One Piece Fan Fiction ❯ All's Fair in Love and Psychological Warfare ❯ Sanji fails at romance ( Chapter 2 )

Zoro chews nervously on his….er, whatever the brownish purple lump that Sanji had fixed for dinner is. It looks like meatloaf, but tastes like fish. There's a slight hint of something familiar, which he supposes must be one of those fancy herbs whose name he couldn't remember for more than two minutes flat. Cilregenol. Or something.

 

Anyway, the point being, that dinner has a very edgy atmosphere, despite the general tastiness of his half chewed brown lump.

 

Sanji kept staring at him. What was the asshole's problem? Did he have food on his face? No, that couldn't be it. If there were food on his face, Luffy would have volunteered to remove it for him. Or possibly skip straight to the removing without bothering to ask. Either way, it would not be allowed to remain for the duration of minutes in which Sanji was keenly regarding his visage.

 

And then there was the fact that Nami kept staring at Sanji. This would have been odd, if not for the uncomfortable exchange he had had with her this afternoon. No, what made this positively bizarre, was the fact that Sanji remained oblivious to her attention. Surely this was not really Sanji sitting across the table from him. The real Sanji would never ignore attention from Nami; especially not in favor of staring at his ugly mug. This was obviously some alien shape-shifter merely posing as the jerk he calls Sanji, because that was a more likely scenario than him actually being Sanji, and finding him, Zoro, interesting.

 

Before these musings could progress much farther, Zoro found himself suddenly distracted by the sensation of choking. His partially chewed herby brown lump departs his mouth in a violent fit of coughing. And possibly-poser-Sanji wastes no time in magically appearing behind Zoro to kick him in the back.

 

“You fucking lunkhead!” Maybe-Sanji screams, “don't you even look at your food before you shove it down your simian throat?!”

 

Zoro tries to reply with a witty comeback, but it comes out more like, “gargle hwak koff argle!”

 

Sanji kicks him again, just for good measure.

 

“I shouldn't HAVE to look at my food, you poisoner!” Zoro spits out once he regains the ability to breathe, “I trusted you to give me something edible. Stupid me!”

 

“Technically, that is edible, asshole. I just hoped you'd read it before attempting to swallow it whole.”

 

Sanji's comment is met with a rather vacant and confused look on Zoro's part.

 

Read it? I was supposed to read my dinner? What the fuck is the idiot talking about?!

 

Zoro looks down at the sad remains of his spewed supper. A soggy piece of crumpled paper is peaking out from the lumpy mess.

 

“Paper?”

 

“No shit Sherlock.” Sanji rolls his visible eye.

 

“What the hell did you put paper in my food for?!”

 

“I don't know, maybe you should, you know, read it?”

 

Zoro blinks, and tentatively de-crumples the piece of paper. The ink has bled a little, as a result of being chewed, but if he looks closely he can make out the message.

 

Zoro. Eight O'clock, tonight. Main pier. Wear something nice. (heart!) Sanji.

 

“What is this, some kinda code?” Zoro mutters.

 

His question is met with a swift kick to the head.

 

“Are you illiterate, as well as an imbecile?” Sanji cries, “it's an invitation you overgrown sea cucumber!”

 

“Huh?”

 

“An in-vi-ta-tion. You know, that thing people give someone if they want that person to do something with them. I guess you wouldn't know about those, though, it being a feature of civilized society.”

 

“I know what an invitation is, shit-cook,” Zoro growled, “I just can't wrap my brain around it coming from you.”

 

“Oh, so suddenly you're too good for my company, is that it?”

 

“It has a heart on it!”

 

“That's my normal signature asshat!”

 

Zoro can't really argue with that, because it sadly makes sense.

 

“So what, are you gonna come, or not?”

 

Zoro looks down at the note, and then back up at Sanji. “Erm…I…guess so?”

 

“You're not as stupid as you look,” Sanji replies with a satisfied smile.

 

Zoro turns back to his plate in time to see a rubbery hand grasping the remains of his stationery-contaminated fish loaf.

 

“You weren't going to finish that, were you?”

 

* * * *

 

Zoro is waiting on the pier, wondering what in the depths of Hell has possessed Sanji to request his company for something. Perhaps Sanji was going mad too. He'd heard of people losing their minds in small confined spaces. The fact that Sanji had decided that giving Zoro ink poisoning was a good way to get his attention, certainly supported this theory.

 

His train of thought is cut short, however, by the sound of footsteps, which he easily identifies as Sanji's. The realization that Zoro has been paying so much attention to Sanji that he is in tune with the mere sound of him walking, is not one that Zoro is going to allow his mind to dwell on. That's a problem for another night; one where he doesn't have to worry that Sanji is perhaps about to lead him straight into the path of some sick practical joke.

 

He feels something being thrust into his hand.

 

“Here.”

 

Looking down, he finds a rather pathetic looking chrysanthemum. Make that a rather pathetic looking green chrysanthemum.

 

“A green flower?” Zoro asks, confused.

 

“It used to be white. Miracle of food coloring,” Sanji replies, matter of factly.

 

“Why?” Zoro says, no closer to being un-confused.

 

“Cause I didn't think you'd care for a pink one, and white is boring,” Sanji replies, his tone implying that this ought to have been the most obvious thing in the world.

 

“Why, are you giving me a flower?!”

 

“I always bring my dates flowers,” Sanji states, mildly surprised, “do you not like chrysanthemums? I thought a rose might seem too forward.”

 

“Since when the Hell is this a date?!” Zoro cries, horrified.

 

“What the fuck did you think I was inviting you to? A birthday party?”

 

“I figured you wanted to go out drinking, and needed me to drag your sorry ass home when you were too drunk to walk!”

 

“Why would I ask you to dress nice for that?”

 

“I dunno, to make it easier for you to pick up chicks, shithead!”

 

Sanji pauses in his yelling to chew thoughtfully on his cigarette. “I can't believe that never occurred to me.”

 

“That's the first thing you've said that makes sense.”

 

Sanji's attention returns to Zoro. His thoughtful expression quickly drops into a frown.

 

“Speaking of dressing, nice, what hell do you think you're wearing?”

 

Zoro looks down at his clothes. “I am dressed nice!”

 

“Changing the color of your haramaki, and wearing a shirt with only one bloodstain, instead of six, is not `dressing nice'!” Sanji raises his foot in a threatening gesture.

 

“It's the best I have, asshole, swordsmen don't waste money on poncey clothes!”

 

Sanji lets out an exaggerated sigh and grabs Zoro roughly by the arm. “Come on, you're borrowing something from me.”

 

“Oh, hell no.”

 

* * * *

 

An hour, and several protests later, Sanji and Zoro are back on the pier, minus a haramaki.

 

Zoro is engaged in a glaring contest with his sleeve.

 

“I can't believe you're making me wear pink.” He grumbles.

 

“It's not pink,” Sanji corrects him, “it's magenta and it compliments your hair.”

 

“It would compliment the bottom of the ocean, too.” Zoro mutters.

 

“Stop complaining, you look hot.”

 

“I look like a damn fruit.”

 

“A damn hot fruit,” Sanji snickers.

 

“If you want to survive the evening without getting your head beat in,” Zoro threatens, “you'd better get me somewhere that serves alcohol fast.”

 

“So that's all it takes to get the great Roronoa Zoro to go on a date with you, eh? Alcohol?”

 

“Not being a twittering pratt helps too.”

 

“I'll keep that in mind.”

 

 

* * * *