It starts like this:

A tentative knock on his door;

The call to enter.

Straightforward—

And then it's not.

Zoro stands just inside the cabin, door clicking softly closed, and it's cold in here—really cold, all the warmth from the submarine suddenly gone like that, his fingers instantly icy, gripping the two bottles tighter. Law's at his desk, elbow propped, chin cupped in his palm. DEATH dances in the candlelight, and from his post Zoro can see maps spread out before him—drawings, notes, a compass with a log pose. Lots of things. Planning. Things he doesn't understand.

Law yawns; swivels around in his chair, starts with, "What is it?" and then pauses. He cocks his head to the side after a moment, curious eyes finding his through the half-light, and smirks. "Zoro-ya. Are you lost?"

Bastard, he thinks. Answers, "No," and huffs a laugh. "Drink?"

Before, when the idea had crossed his mind, he had thought to bring sake. There was a store of it in the galley, third cupboard, bottom shelf.

See, everyone likes sake except for the cook. Shit Cook liked—likes—wine. The red stuff that was all sour no matter what he paired it with (there was a night where he had served meal after meal to him, too, just to prove a point that it could taste good—even though it didn't). So, Zoro just assumed that the allied captain would drink sake, until his first mate, Penguin, stopped him in the hallway—said, with this weird smile that he didn't quite understand, "No, captain likes ale."

Pertinent, what a man drinks.

Law eyes the bottles in hand, expression unreadable.

"I have ale." Zoro raises the booze.

"Fine," is his only answer, and he kicks out the chair by his side from under the table almost immediately, languid wave encouraging him to sit.

He's not one to listen, but Law is not one to argue with. He's the captain of this ship, and not his captain, sure—but Zoro respects this, admires it even. So, he takes his place, the chair cold, passing over one of the bottles. Law pops off the cap with practiced ease and drinks—almost half of the pint in one gulp—tiny trickle leaking from the corner of his lips, down his chin, tracing his jawline. He's strong in this low light, harsh shadows catching his sharp edges, and Zoro is staring—does not turn away, not even with Law stares back.

And it starts like this:

Law leaning forward in one fluid movement, Zoro catching him halfway, the room suddenly hot—too hot, his face burning beneath cool, careful fingers as they ghost across his skin.

He is all around him, over him, pressing Zoro back forcefully into the chair, breath hot and minty on his face. The intensity is overwhelming, intoxicating, his heart fluttering nervously under Law's calculating gaze.

"This is fine, right?" Law drawls then, voice ragged and husky. "You're okay with this?"

Zoro just threads his hand through his thick hair (slightly damp, smells like… the dojo from way back. Cherry blossoms. Metal. Blood. Maybe something else?)—tugs him down, catching his lips in a kiss, unable to help the moan that drags out of him as Law opens his mouth greedily, excitedly, desperately.

And ale is not sour, Zoro realises all at once, but bitter and strong. Smooth and refreshing. Dizzying.

For the simplest moment, Zoro forgets where he is. But Law does not hesitate, does not doubt, dragging his tongue drags across Zoro's teeth, hands moving down and gripping his arms tightly. There's such a strength to him—one Zoro knew, of course—but to feel it like this: it's almost too much—not nearly enough. He moans again, grabbing Law by the waist and pulling him closer, the surgeon falling into his lap. He's biting, sucking, exploring, not enough of the man to satisfy this intense want—need—that boils within him.

And Law is responsive—moves like water, like air, gorgeously languid and powerful beneath his hands.

His is so different.

And yet.

Years ago was when it started between him and Shit Cook. Deck of the Merry, sometime after Loguetown—sometime before Alabasta. Night, and all he can remember was the moon had been like sunlight, ridiculously bright, making it impossible to sleep—and Sanji had cooked him something, which was weird, and then sat with him, which was even weirder.

Said, "Marimo."

They were young, brash, both too big for the tiny ship. Maybe it was the idiocy of being a teenager—or maybe it was just that he understood, then, even more than he understands now. Sanji was all grace and absurdity, a walking antithesis, and Zoro hated this—loved it—so completely and irrevocably—and he kissed Sanji for the first time then, the idiot Shit Cook tasting like cigarettes and sourness, laughing beneath his lips.

See, Sanji liked—likes—wine. And that's important to remember.

It takes a month to reach Wano. He doesn't make habit of going to the captain's quarters every night, but finds himself there too regularly, nonetheless. It is always too cold, Law too distant—and then: not.

Those nights he's all up in Zoro's space, serious and calm, and he is so incredibly methodical with his movements, knowing exactly where to touch, what to say, how long to draw Zoro out—and the right moment to cut him off.

