Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Empty,” Zoro calls as he steps out from beneath the cracked eave of the fishing hut. The door clatters closed at his back, leather hinges creaking as a draft from the broken window fights to push it open again. 

Sanji kicks his heel against the snow with a frustrated huff, scuffing away a layer of powder to reveal the greyish ice beneath. Within moments, fresh snow covers the patch in white speckles. 

“I should have brought Usopp,” he grumbles for the third time in as many hours. “Taking you was pointless.” 

Zoro had let the first two jibes go with nothing more than an eyeroll, but before, he’d had something else to focus on, a goal to walk towards: another collapsed building to search, another fallen tree in their path to hack apart. But without a single new landmark on the horizon worth exploring, he’s rapidly losing patience with the whole endeavour. The forest they’ve spent the day trudging through looms behind them, and beyond it, the Sunny is still trapped, mired in a sea of ice that Zoro’s swords are helpless to shatter. He feels useless enough without Sanji’s constant reminders. 

“What’s Usopp gonna do for you that I can’t?” Zoro snaps. The door groans at his back, straining against its hinges. He smacks it back into the frame with an open palm. “Help you carry all of the nothing you’ve found back to the ship?”

“I don’t know!” Sanji shoots back, red-cheeked with anger or frustration or cold or a bitter combination of all three. “Maybe there was a plant we missed in the forest, something edible that he would have—”

“Everything was dead, Cook.”

Sanji flinches at the harsh statement, but Zoro doesn’t back down. He fixes Sanji with a pointed glare, letting the silence drag on between them until Sanji stops searching for a rebuttal that won’t come. 

There was nothing to find in the forest. The trees were as lifeless as the abandoned villages of Kori Island, fruitless and bare-limbed. Anything living that once made its home here must have fled the freeze long ago: houses and halls and fishing huts empty even of skeletons, leaving nothing of value for their own crew to scavenge. They’ve got a day or so more before they run through the last of their supplies. Chasing false hope will only waste time they don't have. 

“We’re not giving up,” Sanji says at last, firm as he returns Zoro’s glare. Zoro grimly nods and turns back towards the frozen sea. As long as Sanji stays focused instead of complaining, he’s satisfied. They have no choice but to find food today, so they’re going to find it. Simple as that.

The snowy landscape stretches out to the horizon, where the grey clouds blend into the flat plain of ice below. Shimmering sparks threaten to overtake Zoro’s vision if he stares at the muddled colour too long, so he narrows his one good eye and looks at his feet instead of the sky as he begins to trudge forward.

“Where the hell are you going?” 

“To get us food.”

Footsteps quicken on his heels, but Zoro keeps walking, even as Sanji grabs his arm and tries to tug him to a halt.

“You moron, the island is that way.” He gestures behind Zoro towards the forest. “Did you trip and lose your other eye? You’re walking into the ocean!”

Zoro shrugs him off and keeps going.

“Fine, I’ll leave you out here then. See how long you can survive on snow,” Sanji snarls, but his footsteps still keep pace behind Zoro’s as the forest shrinks at their backs. He tunes out the rest of Sanji’s squawking, listening instead to the creak of the ice beneath his feet, feeling with his haki for movement in the frigid water below.

They’ve been walking for fifteen minutes when the stillness below ripples with a glimmer of life. He stops and draws Shusui from its sheath. Sanji stills behind him, complaints evaporating as he scans the landscape for the unseen threat. That's one begrudging thing Zoro will say for their cook: he’s always battle-ready.

“What do you—” he says quietly, but before he can finish the question, Zoro plunges the blade into the ice between his feet. Something small and wriggling flounders, then goes limp. Zoro grins.

“Still regret bringing me along?” he says as he draws the blade back up and holds it out towards Sanji. The tip drips red onto the pristine snow, staining the ice with a patch of lifegiving colour. 

“...More every minute,” Sanji says, but Zoro doesn’t miss the way his shoulders slack at the sight, the ghost of relief unfreezing the tense limbs beneath his blue coat.

Not so useless after all.

It takes no time at all for Zoro to cut a hole through the ice, not that his hurry does anything to soothe Sanji’s agitation. 

“Stop stamping your feet, you’re scaring away the fish.” 

Sanji crosses his arms, scoffing his annoyance at the order, but he goes from kicking the ice to shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other as he waits for Zoro to finish. Still distracting, but less likely to spook their dinner, so he accepts the compromise and returns his attention to the task at hand.

Once Zoro finishes carving and heaves the severed ice plug out of the hole, they both stand side by side at the edge, staring down into the pit of black water. The fish he’d stabbed has long since floated away, but Zoro can feel movement deeper down, larger and meatier bodies lurking beyond the realm of light. 

“So, what’s the plan?” Sanji says. “Go back and look for a fishing pole?” 

“Didn’t see one in the huts,” Zoro answers vaguely, but his mind is still below the ice. 

The closest fish is fifteen feet down, give or take. He tries holding his breath, counting down the seconds, subtracting a few for the inevitable system shock. 

Doable.

Zoro undoes his belt and shucks off his robe.

“I guess we can head back to the ship and—what are you doing?”  

“No point in making a second trip out. You wanted to eat tonight, right, Cook?” Zoro tosses the robe onto the ice and starts tugging down his leggings. He grimaces as the wind hits his bare calves, but it’s a bearable level of cold. After the harrowing blizzard that caught the Sunny in its icy shackles, the weather has calmed to something more like the other winter islands they’ve visited. Still below freezing, but far from deadly. He’s certainly trained for—and in—worse conditions. 

“We’re going to be eating a funeral feast for your corpse if you don’t put your clothes back on! This isn’t the time for your stupid macho posturing, you can show off your push ups to the ladies once we’re back on the Sunny—”

“I’m not walking back to the ship in wet clothes, idiot.” 

“Hah?”

He debates briefly before tugging his underwear off as well. Predictably, Sanji splutters and turns his head away, offended, like he hasn’t seen Zoro naked in the bath a hundred times before. To be fair, he also tends to avert his eyes in the bath whenever Zoro’s lower half is untoweled: an aversion that used to confuse Zoro, but now mostly just annoys him. It's not like his junk is any uglier than the rest of his body, and what he's glimpsed of Sanji in the few times he's managed to sneak a distorted peek through the water isn't that much more impressive. But Zoro’s not about to endure chafed thighs for the rest of the day to protect Sanji’s particular sensibilities. He’s seen the skin magazines at the bottom of his locker: the man’s not that innocent. Looking at a dick every once in a while won't kill him.

“Guard my shit,” Zoro says, grabbing his robe and tossing the bundle of clothing at Sanji’s reddened face, then he takes a deep breath and dives into the hole. 

The freezing water coats his skin like a sheen of liquid metal as he kicks down into the depths. He tightens his muscles against the bracing cold as his heart rate stutters, then stabilizes. No breaths wasted, all limbs still working: a successful dive. Now, to find that fish...

The ice is too thick to let much light through, so he uses his haki to guide him to the closest disturbance. He can’t tell what kind of fish it is in the dark, but it’s longer than his arm and slow enough that he catches up easily. Too late, he realizes that he left his swords behind on the ice along with his belt, but it’s easy enough to stun the fish with a closed fist. He grabs it by the tail and drags it up towards the quavering beam of light from the exit. When he bursts out of the water again, his lungs are barely even burning. Easy.

His triumph is short-lived. Whatever vague hope he had that maybe this time Sanji would actually be grateful for his help is immediately dashed when he sees Sanji’s face. He’s livid, chest heaving as he grabs Zoro’s arm and drags him up out of the hole. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Sanji spits. Zoro looks between him and the flailing fish in his fist, both equally agitated, trying to decide which to deal with first. “Do you actually want to die?” 

Fish is simpler. Zoro grabs Shusui from the ground and gives the struggling creature a swift end. If only he could quiet Sanji so easily.

