Chapter Text
It was a perfect day to be a pirate.
Crisp wind filled the sails to bursting, and waves tumbled and lapped against the Thousand Sunny. Jimbei steered the ship over each crest, fast and steady as if he were racing the sunlight that glinted off the water. The skies were oversaturated in story-book blue, dotted with cotton candy clouds. Wano was less than a spec on the horizon–even the hurts and victories from the battle against Kaido faded on the open ocean. Between the salty air and shouts of adventure from Luffy at the figurehead, the Straw Hats had settled into a picturesque day of sailing.
That is, all but Sanji settled.
As usual, he was in the kitchen, whipping up drinks and snacks to tide the crew over until dinner. Being in the galley usually steadied his mind, his thoughts quieting to focus on the physical, tangible side of cooking. Typically, hands moved rhythmically, purposefully, chopping and seasoning and stirring. Sanji wasn’t fumbling, but he wasn’t as fluid as usual.
A pitcher of strawberry lemonade sat on the counter, ice half-melted. The chocolate cakes still weren’t ready, and Sanji cursed his improper timing. The richness of the cake paired perfectly with the drink’s tartness. Though Nami and Robin would be more than happy with a drink followed by dessert, Sanji couldn’t bring himself to serve them out of order.
He deposited the pitcher into the fridge, sidestepping to the counter to check the consistency of the frosting. Luckily, the ganache was fine, in spite of sitting beside the still warm rack of cakes.
For a moment, Sanji considered frosting the cakes now, though their centers had yet to cool. He swore, spinning on his heel toward the window. Jerkily, he lit a cigarette and sucked in a deep lungful of smoke. The nicotine steadied the thrum in his veins, but the issue remained. For the first time since he was an apprentice at Baratie, Sanji fucked up the timing of a dish.
The cigarette glowed cherry red, rapidly smoldering closer and closer to Sanji’s fingers. The cook took a steadying breath of fresh air, put out the cigarette, and opted to occupy his time preparing the cakes’ presentation.
With deft fingers, Sanji spun a ring of ganache onto the plate. Satisfied with the shape, he pressed a sprig of mint into the side of the circle and topped it with half a strawberry. He repeated the process, noting that his timing was still off. The cakes needed another few minutes.
Ignoring the twist in his gut, Sanji filled the time by taking a quick inventory of the pantry. The cook leaned against the doorframe, hip digging into the wood, but he welcomed the pinch of discomfort. It was just enough to occupy his thoughts as he registered the nearly full pantry. After all, they weren’t all that far from Wano. Even with Luffy and the crew’s appetites, their food stores were in excellent shape. Sanji chewed his bottom lip, eyebrows drawn together as he actively tried not to count the seconds until the cakes could be frosted.
“Oi, cook.”
“Fucking seas!” Sanji hissed. He spun away from the pantry to face Zoro.
The swordsman was unphased. Zoro stood in the entryway between the deck and galley, arm braced over his head to keep the door open. Luffy peeked out from behind his first mate, licking his lips.
At the sight of the captain, Sanji fought to steady his voice. “What?”
“Sanji, that smells good!” Luffy shouted. He tried to push past Zoro, but the swordsman used his free hand to bar the captain from the kitchen. Still, Luffy fought against Zoro’s arm, neck comically stretching out to leave a trail of drool from the swordsman’s shoulder almost to the table.
“It’ll be done soon,” Sanji assured him. Luffy’s enthusiasm helped to stifle his thoughts. “Give me five minutes to frost the cakes, okay?”
Luffy groaned, but resigned to wait for the finished dessert. His eyes sparked as he noted the oversized cake on the cooling rack, likely claiming it for his own before the rest of the crew could see it. The captain sprung off Zoro onto the deck, shouting, “Everyone, Sanji made cake! He said it’ll be ready soon!”
But Zoro remained in the doorframe, stockstill as he glanced over the kitchen. He nodded at the empty sink and drying dishes. “Do you want me to put those away?”
