(One Piece) Myalgia
Title: Myalgia
Fandom: One Piece
Pairing: Zoro/Sanji
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2811
Timeline: Post-Thriller Bark
Notes: For 100moods, prompt "uncomfortable".
Summary: It's difficult to be part of the same conversation when nobody wants to talk.
Zoro’s eyes open with the dawn, instincts recognising the changing air beyond the ship, the chirping gulls rousing him from sleep. Another morning, another day, familiarity and routine, and he doesn’t even realise anything’s amiss until a hand slides across his stomach to fist in his t-shirt.
He’s still getting used to Sanji sleeping beside him, awkwardly pressed together in the dip of the hammock that’s technically made for one. He’s doesn’t especially mind; Sanji’s a welcome warmth beside him in the endless cold nights on the ocean, and no discomfort has ever been able to keep him from sleep, not even Sanji’s bony elbow occasionally digging into his side.
If anything, he’s surprised Sanji allows it.
They’re usually the first awake each morning, with Zoro’s weights calling to him while the deck remains quiet, and Sanji never able to waste a second of daylight that could be spent with him bustling around the kitchen and looking irritated. There’s nobody else to see them carefully disentangle themselves from each other, and Zoro wouldn’t really care if there was. He knows it’s Sanji’s issues and Sanji alone that keeps their midnight encounters hushed and hurried, that used to make Sanji slink away as soon as he’d gotten what he needed, that forces everything to remain a secret.
Not much of a secret, and if that redheaded witch hasn’t long since figured it out, Zoro will give up swords and take up knitting. Not that he’d ever tell Sanji that the object of his loudly proclaimed desires knows that, despite all of his fawning and flailing over her, Sanji likes it rough, hard and specifically from Zoro.
Still, that first night after leaving Thriller Bark, when they were still panting and wrapped around each other, hearts thundering and adrenaline still coursing in their veins, flushed skin against flushed skin, Zoro hadn’t really known how to react when Sanji had abandoned his usual routine of fumbling to shove his clothes back into place and crossing the room to his own bunk while carefully avoiding eye contact. Instead he’d settled closer, chin against Zoro’s shoulder, hair tickling his ear, and there’d been a tight clench to his jaw that Zoro usually only saw when he was trying not to argue back in the girls’ presence, so Zoro had just shut his eyes and figured Sanji would be gone before morning.
Which, it turned out, wasn’t true. Sanji had still been there, and Zoro had woken first thing to the sight of Sanji trying to sneak out of their bunk as if he’d honestly thought he could do so without waking him.
And a new routine had started, one Zoro still doesn’t quite understand. Sanji still waits until at least an hour after he’s sure everyone’s asleep before sliding into the hammock alongside Zoro, and his fingers are still restless and everywhere and he still breathes harshly against Zoro’s neck as his hips twitch and roll, and he still makes the softest noises that they both pretend they don’t hear when Zoro’s hands move over him. Only now, afterwards, he lies against Zoro’s side, lips pressed in a thin line as if he’s waiting for Zoro to tell him to leave, and Zoro never does, because he can’t see any reason why he should, and eventually they both fall asleep.
Zoro’s a little surprised at how quickly he’s found himself adapting to waking up with somebody pressed against him, but he knows there’s no danger there. Just him and Sanji, waking together, dressing silently, ties and boots, except now they’re stood next to each other rather than on opposite sides of the room.
Zoro turns his head slightly, expecting Sanji to move, only to find himself staring straight into Sanji’s eyes from an uncomfortably close angle.
Sanji looks tired, exhausted even, his eyes a dark and murky grey in the shadows of the room, his skin unnaturally pale. He doesn’t look ruffled or groggy, just gaunt and weary. As if he’s been awake for hours, rather than recently woken, and Zoro knows Sanji well enough to know that if something’s been keeping him awake, Zoro will likely be the first one blamed, and he mentally steels himself for an attack that’s likely to be difficult to dodge in a hammock.
Instead Sanji closes the last remaining space between them and kisses him.
