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Staring out at the rolling waves, Zoro took a long swig of rum, burning his throat and warming his belly. It was his turn on watch, nestled up in the crows nest as cool wind rustled his hair and carried the salty smell of the sea to his nose.
He didn’t have to look over the edge to notice the figure clambering up onto deck, nor hear the shuffling of feet and the creaking of wooden floor boards.
More often than not, it was Luffy who rummaged around this late in the night, like a stowaway mouse—leaving gaps and absences wherever his stomach took him.
The door to the galley swung open. Then shut. Then open again.
Zoro noticed a distinct lack of slapping sound, typical of Luffy’s sandals or bare feet on deck. It was no soft pitter-patter either, but rather that of steady, sure footfalls. Back and forth around the deck the footsteps trailed, like a ticking clock, pacing around in circles.
Sighing heavily, Zoro took another sip of rum, before craning his neck to look down at the deck. Sanji paced around with a cigarette hanging from his lips, the smoke from its end twining so high into the sky, Zoro wondered if it would curl up to meet him.
He watched the cook for a minute, who was in nothing but loungewear, trekking around the empty deck with bare feet. The moonlight reflected in his hair nicely. Zoro wondered what he was doing up so late. Sanji had to know he was awake keeping watch, but the cook made no indication he did, as he remained antsy on the deck.
Zoro shoved his hand into his haramaki and scourged around for the loose cork he’d left in there from opening the rum.
Pulling it out, he paused for a minute, before chucking the cork directly at Sanji’s head— and watching with mild amusement as the cook jumped back like a frightened cat and let out a yelp Zoro was sure would wake someone.
“What the hell?!” He heard Sanji shout from below and spared a moment to gaze at him from over the side of the crows nest.
He didn’t linger at the edge, shuffling back into a comfortable position, and taking another leisurely swig of rum. Allowing his eyes to close, Zoro heard the sound of footsteps then ropes being pulled taught, reveling in the dichotomy of the soothing, rhythmic lap of the waves as they overlaid the irregular sound of the cook traversing up to the crows nest.
When Sanji pulled himself into the crows nest he sat across from Zoro, the line of his mouth drawn in a frown.
“Curly.”
Sanji’s scowl persisted, deepening once he noticed the half-drunk bottle of rum in the swordsman’s hands. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m on watch.” With a shrug of his shoulders he peered past Sanji and out to the large expanse of the open water.
It was such a deep color in the dark of the night, with the blue of the sky at rest. He looked back to Sanji’s gaze, to see if his eyes were the same.
“Yeah but—“ He began, and all the air seemed to deflate out of him at once, an uncharacteristic exhaustion seeping into the space it left behind. Sanji let his head hang low for a moment as he grumbled quietly.
Zoro took a sip of rum, and considered patting him on the back.
When Sanji pulled his head back up, he held out his hand, offering the cork to Zoro. “Here’s your cork, idiot.”
Zoro grunted in return.
“Last time I checked, I was allowed to exist without having to worry about hostile plant life,” Sanji complained half-heartedly, lacking the heat of his usual jibes. He turned his head towards the open water, cigarette still in hand, and Zoro could spot where his jaw was tense and his body thrummed with anxious energy.
He slipped the cork back in his haramaki.
“You’re upset.” Zoro didn’t have the energy to dance around the issue, mock and taunt the cook till his face turned red with ire.
Sanji took a drag of his cigarette. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The denial was hollow, a thinly conceived veil over the truth, but one Zoro normally didn’t bother peeling back.
He swished around the remnants of his rum, considering. The sound of the liquid sweeping against the glass bottle was pleasant to his ears and he watched as the liquid clung and rolled down the sides of the glass.
“And I don’t remember saying you could have that either,” Sanji added, once the silence drew out for a moment too long.
Zoro scoffed, rolling his eyes and taking a swig. “I don’t remember needing your permission.” Which was a lie, given Sanji was quite literally in charge of all food supplies ranging from meats to spices to sweets and whatever else you could think of.
“Like hell you don’t,” Sanji crossed his arms, only to uncross them again immediately, stress building again in the crease of his forehead and in the weariness of his gaze. Something in his face and the way he moved gave Zoro pause.
“Do y—” The sound was short and abrasive, like it was choked out of Sanji, rather than being given up freely; and the cook stopped as abruptly as he had begun. His lips were pulled into a tight line and his gaze was fixated on a single point, like he was schooling his emotions into the perfect facade of normality but hadn’t quite managed.