“You really think I'm going to die from a little swim?” Zoro says as he cleans his blade on the snow. “You sure think a lot of me, huh, Curly.”

“You had no idea what was down there! And I can’t see shit through this ice. If some sea king nabbed you, what was I supposed to do—hope I could get to you in time without any idea where you were?”

“I wouldn’t need you to rescue me,” Zoro says, sneering. “If there was a sea king, I would have just killed it.”

“Without your swords?”

His sneer drops into a scowl. Sanji has a point—it was stupid to forget them—but like hell is he going to let Sanji have that point without a fight.

“You're just mad because I was the one who figured out where the food was. If it was up to you, the crew would still be starving tonight. Feels like you should be a bit more grateful to me for doing your job.”

Sanji’s face darkens. “Fuck you,” he says, shoving the bundle of clothes at Zoro. “Put your clothes on and let's go.”

Zoro shoves the clothes back into Sanji’s chest twice as hard. “One fish isn't going to feed nine of us. I'm not even the cook and I know that. I'm going down again.”

“You are not—” Sanji says, but Zoro’s already gone, plunging back into the dark abyss. 

He doesn't get as good a breath this time, and what air he did manage to gather seethes in his lungs, hot with unspent anger. Why is it that even when he does something useful, Sanji’s still fucking mad at him? Does he want Zoro to sit on his hands, watching passively while everyone goes hungry? His body is the main thing he brings to this crew, and this is exactly what it’s good for: killing, enduring, beating a problem into a solution. Sanji can be pissed all he wants, but he’s going to keep doing whatever the crew needs him to do. He’s sure as hell not going to let Sanji’s ego over his own position hold him back. 

Zoro barrels off in search of the next fish: a bigger one this time, something hefty enough to feed everyone for a week, impressive enough that even Sanji has no choice but to shut his mouth in appreciation. He finds his new target another ten feet below, and Zoro drags himself downwards with one free hand, Shusui clutched in the other because he doesn’t make the same mistakes twice. 

The fish moves quicker than he expects, drawing him deeper and deeper into the depths. He only realizes why his prey is so quick when he finally catches up: it’s not a fish. It’s a shark, drawn by the scent of fresh blood in the water. The massive creature whips towards Zoro, dangerously maneuverable despite its size, and he just barely manages to get Shusui up in time before its jaws snap closed around his arm. He grits his teeth as bubbles escape through the corners of his mouth, then shoves the shark back with his elbow before bringing the sword down in a sluggish arc. 

The fight is over in a series of brutal strokes, but not before his lungs begin to clench from the exertion of moving through the thick water, his chest squeezing the last drops of oxygen to already strained organs. 

The shark took him too deep: he’s out of air.

Shit.

He grabs the dead shark by the tail and twists around in the water, searching for the light. At last he finds a glow somewhere in the distance, hazy and indistinct. He shuts his eye against the burn of the saltwater and starts swimming. As his lungs scream for oxygen and every limb begins to lock up, an iron calm overtakes Zoro: not the paralyzing fear of impending death, but the acceptance of its possibility. Panic is only useful while there’s still some chance to change the outcome. Heightened reflexes won’t help him now. Either he’ll make it back, or he’ll drown. His decisions in the moment don’t matter—all that matters is the distance he has left to swim, and how hard he can push himself to cross it.

The water grows warmer in degrees as he pulls himself towards the ice above. He’s getting close. He’s sure he must be beneath the hole in the ice by now. But when he opens his eye, the haze of light is gone, and all he sees before him is darkness. He must have swum past the exit. 

Zoro’s calm flickers, self-recrimination shoving its way through the border of peaceful calm. 

What a pointless way to die. 

But then the darkness moves, shifting before Zoro’s eyes, and then there’s an arm around his waist, pulling his body up towards the unveiled brightness above.

His head bursts from the water at the same time as Sanji’s. Zoro sucks in desperate lungfuls of air, each freezing breath tearing at his throat. Sanji thumps his back until the coughing subsides.

“I was fine,” Zoro sputters out as soon as he gets enough air to speak. “I had it.”

Sanji doesn’t respond. With wet hair clinging to his cheeks, he stares at Zoro for a long moment, then he heaves himself out of the water, still not saying a word. Zoro sheepishly follows, shivering as the wind hits his naked torso. As he clamps one hand onto the edge of the ice, he realizes that he’s still got the shark’s tail clutched in the other. It never occurred to him to let go. If he came back empty-handed, what would have been the point of almost drowning?

He pulls the shark out after him, its rough skin scraping against the sides of the hole, and Sanji finally speaks.

“You brought the fish?” 

He doesn’t sound as angry as Zoro expected. Incredulous, but somehow calmer than before Zoro’s near-death plunge. Maybe now that he’s gotten the heroics out of his system, he feels better. Zoro gets that. The cook hates being useless nearly as much as him. 

“We still need to eat, don’t we?” 

Zoro grabs his robe from the ground and starts toweling off as best he can with the bottom few inches of fabric. He looks over at Sanji as he scrubs, still kneeling on the ice in front of the dead shark. He’s dressed in the clothes he wore when they set out that morning: black suit and teal shirt, his usual tie replaced by a plaid scarf and a matching set of woolen gloves that Nami found in one of her bargain bin hauls a few weeks back. He’s worn the scarf every day since, no matter how badly the red and blue stripes clash with the rest of his ensemble. 

The outfit is completely soaked through. Streams of water run from the cuffs of Sanji’s jacket and the woven fringe of his scarf down onto the ice. Only his winter coat and shoes are dry where they lie, discarded, at the edge of the hole. One loafer rests on its side, like it was kicked off in a hurry. 

“You’re an idiot,” Sanji says quietly, tracing his fingertips over the sharp edge of the shark’s dorsal fin. 

For once, Zoro agrees. He still doesn’t regret going after the shark, but he should have told Sanji where he was going, or set up some kind of signal so he didn’t throw himself into the water for no good reason. It’s going to be a miserable walk back for Sanji and there’s no avoiding it: Zoro can lend him his dry robe, but that’ll still mean bare legs for Sanji and a bare chest for Zoro. Chopper’s a good doctor, but frostbite’s a pain in the ass, and he’s pretty sure Sanji’s skin isn’t as used to training in the elements as his. 

“...Let’s get moving,” Zoro says. No point in apologizing for what’s already done, but he can at least get them out of the cold sooner rather than later. He stands and starts to pull his leggings on, shoving his feet into his boots before the fabric even passes his thighs. To his side, Sanji sighs and stands as well. But when Zoro finishes dressing his lower half and turns around, Sanji hasn’t shed his soaked suit jacket or scarf. Instead, he’s zipping his winter coat closed over the soaked outfit, the puddle around his feet already halfway frozen to a glassy shine. 

“Oi,” Zoro says. “Take that off. You still need to change, Mr. Hero.” Sanji stares at him from beneath his bangs. His hair looks more like straw now, yellow strands flash frozen by the wind into sharp, brittle points.

“Into what?” he says flatly. Zoro holds out his robe and Sanji grimaces. “Even if I wanted to wear your dirty laundry, I’m not a freak like you. I’m not going to strip naked on sea ice just to prove how strong and manly I am! I’m keeping my clothes on, thank you.”

“Cook, you’re going to freeze if you walk back like that,” Zoro says. The bottom of Sanji’s blue coat is already starting to darken and Zoro resists the urge to tear it from his shoulders before he ruins his last good piece of clothing. “I’ll turn around if you don’t want me looking at your dick.” 

Sanji’s cheeks turn a furious shade of red. “You’re disgusting,” he says, then turns on his heel towards the forest. “And we’re wasting time. I’ll change when we get back to the ship.”

Zoro watches as damp spots spread to the small of Sanji’s back. Ugh. What’s the point in arguing when his coat’s already wet? Zoro tugs the robe back on and fixes his sword belt on his hip before grabbing the shark’s tail again.

