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That day, in an upscale yet discreet café on a square bordering the historic district, the atmosphere felt quite particular. The place—loved by well-off bourgeois women for its unusual position, slightly isolated and bathed in sunlight—opened onto a rather picturesque stone fountain. However, the new mayor, having judged it too quiet and not “business”-oriented enough, had launched modernization works to build a few commercial buildings. “To make the place more lively,” he had said—and three months after completion, the locals still hadn’t recovered.
“I thought it would ruin the view… Which it did.” began a regular in her forties, comfortably seated on the terrace. She slipped a thin menthol cigarette out of her leather case, brought the poison to her lips, and lit it with a lighter engraved with her initials. “But I must admit… the view isn’t that unpleasant after all.” A lazy smile stretched her lips as she lifted her hazel eyes straight ahead.
Just behind the fountain, beyond the large ground-floor windows of this new, concrete and rather ugly building—right across from the café—there was a fitness room. The brunette amused herself by watching, from afar, the athletes in front of her.
“I think I’m going to finally sign up this year,” laughed her table companion, probably the same age. “I’ve developed a sudden passion for treadmills.”
She wasn’t looking at the treadmill. She was very clearly looking at the man running on it.
“Ladies, do not succumb to the unrealistic body standards promoted by social media. You are perfect as you are,” came the honeyed voice of the blond waiter—particularly charming—who, with perfect ease, refilled their two champagne glasses without being asked.
“Oh, come on, Sanji,” the first replied, still amused. “Don’t encourage our old-lady delusions. Physical health does matter.”
Sanji lifted his gaze as well, to look at this new object of interest. He was anything but pleased to discover that, for the past twenty minutes, the two women had been entertaining themselves by staring at a man—a perfect Apollo, bare-chested—running on a treadmill in full effort, right in front of them. Still, he kept his flawless professional smile.
“You are at a most charming age,” he slipped smoothly, before stepping away.
It wasn’t the first time he had noticed the pattern. His clients—his regulars—busy undressing with their eyes the same man who trained in the exact same spot every day. The blond waiter had already understood that this man, with dyed green hair (a completely ridiculous idea, in his opinion), wasn’t simply a customer of the gym. He was there every single day—from two in the afternoon until closing at ten. He had to be a coach.
Besides, Sanji had already observed him from behind his counter, watching over other athletes while holding a clipboard and taking notes. The blond would be lying if he said he hadn’t been curious about his clients’ sudden enthusiasm for the terrace—and especially for the table on the far right, the one with the best view of the gym. He would also be lying if he said it didn’t affect him. As a professional, sometimes ignored by overly occupied clients—but more importantly as a male ego, bruised at no longer being the only virile beauty around.
His clients—especially the regulars who came for their daily glass of champagne or afternoon coffee, not the occasional ones—were giving him less and less attention. They were less responsive to his compliments, and it showed in the slow but steady drop in his tips. He had been the most popular waiter in this café for three years. It had taken effort to build a loyal and generous clientele—and now it was being taken away from him right under his nose by a bundle of muscles, gesturing in a white or black tank top… or shirtless, depending on the day.
This had been going on for weeks. And despite long sessions of rumination during his smoke breaks, he still hadn’t found a solution to remain both a gentleman and the center of attention of these ladies without seeming bitter. Worse—he had once tried, in a falsely innocent way, to remove the problematic table. But that had been without counting on the insistent and systematic requests of his clients to have it immediately put back.
Sanji remembered bitterly that afternoon when he had removed the table beforehand, only for the women to demand it be returned to its exact spot, under the cover of arguments he couldn’t even contradict:
“Oh, come now, Sanji, shielding us from overly direct sunlight when you’re the first to recommend we don’t neglect vitamin D?”
The blond swallowed a sigh at that remark and kept his professional mask, even though, deep down, he wanted to scold the two women for their voyeurism—voyeurism that was costing his adoptive father’s business money. He kept his radiant smile, as he did so well, and immediately went to put the heavy cast-iron table back in place—right in front of the damned treadmill, and the man on it.
_____
To Sanji’s greatest dismay, the situation worsened when he realized that not one, not two, but five clients had signed up for private sessions with the famous muscular coach with the “tanned and delicious” complexion. The café was not deserted for all that—on the contrary, conversations now revolved around Roronoa Zoro, fitness coach and former national kendo champion. Sanji was becoming almost ghost-like in his own father’s establishment, and no charming smile, no raised eyebrow, no well-placed wink or witty remark could compete with that. The blond had even increased his consumption of aspirin and nicotine.
One Friday afternoon, around four o’clock, Sanji was busy polishing the same stemmed glass over and over again. He was admiring the reflection of the chandelier from the indoor room in it when he heard familiar giggles. He hung the glass upside down above the counter, took a breath, and prepared his finest smile before heading out to the terrace, straight to the famous table on the right. No need to take a menu for this expert who already knew it by heart. His false delight was short-lived when he noticed that the clients had dragged along the coach in question, who seemed uncomfortable while dressed below the usual standard. His smile almost vanished, but Sanji’s flawless professionalism prevailed as he adopted a honeyed voice to address the table, while only wishing to shoot lasers from his eyes at this unwelcome intruder.
“Ladies, good afternoon.” he said in a perfect tone, leaning slightly forward in his exemplary waiter posture. “The usual?”
“Coach Roronoa advises against alcohol during the day, so it will be two long coffees and two glasses of hot water, better for digestion.” recited the brunette with a warm smile.
“Of course, and for sir?” he said in a perfectly even tone, not having bothered to greet him or welcome him properly as luxury hospitality etiquette would require.
The man, who had just finished taking in the surroundings, turned his gaze to the most charming waiter in the area.
“Water.” he stated simply, in a rather neutral tone that seemed to come from his character rather than any indifference.
“Oh, Coach,” the second woman chimed in, “don’t be shy, treat yourself. You are our guest.”
Sanji rolled his eyes briefly while keeping his smile as the man in front of him remained perplexed.
“And what are you having?” the intruder asked, seemingly lost in the complexity of the drink menu, directing the question at Sanji.
“Me? Nothing interesting. Sparkling water with a slice of lemon. Boring, no sugar, perfect for a trai—” Sanji said, half-ironically.
“I’ll take that then.” Roronoa concluded quickly, closing the drink menu with a sharp motion.
Sanji blinked for a moment, caught off guard, but recovered immediately—professionalism obliged. He smiled in silence as he collected the two drink menus before turning on his heel toward his counter, slipping behind it. He carried out the order properly, his mind slightly elsewhere, still irritated by the man’s presence but even more irritated by the fact that he was too stupid to understand his irony. He sighed one last time before lifting his tray with a perfect motion; he was also irritated by the influence the coach had over his clients, who listened to his advice like sheep before their shepherd.
He set down the drinks without interrupting the animated conversation of the two women surrounding the much quieter man. When Sanji straightened up, he met his gaze. A brief moment. It was so direct and unwavering that the waiter could not help but read it as impoliteness from someone who had never been taught manners. The handsome blond withdrew neatly, as he knew perfectly well when to disappear when his presence was not desired.
The service continued naturally for him, and he paid it no further attention. When the table left, after their usual ceremonious goodbyes, he collected his tips absentmindedly.
_____
Sanji was leaning against the wall of his building, smoking a cigarette just at the end of the lunch service, before moving on to the afternoon hot drinks. He crouched down to stub it out on the pavement, his mind barely settled. Once he straightened up, he made a small movement to crack his lower back and stretch his shoulders like a boxer before stepping back into the ring. As he headed toward the terrace, he saw the green-haired coach standing right in the middle of the tables, hair wet and sticking to his forehead, a heavy sports bag carried effortlessly on one shoulder, white socks pulled up along his calves. Sanji raised an eyebrow, wondering whether he had gotten lost or was waiting for one of his clients—which, deep down, he hoped was not the case, out of ego, and also because his sense of style felt personally insulted by such an appearance in a place like this.
