Rough
The Mugiwaras were happily enjoying their after-storm rest, having a (very dry) music/snack time all together, on the couch and at the table in the kitchen.
The galley door opened and Sanji automatically glanced up, risking the disaster with the cherry topping of his dessert.
Shit! He thought, catching the red droplets in time.
He had recognized the curiously faint steps at once.
The blond-headed felt the familiar sensation at the base of his neck: a bubbling shiver went through his skin. It was soft and distant, for he managed to keep it so, pretending about it like he had been doing for a long time.
Since when, coward? - His third (or fourth) inner-self asked him – Will you keep ignoring the fact that you're ignoring, dumbass?
Sanji shook lightly his head, like he was trying to hush some kind of unwanted inner awkwardness.
Zoro languidly entered, in a casual solemn strut, the right hand as usual on his swords, the left busy with a towel on his hair.
Sanji impulsively thought of a wild, rare animal.
Almost a kingly creature.
Catlike.
Zoro reached out for a chair and took place amongst his comrades.
While laughing at the last Franky and Brooke's silly song, he sneezed loudly, crushing his elbow on the seatback.
He cursed, muttering between tight lips.
Surely moronic.
Big, idiotic marimo.
A green dull tiger, uh?
Sanji chortled, choosing different tea blends for each of his crewmate cups and thinking hard of a leaf-colored dozing tiger.
His face began to show a faint smile.
- Oi, perv-cook, what's so fun?- asked Zoro, in a rather flat tone.
He was now standing in front of the kitchen counter, rubbing absent-mindedly his elbow.
- Uh…- said Sanji, caught off guard.
Zoro stared and they shared an odd second of silence, then he went away, aiming for the pantry with his empty mug ready to be filled.
- Sanji-kuuuun! – chirped Nami from the couch – Is the tea ready?-
- Cooooomin' Nami-swaaaan!-
The cook seized the enormous tea-tray with a hand, and with the other grabbed the one with his precious Cerise Caramel Mou.
- That seems delicious, cook-san- smiled Robin.
- Ahhh, Robin-chwaaaan! This is my Cerise Caramel Mou!-
The crew gathered and began sharing the tea and the dessert, amazed by the rich and full taste of Sanji's cuisine.
Zoro came back with his mug and a brand new sake bottle.
He took place in his seat, not asking for the dessert or the tea, and rested his eyes on the busy cook.
Sanji did notice those eyes on his side but didn't say anything and, after finishing with the others, offered Zoro his sweet portion of food.
- I don't like cherry fudge.- he grumped, looking away and taking a sip from the mug.
Sanji felt the desire to smash that expressionless marimo face.
Nobody EVER refused his delicious recipes!
Why was the shit-face always so stubbornly rejecting his sweet, delicious dishes?
- It's Cerise Caramel Mou, you ruddy ape!- snorted the blond, slightly upset.
- Whatever…- grumbled the swordsman, taking abruptly the dessert he was being offered.
They lingered their eyes once more in a mutual gaze.
This was getting ridiculous already...!
Zoro began gulping the cherry fudge and Sanji jolted away.
He seated on the couch, near his Nami-swan, and he kept aside from the others, paying no attention to Brooke and following his floating, blurry concerns.
He could surely keep maintaining his façade with the rest of the world, but he was not entirely sure this was healthy for his mind.
He daily struggled confusedly with his own voices, silently arguing to let the truth slip away or to bury it with all the consequences.
His fears, his doubts, his assumed general incompetence: all was assailing him in the deep torment of a battle in which he was always the only loser.
And the most astonishing thing was the main reason of this internal earthquake.
That seaweed asshole, the one with a silly moss-ball on his head…!
Idiot, heavy drinker, no sense of direction…a brute who only knew about snoring, eating, training.
Nothing new… thought Sanji…And what else?
Sighing discreetly, he casted his unnoticed discreet look over the silent swordsman, now stroking gently Chopper's sleepy head. Zoro yawned, rubbing his eye with the palm of his hand.
That numbskull, big and strong, bloodthirsty…and still so tender when it came to the little reindeer!
Things like these just blew Sanji's mind out: who really was this strange person, still he didn't know, in spite of the years spent together.
And like his own brain wouldn't cooperate with reality, the more he didn't understand him, the more his interest grew.
It had always been this way.
The swordsman was a riddle and this had intrigued Sanji from the very beginning.
With his enormous, growing concern, his curiosity enlarged with time in a strong quiet motion that he had never witnessed for any other woman (nor men, obviously).
And now he had even started to pay attention to little things, the hidden proofs of the person living in that antisocial body. Sanji was partially aware that this took up an embarrassing amount of his inner life, but most of the time he choose not to admit it.
His self naturally lingered on Zoro, and the situation eventually went off track.
Sanji slowly finished his hot tea, while the afternoon slipped by and the crew scattered across the ship rooms, everyone in a strange after-rain lazy mood.
Robin and Nami went to the girl's quarter, Luffy and Brooke went to the aquarium to enjoy some more music tales, with Franky and Usopp listening and dozing off.
Sanji looked around the empty kitchen and stood up, collecting the cups back and bringing them to the sink.
The water began to run and then he noticed the stupid marimo snoring on the couch, Chopper dreamily curled up in his lap.
The cook shook his head, snapped his tongue and took care of the dishes.
He felt a mixed up sense of recklessness boiling up under his skin.
He wasn't sure, but the presence of the swordsman on that couch, paradoxically helpless, had a hypnotic power on his sense.
(Another soaped cup, another painful sigh).
Sanji didn't recall the precise moment when all this mess drained up his attention.
