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"Marimo? You're not usually up this early."
"You either," Zoro yawned, popping his jaw with the strength of it. He oozed his way into the kitchen, feeling still asleep, poured himself into a seat at the bar counter, watching an already very awake blond cook nimbly peeling potatoes and apples, slicing spindly roots off vegetables, turning large slabs of meats in their marinades. "It's still dark out. Come back to bed."
"It won't be for much longer." The cook's response was easy, though his movements and gaze didn't leave his work, distracting him from the slump of the swordsman's shoulders. "I have to get a headstart if this dinner's supposed to feed everyone who's coming and not just Luffy's gaping maw." The kitchen filled with the familiar thwock-thwock-thwock of Sanji's dexterous hands chopping vegetables into perfect cuts at exemplary speed. "Give me..." he eyed the bowls to his right, "twelve minutes and I'll make you breakfast."
"It's too early for breakfast."
"It'll be too late for breakfast soon unless you wanna skip lunch before the party, and we know the likelihood of you preferring that."
"I thought you didn't expect me up this early?"
"I didn't." Gleaming metal bowls rotated in and out of the large fridge, all the same from Zoro's perspective, though the cook didn't even have to double check contents as he pulled and placed. "I'm adjusting. If you wanna wait a little longer I'll make us brunch like I was planning."
"Let me know when twelve minutes are up," Zoro murmured, leaving the cook to it and resting his head on his arms on the counter.
Sanji finally spared another glance, the first since his initial greeting. His mossy-headed mate was still wrapped up in a blanket, like a cape, cuddled deep into it and already dozing with soft snores by the time Sanji took in the whole picture of him.
- !
Sanji's blanket. Not one of the ones from the bed; Sanji's, from his armchair, where he read at night, when he had the spare time. A little smile touched the corners of the alpha's lips. He shook his head a little, quieting a chuckle in the back of his throat, as he continued his preparations. All the things he'd expected, mating a man like Zoro? The high tactility stereotypical of omegas hadn't been one of them. The man was so self-sufficient, so strong, so independent, not just in presentation but in raw need and reality. He accepted Luffy's grabbing hands, ruffled Chopper's hair, but didn't reach out for much himself. He simply didn't seem like a person who had many physical needs in his relationships.
Unless the two of them were alone.
Until they were mated, when all of the realities of the two of them when alone spilled right out into the rest of their lives.
Zoro spoke with his hands. Not the way most people meant that, not in gestures while speaking with his mouth. No, he spoke to Sanji with hands on his shoulders, on his jaw, on his skin; asked questions with nudges of his nose to Sanji's jaw, clasps of strong palms on his hips. He pushed and pulled and requested and demanded with his hands, with as much subtlety and nuance as any eloquent man did with words.
Similarly, he communicated so much through his scent. Sanji hadn't expected that, either. His scent was controlled in public, very rigidly so, to the point where he often smelled of omega and power and calm and little else. But alone, or with their little in-group... especially once Sanji felt safe being out, and Zoro felt safe showing him interest... His scent could speak as clearly and wildly as Luffy's. As softly and carefully as Nami's. And just the safety of that let Sanji let his control lapse a little, too, so that Zoro - tactile, sensory, close-pressing Zoro - could smell his responses.
So now, with the other man asleep in his kitchen, wrapped in the blanket that smelled strongly of Sanji: of his calm, of his scent clean and fresh after a bath, of his relaxation and soft joy in reading...
After the twelve minutes, with everything prepped and covered that could be so at this stage, but before he turned on ovens or stovetop, the cook stepped up next to his omega and wrapped himself around those broad shoulders from behind, nuzzling against the side of his head, nosing at his ear.
"Hey, babe. Time's up."
Zoro stirred softly, turning enough to bump his nose to Sanji's, to tilt his head and lean in for a kiss that Sanji smelled coming from the moment Zoro first began to shift, that he folded happily into. He broke away after a moment, leaning his forehead against the broad, strong slope of the omega's tan one.
"Okay. What'd you want from me, marimo?" He wasn't fool enough to think Zoro had input into what to make for breakfast, or that he'd want to be nudged awake just to choose whether to have two meals or one before dinner prep went into full swing.
Sure enough, his mate grinned brightly enough for Sanji to smell it in his scent, to feel it in the next slant of mouth to his.
"C'mon," Zoro murmured, easing his way off the stool, out of Sanji's hold, and taking the alpha's hand in his to pull him away from all his preparations.
"Marimo - you'll ruin my headstart - "
"Shut up," Zoro responded, toothlessly, lazily, fondly, dragging Sanji into the living room and hauling him down with him to the floor. Sanji half-yelped, undignified, and found himself sitting in his mate's lap, his narrow back to that strong, sleep-warm chest, held in muscular arms and surrounded by his own blanket and the mingling of their scents. He flushed, stiffened for just a moment. But thin lips, neither chapped nor soft, brushed the edges of his neck, and he couldn't help but collapse into that hold.
"You... you get five minutes."
"Won't be much longer," Zoro purred, repeating most of Sanji's earlier words back to him. The omega nudged his nose against the other man's ear. "Look up, curly."
Sanji did. Zoro had sat them down just a couple feet or so from the big picture window that took up the whole living room wall, facing out over their ocean view. The horizon had begun to seep hazy, nearly-colorless gold. As Sanji watched, oranges followed soon after, then pinks. He felt himself melt in his mate's arms.
"And I'm supposed to be the love cook."
Zoro snickered in his ear, but Sanji could smell the flush coloring the other man's cheeks. "You lemme know if you ever meet a martial artist who ain't a romantic. I'll show you an idiot."
"I can already see an idiot from here -"
"Oi!"
"- but he's a romantic one, I'll give you that."
"I oughta dump you on the floor and go back to bed."
"But you won't."
The grumbling growl in Zoro's throat wouldn't have been out of place on an alpha. "You're lucky you're cute."
There it was, the grin that always came speeding to Sanji's face whenever the swordsman called him that, bright and broad and strong enough to hurt his cheeks. "I'm the lucky one, having you for my mate. Even if you are a muscle-headed swordsman."
"Even if you are a twirly-headed cook."
They missed the first crack of the sun itself over the horizon, too lost in each other's kiss. There would be others, a lifetime of them to catch; there would be sunsets, tonight's with friends and feast. Time enough for this, time enough to cook, time enough to enjoy the company of their nakama and of each other, time enough for fireworks over the sea and sparks between their fingers. Other sunrises and sunsets for Sanji to cover Zoro in his scent, for Zoro to tell Sanji novels with his hands. Days and nights aplenty for them.