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It’d been three days so far.
Three days of celebration.
People eating and drinking and cheering and dancing and singing and laughing and thrilling in the sheer joy of being alive (with the notable exception of one jovial skeleton). And Sanji couldn’t fault them. Couldn’t even really be annoyed.
His stay on this behemoth of a ship had been short, and the battle had been hell, but he couldn’t imagine being stranded here for weeks, months, years. For all present, to give themselves the chance to soak up the sun, to cram their faces with delicious food, to take the chance to hope for the future…no, Sanji had no grounds to blame them.
And yet…
And yet……
Sanji finished his breakfast preparations and left the rest to the volunteers from Miss Lola’s crew to dish out and serve to the line already forming up in the dilapidated ballroom. He carried two bowls of porridge into the adjacent room, one flavored with a generous helping of maple and cinnamon and apples and the other plain and easy on the stomach.
He made sure to walk in a manner that would cause his footsteps to echo throughout the halls –heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe— to give his target enough warning about his impending approach.
As he’d hoped, Chopper was more than aware of him as he stepped into the makeshift infirmary and didn’t even flinch when Sanji appeared at his side to pass him his breakfast.
“How is he?” Sanji asked, even though he already knew the answer. They all knew. He wouldn’t have to ask if it were otherwise.
“Fine.” Chopper murmured, ignoring the bowl in hand, er, in hoof, and focusing on his patient with exhausted eyes. Eyes turned ragged beyond his years.
Sanji felt like he could kill him again for making their little doctor worry so much, but well…he’d have to be alive first for that to happen.
No.
Don’t think like that.
Sanji placed the second bowl beside the unconscious patient, more a sack of meat and bone than man by this point, and nudged Chopper’s side with the toe of his shoe. Chopper flinched then and stared up at Sanji like he’d been caught doing something wrong.
Like he’d been caught doing anything less than his very best.
“Go on, scoot. Luffy and the others should be up and eating by now. I’m sure they’d love to see you.”
“But, but I,” his dark eyes flicked back and forth between Sanji and the porridge and his patient and the door.
“But nothing,” Sanji interrupted his stammering and with a hand this time on his trembling shoulder. “I’ve got some time to kill, so go on and eat. I’ll watch him.”
“O-okay, let me know if his condition changes, okay? Anything at all, you got it?”
“Of course,” Sanji agreed cheerily. “But I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about since you did patch him up so well.”
“Tch, your praise doesn’t make me happy at all, you jerk,” Chopper shot back with a stupid grin as he headed back to the main hall, from which Sanji could already hear the beginnings of jubilant songs and rowdy dancing. So early in the morning too.
He sat in Chopper’s seat, little more than a relatively flat section of rubble, and lit up his first cigarette of the day (his first real cigarette, that is, his technical first cigarette was just to wake him up and his second was in anticipation for a chaotic meal prep; as hurried as they usually are, Sanji barely got to savor the nicotine hit, let alone the taste).
Sanji sat on the rubble, hunkered down from the occasional brisk morning breeze that slipped through the openings of the walls, and watched the sleeping swordsman.
The sleeping, stupid swordsman.
The sleeping, stupid, self-sacrificing swordsman.
The sleeping, stupid, self-sacrificing, idiot who didn’t understand that there was more honor in living and that there were people waiting on him, depending on him, to come back to them and how could he even think that his death wouldn’t affect any of them, ahem, swordsman.
Before Sanji knew it, his cigarette had been burned down to the filter, and he felt none the better for the nicotine hitting his veins.
He idly stirred the porridge beside the swordsman, disrupting the film that had begun to solidify across the top, and glanced over at the man, just in case the smell could have somehow awoken him. Yeah right. Luffy had tried that yesterday with a literal barrel of booze. If that wouldn’t wake the lughead up, then what good was his porridge going to do?
Sanji set down the spoon and sat back. He crossed his arms and his legs, then uncrossed his legs so he could tap his heel on the stone floor, then recrossed them, this time perpendicular to the floor, so he could bounce his foot in the air in time to the tinkling melody bleeding in from the adjacent hall. It was a catchy tune. One he faintly recalled hearing every so often on the Baratie when they had live music.
He placed his feet back onto the ground, feeling a sinking, leaden feeling that was close to shame. But why? What harm was there in enjoying a song? What harm was there in having a bit of fun? What harm was there in him enjoying his life while his crewmate, who had practically given him this opportunity, hovered on the precipice of it and…and……
Sanji lit another cigarette.
He sat there, in tense silence, until Chopper came back. Far too quickly to have really savored his meal, to have actually rested his body and soul with the others. And Sanji felt sick to the core as he surrendered the seat to Chopper and let this kid, doctor or not, take his place at that swordsman’s side.
---------------
The fourth day was even chillier, and Sanji rummaged through his closet to find a spare jacket that hadn’t been torn to shreds, soaked in questionable fluids, or otherwise rendered unwearable. Nope. Nadda. Zilch.
