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It’s some early hours of the morning in the men’s quarters when Sanji wakes covered in sweat, breath caught in his throat and a pain so white hot it shoots through his limbs and fades out at his fingertips.
He sits up, slowly, clutching at his chest, heaving and trying desperately to fill his lungs with air he had unknowingly been denied. He then reaches for his stomach. It’s there. Not retreated into his body, more than just stretched skin over his hips and ribs. And finally, tentative fingers find their way to his bare, uncovered face. Relief washes over him instantly, a weight practically flying off his shoulders, so much so he feels the solace instantly.
It takes a solid couple of minutes to get the rest of his body to register that A, he’s okay. B, its only dark because it’s some ungodly hour in the morning and the sun hasn’t even risen yet. And C, he’s safe in his cot, on his ship, with his crew snoring soundly around him. And once the ringing in his ears has subsided and his breathing is not as desperate, he knows now that he’s to unsettled to even attempt to sleep again.
He contemplates just lying there in his cot for a bit. But while the idea of having these precious few hours to himself sounds absolutely tantalising, it’s just that. Sanji figures it would be more beneficial to simply get up early and get a start on breakfast. He can have the kitchen to himself, that can be his precious alone time, it will keep him busy, doing what he loves. Two birds with one stone he thinks.
Sanji isn’t careful to slip out of his cot. It’s a routine so engraved into his bones that he doesn’t even need to think about how he will slowly lower his foot flat onto the floor, or how to grab the metal buckle of his belt, not anywhere else, and put it on outside so it doesn’t clink together and make too much noise. Or that he’ll button his shirt while walking through the hallway to the kitchen, his suit jacket thrown over his shoulder, with not a single worry of being seen half undressed because frankly, no one is awake at this time to catch him anyway.
By the time he reaches the kitchen, he’s got a cigarette between his lips, lighter in one hand and the other pressed to the swinging door so he can control just how quietly it shuts behind him.
This is his place, he thinks. This is his time to himself and it’s almost like, for just these few hours of the early, early morning, he is the only one awake on the Grand line.
Breakfast comes and goes. Everyone has their own individual breakfast preferences served to them. Nami, an orange juice with her toast, because coffee this early, and on a stomach not yet quite sated, does her more discontent than good. Robin, the opposite, a fresh espresso sat steaming in front of her while she reads her paper, her plate empty, but she likes to pick as she goes. Luffy, a plate piled with bits from everyone. Chopper, something sweet, with a little extra because though he’s small, he needs that little extra portion to fully satisfy him.
The galley is empty as Sanji continues with the dishes, a fresh cigarette burning between his lips and a tune filtering in through the open porthole as Brook undoubtedly starts his first lot of morning shanties. He’s content like this. It’s his routine, only slightly thrown by the dream that woke him earlier than usual. But once he’s done with the last dish and he’s finished drying his hands and thrown the tea towel over his shoulder he starts on his stock take.
This is ritual for him, especially a few days out from docking. He does a stocktake every day towards the end of their trips between islands, and Sanji knows somewhere deep down inside it’s that little boy starving on the rocks that forces him to do it. It’s never bad, the anxiety leading up to docking, but it never hurts to make sure he hasn’t gotten too comfortable with the servings. That he hasn’t over done it, that there is enough food to keep them going until they reach land. Usually, and like today, he’s right. There is plenty food, well and truly enough for them to be well fed until they reach the next island.
His notebook gets slipped back between the cookbooks and his pen back to its usual spot. He takes the rest of the day to cook, relax and enjoy the sun with the rest of his crew.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
This time, when Sanji wakes, chest heaving and fingers white knuckling his shirt, there is no calming him down. He’s stuck, in a nightmare. The images and sounds of waves crashing violently against spires of rock grasping the inside of his mind, sending splintering pain through his body. His stomach feels as if it is eating itself, like it is being ripped out past his spine and through his back. He knew, just before he dozed off last night, that this would happen. Somewhere deep down inside told him that the rock that the Thousand Sunny had passed yesterday looked to familiar. It wasn’t his rock, if you would call it that. But the way that it jutted out of the sea and sat lonely in the hot and burning sun made his chest tighten a little bit and his gaze linger a little too long. The voice of the little starving boy was telling him to run and he knew, he knew that he would dream about those horrors tonight.
He didn’t realise just how vivid the dream would be though. And so, when it physically shakes his body awake and he all but falls out of his cot silently and stumbles towards the galley, breath still denied into his lungs. He’s still so caught up in his dream that he doesn’t realise what he’s doing until he’s done it.
He practically falls through the galley doors and clamours around to the pantry and fridge, grip so hard on the countertop he’s shocked later that it didn’t splinter. He’s gasping still, opening the doors and grabbing whatever he can, and he hits the floor harder than he thought he would when he retreats into a corner of the kitchen, food piled around him.
He’s unaware, abstracted, as he shovels mouthful after mouthful into himself. The pain in his stomach like a hand grabbing his organs and twisting. The pain is so familiar, so engraved into his body and bone, that the memories can’t help but flood back. His mind reminding him, painfully, of the last times he felt like this. He’s far away, looking down at rock beneath him, sharp jagged spikes even further down, and, at the last of his mouldy, far too gone food. He eats it though. Because there is nothing left of that small blonde boy. He’s just skin and bone. So much bone. Protruding out of him. His ribs far to defined under his tattered and torn chef’s coat. His legs devoid of any muscle and incapable of prying him off the hot, porous rock. His hair matted and falling out in clumps. Sanji can feel the insides of his cheeks when he opens his mouth to gasp for air. He’s far too young to experience this. Far too young to shovel spoiled food into his should be growing belly, trying, desperately, to push a few more hours of life into his body.
He feels like he’s already dead. Such a heavy concept for a child to grasp. Sanji has had to do that enough already. He doesn’t feel real. He’s been starved for so long, he’s forgotten any other feeling. What it was like to stand, to run, to talk, to breathe without stabbing pain stealing what little breath he has away.
What it felt to be human.
Sanji felt like a shell, a husk of what a person could have been.
It was his own guttural sob that tears him from his nightmare. Except when he’s snapped out of it, he wasn’t in his bed. He was in the pantry, surrounded by food, or the remnants of food. It took a minute for his breath to return but Sanji could make out the plates and jars and mess of food around him, on him. His hands were coated in meat, in juices and whatever else he had devoured.
It was revolting. Sanji could feel everything on him. He was acutely aware of every morsel of food that touched him, everything that surrounded him, everything in him. It felt like led. Almost like he had swallowed one of the ships cannon balls. And then it dawned on the blonde. Just how much had he eaten? How long had he been stuck in the nightmare of the past?
Despite the horrible feeling growing in his gut, he stood, not successfully. He stumbled forward into the bench and for the first time since stepping off that hell of a rock, Sanji felt seasick. Or maybe it was just, sick? Like his legs weren’t accustomed to standing. Or like he would vomit if he moved ever so slightly to fast. He grabbed the notebook from the shelf, sending the surrounding cookbooks down with it. He flipped furiously through the pages to the last stocktake. The one he’d taken just hours before hand.
He compared the book to the mess. Eyes darting between the two. It dawned on him what had happened, what he had done.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, no, no, no, no, no”
Sanji hadn’t realised his vision had gone blurry, his face hot with tears, until fat droplets landed onto the page below. He sunk to the floor with the realisation of just what he’d done. Clutching the notebook as silent sobs wracked through him.
“No, no... no”
He had eaten through a day and a half’s worth of food. Not just his own portion, but the whole crews. There is still four days until they reach the next island. He’s completely fucked up his plan. He was now a day and a half short of food, and even that little extra bit he had saved wasn’t enough in his delirious state. That nightmare had frightened his body and mind so bad, that he truly believed he was starving, or that he would be and that he needed to devour whatever he could before he was left to starve.
He sat slumped against the kitchen island, face pointed skyward as he pressed his palms into his eyes, the notebook strewn open face down over his thigh.
“Fuck” he murmured in a broken voice as he felt a fresh set of tears welling in his eyes.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck” he repeated softly, bringing his knees to his chest. He’d seriously fucked it up now. And while yes, a little logical part of him knew that the crew would survive without food for a day and a half, or on simply smaller portions for the next couple of days, that starving child on the rock was screaming how much of a failure he was. That Sanji should be mortified of what he had just done, that he was worthless and a good for nothing waste of space. That his crew would be embarrassed by him. That they would kick him off at the next island. They would be disappointed in him. His crew would die because of him, they would go hungry, they would starve because of him.
That Sanji didn’t deserve to eat.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
When breakfast came around that morning, no portions were adjusted, no amounts were halved, nothing had changed. Nami still had her 2 slices of toast with fresh marmalade smeared on top with her glass of freshly made orange juice next to it. Robin still had her Espresso and her plate for her to fill as much as she wanted. Luffy still had his mountain of food, Chopper his stack of sweet waffles and syrup. Zoro his seared sea beast and bowl of steamed fluffy rice. Everyone had their normal amount.
Sanji carried on his routine as usual, dishes, stocktake, cigarette, lunch, dinner, and it wasn’t until he was sure that everyone had retired for the night, that he whipped out his notebook. Flip to the freshest stocktake and start rewriting his meal plan. That changes were easy to make, simply repositioning portions and what he would be cooking each day. It was an easy fix when he simply removed himself from the equation.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
There were no changes in the first days. Sanji knew that. Apart from the subtle, but forgettable, pain that growled in his stomach, nothing had changed with him skipping his meals. He had been on the brink of death because of starvation, he knew he could hold out a couple days with no effects to his health. What was four days in comparison to eighty-five he figured.
In fact, he had convinced himself he felt better. Lighter. More agile. His mood had improved, his complexion better and even his patience had tripled.
His dreams were just that, dreams. No nightmares plagued his sleep, instead the little voices of his dreams congratulated him, told him this was for the best and that yes, even though this had been his fault, he was making it right. He woke rested and lighter. And even though, yes, his landing from his cot had become a stumble one morning, that was just one morning. Perhaps a fatigue from fighting his green haired comrade the day before. That was it. Because the effects of not eating for 4 days were looking great on him. He felt better, looked better too. He had lost weight, and yes that had put him off slightly, but when his muscles had peaked through as he buttoned his shirt one morning he was quite impressed he was looking more toned. He knew what starvation had looked like. He knew when to stop. And he would as soon as they got to the next Island. He could buy more food there and he wouldn’t have to worry.
No one else had seemed to notice the changes. He still smoked every day. Breakfast was served at the same time, the same quality. The same. There was no change, why would they notice anything, if nothing was wrong.
