Ship lights glimmered on the inky black surface of the water around the Baratie. Ropes creaked and bumpers knocked against the wooden docks. A sliver of moon hung above, stars salting the dark sky around it. Sanji took a drag on his cigarette, the cherry glowing briefly. The sea breeze ruffled his blond hair, and he flicked it out of his face.
It had been a long evening, and it still wasn’t over. He’d escaped for a break on the outer staff deck near the kitchen. The kitchen he’d been kicked out of and forced to wait tables instead. His jaw tightened with annoyance. Fucking old geezer, stuck in his ways. His tuna had been a masterpiece, and it had been discarded like he’d plated shoe leather. Then he’d been kicked off the line. Him. The best chef on this floating shitbucket.
Sanji took another drag and exhaled with frustration. He hated working the floor. They’d all had to do it over the years when servers quit, but they were fully staffed at the moment, and Zeff was just being an asshole. He belonged in the kitchen. He was made to cook.
The Baratie shifted with the water. Cutlery clattered through the wall behind him, and the muffled conversation of customers on the upper balcony drifted down. Grease, broth, grilled fish, and tobacco clung to his jacket no matter how much he aired it out. Beneath that was the sea, salt-heavy and cold, pressing in through every crack in the floating restaurant.
Sanji loved the place. He hated it, too. Both things were true most nights.
“Hey, waiter.”
Sanji’s shoulders tensed at the voice behind him, but he forced his face into a pleasant customer service smile as he turned. “Yes? How can I be of assistance – oh, it’s you.”
It was the Chore Boy’s shipmate. The swordsman. “You talk to all your customers that way?” the swordsman said, hand resting casually on the three katanas at his hip.
“Only the non-paying ones,” Sanji said. He would never withhold food from someone hungry, whether they could pay or not, but this wasn’t his restaurant, and he currently didn’t give a fuck. “What do you want?”
“Restroom.”
Sanji arched his brow. “Didn’t you see the signs?”
The swordsman shifted on his feet, gaze sliding away. “Did. But this place is a maze.”
Sanji’s lips twitched. “Right.”
The swordsman scowled. “You going to tell me or not, waiter?”
“Chef.”
“What?”
“I’m a chef. Not a waiter.”
Dark eyes swept over Sanji. “Look like a waiter to me.”
“Well, I’m not.”
The swordsman leaned back against a support beam and began cheekily ticking off his fingers. “You took our order. Brought us food. Refilled our drinks. Gave us the bill.” A corner of his mouth pulled up. “Sounds like a waiter to me.”
It was Sanji’s turn to scowl. “So I may be temporarily serving tonight. Doesn’t make me any less a chef.”
The smug look remained. “Whatever you say… waiter.”
Sanji thought about punting him into the sea. “Says the swordsman who can’t read.”
Oh, that struck a nerve. The smug look disappeared beneath a glower. “Can read just fine.”
“And yet, here you are instead of in the restroom.”
The hand resting on the katanas wrapped around the hilt of one. “You want to make something of this?”
Sanji itched to accept, work some of his anger out, but he was technically still on duty, and he’d already had one dustup this evening. “As much as I’d love to wipe the deck with your cute little ass, I have a job to do.”
The swordsman blinked at him, and then a dusting of pink spread across his cheeks. He looked away sharply. Well, wasn’t that interesting? Sanji’s irritation loosened by a degree. The night had been shit, but this was at least entertaining.
“You wouldn’t have won,” the swordsman muttered.
Sanji’s mouth curled into a grin. “Is that so? You saw what I can do earlier. You think your toy swords are a match for me?”
“They’re not toys.” The scowl returned. “And yes.”
“Hm.” Sanji took a drag on his cigarette, exhaling as he spoke. “You got a name, swordsman?”
A hesitation, as if he was startled to be asked. “Roronoa Zoro.”
Surprise hit Sanji. He knew that name from the newspaper and guest gossip. “You’re much too pretty to be the Demon of the East Blue.”
The blush returned, stealing across Zoro’s face and up to his ears. His voice was gruff when he responded. “You planning on pointing to the restroom, or are you going to keep yammering all night?”
Sanji’s amusement curled through the last of his irritation. He’d expected arrogance from a man with three swords and a name people whispered over dinner. He had not expected him to blush this prettily and then try to growl his way out of it.
