumps, this time using his other leg, but his foot hits the ground before he reaches five hits. A second clang resounds.

“Again.”

The swordsman grumbles, but persists, and fails all the more.

“Again.”

Clang.

“Again.”

Clang.

“Again.”

Zoro knows full well this kind of technique can’t be learned in a day, but the cook is starting to annoy him.

“Stop telling me that, I get it!”

Sanji is about to retort, but then seems to decide to take a step back and leave him be. Zoro watches him walk away and rummage through his pile of dumbbells. Soon, he pulls out a bottle of sake, giving him a judgmental look, but instead of yelling at him because “We have a cellar in the aquarium, for shit’s sake! What are you, exactly, a squirrel?!” Sanji goes and plops down on a bench.

He casually unbuttons his jacket, loosens his tie, and undoes a few buttons on his shirt, the bottle still in his hand. Zoro feels himself swallow as he watches him cross his legs, his powerful shoulders sunk into the green padding and his head tilted slightly back with a haughty expression. The crown he imagines on his blond hair has never seemed more appropriate than at this moment, and Zoro thinks that instead of kicking the air, he should be kneeling down.

Sanji uncorks the bottle with a grand gesture, then stares at him and nods his chin.

“Go ahead, since you can manage on your own. In the meantime, I’m raiding your secret sake stash.”

Putting his words into action, Sanji brings the bottle to his lips and takes a big gulp.

“Haaa… Rich and fruity, meant to be consumed at room temperature…”

He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and something passes through his gaze, a kind of knowing wink, even though the cook hasn’t batted an eyelid. Zoro remembers this conversation, the idea that some alcohols are best enjoyed chilled and others are not, and everything he’s retained in the hope of lightening his peer’s burden and being able to share more things with him.

What he learned from the king who seems to reign even there in his lair, slumped on his cushions and drinking his sake, did nothing to change his love for him. It didn’t even strengthen it, because all these details are just information, and what information does Zoro need when he and Sanji already know everything there is to know about what’s in each other’s hearts?

Zoro wonders for a moment if Sanji understood he now reigns in his.

“Already tired? If you don’t hurry up, you won’t get any sake.”

The king sprawled on his bench looks down at him smugly, and Zoro wants only one thing: to throw himself at him, steal his bottle, and kiss him full on the mouth.

He shakes himself, stares at his feet, then focuses on his task.

An hour later, he has barely managed to kick one more time, and Sanji has finished his bottle without him. He gets up and stretches.

“Okay, I’m going to get some sleep. We can continue later.”

Zoro nods. He’s not on guard duty that night, but they don’t have fixed schedules, so he takes advantage of his solitude to return to his usual training.

Zoro is still stuck at five kicks.

“Imagine there’s an invisible step that disappears between each kick you throw,” Sanji told him, emptying another bottle from his stash, and Zoro begins to think that choosing the crow’s nest as a training ground was a bad idea.

The cook tried other images without success. Zoro feels heavier than ever, unable to apply this concept despite its simplicity. Dark memories of his trials against Mihawk sometimes flash before his eyes. However, Sanji doesn’t have his cold, controlled aura, and Zoro quickly returns to a reality made of fire and gold.

They always argue at some point, fight a little, then Sanji ends up slipping away when he decides they’ve done enough.

They haven’t been able to indulge in their little game as often as Zoro would have liked; because they still don’t have stable schedules, but mainly because adventure doesn’t give warning, and Luffy even less so.

Sanji, however, had time to empty his secret stash of alcohol and now has no means of gently blackmailing him. He seems to be thinking, while the swordsman persists in damaging the same metal spot on the floor of the crow’s nest.

Zoro admires Sanji as he watches him, focused, his thumb on his chin. His blond hair reflects the light better than any crown, and the crown itself becomes a halo as the afternoon sun bathes them in its dazzling glow. He seems so distant, so tall, the man in whose palm dance emotions Zoro never thought he would feel for anyone…

Zoro hates the power Sanji has over him, but every time he considers rejecting it, the cook’s love reminds him he’s not capable of turning it against him. Sanji does not use the love of others, he simply lets them do what they want with his. Zoro is still staring at him. He wants to reach out to him, touch him, show him this power Sanji will never do anything with.

There are now two kings in the swordsman’s life: the one who carries his dreams, and the one who carries his heart. Zoro has wanted only one thing since they began reigning within him: to carry them too.

Finally, the king of his heart stands up, frowning. He approaches, his eyes fixed on his legs.

“May I?” he asks.

Zoro doesn’t understand why a king would ask anyone for permission. Luffy never did, so the cook should have the same prerogative.

“Of course.”

He doesn’t even notice the hesitant hands around his leg.

Sanji’s confident touch burns his skin. One palm contracts on his thigh, the other on his calf.

“Try again. I want to feel how you do it.”

Zoro complies, the pressure of the cook’s fingers preventing him from perfecting the movement, but Sanji seems satisfied.

“You’re such a brute, that’s why you’re not getting it. Try to make a more fluid motion to strike faster. Never mind the power, we’ll see about that later.”

Oh. Sanji suggests that he control himself to better target the objective. Zoro knows how to do that. It’s within his reach. It’s simple, as simple as cutting only what he wants.

The next kick is more effective. He counts six.

“Ah, we’re getting somewhere. I’m starting to understand how you work, marimo.”

Sanji, this time, doesn’t move away. He sits down on his heels, then leans back on his elbows and stares at him with a slightly mean look.

“I’ll watch you better from here. Again.”

Zoro sticks his tongue out at him, but he complies.

Zoro finally reaches seven kicks. Meanwhile, he falls in love with Sanji more and more every moment, crowns him with every ray of sunshine that reminds him of the man’s inner beauty, and cherishes the moments they manage to share more than ever.

Sanji is sometimes too quiet as an instructor and struggles to be patient, but he is a good fit for Zoro and his somewhat literal tendencies. Meanwhile, the cook has learned other things, and the swordsman still feels left behind even though his bounty far exceeds that of his peer. Exchanges, however, are becoming more frequent. Sanji knows how to set bones, Zoro knows how to grind ingredients into powder.

The crew gets involved too. Nami invents comparisons to help him recognize a few clouds, then realizes he’s better at consistency calculations. Sanji listens eagerly. Zoro has no idea how he manages to remember everything so quickly, until one day the cook suddenly shouts from the galley:

“Small and firm, dense, milky, taut!”

Brook bursts out laughing and blushes for effect, Franky gives him a thumbs up. Usopp warns Sanji he’ll get gutted if he chants that kind of thing in public. However, Zoro immediately understands the cook’s warning as he looks up at the sky the pale finger is pointing. A number floats in his head, and he rushes to the shower where Nami has locked herself in for barely five minutes.

“Nami, phosphoronimbus at three o’clock!” he shouts as he opens the door.

“They’re at eight o’clock, you anti-photosynthesis plant!” protests Sanji’s regal voice from a distance.

Nami throws a bar of soap in his face, but she slips on the first bathrobe she finds and, guided by her, they avoid a rain of toxic blades. Zoro joins Sanji in the galley to teach him a lesson for calling him an anti-photosynthetic plant.

Another time, Robin sits down against the Sunny’s mast and announces that she is going to read aloud. The cook rushes in front of her, sprawls out on his belly, and starts waving his feet in the air, his chin resting in his palms. Zoro finds him adorably ridiculous and can’t resist snapping at his ankles.

Sanji hits him back a little, but both are too respectful of Robin for the skirmish to turn into a brawl. Zoro lands next to the cook, and Sanji reluctantly lets him stay there. When he wakes up a few hours later, the swordsman’s head is filled with images of dignified Nefertari fighting against invaders. His ears, meanwhile, are filled with familiar snoring, as close as they once were on the Merry’s carpet, when they were still discovering how impossible it was for them to stay still even in their deepest dreams.