He cast his eye across the galley, dimly lit so as to not wake the handful of crewmen who had come back to sleep on the ship rather than collapse where they stood in the ruins of the castle. There were blankets and pillows strewn across the floor, as usual despite the bunks affording them actual space, but he noticed a few articles of clothing mixed in as well.
He picked one up. No sleeves. Another was too small. Another had only short sleeves. Another was too big (Frankys?). Another had a strange smell. Another was sleeveless yet again. Seriously. Were his crewmates all allergic to sensible attire or something?
He saw another piece of clothing, some shade of blue, tossed across the back of the couch. Like its owner had tossed it aside in a hasty decision or during a quick change. The size looked to be about right. And it had long sleeves and a hood. Material seemed pretty soft too, downright cozy even. Sanji did a quick sniff test.
Zoro.
This was Zoro’s sweatshirt.
He stood there, unusually stunned. Why was he still holding it? He should just be tossing it aside, continuing his search, maybe even consigning himself to the morning chill. But…but his fingers just wouldn’t let go. His hands, the part of his body he took the most pride in, were staging a mutiny against him. Clutching on to this sweatshirt that was his like that it was a lifeline.
Sanji thought about putting it down. He ordered his hands to let go.
But they clung to the fabric, perhaps even tighter. Rebellious. Defiant.
Was this how Zoro clung to his life? Like he couldn't help to?
Sanji sighed and stormed out of the men’s bunks, sweatshirt still in his traitorous hands. And once he got above deck, and once the first bracing wind across the ocean whipped across the deck to blast him in the face with its icy chill, he surrendered and finally slipped the damn thing over his head.
And dammit if it wasn’t exactly as comfortable as he’d thought.
With Sanji’s mood somewhat soured by the fact that he was now wearing his sweatshirt (while also being somewhat comforted by its warmth and softness, only to then be doubly irritated that he was enjoying the sweatshirt in any capacity), Sanji made his way into the makeshift galley to prep breakfast and deliver a portion to the makeshift infirmary.
Heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe walk in.
“Sanji!” Chopper greeted him, this time with slightly higher spirits.
Sanji wondered how much that manic enthusiasm had to do with the clear signs of exhaustion wracking the poor kid’s frame.
“Hello there, Chopper,” Sanji greeted him along with a plate loaded with fresh eggs, sunny side up, thick bacon, crispy hash browns, and neatly cubed pieces of melon. A similar plate, sans greasy hash browns and bacon, sat on the second plate.
Chopper agreed to relinquish his seat to Sanji with less trouble today, though the tense silence their optimistic little doctor left behind was no different from yesterday.
Sanji was unusually aware of his own heartbeat as he sat there, watching, waiting, for the person stretched across the slab of stone to give any signs of joining the world of the living. And the longer he lay there, unmoving, the more conscious Sanji was of the restless buzz alighting across his body, just underneath his skin. As if he wanted to make up for the swordsman’s lack of movement with his own.
As if he needed to make up for the swordsman’s lack of movement with his own.
When the wind whistled through the cracks of the building, Sanji didn’t hesitate to pull up the hood of his sweatshirt. Only to realize, after the breeze shook loose the smells within the fabric, that he was surrounded by Zoro’s scent.
Sake and steel. A cleaning kit and sweat. A natural musk that was earthy and spicy, almost like sandalwood and cardamom. They surrounded Sanji in a foggy miasma. Scrambled his brains. Must be why he didn’t notice Chopper’s voice until the little doctor was practically shaking him out of his stupor.
“Hm? What was that?”
“I said I’m finished. I can take over again.” Chopper replied, holding up his licked clean plate as proof.
Sanji looked at the plate, and glanced at the second one, likely to go as untouched today as it had been for the past three. He traded Chopper’s empty plate with the second.
“Go and take a longer break, okay? I don’t have anything else to do until lunch.”
Chopper stared up at him, his eyes wide and uncertain. Not that he didn’t trust Sanji. More like he couldn’t trust himself.
Sanji fucking hated that inconsiderate Marimo for putting such a look in their doctor’s eyes.
“Okay,” Chopper finally agreed, hesitance clear in his tone, “but only if you’re sure.”
“I am. I’ve got more than enough to keep me busy,” Sanji assured him with a wave of his half-full cigarette cartoon.
Only to realize his severe tactical error upon receiving more than an earful from Chopper about the dangers of second-hand smoke and just smoking in general to health. Most of it went in one ear at out the other, a particular talent of Sanji’s after years of living underneath Zeff, but he made sure to at least try and keep his promise to Chopper about not smoking beside the swordsman.
And he managed to actually accomplish it…for about thirty minutes.
The nicotine hit him hard this time, and the clove smoke intermingled with the sake and sandalwood and steel in a manner that briefly took him back to a time of big deserts and tavern hookahs and easy laughter and simpler times. It didn’t feel all too long ago. And yet, it seemed like a lifetime already.
Sanji savored his cigarette, and the memories of their journey across Alabasta. And with the next cigarette he recalled Skypiea. And with the next, Water Seven.
Chopper came back just as he was remembering Ennis Lobby, and the riot act Chopper read him when he found Sanji mid-smoke only added another soft layer of nostalgia to the reverie.
