Chapter Text
"Oi, the lost marimo over there."
Zoro turns his head towards the voice, seeing the cook wave frantically at him from the other end of the café, grinning like an idiot.
He feels his mouth stretch into a grin of his own. It's been two weeks since the support group sessions have ended and it's the first time he's seen the other since. By the time the cook had finally gotten in contact with him a day ago, he'd been convinced that the blonde either hadn't found the paper with his number on it or that he'd read the signs wrong and the cook just wasn't interested.
But yesterday, he'd gotten a message from an unknown number,
Tomorrow, 4 o'clock, the little café behind the station. Be late and I'll kick your ass.
His reply of Do I look like I drink coffee? had been ignored.
He makes his way towards the table, losing sight of the cook a few times before dropping into the chair next to the still stupidly beaming blonde, trying to get comfortable in an environment he usually only found himself in when Nami had one of her fits and dragged him shopping while forcing him to carry all her bags, claiming they were too heavy for a small, delicate girl. His opinion that absolutely nothing about that woman is even remotely delicate is one he's wisely kept to himself until now.
His attention's brought back to the situation at hand by a kick to his shin. He glares at the blonde across the table. "Oi, what the hell was that for, shit cook?"
The cook doesn't look apologetic at all. "For being late, moss head. I told you, didn't I. Be late and you'll get your ass handed to you."
"I'm not late." And he isn't. He'd finished work at three and it doesn't take more than ten minutes to get to the station from there. He'd figured he’d pass the time until the cook's arrival by going through some meditation exercises, only to get surprised by the other already waiting for him. He must have come earlier than agreed.
Instead of an answer, the cook reaches over and grabs him by the cheek, turning his head towards the opposite wall and pointing at the wooden clock hanging there with his other hand and... Oh. It's four-thirty.
"You got lost, didn't you."
He shrugs, shaking the blonde's grip off. "If we'd met at the bar opposite the station, I would've been on time. It's your fault for picking a place that's hard to find."
"It's not! How is it my damn fault that you're a directionally challenged marimo? This place can be seen from the station."
"It's small and the sign and decorations are all in brown. It's really easy to overlook."
"Not everything can be big and green."
A waitress walks up to them, ready to take their orders and interrupting his plans of ending the cook's life. He has no idea how he could have missed the man.
"Sake," he grunts when the servant girl looks at him expectantly, crossing his arms in front of his chest, only to have the stupid blonde kick him again.
"Coffee. He meant coffee. He'll take a café au lait and the chocolate fondant." He glowers at the cook who ignores him completely, facing the servant girl with what he most likely thinks is a winning smile but actually makes him look like he's got constipation, and fucking gushes, "I'll have the cappuccino and the strawberry cheesecake, if you would be so kind."
The cook having lost him after the word coffee, he pointedly doesn't watch the blonde fawning over that woman. He'd put money on the fact that, if he had one, the cook'd be wagging his tail right about now. What a moron.
He stretches his feet out more comfortably and glowers at the table.
"I don't like sweets," he grunts once that girl's finally left, receiving a raised curly brow in return. The cook's food's one thing but he doesn't feel like eating anything from a place that looks like a fourteen year-old girl with issues has decorated it.
"Relax. You'll like it, trust me."
"Not sure I should. You've got terrible taste in locations." The tables and chairs are tolerably wooden, but the flower tapestry and the cupcake wallpaper just make him want to hurl.
"Shut it! It's really tasteful and the food's good as well. And you came here anyway."
"Yeah, remember you were the one who called me out?"
"Just because I couldn't bear the thought of some lovely lady having to settle with your dumb ass. Besides, just who was it that decided to keep in touch in the first place, hmm?"
"So you planning on settling down with me, cook? Moving pretty fast, aren't we."
The cook sputters, much to his joy, the bridge of his nose going a little pink. "I didn't mean it like that!"
He smirks. "Sure you didn't."
"You're the worst."
"Not being very convincing here." Because as he's spoken, the other's wrapped his fingers around Zoro's where he's had his hand lying on the table between them.
They're surprisingly warm. He squeezes them experimentally.
The fingers squeeze back. "Shaddup."
Their order arrives and he has to admit that, yeah, the cake's pretty good. The coffee's tolerable too, even if he'd rather had sake instead.
