Disclaimer: I do not own One Piece. Instead, I have to neglect fanfiction writing and work slave hours to pay my bills. But I'm not jealous or anything, Oda, no, not jealous at all.

Zoro had not slept at all last night.

He didn't have watch, no, but after dinner he headed into town and stopped at the tailor's store, picking up the long awaited suit and shirt, and paid the remainder of the money, as well as a nice sized tip for the man for all his help. The man didn't refuse the money in humility for even a second, and he bid Zoro adieu and good luck. His tone of voice had been sickly amused, for some reason, and it was still haunting the swordsman at this moment.

When he had returned to the ship, Sanji had already passed out from exhaustion from all the days activities, and so Zoro went to tuck him into bed, until Robin commented that the cook probably wouldn't be happy about Zoro carrying him like that again. Instead, they woke the man, and Sanji mumbled a promise to go out for drinks with Zoro tomorrow, and then stumbled to his coat and was softly snoring before his face hit the pillow.

But Zoro had no such luck. All night, he laid in bed staring at his locker. Inside the locker there was a crisp black box with gold filigree designs on the front, and inside that box there was a perfect suit with gold buttons and a blue shirt the color of Sanji's eyes. Until dawn, the swordsman had been staring at his locker like there was a monster inside of it, just waiting to burst out and consume him the moment he closed his eyes.

Of course, Zoro wasn't afraid of any monsters of any sort, but he was deathly terrified of that suit. He couldn't hold on to it forever, and he wasn't going to, but how the hell was he going to give it to Sanji now? Now that Sanji knew about their relationship, and now that Sanji would understand that romantic symbolism behind the gesture? He would reject it, for sure, and then reject Zoro. A thousand horrible scenarios replayed themselves behind the swordsman's unblinking eyes unlike the sun began to creep through the port hole window into the men's cabin.

As soon as the light of dawn touched the wooden flooring, Zoro leapt out of bed and climbed straight into the crow's nest. He pumped iron like he never had before, sweltering with his own exertion, not even pausing to rehydrate, not even bothering to count. He was consumed with winding the hours away and exhausting himself so that, no matter what happened with Sanji tonight, he would be able to go to sleep. Also, on some odd and irrational level, the swordsman felt as though he was preparing himself to take a great deal of pain, which would likely be emotional pain, but winding himself up physically made him feel more battle-ready than ever. Despite this, Zoro knew a broken heart hurt just as much in a fit body as an unfit one.

When breakfast was called, Zoro walked in, ate, and left. He never once looked at the cook, and he didn't speak a word to anybody. He went straight into the nest and trained until his muscles quivered and the breath shook in his lungs. When he felt he could lift no more, he did one more set. When his arms shook too violently to lift the weights, he began to run throw the forms. Harder, faster, more precise. Ironically, Zoro wondered if there were any practices or exercises for seducing or wooing somebody. The cook would probably know. He was always good at those things. But the swordsman wasn't good at any of it, especially not in the beginning. He was clumsy and foolish and thoughtless - he forgot birthdays and anniversaries and favorite colors and the name of Sanji's favorite movie and all these tiny little things he learned over the years matter. A lot.

But now the swordsman was ready. What was Sanji's favorite color?

"Blue," he answered aloud to himself.

When was his birthday? "March 2nd." Favorite movie? "Casablanca, and fuck know's why." Anniversary? "May 25th."

"What's on May 25th?" asked a voice from behind him. Zoro stopped his overhead thrusts with Shunsui and slowly turned around, aware that every muscle of his was creaking, aware that sweat had completely drenched his body and pants and hair to the bone. And of course, Sanji was behind him, carrying a thick, full water bottle and a deliciously prepared and sliced sandwich, with crisp lettuce and different types of meat.

"You didn't have to bring me food, chef," Zoro commented. Nevertheless, he set aside his katana and gratefully accepted the water, gulping half the bottle down in one go. He was beginning to feel the onset of dehydration. He continued to sip slowly as the cook set down the sandwich in front of him.

"I called for lunch," he said, "You didn't come. You seemed a bit tense this morning, and seeing as you did me a favor yesterday..." he shrugged. "It's the best I could do."