Kissing isn’t something Zoro really associates with Sanji, despite everything else they’ve done together. The closest they usually get to anything like it is lips pressed against cheeks, jaws, the curve of each other’s mouths as they hiss insults and curse words and halting desire against each other’s skin.
It’s never careful and slow and deep, and a part of Zoro is still expecting some form of attack, is trying to justify the kiss as some crazed form of distraction to catch him off guard, but it isn’t enough to keep him from tilting his head to allow it, to make it better.
It’s a little awkward, lying on their sides, and Zoro doesn’t quite understand it, even if he feels completely disinclined to fight it. The minty taste of toothpaste is just barely there, the sharp tang of cigarettes even more distant, leaving just the heat of Sanji’s mouth, the leisurely slide of his tongue over Zoro’s own, the tingle of their lips moving together.
Sanji’s hands tug at his t-shirt, and Zoro frowns into the kiss and almost reaches down to swat them away. He can feel the way Sanji’s trying to move him, and he doesn’t exactly appreciate it, right up until he distractedly realises that Sanji’s pulling him closer as he rolls back, that Sanji’s trying to pull him on top.
Sanji has this frustrating habit of thrashing and getting far too frantic whenever he’s pinned in any way that never fails to piss Zoro off and always makes him want to do just that, makes him want to feel Sanji shuddering beneath him, trying to roll him off, clawing at him and whining low in his throat.
Sanji apparently hates it, and certainly never encourages it, let alone blatantly invites Zoro to sprawl over him, but there’s no mistaking the impatient jerk at his clothing. Sanji doesn’t break the kiss, doesn’t even falter, just shifts bit by bit, careful balancing act, until he’s lying on his back, and Zoro can move fully over him, feeling some unknown energy vibrating just under Sanji’s skin.
It’s a new way to wake up, yes, but certainly not unpleasant. Zoro could almost get used to it, to the lazy exploration of Sanji’s mouth, to Sanji’s solid warmth beneath him, bodies pressed flush together. Just the waking dawn outside, and some strange middle ground between them - no arguments, not that Zoro especially hates them, and no awkwardness, which Zoro does hate. No ringing silences that have been following them since they left Thriller Bark, which press down more heavily on Zoro with each day that passes where Sanji doesn’t really talk to him, doesn’t really make eye contact. And Zoro doesn’t need to be thinking about that, doesn’t want to, but the thought spreads through his mind like poison, dark and dangerous, and he can’t remember the last time he and Sanji spoke with sunlight on their backs and the crew surrounding them, rather than curled together in the safety of the night.
The kiss turns rougher, even if Zoro doesn’t mean for it to. His hand squeezes at Sanji’s hips tighter than it needs to, tighter than can be comfortable, but Sanji only arches his neck back as Zoro bears down on him, crushing their lips together, and it’s no longer about Sanji giving him something, it’s about Zoro taking it. And he doesn’t know what Sanji was trying to give him, or why, anymore than he knows why Sanji somehow manages to move around the ship like normal and yet never cross paths with him. He doesn’t know why Sanji can’t just come at him, shout at him, kick at him and curse at him and deal with this new problem in the same way they’ve dealt with every problem they’ve ever had with each other.
Sanji’s angry at him for what happened when they faced Kuma. Zoro knows that. Zoro knows an angry Sanji is violent and loud, and he doesn’t know how to deal with this new Sanji who’s quiet and hollow and doesn’t do more than shiver and allow Zoro to devour his mouth, even when Zoro’s fingers dig into his thigh hard enough to bruise.
Suspicion washes over him like a wave of ice-cold water, frowning as he bites at Sanji’s lower lip and receives nothing more than a soft hiss and a desperate swallow of air before Sanji leans up and seals their mouths together again. Tension spreads through him, gripping tightly at his muscles, and they throb idly in protest, but Zoro can ignore it, has been ignoring the way his whole body has ached since Kuma’s attack. No sense dwelling on the past, on the choice he’d make again and again, no sense focusing on something so counterproductive to his training.