--
Eating with his non-dominant hand isn't how Sanji usually enjoys his dessert, but somehow it's much preferable to the alternative right now. He glances at the green bastard sitting opposite him, noting contently that the other man seems to be enjoying himself as well. He'd been right to bring Zoro here, a decision he most definitively hadn't mulled over several dozen times since sending the marimo that text.
And that after he's been stubbornly convincing himself not to text the other for two weeks, to let him steam a little for what he'd put Sanji through. That Zoro hasn't been particularly reproachful has not made him feel any better about the whole thing.
He steals the marimo's last piece of cake in revenge.
Zoro scowls at him. "I still wanted to eat that, cook."
He makes a show of chewing and swallowing the bite before opening his eyes wide, looking at the moss head in mock shock. "Now you won't be able to grow into a tall, strong marimo. What have I done."
"You're hilarious, shit cook."
"It's a gift. Same as your hair. Though I guess you'd rather consider that to be a curse." Popping the last piece of cheesecake into his mouth, he contorts his upper body to reach his wallet. When he straightens back up, he doesn't miss the marimo's eyes on him. He grins smugly before downing the last of his coffee too. "Drink up, marimo. We're leaving."
To his satisfaction, Zoro obeys but frowns when he puts money on the table and grabs his coat. "Oi, I'm not some girl, curly brow."
He sighs exasperatedly. "I know, moss head. I've got eyes and a brain, and contrary to a certain someone, I use them."
"Then don't treat me like one."
He sighs again. "I'm not. This is me treating you like a date, dipshit." That finally shuts the marimo up and they make their way outside, Sanji taking Zoro's arm after his third random turn. This guy, seriously. That way, they make it to the door without any more incidents and they step outside, Sanji first, which is when something solid slams into him, dragging him to the ground.
"Oi, you fucker, your eyes just for show?" He snaps, rubbing his stinging knees and turning around to see which asshole had ruined his favorite suit. Said fucker doesn't even give him so much as an apology, though, and instead jumps back up before taking off as if stung by an adder. It's all he can do to remain sitting on the ground, staring, dumbfounded.
"What the fuck was that about?" He finally grumbles as he takes the marimo's outstretched hand and lets himself be pulled onto his feet. "Could've warned me, you know," he complains, subtly feeling his behind. He catches the mossy bastard's eyes follow his hands and keeps the action up for a bit longer than strictly necessary. It's not like he fell that hard.
Zoro finally tears his eyes away and mutters something about having been distracted. The way he can't meet Sanji's eyes as he does makes him want to know really badly what had distracted the marimo to such an extent, but at that moment, there's a delicate, feminine cry.
"Thief! Stop the thief!"
He holds Zoro's gaze for about a second before they're taking up the chase. The marimo's stronger, but he's got the advantage in leg length, and he intends to use it.
They've made good ground when he realizes that Zoro's not behind him anymore and he groans, frustrated. He should have put a leash on that damn moss ball or something, but he doesn't have the time to turn around and go look for the bastard now, he has a damsel in distress to serve.
After another few minutes of running at full speed in the directions people are pointing him in– and what's with that thief being so damn fast– he hears some loud shouting and swearing that would put Sanji himself to shame. A moment later, he can see the man from before being suspended in the air by one arm... belonging to Zoro.
He jogs closer, not in a particular hurry anymore– Zoro won't let him escape. "How the fuck do you manage to get lost running in a straight line, marimo?" He quips once he's positioned himself next to the moss head, lighting himself a cigarette, his weight resting on his non-dominant leg, just in case their little friend decides what looks like a hit square across the face isn't enough.
Zoro shrugs with one shoulder– the one that isn't still used to hold the other man above ground, because apparently the action isn't taxing for the marimo at all. Then again, he supposes the man has to have some good point. "Got him before you did, didn't I."
"That was pure luck," He declares, irritated, as he inspects the thief, stepping around the other once he's found what he's looking for. He plucks the pink purse from where it's peeking out of the man's inner pocket, ignoring the profanities yelled in his direction for his efforts.
"You, dear asshole, are going to a place where you don't need to steal. A place that provides lifetime accommodations on recommendation, with bars in every room." He throws a provocative glance at the marimo. "Going by looks, you'll end up in there some day as well, moss head."
He revels in the dark glare he's given and waves at a sweet girl walking quickly in their direction with a police officer by her side. When he turns back around, Zoro's staring at the purse.