"Well thanks," Zoro replied gruffly, digging into his sandwich. His table manners that Sanji had tried to drill into him over the years were forgotten as ravenous hunger overtook him.

"So what's on May 25th?" Sanji repeated his question.

Well, there's no point in lying. "Our wedding anniversary," Zoro response.

Sanji sucked in air between his teeth. "Oh," he said simply.

"We honeymooned in Japan for a week, and then the south of France for another. It was the stupidest waste of money ever."

"What?" Sanji snapped. "First off, I don't understand those stupid made-up places, so don't even bother. But what makes a honeymoon a waste of money?"

Zoro chuckled to himself, licking a bit of tomato juice that had began to trickle down his chin. "We didn't leave our room that often is what I'm saying. If we didn't need to eat, I don't know if we'd have ever left at all."

The cook blushed varying different shades of red and nearly proceeded into colors of violet. "B-b-bullshit, marimo," he stuttered. "Why do you have to say shit like that?"

Zoro sighed and popped the last of his sandwich in his mouth. "Sorry," he said sincerely. "I know it makes you uncomfortable, and I should stop." He tried to hide his smirk and swallow his words, but under his breath he muttered, "But you're the one with the nosebleed, ero cook."

Sanji heard him. He raised a hand to his face and wiped away the small, thin stream of blood that had begun to trail from his left nostril. He stared at his hand in horror, looking at the tiny smear of blood on the pad of his thumb. "No!" he insisted. "I just - it's just -" he looked out the window desperately searching for clues. "It's allergies! This damn island has some weird pollen in the flowers, and it makes my nose bleed!"

"I think that nosebleed comes from a different kind of greenery, if you would." Zoro pointed to his scalp, his facial muscles stretching as he tried to swallow his laughter.

The swordsman had expected this taunt to send Sanji over the edge, throwing kicks or storming from the room. But instead, the cook buried his face in his hands and didn't look up from them for a while. When he did, his smoker's rasp was thick and heavy, the sultry, dark tones that Zoro loved. Unfortunately, this voice was not intrenched in lust, though, but rather another emotion that makes the heart race - anxiety.

"You're right, okay?" he growled. "I guess...that thought - it may - maybe it turns me on, okay, but don't be so cocky about it! Because I see the way you are looking at me, Zoro, and if you just wanted to stick it inside me then fine, I think I could handle that. But...but...you look at me so intensely." Sanji looked up into Zoro's eyes, and then quickly looked away as though he was being burned by the man's stare. "You are obviously expecting more from me, and I can't give you that, okay, marimo?"

Zoro didn't say anything. Downstairs, on the deck, Sanji and him listened in silence as Luffy and Usopp's screams of excitement eclipsed the serious moment that was taking place dozens of yards above them. They sounded like they had caught some fish, or some creature in the nearby woods. Who cared.

"Cook it for dinner!" the captain called up into the sky, reaching the ears of the men staring at each other tensely up there. "Sanji, food!"

Sanji shook his head. "Drinks after dinner, marimo, or are you too tired?"

Zoro rolled out his shoulder and reached back down toward his weights. "I'd drink you under the table, cook, with a knife through my gut. Don't try me."

"Hn," the cook responded, stepping carefully out of the crow's nest. If he was Sanji, Zoro's husband Sanji, he would have ripped the man a new asshole for climbing rigging with damaged feet like that, but right now he had no rights to Sanji's body, sexual or otherwise. At least...not yet.

ZOSAN

It was after dinner, and Sanji had complained that he needed a shower because he had been sweating all day, but Zoro knew it was probably because the man needed to be off of his wounded feet, which he had been walking on like there wasn't holes in them or anything. Idiot. So the swordsman was sitting in the men's cabin, staring at his locker again, half naked and nauseous.

Sanji walked in, and the swordsman barely glanced at him, even though the cook was in nothing more than a white towel around his waist, hair still damp from the water, skin glossy and peach with the afterglow of a good cleansing. The cook sauntered past the dazed marimo and opened his own locker, fumbling around inside of it.

"First those bounty hunters, and then this slave mess. I really need to get through a fight without ruining clothes again." He ruffled his wet hair, droplets of moisture flying and landing on Zoro's shoulder. "I barely have anything left to wear."

This was it. This was the perfect time for Zoro to say something. It was now or never.