“Fine,” he says, annoyed. “But I don’t want to hear you whining that you’re cold in a few hours. The robe was a one-time offer.” 

“You’re the one who won’t stop whining about the cold. You clearly need it more than me.”

He glares at Sanji’s back, but then a visible tremor runs through Sanji’s shoulders and Zoro’s frown slides into a smirk. Give him thirty minutes and he’ll be begging for the change of clothes. He can’t wait for Sanji’s chattering teeth to prove him right. Sanji knows cooking, but Zoro knows surviving. And in the meantime, he can keep his robe long enough for his torso to warm up before he graciously offers it to a fuming, chastened Sanji. 

Wins across the board.

Contrary to what the crew might believe, Zoro can generally keep to a straight line when there’s nothing else in the way to distract him. The forest that spans the length of the island is an easy target, and Zoro slings the shark over his shoulders and quickly overtakes Sanji. The smaller fish hangs from his belt, slapping against his thigh with every step he takes. He quickens his pace as they near the forest, eager to be on the trail home with a bit of hope hefted on his back. 

It’s been a sombre week since the Sunny’s unwilling mooring on Kori Island’s frozen shoals. Things would be different if the freeze was Aokiji’s doing—at least then, there’d be something tangible to fight back against. But their imprisonment here isn’t malicious. There’s no persuading the wind to let them go by diplomacy or by force: the endless vista of broken masts and empty lifeboats along the shore are proof of that. Even Nami’s climate expertise can’t guarantee when the weather will change in their favour. The only thing they can do is outlast the winter, for however long the winter lasts. 

Seasons don’t always take months, Nami tried constantly to reassure them for the first few days. The currents of the Grand Line do strange things, and tomorrow, the weather might warm enough for them to slip through a crack in the ice. But as their already-scarce food supplies dwindled, her reassurances lost their certainty, and the rest of the ship echoed her sinking mood. Even Luffy went quiet by midweek, spending less and less time exploring the island and more sitting on the lion’s head prow and staring out towards the frozen horizon, a hand clutching every so often at his scarred chest before falling to his lap once more. A lot of the decisions have fallen to Zoro in the meantime, which isn’t ideal for anyone.

It hurts him to admit it, but he’s been grateful for Sanji’s bullheadedness this past week. Zoro can give the orders if that’s what Luffy needs him to do right now, but he hasn’t got Luffy’s ability to inspire a flagging crew. He’s happy in his role as first mate, but there’s a reason he never aspired to a captainship of his own. He’s not the type to give a rousing speech from the quarterdeck, no matter how much the younger crew members might need it. 

But Sanji doesn’t want inspiring speeches from Zoro. He sneers at Zoro’s orders and encouragements alike, but he’ll do his job regardless, and he’s not afraid to make his opinions on Zoro’s leadership obnoxiously clear. His stubbornness makes him reliable. That’s why Zoro doesn’t even need to look back to know that Sanji is right behind his shoulder, keeping an eye out for the forest trail they exited an hour earlier. He can walk in front without worry, knowing Sanji will always shove him back onto the right path if he wanders too far.

This time though, Sanji doesn’t have to redirect him. By luck or by lack of other options, Zoro’s path leads them swiftly back to the same fishing hut they passed on their way out. The door has managed to worm its way open again. It bangs softly against the frame as Zoro passes: a mournful thump, like a zombie beating its fists against a coffin lid.  

Zoro reaches the edge of the forest first and crosses through the thick line of trees that nudge right to the water’s edge. It’s a strange sight, but maybe they’ve been dead long enough that the saltwater has no roots left to choke. 

The thumping abruptly stops, and Zoro turns his head back just in time to see the flash of a blue coat disappearing into the hut. 

“Oi, Cook?” he calls, but Sanji doesn’t step back out. Zoro walks back out of the forest and tugs the door open, the shark still balanced on one shoulder. The tiny room is just as he left it: wooden benches pressed up against the narrow walls, smashed chest that might once have held tackle and rods as barren as ever. Sanji is kneeling in front of the chest, scrounging through fistfuls of splintered wood and old fishing line. 

“Looking for souvenirs?” he asks as Sanji holds a handful of twine to the light from the broken window, then drops it and keeps digging through the debris. 

“For supplies, moron,” Sanji mutters. “I’m not going to be sentimental about this place when we’re gone.”

Zoro frowns. “I already checked in here,” he says. “What, you think I missed something in four feet of space?”

Sanji stops rummaging through the debris long enough to narrow his eyes at Zoro. “We can’t be lazy about this. We’ve got to check every building.”

“But we already checked this one,” he insists again, frustration building as Sanji continues to root around in the broken chest.

“We sure as hell haven’t. Only you would forget what direction we came from on an empty sea, Marimo.”

For a moment, Zoro’s certainty flickers. He knows they’ve been here before, but Sanji sounds so sure that he’s starting to doubt himself. He goes back to the door and looks more closely at the hinges. They seem like the same ones—even their creaking is the same, and he remembers digging through that smashed chest less than an hour ago. He sticks his head out and looks around at the shore. There are no other fishing huts in sight, no other buildings they could have walked to and from in the amount of time they’ve spent on the ice. 

“Stop fucking with me,” he says as he ducks back inside. “The crew’s waiting for us.” He’s too tired to rise to Sanji’s bait, and frankly he’s surprised that Sanji would choose a time like this to mess around. Usually he’s grimly single-minded when it comes to getting people fed. 

Sanji sighs. “Fine,” he says, and stands. “There’s nothing here anyway.”

“I know,” Zoro says darkly, “because I checked already,” but he lets Sanji push past him. Sanji’s arm is freezing as it brushes Zoro’s; even through the thick fabric of his robe, Zoro’s skin still prickles at the icy touch. The back of Sanji’s jacket is completely frosted in white, scores of crystalline patterns lacing a gauzy finish into the blue fabric. His ears are red above his collar, and despite his frustration, Zoro frowns as Sanji steps back into the wind and immediately starts to shiver again. 

Maybe this whole lie about the hut was just a face-saving excuse to warm up. Figures that their boneheaded cook wouldn’t just come out and say it. 

“...You sure you don’t want my robe?” he offers again. This is not quite the shame-faced, crawling-back conclusion he was hoping for from the whole saga, but he doesn’t really enjoy watching Sanji’s shoulders shake either. “You could change in here. Probably warmer than doing it outside.” 

“Absolutely not,” Sanji says. He shoves his hands into his pockets, a defiant act that would piss Zoro off more if he wasn’t too busy noticing that Sanji’s hands are bare.

“Where are your gloves?” 

Sanji stamps his feet with the same impatient rhythm he’s kept up since they stepped onto the ice. 

“On my hands? Where else would they be?” Sanji pulls one hand out of his pocket and shoves it at Zoro’s face, opening and closing his fist for dramatic effect before shoving his very-bare fingers back into his jacket. 

“Told you to stop fucking with me,” Zoro growls, but Sanji doesn’t look the least bit apologetic. 

“Stop complaining and let’s go. Come on, I’ve got a dinner to make.” Sanji starts walking towards the forest. 

This fucking... Fine. If Sanji wants to be cold just to spite Zoro, let him suffer. 

He turns back to survey the inside of the hut one last time before following after Sanji, just to reassure himself one more time that it’s the same one. The room is still exactly like he remembered it, except there’s a new splotch of red and orange beneath one of the benches. Confused, he reaches down and pulls out a pair of woolen gloves.

Nami’s gift, forgotten on the icy ground.

Sanji probably doesn’t think so, but Zoro notices him, even when they’re not actively at each other’s throats. It’s not so much that Zoro intentionally observes, but that Sanji is frustratingly hard to ignore. 

