The words slip from his lips like water droplets during a storm. Slow, like the calm before the storm and then tumble out, like water pelting against a windowpane accompanied by thunder and lightning. Only the thunder and lightning in this case is a fiery leg with a glare that could melt an ice age.
Sanji speaks the language of the North Blue sometimes, like this, when he’s angry and when the fire in his eyes could burn buildings. Zoro loves it. He loves it because Sanji’s so in his element, so real, so tangible. He’s not fake like when he’s flirting with Nami and Robin. He’s not putting on a show this time. It’s unintentional and it sends goosebumps down Zoro’s arms.
Zoro blocks a kick with his swords, going all out, Wado in his mouth and he knows this is real. Sanji isn’t playing around for once, he’s striking to kill and it’s all kinds of wonderful. Zoro’s never felt so good, so alive.
Sanji’s real, like when it’s late and he loosens his tie at the dining room table, ready to have a glass of wine before bed. Zoro likes the real Sanji, the one who stops thinking for once, who stops pretending that he needs to be perfect. It’s almost surreal, seeing him like that. He likes Sanji when he finally stops caring for a while. Those are the nights when he wants to push Sanji against the wall and leave marks that everyone will see in the morning.
Sanji’ll cool off in a couple minutes, Zoro can tell by how the tension in the air become suddenly less stifling. Sanji’s anger is waning and soon, it’ll turn into something else, something just as interesting and he’s excited.
When Sanji pushes him into the pantry and kicks him onto the bags of flour in the corner before locking the door, he lets a grin spread across his face.
He likes this Sanji.