“Can I help you?” the blond asked mechanically, with no intention whatsoever of sounding pleasant.
The green-haired man wiped a drop sliding down the back of his neck with a quick motion. “Hello, I’d like to have a drink, is that possible?” His tone remained calm and neutral. Not a trace of a smile.
“Sit over there.” Sanji gestured quickly with his hand, as if shooing away a fly.
The man complied. He set his bag down directly on the ground and began taking off his bulky hoodie once seated. The sight of his damp tank top made Sanji bristle immediately, and he reacted with a grimace. “Please keep an appropriate attire in this establishment.”
This time, it was Roronoa’s turn to raise an eyebrow, not quite understanding what was inappropriate about his outfit, but he did not particularly try to argue. He simply put his hoodie back on, keeping his serious expression. Sanji rolled his eyes, wondering why he had been saddled with such an ill-mannered man in his establishment, ready to display his bare muscles so easily. He picked up the drink menu between two fingers, but the man raised a hand to stop him mid-motion.
“No need, I know what I want. Two sparkling waters with a slice of lemon.” he said in a flat voice.
Sanji let out a short breath through his nose, condescending at the ridiculous request, before replying with a simple “Very well,” and turning on his heel to prepare the drinks. It took only a few moments. He glanced at the two glasses and carried them on his tray with an effortless, elegant motion. He set the first glass down in front of his client and the second right across from him. He looked at him for a moment. The coach was still alone. Without quite knowing why, the sun-haired waiter asked, with a certain indiscretion:
“Who are you waiting for? If it’s Madame de Boncour, you should know she is always about fifteen minutes late, and she prefers violet syrup.” His professional tone remained sharp, pointing out the lack of gallantry in the man before him.
“I’m not waiting for anyone.” the client replied simply.
A pause. Sanji blinked quickly, unsure he had heard correctly.
“You wanted two drinks for yourself?” the blond asked, slightly thrown off.
“No.”
A second pause, in which the waiter stared at his client as if he had just escaped an asylum.
“For whom, then?” Sanji finally added, narrowing his eyes, trying to understand, unable to leave an equation unresolved—even if it went against the very manners he prided himself on.
“For you.” The coach took a sip of sparkling water. “I see you chaining cigarettes without ever hydrating. It’s bad.”
Sanji opened his mouth without knowing what to answer. It was the first time someone had spoken to him in such a natural way—but more than that, that someone had paid attention to his health. His. The waiter. Even if the remark sounded slightly paternalistic, it was unexpected—though predictable coming from a body and health specialist. The blond did not thank him. He simply took the glass and walked away, because it was clear he had not had anything to drink in at least three hours, his mouth was dry, and a glass of water would indeed not hurt.
Behind his counter, he let out a quiet sigh of relief after drinking half the glass in one go. He stared at the lemon slice, perplexed: ill-mannered, yet attentive to others? Was that the reason for his popularity with his clients? Sanji did not particularly wish to spend more time or energy thinking about it and instead turned to his dishes. All the dishes he had accumulated and had not had time to take care of since the lunch rush, when he had been running everywhere without being able to catch his breath—except for a few minutes with his favorite little tube of poison.
Once done, about fifteen minutes later, he placed his hands on his hips, satisfied with his work, and remembered that he had forgotten to charge his unusual client. He took his card reader and his change belt before heading back to the terrace, where the man had already disappeared. Sanji stood there stupidly in front of the table, where a bill had been left—enough to pay for both drinks.
The blond ran a hand over his face. Of course he would pay for both drinks without knowing it was unnecessary, since the waiters could help themselves freely. What a waste, he thought at last. He could hardly run after him to give him his change back. Still, out of professionalism, Sanji decided there was no way he would keep that money.
He thought for a moment: the coach had probably gone back to the gym across the street, but his wet hair suggested a shower—maybe he had finished earlier? The blond let out a deep, irritated sigh. He was not going to blame himself for not knowing the schedule of a complete stranger.
He could take five minutes, cross the street, and return the change directly—and if he wasn’t there, come back the next day?
Sanji crossed his arms, sighing, “what a pain in the ass.” He glanced around and noticed his terrace was empty, the second waiter bored, mechanically cleaning the counter; the round trip would take less than ten minutes, and the sooner this misunderstanding was resolved, the sooner he could move on.
He removed his apron with a brief motion and placed it properly over the back of a chair. He rolled his shirt sleeves back down and adjusted his cufflinks. The blond knew it would not make a difference in a gym—but it would for him. He ran a hand through his hair after slipping the change into his pocket and crossed the square along the fountain. He entered the large building he found ugly through its massive automatic glass doors.
____
It was the first time in his life that Sanji had stepped into a place like this, and he already regretted it. He felt out of place himself—exactly how Roronoa must feel in his café. The heels of his perfectly polished oxfords echoed against the concrete floor as he approached the front desk. If only there had been a woman, I would have been much more at ease. What a nuisance to endure a place dominated by men, the blond thought as he stood before the two bodybuilders at reception, busy discussing promotions on protein shakers from their favorite brand.
Sanji cleared his throat to interrupt them. “Good afternoon, gentlemen, excuse me for the disturbance,” he asked in his usual honeyed voice. “Would you happen to know if Mister Roronoa is in your establishment?”
The two masses of muscle stopped talking immediately to look him up and down. Sanji was not intimidated in the slightest and kept his professional smile.
“Who the hell is Roronoa?” the first one asked his neighbor, a redhead with a scar cutting across half his face. It looked as though a feline had tried to tear out his eye.
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” The second one looked puzzled. His long blond hair fell to his shoulders, framing a face covered by a blue-and-white surgical mask. “Wait, check the staff list, Kidd, I don’t know everyone’s last name.”
The red-haired man pulled out a binder from the cabinet at their feet and flipped through the pages somewhat randomly until they both let out a perfectly synchronized “ah!”
“Fuck, I didn’t know Zoro’s last name.” the refrigerator-built redhead said, activating his microphone to make an announcement across the entire gym. “Zoro, you’re wanted at reception by a blond guy wearing shoes more expensive than your salary. Move your ass.”
Sanji wrinkled his nose immediately; he would have appreciated the compliment if it hadn’t been delivered with such vulgarity by someone who reeked of sweat.
“He’s coming, don’t move.” the same man added. “Signing up?” he asked with amusement. “Wouldn’t hurt.” he judged openly, scanning Sanji’s physique with a piercing look.
“Kidd, don’t talk to customers like that.” his colleague cut in. “Could be a distant cousin or something.”
“Yeah right, if guys like that run in Zoro’s family, I’ll be Queen of England.” the first one mocked, taking a sip from his shaker.
Sanji did not have time to deliver a cutting reply before Roronoa Zoro himself appeared, wearing a tank top, covered in sweat, having just interrupted his own training. He wiped his face with a towel draped over his shoulder. “Can I help you?” he asked with disarming ease.
The blond clenched his teeth immediately—that was the exact phrase he himself had used earlier. He took a small breath before speaking, his polite smile firmly in place.
“It seems you left some change on the table. I came to return it.”
A pause. The two men at reception watched the exchange with as much interest as a brand-new sitcom episode.
“Did I miscalculate the price of the drinks?” Zoro finally asked after a moment.
“Not at all, but it was unnecessary to pay for my drink. Waiters have unlimited access to beverages.” Sanji commented flatly.
The sentence dropped like a stone into a lake, sending a chill through the room. Kidd pressed a hand to his mouth to keep from bursting out laughing. Sanji shot him a glare, not understanding the sudden agitation.
