gay

“Doesn’t matter,” Sanji giggled. “We’ll put our differences aside as soon she realizes I’m her soulmate.”

Zoro grunted. “Better start going into fights shirtless, then.”

“Hm.” Sanji considered it. He glanced out the window for a moment; their captain rocketed by like he’d been shot from a cannon, pursuing a seagull or Usopp or something. Blink, and he would have missed him.

It had always bothered him, not knowing what his mark was supposed to be. Other people had it simple. Luffy had a small anatomical heart on his arm, right there in plain sight. It was one of the first things Sanji had noticed about him, right after the straw hat and the facial scar. 

Luffy was about the furthest thing from a romantic that he’d ever seen, but he definitely wore his heart on his sleeve. It suited him. There was someone out there who was a perfect match for him, and they would know as soon as they touched skin to skin. And Luffy was never not touching people, so it was bound to happen. 

What kind of person could match their captain’s energy, though? Luffy never expressed any interest in finding his soulmate. His priorities were the crew, the One Piece, and meat. Sanji had a sudden and unpleasant image of a cannibal hunched over a human heart, gnawing on it as she locked eyes with Luffy—

“Cook?” Zoro elbowed him. “Dish?”

He’d zoned out. Sanji stepped on Zoro’s foot in gentle retaliation, then grabbed another dish and scrubbed it off. “Here,” he grunted, thrusting it at Zoro.

He didn’t like the little smirk on the swordsman’s face. They were speaking the same monosyllabic language now.

“If you ever meet your soulmate, mosshead, it’ll probably be in battle.” Sanji stole a glance at the thinly outlined flame on the back of Zoro’s left shoulder. It was one of the few things they had in common; their marks were out of sight most of the time. It meant they might touch their soulmate and never even realize it.

But like Luffy, Zoro had his own priorities, and true love was near the bottom of the list— if it was on the list at all, Sanji figured. There was no room in that mossy brain for anything but swords and muscles and more swords.

“Uh, no.” Zoro shook his head, flashing a look of disbelief at Sanji. “If some dude tries to set me on fire, I’m not stopping to hold hands with him.”

Sanji sniffed and rolled his eyes. “You’re such a—”

Hm?

His head turned ninety degrees, staring at Zoro for a long moment. Zoro stared back at him.

“What, ya weirdo?” Zoro scowled. “You might not have any standards, shit-cook, but most people don’t wanna get all lovey-dovey with someone who’s trying to kill them.”

“That’s— no,” Sanji said, furiously dunking the last dish into the water. “No, I just…”

He scrubbed it, staring down at his hands, feeling the heat of Zoro’s questioning glare. When he was certain every molecule of grease had been eradicated, he held it out to Zoro.

Zoro didn’t reach for it. He raised an eyebrow.

Sanji put his other hand on his hip, and raised an eyebrow back. “I just didn’t know,” he said, fixing his voice into something calm and polite.

“Didn’t know… what?” Zoro tilted his head, his earrings catching a glint of hot sunlight as they swayed. Sanji watched the gears turning slowly behind his eyes. “…That I’m into men?”

Inexplicably, Sanji felt the heat rising in his cheeks again. He turned back to the sink. “Should have guessed. Your table manners alone are enough to drive any woman off.”

“Fine by me.” Zoro shrugged. “So, what? You gotta problem?”

Sanji looked at him. One second, then two. He clicked his tongue.

“Obviously not,” Sanji said, holding the dish out to him again. “I grew up on the Baratie, for fuck’s sake.”

Zoro blinked, then reached out to take the dish. The corner of his mouth turned up in something resembling a smile. “Cool.”

As the hand-off occurred, their fingers brushed. It was no big deal, but Sanji snapped his head rigidly forward. Wouldn’t want the marimo getting any ideas. For an unseen half-second, Zoro’s mark flared a bright yellow-orange; Sanji’s a soft, fuzzy green.