His cigarette didn’t last, breaking under his strong fingers and anxious grip.
Zoro noticed Sanji’s free hand was balled into a white knuckled fist, just as taught and tense as the rest of him. He decided not to comment on it. Instead he shifted, reaching out to hand Sanji the bottle of rum, nudging his arm with the bottle only slightly.
“Here, Cook.”
The cook looked at him blankly for a minute, glanced at the bottle, then back to Zoro’s face like he’d never been offered something before.
“….What?” He forced the words out of his throat, looking at Zoro like he didn’t have his head screwed on quite right.
Returning the look in kind, it took the swordsman a moment to realize why Sanji was looking at him like that. He hadn’t thought much about offering, and likely wouldn’t have under other circumstances, it was just a means towards easing the sullen look off Sanji’s face. Something about it was unsettling, so disjointed from the version of Sanji that Zoro knew; the version which swooned at the slightest hint of female attention and was eager to kick the ass of any man who insulted his passions—the passions being his cooking and women, of course.
“Are you gonna take it or not?” Zoro said, hastily, keenly aware of the seconds moving by.
Giving a short, muted nod, Sanji took the bottle with clammy hands. His fingers felt like ice where they brushed against Zoro’s, and Zoro had to fight the urge to reach out and take them back in hand.
Was Sanji always this cold?
Zoro watched as the cook knocked back a hardy swig, nearly emptying what was left in the bottle in one swift move. “Oi— Watch it, Cook. I handed that to you to share, not for you to finish.” Yet he made no move to steal the bottle back, watching Sanji’s throat bob as he swallowed.
Everyone has their issues, at least on a pirate ship. It wasn’t as if just anyone went about joining pirate crews, even in the age of piracy. If Zoro tried he could probably count on one hand the amount of people who became pirates and were free of their past; it was just something that went hand in hand. Even he had his own issues, much as he loathed to admit it, far in favor of pushing them aside and to the back of his mind.
Zoro had an inkling of what Sanji faced, holed up in the kitchen for hours, smoking cigarette after cigarette. They all had their vices. Just because Sanji was all praise or insults—depending on who you were—didn’t mean he was an exception.
“I didn’t know you knew the meaning of that.” Sanji quietly voiced, the sound causing Zoro to blink as he was finally dragged from his own thoughts.
“….What?” Dumbly, he realized he’d been staring at Sanji, and in a twisted attempt to cover up his mistake he merely continued on doing it.
“Share.” Sanji said, the faintest traces of amusement pulling at his face.
Zoro rolled his eyes.. “I’m not a toddler, y'know."
“Could have fooled me,” and Sanji was smiling now, a small smug, self-satisfied smirk sitting on his face. Despite this, he still looked weathered around the edges.
Oddly, Zoro found himself smiling back.
And for a moment it was just that, a steady and comforting quiet in between the two of them, on the open seas; as if the entire sea—the world—was empty aside from them. It was comforting and scary all at once, and Zoro could feel the hair on the back of his neck rise at the feel of the wind passing by.
When the silence broke again, it was Sanji who spoke up. He had taken out his pack of cigarettes again and was pulling a new one out.
“… Do you ever feel like this is just…. Too good?”
The question felt sudden amongst their comforting quiet and Zoro found himself making a face as he thought over the cook’s words. And though it was spoken flippantly, it felt like a trap, as if there was a wrong answer and Zoro would happen to wade right into it.
He carefully kept from making any biting remarks. “You’ll have to be more specific than that, Cook.”
“This,” he gestured out with one hand to the open air. “….All of it. Luffy… The Going Merry… Nami, Chopper, Usopp, Robin— You.”
He fiddled with the cigarette he pulled out, putting the rest of the pack to the side. “Shit— Mosshead, do you even realize how incredible it is to be out here? To do what we’re doing?”
There was something like reverence in his voice as he said it, something even a bit hysterical. For some reason it sounded almost sad.
Zoro felt a sudden tense pulling in his heart and in his chest, in the muscles of his back and in the core of his stomach.
“Of course I do.” Zoro didn’t mean to, but it came out a tad matter-of-fact, like he thought Sanji was repeating a known fact. And it was a known fact, it was so apparent—but maybe to Sanji, with his stupid hair and his suits and all those damned cigarettes he smoked—maybe it wasn’t. Not that it made the idea any easier to wrap around.
