#dribble

Zoro leaves after paying. He continues to roam, pausing in the winery for a pinot, stopping by the smithy to see their new wares and grabbing two lemon tarts from the bakery before he heads to where his ol' ship is moored.

On restless days like these Zoro often thinks of the concept of a home.

He's had a few in his life, though most have always been mere shelters where he'd stop to rest. Home was the old house his father built, perhaps now nothing but bare bones and cobwebs somewhere in the East.

Home was the Going Merry and the Thousand Sunny. They remind Zoro of warmth and rich laughter. Memories of careless feet thunking against the floorboards of the deck, galley doors opening and slamming shut.

He misses that, on these days.

He misses hearing Luffy's loud snores at three in the morning, when Zoro'd walk in after the end of his watch. He even misses Nami's annoying voice as she calls for them to pick up their ship-duties.

The Chérie comes into view just as the sky begins to darken from clear and pale blue to a deep cerulean. Zoro runs a hand through his green hair, long enough to brush back, length varied enough so that strands fall to his forehead, curling over his ears.

Sanji is in the kitchen when Zoro steps into their suite. The smell of roasted lamb and seasoning in the air. His hair is pulled back in a mess of a bun halfway up his head and his attention is focused on the salad he's building in front of him.

The first time Zoro'd disappear for an entire day, Sanji'd been livid. And yet, Zoro'd known that underneath that, he'd been afraid of being abandoned, hurt at the distance placed between them without a single word of warning.

Now, Sanji looks up at him from under his lashes. His focus zeroes in on the flowers and he pulls away from his handiwork, takes a step back from the counter and follows Zoro's approach with his stare.

"What are these for?" he asks, when Zoro presses them to his chest.

"Can't I be romantic without being questioned?" Zoro asks, leaning forward, pressing his cheek to Sanji's. He smells like he always does: cigarette smokes, sea salt and herbs.

Sanji snorts and lightly shoves him away, looking at him like he's trying to find something that will never be there.

Zoro never thought he'd make it to thirty-six. It comes with the path he's chosen to walk. And Zoro's made peace with it long ago.

But in the off chance that he ever envisioned what his life would lead up to, it'd always been to roam. To wander. To hold the freedom to decide to see the world and see it again and again if he so chooses to.

But life is funny in how unpredictable it is.

He watches Sanji carefully unlace the twine, peel the brown wrapping paper away and then pull the bouquet itself into a clear vase he's filled with water. His cheeks are the same shade of the peonies' petals. It's endearing, and Zoro finds himself falling over and over again.

"Did you have a good day?" Sanji asks once they're seated at the dinner table. The flower vase is set in the middle, their plates filled with salad, with roasted lamb, with rice and other side dishes.

Zoro hears: do you still love me do you still want this do you still want to stay

"I did," Zoro says evenly.

What he says: I love you I love you I love you

Zoro's thoughts of home always end the same. This is home.

His restlessness will never change that. He'll leave for a day, roam and inspect and wander and get rid of the overflow of kinetic energy. And then he'll come back here.

This home that's theirs. Pieces of Sanji and pieces of Zoro, welded together to make the Chérie, Sanji's sea restaurant, and Zoro's dojo where he teaches young swordsmen.

Home is Sanji sitting here--after dinner, after the dishes--in his arms as he goes over the month's audits, glasses he'd once never needed sitting on his nose, pen in between long fingers, loopy writing on the papers. Zoro's front curved and aligned to Sanji's back, his arms around Sanji's waist, the smell of cigarette smoke and sea salt and herbs soothing, soft mutters a lull.

Zoro doesn't say anything, his eye fluttering shut again. It must be uncomfortable: he has dried blood caking his thick eyelashes, clumping them together. Sanji bites at the inside of his cheek, eyes drifting down to his chest, to see it rise, to see it fall, to see him breathe.

It's so faint, but it's there.

"I've been here before," he starts, voicing his earlier thought. What happened in Thriller Bark is a secret he will take to the grave because it's how the mosshead wants it. He knows a few others know, but Sanji is sure that Robin and Lola's crew, wherever they may be, will keep it safely tucked in inconspicuous places. In between their bones, just under their tongue where confessions make a grave in the mouths of cowards and good friends. "I've been here before. You always do this shit, mosshead."

To me, goes unsaid.