There was however, one thing. A slight, side effect if you will. It was that while his stomach had long stopped grumbling, there was a slight fuzziness to his mind if he didn’t keep himself busy. He figured, meh okay, I just keep busy then, easy. I rewrite some recipes, I tweak some things, I keep active. Nothing he couldn’t handle. But dishes, the usual part of his routine, was in no way shape or form, mentally stimulating. It was something he just did on autopilot, something he did absentmindedly while he stared out the porthole window watching the endless ocean around him.
And so, as the crew chatted over teas and coffee in the galley and Sanji stared out the porthole, mindlessly cleaning the plates in the sink, it was really no shock that the fuzziness seeped into his mind and apparently his hands as well. Because as Sanji went to move the plate to the drying rack, not even an inch away from him, his hands suddenly no longer gripped as hard as they used to and that plate Nami had used for her breakfast slipped out of his hands and hit the wooden floor beneath him, shattering into pieces.
The shrill sound of the plate shattering stopped every conversation in their tracks and swivelled all heads towards Sanji. The fuzziness retreated instantly and he looked down at the mess at his feet.
“Damnit” he hissed and dropped to his knees picking up the pieces. Suddenly a hand sprouted from the ground and stopped his hand before he could place another piece of plate into his palm.
“Sanji, here let me, I wouldn’t want you to cut yourself” Robins smooth, elegant voice, came from over his shoulder. Her hands sprouted and the pieces were taken from his hands to hers.
“Ah sweet Robin, I can’t let a lady clean up my mess, please let me” Sanji swooned and stood and tried to resume cleaning. Robin’s hand simply gently grabbed his wrist and he relented. He grabbed a steel bucket from somewhere close by and allowed Robin’s hands to toss the shards away.
“Well, well. Is the Chef finally losing his grip?” Zoro sneered, in that picking a fight tone he used when he wanted to rile Sanji up. Sanji bit down hard around his cigarette and turned to the green haired man.
“Shut it Moss-head! I break one plate, one time! Why don’t you come do the washing up if you’re so hung up about it, huh?” Sanji retorted.
“Funny. Last time I remember Usopp broke a plate, you lectured him about “respecting the tools of the galley. That plate’s in pieces. Pretty weak for a guy who claims his hands are sacred.” Zoro sneers and Sanji can feel the vein in his forehead wanting to burst out from under his skin.
“It was one plate! A minor casualty!” Sanji retorts.
“Keep talking, Swirly-brows. But at least I’m not the one over here losing a fight to gravity and a piece of China” he grins, chin on his hand as he smirks at the cook.
“Stupid Marimo”
“Clumsy Cook”
Sanji gasped offended.
“Shitty Swordsman!”
Zoro gasped even more offended.
“Shitty Cook!!”
The two met in the middle of the galley. Foreheads pressed together. Sanji is half rolling up his sleeve and Zoro rests his hand on the hilt of Wado.
“You want to go, you over-muscled moss-ball? I’ll kick those teeth so far down your throat you’ll be chewing with your stomach!”
“Bring it, Love-cook!”
“If I hear one more thing break, I’m charging you both 10 million Berries!” Nami fumed from her spot that the table, crease in her brow and glass of juice halfway to her lips. The two stop, slowly back away from each other and grumble.
“Pick up your trash, Cook. It’s making the floor look as bad as your face.” Zoro murmurs.
“I’ll put bleach in your Sake tonight, you damn marimo...” Sanji utters and they both tsk and look away from one another. Luffy let’s out a laugh and the rest either sigh at the antics or join in on their captains’ giggles.
Zoro walks out the galley door and onto the deck where he no doubt begins to start training. The others follow suit shortly after. Filtering out in dribs and drabs. Sanji thanks Robin again and she simply smiles.
He’s left alone. The dishes done and stacked drying by Robin and her myriad of limbs. He stares down at them and that little boy on the rocks repeats one word over and over again.
Weak.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
When they dock at the next island, Sanji practically flies off the ship to start shopping. He’s got his list, his fresh stocktake and an eagerness to replenish the stocks. The food that he ate.
He spends a good couple of hours shopping, haggling down prices and getting things sent to be loaded onto the ship. He avoids posters of himself and his crew and the few townsfolk that do notice, seem to have no aversion to him. He narrows it downs to perhaps the nerves of just how many posters of his face there is. The sinking feeling in his gut. That’s what it is, nerves. It’s definitely not that all the food he is looking at is making him feel nauseous. Making him feel like he did when he woke up out of whatever that nightmare was that caused this whole mess. That horrible, unbearable gnawing in his guts. It’s only when the sun starts to drift closer to the horizon does Sanji return to the ship.
Everything has made its way to the Sunny, his fresh produce, the meats, the jars and bags of various foods. He spends a good while categorizing and sorting through everything. A fresh stocktake done on a fresh page in the notebook. He’s halfway through planning the meals for the next voyage when Luffy complains about being hungry. It’s not that desperate, Luffy is always hungry, but he should get a start on the food for dinner. He closes the notebook; pen tucked inside and slides it somewhere onto the countertop out of the way.
He spends the next amount of time sautéing meats and cooking bases, rice, noodles, salads everything the crew will eat.
He looks over at the curling rings of octopus in his fry pan, some set off to the side already done. And as if on autopilot his hand reaches for one, to try, make sure the mix of herbs and spices blends well together with the subtle sweetness of the tentacle and the briny taste that most sea creatures have. But his hand freezes over the plate. He can feel the soft tender touch of the steam rising to meet his palm and the smell is nothing short of mouth-watering. But there is a tingle in his hand, that travels from his gut that stops him. A little voice whispering in his ear. His hand slowly retracts and he knows that he’s right, he doesn’t have to try it to know it will be amazing. He’s a great cook, why waste a bit when he knows it’s going to be marvellous anyway.
He’s right of course. Dinner is a hit and Nami is practically swooning in her chair because of the taste. Robin also not far off, a pleasant blush on her face because of the hearty meal. Zoro, the brute, scoffs it down with his rice and Luffy is already wiggling his bowl around asking for more. Sanji obliges, he’d catered for Luffy and his endless pit of a stomach.
“Sanji that was delicious” Nami sighs and Robin nods her head in agreement.
“Bit fancy” Zoro remarks, but that’s Zoro code for great, though he’ll never admit it.
“Thank you” Sanji grins and leans in to pick up all the all but licked clean plates. A cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“Is there some left over for you?” Nami asks. Sanji nods, telling her he had put it aside beforehand and explaining he was going to eat it later as he tinkered with the recipe and finished his meal plan after dinner. She’s sated with that answer and excuses herself to go to the bathroom to start to get ready for bed. Not before she offers help with the dishes. Sanji declines, saying something about a woman’s hands and never letting them get dirty.
“Ya sure cook? We don’t want to run out of plates” Zoro adds unhelpfully. Sanji’s eye twitches and he dismisses the swordsman.
One by one, everyone turns in for the night. Not before Sanji sends Luffy and Chopper off with their after-dinner sweets. When he’s alone in the galley and he’s finished the washing up he takes the notebook down to the galley table, and his plate of food. He sits it at the top of the table, the notebook laid out in front of him. He’s done with the meal plan now and everything is in order. He’s got his table written down with what everyone will be eating on what day.
He doesn’t know what possesses him, but he stares down at the list of names; Luffy, Zoro, Nami, Usopp, Chopper, Robin, Franky, Brook and himself. His name looks, wrong, on the paper. Like it’s out of place, or too bold or just to, there. He looks across to the food he’s planned for himself to eat. Another thing he does absentmindedly, usually just a selection of something else the crew would be eating. Maybe a coffee like Robin in the morning. A bowl of rice like Zoro at lunch, a piece of meat like Usopp at dinner. Nothing he ever really puts any though into.
There will be more if you cut back again.
The little voice says. It’s in his mind, his body.
Imagine if you have another nightmare, it could be more than just a day and a halves worth of food this time.
It’s right. What if he does do whatever he did last time and this time he doesn’t wake up soon enough. What if the next time is three days’ worth of food spoiled, or five. What if, what if, what if…
What if you just didn’t eat for couple more days? What if your portions of those days went to storage, or to someone else? So, they don’t go hungry.
Yes. So, they don’t go hungry. That worked out. If he didn’t eat, if he skipped some of his meals each day, or for a couple days in a row, then at least when he did wake from the nightmares, then the rations, the stocks, nothing would be out of order because he had never eaten part of his share to begin with. And if he never did have a nightmare, than that would just be extra stock, in case something was to happen or if someone was hungry. And then if nothing happened at all, then on the last day before docking somewhere then he could have a feast with all the left-over food. A celebration.
If he skipped a couple of meals, then nothing would be amiss, because he simply would have been saving his share for a later time. If he had food every day, that food is gone. But if he skips a couple of meals, then there’s a couple of meals saved for the future, in case someone needs it. And he knows he can survive a couple of days without food. But Luffy couldn’t. Zoro couldn’t. Chopper, Nami, Robin, everyone else couldn’t. And, if someone needed it, then it would be there, saved for a rainy day. Or a day where Sanji woke from a nightmare and devoured everything his sleep deprived mind could get his hands on.
Oh Sanji, that’s so honourable of you. Preventing the crew from going hungry. You’re doing the right thing.
“Yeah, I am…” He murmurs as he draws a line through his name and the meals he had planned. His plate goes untouched that night.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
They are two days into the voyage when the effects of not eating for six days start to take place. When Sanji gets out of his cot now, he needs to hang onto the side for a little bit longer. He has to catch himself on occasion from falling over while pulling his pants up. His buttons sometimes done askew, which he catches usually in the middle of cooking breakfast. His packets of cigarettes burn down that little bit faster. And he stumbles, though never when anyone is around.
The fuzziness in his head lingers though, even more so, and that’s one thing he can’t hide from the crew. He feels safe with them, like his brain doesn’t have to work at a million miles an hour just to keep him present. And so, he forgets things, or he stumbles over words, or he sits out in the sun that tab bit longer while everyone floats around on the deck, often just staring out into nothing. Not even admiring the way the sun glitters along the calm blue ocean.
There’s only a buzzing in his ears as he stares off into the distance. So loud that Nami has to yell his name for a third time before he is snapped back to reality.
“Sanji”
His head swivels and he can see Nami in front of him. She looks half concerned with her eyebrows pulling into a crease, one hand outstretched like she was going to shake him back to this world.
“Sorry Nami, you said…” He trailed off. He hadn’t even heard her walking up to him, hadn’t heard her calling out to him.
“I just wanted to see if you’d come sit in the shade, you’ll burn if you stay there” She pointed her thumb back to where Robin and she sat, under the umbrella. He looked down at his arms, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he noticed he was warm, his skin a dusting of pink.
