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[ all the comforts of the mansion can't make him relax — not the soft beds, not the fine food (not as good as his), not the plush carpets beneath his feet or the priceless artwork adorning the walls. he feels like an impostor even as he fits in with criminal ease, flitting about with a flirtatious smile on his face when he's in the dining room, trying to weasel his way into the kitchen so he can secure a spot where he feels most comfortable.

because he is decidedly not comfortable in his suite, alone as he is, knowing zoro is one bathroom away. the bed feels too large, too cold, too empty after months of warm limbs crowding together. the sleek walls look unnatural after gazing at rough hewn wood that zoro had fitted with shelves and knobs so that sanji could hang his pots and store utensils. nothing feels right, not even his own body that he spends each night tracing with shaking fingertips, wondering how something that should be familiar could feel like such a betrayal. it's a return to normalcy, and yet it couldn't be more unwelcome.

long stretches of time pass where he doesn't hear zoro at all, usually because zoro gets lost wandering around the manor's shifting halls. good. sanji would rather have the entire suite to himself. he's not in a sociable mood unless the person who wants to socialize is nami (or some other pretty girl, because it's not like he can just ignore a lady when they bat eyes at him), so all the better when he can pretend that zoro doesn't exist entirely. the only other good thing about having zoro as a suitemate is that he never, ever has to wonder if the bathroom is occupied. it never is, because zoro doesn't believe in bathing.

he goes from pissy to downright vengeful when he walks in to see zoro lounging in the tub. ]

What the hell are you doing here?

[ sanji is already stripped bare, his towel wrapped around his waist, a plush, bunny-eared headband holding his bangs back, a pair of pink slippers on his feet. he immediately wishes he were clothed, which is a ludicrous thought considering the things he's done in bed with zoro, his nipples pebbling suddenly from the memory of a rough kitten tongue laving over his skin, milky droplets running down — shit. ]

Get out of the tub, you shithead. You don't even know what you're doing. Did you lose your way to the lake?

[ he stomps over, his eyes falling on the pearly drops of water slipping down the muscled planes of zoro's chest. slipping his towel from his waist, he seats himself on the edge of the tub, drawing one leg up in what might be considered comely for anyone else, but in this case holds a very specific threat for zoro's personhood. ]

( immediately, zoro's face starts to lose the i-don't-give-a-fuck war, mouth drawing into a scowl the moment the cook starts fucking — bitching at him. what the hell is he doing here? what kind of stupid fucking question is that? there's an equally pissy response sitting right on the tip of his tongue, but he practically bites it off to keep it from coming out.

if this shitty cook were normal, he'd apologize and, as previously requested, fuck off. unfortunately, sanji isn't normal, so — even after a pretty valiant attempt at ignoring him, the bitching continues, this time far closer to him, accented words burrowing somewhere uncomfortable in his mind. annoyed, zoro finally blinks his eyes open and turns his head to glare at this shithead and he's met with —

too much skin. muscled thighs. a cock that zoro's never really looked at before that he looks at for far longer than he probably should, considering they're not —

up a little higher, and there's two pretty blue eyes glaring down at him, perfectly in tact, unobscured by his typical blonde swoop of bangs. if zoro's face is red, it's because of the god damn water he's sitting in that's radiating heat. honestly, if he didn't think it would feel like a victory for sanji, he'd probably sink into its fucking depths, beneath the bubbles haphazardly floating on top. )

Yeah, no. Not happening. ( blasé is always better when it comes to the cook. drawing his arms into the water, he rolls his eyes before closing them again, unbothered as hell besides the annoying thump of his heart in his chest. ) Try again. Or, better yet — don't.

[ not happening. zoro isn't moving. for a long moment they simply glower at each other, a standstill of hateful, complicated feelings sucking all the air from the damply heated room. sanji imagines kicking zoro in the face, maybe overturning the claw-footed tub or even cracking it in two and watching the water cascade over the gleaming floors. that wouldn't do either of them any favors, and he doesn't want to be so disrespectful to the servants of the house. sure, there doesn't seem to be a cruelly domineering master like judge vinsmoke residing over the manor, but sanji remembers what it was like to be stuck in a place like this. hell, he remembers all the staff at the baratie turning tail and fleeing over all the fights that erupted each day, so sanji is no stranger to scrubbing toilets and mopping floors. his scowl stays firmly in place, but he sets his basket of soaps and shampoo down at the edge of the tub, a sign that he intends to seemingly peacefully coexist in their shared space. ]

I need to get ready for dinner. I don't show up to nice events smelling like piss like you do.

[ he swings his legs over and dips his feet in the tub, then sinks them past the bubbles, planting them down so he can sit comfortably. his eyes steal another glance at zoro's broad chest, the tracery of scars across his skin. sanji's eye pangs with a sudden phantom ache, a memory of when it wasn't there at all and there was just zoro's gentle touch across a throbbing wound. he swallows, cupping a handful of water in his palm and splashing it over zoro's head. ]

You haven't washed your hair. You're going to dinner like that? Hold your breath.