---------------
On the fifth day, after relieving Chopper for his breakfast meal, Sanji found himself fiddling with the hood strings of the sweatshirt in a valiant attempt to distract hands that yearned for a cigarette. His skin wriggled like worms had replaced his veins, but he ignored the urges and focused on going through basic knots with the hoodie strings.
Clove hitch.
Reef knot.
Bowline.
Figure-8.
Anchor bend.
His head snapped up when he heard the rustle of cloth, his heartbeat shooting straight up into his throat to practically choke him, only to realize the wind had dislodged the blanket from Marimo’s chest.
Sanji stood up and fixed it, tucking its ends underneath his body so it wouldn’t shift again. His body was warm. That had to be a good sign, right?
Before he could think, the dorsal of his hand touched the Marimo’s bandaged forehead. Warm. Possibly too warm. But that was normal after blood loss, right? Like, the body was working hard to make more of it?
But…but he hadn’t eaten in days. The IV drip was the only thing providing him with any fluid or nutrients. But blood needed iron, needed meat. And he wasn’t getting any of that. What if Chopper…
No. No, don’t think about that. Chopper knew what he’d doing; a hell of a lot more than Sanji did, anyways. He was doing everything he could to take care of him. It wasn’t his fault if the Marimo was too weak to-
Sanji couldn’t allow himself to finish that thought. He tucked his chin down into his chest, unintentionally burying his nose in the bulky sweatshirt fabric. Steel and sake and sweat and sandalwood. A familiar scent.
One that Sanji couldn’t help but feel was a promise.
---------------
Six days later, and his side still ached. Right where Marimo had landed that kidney shot. Sometimes he forgot how damn precise that fucker could be, even with just the hilt of his sword.
He’d thought it’d been healed up for the most part, hardly thought about it unless he turned over on his other side in his sleep, but when reaching up for a large pot to make miso soup in last night, something got pulled the wrong way and, well, here he was, being reminded of the deep bruising yet again.
And staring at the asshole who caused it.
His side gave another little throb of pain.
Sanji glared at the swordsman. For a moment he thought about kicking him. But the urge was short lived. No fun in kicking a man while he was down and all. And besides…
-pain, screams, blood, so much blood, more than a body could contain, shaking limbs, empty eyes, nothing happening-
…he could give the Marimo a pass. Just this once.
He thought about what to make for lunch later on that day. Fish came to mind. Something light and fresh perhaps. Seared elephant tuna, or maybe just sashimi.
Things that went well with sake.
He slouched in his seat, oscillating between staring at the Marimo and trying to find something, anything, else to look at in the room. But it was bereft of any art or ornamentation. Not even unusual cracks he could imagine shapes out of like the clouds.
Sanji turned back to the swordsman. He hadn’t moved. Not an inch, not a centimeter since he’d collapsed in that circle of blood and Sanji had started punching his heart, blowing air into his lungs, screaming at him to wake up.
He wove an anchor hitch from the hood ties.
Zoro’s lips had been chapped. And they tasted like iron. Sanji could still imagine it splattered across his own lips, dribbling past them to spread across his tongue, thick and insidious like an oil spill. Cloistering and demanding in its presence. Suffocating him with the flavor of Zoro’s life. The life he was losing, bit by bit.
A life that Sanji could not protect.
A life that Sanji could not save.
Sanji burrowed his face into the folds of the sweatshirt and breathed. The scent was fainter now, but he could still find it. Sake and steel and sweat and spice. No iron. No death. Only signs of life hidden away in the crevices of this sweatshirt.
He silently undid the anchor hitch, and started tying a sheet bend, weaving the two drawstrings into one seamless knot.
---------------
The smell was gone by the seventh day.
Sanji fiddled with his carton of cigarettes, turning the box over in his hand, as if he might get another hit from osmosis alone.
Seven days.
One week.
And he was still just lying there.
How the fuck was he supposed to become the world’s greatest swordsman like that, huh? How was he supposed to fulfill his dream? His real, tangible, possible dream? How could he give all that up? His dream, all their dreams, were actual goals. Not merely a dream, but a reality that they could, and would, make! Not like his. The All Blue? Seriously? What if it…the All Blue might never even…
Sanji’s hands tightened, crushing his carton.
If this asshole gave up on his dream so that they could accomplish there, then what was even the fucking point. Huh? What good were dreams built upon the rubble of another’s? Did he think Luffy would be able to smile as much if he were to become King of the Pirates without him? Did he think Usopp wanted to become a brave warrior without him by his side? Did he think anything Sanji made in the All Blue would taste half as good without the entire crew there to enjoy it?!
Sanji could taste it again on his lips. Iron. Bold and heavy and sickening.
He pulled a bent cigarette from the box and perched it on his lips, willing the tobacco to overpower the taste of blood.
Sanji brought his knees up for his arms to perch on. He rested his face on the sleeves that bore no scent. He burrowed his face in folds that smelled like nothing.
And he watched a swordsman who refused to move.