Chapter Text
“There’s no way you can focus with that on,” Sanji huffs from somewhere behind him on his bed.
Zoro grunts, loath to take his eyes off the screen for even a minute. “I paid for this, I’m gonna watch it,” he says, waving a hand dismissively over his shoulder in the general direction of his friend’s voice. “Write your paper or go back to your own room, christ.”
He doesn’t mean it. It would suck if Sanji left. And he’s just trying to do the job Zoro had assigned him, which is to keep him on task for his biomechanics midterm on Monday. Sanji has a paper due Monday as well, so it seemed like the perfect plan to keep each other accountable over the weekend. Until earlier in the afternoon, when Zoro remembered the heavyweight title fight. He could’ve sworn it was the following weekend but he’s not going to miss it, midterm or no.
To be fair, he had been making decent progress through the undercard. He attempts to surreptitiously slip on his glasses, lest Sanji notice and make a comment.
“Trying to look smarter than you are, green bean?”
“You paid for this display of absolute barbarism?”
Zoro can practically hear the raising of one incredulous eyebrow. The bell sounds and both fighters retreat to their corners, Zoro to his textbook. A loud cheer filters in from down the hall followed by raucous laughter and a smattering of applause.
Sounds like Luffy’s well and truly embracing his Saturday night. The dining hall is about to have a huge problem on its hands. Probably shouldn’t expect Usopp back for a while, either.
It’s funny. Zoro probably wouldn’t have chosen to spend time with Sanji on his own were it not for Usopp and Luffy’s fast friendship. Not that everyone on campus doesn’t seem to take to Luffy immediately. He’s just one of those guys. But Luffy’s roommate had started accompanying the three of them on their adventures at some point, and it became natural for Zoro to expect the blondie’s presence at both on and off-campus hangs.
Their transition from group exposure only to time spent as a pair on occasion is a recent development as of the current academic year.
Zoro switches his phone to silent. He’s not in the mood to field calls from campus security tonight when those two inevitably end up somewhere they shouldn’t be.
Last weekend, it was the science building. Bunsen burners are not meant to be used as heating devices for frozen burritos. Nevermind that Zoro was with them on said occasion. A semi-frequent misstep, possibly. But Zoro likes drinking and he likes his friends. An infraction every now and then is something that can’t be helped. As he recalls it, Sanji was none too pleased to hear about their adventures in culinary science.
“How many times do I have to tell you idiots to come ask me? I could’ve made you anything you were in the mood for...”
And in theory, he could’ve. Sanji grew up working in his dad’s restaurant. He’s a great cook, and not just by college student standards either. Zoro’s seen him do a lot more than spruce up some ramen. Benefitted from it as well. But he’s also pretty sure waking Sanji at 3 a.m. for a gourmet meal would sooner earn him a kick to the face than a soufflé.
Sanji seems to be somewhat unaware of his reputation for having a hair-trigger temper. Then again, Zoro’s not one to talk.
The bell rings again signaling the beginning of the next round. Zoro jots a quick note in the margins and flips his book closed.
“Really, moss?” Sanji asks, the muted tapping on his keyboard arrested momentarily.
“Yeah.” The fighters touch gloves and pick up where they left off.
Sanji hums. “Eloquent as always, though a bit verbose for my taste.”
“Fancy pants. I’ll study after the fight, alright? It’s not gonna be much longer.”
Zoro shifts, stretching his arms above his head and cracking his neck—something he knows as an aspiring physical therapist he shouldn’t be doing. It’s purely habit at this point.
If Usopp’s shit wasn’t spilling over into his space, he could’ve sat at his desk. Granted, he’d have to turn the chair in order to see the little wall-mounted TV, but the chair is piled high with shoes and sweaters and the point is moot and Zoro’s back is starting to ache.
“I guess I just don’t see the appeal,” Sanji says mildly, the sound of the keyboard suggesting he’s resumed his work.
“Just watch for a minute, wouldja? Art history will still be there afterwards, everyone’s already dead.”
“Hm. Callous, but not untrue I suppose... Okay, greenie, tell me what the big deal is.”
Zoro absently digs his fingers into his trapezius muscle on his left side. His shoulders are starting to get pretty tight, too. He’s going to have a headache later and that’s really going to throw him off track. “Alright, so the current champion is a wrestler–”
“Wait,” Sanji cuts in. Zoro hisses through his teeth as the contender lands a solid combination. “I thought everyone did the same thing.”
“Well, it’s mixed martial arts, so– oh, shit! Okay, yeah, did you see that? You don’t wanna take too many of those. It’s going to eat away at his base. He’s not going to be able to throw anything powerful when he can’t put weight on his leg like that… In MMA, especially now, you have to pretty much be able to do anything. But most people favor a particular discipline. Anyways, the other dude is a Muay Thai kickboxer.”
“Alright,” Sanji laughs, “what does that mean for me?”
“It means,” Zoro says, leaning back on his elbows and easing himself down, “that it’s…” he freezes, his head coming to rest on something decidedly warmer and quite a bit more firm than his pillow. “Shit, sorry.” Before he can scramble to sit up, Sanji’s hand presses down on his shoulder, gently anchoring him back into his chest.