Sanji’s hands move slowly around his waist, fingers pressing against sore points, circling over them, stroking and soothing them as his hands slide over Zoro’s back. Apparently finding each bruise, each point of pain with no difficulty, strong chef’s fingers easing the discomfort. Zoro pulls back from Sanji’s mouth, still close enough to feel every too quick, too shallow breath that brushes over his damp lips, taking in the closed eyes, the barest hint of a frown on Sanji’s brow. And it would be so easy to relax into it, to let Sanji’s fingers massage the sore muscles and the bone-deep aches away, but there’s a feeling in the pit of his stomach, cold and unsettling, that won’t allow it, and he pulls further away.
Sanji eyes open but his expression, or lack of it, doesn’t change. He still looks tired, but there’s no hint of expectancy or resignation or frustration or anything recognisable on his face. Just something carefully open but just as carefully blank, the darkness painting him monochrome and angular, and he doesn’t look like a stranger, he’s still Sanji, but he somehow doesn’t look real.
“Training,” Zoro grunts quietly, and he doesn’t know why he feels the need to explain himself anymore than he knows why he feels sick and guilty for something he doesn’t understand.
There’s no objection from Sanji, not even a flicker of emotion. He passively watches as Zoro shifts, pulling his legs around until he can swing them over the side of the hammock, Sanji’s hands still hovering at Zoro’s waist so they slide over his skin as he moves. Zoro has always understood why they’re only together in such a way in the dark, understood it’s all to do with Sanji and his need for secrecy, and he’s never resented it or even put much thought to it before, but now he hates the way the shadows change Sanji’s face, the way they hide him. Maybe in the light of day he’d be able to see just what it is that’s lurking in Sanji’s eyes, and the thought of that seizes at his throat, threatens to choke him, because maybe Sanji knows that too, maybe that’s why they never quite seem to exist in the same place during the sunlight anymore. He’s never felt the need to understand Sanji before, but that’s because Sanji’s always been an open book to him, and the more his thoughts spin and churn, the wider the distance between them seems to stretch.
His feet touch the floor, but Sanji’s hand reaches again for his t-shirt, fingers curling around the material and holding on before Zoro can move to stand. He feels the hammock sway slightly as Sanji sits and leans closer, Sanji’s chest pressing against Zoro’s back, and his breath is startlingly hot as his tongue runs across Zoro’s earlobe, soothing over each piercing, causing his earrings to swing gently. It’s a familiar gesture, one Zoro usually recognises as playful and teasing, one that they both know makes Zoro’s breath catch, that might even force a shiver out of him. But now it feels invasive, like ice clawing down his spine, and Zoro feels anger roil and rise within him, because anger at Sanji is something he can understand, has always been able to understand.
He reaches back blindly, his fingers slowly wrapping around Sanji’s wrist, and Sanji may be doing everything he can to keep his own posture relaxed and loose but Zoro can feel the tension in him all the same. The way he eases Sanji’s hand from his clothes could almost be mistaken for gentle, except his grip at Sanji’s wrist is iron-tight and inescapable, but Sanji doesn’t resist. Just lets the fabric fall away, and Zoro can feel his heartbeat racing against his back but he doesn’t dwell on it, doesn’t want to, as he moves to stand.
The sudden movement takes him by surprise, and he hates it, hates Sanji for being able to do that, hates that maybe it wouldn’t be possible if Zoro weren’t so caught up in his own head, if his body didn’t ache and struggle against him now in a way he doesn’t know how to acknowledge. Two long legs wrap around him from behind, thighs around his waist, calves and ankles crossing over his lap. The sprawl of them might seem casual, and Sanji’s hands on his shoulders might even appear tender, but Zoro can feel the way Sanji’s knees lock, can feel the way Sanji braces himself, and there’s no way he could ever forget that Sanji’s legs are weapons.
“Stay in bed a little longer,” Sanji murmurs against his ear, breath causing his earrings to chime together again.
And it’s all wrong.
Because, here in the dark, Sanji might be able to hide his eyes and everything behind them, but there’s nothing to disguise his voice. Zoro knows the tone, knows the intention, knows it’s trying for seduction in that way Sanji does so annoyingly well, even if it took him a while to learn exactly what it can do Zoro. But the voice, it’s all wrong, and Zoro knows Sanji too well to not recognise how thin it sounds, how strained he sounds, how close he is to some emotional edge that Zoro doesn’t want to hear.
