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"That," Zoro says, mincing every word out from his gritted teeth, "Wasn't. Fair."
He tries for intimidation and falls somewhere in the territory of petulant, hating how much he sounds like a kitten playing at a tiger's growling. He hates his breathlessness, pinned to the galley floor as he is, unable to soften his fall in the surprise of his feet getting kicked out from under him.
Most of all, he hates the way Sanji angles a smirk down at him – not so much above Zoro as he is literally sitting on top of him, perched on his stomach with both shoes on either side of Zoro's head.
"Aww, did the little mossball forget something?" Sanji simpers, glowing with his victory. "We're pirates– and pirates don't fight fair." He leans back a little, resting on his stupid fucking laurels, and Zoro grunts at the shift. Inadvertently, he inhales the smell of anise and shoe polish.
"You didn't 'fight'," Zoro snarls back, indignation going from a simmer to a boil. His left hand clenches around empty air – his swords are right there on his belt, but even at their worst they have their unspoken rules. No swords were ever drawn in the galley. "You– you–"
Sanji chooses that moment to slide his cigarette case out from the inner pocket of his jacket, interrupts him with the click-click-fwoosh of his lighter. The bastard is having a smoke. Right on top of Zoro.
Fucker.
"I– I–" he imitates, a sardonic curl to his mouth. "Won? Emerged victorious? Outstripped you in both strength and intellect?"
He takes a long indulgent drag of his cigarette, his lips pursing around it like it's the sweetest thing he's tasted. Zoro watches him, clocks the affected precariousness of the cigarette between Sanji's lean fingers, and feels the frustration mount in him.
You tickled me, Zoro wants to shout. The side of his neck that Sanji had attacked still tingled, the phantom sensation of the cook's fingertips dancing on the shell of his ear, the hollow of his neck, the soft vulnerability under the cut of his jaw. But there's petulance and then there's complete and utter childishness; one of which, even as a man literally on the floor, he will not sink to. So instead, he accuses, "You felt up my ear!" and glares up at Sanji from his horizontal position.
Sanji chokes on a puff of his own cigarette smoke.
"F-Felt– ugh–" and this time, the stutter isn't out of derision. Sanji coughs and hacks, his face turning almost as red as the flaring end of his cigarette as he gulps his breaths. He stabs a finger down at Zoro. "I– not what I did."
"Oh? What would you call it? Love cook."
"You– I– pfft," Sanji's vocabulary seems to unravel at the same rate the blush grew on his face. "That was a brilliant tactical maneuver. Sorry your plant-based neurons can't recognise that!"
"Plant-based?! At least my new worl– nero–" Zoro changes tack. Fuck the cook and his made-up words. "That was totally a foul!"
How Sanji had even known those were weak spots– it was the move of a desperate man in a headlock, sure, but the quickness of which he went for it betrayed it as more than something in the heat of the moment. That somewhere, at some point of time, Sanji had noticed Zoro shying away from being touched anywhere under his ear – noticed, noted it, and filed it away. Where it then crouched in the back of his mind until he needed it in a last-ditch attempt to skirt defeat.
Zoro squints up at him.
"Again: piiiirates," Sanji sing-songs at him, even as the edge of his lilt strains with leftover embarrassment. "No 'fair'; no fouls; no rules."
Which (and Sanji should really, really, be at least this self-aware) is an incredibly dangerous thing for someone like the cook to say.
"Ha." It's all the warning Zoro gives. A laugh that is not a laugh. A smile that is more like the baring of teeth. Sanji stills. Zoro watches him mouth a syllable of suspicion before he lifts his hips and flips them in a flash.
"Wh–" Sanji manages, and then he's the one with the air punching out of his lungs, blond hair fanning out against the warm hardwood of the galley's floor. Zoro has one hand on the nape of Sanji's neck (and this one isn't a rule– just how Zoro is always, always aware of what the neck can take in the impact of a fall), and the other gathering Sanji's wrists above his head. The burning tip of the cigarette balances precariously between the cook's fingers like a warning light.
Zoro leans down, feeling his hackles pull taut as he dips into Sanji's space. It's not a tightness borne out of alarm or defensiveness– he recognises this wire-strung sensation.
Anticipation.
"Mr. Pirate," Zoro starts, removing his hand from the nape of Sanji's neck to trace the line of his jacket's lapel, "in his three-piece suits, billion-beri perfume, and six layers of repression. You're telling me–" and he spreads his palm at the center of Sanji's chest, because it's not enough to know, but to feel Sanji hold his breath, "–everything's game?"