Because is it ever to him, if Zoro's gifted his soul to a ghost in his past and to Luffy? He mustn't have much left to give. Good thing Sanji's used to taking scraps. But that's a whole other monster that needs more than a fleeting moment in the middle of a war. He tucks it back into the figurative closet.

"I think we're even," Zoro slurs, his eye still closed but his brow furrowed. In pain or annoyance, who knows. Possibly both, all things considered. "You always leave. I always end up half-dead."

"That's not how it fucking works," Sanji mutters because the alternative is yelling so loud, his lungs will collapse. He picks up the roll of bandages again and starts to bind Zoro's broken body.

How much more can his bones take?

In Thriller Bark, he'd also been all broken bones and bruised organs. How Chopper fixed him up is a mystery Sanji still to this day does not understand. But Chopper isn't here---he's too far away from them right now and Sanji's hands were not made for healing. Not like this.

"Yeah, it is," Zoro finally responds. He sucks in air through his mouth. It's wet. It's still so wet with blood. He tries to raise an arm but it falls limp at his side again. Sanji pretends he doesn't hear bones creak. "In Little Garden. In Alabasta. In Water Seven..... While I was in Dressrosa and you---"

"Stop," Sanji whispers. "It's different. I always come back---"

"I always live."

Sanji grinds his teeth and swallows back the fear. It's hypocritical anyway. There's truth in the shit Zoro's spewing. Not that he'll ever say that out loud.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" Zoro breathes, looking at him with an intensity that sets Sanji's skin ablaze.

"Sure I do," he mutters. "It's like trussing a ham."

If he were able to, Sanji knows, the mosshead would chuckle. As it is, his gaze does not waver as he asks, "Am I a ham to you?"

The world is Zoro's slaughterhouse but Sanji doesn't voice that. This is the life they've both chosen: Zoro sacrifices his body and Sanji leaves to infiltrate and do recon. And sacrifice himself too, he supposes. Both tasks leave bitter and sour tastes in their mouths. They're one in the same, two sides of the same coin.

They're terrible for each other.

"You're not that appetizing," Sanji says, looking away because it's the only way he can hide when there's no one to shift the attention to.

Zoro wheezes, his eye half-lidded. "Liar."

"You always do this shit," Sanji repeats, thin fingers skimming the bandages near Zoro's hip.

"So do you."

"Pour five ounces of vinegar onto that bowl," the cook instructs as he heads towards the fridge.

Zoro does as instructed. He's learned to listen carefully to what the cook has to say because, if he doesn't, he goes on a tirade that usually gets Zoro kicked out and not allowed to come help in the kitchen for days. Once, it took about a week before Sanji softened up again and let him stay with him.

"Two tablespoons of sugar," Sanji recites without looking at Zoro's work. He's pulling a tray with salted mackerel from the fridge. "I left these salting before breakfast. It'll make the process a little faster."

Zoro pretends not to care. So he grunts.

"Half a tablespoon of salt," the cook says with a bit of a laugh in his voice.

It makes Zoro's skin vibrate.

"Whisk it."

Zoro likes this part. He grabs the whisk by the handle and then begins to flick his wrist in even little circles. Bubbles form in the substance inside the bowl but the sugar and the salt quickly start to dissolve and combine with the vinegar.

The first time Sanji ordered him to whisk something, Zoro hadn't been as skillful which had made the cook sigh in annoyance and snatch both the mixing bowl and the whisk to show Zoro how simple the task was. Zoro'd given him an amused grin, but he supposes he'd failed in hiding the mischievous glint in his eye. It'd caused Sanji's face to turn pink which in turn made him stomp on Zoro's booted foot.

"Okay," the cook says from in front of the sink where he's washing the salt off the mackerel. "On the other bowl: add two tablespoon of yellow mustard." He sighs and sucks at his teeth. "I would have preferred stone-ground, but we're out. Ah, remind me to add that to the grocery list for our next stop."

Zoro won't remind him. Sanji never forgets.

"Add half a tablespoon of honey and half a tablespoon of vinegar."

Zoro adds the honey. It's a bit of a sticky business, no pun intended. He shifts so any extra honey doesn't land into the mix he's preparing because anything extra will change the taste and the cook will know. He blinks, setting the jar of honey aside and staring at the bottle of vinegar.

"How much vinegar?" he asks, because he can't just guess.

