Work Text:
The air in the kitchen sounded like it was filled with static, like the calm before a storm. Sanji pressed his palm against the back door, feeling the old wood groan under his fingers. The hinges would creak if he wasn’t careful, just loud enough to alert one of his siblings, or worse, his father. He didn’t need another lecture about wasting his potential or disrespecting the family name or any of the other tirades Jajji liked to go on when Sanji failed to yet again meet his father’s arbitrary expectations.
He waited, counting the seconds between the ticking of the kitchen clock and the distant hum of the refrigerator. The house smelled faintly of garlic, a remnant of dinner lingering in the air. Not an oppressive smell, but strong enough to make Sanji’s lungs feel tight inside his ribcage. Or maybe it was just the memory of dinner itself, or rather the argument that had accompanied it. He could still hear the echo of his father’s voice in his ear: “You think this is a joke? You think you can just walk away from everything?”
He couldn’t. Not yet.
But he could sneak out for an hour. Or two. Just until he could breathe again.
With a slow, controlled breath, Sanji turned the knob, inch by inch, until the night air rushed in - cool and damp, carrying the scent of rain-soaked pavement and the faint tang of diesel from the highway. He slipped out, pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet click.
Sanji shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and started walking, his boots scuffing against the cracks and bumps in the sidewalk. At this hour, the town was a graveyard, shuttered storefronts, flickering streetlamps, the occasional glow of a television through a drawn curtain. He didn’t have a destination in mind. He never did when he snuck out like this. He just needed to move, to put distance between himself and the life that felt like it was choking him.
He passed the all-night diner, its neon sign flickering weakly, the scent of grease and coffee drifting through the open door. He passed the boarded-up arcade, its windows covered in faded posters for games no one played anymore. And then, at the end of the block, he saw it. The dim, amber glow of Shakky’s Bar, a squat brick building with a sign that buzzed like a dying insect.
Sanji hesitated.
He’d only been inside a handful of times, always with friends, always laughing too loud, pretending to be older than they were. But tonight, the idea of sitting in the dark, surrounded by strangers who didn’t know his name or his family’s reputation, was too tempting to resist.
The bar was exactly as he remembered it, dark and cramped, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and old leather. The jukebox in the corner was playing something low and bluesy, the kind of music that made you feel like you were in a movie. A few regulars were scattered around, an old man nursing a beer at the far end of the bar, a woman in a worn leather jacket smoking by the window, her gaze fixed on the street outside. No one looked up when Sanji pushed the door open. No one cared.
He slid onto a stool near the center of the bar, far enough from the others to be left alone. The bartender, a sharp-eyed woman with a cigarette dangling from her lips and a scar running down her forearm, gave him a cursory glance. “What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey,” Sanji said, trying to sound like he belonged. “Neat.”
She poured without a word, sliding the glass towards him. The amber liquid caught the light, rich and inviting. Sanji wrapped his fingers around it, feeling the warmth seep into his skin. He took a sip, letting the burn ground him, letting the weight of the day slip away for just a moment.
That’s when he noticed the guy two stools down.
He was hard to miss.
Broad shoulders, mint green hair cropped short like the men in a military advertisement, the kind of posture that made it clear he wasn’t here to make friends. His left hand, wrapped around a glass of something clear, bore a fresh scar across the knuckles, the skin still pink and angry. His jacket was rumpled, like he’d been wearing it for days, and a duffel bag sat on the floor beside him, half-zipped, as if he’d just thrown it down and forgotten about it.
Sanji glanced at him, then away, then back again.
There was something familiar about him - the set of his jaw, the way he held his drink - but Sanji couldn’t place it. The guy didn’t look up. Didn’t seem to care that Sanji was staring.
Sanji told himself it didn’t matter.
The guy didn’t look up as he lifted his glass, his fingers wrapped tightly around the tumbler.
Sanji watched as he drained the last of his drink in one slow, deliberate motion, his throat working with the effort. The glass hit the bar with a quiet thud, and the bartender reached for the bottle of whiskey, her movements smooth and practiced.
“Another?” she asked, though it wasn’t really a question.
The man didn’t answer with words, just gave a low grunt, his jaw clenched like he was holding back something more than just a response.
Sanji’s fingers tightened around his own glass, the condensation damp against his skin. He couldn’t stop staring. There was something about this guy, something in the way he carried himself, the way his entire body seemed to hum with a quiet, simmering tension, that made Sanji’s pulse quicken.
And then, like a punch to the gut, it hit him.
Zoro.