He knows Sanji, and Sanji should know him. Sanji should know how Zoro deals with pain and battle and anything approaching sympathy, and whatever it is that Sanji’s trying to give him, it feels far too similar to sympathy and it makes Zoro want to shout and rage and it makes him nauseous. Because Sanji could never, should never feel any kind of sympathy for him, but that’s all Zoro can think about, and the word rattles in his mind. He’d thought Sanji felt anger towards him, maybe some twisted sense of betrayal that Zoro stepped between him and Kuma, that Zoro stopped him making that sacrifice. And he doesn’t know what else this new atmosphere could be, because Sanji can’t ever know what happened between him and Kuma, Zoro will guard that secret as fiercely as he guards his nakama.
Sanji doesn’t know, and so Zoro doesn’t know why Sanji’s trying to change everything, why Sanji’s trying to hide everything, and why Sanji’s apparently decided, after all this time, that Zoro might just be breakable after all.
He sits there, perfectly still, breath caught in his chest and venom on his tongue, knuckles white as he grips the edge of the hammock, until achingly slowly Sanji’s legs begin to move, to slide around and away from him, and when he falls back against the hammock and his heat leaves Zoro’s back, it’s as if Zoro can breathe again.
“Or fuck off, whatever. I don’t care,” Sanji sighs, and he sounds tired and distracted and far away.
Zoro stands, reaching for his swords without thought and sliding his feet into his boots without tying them. He moves across the room, feeling annoyingly heavy and sluggish and trying to ignore the painful pressure at his temples, trying to ignore all the way things are changing and all the ways he apparently can’t do a thing to stop them. He glances back when he reaches the door, against his better judgement, but Sanji has turned away, face to the wall, back to him, and Zoro already knows that those will be the last words Sanji will say to him all day, and that he’ll train until black and red creeps into his vision to avoid thinking about it, and that neither of them is ready to be the first to talk about it, so it will all remain unsaid.
Fandom: One Piece
Pairing: Zoro/Sanji
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2811
Timeline: Post-Thriller Bark
Notes: For 100moods, prompt "uncomfortable".
Summary: It's difficult to be part of the same conversation when nobody wants to talk.
Zoro’s eyes open with the dawn, instincts recognising the changing air beyond the ship, the chirping gulls rousing him from sleep. Another morning, another day, familiarity and routine, and he doesn’t even realise anything’s amiss until a hand slides across his stomach to fist in his t-shirt.
He’s still getting used to Sanji sleeping beside him, awkwardly pressed together in the dip of the hammock that’s technically made for one. He’s doesn’t especially mind; Sanji’s a welcome warmth beside him in the endless cold nights on the ocean, and no discomfort has ever been able to keep him from sleep, not even Sanji’s bony elbow occasionally digging into his side.
If anything, he’s surprised Sanji allows it.
They’re usually the first awake each morning, with Zoro’s weights calling to him while the deck remains quiet, and Sanji never able to waste a second of daylight that could be spent with him bustling around the kitchen and looking irritated. There’s nobody else to see them carefully disentangle themselves from each other, and Zoro wouldn’t really care if there was. He knows it’s Sanji’s issues and Sanji alone that keeps their midnight encounters hushed and hurried, that used to make Sanji slink away as soon as he’d gotten what he needed, that forces everything to remain a secret.
Not much of a secret, and if that redheaded witch hasn’t long since figured it out, Zoro will give up swords and take up knitting. Not that he’d ever tell Sanji that the object of his loudly proclaimed desires knows that, despite all of his fawning and flailing over her, Sanji likes it rough, hard and specifically from Zoro.
Still, that first night after leaving Thriller Bark, when they were still panting and wrapped around each other, hearts thundering and adrenaline still coursing in their veins, flushed skin against flushed skin, Zoro hadn’t really known how to react when Sanji had abandoned his usual routine of fumbling to shove his clothes back into place and crossing the room to his own bunk while carefully avoiding eye contact. Instead he’d settled closer, chin against Zoro’s shoulder, hair tickling his ear, and there’d been a tight clench to his jaw that Zoro usually only saw when he was trying not to argue back in the girls’ presence, so Zoro had just shut his eyes and figured Sanji would be gone before morning.