[ aggressively and before he can protest, he pushes zoro's shoulder down and dunks his entire head beneath the sudsy water, then drags him back up, but positions him between his legs, uncapping his sweet-smelling shampoo and immediately beginning to lather up his hair, his firm, long fingers massaging his scalp from his temples all the way to the nape of his neck. he can't help but feel like he's giving a cat a very thorough petting session. ]

( this kind of feels like a test — a test of zoro's willpower, or something, to see if he'll cave, if he'll react. he wishes he had the wado here, resting beside the bathtub within arm's reach, so he could slice this shithead's dick off. he wishes this shithead would just sink into the water with him, sit between his thighs and lean back against him so that maybe he could wrap his arms around his middle the way they used to sometimes sleep.

it's a test that zoro's really trying not to fail, even if it means lounging there beneath the bubbles with his eyes closed and his mouth quirking downwards with displeasure, like if he keeps his mouth shut, the cook will actually leave him the fuck alone. it's a stupid thought, considering how good sanji's been at leaving him the fuck alone over the past few weeks — why bother now? his frown only deepens.

apparently, it's futile, because before he knows it, the cook's sticking his feet in the water next to him and setting down his stupid little basket of fancy bottles of whatever-the-hell that zoro finally turns his head to eyeball. what ever happened to a good old fashioned bar of soap rubbed over his skin and on top of his head? stupid. ) Hey, w—

( zoro's too busy mentally complaining to resist the veritable baptism he's given by sanji's hand, emerging from the depths of the water with a huff of a breath and green hair wet and flattened on top of his head. it stuns him into silence, radiating the quiet fury of the pissy cat that he once was until — there are hands in his hair, massaging shampoo that smells a little too good through the strands and over his scalp.

now, instead of a test, it feels kind of like a set-up. had nami said something to him? zoro hasn't really said anything to nami about what happened; he's just refused to bring the cook up first in conversation, occasionally refused to sleep in his own bedroom because the distance between them felt too big and yet not remotely big enough and nami's still his lifeline, even without their connection.

he wants to be mad, but it's hard to be when sanji's hands feel so annoyingly good as he washes zoro's hair for him, make the part of his throat that might've rumbled with contentment in another life feel hollow. the tension slowly eases out of his shoulders, and finally ... he tips his head back, looking up at the cook in his silly little headband with pathetically tired eyes and just asking: ) Why?

[ why. it's the eternal question that sanji keeps asking himself as he boomerangs away from zoro and back again, always back into his orbit and into his arms, somehow pulled toward him like a ball on a string. it's pathetic. being here has unearthed all the loneliness he thought was permanently buried since the moment reiju pushed him away from the vinsmoke mansion and toward his freedom with the command to never return home again. he's a ghost walking these halls without nami's connection tethering him to something, without zeff's presence, without the merry being able to take them far away to the next adventure. they're stuck. and sanji would have thought he'd know better how to deal with being stuck by now, but he's not dealing well at all. ]

Because someone has to take care of you.

[ because you always take care of me.

the scar running jaggedly over his healed eye is proof of that, normally covered, but he doesn't have many secrets from zoro. just his fragmented past, but that's a secret from almost everyone. even nami has just bits and pieces of the story, maybe enough to put everything together if he doesn't start acting normal again soon. his fingertips brush zoro's earrings, a slight metallic tinkle in the air, and then he's rubbing suds behind his ears, traveling down the strong line of his throat to the dip of his shoulder blades. after a moment he comes back up, draping his arms around his shoulders to rest his fingertips at his collarbones. ]

There's something wrong with this place. Nami's gotten too comfortable, and I don't want to scare her. I need you to help me figure it out.

[ he dips his hands into the tub, washing away the suds and scooping up clear water, cascading it over zoro's shoulders. ]

I need you with me. I can't do this alone. This place, it — it scares me worse than where we just came from.

( there's a part of zoro that wants to bristle at sanji's answer — nobody has to take care of him, which might be true, but nami and sanji still find ways to do it anyway. maybe it was more true in the village than here, where almost any need can be met at the snap of fingers, but —

it's obvious that they still need each other, because sanji's right. there is something wrong with this place, and zoro won't admit it, but with luffy here now, there's a part of him that's gotten a little comfortable, too. he's stuck following the tedium of his daily routines, bookended so nicely by daily egg breakfasts and nightly black tie dinners. he lets out a long sigh, chin tipping up a little as sanji's fingers toy with his earrings, trace over his collarbones, linger there. the last time sanji touched him, it was his hands gripping his shoulder blades, tips of his nails indenting into his skin, thighs tightening around him, gasping against his mouth —

i need you with me. he's said it before, zoro's said it before, and they'll both probably say it again. it's the truth, and right now, it's probably as close to an apology for ... whatever the fuck happened that first weekend in sanji's bedroom. puke. cake. tears and harsh words. a sealed bottle of wine. the warm water courses over his shoulders, and he hums his assent. it's pretty fucking worrying that sanji finds this place more terrifying than the last, but zoro's learned to take things one at a time with the cook. it's a thought that he's holding onto for now, though, not remotely done with it.)

C'mere.

( and it's certainly less than graceful, but zoro uses the lip of the bathtub to push himself up and onto his knees, definitely sloshing bubbles and water onto the floor in the process, turning around to face sanji. placid as ever, zoro's wet hands reach up and cup sanji's cheeks to guide his face down, his chin craning up so he he can place perhaps the softest, gentlest kiss against his lips. lingering: )

It's still warm — you should get in.

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retconning eye scar starts now

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