“Ah, no it’s okay. Thank you though my sweet, but I should head in and get a start on lunch” Sanji stands up off the stairs he’s perched himself on, and he feels the world swirl and tilt. He grabs onto the railing and manages to catch himself before he crumples onto the floor. Nami gasps and throws her hands out to catch him, but he just smiles and puts a handout to let her know he’s okay.
“Sorry Nami, looks like I stood up to quickly there” He grins around his cigarette. Nami brings her arms back to her side tentatively, and watches as the cook wanders into the galley, the swinging door knocking behind him. She looks back up to Robin, who had been peering over her sunglasses the entire time, a similar look of concern woven into the skin of her face.
Inside, Sanji downs glass after glass of water, hoping to rehydrate himself, to fill his body with something other than air.
It’s sandwiches for lunch, an array of course, and with copious amounts of sides that decorate the tables outside on the deck. Luffy is bounding around and collecting bites from all the different things. Zoro, having snatched a bowl of rice, is sitting against the mast, one leg tucked up and his bandana sitting low on his brows. His swords are discarded next to him, still within reach of course. Sanji is back to his spot on the stairs, mind elsewhere again. He doesn’t even have the energy to tell Luffy not to gorge himself on the food.
There’s still food saved for him.
The voice echoes into his mind. He shuts his eyes in contempt. Yeah, there is he thinks. Sanji can feel his eye lids growing heavy and he takes one quick scan of his crew surrounding him. They’re all still eating, he observes. He can nap for maybe a couple of minutes before he has to get up to collect the dishes and start the washing up. He lets his eyes drift close. His arm is rested on his knee, and he lets his head lull into it as he feels himself get sleepier and sleepier and sleepier. This time however, Nami doesn’t call out to him. No one does.
When he wakes, it’s much later than he thought it would be. The sun is past the middle point in the sky and is heading on its steady descent down to the horizon. He practically shoots up from his spot and looks around. The plates are gone; the crew is gone and all he can hear is the sounds of the gulls above him. Sanji spots the burned-up cigarette on the deck at his feet. It must have slipped out of his mouth as he slept. Sanji all but runs into the galley and catches a glimpse of the plates all neatly stacked in the drying rack. He curses and runs a hand through his hair.
“Shitt” He grumbles. He’d overslept. Someone, no doubt Nami or Robin or both, had done the washing up. Why had no one woken him? Why did they let him sit there and sleep? He grumbled and started to pull out the dinner items he had prepared. Sea beast, rice, vegetables, sauces, bread and other sides he had prepped scattered the bench tops. He stood, searing the sea beast and dashing sauces and herbs onto it as it cooked. Would he confront them? Ask them why they had let him sleep?
No, because they might ask you why you needed the extra sleep.
Oh shit. No, he couldn’t risk that. He could answer with something blasé about why he wasn’t sleeping. But he knew his crew. They could see through lies. Their captain especially. He would leave it for now, leave the questions unanswered, both his and theirs.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
By day eight without food Sanji struggled to get out of his cot each morning. He is tired, sleepless, his clothes dishevelled, his feet dragging. He’s reminded of how hard it was to reach this point all those years ago. That, as a child, day eight felt like it was the end, unbeknownst to child Sanji, day eight was simply the start of the next eighty-five. The weight has begun to drop off him. He teeters on the edge now of lean, and starved. Not that there is much of an edge, there seems to be an obvious difference. But Sanji can’t see it. He’s watched his body day by day; the changes going unnoticed to him. And he’s seen himself worse. He’s seen his body, his skin, all but rotted off his bones. He still remembers the sting of his skin stretched over his joints, how it hurt to move, like his skin was shrinking in on him. So, this slight loss of weight, this is nothing to Sanji.
The crew notices, not the weight so much, they attribute the bags under his eyes to the lack of sleep he’s getting. That’s all they think it is. The boys have shared that some nights Sanji will toss and turn so violently they think his cot will come off its hooks. That he murmurs and talks in his sleep, not like he used to anyway. Something is bothering their friend. They should ask him. But Sanji is never one to talk. At least not about the hard things. They think that maybe after the recent events with his, family, that it’s taking more of a toll than they initially assumed. But asking him is out of the question.
He only shared recently, some of the things from his past. Three years they had known one another and Sanji had never divulged more than his time on the Baratie from his past life. Zeff was the only father figure, and the assumed biological one, Sanji had ever really mentioned. Nothing about his four siblings, his dictator of a father, if you could call him that, and his sweet but deceased mother. And no one had dared bring anything up because Sanji was often like a wild creature backed into a corner when it came to talking about his past. Ready to swipe and snarl and fight nail and tooth to get out.
They noticed Sanji’s frequent stumbles, his lack of awareness, the fog that seemed to settle behind his eyes far too often and make him forget what he was doing. How now his clothes seem to just slightly dangle off his body, that tad bit too big on him, not tailored and fitted like they used to be. The way he drags his feet while setting the plates down. Everything so tiny, minute, so unnoticeable to the naked eye that if they hadn’t known the man for as long as they did, they would brush it off in passing. But they knew Sanji, they knew his routines, his actions. Him. Something was going on.
Before any of them could bring it up, of course, like some ugly twist of fate. Marines attack them. None of them see it coming, one minute they’re cruising along, thinking they’re all alone on this patch of the Grand line, as far as they eye can see.
Until it’s not.
At first, it’s just the tack, tack, tack of bullets on the side of the Thousand Sunny. Everyone is on deck then and it begins. Some highly under skilled marines land on the boat, it’s a miracle that they manage that. But it’s been a long couple days, a peaceful couple days, and Zoro is itching for a fight, Luffy too he supposes. Sanji couldn’t think of anything worse right now. He’s too tired, too tired to care.
But then one of the Marines throws a flimsy fist towards Nami, or maybe it was Robin, Sanji couldn’t really tell with how hazy everything is. That violence, however, forces him into action and without thinking, he’s sending a kick towards the Marine. The force rockets through the young man and he’s hurled off the side of the ship. Nami thanks him and doesn’t notice, too caught up in the flurry, that Sanji’s knee buckles for a split second when his foot lands back on the deck. He’s sending kick after kick towards the mostly unarmed Marines.
His brain is so clouded that he doesn’t even begin to wonder why so many of them are unarmed. Just sent onto the ship with nothing but their fists and their pride, the thought that what they’re doing is right.
Sanji is so caught up in the simple want, to just go back into the galley and then to go do nothing. He wants this to be over. He doesn’t spot the glint directed down at him. Zoro doesn’t either, not quick enough anyway. A sharp bang rings out and Luffy tries desperately to shoot his arm between the impending bullet and Sanji. But he doesn’t quite reach in time, doesn’t quite stop the bullet from hitting Sanji in the thigh. The bullet, thank God, enters straight through the side of his thigh and out the front of his dress pants, though it still causes the blonde to drop to the floor. One leg folded under him, the other, the one that’s been shot, pulled up to his chest. The pain is searing and it feels like thorns in Sanji’s veins. He lets out a low noise, guttural and he wraps his whole body around his leg. Zoro sees red. Not just Sanji’s blood, he sees red. No one is safe. And when the second shot rings out and its quickly followed by a metal twang, Zoro realises he’s far too gone to even rein himself in.
The second bullet slides in half down his sword, sliced so precisely they almost weigh the same each half. The next shot is deflected up to its owner and Zoro sees a man fall out of the bird’s nest and down onto the deck of the marine ship with a bone crunching thwack.
The next few Marines are cut down like leaves in the breeze. Zoro doesn’t move from his position above Sanji. He just slices anyone that dares get to close. Luffy is busy slinging enemies back onto their boat and the rest of the crew is doing the same. The fight doesn’t last long. It ends with Luffy somehow using himself like a giant slingshot and sending the Marine ship far off over the horizon.
He lands back on the deck, bouncing and absorbing the landing. No one moves, however. Because Zoro is still standing over Sanji, swords drenched in blood that runs from the tips of the blades, and dribbles down onto his hands. He looks like something out of a ghost story, a vengeful spirit, something that would turn even the strongest of Pirates running with their tail between their legs.
He doesn’t relent until Sanji makes another groan and attempts to unfold himself and get off the ground. The second the muscles in his legs move, blood spurts from his wound. His white dress shirt already stained red where he had folded over his leg, clutching it in pain. He looks down at it, not distinguishing much though, just the frayed hole in his pants and the much darker spot in the fabric that seems to be bleeding larger.
“Mother fuck-” he curses in a low voice. Chopper is there in an instant, a bandage in his little hooves as he begins to help Sanji to sit on the deck. The blonde groans with every movement, and Chopper makes quick work to wrap the bandage tight around his leg. He’s got a shine in his eyes and Sanji notices.
“It’s okay Chop, I’m not going to bleed out” He smirks. It looks like a hard attempt, like it takes everything out of him to do so.
Chopper curses at him and murmurs something Sanji doesn’t quite catch. Franky is then in front of Sanji, extending one of his massive hands out to help the blonde up. Sanji obliges and takes his hand, letting the large man hoist him to his feet, with what looks to be little effort. The rest of the crew follow Sanji and Chopper as they limp off to the infirmary. Luffy stays. Not too far behind from Zoro, who still hasn’t moved. The captain watches his first mate with that rare, serious expression. Zoro only drops his shoulders when Luffy’s hand rests on his shoulder and then, when the rubber man follows everyone down to the infirmary.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
It’s that same night that it happens again. Sanji wakes, startled, gasping, stuck in a nightmare. He falls out of his cot, drops to one knee as the movement sends fire through his thigh. He limps out of the men’s quarters and presses himself to the hallway walls. His thigh dragging agonisingly along the wood that clades the walls. He won’t know until later, that he leaves a trail in his wake.
Like the first time. He stumbles into the galley, mind replaying that horrible time. His skin burns with the sun burn and the tautness over his bones. He’s hot, like he’s being cooked and the rock beneath him has long stopped being hard and rough, because he’s forgotten what soft and comfortable even felt like, instead it feels as if his body has melted to its jagged, rough surface. He thinks that if he moves to quickly, to fast, that his skin will peel from his body, stuck to the surface, holding him captive to the ground.
Zeff is on the other side of the rock. Probably doing much better than him he thinks. He had a bigger bag of food; he could last longer. He was a man; Sanji was a boy. Sanji was a failure; he was never meant to live since before he was even born. It’s other images that invade his dream, the now truths and realisations that blend with his nightmare’s timeline. While Sanji is melted to the rocks, Zeff is bleeding out. His leg, long devoured, the festering wound that would have been where his leg was, oozing and black. Sanji can remember not being able to cry. Not with tears anyway. The sun had long dried any reserve of hydration the boy might have had. At the realisation that Zeff gave Sanji all the food, that he resorted to eating his own limb to survive, whatever ounce of strength still lived in Sanji in that moment was used to weep dry tears onto Zeff’s chest, his weak fists balling and coming down like weightless bones onto Zeff as he abused the old man for his selfishness, or selflessness.
