Motivation

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Chapter 4
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The rest of the day was lazy. It was beautiful outside, with blue skies and hardly a cloud in sight. A cool breeze kept the temperature perfect.

Sanji, however, decided to stay in his kitchen yet again, trying hard not to stare out the window as Zoro trained on deck. He convinced himself that he wanted to work on a particularly difficult dessert recipe that he'd been sitting on for a couple of weeks.

He was becoming increasingly irritated with himself. Zoro had apologized in an unprecedented display of maturity, and Sanji hadn't
even had the presence of mind to give him a good kick for his stupidity. He had just stood there, completely at a loss for words.

And it had happened again at breakfast.

He was going to have to pull it together or the crew would think he was sick. And then Chopper would be compelled to give him a time-consuming physical, plus whatever else the walking chew-toy could think up.

Sanji looked down at the batter he had just made. The recipe had taken a lot less time than he'd hoped, and once he poured it into a pan and set it to bake he'd be out of things to do. The crew had just eaten lunch, and even Luffy would think it was strange if

Sanji started on supper already.

Suddenly, the door to the cabin swung open, clattering agains the wall. Sanji spun around, taken off-guard.

Zoro strode into the room, tan skin glistening with sweat. He barely glanced at Sanji, instead heading towards the refrigerator.

"Oi! Marimo!" Sanji snapped, "You're tracking shitty-swordsman juice all over my kitchen. It's unsanitary."

Zoro ignored him, opened the fridge and took out the jug of lemonade Sanji had mixed mid-morning. He poured himself a glass and took a long gulp, still avoiding eye-contact.

Sanji scowled, watching despite himself as Zoro's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He crossed his arms and leaned against the sink. "Oi. Shithead. Did you hear what I said?"

Zoro finished his glass, unhurried, and then walked over to where the cook was standing. He was looking down as he walked, still not making eye contact. Finally, less than a foot away, he stopped and looked up. Sanji felt a jolt as Zoro caught his eye and held it.

His eyes were oddly soft. It was like he understood something about the cook that Sanji himself didn't get.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sanji growled, his voice huskier than he'd intended.

Zoro, his eyes still intent on Sanji's, leaned forward slowly and placed his lemonade glass carefully in the sink behind the cook. His arm brushed by Sanji's, he could feel its warmth even through the layers of his black suitjacket and white dress shirt. The swordsman smelled like sweat and spice and seasalt.

And it pissed Sanji off that he'd noticed.

Zoro drew back. "So I wasn't mistaken," he said softly.

"What?" Sanji asked, despite himself.

Zoro smiled.

Sanji felt his eyes widen.

He had never seen Zoro look like that. It was almost...pleasant. The simple upturning of his lips lightened his countenance and made his face look carefree and young in a way the cook could never have imagined the other man being.

"But you would never admit it, would you," Zoro murmured.

With one lightning-fast movement, Zoro shot a hand forward and grabbed Sanji's tie. Before the cook had time to react, he was yanked forward by the neck. His hands flailed, searching to find the same balance that his mind was, but instead Zoro's other hand caught his own, lacing their fingers. Before Sanji had time to process and protest, Zoro's firm lips were on his own.

The humiliation was in that Sanji couldn't deny him. It was too much like his dream. Zoro drew him closer until their bodies fit together, hips against hips, muscle against muscle. Sanji was hardening; Zoro was already hard. His nakama, feeling his answering length, dipped his hips slightly, dragging warmth and hardness and cloth against one another in a slow thrust.

Sanji gasped and Zoro thrust his tongue forward, sliding against Sanji's lips as it entered his half-opened mouth.

All the fight he had in him, all the power and kicks and latent anger he had always held against the swordsman was sucked out of him through that kiss. Somehow, irreversibly, Zoro had gained the upper hand, as his tongue twisted in Sanji's mouth and his lips moved desperately against his own.

His sword-calloused hand tightened around Sanji's, a hard grip that told Sanji he hadn't forgotten he was kissing a man. Sanji tightened his fingers.

With a gasp, Zoro finally pulled back.

Sanji felt like he'd been completely laid bare. Zoro surprisingly looked the same way. His lips were wet from the kiss, and smugly quirked despite the unmistakable hint of wonder in his eyes.

Sanji, however, was terrified. He didn't have the snarky comeback he needed to have ready, he couldn't throw out the obligatory

"I like women, Nami-san is..." because it simply wouldn't be true.

All he knew was that after months of fighting this man, after years of denying himself this, it felt almost like pain to be taken so easily. To have the persona he'd so carefully developed shattered in a moment.

He took a shaky step backwards, but Zoro caught his arm, something akin to understanding in his eyes. "Sanji," he whispered, and at the sound of his name falling for what may have been the first time from those lips he froze.

Zoro's expression was more recognizable now, more closed, eyes darkening towards something more unreadable.

For the first time, Sanji realized how much the other man hid from the world. And how much Zoro had let him see, all those times they were fighting.

Zoro's lips thinned. Tensed, searching Sanji's face, he rasped, "Please."

It was the second unmentionable, humbling word that did it.

He felt all their pretense fall away as he tackled Zoro. Sanji steadied him, grabbing either side of the swordsman's face as he brought their mouths together fiercely.

This time, it was his tongue that shot between surprised lips.