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The night was silent around the Sunny, when Zoro was suddenly jerked awake with a furious slap to his face.
For a moment he was waiting for the second kick from the Cook as per their usual ritualistic awakening ceremony, hands shooting to his hips fast but sleepy, but the attack never came. Not that he had found his swords attached to his side either. There was rough, but equally soft and marred hand covering the left side of his face, fingertips just barely grazing the baby hairs at his front.
He blinked slowly, taking in the stars above him and his surrounding, yawning at the scene unfurling before his eyes, and relaxed his senses. They were out on the deck, sleeping bodies spread out on the lawn, soft breaths echoing around them. The only exception was Luffy, who was dangling from the Mainyard, wrists tied into a knot. Zoro had no idea how or why was up there but he just couldn't find it in himself to care that moment.
The cold coming from the limb pressed up against his face was welcomed, as the weather they were sailing through was still scorching at night just as throughout the day.
That was exactly the reason why they were all sleeping on deck, spreading out everywhere, hammocks and beds forgotten, closed behind walls only emmitting the heat.
The first night they spent in this climate, they all went to bed into the assigned quarters only to toss and turn and roll around every second, layers of perspiration coating their skin, soaking into their bedding, making it more bothersome to rest. In the end none of them got any sleep, some finding refuge in the aquarium, Chopper and Luffy, with Robin babysitting behind them, pegged down before the opened fridge, while Zoro, Sanji and Usopp - exclusively in eye-sight of the other two - jumped into the sea, cautions be damned and swam under the dawning sky.
Zoro was sweating like a pig in a butcher's shop and equally fighting with his body heat, nuzzled into the cool touch. His skin stung a bit, but it was nothing at all compared to everything he had suffered before.
Since they were sleeping together, Sanji eased off and became a kicker in his sleeps, curling inward and around a pillow long past behind him.
Early into their travels Zoro noted that if they were sleeping outside of their ships, all the crew together, Sanji was somehow relaxed, sleeping on his back, calm, but ready for anything and everything if they needed to hurriedly get up.
Yet when they were back at their own sleeping quarters the confident man became somewhat like a child, on his side, nursing his hands close to his chest, knees drawn up, nightmares never far away.
Zoro was familiar with the pose; he had seen nearly all of his nakamas sleep like that, and though Sanji was no exception, with him it was kind of constant.
Despite not being able to see with his left eye, it was still uncomfortable if something covered it, like it was the hand's fault and not his own two year training with Mihawk that he was partly blind.
He gently grasped at Sanji's hand and dragged it lower, setting it against his jaw and cheek, letting it cool his heated skin, drowsing off.
Zoro was jolted awake a second time, this moment with a harmless kick to his left side and something pushing against his face.
Everyone knew that Zoro loved to sleep, to nap, to drowse, any name you can give to laying down and not doing anything, except counting sheeps and ships and that he hated when someone disrupted him. That rule applied to everyone.
"Oi..." he rasped at the man beside him, voice still crusty from sleep. He tried to turn his head sideways, but Sanji's other hand was forcefully pushing it away. Zoro grabbed at their tangled hands, pulling it down from his face and lastly looked over to the blond.
Sanji's features were contorted in fear, brows raised high, mouth opened partly, small streaks of tears streaming down his cheeks. He wanted to furiously get out from somewhere, pulling his hand but to no avail, his power was gone. The cook was not entirely himself, somehow transformed back into a frail child; obviously his mind was playing games on him, closing him up inside an unpleasent memory.
Zoro watched as the grown man he loved was mumbling quietly, his voice barely a whisper, laced with hopelessness and dread, chest heaving like he had just run a few marathons.
Zoro frowned. Rapid breaths only belonged to sex and fights, not into the quiet hours of bedtime.
He carefully, not to set some triggers into motion, rolled onto his side and held both of Sanji's curled fingers against his chest, slowly reaching towards his face, lightly caressing his cheeks.