Sanji stiffened at the offer. Zoro usually avoided chores at all costs, but here he was asking to do something. As if he noticed Sanji was overwhelmed.
The cook’s heart jumped into his throat. He turned to the drying rack, using too much force to return the dishes to the cabinets. “I don’t want any shitty moss in my kitchen.”
Zoro remained stationary, as if he didn’t register Sanji’s words. The cook’s ears strained, trying to detect movement as he put the mixing bowls away.
After a beat, Zoro grunted, “Is the cake sweet?”
“It’s chocolate.” Sanji all but snarled. His muscles were tense, each fiber twitching as he navigated the narrow kitchen. “Even idiots like you must know that’s sweet.” He baited Zoro, trying to goad him to fight. Sanji needed a fight–anything to burn off the nervous energy in his limbs.
Surprisingly, Zoro didn’t react. “Like milk chocolate or dark chocolate?”
Sanji scrunched his nose up at the swordsman. “The base was 72% cacao, not that you’d know what that means. Now get out of my kitchen.”
Zoro shrugged and left the galley without a fuss. Sanji swore again under his breath, pissed that he failed to rile up Zoro. He pushed it out of his mind and set to decorating the cakes.
Minutes later, Luffy slammed into the galley again. The chocolate cake disappeared out the door as Sanji stood frozen, strawberry slices pinched between his fingers. The captain snatched the cake before Sanji had finished decorating it.
The cook clenched his teeth, but put the last touches on the miniature cakes for Nami and Robin. Bracing himself, Sanji pulled a massive smile onto his face and floated onto the main deck, calling, “Ladies, your desserts and drinks!” Gingerly, he first put down the lemonades, then the cakes, and finally, small dessert forks. Sanji’s smile momentarily turned genuine. “Please enjoy them together! The sour-sweetness of the lemonade compliments the rich chocolate, and the strawberry garnishes further marry the flavor profiles. It’s just a little something sweet for two sweet ladies,” he crooned.
“Thank you, Sanji,” Nami chimed, already digging a fork into the cake.
Robin nodded and took a thoughtful sip of her lemonade.
Instead of doting on the navigator and archaeologist, or even basking in their praise, Sanji brought out the remaining desserts for the rest of his nakama. Each crewmate accepted a slice of chocolate cake with joy and sharp eyes–Luffy had already polished off his portion and eyed the fresh plates.
Sanji returned to the kitchen to pick at his serving alone. Between his last cigarette and his nerves, the cook wasn’t all that hungry. But he had to finish. While it felt like a chore, Sanji savored each bite of cake. The pattern of eating was soothing in itself. As he chewed and rolled the flavors over his tongue, Sanji focused his thoughts on how he could improve the recipe. With each bite, his plate grew more bare, and Sanji directed his thoughts toward the rest of his day.
Inventory was set. Dinner was planned and prepped. There wasn’t anything left for him to do in the kitchen. It made it hard to ignore the worry clawing at his chest. Kinetic energy hummed in his throat, his heartbeat pitching faster as certain thoughts bubbled to the surface. Sanji shoved them down and stalked back outside.
Luffy was laid out on the deck, stomach distended from the amount of cake he ate. Chopper and Usopp leaned against each other, eyes closed with contentment. Nami and Robin sat in the shade of an umbrella, still savoring the last of their lemonades and cakes. Franky, Brook, and Jimbei watched the sun reflect off the ocean, a comfortable silence stretching between the three oldest crew members. And, as usual, Zoro slept against the foremast, an empty plate and glass beside him.
The sight of discarded dishes lit a validated fire in Sanji’s veins. His leg burst into flames, and he launched a kick at the swordsman. Without opening his eyes, Zoro caught the attack with a sheathed blade. His working eye slid open and venom laced his voice. “The fuck, shitty brow?”
“Put your damn dishes away, mosshead!”
“I’ll do it later.”