"It isn't Armani," Zoro heard himself say, and then he immediately wanted to hang himself. What? Why couldn't he have said, I have something for you to wear cook, or, funnily enough, I happened to get something I think you'd like. Or even, look in my locker, and you won't have to go naked. But no, he had to mention Armani, Sanji's favorite place to buy suits, because...why? Because he was fucking stupid, that's why.

"What?" Sanji asked. Of course, the pirate had never heard of Armani. The sentence was completely nonsensical to begin with.

The swordsman cleared his throat. "Armani, it's a suit shop in New York, they are really expensive...um...fuck." He placed his hand on the hilts of his swords, which seemed to give him back some of his self control. "What I'm trying to say is, I know your clothes have been ruined lately, so I hope that this," he reached into his locker and pulled out the black box that had been haunting him. "I hope this will tide you over until you can go shopping for yourself."

The cook just scowled at him and snatched the box from his hands. "What, one of your shitty white t-shirts, Zoro? I have better style than -"

But his words fell short because the man had opened the box. The cook said nothing as he slowly sat down on the couch, box still clutched in his hands, wet hair dripping down his face. Slowly, he raised a dexterous hand, that for some reason appeared clumsy in this moment, to the contents of the box, where he lifted fine black material and then gasped aloud.

"The shirt," he whispered.

"I thought you liked blue," Zoro said. He felt stupid. Why did he assume that Sanji's likes here were the same as the ones he knew?

"Baka," Sanji hissed. "It's the shirt I saw at the tailor's shop the other day. He wouldn't let me buy it, but he said it was for me...I should have known, shit, I'm so stupid..." he pulled it out and held it up to the light. "It really is the same shade as -"

"Your eyes," Zoro finished for him. "I know."

The cook glanced around the shirt he was holding up, and again looked at Zoro as if he were seeing him for the first time. It was just as uncomfortable as Zoro had feared. The tension in the room was tangible, every unsaid word hanging above the men's heads. Especially after Sanji had admitted that he was terrified of the intensity of the feelings Zoro had for him, the swordsman just had to go and rub it in his face, didn't he? He was sorely tempted to call off going drinking tonight and just drown himself in sake, alone.

But the thoughts of the solemn pirate were interrupted as Sanji lowered the shirt delicately back into the box. "Zoro," he said softly. "Thanks." And the swordsman looked up and saw that the cook was grinning with that giddy smile that he had missed so dearly, all of his pearly white teeth showing, and it reached toward those beautiful eyes - well, eye - and made them glimmer like the sun touching the sea.

"You like it?" Zoro asked. He hoped his voice didn't sound as desperate as he felt.

"It's perfect," Sanji responded. "And these gold buttons..." he paused, looking at them closer. "Wait..." he said slowly.

Zoro bit his lip. Oh no, here it comes.

"These are curly-cued...all swirly...like my fucking eyebrows you marimo bastard!"

The swordsman dodged a kick, which flew over his head so fast he could feel the wind from the sole of Sanji's shoe whip past his hair. "Coincidence, shit cook, you look into things too much!" he called out, but he was smiling from ear to ear, completely giving it away.

"Coincidence my ass!" Sanji growled. He swung another kick, and Zoro caught the man's foot carefully in his hand, leaving the man hopping on one leg. The cook remained balanced perfectly, as always, but glared up his thigh as if it were caught in a bear trap.

"Just put it on, if you like it so much, and let's hit the bar," Zoro shook Sanji's foot playfully, avoiding his wound, but causing the man to have to struggle to keep his balance. "I'm dying of thirst here, cook."

Sanji scowled. "Fine, then finish getting dressed and leave the room so I can."

"Wh -" Zoro started. Then he noticed the softest flush in Sanji's pale cheeks, and realized that in the position they were in, Zoro could clearly see a full view of the other men's genitalia. Not that it was anything the swordsman had never seen before, and not that he wasn't sorely tempted to look anyway, but he understood what the cook was implying. He didn't want Zoro eyeing him as he changed. It stung more than just a little bit, and it reeked of the cook's homophobic nature. Nonetheless, Zoro obliged. He set down the cook's foot and reached into his locker, pulling out a dark shirt and slipping it over his shoulders.