"What's wrong, marimo? The exterior of a woman's best friend too complex for you to bear?"
"It's ugly," the moss head replies, as if that's the most obvious thing.
Sanji's deeply offended on behalf of the lovely lady. "It's not ugly! It's very pretty!"
The damn marimo bastard looks at him as if Sanji's the moron of them both. "Only if you're colorblind. Or ugly yourself. Then again, that fits you pretty well, huh."
"I don't want to hear that from someone who seems to possess no more than one shirt and no shower at all."
"What's wrong with white?"
"I'm just wondering why when clearly your soul's rotten."
"Keep talking, ugly."
"I want to kill you."
Which is, of course, the moment the lady and the police officer reach them, the latter looking between them awkwardly.
They hand over the purse and the thief without any more complications, Sanji steadfastly refusing to take any reward– he's just done his duty as a true gentleman, after all– and Zoro missing out on his part as well after a well-placed knee.
Before the thief's hauled off, though, that police officer throws evaluating glances at Zoro and him and Sanji smiles innocently. The smile slips into a grimace when the man, looking at Zoro, suggests they consider consulting professionals since there are always 'ways one can seek advice when things steer out of control.' He resists the urge to hit his head against a wall. He's pretty sure what's left of his sanity wouldn't survive another help group.
Instead, before Zoro can open his big mouth and ask exactly what the other meant by that as Sanji just knows he will, he waves quickly, flashing what he hopes counts as a grateful smile and drags the green bastard away by the back of his muffler.
--
"Oi, stop that, cook." Zoro glares at the blonde. He does not like being jerked around.
"Then fucking behave, shithead," the cook snaps back, reaching for his cigarettes now that they're a safe distance away from his 'lady'.
He glowers. "I have no idea what the fuck that's supposed to mean. I haven't done a damn thing."
"But you would have, that's the point. But don't worry about it, it's not your fault you were born with moss for brains."
He shakes his head, looking to where the cook's hand's wrapped around his. "You're crazy."
The blonde opens his mouth, probably to insult him again, when some passerby does the job for him, telling them to 'go die, fags'.
He turns around, seeing a six-foot tall guy, approximately his stature, smirking at them from where he's standing with what probably are his friends. When he looks back at the cook, the blonde's turned an interesting shade of blue.
He thinks the other is embarrassed for all of five seconds before the cook surges forward, landing a kick straight in the guy's forehead, adding a second one between his shoulder blades to keep him standing before any of the friends register what's happening.
He leans back, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Once the friends awaken from their stupor and go for the cook, knives drawn, they're quickly taken out by a few equally flawless hits to their jaws before they can so much as land a hit on the cook. Only their offender is left standing after the first minute or so, and that's only because he's being kicked upright whenever he begins to sink to the ground, all the while the blonde's yelling murder at him.
Zoro, distantly aware of the tightening of his pants, observes the cook doing his best to kick the guy's face in. After a few more hits, he steps forward and catches the cook about the waist, dragging him backwards and off the pleading man. He doesn't feel like spending the rest of the day at the station because of the cook killing some weakling.
The blonde struggles at first, cursing at him now, but eventually calms down. He lets go of the cook once the other stops kicking at his legs, watching the blonde light himself another cigarette and noticing the way he shelters the little flame with his palm carefully before sucking in a long drag.
"Thanks for the assist, asshole."
He eyes the blonde curiously. "I take it back. You're not crazy, you're fucking nuts."
The cook exhales loudly. "Says the one looking like he just won the damn lottery."
"Didn't say I didn't like it."
"Just who did you say was lunatic again?" The blonde flashes him a quick, lopsided smile and slips his freezing hand back into Zoro's. "C'mon, let's get out of here before I teach that fucker some more manners." The cook starts walking, throwing a last glance backwards to where the luckier men are seeing to their sobbing comrade, making them scurry with his gaze alone, and Zoro follows without resistance. He's pretty sure he'd follow the blonde about anywhere right now.
Until now, his male partners have either refused to hold hands in public at all or have been scared away by the first rude comment. The cook, though, the cook literally went at them kicking and screaming. It's... refreshing.
He only notices his thumb has taken to stroking along the back of the cook's hand when the blonde returns the favor.
