ㅤ HE HAD BEEN SITTING IN THE GALLEY like a stormcloud with a hangover. arms crossed. expression blank. the air around him prickled with something off, like the moment before a blade is unsheathed — or worse, the moment before he says something heartfelt. he wasn’t upset. he was vengefully calm, which for him, was far more dangerous. it was one thing to get dragged into something complicated. it was another to get dragged into something complicated and be treated like a moldy side of toast whenever someone else walked into the room.
ㅤ ㅤㅤzoro wasn’t subtle. he didn’t do nuance. if he liked someone, he tolerated their voice. if he liked someone a lot, he let them put their foot in his lap while pretending not to notice. that was the full range of romantic expression he was capable of. ㅤㅤwhat he didn’t like, was the cook treating him like a secret ingredient — fine in the kitchen, god forbid anyone see it in the finished dish.
ㅤ ㅤㅤthe door creaked. steps. the faint whistle of someone pretending their conscience was clear.
ㅤ ㅤㅤa glass was set beside him. perfectly poured. just far enough from the edge to look safe. he stared at it. stared at it with the kind of religious focus usually reserved for enemies, sake, and extremely frequent naps.
ㅤ ㅤㅤdidn’t speak. didn’t blink. just stared.
ㅤ ㅤㅤhis fingers crept toward the glass, slow and deliberate, like it might bite. he touched the rim. paused. held eye contact like it was a duel.
ㅤ ㅤㅤlike he had all the time in the world. like gravity was optional. the glass inched. wobbled. he tilted his head. raised a brow. kept going.
ㅤ ㅤㅤit hit the floor with a clink-splat, and zoro stood like he’d just made a profound point.
ㅤ ㅤㅤhe didn’t yell. didn’t throw anything. didn’t call him a coward or a bastard or curlybrow the emotionally repressed.
ㅤ ㅤㅤjust muttered — flatly:
ㅤ ㅤㅤ❝ tired of being your weird little secret. ❞
ㅤ said with the quiet confidence of a man who’d made a mess and was definitely not going to clean it up.
ㅤㅤ“ It’s not what it looks like. ” That culpable simple phrase had stirred up this entire mess early that morning, the cook’s bruised lips and heated visage accentuated by a shortness of breath, glaring evidence of a counterpoint that was hard to back down from. It slipped out during the hour of twilight where Sanji’s usual awakening and the swordsman’s bedtime overlapped, the pair opting to… make better use of it, an unspoken discretion at its core which was preferable while still wrapping his head around just what exactly this was ( tous les standards habituels de la romance jetés par la fenêtre ). As much as the wings overly fussed and tussled over the course of the day, the chef found himself thinking of Marimo during quieter moments, fleeting separation fuelling penchants nestled within coveted details - the way the other’s skin quivered while explorative fingertips dotingly lingered over embedded scarring, how a pointed gaze would remain locked in place as a skilled mouth went to work, how proximity would be pushed to the limit with an ached moan akin to a plea ( il savait au fond de lui que c’était bien plus que juste baiser ).
ㅤㅤㅤㅤIn a sense that latter point had some weight to it, an undertow of desperation whenever Sanji allowed himself to fully succumb and disengage from a plague of confused feelings, moments of clarity piecing together restructured thoughts on what was important to him ( l’épéiste - il était important pour lui ). But the cook can’t quite pinpoint why those words had escaped him within the heat of the moment, elevated shock intermingled with an embarrassment present even at the scantest glimpse of vibrant auburn hair, a certain someone where it was no secret amongst the crew he held in such high regard - the sentiment gives way for shame on a number of fronts, and of all the possible ways, this wasn’t how he wanted the navigator to find out ( …pourquoi est-ce important? ). The blond had hated himself in those subsequent hours, gnawing blame aimed inwards while a figurative turbulent cloud shrouded every waking moment, a usual daily routine now relegated to more of a chore, all while trying to avoid the other man.
ㅤㅤIt was a feat that was no longer viable as the presence glowered in the galley, any form of reticence dispensed with given the overwhelming surge of defiance that crowds the immediate space, a foreboding weight that unrelentingly presses down upon him. Sanji’s nonchalant approach was a poor means of breaking the ice, opting not to speak but rather let notes of anxiety float within an unsteady tune, reminiscent of a song heard on an island during a seasonal festival - hesitant hands move to idly work while trying to search for the words ( des excuses ) within the depths of a large ceramic bowl or between the angular edges of a spatula, mien morose yet ultimately avoidant as it all feverishly eats away at him ( on dirait qu’il va vomir— ). The tension commences to escalate with such minor yet evidently purposeful shifts in Zoro’s bearing, confusion descending over the blond while it all comes crashing down alongside the fragments of glass, the motion of a wrist ceasing as troubled eyes sharply narrow at the mess with a clench of his jaw.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤSanji can feel himself shrinking ( ou plutôt, l’épéiste le fait s’est sentir petit ) as the gravity of the stoic words pummel against him with the force of a physical blow, a sentiment he doesn’t appreciate regardless of the blame he so willingly apportioned to himself, confrontational eye contact burning with a ferocity capable of setting a city ablaze. Tightened grip against the edge of the bowl loosens to launch it onto the counter with a roaring thud, a slurried mixture spilling over the rim to pool at the base, the sound a form of response to the shattered glass - it doesn’t break, but the din reverberates through the galley, a few small canisters of herbs atop the surface toppling over from the ripples of impact. Breath unsteady and heart pounding within the recesses of his ears, stubbornness firmly takes root, misplaced anger always easier to tap into than an admission of grief or vulnerability. A small fervent voice of reason fails to fight its way forwards, oncoming words surprising Sanji due to that familiar itch of aggressive irritation having been tempered after everything the pair had been through recently.
ㅤㅤ“ Didn’t realise we’ve got a mangy stowaway cat on the ship. Words usually work. ” ( ça ne finira pas bien ) There’s an old habitual bite to the remark, its return being one that the blond doesn’t necessarily like, pandering to a side of him which dangerously skews away from a means of personal progress, one that had been interlaced with comfort and affection. There’s a sudden shift in the man’s svelte frame to seamlessly veer to one side, grasping a hold of a dustpan and brush for a palm to promptly shove them into the other’s chest. Teeth bared, Sanji seethes with a vehemence that sees extremities trembling, acrimony conflating with an unvoiced strain that he’s no longer prepared to discuss ( des excuses qui se transforment en morceaux de papier brûlés flottant au vent ). The cook unwisely stands his ground. “ And I’m tired of you treating this place with disrespect. Pick it up. ”