“Then consider it a tip.” Zoro concluded at last, easing the tension so no one would feel awkward.
“I believe you need it more than I do.” Sanji replied, condescending despite himself for once. “Besides, your daily workouts in front of my café are disturbing my clientele. If you could avoid running half-naked in front of my terrace, I would be most grateful.” he added with a small forced smile.
All three men opened their mouths in perfect silence after that last sentence. However, Sanji was pleased with what he believed to be the effect of his authority. “Perfect.” He set the change down on the reception desk. “I wish you gentlemen a pleasant end of the day—and that it be… very athletic?” Then he turned on his heel, posture perfectly straight, with the feeling that things had been set right and that his lesson in civility had been understood.
_____
The very charming waiter of the café on the square could not have been happier: his clientele seemed suddenly calmer, more at ease lately. Sanji had the pleasure of noticing that his tips had returned to their original amount and that the temperature had even risen these past few days. Spring was beginning to show its face, the sunny days were back, the birds were singing… In short, everything was well in the best of all worlds.
When Sanji leaned forward to serve a mimosa coupe to Madame Boncour, he could not help but compliment her complexion; she responded with a brief giggle before resuming her conversation. He then lifted his gaze and noticed that there was no one across from the terrace, behind the fountain. He raised an eyebrow and extended his wrist to glance at his luxury watch. Well then, he thought simply, that green-haired nuisance isn’t on his damn treadmill when it’s Monday, two in the afternoon? He stood there for a moment, taken aback, before shrugging without giving it further thought—after all, anyone could fall ill or have something come up from time to time.
However, under the weight of that vice called curiosity, Sanji caught himself checking, from one day to the next, then every day with a quick glance, whether the disruptive coach was there across from his terrace or not. It had to be said: he had not shown his face for at least fifteen days. The blond tried to chase away intrusive thoughts from his mind—perhaps even a trace of guilt. Had he really taken his remark at face value? In truth, he had not asked for much, simply respect for common decency.
The handsome blond was wiping glasses and polishing his counter when his mind suddenly spiraled: what if he had decided to disappear entirely? That made no sense! One does not resign over something so trivial… unless one were particularly sensitive to remarks. Or, let’s be optimistic: perhaps he had simply changed position and had been moved to reception for a while. Or perhaps he had fallen ill, or gone back to visit relatives for a holiday?
Everything was possible, and yet nothing seemed to satisfy Sanji. Moreover, his clients no longer spoke of him, nor even mentioned his name on the terrace, as if he had simply never existed. The blond almost had the unpleasant feeling that he had imagined the whole thing.
And yet, one Friday afternoon, the waiter was sitting at the familiar table on his terrace in the company of a friend, who could not help but remark:
“You seem deeply lost in thought, Sanji.”
Sanji straightened immediately, like a child caught doing something wrong, before becoming all sweetness again. “Come now, my dear Robin, it is nothing,” he defended himself before the woman of such striking beauty that, in the blond’s eyes, she remained one of the most beautiful women he had ever had the honor of seeing—and he was fortunate enough to call her his friend.
“You lie very poorly.” she teased, her chin resting in the palm of her hand.
“And you know me too well. It would almost become irritating if it were anyone else…”
“Well then,” she resumed, “what are you thinking about?”
The handsome man crossed his arms over his chest with a defensive sigh. “There was a coach from the gym across the street, particularly annoying, who kept parading half-naked in front of my terrace.” He pointed ahead with his chin to emphasize his point. “He disturbed my clientele, became their favorite topic of conversation to the point where several of them signed up for private sessions.”
He flicked the ash of his menthol cigarette into the ashtray, as if to regain composure and underline his argument, then continued in a serious tone: “I politely went to ask him to stop disturbing my clientele, quite simply, and since then, he has never reappeared.”
Robin watched him with a restrained, mischievous smile. “Mission accomplished, then. You must be delighted.”
“On paper, yes, but I cannot help feeling a kind of guilt. I do not see him going to work in the morning, nor leaving in the evening. It is as if he resigned, and I do not wish to be responsible for something like that!” he finished, his voice tight.
“And if it was his choice, after all?” she said, stirring the straw of her cocktail.
“Well, it is a rather irrational choice,” he admitted, arms tightening further around his chest. “It is not healthy to let oneself be ruled by one’s emotions like that. One does not leave a job over a remark from a waiter one has spoken to twice.”
“Maybe he did not leave his job. Did you go check?” she asked with a smile.
“Why would I do such a thing? It would be inappropriate. I went there once already, and no thank you, not twice. That place is thoroughly unpleasant. The smell of sweat is unbearable, the reception staff are vulgar, and there are no women. Or at least, they must be in the back rooms.” Sanji’s complaint was emphatic. “And if I were to see him, what would I even say? Hello, how are you? Explain your disappearance. Give me an account when we do not even know each other. Did I offend you with my words? I am sorry, but you only needed to cover yourself a bit, not abandon ship entirely.” Sanji crushed his cigarette into the ashtray after his tirade. “What would I look like? And besides, I have nothing to apologize for—I was within my rights. He simply misinterpreted my request.”
A pause.
“And how does one apologize to a man? Do you shake his hand and offer him wine? He is a sports coach, he would know nothing about it—it would be a waste! What could I give him as a token of good faith? It would have been much simpler if it had been a woman; I would have chosen a bouquet of flowers in a color that would highlight her eyes!” He lowered his head, overwhelmed by his own thoughts.
“One apologizes to a man the same way one apologizes to a woman, because they are both human beings, equipped with a brain, a pair of eyes…” She lazily played with the cherry from her ice cream glass in her mouth while letting her friend speak.
He lit another cigarette with a grumble. “They are two very different creatures, dear Robin, and you know it as well as I do.”
“Do not bring him anything if you do not know.” she suggested as a compromise. “Sometimes, an apology is enough.”
“Come now, who do you take me for? I am a gentleman. I never apologize empty-handed, it is a matter of propriety.” the blond defended himself once again. “Just because he is ill-mannered does not mean I should be!”
Robin finished her drink. “Men can like flowers. You like them yourself.”
Sanji remained silent and did not dare respond to the remark: still, flowers for a fitness coach! The waiter was a man of taste, after all—of course he appreciated the wonderful things nature had to offer.
____
A little later, on his smartphone, he looked up the gym’s closing hours. If he went to check for Roronoa’s presence, it would be without witnesses. But once again, Sanji found himself stuck in a mental labyrinth: what if he wasn’t on closing shift? He could hardly check every evening or every morning. The surveillance cameras might catch some strange man loitering around, and he would be greeted by a security guard.
The handsome blond sighed once more; he felt as though he had aged five years with all of this. All of this, which did nothing to resolve the question of what to buy as an apology. An apology he did not even have to make…
—--
Around nine in the evening, Sanji put on his coat and grabbed the bouquet of red primroses he had picked up before the florist next door closed and threw them away: it was all that was left. The waiter told himself it would do, that Roronoa likely knew nothing about the symbolism of flowers, and that if he asked about the color red, Sanji would brush it off by saying it was to contrast with his ridiculously dyed green hair. If he did not like flowers? Well, he would say they were for his date that evening—there, problem solved.
The elegant waiter, unpleasantly smelling of nicotine, locked up the café after turning off the lights, still brooding with a cigarette between his lips, thinking it was more than likely he would miss the coach anyway—and that it would only confirm that the man had resigned over something so absurd, like the muscle-headed idiot he was. He crossed the square, his heels clicking against the white stone, heading toward the building, now dark and closed. He glanced at his luxury watch with a quick flick of the wrist. “9:07 p.m.” Obviously, not the type to work overtime.
He let out one last breath of nicotine, crushed his cigarette under his shoe, and tossed the butt into the square’s trash can with a bitter disappointment he did not even understand, then told himself he might as well take a look at the parking lot behind the building. He lit another cigarette on the way and walked with determination—determined to leave the second he confirmed it was empty and that he was the only idiot in the area at that hour.