Which, it turned out, wasn’t true. Sanji had still been there, and Zoro had woken first thing to the sight of Sanji trying to sneak out of their bunk as if he’d honestly thought he could do so without waking him.
And a new routine had started, one Zoro still doesn’t quite understand. Sanji still waits until at least an hour after he’s sure everyone’s asleep before sliding into the hammock alongside Zoro, and his fingers are still restless and everywhere and he still breathes harshly against Zoro’s neck as his hips twitch and roll, and he still makes the softest noises that they both pretend they don’t hear when Zoro’s hands move over him. Only now, afterwards, he lies against Zoro’s side, lips pressed in a thin line as if he’s waiting for Zoro to tell him to leave, and Zoro never does, because he can’t see any reason why he should, and eventually they both fall asleep.
Zoro’s a little surprised at how quickly he’s found himself adapting to waking up with somebody pressed against him, but he knows there’s no danger there. Just him and Sanji, waking together, dressing silently, ties and boots, except now they’re stood next to each other rather than on opposite sides of the room.
Zoro turns his head slightly, expecting Sanji to move, only to find himself staring straight into Sanji’s eyes from an uncomfortably close angle.
Sanji looks tired, exhausted even, his eyes a dark and murky grey in the shadows of the room, his skin unnaturally pale. He doesn’t look ruffled or groggy, just gaunt and weary. As if he’s been awake for hours, rather than recently woken, and Zoro knows Sanji well enough to know that if something’s been keeping him awake, Zoro will likely be the first one blamed, and he mentally steels himself for an attack that’s likely to be difficult to dodge in a hammock.
Instead Sanji closes the last remaining space between them and kisses him.
Kissing isn’t something Zoro really associates with Sanji, despite everything else they’ve done together. The closest they usually get to anything like it is lips pressed against cheeks, jaws, the curve of each other’s mouths as they hiss insults and curse words and halting desire against each other’s skin.
It’s never careful and slow and deep, and a part of Zoro is still expecting some form of attack, is trying to justify the kiss as some crazed form of distraction to catch him off guard, but it isn’t enough to keep him from tilting his head to allow it, to make it better.
It’s a little awkward, lying on their sides, and Zoro doesn’t quite understand it, even if he feels completely disinclined to fight it. The minty taste of toothpaste is just barely there, the sharp tang of cigarettes even more distant, leaving just the heat of Sanji’s mouth, the leisurely slide of his tongue over Zoro’s own, the tingle of their lips moving together.
Sanji’s hands tug at his t-shirt, and Zoro frowns into the kiss and almost reaches down to swat them away. He can feel the way Sanji’s trying to move him, and he doesn’t exactly appreciate it, right up until he distractedly realises that Sanji’s pulling him closer as he rolls back, that Sanji’s trying to pull him on top.
Sanji has this frustrating habit of thrashing and getting far too frantic whenever he’s pinned in any way that never fails to piss Zoro off and always makes him want to do just that, makes him want to feel Sanji shuddering beneath him, trying to roll him off, clawing at him and whining low in his throat.
Sanji apparently hates it, and certainly never encourages it, let alone blatantly invites Zoro to sprawl over him, but there’s no mistaking the impatient jerk at his clothing. Sanji doesn’t break the kiss, doesn’t even falter, just shifts bit by bit, careful balancing act, until he’s lying on his back, and Zoro can move fully over him, feeling some unknown energy vibrating just under Sanji’s skin.
