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If Zoro is honest with himself, and with whoever asks him, he doesn't remember the moment he fell in love with Sanji. That doesn't mean he hasn't mentioned hundreds of different occasions to different people, or the silence in the room when he can't sleep. It could have been when Sanji left him full meals before leaving in the early hours of the morning, or when he found him waiting for him in the rain after their first argument, or perhaps when he gave him his first professional camera. Or maybe he always loved him, but on those occasions he felt close to saying it.
Over time, and why not, with his mistakes, Zoro realized that he could never say it. He should never tell Sanji that he loved him, Sanji would never forgive him and would break everything they had built.
Zoro met Sanji in college. Luffy had quickly included him in his group of friends, and Zoro had no choice but to accept him. It was difficult to contradict Luffy, and little 7-year-old Zoro had learned that it was easier to deal with the consequences than with the decision.
Zoro quickly saw in Sanji what none of the others seemed to see. Except Luffy, perhaps, although with him it was never clear how much he knew. Secrets. Sanji was full of secrets. Yes, he was an idiot who wore his heart on his sleeve, but he lied and avoided hundreds of other things. Sanji never answered any questions about his family, not even an accidental mention. He hid the burn marks on his arms. And his stupid hairstyle that hid one of his eyes. And he hid the times when he was hungry. And he didn't let anyone into his apartment. And his hands, damn it, Zoro hated how Sanji hid his hands. In the sleeves of his sweater when it was cold, behind his back when he decided that his style was suits found in thrift stores, and in soft caresses to Zoro's hair when arguments seemed to bring out the worst in each of them.
It wasn't that Zoro cared deeply about what Sanji did with his life, but it was still a contrast in such a close-knit group. At first, he attributed it to Sanji being new and not seeming to have had friends before, if his lack of social skills were any indication. Over the years, Zoro learned that it was one of the many ways Sanji's sacrificial personality expressed itself.
Sanji fell into simple dynamics within the group. He gave in to Luffy and Chopper's whims and games, listened attentively to Ussop's stories and even asked questions, and with Nami and Robin he found a strange balance between loving them too much and being as distant from them as he could. Even so, Sanji had a place in everyone's life except Zoro's. From day one, there was tension between them, which Zoro attributed to a spark of attraction. Days later, the idea left his head when, drinking in a bar after a day of classes, he hinted that Hiyori (a girl from Sanji's class) was attracted to him and that it would be good for Zoro to give her a chance.
Zoro felt a little lost in the face of this, mainly because he always thought their bickering was a stupid form of flirting. Until that moment, when it seemed that Sanji was extremely excited to see him with someone else.
Nothing ever happened with Hiyori, nor would it, if he had to be honest. The girl was attractive, but Zoro had the small but significant problem of liking an overthinking, pessimistic blond.
Years passed before there was the slightest interaction between them related to attraction.
Sanji walked beside him on the street, with only one or two cars passing by. Sanji started walking on the edge of the street, balancing one foot in front of the other. He saw him stumble, so he went over to hold him up, not letting go even when Sanji had regained his balance and was walking smoothly. Their hands intertwined silently, and they didn't rush even when the rain caught up with them.
When they took shelter from the rain at a bus stop, Sanji leaned against the wall without letting go of Zoro's hand. The green-haired man leaned next to him and focused on the sound of the rain hitting the asphalt. It felt strange. Holding Sanji's hand even though the blond seemed more drunk than he was.
“Huh?” Zoro asked, Sanji's voice lost in the roar of the rain.
“You look good,” he repeated louder, laughing. “Wet hair makes you look attractive.”
And he smiled. The fool looked at him with that silly smile of someone in love, so different from the one he gave when he ran after the women at the university. Honestly, Zoro should have thought it through more. He should have left and let Sanji sink into his indecision.
“I've wanted to kiss you since the afternoon you arrived wearing that horrible unpressed black shirt,” Sanji's blue eyes were fixed on the floor.
If Zoro's memory served him right, that had been about a year ago. The very night Sanji had told him that Hiyori liked him. And it made sense. It made so much fucking sense that Sanji would take a step back if he thought he would get in the way of some girl.
“You're an idiot,” Zoro said before leaning in and kissing him. And it felt like touching heaven and hell at the same time. So close to what he longed for and, at the same time, he felt like he had already lost everything.
He expected Sanji to panic or maybe push him away. If he had learned anything, it was that the blond was terrible when it came to receiving affection. Zoro didn't know if it was the effect of the alcohol, but he felt Sanji's smile against his lips.
“I wanted you so much,” he sighed. That must have told Zoro a lot about the relationship they would have.
