Sometimes, he liked to forget. Forget that this wasn't love, it had never been love and it would never be love. There were times his heart would ache unbearably, an invisible knife stabbed in deep, never to be removed. There were times he wanted nothing more than to cry, but men don't cry, do they? Not even when the unattainable object of his undying affections was within his reach, yet still so far away.

Sometimes, when they would lie in bed, hearts still racing and sweat creating a sheen over their hot bodies, he could pretend that this was love, not just a mutual understanding of supply and demand. But in the end, he would always have to remind himself of what this truly was. When the bed was empty, the smell of cigarettes lingering in the sheets, he was forced to face the truth, cold and alone.

He was in love. He was in love like he had never been before, so completely and totally in love that he felt like he would explode at the mere thought of him. He noticed everything, from the way his hands would twitch when he was dying to light up, or the look in his eyes when he was at work in his kitchen. He noticed, because he loved, because he stupidly hoped that maybe, one day, it could be reciprocated.

But Sanji didn't love him. Sanji, stupid Sanji, idiot Sanji, oh-god-how-beautiful Sanji, never would. Not when he hated him so much.

Sometimes, Zoro wished he could hate him too.