He has no idea what kind of nonsense they could have been doing to end up in this position, but Sanji is still sprawled on his stomach, legs and arms spread out like a poor starfish washed up on shore. And Zoro has his head wedged in the hollow of his back.

His hand still holds an ankle, a black knee threatening his ribs, but the swordsman doesn’t dwell long on this umpteenth proof of their innate antagonism. No. Zoro dwells on the fact that Sanji, like him, never sleeps on his stomach.

It is a vulnerable position, an invitation to be stabbed in the back, and they’re both too wary to allow themselves this weakness, even in their sleep.

Zoro looks at the face half-covered by grass, imagines the crown that has fallen a little further away, and wants to put it back on the golden forehead. It doesn’t make sense, so he sits up with the intention of brushing a strand of hair away instead.

At that moment, Sanji opens his eye, stopping his movement abruptly.

“Wanna train?” asks the voice, hoarse with sleep but already enthusiastic at the idea of its owner playing instructor.

Zoro growls in response. They both head towards the crow’s nest.

Sanji settles down on the ground, as always, with that nonchalant air Zoro wants to wipe off his face by attacking him or kissing him, he’s not quite sure anymore. But he’s just starting to restock the sake in his squirrel hole, and he likes being close to the cook, so he resumes this stupid exercise that leaves smooth marks on the metal floor.

Zoro strikes and strikes again, without success. He tried to use even less force, but with less force, he’s not as fast. All this is starting to frustrate him. However, he tries to stay focused. He should know how to do this, he’s stronger than that. He’s used to taking time to master certain techniques because that’s how you learn, slowly but surely…

But the longer he waits, the more he feels distanced from Sanji, even though they now share all these new things and can support each other better than ever. Zoro wants to be able to fly. Zoro wants to be able to carry Sanji on top of all the other things he carries, just as Sanji can carry him on top of all the other things he carries. Nothing is dead weight when the other can lift it too.

Sanji must have noticed his frustration, because he straightens up and kneels in front of him, as if to study him more closely. The cook is quick. Zoro doesn’t immediately understand his intention.

Only when he sees the pale hand spread out under his sole does he have a moment of panic, a millisecond of hesitation before flexing his muscles to save the precious tools of the king who sits enthroned at his feet. The boot dodges just in time, forcing one last quick jump that elicits a small cry of victory from the cook.

“Ha! Eight!”

Zoro has no time to rejoice. He leans over and grabs Sanji by the collar, furious and overwhelmed.

“Damn it, cook, don’t ever do that to me again!”

Sanji, instead of growling back at him, bursts out laughing.

“Marimo, you got it! Finally!” he insists as a defense.

Zoro feels even angrier. He knows that anger often stems from something else, however, and the fact that Sanji is so calm in front of him makes him question himself rather than get upset. He realizes he’s been afraid. Afraid for the cook, Sanji, the wing that carries everything he cannot carry, the king who reigns in his heart without even noticing.

“You can’t put yourself in danger like that, cook. Not for nothing…” he hears himself moan as he stares at the radiant face, which suddenly loses its splendor upon seeing him so unsettled.

Zoro lets go of him and turns away, embarrassed by the vulnerability he’s just revealed.

“I thought we were past that.”

The same hand that offered itself to his boot falls on his shoulder and forces him to look at Sanji again. The cook sits up straight, dignified like the king he is, open and kind like the man who reigns over his heart. He looks surprised, both touched and confused.

“But Zoro, it wasn’t a risk.”

He seems so confident, this fairy tale outlaw, this innocent pyromaniac, this king he alone crowned… So confident, but even more so in Zoro himself…

Suddenly, the swordsman understands why the cook was able to fall asleep in such an unusual position, and why his movement, however discreet, woke him up immediately. He understands why Sanji didn’t hesitate to put his hand in danger under his clumsy foot, why he was so sure it posed no risk to him. No risk to his role as a wing of the Pirate King.

Sanji trusts him.

Sanji trusts him so much he risked his hand so that one day they could fly together.

Zoro knows, of course, but he rarely has proof of it. They don’t need those words, those actions. Those certainties are so deeply rooted that they have become woven into their personalities and reflexes, just as Zoro begins to call Sanji “King of my heart” in the secret of it and realizes he looks at him as such.

All the emotions that were twisting inside him and that he had such trouble identifying subside at once. They give way to relief, satisfaction, pride. Zoro bursts out laughing in turn, slapping his hand to his forehead.

“Damn it, cook. I could kiss you right now!”

The sound of someone choking echoes through the room, and Zoro, who treats his affection for Sanji as a given, takes a moment to realize it’s because of what he let slip.

Sanji is still coughing long after Zoro has regained his composure. The swordsman stares at him with his best cocky expression. He’s not ashamed of this feeling that has given him such wonderful opportunities, that has pushed him to surpass himself and become better in so many ways. On the contrary, he realizes that he’s proud of it, and that while it was pleasant, warm in the depths of his heart, verbalizing it through his desires gives it a new consistency, an unmatched power that will carry him to new heights in one way or another.

Isn’t it natural to want to live up to his king, after all? What Zoro does for Luffy has always benefited Sanji, just as what Sanji does for Luffy has always benefited him. What about what he does for the cook now? What will happen to what he will do out of love for him, if he decides to show it more?

Sanji, for his part, fixes his smug look as if it reveals a reality too absurd for his psyche.

“Wait, you… You were serious?!”

His drooping eyelid lifts, giving him a younger appearance he allows to show when he smiles at the world, even at him, and Zoro decides he has even less to hide if this love can free Sanji from the worries he carries on his overly adult mask.

The swordsman crosses his arms and nods with a mean grin.

The cook, facing him, idly takes out a cigarette, reflexively placing it between his lips and forgetting to light it. He stares at him, as if his brain had started spinning backwards and he was overcome with dizziness at the sensation.

Zoro doesn’t understand what could be so difficult to grasp: Sanji has always had a special place by his side, regardless of the emotions that bind them. Sanji has always reigned alongside the pirate king, king himself under his golden crown, grand, legitimate. Zoro has never needed to tell him because, to him, it’s a given. Sanji is the only one who can feed his captain’s ambition and, consequently, his own.

But Sanji struggles with displays of affection from his male comrades, so Zoro concludes he has no idea how to react. He expects his usual embarrassed ire, the systematic rejection, the way the cook protects himself from he knows not what.

“I… I’m going to need some time to think,” Sanji finally says, lighting his cigarette.

He has regained his nonchalant expression, without even going through the anger phase. Zoro doesn’t know what to make of this confusing calm. The reply is also nothing like he expected. He immediately asks, surprised:

“Think? About what?”

Sanji gives him a tired look. He crouches down again in front of the area Zoro’s boots have worn down from training.

“Well… the fact that you want to… kiss me,” he stammers.

He kneels down, then this time places both palms on the black marks. With a raised eyebrow, he signals Zoro to resume the exercise.

“Why?” asks the latter, hesitating above the pale fingers as Sanji looks up at him.

The movement triggers a strange heartbeat, a double sensation that gives Zoro the impression he can fly: Sanji trusts him so much he doesn’t even look at his hands anymore, too certain of Zoro’s ability not to crush them, and Sanji is kneeling before him as he never should, because Sanji is a king, but Sanji is not the kind of king who accepts a throne to become a tyrant. Sanji is at the service of his people. Of his peers. That’s why he’s kneeling before him, even though part of Zoro finds the gesture so inappropriate for the status he has conferred upon him in his heart.

“Because… Because I don’t know if I want you to kiss me.”

It’s so obvious that Zoro treats it as part of the conversation, resuming his kicks in the air without counting them anymore. His goal is simple: to hold out long enough for the cook to remove his hands. One, then the other, and so on until his mentor is satisfied.

“Why would you want to?” he asks, leaping once more.

Zoro, head down, sees Sanji’s eyes widen. His fingers dance beneath his soles, sliding across the metal in a jerky rhythm. They dodge, then reposition themselves, and Zoro isn’t sure if Sanji has continued counting. However, he finds the challenge too interesting to pass up.