There's a pause. Sanji's heart thuds under his fingertips, picking up speed, and Zoro's not sure if the warmth building between Sanji's jacket and his hand is the cook's or his but it feels– right. Like the slide of rum down his throat, or the rush of blood in the heat of battle. To burn just enough to feel good.
He feels Sanji flex his hands, testing the grip Zoro has on him. Zoro slides a thumb over the pulse in his wrist, because Sanji isn't the only one to know about little vulnerabilities. He watches Sanji inhale, the shudder of it hidden well enough were he not close enough to map the fan of Sanji's eyelashes, the curve of darkened gold that did nothing to hide the mirrored anticipation in Sanji's gaze.
Sanji's tongue briefly darts out to wet his lips, preparing for a retort, an insult, an answer. Zoro watches that too.
The fact is, they both know. Zoro isn't pinning him down with enough force to completely immobilise him. Sanji could throw him off. Sanji could say no. Sanji could, could, could–
Here it is, Zoro says, with the cock of his head. Your out. He's relentless, but he likes to think he isn't cruel. Besides, this is a corner Sanji painted himself into. Zoro is only prowling the perimeter, toeing the line only as much as Sanji is. This is Zoro, being nice.
(There are unspoken rules. Boundaries. A sense of conduct to their contests that quantified their relative positions in the crew. Except Sanji breaks them as he pleases, and reinstates them when it suits him. A kick in the stomach one moment, then fingertips on the underside of his chin the next. Holding Zoro at an arm's distance, then fighting with him back-to-back. A cold shoulder one day, then a warm secret smile right on the flip-side.
And true, there's no meting out of punishment between equals. But maybe Sanji's grown complacent. Forgotten little things like consequences. Causality. Zoro's propensity to follow through.)
Under his hands, he feels Sanji bend his wrist backwards, just a little. An odd stretch of muscle – neither in service of escape, nor discomfort. Zoro flicks his eyes up, just briefly–
(–Sanji could yank his hands away; could splutter or sneer at him; could flip them back over, until they were in the same position, co-ordinates realigned, completely unchanged–)
–and stares at the sight of Sanji putting his cigarette out against the floor. The warning light of the cigarette fizzles out.
"Not perfume," Sanji says– murmurs, more like, because somewhere they've started talking low. He watches Zoro watching him. Zoro thinks about weak spots and little details that don't come to light unless you're really paying attention, and thinks maybe they've been watching each other more than they give each other credit for.
"Cologne," Sanji corrects primly, and Zoro huffs a laugh, his breath gusting over Sanji's mouth.
Because it is funny. The funniest thing in the world. When the opportunity for Sanji to just make things easier for himself is presented to him on a platter, practically his for the taking, and Sanji could–
But he won't.
"Cologne," he repeats, and huffs another laugh. "You're–" Infuriating. Insufferable. Hopeless. Everything I expected. Zoro can't come up with a single damn insult that won't sound hideously affectionate if he says it out loud. "–The least pirate to ever pirate."
"Fuck. You." Sanji over-enunciates the fricative, dragging his teeth against his bottom lip under Zoro's eyes. "I'm more pirate than you'll ever be." He grins up at him. Under Zoro's grip he shifts his wrists, and Zoro tightens it instinctively.
"Really?" Zoro says, and lets his palm meander towards the buttons of Sanji's jacket, popping the first off as a precursor. "If it's about playing dirty, I think I can manage."
"You can try." Sanji juts his chin out defiantly. "I'm not ticklish. Anywhere." Zoro fingers the next button, and the fact that not a single muscle moves on Sanji's face is a tell on its own. It's a bluff, and if that was what Zoro had been implying, maybe it would've been a bluff that paid off. He's got not fucking clue where the cook is ticklish.
But it's wholly irrelevant, as Zoro pops the second button off Sanji's jacket and slides the broad expanse of his hand against the curve of Sanji's torso. He lets his smile grow as slowly as the glide of his palm, watching the cogs turn in Sanji's head. It's taking a bit – Zoro fingers the fine cotton of Sanji's shirt between his pointer and middle finger, and spares him a hint. "Not really my style of fighting dirty, cook."
There's a delightful furrow in the cook's brow – like the one he gets when he's looking into his not-so-secret hiding place for the liquor Zoro's already nicked, or that time he'd vaulted up onto the ship's railing, only to have overestimated the grip of his new shoes and for a second been suspended in air, confused at his inevitable trajectory into the waters below.
Zoro sees when the realisation hits. It's about as graceful as a full bellyflop into the sea.
"Oh. Oh." Sanji stares up at him. He resembles a fish that's just realised it'd wandered into the maw of a shark, with his bulging eyes and pursed lips. Visibly, the reel of the last few minutes plays back in his head – the entendre and his obliviousness, the undeniable closeness of their bodies. Eyes darting around everywhere but Zoro's face, Sanji begins to fluster. "Erm."
