Just a little drabble done in fifteen minutes from the prompt "Brush" by my lovely partner in crime, Calamus357.
One of his arms, made languid and slow by sleep, slowly stretched to his side, the nails of his hand making a sound equivalent to a pencil's scratch as it curled into a fist. Something was brought on by the motion...a feeling, or lack thereof, really, that pulled Sanji gently from the haze of sleep. The chef blinked stiffly. His vision transformed from blurry watercolor to the sharp image of his fist, pristine, if pale, against the nondescript sheets. He reached up his other hand to his face, carefully rubbing the sleep from his eyes and the frown from his mouth. Sanji flexed his outstretched arm, flattening the palm and smoothly gliding it along the sheets until it disappeared beneath a neighboring pillow. One of his eyes twitched narrower. A pillow that lacked a ruggedly handsome face, a shock of green hair, and, most noticeably of all, obnoxious snoring.
The cook became almost immediately aware of a soft, nagging sound on the edge of his consciousness. He sat up slowly, arching his back so as to align the vertebrae misguided during the night as he looked through the open doorway. A soft scratching sound, repetitive, and percussive, with an almost indiscernible rise and fall of tone, and the gentle hum of a running tap. Turning his head ever so slightly to one side as if to hear the pleasant pair of sounds more clearly, he placed both feet firmly on the floor, rising to his feet.
Sanji walked softly, unwilling to add to the noise lest he be discovered. Reverently, and with an almost childlike sense of grace, he tiptoed through the doorway of the bedroom, turning immediately left to where the sound's source lay.
He was greeted by a figure, bent over the bathroom sink, a white t-shirt haphazardly halfway-tucked, as if hastily done by a middle school boy reprimanded by a cantankerous teacher. A nondescript pair of boxers met the smooth lines of a strong set of legs, then finally feet, and, past them, the heinous pattern of the bathroom tiles. Sanji could hear Zoro's earrings chime mischievously.
The cook leaned against the door frame, unable to suppress a soft, warm smile from curving his mouth as he released a breath he didn't know he had been holding. Sanji's eyes neatly followed the lucid planes of Zoro's body, noting where his spine stood out along a back that arched and bowed effortlessly, and where his elbows jutted from arms that held swords as well as they did him.
Uncaring if he were discovered, Sanji stepped forward slowly, reaching out with both of his hands to make quick work of untucking a shirt tucked by sleep. The swordsman seemed unfazed, which, naturally, never failed to encourage. The cook spread his fingers, splaying his hands over the swordsman's back, which had been made warm and convective through the night. He moved his hands upward, feeling each knob in the other man's spine knock beneath his thumbs. Sanji exhaled forcefully, redirecting his hands around Zoro's body to his torso and chest as he stepped closer, gripping what he had had the distinct displeasure of not waking up beside, entangled with, together with.
He pressed his cheek to the swordsman's back, reveling in the feeling of soft cotton beneath his skin as he closed his eyes. Sanji wound his arms tighter, his heart stumbling as a steady, double tattoo beat from within Zoro. The sink continued to run, a sprightly, laughing flow.
The cook's nose twitched pleasantly as he caught the thin, but tangible tang of mint toothpaste, kicked up from the sink by Zoro's toothbrush as it continued on brushing.
brush, brush, brush, scratchy scratch
brush brush.