When he wakes, he’s in some dark corner of the pantry. But he doesn’t move. He notices the mess of food, the loaf of bread half eaten in his hand and he lets his arm drop, the loaf rolling from his fingers as he curls into himself and weeps. His stomach is full, swirling and upset, but full. His mind is screaming, abusing him. But he can’t hear it or feel it over the weak sobs that shudder his body.
When Zoro wakes, he notices Sanji is gone. His blanket is half thrown out of his bed, and Zoro can’t find that glowing blonde hair that he looks for himself when he wakes in the middle of the night. He sits up instantly, wide awake now. Everyone else is asleep, no one noticed the blonde sneak out of the quarters. Something in his gut, tells him, screams for him, to go and check. He does. And when he shuts the door behind him and turns to look down the hallway he notices a rough and steady line of blood that leads down the hallway wall. He feels something sink, his feet and hands and head all get hot at once, like something washes over him. He follows it, pace picking up the more the line grows. It leads to the galley. Where else. And when he pushes both doors wide open, eye scanning the room quickly. He spots the blonde standing at the sink, shoulders moving with whatever he’s doing.
He hasn’t noticed Zoro. Zoro slowly makes his way over, tentative, observing, like he realises Sanji hasn’t noticed him and he wants to keep it that way for a little bit longer, while he assesses the situation. He rounds the counter and his eye falls to the blonde’s closest leg. He’s in shorts, Chopper requested that for the next couple days so he could change the bandages more freely. And he doesn’t take in how phenomenal the blonde’s legs are, no, he doesn’t do that. Or how there are no hairs on his legs, most likely from his fire leg thing he does, Diable Jambe, Zoro thinks he calls it. Or how toned his calves and how massive his thighs are. Though they seem slightly, off. Zoro knows muscles and for someone who fights solely with their legs, Zoro could have sworn that months ago, Sanji’s muscles were, bigger? But he doesn’t notice that. No. He notices the red spread of blood that is seeping into the once white bandages on Sanji’s thigh and running down his leg to his foot.
“Oi” Zoro says softly, and it comes out much more, gentle, than he thought it would. Sanji stops washing the plate he’s got in his hands and looks towards Zoro, who’s standing at the end of the kitchen Island looking at him.
“Oi” he says equally as tender. It’s like a greeting between them in this moment, like a soft hi to a normal set of people.
“Your leg” Zoro says and half heartedly lifts his hand to gesture towards Sanji’s thigh. Sanji looks down. He’s not shocked. Or nothing seems to pass over his face to suggest any sort of reaction. He just answers with “Oh yeah” in acknowledgement. He lifts his head to look at Zoro again.
“I knocked it walking down the hallway” He explains.
“I know” Zoro answers, “I can see that”
A silence settles between them. Sanji doesn’t return to the dishes. He just looks down at the growing trail of red that stretches down his leg. Zoro breaks the silence first.
“Should we, uh, do something about it?” He asks, not really knowing what he should do. This is Choppers department, not his. He’s usually the one that’s bleeding out, not looking at someone else doing so.
“I will” Sanji murmurs, though he turns back to the dishes and resumes wiping over the plate in his hands. “Once I finish these” he stares down mindlessly at the soapy water. Zoro’s eye dances over the blonde’s face. There is nothing behind his eyes, not a thought, an emotion. Nothing. Something tells him Sanji won’t pick a fight, or doesn’t have a fight in him to argue. So, Zoro, without thought himself, moves around Sanji, put the teapot onto boil and picks up the drying rag and places himself next to Sanji and starts grabbing plates from the drying rack.
Sanji’s head moves to look at Zoro, but Zoro is looking down at the plate in his hand. Nothing is said. Sanji just returns to washing the plates. They stand in silence. Not a word said between the two. The sound of the lapping waves on the hull of the Sunny filling the quiet but easy void between them.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
When they are done, Zoro manages to guide Sanji to the table. And he is so bewildered that he is even able to place a hand on Sanji, let alone place his warm, calloused hand to Sanji’s lower back and slowly and tenderly guide him to sit at the table. Any other time, Zoro’s heart would be doing back flips, as much as he would deny. But in this moment, there is no fight in Sanji. No, nothing. It makes Zoro’s heart feel something else. He observes while he brews two cups of tea, that Sanji’s gaze never picks up from off the floor, that like when he was standing at the sink, and as of late, not a thought passes between Sanji’s eyes, no twitch of emotion crosses his face. He only moves when Zoro gently places a cup of tea down on the table in front of him and sits beside him on the bench seat.
“Thank you” The blonde utters softly and Zoro makes a noise past the cup pressed to his lips.
Both the men don’t speak for a while. Simply sitting in silence. Tea steaming away in their cups. Zoro has never been one for tea. He doesn’t mind it, but he doesn’t go out of his way or find the urge to curl up when it’s cool out and have tea. He doesn’t spend copious amounts of time picking each flavour and type like Robin does. Doesn’t see the point in letting it simmer and steep like Sanji usually does, something about the aromas and the taste. But, on occasion, when it’s cool on the Grand Line and Zoro isn’t training in the cold, and Robin is the only person still up and he’s on watch, he might be inclined to have a cup, while enjoying the silent conversations the two seem to have so often.
Zoro doesn’t much like tea, but Sanji, Sanji looks as if this is the best thing he’s had in a while. The first flavourful thing he’s had in his body in days. His shoulders ease, his eyes flutter shut, not in the way they have the past couple days that sends a shiver or a panic through Zoro, it’s in a blissful, content way. And Zoro feels content within himself.
“Why are you up?” Sanji asks, finally breaking the silence when about half of his cup of tea is gone.
“You weren’t in your bed” Zoro answers, his eye still trained towards his saucer on the table. He knows not to look at Sanji when there is this tone in his voice. It’s the tone of him looking for a way out, for a response that will allow him to flee. This conversation could lead to maybe him divulging what is going on, and Zoro, the whole crew knows, when you get Sanji like this, it’s like walking on eggshells. Having a parallel conversation helps, Nami had said months ago. Sitting side by side, no eye contact, it takes the pressure off. So, Zoro doesn’t look up, not even when he can feel Sanji’s gaze on him. Oh, how he wishes he can look into those eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes, ones that usually sparkle more exquisitely than any of the Blues. East, North, West, South Blue, none compared to Sanji’s eyes. But Zoro, represses the urge, because A, he’s so in love with the cook that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself if he did. He knows he’s in love with Sanji, he’s pretty sure he’s known since the first time seeing him at the Baratie, when his first thought after watching Sanji mop the floor with some rude customers was that he’s found an equal. Relief, because finally this is someone he doesn’t have to carry, this is someone who can fend for themselves, who speaks his language without him having to translate. Desire, not in the way most think, but in the way that made Zoro want to know how Sanji’s “armour”, for lack of better word, was forged, what he has survived to become that unshakeable. And someone who he can turn to, who isn’t a missing piece, rather a second set of weapons, someone who could have his back and he have theirs.
And B, because that would scare Sanji off and there goes his one chance at figuring out what is wrong with the cook. Sanji averts his gaze after a while, satisfied with the answer and contemplating his own.
“I,” Sanji pauses for just a brief second, he seems to be internally scrutinising his answer. “couldn’t sleep so I just came to rewash the dishes” Sanji murmurs. Zoro knows, he knows that is the shittest excuse he has ever heard, but if that’s what the cook wants to say then he’ll let him. Sanji is not in the state to be argued with, and Zoro doesn’t want to push it.
“Is that it?” Zoro says, and in just the right tone it sounds like an acceptance of the answer Sanji has given. Sanji takes another sip of his tea and looks away.
“Yeah, that’s it”
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The next day, Sanji wakes early, like he usually does and he feels, better. He knows it the food in his stomach, that fuel that has finally entered his body after eight long days. It doesn’t make him feel any better though. He knows in his mind, he never would have brought himself to throw it all back up, no matter how ill he felt last night. That to him is wasting food, and the thought of wasting food sends that little boy inside of him into a fit, a panic and a state of stress so extreme Sanji feels even more ill from that than the food in his stomach.
But he does feel slightly more invigorated. He finds making breakfast much easier, the washing up goes quicker, and his thoughts are a little bit clearer. He does remember though, the time when he had food reintroduced to him after both he and Zeff were saved off the rock. He knows all about refeeding syndrome, the potentially fatal repercussions it can have on a person. He should have had broths, small amounts of water-rich fruit like watermelon or soups, but his body had binged on bread and meat and anything else it could find last night, and Sanji highly doubts that anything he ate unknowingly was not what he was meant to have. Maybe that was divine punishment for having eaten, he believes. And then he laughs to himself, while he’s alone in the galley in between the clean up from breakfast and preparing lunch. He laughs at how paradoxical it is, a chef dying from eating.
He’s quick to return to ‘saving the food’. And after finally having some food in his belly, Sanji goes back to restricting his eating. Or just the plain refusal to eat.
Good job
That little voice tells him and he’s happy, thinking about the copious amounts of food he’ll have left over when they make landfall. He imagines the absolute wonder on Luffy’s face seconds be fore he scoffs down plate after plate after plate. How Zoro can have as much food and drink as he wants. How Nami and Robin can sunbake on happy and full bellies. How everyone will be excited and happy. Happy about the food, about the party. Happy with him.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
Two more days go by. Sanji hasn’t had anything since the incident. Three days of refusing to refuel his body, to eat anything.
When he wakes again for the third time in the morning, a night of restless and broken slumber trailing him, he notices something different about the air in the men’s quarters. It’s hot. Really hot. He gets out of bed, his suit jacket discarded in the quarters because he can tell that, if it’s this hot, this early in the morning, the rest of the day is going to be extreme.
Breakfast is switched out for something cool. Iced teas, iced coffee, icy cool juice and cool hams and fresh and juicy fruits.
He’s smoking out the porthole above the sink, leaning desperately into the cool ocean breeze that wafts in the window when Robin walks in. She obviously got the same feeling, that today would be horrendously hot, because she’s in a cool linen top, small shorts and Sanji can see her bikini peaking through her lowly buttoned shirt. She’s already fanning her face and dabbing sweat off her brow.
“Good morning, Robin dear” Sanji smiles, not moving from his spot at the sink. Robin doesn’t blame him, it’s cool there and she goes straight to opening the galley door that leads onto the deck to hopefully coerce a breeze inside the room.
