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Admittedly, Zoro has always told Sanji that he will die from some obscure lung disease with all of his smoking. He has made it a point to constantly remind the cook that he is fourth place, well behind himself, and will inevitably fall to a weak sickness rather than in battle like Sanji would no doubt prefer — or, Zoro presumes with an eye roll, nested in a warm bosom.
The point is, Zoro has never felt any interest in lighting up a stick of death and sucking it down. He has never been interested in the lingering smell of cigarette smoke clinging stubbornly to his clothes and skin.
He has no interest in smoking at all.. and that being said, Zoro still finds himself lured in by the plume of white curling around Sanji’s head like a halo. Even after every insult, every sharp jab and death threat he has thrown Sanji’s way only to receive the same fervour in return, Zoro still tips forward until he is far too close to be casual.
Sanji hums and tilts his head to the side curiously, but he does not move. He does not pull away, not even when Zoro’s gaze follows the trail of smoke all the way back down to the pale, pink lips his cigarette is still perched between. Not even when Zoro raises a hand to tug said cigarette free and ends up leaning closer in the process.
“What are you doing with that?” Sanji grumbles, but instead of reaching out to snatch back his smoke, instead of kicking Zoro where the sun doesn’t shine, Sanji rests his forehead against his.
This, in and of itself, isn’t all that new. They often butt heads, in both the literal and figurative sense. That being said, however, this seems.. softer, than usual. Charged by something entirely different than their usual ire.
“I don’t know,” Zoro admits. He turns the cigarette around in his hand, scrutinizing it tentatively. “This can’t be good enough to puff on all day and risk death, but.. I find myself curious.”
Sanji snickers, pressing his forehead a little harder against Zoro’s. “You’re always talking about my cigarettes, but what about you and your booze? You’re gonna die of liver failure before they can even come to bite me in the ass,” he teases, nudging his chin in the direction of the cigarette still in Zoro’s hand.
Zoro can’t deny the possibility of that, so he rolls his eye instead. “At least the booze taste good. This shit smells like.. well, you.”
Sanji’s curled eyebrows furrow. “Is that supposed to be an insult? I smell, at a minimum, one thousand times better than you,” he huffs, but he sounds amused under his annoyance. “When was the last time you even showered?”
“The other day,” Zoro answers flippantly. He doesn’t think it’s important to divulge that he hadn’t actually meant it as an insult. As much as Zoro loves to talk shit about Sanji, the man smells really fucking good. Even with the smoke always lingering on him.
He smells like sea salt and the ocean breeze. Like seasonings and warm spices. Fresh rain and the sunshine that follows. Earthy vanilla, slow roasted in smoke.
Sanji rolls his eyes. “Dirty dog,” he chides, but it’s cut off by a gasp when Zoro’s curiosity wins out and he places the filter of the cigarette to his lips. “Wha-.”
“Ugh,” Zoro groans, shaking his head against Sanji’s. “This is dumb.” Just like he thought. “It tastes like nothing.”
Sanji blinks at him, wide blue eye framed by dirty-blond lashes, golden bangs and a curly brow that has always garnered Zoro’s undying attention. And then, he snorts. “It tastes like nothing because the end died, you idiot. It’s not even lit anymore.”
Zoro grumbles petulantly about how he shouldn’t be expected to know that, but he doesn’t argue when Sanji takes the cigarette back and places it between his own lips. Instead, Zoro watches as he raises two pale hands, an intricately engraved lighter of gold in one as the other cups it against the dull wind of Sunny’s deck with lithe fingers.
One flick, then another, and the spark wheel clicks before flames erupt from the mouth of the lighter. Sanji raises it to the end of his cigarette, eye gliding up Zoro’s face until their gazes meet.
“You have to pull in as you light it, or it’ll just die pretty quickly,” Sanji explains, a small puff of smoke slipping from the side of his mouth and crawling up the skin of his cheek to rest above his head. Like always, a halo resides above his golden hair like a crown, and Sanji seems to glow — even in the dark shadow of the night sky.
Sanji takes in another drag, this one longer to tide himself over, then pulls the cigarette free from his lips and holds it out for Zoro to try. But, instead of taking the offered cigarette like he probably should, Zoro closes the distance between them until he can feel Sanji gasp against him.
Sanji stirs, yes, and even Zoro is a little surprised by his own inability to keep his resolve as he pulls back to apologize, but then Sanji presses forward to kiss him again, and Zoro drowns in him.
Smoke curls in Sanji’s mouth and slips between Zoro’s parted lips, and he surges even nearer to make sure they don’t break that connection. The smoke tastes oddly familiar, and Zoro supposes that has to be from always being around Sanji as often as he is.
What is new and completely unexpected, though, is the head rush that follows after Zoro swallows down the steady stream of smoke. It settles in his lungs, pushing back up with a pleased sigh when Sanji licks into his mouth, and then a tingling feeling over comes Zoro’s entire body.
It gets his head first, and Zoro hums dazedly, trusting Sanji to keep him steady as he leans his weight on him when the feeling strikes down his spine.
