Work Text:
“Dad! Please! Please let me out!”
He’d smashed his head against the bars. The helmet hadn’t softened the impact, seeming to only amplify the rattling of his brain. He’d done it again and again, teeth mashing with every clang, clang, clang. A mess of hot tears coated his cheeks, slipping over the fixed metal clamped flush to his jaw.
He twitched.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry I’m so weak! Please help me!”
His small body stumbled backwards and fell, unaware of the broken skin on his forehead. Panicked, he’d scrubbed at his face, violently rubbing beneath his eyes and scratching his fingers against the iron case, blunt nails sliding off the smooth surface. The corners of his vision were crammed by the edges of his helmet, the weight of it closing tighter as a warm, red bead slid down his nose.
He couldn’t breathe.
He slammed his skull into the concrete floor, wailing.
Nobody came for him.
Sanji inhaled shakily, a stuttered gasp bubbling from his chest.
He clutched at his hair, yanking his fingers through the matted strands that clung to his neck. He shook his head rapidly, trying to remove the lingering images. The dense silence, icy ground piercing his bare soles, the crush of his mouth against a metal shell-
His gaze flicked upwards, roving over the ceiling from where he lay in his hammock.
A ship. His nakama. That’s where he was. Of course. Why was it so hard to keep track of himself?
He sighed, willing himself to lower the hands now scraping at his skin.
It baffled him how a memory could be so vivid yet inaccurate. He was certain he hadn’t banged his head against his cell. He’d just cried and screamed. Or maybe, he had. It all felt so far away, something that was so visceral yet intangible. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. What parts were or weren’t a truth of his childhood was muddled. Details warped themselves to an indiscernible degree, like looking through layers of glass that only stacked higher with every remembrance. He’d considered it a blessing. Some things were better off distorted. By this point, much had been wholly lost, and that was for the best. He’d hoped that one day it would all be gone.
It was a nice thought.
Unfortunately, there were things he’d never discard. Over a decade later, certain sensations remained entrenched, rooted deep, deep, deep. He couldn’t pull them out.
If he concentrated hard enough, buried himself inside, sunk his head under, the ache in his stomach would develop, swallowed by the gnawing agony of hunger. His wrists would thin, his legs wobbled, his skin stretched taut around gutted ribs.
He’d never shake that.
The weight of the helmet was palpable, always the same, always stifling, always there. He wished it would change, to find some levity with a lightened load on his mind. If only it would grow feathery, airy and soft until, maybe, he’d forget it was ever there to begin with.
He’d never forget.
With trembling palms, he patted the bedding around himself, attempting to touch ground where he teetered precariously on a cusp. Of all things, he found himself brought to the present by the loud snoring of Luffy, the noise so synonymous with reality. It was a struggle to drown out most days. Now, he clung to it, unpleasant as it was.
An itch festered.
He quietly swore, teeth finding his lower lip until the delicate flesh punctured. A burnt taste flooded his palette. Its distraction was fleeting, only serving to crinkle his nose in distaste.
Unsatisfied, he squeezed his eyes shut. They stung. The sharp, pained burn that came with sleeplessness a simple nap wouldn’t cure.
He wouldn’t fall back asleep.
He couldn’t.
The itch worsened.
Sanji huffed, patting around his body for his pack of cigarettes. He found them nestled in his right pocket, the box crumbled from his weight.
There was only one cigarette left.
One could feign ignorance for how nights ended up like this, but it wasn’t hard to figure out the correlations that led to his current state.
They’d been at sea for a while, their supplies having dwindled significantly. Sanji wasn’t foolish. None of them were (as much as they acted like fools sometimes), and he’d made sure to always have a month’s supply of canned goods stocked up in the cellar. The next island was a week away. They’d be fine. They wouldn’t need to ration or eat into the emergency storage, but the nervous thoughts lingered, the what-ifs .
His worries could be gleaned from his incessant chain smoking, leading to what was now his last pack of cigarettes. A smoker like him kept backups tucked away in cabinets and compartments, but he hadn’t needed to touch those in a long time. After this cigarette, he would. He should be surprised. It was abnormal to go through so many packs but he couldn’t bring himself to dwell on it, not when he understood why. He was anxious from being at sea so long. Simple as that. A little ironic considering he’d spent a hearty portion of his youth on the Baratie, but that was a sailing restaurant. There was always food on board. A lot of food.
There was little care as Sanji thumbed the last stick. It stared at him, rolling slightly in the empty container.
Knowing the cause of his stress, he’d expect his nightmares to be filled with his time of starvation- not of his family. It seemed any bad thoughts inevitably circled back to his earliest years.
He wished he’d dream of starvation instead.
Sitting up, he precariously shuffled off the hammock, glancing around the quarters to ensure no one had woken. It was late enough that he could walk aboard undisturbed, only greeted by deep breaths and the occasional mumble.
For a brief moment, he entertained the thought of baking. It would be healthier than what his current plan was, but it wouldn’t do. The itch was becoming intolerable, a tingle splitting down his spine that spurred him to hurry before something bad happened. Before he could do something worse.
He stumbled in a daze, moving without looking. He’d traversed the halls so frequently that it wasn’t necessary to watch his step, the routes all but infused into his legs. He could keep his mind fixated on himself, tracing the sharp corners of the cigarette pack in a rhythmic gesture. It weighed heavy in his hand.