“Morning Sanji” she greets and when he sets an iced coffee down in front of her, she notices his still formal attire, long sleeves, heavy dress shirt, tie and still quite thick shorts. Her brows frown for a second and she looks to Sanji before he can walk away.
“Are you not going to get hot Sanji?” she asks. Sanji can see the concern on her face, it makes him feel sick in his stomach, beyond the sick he feels from the renewed hunger.
Lie, make something up. Look how sad she looks worried.
“I feel quite fine right now” he smiles, though it doesn’t send the frown off her face. “I can change if I get hot though” he adds and she closes her eyes and dips her head. She sips on her iced coffee, the condensation running down her hand and onto the table. The rest of the crew dress similarly, Nami in her blue Bikini top, shorts and a linen shirt thrown over her shoulders. Zoro in his blue shorts, green haramaki still sitting on his torso and a black shirt thrown lazily on, unbuttoned and showing off the long diagonal scar down his chest. Usopp in just shorts and Franky in even less. Poor Chopper seems to feel it the worst though, with him perched on Franky’s cool metal shoulders a dripping cloth draped over his head, hat sitting in his infirmary.
After a cool breakfast, the crew spends their day on the deck. Chopper in a small paddle pool, that Franky has pulled out of somewhere, keeping him cool. The girls under their umbrella on one of the upper decks, lounging on their chairs and fanning themselves. Luffy is sprawled out on the grass deck like Usopp and Zoro has perched himself on the bench at the mast. It’s hot, regardless of the breeze that wafts up off the ocean. And with the door of the galley shut, Sanji is basically cooking himself alive.
He’s long stopped smoking, the heat that fills his lungs unbearable in the sweltering temperatures. Sanji didn’t last long before he rolled his sleeves up, a wet, dripping tea towel hung around his nape. He shivers when he dips it back into the bowl of ice water he’s got on the bench and hangs it back on his neck. It’s hours into the blistering day when Sanji stumbles out of the kitchen and onto the grassed deck.
Even with his sleeves rolled, shoes flicked off and wet towel hung around his neck, opening the galley door feels like opening an oven door. Sanji has to blink a couple of times to adjust to the heat. A wave of warmth rolling down his body. For the first time in days, that buzzing returns to Sanji’s ears. He feels as if the world has gone quiet, like any external noise is drowned by the ringing of his ears. Through hazy vision he can see everyone. The boys sprawled out on the deck, the girls lying on their sunbeds, Chopper floating, not really, in his pool. Sanji drops a plate between Luffy and Franky first. Then one next to Usopp and Chopper. Each time he bends down to place it on the soft grassy deck, it feels as if weights are placed onto his shoulders, each effort to stand getting harder and harder. He wobbles, unnoticed and delivers another tray to Zoro. He slides it onto the bench the Moss-haired man is sitting on and just as the plate touches down with a soft thunk, Sanji stumbles forward, into the mast. Zoro opens his eye and throws a hand up to catch the cook. Sanji does the same he did to Nami days ago. He puts his hand out, I’m fine, the words unsaid as he takes a minute to catch his breath and reorientate.
He pushes off the mast and when he makes his way to the stairs, gripping the railing with such a flimsy, but determined grip Zoro is so tempted to follow him to catch him when he falls. He makes it though. He sets the plate of sandwiches down between the girls and Robin lifts her arm to grasp his in thanks. She smiles and he does as well before her arm slides off his lower arm. He doesn’t see her look at her palm as he makes his way back down the stairs. Or how her gaze follows him as he goes back into the galley, the door swinging slowly to a stop after him though.
No one see however, the second the door stills on its hinges and Sanji stumbles towards the bench, breath caught in his throat, every breath he manages, too hot, to much, not enough, to foreign in his lungs.
No one sees when Sanji folds over, clutching his stomach as he lets out a pained whimper and cry. It feels like his stomach has grown teeth, like it’s eating itself, blunt and yet sharp, teeth grinding, gnawing at his insides. He feels like he’s being eaten alive from the inside out. His head feels like it’s being ripped open, nails stabbed into his hairline and his skull splintering open. His ears ring so violently, so loud. He didn’t remember this pain from his childhood, maybe he had blocked it out, buried this memory, this pain somewhere deep down inside.
No one sees when Sanji tries to make his way to the galley doors, if he can get to his cot, he can curl up in the dark, hide from all of this under his blanket. It would certainly be comfier than whatever this was like on the rock. His arms fling onto the countertop, knocking the glass bowl of cold water off in the process. It shatters off to the side of him, and he is clawing to the counter to stay upright. But when an agonising, shooting pain that feels the equivalent to thorny brambles being dragged through his veins jolts him upright, it takes all of ten seconds before Sanji is seeing black. He takes one, final step, one final step towards the galley doors, one final attempt at breaking free before his legs give out and he plumets to the deck.
No one sees Sanji lying on the floor of the kitchen, damp blonde hair over his rolled closed eyes and his arm outstretched in one final effort to reach the door. His legs, arms, body, limp and lifeless, an unnatural flaccid weight to his form.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
No one sees Sanji for two and a half hours.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
By the time two hours had gone by, Zoro has spent the whole hour contemplating and running at least fifty different scenarios over in his head, all the while sharpening his blades in the shade, his whetstone and tools on the bench next to him. He walked away from their late-night tea conversation with this sinking queasy feeling in his guts.
He thinks back on the first time he laid eyes on Sanji, that specific moment at the Baratie when the world got a lot smaller and a lot clearer. At how the scent of salt and cheap cigarettes had wafted past him and pulled his gaze to look up.
He remembers watching him. Not just looking, but watching the way he moved. Some loud-mouthed bastards were causing a scene, the kind of trash he’d usually have to clear out himself just to get a quiet meal. Or the type to have a bounty on their head, a bounty he used to be tasked with collecting.
It wasn't just that he could fight; he’d seen plenty of people who could swing their legs around. It was the precision. The way the blonde mopped the floor with them without breaking a sweat or losing that ridiculous poise. In that second, the weight he’d usually carried, the constant, low-level buzz of having to be the strongest, the one who protects, the one who translates the his world for everyone else, just... vanished.
Relief. That was the first thing young Zoro had felt.
It was the realization that He’d finally found an equal. Someone he didn’t have to carry. Someone who could fend for themselves and, more importantly, someone who spoke my language without me having to say a single word. Most people looked at the blonde and saw a suit or a stray, or a founding member of the staff of outcasts, exiles and pirate types of the Baratie. But he saw the "armour." He’d wanted to know how it was forged. He wanted to know what kind of hell he’d walked through to become something that unshakeable.
It manifests in the way their fights never actually draw blood, a violent sort of dancing that keeps them both sharp. To the rest of the crew, it’s just noise, the clatter of steel against a black-clad heel, but to Zoro, it’s a constant check-in. Are you still there? Are you still as strong as yesterday? Every time Sanji kicks a blade aside, Zoro feels that same jolt of recognition he felt in the East Blue. It’s the comfort of knowing that while he is looking forward at the enemy, the space behind him is impenetrable. He doesn't need to look back; the scent of now expensive cigarettes and the heat of a Diable Jambe tell him everything he needs to know.
He watches Sanji in the quiet moments too, the way the cook feeds the crew with a devotion that mirrors Zoro’s own dedication to his swords. It’s a different kind of discipline, but the metal is the same. They are two pillars holding up the same roof, and in the rare, silent hours on the deck, Zoro realizes that being in love isn't about soft words or easy peace. For them, it’s the profound, terrifying security of being truly seen by the only person who could ever hope to keep up.
The whetstone hissed against the steel of Shusui, a rhythmic, violent sound that usually grounded him. But today, the rhythm was off. Zoro’s jaw was set so tight it ached, his thumb tracing the line of the blade with a distractingly unsteady hand.
He was angry, not at the cook, for once, but at the suffocating caution that had settled over him like a fog.
He still saw Sanji as his equal. That hadn't changed. He still saw the "armour" Sanji had forged for himself, the unshakeable strength that had made Zoro exhale in relief back at the Baratie. But lately, that armour felt like glass. Every word Zoro formed in his throat felt too heavy, too jagged, like it might shatter the very person he relied on to be unbreakable.
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair to Sanji, who deserved the honesty of a rival, not the curated silence of a caretaker. And it wasn't fair to the bond they’d built, a bond defined by the fact that they didn't have to translate for one another. Now, Zoro found himself mentally translating every grunt, every sharp remark, filtering his own nature until he barely recognized their interactions, barely recognized himself.
He hated the way he’d started checking the tension in Sanji’s shoulders before he spoke. He hated the way he’d bitten back challenges, let words fall into a hollow silence instead of meeting them with the usual spark.
To walk on eggshells around an equal was a silent insult. It suggested that Sanji couldn't handle him anymore. It suggested that the "second set of weapons" was chipped, or that Zoro no longer trusted the cook to have his back if things got heavy.
Zoro gripped the hilt of his sword until his knuckles went white. He wanted to go into the galley, kick a table over, and demand the version of them that didn't require a map to navigate. He didn't want a missing piece. He’d never been incomplete. He wanted a rival, someone who would help him grow, be better, like Kuina had in their early days. He wanted an equal. And looking at Sanji, the lanky blonde standing over those crumpled idiots, still holding his serving tray with the meal inside perfectly intact, he knew. He’d known since the beginning.
But now, sitting here on the Sunny, that memory felt like a taunt. Because if he’s that same man, the one with the forged armour and the unbreakable spirit, then why the hell was Zoro walking on eggshells?
Every time he’d filtered a thought or softened a glare, he’d felt like he was lying to that memory. Every time the crew avoided a topic, or was more kind than usual, he felt as if he was betraying that memory. He was treating the man who was his equal like he’s something that might snap if he looked at him too hard. It wasn’t fair to him. It was an insult to the Sanji Zoro had fallen for. Sanji doesn't need anyone to tread lightly; he needed Zoro to be the whetstone to his blade.
He was so in love with him that he’d been terrified of breaking him, but the irony was, by being "careful," he was the one doing the damage, enabling the ongoing detriment of his equal. He wanted the friction. He wanted the heat. Because this careful, quiet distance wasn't love, it was a slow-motion surrender, and Zoro had never learned how to give up.
He spent the next half an hour looking at the door to the galley, then away, and then back to the door. Robin noticed and like all those many unsaid conversation they had over late-night tea, Zoro locks eyes with Robin and she shuts her eyes in an unmoving nod. Zoro discards his swords and stands, walking over to the galley door.
It’s quiet in the galley when Zoro opens the door. He can’t see Sanji when he first looks around, his blonde head not anywhere. Zoro gently shuts the swinging door behind him.