He is the opposite of Shit Cook in every way, right down to the midnight hair and the way he talks (this drawl that drags over his skin, that makes it hard to breathe, that renders him mute and useless). Sanji's just—running, you know? Takes everything straight on, stops to think only for the briefest moments, and maybe, if you're really lucky, he might even have something smart to say—maybe.

But Law. The surgeon's like a textbook. Only speaks when spoken to, only says something if it's worth saying. He weighs his words with extreme caution, even in the bedroom, and some nights Zoro can't get him to say more than three words ("Yeah", "Stay," and "Fuck").

Sanji's running, but Law is strolling, idling, and Zoro's just learning this, learning what it means and how to react.

One night, after too much drink, Zoro dares ask: "Is this okay for you?"

He says nothing for the longest time, brief glance his way the only indication Law's heard him at all. They're sitting on the bed, naked, Zoro lounging against the headboard with a bottle as Law reads. It's something he does after sex, Zoro had noticed; like how Sanji smokes, and how he drinks. Law reads, and it's a little odd, a little endearing, very much Law.

He likes that.

"What do you mean?" Law asks eventually, breaking the silence. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"No, like—"

Zoro waves his free hand like that can say what he can't (are you happy?), but Law just gives him this half-shrug, genuine confusion shadowing his face.

"Don't worry," Zoro says by way of answer, suddenly feeling rather stupid. He takes a long drink, trying and failing to ignore the burning eyes that pin him against the bed. Repeats, "Don't worry," and lets the words hang there all night, too much left unsaid.

Later, as the sun starts to rise, he thinks he understands.

Maybe.

He could tell you so much about the sea that does not supposedly exist, that pulls all four corners of the world together in vibrant colours and promises. He could name all species of fish that Shit Cook dreams of catching, that live only in the South Blue; and there, in the images of his mind and that battered little picture book—the one he refuses to throw away despite the mould, the torn pages, the faded lettering.

Shit Cook would drink too much wine and he would talk and talk and talk, voice so calm but excited, too close because he's handsy when drunk. He'd smell of tobacco, cologne and wine, and he would laugh this queer little laugh, one that made Zoro's head spin, that made the world just make sense.

Law's not the kind of man to have dreams like that. Tells Zoro this, not drunk, but not sober, fiddling idly with the braid wrapped around his hilt.

"I had a goal, and I achieved it. What happens now?"

His eyes find Zoro's then, sharp and calculating, like he can draw the answer out of the stillness between them. The air in the room is cold and unmoving, dull lamplight casting eerie shadows across his dark features. It's an unsettling stare, and Zoro feels he's being examined, with all his insides to see; feels like he cannot quite understand what it's trying to say. Only knows that Law's eyes say something—hide something, too—something he will never understand.

Law looks away and sighs a sigh that catches in the metal walls of his cabin. A sigh that will settle there with all the others. He takes a long drink, line of ale trickling from the corner of his lips, tracing his jaw.

Zoro thinks of Sanji's smile when he talks of the All Blue, and the way he laughs—how Zoro thought no one could ever laugh like that, so carefree and real. He thinks of the way his heart jumps at the thought of his goal, sword in hand, promises sealed. He thinks of the curve of blood on his blade. He thinks monster. He thinks of Luffy, the Pirate King. A night sky full of stars—a cloudless blue that curves the edges of the earth.

He thinks he likes Law a lot.

Zoro manages through the intense silence, "I don't know," and then he drops his empty bottle, grabbing a fistful of Law's shirt and wrenching him forward.

Law lets himself be guided. Drops his own drink with a dull thud on the wooden floor, still full, the beer pooling around Zoro's bare feet.

They never last long like this—not in the dark, not in the silence. It's short and rough and quick, clawing and gasping, Law's teeth clamping down hard around his throat, Zoro's head slamming against the back of his chair in a string of curses. He growls, and then looses it in a hiss, grip tensing on Law's thighs, hard enough to leave a bruise as he finishes. The surgeon isn't far behind, composure cracking, breathing out his name in a low, desperate moan beside Zoro's ear.

They stay still for the longest time, Law's forehead resting on Zoro's shoulder—him, staring out the window, waiting for his heart to return to a steady rhythm. He feels the surgeon's breath on his bare shoulder—in, out, in, out.

And Law whispers, to nothing and no one, "I don't know either."

Zoro understands that's enough.