He wanted to be disappointed—and he was, in a way—when he spotted the coach leaning against the trunk of a car, scrolling on his phone or texting, looking completely indifferent, hair still wet and plastered to his forehead, a green-tinted drop of water running along his sharp jawline.
Sanji felt a weight settle in his chest; the situation was becoming more and more ridiculous, but he chose to wear his professional smile.
“You’re here.” he said, faster than he would have liked. The blond kept his usual assured stride and stopped a few steps away from the other man.
The coach lifted his eyes from his screen, vaguely surprised to see him in the parking lot. He did not respond.
In a honeyed tone, the blond added, “I thought you had resigned.” He meant it sincerely. “I may have been too direct with you, you didn’t have to—”
The coach straightened up like a stretching feline, his build immediately filling the space between them.
“You didn’t want your clients to see me anymore, right?” he said, a hint of aggression in his voice. “So what are you complaining about?”
Sanji felt his heels root into the asphalt. He had not expected such a tone, and he was not used to conversations under these conditions. He did not quite know what to answer, but kept his smile out of pure habit, professional reflex—the same one he would wear in front of an irritated customer.
“Look, I got that you weren’t into men. No need to push it by coming to talk to me. Three rejections in one day were enough—and the humiliation in front of my coworkers too.” His voice was low, sharp, but calm.
Sanji stood frozen, feeling something drop violently inside him at the coach’s words. He blinked quickly, unable to articulate a single syllable or produce a sound, even though his mouth had parted slightly. His lips trembled faintly under the piercing gaze of the green-haired man, who was sizing him up, staring at his face stiffened in incomprehension.
“Keep your apologies and your pity—I’ll get over it. I’m not your client, no need for your fake-ass politeness.” he finally added, with a contempt Sanji had never imagined receiving one day.
Sanji clutched his bouquet like a shield between them. The green-haired man turned on his heel and got into the driver’s seat of his car.
“Anyway, wouldn’t want to make you late for your date. Have a good evening.” he said curtly, glancing at the bouquet from the corner of his eye before rolling up his window and disappearing into the night.
_____
Sanji had been wiping the same glass for a good five minutes without realizing it, after downing a fizzy aspirin in that very glass in one go. His head had been buzzing for several days now, and he did not really know why—nor why he had been so inattentive lately, downright out of it. He could not even listen all the way through his clients’ gossip anymore, even though it had been his favorite activity. Worst of all, he had even let Madame Deschamps’s herbal tea steep for too long, making both of them undrinkable, each in its own way.
The handsome blond was now at a pack of cigarettes a day, and he had the strange feeling that the bouquet of red primroses he had eventually arranged on his counter was mocking him.
He did not understand this other sensation that had taken hold of him—like the bitterness of having hurt someone without meaning to. Sanji sighed as he smoked his cigarette, crouched behind the terrace wall, as usual, arms hanging loosely over his knees, looking utterly defeated. He had to admit it: he had clearly messed up, even if it did not happen to him often. The blond had made a promise to himself never to break a heart—and above all, to fill them all with love… until the day it was a man’s.
The waiter stared at the ground in front of him. Not only had he turned someone down without meaning to, but now he was going to be seen as the neighborhood’s condescending homophobe, when he had absolutely nothing against people like that. He reassured himself by thinking he had been lucky not to have had time to offer the flowers, because—even if he did not associate with gay people—he could easily imagine that offering flowers to a guy like that would not go over well at all. That would really have been the final straw, and given the man’s energy, he would probably have shoved the bouquet straight into his face—and he would have been right to do so.
The handsome man with sun-colored hair finished his third cigarette in a row, still bitter at having found no solution to fix the misunderstanding. If he dared show his face in front of that mountain of muscles again—even to apologize and explain the mix-up—he knew he would not be well received. He was in the best position to say it: there was nothing more violent than a broken heart.
—-
Weeks passed, and Sanji’s discomfort only faded from time to time. His façade was still there, his words still honeyed, always accurate and perfect for his clientele—but sometimes, he would think back to that sharp voice repeating in his head, like a mantra: Keep your apologies and your pity. Those concrete-gray eyes, hard and unyielding, seemed to stare at him constantly. He had not even dared tell Robin about the disaster, though she must have been expecting some kind of update after their discussion about the bouquet. She who—despite herself—would only make him feel even more crushed by guilt, so he chose to avoid her cowardly, unable to face his friend.
The blond had also not followed up on the date request from the baker on the parallel street, to whom he had suggested going out for a drink last month. He felt bloated these days, and it was probably due to his excessive consumption of cigarettes and double espressos, which had thrown his digestive system completely off. He also thought he should invest in a stronger shirt deodorizer, as he could no longer get rid of the stale tobacco smell from his clothes, which earned him amused remarks from his clients. Inevitably, his complexion had grown duller, and his sleep cycle more unstable than usual.
In other words, everything seemed to be falling apart lately, and he was seriously considering cutting down on coffee—while knowing perfectly well he would not manage it.
___
One Friday afternoon in early June, Sanji was scrubbing the space beneath his counter, sprawled on all fours, stomach flat against the ground—the end always justified the means for this cleanliness fanatic, who had recently made dust his worst enemy, to the point of hunting it down even under the furniture. He was cursing a soda cap he could not quite reach with his fingertips when he heard the front door slam. He straightened abruptly and a wave of nausea rose, forcing him to clutch the top of his stomach for a moment. Too bad for Madame Deschamps, who would have to witness this small, unplanned display of humanity, but Sanji could not help it. He coughed once, pale-faced, before putting on his most perfect smile.
That smile died instantly, because standing before him was not his usual forty-three-year-old Friday client with her birch herbal tea—but the coach from the gym across the street.
The green-haired man was dressed in sportswear, as ordinary as it gets: a white T-shirt and black basketball shorts reaching his knees. He still looked completely out of place in this establishment, and that inconsistency alone turned the waiter’s stomach, making him raise a fist to his mouth to hold back a reflux… of coffee.
“Everything alright?” a steady voice asked.
“Yes, yes.” Sanji replied weakly. “It’s the coffee, I stood up too fast.” He punctuated it with a nervous laugh and approached his unexpected client, subtly leaning forward, hands held properly like an impeccable waiter. “What can I get you?”
The answer did not come right away; he had to endure those concrete-colored eyes staring at him, studying him in detail, which made him force his smile a little more.
“Sparkling water with a slice of lemon.” Roronoa said flatly.
“Of course, of course.” the blond replied. “I should have guessed. I’ll bring it right away—please, have a seat, there’s space on the terrace… please…” The sun-haired man slipped immediately behind his counter, while the athlete sat down without hesitation. The muscular man took a high stool and sat directly across from him, continuing to stare as Sanji prepared the drink. Sanji, who had long dreaded those piercing eyes, now found himself facing them directly—and in a way that was anything but comfortable.
Roronoa broke the silence when Sanji placed the glass in front of him with what little coordination he had left.
“You still look just as dehydrated. Worse than before.” the athlete pointed out without dropping his gaze for a second.
Sanji did not reply. He even considered pretending he had not heard anything, if he focused hard enough on the glasses on his counter.
“You know your clients are worried? They keep going on about ‘poor Sanji’ or ‘our poor broken-hearted Sanji’ every day.” the man continued, calm, almost amused.
That sentence made Sanji lift his eyes immediately toward him, plunging him into sudden, massive confusion. “I beg your pardon?” the handsome waiter stammered, thrown off.
“So I came to check for myself—and yeah, you look like shit. I don’t know what she did to you, but she didn’t go easy.” His arms were crossed over his chest, his expression almost lecturing. “But I’m not gonna hold it against you. I know what it’s like to have your heart broken.”