He wouldn’t have realized that he’d made it outside if not for the chill that pricked his skin. A cool, light breeze swept his hair, pulling him from his stupor. The sky hung vacant of clouds, dotted in amassed stars and a small moon strung above, bathing the Sunny in a white flush.
He took a moment to glance around, inhaling a large breath, shoulders slumping visibly on the exhale.
It was a nice night. Peaceful and desolate. There hadn’t been much activity as of recent, the past weeks a calm lull across the ocean. Perhaps that was part of his struggle. They were always on edge, ready to jump into action at a moment's notice. A span of time as long as this without interruption wasn’t normal. It was unsettling. He’d seen the crew laze around, enjoying the break from near death encounters and intense battles. He couldn’t relax with them- needing to occupy his mind throughout the day. That’s what soothed him. That’s why nights were so difficult. He was left with nothing but sleep to distract himself.
Sanji drew the cigarette from its pack. He stared down for a moment, rolling it between his fingers before placing it on his lips, shoving the box back in his pocket heedlessly. He clicked his tongue, feeling around for the small, golden lighter. It was wedged deep on his left side, pressing against his thigh. He grasped it firmly, flicking open the lid and thumbing the spark wheel. It softly clicked, ratcheting in a stuttered tap. A warm glow ignited, scorching the paper on the end of the stick. The crinkled hiss of tobacco and ash made him shiver.
He took a long, slow drag, reveling in the tendrils that wrapped his throat and lungs, coating them in a heated brush of smoke and tar. It shoved aside the tension plaguing his chest, replacing it with something full.
It wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy his itch. That wasn’t any surprise. Regardless, it was a nice feeling, taking the edge off the turbulence.
His eyes slid shut.
In and out. In and out. In and out.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there for- feet lightly scuffing the grass, lighter swinging in his hand, smoke hazing his vision. The stick had dwindled to a shortened nub.
It became too much; the methodical exhaust of a breath in and a breath out unsatisfactory. He needed more.
Huffing a sigh, Sanji bit down on the cigarette, letting it hang limply from his teeth whilst he busied himself with unbuttoning his shirt. He popped open the top few, reveling in the draft that rolled over his chest. His clothes stuck to him like a second skin, peeling off in a tacky layer from the grime he’d accumulated in the night. He hated the sweat. Hated how it made everything clammy. Hated the muggy press of it.
Hated how it reminded him of his helmet.
He’d sweat from his scalp, the moisture having nowhere to go, trapped beneath the metal. It would accumulate, matting his hair, making it dirty, making it disgusting…
A sharp tug on his shirt roused him. The button frayed, its threads threatening to burst at the rough pull. He eased himself, steadily patting down the wrinkles. With greater delicacy, he finished opening his top, letting it sway loosely at his sides, torso exposed.
There was a slight give beneath his socks, the plush lawn easy on his heels. He didn’t want to risk being seen, decidedly moving to the upper deck. Stepping forward, he leaned against the railing by the bow, head lazily tipping down to gaze at the black lapping against the ship’s hull. The water was empty, the waves all but invisible. If he’d been closer, he was certain he’d see himself reflected in the sea.
His brows pinched, a calloused palm scrubbing at his eyes to wipe away the image of his body sinking into that pit.
It would be so easy.
Tip himself overboard.
Sit atop the edge.
One leg in front of the other.
Push off…
But he was a coward.
He couldn’t die from his own act. He’d always hesitate, always stumble. Something was holding him back. He didn’t know what.
Was he worried about distressing his nakama? No- they’d move on, find another cook. Maybe it would take some time but they’d be alright. Was it the fear of pain? No, not with what he came up here to do. Was he afraid of leaving? No. The thought of abandoning his crew left a bitter taste in his mouth, but that’s in a situation where he lived afterwards. The loneliness of deserting people he’d developed fierce bonds with would be shattering, but he wouldn’t be around to suffer through that. He’d be dead.
With a lack of resolve, he’d resorted to other alternatives.
Living recklessly, tossing himself around, quick to dive headfirst into conflict. It resulted in bullet wounds and stabbings, some frustratingly close to vital arteries and tissue, almost there, close, so close.
It was after he’d gotten gunned in the arm by a low rank marine that Zoro looked at him funny. A strange glint in his eye. It wasn’t something he’d see often, something questioning, prying.
Zoro had approached him, arms crossed, corded muscles shifting beneath his tan skin. He’d glanced him up and down, eye flicking to the bandage wrapped over Sanji’s bicep, a snarl creasing his lip.
“Quit screwing around.”
That was all he’d said, a sharp bite in his tone.
He hadn’t given Sanji a chance to respond, already stomping off.
That was nearly a month ago.
The gunshot wound had healed fine, a rounded blemish the only remnant.
None of the others mentioned his behavior, at least not to his face. His goal wasn’t to be obvious. He wasn’t trying to attract attention from his lack of finesse. He just wanted it to be over, to let the bullet sink in just a little deeper…
Upon Zoro’s confrontation (albeit more of a threat than anything), he’d kept a watchful eye towards his crew. It was then he’d noticed small things.