Sanji is so black and white, so easy to read and understand, quick to temper, easy to quell. Sanji's killed people and saved them too, creates magic, never meets him halfway—he's always there, every part of him, and Zoro knows that Big Mom doesn't get this—won't ever get it. Sanji is an asset and a liability, not just a convenience—that's their first mistake, probably their greatest, and Zoro wonders—hopes—knows—that he'll be back one day.

Some day.

But with who and why—that's the real question.

There are things they don't discuss.

Like the way Law catches him staring across the galley table at breakfast. How he sleeps with his back to Zoro, every night. Law won't talk of the way Zoro freezes at a gentle touch, and Zoro never mentions how his own chest aches and aches on those sleepless nights, the metal walls of the captain's cabin mocking him through the dark.

He won't discuss the dreams of Shit Cook dying from his own idiocy, falling in love with the daughter of a Yonko; and Law won't mention waking up to him shaking, sheets slicked with sweat, his breaths rasping through the silent night.

"He's strong," Law says one night, like the words are being forced out of him, ripped from his chest. "He'll be okay."

They never talk of it again.

The Polar Tang is attacked, five days out of Wano.

Inevitable, really.

And a blessing, too. Three weeks in a submarine have left Zoro oddly twitchy, itching for a fight, for movement. He'd been sharpening his swords too often, training every three hours, staring out the window wondering about—

Things.

The battle doesn't last long. Despite their apparent calm, the Heart Pirates are proficient fighters, Law not even bothering to draw his sword during the fight. He calmly watches the chaos from the deck, leaning beside the mast. Passive. Frustratingly so. Eyes sweeping the ship and finding Zoro's through the orange-red sunset, Kitesu sliding slowly into the ribcage of an approaching marine like a mocking melody.

They hold eye-contact for a beat.

And then, Law is gone.

Sanji would be there, with him, by his side; Luffy too, in the fray, a raging tempest. Zoro tells himself this repeatedly as he washes his face again and again after the fight, cold water splashing onto the tiled floor. It runs along the grout, cool at his feet, and he let's out a long breath, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

He finds Law in his cabin. Penguin's there. Ikkaku, too.

"Hold still." Zoro opens the door and Law doesn't even look up, running a thread carefully through a gash in Penguin's arm, repeating in the same calm tone, "Hold still, Pen."

"Hurts, captain."

"I know."

Ikkaku smiles at Zoro. She has her arm in a sling, nursing it tenderly, bruise purpling around her right eye. Law tells her to watch for any infections, voice laced with concern and professionalism.

He sits down on the bed, and stares, openly, transfixed. Law's hands work so carefully, every movement practiced and purposeful, voice a calm thrum in the coldness of his room. He makes no mistakes, does not smile, calculates everything before he does it.

He is impeccable.

Like a statue carved from marble.

And Zoro, suddenly, desperately, wants to be ruined. To see Law loose control and destroy. To have Law hurt him, tear him apart—to have those healing hands cause pain.

It's morbid, dark, and he starts to remember all these oddities he missed, like the way Law likes his coffee black, the screaming of his nodachi when he sharpens it on the deck; how he'll stare out the small port window for hours and hours, without moving, without saying a word, eyes calculating the endless ocean beyond.

There's no romance here. No care.

He wants to see Law break.

He does, in the dead of night, and it hurts—hurts more than Mihawk's Black Blade, than anything Zoro has ever felt before; Law's kisses are like fire trailing up his skin, raw and burning, a searing pain.

"I'm sorry," Law says fiercely, pulling at his hair, not slowing one bit. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—fuck—"

Shit Cook never said that to him. Funny, how he remembers that.

The Heart Pirates don't have a designated cook.

That's when the irony strikes him.

It's not like he's looking for something the Shit Cook left behind. It's nothing like that. Him and Sanji had something different, and Zoro knows this, understands it, accepts it. But one night he can't find any ale, can't find any sake, and the sub is so cold and empty, the only source of light streaming through the crack in the door of the captain's quarters.

He enters without a knock, doesn't say a hello, is about to apologise because he could only bring this wine (and red, what a bitter joke), when Law says:

"What?"

Like he doesn't know. Like Zoro needs to explain himself every time. Like Law doesn't care at all—and maybe, he realises sourly, standing in the doorway (fool) with nothing but a bottle, he doesn't.

It's clear, then. A startling clarity. Shit Cook left so much behind. So much to be desired.

Law turns. "How do you want to do this tonight?" He's short and clippish, annoyed at something, though Zoro knows he'll never say what. His eyes flick to Zoro's hand. "I don't drink wine."

"I know." Two words, grinded out. He can feel his jaw tense, pain in his head. Wants to say, 'Of course I know', but only asks, "What do you mean?"