"Oh hey, I know it's kind of forward and I wouldn't propose that to a lady but it's you so I don't really care: Wanna have dinner at my place? It's only a good five minutes from here and the sooner we get out of the public the better. I don't think I'll be able to hold back a second time."
He gives the blonde an approving look. "That was you holding back?"
--
Sanji hums distractedly, sidetracked by the darkening of Zoro's eyes. "So, are you coming or what? My apartment's got large windows, running water, heating and air humidification. You'll thrive."
The marimo scoffs, eyes going back to normal. "How can I resist when you put it like that?"
He grins confidently. "You can't. That was the plan."
The walk to his apartment is quick and filled with silence. It's not cold, though, since neither of them makes a move to let go of the other's hand.
As he fumbles with the key to let them both inside, he can't help but think back on the first time he's had Zoro in this position. How very different things are now. He catches the marimo's gaze and he's convinced Zoro's being nostalgic too when the moss head opens his mouth and says,
"This time, warn me when you're about to keel over."
He's got such bad taste.
And he most definitively isn't about to tell that shitty plant that he's spent a good hour on the floor behind his front door that day before he could get his limbs to cooperate.
"If I do, I'll make sure to take you down with me," he promises instead. He finally unlocks the door, ushering Zoro inside before the freezing cold can make it in as well.
"Shoes on the rack, coat and muffler on that hook over there. Don't just throw them on the floor. He ignores Zoro rolling his eyes and his mutter of, "Should've known you'd be a neat freak" in favor of moving towards his kitchen, contently noting that the marimo follows after having obeyed his instructions.
He undoes the first two buttons of his shirt, pushes his sleeves up, washes his hands thoroughly and dons his cooking wear before inspecting the contents of his fridge, reemerging with two armfuls of ingredients, perfectly matured. "Curry okay with you? Any allergies? Vegetarian or are you one of those carnivorous plants?"
Zoro looks devastated at the prospect of vegetarian food and he laughs so hard he almost drops the food. "Got it," he grinds out between sniggers, "Carnivorous, then." He gestures to one of the high chairs at his kitchen island once his arms are free. "Have a seat, don't get back up, don’t touch anything." He starts to pull out bowls and his selection of knives as soon as he's sure the moss ball won't get in his way.
"Watch and learn, marimo."
--
Zoro watches the confident way the cook moves about the kitchen, opening drawers, conjuring up more pots, pans and utensils for one meal than he owns, wielding the knives– well-kept, Zoro can tell– so effortlessly, deadly sharp tools traded between hands quicker than his eyes can follow, simple cutting and slicing looking more like art than anything he's ever seen.
The blonde talks while he works, explaining things as he goes, but Zoro's mostly too distracted to pay attention to the actual words. When the blonde isn't talking, he's mostly just humming to himself, something about the way he does convincing Zoro of the fact that he's not aware he's doing it.
"Dry the meat properly after washing before adding it to the oil or you'll end up with a mess," the cook comments as he does as he tells, "While the meat's browning, you start on the sauce. It's the most essential part of a curry so it has to be done with special care. You take the right kind of pan– this one, see how it's shaped?– and add the curry paste together with some oil. As for every other ingredient, you want to go for quality here."
Zoro isn't looking at the paste. He's looking at surprisingly muscular upper arms as they tense and relax while they twirl the small glass between long, slender fingers.
"I make my own." When his eyes meet the cook's, he sees that they're goddamn shining. "It's fucking delicious." He misses the cook's next sentence because of the other's bright, toothy smile. Then the cook turns back towards his stove.
"The paste has to roast gently since that's when the real flavor unfolds. You skip this step and you may as well eat cardboard. Or store bought sauce, which is the same really."
With the cook's back to him, his eyes fall onto the pale, exposed skin at the nape of the other's neck. He hums to show he's paying attention, which he's not.
--
"After that, you're as good as finished." Zoro doesn't respond. Hasn't for a while now, he realizes. "Oi, moss brain can't keep up? Don't worry, I'm sure they've got the instructions written down for morons somewhere."
When the marimo surprisingly doesn't rise to that, he throws a glance over his shoulder, seeing Zoro watching him hungrily.
He swallows. It's not the kind of hunger satisfied by curry.
He throws the empty rice package at Zoro's head. "Stop staring, perverted marimo."
The mossy bastard easily catches the bag, shrugging casually. "Just fascinated by that column on your head."