Not much else happened that night. They shared a few more kisses while the rain soaked their clothes, and Sanji asked him for a cab, waving goodbye with a smile. Zoro could barely contain the stupid grin on his face. As soon as he entered his apartment, Zoro received a message from Sanji wishing him good night. Zoro responded with a middle finger, and Sanji sent a laugh.
From that night on, they messaged each other every day, all day long. Mostly about nothing in particular, Sanji talked about the new dishes he had prepared at the restaurant where he was helping out, and it had actually been a surprise to learn that Sanji was working at a restaurant on the outskirts of the city. He didn't make him promise not to tell anyone, but Zoro knew it was implied. Sanji was confiding things to him that he didn't tell anyone else. He told him about the wounds on his arms and his brothers, whom Zoro already detested. Sanji cried during a call when the subject turned to his mother. And Zoro listened. Words seemed unnecessary for the blond if he could hear Zoro's breathing on the other end of the line.
Zoro told him his side of the story too. He whispered about Kuina because saying it out loud made the pain more real, he told him about feeling left out of the Mugiwara crew even though they were always together, and about how scared he was of failing college like he had failed kendo. Sanji did say things back to him, whispering how wonderful he was and how much he admired him. He told him he was wonderful and that he knew he was talented. And for a while, Zoro believed it. His self-esteem was truly sky-high during the time they were together.
But Zoro had never been lucky enough to have everything go well in his life. So he wasn't surprised when Sanji continued to pick small fights in front of the others and little remained of the blond who looked at him tenderly. Zoro thought that maybe Sanji wanted to forget that kiss and move on. But when Sanji went to see him at the faculty editing studio and the first thing he did was corner him against the wall and kiss him, Zoro felt lost.
“I love it when you wear sweatshirts,” Sanji said, leaving a kiss on Zoro's shoulder. The green-haired man had to take a breath to keep from falling to his knees.
“Really? Why?” Zoro asked, running his fingers through Sanji's hair.
“I don't know. It makes you look... at home? I don't even know if that makes sense, I just know I like seeing you like that.”
Zoro started wearing sweatshirts every day he knew or assumed he would see Sanji. Before, due to classes and work, they saw each other every two or three days, but Sanji started visiting him daily. He would send him a message asking where he was, and when Zoro replied that he was at the college radio station, it would only be 10 or 15 minutes before Sanji was knocking on his door.
Zoro would feign annoyance before Sanji closed the door behind him to come over and kiss him. Although he always looked behind him, making sure no one was there. Zoro always noticed, but at that time he felt brave. He convinced himself that he could play the same game and that it was fun. It wasn't, or at some point it stopped being fun.
The first escalation was sex. It had started with suggestive messages, the occasional racy photo, and soon Sanji invited him to his apartment. Zoro doesn't want to paint himself as the victim either. He knew exactly what he was getting into and enjoyed the sex very much at the time.
He found in Sanji a bedmate he could trust and let himself go with. They were both... freaks in bed, never surprised by what the other liked. They discovered that Zoro liked to have his mouth occupied almost excessively, Sanji was a natural talker and his favorite topic was how tight Zoro was, and Zoro enjoyed listening to him moan so much, and Sanji had learned exactly what level of domination Zoro liked without going overboard. They were perfect.
The breaks were also good times, they could tell each other anything. The first few times were about people they found attractive. Sanji mentioned some girls he talked to, and since they weren't officially anything, Zoro couldn't say anything. Zoro decided to reciprocate that attitude and started making up people he flirted with, although if he was honest, the only chats he had were Sanji and Luffy sending him 20 or 30 videos. If Sanji talked about how hot he thought Violet was, Zoro talked about the times Wyper had invited him to his apartment but Zoro had refused. Sanji would then masturbate him while discussing the idea of a threesome with Ace or Law, whom they both found attractive.
Zoro liked fantasy, maybe dirty talk. But more than once he felt sick imagining something like that happening. Sanji touching someone else or someone else touching Sanji.
The idea disgusted him.
That dynamic went on for months. Sex, deep conversations, and a shared love of alcohol and cigarettes, even though they both swore they were going to quit.
Zoro thought about it, really pondered what was happening. All the times he felt his heart flutter with every sensation and started thinking about Sanji for his future.
And then he decided he would tell him, tell him that it had been a long time since it felt casual and that he was falling in love. He would tell him it wasn't serious, that they still had time to stop it and remain friends. They could forget about this pseudo-romance without too many complications.
They met as they normally would, and Zoro blurted it all out.
“I think it's more. For a long time now, it's felt like more,” he whispered. Sanji remained silent, so Zoro forced himself to continue. “I know it's not the same for you, it doesn't have to be. It's okay, I just wanted you to know.”