Law looks like he's about to laugh. "How do you want to do this?" he repeats, slowly, like he's talking to a child. "I have a lot I need to do, so let's make this quick."

Zoro looks at him for a long moment, quietly. The room is incredibly cold. The silence: heavy.

And then, Zoro leaves.

He drinks alone on the deck that night.

The wine's disgustingly sour. Like it's missing something. He thinks, idly, that Shit Cook might know what—and then.

Blackness.

There's a peace in it, somewhere.

This he understands.

Shit Cook comes back.

The world does not change, but he has. He's got a darkness to his eyes, watches Luffy for too long, avoids any and all questions the crew throw at him—goes straight into the kitchen and starts cooking.

Zoro knows this dance. Leaves him alone and settles in the crow's nest. The Sunny creaks comforting and familiar around him, and he breathes the air in deep—smells of meat and salt and wood—

—tobacco—

He's surprised to see him. Doesn't show it. Just says, "Ero Cook," and Sanji laughs this weird laugh, like he's nervous but happy at the same time.

There's a delicate air to this moment, one he's afraid to break, so Zoro says nothing more, just sliding a dark, calloused hand across Sanji's jaw, his skin so white and perfect.

Sanji rolls his cigarette around the corners of his mouth, left to right and back again. "Oi, Zoro."

They know this. Know each other. Slowly, the top three buttons of his dress shirt come undone, exposing Sanji's neck, and Zoro watches as he releases a long breath, shoulders falling with the invisible weight dropped.

Zoro's mouth traces his neck, moves slowly across his skin. Sanji's fingers thread through his hair, holding him where he stands, pressed against the cook, his arms sliding around him to hold him close.

"You happy, Shit Cook?" Zoro breathes into the air.

And Sanji huffs a laugh then. Bubbling out of him without any control. "What kind of stupid question is that, Marimo?" Then he kisses him. Long and slow. Gentle and passionate. And says, "Of course, I am."

"You fall in love, Shit Cook?"

Three days later, sake and wine on the tabletop before them, the galley oddly quiet for an evening. Sanji lets a breath float to the roof of the galley, smoke rising in plumes of grey. He doesn't answer for the longest time, looking at somewhere past Zoro, somewhere out the window behind him, eyes a vibrant, dancing blue.

"No," he says eventually.

He looks as if he's about to say something more, but the galley door swings open with a bang, Law just suddenly there, dripping wet. He looks annoyed, eyes sharp as he takes in the kitchen, candlelight casting long shadows across his angular features. Law meets his gaze, and for the briefest moment, Zoro loses his breath, heart in throat as he runs through the thousand things he wants to say to the captain—a thousand things that he wants to know—

"Mugiwara-ya?"

"Not here," Sanji answers. "Probably downstairs."

Law doesn't hesitate, doesn't pause, just nods curtly and slams the door a little too hard, bolts rattling on their fixtures.

Zoro stares at the closed door for an age, the small port window offering nothing but a grey, swirling sky outside. His heart is inexplicably tight. Law's drawl inches his ears. Thinks of his hands, sprawled across his skin, tattoos dancing in the darkness. The taste of ale. Smell of mint. The smell of something else—something so familiar, something Zoro remembers from so long ago.

An intensity he just can't match. The broken sound of a snapping string.

"You, Marimo?"

And then, it's gone.

Zoro asks, "What?"

Sanji's staring at him. "Fall in love?"

"Here?"

"No." He lights a new cigarette, blowing the smoke into the space between them, obscuring his features. "Before."

Zoro looks at him then—really looks at him—seeing him in all his grace, in all his kindness, in all his love and care and honesty. Every part of him waiting for an answer, waiting for something.

"No," Zoro answers, voice tight. "No."

And there's an truth in those words, too.

The night before they leave, he places a bottle on the desk, the room cold—too cold—the desk covered in books and notepads and drawings and maps. Things he doesn't understand. Things Zoro will never understand.

Law looks up from his work, blinks at the bottle, blinks up at him. He says, "I have no sake," and his voice is calm—so calm—and his eyes are cool, calculating, curious.

And there is something else in them, too. Something he can't—something Zoro will never—

"Don't worry."

He leaves, then, with one last kiss—one that is met halfway, with intensity and ferocity, with a pace that Zoro just can't keep up with, that he just cannot—

Back on the Sunny, Sanji pours him a glass of red wine with that damnable smile, and asks, "You happy, Idiot Moss?"

And wine's not so sour, he realises all at once. But full. Bold. Soft.

"Yeah."

He would have liked—

to understand.