Flick!
Sanji shielded the small flame from the gusting wind, hating that his fingers were trembling so hard that he could barely hold the lighter to the white stick between his lips. His cigarette drank the fire hungrily and began to burn, emitting a fresh silvery smoke. He looked out over the ocean, sitting in the grass, watching the waves lap up on the shore. The waters somehow calmed his nerves.
"Oi." Sanji turned his head at the voice. Zoro, with his cropped, mossy hair, was standing just at his shoulder. One of his hands was absently stroking the hilt of one of the swords on his hip. He was looking out at the water, not down at the seated Sanji.
"Hey," the blond greeted dully.
"How are you doing?" the swordsman asked.
Sanji shrugged. "It's different," he said awkwardly. Red images flashed in his eyes, memories of acid-hot tears and lukewarm blood, and his breath caught in his throat. His shoulders tensed. He ground the cigarette into the dirt beside him and tried to keep his exhale from trembling.
"It wasn't your fault, Sanji."
The blonde drew his knees closer. This wasn't the swordsman he knew. The swordsman he knew was cold and uncaring. The man at his side was almost sentimental. "Since when did you know my actual name?"
"It wasn't your fault, Sanji," Zoro repeated. He squatted in the grass beside the other man, resting his wrists on his knees. "You couldn't have stopped it. Chopper did everything he-"
"It wasn't enough!" Sanjo snarled bitterly. Even his explosive temper couldn't be buried beneath his grief. "Nothing was enough! We didn't get to her soon enough, and Chopper couldn't do enough!" His raised lip fell in a quiver suddenly, and he sobered back into his state of tranquil numbness. "If I had stayed with her, had come back sooner…"
Zoro's hard hand took hold of the cook's shoulder. "Listen, shitty cook," he hissed, "Nami is dead. But it wasn't your fault! Look at me, Sanji. Look at me!" He forcefully turned Sanji in the grass, and the chef hung his head low. Zoro snarled and hooked a finger under his chin, snapping the blonde's head up, who met him with a hurt gaze. Zoro's grip softened. "It's gonna be okay, Sanji," he whispered.
Sanji's eyes filled with bitter tears, and he collapsed onto Zoro, pushing his nose into the swordsman's chest. Zoro pushed his cheek against Sanji's hair and held the lean man close. "It's gonna be okay."
The blonde convulsed in his arms, and a strangled sob wormed from him. "It's okay to cry, Sanji," Zoro told him. "I know you haven't cried yet."
"I just," Sanji sniffled, and Zoro was expecting a 'can't' to follow, but Sanji finished with, "I just don't know what to do." He convulsed again, but not a sound parted his tight lips. Maybe a soft choking noise came from the back of his throat, but Zoro couldn't tell.
"Cry, Sanji. You miss her."
Convulsions after convulsion came, and maybe it was like so for only thirty seconds before Sanji released a wail of sorrow. His fingers yanked on Zoro's shirt, and he tried to burrow his face in further, tucking his chin down, listening to the monotonous ba-thump ingof Zoro's heart. Tears poured from his eyes, and the dry fabric of the swordsman's shirt drank it thirstily.
"It wasn't your fault, Sanji," Zoro murmured. The blonde's wails became louder, and he sank deeper into Zoro. "It wasn't your fault."
"Nami!" the chef cried. "Nami! Gomannasai!"
Zoro tightened his grip on Sanji, pulled him a bit closer. He nearly gasped with shock when Sanji moved on his own accord, scooting into Zoro's lap, wrapping those long deadly legs around the swordsman, clutching his shoulders tightly, burying his nose into the crook of Zoro's neck. Zoro gingerly wrapped his arms tighter around Sanji's thin frame and took hold of his own elbows, locking his arms in place.
"Let it all out, Sanji," he murmured. Sanji wailed a few more times before slowly descending into sniffles and whimpers. He slumped heavily in Zoro's arms, as if all of his energy was gone, like it had been stolen from him.
"Z-Zoro," he whimpered.
"Yeah?"
"Stay here with me until I'm asleep. I don't want to go back to the ship until she's gone."
Zoro blinked in shock, hugging the chef tighter, and he nodded against his cheek. "I'll stay."
Sanji was out within two minutes, exhausted beyond measure. Zoro carefully adjusted his hold, and he rose to his feet with the chef cradled in his arms. The crew had taken up a motel, to keep from being around to see her. Sanji had left after he discovered her, still alive, but barely. He held her as Chopper tried, and he begged her to stay. Zoro could still hear that pitiful begging, even though his eyes wouldn't allow a tear to spill. As soon as Chopper told him she was gone, he had carefully set her head down from his lap and turned, running with so much desperation that Zoro couldn't keep from chasing after him. Luffy had yelled that they would stay at a motel. Sanji hadn't heard, but Zoro had.