“You’d have to be blind not to.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Sanji snapped, shoulders coming up as the tension in his body went inward, reeling up and pulling taught like an outburst on the brink of happening.
Unbidden, Zoro’s grip on his swords tightened, something in him expecting their typical back and forth to befall them. He schooled himself into passivity, but Sanji had noticed regardless, looking away from him again. He wanted to scold the cook, give a mock apology for even trying. That maybe if he didn’t get it then Sanji must have been implying it wrong; but he somehow found the force of will to hold his tongue.
“Cook,” he kept his voice steady even as his brows furrowed, “I can’t read your mind. If you want me to understand you’ll have to say it.”
Sanji went silent for a moment, his posture stiff and rigid, like a bird on the precipice of taking flight to escape. He didn’t say anything as he lit the cigarette he’d been holding, the noise of his lighter striking the only other sound beside the lulling waves.
Watching the cook take a drag from his cigarette, deep and almost desperate, Zoro found himself wondering if it was more of a lifeline than a vice.
“Just forget it.” Sanji spoke out seconds later, as if he could wave away the topic as easily as he could smoke.
Gritting his teeth, the ire that flared up felt irrational, like sandpaper on raw skin, and Zoro didn’t bother to think through his words before he spoke. “You can’t do that.”
“Excuse y—“ Sanji began, demeanor shifting as he turned to snap at Zoro, only to be cut off by the swordsman.
“You don’t get to be upset when I’m trying to understand,” he started, leaning into Sanji’s space like he was planning to rise to his feet, only stopping when he realized the awkward position it’d cause. “And ignore whatever the hell that all was.”
“Cook, there’s six other people on this ship, and you spend the most time looking after everybody,” Zoro crossed his arms, a steely gaze directed towards the blonde, “two of which you wait on hand and foot for.”
“If…” Zoro faltered, as Sanji looked at him with wide eyes, his curly brow furrowed in anticipation. “If there’s something wrong with you, you can’t ignore it. What about everyone else?”
He could tell he’d said the wrong thing almost immediately, Sanji’s expression souring in the downturned line of his lip and the scrunch of his nose as he kept his flaring anger at bay.
“I’m not ignoring anything, you shitty houseplant.” His words were like knives, sharpened blades poised to attack. “God— What the hell did I expect?”
He shook his head, rising up from where he sat, and patting down the legs of his pants as his cigarette hung from his mouth.
“Oi—!”
“As if you’d care.” He sent a spiteful look over the railing and out toward the ocean, as if his words would be swallowed whole, left to sink and ruminate amongst the ocean floor. “All you do around here is go through your shitty workout routine and nap— you’re not even a good pirate.”
Sanji didn’t need to say the words “first mate.” Zoro could figure it out either way.
Whatever else Zoro had planned to say left in a rush as Sanji’s callous words washed over him, all the air taken out of his sails in one go. Something ugly and grim reared its head in the contorting bowels of his chest, like a beast woken from a slumber, or a demon summoned from its lair.
Zoro was surging forward before a single coherent thought had formed in his head, reaching out to grab fistfuls of Sanji’s shirt.
“Bastard—“ The sound ripped out of his throat, through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw.
In an instant Sanji was whipping around, twisting out of Zoro’s grasp as he met him head on, the ladder to the crows nest left forgotten.
It was familiar, even easy, to fall back on fighting. The back and forth trading of hits and jabs, dodging and landing blows, as natural as how the tide rolled up against shore. When all words failed and tensions rose, they resorted to a language they were well acquainted with.
“What? Am I wrong?” Sanji bit, words aimed like freshly sharpened knives. “Admit it, the only time you care about this crew is if you get to shove your sword into something!”
Growling from the back of his throat, Zoro stepped forward, a hand instinctively flying to his sword. “What the hell are you getting at, cook?”
Sanji leaned back, bracing his palms on the railing of the crows nest, knuckles white as he gripped at the wood. “Nothing— I’m just saying how it is.”
Quick came his leg, as he aimed a kick at Zoro, the tension in his body snapping like a rubber band.
Zoro was quick to shield himself, raising his arm against the powerful blow; but the force of the kick sent him back and unforgiving wood dug into his spine as he collided with the wooden mast. “Like hell you are,” he grit and drew his sword, pushing himself off from the mast and into Sanji’s space once more.