He hadn‘t seen him since graduation. Sanji remembered the rumors that had spread afterward, the way the whole school had buzzed with the news. Zoro had enlisted the second he turned eighteen. Shipped out to Vietnam before the ink on his diploma had even dried. Two years. Two years, and now here he was, sitting two stools down like he’d never left.
But he had left. And he wasn’t the same.
The Zoro Sanji remembered had been all sharp edges and barely contained anger, the kind of guy who moved through the world like he was spoiling for a fight. This version was different. Harder. His face was leaner, his cheekbones more pronounced, like he’d been carved down to the bone. His skin was darker, too, like he’d spent too much time under a sun that didn’t care if it burned him. And his eyes, when Sanji finally let himself look, were shadowed in a way that had nothing to do with the dim lighting of the bar. There was a stillness to him, a quiet that felt like a held breath, like he was waiting for something. Or maybe dreading it.
Sanji’s gaze dropped to Zoro’s hands. They were marked in ways that made his stomach twist. Not just the scar on his knuckles, raw and angry, but the faint white lines along his fingers, the way his grip on the glass was just a little too tight, like he was holding onto something more than just whiskey. His nails were short, uneven, like they’d been chewed on.
Zoro took a long sip of his drink, his throat working as he swallowed. Sanji couldn’t look away. He exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the way his pulse had picked up. He shouldn’t care. He didn’t care. Zoro had never been more than a distant figure in high school. Someone Sanji had watched from afar, someone he’d never had the nerve to talk to, not really. They’d moved in different circles, Zoro with his quiet intensity and Sanji with his loud friends and his father’s shadow hanging above him. But now, with the weight of two years between them, the air felt charged, like the moment before a match was struck.
Zoro took another sip, his gaze fixed on the glass like it was the only thing in the world that made sense. Sanji wanted to say something. Wanted to ask Where have you been? or Are you okay? or even just Do you remember me? But the words stuck in his throat, tangled up in the sudden, overwhelming realization of who was sitting beside him.
Instead, he just watched.
The silence between them was a living thing, thick and heavy, pressing down on Sanji’s chest like a weight. He couldn’t stop looking at Zoro. It wasn’t just curiosity anymore, it was something deeper, something that coiled tight in his stomach. The way Zoro held himself, the way his fingers flexed around his glass, the way his jaw clenched like he was biting back words. It all pulled at Sanji, like a current dragging him under.
He should’ve looked away. Should’ve pretended he didn’t notice the way Zoro’s knuckles whitened around his glass, the way his shoulders tensed like he was bracing for something. But Sanji couldn’t help himself. He was too busy memorizing the lines of Zoro’s face, the way the dim light of the bar cast shadows under his cheekbones, the way his hair, shorter than it had been when they were still in school, lay flat to the side of his head as if he’d slept with his face pressed against something.
Then, without warning, Zoro’s head snapped up. His dark eyes locked onto Sanji’s, sharp and unyielding, like a blade pressed to his throat.
“You got a fucking problem?” His voice was rough, gravelly, the kind of sound that scraped against Sanji’s skin and left a mark.
Sanji should’ve backed down. Should’ve laughed it off, played it cool, done something to ease the tension. But he didn’t. He just held Zoro’s gaze, his pulse thrumming in his throat.
“No problem,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. “Just didn’t expect to see you here.”
Zoro’s expression didn’t change. His eyes narrowed just slightly, like he was trying to place Sanji, like he was deciding whether he was worth the effort.
“Well, now you have,” he said, his voice flat, final. He turned back to his drink, dismissing Sanji as easily as flicking away a fly. “Stop staring.”
Sanji exhaled slowly, the heat of embarrassment crawling up the back of his neck. He reached for his own glass, the whiskey burning a path down his throat as he took a long sip. The bar felt smaller all of a sudden, the air thicker, like the walls were closing in. He could leave. He should leave. But something kept him rooted to the stool, kept his eyes flickering back to Zoro, to the way his shoulders tensed under his rumpled jacket, to the way his fingers traced the rim of his glass like he was memorizing its shape.
They sat in silence after that, the only sounds the quiet clink of ice against glass and the low, mournful hum of the jukebox in the corner. Sanji stole glances when he thought Zoro wasn’t looking. He looked older. Harder. Like someone who had seen things Sanji couldn’t even imagine.
The minutes stretched out, slow and heavy. Sanji finished his drink and signaled the bartender for another, the whiskey warming his chest as he swallowed. Zoro did the same, his movements precise, controlled, like he was measuring every sip. The tension between them didn’t ease. If anything, it grew, thickening with every passing second until Sanji couldn’t take it anymore.
