The instant Sanji stepped foot outside the restaurant, the blaring music washed over him in a tidal wave of screechy fiddles and shrill tin whistles.
It was late, and he had just gotten off work. He glared across the street. The cook had never been interested in St. Patrick's Day celebrations. The thought of navigating drunk frat boys in a bar on one of the most packed nights of the year just to score shitty beer in a plastic cup with some green food coloring thrown in it made him want to throw up.
Sanji's gaze caught the one fleck of green in the place that wasn't a cheap gimmick through the bar's windows. He had been working himself up to talk to the green-haired bartender for weeks but kept losing his nerve. The guy was crazy hot, but from what he had observed he was also grumpy as hell, and it was hard to get a feel for if he was into guys or not with that smug personality which pissed the cook off and turned him on at the same time.
Beckoned by the siren song of meandering Irish flute music and his eager hormones, he crossed the street and entered the bar. It was stuffed with warm bodies and was stiflingly hot. A live band of tired-looking musicians played in the corner like they knew everyone was drunk anyway and didn't give a shit about how they sounded.
Sanji pressed through the crowd and squeezed in between two men planted at the bar in the part that the guy seemed to be serving. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat as he watched his sure movements. The guy was ripped, and he moved in a fluid way that indicated that he was used to controlling his body's movements in a very disciplined way. Martial arts maybe?
With sweat beading on his brow, Sanji called the guy over.
The green-haired man saw him at last, and efficiently swept over to him. "Beer?" he asked gruffly, glaring at the cook, and it was plain to see he was in an incredibly shitty mood.
"No, um, bourbon. Woodford Reserve," he said, internally gagging as he watched green beer being handed out on the other side of the bar.
The man raised an angular eyebrow, then silently grabbed a rounded bottle of amber liquor from the shelf and slowly poured it into a short tumbler. He sat the glass down in front of him and swiftly collected Sanji's money.
When he returned with his change, the cook had already downed the entire glass of the powerful bourbon.
"So, um… I like your green hair. Perfect for tonight...right? I mean, you fit right in," Sanji prattled on, the quickly absorbing liquor and his nervousness combining together to make a ill-seasoned stew of stupid banter.
"That's it!" the man yelled, throwing down the bar towel that had been draped over his shoulder. "I swore if one more person said anything about my hair tonight, I was going to kick the shit out of them! Outside. Now," he ordered the cook, pointing to the back fire door.
Sanji gulped. In his wildest dreams, he couldn't have imagined that this night would have turned out this badly. He had not only been shot down, now he was going to get beat down as well! He reluctantly followed the man he had lusted after for months outside into the alley. A crowd of giddy, drunk onlookers eagerly followed them out to watch the fight, but the bartender angrily shooed them back inside.
"Not here," he growled, leading the cook ironically across the street to the alley behind the Baratie.
"Look, I really didn't mean all that," the cook began.
"Shut up," the man snapped, cutting him off. "Now prepare yourself," he said menacingly, putting his fists up in a boxing stance. Martial arts it was. The cook internally cursed his shitty luck on this supposed luckiest day of the year.
"At least let me know your stupid name before we do this. I mean, you don't ever wear a name tag," Sanji grumbled, crossing his arms.
"I might tell you after I kick your ass," the bartender said gruffly as he took a sudden swing at the cook's head.
Sanji gracefully dodged it with a perfectly executed back handspring, mentally thanking his lifelong addiction to gymnastics classes. He returned with a whipping kick that just brushed the tips of the green hair that the other man thought he had been making fun of.
The guy barely managed to dodge his foot, gawking at the cook in wide-eyed shock.
"I wasn't making fun of you, idiot, but I can! Stupid moss-headed bastard! If you put water on your head, does it grow grass?" Sanji shouted at him in frustration.
"What about you, shitty curly brow? Your stupid eyebrow looks like a curled up pile of shit!" he bit back, charging in again with a flurry of fists, which the cook blocked with a freakishly strong leg. Once again, the man's forehead crinkled in surprise.
"Oh, real original, like I haven't heard that one before. To think that I thought we could have actually had a decent conversation tonight! You're too shitty to be this hot!" Sanji yelled, emboldened by the liquor as he connected a kick to the bartender's left shoulder.
The man had paused for an unfortunate second too long before the kick, replaying what Sanji had just said again in his mind. He grunted from the pain of the cook's unforgiving foot, retreating a few paces backwards.
"What the hell do you mean?" the green-haired man demanded, panting heavily.
"What I mean is, you're nothing but a pretty face! I shouldn't have wasted my valuable time and energy trying to figure out how to pick you up. That's right, I'm gay! Want to beat me up for that too?!" Sanji slurred the challenge, the hastily consumed liquor settling fully into his system. He lunged forward with another kick, but this time the man was ready.
He grabbed Sanji's leg mid air and suggestively wrapped it around his waist.
"Do you really expect me to believe you were trying to hit on me? Because that pick-up line was the shittiest I've ever heard, and I've heard a lot in my business," he murmured, examining the cook apprehensively.
Sanji could feel his heart slam against his chest as the warmth from the other man's hand sunk into where he gripped him under his knee.
"You don't have to believe anything. Now are you going to tell me your name or not?" the cook growled, tugging on his leg in an attempt to escape the iron grip that refused to let him go.
"You really think this is over? Fine, I'll tell you anyway. I'm Zoro," he told him. As Sanji studied Zoro's appraising stare, he could practically see the other man's thought processes shifting gears as he changed his plans for the cook tonight.
Sanji's face flushed bright crimson. "Sanji," he breathlessly replied.
"I still want to beat your ass. That ok with you?" Zoro murmured in deep, husky tones, fitting himself firmly in the 'v' of the cook's spread legs.
"Hell yes," Sanji blurted out. His body trembled under the bartender's approving touch, and the cook was unsure if he was feeling woozy from the liquor or extreme arousal.
Zoro's lips suddenly found his, and once again they fought one another in a battle to see who could conquer the other first. Zoro cradled the back of the cook's head as he painted rough strokes against his mouth, his hot breath rushing against Sanji's cheek. The cook launched a counterattack, playfully flicking the tip of his tongue across the other man's lips before slipping it into his inviting mouth and rubbing sensually against his tongue, spurred on by the lust that had built up from months of admiring him from afar. As their kisses became deeper and more frantic, Zoro's hand wandered in between Sanji's legs, ensuring there was no mistake about what he wanted.
"So your place, or…" Zoro gasped as he pulled away for a moment.
Sanji freed his leg and fumbled in his pocket for his keys, then led the bartender to the Baratie's back door a few steps away.
"You work here?" Zoro asked with curiosity.
Sanji nodded. "I have a room here for when I work late nights," he said with an excited shiver.
They barely made it up the stairs for the desperate kisses, leaving a trail of shed clothes in their wake.
As they fell back on his soft, rumpled sheets, Sanji pulled his new good luck charm down to him by his tousled hair and devilishly thought how nice it was to finally wear a bit of green for St. Patrick's Day.