Sanji's breath hitched at the touch and he stilled. Frozen, no breathing, no movement, like he was covered in ice, like a frightened deer finding itself in the line of light, frame stiff as the string on a drawn out bow.
The world stilled.
Zoro ever so slowly wiped the tears forming in the Cook's eyes and refrained himself from further touching his face. It was one of those...
Zoro hated these nights. Nights when the strong man was still caught up in his head, when his friend was afraid, when his lover relived his worst memories.
He hated the bastards that had inflicted soo much pain on the blond, that years into the future he was still suffering.
He wanted them dead, all of them. Each and every one of them shred to pieces. Slow and painful, but he wasn't granted a permission. On the contrary, he was forbidden from ever laying a finger on them.
Zoro was snarling, breathing through his teeth, trying to calm his rage, trying to oppress the boiling desire to send all of the Vinsmokes to hell.
He dreamed about that sometimes.
His nights weren't as tainted as some of the crew's, only occasionally having a visit from Kuina or Kuma, so he had plenty of time to dream about what he wanted and how.
In some he used strange and unfamiliar swords, not blemishing his honoured ones with wicked blood.
Sometimes there were just kitchen knifes in his hands, doing the job exquisitely.
In others he used Wado as a nod to his former best friend and dream and Sanji too, showing that using his greatest treasure is a way of honing his love.
And in others; bare hand, tearing limbs off and skins open.
Zoro was capable of great brutality and in his few dreams he released all of it upon that so-called family.
He mused if he should destroy that sorry excuse of a father first or last. To let him see all his years of experiment crumble, all his precious little soldiers turn to dust, let him feel fear at what was coming for him. Or just slice his head off first, revelaing the siblings that their originator was a pityful little scumbag that would grovel at his feet for mercy, offering his creations to save himself.
Zoro wanted to stand behind their mutilated bodies, presenting the left bits to Sanji, making sure that they would never ever look at him. Making Sanji believe that they would never ever hurt him again.
And his cook would smile. Not laugh, like his maniac brothers, not grin like his psychopath sperm-donor, but smile genuinely, as himself, tension leaving his shoulders with the smoke coming out of his mouth.
But he knew it was Sanji's call, and he didn't want that. He wanted the assholes to live, something Zoro couldn't quite grasp why, but if that was what the Cook wanted, he won't stand is his way. He would support him, even if he didn't agree with him on matters.
Zoro withdrew his fingers from Sanji's face and slowly started to draw circles around his knuckles, slightly pressing into the fine bones in his hand, trying to ease the tension. The blond was still frozen, pliant under his touch and Zoro lifted his hands, softly kissing the fingertips. Sanji's lips trembled but otherwise remained motionless. The feet that was still pressed against Zoro torso lost it's touch and just laid there.
The swordsman held each hand in one of his owns, the blond's fingertips against his mouth and with his thumbs circled at the centre of Sanji's palms, soothing him, murmuring quietly, not caring that the Cook couldn't hear it. The minor preassure and the vibrations were the aim, those were the factors that would ease the other.
He continued massaging, sometimes kissing the tips, slowly bringing Sanji out from the depths.
It was a sluggish process, but Zoro knew the steps.
First, Sanji's body would relax bit by bit then his breathing would even out, realising there was no danger around. There would be a few jerks, maybe even lighthearted kicks, - a registry of the fight going on in his subconscious - but with time his face would settle back to normal and his light snore would indicate that all was well. Zoro could count on one hand with the use of only two digits - and that would be much too - how many times had Sanji woke during those times.
The one and only occasion Sanji woke up with Zoro holding just his hands, he was embarrassed that the swordsman had witnessed something soo childish and left immediately, not caring it was the middle of the night. Shame burned inside him brightly, not daring to look Zoro in the eye, sulking through the day. But coming night, he eased himself next to Zoro, buring his head into the other's neck, humming a soft "Thank you!" into his skin.
