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Every night on the ship’s desk Sanji thinks he has never truly seen the stars.
Out in the ocean, far away from any stretch of land, from any source of light, the stars bloom endless. The night sky stretches immeasurable, dotted with those enchanted gems, and he feels very, very small. To some extent, he’s used to the sensation. But those times, when he gazes up at that deep, velvety blue, he’s not scared. He feels serene, at peace. He’s small like everything else is; his worries, his fears, his nightmares. Nothing’s looming over him when the cosmos watches over him. Having just gotten back from living on dry land makes that starry night look even more bright. He has missed that.
“I thought you were sleeping,” he says low as not to disturb the night.
“I’m on shift.”
“That never stopped you.”
The swordsman comes to stand beside where he’s leaning against the railings. Zoro used to do that when he found the cook smoking his cigarette after having finished kitchen duties. Neck craning upwards, Sanji would hear the planks cracking as the man took his usual place, by his side. He didn’t understand it at first, the mosshead had never been one to start interactions, not really the social type. So Sanji would work on filling the silence, blubbering words in his custom way of trying to make the interaction at least not unpleasant, as many years of custom service had taught him.
Then he found he didn’t need to do that. One night the swordsman simply told him to shut up - yes, not very polite of him but what could you expect - yet still stood beside him. Sanji discovered silence didn’t bother him: it wasn’t oppressive, it was space and time stretching more comfortably before him. And they could occupy that place as they wished when they felt it was right.
He learned Zoro sometimes hummed to himself before trying to put feelings into words and it took the man some time to find the ones suitable to trace the lines of a small dojo nestled deep in faraway mountains. So Sanji painted him back vivid images of a restaurant full of family. With time he found he wished the other to hear the sounds of the fullest nights, the perfumes of elegant ladies, the rich tastes of dishes that burned on your tongue long after dinner.
That was the only family he’d talked about, he didn’t want the starry sky to listen to something that wasn’t beautiful. Just the best for his nighttime stories.
But the more he shared the more he feared his shadow would eventually grow bigger, in a way that it would be impossible not to see. And Zoro’s eyes had an intensity that made him feel seen in a way that was just a bit too uncomfortable, a bit too painful. So he didn’t join him on deck some nights, as the coward he was. He knew the other would wait for him in vain.
But Zoro’s eyes also felt like the night sky, in those depths black holes that could swallow him whole and garlands of stars to grab onto.
They never spoke of those moments during the day; it was as if they had never existed, as if they were just dreams. It made him feel safe in a way he didn’t understand.
He stopped going after thriller bark. He had discovered a new fear, one to add to the list of things he wasn’t ready to face. He saved it for later, even if it constantly scratched and prodded him, making him even more restless. He would have time to deal with it later.
But he didn’t. He was robbed of it while being gifted with too much time to spend focusing on himself instead. Stuck, again. Until this moment, as they were all back on the Sunny now and he started to feel like himself again. Yes, there are parts of him that are new but he finds he doesn’t mind them at all. He kinda likes them. He is stronger, a bit more solid, even if he still feels the puzzle is far from complete.
He’s surprised to discover the swordsman's arrival isn’t unexpected: he was counting on it.
Hoping for it.
He truly is a fool.
Zoro takes a sip of the bottle of sake Sanji has left for him in the usual spot. He smiles, “You should really stop drinking, it’s poison for your body,” he hears himself say out of habit before inhaling a breath of his personal toxin.
“You’re one to talk,” the other man grunts in answer, the hint of a smile as he turns his head to look over at the sea. It’s a natural flow.
Sanji feels his heart aching inexplicably and all the air seems to be sucked out from his lungs and then stuffed harshly back in. He didn’t realise before how afraid he was of all of the possible changes waiting for him when he stepped back on the ship. The place he had grasped for himself might be lost, pieces of him with it. But it isn’t, it’s still here. He can have it.
Still, he can’t help but worry, “You’ve barely said a word at dinner this evening.” He goes for casual, but can’t say how much he succeeds.
Zoro’s gaze is back on him, the moon reflecting dimly in his unscarred eye. Ah, that’s one new thing to get used to. Sanji still feels the strength of the scrutiny. “I was never one of many words, mm?”
He nods and exhales some smoke, following its trail to the stars. And then, because he’s afraid time will catch up to him again and because he's gotten braver, eyes on the horizon, he murmurs, “Perhaps I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Nami would bully him, saying he’s too sappy and maybe he is. Ivankov would be proud.
The night warm breeze wraps sweetly around him, the waves lapping gently at the hull and Sanji feels content. He does, but admitting what those words imply has left him trembly slightly as if part of the tension that keeps him upright every day suddenly left and he’s an orphan.
On the corner of his eye, Zoro’s watching him and he hears himself letting out a constrained breath that sounds on the edge of laughter. Or maybe he’s about to cry, he’s not sure yet.
The swordsman bumps their shoulders together and the knock Sanji receives is a little stronger than he expected, making him sidestepping. He hears Zoro grumbles to himself and knows the man thought he was being more delicate than he actually has been and the familiarity of that makes him chuckle.
He stops when he feels tentative fingers tangling experimentally with his. Zoro’s skin is rough as it looks, his palm a bit sweaty. Sanji takes the other’s hand then, suddenly anxious again, needing some kind of anchor to steady himself.
He’s having difficulty exhaling a breath when he hears the swordsman grunt, apparently unprompted, “That suit fits you better now.”
“Is that a compliment?” he huffs, finally letting out that damned breath, feeling himself smile because they both sure know how to make fools of themselves. But despite his taunts, he thinks he knows how that moss of a brain works: Sanji does feel like his skin is a bit more his own.
He also feels as if he’s finally arrived at an appointment he didn’t know he had until now.
He casts Zoro a glance and the other man’s already looking at him.
They don’t need words after all.