Sanji hugged him that day, so tenderly that it remained etched in Zoro's memory. He told him no, clearly. They couldn't be anything more, Sanji wasn't ready and felt stuck on so many things. His career, his family, the restaurant. Excuses and excuses. A part of Zoro, the rational part, told him that Sanji just didn't want to commit. He liked everything about a relationship: the affection, sleeping together, the sex, the companionship, everything except the label.
They told each other they could still be friends, but there was an inevitable distance between them. And Zoro felt so bad, so fucking sad, even though he told himself he could get over it. For everyone else, nothing had happened. It was a Monday like any other, when Sanji and Zoro sat at opposite ends of the table and exchanged a few insults before going home. Only this time, Sanji wasn't waiting for him at the bus stop a few blocks from the university.
Zoro got over it, or almost. He regained his confidence, went out more with... other people. He gave himself the chance to not be in love with Sanji. And it went well. It was good, the world went on and seemed to be getting better.
But Sanji wasn't ready to lose him. Zoro can recognize that without sounding like an idiot. Sanji didn't want to lose everything Zoro gave him. Not materially, because Zoro was barely able to afford his meals and apartment with what Mihawk gave him each month. But emotionally it was complex, Sanji was alone. Without deep ties to the Mugiwara, running away from everything related to his family, running away from a career he wasn't happy with. Zoro was something... solid.
So one afternoon everything fell apart again with a message.
“I miss you.”
And Zoro was weak. And stupid. Because he told him to come over, that he would be waiting for him at the apartment. Sanji walked in as if it were his home, with the same ease as three months ago. They fell so easily into the same dynamic as before. Sex, affection, nights together, lies, and more lies.
Sanji was especially cruel this time. He knew about Zoro's feelings, so now everything felt more committed. Sanji stayed over and let him make breakfast. On more than one occasion, he bought him clothes or things for his apartment, which was no longer just a bed, a sofa, and a nightstand. Now there were blankets, pictures, and so many spices and foods in the refrigerator. Zoro never again knew what it was like to go hungry or eat unseasoned rice and chicken.
He waited for him to go home even when people were staring. When he noticed that Zoro only used the university camera, Sanji gave him a new one. It wasn't exceptionally good, but it was just what Zoro needed. And Sanji started accompanying him to all the events he covered, with a thermos of coffee and something to eat. For a moment, it stopped feeling like a secret.
Sanji seemed willing to take it further. He even promised not to talk to other people, that they would be exclusive. Zoro, even though he knew the kind of man Sanji was, convinced himself that they could give it another try. Months passed, Sanji lived for Zoro and Zoro lived for Sanji. That's how it felt. Always so needy of each other.
On more than one occasion, they found themselves drinking together, Zoro enjoying sex with that little tingle of alcohol behind it. After so many years, Zoro was beginning to think that he used alcohol to silence his doubts.
Because yes, Zoro spent every moment with Sanji doubting. Fearing. Escaping the moment when everything would fall apart. Zoro knew that relationships like this were inevitably doomed to failure.
One night, they were walking home from the restaurant, sharing a bottle of whiskey and laughing. It was good; he liked the mellow taste. Sanji teased him about a table that had changed its order more than five times. They stopped halfway to buy hamburgers and ate them on a bench near the park. Sanji had played music from his phone, and when he went to throw away the trash, he handed his phone to Zoro.
Zoro doesn't know what came over him in those moments. He had never been the jealous or controlling type, but with Sanji, things had gone to shit. He no longer knew who he was. It only took a few seconds to find what he was always meant to find.
Messages, two or three different conversations. “We should meet up, my love.” “I've been missing you so much, beautiful.” Hundreds of other things he'd rather not remember because they make him feel miserable. He waited for Sanji to return and looked at him with what little strength he had left.
“Will it ever be me?” It sounded like a plea. He felt like he was begging. Lie to me, for God's sake, lie to me so this doesn't end. But Sanji didn't answer. Instead, he shook his head and approached Zoro to gently guide his head to his stomach. Zoro was crying, he couldn't stop.
“I'm sorry. You can't imagine how much,” Sanji whispered.
“You have to go. You have to leave me. I can never be the one to leave.”
Zoro thought Sanji would stay. Like all the other times when Zoro acted out what could be called dramas and Sanji just laughed, agreed with him, and hugged or kissed him. But that wasn't the case. Sanji got up, left, and Zoro felt like he was going to die. He couldn't breathe. He was suffocating. Sanji left, leaving a kiss on his forehead, and Zoro's life was turned upside down. He barely made it home, and it took at least two days before he could get up.