It's expected, the sudden crumbling of Sanji's facade, the uncertainty that disproves this untouchable tailored persona. That's supposed to be the whole point. Ruffle a few feathers, get under the cook's skin, and emerge the real winner. What isn't expected is the sharp spike of disappointment in Zoro's gut – the feeling of a joke that suddenly isn't funny anymore. The smile begins to fade fast from his face.
Unspoken rules. Boundaries. Lines in the sand.
A safe distance, he thinks, already beginning to draw back, feeling the warmth and rightness gathered between them seep away as he does.
Except just as he does, Sanji does something interesting. His hands, unrestrained as Zoro retreats, stretch out in front of him, flitting around Zoro's neck uncertainly. For a moment, Zoro thinks he's trying to fucking tickle him again, for the love of all the fucking Blues– as if it's the moment for it– as if he's in any mood–
But he seems to make a decision, and settles his palms on Zoro's shoulders. They're warm, cupping the juncture of Zoro's shoulders, fitting like they were meant to be there. The pads of his thumb worry hesitantly at the spot under Zoro's ear, deliberate and knowing, so slow and comforting that Zoro doesn't feel the need to shy away. A gesture that feels almost practiced, as if Sanji had turned the motion over in his head many times, worried over that small patch of skin the same way one would perfect a map. Zoro watches Sanji watching him.
"Oh," Zoro replies, feeling a flush start from under the heat of Sanji's hands, skimming its traitorous way up his neck.
Sanji clears his throat. "Your move," he says. It's Zoro's turn to nudge a knuckle under the soft vulnerability of Sanji's chin, watching him close his eyes and tip his head back. He savors the rasp of Sanji's stumble against his fingers as he leans in, and he can't fathom anything stopping him except–
The sound of sandaled feet slapping against the main deck, a crescendo heading right for the galley, and Zoro sees Sanji snap his panicked eyes back open.
"Wait–" Zoro says, to Sanji– or maybe to the moment, as if time would freeze the impossible second where he was finally going to kiss Sanji– but it's too late.
There's the rush of all the air exiting his lungs, the momentary feeling of flying– which, all in all, are plausible sensations to kissing Sanji– then the hard crash of reality, as well as the galley wall against his back.
Zoro groans from his spot on the floor, hearing a scuffle of shoes and cursing on the other side of the galley – where he was just two seconds ago, before Sanji had somehow gotten his legs under him and catapulted Zoro clear across the room. He hasn't even gotten his bearings when the door smashes open, Luffy springing in with unrepentant exuberance.
"Sanji! It's dinnertime!" their captain crows. Zoro clutches at his stomach, wondering if a little bit of his soul exited at the force of Sanji's kick. You're pining after a horse, Zoro despairs to himself. Or maybe a goat.
"That–" Sanji starts, clearly trying to compose himself, "–is absolutely not true. Lunch was just an hour ago." With a crane of his neck, Zoro sees him comb down his hair frantically, as if their captain would notice.
"You sure?" Luffy pouts, hand on his hips, comporting himself as a captain. He's only ever interested in pulling rank when it comes to food. "Because it felt like ages ago. And I'm so hungry. You look really red. Maybe you're hungry too?"
Sanji splutters. "I'm not– red. Or hungry. This is just–" There's the miscellaneous sound of pots and pans clanging, as if Sanji had started placing empty kitchenware on the stove in his fluster, only to immediately keep them away again.
Luffy doesn't wait for Sanji's explanation. "Woah, Zoro's here too!" The sound sandals slap closer to where Zoro's still prone. "Why're you holding your stomach like that? Hungry?"
Before Zoro can open his mouth for a pointed explanation, Sanji squeaks out, "We were just– playing a game, Captain!"
Zoro snorts, though it's more of a wheeze, what with the little air left in his diaphragm. Luffy grins and squats down next to Zoro, peering guilelessly over him.
"Ooh! Looks fun," their captain laughs, poking at Zoro's cheek, presumably to provoke some sign of life from Zoro. "What're the rules? How d'you win? Who's winning?"
Turning his head, first to get away from Luffy's prodding finger and then to catch a glimpse of the cook, Zoro watches Sanji frantically light another cigarette and start puffing like a smokestack, only to realise all his exhales come out as hearts. He flails his hands around to quickly disperse them. Zoro thinks about the jumble of their unspoken rules, the bruise forming on his torso, and the wild hopeful look on Sanji's face when he'd been under him.
"No idea, Captain," he groans, slinging an arm over his eyes. "Not a damn clue."