“I’ll take you,” Sanji said, pulling a last drag on his cigarette and flicking the butt over the rail. He shot Zoro a smirk. “Ship’s a maze, after all.”
Zoro’s expression darkened, but he didn’t say anything more.
Sanji pushed off the rail and held the door with two fingers, listening to the immediate swell of noise from inside. Plates hit tabletops. Someone laughed too loudly. Patty was shouting at a customer, or possibly at Carne, which sounded much the same through a wall. The whole restaurant rocked gently beneath their feet.
Sanji led him to the staff restroom behind the kitchen, since it was closest. They passed the kitchen doors on the way, and his mood soured again at the slice of heat that rolled out. Through the round window, he caught a glimpse of flame under pans, steam clouding the lamps, and Zeff’s tall white toque moving through Sanji’s kitchen as if Sanji had been born to ferry drinks instead of build miracles over a burner. His hands twitched at his sides.
Then Zoro bumped his shoulder against a narrow corner post and muttered something foul under his breath, and Sanji’s attention snapped back to where he was going.
He pushed open the restroom door. The utilitarian lights revealed two stalls, a row of urinals, sinks, and a brass-rimmed mirror spotted at the corners from salt air and constant steam. Soap dispensers and scentless hand lotion sat beneath it. The room smelled faintly of bleach, damp wood, and the industrial soap Zeff bought by the crate. The lamps buzzed overhead, bright enough to make the white tile look harsh. Zeff didn’t hire women, so no need for a genderless restroom.
Zoro went to the urinals, and Sanji took the opportunity to fix his hair and straighten his tie. He washed his hands out of habit. Even if he wasn’t on the line, he was still handling food. He scowled at the reminder, wiping his hands with a paper towel and chucking it forcefully at the bin.
“What’d that paper towel do to you?” Zoro’s slow voice accompanied the urinal’s flush, and he walked over to the sinks.
“You wouldn’t get it,” Sanji said shortly.
Zoro washed his hands. “That hard being a waiter?”
Sanji clenched his jaw and glared at Zoro’s reflection in the mirror. “Not a waiter.”
“That’s right. You’re a ‘cook.’” Zoro used air quotes before shutting off the tap.
“Chef,” Sanji corrected tightly.
“Same thing.”
“No. It’s not.”
Zoro reached past him for a paper towel. Up close, his dark brown eyes had flecks of gold around the edges. “Bet you suck at it. That’s why you’re waitering.”
Annoyed or not, Sanji wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass. “I only suck one specific thing,” he said, leaning into Zoro’s space. “And that’s not cooking.”
Zoro’s sharp inhale hit the tiled room, and that lovely flush slid across his skin again. His gaze held Sanji’s, though. He stayed right where he was, stubborn and red-eared and daring Sanji to do something about it.
So Sanji did.
Zoro tasted like beer and spice from dinner, warm-mouthed and rough in the way he kissed back. Sanji pressed him against the wall beside the dispenser, kissing him deep enough to shut out the buzz of the lights, the stink of bleach, the whole miserable evening waiting outside the door. His thigh slid between Zoro’s, bringing them close, and Zoro’s swords clacked at his side as his fingers curled hard into Sanji’s lapels.
Sanji needed this. Needed the heat of him. Needed a pretty boy with soft lips and strong thighs. Needed something that belonged only to him for five stolen minutes. The whole night had been orders, plates, insults, and Zeff’s bullshit, and then Zoro made a low sound against his mouth, hungry and startled, and Sanji stopped thinking about anything else.
He broke away long enough to throw the lock, then came back to him. After that, it went fast. Messy. Exactly as dirty as the room deserved. Zoro cursed under his breath, then lost words when Sanji dropped to his knees. Zoro looked down at him with a kiss-reddened mouth and high color on his face. He cursed when Sanji wrapped his fingers around him, pulling him free of his trousers. He cursed even more when Sanji used his mouth. His fingers slid into Sanji’s hair, gripped tight, and Sanji let himself sink into it: the heat, the weight of Zoro’s hand, the sharp little gasps he dragged out of him, the way Zoro’s legs shifted like he was fighting to stay standing out of pride alone.
Sanji had always liked pride. It made surrender sweeter.
When Zoro finally shuddered apart, Sanji rose and kissed him again with the ruin Sanji made of him lingering on his tongue. He pressed close, hard and aching, and dragged his mouth along Zoro’s hot cheek until he reached his ear. “Alright if I fuck you?”