Sanji pressed more force into his leg, and the sheath groaned against the weight. Zoro stiffened, a frown shattering his languid expression. The fight ripped open without need for further provocation.
Sparks flew as steel glinted off loafers. Sanji sky walked above Zoro and launched a dropkick at his head. Zoro deflected it with one blade, and swung a second sword at Sanji’s exposed leg only for the cook to flip out of the way and follow up with a roundhouse. Zoro blocked it with both blades, a bloodthirsty smile flickering into a grimace.
At Zoro’s expression, Sanji’s heart stilled, icy anxiety nearly choking him. Was Zoro tired already? He hadn’t drawn his third sword yet, so why was he making that face? Was he still hurt from his fight against King? Sanji’s throat constricted, and he twisted, his free leg slamming into Zoro’s unprotected waist.
The blow threw Zoro toward the mast, but the swordsman got his feet beneath him and launched against the wood back at Sanji. Now, the cook was on the defensive, alternating sky walking and bending to avoid Zoro’s bare steel. One blade sang past Sanji’s face, cutting a stray hair loose before the cook could parry with a lateral kick. Sword forced nearly vertical, Zoro grunted and let the force power a diagonal swing from his lower right. Again, the steel shimmered as flame and polished leather diverted the attack.
The two continued to exchange blows until Nami barked at them to stop, threatening more debt.
The cook and swordsman separated midair. Zoro landed and sheathed his swords. He donned a frustratingly neutral expression as he watched Sanji settle down on the deck. With a click of his tongue, Sanji readjusted his clothing. He straightened his tie, pulling it tight to his throat, and took to gathering everyone else’s plates. The cook pointedly left Zoro’s dishes alone.
As Sanji balanced the plates in one arm, he pushed into the kitchen and started washing up. He tried to focus on the monotony of doing the dishes, but adrenaline sang with each lungful of air. Sanji scrubbed at traces of chocolate, determined to make the plates shine. The fight hadn’t been enough to burn off whatever energy lurked in his limbs. The cook washed the dishes as if the chore would be enough to dispel his nerves. He gripped the sponge with such force a steady tremor built from his fingers into his arms. Even as Sanji wiped the sink clean and dried the dishes, the tremor remained. A barely-there shake lingered in his fingertips.
* * * * *
The Sunny was aglow with firelight. The bonfire’s flames threw sparks high into the air, embers dancing in the night breeze like falling stars. Brook slung song after song as Ussop, Chopper, Franky, and Luffy danced, each singing more off key than the last. Nami and Jinbei nursed their drinks as they talked softly about the tides, weather, and all things nautical. Robin, as usual, watched the festivities with a cryptic smile and warm eyes. Sanji had disappeared into the kitchen again, likely to return with snacks or fresh drinks.
Nearly the entire crew was buzzed, but Zoro sat off from the rest of them. Arms crossed tight against his chest, he leaned against the mainmast. Usually by this point, he was either asleep or drinking the night away like the rest of his nakama. But instead of alcohol warming his veins, anxiety sent a chill deep into his chest.
“After the dust settles, if I’m no longer myself, I want you to put me down.”
The swordsman clicked his tongue, the memory sour in his mouth. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to the cook, even after they departed Wano. Not that he sought Sanji out. If anything, the worm of uncertainty kept Zoro out of the cook’s sights. As each Straw Hat nursed some sort of wound, he’d been using it as an excuse to not pick a fight with the cook. Not that injuries had ever stopped the two from fighting the second their eyes met. And while the fire of competition boiled under Zoro’s skin, the usual feeling was numbed. Each glance he stole at Sanji left his mouth dry and his chest heavy. It wasn’t the comforting squeeze of a hug from Luffy or even the oppressive weight of a barbell between reps. His chest felt nearly hollow each time he and the cook crossed paths.