“But why did you tell me that, then?” asks the cook.

The question catches him off guard.

“Um. Because I wanted to tell you?”

He hesitates only because he feels like it’s not the answer Sanji was expecting. The cook sighs, mutters something about his social ineptitude, but explains:

“Marimo… when you tell someone something like that, it’s usually because you also want to do it.”

Between two sets of seven or eight, Zoro exhales:

“Huh?”

Sanji lowers his eyes from time to time, just a little, enough to see what he can sense, or enough to count because he remembered that was the point of the maneuver.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Sanji insists in an annoyed tone that suits him much better.

The smoke from his cigarette clouds his vague gaze, tinting it a metallic gray that doesn’t suit him at all. Zoro prefers the golden crown on his head, and the way his lips move and stretch to inhale the tobacco before spitting it out in a mesmerizing exhalation.

“Well, yeah, I just told you,” he says, because it’s been obvious for a long time.

Because Sanji is the king of his heart, and his heart beats at the mere thought that they are discussing kissing.

Sanji raises his eye and chin in an almost indecent gesture, as if kneeling before him and looking up at him from the ground had not diminished his royal splendor. He suddenly seems to accept that Zoro has never considered himself above him, and that at this moment, it is he, with his lower bounty, who has the upper hand, the control, the superior value.

The smooth voice pushes him towards a conclusion Zoro hadn’t thought of, tense:

“And the reason you don’t do it is…?”

This time, Zoro has to stop and think. Sanji sits on his heels, his forearms on his thighs. He looks like someone who has been sitting in seiza for too long. Zoro chuckles, but laughing doesn’t help him sort out his thoughts.

He wants to kiss the cook. He’s wanted to since he can’t even remember when. Yet he never thought to express that desire, as if it were pointless, as if it were doomed to fail because… Oh. He slams his left fist into his right palm, his mouth open.

“Because I know you don’t want to.”

Sanji finishes his cigarette, then slowly stubs it out in his pocket ashtray. He looks away as he replies:

“And what I’m saying is that I need to think about it because I don’t know if I’d like it or not.”

A strange euphoria seizes Zoro without him being able to explain it. Intrigued, he immediately asks:

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Sanji is perfectly comfortable in seiza and doesn’t move a muscle, as if reasoning is a little too simple for him, as if he’s not at all anxious about the situation, and Zoro realizes it’s still that blind trust between them that keeps the cook from panicking.

“It’s the first time anyone’s ever said that to me. I don’t know how to react,” explains Sanji, staring into space.

Zoro decides he’d better sit down too so he can finish the conversation. He collapses in front of the cook, cross-legged, while muttering his surprise:

“You? I’ve seen you kiss a whole bunch of girls, cook…”

Sanji sighs, then sits cross-legged as well. He seems even more relaxed, probably because Zoro has placed himself on equal footing, showing him that he won’t judge.

“But I’m always the one who takes the initiative,” Sanji explains. “No one has ever told me they want to kiss me. I’ve always… I’m always the one who asks.”

Something inside Zoro begins to boil, a dull anger that comes from something else, a pain he associates with the suffering of his peers, one he feels vicariously, without control, and which frightens him and drives him to want to grab them in his hands, cover them with his palms, and only release them from their cocoon of flesh when he is certain nothing can happen to them.

He knows Sanji only allows himself to seek love from women. He knows how much he needs it and how far he will go to get it. He knows Sanji isn’t just a womanizer, but rather a lover, a man whose fantasies are made up of both unbridled sex and quasi-platonic chivalrous romances.

Sanji asks out of necessity, and it is undoubtedly because of this necessity that he has never received any proposals, apart from those that make them laugh and embarrass the cook — they don’t know why Sanji attracts cougars who are the opposite of his personal taste, but they don’t hesitate to make fun of him. However, even these women don’t seem to have been as direct as Zoro, or perhaps much more so — too much so.

The swordsman derives a form of satisfaction and pride out of it, although he finds it sad that Sanji doesn’t receive as much love as he deserves.

At that moment, Zoro sees the small, proud smile at the corner of the cook’s mouth, and he understands his hesitation as well as the dilemma Sanji faces, given his past experiences and his eternal need for affection. He asks:

“So… it makes you happy that I want to kiss you even though you didn’t ask for it?”

This time, Sanji blushes.

“Well… yes. A little. It’s… It’s flattering. That you want me. You, especially. You’re so… disinterested. I feel like I’m an exception.”

“You are,” immediately replies Zoro, whose lack of romantic attraction is well established.

You are, king of my heart, he hears himself recite in his head like a mantra.

Sanji’s eyes widen and he stares intently, searching for a crack he won’t find.

Finally, he shakes his head and stammers:

“Damn, I… Okay. I’ll seriously think about it…”

Zoro raises an eyebrow, unable to understand why Sanji would need to think about it. They are still Zoro and Sanji, the wings of the Pirate King, false rivals, true friends, antagonists for pleasure and accomplices for comfort.

“Because I don’t want to say yes if it’s just to flatter my ego,” finishes Sanji, who seems to have understood Zoro’s train of thought hasn’t gone that far.

Now it’s the swordsman’s turn to choke.

“You… what?!”

What?!

“You really thought about saying yes?” Zoro exclaims, stunned.

Sanji becomes nervous again and lights another cigarette. To give himself some composure, he adopts the aggressive tone Zoro used, because everything is easier when they pretend to argue.

“Well, yes, why?!”

“But you… why would you want to?!” Zoro asks, still surprised.

He hadn’t even considered the possibility that Sanji might agree. He was comfortable with the idea of worshipping the king of his heart from a distance, albeit a little closer than before, just enough to receive a ray or two from his golden crown and bathe in their warmth.

In front of him, Sanji takes his head in his hands. His cheeks are redder than ever, and he continues shouting to better hide his emotions:

“Because… Because it’s you, okay?! You’re a moron, but you’re part of the crew and I…”

He stammers, but seems to decide he owes Zoro complete honesty after receiving such a confidence.

“I love you as much as I love everyone else. You’re an incredible guy, a good friend, a good person, you know what you want, you’re willing to do anything for your peers, and at the same time you seem so unapproachable…”

Zoro thinks Sanji is the one who seems unapproachable, with his radiant love and king’s crown, but the cook concludes:

“… anyone would dream of kissing you just to know what it feels like!”

Sanji seems to be discovering the idea, as if it had never crossed his mind before Zoro expressed his desire, and Zoro can’t blame him.

Kissing isn’t a big deal, right? It’s just one of the many gestures they already exchange, a touch between two pieces of skin like it happens every day, a show of affection they never thought about because they don’t associate it with their dynamic. But if they both want to, why not?

However, Zoro is aware Sanji doesn’t see things the same way. First of all, Sanji surely perceives kissing as an act of romantic love, as a physical intimacy, a brief moment of tenderness stolen from their brutal world. Zoro thinks he can provide all of that if the cook accepts it from him, especially since his tirade has just confirmed this impression: Sanji himself, despite his contempt for men, despite everything the swordsman represents to him, and despite what they both let on, claims that anyone would want to kiss him.

Usually, Zoro remains cold and uncertain when faced with this kind of statement. He doesn’t know what to make of it. On the other hand, coming from the cook, it’s immediately a compliment to which he must respond.

He allows himself a predatory smile, perfectly haughty, his head raised and his gaze lowered.

“I think you have your answer, cook.”

Sanji grits his teeth and mimics his posture, arms crossed, looking just as smug.

“Consider yourself lucky that I’m even contemplating kissing you, marimo-kun,” growls the cook, emphasizing the affectionate nickname to make it clear that kissing a barely sentient piece of seaweed is particularly low in his standards.

“What did you call me, ero-kappa?!”

They glare at each other until they are satisfied, then Sanji finishes his cigarette and gets up casually. He doesn’t need to speak: it’s time for him to start preparing the next meal.