“You been back long?” he asked, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife.
Zoro didn’t answer right away. He took another slow sip of his drink, his gaze fixed on the amber liquid like it held the answers to questions he didn’t want to be asked. Sanji watched him, watched the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the way his fingers tightened around the glass. For a moment, Sanji thought he wasn’t going to answer at all. But then, after a long pause, Zoro spoke, his voice low and rough, like the words were being dragged out of him.
“Just got back,” he said.
Sanji nodded, his fingers tightening around his own glass. He wanted to ask more. Wanted to know where he’d been, what he’d done, why he looked like he’d seen hell and crawled his way back. But he didn’t. He just sat there, the questions burning in his chest, and took another sip of his whiskey.
The silence settled between them again, heavier this time. Sanji could feel the weight of it, the weight of everything Zoro wasn’t saying.
He kept his gaze fixed on his glass, tracing the rim with his thumb, but his mind was elsewhere, tangled in thoughts he didn’t want to untangle. Two years. Zoro had been gone for two years, and now here he was, sitting two stools down, looking like he’d been carved from something harder than the boy Sanji remembered. The way his jacket hung off his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed around his glass, it all made Sanji’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely.
He knew what it was, though. He wasn’t stupid.
Zoro was attractive. More than attractive. There was something about the way he carried himself, the quiet intensity in his posture, the raw edge to his presence that made Sanji’s pulse jump every time he stole a glance. The way his jaw clenched when he took a sip of his drink, the way his broad shoulders had filled out even more in the time he’d been gone, it all sent a heat through Sanji that he didn’t want to acknowledge.
But that thought alone sent a jolt of shame through him, hot and ugly. His father’s words echoed in his head, sharp and disapproving, “A man shouldn’t lie with another man for it is an abomination before the Lord,” spoken from his podium to the entire congregation, yet somehow it had felt as if they’d been meant for Sanji exclusively.
He’d spent years pushing down those feelings, burying them under layers of bravado and jokes and girls he didn’t really care about. But sitting here, in the dim light of the bar, with Zoro so close he could smell the faint scent of smoke and leather clinging to his jacket, it was harder to ignore.
Sanji shifted in his seat, taking another sip of his whiskey. The burn helped, grounding him, giving him something to focus on besides the way his stomach twisted every time Zoro moved. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, the shame and the want warring inside him, and he hated it. Hated that he couldn’t just not feel this way. Hated that he was sitting here, staring at Zoro like some lovesick idiot, when he knew damn well nothing could ever come of it, when he didn’t even know the other well enough to call him a friend. It was an abomination indeed.
Zoro, for his part, seemed lost in his own world. He didn’t look at Sanji, didn’t acknowledge him at all. He just sat there, staring into his drink like it held all the answers, his jaw clenched tight. The silence stretched out, thick and heavy, until Sanji thought he might drown in it. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, the weight of everything he wasn’t saying, everything he couldn’t say.
Then, without warning, Zoro pushed his glass away. The sound of it scraping against the bar made Sanji jump, his fingers tightening around his own glass.
“I’m done,” Zoro muttered, his voice rough, like he hadn’t used it much in a while. He reached down, grabbing his duffel bag from the floor with a sharp, jerky motion.
The bag looked heavy, like it was full of things he didn’t want to carry but couldn’t bring himself to leave behind. The fabric was worn, the zippers slightly frayed, and Sanji wondered how long he’d been lugging it around, how many places it had been with him.
Sanji watched as Zoro stood, his movements stiff, like his body was fighting him. He didn’t look at Sanji. Didn’t say anything. Just tossed a few bills onto the bar, more than enough to cover his tab, and turned towards the door.
Sanji should’ve let him go. Should’ve just stayed where he was, finished his drink, and pretended this never happened. But something in him wouldn’t let it go.
“That’s it?” he heard himself say, his voice sharper than he intended. “You’re just gonna leave?”
Zoro paused, his back still turned to Sanji. For a second, Sanji thought he wasn’t going to answer. Thought he’d just walk out and disappear into the night like he’d never been here at all. But then Zoro exhaled sharply, his shoulders dropping just a fraction, like the fight had gone out of him.
“What do you want from me, curly brow?” he said, his voice low, rough.
