Chapter Text
They meet during the Baratie’s dinner rush. Well, meet isn’t the exact word per se. More like, it’s loud in the restaurant. The inside of the building is air conditioned and the patrons at outside tables are gifted with a generous breeze, but he’s feeling hot as hell. Perhaps it’s because of the older woman-- a cougar as some would call her-- is stroking his hand suggestively in front of her husband as he pours the couple wine. Mature (attractive) women taking an interest in him, what’s hotter than that? They have such great taste after all, especially when they chose to let him bed them. Yes, drinking his respect-women juice daily did wonders for every party’s libido.
Nothing.
Nothing is hotter than that if he’s being frank, but the soulless look in her husband’s eyes are sobering. Oh poor little frail, eldery husk of what was once a man. He has 3 decades on the woman easily and it’s almost ridiculous how the three of them look like a lineage of offspring rather than an aspiring affair. Those eyes stare at him blankly, with the look of a man who realized much too late he’d allowed himself to be a player in a game where women were meant to be played.
This cougar of a wife is going to wring this man dry and it is too late to put any kind of end to it. He flashes the two of them a winning smile before continuing on to the next table that he’s been assigned that night. His shirt is a button up, simultaneously the best and worst kind of apparel. Best because, face it, he was hot in anything that looked fancy and button ups fit that bill. It’s also the worst thing about his current existence because-- and this should be a no-brainer-- he’s fucking hot.
Sweltering as a matter of fact. He might even melt.
There’s only so much prancing and twirling around he can take before the sweat builds. A bead slides down his neck and he shivers, the sensation exceedingly similar to that of a lover’s caress.
The front door opens and it’s followed by the chiming of the bell, eerily melodic. He remembers with a flash that a large group had reservations. A large group with is under his care because the old man is a fucking douchebag and likes putting him through hell. It’s a challenge more than anything else and he intends on beating it with flying fucking colors. Wings and all.
They file in one after the other, Carne’s eyes growing comically wide and Patty guiding the group to their seats. The music plays overhead, Paul Akna singing seductively to the crowd, because truly, nothing about this song is wholesome, despite the expression that it first gives off. He won’t be convinced that the man isn’t just trying to get into some debutante’s pants with the ideal of love as a bonus. Perhaps it’s an omen though, a premonition of sorts, the way that Akna sings and the way time slows as Sanji sees him.
People say that love's a game
A game you just can't win
If there's a way
I'll find it somebody
And then this fool will rush in
Fool he is. Fool. He. Is. The way that his heart ratchets up a notch with the way that it pounds. Everyone, they all move like molasses, trapped in the thick, syrupy substance. They’re there, then gone, swept under the water of the Baratie, or maybe eaten by the big ass fish on the outside of the restuarant, he doesn’t fucking care.
Sanji just knows that right now, he’s the only one there, trapped with this...this..this god in human form.
Green hair, some would label it being like well-fertilized grass but he knows better. It’s more of a sea foam green shade, just dark enough to border on turquoise. A completely natural hue-- Sanji can tell by the way his eyebrow twitched at the whispering of the cougar from when he first came in.
He stands tall, broad shoulders; not football, he’s too light on his feet. Long arms swing freely, though one is bent, fingers looped into a belt buckle-- instead of the perfectly good pocket. Curious. It’s there in the way his fingers drum impatient at his side, twitching and begging for some kind of action.
Then it hits; the slight stance, swiveling head, fluid posture; almost like a dancer but not quite there.
Sword.
Of course the sparkling, tan, adonis like man would be a swordsman.
Out of everything though, it’s the eyes that get him. It’s hardly more than a millisecond, and yet it lasts an eternity. What it is time anyways except a human constructed concept to again a feeble attempt at control and spread false beliefs of conquering reality when in truth, humanity does nothing but grasp at straws of what if.
The eyes. Sanji has never seen a gaze so soft. Pliant and malleable like the best of caramel, and just as sweet. Oh it's hidden with an expertise that’s honestly saddening, but he can tell.
He knows by the slight tilt of plush lips, and the quick aversion of contact. The way those shoulders, broad shoulder hunch just a bit and hand tightens around the belt loop.
Slowly, Paul Anka’s voice seeps back in, the noise of patrons and bustle of waiters and waitresses sneaking into mind and surroundings slowly. It’s a gradual process, but it's over by the time he makes his way to the table. His notepad and pen are already out, if he’s lucky there will be a phone number in it by the time he’s done. If not, well then hopefully a name at the least.
The internet can always provide the rest.
“Hello, and welcome to the Baratie! My name is Sanji Blackleg, though feel free to just call me Sanji. How may I be of service today?”
A selective-- seductive-- choice of words, paired with a harmless, charming smile and boom: it’s super effective. There’s a woman grinning coyly at the seafoam man and Sanji just manages to catch the teasing finger she shoves into the other’s sde. Siblings, lovely. He let out a small breath. That was much more manageable that a lover or gods forbid a fiance.
The blond chef and pseudo waiter holds in his urge to fist pump and actually thank the old man for being so damn harsh that the rookies ran away, leaving the Baratie understaffed. Because yes, yes, yes! Adonis is into him. He can tell, he can see clear as day, with the way that soft gaze melts even further under his gentle smile.
Put your lips next to mine, dear
Won't you kiss me once, baby?
Just a kiss goodnight, maybe
You and I will fall in love (you and I will fall in love)
There’s other people at the table but they don’t matter right now. Besides, he’s just been asked to hold on. It wouldn’t hurt right, just to test his luck? Besides, the friend-sibling-- gorgeous woman by the way-- seems to approve and so does seafoam man if the small flush is anything to go by.
Ah, what the hell. No time like the present and all that. No time all all- being the social construct that it is but Sanji already established that.
He leans forward, clearing his throat and silencing the chatter. “I suppose I can get started with offering drinks?” the blond questions lightly, in a way that isn’t at all a suggestion but a demand. “Any alcohol for the special man here? This is a celebration for him. Is that correct Mr…..?” he trails off and hopes that the blank will be filled.
“....Roronoa.”
Roronoa. Oh this is bad. This is very bad.
His mind is already within another, sexier realm filled with that body and voice and--no. Getting a hard on is not the way to go.
“Roronoa! Lovely name.” Sanji says instead and revels in the fact that his own attraction is mutual. If this Roronoa had long hair, one hand would be twirling through it. “Anything specific that you want? Or maybe you see something you like?”
Innocent enough question but Mr. Swordsman isn’t unintelligent. It’s like a total transformation from just moments before and Sanji is living for it. Confident in the field, would likely not panc even with a katana pointed to your neck, but slide you in a social setting and you’re as demure as an old fashioned woman, are you?
How cute.
He likes this man. Very, very much.
Put your head on my shoulder
Whisper in my ear, baby
Words I want to hear
Tell me, tell me that you love me too (tell me that you love me too)
Roronoa will be his.
Sanji sighs, rocking back on his feet as they contemplate and pretend not to feel those eyes on him. It is a shame that he has a strict policy against tampering with food.
The way to a man’s heart was his stomach after all.
And sooner or later, he will hold this unsuspecting swordsman‘s heart with his bare palms. These hands he so covets.
Sanji cannot wait.