He doesn’t tend to pay attention to things that stay the same day by day. He can’t imagine how exhausting it would be to be Usopp, perpetually on guard for new threats even in familiar environments, or Robin, who subtly shifts her demeanor to suit any given social situation. He prefers to remain unchanged unless something around him is actively changing: if nothing needs his attention in the current moment, nothing’s likely to need his attention in the next. 

The problem with Sanji is that he can’t stop changing. Zoro thought he had him figured out when they first met: flirting up and down the Baratie dining room, recklessly convinced that Nami could do no wrong even when every signal pointed to her betrayal. Sanji was a self-obsessed skirt chaser with no goal in life but to woo the women of the world. Hardly worth Zoro’s disdain, let alone his attention. 

But then Sanji nearly drowned to save the life of a captain he’d known barely two days, and Zoro had to begrudgingly factor that heroic side of Sanji into his understanding of the man. And then they’d found Chopper, and Zoro had to add “cares about children” to the list of Sanji’s traits that Zoro could reluctantly respect. And then they’d recruited Robin, and Zoro’s perception of Sanji revolved right back around to where it began, only this time the picture was even more annoying because he knew there were tolerable sides to him that Sanji was choosing to abandon for simpering speeches and heart-filled eyes. 

Every time Sanji enters a room, Zoro has no idea what version he’s going to get, and it sets him on edge, and it makes him pay attention when he’d rather nod off, and it’s so goddamn frustrating that sometimes he just needs to throw punches until Sanji turns back into the fiery, spitting version of himself that Zoro actually likes.

But he doesn’t recognize the version of Sanji who’s walking beside him, and it’s becoming more obvious by the minute that he’s never seen this one before.

For one, Sanji doesn’t stumble. He’s distractible at times, but he doesn’t trip over his own feet. This Sanji can’t seem to go five minutes before planting his toe in an exposed tree root and tipping forward. He always manages to catch himself on a trunk or a branch, but even that motion is unnatural, and Zoro finds his own arm shooting out to catch him more than once out of sheer surprise. Sanji brushes him off with a scowl the first time, but he barely seems to notice the second. He accepts Zoro’s help, gets back on his feet, and keeps walking without a word. 

That’s another thing: this Sanji isn’t talkative. Not that Sanji is overly talkative as a rule. Usually his chattiness is reserved for the women of the crew, and he’s just as likely to quietly observe a game or a conversation as actively participate. But when they’re together, he talks to Zoro. Insults or gripes, goads or barked orders, he’s usually saying something, and the absence of his voice is disconcerting. It leaves Zoro to fill the gaps with meaningless commentary on their trek: ‘watch out for that rock’ and ‘got another four hours at least’ and ‘we passed that weird tree before, Cook, remember?’

Sanji doesn’t remember. That’s the most alarming change of all. He blinks at the tree as Zoro motions to it, and mumbles, “Right, I know,” but his eyes don’t spark with recognition. A moment later, he’s turning left past the tree, in a direction so obviously wrong that even Zoro can tell it’s leading back the way they came.

By some miracle, they manage to find the edge of the nearest village, but it takes an hour longer than it should have because of Sanji’s meandering. The town is abandoned like all the rest, but less gutted than the settlements closer to the harbour where the Sunny lies trapped. Not every house has been stripped bare by doomed scavengers yet: the food might be gone, but there are still things of worth lying around, old cookware and netting and the occasional child’s toy. Even still, a chill runs across his neck as they step out of the trees and into the outskirts of the ghost town below.

Or rather, Zoro steps out. Sanji remains on the shadowed threshold, arms frozen to his sides and quaking violently. In the fading light of the clearing, Zoro can see his face clearly at last. Gone is the angry redness from earlier: his skin is waxy and pale, and even the hair around his cheeks has lost all colour, more like corn milk than straw and tipped with beads of ice. 

Zoro swears softly to himself. He’s been trying to ignore it, figured they’d have time to get back to the Sunny before they’d have to deal with it, but it’s too obvious to brush aside now. Whatever’s come over Sanji, this isn’t a normal kind of cold. This is the kind of cold that leaves homeless villagers frozen to their stoops, the kind that steals small children in winter while their parents sleep. This is the kind of cold that kills as silently as any blade. He’s seen it before, on the more impoverished islands he passed through when he first left Shimotsuki Village, and the memory stuck. It was the passivity of death that disturbed him more than the corpses themselves: the way the cold could just make someone lay down and die, like they’d decided the fight wasn’t worth the effort. 

He can’t imagine Sanji laying down and refusing to fight under any circumstances, so he’d felt safe ignoring the signs, but he can’t argue with his own sight now: Sanji’s not laying down yet, but he’s got one knee on the ground. Dumbass cook, not listening to Zoro about the wet clothes. (Stupid, reckless, fucking idiotic cook, jumping into that water after Zoro.) It’s Sanji’s own fault this happened, but now Zoro’s the one who’s got to figure out what to do about it.

The solution is not continuing their hike towards the Sunny, that’s for sure. They’ve still got another four hours of walking ahead, and Sanji is already halfway frozen from one. 

Zoro drops the shark onto the ground—if he’s this cold already, the meat will keep too—and walks back to where Sanji is staring down at the empty village with wide, snow-flecked eyes. He has his arms wrapped around his middle, trying to keep warm, though there’s something almost defensive about the posture too, like he’s expecting a punch to the stomach. 

“Let’s go,” Zoro prods, but Sanji doesn’t turn his head. His blue eyes are clouded, and for a moment Zoro isn’t sure if Sanji sees him at all. When he does speak at last, his words are slow and sluggish in his mouth.

“Did... did we do this?”

Zoro frowns in confusion. “What?” Did we search here already? is his best guess at Sanji’s meaning, but it’s a strange way to phrase it, and it doesn’t explain the sickened edge in Sanji’s voice.

He points shakily down towards the village. His hand is still bare: Zoro begrudgingly offered him the gloves back when they first entered the forest, but Sanji had brushed him off, and Zoro’s concern was forgotten in a rush of familiar frustration. 

He can ask for my help if he wants it. I’m done offering. 

Zoro regrets that choice now as he looks at Sanji’s fingers—always thinner than his, but still strong in their well-honed way—now skeletal white and trembling. At least there’s no purple at the tips yet. Sanji would probably step out of the grave to murder Zoro if Chopper has to amputate so much as a single knuckle.

“What did you do to them... to the people?” His eyes flick to Zoro at last, but the recognition in his wary eyes just isn’t there. Shit. He’s only ever seen the aftermath, not the process itself, and the cold is moving faster than he realized. They need to get indoors, now.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says, trying not to balk at the quiet accusation in Sanji’s voice. “They were gone when we got here, remember?” He’s not used to speaking gently, least of all to Sanji, who’d sooner bite Zoro’s head off than be coddled, but even his intentionally measured words seem to spook the man. He takes a step back from Zoro, arms tightening around his middle. 

“...Yonji? Where’s... Can we go home now?” he says, and Zoro’s not sure if this ‘Yonji’ is who Sanji thinks he’s talking to or if it’s just a word Zoro’s never heard before, but he’s not going to waste time correcting whatever version of ice-addled reality Sanji’s got running around behind his eyes. He’s got a goal on the horizon again, and this time it’s getting Sanji inside a building and out of those clothes before the cold gets its teeth into any vital organs. 

“Not yet. We’ll head back soon.” He grabs for Sanji’s elbow. Sanji jerks away, but his reflexes are as slow as his speech. It’s all too easy to catch him, and Zoro doesn’t get any satisfaction from the victory. Sanji should be kicking and snarling about being manhandled down the path, but instead he’s stiff and silent beneath Zoro’s hands. Zoro tries not to think of atrophied bodies beneath drifted snow. 

He pulls Sanji along beside him as he tries to remember which of the houses still had blankets left. Most of the beds in the village were stripped, probably by refugees who needed protection from the cold as much as Sanji does now. But he thought there was one that had a quilt still tucked into the bed, too heavy for its owners to drag along. 