"It's a toque!"
"It looks stupid."
"You're stupid."
"You argue like a seven-year-old."
"You're one to talk. And better than looking like a serial killer with styling issues." He turns the heat on low. Now it just had to simmer for a while and it'd be ready to be eaten.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Zoro get up and advance slowly. He turns to face the marimo, finding himself drawing back as the other man approaches quietly until the edge of the counter pokes him in the hip, Zoro looming over him. The moss head pokes him in the hat.
He slaps the hand away indignantly, snapping, "Don't touch me with those filthy hands of yours while I'm preparing food!"
The moss ball frowns and steals his hat. He's forced to take a quick step away from dinner, not prepared to have any hair falling into it, before swiping a leg out for the bastard marimo who, unfortunately, is prepared for it and dodges easily. He scowls at the other. "Give that back, asshole."
Zoro, the shitty bastard, ignores Sanji, swirling his loot between his hands and pointing at Sanji's now hat-less forehead. "You hiding some kind of monstrosity under that curtain?"
"Nothing as abnormal as your hair, I assure you."
The marimo reaches out and since he can't move back any more without jeopardizing his food, he lets the asshole lift his bangs.
Zoro gives a surprised little sound. "Another dartboard."
He wants to claw that shitty moss' eyes out. Badly. The moment of distracting himself from doing just that, the marimo uses to fucking take a used spoon and gobble up some of his curry.
He steps up behind Zoro, placing a hand on the other man's shoulder, smiling while leaning in and whispering into Zoro's ear, softly, "You ever sneak food again in my kitchen using a dirty utensil, I'll shove my foot so high up your ass you'll shit lung."
Zoro jolts under his hand, mumbling a quick, "Sorry," evidence quickly discarded in the sink.
Clever boy.
--
The curry's delicious, even more so after cooking properly, and the shit cook fucking knows it, if the gloating is any indication.
"Stop smirking at me."
The cook's face contorts into a sweet smile. "Would you rather I kick you instead?"
He snorts. "As if you could. Now stop. You're making the food taste bad."
"So it tastes good if I don't?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you implied it. That counts."
"Are you always this annoying?"
"Are you always this dumb?"
"Someone likes the sound of their own voice."
"If yours is the alternative? Oh hell, yes."
"I want to choke you."
The cook smirks again. "Maybe another time, marimo."
--
Sanji chuckles, enjoying the floored look Zoro's giving him. He reaches across the table, placing his forefinger under the marimo's chin, pushing.
"Wouldn't want anything to fly in there, would we. You've probably already got enough things living in that weed of yours."
--
He doesn't taste as much of the second half of his meal and it's when all the dishes have been washed– the cook washing up and he doing the drying– that the blonde announces they'll go upstairs next, 'star gazing'.
He snorts. "Which is why we're going upstairs. You planning on sitting in front of the window, nose pressed to the glass?"
"It must be hard on you, such a small brain. No space for imagination at all." The cook gives a lazy gesture, wine glass in hand. "Relax, you'll like it."
"Doubt it." Too sappy.
"I guess that's how you get by."
"You're a dick."
"Anytime, marimo." The cook glances around the kitchen, scrutinizing, before nodding contently. "Now, grab your wine–I can't believe this is already the third bottle– and follow me. No more questions."
True enough, the blonde leads them one floor up via a small wooden staircase.
"Your stairs creak like they're about to collapse."
"They're just bemoaning having to support your fat ass, something I can deeply sympathize with. I said no questions, moss brain."
"That wasn't a question, curly."
"Language lessons from a marimo. What has my world come to?"
"Less shit."
The cook glances at him over his shoulder. "So it's still shit, even with you in it?"
"Obviously. You're shit incarnate."
"Don't you start using big words on me."
Like the rest of the house safe for the kitchen, the first floor looks like the apartment of a college student, which, given the cook's age, makes sense. His own home doesn't look much different, if one ignores the mess that's Luffy's room. The only thing that doesn't fit in is a huge door disguised as a window, leading to an even bigger balcony.
"This," the cook points, "Is the reason I bought this shitty apartment, the kitchen aside anyways. Be ready to eat your words, marimo." They make their way outside and he looks up, forgetting the snide comment he'd been about to make.
The view's fantastic.