Chopper had turned a nervous gaze on him, leering in a way he never did before. Sanji would sometimes meet his eyes and the young doctor would hurriedly pivot in an attempt to appear natural. Robin was more open, unabashed in her occasional concerned glance. He’d smile at her, trying to dispel the tension. Nami lingered, looking as though she’d wanted to speak with him after a particularly harsh injury. After a while, she’d only hummed, biting her lip and walking away.
He’d stopped paying attention after that. He didn’t want to see it. Their pity, their anxieties, their frustration, their disappointment-
He had to figure out what was stopping him.
The day he did was the day he’d die. He was running in circles by this point, delaying the inevitable.
Sanji pulled the cigarette from his teeth.
He’d met many people with problems. He wasn’t anything special. Everyone seemed to be a victim of some unfortunate circumstance. He supposed that’s where he differed.
Deft fingers pinched at the filter, squeezing the remaining tobacco.
His suffering was deserved, wasn’t it? At least, at some level he believed so. He was a pathetic child. An embarrassment.
He dropped the cigarette to his left shoulder.
Why shouldn’t he be punished? A burden on his family was worthy of some repentance. Had he not been born the way he was, had he done a better job, had he been stronger-
He dug the blackened end into his flesh.
The burn was immediate. A white hot flash of pain rupturing from the tender skin, oozing into a thumping ache. It radiated, pulsing in rolling waves along the crest of his arm.
His jaw clamped shut, the muscles twitching in his face at the sheer intensity. A low rumble split from his throat, barely audible beneath the blood pounding in his ears.
And Zeff. All that Zeff had done for him, and what had he given in return? Nothing-
“Cook?”
Sanji’s heart sank.
A dreadful gasp erupted, all color draining from his ashen pallor. The smoke slipped from his loose grasp, still smoldering as it hit the deck. He whirled around, catching Zoro staring at him only a few steps away.
So utterly absorbed, he’d lost track of anything beyond his own body. If Zoro hadn’t spoken, Sanji was certain he could’ve gotten within an inch of his back undetected. Letting his guard down was a common thing now, but he’d never anticipated it backfiring like this.
He swallowed thickly, unable to pull away from the sight before him.
Zoro’s eye was wide, lips parted in shock that was so unbefitting of a man like him, brows steeped severely. He seemingly steeled after a few moments, mouth snapping as fists clenched hard enough that the white of his knuckles peeked through. There was a tremble to them, subtle, and Sanji couldn’t tell what it was from.
His uncertainty was quickly answered when a snarl, something nasty and harsh, broke Zoro’s face in two.
Sanji consciously willed himself to calm, partly shaken by the look of bafflement he’d witnessed. He wouldn’t know how to respond to it on a good day, let alone a situation like this. He had to remind himself- this was just Zoro. There was nothing truly threatening about him. The man had seafoam hair and a grouchy demeanor. He pouted sometimes. He kept a tough disposition but softened around children. He salivated over cheap alcohol. He was just a buffoon. A deadly buffoon but a buffoon no less.
Sanji schooled his face into a mask of indifference, choking down the rising bile and panic wracking his chest. His blood beat incessantly, ramming through his core in a thump that left him dizzy. His ribs threatened to crack, groaning under the slam of his pulse.
“Did you need something?” He asked plainly, mild irritation seeping into his tone.
Zoro’s snarl mounted, glare lined with a hot fury. He jerked back abruptly, as if insulted that Sanji questioned him. The trembling of his fists heightened and he idly wondered if his knuckles would rupture.
“What was that?” Zoro gritted, all teeth and spit and ferocity. He hadn’t moved closer, fraying at the edges but keeping himself in a tight lock. Sanji waited for it to snap.
“I said…” He tilted his head back, glaring down at Zoro from his nose, “Did you need something? Why are you bothering me?”
“No… what was that?” Zoro repeated, nodding forward.
It was only when Sanji realized Zoro was gesturing to the fresh burn that his well crafted act crumbled. He flinched, turning his body away and roughly yanking at his collar, hiding the stinging flesh that stung beneath. He didn’t know why it startled him. Of course Zoro had seen. He knew that- but with a simple acknowledgement of what happened, there was no point in trying to maintain a disinterested facade. He’d hoped Zoro would’ve dropped it, would simply keep his mouth shut and back off. He wouldn’t put that past him. They weren’t exactly close- certainly not in a way that warranted visible concern for the other. The last thing he’d expect was Zoro to do anything remotely helpful.
“It’s just…” his voice softened, hostility gone, “It’s nothing.”
If Zoro wanted to address this the least he could do was de-escalate.
“Nothing?” Zoro parroted. He blinked. His mouth flapped a few times. “Nothing?” He rasped again, the lone word laying thick between them.
When Sanji didn’t respond, Zoro’s face morphed oddly, a tense, strained smile crept across his teeth. It wasn’t anything Sanji had seen before, dissimilar to the sinister grins he’d flash his enemies and not like the occasional smirk he’d shoot his way.
Sanji could feel himself clam up at that, a dewy sheen pooling around his temple. He’d hoped Zoro would’ve sworn at him, screamed at him about ‘How stupid do you have to be to burn yourself?! What’s wrong with you, shitty cook?’ Anger was something he could manage. It was something he could respond to in equal measure with a sharp kick or keen tongue.
What he couldn’t respond to was a smile.
