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“Mosshead, what on earth am I supposed to do with this?” Exasperation colors Sanji’s tone, though amusement flickers around the edges of it, the faintest licking flames of laughter studding through the sigh. His lips are in a thin line, but they’re twitching at the corners, just a hair. “Not that I’m not touched.”
It’s an odd thing to say about a bouquet of garlic, in Zoro’s opinion. But he guesses cooks would be touched by something like that. Garlic is pretty good. And Zoro did waste his whole damn morning getting it for him, so some thanks would be nice. Mostly, he’d done it because he was sick of the way the other was moping around about how they’d run out. It’s not like he personally cares if Sanji is unhappy, but all of that pouting was getting way out of hand. And the incredulous look the other had leveled his way when he’d suggested the dish would probably be fine without it was just plain rude. Even though that was a pretty nice thing to say, if you ask Zoro.
But then, of course, he’d been manipulated and tricked, because next, he’d told Sanji to get his ass off the ship and go get some if it was such a big goddamn deal. They are at port. But Sanji just couldn’t leave his stew or whatever unattended. And so, of course, Zoro. Zoro had to go get it for him.
Mostly because of the moping. It really hurt his eyes.
And hey, shopping for kitchen stuff, it’s not really at the very top of his list of skills, which are various and multitudinous. He can make a sandwich, thank you very much. But why bother to concern himself with it when that’s what the waiter is for? But all the same, he’d gone out there, wandered around until he found a place that looked kitchen stuff-ey, and paid, in his opinion, an absurd amount of berry for some bouquet of garlic. Sanji had said to get a bag of it, and the woman at the stand had given him kind of a weird look when he’d pointed at the white bulbs and asked if a bouquet and a bag were the same. But what’s the difference really? It looks like there’s more than enough there to get through one meal. Even Luffy probably doesn’t need that much garlic.
So, yeah, the annoyed response, it’s not really very generous of the waiter, all things considered.
He blinks at Sanji slowly, unimpressed at the ingratitude. “Put it in your stew?” He lets his shoulders pull up as his hands gesture in the direction of all the things simmering and smoking in the kitchen. “You’re the waiter; you wanted the garlic.”
Sanji’s eyes are narrowed, not exactly in annoyance, but the oscillation between thoughtful and flashing is there. He’s peering at Zoro as though he’s trying to figure out what exactly is being said to him, as though trying to parse some hidden meaning in the words. As though he can’t quite tell if Zoro is offering him the truth in this conversation. But Zoro is fairly sure the situation between them could not be more clear at this moment. So he just glares back until Sanji seems to settle on an opinion, shaking his head and grinning a small grin, his hair falling into his face with the movement. It is obnoxious how Zoro’s heart gives a reflexive leap at the sight, and warmth settles, immediate, against his chest, fluttering and familiar.
The glare deepens across his features.
Goddamn waiter and his stupid garlic.
“You want me to put peonies,” Sanji waves the bouquet in the air, but gently, the full force of his smile threatens now, and his words are steeped with a warm affection that curves and curls around the syllables falling from his lips, that Zoro craves more than sake these days. Its cadence brushes his skin, flushes his cheeks. “In my chili?” His teeth are out now, and he tilts his head, voice brushing just a hair lower, humming pleased. “That is more experimental than I’ve known your tongue to be, Marimo.”
For a breath, Zoro is lost in the way the blood rushes, throbbing, to his cheeks. It’s completely unfair that Zoro, the expert at drawing blood, always has his so easily influenced by the stupid cook. It seems to him since he’s so good at knowing how to spill it from others, that he should have some kind of control over it in himself. But the knowing glimmer in Sanji’s eyes is all it takes these days. And then, probably several minutes too fucking late, the rest of the words play back in his brain.
The glare returns in full force, and he growls a half-muttered curse under his breath. He had thought the garlic seemed light and smelled… off, but what does he fucking know about that?
Sanji has already turned away, laughing, to fill a vase with water.
“If you wanted to bring me flowers, you know you could just do that.” The other is all but purring now, delight filling in the dents confusion had made before. He pauses to look at Zoro, waiting until their gazes meet to finish the thought, and though Sanji is still teasing him, a kind of sincerity, a little too vulnerable for the laughter that surrounds it, trembles through the words. “I would accept them.”
It’s a charitable ruse to account for Zoro’s miscalculation, but then he’d have to step into the trap of admitting he might want to bring Sanji flowers. And even though it doesn’t feel like a trap, even though it feels kind of inviting, all wrapped up in that terrible earnestness, in Sanji’s unbearable kindness, in his stupid loaded suggestions, and the way Zoro wants to push him up against a wall, to punch him, or kiss him, or just to fucking pin him there so Zoro can think for a minute. Even though that. Zoro can’t find the words to voice the sentiment.
“I don’t fucking like garlic anyway.” Is what comes growling out instead as he turns on his heel and stalks away.
---
When it’s time for dinner, the table is set as usual, except there, at the center, the peonies sit arrayed in their vase. The edges of their stems are evenly trimmed now, and the bouquet has been carefully retied with a little bit of ribbon, the blooms opening full and fragrant. Nami smiles from them to Sanji as she sits. “Peonies,” She nods, approving, and does everyone goddamn know about these flowers except Zoro? “I like them.”
“Me too.” Sanji’s eyes are fully on her, but his smile aims somewhere else, Zoro can feel it on him, beaming. “Fresh flowers always make a table a little nicer, I think. It’s a thoughtful touch. Hopefully—” He turns his expression finally, resting his chin on his hands and winking into Zoro’s half-hearted glower. “There’ll be more soon.”
“I think they look kind of like garlic!” Luffy exclaims, and everyone, Zoro included, however begrudgingly, laughs at that.
As the chuckles die down, Zoro finds Sanji’s eyes, and maybe, only for a heartbeat, he gives the other a smile back. And maybe it’s only Zoro’s imagination, but in that heartbeat, Sanji seems to glow.
---
The next morning, Zoro marches into the kitchen, another bouquet in his hands, this time of his own making, double-checked and confirmed to be what it's supposed to be by Nami.
Sanji looks up at the interruption, but before he can comment, Zoro has crossed the small room and pressed him back toward the wall, pushing the garlic bouquet into his chest.
“Here.” Challenge wraps around the word, but Zoro isn’t sure exactly what contest he’s issuing. Only that this is as far as he’s planned, and the rest will just have to unwind as it will.
Sanji’s mouth quirks, his hand reaching up slowly to wrap around Zoro’s wrist. The pressure of it is gentle on his skin, and it’s all Zoro can do not to press in harder, to demand more. “Mosshead,” The other laughs, but it’s a little breathless. “What on earth am I supposed to do with this?”
“Put it in a vase.” The words are smirking now, and Zoro lets a grin slide over his face. “You’re the waiter, you—” But the rest of the sentiment is lost, swallowed out of existence by Sanji’s lips on his. And Zoro sighs into the kiss, exhales pleased by this turn of events, and doesn’t pull away.
As Sanji steals the air from his throat, Zoro gives into the urge that’s been simmering under his skin since yesterday’s confusion—allows the searing threads of it to seep out into his bloodstream, into his limbs, and move him on instinct. Zoro shifts until his body has pinned Sanji so effectively back against the wall that there’s no possibly more pinning that can be done, the hand not still holding the damn bouquet reaching up to tangle in the softness of Sanji’s hair. The other groans a little as he’s pressed, and Zoro chases the sounds with his teeth.
Garlic needs to be crushed anyway, doesn’t it?