Zoro looked down as he walked, watched the head of blonde hair bob against his chest. It wasn't Sanji's fault. But Sanji couldn't just hear that. He needed to believe it was the truth. The cook would, maybe, grow used to life without the woman he swooned over, and his cooking duties would resume the moment he set foot onboard. He would hide the emotions he had privileged Zoro to see, hide within himself and that damned kitchen and cook his nerves away. Meals would increase in size, but only in the slightest, to hide the fact that Sanji was hurting, while still getting something off his chest. Even without Nami, he would cook, he would fight, and he would smoke, all in the same manner. Zoro knew the blonde wouldn't let this show.
But he would suffer silently, the swordsman also noted. When he was alone, he would let those tears fall. He would drag harder on those smokes, just to fill the hollow hole in his chest. He wouldn't dance about the kitchen. He wouldn't hum, sway, rock on his heels, or even cock that one leg out as he washed the dishes. He would stand stiff, his knees locked, with his pelvis rocked forward in that uncomfortable-looking stance, like he was ready to pounce. His long legs would strike out, and though nothing would appear changed, Zoro would notice the lack of heart behind each kick. When he would be erected in his handstand, he would close those ocean blue eyes, bask in the fondness of old memories he could not relive. But no, Sanji wouldn't change enough for anyone else to see.
Zoro would see.
Sanji was already withering now, as he carried him into the motel, set him down on the bed. Luffy had gotten Sanji his own room, so he could be alone with his thoughts, and his dangerous temper. Zoro couldn't bring himself to leave his nakama. He quietly pulled off Sanji's shoes and worked him out of his jacket and belt. He would sleep more comfortably now, Zoro hoped. The chef curled up on his side, drawing those legs up to his belly. His blonde hair hung in his face, hiding all but his mouth, which was in a thin tight line.
"It's not your fault, Sanji."
The chef twitched. Zoro knew he was awake. "Oi, cook."
"Shitty marimo." The insult was hissed through clenched teeth. "Why?"
Zoro wasn't ready for the question. "Why what?"
"Why didn't you just let me run?" Sanji choked. "Why chase me?"
The swordsman heaved a sigh and pulled his boots off before sitting on the edge of the bed. Sanji was tense in every way as far as Zoro could see. "Because I didn't want you to do something stupid," he said bluntly. "You didn't cry when you held her head in your lap, or when Chopper told you that she wouldn't hear you talking, or when Chopper said she was gone. You just got up and ran. I haven't seen you run like that before."
Those legs curled tighter, and Zoro half expected one to lash out at him, just to give himself some sort of release. But those powerful weapons stayed put. "I didn't know what else to do," the cook muttered.
Zoro scratched the back of his neck. For once, the cook wasn't willing to enter a heated argument. "Will you be okay?" the swordsman asked. "Being here, alone?"
He quirked a brow when he saw Sanji fidget, and both of his brows jumped when the cook let out a pitiful sob. Zoro scooted closer and rested a hand on his nakama's shoulder. "Cook, what-"
"Don't leave!" Sanji cried out. Zoro noticed one of his hands was grasping the bed tightly enough that a vein was bulging from it, and it was shaking. Hard. The tremors crept up his forearm, and doggedly ran up to his shoulder. Sanji's lower lip was sucked into his mouth, and he was biting down on it, his jaw shaking with effort.
"Sanji," Zoro said softly, "I won't leave." He reached up and stroked Sanji's hair, brushing back the fringe that hid his eye, finding that tears had been freely rolling over the bridge of his nose, dripping to the sheets. "I'll stay all night, if that's what you want."
Zoro would probably pay for this sentimental moment sometime in the future. Once Sanji was back to his average state, he would hold this against Zoro forever. But at the time, he just felt an odd sensation people would call sympathy. Maybe it was compassion, but all Zoro knew was that his nakama was torn apart on the inside, and he couldn't be alone now. He shucked out of his shirt and set his swords aside, and then laid himself at Sanji's side, pressing his stomach to the chef's back. He draped an arm over the thin body. "I gotcha, cook," he said.
"Hey," Sanji murmured quietly, "Zoro?"
"Hmm?"
A fine hand touched Zoro's and slithered under it. The swordsman threaded their fingers and gently squeezed. Sanji sighed lightly, and those deadly legs uncurled in the slightest. "Thanks," the chef said.
"You're welcome," Zoro replied. He curled his legs against Sanji's, their thighs just touching. The cook seemed to relax, and before long, Zoro could hear his light breathing that showed he was asleep. He nosed into Sanji's blond hair and sighed softly. He closed his eyes, drinking in Sanji's smell, the sweet odor of spices and cigarettes, and he briefly wondered if Sanji could smell him as well, if the scent of the swordsman soothed him at all. But he couldn't wonder for long. Sleep soon greeted him, as it usually did, and he fell into a dreamless state, subconsciously hearing the blond mumbling in his dreams.