Zoro had lived 21 years up until this point and yet the most recent two seemed to stretch on far longer than the first 19. He knew, deep down, that he missed the crew. After time spent nearly alone, with only Johnny and Yosaku appearing in his life every so often, it had been strange and yet wonderful to have the instant presence of others. Even if those others were the most ragtag group that Zoro could have ever imagined.
Over dinner one night at Kuraigana, he had tried to describe each of the Strawhats to Perona and Mihawk. Perona had too many questions about each of them, calling each one of them some variation of ‘odd’ or ‘strange’. Zoro took a certain amount of pride in that—sure it was a lovingly cobbled together family, but one in which Zoro had found his home.
It was silly in some ways, but in the to years apart, Zoro tried to pull together all that he had missed about his friends, not as a way to wallow in the separation but as a reminder of what he could look forward to when the two years were up. Maybe he would tell them one day what he had thought of them in their time apart. For everyone it was easy—he missed Luffy’s fearlessness, Nami’s ability to nearly drink him under the table, Usopp’s laughably exaggerated tales, Chopper’s innate goodness, Robin’s intelligence, Franky’s vibrancy, Brook’s music.
Well, nearly everyone.
The cook was a different matter entirely. He was a thorn in the swordsman side, that much was evident to anyone that knew the two. The pair butted heads, quite literally, nearly any time they were in the same room. Swords were drawn, legs raised, and an hour later neither could remember what prompted the confrontation. It was a routine, predictable and comfortable, as much as it was bizarre.
Not knowing what else to make of it, Zoro began a list of all of the things about Sanji that infuriated him even months turned years apart, anything that came to mind. With each, there were phrases scratched out or erased, something too embarrassing to have permanently put to paper.
Your eyebrows are stupid. I saw the other one while we were fighting once, why do they both go in the same direction? That’s the only reason you won that fight—I was distracted.
Your eyes looked nice actually seeing them.
You’re so prissy about cooking. Not everything needs to be perfect. Edible is fine. It’s great but not worth all the time you spend making yourself crazy over it.
You treat the women like they’re so delicate. If you actually respected them, wouldn’t you fight them if they asked?
Half the reason I don’t mind fighting you.
You’re a worse sparring partner than the monkeys I had to fight.
It was less fun fighting them.
You never talk about shit. Yeah whatever I don’t either but you’re the whole big emotion guy when it comes to the ladies but you haven’t said shit about that restaurant since we left the East Blue.
What happened?
You never told anyone about it. Why the fuck didn’t you tell anyone? I just don’t get it.
Thanks.
You not being here is the best thing about this place.
I guess I miss you and it’s really fucking with me.
I had a dream about you. It was weird. Not bad. Just weird.
Had the dream again. Nice if I didn’t think about the fact it was you.
Dream again—actually thought about it being you this time and was better. Don’t get why.
You better not come back any weaker.
You better be okay.
Lost an eye. Don’t ask. Can still beat your ass.
Perona forced me to talk about it. Look, I don’t like the idea of having feelings for you any more than you’d like me liking you so. Whatever.
See you soon, Curly.
Two years passed, and seeing Sanji again still bubbled the same feelings in Zoro’s chest. He wanted to bicker, to fight, and now having realized he wanted to touch him, kiss him. Wanted equal parts rivalry and affection.
Zoro did neither of those things, though. Instead, he pulled the dripped wet notes from his haramaki, smudges across the scribbled out and unscrambled words alike. Slapping them against Sanji’s suit, he stayed silent. The swordsman could tell the closeness was turning his face pink and started off in the direction towards the Sunny.
He made it a good few minutes of walking before he felt a tug on his clothing, “Idiot, it’s this way.”
Zoro turned around just enough to see Sanji, eyes wide and face flushed, one fist clutching onto the soggy notes like a lifeline, the other slipping his own scraps of paper into Zoro’s haramaki.
Sanji’s hand was soft in his own as he was dragged along back in what the cook said was the right direction. They bickered about directions, about who was stronger, everything falling back into the same routine as before.
Well, nearly everything.