He waited outside the door for Sanji patiently, just as he had waited for the man to get ready a thousand times before. Eventually, must faster than the swordsman was used to, honestly, Sanji emerged from the men's cabin. He was straightening his new tie, and he was wearing his new suit over the sea blue shirt that matched his eyes. He looked, in every sense of the word, stunning.

"Oi, marimo," the cook asked, running his hands down his finely tailored suit. "This fits perfectly. How did the tailor know my sizes?"

Zoro chewed on his tongue in thought. "I told him," he answered shortly.

"What'd you do, measure me in my sleep?" Sanji teased.

The swordsman shook his head. "No, Sanji, I know your measurements for the same reason you know Nami's and Robin's. That's all."

Sanji flushed, but Zoro didn't know if it was because of what he was implying or because he stated the perverted truth that the cook knew the female crew members' measurements. Recalling the cook's sick interest in the female form nearly twisted a smile from the green haired man's lips, even thought Sanji had ignored his comment and had begun dismounting the deck and walking to the island.

Inside his head, Zoro was recalling when Sanji and him had first gotten together, and how insanely jealous he used to get when a women flirted back with Sanji. He never minded the blond flirting with women, for such was his nature, but when a women showed interest in return, for the longest time he sincerely feared he would lose the cook right from underneath his feet. But he had such a poor understand of Sanji at that time. It wasn't until the cook told him how he truly felt that Zoro began to understand, and his jealousy began to abate. Although it would always peeve him from time to time when somebody laid their hands on what he considered his.

The man walking in front of him, although perhaps a man with a different life, had still said those same words to him. If there was a special someone...I thought of someone like you. In his memory, Zoro recalled the cook and him had been laying in bed after an intense bout of love making, and the cook was running his lithe fingers down the grooves of the swordsman's muscles. Sanji whispered that he imagined a lover by his side who was strong, and yet gentle, who was steadfast and a steady foundation for the free and spirited soul that Sanji possessed. Sanji said that he may dance around women, but with Zoro, he was with his best friend, and with Zoro, he was home.

It wasn't long after that Zoro had asked the cook to marry him. There was only so much love that a person could endure before getting on one knee like that. And that night had changed everything.

Holding that memory in mind's eye, the swordsman steeled himself for his second first date with the man he married.

ZOSAN

Zoro was fifteen drinks in, and Sanji was working on his eighth. When they had reached town, Zoro had suggested the fancy place the tailor had told him about, but Sanji had scoffed and tugged Zoro to some well-lit pub a bit farther into town. "We're pirates," he had said, "and besides, I'm repaying you, so let's go to a place more your speed."

It was, admittedly, more Zoro's speed, and after a couple of strong drinks, it had been simple for him to loosen the stiffness in his bones. He could tell that Sanji, on the other hand, was on the road to getting totally plastered. The cook had thrown his feet up on the table, probably instinctively to relieve the throbbing pain they must be radiating, and he had taken off his suit jacket and slung it over the back of the chair. Also, his cuff buttons were undone and the sleeves were up to his elbows, which is only something Zoro saw him do when he was cooking sometimes.

They had started their conversation that night based on what they were going to "cheers" to, seeing as Zoro had insisted it was a habit that whenever Sanji and him drank together, they decided on something different to salute with their beverages. Sanji said he had never done it with the swordsman before, but after his third drink he was toasting to everything he could think of with everything gulp he took.

"To the beauties of Sky Island!" the cook called, and Zoro dutifully met his tankard against his friend's, as the ale sloshed out of the sides and some landed on the floor. After a gulp, the cook's cup was back up against Zoro's own as he called out, "To healthy bluefin tuna!" Clank. "To the Going Merry!" Clank, and what the hell was a Going Merry? "To the Thousand Sunny!" Clank. "To being pirates!" Clank.

Thankfully for the two of them, the bar had been chosen well. It was a loud and rowdy affair, but not in any sort of dirty manner. They had a performing band and there was a lot of seamen who had taken to doing a jig in the front of the room, and on top of card games and other arguments, Sanji's ridiculous and revealing toasts went largely unnoticed. At the moment, there was a lull in his words, as the cook leaned over the table, red in the face, and wiped some spare liquid from his lips. He pointed an accusatory finger at Zoro.