Sanji snakes an arm around the small of his waist, the hand still holding the cigarette carefully cradling Zoro’s jaw, and the tingle follows there, too, like Sanji’s skin is releasing electricity into his bloodstream with every touch.
The currant rolls through him from his head to his finger tips, all the way down to his toes, and distantly Zoro recalls the feeling of when he had started drinking and got drunk for the first time. This is not exactly the same, and the feeling is fleeting rather than the lightheaded pulse Zoro had felt the whole night until he woke up with an excruciating headache, but it’s not particularly bad either.
Sanji continues to hold Zoro close, to kiss him slow, and though he’s regained full control of his body and doesn’t need the support anymore, Zoro lets him. He raises a hand, carding calloused fingers through silky, pretentiously cared for golden locks, and he swallows the moan Sanji lets out for him when he tugs gently.
His hair is soft, Zoro thinks. Admittedly softer than he would have expected considering how often they find themselves in the salty sea, but Sanji has always been thorough with his hair care, and distantly, Zoro has always been curious to touch. The strands glide through his fingers like silken waves.
As it turns out, Zoro has been distantly curious about a lot of things Sanji related — but now he knows. Knows the feeling of Sanji’s lips against his; soft, and thin, and utterly attentive to Zoro’s pleasure. The taste of his mouth; sweet, a hint of candy that Zoro would absolutely not enjoy if it wasn’t coming from Sanj’s tongue, and an undercurrent of bitter tobacco that Zoro stupidly finds he likes on him.
The brush of his chin against Zoro’s; sharply angled and scratchy with dirty-blond hairs, just like above his lips, but Zoro doesn’t mind the dull sensation. He knows the feeling of Sanji’s body pressed firmly to his own; toned muscles, firm legs; long, lithe, warm and a little desperate with the way he urges Zoro on, but Zoro might be just as desperate too.
He has been curious about Sanji since the moment he first laid eyes on him back in the Baratie, and now that he knows, Zoro wants to engrave all of this information into his memory. And then he wants more, and more, and more, and more.
Sanji pulls back with a gasp for breath, and Zoro realizes that, oh yeah, he wasn’t doing much of that either.
He rests his forehead on Sanji’s again, both men gulping down the cool night air around them. And then, Sanji bursts out laughing. The sound is so abrupt that Zoro nearly jumps out of his skin, but once the melody of Sanji’s voice registers in his ears, he settles against him and huffs.
“What’s so funny, Curly?”
Sanji chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest before it comes to a slow stop. “Nothing,” he says, leaning in closer. “I just wasn’t expecting you to kiss me. When I really thought about it, it shocked me again.”
Zoro snorts. “You do recall you were the one doing most of the kissing, don’t you, princess?” he teases, fingers still curled in Sanji’s hair. He dips a hand down to nudge Sanji’s chin up so he can get a better look at him. “It took you a solid five minutes to realize what the hell you were doing?”
Sanji’s cheeks are flushed pink when he shifts his gaze to look away. Zoro thinks he looks quite cute, petulant pout and all.
“It’s not like I didn’t realize…,” he says. “More like I was surprised by just how much I enjoyed it.” He frowns, looking down at his shoes pointedly, before continuing. “With you, I mean.”
Ahh, so Sanji has found himself in a similar boat to the one Zoro is in.
“Me too,” Zoro admits, if only because it gets Sanji’s eyes to shoot back up to his. Zoro takes the opportunity to steal another kiss, this one quick and chaste, and Sanji doesn’t even kick him in the shin or stomp his toes for it.
In fact, if Zoro isn’t mistaken, Sanji’s blush deepens before his lips tug up into a small, pleased grin.
Oh god, he’s really fucking pretty, isn’t he?
“Sooo,” Sanji says slowly, his gaze searching over Zoro’s face. “You think lung cancer is worth it or what?”
Zoro scowls. “Excuse me?”
Sanji laughs. “The cigarette,” he says, waving it between his fingers. “As bad as you thought?”
Zoro considers this for a moment, before shaking his head slowly. “I guess not,” he concedes, a little begrudgingly, but the smug grin Sanji wears is suddenly the cutest thing Zoro has ever seen. Admitting he was wrong is worth it to see the soft crinkle at the corner of his eye.
“See?”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Zoro says. He takes a step forward, crowding impossibly closer into Sanji’s space, and wraps an arm around the small of his back when Sanji loses his footing. “I still don’t care for the death stick. But shotgunning from you?”
Zoro pauses for dramatic effect, liking the baffled fluster that settles over Sanji’s face as he registers his words. The soft pink blush of his honey-freckled cheeks complement the sea blue of his wide eyes and the clear ivory of his porcelain skin.
“I think I can get down with,” Zoro finishes, and before Sanji can continue whatever sputtered response he had been trying to spit out, Zoro kisses him again. And this time, Sanji drags him in by the collar without a second thought.
The cigarette between Sanji’s fingers goes quickly forgotten, the dead butt falling to the deck floor before being smothered by clumsy feet, but that was never really what drew Zoro in in the first place. Merely a means to an end; the smoke creating a clear path to a treasure unexplored. And, well — Zoro is a pirate, after all, is he not?