--
Sanji eyes Zoro, leaning against the railing. This is where he brings the dates he's taken back home and it's never failed to impress. Going by the marimo's slightly awe-struck expression, it's worked this time too.
He slowly circles his wine in the glass, giving Zoro some time to take it all in before leading them over to the swinger chair. Usually, it's broad enough to comfortably fit his date and him but the marimo's a little bigger than his usual rendezvous– male or female– so they end up being pressed up against each other from thighs to shoulders. It's not uncomfortable, though.
The marimo's surprisingly soft and they spend the next few minutes in silence, swinging lightly, simply observing.
"I've never seen that many stars back at mine."
Sanji wonders what the marimo's home looks like. Does he possess a big kitchen? What color is his sofa and does he own a pet? He doesn't seem like the type but then again, one shouldn't judge a book by its green, mossy cover.
"Naturally," he says lazily, sliding his free hand into Zoro's. "In most areas, the lights are too bright even at night or there's smog all over." The marimo just hums but the fingers entangled with his tighten a little in agreement.
He feels... content. Here, this moment with Zoro, he doesn't get the urge to entertain his company, to make sure they were alright, that all their needs were seen to, all their wishes read from their lips. He can simply lean back and enjoy the taste of the excellent Sauvignon Blanc, the feeling of the pillow at his back, Zoro pressed up against him, Zoro's warmth, and the darkness surrounding them, only lit up by the billions of stars above their heads.
--
Zoro watches the blonde slumped against his shoulder and snoring softly into his ear before turning back up to the sky and lifting his wine to his lips. It's good.
--
Sanji blinks his eyes open, realizing he must have dozed off. How embarrassing. It couldn't even be ten and sleeping with a guest over for the first time, and all over them on top of that, Zoro must have been feeling so awkward.
He sits up properly and glances over nervously... and suppresses a smile. The marimo doesn't look uncomfortable at all. The marimo's out as well.
He fishes for the glass in Zoro's lax hand– the one that isn't still in his– and places both glasses– thankfully already having been emptied by the time they've nodded off– onto the stone floor next to the swinger chair. Next, he leans over, whispering into the marimo's ear,
"Oi, you shitty national treasure, wake up."
Said national treasure groans before looking at him blearily out of one eye from where he's leaning heavily against the far side of the chair.
"Th' hell y' want, shit cook?"
He raises an eyebrow suggestively. "I'm not done with you yet."
The marimo looks pretty awake in three seconds flat. He grins.
"Oh? What's next? Movie time? Some love comedy, pillow fight inclusive?"
He smashes his lips into Zoro's, pressing in until the marimo obediently opens his mouth with moan, which is when he licks inside, deepening the kiss into something downright filthy.
Once he's forced to break away for air, he murmurs, face so close to the other's that they're sharing the same breath, "I hear complaints?" In lieu of an answer, Zoro closes the gap and returns the favor, and he takes the marimo's face in both of his hands, tilting the other's head to get a better angle until Zoro tears away, gasping. "You don't do half-assed, do you."
He strokes down the marimo's cheek to his neck and back. "If you want a blushing virgin, you're gonna have to look elsewhere."
Zoro pulls him in again and he smirks against the marimo's lips, which, though slightly chapped, are surprisingly soft.
--
He hadn't expected that. For the cook to have him pinned against the back of that weird chair, all but shoving his tongue down his throat. He makes an involuntary noise at the back of his throat.
"If I'd known that this is all it takes to shut you up, I'd have done this sooner," the cook mumbles, a little breathless.
"No talking," he agrees and makes sure that the blonde's mouth is otherwise occupied, satisfied when he feels the other melt into him. Then the cook fucking bites him and he chokes back a groan.
He kind of loses track of time after that and suddenly– he's mouthing along the cook's jaw, trailing kisses down the side of the other's neck– a hand's placed square on his chest and just won't budge.
"That's enough, marimo."
He stares confusedly at the blonde who flashes him a wide smile. "You didn't really think that it'd be this easy, did you? Gotta work a little harder than that."
He frowns, still holding onto the cook's sides. "Then what the fuck was all that about just now?"
The smile slips into a devious smirk. The blonde's enjoying this. "Just a little teaser of what's to come." The cook pats his arm patronizingly before freeing himself from his arms and fucking getting out of the chair and away from him.
"I look forward to your hard work, marimo-kun."