Zoro didn't do anything in particular just gave the Cook time and that was exactly what Sanji needed. Zoro could have spoken to him, reassure him to no end, but it would have fallen on deaf ears, thus he saved himself from a useless conversation. He had other ways to get the message across to Sanji. That night he only kissed the blond's hair and rubbed small circles at his lower back until Sanji fell asleep before Zoro did.
Zoro had mental notes on everyone on the crew, as First Mate he needed to keep track of everything to be able to react. And Sanji's list was getting longer, but for an entirely different reason. The man was the epitome of kindness; always giving, giving and giving, never faltering, never waiting for reciprocation or compensation.
At the beginning he didn't let Zoro to do a single thing for him, keeping a small distance, not letting himself to be lost in the whole relationship, yet he was lavishing the swordsman with affection, keeping up their usual banter and spars, love-affair not getting in the way of their previous connection.
The first time they slept together and were miraculosly not driven by their sex-drive, they were laying face to face when Zoro suddenly snaked his hand around Sanji's waist and pulled him closer, tugging the man below his chin. He started to caress the blond's back, and after the initial surprise and slight shock, Sanji settled and relaxed, nuzzling into the firm neck before him. He sighed softly against Zoro's skin, leaving gooseflesh in it's wake, haltingly raising his hand up to the swordsman's back, spreading it on it, softly mirroring Zoro's movements. The fingers at Zoro's back became tardy and bit by bit stopped altogether, quiet snore coming from the blond, but Zoro nonchalantly continued his circles.
It became a habit between the two; whenever Sanji was distressed and they were alone Zoro would rub loops into his skin.
For Zoro it meant he could help the other man at least some way and for Sanji it meant home. Meant that he was safe and okay and needed. That there was someone who saw past the appearance and wouldn't mock him for his fragility, that there was someone from whom he could accept help.
That was a miracle in itself.
It was an understatement that Zoro loved Sanji's hands. He adored the long, elegant fingers, the fine bones of his knuckles, the cuts across the palm and tips, the strong wrists connecting to a sinewy forearm. He admired them during meals or during preparations, cherished them in their fight and worshipped them on his own skin, tugging, grabbing, scratching. If Zoro had the vocabulary for poems and such, he would have given the blond a run for his money.
Zoro always found it fascinating how the Cook emphasised that his hands are only for cooking and won't use them in fights.
Yet he kept fidgeting with someting, let it be his knives in the kitchen, his lighter twirling between those long fingers, or as usual, his cigarettes. During conversations he used grand gestures, especially at times with ladies, waving his arms around like a lovestruck madman or his gentle hand movements when he had the opportunity to speek with a fellow chef, sharing recipes. And during fights, he does use them, relying on them heavily; balancing himself during handstands, legs flying around, throwing back enemies. Grabbing onto object to lift himself up for better leverage, helping out allies, scooping up survivors, finding them refuge, aiding himself altogether.
That permanent movement from lips to lovering his hand, resting it on the railing, letting it fall next to his hips, motioning with it.
Still, his hands were only for cooking.
Zoro chuckled at his line of thought, blood soaked dreams left on a back burner, gently putting the blond's hand to his neck, caressing the wrists, jawning, missing his own sleep.
Sanji's left twitched and his eyelids fluttered, slowly opening them, focusing on the sight before him.
His first reaction was to jerk back his hand, but Zoro hold onto them strong, thumbs caressing the pulse points. Sanji blinked, long and slow and sighed.
"Again?" His voice was faint from sleep, from nightmare, from stigma. He was still afraid.
"Go back to sleep Curls, it's okay," slumber was claiming Zoro, but he endured.
Sanji didn't open his eyes again, but slid his hand downward, following the swordsman's shoulder, arm and elbow, letting it fall to his side, digging into the flesh.
Zoro wasn't woken for a third time that night.