Zoro couldn’t work through the sensation, even when he tried to force an interaction in the kitchen. Not that Sanji would even let him help with chores. And after that afternoon’s skuffle–at the flash of unease on Sanji’s face midfight–Zoro’s gut twisted with worry.
Zoro thumbed the hilt of Wado, the grain of white and black leather familiar against his skin. The blade hummed softly, as if sensing his discomfort. In sharp contrast, Sandai Kitetsu and Enma rumbled. Zoro idly brushed the swords, quieting their calls for action.
“I want you to put me down.”
The conversation had been over a DenDen Mushi. While he couldn’t see the cook’s face, his stupid curly brow had probably been furrowed and his lips turned in a tight frown. Zoro heard Sanji’s conviction and ignored the fear in Sanji’s voice, the slight tremor behind the request. Instead, he promised Sanji, “I’ll make sure to kill you myself. Don’t die until then.”
And the cook lived. But, the swordsman’s promise hung in the air between them like a rotting apple. It was too ripe, and too soft, and too wrong for Zoro to stand beside Sanji. The cook hadn’t offered an explanation behind the request, and Zoro was too stubborn, too aware of the souring, peeling stench of the situation, to press him for one.
So Zoro sat alone against the mast, expression blank and nails curling into the palms of his hands.
“You’re thinking awfully hard.”
Zoro nearly jumped out of his skin as Robin settled down beside him. Her voice was coy, as if she already knew what was on his mind. She had changed out of Wano’s traditional clothes not long after the Sunny set sail. The archeologist was far more at ease in her usual top and skirt, though she had donned a jacket to defend against the cold night air.
Sensing that Zoro wasn’t in the mood to talk, Robin laughed. “You don’t even have sake to help speed along your thought process.”
Zoro scowled, his arms crossed against his chest. “I’m not slow.”
She softened with another laugh, this one more genuine, slipping into her usual dereshishishi . “No, you’re not.”
The ocean breeze gusted across the deck, and Robin tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The wind kicked up the bonfire, and the rest of the Stawhats laughed and screeched as sparks rained down on the festivities. Franky stopped dancing just long enough to stomp out any twinkling embers on the deck.
Robin pulled her gaze from the party and back onto the swordsman. Her eyes were a clear blue. “I’m not sure what’s bothering you, but I’m here if you’d like to talk.”
Zoro swallowed. Robin had always been kind, but never this straightforward. The offer sent a spasm through his throat, and he shoved a wave of emotion down. The swordsman grunted, closing his eyes as a brief nod shook his frame.
Only the sound of rustling skirts and a poorly disguised sigh indicated Robin’s exit. She rejoined the bonfire, greeted with a delighted yelp from Luffy. Brook changed songs, switching to an upbeat shanty, one that tickled even Zoro’s ears.
But the swordsman stayed seated, again alone against the mast. His muscles flexed, almost involuntarily, as he fought against the feelings gurgling in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t just tell Robin about his promise to Sanji. He couldn’t tell anyone. It wasn’t his to tell. It was a promise between Sanji and Zoro alone.
Zoro bit the inside of his cheek, a realization pulling his mouth into a deeper scowl. He did, unfortunately, have to talk to Sanji about it.
He drummed his fingers against his bicep, fighting the urge to dig his fingernails into it. Zoro sucked in a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet. He all but ran past the bonfire, making a point to avoid eye contact with Robin.
As he approached the kitchen, Nami called out, “Zoro, ask Sanji to bring out more drinks!” The navigator tilted her half empty glass at him.
“Pace yourself, drunkard.”
“That’s rich, coming from you,” she snapped.
Zoro rolled his one good eye, but waved at Nami. He was walking into a rough conversation, and he was secretly grateful he’d have Nami’s request in his back pocket. It’d likely snap Sanji out of a fight and into his lovey-dovey mode.