“Sanji?” He calls out. Nothing. Silence. He walks towards the porthole above the sink. Running his hand along the smooth countertop. His eye falls to Sanji’s packet of cigarettes sitting to the top of the sink. He picks up the box, counts the cigarettes and brings them to his nose. It smells like him. Like the moments when they get so close in their fights, or the hushed sneers they share at an enemy before they launch into a joint attack. The fresh cigarette smoke lingering in his mouth as he leans in close to whisper into Zoro’s ear.
He sets them down, back into their place on the bench, because he knows how anal Sanji is about where things go in his kitchen.
And then he looks down.
He looks down on the lifeless, limp body of Sanji.
And the next thing he knows, Zoro is collapsing onto the floor, scooping up Sanji into his arms. The weight of his limp limbs is painful. Sanji’s head lulls to the side when Zoro cradles it. He’s looking him over, there’s no blood, why is he unconscious? What happened? He spots the once intact glass bowl, now shattered away from the cook, water puddling each shard. A million thoughts run through his mind. He starts to tap Sanji’s face, gentle, on the cheek and he can feel how hot and clammy his skin is. A pained expression etched onto Sanji’s features.
“Hey, Sanji” Zoro looks at him. He prays that his eyes will open, that Sanji will just open his eyes and look at him. But it doesn’t happen. He continues to tap his face. Nothing.
“Hey! Sanji!” Zoro taps again and his head just lulls around in his arms. Zoro looks towards the galley door, looks to Sanji and figures he can scoop his whole body up into his arms. When he hoists Sanji into his arms, he’s sick with the feeling of just how light Sanji is. This is the lightest Zoro has ever seen Sanji. Even when he was that scrawny teen in a suit, he had more mass than this. Zoro bursts through the galley door and the sun hit’s him in the eye. It hits Sanji’s as well. Because the second the sun washes over his face Sanji’s eyes flitter open. He’s too weak to utter anything, but he’s sore. One side of his body is on fire, his stomach is lurching and he feels like he wants to die. Sanji makes a small noise, the last of his energy, his strength put into whatever noise comes out of his mouth.
Zoro hears it, looks down and murmurs something that Sanji can’t understand. The buzzing is loud and he can see Zoro looks back up, but he’s hazy. It’s loud but quiet, and Sanji can make out that Zoro’s mouth is moving. He looks like he’s yelling? Why would he be yelling? Sanji thinks. Robin comes into view, she looks worried and Sanji wants to reach his hand up to touch her face, to let her know that he’s okay, but his arms feel like led. He gets halfway to her face before his hand quivers and sinks back down. Robin grabs his hand though, softly and keeps it wrapped in her slender, softer one. It feels nice Sanji thinks. Robin is cool to the touch despite the fact she’s been sitting outside.
And then it all comes rushing back to Sanji. Now not just his body burns with the pain, but his face flushes, he feels the heat of the embarrassment rush down his face, his arms, his legs. He’s mortified and suddenly there is this primal strength that rips through his body.
Run.
It tells him. And he begins to move. He starts by pressing his palms to Zoro’s bare chest. He pushes and pushes and pushes and begins to feel a wedge growing between them. Zoro looks down at him then, panic now over his face because he notices that Sanji is now trying to get away from him? He holds tighter. But he feels Sanji’s strength grow. His resolve to get away from Zoro. What is going on? He thinks to himself and he grips tighter and tighter. But Sanji is squirming and shoving and muttering incoherently. And Zoro has to basically change his whole grip and Sanji fights to get away from him, from them. Because Sanji is now acutely aware that everyone is watching, everyone is here to witness this.
“Get off- of me- Let- Me- Go!” Sanji breathes in between attempts to get away from Zoro. Stupid Marimo, why did he have to have such a tight hold?
And then finally, finally after fighting, Sanji manages to get free. He falls out of Zoro’s arms but braces himself on his knees and arms when he falls to the deck. He groans at the discomfort of the fall, but when Zoro puts a hand onto his back, it feels as if he has just pressed a hot skillet to Sanji’s back. He doesn’t realise what he’s done until he’s pressed against the mast, breath heaving and holding his hand like he’s wounded it.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
Zoro stumbles, the impact rattling his bones. Around him, the crew is frozen, a gallery of shocked faces and stifled gasps.
Sanji’s breath comes in jagged, wheezing hitches. The ringing in his ears is deafening, eclipsed only by the throbbing ache in his knuckles. His gaze, wild and fractured by fever, locks onto the blooming crimson welt on Zoro’s jaw.
Only moments ago, Sanji had been a ghost in Zoro’s arms, pale and slick with cold sweat. But the delirium turned him violent. When he broke free, collapsing onto the deck in a shuddering heap, Zoro had reached out, a silent, steadying touch to the back.
Then, the unthinkable.
Sanji swung. He didn't use his legs; he used the tools of his soul. His hand, scarred by flames, blades, and passion, not to indifferent from Zoro’s own, collided with Zoro’s face with a sickening recoil. The cook, whose lived by his code of never tainting his hands with combat, had finally broken it.
Now, Sanji was backed against the mast like a cornered predator, feral and gasping for air. One fist is still white-knuckled and clenched, his body coiled in a desperate, trembling stance. He looks less like their crewmate and more like a dying animal, ready to bolt or bite
The deck of the Sunny was deathly still. Everyone bar, Sanji and Zoro had seemed to have retreated into the shadows of the rigging and the doorways, sensing the shift from a medical emergency to a psychological meltdown. Or that’s how it seemed to Sanji’s racing mind. The air tasted of ozone and salt, and the heat was relentless.
Zoro didn't touch his jaw. He didn't even flinch at the throbbing heat where Sanji’s knuckles, those sacred, protected tools, had connected with his skin. He just stood there, his shadow long and jagged across the grass, staring at the man trembling against the mast.
It dawns on him what he’s done. And he looks at Zoro’s face, then his fist, like he can’t believe what’s happened either. There’s a shudder in his body. Like a part of him wants to uncoil and go to Zoro. To apologise, to cry, to ask for forgiveness. The other, the part that keeps him firm to the mast, that locks his muscles so quickly he physically stutters, is that scared, wild version of Sanji. The one the crew knows exists. They’ve seen it now. Sanji’s jaw works, opens a couple of times, it looks like the words get caught in this throat.
“Z-zoro, I-I’m sor-”
“What the fuck cook!?”
Sanji straightens. This isn’t the reaction he thought he was going to get. And something about it sends fresh fire through his blood. His spine is suddenly straight, rigid, his jaw held higher and his gaze, less wild and frightened, more furious and determined.
“What do you mean ‘what the fuck’?” the blonde sneers.
“I mean exactly that, what the fuck?” Zoro retorts.
“You, you- I don’t know I was- I was-” Sanji couldn’t find the right word. Or he just didn’t want to say the right word. Frightened. That’s what he had been. Embarrassed. It had all been to much, and Sanji wasn’t fully here when Zoro had brought him onto the deck. That little voice in his head, that little boy on the rocks, had taken control. Had made Sanji forget all about that stupid code of his and had forced his body into this primal state of fight or flight. It had been pure survival. To get away. The crew couldn’t see him like this. He had needed to get away, to hide.
“Go on then! Spit it out!” Zoro sneered. He knew the words were right there, on the tip of Sanji’s tongue. But whatever had been plaguing him, causing all of this, was stopping him from saying it. He just needed to say it. To say he was frightened, or embarrassed, or whatever the cook was feeling. This check in wasn’t a clash of steel and boots, it was a final, desperate plea for him to just lean on Zoro.
"You're pathetic," Zoro spat. The word wasn't an insult; it was a challenge, a hook meant to drag the real Sanji back to the surface.
Sanji’s eyes flashed, the glaze of fever momentarily replaced by a familiar, sparked hatred. "You... you had no right. To touch me like that. To haul me out here like a sack of damn flour in front of-"
"In front of what, Sanji!? In front of your family? Your crew?" Zoro took a step forward, heavy and deliberate. "Or is it just me? Is that the problem? You can’t stand that I’m the one that found you passed out on the floor?"
"I didn't need you to do that!" Sanji barked, though his knees buckled slightly as he said it. He pressed his spine harder against the wood. "I was fine. I’m fine. I just... I needed a minute. The heat in the kitchen-"
"Don't you dare lie to me," Zoro cut him off, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration. "Don't you dare use some cheap-ass excuse like it was just hot. I’ve been watching you for days, Cook. I’ve been watching you fade. I’ve been walking on eggshells on my own damn ship because I was afraid if I breathed too hard, you’d crack."
Sanji let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "You? Walking on eggshells? You don't know the meaning of the word, you moss-headed brute."
"I do now!" Zoro roared, the volume making Sanji flinch. "I’ve been filtering every word. We all have. I’ve been biting my tongue. Every time I want to spar, every time I want to tell you you're being an idiot, I stop. Because I look at you and I don't see the man from the Baratie anymore. I see... I see something that's dying, something that has to be handled with care. And I hate it."
Sanji’s breath hitched. The mention of the Baratie, of that first meeting, hit him like a physical blow. He looked down at his trembling hand, the one he’d used to strike Zoro, and his face twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated rage.
"I don't need your pity," Sanji whispered, his voice cracking. "I don't need you to... to look at me and see someone who needs protecting."
"Then stop acting like someone who does!" Zoro countered, closing the distance until he was inches from Sanji’s face. He could smell the sweat and the underlying scent of sickness, but he didn't pull back. "You think you’re being strong by hiding whatever this is? You think you’re protecting your pride? You’re insulting mine! You’re insulting the crew! You’re my equal, Sanji. My equal. That means when you’re heavy, I carry half. That’s the deal. But you’ve turned yourself into glass, and you’re forcing me to treat you like a goddamn porcelain doll."
Zoro grabbed the front of Sanji’s-soaked dress shirt, not to shake him, but to hold him upright.
"I didn't fall for a doll" Zoro growled, his eye boring into Sanji’s. "I fell for the man who could kick a building down and serve a five-course meal without breaking a sweat. I fell for the 'armour.' If it’s cracked, then tell me where the hell it’s broken so I can help you get it back together. But stop making me lie to you. Stop making us all pretend you aren't drowning."
Sanji’s head dropped, his head lulling. Armour? What the hell was Zoro talking about? Whatever it was, it was wrapped in a big ol’ serving of pity. Fuck Zoro. If he was his equal, then why was he doing this in front of the crew. Cracking open and spilling all of this in front of the people he was meant to be protecting. This was a show, a taunt of just how weak Sanji had become. That "primal strength" was gone, replaced by a devastating exhaustion. The heat radiating off him was terrifying. But when the crew thought that had been it, that it was over, that they, Zoro, had gotten through to him. Sanji laughed. At first, it was a shiver in his shoulders, and then a soft chuckle. And then it was hysterical.