Sanji didn't have an answer for that. He didn't know what he wanted. He just knew he wasn't ready for Zoro to walk away. Not yet. Not when he'd just mustered up the courage to talk to him, even if it was only for a little while. But Zoro didn't wait for a response. He just shook his head, his stupidly green hair shifting slightly with the movement, and walked out the door, leaving Sanji alone with his thoughts and the weight of something unspoken pressing down on his chest.
Sanji watched the door swing shut behind him, the quiet click of the latch echoing in the empty bar. He should've let him go. Should've known better than to think this could be anything more than what it was - a chance encounter, a moment in time, nothing more. Yet something compelled him to get up as well and follow the other out the door.
The door of the bar swung shut behind them with a dull thud, sealing off the low hum of the jukebox and the murmur of voices. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of damp pavement and the faint metallic tang of the distant highway. Zoro stood on the sidewalk, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his other hand buried deep in the pocket of his jacket. The street was quiet, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of the streetlamps, their light casting long shadows that stretched like skeletal fingers across the cracked pavement.
Sanji lingered behind him, his hands shoved into his pockets, his breath curling in the air. He watched as Zoro turned slowly, his dark eyes scanning the street like he was trying to orient himself. There was a tension in his posture, a rigidity that made it clear he wasn’t just lost, he was avoiding something. Sanji could see it in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his fingers flexed around the strap of his bag.
“Where’s the nearest motel?” Zoro asked. There was no preamble, no apology for the abruptness. Just the question, sharp and to the point.
Sanji pulled his pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, tapping one out and lighting it with a flick of his lighter. The flame cast a flickering glow across Zoro’s face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the shadow of stubble along his jaw.
“The Flamingo Motel,” Sanji said, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. “About ten minutes that way.” He nodded down the street, towards the flickering neon sign barely visible in the distance, its blue and red lights casting a ghostly glow over the buildings.
Zoro didn’t move. He just stood there, his gaze fixed on the direction Sanji had pointed out. Then, without a word, he started walking - the complete opposite way.
Sanji watched him go, the ember of his cigarette glowing brightly in the dark as he took a slow drag. He should’ve let him go. Should’ve just turned around, gone back inside, and finished his drink. But there was something about the way Zoro moved. like he was too stubborn to ask for help, too proud to admit he had no idea where he was going, that made Sanji’s chest tighten. He could see it in the way Zoro’s shoulders were hunched, in the way his steps were just a little too quick, like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts.
“Oi, spinach-head!” Sanji called out, his voice cutting through the quiet night. Zoro didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. Sanji sighed, flicking his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his boot. “You’re going the wrong damn way,” he said, louder this time, already starting after him.
Zoro finally paused, his back still to Sanji. For a second, Sanji thought he was going to ignore him, just keep walking until he disappeared into the night.
“I know where I’m going,” he muttered with too much confidence for someone who couldn’t even follow the simplest directions.
Sanji caught up to him, falling into step beside him.
“Yeah, sure you do,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re headed straight for the train station. Unless you’re planning on catching the midnight express out of town, you’re gonna need to turn around.”
Zoro shot him a glare, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” he growled, his voice low and rough.
“Never said you did,” Sanji shot back, shoving his hands into his pockets. "But since you're clearly determined to walk in circles all night, you might as well have company.”
Zoro's scowl deepened, but he didn't argue. He just kept walking, his strides long and purposeful, like he was trying to outpace the silence between them. Sanji matched his pace, the two of them falling into an uneasy rhythm. The night was quiet around them, the only sounds the distant hum of traffic and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind.
Sanji stole a glance at Zoro, at the way his jaw was clenched tight, the way his fingers flexed around the strap of his duffel bag. He looked like he was bracing for something, like he was waiting for the ground to give out beneath him. Sanji wanted to ask him what was wrong, wanted to demand answers. But he didn’t. He just walked beside him, the silence between them thick with everything they weren’t saying.
The Flamingo Motel came into view - a rundown, two-story building with peeling paint and a flickering vacancy sign. The parking lot was nearly empty, save for a few beat-up cars and a lone motorcycle.
The fluorescent light in the motel office buzzed overhead as Zoro tossed a wad of crumpled bills onto the counter. The clerk didn’t even look up from his crossword puzzle, just slid a brass key across the scratched counter with a grunt.
“Second floor. End of the hall.” His voice was as scratchy as the stained carpet under their boots.
Zoro pocketed the key without a word and turned towards the stairs. Sanji followed, the metal steps groaning under their weight as they climbed. The second-floor hallway smelled like stale smoke and bleach, the carpet sticky beneath their shoes. Zoro stopped in front of room 212, the number on the door peeling at the edges. He hesitated for half a second before sliding the key into the lock.