The crows nest was ill-fitted for their match; elbows and knees and shoulders knocking and crashing into their surroundings as the two fell into their easy rhythm––the easy back and forth of fighting. There was an unfamiliar brutality to their moves as they traded blows back and forth, so unlike their typical sparring; a tense and palpable air that their other fights lacked. The two made their way around the mast in circles, fighting less like men and more like animals.
“Is that what you think of me?” Zoro asked as he parried a kick with one of his swords, having only bothered to take one out. “Why won’t you just tell me?”
“Because,” he began, rearing up another kick, “if you actually cared to listen, you would have left me alone the first time.”
This time as Sanji landed a blow, Zoro tumbled backward, his mouth closing with a jolt—his teeth biting down into the flesh of his tongue. The sound of his jaw slamming shut was loud enough to cause pause as it rattled out between them. The twangy taste of blood already began to fill the swordsman’s mouth, though he hadn’t bit deep enough, and pain radiated out from the spot already.
“Bastard!” Zoro cursed. “You never said to leave you alone! You’re the one who came up here.” Zoro gathered up his bloodied saliva and spit it out to the side.
Their fighting came to a stop in the wake of curses and expletives uttered from Zoro’s mouth, and the suddenness of it all had Sanji double guessing himself.
He hadn’t meant to cause real injury—though, in actuality he had, at least for one sick moment––and the revelation of that was so much colder than the momentary satisfaction it had given him.
Zoro was certain to get over it either way, but nonetheless the cook felt his stomach drop, and adrenaline gave way to bone-deep exhaustion.
Spitting to the side, Zoro scowled as he spoke. “Fine then. Next time I won’t bother, that way you can wallow alone all you want.”
And the words felt so final, certain and sure though they came from between clenched teeth. Collecting himself and sheathing his sword, it seemed as if Zoro would finally go.
But Sanji hadn’t learned to leave well enough alone. “Good.”
The sound stumbled out of his mouth, less certain than he’d desired, and he crossed his arms as if it’d somehow reinforce the will of his words. But Zoro turned back, gaze widening as it fell on Sanji’s face.
“Holy shit—,” and the possibility of leaving was wiped from his mind.
Zoro couldn’t recall seeing the cook so unwound, shirt ruffled and eyes red; the way he pursed his lips looking more like a feeble attempt to stifle tears than to berate.
Immediately Sanji’s hand rose to his face, wiping at his teary eyes. “I’m not crying.”
And when Zoro continued to say nothing, he repeated, “I’m not crying.”
To which Zoro straightened up a bit, breaking from stunned silence. “I never said you were.”
Sanji was definitely crying, as he wiped at his flushed face. It was enough of an answer, either way.
The pair stood there awkwardly, equal parts worn and weary, the only sounds filling the gaps between them were their breaths and Sanji’s stifled sniffling. No further questions were asked as Zoro sat down once more, settling on the wooden boards of the crows nest like a heavy rock. For a moment Zoro was certain Sanji would leave, run off to the kitchen or some other quiet place to be by himself.
But he stood there and only sat once he had dried his eyes.
As Sanji waited for his racing heart to settle, he did his best to straighten his bangs, uncomfortably aware of the sweat cooling on his brow and back. He wondered if it would be a waste to take a second bath. His stomach was twisted with all the same sickness he felt when anxious or hungry, so deep he was certain no cigarette would help.
“You’re wrong, y’know.”
Zoro’s voice cut through the silence, rough and ragged from yelling curses and heaving breaths. Strands of his own hair were stuck together with sweat, little difference from the state Sanji was in.
When Sanji said nothing, he continued. “I do care about the crew—“ and his gaze settled on Sanji like a heavy weight “—that means you too, shit-cook.”
The words held that finality to them, just as they had earlier, as if it wasn’t up to debate, but instead a mere fact of the universe; and with Zoro’s steely gaze, Sanji found himself unable—unwilling—to refute.
“But… I’m not a good pirate.” When Sanji’s gaze lifted to meet Zoro’s he found the swordsman looking away, brows furrowed as he looked at nothing.
Sanji opened his mouth to speak, but Zoro charged onward. “I’m not a navigator, or a cook. I’m not good with canons and I can’t fix things like Usopp. I’d be an awful captain— I’m a mediocre first mate, if that.”