Sanji’s no help this time around. He flinches at every door Zoro kicks through, though it’s hard to tell the difference between the endless shivers still wracking his body. Every so often, he tries to pull away, his breath growing harsher as Zoro tightens his grip and drags him to his side again. Sanji’s welcome to pay him back double for any bruises once he’s back in his right mind, but if Zoro loses him in the snow, there’s no chance he’ll find him again before he freezes to death. 

It takes far too long before he finally stumbles upon the house he was looking for. Zoro breathes out in relief when he thrusts the door open and sees a patterned quilt spread over the bed in the corner. There’s even a fireplace along one wall: even better. He drags Sanji inside and closes the door, shutting out the wind and the blowing snow and dropping them both into immediate silence. It’s almost like being below the ice again, with the rest of the world held behind a barrier that no noise can pierce through. After the frantic search, he finally feels calm again. The worry is still there in the back of his mind, but they’ve crossed the distance to the first goal. He just needs to pick a new one to focus on. 

“Sit down,” he says, pointing Sanji towards a wooden chair. “I’m going to start the fire.”

For all his jerking away before, Sanji is eerily compliant at the order. He goes. He sits. He hangs his head, not arguing, and Zoro suddenly wants nothing more than for Sanji to yell at him for trying to help, because this obedient husk of a person is the farthest thing from the Sanji he knows. 

Focus on the next step. Next step, next step... wood. There’s no wood in the fireplace, and the box by the hearth is empty. That’s something he can do something about. 

Zoro takes the chair that Sanji isn’t sitting on and rips it apart with his gloved hands, chucking hunks of wood into the fireplace one by one. For tinder, he grabs a book off a spindly shelf and tears it in half, then shoves the pieces below the wood. 

“Need your lighter, Cook,” he grunts out of habit, confused for a moment when he doesn’t immediately feel the press of cold brass against his palm. 

He turns back to Sanji and snaps his fingers beneath his nose. “Cook. Lighter.” Sanji startles, then finally looks up at Zoro. His hands go to his jacket pocket, fumbling until he draws out his lighter in one hand and a box of cigarettes in the other. But instead of offering Zoro the lighter, he stares at the contents in his hands, then slides the tray of cigarettes open and pulls one out. Sanji’s teeth clench so hard around the filter that Zoro is sure he’s going to bite the cigarette in two. 

“Not what I meant,” Zoro mutters as Sanji raises the lighter to his mouth and starts jerkily flicking the wheel. “But I guess that works.” 

To Sanji’s credit, he manages to get the cigarette lit despite the tremors in his hands. Some muscle memory never goes away: Zoro will always be able to swing his sword, and Sanji will always be able to fill his lungs with disgusting black smoke. At least Sanji seems a little calmer with a cigarette in his mouth. Zoro almost regrets having to steal it from him after a few puffs. 

Sanji makes a soft, sad noise as Zoro plucks the cigarette from his teeth, but Zoro takes another one from the pack and presses it to his lips. Sanji’s teeth obediently clench around the new offering, and Zoro takes the glowing cigarette over to the fire and sets the book leaves ablaze. When he turns around again, Sanji’s still got the new cigarette in his mouth, unlit, as he sucks in deep breaths of empty air. The lighter is lying on the floor. Zoro goes over and quietly picks it up, then slips it back into Sanji’s coat pocket. He’ll want it once Chopper gets him fixed up.

But Chopper isn’t here right now. There’s no doctor to fix Sanji. It’s just Zoro and his basic experience in bandaging wounds, and that’s going to have to be enough. If he can’t figure out what to do, they’ll be throwing the funeral feast for Sanji instead, and Sanji would never forgive him for letting him go like this, without a purpose to the death. They’re enough alike to be sure of that. 

“No arguing this time, Cook,” he says. “You’re taking those clothes off.”

Sanji carefully pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and holds it in his lap. “...Screw you, pervert,” he mumbles, and Zoro grins as relief floods his mouth. Seems like the cigarette brought Sanji back to himself, at least a little. Zoro should have given him a smoke an hour ago. 

“That’s your nickname, not mine,” Zoro says, grinning wider when Sanji even manages to roll his eyes. The fire must already be helping too. He can feel the warmth of the flame prickling along his back, the welcome sting of heat. His own muscles are still aching from his forays into the icy water, but his shoulders are starting to untense from warmth and reassurance both. If Sanji’s improving enough to talk back, then he’s going to be fine. Zoro didn’t take too long after all.

He kneels in front of the chair and starts to unbutton Sanji’s coat. Sanji’s clumsy fingers try to help but can’t manage a single button on their own, and Zoro presses his hands back down to his lap. “I’ve got it,” he says, too relieved to be annoyed. “Let me help, idiot.”

He manages to get the rest of the buttons done and tugs the jacket off Sanji’s shoulders. The suit beneath is wrinkled and stiff, but Zoro works on the scarf first, carefully unwinding it and pulling it loose from Sanji’s neck. Ice crystals scratch at Sanji’s neck as Zoro tugs the fabric free, leaving a criss-cross of white lines etched into his skin. 

There’s already a shadow of hair on Sanji’s chin, just barely visible in the dim light from the (mercifully unbroken) windows. What time is it now? Will the crew be worried about them yet? Zoro hopes none of them are stupid enough to send out a search party if they don’t make it back tonight. He doesn’t need to add anyone else to the rescue list tomorrow. 

“What are you doing?” Sanji murmurs, his eyes drifting shut as Zoro starts on the suit jacket. 

“Taking your clothes off?” he reminds him.

“Oh.” Sanji swallows, then licks his dry lips. Zoro’s got a water bottle in his bag, but it’ll probably take as much time to unthaw as Sanji himself—he’ll just have to wait till Zoro finishes with this. “You’re not Nami.”

“No shit, I’m not,” Zoro says as he moves his attention to the top button of his dress shirt. “What kind of weird fantasy are you having now, Ero-cook?” 

Sanji swallows again. “...Is Nami alright?”

The shirt is plastered to Sanji’s pale skin, and Zoro peels it off inch by inch as he moves downward, the teal fabric giving way to angry, chafed redness below. “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t she be?”

Sanji breathes out, and the top of Zoro’s bent head tickles. “D-did Luffy find the doctor?”

“No doctor here,” Zoro says, trying to figure out where Sanji’s wheeling thoughts have taken them now. “Wish there was, but it’s just me.”

“Oh,” Sanji says again. “...But Nami’s... Nami’s ok?”

“Yeah, she’s fine. Worry about yourself, Cook.” 

The shirt pulls back to reveal the line of hair above his navel and Sanji shivers, muscles tightening beneath Zoro’s fingertips. Zoro shivers too as he watches them contract before his eyes. Sanji wears his layers of clothing like padded armor, and the vulnerability in letting Zoro strip that away isn’t lost on him. He finishes with the buttons quickly, not letting his touch linger too long in any one place.

The suggestiveness of his own pose isn’t lost on him either. This isn’t the first time he’s knelt on a wooden floor and reached for a man’s belt, but usually it’s been accompanied by a heated eagerness from both parties. There’s nothing arousing about Sanji’s limp posture or slowed breathing, and Zoro feels the power in his own position like a weight of iron hung across his back. It doesn’t frighten him to know that he could take advantage, but it makes him serious, focused. He tugs down Sanji’s pants and underwear in one quick motion, and keeps his eyes on Sanji’s face. He made a promise to keep his eyes averted when he first offered his robe, and he won’t break it just because Sanji’s probably too far gone to remember what he said an hour ago.

“Hey,” Zoro says, tapping Sanji’s chin with two fingers. “Time to stand up.” His eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t respond immediately to Zoro’s words. The ice in his hair is starting to melt. A bead of water slips down his cheek like an errant tear, and without thinking, Zoro brushes it away. Only then does Sanji stir, opening his damp eyelashes to gaze down at Zoro. 