Sanji leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
“Well,” he said, trying to sound casual, “guess this is where I-”
Zoro turned, his dark eyes catching Sanji’s in the dim light of the hallway.
“You want to come in?” he asked, his voice rough. “Got a bottle in my bag. Better than what they were serving downstairs.”
Sanji’s pulse jumped. He should say no. Should make up some excuse, walk away, pretend this moment wasn’t happening. But the way Zoro was looking at him, like he was waiting for something, like he was daring Sanji to say yes, made his throat go dry.
“Yeah,” Sanji heard himself say. “Yeah, alright.”
The room was small and stale, the air thick with the scent of old cigarettes and industrial cleaner. Zoro flicked on the lamp by the bed, its weak light casting long shadows across the worn carpet. He tossed his duffel onto the bed and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey, the label smudged and peeling.
“Glasses are-” he started, but Sanji didn’t let him finish.
The door clicked shut behind them, and suddenly the air between them was electric. Sanji stepped forward, his hand finding Zoro’s jaw, his thumb brushing over the rough stubble. Zoro didn’t pull away. Didn’t hesitate. His hands were on Sanji’s hips in the next breath, yanking him closer, their mouths crashing together with a desperation that made Sanji’s head spin.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was teeth and tongue and the taste of whiskey, the rough scrape of Zoro’s calloused hands against Sanji’s skin. Zoro backed him up against the door, his body pressing Sanji into the wood, his breath hot against Sanji’s neck.
“Fuck,” Zoro muttered against his lips, his voice raw, “I’ve wanted to do this since-”
Sanji didn’t let him finish that either. He tangled his fingers in the short strands of Zoro’s hair, pulling just enough to make him groan, their bodies moving together like they’d been waiting for this for years. The bottle of whiskey hit the floor with a dull thud, forgotten. The only thing that mattered was the way Zoro’s hands gripped Sanji’s shirt, the way his mouth moved against Sanji’s like he was trying to erase the last two years in a single kiss.
Sanji’s back hit the bed, Zoro following him down, their bodies tangled together, the weight of him pressing Sanji into the mattress. The room was too hot, too small, the air thick with the scent of sweat and whiskey and something else - something that felt like a beginning, or maybe an end.
Sanji didn’t care which. Not right now. Not when Zoro’s hands were on him, his mouth hot and demanding, his body pinning Sanji to the bed like he was afraid he’d disappear. And maybe he was. Maybe they both were.
But for now, none of that mattered. For now, there was only this, the heat of Zoro’s skin, the rough slide of his hands, the way his breath hitched when Sanji’s teeth grazed his neck. The rest of the world could wait.
The bed creaked under their weight as Zoro rolled them, pinning Sanji beneath him without breaking the kiss. Sanji’s hands were already under Zoro’s shirt, nails digging into the hard muscle of his back, feeling the ridges of old scars beneath his fingertips. Zoro hissed against his mouth, his hips grinding down, the friction making Sanji’s breath stutter. His legs wrapped around Zoro’s waist, pulling him closer, his teeth sinking into Zoro’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
Zoro growled, low and rough, his hands rough as they yanked Sanji’s shirt up and off, tossing it aside.
“Fuck, you’re-” His words cut off as Sanji arched up, their chests pressing together, the heat between them unbearable. Sanji’s fingers fumbled with Zoro’s belt, his movements impatient, demanding. “Off. Now.”
Zoro didn’t argue. He kicked off his boots and stripped his pants away, his cock already hard and leaking. Sanji’s breath hitched at the sight, but he didn’t hesitate. He shoved Zoro back just enough to roll them again, straddling his hips as he tore open the button of his own jeans.
“Condom,” Sanji panted, “unless you’ve got a death wish.”
Zoro’s hand shot to his duffel, rummaging until he found a strip of condoms and a small bottle of lube. Sanji snatched them from him, tearing the wrapper open with his teeth before spitting it onto the floor. He slicked his fingers and reached behind himself, but Zoro’s hand closed around his wrist, stopping him.
“Let me.”
Sanji didn’t argue. He just leaned forward, bracing his hands on Zoro’s chest as Zoro’s fingers pressed inside him, rough and unapologetic. Sanji bit his lip to keep from making noise, his body tightening around the intrusion.
“More,” he demanded, his voice a growl. Zoro added another finger, curling them just right, and Sanji’s hips jerked forward, his cock aching.
“Like that?” Zoro’s voice was a dark murmur, his free hand gripping Sanji’s hip hard enough to bruise.