“What do you mean by nothing?” Zoro asked after a few seconds, voice weary in its infliction. Something near manic touched his face and Sanji wasn’t sure what to do with that.
Humming in a light tone, he pursed his lips as if in thought.
“Just… nothing. It’s not a big deal.” He shrugged.
Zoro’s eye beaded, his body inching closer with slow steps.
“You-“ he drew his lips in a thin line, “You think that’s… nothing?” His tone was not accusatory but bewildered, suspended in awe and question, and Sanji shrunk away, taking on a defensive position with his arms folded. His abdomen was still displayed without hindrance, pale and open for one to scrutinize. Scars littered the dips and bumps of his flesh but that wasn’t anything unusual, not for a pirate. The abnormality came from the pocketed dots littering his upper body. The raised, uneven ridges a testament to poor healing.
“You’re misguided, Marimo.” Sanji swallowed thickly. A large lump had settled there, suffocating and swollen where it bulged in his throat, “We’ve all been injured worse than this. A little… thing here and there just takes the edge off sometimes. You wouldn’t understand but believe me, it’s nothing. No need to get your swords in a twist.”
Zoro seemed utterly unconvinced, his mouth developing into a hard frown, “You’re burning your own skin.”
The murmur was barely audible, steeped with unease.
A sudden hysteria set in. The sheer bizarreness of this, of Zoro looking at him with barely filtered fear.
Fear.
Had he ever seen Zoro look afraid? What was so terrifying about this? Sanji didn’t get it.
He huffed, finding his own lips tugging upwards in a grin. He could only guess it was something disturbed for Zoro tensed, back going rigid in alarm.
“Well, I am a chef. It would be embarrassing if I overcooked something.”
“Don’t-” Zoro grimaced, “Don’t say that.”
Sanji couldn’t help but feel a little bad. He didn’t mean to scare the guy. The poor man appeared thoroughly unnerved, face screwed in discomfort. He’d have laughed if not for the coiling tension swelling the edge of Zoro’s form.
“Go back to bed.” He waved his hand dismissively, “You aren’t thinking clearly. Some sleep would do you well.”
“You’re covered in cigarette burns.” Zoro’s eye widened, completely ignoring his comment. Whether he’d only just noticed or just decided now was the time to mention them, Sanji wasn't sure.
“Nah. You’re making it sound so much worse than it is. Your depth perception is non-existent, dumbass. You probably can’t see five feet in front of you.” He snickered, winking with his own left eye.
“Cook-”
“Really, Marimo, you’re troubled. Get your eye checked and-”
“What the fuck is your problem?!” Zoro shouted, closing the distance between them.
Sanji pulled himself away, unconsciously pressing his back to the railing.
He thought he was ready for that rage. It was what he’d anticipated but the raw distress in Zoro’s voice threw him off balance.
He had to get out of here.
Sanji straightened in a show of false confidence, stuffing his quivering hands in his pockets and attempting to shove past Zoro. He made it all of two steps before calloused fingers were fisted in his collar, dragging him forward into a vicious sneer.
“Gee- you’re ugly.” He chuckled heartily, a smile creased tight around his eyes.
“Shut the fuck up.” Zoro growled, shaking him vigorously.
His head rattled, letting his neck roll with the rough jerk. It didn’t take effort to keep himself aloof. The grin came naturally, lips cracked dry from the strain of pulling them taut. His brief worry all but shattered, replaced with amusement. Zoro yelled at him on the daily. If he didn’t treat it as anything different, there was no need to fuss.
“What are you doing?” Zoro bit, ceasing his manhandling. He kept a firm grasp on the fabric, the seams tearing with a loud pop.
“Careful, this costs more than your swords combined. Of course you don’t know quality material when you see it.” He mocked, flashing an unkind smirk.
“Shut up and listen to me. I don’t know what the hell is going on between those twirly brows of yours but you can’t do this.” Zoro snapped gravely. His face was mere inches from Sanji’s, their foreheads nearly brushing.
“Daw, what’s with the attitude? You worried about me, Mossy-kun?” He cooed, reaching a hand up to pat at Zoro’s cheek. He pinched it loosely, pulling slightly to unveil his gums.
Zoro wrenched back, ripping his face from Sanji’s grasp, “Stop it. Listen-”
“When do I ever?” He hummed casually, jabbing a nail between Zoro’s eyes, “Use what little brain you have to think for a minute. I don’t know what your goal is but you look like you’re gonna beat me up. Are you-”
The words died on his tongue.
Zoro had released his collar, his hands suddenly seizing Sanji’s body.
Broad palms rested on his back, digging into the crumpled shirt with a solid touch, roving over his spine aimlessly. Light breaths puffed against his throat, a burning heat skimming the delicate skin where Zoro’s mouth rested.
Sanji shuddered in full, a powerful tremor wracking his frame.
Zoro’s arms tightened their hold in response, attempting to quell the incessant shake. It only worsened. He shivered, jaw clattering like he’d been swept in ice, clothes sopped wet with freeze.
He was hit with an overwhelming stench of sea salt and steel. That smell- it was Zoro. His nose was tucked into a mass of green hair, tip brushing the gold earrings softly clicking together. He couldn’t see much beyond the night sky, chin resting on the other man’s shoulder.