Zoro doesn't remember exactly how long he spent on the floor of his apartment, his back against the door as if that could keep the world from entering without Sanji. He does remember the silence, though.
The silence after the messages that never came. The silence after understanding that, for the first time, Sanji had obeyed.
You must leave and he left.
The first few days were a mixture of interrupted sleep and blurred wakefulness. Luffy knocked on his door once; Zoro didn't open it. Nami called him three times; he turned off his phone. He got up on the third day only because hunger reminded him that his body was still functioning even though his heart was not. The house was full of Sanji. Not physically, but with what he had brought: the spices lined up in the kitchen, the blankets folded carefully on the sofa, the crooked picture that they never fixed because Sanji said it had personality that way. The camera rested on the table like a silent accusation.
Zoro took it in his hands and felt something break again. Sanji had filled his prison with beautiful things. And now every beautiful thing was a cell. He tried to hate him. For weeks he told himself that Sanji was a coward, that he had used him, that he had played with him knowing exactly how much he was willing to give. He tried to reduce him to a list of flaws.
Womanizer. Indecisive. Selfish.
But the hatred slipped through his fingers, even in his cruelest memory, Sanji cried when he talked about his mother. Because even in betrayal, he had been unable to lie to him when Zoro asked him if he would ever be him.
He denied it. And that honesty was more devastating than any deception.
The grief was not explosive. It was slow. Persistent. Like a leak that never stops dripping. Zoro went out again. Not out of bravery, but out of survival. He forced himself to finish his degree. He got a job at a small digital media outlet covering cultural events. The camera Sanji had given him became his daily tool, and that was a cruel irony he decided to accept. He never ate plain rice again, but he never really slept well again either.
There were other people. Some were kind. Some were interesting. One of them even loved him with a patience that bordered on the unreal. Zoro tried to reciprocate. He tried hard to listen, to share, not to compare. But every time someone took his hand in public without looking around, his first thought was: Sanji never did this.
And the second: I wish I had.
Two years passed without contact. Two years in which Sanji existed only as a rumor that traveled among the Mugiwara. That he had left university. That he was working in a bigger restaurant. That he had moved. That he was dating someone. That he wasn't dating anyone. Zoro feigned indifference with a mastery that would have made any actor proud. Until one night he saw him. It wasn't dramatic, there was no rainn or background music. It was at the opening of a new restaurant downtown and Zoro was there for work. He was adjusting his lens when he heard a laugh he knew all too well. The world narrowed.
Sanji had his back to him, talking to a couple of customers. He looked different. Thinner. His hair was a little longer. His sleeves were rolled up, unintentionally revealing the scars he used to hide.
Zoro felt an irrational urge to leave, but he stayed. Because he always stayed. When their eyes met, there was no surprise. Just a kind of painfully calm recognition. As if they both knew this would happen at some point.
“Hello, swordsman,” Sanji said, with a smile that wasn't quite the same as before.
“Hello, cook.”
The exchange was brief. Professional. Sanji acted as host. Zoro as photographer. They didn't talk about the past. They didn't touch each other.
But as Zoro left, he felt Sanji's gaze fixed on his back. And that night, for the first time in two years, he dreamed of him.
The message arrived three days later.
“Can we talk?”
Zoro stared at the screen for an hour before replying. “Yes.”
They met at a neutral café. Not Zoro's apartment or Sanji's restaurant. A middle ground, as if that could symbolize something more than prudence. Sanji looked more tired. More restrained.
“I didn't come to ruin your life again,” he said without preamble.
“That would be news.” Sanji smiled, barely.
They talked for hours. Not about the immediate past, but about the intervening years. Sanji had tried “normal” relationships. With women, with men. It always started well. It always ended the same.
“When someone starts wanting something stable...” Sanji fell silent, searching for the words. “I suffocate.”
Zoro held his cup too tightly. “And you didn't suffocate with me?”
Sanji looked at him as if the question were unfair.
“With you it was different.”
“Different how?”
“With you, I was always losing something. That kept me awake.”
Honesty was a weapon in his hands. Zoro should have gotten up. He didn't. They saw each other again. First cautiously, then with the same devastating ease as always. It wasn't the same. They were no longer college students playing at something they didn't understand. They were adults with more visible scars.
But the pattern returned.
Constant messages. Shared nights. Private laughter. Implicit promises that were never spoken.
Zoro told himself that this time would be different because he was different. That he was no longer the guy willing to accept crumbs. That he would know when to leave.
He lied to himself better than ever. Sanji didn't talk about exclusivity. He didn't make promises. But he didn't disappear either. He was there. Constant. Present. And that presence was enough for Zoro to build a house around him again. Until one night, months later, the twist that no one expected happened.