“Less talking,” Sanji snapped, rocking back onto Zoro’s fingers. “Fuck me already.”
Zoro didn’t need to be told twice. He rolled the condom on with practiced ease, then grabbed Sanji’s hips and flipped him onto his back again, pressing him into the mattress. Sanji spread his legs in invitation, his blue eyes locked onto Zoro’s as he guided him in.
The first thrust was hard, almost brutal, and Sanji’s back arched off the bed, a groan tearing from his throat.
“Yes- fuck- just like that.” His nails raked down Zoro’s back, drawing blood, but Zoro didn’t slow down. He set a punishing pace, his hips snapping forward, each thrust deep and relentless. Sanji met him move for move, their bodies slamming together, the headboard banging against the wall.
“You’re so-” Zoro’s voice was rough, his breath coming in sharp gasps as Sanji’s legs locked around him, pulling him deeper.
“I know,” Sanji bit out, his hand wrapping around his own cock, stroking in time with Zoro’s thrusts. “Harder.”
Zoro obeyed, his grip on Sanji’s hips bruising, his thrusts becoming erratic as Sanji’s body tightened around him.
“Gonna come,” Zoro warned, his voice strained.
“Then fucking do it,” Sanji snarled, his own orgasm crashing over him as his cock spilled over his fingers. Zoro followed with a groan, his body shuddering as he buried himself deep, his breath ragged against Sanji’s neck.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The room was a mess, clothes scattered, the whiskey bottle forgotten on the floor, the sheets tangled around them. Sanji’s chest heaved as he caught his breath, his fingers tracing the fresh marks his nails had left on Zoro’s skin.
Zoro had collapsed beside him, his arm slung over Sanji’s waist, his breath hot against his shoulder.
For a while, neither of them spoke, their heavy breathing the only sounds filling the room. Finally, Zoro rolled off the bed with a quiet groan, his muscles tense as he padded towards the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound of the shower starting up a moment later. The water hit the tiles with a steady rhythm, the noise filling the silence like a barrier between them. Sanji listened to it, his fingers tracing the fresh marks on his skin, nail marks on his hips, teeth marks on his shoulder, the ghost of Zoro’s grip still burning on his wrists.
He should stay. Should at least wait until Zoro finished showering. Should say something - anything - before leaving.
But the thought of standing there in the harsh light of the bathroom door opening, of facing whatever came next - the awkward silence, the unspoken questions, the weight of what now - made his chest tighten. He didn’t do goodbyes. Didn’t do after. He did heat and hunger and the kind of touch that left bruises, but he didn’t do the quiet that followed.
Sanji sat up slowly, his body aching in the best way, the ghost of Zoro’s touch still lingering on his skin. His clothes were scattered across the floor, his jeans tangled with Zoro’s, his shirt crumpled near the door. He dressed quickly, his movements quiet, his fingers fumbling slightly with the buttons of his shirt. He didn’t look at the bed. Didn’t let himself. Didn’t look at the rumpled sheets, at the indent in the pillow where Zoro’s head had been, at the way the light from the bathroom cast long shadows across the floor.
The shower was still running. Sanji hesitated for just a second, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He could wait. He should wait. But the words stuck in his throat, the excuses dying on his lips. So he turned the knob, the door clicking shut behind him with a quiet finality.
The motel hallway was empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, casting a sickly glow over the stained carpet. Sanji’s boots made no sound as he walked, his steps quick, his breath steady. He didn’t look back. Didn’t hesitate. Just kept moving, one foot in front of the other, until he was outside, the cool night air hitting his skin like a slap.
He lit a cigarette as he walked, the flame of his lighter flickering in the darkness. The first drag was sharp, the smoke filling his lungs, grounding him. He exhaled slowly, watching the tendrils curl into the night. His body still hummed with the afterglow, his skin still warm from Zoro’s touch, but the moment the door had closed behind him, reality had settled in like a weight.
He didn’t regret it. Not for a second.
His father’s words following him down the dark street as if the man were standing behind him, “Man shouldn’t lie with another man. Not like he lies with a woman.” And Sanji hadn’t. He doubted he’d be able to repeat what he and Zoro had just done, with a woman. He was also a gentleman, he would never leave a woman like this without even saying goodbye or promising to see her again. No, if he was being honest with himself, he hadn’t gone against his father’s preachings at all.
The street was quiet, the neon sign of the motel flickering behind him as he walked away. He didn’t look back. Didn’t let himself. Just kept moving, the cigarette burning between his fingers, the night air cool against his skin.