Trapped in a Storm With My Rival, Our Hate Exploded Into Passion

The groan of stressed timber was a constant, grating sound that set everyone’s teeth on edge. Splintered railings gaped open to the sea, and a dark scorch mark marred the cheerful face of the Sunny’s figurehead. The battle had been too close, a brutal clash with a Vice Admiral’s fleet that had left them battered and limping toward the first smudge of green on the horizon.

Zoro sat on the lawn deck, meticulously cleaning Wado Ichimonji with a soft cloth, his movements economical and precise. A shallow, but long, gash ran along his left bicep, crudely stitched by Chopper and already pulling tight. He ignored it, his entire focus narrowed to the steel in his hands, the familiar weight a comfort in the unsettling quiet.

The quiet was shattered when the galley door slammed open.

“Of all the irresponsible, thick-headed, muscle-brained…!” Sanji stalked out onto the deck, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. His white shirt was smudged with soot and his tie was askew. “Half my spices are ruined! My new knives from Water 7? Chipped! Because some moss-for-a-brain decided to use the galley wall as a backstop!”

Zoro didn’t look up. “The ship was under attack, Cook. Or did you not notice from your hiding spot behind the flour sacks?”

“My 'hiding spot' was putting out the fire you nearly started, you damn marimo!” Sanji jabbed a finger in Zoro’s direction, his leg twitching as if itching for a fight. “If you had an ounce of situational awareness, you would have taken the fight to the other side of the ship instead of leading them straight to my kitchen!”

“My job is to cut down the enemy, not worry about your precious seasoning rack.” Zoro’s voice was a low growl. He finally lifted his head, his single eye glinting with annoyance. The exhaustion from the fight had worn his patience to a razor-thin edge. “We need a ship to sail on. We don’t need your fancy salt.”

“That’s enough!” Nami’s voice cut through the air like a whip crack. She stood at the helm, a map clutched in one hand, her face etched with a weary fury that made both men fall silent. “I am trying to navigate us to a safe harbor, Franky and Usopp are working themselves to the bone to keep us afloat, and all you two can do is squabble like children? I’m done with it.”

She pointed a commanding finger toward the lush, jungle-covered island looming closer. “We need fresh water and we need food that isn’t from a can. You two,” she said, her gaze pinning them both, “are on provisioning duty. Together. Get water and find some protein. Don’t come back until you have both.”

Sanji opened his mouth to protest, a chivalrous excuse already forming on his lips, but Nami’s expression dared him to say a word. Zoro just grunted, slowly sheathing his sword with a final, decisive click. It wasn’t a request. It was an order. A punishment. He pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders as he looked from Nami’s unyielding face to the cook’s furious one. This was going to be a long day.

The moment their boots hit the soft, damp earth of the jungle floor, the air grew thick and heavy, clinging to their skin like a wet cloth. Giant leaves, slick with humidity, cast the path in a perpetual twilight. Zoro immediately took the lead, gesturing with his thumb to the left, toward a dense wall of tangled vines. “Water should be this way. I can hear it.”

Sanji let out an exasperated sigh, the smoke from his cigarette curling up into the humid air. “You’d hear the ocean if you walked off a cliff, you lost piece of moss. The ship is behind us. Inland is that way.” He pointed decisively in the opposite direction. “Use the single brain cell you have left and try to follow.”

“Shut up, Dartboard.” Zoro’s hand twitched toward his swords. “At least I’m trying to be useful instead of preening like some peacock. There are no ladies here to impress with your fancy kicks.”

“My ‘fancy kicks’ could knock that smug look off your face before you even knew what was happening,” Sanji retorted, though he started walking in the direction he had indicated, forcing Zoro to fall into step behind him. “And unlike your brute force, my skills are actually useful for survival. You’d probably try to eat a poison mushroom because you liked its color.”

As if to prove his point, Sanji stopped beside a small, clear stream bubbling over smooth, dark stones. He knelt, dipping a finger in and tasting it before inspecting the ferns growing along its bank. “This is fine,” he declared, uncorking the canteens Nami had thrust at them. While they filled, he pointed with the toe of his polished black shoe at a cluster of broad-leafed plants. “The roots of that are edible. Starchy, but they’ll do.”

