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"If you slice off your own ear, I am not serving you booze for a month," Sanji announces from the doorway.
Zoro pauses, the frankly terrifying hunting knife hovering an inch from his left temple. He meets Sanji’s unimpressed gaze in the bathroom mirror. "It’s getting in my eyes during training," he grunts, as if performing a self-lobotomy with a blade meant for skinning sea kings is a perfectly normal solution to long hair.
"Put the weapon down, you troglodyte," Sanji sighs, stepping into the cramped space. He nudges Zoro’s shoulder until the swordsman begrudgingly lowers the knife, then opens the cabinet to retrieve a pair of actual shears. "Sit."
Zoro flips the toilet lid down and sits, crossing his arms, looking entirely put out. "Don't make it weird."
"The only thing weird here is your complete lack of basic grooming skills," Sanji retorts, stepping between Zoro's spread knees.
He runs his fingers through the green hair, intending to yank it just a little to prove a point, but the thought short-circuits before it can translate to his hands. It’s infuriatingly soft. He gathers a section between his index and middle finger and begins to snip, the rhythmic sound of the scissors filling the small room.
They fall into a familiar quiet rhythm. It requires Sanji to step closer, his thighs brushing against Zoro's knees, his hands moving gently around the shell of Zoro's ears and the nape of his neck. For a guy who spends his life swinging chunks of steel around, Zoro goes entirely still under Sanji's hands, his eyes slipping shut.
It hits Sanji, then, with a sudden warmth in his chest. A man whose entire existence revolves around survival and combat is sitting perfectly docile with his eyes closed, letting Sanji hover a sharp pair of metal shears right over his carotid artery. The terrifying weight of that trust makes Sanji’s breath hitch.
Sanji brushes the loose strands from Zoro’s forehead, his thumb lightly grazing the swordsman’s temple. "You could at least try to stay awake," Sanji mutters.
"M'awake," Zoro rumbles. Uncrossing his arms, Zoro’s heavy hands fall to rest lazily on Sanji’s hips. He doesn't pull, doesn't try to initiate anything; his thumbs just hook casually into the belt loops of Sanji's trousers, anchoring himself to the cook’s warmth. "You have nice hands."
I trust you. I like you taking care of me.
Sanji’s face floods with heat. He takes a very deliberate, very careful step back, if only because his heart is suddenly hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Stop saying stupid things while I'm holding scissors near your head, marimo."
Zoro cracks one eye open, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a lazy smirk. "Just stating facts, cook."
Sanji aims a half-hearted kick at Zoro’s shin, but he doesn't brush the hands off his waist. "Turn your head to the left," he orders, his voice slightly rougher than before. "And if you fall asleep, I'm shaving you bald."
Zoro chuckles, a rumbling sound that vibrates against Sanji’s stomach. He obediently tilts his chin and turns his head to the right.
Sanji pauses, the metal shears hovering uselessly in the air. He stares down at the idiot sitting between his knees, utterly exasperated. "Your other left, idiot."
"Shut up, I knew that," Zoro grunts defensively, though the tips of his ears flush a faint pink as he corrects his angle. He closes eyes again, settling his heavy weight back into Sanji's space, and lets the cook work.