Zoro imitates him, glancing at the boot-shaped disaster area before sighing. No more training for today, he’ll have to go back to his dumbbells.

However, he can’t resist provoking the cook one last time, just for fun. And also, perhaps, because his reaction has just opened up a whole range of possibilities Zoro had never considered, and he suddenly wants to explore them.

He places his hand on Sanji’s shoulder as he sometimes does, to stop him or support him inconspicuously. Then he stands close to him, his nose at the height of his cheekbone. He slowly brings his face closer than usual. The confused gaze of the cook turns away. Pale fingers snatch the cigarette from his pursed lips. It’s the permission Zoro was waiting for.

Then the swordsman presses his lips to the bottom of the sulky cheek and gives it a silly little kiss. A peck, as they say. The skin is warm, a little rough from the beard despite Sanji carefully shaving every day. He realizes he liked the feeling. It’s like he’s committed some kind of transgression, but it’s a welcome one, because the cook shivers under his palm instead of tensing up.

Finally, to make sure Sanji doesn’t feel cornered and panics as he sometimes tends to do, Zoro adds:

“You can think about it as long as you want, ero-cook. It’s okay if you don’t want to. I’m happy with what we have.”

However, Zoro finds himself thinking that if the king is willing to let him worship him a little more closely, he’ll settle for that just as well.

Nothing seems to change after that, except for the hands Sanji insists on placing under his feet during the rare training sessions they engage in. Time passes, and Zoro is so frustrated at not making progress he kicks his own dumbbells.

Sometimes, Zoro looks at the king of his heart and wants to kiss him. He wonders if the cook is still thinking, if it was all just a dream, or if Sanji refuses to talk about it because what they revealed to each other scares him. However, Sanji is not a coward. He has a hard time confiding in others, he’s very secretive, he tends to want to solve his problems himself, certainly, but in general, it’s because he is capable of doing so.

Zoro respects this side of his personality, especially since when the cook feels out of his depth, he also now knows how to call for help. So he moves on, amused to see Sanji embarrassed when he catches his single eye staring at him a little too intensely, teasing him from time to time, but without insisting, so as not to upset his peer. To assure him he likes the status quo between them and to show him he doesn’t have to change his behavior because of his desires… and perhaps his attraction, he realizes after a while. Because the cook isn’t blind either, not after what the swordsman has revealed, and while he seems to have a hard time believing it, he now sees too much evidence to ignore it. Sanji knows what attraction, fascination, and love look like. And Zoro finally understands that if the cook is not receptive to his affection, it’s not because he’s hiding it, but because Sanji cannot accept that anyone could love him as much as Zoro does, that anyone could perceive him as the third king who reigns over hearts and who conquered his without even having to fight for it.

So Zoro persists in his attentions, and perhaps, just perhaps, Sanji allows himself to be loved a little, cajoled a little from a distance, convinced a little that Zoro is fascinated by him and everything he does, because one day, he shows up in the crow’s nest and says:

“Marimo! Let’s try something.”

Zoro is about to protest the nickname, but Sanji grabs him by the wrist and pulls him along to the trapdoor. Once there, he slips his arm under Zoro’s armpit, wraps his hand around his ribs, and whispers:

“Hold on tight.”

Then, before Zoro can react, he jumps into the hole.

The swordsman has just enough time to grip the cook’s shoulder with his fingers. He feels the air blowing against their clothes, their own weight pulling them toward the grass of the Sunny. Suddenly, there’s a thud, a resistance. The air stops rushing around him, they escape gravity. Sanji’s chest is warm against his, and soon they rise into the skies, carried by the cook’s sky walk.

Reaching an improbable height, Sanji changes his movements. They become less powerful, more measured, like the beating of limbs trying to keep a body afloat on top of the water. Zoro feels heavy, but Sanji floats in the air and, as always, he can cling to him.

“Hey, do you still want to kiss me?”

The question seems so out of place he almost drops his support. The cook takes advantage of it to turn towards him in a posture that is almost embarrassing, given how close they are. Zoro even wonders how such proximity doesn’t bother Sanji.

The latter raises his eyebrows, a mischievous look on his face, his gaze tinged with a kind of hope he has never directed at him before. Hypnotized by the radiance of this golden-crowned face, Zoro nods firmly and grunts his agreement. He can’t imagine a day when he wouldn’t want to kiss Sanji.

Then, the cook moves his face toward him and presses his mouth against his. Just like that. Without further ado. Without hesitation. Sanji’s lips are right against his, stretched in a kiss, and Zoro, who reigns over his own world, feels greater, more ambitious and more important than ever. He feels lighter, more powerful, more free. He feels like he’s growing wings.

The lips are rough, a result of cuts sustained during their latest adventure and the cook’s nervous tics. The goatee tickles, the mustache pricks, but Zoro wants to stay glued to the lips of the king of his heart for the rest of his life if he can, because these sensations come from Sanji, and the certainty of this identity reminds him he has never felt this way about anyone else, and pushes him to decide that even if it were possible, he would not want to. He wants to love Sanji for the rest of his life. He doesn’t want anyone else to become the king of his heart.

As he approaches near-death experience, the cook pulls away and gives him a satisfied little smile. There is a playful gleam in his pupils, and a warm blush spreads across his cheeks, too innocent to be honest.

Then Sanji, his greatest rival, his unstable balance, the wing beating opposite him, the man who carries everything Zoro cannot carry, the only being who can carry Zoro himself… drops him into the void.

Zoro feels himself floating for a moment, as if gravity were playing a joke on him. He makes a sound like a failed swallow, his teeth chatter, then gravity carries him away in a laugh that sounds like Sanji’s smooth, clear voice.

His own scream echoes behind him as he picks up speed. He thinks of his katanas to slow his fall, of the power of his thighs that could probably cushion the shock, but at this distance, he risks breaking the Sunny when he lands. He thinks of the ocean around the ship, of moving away so that the waves will welcome him painfully. It would only be a few broken ribs if he managed to land properly. He could position himself to dive. Speaking of slowing his fall, he could even strike the air like the cook, see if it helps, see if perhaps, in the heat of the moment, he’s able to achieve those ten damn kicks that never take off, and…

But isn’t that exactly why Sanji took him up there?

Zoro would have thought himself a fool if he were certain he wasn’t.

He stands up, his yukata flapping in the wind, and pushes off as quickly and powerfully as he can. Seven times. Only seven times, even though he always manages to dodge the cook’s hands in the crow’s nest eight times. Zoro grits his teeth in frustration and tries again. Again. One more time. He slows down, unable to take off. The grass of the Sunny appears beneath his feet, too quickly for him to land without causing damage.

The familiar sound of patent leather shoes cutting through the air immediately distracts him from his concern: Sanji is there, hovering around him, waiting for him to find his footing, to try again and unlock whatever is eluding him.

The cook moves closer and slips under his arm, still chuckling, then they land gently on the deck of their ship.

“Again?” he asks with his usual smug look, reminding Zoro how the joke began, up there, with the feeling of flying because the king of his heart had…

“Again, yeah.”

It takes him barely a second to turn to Sanji, grab his face with both hands, and crush his lips against his as if they were still on the edge of the void and about to fall together.

Sanji recoils, surprised by the consuming passion that contrasts with his chaste romantic kiss, but he charges back with the same fervor, because another king was needed to sit alongside Luffy and Zoro, and Sanji is always on their level in his own way, even though he never sought any crown.

Zoro caresses his slightly rough jaw, round cheekbones, and golden hair. Sanji slips his arms around his ribs, just below his armpits, then squeezes him so hard it hurts. Zoro feels himself taking off again.

The sound of the cook’s shoes resisting the void rings in his ears. It wasn’t a metaphor: Sanji sent them flying into the air, and now they float amid the clouds and wind, pressed against each other as if they had just found one another after a lifetime of wandering. Zoro drowns in the cook’s breath as if he needed it to breathe, Sanji devours his mouth as if only Zoro could satiate him.