“I’m cold,” he says quietly.

When they left the ice, Zoro wanted nothing more than to hear that admission from Sanji’s lips. There’s no satisfaction in it now. Zoro was right, Sanji was wrong, and he can feel smug about that later when Sanji isn’t actively dying for his mistake. 

“That’s what happens when you jump in freezing water with your clothes on.” He pushes himself to his feet, then pulls off his robe and drapes it over Sanji’s torso. “Come on, bedtime.”

“...I’m sorry,” Sanji says as Zoro pulls him to his feet. “I think I blacked out, I don’t remember... did I—did I pass the test?” His voice gets quieter with every word. Zoro doesn’t respond, too busy trying to loop Sanji into the robe while also keeping him on his feet, since it seems like all the strength has gone out of Sanji’s legs. It’s a slow, frustrating process, and he only manages to get one arm shoved into its sleeve before Sanji speaks again.

“I failed, didn’t I? What... what did Father say?”

Zoro’s hands freeze momentarily in their work. He’s never heard Sanji mention a father before, or any kind of family for that matter. He’d always kind of figured Zeff was the only person Sanji had, and Zoro never had a reason to pry further. Zoro doesn’t talk about his dead parents either: they’re in the past, barely a wisp of a memory at this point. He’s indifferent to them, and indifferent to the concept of parents in general. Their main purpose seems to be keeping their children safe, but he hasn’t met many who could manage that, so he really doesn’t see the point in idolizing them above anyone else. 

But Sanji doesn’t sound indifferent about his father. He sounds nervous—frightened, even. He’s not so much shivering as physically shaking as he fills Zoro’s silence with more halting apologies.

“I didn’t mean to black out, I didn’t—the water was so cold, and I tried to keep up, I swear, I’ll try harder next— I’ll try—”

Zoro tightens his grip on Sanji’s shoulders and spins him around. Sanji shuts his mouth, which is what Zoro wanted but not at all the way he wanted it, because the fear in Sanji’s eyes now isn’t for some absent father: it’s all fixed on him. 

“I don’t need you to keep up with me,” Zoro says, his own heart starting to pound as he stares into Sanji’s blown-out pupils and sees nothing of the willful, proud man he knows in their frightened expression. “I’ll carry you out of here if that’s what needs to happen. I just need you to keep your shit together. That’s all you’ve gotta do.”  

Sanji turns his chin away, wincing, and Zoro wants nothing more than to force it back up: to force Sanji back into his body, to push out this scared child that’s taken his place. It’s disturbing to see him like this, more gut-churning than any open wound. There’s nothing to bandage, nothing to stitch. Only Sanji’s addled mind, breaking away piece by piece, and Zoro has no idea how to force it back together.

“Come on,” he says, tugging Sanji’s other arm into its sleeve. “Just let me finish.” Sanji lets him, eyes still downcast as Zoro ties the robe closed. The fabric hangs loosely around his narrow waist: since when was their cook so skinny? And so damn tall too: the hem that brushed Zoro’s heels sits at mid-ankle now. He focuses on those little details, keeps his mind focused, keeps his breathing calm, keeps his own shit together. He’ll get Sanji in bed and get him warm, and if it’s too late to salvage his mind, there’s no point in panic or regret. He’s not a doctor. He can’t do more than this.

Zoro shuffles him to the bed and throws back the covers. The sheets are just as frigid as the rest of the room, and Zoro grimaces as Sanji sits and immediately shudders, reluctant to lie down until Zoro forcibly pushes his shoulders onto the mattress. He tugs the quilt up to Sanji’s ears, tucking it around his neck until only his nose and damp hair peek out. 

Still not warm enough. Zoro goes back to the table and rips the other chair apart. He starts throwing more wood on the fire, stirring the flames higher and higher until his own face is beading with sweat, but when he looks over at the bed, Sanji’s only curled into himself more tightly. 

Zoro scrubs a hand over his face and stands up again. He looks around for anything else to add on top of the blanket: even a rug would help, but there’s nothing except for Sanji’s discarded clothes, slowly defrosting on the floorboards. He could go looking through the other houses, but there’s no guarantee he’ll be able to find this one again if he leaves. 

He walks back over to the bed and sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress. Sanji’s shoulders aren’t shaking any more. In fact, he’s gone eerily still, but when Zoro presses the back of his hand to his forehead, his skin is still ice-cold. 

Sanji mumbles something too soft to hear, and Zoro leans down, trying to catch the words.

“Missed that,” he says, and Sanji whispers again,

“Why are you... being so nice to me?”

There’s something childish in the phrasing that still feels off to Zoro, but there’s nothing he can do about that. It doesn’t matter what version of Sanji he’s talking to—Zoro can only ever be himself. 

“Don’t get used to it. I’ll kick your ass for not listening to me when you feel better. Just need you back in fighting form now so you can cook that dinner you promised. ...I bet Nami’s waiting up for us. She’ll be really excited to see you, Curly.” Zoro leans closer, looking for a reaction, but Sanji doesn’t even twitch at the name. “Robin too. They’re probably waiting for you to come back and make those frilly drinks that they like. You know, the ones that taste like you dumped a bag of sugar in them? With the little hats. You usually put a double shot in mine, and it’s still gross. But Nami and Robin like them, and I guess you do too, since you make them a lot.” 

Zoro squints, suddenly realizing that what he’s saying makes absolutely no sense—no wonder Sanji’s not responding. He’s not used to having to carry the conversation alone. He clears his throat and tries again. “It’s probably too cold for drinks like that though, huh? But you could still make hot chocolate. I didn’t used to like hot chocolate either, but I like how you make it. It’s not too sweet. Still got a bit of bitterness.”

Sanji’s eyelids don’t open, but he shifts beside Zoro, his knees knocking into Zoro’s hip. “You can’t...” he slurs, and Zoro leans in closer still, “can’t add too much. It’s got to... to blend. D-Dissolve. Can’t do it like... it’s wrong.”

“Ok,” Zoro says. “You can show me how to do it right when we get back.”

Sanji swallows as he presses his head into the pillow. The slow movement of his throat looks forced, painful. Shit, the water. Zoro jumps off the bed and runs to his discarded bag, the one Sanji made Zoro pack this morning because he was worried they wouldn’t have enough supplies to make it across the island and back, like he thought Zoro couldn’t handle a single day without food. The wrappers from their meagre lunch of dried fruit and week-old bread are still at the bottom. Zoro brushes them aside and grabs the water bottle, then heads back over to the bed. 

“Hey, Cook,” he says as he kneels by the pillow. “Got some water for you. Sit up for a sec.” 

Sanji ignores him. Zoro snaps his fingers beneath his nose again. “Oi, you can sleep later, but you need to drink first.” 

Sanji doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even flinch, and Zoro’s own throat goes abruptly dry. 

“Look, I know you’re pissed at me, but don’t just ignore me. I hate that shit. You want me to go away, just say so, but don’t ignore me.”

No talkback. No glare. Only cold, unresponsive silence. Zoro runs an agitated hand through his hair as he stares down at Sanji’s slack face. 

It’s rare that he sees Sanji asleep. Zoro’s usually the first one in bed if he’s not on watch, and Sanji gets up before sunrise to start on breakfast every morning. Even on the rare moments Zoro catches him snoozing, he never seems fully at rest. There’s always a twitch to his hands, his jaw, like he’s ready for the smallest noise to startle awake and get back on his feet, back to work.

But now there’s no movement now, no twitch in his face or limbs. This isn’t sleep: it’s unconsciousness. He doesn’t need a doctor to tell him what stage comes next.

Zoro clenches his fists and turns his head away as visions of the future flood his mind: himself, trekking through the woods and emerging in the familiar harbour, something dark and grey and lifeless slung over his shoulder. The mournful eyes of the crew as he lays Sanji’s unresponsive body down on the deck. Chopper’s questions, endless questions, about what he did and didn’t do, careful reassurances that Zoro did the best he could offered between tearful sobs. Luffy’s silence as he realizes that his first mate couldn’t even keep one person alive for a week. So much for sharing the captain’s load. So much for being what the crew needs.