Sanji blinked rapidly, feeling a kind of panic rise inside him that he had never experienced before. He had the irrepressible urge to correct the mistake: it was false, he was not heartbroken, and there had been no woman in his life recently—neither near nor far. He opened his mouth to correct the man in front of him, but the latter raised a hand to stop him and cut him off.
“Keep your apologies. Don’t start trying to take me for an idiot with your politeness. I told you already—I’m not your client.” he said very seriously.
Sanji’s shoulders slumped, and he looked at him, defeated.
“Don’t make that face. It happens to everyone—even the most charming waiters.” He chuckled softly into his glass, pleased with his own joke. “No one is irresistible.” he added in a soft tone that left room for doubt.
Sanji did not know whether the coach was still talking about him—or implying something else. He no longer had the strength to correct a man so convinced. The blond simply smiled nervously while frantically polishing a wine glass.
“I’ve got an idea.” Roronoa announced after finishing his drink in one go. “I’ll give you my number, and we’ll set something up to take your mind off things.”
“I… am not… homo…” Sanji tried with all his might. “phobic.”
“That’s good news, because it’s not flirting anyway.” Zoro corrected sincerely. He thought for a moment, glancing at Sanji’s watch. “You’re the sophisticated type. I bet a shopping session would do you good, right?”
“I suppose?” the blond replied more as a question than an answer.
“Deal, man. You contact me when you’re free, we’ll go buy you a nice shirt, you’ll flirt with the salesgirl, and everything will be back to normal.” Roronoa concluded, extremely satisfied with himself. He scribbled his number on a receipt he had in his pocket, left it on the table, and was gone in a flash after a brief nod, taking the change left on the counter with him.
It took a few moments for Sanji to process what had just happened in less than five minutes, for all the information to finally reach his brain. He tore off his apron in one motion, threw it onto a random chair, and rushed out of his café, striding quickly to hide behind the terrace wall. He crouched down, frantically pulled out his cigarette pack, grabbed one clumsily, and lit it immediately. After exhaling a thick cloud of smoke, the blond closed his eyes, trying to make sense of the clownish situation he had found himself in.
First: his clients were talking about him to their favorite coach. They thought themselves attentive and perceptive, but they were spreading false rumors. False rumors that Roronoa had believed.
Second—and worse than anything—he had come in person to check, and had even offered to act as emotional support for a heartbreak that did not even exist.
“What the hell is this bullshit!” Sanji groaned suddenly, spitting out his frustration. “I can’t believe how nothing is going right these days!”
He could not believe it. Everything kept getting worse, and nothing ever resolved itself. The handsome man sighed once more and fell into thought.
Though… a shopping session might actually do me some good after all…
_____
That same evening, after stepping out of the shower, hair still damp, comfortably dressed in his blue-and-white striped silk pajamas, Sanji lay on his stomach across his clean sheets, holding his smartphone just inches from his face. The screen displayed Roronoa’s number, freshly added to his contacts, and the blond refused to admit that it gave him the strange feeling of being fifteen again. Would he seem pushy if he contacted him that same night? Should he accept the proposal? And if so, what words, what phrasing would be appropriate?
“At least he doesn’t seem mad at me anymore for the triple rejection… and I managed to tell him I’m not homophobic… that’s something.” Sanji said out loud, alone, sprawled across his bed.
The waiter remained in that position, lost in thought for so long that he almost fell asleep staring at his screen, completely drained by the events. His eyelids fluttered, and he jolted when he realized he had pressed the send button by mistake. Sanji did not even have time to panic—the reply came immediately.
“Tomorrow at 4 works for me. Send me the address of your favorite shop.”
The blond narrowed his eyes, thinking he was dreaming—but no. He sat up immediately, nearly falling off his bed in the process. “What do you mean tomorrow at 4??” Sanji had simply sent: Good evening, this is Sanji from the café on the square, thank you for your proposal. Completely neutral. Why such a response?
Frozen, Sanji could not even edit or take it back. He simply sent a thumbs-up emoji before turning off the lights and crawling under his covers.
—-
The handsome blond did not work on Saturdays or Sundays—a luxury in the service industry, but one granted to him after three years of maintaining flawless standards. He was both waiter and head of service, coordinating with the kitchen and training staff.
That Saturday, after what he considered a restorative seven hours of sleep, he stretched and went straight to the luxury coffee machine he cherished above all else. He ground his own coffee and started the machine before sitting by the window to roll his cigarettes. It was his small weekend pleasure, one he could not afford during service due to lack of time. He pressed the small mint capsule into the filter and slipped the tobacco tube between his lips. The first inhale felt like a first sip of water after a long walk through the desert. He ran a hand through his hair, tucking a stray strand behind his ear, and smiled with satisfaction.
Sanji retrieved his coffee and returned to the window, listening to the birdsong despite the Parisian honking. He was used to it now; it did not bother him anymore. He watched passersby with quiet ease: young children running toward the nearby park, followed by their parents, businessmen rushing through their Saturday, and above all, the pretty women finally wearing dresses, revealing their legs in the first light of summer.
After starting a load of laundry with all his clothes from the week, the blond got ready and went to the market to buy vegetables for the week and fish for lunch. Through constant contact with the kitchen staff, Sanji had developed a quiet passion for cooking. It was comforting—like a woman’s smile. He greeted the grandmother at the seasonal fruit stand; it was the beginning of peach and nectarine season. The old woman offered him a full basket “to the most gallant and elegant young man in the neighborhood.”
The sun-haired man returned home, prepared himself a divine meal, then did the dishes in an unexpectedly good mood before beginning his afternoon activity: sewing new buttons onto one of his work shirts, worn from time. On his kitchen table, he laid out his sewing kit methodically and got to work peacefully.
A little later, he finished pulling the last white thread around the collar button and took a moment to admire the result. A faint smile sat on his face. “Very good.” he murmured, seeing that all the buttons aligned perfectly. He thought, with a touch of humor, that he could have been a cook—or a tailor—in another life.
At that precise moment, he picked up his phone to check the time. 3:33 p.m.
A shock ran through his entire body.
He had completely forgotten his appointment.
He jumped to his feet, not knowing where to begin. Shower? Outfit? Send a meeting location to Roronoa? Cancel? Warn him he would be late? He rushed to the window, grabbed a half-smoked cigarette butt, lit it quickly, then ran to the bathroom and jumped under the shower in a panic. He washed his hair hastily and only after a moment realized he still had the half-cigarette under the water. Sanji cursed, but continued scrubbing his body frantically, almost to irritation, without knowing why.
He stepped out naked, forgetting to dry himself, suddenly remembering he had not hung his laundry from the morning: most of his clothes were still wet. He yanked open his wardrobe in a desperate motion, nearly breaking it. He scanned his entire wardrobe and chose a soft olive shirt, black pleated trousers—the most classic option—and his suede weekend loafers. He quickly adjusted his gold buttons over his chest while looking at himself in the bedroom mirror.
The sight was horrifying: wet hair, dripping skin, an improvised outfit bordering on questionable. He did not think further, sprayed on too much perfume in haste, slipped on two gold rings from his nightstand, a gold necklace, grabbed a not-quite-empty pack of cigarettes and his wallet. He checked the time: 3:47 p.m.
He trembled as he sent the message, kicking his front door shut behind him.
“I’ll be at the shopping center across from the café in five minutes.”
He typed it without watching where he was going, narrowly avoiding falling down the stairs of his building. Sanji had never been so grateful to live so close to his workplace.
A few moments later, the blond arrived at a brisk pace on the square by the fountain, looking around for the coach, who had not arrived yet. He let out a breath of relief before regaining composure. He tightened the last button of his shirt collar and headed toward the concrete building, hands in his pockets. After checking, he saw that Roronoa had not even opened his message. He stared at the screen, eyes wide.