"Your turn," he insisted. "I'm doing all the work here."

Zoro chuckled. "You are such a lightweight, cook. I'm surprised you can still speak."

"Marimo head!" Sanji cursed. "You toast with me, now!" He sounded so childlike, and to emphasize his point, he even slammed an open palm on the table, causing the legs of the wooden stand to dig into the flooring dangerously. Sure the man didn't have arm strength compared to Zoro, but it didn't mean he couldn't tear the place apart. Zoro better make sure he doesn't hit any more furniture.

"Okay, okay, princess," he conceded. He raised his glass, thinking to himself. "How about, to the All Blue?"

For a long minute, he wasn't sure if Sanji had heard him, or worse yet, that Sanji had passed out with his eyes open and sitting up. But then the cook raised his own tankard and lightly met Zoro's own. "The All Blue," he echoed. Then, he just took the slightest sip from his drink and set it down on the table. The cook leaned back in his chair and tucked his hands behind his head, a very casual pose that looked rather unlike the cook.

"You've really outdone yourself, Zoro," he commented.

"Hm?" Zoro asked. "You mean, drinking? Baka, this is nothing -"

"No," Sanji interrupted. "The suit, the things you say, the...I don't know - you just really surprised me, is what I'm saying. In a good way."

Zoro shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, when inside he was secretly burning with excitement. "You surprise me everyday, cook. I'm supposed to be the dependable and predictable one."

Sanji lit another cigarette. If at all possible, he was going through them faster than ever before in his state of drunkenness. "You are dependable and predictable." He sighed, puffing away at the ceiling, his drunken reverie fading. "It's odd, seeing as I grew up on the sea, and everything around me was always changing. The sea...my home, it was always changing." He looked at Zoro, and for the first time in a long time, he held his gaze steady and serious. "But you aren't like that, Zoro. You're like land." He smirked. "Land ahoy. Maybe it's that green marimo head of yours." Then he shook his head, dismissing the urge to joke his words away. "But, really, seaweed brain, you're like...home. I home I never knew I needed."

Zoro gaped at the cook from over his drink. It was nearly the exact same words Sanji had said to him years ago, the same words that had changed his view of the world, that made him realize that perhaps he could be loved.

The cook buried his face in his hands, nearly burning his hair on his upturned cigarette that was smoking from the corner of his lips. "Shit, I'm so drunk, I probably don't make any sense right now."

The swordsman grinned. "Well, it's said In vino veritas - In wine there is truth."

"This is mead, shitty swordsman. I thought of all things you would know your alcohol."

"It's a saying, idiot, it doesn't have to be wine," Zoro scowled. "It means that you're probably making more sense now than you do when you're sober."

Sanji shook his head, still cradled in his hands. "Zoro," he said. "Take me home."

The swordsman stood and fished the money from the pocket to cover the rest of their tab, tossing it on the table. He set down his glass and walked over to Sanji, resting two heavy hands on the man's lean shoulders. The cook looked up at the contact in the swordsman's clear, grounded eyes. His own face was flushed, and his head was swimming, but something about the touch of the other man let him know he was safe. The cook felt the weight of his new jacket settle over his shoulders.

"Can you walk?" Zoro asked him.

"Of course," Sanji replied, his pride winning out. He stumbled to his feet, with a good bit of aid from the moss head, not that he'd ever admit it, and then took a few steps backward before he could get the direction he wanted correct. He belatedly realized the marimo's hand was around his waist, gently guiding him to the exit. Zoro didn't hold on to loosely or too tightly, but rather with the perfect amount of pressure. He supported, but he didn't control. He knew Sanji could make it on his own, but he still wanted to help the man get there.

Halfway down the street, Sanji leaned against the outside of a shop, looking down at the ground. "Hold on," he said, holding up a hand. "I need a break." Zoro nodded, and stood with his hands in his pockets waiting for the man to recover. What the swordsman didn't notice was the wicked glint of devious planning that was in the cook's visible eye.

In a flash, Sanji had grabbed the collar of Zoro's shirt and had him pressed up against the wall, holding a bunch of fabric in each hand. With all the guts he could muster, which was quite a lot considering all the liquid courage he drank that night, he smashed his lips against Zoro's, pushing the man deep into the storefront behind him.

