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Raised voices. Laughter. Clings of glasses and silverware, audible throughout the deck. In Sanji’s mind, these are the sounds of an enjoyable, uneventful evening; one not disrupted by the Marines nor hostile crews; spent focused purely on food, drinks, and nakama. Yet, for some reason, the Strawhats’ Cook can’t help but allow his thoughts to roam freely within his head, causing unease and tension.
Every loop he makes from the galley to the deck, and back, designates yet another fresh wave of heaviness rising from his stomach. A sense of fear or nervousness—which one exactly, he’s still unable to tell. Sanji’s habitual movements don’t let it show easily, however, it’s only a matter of minutes until somebody notices. Each time he brings another dish or a drink’s refill, his limbs grow more mechanical-like, his smile more and more strained, his normally cheerful words dying down. The same angst he’s already been feeling for a while, slowly morphs into dread, bringing a subtle tremor into his usually steady frame.
When the awaited moment for the smoke break arrives, the Cook’s already aware that he won’t spend it alone. Someone’s bound to have realised by now, and a quick assessment of his crewmates’ observational skills soon gives him a good idea of whom this might be.
His body continues to tremble, no way from the cold.
The pale hand reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket, producing a half-empty pack and a gasoline lighter. Sanji proceeds to shake a single of the cancer sticks out, only to have a few accidentally drop onto the floor planks. He curses, crouching down to gather them back, eventually leaving only one between his lips.
Next is the lighter. He brings it close to his face, holding the small metal box up by the end of his cigarette. He clicks once, twice. A frustrated noise escapes his throat as his fingers keep slipping. Third try, fourth… He smashes the fist with the lighter onto the railing. This time, a whine rolls down his tongue. Can’t he even unwind, dammit?
“Give me that.”
Sanji nearly jumps out of his skin upon suddenly hearing a voice right behind his back. The tone is rough yet calm, which only adds to the ridiculousness of the blonde’s reaction.
Turning his head back to look at the newcomer confirms his previous suspicions of who might’ve seen right through the act he’d chosen to put up this evening. The Swordsman has his arm outstretched towards him, visibly waiting to be given something. But in all his mental torment, Sanji struggles to realise what that is.
Perhaps, by now, the other’s Observation Haki has reached the level of providing the ability to read people’s minds. Or maybe, he simply notices the confusion written all over the Cook’s face. Those dark eyes flicker from Sanji’s face to his hand and back, as a slow, resigned sigh leaves the man’s lungs.
“Give me your lighter,” he clarifies, taking a step closer.
Once the instruction reaches the blonde’s ears, his movement is again automatic. His hand, still clutched tightly into a fist, progresses forward and opens, the metal device falling freely into the latter’s open palm.
Just like Sanji attempted before, Zoro moves to put the lighter against the end of the cigarette still stuck between Cook's teeth. He clicks once and watches as a small healthy flame bursts out of its confinement. Within seconds, a cloud of smoke fills first the blonde’s lungs and then the air around them. What follows is the moment of silence, during which the Swordsman simply allows his nakama to try and regain at least the semblance of his composure.
“Everyone is used to the smell of tobacco by now, y’know?” Finally, Zoro speaks up. His body leans heavily on the railing beside the Cook, as he gazes towards the deep blue stretching before them. “So why are you all the way back here?”
Immediately, Sanji’s only response is to shrug. Only then does he start thinking about what might be the actual answer to Mosshead’s question. He takes yet another puff, hoping it’ll cloud his emotions just as much as it does his organism.
“If you’re trying to be secretive, you’re doing a shitty job,” the Swordsman carries on, almost as if thinking out loud. “Everyone already noticed something’s up. You’re stressed.”
Risking a glance at his companion, the Cook lets out a soft sigh. Despite how moronic some of the crew could sometimes act and how oblivious their Captain often proved to be, he knows they aren’t all that stupid. They would notice his declining mood sooner or later. And, as it turns out, later is now.
“It’s nothing, really…” He tries, leaning one elbow heavily on the railing, his free hand running through the blonde locks in a nervous manner. “Just… thinking too much, again,” he admits quietly. The truth—to a certain extent.
