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“Something’s wrong with you,” Zoro said over the pounding rain. It wasn’t a question.
Sanji looked away, glancing down at the mug in his hands. (They were shaking—a fact he resolutely ignored). Leaning against the door to the galley, arms crossed, Zoro continued to stare at him; Sanji tried his best to ignore it. Why must the marimo stick his head into things that don’t concern him? “Truly, your intelligence knows no bounds,” he deadpanned. And, a moment later: “Everything's fine, mosshead. Go back to sleep.”
A bolt of lightning echoed across the ocean, striking the water with a loud crack and momentarily illuminating the galley in a flash of light. Sanji suppressed a flinch, his hand tightening around his mug of tea as he fought the urge to look up. Fucking hell.
Obviously, his reaction didn’t go unnoticed—of course, it didn’t. Zoro raised an eyebrow at him, unmoving from his spot near the door. The mosshead could be annoyingly perceptive when he wanted to be.
“So it’s not because of the storm, then?”
“Fuck you,” Sanji hissed. It wasn’t as biting as he wanted it to be—glass shards seemed to stick in his throat, blocking the airways. His hands were shaking, he noticed distantly—more than before. The rain continued its descent upon the ship.
There’s going to be a big storm tonight , Nami-swan had warned them that morning. It was probably the largest storm since they first boarded the Going Merry. Usopp had made a fuss about how it could affect the ship, but by then, they could do nothing to prevent getting caught in it.
After the Rock, Sanji had spent years scared of storms—years curled under his blankets, gasping and shaking after a vivid nightmare. It was like he was back there again; back on the Orbit, back in the water, being tossed overboard, back to being nine years old and scared of his own shadow. But he was better now. He was supposed to be better now.
And yet here he was, hiding in the galley at two in the morning, hunched over a cup of tea. As if all the years since then meant nothing. A hand wound itself into his hair, pulling tight. Fuck.
(There were other memories, too—a metal mask, colored hair, a stone cell. Those were harder to ignore.)
And then—he registered another hand touching his, untangling his own from his scalp. Zoro had finally moved from his spot near the door, and instead crouched in front of Sanji, making eye contact. If Sanji didn’t know him, he would have said the marimo looked concerned about him—a funny thought. “Stop that, cook.”
Since when were they on the floor? (Since when was breathing so hard? Since when—?)
“Take a breath,” Zoro continued, firmly. They were still in the galley, Sanji realized. His hand was still in Zoro’s. It helped, a little; not that he'd ever tell him that.
“Screw you, marimo,” Sanji bit out—trying to inhale, to get some air, realizing he couldn't . "I'm fine."
"Do you really think I'm that stupid?" When Sanji didn't respond, he sighed, getting up. Zoro hesitated for a moment before finally saying, "Whatever. Just— go to sleep or something, alright?"
The door slammed behind him, leaving only the sound of rain behind.