But the swordsman did not kiss him back. So Sanji grabbed the back of Zoro's neck, his fingers running through the man's soft green hair, and pressed them together until their jawbones nearly touched, laying down sloppy kiss after sloppy kiss. Yet still, the bastard didn't kiss him back.

Sanji pulled away. "I want you Zoro, don't you get it?" He dipped in for another wet smacking of lips. "I don't understand how I feel, but I want you..." He groaned into Zoro's mouth and then, a feat of bravery that he didn't think he was capable of, he ground his hardness into Zoro's left thigh. At the contact, the swordsman's eyes widened. "Can you feel that? I want you, shitty marimo. Just take me. Take me tonight."

"No," Zoro whispered. He was biting his bruised lip, maiming his mouth further. "I can't, Sanji." His voice was breaking.

The cook shook him as hard as he could, and Zoro's head bounced off the stone wall painfully as his body slammed back and forth. "Why not, bastard? I thought...I thought..." And Sanji's face was breaking, falling apart into a thousand pieces, a pain that Zoro recognized happened when the man was wrapped in his own insecurities.

The swordsman reached out and ran a gentle finger down the side of Sanji's jawline, stilling its quivering. "Sanji..." he spoke softly, a voice used only with lovers. "It's not like that, it's not like I don't want to." He stilled Sanji's question of then why with his finger on the other man's lip, and then he made to tenderly cusp the other man's face in both hands so he could look into the cook's eyes, faintly illuminated by the streetlights.

"I love you, Sanji, I do, and it makes me so happy to hear that." He leaned down and placed an innocent peck on the cook's red lips. "But you're drunk right now. And if we do anything right now, I don't know if you'll regret it. And I don't want you to regret it. So let's wait."

"But I won't regret it!" Sanji insisted. "I need you, Zoro." He placed his hands over Zoro's own on his face. "I need you now."

"One kiss," Zoro promised. "One good kiss, and then I'll hold all night if you let me. But nothing more. Not tonight."

Sanji growled deep in his throat and pressed a threatening knee to Zoro's thigh. "I could just take what I want," he hissed.

Zoro chuckled. "You could, but then we'd both be so bandaged up by Chopper the next day we probably couldn't do anything for weeks."

The cook scowled. "One kiss? You're treating me like a virgin."

"Aren't you?"

Sanji blushed furiously. "Just fucking kiss me, marimo."

So Zoro did. He bent in the inch lower that Sanji was from him and lightly met the cook's lips. He expertly ran his tongue across the man's body lip and then slipped his own tongue inside the cook's mouth, where he brushed against the sweet texture that was Sanji's own tongue. He tasted it for just a moment, relishing the taste, a taste that made him think of their wedding day and that made him think of their daily hellos and goodbyes from the apartment. This wasn't a fuck me kiss, it was a love me kiss. As he pulled back, he allowed his lips to run over the cook's once more, softly massaging the redness from them.

Drawing back, he saw that Sanji still had his eyes closed. Then he blinked, and openly them, his visible eye wide and shining. He raised his hand to his own lips and touched them, as if making sure they were still there, still in reality.

"That's how you kiss your husband?" Sanji asked.

Zoro nodded.

"Then I'd marry you all over again, you fucking bastard."

A smile threatened to split Zoro's face in two. He leapt down and decided he was going to break his promise, he was going to kiss Sanji's face raw, he was going to brush his fingers through the man's golden hair until he knew no other feeling. But as his hands grasped the man's shoulders, Sanji doubled over as though he was in pain. And before the swordsman could react, the cook vomited up eight tankards of mead and tonight's dinner all down his front, and it splattered on the street between them.

"Oh, shit, you idiot cook!" Zoro cursed, brushing the man's hair from his eyes and wiping his hand along Sanji's mouth for him. He was drenched to the bone in bile, from his chest to his thighs, and of course, the cook's new suit did not have a single droplet on it. Typical.

A/N: Please read and review, you have no idea how much every single review makes me smile and makes my day! I've been working slave hours at work, so sorry for the late updates, but I'll get them out, I promise.

Oh, and being vomited on sucks. Written from personal experience, like always! =]