The nicotine making its way through his system doesn’t seem to be helping at all. His body continues to shake, no matter how much he tries to contain it. He feels trapped; caged within the layers of his own mind. Focusing on these dark concepts doesn’t make basic tasks, like breathing, any easier. His chest contracts and expands at irregular intervals and after a while, it becomes difficult to decide whether he should inhale or exhale next.
Sanji’s desperate. Desperate for some escape route.
“Thinking? About what?”
The fact that he immediately takes Zoro’s questions as such is only a testament to how much he needs a release.
“About everything,” the Cook rasps out as if the dam that’s been holding his words back, started cracking just now. “Everything. The future. What will it bring for us? What’s going to happen? What if we fail in achieving our dreams… or what if we actually succeed? Or— Or—” he trails off, his breath hitching; his own body betraying him.
There’s a grip on his shoulder—it’s firm and yet ever so gentle. Nothing like what Sanji would associate with the gruff, annoying Swordsman he’d grown so accustomed to. Even though he doesn’t move, his entire being clings to this touch, like not doing so would mean spiralling further. Maybe it does.
A sound eerily similar to a sob rips out of his throat.
“I know this is all going to end eventually, I’m not oblivious to that,” he lets his ramblings flow, knowing that by now he wouldn’t be able to stop them even if he tried. “But I just— I can’t. I can’t deal with this, I can’t accept this.”
“Oi, Cook…”
To Sanji’s horror, he suddenly feels the wetness of his cheeks, and suddenly realises he can no longer see clearly through the blur that overwhelms his sight. He can’t move, can’t speak, can’t move. He can’t, he cannot accept things are someday going to change.
“I want this forever,” he chokes out. “I—”
The sensation of warm masculine arms tightening around his vulnerable frame is what causes what remaining control he has over his emotions to break completely. There are tears in his eyes, tears on his face, tears dripping down his chin. His hands grip the fabric of the familiar green coat like a lifeline, his knuckles becoming sickeningly white within seconds. His chest hurts from all the sobs that have been building up through the course of the whole evening and yet, being the stubborn chef that he is, Sanji tries to stifle them, not wanting to alert the rest of the crew.
Perhaps, if he had enough presence of mind, he would be surprised that while all this is happening, Zoro simply stands by him like a rock, keeping him in place and making sure he doesn’t fully fall apart.
The blonde feels one heavy hand finding its way into the curls of his hair, the other brushing up and down against his spine, sending a new, different wave of shivers along his limbs. There’s a warm breath hitting his ear and lips moving against locks. Focusing enough to catch the words being said takes all of the Cook’s remaining energy.
“Things change constantly,” Zoro’s voice is barely above the whisper. He pets Sanji’s head gently while speaking and—just for a moment—even he forgets the two of them try to bite each other’s heads off on a regular basis. “They are bound to change.”
Cook shakes his head but before he can even try to choke out a response, the Swordsman hushes him.
“Listen to me,” he orders firmly but keeping his tone soft. “Change is inevitable. That doesn’t mean it’s all bad.”
Slowly but surely, Sanji begins calming down; all of the bottled-up emotions now dissolving into the soothing atmosphere of the night. He takes a deep breath, then another, gradually coming back to his senses. Even so, he doesn’t push the other man away, perhaps not yet ready to start facing the world again.
But Zoro doesn’t seem to mind.
“Some change is good,” he hears Marimo continue. “Meeting new people, for one.”
With that, the Cook can’t argue. His thoughts wander towards Brook who has only recently joined the Strawhats in their journey to the New World. His mind replays the travels and events they’d been through so far; he remembers Alabasta and Vivi, recalls the people met in Jaya and friends made in Water 7…
Sniffling, he nods, finally starting to feel some semblance of peace.
Looking up, his gaze immediately locks with that of Swordsman’s. The vibrant orbs, boring holes in his features, make an impression of holding a promise. A promise that, whatever change might come their way, the crew will still be there to help him through it.
Something in his expression must’ve changed upon this realisation because, after another second, the greenhead’s expression brightens as well.
“Now, c’mon,” the Swordsman gives him one last pat on the back. “Let’s go back before the rest start getting some ridiculous ideas for where we went.”