It wasn't another romantic betrayal.
It was a phone call.
Sanji received the news of the death of his biological father, a man who had been more of a shadow than a figure, with an expression that Zoro couldn't decipher. It wasn't pain. Not exactly. It was something more complex. A mourning for something he never had.
Zoro was there. He accompanied him to the funeral. He held his hand when no one was looking. He listened silently when Sanji, drunk with rage, confessed that he hated feeling affected by the death of someone who had hurt him.
“I don't want to be like him,” he whispered that night. Zoro understood something then. Sanji wasn't running away from commitment on a whim. He was running away because, in his mind, to love was to possess. And to possess was to destroy. Sadly, for Zoro understanding didn't fix anything. For weeks, Sanji was vulnerable. More open than ever. He talked about therapy. About trying to change. About not wanting to be the same.
Zoro allowed hope to grow like a weed. Until, inevitably, Sanji began to pull away. Small silences. Cancellations. Distance.
“Don't do it,” Zoro said one night, exhausted from pretending not to see the cycle repeating itself.
Sanji looked at him with eyes full of something that did seem like love. “I don't know how to stay.”
And that was the phrase that broke everything. There was no fight. There was no betrayal. Just a mutual recognition that they were trapped in something neither of them knew how to sustain.
This time it was Zoro who left. Not dramatically or with with tears. Just with a firmness that cost him every muscle in his body.
“I'll love you forever,” he said before closing the door. “But I can't keep trying to save something you don't want to build.”
Sanji didn't stop him. And that was the real twist because for the first time, Zoro chose to leave without expecting to be pursued. The following years were different. No more relapses. No more late-night messages. Zoro built a stable life, not spectacular or perfect brcause that have never been his style. He like the simple, something to call his own. He published his first photography book. He traveled. He learned to be alone without feeling abandoned. He never stopped loving Sanji, but the love became less painful. More silent. Like a scar that had stopped bleeding over time.
Ten years after that first night in the rain, they met again. By chance, or by fate, or because the world is small when two people orbit eternally around the same center. It was at an outdoor food market. Sanji had his own stall, his name in discreet letters. Nothing ostentatious, and it was so Sanji as most as it wasn't. Zoro felt a twinge of pride.
Zoro approached without announcing himself. Sanji looked up and, for the first time in a long time, smiled without reservation. There was no tension, but their history still whispered in their ears. They walked together after closing time. Like before, but more slowly.
“Still don't know how to stay?” Zoro asked, with a gentleness that hadn't existed years ago. Sanji exhaled.
“I learned to stay in many places. At my job. In therapy. In my own head.” He glanced at him. “With you, it's different.”
Zoro laughed softly. “It's always different.”
They sat down on a bench, not unlike the one from the hamburgers and whiskey.
“I loved you as best I knew how,” Sanji finally said. “And I knew badly.”
“You didn't know badly. You just didn't know with me.” Zoro looked up at the sky that night. The world hadn't changed at all, but the person next to him felt different.
The silence between them was no longer threatening; it felt much more like acceptance. They kissed that night, not with urgency or desperation. They were getting to know each other again. And in that moment, they both understood something devastatingly clear: their love was still intact. And yet the impossibility remained, because love had never been the problem. The problem was that Zoro needed a home, and Sanji was a never-ending journey. They didn't try to define it and they didn't promise each other anything. Weeks went by without labels and without expecting anything from that moment in history when they had managed to coincide.
And yet, the pattern showed up in small cracks. Sanji was restless when Zoro talked about the future. Zoro was hurt when Sanji avoided certain conversations.
One night, looking at the city lights from the balcony of Sanji's new apartment, Zoro understood it with almost cruel clarity. Some people are not meant to be home, they are meant to be history. Good or bad, but persistent.
“I'll always come back to you,” Sanji said, resting his forehead against Zoro's.
Zoro smiled sadly.
“I know.”
“Isn't that enough for you?”
Zoro took a moment to respond.
“No.”
And it wasn't an accusation. It was a fact. It was as true as the sky being blue and ice being cold. They embraced for a long time, no longer as desperate lovers. They were two people who accepted that love does not always coincide with the ability to sustain it. They parted at dawn. And although they had said goodbye, there was everything but the certainty that the circle was not broken. It was only on pause. Because if they had learned anything in all those years, it was that they never really broke up. And they could never really be a couple.
Zoro moved on.
Sanji too.
And somewhere in the world, in some future city, the circle would wait to close again.
Not because it was healthy or right. But because, for them, loving had always meant returning and returning had always meant it was impossible to stay.