Zoro said nothing, his gaze sweeping the canopy above, his body coiled with a tension that had nothing to do with their argument. His senses were on high alert, filtering through the cacophony of insect chirps and dripping water. He heard it a second before he saw it—a low growl and the rustle of something large moving through the undergrowth.

A creature resembling a panther, but twice the size and with bony plates along its spine, burst from the foliage, its eyes fixed on Sanji’s kneeling form. The cook was still focused on the water, completely vulnerable.

Before Sanji could even register the threat, Zoro moved. It wasn’t a dash; it was an instantaneous relocation. One moment he was ten feet away, the next he was a blur of green and steel directly in the beast’s path. The metallic ring of a sword being drawn was followed by a single, fluid arc. The creature let out a choked cry and collapsed, a deep gash severing its neck.

Silence fell, broken only by the gurgle of the stream and the thud of the dead animal on the jungle floor. Sanji was on his feet, his own leg raised for a kick he never had to throw. He stared, wide-eyed, from the corpse to Zoro, who stood over it, wiping his blade clean on a leaf. The swordsman’s breathing was steady, his focus absolute. For a long moment, the animosity between them evaporated, replaced by the stark reality of the danger they were in, and the undeniable competence of the man standing before him.

Zoro sheathed his sword with a decisive snick, not bothering to look at Sanji. “Just a pest,” he grunted, already scanning the jungle again. “We need real food.”

Sanji’s jaw tightened. The words of gratitude he hadn’t even realized were forming died on his tongue, replaced by the familiar sting of irritation. “Right,” he said, his voice clipped. He screwed the cap back on a canteen. “Let’s not waste any more time, then.”

They pushed deeper inland, the unspoken moment hanging between them, thick and uncomfortable. It was another hour before Zoro’s keen hearing picked up the sound of heavy rooting and snorting. He held up a hand, and Sanji stopped instantly, the two of them melting back into the massive ferns. Ahead, a creature easily the size of a small pony, covered in coarse black hair with a pair of wicked, curved tusks, tore at the roots of a tree.

There was no discussion, no plan. Zoro drew two of his swords and moved, a silent green shadow flitting between the trees to flank the beast. Sanji stayed put until the creature’s head swung toward the swordsman, its pig-like eyes narrowing. In that moment of distraction, Sanji launched himself forward. His leg shot out in a perfect, powerful arc, the polished tip of his shoe connecting with the side of the boar’s thick skull with a sickening crunch. The beast stumbled, dazed and disoriented. It was all the opening Zoro needed. A flash of steel, a pained squeal, and the massive animal crashed to the ground, silenced.

Panting slightly, Sanji lit a new cigarette, the smoke a stark white plume in the dim light. “Now comes the hard part.”

Zoro stared down at the carcass. “I’ll carry it.” He bent, grabbing a fistful of coarse hair and a thick leg, preparing to heave it over his shoulders.

“Stop,” Sanji commanded, his voice sharp. “You’ll just tear the muscles and bruise the meat. Not to mention you’re already bleeding. We’ll cut a strong branch and carry it between us.”

Zoro straightened up, his single eye flashing with defiance. “I can handle it, Cook. Don’t fuss.”

“This isn’t fussing, you primitive ape, it’s being efficient!” Sanji jabbed his cigarette toward Zoro’s bandaged arm, where a fresh spot of red was beginning to soak through. “Or is your pride more important than getting back to the Sunny with unspoiled food? We’re all running on fumes. Don’t be a liability.”

The word ‘liability’ struck a nerve. “You think I’m a liability?” Zoro’s voice dropped to a dangerous low. He took a step closer, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. “I’m the one who just saved your ass from being cat-food.”

“And I’m the one making sure we don’t starve! For once in your life, can you just listen to someone who knows what they’re doing?”

The argument was cut short by a sudden, unnatural change in the atmosphere. The incessant hum of insects died away, plunging the jungle into an eerie silence. A cool wind snaked through the trees, rustling the giant leaves above them not with a gentle whisper, but a dry, frantic hiss. Both men stopped, their argument forgotten, and looked up.

The patches of blue sky visible through the canopy were gone, replaced by a bruised, swirling ceiling of dark grey clouds that churned with a sickly yellow light. The wind picked up, tearing at their clothes, and the first heavy, cold drop of rain splattered against Sanji’s forehead. The low roar they’d mistaken for a distant waterfall was growing louder, closer—the unmistakable sound of a fast-approaching squall.