It was one of those laughs that you know, isn’t joyous. It’s derived from someplace else, some place that is belittling and angry and filled with rage.
“You’ve got to be fucking joking” He wheezed. Laughing as his head rolled back and he clutched his stomach. Zoro felt bewildered. This wasn’t the fight he’d expected.
“Get the fuck off me” Sanji murmured, only for Zoro to hear. His gaze was like ice. Cold and darkened by his hair as it fell over his eyes. Zoro didn’t move.
“I said get the fuck off me!” He yelled. And this time Sanji didn’t swing. He kicked. His foot landed square into Zoro’s torso, sending the swordsman back, feet skidding on the grassed deck. When Sanji dropped his foot, his arms dangling down from there once tensed position he took when he kicked, he was heaving.
“I’m done. This isn’t some fuckass intervention, this is a fucking parade. You talk about helping me get back together? What a fucking joke! You want to ‘help’ me but your fucking calling me out for being pathetic in front of the whole crew? The people we’re meant to be protecting? You’re really showing them how fucking great their protector is, you asshole! You don’t see me as an equal, you see me as less than the fucking grass beneath your feet! You’re fucking pathetic, lying bastard!”
“Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about” Zoro yells. This is not how he wanted this to go but fuck eggshells. Fuck this caution he’d been taking around Sanji. This was raw, unfiltered and maybe, just maybe what he needed to get whatever this was out of his system. He drew Wado. It’s blade glimmering and it’s steel ringing out as it touched the burning air.
Sanji’s leg burst into flames. The grass at his foot sizzling and burning up. They clashed, instantly and all the crew could do was watch. Watch as the cook and the swordsman swung at each other. Each blade, blocked by Sanji’s leg. Each kick, blocked by the flat of a blade. They jumped around, clashing so hard sparks flew, wind whirling. They were both alight. On fire with the rage that seared both of them.
After a tense back and forth, Sanji landed a blow. His leg, smashing into Zoro’s forehead. The swordsman stumbled. And when he looked at Sanji again, the gash, hidden by his short hair, sent ripples of blood down his face. It pattered onto the grass, each drop rolling down the blades and seeping into the soft base.
His leg went out. His foot landed back on the ground and Zoro had this shocked look of fear on his face. Like he had lost. He hadn’t. Sanji had surrendered.
The flame on Sanji’s leg didn't just go out; it died. It sputtered and vanished, leaving behind only the acrid smell of scorched grass and the sudden, terrifying silence of the Sunny. He’d watched the first drop of blood hit the grass. Drip. It was a small sound, but in Sanji’s ears, it roared like a detonator.
The sound that echoed around in Sanji’s head wasn’t that of his foot colliding with Zoro’s forehead moments ago, no. That sound. It wasn't the sound of a sparring match. It was the sound of a heavy boot hitting a small, shaking body in a dark cell.
Suddenly, the heat off the deck was gone, replaced by the damp, metallic stench of a dungeon. Sanji’s vision tunnelled. The bright colours of the ocean and the Sunny’s deck bled into the monochrome grey of Germa 66.
“You’re a failure, Sanji.” “A human with the heart of a fragile glass doll.” “Why won't you just break already?”
The faces of his brothers flashed behind his eyes, those hollow, genetically perfect monsters who didn't know how to stop. They kicked until the ribs snapped. They kicked until the blood pooled. They kicked because they felt nothing, and he had just been a lump of meat that dared to cry. And now? He was the one standing. The one who hadn’t stopped.
That sound. It wasn't the sound of a rival. It was the sound of a metal mask.
The air was how he remembered humid, suffocating. His breath hitched, caught in a throat that suddenly felt too small, like it was being squeezed by a cold, iron collar.
He looked at his foot. This limb, his pride, his only weapon, felt heavy. Disgusting.
No. His breath hitched, catching on a jagged edge in his throat. His leg, the one that just struck Zoro, felt numb, severed from his body. He looked at the red staining Zoro’s face and for a heartbeat, the green of the deck dissolved into the sterile, cold stone of a Germa laboratory. He wasn't standing on a pirate ship anymore. He was back in the dirt. He was the "failure" looking up at the "perfection."
Only this time, He was the one holding the power. He was the one who swung without mercy. “Look at him, Sanji. He’s weak. He’s nothing.” “Strike him again. Prove you have the blood of a king.” The voices of his brothers, Ichiji’s cold smirk, Niji’s cruel electricity, wrapped around his head like a vice. He could feel the phantom weight of that iron mask pressing against his face, the cold bars digging into his skin. He’d spent his whole life running from that hunger for violence, from the idea that "strength" meant breaking the people around you. And yet, here he was.
He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He had called Zoro pathetic for dragging his pride through the mud in front of the crew, but what was he? He just used the very thing he hated, the strength born from that cursed bloodline, to silence a man who... who was trying to reach him. However clumsily, however much of a bastard he was being, he was there. He was trying.
And he tried to put him down. The blood on his forehead... it was the same colour as the blood he’d used to wipe off his own face while his brothers laughed. Is this the "protector" he promised to be? Or was he just Judge’s finest creation, finally coming online? The thought made him want to heave. It makes the air in his lungs feel like poison. He didn't just hurt the swordsman; he let the Vinsmoke in him win.
Zoro’s hand reached out. He looked shocked. Not because he lost the fight, Zoro didn’t care about losing a spar, not this one anyway, but because he saw the light go out of Sanji’s eyes. He saw the shell crumble. He couldn't take it. Sanji couldn’t take it, the sight of Zoro bleeding because of him, not because of an enemy, not because of a Yonko, but because of his own pathetic, uncontrollable rage. That was the weight Sanji couldn't carry. He was supposed to be the one who feeds them. The one who keeps them whole. Instead, he’s the one spilling their blood onto the grass.
He turned his head away, the strands of his hair shielding him from the sight of his own failure. He wanted to run. Not in the animalistic, frightened kind of way. No, he wanted to run in the shameful, surrendered kind of way. He wanted anything to drown out the sound of his own heart hammering against his ribs like a prisoner trying to escape a cage. Like he’d tried to escape all those years ago. He wasn’t a king. He wasn’t a god. He was just a hollowed-out boy from the North Blue who finally turned into the very thing he spent twenty-one years trying to kill.
No one moves and Sanji realises his vision is fading. There is a haze seeping into his sight, and he hopes he’s dying this time. He hopes this is it. But he needs to be brave for one second, for maybe his final second. He owes that to Zoro. To the man he loves with his whole, undivided heart. He moves his foot, the ashy grass crunching under it as he moves. And he tries to take a step forward, he does, he really does. But his legs are like kindling, burned and weak. He falls to his knees, it hurts, but his chest is aching so hard it drowns out any other pain.
He looks at Zoro, sweet, stupid, loveable Zoro. There is so much he wants to say, to thank him for, to cook for him, to do with him.
“I’m sorry” Is all that comes out when he plumets towards the grassy deck.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
When Sanji wakes, in the early hours of the morning, he’s not in his cot. He’s in the infirmary. He knows instantly because of how plush the bed is. He stares upwards for a moment, letting is eyes adjust to the low light that seeps in through the porthole. He can make out the I V attached to his arm.
He hates that the first thought is that he didn’t die.
He feels pathetic, annoyed at himself and like he just wants to curl up and sleep forever. The little voice is quiet. Maybe it’s as mortified as himself he thinks. He needs to go, to clear his mind, to think elsewhere. The infirmary, nice as it is, is to, sterile. To similar to the not so fond memories of his childhood. So, he contemplates dragging the I V with him but decides against it. He leaves it. Sensical enough to put a bandage over from where he pulled it from.
He peaks out of the door and tip toes so quietly towards the galley. He can make a start on breakfast. Set it out and hopefully, hopefully, have enough time to sneak back to the infirmary and curl up and sleep. He thinks maybe he could do that forever. Sleep, cook, sleep, cook, sleep. He could tiptoe around the issue for as long as possible. The crew could handle fights without him. Like Zoro had said, his armour was broken, he would be useless anyway.
When Sanji did get to the galley, he realised just how early it really was. He had a solid couple of hours before he could start on the feast he was planning in his mind.
He notices the freshly mopped floors. How clean the kitchen is. The sharp sound of glass shattering weaves into his mind and he can still feel the pain that had rolled him to the floor. It’s dulled now, even as he clutches at his thin stomach. He drags his hand along the countertop of the island, around and towards the sink. He picks up his box of cigarettes; his lighter that’s never far away from it and a pen. And then he’s grabbing his notebook.
It feels like a hundred-ton weight in his palm. He knows deep down this little book didn’t start all of this, but he wants to blame something, or at the very least alleviate some of the blame off himself. That’s all he feels he’s been doing, blaming himself. He wants something to lighten the load.
He flips to the last page he’s written on. The meal plan. His blue eyes drift to the bottom, where his name is redacted from the list. He can see some meals are etched onto the page, like he had planned to eat something. Like he hadn’t planned for whatever this was to get this bad. Sanji hadn’t wanted this to happen.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
When Zoro gently creaked open the door to the infirmary he knew almost immediately that Sanji wouldn’t be there. He had felt it in his gut when he woke up.
Instinctively he’d looked around the men’s quarters for the sight of the blonde man. The early morning moonlight catching his blonde hair in a stunning glow. His face often times content and blissful, or at the very least as if he was not plagued by unpleasant dreams. Or he could be and he could be twisting his brows into a not so serious furrow that would make Zoro’s face turn upwards slightly because of how serious he looked for something that, no doubt, was not that grave within his dream.
But Sanji wasn’t in the men’s quarters. No. He was in the infirmary, or so Zoro’s head told him. Because he and Sanji had fought. They had clashed and blown up and torn shreds from one another, physically and verbally. And then Sanji had collapsed to the ground. Leaving his gut-wrenching apology the last thing in the air between them.
Zoro had watched as Sanji succumbed to the detachment. How he had relived every horrible thing that ever happened to him in that few split seconds after he had kicked Zoro. And then he had looked unsteady on his feet, like his soul had been pulling him towards Zoro, but his legs couldn’t, his body couldn’t compute that he needed to go forward.
He dropped to his knees. And Zoro cringed that little bit. Then, right before Sanji plummeted towards the deck. Before Zoro leapt to break his fall, to catch him as he fell. As Robin sprouted hands to try and soften the landing, Nami to make it to his side, Luffy to use his body to break the fall, and as everyone tried to reach him. He’d looked at Zoro through hazy, wet eyes and said I’m sorry as he tumbled towards the floor, tears rolling off his face.