It’s a new way to wake up, yes, but certainly not unpleasant. Zoro could almost get used to it, to the lazy exploration of Sanji’s mouth, to Sanji’s solid warmth beneath him, bodies pressed flush together. Just the waking dawn outside, and some strange middle ground between them - no arguments, not that Zoro especially hates them, and no awkwardness, which Zoro does hate. No ringing silences that have been following them since they left Thriller Bark, which press down more heavily on Zoro with each day that passes where Sanji doesn’t really talk to him, doesn’t really make eye contact. And Zoro doesn’t need to be thinking about that, doesn’t want to, but the thought spreads through his mind like poison, dark and dangerous, and he can’t remember the last time he and Sanji spoke with sunlight on their backs and the crew surrounding them, rather than curled together in the safety of the night.
The kiss turns rougher, even if Zoro doesn’t mean for it to. His hand squeezes at Sanji’s hips tighter than it needs to, tighter than can be comfortable, but Sanji only arches his neck back as Zoro bears down on him, crushing their lips together, and it’s no longer about Sanji giving him something, it’s about Zoro taking it. And he doesn’t know what Sanji was trying to give him, or why, anymore than he knows why Sanji somehow manages to move around the ship like normal and yet never cross paths with him. He doesn’t know why Sanji can’t just come at him, shout at him, kick at him and curse at him and deal with this new problem in the same way they’ve dealt with every problem they’ve ever had with each other.
Sanji’s angry at him for what happened when they faced Kuma. Zoro knows that. Zoro knows an angry Sanji is violent and loud, and he doesn’t know how to deal with this new Sanji who’s quiet and hollow and doesn’t do more than shiver and allow Zoro to devour his mouth, even when Zoro’s fingers dig into his thigh hard enough to bruise.
Suspicion washes over him like a wave of ice-cold water, frowning as he bites at Sanji’s lower lip and receives nothing more than a soft hiss and a desperate swallow of air before Sanji leans up and seals their mouths together again. Tension spreads through him, gripping tightly at his muscles, and they throb idly in protest, but Zoro can ignore it, has been ignoring the way his whole body has ached since Kuma’s attack. No sense dwelling on the past, on the choice he’d make again and again, no sense focusing on something so counterproductive to his training.
Sanji’s hands move slowly around his waist, fingers pressing against sore points, circling over them, stroking and soothing them as his hands slide over Zoro’s back. Apparently finding each bruise, each point of pain with no difficulty, strong chef’s fingers easing the discomfort. Zoro pulls back from Sanji’s mouth, still close enough to feel every too quick, too shallow breath that brushes over his damp lips, taking in the closed eyes, the barest hint of a frown on Sanji’s brow. And it would be so easy to relax into it, to let Sanji’s fingers massage the sore muscles and the bone-deep aches away, but there’s a feeling in the pit of his stomach, cold and unsettling, that won’t allow it, and he pulls further away.
Sanji eyes open but his expression, or lack of it, doesn’t change. He still looks tired, but there’s no hint of expectancy or resignation or frustration or anything recognisable on his face. Just something carefully open but just as carefully blank, the darkness painting him monochrome and angular, and he doesn’t look like a stranger, he’s still Sanji, but he somehow doesn’t look real.
“Training,” Zoro grunts quietly, and he doesn’t know why he feels the need to explain himself anymore than he knows why he feels sick and guilty for something he doesn’t understand.
There’s no objection from Sanji, not even a flicker of emotion. He passively watches as Zoro shifts, pulling his legs around until he can swing them over the side of the hammock, Sanji’s hands still hovering at Zoro’s waist so they slide over his skin as he moves. Zoro has always understood why they’re only together in such a way in the dark, understood it’s all to do with Sanji and his need for secrecy, and he’s never resented it or even put much thought to it before, but now he hates the way the shadows change Sanji’s face, the way they hide him. Maybe in the light of day he’d be able to see just what it is that’s lurking in Sanji’s eyes, and the thought of that seizes at his throat, threatens to choke him, because maybe Sanji knows that too, maybe that’s why they never quite seem to exist in the same place during the sunlight anymore. He’s never felt the need to understand Sanji before, but that’s because Sanji’s always been an open book to him, and the more his thoughts spin and churn, the wider the distance between them seems to stretch.