They fall believing they’re flying, their two bodies battered by the atmosphere that lays them down in its too-light bed. Sometimes they’re on top of each other, then they move apart a little and roll in the mist without ever letting go. Their clothes flap as if they were fighting. They end up upside down and kiss each other again full on the mouth, because falling together feels more like flying anyway.

Zoro still can’t believe his luck when Sanji lands them with the same delicacy as before: the king of his heart just kissed him. Several times. He’s standing close to him, his forehead pressed against his, and laughs.

“Not this ‘again’, you idiot!”

On his face, Zoro reads the surprise, the joy, the pleasure of being loved and being able to love back. So, for the first time in his life, Zoro voluntarily gives up his training and throws himself at the cook.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t like it. You’re the one who took off,” he growls between two more kisses.

They kiss to the point they turn it into a game, then a challenge, and the smooching session transforms into a brawl before they even realize it.

Amidst the shouting, insults, and provocations, a kind of understanding passes between them, a discussion deeper than it seems, made up of “I’ll kiss you if I want, when I want!” “If you get in my way, I’ll kill you!” and “Try me!” all as obvious as the other.

Zoro wants to see Sanji flirt and invite girls in the fields if the opportunity arises, because it is natural for kings to have multiple subjects. Sanji wants to know Zoro’s feelings won’t chain him down, because ambitious swordsmen have more than hearts to conquer. They want to satisfy their desires without constraint, and they want to ensure they leave their peers the same freedom.

Soon, they are curled up in the sky again, pressed close together. They kiss, growl at each other, then Sanji once more drops Zoro into the void.

Zoro has lost count of the number of times he has fallen into the void and felt himself grow wings when kissing Sanji.

He still hasn’t given up on the idea of flying alongside the cook, even though he knows how to compensate with his own techniques. He refuses to believe he has no talent for a skill the CP9 idiots all acquired, and he refuses to fail at something.

He’s almost angry at himself and his uncooperative body, but all the flying sessions are punctuated with kisses and end either in a fight, a much more private encounter, or both, and Zoro can’t complain when Sanji has always been the perfect person to help him get through all his frustrations.

The cook, for his part, didn’t even panic the day the crew found them screaming and rolling around on the grass, alternating between blows and kisses. Someone asked the question that was on everyone’s lips. Sanji said, “I make an exception for him because he makes an exception for me.”

Luffy rephrased it: “You’re so cool, Sanji! You can respond to the way people love you.”

The cook blushed. The others theorized incomprehensible things about Zoro’s exceptions, something about connection, common ground, and multifaceted individuals. Like he has a type, and he needs to know the person inside and out to become romantically attached. Zoro growled at them.

Then they went wild over the cook’s exceptions and the idea that Luffy not so innocently let slip. “It’s not just because it’s Zoro, it’s because Sanji needs to know a man wants him in order to want him too.” Sanji blushed so hard they had to sit him down. Their conclusion probably exposed too many of his vulnerabilities.

They even invented words to describe what was going on between them, and while the cook seemed to listen curiously, Zoro fell asleep in the middle of the commotion.

Since then, little has changed for the crew, as their dynamic has remained natural and obvious to them and their peers.

However, Zoro is still stuck on the ground, and Sanji can see how distanced he feels, even though the swordsman’s wanted poster still has a higher bounty and the cook makes a big deal out of it every time. Not that Zoro refrains from mentioning it, of course.

That day, they headed for an island at Sanji’s request — a first. Zoro didn’t follow everything — he doesn’t care, as long as he can explore new lands, wander around places that will push him to surpass himself, cut things down to become stronger… and worship the king of his heart.

The cook, for his part, seems nervous. Zoro tried to get him to talk, but Sanji pretended everything was fine. Then he smoked silently before adding, in a tone that was both smug and a little desperate:

“The things I do for you, marimo…”

Zoro was annoyed to hear the nickname, but Sanji kissed him to shut him up.

When they reach the island, the swordsman recoils. Everything, absolutely everything, is pink and covered in strange glitter. Everything makes him grimace in horror, even the heart-shaped mountain. This is an island he’s not sure he wants to explore.

However, Zoro is not a coward, so he disembarks from the ship before even identifying the large figure welcoming them on the dock. Luffy throws himself at it, shouting:

“Iva-chan!”

Sanji shivers, lights a cigarette, but follows his captain to stand in front of the… person towering over them with their enormous head. Zoro recognizes their power, raises an eyebrow, and hears haunted falsettos and giggles in the distance. Usopp proudly declares himself sick, causing Chopper to worry. Franky gently hits them while Brook chuckles. Robin and Jinbe step forward to greet “Iva” in turn, while Nami is already scribbling something in her navigation log.

Zoro stays close to the cook, because he’s still a little stiff and smokes a little too fast for his nonchalant gestures.

Sanji nods to Iva — Emporio Ivankov, notorious revolutionary, sometimes “he,” sometimes “she,” he finally realizes —, then they stare each other down as if ready to fight. The swordsman feels a thrill of anticipation: he likes to see the cook show off his skills against powerful opponents.

However, against all odds, Sanji simply holds out his hand. Iva places a pair of shoes on it, similar to those Robin often wears, except these have straps and are fuchsia pink.

Sanji grimaces, his cheeks hollowed out with despair. Then, before his astonished eyes, the cook deftly kicks off his shoes and bends down to put on the high heels. When he straightens up, he stands prouder than ever. He towers half a head above Zoro, but doesn’t even seem to take the time to boast about it. He stares at “Iva” with a rebellious look, his eyebrows furrowed, his lips pursed in a furious expression.

Zoro wants to fight him and kiss him at the same time.

Sanji jerks his chin again and lets out an annoyed grunt. He crosses his arms and finally growls:

“Satisfied? Can I coach on your shitty island now?”

Iva snickers and lets out a dramatic sigh, finger on cheek, but nods. Zoro’s eyes widen as he realizes what Sanji is implying.

“Are vou sure vou don’t want my candies to take care of it, curly boy?” asks the okama leader, examining Zoro, who doesn’t see the connection between his training and this island, this person, or these candies…

Sanji shakes his head.

“No, that wouldn’t work on him. I just needed to get us in the right mindset. And find a suitable place for the race.”

The two men size each other up, Sanji defiant, Iva skeptical.

“Is vhe really that gay?” the revolutionary finally asks, turning back to Zoro.

Sanji sighs, but shakes his head again. He’s more nonchalant than ever, as if trying to keep his cool.

“My comrades called it defiromantic.”

Because he feels like it’s what he has to do, Zoro gives Ivankov a ferocious, savage, emphatic grin. Part of him wants to show he’s ready to fight no matter what, another part wants to embrace this ridiculous term he’s grown to like because, deep down, it suits him well. A final part of him, somewhat hidden and still a little hypocritical, wants to assert his supremacy to reassure the cook, to remind the world he only has two kings, and if the one of his heart feels uncomfortable, he will make up for it, as always.

Ivankov looks him up and down, unimpressed, and comments:

“Oh. Very specifically demi.”

Sanji nods as if he had always known, but protests:

“Don’t label him, he doesn’t like that.”

Zoro doesn’t like being treated like a circus animal, let alone being looked down on. However, he doesn’t have time to protest as Iva turns to Sanji.

“What about vou, then?”

Sanji straightens up even more. The heels he wears scrape against the floor, ready to attack, defend, or flee… Zoro isn’t sure, but he moves closer imperceptibly. Iva gives him a judgmental look: the man saw right through him.

Sanji exhales one last puff of cigarette smoke, clearly annoyed.

“Still straight, thank you. And another word they pretend to pronounce like it’s easy: homorecipromantic.”

Iva gasps. His huge, made-up eyes rest on Sanji, examining him from head to toe, then lose themselves in the void, as if a pile of accumulated memories were passing through their owner’s mind, suddenly making sense.