“No worries,” Sanji says. Like this is something they do.
Zoro’s brain is running a million miles a minute. It was an accident. He didn’t mean to lay down on Sanji. Did Sanji think he meant to do it? Does Sanji want him to stay? Is it no worries like no worries, or no worries like I want you here? Why is he still there, and why hasn’t Sanji said anything else about it? Does he do this with all his friends?
Now Zoro’s thinking… Sanji certainly isn’t shy, and he is kind of a touchy-feely person… Not really with Zoro, though. Not that he can remember. Unless you count sharp kicks to the shins in the heat of an argument as touchy-feely.
Maybe it’s only weird because Zoro’s making it weird. Is he making it weird?
Fuck.
He’s missing the fight.
He decides to stay. It might be weirder now if he insisted on sitting up.
“Specs?” Sanji prompts, completely nonchalant. Zoro cringes.
The fuckin’ glasses.
“Uh. Yeah. So the champ’s kinda just laying on him now, right?” Damn, Zoro would’ve liked to see the takedown, but as it so happens he’s a little distracted. “He wants this fight on the ground. As long as he controls it…” He freezes again. Sanji’s begun running his fingers through his hair. He suppresses a shiver. It feels really nice.
“As long as he controls this guy on the ground he’s going to keep the belt?” Sanji asks, starting at his nape and scratching lightly along his scalp as he pushes his fingers slowly through Zoro’s dyed-green locks.
“Yeah,” he braves a glance upwards and back, catching Sanji’s face from below, illuminated by the faint glow of the tv in the dim light, intent and focused on the screen ahead of him, lips parted slightly, bangs falling softly over one eye. The stubble on his chin looks a little longer, like he’s trying to get something started. Zoro might tease him about it under different circumstances.
Even from the odd angle, Zoro can see Sanji’s expression is relaxed and easy. And if Sanji is relaxed, Zoro supposes he can be as well. “So the other dude’s lost this round for sure. At the very least he needs to keep ‘em standing for the final round or go for a finish...” The bell rings and his eyes slide shut. He’s missed most of that round. Sanji owes him sixty dollars if he doesn’t catch the conclusion.
The friend in question swirls his fingertips lightly over Zoro’s temples. He sighs, then freezes.
If he moves another inch or makes another sound, this weird, comfortable bubble might burst and Sanji might leave. Zoro doesn’t want Sanji to leave. He wants Sanji to stay. He’s not sure of the implications, but he knows his night is better for having Sanji there underneath him, and his departure would make it substantially less nice.
If Sanji heard the sigh, he makes no mention of it.
“And by ‘go for a finish’ you mean–”
“Kick his ass, yeah,” Zoro struggles to open his eyes, “A knockout… If he was a jiu jitsu guy he’d go for a choke or a leg lock or something and the entire fight would be on the ground.”
Sanji laughs again, his hand traveling down to his neck, thumb gently massaging circles into the tight muscle there. Lev-something… Levator scapulae…
“That sounds wholly uninteresting. Just two guys laying on each other until one wins?”
Zoro fights the urge to groan. His fucking hands. He’s always paying attention to Sanji’s hands, whether he’s cooking or sketching or simply drumming on his desk in their shared sociology lecture. They’re fascinating hands. Long, delicate fingers seemingly contradictory of the strength contained within. Sanji digs a knuckle into the muscle momentarily and Zoro sucks in a breath, feeling the tissue contract and release, much looser than before.
“Wrestlers get a bad rap. Average fans don’t find groundwork interesting. They’d rather see fists and blood.”
“Mm. Animals.” Like Sanji himself didn’t just declare groundwork to be boring. Zoro chuckles at that.
The bell rings. Sanji’s hand slides back up into his hair.
“Who do we want to win?”
“Hmm…” Zoro’s eyelids flutter. The contender swings with a heavy overhand right. Too telegraphed. No judge is going to score in his favor now. He needs the K.O. and he’s hunting for it. “I guess it depends. Do you go for the underdog or do you want to see the beginnings of a championship streak?”
Sanji’s quiet for a moment, fingers never ceasing their ministrations. “Maybe the underdog... I suppose I like a challenge.” He can hear the smile in Sanji’s voice when he responds. It’s cool that he’s actually getting into the fight, Zoro thinks. Maybe they can watch again sometime.
“Your guy has a lot of work to do, then.” The champ has his underhooks dug in tight and the contender’s backed up onto the cage. He's going to wear him out and take him down. No question.
“My guy?”
“Yeah. I’m going for the champ. Strength over style anytime…” Zoro’s breath hitches as Sanji’s fingers trail lightly down the sensitive skin just behind his ear, making their way back up to draw his earrings together, steel clacking quietly as Sanji rolls them around.
Fuck. That was embarrassing. But he can blow right past it if he stays on topic.
“See? Mr. Fancy Kicks is gassed. No way he can win now.”
“Ah. Maybe next time,” Sanji murmurs.
The bell rings.