Time stopped. His heart too, for a moment.
Had he forgotten as well?
“You look like you just heard bad news.”
A calm voice approached.
Sanji jumped and turned to the man in front of him, who had just finished training at exactly four o’clock, still damp from the shower, wearing the same clothes as the day before. The blond opened his mouth, blinking.
“Not at all.” Sanji replied in his professional tone, forcing a nervous smile.
Roronoa smiled back. “Why do you have a half-wet cigarette in your mouth?”
Sanji grabbed the incriminating object and immediately threw it in the trash. “It’s nothing at all. Let’s forget it and start over.” He took a breath, extended his hand, and said seriously, “Good afternoon. Sorry for the late reply.”
The coach looked him up and down, barely holding back a laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but kept his smile as he shook his hand. “No problem. Where’s your favorite shop?”
The blond hesitated to let go of the handshake, though he brushed a strand of hair behind his ear. “On the Champs.” he said, without elaborating.
______
The handsome blond with sun-colored hair walked into the luxury boutique as if he were entering his own home. He was received as he should be—and even better: here, the saleswomen called him by his first name.
“Mister Sanji, what a pleasure to see you!” The brunette in her thirties, elegant and refined like the brand she represented, lit up at the sight of him. She immediately stepped out from behind her counter, her heels clicking as she hurried toward the man who was one of the staff’s favorites.
Sanji gave his most charming smile. “The pleasure is mine.” He took the young woman’s hand and brought it toward his face without pressing his lips to it—a true gentleman would never allow himself to kiss the skin of a woman who was not his—and she flushed instantly.
“Did you receive the invitation for the upcoming private sales? They are taking place next week…” she stammered, placing her hands neatly in front of her again, posture straight and professional.
While the blond excelled in polite conversation, Roronoa wandered through the shop with mild curiosity, taking his time. He looked at the shelves of perfectly folded clothes and the outrageously priced jewelry. A second sales assistant hurried over to him—almost trotting.
“Can I help you with anything?” The blonde, her hair pulled into a tight bun, her figure elegantly framed in a beautiful chocolate-colored suit, positioned herself beside him.
Roronoa looked her up and down, neutrally. “No, I’m good, thanks. Just looking. Not really my thing.”
His deep voice carried across the space, reaching Sanji from about ten meters away, making him turn immediately. He rushed over at once to the coach’s side to prevent a social disaster.
“Marianne, no need to worry. I will take care of sir.” he interjected softly.
Unfortunately for him, the young woman, captivated by the man in front of her, did not even hear him. She could not take her eyes off him. His overwhelming build made her seem small, and his indifference only made him more appealing. She blinked, dazed.
Sanji cleared his throat, irritated, but kept his gentle façade. “Marianne,” he said a bit louder, “I am speaking to you. Could you prepare two coffees for us?”
She startled, blushing with embarrassment as she looked at the blond, arms now crossed. “O…Of course, Mister Sanji. Right away.” And she hurried off like a startled rabbit.
Sanji allowed himself a small ironic smile at the corner of his lips, directed at the green-haired man. “Well… quite the success.”
But Roronoa, far from impressed, simply shrugged and went back to examining the clothes. He picked up an azure shirt and studied it for a moment. Sanji stood beside him, hands clasped behind his back—more like a vulture than a consultant.
“It’s the summer collection.” he specified.
“That would look good on you.” the athlete commented, pressing the shirt lightly against Sanji to see how it would look. “We’re here for you, to cheer you up.”
The blond did not move. He did not quite know what to say. Zoro remained focused, looking at the shirt, then at him, then at the shirt again, like an amateur stylist.
“This shade of blue is not very suitable for my complexion. The undertone is a bit… too cool.” Sanji said, suddenly uncomfortable as he looked at it.
“Oh yeah? Your clients told me you always advise them to match things to the color of their eyes… so I figured it was the right blue.” He placed the shirt back on the rack without taking offense. “But I don’t know anything about this, sorry.”
Sanji, with a speed he did not know he possessed, immediately grabbed the shirt again and said with a nervous laugh, “Let us put my precious advice into practice,” before disappearing toward the fitting rooms.
______
The handsome blond looked at himself in the mirror and, indeed, the undertone was not right—but something deep inside him prevented him from going against Roronoa’s choice. On top of that, he had not picked the right size. When he stepped out of the fitting room, the two women looked at him with enthusiasm.
“This model suits you wonderfully, Mister Sanji. However, I don’t think it’s the right undertone…”
Roronoa was seated beside them, arms crossed over his muscular chest, head tilted slightly to the side, invested. “Isn’t it a bit too big?”
Sanji, who was usually accustomed to being the center of attention, did not particularly enjoy the moment as Marianne went to fetch the correct undertone and a more fitted size. Surprisingly, for once, he had nothing to say and complied, trying on the new model under the combined pressure of the three of them.
But there was a new problem. A matter of size… quite literally.
Sanji stared at his reflection in the mirror with dread. The shirt was in the right tone and very fitted—two sizes smaller than the previous one—and it was impossible to ignore how much it revealed his waist and chest, far more than he was comfortable with. This was no longer the gentleman’s attire he cherished, but a seductive style that exceeded him. He almost felt ashamed to appear so exposed in public. He was not exposed, not really—but he felt exposed.
“Mister Sanji, is everything alright?” Marianne asked, slightly concerned, as her client had not come out for a good five minutes.
The blond sighed, gathering a bit of courage before stepping out of the fitting room and facing three pairs of eyes fixed on him like a statue in a museum. Sanji hated the feeling. Élodie lowered her gaze, flushed red, Marianne stared at him with her mouth slightly open, and Roronoa, extremely satisfied, wore a faint smirk.
Sanji stiffened under their reactions, his jaw tightening. “The size doesn’t suit me, but the color—” he did not have time to finish the sentence before the button over his chest popped under the pressure.
A religious silence fell.
The blond attempted to turn on his heel, head held high, posture perfectly straight, clinging to what little dignity remained. He undressed in silence at lightning speed, stepped out in silence, and acted as though nothing had happened. No one dared comment further, and Sanji found himself at the counter, paying for the shirt in the correct undertone and in the size he actually preferred.
Somewhere in between.
Once back on the avenue, Zoro was waiting, lazily scrolling on his phone. “What do you want to do now?” he asked naturally.
“No idea…” Sanji suddenly remembered they were supposed to be taking his mind off a supposed heartbreak; he lit a cigarette without thinking.
“What’s your favorite sweet?” Roronoa opened an app displaying a detailed map of Paris.
“I’m not much into sweets, to be honest…” Sanji admitted, slightly embarrassed. “But I haven’t had crêpes in a while.”
“Yeah, it’s a bit early for a savory one. But there aren’t really rules when it comes to enjoying yourself.” Roronoa started walking, already having found the nearest crêpe stand on his app. His nose was practically glued to the screen, as if he genuinely feared getting lost within three streets.
A few minutes later, they stopped in front of a brasserie that had set up a small crêpe stand. Roronoa sighed in relief and finally put his phone away, with the air of someone who had just accomplished something difficult.
The vendor was very beautiful. Sanji smiled at her, but did not have the reflex to compliment her when she addressed him. Instead, he looked at the list of toppings for his crêpe. He felt embarrassed—everything was far too sweet for him—but he was not going to back out when the coach had taken the trouble to bring him here. He hesitated a little too long for Zoro’s liking, who said:
“Can you make a plain crêpe? No toppings. He doesn’t like sugar.”
“Just one?” she asked, professional as ever, already preparing the plate.
“Yeah.” the green-haired man confirmed, relaxed, hands in his pockets. “I count my calories for training, I can’t have that kind of stuff.”