“I understand everything.”

“Shut up.”

Zoro lets out an ugly snort. At the same moment, he feels the cook relax beside him, and something compels him to take his hand. Sanji turns his head away, embarrassed that Iva, with whom he seems to have a history of conflict, is witnessing the extent of their relationship. However, the cook clearly sent a message to Iva asking him to visit, which Zoro can now visualize:

“My idiot boyfriend can’t learn how to sky walk. Can I come train him at your place?”

And Iva agreed, on the condition the cook wear heels so he could stay on the island as an instructor. Zoro wonders if the conditions were similar when they were separated, and imagines Sanji struggling with all his might to stop people from trying to crush this so fiercely claimed yet fragile identity, these parts of him he spent so long questioning as if he didn’t have the right to be himself…

Suddenly, Zoro wonders if Sanji knows how to do so many things because he has been searching for himself, because he has always felt that he wasn’t doing enough, that he wasn’t enough, that he couldn’t be proud of who he is, so to compensate, instead of being, he did.

Zoro reflects on the reasons why he became fascinated with Sanji, then realizes even if they were perhaps inappropriate, even if they touched on aspects of the cook he might hate and would have been better off not possessing, they no longer matter. Zoro loves Sanji. Sanji is the king of his heart. He feels like it has always been this way. He wouldn’t change a thing about it.

At that moment, a small procession appears from behind a grove of pink trees. It’s Zoro’s turn to be seized by an incongruous shiver, while Sanji breathes a sigh of relief.

He barely has time to understand who the group is made up of before the cook turns into a whirlwind and starts shouting:

“Aaaah! Charming company, you bring so much beauty to this hellish place! Welcome, welcome!”

If Zoro were smarter, he would have already fled. But he remains frozen in front of the spectacle before him: a horde of women, some of whom he recognizes, are heading towards him with determination, the cook now at their head.

Sanji is in heaven, handing out compliments, walking on the sand of the beach in his high heels as if he were floating on it.

“Tashigi-chan, I know you’re busy, thank you for going out of your way for this walking seaweed.”

“It’s only because I owe you a debt, Kuroashi,” growls the captain before fixing Zoro with a determined gaze. “Anyway, I have swords to confiscate.”

Sanji turns to another woman with blue-green hair, drooping eyelids and a mischievous air.

“Hiyori-chan, it’s good to see you again, you’re as graceful as ever!”

“It’s a pleasure, Sangoro,” she replies, giggling behind her sleeve, and Zoro notices a playful gleam in her eye that doesn’t bode well.

The swordsman realizes that he has crossed paths with each of these women at some point in his life. And that he feels uncomfortable around all of them. And that, apart from Tashigi, it’s for the same exact reason: they have all fallen in love with him.

He feels his teeth grinding dangerously, too stunned to react at first. When he finally understands, it’s too late, because Sanji is already a few feet away from him and calls out to the group, a predatory smile on his lips:

“Precious ladies! The marimo hunt is on!”

On Grand Line, there is an island where everything is peach-colored, and where the giggles of maidens resonate between axe blows and the delicious smells of food.

The beach glitters with a supernatural sparkle, and the sun seems to set eternally on the ocean in a scene straight out of a postcard.

Where small waves meet the shells and the almost white sand, energetic legs kick the water, and the giggles of young women in love echo the gentle sound of the sea.

A man, alone at the head of this frenzied cavalcade, stands out in the landscape. He doesn’t know how many hours or days he has been running, but he knows if he stops, dishonor awaits him.

So he thinks of the people he loves, of the man of his life, seeking a way out of his predicament.

King of my heart, this letter is for you.

“Zorojuro, I missed you!” Hiyori shouts behind him.

She has already attempted several drop kicks to intercept him, and while Zoro has always found her very direct, he wonders where she gets so much motivation. A glance at Sanji, who is coaching them by clapping his hands and shouting ridiculous encouragement, answers his question.

I don’t know what I did to deserve such treatment from you…

“Roronoa! You won’t escape me!” shouts Tashigi, who has long since ditched her marine uniform and is now wearing state-of-the-art sports gear, which the cook wasted no time in complimenting.

“It’s my katanas, Captain Glasses!”

He protests, but he keeps running. He has no intention of stopping, let alone giving up this absurd chase. It’s a challenge the cook has thrown down, an opportunity to become stronger, faster, better. A method that worked on Sanji when faced with a horde of what Zoro now guesses to be okama, and which is just as effective on him when you replace these feminine men with involuntary conquests.

“Here are some refreshments, my darlings! Hydration is key!” squeaks the cook amid the chaos, catching up on the pack with disconcerting ease.

but I’m glad at least you’re having fun.

“Roronoa Zoro, marry me!” shouts another voice he doesn’t recognize, but which encourages him to speed up despite his fatigue.

“No way, let go of me!” he growls, baring his teeth.

As for me…

“Come on, marimo, faster than that. They’re catching up to you, lucky guy,” chuckles Sanji next to the squad, armed with bags of energizing food, a cigarette between his lips, and a delighted look on his face.

I didn’t think you could be so cruel.

“Love-cook, you bastard, you’ll pay for this!”

You know I have no choice but to flee from these hellish creatures, for any violence against them would be dishonorable in light of their aspirations.

“I love you too, marimo-kun!” Sanji shouts, bursting out laughing.

He seems freed from a weight since the race began. As if he were relieved not to have to face some unknown trial. As if he felt safe in this place that seemed to terrify him when they arrived.

But if it’s so I can live up to you, I accept the ordeal and…

Zoro stops short.

He doesn’t have time to turn around before the horde of women crashes into him. If the swordsman weren’t so powerful, the human tide would have crushed him under its combined weight. Innocent squeals and giggles give him goosebumps. A hand grabs a katana, Zoro clings to it. Several pairs of arms hang around his neck. A high-pitched voice lets out a satisfied groan:

“We’ve got him, girls! Good job!”

Zoro grits his teeth, sweating profusely, struggling in the middle of the fray. A mink’s tongue licks his cheek, making him shudder with disgust. Only the cook can do this kind of thing without Zoro finding it inappropriate or even repulsive. It’s not this girl’s fault: she does it to her friends and loved ones; it’s her culture. She can’t know how much he hates it, just as Sanji hated it when male minks chased after him for the same greetings.

But none of that really matters, because Zoro is focused on what the cook just said. He clings to his katanas and starts crawling under the crowd, escaping as best he can from the mountain of pretty women he has never had the slightest interest in.

He has no idea how he manages to extricate himself from the pile of bodies. He emerges with his hair tousled, looking haggard, stripped of his yukata and clutching his swords to him as if his life depended on it.

He’s still kneeling on the ground when he slips his three precious allies into his haramaki and glances feverishly around him.

A much larger, slender and powerful figure awaits him a few meters away, an amused smile on their lips.

Zoro struggles to his feet and rushes toward the cook, tackling him to the ground, his shoulder digging into his stomach upon impact. Sanji chokes, but lets himself be crushed beneath him, laughing hysterically.

“Go back running, marimo, you’re still far from getting the hang of it!”

However, the swordsman is focused on anything but his sky walk training, disastrous as it may be.

He gets up on all fours and stares at the cook, his devastating smile, his beaming gaze, his blond hair forming a crown on the skull of a fairy-tale prince he doesn’t need to be. He admires his resilience, wonders how many weeks Sanji had to run to escape the okama while learning the recipes he can smell wafting through sea spray. A heel digs into his calf, because Sanji takes his role as instructor seriously and doesn’t intend to give him a moment’s rest. Zoro adds wearing these strange shoes to the list of all the things the cook can do without breaking a sweat.

Finally, still out of breath, he stares at Sanji in disbelief and softly says:

“I love you too, king of my heart.”

Sanji freezes. His expressive eyes widen, his smile disappears. Zoro feels him trembling against him. Something glistens in his pupils, moist and light, as if he had just been dazzled by the beauty of a rising sun.