He didn’t move, not closer and not further. Consciously focused on easing the violent jitters and spasms, he blocked out the reason why they’d begun in the first place. He couldn’t think about that now. There was only so much he could process at once.
“I…” The worn fabric creased beneath Zoro’s grip, “I noticed you’ve been acting… weird…” Zoro hesitated. The pointed edge he’d heard earlier was gone, replaced with a gruff lilt.
Sanji tried to respond. He tried. He couldn’t- not with the distraction that was Zoro hugging him.
That’s what it was, wasn’t it? A hug?
Why?
He couldn’t remember the last time he was hugged. Never would he have guessed it’d be delivered by the very person who stuck like a thorn in his foot. His expectations weren’t high, considering he didn’t anticipate such a thing, but he was fairly certain hugs were supposed to be pleasant. Not this. Not with a nervous acid bubbling in his gut, ready to spew over. Not with an ache still singing his flesh. Not with Zoro.
He tensed. The reality of what was going on finally sunk in, the cogs in his brain churning.
It was infuriating. This- whatever this was, Zoro acting like he cared. Like he actually gave a shit. No, Sanji was certain, Zoro was simply concerned about him falling apart. All he wanted was for him to get it together, to ‘quit screwing around’ like he’d said. It would be a burden on the whole team if he slipped. This was damage control.
Coming to a grim conclusion, Sanji scoffed, a sound so bitter that he nearly startled himself. He couldn’t keep the anger from his voice, the venomous sting, “You’ve noticed a change in my behavior? Didn’t know you were so obsessed with me, Mosshead. Am I so attractive that you-”
“Shut up.”
Sanji could feel Zoro fingers digging into his skin, blunt nails scraping through the shirt, “I’m guessing that Chopper doesn’t know. He wouldn’t have left you alone if he did… you know how fussy he gets. You should tell him but if you can’t…”
Zoro cut himself off, seemingly mulling over something.
Sanji held his breath, not wanting to move in case Zoro noticed. Not wanting to think in case he noticed. Not wanting to breathe. He didn’t want Zoro to notice anything. If only he’d pitched himself off the edge sooner. He wouldn’t be here, suffocated by an embrace that left him rigid, so close, so close to Zoro that he could see the dusting of freckles around his neck, so small, a washed speckling of dots that contrasted weakly against his complexion, developed from years training underneath a bright sun. He’d never noticed, never had a reason to notice-
“... I’m here.”
Sanji blinked.
He needed time for those two words to sink in, to understand if he’d misheard because, surely, Zoro wasn’t saying that. Surely, Zoro didn’t just offer him comfort- didn’t just say that he’d be willing to help him.
But that wasn’t his intent, was it? That was offered simply to placate him.
He laughed- a hollow sound absent of any mirth.
The grip on his back tightened.
Sanji shoved at his chest, trying to break the lock around his body.
He had to deter Zoro but it seemed increasingly hopeless the longer they stood there. If Zoro was one thing it was stubborn, immovable once he’d set his mind to something, but he had to try. He didn’t want him hovering.
“You want to help me?” He questioned bluntly, tone laced with incredulity when Zoro didn’t budge, “You- the person I spend half my day beating the shit out of-”
“Why do you do this?” Zoro interrupted, “Are you stressed?”
Sanji grunted, “Yeah, it’s from stress.”
That couldn’t be further from the truth and he hardly spoke it with conviction. He knew Zoro didn’t believe him but what was he supposed to say? That he deserved this- this pain, some kind of pitiful self retribution. That he felt better, felt good when his skin melted? That it kept his footing, stopped him from tipping too far? How could he explain something when he barely understood it himself?
“If that’s all it is then fight me.”
Sanji gaped, trying to twist his head around to see Zoro’s face, “Is that your solution to everything, you ape? Fighting!? Using your fists because your skull is overgrown with weeds?”
“Take it out on me.”
“What-”
“Fight me.”
“I do!”
“So why isn’t it enough?” Zoro hushed, lips pressed to the shell of his ear, “Stress relief, no? The adrenalin of pain, of your heart racing. The intensity of a solid fight. We go at it good. We both get hit. What does this do that a fight between us doesn’t?” His palms fisted fully, grabbing generous handfuls of the abused shirt. The action yanked Sanji, still pinned to Zoro’s chest but bowed backwards slightly, back arching.
He gulped, finding it irritating how Zoro could see right through him. What was this? The man was always distant, oblivious to things evident around him. He never had an affinity for socializing, cozying up to a bottle more often than not. To hear this, such perceptiveness, Sanji only then realized how laid bare he was. He was peeled back, raw inside and out, and Zoro was dissecting everything.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
He squirmed, grasping aggressively at Zoro’s own clothing to drag him off. There was little he could do. In terms of upper body strength there was no competition, the swordsman outshining him effortlessly. He managed to separate them by an inch before he was jerked back into a compact hold.
“Shit- let me go!” He ground out, trying to wedge a knee between them.
It was embarrassing how long it took for Sanji to understand.
Zoro wasn’t hugging him. He was restraining him. It was no wonder- he was a loose cannon, unstable and volatile and Zoro was taping him together, preventing him from doing something reckless, something more reckless than a burn.
It shouldn’t be upsetting. It shouldn’t matter.
It hurt.