She nodded, slightly flushed at the sight of the two men, and got to work without further questions, while Sanji felt unsettled by the scene unfolding. He felt incredibly passive, like a child decisions were being made for—decisions far too relevant and well-suited to his own good.
Sanji now stood in the middle of Paris with a plain crêpe, warm and steaming, on a small cardboard plate in his hand. He hesitated before taking a bite, then felt relieved by the simple comfort of it. Roronoa, meanwhile, drank from his shaker without comment, one hand resting on the strap of his sports bag.
A sudden impulse formed in the blond’s mind: he extended the plate toward the coach, offering a small wooden fork. “One bite shouldn’t throw everything off.”
Roronoa gave a faint smirk. “Don’t bother. I’ll take the last bite if you want.”
Sanji did not insist, and they walked like that in a comfortable silence. The blond felt strangely at peace, not stressed—probably because he had not had any coffee that afternoon.
He was so lost in thought that he finished the crêpe without leaving the promised last bite for Zoro. His smile died immediately when he noticed the empty plate. The athlete did not make a fuss and simply threw it away out of habit before the blond could say anything.
At the same moment, Sanji realized they had instinctively walked back to the square where the café was located. The green-haired man yawned, adjusting his sports bag properly over his shoulder.
“It’s already six. Time flies.” he pointed out flatly. “Want me to walk you home?”
“Uh, I live just nearby.” the blond admitted, almost disappointed. He was not going to make Zoro go out of his way for so little.
“Alright, I’ll leave you here then.” There was a brief awkward pause. Roronoa broke it by giving Sanji a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Hope you enjoyed it—and that you feel better about that girl. They were all over you today. You should’ve gotten the crêpe seller’s number—she couldn’t stop staring at you when you were looking at the menu.”
Sanji gave a small, nervous smile without knowing why.
Zoro gave him one last smile, discreet but warm, before disappearing toward the building’s parking lot—leaving Sanji alone, standing there on the square.
He did not even have a cigarette left.
______
Sanji stood on the tips of his toes, balancing on a chair precariously placed on top of a large crate, still hunting down dust—this time, he was tackling the chandeliers in the café’s reception room. He was focused, pausing for a moment to hold back a wave of nausea brought on by his fourth espresso of the afternoon. Once he completed his task skillfully, he jumped down, landing elegantly on the floor. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, satisfied, before dusting off his service shirt and heading out to the terrace to check on his clientele.
He had been sleeping a little better lately, his complexion had regained some color, but the coffee still turned his stomach from time to time.
“Sanji, what a delight to see you cheerful again!” Madame Deschamps exclaimed enthusiastically.
“His heart has finally healed.” Madame Boncour added approvingly. “We must celebrate this properly.”
“Come now, ladies, the only thing worth celebrating is the honor of witnessing your beauty every day. I am the luckiest man alive.” he replied without a second thought, as the two women exchanged a knowing glance.
Sanji looked ahead of him—the empty treadmill—then at his watch.
A moment of silence.
Before he turned back inside to busy himself as best he could.
____
That summer felt particularly long to Sanji; the days were slow, endless. Most of his regular clients were away on their summer retreats. He now served tourists with whom he could form no connection, while his adoptive father refused to grant him any summer leave or the rest he deserved.
He had finally accepted—four months late—the date with the neighborhood florist. As he got ready to go, he buttoned a light linen shirt in front of his mirror, avoiding truly looking at himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he briefly noticed the shopping bag containing the blue shirt he had not unpacked since June. The bag sat in the corner of the room; it had not moved an inch since the day he bought it.
That same evening, as they left the restaurant, the woman took Sanji by the arm naturally and held onto him with a lovely smile. The blond admired the florist’s beauty—her pink lips, the beauty mark on her chin. He felt a quiet fondness but said nothing. He simply walked beside her in silence after lighting a cigarette. The handsome blond let himself be led along without resistance. His eyes fell on a brightly lit cinema poster glowing in the night. A historical samurai adventure. Something for children, probably. He kept walking without a word.
Sanji thought: Wasn’t he a former kendo champion? At least, that was what Madame de Boncour—or Madame Deschamps—had mentioned once. He could not quite remember.
“I live in this building,” the florist said, stopping. “Do you want to come up?”
The sun-haired man knew perfectly well what would happen if he followed this beautiful woman upstairs after such a dinner.
He accepted nonetheless.
____
The next day was Friday. As usual, Sanji was hidden behind his wall, lingering there while smoking, his arms hanging loosely over his knees. He ran a hand along the back of his neck, thinking about the night before—the date, the end of the evening. On paper, everything had gone well, truly: he had managed to do what he had to do. Camille had been so pleased that she had suggested another date.
And yet, the handsome waiter could not help but feel… disgusting. He had no other word for it, surprising as it seemed even to him. He clenched his jaw, head lowered, weighed down and empty. Suddenly, through eyes almost blurred, he noticed a pair of sneakers a few inches in front of him.
The blond was so startled that he jolted backward, hitting the back of his head against the café’s stone wall before landing on his backside. A strong hand caught him by the bicep and pulled him back to his feet with force—yet absurd ease. The fingers seemed to press through the fabric of his shirt, almost imprinting into his skin, which nearly made him groan.
“Sorry to startle you like that. You looked lost in thought, didn’t want to bother you.” Roronoa’s voice, low but warm, reached him.
Sanji exhaled, trying to regain composure. “It’s nothing.” He placed a hand over his racing heart. He knew that fifth coffee had been too much.
“Still heartbroken? I saw you from the third-floor veranda. Walked by twice in twenty minutes—you didn’t move an inch. Didn’t look up, didn’t even switch cigarettes. It was kind of creepy.” Roronoa said, trying to lighten it a little. He finally let go of Sanji’s arm.
The blond frowned immediately, carefully pulling his shirt closed in a defensive gesture, hiding any trace from the night before at the collar. “I’m not heartbroken.” His voice came out sharper than he intended.
Roronoa remained calm. “Alright.”
An awkward silence settled. Sanji’s shoulders dropped without him realizing. He looked at the man in front of him, unable to find what to say.
Then, like an electric shock, his mouth spoke on its own.
“Yesterday, I saw a samurai movie poster and—”
“Yeah, I know!” Zoro cut in, suddenly animated, a bright spark in his eyes. “I wanted to go see it, but neither Kidd nor Killer want to come with me to watch that kid stuff…” His tone betrayed the exact opposite.
Sanji had never seen him smile like that. Roronoa seemed by nature reserved, calm, not particularly expressive—but this time, it was clear the film touched something in him. The waiter found himself strangely softened by it.
“We could… maybe… well, I’m not really into that… but I wouldn’t mind…” the blond attempted, stumbling over each word.
“You want to go see it together?” Zoro crossed his arms, visibly pleased.
“Well, why not, I don’t judge the fact that—”
“Tonight?” Zoro had already taken his phone out, checking showtimes.
Caught off guard, unable to respond properly, Sanji simply nodded, his eyes a little too wide.
“My shift ends at nine…” Sanji added, as if holding onto something solid. “But… there might be another showing.”
“Tomorrow, four? Like last time? We’re both off—might as well enjoy it.”
“Yes… that would be better…” he breathed, not really knowing why.
____
The next day at two in the afternoon, already showered, styled, and perfumed, the blond waiter stood in front of his bed in nothing but his underwear, hands on his hips, a doubtful expression on his face. He was staring at the azure-blue shirt he had laid out on the sheets. He did not know if it was a good idea to wear it. Sanji had never worn it anyway, and he was not even sure he had the right trousers to make the perfect outfit. It might even be a bit tacky to wear the shirt Roronoa had chosen—when he was about to see him. It screamed look, I thought about it, in his opinion.
