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“Give me that, you’re gonna cut yourself!”
“Cut myself?! I’m a swordsman!”
“Yeah, not a chef.”
“It’s a knife!”
“A knife, not a sword.”
Sanji snatched the apple out of Zoro’s hand and sequentially the knife. The swordsman held his tongue, it was far too deep into the night to be at each other’s throats. He, instead, opted to watch Sanji cut the fruit in silence. It wasn’t an awkward silence.
When he’d snuck into the kitchen for a late night snack, he hadn’t expected to find the cook. He hadn’t even noticed the empty hammock in the sleeping quarters. Thus, when he’d found Sanji washing dishes in the middle of the night, it caught him a little off guard.
“So... why are you up so late?” Zoro finally spoke up.
“The kitchen needed cleaning.” Sanji didn’t look up from the fruit. He cut the fruit slowly. Maybe he was just taking his time, but Zoro thought he was clearly tired.
“Bullshit,” he retorted, “this place was spotless after dinner.”
“Like you would know.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“What about you? Why are you up?” The cook deflected the question, reaching for a plate.
“Couldn’t sleep.” Zoro shrugged. He lessened his lean on the counter as the plate was pushed to him.
“... me neither.” Sanji admitted; his voice had gone quiet. Zoro couldn’t see much of his face through his bangs.
Silence fell again, the only sounds being from the scrubbing and occasional chewing. Zoro found himself noticing things in the kitchen he’d never realized before; like the stack of boxes by the door, the contents of which he had no clue. Or like the unfinished painting leaning against the opposite wall— who on this ship was a painter? One particular new object won his intrigue.
“Since when did we have a record player?” He made a vague gesture.
“I got it all the way back in Loguetown.” Sanji watched as Zoro left his plate to look closer at the box and the pile of vinyls next to it. “I’ve been picking up records in nearly every city since— how have you never noticed?” Zoro just shrugged in response as he kneeled down and began filing through the pile. “Hey! Back up, shitty mosshead! I never said you could touch them!” The cook rushed over, slapping the swordsman’s hand away.
“What, do you expect me to start cracking them over my knee or something? I just wanna put on some music!” He fell back off his knee.
“Then I’ll do it, go sit and eat your apple, you brute.”
Zoro rolled his eyes and retreated; there were some things about that man he’d never quite understand, but he knew better than to keep pressing. By the time he’d reached his plate again, Sanji had chosen a record to put on.
It was some sort of classical piece, violins and pianos and shit. Zoro wasn’t really knowledgeable on music, but it sounded a little familiar; maybe he heard it in a restaurant or something.
It was when the next song started that it all came back to him.
“I remember this one.”
“Didn’t take you for a classical man.” Sanji glanced up from his cup and rag.
“I’m not, the old man used to play it all the time. I was the best dancer in the class.”
“Wha— you? Dancing? Are you joking?”
“You doubting my skill?” Zoro gave Sanji a mischievous look.
“I just find it hard to believe a barbarian like you can dance.” Sanji scoffed.
“I bet I’m better than you.”
“Are you serious?”
Zoro held out a hand to the cook.
“You chicken?”
“Fuck off.” And yet Sanji set down his rag and took the offered hand.
Zoro pulled him out to the open space in the front, and put his other hand on the cook’s hip.
“No, I’m leading.” Sanji did the same.
“Prove to me you can first.” He moved the cook’s hand to his shoulder.
“You are such an asshole.” But he complied, and began following Zoro’s lead as he started stepping to the rhythm. “Seriously, I can’t wrap my head around you dancing.”
“We’re doing it right now.”
“I mean the fact that you know how to— that you used to for fun!”
“It wasn’t for fun. The old geezer would have dance lessons every once in a while between training. He’d go on and on about fighting and dancing just being the same thing.”
Sanji just stared at Zoro as he explained; he was gazing off at nothing as though he was looking right back into those memories. Sanji found himself moving along with him thoughtlessly, it just came naturally. Were Zoro’s eyes always that deep and dark? Did he always have that freckle under his left eye? Sanji had never noticed much, but now he found himself wanting to know everything— wanting to see everything.
The dance seemed to last for hours, or maybe it was just a few seconds. Sanji couldn’t think straight anymore. He’d always found Zoro’s presence completely unnotable, but suddenly it was almost overwhelming. He was intensely aware of the hand at his waist and the closeness of the other— why was his heart beating so hard? He blinked. Zoro was staring at him now.
They weren’t dancing anymore.
The stillness, still holding each other, staring: it was suffocating.
“We stopped.” Sanji could barely breathe out.
“Yeah.” Zoro’s voice was quiet.
“The music’s still going.”
Zoro didn’t answer, he just stared into Sanji’s eyes. Only a moment later, he took back his hands from the hold and stepped back. Sanji saw a look in his eyes he’d never really seen before: fear. Maybe he made it up. What could possibly scare The Pirate Hunter?
“I should go to bed.” He took another cautious step back to the door.
“Yeah.” Sanji didn’t want that. He wanted Zoro to stay and tell him more about his life. He wanted him to keep dancing. He wanted Zoro to tell him what he was thinking when he looked at him the way he had as they waltzed.
“Thanks for the apple.” Zoro added awkwardly before shutting the door behind him leaving Sanji alone with the feelings he couldn’t even admit to himself.
He turned and looked at the plate. Hardly a single slice was eaten.