But Sanji wasn’t in the galley. Instead of the stench of the cook’s cigarettes, there was the unmistakable scent of burned food. The smell was heavy, and it wasn’t the warm, pleasant smell of seared meat or caramelized sugar. Zoro threw open the oven, driving a thick billow of smoke into the kitchen to reveal a tray of steadily blackening cookies. Cursing under his breath, Zoro snatched a dish towel and pulled the tray out of the oven. He slammed the cookies onto the counter, quickly shutting off the oven and racing to the fridge. Zoro took the milk jug from its shelf and dumped its contents into a bowl.
“Fuck–shit–gah!” With bare hands, he snatched up nearly a dozen scorched cookies and threw them into the milk. Steam bubbled up from the bowl, and Zoro threw the concoction into the fridge.
He ripped open the pantry, expecting a drunk or sleeping cook, only to find it empty. The curses died in Zoro’s mouth, and fear lanced through his heart. Where was the cook?
The swordsman raced through the ship. The dining room was empty, as was the infirmary. He slipped outside and into the men’s bunkroom to find it vacant. Turning on his heel, Zoro nearly missed the muffled noises coming from the bathroom. He braced his shoulder against the door, only to find it unlocked. The door swung open with his excessive force, and Zoro tumbled into the bathroom. Kneeling on the floor, head low in the toilet, was Sanji.
“Really, shit cook? Are you that drunk?”
Sanji couldn’t answer as he retched into the toilet. His fingers had gone nearly white beneath his grip on the bowl. His suit was rumpled, tie loose around his throat, and bile stained his dress shirt a darker shade of navy blue. Sanji’s breath hitched and he leaned deeper into the toilet, but nothing came out.
“Oh shit.” Zoro closed the door and rushed to Sanji’s side. The chef dry heaved, eyes flecked with tears as his chest shuddered and his shoulders shook. He barely registered Zoro’s hovering hands making contact with his back. “Curly, you okay? What happened?”
Sanji dry heaved again, this time sounding more strained, and Zoro scrambled to fill a mouthwash cup with water. He pulled Sanji upright and pressed the water to his lips. “C’mon, drink. Or wash your mouth out.”
The cook downed the water in an instant, breath steadying for a moment. His hands were shaking. “I’m fine, Marimo,” he hissed. Before Zoro could even process the resignation in Sanji’s words, the cook threw himself over the toilet again, regurgitating the water.
Zoro winced, but offered, “I should get Chopper.”
“No.” Sanji coughed and wiped his mouth against the back of his hand. He slumped to the floor, fatigue tugging at his shoulders. “I’m fine.” Sanji’s voice was thick.
“The cookies burned.”
Sanji swore, fingers digging into his hair. He reached for a cigarette, but fumbled his lighter. It fell to the floor with a clatter. Instead of reaching for it, a choked sob broke from Sanji’s throat. His breath came in short, inefficient gulps for air, and he hunched further into himself.
“Oh, fuck.” Zoro’s eyes widened. He’d never seen the cook like this before, but he knew the signs. He knew how to help. He planted himself in front of Sanji. “Curly, hey, look at me?”
Seconds dragged into minutes, and Sanji’s breath shuddered in too-quick beats. Zoro gingerly placed his hands on the cook’s shoulders. Begrudgingly, Sanji raised teary eyes to the swordsman.
“Okay, good, now tell me five things you see.”
“What?” The word was strained.
“Five things you can see. Just tell me.”
The silence was long, but shorter than the first time. “Lighter. Cigarette. Cup. Floor.” Sanji’s breath hitched, but the words pushed past clenched teeth. “Shit swordsman.”
A wan smile spread across Zoro’s face. “Nice, love-cook. Now four things you can touch.”
“Cigarette. Cup. Floor. Toilet.”
The list was creative and tinged with an offended bite. Zoro’s thumbs rubbed light circles into Sanji’s collarbones. “Three things you can hear.”
Sanji paused at this, and his breathing shifted from hyperventilation to quick, successive gasps. “The ocean. Luffy. You left the water running.”