“If you told me a year ago that I’d be here, sailing on the grand line as a pirate? I’d laughed in your face.” He scoffed, moving a hand to rest on his swords. “Hell, death might’ve seemed more likely than that. Being a pirate isn’t something I planned.”
An expression—something Sanji would almost dare to call pained—flitted briefly across Zoro’s face. Sanji remained unreadable as he continued.
Zoro ran his thumb back and forth over Wado’s hilt, and it was as if merely looking at it restored some form of confidence. “Now, I can’t imagine how I ever felt that way.”
“Don’t get me wrong, this is one hell of a crew— but not single day has passed where I regret being here. Nothing in this world that would make me turn my back on this, on Luffy–– not even death.”
The words prickled the hairs on Sanji’s legs and arms, and sent a shiver down his spine. When his gaze met Zoro’s, and the swordsman looked back at him, he saw the absolute resolve of his iron will. As strong as the blades he carried.
“You can hate me all you want, cook, I couldn’t care less— But don’t believe for a second that I don’t care.” His gaze shifted away as the meaning of his words settled between them.
When Sanji spoke, he found his throat dry and scratchy, and it felt like he’d swallowed a stone. He tore his gaze away from Zoro. “I didn’t–– I didn’t mean it, alright?”
Zoro leveled him with a steady gaze, expression bristling at the tone of voice. “You don’t have to make excuses—“
“Weren’t you just going on about listening?” Sanji barked, his voice cracking.
Zoro shut his mouth.
Tangling a hand in his hair, Sanji found himself looking for some kind of anchor as he mulled over his words.
“I didn’t mean it.” It came out much more steady this time, the cook schooling his voice into something resembling normalcy. “I don’t know why I said it.”
He did his best to urge himself onward—to say more, mouth opening and closing, like some sort of fish.
Something akin to an apology willed itself to be heard, words on the tip of his tongue, but he found himself swallowing dryly around them as he faltered once more.
As the silence continued, Sanji was keenly aware of how his chest drew tight and his heart rang about in his ribcage; with each passing second he felt the amounting, ceaseless impulse to lay everything out, all his thoughts and fears— like a fish splayed out and gutted.
“No—“ The words finally bid past his lips. “I do know why. I said it to hurt.” Although it was not an apology, it was an admission, and words scraped from out his throat. “God,” Letting the amounting energy push him forward, Sanji continued, “you don’t make talking to you easy.”
It seemed as if Sanji was about to cry again, with the creaking in his voice, but instead he wiped at his brow and carded a hand through his blonde hair again to grasp at the strands.
“I’m trying.” Zoro’s voice was steady.
“Y’know, that’s—“ And Sanji swallowed dryly, “that’s probably the most you’ve ever said to me.”
The laugh he intended to follow after got caught on the way out, leaving his words lingering in the air, bare and unmasked. The pit of his stomach dropped at how earnest he truly sounded.
Sanji didn’t dare raise his gaze, the hand in his hair tugging tighter as he worked to school his breath, humiliation burning on the back of his neck and in the nerves of his stomach.
Sanji forced his hand out of his hair, his lips pursed, determined to stay silent until he had a cigarette to his lips once more. He fumbled around for the discarded pack and pulled another out. How many had he smoked tonight? Two? Three? Maybe it was four. He couldn’t recall as he pulled another out.
He caught a glimpse of Zoro as he raised his head; the swordsman’s gaze had yet to wander, fixed on him, steady and sure— giving nothing away. Sanji cursed his stoicism.
The first hit of nicotine to his system washed over him like a balm, numbing the edges of his fraying demeanor. He welcomed the feeling with open arms, holding onto the familiarity of it, as he filled his lungs with the warm smoke before breathing it out at a steady pace.
But it could only do so much, Sanji’s nerves a relentless force, and the blonde took another drag to quash the remaining anxiety of his fluttering nerves.
More grounded than before, if only by a fraction, Sanji found himself speaking. “It’s funny… I almost prefer fighting.”
Neither of them laughed.
For a second Sanji could have sworn he’d watched Zoro’s brow twitch at the comment, something dissatisfied in the corners of his mouth, but it was gone as soon as it had arrived. Still, it was enough to send the beginnings of guilt blooming in the depths of his gut.
Sanji opened his mouth, only to close it, before changing his mind once more. “This… This isn’t easy, okay?” And the words felt dry and distant, inadequate to describe how hard this really was.