Zoro’s fingers tightened at Sanji’s waist. His answer came in a rough, immediate nod.
Sanji bit lightly at the earrings dangling from Zoro’s ear, tugging them enough to make Zoro’s breath catch, then left a mark beneath them where the collar would almost hide it. Almost. He turned Zoro toward the sinks, guided him down against one, and from there the room narrowed to skin, heat, and the mirror in front of them. Hand lotion and an adept use of fingers got Zoro ready, and then Sanji was pressing in.
The first push stole Sanji’s breath. Hot. Tight. Silky on the inside. Zoro gripped the sink, head bowed, mouth open around sounds he clearly had no intention of making and no ability to stop. Sanji watched him in the mirror: flushed face, parted lips, shoulders braced, dark eyes gone unfocused when Sanji found the right angle. It was quick and rough and too good, the kind of good that burned through the last scraps of Sanji’s restraint until all he had left was the rhythm of his body and Zoro coming apart under him.
The scent of musk and sex filled the air, cutting through bleach and cheap soap. Sweat gathered at Sanji’s temple. Heat crawled under his shirt. Pleasure built hard and fast, and Sanji chased it with his mouth against Zoro’s shoulder, his hands tight on him, his thoughts gone down to nothing but more, yes, there.
Zoro broke first, shaking against the sink with a punched-out sound that went straight through Sanji. Sanji followed a few moments later, losing himself so completely that the buzzing lights vanished, the restaurant vanished, the whole damn night vanished. For a few seconds, there was only Zoro’s body under his hands, the hard beat of his own pulse, and the slow drag back into himself after.
Spent, he swallowed and lifted his head, breathing hard. Zoro was looking at him in the mirror, face relaxed, mouth red, eyes still dark with satisfaction. Sanji withdrew carefully and grabbed paper towels to clean them both up.
Outside the locked door, the Baratie carried on. Water slapped against the hull. Somewhere down the corridor, a server cursed and dishes rattled. Sanji stood there with his shirt sticking to his back and Zoro’s sated expression reflecting back at him, and for a few seconds, he felt better than he had all evening.
He straightened his own clothes, then fixed Zoro’s as well: waistband, shirt, haramaki, the fall of the swords at his hip. Then he pulled Zoro around and kissed him again, slower this time, because he could.
Zoro hummed against his mouth, and when Sanji drew back, his lips curved slightly. His dark eyes danced. “Not bad… for a waiter.”
Sanji sputtered, and Zoro grew smug. Sanji gave him a shove as he stepped away. “Cheeky swordsman.”
Zoro’s smirk only grew.
“Think you can find your way out of here, or do you need someone to hold your hand?” Sanji said, stepping to the next sink to wash his hands thoroughly.
“I think I can manage.”
Sanji quirked a brow. “You sure about that?”
Zoro’s expression darkened, and it was Sanji’s turn to smirk.
He smoothed his tie and rebuttoned his suit coat, checking himself over one last time in the mirror. “You ever come back to the Baratie, I’ll give you your dessert first.”
Even though they’d just fucked, the tips of Zoro’s ears went red again. “What makes you think I’d want seconds?”
Sanji winked at him. “Of course you do.”
Zoro scoffed dismissively, even as the blush grew and he averted his eyes. “Wasn’t that good.”
“You keep telling yourself that,” Sanji said, and tapped him lightly on the cheek.
Zoro jerked his head away. “I see you again, I’m pretending I don’t know you.”
Sanji’s grin widened. “Then I’ll do the same. Until you come begging.”
“Not gonna beg,” Zoro said flatly.
Sanji leaned in, pausing a hairsbreadth from Zoro’s lips. “Oh, you definitely will.”
He snatched one last kiss, then pivoted on his heel and headed for the door. “Ta for the fuck.”
The restroom door swung shut behind him on Zoro’s audible huff. Sanji’s smile of satisfaction stretched across his face. The corridor hit him with warm air, kitchen noise, and the smell of caramelizing onions. He paused long enough to smooth his hair back into place and check that his grin had settled into something less obscene before rounding the corner. He could still feel the ship’s gentle roll under his shoes, could still taste smoke and salt and Zoro.
Now to get through the tail end of service and get back on the line.
End