The steady flow of the sink felt too loud in the bathroom, but Zoro’s requests pressed on. “And two things you can smell.”
Sanji’s nose wrinkled. “Vomit. Your BO.”
A tight laugh slipped from Zoro’s mouth as relief flooded his bloodstream. Sanji recovered enough to hurl insults, and his breath had nearly steadied to normal. “One thing you can taste.”
The cook’s expression soured, likely from the residual taste of vomit in his mouth. He pressed an unlit cigarette to his lips, sucking against the filter. “Tobacco.”
“Shit’s usually gotta be lit for that,” Zoro remarked. He reached back to grab the lighter and pressed it into Sanji’s hands.
Sanji lit the cigarette on the third try, hands still shaking. He inhaled deeply, eyes closing as the nicotine hit his lungs. He exhaled through his mouth, smoke dissipating down his front. The tobacco settled his nerves further, and Sanji settled into a rhythmic pattern of short inhales and long exhales. The tremor in his hands remained.
Sensing that the cook had nearly settled, Zoro retrieved the discarded cup and refilled it with tap water. He made an exaggerated point to turn off the sink. The swordsman sank to the floor again, leaving the cup off to the side. “Drink. Slowly. When you can.” The words came out too blunt, but if anything, Sanji seemed grateful for the curtness.
Sanji didn’t touch the water until the cigarette was a smoldering nub between his fingers. He snuffed it against the floor, then took a tentative sip of water. He spat it into the toilet, taking a moment to flush it all down, then returned to the water cup. In small gulps, Sanji finished the water over the course of a few minutes.
Zoro sat across from Sanji the entire time, their knees nearly touching. While fear and adrenaline dissipated, concern set his muscles taut. He knew better than to ask if Sanji was okay again, but Zoro needed to say something. He should say anything. But as the minutes ticked out, it became harder and harder for Zoro to speak.
Sanji broke the silence. “How’d you know that’d help?”
“What?”
Sanji’s legs were pulled up to his chest, face pressed between his knees. Between the dress pants and curtain of blond hair, his expression was unreadable. “The list thing.”
Zoro ran his tongue over his teeth. “Chopper told me about it.” He pulled his gaze from the cook, and pointedly focused on his own hands. “It’s happened to some of the others before. Grounding yourself can help panic attacks.” His fingertips traced the calluses along his palms. The rough skin was warm, warmer than his fingers, and counting the rounded bumps steadied Zoro as he breathed, “It’s helped me before, too.”
Sanji didn’t react to Zoro’s confession.
“I took care of the cookies.” The swordsman switched topics abruptly. “Luffy will still eat them.”
“Of course he will,” Sanji sighed. He pulled himself upright, palms pressed against his face to wipe away half dried tracks of tears. His eyes were bloodshot. “And everyone needs fresh drinks.”
“They can take care of themselves. Focus on yourself for once,” Zoro said. The unencumbered kindness felt odd against his lips, though not unnatural.
Sanji quirked a curly brow at the swordsman.
“You’re exhausted,” Zoro elaborated, gesturing to the dried snot and vomit and tears on the cook. “You should rest.”
At first, it seemed that Sanji was ignoring him. He rinsed his face in the sink and took a long moment to dry off. After a beat, Sanji mirrored the swordsman’s honesty. “I don’t really want to be alone right now.” Now Sanji was fiddling with his hands, words caught in his throat.
Zoro bit the inside of his cheek and offered, “I can stay with you.”
Sanji snorted, pushing himself to his feet. In a fluid motion, he removed his tie and shrugged off the button up to reveal an unsoiled t-shirt. He smoothed the cotton against his chest. “Fine. Better than the others worrying.” Performing nonchalance, the cook walked to the door, jerking his head at the swordsman. “I’m going to the aquarium. It reeks in here.”