But at the same time, he did not really know when else he would wear it, and it would be a waste to leave it in its bag in the corner of the room.
“At least it won’t smell like cigarettes, and it’ll be more pleasant if we end up sitting next to each other.” he said out loud, before deciding to put it on—after applying some oil to his chest so his skin would not be dry.
Sanji walked quickly, forcing himself not to smoke as he ruminated. He wondered if he should have looked into the film’s plot, just to have something to talk about while waiting in line. As it stood, he had no idea what it was about, did not know the director or the actors—and on top of that, he had forgotten to charge his phone, making it impossible to check at the last minute.
He pushed through the cinema doors half an hour early to take in the place. He scanned the surroundings, studying the architecture and the type of clientele before heading to the counter and automatically buying two tickets. He knew Roronoa was the type to show up exactly on time, so he would have plenty of time to use the restroom, settle himself, and observe the women around.
Once inside the cinema restroom, he took a moment to look at himself: the darkness under his eyes did not stand out too much. He had covered any questionable or inappropriate marks from two days before on his neck with makeup. He adjusted his collar, his cufflinks, and checked for any creases in his shirt.
No. Nothing to criticize.
He stepped out, hands in his pockets, slightly frowning, dissatisfied with something he could not even name, when he ran straight into Zoro in the lobby—dressed in sportswear, socks and slides, completely relaxed, a bucket of popcorn in his hands.
Sanji hated people who ate in movie theaters. It was improper. This was a place of art—one did not eat fries in a museum.
“Here, I got it without sugar.” Zoro handed him the popcorn confidently. “Nice shirt.”
Sanji took the popcorn without hesitation, as if to avoid thinking about it, muttered a faint thanks, and headed toward the theater.
“I got the tickets online.” the green-haired man announced, his color starting to fade slightly, showing the screen of his phone.
“I… did too…” Sanji replied, caught off guard, surprised. He had always been the one to pay, without even thinking. This time, he had not seen it coming. His wide eyes drew a smile from Zoro—a simple smile, without malice, which only deepened the blond’s discomfort, as he now struggled against a feeling of shame whose origin he could not grasp.
The waiter followed Zoro into the theater, which had not yet gone dark. He was still unsettled. He had always believed it was the man’s role to pay for tickets—but since Zoro was a man as well, he should have anticipated that Zoro would have the same reflex.
It was only as he sat down that Sanji felt a wave of unease: there was no one else in the room. No noise, no distraction. Just the two of them. After all, they were fifteen minutes early.
Sanji took a seat at the back, his shoulder against the wall, leaning into it as though already weighed down by the atmosphere. He had to admit that Zoro was not the type to ask too many questions or force empty conversation, which spared him from having to speak when he had nothing to say. He was there, half on his phone, half elsewhere, and Sanji found himself oddly grateful not to have to carry everything. He could simply watch a meaningless film and nothing more.
His mind wandered as he absentmindedly ate his popcorn, suddenly exhausted, when he heard a mother and her eight-year-old son enter the room and sit a few rows ahead. The blond sighed, genuinely wondering how he had ended up in this situation: a Saturday afternoon, watching a samurai movie he had no interest in, losing more than an hour of his life.
The film began, and as expected, it was loud and uninteresting. The plot was poorly constructed, the actors were bad, the women overly sexualized and useless to the story to the point that Sanji could have written an entire critique for a feminist magazine about such visual and narrative treatment. He even frowned, glancing at Zoro to see if he shared the same indignation.
But the only thing he saw was a grown man completely absorbed, mouth slightly open, impressed by the special effects.
Sanji let out a quiet breath through his nose, amused, and continued watching Roronoa’s reactions, which were, in truth, far more entertaining than the film itself. He became animated during action scenes and fights, like someone watching a real boxing match.
The waiter grew irritated when a stray lock of hair disrupted the view before his eyes. He leaned closer to fix it, to smooth down the rebellious strand—but the sound of an explosion from the film made him flinch halfway through, spilling half his popcorn onto the floor. A small, sharp cry escaped him, his hand flying to his racing heart.
Roronoa turned his head to ask if he was alright, noticing that Sanji had moved closer.
“You want to tell me something?” he asked, instinctively leaning in, offering his ear.
Sanji’s lips brushed his skin in a warm, suspended breath.
The blond trembled, frozen, completely unable to move. His arm had somehow ended up behind the back of Zoro’s seat, though he could not tell how.
He was suddenly so close that he could smell him—an unfamiliar scent for which he had no words. It was simply there, overwhelming in a way he had never experienced. He tried to speak, to explain himself, but he could not. In truth, he did not understand why he had not moved away.
The coach, still leaning in, waited in vain for an answer. At last, he turned his head—and found himself face to face. Literally. Nose to nose.
And in a sudden shift of gravity, Sanji’s lips met his.
Neither man moved. Both caught off guard.
Zoro’s eyes were wide open. Sanji’s were tightly shut, his face drawn with shock and something close to fear.
And yet, he did not pull away.
If anything, he seemed to sink into him—his body no longer responding.
Sanji broke the contact after a good ten seconds and straightened up, breathless, eyes wide open, a new guilt crushing him, accompanied by a completely uncontrollable heartbeat. For a moment, he thought he might faint. Something inside him prevented him from lifting his gaze to meet the other man’s eyes. He did not have the time anyway—he was suddenly grabbed by the collar, the button bursting under the pressure, by an exceptional force that slammed him against the wall behind him, nearly knocking him out.
The blond tried to let out a sound but could not—his mouth had been covered in a fraction of a second. Lips devoured his with urgency. He was still held firmly against the wall. The information did not even reach his brain; his body felt reduced to almost nothing, as he could no longer breathe. And yet, he did not struggle. He tried to adjust to such brutality as best he could, attempting to breathe through his nose.
Sanji did not know what to do with his body. He had simply kept his eyes closed the entire time, though his hand rose on its own into Zoro’s hair, as if it knew what to do before he did. His lower lip was bitten, and the moment he felt a tongue enter his mouth, he opened his eyes and realized—especially as a hand seized his face, thumb and fingers pressing into his cheeks to deepen the kiss.
A kiss?
Somehow, Sanji regained the use of his legs. He pushed himself up abruptly, stepping over the other man without really knowing how, and left immediately.
He fled, pushing open the cinema doors as though chased by something. The blond ran to the nearest restroom, bracing his hands on either side of the sink and staring at his reflection in the mirror. He was out of breath, disheveled, his wrinkled shirt open across his chest where the button had been torn off. His cheeks were flushed deep red, his eyes shining with an intense light.
Sanji steadied himself as he took in the damage of the disaster that had just unfolded. A laugh burst out of him—loud, almost echoing through the empty, austere room. His smile stretched so wide it hurt.
A few moments later, he found himself back in the lobby, facing a visibly worried Zoro, his features tense. Relief crossed his face the moment he saw Sanji approaching. He opened his mouth, ready to apologize—but was stopped short by a simple gesture of the blond’s hand.
“Thank you.”
____
Madame Deschamps and Madame de Boncour were seated at their usual spot on the terrace—on the right side of the fountain, directly facing the gym, which, to their greatest delight, was once again occupied by their favorite coach, running in a tank top on his treadmill. Their view was interrupted by their charming waiter, who skillfully refilled their champagne glasses without being asked.
“Sanji, you look radiant today!” the blonde complimented. “Your complexion… what a pleasure to be welcomed like this upon our return from vacation.”
“How do you manage to look like this after staying in Paris working all this time?” the brunette asked.
The sun-haired man adopted a faintly dramatic air. “Ladies, it’s simpler than you think.” He placed a hand over his heart and, for a moment, let his professional mask fall to offer them a genuine smile.
“It’s quitting coffee.”
A pause. A wink.
“And incidentally… love.”