A self fulfilling prophecy.
Fearful he was a burden and what does he do? Behave in a way that makes his crew, his nakama, waste their time. Why had Zoro come up here? Had he woken him? Yeah, he probably had. And the rest of them- they were aware he wasn’t his normal self. He’d decidedly ignored it but it was there, lingering, their agitation. He’d walk into a room and sense it, a pause, the uncertain glances.
His eyes burned.
He was so, so tired.
There were no expectations left, no fears. Nothing beyond the want, the need for it to be over. He didn’t care how it went. He didn’t care what happened afterwards. Selfish. He was selfish for not caring. Not that it mattered now. He was done. He didn’t have anything to ground himself, falling-
“Sanji?”
The solid weight of a body pressed firm to his, the physicality of it, of something unshakable, wholly tangible- he clutched it, fingers scrabbling for purchase.
“What?” He mumbled, brain stuffed with gunk. Listening didn’t come easily, every cohesive thought crumbled the moment he chased it, coming up empty without anything to contemplate.
“You with me?”
“Huh?”
There was a hoarse sigh, “I asked if you were with me, Curlicue.”
Jolting, Sanji found himself sitting on the floor, Zoro crouched over him. He’d been partly let go of, warm hands planted on his shoulders instead.
“Uh- shit-” He inhaled weakly, blearily noting the intense sting seizing his chest.
“Yeah.” Zoro mumbled, “You ain’t breathing. Remember how lungs work?”
“Shut- shut up.” He rasped, gulping down air like a man starved. He barely got the words out, fixated on controlling the bout of nausea that swept over, sour acid flooding his palette.
There was a long silence between them. Sanji wasn’t sure exactly how much time passed but it was enough to breed a festering tension, his uneven breaths doing nothing to fill the quiet.
He swiped at his jaw, brushing away saliva that spilled when he’d gasped.
He couldn’t meet Zoro’s gaze.
Directing his attention downwards, he started collecting himself, sorting things out, doing the best he could given everything. He didn’t plan for the night to go like this. Usually, he’d get the injury done with and stand in the kitchen for a while, cleaning and recleaning the dishes and silverware. His body moved without conscious input as he’d methodically work through the process he’d lived and breathed most hours of the day. He’d then pass out, slip into a dreamless sleep, wake up with a crick in his neck from laying on the table, and get started on breakfast.
Sighing, he picked at a loose thread.
A fervent guilt ate at his heart. There was a stiff ache there, something blooming, stretching and wringing him dry. It wasn’t the same as before.
Zoro was still holding him. His right hand was positioned higher than the left, thumb close to the fresh burn but steering clear. He was evidently avoiding it.
It was thoughtful.
Even if this was all to keep him anchored with no true sincerity behind it, nothing genuine, nothing real, he could pretend. He could revel in it for a bit, let Zoro’s hands stay on him, imagine an intention behind them.
He didn’t deserve it.
Sanji pulled back, eyes flitting over Zoro’s own. He hadn’t looked at him, really looked since he’d been grabbed.
His expression was plain. Not knowing him, one would guess that he was bored, maybe mildly irked. There was his signature scowl, a mean frown that Sanji learned was practically infused into his muscles. Even when happy, he carried a tenseness in his face. The only indication of something off was the wrinkling over his nose and a rigid quality to his posture.
Sanji touched Zoro’s wrists, gently pulling them away. He expected resistance but they fell lax, coming to rest by Zoro’s sides.
He patted his pants, remembering with a dour grumble that there were no cigarettes left for him to use.
Not that Zoro would’ve let him smoke one, anyway.
There was nothing he could think to say, nothing to busy himself with. He moved to stand, stopping when Zoro finally spoke.
“You need to take better care of yourself.”
Sanji made a noise, a weak acknowledgement but not an agreement. He couldn’t find the strength for an argument, settling on a shrug.
Zoro sighed, “You can’t- what are you thinking?”
He laughed softly, something small but authentic. He couldn’t make room for anything else right now, amused at the simple question of what his mess of a brain was, as if he could succinctly articulate any of the chaos, “Actually, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m thinking right now.”
“And you call me the idiot?” Zoro huffed good-naturedly.
He snorted, “You are. I can see the moss poking out of your ears.”
“Says the love-cook who can’t mentally function at the sight of a woman.”
“Oi! Ladies are divine. They deserve my undivided attention and adoration. It’s simply the gentleman in me-”
“Gah, you’re giving me a headache.” Zoro leaned on his heels, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
“Of course explaining gentlemanly behavior would make your head hurt.”
Something twitched in Zoro’s jaw, “You’re insufferable.”
“Insufferable? That’s a big word for a sentient plant. You-”
Sanji halted, a sudden remembrance turning his mouth to sand.
“You called me Sanji.” He croaked, dumbfounded.
“Eh?” Zoro sat back fully, propping an elbow on his knee.
“Earlier. I heard my name.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever called me by my name.” Sanji stated, bewildered by that simple fact, “Why?”
Zoro grunted, “Well, you were…” He scratched his chin, “... not responding to anything I was saying. That seemed to snap you out of it.”
“What happened?”
Zoro quirked a brow, “You don’t remember?”
“No. I uh- don’t know how I ended up on the ground.” He admitted, feeling a flush color him pink. He prayed the veil of night would hide it but it was a futile hope.