“You…” he begins before taking a breath, too shocked to continue.

Zoro can’t help but snicker. He knows he’s looking at the cook with the same wonder, that which the whole world ends up looking at Luffy with, and that which all three of them bestow upon this crew so dear to their hearts. On this silly island that reeks too much of romance and attractions they don’t share in the slightest, the pink of carnal love lurking within them is revealed in their eyes.

“What did you just call me?” Sanji stammers again.

Zoro swallows. Shit.

He didn’t think he would let that part slip away. He just wanted to respond to the cook. To tell him he loved him too, because Sanji, once again, took the step he unconsciously encouraged. “Sanji needs to know that a man wants him in order to want him too,” his peers analyzed, and yet, from the moment when it became obvious to the cook, the latter did not wait for Zoro to take the initiative. He was the one who kissed him, the one who said “I love you” first. And even if it was said in jest, Zoro knows Sanji was sincere, because Sanji placed himself in a vulnerable position for his sake by returning to this island that causes him distress, by wearing items he hates, by admitting all these beautiful women are crazy about his best rival rather than him.

Sanji is so brave, even in his defenses… Sanji accepted him even though he planned to love him one-sidedly for the rest of his life, watching him from afar like a subject reveres his king while shining by his side like the lord of hell reigns equal to the lord of heaven. Sanji just told him he loves him, even though he has such a hard time expressing his affection to men, especially those of Zoro’s character.

Zoro sees his cheeks flush and feels his face heat up at the same time, but he is no coward, and he must honor the cook’s courage.

So he puts aside his misplaced pride, his comfort in these various status quo that have never bothered him, and even the certainty that he’s not worthy of everything Sanji does and is, because he still cannot fly.

“King of my heart,” he repeats, cheeks burning and lungs on fire.

They only have one king, and it’s Luffy. However, Sanji picks up on the nuance as quickly as Zoro did when he began sorting through his feelings toward the cook. He finally seems to grasp the full meaning of the statement, realizing Zoro took him seriously because he was serious, and his face contorts into a sulky grimace as his cheekbones turn scarlet.

He straightens up, lifting Zoro after him with an ease that always surprises those who have never seen the athletic body hidden beneath the suit.

“Why is it the local brute who manages to come out with the most romantic stuff I’ve ever heard in my life…?” he grumbles for a moment, his gaze evasive and tired.

Zoro raises his head to look at him. He’s amazed by the confirmation that their feelings are mutual, otherwise Sanji would have already rejected him rather than pretending to be upset.

He has no answer to his question. He himself does not understand how his behavior can so perfectly match the cook’s needs, even when he doesn’t do it on purpose. He gives him a determined look, trying to convey emotions he doesn’t necessarily identify well, and Sanji reads everything there is to know about what they share and how Zoro feels about him.

“I love you too, you idiot,” the cook repeats, chuckling.

Zoro crashes onto his lips without thinking twice.

His partner’s long arms wrap around his shoulders, squeezing him so hard it hurts. Zoro slips his own around his ribs and squeezes just as hard, because whatever the cook does, he has to imitate him, back him up, do just as much.

“Aaawww…!”

The collective sigh behind them makes them jump. Zoro chuckles inwardly, realizing that even before they were in love, they forgot their usual priorities to focus on each other.

His pursuers are there, eyes full of stars and hands on their cheeks. Only Tashigi looks away, embarrassed.

Hiyori is the quickest to recover, proud samurai daughter that she is. She breaks away from the group and walks towards them, a slight smile masking her emotions.

“Sorry, Sango… Sanji. I think he just ruined all our motivation with barely a few words…”

Sanji nods, visibly disappointed.

“It would be cruel to involve you after that. Thank you for trying.”

Hiyori gives them a dignified wave goodbye, then turns away and heads toward the castle in the distance, where Sanji and his friends have no doubt promised them a well-deserved feast.

The other girls follow her, some enthusiastically, others grumbling.

“I knew they weren’t exclusive, but what can you do when he looks at his boyfriend like that…? If I’d known, I wouldn’t have bothered coming…”

“Don’t be silly, no one here would have missed a chance to eat Sanji’s cooking again.”

“Come on, Tashigi-chan. We should leave them alone for now.”

Tashigi protests, but she herself has a chivalrous side that prevents her from being overly violent towards innocent women. One of them pulls her by the arm, another takes off her glasses as a precaution. She stammers, stumbles, then gives up. The girl holding her by the elbow gives her an appreciative look, then adds:

“He called him king of my heart! That’s so cute, I want to rule over someone’s heart too!”

“Aren’t you too disappointed, Hiyori?”

“No, I’ve been mentally prepared for this all along. In the meantime, I’ve improved my drop kick… My brother is going to suffer!”

Zoro watches Sanji. Sanji stares at Hiyori with the look of a man who likes getting kicked in the face. He’s about to make fun of him, but when he turns his head, he’s dwarfed by the cook’s beautiful eyes and the flame his provocations ignite in them.

“Get off your stilts, ero-cook,” he demands as they find themselves alone on the overly pink beach, in the overly perfumed air.

Sanji turns his attention back to him and smirks. He looks so radiant Zoro feels blinded.

“Given your statement, I would have thought you liked being below me…”

Zoro swallows and wonders how he’s going to annoy the cook now that he knows how much he worships him. He glances at the offending shoes, thinks back to Hiyori’s drop kick and how Sanji seemed almost interested. He gives him his best predatory smile and sneers:

“Is that a kink?”

Sanji freezes. A single drop of blood runs from his nose to his mouth. Zoro bursts out laughing. The cook blushes, but tries to control himself by lighting a cigarette. He succeeds, because he says in a proud tone:

“Only if you call me that again.”

Zoro nods. Now that the nickname has passed his lips, he can’t take it back, nor does he wish to. The joy these words bring to Sanji’s face is immense, and Zoro wants to see it again and again for the rest of his life.

The cook steps aside and crouches down to remove the criminal heels. Zoro complies:

“King of my heart.”

Sanji shivers under his lowered gaze. The swordsman bites his lip to keep from laughing as he realizes how much the term actually gives him leverage over his partner. So much for all the times he feels overwhelmed, left behind, for all the things Sanji does that Zoro doesn’t. So much for all the love Sanji gives to the world and that Zoro also gives, in his own way, but which he wants to direct towards this man full of dreams, devoid of ambition and yet capable of conquering the hearts of all conquerors.

When the cook stands up straight, Zoro finally understands that everything he didn’t need to give Sanji could make Sanji happy. That trying to catch up with him isn’t even enough, that doing isn’t enough. Zoro must not only keep learning to fly. He must keep loving.

“King of my heart,” he repeats, knowing the words will become prayer.

Sanji walks away to dip his feet in the water, embarrassed. Zoro follows him reflexively, fascinated by the heart of gold this man who lives to serve wears like the crown of a king. He holds out his hand, as if afraid the distance between them is too great and will prevent him from reaching him.

Sanji must see something written on his face, because he raises an eyebrow and intertwines their fingers.

“Shall we go back via the beach? I have some time before the feast.”

Zoro simply nods and squeezes the cook’s hand tighter in his own.

That day, Zoro is ready to give up. He doesn’t know how long he’s been trying to learn this damn technique, but nothing works. He can’t get past nine kicks.

Robin is starting to blame it on mental block. Sanji insists on his chronic incompetence, as if the swordsman hadn’t already achieved tons of feats and tons of dreams alongside his crew.

They had a picnic for two in a pretty cove that reminded him a little of Momoiro Beach, even though he much prefers the azure sea and sky to the horrible pink hues of that cursed island.

Sanji told him he was taking him there to train, but Zoro has lost count of the number of times he’s used this excuse to organize romantic tête-à-têtes for them. He never complains, and takes advantage of these moments to drown the cook in his love.