A soft blue glow spilled from the fish tanks, dousing the bar in cool shadows and dusky light. Without checking to see if Zoro followed, Sanji threw himself onto the couch. He laid on his side, back to the door and face pressed into the cushions. Zoros settled onto the ground beside Sanji, sensing that he should avoid looking at the cook at all costs. He’d already seen more than Sanji usually allowed. The swordsman sighed, head tipping back into the seat of the couch.
Distantly, the thrum of Brook’s guitar was pierced by shrieks of laughter, but the most prominent sound was an idle bubbling from the aquarium’s filters. Sanji’s breath was steady, and Zoro scooted closer. He stopped an arm’s length away from the cook’s feet.
The cook muttered, his words lost to the soft gurgle of water.
“I can’t hear you, cook.”
Sanji signed, and slid closer to Zoro. He remained laying down, still facing the back of the couch, but the chef arranged himself so that Zoro’s head was nearly pressed to his back. The swordsman’s cheeks burned, but he fought against the sensation– the feeling of firmness and warmth from Sanji’s upper back–to focus as Sanji repeated himself.
“I asked when it first happened to you.”
“Oh, um.” Zoro filtered through memories, each tacky like a bandage peeled from a half healed wound. “Probably when I was a kid. I didn’t realize it, though. I was more shocked than anything.”
Sanji was silent for a long moment. His chest expanded softly with each breath, and the steady pace nearly convinced Zoro that the cook had fallen asleep. Then Sanji licked his lips and whispered, “Can I ask what happened?”
Zoro was brief. “My friend died. It was my fault. I didn’t take it well.”
As another quiet moment spread between the swordsman and cook, Zoro tried to elaborate. “Panic attacks aren’t always about an event or something. Sometimes they just happen.” He pulled away from Sanji to tuck his chin to his chest. In a hushed voice, he explained, “For me, I’m not good at processing stuff. Big stuff. Emotional stuff. Grounding myself helps. Like the list thing. It keeps me physically there. That’s why I like training so much.” Zoro ran his thumbs over the calluses on his palms. “But Chopper told me anxiety or PTSD or stuff like that can trigger it.”
Sanji’s voice was tense. “Can I ask?”
“If it's happened since I was little? Yeah,” Zoro said. His head tipped back, pressing between Sanji’s shoulder blades. The cook didn’t move away from the increased contact, and Zoro took a slow breath. “There was one after Thriller Bark. That’s when Chopper talked to me.”
Sanji stiffened at the memory, but didn’t speak.
“And after Sabaodie, in those two years. Training with Mihawk helped though–I’d be too tired to even think most nights. But there were still nights when I couldn’t fall asleep.”
The memories stung, though they were long past. The burn of cold air, shallow breaths, and stinging eyes ached in Zoro’s bones. Those first few weeks were the hardest, not knowing where everyone was, if they were okay or even alive. He didn’t know what was next. If there even was a next. The only thing Zoro knew was that they failed; he failed. He hadn’t been able to protect anyone, let alone himself.
“I’m sorry,” Sanji murmured.
“Don’t be.”
Again, silence overtook the aquarium. The hush and hiss of the filtration system wove a soft hum through the room. The white noise dulled the sharp edges of their conversation, though its weight hung in the air like humidity. Sanji’s breathing slowed further, and the tension gradually uncoiled from his shoulders. The cook softened, body curling gently inward as his arms and legs sank into the couch.
Zoro listened to Sanji breathe, noting each time the cook huffed, his face likely pressed into the leather. As Sanji slipped into a light sleep, Zoro watched the door. Blotted, fishy shadows darkened the weak light. Eye half closed, the swordsman studied the warbling blue shapes and savored the feeling of Sanji’s back against his skull. It was far softer than what Zoro expected from near bone on bone contact.
The bonfire sounded like it was in its last stages. Brook played a quiet ballad, the music nearly drowned out beneath the steady rumble of waves against the hull. Zoro released a shaky sigh, one he hadn’t even realized he still held. Fatigue pulled at his consciousness, and the swordsman resigned himself to a contented sleep.