"Half a tablespoon," the cook responds, drying the mackerel with specific paper towels he keeps for food, not the ones that are out for the crew. This, too, he learned the hard way in the past.

Zoro does as instructed. "Whisk it?"

The cook comes closer, Zoro knows because he can smell the nicotine and the sea. It's so dumb, how he thinks of Sanji and the sea as the same. As if he'd formed from the sea foam itself, made of the salt and the sun.

Zoro looks at him as he hovers right behind his shoulder, eyeing the mix, his thin lips curved in thought. The cigarette twitches up and down from the probing of the tip of Sanji's tongue. Without warning, he looks at Zoro, his eyes a deep blue, eyelashes a dirty blond.

Zoro holds his breath.

"What do you think?" he asks and this is kind of new. The cook never really asks what Zoro would do in the kitchen. Zoro would do what Sanji instructs him to do, obviously. "Should we add dill?"

The cook could be asking him for his deepest darkest secret, for all Zoro knows. He can't exactly focus on anything coming out of his mouth when he's been pinned by Sanji's eyes on him. They're a deep blue, streaks of orange around the pupil, a little green hidden in between. If Zoro doesn't breathe soon he's going to die.

And you know what, that's okay. It feels like death would be a lot easier to navigate than this.

"Moss?"

"Huh?"

"Yes dill or no dill?"

This could be a trick question.

"No dill," he splutters, hoping he's chosen right.

By the curve of Sanji's mouth, it seems so. The smile is both soft and sharp, exasperated and fond. A contradiction, just like the cook himself.

Zoro exhales.

"Good choice," Sanji praises, his thin hand coming to rest in between Zoro's shoulder blades. He gives a soft pat, a short rub. It looks condescending, it feels like the very definition of intimacy.

"Whisk it," he instructs and peels himself away from him.

Zoro misses the warmth almost instantly.

"Then, combine the two and whisk that as well."

And Zoro does as instructed. When he's done, Sanji beckons him over with one hand while the other grabs a ladle. He hands it to Zoro, shifting to the side to make more space for Zoro's bulk.

"Pour it on top of the mackerel," Sanji instructs, taking the mixing bowl into his hands so he can hold it for him.

This part is hard.

Zoro can follow any and all instruction Sanji gives him, so long as the cook is looking away and busying himself with his own part of the prep. Like this, under Sanji's watchful eyes, Zoro feels vulnerable and like he's more susceptible to make a mistake.

These are foreign feelings to him. Zoro's a man confident in his skills, in all he's capable of and all challenges that are thrown his way. But it's different when he's in Sanji's territory, when it's Sanji's expertise, when it's Sanji the instructor and he the student. It's a bit of a shift in their dynamics. Out there, out in the world they're set to conquer, they're equals, they're rivals. Here, in their own little slice of life... Well, suffice to say that Zoro does not mind being led, if it's Sanji leading.

"Good," the cook hums, watching the careful way Zoro pours the sauce over the mackerel.

He has to make sure it's evenly poured, he has to make sure he doesn't waste anything. And when he's done, the look the cook gives him makes Zoro's heart flip.

Wordlessly, Sanji walks the tray back to the fridge, moving things around with one hand before he slides the tray in.

"We let it chill for thirty minutes," he says turning back to him.

Zoro swallows, giving a grunt as a response while he dumps all their dirty crockery into the basin. Cooking with Sanji is always uncharted waters, but washing dishes will always be a bit of a comfort zone.

He starts to let the basin fill up with water, dropping dish soup so it gets sudsy. The cook comes to stand next to him, dish rag in one hand.

"You know," he starts with a bit of a laugh in his tone. "You have a knack for following instructions. Who would have thought, mosshead?"

Zoro rolls his eye.

And grunts, because that always annoys the cook and Zoro must keep the appearances up and running.

"Hm," Sanji hums, his blue eyes shiny with amusement.

"I could do this every day," he says. It's a light statement but the meaning is heavy. He hopes... he hopes.

The cook looks at him some more, his expression open for once. It's like staring into a mirror, Zoro thinks, watching all he carries reflected right back to him.

Sanji's lips curve to one side into a crooked, shy smile.

"With a little more practice, you may just be able to," he says, he invites. In that dumb flippant way of his because if Sanji is anything it’s infuriating, easy to dig his way in under the skin. Then, more softly, so only Zoro can hear, so even Zoro could very well miss it, "Me too."