They’re both sprawled out on the warm sand, sated and happy. Sanji’s pupils have reached the cheerful brilliance he imagines kings to have, and he stares at Zoro from the shadow of the golden crown that forms an angelic halo around his face. The swordsman gazes at him with all the affection he can convey through his single eye, then shakes his head and sits up to stretch.

“Come on, cook, shouldn’t we get started?”

Sanji imitates him, but instead of agreeing, he studies him for a moment and finally announces:

“You know what? I think you need to clear your head before anything else.”

Zoro wonders since when the cook has been into meditation, given how he’s too nervous to stay in the same position for more than five minutes — except when he’s serving as a pillow for the swordsman.

However, instead of sitting cross-legged, Sanji unbuttons his shirt, revealing his lean, well-defined muscles, the crease of his lower abdomen where his belt tightens around his hips, his solid shoulders, and his skin too smooth to be natural. Zoro swallows.

He shakes his chin and undoes his black yukata to copy his lover. By now, he should know what Sanji means by clearing their heads. However, the cook is still capable of surprising him, as he simply removes his shoes and rolls up the legs of his pants before standing up.

“Wanna walk with me by the water?”

A pale hand reaches out, which Zoro has gotten used to grasping with a smile. He pushes aside his growing excitement, takes off his boots, and rolls up his baggy pants until he can tuck them above his knees. The lecherous glance Sanji gives him informs Zoro he may not have been so far from the truth after all, or else the cook is studying the old scars on his ankles and feeling a misplaced satisfaction at having stitched them up.

The swordsman is on his feet before he realizes it. He’s always impressed by the power of those precious arms that can carry him as if he weighed nothing, and with him, the weight of their entire crew. He still wants to measure up, he still wants to catch up with this man who is so far ahead of him and whom he can carry too, but it will never be enough until he can fly alongside him.

They wander along the beach hand in hand. Sanji occasionally bends down to pick up a shell and show it to him before slipping some into his pocket. From time to time, he offers him pebbles, which Zoro enjoys skipping across the water. Sanji deftly imitates him, but his pebbles sink too quickly. When Zoro teases him, he ends up throwing the stones at his toes. Zoro dodges them without even thinking.

They enjoy the fresh air, the tranquility of this isolated beach, and each other’s easy, reassuring and exciting presence. Then, suddenly, Sanji starts to giggle. Zoro glances at him and falls in love all over again when he sees him looking so handsome and smiling, his blond hair framing his slightly emaciated face. A smooth voice rumbles in his powerful chest. Zoro feels satisfied that even if he’s still not good enough for him, at least Sanji is happy.

The cook turns toward him, spreading his arms wide. Zoro knows what he’s waiting for, so he shrugs his shoulders, stretches his lips into a mean grin, and lets his partner pull him close.

The next moment, the vicious grip of a calf against his cruciate ligaments causes him to lose his balance, and Sanji, that little jerk, throws him into the water without further ado.

Zoro has nothing, not even a piece of clothing to hold on to. He rolls in the waves until he finds his footing, swearing all the while. When he surfaces, he spits profusely, furious. He’s soaked from head to toe, an octopus has clung to his shoulder, and a large green seaweed has twisted itself around his katanas. He pulls off the octopus — he has no idea why these creatures seem to consider him one of their own —, then immediately yells at Sanji:

“You piece of shit, just you wait till I catch you!”

Sanji’s hearty, slightly high-pitched laugh echoes through the cove, causing Zoro’s heart to skip a beat with a rush of mixed adrenaline and endorphins.

“Try me!” retorts the cook, clearly ready to flee.

As Zoro rushes towards him, Sanji starts running along the beach, his golden crown bobbing to the rhythm of his powerful strides. His calves tense, sand flying from under his heels. Zoro’s not impressed: he has never stopped challenging his greatest rival, and today is no exception.

Sanji returns to the sea with his usual endurance, dodges too well, distances himself with movements that trigger pangs in his heart. Zoro ignores them. He’s having too much fun loving the cook, admiring his magnificent smile and that joie de vivre he never lost even when he was at his lowest, even when he still believed he should die to apologize for existing. He’s having too much fun trying to catch him by any means possible, and he remembers he decided to devote his life to it because it makes him happy, gives him a goal within reach, or almost, because his hand just misses the cook’s wrist and…

Sanji laughs in front of him. His gaze lingers on his peer as if he wants to wait for him but refuses to do him the offense, because he knows Zoro will always be there, because he has no doubt Zoro is his equal, and this certainty fills Zoro with a happiness that makes him feel like he’s flying.

“Marimo, I can’t believe you!” shouts the cook before turning completely around and letting Zoro grab him.

The swordsman needs only one movement to throw Sanji into the sea, but suddenly he realizes there’s no water into which he can throw the man with the divine radiance. Suddenly, there is nothing but air and wind and Sanji’s golden hair, which half-hides his triumphant face like a crown would do.

Zoro follows his gaze. He sees his stitched feet floating in the air, making a sound that is now too familiar for him to bother noticing.

They’re several meters above the ground, far from everything.

Finally… Zoro realizes as he sees his legs kicking the air as if it were second nature. I can finally catch up with him.

Sanji giggles against his skin. He feels him wipe away an incongruous tear and moves slightly away to look at his face.

“Twenty years, my love…”

Zoro jumps at the mention. Another tear streaks down the handsome face age has barely emaciated and disappears into the thick goatee that scratches Zoro’s skin when they kiss.

“It took me twenty years to understand it was me you wanted to reach.”

Zoro wipes the tear away with his thumb as they push back the void beneath them in unlikely synchronization, eyes locked. With his other hand, he clears the blond halo from the face, grabbing the mass of hair to hold it back against his partner’s neck.

“It’s because you always thought you were the one lagging behind, you idiot.”

Sanji gives him a contrite smile, sorry for being such a bad mentor and for taking so long to understand what motivation his student needed. He strokes his green hair with one hand, playing with the strands that are just long enough for being braided.

“As if you didn’t remind me every day, mint ice cream.”

Zoro observes this man who does and knows how to do so many things, this being whom he will be able to hold up to the skies in turn, even if it may be too late and they’re all far too strong to need this kind of support. He admires the golden crown adorning Sanji’s regal face, the way it casts precious reflections on the small crease age has revealed at the corners of his mouth.

He decides he wants to see it even more pronounced, he wants to play a part in deepening it by triggering bursts of laughter and anger, shivers of happiness that will anchor there, overshadowing him under this princely forehead that bows without shame before those who are hungry, and whose crown shines with the pride he derives from serving others.

Zoro stops kicking the air and lets himself fall into the void, taking Sanji with him.

They fall headfirst, just like the day they kissed for the first time. Zoro verbalizes his emotions with his usual difficulty, hoping to strike the right chord with the term of endearment he reserves for Sanji.

“I don’t regret the time it took, king of my heart.”

Sanji kisses him full on the mouth, rewarding him for that ridiculous nickname he let slip during some random training session.

Zoro protects Sanji from the impact when they hit the water head-on, his back slamming against the sea like the day he sank under Mihawk’s blade, and when the cook thought he saw proof he would never be his equal, while Zoro himself already perceived the danger in Sanji, the threat of an equal impossible to catch up with if he shed his burden to take on another, as heavy as it was liberating.

They roll with the waves like the two pirates they have always been, and Zoro feels so light he still thinks he’s flying.

As the cook crushes him under his weight and rips his swords from him, the waves lapping at their heels, Zoro no longer weighs anything. From now on, there is no place in the world where he cannot follow Sanji.

The gold on his head shines brighter than ever, and Zoro remembers how it all started: the things Sanji can do, the things he does, and the way he dispenses his benevolence to the world like he lives to serve, despite his regal qualities.

Zoro isn’t sure where exactly it came from considering how much happened and how many events lead people to this conclusion, but there’s been a saying going around in the Grand Line for some time now. He smiles at how it fits Sanji like a glove:

The crown of true kings is made with the gold of their heart.