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Zoro woke with a start, his breathing heavy, hands trembling. He could still feel it, the weight of a sword in his hand—the weight of a freezing, limp body in the other. Blood flowing down his forearm the only warmth left.
Zoro was sweating despite how cold he felt. With the scene still clear in his mind he couldn't even bring himself to look at his swords next to the bunk. Immediately his eyes wandered to Sanji's bed. There he laid in peaceful slumber. It wasn't enough.
The guilt of their promise had been eating at Zoro, his hands already stained before anything would have to happen. Just how much longer does he have? How often could he wake up and simply look to his side to be certain his crewmate was safe? How often would he feel haunted when he woke up to nobody in that bed? It wasn't enough.
Zoro's body moved independently, carrying him towards Sanji's sleeping form. He needed to feel it. Feel that Sanji was alive, feel his breath, his pulse. He sat on the bunk and carefully placed a hand on Sanji's chest. The slight rise and fall of it soothed him. Zoro could barely feel the other’s heartbeat right underneath his palm.
He needed more. His other hand moved to grab Sanji's wrist, firm enough to clearly feel his pulse. These hands so precious used as weapons by someone unknown in his dreams, as if they were disposable. Something moved under his touch and then his hand was swatted away.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" Sanji whisper-shouted at him, annoyed. "Damn bastard, like touching people in their sleep and you still have the nerve to call me a pervert?"
Zoro couldn't respond, overwhelmed by thoughts. How often would they still get to argue like this? How many more meaningless fights had they left? The weight of a sword returned to his hand. Would he deserve to ever call himself the world's greatest swordsman when he had the blood of someone so close to him on his hands? Would he ever be able to fight again when he failed the most basic task of protecting his crew?
But how could he ever deny his plea? If becoming someone he was not was too painful of an existence, how could he let Sanji suffer like that? How could he place this burden, this responsibility onto anybody else but himself?
The longer the silence went on, the deeper Sanji's brows creased. If Zoro was an open book to him or a complete mystery he couldn’t tell. Still, he hoped that Sanji wouldn't ask, hoped he would understand. He didn't want to talk about this. Didn't even want to think about it. All he wanted was for Sanji to be breathing. And yet, seeing it wasn't enough.
"Sanji," a tentative hand reached back up to where it was before. Feeling for a heartbeat, pounding stronger than before. "I need this."
They sat there in silence for a while, only their crews’ soft breaths and harsh snores filling the air. Zoro realized then just how loud and forced his own breath was this entire time. Gears were turning in Sanji's mind, searching for something to say, but he didn't push him away this time. Don't ask. Don't ask. Don't ask. He focused only on Sanji, his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest. It helped him breathe, calm his thoughts.
"I guess... I guess it's my responsibility anyway, huh?"
Zoro looked up at him. Concern and guilt were written all over Sanji's face despite him trying to sound nonchalant. He let out a deep sigh.
"This is my fault so... Do what you need to do."
Once again, Zoro's body slowly moved on its own. He wasn't so sure what he needed himself now. His breath, his pulse, what more did he need? What other proof is there? Arms circled Sanji's torso, bringing them closer. Zoro pushed both of them back into the mattress.
At first, Sanji was tense and defensive, hands on Zoro's shoulders ready to push him off. But nothing happened. Instead, he reluctantly relaxed, hands trailing from his shoulders to his back. Zoro closed his eyes, hoping for a dreamless slumber with Sanji so close. A hand made its way into his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp.
“Stupid mosshead.”
He was warm.