Zoro had caught him, his head anyway. Cushioned it in his palms as Sanji’s arms hit the floor and his shoulders hung limp. Robin’s arms gently rolled the cook over, so that his head of wavy blonde hair was rested on Zoro’s thighs. The cook looked peaceful. Tired, hollow, a husk of what he used to be, but peaceful. Like this might be the first time in ages where his unconscious mind didn’t torture him. Like his mind itself was too tired to bother him.
It had been a flurry. Moving him to the Infirmary, hooking him up to the I V, making sure he stayed stable. Chopper writing copious notes about his condition. Malnutrition. That’s what Chopper had said as the crew sat around in the freshly cleaned kitchen. Usopp, mop still in hand and bucket of broken glass discarded to the side. Malnutrition like he hadn’t eaten in days. It didn’t seem so much of a shock. Like the whole crew had known, figured, hope and prayed that it wasn’t that though.
“So, we were right” Nami had uttered. But got no reply, because no one had wanted to confirm. Confirm that their suspicions had been right. Everyone left after that. Robin running a hand on Zoro’s shoulders as she walked past him to leave. Franky’s massive arm around her own shoulder in support. It was one of their silent conversations, Robin’s touch to Zoro’s shoulder, an I’m here. Zoro just watched the two go.
When Zoro had the kitchen to himself that is when he let the grief and anger roll over him. He didn’t smash plates or destroy anything. Nor did he cry or scream. It was in the way his shoulders dropped and his back softened. His head became noisy and silent at the same time. He looked around for any traces of whatever had caused all of this. But in actual matter, he didn’t know what to look for.
He did however find Sanji’s notebook.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
Zoro knew to check the galley when he hadn’t found Sanji in the Infirmary. His mind had told him logically, he would be there, but his heart, his gut, something in him told him Sanji wouldn’t be there.
The kitchen was quiet, save for the rhythmic push and pull of the waves crashing on the hull on the Sunny. Sanji sat at the galley table, a single lamp illuminating his notebook where he was staring down at the scrawled words and letters of the notebook a fresh line of black scratched onto the bottom on the page. Done so violently it crinkled and creased the paper. The silence of the night was usually his sanctuary, but tonight it felt heavy, vibrating with the echoes of the starving child in his mind who insisted he was a failure.
Sanji didn't hear the door creak open. He didn't notice the shadow that fell over his shoulder until a heavy, calloused hand landed on the table, pinning the notebook down.
"You're doing it again," Zoro’s voice was low, devoid of its usual bite.
Sanji flinched, his heart hammering against his ribs, ribs that were becoming far too defined under his shirt. "Bugger off, Moss-head. I’m just... adjusting the inventory."
Zoro didn't move. He instead slid down onto the bench seat next to Sanji and sat, not across from him, but beside him, staring at the far wall to take the pressure off. "I saw the page” he says finally, and Sanji can feel the heat wash over him. A groan escapes his lips as he presses his hand to his eyes, the other crumpling the page in his white knuckled hand, pen still wrapped in his fist.
“I- was looking, for what I don’t know. But then I found your notebook and I, uh-” Zoro sounded less confident that he had ever been. And Sanji knew, he understood that this was Zoro’s attempt as being open and honest. Open in a way that didn’t use his fists to pound the message in further. Honest in a way that wasn’t protected by armour or swords. This was raw and unsheltered. A gamble, a risk, a complete and utter trust that Sanji would understand him.
“Cook. You haven't put yourself on the roster for eight days. You’re falling apart. I felt it when I pick you up after you-" Zoro didn’t finish his sentence, but Sanji knew what he meant when he followed his eyes to the spot where Sani’s had been.
Sanji’s hands trembled. The fuzziness he’d been fighting for days threatened to swallow him whole. He wanted to snap, to kick Zoro out, but the energy wasn't there. And he couldn’t, not when Zoro was being so open, ready to bear anything Sanji threw at him. It bubbled inside him. The feeling, the acceptance that he needed to be brave as well. The "armour" he had forged was finally shattering like the plate he’d dropped days before.
"I had to," Sanji whispered, his voice breaking. "I woke up... and I’d eaten everything. A day and a half of the crew's food, Zoro. In one night. I was a monster. I was starving little boy again, terrified that if I didn't eat it all right then, I’d never see food again."
He put his head in his hands, the words pouring out like a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding. He spoke of the eighty-five days of starvation, Zeff’s sacrifice, the phantom pain of his stomach "eating itself", and the crushing fear that he would let the crew go hungry because of his own "weakness". He admitted to the disordered logic that told him if he didn't eat, there would always be enough for them, that he was only "honourable" if he was empty. And he cried and wept about his fucked-up upbringing, about how he had been abused and beaten and told he was worthless and a failure. About how his breath used to roll around in his metal mask and how he could never fill his lungs when he would hyperventilate. About how, now that he’s free, he still has to touch his face when he wakes from a nightmare to make sure his free life hasn’t been a dream.
Zoro listened in a silence that wasn't judgmental, but grounding. When Sanji finally ran out of breath, shaking with the effort of existing, Zoro didn't offer a lecture. He reached out and gently took the pen from Sanji’s hand, set it aside, and turned the blonde man toward him.
"You’re an idiot," Zoro murmured, but his thumb was tracing the line of Sanji’s cheekbone with a tenderness that made Sanji’s breath hitch. "You think you’re protecting us by disappearing? You think Luffy wants a feast if the man who made it is too weak to stand? You think Nami wants to sail a map if the kitchen is haunted by a man who’s eating himself alive from the inside out? You think I want to fight without my rival? You think that by emptying your own plate, you’re filling ours? We aren't your customers. We aren't some strangers at a restaurant you have to prove your worth to. We’re your crew. When you hurt, the ship feels it. When you’re fading away, I feel it. My 'rival' isn’t some martyr who dies quietly in a dark kitchen because he’s scared of a childhood ghost. My rival is the loud-mouthed, arrogant bastard who kicks me through walls and treats every meal like it’s a damn masterpiece. You told me you’re a failure. That if you admit you’re struggling, you aren’t 'him' anymore. But 'him', the Sanji I know, is the only one who’s brave enough to feed the hungry even when it’s a risk. So why the hell won't you feed yourself? You’re not saving us, Cook. You’re leaving us. Every meal you skip, every pound you lose, you’re just walking further away from the Sunny. And I’m not gonna let you go. I don't care about the inventory. I don't care about the logic of your messed up head. If you think your ability to survive is what makes you a man, you’ve been listening to those bastards from your past for too long.”
Zoro doesn’t make any indication he’s stopping. He’s got too much to say, too much to let out. And with the way the lamp light dances on his beautiful, tanned skin and catches in his hair like soft blades of grass. Or the way his expression is loose, like nothing Sanji has seen. It’s vulnerable open, like he wants Sanji to not just hear his words but see how earnest he is how much he really means.
“Your strength isn't in how much hunger you can endure. It’s in the fact that you’re here, with us. You survived the rock. You survived the mask. Now survive this. Stop trying to be a saint and just be my cook again. Why couldn’t you have just admitted you needed help?” Zoro asked. It wasn’t a dig; it was a sincere and honest question. One that meant something else then what he’d said. Why did your armour fail you? Why did I fail you?
"I can't..." Sanji choked out, his fingers clutching weakly at Zoro’s forearms. "If I say it... if I admit that I’m... then I’m not him anymore. I’m just a failure."
Sanji looked up, his blue eyes, the ones Zoro thought were more exquisite than any sea, clouded with tears. "I’m just a failure, Zoro. The failure they always said I was.".
"You're Sanji," Zoro corrected firmly, his voice softening as he leaned in. "And you're the only person on this sea who can keep up with me. If you think a little baggage changes that, then you’re even dumber than I thought.".
Zoro didn't wait for a retort. He just caressed Sanji’s smooth face. And when those beautiful, blue eyes, filled with the orange of the lamp light that made every freckle or scar on Sanji’s face stand out. And when he felt that warmth bloom in his stomach, the kind that told him that look was exactly what he thought it was, trust, acceptance, love, he leaned forward and tenderly pressed his lips to Sanji’s. It wasn't a clash like their usual fights; it was a slow, steady anchor. It tasted of salt and the lingering scent of Sanji’s cigarettes. For the first time in over a week, the buzzing in Sanji’s ears went quiet. He went limp against Zoro, finally surrendering. The armour both the men had held up for so long, the armour they’d been struggling to hold up alone, sunk away.
When they pulled apart, Zoro kept his forehead pressed against Sanji’s. "I'm not gonna let you starve yourself to ‘save’ us, Cook. We’re your crew. We carry each other.".
Sanji gave a weak, slurred laugh, leaning into the warmth of the man. "Shut up, Marimo. You're being... too sweet. It's nauseating.".
"Good," Zoro grunted, though he didn't let go. They kissed again, and again and again, each kiss, each brush of lips stoking the fire, the confidence within them both. This was someone he could trust again. Someone who he didn’t need to walk on eggshells around, who could just be raw and violent and know the other would know exactly what he meant.
Someone who could look at his frail and masked existence and knew that underneath was a person so strong, so resilient, so forged by the flames of his past that he didn’t need a tender hand when things slipped, he needed a sturdy one.
Zoro leaned in, his breath hot against Sanji’s ear. "Now, you're gonna sit here while I get you something to eat. And if you try to cross your name out again, I’ll rip that notebook to shreds."
Sanji watched him move through the kitchen, Zoro, the brute, trying to navigate Sanji’s sacred space with care. For the first time since that first nightmare, Sanji felt like he might actually be able to sleep without the ghosts of the rock following him.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
When Nami and Robin walked into the galley, eyes still filled with sleep and their body’s slouched, they were greeted to the table already filled with an array of food. Coffees, teas, juice everything already set out at each place. Robin nudged the shorter woman who peered around her friend, following where she was looking.
And she couldn’t help but smile at the shirtless back of Zoro as he washed plates and cutlery, head turned to look beside him as he chatted away with the blonde man. Sanji wore his pink apron, one Zoro had brought as a gag so many Islands ago, his face looked relaxed, his body the same. Leaned casually against the countertop next to the sink, a steaming cup of coffee held in his long slender fingers. He smiled and laughed at whatever the swordsman had said. Zoro had laughed as well, stopping just short of Sanji’s, but watching the laugh lines in the cook’s face, the lashes of his eyes kiss when he crinkled them shut, and how his head tipped back ever so slightly with each laugh.
They looked complete next to one another. Whole. Like they had been truly missing one final piece of whatever their relationship had been. They could be two different sets of the same weapons when they needed, but now finally, they could be two people, doing the one job, in sync. Simultaneously. Holding the challenge, the burden whatever it was, together.
Robin smiled though at the extra place setting on the table.