His feet touch the floor, but Sanji’s hand reaches again for his t-shirt, fingers curling around the material and holding on before Zoro can move to stand. He feels the hammock sway slightly as Sanji sits and leans closer, Sanji’s chest pressing against Zoro’s back, and his breath is startlingly hot as his tongue runs across Zoro’s earlobe, soothing over each piercing, causing his earrings to swing gently. It’s a familiar gesture, one Zoro usually recognises as playful and teasing, one that they both know makes Zoro’s breath catch, that might even force a shiver out of him. But now it feels invasive, like ice clawing down his spine, and Zoro feels anger roil and rise within him, because anger at Sanji is something he can understand, has always been able to understand.
He reaches back blindly, his fingers slowly wrapping around Sanji’s wrist, and Sanji may be doing everything he can to keep his own posture relaxed and loose but Zoro can feel the tension in him all the same. The way he eases Sanji’s hand from his clothes could almost be mistaken for gentle, except his grip at Sanji’s wrist is iron-tight and inescapable, but Sanji doesn’t resist. Just lets the fabric fall away, and Zoro can feel his heartbeat racing against his back but he doesn’t dwell on it, doesn’t want to, as he moves to stand.
The sudden movement takes him by surprise, and he hates it, hates Sanji for being able to do that, hates that maybe it wouldn’t be possible if Zoro weren’t so caught up in his own head, if his body didn’t ache and struggle against him now in a way he doesn’t know how to acknowledge. Two long legs wrap around him from behind, thighs around his waist, calves and ankles crossing over his lap. The sprawl of them might seem casual, and Sanji’s hands on his shoulders might even appear tender, but Zoro can feel the way Sanji’s knees lock, can feel the way Sanji braces himself, and there’s no way he could ever forget that Sanji’s legs are weapons.
“Stay in bed a little longer,” Sanji murmurs against his ear, breath causing his earrings to chime together again.
And it’s all wrong.
Because, here in the dark, Sanji might be able to hide his eyes and everything behind them, but there’s nothing to disguise his voice. Zoro knows the tone, knows the intention, knows it’s trying for seduction in that way Sanji does so annoyingly well, even if it took him a while to learn exactly what it can do Zoro. But the voice, it’s all wrong, and Zoro knows Sanji too well to not recognise how thin it sounds, how strained he sounds, how close he is to some emotional edge that Zoro doesn’t want to hear.
He knows Sanji, and Sanji should know him. Sanji should know how Zoro deals with pain and battle and anything approaching sympathy, and whatever it is that Sanji’s trying to give him, it feels far too similar to sympathy and it makes Zoro want to shout and rage and it makes him nauseous. Because Sanji could never, should never feel any kind of sympathy for him, but that’s all Zoro can think about, and the word rattles in his mind. He’d thought Sanji felt anger towards him, maybe some twisted sense of betrayal that Zoro stepped between him and Kuma, that Zoro stopped him making that sacrifice. And he doesn’t know what else this new atmosphere could be, because Sanji can’t ever know what happened between him and Kuma, Zoro will guard that secret as fiercely as he guards his nakama.
Sanji doesn’t know, and so Zoro doesn’t know why Sanji’s trying to change everything, why Sanji’s trying to hide everything, and why Sanji’s apparently decided, after all this time, that Zoro might just be breakable after all.
He sits there, perfectly still, breath caught in his chest and venom on his tongue, knuckles white as he grips the edge of the hammock, until achingly slowly Sanji’s legs begin to move, to slide around and away from him, and when he falls back against the hammock and his heat leaves Zoro’s back, it’s as if Zoro can breathe again.
“Or fuck off, whatever. I don’t care,” Sanji sighs, and he sounds tired and distracted and far away.
Zoro stands, reaching for his swords without thought and sliding his feet into his boots without tying them. He moves across the room, feeling annoyingly heavy and sluggish and trying to ignore the painful pressure at his temples, trying to ignore all the way things are changing and all the ways he apparently can’t do a thing to stop them. He glances back when he reaches the door, against his better judgement, but Sanji has turned away, face to the wall, back to him, and Zoro already knows that those will be the last words Sanji will say to him all day, and that he’ll train until black and red creeps into his vision to avoid thinking about it, and that neither of them is ready to be the first to talk about it, so it will all remain unsaid.