Zoro stared for a moment, “You went kinda limp. I put you on the deck and you were mumbling n’ finally came to when I said your name.”
It reminded him of drinking, blacking out and waking up in the morning without recollection. He tried to avoid too much alcohol for that reason (and it didn’t take much to get him tipsy). He couldn’t deal with the humiliation of whatever he’d say while intoxicated. This was worse. He didn’t have a good reason for practically fainting- in Zoro’s arms no less. If he didn’t want to die before he certainly did now.
He groaned, hiding his face behind his hands, “Shit.”
He expected more bantering, some teasing quip from Zoro he’d return in full. When he heard nothing he peeked at him, spotting the swordsman turned his way. He didn’t seem to be studying anything in particular, just watching, fixated on some unobtrusive part of him.
Sanji let his arms drop. The action caught Zoro’s eye, his stare following the movement lazily. He slowly blinked, roving over the expanse of Sanji’s abdomen, lingering on his upper body.
He swore softly, only just recalling how open he was.
He made quick work of his shirt, slipping the buttons closed with practiced, smooth motions, Zoro regarding him silently. He’d nearly forgotten the gnaw from the cigarette. It had ebbed into a mild twinge, more of a nuisance than anything.
When he got to the top he slowed. The material was wrecked, deep creases and tears lining the collar. Threads stuck out in straying paths, ripped from their neat stitching. He was sure the back wasn’t much better, unable to remove the lingering touch of Zoro’s nails pricking his spine.
“This actually was expensive, you know.” He sighed, no real frustration in his voice. It was irritating but not something he could fuss over right now. He’d do that tomorrow, when the sore wounds scabbed over. When he wasn’t stripped naked.
What would happen tomorrow?
He knew he wouldn’t be let off easily. This wouldn’t be forgotten- the Marimo wasn’t that stupid. But it was strange. He couldn’t predict how things would develop, not when Zoro was involved. The man was obvious in some aspects but this was unfamiliar territory. They’d never interacted like this before.
Sanji’s fingers brushed over the burn, wincing at the shot of pain.
“I won’t let you do that again.” Zoro stated, gesturing to his shoulder.
Sanji’s lips twisted.
“Oh? You gonna glue yourself to my side all day? I don’t think either of us would enjoy that.”
“I’ll do that if I have to.”
He’d have thought Zoro was joking if not for the steely hardness in his eye, words spoken with an unwavering resolution. He’d seen that many times before- that determination. Zoro wouldn’t bend.
“You… are confusing,” Sanji lamented, leaving his top button undone, “I don’t get you.”
Zoro folded his arms and crossed his legs, staring Sanji down, challenging him, as if daring him to talk back. He felt like an enemy under that glare, a threat in his demeanor.
“I’m confusing? How do you explain doing that to yourself?” He asked curtly, leaned in slightly.
Sanji was ready to storm off, to tell Zoro to shove it and go to sleep, but that wouldn’t accomplish much. It would be a temporary reprieve, nothing more. The man would be breathing down his neck the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. He wouldn’t get a break and the last thing he wanted was for anyone else to get involved. They were alone right now, their only company being the gentle pound of waves against the ship. He might not get another opportunity like this, their lives typically bustling with intense activity. This would be addressed sooner or later. It’d be best to do it now.
He sighed dolefully.
“I don’t know.” He stopped, shaking his head, “What do you want me to say? I mean- I don’t-” He chewed at the inside of his cheek, wishing he had a smoke to worry at instead, “I guess it makes me feel better.”
Zoro remained passive. He motioned for him to continue, giving a simple nod when Sanji gawked with faint disbelief, having expected a greater reaction.
“I… know it’s not good. I get it, you don’t have to berate me, but it works. It helps. That’s all.”
“Helps with what?” Zoro questioned, expression blank.
“I don’t think I can answer that.” He responded sincerely, “There are some things better left unsaid. We’ve all got skeletons… and I don’t mean Brook.” He added with a chuckle, attempting to dispel a rising discomfort in his voice. He’d kept his words vague, figuring they were unsatisfactory but not able to give much else away. He hoped it would be enough to appease Zoro. If he got restless and pried, Sanji wasn’t sure he could muster a better reply.
“I’m not gonna pretend as if I understand.” Zoro murmured after a lull, “And I hate to admit it but, Curly, we rely on you a lot. If we lost you-” He inhaled, a strained sound, “We’d be in trouble.”
It was the closest thing Sanji had ever heard to a compliment from him. More than that, it sounded like a plea, and Zoro never begged- not for anyone.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He said, steady.
“You sure?” Zoro asked, a flash of doubt crossing his eye, “You almost lost it. I barely recognized you earlier.”
Sanji was prepared to reaffirm his stance but in that moment everything came crashing back, the shoddy pillars he’d propped up crumbling. The exhaustion had peaked, his head heavy with it, bones leaden.
It was foolish of him to think it would be that simple, as if a shallow conversation tiptoeing the issue would mend anything- as if he’d miraculously forget why he was ever distressed in the first place.
He wanted to leave.
There he was, left sitting on his bed countless nights, stuck in his own indecisiveness without knowing why. Why? Why couldn’t he do it?