He forces himself to look again: to watch, to count, to acknowledge his failure with honest eyes. Five seconds between breaths, now six, and even the ones Sanji does take are shallow. He’s suffocating on dry land, and there’s no way for Zoro to force more air into a chest that’s given up the fight. His strength is useless: he can’t reach into Sanji’s ribs and squeeze his sluggish heart until it beats faster, or push his exhausted lungs to expand one more time.

Zoro can only think of one thing his body has left to offer. 

“You’re going to hate this,” he says as he walks to the other side of the bed and carefully pulls back the blankets. “You’re going to be pissed when you wake up, but tough shit. If you don’t want me in bed with you, kick me out.” 

Sanji doesn’t move as Zoro crawls in beside him, doesn’t resist as Zoro hauls him into an awkward embrace. His head lolls forward, damp hair falling against Zoro’s bare collarbone, and despite the heat of the fire, Zoro shivers. His skin is as cold as the black sea, leeching warmth from Zoro’s at every point of contact. Zoro pulls him even closer, hooking his knee over Sanji’s legs and crawling halfway on top of him, ignoring his own shivers as his temperature drops to meet Sanji’s halfway. Every bit of heat he loses is a victory, every shudder proof that Sanji is a little warmer now than he was before. 

Minutes pass by as Zoro tightens his grip. He keeps time by the infrequent patter of Sanji’s breath: those small, soft puffs of air against his chest, the sole evidence that somewhere deep inside Sanji’s body, hot blood is still flowing. His breath grows shallower too as he instinctively tries to match Sanji’s rhythm. There was a breathing technique Shimotsuke-sensei tried to teach him when he was young. Mokuso: a way to silence your thoughts and focus your body. He never mastered it. He couldn’t sit still long enough. But he tries now to echo that rhythm, to breathe like his body and Sanji’s are one and the same. He can’t feed the air into Sanji’s lungs, but if he can keep the pace for them both, maybe he can remind him to keep fighting.  

He can’t say when he drifts off. He tries to stay awake, but it was inevitable that the exhaustion of the day would catch up with him eventually. Too much time spent walking, swimming, literally dragging Sanji to safety, and even with all his training, the cold has taken a toll on him too. He falls asleep to the crackle of wood in the fireplace and the low cry of the wind outside, and dreams of an endless, unmoving darkness spread out in every direction: an absence of light so complete that even his hands disappear when he holds them up. He turns around, but there are no footprints to follow back home. Even the ground below his feet is nothing but darkness, so black and impenetrable that he’s not sure anymore if he’s standing on anything at all. And the moment he doubts, he begins to fall.

Zoro gasps awake to find the world still dark, though softened by flickering firelight and the silvery glow from the snow-lit sky outside. Sanji’s face is pressed to Zoro’s shoulder, his blond hair haloed in pale light. Zoro reaches up and touches the top of his head tentatively, groggily perplexed by the way his fingers illuminate as they meet the ribbon of gold. He watches the outline of Sanji’s shoulders rise and fall beneath the blankets, trying to remember where he’d left off the count. Was it seven seconds, or six—

Sanji stirs, and Zoro forgets the number entirely. He holds his breath as Sanji shifts in his arms, burrowing deeper into Zoro’s chest. His nose is still cold, but his hands, trapped between their bodies, feel warm and alive against his sternum.

“You back with me?” he says quietly, to himself more than Sanji, so it surprises him when Sanji mumbles into his chest,

“Don’t want to go back.”

His voice is too low and exhausted for Zoro to judge what version of Sanji is speaking, but at least he’s back to being able to speak in full sentences, and his words only slur a little at the end. Zoro chooses to count this as encouraging progress. He’d honestly been preparing himself to wake up with a corpse cradled in his arms.

“We can’t stay here forever, Cook,” he says, “but we don’t have to leave yet. You can sleep some more. Keep getting warm.”

He’s not expecting the honest gratitude in Sanji’s voice when he breathes out, “Thank you...” into Zoro’s chest. The unfamiliar words burrow through Zoro’s skin, leaving behind a tingling feeling that stings as much as it warms.

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” he says awkwardly. “Shouldn’t have let you get that cold to begin with. That was my fault.”

Sanji shakes his head. “Thank you,” he says again, twice as sincere.

“For what, not leaving you to die in a snowbank?” His voice is as incredulous as it is sarcastic, but Sanji’s honesty remains unwavering.

“For helping me,” Sanji says, and goddamnit, Zoro needs Sanji to open his eyes so that he knows that Sanji knows who the hell he’s talking to. 

Sanji doesn’t want Zoro’s help. He’s never wanted a single thing from Zoro, other than a convenient sparring partner to take out his pent-up aggression on when they’ve spent too long at sea. Zoro’s jaw tightens, something almost like hurt curling up in the back of his throat, though it’s easier to call it anger. How long have they known each other, and Sanji still thinks he’s a heartless bastard who wouldn’t give a damn if he died? Sanji should know by now... he should know what Zoro would give to keep him alive. He should know.

“So, I helped you. So what?” 

“Nobody ever helps,” Sanji says quietly. “I keep asking, but nobody ever helps me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Zoro says. “You never ask for help with anything.” He’s genuinely bewildered: Sanji asks for small, inconsequential favours—carrying groceries, moving heavy shit around—but whenever he can, he does the hard things alone. Isn’t that why he was so frustrated with Sanji literally today? That Zoro offered to help find food, and Sanji was too proud to accept it?

But he can’t get past the fact that Sanji seems to believe what he’s saying, at least if his sad expression is anything to go by. Zoro swallows down the bitter ache in his throat, trying to remember that this isn’t the Sanji he knows, the confident man who’ll bite back every time Zoro snaps, and he doesn’t want Sanji to stop talking now that he’s finally awake and something close to coherent.

“Wait,” he says, shuffling closer as Sanji starts to duck his chin again. “That’s not... I’m not saying you’re lying, I just don’t get it. What did you want me to help you with?” He runs through years of memories, trying to remember if he’s ever asked him for anything important that Zoro refused, but he comes up with nothing. Maybe Sanji’s been speaking in fucking code this whole time, but he honestly doesn’t remember.

Sanji blinks, and then his palm flattens against Zoro’s chest. His fingers trace Zoro’s skin almost reverently, without inhibition, and Zoro’s face heats. He can’t make sense of Sanji’s change in demeanour, and his body is starting to share the confusion. Even the men he used to fuck in his downtime between bounties never let their hands linger for long—no time for tenderness in a harsh world like theirs. But here’s Sanji, who won’t even dirty his hands to throw a punch at Zoro, touching his scarred skin like it's something pristine, even admirable: a perfectly round mango in the market, a freshly-honed knife. 

“Protect me,” Sanji answers at last, and Zoro’s heart stutters in his chest.

”You... you don’t want me to do that,” he says, voice rough with shock. “You never wanted me to do that.” All he can think of is Kuma’s hand raised towards Sanji’s unflinching face, his eagerness to die in Zoro’s place, in Luffy’s place, in Nami’s place, in Usopp’s... Since when has he ever wanted any of them to protect him? Since when has he wanted Zoro to—

“You can though, right?” Sanji says, voice growing stronger again with renewed certainty. “You’re strong. You could... they would stop, if you were here.”

“Cook... who do you think I am?” he says, disappointment souring the words. For a second, he almost thought... but this isn’t really Sanji asking Zoro for help, is it? He’s just out of his mind again.

Sanji’s expression clouds, and his fingers start to curl back, uncertain. Zoro grabs his hand and keeps it pressed to his chest, and tells himself it’s only to keep Sanji’s frostbitten fingers warm for as long as possible. 