He only knew that he had a strong, clear feeling for that useless fucking imbecile and that he actually didn't know how to coexist with it.
Sanji started mopping the counter top surface, the flatware all well-ordered and tidy.
The blond lit up a cigarette and slowly flavored the tobacco taste of it.
On the other side of the room, Zoro snorted and leaned on the couch, rolling with Chopper on top.
Sanji smoked observing the whole scene: Zoro could be so carefree and simple, sometimes…
And so, maybe for the strange mood the storm had set up all over the place, he really felt something brightening up in his chest.
Like sometimes he could stop lying himself and linger into the truth.
The swordsman was none of an ordinary man, after all.
The cook especially loved his stern look, out of his age, like he had everything under his control.
It could be easily mistaken for the arrogance of an attention-seeking weirdo, but the thing was – and Sanji knew it with all of his heart – that the man was a real bushido, with the honor thing and all the rest.
A glorious and fierce spirit.
He was simple and pure, in his own way, guided by high, untouchable principles.
A war machine in a perfect body, a warrior soul in a lucid mind.
The green-haired was capable of incredible things and still his aura, so dark and intimidating during a battle, could be so chilled and enjoyable in everyday life.
He was strong, uncompromising and exceptionally willing to die not only for his own dream, but for the entire sake of his mates' dreams.
It wasn't the hero-complex, it was pure self-denial spirit.
And Thriller Bark surely had helped to open Sanji's eyes about this.
The cook never felt so inadequate and so incapable of keeping up with him…
Zoro's sacrifice had forced him to see his own real reflection in the mirror and Sanji didn't like it: it showed a weakling, a pretending person and a liar.
How could he protect the others with his poor strength?
How could he be proud of his own actions?
He had his dream, nothing to say, but it was so vague, sometimes, so far away if compared to his companions' goals.
Was it really worth it?
And what if, inside him, Sanji had started to feel a total inept?
How could he fight?
How could a person live with the awareness of his fears?
Had he ever managed, at least, to face them?
And to think the he was now so used to cover up his real feelings that he no longer knew which his real dispositions were!
What behaviors were meant to be right, which of them came from people's expectation, which were low compromises, which expressed his true self…
Nonetheless he was standing in his kitchen, smoking, and watching a man who simply didn't care about those mind games.
Because Zoro was simply and uncannily Zoro.
He was his true self, Sanji could bet on it, as real as he could see him, with no fakes or scandalous secrets.
Maybe he wasn't exactly the epitome of the human relationships, but he was determined not to be anybody than himself and this was priceless.
He believed in himself, one could tell it from each of his tiny actions.
And the difference, in Sanji's eyes, between this dedication and his own personal failure was absolutely unbearable.
Zoro rolled over the couch again, clutching Chopper instinctively, not to let the little one fall down.
So protective…the cook smiled lazily to himself.
It was not only his integrity.
Sanji was definitely attracted to him in all of his manifestations.
He was indeed a readable person, delightfully predictable, stubborn and funny in his own ways.
Sometimes even cute…
Cute, ah…!
It was missing from my personal moronic list of the reasons why I fell for this…this…
The snore suddenly crackled in the room, and Sanji startled.
…what a fucking noisy moron! He pisses me off! Dumb marimo asshole…
Sanji felt a distinct wave of fire burning him up.
Sometimes, just like it was happening in that moment, he felt this deep rage towards Zoro.
Something devouring him in the flesh and that usually resolved itself in their constant craving for sparring and clashing.
And this was exactly the way his considerations usually led him to the worst part of the whole matter…
The physical part of their arguments was what he really seemed to seek above all.
He simply loved it.
All lies were rather useless in front of this ginormous truth.
The cook FELT the swordsman body.
His dark, smooth, sea-scented skin…
Sanji could perceive the high temperature of his guts every time he approached Zoro in a too scrappy way.
And it had not taken so long, back then, to understand the meaning of his need to kick the swordsman's ass.
Sexual frustration…recalled in the back of his mind.
So obvious, so simple.
Who knew if someone of the other Mugiwaras was aware of it like he was now?!
He didn't care at all. He just couldn't deny it: he desired Zoro's heart and soul.
Just like that time they saw each other after two years of separation.
Taller, manlier, that serious expression, the bold smirk.
And obviously his gorgeous appearance…
The sight of him kicked his stomach, churned it and destroyed it, his skin prickling and his mouth drying.
And while they were going to reunite with the others, he couldn't suppress his damned excitement.
He had behaved like a despicable woman in heat, casting quick glances to Zoro's marble back and toned ass.
Without shame or guilt!
This seemed unacceptable, even now.
Sanji flushed a little and nervously lit up another cigarette.
He felt consciously aroused now, just thinking about a stupid memory.
And watching the silly marimo unceremoniously spread on the couch, he had actually to suppress his hot urges.
Rude swords-Ape!
He hated him because he was, among all the things his eyes had ever rested his glance upon, the most wanted one.
And now he found himself shaking with pure longing, as it had been happening for a while.
Zoro's hands caught his attention, again rested on Chopper's head.
They were tanned, big and rough.
He could have easily imagined their crude and gruff touch over his own white skin…touching, stroking, exploring.
And then he started thinking about the taste of the skin on his powerful neck, on his trained chest and on his chiseled abdomen…
Sanji bent a little forward with a jerk, his arousal now strongly fighting in his pants.
He forced himself to wake up from this torturing daydreaming, almost shaking in the struggle.
Then he lit up his cigarette and flied away from the galley, willing to find the shameful and brief relief of his hand.