“Tell me about it,” Zoro muttered, on instinct, mildly indignant.
No less than that single comment left his mouth and Sanji found himself suddenly devoid of energy, the drive he’d worked up to finally speak his mind driven out and extinguished with ease.
Zoro had the decency to look sheepish once he’d realized what he’d said, but the damage was done.
“Look, Cook, you should go back to bed—“ Zoro rose from where he sat, as if preparing to leave. The thought made Sanji’s chest irrationally tight.
It was the best outcome; a temporary fix, to ignore the beginnings of whatever vulnerability had transpired here in favor of letting sleeping dogs lie. To throw a sheet over the mess they’d started, covering up whatever raw bleeding parts that had been exposed between them.
“No” And the sound of his own voice startled him, but he doubled down. “You’re the one who wanted to pry,” Sanji bit out, doing little to hide the uncertainty of his words.
He took a drag of his cigarette as Zoro stilled, waiting for him to continue.
“Plus…. Don’t you think I’ve tried that?”
Zoro settled back down, his back to the railing. Leaning his swords against his shoulder, one arm loosely draped around them; Zoro tilted his head until it rested against the cool material of the sheathes.
“Yeah?”
The question was steady and calm; void of sarcasm or mockery, and Sanji felt as if he was looking at the swordsman for the first time again.
Sanji nodded and flicked ash from the end of his cigarette.
His tongue felt thick in his mouth. “I can’t sleep.”
“Why not?” Zoro asked.
Sanji fought the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s not that easy,” he grit out, and was swift to wash the words out with fresh smoke.
“Then explain it to me.”
“I’m trying. I—“ Sanji took a shuddering breath, shaking his head as he breathed out unsteadily into the night air. Perhaps giving up was the best option after all.
“...Take your time.” The words were measured out carefully, like they fit at odd angles in Zoro’s mouth and he was using them for the first time.
Sanji turned to snap at him, clenching his fits only to find the open expression Zoro wore washed the feeling away within moments. Suddenly he felt like he was the asshole.
“I…, “ Sanji stared listlessly for a moment, fiddling with the lit cigarette still in his hand, then suppressing a small wince when the lit end of it brushed against one of his fingers and stung. He took a slow drag from it as he mulled over his answer. “I get nightmares.”
He waited for Zoro to mock or laugh at him, as his fingernails dug into his own skin. But no taunt or jab came.
“I’ve always had them,” Sanji carried on, “it’s really not a big deal.”
He felt wrong footed and laid bare under Zoro’s scrutinizing gaze. He tapped the ashes from the end of his cig, watching them fall onto the wooden floor.
He fought the urge to fill the air with idle thoughts, wishing for Zoro to respond faster.
“Not a big deal my ass,” Zoro said, less malicious and more light hearted. “Seems like it’s something if its keeping you up. What kind of nightmares?” He asked, almost casual. One hand was braced upon Wado again and he idly rubbed circles into the lacquered surface of its sheath with his thumb.
“What kind of question is that?”
Zoro shrugged. “I’m trying to understand.”
Normally, Sanji would have scoffed. He opted to take another hit of his cigarette, closing his eyes with meager hopes of settling his nerves.
“I dunno.” He muttered, breathing out smoke, “it’s stupid anyway.”
“Ok.” Zoro thought for a moment. “You said this was ‘too good.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just that.” Sanji shrugged and stared at his hands so he didn’t have to look at Zoro. His lip quivered slightly as he spoke, and he felt his eyes threaten to well with tears once more. He shut them tight. “It’s too good. Like… it isn’t quite real.”
Something began to seize up in Zoro’s chest, his brows furrowing together at Sanji’s words. He pressed his fingers into Wado more firmly.
Sanji continued, “That any moment I could wake up and be anywhere but here.” In a dark, damp room with no light and musty air. On a rock in the middle of the ocean. He swallowed thickly. “And none of this is real.”
Quietly and carefully, Zoro reached out, his hand finding Sanji’s where it tugged anxiously at the fabric of his own pants. Zoro was uncertain, unsure if Sanji would even accept this. But his hand was so cold, quivering with the force of his emotions, and was swallowed up by the warmth of Zoro’s.
He said nothing, offering no words of comfort or condolence, only the steady presence of a warm body.
Sanji didn’t try to pull away.
“That’s why you can’t sleep?” Zoro asked.