His hesitation didn’t go ignored. An agitated curse fell from the swordsman’s breath, “C’mon Cook, don’t fuck with me.” Zoro shuffled closer, now on his knees before him, “What is it? What’s the problem?”
Sanji shook his head, “I- I don’t want to be here.” He whispered, choking on a sputtered wheeze.
Zoro pulled away at that, any trace of his composure melting in seconds, “What the fuck did you just say?”
“You heard me! I shouldn’t be here- I can’t-”
Zoro moved further back, separating them by a few feet as if Sanji’s presence was offensive in of itself, “Then why don’t you do it? Kill yourself? That’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it? Or do you just want to leave us- do you hate your crew?”
“Shit, no- it’s not that.” Sanji scrambled, curling in on himself.
“What about the All Blue?! Do you not care anymore?! Does your dream mean nothing to you?”
“No, no, it does-”
“What about your dear Nami?! Who would wait on her fucking hand and foot without you? Do you not care for her? What about the rest of us?!”
“I do-”
“What about Luffy, after all he’s given us?! After everything he’s shared- does that not matter to you?!”
“I-”
“What about cooking?! I watch you cook, you stupid, twirly, shitty dartbrow- I see you smile when you cook! I can see that you love it! I see you get all excited when you get a new spice or fruit or whatever, and I know you are happy when you watch people eat what you’ve spent hours working your ass off to make! Does that not mean anything to you?!”
“I don’t deserve to be here!” He screamed, wedging his voice in-between Zoro’s incessant beatings. Sanji was panting, slick with sweat that dripped from his skin, painting the wood of the deck in darkened splotches. A severe tremble wracked his frame, uncontrolled spasms tormenting his limbs, preventing him from sitting still.
“What?”
He barely heard him, Zoro’s voice dropping dangerously. Had it not been for the calm of the sea he wouldn’t have caught it. It was hardly more than a thought, too quiet to be a whisper.
Zoro stood.
Sanji’s blood ran cold, an icy panic knotting his stomach. That was the end of it. He’d become too much to handle- the other man was finally getting that through his thick skull. There wasn’t anything worth salvaging in him. It was done-
“You don’t deserve to be here?” Zoro echoed.
Sanji heard the hollow thud of Zoro’s feet, the thump growing louder.
“You’re a little dumber than I give you credit for.” Zoro spat, tone souring, “You think you’re that expendable? I can’t speak for the rest but I know. I know you’re strong. You’re the only one next to Luffy that I trust, really trust to have my back in battle. And your cooking. Your damn cooking. I know you’ve memorized all of our preferences and tailor everything to what we want because you’re just that caring when you could easily get away with making us normal by-the-book shit. But no, of course you go outta your way to come up with a million tangerine recipes for someone who doesn’t appreciate half the effort you put into your craft and you always buy me sea king meat whenever available and you don’t expect to be repaid for shit- you don’t expect anyone to notice how much time you devote to us. You spend hours perfecting and re-perfecting dishes to be just to our liking and take to heart every little comment someone makes towards your food to ensure they like it that much more the next time. You just give and give and give- that’s all you fucking do!”
Zoro’s voice pinched.
“Don’t you dare tell me that you don’t deserve to be a part of this crew. You absolute idiot. Oh- and don’t you dare ‘huh?’ me.” Zoro hurriedly added, “I ain’t repeating that."
A profound weight settled over his heart.
His back unfurled, neck craning to meet Zoro’s gaze, desperate to see him, to see what was there-
“I-” Shaking hands clutched at his shirt, yanking on the fabric over his chest, struggling to ease the pain, “Zoro-”
He couldn’t see. His vision blurred, clouded with a mist that rolled down his cheeks, indistinguishable from the sweat beading his flesh.
Something wholly wrecked, something he couldn’t suppress, spilled from his throat- a sound nearly inhuman.
“Zoro.”
He wailed, unable to stop the utter despair that broke through, swept up in a torrent he couldn’t escape. The air was knocked from him, lungs wrung dry and throat shut tight. He slammed a fist into the deck, needing a release, something to ease the storm before he ripped himself apart, split piece by piece, the world wrenched from under him-
The ground returned.
Large palms found themselves back in place resting gently atop his shoulders.
“Oi, oi, oi- don’t cry.” Zoro scrambled, giving a precarious shake, “Should I not have said that?” The panic in his voice was crisp, “Waddya want, Cook? C’mon n’ say it.”
His tongue sat heavy, overwhelmed by something unfathomable. He couldn’t speak even if he wanted to, overcome with too much, everything at once, gagged by frantic sobs.
Instead of vocalizing his needs he wrapped his arms around Zoro, mirroring the way he’d been gripped earlier.
The pads of his fingers tugged at his clothing, gouging over hard planes and stiffened muscle. He pressed forward, burying his nose into the crook of Zoro’s neck, distantly aware of the snot and tears he was rubbing on his skin. The man beneath him shivered, easing into the touch with a sudden enthusiasm. He wrapped himself firm around Sanji’s waist, yanking him impossibly closer, until there was nothing between them but stuttered gasps and warmth. Sanji clung to him like he'd die if he didn't, and he just might-
“Don’t go.” Zoro hushed, tangling a hand in his hair. He massaged his scalp, rubbing his thumb beneath his ear.
Sanji nodded.
He meant it that time.