“Aren’t you a knight? From the castle?”

“I’m not a knight,” Zoro says slowly. He refuses to count Shiraigana’s depressing walls as a castle, and besides, Sanji’s never been there to make the connection. What castles has Sanji seen? Or is he just remembering one of those raggedy old picture books he keeps on the top shelf of his locker, in a place of honour far above the crumpled magazines? “I’m Zoro. We’re crewmates.” He adds after a second, “And you’re Sanji, our dumbass flirt of a cook.” 

“Zoro...?” Sanji repeats. His eyes finally blink open, confusion lingering for a few seconds before he looks up at Zoro with an unguarded openness that Zoro didn’t realize his blue eyes could hold.

“...Sanji,” he repeats back, tightening his fingers around Sanji’s hand. “When you need me, I’ll help you. You don’t even have to ask. Just let me do it.”

Sanji lets out a hot, shaky breath, and then another, and Zoro keeps his promise the only way he knows how. He doesn’t have the words to comfort or soothe, but he pulls Sanji close and gives him a place to hide until his shoulders stop shaking, and he keeps quiet about the hot tears pooling against his chest, because Sanji will be embarrassed about them when he’s himself again.

Eventually, Sanji’s breathing slows, but only to the natural rhythm of sleep, like the gentle roll of the tide drawing in and out. Zoro stays awake a while longer, watching to make sure the door holds tight against the wind and that the fire keeps on burning through the night. 

Well, and watching Sanji. He can’t help it. Now that the crisis is over, the strangeness of the whole situation is finally starting to sink in, and he can’t stop staring, wondering how much of what he said tonight was pure delusion and how much was real. For every piece of seeming truth he stitches together (the worry over Nami—Sanji must have been thinking of Drum Island, that’s the last time she needed a doctor), two more stubbornly refusing to fit (tests? a father? who is Yonji?). It’s a puzzle he’s far from solving tonight, and he might never get the answers. He still owes Sanji for keeping his mouth shut about what happened on Thriller Bark. This might finally be a chance to repay the debt.

But if he’s really, really honest with himself, he doesn’t think for that long. He spends most of his last hours of wakefulness just looking at Sanji’s face: framed in firelight, softened in sleep. The vulnerability doesn’t feel so disturbing to behold when Sanji offered it to him willingly, when he asked and Zoro gave. He can’t help but wonder if this version of Sanji, who’s desperate for the protection he gives so freely to others, isn’t a delusion after all. Maybe this version of Sanji has always existed, somewhere out of Zoro’s sight, waiting to break the surface. 

If Sanji has to change, then he wouldn’t mind seeing this version again. 

Zoro drapes an arm over Sanji’s shoulders so he can feel his breathing even in sleep. One, two, one two... A steady rhythm, and his own body finally starts to relax. Sanji’s hair, now fully dried, is soft against his chest, and he cards his fingers through it, separating the strands until they’re neat and orderly. He tucks the blankets down one last time. Only then does Zoro drift off, satisfied that he’s done all he can. 

Zoro wakes to the light of the sun piercing through the window. He groans, pressing his face into the pillow at the unexpected brightness. The bed is warm, warmer than his hammock, and he’d happily go back to sleep for a week if he could, but a popping sound keeps interrupting his dozing. 

He finally forces himself to wake up properly. He’s met with the strange sight of Sanji kneeling on the floor in front of the fire, a pillow beneath his knees and a poker in one hand. He’s still wearing Zoro’s robe, and he pushes back the sleeves every so often as he turns the poker slowly above the coals, keeping the green fabric safe from the flames. More sizzles and pops, and Zoro catches the scent of toasted oil amongst the woodsmoke and crisp morning air. 

“What’re you doing up?” he grumbles. “Get back in bed.” God, if he has to drag another hallucinating Sanji back into the readily available blankets, he’s going to lose his mind. 

But Sanji turns his head to Zoro with a beautifully familiar scowl. “We need breakfast,” he says. “We both lost too much energy yesterday.” He pulls the poker out of the fire to reveal the fish from Zoro’s belt, now perfectly charred and dripping grease onto the wooden floorboards. Despite his tiredness, his mouth can’t help but water. It’s been too long since they’ve had a hot meal. 

“You could have let do that,” he says, still a little annoyed that Sanji’s out of bed after all the effort he spent getting him in there yesterday. 

Sanji hesitates for a second too long before saying, “We’ve only got one fish, and I wasn’t going to let you turn it into charcoal. ...What happened to the shark, anyway?” 

“Must have dropped it somewhere,” Zoro says, watching Sanji carefully. He’s not the most socially observant, but he can read when someone’s changing the subject. “Sorry.” 

Sanji nods and turns back to the fish. He can’t tell if Sanji doesn’t remember the events of last night or he’s purposely pretending he doesn’t, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s obvious that he’s got his own Sanji back now. No reason to push anymore. “Maybe we can find it on our way back.”

Sanji slides the fish off the poker and onto a waiting sheaf of torn pages. The grease has barely begun to soak into the paper before Sanji takes a small knife from his bag and expertly, if slowly, begins to fillet the meat from the bones. His wrists are still shaking a little, but he hides it well. Another thing not worth mentioning. As long as he’s alive, everything else will heal in time. 

When the bones are clean, Sanji picks up the paper and carries it over to the bed. He holds it out to Zoro. “Eat.” Zoro obediently takes a piece of fish and pops it in his mouth. Even unseasoned, it’s still delicious: crisp skin and juicy flesh, and his stomach growls for more but he pushes the fish back towards Sanji.

“You eat,” he says. “You’re the one who almost died.”

Sanji snorts, but he’s still not quite looking at Zoro, fiddling instead with the edge of the paper. He still hasn’t taken a bite, and it’s making Zoro antsy. “That’s not what I remember. I do remember you coughing out your lungs after getting lost under sea ice. Still waiting for a thank you for saving your ungrateful ass, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Zoro says, and Sanji’s eyes shoot up in shock. 

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me the first time, Cook. Not saying it again.”

Sanji continues to stare, and Zoro rubs a hand across his reddened neck. It just... made sense, to say thanks. He did need help, even if he didn’t ask for it. Even if he didn’t know he needed it yet himself. 

“...Eat your fish,” Sanji says at last. 

“Not until you eat too,” Zoro counters. 

They end up splitting the fish fifty-fifty, taking measured, even bites back and forth with a steel-hawk gaze in both directions. When they’re finished, Zoro licks his fingers and throws the paper in the fire: a final, brilliant blaze of heat before the flames die down to embers. Nothing wasted.

Sanji starts to pull off the robe, but Zoro stops him. “Keep it,” he says. Sanji opens his mouth to protest, but then he pauses—actually considers the offer. 

“...Thanks,” he says quietly, and pulls the robe back on.

It’s somehow stranger hearing thanks from a coherent Sanji’s mouth than it was from a delirious one. Maybe that’s why Zoro’s heart jumps: surprise, maybe. A bit of satisfaction. Sanji ties the robe’s belt tighter around his waist and tugs his jacket on over top, and that’s satisfying too. He’s patterned blue-green, like the sea. It’s a good colour combination. Suits him. 

“Got your smokes?” he asks as he strips the quilt off the bed and wraps it around his bare shoulders. The click of a lighter is all the answer he needs, and for once, Zoro doesn’t mind the haze of cigarette smoke wafting through the room. The tobacco smells like Sanji: all the versions of him he’s ever known. “Then let’s go find that shark and get back. Should be near the path out of town.”

He opens the door to a bright, cool morning and a fresh layer of snow on the ground. Sanji follows behind, stepping into the hollows of his deep footfalls as Zoro clears a trail through the drifts. But as he turns a corner, Sanji’s hand shoots out and catches Zoro on the shoulder.

“Not that way, moron. The path was west, not north.” 

Zoro smiles, and lets himself be pushed in the right direction as they make their slow way home.