Sanji only nodded, tears threatening to fall.
He hummed in acknowledgement, low in his throat, and turned to gaze out at the sea. The sun would rise with due time, the dark sky already growing steadily lighter than it was before.
Tears had silently slipped from the corners of Sanji’s eyes as he willed himself to calm, with minimal success.
“If this was a dream you would have woken up by now.” Zoro said, sure and resolute.
It tore the cook from whatever thoughts he’d been caught in. He wiped tears messily from his face before looking at Zoro, incredulous. “…You can’t know that.”
“Sure I can. It makes sense. We’ve been traveling for weeks—longer—if this was a dream you’d have woken up by now.”
Irrationally, the words made something bitter rise in the back of Sanji’s throat. He became aware he didn’t know when he had last taken a drag of his cigarette, and looked down to the side of him, not knowing when he’d discarded the filter.
“It doesn’t work like that,” he bit out, crueler than intended.
Zoro looked at him like he had two. “Why not? It’s logical.”
Sanji gripped Zoro’s hand tighter in his own. “Because it doesn’t. If all of this isn’t real, and you’re not real, then this doesn’t change anything. No matter what if I wake up––” He bit his lip, another tear slipping from the corner of his eye. He felt less like a man than he had in ages. Tears slipping down his cheeks, unable to rise and look Zoro in the eye; he felt no different than the kid he’d been back on Germa.
“Pft––” Zoro couldn’t help but laugh. “Cook, do you hear yourself? That makes no sense.”
Sanji was about to tear his grip from Zoro’s. Shame burned on the back of his neck and he felt like he might puke then and there, he felt so sick.
But Zoro didn’t laugh or degrade him as he continued.
“My best friend died when I was younger.” Zoro said. “She fell down the stairs. Broke her neck. I used to get nightmares about it.”
“Thinking about it, they weren’t really nightmares… More like dreams.” Zoro fixated on Wado Ichimonji in his other hand. White lacquered saya reflecting the moonlight as a cloud rolled by. “It’d be like any other day before she died. We’d be training or eating together. Then out of nowhere I’d realize she was dead and that when I woke up, she’d be gone.”
“Sometimes I’d wake up right away. Other times I wouldn’t. And I’d spend the rest of the dream dreading it,” he continued on, “but I always woke up eventually.”
“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” Sanji asked flatly, though he was no longer quivering, his voice was steady, and he could look Zoro in the eye.
“All I’m saying, Cook, is that you can’t avoid it. If this was a dream, you’d wake up eventually.” His mouth held the slightest smile to it. “You might as well try to enjoy it while it lasts.”
Sanji sat there, his legs and toes prickling with numbness as Zoro’s words washed over him. The cold hand of anxiety still lingered in his chest, but he felt better. Better than before, at least. He sat up straighter and cleared his throat, wiped over his face one last time to make sure no tears were there.
“I don’t know if I can get back to sleep tonight.”
“You can sleep here if you want.”
Zoro offered up without a hint of mockery or amusement in his voice. “Then if you get nightmares I can wake you up. And in the morning you won’t be alone.”
His rough warm hand was still around Sanji’s, not holding him there but a steady reminder of his presence. Sanji thought back to the room where Usopp, Chopper, and Luffy were all snoring away. He thought about how Nami and Robin were likely sleeping similarly. Sanji nodded his head.
Letting go of Zoro’s hand only so he could move closer, Sanji grabbed his box of cigarettes and slipped them into the pocket of his pants. When he sat down Zoro’s hand came up to guide him so he was leaning against his chest. Sanji’s stomach flipped oddly but he didn’t protest. Zoro wasn’t bothered––maybe he’d even done this for those two partners of his.
Sanji’s eyelids felt like lead as they closed, the weight of his exhaustion crashing down on him as he let his heart race in his chest, doing nothing to stop it but nothing to worsen it either. Zoro didn’t say goodnight, but he didn’t need to, and Sanji didn’t say so either.
Laying on the swordsman, Sanji found Zoro’s body was a comforting warmth. More comforting than he expected.
“You know that even if this were a dream, Luffy would find you when you woke up.”
The words reverberated through Zoro’s chest and into Sanji, like the soft pattern of a drum, or the droning tune of a lullaby. Over the sound of the rolling waves, he heard Zoro’s steady heartbeat. He was alive. They both were alive.
Sanji left his eyes closed.
“Yeah. I do.”